#mention of a parent with anger issues

[selineram3421]

This has been in my drafts for a while.

The Slip Up

Alastor & Child Reader

Warnings? ⚠

⚠ food mention, cussing, terrible cooking decisions, moving dolls, sharing childhood trauma, mentions of murder ⚠

You were sitting on the kitchen counter, watching Angel try to make something called zuppa.

But it was turning out like a pile of brown goop.

"Fucking damn it!", the spider demon cussed as he tried to get the wooden spoon out of the food. "What the hell!? I followed the damn recipe!"

Taking a peek at the cook book, you saw what the food was supposed to look like and the instructions of how to make it. So far, Angel did everything, but in the wrong order.

"I think you jumped a few times..", you mumbled.

"Huh?", the fluffy demon responded but did not look back at the book.

"Do we have tomatoes?", you wondered out loud.

Then you see Alastor step out of the shadows and he makes his way over to look at the cook book.

"Creamy Tomato soup?", he reads.

"Oh, I couldn't find the tomatoes so I used ketchup."

You heard the static grow louder from the deer demon.

While the Radio Demon approaches the spider, he grabs slices of bread and finds brown slop instead of soup.

"Angel..", his smile is strained. "What is this?"

"Zuppa!"

With a quick maneuver, the demon in red gets the cook book and shows the fluffy white demon the image of what the soup should look like.

"Why is it brown? It should be orange.", then he points at the ingredients. "We have all of these ingredients! Why are you using ketchup!?"

"Like I told the little one, couldn't find them.", the spider says and tries to stir the spoon in the pot but it's still stuck.

Having enough, the Radio Demon tells the film star to eat the "soup."

Angel, not understanding what was wrong, eats the goop and then starts to cough.

"Oh shit!", he coughed again. "Ketchup was not the answer."

With a slap of bread on each side of the spider's face, Alastor asks a question. "What are you?", with a smile unnaturally wide due to annoyance.

"I'm -"

"You're an idiot sandwich.", he said.

You saw his antlers grow really big before it went back to normal.

"Now, tell me what you are?"

"An idiot sandwich.." Angel mumbles sadly, not even looking up to meet the Radio Demon's gaze.

"Haha! Papa called you an idiot!", you laughed but stopped after realizing just what you had said.

....

The two tall demons were quiet as they stared at you surprised.

Slowly, you got down from the counter, not breaking eye contact as you did so and then once your feet touched the floor, you quickly ran out of the kitchen.

.

Alastor was shocked.

Did they just call me Papa?

"Al?"

He's never heard that before.

Do they really see me in such a light?

"Hello?"

I did pick them up and cared for them.

"Oy."

Gave them food, shelter, and toys.. They gave me that card on Father's Day. I suppose I am like a father figure.

"Smiles!"

Snapping out of thought, the deer demon released the spider and tossed the bread before making his way to the door.

"Ah, yes.", he said and looked back at the film star. "Follow the recipe by the book or I'll do worse than that silly humiliation."

Alastor left before the arachnid could reply. He had something else to do and that was to check on his little terror.

Entering his hotel room, he looks around the space and tries to see if he can spot them.

"Little one?", he called out.

As he was searching for the little demon, he wondered why they ran away.

Perhaps they were scared? I don't understand though, I would never lay a hand on them... Maybe their actual father didn't like them and forbade them from calling him as such.

"My little nightmare, I'm not angry. Please come out and talk to me?"

But everything was still and silent.

Turning to the sliding door, he knocked before opening it, finding the stuffed animals that were on the bed. Staring at him.

Ah, yes. Their impenetrable army of stuffed animals.

"I'll-". he began but as soon as he took another step, the stuffed animals heads snapped up to meet his eyes. "...stay at the door."

"To be honest, it took me by surprise when you called me..Papa. And I can understand your fear of my reaction.", he sighed. "I was barely able to call my father, the loathsome scum, such a title."

"He'd yell at me sometimes..", they spoke up from somewhere in the room. "But that was when he had his smelly juice and when he was really mad."

Looking around the room, the radio demon noticed that the rug was kicked up a bit near the bed and knelt down. Taking a look under the bed, he found their hiding place.

"Why was he always mad?", they whispered to themselves.

"A question I've always asked as well.", Alastor said as he extended a hand out to the little demon.

They reached out slowly and took his hand.

"There we go.", he gently got them out from under the bed and held them as he stood up. "You can keep calling me Papa, I don't mind it."

"Really?", they asked with a hopeful look in their eyes.

"Yes, I'm more than alright with it.", he said and gave them a reassuring pat on the head.

They smiled and wrapped their arms around his neck, giving him a hug.

.

You were waiting for Alastor to pick you up from school. Standing by the gate with Ms. Mayberry, who surprisingly stopped smoking whenever you were around.

Somewhat bored, you looked around the school yard and saw some of the other kids waiting, having fun bullying each other. You grinned when they avoided eye contact with you. Mostly because you killed more annoying kids on the bus.

"Mon petite!"

Looking up, there stood your adoptive parent.

"Papa!", you cheered, running over to the tall red dressed demon.

He took your hand and both of you headed back to the hotel.

"Tell me, how was your day?"

"I decapitated someone on the bus today!"

I couldn't get the image of Alastor calling Angel an idiot sandwich out of my head. I'm not sorry.

~Seline, the person.

Taglist@

@c4rved-pumpk1n @scary-noodlesblog @stolas-thebirb @naelys-the-aster @biromanticboba @lbcreations-blog @ducky-died-inside @kiraisastay @pooplyface1423 @line-viper @117s-girl @spiderlegsling @alastorsgoldie @kcsketches (More in the comments.)

ML II Alastor🎙️

[yveltalreal]

Melt down every golf club in Alola and use the material for better things!

WHO'S WITH ME?

personally i feel the issue isnt the clubs and more the fact that golf courses themself are incredibly large areas of perfectly maingained open space where very few native flora and fauna can actually thrive that take an unreasonable amount of water to maintain, while only really being usable to peopl3 with not only a lot of money but that also enjoy golf. the clubs can have actual uses outside of the worlds worst sport such as for mini golf (the worlds best sport) or perhaps as a back scratcher. like if you want to play soccer you get a ball thats okay for kicking, walk outside, and decide what the nets are. for golf you need a huge amount of space and to pay a good amount of money every time you actually want to play actual golf and not one of those mini putter things you get for kids.

i like golf its actually somewhat fun to play with friends and family and stuff that being said the amount of fucking space and resources it takes up is not fucking worth it.

[nonuggetshere]

GOD I HAD AN IDEA AS I WAS FALLING ASLEEP TODAY

About FaaF naturally

A sad one, TW fir near child death and harm

Involves Xero's attempt at an assassination, or it could be literally just any guard controlled by the Radiance

PK and WL need to talk about something private, and WL looks at the tiny vessel tagging along by her wyrm's side

"Should it be here?"

"It wouldn't understand anything anyway."

"Still, it's...a little..."

He sighs lightly, "Yeah, I get where you're coming from... Vessel, come here."

He kneels down and orders them to sit by the door and wait for them while they talk, says he'll come pick them up once they're done and not to move, then the two go to talk on the balcony and close the door behind them

At some point, Xero/the guard bursts in and attacks PK in the middle of the conversation, managing to take them by surprise and so gets one good swing in before PK darts away and retaliates, pinning them down with soul blades, though he has to keep his wife from killing them on the spot - he doesn't want to be so hasty, knowing they're infected and not themself. He pulls out the sword from his chest and that's when they realise, it's covered in void...

Child harm/near death TW beyond this point

After a moment of shock White Lady, who's closest to the doors, runs out and all her husband can hear is a horrified, heartbroken scream. He feels nauseous, his stomach twisting into knots and feeling like his heart is in his throat as he runs out after her. He sees her in tears, cradling a tiny bundle soaked in void. There's- there's so much void. It covers the floor where he left their child vessel and soaks through his lady's shawl and clothes as she cradles them in her arms.

For a moment he's paralysed, before he just snaps. He flies back onto the balcony, screaming at the possessed guard that he'll kill her, he'll make her pay for this, and he slays them in his rage (something he'll regret and feel ashamed of later), still hitting and screaming at Her well after the possessed person is dead and she can't hear him anymore.

He collapses, panting, near tears, and just gets himself up and stumbles out the door and towards the two, he wants to see how bad it is for himself.

Flower survives, but just barely. They had multiple stab wounds and lost their left arm, if not for their parents immediately healing them they'd be dead. They're barely older than 5, still so very little and defenceless, PK is horrified at how could anyone hurt a baby this young and helpless (hypocrite), even if they're not alive.

They're still on bed rest because that was so much damage and their mother doesn't leave their side and their father only leaves when necessary. They still don't realise Flower's alive and they know they shouldn't be so attached but it still feels like their baby and they can't just leave them. WL spends the entire day by their side, gently stroking their hair and horns with her now permanently void stained hands and softly coos and sings to them

Of course, they quickly realise they ARE alive because no way in hell a toddler is getting this hurt and NOT crying and screaming the second they wake up <3

Which just makes this situation so much worse

[mayoiayasep]

thinking about the horimiya character arc potential friday....

[magnusmodig]

rough childhood headcanon qs / anonymous / accepting !

╰┈➤ 1 . does your muse blame themselves for their trauma?

||. As is ever the case with Thor Odinson, the short answer is still, in itself, complicated. Ultimately the answer is, in my personal opinion, yes , though Thor is an incredibly introspective person, and so he can be self-aware enough of himself and his family situation to see it plainly for what it was. Thor is not a doormat. But whether or not he fully commits to acting on what he's feeling, and thinking based that awareness is its own issue. One mostly steeped in how Thor views himself and partly how he views his own family (specifically: he views them all with blinding rose-colored glasses ESPECIALLY once they've died, regardless of the damage they've caused him).

For some context on what I mean, by "how Thor views himself", I mean that he is shown to have something of an atlas complex (also known as: superman complex, savior/hero syndrome, codependency). Everything comes down to him. He's the strongest, so he'll do it. He can outlive and outlast, so he'll endure. He's the eldest, so it's his responsibility. So on and so forth very often times coming out as "I will solve this problem for you" statements most notably with Jane Foster. He takes failure personally, especially when other people are at stake, or the collateral. And he will hold himself accountable for tragedies beyond his control at length. In "The Avengers" and a deleted scene in "Thor: Ragnarok" he actively and repeatedly lumps himself in with his family (aka his father and siblings, mostly), and their catastrophic, destructive actions and pasts — both of which are things that thor himself actually hasn't partaken to any large degree (unless we count the failed Jotunheim heist and even that he WAS going to bail on before his temper got the best of his judgement.) He proceeds to call them (his family) "bilge snipe", while using the terms "we" (denotating himself as part of the issue) and proceeds to call the metaphorical bilge snipe "repulsive". He does this again in Ragnarok while telling Banner that "we're cursed to fight amongst ourselves while everyone else suffers for it"), meaning his opinions on the matter have not changed since 2012.

And by "blinding rose colored glasses" I mean that Thor has another tendency to see the good in people, partly in nature and partly deliberately, especially when seeking it out. And he does this especially when it comes to his family, and he will justify their actions by trying to step into their shoes even when it may not always be appropriate. (//gestures at literally all of thor: ragnarok and how he still idolizes his father to an obscene degree thankstaika re: "i'm not as strong as you", and even further back to the way thor speaks to odin in thor 2011 at the end of his banishment re: "there will never be a wiser king than you or a better father". He also idolizes Loki in "The Dark World" with the line "loki, for all of his grave imbalance, understood rule as i know i never will" and to a lesser degree does this with Frigga in the same film "she saved us all, a thousand times.")

From a slightly more psychological perspective:

The long and short of it is that it is much easier to blame yourself for things that hurt you that were beyond yourself. Especially when you can't understand it, or didn't deserve it. Especially when they come from someone you hold in high esteem, and hold a lot of love for. Like caregivers and family. In a twisted way, it grants the guilt-bearer some level of CONTROL over their emotions and their situation that they did not have in the moment the hurt occurred. If you're can blame yourself, then you're at fault. If you're at fault, then you can feel guilty, and if you're guilty, then you can atone. You can actively work to make up for it. ( "By blaming ourselves, we maintain the perception that we’re still in control of the situation and ultimately safe -even when we’re not." - rosscenter.com) This is especially critical in children who go through this sort of parental dysfunction and neglect. And the reason why I think this is not a development saved for his young adult -> adult years is because of exactly what we see on screen.

Thor comes from a family that is just as loving as it is toxic. His father was so good at being a wise king that he completely failed at being a good father. It's something Thor even calls out in "The Dark World" ("I'd rather be a good man than a great king") after speaking on how being king is losing who you are to politics and mind games and war. Odin as a parent, and Odin's overbearing, all-encompassing shadow of a legacy is what Thor's entire character arc was always about overcoming. His mother, Frigga, is by far the most decent of the bunch, but she is far from perfect. To pull from a previous meta on the subject, my opinion on frigga/thor is as follows: " [...] an unfortunate cycle in which [Frigga] spent SO MUCH ENERGY [...] making sure [Loki] felt seen/heard and had “some sun for himself” that she COMPLETELY neglected to see that her other son was in just as much pain as the youngest was [...] And only realized how estranged they had become when it was too late, and she couldn’t reach Thor anymore. (She also died before she could make it right.)"

His brother is arguably the person he was ever closest to (even among his friend group), up until his brother manipulated and betrayed his trust, killed him, attempted suicide in front of him, tried to take over earth as payback, tried to kill him again, rejected him outright, and then got put into jail.

Suffice it to say that while I think that Thor's issues stem from deep childhood trauma (and only ever further reenforced by the fact he ages so slowly), my dude's got some issues, and blaming himself for past trauma is definitely one of them. (When he can't get away with internalizing it and avoiding it any longer, anyways.) I do also think to a lesser degree this behavior does also count towards friends, just to a less extreme degree. With the main difference being: Thor adores his family. He wants to keep them close to him. He's incredibly protective of all of them. Which isn't to say he doesn't love his friends, because that would be the biggest lie. But friends come and go. Thor will always want to be a good friend, but he wants to be a good son even more than that. And so in cases of conflict with a friend and a peer, Thor will gladly and readily call out his friends for their bad behavior just as readily as he would also dismiss and justify their bad behavior towards himself. (you know like not checking in on him for five years in "endgame", apparently...)

[masquenoire]

@riddlethat​ asked: what would he be like as a father? like, to his own child??

(Continued under the cut!)

Distant for the most part. Roman has very few, if any, good memories of his own parents while growing up and has no desire to perpetuate his experiences onto a small child. Mr. and Mrs. Sionis were domineering and self-centered people, utterly obsessed with their self-image and how others perceived them. Roman’s no different but the thing is he doesn’t pretend he’s a good man. His parents did and in public they portrayed themselves as a loving family, plastering fake smiles plastered on their faces as readily as the lies they spouted. Behind closed doors, life was a very different story where they openly reviled their son, if they weren’t pretending he didn’t exist or otherwise dismissing him as a nuisance in their lives. As a result, Roman would find it difficult to connect with a child. He’s cruel, vulgar and foul in every imaginable way, his idea of a good time being brutally torturing some hapless fool and making their death a slow and excruciating one. There’s no room for innocence in the life of a mob boss but upon becoming a father, Roman would at the very least try. What are they interested in? Are there certain things they like? All these and more he’d try to find out about his charge, gradually spending more time with them before asking upfront the more comfortable he gets. He’s not taking them to the ball game anytime soon but he will fund their interests and activities, treating them to the best of his abilities as a way to make up for the lack of presence in their life. It’s for the best, or so Roman believes. He’s a deeply troubled man who is prone to explosive violence and unspeakable acts of cruelty, plus with so many enemies who’d just love to use his children as a way to target him, keeping his distance is the best way to avoid them getting hurt. He’ll kill for them, and gladly do it too, but his own upbringing makes him too afraid to get more involved, out for fear of being just like his own parents once were.

[twilve]

do i resent my parents for moving us when i was a kid ? yes because i dont think they considered at all how alienating it would be for us as kids like all they thought was "oooo good weather for me and cheap housing!" but like

[llegato]

i read through some of my old vent journals a few days ago and ive felt really weird ever since

[plantdad-dante]

Book #145 - Der Schimmelreiter by Theodor Storm

[english title: The Rider On The White Horse] (a PSA to all (future) teachers: this is not a good book for 8th graders. this is not the first classic that any kid should read. there are better ways to explain what a framing narrative is, please.)

A thing that I have realized over the last few months (possibly starting with something I wrote about Hold Me Closer, funnily enough) and which has definitely festered into full-on brain damage since then...

I love reading. I love books. I love stories. (Yes, I know, duh, but hear me out.)

Up until now, these things were true, yes, but in a more limited way. I loved reading good books. I loved reading stories that I liked, that I related to, that made me feel warm and fuzzy and good (or that completely devastated me emotionally, which is equally valid). And I liked it enough to not have it soured by books I ended up not liking. I liked the quiet of reading, I liked that I didn't need electronics to do it, I liked that it didn't chain me to a sofa for a minimum and maximum of two hours. In short, I liked the convenience, the ubiquity and the comfort of books that lit up my brain.

Unfortunately, it has kind of come to pass that that is now... uh. Every Book. Like, I still have opinions and biases and and personal taste, but now I love reading whether or not I like the book I'm reading right now. I have fallen in love with the thing itself, and I refuse to climb back out of this hole.

Btw, wanna know how I know all that? The Rider On The White Horse is boring as shit! Or it should be, if I were still sane. Because this book is mainly just about a weird dude who becomes this official (dikeduke??) and builds a family and a dyke. And a lot of pages are spent on this dude doing his official business, planning and drawing schemes for his dyke and getting permits and having local spats with his neighbors.

Like, the most interesting thing here by far is the framing narrative through which we know that this dude will somehow end up being a ghost story to scare grown men in a pub near the dyke half a century later. And it is spooky and atmospheric, yes, but remember that, in between that, the narrator insists on telling us in detail about the process of building a dyke, and about planning meetings, and about every spat he has with this one dude who hates him for no reason, and ugh. And still, I ate it up.

Half the book, before they get married, he has this sorta cute romance with his future wife, and it is mainly just them talking and having similar interests and holding hands and she is teasing him but also standing up for him, and she helps him into that official position for which they are both intellectually qualified (but, well, 1888. but hey, she can do math and doesn't get ridiculed for it, so yaaay). And she is wicked smart and them doing this shy little dance around each other is actually really sweet and the first time my brain mentioned that to me I kinda just  had to stare at a wall for a while because what

Do you see my point? I am gushing. About a book. That is a 100 page snore fest. And this was just a taste, I could go on for at least twice as long again.

(help me)

[kaidatheghostdragon]

Found this while going through my fanfic files, and i absolutely had to share.

Danny: i want in

Red robin: …what?

Danny: your bat family. I want in.

Red robin, blinking in surprise: i dont know what you think you know about my associates, but we're not-

Danny: dont be obtuse. I know youre the smart one. And i also know that your all one big relatively happy family. I want in.

Red robin: …why?

Danny: because you guys are the first people ive found that are wealthy, intelligent and powerful enough to take on my fruitloop godfather and win AND are decent enough human beings that i can be assured that when all is said and done, my well-being will remain a top priority.

Orphan, appearing out of nowhere: new brother!

Danny: *stares in shock*

Danny: *sudden uncanny grin* well that's one convinced. How do i win over the rest?

Orphan: no need. New brother!

Red robin: *pointed glance of betrayal* fine. Who is your godfather?

Danny: vlad masters. He's a fruitloop.

Red robin: for real? B's been investigating him for years! Tell me everything! *genuinely excited for a new lead*

Danny: well, he's tried to murder my dad and marry my mom, gained his wealth illegally, committed voting fraud to become the mayor of my hometown, has a secret underground lab where he does unethical experiments, and he's abducted me more than a dozen times even before my parents disowned me to make me his evil apprentice or whatever. Now that im homeless, he's literally out to get me. Oh! And he's cloned me too! She's cool though, we're buddies now.

Batman, who just arrived but heard everything over comms: hn. (Translation: who are you?)

Danny: my name is Danny. No last name anymore, but im hoping itll soon be Wayne! *winking suggestively*

Batman: hn? (how much do you know?)

Danny: enough to know that youre a much better alternative to vlad.

Batman: …hn (i dont know anything about you. What if youre a spy for vlad?)

Danny, giving his salesman pitch: i was a teen vigilante in amity park before i had to run away from home for my own safety. Vlad is one of my rogues. I know how to fight and defend myself, how to minimize collateral damage in a fight, and ive gotten really good and escaping kidnapping attempts. Ive also managed to reform and/or make allies out of approximately half of my rogues and can talk down about 30% of all rogue confrontations before they turn into a messy fight. The other things i can bring to the table are: one, i can teach all of you guys proper liminality self care; two, i can probably minimize and possibly cure red hood's anger issues; three, i can get along with stabby robin because i consider fighting a friendly social interaction - he can even stab me and i wont be injured by it; four, i can be your go-to guy for supernatural cases so you no longer have to deal with that sad trenchcoat man; five-

Red robin: *blurting* youre hired.

Batman: hn (i am deeply concerned)

Danny: if youre concerned now, wait until i tell you about the anti ecto control act

Nightwing, who showed up in the middle of the sales pitch: ive never seen anyone crack B's grunt language so quickly

Danny: grunt language? He's just using ghost speak - which will be covered by the liminality self care lessons

Robin, who arrived with batman: what is a liminal?

Danny: all of you, of course! Otherwise you wouldnt need to learn about it, obviously

Robin: and why would we trust you?

Danny: did i mention i have a pet ghost dog?

Robin: …you drive a hard bargain

Danny, fist pumping: yes! That's three!

Nightwing: four, you got me when you could understand B's grunting

Red Hood, arrived with nightwing: five, assuming you arent lying about the pit rage

Danny, hand to his chest: i would never!

Orphan: honesty. Earnest. New brother.

Oracle, over comms: six. The anti ecto acts are legit and im terrified for his safety, assuming he's phantom, who is the vigilante of amity park

Spoiler, arrived with orphan: seven, as long as youre down for a few pranks

Batman: hn (ive been outvoted)

Batman: hnn (i dont wanna hear any jokes about adoption habits when you all forced my hand)

Batman: hn (that said)

Batman: welcome to the family

Duke, the next day: man, i miss out on everything exciting.

Duke, blinded by danny: and who the fuck told bruce he could adopt the fucking sun?!

[caffeinatedvigilantewriter]

So after having a sort of redemption arc, Dan goes to Clockwork and asks if him could be reincarnated. CW agrees and Dan becomes Bruce Wayne, with all his memories intact.

(He’s still in the same universe as before so Danny (18), Dani(16), Jazz(20), etc are still alive and kicking)

He still has his Batman training montage but when he goes to Circus Haley he takes in Dick Grayson because he doesn’t want the boy to be fueled with anger like he was after the Nasty Burger accident.

So, Robin takes flight.

Bruce never mentions his previous life to Dick, and whenever he has to deal with a ghost issue, Alfred covers for him. Alfred obviously knows.

Bruce adopts Jason, Tim, Cass, Duke and when Damian comes around, Bruce’s sees someone so angry, so hurt he decides to get his shit together to parent right.

When Jason returns, Bruce figures out the entire Pit madness thing and fixes that for him.

(If he has a romantic relationship with Talia, Selina, Clark etc is up to you) (I personally ship Hal and Bruce together in this AU)

Maybe one day, he gets injured.

Badly.

He’s bleeding green and he flickering between his Humana and ghost form while his children watch in horror.

The only solution is to call Danny and Dani

Any media is welcome as long as you tag and comment :)))

[st-dionysus]

"People don't spread Misinformation about transmasc HRT! Because of their male privilege!!"

I mean that's straight up a lie. That's not even like willfull ignorance, that's just straight up lying.

Fear mongering about Testosterone and the effects it will have on "young girls" has been the primary source of validation for all of the current passing of anti-transition legislation. Fear mongering and misinformation about transmasculine HRT is so severe that it's literally the main weapon of the enemy when it comes to making it impossible for people to acsess puberty blockers and HRT.

Not to mention even intthe queer and trans communities, testosterone is treated like a dangerous poison that causes unededing toxic symptoms from anger issues to suicidal ideation, despite the fact that it's been proven again and again that these statements our misinformation.

Trans men are tought to be terrified of their HRT, which is a literal life saving medication, by everyone - from talk show hosts, politicians, and misinformed doctors to conservative parents, liberal allies, and other trans people.

Anyone who tells you that misinformation about Testosterone based HRTs isn't a thing, is lying to you and wants to hurt you, if not kill you - because a lack of acsess to hormones can be a death sentence for many. And by claiming that misinformation about transmasculine HRT doesn't exist, they are claiming that the fear mongering made about it, is legitimate.

[yeyinde]

baby blues

John Price + the panic of fatherhood x reader

pregnancy. babies. soft. sappy. angsty. slight allusions to rough sex. John being possessive and smitten. allusions to childhood trauma. the fear of children is somehow more potent than the fear of god. girl dad John. mentions of Price's divorce lmao

Most assume he'd take to fatherhood like he'd been born for the role; handcrafted to cradle a swaddled babe in his arms. The perfect father figure. But as he hovers over your sleeping form, the little bundle nestled in the sleepy bracket of your arms, he's overcome with a sense of dread that punches hard enough to shatter bone.

The reality is this: Price doesn't understand kids. He wants them. Covets them with a viciousness that almost immediately sets alarm bells off in the heads of those who were opposed to the idea of children, parenthood. Giving birth. But when it comes to being a dad, a role model, an effigy to siphon wisdom and knowledge off of, he flounders. Hesitates.

All he has as an idea of fatherhood is bruises laughed off by the neighbours as him being a clumsy boy. A man who drank in the living room, silent in his fury, his belligerence, until something—anything, really—set him off. He always seemed like he was itching for a reason to punish.

And god, was he ever fucking good at it.

If anger issues are hereditary, then Price picked up the generational slack of his seething ancestors. 

It's this, and the plethora of scars and burns that decorate his skin (well hidden, tucked away like a dirty secret because if Old Man Price was anything, it certainly wasn't stupid; he knows how to hide the ugliness of himself away, and how to turn a boy into a punching bag without causing too much damage, too much alarm) that make him ache something fierce when he sees his chubby little child for the first time. 

Price doesn't know how to be gentle. All he has are worn, rough hands and a constant stench of smoke. A voice that makes grown men tremble. An ire unmatched thus far in his life. 

Until you. Little spitfire. His hellion. You stood on the tips of your toes just to tell him off for being a stubborn pig! and then taught him how to hold you. How to be tender. But even now, he can see the wear on your skin from his bites. His propensity for violence that he morphs into desire. Into lust. 

How is he supposed to be a dad when he's this caustic? This mean? 

The answer doesn't come. All he gets is the rhythmic sigh of your breath as you sleep, well and truly exhausted after giving birth to their child. All alone. A constant in your lives, it seems. Aloneness. His work takes him away, throws him into dangerous situations. And you carry the brunt of it. 

It caused the rupture of his first marriage and is a needling fear he carried with him when you started pursuing him some odd years ago. To think that he'd be standing here now, gazing down at you with your heavy eyes and your soft cheeks, rounded with the additional weight you gained during your early trimesters. A plushness he's trying to keep on you for good—all softened edges, flesh that gives when he touches you, marshmallows out between his fingers when he squeezes.

You look good like this. Motherhood, despite your misgivings (it took three years of him hinting and hounding you before you'd relented with a sure, what's the worst that could happen? We're terrible parents and raise a terrible kid? Or we end up the catalyst for a list of psychological issues and get reamed out during their therapy sessions later on in life?), suits you. Fits you like a glove.

A fact you'd been quietly overwhelmed by in the first few months, grieving the loss of something he couldn't ever understand, or experience. A piece of yourself morphing into the mother that raised you. A kaleidoscope of feelings that you choke on when he asks, unable to render them into coherent words. 

But you're good at that, aren't you? Good at culling expectations, at superseding the limits others place on you. Even him. 

Especially him. 

When he'd said, don't know what you're gettin’ yourself into, love, you took it to the chin like he challenged you to a brawl, and set out to show him why you knew what this was, what he was, and why it didn't matter much. 

Even now—

Giving birth all alone. Overcoming the isolation of being shackled to a man who married his post first. Sisterwife to his career. Second in all things. 

Even this. 

He was in Iceland when he got the call. Laswell, of all people, was on the other line telling him his own wife was in the delivery room. Water broke. Baby is on the way. 

And you—

Don't worry, old man. Just do what needs to be done and we'll be waiting. Always. 

—well. You certainly are. Alone in a hospital room with the curtains drawn to blot out the sun as you sleep, cradling this thing he made with his fingers shoved deep into your mouth, uttering foul under his breath as he crushed you to the bed, rutting you like an animal—the most tender he could ever be—and he's suddenly all too aware of his own inadequacies. His shortcomings. Failures. 

He's not a dad. He's not the sort of man people think about when they think healthy father figure. He likes cigars and whiskey, and sometimes aches for a mission that will let him cut his knuckles on teeth—bloodletting; exorcising his demons out on the people he's sanctioned to kill. How is he supposed to guide a child when he threw a man over a railing without a second thought—

The bundle stirs. Wrinkled, red face scrunching up tight. Little thing is just like you, huh? All softness and give. All—

They cry, and it's shrill. Loud. It jars him.

Not the sound, but the anguish he feels piercing through his chest as they bellow out their confusion to the world, this lost little thing. Strapped with a father who was beaten black and blue and told to be a man when he cried. 

But right now—anger is the furthest thing on his mind. He can't fathom that emotion when his child is whimpering in your arms, chubby little fingers grasping at the air. Seeking comfort. 

Waking you feels cruel when you've spent the better part of two days awake. Four, really. You couldn't sleep when the contractions hit, wide-eyed and worried about everything. What if something went wrong? If they hated you? What if you hurt them—

Worries he tried to assuage, but couldn't deny he felt them, too. 

All he knows how to do is hurt. But as he reaches down for this little thing squirming in your arms, he tells himself to be tender. To be the man his dad never was. 

And they're soft. So fuckin’ soft. Tiny, too. His hands dwarf them, engulfing them completely. He tries to blame the way he trembles on the denial of nicotine for so long, but the mist in his eyes, and the burn in his throat, call him a liar. He doesn't know what to do. Even with all the hours spent thumbing through manuals and books and scoffing under his breath at the parenting courses you dragged him to (but paid rigid attention to every word the heavily bangled woman said to him), he feels lost. Unsure. The ground is shaky. Control slips. And that's maybe the crux of it all—

Babies can't be controlled. And it's the loss of this, what makes him whole, keeps him steady, that has him feeling rubber-limbed and fawn-like. 

“Quiet, now,” he murmurs, and then winces at the rough drag of his voice in the silence of the room. Too firm, too forceful. All the gentleness he has in his bones was devoured by your greedy mouth when you cracked him open like the legs of a snow crab, marrow slurped up until he was hollow. Empty. His tenderness rests inside your belly. What else does he have to give—

But the warm bundle in his awkward, clumsy hold stops their shrill cries. A girl, he remembers you saying. Crying. Sobbing into the phone when he called, all ugly and gross. He heard you sniffle, snot undoubtedly dribbling from your nose as you wept to him about how fucking cute their baby was. Their little girl. 

She's soft. Smells of a newborn, too—something powdery. Sweet. Warmed milk, fresh bread. The clinical books that made you squeamish, the ones that outlined every anatomical and chemical change to your body, mentioned that newborns smelled distinct to each parent. A phenomenon meant to encourage protection and bonding. 

It made you shiver, muttering my little parasite under your breath, even as your hand curved possessively over your bulging belly. 

He knows that's what this is. Chemical. His mind is evolving, shifting. Changing. And it's then that he feels something hot thicken in his throat. Something ugly, and bitter. The scars on his knuckles, the cigarette burns on his fingers are a sharp reminder of what his father felt and ignored. 

He scoffs, then, irritated at himself. He's a grown man and still—

Still thinks of him. 

“Won't be like that,” he says, still rough. Still firm. She blinks up at him, eyes rheumy and wide. “Not with you.” 

Never. Never. He pins the word to his pericardium, letting it rot his tissue. He'd rather die, he thinks, than ever hurt this little girl. But despite that, he knows he will. Inevitably. Just like he does everything good—or bad—in his life. Leaching from the goodness of others, sucking them dry and letting them moulder. A disappointment everywhere except the battlefield where he screams himself hollow and rents the air with his ire. Incorrigible. Immovable. An object of cruelty. Unforgiving in all aspects. A curse that follows him home, into his marital bed when he pins you down, and makes you profess your love for the beast inside of him. Never satiated, never quelled, until you're shackled at his side. Tucked away from the world he knows is too cruel to people like you who end up a corpse he has to step over on his way for empty retribution. 

He thinks, too, about all the ways he's going to ruin this chubby little thing in his arms, and wishes, suddenly, he was a better man. 

“Gonna hate my fuckin' guts when you're sixteen, aren't you?” In response, this little thing just opens its red maw and blows bubbles. He huffs. “You're gonna be nothin’ but trouble, mm? Steal my car. Crash it because your mum's gonna teach you how to drive and she backed into the garage six times already. Gonna gang up on me. Both of you. Little nightmares.” 

He's not sure what else to say, and thinks, already, that he said too much. Bared his belly to her too soon. She'll have this memory, buried down in the deep recesses of her psyche of her father falling to pieces while he held her. An impossibility, he knows, but can't shake the feeling that this, in itself, is an epoch. A marker for what's to come. All the ugly, the hate. The screaming matches that make him curl his hand into fists as she levels his failures at him. Not to hit. Never to hit. But to stop the tremble that won't stop. That has already started. The shake in his joints that tell him to run before he hurts. Before he ruins this precious mass of his blood and your tissue in his arms. 

“Gonna—” he isn't crying. Isn't. But there's a thickness in his throat as he thinks about how quickly she'll grow up. Age marked in the crows feet that gather around your eyes. The laugh lines. “Gonna be a fuckin' menace, and I'll—” he chokes, then, when she reaches up with a pudgy, red fist and snags the strap of his vest he didn't even bother taking off before he fled here. Fat, tiny fingers curling into the spot he grabs to ground himself from lashing out. “Fuck.”

He'd burn the world for her, he knows. Sacrifice everyone and everything just to keep her warm. Both of you. It begins and ends with this little thing that has your eyes and his nose. 

But he doesn't know how to translate that into love. Into affection. 

It comes out caustic. Abrasive. Possessive. 

And he is. 

Now that he has her in his hands he knows that nothing else will ever compare. That they'll never be empty because she'll always fit in his palms no matter how big she gets. There's only ever been enough space in his heart for you. Chiselled into with a fuckin’ pickaxe because you wouldn't wait for it to grow on its own. 

But there's give, he realises. This domicile you carved yourself has a room attached. A place for her. And she fits like a glove. Sliding inside. Cocooned against his pulse. 

He loves her. Endlessly. Forever. She deserves better. More. 

But when he tells her this, she makes a noise and it sounds like a giggle. 

“Laughin’ at me already, mm?”

She giggles again, and he likes that her laugh is a little ugly. A little mean. 

“Scarin’ the wits outta me,” he confesses, shifting her weight as she occupies herself with the clasp of his vest, disinterested in the man that breaks into pieces around her now. “I don't know—fuck, I don't—”

You come to in a panic. It starts as a slow roll to the side before your eyes flash open, wide and furious even as sleep congeals in the corners, pawing at the empty spot where the lingering warmth of your child presses into your chest. Anger, fury, darkens over your brow, and the apoplectic rage that simmers in the gaps of your dread, your fostering panic, softens him. Makes him melt. The burn of your ire, your fear, liquifying his bones. 

He falls in love with you a little bit more at that moment. When the snarl rucks your upper lip up, up, teeth bared to the world as you whip your head around in frantic, desperate dismay, searching for the little girl he knows you, too, will burn the world for. 

“I've got her,” he says, whisper-soft and low. Cadence even, clear. Tries to quell the howl he can see hammering its fists against your throat before it rips from your lips and scorches the world around you in a hail of horrifying anguish. “She's safe.”

It says something when you immediately go still at the sound of his voice, muscles going lax, slack, as you slowly turn your head toward him, blinking against the fog clotting your vision. Something that cuts him to the core. Rents his chest in halves. One side for you, and the other for her. Nothing left to spare. 

This feeling brimming in his chest sweetens when you startle at the sight of him, them, lashes shuttering like an old camera as if you were trying to sear the image in your head forever. Branded on the back of your eyelids. (A sentiment he knows all too well considering the stream of photos added to his camera roll of you and her nuzzled together.)

“You—” your voice catches, breaks from sleep. Fatigue. You swallow, slowly licking your lips. “When did you get in?”

Your eyes are glued to them. Unblinking. Widened with pure affection, the intensity of which makes him want to touch you, hold you.

“A few hours ago,” he murmurs, glancing down at his—

It cuts a jagged line through his chest. Knicks his bone with how deep it goes. False starts pressed tight to his heart. 

—his daughter. Fuck’s sake. 

He's choked. Strangled. Rendered mute, immobilised. It guts him, this. Daughter. The ring of it echoes in his head, filling the recesses of his mind. Embedding itself within his head. Congealed over. Fixed in place. 

“I have a fuckin’ daughter,” he breathes at length, the air knocked from his lungs. He's not sure why this is what breaks him, but it does. And it's you, then, holding the fracturing pieces together, hands reaching out—in a startling mimicry of his daughter, and fuck, doesn't that just eviscerate him—and curling against the heaving brackets of his ribs, boxing him in. 

“John,” you say, but your voice wobbles. Wavers. When he peels his eyes away from the sleepy yawn she lets out long enough to look at you, there's tears flooding your lashline. Threatening to break. “Fuck,” you say, crass and beautiful, and he's overcome with the urge to tuck you into his other arm, keep you both cradled in his hands. “Don't make me cry or my stitches will tug.” 

“We've got a daughter,” he says again, just to hear it uttered aloud. We. Yours. His. It messes with him. Bludgeons into his core. “We've—”

“She's beautiful, isn't she?” 

Your words shatter him, but the pinch of your hands on his waist keeps him from buckling. 

“Yeah,” he rasps, voice thick. Ugly. It's mangled in his throat. All fractured and raw. “Just like her mother.”

He shows his affection in the burn of his embrace. In the way he holds you tight, refusing to let go. Keeps his words callous and firm. Soft utterances, declarations of love, tucked away in the sure, greedy way he clings to you in his sleep. Yields to you like no one else. Lets you in. 

And he supposes he ought to say it more often if the way your face crinkles up just like his daughter when she cried, tears spilling over your rounded cheeks. 

“Don't,” you heave, ugly and brittle, and he thinks you're the prettiest thing he'd ever seen in his life. “Don't or I'll rip my stitches—”

He huffs. Nods only once, and then steps toward you. “Do you want—?”

“Keep her for a little while,” you mutter, leaning back into the bed, eyes lidded by fond. So in love with him, the picture they paint, it's almost sickening. “She likes you.”

He snorts. “She's only three hours old. Give her time.” 

You're quiet for a beat. Pensive. Mulling something over. It's never a good thing when you're silent, and the unease that grows in his belly is justified when you heave out a long, tired exhale through your nose. 

The way you look at him is raw. “You're not your father, John.” 

And isn't that just the worst lie he'd ever heard.

He scoffs, then. Shifts his weight, still cradling his daughter tight to his chest. “Mm, 'dunno about that.”

“I do.”

“Jus’—” leave it. Keep going. Keep feeding him lies as he stands here and pretends that he wasn't a horrible bastard for wanting this from you. From taking it. Strapping you with a man who's always, always, one foot out the door—

“No.” You say, soft and sure. “You're not him. I know you're not because you're still here.”

“So was he.” 

You don't acknowledge the interruption. Content, it seems, to rattle off lies and half-truths into the stifling air. Your eyes close, the curve of your lashes leonine. Breathtaking.

“Do you want me to take her?” You ask instead of the multitude of things he can see piling behind your eyes. Some of the ugly. Jagged glass. Others powder soft. 

He shakes his head. “You need your rest,” it's a half-truth. Fatigue clings to you still, swathed in the purpling of your skin. The slow, heavy blinks you take to try and fight the tug of an artificial sleep. 

But the real reason is this:

He's just not ready to let her go. 

Thinks, viciously, suddenly, that if he does, this moment built between them in budding, liquid blue will cease forever. Severed too soon. She'll carry the same resentment in her heart he feels for his own father, and he'll die in a shallow pit thinking about how badly he wanted just a second longer. 

Generational, right? Trickle down hatred. Ancestral rage. It's what your grandma talks about sometimes over tea and fried bread, half disbelieving you brought a white man into her home, and making a show, a facade, of wisdom even though he spotted the how to raise a child notebook she hastily shoved into the kitchen drawer when you arrived. Taking over in place of your own mother, stepping up. And yet—

She just doesn't get it, you said, rubbing your hands over your belly when she steps away after another long-winded conversation about traditions, spirits, and dead languages. Raising a child like yours in a world like this. She's just. I don't know. Ignore her. 

(He doesn't. But you don't have to know that.)

So. He clings to her a little tighter. Holds her a little firmer. Brings her close to his chest and hopes she can hear the echo of his heartbeat and know that this tired, old song is just for her. 

(The heart itself for you—)

And maybe—

Maybe he's not quite ready to see you be a mother. Some perverse part of him is already trembling at the promise of watching you nurture and feed her, the tantalising whisper is enough to make the air in his lungs turn humid, sticky. Tar, you remind him sometimes, having seen the ugly spatter of black in the grainy photos the doctor in Hereford likes to shove at him. Never too late to reverse the damage, John. 

Or maybe he wants you for himself just a moment longer. An hour. A day. When you're still you, shackled and bound to a man who reeks of stale tobacco, and started sneaking cigarettes in the dead of night like some pimply, awkward teenager when you first came to him, cheeks wet and eyes wild, and said:

“John, I'm—”

Pregnant. 

He did it, of course. Put that baby in you. Made it with his teeth buried into your throat and your hips canting up to meet him, taking everything he had to offer. Animal aggression. Nothing tender in the way he chewed you up, made you beg him for it. But still—

Wanting and having are worlds apart, aren't they? 

Faced with it, the consequences of his actions, he's at a standstill. 

You hum, and when your eyes slide open, he feels the mallet against his head. Cracked open. You fossick about until you find what you're looking for. Cheeky fuckin’ thing—

“Fine. Just pull up a chair before you keel over, old man.” 

“M’fine,” he grouses in that voice that serves as a dice roll between making you feel hot or homicidal depending on the mood he catches you in. Muttering something under your breath that sounds like a whispered plea for guidance (“tss, gimme strength.”)

But even with the waspish denial, he's inching closer to the spare chair left in the corner, looping his ankle around the leg to slide it closer. The squeal of rubber on aluminium makes him grimace, eyes darting down to his sleeping girl, nestled in his arms. Her brow pinches in the same way your grandma’s do when she's annoyed by the news. Her bingomates. The way he refuses her offering of burning tobacco and lemongrass whenever he goes away for a while, unable to really commit to this little, broken family that feels more like home than his own ever did. 

(“aint my place,” he says, and she scoffs. 

“fuck, s'matter wit’cha?” is her counter, the harsh line between her brows now perfectly superimposed on his daughter’s face. “tss. ain't yer place, eh. are you tryna piss me off? fuck, you make me mad—”)

He sees that spitting anger in you. Generational, he knows. The same inherited attitude his daughter will inevitably have. The one that singles him out as an outlier. Outnumbered. Three, now, to one—

There's got to be a reason why his chest bubbles, innervated by the thought of a Sunday dinner when she's old enough to watch her grandma make intricate bracelets, necklaces, earrings, and pins with thread and glass beads as you, her mother, cuss at the stove that doesn't burn as hot as it used to, flipping over golden dough in a sizzling pan. 

Orange juice in old cups your grandma kept since the nineties. Something soft playing on the radio. The peeling, waterlogged wallpaper flakes off the wall when you slam the pan down too hard. The way the spill of the sun through the rusting window rents the room in half. Pale yellow and oak. Little orange blossoms in soft pink above the speckled granite countertops. Everything awash in a gossamer of sleepy-eyed affection. 

Just like it is now. But—

He looks down at her, head full of lead. Cotton. 

Complete, maybe. 

“Don't know how to be a dad,” he confesses to you, and thinks of how much easier it is to slam a sledgehammer into a metal door than it is to peel back the veneer sometimes. “Don't want to mess up.” 

“You'll be fine.” 

The crinkle of the plastic mattress, the scratch of the sheets sliding across the bed is louder now than it was before. He cuts the gentle sounds with an abrading hum that clicks off his teeth. 

“Get some sleep,” he says again instead of the awful truth that buoys in his throat. Things like you don't know and I tricked you this whole time into thinking I'm a good man and look what you’ve let me do to you. “You need it.” 

Another noise. In his periphery, he watches you lean back against the upright pillows, lips parted on a soft sigh. He feels—

Small, then. An oxymoron considering he has to duck his head to get in and out of the room, towering over most he meets daily. But the inadequacies gut him. Vivisect him. He should be more comforting to you, he knows. This whole thing has been difficult. Tiresome. Cut into and having the life you grew inside of you cut out—

“Did good,” he rasps, still staring down at her even as he pulls the chair as close to your bed as he can get. “With her.” 

You snort. It's inelegant. Ugly. Brittle, like you're holding back tears. 

When he glances up, he finds that you are. “You're strong,” he adds, and knows he should have started with this first. “Doin’ this all on your own.” 

“I had help.”

It's awkward trying to adjust himself in the seat with his daughter perched in his arms, but he finds a way. Settled, then, with her still sleeping away, he lifts his hand from her back, keeping her cradled in his arm with the other, and reaches for you. 

The starchy sheets catch on the bramble of hair on his knuckles, the back of his hand, and the static jolts tickle against the rough scar tissue thickened over his knuckles, some still fresh, scabbed from the latest mission he'd been deployed to. You watch him, misty-eyed and tremulous, as he draws nearer, eyes flickering like a pendulum between the bundle nestled on the thick of his arm, to him, watching you back. Greedily taking in every spasm, every blink. 

Something inside of him cracks. Softens. He thinks, breathless, that you've never been as beautiful to him as you are right now. Bubbles of snot in your nose. Eyes reddened, dropping from exhaustion. A dizzying mess. The sort that speaks of tireless work, of physicality. Muted pain brimming in the backs of your eyes when you pull on your stitches. 

“Got a pretty wife,” he says, and it's not enough. He knows it isn't. Looks away before the fracture lilt to his tone breaks him in two. “And—” it's hard to say. He forces himself to. “And a beautiful daughter.” 

The tears stream down your face at this quiet, clumsy admission. 

“Don't—” you sniffle, hoarse. “Or I'll tear my stitches.”

“M’not doin' anythin’, love.” 

“Fuck you, John—”

He leans back in his chair with a hum, eyes slipping shut. A brief respite amid the panic still clinging tight to his ribcage. “Love you too.” 

It's quiet. Nothing but the soft drag of each breath his daughter takes, the tremulous sniffle you give as you try to dam the tears sliding down your cheeks. His heart hammering in his ears. He commits it all to memory. Glueing it to the fibrils of mind where it'll stay, embedded in tissue, for as long as he is of sound mind. 

Much like the grainy, black-and-white ultrasounds stuffed in his breast pocket. Tucked inside the drawer of his desk where he keeps the pictures of you. Keepsakes he's unnecessarily possessive over, elbowing the rowdier men who try to needle him for sparse information on the little wife he hides at home and the baby they'll never meet. Something just for him. Unshareable to the rest of the world because they don't deserve you. 

The feathered snores tell him you're finally asleep, and he thinks about resting for a moment as well—the bone-deep exhaustion he feels jetting from Iceland to home, to the hospital catches up to him with a vicious kick to temples—but the weight in his arm keeps him awake. Hyperviligent. 

There's this urge clawing at him, making ruins of his chest, and he answers its worried insistence by opening his eyes just a sliver to stare down at the little bundle in his arms only to find she's staring back at him. Eyes wide. Comically too big for her chubby face. 

She has your complexion, but his dark curls. Her eyes, though, are the perfect equilibrium between pools of sapphire, burnt blue, marbled with the dark gleam, that vibrant shade of yours that he's so fond of, the one that's often accompanied by a smart-ass remark. Seeing it gaze up at him with such incipient adoration knocks the air from his lungs. Has his heart shuddering in the brackets of his chest. 

It's love, he thinks first. Instantaneous. Apodictic. And then, cold, callous—

Chemical. 

Just to hurt himself, maybe. Just to let it cut deep. Scar. Because as he stares down at her, he knows it doesn't matter. No amount of hatred, of anger, will ever rip her away from him. His daughter. His family. His.

Like her mother. The root of it all. The catalyst. The start. 

Shackled to this gaping chasm that devours endlessly, never satiated. Always starving. 

Needy. Full of greed. 

Because even now he covets. Craves. Muses to himself about how he can convince you to have another the moment the opportunity arises and you're healed. Whole. Aching for it. 

He wasn't joking when he said he wanted a football team. 

But for now—

The soft sighs you make in your sleep, ones that almost sound like his name, and the comforting weight of his daughter in his arms are enough to make the beast inside purr. Preening under its own conquest, its own victory of successfully turning your body into a home he can rest his weary head on. Sacrosanct. 

He looks at her, then, and feels the dread ease into pride. Into elation. An emotion he knows should have come first, but it's here now, and that's all that really matters.

“Gonna be trouble,” he grouses, watching her pink mouth gape wide, blood-red maw grinning up at him in delirious glee only babies can imbue. Unhindered by the ruination of the world around them. Unfettered. 

Something he couldn't protect you from, but knows you're both on the same wavelength when it comes to her. At all costs, you'd said, hand against the burgeoning swell. And he kissed you until he couldn't feel his lips anymore. Until all he tasted, all he knew, was the taste of you.

“Of the best kind, though, mm?” 

In response, she coos. And he hews the sound into his chest where it sits beside the brand of when you first said, i love you, too, John. 

So, he relaxes. Whispers soft, conspiratorily. "Think you might need'a brother, mm? What'd you say about that?"

And she giggles.

[amandabbbbb]

summary: after the scene where ward drops rafe at barry’s and tells him to not come home but barry’s sister pogue!reader tries to comfort him even though rafe is soo mean to her like woah but it’s a happy ending

tw: mention of drugs, idk rafe cries a lot, parental issues, rafe calls reader kid and bitch once

word count: 762

“don’t come home, son,” ward says, his voice cold and final, as he walks away from his only son.

“where do you want me to go?”

“dad! dad!” rafe’s desperate calls echo into the night, but ward doesn’t look back, leaving rafe alone in the darkness in front of barry’s and your house.

“hey, barry, open the fuckin door! i know you got the coke, dude, come on. please just open up!” he’s begging on the verge of tears. “barry, if you don’t open this god damn door, i’ll fucking smash it down myself. i need coke, man!”

you slowly open the door, and before he even sees you, rafe shoves his way inside, causing you to stumble back slightly. he collapses onto the couch, his movements frantic and erratic. “barry, what took you so long? christ, give me your best coke. i need that shit now, dude” he demands, his voice thick with barely-contained emotion. when he finally looks up and sees you instead of barry, he quickly swipes at the tears streaming down his face, trying to hide his vulnerability.

“oh, hi, rafe! sorry, i had my headphones on. wanna listen? oh my god, are you crying?” you ask, your voice laced with genuine concern.

“no, jesus fuck, y/n, where’s your brother?”

“oh, um, i think he’s down by the shipyards doing a deal. sorry, rafey,” you say, offering a gentle smile.

rafe pulls himself up quickly, furiously searching for the drugs he so desperately craves. “where’s his coke? i know you know where he keeps it. go find it. don’t just stand there helplessly. you’re so goddamn stupid! fuck!”

“why are you being mean to me? you’re never mean to me… i don’t know where barry keeps the coke, rafe.”

he yells at the top of his lungs, “it’s like you have no fuckin brain. you’re just a useless dumb blonde.” (sorry i’m blonde)

the harsh words cut through you, and you can’t bear his anger. you turn and flee to your room, tears pricking your waterline, blurring your vision as you go.

your whole teenage years, you knew rafe as your older brother’s richest client, who he secretly would rip off. but as the years went by, he started buying barry’s more hardcore drugs, not just weed. you got to know rafe more as barry’s regular client. he would constantly stick around, always flirting with you and bringing you gifts when barry wasn’t looking.

“y/n, don’t shut me out. don’t be a bitch, come on, open the door. i need the coke. you don’t understand, help me here, okay,” he pleads.

you’re scared. you’ve never seen him like this; he’s always treated you like a princess. you yell as he bangs at your thin bedroom door, pushing the wood so hard it starts to crack. “go home, rafe!” your voice shaky and filled with fear.

the banging stops suddenly, your words echoing in the sudden silence. the quiet stretches on, each second feeling like an eternity. cautiously, you peek out of your bedroom door thinking maybe he finally listened to your advice. “rafe, you there?” you call out.

he’s sitting on your couch, tears running down his face, hyperventilating. “i can’t go home. i’m a liar, an addict, a thief, and i can’t be trusted, so my dad said he can’t have me in his house. i have nowhere to go.”

you slowly approach the couch where rafe sits, his face hidden in his hands. his body is shaking, and the room is filled with the sound of his ragged breaths. “rafe…” you say softly, your voice trembling as you try to offer some comfort. “you, um, can stay here tonight.”

he looks up at you, his eyes red and desperate, filled with a depth of pain you’ve never seen in him before. “i don’t deserve you, kid. fuck, i’m so sorry. i never wanted you to see me like this. i thought i had everything under control, but now you probably hate me or some shit…”

you sit beside him, offering a soft, reassuring smile. you put your hand in his. “it’s okay rafey. i could never hate you. we all have moments when shit falls apart. it doesn’t change how i see you. you’re tired. i’ll set up the couch for you.”

rafe’s eyes search yours, a flicker of regret softening his expression. “i didn’t mean to take it out on you,” he says, his voice low and raw. “i just… i don’t want to be alone. y’know, on the couch. not tonight.” the words hang in the air, heavy with his unspoken need to hold you tonight.

[cryptidstealingyourcreditcard]

i propose a redo of race to the edge, but this time with a mature rating. imagine:

(spoilers for rtte)

actually being able to see characters deaths and wounds

more depth into snotlout and spitelouts relationship- it’s clearly not a healthy one

more depth into hiccstrid and other couples

specifically, queer couples and characters- we know gobber and snotlout are gay/bi respectively, but we never get more info on that subject

actual blood and wounds

let!!! them!!! say!!!!! fuck!!!!!

more clarification on which dragon fire hurts which dragons, and which ones don’t

blood!!

ruff and tuff clearly have things to say that are not age appropriate, let them say it

could go more in depth with the scarier side of the dragons

show the effects of characters getting wounded!!!!

just. everything about dagur.

could go more in depth with fishlegs’s anxiety?

on that note, all of the gang’s mental health- hiccup clearly overworks and blames himself for everything, astrid has obvious anger issues and pent up rage, snotlout pretends to think he’s better than everyone else to mask his cripplingly low self esteem, fishlegs 100% has anxiety or some kind of panic disorder, ruff is already canonically frustrated with being “a woman in a man’s world” and doesn’t feel appreciated enough, and tuff doesn’t seem to value his own well being very much- not to mention that he literally has hallucinations sometimes

and dagur definitely has something that causes him to be in a constant state of mania

gustav and his parents- he said his mother only notices he’s gone after the third day????

at least one person on berk has (consensually) fucked a dragon. give me some background on that.

at least half of the riders cursing like sailors

being able to show sicknesses better- the time astrid caught the scourge of odin, the time astrid got deathly poisoned, plus the time astrid went blind (astrid sure does get beat up a lot damn)

just give me all the things we couldn’t have as kids!!!! blood!!! gore!!!!!!! death!!!!!!! cursing!!!!!! gays!!!!!!!!! abusive relationships!!!!!!!!! kissing that doesn’t look awkward and forced!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! monster fuckers!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! come on!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

that is all, thank you for your time

[astrobiscuits]

Chiron persona chart obs

WARNING: BRIEF MENTIONS OF ED, S*ICIDE, S*XUAL AB*SE. I HIGHLY RECOMMEND NOT TO READ THIS POST IF YOU'RE VERY SENSITIVE thank you

Stelliums show us where our main trauma or wound lies:

Stellium in Aries/1st house - body image issues/body dysmorphia, hating ones face and wanting to change it at all cost, being so focused on ones trauma that it results in excessive independence

Stellium in Taurus/2nd house - self worth issues, hating ones voice and/or being made fun of for how ones voice sounds, excessive shopping due to fear of having nothing, having stash of cash hidden everywhere in the house due to being scared of getting robbed

Stellium in Gemini/3rd house - being too scared to speak to others, hating the way you express yourself, being an overachiever at school due to fear of being seen as "stupid", fear of being run over by a bicycle or a car

Stellium in Cancer/4rd house - family problems (divorced parents, one of the parents is out of the picture for whatever reason, family members dealing with addictions, family abuse), issues when it comes to comforting yourself in times of crisis, HEAVY abandonment issues

Stellium in Leo/5th house - had to grow up too fast instead of enjoying childhood, fear of not being "the perfect parent", fear of not making it in the industry (for those pursing creative careers or following their passions), issues regarding getting pregnant and delivering a child, fear of being burned by the sun or by fire

Stellium in Virog/6th house - fear of contacting an incurable disease, issues regarding eating disorders, trauma regarding messy spaces, which results in OCD

Stellium in Libra/7th house - issues caused by getting cheated in a relationship, fear of trusting someone in a one-on-one connection, trauma resulted from business affairs which have gone wrong

Stellium in Scoprio/8th house - fear of death, issues caused by sexual trauma/sexual abuse, grooming, stalking, human trafficking, mysterious disappearances, divorce, taxes, loans

Stellium in Sagittarius/9th house - fear of not being able to experience everything one has always wanted, issues caused by not living to ones full potential, fear of travelling too far away, religious trauma

Stellium in Capricorn/10th house - fear of being forgotten and not standing out, issues regarding not looking & acting in a professional manner when needed, fear of not being promoted in ones career, the trauma is very visible to the public

Stellium in Aquarius/11th house - fear of not fitting in a crowd or a friend group, issues regarding being part of LGBTQ+ or a subculture often dismissed (POC, people with disabilities, orphanage kids, emos), trauma related to the country's government and (possible) implications in war, fear of dying in a natural disaster (earthquake, tsunami, volcano), fear of dying by electrocution or in an airplane crash

Stellium in Pisces/12th house - fear of being admitted to a prison, asylum or nursing home, having frequent thoughts of unaliving onself, fear of drowning, fear of what happens after death, fear of being misunderstood or made fun of for hearing voices and seeing things which aren't real

Moon shows us how we process our trauma and wounds:

Moon in Aries/1st house : screams, throws things around (maybe also breaks a few things), if anyone reminds them of their wounds/traumas, they'd literally break that person's neck; they might recklessly drive, play with fire or drink excessively out of anger

Moon in Taurus/2nd house : resorts to retail therapy, cooks their favourite meals, gets some comfy pillow and blankets and watches their favourite show; they're slow to heal their wounds, but they manage to do so

Moon in Gemini/3rd house : overanalyzes what happened to the point that they've thought of every scenario possible, (if they have more than one wound/trauma) switches between wounds, is usually open about their wounds and traumas with siblings and acquaintances

Moon in Cancer/4th house : cries 24/7, acts distant with people who are not close to them and defensive with those who want to talk about their feelings; they tend to have very, very unhealthy coping mechanisms (aka they resort to self-harm)

Moon in Leo/5th house : transforms their pain & wounds into a form of art - whether it's through dancing, painting, singing, acting, photography, videography; sometimes they might not recognize how much their past affects them, especially around others, they boast about how "it wasn't that bad" even though they're clearly affected by what happened

Moon in Virgo/6th house : focuses on the details, what they could have done better and what they didn't, easily becomes anxious, cleaning the house becomes a form of therapy for them; in case of physical wounds, they document themselves very well (sometimes they are even able to heal themselves, since this Moon sign in Chiron persona chart has a sort of 6th sense about medicinal procedures)

Moon in Libra/7th house : their s/o knows every pain, wound and traumas they've ever experienced, analyzes the past in a logical manner and tries to find a healthy coping mechanism, without hurting anyone else in the process; listens to sad, romantic songs

Moon in Scorpio/8th house : if someone else is guilty for their wounds/traumas, they're going to plot revenge and execute their plan in a discreet manner; often jealous, they might pursue fwb connections to stop thinking about their pain; the ones who manage to deal with their past in a healthy manner become a completely different person in the process

Moon in Sagittarius/9th house : dealing with their wounds/traumas opens a new world for them, they end up adopting a new set of beliefs as a coping mechanism, travelling to another country to get some space from their surroundings helps them heal

Moon in Capricorn/10th house : replays the past over and over again, they numb their emotions, if asked about their wounds/traumas, they answer very stoic; they also tend to be more realistic and don't like to tell themselves lies or hear lies about their trauma

Moon in Aquarius/11th house : resorts to technology to cope with the pain, is usually open about their wounds and traumas with their friends or on social media, but not with family; they might try some unusual coping mechanisms

Moon in Pisces/12th house : they isolate themselves from everyone in order to cope with the pain, meditation and breathing techniques are their to-go methods of calming their anxiety down; if they don't manage to cope in a healthy way, they dissociate and go through a depersonalization process or an addiction takes over them (drinking, smoking, they overuse medication etc.)

Jupiter shows us where we're blessed, but fail to see. The stronger the modality, the more obvious it is to other people.

♃ Jupiter in fixed signs (Taurus, Leo, Scorpio, Aquarius) and/or fixed houses (2nd house, 5th house, 8th house, 11th house) are extremely blessed and everyone is able to notice, but the native.

♃ Jupiter in cardinal signs (Aries, Cancer, Libra, Capricorn) and/or cardinal houses (1st house, 4th house, 7th house, 11th house) are blessed, but only a specific category of people notice it.

♃ Jupiter in mutable signs (Gemini, Virgo, Sagittarius, Pisces) and/or mutable houses (3rd house, 6th house, 9th house, 12th house) are still blessed, but the effect is hardly noticeable to anyone.

Those with:

Grand Trine/Kite/Yod (Finger of God)

Sun, Jupiter, North Node and ruler of the chart conjuncting MC and/or placed in 10th/11th house (minimum 2 placements)

Stellium in 10th house/11th house

-> have got amazing healing abilites and often end up pursuing careers where they help & heal society (usually as doctors, therapists, spiritual advisors, social workers, advocates who actually make a difference, etc.) They usually become famous for their healing gifts.

Other small considerations:

Ascendant shows us how we are perceived at first glance when we are dealing with pain

IC shows us how we are perceived by our family (or in a safe, secluded place) when we are dealing with pain

DSC shows us how we are perceived by our partner or best friend when we are dealing with pain

MC shows us how we are perceived in public (or in our career) when we are dealing with pain

North Node shows us our salvation (where we need to focus on in order to heal)

🕊 Sun trine Moon & Sun sextile Moon individuals have an easier time healing their traumas and wounds

🕊 Sun opposite Saturn & Sun square Saturn individuals feel the need to rebel from their father/grandparents, norms that have been imposed on them, old customs & traditions, institutions/government, in order to heal themselves