#how cruel is it that we missed that window by only a few years

[glavilio]

i really miss my grandma............

#:( #life really isn't fair #why do i have to be alone #i guess thats how it is. but i really wish i could still talk to her about everything but about gender stuff the most #how cruel is it that we missed that window by only a few years #and its not like the rest of my family isnt supportive but she would've actually understood. but of course i didnt get to know about her #til after the funerals. i dont know if ill ever really forgive my dad for that. but i guess its not just his fault #like i said life is not fair and the only thing i can do is keep living #i reserve the right to mope about it. as the only inheritor of this blessing/burden as the other trans woman in the family #i do have memoirs and pictures now tho! which is so much more than i ever imagined i would

[buhok-ng-bruha]

Uh oh! A Jehovah’s Witness is at my door!

A guide on what the fuck is happening and what to do about it as a never JW, from an exJW.

JW congregations have just been told to start doing door-to-door preaching (aka ‘service’/‘service work’/‘witnessing’) again this September. They stopped for the past few years due to…well. The whole state of things. But it’s starting again! Fuck!

So, to get you folks in on the Secret Inner-workings of a Cult:

JWs do service work mostly on Saturdays and Sundays, but any day of the week is fair game, just less of them will be out on other days. Generally it’ll be in the mornings (anywhere between 9AM to 1PM being common, my family did 10AM to noon Saturdays), but any time of day is also fair game. Evening witnessing is encouraged, to catch parts of the service area who didn’t answer during morning service, like people who were at work or asleep.

JWs are given ‘territories’: entire neighborhoods if they’re a majority language and can generally bet on most of the people in a given area speaking that language; SPECIFIC ADDRESSES if they belong to a smaller language demographic. These are on ‘territory cards’, which include areas to fill out once they’ve called on houses. They often pull addresses from the phone book or other such directory, pulling based on name, or get referred new addresses from neighborhood sweeps in other congregations and were told x language was being spoken, so if you get called on by someone speaking your language and wonder how they got your address, it’s because they’ve collected data already! On You!

On that note: JWs collect data on you! A lot of it!! Those territory cards they fill out? They can include any information they gleaned from conversation (age? gender? personal details like if you’re married, if you live with your parents, etc? what religion do you belong to? any problems in your life they can ‘help’ with? any ‘problematic’ details, like if you’re queer? all of it.); if someone was home or not (yes we can see you peeking out from behind your curtains! we looked in windows!); if the person answering the door was uninterested; if they were aggressive; if they have dogs; if we were able to leave any publications with them; the details of any conversations we had, like which topics we discussed and which seemed to interest you the most; when to call on you again. The areas to fill this in on these cards are rather small so they usually only write down the most important information, but it is the most important information for trying to indoctrinate you into a cult. DO NOT give them any personal information. It will be used against you.

So that’s the gist of it. Now, you don’t want them at your door, probably.

Please do not harass them.

I know they’re annoying. We always knew we were being annoying. They do it anyways because they think they’re helping you. They often have children with them - not only because it’s often families going preaching together, but also because it’s a well known tactic to get a softer response from people they call on, to have a child with you. Even if there are no children, please do not harass JWs - they are cult victims, and doing so will only enforce their ‘us vs them’ mentality, and discourages members from leaving. The outside world hates you so much, so how can you leave?

“But what if—“ Nope! Beyond the whole ‘don’t be fucking cruel to abuse victims’ thing, it doesn’t even work! I’ve been threatened with dogs; my mother has been threatened with machetes; others have been flashed, or physically assaulted - we still went back eventually. Usually someone else would get the assignment, and usually we’d wait a bit, but we still went back.

“Okay, but what the fuck do I do, then?”

You open the door (yes, open the door; if you ignore them they’ll return again, assuming they just missed you or you were busy), let them tell you what they’re there for, and before the conversation goes further, you simply say:

“I’m not interested. Please put me on your do not call list.”

And then you tell them goodbye. Nothing more. Don’t say you have your own religion. Don’t say you’re queer. Don’t try to use the ‘magic word’ apostate - actual former members can get harassed.

Unfortunately, despite this being the most successful and least harmful strategy, it isn’t 100% foolproof. They’re supposed to write ‘do not call’ on the territory card next to your address, but they’re human and forget sometimes (or might not mark it intentionally, though I haven’t seen that personally); the next person who gets that card might not see the mark, as well. On top of everything else, even if not forgotten, they will eventually come back. It’s policy to come by after some time to check on you, ‘just in case’: just in case you changed your mind, just in case you moved and there’s someone else there now, just in case, oh, you recently had a loved one pass away and suddenly find yourself in an emotionally vulnerable position in need of support and sympathy.

If you have the knowledge and mental/emotional energy and stability to, you can go about trying to debate them, maybe help some of them doubt, but it is no easy task and there is no guarantee of any success. It takes a lot of patience. They are undergoing some extreme brainwashing and ‘waking up’ is incredibly traumatizing, and you will face a lot of resistance in trying to deconvert any of them. Again, only attempt this if you have the energy, stability, and knowledge required - the delicacy required, too. Otherwise, remember, it’s

“I’m not interested. Please put me on your do not call list.”

Nothing more.

#cult #how to avoid jws #how to avoid jehovah’s witnesses #please reblog #psa #exjw

[bookofbonbon]

How about these prompts? “Was any of it real? Or is this your way of getting back at my father?” And “Please, don’t shut me out again.”

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Reader.

Word Count: 1109.

Posted: 05.02.2023

Edited: 03.09.2023

Three years.

Three years did Prince Aemond spend courting you. An exceptionally long time considering the two of you were already of age to marry when you met.

Of course, you thought nothing of it. After all, your father had initially rejected Aemond’s proposal so, you had always just assumed this was his way of punishing you for pushing back against his decision.

The thought brings a bitter smile to your lips.

How brave you once thought yourself for doing so.

So, proud of yourself you had been.

How foolish you truly were.

In hindsight, you should have kept your wits about yourself, that your father would continue to draw out your courtship for as long as he did; that the dragon-prince would so eagerly continue his pursuit for your affections despite your father’s hindrance.

You thought it was love.

It was only after your father’s death that you discovered the reason behind his hindrance. When upon your return to your homelands for his funeral, your inconsolable mother forced you to see the truth of it - the face of Aemond’s vindictiveness.

How you were nothing more than a puppet and Aemond the puppet master in a cruel game he had been playing with your father. He pulled at your every string and made you dance and dance you did.

Tears prick at your eyes as you stare longingly into the distance through the barred window of your bed chambers within the Red Keep. Breathing a small laugh, the irony is not lost on you.

A prisoner of your own making.

Too caught up in your own thoughts, you miss the first knock but, the second one comes louder, harsher against the wooden grain of the door.

You ignore it, you already know who it is, you already know he’ll let himself in and sure enough, he does.  

“We are not yet wed, you should not be inside my maiden chambers,” you speak plainly, continuing to stare out the window.

As if he hadn’t been inside a hundred times before.

“I could not be content to retire to my chambers knowing that you are upset with me.”

You almost laugh at his words; upset was an understatement.

“I’m not upset with you.”

Not entirely a lie, not entirely the truth.

You finally look at him, dark circles line the underneath of his eyes, the skin around his sapphire one a particularly nasty shade of red – as if he’d been digging his fingers into it. Fingers that were now anxiously twitching at his side.

“You did not seek me out upon your return. I thought perhaps it was the exhaustion from a long journey but, at supper, you would not spare even a glance toward me. You ignore me when I knock on your doors and dismiss me when I enter. You are upset with me,” Aemond sighs tiredly. “It pains me to think that in the time that you have been away I have done something to hurt you, that you would shut me out so coldly and so near to the day we are to wed.”

His words send a chill down your spine, the deep hurt that had been coursing through you over the last few weeks simmering for far too long and bubbling into a quiet fury that lurked beneath your surface.

Had he no shame?

“Does your spite know no limits?” you seethe. “Is there no reprieve in your wickedness?”

Aemond freezes at your words, your eyes cold, hard, and unforgiving and, it doesn't take him long to figure out why. Face blanching as realisation dawns on him - he should've known better; you had after all chosen to remain in your homelands for an unusually long time. He thought perhaps it was the grief but, as he looked upon you now, he could see the cold fury burning bright within your eyes.

Aemond swallows your words thickly, mouth opening but nothing coming out - his silence speaking volumes. He knew that you knew and when your coiled frame seems to shrink further, Aemond begins to truly fret because it wasn't like that anymore. It hadn't been for a long time but, how could he tell you that without admitting loudly to his once true intentions?

Stepping closer to you, Aemond hesitates- he wants to both bring you into his arms and comfort you and, drop to his knees and beg your forgiveness but, you flinch at his almost touch.

“Was any of it real?” your voice is small and far away, gaze focused on the skyline.

“Of course, it was real,” Aemond tries to reassure you. “It is re-”

“Enough with the lies,” you snap, his words sending you over the edge. "You will tell me the truth of it."

Surging forward, you grab his face roughly between your hands, forcing him to look at you.

“Now, I will ask you again. Was any of it real? Or was this your way of getting back at my father?”

You search Aemond’s eye desperately, hopeful still but, his eye strays as he speaks his next words. He cannot bear to look at the devastation he has caused you, will cause you as he confirms what you already know to be true.

“…it was my way of getting back at your father.”

A strangled sound leaves your lips as you violently rip your hands from either side of his face and turn away from him, hands burning from his touch.

“Get out.”

“No, no, no,” Aemond panics, rushing forward and pleading with you. “It is not like that anymore; I swear it to you. I love you now, I love you honestly, I love you truly, I lov-”

“Aemond!” your voice cracks, defeated. “Just get out- please.”

He doesn't want to leave, he wants to stay and fix this and fix this now but, Aemond knew you better than he knew himself… knew when to keep pushing and when to stop and this time he knew he needed to stop as the threads barely holding the two of you together threatened to snap.

“Okay,” Aemond nods reluctantly, walking backwards as you usher him out. “But please- just don’t... please, don’t shut me out again. Just give me one more chance. We can fix this; I can fix this; I will fix this.”

You say nothing as you close your chambers doors on him, waiting a beat for his shadow to disappear from the space beneath the door before, you collapse to the ground. Hurt and anger spilling over and staining your cheeks as you mourn your father, your Aemond, yourself.

A prisoner of your own making.

-

All fics are my own work - I have not posted my work anywhere else.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters/places mentioned above.

Do not copy. Do not translate. Do not repost.

bookofbonbon 2023. All rights reserved.

#requests are closed #aemond targaryen #ewan mitchell #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond imagine #aemond x you #aemond x reader #aemond fanfiction

[denaliwrites]

Free as My Hair

Crowley x F!Reader x Aziraphale

Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale love your hair, but Crowley's also a little shit.

Soundtrack: Hair by Lady Gaga

Requests: Open!

Warnings: Bad Hair Day.

Your hair was your greatest source of pride.

It tumbled in loose, graceful loops all the way down to your hips. It shined like molten gold in sunlight. It shimmered like polished silver in moonlight. To put it plainly, it was fucking gorgeous, if you did say so yourself.

It was also, you were pretty sure, Aziraphale's and Crowley's favorite feature of yours.

Understandably, you felt. You spent countless time grooming it, styling it, caring for it. It had better rank high on their list, for all the effort, time, and money you poured into it. You were sure, though, that there were other benefits, of course. Aziraphale loved brushing it, and Crowley loved playing with it.

Among other, naughtier things.

You'd never once considered cutting it. Plenty of people asked, and it always seemed to boil down to the maintenance. For some reason, very few people could understand the love and pride you had in your hair, or the enjoyment you got out of caring for it.

Only your partners seemed to really get it, but maybe that was because they lived with you and got to see firsthand the dedication you put into it.

Well.

To say you'd never considered cutting it was a bit of a fib.

Crowley loved his Bentley the way you loved your hair.

And he loved taking you for rides. Loved the fear and thrill and adrenaline flit over your face one after the other in an endless cycle as he drove through London at speeds that should've been impossible and were definitely illegal.

He didn't usually have the windows down for these rides. He knew how utterly out of control your hair would be, how it'd ruin the hours you'd put into grooming that day, how devastated you'd be.

This ride, however, was different.

For one, Aziraphale was with you. This wasn't so unusual as to be cause for concern, but it was different enough from the norm to make you and Crowley feel slightly... off.

And to add to that, they both seemed on edge. You couldn't quite place what the problem was, but it was... tense.

"What would you say," Crowley started anxiously, turning to look at you for a moment, "about a trip to Oxfordshire?"

"Wh... why Oxfordshire?" you asked, curious but also apprehensive.

"No reason, dear," Aziraphale replied too quickly.

"We just thought it might be nice to get out of the city," Crowley supplied, shooting Aziraphale a look you didn't like.

"Breathe in some country air, as it were."

"Neither of you breathe," you deadpanned, glancing at the two of them.

"Yes, well," Aziraphale said.

"It was just a thought," Crowley offered.

Looking out the car, you could already tell that you were well on your way, whether you liked it or not.

"I guess it might be nice," you said with a sigh. You didn't miss the slight twitch of their lips at your compliance.

For a while, the car was silent. Crowley was focused on driving, and Aziraphale was reading something or other, holding the book with one hand while the other soothingly stroked your head.

You thought that you were maybe halfway there when suddenly wind roared through the cabin, and your hair started whipping about your face uncontrollably.

"Crowley!" you gasped, struggling to tame and contain your hair. "What the hell!?"

When you looked over at him -- and managed to see him through your thrashing hair -- he was grinning.

Oh, that dick.

"I swear on this Bentley, Crowley, if you don't put the windows up --"

"You couldn't do anything to this car if you tried," he said, throwing you an amused glance.

"You wanna take that risk?" you pressed, now holding your hair down at your neck. "After having kept this car pristine for a hundred years?"

A serious look flitted across his face for a moment as he weighed the options.

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale said with a sigh. "Don't be cruel."

The demon grumbled, and just as suddenly as the cabin exploded with activity, it quieted and your hair stilled. It fell in hectic, frayed curls all over your shoulders.

You looked down and whimpered. "My hair -- you ruined it... Oh, God, I'm gonna have to cut it..."

You missed the guilt-stricken look Crowley shot you and the admonishing glare Aziraphale shot him.

"It's all right, dear," Aziraphale cooed. He put his book away and pulled you down so that your head rested in his lap. "It's all right."

He started carding his fingers through the tangled mess of your hair, and as he worked through it you started dozing off.

You were woken up sometime later by the angel gently shaking you and telling you they'd arrived in a place called Tadfield. The name didn't ring a bell.

As you got up and instinctively reached to smooth your hair, you remembered what had happened with the windows -- and you realized that Aziraphale must have pulled a miracle to return your hair to its former glory.

The knowing smile he shot you confirmed your suspicions, and you returned it with a grateful smile.

#aziraphale x reader #crowley x reader #aziraphale x you #crowley x you #good omens x reader #good omens fic #good omens fan fiction #michael sheen #david tennant

[idcbabyialreadylostmymind]

Blood of my Blood pt.1

Pairing- Sully family x sully!reader

Summary- There is so much you would do for your family even at a young age but there is one thing you just couldn't do so you do the only thing you find reasonable you run.

A/N- so this is lowkey just a prologue but i hope you guys like it 🤭

Pt.1 Pt.2 Pt.3 Pt.4

Your mother, Neytiri sat you down and Jake, your father, held a contemplating expression on his face. ''Hi mama, dad.'' You said as your missing tooth smiled up at them. ''Y/N we have something to tell you.'' Jake began and you peered at him with big eyes looking up at him with childlike gleam in them. ''We have made an agreement with the Kekunan clan, you know the tribe we visited last week and you and Neteyam played tag with the chief's son Entu.'' Jake said and you shook your head. ''Yeah he kept hitting me and he played with and injured animal it was really mean.'' You say and Neytiri looks upset and she sees your thoughts of the boy.

''What about it dad?'' You say looking at him again as he takes a deep breath in. ''You and Entu are betrothed when you become one of the people you shall be his mate.'' Neytiri finished and all the joy you felt seeped from your body and into the earth. ''W-what do you mean mom?'' you knew what she meant, but you prayed to Eywa that it wasn't what you thought. ''You and Entu with be mates in a few years it is done daughter be happy.'' she smiled and you did the same getting up and running to Neteyam.

You lived normally existing as if the news your parents just delivered to you didn;t fill you with despair. Though, it was only one day you could see that Entu would be cruel, cruel to you, cruel to the clan. You couldn't subject yourself to this, you would do anything for your family even at your young age but this is one thing that you couldn't and wouldn't do.

It was late you fought the sleep that simmered in your mind and waited till you heard your dads loud snoring. Slowly crouching out of your cot grabbing a bag you packed a few days ago its intended use was for a get together at another clan but it would do for getting away. You opened a window flap and stepped onto the grassy earth that surrounded your home. You walk to the Hallelujah mountains, you knew it was too early for your Iknimaya but you had to get away somehow.

You stepped into the pit, all of them were awake skin glowing and bright eyes peered into your soul. They moved as if upset by your presence, they would attack you if they wanted you to be their rider but none attacked. But one didn't move.

He was small, wings looked weak, but his beak was strong enough to crush a grown Na'vi skull as he hissed at you getting in attack mode. 'Better than nothing." You whisper before you hiss back at him loudly as he stood up on his short legs. Getting your rope you wrap it around his beck jumping at him onto his back.

He threw himself on his back making you gasp. Grabbing your queue quickly connecting it with his, completing tsaheylu he flew off the rock and then your eyes widened as you though, ''Slow, slow.'' He balanced in the wind as he went forward at a slow pace.

Your back straightened as you reached behind you grabbing the bag that managed to stay in you. Opening it you grab a leaf scroll, unrolling it having the directions to a clan. ''Mangkwan Clan known for letting people in hm.'' You whisper and the Khal, that's what you named him, chirped. ''You how where it's at.'' He chirped twice in response and you just trusted him as he turned left and farther from your old home.

It was a week's journey, you felt yourself going hungry but you held hope when Khal stopped his flapping wings in front of a hometree very familiar to yours but with key differences. A blow of a horn took you from your amazement as many surrounded you so worried, some excited, two of three hissed at you. But then a man and a woman stepped between the swarm of Na'vi they must be the Olo'eyktan and Tsahik as everyone bowed their heads in respect.

The woman had goddess braids that stopped at her hips with intricate gems and jewels in it, her long skirt went up at the sides and shined with the amount of jewls that went through it, and a tattoo that started at her wrist and wrapped all the way up to her neck. Her wide eyes peered at you, studying your face and body language.

The man stood more protective than curious like the woman. He has a huge scar on his left upper arm, he has huge ear gauges, he had a head dress that shined like a million diamonds, truly the brightest thing you've ever seen that sat in his long dreads.

They stopped in front of you and you quickly bowed your head and the woman smiled before touching your bicep with her tattooed hand, making you flinch at the touch. ''Child please tell me why you've come, one of you put this young ladies ikran with the other.'' She spoke to the guards around you as she wrapped her larger arms around your smaller filling your body with warmth. ''May I please stay here I can pull my weight, I can hunt, paint, sing, weave anything but can I please-''

''Shush child, tell me your name and why you seek to live here. Is something wrong?" Her eyes looked bug full of wonder and concern for the young girl in front of her.

"My name is Y/N te Suli Neytiri'ite." You whisper looking down the woman's back straightened as she looks at the man who walked behind you, his eyebrows furrowed even more. "Y/N why have you come here?" The woman crouched to your height. "Um," you debated telling her the truth would she send you back.

"Um, well back home I'm betrothed to someone, someone I can't just can't be mates with. He is cruel, and my parents just don't see it." You look at the ground in shame.

The two adults looked at each other and tye man had a much softer look on his face now as the woman looked uo waiting for his final answer on the whole thing. He tilted his head down and she smiled. "Well you shall stay here with us." She said and you looked at the two and smiled. "My name is Peyral and his name is Kamun."

-6 years later-

Jake held a picture in his hand and then the sound of a leaf crunching pulled him from his thoughts quickly flipping the picture over not to show the image. "Ma Jake." Neytiri spoke and he rubbed his eyes. "Hey baby." He said and Neytiri looked puzzled. "What is wrong?" She asked and he only shaked his head opening a drawer to put the picture up but ahe snatched it just in time. Her face softened as she smiled, caressing the picture, it was of you jumping at your parents after your first time swimming and Neytiri finally figured out how a polaroid works.

She gulped and placed the picture in the drawer and grabbed his hand dragging him into the meeting with Mo'at.

"Ah JakeSully, Daughter.* She said bowing her head formally greeting them.

"Mother." Neytiri responded as she and Jake bowed their heads.

Sitting down around an unlit fire pit. "What have we come to talk about?" Jake asked and Mo'at lifted her head. "Yes, well some clans are threatening to battle over a few things." She said to the two and Neytiri's eyes widened as she now sat up straight as did Jake. "What should we do?" Neytiri asked Jake who ran over ideas in his brain. "You meet with them, you talk and you compromise." Mo'at blurted out and they looked over at her.

"Meet, Talk and compromise." Jake repeated and Mo'at shook her head up and down slowly. "Yes and I suggest you go to the Mangkwan Clan last." She said, looking off to the side. The two of them look at her curiously. "There may be something there for you, all of you." She said before blinking multiple times as Neytiri helped her up.

Neytiri and Jake stepped out of the tent and Neytiri went in her way as Jake did. But what Mo'at said simmered in his thoughts. What did she mean there's something there for him? For all of his family? He had no idea.

But he would soon find out.

Tags-

@ssc7514 @23victoria @wtf-why-do-i-gotta-do-this @chaoticmagazineboard @spicycloudsalad @ilovejakesullysdick @ihonestlydontknowwhattonamethis @neteyamforlife @phoenixgurl030 @im-in-a-pansexual-panik @kikookii @elegantkidfansoul @kurtsworld096

A/N- if you asked to be tagged and arent in gere it is bc i couldn't find your blog sorry in advance.

#avatar 2 #avatar 2022 #avatar #avatar 2009 #avatar way of water #avatar x reader fluff #avatar x reader #avatar x y/n #avatar x you #avatar shit #sully family x reader #sully family #sully reader #avatar x sully!reader #sully!reader #daughter!reader #neytiri x daughter!reader #jake sully x daughter!reader #avatar angst

[nwndrlndn]

14th Street

pairing : clay beresford x gn!reader | wc : 1.9k

summary : After a year together, your time and relationship has come to an end. You cant help but think of what was.

warnings : a little angst, a lot of fluff.

a/n : yes i do name every fic after a song, and this one was from 14th street by rufus wainwright, which is like actually so clay. no smut this time <3

You settle into your seat on the airplane, business class. After a year and a half of hard work at Beresford Capitol, your ticket didn't hurt your pocket but you did feel a sting in your heart. Other people settle in around you, but the window seat next to you that you coveted so bad but was already taken stays empty. Down the mental checklist you go, storing your carry on, finding a movie to watch on the tiny HD tv, getting earbuds from an attendant and you let out a breath. The stranger next to you hasn’t gotten here yet, but economy is already boarding. 

For a moment, your mind drifts and you aimlessly touch the charm bracelet on your wrist. The delicate charms were so small, but each one carefully picked out for you and your fingers hold onto the small c-shaped charm and you let yourself think of him.

“You know you shouldn’t try to stop me from going” You said softly, eyes trained on the ground to avoid your lover’s stare.

“You act like you don't want to stay. I remember just the other day you were saying I needed to find more time to spend with you outside of the office.” Clay looks down at you, raising an eyebrow. “Or was that just some sort of cruel joke?”

“Well... that was then. This is now. Things have changed.” You say softly, looking back up at him. The chatter of the party guests went on around you both as you talk. It would be a perfect night if you hadn’t just spent the last 4 hours packing and calling your family. 

“You haven't been complaining about staying late at my place the past few weeks. In fact, you're usually the one to suggest it.” Clay looked at you with a smirk. “So what's changed?”

“Maybe the fact that I’m leaving.”

Clay raised an eyebrow and you could see the way his mind started to race. His smirk was gone and he was starting to look confused. “Leaving? Leaving me? Or the company?”

“Both.... And New York.” You said softly, looking away briefly to see if anyone is watching while Clay seems to be a little stunned by this. He's usually one to keep his emotions in check, but it's clear that the thought of losing his secretary, his lover, is really getting to him.

“No. No... No, that can't be right. Tell me you're joking. Please.”

You finished looking around before taking his hand and led him to the lobby of the building and away from the party. It wasn’t like you would miss much anyways, seeing that Clay already talked to everyone he wanted to meet with and most people were on a mission to drink themselves blind.

Clay followed behind you, looking concerned. “Y/N, what's wrong? You're the best secretary I've ever had, the best girlfriend I could dream of. You're the only one who's made it this far... Why would you have to leave now?” He didn’t stop walking until he stood in front of the elevator, waiting for you to press the button.

You looked up at him then pressed the button “I have to go back home, my family needs me over there right now, its important.”

“And I don't need you here in New York? Is this just some silly excuse to get away?” Clay crossed his arms, trying to keep his emotions in check. He had always been so adamant about finding out the truth.

“That’s different, Clay.” 

As you spoke, Clay shook his head, unable to believe what he was hearing. “How is it different? Aren't we building something great here? Do I mean so little to you that you would just abandon everything we've built?” 

You start to speak and Clay stopped you stubbornly. “No, no, you can't just walk away. You have to stay.”

“My family needs me, right now.” You said softly, almost pleading for him to understand “I cant put myself or what I want over them, even if its my job. Even if its you.”

“This isn't just about you, or about your family. What about me? What about us? I've come to rely on you, I need you. I'm begging you, don't leave me.” He stared deep into your eyes, hoping to change your mind. And you wanted so bad to stay, you did. 

“Its not a choice for me.” You said softly before reaching up and cradling his face in your hands, looking into his eyes, scanning his face to commit it to memory. “I don't want to go but I have to.”

“What do you mean, you have to? Surely there must be some other solution. Maybe I can come with you? I can make it work.” Clay desperately tried to find a solution that doesn't include him losing you. Clay looks back at you, still stunned. He tries to find the right words, something to convince you to stay, but nothing comes out. Instead, he pulls you closer to him, resting his forehead on yours.

He stays like this for a long moment, drinking in your scent and holding you. He doesn't want to let go, as if he's afraid that if he does, you'll disappear.

“I’m sorry.” You whispered, muffled by his dress shirt and jacket. “I hope you know that I really do love you. You’ve made my time in New York worth it.”

Clay sighed, still having difficulties coming to terms with the reality of the situation. “I don't regret a single moment I spent with you. You were always there for me when I needed it and I was truly lucky to have had you in my life. I need you to know that. You're my world. I've never felt this way about anyone, and I just wish you were staying. But I understand that your family is important to you. And I won't get in your way.”

You’re pulled out of your reverie by the sound of a crying child and you turn, watching as a mother coos and rocks her child as she walks down the isle. The woman looked tired, and her partner trudged along with their carry ons. You look away when you see them sneak a kiss and you look to the seat next to you, still empty, and let out a sigh, before you take a moment and decide to slide over to the window seat. When the passenger arrived, you could always just move back to your seat.

You felt like half of you was missing, it had been so normal to spend day in and day out with him. The taxi ride over was just as hard as actually leaving Clay’s bed this morning. For the first time in your entire relationship, he wasn't there when you woke up. After how desperate you both were to be together last night, you thought he would be there, but you realize it was selfish to want that.

You watch the crew work in the early morning, moving all over the tarmac as they prepare for the trip. The sky wasn’t fully blue, it was still red and orange from the sunrise and you can feel how big the world is in the moment. How small you and your memories are in the grand scheme of things.

On his way into the office, Clay paused near your desk, eyes scanning the flurry of activity surrounding you. The room hummed with the sound of ringing phones and hushed conversations. Despite the chaos, you had remained composed, gracefully juggling multiple tasks with ease.

Unable to resist the pull or his own instinct, Clay leaned against the edge of the desk, a playful smile forming on his lips. Your eyes flickered up, meeting his gaze with a mixture of warmth and professionalism.

"Busy day, isn't it?" Clay remarked, his voice carrying a touch of admiration.

You responded with a gentle chuckle, glancing at the organized chaos around them. "Yes, it's a pretty eventful day, Mr. Beresford. You have several important meetings scheduled, contracts to review, and a multitude of emails awaiting your attention."

Clay's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Well, I trust in your ability to keep everything running smoothly. After all, I couldn't imagine navigating this corporate maze without your guidance."

Your cheeks flushed ever so slightly, it seemed like the attention flustered you but only you knew of the feelings you had been developing for him. "Thank you, Mr. Beresford. I strive to assist you in any way I can."

Clay's voice turned softer, taking on a more personal tone. "You do more than just assist me, Y/N. Your dedication and loyalty have become an integral part of my success. I couldn't imagine my professional life without you by my side."

You met his words with a warm smile, your eyes reflecting a deep connection built over the years. "And I, too, feel privileged to have the opportunity to support and work alongside you, Mr. Beresford. Your vision and leadership inspire me daily."

Clay's smile widened, his appreciation evident. "Well, let's tackle this day together, shall we? I have complete faith that we'll triumph over any challenges that come our way."

You nodded along. "Absolutely, Mr. Beresford. Together, there's nothing we can't handle."

With that unspoken agreement, Clay straightened himself, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer before returning to his desk.

A flight attendant gently calls your name, reminding you to return to your seat. You smile politely and apologize, moving back to your seat. As you do, you can see a tall man in a suit come closer, face hidden from your current angle and the longer you look, the more familiar he looks. Even though he’s in a simple white button down, maroon sweater, and slacks, the outfit was something so familiar, so memorable. You watched as he stored a black briefcase before he started to make his way to his seat next to you, making a poor attempt to hide his face. 

“Clay.” You whisper breathlessly, turning in your seat and hugging him tightly. Clayton wraps his arms around you, grinning from ear to ear.

Clay takes the window seat next to you, looking over at you with an almost hopeful expression on his face. He smiles when he sees that you’re looking at him. “I take it you're surprised to see me? I couldn't let you leave... I had to find a way to be with you.”

“I missed you so much.” You whisper against his neck and he gazes down at you, caressing your cheek softly with his thumb.

“Did you really think I would just let you go like that? Don't you know by now that I'll do anything I can to be with you.”

Clay lifts your head from his shoulder and leans in, pressing his lips to yours in a passionate kiss.

“You're coming with me?”

Clay looks back at you, nodding in response. “I couldn't just let you leave. It wouldn't be right. If you need me, then I'll always be there for you. So, I'll go wherever you want, whenever you need.” He smiles, gently taking your hands into his own. “Just promise me, that you'll never leave me again. Because I don't know if I can survive a second goodbye.”

You smile, kissing him again. “No more goodbyes. Never again.”

Clay sighs in relief, embracing you tightly. He buries his head into the crook of your neck, smelling you again like it's the most precious thing in the world. “No more goodbyes... I can't wait for us to spend a lifetime together.”

#[ 🍒 ] — my works #[ 💸 ] — clay #clay beresford #clayton beresford #clay beresford x reader #clay beresford imagines

[socialjusticeinamerica]

Space Karen is a monster. They had opportunities to unionize but they succumbed to pressure from Elongated Muskrat and Texas Republicans and now they’ll be living on the production line. How stupid are you to reject unionization? Now they’re slaves like every other non-union employee in the country.

Republicans in red states pass laws called “right to work”, which is more Republican name trickery. “Right to work” laws prevent unions/organized labor. What it literally means is that companies have the right to make YOU work without any benefits, for minimum wage, without any right to protest wage theft or unsafe conditions, no recourse against unfair labor practices, and to put you on “on demand schedules,” The latter means no set regular hours, 9-5 today then 9-9 the day after, then 1-8, or no hours at all for days or weeks until you quit and can’t collect. “On demand scheduling” is abosolutely cruel. You never get to recover properly, you can never make plans outside of work, you can’t attend school or have a second job, and you miss out on all the major life events of your family. This leads to resentment, divorce, and alienated children who feel unloved.

Even blue states have bare minimum labor laws in place to control abuses by employers. Try going to the state for help in a dispute with your boss. Try hiring a lawyer when you’re poor or even if you’re not lawyers don’t want to touch these cases.

We are already a nation of hopeless wage slaves. Biden and the Democrats are making progress in passing laws to protect workers and unions but it will all be swept away if Republicans regain the White House and Congress. Some people won’t learn until they’re chained to a machine in a building with suicide nets outside the windows like in China.

It took almost two hundred years to get unions, workers rights, and work place safety laws put into place. They’ve nearly all been eroded into a forgotten past since Republican Ronald Reagan, and Fox News, was elected in 1980. Nearly all of you reading this don’t even know a time when workers only needed one job to support a home and family, had pensions, and had health insurance that was provided. Now you live with 2-3 jobs, have no health insurance, can’t afford a home (or rent), can’t afford college or even a new car, and make less than your grandparents. The media glosses this over calling the extra jobs “side hustles” and your lack of a career with dignity is because you’re a generation of “self starters.”

You weren’t born to be a wage slave for billionaire oligarchs and the petty tyrants they hire to be middle managers. Spread the word and unionize. Fight for it. People in the 1800’s literally battled armed mercenaries, cops, and the military for the right to union jobs that let them live and earn with dignity. Don’t let their spilled blood and deaths be in vain. The United Auto Workers and other unions tried repeatedly to get Tesla unionized. Unions are out there and willing to help. It only takes a few phone calls to get the ball rolling.

Muskrat promised his workers free frozen yogurt and a roller coaster ride from the parking lot to factory if they voted against unions, I shit you not. He never delivered either. He did spend millions on union avoidance firms to come in and lie and scare workers into voting no. Now they’re treated like cotton plantation slaves and told they will be literally living on a production line.

To put this into the identity politics millennials are drawn to, unions are the only working environment where marginalized people are protected and have recourse against discrimination and mistreatment in the workplace. If you are mistreated you can file a grievance and if the management doesn’t redress the issue then they are taken to contractually mandated arbitration or court with union supplied lawyers. If you have never worked in a union shop you have no idea what it’s like to not be fearful, to have dignity, and to know people are obligated to protect you from management.

It’s the only non-union automaker in the country.

#republican assholes #oligarch assholes #corporate greed #unionize now #elongated muskrat #Tesla Texas #organized labor for all

[bradshawsbaby]

Only You

Pairing: Rooster x Wife!Reader

Author’s Note: Based on this Anon request! I also included some dialogue from my headcanon, Rooster As A Father (Pt. 1) towards the end.

Warnings: Angst related to difficulty getting pregnant, mentions of menstruation, ovulation, and pregnancy, general fluff. Gets NSFW (18+) due to the Bradshaws’ lovemaking.

You didn’t understand.

For so much of your life, you’d heard countless women complain about how hard it was to avoid getting pregnant. You never thought it would be so difficult to actually get pregnant.

You and Bradley had gotten married in February, and the both of you had known from the beginning that you wanted to try to start a family right away. And yet, months later, still nothing.

It certainly wasn’t for lack of trying. You and your husband couldn’t keep your hands off each other most of the time. With all the lovemaking going on in your home, you’d been sure that you would end up pregnant sooner rather than later. After a couple months of negative pregnancy tests, however, you decided to get more serious about charting your cycles and tracking your ovulation. You’d heard that some women’s windows of fertility were very narrow, so maybe you and Bradley had just been missing the mark each time.

So, for the past few months, you’d been charting and tracking like it was a full-time job. Except for the times when Bradley had to travel for work, you made sure that the two of you were always having sex during the days when you were supposed to be your most fertile.

Yet still…nothing.

Growing worried, you’d spoken to your doctor, hoping she would have some advice to offer to assuage your fears. Instead, her words had only caused you more stress.

“It’s not uncommon for women to have a harder time getting pregnant, especially the first time,” Dr. Russo told you. “Most people have this false idea that it’s the easiest thing in the world to get pregnant, but the truth is that the conditions have to be just right. I know you’ve been charting and tracking, and that’s good, but don’t be surprised if it still takes a few months.”

“Is there some chance that I could be—I mean, that I’ll never—you know?” you asked, squeezing your hands in your lap and biting down roughly on your lower lip to hold back the tears that threatened to spill forth. It was your greatest fear and one you hadn’t even been able to utter out loud.

Dr. Russo offered a comforting, empathetic smile. “Don’t make yourself sick worrying about that. It’s still early. We don’t generally start testing for fertility issues until after a year of trying with no success.”

A year? You had to keep trying and being disappointed with no other answers for at least a year?

Bradley had the patience of a saint as you struggled to come to terms with the difficulties you were having. He was constantly reassuring you, reminding you how much he loved you, telling you that he just knew it was going to happen for the two of you. He was always optimistic, but you knew it weighed heavily on him, too. He wanted to be a father just as badly as you wanted to be a mother, and part of him started to become concerned that maybe he was the one with the problem.

“Dr. Russo really said that we have to wait at least a year?” he asked one night as you were lying in his arms in bed, sniffling softly after receiving another negative test result.

You just nodded, resting your cheek against his chest and clinging to him.

“We’re not going to need it, honey,” Bradley murmured softly, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to your hair. He sounded more confident than you felt. “By next year, we’re going to have a baby. I just know it.”

Bradley’s confidence was the only thing that held you together every time a cruel little negative sign glared back at you from the countless pregnancy tests you took. You’d come to grow used to them over the past couple months, and less tears were shed than there had been in the beginning. But it was still hard. It was always hard.

Which was why when you stepped into the bathroom this morning and spotted the blood staining your underwear, you hadn’t been able to hold it together.

You didn’t understand.

It wasn’t fair.

You and Bradley wanted this more than anything.

Why was it so hard?

You were barely able to grab a pad and clean yourself up, your hands were trembling so much. And as you stood at the sink, washing your shaking hands, your knees suddenly buckled and you fell to the floor from the force of your sobs.

Curling up on the cold tile floor, you pulled your knees up to your chest and buried your face in them, locking your arms around your legs and weeping harder than you had in a long time. Your heart was broken. You felt like you had tried everything, tried to do everything right, and nothing was working. What did you do wrong? What were you doing wrong? Would this ever happen for you?

Bradley had the day off from work and had gone out earlier for a morning run and to swing by your favorite cafe to pick up coffee and bagels. As soon as he arrived back at the apartment and heard your sobs coming from the bathroom, however, he dropped everything in the kitchen and rushed to be by your side.

“Baby, what happened? What’s wrong?” he asked, managing to keep his voice calm despite the obvious worry marking his gaze. He immediately dropped down to his knees beside you, wrapping you up in his arms and pulling you into his lap as he settled himself on the floor, his back resting against the bathtub.

Unable to speak without choking on your tears, you lifted a hand and pointed a trembling finger at the package of pads you’d left sitting on the counter. Taking a shuddering breath, you buried your face in your husband’s neck, your tears staining the collar of his sweaty T-shirt.

Bradley immediately understood your meaning and wrapped you tighter in his arms, stroking your hair with one hand and rubbing soothing circles on your back with the other. “Oh, honey. I’m sorry. I know. I know, shh,” he murmured gently, pressing his lips against your forehead and brushing soft kisses there. “Shh, I’m here. I’ve got you,” he whispered, rocking you back and forth and holding you close as you cried.

Once you finally calmed down somewhat, Bradley lifted you into his arms and carried you back to your bedroom, settling you down on top of the comforter and then laying down beside you.

“I hate it when you cry,” he told you sadly, pulling you closer to him and brushing away a few stubborn tears that were crystallizing on your cheeks. “It kills me to see you this upset, honey.”

You sniffled softly in response, wiping at your damp cheeks and lifting your shining eyes to look up at your husband. “I just—I thought that maybe this time—but I guess that’s stupid, right? Why would this time be any different?”

“It’s not stupid, baby,” Bradley said quickly, wrapping his arms around your waist. “It’s going to happen. I know it is. I’m just sorry I haven’t been able to give you a baby sooner,” he added, stroking your cheek with gentle fingers.

“You’re sorry?” you asked, eyes widening slightly. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I know how badly you want to start a family,” you murmured, chin wobbling once again as more tears started to fall.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Bradley said softly, kissing each of your wet cheeks. “We both want to start a family. And we’re both in this together,” he told you, lifting your hand and lacing his fingers through yours. You could feel the coolness of his wedding band pressing against your skin. “You don’t ever have to apologize to me, baby.”

“I just—I don’t understand,” you admitted, your voice small and sad, which broke Bradley’s heart. “I’ve been trying so hard to track everything and chart exactly when I’m going to be ovulating and I thought that by now—”

“I think you should stop doing that,” Bradley said suddenly, holding your hand close to his chest and looking intently into your eyes.

“What?” you asked in surprise, your pulse stuttering in your veins for a few seconds.

“I think you should stop worrying about all the charting and the tracking,” Bradley repeated, putting more emphasis on his words this time. “I can see how stressed it’s making you, and I hate it,” he admitted, his thumb tenderly caressing the top of your cheekbone as he held your face in his hand. “Making love shouldn’t be a job or a chore, honey. It should be something we do because we want to, because we love each other. And I love you so much. I don’t need a chart or a calendar to tell me when to prove that to you,” he finished, leaning in to press a feather-light kiss to your lips.

You bit your lower lip, feeling suddenly ashamed. Your husband was right. Making love had always been so deeply personal and intimate between the two of you. It was the time when the two of you became one, when words were no longer needed, or even possible, and you expressed your love in a million little ways that couldn’t be shared through words alone. But over the past couple months, you had turned it into more of an act of labor than an act of love. You’d been so stressed and tense and worried that you hadn’t even been able to fully enjoy it, which meant that Bradley couldn’t have been enjoying it either. He just wanted you to be happy. You wanted the same for him. That’s what love was.

“I’m sorry, baby,” you whispered, wrapping your arms around him and burying your face in his neck. You didn’t even care that he was still sweaty and sticky from his morning run. “I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, nothing to apologize for, right?” Bradley told you lovingly, brushing your hair back from your face. “We’re going to throw those charts out the window, and just focus on you and me, okay? You and me.”

“You and me,” you nodded in agreement, soaking in the comfort your husband provided as the two of you lay there together in comfortable silence, holding one another tightly.

Over the course of the next week, Bradley helped you get rid of everything you’d been using to chart your cycles and track your ovulation. You threw out the notebooks and logs you’d been using, and you deleted all the apps off your phone. It was a little hard to let go at first, but with Bradley’s support and encouragement, you were able to do so without looking back.

Despite getting rid of all that had become a stumbling block in your intimacy with your husband, however, you and Bradley hadn’t made love since doing so. Your period this month had been a rough one, and you’d been struggling with cramps and emotional mood swings all week. None of it was exactly a recipe for romance.

Thankfully, your period had finally ended the day before, and you were starting to feel like yourself again as you stood over the stove, preparing dinner for when Bradley returned home from work. It was going to be a fairly simple meal of sauteed vegetables, rice, and chicken since that’s what you had the energy for tonight.

So focused were you on what you were doing that you didn’t even hear the front door to your apartment open, nor did you know Bradley had walked into the kitchen until he suddenly had his arms wrapped around you from behind, kissing your jaw affectionately.

“I didn’t even hear you come in!” you gasped in surprise, setting your spatula down on the counter and turning your head slightly to catch his eyes.

“What can I say? The Navy teaches us how to be stealthy,” Bradley chuckled, dropping a kiss on your lips and nuzzling his cheek against yours as he glanced down at the food on the stove. “Smells delicious, honey.”

“It should be ready soon,” you told him, lifting the spatula once more to stir the vegetables around in the pan.

Bradley nodded in response. He didn’t say anything else, but he also didn’t make any move to let go of you or go take a shower, like he usually did when he came home from work.

“It might be a little easier for me to work if I didn’t have a 6’1 aviator clinging to me,” you teased with a smile, tilting your head once more to look at him.

Bradley smiled in response, but still didn’t say anything, his dark eyes drinking in the sight of you as if he were a man dying of thirst. Your stomach suddenly knotted and your mouth went dry at the sight of the raw, naked need in his gaze. Lowering his head, he began to pepper your neck and jawline with kisses, his breath warm against your increasingly flushed skin.

“Bradley,” you sighed softly, tipping your head back so that it was resting against his shoulder. Your eyes fluttered closed as his large hands gripped at your waist more tightly, his fingers kneading your skin through the light fabric of the T-shirt dress you’d thrown on earlier after taking a shower.

Your husband’s lips began to take a fervent path down your neck and across your shoulder, his mouth practically burning your skin through your clothes as his kisses stoked a fire of desire deep inside you. You dropped the spatula down onto the counter with a clatter as his hands reached up and lightly cupped your breasts, squeezing tenderly even as he began to nip and nibble at the delicate skin of your throat with his teeth.

“Honey,” you moaned, your toes curling with a need that clearly matched his own. It felt like it had been so long since the two of you had been like this, spontaneously showing your desire for each other in the middle of the kitchen instead of carefully mapping out exactly when the best times to have sex were.

You could feel rather than see your husband smiling against your neck in response, sucking on the skin lightly as he slowly moved his hands downward, one hand lifting the hem of your dress, while the other slid inside the waistband of your panties. You let out a shuddering breath as his fingers began gently exploring, one calloused digit running deftly up and down your slit, which was quickly growing slick with want.

You’re not sure what possessed you to think it, let alone say it out loud, but all of a sudden you blurted out, “I’m not ovulating today!”

Bradley’s movements stilled immediately, his lips pulling away from your neck and his hand sliding out from between your legs. You felt your cheeks growing hot in shame and embarrassment as he slowly turned you around to face him, his hands on your hips.

“Honey…” he began, looking deeply into your eyes.

“I just meant—I just didn’t want you to think—I probably won’t get pregnant if we—”

“I don’t care about that, remember?” Bradley asked softly, reaching up to cup your face in his hands, lifting your head so that you had no choice but to look up at him. “I just want you, baby. Only you. All the other stuff? It’ll happen when it’s meant to. I know it will. But right now, I just want you. Not for any other reason than I just want to make love to my beautiful wife.”

Tears springing to your eyes, you nodded your head slowly and stood on your tiptoes to press a slow kiss to your husband’s lips, your arms sliding around his shoulders as your fingers trailed upward to glide through his hair.

Kissing you back in a tame manner that belied the desperate hunger he felt burning deep inside, Bradley reached behind you and quickly turned off the heat on the stove, not feeling much in the mood for anything besides you at the moment. Wrapping his arms around you, he pulled you closer to his chest, his kiss intensifying as his tongue brushed against your lips, begging for entrance to your sweet mouth.

You obliged him immediately, his tongue moving in tandem with yours as you devoured each other in a rush of need and desire. Neither of you broke the contact as Bradley began pulling you away from the stove, agilely moving backwards towards the living room and taking you with him.

Your hands were all over each other, his groping at your butt through the thin fabric of your dress and yours tugging helplessly at the black T-shirt he’d worn home from work, the one that always looked so good on him and never failed to set your senses in a tizzy.

When his legs finally hit the back of the couch, Bradley finally stopped, his hands moving upward to bury themselves in your hair as he continued to kiss you soundly, your lips already feeling swollen and swore from his ministrations, though you’d be damned if you wanted him to stop.

The two of you finally broke away from one another, panting for air, when it seemed as though your lungs would give out if you waited another second longer. Bradley’s eyes were dark and swirling with desire as he gazed at you, and you knew the same expression must have been on your face as you drank in the sight of him. Without words, you began undressing each other, Bradley pulling your dress over your head as you reached to unbutton and unzip his jeans. Soon enough, your bra and panties, and his T-shirt and boxers, had joined the growing collection of clothes littering the living room floor.

Naked and unable to hide an inch of yourselves from each other, you each reached out without hesitation, Bradley’s hands gliding down your back as your hands slid up his chest, taking in his hard, muscular form.

“My sweet girl,” Bradley whispered against your ear, his arousal evident as he pressed against your thigh. “I need you so badly,” he groaned, his fingers tightening their grip on your skin. He pulled back to look into your eyes, resting his forehead against yours as he waited on your signal to make another move.

“I need you, too,” you whispered, kissing him tenderly.

Nodding slowly, Bradley brushed a kiss against your forehead, then lowered himself down onto the couch, sitting in front of you and then holding out his hands for you so that you could move forward, your legs straddling his thighs as you stood over him.

“Baby, this is all up to you,” Bradley told you, his hands reaching out to stroke your thighs, then slowly gliding upwards to grasp at your waist. “It’s whatever you need. You set the pace, honey, and I’ll follow you.”

Your husband’s words, delivered in that husky voice of his that always deepened when he was overcome with need for you, turned you on more than anything and had you practically dripping as you squeezed your thighs together and gazed down at him. Nodding, you leaned forward and climbed onto the couch, your knees pressing into the soft fabric as you straddled Bradley’s lap, your smooth skin brushing against the fuzz of the hair on his legs as you met his gaze and hovered over his hard length.

“Help me?” you asked quietly, resting your hands on his shoulders and not breaking eye contact with him.

Swallowing deeply, Bradley nodded, holding his base steady with one hand as he wrapped his other hand around your waist, carefully guiding you towards his tip.

Letting out a soft sigh of pleasure, you slowly rubbed yourself against the tip of his penis, which was already red and swollen in anticipation. You bit down on your lower lip as you moved your hips back and forth slowly, feeling yourself grow wetter and wetter with each second that ticked by.

“Baby,” Bradley groaned out, trailing kisses along the tops of your breasts as you moved against him, slowly beginning to lower yourself down. You took him inch by tantalizingly slow inch, soft gasps and moans escaping your mouth as he began to stretch you, especially from this angle.

“That’s it, honey,” Bradley whispered encouragingly, rubbing your thigh gently as he felt you trembling around him, continuing to lower yourself down until he was all the way inside you and you were resting fully on his lap. “That’s it. That’s my beautiful baby.”

You just stayed like that for a while, neither of you moving as you wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him deeply, the heat from both your bodies causing sweat to bead and drip down your skin. As you broke away for air, Bradley spotted one lone bead of sweat trailing down between your breasts and leaned forward to lick it away, his lips then moving to latch onto your breasts, kissing and nibbling at them with tender attention.

Your hair cascaded down your back as your head tilted backwards, your fingers digging into your husband’s shoulders as you let out a soft mewl of approval. Taking a deep breath, you carefully lifted yourself up slightly and began to roll your hips, your movements slow and gentle as you began to ride Bradley in earnest.

Bradley let out a gasp of pleasure at your sudden movement, his arm coming to wrap around your waist as he guided you, following your pace just as he had promised. “That’s it, honey. It feels so good. You feel so good,” he praised you, his breath catching in his throat as you picked up the pace just a tiny fraction, your thighs squeezing him tightly as your hips bucked against his.

Clinging to Bradley, you found your moans and gasps getting louder as wave after wave of pleasure began coursing through you. He had let you set the pace, had let you move as fast or as slow as you needed, and now he was meeting you thrust for thrust, rolling his hips in tandem with yours and causing your eyes to roll back in pleasure as his thickness penetrated you deeper and deeper with each stroke, massaging your walls and knocking at the perfect angle against your G-spot.

“Can I touch you here, baby?” Bradley asked in a hoarse whisper, his thumb hovering above your clit as he looked up at you. He was so sweet, your husband, always wanting to make sure that everything was so good for you, especially now when you’d been feeling so low.

“Y-yes,” you panted, nodding your head as you kissed him quickly. “Please,” you begged, letting out a sharp cry when his calloused finger brushed against that sensitive bundle of nerves. You felt your thighs trembling as he began to rub you, whispering to you how beautiful you were and how much he loved you.

As you continued to roll your hips and bounce up and down slowly, soaking in every moment, you suddenly felt something breaking open inside you. It had been so long since you had allowed yourself to just enjoy this time with your husband—to enjoy loving him and being loved by him. It felt like it had been forever since the two of you had made love without tension coiling in your back and the fear of another negative pregnancy test hovering at the forefront of your mind.

You didn’t feel any of those things right now. For the first time in a long time, your body was relaxed and you felt nothing but pleasure and the love for your husband that had always marked the time you spent in each other’s arms. As the two of you made love on your couch on a random Monday evening, you felt your mind, heart, and body healing in a way you had so desperately needed.

Clinging more tightly to Bradley, you felt the tears beginning to roll down your cheeks like raindrops, crashing down on your husband’s shoulders as your body melded to his.

“Baby,” Bradley called to you, his voice now laced with concern instead of desire. “Baby, look at me,” he said, reaching up to cup your cheeks in his hands. “We can stop. Do you want to stop?”

“No,” you told him firmly, shaking your head as you looked at him, the smallest hint of a smile curving your lips. “No, please. I’m okay. They’re happy tears,” you explained, resting your hands on the back of his neck and laying your forehead against his. “I love you so much. I just want you. Only you,” you murmured, echoing his words from before.

Holding the back of your head in his hand, Bradley brought your mouth down against his, kissing you deeply as the two of you continued to rock your bodies together in a smooth rhythm, the pleasure cresting until you knew you wouldn’t be able to handle it for much longer.

“Honey,” you gasped, burying your face in the crook of his neck as he wrapped his arms around you and held you close to his body.

You didn’t need to say anything else for Bradley to know what you meant. “I know, baby. Me, too. Just let go,” he coaxed, stroking your back softly.

When you finally reached your climax, it wasn’t with a loud cry or a scream of pleasure. Instead, it was with a soft gasp, so soft that only your husband could hear it as you reclined against his chest, your legs continuing to shake as you remained straddled across his lap.

“There you go, honey,” Bradley murmured, his lips brushing against the top of your head as he held you through it. “There you go. Oh, honey.”

You continued to rest atop your husband until he came, too, finishing inside you with a soft groan of your name. “Love you,” he mumbled in exhaustion, kissing you with greedy lips as you both sat tangled up in each other’s arms.

“I love you, too,” you told him, gently caressing his cheek.

Still buried deep inside you, Bradley lifted you up off the couch and carried you to the bathroom, where the two of you took a hot shower together before collapsing into bed, dinner long forgotten.

As you lay beside the man who you had pledged your entire life to, more in love with him than ever before, you reached out and gently stroked his skin, snuggling closer to him in bed. “Whatever happens, Bradley, no matter what, it’s always going to be you and me,” you whispered. “Always.”

“Always, honey,” Bradley nodded, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You and me.”

A couple months later, you and Bradley were cuddled up on the couch, your Christmas tree glowing in the corner of the living room as you watched It’s A Wonderful Life, one of your favorite movies. You’d been filled with eager anticipation all day, and the moment was finally here.

“I want my baby to look like you,” Mary told George Bailey, beaming up at her husband as she revealed that she was carrying their first child.

“You know,” you said at that moment, popping a few pieces of popcorn into your mouth in an attempt to mask your jittery nerves. “I have to agree with Mary on that one.”

“What do you mean?” Bradley asked, brushing some of your hair behind your ear and looking down at you curiously.

“I want my baby to look like you, too,” you told him, your eyes meeting his as you leaned back against his chest.

“Your…your b-baby?” Bradley stuttered, his eyes widening in shock. You almost laughed at how adorably dumbfounded he looked. “Honey, does that mean you’re…?”

“I’m pregnant,” you nodded, tears suddenly springing to your eyes.

Bradley was quiet for a moment before letting out a loud whoop of joy, wrapping his arms around you tightly and lifting you up off the couch, swinging you around. “Best early Christmas present ever,” he whispered against your lips, kissing you tenderly. “I knew it was going to happen, baby, I knew it!”

“Looks like now it’s you and me and Baby B,” you beamed, your smile even wider than Mary Bailey’s.

Bradley smiled down at you, tears shining in his own eyes. “Always, baby. Always.”

#mr. & mrs. bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw #mrs. bradshaw #rooster x wife!reader #rooster x reader #x reader #x female reader #top gun #top gun: maverick

[stronghours]

Nice Nurses

Clay could recite to the thread what he’d worn that early-summer brunch at Roscoe’s apartment; the loose, worn cords that were so easy to pull up his legs one-handed with the nice button that behaved in the cute little pants-slot (button eye? Hole, simple-pat? Jules would know, but he hadn’t met Jules just yet, if details were the thing). The cords were light green. Over this, he wore an oversized t-shirt, grey, one he could pull over his head without a battle, and over that a very long-sleeved chambray shirt he did not button because he enjoyed when it billowed behind his underarms. It made him feel like a famous painter, and nothing untoward showed to upset anyone. A recitation by rote and not of recollection, as Clay hadn’t found the need to recollect much for twenty-five years. Why bother, when it was such a pretty May Day, and the sidewalks were beginning to stay warm, and a robin plumped over there, in that very shrub?

And a soiree! How fun! Phil of all people opened the door for him. Strange, since Roscoe was quite host-y about these matters. “Here we are,” Phil said, with his standard dissected warmth. “Now the party’s started.”

“Darling,” said Clay Carrell, “I hope if already has.”

“And fashionably late, too.”

“I arrive, exactly as I have always arrived, when I intend to.”

He took a turn around the front room, received his acknowledgements and the few respectful touches or kisses some guests felt fit to grant him. He breezed by the goody table (it wasn’t nice manners to show undue interest in the food, directly after your entrance) and treated himself to a peep out the window. Roscoe did not have curtains to sensuously fling aside, a pity. Roscoe!

“Where, now?” He asked Bo G., who unlike others, solidly clapped Clay’s trim shoulder.

“He’s in the damn kitchen.” Bo G. understood him perfectly. “With that damn kid.”

Clay knew, theoretically, about the presence of a damn kid, but memory lay in the eye of the beholder and Clay had never managed to see him. He’d heard bizarre rumors Roscoe kept him stuffed in the shop basement; Clay thought that was a senseless place to store a child. Knowing now he must see at last, off he swanned to the kitchen entryway toward the damp clatter and crash of soapy dishware. He rapped the doorframe smartly. “Now you,” he said, “you, who did not answer your own door! I see you now!”

“Oh Clay,” Roscoe half-turned, smiled vaguely, and held up his bubbling hands. “That’s Clay,” he said to the long, young creature beside him who dangled on a tall stool. It didn’t answer. Clay thought that was only fair, as half the child’s face was a healing fog of yellows and burgundies and eggplant, all in evil gradients, descending from a half-swollen blue-skinned eye before dispersing and reconnecting among a strip of unbecoming, hairy stitches encrusted smack in the middle of the cheek. It could hardly have hurt to tape some nice white gauze over it, but not everyone knew the niceties of Gloria Vanderbilt as well as Clay.

“Clay,” Roscoe continued in the solid, directorial voice he affected whenever Clay was in the room, “Clay, this is Jules. I don’t think you two have run into each other.”

“I am so incredibly charmed,” Clay said. He noticed right away that Jules was looking down, with a teenager’s cruel intent, to work out if Clay’s squashy white shoes truly fastened together with Velcro.  “Hideous whispers informed me you were stuck in a basement somewhere. I’m so glad you’re not; people belong aboveground.”

Titters in the room behind Clay. The events could have been connected; he was a witty person. “I can see you’re being very helpful to our lovely man – that’s fine, Roscoe works too hard to arrange the fun then misses out on it.” He scanned automatically over the child’s hands, which were long and battered, adolescently screwboned. He didn’t store them awkwardly like other wallflowers.

Clay felt keen, momentarily. “What do you play?”

The child’s one fully open eye was merely surface-bright and dark and blank. “Piano,” he said. He talked out one side of his mouth and his teeth didn’t show when he spoke.

“You do?” Roscoe was surprised. Their acquaintance was, apparently, short.

Clay dandled his stronger hand in front of his chest. “No-no,” he clarified, “you play?”

“Instruments,” Roscoe tried.

“Cards, my darling.”

“Oh.” The child – J name, Clay would need to hear it a few more times before it could be swallowed – cupped his hands and touched his thumbs together, the poor form of shuffling. “Right. I play.”

“What’s your special?”

“Anything.”

“How did you learn?”

“Old people.”

Clay, delighted, clapped his stronger palm against his weak knuckles. “Marvelous,” he declared. “They’re the best teachers because they’ve played so long – and so sour about it! I bet you have superior attention span to other babies your age. I bet you could play me right now. Roscoe?”

The little foundling looked to Roscoe. Either through injury or through stupidity, his face didn’t appear to express much.

“Sure, you should go and play if you want to play,” Roscoe encouraged. “I got it covered here.”

Clay always made sure he had large pockets, and he always carried a pack on him if suspected a social situation. He steered the child through the crowd out front – everybody seemed to be looking their way with one big grin – directly to the tiny second room and gestured for the magazines to be cleared off one of the end tables. “And pull up that little chair for your young bones,” he bossed. “And I will sit on the couch, and then we will play Gin Rummy – consider this your audition.”

Two men sharing the same chair in the corner yelped together. “Don’t let Frank hear you saying that, Clay!”

“Leave Frank to me.” Clay dismissed them all and cut the deck one handed. He braced his other wrist as firmly as he could against the table, to use it as a base to shuffle against. At this point, those who didn’t know Clay generally said please, I can do that for you! But this one just stared at the feat.

“Now.” Clay settled in after he served out two shares of ten and established the discard. “You must remind me of your name again, and then you may draw first, seeing as you’re brand new.”

“Jules,” said Jules. He drew and then discarded an ace of hearts, which Clay’s brain filed away of its own accord, along with the name as well, if he was lucky.

Clay graciously helped himself through three rounds of passive, plodding gameplay on Jules’ part. He appeared to be thinking merely through muscle memory and allowed Clay to initiate the knocks. Several times he failed to spot where his deadwood coincided with Clay’s melds, requiring a sporting nudge of the shoe on Clay’s part, who briefly worried, after three Gins, that despite the automatic nature of his play, the boy was a little stupid after all. Then he looked round and noticed three other gentlemen had thronged alongside the two on the chair and were absorbing the proceedings quite immodestly – a relief, the only problem at present being the teenage disease of self-consciousness.

“For goodness sakes.” Clay snapped his fingers, a rudeness he did not like to resort to. “If you please?”

The attention dispersed and they continued.

“You can’t mind people when they don’t even know what we’re doing,” Clay suggested.

“I can do whatever I want,” Jules muttered, rude enough. Clay wondered if he was in pain. He was playing one-handed himself, insistently rubbing the unblotted side of his jaw, and he kept jerking his chin apropos to nothing. Whenever a partygoer wandered into the room all these tics would halt for a time, before forcibly sputtering through his body to reignite the cycle. The agitation made him more aggressive in play, and Clay gradually realized he had (pardon his French) a real bitch on his hands. Frank’s opinion be damned – he’d get along just fine.

Now he just needed an opening to extend the invitation, but Clay was not much of a talker in play, and Jules seemed to mirror him. Roscoe wandered in with two orange juice glasses, the dearheart, and being the sensitive kind, left without pestering – minus a small jab at Clay. “You’re not wearing your bracelet,” he scolded.

“It’s ugly,” Clay explained. “Now, you can see we’re busy.”

Roscoe put a brief hand to Jules’ shoulder, who only looked up when he departed. He peered with sudden plaintiveness past Clay’s shoulder, then downward, spotting a folded napkin Roscoe had placed beside his cards. His face absented itself again. Without an expression, the wounds on his face became ghastlier and stood out sharply, deeply nuzzled as they were in winter-sallow skin, teenage skin or no. It was difficult to tell if, after healing, he would be pretty or ugly.

“You came to us very suddenly, I hear,” Clay said.

“I don’t want to know what you heard.” Jules spoke decisively through pink teeth and put the napkin to the corner of his mouth because he was, Clay finally noticed, bleeding. Clay discarded this data as a distraction.

“You’re a lucky little boy,” Clay continued, as Jules’ eyes revolved nastily around the room. “Roscoe is a very nice person. I myself am part of a very exclusive club, that could benefit you socially.”

“Oh, thure.”

“Oh, yeth. Did your old people teach you how to play bridge?”

“Hell,” Jules said. “Since, like, ten? Whatever.” He sipped from the orange juice, pulled an awful, squint-eyed face, and shook his head very slowly. The rim of the glass came away red and slimy and he was reluctant to swallow. “My gran had her old ladies, and I had to round out the play. My boyfriend’s mom played too –” It took him forever, in this state, to spit out the words and without the scaffold of cardplay, Clay had to mentally sweat to grasp the information. “– But he didn’t like me to play with her.”

“Who?”

“My boyfriend didn’t like –”

“Oh, forget him.” Clay waved away all these superfluous people. “I won’t allow almost ten years of experience to be sneezed at.”

He laid out the parameters of the card club to Jules, who rested the unharmed side of his face against balled knuckles and appeared to doze right through it. “They won’t like it,” he murmured, after Clay outlined the sparkling personalities of Frank F., Bo G. (introduced) and numerous others. “They’ll say I’m too young. And I’m tired of old people.”

“But you’re used to them.” Clay, a smooth fifty-five, considered himself a world apart from Frank and Bo.

“I’m doing stuff for Roscoe. I need to find a real job, too.”

“We meet multiple times a week – we have many people to satisfy!”

Jules’ slit eyes popped wide. He gradually lifted himself from his worn slouch. Clay noted Phil’s dour presence piercing his shoulder, and a bowl of pretzels placed sacrilegiously over the discard pile. “Give it up,” Phil said, in his never-ending mildness – amused by everything, and happy about none of it. “Bo already knows what you’re up to with our battered bride. He told me Frank’s gonna rip you a new one after he tattles.”

“Frank can’t rip his own farts,” Clay said. “He suffered chilblains in his youth.”

“I’ll tell him that for you and save you the trouble.”

“A number of people would!” Quite a few in fact, following Phil’s scalpel-edged lead, had taken the second room for open and were dousing it in separate conversations. Jules sat far back in his seat as if to observe, but Phil was the only one he kept his healthy eye on.

“Who’s winning?” Phil directed the question to Clay but put a hand against Jules’ spine and squeezed snappily. Jules twisted away.

“I am,” Clay said, modestly as possible. “But I have many unfair advantages. I’m on the home team. And being as I’m vice-president of the club –”

Jules worked his jaw until it clicked. His hand jerked toward his chin, but he caught himself and fished for the pretzels instead, which he gnawed on uneasily. The color he’d possessed, unattractive as it had been, had drained from his face leaving him claylike and nervous.

 “–With all privileges,” Clay continued, “afforded to me thereof, regarding membership –” 

Jules gagged – an abrupt and distinctly un-partylike sound that silenced the room in an instant – and as easily as if he were part of the organic conversation occurring between Clay and Phil, he sat forward and ejected a neat spout of blood from his mouth, dirtying the juice and the cards, and overtop all this he spat and scattered a single sharp dirty pearl of a tooth.

The blood put pause deep in Clay’s gut, but, he noted, the color returned rapidly to Jules’ face, a vast improvement too; his body must have been relieved to rid itself of the little nag. The boy automatically wiped his speckled chin, but he’d already put his fingers through the mess on the table. He couldn’t take his eyes off the tooth. Neither could Phil.

“I believe we need a napkin,” Clay said to the room at large – certainly everybody could look, but nobody would do! The problem of crowds. Phil stepped back. He smiled, for whatever mysterious reason people behaved untowardly in odd social situations.

Jules simply got up, his hand politely clasped over his gushing mouth, and calmly left the room as though he’d been called away.

“For goodness sakes.” Clay followed suit; He had the vague inclination he must find Roscoe, to play mother. He left the cards and dental trash for others to sort – people had a bad habit of tidying up after him.

Once, a stranger’s voice floated up behind, I knew a guy who told me it was better the less teeth they had –

“Shut up Louis,” Phil’s voice responded, uncommonly hard. “I’m tired of hearing about what you’ve been told.”

-

“He’s too young!” Frank F. barked.

“I’m young – almost the youngest one here.” Clay sipped his coffee, which he didn’t like, but drank during card meetings for conviviality. It was important to belong to the group. “And an injection of youth and energy could be what we, as a gathering, have been yearning for.”

Frank glared around the folding table, at anybody on the committee who had dared to yearn without disclosing the fact. “Well?” He demanded. “Who’s found our energy wanting?”

“We’ve been in odd numbers for two months,” Alan M. helpfully pointed out. “Bo doesn’t have a partner, since Gregory.”

“Gregory. Right there.” Frank pointed. “Started here in his sixties, unretired, and I had my doubts – too young!”

“For god’s sake Frank,” Clay said. “The man dropped dead.”

“He couldn’t handle the stress.”

“Cease with Gregory,” Alan (sixties) requested, rubbing his chest anxiously. “Gives me the creeps.”

“I’ve never set eyes on this fabled kid,” Frank said. “Just how young is he?”

Clay, who had pumped Roscoe for information, drew this one out, for his own pleasure. Everybody leaned forward.

“Oh,” he said, with delicacy. “Around, say, nineteen or so.”

Frank bashed the table with his fist. “There!” He roared. “Too young!”

“A very new nineteen, at that – at least Roscoe says so.”

Frank F., overwhelmed with passion, got up and left the room to do something loud and rackety in the kitchen. Clay sat back and basked while everybody fought it out, not worried a jot. Committee days were so stimulating.

“Young is one thing, Clay,” said Alan, conveniently as Frank returned to the table. “A teenager is a whole other thing.”

“Half a thing,” Frank declared.

“He’ll have to be working,” Bo G. said. "He'll be hopping jobs. No consistent schedule."

“He’s going to get his first fucking boyfriend,” Frank added, “and the second that happens – goodbye, card club!”

“Oh, he’s already had a boyfriend.” Clay had no idea how he knew this – maybe he was lying. “And he’s not bound to get another for a while – I saw him at Roscoe’s brunch, and he looks very ugly.”

Frank turned to Bo. “He’s ugly?” He demanded.

Bo G., perhaps taking his own pleasure, took a long time to put his coffee down. “I saw him at Roscoe’s too. He’s not ugly. Somebody just worked his face over damn good.”

Frank jabbed his finger at Clay. “He’s going to heal up,” he predicted. “And bam – a boyfriend!”

“Who worked him over?” Alan asked, alarmed. “Somebody here?”

The facts, from Roscoe, were few enough, but Clay had written them down to assist his memory. He took out his little spiral pad. “Not here,” he soothed. “He arrived – approximately a month ago – from Indiana – probably nineteen –”

“Probably?”

“The bad thing happened; no Alan, I don’t know who – and voila – arrives at Roscoe’s. Who is kind enough, mind you, to lend a helping hand to a helpless, ugly urchin.”

“If Roscoe had any damn brains,” Bo said, “he’d find some understanding lady or a dyke, so he could work out these fatherly instincts in a less disruptive way.”

“Dykes want to keep their own babies – they’re the ones looking at us gents.”

“That’s what Martin did,” Bo said, pulling the empty mugs together into a friendly group at the center of the table. “Got pinned by some girl, not long after Val died, remember. What, ’88? – he’d carry this stacked blonde girl in with him from New York, when he came to visit Roscoe and Phil. Knocked her up and had to follow her to San Francisco.”

“Who?” Clay asked politely.

“Nobody expects you to remember important things,” Frank snapped. Such a shot, in mixed company, would have inspired somebody to scold Frank, but in the confines of the card committee, Clay was left to fend for himself, which was bliss – for Clay, polite, socially able, a smart dresser, a knower of vocab and etiquette, and demon card shark, was also tough. Most people had forgotten.

“His grandmother taught him to play when he was ten,” Clay announced. “He’s been playing as part of a group for years. Among other games, if we’d like him for our mixed open house – I played a two-on-two with him at Roscoe’s brunch before disaster struck, and he’s perfectly teachable. The groundwork is all there.”

“Disaster?” Frank was no dummy, unfortunately.

“Oh.” Clay flapped his hand at the inconvenient details. “Nothing. He lost a tooth and was mortified.”

“He’s still losing his baby teeth. It’s going to look like an elementary school in here.”

He spoke like a man who’d already made his decision. Everybody hopped on the ball, but Frank held them in suspense. He gave the floor to Bo.

“Considering,” he said, “You’re the one short a partner. This is an egalitarian club.”

Clay, who’d known from the start he would win, let his attention drift. Bo G., maybe unaware yet of the victory, worked it out to himself. He turned to Clay. “He’s not a complete dumbass, is he?”

“Haven’t the slightest.”

“Oh, go to hell.” Bo stood up and gathered up the bouquet of mugs. “Let the kid in. Let’s see what happens.”

“What,” Alan suggested, “would Gregory say about being replaced by a nineteen-year-old?”

“The problem with death is that’s it’s boring,” Bo G. mumbled to himself, as he stumped toward the kitchen. “Jesus Frank, what did you do in here?”

“I love egalitarianism,” Clay chirped. “It always seems to mean I win.”

Frank F. rubbed his spotted temples. “Clay,” he requested, “just shut the hell up.”

-

Months along, Clay Carrell tripped down a burning sunny sidewalk on his way somewhere – to Roscoe, maybe – it was a beautiful day again and he needed no reason to be out and about, as an independent man.

He passed by a line of parking jobs and as curiosity merited, he peeped into the windows until coming upon a mouse-colored car that still contained its driver. Clay peeked closer and to his delight, recognized Jules, even though his face was turned away and resting on his folded arms against the steering wheel.

Clay rapped the window. Jules jumped and shouted, saw Clay, and slouched back against the seat. The window buzzed.

“Don’t scare me, oh my god.”

“You’re a silly child,” Clay pronounced. “Because there’s nothing to be frightened of. Where are you going?”

Jules glanced around him, as if surprised to find he was still in the car. “I don’t know,” he said. “Somewhere, I guess.”

“Well, you’re in luck. I don’t know where I’m going either.” Clay trotted around to the passenger seat and helped himself inside – the door was unlocked. “You should secure that if you’re just going to loiter,” Clay said. “Any stranger could help themselves inside and do away with you.”

“You just said there’s nothing to be scared of.”

“You should always obey your instincts,” Clay advised. He buckled his seatbelt. “One of the first things I was taught, on independent living, was to lock the door behind me. I put a sticky-note on the wall to remind me, for that very purpose. Naturally I don’t need that anymore. Now, let’s be off.”

“Where?”

Irritated by this passiveness, Clay swept his hand at the potted road. Endless possibilities! Jules turned the key, and off they popped. What a relief, Clay thought, to be moving somewhere faster than usual. He checked the sun, saw they were heading vaguely west, and that was enough for him, context-wise. He settled back to let the young people do the work.

Jules, for his part, looked mildly amused, his usual expression around Clay. Driving a car, he looked more relaxed than Clay had ever seen. His face, a few months down the line, had healed in fits and starts, and now struggled to throw off the scrubby laceration on one cheek, and a stubborn blackened crescent hung on the bone underneath the eye. To the disappointment of the committee, Jules was not ugly – when the swelling cooled off, he was a fine-faced youth with a hawk nose braced by huge, dark eyes that were at turns combative or entirely closed away. He had black, vainly tousled hair and what Alan called an intriguing mouth before Frank told him to shut the hell up.

To everybody’s relief, these physical positives were usually obliterated by Jules’ general sourness, a bad attitude that occasionally banana-rotted into downright childishness. This was not a problem in the club, where squabbling was half the reason for arriving. The first significant interaction he provoked with Bo G. was a fight about Bo bringing up, too much in their first partnered scrimmage, what Gregory would have done in that scenario.

“I’m just saying,” Bo had said, “that Greg wouldn’t have overpromised on that bid, especially if he was aware he was a stranger in a new situation –”

“Go dig him up,” Jules suggested, “and see what bid you’ll get out of him now, asshole.”

Clay, in the present, snooped through a collection of CD cases hidden in the door’s side pocket. “Oh my,” he said. “Throbbing Gristle. Sounds disgusting. What is it?”

“Put it in and see.”

Clay did; He sat for several minutes through a groaning, desexed voice with a foreign accent working out some struggling words overtop an auditory ambiance of what Clay thought resembled seasick trains.

“How interesting,” Clay said. “It makes me feel ill.”

“That’s what it’s supposed to do.”

“I suppose nowadays bands function in all sorts of interesting ways.”

“They’re not nowadays, they’re from the seventies.” Jules, ignorant in many ways, still felt perfectly free to get snippy and rude with Clay. “They did this song,” he explained, “they did this one song based on this letter this mail-artist did from back then, about working in a burn unit.”

Clay felt the need to check for the sun’s location. “Really now?” He said politely.

“Yeah, about this woman in there who was burned so badly she couldn’t sleep. From the waist up she was like, just meat. She had no ears or nose or eyes, it was that bad. But they had to keep her alive.”

“Ah,” Clay understood. “Like me.”

Jules shut up – a rare feat – and Clay stared out at rushing traffic, wondering where everybody needed to be in such a damn hurry. He was curious to see if Roscoe had attempted, in his appropriate way, to fill Jules in. Apparently not.

“Uh,” Jules said. He flicked his eyes from the road and flashed them, with obligatory understanding across Clay’s weak, folded arm. “Sorry?”

“Oh hush,” Clay dismissed. “You couldn’t know.”

“I kind of just thought you were paralyzed for some reason,” Jules continued brashly, to Clay’s relief.

“I certainly am,” Clay confirmed. “Paralyzed. And disfigured! It’s very ugly.”

“Your hand looks regular, just kind of little.”

“I was involved, incidentally, within a grease fire. A freak accident. The muscles shrank. The rest of the arm isn’t regular,” Clay said. “Nor the shoulder it connects to, or part of my chest and stomach. I try to be sensitive to the – the sensitivities of onlookers.”

“Can I see?”

Clay pierced him with a pretty decent look. “Darling,” he said. “Use your brains.”

Stopped at a red light, Jules could turn his head and bare his teeth in the approximation of a happy grin. His teeth, bless him, were getting awful scarecrow on one side. “It looks bad, right?” Jules asked.

“I suppose some don’t care about ugliness.” Clay turned to the CD library in his lap. “Cannibal Corpse,” he observed. The cover was so lurid he had to flip it over. “Good lord. Were you raised in a whorehouse?”

“In a regular house,” Jules said. “So, worse.”

Because it made sense, Clay insisted they stop for lunch at his absolute favorite restaurant, Panera Bread. They were on an interstate at this point, and Jules had to flip around on the exits to get them there. “I don’t really have much money,” he said.

“What a coincidence, neither do I.”

They went halfsies on one meal. They both shared weak appetites and lanky, girlish figures.

“I want to ask you a question,” Jules said.

Clay assented; how novel.

“What do you think about Phil?”

Clay wondered if the privacy of the booth was affecting him. It had been so long since he’d been asked for his opinion, outside of the context of cardplay or his health, that he completely forgot the question. “Pardon?”

Jules repeated himself patiently.

“I suppose I’ve known him for years,” Clay said. “The same way I’ve known Roscoe for years. He’s not exactly a man you have opinions on – he doesn’t share himself well.”

Jules dissected his half of the sandwich. He didn’t appear put out by the lack of information.

“Why do you want to know, dear?”

“He talks to me sometimes.”

“Well, that’s only polite. He’s around.”

“He’ll go out of his way to talk to me,” Jules clarified. “Kind of in a different way than other guys. And I want to talk to him back, which doesn’t really happen with anyone else. Except Roscoe sometimes.”

“Then there you have it.”

“But it’s different than with Roscoe.”

“Why?”

This question was beyond Jules’ capabilities. “I don’t know,” he said, and looked straight at Clay, hiding nothing. For the first time since Roscoe’s brunch, Clay saw he really was nothing more than a helpless, untrained child. Others might have been alarmed at him playing chauffeur.

“And then,” Jules continued, “he’ll stop talking to me for a long time. I’ll try and he’ll ignore me. And I don’t get why it bothers me. I don’t know if I even like him.”

“I don’t think you could like him,” Clay said. “Not in any significant way. He’s vulpine – you’re equine.”

“I’m what?”

Clay trotted the salt and pepper shakers across the tabletop. “Have you never seen the Kentucky Derby?” He asked. “And observed all the pretty horses? How they stamp their feet beforehand and toss their beautiful manes, when after all, there can be only one winner, draped with roses? Not only have we trained them to want to compete, we’ve taught them the difference between winning and losing. They’ll suffer forever, knowing the reality of competition – and they want it, despite the cruel reality of only one getting ahead, all the others left behind. Equine. That’s you.”

“I’m born to suffer.” For someone with such an egregious taste in music, he seemed put out by the prospect.

“You’re an aggressive competitor,” Clay explained. He knew enough from the club. “You seek out games to win. Losing fuels your spirit even more than a win might. Phil avoids other people’s games – I can’t tell you how many invitations he’s received to the miscellaneous open-house – but he’ll slink behind other people’s finish lines all the same. Just to see how they act when he’s spotted. If he chooses to be. Vulpine.” Clay had looked this up in the dictionary – it was defined in one of his many spiral notebooks. “Foxy, darling. Of sneaky temperament.”

“I know what it means,” Jules whined. “I’m sneaky.”

“You are a mean little pony who spits out his sugar,” Clay said. “That does not a fox make, my dear.”

“You’re mean,” Jules sulked.

“It goes so often unobserved in me,” Clay agreed. “Because I’m most beloved and well taken care of. But that means I’ve been stuck in the stable for years – hellish.”

“You’re not in the stable,” Jules, ignorant, insisted. “You’re right here with me.”

“Wait and see,” Clay said. “Just wait.”

-

A problem of Clay’s existence was his inability to seek people out. Certainly, he could come across people in the bounds of everyday back-and-forth – he could spot someone at a gathering, or loiter, in acceptable places, where others were known to loiter. But if someone didn’t want to be found, Clay could not find them. He had limited addresses, phone numbers, emails. Computers frightened him. He had no end of ways to get ahold of Roscoe – they were all pasted up on Clay’s refrigerator, and an ugly collage they made, too.

Weeks, and months, slipped by, and Clay, even with the aid of his notes, lost why he’d been interested in speaking to Phil in the first place. The memo in his social calendar read 8/19/2006 – Jules in car at PB, talk of Phil – it signified nothing, except that Clay truly hated his handwriting. He was glad he hadn’t written more. He could have shown Jules and asked for clarification, but there were certain facts Jules didn’t need to be aware of yet. And Roscoe, if deputized, might tattletale and turn the boy against him, and just when he and Bo G. were starting to find a rapport not based on conflict.

Around Halloweentime, in fact, he overheard the most bizarre and intimate conversation between the two.

It had occurred during a rubber open play in Frank’s basement. Clay had no details, except that Jules had shown up for a couple weeks peaked and pale. His face, other than that, was of normal color, but forebodingly swollen around the nose and eyes. Clay thought he’d been coming down with something. Frank agreed and threatened to send him home – he’d been playing without ardor anyway. Jules hadn’t fought, for once – Bo G., of all people, ordered him to stay.

Clay had gone upstairs to freshen his seltzer. The screen to the patio was unguarded, and the kitchen was cool and buffeted. He saw Jules and Bo outside on the little concrete stamp, dashed overhead by a browning tree as they guarded their cigarettes from the wind. It was spooky – Clay hadn’t noticed them leaving the basement, and he briefly entertained the possibility of two copies of each body – one pair outside, one pair stashed underground.

He plastered himself against the wall, obeying the twitching muscle of an instinct he could no longer attach to a situation. He waited.

Jules spoke first. “I think Harper knows.”

“Did you tell him?” Bo G.

“No. I think he guessed.” The wind carried inside a crusty leaf and some mentholated air. “He says I should tell.”

Bo snorted, forcefully. “What does he know?”

“He says it’ll happen again if I don’t.”

“Maybe it will. You’ll never know. It’ll be to someone else.”

Jules had no answer to that.

“It’ll be someone else,” Bo said. “It’s done. You got it over with – think of it like that. You know what you need to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“You put it away,” Bo said. “You take it in your hands, and you put it away, and you shut the lid. You don’t look at it ever again. It only has to happen to you once. You did that part. That’s all you’re obligated to survive, that – the initial experience of it. Thinking it over – that’s the stuff that’ll kill you. You know what’ll happen if you think it over?”

Jules had yet to think of an answer.

“It’ll happen again,” Bo said. “To you. Again, and again. You’ll arrange the situations. You’ll put yourself in them, without knowing…”

Clay watched some crumbs of ash light across the kitchen, but by the time they reached the stove they’d cooled.

“Have you seen him again?” Bo demanded to know. He sounded angry, for reasons Clay could not possibly discern.

“I’ll always see him. I can’t not. He’s around.”

“For christ’s sake.”

“Do you know who I’m talking about?” Jules was beginning to sound shrill. “Do you know?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to know. Don’t tell me.”

Sniffle, sniffle, clack. Somebody’s lighter flared up and died.

“I know this isn’t easy to hear.” It was odd to hear Bo G. attempt to behave gently. “Don’t think I don’t know. I understand.”

“Shut up. You don’t want to hear about me. I don’t want to hear about you. I don’t care what happened to you. Fuck what happened to you.”

“I know because I’m older than you –”

“You don’t know anything!” The sentence began loudly, and ended in a crazed whisper, as if Jules had realized too late they weren’t in total privacy. “You don’t know anything because you’re older! You’re all so fucking old and useless. I fucking hate all of you.”

“Jules –”

“You’re all so fucking old and stupid and miserable and alone and I hate all of you.” The hacked whisper began dissolving damply halfway through.

“Don’t start crying,” Bo ordered. “You can’t cry about this.”

“I can do whatever I want.”

Jules’ voice, crying, was about as ugly as his injured face had been, but Clay was already having trouble recalling it. Drawing – now there was a talent. Writing, frankly, sucked.

“You can’t do whatever you want.” Bo’s voice shifted, as he moved presumably closer to Jules. He sounded lost. He sounded like he was repeating some unlikeable stranger. “You have to be a man about this.”

“I’m not a man. That’s why it happened.”

“You are a man. You’re a man. If someone tries to push you around like that again, you have to stand up for yourself. You can’t wait until it’s too late – do you want to end up like Clay? Okay – Here – a little bit longer.”

Jules, crying, sounded like a little cat trying to throw up.

“Get it out,” Bo counseled. “Get it all out, then put it away. You don’t have to think about it again.”

“I made a mistake,” Jules sobbed. “It’s my fault.”

“It was an accident. Accidents happen.”

“I thought he liked me.”

“Accidents happen,” Bo repeated. He appeared stuck on it. “Accidents happen. They happen. You’re too young to know any better.”

“I thought he liked me.”

Clay took all this, and his empty glass, back down the stairs. He collided with Frank at the bottom.

“Don’t tell me he’s being sick up there,” Frank grouched.

“Nobody’s sick.” Clay pressed him back toward the tables. “He’s been a little stressed about work,” he explained. “Let Bo handle it.”

Lying was a treat he could rarely indulge in. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done it. He could only guess if it had done any good – but that’s not where the pleasure was.

-

Christmastimes – happy times. And no snow yet! A shame. Clay wrote NO SNOW on his big calendar on the wall. He’d been getting hung up on details lately, when normally, he did not sweat the small stuff.

Wanting to be helpful in the spirit of the season (he made lovely cards, but true presents were rarely affordable) Clay found himself in the shop basement with Roscoe, sorting through the endless memorabilia through the years. Jules was present too, working, if lazily, at a little sloped desk with a harsh, bendable lamp clamped on one edge. He was doing strange things to two pieces of smelly rubber. A sharp alcohol stink pricked Clay’s head. He found himself getting snippy by turns, and, feeling bad, forced an abundant cheer. “You’ll be sorting this garbage forever,” he declared, cheerfully. “Val was collecting for years and years, all the surplus of his events.”

“Some tell me it’s history,” Roscoe said, looking up with interest for some reason. “But either way, it sure brings in the mice.”

“I saw one yesterday,” Jules called over the desk. “It ran right around the glue trap. You’re training them to be smart.”

“Do you know where the humane electric trap is? That looks like a little box?”

“I stomped it. The mouse. When you get smart, you get slow.”

“Marvelous. Spare me the details.”

“I heard it’s little bones break,” Jules chanted. “All the guts exploded out its mouth. It’s eyeballs –”

“You watch too much morbid stuff. You need to expand your horizons.”

“He’s a grim little boy,” Clay added. “He can be funny, though. Jules, what’s the funny word you showed me the other day?”

Jules started giggling and said noooo shut up! Clay, realizing he was being drawn into a contract, started giggling too. He looked toward the little desk to make sure he was matching the hilarity, but the desk light had swollen, swallowing all detail in Jules’ face to the point of bloodless beheading.

“Come on,” Roscoe said. “What was it?”

It came to Clay – painfully, with an equal throb in his good hand. He put down the little tin he was holding and had been struggling to open. “Faggotron,” he declared, with much purpose.

Jules snort-wheezed dismally. Whatever he was dipping his weeny paintbrush into smelled abominably.

“Jules, you know better,” Roscoe was scolding. “– get both of you in trouble –”

“Good god,” Clay exploded. “Whatever you’re working on, child, close it up – it stinks.”

“I have surgical masks. Gimme a sec –”

“Jules, now.” Roscoe said. “Clay, do you feel okay?”

“How could I not be well? Discussing mouse insides, among all this dust, and that piercing light –” Clay struggled to his knees.

“Clay, sit back down, alright?”

A ghastly sense of return, a return to a far worse time, froze Clay’s spine. The adrenaline forced words through his throat, more chemical than logical. “Where is Val?” he demanded. “Tell me this instant. Where did he go?”

“What’s happening?” Jules shrilled onward and upward in hideous alarm, but Clay’s visual perception shrank to exclude him. Roscoe vanished too, more purposeful in disintegration than he was in life. Clay heard a decisive voice call a strange spell – NO staywhereyouare – the always-herald of the big black brick whanged upside his head, a splitting log, the muting of the light he ached to perceive despite the pain, the smell of spitting, overflowing fat – though nobody ever believed him, when said that was what he always smelled. They didn’t believe him even when he wrote it down.

Time out of time out of time out time again and again. Alas. Clay snapped to on a squalid concrete floor. He turned his head and spied Roscoe, a couple feet away, his heavy thighs arranged in a runner’s lunge, consulting his watch. “You alright?” he asked, in utter calm.

From the bottom of his heart, Clay hated him – hated him with ease and abundance of an illogical baby. “Goddamn you to hell,” he said. “Did you put a finger on me?”

“You were going to hit your head on the floor,” Roscoe said. Clay hated him even more, knowing he was telling the perfect truth. “There was nothing soft to put in your way. I made sure you got down okay, then I let go.”

“You’re a beast for touching me,” Clay spit. “A beast. A wild animal. Fuck you.”

“I’m sorry,” Roscoe said simply. “Do you want to try sitting up?”

Clay’s good hand ached horribly. It would stress him for days, the idea of losing both hands. The anticipation was foul. Clay sat up. “How long?” he asked.

“About a minute. Fifty-eight and some milliseconds. I think that’s around the last one. We need to write it down in the little book.”

“You ruined my life.” Again, a cruel muscle flexed, one that understood something beyond Clay’s conscious understanding. “You ruined my life.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I was beautiful, and you destroyed me. You’re an animal.”

“I’m sorry.” Roscoe would take everything he did not deserve, and it only made Clay hate him more.

Beast himself, Clay looked around his enclosure. “Somebody else was here,” he said.

“Jules was here.”

“Where is he?”

“I made him go upstairs. He couldn’t deal with it.”

“He’s a tiny stupid coward.” There was nothing and nobody Clay wouldn’t smash to bits right now. “Childish bitch. What does he have to be afraid of?”

“You’re his friend and he was scared. I don’t think he’s seen something like that before.” Roscoe made his attention scarce, and Clay recognized, for dignity’s sake, he was supposed to check to see if he’d soiled himself. Came up negative. He recalled visiting the bathroom all day outside of all logic, with mounting anxiety. He was sure that was written down somewhere too – useless.

“And if you ever wore your goddamn bracelet,” Roscoe accused, “he might have had some idea of what to expect. Don’t go calling him a bitch or a coward. He’s just a kid.”

The only time Roscoe ever got irritated and demanding of Clay was immediately after witnessing one of the seizures. If Clay did not irrevocably and acutely despise any poor soul who became the main witness of one of his seizures, this propensity would have made him feel more tender toward the man. And now that Jules had seen one, his own time was coming.

“How long has Val been dead?” Clay asked.

“Twenty years. A long time.”

“I know his name. I can’t remember anything of his face.”

“You knew him before I ever showed up. I’ve known him dead longer than I knew him alive – I can’t picture his face either. Not without help.”

“How miserable it must be – that I’m one of the pieces of trash you’ve inherited from him.”

“You’re my friend.”

“Oh no. We’ll be friends again in a few days when I’ve forgotten all this. You’re counting down the seconds, as it gets foggier to me.” Clay raked his nails over his temples. He felt a dent and a curious, inorganic hardness deforming his fine skull. His hair was thinning. Fifty-five. How long since thirty-five? Going to sleep and waking old. “Being robbed of that – that I can’t even be angry at you, at anyone, all the time!”

Roscoe sat through all of this with his forehead balanced on his fingers, as if he were too tired to care. As if he’d heard this a dozen times before, this important speech of Clay’s. “What do you want to tell Jules?” he said.

“I told him about the burns,” Clay said. “And now he knows about this disgrace. And that’s as far as it should go, frankly.”

“If he doesn’t hear it from you, or from someone who cares about you, he’s going to get the details in a bad way.”

“Why shouldn’t he – as nasty gossip? That’s all it happened for – for nasty gossip.”

“You wrote it down once in your own words, remember? When you had that good health aide years ago; she helped you with the police report and court documents and – and the X-rays and things. Show him that – it’s in one of your binders.”

Clay had been told about this magic essay many times. Roscoe attached most importance to it, as an independent effort of self-authority. Clay, to his recollection (which was often wrong) had never shown it to anyone but himself, again and again. He would bring it out before bed, the time of day when he felt at his worst, and parse the stubby, emotionless sentences written by some imbecile who deserved whatever he got.

“He needs to know how these things happen.” Roscoe going on, and on, and on. “If we hide this stuff, it’s just going to repeat itself.”

“You’re far too late,” Clay said. “He’s already some slut.”

Roscoe got up and walked toward Jules’ little desk. He turned off the little light. When he was truly inspired to high anger, he always walked away. Not like a man at all, Clay thought. He couldn’t think of a worse person to teach Jules how to stand up for himself. If the child was lucky, he’d lose the next teeth on the other side of his face – invite some symmetry.

“Have Bo G. tell him,” Clay said, surprising himself.

Roscoe was surprised too. “Why Bo?”

“He was around during that time. He knows what to say. They’re partners, after all. Tell Bo I said so. I won’t ask myself. I won’t take responsibility –” Clay used a filing cabinet to help gather his feet underneath him. “Nobody allows me to take responsibility. So I won’t. Make Bo tell him. And just watch. He’ll treat me differently. He’ll treat me like all of you treat me.”

“I’ll tell Bo.”

“I want to go home now. You take me home. And I don’t want to be bothered tomorrow.”

He would have liked to say I hate you again. Such a vibrant phrase; but already, the stimulating anger was giving way to a constricting drowsiness. Roscoe, like he hadn’t heard Clay insult him and close friends, like he hadn’t said awful swear words he would never repeat in company, came over and helped him pick his way out of the historical mess he’d fallen within.

-

Time and time again – everybody became another year older. Clay got older. Roscoe got older. He helped Clay find a big new calendar for the wall. Jules, a new nineteen, presumably became a new twenty at some point. After a time, a more experienced twenty. It hardly made a difference to his maturity. He partnered so often with Bo he became a solid figure in Clay’s mental foreground – and for all Clay knew, he’d been there as long as Roscoe and Phil and the rest.

Another seizure, in writing, if not in memory. Clay saw it on the calendar. This time overseen by Alan M., in Frank’s kitchen, after the house had emptied from a post-tournament cocktail hour. Small mercy.

Exciting pastimes: Jules and Clay, driven to madness after begging a pack of Rider-Waite cards from an occultist friend of Roscoe’s longhaired shop cashier, tried their hand adapting it to the French Tarot and to introduce this to the club at large; rejected by Frank, Clay suggested a portes ouvertes of antique French parlor games which, using more conventional decks, Frank could hardly decline. Jules, though not part of the upper committee, had established himself socially as Clay’s deputy, and he was an efficient bully.

At one of these novel events, a blistering cold March afternoon, Clay was reminded of yet another novelty – the arrival of someone new. Which, as it turned out, was someone old. Roscoe said Clay had known Martin since the eighties. He was back from sunny California, for reasons Clay might have learned before he forgot.

He showed up among the basement folding tables that day, unfashionably early to take Frank to some expo or whatnot in the suburbs. A clumsy faux pas, Clay commented, as he oversaw a trial Piquet scrimmage between Jules and Bo G.

“I know what he’s here for,” Bo commented archly.

“Shut up,” Jules said.

Martin worked through the tables. Gregarious as he was, he always seemed to stop short, childishly bashful before Clay, unsure as to the amount of kid glove required in the interaction. Clay had piled up enough consistent interactions with the man to form this sustaining judgment.

“You are so very kind to safely usher our favorite senile gentleman,” Clay said, after the initial awkward greeting took place. “Not many would be so generous.”

“Let him crash,” Bo said. “Put him out of his misery. Then I’ll be president.”

“As vice-president,” Clay corrected, “I will be president.”

“I’m going to put rat poison in one of Alan’s gross fucking brandy alexanders,” Jules joined in. “And then I’ll be treasurer.”

“Is it safe for me to be overhearing this?” Martin asked, directing the question to Jules.

“Stick around and find out,” Jules grumbled.

“As a club representative, you must be more polite,” Clay scolded. “You’re a young man now. And Martin is an old friend.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Martin said. He put his hand gently on the table. “Am I old enough to learn what the hell this game is?”

“Show him, Jules. Start a new game.”

“He doesn’t have to do a damn thing,” Bo said, abruptly. “Shut up, Clay.”

Jules, ignoring them both and shutting down any expression in his eyes, steered Martin to an empty table and forced him down into a chair. Clay snooped enough to spy Jules, in a nasty masterstroke, laying out a hand of Solitaire. Martin was too good-natured to pick up on the slight. He sat attentively under Jules’ pointed posture and followed his jabbing fingers, a docile lamb.

“He’s too old for him,” Bo G. declared. He smothered the gameplay and restacked the cards.

Clay sat down. “We’re all too old,” he said. “Isn’t it a tragedy?”

The Stock, Jules’ instructions floated over his head. The Waste. The Foundations. The Tableau. Undisciplined Martin gazed not at the cards, but at the face that made the words. He’d have to smarten up, Clay thought, if wanted to survive Jules’ bossing. After that he looked away. The sight made him melancholy.

-

Departing the remnants of the occasion that evening, he left Frank’s at sundown for the first time all day and was struck dumb by the stifling blanket of snow that had fallen. Clay’s mind, geared toward spring and daffodils and birds’ eggs and shining sun, whirlpooled a split moment into terror. Then he caught himself. How nice – a final, light-bright hug from jack frost.

Despite this pep talk, he had trouble moving. He tingled all over, his body recalling other falls in that cold cushion.

“Clay?”

“Oh gracious.” He turned around toward the porch. “Now, would you look at this landscape? And what on earth were you doing in there, without my noticing?”

Phil descended the steps easily. He stepped inside Clay’s tentative footprints. “Miscommunication,” he explained. “I thought Martin was going to be here, but he got shanghaied by Frank.”

“Appreciated, too.”

“Salvatore caught me and gabbed my ear off about a damn hour.” Phil reached out and took Clay’s elbow and started leading him down the unshoveled walkway. “Let me drive you home. You don’t get around so great in this stuff.”

“You’re a doll.”

Clay enjoyed riding in cars. It was something he wanted to do more. It was cozy inside Phil’s, with the big soft flakes suspended in the air as the spaces between all foundations darkened to black.

“Martin is not comfortable around me,” Clay said.

“Nobody’s really comfortable with you,” Phil explained. “You’re not a person to anybody. You remind people.”

Clay was fond of bluntness, even when he couldn’t understand what lay behind its’ motivation. “Of what?”

“That we can’t trust anybody – not even the people we’re closest to - who we see every day.” The tires zizzled pleasantly through a wet right turn. “Martin is just embarrassed. Since fatherhood made him mature, he’d prefer to think he was always that way. But he knows we all remember what he did to Drake.”

“Who, now?” Clay asked.

“Drake. He started sniffing around the neighborhood for you, after your group home closed. Years and years ago."

“Hmmm?”

Traffic piled up against a red light and Phil could turn to look at Clay. “You know something interesting I wonder about sometimes?”

“What could it be, darling?”

“If you remember more than you let on,” Phil revealed. He said this with no urgency or true amusement. Phil always spoke as if held no worries and felt no significance. He was most relaxed. Here was a man you could have a seizure around. “If you remember everything, and you’ve just been having fun with us this whole time.”

“What an idea!” Clay had to laugh. “And a tempting one. You want to know what I remember, dear?”

“Tell me.”

“Nothing. Not a speck. Zot. If only I could have fun with you all.” The cars inched forward. “I’d like to thank you, you know.”

“For what?”

“I have a feeling,” Clay said, “that you’ve always been very frank with me. And frankness is something I appreciate. You know who you remind me of? You remind me of Jules.”

Phil, driving comfortably with one hand on the wheel, pushed his head gently against the driver’s seat. He started to smile, close-lipped.

“Jules once asked me if my arm was never going to work normally, or look normally, then why didn’t the doctors simply amputate? Can you imagine anyone else having the nerve? But I appreciated being asked, all the same.” The question had pleased Clay so much, he’d made Jules write it down himself in the little notebook.

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him I was hardly in a state to be consulted.”

“You know how to get Jules to shut up?” Phil said in turn. “You get him on his stomach, and you grind his face into the floor.”

Clay cackled at such an absurd image. “Now stop,” he said. “That’s quite mean!”

“You get your knee pressed in real low on his spine,” Phil continued quietly, “and you shove his face in, and you twist. You don’t stop until his nose starts bleeding. After that he quiets down and gets to liking it."

“That’s quite enough,” Clay insisted, patting his own mouth to discourage his giggles. “Don’t tease him when he’s not here to defend himself.”

Phil steered down the narrow enclave of a one-way street. They were entirely in the dark now, purged in fountains of orange light. Clay squeezed Phil’s wrist. “Stop!” he asked. “Just stop. Stop a moment.”

Phil braked. Eventually, he shifted to park. They watched the unseasonal snow drowse in the air, suspended in swags of streetlight. Clay could not see the end of the road. Nobody was out and about. A pleasant enclosure calmed his heart.

“Now just look at that,” he said, still holding Phil’s wrist. “Why must artists always act like they’re so miserable? If I could paint this picture, I would never be sad again.”

“Yeah,” Phil agreed, dreamily. “I see what you mean.”

He was watching the snow – Clay checked to confirm, and it made him glad. Watching together, faces trained out within a safe shelter like clever woodland creatures, Clay could believe he had somebody by his side who understood him by instinct, if not through conscious effort. He could communicate, through the act of sitting together, all the secrets his brain and body held away from his knowledge. It was the darkness that reminded him – not doing for oneself, not eating for oneself, nor speaking nor toileting for oneself, in a mass of years so long he could no longer comprehend; and lighted hour upon lighted hour, lying there and anticipating the moment of terror – terror he had yanked pleasure from, after many years of practice – when the light would go out.

Clay sat there and he wished to make this known – in goodwill, in peace, in love, surrounded, with no respite, by his beloved friends.

#safeworld #2006 2007 & 2008

[xxrainshadowsxx]

Interpersonal Chapter 17

We have come, dear reader, to probably the most important chapter of this story. Onceler's POV for this chapter.

10 YEARS LATER

It had been years of silence. Onceler was used to silence at this point. His self-imposed exile was quiet, monotonous. The days never changed. All he could do was waste away his life, regretting what he had done.

He couldn’t pretend like his current situation wasn’t his fault. Every accusation she’d screamed at him had been littered with truths he’d been too much of a coward to admit. He’d been so scared that if she’d seen the worst of what he could do, she’d leave. Ironically, that’s exactly what had happened, though not at all in the way he expected.

Not a day went by that he didn’t think of her. If he regretted what he did to the environment, he regretted what happened with her a thousand times more. She’d been the one brilliant streak on the bleak tapestry of his life, and through his own doing, he knew he’d never see her again.

He hoped she’d be able to move on. The last time he’d seen her, it had been from a window of his office. She’d been on her hands and knees outside, looking like she might be having a near panic attack. He’d wanted to go down and comfort her, never mind that she’d just rejected his marriage proposal. But he knew he’d probably do more harm than good. So he’d had to stand there and live with the knowledge that his actions had caused her to break her own heart as well as his. She hadn’t wanted to turn him down. And the image of her on the street had since haunted his nightmares in the years that had passed.

If only he had told her. She would’ve helped him, he knew that now. She would’ve been mad, but she wouldn’t have left. They would’ve worked it out, and his life would be so much different. But hers was almost certainly better without him in it. She deserved so much better than him.

But even that didn’t stop him from going through the pictures nearly every day. He didn’t have many, and most of them had been taken by intrusive journalists, but they were the only remnants he had of her, so he treasured them all the same. When he’d returned home late that night, he’d found most of her things missing. Within weeks, he’d taken only the essentials and gone here to live away from all others as Thneedville put up its wall. He had no idea what had happened to the house. It was paid off, so he probably technically still owned it, but he wasn’t sure. He hoped she’d ended up moving back in once she learned he wasn’t coming back.

There was one picture, however, that he could stare at for hours. They’d taken it the day before the public had found out they’d been dating. There was nothing forced about it, she was happy and natural. This was how he wanted to remember her for the rest of his life.

Besides the pictures, there was only one other thing he’d brought with him aside from the necessities. The ring he’d gotten for her still sat in its case, protected from the outside forces. He still had no idea why he’d kept it. He’d nearly tossed it in the sewer on his way out of the city, but couldn’t make himself do it. It sat with the rest of his few mementos, a cruel and constant reminder of what could have been.

So his day was just like any other. Nothing changed. He didn’t really live. He just existed, the last guardian of one great secret; the only thing keeping him alive.

There was a noise like a motor outside, which was enough to startle him. People didn’t come out here. People couldn’t come out here, not since the wall had been put up. Onceler was sure that wall was meant to keep people in more than it was meant to keep anything else out. There was nothing left out here to keep out.

He made his way over to a window that was mostly boarded up except for a small area with which he could peer through. There was no way he could have heard a motor. That had to either be thunder or his ears playing tricks on him.

But no… he wasn’t wrong. Through the smog, he could vaguely make out someone on some type of scooter. And not just anyone. This was a kid. A kid that could be no older than ten. And he was headed straight for Onceler’s house.

Onceler ducks out of the window. He doesn’t want this kid to see him if he hasn’t already. Of course, there was a next-to-nothing chance that the kid wouldn’t stop at the house since it was the only thing around for miles, but he could at least try and pretend it was an abandoned ruin.

The motor gets steadily louder before dying. If Onceler had to guess, he was sure the kid was poking around. The windows were all boarded up, so there was no chance of the kid forcing entry that way, but the front door was only protected by a deadbolt. Hopefully the kid couldn’t pick locks.

“Hello? Anyone home?” a voice called out into the gloom. Onceler stayed crouched below the window, out of sight, determined to wait this out.

“Hello?” the kid called again. “I’m looking for a… a Onceler? I heard you could tell me what happened to the trees.”

That was enough to make Onceler almost trip even though he hadn’t even been moving. Besides her, what he’d done to the trees was his other huge regret. And now some kid showed up out of nowhere, not only asking about the trees, but also knowing who Onceler was and that he knew what had happened to the trees. It was enough to make him lift his head and peet out of the window again.

The kid is almost directly below the window, so he doesn’t miss the movement. The boards block out Onceler’s features, but he can tell there’s someone there. “Are you Onceler?” he asks, and to his credit, he doesn’t sound scared. Wary, yes, but he’s not frightened. Even Onceler has to admire that a bit.

“Who are you and why do you want to know?” His voice is raspy from disuse. He doesn’t even remember the last time he actually spoke out loud.

“Um, my name’s Jack. I’m from the city. And my aunt told me that you know what happened to the trees,” the kid, Jack, says. Onceler frowns and looks down at him. There’s something very familiar about this kid, but he can’t put his finger on what it is just yet.

“Trees? I didn’t think anyone still cared about trees,” he scoffs, though he’s hardly one to talk.

“My mom and my aunt do. They said that trees give us fresh air instead of the recycled air that we have now,” Jack says. So that was how they were getting by in Thneedville these days? He wondered whose brilliant idea that was. “And I’ve never seen one before. So I just thought it would be good to learn about what happened to them, and if there was any chance of getting them back.”

This kid was damn perceptive for his age. He seemed honest enough, actually curious about trees, not doing this for his own gain somehow, or worse, to try and impress some girl. This kid could be the reason Onceler had stayed alive all these years of misery.

Because he knew he couldn’t be a savior. That wasn’t his role after what he’d done. But maybe, just maybe, this kid, Jack, could be.

And so Onceler started to tell his story. He kept it strictly related to the trees, not wanting to speak about her too much. But she’d been so ingrained into his life that she did creep up from time to time. He couldn’t bring himself to actually say her name, simply referring to her as ‘my girl.’ Jack never asked about her.

He was a good audience, though. He listened with rapt attention, hardly interrupting, and when he did it was only to ask for clarification on something or another. He did wear an ever-growing look of concern on his face. That expression just made him look even more familiar to Onceler, but he still couldn’t grasp why.

When he finished recounting his tale, Jack sat in stunned silence. “So… is there any hope at all?” he asked. “Or is it all gone? Did you really ruin us all?”

This was the moment of truth. Onceler made his way over to his desk, where he kept most of his memories of her, and opened a drawer to grab his last treasure, his great secret.

The day he’d lost everything, he’d received news that the last trufulla tree had been cut down. Before the tufts had been harvested, he’d run out to the tree, finding just one thing that might be the last hope. He’d kept it hidden away ever since, not trusting himself to this all too important work lest he be tempted again.

The last trufulla seed.

It wasn’t the only thing in the drawer, though he’d thought it was. But apparently at some point he’d also stashed fragments of a broken mirror in here as well. The seed remained unharmed, but he unwittingly saw his own reflection for the first time in years. He’d never exactly forgotten what he looked like, but there were new lines that he’d never known were there, and he wasn’t sure he’d actually seen himself since he’d grown facial hair. He closed the drawer quickly after grabbing the seed. Seeing his own reflection was disorienting for some reason.

He drops the trufulla seed down to Jack, with instructions to plant it. If people see it, people could still have a little hope, and they might even start to care again. It wouldn’t undo his sins, but it was all Onceler could give.

Jack looks up at him then and… oh. Oh fuck. Onceler finally made it click why this kid had seemed so familiar to him. All it had taken was having Jack look back up at him. The kid had very blue eyes.

They were the exact same color and shape Onceler had unwittingly seen staring back at him from the broken shard of a mirror not five minutes ago.

There was no way…

“Jack… how old are you?” he asks, his voice coming out much higher-pitched than usual.

“Nine.” Oh fuck. That would line up. He looks at Jack again, much more intently now. And what he sees nearly gives him a heart attack.

It was like looking into another mirror, only a couple decades younger and a few deliberate mistakes. Jack had the same thick black hair, he was tall and thin for his age, with long fingers. His nose… oh God, their noses were identical. And when Onceler forced himself to focus on the differences instead of the similarities, he found he recognized those too. In fact, he was shocked he didn’t see it sooner.

He recognized the angle and slope of Jack’s cheekbones and the shape of his jaw. He’d spent months memorizing those features on someone else. They were hers first.

He couldn’t find a single feature on this kid that didn’t belong to either himself or to her. And with the fact that he was nine years old, the timing fit almost a little too perfectly.

Had she… had she really been pregnant with his kid when she had left? Had she known?

He had to dig a little further. He had to know if Jack was hers, and if he was most likely his own as well.

“Who are your parents? Do they know you’re here?” he asks, hoping that the questions sound innocuous enough. He needed these questions answered. 

Jack gives him a weird look, but provides an answer nonetheless. “I was raised by my mom and my aunt. They know I’m here, or at least my aunt does. She’s the one that told me to come here in the first place.”

“And your dad?”

“Never knew him.” He looks at the ground now, not quite old enough to have learned how to keep the bitterness out of his tone. Onceler recognizes the sentiment well; it’s a feeling he’s carried with him for the majority of his life. He always swore that if he ever had kids, he wouldn’t be an absent parent like his own father had been. But more and more signs were pointing to this actually being his kid, and he might have unknowingly condemned him to the same fate.

But he had to know for certain. So he finally asks the question he’d been avoiding, the one he should have asked as soon as he’d started to suspect who this kid might be. “What’s your mother’s name?” His words are no louder than a whisper, but somehow Jack hears him.

He doesn’t actually hear Jack’s answer. He doesn’t have to. He sees her name form on his lips and he can’t stop himself from staggering to the ground, one hand clutching the wall for support.

Jack was her son. Which meant that, based on his age and appearance, Onceler was almost certainly his father.

“Um, are you okay? Do you know my mom or something?” Jack asks uncertainly, and maybe with just a little bit of hope sprinkled in. Though he almost feels like he can’t move at all, Onceler somehow manages to stand, though he still has to lean heavily on the wall.

“I’ve… met her, yes. I’m fine. Plant the seed. Your mother and aunt will help.” How he managed to get the words out, he didn’t know. He did sound like he was being strangled though.

“Right.” Jack grabs his scooter and revs it a couple of times. “I won’t let you down!” he calls before he rides back off to the city. Onceler watches him until he disappears over the horizon and out of sight.

“I know you won’t,” he whispers into the nothingness before he sinks to the ground again, attempting to process what in the ever loving fuck had happened to him in the past few minutes.

He had a son.

He was a father.

And his kid didn’t know who he was. She’d never told him. She probably didn’t want him around. But now that he knew Jack existed, he didn’t want to go another day without being a dad to that kid.

Which meant there was only one way forward. After ten years, he was going to have to find her again. He needed the chance to be a father, would beg her on his knees if he had to if that’s what it took to be allowed into Jack’s life.

He still loved her of course, but he didn’t dare delude himself into thinking she would want a relationship beyond cordial co-parenting. It would hurt, but he could live with that. He knew that damage he did to her could never be repaired.

He barely got any sleep that night. He couldn’t stop tossing and turning, thinking of what it would be like to see her again and how she’d react. Would she be willing to speak to him and listen to his explanation and apology, even though he knows it would be too little and too late? Or would she simply slam the door in his face? He couldn’t blame her if she did that, but that wasn’t really in her character, or at least it wasn’t ten years ago.

That was another big agony. Now that she was ten years older and a single mother for those ten years, how had she changed? How much remained of the girl he fell in love with? He knew he himself had changed so much, but he hoped she was still somewhat the same. Even if he couldn’t have her, he wanted to continue loving her until his dying breath, and he wanted to be able to love every version of her. But he’d missed ten years. Would she even be recognizable anymore?

He forced his mind to calm down. Of course she would be recognizable. He was just being paranoid because he was honestly afraid of how she'd react. He was delving into completely uncharted waters, trying desperately to tread them.

He got out of bed early. The smog was too thick out here to have a proper sunrise, but he still had an old analog clock that, as best as he could tell, was accurate enough. He didn't know how long it would take to get to Thneedville, get into the city, and then find them, so he wanted to get an early start.

For some reason though, his body didn't want to cooperate. He felt sluggish, more so than usual, and overly self-conscious about his appearance of all things, which he hadn't thought about in years. His hair was way too long, so he scoured his house until he found an old pair of scissors. He'd learned how to give himself haircuts in high school, and did the best he could with the broken mirror shards. He trimmed his beard a bit as well. He didn't have a razor, so the scissors would have to do.

He also spent an embarrassingly long time deciding what to wear, which even he acknowledged was stupid. That didn't mean he was actually going to start behaving rationally though.

He probably shouldn't wear a thneed. He usually did to keep warm, but it might come off badly now. He probably also shouldn't wear one of his green suits because he knew she didn't like them. In the end, he decided on his old gray pants and vest, and a white shirt. That was the best he could do. He makes his way down to the front door, his hand on the knob, then pauses.

There was a reason she'd kept Jack's existence from him for nine whole years, longer if he wanted to count the time she was pregnant. She'd also hidden his identity from Jack himself. There might be no amount of begging and pleading that could change her mind. This might just set him up for further heartbreak, and he wasn't sure if his heart would be able to survive utter devastation a second time.

That wasn't even taking into account Jack's opinion on the whole matter. He was old enough to start resenting the fact that he didn't have a dad, and there was a very real possibility that he wouldn't want Onceler around either. A rejection from Jack might hurt worse than her outright banning him from seeing his son.

He went to sit down, scrubbing his face with his hands. What was he going to do if he couldn't do this? He'd given the seed. This was all he had left to live for, and he was taking a huge gamble that everything was going to work out okay.

Not to mention that he didn't know the first thing about how to be a parent. He hadn't spent any time with kids as an adult, or even as a teenager. And he'd been the youngest in his family so he wasn't even forced to babysit younger siblings like plenty of people he'd known in high school. He knew nothing about Jack. He didn't know Jack's likes or dislikes, his interests, or important life events. Hell, he didn't even know his own son's birthday. In terms of fatherhood, so far he had failed on every level.

The thought was almost enough to send him into a depressive spiral, weeping for days on end. Only one thing stops him.

He was only picturing the worst case scenario. It was entirely possible that she would be perfectly willing to let him into Jack's life after hearing his apology, and even Jack might be excited to finally meet his dad. There was a chance for happiness here. It was a very, very slim chance, he was aware of that, but it was a chance nonetheless. And who was he to deny his son any more than he'd already taken?

This wasn't about him. This was about Jack. He had to do what was best for Jack. He wasn't exactly sure what that was, but he did know it wasn't choosing to waste away in this house and deny his son the opportunity to even get to know him.

Keeping his mind on Jack, he found the strength to get up and go back to the door. Before he can think himself out of it again, Onceler throws it open, then stops dead in his tracks, his eyes going impossibly wide.

You're standing right there on the porch, hand raised as though you were just about to knock, also wearing a deer-in-the-headlights expression. There was truly no going back now.

#fanfiction #onceler fanfiction #onceler x reader #the lorax #the onceler #also on ao3 #onceler

[mybworlds]

Chapter 1: A little bird in a cage

Pairing: The Hound x Sansa Stark

Chapter summary: Sansa is a prisoner in King’s Landing, she is a victim of the harassment of the Lannisters; she would like to escape, but she does not know how.

Chapter warnings: violence, blood.

Thanks @vase-of-lilies for the banner

Sansa was alone, completely alone.

Her father had been killed, it was Joffrey. He accused his father as a traitor to the crown, but she knew what had led to her father's death: his principles, his honesty and his thirst for justice.

Her sister Arya was missing.

Her septa had been killed.

Her mother and her brother were considered traitors.

Sansa, in her naivety, had invoked and hoped that the one she considered her "sweet lord" would show kindness and clemency towards her family, towards her father, towards the father of the one she was supposed to marry, but this never happened. Joffrey had shown to his bride – to – be and all of King's Landing who he truly was: a monster.

A monster disguised as a king, a monster who hid well his nature with his round face, light eyes and blond hair, a monster who can hid very well if you knew how to please him.

It was an early morning, Sansa always woke up at the crack of dawn now.

Her heavy sleep, the one she had at Winterfell, was only a sweet memory.

Since that day, since that terrible day, Sansa could barely get a few hours' rest.

She looked at herself in the mirror and noticed how pale she was, how even her hair was dull.

She was turned off.

She began to brush her hair, long red tufts began to fall to the floor, doing that habitual gesture, Sansa thought that until a year ago she would never have combed her hair, she would have left the task to one of the maids, but that too was a pale memory.

Since she was living in King's Landing, she had changed, she had become even thinner and even taller, her hair had become longer, but her look was always that of a little girl too scared of everything and everyone.

The morning of King Joffrey’s name day dawned bright and windy, with the long tail of the great comet visible through the high scuttling clouds. Sansa was watching it from her tower window when Ser Arys Oakheart arrived to escort her down to the tourney grounds. “What do you think it means?” she asked him. “Glory to your betrothed,” Ser Arys answered at once. “See how it flames across the sky today on His Grace’s name day, as if the gods themselves had raised a banner in his honor. The smallfolk have named it King Joffrey’s Comet.” Doubtless that was what they told Joffrey; Sansa was not so sure. “I’ve heard servants calling it the Dragon’s Tail.” “King Joffrey sits where Aegon the Dragon once sat, in the castle built by his son,” Ser Arys said. “He is the dragon’s heir—and crimson is the color of House Lannister, another sign. This comet is sent to herald Joffrey’s ascent to the throne, I have no doubt. It means that he will triumph over his enemies.” Is it true? she wondered. Would the gods be so cruel? Her mother was one of Joffrey’s enemies now, her brother Robb another. Her father had died by the king’s command. Must Robb and her lady mother die next? The comet was red, but Joffrey was Baratheon as much as Lannister, and their sigil was a black stag on a golden field. Shouldn’t the gods have sent Joff a golden comet?

Sansa closed the shutters and turned sharply away from the window. “You look very lovely today, my lady,” Ser Arys said. “Thank you, ser.” Knowing that Joffrey would require her to attend the tourney in his honor, Sansa had taken special care with her face and clothes. She wore a gown of pale purple silk and a moonstone hair net that had been a gift from Joffrey. The gown had long sleeves to hide the bruises on her arms. Those were Joffrey’s gifts as well. When they told him that Robb had been proclaimed King in the North, his rage had been a fearsome thing, and he had sent Ser Boros to beat her. “Shall we go?” Ser Arys offered his arm and she let him lead her from her chamber. If she must have one of the Kingsguard dogging her steps, Sansa preferred that it be him. Ser Boros was short-tempered, Ser Meryn cold, and Ser Mandon’s strange dead eyes made her uneasy, while Ser Preston treated her like a lackwit child. Arys Oakheart was courteous and would talk to her cordially. Once he even objected when Joffrey commanded him to hit her. He did hit her in the end, but not hard as Ser Meryn or Ser Boros might have, and at least he had argued. The others obeyed without question . . . except for the Hound, but Joff never asked the Hound to punish her. He used the other five for that.

The young woman could now only move in that way, she was in a cage. The one in which she lived was a golden cage in which she had the illusion of being able to fly, but then there were always the beatings or the various harassments to remind her of the place in which she lived.

She arrived near the royal box on which King Joffrey, his sister Myrcella and his little brother Tommen were all excited at the idea of ​​being able to participate in the tournament in their own way, behind them towered the Hound, as imposing as he was scary as always.

"Your Highness." Sansa greeted with a short bow.

Joffrey gave her a quick look. “Sit down and let me watch the tournament!” the boy ordered her sharply, Sansa lowered her gaze and complied. Sansa hoped that sooner or later she could change her king, she deluded herself that with her gentle ways sooner or later the beast who sat on the Iron Throne could become a king worthy of the name.

“Ser Hobber of House Redwyne, of the Arbor,” the herald sang.

“Lothor Brune, freerider in the service of Lord Baelish,” cried the herald.

“Cut off his head!” King Joffrey shouted amusedly.

The two knights began a fight to the death, Sansa had never tolerated the sight of blood, she had seen very little of it, or at least until she arrived in the South. From that moment on she had seen too much blood...

She trusted that she was strong by now and had gotten used to it, but seeing that man bleeding to death made her feel deeply bad, the King laughed and actually incited the other knight to cut off his opponent's head. Far from displeasing His Grace, the other soldier obeyed and Sansa closed her eyes, placing a hand over her heart.

The sight reminded her of the execution of her father, Ned Stark.

“Is something wrong, My Lady?” Joffrey asked her with feigned interest. Sansa forced herself to open her eyes and look at the young man's face "You are very pale, is something bothering you?"

Sansa cracked a smile. “It's all right, Your Grace. I'm very warm. Could I retreat to my rooms?” he asked in the sweetest tone the girl possessed.

"Now? But how? Now Ser Hobber will bring the loser's head before me. Don't you want to please your King?”

Sansa swallowed. “As you command, Your Highness.”

Ser Hobber arrived shortly after holding the sword still dripping blood in one hand and the mercenary's head in the other, he held it out at Joffrey's feet who with a chilling smile showed it to Sansa who forced herself to endure that sight.

“Thank you for your services.” Joffrey said with a small smile.

“Ser Meryn?” continued the sovereign. “See that this head is placed on a pike.”

"Of cours, My King." the Royal Guard said without another word.

A few moments later Joffrey gave permission for the young Stark to retreat to her rooms: he had gotten what he wanted. The fear and respect of her bride – to – be.

Sansa was escorted by the Hound to her chambers, neither she nor Clegane said a word.

The girl was sincerely shocked, she understood that Joffrey was a sadist, but stupidly she kept hoping that things would get better sooner or later and instead they just got worse.

“I already gave you this advice, but perhaps the little bird didn't understand me.” he said harshly.

Sansa, head down, said, "I thought things could get better..."

Sandor laughed “Silly little bird, do you really think someone like the King can change?” the man abruptly reminded her “Either you are really stupid or you are just too naive!” he added.

The young woman lowered her head, the Hound made her uncomfortable when he called her 'little bird' or scolded her: the effect was the same.

"Look at me!" he exclaimed in an almost angry tone "Always give him what he wants and he won't hurt you, tell him no and he'll put you through hell, dare to contradict him and you'll have a decidedly unhappy time."

Sansa looked at him sadly "And take away that look, you will never have King Joffrey’s mercy!"

“How can I win him then?” Sansa dared to ask, looking at the man's unburned side.

The man laughed again “You're asking the wrong person. If you want some fucking love advice, then you should talk to one of the Queen's women, they always know what to say and when to say it.

In any case, little bird, your heart is too soft. You won't get anywhere like this. You have to learn to lie to survive.”

They arrived in front of the girl's rooms, the Hound, just before leaving her, said to her «What a pretty little thing you are. A hound smells the stench of lies, you know? Look around and smell carefully: they’re all liars here…»  then he left her alone and confused.

That evening, as well as the following evenings, Sansa did not sleep well.

She often thought about her brothers, her sister, her mother, she hoped and prayed with all her heart that they were safe or at least alive wherever they were. Sansa was afraid about her life, but also for all the people dear to her, she couldn't bear to be the last living Stark.

#the princess in the north and the hound #game of thrones #fanfic #got #game of thrones fic #game of thrones fanfiction #got fanfiction #got fic #the houndxsansa #the hound #sandor clegane #sansa x sandor #richard armitage #sophie turner

[roboraindrop]

18 for Grima~

@askthelovenest

@askthelovenest

Aaaaaa thank you for this!! I'm sorry that it's 20 years long kjsdfnk

18: Accidental Flustering

The halls of Orthanc were not particularly decked, and there was no merriment to speak of. Safe to say that things were not very merry where they were trapped, the two servants of Saruman. One served by way of his own choices, the other by way of capture. However they had ended up in the tower that stood tall in the center of Isengard did not truly matter, for both were now trapped by the white wizard's cruelty.

Grima, the one they called Wormtongue, was sick for home; A home he could no longer return to. A home that he, himself, had a hand in ruining. While he normally could fight away his fits of self-loathing for the sins he had committed- At least until nightfall, where the walls closed in around him and there was no one but him and the stars to know the depths of his treachery - This winter seemed particularly troubling for the man. Not that it particularly mattered to him; Back in Rohan, there had always been someone around to mask his sorrowed moods for. Here, in the dark halls of Orthanc, he was there to perform his duty to Saruman; Nothing more. There was none who cared whether his mood was soured.

None, that is, save for his captured counterpart. Rain, the half-elf half-dwarf with the gift of foresight, had been captured by Saruman for their gift. What could be more useful in the tides of battle than knowing your enemy's next move? Unfortunately, their gift had a few ironically unforseen snags, and they were left at the wizard's mercy. They had found a sort of solace in their misery though, an unexpected friend in Grima Wormtongue.

"What troubles you, Grima?" Rain had asked, "I see the shadows of guilt in your heart."

"What troubles me?" Grima responded slowly, still very much getting used to the idea that Rain never called him by the cruel nickname of Worm that so many had given him. He looked out towards the large window, snow falling lightly. "You know not of what was once my home," He spoke almost bitterly, words laced with a regret that he could not return, "Of the traditions we held in esteem, the celebrations that once filled the great halls with laughter. Now only echoes in my mind…"

"I see," Rain spoke with an understanding that they did not understand his guilt; Something they had found quite useful in their pursuits to get closer with Grima. "You heart is perhaps missing the winter traditions of home? I recall around this time Yule is celebrated in the north."

Grima was silent for a moment. Could he even call Rohan his home after hat he had done to it? What he had wrought? Did he even deserve to miss the feast when he had caused, directly and indirectly, so much bloodshed? "Yule…" Regardless of his guilt, he spoke the word like an old friend, "…Yes, perhaps whatever I have left of a heart is missing the feast, and the celebration."

"We should have our own feast, then! Our own celebration!"

Grima blinked, the suggestion sudden and enthusiastic from his smaller companion. They were always so full of energy. "A feast? A celebration? Here?" He could have laughed, were it not for how genuinely excited they seemed to be, "What feast could we have here, with such little supplies? What warmth or laughter could fill these halls? It will never be."

"It will not be the same as you remember," Rain admitted, a smile on their countenance, "But I foresee a warm hearth, and good company."

"How…? How can such mirth exist here?"

"You leave that to me."

--

That was how the two ended up now inside of Rain's chambers, a fire in the hearth, a small feast of various gathered foods, and a bottle of wine between the two of them. His guilt still ate at him, but the air of bitterness had seemed to fall from Grima at the display Rain put forth; Even the walls were decorated with some makeshift garland, and hand-crafted holly. He dared not question them on where they found it.

"I know this is not home," Rain said softly, approaching him and placing a hand upon his arm, "But for the night, will it suffice?"

Grima felt the warmth of fire's glow on his face, surely a direct result of the lit hearth and nothing more. "This display…" He found himself getting a bit choked up, which he tried desperately to fight against, clearing his throat, "You have put much work into this, I see. It… Will suffice."

The half-elf smiled then, "If you will feast with me, I shall sing for you."

Grima's expression was one of slight shock. He hadn't expected this much from Rain, not in the least. At a loss for much of anything else to say, he simply nodded. "I would feast by your side any day."

The two ate, and after the sound of song filled the air. Rain's voice was as unique as they were; Not as graceful as a full-blooded ef, though not as clunky or brash as a full-blooded dwarf. They were somewhere in-between, and Grima found that he enjoyed that immensely. They were different, different like him. He clapped when they finished their song, a rare genuine smile upon his face.

This smile made Rain light up like the fire, their eyes not leaving his face. How they longed to see that smile more often!

"Your song is beautiful," The man admitted, "I would hear more, if you should wish."

"You're beautiful," Rain echoed, their eyes still locked on his smiling face. At the realization of what they'd said, their face began to turn red, and they stammered, "I-I mean…! I didn't mean…! I only meant…" The wine must have been getting to them, they thought, seeming to forget that the bottle had not yet been opened.

Grima seemed to freeze at their words. Had they really just said what he thought hey had? Did they call him… Beautiful? He once again felt the heat of the flames on his face, "Y-you speak nonsense," He replied, a bit of color to his pale cheeks, "There is no beauty to a man like myself."

Rain seemed to compose themself at this, looking at him with their head tilted at an angle. "No beauty to a man like you?" Oh, if he only knew… Suddenly, their very bones ached with the desire to tell him, to show him, to make him see just what they saw in him. "My dearest Grima," They shook their head, "It may have been a slip of the tongue, but I was right in saying what I said."

Their words. They were always so free with their damn words. It got under his skin in a way that Grima couldn't quite explain. It wasn't an annoyance, so much as a… Jealously. Why should they get to speak so freely, when expressing his feelings felt like forcing a solid through a sieve? "You… You speak with a drunken tongue," He said quickly, "The alcohol makes your judgement weak."

"No alcohol has passed my lips," They assured, "And I believe I have more to say."

Grima remained silent, his mouth going dry as his eyes darted across their face. What more could they possibly say? The man was already quite flustered.

"You think yourself irredeemable, Grima, but you are not so evil." These words struck him, and he felt as if his chest were caving in as they spoke. what right did they have to make him feel like this? "You have made mistakes, used poor judgement, had a weak will. This does not make you evil. I see goodness in your heart, that is the root of your sadness and regret. Those are the hallmarks of a good man."

"You know not of what you speak," Grima said, his tone warning, but wavering, as if there were tears just below the surface, aching to make their way out, "I have done terrible things. I am a worm."

"You are a man," They said gently, taking a step forward and reaching up to cup his face in their warm hands, "You are deserving of kindness, of love. You deserve forgiveness. Especially your own."

"Rain…" Grima spoke their name softly, a whisper on his lips, "How can you see such things in me?"

"I have eyes," They said simply, "As long as I have eyes to see, I will see your heart…" They used one of their hands to brush some hair from his face, tucking the strand behind his ear. "I will see who you are, truly, and I will love you regardless."

" Love?" The man scoffed, betraying the softness that he felt in the moment. He could have gazed at Rain and their sweet yellow eyes forever. "You speak of love so casually."

"I do," They answered, "Only because I feel it so strongly. You, Grima," They returned their hand to his cheek, where their thumb rubbed gentle circles, "Are deserving of all of the love that I have to offer. Even if you were not, I would still offer it."

"Then you are a fool."

"Let me be a fool, then. Let me be the fool who loves you."

With no words left to argue, Grima closed his eyes and started to feel like maybe, there in the warm glow of the firelight, he could start to believe them.

#Rain writes things #Ask Game #Slithering Sycophant #Love in a Hopeless Place #selfship #Self shipping

[daffodilsm]

                                      𝐃𝐫𝐨𝐩 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐝, 𝐌𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧 !                                                                                      ɹnoɟ ɹǝʇdɐɥɔ

pairing: eddie munson  x  female  reader   trigger warnings: mentions of death, grief, ptsd, blood, and gore tags: kas!eddie, canon adjacent, lovers to strangers, strangers to enemies, enemies to lovers again, st5 imagined, ronance, byler summary: the truth of hawkins and eddie’s “death” is finally revealed to you word count: 3443 status: ongoing read on ao3: here ! masterlist:   🦇

“ We should have waited for the others. ”

“ God, I can’t watch this. ”

“ Them being here wouldn’t have made any difference. ”

“ Shit… ”

“ That was the right thing, right? We did the right thing by telling her? Or… shit, are we just involving her like we did Eddie? ”

“ Jesus Christ, she can hear us… ”

“ Guys, you need to calm down. She saw him — we had to tell her. ”

“ Yeah, but about everything? ”

“ This one thing wouldn’t make any sense without everything else. ”

“ Yeah, you can’t skip from A New Hope to Return of the Jedi without context. ”

“ By the way, where the hell is Byers? ”

“ Argyle was in the middle of making a pizza, they have to wait for him to finish. ”

“ What? Why? ”

“ Why? As if anything with Argyle comes with a logical explanation? ”

“ Yeah, well…”

“ We should check in on her, right? When I first found out about all this shit I thought barf was gonna come out my butt. And no one I loved came back to life like a freaking zombie either. I’m gonna check in on her… I just… can’t stand by and watch people cry without doing something. ”

“ Maybe you shouldn’t… ”

“ So we just let her cry? ”

“ Yeah… no...  maybe? ”

“ I really thought this couldn’t get any worse. ”

“ Are you positive El can’t make it tonight? ”

“ I’ve tried… no chance. No chance. ”

“ Shit… shit ! ”

“ Guys ! ”

Amidst the garble of their conversation, hushed whispers that weren’t really all that hushed, there was a ringing your ears that wouldn’t go away. A high pitched drone you clung to with your exhausted focus. Your brain imagining the sound as a timeline in which you went through the past few years and all that has occurred. Pinning each event in the order in which they relayed it to you... making sense of it the best way you could.

They had told you everything --- everything and it took fifteen minutes for your head to stop reeling. The truth of what happened when the kid --- Will --- went missing, Barb, Hargrove and the mall fire... that wasn’t actually a fire at all, the thing they called the Upside Down that was full of monsters and demons... where Eddie died. And a girl --- Eleven --- who had superpowers. A real Carrie come out of Stephen King’s novel.  

Eddie’s death had been the last event, followed by the opening of these gates by this villain; Vecna slash Henry slash One. It explained what had occurred to Hawkins these past few years so well. The disappearances, the earthquake... a real life curse striking the once safe, mundane town. It was Indiana for heavens sake. How could a fantasy possibly be their reality? And it felt too cruel... that the boy who wished to run off into a fantasy to escape the harsh reality that was his life would finally get it just for it to kill him. Eddie...

When you finally turned to them, their voices hush into a heavy silence. Several pairs of eager, concerned eyes staring into your own. Your hues more than raw; blood shot. Your face had become a stained glass window, created by tears streaking down dirty features in faint shattering lines. One too many rocks having been thrown at you. Robin sucked a breath through gritted teeth upon the sight.

“ Can I take a bath? ”  You finally speak. The question you asked not one of the million they expected you to have. As, during their explanation, you had not talked at all. It felt like you didn’t even breathe. The words and breath from your lungs stolen. It was the same way you would take in and react to Eddie’s campaigns. Whereas then you hung on by excitement, now you held on in hopelessness. 

“ Of course, it’s this way. ”  Nancy took charge while the others only blinked and passed worried glances to one another. 

Following Nancy, she led you up the stairs from the basement all of you had descended within. You had taken notice of the set up when you first went down. Piles of blankets were prepared on the couch, as if the Wheelers were always expecting company to stay over. There were D&D drawings lining the walls, reminding you so much of Eddie’s poorly done sketches of characters and maps he would prepare for Hellfire. What grabbed you the most however was how his picture was even there, taken straight from the yearbook and taped on the wall. Your fingertips had run along his features while no one looked, pausing briefly at the words scrawled crudely at the bottom. 

                                              OUR HERO

Now you know the truth of his death... almost death? It made your body ache, because it was so like Eddie. You loved him... love him --- but you never put him through rose colored glasses. He would’ve hated that. Eddie always having had the strong belief that if a person wasn’t flawed then they weren’t human. Eddie had run away as he always had. He ran away from reality. Ran away from his future. Ran away from his responsibilities. It wasn’t physically running away, but he had gone a thousand miles before running away from the tragedy of Chrissy Cunningham. 

And the one time he chose not to run... 

The flicking on of the bright fluorescent light of the bathroom draws you back. Nancy, watching you anxiously from her peripherals, adjusting the temperature of the water before letting it run and run; slowly filling up the tub. Reaching into one of the cabinets, she pulled out a light yellow bath towel, gently handing it over. 

“ Take all the time you need... ” She says before slipping out the door and closing it shut. 

The silence washes over you. Your heart beat in your ears as you take in the feeling of finally being alone. All of your grief put on such display that now, when alone, there was nothing left to feel. Your only hope being the steaming water will distill you, removing this pain with every droplet. 

Layer after layer, you peel away your sticky and sweat through clothes before stepping slowly into the water. The temperature hot enough to draw a much needed breath from your chest before you slowly let it overtake you. Once clean and pure water becoming slightly darker as the dirt and grime of the day is washed away. You soak in deeper. 

                                                          🥀

“ What do you think our future will be like? ”  Eddie asked, catching you completely by surprise. Eddie Munson, the person who lives purely in the now with little care of the consequences, talking about his future was a sure sign that something was wrong. 

You shift within the bath, head turning against his chest to look him in the eyes. The concern you had from the question was written right between his eyebrows, worrying you. And at your glance, his grip around your waste tightens as if you’d slip right down the drain... into the land of Freddy Kreuger where teenagers don’t ever get a future. Graduation was only a few weeks away. Finals were even closer, and he was scared. It was plain to see. 

“ Probably boring. ”  Naively, you try to joke in a way that he usually would, pressing a kiss to the underneath of his chin.

“ I’m serious. I know, me serious for once, it’s a miracle. But... what if I don’t graduate... again? ”  His voice is heavy in a way that is rare. This tone usually saved for after visitations with his father at the jail, or when his father gets out then inevitably goes back in. 

You use his knees that were locked around you as leverage to lift up and turn. Without the warmth of his chest against your back, your body shivers from how cool the water had become without you noticing. 

“ You’re going to graduate, Eddie. You’ve worked your ass off this past semester. ”

“ And if I don’t? ”

“ Don’t say that.. ”

“ Just trying to be realistic. ”

“ Reality is for the hopeless who are too stupid to create anything better. ”

“ Don’t quote me to me, ”  he sighs, though completely amused. His tattooed arms reach out to wrap around and draw you back. “ I don’t want to disappoint you. ”  His breath presses against your ear, stirring the partly dry baby hairs that strayed there. 

“ That’s not possible. ”  You quickly responded, believing it to be the truth. 

“ Yeah, well... never say never, right? ” 

“ Stop it. ”  The words carry into a silence. Neither of you speaking because both of you knew what this was. Eddie was preparing for the worst case scenario... running away again towards the nearest escape that would cause the least amount of damage. There were no healing potions or magic spells to make everything perfect, so the best option was to get the hell out of dodge. 

Eddie hurting himself, that was fine. Hurting you? That was the worst thing he believed he could do. Because in his eyes, you had a chance at life. Supportive, though overbearing, parents were at your every will with money to spare. You were smart and dedicated to your studies, always getting decent enough grades in school to never have to worry about getting in anywhere. Not to mention your talent. A voice, he has said, that was sculpted by Apollo himself. 

Whereas Eddie viewed himself as nothing but autumn leaves crushed in the gutter. Crumpled, broken, and whisked away by the stream of life down the drain into the underworld. Here and then forgotten. His mother was long gone. Eddie never even knowing her name until he was six years old. When his father and uncle were fighting in the kitchen as he was meant to be sleeping on the couch. His father in and out of prison. The reputation he left behind for his son, with the same brown mousy locks and large eyes, setting him up for constant failure and prejudice. All his life Eddie being told he’d be nothing just as his father was nothing. Nothing but white trash. Hearing that enough times, he believed it so much to be true he gave up at school. 

You were the only one to make him feel... better. As if maybe life didn’t have to be shitty. And he knew somehow, in the future, he’d lose you. He’d mess it all up. There was a clock, chiming loudly in his ear, ticking down to the end of it all: graduation. He could feel it so deeply it his core. The end was coming soon and then he’d really have nothing left. And what’s worse is... he believed, with his every fiber, that it’d be for the best. There’d be nothing more loving than letting you go. 

“ I love you, ”  you whisper. Needing him to hear it. But all it does is make him love you more and hate himself just as much. 

“ I love you too, babe. ”

                                                         🥀

A rushing gargle of water flowing down the drain is behind you as you step out into the hallway, the yellow towel wrapped around your frame and wet strands sticking against your neck. You felt exposed, definitely. Though that seemed better than putting filthy clothes back on after finally getting clean.

“ Nancy? ”  You called, walking towards the only other light in your vicinity. The kitchen. Mike and Dustin choking on their sandwiches as you walk in. “ Where’s your sister? ”  You ask Mike, though there isn’t much time for him to answer as Nancy bounds up the stairs after hearing your call. 

“ Is everything okay? ”

“ Do you have any spare clothes? ”  Your eyes glance down her frame and turn to Mike to do the same, taking a deep inhale. “ Or does your Dad? ”

“ Yeah, ”  she smiles timidly, giving a small shake of tightly, curled strands “ just a second. ”

When she left the space in search of clothes, you turned back towards the two boys. Their eyes looking every which way, avoiding you at all costs. Cute. You immediately seeing in them what Eddie must’ve seen. Nobody easily got into Hellfire without having that special something.

It made your chest ache as you recalled Dustin’s story. Eddie’s last moments. In front of you was the last person to see him alive... who saw his pain... who carried a harrowing memory at such a young age. 

“ Thank you... for loving him. ”

Their eyes finally perk up at your surprising words, though nothing else needed to be said. Dustin nodded his head slightly and Mike glanced down, giving his own little nod. Both of them knew what it meant. 

“ No thanks needed. He loved us first, ”  Dustin replied, solemnly. 

“ He was our hero long before the Upside Down, ”  Mike added.

Those words again carried significant weight. Our hero. You knew that it was Mike who scrawled those words beneath his picture. You knew it was Dustin who Eddie died for. He had loved them so much, you saw. And you vowed to do the same. 

“ Here you go. ”  Nancy returned, handing you some college football t-shirt and draw string pajama shorts. 

“ Thanks. ”  Stepping back into the bathroom, you quickly changed. Taking the quick chance, you looked at yourself in the mirror. Eyes were still red, though less so. Your eyes appeared sunken --- so tired after the events of the day and revelation that Hawkins was no longer just a metaphorical hellscape. It was so much to take in. You wondering if Eddie had felt the same when he had learned about the Upside Down and demogorgons and Vecna. 

Then and there you made the choice to stop being distraught. Instead, you were no longer Y/N. You were Lady Hope once more. Immediately upon conjuring this alternative version of yourself did your mind get to work. Eddie’s previous words flooding your mind.

“ This is your last warning, considering your ignoring of the first. Bring him Eleven or things will get very, very ugly. ”

While you now knew who Eleven was ( and equally that the he was in reference to Vecna slash Henry slash One ) there was no mention of the first warning in the breakdown of their situation. And having met Mike and Dustin, two of the more important people in Eddie’s life after you had broken up, the idea of him working for Vecna made no sense... unless. Shit.

It was an explosion within your mind, nearly knocking you backwards. This was bad. Very, very bad. Your hand reaches like a lightning bolt towards the bathroom doorknob. Pausing, only, as frantic voices carried from the other side.

Grabbing the handle, you pull it open and rush to the kitchen. Mike, Dustin, and Nancy were huddled around one of the hand-held radios. Steve, Robin, and Erica bounding up from the basement after hearing the same commotion you did.

“ Argyle, what? What’s going on? Over ! ”  Mike yelled into the radio. 

A Californian accent replied, “ Brochacos this is bad. Domino’s pizza bad, man. It’s like the night of the living dead out here man. Indiana is so not cool. ”  There were tire screeches in the driveway. Everyone rushing towards the door as a giant, pizza van sped up onto the grass. 

“ Good thing, Mom, Dad, and Holly are at move night at the community center, right? ”

“ Right... ”  Nancy choked on a breath, running to the door and opening it. Three bodies then rushing in the door; two falling against the floor in a fumble of limbs while the smaller one was grabbed and taken into Mike’s arms. Mike’s tall frame helping the other catch his footing. As eyes looked up beneath a rounded hair cut, you recognize the features immediately. Posters of his face plastered all around town just years prior. Will Byers. 

“ What happened? ”  Steve says, dreading the answer to his own question. Him and Robin both reaching down and helping the two older boys up. 

“ Bob ! Bob happened. ”  Will revealed. Every breath then catching in their throats except for you and Robin. Both of you looking at each other before finally placing the name in the list of events on the timeline. 

“ What does he mean by Bob happened, Jonathan? ”  Nancy turned to her boyfriend, eyes wide and hands shaking at her sides. 

“ He was in the road on the way here... standing, alive. ”  Tears had also sprung from his eyes. The effects of seeing Bob alive just as strong on him as it had been on Will, who clung to Mike. 

“ That’s not possible. ” She whispers. 

“ It was possible with Eddie. ”  You say. Three new pairs of eyes glance at you, look away, and do a double take. Jonathan is the only one who recognizes you.

“ Now who’s this babe? ”

“ No, Eddie is different. His body was left in the Upside Down. Bob died years ago. ”  Nancy rushes towards the kitchen window, drawing back the curtain and peering outside. “ Did everybody see him or only Will? ” She turns back, hands still clutched around the small, linen curtain. 

Jonathan seems somewhat flustered by this. “ No, we all saw him. Not just Will. It wasn’t Vecna this time. ”

This time? 

Nancy winces as she tries to make sense of this. Turning back towards the window, a hand is pressed against the glass. A scream then ripping from Nancy’s throat as she falls backwards, Robin catching her just before her head could hit the floor. All eyes looking up towards the glass. Just past pressed fingertips were tattered, plaid sleeves, thick rimmed glasses, and a short red mess of hair. 

Barbara. 

A twisted smile upon her ghosted features, black goo spilling from her eyes that were tinted red. A hand reaches back, then quickly and repeatedly pounds against the glass. Nancy screams continue, sending chills down your spine as you felt helpless in the situation. 

“ Get her out of here ! ”  Steve yells towards Robin, a spiked bat suddenly in his hands. Robing immediately complying, pulling the other girl up and wrapping an arm around the now inconsolable Nancy Wheeler before directing her down into the basement. 

The others moved just as quickly. Grabbing whatever they could into their arms and rushing towards the door. Following suit, you rush after them, stepping out into the dark spring night. 

The once, very dead, Barbara had stepped back from the window, crossing the yard to where other figures waited.

A green and gold letterman’s jacket. A skinny frame with scars across his face. A cheerleader’s uniform. A near sea of lab coats and Russian uniforms. Barbara. Bob.

And Eddie.  

“ Dustin ? Dustin ! We have a situation here. It’s Billy ! It’s Billy ! ”  A voice cries over the walkie talkie before crackling out into silence.

Your chest heaves as the scene plays out before you. Your eyes floating figure by figure until meeting Eddie’s crimson hues. They cut against the grass and dig into your skull.

Beats within your chest race faster and it’s as if he can hear it. A pointed, sideways grin floating his lips before they suddenly lean and lock with the lips of the once deceased Chrissy Cunningham. 

Steve, Dustin, Mike, and Erica glancing towards your stunned framed. Your vision unable to move as their lips continued to collide and a metal laded hand grabbed at her thighs. 

You gulp, enraged. 

“ That’s not Eddie. ”  The words force themselves out through gritted teeth.

“ W-what? ”  Dustin stutters.

“ It’s Kas... Kas the Bloody-Handed. ”

“ Shit. ”  Mike curses.

“ Shit. ”  Dustin repeats.

Eddie looks up at the name. Head tilted up and lips drawn apart in an impressed grin. There’s a pause in the air, everyone on edge, waiting for whatever would happen next. Eddie then takes a step forward, the grass dying beneath the heel of his boot.

“ Roll for initiative. ”

                                                     🦇  

please let me know if you enjoyed this HERE or if you have any suggestions, questions, or things you want to see !  follow the tag  #dropdeadmunson for updates !  and use it to share your thoughts too <3  also please like and reblog <3 this helps me a lot !

𝐣𝐨𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 !

@sopiyaaasstuff  /  @neenieweenie  /  @darlingbravebelle /  @kennashere101  /  @riffcrusader  /  @alluring-deceptixnn   /  @mvnsons-slvt  /  @bluegalaxyprime  /  @delightfulwizardwizard /  @bxtch-bou  /  @xhaleesii  /  @eddiesbirdie  /  @bellamyyblakee /  @marymun  /  @alexlupij /  @zombiedixon89  /  @sl-tfor-joseph-quinn  /  @swthxrry  /  @scrumptiouslyangrystarfish  /  @chaoticyuna  /  @leikelle  /  @local-bxbby  /  @library-anarchist  /  @trashboat-the-raccoon  /  @rueinpeace  /  @reignthereigner  / @maneswrites  /   @soulspirited  /  @fuzzymelanie​  / 

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson imagine #joseph quinn #eddie stranger things #stranger things fanfic #dropdeadmunson #drop dead munson #ronance #byler #eddie munson smut

[bionicdogs]

time for a brief moment of late night vulnerability:

i find it pretty cruel that angel came into our family as a birthday present for me and she died the day after my birthday. now granted, we didn’t actually get her on my birthday. she was born in january and came home in march, the product of an oops litter where my mom’s coworker didn’t realize her male was old enough to breed (yeah…). i was too young for her to really be my dog anyway.

it stings. it feels like my birthday is always going to be overshadowed now by her loss. august 21st is still weird for me, and this year will be three years since biscuit died.

i miss her. so, so much. i haven’t been able to vacuum her hair out of my truck from her vet visit where we learned she was bleeding internally and made the decision to let her go that same day. her nose prints are still on my windows. her soft toys and tennis balls are still safely tucked away where the boys can’t get them (we took them out for her every day when the boys got put up). her hair is still in the vacuum. the day after she died i went and got step stones to put over her grave, and got enough to redo biscuit’s at the same time to match. the stones haven’t started to sink yet, though i know they will and mounded the dirt the stones to account for that. i ordered her actual gravestone today. black granite, it will have her photo engraved in it.

we leave for a beach camping trip at the end of the month, our third time going. they have an excellent dog beach there. angel was supposed to go. she had a brand new harness and collar just to play in the water. she wore the harness once, and only wore the collar the day she died.

booker’s separation anxiety has skyrocketed. he’s destroyed a few household things which is something he’s never done before, even as a puppy. i don’t think he understands why angel isn’t home.

i haven’t been able to sleep. i fall asleep around 2 am because i’m not tired and i wake up again at 6:30, a full 30 minutes before my alarm. i’m not tired throughout the day; i don’t nap. there was a storm a couple days after she died, and i couldn’t sleep then because she hated storms and she was out there all alone.

i’m so glad i made that instagram account for booker. it pushed me take pictures and videos of everything. i have 222 pictures of biscuit on my phone, starting in 2017 to when he died in 2020. from 2017 to 2023 of angel, i have 1,419 pictures and videos. I got into proper photography because i had so few pictures of biscuit, and i wanted more than that for angel. i’m so glad i did. i’ve never been much of a picture taking person. it always felt awkward at best and rude at worst. i don’t care anymore. moments are fleeting but these pictures will last very long time and i intend to treasure them for years to come.

god i miss her. i miss her smell and her oh so soft fur. i wonder if the birds and the squirrels will notice they will no longer have her loose fur from being brushed to build their nests with. no one ever talks about the little things. booker is eating her food because it was dumped into a secondary container and couldn’t be donated. he’s eating out of her elevated feeder because it’s part of our dog feeding and watering setup and can’t just go away. he’s still confused about it. for almost three years he wasn’t allowed to eat out of that bowl, and he doesn’t understand why he can now.

i trim the boys’ nails and i think about how angel would be so happy i’m not doing her next. there’s nearly a full bottle of her ear cleaner in the bathroom. i bought a force dryer to make it easier to dry her after baths and swimming and only got to use it on her once. i have a slicker brush and comb that i used on her that i can’t use on the boys, their fur is too short. what of her boots, her lick sleeve, her leash. what do i do with her xanax. booker can take her other meds, he takes them anyway, but the xanax? do i just let it rot in the dog medicine organizer? take it to a pharmacist? eventually her food container will be empty, what do i do with it then? it has her name written on it.

#if you read that whole thing i’m sorry

[senchou-presidente]

Somewhere, but not here

Netherlands | Canada

“I want to promise him that I will pick him back up when he’s fallen apart into pieces.”

Even for a Nation – a being rooted in the distant past, the ever-changing present and the centuries of human abstraction in between – dreams were never bound to the feeble limits of their reality. But when Lars Dijkman tightened his grip around the boy in his arms, time did not stop to freeze the myriad of colours blossoming through his tattered clothes. There was no paradise to fly to, no void to fall through until one of them opened their eyes. Only a cold stone cross to lean against as he quelled a storm of shivers with his embrace.

He brushed thin blonde locks, damp with sweat, away from the boy’s eyes with a gentle motion. Turns out they were already wide open, staring indignantly, and the curved furrow of thick eyebrows made Lars wonder why Matthew Williams wasn’t much more grateful.

“This upsets you, for some reason.” He trailed off. Seeing that Matthew was alright, tired rather than hurt, he took his eyes off him for the first time in hours.

“I don’t understand.” 

The reply was bitter, albeit in the Canadian fashion, where the words never felt quite as oppressive as the silence that came after. It burned into Lars’s mind and he turned away, ashamed of how watching him struggle from afar had ignited him with such selfishness. To be carried miles from a place to call home, while witnessing its destruction unravel like the aftermath of the atomic bomb – how cruel of a fate it was. 

“You could’ve just let me wait, couldn’t you?” Crueller still was the head bumping against the nook of his chest, almost exasperatedly, but the way it nuzzled into him said otherwise. “In a few minutes, it’ll be like we all never existed anyway.”

“And you can call that existing?” What came out of Lars’s mouth was hardly delicate, but flowed naturally nonetheless. There was a sudden burst of resolve, and from the awkward quiver of his voice, Matthew could tell it wasn’t something he was used to. 

He managed a chuckle. Without looking up, he knew that it wasn’t a good look for someone so morose and taciturn, obsessed down to the minutiae of expenditures and meal choices. “You sound like Germany.”

“It’s not the same.” Lars rolled his eyes. “What I mean, is –”

“I get it, I really do.” Matthew stretched out a hand and gripped the sleeves of Lars’s fine renaissance jacket. Except it wasn’t – details were missing, from the creases at joints to fingernails, as an intangible blackness ate away at its form. “You’ve built it better than I ever could, alright? Please, just let it go – ”

“Oh for god’s sake, it’s not your ridiculous leaf that I can’t let go.”

They were looking squarely at each other now, the icy violet of Matthew’s pupils growing ever rheumier in fear and gratitude. All too much at once for his beloved, who heard the despair straining the softness of his voice loud and clear and realised that now was a time to be more selfish than ever.

Lars nestled his face into the nook of his shoulder, and whispered. “It’s you.” 

The tightness around his forearm eased, and fingers slid between this. 

This was Matthew, the itch of a warm sweater in the harshest winter, and the formidable torrents of ice and snow beyond the windows. The beginning, and the end of him for years to come. 

“I won’t let you live just for the moment you disappear.”

And he would pick him back up, every time he’s fallen apart to pieces, to make sure it stayed that way for many years more. 

A change in the air prompted them both to look up, to see that the white expanse had been encroaching upon them this entire time. The most stunning pixelated lands, forged by blood and sweat, could not resist a sweet, gradual release into the nothingness beyond. Lars winced. That included his windmills, the elegant line parade of provincial symbols and Mr. Van Gogh. 

Matthew simply looked on, mesmerised, as if a part of him had just been set free. “Honestly? Right now, I think that’s all I need.” 

Lars was rather confused, for he had never heard the true end of that sentence. 

Somewhere, they would awaken far from this place carved between sleep and wakefulness, beauty and chaos. Beside each other in the mundane cycle of UN meetings or next to each other in bed, fingers still interlocked as they were. Somewhere, but not here, when they are whole again, he will tell him: 

Back then, that was all I needed, because you were here with me.

--

Some have visited a canvas before.

A place where togetherness has created more.

Now in numbers far greater, taking more space,

It falls upon you to make a better place.

#hetalia world series #hetalia #hetalia world stars #hws canada #hws netherlands #nedcan

[swanofsnow]

“ I think the most important thing a person needs in this life, is a best friend.”

The doctor had come again, to reassure Lena they were doing everything to make her mother comfortable. But Nichola was refusing specific herbs or medicine to help ease her pain. She claimed, she had abused them when she was younger, and she made a promise to Maxim she would never take them again. Once Lena was settled in her chair, she smiled listening to the story of Aunt Deidre.

“ You, need to understand the women in this family come from a long line of strong independent women. Your aunt, was the strongest and most loving person I ever met. She was a guard, during a time were women were often looked down upon, she had to work twice as hard to earn their respect. But she was the best among all the men, and the men would follow her every command. At one point, Doar went through a terrible war. Your grandmother also had passed away, and Thousands came to attend her funeral, and a few months later your aunt Deidre arrived. I offered her a position, and place in my court. For the first time, I felt like myself again. We used to spend all night laughing, and telling stories to each other. I remember, this one specific night she told me about a man she was growing strong feelings for, his name was Vergil.”

Lena inched closer “ The same Vergil, that they wanted to be a suitor for you?” As she inched even closer, Nichola took another deep breathe. “ The same one.. they were in love, and I saw the way she was opening up more and smiling. Your aunt did not smile in public back than, but than something dreadful happened. Something, cruel. Vergil, than fell in love with another, Autumn.”

Lena stood from her chair, her eyes widen “ YOUR DAUGHTER!! Momma what did you do??”

Nichola turned her head this time towards the window “ I was very unhappy. . My best friend had been left and was heartbroken, and my daughter was now, happy, and soon to be married. She invited even John to come to the Castle to give him the news. One night at dinner.. we were all sitting together as a family, and I just snapped. I had never yelled that way before, but I yelled at Autumn. I yelled at her about how much I was angry at her, and how could she does this to me, to Deidre. I.. asked her to leave, I.. asked her to leave and I didn’t speak to her for a very long time. She wrote to me for years, letters, asking for forgiveness. But it was very hard to forgive.. that kind of betrayal, that sort of thing.. it’s hard to even say today whether or not I can let it go. I loved her very much, but I made it very clear I did not support her choices. Eventually, we eased bsck into a relationship, but we kept in common, one single interest, your brother Ryan.” She grew quiet for a few minutes, remembering seeing Deidre heartbroken, and remembering her last words with Autumn.

Lena, breathed heavy. She had never seen her mother so upset by a situation, she could only imagine what it was like back than. She watched her mother recompose herself “ But, God works in mysterious ways, your mother found her way to Maxim. He saved her, and she saved him. Oh, she was certainly a referee when it came to fighting between me and your uncle. I remember she would extend her arms so wide to keep us from reaching out to each other. I owe her a life’s debt and more, because it was your aunt idea that i should fill my quiet and empty halls with music, I hired musicians, artist to fill the halls, and she wrote to your father to come to the palace. That’s another story, I promise your father will be my last story.” She raised her pinky, as Lena took it, locking them together. “ So, is this when Riley was born?” Lena smiled curiously “ as Nichola shook her head no. That’s when Lena realized, her mother was missing details in her story.

“ You forgot about the handsome prince!” She yelled at her mother, returning to her chair. As a frazzled nichola, smacked her own head. “ Oh, yes Uriel!” She shook her head, adjusting herself. “ well, like I said a very young, and dashing prince had arrived at the castle and his name was Prince Uriel of Paraíso. Lena, the way, this man looked at me.. oh my heart would stop. I would have to remind myself to breathe, when I was near him. He was very dashing, and at one point he and I, we. . Became very close. There is a beautiful lagoon hidden in the mountains, it’s said to be able to heal all wounds. My father used to say, it could even heal a broken heart. I used to take Uriel there, and together we would talk endless about everything. I remember, I took him there one night and I told him, that i was pregnant. I’ve never seen him so happy, but that happiness was short lived.”

Nichola reached for her handkerchief, coughing into it. As she lowered it, seeing the blood. She tucked it into a pillow. “ there was a powerful, witch. A woman named Gwendolyn Blaine, and she was very angry at my family. One night she came into the castle and put a poison into my drink. I felt sick, slowly, like I was slipping into a quicksand. Before I knew it, I was unable to walk, or even hold up a fork. That one day, I just completely passed out. I was this beautiful sleeping doll. The doctor felt it was best not to move me, so they tended for me, and cared for me. But everyone was worried about the baby. So, they decided to bring it into the world.” Fingertips moved to the scar she still had in her lower belly. “ just before the moon rised, a second child was brought into this world, another boy.  Uriel and I, had already knew a name for him, Tristian.” She smiled remembering how they picked the name. “ But Gwendolyn, was cruel, and she stole Tristian from the nursery hours after he was born. Uriel, dedicated the rest of his life to find him, and ensuring he was protected. While I was still recovering, the council saw my inability to rule, and gave the crown to your brothers Ryan, who had just turned six.”

Lena eyes widen again, listening to the details of her brothers kidnapping, and how her other brother was crowned king. “ But, you woke up.. you should have been able to reclaim your crown. They let a six year old maintain the power, that’s ridiculous. “ Lena began to huff. As Nichola nodded and began to explain “ I .. underestimated your brother affect on people, and his ability to convince others of things. Your brother had some credible people backing his case, his godparents , were powerful queen and kings in other countries. They would remain our alliances, so long as he remained on the throne. Like I said Lena, having a boy on the throne is more powerful than a girl back than. So, I couldn’t reclaim what was mine, I was now the Kings mother. And, I accepted whatever poison, whatever drink, and whatever man each night that could fill my soul with interest. I was heartbroken, humiliated and absolutely broken. Believe me when I say, people tried to have me wake up from the nightmare I was in. John, who was now sober and clean tried to renew my strength. Reminding me, that we were still legally married. Gordon, Ryan’s father encouraged me to find an outlet. But It was no use, not, until like I said earlier — we invited musicians and artist to the palace and I met your father. Now, I’m going to save you the details.. because the relationship I had with your father was beautiful. It’s important we get to him shortly, but.. what I need you to remember is this important detail. Your father and I, got pregnant .. we were expecting to have twins. I was so nervous and anxious to get another chance to finally be a good mother, to finally get a chance to have this beautiful relationship… and Lena .. I fucked it up.”

Part 2 of friendship with Deidre coming soon!!

#the saga is long but will continue