#freud would have a lovely time watching this

[pee-com]

im gonna be brave and say actually what the fuck is going on in this movie

[fitzrove]

Watched private vices public virtues yesterday and. respectfully what the fuck. i think they forgot to put in the public virtues

[bunnys-kisses]

hii, could I order a croissant, a mince pie, and an iced tea served by toto? (maybe with brown or horner reader:)

thank you, honey🤍

bakery menu

welcome to the bakery! how can i take your order? want to submit your own order, then hit up the menu! i'd love to hear from you!! as for this lovely anon, i changed one thing. that it wasn't an accidental launching of the relationship. but rather toto did it on purpose! (oops), i hope you love the fic

croissant ("i wonder if your father knows what happens during the off hours. if he knows you're here with me.") + mince pit ("i'm not jealous) + iced tea (accidental launching relationship) served by toto wolff (formula one)!

cw: smut/pwp, age gap (20s/50s), size difference, zac brown!reader, launching relationships, roadside sex, car sex, cow girl position

toto sipped his drink and watched you from a short distance. the drink was sour in his mouth as he watched you talk to your father. you had always been a daddy's girl. he knew first hand how that manifested itself.

your daddy issues were so painfully clear cut, he didn't know why you would question how you ended up with them. your father was zak brown and yet you went home with toto wolff. if you were all royalty, this would count as treason and your two nations would go to war.

but this was formula one, and while it was different. toto still shouldn't have been bedding you for several months now. even now as he watched you chat with your father over drinks, toto wanted to undress you and kiss every inch of soft skin.

your father be damned.

it was after a night of drinking and toto was more than happy to take your keys away and drive you home himself. you could grab your car tomorrow, tonight toto needed to make sure that you were okay.

"thanks for doing this, toto." zak said as he shook the other man's hand.

toto nodded, he would play the shining knight. at least until he got you into his flat for the night. you looked nicer in toto's bed than you ever did your own. too many stuffed animals all over yours. he said to your father, "it's not a big deal, zak. it's better someone drive her than she drive herself."

zak chuckled, "i remember drinking that much at her age. it would kill me now." he laughed, "i bet you remember those times!" sometimes toto was reminded that he was your father's age almost to the t.

but as you once said to him, 'sucking your cock is cheaper than therapy.' as you filed your pretty nails that he would later pay to get painted.

you were soon at your father's side and laughing, "who's taking me home?" then looked to toto then your father, "he's taking me home?"

zak chuckled and looked at you, "yes. you'll be nice to mister wolff, right? no getting sick in his car?"

you nodded dumbly and smiled at toto once more, the smile was knowing and it made toto hot all over. you said to your father, "of course! thank you daddy, i'll text you when i get home!" then kissed your father on the cheek.

little did zak brown know. little did he know.

"you're jealous. you're jealous!" you said in a sing-song tone to toto once you were out of the venue, "you're jealous of my dad!" you giggled and rested against him as he brought you to his expensive car.

"i'm not jealous" he replied as he opened the car doors and got you inside. even buckled you in and you reached for him cutely to place kisses all over his face. if freud were alive, he'd be gawking at this moment. toto closed your door and then got into the car on the driver's side.

before his door was closed, your hands were all over his face. feeling the masculine nature of his features. those dark eyes, that strong jaw, that nose of his. it all excited you as you tried to get your hands all over him. you were like an insatiable puppy who demanded kisses.

he held onto the back of your hair to keep some distance between the two of you. he looked at your lips and sighed, "i wonder if your father knows what happens during the off hours. if he knows you're here with me."

you pouted a little, "my daddy has no idea."

"maybe he should find out at some point." all toto knew was that if his phone went missing, there was a folder with so many photos of you in various states of undress and redress. from your pretty pussy on display to a heavy skiing jacket when you went on vacation with some 'friends' (it was toto). he knew if he ever sold them, he could make a healthy dollar. but he'd never do that. he had a hard enough time with you wearing a two-piece swimsuit around your friends.

soon toto was driving and his hand was on your thigh. slowly he inched up that skirt until his long fingers were in between your thighs, just over the waistband of the poor excuse you called panties. a lacy white number that toto bought for you.

"you wore them."

"only for you."

"did anyone else see them?"

you looked at toto with the cutest expression that fell naturally on your face. you smiled at him, still a little drunk, "of course, daddy. only the best for you."

the road you were on was quiet and toto had no choice but to pull over. he couldn't very well send you back to your cute little apartment without a pussy full of his cum. not when you were giving him such delicate looks. you were already heated and toto wanted you between his teeth.

with the car lights off, you could only maneuver yourself in the dark as toto leaned back the driver's seat to let you onto his lap. he undid his belt and his cock out of his slacks. your panties were over the back of the passenger's seat for safe keeping (they'd be lost).

in the dark you managed to find his cock and sink yourself down on it. your eyes went wide for a moment from the stretch of his cock settling inside of you. you shuddered and your inebriated mind made everything feel heightened.

"you're going to be a good girl for daddy?" he asked. he wanted to show you off to the world. show zak brown that he didn't have that tight of a grip on you. that you were a woman and you were dating a man. and there was nothing that fucker could do.

you might be brown's daughter but you were toto's baby girl. once again, daddy issues sprouted their ugly heads into the back of your mind as you rode the older man. he pushed the skirt of your dress up and kissed at your neck.

the car rocked a little bit from your movements and you panted heavily. the windows fogged up on the quiet back road. toto's hands switched from your breasts to your hips then back to your breasts when he groped them with those paws he called hands. they were huge, it was intimidating. you still didn't know how those digits managed to fit into your poor pussy.

he licked his lips as your held onto his hair, he then pressed kisses up against your heated skin. he felt the heat in his gut as he pressed kisses at your skin. his hands were eventually full of the softness of your hips as he guided your faster up and down his cock.

you panted heavily before you pulled his hair to get him to face you where you made out with him once more. you whimpered between kisses a simple, 'daddy.' and it made toto hot all over. your back arched as you really worked at his length.

you felt the sweat cause your dress to stick to your back and you make up to run a little around the edges. toto thought you looked beautiful, like a debauched little princess. all because of him. wasn't that something? that zak brown's daughter was riding toto without a car, in a semi public space. anyone could drive by and snap a photo. wouldn't that make headlines.

he held onto you tighter and started to move you faster on top of him. your noises were loud as the car rocked to your movements. and toto felt himself get so close to orgasm.

but you were first. you held onto your lover tightly and whimpered, "daddy" as you felt yourself climax. your back arched with your head almost hitting the roof of the car.

but toto kept you close to him. there was nothing that could hurt that (empty) little head of yours. not while toto wolff was still breathing. you felt so good against him even when you went a little limp against him. but he continued to work your hips against him, he buried his cock in you as deep as it would go.

your noises soon turned pathetic and the car reeked of sex. eventually toto finished inside of you with one last heavy thrust. he spilled himself into you. not that you cared, sometimes toto wondered if you enjoyed the risk of him finishing inside of you. that maybe you'd be mostly wolff dna if he came into you enough times. and toto was happy to comply because that meant you'd eventually have toto's baby at your hip. but that was for later. right now he had to get you alert enough to get into the passenger seat so he can get you home.

"come on. pull down that dress a little and get yourself seated."

-

you woke up the next morning in your bed to a flurry of messages, a full voice mail inbox and even fifteen emails from various people within your network. through bleary, sleepy eyes you basically made out one thing. check social media.

upon opening the app, any tiredness was zapped from your body and you felt hyper away. your eyes went wide when you saw toto's page, the newest photo wasn't of the cars or the tracks or anything. it was you in his apartment in monaco in one of his shirts (with no bra given that you could see your nipples through the fabric) looking not at the camera but at the book on the history of mercedes that he kept on the coffee table. you knew the exact moment that was taken... and now the rest of the world wanted to know every detail about your little love affair with toto.

especially your father, who was calling your for the fifty-first time that morning. there was a lot of explaining to do. <3

[cameronspecial]

good morning, good afternoon or good night depending on the time you see this . Excuse my English, I'm using the translator.I wanted to ask for an imagine about dad Rafe, where his son (Theo/Luca or whatever name you prefer) besides being jealous of his mother (not letting Rafe give him kisses, pushing him so they don't hug, etc.) at his young age He starts calling Rafe "Rafe" instead of "Papa", I think it would be a nice imagine

Oedipus Rex

Pairing: Dad! Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: Jealous Rafe.

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 0.6K

A/N: This is a great idea and don't worry, your English is great!

Masterlist

Theo is the love and entire world of Rafe’s life, along with Y/N of course. However, right now, all Rafe wants to do is force his son to stay in his room. Not because his son is being bad, but because Rafe is jealous of the child. Y/N’s eyes are on the TV while Theo is snuggled under her arm. For the past three minutes, Rafe has been trying to sit on her other side so he can watch with her, but every time he steps closer, Theo’s eyes narrow at his dad. Deciding to ignore his son’s judgment, he plops down beside his wife and leans over to kiss her. Theo has other plans though, leaving Rafe’s lips to fall on his hand. Rafe’s eyebrows knot together and he groans, sitting back up to continue watching. 

———

Y/N has just returned home from work and Rafe goes to greet her. Before he can kiss his wife, tiny footsteps patter past him and Theo throws himself into his mom’s arms. She leans down to pick him up in her arms. Theo peppers his mom's cheek with kisses. The boy pulls back and Rafe goes in to try to kiss his wife; however, Theo’s tiny hand places itself on his dad’s shoulder and pushes him away. “No, my mommy,” he protests, wrapping his arms around his mom’s neck. Rafe looks to her for back up and she only shrugs, “I think he is probably just hangry. Why don’t we get him something to eat?” “Okay. I just think it is unfair that he gets all of your cuddles,” he grumbles, following his family to the kitchen. 

———

Rafe has to set his foot down at some point and it is definitely going to be now. When he got out of the bathroom after he finished getting ready from bed, he found Theo in bed with his wife. His son is pressed up against Y/N, cuddling at her side. “I thought he was supposed to be sleeping in his own room now. He’s six. That’s old enough to be sleeping by himself,” Rafe complains. He gets into bed and tries to bring his wife to his side, yet Theo stops him. “No, Rafe. I can only cuddle Mommy.” Hearing his son say his legal name crosses his line. “My name is Papa to you, Theo. I’m your dad, not your friend,” he criticizes, crossing his arms over his chest. Theo ignores his father and falls asleep instead. Once he is sure his son is sleeping, Rafe leans over to whisper in Y/N’s ear, “I don’t like how possessive he is of you.” She giggles with a shake of her head, her fingers lacing through Theo’s hair. “I can think of two reasons why he is acting like this. One. He is going through the phallic stage of Freud’s psychosexual stages, which means he is experiencing the Oedipus complex. He sees you as a threat and wants to replace you. But I think that one is creepy, so my favourite is number two. He is just modelling your possessive behaviour. I told you it was going to bite you in the ass one day,” she rattles off, reminding Rafe of the fact that she has a doctorate in psychology. Annoyance flashes on his face, “Ugh, why does my amazing wife have to be so smart? You did tell me so and I didn’t listen to you, so I’m sorry. If I had known I was teaching him to be a little asshole, then I would’ve listened to you.” She giggles with a shake of her head. “You didn’t just call our son an asshole,” she baffles. Rafe shrugs, “Act like an asshole, get called an asshole. It’s okay though. I’m going to stop being possessive and he’ll stop acting like an asshole. I promise.” She rolls her eyes. “I highly doubt that is going to happen, but whatever you say,” she says, turning to turn the lights off. Rafe copies her actions and lies against his pillow. “Goodnight, I love you,” he bids her. “I love you too, goodnight.”

Taglist: @winterrrnight @loves0phelia @thelomlisrafecameron @wickedlovely121 @thepatriarchykeychain @drewsmusee @starkowswife @maybankslover @forstarkey @loving-and-dreaming @magicalyoura

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Comet Donati [Chapter 10: Through The Dark] [Series Finale]

Series Summary: Sex, drugs, boy bands. You are a kinda-therapist recruited (via nepotism) to help Comet Donati through a recent crisis. Things are casual with Aegon, very not-casual with Aemond. Loosely inspired by One Direction.

Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sexual content (+18), drugs, alcohol, smoking, mental health struggles, pregnancy, bodily injury, death, miscarriage, AND NO OTHER CLUES, HAPPY READING!!! 🥰

Selected Chapter Quote: “What made you want to be a therapist?”

Word count: 6.4k.

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

Taglist: @doingfondue @catalina-howard @randomdragonfires @myspotofcraziness @arcielee @fan-goddess @talesofoldandnew @marvelescvpe @tinykryptonitewerewolf @mariahossain @chainsawsangel @darkenchantress @not-a-glad-gladiator @gemini-mama @trifoliumviridi @herfantasyworldd @babyblue711 @namelesslosers @thelittleswanao3 @daenysx @moonlightfoxx @libroparaiso @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @mizfortuna @florent1s @heimtathurs @bhanclegane @poohxlove @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @heavenly1927 @echos-muses @padfooteyes @minttea07 @queenofshinigamis @juliavilu1 @amiraisgoingthruit @lauraneedstochill @wintrr13 @r0segard3n @seabasscevans @tsujifreya @helaenaluvr @hiraethrhapsody

Thank you for loving the insane and incomparable Comet fam. I hope you enjoy the series finale. 💜

Night sky, string lights, reverberating bass, warm wet verdant air like the earth the dinosaurs knew, swampy and thick with beasts. With his lazy, dreamlike smile—a kind contagious glow, pink sunburned cheeks that match the clinking Salty Dog in his hand—Aegon says: “What made you want to be a therapist?”

You won’t tell him the whole truth. But you’ll tell him part of it. “Sigmund Freud.”

Aegon is intrigued, raised eyebrows and a crooked grin. “The guy who thinks everyone wants to fuck their mom?”

“You would have liked him. He did a lot of coke.” You take a swig of your Salty Dog: rosemary, grapefruit, the singeing bite of gin. “He was the founder of talk therapy. And, yeah, some of the things he wanted to talk about were…unorthodox. Misguided. But still…”

“He just wanted to talk,” Aegon says softly, understanding now.

“This was the turn of the century, okay? This was back in the days when they were pulling people’s teeth out, locking them up in asylums, injecting them with diseases, cutting off parts of women that made them unruly, ungovernable, immoral.” You shudder. “And Freud said no, just talk to them. Just figure out what demons they have chained up in their skulls, dark dusty corners buried way down deep, and help them figure out how to move forward. It’s not about having a cure, a pill or a scalpel. I mean, how ludicrous would that be, thinking I was walking around with some failproof silver bullet to make all the pain of existence vanish? That’s insane. It’s about listening to people, and caring about people, and shining a light on what part of them already knew was there. I don’t have a cure for anybody. Not a single goddamn person on this planet. But I can help them find their own.”

Aegon watches you, contemplates you, studies you like something rare and fleeting. “You are going to be one hell of a therapist.”

“I don’t know about that. But I hope so.”

“I’ll find you. Maybe when you’re done with school you can work on me. I’d keep you busy, I guarantee it. I’m like Disney’s Haunted Mansion. Ghosts everywhere you look.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You are never going to remember me.” He is never going to remember this place, this time, the way he shared his light with me like a long-lost comet clipping by Earth.

“I might,” Aegon says. He sips his Salty Dog with his elbows propped on the table, his blond hair whipping in the indigo wind, grains of salt on his lips, reflections of string lights like stars in his eyes. “I really think I might.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Your arms thrown around his neck, your face buried in his black t-shirt, inhaling smoke and dust and the coppery sharpness of his spilled blood. You are sobbing uncontrollably, gasping, shivering, wild prideless tears and clawing fingers. Jace’s words circle in your skull like a moon around its planet: Nobody escapes the indignity of becoming a regret. Aemond is trying to calm you, to quiet you. His hands—large and dangerous and bloodstained and careful—are on your back, in your hair. You have to explain, to repent. You have to make him understand.

“I didn’t get pregnant on purpose,” you moan into him, a jagged rush like a hemorrhage. “I swear to God I didn’t. I wouldn’t do that to you. I wasn’t trying to trap you or fix you or use you. I’m in love with you, Aemond, I wanted you, and I still want you, and I thought you would hate me and I was terrified and I didn’t know how to tell you—”

“I don’t hate you, I could never hate you,” he’s saying, and more that you can’t catch; his words are a tide, flowing in and fading out. Now there is pain, deep and sharp and collapsing. Aegon is standing a few yards away, tears flooding down his sunburned face; they clear tracks in the dust that coats him, that coats everyone, that sticks to the blood on your legs. Cregan has pushed the others back, but still, you can hear their incorporeal voices: Jace asking what’s going on, Rhaena explaining, Baela shrieking, Criston shouting orders. Now Aegon has a rough hand on Aemond’s shoulder and is telling him something—insisting upon something—but you don’t know what. Language escapes you; language abandons you.

There are sirens and flashing lights the color of rubies, roses, tangled arteries. Aemond scoops you up and carries you towards them. There is only enough room for one person to ride in the ambulance with you; there is no discussion of who it will be. The rest of Comet has to wait for the Escalades to arrive at your parents’ farm. You do not try to steal a glimpse of the damage, felled trees and scattered fence posts, dead cattle and pillaged earth. You are filled with enough wreckage already; you are built of it, bones made out of bent nails, nerves of barbed wire.

Needles into your arms, chemicals into your bloodstream: something that deadens the pain and muddies your thoughts, makes them slow and heavy and unpanicked, like you are watching this happen to somebody else. In an exam room, nurses strip your clothes away and wipe the red from your skin, routinely, absentmindedly, as if it is of no consequence, as if the future you had taken for granted has not just been drowned, immolated, eradicated from existence like a dying star. They give you underwear fitted with a bulky postpartum pad—the same used by mothers of living children—and a hospital gown that Aemond marks with bloody fingerprints when he touches you. Then the nurses leave you to wait for the doctor with your IVs and your fogbank mind and your glazed eyes that stare blankly at the sterile white walls.

Aemond is smoothing back your hair from your face, and you are reminded of how he held Aegon when he was dying on your bedroom floor in the MGM Grand. You remember once thinking that Aemond is like storms and rogue waves, and that’s true; he turns lethal and then goes kind again, strikes and then soothes. He says once you are alone, each word painstakingly chosen: “I’m sorry that because of how I’ve acted, you felt you couldn’t tell me.”

“I’m sorry I lost the baby.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. I must have. I’m bleeding too much.” You can feel it, blood and clots that ooze, gush, drain away leaving you cold and hollow.

The exam room door opens, not a nurse or a doctor but a man in khaki cargo shorts and a filthy neon green tank top and matching Crocs, clop clop clop. “Hey, Stargirl,” Aegon says, sad and gentle. He holds up a venti-sized plastic cup. “I brought you a Double Chocolatey Chip Frappuccino.”

You blink groggily, not knowing what to do with it. Aegon puts the clear cup in your hands, the green straw between your lips. It’s sugary, cold, rich, topped with a swirl of whipped cream and chocolate syrup. It brings you back a little bit, a few unsteady steps towards the real world.

“Where the fuck is the doctor?” Aemond asks him.

“The nurse said she’s on her way. They’re understaffed.” Aegon shrugs apologetically: Missouri bullshit.

“You get somebody in here, right now.”

“What do you want me to do, threaten to stab medical professionals?! How about you punch some of their teeth out, I bet that would help.” Then Aegon sighs shakily and covers his own face with his hands. “It wasn’t…it wasn’t mine, you know?” Wasn’t, isn’t, will never be. “We haven’t…not since…it’s not…” He looks at Aemond with large, shining, ocean-blue eyes. “It’s not possible. You have to know that. You can’t be the way that you are sometimes. You don’t get a few weeks to come around to doing the decent thing. You have to believe her.”

And Aemond says softly: “I do.”

The door opens again and a doctor steps through it, mid-forties, thick black-rimmed glasses, dark hair secured in a businesslike low bun. Aegon ducks out of the room; the doctor gives him a brief quizzical glance before introducing herself to you. You can’t seem to latch onto her name. You answer the questions she asks you as she readies the ultrasound machine: ten weeks along, blunt force trauma to your back, where and how it hurt before the pain was drugged out of you. She unfastens a tie on the side of your hospital gown and opens it just enough to spread the cool gel across your belly and then glide the transducer through it. She peers at the grainy screen. She’s checking for a heartbeat; she’s checking to see if you’ll need a D&C to help expel a partial miscarriage so you don’t go septic.

“I lost it,” you sob, breaking down again. “Aemond, I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t. Please don’t.” He kisses your temple and then rests his forehead against yours, tears glittering in his river-clear right eye.

“Well,” the doctor says with practiced, vaguely sympathetic composure. “You lost one of them.”

You look to her, not understanding. “One of…?”

She angles the monitor so you and Aemond can see. “Fraternal twins often have separate amniotic sacs and placentas. So depending on the positioning of the fetuses, it is possible to miscarry one but not the other. This one on the left here…” She indicates it with her index finger. “It’s…it’s no longer viable, unfortunately. You’ve already passed most of it. But this one on the right…” She squints at the screen, repositioning the transducer. “From what I can tell, it seems to be holding on. Let me see if I can…” She moves the transducer around, pressing it into the yielding flesh of your belly. And then you hear it: a fierce defiant drumming, a whistling like wind through leaves. “I thought so,” the doctor pronounces, smiling. “There’s the heartbeat. The pulse is approximately 155 beats per minute, which is typical.”

One of them? I didn’t lose one of them? “Aemond…?”

When you turn back to him, he’s staring at the flickering black-and-white whirls of bones and blood flow on the ultrasound screen. And the expression on his face is one that you’ve never seen from him before, serene like when he’s with animals, awed like when he studies the galaxy, and something else too, a great shifting, a clicking into place, tectonic plates and ocean currents and storm clouds unraveling into clear skies. “It’s alright?” he says, not taking his eye from the screen.

“It is,” the doctor confirms. “Measuring a little bit small for ten weeks, but that’s to be expected for a twin. I don’t think you’ll be able to tell the sex for another month, but it’s alive and well.” She freezes the image on the screen, sets the transducer aside, and cleans the gel from your belly. “Based on my experience, in cases like this, I’d say there’s a better than 50/50 chance the surviving fetus can be carried to term.”

You say: “What can I do…? I mean…there must be something I can do to help it…to help it live…”

“We’ll give you medication to stop any residual uterine contractions and antibiotics to prevent infection. I’d like to admit you for observation, just for a day or two. And I would recommend bed rest for several weeks. Until you’ve reached your second trimester, at least.”

“Yes. Anything. I’ll do anything.”

“And sir, you’re…” The doctor peers at Aemond through her glasses, really scrutinizing him for the first time, his brutal scar and his blind left eye and his stillness and his wonder. “You’re the father?”

Aemond nods, still gazing at the screen like a constellation in the night sky, like a comet only glimpsed once in a lifetime. “I am.”

The doctor beams. “Congratulations,” she tells both of you. And then she leaves to arrange for you to be admitted to the hospital.

“I’ll stay,” Aemond says. “When the band flies to New Orleans tomorrow, I’ll stay here with you.”

“No, Aemond.”

“I’m staying. I’m not going to leave you. You need me, the baby needs me.”

“No,” you say again. “What we have now is wrong. It’s painful and volatile and doomed.” You lay your palm against his scarred face, and he doesn’t finch away. “You have to figure out who you are after Comet. And so do I.” Tears in your eyes, tears on your cheeks; but on your lips is a soft, patient smile. “Aemond, I don’t want me and the baby to be a distraction from the work that you still desperately need to do. I don’t want to be a temporary fix. I don’t want to be your life raft. I want to be…if I’m going to be anything to you…” Your thumbprint ghosts across his cheekbone, tender, reverent. “I want to be your home.”

He shakes his head, but he doesn’t speak; drops like rain spill down his right cheek, dyed pink by blood from the fresh lacerations that riddle him, new scars and ancient pain.

“What are you thinking?” you say.

“I’m thinking that you’re right. I fucking hate it, but you are.” He swipes away tears with one bloodstained hand, then he settles it on your not-yet-showing belly, a place of ruin, a place of hope. “When can I come back?”

“When you’re ready. And only you’ll know when that is.”

The exam room door opens again, and your parents rush in like water through a cracked dam. They are frantic and fretting, peering around bewilderedly.

“Lord almighty, what the hell happened?!” your dad booms; and your mom doesn’t even think to chastise him.

“I’m okay, Daddy.”

“You got hit by somethin’? Are they gonna do an x-ray? Your mother and I finally made it back home from church, trees and power lines down all over the place, and that boy was waitin’ on the front porch to tell us where you were. You know, the big one. The one with the godawful ponytail.”

“Cregan,” your mom offers.

“Cregan,” your dad says.

“It’s a man bun, Daddy. How’s the farm?”

“We ain’t too bad off. A couple cows dead, half the herd out wanderin’ since the pasture fence blew away. Me and the dogs gotta bring ‘em on back, but your mother and I had to see you first. Did they check you over good? Can you come home today?”

“Sweetheart, there’s…” Your mom’s voice is alarmed. “There’s blood on your gown, on your face, what happened?”

“Well, I, um, the thing is…” You try to tell them. You begin crying again instead. As you sniffle and avert your eyes—afraid, ashamed—Aemond stands and extends one large, scarlet-streaked hand. Your dad shakes it tentatively. And then Aemond explains for you: the child you’ve lost, the child you’ve kept, what has to happen next.

“I am responsible,” Aemond says as they gape at him, half-ecstatic and half-horrified. “And I know that this didn’t exactly happen in the traditional way, and I know that there is a lot of work left for me to do to prove myself worthy of your daughter. But I hope in time you’ll be able to forgive me. Because it seems that we’re going to be family.”

Your mom squeals and hugs Aemond. Your dad hugs you. They stay until you are settled in your own private room—small bed and clean sheets, drugs trickling into your veins—and only then do they listen to your insistence that you’ll be okay until morning, that they need to go home to take care of the farm. They leave with their arms around each other, exchanging murmurs like vows. Then Aemond asks if you feel well enough to see the band. They want to say goodbye.

“You’ll miss me,” Jace says confidently, then swoops in to smack a kiss on your forehead before anyone can stop him, bouncing dark curls and smirking mouth. Aegon jabs him in the ribs, Criston rolls his eyes, Aemond glowers like he’d enjoy putting Jace in need of another 28 dental implants. “If you ever get sick of mentally ill blonds, just let me know. The kid doesn’t change anything. I dig MILFs.”

“Thanks, Jace. I guess.”

“We’ll still see you around, right? You’ll visit us, we’ll visit you?”

“Yeah. I won’t disappear.”

“Good.” And then again, more somberly: “Good.”

Rhaena is dabbing at her gentle, doe-like eyes with a Kleenex, leaning into Luke for support. Criston is gallant. Daeron is optimistic. Baela is exasperated that you told Rhaena you were pregnant but not her.

“I didn’t tell Rhaena,” you counter. “She just happened to be the person who accompanied me on my ill-fated adventure to procure Plan B in Tokyo at like 2 a.m.”

“Which did not work,” Rhaena adds, sniffling into her Kleenex.

“A cautionary tale,” Jace says to everyone. “You hear that, fellas? When in doubt, wrap it before you tap it.”

Baela nods at you. “Luckily, she doesn’t seem too disappointed.” Her eyes flick reticently to Aemond where he sits in the chair closest to your bed, a presence in the room like skies that could turn in an instant, quiet, preoccupied, protective, dazed. “And neither does he.”

“I’m not,” Aemond confesses. He laces one hand through yours and brings his lips to your knuckles, willing the baby to live, willing himself to be better for you both.

“We’re going to talk later,” Cregan tells him sternly. Talk about what it means to be a father.

“Yes,” Aemond agrees.

And then Cregan says goodbye to you too, his cool greyish eyes growing peculiarly warm, his steely exterior chipping away like flecks of old paint.

Aegon is last, the only person left in the room with you and Aemond. Grinning beneath sad eyes, he presses a hand to his heart, and then to yours, and then to your belly. Starboy, Stargirl, Starbaby. Then he says: “Do you want me to hide under your bed so they can’t kick me out when visiting hours end?”

You smile tiredly, exhausted and in pain, pain of the body and pain of the soul. “You have to go, Aegon. Thousands of screaming fangirls will be waiting for you at Arrowhead Stadium.”

He is stunned. “I can’t perform tonight, obviously.”

“Yes you can.”

“No, I definitely can’t.”

“You can,” you say. “You have to. And more than that, you want to. You’ll regret it if you don’t. You live for being Comet’s disaster playboy. I’m not going to take that away from you.”

And then Aegon whimpers: “You can’t leave me.”

“You’re leaving me first.” You beam up at him, caressing his sunburned face, threading your fingers through his disheveled hair. Aemond observes this with curiosity but no suspicion. “This isn’t goodbye, Aegon. I’ll see you again. You can add me to the long list of girls you FaceTime.”

He laughs. “Okay, Stargirl. Okay. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“For more than a day, right?”

“For all of them. Forever.”

And then he’s gone, riding that elliptical orbit out into all the corners of the world that he will glow for: New Orleans, Miami, Rio de Janeiro, Sao Paulo, Bogota, Buenos Ares, Lima, Santiago.

Aemond swears to you: “I’m coming back.”

“I hope so.”

And he tilts up your chin and kisses you, tasting like smoke and dust and blood and desire, and it takes every atom of you, every string of muscle and rusty speck of bone marrow, not to crumble and beg him to stay. You are still at war with the part of you that wants to surrender as he stands and walks out of the room. He does not look back; he can’t without losing his nerve.

In the night, he returns to you, long after visiting hours have ended. Perhaps hundreds of millions of dollars have a way of making formalities disappear. He is only a silhouette in shadows like dawn, dusk, midnight. Aemond climbs into the hospital bed and catches you as you fold into him, whispering to you that everything will be alright, telling you how sorry he is, lulling you into a fitful sleep against his chest, his warmth, his heartbeat. And in the morning when you wake up alone, you wonder if any of it was real.

Did I dream that he was here? Did I dream that I ever met him at all?

But no, he has left you proof, something tangible, permanent. On the nightstand is Aemond’s small square vintage lighter; Targaryen is etched into one side. And there is something else too, a single piece of black paper with two sentences of starlight-colored ink:

I’m coming back.

I love you.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s October, and the leaves are turning from emerald to topaz, garnet, tiger’s eye. You carve pumpkins with your parents on their front porch. You bake apple crisps and sweet potato pies. You feed the pigs, brush the Australian cattle dogs, buy baby supplies with Aegon’s Amex Black Card. You decide to let the grad student and her Giant Flemish rabbit keep your apartment downtown until your lease is up in the spring. You’d rather be here on the farm, even when you’re not on bed rest anymore. You’d rather be home.

You listen to Comet Donati, The Script, Coldplay, One Direction. Rhaena and Baela mail you boxes of crochet comets and stars and planets for the baby’s room. Aegon mails you boxes of Comet’s new donut-themed merch. Now your dad sometimes tends to the beef cattle in boy band t-shirts. Aegon FaceTimes you two or three times a week, sends WhatsApp messages nearly every day. But you rarely talk about Aemond. It’s too painful, it’s too much of a temptation. You cannot imagine others seeing him, hearing him, speaking to him without needing to do it yourself in the same way that you need oxygen and gravity.

The week before Halloween, you begin spotting. You sob hysterically as your mom drives you to the hospital, convinced that you’re losing this baby too, that everything you touch is damaged and defenseless and doomed. You’re fine, as it turns out, and the baby’s fine too, but even after you’re back at the farm you can’t stop shaking, can’t stop imaging the wet heat of blood on your thighs.

You break down and call Aemond. And you talk for five hours until the sun rises, you in a rocking chair on your parents’ front porch, Aemond on a hotel balcony in Santiago, Chile in the shadow of the Andes Mountains. He says he’s working on something, but he’ll come back now if you ask him to, he’ll board the jet and land in Kansas City in time for supper at the farm, and you can hear the backsliding desperation in his voice: Please ask me to come back. Please just fucking ask me.

But it’s not time yet. He’s not ready, and you both know it. You agree not to call each other again until Aemond returns to you. If he returns to me. Neither of you can sleep for days afterwards. Neither of you can open the door a crack without the other rushing through.

One morning you shuffle downstairs in your Cookie Monster pajama pants and oversized NSYNC t-shirt to find your dad eating a heap of homemade pumpkin waffles in front of the television in the den. All five Australian cattle dogs are perched expectantly at his feet. “Them boys of yours are on Good Morning America.”

“What? Really?”

Yes, they are; they’re celebrating the conclusion of their record-breaking world tour and teasing a new album with an interview and two songs. You catch the end of the first one, their new single called Magic, during which the boys run haphazardly around the neon-lit studio, Jace tears off his donut-themed tank top in protest, and Aegon flubs no less than three lyrics.

Robin Roberts is saying: “Now stay tuned for a very special performance coming up next after a commercial break. We’ll be moving to our outdoor stage in Times Square where a sizeable crowd has formed, and we’ve been told that Comet has a surprise in store for us! What do you think it could be, George?”

“I don’t know, Robin,” George Stephanopoulos replies gamely. “But no matter what it is, I’m sure it will have all those young ladies out there screaming!”

Lara Spencer chuckles. “And not just the young ladies either. I’ve been known to attend Comet concerts on occasion.”

Robin says: “Oh no, Lara, are you a Cregan girlie?”

“Okay, yes, I confess, I am kind of a Cregan girlie…”

You get yourself a plate of pumpkin waffles and return just in time to see the camera panning over the crowd outside: shouting, cheering, waving posters and showcasing their homemade t-shirts.

Robin Roberts announces: “And now, with a cover of One Direction’s Through The Dark, here is the illustrious, incomparable, incredible Comet Donati!”

“No way,” you murmur, staring rapturously at the screen.

“You like that one?” your dad asks, tossing pieces of waffles to the dogs.

“It’s my favorite.” And Aemond knows that. I told him in Singapore.

The stage is empty as the first acoustic notes ring out. Then Daeron trots into view—radiant and cheerful in his donut merch—to sing the first lines:

“You tell me that you’re sad and lost your way

You tell me that your tears are here to stay,

But I know you’re only hiding

And I just wanna see you…”

Aegon appears next, clopping in his sparkly pink Crocs. He flips his hair around and winks mischieviously into the camera as he sings:

“You tell me that you’re hurt and you’re in pain

And I can see your head is held in shame,

But I just wanna see you smile again

See you smile again…”

And now the crowd is not just loud but deafening, and you’re so shocked the plate of pumpkin waffles tumbles out of your hands and onto the floor for the Australian cattle dogs to devour, because who bolts out onto the stage next is not Cregan or Luke or Jace but Aemond Targaryen, wearing Aegon’s beloved donut merch and his Adidas sneakers and his scar and blind eye bare for the world to witness. They don’t seem to take any notice of his maiming at all. They screech and hyperventilate and reach for him, awed, ecstatic, touching his outstretched fingertips and his sneakers like the relics of a saint. He is focused, perhaps nervous, but he is smiling. His voice is velvet-smooth and pitch-perfect.

“But don’t burn out

Even if you scream and shout,

It’ll come back to you

And I’ll be here for you…”

The others arrive, and now all six of them are singing the chorus in harmony as they traverse the stage, dodging each other’s chaotic spins and leaps, waving to the crowd, checking on Aemond with encouraging furtive grins and squeezes of his shoulders. Luke is beaming. Jace shoves Aemond playfully and almost gets flung off the stage in return.

“Oh I will carry you over

Fire and water for your love,

And I will hold you closer

Hope your heart is strong enough,

When the night is coming down on you

We will find a way through the dark.”

“Huh,” your dad says. “They ain’t no Johnny Cash, but they’re pretty good, I reckon. I thought Aemond wasn’t on stage much anymore.”

“He’s not.” And you smile wistfully as you watch him, right here with you and yet a world away, real and yet intangible, facts and myths and faith. “But now he knows he has a choice.”

On warm nights, you sit on the wraparound front porch and flick Aemond’s square metal lighter to life, shut it, ignite it again, a lonely golden spark in an ocean of darkness, a star in the night sky. And voices circle in your mind like satellites:

I think history is important.

Whoever you are when you’re in high school…that’s sort of who you are forever, you know?

I’ve never met anyone like you.

Aemond would want to be involved.

What the hell do I know about being a decent father?

Our father never cared about us.

It’s not just for me. It’s never been just for me.

“Please come back,” you whisper to the infinite emptiness of the universe, so softly you can barely hear yourself.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s November, and you are finally showing more than you can hide beneath hoodies and sweaters. The attendees of your parents’ Southern Baptist church—who glimpse you at Walmart or McDonald’s or Freddy’s Frozen Custard or 7-Eleven—gossip about you ceaselessly, venomously, with pity but no compassion. And your parents, who have been politely ignoring jibes about you for a decade, do more than just ignore it this time. They clear out their church mailbox and walk out the front door together and never go back. They’ve been shopping around for a new place of worship. Your mom says they might get really experimental and try out the Methodists.

Rhaena sends you pictures from her and Luke’s trip to the Mammoth Site in South Dakota. Baela has you on speakerphone when she tells Jace she wants to take a break. She’s completed two ballet school auditions already, and has scheduled two more; at least one acceptance seems imminent. You call Cregan to ask him how to prepare for parenthood. You call Criston to ask if he’d be willing to serve as a reference. He writes you a five-page recommendation letter and tells you prospective employers can contact him any time, day or night. You are hired as a therapist by the University of Missouri. For now, to accommodate your high-risk pregnancy and copious doctor’s appointments, it is a part-time remote position. Your parents are at last forced to get internet for the farmhouse. Your dad starts watching beef cattle raising tutorials on YouTube. And oddly, when you begin taking appointments with college students struggling with breakups or parental pressure or substance abuse, you don’t feel nervous at all. You feel like you’re doing exactly what you were made for.

One morning, you receive a WhatsApp message from Aegon: I wonder if bumblefuck Kansas has the Rolling Stone…

Missouri, you reply, and then you go to Walmart to check. Sure enough, there are numerous copies in the magazine aisle, and that’s a good thing, because a plethora of teenage girls are scrambling for them. Aemond is on the front cover, smiling faintly; his scar and cloudy blind eye are neither centered nor hidden. And he isn’t wearing black. His suit is a deep, lush green like jade, summer grass, ivy. The title reads: Aemond Targaryen is Out of Hiding.

You begin reading. He talks about exactly what happened at the Budokan. He talks about the label’s unilateral decision to excise him from the band. He talks about feeling lost, humiliated, pitied, ignored, unlovable. And then he shares what changed him. He says that he met with other survivors of facial trauma: soldiers, professional athletes, people involved in car and motorcycle accidents. He says that he sat down with half a dozen different therapists until he found one that he really liked. He chronicles the process of finding purpose again in a way that is truthful and inspirational and yet—to you, anyway—conspicuously vague. He is still somewhat involved with Comet’s songwriting and will likely perform with them once or twice per year, he wants to advocate for people living with disabilities like his…but what else? What else?

I think what I want people to know is that progress isn’t instant, and that nobody can do it alone, Aemond writes. I’m only where I am today because of the support of a lot of extraordinary people. I want to thank Comet Donati—Luke, Cregan, Aegon, Daeron, and Jace—as well as our tour manager Criston Cole, who is like a father us. I am immensely grateful to my mother Alicent and my sister Helaena. I am indebted to the fans for the unconditional love they have shown me.

But most of all, I owe my recovery to a therapist from the American Midwest. She can be a little pretentious sometimes, but we don’t fault her for that. She’s earned it. Thank you, Stargirl. I hope this planet is treating you well.

Smiling, glowing, you close the magazine, take it to the checkout counter, purchase it along with five KitKat bars. The baby can’t seem to get enough of them.

Two days later, you have another ultrasound done—your fourth—and at last you are able to give Aegon the answer he’s been zealously hounding you for. You message him on WhatsApp: You’re going to have a niece!

!!!!! he replies almost immediately. And then: Name her Aegonella.

Probably not!

As if you have any better ideas??

You share a few from your list: Celeste, Luna, Aurora, Halley…

Aemond literally just said Halley, Aegon types back. Like right before you did. And then: He’s very excited, omg, omggggggg it’s so cute. Thirty seconds later: Wish you were here :(

“Me too, Starboy,” you murmur as you sit on the couch in the den with Belmont sprawled across your lap. Then you send: I’m scared he’s not coming back.

He is, Aegon replies. He’s working on something. You’ll like it.

And you have to believe this, blindly, faithfully, trusting that something is real even when you can’t see it. You have no other choice.

You beg your dad not to slaughter any of the pigs for ham, and he reluctantly agrees. At Thanksgiving dinner, half the dishes on the table are vegan. You’re trying out new recipes. You jot down the ones you like best in a notebook Luke sent you: black pages, white ink.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s December, and there are stockings hung by the fireplace and a blanket of snow on the ground. You and your parents pick out a Christmas tree at a local farm, and your dad chops it down and throws it in the back of the Ford F-150. Inside your mom’s CD player in the kitchen spins David Archuleta’s Christmas album. As your bump grows, you keep running out of clothes that fit; Aegon is always happy to mail you more donut-themed merch. Thanks to his persistence, they stock nearly every size known to humans. Baela gets her acceptance letters. Aegon gets to make out with Taylor Swift in the Colosseum. They are photographed together in Rome by paparazzi one day and then never again. A week later he’s with Selena Gomez in Ibiza. A week after that he’s spotted with Camila Cabello in New York City. The wheel keeps turning, his route through the solar system long and meandering.

Emergency! Aegon texts you one afternoon as you’re sipping hot apple cider at the dining room table and assembling a 500-piece puzzle depicting the sinking of the Titanic.

You know better than to take him too seriously. You reply, in no hurry: ?

Aemond says I can’t hang out with Starbaby unless I stop taking so many drugs?!!?! Fascist?!??!?!?!

Hang out. Like they’ll be going to clubs and Crocs stores together. You grin and reply: I mean yeah, that sounds accurate.

Well fuck, Aegon says. Guess I better start doing those substance abuse education modules again!

On Christmas Eve morning, your parents are at their slightly-less-judgmental replacement church. You are trying out a new recipe in the kitchen: vegan snickerdoodles. The whole house smells like cinnamon and vanilla. Beyond the window over the sink, snow falls in fluffy white bundles like rumpled bedsheets, like clouds. The Australian cattle dogs follow you around hoping for dropped cookies, their claws clicking on the hardwood floor. David Archuleta is singing O Come, All Ye Faithful. You keep bumping into things; you forget how big you are. Your belly seems to grow by the day.

Your iPhone buzzes. It’s a WhatsApp message from Aegon that puzzles you: Hey, I promised I wouldn’t bother you guys for the first few days but I really need the Netflix password and he’s not answering my texts, rude, so could you ask him for it please??? And then a few seconds later: Please. I just really want to watch Grey’s Anatomy.

You stare at his message, not understanding. You reply: Ask who…?

After a moment, Aegon sends back: …Never mind :)

“Really?” you gasp to yourself in the hushed peace of the kitchen, not wanting to believe, not wanting to be disappointed. You peek out the window. Nothing.

You open Google and search Aemond Targaryen. One of the first results is an article from the Kansas City Star published one hour ago. The headline reads: Comet Donati Heartthrob Opens Farm Animal Rescue Outside of Kansas City.

“Oh my God.” You scroll madly, skimming the text. “Oh my God, oh my God.”

One of Aemond’s quotes reads: I wanted to go where the need is. A sanctuary like this in San Francisco or Boston wouldn’t be anything special, wouldn’t be as necessary. But here in Missouri, at the epicenter of industrial animal agriculture in the United States? There’s a lot of important work to be done here. There are a lot of lives I hope to be able to save. We’ve been purchasing animals from auctions and taking in others that have been seized from situations where they were abused or neglected. In addition to our own efforts, I’d like to help launch similar rescues throughout the Midwest, and increase public access to vegan alternatives…

There are photos of him posing with animals: a towering, scarred, ancient mule named Vhagar, a three-legged goat called Sunfyre. In all the pictures, Aemond is smiling. And here in the kitchen of your parents’ farmhouse, so are you. Without thinking, you reach back to touch your fingertips to the black-ink words beneath your Comet Donati crewneck sweatshirt. You hear the lyrics— I’ll come back for you if it kills me, Comets clip by again after eons and so can I—and you know them to be true like space, time, gravity, love.

You look out the window again and he’s here, speeding down the winding path of the driveway, snow dust streaming out behind his Gold Star like the tail of a comet.

[astaroth1357]

Showing the OM Cast Trashy Reality TV Shows

We all have our weaknesses. Mine is called "Watching People Who Watch Reality Shows Talk About Reality Shows I'll Never Actually Watch."

Contents: Well I mean. Reality TV if that spooks you.

~♡♡♡~

Lucifer

You cannot convince me this isn't a guilty pleasure of his. I can absolutely see him pulling on some sweatpants and watching Love Island with MC on lazy day.

Sometimes, when your life is stressful, you just want to sit down and watch the DUMBEST thing possible. Pure junk food for the gray matter, you know? Can't get enough of the trashy romance shows in particular.

He gets pretty invested, even if he denies it. He'll usually pick out a favorite person or favorite couple and gets PISSED if anything happens to them. Everyone else, he couldn’t care less about.

If he misses a week, he'll get a text from MC asking if his favorite person/couple is still doing okay and nothing more. If something big happened though, he'll secretly clear his schedule so he has time to watch it with them as soon as possible.

Very "husband who says he doesn't care but the second you mention the name of a person he doesn't like, he'll go on a 20 minute tirade" sorta vibe.

Mammon

A very enthusiastic enjoyer of these kinds of shows. He loves the drama!

Definitely has one of the long running-types (like Vanderpump Rules) like a comfort show, though he mostly sticks to Demon RTV. MC isn't going to have a CLUE what 2nd Circle Beats or Devildom Dynasty is all about...

Mammon strikes me as someone who either has been on or auditioned for a reality show in the past. Just... look at him. Tell me he hasn't!

His modeling agent probably told him to so he could get better shoots... But I'll guess he was pretty popular on whatever he showed up on. Fan favorite for sure!

Would definitely show MC some of his favorite shows if they're into that short of thing. Demon RTV is.... edgier (the violence gets pretty heated) but the causes are all the same. They should be in for a good time!

Leviathan

Reality TV is for normies!! Why would he want to watch that???

The very thought of watching attractive people go on and on about their love lives makes him physically ill... Like he doesn't get enough of that stuff from Asmo and Mammon already!!

If MC is going to try and get him to watch ANY of them, it has to be a show that's almost guaranteed to be a mess from the outset like Love After Lockup or MILF Manor (which is a crime against humanity, btw. Sigmund Freud haunts us all.)

Make him sit through a second of Too Hot to Handle or F-Boy Island and he may straight up dump them. Or melt into a smoldering pile of envious goo.

If easy-watching is what they want, why can't they watch something else? Like a cuddly Slice-of-Life or some dumb card game anime?? There's even sports anime FAR more worth their investment with a billion times the substance!!

Not a reality TV fan. Keep it away from him. He'll whine, mope, or go ballistic if he has to see it.

Satan

Approaches human reality shows kind of like he's watching a nature documentary... but still laughs at the stupid bits.

Watching a trashy reality show with Satan can be pretty entertaining because he'll spend the whole time trying to grasp "human culture" from all the chaos. Or try to deconstruct why anyone would want to what these shows AS one is playing.

What's even funnier is when he makes comparisons between how things happen in the show and how they would play out in Devildom instead. Like, if a succubus catches their SO cheating, they'll either add the new partner into the relationship or behead them both. Depends on the day.

Particularly fond of one's that follow around bombastic families because then he also gets to pick apart human family dynamics in the process.

MC has to constantly remind him that a lot of it is staged and not EVERYTHING he sees to true to human life.... but it is true to human entertainment.

Asmodeus

Keeps up with both human AND demon reality shows and has even hosted a couple in the past!

He LIVES for the tea! He BREATHES in the drama! Man can't get enough!! He'll even skim through the tabloids and keeps up with any feuds like he's following genuine war updates.

Since Asmo is such a popular figure in Devildom public life, it isn't even surprising for the paparazzi to stop HIM to get a few photos and ask him his opinions on any fights or scandals.

Unlike Mammon, he's never been in one himself (MC has no idea how bloody Demon RTV can get and does he want to ruin his skin like that?? Hell no!). He doew hang out with the stars of shows he likes all of the time, though.

He sometimes has watch parties with Mammon and MC gets invited along now. Being in the middle of those two is insane because it's like getting to know ALL of the dirty laundry of the kingdom's elite at every get together. Gossipy bitches be chattin' fr.

Beelzebub

Man will watch anything as long as they supply the snacks.

Does Beel care about reality shows? No. Not even a little bit. Will he watch all 16 seasons of Married at First Sight as long as MC refills his popcorn bowl? Absolutely!

Honestly, poor Beel can hardly keep up with the drama anyway... If a show has too many love triangles, he'll lose track of who's dating who and sit there lost for an excruciating amount of time.

Was even more confused about why anyone would watch these shows after MC told them they were staged. All that shouting is over nothing...?? This is a really weird genre...

MC would have an easier time getting him invested in like... I dunno a cooking game show than anything having to do with relationship drama. Though they would run the risk of soaking the couch in drool if they try...

Belphegor

Not super into them or super against them. He'll watch one in the background until he inevitably falls asleep.

Belphie is probably one of the brothers most likely to agree to watch any reality show MC wants with them, but with the understanding that's he's only using it as an excuse for cuddle time.

Belphie weirdly has both zero emotional investment in anything happening on the screen but also a frighteningly good memory for what actually happens per episode... MC could quiz him on actor personalities, timelines, scandals, or relationships and he'll somehow always get it right.

He can tell you that Vassago and Sitri from 2nd Circle Beats are having a feud over who sent the succubus to crash Baal's birthday party, but seriously don't expect him to care. He wants soft blankets and warm bodies to nap to. Give him that and he's happy.

Part of it is just learned behavior. Belphie was Asmo's go-to watch buddy for the longest time. Whatever part of his brain that soaks up class lessons in his sleep seems to work just as well for the dramatic minutiae of a reality show, so he's like a walking DVR.

Diavolo

Thinks that all reality shows are so quaint and amusing, but they definitely skew his impression on everyday human life...

After being exposed to some of the longer running shows, he was really surprised that MC and Solomon are so... chill with each other?

I mean. They weren't throwing drinks, talking shit, or stabbing each other in the back every second of day, right? Obviously they must be quite close!

He even comments on how truly well they must get along as Master and Apprentice! Such a beautiful bond... Stronger than their natural human impulse for complete social and emotional disorder!!

(Please educate him on actual human dynamics and NOT just the ones that get dramatized for TV. We're not that bad, Dia, promise.)

Barbatos

Doesn't exactly like the shows, nor does he have time for them, but if MC likes them then he'll swallow his distain.

Honestly, Barbs looks down on the humans in reality shows even more than he does most of humanity in general. The things some of them would do to chase fame is simply... Well. He looks forward to seeing certain individuals among damned one day.

He probably busies himself by giving MC a foot rub or caring for their nails while they watch their shows. Anything that can keep his eyes off the screen.

Occasionally, something OUTRAGEOUS will happen and MC will hear him make a small scoff of disapproval, but that's about it.

He's well aware that a portion of what is presented is fake or at least staged to some degree, so he doesn't let it paint his perception of human culture. That said, he thinks that anyone who's willing to make a spectacle of themselves for a public audience speaks quite enough on its own. (And seriously don't get him started on the demon variety of these shows unless you want to seem him get grouchy).

Simeon

Also not the biggest fan, but he does enjoy getting to guiltlessly throw shade from time to time.

At some level, Simeon thinks it's a little impolite to gawk at total strangers and judge how they handle their relationships... butvon the other hand, they ARE the ones who agreed to the cameras so...

Has a strict policy to never watch reality shows in front of Luke so he doesn't get a bad influence. But also, so the little angel doesn't end up hearing the absolute INFERNO that Simeon roasts the actors with.

"Ah... So naturally gifted in all but wits!" "I do believe that young man is quite familiar... I think I once saw something much like him at the bottom of my shoe." "Mm? MC? Are you sitting on the remote? I think you may have changed the channel to Devildom TV... No? Oh. My mistake. They just seemed so heartless that I thought they'd fit in well here..."

Tearing. Scathing. His contempt cannot be contained. It is, however, a good outlet for him so please let him roast away!

Solomon

Guy is so out of touch with the modern era that watching these shows is just as bizarre to him as watching a viewing screen into a Victorian ballroom would be to us. Who keeps creating these strange words every other month...?

Reality dating shows give him whiplash. People get married now after 90 days? Or at first sight?? Or before they even SEE each other at all??? The last time he ever thought of courtship, it was still mostly arranged by the couple's families... Things have really sped up.

Not that he's complaining too much, because that gives him all the more reason to go through with his fantasy of proposing to then marry the MC in less than 12 hours (or however long before the brothers notice he's attempting to steal them away).

He feels like he has a leg up on the angels and demons around them for once because at least MC doesn't have to stop and explain human customs to him every five seconds. ... Just the modern ones.

I feel like watching Reality TV with Solomon is a very, "Let's get a little drunk and laugh at the screen" sort of affair. Very loose with a lot of jokes flying at the actors expense. He may or may not remember what all happens in the show, but hey, it's good fun!

[moriartyluver]

MIRRORBALL: PROLOGUE

"ARE YOU SURE YOU CAN'T STAY FOR DINNER?" (Name) asked the blond in front of her whilst they stood outside the front door to her house.

"As much as I would love to, I really can't. My aunt's visiting and I need to be there to ensure my mother doesn't start fighting her." Theodore hummed, brushing a stray hair away from her face

(Name) chuckled "It's the same when gran comes to visit. I swear last time I saw my mother clench her fists, like she was gonna punch her."

Theodore gasped jokingly "The Emily Gilmore? No!"

"Not really shocking when you consider that this is Lorelai the first we're talking about." (Name) smiled, her hand intertwining with his. "Isn't it so weird how I have 3 Lorelais in my family?"

"Yeah..keep forgetting you're an aunt.." He whispered, kissing her forehead "You're lucky you weren't called Lorelai too..would've been confusing.."

"Tell me about it.." She frowned as she noticed him pulling his hand away "Call me when you get home, or at least when your mother and aunt aren't trying to kill each other?"

He rolled his eyes "Yes mom." He said, before leaning in to kiss her lips gently, until she wrapped her arms around his neck. Then it was not so gentle.

"Freud is rolling around in his grave right now," she murmured against his lips.

"Please stop," he groaned, before shutting her up with his lips again, hand tangling in her hair. They stood like that for a few minutes, occasionally coming back up for air whilst Theodore procrastinated returning home in favour of kissing his 'friend'. They were so immersed in one another that they couldn't even hear the footsteps approaching them.

"Oh god-" a familiar voice spoke. "Sorry, am I interrupting..?"

(Name) pulled away with a loud yelp, eyes wide and embarrassed as they landed on none other than her older sister. Lorelai the second. Well, nobody actually called her that. She was just Lorelai Victoria Gilmore. Or Lorelai.

"Crap- Lorelai! What are you doing here?" She chuckled nervously, whilst Theo tried not to smack his head into the wall. "Is it thanksgiving already?" She joked, wiping her lips with her sleeve.

"I just had a business class..I thought I could stop by." She explained, equally as traumatised by the situation.

"Oh, yeah. You mentioned that, a while ago, I think." (Name) nodded, before the front door opened to reveal her mother, Emily.

"What's all the commotion about..?" She said before her vision landed on her oldest daughter. "Lorelai, my goodness, this is a surprise. Is it Easter already?"

Lorelai laughed nervously, shaking her head. "No, I just finished up my business class and I thought I would stop by."

"To see us?"

"Yes," she nodded.

"Well that's nice," Emily smiled, opening the door wider "Come in." She turned to Theo who was stood by (Name). "Would you like to come in too, Theodore?"

He shook his head "I'd love to, but I really have to be going." He said, kissing the side of (Name)'s head before walking back to his car. "Bye (nickname), Bye Mrs Gilmore."

(Name) watched him walk off with a smile on her face before entering the house shortly behind Lorelai.

"The place looks great," Lorelai said awkwardly, glancing around the room. Nothing seemed to be much different than when she was that angry teenager, apart from the painting above the mantle. Instead of it being herself, Richard and Emily, it was now her parents and little sister.

"Nothings changed," said Emily curtly.

"Well there you go," She replied, tearing her eyes away from the painting and to her mother. "How are the girls at the bridge club?" She asked as they walked into the living room.

"Old."

"Well...good." Lorelai said before (name) decided to interrupt the awkward conversation to take her leave.

"I'm going to go get dressed, and I'm expecting a call from Amara, too. " She smiled, kissing her mother on the cheek as she sat down.

Emily nodded "I'll let you know if she calls." She said whilst (Name) walked up stairs to her room, Lorelai's old room, her Mary Jane's clacking against the floor. "You said you were taking a business class?" Emily asked, turning to Lorelai who sat opposite her.

"Yeah, I'm taking a business class at the college, twice a week. I'm sure I told you," Lorelai recalled. It wasn't surprising if her mother did forget though.

"Well if you're sure then you must have." There was a long silence. "Would you like some tea?"

"I would love some coffee," She replied. Very typical of her. God, could this be any more awkward? She wanted to ask for the money, then go, even if her request was rejected.

"Emily?" Oh it could be more awkward. "I'm home." Richard called from the other room.

"We're in here!" She called back

"We? I thought (Name) had tennis practice after school—" He said, walking into the room before he saw Lorelai sat opposite Emily.

"Hi dad." She smiled politely.

"What is it, Christmas already?" He said sarcastically "I assume (Name)'s still at school then."

"Oh no, she came home early. Might've been cancelled. She's upstairs." Emily explained. "Theodore drove her home, as usual, couldn't stay for dinner though."

"Theodore?" Lorelai raised a brow, surprised that she knew so little about her younger sister. Was that her boyfriend or something..?

"Lorelai was taking a business class at the college today and decided to drop by to see us," Emily said, ignoring her.

"What business class?" Richard asked, stood beside the couch.

"Well she told us about it, dear, remember?" Emily said, a mix of sarcasm and condescension in her voice.

"No."

"Well actually," Lorelai said hesitantly "I came here for a reason. Dad, would you mind sitting down for a minute?"

"You need money." Richard stated, walking behind the couch

"..I have a situation." Lorelai tried to defend herself.

"You need money." Richard repeated.

"Dad will you please just try to let me get this out, okay?" This was exactly why she didn't want to do this, Lorelai reminded herself. "Um, Rory has been accepted to Chilton."

"Chilton? Oh that's a wonderful school, (Name) goes there," Emily smiled "Top of her class. And it's very close to here too."

Lorelai sighed "Yes, I know she goes there. That's partially why I thought it would be a good idea for Rory to apply-"

"Oh, I'm sorry I just thought you forgot. You two rarely speak at all apart from the occasional word at Christmas." Emily said sarcastically.

Lorelai bit her tongue, trying not to start an argument. "Well, Rory can start Chilton as early as Monday. Um, the problem is, they want me to put down an enrolment fee as well as the first semester's tuition, and I have to do all that immediately or she loses her spot."

"So you need money."

"Yeah, but it's not for me, it's for Rory." She explained "And I fully intend to pay you back every cent. I don't ask for favours, you know that."

"Oh yes, we know." Emily said.

"I'll get the cheque book." Richard stated, ready to walk away and retrieve it from his office.

"Thank you, you have no idea. Thank you." Lorelai smiled.

"-on one condition." Emily interrupted.

"So close." Her daughter muttered under her breath.

"Since we are now financially involved in your life, I want to be actively involved in your life." She continued.

"What does that mean, mother?" Lorelai asked, a feeling of dread washing over her.

"I want a weekly dinner."

"What?"

"Friday nights, you and Rory will have dinner here." Emily explained. "And you have to call us once a week to give us an update on her schooling and your life. That's it. That's the condition. If you agree, you'll come to dinner tomorrow night and leave here with the cheque. Otherwise, I'm sorry, we can't help you.."

Lorelai sighed again, accepting her fate. Of course her mother was going to pull something like this. "I..I don't want her to know that I borrowed the money from you. Can that just be between us?"

"Does seven o'clock work for you?" Emily confirmed, the phone starting to ring.

She forced a smile. "Perfect."

The phone continued to ring and (Name) rushed down the stairs in a different outfit, although equally preppy. She picked up the phone and answered it whilst Lorelai got up to leave.

"Hello?" She spoke into the phone, waiting for the person on the other end to reply.

"(Name), should I call him?" Amara, her best friend, said whilst (Name) walked with the phone.

"Who?" She said, in a much lower voice.

"James! He hasn't called me all week, and he was ignoring me at school, I could tell." She groaned whilst her friend rolled her eyes

(Name) shook her head "I mean, he didn't explicitly say you broke up but that sounds like he wants nothing to do with you if you ask me," she hummed, waving to her dad to greet him home whilst she still spoke into the phone. "What an idiot.."

"I think I saw him walking out of school with someone else today—" Amara paused. "Hold on, Alex is on the other line."

(Name) stopped talking, putting the phone to her side for a moment whilst she looked over at her parents and sister on the couch. "Daddy, did you look over my economics paper for me?" She asked her father, walking over and kissing his cheek.

"Yes, and I must say, I think it's worth an A+," He said, making his daughter grin.

"Perfect." She smiled. "I should hope so, it's worth like 20% of my grade.."

"Well then consider that 20% guaranteed." He chuckled. (Name) turned, glancing at Lorelai who was about to leave.

"Going so soon?" She asked whilst the phone in her hand was still silent.

"Well, I have to get back to the inn," Lorelai explained. "It was nice seeing you all."

"I'll walk you to the door," Her sister offered, walking out the living room with her. "So what were you really here for?" She asked as they grew out of earshot. "Money?"

"It's nothing, (name), don't worry about it." Lorelai said, deflecting the conversation. "Who was that guy you were necking with?"

"Gross. Nobody says necking anymore," (Name) rolled her eyes. "And that was just Theodore."

"Who?"

"He was at my last birthday party, and like every other birthday party you've attended." She explained. "Theodore Montgomery? Last name ring any bells?"

"Frosted tips!" Lorelai exclaimed, remembering all of a sudden.

"That was when we were 14, he doesn't have them any more," she defended, checking if Amara was back on the other line briefly before continuing "We've been friends since forever, surely you know more than that."

"Just friends?" Lorelai raised a brow.

"Just friends." (Name) confirmed, opening the door whilst Lorelai stepped out. "Bye Lorelai. See you on thanksgiving."

"Or tomorrow." She smiled before (Name) shut the door with a roll of the eyes, getting back on the phone.

"What did he want?" She asked as Amara returned, walking back towards her room with the brick like phone against her ear.

"He? He has a name you know." A familiar voice spoke.

"Hello to you too, Alexander Caspian Grimaldi." (Name) rolled her eyes, shutting her bedroom door, and sitting on her bed. God she hated three way calls.

"Anyways," Amara interjected, grumbling as she recalled what she had seen earlier that day. "Alex found out who James was with, all friendly with his arm around her waist..guess."

"Hmm..Me?" (Name) joked, whilst Amara waited.

"Haha. I can tell who you are from the back of your head, and you'd never do that to me. We never fight over boys," She said

"Because you have awful taste and I'm not a fan of high school boys. Too immature." (Name) retorted

"Cher and Dion have nothing on us," Amara giggled "guess, for real this time."

"I don't-"

"It was Rebecca!" Alexander interrupted, unable to keep it in.

"No!" (Name) gasped "That Mormon bitch who asked you for your lipgloss after gym today? The nerve!"

"I know!" Amara agreed "Like I didn't even get the opportunity to break up with him and he's kissing a girl wearing my lipgloss. He totally still wants me."

Alex scoffed "He wants you so he was out with another girl? Makes sense."

"Oh butt out, Alex, you're a boy, you don't get it." (Name) said, rolling her eyes. "I can't believe Rebecca would do that."

"Is she really a Mormon? I thought those only existed in Utah." Alex hummed, gossiping with them.

Amara passed before trailing off. "I guess I can't talk to James any more...I'll never find love."

"What made you think you were gonna find love in a prep school in the first place? " (Name) joked, holding a pink fluffy pillow against her chest. "When we go off to Yale, they'll be plenty of assholes to choose from."

"Real optimistic, aren't you?" Alex hummed.

"It runs in my blood," She smiled to herself. "Speaking of which, guess who came over today?"

"Don't tell me it's the deadbeat sister," Amara joked.

"She's not a deadbeat," (Name) tried to defend. "But yeah, Lorelai was here. I think she was asking for money, because she's only ever here for my birthday or holidays...But, in her defence, she's always been self sufficient so if she's asking, she must really need it.."

Her friend hummed in agreement "You must be, if you're gonna move out at 16 with a new born baby."

"And then not realise you have a sister until Christmas." Alex added. "Well, at least you got to see her an extra time before thanksgiving."

(Name) shook her head "I don't know about that..She said something about coming over tomorrow, and I'm pretty sure I heard my parents say something about dinner tomorrow. She might be coming over, for god knows what. Anyways. I have homework to do, so I've got to go."

"Wait was this the math homework?" Amara asked "Crap, I totally forgot! You really need to get a new cellphone, I'll froget these things without you."

"Well then you better go do it too, bye!" (Name) hung up the phone.

"So do we go in or do we just stand here recreating the little match girl?" Lorelai spoke as she and Rory stood outside the Gilmore residence. Rory remained silent, still not talking to her mother after their argument that afternoon. "Okay, look, I know you and me are having a thing here and I know you hate me but I need you to be civil, at least through dinner and then on the way home, you can pull a Menendez. Deal?"

"Fine." Rory said whilst Lorelai rang the doorbell. Within seconds, Emily opened the door with a smile. "Hi grandma."

"Well you're right on time." She said.

"Yeah, no traffic at all." Lorelai agreed with a forced smile. They walked through the door behind Emily who seemed genuinely excited to see the two of them on a day the banks were open.

"I can't tell you what a treat it is to have you both here."

"Oh well, we're excited too." Said an unexcited Lorelai, fiddling with her coffee cup.

"Is that a collector's cup or can I throw it away for you?" Emily asked, glancing at the paper cup.

"Oh," Lorelai muttered, about to throw it in the nearby wastebasket before Emily interrupted.

"In the kitchen, please." She turned to Rory. "Are you excited about chilton?"

"Well, I haven't started yet." Rory replied, walking alongside her grandmother to the living room.

"Richard, look who's here— where's (name)?" Emily glanced around.

"She said she was studying, remember?" Richard said, looking up from his newspaper. "Rory. You're tall."

"(Name), they're here!" Emily called up the stairs before her youngest daughter came down the creaky steps.

"Hi dad, (name)," Lorelai nodded to both respectively.

"Hi." She said with a small smile, brushing invisible creases out of her dress.

Richard looked over to her. "Lorelai, your daughter's tall."

"I know, it's freakish. We're thinking of having her studied at MIT."

"Ah." He hummed, returning to the paper.

"Champagne anyone?" Emily asked, interrupting the lack of conversation.

"Oh that's fancy," Lorelai hummed.

Emily poured a glass for Lorelai, herself and Richard. "Well it's not everyday that I have my girls here for dinner on a day the banks are open." She raised her glass, after handing glasses to the others. "A toast, to Rory entering chilton with (Name) and an exciting new phase in her life."

"Here here." Richard agreed

"Mm..well let's sit everyone." Emily said, sitting beside (Name) "An education is the most importantly thing in the world next to family."

"And��pie." Lorelai smiled. "Joke, joke."

"Ah." Emily nodded, a long silence following Lorelai's remark. Richard handed Rory a newpaper whilst (name) stated at her shoes.

They finally made their way into the dining room, still sitting in silence. (Name) internally groaned, wishing she was hanging out with her friends instead.

"So, Rory, how do you like the lamb?" Emily asked.

"It's good." She nodded.

"Too dry?"

"No, it's perfect."

"Potatoes could use some salt though." Lorelai joked again. (Name) shot her a look.

Emily turned to Lorelai "Excuse me?"

"The potatoes are good, mom." (Name) said, trying to avoid any conflict. "Lorelai's just kidding. She's such a kidder." She said sarcastically, kicking her sister beneath the table.

"So, Grandpa, how's the insurance biz?" Rory asked, changing the subject.

"Oh, people die, we pay. People crash their cars, we pay. People lose a foot, we pay," Richard said.

"Well at least you have your new slogan," Lorelai joked again.

Richard hummed absentmindedly. "And how are things at the motel?"

"The inn?" Lorelai corrected "They're great."

"Lorelai's the executive manager now. Isn't that wonderful?" Emily chimed in.

"Speaking of which, Christopher called yesterday." He replied. (Name) didn't know Christopher, only hearing he was Rory's father, and the guy who turned Lorelai into a teen mother, which meant (Name) had vowed to stay celibate unto she was at least 20, just to beat teen pregnancy. Not that her parents would complain.

"Speaking of which? How is that a speaking of which?" Lorelai asked.

Well, she had met Christopher once or twice, before she was fully conscious, as a baby a couple of times before he disappeared off to do god knows what, god knows where, although she and Theodore were often compared to the pair, typically amongst Emily and Richard's older friends who knew them as children. The comparisons weren't encouraged though, especially since she had turned 15, soon to be 16 in the coming summer, a few months away.

"He's doing very well in California. His internet start up goes public next month. This could mean very big things for him," Richard turned to Rory. "Very talented man, you're father."

'Talented enough to get a girl pregnant and go off to the other side of the country' (name) thought to herself, but didn't say anything, as usual.

"She knows." Lorelai said, starting to feel agitated.

"He was always a smart one, that boy. You must take after him," he told Rory.

'Smart enough to not wrap it before he tapped it.'

"Speaking of which," Lorelai interrupted. "I'm going to get a coke. Or a knife." She said, before standing up and storming out of the dining room into the kitchen where she started scrubbing dishes in the sink. The maid walked in, giving her a look before walking back out.

"Guess you're not gonna be the one pulling a Menendez, huh?" (Name) whispered to Rory, out of earshot from her parents.

"What?" She whispered back

"I heard you, outside, from my bedroom."

Rory nodded slowly, glancing towards the door to the kitchen and getting out of her seat. "I think I should go talk to her."

"No I'll go," Emily insisted "you stay and keep your grandfather company. (Name) can tell you about Chilton." She got up, going to the kitchen "Lorelai, come back to the table."

"Is this what it's gonna be like every Friday night? I come over and let you two attack me?" She asked, turning around from the sink, facing her mother.

"You're being very dramatic," Emily rolled her eyes.

"Dramatic?" Lorelai exclaimed. "Were you at that table just now?"

"Yes I was," She replied. "And I think you took what your father said the wrong way."

"The wrong way?" She asked, annoyed by the response "How could I have taken it the wrong way? What was open to interpretation?"

Whilst they argued, (name), Rory and Richard sat in silence, able to overhear the whole argument.

"So," (name) tried to distract them. "Are you excited to start chilton? I can give you the run down on all the teachers if you want. And considering we'll be in the same grade, you can always hang out with my friends and I. They're all really nice, I promise."

"Um, sure." Rory nodded, still eavesdropping on the argument, although that was easy with how loud Lorelai was being.

"Keep your voice down." Emily hissed

"No mother, I can't take it anymore." Lorelai argued back. "Tonight feels just like a nightmare. I can't believe (Name) has to live like this every single day. I can't even take one damn night!"

Emily stepped back as Lorelai dropped suds on the kitchen floors. "You're dripping all over the floor."

"Why do you pounce on everything I say?" Lorelai continued.

"That's absurd." She retorted. "You barely uttered a word all night."

"That's not true." Her daughter frowned.

"You said pie."

"Oh come on."

"You did," Emily insisted. "All I heard you say was pie."

"Why would he bring up Christopher? Was that really necessary? Could've talked about (Name)'s boyfriend instead." She said, pacing around.

Emily raised a brow at that last comment, lining it wasn't true. "He likes Christopher."

"Isn't that interesting?" Lorelai said rhetorically "Because, as I remember, when Christopher got me pregnant, Dad don't like him so much."

"Oh, well, please, you were sixteen." She recalled "what were we supposed to do? Throw you a party? We were disappointed. The two of you had such bright futures."

"Yes, and by not getting married, we got to keep those bright futures."

"When you get pregnant, you get married. A child needs a mother and a father." Emily stated.

"Oh mom." Lorelai held back the urge to roll her eyes. "Do you think Christopher would have his own company right now if we'd gotten married?" She paused "Do you think he'd be anything at all?"

"Yes, I do.  You're father would've put him in the insurance business, and you'd be living a lovely life right now," Emily explained "And you would actually know your little sister, you know, (hair colour hair), cartoony (eye colour) eyes, in case you forgot."

"He didn't want to be in the insurance business, and I am living a lovely life right now!" Lorelai argued back, annoyed by her mother's meddling. "And I would've known (name) better had you not kept her from me, I didn't even know she existed, or that you were ever pregnant."

"I didn't keep (Name) away from you, you went off to live your life far away from us with limited contact."

"—oh here we go." Lorelai groaned.

"You took that girl and completely shut us out of your life," Emily continued. "Not the other way around."

"You wanted to control me," She said.

"You were still a child!"

"I stopped being a child the minute the strip turned pink, and you had (Name) too," Lorelai scoffed. "I had to figure out how to live. I found a good job—"

"As a maid.." Emily sneered. "With all your brains and talent."

"Well you get your do over now, with (Name)," she accused. "I worked my way up, I run the place now. I built a life on my own with no help from anyone."

"Yes, and think of where you would have been if you'd accepted a little help, hmm?" Emily countered. "And where Rory would have been. Hell, she and (Name) could've been best friends. But no, you were always too proud to accept anything from anyone." 

"Well, I wasn't too proud to come here to you two begging for money for my kid's school, was I?!" Lorelai barked, a little too loud, causing both her sister and daughter to overhear, whilst Richard felt asleep in his seat. (Name) wasn't  really surprised, but it seemed that Rory was. 

"No, you certainly weren't. But you're too proud to let her know where you got it from, aren't you?" Emily declared with a smirk. "Well, fine, you have your precious pride and I have my weekly dinners. Isn't that nice? We both win."

4136 words

A/N: first chapter of my long awaited gilmore girls fic!! this isn't my usual content, but tbh it's y blog, i can do what I want. Also, I have nothing against mormons btw, that was a joke similar to another one in gilmore girls i think. anyways don't cancel me please

[dearfandomdiary]

Mornings with your husband

sherlock holmes x wife!reader Warnings: idk. ooc!sherlock ?? lmao word count: 810 word

Author's note: Hey! this is part two of Waiting on your husband ! There is a Sigmund Freud reference just for funsies bc you're into psychology and just read his paper; is it accurate to the time period? idk. is this for funsies? absolutely. SO ENJOY!!

You awoke due to the sun streaks coming through the curtains. You had forgotten to close them completely. Like instinct, your hand reached out to your right where Sherlock slept but all you felt was emptiness; the bed made and cold. You groaned at the memory. He had slept on the couch after coming home drunk.

You sighed before getting up. That will be interesting, you thought with a chuckle as you made the bed. Wrapping your morning robe around your body, you walked out of your shared bedroom.

Silence welcomed you which came to a surprise. It was already 8 am. On any other day, he would be up and about already. Making tea, working on his cases; some kind of noise always happened.

Sherlock was still asleep, you noticed and you chuckled quietly. His body was turned towards the backrest as best as he could, almost curled into himself like a fetus. Seeing him sleep, you decided to make coffee and breakfast first. He would definitely need that. You also grabbed his newspaper from outside.

After preparing everything on the dining table, as quiet as you could, you walked over to the chaise lounge and sat on the small corner. A hand on his thigh, you began: “Sherlock? It’s time to wake up.” Your hand brushed over his thigh. “Sherlock. Come on, love.”

Then, finally. He groaned, his hand reaching out to cover your own. “Lay with me.” he mumbled, his hand grabbing yours to tug you close.

But you held your ground. A chuckle left your lips. “Maybe later. I made coffee and breakfast. Porridge with applesauce and toast with jam.”

This caused Sherlock to open an eye and twisting to look at you. His eyes squinted against the brightness from the kitchen windows. “Black coffee with a splash of milk?”

You nodded. “Of course. Up you go. Your sister is arriving soon.” you reminded him with a smile. His antics really were adorable sometimes.

He hummed, another attempt to tug at your hand. “Soon isn’t now. Come on, let's cuddle for a bit.”

For a moment, it felt it was working. You weighed your options. You loved spending time with him, his hugs felt like home and comfort but then again. Enola was coming soon and you needed to get dressed and Sherlock needed to get ready for the day no matter how hungover he was.

With a huff, you removed your slippers. “Fine. But only for a few minutes, alright? I have so much to do today even if you never notice it.” you argued as you watched him; his hand never releasing yours. He sat back against the back of the chaise lounge, his legs spread slightly so you could get settled in his arms, leaning against his chest. Your head fell back against his shoulder and a low hum left your lips.

“Good?”

“Perfect.”

He chuckled at your response and kissed the top of your head. “Did you get my newspaper?” he asked and you nodded.

“It’s on the dining table. Do you want it? I can get it for you.”

Sherlock let out a laugh. “What I want, is for my woman to stay in my arms right now. I can read it later.” he said, his arms tightening around your waist.

You chuckled. “Well maybe your woman likes being on her feet and not just sitting around all day.” you replied while your hand came down to Sherlock’s, your index finger running up and down his fingers.

Goosebumps were forming, you could see it and it made you grin.

Sherlock groaned in response, his face resting in the crook of your neck. “You never even met my mother and you’re starting to sound like her.”

You couldn’t resist laughing. “Careful or people might think you have an Oedipus Complex.” you teased as her hand reached up to stroke through his curly hair.

His eyes opened almost immediately. “Mh? Did you read his paper?” Sherlock lifted his head. “I do not have an Oedipus Complex, (Y/N).” he argued.

“I know, love. I was joking. I’ve been with a few men before you who fit those criteria a lot better.” you said, your eyebrows furrowed slightly; you were almost cringing at the image. “Anyhow— let’s not speak of that. What were you doing yesterday that required you to get drunk?”

You felt him stiffen behind you and could feel the change in topic before it happened.

“Oh, look at the time. Enola should arrive sson. Let me get changed! I’ll eat after!” he said as he gently pushed you back to get up. He practically vanished into thin air.

You pouted a little. He rarely kept such tight hold on his cases. What could possibly be going on?

You were ripped out of your thought when you heard a knock on your door.

[drawinglin]

Hello. Regarding Hellraiser III, I seem to recall you making a comment about how you believed Elliott and Unbound!Pinhead to be physical manifestations of Freud's model of the psyche - super-ego and id respectively. I am in total agreement with you there, and I have believed this same thing for a long time now. This would also make normal 'Bound' Pinhead that we meet in the first two films, and the films following Bloodline, to be the actual Ego itself. I think this makes the third film, and the characterisations so much more interesting, rather than doing what the early 90s HR comics did, which was to have Pinhead be an Aztec 'demon' who possesses Elliott, making them separate people altogether. That's boring and predictable, and just goes against everything that the movies established in the earlier films for Pinhead. By having Unbound and Elliott be one and the same, just different aspects of the same man, which is basically what HR is about - our deepest, darkest desires explored and enhanced, it builds on the HR mythology. This is why I've always loved HR3, and why I don't think it's a bad film, and why I just adore Unbound as a character. This is Pinhead off the leash. I still believe that Unbound would still be very fond of Kirsty, and still would be driven to protect her in some way. Even without his human side. But for the most part, he would be super eager to have her join him. Though he'd treat her much differently than he did the club patrons. I don't think the love/lust for Kirsty comes from just his human side. It comes from all of him.

Anyway, I thought I'd share my thoughts on the matter with you. I found this online regarding id, ego, super-ego, and it reminded me of the boys even more so. Maybe you could draw something out of this? It's an idea. I love your art. Keep up the good work! :)

Your analysis of Unbound and Elliot is exactly what I was thinking. It almost makes me cry. I’ve always found it hard to dislike HR3 for this reason. After watching the HR1 and HR2, I felt that human desires and darkness are what truly terrify us. So when I discovered that HR3 split the Hell Priest into two characters, I was super excited.

The human version of Elliot is relatively mature; after all, he carries the memories and burdens from his time as a human, as well as the PTSD of being a survivor of World War I. He is also someone who adheres strictly to rules. I guess this leadership quality and personality is what attracted Leviathan to him, eventually leading him to become the priest managing hell. In the moment of their separation, the repressed desires, dark sides, and nature of the human were individually extracted, like a newly born child without constraints. They both possess things that the other lacks. I’m really looking forward to their journey of hatred and self-destruction gradually turning into understanding, culminating in a new interpretation of a single person. It’s amazing! But unfortunately, HR3 didn’t delve into their complex psychological relationship in detail. This regret has made me want to doodle their story.

I was shocked to learn that the comic had mentioned the demon's setting before; I had no idea about that. Thank you for sharing! Like you, I’m more inclined towards the idea of the id and superego!

I agree that Elliot and Unbound have an obsession with Kirsty and surely hope that she would join their ranks as a Cenobite.

But to me,I tend to see their relationship as a complex ambiguity; I imagine it as a sense of distance rather than a romantic interaction. Their conflicts would actually bring them closer together.

For Kirsty, the Hell Priest undoubtedly intervened in her life and indirectly destroyed her family. Even if it started because of someone else’s involvement, he still cast a huge shadow over Kirsty. In their contract relationship, the Hell Priest has let her go multiple times, and Elliot himself has said that Kirsty is his friend. Therefore, I believe they share a relationship that is both contradictory and beautiful!

The existence of their relationship is so enchanting, which is probably why so many people like it!

And thank you for the pictures you provided. I love your thoughts every time you share them; they truly inspire me!🥰❤️ ❤️

[arieswritez]

HII! i just wanna start out by saying I absolutely adore and love your mark fics so much, I’ve been eating them up 🫶. but i wanted to ask, in your yan! mark alphabet, you said mark would be more rough if you’re on the masculine side. do you think you can go more into that?

hi :v!!!

i think mark would be rougher w a 'partner' (partner in quotes cause he's holding you hostage 🤭) who's masc because of daddy issues. . basically LMAOO.

if we're talking about alternate!mark, despite the fact that they took over the planet: he still feels the need to prove himself to his dad.

he may not show it but he still holds a lot of anger towards nolan. if their fight still happened in that timeline, mark finds himself having nightmares about his dad above him, pummeling him into that mountain and he wakes with a start before his dad can deliver the last fatal blow.

it causes friction.

maybe nolan and him bump heads from time to time. heated arguments and icy glares in which mark is always the first to back down on. because the truth of the matter is that mark is afraid of his father. and sometimes he wonders if they're real partners or if what they've got is more of an uneasy truce.

regardless, conquering earth is something mark is letting his father do because he wants his approval.

he wants to be just like him.

of course, that insecurity - that resentment - bleeds into his other relationship w men or masc!presenting individuals. it's an ego thing. a need to puff out his chest and show that he's stronger than said person. that he's better. that he can bring them to their knees.

he's going to take out his frustrations and do to you what he couldn't do to nolan.

sigmund freud would have a field trip with alt/yan!mark i'm telling you.

it gets him so, so hard to see someone who's supposed to be strong reduced to whimpers and tears. he loves to tear them apart and watch as they try to pick up the pieces, only to fail in doing so. to watch them become an empty shell of what they used to be. he wants to be the reason you wake up in a cold sweat at night.

he really is his daddy's son 😞🫶🏽

also good luck if you're taller or just slightly bigger than him in any way. . let's not even mention if you're older. . it's NOT gonna be fun. for you, anyway.🤭

[sgiandubh]

Is your mom a shipper too ?

Dear Mom Anon,

My mother is an elegant, superficial, witty and funny bourgeoise, who also thought that "this Outlander thing is something else: never seen anything like that". This quote (and all the others) is accurate.

She was a shipper before even knowing such a thing existed, but because I was rolling my eyes every time she cut our phone conversations with "call in half an hour, I am rewatching The Wedding", this has never been discussed before I started watching myself.

Our first talk about it was really something:

"Huh... Ah... I think, you know... uh... I think they're together, or something.

Ha! Of course they are. Don't look at me like that. What? It's obvious, baby bear!

(don't ask, please: it's embarrassing enough, but alas, accurate)

There's a whole fuss on the Internet about that.

Oh, well... what do you want... funny people: always willing to pee on someone else's parade."

I also asked her how did she find Outlander:

"I was zapping around. And then I saw Caitríona.

Damn, so you stayed because of her, eh?

I suppose. She's a goddess. You?

I stayed because of him.

Tiens! You don't like blondes.

Oh, come on...That's different. He moves me. And I just love their real story."

I have to say our OL talks are awkward as hell, yet somewhat endearing. Would I watch The Reckoning with her? Thanks but no, thanks, dr. Freud.

[asgoodeasgold]

Professor Lewis is doing a goode swagger through the library. Never have books been more appealing (and I LOVE books).

I think next time just make a film of the hot Prof swaggering in libraries in a green suit and examining manuscripts with his piercing green eyes. I would so be there for it. Who needs Freud, he is over-rated.

Also, I am sure I have seen this thinking hand gesture somewhere? 🤔

Oh yeah, Finn. It must be a goode quirk 😆

A wee collage

Sorry about the quality 😬, the trailer is supposed to be HD but 🤷🏻‍♀️

📷 My edits from Sony Pictures Classics official trailer of Freud's Last Session and The Good wife (2015) s6:e17

Watch it here ⬇️

[blackswaneuroparedux]

She was destined to be my Gradiva, the one who moves forward, my victory, my wife.

- Salvador Dali on Gala

Dali always maintained that without his wife, Gala, he would never have been the icon of art as he became.

Gala’s real name was Helena Ivanovna Diakonova, a Russian born in Kazan in 1894. She was 10 years older than Dalí and, when they met in 1929, she was married to the poet Paul Éluard and mother to a little girl. She also had a lover, Max Ernst, who painted her in a number of portraits. It was love at first sight.

In his Secret Life, Dalí wrote: “She was destined to be my Gradiva, the one who moves forward, my victory, my wife.” The name Gradiva comes from the title of a novel by W. Jensen, the main character of which was Sigmund Freud. Gradiva was the book’s heroine and it was her who brought psychological healing to the main character.

She immediately became his muse. Gala is a frequent model in Dalí’s work, often in religious roles such as the Blessed Virgin Mary in the painting The Madonna of Port Lligat.

In the early 1930s, Dalí started to sign his paintings with his and her name as “it is mostly with your blood, Gala, that I paint my pictures”. Gala acted as his agent, very aggressively fighting for his rights with gallery owners and buyers. She was also using tarot cards to influence Dalí’s career decisions. According to most accounts, Gala had a strong sex drive and, throughout her life, had numerous extramarital affairs (among them with her former husband Paul Éluard), which Dalí encouraged, since he was a practitioner of candaulism. Also, Salvador Dalí claims to be a virgin and completely impotent as he was afraid of women’s anatomy and Gala publicly assumes her affairs with other men. Still, it seems that their relationship was quite harmonic and lucrative for both sides.

He wrote: “I would polish Gala to make her shine, make her the happiest possible, caring for her more than myself, because without her, it would all end.”

But nothing lasts forever. At the end of the 1960s, their relationship started to fade away, and for the rest of their lives, it was just smouldering pieces of their bygone passion. In 1968, the painter bought Gala a castle in Púbol, Girona, and it was agreed that the painter could not go there without her prior permission. Gala spent much of her time there in the company of young men, for whom she spent a fortune. In his turn, Dali saved himself for the company of attractive young ladies, although he didn’t want anything from them but their beauty. It was said that they held weekly orgies, though, by all accounts, the artist himself didn’t participate except to watch.

In 1980, at the age of 76, Dali was forced to retire due to palsy. The motor disorder left him unable to hold a brush, and as his condition worsened, he became less tolerant of Gala’s continued affairs. Gala was also using income from Dali’s art to lavish money and gifts on her lovers, who were mostly young male artists. One day, the artist had enough. He beat Gala so badly, he broke two of her ribs. To calm him down, Gala gave him large doses of Valium and other sedatives, which made him lethargic. She then allegedly gave him “unknown quantities of one or more types of amphetamine,” which caused “irreversible neural damage.”

Gala Dalí died in Port Lligat, Spain, on June 10, 1982, following a severe case of the flu. She was buried in Púbol, Spain, on the grounds of a castle that was a gift from her husband. At the time of her death, she was involved in an affair with a 22-year-old Jesus Christ Superstar actor named Jeff Fenholt for whom she left Dalí. But when Gala died, Dalí’s life became dull. He stopped eating and scratched his face. He was constantly shouting and crying. He outlived his wife by seven years.

They lived together for 53 years.

[saintsenara]

Wood/Flint has me considering other changing room ships…sports films make for the best romcoms

Cormac/Ron

The chaser trio of Johnson/Bell/Spinnet

Zacharias Smith/Ginny

Lee Jordan vs Luna Lovegood in the commentary box

Snape/McGonagall after Gryffindor narrowly loses the cup to Slytherin in dubious circumstances…

Cedric/Krum (can’t be outdone on a broom by a scrawny 14 year old who can’t see, must meet for extra practice)

Hooch/Voldemort (a tryst that goes so badly wrong Voldemort immediately sets his mind to broomless flight)

thank you very much for the ask, anon! in the spirit of the euros, let's get into some quidditch team shenanigans.

cormac mclaggen/ron weasley

yes, i love this toxic mess.

mclaggen was definitely into ron - how else would he know that he was poisoned [and why's he waiting for harry to update him on ron's condition! very suspicious!] if he wasn't constantly watching him?

katie bell/angelina johnson/alicia spinnet

yes. it's why wood is so frightened of them.

zacharias smith/ginny weasley

i've clocked it myself:

ginny clearly loves a man who is deeply offputting [all my love to hazza p, but the man is surly], and zacharias has that in spades.

lee jordan/luna lovegood

flopping, i fear, since lee clearly needs a lover with great chat, rather than luna's inability to sustain a conversation for more than three sentences because she's nonsensical and vague.

but i'd read the shit out of luna/mcgonagall.

minerva mcgonagall/severus snape

i'm a great fan of the pairing in general, and that doesn't change in this specific circumstance.

snape ends up pinned against one of the bookcases in the staff room after he was taunting mcgonagall by drinking whisky out of the quidditch cup.

topless.

cedric diggory/viktor krum

hot.

cedric and krum seem to figure out the eggs at the same time, and i think we all know that this is because they were "working on the clues" nightly in the prefect bathroom.

rolanda hooch/lord voldemort

those of us with the [mis]fortune to be in bellamort nation have, of course, deeped that lord voldemort has a latent interest in being bossed around by women with cunty demeanours, so this initially looks like it would slap.

not so! because lord voldemort is also carrying around a bag of mammy issues which would make sigmund freud himself say "bit much, mate..."

according to her entry on the harry potter fandom wiki, hooch is about ten years older than tom riddle. and so - i wager - her first year teaching was his first year at hogwarts, she strutted into the first flying lesson in head-to-toe leather, wee tom accidentally called her "mum", abraxas malfoy pissed himself laughing, lord voldemort never got on a broom again.

[r0bita]

There is something refreshing about the times when Pinoko takes an interest in other characters and other activities besides Dr. Black Jack, because while her infatuation with Black Jack is a huge part of her character it feels like that's the only thing she has going for her which should be false.

This why I love Pinoko's portrayal in the Dezaki OVAs (KARTE 5, ESPECIALLY), over the 2004 anime. It's a good balance of all her traits as a clingy companion, a reliable ally, a comic relief, and an overall cutie that balance outs the severity of the episodic cases Black Jack takes on.

She is a capable right hand to Black Jack and it's super unfair to her character to be only seen as a hopeless romantic side kick and temper-tantrum comic relief for Black Jack. Even the OG manga and 2004 anime kinda pushes this image and sometimes it's not always fun to watch.

Calling her Black Jack's child is also kinda a shakey topic sometimes, because Black Jack IS her guardian, she was (and still kinda is) his patient, and he views her as his kid, despite Pinoko's adamantly in calling herself his wife (which I personally think is cringe and stinks of Freud), IS his assistant, and has gotten through tough situations on her own despite her condition disabling her at times. So it's still very one-sided on both ends, and overall complicated. This isn't an overall negative thing, but an observation on how unique and imperfect their found family relationship is depicted.

Pinoko is (technically) an adult, but not in the same level of maturity or life experience as Black Jack. (A cyborg who was living inside their twin for 18 years isn't exactly gonna have the easiest time to adapt and develop in society compared to most young adults. But this is Manga/Anime, so whatever!) Even at her best, she is still limited in what she can do and isn't always invited to come with him during certain trips because the of level of danger. Plus she has been sheltered and spoiled by Black Jack to the point of enabling her to be childish and entitled at times, as well as infantilizing her which damages her self-esteem and wanting to be seen as a person. But the same time, she also keeps Black Jack's and the reader's spirits up with her presence. Pinoko's personality balances Black Jack's serious and sometimes depressing attitude.

Basically, if there are more Black Jack series in the future, I would appreciate them taking doing right by Pinoko by giving her more agency and maybe some sense of growth, especially if they go for the more "darker side of medicine and serious topics" route.

[myemuisemo]

With April showers, Letters from Watson brings us the first installment of The Sign of the Four, a prospect that makes me quake. When I was a tot of eight years, reading the library's copy of The Boy's Sherlock Holmes with a creeping sense of guilt because I was not at that time (and have not been at any time before or since) a boy, I found The Sign of the Four... long. Very long. I was obviously too young for the concepts, even though I could make sense of the words. (That sums up a lot of my reading in that era.)

I'm also reeling from last week's "The Man with the Watches," an utter tragedy of "be gay, do crime."

What's striking me this time -- what with the introduction of Holmes' cocaine use and also the watch deduction that raises a wince and a shudder from anyone who remembers that BBC Sherlock happened -- is how Watson is being positioned (and I don't mean "positioned in the path of which bullet," though apparently he got hit by more than one while in India).

Cocaine

Watson is progressive! His objections to cocaine sound so mild to us in the twenty-first century, but in 1890, scientific opinion was just barely starting to turn away from seeing cocaine as a wonder drug. It was used for local anesthesia as well as for general pep. Queen Victoria drank Vin Mariani, a wine fortified with cocaine, and so did the Pope. Coca Cola contained cocaine until 1906. Sigmund Freud was a vocal proponent of cocaine for improving mood and performance, until he botched an operation in the early 1890s while high.

A couple hair-raising reads on this topic are Cocaine: The Victorian Wonder Drug and A Cure for (Anything) that Ails You: Cocaine in Victorian Medicine.

So Holmes' original audience would have seen him as an up-to-date scientist using a socially approved means of moderating his mood. His shooting up a 7% solution of cocaine is about equivalent to a 21st century person taking nutritional supplements that are meant to boost brain power.

After all the "say no to drugs" education in the American school system, that's so hard for me to get my brain around, but there we are. Holmes is doing something no more troubling than pouring a glass of whiskey and much more scientific.

Watson, therefore, can be read either as being right at the edge of shifting scientific opinion or as being a fussbudget.

Tinge it with romanticism

I'm firmly Team Watson when Holmes starts criticizing A Study in Scarlet:

He shook his head sadly. “I glanced over it,” said he. “Honestly, I cannot congratulate you upon it. Detection is, or ought to be, an exact science, and should be treated in the same cold and unemotional manner. You have attempted to tinge it with romanticism, which produces much the same effect as if you worked a love-story or an elopement into the fifth proposition of Euclid.”

The reader is being positioned here to view with contempt the exact features of the work that we probably enjoyed. Poor Watson!

Is it possible that some reviewers commented on the melodrama of the Lucy portions? Yes, and it'd be a valid point. Nonetheless, having experienced a good many math classes, I think the fifth proposition of Euclid might be improved by a rom--

wait.

Doyle, you magnificent bastard.

Flatland: A Romance in Many Dimensions was published in 1884. It wasn't a huge success, but it seems likely Doyle could have known it, and it did, in fact, mention a love story in a discussion of angles. Back when I read it in college (because if you "liked math," someone would inevitably give you a copy of Flatland), I missed the social satire but appreciated the geometry.

Watson is canonically an effective popular writer, and I refuse to denigrate him for that.

The Watch

First, Holmes substantially invents forensic science with his monographs on tobacco and on callouses.

Then we learn that Watson is a second son, which fits with his his training for a profession and choosing the army to help make his way.

Watson was not on great terms with his brother before his brother's death. Holmes doesn't explicitly deduce this, but it's there to be deduced. Holmes knew Watson's father was long dead, which could have come up in any number of casual ways. Holmes had no idea that Watson had a brother, so Watson:

Didn't mention the brother in any context, ever.

Didn't set up any framed daguerreotypes from his childhood nor any modern photos made with the collodion process. Having a posed family photo would have been so completely normal, as would being sent new photos by family members.

Never interrupted his routine to visit his brother while living with Holmes.

Did not attend his brother's funeral (unless it took place while Holmes was away) and did not wear a black armband for mourning in Holmes' presence. Neglecting mourning for a relative would have been a sign of serious estrangement.

Holmes is possessed of some level of tact in not expanding on this topic.

Watson is also nobody's fool: he knows there are ways to fool a mark with apparently miraculous knowledge.

The question in my mind is this: did Watson deliberately distract Holmes from asking what was the subject of the telegram?