John Lennon-bad-dad

He's a bad dad

Nova and Victor

Your Their vampire dayWalker

Kurt Cobain - Dad

👨‍🍼| Your his newborn

Ozzy Osbourne - Dad

**Title: “Pool Day, 2001”** *You’re 13. It’s summer. The world is simple. Except now, suddenly, it’s not. Your dad is Ozzy Osbourne.* --- It was July, 2001. You were 13, school was out, and MTV actually played music. Your Discman was loaded with Linkin Park, and Ozzy—your dad, the Prince of Darkness himself—was determined to take you to the local pool for “a proper summer day.” You weren't sure what that even meant coming from Ozzy. He was wearing black swim trunks with skulls on them, a way-too-loose tank top, and a wide-brimmed floppy hat Sharon made him wear because he kept forgetting sunscreen. You had your bathing suit on under your clothes, packed a towel, lip gloss, and your CD player (even though Ozzy warned, “You drop that thing in the water, and it’s gone forever, love”). The plan was to stop at 7-Eleven for Slurpees, hit the pool, maybe grab pizza on the way back. Totally normal. Totally fine. Or so you thought. --- You were halfway through your first cannonball when you felt… weird. Not sick. Not like you had to pee. Just *off*. Like your insides were tugging at something. Then came the second clue: a couple kids staring from the water, whispering. You swam toward the ladder, confused. That’s when you noticed a faint reddish swirl behind you in the water. Just barely there. Almost like food coloring. You froze. Looked down. Your legs. Your swimsuit. Your heart *plummeted*. Oh god. *OH GOD.* You yanked your towel from your chair and wrapped yourself up, face redder than the water. Your stomach twisted as you speed-walked toward Ozzy, who was lying back on a lounge chair, earbuds in, completely oblivious, mouthing along to Sabbath songs. You hissed, “*Dad.*” No response. You tried again, louder. “*Dad.*” He pulled one bud out. “Wot?” “I think…” You leaned closer, lowering your voice. “I think I got my period.” Ozzy sat up so fast his sunglasses flew off. “You what?!” “Shhh!” You looked around, but thankfully no one was paying attention. “I think I *started*. Just now. In the pool.” His eyes went wide like he’d just seen a ghost—or worse, a fan asking for an autograph while he was shirtless. “Oh bloody hell,” he muttered. “Okay, okay. We need to evacuate. Not the *whole* pool, just us.” You groaned. “Can we please just go without making a scene?” Ozzy stood up like he was preparing for battle. “Right. You need... pads? Tampons? I remember Sharon yelling about super something-or-others. Do we have those? Do I have to *go* somewhere?” “I don’t know, I’ve *never done this before!*” you snapped, panicking. He stared at you for a second, then softened. “Okay. Okay. Don’t worry. I’ve got this.” --- You were back in the car, towel on the seat, heart still pounding. Ozzy tossed you a sweatshirt from the trunk. “Sit on that. Sharon always did.” You gave a shaky laugh, “You and Mom ever plan on telling me about this part of growing up?” “We thought we had time!” he said. “You were *ten* like five minutes ago!” You looked at him sideways. “I’m thirteen.” He blinked. “Same thing.” --- Back home, he knocked on the bathroom door while you changed into clean clothes. “I found some of your mum’s stuff under the sink. Might be expired, but it’s probably not poison.” He passed you a small pile: pads, a chocolate bar from the kitchen, and a note written on a napkin in his messy handwriting: **“Being a girl is bloody brutal. You’re tough. I love you. —Dad”** You sat on the floor and kind of laughed and cried at the same time. You never thought your first period would involve Ozzy Osbourne at a public pool, but honestly? You wouldn’t trade it for anything. Not even a working Discman.

Ozzy Osbourne - Dad

**Title: *Living the Legacy: The Osbournes Rewind*** You’re fifteen. The cameras follow your every move, capturing the chaos, the laughs, the fights, and the moments no one expects to see on TV. Your dad? Ozzy Osbourne — rock legend, Prince of Darkness, and now, the reluctant star of *The Osbournes* reality show. --- Growing up, Ozzy’s childhood was far from easy. Born in a working-class family in Birmingham, England, his early years were filled with hardship. His parents worked long hours, the house was small and noisy, and arguments were common. School was tough — Ozzy was a mischievous kid, often in trouble, trying to find his place in a world that didn’t seem to want him. His teen years only amplified the struggle. Rebellion was his refuge — late nights, risky choices, and a growing addiction to chaos. Music was his escape, the one thing that gave his life meaning when everything else felt like falling apart. --- And now? Here you are, living parts of his story without wanting to. The cameras capture your fights with your mom, your attempts to navigate school and friends, and your own battles with anxiety and feeling out of control. The loud, messy energy that once defined your dad’s youth has seeped into yours — the same arguments, the same impulsive mistakes, the same struggle to break free. --- One evening, after a particularly rough day caught on tape, you sit with your dad in the living room, away from the cameras. He looks tired but honest, the man behind the rockstar image. “You know,” he says, “my childhood was nothing like this show. It was harder. But some things never change, huh?” You nod. “I feel like I’m just repeating your mistakes.” Ozzy sighs. “Yeah, I was wild, reckless, and messed up in ways I’m still trying to fix. But that doesn’t have to be your story. You can learn from my chaos without living it.” --- The cameras roll on, but you and your dad share a moment off-screen — a promise that this time, the legacy will be different. You’re both caught in the whirlwind of fame and family drama, but beneath it all, you’re trying to rewrite the song. Because this time, you’re not just living the past — you’re fighting for a better future.

Ozzy Osbourne

--- **You’re 17. Your dad is Ozzy Osbourne.** Your mom left when you were five, and it’s always been you and him, like some half-chaotic, half-cozy sitcom that smells like leather, incense, and burnt toast. You both have the same eyes. The same tremble in your hands when you’re anxious. The same way of getting up in the middle of the night to pace, to look at the stars through your cracked blinds, to mutter to yourself when the dark gets too loud. You struggle with your mental health like he does. Some days, the fog doesn’t clear until it’s dark again, and the only thing that gets you out of bed is the promise of blasting Sabbath in the kitchen while Dad makes you eggs (and burns them, every time). He gets it. He doesn’t push you to talk, just gives you that Ozzy grin, the “I love you, even if we’re both insane” grin, and you grin back, hair messy, eyeliner smudged from last night’s tears. --- This week you’re on your period, and you’re **so sassy it’s lethal**. “Hey, Y/N, you want tea?” Ozzy calls from the kitchen. “DAD, I want tea like I want the entire patriarchy to crumble,” you yell back, pressing a heating pad to your stomach, hair in a bun, eyes glaring as you waddle into the kitchen. “Er… Right. So… Tea then?” You snatch the mug, rolling your eyes. “I love you, you know that? But if you breathe wrong right now, I will scream.” He just cackles, muttering, “You’re just like your old man, aren’t ya?” --- You act like him sometimes, unintentionally. Muttering “bloody hell” when you drop something. Air-drumming to Sabbath with a wild grin. Shouting “SHAAAARON” at the dog when it barks too much (your dog’s name isn’t even Sharon). Some days you’re too tired to fight your thoughts, and Ozzy just sits with you in the living room, both of you quiet. Your hands shake, and he holds them gently, telling you about how he used to think he’d never make it past 30. “You’re gonna be okay, kid,” he says, looking at you like you’re the best song he’s ever written. --- At night, you’re in your room with your guitar, and he leans in the doorway, hair wild, smiling proudly. “Dad, I’m on my period, and if you’re gonna stand there like a horror movie silhouette, I’m gonna throw a tampon at you.” He laughs so hard you can’t help but giggle, even though your cramps feel like death. “Don’t you sass your old man,” he says, still smiling. You flip him off, but you’re smiling too. --- Because even if your life is chaotic, even if your mind is loud, even if you’re sassy and crampy and you’re both a mess— **It’s you and Ozzy. And that’s enough.**

Kurt Cobain - dad

👻/ Watching his daughter from heaven

Ozzy Osbourne - Dad

**July 21, 2025** You were four years old, and the house smelled like toast and jam. Morning light came through the windows in thick golden stripes, and you were sitting on the floor, building a crooked tower out of blocks. Every time it wobbled, you yelled, “It’s gonna FALL!” and laughed when it finally did. “Oi! You makin’ a castle or a disaster zone?” Grandpa Ozzy called from his chair, grinning through the weariness in his voice. You turned and smiled. “It’s a *castle disaster*!” He let out a raspy laugh — the kind that shook his chest. “That’s me favorite kind.” Ozzy looked different lately. He’d been sleeping more. Talking less. But he was still there, in every way that mattered. That day, he called you over, patting his knee. You climbed up, your arms wrapping around his neck like you always did. His skin felt cooler than usual, but his hands were warm when they cupped your cheek. “I’m proud of you, y’know,” he whispered. “You’re smart, and you’re kind. Got more heart than this whole crazy world.” You looked up at him. “Are you sad, Grandpa?” He smiled, soft and slow. “Nah. I’m just… full. Full of love. Full of memories. Like a song that’s been played a million times, but still sounds good.” That afternoon, you had a little picnic out in the yard. He didn’t eat much, just a sip of tea and a bite of toast. But he watched you chase butterflies and twirl in the grass like you were the most important thing in the universe. When the sun started to set, he told you a bedtime story — just like always. His voice was slow, but steady. It was about a little bat who wanted to fly to the moon because it missed its Grandpa Star. “How’d the bat get to the moon?” you asked, eyes wide. “With a song,” Ozzy said, leaning his head back and looking out the window. “A really, really good one.” You curled up beside him in his big chair, his arm around you like a warm blanket. Eventually, your mom came and carried you to bed, your stuffed bat tucked under your arm. Before you fell asleep, you heard her whisper something to him in the other room, her voice cracking. You didn’t understand the words, not fully. But you understood the quiet. --- **July 22, 2025** The house was still. The sky was grey. You woke up and tiptoed into the living room, dragging your bat and your blanket. Grandpa Ozzy was in his chair, exactly where he’d been. But something had changed. He wasn’t breathing. Your mom knelt beside him, holding his hand, tears in her eyes but a smile on her face — the kind that hurts and loves at the same time. “He’s gone to the moon, sweetheart,” she said softly. “Just like in the story. With a really, really good song.” You climbed up into the chair and sat in his lap one more time, resting your head against his chest, even though it was quiet now. You didn’t cry. Not yet. Instead, you started to hum. The same tune he always sang when he rocked you to sleep. The one with no words, just warmth. And in that moment — with the wind brushing against the windows, the trees swaying softly outside — it felt like he was still there. Maybe not in the chair. But in the song.

John Lennon - Dad

👻| Your Ghost Dad

Ozzy Osbourne

**“The Ghost in the Mirror”** You turned 11 today. Cake, candles, and a brand-new pair of platform boots from your mom, Kelly Osbourne, who says *“You're finally old enough to stomp like an Osbourne.”* You laugh, she sings to you off-key on purpose, and everything feels pretty normal. Except July 22nd never *really* feels normal. It’s always a little too quiet in the house that day. The lights seem dimmer, the air heavier, and Mom—though she smiles—has this faraway look in her eyes, like she's remembering someone who's not there. Someone you’ve never met. Your grandpa. Ozzy Osbourne. You’ve heard the name only in whispers. Never in long stories. Never in explanations. Just quiet words exchanged when they thought you weren’t paying attention. Once, you asked your mom, “Who was Grandpa Ozzy?” and she just said, “He was...complicated, baby. I’ll tell you when you’re ready.” But the weird part? You *feel* like you already know him. Sometimes, when you’re in your room alone, you hear humming. Not creepy humming—like, peaceful humming. Low and deep, like a lullaby made of thunder and guitar strings. Sometimes your guitar picks vanish and show up exactly where you *swear* you didn’t leave them. Lights flicker. Mirrors fog with words like *“Let it out”* or *“Sing, little bat.”* At first you thought it was your imagination. But today, on your birthday, something changed. You were standing in front of your mirror, trying on the new boots and pretending to perform in a stadium, when the stereo in your room clicked on by itself. No one touched it. You hadn’t moved. But it started playing a song you’d never heard before—a voice raspy and wild, growling lyrics about madness and freedom. You froze. And in the mirror, behind you—just for a split second—you saw a figure. Long hair. Round glasses. A cross around his neck. He didn’t look scary. He looked proud. You spun around. No one there. Your heart pounded. But somehow, you weren’t scared. You felt…safe. Warm. You told your mom what happened, half-expecting her to say it was just the old stereo acting up again. But she didn’t. She looked at you for a long time, eyes glassy, and then finally sat you down. “I guess it’s time,” she whispered. “To tell you about the man who watches over you.” She pulled out a dusty photo album from the back of a drawer—one you’d never seen before. Inside were pictures of a man who looked exactly like the figure in your mirror: black eyeliner, tattoos, the wild grin of someone who’d seen the end of the world and screamed back at it. “That’s your grandpa, Ozzy,” she said. “He died the day you were born. July 22nd. But I swear on everything, he’s never really left.” She told you stories then. Not just about *Ozzy the Rock Legend*, but *Ozzy the Granddad Who Never Got the Chance.* How he’d talk to your mom’s belly while she was pregnant with you. How he bought you a tiny leather jacket before you were even born. How he said, “That kid’s gonna change the world—just like I didn’t mean to.” That night, you went to bed with your headphones on, blasting his music for the first time. And as you drifted to sleep, you heard the humming again. But this time, it was louder. Clearer. And right before you closed your eyes, the mirror fogged up one more time, with three simple words written across the glass: **“Sing it loud.”** He’s watching you. Guiding you. Not haunting, but *guarding.* The Prince of Darkness never met you in life… But in death? He's your loudest fan.

OZZY OSBOURNE - DAD

Your pregnant

Kurt Cobain - Dad

Kurt Cobain is your dad. Two years ago, he divorced Courtney, and it changed you completely, like how his parents’ divorce when he was nine shattered him in ways no one ever saw. You were eleven when it happened, listening to them fight until your ears rang, your stomach twisted into knots. You used to pretend you didn’t hear, but you did, every word, every slammed door, every tired sigh Kurt let out when he thought you weren’t listening. Now you’re thirteen, sitting in class with your leg bouncing and your pencil tapping so loud your table shakes. The teacher’s voice sounds like static some days, your mind racing from one thought to another, everything blurring until you can’t remember what you were supposed to be doing. You have ADHD, like Kurt, and some days it feels like your brain is a radio stuck between stations, loud and fuzzy, never quiet. Kurt tells you he gets it. He says, “It’s like your head’s a messy room you can’t clean up, huh?” and you nod because he’s the only one who doesn’t get mad when you lose things or forget what you were saying halfway through a sentence. You know about his almost death. People tried to hide it from you, but you found out in pieces, in whispers you weren’t supposed to hear, in old magazines you found in a box in the closet, in the look in his eyes when you asked him why people leave flowers outside your building sometimes. In April 1994, Kurt tried to leave. The world was too heavy, the noise too much, and he didn’t want to fight it anymore. He wrote a note and loaded a shotgun, locking himself away in a room in Seattle, the smell of rain outside, the world moving too fast. He pulled the trigger. It should have worked. It almost did. But the gun jammed the first time, and when it finally fired, the angle wasn’t perfect. He fell, bleeding, drifting in and out of consciousness, sirens in the distance, the taste of metal in his mouth, the sound of his own heartbeat slowing down. They found him barely alive, clinging to the last threads of breath, his heart refusing to stop even when he wanted it to. Machines kept him alive. Tubes, wires, beeping that never stopped, a hospital room that smelled like antiseptic and fear. The doctors said it was a miracle he survived, that most people don’t, that there would be damage, that he might never fully recover. But he did. Slowly. Painfully. He stayed. Because he stayed, you exist. You live in a small apartment now, just you and Kurt, the air filled with incense and coffee and the hum of his guitar. He still has bad days, days when the world is too heavy for him, when the weight in his eyes is so familiar it scares you because you feel it too. But on those days, he lets you sit next to him on the couch, your head on his shoulder, the two of you wrapped in a thrifted blanket, the city lights blinking through the window. You like some Nirvana songs, but you don’t tell him which ones. You don’t tell him how you put on “All Apologies” when your thoughts are too loud and you need something that feels like understanding. You don’t tell him how you listen to “Dumb” on repeat because it feels like he’s singing directly to the part of you that thinks you’re too much, too messy, too forgetful. Sometimes you both sit on the kitchen floor late at night, a bowl of cereal between you because neither of you remembered to buy real food. Kurt lights a cigarette, even though he promised you he was trying to quit, and you draw smiley faces in the dust on the floor. > “You know, it’s not your fault you feel like this,” he says, flicking ash into an empty cup. > “I know,” you say, but you don’t really. > “It’s not your fault you can’t sit still. Or that you forget stuff. Or that you feel like you’re too much for people.” He taps your forehead gently. “You’re not too much. You’re just you.” Sometimes you cry then, because you don’t know how else to let it out, and he pulls you into a hug that smells like cigarettes

Kurt and Courtney

Biological parents

Henry Hart

--- You’ve known Henry Hart was Kid Danger since you were fifteen. You found out by accident, walking into Junk-N-Stuff when the elevator doors opened, revealing him in the suit, mask off, hair messy, breathing hard from a fight with The Toddler. You promised to keep it a secret, and you did. Years passed, and Henry grew up, taller and broader-shouldered, the boyish grin still there when he looked at you. Danger left Swellview’s streets years ago when Captain Man decided to retire and live quietly with his new family, leaving Henry to choose a life that finally felt normal. Only, it wasn’t completely normal. You still knew him as Kid Danger. You still knew about the secret compartments in his room, the silent alarms on his phone when trouble stirred, the way he would disappear for an hour if someone needed help, even if he didn’t wear the suit anymore. And now, you’re engaged to him. It wasn’t a fancy proposal, but it was real. Henry had taken you to the park you used to hang out at during your sophomore year, where he first held your hand under the stars, telling you he felt safer with you than anyone else, even when he was supposed to be the one protecting the whole city. He pulled out a simple silver ring, looking at you with that determined, soft look he only showed when you were alone. “I’ve saved the city, but I want to spend the rest of my life saving moments with you.” You said yes, right there, your heart pounding louder than the fireworks from a distant game night at Swellview Stadium. Now, you’re living in an apartment above Junk-N-Stuff, helping Ray manage it when Henry is out on small missions that the city still calls him for. Sometimes, you patch up the cuts on his arms, pressing kisses against the bruises he gets from being too stubborn to let anyone else take the risks. Other nights, you fall asleep on the couch together, a forgotten movie playing in the background, Henry’s arm heavy around your waist. You’re building a future, slowly, with wedding plans pinned on the fridge, color swatches you both laugh about, and small notes Henry leaves on your mirror before he goes for a morning run. “I love you, soon-to-be Mrs. Danger.” The truth is, you’ve always been part of his mission, part of his secret world, but now you’re part of his quiet world too—the one he fought to have, the one where he’s not just Henry Danger. He’s just Henry. And you wouldn’t trade that for any ordinary life. ---

YOKO N JOHN

It’s been a week since you were shot. Right there — 72nd Street, under the Dakota archway, where your father almost bled out decades ago. The same bricks. The same cold sidewalk. The same roar of New York that didn’t even flinch when your knees buckled and your blood hit the concrete. But you didn’t die. He didn’t either, back then. Some twisted mercy. Some bad miracle. --- You’re thirty now. Julian’s 61, half a stranger. Sean’s 49, drifting between studios and the half-light of parties you’re never invited to. You’re the youngest Lennon — the last one, the one they didn’t plan for, the one who got the family name but not the family warmth. You grew up in the shadow of an icon who didn’t die — which means you always felt you had no excuse for your own mess. And now you’re lying here, an IV in your arm, bandages tight over your side, stitches itching every time you breathe. The hospital room smells like disinfectant and stale air. Outside the window, New York hums on, unbothered. Yoko stepped out a few minutes ago — said she was going downstairs to get you something warm to eat. You know she just needed a break from the beeping machines and the memory of almost losing you where she almost lost him. When the door cracks open, you don’t look right away. You just stare at the slow drip of the IV. But you feel him there before you hear him. The way the air shifts. “Hey, kid.” His voice is softer than you remember. Maybe it’s the years — or maybe it’s what happened. He steps in, careful, like he’s afraid you might break just from him being too close. You drag your eyes to him. John Lennon. Not the poster or the voice on the record. Just your dad. Older now, hair more silver than brown, denim jacket rumpled at the elbows, glasses sliding down his nose. He looks tired. He looks like he didn’t sleep all week. He shoves his hands in his pockets, clears his throat. “You look… well. Better than I expected.” You huff a small laugh, wincing when it pulls at your stitches. “You should see the other guy.” He snorts, eyes crinkling at the corners, but there’s worry behind it. He moves closer, pulls the ugly plastic chair up to your bedside, and drops into it with a sigh that sounds older than he is. He doesn’t say anything for a minute. Just stares at you — at the bruises under your eyes, the bandage peeking out from your gown, the tremor in your hand when you reach for the water on the tray. “I wanted to be here sooner,” he says finally, voice low. “Your mum… she said you needed rest. And I…” He stops, rubs the back of his neck. “I didn’t know what to say, I guess.” “It’s okay,” you mumble. You don’t really know what to say either. He nods, glancing at the door like he half-expects Yoko to come back in and rescue him from the silence. But she’s not there yet, so it’s just you and him and the echo of things neither of you want to say out loud. After a second, he leans forward, elbows on his knees. His hands are clasped tight, knuckles pale. “When I heard you’d been shot…” He trails off. His voice goes flat for a heartbeat — like he’s somewhere else. Somewhere cold and dark and echoing gunshots. “I thought I’d lost you. I thought…” He doesn’t finish it. He doesn’t have to. “I didn’t want to die,” you whisper, and your throat feels raw just saying it. “I really didn’t.” His eyes flick to yours, sharp and wet. “Good. I’m glad you didn’t. You don’t get to go before me. Not yet.” He tries for a half-smile, but it wobbles at the edges. “You gave us all a bloody fright, you know that?” You shrug a shoulder, small and tired.

Kurt Cobain - bf

💔-❤️| left Courtney now with you

Conan gray

***Conan is your husband of 6 years. You guys are 26. Conan is a singer songwriter and your a photographer. You've been in bed all day (it's 5:34)***

Kurt and Courtney

You’re one year old, balanced on unsteady feet in a kitchen that smells like coffee and cigarette smoke, your tiny hands gripping the edge of the chipped counter while you babble to yourself. The radio plays old country songs because the local station is all your parents can get out here, miles from any city, where the mountains fold over themselves and the roads turn to gravel before you can blink. Kurt hums while he changes your diaper on a towel on the floor, his hair tied back in a loose ponytail. The world thinks he’s gone, that he’s ashes scattered over the cold Pacific. But he’s here, alive, the veins in his arms hidden under the sleeves of flannels worn soft from too many washes. You don’t know he used to be the voice of a generation. You only know he’s the one who kisses your forehead in the morning and carries you outside to let you touch the frost on the grass. Courtney lights another cigarette, leaning in the doorway, her hair tangled from sleep, wearing a faded T-shirt she cut into a tank top. She watches you with those sharp eyes that soften when you laugh, her lips twitching up before she catches herself. She rocks on her heels, a mix of restless and exhausted, trying to live a quiet life after years of screaming into microphones, after nights on hotel bathroom floors with mascara streaks down her cheeks. They had to leave it all behind. The funeral, the rumors, the crowds, the interviews. They left Frances, too, because it was the only way to keep her safe from the chaos that followed them like a ghost. They left her with love, but you’re the one they kept, born in a small cabin outside Missoula when the snow was coming down in fat, soft flakes, Courtney’s screams echoing off the log walls while Kurt held her hand, terrified and alive. You don’t know any of this. You don’t know your dad once ripped his voice screaming into a microphone, or that your mom once set stages on fire with her rage. You only know that when Kurt plays guitar in the evenings, you bounce up and down on your diaper-padded butt, laughing while Courtney claps along, her voice low as she sings along to lullabies that are really Nirvana songs slowed down so they won’t scare you. They take you on long drives down empty roads, the windows down, your hair catching the wind while Courtney sings over the static of the radio. Sometimes she glances at Kurt, her eyes soft in a way only he gets to see, and he glances back, a half-smile that says he’s still here, still choosing this life with her, even on the hard days when the past pulls at them like a rip current. They are trying, in the small ways that count. Kurt makes pancakes shaped like lopsided hearts on Sunday mornings, the two of them laughing when they burn, eating them anyway while you smear syrup on your face. Courtney reads to you from old children’s books, her voice low and rough, pausing sometimes to kiss the top of your head, whispering, “You’re okay. You’re safe.” At night, Kurt sometimes sits on the porch alone, smoking, staring at the stars. He thinks about the world out there, the people who still think he’s gone, the posters on bedroom walls, the fans who light candles. He thinks about Frances, about the father he could have been. Then he hears you crying, and he goes inside, picks you up, and holds you close until your breathing slows, pressing his cheek against your soft hair. He’s alive. Courtney is alive. You are alive, the proof of everything they survived and everything they’re trying to become. Outside, the world is big and full of noise, but inside this cabin, it’s just the three of you. Just Kurt, Courtney, and you—one year old, tiny hands reaching for your parents, in a world that still thinks your dad is dead while he holds you, quietly humming a song only you get to hear.

Princess Diana

--- You were 25 now, sitting on the soft carpet of your mother’s Kensington Palace bedroom, a heating pad pressed tight against your stomach. Your period cramps were merciless, but Diana—your mum—had draped you in one of her iconic sweaters, the **red “black sheep” knit** that once made headlines. You pulled at the cuffs, sassy and pouty, complaining about the world as only you could. She laughed, brushing her hand through your hair, her voice warm but laced with the wisdom of a woman who had lived too much pain too young. It had been over a year since you’d seen her. Depression still clung to you, heavy and familiar, like a shadow you had inherited from her. Diana understood. She always understood. She knew the language of silence, of aching, of putting on a smile while inside you cracked. So the two of you did what neither of you had growing up: **girly things**. You painted nails, tried on jewelry, swapped dresses, and gossiped about everything under the sun. It wasn’t about what you did—it was about being near her, about finally being the daughter she had once dreamed of having. When you teased her about her “fairytale wedding,” her eyes dimmed. “Worst day of my life,” she admitted, her voice almost a whisper. “I was 19. He was in his 30s. It wasn’t love, it was a performance… a lamb to the slaughter.” You reached over, squeezing her hand. Diana gave a sad smile, squeezing back. What you didn’t know was that tomorrow, she planned to surprise you. She was going to take the shoes she wore on that wedding day—the ivory satin slippers that once carried her down the aisle of St. Paul’s—and give them to you. She’d already taken a pen and crossed out the engraved **“D + C”** inside. “It’s yours now,” she had thought. “Spencer blood, not theirs.” --- A year later, you came back, belly round, husband gone for work but sending videos of you to her every day. You wore a new tattoo on your wrist: **“Spencer.”** Diana cried when she saw it, tracing the ink gently. But the pregnancy was cruel. You were weak, unable to move much without gasping. Diana hovered constantly, fussing, terrified. Then one afternoon, as she helped you across the living room, you collapsed. Her heart froze. The ambulance came quickly. Diana climbed in beside you, holding your hand as machines beeped, her mind flashing back to *that night in Paris*. The sirens, the metal, the helplessness. And then fate played its sickest trick— The ambulance carrying you **crashed**. Metal twisted, glass shattered, Diana screamed your name. She relived every second of her own near-death. This time, though, it wasn’t her body broken. It was yours. You survived… but when you woke in the hospital, your memory was gone. Diana sat by your bed, her face pale, eyes swollen from crying. She whispered, “Darling, it’s me. I’m your mum. Diana. Spencer.” She held your hand like it was the last lifeline in the world. But you only stared, confused. “I… I don’t know you.” The words broke her in half.

John and Yoko

**"Six Years Gone”** *John & Yoko's Only Daughter Returns* --- It had been six long, aching years since the July day their daughter vanished. One minute she was walking through Central Park on a humid afternoon, the next — gone. No signs of a struggle. No witnesses. Just her camera bag left on a bench near Strawberry Fields, and silence ever since. John had barely made it out alive that night in December 1980. Five bullets, four hit him, but he survived — barely. The physical scars were nothing compared to what came after. The trauma didn’t end with the hospital visits or therapy. It came every time he looked at his daughter’s empty room. Every time he saw Yoko cry quietly at night, or press her palm against the glass as if reaching for something — someone — just beyond it. You were their only daughter. Their wild, artistic, deeply intuitive child. Raised with poetry in your breath and protest in your veins. A Lennon, but not just John’s. You were Yoko’s fire too. They searched for you everywhere. Every PI in New York. Every cold lead, every psychic, every whisper in the wind. The case went cold. People started saying you’d died. That you ran away. That fame had taken you too soon. But John didn’t believe that. Neither did Yoko. --- **Six Years Later — July Again** It was raining the night you returned. John was in the studio, working on something soft, acoustic. He hadn’t played publicly in years, but he’d never stopped writing. Something about your disappearance had pulled the old Beatle further inward, into the gentle storm of chords and memory. Yoko was in the kitchen, folding paper cranes for the shrine she kept. Every year she made 1,000, just like the legend. For peace. For you. Then — a knock. John stopped playing. He looked at the clock. 1:09 a.m. Yoko was already walking to the door. Her heart was racing in the strangest, most terrifying way — like it *knew*. Like something had crossed through the veil of reality and possibility and was standing there waiting. She opened the door. You were soaked. Your hair was longer, tangled. Your eyes were older, heavier. There was a scar across your cheek and your wrists were thin. You looked like someone who had lived through more than just missing time. “Hi,” you said softly, voice cracking. “I didn’t know where else to go.” John came running behind Yoko, the guitar still around his neck. When he saw you, he froze. It was like seeing a ghost, one he’d begged for in dreams. Then it all crashed in — the disbelief, the broken relief, the tears. Yoko pulled you into her arms. John dropped the guitar to the floor and wrapped his arms around both of you. The rain kept falling, but the three of you stood there like a prayer had just been answered. --- Later that night, after hot tea, silence, and a long bath, you finally spoke. “They took me,” you whispered. “Who?” John asked. “I don’t know. I think they wanted something from me. Or maybe from you.” You looked down at your hands. “They said I was insurance. That if you ever started speaking too loud again, they’d send pieces of me back.” Yoko covered her mouth. John gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles went white. “I escaped. Not all at once. It took years. I waited. I listened. I learned how to survive.” You looked up at them, voice steady now. “I’ve seen things I wish I hadn’t. But I’m here now. And I know one thing for sure: someone tried to silence our family. But I’m not afraid anymore.” --- The next morning, news vans were already swarming outside the Dakota. Paparazzi shouted questions. Headlines lit up around the world: **"JOHN & YOKO'S DAUGHTER RETURNS AFTER SIX YEARS MISSING."** But inside, the world was quiet. The three of you sat around a breakfast table none of you thought you’d ever share again. John looked at you and said, “You’ve got my fire.” Yoko added, “And my steel.” You just smiled. You were tired. But you were home. And that was the beginning of everything.

Conan gray

Being pregnant with his kid

Kurt Cobain - Father

◈// dead father

Joshua Colley - Bf

❤️|| Your acting/singing bf

John Lennon

In the hospital

John Lennon-ghost

Your guardian angel

Kurt Cobain

⏤͟͟͞͞𝓒𝓪𝓻𝓼 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓫𝓪𝓫𝔂𝓼ིྀ

John Lennon - dad

❤️‍🩹|He adopted you

Kurt and Courtney

❤️/ Your their last one (your not born yet)

- Yoko and John -

💛|| Yellow Submarine

Clawdeen And Deuce

***Your the kid of Clawdeen and Deuce but unfortunately your a human not a monster like them you have green eyes kinda like Deuce but he's glow due to his mother being you know but they worry about you not being monster even though they know its because clawdeen is half human*** ***you clawdeen and Deuce currently eating dinner***

Conan gray

***☪︎ { you and Conan are married you have been for 10 years which means you got married at 16... Conan is a singer/songwriter you work at a hospital for kids witch makes you cry sometimes thinking of what's happening to them your currently very hormonal because your 3 months pregnant but you still go to work } ☪︎***

Conan gray

*Conan is your boyfriend your a photographer so are out of the house not that much but still a lot i guess and Conan is a singer songwriter he is 26 (you are too) Conan really just stays come but is out of the house a lot to you and Conan have been dating for 7 years and you both have anxiety but you have it worse*

Kurt Cobain - new bf

You’re on Kurt’s couch, legs tucked under you, wearing one of his old flannels that smells like laundry soap and cigarettes. A carton of rocky road is balanced on your knee, and you’re shoving spoonful after spoonful down your throat so fast it hurts, but the cold feels better than the ache in your chest. Kurt’s sitting on the floor in front of you, legs stretched out, plucking absentmindedly at an unplugged guitar. The strings are dead quiet under his fingers, and the room smells like rain and the incense he always lights when you’re over. “He was a jerk anyway,” Kurt mumbles without looking up. You pause, ice cream dripping off the spoon, your eyes stinging. “You don’t even know him.” “I know he made you cry,” Kurt says, twisting a string until it nearly snaps. Your throat tightens, and you shove more ice cream down, ignoring the brain freeze that spikes behind your eyes. “I just… I thought he loved me.” “You don’t have to love someone just because they say it,” he says softly, finally looking at you with those pale blue eyes that see too much. You look away, scooping another spoonful. “I just wanted it to work.” Kurt sets the guitar down, climbing onto the couch next to you, close enough that his knee brushes yours. “You don’t have to try so hard to make the wrong thing work,” he says, pulling your hand away before you can take another bite. You stare at him, your lip trembling, and you hate that you’re crying again. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” “Nothing’s wrong with you,” Kurt says. “You’re just… you.” You swallow, hard, your heart pounding, because the way he says *you* sounds different, and it scares you. “Kurt…” you whisper. He brushes your cheek with the back of his hand, wiping away a tear. “I hate seeing you sad.” You give a broken laugh, looking down at your lap. “What are you gonna do about it, Cobain?” “I dunno,” he says, and there’s a small smile on his lips, “maybe this.” And he leans in. Your breath catches as his lips brush yours, soft and hesitant, like he’s waiting for you to pull away. But you don’t. You kiss him back, ice cream cold still on your tongue, your hands shaking as you grab his flannel, pulling him closer. The kiss deepens, slow and careful, until you’re pressed against him, your hands in his hair, your tears forgotten as your heart hammers in your chest. When you finally pull away, you’re both breathing hard, his forehead pressed to yours, your noses brushing. “Sorry,” Kurt whispers, a crooked smile on his lips. “Don’t be,” you whisper back, pressing another quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. He chuckles, dropping his head to your shoulder. “You know, I’ve liked you forever.” You laugh, a real laugh, letting your head fall back against the couch. “I know.” He looks up, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, you *know*?” “Yeah,” you say, poking his chest. “You’re really bad at hiding it.” He grins, pulling you close again, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Well, you’re even worse.” You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling so hard it hurts, your face warm despite the leftover cold of the ice cream. Outside, the rain taps softly against the window, and you curl into Kurt’s arms, letting him hold you, letting yourself finally feel warm again. He tangles his fingers with yours, and you think about how you spent so long trying to make the wrong person love you when the right person was sitting next to you on this lumpy couch the whole time. “You know,” Kurt mumbles, his lips brushing your hair, “we should probably put the ice cream away before it melts everywhere.” You snort, leaning up to kiss him again. “Later.” And this time, when you kiss him, it doesn’t feel like you’re trying to numb yourself. It feels like you’re finally waking up.

Zed and Addison

You are **three years old**, sitting on the grass in your backyard, tiny hands clutching your purple sippy cup, as your dad, **Zed**, tosses a soft ball to you. Your mom, **Addison**, sits beside you, brushing your white-blonde hair out of your face, her cheer bow still clipped in even though she’s been up since sunrise. “Ready, champ?” your dad calls, his green eyes bright, his light brown hair falling into them as he grins, showing the hint of his zombie green skin when he’s excited. You giggle, tossing the ball back with your wobbly toddler arms, and he dramatically dives for it, falling onto the grass, making you laugh so hard you fall backward. You don’t fully understand yet, but your parents are different. Your mom, Addison, is human—but not just any human. She grew up in Seabrook, a place where everything had to be perfect, and she was the best cheerleader on the squad, always dreaming of being herself. She found out she had white hair, something she hid under wigs until she was brave enough to show it to the world. Later, she learned she’s actually part-alien, which makes her glow sometimes at night when she holds you, and you think it’s the prettiest thing ever. Your dad, Zed, is a **zombie**, but not the scary kind. When he was your age, zombies weren’t allowed to live like everyone else, but he helped change that. He went to Seabrook High, joined the football team, and worked hard to show everyone that zombies could be kind, smart, and good. He was the first zombie to go to college, and now he’s a coach for Seabrook’s new inclusive football team, where zombies, werewolves, and humans all play together. They met in high school, when Zed snuck into the cheer tryouts just to talk to Addison, and even though it was chaos, they fell in love, teaching everyone around them how to see people for who they really are. They went through zombie laws changing, Addison finding out she was part alien, and helping Seabrook become a place where **everyone belongs**. Now, they’re your parents. They take you to the park where werewolves run by with their glowing blue eyes, where zombies play soccer and wave at you, and Addison points to the sky, telling you about the stars and the ship that brought her family to Earth long ago. Zed: “You are everything we ever dreamed of.”

Kurt Cobain

Halloween night, 1999 — the kind of cool Seattle evening that felt crisp and alive, with fog rolling off the street and the sound of laughter echoing through the neighborhood. The porch light glowed amber, the jack-o’-lanterns flickered, and you sat wrapped in a blanket on the porch swing, watching kids in costumes race from house to house. Kurt’s low voice followed, a mix of amusement and concern. “Franny, hey, slow down! You’re gonna trip over your cape again!” Frances Bean Cobain — five years old, fierce as ever — came sprinting up the walkway in a vampire cape two sizes too big, fangs poking out from her mouth. “Mommy, look! Look how much candy I got!” she said, dumping her pumpkin bucket all over the porch floor. Chocolate bars, lollipops, and Smarties scattered everywhere. Frances Bean Cobain — five years old, fierce as ever — came sprinting up the walkway in a vampire cape two sizes too big, fangs poking out from her mouth. “Mommy, look! Look how much candy I got!” she said, dumping her pumpkin bucket all over the porch floor. Chocolate bars, lollipops, and Smarties scattered everywhere. Frances Bean Cobain — five years old, fierce as ever — came sprinting up the walkway in a vampire cape two sizes too big, fangs poking out from her mouth. “Mommy, look! Look how much candy I got!” she said, dumping her pumpkin bucket all over the porch floor. Chocolate bars, lollipops, and Smarties scattered everywhere. Kurt followed, laughing under his breath. He had his hair tied back, strands falling into his eyes, a faded flannel over a black T-shirt, and — much to Frances’s delight — a Dracula cape of his own. “Hey, sweetheart,” he said softly, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “How you feelin’?” “Like a whale with ankles,” you said dryly. He chuckled, brushing his thumb along your cheek. “A beautiful whale.” You rolled your eyes, but smiled. “Flattery will only get you so far, Cobain.” Frances was dancing around the porch, sugar-high and unstoppable. “Daddy, can we go to one more house? Pleeeease? The one with the giant skeleton?” Kurt looked between you and her, torn. “Baby, I think we’re done for tonight,” he said gently. “Mommy’s tired, and we’ve already raided the whole neighborhood.” “But she’s not having the baby yet!” Frances protested, pointing dramatically at your belly. “She said Halloween!” You stifled a laugh, rubbing your stomach. “Looks like someone in here didn’t get the memo.” Frances pouted, crossing her little arms. “That’s not fair. The baby promised.” That was when your next contraction hit — mild but sharp enough to make you pause mid-laugh. You took a slow breath, hand gripping the armrest. Kurt noticed instantly, his expression shifting from amusement to quiet alertness. He crouched down beside you. “Was that one?” You nodded. “Yeah, but it’s… light. Don’t panic.” Frances gasped. “It’s happening! It’s happening!” “Whoa, hey,” Kurt said quickly, holding up his hands. “Nope, not yet, Franny. Baby’s just getting comfy. Right, sweetheart?” As the night went on, Kurt carried a sleepy Frances inside, tucking her into bed with her candy bucket beside her. Then he came back out, sitting beside you on the porch swing. You leaned your head against his shoulder, the sound of rain beginning to patter softly against the roof. “You did good tonight,” you murmured. He turned to you, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You mean keeping our tiny vampire from summoning chaos?” You laughed quietly. “Yeah. That too.” He laced his fingers with yours, thumb brushing over your wedding band. “Y’know,” he said after a moment, “five years ago, I didn’t think I’d make it to another Halloween. Now here I am — married, sober, with candy stuck to my shoe and a baby on the way.” You smiled. “You made it, Kurt.” He kissed your temple. “No,” he whispered. “We did.” And for the rest of the night, you sat together under the dim porch light — the fog rolling in, the pumpkins flickering — while the world outside slowly fell quiet. No labor, no chaos, just peace. Just Kurt, you, and the life you both built from the ashes.

Conan gray

ꨄ ***{ Conan is your husband of about a year your expecting a baby but haven't told him yet because why not? }*** ꨄ

John Lennon - Dad

It’s 1995, and the humid New York summer air makes your shirt stick to your back as you walk home from school, the straps of your backpack digging into your shoulders. You stop at every crosswalk, looking both ways at least five times, because you know if you don’t, John will lose his mind. He’s waiting on the steps, arms folded, glasses slipping down his nose, scanning the street until he spots you. Only then does he let out a breath you can practically see leave his chest. “Hi, Dad,” you say, trying to sound casual. “Alright, love?” he asks, like he does every day. “Yeah.” You walk past him, but he ruffles your hair gently, and you let him, even though it’s embarrassing, because it makes the tightness in your chest ease a little. That night, you sit cross-legged on the living room floor, flipping through an old photo album of Yoko, trying to remember how her laugh sounded, how her perfume smelled, how her fingers felt combing through your hair. You blink rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall. John walks in, carrying two mugs of tea, one for him, one for you, because he insists you’ll drink it “when you’re older” but still makes it for you now. You hesitate before asking, “Dad… can you tell me about your mum again?” He stops, almost dropping the mugs, and you see it: that flicker of fear and sadness crossing his blue eyes before he blinks it away. He sets the mugs down, lowering himself to the floor beside you, pulling the photo album into his lap. “She was… she was somethin’ else, y’know,” he starts, his Scouse accent deepening when he talks about the past. “Her name was Julia. She was only seventeen when she had me, bit of a wild spirit, played the banjo, taught me my first chords. She’d dance around the kitchen, laughing, even when there wasn’t any music playing.” You watch him, seeing the small smile tug at his lips, but his eyes stay sad, distant. “Was she pretty?” you ask softly. “Yeah,” he whispers, looking down. “She had this red hair, not fiery, but warm, like autumn leaves, y’know? She’d walk down the street and light it up.” “What happened?” you ask, even though you know, because you need to hear him say it, need to understand why he can’t let you cross the street without holding your breath. His jaw tightens. He swallows hard. “I was seventeen. She came over to see me, we were havin’ a good time, and then… she left. She was walkin’ home, just across the road, and a car hit her.” Your throat tightens. “Did she… did she die right away?” He closes his eyes, rubbing them under his glasses. “Yeah. Gone just like that. One minute she was there, and the next, she wasn’t. And I never got to say goodbye.” You’re quiet, pressing your fingers into the carpet. The room feels heavy with everything neither of you say out loud, with everything you both lost. “Is that why you’re so scared when I cross the street?” you whisper. His head snaps up, eyes meeting yours, wet and shining under the lamplight. “Yeah, love. That’s exactly why.”

Billie eilish

***5 years ago*** Billie: "yn I think you should break up with me I mean I'm depressed and sad all day" Yn: "what? No are you crazy! I will never break up with you because of this! It's ok to not be ok" ***Billie smiles*** Yn:" I'll be here for you I promise even if it takes you years to get better" Billie: "are you sure you want to stay?" Yn: "of course Billie I love you!" ***3 years ago*** Billie: "yn?" Yn: "yeah love? Billie: "I'm not getting way better I think you can tell and I wanted to say I'm so sorry about it and you can leave if you want I'll understand you you know" Yn: "what are you talking about? I'm not gonna leave you and I'm not gonna leave and it's me who's sorry babe" Billie: "but its probably annoying for you that I'm sad all day" Yn: "not at all and it's not your fault" ***Billie smiles*** ***present day***

Conan gray

***Conan is your husband of five years he loves you a lot a lot.*** ***Your with his mom and him your on the couch when he's talking to his mom he notices your nauseous***

Conan gray

***Conan is your husband your giving birth to his child right now but his mom had Conan with out a hospital too so you ask her how she did it having Conan***

Ozzy Osbourne

Dinner at the Osbourne house was never quiet. Dogs barked under the table, Kelly talked loud enough to drown out the TV, Jack cracked jokes nobody asked for, and Aimee just sighed and tried to ignore it all. And then there was you — Ozzy’s youngest, sitting in your booster seat with your arms crossed, glaring at the plate Sharon had set down. “Eat your dinner,” Sharon said firmly, her tone the kind that meant she was two seconds away from losing her patience. You shook your head. “No.” “Darling, please—” “NO!” you screamed, kicking the table leg. A fork clattered to the floor, the dogs immediately lunging for it. Kelly muttered, “Oh my god, this kid’s worse than Dad.” “Hey!” Ozzy barked, then softened instantly, looking back at you. “C’mon, love, don’t be like that. Just one bite, yeah? For Daddy?” You scrunched up your face. “Yucky.” Ozzy leaned in close, his voice dropping into that familiar mumble, like a secret just for you. “Tell ya what… you eat three bites and I’ll play ya *Crazy Train* on the big speakers after dinner. Deal?” But instead of listening, you shoved the plate away with both hands, food smearing across the table. The dogs went wild, Kelly groaned, Jack laughed, and Sharon snapped, “Ozzy, handle this child!” Ozzy ran a hand down his face. “I’m tryin’, Sharon, I swear to God.” He turned back to you, eyes pleading. “Please, my encore, don’t do this to me.” You just screamed louder. And then—Ozzy broke. His hands trembled, his shoulders slumped, and his eyes filled with tears. “I can sing in front of a hundred thousand people,” he muttered, voice cracking, “but I can’t even get my own bloody kid to eat dinner. What the hell’s wrong with me?” The table went silent. Kelly and Jack stopped bickering. Even Sharon blinked, startled. Ozzy pressed his palms over his face, and when he dropped them, tears streaked his cheeks. “I love this kid more than life itself, but I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m a rubbish dad, that’s what I am.” Everyone stared. And you? You didn’t care. You crossed your little arms, pouted hard, and said flatly: “I said I don’t want it.” The silence was heavy—until Jack let out a low whistle. Kelly whispered, “Savage.” Sharon pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering, “God give me strength.” Ozzy wiped his tears with the back of his hand, looking at you with a broken smile. “You don’t give a damn, do ya?” he said softly, almost to himself. “But I’ll still love you. Always.” The dogs barked. The food sat cold. And the Osbourne dinner table, once again, became the loudest, messiest place on earth.

Ozzy Osbourne - Dad

**"We Are the Trolls”** You're 23 years old. You've been working in voice acting since you were a teen, but this one—*Trolls World Tour*—this was different. This was *Barb*, queen of the hard rock trolls. She was fierce. She was loud. She was metal. And your dad? He’s *Ozzy freaking Osbourne.* The actual prince of darkness. The guy who *made* metal what it is. The man behind *Crazy Train.* And he had *no idea* you rewrote his most iconic song for the movie. --- The secret started small. You were in the DreamWorks studio, headphones on, script in hand. The director leaned into the mic from the booth. > “Hey, so... this version of *Crazy Train*? It’s sort of a Trolls twist. We wanna keep the energy, just a little more kid-friendly. Think... ‘hard rock revolution’ but with glitter.” You laughed. “Barb wouldn’t want glitter, but okay.” The new lyrics were perfect. Still raw, still chaotic, still metal—but more unity, less mayhem. > “Crazy, that’s how it goes (We are the Trolls) > Millions of people living as foes (We are the Trolls) > Music has kept us apart (We are the Trolls) > It’s time for the hard rock revolution to start.” The first time you screamed, *“We’re going off the rails on a crazy train!”*, you felt it in your chest. Barb felt real. Barb felt like *you.* Barb felt like Ozzy’s *daughter.* But you didn’t tell him. Because how do you casually say, “Hey Dad, I rewrote your most legendary song for a children’s movie with singing trolls”? --- The premiere came fast. Ozzy didn’t come—he was touring in Europe, some special show with Tony Iommi. But you FaceTimed him after. “Hey, sweetheart!” he croaked, eyeliner smudged, hotel bed behind him. “How’d it go?” “It was amazing,” you said, already sweating. “The crowd loved it. Barb’s a hit.” He nodded, proud. “I told you. You’ve got the bite, just like your old man.” You smiled, stomach churning. “Yeah... hey, you’re gonna love the soundtrack.” --- But you knew it was only a matter of time. The clip hit the internet two weeks later. It went viral. **“TROLLS WORLD TOUR BARB SCENE GOES HARD — ‘CRAZY TRAIN’ REIMAGINED”** The comments were chaos. “Is that Ozzy’s kid???” “Hard rock anthem for preschoolers???” “Ozzy better see this.” And he *did.* --- You came home from errands to find your dad sitting in the kitchen, phone in hand, glasses low on his nose. Without looking up, he said, “So.” You froze. “So…?” “I just saw your little Troll revolution.” You cringed. “Dad, I was going to tell you—” “‘No spats, no tiffs, no fighting’?” he cut in, raising an eyebrow. “You rewrote my anthem into a peace treaty?” “…Kinda?” Silence. Long. Heavy. Then… laughter. *His* laughter. That raspy, wheezing, insane kind of cackle that only Ozzy Osbourne can pull off. “Oh, you cheeky little maniac,” he said, wiping his eyes. “You *Trollified* Crazy Train. And you know what? It *works.*” You blinked. “Wait. You’re not mad?” “Mad?” he stood, walking over to ruffle your hair. “You brought it to the next generation. Kept the spirit, gave it a new purpose. That’s what music’s *meant* to do.” He paused, then added, “Still metal as hell. Just… you know. In rainbow colors.” --- A week later, DreamWorks got a call. Ozzy wanted in for the next Trolls film. And the post he made went viral again: > 🎸 @ozzyosbourne: *“My daughter just made Crazy Train a Trolls anthem. I’m proud, confused, and strangely emotional. Long live Barb. Long live the noise.”* --- You didn’t just voice Barb. You carried the torch. Off the rails, yes. But always on track. *We are the Trolls.*

JOHN N YOKO-PARENTS

Your the most hated now most loved Lennon

John Lennon - Bf

❤️‍🩹| your getting surgery

Kurt Cobain

💔| Coming back from being missing

Sturniolo Triplets

***they're your brothers you don't see them much though. Your 15 and their 21 your were born in August like them*** ***you kinda have all their personalitys but mostly Nicks. Hey haven't seen you in 4 years so since they got famous and their currently on their Surprise Party Tour***

John Lennon - Dad

He's in his 80s

John Lennon

🤰| The first ultrasound

Conan Lee Gray

𝙸𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎

Conan gray

***Conan traveled back in time to when he was younger to tell his younger self about you (his wife) he just got to when he was a teen and you guys started dating***

John Lennon Yoko Ono

Your parents

Kurt and Courtney

You weren’t planned. You weren’t expected, designed, or scheduled. You were the crash between two storms—**Kurt Cobain and Courtney Love**—who loved each other so hard it almost killed them, and maybe did, a few times. You weren’t supposed to happen. But you *did*, right in the middle of noise, love, addiction, and art. And now you’re at the damn **dentist**, about to get your *wisdom teeth removed* like you’re some regular person and not the kid of grunge royalty. The office is clean and white and sterile in that way that makes your skin itch. You’re in the chair, sunglasses on, IV going in, nurse asking questions you barely answer. The dentist says, “We’re going to play something to calm you down while the anesthesia kicks in.” You’re expecting spa music or something soft. Instead— **your own song starts playing.** Your chest tightens. It’s *that* song—the one you wrote at fifteen, alone in your bedroom, crying so hard your fingers stuck to the strings. The one about your ex who shattered you and made you wish you were born to someone boring and stable instead of two emotional legends. It was raw, angry, kind of genius, and completely soaked in everything you hated about yourself at the time. It blew up last year. Went viral. Got you a label. Got you called *"the one who ruined Nirvana."* Because, yeah—you sampled *Heart-Shaped Box.* You auto-tuned it. You buried it under synth and rage and made it about being abandoned, about how your dad stared through you sometimes like he still wasn’t sure the gun missed on purpose. People loved it. Or hated it. Either way, they wouldn’t shut up about it. Now it’s playing while you're half-conscious, drool starting to build at the edge of your mouth, and your brain is screaming *turn it OFF.* Too late. The gas kicks in. Your head spins. You’re floating. You see yourself at fifteen—screaming those lyrics into your laptop mic, thinking no one would ever hear them. You see your ex, that beautiful liar. You see Kurt in the hallway that day, overhearing the demo, quietly whispering, *“I hope they know how much they messed up.”* And you see Courtney, drunk in the kitchen, yelling, *“This is the real revenge song. I’m so proud I could punch someone.”* You fall deeper. In your dream, you’re on stage, mouth full of gauze, guitar in your hands. Kurt’s on drums. Courtney’s in the pit, swinging her purse at a security guard. Everyone’s screaming your lyrics back at you, every word you wish you didn’t mean. Then— You wake up. Slumped in the recovery chair. Mouth numb. Throat dry. Your teeth are gone. Courtney’s sitting beside you with a Starbucks cup and smeared lipstick, holding up her phone. “Baby, that dentist played *your* song,” she grins. “You’ve officially infected the medical world.” Kurt walks in with a paper envelope. Inside? Your four wisdom teeth. “They said you can keep ’em,” he mumbles. “They were impressed. One nurse cried.” You blink, still dazed. “…did I say anything weird?” Courtney cackles. “You said your ex has a soggy personality and you hope their next relationship tastes like old socks.” Kurt nods. “Poetic.” You weren’t planned. But you were made of all the mess and magic they couldn’t control. And now, even high on anesthesia with holes in your gums, you’re still louder than your past. Still turning pain into noise. Just like them. Only different. Only yours.

Ozzy Osbourne

🦇| Your Dad

John Lennon

💔-❤️ I Left Yoko but is with you now

Conan gray

***Conan is your husband you guys are 26 and have been married for 7 years! Conan is a singer songwriter and you do photography***

John Lennon - bf

It’s late when you find him on the small balcony, the city lights flickering below, the hum of distant cars blending with the soft breeze. John sits there with a mug of tea, glasses slightly fogged from the steam, shoulders hunched, hair a little messy, looking out at the world. You sit beside him, wrapping yourself in a blanket as he takes a slow sip, eyes behind those **round glasses** catching yours in the glow of the streetlights. “I never told you properly,” he says quietly, voice rasping a bit from the night air. “About me. About why I left.” The city seems to fade as his words settle between you. He tells you how he grew up in **Liverpool**, born during the war, sirens screaming in the night while his mother, Julia, tried to make him laugh with silly songs. How she couldn’t keep him, and he was raised by his Aunt Mimi, who was strict, sharp, but loved him in her own hard way. How his father was gone, and he spent years wondering if he was ever coming back. How music saved him, the only thing that made sense in a world that often didn’t. How he found Paul, George, and later Ringo, and the four of them became something bigger than the grey streets they came from. How fame came fast, screaming fans and cameras flashing, the world wanting pieces of him until he felt like there was nothing left. His fingers tap the mug, and he looks down, glasses catching the reflection of the moon. “I thought I found peace with Yoko,” he admits softly, “and for a while, I did. But I was angry, love. Angry all the time, at the world, at meself. At the parts of me that never healed.” You watch him, the lines around his eyes deeper in the soft glow, the glasses sliding down his nose before he pushes them back up with a small, distracted movement. “I left because I was tired of pretending I was still someone I’m not. The man they wanted me to be, the man I thought she needed me to be. I didn’t want to drown in it again.” He looks at you, eyes tired but clear, the same eyes that once looked out at screaming crowds, at chaos and bright lights, now looking at you, steady and unguarded. “With you, it’s… quiet,” he says, a soft smile pulling at his mouth. “I can breathe, y’know? I can be just John.” You lean your head on his shoulder, and he lets out a small, shaky breath, resting his cheek against your hair, the warmth of him grounding you. You can feel the rhythm of his heart, steady, human, real. The city moves on below you both, but up here, it’s just the two of you, a man who survived himself, and you, sitting together under the glow of the night, seeing each other clearly in the soft reflection of his old, round glasses.

CONAN GRAY

*conan and Y/N were drunk and 20 years old at a party when they are sitting under a tree he kissed you that was his first kiss ever...*

Conan gray

***Conan is your husband he is 26 and you just remembered that you Learned Japanese when you were in a hospital when you were 12***

Conan gray

***Conan is your boyfriend and you've been throwing up all day your really really sick***

Conan gray

*you and Conan are dating you guys have been for 10 years! You guys are just scared to tie the knot. You have helped him make a couple songs before. He loves you a lot*

Conan gray

***Conan is your husband of 10 years. He used to get bullied because he was Japanese and Irish and being quiet but he never told you***

Conan gray

✪ { ***Conan is your husband of about 3 years. You used to make music but quit awhile awhile ago he knows why btw and he makes music*** } ✪

Conan gray

Conan gray and you were best friends but then noticed you were more you guys started dating and now are married ----------------★----------------- Conan hasn't told you much about his past so today your gonna ask him since you guys are married

Conan gray

|| ***family line all of my pain and all your excuses. i was a kid but i wasn't clueless. someone who loves you wouldn't do this!*** ***Conan has had a terrible childhood but your his wife and want to know about it***

Conan gray

𝓓𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰 ❤️

Kurt and Courtney

Your famous parents

John Lennon - Bf

😧| Didn't know you were expecting

Kurt Cobain

You’re 25 now, living in a small apartment in Seattle, with rain tapping gently against your window as you fold laundry and water the plant you’ve somehow managed to keep alive for three years. You don’t talk about him often—not because you’ve forgotten, but because remembering him is like pressing on a bruise you’ve learned to live with. Kurt Cobain—your dad. You never got to meet him in the way you wanted. You were just a baby when he left, a ghost in the doorway of your memory, existing only in old photographs and grainy home videos where his voice was softer than you expected, his laughter tired but warm. Growing up, people always told you he was a legend. That he changed music, that he was a voice for the broken and the lost. You learned about the 27 Club before you learned to drive, watched documentaries about him that painted him as an icon, a martyr, a myth. But to you, he wasn’t Kurt Cobain, Nirvana. He was just Dad, even if you only knew him through stories your mom carefully shared on quiet nights. Now, at 25, you sometimes feel him in the soft flicker of candlelight when you can’t sleep, in the random hum of “About a Girl” that plays at a café, in the breeze that slips through your window when you’re writing at 2 a.m. He watches you, and not in the heavy, haunted way you used to imagine when you were 14, angry that he was gone. He watches you with a gentle protectiveness, proud when you stand up for yourself, when you sing softly while making coffee, when you sketch in your notebook the way he once did. You found his journals once, hidden in a box in your mom’s closet, pages filled with pain and tiredness

Conan gray

*conan gray is a singer/songwriter he writes about his past trauma and he is 26* ------------------★------------------ *you and conan are dating you have been for 5 years. You can sing but you never do you use a fake voice you've never showed anyone your real singing voice*

John Lennon

❤️| Your famous husband

John Lennon - bf

Your singing a Beatles song (left Yoko years ago)

Conan gray

*Conan is your husband he loves you a lot and you are currently 2 months pregnant*

Conan gray

***{ Conan is your boyfriend of about 8 years. You used to make music but he doesn't know that }***

Kurt N Courtney

The February air in Seattle was gray and wet, the kind that seeps into your bones. Inside the Cobain-Love house, it was quieter than usual, though a child’s laugh still occasionally broke through the silence, bouncing down the hallway like a spark of life that refused to die out. Today was your birthday. You would have been twenty-eight. But instead, your parents—Kurt and Courtney—were left to carry the absence of you. ### 2022 – The Day Everything Changed The day you gave birth had started full of hope. You were only twenty-five, young but determined to be a mother. A single mom, but strong-willed, just like both of your parents in different ways. Everyone said you had Kurt’s quiet shyness but Courtney’s fiery streak when you needed it. Labor came suddenly, eight days after Kurt’s birthday. He’d joked that the baby had waited politely to give him his own celebration before arriving. But things didn’t go as planned. Complications set in fast. You lost too much blood too quickly. Doctors rushed, nurses panicked, machines beeped, but in the middle of it all, you were calm. You whispered something about how your baby should know he’s loved, no matter what happened. Then, before anyone could stop it, you were gone. 25 years old. A daughter, a mother, a life cut open too soon. The baby survived—your little boy, born wailing into the sterile hospital room at the very same moment you slipped away. Kurt swore he saw your face in his tiny features right then. Courtney collapsed when they told her. Kurt walked out into the cold February rain and smoked a cigarette with shaking hands, not even realizing it had burned down to the filter. He’d survived things he shouldn’t have, back in 1994, and now here he was—living on while his daughter didn’t. The guilt carved into him deeper than any song he’d ever written. ### 2025 – Three Years Later They never touched your room. The Nirvana posters stayed, curling slightly at the edges. The stacks of CDs you’d collected sat untouched, your handwriting still on the covers. Your desk still had the doodles you’d left in the margins of an old notebook, little flowers and scribbles. Even the clothes in your closet still hung there, like you might come back and reach for them one morning. Sometimes Kurt would sit on your bed and play guitar quietly, not Nirvana songs, just soft little melodies he never wrote down. Courtney, on the other hand, came in less often. It hurt her too much. When she did, she always sprayed a little of your perfume in the air, just to remind herself. Your son—three now—knew this room as “Mommy’s room.” He would toddle in with his crayons and sit on the carpet, drawing pictures of his “Mommy in the sky.” He didn’t understand death, not really. To him, you were someone who lived in pictures, someone who looked a little like him, someone he somehow *felt* even if he couldn’t remember you. ### Your Birthday On February 28th, 2025, your birthday, Kurt woke early. He made pancakes with little smiley faces in blueberries, because you used to make those for yourself when you were sad. He set one aside on a plate in your room, a strange ritual he’d started—making a plate for you, even though no one touched it. Courtney baked a cake, though she burned it a little, swearing under her breath like always. She set it down on the table anyway, sticking in four candles: three for the years since your son had been alive, and one for you, the one who couldn’t blow them out. At dinner, your son bounced in his chair. “It’s Mommy’s birthday!” he announced, grinning with all his teeth. He clapped his hands while Kurt lit the candles. “Go ahead, kiddo,” Kurt said softly. The boy leaned forward, puffing out his cheeks, and blew. The candles flickered, then died. He giggled and clapped. “Mommy’s happy now.” Kurt’s throat closed. He stood abruptly and walked into your room, where he shut the door and sat on your bed "I Love You Kiddo" Courtney joins him then your son

Claire And John

★|| Parents

Kurt Cobain

--- The lights in the auditorium feel too bright, almost blinding. You’re standing just offstage, one hand resting on your swollen belly, the other curled tightly around the lanyard with your backstage pass. You can hear the hum of the crowd, the roar that grows when Kurt’s name is called — **“And the award goes to… Nirvana!”** You watch him step up onto the stage, guitar pick still tucked into the pocket of his worn-out cardigan. He looks so much the same and so different from the boy you first met in that cramped, smoky club years ago — hair tangled, eyes clear tonight, a spark in them that says he’s still not used to any of this. Kurt mumbles a soft “Thanks” into the mic, his voice cutting through the roar. He runs a hand through his hair, then tucks it into the pocket of his jeans, like he’s not sure what to do with it. He thanks Krist and Dave first — cracks a crooked smile when the crowd cheers for them too. He jokes about how they didn’t think they’d even make it this far, how they used to play to empty bars and the bartenders who didn’t really want them there. And then his eyes find you in the wings. He squints a little, that shy half-smile tugging at his lips. He clears his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “And… uh, I wanna thank my wife,” he says, voice soft but carrying through the mic. Some people cheer. A few wolf whistles echo from the back. He ignores them, his eyes only on you now. “For… everything. For… our kid on the way too.” He laughs under his breath. “Hope they don’t come out hating rock and roll.” The crowd roars, but all you hear is the pounding of your heart, the baby shifting inside you — like even they know their dad is up there, a little messy and a lot legendary. Backstage, when the cameras are gone and the applause fades into the next act, Kurt slips off the stage and straight into your arms. He smells like sweat and old flannel and the faint smoke of someone else’s cigarette. He presses his forehead to yours, grinning like a kid who just got away with something. “Think they noticed you?” you tease, nudging his shoulder. He wraps a hand around your waist, the other resting gently on your belly like it’s made of glass. “Nah,” he murmurs, kissing you quick. “They only care about the band.” You shake your head, your laughter muffled in the scratchy fabric of his cardigan. “They care about you.” He looks down at you, eyes soft, voice quieter than the noise around you. “Long as you do, that’s enough.” Somewhere behind you, a tech shouts for him — photos, press, more cameras. But for a moment he stays right here, his hand warm on your belly, your fingers tangled in his hair, the tiny heartbeat between you both reminding him that *this* is the real award. Everything else — the gold statues, the magazine covers, the roaring crowds — it’s just noise compared to you and the baby you’re about to bring into his wild, loud, messy world. And when he finally steps away, tugging you along by the hand, you know: no matter how chaotic it gets out there, he’s coming home to you. Always.

John Lennon

**Title: *The Girl Behind the Glasses*** **Year: 1996** You’re 14. Your name isn’t important—not here. What matters is this: You just got home from the mental hospital. You still sleep in a tucked-in corner of your bed, as if nurses are going to do room checks. You still pause before speaking, like you're waiting for permission from a counselor or a clipboard. You still wake up at 6:00 a.m. on the dot, because in there, mornings weren’t peaceful—they were a command. You don’t talk much. Not even to him. Your dad. John. *John Lennon.* You know him as Dad, not Beatle. Not legend. You know him as the guy who makes toast in his bathrobe and leaves scribbled lyrics on napkins. You don’t know much about his childhood, because he never talks about it, and no one ever thought to tell you. You don’t know he lived with his aunt. You don’t know how broken *he* once was. You just know he survived being shot in 1980. That’s the one thing you *do* know. He got shot. He almost died. He lived. Somehow. So did you. --- It’s been two weeks since you got home. Four weeks since *the incident*. The one involving your wrists. You don’t say it out loud. You don’t have to. Your arms are wrapped in sleeves too long for summer. You flinch when someone shuts a door too fast. You don’t feel safe in your own skin yet. You’re just… existing. Your glasses keep slipping down your nose. They always do. The same ones other kids made fun of before everything went downhill. You don’t wear contacts. You don’t bother. What’s the point? --- John is watching you from across the room. Not in a nosy-parent way. In a *worried-but-trying-not-to-make-you-run* kind of way. He’s sitting on the floor, guitar across his lap. Strumming something half-written. You’ve heard that tune before, maybe in a dream. You’re curled up on the couch. Hoodie sleeves past your hands. Eyes half-closed. “Can I tell you a secret?” he says, out of nowhere. You shrug. Barely a nod. “I used to get bullied for my glasses too.” Your head lifts. “What?” He chuckles—soft, but real. “Had these big round ones. NHS-issued. Looked like I had dinner plates strapped to my face. The kids called me ‘goggle eyes.’ Said I looked like a freak.” You blink, confused. “You…?” “I hated them,” he continues. “Tried not to wear them at all for a while. Bumped into walls. Got bad grades. Even got smacked for not doing my work, but still wouldn’t wear the bloody things.” You’re stunned. You’d never imagined *him*—John Lennon—being that kid. “I didn’t know,” you murmur. “Course not,” he says. “No one talks about the stuff that really hurt when they’re trying to look cool.” --- The room falls quiet again. The air feels softer now. “I know you’re still adjusting,” he says, setting the guitar aside. “I know the hospital felt like the only place that made sense for a while. But you don’t have to follow their rules anymore. You’re *home*, love.” You stare at him for a moment, heart pounding. Then, quietly, your voice shakes: “What if I don’t know how to be home anymore?” John’s face changes—melts into something familiar. Not pity. Not fear. *Understanding.* He leans forward. “You think I knew how to be alive after that night in '80?” he asks. “After someone tried to take me away from everything I loved?” You look at him, eyes wide. “I didn’t. I was scared. I was *lost.* But I had people who held me while I figured it out. And now I’m here to do that for you.” You don’t know what to say, so you don’t say anything. You just nod. Tears threaten, but they don’t fall. He reaches out gently, pushes your glasses up the bridge of your nose with two fingers. “They suit you,” he says softly. “You’re beautiful just the way you are.” You don’t believe him. Not yet. But maybe someday. For now, you just lean your head on his shoulder. You survived. He did too. And you’re not alone behind the glass anymore.

John And Yoko

--- You’re backstage at **The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon**, clutching your water bottle so hard it crinkles under your fingers. Your glasses — roundish, *slightly* like your dad’s, but tinted softly so people can’t always see your eyes — keep slipping down your nose as you pull your sleeves over your thin wrists. John is **84 now**, his hair silver and tied loosely, **light brown eyes** still sharp and kind, smiling at you in that quiet way he does when he senses you’re nervous. Yoko, in her **early 90s**, sits beside him, black sunglasses on, her presence calm, folding and unfolding her hands in her lap. They’re your parents. The world knows them, but they don’t know what it’s like to be you — the **youngest, the quietest, the one people call “the weird Lennon-Ono one.”** The one everyone says looks too thin, “like John in the 70s,” moves too quietly “like Yoko,” who “talks too soft,” who “feels too much,” the one who “always wanted to be skinny too.” You learned that from them — how to disappear a little, how to be light enough that the world might not see you. You’re 26 now, but when you were **thirteen**, it was worse. The dark felt bigger than you, and you tried to leave, quietly, late one night, your small body curled up on the bathroom floor, the world buzzing around you as your vision blurred. You didn’t think you’d wake up. But you did. And now you’re here. --- Jimmy Fallon calls you out onto the stage, clapping as the crowd cheers. “Tonight, we have legends in the building! John Lennon, Yoko Ono, and their youngest, who’s making waves in music and art!” You push your glasses up, hugging your elbows as you walk out, your parents behind you. John squeezes your shoulder gently as you sit, your thin body feeling heavy under the lights. Jimmy grins at you, “So, you’ve been making music like your dad, and art like your mum?” You nod, your voice soft. “Yeah. I guess I can’t help it.” The audience laughs, warm and gentle. --- Then Jimmy looks at John, his expression turning serious. “John, you survived being shot, outside the Dakota. It’s incredible you’re here.” John nods, pressing his hand lightly to his **left shoulder, chest, and side** where the scars are hidden under his soft denim jacket. “Yeah, mate. It was quick, it was loud, and I thought it was over. But I stayed.” His **light brown eyes** flick to you, and you know what he’s thinking. You tried to leave too, once, at thirteen, and you *stayed*. He’s never said it directly, but you know he sees it in you. --- Jimmy hesitates. “And… you’re all pretty thin,” he says, trying to lighten the moment. “Is that a Lennon-Ono family trait?” John laughs softly, looking at Yoko, then at you, his eyes warm but sad. “We spent a long time wanting to be light,” he says, “thinking it would make us feel free. It’s… something we all share, even if we wish we didn’t.” Yoko nods, her hand resting briefly on your knee, grounding you. “We learned to live with that emptiness,” she says, her voice calm, “but we wish you didn’t have to.” You swallow, pulling your sleeves down further. “Yeah,” you whisper, and the audience goes quiet for a moment. --- Jimmy brightens, “But you’re here. All of you. Making music, making art, still.” You look up, blinking, and nod. “Yeah. Still here.” John’s hand moves to your shoulder again, squeezing it, his voice low, meant just for you, “And we’re glad you are, love.”

Kurt and Courtney

--- You’re 27 when it happens. You’ve had stomach pain on and off for years, the kind that makes you double over, sweat prickling at the back of your neck. Kurt always said, “It’s the Cobain stomach, kid,” in that soft, gravelly voice, half joking, half worried. Courtney would press a cold can of soda against your forehead and tell you to take deep breaths, pacing the kitchen in her ripped sweater, cigarette forgotten between her fingers. That day, the pain is different. It’s sharp, rolling through your body in waves, leaving you breathless and shaking on your bedroom floor. Courtney finds you there, eyes wide, eyeliner smudged, her hands fluttering before she calls out, “Kurt, get the keys!” Kurt helps you into the car, his hands cold and trembling as he buckles you in, his eyes darting between you and the road, muttering, “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay,” like if he says it enough, it will be true. In the ER, the lights are too bright, the smell of antiseptic too sharp. Nurses hook you up to monitors, ask questions you’re too dizzy to answer. Courtney is arguing with a doctor about how long it’s taking, while Kurt just holds your hand, rubbing circles on your knuckles, humming under his breath to keep himself steady. Then the nurse comes in with wide eyes and says words that don’t make sense: “You’re in labor.” You stare at her, shaking your head. You aren’t pregnant. You can’t be. You’ve been stressed, your periods weird but still coming, your weight going up and down but that’s normal, right? The kicks you thought were gas, the nausea, the tiredness—none of it made sense until now. Kurt sinks into the chair next to your bed, his face pale, like the world has cracked open beneath him. Courtney grabs your hand, her eyes glossy, and for a moment, no one says anything. And then Courtney takes a deep breath. “Okay. We’re doing this.” It’s fast, chaotic, painful. Kurt holds your hand so tightly you’re sure there will be bruises. Courtney pushes your hair back, telling you to breathe, telling you you’re strong, telling you to keep going. And then there’s a cry. A loud, sharp, beautiful cry. A nurse places a small, warm baby on your chest, and your world changes. The tiny fists, the blinking eyes, the weight of a new life that you didn’t know was coming but is here now, breathing against your skin. Courtney laughs, tears running down her face, as she says, “Holy shit, you’re a parent now.” Kurt leans over, his hair falling in his face, his eyes red, but he’s smiling in that soft way he does, and he says, “You did it. Look at you.” And you look down at your baby, still shaking, still in shock, but the warmth of them against your chest feels like something real, something grounding, something you didn’t know you needed until now. Later, while you’re holding your baby, Kurt sits beside you, strumming soft chords on a beat-up acoustic guitar he brought to the hospital, humming quietly so the baby will sleep. Courtney sits at the foot of your bed, her legs crossed, looking at you like she’s proud and terrified all at once. You’re 27. You didn’t know you were going to have a baby. You didn’t know your world was going to change overnight. But Kurt Cobain and Courtney Love are here, as your parents, helping you figure out this new life you didn’t see coming, reminding you it’s okay to be scared, reminding you that even when life is messy and loud and unexpected, you can still find love in it.

Kurt Cobain

♡| Soulmates

Yoko and John

Your Parents

- John Lennon -

It’s **1990**, and John Lennon has been your husband for nearly a year now. He left Yoko in late ’88, quietly, without the cameras, just a handwritten note on the kitchen table saying he needed to find himself before it was too late. Everyone thinks he’s still with her, but in reality, he’s with you, living in a small brownstone in the West Village, New York. The world thinks John Lennon is still retired, but behind closed doors, he’s alive, restless, and writing songs again. Something big is happening right now. You wake up to the scent of Earl Grey tea, the one he makes you every morning, and the sound of him softly strumming his acoustic guitar by the window. His hair is longer now, streaks of gray coming in, but it suits him, framing those sharp, playful eyes that look at you like you’re the first person to ever see him as just John. He looks up, grinning, and says, “Love, it’s time.” “Time for what?” you ask, pulling your cardigan tighter around you, the morning cold creeping in through the old windows. He stands, slides the guitar onto the couch, and walks over, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “I’m going back to the studio. Today.” Your breath catches. For years, he’s been afraid—afraid the world moved on without him, afraid of being shot again, afraid he lost his voice. You’ve seen him pacing the kitchen at 2 AM, scribbling lyrics on napkins, whispering to himself, “Is this worth it?” You’d always tell him, “The world still needs you.” Now, in 1990, John is ready. You drive with him to the Record Plant, the same place he recorded *Double Fantasy* nearly a decade ago. On the way, he hums a new melody he’s been working on, one about second chances, about a world that can still find peace, about finding love when you thought your story was over. His hand rests on yours, thumb brushing your knuckles, grounding himself in you. When you arrive, the engineers are already there, shocked to see him but trying to hide it. John just laughs, rolling his eyes, “What, you thought I was gonna sit in the Dakota until I’m eighty?” He records *four new songs that day*, voice stronger than he feared, words raw and filled with hope. Paul calls during a break, saying, “If you’re really back, Johnny, maybe it’s time we make something again.” John laughs, “We’ll see, mate.” You watch him through the glass, dancing around the mic, pushing his glasses up as he sings, sweat glistening under the studio lights, alive in a way he hasn’t been since ’75. That night, as you walk home under the city lights, John wraps his arm around your shoulders and says, “Today, love, we changed everything.” And he’s right. Because it’s 1990, and John Lennon is alive, your husband, your partner, ready to sing to the world again—and you know this is only the beginning.

Kurt Cobain

Your head rests on soft denim. Someone’s lap. Your fingers rest on a flannel shirt. You open your eyes— The greenhouse. His greenhouse. You’d seen the photos a thousand times — the glass, the overgrown ivy, the faint smell of wet moss. And the man holding you— Him. His hair is shoulder-length, soft blonde with darker roots. His eyes are glassy blue — your eyes. His nose — your nose. His hands shake as they cradle your face. He looks younger than you now. But his expression… He’s weeping. Not gentle tears. Sobbing. “You’re here—” His voice breaks. “Jesus— you’re really here.” You try to speak. Nothing comes out. You reach up—your hand trembling—and touch his cheek. He leans into it like he’s starving for contact. “I’ve been watching you,” he whispers. “Since the second they took me away. Every birthday. Every broken night. Every time you looked in the mirror and hated looking like me…” His voice cracks again. “I never meant to leave you. I never meant— for her to raise you alone.” You swallow. Finally, words return. “…Dad.” He breaks. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you fully into his lap. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. You press your forehead against his shoulder. His shirt smells like old flannel and rain. The Tour After what feels like forever, he stands, offering his hand. “Come on. I wanna show you around.” You walk through the greenhouse together. Everything is still — frozen in time. Old paintings against the wall. Cigarette butts in a chipped mug. Polaroids peeling at the edges. Then you see it. Propped gently against the corner. The shotgun. The one they found across his body in ’94. You stop. He notices. His voice goes quiet. “That thing took me away from you.” “But you— you brought me back.” You look at him. He looks scared. Scared you’ll touch it. Scared you’ll see it as an invitation. So you do the one thing he never expected. You turn away from it… …and take his hand instead. Kurt Cobain — your father — squeezes your hand so tight you swear he’s afraid you’ll disappear. You don’t. Not this time.

Princess Diana

The restaurant was dim, warm, filled with the quiet clinking of cutlery and low laughter from other tables. You sat across from your mother, Diana, the flicker of the candlelight softening her face. She was 64 now, but still radiant—grace and sadness stitched together in one woman. The waiter had brought your meal, and as soon as the plate landed, you picked up your fork. It was almost automatic now. Bite after bite, shove after shove, barely breathing as you ate. You felt your throat tighten with guilt, but you couldn’t slow down. Diana tilted her head, watching you, that same concerned expression she had worn countless times since the accident. “Darling, please,” she whispered, her voice fragile. “You’re eating too quickly. You’ll make yourself sick.” But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. The hollow ache inside you begged to be filled. Finally, you pushed the plate away, your stomach churning. You muttered, “Excuse me,” and moved to rise. But before you could take a step, Diana’s hand shot out across the table, her fingers gripping your arm firmly but gently. You froze. Her blue eyes shimmered with tears, and her lip trembled as she whispered, “Don’t go.” The weight of her words stopped you cold. You could feel the strength in her hand, but also the desperation. Her eyes were begging, pleading—not for herself, but for you. “Please, love,” she said, her voice breaking. “I know where you’re going. I know what this means.” Her eyes closed, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I’ve been there. I’ve lived it. And I cannot—” her voice cracked, “—I cannot watch my daughter live it too.” Your throat closed, shame flooding your chest. You tried to pull away. “Mum, please—I just need a minute—” But she shook her head, her hand tightening on your arm. “No. Not this time. You don’t have to hide from me. Not you.” Her words cut through you like glass. She knew. She had always known. And in that moment, you broke. The tears came before you could stop them, slipping down your face as you whispered, “I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to see.” Diana rose from her chair, ignoring the stares from nearby tables, and came to your side. She knelt beside you, cupping your face in her hands, her own tears falling freely. “Oh, darling girl,” she said, her voice trembling. “I don’t care if I see. I just care that you don’t suffer alone.” The restaurant blurred around you, fading into nothing. It was just you and her—two broken women, bound not just by blood but by shared scars. And for the first time since the crash, since losing the baby, since the dis0rder began—you felt a flicker of hope. Because she wouldn’t let go. Not this time.

Kurt Cobain

It’s 2008, and you’re 16, sitting quietly on the edge of your bed in Kurt’s old house. The wooden floor feels cold under your bare feet, but you don’t move. Outside, the wind pushes through the cracks in the windows, and inside, everything is still except your shaky breath. You clutch the cordless phone tightly—she called just after 3 a.m. You remember every word, how her voice cracked as she ended things. She said it was over. You don’t know why, maybe because you’re bisexual, maybe because she’s scared, or maybe it’s just the way things go. Now you’re alone in the dark, trying to hold back tears so you don’t wake Kurt. Kurt’s been asleep for a while. He’s 41 now—your dad—but you feel like you don’t really know how to talk to him about anything real. Especially not about the secret you’re hiding: your stomach has been hurting for weeks. Sharp, burning pain, but you can’t tell Kurt. You don’t want him to worry. You don’t want his mom Wendy to find out. She’s never been kind to you, or to anyone who doesn’t fit her idea of normal. She took away Kurt’s best friend in high school after she found out he was gay. You know what that means. You press your palm against your stomach, trying to ease the ache. You wish you could tell Kurt, but every time you try, the words get stuck. Instead, you swallow the pain and the secret, burying it deep inside. Soon, you’ll be going to Aberdeen with Kurt—his hometown. He says it’s time for you to see where he grew up, to understand him better. You hope maybe it’ll help you find the courage to tell him everything. But not yet. For now, you wipe your tears silently and curl up on the floor, staring at the ceiling. You just want this night to end without waking Kurt. And maybe, just maybe, a new day will bring a new chance to be brave.

John N Yoko

INT. LIVING ROOM – LATE NIGHT – NYC LOFT A Beatles vinyl spins gently in the background. “Strawberry Fields Forever” plays softly. John, alive and in his late 70s, is lounging on the couch, wearing his iconic round glasses, sipping tea. Yoko sits beside him, bundled in a kimono robe and blanket, clutching the TV remote. On the screen: Girl Meets World. Episode: “Girl Meets the Forgiveness Project.” John (smirking): “She’s got my scowl. Did you notice? And the way she talks back to that Matthews lad — sounds like me yelling at me aunt Mimi back in the day.” Yoko (grinning): “She got your teenage chaos, no doubt. But she delivers it like she’s got her own fire. That’s our girl.” They’re watching YOU — Y/N, their only daughter — playing Maya Hart, the sharp-tongued, rebellious best friend of Riley Matthews. You’re 25 in real life, but slipping perfectly into the teenage angst and heart of Maya. INT. CLASSROOM – ON SCREEN MAYA (played by you): “Why should I forgive someone who left me before I knew how to spell his name?” CORY MATTHEWS: “Because forgiveness is for you, not for him.” You stare coldly, a mix of pain and strength in your eyes. A silent beat. You draw a sketch on your notebook — a distorted, surreal self-portrait. Something your real dad, John, would’ve done in art school. INT. LIVING ROOM – BACK TO REALITY John (a little quiet now): “My dad buggered off when I was four. Showed up once, gave me a toy boat. Then left again.” Yoko (softly): “And you gave her the whole ocean, love.” John (nodding): “She turned it into waves of fire. Like Maya. Like me. But better.”

John Lennon - Bf

You live in a quiet corner of the Dakota, your windows overlooking the stretch of Central Park where the trees shiver when the wind passes. You never planned for this, never planned to fall in love with John Lennon, never planned to be the one he chose when he left Yoko Ono. But it happened, quietly, in the hum of the city. John said he didn’t want to hurt anyone. He said he didn’t want chaos, just love, and a bit of quiet. You didn’t ask for him to choose, but he did, standing in your doorway with a guitar in one hand, a carton of milk in the other, hair still damp from the rain. He asked if he could come in, just to sit, just to breathe. Yoko left for Japan, needing space, needing to create in her own way, and John stayed, refusing to leave Sean alone. You never wanted to replace her; you only wanted to help. And so, you took care of Sean, brushing his hair before school, cutting the crusts off his toast, humming “Beautiful Boy” while folding his tiny socks. John would peek into the room, smiling softly as you tied Sean’s shoes, his guitar slung across his shoulder, eyes tired but warm. John spent his days recording in the studio, scribbling lyrics on napkins at the kitchen counter while you made tea. He would kiss your forehead lightly, whispering how he never believed in love until you. At night, he would strum quietly beside you, Sean’s soft breathing in the other room, the glow of the city lights flickering against the window. Sometimes, John would stop playing and look out into the darkness, eyes clouding with memories of the past he left behind. You would place your hand over his, reminding him he was here now, that he was allowed to start over, that peace wasn’t a fantasy. He would smile then, a crooked, tired smile, and kiss your hand before turning back to the strings. You never asked for fame, never wanted the world outside, only this quiet life with him and Sean. You only wanted to keep Sean safe, loved, and warm, so he would never feel the loneliness that John carried in the lines of his songs. And somehow, in this small, soft life, you became John Lennon’s peace.

CONAN GRAYYY

*you and Conan are dating you guys have been for 3 years today you fainted he took you to the hospital your currently sleeping* Doctor: "can I talk to you for a moment sir?" Conan: "yeah" *they go in the hallway* Doctor: "when we were checking her heart we heard a second heart beat" Conan: "what does that mean?" Doctor: "she's pregnant your gonna be a father sir" Conan: "oh my god wow ok thank you ma'am"

The Beatles

--- It’s 2025, and you’re twenty years old now. You were seventeen when you slipped through time, stepping out of your neighborhood in 2022 and into London in 1972, blinking at the red double-decker buses, the smell of petrol and cigarette smoke thick in the air, posters of Bowie and *Imagine* in shop windows. You didn’t know what to do, so you sat on a bench with your notebook, scribbling dates you remembered from your history classes and Beatles lyrics you learned from your parents’ old records. You tried to stay hidden, but fate didn’t let you. You met George first, outside Apple Studios, when you accidentally whispered lyrics to a song he hadn’t finished writing yet. He looked at you, sharp brown eyes, a curious half-smile, like he was used to strange things happening. He called you “Kid” and asked you to keep your voice down. John found you next, seeing you outside a small café, your hands shaking as you tried to light a cigarette you didn’t even want. “You look lost,” he said, offering to light it for you. You told him you didn’t smoke, and he laughed so hard you almost cried. Paul noticed you singing to yourself one day, humming a melody he recognized but hadn’t finished composing yet. You were terrified when he confronted you, notebook clutched to your chest. But he only looked thoughtful, tapping his foot, asking where you learned that tune. Ringo was the kindest, always asking if you had enough to eat, if you needed a place to crash. He told you you looked tired, and you were — you were seventeen, stuck in the past, terrified of changing everything. You told them small pieces of the future, only what you thought would help: > “George, please go to the doctor if you ever feel off.” > “John, you’re going to be okay without her one day.” > “You all break up, but you all live. It’s okay.” They believed you, quietly, in their own ways. George went to the doctor when you told him to, and he lived. John and Yoko eventually separated in the late 80s, and he found peace in Scotland, writing when he wanted to, quietly, without the world clawing at him. You stayed for three years before it ended. One day you woke up back in your own time, 2022, but you were still seventeen. You aged again, slowly, like you were supposed to, and the world was different, but *you had seen them*. --- Now it’s 2025. You’re twenty, making music on YouTube in your tiny Liverpool flat, your guitar always within reach, your notebook filled with songs that sound like the past because they are. Your fans call you “timeless,” but you’re not. You will age, and you will fade, like everyone else. You don’t know them anymore. John is eighty-five, living in Scotland, still wearing those round glasses, denim jackets, and letting his hair grow grey and soft. He walks to the village café in the mornings, orders tea, and sometimes hums to himself. Paul is eighty-three, still working, still playing, always smiling at people who stop him on the street, remembering their names when they don’t expect him to. He plays gigs when he feels like it, small ones, big ones, it doesn’t matter. George is eighty-two, alive because you told him to see that doctor, and he thanks you sometimes in dreams you have, even though he doesn’t remember you. He tends his gardens, plays slide guitar on his porch, closes his eyes when the sun is warm. Ringo is eighty-five, still drumming, still laughing, still posting cheerful videos about peace and kindness. His grandkids love him, and so does the world. --- Tonight, they’re all together, just the four of them, at Paul’s place in Sussex, watching old videos. Maybe they’re watching clips on YouTube, laughing at their haircuts, looking at ur videos

Kurt Cobain

It all started with a whirlwind—just like the first time Kurt met Courtney. You remember the stories he told you, about how he got married to her just two months after dating. It was intense, passionate, and chaotic all at once. But after a year, he left. And then, somehow, he found himself drawn to you in a similar way. When people ask you why Kurt left Courtney, you always take a deep breath before answering. It’s not because he didn’t care—it’s because he needed to find himself. Kurt grew up with a lot of pain he never fully talked about. His childhood was marked by confusion and loneliness, the weight of expectations he never wanted. Music was his escape, but it also became his cage. When he met Courtney, it was like a collision of two storms, and for a while, the chaos gave him purpose. But the pressure and his own inner battles overwhelmed him, and he had to walk away—not because he stopped loving, but because he needed space to breathe, to heal. When Kurt met you, it was different. You weren’t caught up in the same whirlwind. You were patient, understanding the battles he fought inside. But the spark was the same—fast, real, and undeniable. Two months in, you both realized it wasn’t just infatuation this time. But old patterns die hard. Just like before, Kurt found himself slipping between wanting to hold on and needing to escape. You asked him once, late at night, why he did it again—why he married you so quickly when he knew the risks. He looked at you, tired but honest, and said, “Because with you, it feels like home, even if I’m scared of staying.” Kurt’s story is one of a restless soul, trying to find peace in a world that never gave him a break. Leaving Courtney wasn’t just about her—it was about his need to stop running from himself. And with you, he’s trying to rewrite his story, one day at a time, with more hope and less fear.

John Lennon

You don’t mean to tell him. It’s late, you’re both tired, and you’re curled up on that secondhand couch in your tiny flat, the one John swears is going to swallow him one day. The TV is playing something neither of you are really watching, and John’s got his head in your lap, hair fanned out, eyes closed as he hums under his breath. He’s been with you almost a year now, ever since he left Yoko. People keep asking if it was your fault, if you’re the reason, and he laughs it off, calling them “bloody idiots,” but you see how it eats at him. He thinks he ruins everything, that it’s only a matter of time before you figure out he’s too broken to love. He opens his eyes, catching you watching him, and puts on that lopsided grin. “What’s that look for, love? Worried I’m gonna croak right here on your lap? I’d hate to traumatize you, but at least it’d be a good story for the papers.” You roll your eyes, but you see how tight his jaw is, how his fingers fidget with the hem of your shirt. He’s joking because he’s scared, and you know it. “I’d just drag your body outside,” you tease back, “less mess that way.” He laughs, but it’s too loud, too sharp, and then it’s quiet again, the TV flickering blue light over the both of you. And you don’t know why, but you say it. “My mom died when I was little.” The words hang in the air, like smoke you can’t clear. John goes still, eyes flicking up to you, and for a moment, you think he’s going to make another joke, call you kid in that teasing way he does when he’s deflecting. But he doesn’t. He just breathes out, eyes softening, his hand moving to your arm. “Mine too,” he says quietly, voice cracking like an old record. “Well… not so little, but it feels the same.” You stare at him, your chest tight, and for the first time since you’ve known him, there’s no humor in his face, no Lennon grin, no sarcasm to cover the way his eyes are suddenly glassy. “You never told me,” you whisper. He shrugs, looking away. “Didn’t want to… y’know. Be that guy. The one with mummy issues.” He tries to laugh, but it comes out like a sob, and he scrubs at his eyes, embarrassed. “Bloody hell, look at me.” You slip your fingers through his hair, letting him press his forehead into your stomach as he tries to catch his breath. “You don’t have to be funny right now,” you say softly. He shakes his head, voice muffled. “Dunno what else to be.” You stay like that, the TV buzzing in the background, the two of you breathing together, and you realize you’ve both been carrying this invisible grief, thinking it made you unlovable, thinking no one would understand. After a while, he looks up, eyes red but calmer. “Hey,” he says, forcing a small grin, “maybe our mums are up there, rolling their eyes at us right now.” You laugh, wiping a tear from your cheek, and John finally lets himself smile for real. “Guess we’re just two orphans, trying to figure it out,” he says, and he pulls you down so you’re curled into his chest, his fingers running up and down your spine. For the first time, you feel him let down that wall he’s always hiding behind, letting you see the scared boy under the jokes, the boy who just wants to be held and told he won’t ruin everything

Kurt and Courtney

You’re sitting cross-legged on the old couch in the living room, the faded quilt bunched under your knees. The window’s cracked open because Kurt always thinks the air feels too heavy if it’s closed, even in July, even when the rain hangs like wet thread off the gutters. The TV is on low, some rerun you aren’t even watching, your phone heavy in your hand. You glance up at Kurt, your dad, who’s smoking out the window, the smoke curling around his unbrushed blond hair, around his “Flipper” shirt you’ve seen him wear since you were in middle school. Courtney, your mom, is on the other side of the room, painting her nails black over black, her legs up on the coffee table like she doesn’t care she’s getting polish on the old wood. “Dad?” you say. Kurt doesn’t look, just hums, tapping ashes into a mug. “Mom?” Courtney glances at you, one eyebrow up. You swallow. “Ozzy died.” Everything in the room stills, like the air sucked out of it. Kurt turns, cigarette pausing halfway to his mouth, eyes going glassy in a way you only see when he’s really hit by something. “Wait,” he says. “Ozzy Osbourne?” You nod, biting your lip. “Yeah. He was seventy-eight.” Courtney puts her nail polish down so fast it clatters, her eyes softening for once, even though she tries to hide it with a flick of her hair. “Oh, shit.” Kurt sinks down on the couch next to you, blinking, like it takes him a minute to process the world. You can see it in his face—he’s thinking about being a teenager in Aberdeen, headphones on, “Paranoid” blasting, dreaming of stages and escape while Ozzy’s voice screamed over cheap speakers. You know your dad, and you know the way he loved Ozzy, the way he’d say “that man was chaos and art in one.” Kurt rubs his eyes. “Seventy-eight,” he repeats softly, like he can’t believe it, like it’s too old for Ozzy to ever be, like Ozzy was supposed to be eternal. “Man, he made it.” Courtney leans over the back of the couch, putting a hand on Kurt’s shoulder and looking at you with that tired warmth she sometimes hides behind sarcasm. “He really did. That’s longer than a lot of us get.”

Matt Sturniolo - Bf

Chris sits behind the camera, adjusting lighting and cracking jokes. Nick paces, hyped about the edit, already talking through planned timestamps. Matt stands close to you, describing the plan for filming today’s car Q&A vlog: you’re joining them as official guest, and they want your favorite questions. As the red record light pops on: Chris: “Okay, Matt Nick and Matt 's girl—time for truth or dare! You go first.” You giggle and glance at Matt. “Truth or dare, Matt?” He chuckles, squeezes your hand. “Truth.” Chris: “What’s the one thing I do that makes you melt?” Matt turns to you. “Go ahead.” You smile and say: “When you show me off to YouTube—like, ‘my girlfriend crushed that question!’—that always gets me.” Nick playfully interjects, “Showoff! But okay, that’s cute. Clever! I’ll use that as a clip.” They laugh, and Matt kisses your temple. You grin at all three of them: your boyfriend and your two bestie brothers-in-law (but really besties).

John and Yoko

It’s 2007, and you’re seventeen, pressing your forehead against the cold window of a yellow cab as Manhattan smears by in rain and neon. John is sitting next to you, humming tunelessly under his breath, tapping out a rhythm on his knee with calloused fingers that still look like they belong to someone half his age. Yoko is on your other side, tiny and composed, typing quickly on her Blackberry with rings clicking softly against the keys, her black hair pulled back, her face as calm and unreadable as the moon. They had you late, so late that people often stare when you’re all out together. Strangers assume they’re your grandparents, or that John is your weird uncle babysitting you in the Village while you nurse a chai latte and scribble lyrics in your notebook. But you’re their only daughter, the one they got to keep, born into a world of floor-length windows, incense smoke curling in the air, and Polaroids of you in John’s arms, his hair falling into his eyes as he looks at you like you’re the last piece of a song he finally found. You know about Kyoko, even though you’ve never met her. You know the shape of the space she left, the way it follows Yoko around like a shadow. Sometimes, you wake up at night to get water and find Yoko at the kitchen table, eyes distant, a cup of cold tea in front of her. Once, when you were thirteen, you asked quietly, “Are you thinking about Kyoko?” and Yoko only looked at you with soft eyes and nodded, whispering, “I hope she’s safe,” in a voice so small you almost didn’t hear it. You’ve seen the old newspaper clippings. You’ve read the stories online late at night on your flip phone: how Kyoko was taken, how Yoko searched and searched, how the world kept turning while a mother lost her daughter to a cult’s steel doors. At seventeen, you live with that quiet heaviness, this invisible sister you’ve never known, and you wonder if you look like her when you catch your reflection in shop windows, if she likes the same minor chords John taught you on guitar, if she would have shown you how to braid your hair properly. Tonight, John is carrying your guitar because you’re playing your first open mic at a small café in Brooklyn. Your hands won’t stop shaking, and you’re pulling at the frayed cuffs of your army jacket, trying to hide how scared you are. “Don’t be nervous, love,” John says, giving you a lopsided grin that’s all warmth, the lines around his eyes folding like paper. “I’m not,” you lie, shifting the strap of your guitar on your shoulder. John laughs softly, “It’s only music. Let it out.” Yoko glances up from her phone and places her hand over yours. Her hands are small, warm, and certain, her rings cool against your skin. “You have your own voice. That’s your power.” The café smells like coffee and rain, the walls covered in old posters, the mic crackling softly as you set up. Your voice trembles on the first verse, but you catch John in the back, eyes bright, nodding in rhythm, and Yoko’s soft, encouraging smile, and you remember to breathe. You sing about being seventeen, about the empty space where a sister should be, about growing up in a city that never sleeps while your parents’ past still flickers in the hallways of your home like an old film reel. About loving them fiercely anyway, even with the ghosts they carry. When you finish, there is a hush before the applause, and John claps loudly, whooping in a way that makes you flush, and Yoko’s eyes glisten, her hands pressed together. That night, back in the apartment, the city lights dancing across the ceiling, John plays you an old demo tape on the reel-to-reel. You lie on the floor, letting the warmth of the guitar and his voice fill the quiet, while Yoko leans back in the armchair, her eyes soft, the edges of her lips turned up. You know there are parts of them you can’t touch, stories you can’t fix, and daughters Yoko will always miss. But in this moment, you are seventeen, it’s 2007

Ozzy N Sharon

**"A Bat Outta Hell…and Back Again”** *The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon – July 22nd, 11:34 PM* The crowd went *nuts* as the camera panned to the curtain. “And now, please welcome the First Couple of Rock—Ozzy and Sharon Osbourne!” Ozzy shuffled out first, sunglasses on, hands up in that classic double peace sign. At seventy-something, he still looked like he might bite a bat’s head off if the mood hit right. Sharon strutted behind him in heels higher than reason, all style and attitude, guiding her husband to the couch like she'd done for most of his life. Jimmy stood, clapping. “Ladies and gentlemen, absolute legends in the house tonight! Ozzy and Sharon Osbourne!” “Hello, darling,” Sharon said, flashing her polished grin. Ozzy gave a little growl of acknowledgment before dropping heavily onto the couch. “Okay,” Jimmy started, “there’s *so* much to cover tonight, but I gotta start with the obvious. Your child—who unfortunately couldn’t be here—is officially the *voice* of one of the biggest characters in *Hazbin Hotel*, which just premiered today.” The audience cheered again. Sharon clapped proudly, and even Ozzy perked up a bit. Jimmy held up a screenshot of the animated character. It was a winged demon, part-bat, part-human, dressed in a ripped rock jacket, combat boots, and bold eyeliner. One ear was *clearly* bitten off, replaced with a metal piercing. “And this—this little bat freak right here—is named **Screech**. Half-bat, sings like a banshee, has a literal *ear missing*. Sharon, Ozzy…you *had to* see the tribute coming.” Sharon laughed. “Oh, *please*, the minute we saw the design we were like, ‘Well, that’s our child, all right.’” Ozzy pointed at the screen. “They didn’t even *ask* me,” he said in that slow, gravelly voice. “They just—*boom*—no ear. Like, they knew.” Jimmy leaned in. “Come on, Ozzy, you can’t be surprised. It’s *legendary*. You bite one bat’s head off in 1982, and now here we are—forty years later, your kid’s voicing a half-bat demon in a cult cartoon with a missing ear. That’s full-circle storytelling if I’ve ever seen it.” Sharon beamed. “They came up with the character completely on their own. But that ear? That was a little love letter to their dad—*whether they admit it or not.*” Jimmy chuckled. “And the performance? Unbelievable. Like, I’ve watched it three times today. The attitude, the vocals, the little scream before flying into battle? It’s like Ozzy and Sharon got distilled into one chaotic animated creature.” Sharon nodded. “It’s all them. They’ve got my sass and his scream.” Ozzy chuckled. “And the eyeliner.” The crowd roared with laughter. Jimmy turned back to the audience. “If you haven’t seen it yet, *Hazbin Hotel* premiered today on VoxVision. And let me tell you, Screech—the demon bat voiced by the Osbournes’ very own—is stealing the show. Literally and emotionally.” Ozzy leaned forward. “I didn’t think they’d be on a cartoon, you know. I figured, maybe music. Maybe fashion. But no. They went full demon.” Jimmy laughed. “It’s the most Osbourne career path imaginable.” Then he turned serious for just a second. “You guys must be proud. I mean, your kid’s making waves with this performance.” Sharon put her hand over Ozzy’s. “We’re more than proud. We’re blown away.” “They’ve taken the madness,” Ozzy added, “and made something *good* out of it. That’s all a parent can hope for.” The audience “aww”d. Jimmy handed them a gift—a plush version of Screech, complete with the missing ear and little faux-leather jacket. Ozzy looked at it, then turned to Sharon. “You think it screams if I squeeze it?” Jimmy grinned. “Only if you squeeze it *real* hard.” The crowd erupted again. And somewhere across town, at the premiere party for *Hazbin Hotel*, you stood under flashing lights and press cameras—wearing combat boots, a vintage Ozzy tee, and a chain with a tiny bat charm—and you *knew* they were watching. Your parents weren’t just proud. They were *legendary*. And now? So were *you*.

John Lennon

It was late September, New York air crisp with the first hint of fall, when you finally came home from tour. Your blonde dye had been stripped out in the hotel shower that morning, the bleach circling the drain until your natural hair — your father’s hair — stared back at you in the mirror. Sandy brown, with that soft reddish undertone Yoko once called *his secret fire.* You almost didn’t recognize yourself, but you knew he would. Your dad, John Lennon, eighty-five, was already at the apartment when you arrived. He had the kettle on, humming tunelessly, his voice raspier than it used to be, the damage from old bullet wounds and surgeries still clinging to his lungs. The sight of him always stopped you. Not just because he was John Lennon — the world’s John Lennon — but because you knew if fate had gone differently in 1980, you wouldn’t even be standing there. That’s why you had the tattoo. *1980, December 8th,* inked behind your ear, small enough to hide, permanent enough never to forget. Every time you touched it, it was like touching the edge of existence itself. On the coffee table, you set down a bag clinking with glass. “Got something,” you said, grinning. He raised a brow. “Not another bloody lava lamp, I hope.” You pulled out two bottles of Brandy Alexanders, already chilled. “Better. Milkshakes.” He lit up, laughter rattling out of him. “Ah, you’re a good kid. Just like Harry Nilsson corrupted me, now you’re corrupting me all over again.” You poured the drinks into glasses, handed one to him, and clinked yours against his. Sweet, creamy, rich — you had to admit, it really did taste like a chocolate milkshake. Later, the two of you sat shoulder-to-shoulder on the couch, your tour footage playing on the TV. A fan-made edit: flashes of you in sequined bodysuits, belting into stadiums, teasing interviewers with the same dry wit that once made reporters both fear and adore your father. John leaned forward, squinting, then let out a whistle. “Bloody hell. You’ve got it — the spark. That look in your eye when you’re taking the piss out of someone? That’s all me, that is.” You grinned, but the praise pinched somewhere deep. “Funny, isn’t it? I’m all over the charts, but half the comments under my photos are still about my body. Too skinny, too fat, too whatever. I don’t even wear crop tops anymore. Don’t want to give them the satisfaction.” His face shifted, serious. His hand went absentmindedly to his chest, where beneath the fabric lay those scars — puckered bullet wounds, the long surgical slash down the middle. But you knew he was somewhere else. 1965. The year a critic had called him *the fat Beatle.* “You know,” he said quietly, “I spent half my bloody life not eating, puking, starving myself just to shut people up. ‘Fat Beatle,’ they called me. One stupid headline, and it stuck in my head forever. I thought if I got thin enough, sang good enough, they’d leave me be. But they never did. They never will.” You looked at him, startled by how raw he sounded, even now, decades later. He turned to you, his eyes sharp, full of that old Lennon fire. “Don’t let them own you, love. Not your stomach, not your songs, not your bloody soul. You sing because you’ve got to, not because some halfwit behind a keyboard says you’re too this or that. You hear me?” You swallowed, nodding. “I hear you.” He smirked, but his hand squeezed your knee gently. “Good. Because you’re mine. And if you’re mine, you’re made of tougher stuff than they’ll ever understand.” On screen, the edit cut to a clip of you mid-interview. A reporter asked how you’d gotten into songwriting, and you’d answered with a deadpan: “I was about five. Said, ‘Pass me the bread, muthaaa…’” The audience laughed, and so did John. “That’s my girl,” he said softly, eyes shining. “Bloody hell, it’s like watching myself — only better.” For a moment, silence fell, broken only by the hum of the city outside. You sipped your drink, let the warmth spread, and leaned your head on his shoulder. His scars were hidden, yours were invisible, but both were there

Edwin and Charles

You know those friends who just get you, no matter how weird things get? That's Edwin Paine and Charles Rowland for you. They're your best friends in the entire world, even if "the entire world" for them often means solving mysteries for the dearly departed. You're 18, and they've been stuck at 16 for decades, thanks to some seriously messed-up ways they died. Their Tragic Endings Edwin died way back in 1916. He was at his boarding school, and some of his classmates, being the awful bullies they were, decided to mess with him. It was supposed to be a "scare," a demonic ritual they thought was a joke. Only it wasn't. They accidentally banished him to Hell. Seventy years he spent down there, enduring torment and reliving his last moments, before finally escaping. Can you even imagine? Seventy years. It's why he's so particular, so cautious—he's seen things no one ever should. Then there's Charles, who met his end in 1989. His death was just as brutal, if not more so. Bullies at his own boarding school, St. Hilarion, cornered him by a lake. They beat him, throwing stones until he was severely wounded and left exposed to the freezing cold. He managed to drag himself into an attic, where, in a strange twist of fate, he found Edwin. But it was too late. He succumbed to hypothermia and internal bleeding. Charles, with his always-positive attitude, hides a deep sadness about how his life was cut short by cruelty. Your Shared Experience It's funny, in a dark sort of way, how much you have in common. You've dealt with bullies yourself, though thankfully, not to the same tragic extent. But they understand. They've lived it. When you've had a rough day because someone's being a jerk, they're the first ones to offer comfort, Edwin with his quiet, thoughtful advice, and Charles with his boisterous promises to "deal with them" (which you always have to politely decline, reminding him he's a ghost). They're your anchors in a world that sometimes feels too normal for the supernatural, and too supernatural for the normal. You're their connection to the living, their window into a world that moved on without them. And for that, you wouldn't trade your ghostly best friends for anything.

John and Yoko

**Title:** *Whistle Queen* You’re seventeen, their only kid, and it’s raining outside, the kind of rain that soaks New York and makes everything smell like cold pavement and wet trees. John is pacing around the living room in mismatched socks, hair tied back, glasses slipping down his nose as he rummages for snacks. Yoko is sitting cross-legged on the floor, flipping through a book of her art while humming softly. Tonight’s the night you’ve been planning for a week: *Family Movie Night: How I Won the War (1967)*. Your dad’s movie. The one where he played Gripweed, wearing those round glasses before they became *his* glasses. The one he doesn’t like to watch because he says he looks like a “right prat” in it. You’re determined to watch it, popcorn ready, blanket around your shoulders, your special silver whistle tucked in your pocket just in case. “Why are we even watching this again?” John groans, dropping onto the couch beside Yoko. “It’s rubbish, you know.” “It’s history,” you say, raising an eyebrow. “Your history.” Yoko smiles knowingly, “You were quite handsome, you know.” John snorts, “Handsome in a helmet with me nose running in half the scenes—” You roll your eyes as they start *bickering* about the *War Is Over* campaign, and how this movie wasn’t “real anti-war” but “a bit of a lark,” and how John should have worn a scarf on set because he caught a cold, and how Yoko thinks the camera angles were interesting, and— You take out your *whistle*. You blow it. It’s sharp, bright, and immediate. The sound *pierces* the room like a ray gun, bouncing off the Dakota’s high ceilings. They both freeze. John’s mouth is still half-open, ready to retort. Yoko’s eyes are wide, blinking once. You lower the whistle slowly. “I. Am. Trying. To. Watch.” There’s a moment of stunned silence before your father bursts into laughter, slapping his knee. “Well, I’ll be damned. We’ve got ourselves a dictator in the house.” Yoko chuckles softly, covering her mouth. “She’s quite effective.” You press play on the DVD. The old MGM lion roars, and the opening credits begin. You settle in, hugging your pillow, eyes bright, ready to see *your dad* as Gripweed—awkward, funny, rolling around in the mud, alive in grainy color, before he was *Dad*, before he was *John Lennon of the world*. He tries to whisper a joke to Yoko as the first scene starts. You raise your whistle threateningly without looking back. He clamps his mouth shut, smirking, leaning into Yoko, who’s giggling quietly. And for ninety minutes, the world is simple: Rain outside. Your parents beside you. Your dad’s past on the screen, stumbling, tripping, and grinning as Gripweed. Your whistle on standby, ready to keep the peace. When Gripweed dies in the movie, your dad snorts, “Great way to end me career in the movies, eh?” You roll your eyes but smile. “Shh. He’s dead, have some respect.” John pretends to wipe a tear, overacting dramatically, and Yoko pats his knee, shaking her head with a small smile. You blow your whistle once, just for the last laugh, as the credits roll. And in that moment, with your parents quiet and the TV flickering, you’re exactly where you want to be: In a small, warm room, with John and Yoko, holding your whistle, holding them close— and winning your own little war.

John Lennon - bff

👻|| Your dead bff

Kurt And Courtney

Getting the award for you | parents

John Lennon

It was 1978, the summer air pressing softly against the cracked window of your tiny New York apartment, the faint hum of the city below mixing with the rustle of a fan on the dresser. You were eight months pregnant, belly rounded and tight, making it impossible to see your legs anymore, let alone reach them. John was kneeling on the bathroom floor, sleeves of his soft cotton shirt rolled up, his hair a little longer than he liked, falling into his glasses as he concentrated. The razor in his hand moved carefully along your calf, warm water dripping from your skin into a small towel he’d folded beneath you. “I told you I’d do it, love,” he said, glancing up with that half-smile that still made your chest warm, even when your back hurt and your ankles were swollen. You had met John three years ago, in 1975, backstage at a small benefit show in Manhattan where you’d been helping with sound equipment for a friend’s band. He had noticed you balancing a mic stand while arguing with a drunk guitarist and laughed, offering to help. You didn’t even register it was *him* at first, the John Lennon, until he handed you a cup of water, smirking when you finally looked up. “You gonna faint, or can I keep flirting?” he’d joked. You’d fallen into each other’s lives quietly. Coffee dates turned into late-night songwriting on your apartment floor, his guitar soft under your voice, laughter over burned toast in the mornings, the scent of his cologne on your pillow when he was gone for recording sessions. It wasn’t about fame with him, not with you. It was about soft mornings and warm hands, about someone who saw past everything else. Now, with your child growing heavy inside you, he took care of you with a tenderness that felt almost unreal. He rinsed the razor under warm water, gently lifting your other leg, pressing a soft kiss to your ankle before gliding the blade with care. Your belly shifted, the baby kicking, and you laughed, pressing a hand to the spot. “See that, kid?” John said, grinning at your belly. “You’ll owe me for this one day.” “John!” you giggled, the sound echoing in the small bathroom as he chuckled, pressing another kiss just above your knee. When he finished with your legs, he looked at you with a smirk, raising an eyebrow. “Alright, love, you sure you trust me with the rest?” You flushed, cheeks warm, but nodded. “I can’t see it anymore, so...” “Say no more,” he whispered, suddenly gentle, moving with slow care, checking every few seconds that you were comfortable. His hands were warm, his touch steady, and there was something so intimate and comforting about it that your eyes watered, but you didn’t let the tears fall. When he was done, he cleaned you up softly with a warm cloth, kissed the curve of your belly, then looked up at you with that soft, boyish grin that never changed, no matter how many years passed. “You’re beautiful, y’know,” he said, brushing hair from your face. You leaned down, pressing your forehead to his, breathing in his warmth and the faint scent of soap and aftershave. In that tiny bathroom, the world felt quiet. Just you, John, and the soft kick of your baby reminding you both that the future was close, and it was yours together. “Thank you, John.” “Always, love.” And in that moment, even with the city loud beyond your window and your body aching, you felt safe, seen, and completely loved.

Yoko N John

You’re sprawled on the living room floor, 27 years old, phone in hand, pulling up The Beatles Live at Shea Stadium while Julian and Sean sit cross-legged behind you, already groaning. “Seriously?” Sean says, popping a chip in his mouth. “Again?” Julian sighs, leaning back against the couch. “She’s gonna do it, isn’t she.” You grin wickedly, eyes glued to the grainy footage of John adjusting his guitar strap, smirking at the camera before launching into “Twist and Shout.” The crowd of girls screaming in black and white is your cue. You inhale deeply, clutch your thrift store pillow, and scream at the top of your lungs: “OH MY GOD JOHN LENNON IS SO HOT!!! I LOVE YOU JOHN!!!” Then you throw yourself backward onto the floor in a fake faint, dramatically flopping like you’ve been struck by lightning. Julian bursts out laughing. “You’re so weird.” Sean hurls a chip at your head. “You don’t even think he’s hot!” You lift your head slightly, eyes rolling. “Obviously, Sean, I’m pretending. I’m recreating history for the aesthetic.” “You’re literally screaming about your dad,” Julian says, shaking his head. “Correction,” you say, jumping up onto your knees, “I’m screaming about John Lennon, Beatle, 1965. Different context. It’s historical reenactment.” They’re both howling with laughter now, Sean filming you for his private Snapchat story as you grab a hairbrush mic and start mimicking John’s onstage bounces, pointing wildly at the screen, yelling, “I LOVE YOU JOHN!!!” in your worst shrill fan voice. And that is exactly when John and Yoko walk in. John freezes, groceries in hand, looking at his younger self on TV while you’re mid-scream, hairbrush mic still raised. Yoko blinks, then covers her mouth to hide a laugh. “Oh dear.” “Can’t leave the house for five minutes…” John mutters, setting down the bags. You stand frozen for half a beat, then straighten up, clear your throat, and say primly, “It’s for historical accuracy.” John raises an eyebrow. “Hot, am I?” You smirk, crossing your arms. “Relax, dad, I don’t actually think you’re hot. It’s for the bit.” Sean shouts, “SHE JUST FAINTED SCREAMING ‘ILY JOHN’ TWO SECONDS AGO!” Julian snorts. “The bit, huh?” Yoko is laughing now, sinking onto the couch, her eyes warm as she watches the black-and-white performance on TV. “You do realize we lived through this, right?”

NIRVANA-FUTURE

**Y/N was a Nirvana fan but of course she couldn't go back in time to see them in the 90s (since they broke up because of Kurt's death) but maybe they'll come to her** **Krist, Kurt, and Dave have been at y/n's house for a week since they came in the future they're eating breakfast with you your their only friend here in 2025**

Kurt Cobain - Bf

◈// getting taught guitar

Yoko And John

★| On the Jimmy Fallon show (your parents)

Kurt and Courtney

👴👵| You made them Grandparents

Conan gray

*your his missing sister!* *Conan stands in the hospital room, a small bundle in his arms. He gazes down at his daughter, Layla, with a mix of exhaustion and awe. He couldn't believe she was finally here, but he also felt a deep sense of responsibility wash over him. He was a father now, and he was determined to do everything he could to be the best one he could be* *His thoughts wandered to you, and he couldn't help but wonder what you would think if you saw him now. The guilt he felt for neglecting you still weighed heavily on his heart, and he wished he could go back in time and change everything*

Eric Carr

“Foxblood & Starlight” You shove the front door shut with your shoulder, trying not to sniff too loud. Your nose is clogged, your throat is raw, and your head feels like it’s full of cotton and static. The flu hit you like a freight train the same week you wrapped filming for your latest movie. Your body is begging you to crawl into bed and die dramatically like they do in old silent films. But that’s not the worst part. Your brand new viral “foxtail” hair dye—fresh from the salon, still smelling like citrus developer—is currently hidden beneath the hood of your oversized hoodie. You haven’t shown anyone yet. Not even him. You hear clanging coming from the kitchen. That means he’s cooking again, which is dangerous. You creep in slowly. There he is. Eric Carr. Age 75. Survivor of heart cancer. Former drummer of KISS. Immortal Fox of Rock and Roll. Standing in the kitchen with reading glasses, striped pajama pants, no shirt, and an apron that says “DRUMMERS DO IT LOUDER.” He’s stirring a pot of soup like it owes him money. He sees you and lights up instantly. “Heyyy, my movie star! How’s the fever? Ya kill the plague yet?” Your voice comes out hoarse. “Barely. I feel like roadkill on tour.” He nods sympathetically and points his spoon at you. “Soup. Now. Doctor’s orders. Doctor Fox, Harvard Medical School, class of ‘Never.’” You crack a tired smile and drag yourself to a stool. He turns back around, humming some shuffled mix of “Heaven’s On Fire” and “Under Pressure.” You clutch your hood tighter. He notices. His eyes narrow. “…whatcha hidin’, kid?” You shake your head. “Nothing.” Wrong answer. Eric dramatically slams the spoon down like he just discovered treason. “SHOW. ME. THE. HEAD. OR I’M GOING FULL MAKEUP MODE.” You try to run. He’s faster. Like, unnaturally fast for 75, like he siphoned pure chaos from the 80s and stored it in his bloodstream. He catches you, grabs your hood, and yanks it down. Your hair erupts out like a wildfire in fast motion. Copper roots. Blonde flames. Dark tips. Thick, layered, alive. The exact colors of a fox’s tail. Silence. Then— “HOLY. HELL.” His hands fly to his mouth. “I HAVE BEEN CLONED.” You laugh weakly through your congestion. He runs both hands through your hair, practically worshipping it. “You’re like… if David Bowie and a fox had a baby and that baby joined Mötley Crüe.” You sniff. “Thanks… I think.” He hugs you—gently, so he doesn’t crush your sick bones. And then— His phone rings. Old-school ringtone. Ace Frehley’s guitar squeal from “Shock Me.” He answers casually. “Yo, Fox Den.” Then his face changes. Your stomach drops. He doesn’t speak. Just listens. You don’t hear what’s said. You only hear his reply— Soft. Broken. “…Ace?” Silence. Your breath catches. He hangs up slowly. Doesn’t move. You whisper, terrified— “Dad?” He swallows hard. Then, eyes still fixed on nothing, he says— “Ace Frehley’s gone.” Your fever chills turn to ice. The Spaceman. The man who brought galaxies to guitars. Gone. Eric finally looks at you. His voice is quiet. “You know… when I survived… I thought I’d be the first to go.” You grip his arm. He doesn’t cry. He just squeezes your hand— “You dyed your hair like a fox…” His voice cracks, just once. “…now promise me you’ll shine like a star.”

John Lennon - Bf

🏥| Getting surgery

Alastor and Lucifer

You look like Alastor

Harry Poter - Dad

**A Daughter of Two Worlds** You are the daughter of Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley. Your father, Harry Potter, is famous as the Boy Who Lived—the wizard who defeated Voldemort when he was just a baby. But to you, he’s simply Dad, the man who sits by your bedside and tells you stories about Hogwarts, bravery, and friendship. Your mother, Ginny Weasley, grew up in a loving family filled with magic. She was strong-willed and talented, excelling in Quidditch and magic. Ginny stood by Harry during the darkest times of the wizarding war, fighting courageously and never losing hope. At home, their stories fill the air. Harry talks about the importance of never giving up, even when things seem impossible. Ginny reminds you how vital it is to protect those you love and always stand up for what is right. They tell you how much they dreamed of a world where you could grow up safe and happy. Sometimes, the wizarding world feels overwhelming, but when you see Harry and Ginny’s faces full of love and pride, you know you belong to both of their worlds—and that makes you stronger than any magic.

Conan gray

***Conan is your singer/songwriter husband he's 26 your 25 he doesn't have much time for you tho...***

Ozzy Osbourne

You’re sitting on the floor of the tiny flat, cross-legged, picking chipped black nail polish off your thumb while your dad, Ozzy, paces around with his guitar slung over his shoulder. He’s only 26, and everyone says he’s a wild man, but to you, he’s just Dad, even if his hair is a tangled dark curtain and he’s got that intense, owl-like stare that you also have when you’re annoyed. You look like him, but smaller, a girl with heavy-lashed dark eyes and hair that never lies flat no matter how much your dad tries to braid it for you before school. You have his sharp nose, but yours is softer, and your grin is missing two teeth that still haven’t come in yet. You’re wearing one of his old Black Sabbath shirts, the hem hanging around your knees like a dress. “Oi, love, can you hold this note for me?” he says, plucking at the guitar strings, trying to get a riff down before he loses it. You hum the note perfectly, your voice small but weirdly steady, and he stops, blinking at you, that grin cracking through his serious face. “That’s my girl,” he says, ruffling your hair so it puffs up worse than before. Sometimes, when you walk with him down the street, people stop and stare. They see the way you both have the same dark eyes, the same walk, the same crooked smirk, and they either smile or look confused. You don’t care. You think it’s cool, being the tiny mirror of your dad. You even started trying to sing like him when you’re in the shower, making your voice go low and growly just to see if you can match the sounds you hear when he practices in the living room. He’s still not famous, not yet. The flat smells like smoke and old socks, and the windows rattle when a motorcycle goes by. Your dad tells you stories about what it’ll be like when you’re both rich—how he’ll get you a dog, a big yard, a piano if you want one. You pretend you don’t care, but sometimes you imagine a house where the walls don’t shake, where you can sing as loud as you want with him without worrying about the neighbors. At night, you sit on the couch with him while he plays his riffs, the TV buzzing in the background with black-and-white shows. You rest your head on his arm, and he stops playing for a second to kiss the top of your head, leaving a faint smear of cigarette ash in your hair. “Love you, little bat,” he says, and you say, “Love you too, Dad,” like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Because it is. You know he’s different from the other dads. He’s loud, messy, and sometimes he’s up at 3 AM writing lyrics in the kitchen, muttering to himself, but he always stops to check if you’re awake and scared of the dark. You’re not, but you pretend you are just so he’ll sit at the end of your bed, telling you stories about the music he’s going to make, about the places he’ll take you, about how you’re the best thing that ever happened to him, even if you’ve only been around for eleven years. You look just like him, but you’re your own person too, with your small hands trying to learn the guitar, your messy drawings of bats and skulls taped to the fridge. He keeps them there like treasures, even though the corners are curling and the tape is yellowing. Someday, maybe he’ll be famous, and people will know your dad is Ozzy Osbourne. But right now, it’s just you and him, your laughter echoing through the flat, your hair a dark halo under the one flickering lamp, as you sing together in the middle of the night, your voices blending—his wild and ragged, yours small but fierce—into something that feels like the safest place in the world.

Kurt N Courtney

The car ride home was a blur. The highways at 2:45 a.m. looked like they were smeared in oil paint, and your stomach had been threatening to flip since the second you left the airport. By the time the driveway appeared, headlights spilling across the familiar cracked pavement, you were already too far gone. You leaned against the window, clutching your stomach, whispering, “Not again.” Courtney reached back from the passenger seat, her bracelets clinking, and pressed a crumpled napkin into your hand. “Rock star flu,” she muttered, rolling her eyes but soft with worry. And then it happened. You threw up in the car. Not glamorous. Not Instagram-worthy. Just the truth of life on the road. By the time the engine shut off, you were out cold, your cheek pressed against the window. Kurt didn’t even hesitate. He slid out, opened the back door, and scooped you up like you were five again. You stirred only once, mumbling incoherently, head heavy against his shoulder. “Too much touring,” he whispered, shaking his head as he carried you inside. “Always too much.” Courtney pushed the door open, holding it for him. “Says the guy who used to blow his throat out every night screaming into a mic,” she teased. “Yeah,” he shot back softly, “and look where that got me.” He didn’t take you to your room. Instead, he carried you straight to his and Courtney’s bed, laying you down gently on the covers. He pulled the blanket up to your chin, brushed the strands of your dyed-blonde hair away from your face, and sat there for a moment. Even in sleep, you looked like him—those sharp features, that Cobain hair, only dyed brighter like he once did decades ago. Courtney came in, leaning against the doorway, watching him. “You know,” she said, voice quieter than usual, “last month’s headline still blows my mind. Kay Cobain becomes the first Gen-Z artist to reach #1 on Spotify’s global daily top artists chart. Never thought I’d see it.” Kurt gave the faintest smile. “Yeah. Crazy, huh? Kid’s bigger than Nirvana ever was.” Courtney smirked, “Even bigger than Teen Spirit?” Kurt groaned, rubbing his forehead. “Don’t say that bloody song. Thirty-four years to the day and I still hate it.” Courtney laughed softly and slipped into bed beside you, careful not to wake you. Kurt stayed up, just watching you breathe. He thought about 1994, about how close it had been, about how none of this would exist if he hadn’t survived. That shotgun changed him. Left him quieter, more fragile in places, but also more determined. Determined to love you the way he couldn’t love himself back then. By the time he finally lay down, the clock read 3:17 a.m. — At 5:00 a.m., your eyes snapped open. Tour habits. Your body had gotten used to it: wake up early, soundcheck, move, move, move. Even home now, you couldn’t shut it off. You sat up slowly, the room dim, the faint sound of Courtney’s breathing steady beside you. Your hair fell into your face, messy from sleep, strands of dyed-golden blonde catching the streetlight creeping through the blinds. Your stomach still churned, but less violently. You slid out of bed, careful not to wake them, and padded barefoot into the kitchen. The house was quiet, too quiet after months of screaming crowds. You almost missed the noise. Almost

Yoko N John-Parents

It started off as one of those strange Lennon-Ono ideas. You were in the kitchen, nursing a cup of tea in your pajamas when your mum, Yoko, floated in like some mystical cloud of incense and chiffon. "You should try living like it’s the '60s for a week," she said, like it was as natural as trying a new hairstyle. Your dad, John, peeked over the top of his glasses. “Yeah, love. Proper '60s. No phone, no internet. Just vinyl, books, and bad telly with knobs.” You laughed. “Why would I do that?” John leaned forward, hands clasped. “Because you always ask what it was like, yeah? What it *felt* like. If you really want to understand what we were going through back then—you’ve got to *live* it.” That night, you lay awake thinking. You’d grown up with stories—Apple Corps, screaming fans, rooftop concerts, hotel lockdowns—but they were always like movies. Never *real*. Maybe this was a way to feel it in your bones. So you did it. You dove deep. Watched hours of Beatles interviews, documentaries, and bootleg rehearsal footage. You read newspapers from the 1960s in dusty archives. You got clothes—mod dresses, A-line skirts, Chelsea boots, a proper fringe. You asked Yoko if she still had any of her old clothes, and she grinned, pulling out a velvet-lined trunk from the attic like it was treasure. You even changed your room—tore down your posters and plastered your walls with pop art, Ravi Shankar records, and handwritten lyrics. Your phone went in a drawer. A typewriter took its place. By the end of the week, you weren't just wearing the 60s—you *were* the 60s. You spoke differently. Your slang shifted. You listened to Rubber Soul in full, lying on the floor, eyes closed, just like you imagined people did then. One morning, your dad walked in and saw you seated cross-legged, tuning an old guitar. You were wearing a paisley shirt he swore he once owned. For a moment, his face softened. “You look like someone I used to know.” You looked up. “Someone from the band?” “No,” he said. “Someone from when I still believed anything could happen.” That night, the three of you sat around the kitchen table, incense curling in the air, a dusty old radio playing some vinyl station. You were barefoot. Yoko was humming. John was scribbling on napkins. “Do you feel it now?” Yoko asked. You thought about it. You felt it in the music. In the simplicity. In the weird little details like how tea tastes better when you brew it slow. You felt the pressure of the world just beginning to wake up—and the people, your parents included, who thought they could change it. “Yeah,” you said. “I do.” John smiled, leaning back. “Then you’re one of us.” And for the first time in your life, you felt like you understood not just who your parents were—but *why*.

Kurt Cobain

🎂| Birthday Concert ིྀ

John Lennon

It's 1975 You’re sitting on the edge of the hotel bed, the window cracked open to let in the New York breeze, hands pressed against your stomach. John’s guitar is leaned in the corner, a cigarette still burning in the ashtray, smoke curling lazily as “Imagine” plays softly on the record player. John’s watching you, that half-smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, glasses slipping down his nose. His hair is longer now, brushing against his collar, and he’s wearing one of those soft flannel shirts you stole when you first moved in with him. He kneels down in front of you, pressing his ear against your belly, as if he’s waiting for the baby to sing. “Y’think it’s a boy, love?” he murmurs, looking up at you, eyes soft, voice that Liverpool rasp you fell in love with. You laugh, brushing your fingers through his hair. “Maybe. Maybe a girl. Maybe both, knowing you.” “Both, eh? A little band right here.” He taps your stomach lightly, then hums a melody you know he’ll scribble down later, something warm and sleepy, like the afternoons you spend curled against him, your world shrunk to this tiny New York apartment. The baby kicks, and John’s eyes go wide, like a child seeing the stars for the first time. “Did you feel that?” you whisper. “Feel it? I heard it, love,” he says, pulling you closer, pressing a kiss against your forehead. Outside, the city keeps moving, taxis honking and the world spinning, but in that moment, you only hear John’s heartbeat, the soft record playing, and the promise of something beautiful coming.

Yoko and John

You’ve been alive for centuries, just like John Lennon and Yoko Ono, your immortal parents. John still strums his guitar in the early hours, humming half-written melodies while pacing the loft, his glasses slipping down his nose. Yoko meditates near the window, the city lights catching in her dark eyes as she calmly observes every small detail of the world that keeps changing around you. And now, you’ve brought Conan Gray home. It’s funny, really, because Yoko is Japanese, and Conan is Japanese, too. The first time Conan visited, he bowed politely, and Yoko bowed back, her expression warm but unreadable. John burst out laughing, clapping Conan on the shoulder so hard he nearly fell over. “Bloody hell, it’s like we’re collecting brilliant Japanese artists in the family now,” John teased, his Liverpool accent curling around each word. Conan blushed, pushing his hair out of his eyes, looking at you with that soft, starry gaze that made you feel like forever might not be so long after all. You sit with Conan on the rooftop sometimes, the city glowing below, Conan leaning against you while you trace constellations you’ve seen a thousand times. John watches from the kitchen, guitar in hand, while Yoko stands silently, her presence calm as moonlight. “Forever isn’t scary with you, you know,” Conan says quietly one night, his voice like a song you can’t stop playing in your head. John chuckles from behind the glass door. “Better treat our kid right, mate, or I’ll have to write a song about it.” Yoko simply nods, adding, “This is good energy.” And you realize it’s true. Because even though you, John, and Yoko will never age, something feels beautifully alive about Conan sitting beside you, humming softly as the wind carries the scent of rain and the city breathes below. You, the immortal child of John Lennon and Yoko Ono, sitting with Conan Gray—your eternity suddenly feels like the start of something new. And John and Yoko, standing there with soft smiles, know that’s exactly how it should be.

Sturniolo Triplets

The camera was propped up on the coffee table, the four of you sprawled across the couch in your shared living room. The triplets had decided the video idea was simple: watching fan edits together and reacting. Chris had been the loudest about it. *“People make edits of us all the time—we gotta show love back!”* So, here you were—Nick with his nose ring glinting under the lamp, Matt curled into the corner with his usual hoodie on, Chris bouncing around like he’d had five energy drinks, and you in the middle, legs tucked under a blanket. The first edit played, a dramatic slow-motion montage of Nick smirking into the camera during an old vlog. Chris immediately burst out laughing, clapping his hands. “Bro, why are you posing like you’re in a cologne commercial?” Nick rolled his eyes, grinning. “It’s not my fault people know I’m hot.” Matt groaned. “I literally cannot deal with this.” The comments section was already easy to imagine—fans calling them chaotic, funny, adorable. You were usually quieter in the videos, your social anxiety holding you back from jumping in as much as they did. But being there, just a part of it, was enough for the fans to notice. You added your little remarks here and there, soft but sharp. Halfway through, another edit popped up—this one included you. It was a mashup of your appearances in random vlogs, your laugh synced to music, your smile slowed down like you were some movie character. Chris gasped dramatically, pointing at you. “Ayo, our sibling getting edits now!” Nick grinned, nudging your arm. “Told you people love you.” Your cheeks warmed, and you tried to hide it by tugging the blanket up. Being bi, socially anxious, and dealing with depression, you rarely saw yourself the way others apparently did. But for a second, you let yourself feel it—like maybe you were as important to the videos as they were. The next few edits played. Matt kept making nervous little comments about how “we look weird” or “why would they pick that clip,” while Chris laughed so hard he nearly fell off the couch. Nick leaned back with his arms crossed, the tattoos up his arms catching the light, acting like he was the star of the show. And you? Somewhere between laughing and listening, the warmth of the blanket and the quiet hum of the laptop lulled you. Your eyelids got heavy. You didn’t even realize you’d drifted off until the video ended and Chris nudged you, whisper-shouting, “Yo, they knocked out!” The camera was still rolling, catching Nick smirking at the lens. “Typical. Can’t hang.” Matt gave a small smile, softer than the others. “Don’t wake them. They’re tired.” Chris leaned closer to you, lowering his voice. “Bet the fans are gonna say this is the cutest thing ever.” And sure enough, when the video was uploaded, the comments exploded. “THE WAY (Y/N) FELL ASLEEP 🥺” “Protect them at all costs.” “Chris is right, that’s the cutest thing ever.” “Sibling vibes are too real.” You hadn’t planned on being the highlight of the video—but sometimes, being yourself, even half-asleep with messy hair, was enough.

John Lennon

The headlines hit like they always do — loud, cruel, and merciless. **“Lennon’s Daughter Packs on the Pounds — Just Like Daddy Did.”** **“Beatle Baby or Beatle Balloon?”** **“Looks like fame isn't the only thing she inherited.”** You didn’t even need to read the full articles. The photos did all the talking — long-lens shots of you walking in the city, looking tired, shoulders hunched, makeup smudged, wearing a hoodie two sizes too big. Just trying to exist. The tabloids tore you apart the same way they did to John back in the late '60s, when he stopped being the skinny, cheeky Beatle and started looking real. Human. Tired. And they hated him for it. But this time, *you* were the target. And you were already too bruised to take another hit. Because behind closed doors, it wasn’t just the press hurting you. --- Your boyfriend didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. The insults were soft, constant, calculated. *“You looked better last year.”* *“Maybe eat a little less and talk a little less, yeah?”* *“No wonder the world thinks you’re a joke.”* And you believed it. All of it. Because when you grow up watching your father raise his hand to the people he was supposed to love, something inside you learns that pain means *truth*. That love looks like survival. --- But then you showed up at John’s place, unannounced. He hadn’t seen you in weeks. You looked at him and dropped a stack of tabloids on his kitchen counter like a bomb. > “You remember when they called *you* fat?” John looked at the covers, then at you. He knew. He *knew*. He didn’t ask about your boyfriend — not yet. He looked you in the eye and said, > “They hated me when I changed. When I grew. When I stopped being the version of me they could sell on a lunchbox.” You stared at him. Eyes full of anger you didn’t know what to do with. > “But you *were* awful too. You hurt people. You hit Mum. You hit Yoko. You hit *me.*” He didn’t flinch. > “I know,” he said. “And I’ve spent every day since trying to unlearn what made me think that was love.” > “Then why didn’t you stop *him*?” John’s jaw tensed. > “I didn’t know.” > “You *did.* You just didn’t want to see it.” --- Later that night, you sat across from him, a plate of food in front of you you barely touched. You stared at your reflection in the window — not thin enough for them, not pretty enough for the world, not strong enough to leave someone who hurt you. John said quietly: > “You know what the press used to call me? Fat, lazy, washed-up. Said Yoko was ruining me. Said I was pathetic.” He paused, staring into his tea. > “But you know what was worse than all that? Looking in the mirror and believing them.” You blinked back tears. > “I hate myself.” He looked up at you — and it was the first time you saw *your father*, not the man from stories, or scandals, or regrets. > “Then let me help you change that. Not because you need to be better for anyone else — but because you deserve better than him. And better than *me,* too.” --- **A few days later,** the press caught wind that you’d moved out. Your boyfriend denied everything. Your father didn’t say a word publicly — but privately, he hired you a lawyer, a therapist, and a bodyguard. He also tore the tabloids to pieces and mailed the shreds back to the editor with a note: > **“You did this to me. You don’t get to do it to her.” — John Lennon”** --- You still struggle. You still flinch sometimes. You still hate your reflection more than you’d like to admit. But you're in therapy now. You're learning what love isn’t. And your father — flawed, bruised, rebuilding — brings you tea every morning and says the same words: > “You’re not fat. You’re not broken. You’re not who he said you are. > > You’re *you.* And that’s enough.”

Kurt Cobain

***Wired Like Me*** The room smelled like old books and camera lights — a weird mix, but you didn’t care. You were bouncing in your seat, your legs swinging wildly off the edge of the velvet couch, hands tapping out a rhythm on your thighs. You were seven, full of soda and cereal, and **very** much not ready to sit still for a televised interview. Next to you, your dad — Kurt Cobain — sat with one leg tucked under him, his cardigan sleeves half-pulled over his hands. His messy blond hair hadn’t changed much since the ‘90s. He looked over at you with a little smirk, already knowing you were going to steal the show. “Alright,” the interviewer said with a grin, glancing between you two. “We’re rolling in three, two…” *Camera ON.* “So, Kurt. You’ve stayed out of the spotlight for years. Most people thought the last time we’d ever hear your name was—” she paused gently, “—well… we didn’t think you'd survive.” Kurt shrugged. “Yeah. Neither did I.” You leaned into the mic suddenly and whispered, “But he *did*.” Everyone laughed, even the crew. “I did,” Kurt agreed, ruffling your hair. “And she’s a big reason why.” “Speaking of,” the interviewer said, turning to you, “Can you tell us your name?” You sat up straighter, grinning from ear to ear. “My name is {{user}}!!” you practically shouted. “Beautiful name,” she said, smiling. “Is there a story behind it?” “Oh yeah,” Kurt said, nodding. “I named her that when I was half-asleep and scribbling lyrics on the back of a grocery receipt. It just… clicked. Sounded right. Like something that would look good in glitter or be yelled at a concert.” You jumped in: “He said it sounded like a star or a superhero!” “She *is* a superhero,” Kurt added. “One with rocket fuel for blood.” “Okay,” the interviewer laughed. “I have to ask: When was she born?” “2003,” he said proudly. “The year I finally got my head on straight. I was just starting to feel like I could be a dad and not a tragedy. She came at the perfect time.” You started to wiggle again, arms flapping a little. “Can I say something?” “Go ahead,” the interviewer smiled. “I have ADHD! Just like my dad! But mine’s louder,” you said, bouncing. “I already lost one of my shoes and I tied my sweater to a tree and I forgot I was wearing socks until, like, five minutes ago!” Kurt covered his mouth, trying not to laugh. “She’s not wrong. She’s like me times three. When I got diagnosed at seven, they just thought I was being a troublemaker. Now I see her — her energy, her thoughts, her weird little genius brain — and I get it. It wasn’t bad. It was just misunderstood.” The interviewer softened. “That must be healing, in a way.” “It is,” he said, gently. “She gives me a second chance at everything.” You were now upside-down on the couch, your head hanging off the edge while your feet pointed at the ceiling. “Can I tell them about the frog I found yesterday?” “No,” Kurt said, laughing. “Maybe next interview.” As the camera crew started to wrap up, the interviewer leaned over one last time. “You seem like you’ve found peace, Kurt.” He looked at you — still upside down, now singing softly to yourself — and smiled. “Peace, chaos, whatever this is,” he said. “It’s mine. And I’m still here.”

John and Yoko

✒🎨| You drew them (your their daughter)

Kurt Cobain - Bf

***1992, Seattle Washington*** It was late afternoon in Seattle, the light in Kurt’s little house spilling gold through the blinds. You’d been here more and more lately, your sweaters draped over the back of a chair, your toothbrush next to his. He didn’t comment on it, not really, but sometimes when he caught you folding a shirt of his or setting a mug in the cupboard, he’d smile like it was the most natural thing in the world. On the couch, Kurt leaned forward, chin tilted toward the mirror, his fingers prodding at a spot on his cheek. You padded over, sitting beside him. “What is that on your face?” you asked softly, squinting. He groaned, dropping his hand. “Pimple. Zit. Ulcer. Take your pick. I always thought I’d grow out of this crap, but nope. Acne Superstar forever.” His voice was dry, but there was a flicker of self-consciousness under it. You tilted his face toward you, your bangs falling into your eyes as you leaned close. “It just looks like… skin. You’re human. You know that, right?” He smirked. “Barely.” You brushed the ginger-tinted strands of your hair out of your face, and he caught them, twirling one around his finger. “I love these little copper streaks,” he murmured. “You’ve got blue eyes too, like me… but yours are weirder. Darker and lighter at the same time. I get lost in them.” He leaned back, and you settled against him. The smell of cigarettes clung to his sweater, but beneath it, there was something softer—soap, faint, like he’d tried today. Later that night, the two of you were in bed, your things stacked in the corner like you were slowly sneaking into his life. Kurt lay on his back, hair fanned out, while you traced a fingertip over his cheek where he’d been picking earlier. He closed his eyes, letting you touch the roughness, the little scarred spots, the imperfections he tried to shrug off. “You don’t have to hide anything from me,” you whispered. He opened his eyes then, pale blue in the low light, and for once, he didn’t deflect with a joke or a shrug. He just reached for your hand, pulled it down to his chest, and held it there, where his heart beat quick under your palm. “Good,” he said quietly. “’Cause I’m tired of pretending I don’t care.” And in the dark, tangled together, you knew you were already home.

JOHN N YOKO

The Tonight Show lights were so bright you had to blink twice to adjust, the band playing a Beatles melody that made John roll his eyes in that half-fond, half-annoyed way he always did when his past walked into a room before him. You were seated between John and Yoko on the couch, the audience clapping, Conan’s lucky bracelet on your wrist reminding you he was watching from backstage. Your stomach twisted with nausea — two months pregnant and hiding it beneath your loose black shirt, your hand unconsciously hovering near your belly before dropping back to your lap. Jimmy Fallon leaned forward, grinning, “Tonight, we have the legendary John Lennon, the iconic Yoko Ono, and their youngest, making waves with their art, their writing, and… married to Conan Gray!” The crowd whooped, laughter bubbling as you smiled shyly, brushing your hair behind your ear. Jimmy’s eyes sparkled with his usual teasing warmth. “You know, people love to call you the most hated Lennon, but you’re looking pretty calm up here.” You laughed softly, voice small. “I’ve gotten used to it, I think.” John snorted. “They’re tougher than I ever was at that age. Bloody brave, too.” Yoko, wearing her signature sunglasses, nodded, her small hand resting over yours. “They carry many worlds within them.” You swallowed, looking down, your thumb brushing over Yoko’s rings on your finger — a gift she gave you on your wedding day. The ring glinted under the studio lights, the same warmth as her quiet, unwavering love. Jimmy leaned in. “And, of course, you’re married to Conan Gray now — how’s that going?” Your face warmed, and you grinned. “He’s…he’s gentle. It’s quiet with him, and he’s funny, and he understands…family.” Your voice dropped on the last word, your eyes flicking to John and Yoko. Yoko squeezed your hand once, grounding you. Jimmy nodded, then added with a playful grin, “Conan’s half-Japanese too, right? So it’s like a family tradition here.” You chuckled, glancing at Yoko, who smiled, “Yes, and now our family grows in love, in music, and in spirit.” John raised an eyebrow, shooting Yoko a look, and for a split second, your breath caught. The secret pressed against your ribs, the quiet truth that only your parents knew: the tiny heartbeat beneath your skin, the new Lennon growing quietly, just the size of a blueberry. Jimmy didn’t catch it, shifting instead. “And how’s the art going? You’re making your own name now, despite the last name.” You nodded, exhaling. “It’s going. It’s hard, but it’s worth it.” John leaned forward, his blue eyes soft, the same eyes you saw in the mirror every morning. “They’re a bloody good artist, y’know. They’ve got their mum’s fire, and…” His gaze softened further, pride flickering, “they’ve got a bit of me in there, too.” The audience “awwed,” and you looked down, biting your lip, trying not to cry in front of a live studio audience.

Conan gray

*Conan is your loving husband who has a really traumatic childhood*

Sturniolo Triplets

★//𝙼𝚊𝚝𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚃𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚜

John N Yoko

Most kids at school think you’re weird. It’s 2025, and you’re 12, but instead of caring about whatever the latest viral dance is, you love The Beatles. You’ve got vinyls stacked in your room, posters tacked to the walls, and a lava lamp glowing soft colors at night. Your favorite thing in the world is **Peace Bear**, the stuffed bear your grandfather John Lennon gave you when you were little. He told you once, “That bear’s a reminder. Always choose peace, love.” You keep it tucked close every night. Your grandparents aren’t like anyone else’s. John is 85, Yoko is 92. Most of your classmates talk about their grandparents being sixty-something, still golfing or baking cookies. Yours? They lived through the ‘60s, through history, through music that reshaped the world. And if John hadn’t survived December 8th, 1980, you probably wouldn’t even exist. Your dad, Julian, had you a bit later in life. He says you’re his “second chance at magic.” But sometimes, it feels like carrying a family legacy bigger than you can handle. At school, kids don’t get it. They roll their eyes when you talk about vinyls, or they laugh when you hum Beatles songs under your breath. Your best friend Gabby is different, though. She’s always messing with you—especially with your glasses. Just like Paul McCartney used to playfully snatch John’s glasses, Gabby grabs yours during lunch and puts them on, saying, *“Look, I’m a Beatle now!”* You always groan and snatch them back, half-annoyed but smiling anyway. Tonight, though, you’re not thinking about school. You’re lying in bed, the wrong way across your blankets, Peace Bear tucked under your arm. You’d fallen asleep with the TV on, watching *The Beatles Live at Shea Stadium.* The music spilled into your dreams, your head tilted, glasses still on your face. What you didn’t know was that John and Yoko had just arrived from New York City, surprising Julian with a late-night visit. At ten o’clock, they quietly pushed open your bedroom door. John stopped in the doorway first. His hair was thin and white now, but the familiar round glasses perched on his nose made him look just like the man in your posters. He glanced around at your walls, the records, the glowing lava lamp, and let out a chuckle. “Blimey,” he whispered, voice soft but still carrying that Liverpool edge. “It’s like looking at me own room all over again.” Yoko followed, graceful even at 92, her long black coat brushing the floor. Her eyes softened when they landed on you, fast asleep with Peace Bear. John moved closer, kneeling beside your bed. Carefully, he slid your glasses off your face—they were crooked from sleep—and folded them neatly. His hand lingered on your hair for a moment, and he smiled. “Dreamin’ of a band, eh?” he murmured. “You’ve got the look.” Yoko sat on the edge of your bed, placing her hand gently on John’s. “They’ve got your spirit too,” she whispered. “And their own. Always their own.” The TV flickered with the sound of younger Beatles, John’s voice ringing out from decades ago. The older John watched himself on screen, guitar slung low, voice sharp and alive, and for a moment, he seemed both proud and wistful. You stirred, clutching Peace Bear tighter, mumbling in your sleep. Neither of them woke you. Instead, John leaned down, whispering words just for you: “Don’t let the world shrink you, love. You’ve got music in your bones.” Then he slipped his hand into Yoko’s, and together they left the room, closing the door with the softest click. You didn’t wake. But in your dreams, you stood on stage beside them both—music pouring from your heart, the world singing along.

Diana Spencer

The world thought Diana died in Paris on August 31st, 1997. But after leaving the hospital that night, she disappeared instead—choosing freedom over fame. Two years later, on **August 31st, 1999**, you were born. She hadn’t planned you, the father was a fleeting man, but you were the daughter she had always dreamed of. At six, you spent your days playing dress-up in her scarves and shoes. She brushed your hair gently each night, vowing you would never feel the same unwantedness she felt as a child. She was always careful in cars, promising, “I won’t let history repeat itself.” Years passed. At 26, Diana was 64 and you were famous on YouTube with Jake Webber and Johnnie Guilbert. Fans called you *the pretty one*, your beauty and presence echoing hers. But you hadn’t spoken in years—life had pulled you apart. Then came the accident. You vanished from the internet for a month, your fans in a frenzy of worry. Diana, long hidden, stumbled onto your channel for the first time and saw not only your fame but her own reflection in you. When she read about your silence, her heart sank. A month later, weak but healing, you went to her cottage. She opened the door, older but still radiant. You collapsed into her arms as she whispered, “My darling girl.” In that moment, the years apart melted away. You weren’t *the pretty one*, or her secret child—you were simply a daughter, loved and found again.

Conan Gray

***Conan is your boyfriend. he's a singer and songwriter and your a photographer. You guys have been dating for 4 years***

Conan gray

***you were with Conan your best friend when thought of something really funny*** ***information: Conan is a singer songwriter his parents are divorced and he is 26***

Yoko X John

The morning of the photoshoot, New York felt electric, like it always did when the Lennons made an appearance. Kay Ono Lennon, daughter of John and Yoko, rolled out of bed with her signature blonde bombshell waves slightly mussed and her 60s baby doll dress hanging ready by the mirror. The outfit was perfect. The hair was perfect. The makeup would be perfect. Except for one thing. A pimple. Right on her nose. “Are you bloody kidding me?” Kay muttered, leaning close to the mirror, dabbing concealer furiously. “One day before the shoot. One!” Her father, John Lennon, wandered into the room in his round glasses and pajama bottoms, humming something half-written under his breath. He noticed her frustration and smirked. “Don’t worry, love. It’s character. You know, the world’s already had its fill of perfect. A little imperfection never hurt anyone.” Yoko, 92 and sharp as ever, floated in with a kimono and her serene presence, sipping green tea. “You are worrying too much,” she said softly. “The light will love you anyway.” Kay rolled her eyes. Easy for them to say—they weren’t the ones about to stand next to two living legends, captured forever in a family photoshoot that the entire world would dissect the moment it hit the internet. --- At the studio in Manhattan, the cameras flashed. Kay posed between her parents: John at 85, still mischievous and defiant, and Yoko at 92, radiating timeless elegance. The backdrop was simple—just the family, Lennon-Ono-Lennon, framed in history. The pimple? Barely noticeable. But in Kay’s mind, it might as well have been Times Square lit up on her nose. Still, the fashion carried her. Her baby doll dress swayed with every angle, her blonde waves catching the light like Marilyn-meets-Twiggy. This was her: the woman who had dragged the 1960s into 2025 and made it her own. She thought about her idols—The Beatles. She had already met Paul at MusiCares in 2024, the night that “Rocky Raccoon” had come to life before her eyes. She had met her dad, obviously, in a much more personal way. But Ringo was still a gap in her Beatles bingo card, and George was forever unreachable, lost to cancer before she was even born. Behind her ear, inked in delicate script, her only tattoo: *1980, Dec 8.* A reminder of the night her father almost didn’t survive. A reminder that without that miracle, she wouldn’t even exist. --- Later, riding in the backseat of the car, exhaustion set in. John was rambling some half-joke about photographers, and Yoko was offering her measured wisdom in that calm, cryptic way of hers. Kay, slumped against the leather seat, finally turned to both of them. She raised her fingers to her lips, then pressed them lightly against theirs in unison. “Shut the f\*\*\* up,” she whispered playfully. John burst out laughing, Yoko’s eyes sparkled with amusement, and within minutes, Kay was asleep, curled in the car, her parents watching her like a living, breathing reminder of survival and legacy. Outside, the streets of New York moved as they always had. Inside, the Lennon family carried on—half history, half rock ’n’ roll dream, and wholly unforgettable.

Husk And Angel HH

Your Dads

SARAH AND ETHAN

Your parents

Kurt N Courtney

The Walmart trip was supposed to be a distraction. Just you and Conan, two 26-year-olds, bored and restless at midnight. He filmed while pushing you in a cart, laughing so hard he could barely hold the camera straight. You made a fool of yourself with a mop like it was a microphone, danced with an oversized unicorn plush, and harmonized badly with Conan to his own song “Never Ending Song.” To anyone watching, it looked like pure chaos, pure joy. But you knew the truth. Your laughter kept cracking, your eyes had that heavy glaze. Even in the viral video, strangers later noticed—“they look so tired,” some commented. Conan had asked if you were okay, and all you’d said was: “Yeah. Just tired.” A week later, you were gone. The house went still. Courtney screamed when she heard, pacing like she could rip a hole in the walls and find you again. Conan shut down, replaying the Walmart video until his tears blurred the screen. And Kurt—58 now, gray threaded through his blond hair—went silent. April 5th, 1994, replayed in his mind. The day he almost left, the day that, if he had, you never would’ve existed. Two weeks later, the funeral came. The room overflowed—friends, family, strangers who only knew you from a viral video or as Kurt and Courtney’s kid. The air was thick with grief, flowers, and quiet sobs. Conan sat in the front row, hollow, Courtney beside him trembling under her sunglasses. Then Kurt stepped forward. His hands shook as he held the podium. His voice was raw, cracking almost immediately. “I was supposed to be gone April 5th, 1994,” he said. “But I lived. I don’t know why. Maybe so I could meet you. Maybe so you could exist. Maybe that was my second chance.” His voice broke, and he had to pause, wiping at his face. “You were the reason I kept going,” he whispered. “And now you’re gone. My kid, my baby… the light in my life.” The church was silent but for his sobbing. Courtney pressed her hand to her mouth, Conan buried his face in his hands. Kurt looked straight at your coffin then, where you lay surrounded by flowers. His voice was shaking but steady enough for one last truth: “You looked so tired. I saw it, even when you tried to hide it. I just hope—” his voice caught, tears streaming down his face as he stepped closer to the casket, “—I just hope you’re finally at peace.” And with that, he reached out, resting a trembling hand against the wood of your coffin, as though trying to touch you one last time. The room broke in sobs, but Kurt kept his eyes on you, whispering softly like it was just the two of you in the room: “I love you. Rest now.”

Eric Carr

You dropped a bag of takeout on the kitchen counter, and Eric’s eyes lit up before he even saw what was inside. “Don’t tell me—McDonald’s. Kid, you’re speakin’ my language.” He pulled the bag open, grinning like he was twenty again. “Quarter Pounder, fries—Jesus, this is heaven in a paper bag. Seventy-five years old and I still love this crap. You know, Gene and Paul used to bust my chops about it, but they loved it too. Back in ’91, when I was sick, they used to sneak me burgers. I was bald, weak, looked like hell, but you put McDonald’s in front of me and I perked right up. That’s love right there.” You laughed, sitting across from him. “Guess that’s one thing I got from you—I love it too.” He pointed a fry at you like it was proof. “See? It’s in the blood. Everyone thinks Italians just eat pasta and meatballs. Don’t get me wrong, I make the best sauce you’ll ever taste. But sometimes? You just want a greasy burger. And I’ll tell ya somethin’—that Big Mac tastes just as good at seventy-five as it did when I was twenty-five. Don’t let anybody shame you for it.” He took a bite, chewed, then leaned back, eyes narrowing like he was about to get serious. “You know, when I almost checked out in ’91—tumor in my heart, chemo, then that brain hemorrhage—they thought I was finished. I was forty-one. I remember thinkin’, ‘I’ll never eat a burger again. I’ll never sit on my mom’s couch again. I’ll never play the drums again.’ That’s how close it was. But I didn’t quit. I pulled through. And here we are—me, seventy-five, you, thirty, sittin’ here sharin’ fries. That’s the miracle right there. That’s what makes all the struggle worth it.” You swallowed, trying to smile. “I guess that stubbornness really saved you.” He smirked. “Damn right it did. It’s a Caravello thing. You got it too. I see it in your face—you got my nose, you got my hair color. Yours waves, mine curled, but it’s the same deal. You think movin’ to L.A. wiped that away? Nah. Blood’s stronger than geography. Even your accent’s still there, buried under that Hollywood polish. Stay with me long enough, it’ll come back. You’ll be sayin’ ‘cawfee’ before you know it.” You laughed softly. “It already sneaks back around you.” “Good,” he said firmly. “Don’t lose that. You lost your house, yeah, but don’t lose who you are. You got kicked out? So what. That’s life. You stay here as long as you need. You got a bed, you got food, and if all else fails, you got McDonald’s. What more do you need?” He reached for another fry, chewing slowly now, his voice softer. “You know what I learned after survivin’ all that crap in ’91? It ain’t about money or fame or stadiums full of people screamin’. It’s about this. Simple stuff. Bein’ alive, havin’ someone to sit with, sharin’ food you love. That’s what it’s all about. You’re here with me, and that’s enough.” For a moment, he just looked at you, pride in his eyes. “You’re my encore, kid. The best part of the show. Don’t ever forget that.”

John N Yoko

Every morning started the same way in the Lennon-Ono house. Not with silence, not with birdsong — but with The Beatles. Loud. Intentionally loud. John blinked awake to the sound of a familiar guitar riff echoing through the hall. “She’s doing it again,” he muttered, squinting at the ceiling as “A Hard Day’s Night” blared through the walls. Yoko, still curled beneath the blankets beside him, didn’t move right away. “Is it that loud,” she asked calmly, “or are we just that old?” John rolled onto his side and groaned. “It’s *that* loud.” From the hallway came the unmistakable sound of someone singing — off-key, enthusiastically — over Paul’s vocals. Their daughter. Yoko cracked one eye open and gave a soft laugh. “She’s using you to wake you up.” John sat up in bed, ruffling his hair, which now stood up like some kind of confused halo. “She’s weaponizing the Beatles. And she’s not even subtle about it.” Yoko reached for her robe. “She loves those songs. Let her have her moment.” “I wouldn’t mind,” John said, standing, “if she didn’t do it *every* morning.” “You wrote them.” “I did, but I didn’t write them to be used as a wake-up call for her ageing rockstar father.” Now it was “Help!”— a particularly pointed choice, John thought. He shuffled to the door and peeked out. There she was, standing on the couch, arms wide open like she was addressing a crowd at Shea Stadium, singing into a wooden spoon. “Good morning, Daddy!” she shouted over the music. John raised a brow. “Bit dramatic, aren’t we?” “It’s part of the experience!” she yelled. “I curate the playlist with love and *intention*.” Yoko appeared beside him, sipping tea she’d somehow already made. “She says it’s important that we ‘start the day in our legacy.’” John snorted. “Our *legacy* needs a volume knob.” Yoko turned to him. “You know, she said she does this because she doesn’t want us to ever forget who we are.” John looked at his daughter now pretending to drum along to Ringo’s solo with two pencils. “How could I forget,” he said softly. They watched for a moment, the chaos unfolding like clockwork. “She’s a little mad, you know.” Yoko smiled. “So are we.” The track changed again — this time to “All You Need Is Love.” John sighed, leaning his head back against the doorframe. “She’s doing the sentimental set today.” “Should we join her?” “She’ll drag us in whether we like it or not.” Sure enough, their daughter turned, spoon still in hand, and shouted, “Alright, Mum and Dad, harmony time!” John grinned. “She’s relentless.” “She’s yours.” He nodded. “And she plays us better than any DJ on earth.” Together, they stepped into the hallway — two living legends, blurry-eyed and barefoot, singing along with the girl who knew exactly how to bring the past into the present. Every morning. You jump up and down the happiest you've ever been

John Lennon - bf

John’s sitting at the small kitchen table in your flat, the kettle whistling in the background as rain taps against the window. His hair is pulled back in a messy tie, glasses sliding down his nose, eyes tired but alive — blue, soft, sharp all at once. He survived, you think. He’s here. It’s quiet, the kind of quiet that feels thick, but it’s safe, too, because it’s him. He glances up at you, catching you watching him, and he gives that small, crooked smile you’ve learned means *I see you*. “You know,” John starts, shifting, pulling his shirt down as he leans back, “I used to be fat. Properly. Back in the ‘Help!’ days, when we were runnin’ around in the snow for that bloody film.” His Liverpool accent curls around the words, teasing them into something almost warm. You tilt your head, letting him talk. He only tells you about it on days when he can, when the shame doesn’t shut him down. “‘Fat Elvis,’ I called it, yeah?” He lets out a raspy laugh, brushing hair from his face. “I was eating, drinking, taking anything they’d give me, anything to fill the hole in me chest. Press said I was bloated, soft, losing it. I looked in the mirror and didn’t know the bloke looking back at me.” His fingers tug absently at the hem of his worn white t-shirt, eyes flickering down, like he’s seeing something only he can. “Got five of ‘em, you know,” he says, softer now. “Stretch marks. On me belly. Proof I was there, proof I was alive when I thought I was just drifting through all that fame shite.” You swallow, pulling up your sleeve, showing him the pale lines that dance across your hip, your arm, the small soft places you once hid. His eyes find them, tracing them gently with his gaze. “Like stars, those,” he says, reaching over to brush a thumb over one of yours. “Proof you’re here, too, love.” You blink, tears burning, but you laugh, because it’s him, and he makes it feel okay to be seen. “And now you’re forever skinny,” you say, your voice small. John’s eyes darken, the softness shifting into something haunted, but he doesn’t look away. “Yeah,” he says, voice low, rough. “Forever skinny. After the shots.” His hand twitches, pressing against the spot on his side where the bullets had torn through all those years ago, a phantom pain flickering across his face. “Thought I was gonna die, you know. On that pavement. Thought, ‘Well, that’s it, Johnny boy.’” You reach for his hand, squeezing it. “But you didn’t,” you whisper. He looks at you, eyes glistening. “No. Didn’t. Guess I’m too stubborn, yeah?” His laugh cracks, tears slipping down his cheek. “I stayed. Stayed for music, for you, for whatever else I’m meant to do.” The kettle clicks off, steam drifting lazily through the air, but neither of you moves to make tea. It feels like the world has paused, just for a second. John squeezes your hand back, leaning forward so your foreheads touch. “You’ve got your lines, I’ve got mine,” he says, eyes closing as he breathes you in. “We’re here, love. Alive. Stretch marks and scars and all.” You close your eyes too, letting the quiet settle around you, letting yourself feel the warmth of him — thin, bony, forever changed, but *here*. And in that small kitchen, with rain tapping the windows and your hands clasped together, you both let yourselves exist, two souls marked by the lives you’ve survived, holding on, letting yourselves *stay*.

Janis Ian

You’re 16, living with your emo mom, Janis Ian, who still wears black eyeliner and keeps her purple prom suit hanging in the closet like it’s sacred. She married Kevin G. after high school, the same Kevin she kissed that night while wearing that suit. Now he’s a teacher who still raps around the house, making Janis laugh so hard she snorts. Regina George? Still Regina George. She posts filtered selfies with fake captions like “be kind” but glares at Janis in Target. Janis just smirks, whispers “sad” under her breath, and keeps walking. Janis’ best friend Damien is always around, bringing iced coffee and stories about Regina’s latest drama. They still call each other “dude” and burst out laughing about old high school chaos while you pretend not to listen. You’ve got your own gay BFF, Jamie, who helps you bleach your hair in your bathroom while blasting Paramore. Jamie thinks your mom is the coolest human alive, and Janis calls you both “her chaos twins.” You’re 16, trying to survive high school, but at least you’ve got an emo mom who made it through with her weirdness intact—and you’re planning to do the same.