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Your dog’s been missing for nearly a full day now, what feels like the longest 24 hours of your life

It had been a typical walk in the park with him, literally, as you’d side-stepped gaggles of children running by to beg their parents for more pocket change, a local summer fair in the park having the area much more crowded than usual, playful music resonating through speakers and ice cream vendors doubling their prices accordingly, an idyllic day by all accounts

You’d been distracted, glancing along the paths to decide which one would be best to take, not wanting your pup to get overwhelmed by the crowd and god forbid get a whiff of the hot dog vendor a few yards away, when he suddenly did something he’d never done in all the years you’d had him

He took off

You had hardly registered his leash slipping out of your grasp before you caught one last glimpse of his tail sprinting through people’s legs, dodging strollers and bikes as he disappeared out of your eyesight

You’d tried your best to chase after him, completely blindsided as he’d never done anything like this before, beside yourself with worry when you couldn’t find him anywhere, likely appearing hysterical as you begged and pleaded with those around you, asking if they’d seen a dog, if anyone had seen him

But no luck

You’d had to call a friend to pick you up and take you home, after what felt like hours of searching for him, your eyes too wet with tears to find your own way back to a flat with one less soul than when you’d left

Missing posters had been posted on social media immediately, your friends and acquaintances sharing the posts often, sending you messages with well wishes, expressing their own feelings of sadness on your behalf

The woman behind the desk at the library kept sending you pitiful looks as you printed as many missing posters as your arms could carry, a picture of your dog enclosed along with promises of a cash reward for her safe return, intent of hanging the flyers up everywhere and anywhere people might see

Ghost watches you from a safe distance, spots your figure moving from lamppost to tree to wheely bin as you tape and staple your sweet little flyers everywhere the eye can see

Part of him almost feels sorry, for a moment, when he sees the expression on your face, all puffy, red eyes and dark under eyes to match the epitome of a distressed dog owner

But then he reminds himself that there’s no real harm done, after all, your mutt’s safe back at this flat, enjoying all the spare bits from his butcher job that a dog could ever dream of, the very same cuts of meat that had the dog sprinting away from you and towards him in the park yesterday

Besides, he’ll only wait a little longer before he calls the number at the bottom of those cute little flyers you’ve made, before he’ll return your dog to you safe and sound, before you’ll be thanking him for finding your best friend, before he’ll be insisting that a cash reward isn’t necessary, not when he’s got another reward in mind

After all, he’s had his eye on you for long enough now, has been waiting oh so patiently to act, he can handle a few hours or so

But what did you expect, love? A man can only hear your sweet voice saying “Oh Riley, you’re such a good boy! I love you, Riley” so often before he snaps

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I have so many new little song inspired fics in the drafts 🫠

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arms...

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Hey google how do I turn myself into a horse?

anyways, little sketch today. I’m loaded with work and I needed some Arthur, MUAH💕

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Fanfiction is so silly. I am playing with my dolls and people are coming over to watch. Some of them even clap and give me compliments. And when I'm done playing, I can go and watch other people play with their dolls.

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the holy grail types of fanfic

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i like that 13 reasons why's cultural impact is how poorly it handled suicide and sexual assault as well as inventing a new way for people to say they're going to kill themselves

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How it feel to finally accept and embrace the cringe of reading x reader fics

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mine

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Marry Me

John was as comfortable surrounded by hostile forces, in the blistering heat, with no way out as he was at the bar with his mates back home. The worn feel of his boots were a second skin and the back breaking concrete could be a California king in the penthouse suite.

But standing here, dressed to the nines in his dress blues, surrounded by friends, family and strangers, outside a church, made a sweat break out on the back of his neck. Made a shake in his hands appear that hadn’t been there in years.

Simon stood beside him, dressed similarly and without his mask. Easier to blend in that way. He noticed the shake in his Sargent hands and his fidgeting was worse than normal. Wordlessly, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the flask he kept in there for moments like this. Simon nudged John’s arm and offered the silver container.

Soap took a deep breath and took the offering, shooting back a shot with a grimace on his face.

“You and that bloody bourbon” John muttered, handing the flask back and rolling his shoulders. Tension was pouring off the man that was usually all smiles and the first to crack a joke.

Simon gave him a half hearted shrug and looked around at the dwindling crowd. Everyone in the best dress was filing into the open doors, giving small smiles and nods to the two men posted outside.

Today had been a long time coming and John couldn’t remember the last time he had been at a church that wasn’t for a funeral. He supposes he went a lot as a kid with his ma, but all he remembered was how cold it was inside there and his mothers pinches to his side when he got too restless.

She wanted a church though, always talked about how beautiful this one was back home. She claimed the southern in her couldn’t help but have her entire wedding planned out before she ever met the one.

Late nights holed up in a safe house, the guys would tease her for her dreaming. Saying it was juvenile to put so much thought into one day. The captain always grumbled about it being a waste of money, considering he had done it twice.

“Better to save for the divorce, eh?” Gaz would tease, bumping shoulders with Price who would only glare back.

Though the teasing was relentless sometimes, on tense missions or flights to the next one, they would always find a way to bring it up.

“You stuck on the magnolias then?” Someone would ask. Anything to break the tension and maybe, think of something other than their likely untimely deaths.

About 3 years of the jabs and the conversations, there were all finally here, dressed and ready. Gaz and Price were already seated inside, likely one of the first to arrive. Gaz was one of the best men of course and Price was damn near seated with the family.

The last of the stragglers and late comers had made their ways in and found seats. Simon took one last look around and back at John, whose gaze was planted firmly at the building a few paces away. The old pastors house or something similar, now converted into a bridal suite. Where she was. Putting on the final touches.

John felt like his heart was in his throat and his shoes were made of lead. Simon nudged him again and tipped his head inside.

“Come on. Can’t be out here.” He grunted, stepping inside the church without waiting for John. With one final look and a deep breath, John turned on his heel and made his way into the church.

She watched him turn through the one sided glass, ignoring the excited chatter around her. Her mother kept adjusting and readjusting a piece of hair or an earring or whatever on her while she stared with a soft smile on her face.

“You ready hun?” Her mom whispered, a smile beaming across her face. She looked over at her moms smile, ignored her racing heart, and nodded.

The music could be heard as soon as the door opened and her mother led her through the small courtyard, passing where John and Simon had been posted. Everyone turned and stood, facing the beautiful bride all dressed in white. She took her first, slow steps into the church and looked around, small smiles and nods at familiar faces.

Locking eyes with John, seated in the back by Simon, her smile faltered but she nodded and looked ahead. Her soon to be husband stood at the altar and she smiled brighter, keeping her eyes locked on her future.

Not her past.

A/N: hello again from your hopelessly southern fic writer. This one comes from Marry Me by Thomas Rhett. Sorry not sorry for ONLY writing angsty things

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"you don't owe anyone anything" You are a tar pit. Speak for yourself. I personally owe the cafe employees my dishes put away and my friends a listening ear and small scared insects a cup and a gentle trip outside. Hyperindividualism is a rancid infection borne of capitalism and willfully misinterpreted therapyspeak and I will defy it by continuing to be kind regardless of whether or not it benefits me personally

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not that this man would ever take a vacation but you can't convince me this isn't john price on leave somewhere on the coast. his belly's softer because he's been eating whatever he wants lately. he bought short shorts to wear and invites you to ride out onto the water in the boat he rented. he calls you bunny and rubs sunscreen on you and invites you spend the night in his cottage a few ticks down from yours.

he lets you drink his whiskey and likes the way your nose twitches at the smell of cigar smoke he purposefully blows into your face. helps you ride his thigh after getting tipsy and then fucks you raw until you can't see straight.

the next morning, he wakes you with a tongue in your hole. then pops over to the shop to buy you a shit ton of pastries before hurrying back to feed it to you in the bed. hushing your sleepy whines with a peck on your mouth and nuzzle of your cheek in between each bite of the breakfast.

gotta eat up, bunny. he's got a day full of upcoming activities for the two of you...

© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚

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“Leave a light on f’me, yeah?”

It was how he said “I love you and I’ll be back home” in his own way. You were never allowed to know the specifics, where he went, how long he’d be gone. But you could always count on a long kiss at the front door and those words whispered against your forehead in a final embrace.

You continued on in life, waking up to cold sheets, going to work, drinks with friends, and the never ending upkeep of the house. The silent house that technically you shared, but rarely cohabitated. There were no photos of a smiling couple on the wall, no extra set of shoes by the door and no coat waiting beside yours for the next adventure.

But there was always the light. A table lamp, picked up at a thrift shop one day to fill an empty space in the living room. It had seen better days before you hefted it home, a relic of another time of solid metal and outdated fabric. It filled the space in your living room and its dim light became a hopeful beacon home.

As you’d wander off too bed, whether it be an early night where you just couldn’t take the silence anymore or stumbling in after one too many with the girls, you made sure to turn the lamp on. A gentle tug of the cord, casting shadows in the living room and some rays through the closed blinds.

You’d send a small prayer every night that you’d wake up and the light would be off, signaling Simon had come home. Likely asleep on the couch because he always woke you up when he lumbered in, and Simon hated waking you.

The longest you’d gone was 3 months, 90 nights of turning it on and turning in. Only to wake up to that damn light creeping under your bedroom door, getting clicked off with a sigh. But there has always been an end to the storm, that joyful morning, like a kid on Christmas seeing that Santa came. You’d roll over, see no light from the other room, and launch out of bed, attacking the poor sleeping soldier with kisses and tears.

But this had been 4 months. And then 5 months. At the 6th month mark, you started turning on more lights. Each light switch, cord pull or button to push became a little prayer. By the 8th month, your front yard looked like the crack of dawn. Every single light was on. All night. Hoping to draw him home, to be that beacon he always requested. Your poor neighbors probably thought you were crazy, and by then, you felt like you were too.

Your heart couldn’t let you stop, no matter how ridiculous you felt, haunting the halls like a ghost at dusk. Turning on every light methodically, working your way through the house and glancing back to the driveway one last time before bed. Then continuing the routine in reverse in the morning, switching them all off as tears fell.

Until one night, you woke up to a warm body and a rough whisper.

“What the bloody hell is our light bill now?”

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Blame it on the fact that I’m from the south and country music is part of my bloodstream. Inspired by: every light in the house by Trace Atkins