#for a while i was really only using the revolver but lately i’m really into the rifle

[old-skulls]

sorry i have actually never used the anti material rifle…. i can’t be bothered to hoard ammo so i exclusively use my hunting revolver and sniper rifle

[queensunshinee]

His favorite toy || Art Donaldson x reader

Rating: Explicit (18+) Warnings: SMUT (p in v sex, fingering), drinking, super toxic relationship, reader is kinda pathetic :(

Word Count: 3.4k

His favorit toy

Sometimes I think he was born to be in love with her, just like I was born to be in love with him. Unconditionally, without consequences. Just like that, love. And it’s not fair that someone can take so much from you and give back so little. It’s not fair that someone can control your entire range of emotions and yet not be affected by them. It’s not fair that Art Donaldson was born to revolve around Tashi Duncan while I was born for the leftovers he allows himself to leave for me.

“You can stay,” I mumbled as he started getting dressed. “I wish I could, I’ve got morning practice tomorrow,” he said without looking at me. ‘That didn’t stop you from coming inside me,’ I wanted to retort but just nodded and turned my back to him. He stopped dressing for a moment, and I knew he was looking at me, wondering if this time would be the time I’d stop letting him emotionally abuse me. Wondering if this would be the time I’d tell him that if he didn’t stay, he could go find someone else to fuck.

“Baby, I’d love to stay,” he sat at the edge of the bed and gave my shoulder a little shake. “It’s not a big deal, Art. You’re a big boy, you can do whatever you want,” I mumbled toward him. And it sounded petty and bitter. But I felt petty and bitter. I could feel the bitterness on the tip of my tongue. I could feel the sag of the crappy dorm bed swallowing me up. “I want to stay, of course I do,” his voice was fake. Like he was talking to a baby who didn’t understand circumstances or an adult’s schedule. “You know I want to,” he continued, this time planting a small kiss on the shoulder he had shaken earlier.

“When someone wants something, they do it. You wanted to fuck me, you fucked me. You wanted to come inside me, you came. You want to leave, you’re leaving. Just don’t excuse it with morning practice, you’re making me feel like an idiot,” I mumbled. He was silent, not expecting that little monologue. Not expecting that I’d finally tell him he’s acting like an asshole. “I don’t think I’m making you feel that way, you’re making yourself feel that way,” he sighed and stood up, going back to getting dressed while I lay on my back. “Are you serious?” I shot back.

“We don’t have to do this, I’m not forcing you to sleep with me, and if it’s making you feel this bad, we really don’t need to.” He said in a calm, almost calculated tone. Clear of emotions. I rolled my eyes in response and turned away again, not wanting to look at him anymore. “I’m gonna go, I’ll see you tomorrow in class?” he asked, and I felt his lips brush against my hair before he left. And if it weren’t for his smell buried in the pillow and his cum still dripping from me with every movement, I would’ve been sure I imagined him. And in my imagination, he was beautiful and sweet and mine. More than anything, mine.

In statistics class, for a change, I sat next to Janet and Shane, and I could feel Art’s blue eyes boring into my back. Usually, I wait for him with coffee at the back of the auditorium. That’s how we met—he was late to class one day, and the only open seat was next to me. He was funny and charming, almost shy when he asked for notes before the first exam. Almost embarrassed the first time I placed a cup of coffee on his desk when he arrived. Almost apologetic the first time he kissed me.

And for a change, I didn’t waste extra money I don’t even have to buy him a cup of coffee. For a change, I sat with friends I hadn’t spoken to in a while. And for a change, I let him wonder if it was over or if I was bluffing. His eyes were glued to me the whole lecture—neither of us was listening to what the professor was saying, and I know it’s going to come back to bite me.

“Are you going to be mad at me for much longer?” I heard a voice from behind me as I walked down the hall, engrossed in my phone. “I’m not mad at you, Art,” I mumbled without stopping. His strides were longer than mine, and he didn’t have to try too hard to catch up. “So why’d you switch seats?” I could guess he was rolling his eyes, but I didn’t look at him. “Because I wanted to sit with Janet and Shane,” I replied. “Since when are you friends with Janet and Shane?” he asked. “If you ever bothered to ask who my friends are, you’d know I’m friends with Janet and Shane,” I stopped this time and looked at him. He looked composed, like a lawyer who had prepared his most persuasive argument.

“Don’t you think you’re overreacting? I had practice at five in the morning, Peaches.” He sighed, looking at me with big eyes. “I can’t believe we’re arguing over this. We never argue.” He stepped closer to me, and I backed away until there was nowhere left to go. Around us, students rushed to their classes or dorms while I was trapped between Art Donaldson and a concrete wall. “We’re not arguing, Art. I just needed a break,” I replied, feeling less sure of myself as his breaths nearly blended with mine. “A break from what?” his hands brushed against my cheeks. “You know what,” I wondered if he could hear the desperation screaming in my voice too. “Baby,” he sighed. “You don’t need a break. It’s just a busy period.” He kissed me on the cheek. “You can’t keep being mad at me, come on, Peaches,” he said in a playful tone. “Look how cute I am.” He chuckled and nibbled on my earlobe.

“We’re in the middle of the hallway,” I mumbled, feeling myself smile uncontrollably, giving in to his goofiness. “I don’t care. You can’t stay mad at me anymore.” This time we both chuckled. “Here we go,” he continued, and his lips found mine for a short kiss. “I need you,” he declared, and I nodded into his shirt. He needs me, how could I refuse that?

Turns out, it was easier than I thought to take a break from Art Donaldson. All that mattered to him and his ego was knowing that I wasn’t actively mad at him. That he wasn’t the bad guy in the story. That he was okay.

In the following two weeks, I kept sitting next to him in statistics until he found another seat and texted me a simple, 'Haven’t seen Dylan in a while' as an excuse, and I smiled at him without showing my teeth. From being inside me three times a week and whispering in my ear that I was the most beautiful girl he’d ever known, he stopped looking me in the eyes and acted as if we barely knew each other.

And it was almost okay, because that’s what I told him I wanted. He was the one who insisted he needed me.

A month passed, and life returned to an almost-normal routine—going from classes to work, to hanging out on Janet’s rooftop. “You know what annoys me?” I asked, taking a drag from the cigarette rolled with weed she’d prepared. “What annoys you?” she asked, chuckling. “That he looks so damn good.” I said, and her chuckle turned into full laughter. “Oh, yeah, the star of Stanford’s tennis team looks good; that’s usually how it goes with athletes,” she said, half-sarcastically. “I’m telling you, if he didn’t look so good, he wouldn’t have been able to pull off half the shit he put me through,” I added and coughed after another drag. “Oh god, you need a new hookup. I can’t hear any more about Art Donaldson.” Janet couldn’t stop laughing. “Do you think the sky is green?” she suddenly asked, staring at the clouds. “No, I think you’ve smoked too much green,” I gave her a little shove that knocked her sideways as we both laughed.

That’s how we found ourselves at a party later that night. We didn’t exactly know whose party it was, but a friend of a friend texted Janet, and that was enough to go. She fixed the makeup that had smudged around my eyes just before we walked in. I was wearing her black dress, which was at least one size too small for me, and I had to keep pulling it down every few seconds. “Stop it, you look hot. You’re just overthinking it. Go with the flow.” She pulled me inside, and I nodded as we walked. Just go with the flow. What could happen if I just go with the flow?

One beer turned into two and a shot of gin. By that point, half the night felt like a blur, and the other half felt dizzying, but I was dancing with Janet and Shane, who had joined us, and eventually, I went outside to smoke a cigarette and get some air.

Someone handed me a cup, and I looked to the side, seeing Art. “It’s water,” he mumbled. “Thanks,” I replied. “Are you having fun?” he asked, his gaze not leaving me. “Yeah, you?” I asked back. “Yeah,” his voice was calm, “You usually don’t like things like this,” he said after a few seconds of silence. “What’s your point?” I asked, feeling my patience wearing thin with the weird small talk. “What are you doing here, I guess?” he asked quietly. “I can go to a fucking party, Art,” I felt my jaw clench with frustration. “I didn’t say you couldn’t—” “So what are you saying?” I cut him off.

“I just said I’m not used to seeing you at parties, that’s all,” he muttered.

“Hey, I’ve been looking for you. Are you coming inside? Who’s this?” Tashi Duncan’s voice was as familiar as her face. She hosted Stanford’s sports program, which they probably forced her to do. Her and Art’s posters were plastered everywhere. “Oh, this is (Y/N), she’s in my statistics class,” Art said quickly, and Tashi nodded. “Nice, is he any good at it?” she asked, half-joking, like someone who's trying to break the ice in a situation she’d stumbled into. “No, he’s shitty. My friends are waiting for me, thanks for the water,” I replied and went back inside without looking back, wondering if this is what it feels like when your heart breaks. If from now on, every time I see Art Donaldson, it’ll shatter a little more.

I sat on the couch, as Shane had told me to, when someone sat next to me. I turned slowly because I couldn’t manage more than that. “Hey,” he had green eyes and blond hair, “I’m Luke,” he offered a hand for a handshake. “We had Intro to Economics together last semester,” he added with a smile. “Oh,” was all I could manage to say back. “We’re also in a few classes together now. You sit one row below me in Micro,” he continued, and I just stared at the guy talking to me.

“Did we talk before?” I asked. “Sorry if that’s rude, I’m just drunk,” I quickly added, hoping he wouldn’t be offended. I was just trying to recall my interactions with people, and I didn’t remember him. He looked good enough that I should’ve remembered him. “Actually, no. You always seem in your own world, and I didn’t want to interrupt,” he said, still smiling. “I see,” I said. “Actually, no. What do you mean, in my own world? I’m right here in your world, you know,” I kept talking faster than I probably should. “Oh, I didn’t mean to offend you. You’re just usually either with friends or scribbling something,” I saw he got nervous.

“Well,” I tried to remember his name, “Luke, you can always talk to me. I’m usually bored in those classes anyway,” I laughed, and he laughed too, clearly feeling relieved. “Can I get your number?” he asked. “Just in case we make plans or something,” he quickly added when he saw the surprised look on my face. I handed him my phone, and I couldn’t tell if the warmth spreading through my cheeks was from the alcohol or the situation. “You have a message from Art Donaldson,” he said, handing my phone back after adding his number. And just like that, the momentary euphoria ended. Art had to remind me at every possible moment that he existed.

If there’s something Art hates, it’s being ignored. Being left on ‘read.’ I guess that’s why he knocked on my door at 3 AM, incredibly drunk. “Your dress is so pretty,” he mumbled, reciting the message he sent me earlier at the party. “Art, it’s really late—” “He’s flirting with you because your dress is pretty,” he recited the next message. I memorized them so well that I could recite them along with him. “Because you’re pretty,” he continued to the next message. “I’m sorry I introduced you like that, I panicked,” the next message. “You’re not just someone who studies statistics with me,” another message. “Art—” I tried to interrupt the show in front of me. “I really am shitty,” he continued. “Are you done?” I asked, even though I knew the answer, that was the last message he sent.

“Did you lose your phone or something, Peaches?” he asked, half-laughing, half-sarcastic. “You’re drunk,” I sighed. “You didn’t answer me. I thought something happened,” he mumbled. “Liar,” I rolled my eyes. “You’re right, I knew nothing happened. I thought you were fucking that new guy you found,” he shot back. “Wow, Art, you think amazing things about me. You really know me well,” I returned sarcastically. “Anything else?” I asked, ignoring the fact that he was getting closer to me with giant steps. “I missed you, Peach,” he mumbled, his breath, which smelled like his usual gum and beer, mixing with mine again.

“So why did you disappear on me?” I asked. And it came out more desperate than I planned. More pathetic than I expected. I could imagine the smirk spreading on his smug face as I closed my eyes. “You asked for a break. I just gave you what you asked for. I couldn’t hold back today though, you were so beautiful, Peach. The most beautiful at that shitty party. So, the break’s over, okay?” he said, and in his drunk mind, it was probably a logical sentence. His lips brushed against mine, and finally, he kissed me like a starving man who stumbled upon his favorite meal. He had never kissed me like this. He was always gentle in his movements, calculated in every shift.

Not this time. His hands brushed over every part of my body they could reach, I don’t know how I found myself without the shirt I was sleeping in, but I stood in front of him only in my underwear, and he took a step back, looking at me in the dark, as if he was an expert in night vision. As if he was trying to capture me in his memory. “You’re drunk,” I said again. “Not even close,” he replied. “Please, Peach. I’ll be good. I need you,” his kisses went down to my neck, and he led me to the bed. Everything was sloppy and messy, but I found myself under him in seconds, with him also already without a shirt.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said. And that was the usual mantra, he says all the right words and touches all the right places. He knows what makes me tick. He knows what gives me chills and which position I like best. I felt tears forming in the corners of my eyes, as if waiting for me to blink. Then his lips covered them, gently, and if someone had seen the scene from the side, they might dare to think it was love. “Fuck, baby, I’ll make you happy. You want that? You want me?” he asked, pulling away from me for a second and looking at me with half-plea, in almost mania.

“Yes, Art,” I said quietly. “Yes, what?” he asked with his typical determination. “Yes, I want you,” I returned, running a gentle hand over his face, and he repositioned himself over me. “That’s my girl,” he groaned. “I missed you so much. How needy you are. Don’t worry, baby, I’ll help you. I’ll give you what you need,” his hand pinched my left nipple, and I felt like he was punishing me for the last month. “Mmm Art,” it came out as half-whimper, half-cry. “Shhhh, you can take it, right? You missed this?” he asked, and I nodded. “Of course you can, a slut like you, a month without her favorite cock, my poor thing. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you,” he said, and I felt his hand, the one not torturing my chest, settle between my legs. “Art,” another half-moan, half-whimper.

“Fuck, Peach, you’re so wet,” he chuckled nastily and pushed my panties aside, not waiting too long before he slipped two fingers where I needed him. “Oh my god,” I mumbled, closing my eyes. “No no, look at me. Eyes on me.” He bit my neck and pinched my chest harder. I felt my whole body tighten, and I tried to keep quiet so as not to wake the entire dorm hall. “You’re so easy, Peach,” he said while I clenched around his hand. “Uh-huh, fuck, Art,” I tried to catch his mouth with mine in a half-movement, and he moved his face away with a chuckle, as if trying to prove how pathetic I was now. “Please,” I mumbled. “Please what?” he asked, again close to my face. “Please, kiss me,” I gave in, unable to act like a woman who respects herself. Within seconds, his lips were on mine, and his cock was inside me, filling me. “There you go,” he mumbled into my lips, stroking my hair with one hand and holding my hand with the other. The sad truth is, we’ve never fucked like this. It’s always in the most complicated positions you can think of, never missionary, never in a way that would confuse me into thinking that maybe Art Donaldson loves me.

“You’re so good, baby,” he said, thrusting as deep as he could. Slowly. As if he had all the time in the world. “I missed you. It was like losing a limb, losing your pussy,” another deep thrust. “But you’re mine again, right?” he asked, and all I could do was nod while his hand left mine and started making circles on my clit. His rhythm became chaotic, and he looked at me with a look that told me he was close. “I know, baby,” I mumbled, holding onto his neck, and he nodded. “I think I love you,” he mumbled into my lips with closed eyes. “I love you too,” I whispered. His cum filled me, just like every time since the first time he came inside me.

He kissed me again and stayed inside me for a few more seconds, his weight almost crushing me before he pulled out of me and moved to the side, placing my head on his chest, trying to find a comfortable position on the awful dorm bed. We both panted heavily as his hand made small movements through my hair. “I’ll get you something to clean up…” he mumbled, and I nodded, a bit stunned. Because that wasn’t a typical Art move. He never thought about it deeply enough. He threw a shirt he picked up from the floor at me and studied me for a moment as he started getting dressed.

“You’re not staying?” I asked and sighed. “I can’t, I have practice in the morning,” he replied. And just when I thought something had changed, Art and I stayed exactly the same.

Hey there guys, it's been a while since I wrote anything and as much as I love TTOOL, and I love the story deeply, I wanted to explore a new concept. It's the first time I have written in a xreader style, so I hope it turned out OK. Can't wait to hear your thoughts, it's my favorite part 💜

Using the taglist from the main story, hopefully you'll like that too: @lydiaxkirby @suzysface tqd4455 @soberbabes @nina357 @lamoursansfin @marley1773 @ruyaas-world @apolloscastellan @primlovesdilfs @fangirl-kimora @serenadingtigers @imbabycowboy @do-it-for-kicks @izzywags478 @4deline08 @igotmajordaddyissues @jackierose902109 @ganana @yoitsme-04 @swetearss

[misguidedasgardian]

Kinktober 2024 (1/3)

PURGING ON YOU TONIGHT

Summary: A last minute emergency makes you stay home for the annual Purge, everything should be fine, you mostly kept to yourself the rest of the year, what you didn’t know is that you where in the scope of two men of your surroundings

Pairing: Dark!Negan Smith x Fem!Reader x Dark!Daryl Dixon

Warnings: Dark!content, The purge AU, 12 hours of free crime, reader has a gun, age gap! reader late 20’s Negan and Daryl late 40’s, curses, masks, barbed wire bat, allusion to murder by our men, NON-CON TO DUB-CON, forced orgasms, threesome, unwanted threesome, force entering, mean!daryl, asshole!negan, humiliation, oral sex, plenty more of warnings, but I think this are the big ones, MIGHT MISS SOME PROCEED WITH CAUTION PLEASE

+18, MINORS DNI

Wordcount: 6.2 k

Notes: Uffff I've been obsessed with The Purge for a while now, hope I did it justice. I escaped horny jail this halloween to bring you this jijiji

“You should be on that plane right now…!”

“I know”, you said gently, closing your eyes in exasperation, as you heard your mother’s desperate rant on the other side of the phone, “I know mom”

“I can’t believe this, you had months to plan this! It's the same day every year darling! I can’t believe you didn’t see this coming!”

“It was at the last minute, just today they told me I had to stay”, you said

“Working the very day after the purge! what kind of job is that?”

“I’m going to be safe here mom”, you just entered the big metal gate of your building, you looked around, you were not very hopeful really

“Can’t you take the bus? quit if you have to, please”, hearing desperation in your mother’s voice broke your heart, “DC is so big, and dangerous, I…”, you held the phone tightly in your ear

“I’m going to be fine mom, the door has three locks and I can put in this metal bar I found”, you heard her sigh. “This is a…”, you looked around, this was not a good neighborhood, “decent place”, that wasn’t quite true, but it was near your job and the low rent allowed you to save some money.

“Do you have your gun?”, she asked then, now more angry than worried, because you were as stubborn as her, and she knew it, you were staying

“Yes”, you answered truthfully

“Loaded?”

“Yes”, you answered again, you opened the old but sturdy door that was the entrance to the building, the weight and the fact you were not using both hands made you stumble into the hall and collide with a poor bystander.

And when you put the phone away from your ear to focus you realized that it was none other than Negan himself.

Now Negan was your landlord, owner of the rundown ten story building, four apartments per floor, and he was…

Negan as a piece of work

“Oh hey darling”, you smiled but didn’t dare to answer as your were still hearing your mother’s rant through the phone

“Mom, I’ll call you later”, you said softly, and hang up, smiling at him

“Hey Negan”, he lived on the last floor, you on the ninth, you smiled at him, he smirked at you back

“Was that your mom?”, he teased. 

“Yes, she is concerned because I couldn’t make it back home for tomorrow”, you explained

“Ah, so you're staying here?”, he asked, his smile widening

“Yeah”, you said simply.

“Uh, well, I can always make room for you at my place”

Remember how you said Negan was a piece of work? He was recently divorced, when you started living here last year he had just purchased this building, he was separating from his wife, and you knew this because they overestimated the thickness of the walls.

They fought ugly

Lucille dropped his ass and since then, you had seen so many women coming and going from his place the door might as well be a revolving door.

He wasted no opportunity to flirt with you unabashedly, every time he saw you

“Thanks but I…”, you trusted no one on the most dangerous night of the year.

You had heard from people closer to you do things that you could only think belonged in a scary slasher movie. You had lost so many people and not because they died, but because of all the things they had done on this terrible night. You couldn’t believe that people went out there to kill and torture and destroy things and then the next day they just went on about his day like nothing had happened. You couldn’t believe this. 

“I think I’d rather spend it calmly and alone”, you said with a soft smile. His grin faltered, only for a second.

“Well, if you need anything, the offer will stand all through the night”, he said them winking at you

“Thank you, really”, you said, sincerely. 

“And uh… Dixon’s coming… for a last check on the gas line we installed a bit ago”, oh you did remember paying for that

“Sure”, you said nodding. 

“One last round today and tomorrow, he should get up there tomorrow afternoon”

“So close to Purge night?”, you asked him with a frown, Negan shrugged

“Dixon works good and cheap, and nobody’s gonna mess with him if he ends up out there late”, he said simply, you guess it was right

Now Daryl Dixon… You met him because he was the handyman around, he lived nearby. Gas leak? he could fix it, water was running down the stairs? He was right there knees deep.

Miss Pasternak once called him so he could open a can of pickles for her.

You were convinced that the eighty year old woman only wanted to see him flexing his arms that were thick as logs. And who wouldn’t?

You had the biggest crush on him, you got so nervous when he came around, he was so handsome. But you felt like a child, like a little girl with a crush. He was rough around the edges and always talked to you like you were the dumbest person on the planet. It was completely platonic, he had this thick southern accent that made it a bit hard to understand.

Every time you spoke to him it seemed like it annoyed him, so you procured to never break anything or really give him more work and make him come unnecessarily 

“You tell your mommy we are going to take good care of her little girl”, he said in a way so creepy you felt tickled up and down your spine.

“Well I will tell her that her almost thirty year old is going to be just fine”, you teased back, and stared your alk up the stairs

The hundred year old elevator was broken… again. 

You got to your floor almost gasping for air, and opened the door in a hurry.

Your apartment was a mess and since you planned on not being here, you had not made preparations, you didn't have any food or anything really. It was already getting dark and tomorrow was going to be a very busy day. The city always lost it the day before the purge, people selling guns on the street, all the supermarkets closing in your face, preparing for the looters… 

Fuck the Purge.

Well at least you were calm in the sense that nobody had it out for you tomorrow night, meaning, there is nobody that would hate you enough to come in and try to kill you or anything like that, well, you didn’t believe so

You were confident that you could have a nice calm night. You could load up some music and download some movies for you to watch, you had some nice headphones you could use to quiet the horrible noises you were certain you were going to hear.

Because you weren’t going to sleep, that’s for freakin’ sure. 

You spend the rest of the day cleaning up, making your apartment more comfortable. And you could barely sleep.

Which meant that the very next day your mood was in the gutter, you had half a working day, and they let you leave early, you barely looked at that dickhead you had for a supervisor, the one that had canceled your leave at the last minute. 

You bought some things on a market near your place, and then you tried to dodge as many people as you could. But the streets were packed, people going from one place to another.

You successfully evaded three knife salesmen and two that tried to sell you guns. 

You entered the building and tried to ignore Negan giving a hefty amount of money to some guys that didn't look friendly at all, they had masks hanging from their belts. Purgers, dangerous people who were going to be out there tonight, and Negan was paying them to stay around the block and protect the building, purging, but at least, not purging on you.

It wasn’t unusual, this sort of arrangement

In fact, you all pitched in for said amount of cash

When you were in the hall, you saw the old lady, Mrs Pasternak, with a couple of bags of groceries, you helped her put the rest inside her apartment, she smiled at you. 

“Thank you my dear”, she said, “I thought you were going home for this condemned night”, she said, “cleansing our souls! purging!”, she raised her fist in the air, “in my time men went to real war! they did not stay here and vandalized and killed innocent people!”, she kept saying, you only smiled, “we cleansed our souls by going to church! praying and be nice to one another”, you only nodded, not really knowing what to say. “You take care now!”, she said, grabbing into your hand and give it a squeeze, “be safe tonight”, she warned

“I’m sure we are all going to be fine, right?”, you said hopefully

“Oh who’s gonna bother this old bat?”, she said, in her eyes there was something unsettling, “It’s you that needs to take care”

“I will”, you promised her

“There are dangerous men in this building”, she said, “starting with that dickhead we’ve got for a Landlord”, you couldn’t help but snicker 

“He is not so bad”, you murmured

“Trust me”, she said, “you lock your door tight!”, she warned one last time, “if you have a gun, use it!”, before you said your goodbyes, you wished safety and parted ways. 

As you were starting your ascent the 9 flights of stairs, Negan was was your side, smiling down at you

“Planning anything fun for tonight?”, he asked, grabbing half your bags to help you

“Not really”, you said, “how about you?”, you asked him

“Nah, I might take out my rifle, set myself up on the roof, to take care of the lot of you”, he said simply. 

“Oh”, you offered, “have you… purged before?”, you asked him, he smirked at you

“Well darling, we all have repressed urges, right?”, he said, “things we need to get out there, the purge is exactly for that right?”

“Right”, you said, clearly uncomfortable.

Oh you were definitely using that metal bar tonight. 

When you got to your floor, you were surprised to see the door opened, you stood in surprise as you looked up at Negan

“Relax doll, it’s Dixon, I had to open, you were not here”, he said, and as the landlord he could open your door in situations like this. 

You entered your place and found the handyman in your kitchen, like they say the day before, he was checking the gas line that led to your oven.

“Hey Darlin”, he greeted, Negan put your bags on the floor and got comfortable against the doorframe, with no intention of leaving.

Your apartment was small, a single space for the kitchen, living room and enough space for a table to eat, and then a small hallway where you could find a bathroom and a very small room, not enough to fit a bed in there, which you used as storage, and at the end of the hall, your bedroom.

“Hey Daryl”, you greeted softly, with a smile. Today he was wearing an old henley, and he had cut off the sleeves, his thick arms working full time as he was using a wrench on the old pipe.

You were taken out of your stupor quite rapidly, as you realized, quite nervous that the cupboard under the sink was open, that is where you kept your gun, now it felt more childish to keep it there, rather than near your bed, you were actually thinking about taking it, but it had this special spot where you could hide it and keep it out of sight.

You really hoped this was the case.

You watched the old clock perched up on the wall nervously, it was a bit past five, the purge started at seven, it was a bit late to be doing stuff like this.

It was only going to take you a few minutes to lock up, but still, you got so nervous, you should have been home, with your family and their strong security system by now. But instead you were here, in downtown DC

“It’s getting late”, you said, Daryl frowned as he looked at you, “do you have someplace safe to be tonight?”, you asked him, to strike conversation

“Why? ya invitin’ me over or sum’?”, he asked, smirking at you. You immediately regretted your question, getting extremely nervous

“Oh I’m sorry… I don’t know you that well”, you tried to explain, but a chuckle of him interrupted you

“Relax doll”, he said, as he stuck his head underneath the sink again. “I gotta ‘couple of things I need ta take care of”, he said

Great, you were an hour and a half away from the Purge with two men who had clearly purged or intended to do it.

“Yeah, relax doll”, teased Negan, and you did not appreciate the nickname given you by the two of them. 

Daryl adjusted one last… whatever, his sharp eyes never leaving your form and made a big show of putting his tool back into his bag that he closed rapidly

“All done sunshine”, he said, still looking at you, you smiled at him

“Thank you Daryl”, you looked back at Negan who was watching the scene, completely interested in its development.

“Whatever”, he mumbled, “stay safe tonight sunshine”, he said

“You too”, you offered, and you really hoped he would. You couldn’t imagine the building without him, and the thought of something happening tonight to him really made you nauseous.

“I’ll see you out”, offered Negan, who was already out in the hallway and you found it strange that he didn’t take the opportunity to say a last hello to you before the awful night ahead.

But you were probably imagining things, why would he want to tease you specially? he talked that flirty way to every woman from ages 21 to 50, he didn’t discriminate. 

You started to put everything in order, not really even caring about the safety precautions until the very last moment, once you were done, putting everything in order and tidying your place, making it more comfortable for the long night of stress and death really, you looked at the clock and realized it was already 6:55

You ran to close all the windows, putting the locks on all of them, you even went ahead and closed the blinds your mother made you buy, so it wouldn’t attract any attention from the outside. Then, you closed the one of the bathrooms that led to the back of the building. 

You turned on the TV and you went to the main door to lock it tight.

With it as your background sound, you went ahead with your plan. The msot important one, you couldn’t believe you were doing it this late…

You realized in horror that out of the three locks, only one worked, the one of the doorknob, which was the weakest one, as you tried to pass the chain, you realized it was cut, the damn chain was cut!, and the second lock was so rusty it didn’t lock

What the hell? you could have sworn they were good the day before! or at least last week! you never used them but you had! Meaning… They worked!

You looked for the last line of defense, and in horror, you realized that the rectangular metal bar to barricade the door wasn’t behind it anymore, it was gone too!.

You looked everywhere for it, but to no luck, it is not like you could hide it anywhere, right?

Blessed be out New Founding Fathers, and America, a Nation Reborn

May God be with you all

It was a horrible coincidence, right? it had to be, because, what else could it be?

You needed to believe that

You tried to calm yourself, trying to steady your breathing, but still you could feel your own heart pounding inside your chest, anxiety taking a tight hold on you

Nothing is going to happen

Nothing is going to happen

Nothing is going to happen…

You jumped when you heard a car speeding down the street and someone screaming, but it came from outside too, so you tried to calm yourself again, to no luck

Nobody was coming for you, right? this was just a coincidence, you never used the extra locks, never, so… they might have broken, maybe you caught the chain with the door without realizing or something, right? accidents did happen

And the bar, well, maybe you put it elsewhere.

You grabbed one of the old wooden chairs and you used it to barricade the door.

Nothing is going to happen

Nothing is going to happen

Nothing is going to happen…

You probably put the bar somewhere else, so while you had that chair doing its job, you almost turned your apartment outside down to find it.

But to no luck.

It wasn’t inside the apartment.

Alright the locks might be one things, but the bar… that was strange, right?, that didn’t seem like a coincidence at all! that thing was there YESTERDAY, you made extra sure to check it, it was there, since you moved in, you never touched it.

You jumped again when the silence of the apartment allowed you to hear clearly a loud noise coming all the way to the first floor. 

You went to the kitchen then, your last resort, it's gotta be, well, you were not going to use it because nothing was going to happen right? nothing was going to happen if you had a gun in your hand.

Right?

RIGHT?

You let out a whine when you realized that the gun wasn’t there either.

Another sound made the whole hall of the building trembled

You didn't want to think that sounded like a gunshot, like a shotgun shot.

Probably you were imagining things

Yeah, like you imagined the locks, the bar, the gun and the fact that the sound was indeed a shotgun, you had heard them hundreds of times in movies and series.

But then, you waited… one, two, three and nothing happened, no other sounds, no voices, nothing, so you took a long breath, grabbed something to eat from the fridge, and something to drink, and took a seat on your old couch. to watch something on the TV

Purge news, already.

People going out there to the streets to purge, to let out the beast or whatever

It made your skin crawl.

You cuddled yourself hugging the cushions of the couch as you watched the whole country unfold in violence, death and gunshots, reports all flooding in. You wanted to fall asleep and wake up in a new day, done with this madness but that could not be possible, you were hyped, nervousness keeping you wide awake.

Another sound made you jump on your spot, screams followed by gunshots and a car speeding, then hitting the breaks and a horrible sound, like it had crashed into something, or someone.

It was outside, it was you there, not in here, you were going to be fine…

And then you heard it.

Voices, hushed voices, heavy steps coming up the stairs.

The building was trashy, you could hear everything that went down.

Then, a shotgun went off, right one floor down. You jumped from the couch and thought quickly on what to do. 

Was somebody purging on a determined person? Was it an isolated thing?

You were standing in the hallway, looking right at the door, no sounds followed, so you guessed you were fine.

From the second to the next, your door burst open. It was like in slow motion, pieces of wood flew through the air as the door slammed open against the wall.

You screamed, you couldn’t help it as the person immediately spotted you as you were right in front of the door. It was a big man, broad shoulders, all dressed in black, dirty jeans, heavy boots, and his face was hidden behind a mask. A huge shotgun in their hands. 

This was it. 

You tried to run back to your room, but as you tried to close the door, but a boot stopped you from doing so, he forced it open, your strength no match to his. You stumbled backwards not knowing what to do, fear taking a strong grip on you

“No! please!”, you begged, you noticed that the shotgun was gone, and that relieved you somewhat.

But it was short lived as this person leaned forwards and trapped you against the wall of your room

“Please!”, fat, fear induced tears started streaming down your face, the horrible mask was looking down at you, making you tremble, you never liked masks, especially ones that covered so much of someone’s ‘humanity’ just like this one

“please”, you begged one more time. 

The figure lifted one of its hands, grabbed the edge of the mask, and pull it off.

You gasped when you saw him. Daryl was standing right there in front of you, looking down at you with those sharp eyes of his

“What are you doing here?”, you asked him

“I came ta purge f’course”, he said, smirking darkly, like you had never seen him before

“What?”, you whined, the brief relief disappearing instantly, “Please… I don’t want to die, please”, you begged, crying, scared out of your mind. “Don’t kill me”

“Now, I ain’t gonna kill ya sweetheart”, he said, caressing your cheek, “there sum’ other ways ta’ release the beast ya know?”, you cried out as he grabbed your face. “Good thin’ I found ya gun”, he teased, and you whimpered, “that silly little thing would have made things a bit complicated for me tonight”

“Daryl please”, you cried, “Don’t kill me please”

“I ain’t gonna kill ya”, he said, “I ain't some psycho bastard”, he chuckled, he looked so calm, like this was just another wednesday, he then leaned in, and licked your face, from the corner of your mouth and upwards.

“Ah!”, you wanted to cry out, to scream, but a moan came instead, as you couldn’t release yourself from his tight hold

“I’m gonna release the beast though”, he said, “I bet you’re gonna like it”, he then placed one of his legs in between yours, making you now really trapped. You immediately noticed the friction as he pressed it even further between your legs, you moaned again

He certainly didn’t mean that, didn’t he?

No, no, it can’t be

“Ya like that don’t ya?”, he teased, “Mmm?”

“Please don’t do this”, you cried, “please”

“This s’my right”, he grunted against your ear, “m right to do whatever the hell I want”

“Daryl”, you called, as he dropped a wet kiss right under your ear, he kept grabbing your face, and he kept you still as he trapped your lips with his.

It wasn’t by any means romantic, it was aggressive, wet, messy, even rough. 

Oh this was happening, this was happening and you couldn’t stop him, you were no match for him, and you gave up embarrassingly quickly. 

“Ya always treat me like I aint shit”, he said against your lips, grabbing your neck

“No”, you said back

“Yeah, like I’m so hick”

“That isn’t true”, you whispered, “I really liked you”, you admitted. “thought you were handsome”, he only chuckled darkly, with his free hand he grabbed the cotton pants you were wearing and he deadass ripped them off of you. Making you whine and trash against the wall

“Daryl!”

“Damn right, scream my name”, he purred, you tried to close your legs, but his thick one was right between them, making it impossible, and now his hand, as the one in your neck threatened to take your air.

And then you felt them, his hands caressing, touching, feeling you up until he reached that place in between your legs making you shake

“Mmmno”, you mumbled

“Yer so wet fer me”, he grunted, you whined as you felt his fingers teasing your entrance, “ya dirty little whore”, this was not happening, you were not getting turned on by this, right? you couldn’t possibly be

Oh but you were

“Daryl”, it was a plea but sounded like a freaking prayer

“You like this don’t you?”, he asked, his breath hot against your neck, “yer so beautiful, and tonight yer all mine”, he grunted. He’s got two fingers deep inside of you, and he was skilled, finding that special spot so quickly it made your head spin

Oh this isn’t happening, this isn’t happening

You were in the brink of being undone when he released you, it was so sudden it took the air out of your lungs, one second he had his hands and mouth al over you and now you were alone, shaking against the wall.

You whined like, in fact, a dirty whore

He grabbed your top part roughly and made you take it out, leaving you completely naked in front of him, and he was still completely dressed.

“This aint some love-making bullshit”, he threatened, you barely nodded. 

He threw you face up on the bed, your head landing on the foot of the bed. And in a second he was all over you

“Ya understand?”, he asked, you nodded, “good”, he placed himself on top of you and between your legs, he wanted this quick, no more bullshit, he had said it, and yet, you thought there was the whole night ahead of you. But he seemed like he was in a rush

He released his cock, you leaned to see it and you whimpered when you did, fuck he was thick, and big

“Yeah, ya like it?”, he asked, he pumped himself a couple of times and then he accommodate himself at your entrance, you spread your legs even wider to make it comfortable for him, and he thursted, hard inside you, burying himself to the hilt

You screamed/moan a curse, filling so full, the stretch hurt, but it felt so fucking delicious, this was so wrong, yet you were so turned on. Your body twisting in fear, excitement and ecstasy that you didn’t know what to feel anymore.

So you surrendered even more to the man on top of you.

“Fuck yer so tight”, he cursed, trying to contian himself

He retreated until he was almost out, and then he thrusted back in again, making you moan again, he started fucking you in an unforgivable pace, relentless, hitting all the right spots on each one.

The old bed cracked under you, making you whimper as you laid underneath it and just took it.

You felt your orgasm building inside of you, and you welcomed it, you wanted it so bad. But again you were denied as a whistle made you both stop all movement. 

“Little pig… little pig! let me in!”, it was Negan’s voice, hitting a wall with something heavy. His thick boots sounded as he passed through broken wood and glass, and he advanced down the hallway towards your room. Daryl covered your mouth with his big hand, not letting you scream for help.

“What do we have here?”, he asked, appearing in your eyesight, although backwards for you. He was not fazed at all for how he found you, under Daryl, “damn!”, he had a barbed wire bat on his hand, and he was wearing a leather jacket and a white shirt underneath, “fancy finding you here Dixon, I thought you were allergic to women or something”, he teased

“Shut the hell up”, he drawled, moving on top of you.

“Negan”, you called, under Dixon’s hand

“Oh darling”, he teased

“Help”, you begged

“Help you?”, he chuckled, “oh darling, Dixon here got ahead of me!”, he teased, “I had been so pent up this last year, I really thought about what I wanted to do to let all my anger go, all my needs… released…”, he hissed, “Now, there you were, all cute and sweet”, you whined in fear as Daryl started moving inside of you again, “well, apparently you had been fanning Dixon’s flame too, not only mine”, he pleased his hand on his own chest in a hurtful stance, “and that makes me fucking angry! you are a dirty, little, attention seeking-whore, aren’t you?”, you shook your head but a moan escaped your lips instead as Daryl started pounding into you again.

“Either ya join us or you get the hell out!”, he grunted. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling you towards him, a slick, wet sound sounded louder

“Damn this is hotter than I thought it was going to be!”, Negan teased. “you got ‘er all broken down already Dixon! damn!”, he moved his abt and only then you realized that it was all dirty with blood and… was that skin? meat?.,

“Oh this? I had to take care of something tonight”, he said, “have you ever wondered why nobody messed with this building?”, he teased. “and if we are being honest, you don’t look like you need help at all!”, he mocked, “damn!”, he threw the bat somewhere on the floor, and got ready.

He was going to join you

You were going to protest but a particular hard thrust from Daryl got you all messed up, moaning.

“She is enjoying this”, Negan tease, “I love that”

“Yeah, she pretends like she is all good but at the end of the day…”

“She is a needy little thing isn’t she?”, he asked, Negan caressed your face with one hand, a glove placed in it, and with the other, he released himself. 

You wanted to protest, you did, all alarms in your head ringing, but you couldn’t as he stuffed his cock down your throat

“Uff that’s a good girl”, he moaned, “fuck, can’t wait to try her pussy”

“Damn, the best I’ve ever had”, offered Dixon.

He was feeling threatened, and as such he started fucking you even rougher if that was even possible. You couldn’t enjoy it much, feeling light headed because of lack of air, as Negan used your mouth like if you were a fleshlight

“Fuck she is good”, Negan grunted

Daryl cummed inside of you, you knew because he gripped your hips tightly, and buried himself deep, deep inside you. That triggered your own orgasm, as you shook underneath him, trashed and tried to get rid of Negan, who released you with a smirk.

“Fuck!”, you cursed, your climax washing over you as Daryl still had you on a tight hold, releasing the last of his load in your warm cunt. 

“Alright, my turn, I wanna cum inside her too”, Negan said, but you were completely destroyed, laying on the bed.

“She’s all yours”, invited Daryl. You wanted to protest, but not really, as you let them manhandle you into any position they wanted.

Daryl sat on the bed, his back pressed against the headboard of the bed, and he accommodate you in between his legs, Negan climbed onto the bed, grabbing your thighs, making you spread them for him

“A damn piece of art”, he admired Daryl’s ‘work’ as he licked his lips.

“Come on”, he pushed himself inside you, he didn't feel as thick as Daryl but rather longer, reaching even new spaces inside of you.

You whimpered, being already super overstimulated, but you spread your legs for him too, inviting him even deeper

“Good girl”, he grunted, as he drove himself home deep inside your tight walls, “damn, we are going to spoil men for this one”, he teased, “I don’t think I ever had pussy this good”

“Damn right”, Daryl looked down at you with something you might even considered sweet, he caressed your face, and your hair, like he was soothing you, and you needed it as Negan started pounding into you

“I usually take my time, but… can’t wait any longer”, he admitted. “she is too damn good”, he thrusted in over and over, making you push against Daryl, who held you tightly, letting Negan have his turn, sharing his Purge’s spoils.

He cummed inside you, just as Daryl had done, stealing another climax from you as well, that by now you were putty on the bed, like some ragdoll, with a stupid look on his face.

You had never been fucked like this.

Just when Negan released you and you believed you were done, Daryl accommodated you on your side.

“You got me all hard again”, he grunted against your ear.

It was around five in the morning when they were done with you, accommodating you in between them, both caressing your skin marked by their hands and mouths

“Uf how I wish I could keep her like this all year round!”, teased Negan, “wouldn’t that be nice Dixon? having this sweet thing all to ourselves, uh? all full of us, laying on our bed like this”

“Damn right”, he drawled. kissing your cheek

“I can’t wait for next year”, teased Negan in your ear, is the last thing you heard before you lost all knowledge of what was going on.

You woke up with the sun sneaking through the window, hitting you right in the face.

You grunted as you came to your senses, becoming aware again of where you were and what had happened. 

You looked around to find your room almost normal, it's the first thing you noticed, you frowned, sitting on the bed and then standing up, your body hurt, all of it, you were sore and in pain, you grabbed the firs hoodie you could find in your closet, and when you went back to the living room you realized that the door had been fixed, and it was closed, like nothing had happened at all. you looked around and everything was like it was the day before, before the Purge.

The only reminder of the events of last night was your trembling body. You were certain you didn’t imagine any of it. You looked at the clock and realised you were late for work, but they could go and fuck themselves.

You went to your bathroom and got into the hot shower quickly, it was cold at first but that is what you needed to come back to your senses completely.

You got dressed in the baggiest and more comfortable clothes you got, granny underwear included, and after applying make up to your horrified looking face, you got out of your apartment, ready to face the day.

“Good morning darling!”, you jumped when you heard him, looking up the stairs, he, as you, was fresh out of the shower. smiling down at you.

“Good morning”, you mumbled

“Have a good day darlin”, he said simply, he didn’t come after you, he didn’t make any comments or remarks, he was just being… him, you barely nodded and you ran down the stairs without looking back.

As you had your hand at the heavy door, you came face to face with Daryl.

You jumped in your place, he only looked back at you like nothing had happened.

Today he was wearing a blue overalls with the sleeves ripped out, he had this thing against sleeves… so weird. 

“Daryl”, you greeted, he only hummed, looking, again, like nothing had happened, but yo seemed to miss the little smirk he drew as you passed him.

Had you imagined the whole thing? no, impossible.

And yet…

You went into the street at noon, they were being cleaned, but no signs of bullets or corpses, or anything, it was like nothing had happened, the city was returning to how it was the day before. People were walking up and down the street, going or coming to work… 

Like nothing had happened

It made you feel like you were insane or something, so you did what you had to, you took the bus and you went to work. 

“Sorry for being late”, you whispered as you passed your supervisor

“It’s fine, somebody purged our boss so this and the next week is going to be pretty mild”, he said like it didn’t mean a thing that our boss was freaking dead, “I’m glad you are here at all!”, he said with a soft, guilty smile, “everything alright back at home?”, he asked, you frowned

“What do you mean?”, you asked him

“Well, after we approved your vacation days and all, we were so surprised you decided to cancel last minute and come to work”, he said

“What? I didn’t cancel anything’, you said

“Yes you did! your boyfriend called, said for you that you were not going to use your days, that you were staying here!”, he said all chirpy, “he said you had some fun plans for purge night! didn’t know you had it in you!”

[dovveri]

what if nerd momo x bimbo reader author I need u

failing maths, but getting the girl

synopsis: momo and y/n have hated each other ever since an incident in first year. now, y/n's failing a class and momo offers to help.

warnings: mentions of blood and cuts, overbearing parents, drugs, implied sex

w/c: 4.0k

a/n: this is kinda funny for me bcs im blonde and my dad keeps making jokes in chinese about how im ltr a blonde bimbo now. anyway i combined these 2 reqs bcs im lazy forgive me anon/s

⋆｡°✎ᝰ ˎˊ˗

"y/n!"

you turn in the corridor, almost crashing into the burly man behind you who yells a "watch where you're going blondie!" before rushing off to a class he was probably late to.

you spot your friends who had called you, grinning and waving you over, "can't go one day on campus without running someone down can you?" a friend teases.

you pout, "i didn't walk into anyone yesterday!"

"no but you got stuck in the revolving door outside the chem building."

you whine at their teasing, you were a naturally clumsy person! sometimes you'd mix up salt and sugar, and sometimes you'd lose your car keys only to find them still in the ignition keyhole of your car from the last time you used it.

"so you coming to that party tonight? i heard some famous dj from the states is playing."

"awwh really?! i can't tonight i'm failing that dumb math class i have to take and i have a quiz tomorrow so i gotta study."

"you're failing everything y/n, what difference would one night make for you anyway?" a scoff from a student passing by, who you recognise as the infamous hirai momo from the back of her head and the evil way she sends a side-eye at you and your friend group in disgust.

"i wouldn't be if it weren't for your sad ass hirai!"

"stop looking at my ass and get your eyes on some books for once."

momo was meant to be your roommate in first year. although you had accidentally locked her out in the rain for 5 hours while you were hooking up with someone you can't remember the name of anymore. that was during orientation week, safe to say she was pissed and completely drenched when you finally let her in. she filed for a roommate change not long after, citing "poor etiquette and stupidity that could infect my genius", and being the university's most promising academic scholar, she pretty much got whatever she wanted. meaning she also got you assigned to the harshest tutors and markers as her own form of personal revenge, essentially making you fail most of your first year courses. which is why you were even taking this math class again.

the problem arose however, when you find out you would actually lose your scholarship if you failed another class. so failing was definitely not an option.

⋆｡°✎ᝰ ˎˊ˗

“you failed.”

“what!? but i studied all night! i even brought the right calculator model this time!”

“miss l/n, bringing the correct calculator doesn’t help you if you don’t know how to use it. and neither does studying all night if you haven’t been coming to class for most of the semester.”

you’re gaping at the professor in disbelief.

“i’m afraid you’ll lose your scholarship if you fail the upcoming final exam. take this as your final warning. good day miss l/n.”

the door is shut in your face while you're still left trying to process exactly what just happened, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish.

a familiar scoff behind you brings you back though, "what is y/n l/n doing here outside the staff meeting room? what? about to blow one of your professors for marks or something?"

you spin, stepping into her space, faces inches away from each other, "you jealous or something hirai? i'll blow you too if you beg."

you revel in the way her cheeks immediately flush, a slightly shaky finger pushing up the glasses on her nose as she looks away, "jokes on you l/n. i don't have a dick dimwit."

"you don't need one for me to make you feel good."

she's sputtering, moving around you quickly to escape, knocking on the staff door. you smirk, reveling in the slight win over her but immediately forgetting the feeling of triumph when you realise you're still fucked for your final in 2 weeks.

⋆｡°✎ᝰ ˎˊ˗

"y/n, you know i love you, but i cannot explain this again in any other way."

you groan, hands coming up to pull at your hair.

"but you got like a high affliction or something for this class last year! if you can't teach me i'm actually royally screwed, pleaseee?"

"it's high distinction sweetie. and just because someone's good at something doesn't mean they're a good teacher. sorry to break it to you but i couldn't teach my little cousins how to multiply fractions without wanting to commit homicide."

you wrinkle your nose, "gross dude they're literally related to you."

"no babes homicide means i wanted to kill them."

"oh... i guess that's better?"

"focus! c'mon you remember how to do the cross product right?"

"i don't get ittttttt!!!!!!! isn't that just multiplication? a times b equals ab!"

"this isn't algebra it's vectors. cross product isn't multiplication y/n."

you groan again, facepalming the desk in front of you.

your friend sighs, "sorry y/n i have to get going now. promised my boyfriend i'd go watch his game tonight."

"what?! you can't leave me here!"

your friend's already packing up their stuff though, "sorry! good luck with the studying though!"

you wail in goodbye, sitting up again and slapping your face a few times, trying to hype yourself up.

two minutes later, and you're still absolutely nowhere.

you decide to go out for a quick stroll rather than start a campfire in the middle of the library with all your papers. the evening breeze feels refreshing against your skin as you take in the sky. breathing in a deep sigh and closing your eyes briefly.

definitely the wrong idea when you crash headfirst into something that yelps a "what the fuck!" followed by the sound of smashing glass and a whine of pain.

your eyes are quick to open and you stare down at a bleeding hirai momo next to what looks to be a ruined 3D print of a final project or something.

"oh shit momo! are you okay?" you crouch down quickly, trying to collect the glass pieces that have broken, yelping when a piece digs into your skin.

"has all that bleach finally reached your brain y/n? who goes for broken glass with their bare hands?" she's frowning, rubbing her head a little and inspecting the cut across her arm.

"i-i'm sorry i-"

she sighs, "save it. i've had a long enough day as it is. being around you any longer is just gonna increase my chances of dying to some freak plane crash or something." she's standing up and brushing her hands off on her pants muttering to herself, "i'll have to call security to come clean this up."

you realise then that her eyes look a little puffier than usual, slightly tinged with red, the telltale signs of crying.

you suddenly feel terrible. whatever you had just broken seemed like an extremely intricate piece of work, and she was still bleeding down her arm but she didn't seem to pay it much mind, taking a phone out of her pocket and dialing security.

you step to the side and wait for her to finish talking on the phone. she doesn't realise you haven't left yet, swearing under her breath as she assess the damage once again.

when she turns and sees you again, she scowls, "what are you still doing here bimbo? don't you have a dick to ride or some jewelry to shine?"

you ignore her, blushing instead, "you're still bleeding."'

she looks surprised at that response, glancing at her arm again briefly and shrugging, "it's whatever. i'll clean it up later."

you wrap a hand around her wrist then, still not meeting her eyes, "let me? it'll be hard to bandage it properly with your left hand. and i kinda owe you for all of-" you gesture vaguely with your other hand at the ground, "this."

she's tugging her hand back quickly though, "don't bother. you'd probably make it worse. just go home y/n."

you sigh exasperatedly, "won't you just let me help! i feel bad okay? i can't just leave you here bleeding onto the concrete waiting for security to come clean this up."

she's surprised at your outburst, eyes locking onto yours and then nodding slightly. you don't let her rethink her decision as you drag her back inside the library, heading into the storeroom where you knew they had emergency first aid supplies.

you sit her down on the chair and rummage through the small kit for some alcohol wipes to clean the wound first.

she's eyeing you with a sort of caution, but is quick to clench her eyes shut and gasp at the first sting of disinfectant.

it's quiet for a bit while you work on cleaning her wound.

"where'd you learn first aid?" she speaks up first, eyes meting yours again.

"my little sister used to play around a lot with the rougher kids in the neighborhood. so she was always coming home with scratches and cuts and my mom was at work most of the time so i had to learn to take care of her myself."

momo hums, "guess that didn't really translate to taking care of yourself then huh? i mean with the way you're always tripping over air and stuff, you're more of a danger to yourself than a serial killer would be." there's no malice to her words this time, just lightly teasing you and you smile.

"i am sorry by the way. for breaking that. it looked like it'll be pretty hard to replicate."

"nah. i can just print another one tomorrow don't worry."

you both fall into silence again as you finish cleaning her wound, going to collect a few of the bandages to start wrapping around her arm.

you clear your throat a little awkwardly, "so... long day?"

she chuckles humorlessly in response, "something like that."

"wanna talk about it?"

she bristles then, and you're quick to correct yourself, "i mean you don't have to. just... making conversation."

it's quiet for a little longer and you're finishing wrapping her up, grabbing a small adhesive to stick it all together when she sighs. "sorry. just had a lot of pressure from back home lately. my parents keep wanting me to hurry up and graduate so i can go back to japan and take over the family companies. they called earlier saying how they're cutting off my funding for next year if i continue to drag out my studies."

"what? but you're only 23. don't you have like, things left you wanna do before you're all old and unable to move anymore?"

she giggles a little, its the first time you've heard that from her, "yeah tons actually. i've always wanted to see the northern lights and stay in one of those cute little igloos in finland, maybe go to antarctica and do some research there."

"okay! do that! what's stopping you?"

she smiles at you sadly, "my parents won't allow it. they'd disown me for not taking over their companies. and frankly, i'd be broke without them. i don't have the kind of money to keep living abroad like this if they were to stop supporting me."

you tilt your head a little in confusion, "can't you find a job?"

she's laughing then, a full, nose-scrunching laugh, "not with the classes i'm taking. i'd have to either take part-time study, which my parents would literally kill me for because it's 'embarassing' and would bring shame on our family name, or... never sleep again and take a night job or something."

you frown, sitting back on your heels.

"thanks for this by the way. you're still hurt though, do you want me to do you?"

"-and don't make a weird joke about that." she interrupts you before you can even open your mouth.

you pout, nodding a little as she laughs, and grabs the first aid box from you, gently placing your hand in her lap and cleaning your fingers.

you're caught by the way her eyebrows furrow a little in concentration, her teeth biting into her bottom lip slightly, and you can't help but think she looks cute.

you're brought quickly out of these alarming thoughts though, when she asks "how come you're in the library so late on a friday night anyway? never thought the day would come."

you groan, remembering the stack of math papers you have sitting on your desk, "i have to study for a math final coming next week. if i fail i lose my scholarship and i can't let my mom pay for any of this. she's already worked hard enough getting both my sister and me through school."

momo looks surprised at your admission, "oh. i'm sorry. i didn't know you were on scholarship."

you hum, "yeah most people don't assume it from looking at me." you tease a little, flipping your blonde hair over your shoulder and giving a little jingle of your bracelets.

"i'm not materialistic or anything but i enjoy having things that make me look nice y'know?"

she rolls her eyes, placing bandaids carefully onto your fingers.

"you don't need any of those things anyway."

you're caught again, unsure whether that was a compliment or some new way of torturing you.

she clears her throat, "all done."

you look at your hand, cutely littered with some winnie the pooh bandaids she must have found in the first aid kit.

you beam up at her, "thanks!"

she blushes a little and looks away from you, shyly rubbing the back of her neck, "hey look... i can help you study for that test next week if you want. don't want you losing your scholarship over something simple like that. plus i kinda helped go through all the first year math exams for some extra credit with the head of department."

you're shocked at first, and then jumping and squealing, bringing her up with you, "what?! you will?! oh my god thank you!!!!! holy shit oh my god i'm not gonna fail oh shit i'm-"

she's shooshing you in an instant though, a hand clamped over your mouth, eyes darting behind you, "y/n! we're still in a library!"

you grin when she lets you go, whispering loudly, "thank you!"

she's rolling her eyes and letting herself be dragged over to your table, praying that she didn't make the wrong decision deciding to help you.

⋆｡°✎ᝰ ˎˊ˗

momo's standing outside your lecture theatre, waiting for your class to end. you texted her saying you were getting your final results back today so she decided to pop by and make sure everything was okay.

once students start exiting the class she slips in, walking towards the professor who's packing up her stuff..

"momo! good to see you here. although i'm a little surprised. i wasn't expecting you."

"hey professor kwon. i'm just here to-"

momo's attacked from the back, you're squealing as you latch onto her excitedly, waving a test paper in front of her face, "i passed! momo look i passed! with a 62!!!!! that's higher than i've ever gotten!!!!!"

"miss l/n. i didn't know you knew momo." professor kwon is looking you up and down with a little distaste but you ignore it, squeezing momo even tighter in thanks.

"y/n- stop- wait lemme see that-" she snatches the paper out of your hand and scans it, eyes lighting up when she confirms you did in fact pass.

"congratulations! all that hard work really paid off."

you're blushing, "couldn't have done it without you hirai. c'mon, come out with my friends and i tonight to celebrate!"

"o-oh i don't know about that y/n... i've got-"

"study yeah yeah you always do. but you've gotta relax every now and then you know?"

"miss l/n is right momo. you're the most hardworking student here you should give yourself a break every now and then."

you're nodding fiercely, "right right! thanks professor kim!"

she looks at you with a glare, "kwon. its professor kwon miss l/n."

you're nodding, waving her off shaking momo, "c'mon pleaseeeeeeee? i'll pay for everything. as a thanks for helping me. and i can afford it now too since i won't be losing my scholarship which is also thanks to you so..!"

momo's still uncertain, hand at the back of her neck again, a nervous tick you've picked up on.

"oh professor i just remembered!" you're switching back to your professor, excitement and attention everywhere, "you were looking for outstanding students to tutor next semester right? how about momo? she's the only reason i passed this final and trust me when i say i'm a pretty difficult student to teach."

"oh?" the professor looks towards momo who's eyes have widened, "i had actually planned on asking you regardless but seeing as you were very successful with miss l/n it's just even more proof that you'd be a great teacher. what do you say momo? it's paid decently and great on your academic and work transcripts as well..."

you're looking between your professor and momo with full eyes.

momo looks like she's about to reject the offer, you knew it was because her parents expected her to be back in japan next year but you stop her before she's able to say anything.

"momo! this is great! this is exactly what you need! a job while you're still at uni so you can study at any time but still get paid for it!"

"y/n..."

"it's okay momo. think about it and let me know if you're interested and you've got the job 100%. i've got to get going to my next class now but goodbye girls, congratulations miss l/n but i hope i won't be seeing you in my class next year."

"oh definitely not professor kim!" you wave enthusiastically, giggling at the way the professor sighs in defeat.

you look back at momo who still looks a little stunned.

"well? what do you think?" you ask her excitedly.

"i- i don't know... there's a lot to think about..."

you tilt your head to the side a little in confusion, a gesture momo was beginning to grow fond of.

"i can't just abandon my family y/n. it's a decision that will take me some time to go over." she smiles at you gently, you can't believe this was the same girl who used to call you mean words and intentionally pray on your downfall.

"mm okay. i don't really get it but as long as you're happy in the end it doesn't matter. now c'mon! you coming tonight or not?"

she sighs fondly, "yeah yeah just this once. and we better be home by 12!"

you're pulling her along again scoffing, "riiiiiiiiight 12pm maybe."

"y/n!"

⋆｡°✎ᝰ ˎˊ˗

momo was most definitely out of her comfort zone. she mostly stuck to the bar, avoiding eye contact with people who tried to approach her. she quickly ordered another drink, hoping the alcohol could at least ease her nerves.

you were most definitely in your zone. you adored being able to dress up and let loose, especially when everyone else is so drunk you’re no longer the only person falling over themselves. you could laugh a little and have fun as well.

you could feel momo’s eyes on you and you ached to drag her out onto the dance floor and join you but she was adamant on staying by the bar when you had tried.

you’re not sure if it was the alcohol or maybe you were just attracted to her now after you’ve spent a whole week studying with her pretty much every minute of every day. but she looked good. you licked your lips as your eyes trailed down the slant of her jawline, her neck and clavicles outlined in the halter top she was sporting. your eyes politely moved past her chest but darted straight down to the abs that she apparently had hidden from the entire student body. how did she even have time to have abs when she always had her nose in a book or was in a lab conducting experiments?

you snap out of it when you realise said abs were moving closer to you for some reason, and suddenly she's all in your space, shoving someone behind you that you hadn't even realised was there in your momo-induced daze.

you turn to see a man with half his shirt unbuttoned and a look of surprise on his face. "the fuck dude?"

momo says nothing, reaching for your drink instead, sticking a finger in and swirling it around for 2 seconds before bringing it to her lips.

that was hot.

"rohypnol."

"what? what the fuck are you on about?" the guy is annoyed, drawing the attention of bystanders as they create a small circle around the three of you, you spot your friends in the crowd looking at you in confusion silently asking what's going on?

you can only shake your head, attention moving back to momo who's standing up straight, almost chest to chest with the guy now.

"rohypnol. a drug belonging to the benzodiazepine class of drugs that inhibits the central nervous system causing the user to experience extreme drowsiness and even blackout in some cases. it can also cause the user memory loss and brings the user to a higher state of intoxication in a rapid amount of time. it's street name is roofies."

the man is sputtering now, "w-what? what is this bullshit? what are you tryna say huh?"

"that you tried to roofie my friend here. do you want me to call the police? have them check this drink for traces of the drug?"

"what!? the fuck?!"

momo sighs, her eyes closing for a second, "is your vocabulary only limited to what? and the fuck? it's getting tiring talking to you."

he's gaping like a fish, the people surrounding you have called security over and they're tying his hands behind his back and he's left squirming against them, yelling more curses as momo stands stoically, watching him get taken away.

she sighs when he's out of sight and turns to you with a smile, "you should be more careful. you could've been hurt tonight."

you can't even think straight and the music is being turned back up, and momo looks so good, you can't help the way you're pulling her in by the waist and planting your lips on hers.

she makes a sound of surprise and is shocked for a second, but closes her eyes and returns the kiss, maneuvering you a little so she can place the spiked drink on a nearby table before her hand returns to you, one hand cupping your cheek, the other on your shoulder.

you're a little desperate when you claw at her abs that are now within touching distance, and she giggles into the kiss. you mutter a small shut up, reattaching your lips, feeling all the adrenaline of the night pumping through you as you mould yourself against her.

"god is it weird that- that kinda turned me on a little?" you're speaking between breaths, her lips swallowing up your words, not letting you catch a break.

she hums lightly against you, "which part?"

"the- when you were talking- about all those chemicals- and whatever-"

she breaks away from you then, an eyebrow arched and a hint of a smirk on her face, "you get off on me talking nerdy?"

you want to wipe that smirk off her face. "take me home and i'll show you what i get off on."

her eyes darken considerably, and she's tugging you towards the exit, grabbing the spiked drink and pouring it down the drain first to make sure no one drinks it. the little action of consideration even when you're both overwhelmed with lust just gets you more wet.

you send a quick text to your friends saying you had to leave early, and then you're in a cab, lips on each other's again, hands roaming and exploring every inch of available skin.

you suppose the one good thing out of that math exam was it bringing the two of you together at last.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Napoleonville [Chapter 3: The House Of Soup, Salad, And Breadsticks]

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

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), dom/sub dynamics, Nintendo, smoking, kids, parenthood, all-you-can-eat breadsticks, wedding planning, mentions of birth trauma and abortion, a brief Greek lesson, Audi Quattros have very tiny back seats.

Word Count: 9k (someone take this laptop away from me!! I am out of control!!).

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

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

Thank you so much for your patience and encouragement, I was really not doing well for a while but all your kind comments meant the world to me!!! I don't know when Chapter 4 will be ready, but hopefully early next week. My posting schedule is super wonky now. We'll get back to regular Sunday updates eventually, besties. 🥰🧁

It’s Thursday, late-morning, sunlight bending in through the open windows and a flock of blue-winged teals toddling through the backyard on their clumsy webbed feet. From the little pink Panasonic boombox pipes Whitesnake’s Here I Go Again. Your steps as you dart around the kitchen are airy and effortless; you’re humming without realizing that you are. You can’t seem to stop watching the clock, the second hand ticking endlessly, revolving like a moon around its planet. Olive Garden tonight! Olive Garden with Aemond!

“Knock knock?” your guest ventures tentatively as the front door creaks. You hear her heels click on the ever-so-slightly inclined floor and the bright jangling of keys and bracelets. Her accent does not surprise you; you were the one who answered the phone when she called in a panic yesterday.

Jade Dragon is a European company. I shouldn’t be shocked that Brits are descending upon Napoleonville.

You greet her from the kitchen, sight unseen: “Hi! Come on in!” Amir rushes over to set the very last cupcake on the glass serving tray, key lime with cream cheese frosting peppered with zest like flecks of emeralds. You have scrubbed the counter meticulously to make a space for your guest to do her cake tasting. There is an open wooden barstool for her, a yellow legal pad for you to jot down her selections. She steps into the kitchen—click click click, jangle jangle—and she is a stranger, surely, and yet something about her face strikes you as familiar.

“I really must thank you again,” the woman says, wringing her pinkish little hands, glittering with rings; she’s flushed all over from the heat, which she isn’t used to. She wears what for many women would be their Sunday Best: a modest organza dress patterned with sunflowers, gold jewelry and heels, and (oddly) a khaki overcoat that runs to her knees. Her hair hangs in thick, glossy, auburn waves. She smells like perfume, amber and roses, a brand you don’t recognize. “I was so distressed when I called, I must have sounded like a madwoman. It’s all just been so fraught. I know this is very last-minute, and I cannot tell you how much I appreciate you making time to see me today. I’m sure you’re very busy.”

“We are delighted to help!” Amir croons warmly as he swoops in to take her coat, which she surrenders with some bewilderment, her large dark eyes clever but innately vulnerable, anxious. Again, you cannot shake the sense that you have met her before. Amir’s hands sweep down the overcoat as he peeks at the tag inside, and he mouths to you, grinning, eyebrows raised above the tortoiseshell rims of his glasses: Christian Dior! He’s delighted to help this lady, sure; but he’s far more enthusiastic about the prospect of squirreling away more cash for his imminent exodus to San Francisco. Amir hangs the coat in the tiny living room closet and then goes to the stovetop to check on the Kentucky butter cookies that are cooling there.

“Amir and I love baking for any occasion related to a wedding. Everyone is cheerful and excited…and hungry too, of course!” You give your guest a reassuring smile and wave her over to the counter. She’s still tormenting her own hands, still glancing uncertainly around the kitchen. Amir is using a spatula to transfer the cookies from the baking sheet to a cake plate. “Remind me, ma’am, on the phone you said your name was…Allison?”

“Alicent,” she corrects, taking a seat on the barstool beside you and clutching a camel-colored leather purse. She hesitates before she adds: “Targaryen.”

Targaryen?! Jade Dragon?! You gawk at her. Amir drops a Kentucky butter cookie on the floor. You exchange a glance with him and can practically see the bills flitting through his mind: Washington, Lincoln, Hamilton, Jackson, Franklin.

“Please don’t make any fuss on my account,” Alicent pleads with those sleek, imploring eyes. “I’m just a customer, just an ordinary customer—”

“A VIP customer!” Amir says, beaming. He won’t work on their rigs, but he’ll take their money in a heartbeat. He considers it compensation for the inevitable environmental catastrophe, for the souls of all the places their dynasty bleeds dry.

“Ma’am…Alicent…Mrs. Targaryen…” you sputter. “What on earth brought you here?”

“My son is getting married.” She squeezes her eyes shut, an infinitesimal frustration, a self-reproach. “Our son, I mean. Viserys and I, our son is getting married, and we’re hosting an engagement party for him and his fiancée this Saturday, as I mentioned when I called. We had arranged to have caterers fly in, but now there’s some sort of visa problem and they won’t be able to make it in time. I found a company based out of New Orleans that is very well thought of for hors d’oeuvre and lunch, but the cakes I sampled…well…they left a lot to be desired. I was desperate, I tell you, utterly bereft, you know we have family and friends and all these industry representatives who will be in attendance, photographers, journalists, and I can’t ruin it, I can’t embarrass the happy couple, it’s not as if people get more than one chance at a wedding!”

Amir rolls his eyes at you from across the kitchen. Listen to this idiot, he means.

“But then I asked around town, and I got the same recommendation over and over again,” Alicent tells you, smiling now. “Everyone said that I just had to stop by Hummingbird Bakery.”

And now you know exactly where you recognize her from. She looks so much like the drunk man from the holding cell; his hair was blonde and his eyes were that sad swirling blue, but nonetheless he was a Targaryen the same as Alicent, and they share so much of the same bones, blood, innate defenselessness. That boy is getting married? His poor goddamn bride. “Well I am thrilled that you found your way to us, Mrs. Alicent Targaryen. And I think you’ll taste at least a few cakes that you’d be proud to serve at the engagement party.”

“And you can have them ready by Saturday?” Alicent asks fretfully.

“Absolutely.” You won’t sleep much between now and then, but the business matters more. And if you can recruit the Targaryens and some of their associates as regular customers…well, you might actually be able to start saving up for that new house Aemond asked you about on the night you met. You gesture to the glass tray on the counter. “Amir and I have baked twelve cupcakes for you to sample today. I’ll write up a list of the flavors you like best, and we can make any customizations. You can choose one flavor and have multiple cakes made, or four cakes in four different flavors, or any other arrangement, you just let me know and we’ll see that your wishes are granted.”

“These are all for me?!” Alicent says, surveying the cupcakes.

“Yes ma’am. Vanilla bean, triple chocolate, coconut, red velvet, carrot, white chocolate raspberry, key lime, lemon, peanut brittle, cherry chocolate chip, blueberry jam and cream cheese, and hummingbird. But don’t get overwhelmed, you only have to eat one bite of each.”

“And whatever you don’t finish we’ll let Cadi throw to the gator,” Amir says.

“Gator?” Alicent is alarmed.

“She lives in the tree row,” you explain. “She doesn’t bother anyone.” And you almost add: Except Aemond, of course. He hates her.

“Oh. Fascinating.” Alicent blinks a few times. “And who is Cadi?”

“My daughter. She’s ten, she’s at school. She’s…” You glance at the clock. “Learning about fractions and decimals at the moment.”

“How wonderful! And what does your husband do for work?”

“Terrorism,” Amir says, and Alicent Targaryen’s jaw drops.

“He’s the sheriff of Assumption Parish,” you swiftly amend. “But he’s my ex-husband now.”

Alicent doesn’t know how to reply. She stares at the cupcakes instead of at you. After several long, awkward seconds, she says: “My, do these look delicious! Where should I start?”

“Wherever you’d like.”

“This one is hummingbird cake, you said?” She picks it up. Her hands are fidgety; she doesn’t seem to ever stop moving. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. Did you name the bakery after it, or did you name the cake after the bakery?”

“Oh no, the cake existed first. It’s been popular around here since…what, Amir? The 60s? Something like that. My mom taught me how to make it when I was seventeen. Hummingbird cake was my favorite dessert for years.”

“It’s from Jamaica originally,” Amir notes. The Kentucky butter cookies are displayed on the kitchen table, and now he’s beginning to peel vivid green Granny Smith apples for dumplings.

“It has bananas, pineapple, cinnamon, pecans…”

“Mmm!” Alicent sighs as she takes a bite. “Oh, it’s fantastic! The different fruits add such dimension of flavor! And the texture too, so interesting. Very substantial, almost like a fruitcake. Yes, I think that is a strong contender.” She continues on to the next cupcake. As she nibbles on each one, she chats nervously, almost compulsively. “She’s a darling girl. Woman, I mean. My future daughter-in-law.”

You get up to pour Alicent a glass of sweet tea. “What’s her name?” you ask politely. You are actively trying not to let your thoughts drift to Olive Garden: soup, salad, breadsticks, Aemond licking blood-red marinara sauce from his lips as he smirks at you from across the table, acting like he doesn’t want to be there.

“Christabel.” Alicent sets down the carrot cupcake, opens her purse, and digs through her wallet for a photograph. It’s small and rectangular, and the girl trapped inside the frame—a girl, truly, if she’s twenty you’ll eat your white denim shorts—looks like Teri Copley: billowing platinum hair, squarish jaw, pink cheeks and red lips, large dollish blue eyes. She reminds you of Barbie; she reminds you of something that belongs in a box on a shelf somewhere. “Her father is a marquess.”

“She’s gorgeous! And is that…is that a job…?”

“It’s a title,” Alicent Targaryen says with a demure, apologetic smile as she tucks the photo back into her wallet. She has spoken of things she should have known were above you. “Like a duke or a baron. Christabel is from a noble family back in the United Kingdom. Milford Haven, more specifically.”

Amir gasps, elated, waving his paring knife around in the air. “She’s just like Princess Diana!”

“She’s very young,” Alicent says, a bit wearily. She takes a bite of the lemon cupcake. “But then again, I was even younger when I got married, seventeen. That’s just the way it was back then. None of my friends even thought of going off to school for years and years, or playing the field, or getting a serious job. In our eyes, there were no other options. You found a good man from an acceptable family and you settled down and started having babies.” Alicent sips her sweet tea, ice jangling in the frosted glass. “Oh, that’s dreadful! Cold tea!” She shudders. “I suppose that’s how you all keep from getting heatstroke down here. Cold drinks and no clothes.”

“Sorry.” You glance self-consciously down at your shorts.

“No no, it’s quite alright. I’m in your jungle, I can’t expect you to conform to my idiosyncrasies.” This is a word you don’t know, although you try not to show it. Then Alicent winks. “Now, if you ever find yourself across the pond…”

I’ll never visit another country. Nevertheless, you chuckle as Alicent expects you to. “I understand what you mean about not having options. I got married at seventeen too.”

“Did you?” she asks, somber now. Her large umber eyes are uneasy, searching.

“Yeah. I was way too young. And unfortunately, the only way to know you’re too young is to not be young anymore. And by then you’ve already made such a mess of things.”

Amir looks over at you; this is not recruiting-a-customer conversation. Alicent nods, slow and thoughtful, studying you with those vast eyes like a dark mirror image of that Targaryen boy in the holding cell. She nibbles on the peanut brittle cupcake to avoid having to respond.

You pivot. “How many children do you have?”

Now Alicent brightens. “Four.”

“That many! I can’t even imagine. They must bring you so much joy.”

“In between the chaos, yes,” Alicent says, sampling the key lime cupcake. “Daeron is my youngest, he’s so sweet-natured, so encouraging, always offering to help with my projects around the house. He never complains. He hasn’t been gobbled up by the company yet. My only criticism is his obsession with his godawful parrot. I’d have it murdered, but tragically Daeron already knows it’s supposed to live 50 years. Helaena reads a lot—about gardens and insects and other planets, all sorts of things I can’t make heads or tails of—but she’s kind and gentle, and she still lets me fix her hair and take her shopping once in a while.” You think, smiling: If I tried to touch Cadi’s hair, I think she’d claw my face off. “And then my son who’s getting married—”

The front door bangs open and heavy footsteps race across the floor. He appears in the kitchen: greased-back black hair, a single gold earring, tan skin, white suit, a bold Hawaiian shirt—sapphire blue water, green palm trees, hot pink flamingos—underneath. He’s breathing heavily and his forehead gleams with perspiration. Alicent appears stunned to see him.

“Criston? What’s wrong? I said you could wait in the Lexus.”

Amir asks the man: “You’ve been in the car this whole time?”

“Don’t feel too bad for me. The Lexus has air conditioning.” The man, Criston, turns back to Alicent. “There’s a lizard out there!”

Amir sighs impatiently. “It’s a gator. And she’s perfectly harmless.”

“I just watched her maul a duck to death! There’s blood all over the grass!”

Amir is unfazed. “To humans, I mean.” He resumes peeling apples.

You tell Amir glumly: “I might have to get Willis to shoot her.”

“Only if it’s a murder-suicide.”

“Criston, help me choose,” Alicent says. She has a gift for ignoring unpleasantness, you’re beginning to notice. “I suddenly feel so overwhelmed.”

He walks over to the counter and begins taking a hefty bite out of each cupcake, eating after Alicent without any trepidation. They confer in murmurs, nods, shrugs, their own language that is threaded with a distinct and curious familiarity. Alicent catches you observing.

“He’s my bodyguard,” she explains hastily, then titters. “And my personal assistant, and my driver…”

“And your babysitter,” Criston says, grinning, crumbs all over his face.

“Yes, they never seem to outgrow the need for that, do they?” Then Alicent addresses you. “Could you manage to have six cakes ready by Saturday, do you think? They’re all so lovely. I don’t think I can narrow it down to less than that.”

Amir casts you a petrified glance. Notwithstanding that, you reply: “I suppose we can handle six.”

“Brilliant.” And you think: Aemond uses that word a lot too. “Then we’d like one vanilla, one chocolate, one blueberry, one coconut, and one hummingbird. And a key lime. I just adore the color, don’t you? A gorgeous, vivid green. It reminds me of the moors back home.”

“Yes ma’am.” You scribble her order down on your legal pad.

“And how much do your cakes cost?”

“$10 each,” Amir tells her.

“$10!” Alicent exclaims, looking at Criston. “Can you believe that? We’re certainly not in Knightsbridge anymore.” She takes $60 out of her wallet and hands it to you. “And you can deliver it to the house if I leave you an address? Around noon on Saturday?”

“Of course, no problem.”

Alicent gives you an address to add to your notes—you don’t recognize the street name, it must be in a new development—and then checks the clock on the wall. “Oh, is that right?! Christabel will be landing at the airport any minute. I’ve got to rush back to the house to make sure everything is ready for her. I can’t be a subpar host.”

“Where’s your coat, Ali?” Criston asks.

“In that closet over there.”

Criston fetches her coat and drapes it over her shoulders. Amir flashes you a salacious smirk. You wiggle your eyebrows back.

As Alicent and Criston cross the kitchen towards the living room and the front door, they pause by the table where an assortment of baked goods, different every day, is displayed for walk-in customers. Criston points to a cake plate piled high with Rice Krispie Treats. “You know who likes those,” he says softly.

“They’re very popular!” Amir announces, ever the salesman. “And we can make them with any kind of cereal you could imagine. Fruity Pebbles, Frosted Flakes, Cocoa Puffs…”

Alicent says, a bit randomly: “Cap’n Crunch?”

Amir doesn’t hesitate. “Absolutely!”

“Alright.” She has a faraway look in those dark oil-drop eyes, always a little shimmery, always a little sad. “I’ll take two dozen of those as well.”

“I’ll add it to the list,” you say.

“Thank you. Cheers.”

“Cheers,” you echo, perplexed.

Criston and Alicent depart. You hear the front door swing open and then close again. Outside, Criston reminds Alicent to leave plenty of space between her and the gator. An engine rumbles and gravel crunches as the Lexus rolls out of the driveway.

“If they’re not fucking, I’m Tom Cruise,” Amir says. “Speaking of fucking, what time is Scarface coming to pick you up?”

“5:15.” You nod to where Alicent was sitting. “She’s not bad for a robber baron.”

“Oh, please. She would grind your bones into flour if that’s what it took to have cakes ready for her child bride engagement party. I hope that Christabel girl knows what she’s getting into.”

What is she, eighteen? Nineteen? “She doesn’t.” The phone rings and you scramble for it. “Hello?!”

It’s not Aemond. “Hey, sugar.”

Ugh. “Hi, Willis.” Across the kitchen, Amir mimes slitting his own wrists with the paring knife.

“Listen,” Willis drawls in his familiar, I’m-about-to-deliver-bad-news tone. You can hear noise wherever he is: sirens, shouting. He must be using his car phone. “I’m all tied up down here on Route 90, we got a hell of a wreck, ten cars and an 18-wheeler. Had to close all the goddamn lanes in both directions. I don’t think I’m gonna get home until late, really late, maybe not ‘til 9 or 10.”

“So you have to switch nights. You can’t pick Cadi up from school.”

“Tell her I’m sorry, will ya? And that I’ll take her fishin’ this weekend to make it up to her. I’ll keep her Saturday and Sunday, if that works for you.”

“She’ll love that,” you say distractedly. No Olive Garden. No Aemond. Not tonight, anyway. “Anything outside and with animals. Anything that lets her get filthy.”

“Thanks for understandin’. I gotta run.”

“Bye.”

“So long, sugar.” Willis hangs up. So do you.

“Oh no!” Amir waves his knife around threateningly. “No, not a chance, that gremlin does not get to ruin the first real date you’ve had in…what…ever?!”

You smile; you can’t help it. “It’s not a date. Aemond is fancy and kinky, I’m a mom covered in frosting, people like us don’t date. Besides, his personal ad was very clear: Single and not looking to change that.”

“He’s not acting very single.” Amir begins chopping the peeled apples.

“It’s fine. It happens. We can go to Olive Garden some other time. I’ll try to call Aemond, and if he doesn’t answer I’ll tell him when he gets here. Maybe we can at least chat on the front porch for a while or something. Watch the lightning bugs come out as it gets dark.”

“I’ll hang out here with Cadi,” Amir offers.

“What? Really?” Olive Garden might be back on the menu! “You will?”

“Yeah, ho. I can’t in good conscience just stand by while you are deprived of traumatized war veteran dick. I need a break from Grandma anyway. She’s gotten really into Unsolved Mysteries and that shit gives me the creeps. I don’t want to hear about missing or murdered people. I’m already scared I might end up like that.”

“I’d find you. I’d rescue you. My and my pet gator.”

Amir laughs, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses. “Sure you would.”

“I’ll give you $10 out of my share of the bakery profits this week. For watching Cadi, I mean.”

“Deal,” he says. “Now help me with these dumplings so we can get started on those six cakes for the motherfucking Rockefellers.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s 5:13 p.m. when Aemond arrives at what Cadi named the Fall-Down House when she was in kindergarten, toting in her Chewbacca backpack sheets of homework about shapes and seasons, things you could help her with. You wonder what you’ll say when she gets to her senior year of high school and starts asking about calculus, physics, Shakespeare, college applications. It’ll be like she’s trying to talk to you in a foreign language. It’ll be like trying to explain colors to a blind man.

You’re almost done wiping down the stove and counter; Amir and Cadi are singing along and dancing to Kyrie by Mr. Mister: the Moonwalk, the Electric Slide, the Wop, the Sprinkler. Aemond wanders in and hovers on the border between the living room and the kitchen, his neon teal duffle bag hanging from one shoulder, staring with this profound, childlike puzzlement on his face. He looks like he’s never seen people dancing before; it’s some exotic ritual, some rite of a religion he doesn’t practice. He wears dark jeans, a black button-up shirt, black Converses, and his trusty Marlboro jacket. His fists are buried deep in the pockets like he’s holding something precious there, treasure, wisdom, secrets.

“Wassup, Scarface?!” Amir yells over the music, pretending to be reeling Aemond in like a fish. “Show us your best moves! Do the Worm! Do the Robocop!”

Aemond raises an eyebrow, drops his duffle bag, and—after a moment’s hesitation—glides across the tilted wooden floor to you. He takes your hands, spins you around, something like a clumsy, out-of-practice waltz, something real and enchanting beyond measure. And when was the last time you really danced with a man? Willis’ senior prom? Aemond sings as Amir and Cadi do the Running Man:

“Kyrie eleison down the road that I must travel,

Kyrie eleison through the darkness of the night,

Kyrie eleison where I’m going, will you follow?

Kyrie eleison on a highway in the night…”

Aemond releases you, sweeps his blonde hair off his forehead, and guzzles your frosty glass of sweet tea that you left on the counter in an expanding pool of condensation. You are reminded of how Criston devoured the cupcakes with no concern for the fact that Alicent had already tasted them.

“Such a weird song,” Cadi says as it fades out, as the cicadas and nighthawks grow louder through the screens of the open windows. “What the heck is a kyrie eleison?”

“It means Lord have mercy,” Aemond tells her. “It’s Greek.”

“Willis got stuck cleaning up an accident about a half hour south of here,” you explain. “But Amir and Cadi are going to have some nice couch potato time together.”

“Can we watch Unsolved Mysteries?” Cadi asks Amir excitedly, clinging to his arm. Amir groans.

“I might have an alternative,” Aemond says. He returns to his duffle bag, unzips it, and produces—not blue silk scarves, fuzzy handcuffs, a riding crop, or any other tokens of depravity—but a Nintendo game console.

Cadi screams and sprints to Aemond, unable to rip it out of his hands fast enough. “No way! Really?! I can play it?!”

“You can keep it.”

“What?!” She ogles the tannish rectangular box, the two handheld controllers. “This is the most epic day of my life!”

“I’m glad I could deliver it in person. I was just going to leave it with your mum.” Aemond starts taking cartridges out of the duffle bag. “I have Commando, Super Mario Bros., Star Force, the Karate Kid, Kung Fu, Burger Time, Donkey Kong and Donkey Kong 3, Alpha Mission, the Legend of Zelda, and Golf, which I honestly would not recommend. I used to have Top Gun too, but my brother spilled Tang all over it.”

“This is better than Christmas!” Cadi shrieks. “This is better than my birthday!” She dashes to Amir and starts hauling him off towards her room. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!”

“I’m being kidnapped,” he tells you, feigning distress.

“Cadi, chill. Do you know how to hook that up to your tv?”

She reluctantly surrenders Amir’s hand. “Yeah, Michelle has one.”

“Okay. You can get it ready, I have to talk to Amir for a sec.”

“Fine,” she grumbles, and vanishes into her bedroom with the Nintendo and a precarious armful of game cartridges.

“Thank you,” you tell Amir quietly. “Seriously. I know I owe you.”

He grins. “Anytime. You’re helping to pay my way to San Fransisco, I really can’t complain.”

Aemond perks up. “You’re visiting San Fran?”

“I’m moving there,” Amir says. “And as soon as humanly possible! Sun, sand, and Speedos, here I come! Why? Have you been?”

“I have, actually. It’s a great city.”

You turn to Aemond; this is new information. “Did you go to school there?”

“No, I went to Imperial College in London. But I flew to San Franscisco to interview someone I was writing a term paper about.”

Amir squints at him. “Imperial paid for you to fly across the world for one interview?”

Aemond shrugs, hands back in his jacket pockets. “I got, uh, a research stipend.”

You ask: “Who did you interview?”

“I don’t think you’d recognize the name, but he was a really incredible guy. He was a nurse and the first person to ever come out publicly as having AIDS. Then he spent the rest of his life educating people about the disease. Bobbi—”

“Bobbi Campbell?!” Amir is awed. “Of course I know who he is! You actually met Bobbi Campbell?!”

“Yeah, we had lunch together. Wine and cioppino. His partner was there too.” Aemond is somber, reflective. “It’s probably the most worthwhile thing I’ve ever done.”

“Well you just get better and better, don’t you, big boy?” Amir says. “Have fun at Olive Garden. Don’t hurry home or anything.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You are beaming, serene, warm all over, bewitched by the magic of liminal spaces, doorways between realities that rarely touch. Frank Sinatra—Fly Me To The Moon—floats through the restaurant speakers. The table is cluttered with plates and bowls: breadsticks, salad wet with Italian dressing, zuppa toscana, minestrone, main courses. Families in nearby booths are chattering; wine glasses clink, stories are recalled. You always wonder when you see cheerful married couples surrounded by children: Are they really happy? Is it worth it? Or do they go home after these displays of fairytale adoration and ignore each other, argue, brawl, crack open the Bud Lights, crack knuckles, crack bones like glass? Does true love exist at all? Or is it a lie we’re taught so the species can live on? “I’m in Italy.”

“You’re not in Italy, Cupcake. You’re in Gonzales, Louisiana. I can glance out the window and see a Doller General and a Burger King.”

“I’m basically in Italy.” You gesture to your plate, large and oval-shaped. Your entrée is divided into thirds: chicken parmesan, lasagna, fettuccine alfredo. “I got the Tour of Italy. I’m now an expert in all things Italian.”

Aemond smiles at you, the way he usually does: amused, teasing, craving. “In Italy, the pasta is always al dente. And they use very little sauce, not like here where everything is drowning in it.”

“I personally love my ocean of sauce.”

“And in Italy the bread is served plain. No butter, no olive oil, no…” He scrutinizes a breadstick. “Whatever this is. Assorted soy products, probably.”

“Don’t ruin my dinner or I’ll tie you up next time.”

Aemond laughs: crinkles around his eyes, pure boyish radiance. “Go ahead. I dare you.” He eats a bite of his herb-grilled salmon. “I looked into your Saint Honoratus of Amiens. He’s the patron saint of bakers.”

You roll your eyes like this is obvious. You like knowing something Aemond doesn’t, Aemond with his vocabulary and his high-powered career and his petroleum engineering degree from Imperial College in London, England, a place you have never seen and never will, a city that might as well be located on one of Saturn’s rings. “Yeah, clearly.”

But you never feel like the clever one for long. “And of oil refiners.”

“Is he really?”

Aemond grins. “Yeah. So we’ll have to share him.”

“Did you ever think about doing something besides engineering?” You already know the answer. You saw it in the way he talked about Bobbi Campbell.

“I did,” Aemond admits. “The engineering thing…it was expected of me. It wasn’t really my choice. It’s fine, I’m okay with my job, I’ve come to terms with it. But when I was a kid, I wanted to be a historian.”

“People get paid for that? To study history?”

“Not a lot. But I love the stories. When I was at Imperial, I’d fill every extra space in my schedule with history and anthropology courses. I interviewed Bobbi for my Microhistory class.”

“Micro…history? Tiny history…?”

“You learn everything there is to know about one individual, or one town, or one product, whatever, and through it you can get a better sense of the bigger picture. Like…you could catalogue what specific pieces of furniture were in George Washington’s house to study 18th-century trade routes.”

“Or you could use Ketchikan, Alaska as an example of the dangers of oil rigs and the corrupt, greedy company policies of modern-day robber barons.”

Aemond stares at you. “Yeah. Sure. You get it.” He wastes no time changing the subject. “Where did you go to college?”

“College?” This is preposterous. “Aemond, I never finished high school.”

“You’re joking.”

“No, I’m not,” you say. “I dropped out. I don’t have a high school diploma. I definitely didn’t go to college.”

He’s utterly bewildered. “But…you aren’t stupid.”

“Yes, Aemond, a lot of not-stupid people don’t go to college. And I’d imagine the opposite is true as well.”

He sighs, long and deep, rubbing his scarred forehead with his fingertips. “I’m sorry. I could have worded that more sensitively.”

“Willis is a year older than me. I got pregnant the night of his senior prom. I never went back after summer break. I figured…you know…what was the point? I didn’t need Calculus or World History. I needed money. I needed baby clothes and a crib and a car. And my high school wouldn’t have let me in anyway.”

Now Aemond glares, though his wrath isn’t for you. “They kicked out pregnant girls?”

You smile wryly, chomping on a breadstick wet with marinara sauce. “They still do. They have to make cautionary tales out of us. The weak and the lustful.”

“Well then how the fuck is someone like you supposed to provide for yourself?”

“By marrying whoever got us pregnant and never leaving them.”

“Medieval,” he snaps. He stabs at his salmon, loses his appetite, slams the fork down on the plate. The waitress had just been approaching to ask about dessert; she does a 180 and vanishes again.

“Aemond,” you say gently. I don’t want to ruin tonight. “Please don’t be angry.”

“There are specific things that make me angry.” He rests his chin on his knuckles and peers out the window. Seconds tick by; Frank Sinatra sings about New York, another city you’ll never visit. Then Aemond looks at you again. “What is it like to be a parent?” he says, in the same reverent and mystified tone that someone might use to ask what it was like to flatline on an operating table before being brought back to life. Did you get a glimpse of the gates of Heaven? Did you feel the heat of Hell?

“I can only tell you how it feels to me.” You are wistful; you are painfully honest. You’ve never told anyone this before. No one has ever asked. “It’s…wonderful, and terrifying, and exhausting. You love them more than anything, but that doesn’t mean you don’t get tired, irritated, impatient, resentful. One minute you’re laughing hysterically with them, the next you’re begging them to go to sleep so you can have a half hour to yourself, or just ten minutes, or just five. And then as soon as they’re gone you miss them. You’re too strict or too lenient, never just right. You sacrifice—money, time, your body, your soul—but it’s never enough. You accidentally hurt their feelings and then tie yourself in knots to fix it, but you can never show them when you’re sad, or frustrated, or afraid. They can be so sweet and then so inadvertently cruel. They’re too young to understand that they’re being ungrateful. They ask you questions you don’t want to answer. They’re your reason for living, they’re a burden, they’re the best thing that ever happened to you, they’re your closest friend, they’ve trapped you somewhere you don’t want to be. There are all these emotions that come in waves, they go around and around and never stop. It’s like a tire spinning in mud.”

Aemond considers you for a long time before he speaks. “I think you’re doing a good job. Cadi seems happy. She’s…uh…spirited. But happy.”

“She’s a little wild, but that’s my fault. We grew up together. I didn’t draw many lines, and now it’s too late. And she’s getting old enough to notice things she didn’t see before. Most of her friends’ parents are still married. They might not be in love, but she doesn’t understand that part yet. What she understands is that we’re broke and her dad lives in a different house, and I’m the one who made that happen.”

“You’re doing a good job,” Aemond insists. He starts to reach across the table for your hands, then stops, reconsiders, grabs his duffle bag that’s squeezed next to him in the booth instead. He unzips the small pocket on the side and pulls out a toothbrush, a travel-sized tube of Crest, and a miniature bottle of Listermint. “I’m going to go brush my teeth in the bathroom, and then I’m going to fuck you in the back of my car. Okay?”

Your smile has returned. The magic has too. “Okay. You don’t want dessert?”

“I don’t need tiramisu. I already have a Cupcake. Unless…do you want tiramisu…?”

“No, I don’t like coffee.”

“I think they have other things too, cannoli, cheesecake…”

“Aemond,” you say. “I want to leave now.”

“Got it.” He leaves $30 for the waitress on the table—he always pays with cash, you notice—and bolts for the bathroom. Fortunately, you’d had the same thought; shortly before Aemond arrived at the house two hours ago, you’d packed your pink toothbrush and a tube of Ultra Brite in your Valerie Barad rainbow purse…just in case. By the time you get back to the table, Aemond is waiting and looking uncharacteristically anxious: biting his lower lip, clasping his hands together behind his back. He’s relieved when he spots you. “I thought you might have ditched me.”

“What, and walked 25 miles home?”

“Forget it. Let’s go.” And he shoves his hands into the pockets of his Marlboro jacket before he can reveal any more of himself with them.

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re flying down Route 70 with all the windows down, warm twilight wind flooding through the gaps between your fingers, centuries-old southern live oaks and flowering dogwoods passing by in a blur, an Eddie Money tape in the Audi Quattro’s cassette deck. Under the bridges you cross, brackish bayou water ripples lazily, thick with cypress trees, duckweed, spider lilies, salvinia, wading great egrets and lurking alligators. The seats are tan leather and spotless. Aemond rests a palm on your bare thigh, just below the hem of your shorts. His blonde hair whips in the breeze. From the passenger seat, you can only see the right side of his face, the unscarred side. It’s almost like he’s whole again. He puffs on a Marlboro Red, smoke escaping through the open windows, tobacco and tar and nicotine, chemicals and earth.

“We better stop before we get into Assumption Parish,” you tease. “You don’t want one of Willis’ deputies to stumble upon us.”

But Aemond is particular; he wants the perfect spot. Just a mile before Ascension Parish gives way to Assumption, he finds an overgrown dirt pull-off used for fishing. He parks the Quattro just out of sight of the highway, rolls up the automatic windows, blasts the icy air conditioning.

“Get in the back,” he orders, unclicking his seatbelt. The intro of Take Me Home Tonight thunders through the speakers. You obey, climbing into the (very not-spacious) back seat. Just seconds later, Aemond follows.

You giggle when he pulls you into his lap to straddle him. As you toss away his Marlboro jacket and unbutton his shirt, Aemond yanks off your orange tank top, unhooks your bra, accidentally breaks the tab of the zipper off your white denim shorts with his strong, frantic hands. He needs you; he needs you all the time, everywhere, and he’ll never get enough. He’s kissing you deeply, roughly, nipping at your lips and tongue, breathing his smoke into you. His fingers slip into your shorts and under the silk that you bought for him, blue like his eyes, blue like the sky before heavy rain. You’re moaning, grinding, impatient; he’s helping you shimmy out of your shorts, he’s tugging down his jeans. And now you realize that he wants you to stay on top. “Aemond, no, I’m not good at it…”

“Shut up. You’re good at everything.”

That’s a lie, you know it is; still, Aemond makes you believe it. He grabs your hips and shows you exactly how to move them, and soon the rhythm feels effortless, soon you are wet and relaxed enough for him. At the last minute, he gets a condom from the pocket of his jeans, rips it open, and rolls it on. And again, you are struck by a strange but unmistakable disappointment that you cannot have all of him, that you cannot experience what it’s like to be as close to him as humanly possible, this man that you hardly know, this body that unleashes ecstasy in yours.

It’s quick: your arms linked around the back of his neck, Aemond kissing your throat and the slope of your jaw, his hands and murmurs guiding you, delicious fullness and friction. You’re amazed when he comes—I made that happen?? I did that??—and a tidal wave of extraordinary pride, lust, power surges through you. Aemond helps you finish with his fingers, only a few vigorous strokes, and then he drags you down onto the Quattro’s back seat with him.

“Careful,” you say as you lie on top of Aemond’s chest, both of you breathless and slick with sweat, goosebumps springing up in the chill of the air conditioning. You’re all tangled up in each other; there’s no room to get away. “You’re not going to be able to get rid of me.”

“I’ll accept the risk.” The last rays of sunlight fall across his damp skin, turning him to amber, tiger’s eye, gold. “What happened when you had Cadi?”

You turn your face to look at him. “Huh?”

“You said you were unconscious for a few days after she was born.”

“I told you that?”

“Yeah. The first night I came over. And you’ve been on the pill ever since. You never wanted more kids?”

“No,” you say quietly. “No, I didn’t. I still don’t.”

“So something happened.”

“It’s not a cute story. It’s not sexy.”

“I’ve surmised that.” Another word you don’t know.

“I don’t really ever talk about it.”

“Because you don’t want to, or because people don’t ask?”

You’re amazed by how much he sees, like you’re a clean window, like your skin and skull are made of glass. “My water broke and I went into labor, but I wasn’t progressing fast enough,” you tell Aemond. “I mean, the nurses told me I wasn’t progressing. I didn’t really understand what that meant. It felt like something was happening. There was a lot of pain and pressure, and it was intense, definitely, but it was bearable, I still felt like myself. I was actually really proud of how calm I was. But I guess it wasn’t enough. So the doctor started me on something called Pitocin, and then the contractions weren’t bearable anymore. They were…I can’t even describe it. It was like this bone-breaking twisting, but also sharpness, razor sharpness. I imagined knots of barbed wire. It’s the only thing I could compare it to. And I wasn’t in control anymore. I wasn’t myself at all. I was this animal being trapped, being tortured, and there was no break between the contractions, they happened over and over and over again, one right after the other, and it went on for hours. I kept telling everyone that I couldn’t do it. I needed an epidural, laughing gas, pills, anything. I was begging them to knock me out. I was trying to rip the IV with the Pitocin out of my hand. But no one listened. The nurses acted like I was being dramatic. Women have babies every single day all over the world, why couldn’t I just shut up and deal with it? My mom was around, but she had pretty straightforward births, and I don’t think she could comprehend what it was like. Willis told me I was doing a good job. That’s all he could say: Good job, sugar, you’re doin’ just fine, sugar. But I didn’t want mindless encouragement. I wanted somebody to help me. I thought I was dying.”

Aemond’s hand smooths your hair. He’s watching you closely.

“When Cadi…when she was finally born, I wasn’t excited to hold her. I didn’t even care. I was just relieved the pain wasn’t so bad anymore. I told my mom to take her. I could hear the baby crying, and I remember thinking: Who is that? I almost died for that? I felt nothing for her, absolutely nothing. And then I heard…it sounded like someone had turned a sink on, because there was water running. But then the nurses were yelling and the doctor rushed back into the room. I was hemorrhaging, and it wasn’t water that I’d heard, it was blood, my blood, gushing all over the floor. I passed out and I needed transfusions and I woke up three days later. The very first thing a nurse said was that she was so happy to tell me that they’d been able to stop the bleeding without doing a hysterectomy, so I’d be able to have more children. Can you believe that? It was like I didn’t exist. I was just a vessel. As if I wanted to go through that again. No, never, no thank you. I got attached to Cadi, but it took months. Obviously, now I love her. But I was empty for a long time. Just empty, and sad, and in pain, and hopeless.”

“And your useless fucking husband named the baby you almost bled to death having.”

“He didn’t mean for it to be hurtful,” you say. “He thought he was helping. And it’s a hell of a name, I have to admit it. Arcadia Dove, like a Star Wars character or a superhero. It suits her.”

But still: Aemond shakes his head, incredulous, outraged on behalf of your long-gone teenage self. “When you found out you were pregnant, did you ever consider…you know…not having it?”

You give him a small, guilty smirk. What kind of mother could admit this? “Yeah. Yeah, I did. That was my plan, actually. I called a clinic in New Orleans and made an appointment. Cleared out every penny of my savings to pay for it. Cheaper than a life sentence, right? Amir offered to go with me, but neither of us had a car or a license, and I could never let my mom know. So I asked Willis.”

“And he wouldn’t drive you.”

Worse. “He told me that if I went, I’d be a murderer.”

Aemond jolts upright, furious. “He actually said that to you?”

“Aemond—”

“No, hold on, he actually said that?! He said that you could drop out of high school, you could throw all your dreams out the window, you could become a mum at fucking seventeen years old and marry some guy you barely knew, and if you wanted a way out that would make you a murderer?!”

You offer weakly: “Willis is really, really Catholic. A lot of people down here are, and—”

“He’s a coward, that’s what he is. He was willing to sacrifice your future to soothe his conscience. His life didn’t change. Yours did.”

“I love Cadi. I don’t regret her.”

“But you should have had a choice.”

You study Aemond: his glinting right eye, the deep stormy furrows in his brow. “Why are you so angry?”

“Because you deserved better. You could have been something more.”

Something more? Something more? “I’m not horrified by how I’ve turned out, Aemond. I made the best of my circumstances. I have a job I enjoy, I keep a roof over our heads, I have people to live for.”

“You deserved better,” Aemond repeats, soft and low.

“So did you.” You touch your palm to his scarred cheek and ask in a whisper: “What happened? Who hurt you?”

“Stop,” Aemond says, flinching away from your hand. And that’s the safe word; you have to listen.

~~~~~~~~~~

At home, Cadi and Amir are chatting at the kitchen counter with a late-night snack of apple dumplings, warmed in the microwave, and Breyer’s vanilla ice cream. Blue Bell is cheaper, but Breyer’s tastes real; it’s one of the few things you won’t compromise on.

“Mom, guess how many levels I beat in Super Mario Bros.!” Cadi doesn’t notice that your tank top isn’t quite covering the brutalized zipper of your shorts. Amir definitely does notice; he mouths to you: Baby Jesus is so sad.

“Um, I don’t know…how many levels does it have?”

“Thirty-two,” Aemond informs you.

“Seven?” you say.

“Try ten!” Cadi grins triumphantly.

“Radical! Amazing!”

Aemond applauds. “No way! You’re a prodigy!” You don’t have to ask if he wants to stay. He scoops two apple dumplings into the same bowl and then pops open the microwave, like he lives here too. “How long should I heat these up?”

“About 45 seconds,” Amir says. He yawns and puts his dishes in the sink.

“Thanks again for entertaining Cadi.” You give him a tired, repentant smile. “I would tell you to take tomorrow off, but we both know that’s not an option. I’m going to set my alarm for 3:00 a.m.”

“I myself will most certainly not be awake at 3:00 a.m. But I’ll try to get here by 7:00.” Amir gives Cadi a hug that she pretends not to appreciate. “Goodnight, slayer of Bowsers.” Then he waves to Aemond as he breezes out of the kitchen. “Goodnight, destroyer of zippers.”

Aemond covers his mouth to keep from laughing. “Cheers, Amir.” He brings the bowl of apple dumplings from the microwave to the counter, adds several heaping mounds of vanilla ice cream and two spoons, and slides it over so you can share. Outside, you hear Amir’s Ford Escort pull out of the gravel driveway. “You have a lot of baking to do, huh?”

“Oh my God, I completely forgot to tell you. You’ll never believe who showed up—”

“Mom, can we go shopping tomorrow?” Cadi asks, derailing your train of thought.

Cadi? Shopping? This is an unusual request. “Shopping for what?”

“For my riding boots,” Cadi says brightly as she finishes her apple dumpling, and you think, sinking in ways you can’t let her see: Oh fuck. Here’s the conversation I’ve been avoiding for weeks. “Michelle and Erica are both going to that horse camp in July. Breanna and Sam are going too. Kristen might even go, and she’s a total freakazoid! I can go, right? I’ll need boots, and a helmet, and I want to ride an Appaloosa. They have all kinds of horses, but Appaloosas are my favorite, and if they don’t let me ride one I’m going to go nuclear.”

“Honey, I don’t think it’s going to be possible this year.”

“But I have to go. Everyone else is going.”

“I tried, I really did. But I just can’t swing it right now. Next summer I’ll have more money saved up, hopefully, and then you can go to horse camp, and maybe we can even go to Biloxi for a week too—”

“I don’t care about Biloxi.” And now she’s lashing out, because she’s realizing the answer might really be no. Aemond is silently picking at the apple dumplings, looking between the two of you but not knowing what to say. “I care about going to horse camp when literally all of my friends get to—”

“Cadi, I’m so sorry, I really am. But sometimes things just don’t work out, and that’s okay, that’s a part of life. We’ll still have fun this summer.”

“I’m not going to have fun if I’m just stuck here at home all day!���

Stuck here with me, stuck here in the life I built for her. “Cadi, please—”

“I’ll give up my birthday presents,” she pleads, her eyes turning misty. “You can just not buy me anything for my birthday, or Christmas either, and you can use what you would have spent on that for—”

“I’m sorry,” you say gently, a hand on her little shoulder, her tiny breakable bones. “I wish I could give you what you want. I really, really do. I’m trying to make things better for us.”

“Can’t you ask Daddy for more money?”

And you remember what Willis said at the Assumption Parish Sheriff’s Office: Tell her if she grows her hair back out, maybe she can go next year. “Daddy wants to help too, I’ve already talked to him about it. We just can’t make it happen right now.”

“Daddy always says he’d have more money if he didn’t have to send you so much every month!” Cadi blurts out. Aemond is watching you, but you shake your head. He can’t say anything. It’s not his place. “That’s why I can’t go to horse camp, isn’t it? Because we don’t all live together?”

“No, Cadi, that’s not what this is about—”

“Erica’s parents live together and she gets to go! Michelle’s mom and dad are always taking vacations!”

“Every family is different,” you say, fighting to stay calm while your throat is closing up and the blood in your face is hot enough to scald.

“Sam’s mom just bought her riding boots and gloves!”

“I’m not your friends’ mothers, I’m sorry, I’m just not.”

“Well maybe you shouldn’t have kids if you can’t afford them!” Cadi screams, tears streaming from her bloodshot eyes, and then she storms off to her bedroom and slams the door.

You and Aemond are left alone in the midst of humming florescent lightbulbs, long-eared owl hoots, the ambient shrieks of cicadas. The apple dumplings and ice cream have dissolved into a soup. Your lips are trembling; a single blistering tear escapes down your cheek. You refuse to break down. You learned years ago that there is nothing to be gained from it. Aemond studies you, seeking and worried. You avoid his gaze. His hand reaches for yours, stops short, retreats to drum his fingers against the counter.

At last, Aemond says: “How much is the horse thing?”

“Too much. Way too much. It’s over $300, I won’t be able to make rent.”

He sighs; not a frustrated sigh, you think, but a sigh of incredulity, maybe even of pity, which is the last thing in the world that you want from him. Aemond takes his wallet from his jeans pocket, leafs through it, and counts out $400 in twenties and tens that he stacks on the countertop.

You are mortified, horrified. “Aemond, no—”

“Look, next time I see you, we need to talk. We need to talk about my situation, and your situation, and what we’re going to do going forward. And it’s…fuck, it’s, it’s complicated. You’ll see. But we have to get it sorted out, because this is…” He gestures to you, to him, to what you’re building between you like a bridge linking islands. “It’s different than what I expected it would be. And that’s a good thing, but…there’s just a lot we have to discuss.”

“Aemond, I can’t accept this much money from you.”

“The money doesn’t matter. $400? That’s nothing. The money’s not real to me. But it is real to you. So please just take it. And next time I see you we’ll…we’ll decide what happens next.”

It’s complicated, Aemond said. You’ll see. See what? How bad could it possibly be? “We can’t talk now?”

“No, I can’t do it now. I just can’t.”

He’s not just uneasy or distracted. He’s fucking scared. “You’re married,” you say.

“No. No wife, no kids. I swear to God.”

“No girlfriend either?”

“No.”

“You’re divorced.”

“No.” He combs his fingers through his short blonde hair, stares blankly at the wall behind you. “You’re free Saturday, right?”

“Yeah. I think Cadi will be with Willis all weekend, actually. He’s taking her fishing on Lake Verret. If Jade Dragon hasn’t blown it up by then. I’ll be busy with work Saturday morning and early afternoon, but after that I’ll be around.”

“I’ll come over around dusk, probably,” Aemond says, hands in his Marlboro jacket pockets, thoughts miles away. “I have something going on Saturday afternoon too.”

And he leaves before you can thank him for the stack of cash on the counter, or for any of the rest of what he’s given you.

[grapejuicestyless]

hey, i eat up everything you write!!! i would love to request maybe a sunshine y/n vs grumpy Conrad (or harry .. I think it will work for either) set in college ! maybe it’s because i’m in uni right now but i am a true sucker for uni based stories 🥲😭 maybe she could be an art major or literature? … eee just an idea !!! thank you 🌟🫶🏻🧚🏻

Mona Lisa

Harry Styles x fem!reader

Summery: You always kept your head up. Each inconvenience was simply a coincidence. But even the biggest balls of sunshine need a break sometimes.

Her chest expanded out, cheeks puffed up, lips pursed in a tight line. Her hands shook under the weight of her textbooks. Her tote bag was slung over her shoulder, but the cautious girl feared that even with the extra wiggle room between the canvas bag, all her things would break it and leave her with nothing at all to aid her.

Her late start had taken the energy out of her, the stairs had taken away her willpower, and the red marks littering her latest exam papers had taken away her spirit. Paint cracked over her knuckles and glasses pulling her hair back, she heard her mothers voice in her head.

“Don’t do that, you’ll stretch them out and they won’t fit properly. Though they still seemed to fit fine, the slight sliding down the bridge of her nose every so often proved her mother right.

She had picked art as her major. She had ambitions, goals and aspirations. Her past teachers had complemented her craftsmanship. Her skill behind an easel. Picking up her paper as an example, using her to demonstrate how to execute certain techniques. It didn’t excuse her from her other classes, however. That was her own decision to make. The idea of having no other classes but ones revolving around the arts would drive her academic side crazy. So each new semester, she enrolled herself into a few classes she didn’t really need to take, but would enjoy. Or so she thought.

It wasn’t like she was stupid, she thrived in the past. In many ways, she was a poet. She had a mind like no other, the words would simply come to head as soon as the pen hit the paper. But math taken away her vanity, and history was a drag more so than not. God, she couldn’t bear to sit through another lecture about some old white guy who would otherwise mean nothing to anyone if it weren’t for the many who refused to let them and their scandalous actions go.

Y/n knew better than to complain. She knew how privileged she was to even be able to attend a school as such. She didn’t have the wealth, but she had the motivations in her past that had driven her to a certain level of success. Something good enough to land her scholarships. She was good at keeping her head up, more so than not. Each struggle would only create another work for her to make.

It was normal to feel down, even knowing this. She was simply glad to be able to step over the threshold to her apartment. The key couldn’t turn fast enough in her eyes. All she longed for was a little warmth and maybe a cup of coffee to keep her going for the rest of the day. More than that, she longed for him. The man who so graciously wrapped his arms around her shoulder every night and whispered sweet nothings to her. Singing messy melodies and dedicating the lyrics to her while she sleeps.

Her shoulders sagged, only to stiffen when she saw how the December nip had come through her roommates open window.

But she didn’t grumble something mean under her breath. She had known she must’ve done it once or twice before too. Her roommate who she loved very much surely hadn’t meant any harm.

Her slippers were inviting, and his sweatshirt hanging by her door was the final piece she was missing. His smell, welcoming and warm. He smelled of toasted vanilla and pine. There were hints of hair gel in the sleeves, from how often he ran his hands through his hair. She didn’t mind the fray in the hem or how the strings were missing from the hood. It was Harry in every sense. And it was enough for her.

She thought that was the end of it, truly. She figured she could take a deep breather and let the stress of the day ease out of her veins. That now, with the university behind her and her classes over for the day, she could settle into her work and let the soft melodies of her playlist distract her.

Sitting on the floor, her legs folded neatly in front of her, she picked up her brush delicately between her fingers and her thumb, twiddling it around and biting her lips. When she went to reach for the paint the cap seemed looser than usual. When she picked it up, the top fell to the floor, spinning out to a step a few feet away. Her acrylic dried out presumably from sitting open for days while she worked on her studies and pushed away her art classes.

Portfolios were bare, sketchbooks a mess and worse, she was falling so far behind she was grinding out projects at an inhuman pace. All to simply be rejected or judged poorly. Nothing was ever enough and soon she would become just another burn out if she couldn’t pull it together.

Picking up the bottle, she searched for any signs of wet paint still surviving. She squeezed and turned it hoping to find a glimmer of anything. When she let go, in defeat, remaining acrylic splattered across her cheats and into her hair. Sticky and half dried.

Setting the bottles down, she reminded herself to breathe. To remember how she’d even got here. She was lucky, she had already made it farther than most of her old peers.

‘It couldn’t possibly get any worse.’ She thought out loud, keeping up her fading smile to try and keep her eye from twitching. Ever the optimist, she decided to simply move on, enjoy a nice brewed cup of coffee before settling down to watch one of the shows she had thrown herself into to distract her from the harsh realities of the stressful life she was living currently.

Trudging a few feet from her room to the kitchen, she saw the counter sprinkled with brown and white sugars and flour. It was a mess, one her lovely roommate had left, but one she could deal with later. She didn’t mind the chaos so much.

What she did mind was the sticky note attached to the coffee pot, stained brown on the bottom, grounds stuck underneath it on the stove. It was pink with curly lettering and a half hearted frowning face. ‘Out of coffee. Running to the store tonight after class.’ It read.

It shouldn’t have pissed her off, but her blood was heating up and her brain pounded in her skull. She couldn’t cozy up, it was far too cold. Fine. Her paint was dried. She was tired a few night ago, honest mistake. She could go buy more soon. Her coffee was gone. She found it in herself to brush it off, smiling to herself at the sight of a fresh pot of coffee for the morning. The longer the wait, the more worth it, it would surely be. She could be patient. She was patient.

She would focus her anger into something productive. She could wash the dishes, she guessed. Clean out the sink that was littered in stained plates and empty mugs. She would scrub until her fingers resembled those of her grandmas. Finger tips littered with wrinkles from decades of love, only hers would be shriveled from the constant presence of water bathing them.

And she forgot about her worries for a minute. Hot water running over her skin, mug slowly filling under the stream of water as her eyes drifted off. She saw herself sock clad feet, dancing along the tiled floors to a soft melody that resembled a love song. And beside her was a larger pair of feet, swaying along to the beat and laughing along about how neither of them knew how to dance. But they would learn.

They had the whole world at their feet and their youth still surrounding them. These were the good years, and it could only get better.

The door opened with such veracity, she was so sure it would come off the hinges. Startled, her head whipped to the door, already on edge, already struggling to calm herself down.

“Y/n/n?” His accent was thick and low. She had never felt more relieved to see someone so much.

His eyes were the purest shade of green she had ever seen. They put her art to shame. It’s why she never painted him. There was more mixture of colors that could capture the way they twinkled. Even when they were dim with anger or despair, they held so much depth it felt so impossible to paint. No talent could make her lose herself in the greens like his eyes could.

“Harry.” She breathed his name out like it was the best thing she could ever have. He could see the way her eyes gleamed and glistened at him, lips pulled into a genuine smile, softer than usual, but he blamed it on her eight a.m class.

She smelled like espresso, the coffee pot filling with murky water in the sink. Coffee and paint. She didn’t set the mug running under the water down, but the overflow splashing onto her knuckles reminded her to put it on the drying rack.

When she turned, he was there, a hand guiding her closer to him on her back, and lowered eyes looking into hers.

His lips felt like heaven on hers, and she wished he would have kept them there forever, but much to her dismay, he pulled away just as quickly as he came. Already dropping his bags down and grumbling about something that had happened in his organic chemistry class. Something about his professor, or whatever. She stopped listening to lean on the counter, she reminded herself to try and breathe.

“God, he’s such a moron.” He moaned, rubbing his temples. She did the same with her back turned. When she faced him, she plastered on a false smile.

“It can’t be that bad.” She tried to reason. He rolled his eyes, grumbling about how she was far too kind, too patient. So she turned her back to him again, fighting away the urge to grumble something back to him. Kindness was not the same as optimism, something that was wearing very thin in the usually very bubbly girl. It was that trait she carried so much over that balanced out the bad that Harry could bring. His glass-half-empty point of view and his constant grumbling about anyone who wasn’t her.

He continued complaining about his day, unaware of how his love was just a few feet away, struggling from her own stress, gripping the counter so harshly her knuckles turned white.

“Sometimes I wish I was an art major like you. God, it seems so much easier.” He didn’t mean it like that, she knew he didn’t mean it like that. She agreed, even. After all, she wasn’t taking organic chemistry or studying the human body in such depth as he did. She studied Van Gogh and Picasso. The crazy man who really wasn’t all that crazy who cut off his own ear. She reminded herself to breathe, just breathe. But when she took that deep breath in, it got stuck.

Why couldn’t she breathe? Why was it stuck in her throat, refusing to escape? She grew frustrated, not with him, but with herself. Tears brimmed her eyes so much, even the plates right beside her blurred into a haze of nothing. There was nothing left to distract her, to keep her up. The sink was empty, she was just running the water by now. And the sound of it should have calmed her but instead she felt very similarly to some of the greats. She could cover her ears and scream all she wanted. But would it ever be heard?

The soft shaking of her shoulders alerted him first. How pitiful she sounded, silently crying and huffing up small gasps to keep her sorrow that way. But he was so smart, in her eyes, even though he thought the exact opposite, even smarter than herself. He knew before she could even try to pull herself together.

“Love, hey.” His voice was soft, like he was unsure of what to do. And when he turned, he couldn’t help but feel ashamed. There she was, his love crying and falling apart so openly and all he could do was stand there like a big idiot.

Luckily for him, she’d made the first move, wrapping her arms up around him so tightly, all he had to do was pull her closer.

“Y/n/n, whats wrong?” He rubbed her hair, pulling the ends gently between his fingers.

“I’m a failure!” It was rare that Y/n broke down like this. It seemed impossible on some days. How upbeat and unfazed she carried herself. Always walking around with a warm smile plastered on her face. But she was only human. It had to happen sometimes. It was only natural.

Pulling her away, he held onto her to keep her steady. His thumbs rubbed at her tears gently. Her gorgeous eyes, once sparkling were now clouded by her own sadness. A wave of emotion he somehow hadn’t read from her moments ago.

“I mean, look at me, Harry! I’m barely scraping by in my math class, I’ve been surviving off of the same three paintings all semester and I smell like wet dirt! And don’t you dare say I don’t because I can smell it and I can see the grounds on my skin! Right next to the dry paint that I can’t even use!” Harry couldn’t help the way he laughed. Not at her, but for her. To her, the smell of coffee and paint was something so sickening. He would think the same if he were her. Inhaling the fumes every second of his life for years. But to him, she was a breath of fresh air. The chaos in her life something so extraordinary compared to his LED white lab lifestyle he had submitted himself to.

His hand wrapped around hers, which was now poking into his chest pathetically, her lips quivering like it physically pained her to be so upset.

“What?” She sniffled, almost embarrassed by the intensity of his gaze. Normally so stone cold, but one she had learned to read over time. The very small changes in the way he crinkled his nose or moved his brows. She couldn’t read it now, though. Not with the blinding tears falling down her cheeks.

There was no amount of times Harry could swipe his thumbs over her cheek, more and more would stain them it seemed like. And he didn’t quite get it. How could he? While she was breaking down about her failures all he could see was a woman who had already given so much and held no bitterness to those who caused her the pain. She could only reflect it back onto herself.

And while she talked down on herself, crying about her stress and how run down she must have looked to him, all Harry could think was how she could be Mona Lisa if Mona Lisa had a prettier face.

“Nothing.” He whispered, voice sticky and wet from not talking for so long. Her tears rolled down slower until nothing was left, eyes stuck forever searching his for any sign of disgust, but it never came.

“I just love you, is all.” Y/n could’ve laughed at how sappy her otherwise grumpy boyfriend was being. His dopey smile and kind eyes looking at her in a way she hadn’t seen all day. She almost forgot completely why she was upset, if it weren’t for the empty hole in her heart still eating away at her.

“I love you too.” She laughed, more so at herself than him at how quickly her frown had turned into a smile.

“Good.” He took her hand, slotting her arm around the small of his back so that his could rest over her shoulders. He could rest his head over hers and whisper all the sweet nothings that always seemed to charm her into a lavender haze.

And the laughter she emitted only reminded the both of them of how peaceful even the heaviest of rains could be.

To Harry, in many ways Y/n was the sun. Sometimes the clouds like to cover it, but they always pass by, and the sun comes out again.

[slafkovskys]

Telling mark you’re pregnant but you’re 19 and he’s 21

warnings: little angsty, mentions of pregnancy

“did you finally remember to bring me my water?” you call out to your brother after hearing the sound of the back door opening, then closing. your statement is followed by silence so eerie for a bright, midsummer day, that it causes you to push yourself up on your elbows and call out his name. only the person standing on the back deck isn’t your brother. no, it was the person whom you had gone to great lengths to avoid for the past two months. your mouth is suddenly dry as it tries to formulate a sentence, “mark-”

“so it’s true,” his words are almost like venom as his zero in on your midsection. in just a bikini, there was no way of hiding the four month swell that had really begun to pop in the last few weeks. he stands on the stairs, almost like he was scared to come down, “you just weren’t going to tell me? were you just going to disappear and think i wouldn’t ask any questions?”

you push yourself off the ground and wrap the towel around your body, a form of protection, “who told you?”

“nobody. you may have blocked me on everything, but he didn’t,” he nods his head towards the house and you swear that you see your brother poking his head out of the kitchen window, spying on the two of you. “he put something on his story a few days ago, the dress you were wearing made it obvious. why didn’t you tell me, y/n?”

“i-” your voice breaks as you’re forced to finally confront the reality of the situation you had been avoiding since late march. his face softens as you use your thumb to wipe a tear that slips from your eye, “i didn’t want you to be mad at me.”

“baby,” his shoulders drop as he rushes down the four steps and crosses the yard to you. it was easy to fall into his arms, to inhale the faint scent of his cologne, to fist his t-shirt in your hands as you gripped so tightly because you were scared that at any moment he would slip away. “i need you to breathe, okay?”

“mark,” you whisper, “please don’t leave.”

he shakes his head, rubbing his thumbs over your cheeks, “i’m not leaving. you’re not leaving. we’re going to talk about this, okay? i just need you to breathe right now. i’m not mad, i just want to understand.”

“can we sit down?”

he guides you back into the house and down the hallway towards the safety of your bedroom. he closes the door behind him and you hear a sharp intake of breath. you don’t have to question that he’s looking at the crib nestled in the corner that already had baby clothes accumulating on top. he doesn’t say anything as you take a seat on your bed and he makes himself at home in your desk chair, rolling it over to be in front of you. you kept the towel wrapped around you tightly, “i meant what i said out there, i’m not mad. i just want to understand.”

“i found out right around the time that you were going to the championships and i didn’t want to distract you. you needed to focus on that, so it sounded fine for me to keep it to myself for a little while, but i- i got in my own head. it seemed easier to just disappear and not tell you about, about us,” you gesture at your stomach and his eyes follow, “you have a life, mark. a good one. friends, hockey, school. this would just throw a wrench in that-”

“you’re part of my life too, y/n. did you ever consider that?” he questions. you swallow, “i made you part of my life. i told my mom that i was going to marry you after our first date and she told me that i was crazy. i never felt like that, you have never made me feel like that. i went to college not wanting a relationship and then there you were in econ always giving me the notes and taking granola bars as payment even though you hate them. everything in my life for the past year has revolved around you, honey. that’s not stopping now.”

“i’m giving you an out, mark.”

“and i’m not taking it. i don’t want an out, i want you and i want this baby. i will spend the rest of my life proving that to you,” his fingers gently run over the seam of the towel and you loosen your grip. he pulls it open and his fingers splay over the taut skin. you let your hand rest over his, “i- um- how many- how far- i don’t know how to say it.”

“it’s fine, mark. eighteen weeks tomorrow,” you move his hand more to the side, “they just started moving a few days ago. if you press your palm down right there, sometimes they’ll nudge you back.”

“they?” there’s a sudden alarm in his voice, “is it more than one? that doesn’t change anything, i just- is it?”

“no,” you giggle before running a hand through his hair. admittedly it was a feeling you had missed and he seemed to as well, judging by the way his eyes flutter closed at the feeling, “i can find out the gender at my next appointment, but i think i won’t. i kind of like the surprise factor.”

“you do have a thing for surprises.”

[pickles4nickles]

So I’ve been watching playthroughs of Yakuza games for a while now, but when I saw that the newest game takes place in Hawai’i, the place where I was born, raised, and have lived in for nearly 30 years now, I knew that this was something I had to have first-hand experience with and not let some guy tell me how to feel about it, to put it bluntly.

I went on a month and a half long journey to finish this game, so I sat around for a bit like

Jesus Christ I should write a review on it.

So if you’d like to read about 5k words on what I thought about The Video Game™, here you go.

Overall, Like a Dragon: Infinite Wealth is a really really good game. However, as Hawai’i local it was kind of hard for me to turn my brain off to some of the cultural inaccuracies and as someone who tends to play smaller indie games, I clocked in about 110 hours on this and I burned out a little towards the end.

GAMEPLAY

Let’s get into Gameplay first because I think I have the most positive thoughts about it. If you haven’t heard my thoughts about Pokemon lately, it mostly boils down to “It’s the only RPG I’ve really been playing in recent years and the gameplay has been very watered down and I yearn for a decent PvE experience.” This game definitely scratched that itch in more ways than one.

Infinite Wealth’s turn-based combat system revolves around positioning. Some moves have an AoE of either a straight line or a circle. Positioning a character next to an ally will proc a combo move with them and positioning them near items will proc an item attack where you can beat a guy to death with a traffic cone or something.

The job system is robust. Every character starts off with a default class- Ichiban’s is Hero, an all-rounder that can pretty much do anything; characters like Nanba and Eric (I know the game calls him Tomi or Tomizawa, but I’m not the game and “Fuckin’ Eric” sounds way better than “Fuckin’ Tomi”) are magic-oriented, so they’re basically wizards by default. You can change their class to other jobs (Desperado is my favorite because it’s basically gun mage), which unlocks new skills as you level them up. You can also change jobs as much as you want and skills carry over between them, so there’s a bit of moveset mixing and matching that makes my brain feel good.

Ryu Ga Gotoku Studio, (the Yakuza devs, which we’re just gonna abbreviate to RGG from here on out) have always been REALLY good at asset reuse (again, I cast a dirty look to Game Freak). They’ll make a whole-ass map of a region and reuse that same map for several games down the line. Not only do you spend a significant time in Ijincho again and not only do you go to Kamurocho for little bit… AGAIN, but there are two… what I can only call “macro” games that have the best asset reuse I’ve seen in, like, maybe anything ever.

DONDOKO ISLAND

Like A Dragon: Infinite Wealth comes with a whole-ass Animal Crossing clone that’s also kind of The Sims called Dondoko Island. In this, you rehab an island that’s being used as a dump for some trash pirates (no, seriously, they’re actually pirates, yar har and everything) back into a five star resort. There’s a whole-ass crafting system where you go around the island, harvesting resources, to build furniture and facilities, which include whole-ass buildings which have appeared in past Yakuza games. The crafting system is GREATLY improved over Animal Crossing: New Horizon in that you can skip the goddamn animation and craft multiple of the same items at once. You don’t even have to have all the materials in your inventory, it’ll take it from your storage. Placing items in the world is also in an overhead view and the only grievance I have with the system is that placing paths is really weird and you can only place a limited number of them. But overall, Nintendo, was it really that hard to put into the video game. Why did you make AC:NH disrespect my time in that way?

Once the island has been cleaned up enough, you can start inviting guests over, which all have their own set of preferences for the vibe of your island (rustic, pop, sleazy, etc), their lodging quality, and how much of the island’s flora and fauna (and minerals, I guess??) you’ve discovered.

I really really liked Dondoko Island because who am I to say no to a management mini/macro game with decoration elements. I mostly really appreciate that it doesn’t waste your time. I wanna say I finished it in like less than 20 hours… which is not short for a game within a game (actually, that’s insane for a game within a game), but for a game of this genre, it’s pretty short.

There’s also an entire separate mini-island that further helps you with efficiently running your island by passively collecting resources over time and just being a general stockpile of bugs and fish to catch. But I can’t talk about this part without talking about…

SUJIMON

A returning character voiced by Keith Silverstein in the English dub – yes, that Keith Silverstein, who voices Masayoshi Shido of Persona 5 and Zhongli of The Genshin Impact™ is a professor who documents the behavior of weird and often hostile middle aged men, called Sujimon. When Ichiban goes to Hawai’i, he asks him to also document the native Sujimon there as there’s a prominent Sujimon scene there. Mans wasn’t kidding as there is an underground, more or less ilicit Sujimon fight club called The Sujimon League with its own Elite Four called The Discrete Four.

In the previous game, Sujimon was just your bestiary (literally called the Sujidex), but now it’s a whole-ass game, which I can mostly only describe as simplified Yokai Watch, but a glorified card game. Just so we’re not here for forever talking about middle-aged men cockfights… because I can talk about the mechanics and inner workings of middle-aged men cockfights for a hot minute, Sujimon League basically operates on a 3v3, with an additional bench of 3, rock-paper-scissors kind of system. You’ll need strong Sujimon to get through this macro game and you’ll recruit new guys through four ways- through random fights on the map, through literal Pokemon GO raids, through a gacha system, and through combining Sujimon of the same type into stronger Sujimon (don’t think too hard about that one). I had a LOT of fun with this and, again, it scratched an itch I’ve had for a while. Almost all of the Sujimon are just guys you’ll fight in-game, so, again, an excellent use of asset reuse.

Sujimon smoothly integrates into Dondoko Island in a way that makes Palworld look even more balls-less than it already is. You know that little island I was talking about a few paragraphs back? That’s Dondoko Farm. You can put your Sujimon to work on it! As you’re running around on Dondoko Island, letting it consume your life, your Sujimon will grow crops, scrounge around for resources, and earn some cash for you. The island also has some resources to help with Sujimon League by leveling them up with a small investment of some dondoko bucks and your time, but also a Pokemon-Amie type mini-mini game that helps strengthen the friendship of your current Sujimon team.

Yes.

This game lets you pet-

The sweaty, weirdo middle-aged men.

Don’t think about it too hard.

Especially don’t think about it too hard when you have a Sujimon on your team that uses Xander Mobus’ voice clips.

Anyway, there’s also another minigame called Sicko Snap, which is basically Pokemon Snap with Sujimon. It’s a good one, too.

STORY

I guess… the best way I’d explain my feelings on Infinite Wealth’s story is

Objectively, this is an okay story. Like, it’s par for the course for a Yakuza game. I have a lot of personal grievances with this plot which I’ll fully unsheathe my blade for in the next section, but for now I’ll just say… this game is basically Hawaii Five-O crammed into a Yakuza game and that was an emotional rollercoaster ride that I’m not sure I enjoyed.

Like a Dragon’s main theme is “Even if you hit rock bottom, it’s never too late to get back up again” and that’s something I hold near and dear to my heart.

They have used this theme to my benefit and to my dismay as this also apparently means it’s never too late for ~*Romance*~ which, sure, yeah, okay, true, but did it have to be Ichiban and Saeko?

I’m trying to give the game the benefit of the doubt because… to me, it’s mostly one-sided (as in, like, Saeko’s willing to give him a chance, but isn’t as crazy for Ichiban as he is for her) and, like, dude is allowed to have a crush. But from what I have seen… because I never got around to finishing her Drink Link (I was gonna but I’m like really burned out on the game), they kinda strap C4 to the Bechdel Test and raze a village to the ground with it when it comes to Saeko’s character arc because most of her dialogue and interactions are about The Incident with Ichiban, which sucks because she had more character than just a romance interest for the protagonist in the previous game. If you’re also REALLY not into this plot point like I am, the story DOES NOT let you forget that this indeed happened as it seems to be a plot thread that might continue into the next game as well.

Needless to say, I don’t ship it, and I don’t get to block tags and just walk away from this one.

The game also kinda keeps nudging at, “Hehe, Chitose’s pretty cute too, right?” to which I say

Yes I understand she’s of legal age but she’s only like 21 AT MOST and Ichiban’s like 40-something you stop with that.

It doesn’t feel like Ichiban really had a character arc in this… unless you count “proposing on the first date” to “saying I love you on a redo and then being weird about it again” as character growth. He went to Hawai’i, had some shenanigans, found mom, got backstabbed again, fought the cult (which I’ll be really salty about in the next section), went back home to help Eiji’s character arc. This isn’t a bad thing, it’s just… Ichiban went on another adventure. And it was ok. I think maybe the game was sizing him up to, again, take Kiryu’s place and be The Hero, but… we already did that already? And I’m not even sure if the game was able to complete that message by the end of the game.

Kiryu probably got the most character development out of this game and talking this over with my friend Andrew, he brought up that it kinda wasn’t fair that this is supposed to be Ichiban’s game, but he had to share half of it with Kiryu. And I agree. His sections were also really hard to get into if you haven’t been a longtime fan. Again, I have a decent amount of Yakuza knowledge, but with Kiryu’s memories, a LOT of it went over my head.  It seems like RGG’s been trying to retire him as a protagonist for like three games now and MAYBE this time they’ll actually do it after this victory lap they’ve given him. But he did learn that “my friends are my power” and “never ever give up, you still have time to do better.” And you know what, that’s rad.

As far as the villains go, just, I dunno, they’re fine? Ebina and Eiji are very “okay bitch, stay mad, then,” and it’s. Fine? My only complaint is that Ebina’s arc felt like it was under-seasoned before they put it in the oven to cook and they could’ve peppered it on a little earlier in the game or something. Bryce’s entire deal I may have taken a little too personally, but that’s for later. Dwight was literally just Danny Trejo doing a villain role and I have absolutely no qualms with it. He was fun to watch.

The supporting cast was fun as always. Eric I hated at first, but he grew on me in the same way that, like, I’d bully a friend. Chitose I also kinda hated at first, was very sus of, but then she had a character arc that was pretty good. The Yokohama gang didn’t really have character arcs to them, but they were still fun to hang out with nonetheless. We got to learn a little bit more about Seonhee and she’s really fun. Both her and Zhao, who is my favorite for several reasons, are really really fun characters as they are both crime bosses (former, in Zhao’s case) who are BIG FUCKING WEIRDOS and I love them for it.

Joongi Han becomes a party member WAY too late in my opinion that, in a way, he’s technically an optional party member, or at least like getting a Dratini right before the Pokemon League in Gold/Silver/Crystal. He had some fun character moments, but felt kinda like an afterthought.

But also, ain’t no way he got his Hawai’i clothes at Hilo Hattie. There’s no way.

To wrap up my thoughts on the main story, I’d just like to say: the plot point that they sailed to Japan on a little tugboat in a handful of hours as opposed to WEEKS is peak Hawaii Five-O vibes and it infuriates me, but everyone kept telling me “it’s okay, the coast guard picked them up, like, halfway” and I will sit down and not start a fistfight over it. And just. That was the vibe of the game for me. Just… alternating between a J-Drama and Hawaii Five-O.

I don’t really have much to say about the substories except that they’re either almost Oscar-worthy material or they’re a snoozefest that I just tabbed through. I can really only think of three substories off the top of my head that were EXCELLENT, though - Nancy and Olivia, the artificial snow quest (THIS ONE IS EMOTIONAL WHIPLASH), and the traveling aquarium one. The rest I mostly just tabbed through because they were just……. Eh. But I think I’m okay with that since we have Sujimon and Dondoko to make up for it.

THE CULTURAL GRIEVANCES

So as I type this section out, I run my hands over my face to remind myself and say

This is a game that takes place in Hawai’i from a Japanese perspective, written primarily for a Japanese audience and I assume that certain things may come from a place of ignorance, but not maliciousness.

Hey Tumblr.

I want you to read that first bolded sentence again.

Because I know how you guys are with reading comprehension.

But that being said, as a Hawai’i-born Chinese person, there’s quite a lot about the Hawai’i cultural aspects of this game that I have problems with. If you wanna see me roast this game, you can stick around, but if not… Here is your chance to bail.

I’ve tried my best to write this in a way where I look at the thing that pissed me off and ask myself,  “Am I taking this too seriously or do I actually have a problem with it?” and write more or less objectively, but some of it might still come off as overly caustic. Just. I tried.

And after a deep breath,

Ho brah,

We go.

WHAT IS HAWAIIAN CULTURE, ANYWAY?

To start off, I’m not sure if RGG knows the difference between being a Hawai’i local and actually being of Hawaiian blood…? The game mentions at the very beginning that Akane is half-Japanese… and half-Hawaiian, which makes Ichiban one-fourth Hawaiian, which makes ME kinda… squint. Like, we’d need to know more about Akane’s backstory, but if you know anything about indigenous cultures, finding someone who’s half native is HARD nowadays. Akane also looks pretty light skinned for someone who’s allegedly half-Japanese, half-Hawaiian but that’s just my tiny nitpick?

I’m also… not sure what kinda research RGG did on Hawaiian last names because some of the ones I see on random enemies are kinda… 

Who is that

What is that

I have never seen anyone named that in my entire life

Sure, my worldview is a little shut in, but, no, what IS that?

Mililani is not a last name, that’s a neighborhood, why’s she Lani Mililani?

WHAT IS THAT?

The pidgin in the game is also there, but… small kine hit or miss. For those of you who don’t know, pidgin is Hawai’i’s creole, which came from a bunch of cultures who don’t speak the same language eventually falling into a kitbashed language system that works for everyone. Looking at the VA listing in the credits, they did hire some local people (they have Hawaiian names) and some of the VO performances work really well like Obispo in the restaurant side story and the cab driver dialogue that ONLY comes up in the Japanese audio version of the game for some reason. Others… are… hm (I don’t know what’s going on with Jeff the taco truck guy). I feel like the voice director got the intonation on the line reads down pretty well, but on the localization side, the syntax and grammar are a little off. Pidgin tends to come off as “broken english,” but it’s technically not since it’s its own language system with its own rules. So you have a lot of line reads that are in the right inflection, but the way it’s written is wrong for pidgin dialogue.

And it just doesn’t sound 100% right to me.

There’s also some… small pronunciation nitpicks that I have. Ukulele is pronounced the white way - it’s not Yooka-Laylee like the Chameleon and Bat, it’s ook-oo-leh-leh like Tapu Lele, the Pokemon. Some characters pronounce Hawai’i as huh-why and not ha-wuh-ee, which is more right (it’s SUPPOSED to be ha-vai-ee but I’m not native Hawaiian and this is kind of an axolotl situation so, y’know).

But shout-outs to the “Whatchu lookin’ at?” line guy.

Because that one is just, no notes, perfect.

NOTHING CAN BE NORMAL, I GUESS

Something that rubbed me the wrong way in this game is the mystification of a culture that’s foreign to you, that is, taking a culture that’s not yours and describing or representing it in such a way that it sounds so deviant and hard to comprehend compared to the one you’re used to. Think of that one tweet where someone describes hamburgers like a white person would describe asian fruit.

There's the lei substory where the girl needs to make a lei with blue plumerias (which does not exist by the way) because there’s an urban legend that if you give a blue plumeria lei to someone, it’s a way of confessing your true love. Lei are just… things you give as, like, a “congrats!” kind of a thing. Or if you wanna be touristy about it, a “welcome!” kind of gift. There’s nothing mystical about it, most grocery stores stock a few that you can just pick up, grab and go style. 

The entire game mechanic of “shaka to make friends” was so?? Like maybe after 8 hours into the Hawai’i map, I was like, okay, I’ll just… fine. I’ll accept it. But my god did I not appreciate it when Kson came up to me and was like “what’s a motherfucker gotta do around here to make some friends” and told me how FRIENDLY the Hawaiian people were and how you can just throw a shaka to make friends; while me, probably the saltiest, introverted Hawai’i local that throws stink-eye at tourists who can’t watch where they’re going, playing the video game on that day was like, “We don’t fucking do that, hello??” I don’t even know why we shaka?? Most people you ask that question will just be like “idk it’s the local thing, they do it at the end of the 5pm news on KHON2.”

There’s a substory in this game with a character named Nathan, but we were all calling him racist Alpharad because he kinda looks like him (ALPHARAD HIMSELF IS NOT RACIST OR IN THIS GAME I WANNA CLARIFY THAT) and he’s basically, like… a weeb. He’s recording what seems like a PBS special on Japanese tourists in Hawai’i, but he’s kind of a shitter about it. He makes Ichiban choose between local foods and cold-ass rice and becomes upset when he chooses kalua pork over the rice since it wasn’t The Japanese Option. It escalates to making Ichiban play darts with shuriken and when he loses, he tells him to “live up to his dishonor,” slides him a knife and board, and asks him if he wants to take a finger or hara-kiri. To which Ichiban goes “dude, I get you like Japanese culture, but you can’t treat people this way”

To which I look back at the game like

You clearly understand how this feels, so why are you doing this to Hawaiian culture?

Again, I understand that a lot of this game was written with maybe just ignorance, and not malice, and this isn’t really a call-out post to RGG or anything, but BOY…

Okay.

Now we get to my biggest gripe with this game.

PALEKANA CAN SUCK MY NUTS

I’m kinda disappointed in their choice to use a Hawaiian cult as a plot point. It’s not quite a native savages kind of a vibe, but… In the year of our lord 2024, I thought we would know better than to portray an indigenous religion as a bloodthirsty cult? I also don’t like how they’re conflating the Hawaiian religion with what’s more like a Christian/Catholic cult in this.

Palekana is portrayed as “cultists who worship a goddess who lives in a mystical land, forbidden only to her chosen and maybe one day we’ll be worthy of her blessings.” Hawaiian religion is… not… like that at all? They did get the part about “giving back to the community” correct as a part of Hawaiian culture is mālama ‘aina, meaning, you need to care for the land you live on, which is… reasonable? I guess the other basic idea of Hawaiian religion is that certain places, things, and times that are important, and you shouldn’t touch it unless you wanna fuck around and find out. But the game just kinda wildly overboils this.

Like, I don’t claim to be an expert, I’ve only scraped the basics from what I learned in school (a year’s worth of Hawaiiana lessons in middle school, a semester’s worth in college; went to a private Catholic school, took two world religion classes in college), but Palekana has a very Catholic European religion kind vibe instead of a Hawaiian one. And I really, really don’t like that the game conflates the two. The Palekana cultists wear hoods, which is a distinctly European thing (it’s too hot for hoods here!). The beaded necklaces also seem more like rosaries, which, again, very Catholic. The idea that a god-figure will save you is also a VERY Catholic idea. I’m also assuming the goddess Nele that they use in the game is an expy for Pele, which… okay, like, you can do that with locations. Ala Moana Shopping Center represented as Anaconda Mall in the game hurts me a lot, but… to change up the name of the most prominent deity in Hawaiian religion is like

Dude, I’m not Hawaiian, but I know better than to shit on Pele?

Maybe I’m taking this a little too seriously, but it comes off as a little(??) disrespectful.

To give them the benefit of the doubt, maybe RGG wrote this plot point in this way to be like, well, they’re the villains, so we’ll write them so hyperbolically evil and wrong so people won’t mistake that for the actual culture? But my gut reaction is that they’re only writing from what they’ve seen in the movies and they wanted to make a story like that.

This was my least favorite part of the plot because not only does the cult aspect feel like it’s in bad taste, but it’s SO MUCH of the story and you REALLY can’t get away from it.

Alright. So now that I’ve aired that out of my system, I’m finally capping off this section with the part of the game that hit the closest to me and that is

CHINESE IN HAWAI’I

Listen. Again.

This is a story about Hawai’i, written by a Japanese team, for a Japanese audience.

Yakuza is a series that often talks about the racial conflict between the Japanese, Chinese, and Koreans. And I don’t expect them to portray any of these groups in anything more than a neutral light in this game about Gang Crime.

But ohhhhh my gooooood did they get the Chinatown section so wroooooooong.

Right off the bat, the big glaring problem I have with this game is. All the guys speak Mandarin. I think they might just be reusing voice clips from Yakuza 7, which, sure, fine, I understand that video games are hard to make and expensive.

In Hawai’i, like, real-world Hawai’i, not the bizzaro Hawai’i this game takes place in, we’re definitely starting to see more Mandarin-speaking immigrants show up, but most of the town speaks Cantonese.

Most of the people here a generation or two above me come from Guangdong or Hong Kong, which are Cantonese-speaking areas. It’s an entirely different dialect that’s really only been represented in small bits in media I’m familiar with, like in Jackie Chan Adventures (the uncle’s chant is basically “no more ghosts, get out of here” in Cantonese) and Digimon Tamers (“Moumentai” is “it’s okay/don’t worry about it” in Cantonese), and it seems really hard to get VAs that speak it, so I’m not… really that mad about it.

BUT. Then there’s Wong Tou.

Wong is the Cantonese pronunciation of 黄 , Huang or Hwang in Mandarin.

So like… clearly they knew?? But?? Decided not to go all in on it??

(And then Daniel Dae Kim is his face model and I just??? Bro’s Korean, hello?????)

And then there’s the name of Wong Tou’s gang. The Ganzhe.

Which is a stupid name.

The Chinese dictionary gives me 甘蔗 which translates to sugarcane, which. I get it. The plantation times. The Chinese and the Japanese and the Filipinos and the Portuguese and whatever all used to work on the cane plantations.

…But you’re out here calling your BIG KNIFE GANG “Sugarcane??”

My guy, you could start a reggae band with that name instead.

SPEAKING OF REGGAE-

No one knows how to pronounce Ganzhe properly besides Eric’s VA apparently? All the other VAs pronounce the gan closer to “van” when it’s supposed to be more like a “gone.”

Yes. That’s right.

Ganzhe is pronounced more like ganja.

You know.

The Marajuanas™

I’m a Hawai’i-born Chinese, first-generation local on my mom’s side and third-gen local on my dad’s. I grew up in Chinatown, so this was a section of the game that was near and dear to my heart. So I THINK and HOPE you’d understand my frustration to see that work needed to be done on the representation of my culture in this game. It was definitely a little fun to see my hometown modeled in this game- they got Maunakea Marketplace and Keikaulike Mall down pretty accurately and some of the motifs on the buildings made me do a double take because they were so familiar to me. BUT, man, this cultural aspect of the game needed A LOT of work.

SO TO FINALLY CLOSE THIS OUT

Japanese people love Hawai'i a lot.

I think Japanese people love Hawai'i more than Hawai'i locals do.

But as for portraying it accurately, I understand that no one can do it as well as a local islander can. Did I personally think they did the best they could?

………………ehh

Like, if you turn your brain off, it's fine??

If you turn your brain off and not let Palekana get to you, this game is fine.

It can be a little campy.

It can be a little Hollywood.

It can be a little Disneyland.

And despite my four pages of bitching about it, at the end of the day. It is fine.

So with that, I’ve hit like ten full pages on this Google Doc. Despite half of this review being me complaining about what they got wrong about Hawai’i culture in this game, I liked it a lot! When the game didn't have me strapped down for an episode of a J-drama or Hawaii Five-O, I liked running around town, fighting guys, making other guys fight other guys, and managing a resort island. If anything, this game actually motivated me a little to make more local-themed stuff, because as I notice people getting older, there’s less and less people to correctly preserve highly specific culture stuff like this. So a lot of that responsibility falls on me, y’know?

Thank you for making it to the end of this review! I know it was a lot. I don’t know what happened. I do recommend this game, but I ask that you do NOT finish the game with the takeaway that you have learned everything there is to know about Hawai’i.

I’ll fight you with a lawn chair (in Minecraft, for the FBI agent reading this) if you do that.

Other than that, I think you’ll have a lot of fun but also take your time because this game is, like, a 100 hour commitment. Not Persona 5 Royal long, but a commitment nonetheless.

[ceaselesswatchersspecialboy]

I love your TMA swap AU so much and love seeing posts about it

do you like, have any more info on it you haven’t shared yet?!? you don’t have to share if you want to, it just kinda consumed my mind 👉👈

CRASHING IN AT LIGHTNING SPEEDS

I absolutely have info and I love talking about it — It’s consumed my mind as well!

I realise I haven’t really talked about one of the key aspects of the AU which is Elias and his slow descent into becoming a vessel for Jonah Magnus, albeit with a twist.

I’m always particularly fond of Swap AUs that really play around with the idea of characters in different roles, and for Elias, that meant he couldn’t simply be the Archivist. While Jon’s story revolves around humanity, Elias’ story in this AU is more an exploration of identity and how the lines blur.

I had to play around a bit with canon, give reason as to why Jonah hasn’t just taken Elias as his vessel yet or taken someone else, and is having to retreat to his old body, using the last few years it has left in it. The idea I settled on was that his vessels need to be specific, preferably someone already touched by the Eye, and a body who he Knows can withstand the shift. These potential vessels aren’t as common but he knows one will been drawn to the Institute eventually.

The problem with Elias Bouchard, is that he still has people left who would notice the change, people he’s close to - Sasha, Tim, Gwendolyn, etc. I have mentioned before that this is why he was made Head Archivist. The Archive is the most dangerous place to work and the easiest place to set Elias on the course of becoming an Avatar himself, making him even more suitable, and isolating him, whether it be through his friends dying, or him isolating himself due to the stress and/or paranoia. Anything like that really.

And, while he isn’t the Archivist, he does develop his own set of abilities, more centred on Watching, similar to Jonah. In late s2 for example, his eyes have started to adjust to Seeing, and he becomes distinctly aware of Not-Sasha, hence his attempt at attacking her with a metal pipe.

He doesn’t view these abilities as negatively as you’d think really, namely because they give him a sense of purpose, a feeling of importance and power which he has longed for his whole life. He often believes he deserved better than what he has, deserves to be respected, stemming from his relationship with his father. He only realises a little too late that what’s happening to him isn’t a good thing, and that he’s losing the people he cares most about.

It’s during his coma in s4 that the identity aspect truly comes into play.

Jonah decides this is the perfect chance to take Elias’ body, and Martin is left with the task, mainly due to Jon being in jail and Martin’s ability to go unnoticed. This is one of the things Martin would really rather avoid doing but Jon asked, and so he obliges.

It doesn’t… work out though. He’s only able to replace one eye — very clumsily at that — before someone walks in, and while they don’t see Martin, they do see the mess he’s left behind.

Elias unfortunately wakes up not long after, and Jonah decides to put the other eye on hold for a short while. He’s… curious, really. He wants to Know what will happen, what this will feel like for the both of them.

S4 is probably my favourite era of the AU solely for the exploration of Elias and Jonah and how the other characters interact with that. They don’t know what’s happened to Elias, a man who had looked an absolute mess for months, suddenly looking pristine, with his hair cut short — he’s always hated short hair — and an eye that definitely isn’t his own. I should add, before now, he��s never gone by Elias. He never liked it, mainly due to the disappointed or angry tones it was often said in by family. He insisted on being called Eli, but, in s4, suddenly he’s rather insistent on going by Elias.

It’s disturbing, to say the least, and the thing is, he’s aware something is wrong, aware he’s acting differently, that his dominant hand has changed from right to left, that his wants and beliefs are being clouded by something else, but he doesn’t know what’s happening anymore, and he doesn’t know how to convey his own distress. He’s acting in ways he otherwise wouldn’t, and it just comes naturally to him. Anytime he even considers breaking down, begging someone to hear him, to recognise he’s just as scared as they are, he’s struck with the thought he doesn’t want to do that.

Everyone tells him he’s changed, and he knows, and he can’t do anything about it.

I’ve wrote a lot already so I’ll probably go more in depth on that another time, but for now, I did actually start writing a Transcript Style thing for an interaction with Gwen, who’s convinced her brother has been replaced entirely, so I’ll share a snippet of that!

I am so very normal about the Swap!Siblings <- lying so badly

[ms-scarletwings]

Irken senses, and other ponderings

You know, every time I start to wonder if I’ve finally run out of things to coherently say on the whole “speculating about irken biology” matter, a whole something more is induced to hatch out of the dehydrated floam inside my skull. Between you and me, I think the eggs are triggered by ironic timing.

Anywho, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the world hypothetically through Irken eyes, and other sensory organs. Think I’ll go down them piece by piece, and to follow the pattern I’ve kept through my other Irken brain dumps, I will be drawing a huge amount of inspiration from real life arthropods. Yes, I’m very aware that realistically, any resemblance to earth insects would be coincidental from an alien species, and there’s plenty of room to make up whatever somewhat plausible explanation you can for any faucet of their anatomy. Personally, I like to run from the convergent evolution angle, since I find it no less grounded, full of potential connections the show itself all but begs me to draw, and just plain fun. Let’s get into it.

Also like towards the end there’s a whole section on the hypothetical edibility of Irkens because why not

Prelude: If you want to hear a little more behind my theory about the Irken diet revolving around sugar and a small portion of minerals, you can zip onto this analysis I did, in which I touch on some ideas of mine regarding the composition of Irken skin, their reaction to meat, etc. that works from the assumption that Irkens evolved out of an arthropod-like ancestor. Not necessary to get the gist of this one, but it is background context behind my thought process.

Sight

The Irken oculus is perhaps the most striking feature of the species, very much resembling those tiny crawling things they have been inspired by; however, it’s tougher to say exactly how far the similarity of their insides go. The eyes of most arthropods are in fact along the more simple branches of the evolutionary tree. We know that Irkens are not likely to possess compound eyes, like those found in flies and most other insects, because compound eyes are specialized for wide FOV ranges at the sacrifice of visual resolution quality. Instead, I see a much closer match to a fascinating exception or two found in Earth’s arachnids.

While most of them have utterly piss-poor vision, the hunting styles of jumping spiders necessitated a great deal of further specialization of the organs for depth perception, color differentiation, and sharp images. These are the purpose of those two huge shiners at the front (the other 6 boosting their range for detecting blurry peripheral movement and threats), and these are what bring their effective vision on a level much closer to that of familiar binocular mammals than their own six legged prey. Now I really think we are working with the base of what Irken peepers likely developed out of. One of the ways they have really diverged off is in the fact that while jumping spiders can only move their retinas, irkens seem as though they are able to move the lens of the eye themselves- or at the very least, Zim does, else the false pupils in his disguise contacts would not behave quite so convincingly. To speak about the lenses themselves, their eyes are not dry and exposed like most arthropods, speaking to a vulnerable sensitivity. They clearly have blinking eyelids, shed tears, and Zim even complains about the “scratchy” feeling of getting used to that part of his kid disguise.

(Funny sidenote: I’m like 90% sure that Zim did not have those contact lenses designed correctly for himself. Usually, if contacts feel that uncomfortable and keep falling off of the eye as easily as his do, it’s a sign of them being poorly fitted. This could be another symptom of his outdated/lower quality invader tech.)

Not only do Irkens have an assumed base vision resolution that seems more or less on par with human beings, but Invader elites are fitted with ocular implants that grant them a significantly greater advantage in this realm. We don’t know to a certainty how well improved an Irken soldier’s vision is, but Zim was confidently able, within seconds and under pressure, to pick out the area of town he lived in from what was miles away under night hours.

On the topic of night vision, I have a hunch that even without the cybernetics, these guys are adapted to see much better than we in dim to dark environments as well. Most of the early part of their life cycle is lived out in subterranean crèches. On the surface, daytime Irk is cast in a sunset red atmosphere. Oddly, a massive portion of their fashion and architectural aesthetics show a preference for these dark, warmer tones. Ruby is far and away the most common eye color in their kind. All of these facts suggest that warm-spectrum hues and pigments were incredibly common in the homeworld’s history, to point of indicating something about a cultural attraction to them- kind of like how humans put the color blue all over so much corporate branding and elsewhere. Zim’s favorite color has also been revealed to be purple. Most of all, given what I’ve seen of Irk’s, Blorch’s, and Devastis’s surface skies, AND Zim’s reaction to staring directly at the sun for more than a few seconds, I’m assuming that most Irkens are wholly unfamiliar with living in an environment as brightly lit as midday Earth.

I do think Irken eyes “glow” in the dark, but not in the emitting sense. Just more in the reflective one. This they would owe to a well developed tapetum lucidum, as seen in cats and deer and pretty much any animal to give off an eerie eye shine under the right lighting. To point back to arachnids, wolf spiders are speedy nocturnal murder machines with highly developed tapetum lucida, in their secondary eyes, at least. What I love the most about that is it makes it very easy to tell if you’re looking at a mother spider because her babies will give off the same eyeshine if you take a pic of one with the flash on.

Additionally, I won’t forget that sleep is no longer a necessity for our alien subjects. This alone gives them a major edge over any dinural race such as humanity. While Zim has his appearances to keep up during the day, the nighttime on Earth is actually when he is allowed the most free rein to work on his endeavors uninterrupted.

Sound

Ah, so this is the part where I rattle off the common theories we’ve collectively formed about Irken antennae as the replacement for an external ear, eh? Yes, but actually no…. jokes aside, it’s just no. I’ll get to the deal with antennae, but as you might imagine, hearing ability also varies all over the place in the insect world.

It is true that antennae play a large role in the hearing of some critters, such as mosquitoes, whose males use them to pick out the high frequency wing beats of nearby females in a swarm. Crickets, on the other hand, use sensory organs on their legs tuned to much lower sound ranges. There’s no one way to evolutionarily put together a sort-of ear, as well proven by the sheer amount of times it convergently happened in bugs and in how many creative ways.

They literally be designing themselves like me playing around in spore. If we’re not talking about that mosquito or honeybee example, then what we are referring to as an ear and most hearing insects is going to be an external tympanic organ. Most people who have passed high school biology would be able to recognize a visible tympanum in frogs- that circular thing right behind the eyes in most species, and understand it as their version of an ear drum. Many bugs’ tympanums are likewise thin chitinous membranes situated… potentially just about anywhere on the body (again, see above). This is what I think Irkens use as a primary hearing organ, in his case, probably situated on their heads in addition to the feelers. The latter organs I think would also be sensitive to general vibrations and subtler environmental cues, like wind direction and pressure changes, but the bulk of their hearing would be owed to the tympanum.

As far as the quality of their hearing, well, there’s not any sign it differs much from the human experience. Like us, they communicate through verbal language, and the existence of the “Dancing Arcade Game (but for aliens)” confirms at least a similar cultural propensity for music as an entertainment form. Zim is an outlier for the fact that he seems genuinely a little hard of hearing next to his kin, screaming as naturally as he talks and repeatedly mishearing (if hearing at all) people who are speaking directly at him. It’s clear something’s up with his hearing, but there’s no clear answer what and why. At first I was tempted to suggest something about sound passing much differently through the medium of earth’s atmosphere (kind of like how noise on Mars would sound muffled to us), but neither Tak nor Skoodge seemed to pick up the problem when they arrived. It really could be as simple as some kind of birth defect, or even glitches in how his corrupted PAK is processing the inputs it receives. Like many others, I want to imagine that his wig could be interfering too, since it covers the whole top portion of his head; as well, I noticed he has more of those incidents with it on than not.

Smell

Alrighty, NOW we can round back to focusing on the antennae, because this is actually the main thing our insects fine tuned theirs for. And when I say fine tuned- I mean fine tuned. Blood suckers that find their prey through the CO2 of their breath, flies that can pick up on potential food sources from miles away; In the land of the little, scent is everything. Beyond it being their main tool for exploring the environment for what to eat and what to avoid, chemical messages are the backbone of bug-to-bug communication. Pheromones are the divining rod of lonely spiders looking for a mate. They are the bugle of yellow jackets when rallying the nest to attack a threat, and they are the signals that govern about every single action an ant takes from adulthood until death. Obviously, Irkens are much more sight & hearing dependent than these comparisons, but they still have much more bodily specialization dedicated to this sense than we can relate to. For one, they are fastidiously hygienic. Like, “the care-bots from that really creepy episode of the Buzz lightyear cartoon” hygienic. We have yet to see any livable surface of Irk that is not sky to underground terraformed over in all-consuming metal infrastructure. There’s less than no sign of visible life besides the Irkens; ffs, there’s not even soil in sight. Not on Devastis, either. The Organic Sweep sounds like such a nice and pretty euphemism in the face of the actual horror of Blorch’s fate, and all to spare the boots of their military from touching even a speck of “unsavory alien filth”. They live in such a controlled and purified environment that I can’t even imagine the absolute assault on the senses Zim’s every day on our barbaric ball of dirt is. Over and over again he gives off the impression that the constant stink of this place is in fact his chief complaint about living among us. The majority of insults he throws toward humans relate to how they smell or the fact that he finds them “filthy”. We’re flat out nasty to him and I don’t blame him. Even relative to other animals, humans are especially RANK due to the combination of sweat, oils, and bacteria that coat our skin.

And believe it or not, I do think Irkens are in a position to talk shit in this regard. Zim is a really sweaty boi; however, I posed an idea back in that write up about Irken skin before- to summarize- that his kind maintain remarkably sterile cuticles due to the presence of a toxic chemical in their skin. This, I said then, could have been the key to Zim’s lice repelling trait, but I wasn’t so specific at the time about more than that. I got the idea from a group of millipedes that, when disturbed, can secrete hydrogen cyanide as a deterrent to predators. I like to imagine that Irkens can do a similar thing via sweating, not to thermoregulate like us, but as a stress response. It would at least explain why Zim seems like a very nervous sweater. Fun fact if you didn’t know, cyanide’s smell is similar to almonds.

I’m deadass telling you I think Irkens just smell like almond extract. Do with that what you will.

Touch

So, in writing this whole whatever it be, this part was the trickiest to come up with any productive analysis on. I’ve already guessed at what I think Irken skin feels most like (spoiler: hairless caterpillars) in the analysis I referenced up top. Zim being able to pass himself off as a human under the examination of the Skool nurse points to an average body temperature somewhere around our own. What I did find interesting while rewatching the series though was the sheer amount of pain tolerance on these invaders, except in one way. Can I extrapolate this fortitude to Irkens universally? Probably not! Zim is a member of the most elite of the most highly trained members of Irk’s military. I wouldn’t take what a seasoned veteran can handle and assume that’s the human floor in a nutshell, but our invaders CAN tell us quite a bit about their ceiling… starting with the fact that these bastards are ridiculously heat resistant. Irkens are a durable race broadly, but their reactions to extreme temperatures strike me as jaw-droppingly underwhelming, if anything.

Irkens DON’T like being engulfed in flames. It’s still a painful experience to them, but seemingly the kind they can pretty much walk off as soon as it’s over. Through explosions and fire we have seen Zim (and Skoodge) survive in one piece. We’ve seen The Massive take a whole dip into a burning star with no ill effects to the crew within. Most amazing to me was the time in Battle of the Planets when Zim willingly piloted Mars into grazing by the Sun at close range while trying to evade Dib. Totally exposed driver’s seat and he was no worse for wear after this.

Further in the comics we see this touched on in the Zimvoid arc. Zib’s favorite method of torturing the Zims under his training program was to torch them at random for sadistic amusement. Quite interestingly, though, Number 2 implies that their bodies do actually adapt to this treatment over time! Theoretically, Zims further along in the program have become all but invulnerable to fire entirely.

On the other hand, one of the truly most painful things Zim has been shown to experience is to have his skin chemically burned. It’s a strange sort of irony that Earth’s water would prove to be an incapacitating force to them in place of any inferno. He’ll smash his skull into the Voot’s windshield with enough force to pop out an eyeball and it’s whatever. Plenty of other things hurt, but he can power through. You turn a shaken can of soda or a bottle of bbq sauce on him and he’s just left screaming on the ground or screaming and running away. Whatever brutal sort of training he had to go through off world, it didn’t prepare him for this.

Taste

The perceptive side of this I think may not be too hard to figure out. Irken food, as alien as its actual composition could be, has been shown to be heavily analogous to human junk food. I hesitate to call what Irkens are scarfing down “meals” in the proper sense, because I’ve noticed that neither Zim nor his kin intrinsically understand the concept. When he’s trying to blend in as a human being, he puts a LOT of bizarre effort into convincing us that he, just like you inferior creatures, TOTALLY eats “food” on a regular basis like a normal person. When Irkens eat their own products, it’s all and only “snacks”. What follows is the conclusion that their eating habits are not structured into any schedule and that Irkens instead graze throughout the day as they please- and even possibly that eating altogether is more a recreation to them, instead of a necessary function to sustain life. Some fans have speculated that the PAK could provide an Irken with all of the necessary energy to survive absent of nutrition. I kind of want to contest this, given that caloric energy is only one purpose of taking in food… but it’s definitely the most immediate one. Nonetheless, they still eat constantly on screen and it all has to be going somewhere. Whether they need it or not, they still readily digest snacks (and presumably use those chemical building blocks to regenerate tissue damage) with a terrifying metabolic efficiency. Assuming that the resemblance of their snack foods and our leisure treats are not purely coincidental, one gathers that sweetness is the largest dimension of Irken cuisine. They are drawn most enthusiastically to carb-dense synthetic, plant, and possibly fungal matter in the same way that the human brain lights up at the prospect of fat and sugar-loaded meals. The flexible tongues of Irkens to me also resemble the nectar catching, segmented mouthparts of some bees. I would be willing to bet that they can taste salt, but jury’s out if it is something they crave, like us, or are repulsed by, like ants. That would have to come down to the scarcity (or not) of the resource on their home planet and whether or not desiccation was a serious threat in their natural history. In other regards, Zim shows strong negative reactions to most Earth foods, if not physically, than in his expressions. They definitely have powerful vulnerabilities to many human ingredients, and so are very sensitive to the presence of these toxins. I can’t imagine acidic or bitter substances are at all pleasant to them.

Now comes the much more interesting question I’ve thought way too long and hard about in the shower a time or two. Knowing that Irkens are likely a herbivorous breed, ergo, thankfully would have no interest in the consumption of the human race… what about the vise versa??? I don’t just want to know what they taste, but what would they taste like?

So, you’ve decided to mix it up for the thanksgiving dinner and forgo the same boring old bird for an Irken you have vanquished (via what I can only imagine was a freaking miracle of luck). What should you come to expect? Most importantly and I must emphasize this, the secret to preparing their meat is the same as Tolkien dwarves, you have to skin them before anything else. The separation of edible tissues from the cuticle is necessary to avoid ingesting the defensive toxins it contains. Even if the concentration is not enough to provide a danger to you, it could end up contributing an unpleasant, bitter flavor to the final product.

That done, discard the head and digestive organs. True as it may be that Irkens are wholly free of parasites, with a chance that the viscera could be edible, it’s not likely to taste that great and besides, do you really want to take chances with exposing yourself to an entirely foreign gut biome you have no immune adaptations to? And don’t even think about the brain- I don’t care how rare the infection rates are, alien prions are a big no. If you happen to run into any cybernetic implants during the cleaning, however, set them aside! They could be worth a small fortune in the right circles. But, for the purpose of eating we’re really concerned with the muscle tissues, a delicate white meat with a texture similar to fresh crab. The bones need not be wasted, and are fine to leave in, or can be boiled on their own to make a flavorful stock which can be added to soups or a delightful gravy. A surprisingly practical use of Irken bone could also be in the compost bin, being rich in chitosan and other powerful garden fertilizers. The flesh can do well fried, or roasted to a crispy exterior. The oven rule is the same as chicken, low and slow, to prevent drying out. Don’t be afraid to experiment with the gravy idea or marinades. The flavor profile of the meat itself would be utterly unique from what most of us are used to, comparable to a nutty crayfish. Savory, a bit of a sweetness, and a mineral hint that pairs quite well with mushrooms or rice.

I can’t recommend serving this to any guests with shellfish allergies in good conscience. If they insist, do so in caution and with knowledge of the risk of cross reactivity.

And there you have …. certainly a thing I did write and queue up for y’all!

[crazyunsexycool]

My little love

Chapter 17

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x enhanced!reader

Word count: 3.7k

Warnings: none really

A/N: work has been kicking my ass lately so I haven’t really had the energy to write but here is the next chapter for our favorite family.

Series masterlist

Ch 16

You stood in the communal kitchen sipping slowly on the hot cup of tea you’d made yourself. It was the middle of the night and it was the first moment of quiet you’d had since you woke up after almost dying.

Again.

Everyone came to see you multiple times a day. It felt like there was a revolving door at your apartment. You knew it was out of concern and you appreciated it but after a few days it was a bit tiring, which was the first time you’d ever wanted some alone time. Ever since you were little all you wanted to be was surrounded by people that cared and now here you were, overwhelmed.

“Y/N?”

“Hhmm?” You looked up to find Steve at the entryway. The same furrowed brow he’d send your way when he was worried about something.

“Are you ok? I called your name like three times and you didn’t answer. Should I get Bruce?”

You shake your head and sigh. Leaning against the counter you take another sip of your tea.

“You only get this quiet when something’s bugging you so what is it?”

“Nothing’s bugging me. I’ve just been overwhelmed with everything that’s going on and this trip to Wakanda.” You try to take a deep breath but there’s still some issues so you cough a bit. “You know I never got to really thank you.”

“For what?”

“For saving my life. If it hadn’t been for you I’d probably be dead right now.”

“Don’t say that. Of course I’d do anything to help you.”

“I know Stevie, but still. It was selfless and you didn’t even hesitate.”

“I did have a selfish reason. You’re my best friend, I couldn’t lose you.”

You smile as Steve gets closer and hugs you.

“I’m serious, Bucky wouldn’t be the only one to feel lost without you.”

“Well you have me for a couple of months unless Bruce figures out how to completely get rid of this poison.”

“He’s working around the clock to try and find something. I’m sure he’s close to finding a cure and by the time Bucky and the kids get back from Wakanda you’ll be back to normal.”

You look up at Steve and smiled awkwardly. Everyone had decided that you were going to stay at the compound while Bucky went to Wakanda and stayed for however long Henry’s treatment lasted. You didn’t like the idea of being away from Bucky or the kids for an undetermined amount of time so you had already packed your bags. The only problem is that you hadn’t told anyone, until now.

“You can’t be serious? You’re still recovering.”

“I can recover while I’m over there too. Maybe a change of environment will help me.”

Steve is visibly upset and he crosses his arms over his chest. “So not only are my best girl and best guy leaving, two of my best friends are too?”

“Steve, I’m sure you can come visit. We aren’t leaving forever.” You roll your eyes playfully.

“Fine. I just worry about you guys.”

“And I appreciate it. Why are you up at this time anyway? Couldn’t sleep?”

“Not really. I was going over the next mission since it leaves early.”

“Well, it seems like we’re both leaving in a few hours. We should try and get some rest.”

“Yeah you’re right.” He sighs and rubs his eyes. “Good night Magnet.”

“Night you fossil.”

“What are you doing, I thought all of our bags were already on the jet?” Bucky asks as he walks up behind you.

“These are mine.” You turn and wrap your arms around his midsection and give him a quick kiss before Bucky can say anything. “I’m not going to stay behind while you’re gone with the kids.”

He looks at you a little wide eyed be he was caught so off guard that he couldn’t really react. Bucky just accepts the second quick kiss you give him.

“So you’re coming with us?”

“Yes.”

“Good because I don’t think I’d know a moment's peace without having you by my side.” Bucky sighs in relief. “Let me take these to the jet.”

“I’ll make sure the kids are ready.”

Bucky grabs your bags and heads out of the apartment to one of the jets that’s been prepared for your trip. You follow him out of your bedroom and into Lottie’s room to make sure her backpack has everything she needs during the flight and then you do the same for Henry.

In the living room Steve is sitting with a very teary eyed Lottie and a pouty Henry. He hugs both kids and murmurs reassuring words.

“Are you ready to go?” Steve says when he sees you walk in.

“Yup. We have everything we need packed.”

“Well then I’ll walk down with you guys then.” Steve stands and moves Charlotte to his hip while Henry takes your hand.

Once you’re at the hanger the rest of the team is there to say they’re goodbyes. Lottie however holds on to Steve for dear life.

“I stay with Steeb.” Lottie announces.

“Sweet Angel but we have to go.”

“Mama are you going with us?” Henry asks, hope sparkles in his eyes.

“Yes I’m going with you. I would miss you too much.”

Henry smiles and wraps his arms around your waist.

“Mama go?”

“Yes, sweet Angel and uncle Steve can visit soon. But we have to go now.” You stretch your arms out to grab her but don’t pull her away from Steve.

Her big blue eyes look at you and then at her uncle. Lottie’s arms wrap around his neck and she gives him a kiss on the cheek before diving into your arms.

“Bye bye Steebie.” Lottie waves at Steve who just looks hurt at the fact that she changed her mind.

“I promise to send you lots of pictures and videos. Bucky said he’d show her the g-o-a-t-s he used to tend to.”

“Just try to take care of yourself over there ok?” Steve says as he hugs Henry and then you.

Bucky walks out of the jet and stands beside you. He takes the kids backpacks and swings them onto his shoulder.

“We should get going, it’s a long trip.” He kisses your temple and then reaches over to give Steve a quick hug. “Come see us when you get the chance.” He tells Steve.

Bucky takes Henry’s hand and they head back to the jet. You snicker when you see the kid’s backpacks on his shoulder.

“The world’s most feared assassin wearing a princess backpack.” You turn back to look at Steve. “Don’t get reckless ok? I won’t be there to have your back.”

“I won't, I promise. Have a good trip.”

You wave one last time before finally making it into the jet. Henry is already strapped in and you sit Charlotte right next to him before taking a seat yourself.

Most of the flight had been quiet. Since you left so early the kids fell asleep right after take off. Bucky mostly stayed at the pilot’s seat while you read. You were halfway through your journey when Charlotte and Henry finally woke up so you got some of the snacks you’d packed for them.

“Mama.” Lottie cried. The little whimper she let out made Bucky panic.

It reminded him of when Lottie found you on the bathroom floor. He whipped his head around thinking he’d find you unconscious again.

“It’s ok sweet Angel. It's just a little juice on your pajamas.”

You stood and went into the bathroom to grab some napkins. Bucky breathed a sigh of relief as he watched you pat Lottie’s pajama dry. You kissed her forehead before sitting next to her and helping her finish the snack you’d given her.

You could feel Bucky’s eyes on you and turned your head to look at him. He smiles and you wink at him before you turn back and start talking with Henry.

“Do we have to do this?” Henry asks you.

“We do bubs.”

“But why? I want to go home.”

“Are you scared sweet boy?” Henry nods. “Oh sweetheart you don’t have to be scared. You remember what we talked about right?”

“The bad man and the words.”

“Yes, the bad man did the same thing to daddy to make him do bad things. Wakanda, where we’re going, helped daddy get rid of those bad words. That way no bad men can make daddy do anything he doesn’t want to do. And they’re going to help you too.”

“Will you stay with me?”

“Yes baby. It’s why I came with you so that I can be close by when you need me.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

As Bucky landed the jet you saw that not only was T’Challa waiting for you but a group of Dora Milaje were at his side. It’s not like you would do any differently if one of hydra’s “assets” was being brought in. You had all changed into more appropriate clothes than the loungewear you’d been wearing and now you were just fixing a bow on Lottie’s hair. Bucky exits first so that he could talk to T’Challa.

“It is good to see you again Sergeant Barnes.”

“It’s good to be back King T’Challa.” Bucky replies with a grin as they embrace each other quickly.

“What have I said about you calling me king?”

“The same thing I’ve said about you calling me Sergeant.”

You were just grabbing hold of Henry’s hand when you saw someone else rush toward Bucky. They do a very complicated handshake in greeting. You recognize her as Shuri from what Bucky and Steve had told you.

“If it isn’t my favorite white boy.”

You snort at the comment and walk down the ramp to stand by Bucky.

“And who is this?” Shuri asks as she looks curiously at Charlotte and then at you. Your own eyes bounce from T’Challa who you smile at to Okoye who is keeping a stoic expression and then to the young and bright princess.

“Shuri, this is Y/N my girlfriend and this is Charlotte our daughter.”

“I thought you were bringing the asset. And since when do you have a daughter?”

Bucky turned and didn’t see Henry, who had hidden behind you and made himself invisible. Scared of all of the new faces. You also turned your head to look down to where Henry should be standing.

“Henry, could you let us see you please.”

At your request Henry slowly faded into view. His arms wrapped around your waist as he peeked around you to look up at everyone. You can practically see the conflicting emotions on everyone’s faces when they realize they wouldn’t be working with an adult but a child.

“This is who hydra was using?” Okoye asked with a horrified expression on her face.

“It is a very long story but yes. Henry is my son and hydra was preparing him to be the next winter soldier. We’re pretty sure they were going to do the same with Lottie.”

“Hi there little man. You know I’m friends with your baba, I’d like to be friends with you too.What do you say?” Shuri lowered herself to be at eye level with Henry and she smiled. Henry looked up at you and Bucky and Bucky encouraged him to speak up.

“Ok.”

“Would you like to see what I’ve been working on in my lab?”

Henry nods but doesn’t move.

“Come on, we'll go together. Shuri has the coolest things there bubs.” Bucky says as he takes Henry’s hand. He turns to you unsure of what to do.

“Why don’t you go ahead and I’ll show Y/N where you’ll be staying?” T’Challa offers.

“Go ahead. I’ll see you later.”

You and Lottie walk beside T’Challa in one direction while Bucky and Henry follow Shuri. The palace was beautiful. It somehow combined sleek and modern with tradition and culture. Lottie was also fascinated with the beauty found in every corner. Little gasps left her lips as she pointed when she saw something she liked.

“So tell me about this little one and everything that’s happened since we last met.” T’Challa asked as he led you to a garden within the palace. Okoye followed and you could feel her eyes on you.

“Well almost three months ago we were on a mission to shut down a hydra detention center. It’s the biggest one we’ve found to date. Everyone was divided searching through different floors when Bucky said he needed a medic. He led me down to an operating room and on the table was Lottie,” you explained as you watched her explore the new area. “She was very malnourished and her health was declining quickly. I worked with Banner and when we did scans we found multiple healed fractures and worse. Later on we found videos of her birth… It was horrible.”

“Did Bucky know about her existence?”

“No. He only found out he was the father a few days later.”

“At least you were able to find her while she was so young.” T’Challa says and you smile.

“She was actually born in nineteen eighty eight. They kept her in cryo so technically she’s three. On a different mission I found three other boys but I got there too late.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He says sincerely.

“Thank you. Henry we found a day after we ran into each other at the auction. As you know he’s already been programmed to be the winter soldier which is why we came. I wanted to thank you for that. For giving him a chance.”

“You love them very much don’t you?”

“So much. I’d do anything for them. So would Bucky, this hasn’t been easy for him at all but he loves those kids and they love him too.”

“Mama look.” Lottie walks up to you with a flower and a big smile. “It’s Pwetty.”

“It is very pretty, sweet Angel.”

Lottie does her best to tuck the small flower behind her ear but fails. You grab it and place it for her and quickly grab your phone to take a picture and send it to Steve. Lottie wanders over to Okoye and starts talking. The general crouches and places all of her attention on the curious child before her.

“She seems to have a way with people.”

“Yeah, she’s very charming.”

“Is that her ability?” T’Challa chuckles.

“Maybe, but she can see the future. It’s very difficult because the visions come at random and she doesn’t know how to handle them. Most of the time she stops breathing and we don’t know what to do until it’s over.”

“I can’t imagine being in that position but rest assured Shuri will help Henry and if you mention it maybe she can do something to help Charlotte.”

“You have no idea how much this means to us. We’ll never be able to repay you.” You smile.

“Just raise them to be good people. That will be payment enough. Now why don’t I show you where you’ll be staying.”

You stand and call Lottie over. She runs towards you and grabs your hand as you follow T’Challa to the rooms he had prepared for you.

“You made all of this?” Henry asked as Shuri showed him all of the gadgets she’d been working on.

“I did. They aren’t perfect yet but I’m getting there.”

“Who are they for?”

“Has your baba not told you about Wakanda’s greatest protector?”

Henry looks at Shuri wide eyed and shakes his head. Shuri gives Bucky a disapproving glance before she begins to tell Henry the story she’d been told since she was a child. By the time she was done Henry was absolutely fascinated with the Black Panther.

“Why doesn’t Black Panther fight with the Avengers?” Henry asks when Shuri is done.

“Well I think if the Avengers needed any extra help the Black Panther would definitely fight alongside them. But you must remember there are other places that also need help so he goes there to help those people too.”

“Oh.” Is all Henry says and then nods in understanding. “Will it hurt? To get the words out.” He changes the subject back to the reason he’s there in the first place.

“No it won’t hurt. You can even ask your baba, I helped him too.”

Henry looks over at Bucky and the latter shakes his head.

“It doesn’t hurt at all and remember I’ll be here with you the whole time.”

“And mama?”

“She’ll be here too.” Bucky smiles at his son.

“Now, I know it might feel scary at times so when you feel scared or want a break all you have to do is tell me and we can stop ok?”

“Ok.”

“Alright,” Shuri says as she types something on a computer. “Would it be ok if I get some information? Then you can go with your baba and find your mama and sister.”

Henry nods and sits on the chair Shuri pulls out for him. She begins to get a baseline reading for his vitals and all the basic things she’ll need.

It didn’t take to long for her to get what she needed and soon enough Henry and Bucky where making their way through the palace halls.

“Did you stay here while Shuri helped you?”

“No, I stayed by a lake. I’ll take all of you to see it.” Bucky answers as he leads Henry toward the rooms that you’d be sharing. “We’ll do lots of fun things too.”

The rooms you’d been given were fantastic. They had high ceilings and natural light filtering in through floor to ceiling windows. The beds were ridiculously comfortable and Charlotte immediately laid down right in the middle of the bed you’d be using. Off to one side there was a set of double doors that led to a balcony. The view was just as incredible as everything else. The longer you looked out the more you understood why Bucky loved this place so much.

After the lack of sleep and the flight you were beyond exhausted so you laid down next to Charlotte. As you relaxed more and closed your eyes, she crawled closer and sat by your head. Her little hand came up and gently caressed your face.

“Mama go seep?” She asked curiously.

“You should sleep too, my sweet Angel.”

“Night night mama.” Lottie said as she moved around to lay down next to you. It wasn’t your intention but you did fall asleep quickly.

***

“Mama seeping.” You could hear Charlotte saying.

Then the bed dipped and you felt someone sit down on your other side. When you looked, Henry was getting comfortable.

“Hi sweet boy, what did you do with Shuri?”

“She let me see all the stuff she makes. It’s kind of like uncle Tony but she makes them for the Black Panther. Did you know about him?”

“Did I know about the Black Panther? Of course I even worked with him once.”

Henry started asking anything he could think of. There’s a knock on the door which Bucky answers. By this point you’re sitting and turning your attention to him.

“We’ve been invited to dinner tonight. Queen Ramonda would like to meet you and the kids.” Bucky says as he finally joins the three of you in bed.

Lottie shuffled around until she was laying her head on his chest.

“Hi dada.”

“Hi Doll. Did you do anything fun?”

“Mmhh,” she nods her head. “Habe fwiend.”

“You have a friend?”

“Yeah. Koye is fwiend. So pwetty.” She mumbles as her eyes begin to close.

You both chuckle as you watch Lottie finally fall asleep when you turn to ask Henry what he was doing, He'd fallen asleep too. After carefully moving around both of them you and Bucky managed to get out of bed. He opens the door for the balcony and you both step outside.

Bucky’s arms wrap around your waist as he rests his chin on your shoulder. You take in the view of Wakanda. The mixture of the city and nature and its beauty.

“How did it go with Shuri?” You ask after a few minutes.

“Better than I expected. She distracted him with stories about black panther while she took most of the baseline readings. We think it would be better to do the sessions in the mornings. He’ll probably need a nap after and then we have the afternoon to ourselves. We could go out and let them explore.”

“That sounds like a solid plan. Do you know how long it might take?”

“No, but it won’t take as long as it did with me.”

You hun in acknowledgment and turn in Bucky’s arms. He smiles down at you while you play with the hair on the nape of his neck. Then he picks you up and balances you on the railing. You give him a few quick pecks on the lips and Bucky smiles after every single one.

“What’s the smile for?”

“Nothing, it’s just the last time I was here I felt like I didn’t have a place in the world. Like I didn’t deserve peace or happiness or love. That there wouldn’t be anyone that would accept me how I am. But here I am with two kids that mean everything to me and the most amazing woman that not only accepts me but loves me and my kids. It’s just… it feels good.”

“Baby,” you blinked back some tears. “Of course you deserve those things. There is nowhere in this world I’d rather be than by your side. I’ll never stop loving you or the kids.”

“I’ll never stop loving you either.” Bucky steps even closer to you and presses his lips against yours. It’s soft and sweet and when he pulls back his forehead is resting against yours. “Let’s get some rest before dinner. With all the sleeping the kids have done they’re going to be up for hours after.”

“Yeah, I could use a nap.”

Bucky tightens his hold on you and carries you into the room. Just how you had gotten out of bed you both quietly got back in without waking the kids. Bucky sets an alarm so you’ll wake up and have enough time to get ready.

The four of you lay in bed all snuggled up against each other. You watch as Bucky’s eyes flutter close and his breathing evens out and you smile. Bucky found his peace and you found your family. Even if you weren’t sure of what would happen in the future this moment was pure perfection.

Ch 18

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[princessamericachavez]

911 6x11 Coda

Read in AO3 too

“So this dreamland of yours,” Eddie says after a comfortable silence filled only by the background noise of the sports commentators, “what was it really like?”

“Super freaky,” Buck huffs a laugh. “I told you already.”

“No,” Eddie drawls the word with playful annoyance. “You told us the saccharine version because Christopher was there. Or because you didn’t want someone else to know the details. I don’t know,” he shrugs. “All I know is you aren’t telling the whole story.”

“I am,” Buck tries, but can hear the uncertainty in his own voice.

Eddie finally peels his eyes off the tv screen to pin him with a knowing look.

“Buck, I know you. You were holding back. Which… fine, you don't owe the entire world details about whatever was going on in your brain during a coma. I get it. But, c’mon, it’s me. Spill.”

Buck bites the inside of his cheek. There are details he really doesn't want to reach the others. He doesn’t want to upset anyone with the fucked up things his subconscious came up with. But… yeah, this is Eddie. Somehow, it feels wrong not to tell him.

“Bobby was dead.”

Even now, in the real world, having seen him just a few hours ago for lunch, the words get stuck in his throat. Buck hates the way his voice shakes with the ghost of heartbreak, still remembers the sensation of the world crashing down around him when Chimney (fake Chimney) told him. He tightens the grip of his beer, letting the sting of his wounded hands ground him in this reality.

Eddie arches his eyebrows. “What happened?”

“He… fell off the wagon. No one noticed, until it was too late.”

“Because you weren’t there?” Eddie’s expression turns critical. “Buck, you do know Bobby’s sobriety isn’t your responsibility, right?”

“I know. I know. The world doesn’t revolve around me,” he rolls his eyes, taking a sip of his beer to wash down the bitterness. “But you… you didn’t know Cap before. Before you joined, for a while, he was… different. Too reserved. Like- like he thought if he didn’t get to know us, we’d be better off or something.”

He can see the confusion in Eddie’s eyes while the information sets in. He can’t blame him. This Cap, this Bobby, is so different it’s almost impossible to reconcile him with the one he first met.

“Anyway,” he tries to lighten the air, “I guess I was annoying enough to break him out of his shell a little, or make him laugh. Or maybe I’m just giving myself too much credit.”

Eddie lets out a noncommittal hum. “Guess I can see that.”

It feels good to have said it, to let it out, to have someone else know. He trusts Eddie’s discretion and knows that, if Bobby’s death comes to haunt him in his nightmares, he’ll at least have someone to tell. He’s ready to return his attention back to the game when Eddie pops a sudden question:

“And me? What was I like?”

“I told you.”

“Angry, yeah,” Eddie frowns. “So that’s it? Without you I’m just… angry guy?”

Buck laughs, shaking his head, and is about to change de subject when he notices that Eddie looks bothered by the statement. As if whatever Buck’s subconscious said about him was a big offense.

“It wasn’t about me,” he offers.

Eddie pins him with another look meant to strip him bare of his secrets. Buck looks down at his hands, unable to meet his eyes:

“You- you lost Chris. To your parents. Big messy legal battle. Hen- Hen said they declared you unfit to be a single dad and a firefighter.”

Eddie takes a big gulp of beer with his eyes on the screen.

“Oh, yeah… that’d piss me off.”

To Buck’s relief, he sounds lighthearted about it. He guesses it’s easier when it’s just a made up crazy reality in someone else’s dying brain, when it didn’t feel so real and definitive as it did to him.

“Guess no one else there introduced you to Carla.”

“And you weren’t there,” Eddie points, “to fight for him.”

“No, I wasn’t…”

Eddie nods, still staring at some point in the distance, clearly not watching the game. Buck waits him out, let’s the idea settle, because he knows his silences enough to guess this one prefaces a statement.

“And you didn’t meet me there?” He finally asks and, again, he seems offended with Buck’s subconscious.

Buck feels the need to defend himself:

“To be fair, you would’ve just called me crazy and called the cops on me or something. I mean, Chim and Hen were ready to roll with it, but you don’t even believe in jinxes. What do you think you would’ve said if a guy you’ve never met before showed up claiming to be your best friend from another life?”

Eddie laughs, really laughs, and Buck finds himself smiling too. On retrospect, he kinda wishes he had searched him out, just to have another ridiculous scenario to tell him about now.

“No, that’s- that’s true,” Eddie shakes his head, still smiling. “Probably would’ve dragged you to the nearest psych ward. Still…” he trails off.

“Still what?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “I feel bad for that Eddie. Sounds like he could’ve used a Buck in his life.”

Buck is past feeling guilty for leaving those subconscious versions of his family behind (except for Chris, he’s never getting over that one), but he’d be lying if he said he hasn’t been running through scenarios in his head, wondering what could’ve happened if he’d stayed. (Aside from, obviously, being dead and all that).

“Yeah, I guess so,” he sighs sipping his beer. “Still, I don’t know how much I could’ve helped. I mean, of course, I would’ve tried to help you- him get Chris back. But I’m not sure how that’d work without the whole legal guardian thing, you know? I mean, m- maybe I could’ve found Ca-“

The cushion hits him square in the face and nearly makes him spill his beer.

“Hey! What’s that about?! I’m convalescent here!”

“That’s not what I meant."

“No?”

“No!” Eddie rolls his eyes, exasperated for some reason Buck doesn’t understand. “I mean… yeah, if I was in that position, of course, I’d want help getting my son back. But that’s not it…”

Buck scratches the back of his head, squinting at Eddie like it’ll somehow help him read between the lines of whatever he’s trying to say.

“Then what is it?”

“I just-“ Eddie stumbles with his words and sighs. “I just meant... it sounds like he could use a friend.”

What good would that do?

Buck doesn���t say it, but his face must betray the thought by the way Eddie’s mouth twists with annoyance.

“Buck, all your help with Chris, introducing us to Carla, you being part of his life, helping me raise him… of course, it means a lot. I don’t think I could’ve done this without you.”

“But?” He prompts.

“But,” Eddie says slowly, looking him in the eye, “that’s not all that matters. I mean, you’re my best friend, man. Even without all that, I’d want to be friends with you, hang out, laugh, do shit all on a Sunday night. That matters too.”

Just being Buck.

“Oh.”

Eddie looks away, takes two big gulps of beer, like they can wash down the emotional weight of what he’s trying to explain.

“I’m just saying,” he says, eyes still on the game they are both ignoring. “If I was going through that, it sounds like hell… I’d want a friend like you by my side. You’re a very good friend.”

Buck ducks his head to hide the heat of blood rushing through his entire face. “Uh, well, thanks… I- uh, I appreciate it. You’re a great friend too.”

He tries to picture Eddie without him. Tries to picture himself without Eddie. Both options seem impossible.

“Well, good thing we met," he decides with a grin, raising his beer lightly against Eddie's.

"Good thing you didn't die," Eddie says, and though he tries to hide it behind a sip of his beer and a distant look at the tv, Buck can feel the heaviness hidden behind that sentence. It only hits him at that moment... Eddie was maybe a little too close to finding out exactly what his life without Buck would be like. "I mean," he goes on with a shrug, "sucks for that other Eddie, but I'm not much of the sharing type. So I'm glad you came back."

"Of course," Buck smiles, trying to match the false lightness in his tone. "You're stuck with me."

"Good," Eddie nods a single time like the matter's settled. "But I'd rather not be stuck with this couch."

"It's so uncomfortable!" Buck chuckles, glad that someone finally brought it up.

"So uncomfortable!" Eddie agrees, finally meeting his eyes.

"My mom's always had the worst taste in furniture."

"Oh, so it runs in the family."

"Hey!" Buck pretends to be offended and throws the cushion back at his smug grinning face.

He misses by quite a bit (something to worry about later). Instead, the cushion knocks the beer bottle clean out of Eddie's hand and spills the dark liquid all over the couch's white fabric.

Buck and Eddie look at the growing stain. They stare at each other, silent, frozen with the sudden panic of two little kids about to be reprimanded by a grown-up. Except, there are no parents here...

...just two grown men who burst out laughing at the exact same time, bent over in a fit of giggles so loud that it drowns out the game's final touchdown. Not that anybody was watching, anyway.

[pedrito-friskito]

strawberry wine - joel miller x ofc!liv stone/fem!reader

during - part twenty

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

joel plans something amazing for you.

a/n: i’m late I know and I used the same joel pic in the last moodboard but there’s only so much pre-show plot joel I can get my hands on and fuck he just looks so good??? I had a lot of fuckin fun writing this, can’t wait to see what y’all think 🤍

word count: 7k

warnings: y’all know the drill by now, and nothing super heavy or explicit in this part.

✨@friskito-library for updates on new works/chapters✨

3 years later - 2013

“Wait, wait, wait.” Frank’s waving his hands, his eyes squeezed shut. “Tell me again. You what?”

You huff a laugh, hands wrapped around the cup of coffee resting on your thigh. It’s the good shit, from the tin that Frank hides even from Bill. You’re pretty sure he saves it only for your visits, namely ones like these where you two get to relax in the house, chatting away while Bill and Joel are off somewhere in town, fixing something or adjusting some measurement. You learned quickly to keep your distance when the two of them got to talking construction, opting to hide with Frank while your other halves did their thing.

“You know this,” you repeat, but reach into your collar, pulling at the chain around your neck until your ring pops out from your shirt. “It was one of the first things I ever told you, when we first met.”

“Bullshit,” Frank says, shaking his head. He crosses his arm over his chest, leaning back in his chair. “I would remember.”

“How old are you again?” you quip, lifting your coffee to your lips. “Maybe your memory’s going, old man.”

Frank’s jaw drops, and he reaches forward, batting at your hanging boot. “You little shit.”

You laugh, and he laughs with you.

“Okay, but really. Tell me again.”

It’s been a long three years.

Thankfully, things have stayed relatively the same in the QZ, and you’ve remastered the art of sneaking out. Joel is a magnet, glued to your side every time you set foot outside the walls, and while Tess has accompanied you more than once on your trips to Lincoln, she’s a little more content to stay in the QZ than before, and you can’t blame her.

Robin moved in with Tess, and has quickly become part of your little family. However, at Tess’s insistence, she knows nothing about your smuggling operation. As far as she knows, the three of you just take whatever jobs you can get from FEDRA, Joel keeping up his handyman position in your building, you keeping up appearances in the radio room.

You’ve curated your own little collection of radios. There’s the main one, still in your tiny room at Abe’s, but the radio in your apartment now plays the coded songs from Bill and Frank; sixties if there’s nothing new, seventies when you’re due for a visit, and eighties if there’s trouble. So far, there’s been no eighties, and you’re grateful. You’ve become pretty attached to the two older gentlemen living in the little town of Lincoln, and these days, Frank rivals Tess for the title of your closest confidant. 

You’ve got a little handheld radio too, for the off-chance you’re out of Boston for an extended period of time, and not heading for Lincoln. Bill had supplied it after your fifth visit, handing it to you as you packed up your bag in the dining room.

“Here,” he said quietly, and you nearly jumped out of your skin, not hearing him approach. “This works on the same frequencies we’ve been communicating on. If you’re ever out of Boston, take it with you, and it’ll still play Frank’s songs.”

You’d stared at the bearded man for a long time, your hand slowly reaching out to take the device. “Thanks, Bill.”

He gave you a curt nod. “You’re welcome.”

You still can’t get a read on the guy, even three years later. Frank insists that you’re his favourite of your group, that he’s got a soft spot for you specifically, but is still wary of Joel. Though you know every conversation Joel and Bill have that revolves around construction and protection gets Joel an inch closer to Bill’s good side.

Since Tommy left, Joel has changed in some ways, stayed exactly the same in others. The day after your first visit to Lincoln, he was home early. Too early. Early enough that you hadn’t even really gotten out of bed yet when he was barging through the door, slamming it shut behind him. It made you flinch, lurching to your feet and calling his name.

He had his hands pressed to the door, his shoulders hunched, head hung between them. You crossed the apartment quickly, laid your hand in the middle of his back, and Joel’s entire body quaked beneath your touch.

“Baby, what happened?” you asked, your worry evident in your tone. “Where were you?”

“Tommy’s gone,” he murmured, and his voice snapped on his little brother’s name. “Fuckin’ Fireflies shipped him off to their base in Minneapolis. He’s gone, Liv. He left us.” Joel pushed off the door, turned slowly towards you, and the sadness in his face made your heart ache. “He left me.”

“Oh, Joel.”

Since that day, he’s become more stoic. More brutal, in ways. Smuggling has become a more common occupation in the QZ, and Joel’s been quick to let the competition know just who you are, and that you were here first. Robert — the head of a rival group with a penchant for taking your drops before you have the chance to reach them — has taken to calling Joel the attack dog. “And your wife’s the one holdin’ the leash,” Robert joked once. Joel gave you a sideways look, and you just nodded. He broke the fucker’s nose.

You’ve crossed paths with Marlene on more than one occasion since Joel’s encounter with her when Tommy first left. Unfortunately. You instantly didn’t like her, but the feeling seemed to be mutual. Every time she looked at you, you felt like you were walking on eggshells, and your mind always begged the question: did Tommy tell her you’re immune? She’s never come out and said it, never asked or alluded to it, but you can’t shake the feeling, the worry, the anxiety.

The radio info she gave Joel wasn’t bullshit, at least. You gave it a few days, like she said, and then found the frequency, called out to the Minneapolis base. The voice that first answered was one you didn’t recognize, but you asked for Tommy specifically, name-dropped Marlene — who you’d yet to meet, at that point — and a moment later, your brother-in-law’s voice floated through the headset.

“Hey, Liv.”

“You’re alive.”

Tommy chuckled. “Somethin’ like that. Guess you talked to Marlene, huh?”

“Joel did,” you answered. “I haven’t had the pleasure yet.”

“She’s a good person,” Tommy replied, and you stifled the urge to roll your eyes. “Lots of good people out here, too.”

“You know, I’ve never been to Minnesota,” you said, tapping your fingers against the radio table. “But I bet it’s not as nice as Boston.”

“Liv—”

“He wanted to apologize, Tommy,” you spat out, pressing your palm to your forehead. “When we got back from that run, the day before you left. He said he was gonna find you, and he was gonna fix it.”

The radio crackled with silence for a moment before, “Well, it’s a little late for that now, isn’t it?”

“Jesus Christ, Tommy. Can’t you just—”

“I’ll check in, when I can,” he said, ignoring you, cutting you off. “Let you know I’m alive, but I won’t…I won’t talk to Joel, all right? Not yet. I’ll leave messages with Abe, if I can’t get ahold of you, but I just…I don’t wanna talk to Joel. Okay?”

His tone told you there was no negotiating. Defeated, you leaned back in the chair, tugging on the headset cord. “Okay.”

Tommy’s refusal to speak to his brother didn’t exactly help Joel’s mood. In fact, he nearly put his boot through the fucking wall, reached for one of the stashed bottles of whiskey. When you tried to talk about it, all you got was, “Well, I don’t wanna fuckin’ talk to him either.”

Weeks passed, and neither of them would relent. You begged Tommy on multiple occasions, tried to talk Joel into coming with you to Abe’s, but they’re both stubborn asses. Joel even tried to use the same tactic he had before Tommy left Boston — literally fucking you into submission — but you didn’t let him get as far this time. In fact, you threatened to hold out on him completely. 

Easier said than done, especially when he had his face in your throat, nipping that spot under your jaw that turned you into putty. “I know all your little places, Liv,” he mumbled into your skin, and you groaned. “I know you what gets you goin’. Always have.”

“So help me, Joel, I will go stay with Tess,” you threw back, and he’d pulled back almost instantly, something between shock and fear in his eyes. Something prickled in your chest, but you pushed past it. “You can’t bury your problems, baby. No matter how good it feels.”

He stared at you for a long moment, eyes searching yours, his lips softly parted. He swallowed so thickly you saw his throat bob, and then he leaned down slow, the tip of his nose just brushing yours. It was a soft kiss, softer than you were expecting, one hand adjusting to cup the back of your head. It wasn’t hungry, but gentle. An I love you pressed against your mouth.

“Tomorrow,” Joel murmured. “I’ll go with you. I’ll talk to him. I’ll try.” Something flashed in his eyes, that streak of Miller stubbornness returning. “But if he won’t talk to me, there’s nothin’ I can do.”

And those fuckers talked for hours.

There was a smug sense of accomplishment that came with watching Joel sitting at that tiny table, the headset pushing his hair in every direction, hunched over the microphone. You busied yourself with your notebook, half listening to their conversation. Joel grabbed you when you wandered close, hauled you into his lap as he said goodbye to his brother.

Once the radio was quiet, he yanked the headset off, dove his hand into your hair, and pulled your mouth down to his. You squeaked in surprise, letting your arms drape around his neck, one hand sneaking down the back of his collar. His palm cupped your jaw, kissing you soundly, and when he pulled back after a moment, his eyes were shining.

“Thank you.”

It’s continued, ever since you got them both to pull their heads out of their asses. Joel still has his days where he’s more mad at Tommy for leaving than anything else, occasions where he grumbles at you to just tell his brother he says hello when you tell him you’re heading for the radio. You make up excuses, tell Tommy that Joel’s working when he doesn’t come with you, and Tommy seems to believe it, for the most part. Your chats are scheduled, Tommy letting you know the next date and time he’ll check in before you say your goodbyes, and he’s stuck to every one since.

Neither you or Joel has asked what he’s doing in Minneapolis, why Marlene sent him, what the Fireflies have planned for Minnesota. You honestly don’t know if you want to know.

Visits to Lincoln have become a staple, and you’re grateful as hell. Twice a month, if you can manage it — most of the time, you visit even if the song that comes through on the radio is sixties (nothing new). You feel restless in the QZ, the imposing walls and the reminders of everything weighing on you more and more with every passing year.

You made a good call, with Frank. He’s exactly what you needed, exactly when you needed a friend like him.

A friend.

That’s what we are. Friends.

You sip your coffee as Frank gets up, heading towards the fridge. You’re perched on the kitchen counter, one boot swinging beneath you, cup resting on your leg. “I definitely told you we were married,” you say, lifting your brow as he opens the fridge, bending to fish something out.

“You definitely did not,” he replies, and as he straightens, your mouth drops open at the big bowl of strawberries in his hands. “I made good use of those seeds we traded for.”

You nearly fall over as he holds it towards you, letting you pick. The fruit is cold between your fingers, and when you sink your teeth into the strawberry, you feel like you could burst into tears. “Oh my god.”

“I know,” Frank replies, and sits back down at the small kitchen table, the strawberries between you. “Eat as many as you like; they’re growing like weeds out back.” His hand smacks against the table. “But I am telling you, Olivia, you never told me you and Joel were married!”

You nearly choke on the berry, wiping juice from the corner of your mouth with your thumb as you swallow it down. “Don’t you full name me,” you say with a laugh, knowing he’s joking. “Not like it was a real wedding or anything. We nearly died.”

Frank balks. “Pardon? No, you definitely never told me this.”

Reaching for another strawberry, you recount the story. Joel proposing, the FEDRA office, the car bombs, the Fireflies. How shaken you were. You can see the understanding on Frank’s face; you’ve told him about your time in Boston before Joel too, what happened on Outbreak Day, the days and weeks and months that followed.

You can feel your voice quaking slightly as you finish the tale, and Frank scoots his chair closer, reaching out and putting a hand on your leg. “I’m sorry, Liv.”

“Don’t be,” you say, staring down into your coffee cup, shaking your head. “We’re both alive.”

“But you never got the dress?” Frank asks, and you try to ignore the pang in your chest. “The first dance?”

“I have the ring,” you say, like it’s a consolation. “I’ve been trying to find one for Joel for forever, but how fucking morbid is that? Wearing some dead guy’s wedding ring? And Joel said the same thing, when he proposed, that it wasn’t the same, no big white dress, and I told him I didn’t care. I don’t care. If things were normal, I would have dragged his ass to Vegas the first chance I got. But…in retrospect, it just would have been nice to have my family there, say vows, something like that. Instead of some FEDRA thug telling me to sign on the dotted line.”

“I get it,” Frank says, squeezing your leg. “It’s okay, you know, to wish it was different. I think we try to push that away, to just accept the world like it is now, but it’s okay to miss the way things were. Tears have crawled up the back of your throat, and there’s a noise from outside, Bill calling Frank’s name.  There’s no panic in it, and Frank leans to glance out the window. “I’ll be right back. Have some more coffee.”

You refill your cup, steal another few strawberries. You give it a few minutes, and when Frank doesn’t come back, you slide off the counter, coffee in hand, and wander the house. You’ve seen it a bunch of times, at this point. Frank even tried to teach you piano, and you both laughed until your sides hurt at how awful you were at it.

Your boots seem to move of their own accord, walking down the main hall towards the front door. The walls are lined with picture frames, a few on the tables near the foyer, and your eyes drag over each photo. There are lots of old photos, people you assume to be Bill’s family. Some look as old as the first World War, and you pick up one frame, confirming your suspicions when you see the back of the frame reads 1917.

A photo in the middle of the wall catches your eye. A man and a woman, standing outside a church. They both have stoic smiles on their faces, and the man looks so strikingly similar to Bill that you realize it must be his parents. His mother wears a white dress, a veil in her hair, gloves with little pearls around the wrist. His father wears a dark suit, a carnation flower pinned to his lapel, his hair neatly combed. His mother holds a small bouquet of flowers in her hand, her arm slipped through her new husband’s. 

You swallow around the sudden lump in your throat. Fuck, how different things could have been…

What if you had never left Austin? You would have had two whole years of normalcy with Joel, in theory. You could have gotten to know Sarah better, you could have—

You cut the thought off abruptly, but every what if it branches into makes your chest ache. What if you had moved in? What if you had gotten married? What if you’d had a baby, made Sarah a big sister? What if…

The sound of the front door makes you flinch, and you hiss as coffee spills over the edge of your mug, hot liquid on your hand. “Fuck!”

“Oh, shit, hold on, baby,” Joel says, and disappears into the kitchen, reappearing at the other end of the hallway a moment later with a towel. He takes the cup from you, wiping the droplets from it before he’s reaching for your wrist, inspecting your hand. “You okay?”

You nod a little too enthusiastically, chewing at your lip. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Joel stares at you for a moment, but hands you your coffee. “You about ready to go? Should start headin’ back soon.”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

+

A month later, and the first eighties song plays over the radio. You recognize it instantly; Every Little Thing She Does is Magic. Joel grabs the book Frank had supplied, confirms it’s 1981, and your heart drops into your toes.

“Joel, we have to go,” you say, your heart leaping into your throat, instantly looking around the apartment. Where’s your bag, where’s your bat, where’s—

Someone knocks at the door, and you sigh with relief when you see Tess on the other side. “Oh, thank god. We have to go.”

She squints at you. “What?”

You throw your hand in the direction of the radio, still playing The Police. “Eighties. Trouble.”

“Fuck,” she grits, and you just nod.

The entire trip has you on edge. Every time you have to stop for a moment, or hear the warning scream of an Infected, your toes are curling in your boots, fingers tapping against the handle of the bat. You’re terrified to think what you might find in Lincoln.

Joel keeps close to your side, his hand resting at the top of your spine as you walk. “It’ll be okay, baby,” he tells you, and you want to believe him, you really do, but the world hasn’t given you much reason to hope for the best.

When you take that final turn and Lincoln comes into view, you hold your breath. Everything looks the same, nothing’s on fire, you don’t see anybody bleeding in the street. As you approach the gate, your stomach is in knots.

And then Frank appears at end of the sidewalk, beaming at you as you approach, and you’re officially confused. “You’re here!” he calls, arms spread wide as he reaches the gate, punches in the code, letting the three of you inside. Tess closes the gate behind her once you’re all through, and just as you’re about to ask what the fuck is going on, Joel grabs your face, giving you a soft kiss before he’s disappearing, following Tess in the direction of the wine shop.

Frank gives you an innocent smile. “Do you trust me?”

“I did,” you say, your heart still stuttering as he puts his arm around your shoulders and starts to lead you away from the gate. “You played eighties! I thought something awful happened, you fuck!”

He laughs. “A cruel trick, I know,” he says, clucking his tongue. “But it’ll be worth it, I promise.”

“What are you—”

“Close your eyes.”

“Wha—”

“Just do it, Liv.”

With a heavy sigh, you just shake your head, lifting your hands and covering your eyes with them. “Joel and Tess are in on this too?”

“They are,” Frank answers, both hands gripping your shoulders, steering you in the direction he wants you to go. “It’s a good surprise, I swear to you. Just trust me.”

“You ever play eighties again, Frank, I will keep my ass in Boston.”

“Sure, you will.”

You huff, half-heartedly angry, but let him continue to lead you. You’re instantly turned around, no idea where Frank is leading you, and it’s not until you come to a stop and he releases you, tells you to open your eyes, and you see you’re standing in front of the clothing boutique.

“Inside!” Frank declares, yanking open the door. “Let’s go!”

He pulls the door shut as soon as you’re inside, the tinkling bells overhead ringing and echoing through the shop. You slide your hands into the back pockets of your jeans, looking around. “You really not gonna tell me what’s going on?” you ask as Frank brushes past you, heading towards the back of the boutique.

“Where’s the fun in that? C’mon!”

You’re less and less annoyed with every step. Frank tends to have that effect, and even though you’re still reeling from every awful thought you’d had on the trek from Boston to Lincoln, the smile he gives you as he comes to a stop in front of one of the mirrors at the back earns your forgiveness. There’s something in front of the mirror, what you assume to be a mannequin, draped with a dark sheet.

“I don’t think I’ve ever told you this,” he says, letting his hand skim over the fabric, “but my mother was a seamstress. She taught me a thing or two, and it’s surprisingly come in handy now, fixing Bill’s favourite shirts and what have you.” Your brow pinches with confusion, but Frank keeps talking. “And I know you’re mad, that we rang the alarm when there wasn’t a need, but I mean it, you just have to trust me, and this will be amazing.”

With a flourish, he pulls the sheet away, and your jaw drops.

It’s a dress. A white dress, made of silky-looking material. Floor-length, short sleeves, and flowers embroidered into the fabric everywhere you look. Pearly buttons line the side, and you can see it’s more like a satin slip underneath with the more filmy overlay that’s embroidered.

It’s a dress.

A wedding dress.

You clap your hand over your mouth, tears instantly filling your eyes. Is this…? What…?

“Joel?” is all you manage to squeak out, and Frank just nods.

“It was mostly his idea,” Frank admits with a shrug. You take a step closer to the dress, almost scared to touch it, worried there’s dirt or something on your hands that will stain the fabric. “When you were here about a month ago, he brought it up to Bill. He agreed, and I helped with the finer details.”

“Details?”

“The dress,” he says, jutting his chin towards the mannequin, “and a few other things. This is only the first part, Liv.”

The tears are in full force now, and Frank makes a little noise, coming to stand beside you, putting his arm around your shoulders. You drop your head against his shoulder and he lays his on top of yours. “You made this?” you ask, your voice quiet, swiping at the tears under your lashes before pointing to the dress. It’s literally so beautiful you could cry. You are crying.

“Hah, not exactly,” Frank replies, rubbing your shoulder. “I found it in the back of the shop. If I tried to make it myself, it’d probably end up looking more like Frankenstein’s monster than a wedding dress. But, put it on, we’ll see how it fits, and if you need any alterations, I’m your man.”

You feel like you’re in a dream, as he carefully pulls the dress off the mannequin. You take it with careful hands, heading for one of the dressing rooms and closing the door behind you. Laying the dress gently on the bench inside, you toe off your boots, shimmy out of your jeans, unbutton your shirt. Then you pause, frozen in place, staring at the dress.

It’s been more than a few minutes, you realize after a moment, and Frank calls your name. “You okay? Need any help?”

“I’m good,” you call back. In truth, you’re staring at yourself in the mirror. More specifically, the scar on your side. The bite. Frank calls your name again, and you cover it with your hand, pulse thumping through the mark. “I just need a sec.”

“Okay,” he replies, clearly unconvinced, but then the thought crosses your mind that if he tries to help, he’ll see the scar, and everything they’ve planned will go to shit.

Clearing your throat, you reach for the dress.

It fits like a fucking glove.

Almost sheepishly, you step out of the dressing room, and Frank gasps when you do, a giddy laugh reaching your ears as you feel them go hot. “Liv, you look beautiful.” He reaches for your hand. “I mean, you are beautiful, but oh, it’s perfect.” Before you can say anything, he all but pushes you back into the dressing room. “Change back, we have to go back to the house to get you ready.”

An hour later, and you’re standing in the spare bedroom of the house. The dress is laid out on the bed, your hair is freshly washed, and you feel so clean you almost want a nap. Frank had left some lavender-scented soap in the shower, and you can’t stop smelling your skin.

A knock at the door almost makes you flinch, and you call that it’s open. Tess steps through a moment later, and your breath catches at her dark red dress, her hair tucked behind her ear, a flower pinned with it. You both just start to giggle as she walks over to where you’re standing in front of the mirror. She stops behind you, her hands coming to rest on your shoulders, and you cover one with your own.

“Are you mad?”

“Mad?” you scoff, still laughing. “I should be, but I’m not.” You chew at your lip. “We’re having a wedding?”

She meets your eyes in the mirror, leaning her head against yours. “You’re having a wedding.”

It feels almost like you expect it would have, if the outbreak had never happened. Getting ready, laughing with one of your best friends. There’s no curling iron, but Tess puts little braids in your hair, flowers like the one behind her ear forming a crown on top of your hair. She gives you a tube of mascara and a lipstick, jokes with you that they’re probably well expired, but they’ll do the trick. “What’s life without a little risk?”

Frank appears at some point — looking well-put together in a dress shirt and jacket, his hair neatly combed — and offers you a little bouquet of daisies from the garden. Tess jokes that you should carry the bat instead, and you all laugh.

And then you’re ready. 

“We’ll be waiting out back,” Frank says, and both he and Tess peck your cheeks before they’re gone.

It’s time.

You give yourself a few minutes, wait until you can’t hear your friends’ voices anymore, until it’s just you in the house. You go to walk out of the bedroom, you really do, but you find you can’t do it. You sink onto the edge of the bed, curling your hands into the fabric of the bedspread, forcing yourself not to cry.

It almost feels like you thought it would have, but there’s a glaring difference.

You only ever let yourself imagine this once, with Joel. After you left Austin, when you were back visiting for the Fourth of July. You let yourself think about what would happen, if you never went back to Boston. You let your fantasies run a little wild.

Anna would have been your maid of honour, Sarah would have been the flower girl. Your mother would have cried and your dad would have walked you down the aisle. You would have said your vows in the same church your grandparents had been married in.

You don’t know what’s waiting for you outside, and you have no doubt it’s wonderful and beautiful and far more than you deserve.

But…Anna. Sarah. Your parents.

You hear the door creak open downstairs, hear someone’s feet on the stairs. You’re expecting Frank, maybe even Joel.

You’re not expecting Bill. Same as Frank, he’s combed his hair, tucked it behind his ears, and while he doesn’t have a jacket, his button-up is tucked into his pants. “Olivia?” 

He’s the only one who’s exclusively called you by your full name since…well, since your dad. With him, it was either honey or Olivia, no in-between. And while you’re pretty sure Bill didn’t say your name once on your first visit to Lincoln, he’s greeted you with a curt mumble of your name each time since.

“I’m coming,” you say, starting to get up, fanning your wet eyes. “I just needed a second.”

Bill pauses in the doorway, staring at you. “It’s okay, you know, if you need another one.”

You sink back down, feeling your chest go tight. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Bill tells you, and slowly, he steps into the room, walking towards the bed and sinking down beside you. “Today is about you, after all.”

You swipe at your cheek. “I’m surprised you agreed to this,” you say, and Bill lets out a little chuckle. “Not the best resource management.”

“Y’know, you say something to Frank once and he never lets you forget it,” he grumbles, shaking his head, but there’s a rare smile on his face. “It was Joel’s idea, I’m sure Frank told you.” You nod. “And I…I’ve had a soft spot for you, Olivia, since you two first showed up here. And it took me a while, but I realized, it’s because you remind me of Frank, in a way. You’re both…” He squints, waving his hand in the air.

“Feisty?”

“Feisty,” he agrees, “and headstrong, and loyal. And while I might not like him very much, I know Joel’s done right by you. He’s a good man, and he loves you, so when he asked for my help with this, I said yes.”

Your breath shakes a little as you sigh, leaning over until your head is resting on Bill’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

“You haven’t even seen it yet.”

“I know, but I’m still grateful. I never could have imagined…” You trail off, feeling the tears crawling back up again, and Bill puts his arm around your shoulders slowly. “I just, I always thought that when I got married, my family would be there, that my dad would walk me down the aisle, and I just…” You shake your head, holding your breath and trying to force the tears down.

“I know it’s not much of a consolation,” Bill says quietly, and slowly gets up, offering you his hand, “but I’d be honoured to walk you down.”

+

It’s not what Joel had envisioned, when the idea had first come to him. At this point, he can’t even quite remember what he had pictured, because whatever it was, the end result is better.

It’s late in the day. You’d left Boston late morning, arrived mid-afternoon, and while Tess had hurried Joel through a shower and getting dressed, leading him the back way out of the house while you came in the front, everyone careful not to let you see each other, the sun is starting to set. But it’s perfect, golden light covering the grass, sunbeams filtering through the trees. He can hear birds, and as he stands there, fidgeting with his hands clasped in front of him, he’s struck by how truly grateful he is, how he never could have imagined any of this.

Whatever thoughts had once crossed his mind, this is better.

He had the idea the last time you were in Lincoln. Bill had called Frank outside to ask something about their stockpile in the bunker, which Frank had rolled his eyes at, and Joel had expected you to follow Frank out, but when you didn’t, he asked.

“She’s inside, enjoying her coffee,” Frank had replied with a little smile, waving his hand toward the house. “There’s extra; I’ll send you two back with a thermos full.”

Joel had waited for Bill’s protest, but it never came, and Joel just grumbled his thanks.

“Liv was just telling me about your wedding day,” Frank said, and Joel’s ears perked up. “Leave it to FEDRA to make something beautiful so impersonal.”

“Yeah,” Joel agreed, staring down at his boots. “It’s not the day I woulda given her, if I had the chance.”

And there it was, the first spark of something. He couldn’t give you the wedding you’d probably dreamed of as a little girl, but maybe he could give you something else.

“Say, could I ask y’all a favour?”

Frank was overjoyed at the thought, and Joel again waited for Bill’s protest, but again it never came. Frank promised to look after the details, Bill agreed to build something in the backyard to hold the ceremony, and the plan was hatched.

Joel had felt guilty when the radio started playing. The song had been his idea, and he’d done his best to feign surprise when the song came on. You were too busy worrying to really notice, thankfully, and he knows he’s sure to get an earful at some point or another.

It’s small, obviously, but it’s perfect. Between two tall oaks in the backyard of the main house, Bill constructed a wooden archway, a lattice pattern filling the gaps, and long vines of ivy twisted through. It’s painted white, matched to the few chairs set in front. There are flowers in matching vases either side of the arch, and there are stones that line the path from the house up to the arch, a makeshift aisle.

Tess stands in the middle of the archway, a few pieces of paper in her hands. She looks great, Joel’s told her as much, and she just laughed and thanked him and said, “Just wait til’ you see her.” Frank sits in one of the chairs, one beside him for Bill, another two set on the other side, one for Tess. He’d asked her if she wanted to bring Robin along, but her reluctance to involve her girlfriend in the more dangerous parts of your lives overshadowed her want to have her there.

Joel sees the back door of the house swing open, and Bill steps out first. He extends his hand back inside, and you reach out to take it, lifting the skirt of your dress as you take the two steps down onto the grass. Joel can’t help but chuckle when he sees you’re barefoot, but then his eyes move up your pretty white dress, the flowers in your hair, the giddy smile on your face, and he thinks he might topple over on the spot. He tugs at his tie — yeah, he’s wearing a fucking tie — and Tess must catch his slight sniffle as tears spring in his eyes, because she nudges his arm. “Told ya.”

Frank reaches beneath his chair, producing a small radio with a cassette player. You turn towards them all fully, and Joel can see the shock in your face just as Frank hits play. Bill offers you his arm just as the first chords start to play, and you’re smiling so big it makes Joel’s face ache just looking at you. He wants to kiss that grin, has to stop himself from running full tilt at you and doing it right then and there.

He sees the recognition in your face as you start to walk towards him, your hand tucked into the crook of Bill’s elbow.

If the sun refused to shine, I would still be lovin’ you.

Led Zeppelin. The same tape you once bought him for his truck back in Austin, the same one you played the night the two of you became the two of you once more. 

When the mountains crumble to the sea, there will still be you and me.

He can’t take his eyes off you, as you get closer and closer. He’s committing every inch of you to memory, for the millionth time. He’s torn between wanting to rip that dress right off of you and wanting to keep you in it for the rest of your life. He’s so fucking in love with you, he can’t believe he has you, that he found you after so many years, that he’s managed to keep you still.

You reach the end of the aisle, maybe three feet from him, and Bill stops you, turns you toward him. He leans in and pecks your cheek, and then turns to Joel, shakes his hand. Joel takes a step forward and Bill places your hand in Joel’s, giving him a nod.

Kind a woman, I give you my all, kind a woman, nothin’ more.

You arrange yourselves in front of the arch, and you turn to hand your little bouquet of daisies to Frank before taking both of Joel’s hands, squeezing your warm fingers around his. “Holy shit.”

Everybody laughs, the song fades out, and Tess clears her throat.

“Well, this is about as close as we can get to traditional, I guess. It’s fitting, I think.”

Joel’s listening, he swears he is. He can hear every word Tess says, every chuckle from Frank and even Bill, every hitch in your breathing. He can hear the birds in the trees and the thump of his own heart. But he’s focused on you, the little twitch of your hands in his, the way you’re smiling at him.

God, he wishes Sarah were here. Her memory still carries a slice of pain — he knows it always will — and though it aches, all he can think of is how well the two of you would have got on. He can still remember your first accidental meeting so clearly, and the times that followed. His daughter was too smart not to see through your “I’m a good friend of your dad’s” introduction, and even after you left for Boston, she had asked after you more than once.

“I like her,” she’d said once, casually, over breakfast, like they were discussing the weather. “She makes you all…shiny.”

“Shiny?”

“Yeah,” she’d continued, poking at her eggs. “All bright and stuff. It’s a good thing.”

“Whatever you say, kiddo.”

And somehow, here you are again, making him feel all bright and shiny, even after the world ends.

“Joel?” Tess prompts, and Joel snaps out of his memory, Tess handing him a piece of paper. “You wanna go first?”

“Oh,” he grumbles, taking the paper from her, reluctantly letting go of your hands so he can see the words he’s written on the page. “Yeah.”

Your brow furrows slightly as he clears his throat, your jaw dropping slightly. “You jackass, you wrote something?”

Joel feels his cheeks go hot. “I did.”

You’re shaking your head, but you’re beaming. “You’re so lucky I love you.”

“Luckiest man on earth,” he agrees. Then he remembers the paper in his hands. “Now, let me read it to you.”

“Okay,” you say softly, your voice laced with your smile. “I’m listening.”

+

Ten years ago, on this exact day, I walked into a hardware store. I was just lookin’ for a drill bit, stopped in on my way to a job on the other side of Austin. Never in a million years did I think I’d walk down the paint aisle and find you standing there, the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, smilin’ at me like I’d won the damn lottery.

Didn’t know back then that I’d fall in love with you so hard. Didn’t know you’d break my heart and mend it all in one shot, that I’d lose you before I really had the chance to love you properly. Then I lost everything, we all did, and I just…

It wasn’t easy. It’s still not easy. I was a jackass, when I first found you again, and I know I haven’t been perfect since, but, goddamnit, Liv, I’ll never love another woman the way I’ve loved you. Not in a million years. Not until my heart stops beatin’, and maybe even after that.

I’m a lucky son of a bitch, being able to love you the way I do. Luckier still that you agreed to marry me. I know I’m not the easiest sometimes, I know none of this is, but I swear to always love you, protect you, with everything I have left. Forever.

+

You’ve been crying since you saw him standing beneath the arch. You’d given up on wiping the tears when Tess started talking, and then when Joel pulled out his vows, it was even worse, but you didn’t care.

He folds up the piece of paper, stuffs it in his pocket, and you have to hold back from launching yourself at him. Joel takes your hands again, rubbing his thumbs across your knuckles, and you take a deep breath. “So that’s why you played eighties,” you say, shooting Frank a look. He’s crying too. “Ten years ago, today?”

Joel nods, lifts your hands to his lips, dots kisses across your fingers. “To the day.”

You take another deep breath. “Well, I would have written something, if I’d known, but all I really want to say right now is that I love you, Joel Miller. You’re right, it’s not easy, but standing by your side, it makes it easier, makes it worth it. I’m the lucky one, to have found you even after all of this, and no matter what comes our way, I got you, baby. Forever.”

+

It’s a sweet kiss. It’s an I love you brushed across his mouth. It’s hands in his hair and your body pressed against his. He tries his best not to mess with the fabric of your dress too much, the material soft as anything against his palms. Faintly, he can hear Tess and Bill and Frank cheering, somebody whistling, and the birds are still singing.

It’s perfect.

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[mercuriians]

my paradise

jjk,, k. nanami x fem! reader

content info — short drabble, angst horribly and lazily disguised as fluff. <3 this fic was borne out of my own anguish upon witnessing certain spoilers. (gege hates us all)

author’s note — sorry for being mia. you guys all know how life can be. luckily i’m on break so i’ll do my best to send out at least one finished request 🙂‍↕️ i’ll fix this post’s format later, for now i hope you guys enjoy my first attempt at writing jjk.

"do you think heaven exists?"

you utter your question so softly, so innocently, in a timid whisper that seems like it barely even leaves your lips in the first place. the moonlight seeping from the window is dim, just enough to surround the room in a bleak, lazy kind of aura. nanami's just about ready to drift away into slumber—where it's dreamless and monotonous, and he simply just exists—but somehow there's a feeling that tugs at him. telling him that he should turn his body to face you, to see whether there's childlike curiosity within your eyes or quiet desolation.

so that's what he does. twisting around in the ivory bedsheets, he examines your expression with an air of diligence that probably shouldn't even be possible in the near-midnight hour. nanami ends up being a bit surprised. somehow you look calm. tranquil. like there's nothing else in the world worth focusing on but him.

but he still treads carefully, cautiously. "why do you ask, love?" nanami's voice is a bit hoarse, a little rusty from the lengthy time he's been silent.

perceptively, he sees the column of your throat move slightly as you swallow. "while i was on break earlier today, yuji asked me something," you admit. "he wanted to know how he could, in his words, 'give people a proper death' when the time came. and i guess that made me think about where we even go when we finally depart from this world. where our souls go to rest."

there's a small, intimate pause as nanami waits for you to continue.

"when we were kids, we were always told that there's a place for the good people and for the bad. obviously it's comforting to let yourself believe that it's all really that black-and-white, but i don't know." your voice trails off again. nanami doesn't know how much time passes when he sees your eyes become clouded over, like you're focused on something faraway. something distant, maybe something that wasn’t even there to begin with. "would there be some sort of paradise waiting for us when we die? would we even deserve that, kento?” you whisper.

he holds his breath.

it was exceedingly rare for you to succumb to such sentimentality. you were almost always driven with diligence, fueled by the need to stick to your schedule of early mornings, midday coffee breaks, and late shifts. in a world where curses ruthlessly threatened to enforce a strict hierarchy of chaos, he recognized the all-too-significant desire to at least maintain a reliable form of organization. especially considering the fact that you were both first-grade sorcerers. some of the very best.

but now, nanami's realizing that maybe, maybe the reason why you were always so vigilant is because there was no other option. there was no time to wallow in self-pity, to question why you both had to live in such a merciless society, to scream out in frustration and curse out every single damn thing in existence and wish that things had been at least a little bit easier.

either you accepted the cards you were dealt with, or you opted out of the game permanently.

nanami quickly wonders what that means for himself. but he shakes off the thought, shakes off the negativity that crept up on him for a split-second with the expertise that he's collected and honed over the years.

right now, his only objective revolved around you.

gently, he reaches out, touching your face with the calloused tips of his fingers. for a moment, he traces the smoothness of your skin, like a paintbrush to a canvas, before moving a loose strand of hair behind your ear. the way you look up at him with eyes just short of being teary makes his chest tighten, but he perseveres for you.

it's all for you. whether he likes it or not.

"i don't know the answer to that, and any sane person living on this planet wouldn't know either," nanami finally utters. as his words hit the empty air, he sees your pink lips curve upwards by the slightest bit. it’s like you can’t help but be amused by his trademark bluntness. even in the middle of such a bleak conversation, nanami’s glad that he can at least bring you some resemblance of joy.

“but the way i see it,” he continues, hand dipping down to find yours almost instinctively, “none of that matters.”

your brows furrow. you curl into his comforting figure. “what do you mean?”

nanami’s eyes meet yours. “i couldn’t give less of a damn about what happens after death. not when i’m here with you in this moment,” he whispers, unable to restrain himself from inching closer, closer towards your face, “and hopefully the millions after.”

his lips brush against your own. it’s tentative, even almost shy—his way of asking you if this is alright.

you seal the gap without a second thought.

nanami pulls you closer. his arms wrap around your waist, as if he was unwilling to ever let go.

the intimacy of it all is enough to make him forget that for a moment, he was lost in thought, lost in the realization that people truly were helpless to whatever happened in the afterlife. but really, above all else, he was a soldier—had been since the day he enrolled at jujutsu high. and as long as you were safe, nothing else would matter. including his own—insignificant, small, dispensable—life.

at that moment, nanami’s armor became yours instead.

[longing-for-rain]

I was reading one of your fanfiction and you’ve written in disgusting detail about zuko getting r@ped, why?

Interesting question. I wonder about it myself sometimes.

But what the hell, let me psychoanalyze myself tonight because it’s been a really bad time lately and it’s Friday night so you know what that means 🥴🥃

Anyways.

Weirdly enough I’ve been drawn to that kind of content from a young age, like age 12 young, pretty much right after I’d gone on the internet and been exposed to shit. It was always confusing for me. I always had this weird compulsion to watch certain male characters get hurt very badly in ways women typically get hurt. I’m not just talking about rape either; that’s probably the most extreme part of it, but it was also things like “damsel in distress” situations, eating disorders, body image issues, etc. I’m not saying men never experience these things, just that especially in media, they’re almost always associated with women.

I felt really weird for it because let’s be honest it is pretty fucked up. How did I get like this? It’s not even like I found it hot or anything—I’m a lesbian, I don’t feel attraction towards men at all. Besides, it was only violence I was drawn to. The minute a story started getting to some kind of Stockholm Syndrome situation where the victim starting falling in love with his abuser, it became a squick and I had to run away. It also couldn’t be just any male character. It had to be one I really liked. There have been others but you’re right, it started with Zuko and over the years it’s mostly Zuko. And yeah, that’s why I ended up writing content like that myself, because it was on my mind and I use writing to vent. But why? What was I subconsciously trying to vent about in that specific case?

Lately though I think I figured it out. The best way I can think of to describe it is a revenge fantasy. Which I know is deeply fucked up but hear me out.

So I get on the internet at age 12, right? At the time, my favorite shows were ATLA and HTTYD. So as one does, I start looking for things about my shows and come across art of the blorbos and naturally discover the world of fanfiction. And how wonderful for 12 year old me! I latched onto Zutara almost instantly because even as a kid my favorite scene in the show was the Final Agni Kai and I really wanted to see them get together. Now I find out there is a whole world of stories I can read online about that exact thing happening in so many different ways? It was beautiful.

But as you know if you know anything about fanfic sites (which I assume you do because you found my fucked up stories lol) I found some unpleasant things. Keep in mind this was around 2012 and I was browsing ff.net which had nowhere near the tagging/warning system that AO3 does. And even if it did it probably wouldn’t have mattered because I was 12 years old with a dangerous combination of naïveté and curiosity.

So anyway! What do I find on ff.net when I went scrolling for my lovely Zutara fics? Well, I did find some really cute ones. There are some I still think about but can’t find for the life of me because they’re either deleted or buried in the depths of ff.net. That was all good. You know what wasn’t good? The…other things. And oh boy. The people complaining about how Zutara is some kind of colonizer abuse fantasy wouldn’t have lasted 10 seconds back then. I remember reading a fic where Zuko raped Katara while she was tied to a tree. No warnings, and in the end note the author said it wasn’t rape because she ended up liking it. Many, many fics revolving around the idea of Zuko kidnapping Katara and making her into some kind of sex slave but it’s okay! She likes it and he turns good on the end for her so it’s true love! I also vividly remember a Blue Spirit x Katara fic where they were fucking, he took off the mask revealing himself as Zuko, Katara got scared and tried to push him off, Zuko just held her down and kept going. Not called rape. No warnings. Comments full of people talking about how “hot” it was.

Get the picture? It was horrifying. Keep in mind I was 12. It made me deeply angry, not just because of the misogyny and glorification of sexual violence, but also because it was Zuko doing it. I loved this character. I loved him because his story was so compelling, he was good and kind, he seemed safe to me. And reading about him violently abuse and rape the person he was supposed to love most was horrifying. It felt like some kind of betrayal. It made me hate him.

Middle school era me stopped reading Zutara fic as a result. I kept getting burned by it, and felt drawn towards that kind of Zuko rapefic instead. An old Zhaoko fic still sticks out in my mind. It was a pretty simple plot where Zhao kidnapped Zuko, whipped him and raped him, then at the end Katara rescued and healed him. It was oddly cathartic for me. Because it a) satisfied my revenge itch to see Zuko hurt in the same way I read about him hurting Katara in those other fics and b) put Zuko in a vulnerable position that would render him incapable of being a perpetrator in that universe (I know that’s not how it works in reality but that’s just my gut reaction there idk). Also read tons of fucked up Boiling Rock fics because it’s kind of a no brainer in the Zuko rapefic genre.

I don’t remember exactly why, but in the mid 2010s I didn’t really read much fic at all and my interest sort of fizzled out. I was mostly into HTTYD at that point and had a brief fling with Voltron before the fandom went to shit (which didn’t take long). So I guess that dark side of mine went dormant for a while and I didn’t think about it a lot.

Then oh boy…COVID hit. I was 19 when it started and found myself drawn into unhealthy levels of internet usage like most people during that time because what else were we supposed to do for fun. I was also going through some really fucked up heavy personal shit which led me to turning back to my old comfort ship…Zutara. Found my way onto tumblr, then to the fanfic sites. AO3 was a welcome surprise after being used to ff.net. Also for the first time I discovered the “community” aspect of fandom which I really enjoyed and helped me fight some of that COVID-induced isolation. It was really nice at first. I even began writing my own fics for the first time. And as you can see from my AO3 profile, they were very simple and cutesy in the beginning. Back before I went insane lmao.

But that happiness was short lived, because I kind of had a repeat of what happened when I was 12, only worse. Same pattern of reading some really good Zutara fics and some really bad ones. Zuko is sexually violent towards Katara. Zuko kidnaps Katara. Zuko rapes Katara. The author has some kind of technicality that makes it “not really rape/abuse” when that was clearly the intention. But this time, I was in a “community” with “friends” who promised me I mattered to them and that they cared about me. So I mentioned something about how disturbed I was to see things like this, naïvely thinking they’d understand where I was coming from.

And they…told me I was a bigot.

Yeah so. This was after I’d been sexually assaulted the first time. I also had this older creepy beta reader who I later realized had been sexually grooming me but that’s another story. Anyways! Point is I was in a bad state of mind, especially surrounding the topic of sexual violence, so it really hit me hard to have it used against me like that, made to feel crazy for having a problem with it, and dogpiled on for trying to explain myself and speak out.

Needless to say, I ended up feeling isolated, hurt, and confused by this. Much like I was back at age 12, so I relapsed into bad habits.

Honestly I’d been doing it before the breaking point, just more subtly. If you’ve creeped my AO3, you’ll see various flavors of “femdom” shit there. I like to call that my “I was being groomed lol” era. I had someone basically trying to convince me that male domination was “empowering” and that it was a sign of “maturity” for me to embrace it. Basically trying to convince me most/all women secretly desired it, resisting was a sign she wanted it deep down, I’d come around eventually, etc. Honestly I think this person just liked my writing and wanted me to pump out free fetish content for her, but it kind of backfired since it made me uncomfortable and I ended up just wanting to write femdom and Zuko rapefics because in that situation, it was the only outlet I had to express my hurt and discomfort at being bombarded with that disturbing kind of fic where Zuko is a rapist. I was subconsciously trying to reverse the narrative to escape the misogyny and the trauma I was suffering as a result.

Then after I got out of the grooming situation it just went off the rails from there. Stuff in my personal life was also getting worse so I just had this mass of stress and anger constantly running through my mind. It also really fucked with my sense of identity since the groomer/community I was in sort of left me with the impression that a woman’s role in society is to be objectified and abused and humiliated, and that she’s supposed to embrace it. I don’t think they necessarily intended it that way, but it left me with that impression because I saw so much content like that and barely anything representing women the way I wished to be perceived as a woman. It even made me feel alienated from other woman to the point I didn’t want to be a woman anymore (which is a feeling I’ve grappled with since puberty basically but that’s another story).

I don’t know which fic of mine you’re specifically referring to in which Zuko is raped in graphic detail, but I’m assuming it’s Dark Reflections because that’s probably the most graphic thing I’ve written. That’s the fic I started writing in the middle of that whole mess. It was very cathartic. I went with a female perpetrator against Zuko because it allowed me to fuck with the gender dynamics. A key plot point in that fic is also that Jun’s motivation partly stems from the fact that she mistakenly believes Zuko raped Katara so the idea of taking revenge against Zuko for being a rapist felt more direct. And of course, the reason why it’s so detailed and graphic and contains a lot of typical violent kink shit is because that was all the same shit I’d had thrown at me in the context of Zuko abusing Katara, so I just wanted to give it back to him if that makes sense. It brought me a morbid sense of comfort to see him be abused in the same way. I just have a catharsis generally about men suffering what they make women suffer. I know it’s fucked up, but it was a fucked up part of my life. And for the record I’m not trying to justify it or say it’s okay, I’m kinda of neutral on that tbh. Just acknowledging where my mind was and the fact that it’s a thing that I did.

For what it’s worth now, as I took the time to focus more on healing, I’ve felt less drawn to pure violence. I find myself wanting to write more about the thematic aspects of it and explore it that way. Even with Dark Reflections itself, the fic is incomplete and much longer than I originally intended it to be because I actually do want to go back and work through those themes and unpack what they mean for both the characters and the society they exist in. The more recent things I’ve written have been more along those lines too. Less graphic shocking violence, more philosophical as I pick my own brain and try to make sense of things.

Honestly writing this out helped me organize my brain a lot so idk hopefully it answered your question too.

And yes I know I’m sounding absolutely batshit but this is like my brain’s toxic sewer outlet valve. Believe it or not I am surprisingly normal in real life. I have a dog and big biceps and a cool rock collection and an office job with a nice view and everything. Anyways I’m passing out now. Night.

[tip-top-cloud-surfer]

The President’s Son - Bob

Pairing: Bob / Fem!OC

Word Count: 1.6k

This work, all my works, and my entire blog are 18+ Only!

Warnings: Bodyguard AU; Sassy Bob; Threats of Violence; Referenced Past OC Death; Excess Sarcasm; Tension

Summary: Threats are made against Bob’s life. Venus is not looking forward to being a babysitter.

Master List

Being part of the First Family of the United States was not all that it was cracked up to be.

Constantly being watched and monitored and told what to wear, what to say, how to smile and wave was not what any kid wanted to deal with. And Bob might have been twenty-eight now, but he had been in the public eye practically his whole life, ever since his dad won a seat in the House of Representatives when he was eight years old.

And ever since then, Bob’s entire life revolved around his dad’s career.

Bob loved his dad, he really did. But there were some times when he just wanted to be able to go outside and be a normal human adult. There were times when he just needed his dad, not Rep. Floyd, or Senator Floyd, or President Floyd. Just regular old Bill Floyd. Husband, father of three, and a huge baseball fan. Bob needed that guy a lot of times over the last few years.

And Bob didn’t want the news sites—though Bob didn’t think that they qualified as “news” based on what they reported—talking about his glasses or his choice in tee shirts or God forbid that he, a legal adult, drink a beer while at a beach with his friends.

They stalked him when he was already pissed off with his day. They stalked him when he was grieving over his mom. They took photos of him as he consoled his sisters as their mother’s funeral. They tried to get him to talk about it a week after the fact.

He was sick of it. He was sick of the microscope. He was sick of all of it.

And a death threat—an actually credible death threat—really pushed him over the edge with it.

“Why the hell are they targeting me?” Bob demanded from his dad, getting up from his seat.

It was late at night in Washington DC and he had been picked up by the Secret Service from his private apartment and dragged over to the White House just an hour ago. They brought him straight to the Oval Office where his father—the President—and his father’s Chief of Staff were already waiting for him, both looking grim.

“It’s not like I have any political weight. I’ve announced publicly a thousand times that I don’t want anything to do with politics. So, why are they targeting me?”

“Hey, hey,” President Bill Floyd assured his son, walking over to him and grabbing his shoulders. “You’re going to be okay, Bobby. We’re taking this very seriously and we’re taking every precaution imaginable to make sure that you’re always safe.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Bob replied, trying to keep the tension out of his voice. “What the hell do they want with me? And I mean, are they going to go after Suzie too? Or Anna? I mean, should Grandma get into a bunker?”

“No, but everyone in our family will be seeing an increase in security,” Bill Floyd explained, somehow managing to remain calm. “And besides, Suzie and Anna still live here where they’re safe and where they’ll be looked after.”

“So, I’m just the unlucky bastard who got picked out?” Bob huffed, more than annoyed now.

“More than likely,” Tom Kazansky, the Chief of Staff, spoke up from his spot on the couch, “it’s about exposing weaknesses in your father’s administration and the security of the US government. You’re simply the easiest target on the list.”  

“Oh, gee, thanks, Tom, that makes me feel so much better,” Bob snapped sarcastically.

“He didn’t mean it like that,” Bill sighed, mediating between them. “It’s just that you don’t live here and your security isn’t as tight as everyone else’s. But that’s going to change right now.”

“How? You’re going to install cameras outside my door?”

“We’re sending you to a safe house,” Tom stated, causing Bob to whip around to face him.

“What?” he demanded, nearly hissing. Turning back to his dad, Bob’s brows furrowed. “I can’t leave DC. I have a life! I have friends! I have my degree and—”

“—All of which can take a brief pause until we’re sure that you’re safe,” Bill Floyd cut in, causing Bob’s jaw to clench shut with clear frustration.

“So that’s it then? I don’t have a choice?”

“Not if you want to live,” Tom continued, causing both Floyd men to shoot him near identical glares. “What I mean to say was that until we have identified and captured this threat, you will not be safe in your normal life. All you have to do is follow our steps and you’ll be safe, Bob.”

“And what steps are those exactly? Locking me up in some bunker?”

“A house,” Tom corrected, walking over to Bob.

“Where?”

“Montana.”

“Montana? What the fuck is in Montana?”

“The safe house,” Tom filled in, causing Bob to roll his eyes. “You and your bodyguard will remain in the safehouse until we catch the perpetrators. There may be certain events that you will need to show up for to give the American people some more confidence regarding the situation, but those will be thoroughly investigated and require my own personal approval."

"My bodyguard?” Bob repeated, clearly frowning. “I have a bodyguard?”

“A personal bodyguard. She’s an FBI agent hand picked by me and the Director.”

“Well, do you have a copy of her resume on hand? I might want to look through it,” Bob replied sarcastically, setting his hands on his hips.

“We’ve already sent Secret Service back to your apartment to pack your bags. You’ll need to hand over any devices that can be used to track you,” Tom continued, holding out his hand to Bob. When Bob glared defiantly back at him, Tom added, “Unless you want to compromise the safe house.” Begrudgingly Bob handed over his phone, which Tom stowed in his pocket for now. “Alright, you should be all set for your departure.”

“Which is when?”

“Tomorrow morning. 3:55 a.m., if you want to be specific.”

“Well, thanks for the heads up,” Bob muttered, glancing down at his watch. “Nearly a whole four hours.”

“Bobby,” Bill sighed, causing Bob to turn to his dad.

“What, Dad?”

“Everything is going to be fine. The operative assigned to you is one of the best of the best. And I’m sure that you’ll really get along with her.”

“Who is she anyways?” Bob asked, glancing between his dad and Tom.  

~~~~~

Venus did not work this hard to make it this far her career to become a babysitter.

She did not study all of those hours, train for all of those hours, pass every single test with flying colors and still crave for more, to end up as some over glorified babysitter to the First Son of America, as the stupid tabloids always called him, while the other agents in her squad got to arrest the dumbass with the gun who was threatening him.

“Why the hell am I up for the babysitter position?” she complained to Maverick as they walked quickly through the halls of headquarters. Maverick sighed and subtly increased his pace, but she kept up with him, fueled purely on spite. “Why can’t Seresin or Machado take it?”

“You blend in better than they do,” Maverick explained to her, leading the way down the stairs.

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Venus stated bluntly, causing Maverick to sigh.

“It’s also because if it comes down to it, we can just play the girlfriend storyline and it will slip right under the radar,” Maverick stated, taking the stairs two at a time. Venus was right behind him. “And that’s only if he needs to make a public appearance.”

“So, not only am I his babysitter, but I’m his fake girlfriend too?” Venus complained, throwing her arms up in the air. “Anything else?”

“No, that should cover it.”

Maverick pulled out a thick file from his bag and handed it over to Venus, who took it quickly. She flipped the folder open and read through the front page as Maverick turned back to her. He tapped the top of the pile, causing Venus to shoot him a glare.

“These are your orders. Everything that you need to know to complete your mission. Including your alias and backstory that we’ve already put in place for you. You have the next,” Maverick paused to glance at his watch, “. . . two hours to memorize it, which is when the two of you head out to Montana.”

“Why Montana?” Venus asked, closing the folder.

“Because no one goes to fucking Montana,” Maverick stated bluntly as a black armored SUV pulled up in front of them. “And that’s the chosen safe house.”

“So, I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere with the president’s son posing as his fake girlfriend, but really acting as his babysitter? That’s my assignment?”

“Have fun,” Maverick replied, slipping into the car. “And play nice.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Venus muttered, sarcastically saluting him in return.

Watching Maverick drive off, most likely to the White House to brief the President’s son on this shitshow, Venus frowned and kicked the sidewalk with her shoe. She didn’t work this goddamn hard to end up as some babysitter to some rich kid who probably never had to work for anything in his life. The First Son of the US. The Golden Boy or whatever they called him.

Great. It was all just great.