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disneyprincemuke · 3 months

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never grow up * fem!driver

a collection of stories of when she first started out in the paddocks to the end of the season

pairings: sebastian vettel x fem!driver

word count: 4.7k

notes: hey i started this last tuesday and jusT finished it because i had the longest week known to mankind LMFAO

(series masterlist)

pre-season testing, 2023

sebastian is almost knocked back at the sudden presence of another in what he assumed was going to be an empty garage.

test session wasn’t for another couple of hours. but there, at the far end of the garage’s exit towards the pit, sat the driver. she sits on the floor, slouched over as her legs are crossed over one another.

“you’re early!”

“i couldn’t sleep,” she answers almost immediately. she turns her head to get a glance at sebastian. she gives him a small smile before turning away again to face the empty pit and grandstands. “i figured i should just sit here and take it all in.”

he smiles, closing the door behind him. he manoeuvres in and stops right next to her. he puts his hands on his hips. “i know, right? i didn’t sleep well days leading up to my rookie year either.”

she turns her head and furrows her eyebrows. “i didn’t think someone like you got nervous.”

“oh, i was terrified,” he laughs, finally bending down and dropping himself on the concrete floor next to her. “but i can only imagine the nerves, especially in your circumstance.”

“yeah, a woman in formula 1.” when he turns to look at her, she’s fiddling around with her thumbs. “first of its kind in decades.”

she laughs dryly before leaning back, resting her hands against the gravel. years ago, following her friends into formula 3 seemed like the biggest feat. then eventually, prema took a chance on her and threw her into formula 2 with the big guys.

even then, racing on the track and sharing the paddocks with bigger names like max verstappen and fernando alonso, formula 1 still seemed so far away. with good reason too, considering that her promotion announcement had been torn apart and overanalysed by the media.

everything, from mid december to early february, everyone had been tearing her apart.

but sebastian has been watching her since she started racing in f3 in place of oscar, after moving up to f2. she’s a joy to watch on the track.

and while he’s put away his years of being a villain to the public eye, he lives to prove everyone wrong. his first year as a race engineer, and then to have a woman as his driver? he would love to see it.

he is confident in the way she holds herself behind the wheel of a race car. there’s no doubt she’s a world champion in the making.

“no,” sebastian wags a finger in the air, “you’re a driver in formula 1. everyone in this garage — in the factory — supports you. we wouldn’t have put everything in developing the car for you if we didn’t think you’d be out here wrecking everybody.”

she sighs with a shrug. “i guess.”

he pats her firmly on the shoulder. “i’ll be here every step of the way, kid.”

bahrain, 2023

sebastian feels a presence looming over him as he scans the car with the andretti's engineers. he turns around with an eyebrow raised, locking eyes with the younger girl staring up at him with wide innocent eyes and a hopeful grin. a small smile stretches on his face as he straightens his back. “hi!”

“hi.” she glances away momentarily and licks her lips. she meets his eyes again with a soft sigh and a slightly wider grin. she hums as she sways, fingertips tapping against one another. “i have an interview.”

he nods hesitantly, raising an eyebrow. “alright.”

“okay.”

sebastian watches her curiously, not moving away from her position in front of him. she hugs she can on pepsi against her stomach as her eyes dart all over the garage. “is everything okay?”

“of course!” she answers almost too fast. she perks up with a smile and curious eyes. “i have a favour to ask.”

“anything, kid. what is it?”

she takes a deep breath and breathes out slowly. she looks away momentarily again and huffs. “well, you see… people keep staring at me when i’m walking around. it’s kinda… scary. they scare me.”

“okay? are they saying anything to you? who is it? give me names.”

“they’re not! but i can feel them whisper as i pass by — that’s never a good sign.”

“i’m sure they’re not gossiping about you, kid.”

“yeah, but, you know? i don’t like the possibility that they might be doing just that. and sometimes they point.”

sebastian smiles, slowly realising what she’s getting at. “do you want me to come with you?”

she hums, scrunching her nose and pressing her lips together. “do i? want you to come with me? what a bother!”

he shrugs, slowly walking away from her. “that’s okay, i was just offering. i’ll just see you–“

“yes! yes, seb! please, please,” she whines, grabbing his arm and pulling him towards the exit to the paddocks. “please come with me. i’m scared, i’m nervous, and oscar and logan are missing.”

he laughs, throwing his clipboard onto the table. “okay, let’s go. i’ll show you the best spots, kid.”

saudi arabia, 2023

she stares with wide eyes as she tries to process the question in her head. it’s the first of its kind, to be asked something like that. it echoes in her head like some of record player, unsure how she’s supposed to answer that question.

“do you think you’ll last longer than a couple of races like the last woman in formula 1?”

are they waiting for her to slip up and bring another woman down? a woman that’s basically urged her to even start racing in the first place?

is she supposed to say something that they could twist to make it sound like she’s against other women making it to where she is now? she’s just not sure. who even thinks of that question?

“is that question really appropriate?” sebastian steps forward with a hand on her back. “did you really sit there, watching this brilliant young woman walk towards you, and think that that’s an appropriate question to ask?”

“no, like i mean–“

“she will no longer be doing interviews with you. i don’t give a fuck who you work for,” sebastian mutters, slowly whisking the shocked girl away, shielding her away from the cameras.

she stays planted on the ground, head turning to follow sebastian slowly walking away. “no, it’s okay, really. i was just a little taken aback by the question.”

“no, this interview is over.”

sebastian shoots the reporter one last look before successfully whisking the young driver away from the cameras. “you don’t have to answer every question, you know?”

“it’s rude if i don’t,” she sighs, shaking her head. “i have to answer. what if they start thinking i’m a snob?”

“why is their problem if you’re a snob? if they ask you stupid questions, they can’t keep expecting sane answers,” sebastian scoffs. “write your narrative, don’t let them dictate and twist your answers.”

azerbajian, 2023

“seb,” she cries, nuzzling into his side as the marshals escort her. she has tears in her eyes as she approaches him by the medical building, finally pulling her hair back as sebastian takes her into his arms. “i’m sorry.”

“no,” he hums, rubbing her arm gently. “the important thing is that you’re okay, kid. don’t think about the crash at all.”

she shakes her head against his chest, finally letting out a soft sob. “but it’s so unlike me to crash. i’ve been racing for years!”

“these things happen.” he cranes his neck and pulls away slightly to glance at her face. she’s all red with tears streaming down her face, hiding her face away from curious race attendees. “you know what we should do?”

she mutters a soft ‘what’, rubbing her nose roughly as she glances up at him with sad eyes. he’s only gotten to know her better recently in light of him taking her under his wing, but it’s a very different energy when she’s like this. it’s not something he wants to get used to.

“i’ll walk you to the med bay, and then i’ll go and get you some ice cream. does that sound good?”

she shakes her head and sighs, letting sebastian wrap a protective arm around her as they walk. “i don’t want ice cream.”

sebastian gasps softly, flashing her a bewildered stare. “what? you don’t what?”

she sniffles. “i don’t feel like eating ice cream.”

“oh, come on,” he giggles, squeezing her cheek very lightly. “i’ll get you extra marshmallows and even add sprinkles in.”

she looks at him from the corners of her eyes, a small smile playing on her lips at his suggestion. “really? and extra chocolate syrup? just this once?”

sebastian nods with a smile. he moves over to her other side when he sees a camera approaching them, waving a hand in the air to shoo them away. “i’ll even let you eat a whole pint.”

australia, 2023

sebastian trails behind her, juggling between his phone and her helmet in her hands. he watches with a proud smile as she is stopped by a reporter.

“what does it feel like to be the first woman to score in formula 1 after years of the drought?”

she giggles giddily, stopping to answer a question. “hi! um, yes, it feels amazing to be the one to do it. it’s not a lot of points, but it really means a lot to me.”

“of course. do you think you can maintain this performance throughout your rookie season? what are some challenges you think you may face in the year to come?”

her eyes widen at the several questions for her. it feels just like they haven’t had any serious questions regarding the race for her since she started the year. sometimes they do, but it’s never really anything good that would reflect on her.

she looks over her shoulder, meeting sebastian’s eyes, as she smiles at him widely, as if to ask him ‘do you hear these legitimate questions they’re asking me?’. sebastian only gives her a warm smile in return with a thumbs-up.

she turns away and tries to come up with a proper answer to the question. “i think with sebastian’s help, it’s definitely made the transition a lot easier. hopefully i can stay consistent in the races to come. and my biggest challenge? definitely trying to catch up to max.”

they share a laugh. she turns around momentarily, looking at sebastian for approval of what she’s just rambled on about. sebastian gives her another smile and a nod, making a gesture to turn her back around.

“well, i think that’s everyone’s biggest challenge thus far into the season. thank you for your time today and good luck.”

miami, 2023

she holds the phone against her ear, temple laying against the window to stare at the paddocks. “where are you?”

“what do you mean?” sebastian’s voice comes through her phone, making her raise an eyebrow. “i don’t start as early as you today.”

“what? i’m supposed to walk into the paddocks by myself?” she shrieks, lifting her head. she looks around outside the car, watching the several people walking in and out.

“yes? aren’t you with oscar and logan?”

she tears her eyes away and turns to the other two men inside with her. “i don’t trust either of these idiots to not embarrass me walking in!”

logan throws his arms in the air, turning to her from the driver’s seat. his arm pokes between the two front seats, reaching to the back to try and hit her. she scowls and smacks his hand away, scowering away into the far corner from logan.

“you will be okay, kid. would you rather you walk in by yourself?”

she lets a moment pass. “okay. you got me there.” she sighs and rolls her eyes. “fine.”

monaco, 2023

“i’ve got an interview!”

he sees a shadow pass through the bottom of the car, prompting sebastian to jump up. the girl is already halfway towards the large exit that leads to the pitstop with a lollipop in hand. “coming!”

“it’s okay!” she holds her hands up in front of sebastian, grinning as he comes to a stop about three steps from the car.

sebastian tilts his head and frowns slightly. “what?”

“yeah, it’s a rookie interview. i got my bodyguards with me again today!”

he raises his eyebrows with an impressed grin. “oh! you’ll be okay without me?”

“yeah!”

as if on cue, two men — one in orange and on in blue — pulls up to the garage. “let’s go, loser!”

“okay,” sebastian laughs, greeting the two with a smile. he pats his driver on the back. “be back in one piece. i’ll see you later.”

“absolutely,” she grins. she runs around the car, throwing her arms around him and squeezing him. “you got my pepsi in the freezer?”

“i got 2 of them in the freezer just for you kid,” sebastian whispers, squeezing her back. he presses a kiss to the top of her head and waves as she starts walking away. “be safe!”

canada, 2023

“you don’t possibly need me just to get a cup of coffee downstairs, do you?” sebastian sighs. despite his complaint, he still follows the young driver down the stairs of the andretti racing home to get a drink.

and it’s been one their routines every race weekend: getting coffee together after their daily team meeting in his office. it’s endearing, really, how much she relies on him every weekend when she feels that the paddocks have their eyes glued to her too much.

“do you not like spending time with me anymore, seb?” she jokes, looking over her shoulder to tease him. “you can just say so.”

he laughs in bouts of sarcastic ‘haha’s and scowls at her slightly. “that’s not what i mean. half the season has come and gone — shouldn’t you be more comfortable roaming by yourself?”

“i guess,” she shrugs. “i just feel like being with you today!”

he pouts his bottom lip out and presses a hand against his chest. “oh, thank you. how thoughtful.”

sebastian stops in the kitchen of the office, grabbing the two custom andretti mugs with their names on the handle. his cup’s got her name and autograph, and hers with his. he extends his hand to her. “you know how i like my coffee, kid.”

“of course! i’m like your personal barista.”

austria, 2023

sebastian pushes the door open with a soft knock. “kid, are you better?”

“no! go away!” she shrieks, chucking a small pillow towards the door. “where are my meds? is logan seriously not back with them yet?”

he puts his hands in the air to surrender. “he’s trying to get here as quick as possible. are the cramps still bad?”

suddenly he feels like he wants to crawl into a random hole and stay there — the glare she is giving him simply made him wish that he never bothered to open his mouth.

“i don’t know. you tell me at the state you see me in,” she growls, eyebrows furrowed. “like–“

she whines again, clutching herself as she curls herself into a smaller ball on her beanbag. she closes her eyes and nuzzles her face into the stuffed koala with a soft cry.

“kid,” sebastian sighs, scratching his head. it sucks seeing anybody like that. “is there anything i can do to help? logan should be here any minute.”

“i want pepsi! freezing pepsi! like, with small bits of frozen pepsi in it — that’s how cold i want it.”

he hums. “i thought you shouldn’t be drinking cold drinks on your period?”

“you asked me how to help! i want pepsi! my frozen can of pepsi!”

he scrambles to run out of the room. “okay! i’ll get it from the fridge!”

silverstone, 2023

she shakes her arms and adjusts the neckline of her fireproofs. “i can do it.”

“yeah!” sebastian cheers, pumping his fist into the air. “i believe in you!”

“exactly. i can do it!”

but despite her words of encouragement for herself, her feet stay planted on the ground. her fists are balled by her side as her body stiffens up by the door with a scowl.

sebastian tilts his head, moving his head around hers to take a look at her face. he glances at the door. “do you have any intention to actually do it?”

“some time in the next hour, maybe,” she sighs. she turns around to sebastian and shakes her head. “i can’t do it, mate. i want to go home.”

“what?” sebastian throws his head back. he turns her back around and pushes her forward. “i promise you won’t die.”

“how do you know that?”

“you’re just walking the paddocks to the building to film a shoot with oscar and logan. you’ll survive the 2 minute walk, i swear.”

she huffs and pushes the glass doors open, glancing back at sebastian. “i’ll make a run for it so nobody has the time to realise it’s me.”

he shrugs with an impressed smile. if he were in her shoes, he never would have thought of that. “whatever works, kid.”

italy, 2023

“seb.” the girl drags her feet along the floors of the garage, hunched over slightly with a hand clutching her stomach. “how long til the first round of practice?”

“about 20 minutes,” sebastian says, looking up from his clipboard. by the sound of her voice, he already knows what’s going on. his suspicions are confirmed when he sees her at her state. “fuck’s sake.”

“i’m sorry. i promise i won’t take too long in the toilet.”

“we told you to stop eating ice cream before you have to get on the track,” sebastian sighs, throwing his head back. he puts the clipboard down, annoyed, yet he still reaches forward to wrap a protective arm around her shoulders and guides her towards the door leading to the paddocks. “your track anxiety doesn’t go well with ice cream, remember?”

“the idea was good in theory — it was pretty warm earlier.”

sebastian sighs and shakes his head. “you know where to find the meds for your stomach, right?”

she frowns, looking up at him. the pale lips and the sweaty forward simply told him everything he needed to know. he laughs with a small nod. “okay, i’ll deliver them to you with a glass of really cold water, okay?”

she nods with a small smile. “okay. thank you, seb.”

singapore, 2023

“what do i do with this?”

sebastian slowly turns to the girl with a scowl on his face. “what do you mean?”

“what do i do with this?” she repeats, putting her arms in the air in question. she turns to look sebastian in the eyes with eyebrows furrowed. “where do i put it? is it even mine?”

“they will make a replica for you to bring home.”

“but i live in an apartment with two hyperactive kids — they’ll only break it.”

“your ki– you mean kidnapper and stubby? just put it up away from them!”

“i,” she trails off, shaking her head. she lets her stare linger on the trophy sitting on the table in her driver’s room with worry. “i kinda don’t want it unless it’s a trophy for a race win.”

“complacent!” sebastian laughs. “are you that confident about being a race winner?”

“you don’t think i could win a race?”

“wait.”

“that’s kinda mean, seb. i don’t know.”

“you know that’s not what i mean.”

she shrugs and turns back to the trophy. “we just need to play bumper cars with max on the track, maybe.”

“maybe? definitely.”

she shrugs and puts her hands on her hips. “i reckon we just need more street circuits to throw max off. then maybe we get liam to be my teammate next year!”

qatar, 2023

sebastian looks up at the sound of the click of his door. he raises an eyebrow, frowning at the girl trying to silently escaping his office. “where are you going, kid?”

she stops with a hand on the door, head poking out as she smiles. “i’m going to get us coffee downstairs.”

he frowns and furrows his eyebrows. “without me?”

she squeaks slightly as she raises her eyebrows in shock. “i was gonna bring it back up here to you so we can chat while we discuss race strategies.”

“oh.”

“is something wrong? do you prefer drinking something else?”

sebastian shakes his head with a small smile. “no reason. you used to ask me to get coffee with you.” he puts a hand on his chest. “have you grown to hate me, kid?”

“aw, seb! it’s not like that!” she coos, running back into the room. she runs over to his side, resting herself on the armrest and throws her arms around sebastian. “i just thought i’d like to finally go get it myself, you know? you won’t be around forever.”

sebastian has to admit — that one kind of hurt him a little. he’d come out of retirement to step into an unlikely position in the sport so he could be part of her development as a driver. and also because he was starting to regret his decision slightly, but that’s besides the point.

and also the fact that he’s grown quite fond of her. while he’s got three children of his own back home, it’s just different with her.

“wow, kid. counting down the days to my eventual retirement that i won’t take back?”

“no, you misunderstand me, seb,” she giggles, resting her cheek on top of his head. “i just wanted to be a big girl; like you always tell me to be in the paddocks every weekend!”

brazil, 2023

“you’ll be okay without me?” sebastian hums, raising an eyebrow as he stands in her hotel room. he sinks into her pillows on the bed as he watches the young girl darting around the room to gather her things. “i can come if you want.”

“logan and oscar will be with me,” she grins, scrunching her nose with a soft giggle. “unless you would like to come with us, seb?”

he scoffs, folding his arms over his chest. “no way. i don’t understand valorant like you kids — i would have more questions than anything else. you don’t want that, kid.”

she laughs, shoving her items into her small purse. “it’s blythe’s finals! and i’m just as clueless about valorant as you are. the 3 of us know nothing.”

“i’m just upset you hadn’t invited me in the first place.”

“it was last minute! just come with us, seb!”

“i don’t have a ticket.”

“one of the players’ my sister. we’ll find a way to get you in without a ticket.”

sebastian raises his eyebrow. “wow, corruption has gotten to you quick.”

“no, that’s literally how we’re able to attend. blythe pulled strings.”

he rolls his eyes, a small smile growing on his lips as he pushes himself off the bed. he actually does want to come along. finding out he wasn’t even part of the original plan hurt, yes, but he doesn’t want to push himself to be a part of plans that he’s not invited to.

“okay, if you insist.”

las vegas, 2023

she raises an eyebrow, scoffing. “you’re fucking kidding, right?”

max raises his eyebrows, turning to the girl with an impressed grin. while she’s not one to shy from cussing away from cameras, doing it with a room full of cameras and reporters is simply a different thing. he glances at sebastian who has his chest puffed out and eyebrows furrowed since the question was being asked.

the question was easy: how do you do your hair for race weekends, and how does it always look good after the race?

kimi is right, his lecture that weekend in austin has finally taken its mark in her brain. why are all the questions directed at her during press conferences always redirected back to her womanhood?

if she wanted to be asked about her makeup routine and collection, she’d have started an instagram live instead of wasting her time on this stupid couch.

“it’s unfair, don’t you think? you’ve asked me one question about racing, now suddenly it’s about my hair?”

“in a sense that–“

“i’m just curious. i’ve raced the races of what i can give this year to prove that i should be respected as a driver. why are you asking me about my hair?” she raises an eyebrow. “you’re a 50-year-old man. what have you got to learn from my haircare routine?”

max snorts and sebastian bursts into laughter. she clenches her jaw, genuinely getting slightly agitated. she meets sebastian’s eyes who only gives her a thumbs up with the proudest smile.

it’s nice to finally see her standing up for herself.

abu dhabi, 2023

sebastian holds the phone up to his ear, looking into the designated car that she’d taken to the paddocks that night.

“yeah?” a soft voice comes through, getting overshadowed by the loud music in the background. “what’s up, seb?”

“where are you? i’m at your car.”

he hears her hum in confusion. “what do you mean? i’m already in the paddocks, seb.”

he scratches his head, raising his eyebrow as he looks towards the busy entrance of the paddocks. “what do you mean? i thought you’d wait for me outside? aren’t logan and oscar coming in later than we are?”

“yes. but i arrived before you so i thought i’d just wait for you here,” she explains. “did i forget something?”

“no, it’s just,” he sighs and starts making his way to the row of gantries, “you’d usually wait for me if you were by yourself. i thought we were doing the same — i completely forgot that you’re a big girl now.”

he hears her laugh, louder and wholeheartedly. “seb, that’s so sweet! i can’t believe you looked for me even though i haven’t said anything!”

he rolls his eyes. “oh, shut up.”

— bonus

“seb, look what i got you over the break!” she shrieks, jogging into his room with a paper bag in her hands. “i got us matching somethings!”

he raises an eyebrow, looking up from his phone. “what? you got me something?”

“yeah! i wouldn’t have gotten my first points without you, so i wanted to get us something to celebrate our first points as a duo,” she giggles, sitting on the seat on the other side of the table.

she puts the paper bag down and starts pulling a set of mug out of it. she hands him a mug and holds up her own excitedly.

he looks at the mug. it’s got her name on the handle and her signature messily printed over their names mushed together into one in big and blocky purple letters.

“look at the bottom.”

‘long live — all the magic we made’ with the date of the australia race is carved into the bottom of the mug.

he smiles, looking up. “you really didn’t have to, kid. but thank you. this is so thoughtful.”

she claps silently, jumping on the spot with a giggle. “it’s just a small token to remember one of the times we made history together.”

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dragonflylady77 · 3 months

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i got you a whole flower shop

A Harringrove Valentine's Day fic I wrote this afternoon

present for @shieldofiron and also @lovebillyhargrove

oh and it's on ao3

Steve walks into a florist shop on Valentine's Day but his plans change after he gets a text not meant for him and he finds himself faced with Billy freaking Hargrove looking like every wet dream Steve has ever had in the past fifteen years since he finished high school.

“Sorry, I’ll be right with you.”

Steve made a vague noise of acknowledgement, too busy staring at the message he’d opened as he’d stepped into the first flower shop he’d spotted.

“Can’t wait to see you tonight baby. I’ll tell Steve I have to work late. Love you x”

He blinked a few times but the words didn’t change. The text was clearly not meant for him. Or maybe it was, he rationalised. That was one way to break up with your boyfriend without having to have the conversation.

He ran a tired hand over his face and put his phone back in his pocket. He wouldn’t need flowers after all. He tried to remember how much stuff he’d left at Jamie’s place during the few months they’d been dating and wondered if there was anything he’d miss if he didn’t get it back.

“I am sorry but it turns out I don’t actually need flowers after all,” he said, his eyes floating over the various buckets of colourful blooms in front of him.

“Am I dreaming or is that you, Harrington?” The voice sounded surprised and familiar and Steve turned around to face its owner.

“Hargrove?” Steve said in shock, stepping closer to the counter. He hadn’t seen Billy Hargrove since graduation fifteen years ago. “What are you doing in Chicago? I always thought you went back to Cali…”

Billy shrugged and Steve took a moment to really look at him. He still had those light brown, almost golden, curls that Steve had always wanted to run his fingers through, piled high in a bun, his face fuzzy with scruff, blue eyes trained on Steve. That part at least was familiar. Steve let his eyes move down, taking in the white tee, tight across the front under the black apron with the shop’s logo on it, Billy’s biceps bulging when he crossed his arms over his chest. Steve’s mouth felt very dry all of a sudden and hoo, was it always this hot in this store?

Billy raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He did, however, run that tongue of his along his bottom lip, another familiar sight, one that resonated inside Steve’s chest, in a place he’d been ignoring for years.

“Um, sorry, didn’t mean to…” Steve fumbled, fidgeting with his fingers. Fuck. He was being so awkward for no reason. He was usually a little bit better at human interactions.

“It’s okay, pretty boy, I know my good looks can be distracting,” Billy replied with a chuckle and Steve felt his face heat up. “To answer your question, my car broke down outside of St Louis and I realised I’d been kidding myself. There was nothing in Cali for me anymore. And I couldn’t leave Max alone with Neil.”

“Ah. I-I heard about him but Max never said—”

“I told her to keep a secret. Couldn’t risk Neil finding out. I made it back to Indianapolis on the Greyhound. Met a nice lady on the bus who offered me a place to stay for a while. Worked my ass off in a bunch of different jobs. Mona and her partner kinda adopted me, so when they moved to Chicago, I followed.”

“That’s why Max went to college in Chicago, isn’t it? Because you were there too?” Steve asked, a few things making more sense now that he knew about Billy.

“Yep. Got her out of the dorms too. She loved it at Mona’s as much as I did.”

Steve smiled. He was glad that Billy and Max had gotten away from his asshole father. He had only managed it himself recently, after more than a decade of working for his dad, being belittled every time Richard Harrington was in the office, no matter how good Steve actually was at doing his job. He’d jumped at the chance when he’d seen that job listing in Chicago and he’d cherished forever the memory on his father’s face when he’d handed in his resignation.

“That’s great, Billy,” he finally replied, and meant it.

“What about you, princess? What brings you to the Windy City?”

“Oh, I live here too. Been here about three years, I think. I don’t have to tell you how good it felt to be able to tell my dad I was leaving and he could shove it.”

“Ooooh, go Stevie! Always knew you had it in you.”

Steve laughed and shook his head. “Took me twelve years but I got there in the end…”

“That’s what matters.” Billy grinned. “So, what are you after? Roses for your girl, on account of the day? Or something more original?”

“Oh, um, I, um…” Steve sighed. “I was gonna get flowers for my boyfriend, but after the text I got before, I don’t think I will.”

“Boyfriend?” Billy was staring and Steve realised he probably needed to elaborate a little.

“Yeah… My best friend Robin helped me realise some important things about myself after high school. She made being queer in Hawkins a lot easier. We were flatmates for ages then she moved to Chicago to be with her girlfriend. You know her, actually, Heather? Holloway?”

“Oh. Wow. Yeah, I remember Heather. So you’re…”

“Bi. Yeah.”

“And you have a boyfriend.” The way Billy said it, it wasn’t a question.

It left a bad taste in Steve’s mouth. He got his phone out of his pocket again and sent Jamie a text saying they were over.

“I had a boyfriend.” Steve snorted. “Whoever he meant to text when he texted me can have his cheating ass.”

“You don’t seem too cut up about it,” Billy said, his eyes roaming over Steve and Steve found that he liked it. All at once, memories of basketball training and all the posturing and looks Billy would send him in the showers and hallways of Hawkins High took on a different flavour. All the pet names Billy used to call him when they were teenagers… the same ones he’d used a couple of times in the past ten minutes they’d been chatting.

“I’d only been seeing him for a couple of months, wasn’t anything serious.” Steve decided to take a chance. He crossed his arms and leaned forward on the counter. “It does mean I am now free tonight…”

Billy mirrored his actions, the smile on his face genuine and warm. “Is that so, pretty boy?”

“Uh huh… yanno, in case anyone was wondering.”

“That’s certainly pertinent information.”

“I thought so.” Steve leaned a little closer, smiling when Billy did too. “What time does this fine establishment close?”

“Right now,” Billy replied, without a glance at his watch as he removed his apron and set it on the counter next to them.

“Really? Won’t you get in trouble with your boss for closing early on Valentine’s Day?”

“I’m the boss and I have a hot date,” Billy said with that smirk that had always made Steve’s blood boil. Only now he could name that emotion for what it was: lust. There was something else in Billy’s eyes, something more magical and durable.

“Anyone I know?” Steve asked, his heart beating double time in his chest.

Billy didn’t reply, instead he rounded the counter and came to a stop in front of Steve with a grin. He cupped Steve’s face with both hands and breached the last inches separating them, bringing their mouths together. Steve moaned, his hands on Billy’s wrists to hold him there. He opened his lips to Billy’s questing tongue the second he felt it, pouring all that he was feeling into the kiss, and getting it back ten fold.

Steve let go of Billy’s wrists to grab his waist and dragged him closer. He couldn’t get enough of Billy, hands roaming up his back and down to cup that ass Steve had been dreaming about for months after high school, sparking his bi awakening.

“Fuck, Billy, I’m sorry it took me so long to find you again,” Steve said, breaking the kiss to catch his breath, resting his forehead against Billy’s.

“S’okay, Stevie, you’re here now,” Billy said, dipping his head for a quick kiss. He buried his fingers into Steve’s hair and locked eyes with him. “Never letting you go now I’ve got you, though, I hope you know that.”

“Fine with me,” Steve said as he wrapped his arms around Billy’s middle, delighted to feel Billy’s hard body against his.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Steve. I don't know what flowers you like yet, so I got you a whole flower shop.”

Steve laughed as Billy locked up for the night then they went up to the apartment Billy was renting above the shop where Billy cooked them dinner. Then they spent all night in bed, worshipping each other, and it was the best Valentine’s Day Steve had ever had.

#harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington #billy x steve #dragonflylady77 #valentine's day #florist billy hargrove

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quillthrillswriting · 1 month

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there are lots of people who've wondered what the gaang as a whole would have been like if they'd been older when they went on their world-altering quest, but... what if just aang was older? what if he had been frozen in his iceberg at age 16, instead of age 12?

for starters, i'm sure it'd change the dynamic between him and katara. maybe she'd look at him differently more quickly, maybe we'd get a bit of a reverse crush? he'd be taller than sokka much earlier on, and when zuko found him, he'd be "just a teenager," not "just a child."

essentially, to recap. ATLA aang aged up AU fic. kataang. where she falls first, and he falls harder.

i present to you... excepts from "the teenager in the iceberg", my newest ao3 fic 🤍

---

Shining blue eyes. Bright robes made up of strips of fabric coloured in shades of sunset they almost never saw down in the Southern tribes.

The most beautiful boy she’d ever seen .

---

“W-Will-” he struggled, the words so hoarse that it was as though he hadn’t used his voice in decades. He cleared his throat, eyes sparkling distractingly, grinning roguishly. “Will you go penguin sledding with me?”

Katara blanched, momentarily caught off guard. She looked back over at Sokka, who had been watching the exchange with narrowed eyes and a suspicious expression as he recrossed his arms over one another.

“I- um-... yes?” she answered, hesitantly, just as Sokka’s voice overlapped hers, yelping the words “She absolutely will not!” Katara shot him a scathing glare as the boy rose to his feet, shaking the snow off of his cloak like a polar-bear dog.

Sokka continued, his voice both indignant and commanding.“We don’t even know your name, Mr. Walking Ice Cube! What were you doing in there? Were you trying to mimic a snow-man and you got too carried away?”

“And you aren’t dressed for the cold,” Katara added appraisingly, giving him a once-over. “You look-”

“Dashingly handsome?” The boy smoothly interjected, accompanied by a grin that felt like it was just for her.

“...Cold.” she said flatly, hoping she wasn’t furiously blushing as she shot him with what she hoped came across as a scathing glare.

---

Katara still wasn’t quite sure what to make of Aang. The Water Tribe boys had always been all flashy muscles, seal-jerky breath, and overconfidence, so Katara had never seen someone move, carry themself, the way Aang did.

---

Katara had admittedly forgotten how much fun penguin sledding was. “Spirits, I haven’t done this since I was a kid!” she called to Aang as he raced past her, surprisingly skilled considering that he’d never even seen a penguin until half an hour before.

“You still are a kid!” He called back over his shoulder. “A kid who’s losing this race, badly!”

Katara’s competitive streak reared its head, her eyes narrowing as Aang stuck out his tongue. She sat up slightly, no longer gripping the penguin’s fur as tightly. “You wish!” She shouted back the words as she raised her hands, breathing deeply. Her hands moved through the positions she had practised from the few bending scrolls the tribe still held on to, and before Aang knew it, the snow in front of Katara turned to ice, and she shot past him as his own ice trail suddenly became dry snow with too much friction to slide on.

She made it to the bottom of the hill, beaming, breathing heavily. The wind had whipped her hair out of her bun, and she knew without checking that her hair must have looked like a lion-turtle’s mane. She watched as Aang made a show of drying himself off with a gust of wind that he then redirected at her, messing up her curls even more.

“You’re a cheater !” Aang gasped, mockingly clutching imaginary pearls at his throat. “I demand a rematch.”

Katara strode past him, only turning her head to cast him a smug smirk. “Maybe you’re just not as good of a penguin sledder as you thought.”

“Oh, not so fast!” Aang grabbed her wrist, tugging her back towards him, and she internally questioned why the momentary brush of their skin made her heart flip. He tried to trip her, she tried to flip him, and they both ended up on their backs in the snow, giggling, cheeks and noses bright pink from the cold.

---

“Gran, I want you to meet Aang, he’s-”

“An airbender.” Her grandmother said the words with complete and utter awe. “The last airbender.”

Aang’s nose wrinkled in confusion, his head tilting and mouth opening to ask for clarification, but Gran’s next words stunned him and the rest of the room into silence.

“The Avatar .”

Sokka and Katara’s jaws dropped, both pivoting to face Aang. Katara looked up at him, expecting to see shock and confusion, but she was met with sheepishness as Aang rubbed the back of his neck with his hand.

“You are .” Katara breathed. “Spirits, you’re the Avatar.”

♥ this (multichapter) fic is still in progress, but check out the first chapter here!->

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lokischocolatefountain · 9 months

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Purpose

Fandom: The Last of Us

Word count: 12.7k

Rating: PG13 for violence (Fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, hurt/no comfort, mention of sexual harassment, minor character deaths, major character death, death of a child, grief, blood and gore)

Summary: “I think if he (Joel) could do anything or be anything, he would be a dad, raising his daughter. Whether it’s Sarah or— he can’t quite get there yet to say it’s Ellie but that's what he was put on this Earth to do. That’s why he’s been wandering around a little like a zombie himself for 20 years. He’s trying to find his purpose because it was taken from him.” -Craig Mazin

A/N: I’ve been writing bits and pieces of this for moooonths! Since the last episode aired. So I really really hope you guys like it. I love all the Joel & Ellie fics out there but there’s a hole in my heart where the Joel & Sarah fics should be. So here you go, a one shot of Joel Miller and his purpose in life, how he earned it and how he lost it.

20th July 1989

What do you want to be when you grow up?

It was a question that adults asked way too many times. Way too casually. It was as though they had forgotten what it felt like to be a teenager with a whole world of possibilities, the overwhelming feeling of wanting to be everything from an astronaut to an actor. They never accepted the answer they got from the kids. At least that was Joel’s experience. They always laughed when he said he wanted to be a singer. That’s not a real job, they’d say. So, he made up something that he didn’t even want to do.

Accountant. That’s what he told people he’d become. He didn’t even know what that job entailed. He just blurted it out, possibly because his new classmate’s dad was an accountant and that was the first thing that came to his mind. And because it was a real job unlike singer.

That also didn’t quite cut it for adults. You need to be good at math for that. They were right. He was no good at it. As he sat on the hospital chair, too afraid to move or breathe, he wished he’d been better at math. Maybe that would’ve gotten him a better job than building. He’d be in an office and make enough money for this.

The baby stirred in his arms and let out a low whine and his heart almost fucking stopped. She was so little, so fucking fragile. One wrong move and she could wake up. His mother told him to put her back in the crib, so did the mother of the girl who was fast asleep on the hospital bed. His mother-in-law. But he couldn’t. He was afraid that once he put her down, she’d disappear. She would. Both their parents were in contact with some adoption people and they were going through a list of names of respectable men and women with respectable jobs and good loving homes. There were some accountants on the list. They were probably good at math and didn’t have to get yelled at everyday for buying the wrong valves and choosing the wrong brand of grout. The prospective fathers were all at least a decade older than he was.

But he couldn’t put her down.

So he stayed awake on the chair throughout the night, his back hurting just a little but his heart full.

Wanting to be a singer was just a childish fantasy. Accounting was just something he made up to look serious in the eyes of grown ups. There were other ideas too— soccer player, fireman, cop. None of them felt right.

And what was it they always said about jobs? Do something you love and you’ll never work a day in your life? He’d never loved anything. Until now. Never found a purpose. Until now.

He cradled her close to his chest, supporting her tiny soft head with his hand. Fuck, her head was so little, so soft. His large hands already marked up by construction jobs felt unworthy of touching such pureness.

Sarah.

He can’t give her away. Not after the name popped into his head. He didn’t know why, couldn’t explain it to anyone who asked. But she was Sarah.

Sarah Miller, he thought when he realized he had a purpose for the first time in his life.

They told him he can’t do it, that he shouldn’t. They told him he didn’t know the first thing about babies. The girl he got pregnant— his wife—is hurt, said he can’t go back on their promise to give the baby up for adoption so that she can go back to school to be a lawyer. She said it will ruin her life and he had to agree. It will. The innocent little thing that continued sleeping on his lap did kind of ruin her life. She had to take a break fro, school, put up with morning sickness and bloating and back pain and fucking everything because of the baby. Raising her for 18 years? That would be the nail on the coffin of her dreams.

But he wasn’t the dreaming kind.

“I ain’t askin’. I know it’s not fair to ya. You already done everythin’, but…” I can’t imagine a life without Sarah. He had known her for less than 10 hours and life already seemed meaningless without her in it. “I’ll do it myself, okay? You don’t gotta do anything. You never have to visit. I just… I can’t give her up, darlin’. I promise I won’t rope you into this. I’ll fuckin’ disappear, never call you or write to you.”

“Joel…”

His mother thought she was a cruel girl to want to leave her baby behind when he, the father, stepped up to provide. But he had no feelings of anger towards her. They made a promise to each other. He was the one who broke it, not her. He would break all his promises to everyone in his life, no matter what, just to be his little girl’s dad.

“We’re too young.”

He nodded. He knew that. He’d been an adult for a grand total of four years and most of it, he’d spent drinking and working on construction. No transferable skills there. He was still kind of a kid and knew fuck all about raising a whole new person. The prospect was terrifying. It was even more terrifying to lose her, though. It felt like if he was taken away from his baby girl, he would fucking die.

“It’ll be harder to do anything. Parties, work, college, sleep. Everything will be harder.”

“Yeah,” he croaked, feeling tears well up in his eyes. He was only now old enough to legally get very drunk and illegally continue smoking joints in the storage shed with his friends. They had only recently bought themselves a proper plate and silverware. Eating out of the pot used to be more than enough before.

He’d just started taking care of himself. Just started doing his laundry in the local laundromat instead of driving his dirty clothes all the way to his parents’ for his mom to wash and fold up for him. He’d just started separating his whites from his coloured clothes.

It felt like his heart could fucking leap out of his chest when he wrote it down.

Name: Sarah Miller

Father’s name: Joel Miller

When I grow up, I want to be a father. This would not have been an acceptable answer to the adults. They liked hearing that from little girls, but not from boys. Adults thought boys should have more ambition than that. Fuck, he was an adult. Fuck. Fucking hell.

She asked for a divorce, reluctant and scared. He could tell she still loved him. It may have been their parents’ idea for them to marry, but they did have a good 7 months of marriage. They were friends, kind of. Despite the young parenthood and the anger about damaged condoms and who was responsible for getting drunk enough to have sex using a broken condom, they didn’t fight much. In another world, they would have been a good couple. Not this one. Losing her hurt, but he had to choose between her and his baby.

He signed the papers.

She visited the baby a few times, but never held her. Her older sister dropped off breast milk from her a few times and he was so grateful. He heard that it was very important for the baby’s health. He gave her formula, but this was more important according to the doctor. She said the mother’s milk had some stuff in it that the baby really needed. He didn’t know what the hell it was, he tried his best to remember the complicated words but they didn’t stick. He was just happy that Sarah could be healthy.

3rd August 1989

Bullshit. What a load of bullshit.

Do something you love and you’ll never work a day in your life? He wanted to backhand whoever said that.

“I got you baby, Daddy’s got you,” he said, rubbing her back as she cried into his chest. “Here’s your bottle. Just a few seconds and you’ll have your milk, okay?”

Tommy looked at him like he was a space alien. Yeah it was fucking weird, alright. He was in his shorts in the kitchen, wearing a smelly t-shirt and talking to his baby who didn’t know how to reply. But what did Tommy know? He didn’t have to be the one with no human company other than a little baby who didn’t know shit about shit.

He loved Sarah. He never knew what love was until Sarah. He thought he loved his parents, he might love Tommy just a little even though he was fucking annoying and got into trouble all the time. He fell in love a few times before Sarah’s mom and he was in love with Sarah’s mom. But maybe he didn’t love them. He didn’t love any of them. They should either invent a new word for whatever he felt for Sarah or a new, less stronger word for what he felt for every other person.

He really truly loved her. But that still didn’t make him feel like he wasn’t working. This was the most work he had ever done in his life. Even the sleepless week he spent building that shop, fuelled by energy drinks and coffee to afford baby clothes and medicines when his then wife was 8 months pregnant didn’t come close.

Sarah woke up crying all the goddamn time.

He knew babies always cried. They couldn’t talk or write or do anything else to communicate. So they cried. But it always felt like a personal failure when she did. Like he was the bad dad everyone expected a 22 year old single father to be.

“She always do that?” Tommy asked when Sarah finally quietened down as she sucked on the bottle he held to her mouth.

“Pretty much. She can’t talk or nothin’, so…”

Tommy nodded and then yawned. God, this boy. Joel had a lot to worry about now and everything he worried about involved Sarah. But he couldn’t not worry about his baby brother. Before he was a father, he was Tommy’s big brother and he will never stop worrying about him. He always got himself into trouble trying to do something good, something noble. The latest one was talkin’ ‘bout enlisting in the fuckin’ army.

He seemed to really really want to be in the army, but that didn’t say much. Tommy really really wanted to do fucking everything. While Joel was the brother with no strong ambitions other than Sarah, Tommy was the brother with too many ambitions. He fought off kids bigger than him if they bullied his classmates, spoke up against teachers who said somethin’ racist, punched a grown man for looking at his female friend wrong. And it was always on Joel to rescue him.

He would run off to a bunch of wars to protect his stupid little brother again. But for the first time he didn’t want to. He had a purpose now. His baby brother needed saving all the time, but his baby needed him for everything.

Tommy would have to handle himself. No big brother to shield him from bullets.

“Don’t fuck up, alright? Ma don’t need that now. I’m already fuckin’ up and she don’t need you to fuck up too.”

“You’re not fuckin’ up, Joel. Ma loves Sarah,” Tommy says, his voice soft as he gently taps Sarah’s cheek with his finger. She looks up at her Uncle Tommy and he swears she’s a little annoyed at him for disturbing her third dinner time. There was no way he was imagining that. He didn’t know if babies were smart enough to be annoyed, but Sarah was. She was a smart one. Tommy had to see that too.

“Yeah yeah, sorry,” Tommy laughed as he apologized to her. He could see it, Tommy also loved Sarah. He was an Uncle and shit. His baby brother, an Uncle. Wild.

Of course Ma loved Sarah. Everyone loved Sarah. He didn’t think it was possible for anyone to look at his baby girl and not fall in love immediately.

“I’m serious, Tommy. Don’t fu—” Fuck! No swearing. Ma warned that if he kept swearing around the baby, her first word might be fuck or shit or goddamn it. “Don’t mess up, okay?” He quickly corrected himself.

“Ma loves Sarah, but that don’t make me any less of a failure. I’m a twenty one year old divorced single father with no chances to go to college and no prospects other than construction. You gotta be better than that.”

He nodded, looking stern and a little too grown up for his age. He was too grown up to be an uncle, too grown to be shipped off God knows where to shoot at other kids but it was what it was. “Yeah…”

After a couple minutes of silence, Tommy spoke up again. “At least she won’t bug me for grandkids, right? You already gave her one.”

“Yeah, the perfect one. Gonna be difficult for your future kid to meet Ma’s high expectations.” He said, smirking. He was never competitive. Never did anything just to be better than someone else at it. The age gap between him and Tommy made him more of of protective older brother than a competitive one. But he was pitting Tommy’s non-existent kid against his baby and it didn’t even feel wrong.

“Fuck you, dude,” he laughed.

“No swearing ‘round her. Don’t want her first word to be that.”

Tommy burst out laughing. “It’ll be funny, though. Just imagine that in a little baby voice.”

He chuckled and conceded, “Yeah, it’ll be funny. But I’m serious. No swearing.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

25th December 1989

“Look at that! Ain’t it pretty?” He cooed, exaggerating the beauty of the scene in front of him. Her eyes were brighter than any Christmas light on the tree in the living room. They were brighter than the sun and the moon and all the stars in the night sky he pointed out to her.

She was wrapped up in several layers of clothes. For a baby, she had too many clothes and it was a pain in the ass to wash and fold. But she looked so adorable in all those layers. It was like she was a soft, formless ball.

He laughed as she moved her arms around and bounced on the couch. She was propped up by two pillows and he put a couple more on the floor just in case. He wouldn’t let her fall, but just in case. She pointed at the bauble he plucked off the Christmas tree, her baby bird-like mouth forming into a little O shape. She laughed and reached her arms out for it. He let her touch it. How could he not when she looked at it like it was the most wonderful thing in the universe.

She looked at everything like it was the most wonderful thing in the world.

He picked her up from her fortress of pillows and held her on his waist, carrying her closer to the tree. Carefully, he placed her higher on top of him, her legs on his shoulders and her hands gripping his hair for dear life. The mirror above the fireplace framed them like a photograph, their first Christmas together. One hand still on his hair, she reached out for a bauble, a present from an aunt for his shotgun wedding.

It should make him sad, but he found himself…happy. Sure, life would be easier if he had Pam to share the duties of parenthood. Sure it was shit to be a divorcee at the age of twenty two. But he had Sarah at the end of the marriage and that was worth everything.

While he was preoccupied with the meaning behind the ornament, his daughter was completely unconcerned with events that occurred before her birth. She inspected the ornament with a kind of gentleness he hadn’t seen in many babies— he remembered Tommy to be the kind to break things with his enthusiasm and cry over the destruction he’d wreaked. Sarah tapped on it gently with her hand and squealed with delight.

“It’s cool, huh?” He said, making conversation with her. She hummed in response and moved to an unusual ornament shaped like a butterfly, her eyes wide with curiosity and her fingers cautiously inspecting the antlers. Father and child stood in front of the Christmas tree all night long, inspecting every single ornament and making conversation in the language only they knew to speak.

If she loved the tree so much, he decided, he’d keep it in the living room in the fucking summer. Who said you couldn’t have a Christmas tree in June? He fucking loved being her dad.

18th January 1990

He fucking hated being a dad.

He would never let her know. God, he would never ever tell her that.

“Daddy’s got you, daddy’s got you. Everything is fine, baby girl.”

It was like she didn’t even hear him. She kept crying those heartbreaking, soul-crushing cries. He gave her the medicines that the doctor told him to buy. He did fucking everything but she still wouldn’t stop crying. He had to be doing something wrong. He told Ma that, but she said that was how babies were and he just had to take care of her, hold her close and wait for her temperature to go down.

But what until then?

“Ma! Ma, she won’t stop crying.”

“Did you give her the medicines?” His mother’s drowsy voice came through the phone. He shouldn’t be disturbing her after the day she had, but he couldn’t be bothered about her comfort. His baby was crying, goddamn it!

“Yeah, I did. Still won’t stop,” he said, his voice breaking and he bounced the baby, hoping that would soothe her.

“Did you check her temperature?”

“Yeah. Hundred and two.”

“It’s gone down then. She’s getting better.”

“Why’s she still cryin’ then?”

He was a grown man, a father, but god he felt like a fuckin’ kid again. He wanted his Ma. He wanted her to drive all the way to his place and tell him what to do to fix her, make her pain go away.

“That’s how it is, Joel. This is normal. I’ll be there in the morning when your old man can drive me, okay? She’ll get better, kid. Don’t worry too much.”

Ma was right, she did get better. But it was the worst night of his life and he would put her in a medically sealed safe room for the rest of her life just to never have to relive it.

She got sick again, of course. She was a kid and as he learned, kids were germ magnets. It was intolerable and it made him hate being a father. That made him feel guilty. It was stupid, he knew that. What could he even do? Punch germs in the face? Throw hands with the daycare mom who didn’t vaccinate her kid who ended up coughing on his baby girl?

He hated what being a father made him think and do. He felt unhinged, irrational. But it never felt wrong. And he never hated being her father. This was his purpose and he didn’t mind being a fuckin’ psycho who thought of fighting the baby who gave his baby a fever.

28th April 1991

“Can I have one, please?”

Joel brought the hammer down on the nail, looking up every now and then for glimpses of his daughter sitting on her uncle’s lap.

She looked at Tommy with her perfect angel eyes, hand messy and gripped around a disgusting soggy cookie she’d soaked with her saliva. She shook her head at Tommy before putting the cookie back in her mouth.

“Please? Uncle Tommy is hungry. And your dad won’t feed me.” He gave her his best puppy-dog eyes, but his baby girl didn’t budge. She hugged the packet of cookies close to her chest like Tommy was gonna snatch it from her and it made both of them laugh. He dropped his hammer on the floor and walked up to them.

He got on his knees next to Tommy’s chair and looked at her. “Please can I have one? Daddy’s hungry.”

She took her cookie out of her mouth and stretched her hand out to him. He leaned in, no hesitation and took the entire soggy piece in his mouth.

“Duuuude! Seriously? I bought those cookies and you’ll share it with your daddy but not with me? What a pair of scammers.”

Joel sent a smug smile his way before returning back to work. Babies were pretty selfish and Sarah was no exception, but he was an exception and that made him feel like the most special man in Texas.

“Miller,” a stern voice interrupted his family. He didn’t know whether it was directed towards him or towards Tommy, but the both of them apologized and left Sarah to her own devices before returning to work.

“Clients are such meanies, aren’t they?” He whispers to Sarah when the client is out of sight.

“Meanie!” She exclaimed, throwing her hands up in the air and lifting the packet of cookies with her. He laughed. That was a new word. She was a smart one.

They work all night, both of them. Sarah sleeps in the baby seat he bought for his truck. The daycare moms suggested it and he was so glad he bought one. It was damn expensive but ‘twas helpful for when they’re both working and Ma couldn’t take Sarah.

16th October 1992

Kids asked a lot of questions. Sarah did too.

Why is the sky blue? Why are some trees tall but other trees short? Why are soap suds all white no matter the color of the soap? What is a library? Why does Grandma have grey hair? Why does Uncle Tommy have long hair? What is a housing loan? What is concrete? Why is concrete gray? Why won’t you let me touch concrete?

He didn’t have a problem with the non-stop questions like other parents did. It was better for her to channel her curiosity into questions than get into trouble trying to find answers herself. His problem was that he wasn’t smart enough to answer ‘em.

He eventually did. Or hoped that she’d forget that he said he’ll ask someone and get back to her with the answer. But this wasn’t something he could ask someone else. It wasn’t something he could hope she’d forget. If she forgot now, she’d ask again later at some point in her life.

“What’s my mommy’s name?”

“Her name was Pamela.”

Was, he said. Like she was fucking dead. It had been years since he’d said that name. What a strange turn life took. Once upon a time, his whole world revolved around Pam and now he’d half forgotten what she looked like.

“Where is she?”

Last he heard, somewhere in New York. She became a lawyer. Good for her.

“I don’t know, baby,” he lied. What was the point of telling her where her mother was? She didn’t even know where New York was. She hadn’t even thought to ask about her mother in all these years. Well, she couldn’t even speak for a good portion of it but still…

“All the other kids have a mommy. Why don’t I have one?” Was he not enough? A lot of people reminded him that kids needed a mother more than they needed a father. That little girls needed a mother. That he wouldn’t know what the hell to do when she wanted cookies for the school bake sale or wanted a cute braid or got her period. He told all of them to go fuck themselves. Politely.

Her tiny hands held the stuffed animal he spent too much time and money on to win at the fair. Her innocent little eyes begged him for answers, reminding him where she got ‘em from. They looked like when Pam told him she was pregnant, scared and confused and begging him to do something, help somehow.

He might get a heart attack in his mid twenties.

“It’ll be harder to do anything. Parties, work, college, sleep. Everything will be harder.”

He didn’t know it would be like this. He knew the question would come up but he wasn’t prepared.

“I…”

She was patient. He picked her up from her chair and held her to his chest, wishing she’d go back to just babbling and looking cute.

“Most babies have two parents. A mommy and a daddy. Do you know why?”

She shook her head and kept her attention on his every word.

“Because they’re all so naughty.”

That got a laugh out of her. An easy smile found itself on his lips. It was hard to not smile when he saw her smile.

“Jason has a mommy and daddy,” he said, referring to the boy she had a few play dates with. “He gets in a lot of trouble so he needs to parents to take care of him. But you’re such a good kid, the best kid in the world and God knows that. So he just gave you one parent. Because Daddy is enough to take care of you.”

He was enough. He was enough to take care of her. He could pay for her daycare and clothes and health and everything. He read her bedtime stories and took her to work and kept her away from the tools.

He was enough.

“Is she taking care of another kid then? Is that why she’s not here?”

Jesus Christ, this girl.

“I don’t know, baby.”

“Oh. Can we go to the park?”

And just like that, she was over it. Thank fucking God.

He held her curls and gave her a kiss on her head. She was so special, she was so perfect. She deserved everything, deserved the whole universe, deserved a mom. He would spend his whole life and more giving her whatever she needed.

1st September 1993

“Here’s some snacks for you. I’ll leave it in your bag. Don’t forget to have it, okay?”

She nodded, munching on her cereal as he packed her backpack for her first day of school. He was nervous, but she looked completely fine. So did Tommy on his first day of school, but he ended up throwing a tantrum at the school gates and refused to let go of their parents. Joel had to promise him a full bar of candy to get him to finally walk into school.

Just so it was not too jarring for her, he made it a point to drive past her school every now and then. As they passed by, he explained to her that she would be going there everyday very soon and make a lot of tiny friends.

Construction work meant that schedules were all over the place. Sarah, having had no independent life of her own so far, was forced to stick to his messy days, waking up and sleeping at different times. Joel changed that to prepare her for waking up early to go to school.

With her bag packed with her pencil case, water bottle, snacks, color pencils and the books and notebook her school asked her to bring, it was time to move on to the next task.

“Daddy, I want the purple bows today. The new ones Nana bought.”

“I know, baby girl. I got them here already,” he said, pulling out the bright purple hair accessories from his pocket where he’d also shoved her hair brush, handkerchief and socks. He pulled her hair together in two pigtails, proud of himself for how far he’d come in doing her hair from a confused man asking his very few female friends for help to a natural dad who did this every morning.

He clipped a bow on each side, the little purple things sitting at the base of her soft rounded hair style. She climbed up the table without notice and checked herself out on the mirror nearby, grinning as she touched her hair.

“Thank you, daddy.”

“Aww, you’re welcome baby girl,” he cooed, pulling her close and placing kisses on her cheeks and forehead. He couldn’t believe she was ready for school already. It felt like she was born just yesterday. Each day was long and difficult, but together they’d all passed by in the blink of an eye. He didn’t know if she was prepared for such a big step, to be in school everyday for a couple hours without him.

“Tickles,” she giggled as his mustache scratched her cheeks. He kissed her again, making her fill the living room once again with her squeals and laughter.

“I want the orange shoes today,” she said, placing her foot on his chest.

“Sure? You picked the black socks with the green aliens. Shouldn’t you wear black shoes?”

“You don’t know fashion, daddy. You wear only boring tops without cartoon characters. And you don’t even have Barbie clothes.”

“Yeah, yeah. Orange shoes it is then,” he said, slipping the shoes she demanded on her feet. At least they were Velcro and she could remove them and put them back on easily without help.

Soon, Tommy had arrived at their door and like the menace he was, brought some candies.

“Tommy,” he spoke in a stern tone.

“Come on, Joel! It’s a big day. Our baby girl is all grown up and going to school!”

“I’m a big girl!” She exclaimed, pumping her little fists in the air like she’d won a medal.

“Yeah, very big,” Tommy laughed, putting the candies in her school backpack. “Now, be nice and share some candy with your classmates. That’s the quickest way to make friends.”

She listened to his advice intently and Joel wondered if she’d take a pen and notepad out to take his advice down if only she knew how to string alphabets together to make words.

While he usually sat in the front and let Sarah sit in the back of the truck, he chose to sit in the back this time, offering her the comfort and confidence she needed to take this big leap.

“…be a good girl and listen to your teacher. And don’t use any rude words, okay? Stuff you hear at daddy’s work, it’s only for grown ups. You understand?”

She nodded, beady eyes focused on the glittery designs of her backpack rather than his words. As much as he tried to speak properly around her, he couldn’t stop her from learning the crass words spoken by the people he worked with at the construction sites. And because daycare was expensive and he didn’t feel comfortable leaving her with strangers for such a big part of the day, she had to be at his workplaces, heart no those words.

“Don’t be scared. It’s just school and it’ll be fun. You’ll get to read new stories and make new friends. It can be scary in the beginning but it will be so much fun,” he continued on, caressing her back as he held her close.

“What do you do if you’re scared or if you want daddy?”

“I’ll tell my teacher you’re waiting outside and I want to go to you,” she repeated the words he’d been drilling into her head for months. He had taken the entire week off work to wait for Sarah outside school. Just in case she really needed him before the end of the school day. God forbid there be an injury or something.

“You’ve seen your classroom before, remember? With the colorful stickers on the walls?” She nodded, walking next to him as she looked around at the other kids and parents on the campus for their first day. He averted her eyes from the crying kids, afraid that seeing them might make her cry too.

Joel dreaded the waterworks, dreaded how her sparkling eyes would brim with tears and her little lips would pout before fat tears rolled down her cheeks. She was too precious for that and her tears always made him want to tear up anything and anyone who caused it. It didn’t matter that she also cried for the silliest reasons and cried when she threw tantrums. They never stopped having that heartstrings-pulling effect they had when she came crying and screaming into the world. Those cries that convinced him that he shouldn’t give her up, that he couldn’t trust anyone else on the planet to comfort her the way he could.

When they reached her classroom and met Mrs. Moore, he handed her backpack over to her. Kneeling in front of her, he gave her a few kisses on her cheeks. “Be good, okay? Daddy’s right outside and I’ll pick you up when school is over. Yeah?”

“Okay, daddy!” She said cheerfully. He turned his cheek to her for a kiss, but she didn’t notice, walking off in the other direction with her backpack. She dipped her bag on the table before introducing herself to another kid with her standard script for meeting others— her name, his name, her favorite cartoon characters and a handshake while she said it was nice to meet them.

“Dang, she couldn’t wait to ditch ya,” remarked Tommy as he watched Sarah socialize and show the kids the cartoon characters on her backpack.

Joel’s vision clouded with tears as he sat on his knees in the middle of the classroom. His lips trembled and his chest clenched at being left just like that by her. She never left him. Even when she was with her grandparents, she came running to their porch when she heard him and Tommy pull up in the drive.

Tommy dragged him away from the classroom when it was time for parents to leave. While he left, Joel’s heart stayed right there in the classroom.

“Goddamn,” he muttered as he wiped his tears off with the sleeves of his shirt. To think he was worried about her crying… Here he was, crying like a child while his actual child faced her first day of school with a big smile on her face.

“Can’t believe she’s in school already,” Tommy said and he nodded, not confident that he could speak without sobbing.

How was he supposed to do this everyday? Just leave her in a building with complete strangers and be confident that when he went back, she would be there, safe and happy. Other kids could bully her, her teacher might be rude to her, she might be hungry even after eating the snacks he packed her. How was he supposed to know how she was doing in all these hours she’d spend in a place with none of the friends and family she knew?

It was like taking your heart out your chest, putting a backpack on it and sending it away to fend for itself while praying that nothing bad would happen to it.

30th November 1994

Joel Miller would beat up anyone who made his baby girl cry. He didn’t care who it was. This time though, he had no one to blame but himself. She wouldn’t let him near her. She was crying, but she was also incredibly angry. Where did she even get anger from? He couldn’t believe that such a tiny little girl could have so much anger in her.

“I’m leaving the house and I’m never ever coming back!” She squeaked into the phone between sobs.

He was disappointed in himself. She was being especially difficult, yes. He had to drop her off at daycare and run to work, but she wouldn’t stop running around in the backyard in her pajamas. He’d had enough and yelled.

So here she was with her pink backpack full of her things that she packed herself— mismatched clothes, hairbrush, hair wrap, hair tie, teddy bear. She didn’t pack any underwear. She was stood on the couch to reach the landline phone, holding the receiver to her ear and asking, no demanding, that Uncle Tommy pick her up.

“Who made my baby girl cry? I’m gonna kick their butts,” Tommy declares as he walks in, popsicle in hand. He was gonna kick Tommy’s ass. She wasn’t supposed to have that shit. It was unhealthy. But apparently it wasn’t up to him anymore. It was Sarah and her Uncle Tommy’s world and he was just living in it.

“I’ll get him, okay baby?” He reassured her gently and Sarah nods before hugging Tommy.

Fucking drama queens, the both of them.

“Go wait in the truck and have this popsicle, okay? I’ll beat your dad up.”

She grinned— what the fuck. She grinned, took the stupid popsicle and ran off to the truck which neither of them asked to borrow. Fucking thieves.

Tommy burst out laughing as soon as she left.

“If you wanna be cool Uncle Tommy beatin’ her dad up, the least you can do it babysit her until she stops hatin’ me.”

“She doesn’t hate you!”

“You said you were going to beat me up and she fuckin smiled like you promised her a pony. Take her for the weekend,” he said, handing him the bag that he packed for her. And this one had her underwear, matching set of clothes, her favorite blanket and the story book she was currently reading.

He loved her but goddamn it, he needed a break. The teenage years were going to be hell.

26 September 1996

His hands are cover in glitter. And they’re also sticky for some reason. Something happened here. He didn’t know what, but he would find out. There’s a pair of scissors on the floor. He didn’t put them there and the only other person in the house was told very clearly to not touch them.

Rules were more like suggestions in this household.

“Sarah!” He calls out, walking around the house looking for her. Where the hell was this kid on a school day? It usually took waking her up a million times, took begging to get her to make her bed and some threats to get her outside her bedroom.

He almost yelped when a something, roughly the weight of one Sarah Miller, landed on his back and began giggling.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY DADDY!!!!” She screamed into his ear. His ears rang from the sound and his heart beat faster, but his heart also grew warmer.

He pulled her to his front and she wasted no time giving him wet kisses on his cheeks. “Thank you, baby girl,” he said, laughing from her enthusiasm. She had never remembered his birthday before, not that he expected her to. She barely remembered her own and made him count down to it from 3 months before the day. So it was a surprise that she remembered.

“I made you a gift,” she said, showing off the gaps between her teeth as she smiled.

“Whaaaat? A gift? For me?”

She nodded and wriggled out of his grip before running off. Her footsteps grew distant and then closer until she emerged with what he could only hope used to be paper. It was a sparkling red sheet. Under all the glitter, there had to be some paper left. There was paper and on it were the words ‘Happy birthday daddy’ written colorfully in crayons. He opened the card to find a drawing of him— beard, power tools, truck and all. It was labeled ‘daddy’.

On the right was a message from her, in her writing that started big and became smaller with each alphabet.

‘Happy Birthday Daddy. I love you.’

“Do you like it?” She asked, wide eyes looking at him expectantly.

“I love it! It’s perfect, baby,” he praised, picking her up off the ground and smothering her with kisses. She was the sweetest, most precious thing in the world. His Ma gave him a new shirt and Tommy bought him a bottle of good whiskey, but they paled in comparison to the card that he tucked away safely in the file with all their important documents, glitter be damned. The card collection grew over the years.

2nd February 1997

“You’ll like her, I promise!”

“Where have I heard that before?” Joel snorted, getting back under the truck to look for whatever the hell had gone wrong underneath for it to not start. They did take a bus to the construction site that morning, but they couldn’t do that again. The buses were unreliable and the walk to the bus stop took up half an hour. Sarah was already annoyed at him for not coming home on time. Last thing he wanted was to leave home earlier and come back later.

“Okay, that was one time! And she was a friend of a friend of a friend. I’ve met Judy and she’s definitely your type.”

“Sure,” he grunted, extending his hand out to get the tool he needed from Tommy.

“Curly hair, kind of tall. She’s clever. A math teacher, actually. Out of your league in that department so if you could pull her, it would be a miracle.”

“You settin’ me up for failure then.”

“Listen, she’s new to the city and she’s open to meeting people. It’s not gone be a date, Joel. Just drinks with her, a couple of her friends, my roommate and his sisters. You need a break.”

He hated to admit it even to himself, but Tommy was right. Not about dating, but about needing a break. He had been working a lot more recently. The contracting business was still in its infancy and needed a lot of his time and attention to just stay afloat. He didn’t have enough capital to invest in more monpower, so he had to take every call and make every decision and do every task he didn’t have enough guys for.

“I’ll think about it,” he said, wiping his face with the greasy cloth, getting more grease on himself than off.

“I’ll ask Ma to take Sarah. You know she’s dying to see that kid,” Tommy offered. He knew that it was meant to get him to feel better, less guilty about getting rid of Sarah for the night to get drunk. But it only made him feel worse about shirking his responsibilities to go get drunk and try to sleep with someone. The last time he did that, he became a father.

But he does it anyway because he told Tommy he would. He goes on a couple of dates with the girl and it feels nice to be around someone who is interested in him for himself, not for what he did for them or because they were stuck with him.

It doesn’t last long. Sarah and work always take priority over everything else in his life and she understandably doesn’t like being his last priority. He never tries again.

16th June 1998

“Sarah!” He called for the fourth time, again with no response. He plated the food for her, grabbed his own plate and walked upstairs to her room.

“Been calling out your name for ten minutes now, baby girl.”

She looked up at him, a weary smile on her lips. “Sorry. I was just finishing up my assignment. Didn’t hear you.”

He put the plate on the table in front of her and ruffled her hair, making her pout. “‘S nice to focus on school, but you need to keep your ears alert,” he said, sitting back down on her bed with his plate.

One glance at her books told him she was doing her math homework. Geometry, to be precise. At least it was something he knew this time. Last week, she was writing her social science essay and went on about the different parts of the United Nations or some shit. He only remembered a bunch of abbreviations and not what they stood for. She could make something up like UNCPS, call it United Nations Child Protective Services and he’d believe it. Wait, was that what UNICEF was?

Math was the only thing she learned in school that he still understood, that made him feel like a smart dad capable of helping his kid out with her homework. Not that she needed any help. She’d taken after Pam in the brains department. Thank god.

Nevertheless he checked her answers. He didn’t want to be completely useless.

She’d done well. There were one or two mistakes she’d made, repetitions of the kinds of mistakes she’d made before in long division. Just careless ones that she corrected easily when he pointed them out to her. Nothing he had to teach her.

“Oh, before I forget…” she said, pulling a plastic file out of her purple backpack. “I need your signature on this thing. It’s the permission slip for a talk from a retired army officer.”

He rifled through the pens in her pen stand, taking too long to find one that wasn’t purple, glittery, or purple and glittery. “Military? Why they teachin’ you that?” He asked, wary about his kid learning anything about wars. It’d gotten Tommy a little too excited and before they knew it, he was off getting shot at somewhere in the gulf. The dangers of that were lower with a daughter than with a son, but he was still wary. Gender equality better not creep its way into jobs that could get his kid killed.

“Yeah, you ain’t going to this thing. Take the day off.”

“No way, we might have a social science pop up quiz on Wednesday and I’m not going to miss it.”

“Aren’t pop up quizzes supposed to…I don’t know, pop up? Like surprise,” he said, earning an eye-roll from her. Wasn’t even a teenager yet and she was rollin’ her lil eyes at her dad. He’d lucked out in the baby lottery, got himself a smart, mostly well-behaved one. But it still confused a man to have the little thing that used to depend on you for everything from food to wiping her butt now rolling her eyes at you.

“Yeah, yeah. I can’t just skip classes. I’m sure this,” she said, waving the piece of paper at him. “—is just formality. And it’s just going to be some boring talk from some old guy. If you don’t sign it, they’ll still make me go and then my principal will call you up to my office and ask you why you didn’t sign the slip. Merel’s older brother didn’t get his signed and the principal asked his dad if he was a communist.”

“The worst that could happen is this old man calling me a communist? You’ll have to do better than that.”

“Uncle Tommy said that communists are evil,” she said, her eyes widening for effect.

“Your uncle also says that two plus two is five and that ice cream is good for your health.”

“Because it’s milk and milk has calcium!”

“Sure it is. And it’s a shitload of sugar.”

“But if I’m having sugar, isn’t it better to have it with milk? That way I’m also having something healthy,” she asked, showing off her missing teeth as she grinned.

“Or you can just drink milk.”

“Milk tastes like sh— garbage,” she quickly corrected herself. His little girl knew bad words. That shouldn’t be as much of a surprise as it was considering how much he and Tommy cursed around her. But it was…disturbing. It was evidence she was growing up, using these words around her little friends and hiding that from him. He used to know her better, be able to read her from the smallest facial expressions. He used to be able to anticipate her needs, predict her behavior, but it was getting harder nowadays.

“And you know what garbage tastes like because…?”

“I grew up eating stuff you cook, that’s how.”

“Walked right into that one.”

“Yeah you did,” she said, sticking her tongue out at him. He chuckled at her silly behavior, pinching her nose between his thumb and index finger before letting go. Maybe she wasn’t growing up after all.

“Whatever garbage I fed ya, it’s kept you strong enough to talk crap ‘bout it.”

He thought back on the days of fighting out how to cook. Before Sarah, he’d been surviving on takeout. Having to clothe and feed an entirely new human being left little money in his wallet to spend on food. So he learned to cook. For a little thing, she’d made big changes in his life— made him a father and a man. He remembered waking up at odd hours when she so much as stirred in her crib that he kept beside his bed. He remembered how his heart would ache with her little whines that turned into cries of hunger. How he cursed her mother who was meant to be feeding her as he fixed her a bottle—a cheap substitute for her mother’s milk.

Nine years.

Goddamn.

It was hard to believe it’d been that long since she entered his world and changed everything about it. Even when the evidence sat right before him, doing her homework and doodling on her desk. Her hand, while bigger, still held her pencil the same way it did when he taught her to write. Now it wrote faster, wrote long words beyond his understanding in pretty cursive handwriting.

He waited patiently as she ate the boxed mac ‘n cheese, ashamed that he couldn’t feed her anything healthier. It’d been a long day and he didn’t have the time or energy to make something better. But she ate it up happily, not complaining even once. It induced both guilt and satisfaction, the former from the lack of nutrients in the food and the latter because he still made his little girl happy.

He covered his mouth as a yawn took over, making her laugh. “You yawn so funny.”

“I do?” He asked before faking a yawn, making silly sounds as he did. She giggled and yawned back, producing her own silly sounds. It had quickly turned into a competition, leaving father and child making the silliest sounds until the latter crumpled on him, breathless from her laughter.

“Alright. Time to sleep, okay? And remember, Grandpa is picking you up from school tomorrow. So don’t walk home by yourself.”

“Alright dad,” she said, settling under her purple blanket. He bent down and pressed a kiss to her forehead before turning her bedside lamp off.

Dad.

Not daddy, but dad. The little girl was adamant on growing up. He left her room, remembering that she hadn’t asked for a bedtime story in months. She read on her own, borrowed piles of books from the library and narrated the stories to him and Tommy and anyone who would listen.

She didn’t need him for that anymore. While it was a comfort in one way, to lessen the duties of parenthood, it clawed at his chest to know that one day she wouldn’t need him at all. He’d had her for nine years and in another nine, she would be off to university, leaving him alone in this house with nothing to do for the first time since she became his life.

23rd December 1999

“Ma…” Tommy called out, his voice breaking as he turned to him, tears already streaming down his cheeks. Joel stepped forward and threw an arm around his little brother.

First dad and now… His chest felt heavy and his throat prickled from all the sobs he held back. He needed to be strong. There was one more funeral to arrange, a little brother to comfort…god, Tommy had seen too many deaths in his lifetime already. This wasn’t going to be easy for him.

And Sarah. She had never seen death before. Loss, yes. Her mother, her best friend who left town, the goldfish that died because he forgot to feed it. But death in the family, that was new.

He let go of Tommy and gave him an awkward pat on the back. “I’m going to call the funeral home.”

The call had been made, their mother was taken away from their family home to join her father and he drove the two of them back to his place. It wouldn’t be wise to stay there, with all the memories of growing up with their parents, especially with the holiday decorations cheering up the place in the most offensive manner.

They were supposed to celebrate together, just the five of them. But god had other plans it seemed. He poured Tommy another drink and leaned back on the couch, mind reeling with all the paperwork he had to take care of and who would take care of Sarah when he was away handling it. Not Tommy, not in his state. He sipped on his beer, watching Tommy as he followed suit.

It had been decades ago, but he remembered quite well what Ma had said after Tommy ran off to complain to her about Joel yelling at him for scribbling on his homework.

“When your dad and I are gone, Joel, you’ll be the one to take care of him. He’s little and he will make silly mistakes. But you oughta forgive him, take care of him.”

Somehow, Tommy looked just as pathetic as he did that day. Innocent, vulnerable and needing comfort. He had seen so much, so much more than what Joel could imagine in his worst nightmares. But Joel would still see him as his little brother.

“Alright, Tommy. You’ve had enough,” he said, prying the bottle of beer from his grip and taking it to the garbage. Tommy didn’t resist, only crumpled down on the couch as he stared at the ground.

“Dad?” Said a low voice, heavy with sleep. He looked to the other side to find her, rubbing at her eyes as she walked further into the living room. He’d just tucked her into bed after she spent almost an hour badgering him about what Christmas presents Santa would bring her that years as he worried himself sick about how he’d tell her that grandpa was dead. Just the thought of her festive excitement breaking to make way for grief… That was when Tommy called him, sobbing and sputtering out the words.

He’d gone to cook something for Ma and found her unmoving on her bed.

“Hey baby girl…” he said, his voice soft as he walked to her. “Did we wake you up?”

She whined and hugged him, placing her weight on him as she let him lead her to the couch. Tommy, realizing his niece was there, wiped his eyes with the cuffs of his shirt and plastered a smile on his face. “Hey Butterfly…” he addressed her in his trembling voice.

“What happened?”

Joel didn’t know how he did it. But he did it. The girl’s eyes were wide as she listened to him, her little hands wrapped around his arms like she was afraid to let go.

“We’ll never see grandma and grandpa again?”

He shook his head, his heart breaking for her. He never had the misfortune of experiencing his own grandparents’ deaths. Half of them were gone before his parents had him and the other half passed when he was too little to remember them.

“There will be a funeral for them. We’ll all get together as a family and say goodbye at Church.”

Her lips curved down and tears brimmed in her eyes, the realization of the true nature of death hitting her. With a wail, she wrapped her arms around him, her bony knees digging into his thighs. “I don’t want them to go,” she cried, her tiny fist punching his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close and kissing the top of her head.

“I know, baby… I know.” He whispered into her ear, cradling and rocking her in his arms the way he did when she cried as a newborn. “It’s going to be scary because we have always had grandma and grandpa. But we’ll get through it, okay? Together. Daddy’s here. I’ll get us through it.”

“I don’t want them to die.”

“I know, I know,” he breathed and for the first time since he lost the first two people he ever loved, the sorrow caught up to him. Her innocent words, how she thought to speak them to him- as though she believed he could prevent her dead grandparents from dying. In her innocence, he finds his own. For the first time, he allows himself to be more than the responsible older brother who made funeral arrangements and took care of his grieving little brother. His love for his parents, his remaining childlike belief that they would be permanent in his life— They dug their claws into his chest and ripped his heart right out, piercing it, making it bleed.

“Does everyone die?” She asked meekly, fear and curiosity battling each other and plunging them both into the remains of her innocence.

“Yeah. Eventually, everyone dies.”

“Even you?” She asked, pulling back, sweet brown eyes staring back at him. While he thought she had her mother’s eyes, everyone else said their expressions were his. His eyes that he got from his father. For the first time, he saw what they all said. Just like dad’s eyes.

“You don’t worry about that now, baby girl,” he said, caressing her hair. “I’ll be here for a long time. You’ll be a big girl by then. Have a job ‘n all.”

“I don’t want you to die.”

“Oh, darlin’…” He pulled her to his chest and patted her back, setting a rhythm that he used when her back was the size of his hand and she needed the rhythm to fall asleep on his chest. She relaxed under his touch, the rhythm still having an effect. “It’ll be fine. Everything will be okay,” he lied, a habit that’s come easy to him with fatherhood. Lying was second nature when it came to comforting her, lulling her into a false sense of security about life.

17th May 2000

He pulled up the hem of his T-shirt and wiped his sweat, hoping to look better for Sarah’s game. He was late. By over an hour. Sarah would already be angry at him and seeing his face in the stands so fucking late would only add insult to injury. But he had to try. After all the games he missed, he had to keep his promise to be there for the final match.

He spotted Sarah instantly as he walked close to the field. But she wasn’t playing like he hoped. She was taking a towel from her friend Candace, her lips weighed down by a frown. Candace’s mother offered her a bottle of water and she accepted it politely before walking away and settling down on the stands. Alone. The back of her soccer jersey is stained with sweat and his guilty mind reads the big bold Miller on it as an accusation. Where were you, Miller? Other kids were with their families and his sat alone.

“Baby girl…”

She looked up at him but quickly dropped her eyes back down to her lap, her fingernails scratching at the label of the plastic water bottle. From the frown on her face, he guessed that her team didn’t win. Such a shame since she worked so hard practicing while also keeping her grades up.

“It’s okay you didn’t win,” he began gently, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. She tsked and shrugged his hand off her shoulder. Oh she was angry. “You came this far. Finals and all. Second place is still good, you know?”

Silence.

Maybe it would help to regale her with one of his own failures, show her she was doing much better than her old man, maybe even make her laugh. “I was always on reserve and hoping nobody gets injured so I didn’t have to play,” he said, his laugh coming out awkwardly as her frown deepened. Humor wasn’t it, apparently.

“Sarah!” An older woman called out from across the pitch and she looked up at her. From her outfit- tracksuit, whistle at the end of a lanyard around her neck, he assumed she was a soccer coach. “It’s time for the pictures.”

She put her water bottle down on the seat next to her and walked in the woman’s direction. It definitely hurt, her walking away from him without hesitation in the direction of someone who wasn’t family. Like a visible representation of her rejecting him for someone she saw more than him these days.

He let out a defeated sigh and walked up to the pitch and found the huddle of backpacks. Finding her purple one with the butterflies wasn’t hard. He picked it up and threw it over his shoulder and watched as she stood with the kids on her team for the picture. The coach brought a trophy over, big shiny one with ribbons tied to it. Her little friends cheered as the trophy was handed to the girl in the middle, the captain presumably and they all put their hands on it, smiling wide as their picture was taken. His little girl finally managed a smile too, encouraged by Chantal grabbing her shoulder and shaking her.

“She played well, huh?”

He looked to his side to find the owner of the voice, a man older than he was, wearing a red tee, the color of the opposing team.

“Tony,” he said, introducing himself. “I’m your Sarah’s math teacher. And the dad of the losing team’s captain.”

Joel squinted, confused. Sarah’s team didn’t lose? On the other side of the pitch, the red team stood together for a picture, looking a little less happy and holding a trophy much smaller than Sarah’s team.

“Joel,” he said, introducing himself. “Sorry for…uh-” he struggled to find a way to say something nice about his daughter’s performance. But he wasn’t at the game and didn’t know who the man’s kid was. “They played well, your kid’s team.”

“Oh, you’re being kind. Don’t tell my girl I said this, but they played like shit,” Tony said and he laughed awkwardly. Was he supposed to agree or disagree? Which would be more polite?

Joel instead changed the topic to school. “Is it hard? Teaching and having your kid in the same school?” He asked like a fucking idiot. Where did that come from? Why would that even be hard? He would kill to work at the school, see his kid more instead of working mad hours far away from home while she ate at the Adlers’ and went to bed alone. But the job paid shit.

“Well, a little…” he answered, scratching his beard. As the man spoke, Joel’s attention was elsewhere, on the pitch with Sarah. Her team won. The games she'd been stressing over for so long had come to an end and she had won. But she still had that frown on her face. Realization hit him like a ton of bricks.

She looked sad because he wasn’t there. After he promised he would be.

“…and you’d think she would be much better at math with me teaching her at home and another math teacher teaching her in school, but she’s hopeless. Soccer is life for Dolly. Your Sarah is very good. I’m guessing that’s why I never see you at the parent-teacher meetings. Never nothin’ to ask your kids’ teachers about if they’re doing perfectly well in school, right?”

“Right,” he said, nodding as he felt the guilt eat away at his heart. She had been raving about this match for so long, was so excited when they made it to the finals and drilled the date into his head. But he still forgot. He would lie to her on the drive home, say he had so much work that he couldn’t get to the match on time. But he would know the truth- that he forgot about it until he heard a soccer match inside the house of the client whose deck he was redoing.

“Now, I know your girl is very busy with the debate club, soccer and art. I asked her to join mathletes but she said she was too busy. I think it would be good for her. On her CV and stuff when she applies for college. Plus she needs a challenge.”

He felt smaller in front of the teacher despite having a couple inches over him. Sarah was a smart kid. Took after her mother there. But he wasn’t. He didn’t know art or debate and Sarah had long ago gone beyond the math he knew, taking advanced classes he never took and getting grades he never had on his report card. And did Tony say the math thing would help her with college?

“Yeah, she does,” he agreed, not even knowing fully what he was agreeing over. “Umm… I’ll talk to her about it.”

He traded some words with her teacher, the two of them agreeing to meet at the next game before he left to find his daughter and console her over her team’s loss. In a while, he found Sarah walking to the parking, holding a gold medal and a certificate. He followed and opened the truck door for her and she climbed in wordlessly.

“Come on, you gon’ be like that the whole time?” He asked, a couple minutes into their ride.

“You forgot about the game, didn’t you?”

“What? No!” He lied. “I wanted to come, baby girl. I swear. Just took too long at work today because of the sub-contractor. He installed the wrong plumbing for the kitchen and wouldn’t admit to it, so—” he stopped abruptly, feeling bad about his string of lies. But he did nothing to correct it. What was he supposed to say? Apologise for being a shit dad who forgot?

“I didn’t forget, I swear,” he lied again. Lying was second nature to him now. It was easier to lie than to confess to your kid that you forgot about something that was important to her. Plus, it wasn’t going to be worth the fight. She was a teenager and on a goddamn debate team. She knew how to argue. Whose idea was it anyway to teach children how to argue better? No one from the south, he was sure. Had he argued with his mama, he would’ve gotten a belt to his ass.

“Fine,” she huffed, folding her arms over her chest.

“A’right,” he said, feeling a weight leave his shoulder. “How ‘bout we get some pizza and celebrate your win? We can watch a movie too.”

“Okay fine. But I get to pick.”

“Yeah yeah, we’ll watch Toy Story again,” he said, smiling as her grumpy face lit up for a moment before stretching thin into a neutral expression. He had watched that movie a million times because of her. Their CD had given out from scratches from the number of times they watched it and he had to buy her a new one.

“I didn’t say Toy Story,” she said defiantly. Right… She was growing up now, watching fewer movies from when she was younger to make herself look older and cooler around her friends. He remembered that stage with Tommy.

“Sure, baby girl,” he teased, driving in the direction of their favorite pizza place.

27th March 2001

“Don’t be scared, a’right?” He said, holding her face in his hands. She nodded, putting on a brave face even though she was afraid. “I’ll be right behind you. Won’t let those assholes do anything. Uncle Tommy is inside the store too. We’ll take care.”

She took his word and got out of the truck, following the path she usually took when she walked home from school. She came home crying the other day, talking about how she didn’t want to go to school anymore ‘cause a bunch of guys stood outside a store leering at her and talking shit.

He was ready to go to prison for murder immediately, but Tommy chose to be the smarter Miller for the first time in his life and hatched a plan. Nothing elaborate. Just intimidating the whichever boys dared to fuck with his kid.

He followed Sarah at a safe distance, close enough to protect her from danger while also making sure to maintain enough distance so as to not alert the guys into running away. A few minutes in and he spotted them. Not boys. Not misguided teenagers like he was expecting. Men. Grown men older than him. He caught how their eyes crawled over his kid, how she squirmed under the gaze and he immediately wants to slam the three of them into the fucking ground. Pull their eyes out and kick them to their fucking death.

She was twelve.

He stopped outside the store. A little bodega he frequented. Tommy seemed to have similar thoughts running through his head, his hands curled into fists at his sides as he burned holes into the men’s head. They communicated with just their eyes. We’ll wait for Sarah to get home.

Joel didn’t know how he managed to wait until she walked into their street. From a distance, he could see her opening their front door and letting herself in. She better have locked the door.

Intimidation would not work on these men. Not was it enough for their disgusting act. Joel’s stomach turned as his mind replayed the way they looked at her. No wonder she was afraid. His poor girl.

They took the men out back, hand on their back, words exchanged about needing to ask something. He didn’t remember how much punches and kicks he and Tommy landed, but it seemed enough. Sarah walked home peacefully again. But peace eluded Joel from then on. He was raising a girl. He could remember how his female friends in school had to keep themselves safe- keys in between their fingers, a trusted male walking them home when it got dark. He thought nothing of it then, even walked some of his friends home to keep them safe.

It was different experiencing it as a dad. Now men were part of the list of things he had to worry about- concussion from football, period cramps, eating too much chocolate, fucking terrorists taking out goddamn buildings— He cursed the part of him that once wanted his little girl to grow up faster so he didn’t have to change diapers anymore. He would take diapers over this any day.

4th March 2002

“Uh huh,” he hummed as the client hammered on about his good for nothing son who he caught smoking weed and sneaking out to some party. He would’ve whipped out the picture of Sarah in his wallet and rubbed it in the man’s face that his kid never got into trouble and was a straight A’s student. But part of being a contractor was not being a complete fucking asshole to his clients. So he shut up.

Plus he was in no mood to brag.

He returned home late. Again. It had become the topic of all his fights with Sarah. He could understand why she would be angry. But understanding didn’t put money in his pocket or food on their table. It most certainly did not go towards Sarah’s college funds. Animals were what took up her thoughts these days. She brought home a ton of books from the library, ranting off about the different animals and how she wanted to take care of them for a living.

This obsession had stayed longer than the last one. She he believed their neighbor’s dog was to blame. And the stray cat that followed her home to get some scraps of food.

He would’ve brushed it off as his sweet daughter being kind to every fucking thing all the time. Well, he did. Until she dropped the bomb.

Veterinary medicine.

Curious, he slipped into the library close to a store he was building and sat in front of the computer. The number had enough zeroes in it for him to need a doctor and since he couldn’t afford the human one, a veterinary doctor like his kid wanted to become. It wasn’t something he could afford. Not a pet to satiate her obsession with, not a doctor for himself and certainly not enough to make Sarah an animal doctor.

He had just finished paying off the house and now this… Couldn’t she have chosen a different job to do with animals? Or relegated puppies to hobby instead of career. But the puppies weren’t the problem. He was.

No matter what education she decided on, it would end up breaking his back. When at the library, he had gone over a few other degree costs. While not as expensive as medicine, they were still significant costs. There was a little bit of inheritance from his parents, he had started an account in her name and kept his share of the money in it. But it wouldn’t be enough for a college degree.

Sarah’s anger over him not coming home on time hurt. Missing her games and not cooking her the best meals made him realize the failure he was as a dad. But by god he wouldn’t fail to give her a good education. Had he had that, he would be able to give her a better life. And he would be damned if he didn’t try his hardest to give her the education to reach her dreams.

27th September 2003

Sarah Miller came into the world crying when the doctor handed her to him, small and covered in blood. He took her into his arms then, his hospital gown red with her blood and he held her to his chest. His voice trembled as he introduced himself to her.

“Oh, baby girl…” he’d said as he looked down in wonder at the person who would become his entire world. “It’s daddy,” he said as tears of joy streamed down his cheeks. There would be no one adopting her. He wouldn’t give her to anyone else. No one could care for her the way he did.

She left the world the same, crying and gasping for breaths. She was still light in his arms, too easy to carry and still so little. The blood her father gave returned to him, oozing out of her bullet wound and covering him in his failure. He was supposed to have cared for her much better than anyone else could have.

His mother had taken her from his arms then, telling him she knew better, excited to see her grandchild even though she’d thought until then that they would give her away to another family. His brother tried to take her from him now. He held her closer, a whimper akin to that of a wounded animal escaping his lips. The chaos reeling on around them and the sobs that wracked his body weren’t enough to convince him that his world had ended.

A pole marked her grave, dug hurriedly by her beloved uncle.

“We’ll be back, okay?” He reassured the girl’s father, his hands squeezing his shoulder. Stifling a sob, he removed a chain from around his neck, a pendant shining silver from the light of the moon that sat peacefully in the sky as though unaware of the chaos underneath her.

He wrapped his chain around the pole.

MILLER

THOMAS R

9913387701

B POS

CHRISTIAN

A lot would change in the next two decades. But the dogtag would stay on the pole above her. Marking the grave of a child well loved, a name she shared and the type of blood he could’ve donated to her to save her life. The little girl would rest, but the man who had to be dragged away from her grave never would. He would wander, much like the zombies themselves, trying to find his purpose.

#joel miller #joel and sarah #joel and tommy #tommy miller #uncle tommy #tlou #tlou hbo #tlou fanfiction #tlou fic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller fluff #dad joel #pre outbreak!joel #pre outbreak!tommy #joel the last of us #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal #all that i've inflicted on the world

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phantomspiderr · 1 year

Text

By Any Means ║ Part 3

Pairing: Joel Miller x *f!reader

Word Count: 1.6k+

Summary: never did you think you'd ever see him again but there he is with the kid you've been looking for

Warnings/Tags: tlou hbo spoilers, trauma, canon level violence, cursing, mentions of death, guns, the word t*rrorist being used in reference to the fireflies, promise there's a little fluff too

*no real description of reader or gender as far as I know but I've written it with a female reader in mind

series masterlist | phantomspiderr masterlist

“Look kid, put the fucking gun down, I’m not gonna hurt you!” You’ve got your hands raised above your head attempting to beg for your life to a child.

“Slide your gun over here, and I might think about not shooting you,” the girl confidently directs her pistol at you. Nodding her head down towards your own pistol holder.

“No- I can’t-“ never in all the times you’d imaged dying did it include a small girl pointing a gun at you. “I don’t have anything else.” You state it simply. The mission with your group had gone sideways, some group of murderous psychos sneaking up and killing almost all of you in the dead of night. Luckily, you’d managed to escape, trying hard to find a safe place to go in this foreign terrain. There had to be some other fireflies somewhere along the way that would help you. Unluckily for you, while hiding out from the rain in an abandoned office building you ran into this little murderous asshole. Where in the fuck she had come from was lost on you. She’d been silent, sneaking up behind you before demanding you turn around slowly with your hands in the air.

“It’s simple. Hand over the gun or I shoot you,” she tilts her head to the side just a little, the faintest grin on her face.

“Ellie?” A booming voice calls out, and the girl doesn’t look away from you as she calls back. Wait-this is the fucking girl you’ve been looking for?

You start trying to formulate any kind of sentence to explain to her that she’s why you’re here, she’s the kid you’ve been tracking down and almost been killed in the process for.

“In here!” She quickly points her gun down toward your holster again, a silent way of demanding, before resuming to aim it right at you.

You can hear footsteps approaching, and you wonder for a second who is with her and if they are more brutal than she is at such a young age. You expect someone cruel and unrelenting. They’ll probably come in and kill you straight away, not bothering to listen to you and hear you out. Their only priority is keeping this girl safe and getting her where she needs to be, so they probably won’t hesitate to shoot you where you stand.

“What have I told you about wanderin’?” The gruff voice is quieter now, and your heart picks up at its familiarity.

“Holy shit-Joel?!” Your knees almost give out there and then. Even after more than a decade, you’d still recognise that face anywhere. He freezes in the doorway, unable to make himself move as you both lock eyes.

“The fuck? You know him?” Ellie cuts through the silence, her gun still pointed at you, but she quickly looks at Joel for reassurance.

“Put the gun down, Ellie.” He finally remembers how to walk, stepping quickly into the room and pushing the girl's gun down and away from you. Then he’s looking at you again, he’s closer now, and you can see how he’s aged. At least he still looks good after all these years. Slowly, you drop your hands down to your side. You’re filled with an array of emotions at that moment, and not sure how you should really feel.

For a second it looks like he’s going to hug you, wrap you back in his warmth like he used to decades ago. Part of you wishes he would do just that, the other, more pained part wants to do nothing more than slap him in the face for the years of suffering you both had.

“You look good,” you can feel your cheeks heat up almost instantly. Your mind taken back to that younger, wildly in-love version of yourself that got giddy when he’d compliment you.

“So do you,” you settle for the only words you can think of at that moment. Then there’s just silence, only the sounds of heavy rain falling. You don’t know what you’re supposed to say to your somewhat ex, who you abandoned without a word over a decade ago.

“It looks like it’s going to rain through the night. We were just about to set up camp in a room down the hall. You’re welcome to join.” Ellie scoffs loudly in protest, which is followed by an eye roll when Joel gives her a stern look.

“That’d be nice,” you politely nod. Watching as Joel looks at Ellie, a silent conversation is had between the two before he spins her by her shoulder and gently shoves her out of the room. You follow a few feet behind after gathering your things, and you can just hear the hushed conversation they’re having.

“Can’t believe you’re letting a stranger stay with us. What happens when you wake up to a gun in your face, and I’m already dead in the corner?” Ellie briefly looks over her shoulder, locking eyes with you before quickly turning back.

“Shut up,” Joel grumbles, looking back at you too for just a second. They both stop in front of a doorway, and Joel just gives her a stern look—the same one he used to give Sarah when she was being stubborn.

“I’m just saying…” Ellie mumbles as she passes Joel into the room.

“Still can’t believe after all these years I find you here, of all places.” Giggles erupt from you as he speaks, trying to keep the conversation quiet was proving difficult. Ellie had turned in about an hour ago after you’d all eaten together, and now you and Joel were sitting together catching up. Your conversation proved to flow easier than you’d first expected.

“Yeah, well, when Marlene tells you to do something, you do it. No questions asked, even if it takes you across a desolate country where you could die at any turn.” You sigh now, trying to push away the memories of the last few days, the pained dying screams of people you’d known for years echoing in your head.

“Surprised you haven’t seen Tommy in your little terrorist group.” Joel lets out a single breathy laugh when you look at him with shock.

“They are not terrorists! You might not agree with the way they do things, but their purpose is good. Or at least it was,” you elbow him in the side, “and I did see him once. Was years ago now.” You pick at the dried mud on the knee of your jeans, suddenly a little nervous to talk about Tommy, “he told me about your fight.”

“Yeah, not my finest hour.” He sighs, leaning his head against the wall you’re both propped against. There’s a long pause between that and his next words, “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” you follow his actions, leaning your head against the wall but turning a little to look at him, “I forgave you a long time ago.”

On the list of things you thought might happen today, looking into the eyes of the man you once loved more than anything definitely wasn’t up there. It was a mystery how even after so many years and so much heartbreak, Joel could still reduce you to a version of yourself you thought was long gone. It’s almost as if you could close your eyes and if you think really hard, you’d be back there. Back in Joel’s bedroom—back in his bed— with moving boxes invading the small space, blissfully unaware of what was to come in a week's time.

“Still feels like a dream,” your fingers slowly trace along his jaw, his face is barely visible in the dark, but you can tell his eyes are closed. He’s on the precipice of sleep, but you just can’t help yourself. Moving in together had been a huge step, a big jump from the occasional sleepover or the even rarer weekend away, but it had all felt right.

“I’m real, darlin’, this is all happenin’.” Joel almost whispers, nuzzling his head further into the pillow, “now go to sleep.” His hand gently moves to your head, and he jokingly forces your head into your own pillow a little more. It makes you quietly giggle before his hand relaxes completely against your cheek, his thumb soothingly rubbing back and forth.

“You gotta get used to this, I’m never gonna leave now.” You whisper after a few quiet moments, and he lets out one breathy laugh.

“Is it too late to rescind the offer? Kick you to the curb?” You chuckle now, louder than you probably should at this time of night, but suddenly he’s joining you in laughter.

The memory fizzles out in your head as you look at him now. He looks tired, exhausted even. You used to jokingly call him an old man, but now it seems he’s fitting into the name more with his greying hair and wrinkles that have formed from years of scowling.

“I tried to find you,” he looks away from you now, his eyes finding Ellie’s sleeping form, “y’know… after.” You’re quiet while he speaks, even between the silence as he thinks of what to say next. “I-I didn’t mean any of it. I was angry at the world—still am. But you didn’t deserve any of that.”

Cautiously, you shuffle a little closer and lower your head to his shoulder. When he only stiffens up for a split second, you push a little further, reaching for his hand and pulling it into your lap. He lets you do it with no struggle, lets you hold his hand in both of yours. He lets you trace along all the lines and marks with your fingers, and he just watches you, distracted by memories of his own that he thought he’d buried decades ago.

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knullanon · 1 year

Note

Vandal savage losing one his young kids and finding them decades later, his kid taken into a family and decently stable civilian life

yess i love your ideas, I have so many of them almost finished too. also, there might be something I'll post tomorrow because it was written and then I forgot to save it, so while I still have the ask, everything that was written was gone. which sucks, but oh well. so, either later today or tomorrow it will be up :) love yall!

Lost and Found

words: 1878

warnings: drugging, a little violence, kidnapping, lmk if I missed anything!

~~~

He was devastated. You were his baby, his precious, even when you were born, he knew you would be different. All throughout your years, he would teach you, care for you, he would show you all around the world, to tell you that this is what you would rule over. That this was your domain, that you would one day be ruling over the people around you.

Unfortunately, that vision he had given you had never come to fruition. He still remembered the day you were taken, when you were little. He left you with your siblings, thinking that you would be safe, that you wouldn't be in any danger.

He goes over that day every night, about the what if's and what could've changed. What he could've done differently. If he had just taken you with him, if he had just assigned more guards. After a few years, he had assumed the worst had happened. He knew that he would never make this mistake again, he swore to himself, but it didn't help the hurt and pain he felt every time he thought of you.

He thought he would never see you again. By the time you would have been an adult, he had come to terms with what happened. He would still think of you, but he knew that he would have to get over it, that nothing would bring you back. No matter how much he tried, you were gone, probably dead.

And so when he received a file from one of his children showing that you were alive, that you were on the other side of the world, fine and unharmed, he let himself hope again that you were there. That it wasn't a trap, that you were actually alive.

Savage realized what would happen if it was a lie. That it would restart his pain, his hurt. But he let himself believe that maybe, you were still alive.

He hoped he was right.

You were having a terrible day.

Your mother had called you, telling you that she wanted you to move back in with them for some reason or another, even though you just rented your first apartment, something you were very prideful about, and she didn't even tell you why. This caused an argument where she yelled at you for 5 minutes before hanging up.

Then, on the way to work, you were stopped by a cop, which made you late, which then caused your boss to yell at you in front of your coworkers. Later in the day, some lady was mad because you got her order wrong, and made a huge deal about it to your boss.

After she left, he told you that your raise you were going to get, albeit small, was going to be postponed until he saw "better results". You had tried to argue, but he had shut you down, telling you to do better.

The rest of the day was a blur, besides the few angry people who would come up to you telling you something was wrong, or to go work on this, or work on that.

By the time you were clocking out, you were ready to be done with your day and cry yourself to sleep.

Walking down the road to the parking lot, you thought of everything you could do the next day to make yourself feel better. You had that TV show you wanted to watch, some snacks, and you could even get some food from your favorite restaurant-

"______?"

You paused and turned around, expecting one of your coworkers telling you you forgot your keys or something similar. You were not expecting a tall lady who looked like she could kill you with a punch to be there.

"Yes?" You fully turned to face her, worried she might try something, but she didn't move. In fact, she seemed surprised that you even answered her. You had never seen her before in your life, which made it even more suspicions.

"Do I... know you?" you asked, hesitantly. You didn't know what she wanted from you, and the fact that she knew your name was not a good sign.

She didn't answer your question. Instead, she told you, "I can't believe it. You're _______ Savage?"

Savage? What? "My name is _______, but my last name isn't Savage-"

"That's all I need to know." Confused, you were about to ask her what the hell she was talking about, when she suddenly rushed forward towards your face. You tripped yourself backwards trying to get away from her, and ended up falling flat on your ass.

This didn't deter her, though. While you were trying to figure out how the hell you were going to get away from her, she took the opportunity and lunged towards you. You covered your face, but she didn't automatically go for you. She went behind you.

Before you realized what was happening, she had you in a chokehold, holding you down while you tried to yell out for help. You saw something glint from her other arm, and you were smart enough to know what she was planning on doing.

You tried to kick your way out of her hold, but you cried out when you felt something prick your arm. Something cold, something that felt weird under your skin poured into you. You finally had the bright idea to shove your palm at her nose. She let you go and you scurried away, trying to get ahold of yourself when you started to droop.

Your arms, legs, even your face weren't moving as fast as you normally would have been able to. You tried to get up, but even then you struggled. By the time you hoisted yourself onto the nearby wall, she was already back on her feet, walking towards you.

When she grabbed you by your arm, and you fell like a rag doll, you knew you had lost. You didn't even notice her cradling you like a baby, or when she carried you to a car that you didn't even see beforehand. The last thing you remember was falling asleep to her telling someone to drive.

Your head felt like crap. It was almost like what a fever felt like: you could move, but your body didn't want to. It was too tiring, too slow. It was too hot, too cold. You groaned to yourself. Did you really have to get sick on your days off? Opening your eyes, you were going to see if you could convince your body to get some water, only to realize this wasn't your room.

In fact, it was the opposite of your room. In comparison to your tiny little apartment, the room you were in was huge, probably the size of your parents house. There were shelves with trinkets, statues and books. There were huge paintings on the walls, some of them seemed to be originals.

When you looked at the bed you were on, it was gigantic. It looked like one of those princess beds, with black lace curtains, sheets and pillows. The headboard was carved to show what appeared to be a battle, the detail showing even in the smallest of areas. There was two doors that probably led to some hallway or another, but what got your attention was the window.

It was to your left, and it showcased a tundra of snow and trees. It was enticing, seeing the beauty of it all right in front of you. There were mountains, covered in snow, and it almost looked like another planet.

Everything in the room, while luxurious and expensive, made you remember in your daze everything that had happened the day before, including the kidnapping.

You threw off the covers, and jumped out of the bed, which made your head hurt even more, but you didn't care. Panic and adrenaline started to set in, and even through your headache, you stumbled over to the two doors, which was a struggle just from your body being so disorganized.

When you finally reached the doors, your body was already done. You had wondered what had happened to you to deserve this treatment, when the knob suddenly turned. You stopped as it opened, your heart sinking when you saw who was on the other side.

It was the biggest man you had ever even seen in your life. You didn't recognize him, and yet he looked so familiar. He was holding a tray of food that seemed to be some kind of soup, and some flatbread to the side of the bowl. It also held a glass of water.

You tripped on your feet as he walked in the room, and gently shut the door. He walked past you, towards the bedside table, and set down the tray, along with the glass of water.

He turned around, and his expressions softened. "______, are you feeling alright?"

"Who are you?" You mumbled out. Not knowing who he was and yet he somehow knew your name made your stomach turn, and it didn't help you had no idea where you were.

He didn't respond, and he only walked towards you, saying, "You look ill. You should be in bed, you know."

You couldn't even respond before he grabbed you by your neck, like a kitten, and walked back to the bed. He dropped you where you were before, and pulled the sheets and blankets over you again. While your mind was yelling and screaming, your body took comfort in the warmth from the covers.

"Who are you?" You asked again, more panicked and rushed. He grabbed the tray and placed it on your lap, since you were already sitting upright.

"You do not remember me?" He asked, almost sad that you weren't able to recognize him. You shook your head, and flinched when he reached to cradle your cheek.

"______, I am-"

There was a sudden ping from his pocket, and he angrily pulled out what appeared to be a cellphone. He answered, "What is it?"

"Father, there's trouble with one of our reserves. They have asked for an emergency meeting with the rest of the Light." The voice sounded similar to the lady who had taken you.

He growled, and you could see his fist shaking from anger. It scared you.

"Tell them to be ready by the time I get there."

He hung up without saying anything else, and turned to you again. He grabbed your hand and rubbed it, almost trying to give you comfort of some kind.

"I'll be back soon enough. Please eat at least something before I get back."

He let go of your hand, and got up from the bed. He walked over to the door, and turned around one last time, and gave you the smallest smile, before opening the door, and leaving.

You did, however, hear the doors lock, before you heard him walk away. You looked down at the food he had given you, and slowly, you ate, too hungry to even care if he had tampered with it.

You knew you had to have a plan to get out of there. But for right now, you decided to rest, and figure out why you were here.

~~~

I was gonna write this completely differently, but it came out weird so I re-wrote it. anyways, I hope you enjoyed it ヾ(￣▽￣)

#yandere vandal savage x reader #yandere vandal savage x you #yandere vandal savage #yandere young justice imagine #yandere young justice x reader #yandere young justice #yandere yj #yandere dc #yandere dc comics #yandere dc imaine #yandere dc comics x reader #yandere dc x reader #yandere dc imagine #yandere dc comics imagine #also yes ik the title sucks leave me alone (ㄒoㄒ)#there might also be another one with the same name but if there is lmk and i'll change it

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jafarlover101 · 9 months

Text

Welcome Back | Sinbad & Younger Sister!Reader

Warnings: Angst (Kind of?)

╭── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──╮

He still remembers. He remembers it all. The beginning the end the everything. It was his coronation Sinbad and his sister were both excited for it. A few hours before the incident she was helping him get ready for it from hyping him up to helping him actually get ready for it. Sinbad was sweating nervously. He had never done this before and was slightly nervous he would mess up. Yes he’s confident about almost everything but he couldn’t help but having a lump in his throat.

However his sister was always there to calm all of his nerves. Y\N was her name. Oh how he missed having her around. When the ceremony finally began she just disappeared. Sinbad didn’t even noticed until he looked into the crowd after being crowned, his face immediately going from pure bliss to worried then worried to scared.

Sinbad immediately hopped off the elevated grounding and searched in the sea of people seated all of them looking just as confused as the next. “Where is she?!” He said panicked as he searched. “Who?” “Y/N!” He practically yelled as he ran out the building hoping she was just at home or something of the sorts. Ja’far was still in there processing what he was saying “What do you mean she’s not here.?” He questioned himself in his head. Taking a glance around the room Sinbad was right. She isn’t here. However she wouldn’t miss this for the world. Ja’far quickly rose to his feet and ran out the building to find Y/N.

Ja’far quickly caught up to Sinbad who was asking all of the civilians who weren’t there if they had seen her. All of them haven’t. Sinbad was getting more distraught by the minute while Ja’far was trying to keep calm and convincing himself that she was just outside of the city walking around or something.

But that was how many years ago? Sinbad doesn’t even remember at this point it seems like decades. Despite her disappearance Sinbad and Ja’far tries their best to not let it mess with them in their daily lives. Well that was until today.

Sinbad was sitting in his castle with Ja’far by his side before a citizen of Sindria bursts in heavily breathing and slurring their words. “She’s back!” They say while trying to catch their breath. “Who?” Sinbad replies with a confused but intrigued tone. “Y/N!” Ja’far turns to the citizen with widened eyes. Sinbad unable to respond he quickly stands up and runs outside immediately searching for the girl.

Ja’far quickly follows behind Sinbad not believing what the man had to say about her being back. They head to the entrance stopping in their tracks finally seeing her in years. However not only she is back.. this child is too? Multiple questions run around in Ja’far’s head like who is this child? Where did she go for so long? Where did she even get this kid?

All of them to be immediately thrown out once he sees Sinbad in tears going to hug her. He slightly moves the kid to the side to give her the tightest hug. “Sinbad..?” She says while looking at him with a shocked face before hugging him back just as tight. He begins to cry into her shoulder her shirt getting soaked in his tears.

“You’ve grown up!” Y/N says calmly acting as if she hasn’t disappeared for god knows how long. Sinbad raises his head to stare at her analyzing every detail she has making sure that this is real. “I can’t believe your back.. Why did you leave? Were you kidnapped? Who is this kid?” He say bombarding you with all the questions that Ja’far had in mind.

“We can worry about that later.” She says before moving on to greet Ja’far. Without saying a word she just hugs him with all her strength almost suffocating him. Ja’far is still in shock that she’s actually back after so long so he just stands there and stares in awe.

“Y/N..” He mumbles out before his eyes start to water slightly. “I can’t believe it..” She smiles at him softly before introducing the kid to them. “I hope she’s able to stay with us for a while..” The kid stares at both of them before giving them a smile. Sinbad smiling back before leading them both back to the castle.

(He will be Making a huge celebration to celebrate Y/N’s return)

╰── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──╯

Thanks for your request! Let me know if you would like a part two

#magi the labyrinth of magic #magi #jafar magi #sinbad magi #sinbad

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wrecking-sequels · 4 months

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[Wreck-It Star]

"Nine feet tall, weighs 643 pounds, with freakishly huge hands and spiky hair, saved the whole arcade once.. That Ralph?" The president of Sugar Rush sat there, on one of the square trees, dangling her legs like the innocent angel she was supposed to be.

"Yes, that Ralph." Replied the blonde warrior as she rolled her eyes. "Nah, never heard of him." That definitely wasn't an innocent angel. Cammy just raised a brow, clearly not amused, and the candy girl apparently surrendered. "Uff.. Bigfoot's not here, I'm waiting for him myself. Say, whatcya need him for, anyway?" The muscular woman mimicked a few blows in the air, as if a player was controlling her. "I like to train after-hours and Ralph's a great sparring partner, no one can take a hit like he does!"

Vanellope couldn't deny it made sense. "Sooo basically you need a punching bag, I see. Listen, he's surely at Tapper's, I'd follow ya but they're baking pies." She pointed at the building behind them. "Bring him back in one piece, 'kay?" White gave a thumbs up, and in no time she was on the exit cart thanks to one of her epic jumps. It seemed she couldn't stand still for long. "Off to find my target! See you around."

About a minute since the train disappeared into the wire for Game Central Station, Ralph's head popped out the front door of Felix' apartment. "She gone?" Vanellope sneered and glicthed her way down to the grass, hands in her kangaroo pocket as usual. "Yeah yeah, coast is clear, Captain Scaredy Pants. But now you owe me one."

It wasn't until after taking a couple more looks towards the exit of the game, that Wreck-It came out of hiding and focused on his answer. "You wouldn't make fun of me if you had a round with her." True. "Really Ralph? A beast like you is scared of some Street Fighter chick?" Countered Von Schweetz, seriously amused by all this.

"Well DUH, you have no idea what her legs can do!" Man, just the memory had his neck hurt. "Your fault, you shouldn't have-" He didn't even let her finish. "Oh no! No no no! I agreed to block her moves ONCE, and she took the liberty to unleash combos on me ever since!" Poor guy. "Eh, maybe it's Cammy's way to say I like ya big boy." Winked the candy girl, only to see in response a gigantic hand waving dismissively.

"Almost forgot, on my way here I met the folks of Dance Dance Revolution kinda begging for us to join their saturday night party yet again." She then added with a lower enthusiasm. Her interest was lost weeks prior, upon beating all possible scores. "Oh and the hedgehog says he lost the ring you signed him, wants a new one.."

"It's hysterical, maybe I liked it better when everyone avoided me." Chuckled the goliath, even tho of course he didn't mean it, no one would miss days of loneliness and rejection. There, his tiny bff showed a genuine grin. "Quit whinin. You are on top of the world like a true hero, Ralphie. "

She wasn't wrong. A lot had changed for Ralph since that fateful day of near apocalypse, four years earlier. The guy was now quite a renowned personality. He could still remember the thrill down his spine when those same eyes that had passed over him for thirty decades finally gave him a curious glance. "Don't get me wrong, I like the attention, but there's this thing called 'me time', you know?" Celebrity life..

"Ay, enough chit-chat, my dear hobo. Let's go check out that new game they plugged in!" Van interrupted. "Sorry kid, I'm not moving." Oh he didn't just say such a thing in front of her. "What?? You wanna hide from blondie until the end of time?" His answer came quick. "I told you yesterday, some of the guys from bad-anon are coming over."

"Aww come on!! I wanna see what it's like!" Her best buddy simply shrugged before heading to the courtyard where he would set the table for the meeting. "Go for it." The little girl hesitated, but after a heavy snort, she followed good old Stinkbrain. "Is that Satan guy gonna come?" Of course that was her favorite of the bunch. "It's Satèn."

#wreck it ralph #street fighter #wir #disney #writers on tumblr #tumblr fanfic #disney fanfiction #chapter 1

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themaribatpit · 2 years

Text

A Return To Gotham: Chapter 1

Prompt: Target (Jasonette July) @maribat-calendar-events

Rating: T

Ships: Jason Todd/Marinette Dupain-Cheng

Contains: OC children, tooth-rotting fluff,

A/N: Sorry these are coming out at a snail’s pace, been very busy with other life stuff. We hope you enjoy it as these ideas have been in the works for a while now. - Maribat Girl

Chapter 2

Chapter 1

Marinette sat bored at the cash register at her family bakery, it had been a slow day. She watched people walk past, with a customer or two stepping in. She hoped business would pick up, she checked her watch, school should be closing soon and then they'll get a wave of customers.

Jason emerged from upstairs carrying their infant son asleep in his arms, wearing a frilly pink apron, wiping his sweat with a towel. "Have the kids come home yet?"

Marinette chuckled as she saw her husband in a pink apron, in all their 14 years of marriage, she still never expected him to turn out like this. "Not yet, school won't be over for another five minutes." She gave her husband a kiss on the lips.

Their child stirred and cooed in his father’s arms "Wakey-wakey, happy to see me, kiddo?"

"I'm pretty sure Louis likes you more," Marinette joked as the baby laughed in Jason's hands.

Laughter quickly turned to cries, Jason gave a quick sniff before passing the baby to Marinette "Do you mind doing it? Customers probably don't want any surprises in their pain au chocolat."

Marinette laughed at Jason's crude joke and brought the child upstairs for a diaper change, while Jason took over the register.

On cue, students from Collège Françoise Dupont across the road flooded in for treats and snacks. Students selected their favourite bread and cakes and queued to pay, one student however just grabbed one from the display and began eating.

"Hey! That girl didn't pay!" One student yelled and pointed.

"I live here dumbass," the girl said as she took another bite from her palmier.

Jason couldn't help but chuckle from his daughter's response "Welcome home Emma," he said with a grin.

Emma smiled back "Palmiers are great as always," she said as she made her way behind the counter.

Emma Todd, handsome, clever and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence, and had lived nearly thirteen years in the world with very little to distress or vex her.

As the sudden rush of customers died down, a young boy entered all on his lonesome. There was a large backpack over his shoulder and a sketchbook tucked under his arm. “I’m home.”

Jason greeted his son with a smile, “Welcome back Hugo, how was school?”

“Good, can I have some macaroons?” Hugo asked politely. Jason nodded in response and gave the boy macaroons in a paper bag. “Thank you,” Hugo said as he made his way upstairs.

Hugo Todd, clumsy and scatterbrained, eight years of age with a love of art that rivalled his mother’s love of fashion. He carried his sketchbook almost everywhere and would usually get sidetracked and draw whatever caught his attention.

Hugo took after his mother, and little did he know, Jason kept his many drawings over the years in a little drawer in his study. Hugo would also watch in awe as their hamster, Marron, made his way through his cage. Emma took after Jason, and in more recent years he pretended not to notice his copy of Dracula being moved ever so slightly every time he saw it on his shelf. Jason made sure to keep his copies of Madame Bovary, Les Liaisons Dangereuses, and Thérèse Raquin far out of her reach. Hugo was a gentle soul who wouldn’t hurt a fly, while Emma was brash and stubborn. She was a lot like him that way, but Jason always hoped her sharp mind would be used as a tool and never a weapon.

If you had told Jason over two decades ago that his trip to Paris would end with him meeting their local heroine, falling in love with her, and raising a family with said heroine, he would have laughed in your face. Yet, here he was, as Marinette and her family welcomed him with open arms into their lives. They didn’t know or care about his past, they treated him as part of their family. Marinette was the only one who knew the truth about his past, considering that they first crossed paths as Ladybug and Red Hood. He told her all about what happened, from fighting crime at Batman’s side since he was 13, to dying at 15 and being brought back to life, to becoming one of the most formidable crime lords in Gotham. It should have had her running for the hills, but she also got her powers at a young age and took on the heavy burden of becoming the Guardian of a box full of magic jewelry. One morning, Sabine caught him in Marinette’s room hastily putting on a shirt to cover the bandages, she gave Marinette a knowing smile before inviting them down for breakfast. Not long after they got married, Marinette got pregnant with Emma. Considering his own sordid family history, Jason couldn’t even imagine raising one kid who wouldn’t turn out as messed up as he was, nevermind three. Yet, so far his children weren’t afraid of him, they weren’t fending for themselves on the streets, and they weren’t going toe to toe with criminals every night. So, he told himself he was at least doing something right. He still kept tabs on what went on in Gotham, but he hadn’t spoken to anyone in the Bat clan for some time. Jason had been given the chance to begin anew in Paris, and so far it worked out well for him.

Jason was brought out of his thoughts with the jingle of the door opening “Welcome to the Jason & Marinette Boulangerie Patisserie.”

A young woman with blue hair entered the shop and chuckled as Jason said his line, “Must you say that tacky line all the time Uncle Jason?”

“Just for you Lian,” Jason said as he hugged the young woman. “How’s your old man? What’s that crazy asshole done now?”

Lian sighed, “He asked Auntie Emiko to team up as Red Arse,”

“Oh shit, here we go again,” Jason jokingly groaned.

“He misses you, keeps asking me to check up on you and make sure you’re staying out of trouble,” Lian said as she looked through the various loaves of bread and pastries.

“Bold words for someone who once tested out their flamethrower on the shower,” Jason retorted. “Is he staying out of trouble?” Roy fought his inner demons with tooth and nail, in hopes of becoming the father that Lian deserved.

Lian tapped her chin thoughtfully, “It’s been 30 days since one of his experiments blew up in his face,” she remarked jokingly, “So, yeah I’d say he’s doing okay.” Lian pointed to the loaf she wanted, “I’ll have the Boule,”.

“Good choice, it’s on the house,” Jason said as she packed the loaf into a paper bag. “The door’s always open for him to visit himself if he’s ever free,” Jason said as he gave the bag to Lian. “Also tell him he’s not getting any freebies,” Jason quickly added as she walked out of the shop with her free loaf of bread.

Roy was one of the only people who knew what really happened to Jason, not that he told him, he just found him. Emma was a toddler at the time, when one afternoon, a familiar face with a hideous auburn goatee walked into the bakery. Jason tried to keep his back turned, hoping Roy wouldn’t recognise him. He’d managed to make a new life for himself here, and the last thing he needed was his past showing up on his doorstep once more. He busied himself kneading the bread in the back room, while Sabine was working the counter.

“Jason!” Sabine called out to the back room, “Give this young man a fresh loaf of pain de campagne,”

Jason swore internally, “Uh, the next batch of brioche needs a bit more kneading,”

“Oh that's fine, Tom can help you there, can’t you darling?” Sabine asked her husband. He gave a quick nod and walked into the kitchen.

Jason walked out with the requested loaf of bread, already packaged into the shop’s signature paper bag. Roy squinted his eyes slightly as Jason handed him the bag, “You look familiar…”

“Is that so?” Jason kept his gaze low, as he pulled his hair net down.

“You American as well?” Roy asked, knowing the answer as he clearly heard their exchange earlier.

“Yeah, I’ve been living here for a few years,” he said and hoped that would be the end of it. Roy would walk out of the shop and leave him to his new life. The trouble was that he knew Roy, he’d seen him persistently tinker away at his inventions and it was unlikely that this trait of his ever faded.

“Seriously, you remind me of an old friend of mine,” he said, the goatee twitched as he smirked, “his name was also Jason, and he just kinda fell off the face of the earth one day.” “Is that so? Wondered what happened to him?” Jason asked, he looked out the window at the pedestrians strolling past.

“Dunno, some people thought he died.” Roy shrugged, Jason wondered if he was better off having Bruce thinking he got himself killed a second time. Roy looked around to see if anyone was listening before he whispered, “Personally, I never believed it, I thought he was too stubborn to die a second time.”

Jason sighed, resigned to his fate, “Been a while, Roy.”

“So it really is you, what are you doing here?” Roy ran up and enveloped his friend in a hug.

Jason hugged back a little reluctantly, he wasn’t too happy about an aspect of his past reemerging. But, in the case of Roy, he was willing to make an exception.

Sabine gasped when she came back and saw them, “Two old friends meeting again, how lovely. How did you two meet by the way?” she asked.

“Dude, what’s your cover story?” Roy whispered.

“Um, our families were close,” Jason quickly answered Sabine.

“Jason, go take your break, it's fine. Catch up with your friend.” Sabine shooed the two out of the bakery.

Jason and Roy walked into a quiet alley near the bakery to talk, “So, you became a baker?” Roy said as he tried to hold back his laughter.

“Mhmm, I’ve left all of ‘that’ behind. I got married and settled down, I have a daughter too,” Jason admitted.

“Ah, so who’s the lucky lady?” Roy winked, unaware of the fact that he literally summed up his wife in two words.

“My wife’s family owns the place, that tiny old lady you saw a moment ago is my mother-in-law,” Jason told him.

“Do they know?” Roy asked, “About literally anything that happened in your past?”

“Only my wife knows, and no one else. Red Hood has no place here, and I intend to keep it that way. I’m not raising my daughter to fight supervillains,” he doesn’t know what he would do if something bad were to happen to Emma and his veins burned with rage at the thought. Marinette could hold her own, but neither of them planned on passing the torch to Emma.

“Fair enough,” Roy said.

Jason exhaled, “I’m trying to lay low, I guess you could say I took this chance to start over. I don’t want word getting out, especially to Bruce,” he explained “I sure as hell don’t want them to become a target either.”

“Hey, what do you take me for? Some loud blabbermouth?” Roy put his hand to his chest in a show of being hurt.

“Yes,” Jason responded bluntly, and there were too many people close to Roy with the power to go rooting around in people’s minds.

“Ouch, fine point taken. I won’t tell anyone, you have my word.” Roy raised his fist towards Jason, he responded by bumping his fist.

Jason smiled as he reminisced of his chance encounter with Roy all those years ago. Ever since then him and Lian would occasionally stop by the bakery whenever they were in Paris. Over the years, Roy had become more and more busy, either fighting crime in Star City or helping rear a new generation of heroes in Jump City.

“The kids and I are going for a quick walk in the park,” Marinette announced as she walked down the stairs, stroller in hand and their following behind her.

“Alright take care,” Jason said.

That afternoon in Paris, Terry McGinnis stepped out of the taxi into the heart of the city. He gaped at the beautiful sights, the Haussmann Architecture of the surrounding buildings. “Wow, so this is Paris, it's just like the post cards.”

“Stay focused, Kid,” Bruce said over the headset, “You’re looking for the ‘Guardian’, and our only lead is Ladybug.”

#jasonette july #jasonette july 2022 #jasonette #maribat #ml x dc #dc x ml

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reasoningdaily · 11 months

Text

The cottonfields of Georgia were once worked by the enslaved. REUTERS/Tom Lasseter

WASHINGTON

We sat in the pews of a Methodist church last summer, my family and I, heads bowed as the pastor began with a prayer. Grant us grace, she said, to “make no peace with oppression.”

Our church programs noted the date: June 19, or Juneteenth, the day on the federal calendar that celebrates the emancipation of Black Americans from slavery. The morning prayer was a cue.

The kids were ushered from the sanctuary to Sunday school. My sons – one 11, the other 8 at the time – shuffled off to lessons meant for younger ears.

The sermon, delivered by a white pastor to an almost entirely white congregation, was headed toward this country’s hardest history.

“We are a nation birthed in a moment that allowed some people to stand over others,” she said from the pulpit, light flooding through the stained glass behind her. “We’ve all been a part of taking what we wanted. White people, my community, my legacy, my heritage, has this history of taking land that did not belong to us and then forcing people to work that land that would never belong to them.”

The pastor did not know that I was months into a reporting project for Reuters about the legacy of slavery in America. It was an idea that came to me in June 2020, shortly after returning to the United States after almost two decades abroad as a foreign correspondent.

We had moved to Washington just 18 days after George Floyd was killed by a white police officer in Minneapolis, and in our first weeks back, I found myself drawn to the steady TV coverage of protests from coast to coast. I read about the dismantling of Confederate statues on public land – almost a hundred were taken down in 2020 alone. I thought about my own childhood, about growing up in Georgia. And I wondered: Had this country, which I had yet to introduce to my sons, ever truly reckoned with its history of slavery?

REUTERS/Photo illustration REUTERS/Photo illustration

I wondered, too, about our most powerful political leaders. How many had ancestors who enslaved people? Did they even know? I discussed the idea with my editors, who greenlighted a sweeping examination of the political elite’s ancestral ties to slavery. They also raised another question: What might uncovering that part of their family history mean to today’s leaders as they help shape America’s future?

A group of Reuters journalists began tracing the lineages of members of Congress, governors, Supreme Court justices and presidents – a complicated exercise in genealogical research that, given the combustibility of the topic, left no room for error.

Henry Louis Gates Jr, a professor at Harvard University who hosts the popular television genealogy show Finding Your Roots, told me that our effort would be “doing a great service for these individuals.”

“You have to start with the fact that most haven’t done genealogical research, so they honestly don’t know” their own family’s history, Gates said. “And what the service you’re providing is: Here are the facts. Now, how do you feel about those facts?”

And there was more to the project, something I needed to do, if only out of fairness. As a native of Mississippi who grew up in Georgia, I would examine my own family’s history. A passing remark made by my grandfather long ago gave me reason to believe my experience wouldn’t be as joyous as the advertisements I saw for online genealogy websites. Instead of finding serendipitous connections to faraway lands, I suspected I would find slavery on the red clay of Georgia.

But all of that was for work. It wasn’t for Sunday church, I thought, sitting next to my wife. My mind wandering, I looked down at the Rolex on my wrist.

This is the story that I tell myself: Those are things that I earned, paid for with hard work. I am a high school dropout. My mother is a high school dropout. My father is a high school dropout. My sister is a high school dropout. My first home was in a southern Mississippi trailer park. My mother was pregnant with me at the age of 19. My dad left our lives early.

I got my GED. I moved from a community college to the University of Georgia, working as a short-order cook while earning a bachelor’s degree in journalism.

For me, church is a place that offers a soothing sense of order, of ritual. That morning, I didn’t feel comfortable. I resented the pastor. I was there to listen to the choir and contemplate a Bible verse or two, not to be lectured. Especially about a subject I was grappling with personally and professionally.

“We would swear with our last breath that we do not have a racist bone in our bodies,” she continued. “But some of us were born in a lineage of people who take land that is not ours and enslave other people.”

Her words would come close to the facts that my reporting surfaced in the months ahead. Still, on this Juneteenth, I was done listening.

After the service, I walked to the car with my wife and sons. I didn’t talk with them about the sermon as we headed to our home on the outskirts of Washington. Ours is a street of rolling green lawns and shiny Cadillac Escalades. On the edge of the U.S. capital, a city where some 45% of the population is Black, the suburb where we live is about 7% Black. It was an inviting place for a white man to escape the pastor’s message.

That cocoon soon started to unravel. I had begun a journey that would take me back to places I held dear but had not truly known. What I would come to learn in researching my ancestors didn’t tarnish my love for family. At times, though, I did worry that I was betraying them.

It also left me with two questions I have yet to answer. What do I tell my sons about what I found, and what does it say about their country?

Introducing America

Throughout 2022, our reporting team assembled family trees for Congressional members. We connected one generation to the previous, like puzzle pieces snapping one to another, extending years before the end of the U.S. Civil War in 1865. We learned to decipher census documents written in sometimes bewildering cursive. Enlisting the help of board-certified genealogists, we became comfortable with the types of inconsistencies that surface in the old papers: names slightly misspelled, ages off by a few years, children who disappear from households as they die between censuses or marry young.

For months, my attention was drawn to the complexity of the task, and I scoured websites for documents that went beyond census records: certificates of birth, death and marriage, obituaries, military service forms, family Bibles.

The work was painstaking, and a welcome diversion. Each time I thought about building out my own family history, I winced at the subject coming close. Those were my people, my history.

Eventually, I knew I had to get started.

My wife and I were born in America. Both of us are journalists. We met in Baghdad, there to cover the war in Iraq. We married later while living in Russia, had our first son in China, our next in India. After two years in Singapore, we decided it was time to take the boys home to America, a land they’d visited on summer trips to their grandmothers’ houses in Georgia and Virginia but hardly knew.

Their introduction began less than three weeks after the May 25 death of George Floyd, as soon as we rode in from the airport. As we approached shuttered stores and boarded-up windows in downtown Washington, our younger son looked at the graffiti and banners and asked what the letters BLM stood for. My wife and I spelled it out – Black Lives Matter – and told him about Floyd’s death. Six at the time, he had no idea what we were talking about. His older brother explained the protests were to help Black people. Then he reminded him that their uncle, my sister’s husband, is Black. Our little boy went quiet. In the wake of George Floyd’s killing, protesters took to the streets across America.

REUTERS/Photo illustration In the wake of George Floyd’s killing, protesters took to the streets across America. REUTERS/Photo illustration

Last spring I began to trace my family’s lineage in detail. I had gone through this process for dozens of members of Congress. Now I was looking at my own mom. As I started a family tree, I did not like typing her name – it felt like I was crossing a line. I opened the search page at Ancestry.com and entered the names of her parents, Harriet and Brice.

Brice was 69 or so when he visited us in Atlanta during the summer of 1994. I was a teenager. Joseph Brice James was my grandfather, but we just called him Brice. Like my own father, he hadn’t been part of our life. He lived in Chicago and had worked as a traveling salesman. The trip may have been one last effort by him to connect. He wasn’t well and would die about eight years later.

It would be that visit – really, just one line that Brice muttered – that came back to me in the summer of 2020 and started my own personal reckoning.

My Grandfather’s Words Joseph Brice James. (Courtesy: Tom Lasseter)

Here’s what I remember: Brice wanted to see the farm where his ancestors, our ancestors, lived. My mother drove, and my sister and I sat in the backseat of our family’s aged Toyota Corolla. The address Brice helped direct us to was about an hour out of Atlanta. My mother had been there before, too, but my ancestors had sold it off, parcel by parcel, starting around 1947. We pulled over in front of a clapboard farmhouse.

I wasn’t sure why we were there, or who might have once lived on the farm. Brice, a gaunt figure with closely cropped hair and large glasses, didn’t volunteer much. I walked alongside him in silence, across a field spotted with pine trees, on the edge of a lake. Then Brice paused, flicking his wrist toward an old well and said: “The slaves built that.” A moment passed and he kept walking, offering nothing further.

Those four words stayed with me, though, in the way that happens with some white families from the South: I now knew, if I wanted to, that somewhere in my history there was a connection to slavery. The farmhouse in Georgia, once owned by the ancestors of Reuters journalist Tom Lasseter.

REUTERS/Tom Lasseter

Where to begin? Before prying into Brice’s side, I decided to look somewhere more familiar. The census shows my mother’s maternal grandmother as Cornelia Benson. I grew up calling her Grandma Horseyfeather, a nickname given her by my mother’s generation, the product of a long-ago children’s tale.

Looking at the 1940 census, there was Cornelia Benson of Brooks County, Georgia. I knew Brooks County as a place of Spanish moss, where we caught turtles and lizards in my childhood. I loved Thanksgiving at 618 North Madison Street, where a dirt driveway led to the back stairs and then a kitchen with long rows of casseroles. Grandma Horseyfeather, born in 1898, spoke in a slow, deep drawl. She wore lace to church. I adored her and I adored Brooks County.

At home in Atlanta, I felt lost at times, my single, working-class mom stretching one paycheck to the next. But in Cornelia Benson’s house, I felt at ease. My identity was simple: I was a white kid descended from generations of white people from the deepest of south Georgia.

As a child, I did not ask what it meant to belong to a place like Brooks County. Now I wanted to know. Cornelia Benson with Tom Lasseter as infant (left); Tom Lasseter during a childhood visit to Quitman, Georgia. (Courtesy: Tom Lasseter)

A story came to mind. I was young, and the grownups were visiting at the dining table. Someone started to tell a story about life in Quitman, the town in Brooks County where Grandma Horseyfeather lived. It was about the Ku Klux Klan and its marches.

The Klan would saunter down the street, wearing hoods and sheets, thinking no one knew who they were. The story’s punchline: All the “colored boys” – meaning Black men – knew who was wearing those sheets. They could see the shoes the white men were wearing. And who do you think shined those shoes?

I remember a tittering of laughter ripple around the table.

It was a vignette I sometimes trotted out when discussing the South. I’d shake my head and show a rueful half-frown that communicated disapproval, but not too much. My Brooks County relatives didn’t quite fit the pastor’s words. I knew they had some racist bones in their body. Still, these were my people. They didn’t mean any harm.

Reading back over the story after I wrote it down last year made me wonder what I didn’t know. So I did something that had never before occurred to me: I looked up the history of Brooks County, Georgia. It did not lead anywhere good.

In 1918, at least 13 Black people were killed in a rash of lynchings by mobs in Brooks that cemented its reputation for bloodshed. A flag that hung from the NAACP national headquarters in New York City, 1920-1928 (Source: NAACP via Library of Congress). Lynchings in Brooks County, Georgia, in the early 20th century cemented its reputation for racism and bloodshed.

REUTERS/Photo illustration

“There were more lynchings in Brooks than any county in Georgia” at the time, according to a 2006 paper examining lynchings in southern Georgia. Among the 1918 victims: Near the county line, a pregnant woman was tied to a tree and doused with gasoline before her belly was slit open with a knife and her unborn child tumbled to the dirt. The woman was shot hundreds of times, “until she was barely recognizable as a human being.” And then both her and her fetus’ burial spots were marked by a whiskey bottle with a cigar placed in its neck, according to the paper – “Killing Them by the Wholesale: A Lynching Rampage in South Georgia” – published in The Georgia Historical Quarterly.

I toggled my Internet browser to census records. Cornelia Benson and her husband weren’t yet living in Brooks County as of the 1920 census. They moved there between 1920 and 1930. I felt relieved, clean. I didn’t know any of that history. No one had told me.

But the more I learned, the more I played out the possibilities, the more troubled I felt about the Ku Klux Klan anecdote.

One morning in my home office, I pulled out a cell phone to record my thoughts about those memories. As I did, I heard the wood floorboards creaking. It was one of my sons walking outside the room. I waited for him to go downstairs before starting. When I later listened to my recounting of the Ku Klux Klan story, I noticed I’d used the phrase “Black people” rather than “Colored boys.” Without thinking, I’d cleaned the story up around the edges, making it easier to tell.

‘Mules, Oxen…and The Following Negroes’

Brice died in 2001. I never learned anything else from him about that well on the property our ancestors owned. Having read through the Brooks County material, it was time to see what I might find out about Brice’s side of my family.

I knew my grandfather was born in Canada, but that his side of the family was somehow connected to that land in Georgia. Using Ancestry.com, I found a 1948 border crossing document for him, with the names of his father and mother. I took those names and found his parents’ 1921 marriage license in Fergus County, Montana.

I noticed that his mother’s maiden name was Lila M. Brice, and that her parents were Ethel Julian and Joseph T. Brice. I looked for Ethel Brice. There she was, in the 1910 census. She was living with her daughter Lila in Forsyth County, Georgia, after a divorce – back in the household of her father, a man whose name I had never before heard: Abijah Julian.

The trip to the farm house in 1994 was in Forsyth County. The old clapboard house was built in the 1800s. And the well that Brice mentioned, the one that he said enslaved people built, sat right next to the house.

From one census to the next, I followed Abijah, a name from the Old Testament.

Information about the Julian family wasn’t hard to find once I started looking.

Working my way backwards, I learned Abijah Julian died in 1921. His passing was marked in The Gainesville News by an item headlined “DEATH OF SOLDIER STATESMAN.” Placed high in the article was the fact that Abijah Julian was part of a Confederate cavalry general’s staff during the Civil War, and that in his later years he “had been a prominent figure at all the reunions of the Confederate veterans.” The piece ended with these words: “Mr. Julian was laid to rest shrouded in the Confederate uniform which he loved.” Abijah Julian, seated, was buried in a Confederate uniform. In an account by his wife, Minnie Julian, she described him returning from war “broken in health and spirit. Negroes free, stock stolen and money – Confederate – valueless.” (Sources: Historical Society of Cumming/Forsyth County, Georgia. Newspaper clipping: The Gainesville News, June 1921)

He had served in Georgia’s state legislature for three terms. I looked for more details about him and his ancestors before the Civil War.

Abijah’s father, also a member of the state legislature, died in 1858 at home in Forsyth County, according to press reports. It was just a couple months before Abijah’s 16th birthday.

Some four years later, Abijah went to war against the United States. In 1864, a year before the Civil War ended, he married a woman in Alabama, the daughter of a doctor, who moved to the Julian farm. In an account by his wife, Minnie Julian, she described Abijah returning home after the war, “broken in health and spirit. Negroes free, stock stolen and money – Confederate – valueless.” In the very next sentence, however, she noted they still had 600 acres of land.

Her words signaled that Abijah had enslaved people. But I needed more proof.

In addition to the usual household census forms, in 1850 and 1860 the U.S. government created a second document for the census takers to fill out in counties in states where slavery was legal. It’s referred to as a slave schedule, and it lists by name men and women who enslaved people, under the column “SLAVE OWNERS.” The form gives no names of the human beings they enslaved. Instead, it tabulates what the document refers to as “Slave Inhabitants” only by the person’s age, gender, color (B for Black or M for Mulatto, or mixed race) and whether they were “Deaf & dumb, blind, insane or idiotic.”

After you find a slaveholder on the household census form, matching them to the slave schedule can be complicated. In some counties, multiple men of the same or similar name enslaved people. And of course, not every head of household in a county enslaved people, so fewer names are listed on the slave schedule than on the population census. Fortunately, the households on the two documents are typically listed in the order they were counted by the census-taker – meaning if you see the same residents’ names close by, in the same sequence, you’ve likely found the same person on the two forms.

In 1860, on a slave schedule in Forsyth, I found my ancestor listed on line 34 as A.J. Julian. He was 17-years-old at the time. There were four entries for his “Number of Slaves” column – four males, ages from 10 to 18.

There was more. When Abijah’s father, George Julian, died in 1858, he left a will.

One key to unlocking the identities of those who were enslaved is through the estate records of white families who claimed ownership of them. In many cases, wills give the first names of the Black men, women and children bequeathed from one white family member to another.

In his will, George listed property “with which a kind providence has blessed me.” To wife Adaline, George bequeathed “mules, oxen, cattle, hogs and other stock, and plantation tools, wagons, carriages and the following Negros…”

There were five enslaved people left to George’s wife, the will said, with the provision that “the negros and their increase” – that is, their children – would go to Abijah after his mother’s death. George Julian also left four enslaved children to Abijah, himself a teenager at the time.

And, in a separate item, Julian wrote that an enslaved woman and three children should “be sold” to pay his debts.

The will was difficult reading. Lumped in with oxen and kitchen furniture, plantation tools and wagons, were human beings. And “their increase.”

The will listed names of the enslaved kept by the family: Dick, Lott, Aggy, Henry, Lewis, Ellick, Jim, Josiah and Reuben.

The document was dated 1858 – close enough to emancipation that I might have a chance at tracing some of them forward, especially if they used the last name Julian. Perhaps there would be a chance of finding those same names in Forsyth in the 1870 census, when, finally free, Black people were listed by name and household.

Something kept happening, however, when I looked for those names. I’d see likely matches in one or two censuses, and then they disappeared after the 1910 census in Forsyth.

It took me a few minutes of research to figure out why I was losing track of the descendants of the people George Julian enslaved. It was a history drenched with blood, and it drew much closer to mine than I had realized.

The Search for Descendants of The Enslaved

ATLANTA

In 1912, Virginia native Woodrow Wilson became the first Southerner since the U.S. Civil War to be elected president. And the white residents of a county in Georgia, where my ancestors lived, unleashed a campaign of terror that included lynchings and the dynamiting of houses that drove out all but a few dozen of the more than 1,000 Black people who lived there.

The election was covered in the classrooms of the Georgia schools I attended. If the racial cleansing of Forsyth County was mentioned, I didn’t notice.

That history explains the difficulty I had looking for the descendents of the people enslaved by my ancestor Abijah. By 1920, their families and almost every other Black person had fled the county.

From left: The Forsyth County Courthouse in Cumming, pictured in 1907. Built in 1905, it was destroyed by fire in 1973. (via Digital Library of Georgia). The Atlanta Georgian newspaper reports on the lynching of Rob Edwards, September 10, 1912. (Source: Ancestry.com). U.S. President Woodrow Wilson.

They were forcibly expelled under threat of death after residents blamed a group of young Black men for killing an 18-year-old white woman in September 1912. A frenzied mob of white people pulled one of the accused from jail, a man named Rob Edwards, then brutalized his body and dragged his corpse around the town square in the county seat of Cumming. Two of the accused young Black men, both teenagers, were tried and convicted in a courtroom. They too died in public spectacle, hanged before a crowd that included thousands of white people.

There were also the night riders, white men on horseback who pulled Black people from their homes, leaving families scrambling and their houses aflame. The violence swept across the county, washing across Black enclaves not far from the farm where my ancestor, Abijah, lived at the time.

In 1910, the U.S. Census showed 1,098 Black people living in Forsyth. Ten years later, the 1920 census counted 30.

‘Night Marauders’

Until last year, I had never heard of this history. I had a dim memory of news reports about white residents in Forsyth attacking participants in a peaceful march for racial equality – not during the tumultuous Civil Rights era but in the 1980s. I watched video clips from an early episode of “The Oprah Show” – a telecast from 1987 when talkshow star Oprah Winfrey went to Forsyth to try to make sense of what was happening there. Some locals in the audience were unrepentant. Footage shows that crowds on the street and a man, to Oprah’s face, were not shy about using racial slurs on national television.

I learned about the 1912 violence in Forsyth after a genealogist who worked with Reuters sent me a note pointing out that my ancestor Abijah Julian appeared in Blood at the Root, a 2016 book that chronicled the bloodshed there. I already knew Abijah had enslaved people and adhered to the “Lost Cause” – the view that the South’s role in the Civil War was just and honorable.

About four months after the terror in Forsyth began, Abijah wrote a letter to the governor of Georgia in February 1913. He was asking for help to quell the chaos unleashed by “night marauders” who had “run off about all of the negroes.” Here’s part of his letter: A letter Abijah Julian wrote to the governor of Georgia.

(Courtesy: Kenan Research Center at the Atlanta History Center.)

During that week alone, Julian wrote, “3 negro houses” in Cumming had been damaged by dynamite. The letter did not suggest any anguish for the Black people who’d been terrorized. What concerned Abijah Julian was his fields and who would farm them.

The Julian land stretched hundreds of acres across Forsyth and neighboring Dawson counties. Abijah told the governor that large swathes of land “will not be cultivated” because “labor now can not be found to hire...”

Gov. Joseph Mackey Brown referred to the situation Julian highlighted later in 1913, in a written message to members of the state senate:

After all, the governor continued, “there is no reason why farms should lose their productive power and why the white women of this State should be driven to the cook stoves and wash pots simply because certain people blindly strike down all of one class in retaliation for the nefarious deeds of individuals in that class.”

What happened in Forsyth was not unique. White people across the South had been pushing back against political and economic progress made by Black Americans after the end of slavery and would continue doing so.

In 1906, a white mob stormed downtown Atlanta, killing dozens of Black people and attacking Black businesses and homes. In 1921, a white mob destroyed a Black community in Tulsa, Oklahoma and, according to a government commission report, left nearly “10,000 innocent black citizens” homeless. The death toll was in the hundreds.

Once you begin to look, such violence stretches on and on, decade after decade.

Still hopeful that I might be able to somehow identify and locate living descendants of the people my family enslaved, I flew to Georgia last November.

‘Dick a Man, Lott a Woman’

While I was in Atlanta, I asked my mom and sister if they had time to talk about what I’d found. We sat one evening at the dining room table in my mother’s house, the same table on which we had once shared Thanksgiving dinners with Grandma Horseyfeather.

I had prepared two thick packets of documents that outlined our family tree, each with underlying records, to walk through the lineages of our slave-holding ancestors in three Georgia counties, including Forsyth.

I explained that my search began with a memory of walking with my mother’s father across some land our people used to own in Forsyth; and my grandfather casually remarking of the old well: “The slaves built that.”

“It added up from this one, just sort of little vague memory that I had of Brice gesturing at a well.”

The first question came from my sister, who is married to a Black man. Her voice was stretched thin with emotion. She asked: “Is there any possibility of doing the same for the people that our family enslaved?”

I’d found a man in Grandma Horseyfeather’s lineage who was a slaveholder and likely worked as an overseer in Jefferson County, Georgia. But neither I nor the genealogists we consulted could identify descendants of those he’d enslaved.

“So I’ve – I’ve tried,” I explained. “The issue is that the best details that we have are in Forsyth County, but in Forsyth County they forcibly expelled all of the Black people.”

There were, however, names of enslaved people who were bequeathed in the 1858 will of George Julian, Abijah’s father. At least two seemed to fit with a lineage I could trace.

Listed in the will as “Dick a man” and “Lott a woman,” they looked like a possible match for a couple living three households from Abijah Julian’s uncle in the 1870 census. Their names were listed as Richard Julian and Charlotte Julian. Was Dick short for Richard? And was Lott short for Charlotte?

I noticed that Richard Julian had an “M” in the column for Color. The M stood for Mulatto, someone of mixed race. Charlotte was 32 years old in 1870, an exact match for a 22-year-old enslaved woman listed on the 1860 slave schedule as belonging to George Julian’s widow. Richard was listed as 30 in 1870, which did not line up as neatly with an 18-year-old enslaved man next to Abijah Julian in the 1860 slave schedule.

A comparison of the 1870 census and the 1880 census reinforces that Reuters journalist Tom Lasseter is following the same family from one decade to the next. (Source: Ancestry.com)

Still, based on the mention of the names Dick and Lott in George Julian’s will, I followed the Black family’s lineage from one census to the next.

In 1880, Richard was listed as Dick. Lott was there, too, as Charlotte. And their ages were close to what they should have been – about 10 years older than in 1870. The children listed in each census gave me confidence I was following the same family. In 1870, four children were listed. There were three girls and a boy. In 1880, the oldest child was no longer there; she would have been 19 or 20 and may have married. But the boy and the two other girls were there, names and ages matching. The Julians had added four children to the family since the previous census, too, the eldest 8.

My sister’s first question after I traced our family tree that night lingered: “Is there any possibility of doing the same for the people that our family enslaved?”

One of the children in the 1880 census would provide the path.

The Shacks

The day I arrived in Atlanta, November 1, I chatted with my mom about Forsyth and our family’s history there. She’d mentioned something that took me aback.

“When we were talking about the farm, you said there was a slave shack, a slave shed?” I asked her the next day. “What was that?

It turns out my mother had visited the Julian farm when she was a kid. Someone had pointed her to a pair of shacks on the farm and explained that they were where the families of the enslaved used to live.

“It was a structure – by the time we came along it was still on the property but it was, like, a wooden structure that was falling apart.” Her voice became low for a moment. “And that’s what we were told that it was. And I think – I don’t know.” She paused. “I know my grandmother talked about teaching people how to read, or people in her family having taught some of the slaves how to read.”

My mom, a slight woman with a calm voice who works as a nurse with organ transplant patients, was uncertain about the details. “I’m not sure what the – it was just information that she was sharing, maybe to make it feel better that they had slaves. I don’t know.”

I went to dinner with my mom at a Thai restaurant the following evening. I’d been in Forsyth that morning, looking at some documents about the Julian family. She asked me if I learned anything new. I told her about two murders in the family – a pair of sisters slain by the husband of one – that had been covered in the newspapers in the 1880s.

That’s not what she was asking about. My mom looked up from her tofu dish and said, “I am uncomfortable with how little attention was paid to what that was.”

Under her breath, she continued: “The shed.” She meant the slave sheds on the Julian farm.

She said nothing for a few moments. And then she explained, “I was 11.” It was her way of saying she was young at the time. What could she have known about such things? It was the same age as my eldest son.

Why was I putting this at her feet? I thought.

What did she have to do with a white man, dead now for a century, who got rich and enslaved Black people? Where was that money? Not in her pocket. She was working late shifts and driving a beat up Toyota with a side mirror attached to the car by duct tape.

But the feeling of indignation was mine. My mother, a child of the 1960s who took us to downtown Atlanta for parades on Martin Luther King Jr Day, wasn’t being defensive. She was trying to work through what it all meant.

An Unexpected Meeting

Just before Thanksgiving last year, I reached out to a young research assistant at the Atlanta History Center. I’d heard she was tracing descendants of people who fled Forsyth.

Over the phone, I told Sophia Dodd that I was looking for people with the last name Julian. She said she had someone in mind. But first, Dodd would need to check with the person; we arranged to meet in Atlanta later in the month. There was a possibility the person would join us, she said, “but I also know they’re in the midst of traveling so that’s a little up in the air right now.”

I met Dodd at her office a few days before Thanksgiving, ready to ask her questions about Forsyth County.

And then another woman walked into the Atlanta History Center: Elon Osby. She wore a cranberry-colored top and glasses with red cat-eye frames. The 72-year-old Black woman with gray hair shook my hand and said, yes, she would gladly take me up on a cup of coffee.

I hadn’t expected her. I’d not even known her name – Dodd had protected her privacy while Osby decided whether to meet me. But there Osby was, looking at me expectantly. The three of us headed to Dodd’s office.

Without my census forms in hand, I felt exposed. Those family history packets – the ones I shared with my mother and sister – were a way to guide the conversation. And this conversation was with a stranger whose history with my family may have involved slavery. I told Osby that I regretted not having materials to give her.

Osby looked me over. She got to the point. “Is it that you feel that your ancestors were slaveowners of mine?” she asked.

Because I hadn’t done a family tree for her, I explained, I couldn’t be certain. During months of examining the lineages of American politicians, we had held to a firm standard: a slave-owning ancestor needed to be a direct, lineal ancestor – a grandfather or grandmother preceded by a long series of greats, as in great-great-great-grandfather.

As I built my own family lineage, I knew that the Julians were slaveholders. But when I worked with the genealogists on our team to trace the enslaved people named in George Julian’s will, they urged caution. What wasn’t entirely clear: Exactly who had enslaved Richard and Charlotte? Was it George, or was it George’s brother, Bailey?

I offered Osby the abridged version. If she were a direct descendant of Richard and Charlotte Julian, “they were enslaved either by my direct ancestor, George H. Julian” – Abijah’s father – “or his brother.”

As I finished my sentence, I realized the distinction may have been important to the journalist in me. But in this context, it was meaningless. What mattered wasn’t in question: Someone in my family had enslaved hers.

Osby turned to Dodd, the young white woman who’d been helping her research her family.

“First of all, let me ask this.” Osby said. “Do any of these names that he mentioned ring a bell with what you’ve done?”

Dodd answered quickly. “Yes, so I think that it’s definitely very possible that Charlotte and Richard were enslaved by George,” she said.

I asked Dodd if she had an account with Ancestry.com and whether she could print some documents. Together, we navigated to the 1858 will for George H. Julian and the 1870 census forms that showed Richard and Charlotte Julian.

Osby had explained that her grandmother’s name was Ida Julian. And Ida Julian’s parents were Richard and Charlotte Julian of Forsyth County.

Ida. Daughter of Richard and Charlotte. I would see it later. Not in the 1870 census, because Ida hadn’t yet been born. But there she was, listed in the 1880 census. Ida Julian, age 6. Ida Julian, listed in the 1880 census as a young child. (Source: Ancestry.com)

I later found a marriage certificate showing that Ida Julian married a man named WM Bagley in 1889. She was young, perhaps 15. By 1910, the census showed them living in Forsyth County, the parents of three girls and a boy.

The youngest of their children, not yet a year old, was a girl recorded as Willie M. She would go by Willie Mae Bagley, get married, and become Willie Mae Butts – the mother of Elon Butts Osby. The former Ida Julian, now Ida Bagley, in the 1910 census. Her daughter, listed as Willie M., would become Elon Osby’s mother. (Source: Ancestry.com)

After we had worked through the small pile of papers that Dodd had printed, I asked Osby what it meant to see some of those documents.

“It makes people real now. It just makes all of this more real. And it has started a journey for me,” she said, adding that there’s “no telling where it’s going to go.”

I asked her what her family said about Forsyth County when they discussed it with her as a girl. “They didn’t. They didn’t talk about it,” she said.

It wasn’t until around 1980, when Osby was about 30 years old, that she heard her mother tell a reporter the story of her ancestors fleeing the county by wagon because white people were attacking Black families.

“There wasn’t any conversation about it,” Osby said. “But she did talk about her grandfather had this long hair, straight hair, and they would comb it.” That was Richard Julian, Osby’s great-grandfather, the man listed as a “Mulatto” on the 1870 census.

She paused and stared at my face for a moment.

‘I Don’t Think You Can Get Justice’

When Elon Osby’s grandmother, Ida Bagley, and her family fled Forsyth, they left behind at least 60 acres of land, she said.

They made their way to Atlanta after 1912, the year of the carnage. There, in 1929, her grandfather, William Bagley, bought six lots of land in a settlement of formerly enslaved people known as Macedonia Park, according to the local historical society.

It was located in Buckhead, long among the most expensive neighborhoods in Atlanta. The Black residents of Macedonia Park worked as maids and chauffeurs for white families in the area, as golf caddies and gardeners.

Osby’s grandfather made money as a cobbler and local merchant. Her parents opened a store and a rib shack. Her father was also a butler for a wealthy white family, her mother a cook. The area became known as Bagley Park, and her grandfather, according to a historical marker now at the site, was considered the settlement’s unofficial mayor. William Bagley, Elon Osby’s grandfather, was known as the mayor of Bagley Park, a Black enclave in Atlanta that was later razed by the county.

(Courtesy: Elon Osby)

In the late 1930s and early 1940s, nearby white residents – members of a women’s social group – petitioned the county to condemn and raze Bagley Park, ostensibly for sanitary reasons. It had no running water or sewer system. The county, which had not provided those services, agreed, forcing the families to leave. They were compensated for the land, but it’s not clear how much, and in the process they lost real estate in what is a particularly affluent quarter of the city.

Osby’s family had again been pushed off its land. The settlement was demolished and replaced by a park, later named for a local little league umpire. Last November, the city of Atlanta restored the area’s name: Bagley Park.

In thinking about Osby’s family and my family, I found it was impossible not to compare them – and the role slavery played in our respective paths. In 1860, Osby’s ancestors were enslaved and working the fields of Forsyth County. In 1860, my ancestor Adaline Julian, widow of George and mother of Abijah, reported a combined estate value of $19,020. She was among the wealthiest 10% percent of all American households on the census that year. And that wealth didn’t include her son’s holdings. Then just a teenager, Abijah had a personal estate of $4,828, according to census records. That amount lay largely in the value of the enslaved people bequeathed to him by his father.

In 1870, Osby’s ancestor, Richard Julian – free for only about five years – was listed on the census as a farmhand, with no real estate or personal estate to report.

In 1870, Abijah Julian – despite having “lost” those he had enslaved – still had a combined estate of $4,655. That put him in the top 15% of all households in America, census records show.

Osby said her parents used the money they got from the government after being forced out of Bagley Park to buy land in a different part of Atlanta. They continued to work hard. Her father was hired as an electrician by Lockheed, and her mother ran a daycare business.

Osby spent a career working in administration. She said she started as secretary for the manager of the city’s main Tiffany & Co location in 1969, then worked in various city government offices, and now for the Atlanta Housing Authority.

After she’d finished telling me about her family and herself, I asked Osby whether she would mind me recording some video with my cell phone. I asked once again about her family’s reluctance to discuss Forsyth. She repeated that Black parents had long kept such things quiet. I noticed she added the words “rape” and “lynchings.”

But, she said, she has seen considerable progress during her life. Osby, whose family was forced out of Forsyth in 1912, was the keynote speaker in 2021 at a dedication event in downtown Cumming, where a plaque memorializing the bloodshed in Forsyth had been installed. And Osby, whose family was forced with others to leave their neighborhood in Fulton County, is now a member of the Fulton County Reparations Task Force. The group advises the county board and has sponsored research on what happened at Bagley Park, including a report documenting what Osby already knew: that “property owners in Bagley Park were forced to liquidate their real estate, a vital link in the chain of generating generational wealth.”

“There was a time when I didn’t feel that restitution or reparations was necessary” for the land taken from Black families after 1912 in Forsyth, and then what followed in Bagley Park, Osby said.

“I just want somebody to acknowledge it and say, you know, we’re sorry. But I have come to realize, or come to feel, that we do need to receive something in the form of restitution. I think that the main thing is, if you touch people in their purses they’ll think before they let something like that happen again. I think it’s mainly about [how] we can never let this happen.”

As for her enslaved ancestors, Osby had a different outlook on reparations. “I don’t want to think of slaves as property. And if I have to give you a value for a slave person so that you can, you know, give me reparations for that – then that’s making them property. That’s reinforcing that idea that they were a piece of property for somebody to own.”

I asked her what it meant to know that history – to know more about what happened during slavery in such personal terms. To know that my own ancestors enslaved people. Osby puckered her bottom lip, paused for a moment and sighed.

She pointed her left index finger at me and said it was a question for me to answer. How did I feel, she asked, when I found out my ancestors enslaved people?

‘What Does It Mean to Know This?’

I told her the story of the old well and my grandfather. I told her about the reporting project, about finding out that my family enslaved people not only in Forsyth, but at least two other counties as well.

Finally, I stopped talking. In my mind, I had run through the right things to say. In a blur, I wondered: Should I apologize to Osby, to her family on behalf of mine?

Instead, I decided to talk about what made me most comfortable: the journalism itself. “A lot of it has been just establishing, sort of, the facts – figuring out, this is who they were, this is what happened,” I said. “I guess sitting here right now I don’t have an answer for – I don’t have an answer for my question” on the value of discovering more about slavery.

She leaned back and laughed.

At some point, I lowered the camera from chin height to the table. My hands were trembling. I was based in Iraq for three years. I sat with militants in Afghanistan. I know what mortar and machine gun fire sound like, at very close range. But at this little table, before this woman, I felt nervous.

I kept talking. I talked about how we – meaning white people – choose to know but not know. I told her about my mom remembering the decrepit former slave sheds on the Julian farm.

Osby no longer was smiling.

She began to talk about something that circled back to her comments about her great-grandfather’s straight hair, her curiosity about possible Cherokee Indian heritage. And, also, to rape.

“Black people, we’ve always known either through the movies or if you’ve learned it, you know, from your family, about the interracial relationships that happened on these plantations or whatever,” she said. “My grandmother – very, very fair skinned. I have one picture of her where she, you know, looks like she’s white. And so, you know that somebody else was there. You know?”

Somebody else was there. It was a phrase with a passive structure common to the South, a way of not assigning blame to the person sitting across the small table from you in the corner of an office. The meaning nonetheless seemed clear to me: Did my ancestor rape her ancestor?

“I’m curious, and that’s one reason why I was excited about coming to speak with you because I want to find out about the Cherokee part,” she said. “And also, if there was a white person, you know, that was, her – whatever,” she said, cutting the sentence short and fluttering her hands in the air.

I told her that I’d done a DNA test online. She said she was considering taking one as well.

After we spoke, Osby asked me to go with her to the graveyard at Bagley Park. I followed her Mazda. Its license plate read MS ELON. Her grandparents were buried there, she said, but she couldn’t say where. The gravestones had been vandalized over the years, Osby explained, looking at the broken markers.

Panic and Questions

After we parted, I drove to Forsyth County and the Julian farm. I could see across the road to the spot where my mother described the slave shacks having once stood.

The door was locked, the farmhouse empty. I stood outside the white clapboard home and stared. The leaves crunched underfoot, down at the end of Julian Farm Road. I rested my forearms on a dark slat fence and scanned the property, a utility shed to the right and a patio to the left.

I did not see the well.

I walked to the front of the house and looked for it. The well wasn’t there. I went to the back edge of the land, which now sits on the shore of a man-made lake that flooded part of what was once Abijah Julian’s farm. Nothing. The waters of Lake Sidney Lanier near what was once a farm owned by Abijah Julian. The lake, created in the 1950s, flooded parts of that farm. REUTERS/Tom Lasseter

I felt panicky. The well, the totem of my memory and the genesis of this project – “The slaves built that” – was nowhere. Was it possible I had mixed up some other memory, that it was never at the Julian farm?

I walked over to a step behind the house and sat down. My thoughts about the well gave way to replaying parts of my meeting with Elon.

Should I have apologized to her? “I am sorry,” I could’ve said. “I am sorry that my ancestors brutalized your ancestors.” What had stopped me?

The next day, I sent a text message to the man who now owns the Julian property. Did he know anything about an old well? “Yeah, there was a well next to the house that was dried up. We covered it,” he replied. He sent me a photograph of the front of the house from a 2019 real estate listing. And there it was – the well I remembered, at the far right of the picture.

I peered at the photo. I read the listing. The lake that flooded part of the farmland had created 209 feet of waterfront that now featured four boat slips, according to the advertisement for the property. It noted the farmhouse was “originally built in the late 1800’s by the family of State Senator Abijah John Julian” and added another dash of history: the Julian family was “of the Webster line circa 1590 England.” There wasn’t a word about the other side of the Julian family history: slavery.

Instead, under the section for what the seller loved about the home, was this line: “Your own private plantation.”

What Should Be Handed Down?

In the months after my visit to Forsyth, I’ve looked at a video of the church service that I attended last summer on Juneteenth, the national holiday marking the end of slavery. At the time, I had bristled at the pastor’s remarks, which centered on the need for white people to face our history, to atone.

Toward the beginning of the service, the children had been sent to Sunday school. So my sons weren’t sitting next to me when the pastor said, “We’re asked to stay home and to reflect with those who we know and whom we love – we’re asked to … have the difficult conversations about race and status and prestige and wealth.”

There was another detail that I hadn’t associated with that day’s sermon. It wasn’t only Juneteenth; it also was Father’s Day. From a 2019 real estate listing. The well is seen at the far right in this photo of the front of Abijah Julian’s house.

I’ve thought more than once about all that I had missed. About what to tell my children about everything I’ve learned in the past year. About our family’s part in slavery and the descendants of those we enslaved. About my conversation with Elon Osby.

What should be handed down, and what should not?

Getting ready for a reporting trip last year, I was sifting through online documents from an archive in south Georgia.

I came across a photograph from 1930 of white men sitting in front of an American Legion post. They each wore a medal on the left lapels of their suit jackets. I zoomed in and saw what had caught my eye. It was the cross of military service, handed out by the United Daughters of the Confederacy to World War I veterans who were direct descendants of Confederate soldiers.

In a little white box on a shelf in my home office, I have that same cross. It had been given to my great-grandfather, from Brooks County. After my great-grandmother Horseyfeather died, my family gave it to me, the ever-faithful son.

I fished the cross from its box and turned the thing around in my fingers. The cross was decorated with an X formed by two stripes of stars immediately recognizable from the Confederate battle flag. Around the edge, in the background, are a Latin phrase and two dates: Fortes Creantur Fortibus 1861-1865. The years are those of the Civil War. I Googled the phrase. It means the strong are born from the strong.

I’d had that cross for about 25 years and always associated it with my great-grandfather’s service in World War I, its dates marked in the foreground. I had never stopped to look more closely.

Peering down at it now, I realize it also meant something more: a loyalty to the South when it was a land of slavery and secession.

I was holding on to a relic of the Lost Cause, a history of savagery cloaked in nostalgia. I was holding on to something that I needed to explain to my sons, and then to let go. As I type these words, I have yet to have that conversation. The medal remains on my shelf.

Apology and Absolution

I met with Elon Osby once more earlier this month. We walked again through the cemetery at Bagley Park, where somewhere her ancestors are buried, their gravestones long gone. We stopped at a picnic table. I asked her about the last time we met, reading some of our quotes out loud and talking through what each of us had meant.

There was rain coming, with dark clouds, then lightning. I told her that I’d been nervous during our initial conversation. She asked whether I thought the guilt had been passed down: “Most white people do not have ancestors that owned slaves,” she said. I pointed out that I have at least five.

I said that I’d wondered if I should have apologized. “No,” she said, “I don’t transfer the guilt. Or not the guilt, but the responsibility of it. I don’t do that.” I said with a nervous laugh that I wasn’t asking her to absolve me.

The lightning drew closer. It was time to leave. “We’ve probably covered everything,” Osby said, gesturing to get up.

But I wanted to say more. Ignoring the rain, I reached for the words I hadn’t found during our first meeting: “I’m very sorry that it happened. You know, that all of that happened. And I feel that every time I look through those wills and the language that they used. And that 1858 will – listing furniture and livestock and then human beings. You know, I can’t help but be sorry.”

Osby stopped and looked at me. Listening to the recording later, I could hear the wind and the rain in the background. And then her voice. “It doesn’t feel good at all when you see the horses and cows and slaves. You know, it doesn’t feel good at all,” she said. “But at the same time, it happened. It happened to my people. I don’t want to forget about it.”

She pointed at the packet of genealogical material I’d brought along, mapping our families and that terrible history long ago in Georgia. “This is good enough. What you’re doing for me and my family, bringing this information to me.”

She let a moment pass, and then said: “You’re absolved.” She threw her head back and let the laughter roll like thunder. As the rain fell, we walked to the parking lot together. We paused, then hugged before parting.

“The Slaves Built That”’

By Tom Lasseter

#georgia #slavery #slave records #reuters reporter explores his slave owning roots #“The Slaves Built That”#white supremacy #Blacks Enslaved in America #forsyth county #lynching #stolen land #stolen heritage #ancestral dna

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aroacemisha · 2 years

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True Name

A short Retired Leaders AU fic. This is technically a rewrite of a fic I wrote back in September called ‘Names’, which was my first ever TOH fic.

In this fic, an old human ponders his name and identity.

---

It’s been a few days since Belos, Hunter and Kikimora moved into the Owl House, following the former Emperor’s resignation.

In the kitchen, Luz and Kiki were helping Raine cook, learning the recipe in the process. Meanwhile in the living room, King lay curled up on the red couch, taking a nap, and Hunter sat beside him, scrolling through Penstagram and occasionally replying to messages.

He heard the sound of familiar footsteps coming from the corridor, and soon Eda stood in the doorway, her brows drawn together.

“Hey, kid. Where’s Belos?” - she asked the teenager. - “Dinner’s almost ready”

“I think he went outside” - Hunter told her. - “I’ll go look for him”

It didn’t take long.

As he walked out the front door and looked around, he immediately noticed the older Wittebane sitting on the ground near the edge of the cliff, hugging his legs and staring into the distance.

Hunter knit his brows.

“Uncle? Are you okay?” - he slowly approached him.

His words were followed by a silent pause, lasting a few seconds, before the human responded.

“I’ve just been thinking...” - he mumbled, while Hunter sat down cross-legged beside him. - “Now that everyone knows my true identity, should I start going by Philip again, or should I remain Belos?”

“I dunno” - Hunter shrugged. - “What name do you want to go by?”

The old man looked at his nephew, his gaze lingering for a moment, before he turned away once more. He moved his legs forward and rested his forearms on his knees.

“Hm...” - he paused to ponder, staring at the ground between his boots. - “..I haven’t gone by the name ‘Philip’ in decades, and, to be honest... I don’t really feel connected to it anymore.

That name was given to me by a hateful society, who would’ve murdered me in cold blood for not living my life the way they deemed “correct”. For no longer being a witch hunter, for using magic, for leaving the faith... Even intrinsic parts of me, like my attraction to men, would have been wrong and worthy of punishment in their eyes”

He looked up at the horizon.

“On the other hand, I chose the name ‘Belos’ myself. Back then I only took it to keep my true identity hidden, but.. I’ve gotten used to it over the years. I’d even say I’ve grown attached to it. And it’s the name I was going by when I made and raised you” - his lips perked up in a smile as he turned to his nephew.

Hunter’s jaw dropped for a moment, surprised by the genuine glimmer of joy in the old man’s tired eyes. He smiled at the sight.

The human playfully ruffled his hair.

“You’ll never stop being adorable, will you?”

The teenager chuckled, and the former Emperor put his forearm on his knee again, staring at the sea, as his smile slowly faded.

“Thank you for listening to me” - he said softly. - “I think I’ll keep going by Belos”

“I’m glad I could help” - Hunter stood up. - “Are you gonna go back inside? Eda said dinner is almost ready”

“Hm..” - Belos hesitated. - “I’ll join you shortly. I’d like to watch the sunset a little longer”

“Would you mind if I stayed too?”

“Of course not. I appreciate your company”

Hunter sat down beside him once more. He turned his gaze towards the scenery: the orange sky, the sea shimmering in the sunlight, the yellowish-orange tint on everything around them.

He leaned against his uncle’s side, and the two remained quiet, simply enjoying the view.

---

If you like my work, please reblog it. And feedback is also appreciated.

#misha's creative stuff #the owl house #toh au #retired leaders au #emperor belos #belos wittebane #philip wittebane #toh hunter #hunter wittebane #the golden guard

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voidedleylines · 8 months

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FFXIVWrite 2023 Day 7: Noisome

Day 7! In which the WoL visits a place she abandoned long ago...

Enjoy!

Rating: Gen No CWs apply!

“Oh gods,” Horskfyr lets out a grunt, “this smell…”

Freyalin laughs and nods her head as she wipes sweat from her brow, “smells like home,” she muses.

In truth, she had forgotten how…the pungent smell of magma is. Sulfur and just hot heat so in your face it can easily make the eyes water. Thankfully for her however she's formed a good poker face over the years of living by it so she can look cool in front of her baby brother. A thing she finds herself caring about, for whatever reason.

They're almost to their destination and she feels her stomach turn. She hasn't been back here in almost twenty years. She knows it's likely most of the ones here before are no longer. Nomadic creatures, the Hellsguard were, some move on from voidgate to voidgate. Others just grow tired of where they are and set out to find a change of scenery.

A strobe of anger passes through her briefly. Most take their kids with them she thinks.

It certainly wasn't the time to dwell on that now, though, and so she takes a deep breath, choking a little on the putrid air she takes in.

Horskfyr walked ahead and now waits for her at the cave entrance. He looks unbearably nervous and she puts a hand on his face, tapping it lightly. “C’mon, you've been here before,” she says.

“Yeah but that wasn't. I didn't know what it really meant to be here. You…we could’ve spent more time here. Together and we-”

“Didn't get that chance. For reasons out of our control,” she cuts him off.

He opens his mouth to try and say something else but he then closes it giving her wrist a squeeze and a nod, “you're right,” he mutters.

“Always am,” she exclaims as she backs away from him and towards the inside.

Her heart stops a beat when she sees inside. It's all the same. None of the tables or beds have moved in her two decades away. There's also a lot less people. She closes her eyes and does a trick she learned all those years ago. There's no sense of the voidgate. It must've gotten closed by someone…someone able to actually do it.

She walks towards a familiar spot and lets out a surprised yell to see the old woman still there. Sitting cross cross on the floor, mixing herbs and dyes.

The old woman stops her mixing and looks up, her eyes are glossy and a little unfocused. She smiles, “Sharp Willow,” she says aloud. Freyalin goes still, heat rises in her body, and it's not from the climate. “It has been quite some time, my dear.”

Tears instantly prick her eyes as she walks forward and joins the other woman on the ground. Horskfyr hovers nearby, trying to not act like he's paying attention. “Hello Frail I…it's been some time hasn't it,” she says.

Frail Oleander, the callous and revered old woman that all but raised her when her parents left her here. She’d spent many a morning under this exact tent, helping her tend to her potions, until she was but fourteen and in charge of her own squadron. Too young and too reckless, but Frail always knew the right words to say to reel her in when she needed it. She'd never thought she’d see her again, and yet here they are.

“You outgrew this place long ago,” Frail says. Freyalin looks down at her hands and guilt washes over her. “But this new life suits you, Warrior of Light.”

Her head snaps up, “How did you…” there's no point in finishing that question. She learned early on that her elder had many ways to communicate without needing to leave the cavern.

Frail gives a knowing smile. She then focuses behind Freyalin, “and you, Horskfyr. Lovely to see you again. I see you found what you were looking for.

Horskfyr clears his throat and nervously steps forward. His tall, broad frame engulfs them both as he stands near. “Y-yes ma’am I- thank you.”

She smiles, “There's no need to thank me,” she says, “I thank you for returning her to me. Even if just for a moment,” she says. She reaches a hand out and Freyalin takes it. It's cold and brittle and a stark contrast to the smoldering heat they sit in.

There's moments of silence between them as the two women sit there in each other's company. Eventually Horskfyr sits to join them. They spend the day back into old routines and the paranoia in the back of her head melts away. For the most part.

For the first time in her life, this place truly feels like home and a ball of emotion settles in her throat as she says her goodbye to it again the next morning.

Frail Oleander smiles at her and gives a weak hug. “Be well, Sharp Willow,” she says.

She nods her head and gives a small smile, “You too,” she replies.

As they walk further and further away, smell dissipating, she knows that was the last time she’ll see the closest thing she ever had to a mother and she tries to make her peace with it.

“Hey,” Horskfyr says, grabbing her hand and squeezing it gently, “You okay?”

Freyalin smiles and gives a light squeeze, “I…I am. Thank you,” she says. It's genuine. “It's just…a lot of memories in that place.”

He nods and gives a small smile. “So!” he claps his hands together, “next stop…The Doman Enclave?” his eyebrows wiggle and she rolls her eyes.

“Only if you promise to be nice,” she replies.

He feigns hurt, “I don't know what you mean, I’m a gentleman.”

“Yeah, from Sharlayan. That's not saying much.”

They continue to bicker as they get away from the desert and settle back into U’ldah, stopping by her apartment for a spell before they continue on their way. There's a lightness in her chest that she hasn't felt in a while.

#ffxivwrite2023 #ffxivwrite #freya writes #hope you like Hellsguard roe backstory !!!!!!

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boonekeller · 9 months

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𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌 . 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 . 𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐘 . 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐒 . 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 .

✦ BOYD HOLBROOK, CIS MAN, HE/HIM ✦ BOONE KELLER the THIRTY SIX year old has been in Hidehill for HIS ENTIRE LIFE. Whispers on the streets are that the OWNER OF FAST GAS who lives in HORWICK are said to be PATERNAL and VOLATILE but I guess we’ll find out for ourselves. { CAMI, 30, AST, SHE/HER. }

———— ◽️ 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐒

government name. booker nelson keller

preferred name. boone

current age. thirty eight

birthdate. december 23rd

height. 6'2"

identity. cis male, he/him

sexuality. heterosexual

moral alignment. chaotic neutral

language(s) spoken. english

occupation. owner of fast gas

residence. inherited house in horwick

———— ◽️ 𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐀𝐏

without having a hope in hell from the get go, boone was a raised in a household that always had some form of drugs or alcohol ( usually both ) at his parents' disposal at any given time. so he was exposed to these addictions at a very early age and would eventually follow the same path, but to a lesser degree.

as the apple of his parents' eye, for some reason, he could do no wrong. when, in fact, he did very wrong, at any given moment. boone was a labelled a problem child by his teachers. it started off with him being an annoying punk kid, disrupting class and clowning around with his friends. but as he got older, the problem grew with him.

fist fights were a common occurrence whenever he was in attendance at school. so if he didn't skip, he was sent home regularly. however, he never let his parents know the difference ( if they'd even notice anyway ) and he'd stay out on the streets all day -- drinking, smoking, wreaking havoc on the small town -- until school was let out and it'd be time for him to go home. as a result, he was held back a couple times in different grades.

eventually, boone would flip a final fuck you to the system and drop out of high school. who needs big brains?? certainly NOT him. instead of pursing a fruitful career like every other kid on the block, he acquired the necessary license to become a long haul driver because 1) he wanted to travel and 2) what else was he gonna do.

rootin great rapport via walkie talkie channels with all his trucker buds, tootin his loud ass horn down the highway at every little car that tried to cut him off, boone was content with this way of life. until he met some girl at some bar, somewhere along the way home. then he was apparently in love.

when word spread of this, he inherited ( rly was given ) a whole ass house in horwick from a relative. rumor has it some shady business was going on in there and so having boone and his aforementioned gf live there was all a cover up to keep the cops from sniffing around. but whatever the reason, he didn't care. he got a free home, away from his parents.

while boone wasn't exactly your all american, golden boy or best big brother, he felt guilty ditching his younger siblings, and made a point to keep his door open for them if they ever needed a place to crash. he wasn't the affectionate type by any means, but he tried to be a better influence than their parents ever were.

without ever having any real big bills to pay, thanks to the house, boone did well to save up a huge chunk of his earnings. so when his girlfriend ended up having a baby, he quit his long haul job and bought the gas station in hidehill. everybody needs gas, so he thought it was a great investment. big brains.

having owned fast gas for nearly a decade, he's been through all kinds of ups and downs. his girlfriend left him for an accountant and moved across the country with their kid, he lowkey became an alcoholic by trying to drink his sorrows away, and the gas station got robbed one night, which resulted in him almost getting shot for trying to fight off the assailant. safe to say now, he keeps a shotgun tucked away for future intimidation ( which he may or may not legally own ).

———— ◽️ 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐒

he's lowkey insane. like homeboy has no qualms when it comes to protecting his territory and his people, and is no stranger to violence.

however crazy he may get, he has a soft spot for his family & employees. to make up for being so shitty when he was younger, boone does his best now to help out where he can and looks out for his own.

drives an old ford bronco, but also owns a loud af dirtbike that he rips around on at night to 'clear his head'.

checks in on his parents every so often bc as much as they tainted his childhood, they also showed him some sort of love in their own fucked up way.

still drinks almost every night, so he's always at a bar or lounge. would probably sing karaoke if he was drunk enough.

does a video call with his kid every day ( or every other day ) and faithfully pays out child support. while he misses his son, boone knows he's better off growing up away from hidehill.

#hidehillintro #drug mention tw #alcohol tw #addiction tw #violence tw #gun mention tw

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pavvo20 · 2 years

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The Spark - Chapter 3 - Wake Up, Flyboy. | Poe Dameron

Pairing: Poe Dameron x OC

Summary: When her childhood best friend recruits her during an undercover mission for the Resistance, Captain Kara Embers embraces her family legacy and joins the fight against the First Order. As the secrets of her past come to light, Kara never expects to be training with her mom’s best friend, flying her father’s ship, and falling in love with the Yavin-4 boy who always said he’d be the galaxy’s best pilot.

A/N: Doing my best to keep things rolling here -- we start with another *Flashback* of sorts, and then head right on into some DEEP stuff.

Warnings: violence, language, sarcasm, moodiness, whump, fluff, kissing, ya know.. all that stuff.

Links: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Word Count - 3.4K

“She looks just like Athena did.” Han uttered as Leia approached him and Kes Dameron for the first time in several years on the flight line of Yavin-4. She had brought a young captain with her, one Han remembered being much shorter and younger than she was now. Kes nodded in agreement with his former superior;

“She really does.” Both men knew better than to say anything too loud. The girl’s mother was a close family friend until the day they lost her. Her father, their brother in arms, died of heartbreak only a few years later. They had both helped raise the girl until the day she left for the academy and almost a full decade later, here she was again… all grown up.

“General Solo, Sargent Dameron; you may remember Captain Kara Embers.” Leia stated formally as Kara beamed, recognizing her “uncles” almost immediately. Kes went for the hug first, scooping the young pilot against his chest tightly as she returned the gesture.

“My Stars, when did you grow up?” He said, stepping back momentarily to get a better look at the girl. Han cleared his throat, alerting Kes that it was his turn to greet their suto-daughter.

The former smuggler wrapped his arms around Kara so tight that even Leia’s heart warmed at the sight of her husband’s affection. He always secretly hoped they’d have a daughter — and the Embers’ girl was as close as he ever came to getting one.

“Kid, your dad would kill me if he could see you now.” He said, peering at his wife as they all remembered their late friend.

“I’m sure he would..” Kara remarked. “He’d be crushed to know I’m a better shot than he was.”

“Which means you’re still not as good as me.” Han winked. He had missed these interactions.

The young woman had done well for herself, graduating from the Republic Military Academy in the top of her class. After spending a few years as the assistant to the Republic's military representative in the Senate, her commanding officer insisted she accompany him on an undercover operation to the Outer Rim that was ultimately compromised. Kara had assisted the guardsmen in fighting off a dozen or more pirates and had flown the transport ship home after many in her party sustained major injuries. It was a miracle that no one had died.

The Republic moved Kara to special operations shortly after that. It was her very next mission, a little reconnaissance trip to Tatooine, where she had run into Poe.

He didn’t recognize her at first. It had been 10-12 years since they had last seen each other anyway. She was sitting at the bar in a local cantina disguised as an edgy smuggler looking for her next deal. He had taken the seat next to her, side-eying her glass as she took a sip, noting what drink she had so he could get her another one. Instead, his eyes recognized an Aurebesh tattoo on her wrist that read, “In the Stars.”

Those were Athena Embers’ last words to her daughter before she had passed away when they were 7.

A week later, Kara had decommissioned from the Republic forces and joined the Resistance.

Han had moved to greet Chewy when Kes saw Poe disembark from the Millenium Falcon. It had become apparent that he had flown the legendary ship to their meeting at Leia’s request. There weren’t too many people on Han’s short list of trusted pilots. There were even fewer on his list of trusted mechanics. Poe was the only one who just so happened to be on both.

The man took one look at his ship before corralling its pilot in for a long-overdue hug. It had been a few years since he last saw the younger Dameron. He too had grown up quite a bit since their last encounter. For starters, his once-patchy facial hair was now a fully matured five o’clock shadow. He was also significantly less lanky and malnourished than when they had broken him out of the spice trade. The young man was fit, confident, and roguishly handsome. Han had to admit, he could finally see why they had chosen him for the Resistance Recruitment posters.

“Kes, your son clearly got Shara’s good looks.” Han teased as father and son reunited. Leia scoffed as Kes took a minute to inspect his son. They were almost mirror images of each other, except that Poe had his mother’s eyes and longer hair.

“There must be bacta in the water or something over there.” He chuckled. Han was right about one thing, his son was no longer the little boy who learned to fly in his mother’s lap.

“Commander Dameron, why don’t you take the Captain and find a good place to set up a command center?” Leia suggested, reminding them all why they were here in the first place. Their mission did have a fast-approaching deadline. Especially with the First Order’s latest string of attacks fresh on their minds.

“Copy that.” Poe said as he and Kara turned to head into the hanger. The trio of Rebellion veterans watched their young counterparts as they pulled a map of their former base up on a datapad and disappeared.

Kes immediately saw the way Poe had come to idolize Leia like he did his own mother. His unwavering loyalty to her, the Resistance, and his little make-shift family was evident in everything he did. As hard as he tried to keep his son out of this war, it was too fitting that they both found themselves in it again.

The older Dameron couldn’t help but also notice something different about the way his son looked at his best friend. Sure, Poe had always had a soft spot for the Embers’ girl. Hell, he was incredibly protective of her growing up, but it was a big brother kind of protective. Now, the look he gave her was similar to one he used to give his wife.

“It’s hard to remember that they aren’t kids anymore,” Leia said with a sigh. Her hand blindly found Kes’ shoulder. “Stars, I remember the day you both dropped Poe off and made me promise I wouldn’t let him fly.”

“That was not one of our better ideas.” Kes remarked, looking sharply at Han - who had stunned Poe in an alley on Kijimi and essentially kidnapped him to get him out of the spice trade - He’d never forget hearing Poe’s anger in the background of Leia’s holoprojector just hours afterward.

“No… but it was better than his chosen option.” Han blinked, silently acknowledging how hypocritical he sounded.

“He’s recovered well. Even if he does have a reckless streak.” Kes gave his friend a reassuring glance. It wasn’t completely his fault that the boy had grown up to be just like them.

There was a chorus of laughter before Leia jumped in; “Reckless is a light word for it.”

“Now he’s got his partner in crime back too…”

“She gives him a run every once in a while. Both of them are stubborn as hell. Wait till they disagree out here, you’ll want to blast them both to the Outermost Rim.” Leia continued. She paused to look out across the tarmac, taking in the natural beauty of the planet that lay beyond it. “He loves her.”

Both men looked to the general, almost as if they misheard her.

“They were essentially siblings.” Han caught himself after the words left his mouth. “Oh you mean..”

“He hasn’t told her yet. Probably doesn’t know how. In fairness, he probably is afraid it’ll ruin their friendship.”

“What about her?” Kes inquired, genuinely curious about what Leia was sensing. He could feel that something was grounding Poe, but couldn’t put his finger on exactly what it was. Leia had always been more in-tune with the Force than the rest of them, thanks to her brother.

“Same thing. They’ll stumble into it soon enough. Poe’s already stopped flirting with most of the women on base since she arrived.” Leia smirked. She couldn’t blame him for his ridiculous dating record. The young man was handsome, strong, and confident even when he wasn’t. It also helped that he really was the best pilot the Resistance had seen in years and any woman in her right mind wanted a chance with him. Trying as she might to keep him busy with missions, Poe still found time in between to break a couple hearts. Most of his exes had believed maybe one day, they’d convince him to love something more than his X-wing. That was until he came home with Kara.

“Kes, sound familiar?” Han joked. “Like father, like son.”

“It takes a strong one to wrangle a Dameron, Solo. You know that better than anyone.”

…………………………………….

Kara opened her eyes to see the sun creeping into the med bay window of Poe’s recovery room. She slowly lifted her head to take a look at the clock when a small groan came from the man she had spent the night leaning on.

“Poe.” She put a hand on his cheek as his eyes moved around under their lids. “Come on flyboy. Wake up.”

“Only…if there’s caf.” He croaked, a weak smile forming on his face as he opened his eyes. It didn’t take but a few seconds for them to find exactly what they were looking for. “Kara..”

“You just had to be—“ He cut her off as he leaned forward to capture her lips. Poe pushed all the pain out of his mind as she accepted his needy kiss. His hands held each side of her face as his fingers got tangled in her hair. When she stopped to catch her breath, he held Kara’s forehead to his, eyes still closed, thumbing away a few of her happy tears.

“Next time I’m coming with you.” She said, pulling back further, careful to not disturb any of his wounds. Poe immediately noticed that she was wearing one of his ratty undershirts under her flight jacket and had a blaster strapped to her right thigh. His brow furrowed when it dawned on him that Kara wasn’t injured and her hair was in her usual messy ponytail - not the bun she wore to fly.

“When did you escape?” He asked. Kara turned back to the pilot after she had hit the nurse’s call button, completely confused.

“I left with BB-8 right after you ran to save the villagers. I was gone right after I saw Ren’s ship land.” She stated, her eyes focusing on Poe’s searching for signs of a more serious head injury.

Poe blinked and shook his head. “No way..” Kara wasn’t completely surprised that he thought she was lying to him. She did have a tendency to ignore his orders, usually because her strategic mind was already a little further ahead of him. In fact, one could argue that it was a little surprising that she hadn’t stuck to that trend this time around.

“I swear I followed your orders. I know that’s hard to believe but this map was too important to lose.” Kara said, a genuinely serious tone in her voice as Poe’s face showed even more bewilderment and frustration.

“I heard you screaming,” he confessed; “crying out like he was ripping through your head.” Kara’s puzzled look immediately changed to terrified. “You called out for me.”

“He tricked you.” Came the concerned yet familiar voice of General Organa, “They were force projections. Ren likely got the idea after he went through your memories the first time.”

“I tried to fight him off —” she raised her hand, shutting Poe up.

“Even the strongest Force user would have struggled to keep him out Poe. The fact that you made it more difficult for him at all is something to be proud of.” Leia moved to sit on Poe's other side. “Kara has been with me the entire time. We have the map.”

Both women felt Poe exhale like he had been carrying the entire galaxy on his chest for a few minutes. “Thank Maker, you listened.”

“Don’t get used to it.” Kara joked, a sarcastic yet comforting smile spreading across her face as she caught Poe rolling his eyes.

“If Kylo Ren knew how difficult you were… he’d definitely think twice before taking you in.” The jab came as a welcome sign that the pilot was getting back to his old self.

Kara shot Poe glare of exaggerated annoyance, “He does know how difficult I am, remember? And that’s rich coming from you.”

It was Leia’s turn to roll her eyes, “Clearly the bacta has done its job.” Both pilots blushed.

“Poe, I need you to tell me more about the interrogation.. as much as you can remember.” Leia’s voice shook a bit as she spoke this time. There was no avoiding how nauseating this conversation was going to be for all of them. She was just glad that Han wasn’t there to make it that much worse.

Poe described Ren’s initial mind probe and Kara felt a sinister chill run down her spine. She knew that Force-sensitive people could be trained to better sense the emotions, feelings, and memories of others but certainly not in the way that Poe had experienced firsthand. Ren had forced his way into the mind of a completely unwilling participant, causing enough pain and anguish that his victim still trembled with the idea that it would happen again. Poe unconsciously grabbed her hand as he described how his tormentor recognized his attempts to block the invasion, only to apply even more pressure and dive even further into his memories. Kara saw the General stiffen as Poe paused, his heart feeling like it was going to beat out of his chest.

“He flipped through our childhood memories. Particularly one’s where we had all played together or everyone was around. I could feel him pause anytime he saw you or Han.”

Leia’s eyes closed as her emotions swelled a bit, Poe took deep breath;

“I tried to call him out on it and he almost choked me out, insisting that Ben was dead and that you guys loved me more as a son than you ever did him.” He sighed, feeling Leia’s hope dwindle and noticing her pain creep back into her features. “After that, he asked about Kara.”

She froze when she heard her name. Poe didn’t dare make eye contact with her but his brow furrowed as he blinked back tears. Leia immediately felt an overwhelming amount of fear in both of them.

“I refused to tell him anything…so, he went looking for it.” Poe’s face twisted in pain as he forced himself to keep it together. “That’s when he learned you had told me about that time when we were 10. And that I had given you the map.”

Poe’s eyes were red with emotion and projecting gut-wrenching guilt when he finally did look at her. Kara had never seen Poe this scared, not even when they were kids. “It’s ok..” she whispered, hoping that it would soothe him just a little bit.

“It was the next morning when he projected your screams into the room, that’s when I thought they got you too.” Poe let the tears fall freely now, his hand squeezing Kara’s tightly as if to remind himself that she was right there, safe and sound. “Ren invited himself in again shortly after his projection stunt. That’s when he saw that night a few weeks ago on Yavin-4.”

Kara’s eyes went wide in horror as it dawned on her what night Poe was talking about. She looked at Leia and back at him, her own terror causing her to tremble. It would have broken Ben Solo’s heart to see her and Poe together to begin with, but now he had seen them all, including his own parents, had truly moved on without him.

Poe instinctively pulled Kara to his chest, running his hand up and down her back as she began to break down. Her mind raced with the memory of Ben’s intense anger following the rejection so many years ago. She hadn’t meant to hurt him as bad as she did. They were 10 — and she was embarrassed – plus, Ben had made her promise that she’d never tell Poe what happened. Kara unconsciously shivered as she remembered that night too— as Solo had cornered her on a walk home and used the Force to keep her quiet as he intimidated her into compliance.

She’d kept her promise for 17 years. Kara had only told Poe about the kiss because she swore the next time she’d see Ben Solo was when she met her Maker. She hadn’t told anyone about him using his powers on her or how it had been her constant motivation to ensure that no one ever intimidated her like that again. And now certainly wasn’t the time to disclose that either.

Kara pulled herself out of her memories and tried to focus on the sound of Poe’s heart still racing in his chest. His strong arms had settled around her shoulders, holding her as close as he could from his position in the bed. She could smell traces of his cologne mixed with sweat on his neck. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to become intoxicated with the pilot for a minute, silently thankful for the distraction.

Leia was uncharacteristically still on the edge of Poe’s bed. The reality of her son using the Force to torture his childhood friend was disgusting and weighing heavily on her heart. Especially since it was all over a map to his missing uncle. The worst part was just before that, he had also murdered an entire village of innocent people over it.

She could bring herself to understand the man’s anger toward her brother. Hell, she could even see the motive behind maiming Poe, but it was Kylo Ren’s sudden interest in Kara that really made her want to throw up.

There was only one logical explanation for it and it certainly wasn’t (at least not entirely) the hope that maybe his first crush would have feelings for him again.

He had felt her power.

The general turned her attention to the young woman Poe had in his arms. It was time for her to start learning the true extent of her connection with the Force…and they needed to start today.

“Kara.” She breathed as the girl reluctantly pulled herself away from the pilot. “You are now going to start training with me twice a day. Sometimes more.”

From two people who were notorious for talking back, Leia was surprised to be met with silence.

“You have a connection to the Force that is similar to Ren’s and if it remains untrained, he may try to influence you to do things you wouldn’t otherwise do.” She continued, “So, I’m going to make sure that doesn’t happen. I’ve already lost one kid, I’m not going to lose another.”

Leia shifted her gaze to Poe, “And you,” His eyebrows jumped, “You are going to help me.”

Poe had experience with a lot of things, but training a Jedi wasn’t one of them. He barely understood his own connection to the Force as it was. How in the stars was he supposed to help prepare someone to face a Sith lord?

“But -”

“Dameron. You’re the best fighter we have and she’s going to need to be ready to face the best. On top of that, there isn’t a soul in this galaxy that knows Kara better than you do.”

Leia stood, sensing the apprehension both Kara and Poe were hiding behind their attentive stares. They were right to be scared, this wasn’t going to be easy. It was going to test all three of them far beyond any battle, loss, or mission they’d experienced in their lives.

“We’ll start tonight. Meet me at my quarters at 2200.” She headed toward the door, stopping one more time to look at the pair. “Try not to be late.”

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