#this is legitimately over 2000 words

[zepskies]

Code Red

Pairing: Boaz Priestly x Female Reader

Summary: When you call him for help, Priestly realizes that he finally has the relationship of his dreams.

AN: So I didn’t think I’d ever write for this character, but it was prompted by a lovely anon and encouraged by my friend @thatonewriter15! I hope you enjoy. ❤️ 

Song Inspo: “Perfect” by Ed Sheeran. “I’ve found a love…”

Word Count: 1,500 Tags/Warnings: Period talk, suggestiveness, mega fluff

He was in the zone.

Four six-inch double buffalo chicken clubs with banana peppers on whole wheat bread (gross, but he wasn’t the one eating ‘em), two spicy Italians, and a tuna on rye.

Priestly wrapped them up with practiced precision and slid them down the line to Piper, Mission Impossible-style. She smiled at his antics and took them and brought them over to Tish at the register.

Priestly had another turkey and provolone on his docket, hold the mayo, when his cell buzzed in his pocket. Today he actually did have pockets. As in, he was wearing joggers, boots, and a graphic tee that said: NO TEQUILA, NO ENTRY.

He swiveled his phone in his hand like a drummer with a drumstick. He smiled when he saw your name flashing across the screen, and he answered it.

“Hey, Beautiful. What’s up?” he asked.

“Boaz, I need you,” you said. To his ears, your voice was sultry, and a bit strained.

He perked up with raised eyebrows.

“What’s holding up the turkey and cheese?” Piper asked.

Boaz held up a finger to the blonde and tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder. His hands busied themselves with the next sandwich order, but he was all too attentive to your every word.

“Oh yeah?” he replied to you. His smile deepened. “Well, that’s convenient. Because I’m craving some of you, baby.”

You gave a breathy chuckle. “Normally I’d take you up on that, but no. I need you. As in, I really need you to do something for me.”

Priestly arched a brow. His brain was already filling up with ideas of how he could best help you. He mentally took an inventory of the “tools” in your nightstand drawer, and which ones he could best use to his advantage when he—

“Uhh, well, I got about one more hour in my shift,” he said, lowering his voice, even as it deepened a notch. “But if Jen covers me, I can be outta here in half the time.”

“Oh my God, good,” you gasped. “I’m in so much fucking pain, you have no idea.” 

Priestly blinked, and any thoughts of kinky fun times came to a screeching halt. Concern took over when he realized that the strain in your voice wasn’t from the sexy kind of need.

“What’s wrong?” he asked quickly.

“I’m out of Midol, my uterus is rioting like it’s a Vietnam War protest, and…oh yeah, I need more tampons too,” you said. “But I legitimately cannot move from this couch.”

Priestly couldn’t help but smile in amusement.

“Ech, I hear ya. Are we in a Code Green, Code Yellow, or Code Red situation?”

Jen glanced over at him from where she was mopping the floor, and she gave him a questioning look.

What’s wrong? she mouthed.

“Code Red, definitely,” you answered with a sigh.

Priestly grimaced in sympathy. He mouthed back to Jen, Code Red.

She nodded in female understanding, and raised a hand that said, Say no more.

“Okay, yeah,” Priestly replied to you. “Don’t worry, I got you.”

You released a sigh of relief. “And if you want to throw in a Snickers, I wouldn’t hate it.”

He chuckled at that one.

“You got it,” he said. “I’ll be home in T minus an hour, give or take.”

You groaned. “Can’t you just steal a DeLorean or something?”

“You know, I could, but that would mean I’d be going back further into the past before you even needed to call me, and I’d still probably be making sandwiches since I’ve been working here since damn near 2000 B.C. But you know what, they should really call that movie Back to the Present, since they don’t actually go to the future until—”

“Okay,” you had to laugh, even though it was edged with discomfort. “I’ll see you later.”

At the supermarket, after his shift at Beach City Grill, Priestly had most of the supplies he needed for a successful mission. All he was missing was his old enemy on Aisle 2.

Once again, he faced a wall of tampons. All bright colored boxes and numbers and sizes…

Okay, not Code Green, so not the slender ones that might as well be match sticks. Not Yellow, so no to Regular…ah! Here we are. Super Plus.

AKA: Code Red. Complete with leak guard, no latex. He grabbed the blue box and threw it into his basket of essentials, including no less than three assorted chocolate bars and a pint of Ben & Jerrys. He knew his girl, and you liked your Half-Baked ice cream with chocolate chip cookie dough and brownie pieces.  

He brought over his haul to the checkout line. Sure enough, Gerry, one of the locals, was finally old enough to buy a case of beer by himself. He glanced at the blue box Priestly was taking out onto the conveyor belt and smirked.

“No slender regulars this time?” Gerry remarked.

Priestly’s smile was tight. “No, Gerald. Slenders are for pussies.”

“Literally,” the blonde beanpole snorted. “What, your girlfriend got a heavy flow this month?”

Priestly rolled his eyes, and his mouth pressed in a line. The word flow still kind of grated on him like nails on a chalkboard, but what irked him more was this guy imagining any part of your intimate parts.

“All right, my girl’s flow is none of your business,” he said. “Once you hit puberty and grow your first pubes, you’ll understand.”

Gerry floundered while Priestly continued on to make his purchases. Even the cashier was smiling, trying not to laugh as he silently gave Priestly his props for a burn well made. Priestly shot the guy a nod and a smile before he left with his spoils.

“Honey, I’m hoooome,” Priestly sing-songed.

He stepped through the door with his keys still jangling in his hand. He was trying to balance the big bag of groceries while closing the door to the apartment he shared with you.

Your head perked up from the living room couch, and your hand slowly curled up, beckoning him over. Priestly obliged you. He peered over the side of the couch and smiled at the way you were all curled up under a throw blanket, already in your pajamas, while FRIENDS reruns played on the TV.

“Finally,” you said with a tired smile. But not the kind of finally that just meant you were impatient for the goods he carried. The kind of finally that also meant you were happy to see him.

He laid a comforting hand on your head, leaned down, and pressed a kiss above your brow. You held him there by the collar of his shirt, prompting him to kiss you for real. Your hand moved up his tattooed neck and your nails gave the back of his head a little scratch, careful not to disrupt the blue mohawk.

He reluctantly pulled away from your lips, just enough to try and gauge how you were feeling.

“How’re you holdin’ up?” he asked.

“Like a beach umbrella in a hurricane,” you replied wryly. “You got the stuff?”

Priestly held the grocery bag tucked under his arm like it was a drug deal.

“Oh, I got the stuff, if you got the money,” he said.

You nodded, and your small smile turned mischievous. “I got your money, Big Man.”

With your hand delicately hooked behind his neck and the other gliding up his arm, he didn’t realize he was falling into a trap.

You tugged his arm hard enough to try and get him to fall over the back of the couch.

“Hey!” he yelped. Yet he also laughed while you tried your best to pull him overboard.

He had to toss the bag of groceries to the floor next to you, but he managed to get over and onto the couch without crushing you. He probably smelled like old sandwich and mayonnaise, but you didn’t seem to care. 

You just helped him settle in behind you, with your back to his chest. This was the only way you’d find comfort for your lower back. It had been aching since you woke up this morning.

You grabbed his closest hand and guided it under your overlarge sleep shirt, then under the waistband of your panties. You laid his warm hand flat against your cramping lower belly.

Priestly pressed a kiss behind your ear and tucked his arm underneath your head. He felt the rise and fall of your sigh as you leaned back against him, and his smile softened.

“You’re gonna fall asleep without digging into your treasure trove,” he teased. “I even got your favorite ice cream.”

You glanced at him over your shoulder in interest.

“Half-Baked?” you asked.

“Yep, for extra brownie points. Eh? See what I did there?”

Your body shook with a quiet laugh. You reached your hand back to touch his bearded cheek this time. Your fingers toyed with his many earrings.

“Did you know that you’re my favorite human?” you said. “Like, ever?”

He smiled against your neck. “Could’a sworn I was your third favorite, behind Ben and Jerry.”

“Nope, just you,” you said, snuggling back further into his warmth. “Thank you, baby.”

Priestly realized then that he’d found it.

He’d really, honest to God found the life he didn’t think he’d get, with a woman who didn’t want him to change; who just wanted him to be here.

Though he smirked when you reached for the bag and dug out the pint of Ben & Jerry’s.

“That’s what I thought,” he said.

You giggled. “Shut up.”

AN: Priestly was such a fun character lol. I rewatched 10 Inch Hero this past week and this was the first thing I thought to write! If you liked this, let me know! (And if you want more Priestly.) 😘

Read the Prequel!

If you liked Code Red, read the start of their story:

▶️ The Miracle Man

Priestly Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Tag List:

(Lovelies from my "Everything" tag list. If you want to be tagged on Priestly stuff specifically, check out the Tag List link in my bio.)

@kazsrm67 @letheatheodore @agothwithheavysetmakeup @jacklesbrainworms @foxyjwls007 @wincastifer @ades106 @iamsapphine @simpforbuckyb @vanillawhiskeyflavoredkisses @roseblue373 @brianochka @branj19 @hazel-eye-coffee-shop-girl-blog

@globetrotter28 @charmed-asylum @waywardxwords @deanwinchestersgirl87 @this-is-me19 @rachiem4-blog @sweettimelady @leigh70 @clinicallydepresso @emily-winchester @xiphoidbones @skoveu @nyotamalfoy @kmc1989

#Code Red #10 Inch Hero #Boaz Priestly #Boaz Priestly x reader #Boaz Priestly x female reader #Boaz Priestly x you #jensen ackles characters #jensen ackles #Priestly x reader #Priestly x you #Priestly #Priestly x female reader #zepskies writes

[katiexpunk]

Sugar, Spice & Please Fuck Me Nice | Pairing Neighbor!Joel Miller & Fem!Reader

Summary:  Part 3 of @sydneyinacoma's Sugar, Spice & Please Fuck Me Nice series. Joel is your new hot neighbor and after a sexy night alone with him on Halloween (where he literally makes you squirt (!!) on his couch, you run into him after a long week at work and you two finally go on a proper date. You two eat burgers; go to a fair, and then he fucks you like it's his last day on earth. Yep <3

Rating: 18+ Minors DNI Word count: ~6.7K Warnings: Pining, flirting, 2000s style (needs a TW lol), Joel is a little rough/bossy, unprotected p in v (wrap it up, folks, or don't idk you're not gonna listen to me anyways), creampie, blowjob, pet names, praise kink, Joel spits in readers mouth, fair date, eating, did I already say flirting, bobbing for apples. Listen, these two are just down so bad for each other. There are no descriptions of reader except for clothing & wet, curly hair. Authors Note: I legitimately feel so honored to have been part of this chapter with my Slutty Smutty Sister @sydneyinacoma -- writing this version of Joel has me creaming, and I wish I could scream it from the rooftops how much I want everyone to read this fic. This version of Joel is all her brainchild and I could cry at being part of it. Pls go follow Syd, she's seriously such a gem and probably the best Moot and friend a girl could ask for. ILY, bb. Sydney's Masterlist | Part 1 | Part 2 Rating: 18+ Minors DNI Word count: ~6.7K Warnings: Pining, flirting, 2000s style (needs a TW lol), Joel is a little rough/bossy, unprotected p in v (wrap it up, folks, or don't idk you're not gonna listen to me anyways), creampie, blowjob, pet names, praise kink, Joel spits in readers mouth, fair date, eating, did I already say flirting, bobbing for apples. Listen, these two are just down so bad for each other. There are no descriptions of reader except for clothing & wet, curly hair. Authors Note: I legitimately feel so honored to have been part of this chapter with my Slutty Smutty Sister @sydneyinacoma -- writing this version of Joel has me creaming, and I wish I could scream it from the rooftops how much I want everyone to read this fic. This version of Joel is all her brainchild and I could cry at being part of it. Pls go follow Syd, she's seriously such a gem and probably the best Moot and friend a girl could ask for. ILY, bb. Sydney's Masterlist | Part 1 | Part 2

NOV 2005

You can’t stop thinking about that night at Joel’s a week ago. The way he touched you, pleasured you in a way that you've never experienced before. The way he kissed you, fervently yet soft. You could kiss him for hours and never tire. 

Not only are you craving his touch, but you also find yourself wanting to learn more about him. You want to know him. The things you’ve learned about him through Sarah and what you’ve picked up on are tiny crumbs, leaving you starving for more. 

You hope he feels the same. 

You haven’t had a chance to talk to Joel since that night, as you’ve been drowning at work. You started working for this publishing firm in college, first, as an intern, and now that you’ve finished school, you’re an editor. You agreed to take on extra responsibilities due to your coworker being out on maternity leave, which has exponentially increased your workload, on top of your boss being a micromanaging asshole. Joel’s been burning the candle at both ends. He’s working against a tight deadline on a big project for a persnickety client and Sarah’s soccer team is in the playoffs for the district championship; he’s incredibly proud but attending her neverending roster of games has left him a bit preoccupied. He never thought he would end up being a soccer dad, but life has a funny way of keeping him on his toes. 

Much like you, he’s replayed you squirting on his leather couch in his mind over and over, a never-ending lascivious reel that plays in his head as he fucks his cock at night. Joel longs to hear those saccharine sounds you make while you ride his cock, your tits bouncing in tandem with your movements. He’s kicking himself for not getting his hands, or mouth, on your pillowy breasts. The cheekiness of forgoing a bra in your bunny costume revealed a side of you that he wants to unleash. 

He wants to know everything; what keeps you up at night, what makes you double over in laughter, your ticklish spots, which movies make you cry without fail, all of your little quirks. Hell, he even wants to know if you believe in aliens. 

+++

You pull into your driveway after a long, grueling day at work. Your brain is so fried you didn’t even turn the music on for the drive home; a rarity for you since you always have music playing in your car, whether it be the FM radio or one of the various CDs you’ve collected over the years. A true indicator of your current state of being. You can’t wait to veg out on the couch, rid your mind of this shitty week, and huddle into an antisocial ball. 

After a few moments of idly sitting in your car, you peel yourself from the driver’s seat and go to retrieve your work tote from your trunk when you hear a deep voice calling out to you, one you’d recognize anywhere. You turn in the direction of the sound and find Joel. He’s clearly working on a renovation project; a miter saw, lumber and a plethora of other tools are set up in his front yard. There’s another man with him, bearing a slight resemblance to Joel. Brothers, maybe? 

“Hey, neighbor!” Joel immediately regrets his word choice, finding it oddly stiff — considering he’s had his face between your thighs. 

“Hey Joel!” You manage to shout back, despite your energy battery being crucially depleted. 

He waves for you to come over. Unfortunately, or fortunately, you’re unable to resist him. Not when he’s covered in a sheen of sweat, hair tousled, and coaxing you across the street. 

Though you feel drained, being in close proximity to Joel makes your body thrum in nerves. You’re being energized by anxious attraction. 

Joel and the mystery man greet you at the edge of the yard. 

“This is my brother Tommy. Tommy, this is my neighbor.” 

“So, this is the pretty neighbor you were tellin’ me about,” Tommy says, his southern drawl identical to Joel’s. 

Joel glares at Tommy. If looks could kill. 

Tommy holds out his hand, you tell him your name and give him your hand for a brief shake; much like Joel’s does, his palm size is large in comparison to yours and envelops your full hand. You survey the man in front of you; handsome, dark curly hair like Joel, slightly longer and free of the grays his brother sports, deep brown eyes, similar to Joel’s. The Miller genes are super fucking strong. 

“Nice to meet ya, sweetheart,” he says, nodding his head in acknowledgment, his eyes dragging over your figure just a second too long. 

“I’m gonna start packin’ these tools up,” Tommy announces to Joel and then shoots him a wink. It’s obvious he wasn’t aiming for subtlety, clearly wanting to give you and his brother a moment alone. 

Joel shifts his broad frame to face you directly. You wish you didn’t feel so bashful in his presence, but it’s hard to breathe evenly when he is standing so close you can smell him - earthy and a hint of his deodorant wearing off. It should be gross to you, but you want to put his scent in a candle. You’re fucking deranged. 

“Sorry, ‘m all sweaty…” Joel apologizes, looking down at himself, remembering that he probably reeks like a locker room. 

You wave off his apology, giggling at his self-awareness. 

“I wanted to ask you somethin’,'' Joel says, gently wrapping his hand around your arm right above your elbow. Goosebumps erupt on your skin at the touch of his calloused fingers. 

“Okay…” 

“I was wonderin’...” Joel pauses, his fingers now grazing over the soft skin of your arm. 

You gulp in anticipation. “Yes, Joel?” 

“I was wonderin’ if you’d like to go on a date with me,'' he asks, his eyes dropping to his boots for a second before coming back up to meet yours, “a proper one.” 

You’re so giddy at his proposition you think you might burst.

“Well, you know…I’ve gotta check my calendar,” you say, a big grin plastered on your face. You see his face drop, but before he can sulk too much you wink at him and say, “yeah, I’d love to,” you exhale and try to keep your voice level, not wanting to give away how excited you actually are. A date. With Joel Miller. 

“You free tomorrow?” he asks, beaming, revealing the dimpled smile you’re so fond of. 

“Lucky for you, I am,” you say, feeling your skin warm. 

“Pick you up at 7?” he asks, dipping his face closer to yours, his hand now on your waist pulling you into him. 

“Works for me,” you confirm while planting a chaste kiss on his cheek, “see you then, neighbor!” you conclude, being sure to emphasize the neighbor in your words, and before he can convince you to stay, you’re sauntering across the street back to your house.

+++

It’s finally here. Your big date with Joel.

The day went by torturously slow, anticipation pulsing through your entire body. You spent almost two hours getting ready, the majority of the time trying to pick an outfit. You probably changed 30 times, trying to find the outfit that conveyed the perfect balance of sexy, yet subdued. 

You decide on a pair of dark wash flares and a lacy top, both accentuating your figure heavenly. You spritz on a little perfume you save for special occasions. If this ain’t a hell of an occasion. 

Joel, with impeccable timing, rings the doorbell right as you tug your black cowboy boots on. It’s sill relatively warm in Austin, so you decide to forgo a jacket. 

Opening the door, you and Joel take a moment to check the other out, neither of you trying to hide it whatsoever. Joel’s wearing his signature jeans and a green flannel with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, exposing his veiny, strong forearms. You’d hump his arms given the opportunity. 

“Absolutely stunnin’, sweetheart,” he licks his bottom lip while his brown irises roam over your entire body, paying special attention to your waist and tits. You’re mentally patting yourself on the back for your outfit choice. 

“One could say the same for you, cowboy,” you quip back, a smug grin plastered across your face. 

Your smile shoots blood straight to Joel’s cock. 

He swallows as he realizes the night is just beginning. 

+++

Joel takes you to a quaint diner for your date. From the outside, it’s unassuming; an older building in urgent need of a pressure wash, adjacent to a virtually empty shopping center. A true hole-in-the-wall in the middle of downtown Austin. 

“It doesn’t look like much on the outside, but I promise ya, they got the best damn burgers in town,” he assures, seeing the questioning look on your face when he pulls into the parking lot. 

You and Joel slide into a booth in the far corner, Joel insisting that booth seating is part of the experience. You both order burgers, per his recommendation and boy, it does not disappoint. 

Between bites of food, you and Joel learn more about each other. The conversation flows easily, both hanging onto each other’s every word; no awkwardness or feigning interest. You both share parts of your childhoods and you share stories from your college days. Joel recounts the mischief he and Tommy got into when they were younger, earning several belly laughs from you. 

Joel loves the way you laugh; candidly, throwing your head back, your shoulders jerking uncontrollably as you try to catch a breath. 

You’re pleased to learn that both you and Joel have a fondness for 80’s action movies, especially the over-the-top-borderline-cheesy ones, and 70’s artists like Fleetwood Mac and Electric Light Orchestra.

Joel asks about your job as an editor. You tell him the different types of manuscripts you have to read; some you drudge through, others you enjoy. “I love seeing how the story progresses from the first rough draft up until the final copy,” you tell him,” a lot of authors are really full of themselves, so you have to boil down a lot of the flowery language and hubris.” 

In return, he tells you about how he got started as a contractor, hard work rewarded him with promotions until he opened up his own contracting business six years ago. “It’s priceless gettin’ to be your own boss,” he says, “not havin’ to answer to anyone, can be more selective in projects you wanna take on,” he continues, and you swear you’re listening but you’re secretly caught up in the sound of his voice and the way his lips move when he’s talking; hypnotizing you with every word.

Joel opens up about when Sarah came into this world; the happiest day of his life while simultaneously being scared shitless — he was wild and ungovernable, definitely not ready for fatherhood.  

Through the years he’s found his rhythm. He doesn’t talk about her mother and you don’t ask; you’re not looking to dig into that lore on the first date. He tells you what Sarah was like as a baby and the subsequent years. Your heart melts at the adoration and pride that glow in his eyes when he talks about his daughter. 

You both sit in the overused booth, totally absentminded to the world around you. You’re both locked into one another, afraid of missing even the faintest shift in facial expressions. You might as well be the only two people here. 

Taking the final bite of your burger, you tell Joel that you’re inclined to agree that these are the best burgers in town. 

He mumbles something to the effect of “told ya,” before finishing his last bite. 

On the ride home from the diner, you spot an illuminated Ferris wheel, glowing in the distance of the Austin night. 

“Oh, I didn’t know the fair was still in town. I haven’t been in years!” exclaiming a little loudly for a woman your age, “can we…..?” 

Joel can’t say no to you, not when you’re giving him a pleading, pouty look. 

+++ 

Once inside the fairgrounds, you both walk through the selection of vendors, and it doesn’t take long for the funnel cake sign to catch your eye; Joel purchases you one and you continue on your adventure together. 

“Here,” he says, offering you a paper napkin. 

You gently shake your head, shoving another bite of funnel cake into your mouth, “don’t need one.”

He laughs. You look like a stubborn child learning what sugar is for the first time, “you’re gonna get all sticky,” he says, a big grin enveloping his face, your eagerness for the sweetness of the battered dough reminds him of Sarah’s sweet tooth. God, you’re cute – it makes him wish she was with you both tonight. 

Well, that is until he notices it. It’s subtle, but it’s there – a sprinkling of powdered sugar on your cheek and exposed chest.

He knows this is a family event, but he wants to do anything but PG-rated things with you right now.  

He stares at the white dust on your skin until your voice catches his attention again. 

“Maybe I want to be sticky,” you reply, “gives you more to lick off of me later.” 

And fuck, if that doesn’t turn him on. 

The thought of his tongue on you sends a flood of impure thoughts to his brain; much like the ones he had when you first showed up at his door, covered in remnants of flour, all sugar and sweetness. 

He knows now.

You may be sugar, but fuck, if you haven’t got some spice in you, too. 

+++ 

As you stroll, your eyes grow wide when you see it; a yellow wooden sign with the words “bobbing for apples” in Comic Sans engraved into it. 

“Ah! Joel! Bobbing for apples! I haven’t done that since I was a kid – we have to do it!” you say, your voice is a little too eager and a little too high-pitched, but the childlike wonder on your face is all the convincing that Joel needs. He might not admit it, but he’d give you anything you want. You reach out for his hand, and he takes it, letting you lead the way. 

You and Joel make your way up to the station, and a fair worker in an apron and a straw hat shouts to the crowd, “Come one, come all! Test your skills at an apple grab; the winner gets a prize,” his voice is low in octave but loud enough like he’s speaking through a megaphone. 

A line of fair-goers of all ages quickly forms around the barrels filled with water and apples, and you look at Joel with eager eyes as you step up to yours.

The rules of the game were explained by the worker with a chuckle, “Alright, folks, no hands, just your teeth. Lean in, and bob for an apple, and what you catch is yours to keep plus a prize from the booth to the right.” 

“You sure about this, sweetheart? You’re gonna get all wet,” Joel asks, probably just a smidge too concerned about your well-being considering it’s just bobbing for apples. 

“You gonna act like you don’t know that I’ve been wet this entire night?” you say, not waiting  to hear his response as the worker calls out a loud “GO!” 

Giggles and cheers fill the air as you and your fellow participants lean over the barrel. Your face disappears into the water; your competitiveness in overdrive  – edging yourself deeper and deeper into the water; so far that your shirt gets soaked. You don’t care, though, and you gleam from satisfaction as you resurface with a gleaming red apple held triumphantly between your teeth. 

The crowd erupts in applause at your efforts, and Joel stands watching you with his hands on his hips, a smile plastered on his face. As his gaze drops from the apple in your mouth, he notices the wetness of your shirt and shit, you’re positively drenched. 

It takes Joel all of .0002 seconds to notice the silhouette of your nipples peeking out from your shirt, the goosebumps littering your skin, and the tail ends of your hair wet and starting to curl under the weight of the water. 

You drop the apple from your teeth and catch it in your palm. “Well, well…looks like you’re on a date with a prize-winnin’ apple picker. Feeling lucky yet?” you tort, attempting to flirt through the uncomfortable press of the damp fabric on your skin. 

“Sweetheart, I’ve seen that mouth in action, I already knew you were going to win,” he says, “but you know I’d never thought I’d see the day…” he trails off. 

“What do you mean?” you ask, slightly confused. 

“Never thought I’d see the day that I was jealous of a fuckin’ Red Delicious apple,” he says, humor behind his voice, “s’ashame I wasn’t the one you were bobbin’ for in that barrel.” 

“Listen, if you want to get wet and let me put you in my mouth, I am more than happy to accommodate,” you reply back, your voice flirty and suggestive. 

Joel doesn’t respond, but you see him palm himself through the denim of his jeans at your suggestion, interjecting his thoughts. 

You can’t hide the shivers that take over your body from the chill of the night air and the wetness of your clothing. 

“C’mere, baby, you’re freezin’,” he says, brow furrowed, and arms wide open stretched out to you, beckoning you into his large arms. You take a step forward and step into his brace, letting yourself melt into the warmth of his arms and the aroma of his natural scent. 

You stand there, wet in more ways than one, and let him hold you. Your arms wrap around his thick middle, and he rubs up and down your back with both palms in an attempt to warm you up. He releases you momentarily before saying, “Here, take this.”

You step away from him for a second, giving him space to slip off the flannel he’s wearing, revealing nothing but a white t-shirt underneath; the little tufts of hair peeking out through the collar of his shirt almost send you into a tailspin. 

He holds the flannel open by the collar to face you, encouraging you to put it on. You turn your back to him, allowing him the privilege of holding  it as you slip your arms into the sleeves. The fabric of the shirt is warm from his skin, and the moment you put it on you’re flooded with the smell embedded deep within the fibers; all musk, whiskey, cinnamon, wood, and Joel. 

“Come on, now, you little bobbin’ minx,  let’s go get you your prize,” he says, tilting his head to the prize booth. You grab his hand and let him lead the way this time. 

You and Joel make your way to the prize booth, the smell of kettle corn invades your senses; sure, you were already stuffed with funnel cake and your dinner, but the sweet aroma makes your mouth water. Or maybe it’s just Joel, you’re not quite sure, but you don’t really care. 

In the small structure of the prize booth, the shelves were adorned with a colorful array of stuffed animals of all sizes, trinkets, and games. You carefully assess your prize options while the attendant tries to convince you that of all of the random assortment of prizes, you absolutely need the goldfish. Right. 

You look over the options in front of you for what feels like a good ten minutes before the attendant not so subtly grows tired of your indecision. You sigh. You decide on a small puppy dog with beady plastic brown eyes, and you nod in thanks as he hands it to you, and you and Joel walk away from the booth. 

“Had a tough time decidin’ there, didn’t ya, sweetheart?” Joel asks, not really questioning. 

“Well, to be honest, none of the prizes were really appealing to me,” you respond, playing with the fluffy ears of the stuffed plush in your hands. “I only picked this one because I thought Sarah might like it,” you say. Your consideration for Sarah, and your accepting demeanor to her, warms Joel’s heart. 

“But I can think of one I’d really like to claim,” you say, catching his gaze. You see his jaw clench at your words. 

“Oh yeah? And that would be..?” 

“You,” the word comes out breathy. 

You both stop walking and the crunch of the dirt under his boots and the distant sounds of the fair in the background all but freeze as you stand there, seemingly paused in your own little private moment. 

“Take me home, Joel,” you say, planting your palm on his broad chest and stepping closer to him, your chest nearly flush against his. His hands skate down to your waist, and he closes the gap between your bodies, holding you close enough that you feel the growing bulge between his thighs. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, leaning down, planting a kiss on the top of your head. 

And it’s sweet. 

Just like the funnel cake. 

And just like he thinks you are. 

But you have other plans for him tonight. 

And he has the same for you. 

+++ 

You and Joel make your way out of the fairgrounds and to the lot where Joel parked his truck. 

Still wearing his flannel, the stuffed puppy dog intertwined between your crossed arms, you wait for him to open the passenger side door. You all but eye fuck him as he reaches into the depth of the  front pocket of his jeans and grabs his keys. He unlocks the door, and opens it for you; offering you a hand to help guide you in. 

“Always such a gentleman,” you say, placing your hand in his, accepting his offer, using the strength of his arm to help lift yourself into the bed of the truck. 

Joel rounds around the front of the vehicle, unlocks the driver’s side door, and slides in. He turns the key in the ignition and the engine rumbles to life and the radio turns on, “Come a Little Closer” by Dierks Bentley plays over the speakers. 

Deciding to take a note from the lyrics, you don’t bother to buckle yourself into the passenger seat, and instead slide over into the middle seat of the truck, positioning yourself tightly against Joel’s side. You lace your arm through the underside of his and interlock them, your hand curls around his firm bicep. You lean your head into his shoulder, and close your eyes, taking a moment to bask in the solitude of the strong man beneath you. 

He looks down at you for a moment – god, he could get used to this. He dwells on the thought for a moment longer and then begins to drive away. 

You’re clinging to him and you both ride like that in an easy silence, apart from the faint music and the hum of his truck. It has been so long since you felt so content, so at peace with the moment and yourself; not worried about work or life, or anything. It was just you and Joel, and you like it that way. 

Nearly back to your house, and your shared neighborhood, you let your left hand wander on the expanse of his thigh. The time for sweetness is over. The events of the night, your combined obvious want, and the flirtatious taunts catch up with you. 

Joel keeps his eyes on the road, but you don’t miss the way his grip on the steering wheel tightens as your hand makes its way closer to his belt buckle. You begin to toy with the cool metal there, and his large palm comes down to cup yours. 

“We’re almost home,” he says, holding your hand tight against his stiffening cock, not letting you move. “But I want to feel you now,” you whine. 

“I know, baby, I know you wanna get your hands on this cock, and I would like nothing more,” he says, “but you’re gonna have to be patient, we only have a few more minutes until we’re there.” 

“And why do I have to be patient, neighbor?” you ask, pulling your hand away, slightly keyed up. Greedy. Horny. 

“Because I wanna give that needy little pussy the attention she deserves,” he says, “and because once I get started, I know ‘m not gonna be able to stop.”

“And neighbor ain’t gonna be what you’ll be calling me,” he says roughly, “I’ll fuckin’ make sure of that, sweetheart.”

He takes a turn and pulls into your neighborhood. You catch a glimpse of Mrs. Morrison taking out her trash. She glares at you in disapproval as you drive past in Joel’s truck. 

You sometimes wonder what your neighbors might think; a pretty little young thing like you, the youngest daughter of their good friends, a.k.a your parents, hanging out with the older, single-father neighbor across the way. 

But truthfully, you don’t really give a fuck. 

+++ 

Joel pulls up into your driveway, the engine purrs softly before falling silent.  You both pause in silence. 

Joel turns to you, a smirk on his lips “We’re here,” he says, his voice carrying a hint of invite me in behind his voice. 

You glance out the window, your house bathed in the soft glow of your porch light. You turn back to Joel and say “Thank you for tonight, I really had a fun time. But to be honest, I just realized I never got to thank you properly…” 

Joel looks at you and something dark flickers in his gaze. “And what would you need to be thankin’ me for, sweetheart?”  As if he didn’t know. 

“For the best orgasm I’ve ever had. Come in and I’ll return the favor,” you say, conjuring your sultriest voice, knowing he doesn’t need an invitation.  

You step out of the truck, and the night air is cool, a  gentle breeze whispers through your hair;  your features are illuminated by the street lights in your neighborhood, and the warm glow casts an inviting aura around you. Joel appears at your side of the truck and helps you exit. 

The gravel under your feet crunches as you walk toward the front porch; the air is charged with electricity, a livewire, a magnetic pull drawing your bodies together. 

The porch light by your door casts a warm yellow glow on your faces. You pause at the front of the step and reach for your house keys in your purse. Your porch swing sways gently in the breeze, its rhythmic creaking adding to the undertone of the moment. 

You insert the key into the lock, but before you can fully turn the doorknob to open the door, Joel already has his large palm on yours, opening the door,  pushing you through the door frame and into your house, his hands cradling your face before he crashes his plush lips into yours. 

The second you’re both fully in your house, Joel's hands are on the hem of your shirt,  silently begging for you to take it off. You let him work on getting you topless, meanwhile, your hands are hastily working to undo his belt buckle, the excitement of finally being able to touch him and him not being able to stop touching you has you worked up.  Joel presses his thighs together against yours, drawing little moans from you while he nips at your neck. 

As much as he is trying to distract you, he’s no match for your determination. In record-breaking time you have his buckle undone and the zipper of his jeans is down; you gracefully fall to your knees before him, tugging his pants and his boxers down with you to the floor. Joel’s cock releases from the confines of his clothing and slaps against his tummy, leaving a little trail of pre-cum in its wake. You already knew he was big, but having him in full view makes you realize just how big he really is. 

You lick your lips and reach out to grab his thick cock, affectionately kissing the tip of it; you run your tongue through the slit, lapping up the salty pre-cum that drips out before you circle your tongue along the underside of his head. You let your jaw go slack, and you begin to dip down on his length; a gurgling sound escapes your lips as you pull back up again. You do this a few times before letting his hard cock fall from your lips, now puffy and coated in saliva, some of it dribbling past your chin. 

You pull off momentarily and smile up at Joel. He thinks you look far too sweet and innocent for someone who is absolutely taking his cock deep in your throat like a champ. He intertwines his fingers through your hair and groans, before gently urging you back down onto his length.

“Fuck, sweetheart – can’t tell you how long I’ve been thinking about having that pretty little mouth of yours on my cock,” he says slightly breathless. 

The thought of him thinking about you goes straight to your core and makes you want to mouth fuck him harder. 

You wrap your lips around him again, and he thrusts his hips to glide himself inside of your mouth to the back of your throat. 

He begins to pick up his pace, holding your head steady by your hair as he fucks into your throat, pressing deeper and deeper until spit pools at the corners of your mouth and slight tears form in the creases of your eyes. He presses you down onto him until your lips are wrapped around the base of him and the course hairs that reside there. You’re drowning in the taste of him, hardly able to breathe, but you don’t care; you want him to chase his high, to use your mouth for his own pleasure. He made you come harder than anyone ever has before; this was the least you could do for him. 

“Jesus – look at you, pretty girl, fuck you feel so good wrapped around me,” he grits out, “takin’ it so well, baby.”

His words go straight to your cunt, the ache now insufferable. 

You begin to work him harder with your tongue, struggling for air, and he inches closer to the back of your throat and you begin to gag. Joel pulls out, not wanting to hurt you, and a strand of saliva trails between your lips and his cock. You blink back tears and look up at him, your mascara now a mess on your face, and your eyes glossy. 

“You okay, sweetheart?” he asks, his brow furrowed in concern. 

You swallow, and reach up to wipe a tear from your cheek. You are okay. More than okay.  “Peachy. I'm relieved I finally got to return the favor,” you hum, standing to rise to meet his face. 

He wraps his hands around your waist, and pulls you tight against the front of his body; you feel the warmth of his tummy, the hardness of his cock, and the strength of his back behind your grip and it makes your legs turn to Jell-O. Fuck, you need him. 

Joel kisses you for a moment, before pulling away and bringing his lips to your ear “Gonna fuck you now, sweet girl.” 

You feel your stomach swoop and your folds tingle; you have thought about this moment for so long and you yearn for the stretch of him; to know what it’s like to be filled to the brim with Joel fucking Miller. 

He kicks off his boots, steps out of the clothing bunched around his ankles, and takes your hand to follow you down the hallway into your bedroom. 

Part of him wants to take his time; to make you feel good, to taste you again, and feel you come and come on his fingers. Part of him wants to shuck down your jeans and put your pretty pussy in his face. 

Joel doesn’t particularly think of himself as a selfish man, but he has waited patiently, and he needs you. Now. 

As much as he wants the taste of you on his lips, the part of him that wants to shove himself into your addictive cunt until you forget your name until you forget every other name except for his is the dominant one right now. 

Once in the bedroom, he crowds you back until the back of your calves meet the edge of your mattress. He grabs both of your hips in a bruising grip and pulls you tight against his chest, his hips grinding into yours, and you lean your face up to kiss him. You think he might kiss you, but instead, he ghosts your lips and leans forward until your back meets the soft fabric of the mattress with an oof, and he’s on top of you. 

He grabs both of your wrists, pinning them above your head. His grip on you is firm, yet gentle. You’ve seen his brute strength in action and the fact that he could overpower you sends a shiver to your clit. 

“So beautiful, darlin’ – you know that?” he kisses your nose and trails a slew of them down your cheek, jaw, chin, and neck. Once at the nape of your neck, he nibbles on your earlobe and whispers “You ready for me, sweetheart?” his breath is heavy in your ear. 

You can’t nod fast enough in agreement. 

“You gonna be a good girl for me?” he practically purrs the question. 

You want nothing more than to be a good girl for Joel. You nod almost aggressively to make up for the fact that you’re unable to construct a single sentence right now. 

He lets out a satisfied moan and drops his grip on your wrists, and drags his heavy hands down your body to the center of your jeans and undoes the button of your pants, and hooks his thumbs in the waistband of both your jeans and your panties and pulls them down in one fell swoop. 

He dips down to place a delicate kiss to your tummy and lets the weight of his head rest on the softness of you. He inhales deeply, the aroma of your perfume comforts him, and he fights the urge to dip his face lower and bury himself in your pussy. 

You drop both of your hands and grab his head, your fingers carding through his hair, and he groans. 

“Thought you were gonna be a good girl for me,” he says, not really questioning. 

“I am being a good girl,” you respond back, not really sure what prompted his statement. 

“Maybe I wasn’t clear enough the first time. When I put you in a position, I want you to stay there, until I say you can move. Got it?” 

And holy fuck, bossy Joel turns you on. 

You only hum in response. 

“Need you to use your words, sweet girl. Answer me, or I’ll make you,” he says, voice low, his head closer to your center now, almost to exactly where you need him but not quite. 

“Ye - ah, yes, fuck I understand,” sending all of your energy to string the words together. 

He hums in acknowledgment and pushes your hands back up overhead, telling you to keep them there, and only to touch him when he says you can. When he releases your hands and sees that your arms stay put, he rasps out a “good girl.”

He then reaches down and notches his tip at your entrance, and drags the weight of his thick cock through your glistening folds.

“Mmmm so fuckin’ wet, this all for me?” 

“All for you, J-oel,” you’re trembling, desperate to feel him deep inside you. 

He pauses momentarily, only the tip of him inside you, and god, it’s such a tease. 

You know it’ll sting, but you want him to just fucking bury every inch of himself inside of you. You don’t care about the pain; you crave the stretch of him. 

“Joel – ah, need more,” you moan, “need all of you.” 

“You sure, sweetheart? I ‘don wanna hurt you,” he says, once again concerned about you. 

“Joel, I want you to fucking wreck me. Need you to move, please.” 

After your plea, he obliges. You feel every inch of him, the way he throbs inside of you, and the tip of his head drags against the spongey spot inside of you. 

Your eyes flutter shut as he begins to move in and out of you, he feels so fucking good, and you’re so perfectly full. 

“Open your eyes, sweetheart,” he says, voice low and gruff, still continuing to saw in and out of you. ‘’Want you to look at me while I fuck you.” 

And his words are like music to your fucking ears. He’s the perfect balance of gentleman and fucking filth. 

He brings a hand down to circle your clit, and with the added sensation you’re not far off from your orgasm. You can feel it growing in your stomach with every circle of his thumb and every thrust of his cock. You open your mouth, your jaw slack, and you begin to moan. 

“Fuck, baby – you shouldn’t open your mouth like that,” he moans. 

“And – fuckkkk, why not?” You respond back, breathless from each of his thrusts. 

“Just a reminder of another hole I need to use,” he responds, and then gruffly says “Open,” while pressing his thumb and index finger into your jaw, holding you in place. 

You do as he says, and he spits into your mouth. Your eyes wide as saucers. It’s hot, dirty, filthy. 

“Taste how perfect we are together, baby” he says, still pounding into you and circling your clit. 

His words send you into fucking oblivion, and you’re gone. Your vision goes white, and despite his order to keep your eyes open, your eyes fall closed and he fucks you through your orgasm. 

Your tight, slick walls pulse and squeeze around him. His hands squeeze your hips, his fingertips bruising your skin as he rocks your limp and shaky body against his cock, chasing his own orgasm. 

Not long after you’ve come, he’s finishing too. He fucks into you at an erratic pace and then shoots his seed deep into your cunt. 

“Fuckkk, baby” – he trails off, letting the final spurts of his cum paint your walls. 

You let out a sigh, and once again drop your hands to his head, intertwining your hands with the hair behind his head. 

You both lay there in your fucked out bliss and then he pulls out of you, taking a dribble of his cum with him, a glob of it landing on your thigh. 

You’ve never felt so satisfied, to be laying there, content and full of Joel Miller. 

He rolls over onto his side and puts his hand on his chest. 

“Shit, baby. You’re perfect,” he says. “I don’t think I’m ever gonna get enough of you.” 

You hum in delight and roll over onto his chest, melting into him. 

“You in the mood for some cookies?” you ask, and he grins in response.

He hit the fucking lottery with you. 

END

Tagging some Joel-lovers: @endlessthxxghts @survivingandenduring @darkheartgatita @joelmillersblog @joelsgreys @dins-riduur-anthe @joelmillers-whore @pedroswife69 @hearteyesforjoel

As always, feel free to let me know if do or don’t want to be tagged!xx

#joel miller smut #joel miller #joel miller fanfic #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #pedrohub #pedro pascal character #collaboration fic #joel miller fluff #joel miller series

[fantastic-nonsense]

I might be wrong but I figured you'd be the person to ask: Someone in a Discord server I'm in was talking about the "popular fanon idea of Cass learning ASL and sometimes preferring it to speech." And I... don't think this is fanon? Doesn't she canonically know ASL? I know she learned English and (I believe) Mandarin but I'm almost positive there are also lots of canon instances of her signing.

Okay so I'm going to split this ask into two questions:

Does Cass know American Sign Language (ASL), canonically?

Could Cass learn ASL?

The answer to #1 is no, Cass doesn't canonically know ASL to my knowledge (caveat: this does not, apparently, apply to the Young Justice cartoon universe; Cassandra Wu-San does appear to know some form of legitimate sign language). Canon!Cass, on the other hand, knows some basic signs and does use them, but it's more charades, 'loud gesturing,' and basic hand signals than it is ASL. The reasons Cass knowing ASL is such a popular fanon misperception are rather complex, but it largely comes down to two things: misunderstanding how ASL works and misunderstanding what Cass's disability actually is.

ASL isn't just some fancy hand gestures that translate one-to-one into spoken English; that would be "baby sign" or spell signing at best. ASL is a language, with all of the complex grammar, vocabulary, syntax, and sentence structure that implies. It takes years of learning and immersion to understand, learn, and utilize properly, just like any other language. Treating it as anything else is a form of ableism.

Someone like Cass who has difficulty processing language is going to have just as much trouble learning ASL as she would English, Mandarin, or any other language, because her problem isn't that she just "doesn't know English." Cass's disability is not that she can't read or communicate verbally: it's that her brain is literally built different because of how Cain raised her, and that affects how she processes language (and thus how she communicates with other people):

"David Cain…had some unusal ideas about combat. He experimented with infants. Trained them in isolation and deprived them of human speech. The goal was to adapt the language center of the brain to interpret physical movement as a language. She can…read you. Your body. That's why she understands what you're saying when she doesn't know the words. It's why in combat, she knows what you're going to do before you do it." -Batgirl (2000) #1

"The language centers of your brain are all over both hemispheres. Not centralized like with most people. When you try to read or write, your brain doesn't know how to keep it cohesive. But the good news is--you can learn. It's just a matter of figuring out how." -Batgirl #67

It's actually specified somewhere (I don't have the panel on hand, unfortunately) that she doesn't know sign language; Cain wanted her to read natural body language and nuance, not artificial hand gestures. Cass's primary "language" (and thus form of communication) until her brain was semi-rewired was body language.

But body language isn't actually a language; it's a form of non-verbal communication that functions through the (largely subconscious) 'reading' of both conscious and unconscious physical movement. Cass's childhood and training simply elevated that ability to ridiculous heights:

"A special ability to predict my opponent's moves. That doesn't begin to describe it. Time...ran together. The future...blending...into the moment. A blink of an eye...the knife thrust that follows...both one. It was like...like I could predict my opponent's moves. Okay, that does describe it. But it doesn't do it justice. All this knowledge. No substitute for knowing." -Batgirl (2000) #7

We see explicitly how this ability plays out on several occasions throughout her Batgirl run and the Detective Comics Rebirth run, and it's pretty clear she's reading subconscious feelings, thoughts, and movement, not language:

Cass absolutely communicates via hand gestures before and after Batgirl #4, but it's not any form of cohesive language, much less ASL. It's effectively advanced charades mixed with some universal non-verbal gestures:

"You don't speak any language, do you? Except violence." -Detective Comics (1937) #734

"Is he giving you any trouble?" *Cass flaps her hand to indicate the guy is a blabbermouth* "Got you. He talks too much." -Batman: Family (2002) #7

*Cass gestures to Jason's heart, Tim's mind, and Dick's voice to indicate she understands how they work as a team*-Batman and Robin Eternal (2015) #3

People learning a English as a second language already have an understanding of how language works, but Cass doesn’t have that foundation. Her primary language isn't sign language, it's body reading. Thus, she struggles to speak, read, and write in English not because it's a different language than she's used to communicating with but because it's the first actual language she's ever learned. Fanon largely projects ASL fluency onto Cass because they fundamentally don't understand how her abilities work (and thus don't understand how her disability works either).

Does Cass have the ability to learn ASL? Absolutely! Would ASL be a really cool way of depicting Cass communicating with other people and an interesting way to showcase language learning difficulties and communication disabilities in the visual medium that is comics? Absolutely! I would actually be genuinely thrilled if canon and the fandom actually worked with what a physical, visual-based language like ASL might mean for Cass's ability to communicate given her childhood training. But as it stands, "Cass knowing ASL" is a well-meaning but misguided fanon attempt to showcase inclusivity while being...well, frankly kind of offensive.

(As for why she would theoretically "know" Mandarin, it's a product of the incredibly racist and ableist writing that defined the "Evil Cass Era." This culminated in DC putting her on a bus and shipping her off to Hong Kong because "Asian girl knows Asian languages, right? Brilliant! Send her off!" while ignoring literally everything about Cass ever. She's never actually shown speaking Mandarin, Cantonese, or any other dialect of Chinese on-panel, but we can reasonably infer she probably picked up SOME level of comprehension while living there.)

#cassandra cain #cassandra cain meta #batman #batfam #batgirl #asks #ableism #fanon vs canon #disability #note: I have not read all of Reboot!Cass's appearances so she theoretically MIGHT know ASL even though it's super doubtful #but pre-reboot!Cass DEFINITELY doesn't #long post #batman meta

[thezombieprostitute]

Dream Come True - Part 4

Summary: The “Garbage Men” are the guys in the mob who get the dirt on others and clean up after the higher ups. They have many different ways of gathering intel by running legitimate businesses. One such business is Jefferson/Jensen’s cyber cafe where you regularly go to work. You’ve actually become good friends with Jefferson’s daughter and Jensen’s niece. You even volunteered as their after-school tutor. One day, there’s a robbery attempt where you get hurt protecting the girls. This is how you are introduced to Curtis Everett, the guy in charge of the “Garbage Men”.

A/N: Reader is plus sized, femme. No other descriptors used.

Word Count: ~2000. I think this is my longest chapter.

Warnings: Bullying, Fat shaming, Insecure reader, Violence mentioned and referenced but not written. Please let me know if I missed any!

Series Masterlist

Part 3 -- Part 5

It figured. You had an interview in an hour and now Curtis had time to talk to you. You could probably catch a cab and still arrive on time, so long as you kept this conversation short.

As soon as he walked into the cyber cafe (your second home at this point) you stood up and got his attention. He looked a little surprised to see you standing but you remembered every time he's seen you so far it was in a hospital bed. It's been a few weeks and your leg was still stiff but you were diligent in your physical therapy and healing well.

He walked over to you, accompanied by someone you didn't recognize. As soon as he got close enough you directed him to the office in the back, "Jefferson gave me permission to use his office for this discussion." Curtis nodded and the three of you went into the room, closing the door behind you.

"Hello," you reach a hand towards the stranger, "I'm Y/N. I don't think we've been introduced."

"Mace," he shakes your hand with a smile. "We've never met but I have heard a lot about you."

"It's nice to meet you," you return the smile. Looking at Curtis you continue, "we need to talk about either my schedule or Hal's, Sir."

Curtis gestures to the chairs and you all take a seat.

You start, "I understand that there are a lot of things you can't account for in your scheduling but Hal has had to cancel every session I've tried to have with him. And if I'm not tutoring, I'm not getting paid."

"We can put you on retainer," Curtis started.

You interrupted him with a scoff. "I'm not getting paid to do nothing, Sir. What's more, this is hurting Hal. He wants to learn but your chaotic scheduling is preventing that. Do you know how discouraging that can be? To finally have a resource but never be allowed to use it?"

Curtis sighs and looks at Mace, "do you think we can figure out a consistent time?"

"It'll take some work," he replies. "And, as the lady points out, there are things we can't plan for. But it should be possible."

Curtis looks at you, questioningly and you nod your head, "thank you both. This has been very frustrating for me and Hal so I really appreciate it."

"Eh," Mace replies, "what's a little more work?"

"Well I don't mean to cut into your time off with this, Sirs," your tone apologetic.

"We don't do time off," Curtis cuts in.

"What? Why not," you demand. "Time off is important for physical and mental health."

"We have to show our people that we're not asking them to do anything we wouldn't do ourselves," Curtis replied calmly.

"That's bullshit," you exclaim. "No wonder everyone's schedules are so hectic! You're all too exhausted and worn out to think straight!"

"We've been doing this for years," Curtis angrily interjects. "It's clearly been working."

"If you, Hal and Jake are any indication it's only working because of an ungodly amount of caffeine and luck," you retort. "You either need to get some more people or start scheduling R&R for you and your employees, Sir."

You're so focused on Curtis that you don't see Mace smiling, clearly trying not to laugh. Curtis's eyes soften a bit and he nods in concession.

"Thank you." You check your watch, "now if you'll excuse me, I have an interview to get to."

"What?" Curtis looked shocked. You almost think you saw some hurt in his eyes.

"My work for you will always get highest priority, Sir," you assure. "But it's very part-time work, that you’ve been unintentionally sabotaging and keeping very part-time. And that overly generous back pay won't last forever. So I'm looking at getting another income."

"Do you need a ride to the interview," Mace offers.

"No, but thank you," you reply. "The Wilford & Gilliam Trust building isn't too far and I can afford a cab."

Both men froze at your words as you got up and tried to leave. Curtis quickly blocked your access to the door and nearly growled, "you're not going to that interview."

"Excuse you?" Your eyes widen in surprise. "I've already told you that my work for you will get top priority and that I need the income, Sir. Now please move. I don't want to be late."

"You're not working for Wilford & Gilliam," Curtis barked. "You need another income? Fine. I'll find you another job. But you're not working for them."

"It's just a part-time, data entry kind of job," you retort. "And it's consistent, reliable work."

"They're horrible people who fund even worse people," Curtis scowled. "I know you like your data to back up these kinds of things but I can't tell you how I know."

You scan Curtis's face, take aback at the intensity of his conviction. There is no room for doubt that he believes in what he's saying. "Okay, Sir," you concede. "You've yet to do wrong by me so I'll trust you. I will still look for a second job, in case you can't find me one, but it will not be with them."

Satisfied with your answer Curtis let's you leave. As soon as you're out the office door he sees the grin on Mace's face. He gives him a questioning look but before Mace can say anything they hear you exclaim, "Mr. Drysdale?!"

Both men rush out to the main cafe and see Ransom looking uncharacteristically repentant.

"Y/N," Ransom gulped, "come back to work for me. Please."

"No," you responded before trying to walk around him.

Ransom blocks your path, "please! I...I made a mistake and I would like to make it up to you."

"No," you repeat, patience wearing thin.

"I'll double your pay, please!"

"Hire someone else!"

"I'VE TRIED," he shouts. "Their work doesn't get me through writer's block like yours did. Their research is all dry facts that are hard to absorb. You wrote in such a way that it was easy for me to figure out how to write it into the story. So PLEASE come back to work for me!"

"Do you know why I requested remote work, Mr. Drysdale?" He shakes his head, not used to the iciness in your voice. "I heard you complaining about me to your grandfather, the one who made you hire me. You never had a problem with my work but you still insisted he let you fire me so you could get a pretty assistant. One who was, to use your words, preferably fresh out of college. Because how could you be expected to write when you had to look at ugly, fat ass instead of a beautiful muse?"

Ransom at least had the decency to look ashamed but you didn't relent.

"So I worked remotely, making sure you wouldn't have to see me and I wouldn't have to put up with your looks of disgust. And then, when I got hurt, you cut me loose. So, no, Mr. Drysdale, I will not be working for you ever again. I prefer a reliable employer who appreciates my work."

You try to walk past him but he puts an arm out to stop you. Before you can react to the arm, Curtis has pulled Ransom away, gripping him by the front of his sweater. You don't want to cry in front of everyone so you keep walking, set on going home.

As soon as you're out the door Curtis snarls, "you do not treat any of my employees like that." Before Ransom can reply Curtis punches him in the face and he falls to the floor. Curtis glances at Mace who responds with a nod, promising he'll see to the witnesses, before he lets himself run after you.

Thankfully it was an off time of day and the sidewalks were mostly empty. He spotted you right away and quickly went after you. He caught up to you but the tears in your eyes made him stop in his tracks. 

“Y/N,” he asked. “You gonna be okay?”

“Eventually, Sir,” you reply, still walking. “He’s not the first asshole I’ve had to deal with and he won’t be the last.”

“I’m sorry you had to deal with that. I should’ve stepped in sooner.”

“I’m glad you didn’t, actually. He needs to know I’m serious and that I’m strong enough to not need him. If you had stepped in before I was done talking, he’d think he could still get to me by going around you. This way I got to be the one shutting him out, giving him no room to think he could worm around.”

“That’s fair. I was incredibly impressed with how you handled him.”

“Like I said, not the first asshole to put my looks ahead of my worth.”

“Your prettiness is definitely a bonus to your good work,” he says before he can stop himself.

You stop and look at him, an angry expression and fresh tears on your face. “Don’t, Sir. Just don’t. I’m not interested in your pity.”

“I’m not…” Curtis stops himself. He’s clearly not saying the right things and doesn’t want to hurt you further. “I’m sorry.”

You nod and continue the trek to your apartment. He silently accompanies you. You’re hurt and he can’t fix it. If anything, he’d likely just make it worse. He never wanted to see tears in your eyes but being the cause of a fresh wave of them made him hurt in ways he never knew he could. 

“This is my building, Sir,” you interrupt his thoughts. “Thank you for walking me home and making sure I’m okay.” He nods, still afraid to say or do anything else, and you walk into your building, leaving him on the sidewalk. Part of him wants to follow after but he’s not sure he’d be able to actually do anything. Best if he just gets lost in his work. That’s always helped him before.

As he turns to walk back to the cybercafe, he sees Mace in their work van, parked on the curb. He moves into the passenger seat and sighs. As Mace drives away, Curtis says, “okay, we’ve gotta rework a few schedules.”

Mace chuckles, “if I’d known all it would take to get you to relent was a pretty face with a fiery spirit-”

“Don’t,” Curtis interrupts. 

“I’m just saying,” Mace bantered. “I’ve been telling you for a long while now that we need to give the guys a better work environment or they’ll burnout and make stupid mistakes. She makes one comment about how it affects her and you’re singing a different tune.”

“That’s not what happened.”

“I was there, Curtis. I saw it all happen.”

Curtis remained silent.

“I can’t say I blame you, though. She’s got some serious-”

“ENOUGH,” Curtis ordered. “Let’s just get to thinking about some more work for her.”

Mace took a calculating look at Curtis, “how about we have work with Colin and Mickey? They could use someone responsible to act as their manager. We could get better info from their VIP section if at least one person was sober. And you know they’d make her feel…appreciated.”

“No,” Curtis barked. “They’re idiots who would get her in trouble. I also don’t want her anywhere near the drug monitoring operations. If one of Rumlow’s goons pushes something on her…”

“Okay,” Mace interrupted. “How about Lee or Barber? She’d be pretty safe with them.”

“No. She’s too curious. Lee and Barber have information about us and I don’t want her to go snooping and suddenly be liable for our mistakes.”

“You’re intent on keeping her in the dark? She’s clearly smart enough to know there’s more to all of what we do.”

“But she has no specifics. No details. She can still claim ignorance and that’s how I want it.”

“Not sure how plausible an idea that’s gonna be. Especially when you two start dating.” Mace smiles a little when he hears Curtis’s warning grunt. 

“That’s not going to happen,” Curtis vows. “We’ll figure out something.”

“Whatever you say, Boss.”

Part 3 -- Part 5

Tagging @alicedopey because I promised I would.

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@veltana

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#Curtis Everett x plus size!reader #curtis everett x reader #mob!curtis everett #mafia!curtis everett #Curtis Everett x female!reader

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

North To The Future [Chapter 15: Drive] [Series Finale]

The year is now 2000. You are just beginning your veterinary practice in Juneau, Alaska. Aegon is a mysterious, troubled newcomer to town. You kind of hate him. You are also kind of obsessed with him. Falling for him might legitimately ruin your life…but can you help it? Oh, and there’s a serial killer on the loose known only as the Ice Fisher.

Chapter warnings: Language, alcoholism, addiction, murder, violence, character deaths.

Word count: 7.3k.

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

Taglist: @elsolario​ @ladylannisterxo​ @doingfondue​ @tclegane​ @quartzs-posts​ @liathelioness​ @aemcndtargaryen​ @thelittleswanao3​ @burningcoffeetimetravel​ @poohxlove​ @borikenlove​ @myspotofcraziness​ @travelingmypassion​ @graykageyama​ @skythighs​ @lauraneedstochill​ @darlingimafangirl​ @charenlie​ @thewew​ @eddies-bat-tattoos​ @minttea07​ @joliettes​ @trifoliumviridi​ @bornbetter​ @flowerpotmage​ @thewitch-lives​ @tempt-ress​ @padfooteyes​ @teenagecriminalmastermind​ @chelsey01​ @anditsmywholeheart​ @heliosscribbles​ @killerqueen-ofwillowgreen​ @narwhal-swimmingintheocean​ @tillyt04​ @cicaspair418​ @fan-goddess​ 

A/N: This is the fic I almost never wrote because I didn’t think anyone would be interested in some random, angsty, 1990s, Alaskan, crime-thriller AU. Thank you for proving me wrong. I hope you enjoy the ending. 💜

Almost everything about your existence is pure chance; it’s the most freeing and horrifying truth imaginable. There’s the genetic lottery and corporate downsizing, revolutions and hurricanes, plagues, asteroids, famines, faulty airplanes and malignant blooms of cells and drunk drivers. There are 100 billion planets in this galaxy and your atoms ended up on the one called Earth. After all that, do you really think what you want matters? So make all the choices you like, all the nail-biting deliberations and promises and vows, weigh costs and benefits, do research, roll dice, ask astrologers and palm readers, start over every New Year because that’s something we tell ourselves is possible. The fact that you exist at all is one big cosmic coin flip. If you think you’re the one driving, you’re dead fucking wrong. You’re the speck of dust on a windshield, the spin of a roulette wheel. You’re a flash of silver in the universe’s pinball machine.

I spend a lot of my time thinking about chance, okay? My family is one of the wealthiest in the Western Hemisphere, and I didn’t do anything to earn that. I was born first, and I definitely didn’t do anything to earn that, Jesus Christ, what a chromosomal fuckup. I inherited an affliction that others get to live without. I can’t imagine what it feels like to wake up and not be horrified by myself, my shortcomings, my failures: too small, too stupid, too wild, too weak. And the first time someone says something like that to you, you want to apologize, you want to drop to your knees and cling to them and beg for absolution, maybe even the first hundred times, the first thousand. And then it just starts to piss you off. Yeah, I know, I’ve heard it all before, why would you expect anything different? Isn’t this getting old, Mom? Maybe you’re the stupid one, Dad, if you think you could cut me and anything but disappointments would fall out. I’m not horrified by the fact that I’m an addict. The horror came first. The horror is what led to all the rest of it.

One day when I was in 10th Grade—I was slumped way down in my chair and drinking vodka out of an Evian water bottle—my American History teacher, purely by chance, assigned me to make a poster about Juneau, Alaska. Some other kid got Los Angeles (Hollywood! The Whisky a Go Go!) and another got Chicago (the Mob!) and another got Nashville (Johnny Cash!) and some jock moron I hated got Baltimore (um, crabs? the War of 1812…?), but I got fucking Juneau, Alaska. I thought this was so unjust that I never forgot it, the fact that I had to get up in front of the class with my pathetic Crayolas-and-magazine-cutouts poster and pretend that Juneau was a place that mattered, that microscopic cloud-covered relic of a late-1800s gold mining settlement on the shores of the Gastineau Channel. Juneau was never on my list of cities to run to. It just wasn’t. It didn’t have anything I wanted. But when I started thinking about places where I could really disappear, where no one would ever bother looking, where days are short and dark and incurious and irrelevant…well, that sounds like Juneau, right?

Let me tell you something about the night I left. I’ve been more messed up, yeah, and I’ve hurt people worse, and I’ve been closer to death, I’ve been one more powder-white gram on the scale away from oblivion; but I’ve never felt that fucking low. I can’t decide if I wish I’d never gone to Juneau at all. I can’t decide if it was a blessing or a curse.

My flight is a red-eye with a layover in Ketchikan, American Airlines, bound for Seattle. Sunfyre has the window seat. He’s wearing the bright red Service Dog vest that I once stole for him specifically for such occasions. My dog fly with the cargo? My dog?! Bill Clinton will be elected pope first. Sunfyre is chewing contently on Milk-Bones and watching the sun rise over the Pacific Ocean. He knows the drill. We’ll touchdown and deplane, and then…and then…

And then we’ll start over again somewhere new. I’ll find a flight board and pick a destination; Seattle is a hub, with spokes leading everywhere. I could go south, to Galveston, Lafayette, Biloxi, someplace where it gets hot, someplace where I can sweat her out of me, purge every cell that still remembers what she felt like. I could go west, fading into mountains or cornfields, vapid infinitesimal towns in Montana, Iowa, Idaho, Nebraska. I could go to New England or the Great Lakes or freaking Hawaii, sleep in hammocks, swim with sea turtles, drink my rum and Cokes out of coconut shells. But the more I think about it, the more I realize that nowhere really sounds good to me. My legs are suddenly tired of running. There’s an ache that rattles down to the bone.

I don’t have to tell you that I love her, right? It’s not so easy for me to say. But it’s true, and it’s beautiful, and it’s torture, and it’s a dream. It’s pain that flays you alive and then builds you back again, layers of fresh muscle and tendons and veins growing over ribs and vertebrae like a trellis thick with ivy. It’s not a high. It’s just the best life can get down here on earth. It’s the ocean, it’s the Northern Lights.

I’m swimming in a black hoodie that is three sizes too big; I haven’t slept and I’m pale and raccoon-eyed, looking like death, feeling worse. When the stewardess rolls by with her clattering cart just slim enough to fit through the aisle, I order a cup of water for Sunfyre and a double rum and Coke for myself. It arrives with two blood-red cherries bobbing in a caramel-dark carbonated sea. The guy in the next seat over gives me a judgmental little eyebrow raise.

“That doesn’t look like breakfast,” he says.

I bite off both cherries—juice dribbling down my chin, wiped away with a sleeve—and throw the stems over my shoulder. The lady sitting behind me yelps in disgust. “Because it’s dessert.”

The man smiles and shakes his head, one of those I shouldn’t find it funny but I do sort of looks. I inspire a lot of those. He’s maybe mid-thirties, long hair and ripped jeans, very punk rock, cool as hell. There is a constellation of pins on his denim jacket. One of them has a roman numeral 10 on it, a stark X nestled inside a triangle. Unity, Service, Recovery, the gold letters say. To Thine Own Self Be True. It’s an Alcoholics Anonymous pin. What are the chances?

He catches me staring, and I ask: “Does it really make you a better man?”

“It doesn’t make you better. It just makes you real.” He smiles again, patient and kind. “It makes your emotions and experiences real, your relationships real. And so you become whatever version of yourself you were always supposed to be. But you have to want it. Not your wife, not your parents or your kids, not your pastor, not your friends, not your parole officer. You.”

I speak without knowing what I’m going to say. “I want it.”

“Yes, I think you do.”

He sees a lot, I think, as the plane descends into the grey fogbank of Seattle. 20/20.

When we land, the man squeezes into a cab with me and Sunfyre—he sniffles into a Kleenex for a while before reluctantly admitting that he’s allergic to dogs—and pays the fare. The cab’s worn brakes squeal to a stop outside a residential treatment center on the banks of the Puget Sound. When we step out onto the sidewalk, I ask the man if he’s going to take me to get one last drink first. He laughs in my face. Fucking jerk.

He pulls out a black Sharpie and rummages through his pockets, his wallet. He can’t find a scrap of paper. He writes his phone number on the underside of my arm instead. “You call me, okay?” he says. “Call me when you get out. Call me before you get out, if you need to. I don’t care if it’s in five minutes, I don’t care if it’s at 2 a.m. You just make sure you call.”

“Why would you do this? I mean, you don’t even know me. You have no idea who I am.”

“Because once, years ago, someone did the same thing for me, and someone did it for her too. Maybe one day you’ll be able to pay it forward. I don’t care who you are or where you’ve been. It doesn’t matter to me. I’d like to think that we’re all more than the worst thing we’ve ever done.”

And then he waits for me to go inside. He doesn’t leave until he watches me check in at reception on the other side of the rain-flecked glass. Outside, a brand new day is beginning. A misty sun rises as pieces of the sky fall.

Sunfyre trots into the lobby alongside me, panting cheerfully, shaking the perpetual Seattle drizzle from his fur. There’s a girl at the front desk, just a girl, and that’s the other thing that’s different now. She’s not a maybe-future-one-of-my-girls. She’s just like anyone else. I already have a girl. I mean, I don’t anymore, not really. But I still do.

I throw my things onto the counter: my single suitcase, my tattered wallet, my bundle of cash held together with rubber bands, my scraped-up electric guitar.

“Checking in?” the girl asks.

“Yeah.”

“For how long?”

“As long as it takes, I guess.”

She opens my wallet, reads my license, blinks in bewilderment. “Aegon…?”

I sigh dramatically. “It’s Greek.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You dream of him; and when you do, he’s always smiling. He’s reading your palm in an empty Taco Bell, he’s kissing you under the Northern Lights, he’s regaling your parents with stories—of lobster fishing in Portland, of cattle ranching in Denver—all through Thanksgiving dinner, he’s undressing you in his moonlit apartment, he’s climbing into your bed. He’s not angry, he’s not ruined, he’s not running away. He’s exactly as you remember him in his best moments. He’s all chaotic white-blond hair and weightless light, sharp laughter and bright eyes. And each morning there’s a splinter-thin moment before you remember that he’s gone. That’s the worst part, really. You always knew it would be. You can’t even begin to forget him.

Your friends want to help you, but they don’t know how. Neither do your parents. Your dad gets an atlas from the study, throws it down on the dining room table, and opens it to a map of the world. “Pick anyplace and we’ll go there,” he says. “We’ll close the vet clinic for two weeks and we’ll all go.” But you can’t give him a single name: not Athens, or Paris, or Buenos Ares, or Cairo, or New York City, or Rome, or Tokyo, or anywhere else for that matter. It’s the strangest thing. All your life you’ve been waiting to get out of Juneau, but now nowhere sounds good to you. And maybe that’s a lesson you wish you’d never learned: sometimes freedom is less about places than it is about people.

The blood on the equipment recovered from Trent’s apartment matches DNA from the first three victims. He is charged with eight counts of first-degree murder and held awaiting trial in the Lemon Creek Correctional Center. His family visits him faithfully each week. His lawyer is exasperated that he won’t plead guilty and spare his parents the humiliation and expense of a protracted court battle. But Trent’s story never changes: he’s innocent, he’s never killed anybody, he doesn’t understand how the blood could have been found on his belongings. He wants to know exactly what items the police tested; he and his lawyer are still waiting for the prosecutor to turn over all the details during discovery. In the midst of the scandal, the upheaval, you fade into the backdrop like the stars behind fog. People talk around you and through you. They offer gaps that you don’t care enough to fill in. Drinks clink, whispers fly, conspiracies are exchanged between pool shots. You watch the days grow longer and wait for the future to arrive. You don’t know what it will look like, you can’t even begin to fathom it. But surely there must be a future. Life goes on. It did for your mom after Jesse. It will for you too.

A week after Aegon leaves, there is a knock at your parents’ front door. You open it to find Aemond standing there in the muted amber-pink afternoon light. His hair is long and loose, his Armani suit immaculately tailored, his BlackBerry nestled in his right hand. He glances up from it at you and his jaw falls open. And only then do you realize how awful you must look.

You tell Aemond, your voice hushed and heavy, ankles in quick-drying cement: “I don’t know where he is.”

“No, I can see that,” Aemond replies, dull horror in his blue eye. Then he turns around and strides halfway down the driveway towards the street, where a cab idles as it waits for him, engine exhaust pouring into the air like smoke from a firepit.

“How’s your dad?” you call after him when you get your bearings.

He pauses under the dwindling light. “Alive. For now.” And then Aemond considers you for a while. “I suppose if I ever want to find you again, I know where to look.”

You nod. “I’ll be here.”

I’ll always be here.

A month crawls by like a wounded animal, dead leaves snared in the fur of its belly. The flesh on your thigh knits back together. The things that Aegon ordered show up in Juneau, packages left on the front porch and stuffed into the moose-shaped mailbox like Christmas gifts in a stocking. You pack these remnants of him—Zoobooks and cooking accessories, knives and Chia Pets—into a cardboard box and tuck it away in a dusty, cobwebbed corner of the attic, and you’re aware the entire time that this has happened before, almost exactly twenty years ago. When your dad puts a Third Eye Blind or Red Hot Chili Peppers or Oasis album on his record player, you find some excuse to leave the room. When you tack magazine cutouts of beaches and cityscapes to your bedroom walls, all you can think about is where Aegon might be now. You wonder where he works during the day, a surf shop or a construction site or a farm or a fishing boat; you wonder who he spends his nights with.

I’ll always be here. Even if I leave, I’ll always be here.

~~~~~~~~~~

Twenty years ago to the day, almost to the hour, a man fell into the Gastineau Channel and drowned. They found water in his lungs, though the autopsy was only a formality, an afterthought; Jesse had a reputation in Juneau, and no one was particularly surprised to see how his story ended. There were abrasions on his back and shoulders, contusions on his wrists, but so what? He probably tripped half a dozen times before he tumbled over some guardrail and into the frigid black water. There was a bloody mess of an impact wound on the side of his face, but who cares? The blood alcohol concentration doesn’t lie. The man was wasted, and more than that he was a waste. If his premature demise hadn’t been then, it would have been later, in a week or a month or a year. And when someone like that goes, there’s a sigh of relief that accompanies the misery, isn’t there? There’s the sense of a weight being lifted from a scale.

You’re sitting in Ursa Minor at the usual booth, but the bar is practically empty. It’s Valentine’s Day. Joyce is with Rob, Kimmie is with Brad; Heather’s parents have spirited her away on a short vacation to Sitka to try to take their minds off Trent’s imminent lifelong incarceration. Your mom and dad’s February 14th tradition is cooking a homemade Italian dinner together—pasta, bread with herbs and olive oil, caprese salad, tiramisu—and then settling in for a romantic Blockbuster rental. This year, it’s Runaway Bride. Your mom loves Julia Roberts. They didn’t ask for privacy, but you gave it to them anyway. Kimmie offered to drop you off at Ursa Minor and then drive you home after her date with Brad so you could drink away your sorrows without having to worry about calling a ride. So now Kimmie is getting wined, dined, and plied with boxed chocolates at the Red Dog Saloon while you drain appletinis and flip through one of Jesse’s journals, not knowing what you’re looking for.

Dale is washing pint glasses in the sink behind the bar and humming cheerfully along to a Cake CD. It’s just you and him tonight; evidently, Dale doesn’t have a hot date either. It was nice of him to eschew the usual Shania Twain or Sheryl Crow soundtrack. He’s trying to spare you from any crooning love songs. He must have forgotten that Cake has its own little slice of relevance in your memories of Aegon, those memories that refuse to fade, ink in your skin as dark as night.

Your fingerprints trace Jesse’s scrawling, handwritten letters. It’s his very last journal, the last words he ever wrote. His final entry is unremarkable, a lucid recollection of his latest woodcarving project: it’s a family of tiny bears, three of them. He says he wants the cub to have the same slope of your cheeks, the shape of your eyes. And it’s just like your mom said. It really did seem like he was getting better.

You flip to the next page, blank. The heading reads: Thursday, February 14th, 1980.

You go back a few days. And your gaze catches on words that you’ve read before, months ago, back when the journals were a new discovery like striking oil. The entry is from Saturday the 9th. It ends with an unceremonious bullet point of a reminder: dinner w/ Dale on Thursday.

You leaf forward to Thursday, to the blank page that tells you nothing. Back to the 9th, forward to the 14th, again, again. Valentine’s Day 1980, before Dale had married his wife, after your mom had stopped trying to make plans with Jesse, maybe even rebelled against them; just two unromantic, discarded men with a vacant slot in their calendars and troubles to drink into submission. Except that Jesse never came home.

Dinner with Dale, you think dizzily. Dinner with Dale on the night he died.

The opening notes of The Distance shout from the stereo. Everything suddenly feels very loud.

Reluctantly crouched at the starting line,

Engines pumping and thumping in time…

What had Aegon said about that song before you sang it together, stomping and staggering across the hardwood floor? It’s not about NASCAR, it’s about a journey!

Outside, it’s a rare clear night in Juneau. The Northern Lights are a kaleidoscopic ribbon against indigo night, the sky a mausoleum of stars. And you remember when Aegon sang Everlong, when he grabbed your hand, led you upstairs to the roof, kissed you for the first time under the ethereal, shimmering curtain of green and purple and blue…before Heather had interrupted to tell you that Dale was closing the bar. He was irritable, he was tired; he wanted to go home.

The arena is empty except for one man,

Still driving and striving as fast as he can…

And then they found a body, didn’t they? Yes, you can remember being in Aegon’s apartment and hearing the police cars zoom by. You remember the red-and-blue flashes on his face. You remember thinking they looked like sapphires and rubies, the ocean and blood.

The sun has gone down and the moon has come up

And long ago somebody left with the cup,

But he’s driving and striving and hugging the turns

And thinking of someone for whom he still burns…

Icy claws glide down the length of your spine. Memories play back with a focused clarity that you didn’t have before: Dale groggy and yawning just before they found the fifth victim at Christmas, and again before they found the eighth the same night Trent dragged you—shrieking, bleeding, virtually naked—out of your Jeep. You remember Dale at your parents’ New Year’s Eve party talking about how maybe the killer was an athlete with brain damage from CTE. You remember him offering to give Trent a box of his old equipment from when he was a park ranger. You remember him watching as Trent towered over you here in Ursa Minor with a cue stick clenched in his fist, demanding to know where you had been the night before, Dale’s eyes gleaming with disapproval and fascination and…and…oh god, opportunity.

He’s going the distance,

He’s going for speed,

She’s all alone (all alone)

All alone in her time of need…

And now Aegon’s long gone, but you’re still here. And so is the Ice Fisher.

You’re staring at Dale, eyes huge and glossy with terror. He glances up, gives you a brief casual smile, looks down at the pint glasses again. And then his eyes come back to you. He sees you and you see him, really see him, and it’s the first time in your life that you can recall him being a centerpiece instead of an ornament for gazes to skate over like ice, wallpaper or taxidermy deer heads or a mirror. And you watch as the thing that lives inside Dale stirs awake. It is a shadow with fangs, talons, barbs down its spine, a weblike scribble of a brain loud with the echoes of screams; and it unfurls and fills him completely, all the way to his fingerprints. It possesses him, it eclipses him.

It’s Dale, you realize like a bullet slicing through an aorta, spilling an ocean of hot blood. It was him twenty years ago and it’s him now.

You gasp and fumble for the cannister of bear mace still clipped to your purse. Dale crosses the room with staggering swiftness, like a wolf, like a storm, one pint glass still gripped in his hand. He reaches you just as your thumb presses down on the cannister’s release tab. The rust-colored mist spews not directly into his face but into the room; Dale is hacking and rasping, you both are, but he isn’t in too much pain to haul you out of the booth and onto the floor. You’re screaming, you’re clawing at him, your eyes feel like they’re on fire, tiny pinpoint infernos that drill down to the bone. You can feel the ice-cold juice and schnapps and vodka of your appletini, knocked off the table when you fell, soaking through the back of your sweater. You can feel pebbles of glass as they burrow into your flesh. You are dimly aware of a barstool tumbling over as you struggle with Dale.

“No!” you cry into the monstrous hand that he clamps over your mouth. “No—!”

Dale brings the bottom of the pint glass down on your head. The Distance lyrics—she’s hoping in time that her memories will fade—swirl around inside your fractured skull.

Silence descends like a curtain, shadows in, lights out.

~~~~~~~~~~

I knock, and he opens the door. The house smells like fresh bread and alfredo sauce, rosemary and crushed garlic. My rental—a Toyota 4Runner, I remember what she said about the Nova being a bad idea in Alaska—is parked in the driveway behind her Jeep. Sunfyre is standing beside me, eyes sparkling, smiling with that unburdened-by-intellect innocence that dogs have. There’s a bouquet of blue-dyed roses in my left hand, cool melancholy blooms of life like seawater, like bruises.

“Hi,” I say to her dad as he stands in the doorway. “It’s good to see you again.”

“It’s good to see you too, Aegon.” He’s not just staring at me in the artificial front porch light; he’s gawking, he’s damn near speechless. “Wow. Wow. It’s really good to see you.”

Yeah, I know I look different. The dark rings around my eyes have vanished, my face is less puffy, my hair is trimmed and healthy and mostly out of my face, I stand taller. I’m wearing a white turtleneck sweater and a leather jacket, black skinny jeans, my combat boots. I have a red chip in my pocket that I can’t fucking wait to show her: 1 month sober. On the first day, you think you’re going to die, and on the second day you wish you would. But you don’t. You live, and that starts out as a grisly inconvenience, and then you get a taste for it. “You can probably guess who I’m looking for.”

“Yeah, I reckon I can,” her dad says. “But she’s not here right now. She went to Ursa Minor.”

I grin, a crooked little curl of the lips. “I think I remember how to get there.”

I hop back into the 4Runner with Sunfyre and pull out into the street, snow and ice chomping under the tires. I had missed driving, I realize now. I got so used to almost never being able to do it that I forgot how good it feels to turn the wheel yourself, to watch the speedometer ramp up when you decide you want to fly. Ten minutes later, I swerve into Ursa Minor’s deserted parking lot and screech to a stop across three separate spaces.

“Oh, what the fuck!” I choke out as I step into the bar, coughing into my sleeve. The blue roses tumble out of my hand. Ursa Minor is empty, but there’s something in the air, something invisible that drives scorching, stinging needles into my eyes and my sinuses. Tears stream down my face; my exposed skin prickles and burns. Sunfyre sneezes over and over again and lingers in the doorway, gulping in fresh night wind from outside. There’s shattered glass and green liquid on the hardwood floor. There’s an upturned barstool. The stereo is playing Cake’s cover of Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps.

What the hell happened here—?

And then I see it: the cannister of bear mace that had rolled under the booth, the same one she and her friends always sat in.

She used the bear mace. She finally used it. But why?

There’s blood on the floor. There’s blood on the table too. There’s a tattered, olive-green journal opened to a blank page. The pieces slide closer and closer and then link together, an explosion in my mind like fireworks.

I bolt outside and study the snow-covered parking lot. There are fresh tire tracks there under the murky luminescence of the streetlights; they lead out to the main road and then north towards the lakes.

“No,” I whisper to no one but the fierce wind, the sky threaded with the opalescent Northern Lights. “No, no, no…”

I sprint back inside Ursa Minor, get the phone Dale keeps behind the bar, and call the cops. “Stay where you are,” the 911 dispatcher instructs me sternly. “Wait for the police, do not attempt to investigate yourself, do not attempt to intervene—”

“Yeah, fuck that,” I say, and slam the receiver into the cradle. Then I swipe the black 8 ball off the pool table.

I load Sunfyre into the 4Runner and spin out of the parking lot, following the parallel lines of tire tracks like the etching of veins beneath skin.

~~~~~~~~~~

There’s a sound, rough and grating; and then you realize that it’s you being dragged across the ice. When your eyes flutter open, you see the uninterrupted sky: indigo night, distant stars, the Northern Lights. Your clothes are wet with snow; it’s so cold that the fabric is freezing, stiff and crackling when you try to move. Dale is lugging you over the frozen lake by the collar of your sweater. It’s choking you, but of course that doesn’t matter much. He’s about to kill you anyway.

“It’s not right,” Dale mutters, and you’re aware through the disorientation and the fog-like cloud of pain that he’s not really talking to you. “Your mom’s a nice lady. It’s not right that she had to lose two people this way, she doesn’t deserve that. Oh well. It can’t be helped now, can it?”

You whimper something, disjointed helpless words. Please, hurts, don’t, please.

“It’s not me,” Dale says, as if it’s perfectly logical. “I mean, not really. It’s this part of me that I can’t cut out. I can only feed it so it goes away for a while. It quiets down sometimes, it hibernates like a bear in the winter…but it always comes back. And my god, is it hungry.”

You smack clumsily, futilely at his hands as he hauls you over the ice. Dale doesn’t seem to notice.

“You have to make it look like an accident. That’s the ticket, if you don’t want anybody to know. You shove a hiker from a ledge, a drunk into the ocean. I did that for a long time, never raised suspicion. Never pinged on anyone’s radar. Jesse was the hardest, though. Good lord, did he fight. Had to pour a bottle of Everclear down his throat. Had to make it look like he was drinking that night. He wasn’t, which was unusual. Kept saying he wanted to turn things around. I think you had something to do with that. Now this? You were never supposed to be here, ladybug. What a shame. What a goddamn shame.”

Consciousness is a river that you dip in and out of; blackness crumbles around the edges of your vision, collapses in, recedes, swells again like a wave. You moan, you beg, you struggle as much as you can. It’s not much. It might as well be nothing.

“Things were easier after I got married,” Dale continues. He has a large hiking backpack slung over his broad shoulders, you see now. It jostles from side to side as he drags you. You know what’s in there: a chisel to break the ice, fishing line to strangle you. “Having someone else there all the time, it was a distraction. And it kept that thing inside me…not tame, no, I wouldn’t say that. But chained up down in the basement, maybe. Now I’m alone again. And when the chains start rattling, there’s nothing to stop me from hearing them.”

You get your feet under you, twist around, and slam your fists into Dale’s chest as hard as you can. He laughs in a baritone rumble and shoves you back down onto the ice; your head hits the ground, and you can feel yourself fading again, the last wisps of sunlight at dusk.

“Sometimes you want to hide,” Dale says. “And sometimes you don’t. I was ready to stop hiding. I can’t tell you what a high it was every time they found a body. The news, the ceaseless chattering around town, the name they gave me…incredible. Exhilarating. I couldn’t sleep for days after each kill. I’d toss and turn all night imagining what the headlines would be. Let me tell you, ladybug. I’ve never tried heroin, and I never need to. It can’t possibly be better than this.”

What will happen to my parents? you think, heartbreak gutting you, dull knifes rearranging your organs. What will happen to Heather and Kimmie and Joyce? What will happen when Aegon finds out he left too soon?

“I knew I needed someone to pin it on,” Dale informs you calmly. “Didn’t take anyone who went to the bar, didn’t take anyone who could be traced back to me. And still, I knew they’d figure it out eventually if I didn’t give them another suspect. At first, I was thinking I might use Aegon. He was a little small, sure, but he showed up around the right time and he was an outsider. Then I saw the way Trent was with you…aggressive, menacing…and I knew it had to be him. It was almost too easy. I planted the seeds, and good lord did they grow.”

“They’ll know,” you croak. “If you kill me, the police will find my body and they’ll know Trent’s not the Ice Fisher.”

Hideously, horribly, Dale smiles down at you. “Oh, ladybug, I don’t think they’ll ever find you. They found the others because I wanted them to. And no one is looking for victims anymore. Once you sink, I’ll cover up the hole with ice and snow. No blood, no signs. People will assume you’re a runaway. It was just too much, wasn’t it? Trent getting arrested, Aegon leaving town. Maybe you ran off after him. Maybe you threw yourself in the channel. Who could say? No, your bones will become silt, your name will slowly disappear from Juneau. And in ten or twenty years, your parents will have you declared dead in absentia. That’s my best guess. That’s how it will go.”

“No,” you sob, battling against the hands knotted into the collar of your sweater. “No—!”

His knuckles bash the side of your head, and a black silence rolls in like high tide, engulfs you, drowns you. When you swim back up into consciousness again, Dale is a few yards from you and drilling a hole in the ice with his chisel. You try to crawl away and promptly collapse, frail and boneless. He glances over at you, chuckles pleasantly, and then begins using a hatchet to widen the opening.

No, you think, hooking your fingers into the snow and dragging yourself towards the forest. No, no, no…

Dale’s ready for you. He walks over, grabs both of your ankles, tugs you with terrifying ease to the hole in the ice. Then he has a length of fishing line in his hands, and he’s looping it around your throat again and again, and he’s tightening it until the needle-thin nylon wire bites into your flesh, spilling tendrils of blood. You know you don’t have a chance, but you try; you owe it to your parents to try. You claw at the fishing line and you struggle and you cry out in hoarse, useless screams—

And then you hear something that doesn’t make any sense. Through the darkness, through the wind, there are the barks of a dog. Sunfyre rockets into your dimming field of vision and jumps on Dale, snarling and growling and snapping at his hands, his face. Dale flings the dog away, and as he’s distracted, Aegon arrives. He’s holding—ludicrously—a black 8 ball from a pool table, and he smashes it into Dale’s head. A sick, wet, crushing sound ricochets, cracked bone cushioned by flesh, and Dale howls as he rolls onto his side and covers his head with his hands.

He peers up at Aegon, furious and pained and stunned. “You?!”

“Me.” Aegon’s voice is dark and low like thunder, like the iron gale of storms over the ocean. “And I’m a killer.”

He lunges at Dale, still wielding the 8 ball. Dale’s massive hand juts out and closes around Aegon’s wrist, and then he yanks him to the ground. They’re grappling on the snow and ice, they’re striking out with knuckles and elbows, they’re ripping at each other with their bare hands. You’re trying to unravel the fishing line still coiled around your throat, panting in deep, frantic breaths so you can see and think clearly, so you can scramble to your feet, so you can help Aegon. And then Dale gets away from him just long enough to grab you again, to wrap the ends of the fishing line around his fingers. He delivers one last macerating blow to your skull, pulls you by your throat to the gaping hole in the ice, and shoves you through.

The water is so cold it’s paralyzing. There is a thought that seizes you—so overwhelming, so strangely rational—that says all you have to do is stay where you are, to wait a little longer, and then you’ll never hurt again, you’ll never be disappointed or caged, you’ll never be anything. And you think of all the lives you could have lived, all the places you could have gone: cities and beaches and deserts and valleys, gardens and rivers, ruins and glass. You were always so afraid of really going after them. What the hell were you so afraid of? Everything worth fearing is right here in Juneau.

I can still do those things. I can still live. And I can still help Aegon.

You jolt out of your inertia and clamber madly for the surface. But you don’t hit frigid open air; you hit ice, ice too thick to break through, ice too thick for more than a murmur of light to penetrate. Your palms press against the semitransparent wall; bubbles of carbon dioxide spurt from your nose and mouth. You feel for the opening that Dale made, but you don’t know where it is. You are lost beneath the ice, running out of air, fading rapidly. Then you hear Jesse—and you aren’t sure how you know what his voice sounds like, but you do—speaking softly and kindly to you, comforting you, telling you which way to go.

I’m sorry that no one knows the truth, you say without speaking. I’m sorry we thought you destroyed yourself. I’m sorry you never got the chance to truly live.

You were all better off without me anyway, he answers, without any bitterness at all. And that’s true, isn’t it?

There is a great disruption that rocks through the water. New currents stir into existence, fresh waves spring out of the darkness. And then someone takes your hand and draws you towards a noise, muffled through the ice and water: a dog barking, you realize. Then your palms find the opening and you inhale brutally cold air into your aching lungs, the best you’ve ever tasted. Aegon helps pull you through the hole and out of the lake, out of the jaws of oblivion.

You lie together on the ice, breathing in gasps that turn to mist in the night wind. Dale’s body is sprawled several yards away. The hatchet he’d used to break up the ice is buried in his neck, spine severed, eyes slick and vacant. You can see reflections of the Northern Lights flickering in them.

“You came back,” you whisper to Aegon as whirling police sirens approach, the lights dancing on his face: blue like the ocean, red like fire and blood.

“Of course I came back, Appletini,” he says, laughing with frenzied relief, kissing your cheeks and forehead over and over again, lake water dripping from his hair. Sunfyre jumps around you both, yapping ecstatically, his tail wagging. “I couldn’t leave without my Juneau girl.”

~~~~~~~~~~

There’s wind, but it isn’t sharp like a blade. There’s a sky, but it isn’t cloaked in cloud cover or fog. The boats that bob in the surf are sailboats and cruisers, not fishing vessels. Dolphins crest out of the sun-speckled waves like someone coming up from a dream.

It’s June 9th, and you’re soaring down the Pacific Coast Highway in the red Ford Mustang convertible you rented after the plane touched down in Seattle. Aegon is in the driver’s seat, black sunglasses and white T-shirt, his hair whipping in the breeze. He has one hand on the wheel and the other behind your headrest. Sunfyre is in the backseat, grinning like only dogs can. You turn up the song on the radio: Drive by Incubus.

You and Aegon had stayed in Juneau long enough for your skull to heal, and for your parents to find someone else to take over the vet clinic. They settled on a 32-year-old from Detroit: Justin McNair, a former Marine like your dad, and he either has no family or a bad one because he never wants to talk about them. Perhaps it doesn’t really matter which it is; perhaps sometimes they’re just about the same thing. Your parents have already basically adopted him. He eats dinner with them three times a week and calls your dad when he needs help with house maintenance or scaring a moose away from his truck. And just before you went south, Aegon showed him how to make the world’s best hot chocolate.

You send postcards back to Juneau from each town you stop in. Heather’s bon voyage gift to you had been an indecently revealing swimsuit. Joyce appeared with—what else?—a stack of books fit for leisurely beach reading. And Kimmie gave you, however bizarrely, a compass. So you don’t get lost, she had said with an innocuous little smile. You honestly couldn’t tell if she was joking.

During his one month in jail, Trent learned how to meditate and do yoga. He’s still kind of a dumbass, but he’s also a supposedly devout vegan Buddhist, and he had the decency to leave you alone aside from an apology letter that he slid into the moose-shaped mailbox: handwritten, six pages, lots of spelling and grammatical errors. Oh, and he finally got that job with the Forest Service, probably mostly due to his high-profile wrongful detainment. Now hikers get to swoon over his muscles and hair flips.

You’ll go back to Juneau, of course. Maybe just for visits, maybe for more than that someday. But it will never feel like a cage again.

Aegon calls Aemond every two or three days, a habit he started when he was in rehab. At first it was by necessity—he needed someone to pay the $30,000 bill—but now you think he secretly looks forward to it. He updates Aemond about how the road trip is going and reassures him that the plan hasn’t changed: south to San Diego, and then cutting east across the country to Miami. You don’t know what exactly life will look like there, and neither does Aegon. That’s not the important thing about going. Part of AA is making amends, and Aegon has a lot of work to do in that respect. He wants to go back to Miami, he says. He’s ready to go back.

San Diego is exactly like Aegon once told you it would be. You weave through the rust-colored peaks of the Laguna Mountains and there’s the Pacific Ocean, glittering and sapphire-blue, peppered with surfers and sea lions. It’s hot and it’s beautiful beyond words and everything grows there: ivy, cactuses, palm trees, calla lilies, roses. And for the first time that you can remember, the world feels breathtakingly, impossibly big. You get carryout from an unassuming restaurant called The Taco Stand, and then Aegon parks the convertible in La Jolla. You walk down the steps carved into the cliffside, paper bags in your hands full of tacos and churros, Aegon carrying Sunfyre so the dog won’t slip.

You sit together on the golden sand and watch the 8:00 p.m. sun sink into the waves, Aegon’s arm around your waist, your fingers tucking his lock of silvery hair behind his ear. And then he takes your hand, kneads it until it’s sinuous and relaxed, and reads the lines of your palm in the amber dusk like firelight.

“It says you’re happy,” he tells you. “And that you’re free.”

“I am,” you reply, smiling as the ocean stretches out like the arm of a galaxy: the ancient past, the infinite future.

#aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen ii #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #aegon x y/n #aegon x you #nttf #north to the future

[ihavethedreamies]

Always You | The8

Xu Minghao (The8 - Seventeen)

Word Count: ~2.4k

Pairing: Minghao x AFAB!Reader

Genre: Reader-Insert, Fluff, Slight Angst

Warnings: She/Her Pronouns used, Jealousy

It is hinted that Jihoon/Woozi also likes the reader but nothing really happens there. Minghao gets jealous.

Author's Note: This was originally exactly 2000 words but after I edited and Beta-ed it, it got longer.

Enjoy!

I am cross-posting this on Archive under the same name. Please reblog! If you know anyone that would like this or future fics but they aren't on Tumblr my name and icon are exactly the same on the other two sites. Happy reading!

"Minghao, wait, my legs are significantly shorter than yours!" You called after him. He halted and turned back to you, watching you jog to catch up with him.

"Sorry." He gave you a smug smile and you glared at him. He always teased you for being short.

"Here, give me your bag." He held out his hand for your backpack, but you hesitated. He already was carrying his own, another bag with miscellaneous things, and the cooler with the food.

"I'm fine." You adjusted the straps, and he narrowed his eyes.

"You sure?"

"The bag isn't the problem, it’s because you're a freaking tree. A skinny tree, but still a tree." You shoved him playfully and then continued on down the sidewalk away from the parking lot. You two were supposed to be meeting a few of your friends for food and games. It was good to come to the park because it was big and open, and most people didn't care about the noise the boys would make. Even better was that not everyone was going to be there. Jihoon, Wonwoo, and Junhui either can control their volume or are just quiet anyway. Soonyoung, Mingyu and Seokmin however…

"So, uh, does Jihoon know you're coming?" Minghao asked out of the blue as you went up the stairs towards the river.

"I don't know, why?" You looked at him and he avoided your gaze.

"Just…wondering." You had a feeling why he was asking. While nothing official had happened, you two had been getting closer than most friends do. He even almost kissed you one night. Jihoon on the other hand had actually asked you out, but then treated it like a joke. You weren't completely dense, you knew he liked you, and that Minghao would get jealous sometimes. What neither of them knew though was that for about the last month or two, you were convinced that you were legitimately in love with Minghao. Your first love was actually your high school best friend, but when nothing ever came of that, and your heart kept getting stepped on, you decided to never like a friend again. You didn't know Jihoon nearly as well as Minghao, so it scared you a little less with him. Losing Minghao…not possible.

You two walked in silence the rest of the way, and when you caught sight of the rest of them, you braced yourself.

"MINGHAO! (Y/N)! We're over here!" Soonyoung shouted, jumping up and waving his arms.

"Kind of hard to miss the tiger shirt…" You muttered; the boy next to you huffed out a laugh. Mingyu was laying out a large picnic blanket while Wonwoo was getting food out from their cooler. Junhui and Seokmin were taking a bunch of games and toys out of several bags, honestly making a mess, probably looking for something specific. You snuck a glance at Jihoon who was sitting in a camping chair strumming his guitar.

"Hey, (Y/N)." He called out and you nodded politely. He stood up, placing his guitar to the side and took your backpack as you slipped it off. Casting a look to Minghao, he diverted his gaze quickly, setting the cooler and other bag near Seokmin.

"You get the Coke?" He asked, nodding over to the cooler.

"Of course." His question was a no brainer.

"Here, sit here." He moved the chair forward for you.

"I-I'm good." You waved him off and before he could insist you jogged over to where the two tallest were setting up the food.

"Oh!" You noticed a snack that you really liked and grabbed it. You didn't get to eat it too often because it was kind of hard to find, nowhere near your apartment ever had it.

"Yeah, Jihoon found it and bought it for you." Mingyu informed and you slowly put it down and helped Wonwoo to get the rest of the stuff.

"You good?" Wonwoo whispered next to you, and you nodded.

"I think." You glanced at Minghao and the man next to you glanced over there too.

"You ever gonna tell him?"

"I don't know." You replied. You had known Wonwoo the longest, he actually introduced you to everyone else. You met in college, both working at the library. He was a lot like you and had similar interests, but you both agreed you felt more like siblings.

"(Y/N)!" A voice called and you looked up at Junhui.

"Catch!" He shouted and you barely had time to react before you reached up to receive the incoming bottle. You almost fumbled it but recovered and looked at the drink. Once again, like the snack, it was one you really liked but was hard to find.

"Where'd you find this?" You shouted to him and someone closer answered.

"It was in the bottom of a fridge at the convenience store." Jihoon told you and you snapped your head to look at him. How did he learn all of your favorites, let alone remember them?

"How did you-" You began, and he just shrugged, giving you a smirk. Twiddling the drink in your hands, you weren't sure how to feel. It was really sweet, but… Looking at Minghao again, he was pretending to be preoccupied with filling the Nerf guns with the foam bullets.

"(Y/N)!" You were tackled by a Soonyoung.

"Gah, what!?" You tried to shove him off of you, but he wrapped himself around you instead.

"Thank you!" He repeated several times. His favorite kimchi was from a place near where your parents lived, and you had brought him a big jug of it.

"Yah! Kwon Soonyoung!" Jihoon scolded him, slapping him hard on the back and yanking him off of you. You quickly stood and fled, running to the safety of Minghao. Hiding behind him, you crouched down next to him and peered around him at the shorter guy wailing on the other one.

"You really like those snacks he got you…" The boy next to you muttered and you looked away from the carnage to see his small grimace.

"It’s not because he's the one that got them." You replied and he shrugged. Instantly feeling bad, you wanted to say something to him, but were not sure what to say or how.

"Okay! Let's eat and then we can run around and scream." Junhui announced, carrying the drink cooled over to the middle of the blanket and you all sat to eat. You settled down next to Minghao and Seokmin sat on the other side of you. There was some fighting over the food, but you were able to calm down the nonsense before stuff started getting thrown. Despite Jihoon having bought you your favorite drink and snack, you kind of just ignored them. You could eat them later; you really didn't want to make Minghao feel worse. For some reason, guilt was building up faster and faster, you really just wanted to let everything out. Glancing at Minghao, you noticed he had a bit of food on his cheek, so you bunched up your sleeve to reach up and swipe it off. He froze and no one else seemed to notice. Peering at you, he wiped at the spot with his hand himself and shot you a shy smile. Listening to the ridiculous argument going on between the rest of them, you readjusted your position and leaned against Minghao. You could see Jihoon's eyes flash over to you and you focused intently on Mingyu despite not really understanding what was coming out of his mouth. Lost in your own thoughts, everyone else finished and decided to start the games.

"What do you wanna play first, (Y/N)?" Mingyu asked and you thought for a second, looking behind you at all the toys laid out.

You ended up playing a game similar to capture the flag, but it was more like the game on Fall Guys where you have to steal the tail. Everyone split up into twos and put on the flag belt, the single yellow flag snapped onto Junhui's belt. You were teamed up with Wonwoo, Minghao was with Jun, Seokmin and Soonyoung (the loudest possible combination), and finally Mingyu with Jihoon. When Jihoon called for it to start you ran at Jun, Wonwoo blocking Soonyoung from tackling you. You reached out, yoinking the yellow flag from his belt and running away cackling. The magnet on the flag attached to the one on your belt as you ran. Using the zig-zag maneuver, you avoided Minghao trying to get it back. Suddenly, you were up in the air and with a yelp you realized Mingyu had slung you over his shoulder.

"I have the flag!" He cheered.

"No, you don't she does still!" Seokmin protested and you tried to wiggle off and his hand came to your butt to hold you in place. You yelped and smacked him, and he apologized, moving his hand but not letting you go.

"Kim Mingyu, put me down!" You shouted and the alarm went off stating the round was over.

"We won!" Mingyu cheered and there was a great deal of protest, and he let you down finally when Jihoon prompted him to. The shorter one's arm wrapped around you, plucking the flag from your belt with him being much too close. Your face warmed, but it was more from embarrassment that Minghao was watching like he was. You chuckled nervously and backed up, suggesting you move on to a different game. As the day continued you played many different things; shot each other with nerf guns, tossed a frisbee with the hidden intent of actually hitting someone, chicken fights. Rackets for badminton were brought but no one thought to bring shuttlecocks. Soonyoung wanted to have a water balloon fight, but it was not quite the weather for that. Mingyu had an idea to have a race but one person had to carry the other…So, you ended up on his shoulders. You weren't quite sure about this, and you would have felt much safer on his back, but he insisted. Wonwoo ended up with Minghao on his back, Seokmin carried Junhui and Jihoon had to team up with Soonyoung.

"Can I please get on your back?" You asked him and Mingyu insisted he wanted to do it this way; that way it was actually harder than just running on his own. Looking over at Minghao next to you, he seemed still a little cranky and wouldn't look at you. When it was called for everyone to run, you clenched your thighs and dug your fingers into the fabric of his shirt at the shoulders and he took off. You tried not to scream as he ran and you hoped this was the craziest idea of the day.

It was not the craziest idea. Somehow you ended up in the center of a monkey in the middle game. You guys played kick the can, but the can was full, then they would play rock-paper-scissors and the loser had to open it in their face. That was sticky. They wanted you to play the game with them where they hold onto each other's  and try to pull everyone apart; you decided to just watch that one. A game of tag broke out, but no one was declared it so everyone was just running around. The worst was prevented though when Soonyoung suggested fishing in the river BY HAND. Everyone else shot that one down. By the time the sun was starting to set, you were lying under a tree trying to catch your breath. You had taken your sweatshirt off a long time ago, tying it around your waist, the grass tickling your bare arms. You heard someone sit down next to you, your eyes were closed to prevent the sun from getting in them. You tried not to flinch when the person brushed some hair off your face.

"You tired?" Jihoon's voice didn't surprise you too much. You opened your eyes and turned to see him looking softly down at you.

"I would be more concerned if I wasn't." You told him and brought your head up some to watch Seokmin try to catch a frog and failing. They had so much energy. Resting your head back again, you just reveled in the rest and soon a third person wandered up.

"You need to go after him, he's leaving." Wonwoo whispered to you, and you shot up to see Minghao storming away and Junhui calling after him.

"Is he okay?" Jihoon asked and you stood up and took off after him.

"(Y/N)!" He called after you himself and you flew past the rest of them. He was already at the bottom of the stairs and heading toward the parking lot.

"Minghao!" You shouted and you know he heard you, but he didn't stop.

"Hey, wait!" You tried not to trip down the stairs and kept going.

"Xu Minghao!" Reaching for his hand, he turned to you aggressively and the look on his face took you aback.

"What? Shouldn't you be flirting with Jihoon?"

"What are you talking about? He keeps approaching me! There's nothing going on there!" You motioned behind you vaguely.

"Really? He sure thinks there is."

"What do you mean?"

"Soonyoung told me he asked you out."

"Yes. But it was a joke."

"Was it?"

"Look, either way, nothing actually happened. Yes, he bought me those things I like, but that doesn't mean we are dating-"

"Do you want to though?"

"What?"

"Go out with Jihoon?"

"No! I don't. He's not-" You didn't get to finish since he stepped closer to you and cut you off. He was so close you had to tilt your head back to even see his face.

"He's not what?"

"He's…he's not you." You finally breathed out and his eyes softened, his hand came up to cup the back of your head. Your breath hitched and you expected a soft kiss, a hug, but he bent down and crashed his lips on yours. You gasped at the emotion behind the act, your eyes welling up with tears. His other hand pulled you closer by the small of your back; you dug your fingers in the fabric of his shirt at his sides. When he pulled back you whined, and he chuckled. You were already standing so close, but he hugged you closer and held him as tight as you could.

"It’s always been you."

Master-Master List

Seventeen Master List

#ihavethedreamies #kpop #kpop x reader #kpop fanfic #seventeen #seventeen fanfic #seventeen minghao #xu minghao #svt #svt minghao #svt fanfic #fluff #minghao fluff #seventeen the8 #the8 #the8 fluff #the8 x reader #x reader #svt the8

[les-gnossiennes-fantomatiques]

No words. I joke and act silly and do my whole Sondheim thing and all real life friends lovingly put up with my brain rot, but I literally don’t know who I would be without this show. Thinking about middle school me coming off of my dad’s death and finding Phantom back in 2000–how it got me through the worst thing in my life and how it has also taken me so many legitimately wonderful places over the last 20 some years and, more over, made me some of the most incredible friends I could ever have. I feel so lucky to have been able to attend the last public show and to have witnessed one of the most genuinely, insanely, and upsettingly good performances I have ever seen on Broadway. The entire cast, pit, and crew was at 400%. It was like being that thirteen-year-old all over again, hearing that overture the first time and being knocked on my ass. Am I crying in my hotel bed writing this? Yes. Do I give a solitary fuck? No. Thank you so much, Phantom.

Also, the Laird/Emilie/John combo was fucking POWERFUL. AND EMILIE WHISPERED “I LOVE YOU, TOO” BACK TO LAIRD AFTER HIS “CHRISTINE I LOVE YOU” AND MY SOUL LEFT MY BODY.

Personally hurt by them. I’ve never seen a trio combo where Christine seemed to genuinely love them both to such an earnest extent. Ugly tears.

Also, I looked hot.

#phantom of the opera #broadway #laird mackintosh #emilie kouatchou #john riddle #poto

[thegildedcentury]

Hey, I did a thing!

Greetings. I really should be proud to announce that a short story I've written has been accepted and published in the Spring 2024 issue of the BlazeVOX literary journal and not currently fixating on everything that could possibly be wrong with it, yet here we are. As one last, desperate act of token rebellion against my overwhelming self-doubt, I am forcing myself to be pleased to present it here to you, my dear followers, and by proxy any of your own followers you opt to share this post with.

I offer you my solemn assurance that BlazeVOX is an actual, legitimate publishing entity that's been around since the year 2000 and has its own Wikipedia page and everything. BlazeVOX is not some fly-by-night literary organization that will take your deeply personal poem about your first intimate sexual experience and sell it for fentanyl; not even the good kind of fentanyl, rather some stuff that's been stepped on so many times it won't even kill you no matter how much you take.

No! BlazeVOX is the real deal, an organization run by passionate lovers of all kinds of literature ranging from non-fiction to poetry to short fiction such as my own story, which I am just now realizing I should probably tell you the name of.

My story is The Balcony Over The Sea. It is a short (Only 5,837 words! That's shorter than the average tweet thread about how giving Princess Peach her own video game is destroying Western Civilization!) retelling of the events of Homer's Odyssey from the perspective of Odysseys' son Telemachus but despite that I swear it is actually good, full of sex and violence and romance and conflict, not to mention tantalizingly graphic depictions of both thoughts and feelings in all their lewd glory. Please take a look at it if you are interested in melancholy romantic fantasy or acting out of pity, both are acceptable. The name I write under is E.W.H. Thornton, which is just my real name but dramatically shortened in order to save the reader precious seconds that could be better spent viewing pornography. Please consider reblogging this post if you like the story, or are darkly amused by clogging up your followers' feeds with random crap. Thank you, and good night.

#add tags to help people find your post #add another tag #Am I doing it right?

[girlyholic]

Is Overlap Possible Between Menhera and Jirai?

Jirai and mental health is a topic I feel is worth addressing, as I’ve noticed a specific trend both in my inbox and in general replies on this subject. I often see the sentiment that pushing against the term Jirai is hurting those with mental illness more than helping, as there are some people with mental illness who find solace in the term and wish to reclaim it.

Regarding that, people can look at the facts of what Jirai is and make their own decisions. I am just here to provide a bit more clarity on what it is so newcomers can enjoy the actual fashion that got overshadowed by the harmful meme blowing up.

But this raises a point that’s worth examining, since some people feel so strongly about it. Is Jirai, which is heavily tied to the Japanese anti-recovery community, something that can ever be considered comparable to Menhera, which is about mental health awareness?

Putting a TW here before the readmore for a brief discussion of self harming behaviors.

To start, I’ll explain what Menhera is and how it relates to this conversation. The term Menhera first came about on 2channel in 2000, coined by the users of its mental health board as a nickname for themself. People on this board would not only exchange about mental health, but also share all kinds of vent art. Menhera art became an own genre, exhibitions dedicated to it began to be made, and Menhera turned into an own subculture. The thing that’s important to note is that before Menhera was born, there were no neutral terms for the mentally ill in Japanese, they were all exclusively derogatory.

This neutral meaning lasted for over a decade, until the term was discovered by outsiders in the early days of the social media boom. “Menhera Kei”, meaning Menhera-type, became the name of a stereotype used to label women as crazy. Examples of the stereotype include women who can’t accept failure, or who seek attention from others, since they have no self-esteem. A great deal of emphasis was put on women of this “type” having unfixable personality flaws, because in Japan, mental health issues are generally considered to be personal failings that cause trouble for others, and not legitimate health issues.

On paper, that sounds a lot like Jirai, doesn’t it? Both are words that have stereotypes about mentally-ill women associated with them.

There is one key difference: Jirai's background is the total opposite of Menhera. Menhera as a term was made by the mental health community for the mental health community, and you don’t seek out a mental health board to get worse. It may have a secondary meaning as an ableist stereotype, but that came about from people taking a term mentally-ill people came up with to use amongst themselves and twisting it.

Meanwhile, there never has been a positive association with Jirai, and it’s not uncommon for Japanese netizens to use it in a self-deprecating manner. Looking at accounts of self-proclaimed landmines quickly shows that there is no intent to reclaim the term, meaning to turn it into something positive, but instead it is used as a way to find affirmation in self-destructive and self-harming behaviors. When it isn’t graphic photos of self-harm, it’s often things that are more subtle, such as posting about passing out drunk sleeping on the streets or how they don’t deserve to eat at best, or sharing screenshots of questionable LINE messages with captions about how cute it is that they’re gaslighting their partner at worst. It is almost always not a rejection of the harmful traits of the stereotype, but an embrace of them.

And I really need to clarify that I don’t think people who post that sort of content are bad people. That’s the reason why I never link to any of these accounts. These are people who are deeply embroiled in a culture and aesthetic that is harming them further, and I sincerely hope that one day they can break out of it. I struggle with mental illness myself and can understand that side of it completely.

Seeking mental well-being, which is what Menhera refers to, is not comparable to Jirai, which has been heavily associated with the anti-recovery community. This is why this whole discourse feels a bit strange, as Menhera is right there and encompasses what people boasting about reclaiming Jirai are usually looking for. There isn’t really a need to reclaim Jirai in the west anyways as nobody is affected by its derogatory meaning the way people in Japan are to begin with.

#j*rai #menhera #mental health #girly discourse

[aguacerotropical]

The first known written attestation of [Spanglish]—in Spanish rather than in English—in a setting that represents the quintessence of conflicting linguistic attitudes: Puerto Rico. The ambiguous status of Puerto Rico—at once a Spanish-speaking Latin American nation and a colony of the world’s most powerful English-speaking society—has provoked a level of concern about the purity of the Spanish language and an ambivalence towards the English language unmatched in the Spanish-speaking world. The term spanglish (espanglish in Spanish) appears to have been coined by the Puerto Rican journalist Salvador Tio, in a newspaper column first published in 1952. Tio—who certainly considers himself the inventor of this word (an opinion largely shared by others in Latin America)—was concerned about what he felt to be the deterioration of Spanish in Puerto Rico under the onslaught of English words, and waged a campaign of polemical and satirical articles over more than half a century. On the one hand Tio shared with many other Puerto Rican intellectuals of the time the fear that United States cultural imperialism and the crushing weight of English would eventually displace a language that had landed with Columbus and had survived unaltered until only a few decades previously. [Author then speaks of English-enforced schools and the first election of a Puerto Rican governor by Puerto Ricans] Tio, like McKinstry and scores of nameless commentators before and since, deliberately invented pseudo-bilingual monstrosities into order to denigrate legitimate bilingual speech communities individually and collectively. His harshest broadsides are directed at his fellow citizens for their failure to embrace monolinguism, for Tio a primordial virtue. Tio foreshadows a viewpoint that would later be taken up in the continental United States by expatriate intellectuals like the distinguished literary critic Roberto González Echeverría, namely that even educated Latinos willingly allow their language to be overrun by English in the mistaken view that this increases their upward social mobility.

I cannot explain the trash fire of 1970s-early 2000s discourse about the contamination of Spanish in PR that the author is referring to. Suffice to say that when the government shifted every four years to the party that favored a pseudo-independence, they would take English-language learning from public schools. I pretty much grew up with the idea that my Spanish was bad (because I spoke a lot of English) and once had teachers tell me I couldn't write in Spanish. (i'm becoming an author who specializes in Spanish right now).

Most interestingly, when the colonial regime changed towards a more brutal iteration after the hurricanes that pushed out 250,000 out of the island, boricuas relationship to our Spanish shifted towards national pride at the creativity of it. People really really defend our Spanish - especially due to perceived cultural appropriation (a whole other can of worms). My favorite part is that authors frequently translate their own books and sell them as bilingual editions.

EDIT: if anyone wants to check out PR Spanish, there’s a wonderful dictionary called tesoro.pr online.

(thanks so much to @oleworm for the links!)

#idk men its 12 AM and i decided to read ~70 pages on one of my pet topics #on colonialism #puerto rico #linguistics

[unlovablereject]

Tired of seeing hate and antisemitism so much.

People are showing just how antisemitic our society is. Saw someone comment on Facebook "this is proof that Israel has always been evil." Then thanks the xtian prophet. People believing half assed researched "proof" of Israel being evil and supporting this.

Palistine needs to look inward and see Hamas killed our people in the middle of the night after a HIGH HOLIDAY killing 2000 INOOCENT people in one night and taking hostages. The death toll has taken more Israelis than Palistinians if you do math... Hamas does not care about his people, palistine is land stolen from Israel. Israel helped his citizens because he wouldn't. Giving them asylum. There were several offers of peace that were REFUSED BY HAMAS!!! He wants to destroy Israel and every Jew.

The US has committed more atrocious war crimes than even this. Like nuking Hiroshima and it STILL HAS EFFECTS ON THE PEOPLE TO THIS DAY, because Japan bombed one military base. They also let people die when they could have helped. US let WW2 last as long as it did, it has blood on its hands.

Then I want to remind US citizens that the twin towers had a death toll of about 2000. That was in 2001. They still have military power in the region and have killed over ten times more people.

The US is the biggest war criminal in the world. They can't even govern their own country, stay out of other peoples' affairs until your two party system has two working parties, k? Why are you still killing innocent people in Iraq when no one in the attacks was from Iraq.

Your government blew up their own towers, if you know anything about melting temperatures of steel, jet fuel, physics, and just plain knowledge of how buildings like that are meant to withstand earthquakes, so the planes didn't destroy the entire towers. They aimed so high that it would have taken out the top. The bottom should have been intact as in the beams and structure. Why were the beams all cut on a pretty diagonal line in the same way? It was an excuse to fix Bush Sr.'s bad mistake putting terrorists in charge of the country (Iraq) during his term as president.

Put on a big show and get people on board for a war, it happens every time. Do research before you listen to some random information that has no legitimate sources. It's not okay to spread hate.

Antisemitism isn't a good look on your country atm.

I will pray for Israel until my last breath, I believe in Hashem and His words of Torah.

It's just okay to kill Jews I guess. I see it everywhere.

Police say we are safe. Most of them probably hiding fucking hate tattoos.

I want peace, but the human race is literally not capable of peace. Hate IS humanity.

#israel #palistine #united states #antisemitism #United States is looked at as antisemitic #anyone supporting hamas is a terrorist deal with it #the united states is the biggest war criminal #the us kills its own people on the regular #United States doesnt even have a functioning government #so stop throwing stones in your glass house #CANADA BURNED YOUR WHITEHOUSE DOWN ONCE MAYBE WE NEED TO DO IT AGAIN #hate is humanity

[comshipbracket]

Antis DNI

Remember, you are voting for the ship you prefer, not the ship you find more problematic

Propaganda for both ships under the cut.

Yaeona Propaganda (Age Gap - Yae is over 2000 and Diona is 12 at most, MinorxAdult, AdultxChild, Species Difference - Yae is a Kitsune Youkai and Diona is a non-Youkai Cat-Human Hybrid, Power Imbalance)

"While the two haven't met in canon yet as far as I'm aware, Yae would be the type to take quick interest in Diona. Yae, in canon, already adores anyone with a cute set of fluffy ears and an adorable tail. She teases the character Gorou about such traits, and I can see her doing the same with Diona. Yae also has an interest in those who fall outside the norm of how the universe tends to work, and Diona was granted a blessing by a Spring Fairy so that any drink she mixes will be delightful to all who try it (despite wanting to make these drinks taste horrid). Yae would be able to pick up on such magic and be drawn to it."

"Diona herself is incredibly tsundere when it comes to accepting affection, but she's also quite capable of understanding her own boundaries. The issue comes when Diona's tsundere attitude and legitimate boundaries sound SO similar in tone and wording. Yae's the head of a Publishing Agency and huge fan of Light Novels with certain tropes, she'd fall head over heels for anyone expressing a tsundere attitude in this way. Even if Diona tried to put proper boundaries in place, Yae would likely chuckle away that it's cute to see a cat-person huffing and complaining with adorable pouts and puffed cheeks. Also, Kitsune have different rules for their bonding with mortals than two mortals may have together, so while not confirmed in canon it is possible that Yae sees no wrong with the age gap even if Diona does"

Kenshep Propaganda (Abusive Dynamic, Themes of Dubcon, Potental Noncon)

"John physically held Michael down to the operating table while other members of the Atlantis expidition forcibly turned him human, and then helped gaslight him into believing he was always human when the process wiped his memories (even though it didn't work and he eventually recovered his real memories). Michael, on the other side of things, murdered all of John's friends and drove the rest of the Atlantis expidition out of the Pegasus galaxy (in an alternate timeline, but John still possesses this knowledge)."

"John directly threatens to kill him at one point and Michael's response is `bitch, do it` (except Michael is much more eloquent about it). Michael, before he was turned into a human and then a hybrid, was a space vampire (wraith) who eats humans, and John is SUCH a monsterfucker, like, goddamn. Michael is also an obsessive bastard, like. If the show hadn't been an absolute PUSSY about utilizing Michael as a villain the POTENTIAL he had with John could've been INCREDIBLE, like seriously, analyzing these two characters they would've been scarily good foils for each other, and would've made for so much more interesting nemeses than John's canonical nemesis imo."

#comshipbracket #antis dni #antis do not interact #comship #comship safe #proship safe #comship bracket #comship bracket 2 #comshipbracket 2 #comshipbracket2 #comshipbracket2 round 2 #comshipbracket 2 round 2 #comship bracket 2 round 2 #Yaeona #Yae Miko #Diona Katzlein #diona kätzlein #Diona Genshin Impact #Genshin Impact #Kenshep #Michael Kenmore #John Sheppard #Stargate #Stargate Atlantis

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

North To The Future [Chapter 14: Strong Enough]

The year is now 2000. You are just beginning your veterinary practice in Juneau, Alaska. Aegon is a mysterious, troubled newcomer to town. You kind of hate him. You are also kind of obsessed with him. Falling for him might legitimately ruin your life…but can you help it? Oh, and there’s a serial killer on the loose known only as the Ice Fisher.

Chapter warnings: Language, alcoholism, addiction, murder, sexual content, violence, angsttttttttttt (but what else is new 🥰).

Word count: 5.3k.

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

Taglist: @doingfondue @tclegane @quartzs-posts @liathelioness @aemcndtargaryen @thelittleswanao3 @burningcoffeetimetravel @hinata7346 @poohxlove @borikenlove @myspotofcraziness @travelingmypassion @graykageyama @skythighs @lauraneedstochill @darlingimafangirl @charenlie @thewew @eddies-bat-tattoos @minttea07 @joliettes @trifoliumviridi @bornbetter @flowerpotmage @thewitch-lives @bearwithegg @tempt-ress @padfooteyes @teenagecriminalmastermind @chelsey01 @anditsmywholeheart @heliosscribbles @elsolario @killerqueen-ofwillowgreen @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @tillyt04 @cicaspair418 @fan-goddess​ @ladylannisterxo​

Only 1 chapter left! The series finale will be very...eventful 💜

Ice clinks in Aegon’s rum and Coke, his fourth in an hour; lemon juice and crystalline sugar is a halo around your appletini. The sky is a watercolor painting blending from lavender to violet to indigo, clouded, moonless. Downstairs inside Ursa Minor, shadows grow longer, slanting across the red-brown hardwood floor: hands turn into claws, men into beasts, skeletal and reaching. If this was a movie or a book, you would be able to see the Northern Lights, just like you did the first time Aegon brought you up here. It would be a full-circle moment that would soften a goodbye with a homecoming. Instead, the sky offers no consolation, no hint of any grander design. Sometimes things just blink out of existence like an eviscerated star. Sometimes things are just over.

You stand together on the rooftop patio in a patch of snow that is only shin-deep, exhaling white fog that evaporates into the nightfall, drinking. You don’t speak, because speaking of the end will make it real. You don’t look at each other either. You gaze out over the channel, where dark waters ripple and boats bob in easy waves. When Aegon offers you his rum and Coke, at first you don’t understand; and then you realize he wants to trade.

“I thought you hated these,” you say as you pass Aegon your appletini, Dale’s newest addition to his repertoire. You taste the rum and Coke: solid, heavy, bitter, biting.

“Figured I shouldn’t miss my shot. How often does someone get the chance to enjoy an appletini with an Appletini?” He gives you a wry, off-balance smile as he sips it, saccharine and emerald green.

You down the rest of the rum and Coke, haul up your courage like a body from the silt of a lake. And then you ask him: “What if you went with Aemond?”

Aegon stares at you in disbelief, in betrayal. “What?”

“Back to Miami. What if you actually went?”

“Whose fucking side are you on?”

“No, really, think about it,” you plead. “They can afford to get you the best treatment, take you to the best doctors. You can go to rehab and then, maybe, maybe after you’re better—”

“You want me to go crawling back to my parents after—?!”

“Then don’t do it for your parents!” you shout, your breath short-lived mist in the Arctic wind. “Do it for Aemond and Helaena and Daeron, do it for yourself, do it for me. You’re young, you’re brilliant, it’s not too late for you to start over. You could stop running, you could make amends.”

“I killed three people. How can anyone make amends for that? Aemond lost an eye, he’s maimed for life. How could anyone make amends for what I’ve done? What would me being home do for anybody except serve as a constant reminder of the fact that I got to walk away without paying for my mistakes?”

“You’ve paid,” you say. “You’ve paid for six years.”

He shakes his head, peering into the channel. “I can’t go back.”

“You really think you can run for the rest of your life? You’re never going to get married, have children, own a house, file taxes, start a business, go back to school, keep the friends you’ve made? Aegon, think about it! You can’t even play in a band good enough to book a spot at a festival or a club without there being advertisements, magazine articles, Google search results. You can’t disappear, not in the world that exists now. You can’t disappear and have any life worth living.”

“I’ve made it this long. I’ll find a way.”

“You’ll die,” you tell him, cutting like glass, like the splinters of a broken window. “You can’t keep doing this or you’ll die. And what then?” What about me, Aegon? “What was this all for?”

“I can’t go back.” It’s an echo, mindless and reflexive, a survival instinct. There’s no reasoning with it. He drains the appletini and pitches the glass off the roof, out into the darkness.

You hear footsteps on the staircase, and again you are reminded of the night Aegon kissed you for the first time, the night he sang Everlong, the night under the Northern Lights. Then it had been Heather who interrupted you. Now it’s Kimmie. She bursts through the door, panting from the effort of scaling the steps in five-inch hot pink heels.

“She’s here,” Kimmie informs you and Aegon from the doorway, her face an exaggerated, childlike pool of sympathy, all soft edges and slick eyes. And then she hurries back downstairs.

Heather, sitting in the usual booth, is inundated by well-meaning spectators who offer sympathy, support, thinly-veiled prying so they don’t look quite so much like kids gawking at a zoo animal. They hug her and pat her back reassuringly; they buy her drinks. There is a small army of Sex On The Beaches on the table. Kimmie climbs nimbly into the booth, snuggles up beside Heather, and rests her head on her shoulder. Heather, for once, does not seem to regard this as an intrusion. Aemond, attempting not to encroach, is sipping a Caipirinha at the bar in his black Armani suit. Dale has apparently at last tired of Shania Twain songs. From the stereo drifts the wistful acoustic chords of Sheryl Crow’s Strong Enough.

You slide into the seat across from Heather and take her hands. Joyce is beside you, no book to be found. Brad and Rob are standing a few yards away, both drinking heavily, both murmuring in dazed, conspiratorial voices. “Guess the Hulk jokes aren’t so funny now…can you imagine…he did get kind of aggressive sometimes…the best quarterback Juneau’s seen in decades…but the boots…who would have guessed…?”

“I can’t stay long,” Heather sniffles. Her eyes are red, her face puffy from crying. “My parents are calling around trying to get a good lawyer. They’re in shock, they’re fucking devastated, we’re all just…just…” She crumbles into loud sobs, shoving a fistful of tissues against her nose.

“Shh,” Kimmie says, stroking Heather’s hair. “Shh, shh…”

“Heather,” you begin, not knowing how to put it delicately. “Were there any…you know…any signs? That Trent could be the Ice Fisher?”

She shrugs despondently. “You know how he is. He’s a dumbass sometimes. He gets angry…he says the wrong things…but he doesn’t kill people!” She starts crying again.

“He does fit the description,” Joyce says softly. “He’s big, he’s athletic.”

Kimmie marvels: “I can’t believe we spent all that time around him. We were totally clueless. Out in the woods with him? Hanging out together at night? Trent could have gotten any of us.”

Heather wails, mopping the tears from her face with the damp mass of tissues.

“So he’ll stay in custody?” Aegon asks Heather. “Until the trial?”

“That’s what the cops said. There’s no way he’s getting bail.” She shakes her head. “Chief Baker came to the house to talk to my parents about what was happening. What they had found in Trent’s apartment, what the next steps would be. He looked so sorry to have to deliver the news. That was nice of him, wasn’t it? He didn’t have to do that.” More sniffling, more tears snaking down her cheeks.

“Heather, please,” you say helplessly.

“I hate this,” she sobs. “I hate this!”

Kimmie holds her tighter. “Shh, shh. I know.”

“It’ll kill my parents. They were always so proud of Trent, they loved him so much…they still do, I mean, but now…now…”

“Did he say anything to you?” you ask Heather. “After he was arrested? He got a phone call, right? Did he confess, did he give a reason why? Did he say anything?”

“Yes.” She gazes across the table at you, eyes murky with bewildered, immutable horror. “He said he didn’t do it.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Heather, somewhat mollified by a number of Sex On The Beaches, asks Joyce to drive her home. As Aegon bids goodbye to Rob and Kimmie—a permanent goodbye, a remorseful one—you retreat to the bar to give him space. Brad must know about the transitory Kimmie-Aegon situation; he glares at him as he knocks back glass bottles of beer misty with condensation. Aegon is working on his sixth rum and Coke. He sways, he slurs, he blinks in slow motion.

“Can you believe it?” Dale asks as you sit next to Aemond, sliding you a fresh appletini. His bushy eyebrows are raised: incredulous, inquisitive. “Trent? Our very own hometown hero?”

“It’s disturbing, for sure. But he was prone to…outbursts.”

“Yes,” Dale says, a little vaguely. “I had noticed that.” He lumbers away to take orders. Ursa Minor is full of locals clamoring for gossip, theories, commentary, self-medication.

Aemond nips at his frosty Caipirinha, his eye fixed on Aegon. “He’s stalling.”

Why lie? There’s no shade of dishonestly that he can’t see through. “Yes.”

“It won’t work.”

You watch Aegon from across the room: the way he talks with his hands, the way he smiles crookedly beneath sad eyes, the way that lock of white-blond hair falls over his face. He’s leaving. He’s really leaving. “Show me more pictures from Miami.”

Aemond smirks. “Now you’re stalling too.” Regardless, he produces his wallet and starts leafing through a small stack of photographs. He plucks out the ones you haven’t seen yet with lithe and yet curiously dangerous hands. There are more images of Vhagar, several mansions and yachts, some of a young woman who must be Helaena—slight, delicate, intensely vulnerable—and a boy in his late-teens playing golf.

“Daeron?” you guess.

Aemond nods. “He’s the most balanced, the least damaged. He would have been Dad’s choice to inherit the leadership of the company if he was older. He’s the best of us.”

“I doubt that.” You sift through the photographs until one stuns you: an olive-skinned, black-haired man, perhaps thirty, with his arm around a woman’s shoulders. He wears a modest, strangely burdened smile, but his dark eyes are warm. “Who’s this? He’s gorgeous. And he actually looks Greek. Don’t tell me you have yet another brother. If so, I fear I might have allied myself with the wrong one.”

“Well, that’s obvious,” he says with just a dusting of sarcasm like flurries. “No, he’s Criston Cole. He’s been Dad’s bodyguard since before I was born.”

You squint at the photo. “How old is he?”

“He’s in his forties now. I know he looks younger.”

“And the woman is…his wife? Girlfriend?”

“My mother, actually.”

You raise an eyebrow. Aemond smiles bashfully, averts his gaze. “They share an affinity. He’s helped her immensely through Dad’s illness, through…well.” He gestures to Aegon with his glass. “Everything.”

“I mean…yeah. I’d probably find an excuse to fuck Criston too.”

Miraculously, this works: Aemond laughs, the first time you’ve ever heard him do it. It’s a joltingly beautiful sound. It’s like the earth waking up again at the end of winter. He gathers up the photographs, places them safely back into his wallet, sips his Caipirinha contemplatively. “You’re not stupid,” Aemond says. “You have to understand that there’s no way this ends with you and Aegon together.”

We were supposed to have two more months. And maybe I even dreamed of more than that.

Aemond continues: “He has to get better before it’s too late. He has to get sober. I can’t give him a new liver. Dad’s the only one in the family with Aegon’s blood type.”

You turn to him, bemused. “You’ve already thought about that.”

Aemond is annoyed, like you haven’t been keeping up. “Of course I have.” His BlackBerry beeps, and he slides it out of his pocket. He reads the onyx pixels on the screen, his eye widening. He reads them again. And then he says: “I need a phone. Immediately.”

“Okay, um, well there’s a payphone outside, and Dale has one behind the bar—”

Aemond flags down Dale, expresses that he has an emergency, is swiftly ushered to the phone. While he’s gone, Aegon makes his way back to you. He finishes his latest rum and Coke, bangs the glass down on the counter, kisses you with unaccustomed roughness, his calloused fingers cradling the arc of your jaw.

You tuck his unruly lock of hair behind his ear. “Aegon—”

“We have to leave now,” Aemond says. He’s reappeared, and he will not be ignored.

“Go buy a newspaper and jack off to the business section,” Aegon flings at him, bringing his lips to yours again, burning with dark rum.

Aemond grabs the neckline of his brother’s royal blue sweater and drags him away from you. Bar patrons glance over. You’re beginning to attract attention. “We have to leave. Now.”

“Okay, okay,” Aegon agrees; but there’s something flighty and devious in his eyes, like an animal too sly to be caged. The three of you walk back to Aegon’s apartment together, stepping in footprints already left in the snow. Each time Aegon staggers, you catch him and haul him upright again. You can’t even resent him for it. Soon you won’t be able to touch him at all.

Sunfyre is waiting when Aemond unlocks the door. He gives the golden retriever an absentminded pat on the head as he glides past him. Aegon lurches into the kitchen, where the mugs are still waiting on the counter for the hot chocolate he never made. And then he just stands there unsteadily under the goldenrod florescent lights. He’s run out of room to run. He’s a rat at the end of a maze, not an open door but a brick wall.

“Pack your things,” Aemond orders.

“No.”

With one powerful hand, Aemond shoves him against the refrigerator. Magnets—Las Vegas, Phoenix, Baltimore, San Francisco, Portland, Denver, Chicago, Dallas, San Diego, many more—go flying in every direction. “Pack your fucking things.”

“No,” Aegon repeats.

“Dad’s in the hospital,” Aemond says. “He was admitted this morning. It’s bad, he has a pulmonary embolism. He might be dying. I need to be there to handle things.”

“So go,” Aegon replies dismissively.

“Not alone.” His only eye is an icy blue, sharp and ferocious; but it’s heartbroken too. “Not without you.”

“I’m not going.”

“Aegon,” he implores, he begs. “Mom can’t make these decisions alone, Helaena doesn’t have the spine for it, Daeron’s too young, we need to be there!”

“You need to be there. Not me.”

“Pack your things,” Aemond says again.

“No.”

“Then you can leave as you are.” And he lunges for Aegon, closing the distance between them in a heartbeat. Sunfyre barks franticly.

“Aegon, no!” you shout, because you realize what he’s going to do. He grabs the green mug off the kitchen counter, shatters it against the stovetop, and wields a thick, five-inch-long shard of it like a dagger as Aemond grapples for him. Aegon’s arm is lightning in the air, striking blindly. The jagged sliver of the mug connects with Aemond’s face.

“What’s wrong with you?!” Aemond roars, touching his palm to his forehead and seeing the blood. “What’s your plan? To cut out my other eye too?!”

“No.” Aegon brings the shard to his own throat and starts slicing: not deep enough to kill, but deep enough to show he’s serious. A trickle of blood flows down his neck like a string of rubies.

“Stop!” you and Aemond shriek together. He gets to Aegon first. Aegon careens away from him until his back hits the wall. Aemond knocks the piece of the mug out of his grasp; it clatters over the hardwood floor like a rock skipped across water. Aegon slaps at his brother’s face ineffectually, then finally slams his elbow into Aemond’s nose. Blood rockets, blood flows like a river. With an open palm, Aegon smears it upwards into Aemond’s only remaining eye. Aemond screams in anguish and frustration, fumbling blindly for the kitchen sink. Then Aegon reaches for his brother.

You shout: “Aegon, don’t hurt him—!”

“I’m not.” As Aemond twists on the faucet and splashes water into his eye, Aegon thieves his few consequential possessions from Aemond’s pockets: his keys, his wallet, his cash. And then he retreats to the other side of the room. His message is clear. He doesn’t want to fight; he wants to run. He wants to start running and never stop. Sunfyre scurries over to him, claws clicking on the floor, examining Aegon like a fretful mother.

You yank a dishtowel out of a drawer and go to Aemond. “It’s me, it’s me,” you say gently when he flinches away. You help clear the blood from his eye, assess his nose. Not broken, but bleeding like hell. Aemond doesn’t even look angry. He looks exhausted, he looks hopeless. Aegon watches from across the small apartment, holding his belongings, clutching them to his chest, a coward and hating himself for it.

“Six years,” Aemond says, his voice clotted with scalding blood, with an ocean of time. “For six years I tried to find you and this is what I have to show for it. You didn’t miss me at all. Not even sometimes. Not even for a second.”

“I never said I didn’t miss you.”

“But you won’t come home.”

“No,” Aegon says, like an apology.

Aemond readjusts his suit, smooths his hair. He doesn’t seem aware of the blood still streaming from his nose, his forehead. “I have to go. I have to be there.”

“Then go, Aemond. That’s where you belong.”

He stares at Aegon with a vacantness that you can feel in your own bones: excavated marrow, howling void. “This isn’t over,” he says. “All I’ve ever done is live in your shadow. I don’t know how to stop.” And then he gets his green Louis Vuitton suitcase and vanishes through the apartment doorway. You bolt after him, chasing him out into the darkness, a starless night with a cold wind that slits into your lungs like needles.

“Aemond!” you call, and he stops. “Where are you going?”

“Home. The jet is waiting.”

“But you can’t walk to the airport from here. And I’ve had one too many appletinis to drive you.”

“I’ll call a cab from the bar. You do have cabs here in Juneau, I assume?”

“Yes. Two, I think.”

“That’ll do.” He stands in the weak beam of the streetlight, heaving in labored breaths. He wipes the blood still pouring from his nose with the back of one hand. “Good luck with him. You’ll need it.” And then he’s gone, his suitcase bumping over thickets of snow and ice.

Upstairs, Aegon is dragging his own suitcase—black, tattered, Samsonite—out from beneath his unmade bed. He opens it and starts throwing in clothes: band T-shirts, sweaters, jeans, flannel. Sunfyre, whimpering, crawls under the bed and stays there.

“Aegon—”

“If my father stabilizes, Aemond will come back. If he dies, Aemond will come back. He might try to bring my mother up here, or Helaena, or Daeron, or Criston, or the whole fucking family, who knows? I have to be long gone by the time he returns to Juneau.”

“Aegon, please, think about this—”

“I already have a guy lined up to buy the Nova…I think I still have his phone number…I don’t have enough cash yet, but I will once I’ve sold the car…” He’s mostly talking to himself. He’s not really in Juneau anymore; he’s in the future, he’s in the past.

“You don’t have to go—”

He says suddenly, looking at you: “Come with me.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere. Everywhere. We’ll do this together.”

And for a second, you almost say yes. You can see it in one of those flashes, brief and inescapable like lightning: sand, surf, wild children with white-blond hair. Then reality roars back in like a storm. “What, so I can drag you off the floor, clean up your messes? So I can have a front row seat to your self-destruction? So I can burn all the bridges behind us as I follow you into exile? There’s no place for me in a future like that. That’s not a future at all. It’s a cage. It’s a different kind of cage than the one I’m in here, but it’s a cage nonetheless.” Your voice isn’t harsh. Perhaps it would hurt him less if it was. You sound patient and sad and old, like you’ve already seen it all and returned as a ghost, wearing decades of regret instead of white sheets. “And you’ll drink away the money I make, or you’ll inject it into your arm, or you’ll buy pills with it, and I’ll resent you, at first just a little bit, and then more, each time stacking up like pennies in a jar, getting heavier and heavier until I can’t feel all those reasons why I fell in love with you, I can only feel the crushing goddamn weight.”

He can’t even tell you that it’s not true. He wants to, he wants to desperately, but he can’t.

“Tell me you’ll get better,” you say in a whisper thinner than a knife’s edge. “Tell me you’ll try, at least, that you’ll go to rehab, that you’ll face your past, that you’ll make amends. Give me something, anything to hold on to. Give me a reason to leave with you. Please, Aegon, please, just give me one fucking reason.”

“I’m not capable of what you’re asking for.”

“Then I can’t leave Juneau.”

“If you walk out that door, it’s over,” he says, his eyes glassy, tiny barren oceans. “I can’t wait. And I won’t be here tomorrow.”

“Maybe that’s for the best.”

“Then get out,” he hisses. “You want to go so bad? You want to get away from me, you want to start forgetting? Just get out. You don’t need to make polite excuses. You don’t need to placate me. I understand. I understand perfectly.” And he doesn’t hit you, but it feels like he does. “Go find some painfully ordinary Juneau boy that you won’t give a fuck about. Maybe he’ll be a logger, maybe he’ll work on a fishing boat, it doesn’t really matter, does it? You’ll play pool with him and you’ll stroll through Blockbuster together and you’ll let him order you beers you don’t want and sooner or later you’ll be lying underneath him, and he’ll be fucking you, and you’ll be amazed by how it’s possible to be so close to another human being and yet so far away. And you know what? The whole time you’ll be thinking about me.”

“Yes,” you answer, dripping with cold venom. “I’ll be wondering what morgue you ended up in.”

“Then get out,” he says again, he dares.

But you don’t turn to go. You don’t even move. Aegon’s gaze sweeps over you: face, down to your boots, back up to your eyes.

His lips curl up at the edges, not in a smile but something stinging, boastful, cruel. “I know what you want.”

Don’t touch me, you wish you could say, you wish you could stab him with like a blade, all the way to the hilt. I don’t want you to touch me. I don’t want you at all. But Aegon has learned every one of your languages, and he can read lies on you like scrawls of ink.

He crosses the room, buries a hand in your hair, holds you still as he skates the other into the front of your jeans. You cry out, opening your thighs for him, surrendering, ravenous. One last time. Yes, oh god, please, one last time. He yanks your jeans down to your ankles and unbuttons his own. Then he turns you to the wall. You brace yourself against it—a palm pressed to fraying wallpaper—as he slips into your wetness, becoming a fleeting visitor rather than one with you, a lover without a name, a face.

And you want it, yes, yes, there’s no ambiguity there, but still it’s agony, because it’s nothing like it was before. Aegon doesn’t whisper to you, doesn’t kiss you, doesn’t touch you anywhere that isn’t necessary. He makes you come, yes; but quickly and mechanically, like it’s a necessary task to be checked off a list, a patched roof, gasoline into his Nova. He doesn’t leave bruises on you, yes; but that doesn’t mean anything. He never left bruises on Kimmie either. When you reach back—instinctively, without thinking—to touch his face, his hair, he catches your hand and pins it to the wall. You could be anybody, and you will be: soon enough the girl standing in your place will be from Des Moines, Modesto, Scottsdale, Buffalo, Plano, Durham, Wichita, Knoxville, Fargo, Ann Arbor, Hartford. It doesn’t matter where she lives, because he won’t be there long. It doesn’t matter who she is, because that’s not why he wants her.

Aegon finishes with a shuddering gasp, is still for a moment, and then recedes from you. The sensation of abrupt emptiness is forlorn, sickening. I feel worse than I did before. How is that possible?

“Now get out,” he says, zipping up his jeans in the sepia florescent light. He can’t even look at you. He stares down at the floor instead, pretending to be scrutinizing something, a scuff or an indentation. You both know he doesn’t care about things like that. You both know he’s done with you. You dress yourself, grab your purse, and break out into the freezing darkness.

You go to Ursa Minor and clean yourself up in the bathroom, a tear-streaked ghost under stark white lights. Then you go to the usual booth. You don’t order anything, not even when Dale swings by to check in with you, his forehead crinkled with questions and worry. You don’t talk to the few locals who are currently drinking their January evening away. You just sit there, staring at the wall, not feeling time as it breathes through you: an invisible truth, a string that ties the past to the present like an anchor. Eventually, you get up and leave, climb into your Jeep, drive back to the place you’ve always called home.

You walk into the house, into the nightscape silence. Your purse drops off your shoulder and thumps against hardwood. And you stand there, not speaking, not seeing, just feeling the ionic bonds between your atoms being snipped, your veins and ligaments unweaving, pieces of you falling away until you vanish. You can feel yourself becoming transparent. The pigment of your eyes, your hair, your skin evaporates—boiled water from a tea kettle, steam off a bathroom mirror—and is replaced by the muted grayscale of Juneau. Your eyes are puddles of melted snow on asphalt, laced with salt and stray earth. Your hair is wisps of fog. Your skin is the Gastineau Channel, a silver-cold river deep with bones. It’s not that you can’t imagine a future. It’s that you’ve forgotten how to imagine anything at all.

“You’re home already?” Your mom steps out of the kitchen, drying her hands with a dishtowel. “Dad went to the Foodland. I found this neat new cookie recipe but we’re out of baking powder—”

You look at her, and she sees you, really sees you. And the totality of the understanding on her face is like you’re under a spotlight, like you’ve never had a secret and never will. “How did it happen?”

“He’s leaving Juneau. I can’t go with him, not the way he is now. That’s all.” You show her your palms, empty.

“Well, it’s not necessarily goodbye forever, is it? I mean, you can still stay in contact with him. Make phone calls, send letters…”

“There’s no point, Mom,” you say, with more despair than you intend to. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Ladybug…” She hesitates, wringing the dishtowel. “Your dad and I…we want you to be happy. You know that, don’t you? And we like having you here. We love having you here, it’s the greatest gift we could have ever hoped for. But if you need to change things to be happy…if you need to see other places, experience different things…we would want you to do that. We would want you to do whatever it takes for you to feel that you’re truly living.”

You stare at her like she’s speaking a dead language: Egyptian hieroglyphs, Gothic, Illyrian. “Really?”

“Yes. Really.”

I could get out of Juneau. They would want me to. “But even if I did leave one day, I couldn’t go with Aegon.” Your voice breaks, your lips tremble. “He’s too damaged. He’s too much like Jesse.”

“Oh, ladybug,” your mom says, smiling with tears in her eyes. “Aegon isn’t like Jesse.”

Of course he’s like Jesse. He’s exactly like Jesse. And that’s why he’s going to end up dying the same way Jesse did. “He’s…not?”

“Well, he is, but he isn’t. Aegon is more defenseless, more gentle, more kind. Aegon would never hit you. There’s more good in him, I think. There’s more of a chance.”

You want to believe her. It shocks you how much; you’ve never wanted to believe in anything this badly. “So you think I should go with him.”

“That’s something you have to decide,” your mom says. “And only you. Because you’re the one who has to live with the choices you make. All I can tell you is that if you see potential in someone, even a glimmer of possibility, and you don’t try with every shred of yourself to make it work…you might regret it for the rest of your life.”

A question occurs to you that is so horrible you almost can’t bring yourself to ask it. “Do you regret being with Dad?”

“No, never,” she says, and the relief rolls through you. “But I think that if I had handled things differently with Jesse, he would still be alive. I had given up on him by then. I had stopped trying to help him, I had stopped believing him when he told me he wanted to change. I wasn’t there for him at the end. And I should have been. Because it really did seem like he was getting better.” She embraces you, warmth and unconditional harbor. “If you want to run after Aegon…if even the smallest part of you does…then I don’t want you to ignore that because of your love for me and Dad. We’ll be alright. Do you hear me? As long as you’re happy, we’ll be alright.”

“Okay.” You kiss her on both cheeks and hug her one last time, your arms slung around her neck, clinging to her like a child. “Okay, Mom. Thank you. Thank you so much. I love you.”

“I love you too, ladybug. Now go. Go, if that’s what you want.”

So you go. You snatch up your purse, bolt for the door, run through the frigid darkness to your Jeep. Dim gloomy streetlights flick by overhead as you drive, snow and ice and salt crunching beneath the tires. The channel is a glistening ribbon to the west, the mountains vast ancient shadows to the east. And you think about what you’ll tell Aegon, what perfect confession you’ll make; but the truth is, you won’t need to say anything at all. When he sees you, he’ll know.

You swerve to a haphazard stop under the streetlight outside Aegon’s apartment building. You dive out of your Jeep, sprint up the steps, rattle the spare key he once gave you in the door. It opens. So does the rest of your life.

Inside, Aegon’s apartment is silent and still. The refrigerator magnets have been collected from the floor like seashells from frothing surf. The battered green electric guitar is missing. His closet is bare; the blue mug has disappeared from the kitchen counter. There are pawprints in the dust on the hardwood floor. But there’s no Sunfyre, and there’s no Aegon either.

He’s gone. He’s just gone.

#aegon x reader #aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon ii #aegon targaryen ii #aegon targaryen x you #aegon x y/n #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x reader #nttf #north to the future

[eldritch-elrics]

top 10 fnaf fansongs, as decided by someone who's never played fnaf

well, i promised i would make this post. so after listening to quite a few of those "pov: you were in the fnaf fandom" type playlists, i have discovered...... goddamn, a lot of these songs actually go really hard!

i've narrowed it down to 10, but definitely check out my playlist where i added all the songs i enjoyed in some way.

"i can't fix you" - yeah this one fucks. the beat!! oh my god!! also idk if i should count the video as part of the experience but this one has a really fun and dramatic video. what the hell goes down in sister location?

"break my mind" - i'm obsessed with this one it's just. silly as hell. couple awkward lyrics/rhymes but it goes SO hard it's like a really dramatic electronic sea shanty??

"you can’t hide" - i really like the production on this one. it’s funky and cool-sounding without being over the top

"never be alone" - lyrics flow really well! and that main melody is so fun and catchy!!

"join us for a bite" - whimsical in a good way. not my preferred music style, but it feels really unique and i love the vibes and lyrics. it may not be my very favorite but you could make a great case for this being the best fnaf song

"it's been so long" - god it's fucking iconic. bad but also good. you know?

"dance to forget" - i think the ballerina might be the most compelling fnaf character so far. this has such fun lyrics, especially the way that the chorus uses repeating words!

"afton family" - REALLY good creepy vibes. i love the unnerving quality of the vocals

"die in a fire" - also just so iconic - this & "it's been so long" were the only fnaf songs i'd heard before i began this project. also WHY is this song so violent. good for her?

"the show must go on" - another that tells a story in a really fun way… i love the ones where the animatronics treat the human characters as defective robots who they’re legitimately trying to help

and some honorable mentions that i had thoughts on:

"no more" - ok i'm not gonna lie: natewantstobattle's style is so nostalgic for me. also i love how this sounds like a very specific type of 2000s pop rock

"daddy's little monsters" - what the hell happens in sister location? this story is intriguing

"you belong here" - i'm a sucker for this specific kind of fan-rap. idk if they're "good" per se but they're incredibly fun

"follow me" - that "follow me see a nightmare in action" hits tbh

"don’t hold it against us" - really interesting beat/noises, plus, once again, what the fuck happens in sister location

tagging @tijuanabiblestudies @wolffyluna @xerxestexastoast @rinjaespurr because you guys asked for this

#fnaf #music #my post #maybe i'll watch markiplier play sister location or something. i'm legitimately intrigued by the vibes i've heard in some of these songs #i've osmosed the plots of a few of the games but not that one...

[novorehere]

Magic School Bus who? I thought the Chuck E. Cheese's ticket eating machine was everyone's vore awakening. The way it consumed those tickets, storing them away from the visible eye, was a real life vore experience for my child self. I would continue to think about this moment for years to come.

I know this ask is old enough to the point where the conversation is completely no longer relevant but I just wanted to say that this ask had me legitimately laughing out loud because of the wording and also because of the fact that I too was strangely enamored with the Chuck E Cheese ticket muncher as a child and never knew why. I think it was both an admiration of its sheer munching power and deep-seeded fear that I would get my fingers taken off if I didn’t pull my hand away fast enough. Having to put in a single, loose ticket was definitely the one of the most harrowing childhood experiences of the early 2000s.

I can vividly remember the exact over-exaggerated munching noises even to this day. It was like a mukbang Asmr audio before mukbang Asmr audios even existed. Made the tickets seem truly delectable. A true shame kids nowadays will never be able to experience the same terrifying fear and awe of the lawless land that was old era Chuck E. Cheese.

#op #non vore #remember when they would stamp your hand with that glowing ink?? #good times #what happens in the ceiling tube maze stays in the ceiling tube maze #their pizza was actually pretty decent. i should try some sometime just for nostalgia #apparently you can doordash it LOL

[blue-kyber]

Ok, BEHOLD!

The short story that took me cumulative days to write and polish down to 2000 words, and once finished, forced me to take a brain break day where I had a bad headache and body aches through half of it after a terrible nights sleep. Condensing is NOT easy.

Please enjoy the spoils of my hard labor of sleepless nights, stress, screaming, frustration, obsessing over 1 paragraph for hours, because it just didn't sound right, mental agony, and blood.

I hope you like it. Please let me know.

--------------------------

THE PARK

Sam never walked through Wisteria Park if he could help it. 

Sure, the community prioritized its maintenance and reputation as one of the safest places in town - its deep heritage made it the pride of the community - but his avoidance didn’t stem from that. 

In fact, the park could fit snugly within a heartwarming romcom.

Joggers enjoyed its well-lit meandering paths day or night, people relaxed in the cooling shade of its trees, children played in a colorful playground near a duck pond, and sunlight warmed a grassy knoll ideal for viewing firework shows. 

But what truly made it special grew within a grove at its heart; an ancient wisteria tree with lacy lavender boughs sheltering an old Victorian gazebo. 

Everyone loved it.

Except him.

It gave him the creeps. 

All his life, he could feel an ominous aura permeating the entire ten acre blob-shaped hole of nature in the middle of town. 

It legitimately frightened him to the point where he refused to go in.

People dismissed his reactions as ridiculous, invalidating what he felt and couldn’t block. He became known as the weird kid afraid of a park.

As he grew up, he learned to keep quiet and lie while forced to endure it in isolation.

It was torture.

So, he poured it into stories instead. Sam quickly found solace in writing. 

By twenty-two, his debut novel had gained more literary cold shoulders than lead in a pencil factory. 

Today marked the arrival of the latest copy/pasted ‘thanks-but-no-thanks.’  

Dejected, he headed to the corner cafe with that knife in his chest to drown the pain in copious amounts of caffeine and his work.

The rumble of a brewing storm expertly accented his mood.

His phone pinged. 

He opened it…

And stopped.

The text originated from his own number.

Sam: Go through the park. 

“What?”

Confused, he read the timestamp.

July 24. 7:10pm. 

Same day, same time. Next month.

Someone had hacked his phone. 

     Sam: Who is this?

Imposter Sam: You’re gonna love this; I’m you. 

His brown eyes narrowed in irritation, “Oh, you picked the wrong phone, pal.”

Before he could finish a masterfully worded evisceration that would make his English professor proud, another text popped up.

Imposter Sam: You’re standing in front of the main path right now.

I know, because I stopped there last month to tie my

shoe.

He looked down. Sure enough, his laces came undone, “How in the–”

He tied them.

    Sam: Whoever you are, this isn’t funny.

Imposter Sam: It’s not a joke. 

    Sam:  Alright, “Future Me,” tell me something only I would know

   about myself. 

Imposter Sam: The ‘SHRRRIP’ sound of velcro feels like steel wool

  scraping your spine.

The storm’s booming crescendo hit with orchestral precision.  

He’d never told anyone to save himself from further public humiliation. Imposter Sam couldn’t possibly know about that - let alone that exact description.  

Future Sam: Believe me now? 

Sam: …I – HOW?!? 

Future Sam:  Dig through your Nerd Wheelhouse. You’ll figure it out. 

Now stop staring at your phone like you lost your only

Brain cell and MOVE. 

You’re running out of time.

 “I’m hallucinating,” he pinched the bridge of his nose, “I gotta stop staying up ‘til 3am.” 

Future Sam:  You’re stuck taking a mental inventory of your sanity, aren’t 

you. Check your ‘crazy’ meter later. 

MOVE!

Not once in his life had he felt torn about entering the park until now, which meant there might be something to this. 

He took a deep breath. “I gotta be outta my mind.”

Bolstering his courage, Sam ripped the roots of his feet from the sidewalk and entered Wisteria Park.

A cloud of unease instantly engulfed him. 

He could feel the villi of that mysterious force creeping over him with each step.

Despite feeling like a hunted Ichabod Crane, he followed the path’s gentle undulation through the landscape’s tenebrous vibe.

The storm’s unwanted ASMR didn’t help. 

Sam: This is a horrible idea.

Future Sam: Keep walking, Samwise. 

By the time he reached the grove, the storm had reached him.  

He stopped at its entrance over an arching bridge where the path met a broad ring of interlocking paving stones. 

What loomed ahead made his pulse quicken. 

Bathed in the yellow light of antique lamps, dead-center in the grove, beat the heart of that eerie force. 

The gazebo.

A miasmic cloud of disturbing energy oozed from its white hexagonal frame.

Its decorative flourishes showcased the majestic purple curtains of the wisteria behind it. 

Warm internal lights glowed on its ring of benches, and a lamp illuminating the tree created a picturesque scene of idyllic romance befitting the aesthetics of a Jane Austen novel. 

He didn’t want to go near it.

Future Sam: Get in the gazebo.

Sam:  NO. 

Fuck you.

Me. 

Fuck me.

Future Sam: You’re surrounded by trees in a severe thunderstorm, you

colossal dork. 

Get in the gazebo.

He’d rather eat carpet tacks.

The storm opened up a deluge. 

With no other form of protection, he had no choice but to shelter inside the gazebo.

Sam’s quivering hand gripped the wooden rail. He swallowed hard, stomach in knots, pulse racing, and up the old stairs he went with the heavy steps of a man sentenced to die.

The hairs on his forearms and back of his neck rose at the creak of the cedar floorboards’ haunting greeting. 

He bit his lip to keep from screaming from the brain-tingling sensation flowing through him.

Rain needled on the conical roof. 

The gazebo protected him from the raging storm, though he felt anything but. 

He shivered.

Sam:  You’d better have a damn good reason for subjecting me to this.

Future Sam: I do. Wait here.

And while you’re doing that, think about the right thing to say.

“For what?!”

He clutched clumps of his shaggy brown hair, “What am I doing? I’m in the middle of a cursed park in a cursed gazebo, texting Future Me,” he shouted at the ceiling, “who’s being annoyingly cryptic!” 

He exhaled, “I need a distraction.”

He sat in the middle. If he had to be stuck here, he might as well get some work done. 

The sound of feet splashing through puddles spiked his anxiety.

A woman around his age ran into the grove, scanning the ground.

He set his phone down and moved to the top step, “Hey, Miss?”

She looked up, pushing her cropped brown hair back, “You didn’t find a house key around here, did you?”

“No, but you might want to get in here. It’s not a good idea to be outside right now.”

“I know.” She sighed in frustration, “Alright. Gimme one minute.”

“Seriously. Get in here. I’ll help you look later–”

SIZZLE-CRACK! BOOM!

A brilliant bolt of lightning seared through a nearby hickory tree in an explosion of heat and sound, splitting it in half.

Sam hit the floor unconscious.

When he came to, his world became a mess of confusion. A loud ringing filled his ears. 

Trembling, he pushed himself up to a sitting position. 

He touched his ears, wincing in pain. His fingertips came away with blood.

The shock wave had ruptured both eardrums.   

A small hole burned through his right shoe.

Lightning… He’d be struck by lightning.

He wasn’t even fully outside, but the girl– 

“The girl,” he gasped. 

Sam struggled to his feet, grabbed his phone to call 911, and stumbled out of the gazebo into…

“What…?” Breath caught in his throat as he stared in awe at frozen chaos. 

Raindrops formed motionless curtains of silver beads.

The wisteria halted in mid sway.

Even the dying thread lightning paralyzed amid a heavy spray of wood shards.

His eyes followed the jagged streamer up to the graphite clouds, illuminating everything in a ghostly periwinkle hue.

Nothing moved.

Except him.

Time had come to a complete stop.

He passed his hand through the raindrops, sending water fanning out in a zero G effect. “Whoa.” 

He clicked record on his phone, angling it to show himself before turning in a slow circle to capture everything. No one would ever believe this. 

His heart lurched when he spotted the girl hovering an inch above the ring - directly in the path of the tree’s suspended death descent.

Time began to crawl as though it could no longer hold its cryonic state.

The deep groans of popping and snapping permeated the cotton in his ears. 

Sam reacted on instinct. 

He dashed through the slow motion no-man’s-land of raindrops and shrapnel in a race against the tree. With strength fueled by adrenaline, he scooped her up and bolted back.

Time resumed the moment he entered the gazebo.

The tree crashed to the ground with a seismic boom that rattled his bones, taking out two lamps in a shower of sparks.  

He lifted his head when the cacophony settled.  

The decimated hickory tree narrowly missed the gazebo. 

Sam sat on the floor among a few wood shards and the muffled, apathetic patter of rain, staring in wide-eyed shock.

“...Holy shit…”

His phone next to him recorded everything. 

Something had stopped time long enough for him to recover, and save her.

No… Not something. 

Him.

What he’d sensed all his life wasn’t a malicious force, but a thin point in the fabric of space-time. 

Motion from the girl snared his focus. 

He tucked his hoodie under her head. Blood darkened the fabric from a deep gash on her right temple. 

“Oh no. Oh god.” He grabbed a handful of napkins donned with story notes from his pocket, and pressed them to the wound. The shine of her blood covered his hand.

He called 911. 

Her face twisted in pain, “Ow,” she squeaked.

“Stay still. You’re gonna be ok. Help is on the way,” He took her hand, “Can you hear me?”

“Barely,” she whimpered.

“What’s your name?” 

“Kayla.”

His voice wobbled as he tried to smile with his adrenaline still off the charts, “I’m Sam.”

“Hi, Sam,” she rasped. 

He felt her grip tighten when she began to cry, “I’m not going anywhere. You can’t get rid of me that easily,” he shrugged, “Sorry.”

“What…happened?”

He glanced at the destruction, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Please?” She struggled to stay conscious.

If it kept her awake, so be it.

“Ok.”

 —-

The ambulance lights reflected on the wet street as it rushed them to the hospital.

Kayla lay on a gurney receiving care.

Sam sat with a shock blanket over his shoulders and a bandage around his ears. His whole body hurt coming down from the adrenaline and trauma. 

A paramedic applied burn cream over a lichtenberg pattern on his foot.

Sam grimaced, “Will she be ok?” 

The paramedic used speech-to-text on his phone, “She will be, thanks to you. Her phone took most of the charge. You both took an indirect strike, so go easy.”

“I felt so helpless. All I could do was talk.”

“Whatever you said kept her fighting. Words have consequences, Sam,” he secured the bandage, “You saved her life.” 

He slumped with a heavy breath and opened his phone. He’d forgotten about his future self in the chaos. 

Future Sam:  I got a chance to change things.

I hope you found the right thing to say.

The reply box grayed out.

He had changed not only Kayla’s future, but his own.

He grinned. 

This would make one hell of a story. 

“Sam?” 

He couldn’t hear her, but he recognized the shape of his name on her lips.

The paramedic let her use his phone to translate, “About what happened...”  

He braced himself for the inevitable. 

She spoke into the phone, then showed it to him. 

His heart skipped.

He looked from the screen to her, searching for the lie in her smile, but found none.

She’d given him more validation in three words than he’d received in a lifetime - words he’d never heard, and didn’t realize how badly he’d needed to hear them. 

Words that changed his life forever.

“I believe you.” 

#writing #writeblr #writers of tumblr #The Park - and original speculative fiction short story #written for a contest. The subject was 'words have consequences.' #That could be interpreted any way wanted. The story had to contain that phrase. #The picture is of the Springlake gazebo in potters park NJ #The midjourney one I made because I couldn't find an exact replica of what I saw in my head #wasn't used here because... AI. #It's messed up in ways only AI can provide but has the vibe I was looking for. #Regardless it won't be posted here. Sorry. #After I wrote the story I spent a full day looking for gazebos that matched. The potters park gazebo came the closest. #There was nothing I could do about finding a gazebo with a wisteria tree behind it. Again...sorry.