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cricket-reader · 2 years ago

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The Smell of Alcohol and Cologne

Masterlist | A03 | Wattpad | Recommendations | Inbox

Summary: Tony Stark’s assistant has a flashback and finds comfort in Tony’s arms.

Warnings: Past abuse, hints of SA, MC almost jumps off the tower, mention of a dead mother, fluff, it’s kinda dumb, pining, self-deprecating thoughts, self-blame

Word Count: 3,000

Looking at his assistant Tony takes his time to look at each and every feature. Sure, he stares a lot, but she’s always too oblivious to notice. It’s kinda cute—but at the same time, irritating.

He’s never been able to really stare from this close a distance. She just usually would make some excuse of how she has to do one thing or another.

Her long dark lashes lie gently on her cheeks that are slightly pink, being warm from the blanket and the fireplace. Her freckles are more prominent up close and he can see her perfectly plucked eyebrows. How she manages to keep up her perfect appearance is beyond him.

Despite her shy nature, they have grown closer—helped mainly by his personality. He’s glad for that.

Noting that she probably isn’t going to wake soon, and that she usually doesn’t get much sleep, Tony decides to take her to bed. He only knows that because he asked Jarvis if she was still up one night; when he asked why she was, Jarvis said that she usually never gets much sleep.

Trying to be as careful, quiet, and gentle as possible, Tony lifts her small body, bringing it to his room—since hers is not finished being painted.

She only gains half her consciousness when she is picked up. In her stupor, she smells the light scent of cologne and alcohol and knows she is being carried somewhere by a man. She’s had night terrors like this before, but this felt too real.

It was strange though; the cologne wasn’t the same. Sometimes she had flashbacks in which she could faintly smell the cologne and alcohol, but it isn’t the same as it is now.

Tony notices her body stiffen and her laboured breathing which makes him concerned.

She feels as though she might just get sick.

When Tony began to lower her onto his bed, she freaked. Gently lowering the beauty onto his bed, he covers her with the duvet and looks at her with admiration.

Adrenaline sent her flying up from her lying position on Tony’s bed. Confusion warps her brain. This can’t be real, she thinks.

Tony sees her wide eyes and immediately wants to comfort her, but as he draws closer, she screws her eyes shut, scrambling to the other side of the bed and curling into a ball. This, of course, shocks him. He didn’t understand what was going on; he has never seen her like this.

He faintly hears her mumbling to herself, and when he strains to listen in, he hears her words.

“It’s not real,” plays on repeat. Almost as if she is trying to convince herself—which she is.

Tony gently calls out her name. Her whole body freezes when he gently rests his hands on her arm. This can’t be happening, not again. Tears stream down her face. She thought Tony was one of the good men. Turns out he’s just the same as him.

Deciding she doesn’t want a similar cycle to repeat, she will fight back until he really hurts her—perhaps with a whip like he did.

Tony blinks when she slaps his arm away. She has never so much as shown any reaction similar to this. Even when he noticed that people were clearly bothering her, she kept her cool. He knows this because he often thinks that should he be in that situation, he would slap the person silly.

This is why his concern deepens, almost to a point that is too far. Something is wrong. Something is very wrong. What is it? He has not a clue.

He calls out her name as if trying again, softer this time. She tightens her hold on herself shaking her head as if to clear the situation from her mind; however, she, deep down, knows that it won’t work. It’s too real not to be.

Shifting on the bed so he can get a better stance, she flies up out of the bed. Startled, a wide-eyed Tony jumps up as well.

Now she is for certain; this is real. This is happening. Racing out of the room, Tony panics and does the only thing his brain can think of doing. Being a stressful situation, adrenaline was high in both the individuals for different reasons. If you are not aware, in a state such as this, the brain may sometimes make irrational decisions. With that in mind, Tony chases after the woman not entirely thinking the situation through.

She hears his footsteps. He’s going to beat her. Pummel her into submission.

The door to the stairs bursts open. She flies up the stairs with Tony right behind her. After several floors they reach the top. Tony’s eyes widen as he realises what is about to take place if he doesn’t get ahold of her. He can’t have that. He won’t let that happen.

The door to the roof bursts open as she runs to the edge of the building—it’s not as if she’s suicidal, but this was the best option her mind could provide her. She’d rather die than have to suffer like that again.

Tony felt like he might cry out in relief when he was able to wrap his arms around her to prevent her from getting any further.

She thrashes around in his arms as one final attempt, proving itself futile. Gently cooing, trying to console her, he starts walking back into the tower with great difficulty. In there he will be able to let her go, he just can’t when their out on the roof. She sure as hell isn’t dying on his watch. Once they finally get in the building. He tells Friday to lock the door, cursing himself for not thinking of that sooner. If she would have succeeded right then and there, he would have been at fault.

Finally out of his arms, she stumbles before crashing into the tiled floor. Tony feels his heart break seeing how broken she looks. Squatting down to match her height, he carefully says her name.

Her head snaps up. The look of sheer terror upon her face is like a punch to Tony’s gut. Is she scared of him? She slowly begins to scoot away from him, her eyes still wide. His heart completely shatters and he feels nauseous; she is scared of him. No, terrified is more like it. He stands up, frowning with his brows furrowed with concern

“Please don’t… please, I’m sorry! Whatever I did wrong I can fix it! Please, I’m sorry! I’ll be good! I’ll be better! Please!” She sobs, with a certain sense of brokenness. This makes Tony freeze. Slowly he feels the anger creeping into his body once he processes her words.

It all makes sense now. He doesn’t know how he didn’t see it sooner. Obviously she must have been having a flashback. The thing that makes his stomach twist is his mind wondering what on Earth could elicit such a response.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, slowly lowering himself so he doesn’t tower above her; certainly she’d be even more scared if he stayed like that.

She peeks up from her ball she curled herself into and sees that Tony is sitting on the cold tile, a nice space between the two of them—not too far and not too close.

“You were going to,” she mumbles, picking at her sleeves. His brows furrow in confusion. What did he do wrong?

“No I wasn’t,” he gently insists.

“Why else would you carry me to bed?”

One sentence.

Once sentence is all it took to destroy him. That along with her tear stained face as she looks down to her sleeves that she’s still picking at. He’s never seen anything as heartbreaking as this. His stomach churns as he thinks more and more of her words.

“Sweetheart… I, I never—it-it wasn’t like that,” he stutters, an underlying tone of pain evident in his voice.

“But you were carrying me to bed,” she persists, speaking softly as if not to anger him.

Should it be any other time, the expression on her face was adorable. Her brows furrowed, a small pout on her lips and her head tilted slightly to the right.

But Tony wasn’t thinking about that at the moment.

He was still trying to wrap his brain around the words she had just spoken to him. Never in his life would he have imagined anything like that coming from her lips.

She was always so happy and carefree, a sense of beautiful innocence with every movement. He doesn’t know how she could keep it up; he certainly doesn’t do it well. Locking himself up and not sleeping for days, looking like shit. He wonders how many times she has felt the way he has, but kept a smile on her face.

“I wanted you to sleep somewhere comfortable.”

Her frown deepens, “then why not leave me on the couch?”

“Because that’s not comfortable, I was going to take it instead,” he shrugs off the last sentence as if it were no big deal. Sure, it wasn’t much of a big deal to him, but to her? To her it was too good to be true. He couldn’t have let her sleep in his bed without wanting something in return. That’s not how it works.

“I would have taken you to yours, but they are still painting it,” he sheepishly rubs his neck. He hopes she doesn’t ask too many questions about that. It was supposed to be a surprise. He was going to have her spend the night in Natasha’s room since she was out on a mission with Wanda and Clint.

He sure as hell was not about to go in Natasha’s room. Though he will endlessly deny it, that woman terrified him. He knew that Natasha would be okay with her sleeping in her room though; he had asked prior, telling his plan to her and Clint. He was honestly kind of surprised she so willingly accepted. He would have thought it would take much convincing.

“Painted? What for?” Her expression grows worried and confused as she rushes to say, “I don’t recall ruining the walls.”

“You didn’t, I just thought a change would be nice,” he smiles. Doubt now enters his mind and he frowns, “unless of course you don’t think so.”

He mentally curses himself. For a genius, he can be kind of stupid some times, often rushing into things without truly thinking it through—take Ultron for example.

“So… you weren’t ..going to…”

“No, of course not,” he gently reassured her. She releases a breath and puts her head back on her knees.

Embarrassment flows through her. How stupid she believes herself to be. She made a fool of herself in front of her boss—of course he didn’t want anything like that from her! He’s Tony Stark for goodness sake! He can get women that are actually gorgeous—models really. He would have no use to use someone as ugly as her. She’s sure he has a line of women he could get any second.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles, not lifting her head. She’s too embarrassed to even look at him.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, darling,” he assures her. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Darling.

Darling is what her mother use do to call her. She hasn’t been called that since the day she died. Tony didn’t even realise he let that slip. It just happened.

Her heart clenches and she looks up at him. Tears blur her vision. Tony hates seeing her like this. What he would do if only he could take all of that suffering away from her. She shakes her head as she looks down. Blinking, the tears fall down her face.

“What do you want now?” He questions, ready to get anything and everything she desires. “I can get you anything you want.”

He couldn’t give her what she wanted though. Money simply couldn’t buy it. What she wanted was for her mama to hold her whilst softly singing a lovely lullaby in the old rocking chair by the brick fireplace in the cosy kitchen. Holding her, and running her fingers through her hair.

She couldn’t ask him to hold her. She has already made a fool out of herself. She also believes that, should she ask, he would laugh in her face. Why on Earth would the great Tony Stark comfort some weak girl?

She shakes her head. Tony frowns before telling her if she changes her mind to just tell him or Friday. Not wanting to do absolutely nothing for her, he nervously asks, “would you like a hug?”

Now here’s the thing about Tony Stark. He wasn’t one to show his nervousness. He always acted like he was chill, arrogant, and sure of himself. He never got nervous around women; in fact, he was great in that department—except when it came to her.

Something about her drew him in. Not in the typical lust-filled way—no, in an emotional sort of relation. Sure, she was quite a sight to see, but he actually felt things for her. Not just physically.

For this reason, he is so anxious as he asks for the hug. Tony doesn’t think she will want one considering everything that has happened. He prepares to not take the hit so hard to his ego; however, he can’t help but think of how crushed he would be should she refuse. Sure, he didn’t mind it, but then he would look like a complete imbecile in front of her.

So when she nodded her head and reached her arms up for him, his ego practically shot into the stratosphere. He was elated that despite everything, she was entrusting him. She was trusting him. Him! He wasn’t one that cries over things, but this brought him close to crying in relief.

He walked over and sat down to give her what he assumed would be a quick hug. Instantly, she wrapped her arms around his neck and nuzzled her face into the crook of his neck. Taken a bit aback, he takes a few seconds before gaining back enough thought process to return the gesture. He wasn’t going to let go until she did, but he certainly expected it to be quick.

And that is why, ten minutes later, Tony Stark is sitting on the cold tile floor with a woman falling out of consciousness and into her slumber. He didn’t want to move, didn’t want to ruin the moment. Nor did he want to be the cause of another horrible memory. He already feels horrible enough. Because although it certainly wasn’t his fault—how could he have known?—he still blamed himself. One thing about Tony Stark is that he often blames himself when things go wrong. After all, that was usually the case with his father. Usually when things went wrong the blame was placed on him. So, it is only natural for him to continue that into his adulthood.

“Sweetheart? Can you open your eyes for me?” Tony asks, gently brushing some of the hair out of her face. She frowns and blearily blinks up at him. “Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable, yeah?”

She nods her head and stands up. They both walk down the stairs leading to the roof access. It takes them no time to reach the elevator.

“I’m assuming you’d probably want to sleep in Natasha’s room? She said it was okay.”

She lowers her gaze to the ground, worrying her lip in between her teeth. Being alone doesn’t sound like a good idea right now. She wants to be curled up in his arms so he can protect her. The shadows at night wouldn’t dare reach her if she had his strong body wrapped around her.

No. That's inappropriate. He’s her boss, and he would never want to do something like that. The only women he has in his bed with him are the women he has one-night stands with. And that isn’t something she wants.

“Is Natasha here?”

“No, she’s on a mission, so you’ll have the place all to yourself.” He says it like it’s a good thing. Frowning, she scuffs her foot on the ground. Tony practically melts when her pleading eyes look up at him.

“What if I don’t want to be alone?” She mutters, too embarrassed to say it any louder.

Tony’s heart skips a beat. He keeps his face neutral as he says, “well if you want you can sleep in my room. I’ve been told I’m great at cuddling.”

She giggles a little. What he’d give to hear that out of her more. “By who?”

He raises a brow, “why, jealous?”

She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms, “you wish.”

He smiles back at her. “I was just kidding anyways.”

“Sure,” she jests, not believing him. The elevator opens on his floor and they both walk out.

“No, I’m serious,” he pouts. “I’ve… I’ve never really had anyone to cuddle with.”

Her brows furrow. She finds that hard to believe. What with the amount of girls he’s had in his bed, there’s no way he hasn’t gotten loads of cuddles.

Now that she thinks about it, however, she hasn’t seen anything on the news about his newest scandal or girl toy. In fact, she hasn’t seen so much as one girl getting him to leave early to hook up—not that it’s any of her business. It just makes it easier for her to keep up his reputation.

They arrive at his bed where he had laid her down earlier. Tony tried to burn away the memory of her terrified eyes and petrified body on it.

They both snuggle into bed, making sure not to cross the invisible line they both drew to keep themselves separate.

That doesn’t stop them, however, from tearing down that barrier during their sleep, seeking each other's warmth and comfort.

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drabbles-mc · 7 days ago

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Flying In (3)

Mayans MC & Narcos Crossover

For @narcosfandomdiscord’s Book of Genesis: Fanwork inspired by someone else’s fanwork (be sure to tag the creator of the OG work!)

Warnings: 18+, language, alcohol, smoking, arguing/light angst

Word Count: 3.2k

A/N: The crossover lives! As always, shout-out to @garbinge for letting me borrow her oc Lara Losa! I'm so obsessed with these guys it's ridiculous.

Chapter Index

When Lara woke up the next morning, it was with a throbbing headache that had her not wanting to open her eyes despite the fact that the hotel room curtains were still pulled closed and the room was still shrouded in relative darkness. Slowly blinking her eyes open, Lara immediately regretted doing so.

She sat upright, blanket falling down so that it pooled in her lap, still covering her legs on the pull-out couch that she and Chepe had transformed into a bed the night before. Through squinted eyes, she looked around the room to find Chepe still fast asleep in his bed as well, snoring with one arm dangling off the edge of the mattress. She allowed herself a small chuckle at that before getting up and starting to accumulate all of her things.

If she hadn’t still felt so exhausted, or if the throbbing in her head had been a little less intense, she would’ve at least done Chepe the courtesy of collapsing the bed back down into a sofa. As it stood, though, she really just wanted to put on her shoes and head back to her apartment so that she could stand underneath the hot water until it ran out. She knew better than to wake Chepe, so she scribbled a note instead on the back of a napkin before taking off.

Her trip back to her apartment had been a quick one, as much as she just wanted to collapse down into her own bed and fall right back to sleep again. A handful of aspirin and a scalding hot shower later, she was off and running once more, making her way back towards the clubhouse.

By the time she got there, morning had already begun its shift into the afternoon. That fact didn’t really hit her until she saw just how many bikes were parked outside the clubhouse—none of the guys with the exception of maybe EZ were really what she’d describe as early birds. That was something that they all had in common. So, if they were already there and reporting for duty, it was later than she’d bargained for.

The only bike she had really been looking for was Bishop’s and the effort to find it wasn’t born out of doubt that it would be there, but more of a hope that it wouldn’t be. She didn’t read all of them, but she saw how many missed texts she’d accumulated from him the night before. It didn’t take a genius for her to figure out what had him so bent out of shape, and if she could put off having that conversation with him for a couple hours she definitely would, but the singular headlight of his bike staring back at her let her know that there was no point in hoping for that.

She kept her sunglasses on even after she entered the clubhouse, not that they were really doing much to save her in the already dark bar space. It didn’t take her very long to locate Angel, who was sitting at one of the small tables scrolling on his phone. A few of the other club members were scattered around, but it was evident that everyone was waiting for something, or for someone. Lara figured that it had to do with her uncles, with Galindo, but no one said that in so many words.

When she plopped down in the chair across from Angel at the table, that’s when she finally took her sunglasses off. She tossed them unceremoniously onto the tabletop as she slouched back in her chair.

“Shit,” Angel said with a laugh as he took in the sight of her.

Lara wanted to feign being annoyed but a laugh came out first. “Real way with words, you know that?”

He shrugged before leaning forward, bracing his forearms along the edge of the table. “Got a lot of things goin’ for me, I know.”

She rolled her eyes and pushed her hair back behind her shoulders. “Yeah, you’re a real—”

“Lara,” Bishop’s voice drowned out whatever the rest of her retort was going to be as he came all but stomping out of Templo. He wasn’t yelling, but the harsh edge to his voice made up for that.

Turning to look at him, she managed a smile that almost could’ve passed for innocent if it weren’t for the mild look of dread in her eyes. “Good morning. Well,” she chuckled, “afternoon. Same thing, right?”

Bishop wasn’t having any of it. “Outside. Now.”

If he had been speaking to anyone besides Lara, he would’ve been yoking them up out of the chair by their collar and dragging them out to the clubhouse porch. But it was Lara, so all he could do was storm right by her with an alarming amount of tension held in his jaw.

She watched him go, wincing slightly as the door swung and slammed shut behind him. It would’ve been easy enough to blame her flinching at the sound on the lingering traces of her hangover, but luckily enough no one asked.

Angel leaned back in his chair. “Have fun with that.”

She was shaking her head at him as she stood up from her seat, making the time to give him the finger before turning to follow where her father had just gone. She didn’t justify his comment with a verbal response, something that had him chuckling to himself as he watched her get up and walk out. The door shut much more quietly when she was the one closing it.

Bishop was sparking up a cigarette as she walked out. If he’d seemed a little less pissed off she would’ve made a joke of asking him for one. But, even with as far as she enjoyed pushing her luck sometimes, she knew that now wasn’t the time for it. She didn’t get enough hours of sleep the night before to be in fighting shape like that.

“Where the fuck were you last night?” he asked, smoke pouring out of his mouth with each word.

“I told you,” she said, half-innocent, half-defensive, “Chepe and I—”

“You didn’t fucking call,” he said, harshly cutting off her explanation. “And you didn’t pick up when I called.”

Her frustration quickly started to bubble up beneath her skin. “Yeah, I know, but—”

“No!” he snapped. “You can’t keep fuckin’ doing this to me.”

She scoffed. “Doing what? What could I possibly be doing to you?”

It was a miracle that Bishop’s body wasn’t visibly trembling with the amount of anger that was brewing within his chest in that moment. It wasn’t even truly anger, really. It was worry. It was hurt. It was the protective drive he’d been getting pushed by ever since he got a frantic phone call from her months before begging him for help because of the blood-soaked mess she'd landed herself in. He knew how quickly things could go so horribly—he’d lived it and so had she. He didn’t understand how she could start acting like none of it had ever happened, like he was so ridiculous for worrying about her.

“You know exactly what I’m fucking talking about,” he said bitterly.

“I’m not a child!”

“But you’re still my kid!”

The way he shouted the words seemed to shock the both of them into silence for a moment. The two of them locked eyes, unable to move from where they were standing, unable to try and continue the argument or even resolve it now. Both too stubborn for their own good, as always.

It was only the sound of another car pulling into the lot in front of the clubhouse that broke their stalemate. They both turned to see the luxury SUV that Gilberto had gotten for their trip rolling to a stop right beside Lara’s car. The two of them being parked next to each other seemed to highlight the best and worst of each vehicle respectively—they both probably would’ve laughed about it if the situation itself had been anything other than what it was.

Chepe and Gilberto both got out of the SUV. Their expressions were vastly different but even so neither of them could hide the fact that they were intensely focused on whatever was or wasn’t unfolding between Bishop and his daughter. Gilberto at least had the good grace to try and hide his interest—there was a pleasant smile on his face as he adjusted his suit jacket and crossed the strip of sandy dirt to the clubhouse. Chepe, however, had his brows knit and mouth flattened into a straight line.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” Bishop muttered under his breath as the two of them approached the clubhouse.

Lara usually would’ve had no trouble coming up with a snarky quip for the moment, but she still felt slightly off-kilter from before. Rather than trying to force herself through the discomfort of formally tabling her conversation with Bishop for another time, she simply jumped ship and turned her attention to her uncles instead.

“Morning, Tío,” she said as she stepped in and gave Gilberto a brief hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“Buenos días, mija,” he greeted her with a grin, his hand resting on the outside of her arm for a moment as he stepped back.

Gilberto wasn't actually any less nosey than Bishop or Chepe was, he just had a better understanding of when it would serve him to pry and when it wouldn't. Judging by the tightness in the air, he figured that it wasn't the time.

While Gilberto and Bishop were greeting each other, Lara made it halfway down the porch steps to Chepe, who greeted her as usual with an enthusiastic hug and a kiss to the side of her head. “Lalita,” he said it with a softness that let her know he knew that whatever was going on with her and Bishop, it wasn’t fun.

“Chepe,” she said in return, her exhaustion shining through.

Even after she pulled out of the hug, he left his arm draped across her shoulders so that he could pull her and tuck her into his side. Some of the levity returned to his voice as he said, “Like a thief in the night, you took right off.” They made their way up the few steps onto the porch. “Note left behind and everything.”

Bishop skipped over whatever pleasantries he was going to try and force himself through when he heard what Chepe had said. He butt right into the conversation, not even bothering with a hello before laying right in with, “Yeah, and if taking off is—”

Chepe cut him off, clearly not fazed by the anger simmering in Bishop’s tone. “Obispo.”

“What?” Bishop made the singular word carry so much with it.

Gesturing to Lara with his arm not slung around her shoulders, he said, “Look at her.” He paused and waited for Bishop to do what he said, which surprisingly enough he did. “She’s fine. Showed up in one piece—showed up before us!” he added on, nodding towards Gilberto. “You don’t have to wor—”

“You don’t know shit about any of this, Chepe,” he stated firmly. “So do us all a favor and stay the fuck out of it.”

Chepe’s eyebrows raised just slightly. So few people in the world could get away with speaking to him like that at all, let alone in front of others. If Bishop had any sense of humility at all he’d consider himself lucky to be on that shortlist of people, but it would never happen.

There was the barest hint of a smile on Chepe’s face as he started to reply. “I know enough—”

Their conversation was interrupted by the door to the clubhouse opening. Angel stepped halfway out onto the porch, halfway through addressing Bishop when he realized that he’d just landed himself in far larger of a mess than he had bargained for. He had been ready to stumble upon the scene of Lara and Bishop in the midst of a spat, something that most people around the clubhouse had been witness to on an occasion or two, but he wasn’t ready to see both of her uncles standing out there as well.

The sight of all four of them almost made him want to backpedal into the clubhouse again, maybe even send someone else out there to break up whatever it was that the four of them were in the midst of. That seemed like it could be the type of work a prospect could do.

He forced himself not to hide behind the shelter of the door. “Pres, uh, sorry. I just…guys were wondering if we were still meeting for Templo. But,” he made a lame gesture towards Chepe and Gilberto, “obviously—yeah I’ll just tell them—”

“Fucking go, Angel,” Bishop put him out of his misery with three little words.

“Got it,” Angel said with a tight nod before happily disappearing back into the clubhouse.

When the door shut behind him, Bishop returned his attention back to Lara and Chepe. He was speaking to both of them even though he was only looking at Lara. “We’ll finish this later.”

Eager not only for the current conversation to stop, but also for them to move onto the business that they had shown up to conduct in the first place, Gilberto all but ushered Bishop into the clubhouse. “Let’s get started.”

Chepe let his arm drop back to his side as he and Lara stepped towards the clubhouse door that Gilberto was holding open for them. Bishop led the way, Chepe finding himself nearly sandwiched between his business partner and his niece.

He chuckled quietly, leaning over to Lara to speak to her in a voice that was too loud to pass for a whisper, but still quieter than his usual talking voice. “Would this be a bad time to tell him I changed the reservation for our dinner with Galindo?”

It got a genuine laugh out of Lara, her amusement causing Bishop to glance quickly back over his shoulder at them. She couldn’t get her expression under control in time, and as Bishop looked forward once more, she found her obstinate streak returning.

“I think it’s the perfect time, actually,” she said with another quiet laugh.

She stopped walking with them a few strides before the Templo door. Stepping off to the side, she watched as her father, her uncles, and then the rest of the men in the club disappeared into the room and slid the door shut behind them.

When the club was meeting in Templo, it was one of the only times that the clubhouse seemed quiet. There was always a certain level of din, and even with the guys locked away in Templo, there was still music playing quietly to cut through the silence. Other times there was still the sounds of machinery running in the scrapyard.

Not wanting to just stand there and stare at the door the entire time they were meeting, Lara turned away and made her way towards the bar where EZ was cleaning and stacking glasses, an endless and thankless task if ever there was one.

“Just you and me then, Prospect.” She laughed humorlessly as she plopped down on the stool. “As usual.”

He cracked a small grin. “C’mon, my company isn’t that bad.”

“You saying you’d rather be out here with me than in there with them?” she asked, jerking her thumb back over her shoulder towards the closed door.

He laughed and shook his head. “No, I’m saying you should rather be out here with me than in there with them.”

She rolled her eyes but there was no malice in it. “Shut up and get me a beer, Prospect.”

He was shaking his head but he still did as she asked. “See? Feels like we’re in there already.”

Lara wouldn’t have been able to say with any real certainty how long they all met in Templo for. She stayed put at the bar, her and EZ making small snippets of conversation here and there but nothing overly drawn out. That was such an interesting difference between him and his brother that Lara had noticed during her time spent with each of them. EZ knew how to let a conversation die gracefully, a skill that Angel lacked. Both could be infuriating in their own rites, she was sure, but it was interesting nonetheless.

“How long until you get promoted?” she asked, even though she was looking at the Templo door.

EZ chuckled, setting the last of the glasses on the top of the bar. “Too long.”

“Hm,” Lara said, before finishing off the beer EZ had given her. “Rough.”

The two of them were laughing when the door to Templo slid open and the men started to pour back onto the main floor of the clubhouse. Whatever happened within those walls always showed, for a little while at least, on the faces of the men as they exited and gathered back their phones.

No one seemed too deeply upset this time. A few of them were murmuring amongst themselves but no one was storming off in a huff. That was a good sign. When it came to business with Galindo, Lara had noticed that things had a tendency of getting very tense very quickly. Maybe having Gilberto and Chepe in the room helped to ease that tension a little bit. What she would’ve given to be a fly on the wall for that conversation, if for no other reason than to see what the men thought of her uncles, and more specifically Chepe.

Bishop, Taza, Hank, and their partners from Colombia didn’t come out right away. That wasn’t really surprising in and of itself, but Lara’s nosiness was getting the better of her. At least Angel was out, and making a beeline for her and EZ at the bar.

“So,” Angel said, his hand resting on her shoulder for hardly a second as he took the stool right next to hers, “I guess you’re catering the big boss meeting tomorrow?”

Lara laughed, head dropping back in exasperation. “Fuck me.”

“I think we should all book tables. Pack the fuckin’ house,” Angel joked.

She was still laughing while trying to seem annoyed. “I’ll get you all thrown out. Leave you to be Chepe’s fuckin’ problem.”

“Who’s going to be my problem?” Chepe asked as he materialized between Lara and Angel.

Lara didn’t miss the way that Angel sat up a little straighter with her uncle right next to him. She was kind enough not to comment on it. “The club, if they try to crash in at the restaurant while you guys are there meeting with Galindo.”

“Hah,” Chepe laughed, exaggeratedly so. He clapped a hand down on Angel’s shoulder. “That’d be an easy problem to solve, wouldn’t it?”

Angel swallowed hard, tension in his shoulders like Chepe’s hand was physically burning him. Lara could see that he wanted to have the right thing to say in that moment but he didn’t have the slightest clue what it was.

She jumped in to save him. “They wouldn’t make you do extra work like that on a trip like this, though. So I’m sure they’ll all be on their best fucking behavior.”

Chepe chuckled, pulling his hand off of Angel and giving the man a bit of a reprieve. “You will be too, Lalo.”

She laughed. “I know—you won’t even recognize me.”

Chepe cracked a grin as he started to head after Gilberto, who was making his way towards the clubhouse door. “Can’t wait.”

(Divider by @silkholland 💞)

Flying In Taglist (if you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!): @garbinge @justreblogginfics @ashlingnarcos @hausofmamadas @narcolini

@proceduralpassion @artemiseamoon

#narcovember #book of genesis #narcos #narcos netflix #mayans mc #mayansmc #mayans fx #mayans mc fanfiction #bishop losa #angel reyes #chepe santacruz #gilberto rodriguez #mayans mc crossover #narcos crossover #oc lara losa #my writing #fanfiction #drabblesmc

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jamespotterthefirst · 1 year ago

Text

Wonderstruck (1/3)

Book: Open Heart (AU)

Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey and MC (Lilac Allende)

Word Count: 1.7K

Rating/Warning: T/ Some Language

Summary: As a hopeful med student, she sneaks into a masquerade-themed gala hoping to meet one of the greatest minds of her time, Dr. Naveen Banerji. However, fate has different plans.

Note: Inspired by Enchanted (Taylor's Version) 💜

“Act normal… Don't make eye contact… Pretend like you belong…”

Lilac whispered the words in a rhythm meant to ease her accelerated pulse. She was certain the words were above a whisper but the echo of conversation and the music echoing through the massive hall drowned them out. Still, she shuffled on her feet, sweaty palms running down the front of her gown.

“Dr. Anker?”

Lilac didn’t react for a long beat, forgetting that was supposed to be her tonight.

“Dr. Anker? Are you—”

“Yes,” Lilac returned, her voice sounding almost like a squeak. She paused to collect herself. “Yes. That's me. Do you need to see my invitation?”

The invitation weighed like a stone in her clutch. It was written in golden script and addressed to the distinguished Dr. Maria Anker. Lilac was neither distinguished nor Maria Anker. She was not even a doctor yet and wouldn't be for another three years— given that she didn’t burn out before then.

The real Dr. Anker had shown no interest in attending the event when she received the invitation, even scoffing when her sharp blue eyes landed on the theme that year: masquerade. After sharply critiquing the frivolity of the affair, Dr. Anker pushed the elegant envelope to her research assistant. She eagerly accepted it, having every intention of attending the event… only to discover it was on the same night as the house party she had been looking forward to all semester.

So the research assistant passed the invite off to her roommate, Lilac.

“No way! With my luck, I'll get caught,” Lilac had said resolutely.

“You won't! And even if they do bust you, what are they going to do? Crashing a party isn’t illegal last time I checked.” Her roommate and friend Anna was not one to be dissuaded easily.

“They could expel me.”

“Then don't get caught.”

“Easy for you to say. You'll be partying it up with Aaron.”

“We'll be doing more than that if things go my way,” her roommate returned with a wink. “I can't force you but my vote is that you should go. One of the greatest medical minds will be there. You practically worship Dr. Banerji.”

This gave Lilac pause.

“Come on, Lil! Doctor Naveen Banerji is coming to UCLA! How often does that happen? He's no Dr. Ramsey, but it'd still be amazing to meet him, don't you think?”

Back in the present, the attendant shook his head. “That won't be necessary, doctor. Follow me.”

They entered the gilded ballroom, its opulence hitting Lilac with so much force that she couldn't help but feel awestruck. Everywhere she looked, her sight caught on something that sparkled: gowns made of the finest fabrics, jewelry encrusted masks, perfect smiles. Lilac was thankful for the ridiculous theme and the mask covering her own face as a result. She was convinced that without it, her expression would have been a dead giveaway.

“Your seat, Doctor,” the attendant said, pulling out a chair at a magnificently ornate table.

Lilac halted, blinking stupidly at the chair. For some reason, she thought she'd be led into the multitude of respected guests, free to get lost in their midst. Assigned seating at a table full of Dr. Anker's colleagues— colleagues who would definitely know she was not Maria Anker— was the last thing from her mind when she concocted her stupid plan.

“Dr. Anker?” the attendant prompted, growing more concerned by the second.

“I…”

Lilac swayed on her heeled feet, eyes fixated on the cushioned chair as though it were an animal ready to attack her. A few guests already sat at the table… including a pair of doctors chatting and laughing quietly. One of them playfully swatted the other’s arm.

“You are terrible, Naveen,” she admonished, though her laugh ruined the effect.

“You know I always was one for hospital gossip, Linda.”

Naveen.

That had to be the world famous Dr. Naveen Banerji. Now that Lilac took a closer look, she could see the resemblance to the numerous pictures she’d seen in her textbooks. Though tonight he wore a silver mask for the occasion, a kind gaze still glittered from its depths. Lilac was downright staring, but luckily for her, the famous physician paid her no attention.

“Are you alright, Doctor?” the poor attendant tried again.

This time, Lilac's response died at her throat.

Someone else at that table watched her intently, gaze sinking into her with slight interest and something else... Mortified as she was, rendered imobile like a deer in headlights, Lilac was unable to tell what that something else was. A white mask covered most of his face but his eyes still pierced her like steel.

“I need the—,” she began, neck hot, but her plea for the bathroom was cut short as a clatter of plates crashed against the floor.

Several things happened all at once like an explosion. More plates crashed against the marble tiles, followed by something heavier. Guests gasped and cried out in surprise. Someone pushed past Lilac to get a closer look. And someone else shouted—

“Give her space!”

Instinct kicked in and before Lilac knew it, she was on her knees beside a woman not much older than she was. The jewel encrusted mask the woman wore clattered to the floor, clashing against the shards or broken ceramic and remnants of lobster. In her desperate struggle to breathe, she clutched Lilac's skirt.

“It's okay,” Lilac reassured her as pandemonium broke out around them. The woman clasped Lilac's hand tightly. “I'm here to help you.”

Another figure knelt beside them—stronger, wider, and much more imposing. Large hands moved with an authority that almost made Lilac shrivel into herself. Nevertheless, she remained still, clasping the gasping woman's hand.

“... Accelerated heartbeat, difficulty breathing… ” he was saying. It was the same white-masked man who was studying her only seconds before. His voice was a low baritone, like the rattle of thunder. Piercing blue eyes—bluer than any Lilac had seen before— assessed the woman in precious nanoseconds. Abruptly, he turned over his shoulder to bark at the onlookers. “Goddammit! A room full of doctors and no one thinks to call 911? You—” he pointed at a stunned man nearby. “Do it. Now!”

The man scrambled to obey, fishing his cell phone out of his pocket.

“And you—” he said, turning his attention forward. With a stab of pure shock, Lilac realized he was talking to her. “Either help or move out of the way.”

“I am helping,” she returned angrily, surprising even herself.

The man's eyes moved down to where Lilac still held the patient's hand steadily. Her eyes followed his, feeling a wave of shame settle at the pit of her stomach. This domineering and steely man didn't need to say anything for Lilac to read his disapproval and disdain.

Whoever this asshole was, he thought Lilac was ridiculous for holding a suffering woman's hand. That much was clear in that sharp gaze glinting from behind the mask. It made her blood sizzle with anger. Before she could give him a piece of her mind, however, Lilac noticed the angry, red splotches spreading over the woman's arms.

“Hives,” she whispered.

Then her eyes fell on the ruins of the dinner plates. Lobster—or a form of shellfish— littered the floor. The woman had to have been allergic.

“Anaphylactic shock,” Lilac said at the same time as the asshole in the white mask.

The woman's breaths became shorter.

Someone handed White Mask a purse. Without a moment to waste, he dumped its contents on the floor.

“Dammit! It's not here. Where is her—”

At the same time, Lilac reached into her own purse. Anna's bee allergy and Lilac's paranoid and over-preparedness had prompted her to always carry an—

“Epipen! I have one!” Lilac shouted, already removing the cap. “Hold still, miss—”

Before she could say another word or make another movement, White-Masked Asshole snatched the epipen from her hands and swiftly injected it. There was no more opportunity to see what happened next or to unleash her indignation at the man because someone moved Lilac out of the way.

It was an EMT, working diligently to reach the patient. The white-masked man spoke to the paramedic as they loaded the woman onto a gurney. As Lilac's heartbeat clamored against her ribcage, she backed away, the severity of the situation settling in.

Her plan had been to sneak into a luxurious party full of the greatest medical minds and… Do what, exactly? Fangirl over Naveen Banerji from afar like a creep? And now, things had taken a sharp turn into fucked up.

The best course of action was to abort the mission altogether.

It was just her luck that she bumped into someone as she tried to inconspicuously back away.

“Oh! Sorry, it was my—”

“It's quite alright,” a kind voice responded. “You'll have to forgive me. I get clumsier with age.”

Shocked, Lilac realized it was Dr. Banerji. His brown eyes glittered with recognition, too.

“You did well, Doctor,” he said in a kind voice.

Lilac did not reply, stunned into silence.

Dr. Banerji nodded toward the woman the paramedics now wheeled away. “Your bedside manner tells me your patients are lucky to have you.”

And with that, he continued on to join the white-masked man.

Lilac blinked out of her daze, more determined than ever to get the hell out of there. At least now, she could die happy because one of the greatest doctors in the world complimented her. Granted, he erroneously believed she was a doctor… But she'd still count this as a victory.

Feet protesting in her heels, she hurried through a pair of French doors…

Only to find herself on a balcony overlooking the gardens. Beautiful as the view was, it was decidedly not an exit.

“Mierda,” she cursed. “¿Por qué? ¿Por qué todo me pasa a mi?”

She'd have to rush back inside and make a beeline for any other door—

Except when she whirled around, a tall, broad-shouldered figure blocked her path.

“Who are you?”

It was the white-masked man, standing at the threshold with his arms crossed. Though he was shrouded in shadows, she could feel the weight of his scrutinizing gaze on her. He waited quiten impatiently for her to reply.

“I—”

He shook his head.

“And you can stop pretending to be Dr. Maria Anker. I know her personally and you are not her. So tell me—”

He moved a step closer.

“Who the hell are you?”

Note: That's your future wife!

Hope you enjoyed this! Part 2 will be up soon, I hope!

Thank you so much for reading!

#ethan ramsey #open heart #ethan x mc #playchoices

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ikeromantic · 2 years ago

Text

Strength

Ok, so this is for @ikemenlover but the ask has been eaten in my inbox. It's a good thing I copied it to my notes, huh? ^_^ Approx. 1400 words on the ask: Hey Can I have Fanfiction of Ieyasu tokugawa with MC who has a psycho stalker and hurts her very much and ieyasu taking care of injured MC?

Ieyasu followed the maid through the halls of Azuchi and into the chatelaine’s room. Despite the fact that it was a beautiful spring day, the windows were closed tight and she lay curled up on her futon beneath a blanket. The maid gestured silently, her face twisted with worry.

The warlord shooed her out and then knelt beside the bed. “Mai?”

She stirred, but only to pull the blanket over her head. “Leave me alone.”

“I would. But the maids are worried about you. They said you didn’t eat last night or today, and that you won’t get out of bed. So get up, and I’ll go away.”

“I will. Later.” She didn’t come out of the covers.

Ieyasu frowned. This wasn’t like her at all. Mai was cheerful. Annoyingly so. And full of energy, enough that he felt tired just talking to her. She always had a smile for him and a kind word. Always. Maybe she was really sick. “Now. I have to look you over and see if there’s something wrong.”

“I’m fine.”

“Then come out.”

“No.”

Annoyance blossomed in Ieyasu. He had a thousand things to do, and he did not have time to coddle her. His real fear was buried somewhere under that justification, his fear that something was very wrong here. With one strong pull, he tore the blankets from her grip and tossed them away from the futon.

Mai immediately turned away from him, but she could not hide the dried blood nor the stiff way her legs moved. “Dammit, Ieyasu! I don’t want you to look at me!”

“Mai . . .” Ieyasu felt all the air knocked out of him. He fought back a wave of panic that made the room seem smaller and darker than it was. “You’re hurt,” he rasped, and forced himself to take a breath.

“I said I’m fine.” He could tell she was crying now.

“Stop being an idiot and let me look at you.”

She went still, and for a moment he thought she would ignore him, but she slowly sat up. Her breath hitched as if the motion pained her. When she looked at him, he saw why she’d hidden her face. Her lips were split, swollen, and bruised. One eye was so puffy that she couldn’t open it. And she was cradling her wrist.

Ieyasu rocked back in shock. “What - what happened?”

“I fell.” The lie was so blatant that it hurt.

Though he wanted to know more than anything, right now it was more important to treat her injuries. He could find out how they’d happened later. He knew there was no fall that did this. “Alright. Let me . . . let me see.”

He took out his ointments and bandages, first cleaning the wounds on her face and then carefully treating them. The tear on her lips might leave a scar, he thought.

She winced at the sharp sting of the medicine as he worked. “Will that . . . make it go away faster?”

“It will, if I reapply it for you. Twice a day for the next week, at least.” He frowned at her, wishing she trusted him enough to be honest. Ieyasu moved to her hand. Several of her fingers were broken, the wrist sprained. Her nails were torn and bloodied as if she’d been fighting something. Or someone.

“What about my hand? I have to be able to sew.” She looked as if she might cry again.

Ieyasu gently stroked her forearm, the only part he was sure he could touch without hurting her. “You will. I wish you’d come to me right away though. This will hurt more, now that they’ve had time to sit like this. The bones out of place.”

It took a moment to pull them straight, and then to bind them so that they could heal. “I’ve had to do this several times. For Masamune, after a fight.” He glanced up at her face and saw fear there.

“I just . . . I fell. On my hand.”

“Mai. I’ve seen a lot of injuries. These aren’t the kind you get from falling.” He took her other hand and examined it. No broken bones, just some scrapes on her knuckles, and torn nails. He began to bandage them as well.

“Ieyasu. I can’t. I can’t say anything else. Or-”

“Or what? Mai, you have to tell me.” His eyes blazed with the intensity of his feeling, though his expression changed little. Something in his chest shifted, aching in an unexpected way as she met his gaze.

Her next words were so quiet that he almost couldn’t hear them. “He’ll hurt someone else.”

“He?” An irrational rage shot through Ieyasu. Irrational because it had no direction. He still didn’t know who had done this or why. “Who?”

“I . . . I don’t know his name.” She took a shaky breath. “I thought he was nice, at first. He helped me carry my shopping bags. But then he - he -” She started to tremble as if her body would rather shake itself apart than to continue.

Ieyasu carefully pulled her into an embrace. He held onto her as if she were made of the most precious, fragile porcelain, afraid he might crack her delicate exterior.

She clung to him, and the tears came. Great, heaving sobs that tore from her as if the act of crying itself hurt. Words came too, in that undammed flow. At first he could make no sense of them, but eventually the story came clear.

This man she’d met knew all kinds of things about her. Where she lived, who she associated with, what she ate and drank. He’d been watching her for weeks at least. And then made his move.

“H-he told me he hated . . . he hated that I could smile,” she cried. “Th-that he would hurt mmme until . . . until . . .”

Ieyasu gently stroked her back, letting himself express the emotions he was not ready to voice. He cared for her so much. Too much to see her like this. “Why,” he asked, when she finally quieted, “why didn’t you tell us? Me or Nobunaga? Anyone in Azuchi?”

“He said -” Mai took a long, slow breath, calming herself. “He said he would kill a servant if he even thought I told someone. I - I didn’t want anyone else to get hurt. And, and now . . .” Her voice disappeared in another wave of helpless tears.

“I promise you, he is not going to hurt anyone.” Ieyasu wasn’t sure how to keep that promise, but he couldn’t let Mai sound so broken and hopeless. He would have to speak with Nobunaga. Somehow, they would keep everyone safe until this man was caught. And they would catch him. One way or another.

After taking a few minutes to get her tears back under control, she nodded. “I - I believe you.”

“Good.” He settled her gently back into the futon. “I am going to send for some food and while you eat, you are going to tell me everything about this man. What he looks like. Where you saw him. What did he wear. Every detail.” Ieyasu’s voice was cool, calm and collected as always. But anger simmered just below the surface. Anyone who could hurt a woman like this - much less one as sweet and naive as Mai . . .

“And when you are better, I am going to teach you some things. To make sure this never happens again,” Ieyasu added.

Mai gave an uncertain nod. “I don’t know if I can. I’m not very strong or fast.”

A remembered shame boiled in Ieyasu’s gut as he remembered his own helplessness and fear. He’d been a child then, and Mai was a grown woman, but it was the same feeling. The same problem. In this world, you had to grow hard and strong. Cruelty would not pass you by just because you were sweet. Beautiful.

“You can. If you are strong enough to learn.”

“I. . . I think I am. With you as my teacher.”

When her fingers curled around Ieyasu’s hand, he felt his heart lurch in his chest. A sudden, erratic pounding like a deer bounding across an open field, full of wildness. He pulled his hand back. “I’ll send for food. And get something to write on.”

This would not be easy. Catching her stalker. Training her to defend herself. But Ieyasu would not fail. He had to be strong. She needed him. And, in the echoes of his fierce heartbeat, he knew he needed her.

#ikemen sengoku #ikesen ieyasu #ieysasu tokugawa #tw violence #fanfiction #fanfic #otome #otome guys #hurt and comfort

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jerzwriter · 2 years ago

Text

The Perfect Gift

I have one commission I have yet to share, and it didn't seem right to let 2022 slip away without sharing it. Ainna deserves all the love for this precious piece; I know it took me days to recover (in the best way). Here are Tobias and Casey Carrick welcoming their first little girl into the world. Thank you to Ainna for being perfection, as always, and I hope you enjoy the little drabble to accompany this.

The Perfect Gift

Art created by @/artbyainna (IG)

Book: Open Heart (Post-Series) Pairing: Tobias Carrick x F!MC (Casey Carrick) Rating: General Category: Fluff/Drabble Words: 898 Summary: Tobias and Casey welcome their first child into the world and set some ground rules along the way. A/N: Participating in @choicesflashfics "What is it going to take to convince you?" and @choicesdecember2022 day 3 heart.

Guest chairs in hospital rooms aren’t exactly known for being comfortable. But tonight? The chair Tobias found himself sitting in was losing the battle, for he couldn’t have looked any more content and at peace. If you asked him how long he had been sitting there… his signature smirk replaced with a goofy little grin that radiated pure joy... he wouldn’t be able to tell you. This was all a dream, a wonderful dream from which he never wanted to wake. Time? Time was irrelevant.

Samantha Carrick.

He had said her name in his head a thousand times before she was here and at least a hundred more since she arrived just hours ago. Overjoyed didn’t begin to describe his feelings, and he knew his little girl was already teaching him lessons. For example, he was now certain love at first sight was real. He knew he would do anything to protect her. And while her mother had already shown him that his heart no longer resided solely within his chest, little Samantha assured him the rest was gone, and he was never getting it back. Lastly, he knew that watching the love of his life holding their baby girl was something he could do all day and never tire of. Casey was the best thing he never planned, and Samantha? She was an unexpected gift he would be forever grateful for. Three years ago, he would have balked at anyone predicting this life for him, but now? He only wished he had found it sooner.

His wife had been lost in her own thoughts, her gaze fixed on their newborn girl. But when she looked up and caught his smile, she learned something too: the warmth she had in her heart, which she thought couldn’t grow anymore, increased tenfold.

“What are you looking at?” she winked.

“The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he answered at once. “She’s perfect… you’re perfect.”

“Well, she is,” Casey shrugged, “me… ehh.”

“Don’t push it, Mrs. Carrick,” he grinned, “I will win this argument.”

“OK,” she replied with a smile that lit up the room. “I’ll let you have this one.”

Tobias pulled his chair closer, gently caressing Samantha’s tiny cheek. “You’ve got a very smart Mommy there, little girl.”

“Do you think I could hold her for a little while?" he asked with a tender smile.

“You know I’d love that,” Casey sighed. “But that would mean I’d have to let her go, and I don’t think I can.”

“Well,” he said, stepping up from his chair, “I’ve got a solution for that.”

He motioned toward the bed, and Casey scooted aside to let him in, slipping under the covers at her side. They instantly melted into each, and he wrapped one arm around his wife and the other around his baby girl; it was clear he had his entire world in his embrace.

“She’s beautiful,” Casey purred. “She looks so much like you.”

“She looks so much like my mother,” he lamented with a chuckle. “But don’t worry baby, we’re not holding that against you.”

“Tobias!” Casey laughed, “I’m shocked she isn’t here yet.”

“Oh, don’t worry, she will be. We talked earlier, and as much as she’s dying to rip this little one out of our arms, she knows how important this is… right here… just the three of us getting acquainted.”

“Our own little family,” she whispered, as a tear rose to her eye. “I would have never thought….”

“You?” He blurted. “You wouldn’t have thought?”

“Well, you’re a whole different story,” Casey laughed. “Half of Boston is still in shock over domesticated Tobias, and the other half is still taking bets that you’re going to bolt.”

“Well, then they don’t know me,” he assured. “You two are the best things that ever happened to me. You’re stuck with me for life.”

“You sure you don’t want an out?” she teased. “This is your last chance.”

He turned to her with a smirk, “What’s it going to take to convince you? This is exactly where I want to… where I am meant to be.”

Casey lifted her head and looked at him with a smile on her lips and in her eyes. “I know that. And it’s a good thing because you’re the best thing that ever happened to me, and I’d never let you go. I love you, Tobias Carrick. With all my heart.”

“Good, Casey Carrick,” he whispered, lowering his lips to meet hers. “Because you’re my whole world.”

Their lips came together in a tender, slow kiss, only breaking apart when little Samantha squirmed and let out a tiny squeal.

“Oh, it’s OK,” Casey said, rocking her daughter gently. “It’s OK, Sammykinz.”

“Mommy and Daddy are here, sweetheart,” Tobias assured, “but listen, you’re going to have to get used to us kissing. Because we’re not stopping that. Not even for you.”

“Nope,” Casey chuckled in agreement. “Daddy’s right. But don’t worry,” she placed the gentlest buss on her daughter's head. “We’ve got plenty of kisses and snuggles for you, too.”

Samantha settled down and once again rested peacefully in Casey’s arms.

“I think she likes that,” Tobias observed.

“I do, too.”

“But I mean it. She’s going to have to deal with me kissing her Mom.”

Nuzzling her head into Tobias’s shoulder, Casey held back a laugh, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

@choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics @openheartfanart

Permatags: @a-crepusculo @animesuck3r @annoyingmillenialnewbie @crazy-loca-blog @differenttyphoonwerewolf @doriopenheart @fayeswiftie @genevievemd @gryffindordaughterofathena @inlocusmads @jamespotterthefirst @jennieausten @kingliam2019 @liaromancewriter @lucy-268 @onikalover @openheartforeverinmyheart @potionsprefect @quixoticdreamer16 @rookiemartin @secretaryunpaid @socalwriterbee @tessa-liam @trappedinfanfiction @jerzwriter-reblogs-asks

OH Only: @annfg8 @binny1985 @coffeeheartaddict2 @mysticalgalaxysstuff @ofmischiefandmedicine @peonierose @youlookappropriate

Tobias Only: @icecoffee90 @kyra75

#open heart fanfic #open heart fanart #tobias carrick #tobias carrick x f!mc #choices fanfic #choices fanart #choices fic writers creations #cfwc fics of the week #choices december challenge #choices flashfics

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secret-fungi · 1 year ago

Text

Moonlit Garden

Pairing: Tyril x F! elf MC (odelia)

word count: 2k (i tried so hard dudes)

Rating: e

Category: Fluff and smut (ik it surprised me too)

warnings: sex

Summary: Tyril shows mc what he's done in their absence.

a/n: im not good at smut dont come at me im fragile

Tags @lawrencebarkley @choicesficwriterscreations @desired-love-

Tyril pulled yet another weed from his plant as Odelia walked up, a smile on her lips as she took in the garden. “I didn’t think you were the type.” she says “Neither did i, but in your absence…” he trailed off “busy hands, my father suggested.” he adds with a huff.

“Mal and nia had kids, and you… made a garden.” she says with a fond smile on her lips. “Flowers are a bit like kids, they have different needs, must have food, water, proper care…” At this she covered her mouth with her hand in a poor attempt to stifle her laughter.

“Haven’t been around many children, have you, Tyril?” “Of course I have, I’m excellent with them.” he brags, rising to his feet. “Somehow, I don’t trust that.” she teased. “You don’t have to believe, you could join me at a festival, all the little children love me.” “The one at Riverbend doesn’t count.” “why not?” he asks “because you’re the second elf they’ve seen and unlike me, you’re….” she paused, taking in the smile on his lips before smiling herself.

“A real elf.” She says He arched a brow, taking off his gloves carefully. “You’re a ‘real elf’, too.” he said. “Not like you. I didn’t even know I could do magic, and I can't do fancy undermount fireworks, I didn’t know any elvish curse words… I am not rich.” She lists making him laugh, the deep timber was rich and smooth. It rattled her bones and sent a chill down her body, the warmth settling in her core.

“Is that what makes one a ‘real elf’?” He asks “It’s your culture, and it's all just arcane rituals to me.” she explained, finally standing face to face with him. “It’s your culture too.” he assured. She gave him a sharp look but didn’t press the matter farther. “Will you show me your garden?” she asked

With a grin he offers her his arm. “The pathway is beautiful, what is it?” “moonstone.” he replied “this is the evening rain lily, above us is glowing Wisteria, it lights up to attract prey.” he explained with a grin.

The garden was beautiful, full of color and life, the path circling around a pond full of fae fish and all sorts of lovely creatures, the stop of the pond decorated with glowing water lilies and blossoms that had landed into the water. Trumpet shaped flowers hung from above, a blossoming orange tree stood tall off to the corner near the stone fence.

“These are called Four O’clocks because-” “They bloom at four o’clock?” she guessed. He gives a nod before showing her another flower “nightshade.” he said “why would you want something that could kill you in your pretty garden?” she asked. He gave her a look like she wasn’t quite up to speed with what was infront of her, but with a smile he continued on.

He went on, pointing out Lava Iris, a blossom with yellow, orange and black petals,

Moonflowers, white little things that almost seemed to give off an ethereal glow. Black pansies and flowers in a rainbow of colors that had petals shaped like hearts. Pink and red carnations, and a strange plant.

“I’ve never seen this one before.” “It’s called bleeding heart.” He informed. “Doesn’t much look like a heart.” she said. “A broken one, maybe.” he replied, leading her to the center of the garden. To flowers that looked like the night sky, all lit up with stars.

Picking one from the bush and offering it to her he smiled and said “And here is my favorite, NIghtblooms.”

The Garden was his love letter to a woman he didn’t know would return, his ode to a mage that came and went and came back again.

Odelia looked at the flower in a stunned silence, realization dawning on her as she stared at it, then back up at him.

“What’s the matter?” he asked “why’d you plant Nightblooms? Why are they all nightblooming?” she asked.

He smiled at her, raising his brows and tilting his head to the side. The woman flushed as he laughed. “That’s why Adrina said I should see it.” she said, pressing her hand to her warmed cheek.

“My father said that this wasn’t what he meant when he saw the nightblooms, but it is the pride of undermount.” he said with a proud grin.

“People come here to honor a hero that was lost for a while.” he added.

Suddenly the woman bursts into tears, as if she couldn’t contain them in her any longer, surging forward in an instant and pressing her lips to his, her arms coming to rest on top of his shoulders, her fingers digging into his hair.

He lifted her up with ease and she wrapped her legs around his hips without hesitation. Without breaking the kiss he walked towards a stone bench and sat on it.

“Rough landing.” she muttered into his lips. “Couldn’t see,” he said before capturing her mouth again.

Her hands encased his face as they kissed. Both of them tried to one up each other with how much love and desperation you could put into a kiss.

And though it was officially a tie, both of them were convinced that they were the winner.

“Tyril.” she cried out with a kiss to his cheek. his name had never sounded sweeter. “Darling.” she said with a kiss the other cheek, “Dinvalir.” she said with a kiss to his jaw. “A’mael.” a his to his neck.

“Kilvalir.” he rasped out, his grip on her hips tightening. She pauses, her head falling onto his shoulder. “What have I done to deserve you?” she wonders. “I wonder that myself, the most beautiful person that I've ever seen, and out of everyone you chose me?” He marvels “You’re perfect and I can't believe you love me.” he admits. She lifts her head to look at him, her cheeks flushed and a horribly fond look on her face. “There is no one else, Tyril.” she said, her fingers moving to free him of his clothes. “It’s a public garden.” “No qualms, right?” she asked with a grin.

“You’re a bad influence.” he said, his own hands working the ties of her shirt.

He kissed the freshly exposed skin of her shoulder as she played with his hair.

“You’re beautiful.” he said, pressing a kiss to the center of her chest, his hands reaching to massage the other. He leaves open mouth kisses on her throat and across her breasts, leaving his marks as he did.

her hips rocked against him as he worked, pretty little cries came from the woman that nearly drove him mad with need.

“I need you.” he almost begged, lifting her from his lap to rid himself of his pants, she simply gathered her skirt up, a tent of sorts.

“Say it again.” he said “Dinvalir?” “That i’m the only one.” he clarified, “how could there be anyone else?” she asks as she sinks down onto him,

The couple share a gasp, a coil tightening in their stomachs.

She is so lovely, painted in love bites, flushed, her full lips swollen and parted so that her song could escape from those lips like honey.

He moves his hips to meet hers, his hand sliding under her skirt to find a treasure.

His eyes sought hers, when his hand met her core, her eyes half lidded and dazed with desire.

“Tyril!” she moans into the air, at once moving forward to silence herself with his lips.

Her hands roamed his body as if they had no home, then settled against his chest like it was made for her, one hand gripped his bicep and the other stayed over his heart.

They’ve had many kisses, desperately urgent, heated kisses that they snuck whenever they had a moment alone, chaste kisses, as thank you or to soothe a wound, jealous kisses. You name it.

But this was something else entirely. Desperate and frustrated but with all the care and tenderness of the chastest kiss.

a muttered chant fell against his lips, too out of sorts himself to register the three words she repeated like a prayer.

Her hips moved to meet his, they set a pace neither could keep up with for long, Her nails leaving crescent shaped marks in his arm and his hands leaving his fingers prints on her bum.

“There's just you, There's no one else.” she swears breathlessly, trapping his response with her lips to his.

He loved her, fully, completely. it was all consuming, this feeling that overtook him when he saw her, flushed and glowing, breasts freeing themselves from her top, almost begging him.

He broke the kiss, and captured her breast in his mouth.

“you’re so gorgeous for me.“ he rasped out, his voice low and rumbling, horribly affected by their actions and the sound of it sent electricity down her spine, leaving her tightly wound and just aching for that last thing to get her to the top.

He moved her to lay on her back, her hair falling loose from its braided prison.

“I love you.” he swears, his lips pressed against her chest, his hips working to meet hers that were slightly lifted to meet him.

She arched into him as he kissed the skin above her heart.

“You’re so- beautiful.” she said, reaching to tangle her fingers in his hair. “The most beautiful.” she rectified upon seeing his arched brow.

“There could never be anyone else for me.” he said “when with every beat of my heart it spells out your name, when my love for you is etched into my bones- very soul there could never-“ “Tyril!” she cried, trembling

“Kivalir.” he replied, holding on to watch her come undone, taking every detail in before he fell.

The term of endearment seemed to set her off, she melted beneath him as he came undone above her.

When the denizens of Undermount asked Tyril what the missing hero was like, he couldn’t find the words, all his feelings got trapped behind the lump in his throat.

Still they asked, and so he planted a orange tree, so that they might smell her, he planted nightshade, as it too used it’s beauty as a weapon, carnations to tell of his devotion, and lilies to tell of her joyful soul, Bleeding hearts to declare his love, and Nightbloom to tell her name, and for every night she was away, he set a blossom to the water, a nightbloom adrift, and prayer repeated.

“My love for you is like this garden, it shall not wither in the winter, and neither shall my feelings.” he swore, and the other took it to heart.

Every word he said she believed, maybe foolishly but no one had ever done what He had seemed to do easily, a public love letter was on a whole other level than begging a lover to hold her hand in the sunlight.

When she thinks back to the mayor’s son, promising forever while looking for his boots, and with age or maybe distance she understood that she was asking him to be something he wasn’t, and that maybe they loved each other but what they had wasn't love.

and then she thinks to Tyril, much more at stake than an angry father, the way he loved her would harm his quest to restore his house, she’ll bring disgrace to his house, but still he fell into her.

Still he erected a garden full of hearts and I love yous for all of undermount to see, because he loved her.

She realized she had asked all her lovers to be Tyril, even before she met him, she wished them to stand a little taller, be a little more romantic. She’d ask them to walk in the way he did, smile in the soft way he did, all in the name of the feeling of missing someone she hadn’t met yet.

and from the moment she saw him, there was something in the back of her mind that said “This is it.”

at the sound of his voice, the glare he wore felt so familiar, like she’s known him from the beginning, that in all her lives she’s sought after him.

Kade always used to say that she’d follow blue eyes off a cliff. The color always pulled her in, leaving her hypnotized. The mayor’s son, the village girl, a traveling merchant, she could never say no to them, and if she was more romantic, or maybe just braver than she is now. she’d admit outloud that some part of her, the part of her soul that was his was searching for him in all of the faces she came across. Desperate to find him but only knowing the color of his stare.

They both made a promise unbeknownst to the other, to love each other till their hearts gave out. Tyril made a secondary promise that after the afterglow fades and their bones resolidify to plant a million flowers.

#blades of light and shadow #bolas 2 #playchoices #pb bolas #tyril starfury #bolas tyril #fic writing #my fic #choices fanfic #choices fanfiction #blades fic #choices blades #bolas fic #choices fic writers creations

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notyourramona · 1 year ago

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Chapter 2 of Stages of Me

Tensions increase as characters do not see eye to eye like they used to. Main character struggles to feel respected by her crewmates while some of them desperately just try to reconnect with MC.

Word count: 7,516

No Tags

18+(for future chapters)

Minor Crimson Fleet spoilers thus far.

Chapter one

His boots were propped on the console and his hat tipped to cover a part of his face as the ship flew itself into the stars. Sam was trying his best to hush all the noise that was at the forefront of his thoughts in this moment and it was becoming extremely difficult. The new ship felt impersonable and cold but he knew it was because of his knee jerk hesitance to accept change at first. Still, he wasn’t fond of the new knowledge of how the ship was obtained and he was even less fond of how the last conversation he had tried to have with Ghoul turned into another argument. He knew what he was trying to say it was just the delivery, per usual, came out wrong. She didn’t have to subjugate her life to those dark impulses out of necessity any longer. It felt like he was a witness of how much of her soul was being drained from the perpetual motion of events she put herself through. If it wasn’t pushing her body through stars know what when she made physical contact with the Artifacts; it was the alcohol or drugs, even if she tried to deny the use of them, that deteriorated the real version of Ghoul he knew months ago. The version of her that pulled him in with such intensity as if they were two stars who were succumbing to a gravitational pull to come together as one. He could still taste her sweet lips on his tongue when he looked at her sometimes and it pained him that she never really acknowledged what happened between them. It wasn’t like Sam expected a commitment after one kiss but he knew deep down they had some chemistry. Some very real chemistry and that chemistry was slowly turning into tension that was repelling both of them as fast as they started colliding.

Chapter 2: Hemostasis pt. 2

“Dad.” Corra’s voice interrupted his thoughts and honestly, he was relieved she did. He slowly sat his body back into a normal sitting position to give his daughter his full attention while also trying to ignore the stiffness in his joints.

“Yeah kiddo?” He said fondly.

“Do you miss the Frontier?” She asked and he was curious where this line of questioning was going to go. Corra was standing there hugging herself nervously and it then occurred to Sam that his little girl was having some goodbye blues.

“Yeah. Yeah, I think I do. Come here, sweat pea.” He always made sure to be as honest with her as was appropriate. She may have had a birthday recently but she was always going to be his little girl. She approached him with a bit of a scuffle and when she got close enough, he stood and gave her an Ashta sized hug. “It has only been a couple hours but I do miss the coziness of the ship. It was our home away from home.”

“I miss it a lot already too.” Corra looked up to him. “You looked sad, like you missed it too.” Now that last line surprised him and he started to stammer a bit.

“Uh, well. I didn’t think I looked that sad now.” Sam always did his best to shield her from any of his woes and he was just grateful she thought it was because of the ship and not the real reason. That was a conversation if he could avoid forever, he would.

“But this new ship is really nice and I think it will grow on the both of us. Captain has some good taste but don’t tell her I said that. It might get to her head.” He pointed to his own head when he said that for emphasis and to get a small chuckle out of his daughter.

Corra did respond to him with that little joyous laugh of hers and he could see that the small joke had eased a some of her distress from her mind. That was enough for Sam and one of the main reason’s he loved telling her his little silly jokes even when she would get embarrassed by him.

“Thanks dad.” She squeezed her arms around him one more time before she let go. “I am almost done organizing all of my books! I have so much more room for new books now!”

“Is that so?” He raised his eyebrow as his hands instinctively went to rest onto the belt that held his pants. It felt like a default position for him most times and occasionally brought him the most comfort for some reason. “Well, we will see how well you keep up with your area of the room and with your chores on the ship and maybe. And hear me when I say maybe, you will get a larger booker allowance.” Corra squealed a bit with delight and did a small twirl of excitement. Sam knew right then and there he was most definitely going to have to increase her book allowance anyway because once she had her mind on something she was going to find a way to get it.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you! You’re the best Dad!” Corra hugged him one more time before skipping away and seemingly forgetting she was even upset about The Frontier. The conversation had distracted him as well and it was one of the many things, he appreciated about being a father. No matter how distraught things felt some days he knew that as long as Corra was set up with a better future that was all that mattered. In fact, it was the driving point for him to come clean with a lot of his older habits and for him to quit his binge days on Neon. He stood alone in the cockpit once more and a part of him had the urge to just start walking. Sam followed his feet through the hallways of the ship and in the distance, he heard faint whispering. It was then he realized his intent was to try to reconnect with Ghoul again even if it was to just for them both to hash it out until they were on the same page again. He hated seeing her so defensive and to watch her slowly push him away. Sam was hoping desperately there would be a point very soon that made her see that he truly cared about her enough to stop her from hurting herself and it wasn’t a ploy to control what she does. It reminded him of himself within the first weeks before he decided to come clean. The world felt like it was after him for simply just trying to live but in reality, he wasn’t living at all. His boots echoed within the hall and the whispering ahead soon stopped and he heard Andreja speak with confidence about something.

Sam looked ahead and saw that Andreja was close to Ghoul even from where she stood and something about that closeness gave him a ping of jealousy. He knew they heard him come in when Andreja had looked at him in a skeptical gaze that she liked to give people. It was when her brows furrowed a fraction but her brown eyes looked as if they were daring you to challenge her.

“Wake me up when we arrive. Sarah ordered me to rest.” Ghoul spoke and that was when Sam noticed how annoyed Ghoul looked even with her eyes closed. In that moment Sam chickened out from his original plan of confronting her and walked over to the kitchenette to make a fresh cup of coffee. They only had about four cups to chose from and the closest one was a red coffee mug that said ‘I’m a House Va’ruun Spy’. Sam started to heat up the water in their electric kettle so he could at least have instant coffee and while he waited his fingers gently tapped the counter.

“Do you want to me to watch the ship?” Andreja said softly as she stood next to Sam and it almost made him jump because he didn’t even hear her walk up. Her stealth skills always got the best of him when he wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings.

“Uh.” It was that moment he had realized that while he was so lost in his thoughts, he hadn’t greeted either of them when he walked in. It wasn’t like he had to but he was trying extremely hard to play it cool even if his mind was all over the place. If he didn’t think Andreja could kick his ass with a few close-combat moves he would have liked to take a moment to try to interrogate her about what she was thinking when she agreed to encourage their captain to play cards on The Key. Andreja, out of all of them, was normally the strict personality with the least amount of morally grey qualities to her so it made even less sense that she was okay with being there any more than he would of.

“Yeah, if you are comfortable with it. I could use a bite to eat and a wink of sleep myself.” Andreja was now leaning back onto the other side of the counter they were both standing at and her arms were crossed as she watched him make the cup of coffee. He thought for a moment he saw a small smile appear on her face after she had read what the mug had said but he was also serious about needing a bit of sleep so he could have imagined it.

“Piloting isn’t my expertise but considering it’s mostly going to be in autopilot from here out I think I can manage.” She said with a bit of humor in her voice. Andreja had taken a quick peek at Ghoul for a moment before she continued and the notion made Sam brace himself. Then she softly spoke to him. “I won’t pretend I do not know what is going on but I also know nothing I will say will make much of a difference.”

“Then why say anything at all?” Sam said with a passiveness that slipped before he could stop himself. He took a sip of his coffee to try to ignore that happened.

“Because you both happen to have grown on me very much and I am not enjoying how long this conflict is lasting. You need to let her learn on her own.”

“Yeah, and how long will that be?”

“As long as it takes.” Andreja shrugged as if it was an obvious answer. “You forget she didn’t have a someone lay a foundation for her when she was younger like some of us. We both may have not had the best of families but at least we had one.”

Sam thought about Jacob Coe for a moment and hated that he couldn’t disagree with her even if he didn’t really have fond memories of his father. He didn’t know the details about Andreja’s past but had an idea that she grew up like some of the LIST families do just outside of the Settled Systems, independent and all alone out there.

“There comes a time where you have to accept responsibility for your actions no matter what your past has been like.” He said with conviction. Sam could hear the harshness in his tone but he truly believed Ghoul was bigger than what she has been through. Hell, he had seen her recover from the worst with his own eyes and he was more than willing to be the anchor she needed to keep herself grounded. Andreja sighed at him and stopped leaning on the counter transforming her stance into something a bit more intimidating. Sam couldn’t tell if she was doing that subconsciously or purposely.

“I think you should consider being… softer with your approach. I know she may not always be in the right but I believe in her to make the right choices when it comes down to it.” Andreja’s accent was emphasizing her words and her eyes burned with a confidence in their Captain. Sam rarely saw that passion within her unless it was to slay their enemies so he knew in this moment she was talking from the heart. Sam was mulling over what Andreja had said for a moment. Ghoul did say some really fucked up shit to him earlier today but he also was the one who came off more judgmental than he intended. They both heard a small gasp and it made them both tense up as they turned to see Ghoul sitting awake and covered in sweat.

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The feeling of falling overwhelmed Ghoul’s nervous system as she suddenly sat awake from her deep slumber. It was easier to blame the lack of sleep on a small ship with no room on it than to acknowledge the fact that some of her nightmares had slowly been coming back again. There was a time period in the beginning of her travels where she seemed to be free of the terrors her dreams brought her but lately it felt like her brain was trying to plague her all over again. Her skin felt sticky in sweat and she applied pressure to her face with her hands in an attempt to soothe herself for the moment, to feel she was real. Ghoul felt eyes on her and it distracted her enough from her nightmare.

“I’m fine.” Her hands muffled her voice but she didn’t bother to wait for them to ask. Their concern was written on their faces as if she was shot and bleeding out. The both of them could be overbearing when they worked together and it was something she both loved yet hated.

“That seems to be your new catchphrase.” Sam said sarcastically at her before he went on with whatever he was doing in the first place. Ghoul dropped her hands from her face just to roll her eyes at him. She enjoyed that they each had their own bed at this point but she thought about having bigger goals next time like for everyone to get their own rooms in the next upgrade. Andreja had yet to say anything to Ghoul and honestly, she appreciated it because Andreja was skilled with knowing when words were preferred or not. Ghoul pushed herself off her bed and tried to fix her bed hair and smooth out her clothing.

“Are we close to Cydonia? How long was I out?” Ghoul looked around the ship to see if there was a clock but she remembered the Constellation watch on her left wrist and it showed she had only been out for 25 minutes. That newfound knowledge made her want to scream. “Never mind.”

“I was heading to the cockpit to take over for Sam unless you wanted to operate the ship, Captain.” Andreja offered and that was when Ghoul realized none of them were attending the ship. Sam had heated up something and was sitting at the table, stuffing his face full of brown gravy and some kind of meat. Even if the sight of that goop made her want to gag, she couldn’t blame him because they didn’t have a lot of time to eat on the last planet. Ghoul couldn’t tell if Andreja either really didn’t want to man the new ship or she knew Ghoul would rather be distracted after waking up like that.

“Yeah, good idea.” Ghoul’s hand found itself tangled in her hair once again and then on the back of her neck subconsciously trying to release some of the tension. “I’ll go do that. You both should rest, you deserve it.” Her last line is what caught the attention of Sam before she finally walked her way to the cockpit as she snapped and clapped her hands. Her eyes felt heavy but she was going to do her best to be in a better mood than earlier.

The cockpit was dark but all of the controls and buttons were lit up in different shades of green, yellow, white, and red for their various categories. When Ghoul sat in the blue faux leather chair, she felt her body relax into it as if it was made for her. The captain’s chair on this ship was bigger and it was just another benefit this ship had to offer that gave her pride for being able to pull this big purchase off. Though there was a lot to marvel in front of her, her mind felt clouded and heavy as she sat there with the accumulation of all her thoughts. She regretted not grabbing herself a cup of coffee before manning the ship but she knew it was only a bit of time before her mind would clear again.

She went to prop her feet on the dash and as she did, she accidentally kicked a switch that triggered a chain of events that abruptly caused the ship to lurch forward a bit and stop in place. Ghoul herself fell face forward onto the console with a rough smack and the sharp pain from impact made her hiss.

“Damnit.” She growled at herself and she looked out ahead into the stars to see if she could tell where they stopped. That was when she noticed this ship’s dash had the navigation center built in to the left of her and she was excited about the convenience of this. It indicated that there were just on the outskirts of the Sol system and that provided some relief. The feeling soon ended as she watched two Va’ruun ships warp into their field of vision. Ghoul was trying to think quickly on whether it was smarter to go in hot or cut the power to the engines and hope they didn’t pick them up.

“What is that?” Ghoul heard Sam ask as Andreja, and Corra walked behind him into the room of the cockpit to see what exactly caused that minor malfunction of the ship. Ghoul was a bit embarrassed about knocking them out of warp in such a silly manner but she didn’t have time to be coy.

“Two House Va’ruun ships warped into the same space we just did and I accidentally kicked the ship out of autopilot.” Ghoul said with composure as she initiated the process to power down the ship to its minimum output levels. It felt like it was taking her longer than usual to perform this particular task because she had yet had an opportunity to go over the controls before she took her very short nap. She found herself looking for the reactor gauge for a moment and Sam silently pointed to it as if he read her mind. She gave him a grateful smile as she finished up the process. There were two passenger seats that sat one on each side of the captain’s chair and Andreja and Sam got in their positions without question or further context.

“Hey Kiddo, my mind would be at ease if I knew you were buckled up over there.” Ghoul said to Corra with a softness she only reserved for the tiny Coe. Corra didn’t say a word but immediately sat in one of the extra seats behind the three of them. Ghoul caught Sam giving her a smile of gratitude while he finished setting up his own buckles. She knew that Corra was less likely to ask questions if Ghoul said something from her captain’s chair because that kid knew when it she was giving orders from the chair it was go-time.

“Plan?” Andreja asked as she stared at the other ships with disgust. Ghoul knowing why she would make that face looked at Andreja with a subtle sympathy.

“I would prefer not to get a scratch on our new ship but if we are detected we are most likely going to have to blast them out of space.” Ghoul now went into command mode and it was a role she was felt comfortable in when they got into situations like these. “Sam please keep an eye on ship vitals and you have a better shot so I will switch missiles to your seat. Andreja ballistics will be your friend today and if I cannot get us to warp before being caught then I guess we are going to see how much mobility this ship really has today.” In a unison they both said ‘Aye, Captain’ and took over their positions while Ghoul slowly begun to move the ship forward.

“Corra, please grab the spacesuit above you and put it on while the ship is still stable. I am sure your father would rather us be safe than sorry.” Ghoul threw the command behind her before locking her eyes on the path ahead. The ship was larger than the Frontier had felt and she could feel how sensitive the throttle systems were. It was a delicate balance of not using too much power to be detected but still make some progress to get out of their scanner radius. Over the comms they could hear the enemy ships hail each other and it sounded like that were looking for something in particular.

“Easy now.” Sam whispered to Ghoul after her hand slipped and pushed the ship forward a little too fast. The enemy thankfully was still unaware of their presence and if she could help it, she would keep it that way till the very end. The three of them were feeling the immense pressure to not make a sound and be a hair trigger a way from engaging with hostile ships. The time seemed to be dragging out as they were getting closer to their targeted area to warp out. Ghoul could taste victory on the tip of her tongue.

“What’s that?! Get them!” They heard the voices of the Va’ruun ships come through the comms and Ghoul’s heart sank as she quickly begun to power up the Longsword. She was really hoping she wouldn’t have to fight in her new baby today but it looks like the universe had other plans for her, as per usual.

“Fuck” She cursed under her breath as she tried to control her initial reaction. The last thing Ghoul wanted to do was alarm Corra and she could see that Andreja and Sam were both doing their best to stay commposed. “Weapons ready?”

“Missiles.” Sam confirmed.

“Ballistics.” Andreja confirmed as well.

“Well let’s see how she flies.” Ghoul said as she heard the ship warm up to the new surge of power. She applied full force to the thrusters and they begun their path to the other two ships.

“Fuck now there are three of them!” The enemy ships yelled and that statement took the three crew members by surprise. Behind the two Va’ruun ships were two Crimson Fleet vessels and they didn’t appear to be the usual outfitted Crimson Fleet ships.

“Andreja please run a scan on those ships.” Ghoul commanded and her body tensed with anticipation till she saw the ship IDs within the scanner. Those identification numbers were eerily similar to ones she had been reading about earlier and then the realization hit her. It was Delgado and Naeva. She felt her heart sink.

“Sam, remember that conversation we had about those of us who are on a need-to-know bases?” Ghoul leaned into him and asked softly so Corra wouldn’t hear them. She knew even if the tiny Coe did, she most likely wouldn’t figure out what they were talking about. Sam caught the cue and even though he didn’t look extremely pleased he went ahead to unbuckle himself from position.

“Get us the hell out of here as quickly as you can.” Sam whispered back to her before he motioned for Corra to come with him.

“What? Why are we-.” Corra began to protest but Sam wasn’t allowing her any wiggle room for protesting in this moment.

“It’s the Captain’s order. We have to go now.” Ghoul saw in Sam’s eyes it pained him to be so abrupt with his daughter but they had both agreed under no circumstances should Corra know about Ghoul’s involvement with the Crimson Fleet. It was not only for his daughter’s safety, were anything happen, but because Ghoul also could not bring herself to share that side of the world with the child. Once the two of the Coe’s were out of the cockpit and for sure in the crew’s station of the back of the ship, Ghoul sighed heavily. There weren’t a lot of options and it looked like the battle had already begun.

“The missiles are now assigned to me but I would appreciate it if you kept an eye on ship vitals for me.” Ghoul said to Andreja who hadn’t said a word. She knew Andreja recognized what the scanner had inferred and understood the short conversation Ghoul had with Sam.

“Yes, Captain.” Andreja’s voice was controlled and calm. Her cool composure was the one thing that was helping Ghoul not unravel herself and she was supposed to be the leader. Ghoul directed the ship forward with max speed and as she swung it around the House Va’ruun ships there were lasers that hit one of the wings of the ship. Inside she cursed herself to hell but she kept her hands steady and Andreja without needing command already started to deliver the might of their new ballistic weapons system. The Crimson Fleet ships were originally shooting at all moving objects within their field of vision but they soon noticed that the Longsword wasn’t engaging with them. Once both of the House Va’ruun ships exploded into smithereens from the combined forces of the three ships was when Ghoul finally received a hail from Delgado and Naeva.

“Do we got ourselves a friend or a foe?” Naeva’s spunky voice came through laced with challenge. Ghoul took a deep breath trying her best to get herself into the headspace of the ruthless Rook they welcomed into the Fleet not so long ago.

“Could be either depending on how many fucking times your weapons make contact with my ship, Naeva!” Ghoul added a bit of cocky gravel to her voice that sounded almost out of body to her own ears. She even noticed a shift in Andreja’s body that noted that it sounded off to her as well.

“Oh, would you look at that Delgado? The Rook is alive and well. Looks like she has been dicking around instead of meeting with your contact.” Naeva completely ignored the threat Ghoul gave but that was the type of game she liked to play. Naeva was the first to smile in someone’s face then smash their skull on the closest blunt object. She wasn’t second in command to Delgado for nothing.

“I really hope you have a good explanation for this, Rook.” Delgado’s voice came through this time. His rough mannerism traveled through the comms as well giving Ghoul a shiver down her back.

“You can see the reason if you open your eyes, Delgado.” Ghoul quipped with the sound of disbelief as if the reason was so obvious it was offensive that they didn’t notice. It was like a knife’s edge when she spoke to the King of the Crimson Fleet. She couldn’t be seen as a weak individual but there was a pecking order that was to be adhered to or there would be consequences.

“Are you referring to that large trash heap you are piloting? You didn’t take me as someone who would pride themselves with trash.” Ghoul could hear the smile within his insult.

“Well, if you think so poorly of my new vessel. I guess that just confirms the man’s life I ended to retrieve it had nothing to lose after all.” She lied through her teeth as she laughed about her imaginary murder.

“Enough games, Rook.” Naeva commanded through the box, “We have some catching up to do and it’s clear you can’t get something done without a fucking tight leash.”

“Naeva, don’t.” Delgado warned his second in command. “You do owe us an explanation, Rook, for missing in action for over a week now and not even completing the task assigned to you. If I were to know any better, I would think you are trying to leave the Fleet.”

“And no one and I mean no one, leaves the Crimson Fleet.” Naeva threatened. This was slowly becoming a very complicated situation and Ghoul knew she couldn’t just follow them to the Key with Corra on board, Sam would never forgive her even if he stayed on ship with her.

“This can all be easily explained if you want me to lay out my entire schedule including when I have eaten, took a piss break, and slept.” She deflected to humor because it felt like the safest option without seeming suspicious. Ghoul’s humor was a mask for the fear that was creeping up inside her. It was normally very easy to persuade herself out of sticky situations but this time it was obvious she was backed into a corner and it was quite possible they had been out here looking for her.

“I’d be careful with who you are speaking to.” Naeva threatened Ghoul again.

“If it’s so easy to explain then there shouldn’t be an issue with you docking onto my ship and coming aboard to explain.” Delgado didn’t leave any room for her to refuse and she knew if she did, she’d be putting the other lives on her ship in danger.

“Fine, if that’s what it will take to get you both off my ass.” She let some of her genuine frustration come through with that statement. “Give me some time to dock and gather some of my loot on this ship. I’ll have someone retrieve the ship later so I expect you both to leave it unharmed.” Ghoul wasn’t in a place to be making demands since they were both already suspicious of her and her last whereabouts but she need to at least try to ensure everyone else’s safety.

“If it means so much to you, then fine. But if we suspect you are telling us anything other than the truth the ship will be blown to pieces and you will be floating along with it.” Those were Delgado’s last words before they ended communications and both ships waited for Ghoul in the black void to come on board. When Ghoul was sure their comms was no longer connected, she let out the biggest sigh of relief and sunk into the back of her chair. There were a lot of thoughts and emotions swimming violently in her head. It was a few moments later when she noticed the face of an extremely unhappy Andreja.

“Did you just agree to get onto Delgado’s ship, alone?” She asked and Ghoul knew it was a rhetorical question and more of a ‘what the hell were you thinking’ type question.

“What was the alternative?” Ghoul challenged her, not really wanting to hear any criticism about how she could have handled the delicate situation. It wasn’t really like they had given her a list of options or without it ending them being space dust.

“I am not sure but I don’t think going onto a Crimson Fleet ship with no backup was the right call.” Andreja protested some more and Ghoul just looked at the two ships ahead of them trying her best not to engage with the argument. Normally Andreja knew to just trust Ghoul but she could see the worry on her friend’s face.

“Perhaps not, but you need to remember I am undercover. I have to be in these situations and I have to be able to keep you all safe while putting myself into these situations.”

“What situation?” Sam had come back to the cockpit alone thankfully, but it was horrible timing. Ghoul wasn’t ready to hear it from him as well.

“Delgado requests our Captain to get onto his ship and explain what she has been doing the past week instead of meeting with his contact. Alone!” Andreja beat Ghoul to the punch of giving him an explanation and Ghoul gave her an angry stare.

“Excuse me?” Sam said in disbelief and Ghoul felt the room tense up further. The thoughts that swarmed her mind were getting to a point where she couldn’t really hear anything else that was going on and she felt on the edge of exploding.

“Again, sorry for choosing the path that kept all of you alive. Next time I will just let our enemies blast us out the sky and if there is a next life you both can be angry with my decisions then!” She was feeling extremely defensive and annoyed with the two of them and decided instead of hearing anything else either of them had to say she would rather not be in the room. So, she got out of the chair and pushed past Sam in anger. Sam however was not about to let her run off so easily because he was livid himself. It wasn’t long before his heavy footsteps quickened their pace behind her and she felt herself get cornered into one of the storage rooms.

“Hey! Stop!” He said with an irate vigor in his voice. Ghoul was staring at the shelved wall in the storage room acting as if she was trying to look for something. She had no interested in repeating the same conversation over and over. Last she checked she was their captain and they were supposed to trust her, even if it seemed like she was throwing herself to the wolves. Sam’s hand was on her arm as he twisted her around with a force she wasn’t expecting. It was a force she hadn’t felt from him since before they left New Atlantis.

“Stop, stop pushing us out and listen.” He practically begged her and his eyes were burning into hers as both his hands held her into place in front of him. “I don’t know what has been going on in that pretty little head of yours lately but we need to talk, now.”

“Talk to you about what? The same conversation? How you don’t agree with my actions? How neither of you seem to trust in my decision making when it matters?” Ghoul responded back as quick as a gunshot and her face was masked with anger but really, she was just tired of having these fights with Sam. She missed the silence they use to be able to share comfortably or when he would just know when she needed something to make her laugh. The tension was just so fucking overwhelming. “I’m undercover. Do I want to be? No! But it seems like everyone in this fucking universe needs something from me and I can only do so many fucking things right.”

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“Ghoul you-.” Sam looked as if he was ready to fire right back at her but he felt the sudden defeat in her body before he saw the tears that begun to swell in her yellow eyes. His posture and grip softened for a moment and he remembered the advice Andreja had given to him earlier. He found his right hand gently pressing her bright red hair out her face and he thought about the several colors she had changed it to in the past three months they had traveled together and something about that made him smile to himself. It was just something that was very her and he held on to that thought. “It’s just-. We do trust you-.”

“You have a hell of a way to show it.” Ghoul interrupted him angrily and he saw how much effort she was putting in to not let any of her tears fall. The guards she was constantly putting up was painful for him to watch and he could only imagine the lengths she went through to keep them fortified.

“I can’t stand to think about anything happening to you, okay? Especially if…especially if I could have done something about it and I didn’t stop you.” Sam stammered with his choice of words and he was trying his best to clearly communicate. It was not easy with how bad his heart was pounding from the whole situation. The thought of her just putting herself on line and walking right into that trap, it riled him up.

“I can take care of myself.” Ghoul said softly and she gently nudged Sam to let go of her arms so he did. Her eyes looked past him and into a void of thought he wish he could hear so he knew what the right words were. It was obvious she was going to at least stand there for a few moments longer and he was going to do his damned best to get her to at least know how much he cared for her wellbeing. At the very least.

“No one is denying that, darling.” Her eyes snapped back to his as if calling her darling beckoned her back to him. “I need you to know that I…we have your back.”

“Yeah?” She sounded skeptical and that was a tiny blow to his ego. Had he really been acting in such a way where she really thought he wasn’t in her corner anymore?

“Yes, I promise. You made your decision and I know you chose it with everyone’s wellbeing in mind, even if it is not…well…just, I cannot thank you enough for the things you do to keep Corra safe. I am not sure I ever will be able to. But you have got to know that.” He found himself emphasizing the last line and practically begging for her to hear him, truly hear him.

“You are not alone and honestly you havent been at least not since the day I watched you convince a whole gang to just walk out of that Galbank and cut their losses. And yes, the universe has been stretching us to the ends of it all to figure out exactly what these Artifacts are for but Ghoul.” Their eyes were still locked as Sam tried to find the right words he wanted to use and he felt they were truly the only two on this entire ship. He wondered if she felt it too.

“Please…just…stay alive.” He leaned forward towards her. Connecting his forehead with hers, breaking their eye contact but he needed to be close with her. He felt the hitch in her breathing but she didn’t step back this time and instead leaned more into him as their eyes closed and they just felt each other’s physical connection. It was the first sliver of peace they had have between each other for weeks. Sam felt the gentleness of Ghoul’s hand on his beard and when he looked back at her there was now a slow flow of tears falling from her eyes.

“Of course, I will cowboy.” She sniffled softly and the crook of a small smile appeared on her lips. “I couldn’t just let them on this ship Sam not with Corra, not with them finding you or Andreja.” Sam absolutely hated the prospect of Ghoul giving herself up for his welling being yet again. The fears that he had when they were on Neon pained his chest but he held it in and chose not to argue. She was right they needed to trust her. Ghoul was wiping some of the tears off her face and Sam lent a finger to rub one off of her cheek.

“I’m going to be fine. It’s only going to be for a short period of time and I will be back before you can say, ‘are you sure you want to carry that?” She teased him and there was relief on her face that accompanied the smile that was in her eyes. He hesitated before deciding to step back from her and allow her some space. They both took an awkward moment to dust themselves off because they were normally not this physically close and even though there was a strong urge in him to touch her skin again, he held himself.

“Are you going to say goodbye to Corra? What are we going to tell her?” Sam asked directing the conversation away from the awkward silence that filled the storage room they were in. He would rather this awkwardness any day over the tension they had both were originally feeling.

“You, are going to tell her whatever you want because you are her father. I am going to go on Delgado’s ship and make them believe I am just another stupid Rook.” Ghoul said without pausing and Sam crossed his arms not entirely happy with the decision that it was up to him to pick the lie for his daughter. He was a bad liar and if Ghoul didn’t come back what was he going to tell Corra then? He wouldn’t be able to forgive himself. But he knew it was a temporary and he also didn’t want Corra to stress over their captain. Ghoul’s hand was now on his shoulder and she gave him a confident smile.

“What is that thing Vladmir says? Catch a smile out there?” Ghoul gripped his shoulder and he laughed at her for trying to impersonate Vlad’s accent.

“Yes. Catch a smile out there.” Sam’s voice was nonchalant but the inside of his body was screaming to not let her go out there alone and onto a ship of wolves.

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Ghoul had her pirate suit on and the airlock had finally finished stabilizing the air for her to walk through the door to Delgado’s ship. The process was long enough for her to rehearse in her head who she was to be now that she was going to be on Delgado’s ship. She was a Crimson Fleet pirate, she took what she wanted, she lived to fight against the UC and Freestar Rangers, and most of all she did not give a fuck about anything other than her own gains. The airlock door finally opened and there Delgado stood with two other armed men on each side of him. He had a foxy grin on his face as if he expected her to chicken out of this meeting.

“Ah, there she is.” Delgado crooned and he snapped his fingers ordering his guards to relax their position and allow her to walk nearby. “I am extremely interested in these excuses you have for not meeting with your contact as ordered. You are lucky you were the one who helped us find another clue to Kryx’s legacy or else you would be dust by now.”

“I didn’t realize you were being so kind, Del. Next time I will make sure to bring you a fucking bouquet of flowers to show my gratitude.” Ghoul wanted to make it clear that his threats, no matter what they were didn’t disarm her. Delgado looked her up and down and he seemed to be amused at her response. He snapped again but this time his men went to grab both of her arms to restrain her. Immediately Ghoul tried to fight them off because she knew if she just allowed herself to be captured it would be a sign of weak submission in the eyes of this pirate. She used her foot to trip one of the men and it loosened his grip enough for her to slip her arm out of his hold, and then push the back of his helmet into the other guard. The two men collided and before they had the chance to both turn back onto her, she had disarmed them of one of their guns and pointed it directly at them.

“Is this really necessary?” Ghoul hissed at Delgado and he watched her like a hawk ready to swoop in and pluck her eyes out at any moment.

“Perhaps not.” He waved them away and then looked back at his other crew. She wasn’t sure if she saw it correctly or not but he looked pleased with her response. “Undock from that piece of garbage and set coordinates for The Key. We have much to get to in the next few months.”

“Months?” Ghoul snapped suddenly and slightly out of her usual pirate character. Delgado had an eyebrow raised at her suspiciously from her response.

“Do you have somewhere else to be that’s more important than Kryx’s legacy?” He challenged her and the tone in his voice made it very clear this was a dangerous rhetorical question. Ghoul shook her head and tossed the gun to the side trying her best not to think about the fact that she had absolutely no way to communicate with the others about this development. She had left anything that tied her to Constellation on the ship. That included her watch given to her when she first joined that was her primary telecommunications device. What in the fuck was she going to do?

#sam coe #starfield #starfield fanfiction #fanfic #Delgado #crimson fleet #ao3fic #sam coe x spacefarer #a wee bit of fluff #Please enjoy!#and if possible show support on ao3!

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oneofafew · 9 months ago

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In the Shadow of Memories

A small snipped of my first 'proper' HL fanfic the full works will be post up on AO3 (Archive of our own)

Ominis Gaunt X F!MC (Platonic)

Just angst really.

~ Chapter 1 - Summer ~

Amelia was screaming once again, she tossed and turned the tears streaming down her pale cheeks as she yelled “No please! No more! Come back!” she was drenched in sweat the covers twisted around her uncomfortably as the nightmare consumed her the darkness threatening to engulf her and trap her there permanently, her body felt like it was on fire once again and then as suddenly as it had come everything was calm again a soft voice drifting through to her as she felt a cool hand stroking her hair

“Shh, it’s alright, it’s not real, it’s over, I’m here Amelia” Ominis’ voice drifted to her as she felt herself return to reality, she opened her eyes and peered through the pale early morning light at the figure sat beside her his face turned toward her an expression of apprehension etched across his features, a wave of relief washing over her as she felt her breathing begin to regulate once more “I’m so sorry” she whispered leaning against his touch as he continued to stroke her soft blonde locks.

It was the last week of the Summer holidays after their fifth year at Hogwarts, Amelia and Ominis had taken up residence in Feldcroft in the Sallows unoccupied home, at the end of their fifth year the two of them had made the decision not to turn Sebastian in, they had wanted to be there to support him, for all the good it had done, he’d refused to look either of them in the eye after the catacombs and the second school had ended he’d taken off without so much as goodbye and although the two of them had tried to contact him each owl they sent had come back dishevelled and confused with their letters still attached, they didn’t know if the owls had been unsuccessful in finding him or if he had simply turned them away, a small hope had reached them on the first week of their holidays however in the form of a note from Anne addressed to Ominis informing him of her whereabouts and imploring him not to tell Sebastian for the time being, Amelia hadn’t asked either instead choosing to let Ominis tell her in his own time, he did however divulge that she had mentioned the lack of any bouts of pain since the death of Rookwood but was not prepared to get her hopes up just yet which had given both of them in turn a small glimmer of hope.

The hope they’d harboured over Anne was however soon forgotten when the nightmares began, at first they had been subtle, Amelia had woken breathless and glanced toward the curtain where Ominis had taken the bed beside her checking she hadn’t woken him.

Ominis had lay awoken thanks to his sensitive hearing, his eyes shut as he listened to her increasingly laboured breathing, his stomach in knots to hear the distress she was in, it wasn’t until the screaming started a couple of days later that he could no longer bare to stay in his feigned state of sleep, without hesitation he was at her side, he’d only ever heard her scream like that once before, in Slytherins scriptorium, and it pained him to hear her in so much distress again, he’d of taken it from her in a heartbeat.

His voice always smooth and soothing and his cool hands at her head had coaxed Amelia back from the darkness ever since then and the two of them had fallen into a routine, as much as she hated to admit it Ominis had become somewhat of a security blanket for her and she dreaded going back to Hogwarts and her decidedly Ominis-less dormitory.

She’d tried brewing their own dreamless sleep potions and they’d worked, for a while but soon even those hadn’t been strong enough for the horrors that crept into her mind whilst she slept and now she found herself back to the beginning as they neared the end of the summer.

“I was thinking we could go into Hogsmede later today” Ominis said rising to his feet once Amelia had calmed down enough, they never spoke of the dreams or the moments after, simply getting on with their days as if nothing had happened, Amelia was thankful for this, having to relay them in words would have been just as bad as suffering through them each night and she was almost sure Ominis felt just as embarrassed as she did in the intimacy of their contact, after all they where friends and nothing more

“what do you think?” Ominis voice brought her back from her thoughts once again as she peered up at him from her perch on the side of her bed where he’d been moments before “it would be good to get organised before we go back Tomorrow” she said softly tucking her hair behind her ear and reaching for the letter they’d received early August with their supply lists, a small knot was slowly forming in the pit of her stomach at the realisation they only had one day left before they’d be back at Hogwarts, back to where she’d lost Figg and where she’d last seen Sebastian, she knew Ominis was feeling just as nervous both of them had wondered aloud if Sebastian would even return for their sixth year and if he did what state he’d be in. “It’ll be alright you know” Ominis said suddenly, at her side once again, it was almost as if he could read her mind at times always knowing when she was slipping and needed his comfort, she felt guilty she wasn’t as in tune to his feelings, she knew he was anxious too but he always seemed to take it upon himself to be the one to comfort “It’ll be like going home” he added, placing his hand on her shoulder and squeezing gently, although is voice had a subtle hint of ambivalence to it.

#hogwarts legacy #fanfic #ominis gaunt #writing #hogwarts houses #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #sebastian sallow

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lyon-amore · 2 years ago

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Mr and Mrs Liars Chapter 17

Chapter 16 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- *Jake POV*

"Well, well, well... You don't really get tired, do you?" I ask, looking at the bed with a smile. The little cat meows at me, rolling around in my sweatshirt, covering it with fur. I had found him after lunch with Aleena, I refused to let her bring me home, I didn't want her to know where I lived. So, as I was walking back, I came across this little guy jumping out of nowhere scared by the sound of a truck. He had held on tight and I had to bring him. Afterwards, I took him to the vet to check if he had any identification chips. When he said no, he told me that I could leave him with him to take him to a shelter and well... I think his look of pity ended up giving me up completely. So now I have a cat. Though I didn't expect him to be so mischievous. I had left him alone for a moment while I had gone to get food for him. And when I returned, everything was all on the floor. And I had bought a toy for him because I thought he was a good cat. MC had sent me the message that she had the real name of Oskar Neumann, since I had been with the cat, I told her that I was busy along with a photo. I was sure that she would like it when she returned. "Let's see Gizmo, one thing is you can be on top of my sweatshirt, but not that you destroy my house." I cross my arms, frowning. Gizmo meows again, stretching out, Who was a Cat? I hear the front door, along with MC's voice complaining. "What happened here?! Couldn't you be less of a beast?!" I hear her yell, annoyed. "MC, in my room!" I call for her to come, without taking my eyes off the cat. "Are you crazy? I'm not joining!" "Join?" I pick up the cat carefully, the little one snuggles into the crook of my neck, purring, "What are you talking about?" I ask as I leave the room, "why don't you want to join?" "Well-" she remains silent, looking at the cat. She points to it, confused, not understanding what is happening "Why do you have a cat?" "I sent you a photo. Didn't you get it?" "What? No, I thought by busy you meant-" She blushes and looks away, kicking off her heels. "It doesn't matter, maybe WhatsApp fell just at the moment you wanted to send me the message." So she thought I was "busy" with Aleena. I don't know how she came to that conclusion, but I love it. “What's they name?” she asks, reaching out to caress him. "Gizmo," I replied, as I watched her pet him. Her eyes never leave the cat and she says sweet things to him. The scene looks like we're having a baby "how's work?" "It was easy." She finishes stroking Gizmo and walks away. "I'm going to make myself comfortable and we'll talk about what I've discovered." "Okay, I'm going to put the little one's food now." As soon as we finished, we sat on the sofa together with some cups of coffee. Gizmo gets to play with one of the mice I bought, jumping around the house as he throws it. We stared at it for a while, mesmerized. "Well... how was the date?" MC asks me, smiling. “It wasn't a date." "Are you ashamed to admit it?" “I'm not ashamed because it wasn't” I cross my arms, raising an eyebrow “and I haven’t yet to speak to Thomas for giving her my phone number. You are both great, congratulations, you have done it: I have a woman obsessed with me on my cell phone." "You'll get used to it." <<So we have those... Okay.>> "Mmm… Maybe so, at least she was nice enough and she's pretty, I admit it, I've had a good time with her." I watch her expression change from teasing to surprised, but not happy. "I asked about Oskar Neumann at work." She quickly changes the subject, ignoring my words. "Real name: Ansel Laurent. He did dangerous reporting: prostitution, smuggling, street gangs... I wouldn't be surprised if he also got into the middle of some mafia." "Ansel Laurent…" I try to remember if I've ever heard Charlotte talk about him, but nothing. That name was new to me "We'll have to look it up then. Do you know anything else about him?" "He had a wife who, shortly after he disappeared, was found dead in their house, murdered after a robbery." She blew on her coffee and looked at me mysteriously. "Too much of a coincidence, right?" "It would be if it wasn't that they found Ansel unrecognizable." I commented, picking up the computer to start searching. Like last night, MC leans on my shoulder to watch the search for Ansel Laurent. We found his social networks, he had a good life, it seemed that he and his wife traveled a lot. His wife's name was Heidi Plummer. Her social networks were full of the same photos as her husband, except that she was added with some others with the family. "Let's find information about his murder." I commented, typing in the key words. "But if his wife didn't want to know anything about her husband's work out of fear, why go after her?" MC asks, tickling my ear with her breath "No one would have known who she was since Ansel used another name." "And again we return to the theory of the police." "Where Ansel must have cooperated to protect him," she murmurs thoughtfully. "And that you can clearly identify someone if you steal his ID before you kill him and find out about him and his life." I give a hit to the news and we begin to read it. It seemed that her murder was excruciating, with too much blood throughout the house, as if she had been running, fleeing from her attackers. They managed to arrest one and now he was in jail. "Jan Parker." I read the name of our criminal out loud. "Something tells me we have to pay another visit." I look sideways at MC, who reads carefully. I get to read her lips pronounce the name of the prison. "It's the same one where Richy is being held." "Great…" I make a guttural sound, annoyed. I hadn't forgiven him for what he'd done by kidnapping Hannah. If he had also accepted the blame for him having participated in helping them, then none of this would have happened. The only difference is that Hannah was defended by a good lawyer, with the excuse that after running over Jennifer, her state of shock was so great that it affected her, causing mental health problems. Hannah wasn't proud of her defense and pleaded guilty herself, but everyone saw the poor girl carrying a load of guilt for years, adding to her mental state at the time. MC informed me of everything that was happening at that time, she also didn’t like the excuse given by the lawyer, along with the psychologist who took her. Dr. Barrett supported her that her trauma came from the same date that Jennifer's murder occurred. Unfortunately, Richy's lawyer wasn't that good, and the fact that he had kidnapped Hannah to avoid part of her guilt didn't make people look good on him. "Jake..." MC whispers, squeezing my shoulder tightly "I have to tell you something." "What is it?" I ask worried, taking his hand that was now trembling "You know you can tell me everything.” She takes a breath and looks me in the eye. “I've been seeing Richy in jail for several years.” I tense up, unable to think. How several years was she talking about? One year? Two? "MC, if you're going to tell me you saw that guy while we were together-" “I'm so sorry, Jake, really.” I get up from the couch, angry with her. She didn't have to keep it from me, but she had. Little confidence in me. "Jake, wait a minute." MC follows me, but I close my bedroom door in his face. I really feel betrayed. *MC POV* Someday I had to tell him. And that day was today. I already knew how he was going to react, Why am I surprised? I return to the sofa, curling up in a ball. I should have shut up. I feel pressure in my body and look up. Gizmo is lying on top of me. I pet his head and he purrs. "I'm fine, don't worry…" I tell the cat, who curls up to sleep. Now I dare not get up. “MC?” I look up at Jake. I hadn't even heard that he had left the room “I have to ask." I get up grabbing the cat, but he jumps out of my arms when he finds himself awake, lying next to me. "Do you want to know why I was going?" "MC, he wanted to take you to the mine. Who knows what he was going to do to you?" "You talk like Jessy." "Because he also attacked Jessica!" He leans against the sofa, looking into my eyes “And he did it to threaten you that he would continue doing it if you continued investigating, remember? He is not someone you should be sorry for." "I don't pity him." I close my hands until I hurt myself. He has confused everything. "The problem is, I'm terrified of him telling me why he wanted me to go, when was he going to let Hannah go and pretend he was saving her? When I was inside the mine and burning it down or when I was waiting for them outside it?" "Instead, you keep him company every time you go to see him." I can hear in his voice how disappointed he is in me. If each one had known how to take the blame for themself, none of this would have happened. We wouldn't be here arguing about whether what I'm doing with Richy is good, bad, or whether we should forgive him. "If that doubt is torturing you all these years, you should stop asking yourself and ask him." He squats down, taking my hands lovingly. I squeeze his hands tightly, seeking the support that I would have liked years ago if it weren't for the fact that I feared his reaction. I saw it today and I didn't want to disappoint him like that. "What do I do if he tells me that he wanted me to burn in the mine?" I ask terrified "All so that our investigation would be lost and thus no one would know the truth?" "Well, it would be the first time in years that I'd punch someone." He replies with a charming smile. I let out a small laugh, grateful for his support. I caress his cheek affectionately, and then kiss him on it. I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. "Better not or they'll arrest you." I teased, trying to get back into a normal frame of mind. "But it will have been worth it." We both get up standing up, with the most relaxed atmosphere. Gizmo's sleeping purr is so loud that we are surprised. We laugh when we see it. "Well, you can always be the old man with the cats if you don't want to have anything to do with Aleena." I say, giving him a quizzical look. Jake sighs, putting a hand to the back of his neck, looking at the cat almost like he's looking at his child. He's adorable. "Well, with how big the apartment is, at least I won't feel alone surrounded by cats," he teases, letting out a small laugh. "Good and now we take care of Jan? We have wasted too much time." "I'm sorry…" "No, don't worry, I'm glad we talked about it." He sits on the sofa and picks up the computer, then looks at me. "I must assume that you must know how to request a meeting with him." "They already know me in prison, I'm not going to deny it." I sit down next to him again, placing my hands in my lap. "But I think with Jan we should call attention so that he agrees to see us." "You're thinking of naming Ansel, right?" He arches an eyebrow and hands me the computer. "It's better to do it, I have a feeling he'll want to see us if it's him." I look for the jail page to print the petition. Jake gets up to plug in the printer and I can see him looking at me. "Have you already talked to Thomas about giving your number to Aleena?" I ask, to keep my mind occupied with something other than just him. "Not yet, I haven't found the time." "Have you two talked about me?" I ask curious. Maybe I should keep quiet, do I really want to hear what they have said about me? "Nothing bad, I promise you." "And the last question" I turn to look at him and take a breath, nervous "Would you go on a second date with her?" He puts a hand to his chin, thinking about the answer. The longer it takes to answer me, the more I worry. He told me that at the moment he didn't want to date anyone. Would he have changed her mind? "No, I don't think I'm going to go out with her again," he finally answers "but what if it were like that?" "So that you tell me in advance to put another plate for the wedding banquet," I answered, shrugging. "I need to know if you will come with a companion." "I won't be able to go, I have work that day." "Okay, but don't forget your promise-" "The gift bed, I know." I know perfectly well that he doesn't know what day it is and that he doesn't know if he'll have a day off that day either, he doesn't want to come and I understand. I get that it's pretty awkward when your ex invites you to her wedding, but I wanted to be polite. Besides, I don't want Lilly or Hannah getting mad at me for not inviting her brother. Which reminds me, then I have to text Phil that I'm okay. Problems accumulate. *Jake POV* While she writes the jail petition, I decide to cook dinner for both of us. Gizmo stands up meowing asking me to eat. I roll my eyes. He is a gluttonous cat. "You have food on your plate and you can't eat this," he meows passing between my legs, trying to convince me, "What do you think Gizmo? Will she be jealous of my “date” with Aleena? Incredible true? She's getting married and she's upset that I been with another woman, when she's the one who's thrown me into her arms." "Meow." "Yes, I don't understand it either." I answer as if I understood him. MC is right: I'm going to become the old man of the cats. "I just think that… I don't need another woman in my life. That’s it. I want to focus on getting my old life back, reconnecting with my old friends... I still haven't told them that I'm back... But I will." I move the spoon while looking at the cat, again, as if I really knew what I was saying "Even if they kill me for not having contacted them as soon as I was free..." "Who's going to kill you?" MC enters the kitchen and leans on my shoulder. "I was telling Gizmo that my friends are going to be mad at me as soon as they find out I didn't contact them first." "If I were them, I'd be angry too," she lets out a laugh that leaves me distracted. I would listen to it on loop. "Jake, dinner.” "Sorry.” She sighs and reaches down to pet Gizmo. I must not be distracted... I like this scene but I must not be distracted. "I thought that as an apology, I let you choose what to watch today.” MC she gets up, placing her hands on her hips, smiling proudly at me. "You're going to fall asleep as soon as I put on the movie," I answered, smiling mischievously "you always do it after a day's work." "I promise not to fall asleep," MC raises her hand as a promise "I'll watch the entire movie and then we'll discuss it." "Words are carried away by the wind, MC and I know you're going to fall asleep as soon as the first words appear, you're predictable." She taps me on the shoulder and I laugh "Do you want to try how dinner is turning out?" "Yes, let's see how you are, Mr. Chef." I pick up a spoon and make her taste it. She closes her eyes savoring, even licking the remains that remain on her lips. I want to be able to make them mine… << No, remember what you promised yourself, you have to forget her. Why does it cost you so much? >> "Well?" “Jake, if you ever get fired, dedicate yourself to cooking." "That's exaggerating." "No, I really mean it." She picks up another spoon and offers the food to me. “Try it." "Don't feed me." "Why? You can do it but I can't?" I sigh and end up accepting. I had tried it before but now, it tasted better. Maybe because she's giving it to me. "Am I right or not?" she asks. "Yes, yes... Go to setting the table, please, don't fool around, I'm making dinner." I teased, continuing with the cooking. "What? I've been working" the joke continues before leaving. I smile and Gizmo meows at me, almost as if he was reproaching me for what was happening in my mind when I saw her leave the kitchen. “Oh come on, I wasn't looking at her.” I reply, rolling my eyes. <<Little by little, I’m transforming into the old man of the cats. >> After dinner, we decided to put on a movie to relax from these crazy days we've had. But just as I guessed, MC fell asleep on my lap, exhausted after a day's work. I stroked her hair gently, observing her peaceful expression. "I wish every day could be like this…" I whispered. Her mobile screen lights up, a couple of messages appear on it. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Phil I'm glad to hear that you did well today at work Rest well Princess, you deserve it ;) ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- That message gives me a blow to reality. Carefully, I took MC in my arms, to take her to her bed. Gizmo follows us and jumps onto her bed as he carefully lays her down. MC smiles hugging the pillow, but it's what she says in her sleep that surprises me the most. "I love you Jake…" she whispers as I tuck her in. Am I crazy or did she really say it? Chapter 18

#duskwood #duskwood jake #duskwood mc #duskwood jake x mc #duskwood phil #duskwood phil x mc #duskwood richy #duskwood thomas #duskwood dan #duskwood jessy #duskwood cleo #duskwood hannah #duskwood lilly #duskwood fanfic #duskwood game #duskwood everbyte #everbyte game #everbyte studios #everbyte

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hummingbird-of-light · 2 years ago

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Against All Odds

Part 311

McCoy

McCoy spent the rest of the morning with Dr. Boyce. They talked at length about many of the things McCoy had thought about that summer and the prince finally broached the topic of medicine. Dr. Boyce had been quite enthusiastic that McCoy would make an excellent doctor. His drive to help others, his instant action with no hesitation, all would be great qualities in the field. Though, Dr. Boyce did remind him of his few faults he would need to continue to work on and overcome. But he had praised McCoy’s success at working on those as well.

He had also given McCoy some very sound advice on how he might make his first moves to change the succession to Leah.

Overall McCoy felt much better as he followed the doctor to the dining room for lunch. The Darnell’s were already in their places with David and Eleanor and McCoy and Dr. Boyce greeted them all. Even Jocelyn, McCoy greeted with a real smile.

He still disliked the idea of having to spend time with her, especially alone, but knowing that Dr. Boyce recognized his love for Scotty was real, he knew his parents must realize it as well. He would be nice, he would be polite and he would let Jocelyn down kindly if need be.

McCoy hadn’t realized how soon the dilemma of letting Jocelyn down would happen. After lunch he had returned to his room and grabbed a book from his shelf. An afternoon of reading in the orchard had appealed to him and he made his way to the gazebo, lost in thoughts of all the times he had sat there with Scotty that summer. He wondered what Scotty was doing at the moment, and stretched a finger over to press his ring.

He settled in on the cushioned bench of the gazebo, the scent of overripe fruit drifting on the breeze. It couldn’t be a more perfect summer afternoon. All that was missing was Scotty against his side. McCoy let out a satisfied sigh and opened the book.

So engrossed in the story was he, that he didn’t realize anyone else had come near until a footstep struck the gazebo floor. Startled from his book, he looked up and saw Jocelyn crossing towards him. Inside he frowned, but outside he forced a smile.

“It’s nice out here,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Though the air is almost too sweet,” she said, wrinkling her nose slightly.

“Most of the fruit has been picked and sent to town already,” McCoy replied. What did she want? Had she been searching for him or had she come across him by accident?

“The Queen had some sent to us earlier in the summer.”

McCoy nodded. He glanced back down at his book. He really didn’t want to make conversation. He swallowed hard to maintain his composure as she sat down next to him. Too close to him, he thought.

“What are you reading?”

He held the front cover up for her to read the title.

“Is it good?”

“One of my favorites.”

“Hmm.”

McCoy glanced over from the corner of his eye, but Jocelyn was looking down at the open book in his hands. Was she reading the page? He couldn’t be sure. He turned his eyes back to the book. A few moments passed in silence.

“You’ve grown since the last time we were here,” Jocelyn said suddenly. “You’re almost taller than the king now.”

McCoy looked up. He didn’t quite know what to say so he nodded.

“You’re much more handsome than when we were kids.”

McCoy knew his eyes had widened. What the hell was Jocelyn doing?

“And… you’re going to need a queen.” Her hand rose and cupped the side of his face. McCoy froze. Before he could do anything but blink in surprise Jocelyn’s lips touched his.

The book dropped from McCoy’s lap to the ground as his hands reached up finally to shove Jocelyn away from him.

“What the hell…?” he yelled.

“What?” Jocelyn looked at him with wide, innocent eyes.

“What the hell are you playing at? I- I have a boyfriend!”

“Who? That poor nobody you met at school?” Jocelyn asked. She waved a hand dismissively. “Leonard be real. You’ll be king someday and you’ll need a queen. I’m willing to be that for you.” She smiled warmly at him, and ran her fingers across his arm.

McCoy jumped to his feet away from her. His face was red and his body was shaking with rage.

“Scotty isn’t nobody!” he said coldly. “He’s a better person than you’ll ever be!” He bent down to grab the book, then turned and walked away as fast as he could for the palace, anger churning with every step.

Part 312

Scotty

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Higgins."

Scotty and his grandfather greeted the neighbor in a friendly manner. After lunch, they had first taken a walk and then ended up in front of the lady's house.

"Mr. Scott..."

Mrs. Higgins looked first at Alasdair Scott before her eyes fell on the young man standing slightly behind his grandfather.

"Oh my goodness! Is that wee Montgomery? I haven't seen ye in ages. Ye've grown quite tall. And bonnie."

Mrs. Higgins beamed to both cheeks as she graciously invited the two guests into the house.

They were ushered into the living room, and the landlady chatted blithely on.

"The last time I saw ye, ye were still scouting. Ye always helped me so much around the house."

In fact, Scotty had been a Boy Scout until he was 12 years old. What could he say? He had just always liked to be helpful. And he hadn't complained about the nice little rewards in form of candy either.

"Why don't ye sit down? Would you like some tea?"

"I'd love some," Grandfather said, and Scotty nodded in agreement.

The two took a seat on the couch in front of the fireplace and Scotty looked around. Little had changed in the apartment since he had left Scotland to go to boarding school.

Mrs. Higgins remained true to her old-fashioned style. But that's what Scotty liked about the house.

"Is it all right if I let Flora into the living room? She's just outside," Mrs. Higgins asked as she returned with a tray. Cookies and tea were placed on it.

"Aye," both visitors replied, and a moment later a medium-sized Shetland Sheepdog charged into the room.

The dog ran purposefully toward the Scotts and wagged her tail delightedly, jumping up and down.

Scotty sat down on the floor on his knees and petted Flora extensively.

"Hey lassie," he greeted her.

Scotty really liked dogs. Ever since he was a kid, he had wanted a pet, but it had just never worked out.

"Sorry about that. She's been more rambunctious than usual lately."

But Scotty just shook his head while the dog licked him across the face.

"That's all right. She's just happy."

"And we're here for her, too."

Mrs. Higgins looked in surprise at Scotty's grandfather.

"Oh? I hope she hasn't done anything wrong, has she? Did I miss some poop in yer front yard?"

Scotty sat back on the couch to grab his cup of tea that Mrs. Higgins had poured for him.

"No, not at all. I...wanted to ask if all the puppies had been placed yet," Granddad came out with his request and Mrs. Higgins looked quite surprised at first.

"No, not yet. I don't know how many there will be yet. But...are ye interested?"

Alasdair Scott nodded.

"Francine has wanted a dog for a long time and... I figured I'm ready now, too."

Mrs. Higgins' eyes sparkled with delight.

"Oh, how nice! Of course, I can reserve one of the puppies for Francine and ye. But...they're not purebred puppies."

Scotty motioned with a wave of his hand.

"I don't think it matters. Every dog, purebred or not, deserves a warm home and people who love them."

Scotty almost had to laugh when the thought of his relationship with Leonard occurred to him.

A blue-blooded prince who loved a stray like him.

But that was the way it was. Social status didn't matter when it came to feelings. Even if some people might think so.

"I'm glad to hear that! Really!"

Scotty could see how happy and relieved Mrs. Higgins looked. Maybe she had been afraid she wouldn't be able to find people who’d adopt mixed-breed puppies.

After talking for quite a while, Scotty and his grandfather had returned home.

Neither Jim and Robbie nor Francine were there, and Granddad took his leave for his workshop.

So Scotty decided that he could try to call Leonard. He was anxious to tell him the news and ask how his boyfriend was doing. Hopefully everything was okay with him.

#star trek #montgomery scott #leonard mccoy #scones #au #against all odds

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1d1195 · 1 month ago

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Bestie genuinely I love your series!! Of course if YOU need the break to keep your sanity then please do so! I think you know by now I’ll love and gobble up anything you put out!

Teenagers are a whole specialty that I fear I’m not equipped yet HAHAH but yes I would love to share anything that comes into my head!! Also bestie update on that hot TA… this man came to class a bit late and Sam he had his shirt unbuttoned in way where there was so much skin?! Like my mind was going a bit crazy 😭

You’re so real for saying that about your mom lol I’m kinda the same now with my mom, like I just need an opinion sometimes 😭 and not you loving turtle necks all of a sudden hahah but I support a hair change if it’s something you genuinely want and not because people say you need it!!

Yes I do remember!! I’m also so in love with the moon too so I’ve definitely seen posts like that! But like bestie photos truly can’t ever capture the true beauty and essence of anything so like you’re just too powerful for a camera!!

Oh girl this is where we differ because I am a late sleeper if I am allowed!! 10 am for me is a good time to wake up if I don’t have anything to do lol but yeah this is the first time where I have a Monday off and Friday! Though Fridays are a bit more busy for me still lol

Anyways my week was so fucking tiring omg😭 I am SO tired idk if it’s a combo of physically being tired or socially lol also that 3 hour class I had… hell omg lol nothing super special happened and the weekend so far has just been me trying to recharge lol how was your week? Anything fun for the weekend? Is there a new book bf??

Okay now for my thoughts on honey… BESTIE WTF THE HONEY ENDING WAS SO PERFECT!!! Don’t even get me started omg😭😭 honestly thank fuck Cece was unharmed!!! Was so scared for her being in that closet!! And omg the whole sequence of her hallucinating harry and his voice saying sweet things to her to get out omg😭😭😭Sam that was such a good detail to add!!! It was giving the suspense that I needed!! Like in my head that was their soulmate bond connecting them ESPECIALLY WHEN HE FUCKING FOUND HER OUTSIDE😭😭😭 loved that Harry sobbed in the back seat on the way to the hospital because I can’t help but to love when men suffer 😌 now… BESTIE LITERALLY WAS NOT EXPECTING TO GET TO SEE CECE CALL HER MAMA IN THIS😭😭😭 I GASPED!!! In my heart I knew Cece would call her that but i genuinely didn’t think we would get it in the final part!! And omg I loved it because she truly is a mother to her 😭 and the love confession😭😭 Sam it was so them!! Idk I love how Harry said it and his little speech omg😭 HIM SAYING OUR BABY😭😭😭and I loved her talk with Niall! It really did give her the reassurance that she needed and it was so nice to see them interact like that! SAM THE ENDING WAS SO GOOD!!! I can see now why it was so hard for you to let them go because I’m having trouble too😭 This was such a good story like the twist at the end you gave was so prefect and it really got them to a point to confess their love for each other😭😭 you did amazing Sam!!!!

Hope your week was good and sending you so much love!!! Missed you lots!-💜

I don't want to say I never intend to write a series, but I kind of don't. It usually happens because I can't stop yapping so I gotta make a second (3rd, 4th, ... nth) part.

WHAT WAS THE REASON. THAT'S SO UNFAIR TO YOUR EDUCATION. How are you supposed to focus?! Alright I'm envisioning jealous mc trying to figure out why he's all unbuttoned but she can't say anything but even if she could she's all tongue tied about seeing his skin and tattoos. My best friend and I used to CRY about Harry's state of undress during interviews when he was into wearing button downs and sheer shirts that covered half a nipple at most.

I like the morning. It's usually quiet. Don't get me wrong I like the night too (see: the moon again). I just get so sleepy once the sun goes down 😭 Most people I surround myself with are mid-morning people and so I always get time to myself when I wake up earlier which as an introvert I really appreciate. I hope I don't sound judgy! I'm often envious of people who sleep late. I LOVE sleeping I don't get enough of it honestly. I've been trying to prioritize it for myself this school year but I get that revenge bedtime procrastination thing? I want to stay up late to do something I like after doing everything I'm supposed to all day. So I end up exhausted until the weekend until I can catch up.

No new book bf 😭 maybe this week. I read one chapter of my book and I think I'm getting a neighbors trope 😍 I should have read, but I didn't use all of my time weekend time wisely. I procrastinated lesson planning again but I got on a bit of a motivation kick and I only have two more lessons for this unit God bless. I wrote check-in updates for both Mon/Thurs. Keeping them a surprise 😊 I also did some more online retail therapy 😁 Old Navy Super Cash really gets me every time. Nothing particularly fun this weekend I got a wee bit sick. The last week of Sept/beginning of Oct is like my yearly cold. I know that elementary kids are sick all the time, but I thought my high schoolers would know how to blow their noses and use hand sanitizer and shit 🙄

I'm sorry you're so tired but I'm glad you're getting to recharge. That's always a good use of a weekend. SUCKS that the 3 hour class was hell. I was really hoping it would be interesting so it wouldn't drag. Maybe it'll get better over the term? 🤞

Oh yes, I wasn't going to torture a baby 😭 I'm not THAT insane 😂 I seriously thought the hallucination was going to be stupid as fuck so I'm glad it didn't seem that way after all. I also love a suffering man 🤭 I love making Harry cry (so maybe I am THAT insane?) I'm so glad you loved it. I'm slowly getting over them now that you've all read the final part. I'm hoping I can move in my new faves into position soon 🥰 let's hope I can stay on one storyline (and that I finish these two lessons so I can write after work!)

LOVE YOU! 💕

xoxo

#💜#honey

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childofman12 · 3 months ago

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The school hallway buzzed with the usual morning rush, students laughing, chatting, and exchanging hurried greetings. The scent of freshly opened textbooks mixed with the lingering aroma of the cafeteria's breakfast menu. For once, I wasn't focused on the humdrum of school life, my mind spinning in circles around one thought: I was about to meet her. My online wife.

We had met months ago on a niche forum for gaming enthusiasts. It was one of those obscure corners of the internet where only the truly passionate congregate. At first, it was just playful banter about our favorite games, strategy discussions, and sharing tips. But then it evolved—first into late-night DMs, then into sharing personal stories, and finally, a sort of joke-marriage ceremony in a private chatroom. We laughed about it, but somewhere deep down, it felt... real.

Her username was Hampter. I didn’t know her real name until a few weeks ago, when she revealed it during one of our marathon Discord calls. Allison The name rolled off my tongue like it belonged there, like I’d known it my whole life. She said she lived nearby, and by some incredible twist of fate, she was transferring to my school. We joked about finally meeting, how surreal it would be, but now that the day was here, the joke felt more like a reality.

I hovered near the lockers, my eyes darting around, looking for any sign of her. Allison had described herself as a girl with short, messy brown hair, a bit on the petite side, always wearing a hoodie, usually with the sleeves too long. The image was burned into As I headed to my own class, I couldn’t stop smiling. I had met my online wife in the flesh, and it was everything I had imagined

She wore an oversized grey hoodie, the sleeves covering most of her hands. Her short, dark hair was as tousled as if she'd just rolled out of bed, but it suited her. When our eyes met, her lips curled into a small, knowing smile.

"MC?" she asked, her voice soft but clear enough to cut through the noise around us. She had this way of saying my username like it was both a question and a statement, and it made my heart skip.

I nodded, feeling my face heat up. "Yeah, it’s me. Allison?"

She nodded too, her smile widening just a bit. "Yeah... Hampter in the flesh."

We both laughed, and just like that, the awkwardness dissolved. It was strange, standing there in person, knowing so much about each other but never having met face to face. Yet, it felt natural—like a piece of my life had clicked into place.

We talked for a bit, mostly small talk about how her first day was going, which classes she had. But even as we talked, there was this undercurrent of something deeper, something that we both felt but weren’t quite ready to name

"Hey," Allison said, her voice a bit quieter now. "Do you want to... maybe grab lunch together later? We could talk more, catch up."

I grinned, feeling a warmth spread through me. "I'd like that. A lot."

She gave me one last smile before turning to head to her class, and I found myself staring after her, my heart fluttering in a way I never expected. Meeting Allison was the most surreal experience of my life, but it was so exciting

#mctalking #fanfic #wife

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thecavavoice · 2 years ago

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Teens Turn Outside-In

by Mariel S.

Students struggle with a post pandemic disconnect between worlds. (MC Sheets/The CAVA Voice)

When the pandemic pulled the plug on education worldwide, most CAVA students seamlessly continued their studies. But now that COVID-exile is ending nearly everywhere, a new CAVA Voice survey reveals that our students didn’t fare nearly so well regarding social interactions. It is a universal problem not just for “brick-and-mortar” students forced into online learning, but also for online schools.

Newsweek Magazine’s current cover story, features the impact of decreased Social and Emotional Learning (SEL) just prior to, and during the pandemic. According to Newsweek, one in three teens experienced debilitating feelings of “sadness or hopeless” in 2019. One in six had considered suicide. Experts say that loneliness has become an epidemic among teens, and was made worse during the pandemic. Genevieve Brantley, a long-time US History and Sociology teacher at CAVA, has seen her students become increasingly isolated over the last few years. She agrees that the situation is getting worse. “I am finding myself recommending that some students go back to brick-and-mortar… I am seeing students really suffer from the monotony of being home all day, every day. There is a disconnect between the inside world and the outside world, and people are becoming afraid to interact in person. It’s kind of becoming a crisis.”

According to a Centers for Disease Control (CDC) report released in March, 2022, 37% of US high school students reported having poor mental health during the pandemic, and 44% reported “persistent feelings of sadness or hopelessness.” Anxiety and depression are on the rise. The CDC attributes this trend to a lack of “School Connectedness,” or a “feeling of being cared for, supported, and belonging at school.” This sense of community is vital to student productivity and good mental health, but has been severely lacking in online schools. Attending Zoom classes alone in your pajamas, is obviously not ideal.

A recent CAVA Voice survey measured the level of school connectedness at CAVA, as well as the mental health challenges students face in online school. Over 50% of students reported that attending CAVA has positively impacted their mental health, yet the majority also reported struggling with a lack of social interaction. One 11th grader said that the lack of direct socialization “…makes it easier to feel lonely, although I know there are still ways to interact with classmates at CAVA.”

Ms. Brantley says that teachers feel this isolation too. “Not being able to see [students’] faces or hear their voices, makes it very challenging to connect with… and provide what they need.” Having taught in “brick-and-mortar” schools—talking with coworkers and students face-to-face—she found the online school community more difficult to engage with. “Sometimes in the virtual classroom, the students aren’t responding at all. You’ll say hello six times, and just… nothing.”

Ms. Brantley has also watched her two “brick-and-mortar” children wrestle with the challenges of staying motivated as they attended virtual school during the pandemic. Her daughter, “Sally” (not her real name), began schooling at home during what they were told would be a two-week shutdown. She was unable to return to in-person learning until two years later. Sally described waking up in the morning as the most challenging thing about “Zoom learning.” “I was very unmotivated. We got to do our classes in bed… I felt like school was kind of optional, and that was a very bad perspective to be taking.”

Now that she is back to in-person learning, her school has put forth an enormous effort to support students as they get used to social interaction again. This includes rebuilding their sense of school community. They offer after-school tutoring both for academics and SEL, and have focused on helping students bond.

“…people are becoming afraid to interact in person. It’s becoming a crisis.” (MC Sheets/The CAVA Voice)

Although Sally thinks that her school could have offered more personalized support in addition to community-building resources, she still believes they have done well.

Unfortunately, not all schools offer Social and Emotional Learning activities. Some believe that mental health should not be under the purview of schools. However, the CDC’s position is that schools teach much more than academics, and that SEL goes hand in hand with cognitive learning.

Ms. K. Morlock, a first-year CAVA English teacher, agrees. She completed her teaching credential online due to the pandemic, and has a Masters Degree in SEL. She believes that SEL is a critical part of teaching, and that teachers must make an effort to communicate and connect. “The biggest challenge both as a learner or as a teacher, is making authentic connections with my colleagues and students…. I don’t see most of my students on-camera. Not all of them will participate in chat or come see me [during] office hours, and… it’s difficult to… vulnerably and emotionally connect…. It is something that you have to strive for.”

CAVA teachers do spend time talking with their pupils, and greeting each by name. CAVA Students have access to mental health seminars and hotlines such as “988” (the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline phone number). Information is available via guidance counselor newsletters and shared in Homeroom. Learning coaches receive a regular SEL newsletter. According to Ms. Morlock, all teachers are rigorously trained to recognize and address mental health issues in students. However, CAVA students still say that they are struggling.

The CAVA Voice asked students what they think CAVA can do to better support their mental health. One senior fondly remembered doing “mindful breathing” in homeroom, and asked teachers to bring it back. Another student requested that teachers encourage communication between students, instead of discouraging discussions during Class Connects. Another student suggested that “CAVA can be supportive by acknowledging that everyone is not the same and accommodating [each] person’s needs.” Most students surveyed feel that there has been a positive shift in the last few years, regarding mental health support, but that there is still much more work to be done.

After a year of being back in brick-and-mortar, Sally had this advice for students still online: “Try something outside of school that you’re interested in, like art classes or a hobby, that would allow you to socialize and make friends!”

#news #by Mariel S.#Archive

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moondirti · 2 years ago

Text

im sick. im feverish. im throwing up. im fucking hyperventilating holy shit

lev, you truly never, ever disappoint. every single one of your fics leaves me aching with some sort of cotton-mouth, afternoon nap delirium. i don’t know what to do with myself, usually, but this one has sent me reeling into a whole ‘nother dimension entirely.

i aDORED THIS, if you couldn’t tell. not just adored; loved, treasured, revered. you have such a way with words and prose that strings along borderline lyrically. you are a wonderful person and a phenomenal writer and i am at such a loss for words that i hope any of this is even comprehensible.

Complacency is a death sentence in a world like this.

rIGHT OFF THE BAT you managed to capture Joel’s character perfectly. the fact that this entire thing took place from his perspective and not one bit sounded out of character is a feat in of itself, but the way you managed to add another layer to the man we all know and love? goodness. this did not feel like 10k words at all (in the best way possible); at no point did i ever lose interest. i sat down to read this and did so in one sitting, unmoving - hell, my arms have pillow marks like i just woke up from a 12 hour night.

He's calamity in ageing grey, and she's the ripe, forbidden fruit he's not allowed to bite. Poisoned apple. Cherry sweet.

and do not get me started on the dynamic you’ve laid out for MC and Joel. i love her. I LOVE HER. she’s femme fatale in a way that feels real; because not only do we get romanticisation, we also get the pain, the weakness, the vulnerability. as much as i enjoy innocent damsels, joel absolutely wouldn’t, and so to have her be so beautiful and ‘unassuming’ only to imbue her with so much darkness is the perfect perfect direction.

(also, the way her monologues about her beauty only to huff out that she’s nothing to him? it’s giving Joel for sure)

(and, lately, make Ellie so incensed with anger, she cuts him to the core and spills his choleric blood out onto the pavement where it hisses and sounds just like Tess).

also, i feel like this goes without saying but i wanted to give kudos anyway; the fact that u didn’t just erase ellie or tess or the canon from this fic !! please, it was perfect. the undercurrent of hurt joel feel’s from ellie’s scorn, the mistakes and comparisons he makes with reference to tess. the nightmares of MC getting infected, and the violent imagery that intrudes on him that so closely resembles sarah’s death on outbreak day. you’ve truly given us the version of joel we know - the one we love, from the games and the show. it makes it so much easier to sympathise and fall into his stream of consciousness. ur a fucking wizard babe

Beautiful even as the cordyceps split her skull into blooming monkshood in hideous grey and plum. Pale and lifeless; a marionette on toadstool strings. A puppet in fluorescence.

and how can i have a reblog without leaving immense praise for your PROSE? HI? HELLO? there’s nothing i can say that i haven’t said already, before, but i just need to emphasise how in love with your writing i am. ur one of my favourites; not just in the COD fandom, not just for TLOU, or on tumblr, or on the internet, but of all goddamn time. you inspire me in a way no one else can and i can only hope to write something as beautiful as this one day.

When he's finished, covered in blood and aching, and satisfied, he drives an ice pick through their skulls (the same thing, he finds, that caused the hole in her side), and leaves them to rot.

this is so him. ‘satisfied’ YES! GIVE ME DARK JOEL

"Call me an old man again, and I'll spank your ass, little girl."

a tear just ran down my leg tbh. This was so hot i had to take a breather

The bubble encompassing her, too, and he knows that he'd mourn her in the same hushed breath as the rest.

I'll outlive you, old man.

(He's never wanted something more in his life right now than for those words to come to fruition.)

listen, i know i praised u for sticking with canon lev, but i swear to god - that scene better not exist in this world. thanks. (this fully made me sob by the way. im not even kidding. its the combo of a rough week with this unfiltered angst and i want u to know I appreciate u for it)

(He only dreams in black and white, but when he closes his eyes and dreams of her, it's in a startling palette of browns, reds, and blues.)

ATROPHY | Joel Miller x F!Reader

》 SUMMARY: It's her, him, and the beats in between. A slow simmer of sex to something more. Something he isn't quite ready for, yet knows he can't let go of. 》 WARNINGS: 18+ SMUT (mild); allusions to death, assault; female gendered reader, female gendered anatomy; minor game spoilers; Joel isn't bad at feelings – he just doesn't want them. Joel is tired™ 》 WORD COUNT: 10,9k

His grief, sorrow, the ones that he tries to shove into a box marked apathy, are worn in the crevasses that line his weathered face. Deep canyons make him look ages older than he is. He wonders if she can see them. If she can peel the divots back and uncover the festering sickness, the rot, that sits in the folds.

It's his own fault, he thinks, for stuffing his grief in the same place he keeps his worry.

》 NOTES: I did something different with my writing. It's still a Reader insert, but. I tried third person instead of the usual second. also, how this ballooned up to nearly 10k is lost to me since it was just supposed to be smut?? I had this clear image of older Joel laying in bed, his guitar leaning against the wall, catching the light of the sun as you slowly rode him, and now? I don't even know. ⤑The gif is mine. Please don't take or repost without permission

MASTERLIST | FAQ | AO3

Complacency is a death sentence in a world like this.

Lazy Sundays spent between the warm, damp sheets. Boredom. Afternoons strumming his guitar on the front porch. Sleeping in. Drinking at a saloon in town. Music. Laughter.

It doesn't exist.

Shouldn't.

And yet—

His guitar sits, abandoned, in the corner of the bedroom. The wood still carries the heat from his thumb this morning when he played a song alone on the porch. Eyes bleary, full of sleep, of rest, as he took in the varicoloured dawn cresting through the indigo sky.

Those same weathered, beaten hands that strummed the chords to Hurt are now occupied again. One perched on her hip, skin sateen soft and plush, full and warm and clean from the shower last night as she bears down on top of him in a quiet cadence, a muted, languid dance. The other cups the swell of her breast in his palm, nipple still damp from his hungry mouth, and flushed red from his teeth.

This should just be a fantasy.

A dirty thing in the recess of his mind when he has a moment to himself breathe. A thought, a whim. Something to needle away at the last vestiges of his consciousness when he sees her in the wild—vibrant, young, and free—and then sullied in the back of his head when he leans against a tree, and thinks of the dirt on her skin, the blood on her delicate hands, and how they'd taste under his tongue.

But this isn't a dream.

When he sleeps, he dreams in black and white. The only colour that bleeds through is red. Blood red. Pulpy and vicious. Ugly. Garish. It splatters across the pavement where he laid Sarah down, where he lost Tess, and everyone else he never promised to save and still couldn't.

He knows this isn't a dream when he blinks his eyes open, and she's there. Sitting atop him in a kaleidoscope of colour, drenched in ochre from the still rising sun. The only red is her blistered lips, the rough burn between her thighs from the scrape of his beard, and that sinful little tongue that slips between her teeth when he slides in deep.

And then—his eyes drop to her side—that ugly wound that cuts her flesh, ripped over the seam of her ribs.

He's awake. Lucid.

She's much too heavy to be something carved from fantasy.

He doesn't say this, of course—Joel isn't stupid, and for someone so considerably smaller than he is, she packs a hefty punch in those slender fingers that curl into a fist barely the size of an apple. The sharp jab of a rusted, blunt knife. Knows where to hit him, too.

He tucks it away, and lets his hands explore, feeling the tangibility of her weight, her presence, under the tips of his bloodied fingers.

(Broken on the same teeth that caused her to hurt.)

The knob of her hip bone juts out through her flesh, and he grazes it with his thumb, feeling the soft curve.

Real, he thinks. Flesh and bone.

He can feel the flutter of her racing pulse under his hand when he kneads her breast in his hand, and lets her nipple graze teasingly over the rough skin of his weathered palm.

The tight clench of her around him—pussy a perfect knot around the base of his cock, all pretty and tied tight like a bow—is another stroke of realism his dreams, nightmares, fantasies, could never imbue.

It's a present he's sullied more times than he can count, each touch another tally to the neverending number of sins that pile higher than the hollow skyscrapers in Boston.

Joel feels each breath that leaves her heaving chest. Each gasping hiccup of his name when she raises her full hips up, and then slide back down the length of him in a slow, languorous roll until he nudges against the seal of her womb, and steals the air in her lungs.

It's real.

A paradox, then.

One of those things that shouldn't happen, but is. Like her, and him, and everything else in between.

He knows what the others in town say when they see her—pretty and soft with a ginger touch and a sweet curl of a voice when she whispers his name. It doesn't make sense for her to be all wrapped up in him, following along behind like a shadow to a man who's cut from ashlar, and reeking of rot. Ruin.

He's calamity in ageing grey, and she's the ripe, forbidden fruit he's not allowed to bite. Poisoned apple. Cherry sweet.

(He wonders if they'd recoil once they saw that her insides were gnarled; acrid and sour; bitter melon. Lemon drops.

That she is far more like him than they could ever dream.)

They glare at him from the corner of their eyes when she swells like a lighthouse in the midnight gloam at the sight of him wandering back from patrol, eyes all bright and beaming, and beautiful—Christ.

She's a picture, he thinks.

One of those pinup girls he'd find in dirty magazines as a kid. When he and Tommy would sneak a peek behind the barn, away from prying eyes. A portrait of lust. Desire in high gloss.

A classical beauty—the type that would make men drown themselves at sea. A starlet in the golden age back when it mattered.

Writers' muse, maybe: she would have been the girl everyone talked about—the one that eluded the tortured artist, made him pine.

Hemingway would call her brutal.

Cat in the Rain.

(She liked his old, heavy face and big hands.)

He doesn't know much about poetry but he knows she's the type who could make a man want to stain his fingers in ink just to capture the curve of her lips when she smiled.

A vixen. Hellion. Lilith.

Her voice is a song when she says his name. A hymn.

Dangerous.

He doesn't know when this started.

Maybe, when they brought her in with the rest of the group she was travelling with. Beaten down, hungry. Clinging to life with frostbitten fingers.

Her eyes were flat; a stagnant pond. Lips a grim, blue line. Placid. Gone. She'd been out there for too long to ever find comfort behind walls, and he knows the feeling of trying to crawl out of your own skin when people stand too close.

She scoffed at the idea of this place, of sanctuary. Resentful and derisive. He could see the distrust in her clenched jaw, balled fists. This world was a whim—evanescent—and what they gathered from the rest of the group, survival hadn't been easy outside of safe zones.

Wall after wall fell, she said, tone flat. Blank. Haunted by ghosts still lingering in the canyons of her eyes. Stopped believing in stuff like this after a while.

Her eyes were stained—jaundiced and red, filled with burst blood vessels—and raw from how hard the edges of her knuckles had dug into the flesh of her eyelids. They spoke of sleepless nights. Ones interrupted by her own sense of survival, hyperarousal.

He knows the feeling of jerking awake whenever his brain starts to lull, to slip into that dangerous facsimile of security.

Pipe dreams. She wears her fatigue like its armour, wielding the brunt of her exhaustion like a shield.

(Sleep often feels like a bad habit for people like her, like him.)

But like him, it waned slowly.

The chips in her veneer cracked, split, and he saw the incipient filament start to seep in. Complacency. Comfort.

A few months in, she stopped being so defensive when they invited her out for drinks, and when they talked about dinner parties, and birthday celebrations. Derision was still a heavy weight in her distant gaze, clutched in bleached knuckles like a claymore, when she looked at them, a touch incredulous.

Joel understands the feeling.

The itch in your guts, the discomfort in your chest. It festers, doesn't it?

Children play close to the fences, making up games of tag, and hide and seek, as if those things with broken, pustulous faces weren't skulking within arm's reach just a breath away.

This whole place is a vacuum. The interior is covered in thick molasses; stuck in stasis. They pretend that birthdays and holidays matter. Dance around the saloon at night with drinks in hand. Pale ale. Old booze.

It's rigid in its structure: patrols that span the entirety of a day—from dusk to dusk in three shift increments—and daily checks of the fences, the gates. Trading with other communities. Rules. Regulations.

It gives the idea of safety. Of security.

(But the bruises on his hands and the gash in her side are proof that it's sometimes not enough.)

Slowly, though, as the days wore on and the fences stood proud and tall and secure, she softened. Tucked it away with a smile, and started saying, I'll think about it instead of clipped jerks of her chin, or nothing at all.

Joel doesn't know if she ever really did think about it like she said she would.

Broken promises carry a distinct sound. One he knows all too well.

She never showed up despite the invitations. Never came to celebrate.

She stood by the fence, and looked out, eyes wide, mouth flat. The coil in her shoulders, the tremble in her hands, reminded him of a trapped animal. Cornered, and tense.

She'll bite someone eventually.

(He just never expected it to be him.)

The tension didn't flee the crease of her eyes, but she tried to integrate herself into the fold, the community. Slowly. Slowly.

He took stock of her in the same measure he does everyone new who wanders in. Assessing. Watching. Cautious.

He could tell right away that she was a wildcard. A lit match slowly burning down the wick in a sea of gasoline.

Pretty, he finds, despite himself. Drawn in by her allure; a coruscating light in the middle of endless, unfathomable grey.

He catches sight of the weathered face that blinks back at him from the frosted windows, hazy and thick with condensation that make the grey in his hair, his beard, look startlingly whiter than it was ten seconds ago. It's a jarring reminder of who he is. What he's done.

It's not insecurity that keeps him from seeking her out, but self-preservation. Some people, he finds, just have this magnetism about them. A beacon. A light. A gravitational pull that drags you closer and closer.

And hers is purely primal. Animalistic. She smells of sex and sin and makes him think of object permanence when everything around him had been clouded in the sharp shade of ephemeral grey.

She's a fractured mirror. Medusa in the making.

Joel's always avoided broken glass.

(Ladders. Black cats. Cracks in the pavement. Pretty girls who swallow everything like a black hole—)

Too sweet, he finds. Forbidden fruit. Tart, ripe, and sugar dipped.

(He never had much of a sweet tooth, anyway.)

Through his observations—necessary, he tells Tommy when he catches the way Joel's gaze follows her around when she moves; limbs ballerina lithe, swan songs after dark: just because we let them in, doesn't mean we can trust them—he finds out everything he needs to know.

A rusted sign on the side of the road says, stay away. Danger in dulcet. Soft and sweet. A perfunctory bow in battle before the deadly blows come.

He oscillates between finding her both too soft and too hard, and it's the unknown that makes him wary.

She's a caged animal. Everyone is just kidding themselves if they think she's domesticated.

Somewhere in the throng of people milling about, drinking and dancing like the world wasn't in shambles, she finds his gaze, matches his stare.

Most people looked away.

But she's not most people, is she?

No, she's dangerous. Pretty in a way that's entirely too ethereal for the broken remnants of what remains. Left behind. Mouldering until death claims its victims. Until the spores released from the earth itself burrow in the rucked lines of your head, sprouting up like flowering buds.

She makes men want.

And while the pickings might have been slim, Joel knows there are several (and maybe a little more) above him in terms of desirability. He's older. Gruff. Rough around the edges without any whim of changing, or scouring himself down so that his jagged pieces don't pop something as tender and sweet as her.

He doesn't put himself in the same bracket. Despite Maria's insistence, Tommy's needling, he isn't a bachelor.

Hasn't made himself available.

And he isn't.

Not since Tess. Not since—

None of that matters. He's too old to think about romance, about skin and sex, and warmth. And more.

The thought of it all leaves something sour twisting in the gnarled rot of what remains inside his chest.

Despite that, or maybe in spite of it, she comes to him.

(Somehow. Somehow.)

She asks him to dance, and the breathy tone of her voice tastes like a lit cigarette; it plumes nicotine in the air. Second-hand smoke. A contact high.

He finds it disarming when she laughs after he says no. Firm. Hard. Dismissive.

Not in your lifetime, sweetheart.

The unspoken stay away rang clearer than the echo of her laughter.

And that was that.

But she came back.

("If not a dance, then how about a drink?"

"Wastin' your time, sweetheart."

She grins, then, soft and coy. "Not much else to do with it these days besides chatting up a handsome stranger."

He pretends she didn't make him choke on his drink, and eyes her warily instead. Dangerous, he thinks. The type that just doesn't quit. One who is just small and malleable enough to slip inside the tiniest splinter.

Just like a raspberry, she'd rot fast. Festering. Clouded white and infectious. Worse, in many ways, than the parasites outside of the walls.

"Just don't get your hopes up." He settles on after a moment, a lull, that makes her blood-red lips curl up like the curve of those stupid hearts dangling overhead.

And hates that he doesn't really know if he's still just talking to her or the wandering eyes in his own skull when he says it.)

He doesn't know why she takes a liking to him of all people. Of all men. He might be out of touch with the reality they live in now, always on the fringes of waiting for things to buckle at the knee, and collapse into ash, but he isn't stupid. Oblivious.

Joel sees the way she stares at him. Open, wanting. Curious.

She shouldn't be. There's nothing in him—nothing left. His insides are polluted, gnarled. Ugly. A gurgling cesspit that doesn't know how to fix, only dissolve. Consume. He's acidic. Caustic.

Bad for anyone's health.

He can't keep anyone safe, and all he knows how to do anymore is push people away, and lie (and, lately, make Ellie so incensed with anger, she cuts him to the core and spills his choleric blood out onto the pavement where it hisses and sounds just like Tess).

He's a patchwork mess of a man sewn together with a churlish hand. The broken pieces are borrowed and maligned, but they sometimes feel like they fit when he shifts, and spits enough contempt to keep everyone else from getting too close, and—

It's enough.

(He likes it that way.)

But she—

His hands grip her tight sometimes—too tight—and the stains he leaves on her skin set his teeth on edge. It's too much like ownership. Possession.

(And he finds the colour that blooms on her flesh to be too fucking pretty to ever sit comfortably in the gnarled pit of his guts.)

"Don't worry, Joel," she whispers when she catches him staring at the marks he left behind. Dark and ugly. Contrition tastes of old nickels. "You won't break me that easily."

It's a bad decision.

But he was never known for his good choices, and when she fluttered her eyes at him, hand pressed to his chest like she were allowed to touch him, he crumbled.

She didn't give him much of a choice to fight back when all she asked for nothing but the warmth of his skin, and the taste of him on her tongue.

Pleasures of the flesh. It's easy. Simple. He fucks her behind the saloon, rough and dirty, and swallows the sounds she makes against the brick like they're just for him. He takes her home, and knows that when he's nestled between her thighs, it's as close to heaven as a man like him will ever get.

And then—it's over. She leaves. He pretends to sleep.

Rinse. Repeat.

It carries on this way for nearly two years. Distant, cold. He can't remember the last time he had anyone warm his bed, but it takes the edge off, the stress and pain of Ellie's distance, her mistrust, and hatred, and she asks for nothing.

She lets him grab her when he wants. Lets him bend her body into whichever shape suits him best, and says nothing about the fingerprints that he leaves behind, the astringent tang of rot when she slides out of his bed, his hands, and out the door.

He lays back, the same hand he used to grip the back of her neck when he fucked her into the mattress now resting under his head, and he pretends doesn't feel colder now than he did before.

There is no promise of forever. There's no promise of exclusivity, or monogamy, but he knows that she hasn't fucked anyone else since she got here, that those pretty thighs only ever parted for him, and he's too worn down to entice anyone else who wasn't looking for a sleazy fuck against a tree into his bed, anyway.

Complacency begets comfort, security, wants.

They settle down in their borrowed homes, in their borrowed beds, and think about making the most of their borrowed time.

In that, they yearn. Family. Togetherness. Everything they had before they tried to drag into the now. Forcing a square through a round hole. A mismatched puzzle piece into the slot it wasn't made for.

Sometimes, they get lucky and it slips through. It distorts itself into something different, and new, just to fit through the preconstructed crack.

Joel doesn't think about then. He thinks about now. A broken world no closer to resolution, absolution, than it was thirteen, fourteen years ago. There is no roseate veil over his eyes; everyone else can see it.

He isn't the type of man someone brings home. The one you push and push until he fits through the front door, and back into normalcy. Stagnancy.

And she's not the type of woman who'd ever try.

He likes that about her.

Poisoned candy apple. Pretty on the outside and rotted within.

There is no future outside of the way he fits inside of her, and this is as permanent as the blemishes he leaves on her pretty skin.

Then he dreams, and it's of her.

Lifeless, blue. The way her head splits open is beautiful in that macabre sort of way horrible things sometimes are. Flowers burst behind her eyes, petals budding out of the hollowed space that once made his chest stutter when the sun caught the crevasse of black that split from her pupil and bled into her iris. A small stream of ink.

The canyons of gradient colours are now filled with blooms of enoki. Red amanita curls out from her ears.

Where he once laid his palm over her chest is now a gaping hole flowering with a pulsing mass of candlesnuff and staghorn.

Death cap where her heart once beat.

Beautiful, he thinks, even as he howls her name.

He wakes up drenched in a cold sweat, and the curve of her name heavy on his tongue. His knuckles pop when he fists the damp sheets between his trembling fingers, but the ache feels good. The sting reminds him he's alive. Whole.

He's awake, but the nightmare doesn't end. The sight of her body lingers in the back of his head when he strums his guitar and plays a song for the demons within. He thinks of her when he forks over the expired box of condoms he found on a run, and listens to Jesse ramble about how Ellie is doing in exchange for the loot.

It's her he sees.

She blinks at him, eyes that same shade that sometimes makes his breath hiss between his teeth, and then her crown caves in. Forehead splits down the middle. One half stands where it was as the other falls over on her shoulder.

Fractals spill from the plumule that was once her brain stem until the two halves are bleached white like dead corals on a ruined reef.

The flowering toadstool quivers. What was once her—wit, charm; that uncanny ability to make him feel like the ground beneath his feet was crumbling—is a mass of spores. Polluted. Rotted.

Where she once stood is a puppet. Dead. Gone.

Her head tips. Ink spills from the putrefying blood vessels, congealing in the air. It spools into a circle. A black hole.

He lifts the gun, and feels nothing at all.

Everything he could have felt, feels, is syphoned into the needlepoint of no return, the place where she once looked at him, and said, I don't want anything from you, Joel. I just want you.

He wakes before he can see the aftermath of pulling the trigger.

A fluke, maybe. But it happens each night after that.

He knows, then, that there's no turning back.

Permanence doesn't belong in this borrowed home, but she somehow drags it through the foyer and into his bed, anyway.

She stayed over last night.

Joel doesn't think he tried to let go when he collapsed into the bed beside her, arms woven around her sweat-slicked back, locked tight like a pair of shackles that mean about as much as a prison or the law these days.

It was cold. Late. He didn't want her to walk back in the snow all alone.

That's all.

But Joel isn't a gentleman, and despite how much he wishes he wasn't, he's egregiously self-aware.

He knows he's in trouble when it just makes sense to keep her close. When it's easier to have her within arm's reach than it is to meet at the front door, and let her in.

(When he sleeps better if he can feel her burning skin on his.)

"You're thinking too much," she gasps, eyes lidded and heavy. Drinking him in.

Joel doesn't know what a pretty thing like her sees in a man like him.

He can't offer her anything except the cold comfort of a warm body, but even that is null. He knows there are younger men prowling outside her door, just itching for an opportunity to make her look their way.

(She never does.)

"Yeah," he rasps, the word sticking to his teeth. "Never been much of a thinker."

"Really? Ain't that a surprise."

His hand slips from her hip, palm swatting at the soft flesh of her ass. The sting makes her tighten around him like a vice.

"Watch your mouth."

The way she gasps his name, breathy and aching, makes him stifle a groan between clenched teeth, her voice rolling over him like warm sea breeze.

She's a lot, he thinks, and yet—she asks for nothing.

(Nothing but him. One of the things he can't give her. Won't.)

Still.

Her nails press into his damp chest, catching on the smoked dusted patch of coarse charcoal hair. Bracing herself against the swell of his ribs, and slowly rocked back into him, taking him deeper and deeper into her soaked, tight cunt.

The pulse in his neck throbs out of his skin, a tick she likes to press the flat of her tongue against and drink up the briny droplets of his sweat. He can see the want in her eyes when he catches her staring at the column of his throat, the way she bites her lip like it's a substitute for how badly she wants to sink those same teeth into his flesh. Mark him as her own.

Possession. Ownership.

Sometimes, he catches the glossy, rotund image of himself in the inky puddles of her pupils, blown wide with feverish desire, and he can see the same expression, the mien, captured in her startling hue.

Mutual want.

It's easier to give in sometimes. To let go.

He can't, though, and selfishly, he knows she'll never ask. She will bite your lip, the inside of her cheeks, and your tongue until it's raw and bloody before she lets the words slip through the gap of her teeth.

(He feels the rough, chewed ridges on velveteen flesh when he rolls his tongue between her ivory teeth, swiping over the insides of her cheeks; broken skin split and metallic—a testament to her own selfless desires.

He tastes it on his tongue long after she's gone. Wet pennies. Dandelion sour.)

It knots inside of him. She'd ruin herself before she asked him for more.

Maybe somewhere in his avoidance, his distance, she knows he's ruining himself by just giving her this much. Nothing, and yet—

Everything to him.

An impasse, then. Uncrossable when he's already two feet out the door.

"Joel—"

"I know, sweetheart," he murmurs, low. Rucked gravel. Falling rocks. It jars him how easily he responds to her. She says his name, and he'll drop anything in his hands to get to her quickly enough. "I know."

The wound on her side pulls taut when she moves. It draws his eye like a beacon. Makes him grind his teeth together until it sparks pain down his jaw, the enamel sawed to the raw nerve.

His hand slides over her molten flesh, trailing over the soft curve of her waist, until his thumb brushes the seam that keeps her insides from spilling out. The swollen, bruised skin is warmer than the rest of her body. Glossy where it tugs against the black threads keeping her whole.

Joel didn't go with her on this particular trade. She went with some new kid they'd picked up, all varsity grins and clean hands. He seemed so damned eager to get her attention in the pub. Her age, too.

Made a pretty couple, Ron said. Fucking loud mouth Ron.

He was supposed to go, but when the kid caught him in the corner, nursing a beer that sat in his guts like a stomach ache, and said, hey, man, can I take your spot? he didn't know how he was supposed to say no and still cling to the degrees of separation he wedged between himself and the world.

So, he raised his mug to his mouth, and forced himself to drink, to nod.

Knock yourself out.

The flash of sadness that flickered over her face meant nothing at all—nothing—but he felt something churn inside of his rotted guts. Atrophy, he thinks. He isn't meant for this. Doesn't want it. Need it.

She's a bigger liability the closer she gets. A slow-moving black hole consuming all of the counterscarps he dug until nothing is left but crossable rubble.

It's better, then, to cut it at the root before it infects the rest.

So, he does.

Maybe, he expected something different. For her to call this thing what it was, and then demand more of him, yell and scream and beg for the things he wouldn't give her—if only so he could break her heart into pieces, and force her to let go. To stop.

Force himself to do the same.

But she doesn't

It's a quiet acquiesce; a little more than a nod, and a grim line of her pretty mouth. Okay, it says. If that's what you want.

And that's what she always says, isn't it? If that's what you want, Joel. Whatever you say, Joel. Sure, Joel. Okay, Joel.

A spitfire in ochre. A bright lighthouse in the middle of the grey sea.

(The only person she dims for is him.)

Joel doesn't see her off. Doesn't say be careful or come back safe because words like those don't fit between his teeth. They aren't meant for the nothing between them. The chasm of everything she can't pry from his gnarled fingers.

She leaves with him.

He drinks alone.

Despite whatever nonsense Tommy says, spouted over rationed potatoes and deer meat stew, he isn't sulking.

"Let your girl go out alone? Unlike you, brother."

The way the words sat in his chest felt like an anvil.

"Ain't my girl," he muttered. He wanted to be angry but all he felt was numbness. "Ain't my anything."

It's Maria who gets under his skin when she scoffs.

"Joel Miller, you're the biggest dumbass I ever met, save for your damned brother. Gonna push a good thing away and die alone."

"No one asked you."

Maria tries to fill in the blanks of something that doesn't exist.

It peels back the gossamer from his eyes, and he sees, then, the way they skirt around him and her like it's something. As if his name is permanently attached to hers.

He pretends he doesn't feel the burn in Maria's glare when he doesn't see her off at the gate.

It doesn't matter. It doesn't.

He isn't there when she comes back, and hates, even more, that he feels something prickle inside his chest when Maria catches him near the stables, and says, I expected more from you, Joel.

It doesn't feel good when he bites back, that's your problem, Maria. Shouldn't have gotten your hopes up.

Joel lives in his vindication, in his pettily forced indifference. She hasn't come to see him, anyway, and he's sure that she and Varsity jacket are meeting at the pub for that date he'll never give her.

Doesn't matter, he thinks. And then, if only to burn himself in the flames, he adds: better this way.

She'll know when he's not there. She's smart like that. Know him in ways he doesn't think anyone else ever could. Ever wanted to.

(He hates it, and her, sometimes, for it.)

She'll understand. She might corner him one day with that dry ire dripping from the corners of her mouth, patronising and grim, and she'll do what she does best when she strips him bare and leaves him to rot.

Her eyes are cobra pits. Her teeth leak venom.

But she won't push.

It'll simmer out when she blinks, knowing that this is it, and she'll say: okay, Joel.

Okay.

He braces for it—hates that has to because that means something, something he isn't ready to acknowledge—and—

And it's all moot.

She never shows up at the gate.

It punctures something in his lungs when Tommy looks up at him, face ashen and worried, and says: "she didn't come back. They didn't come back."

It takes an hour to find her, left for dead and beaten within an inch of her life by the side of the road. A wound in her side—a gaping hole he swears he can see through. Milky bones poke through, drenched in red, and—

His heart doesn't stop, but a piece of it breaks off and lodges itself in his throat. He can't swallow. Can't breathe.

Something curls out from the moon-white line of her rib.

A bud, he thinks. Distant. Warbled. A saprophyte.

He has the image of her in his head. The same one he sees when he closes his eyes and falls into a fitful sleep.

Beautiful even as the cordyceps split her skull into blooming monkshood in hideous grey and plum. Pale and lifeless; a marionette on toadstool strings. A puppet in fluorescence.

"She's—"

Tommy's hand reaches down, fingers curling around the sprout.

Don't— not Tommy, too—

He pulls back, and Joel catches the tremble in his joints, the whites of his knuckles, when he spreads his fingers.

In the palm of his hand sits a leaf.

A leaf.

The bark that leaves his chest tears right through the clot in his throat. Rips him open from the inside out.

"A fucking leaf—"

He carries her back, and doesn't let go until the doctor is there, urging him out of the room.

"You'll get in the way."

He sees the looks they give him when he passes, but Joel never cared what people think.

Doesn't plan on starting now, either.

He's on the wrong side of fifty, and has more blood on his hands than the looted bars of soap could ever scour clean. He knows who he is, and maybe, maybe, knows what he wants, and Ron's loud mouth never meant much to him, anyway.

Joel gets a name when she's sleeping after surgery—lucky, he overhears, got there in the knick of time, any later and—and brings nothing with him when he leaves. He won't need it. Doesn't want it.

He finds them chatting over an open fire, and beats them to death with nothing but his bare hands.

He doesn't burn them. Doesn't bury them.

When he's finished, covered in blood and aching, and satisfied, he drives an ice pick through their skulls (the same thing, he finds, that caused the hole in her side), and leaves them to rot.

They say nothing about the blood on his shirt, or the broken, mangled fingers of his hand. He's content to leave them. To feel the agony as his broken bones split through cracked skin.

(He thinks of her—broken, blue—and clenches his hands so tight, the pain makes him blackout.)

He only lets Maria patch him up when she hisses about infection, and blood poisoning.

Says nothing at all about what he'd done, where he'd gone.

She doesn't ask.

When she's finished, she says: "woke up yesterday."

He knows. Still: "that right?"

"Gonna go see her?"

"Don't need me crowding around her bed."

"Maybe she, for some reason, wants to see your ugly mug."

"She tell you that?"

"Didn't ask about you, if that's what you're asking." She snorts. Shakes her head. "Both a'you are really perfect for each other, you know?"

"We ain't."

Her brow raises. Something prickles across her expression. "Huh."

"What?"

"Nothing," she shakes her head with a small smirk. "Just… didn't know you knew the word we, is all."

"We done here?"

He doesn't go to her.

Stubborn as an ox, she comes to him.

She says nothing about the bandages on his black and blue hands. Nothing about the way he can't make a fist through all the swelling. Her hands are soft, and warm, when they wrap around his. Small, delicate. A baby deer cupping the paws of a grizzly bear.

His eyes flash with something that tastes of the same rotten satisfaction he felt gnarled inside of his chest when the man who left her for dead on the side of a road wheezed as Joel broke his nose, and then battered the broken bulb into a messy, mushy pulp.

He didn't stop until grey matter leaked through the holes.

She knows what he did. He feels it in the way she stares at the black, swollen mess of his fingers. Bones broke on teeth, on a fractured skull.

He doesn't regret it. He doesn't even think he enjoyed it much, really.

It had to be done. Had to.

They took a life. Varsity Jack, she tells him. Stabbed in the heart when he tried to defend her with the same ice pick that ripped through her flesh.

Her tone is flat. Empty.

He sees bruises on her knuckles, those little fists were her only defence against them, and the red welt on the man's face makes sense now.

He feels proud.

She's not broken—battered, beaten, torn to pieces—but she still stands, whole, intact. Resilient. Strong.

(A survivalist. The only time she ever alluded to more was to tell him that he was worrying for nothing. That, above all, she would survive. Outlive him, even.

"What are you so afraid of, old man?" A cheeky wink. Her tongue dips out, and touches the upper corner of her lip. "I'm gonna outlive you, anyway."

God, he thought, he really hopes she fucking does.)

It doesn't surprise him to see her eyes cloud with anger, arsenic white, when she brings his hands to her lips, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles. Anyone else might have asked why. Said thank you, even.

She just murmurs, "I hope they suffered."

Saccharine sweet.

Rotten to the core.

He saw the same shade of calamity in her eyes when she wandered in, grim and distant, as the one that stared back at him in the mirror. Her complicity in this doesn't surprise him. If anything, he wonders if she's angry he left nothing behind for her.

The thought makes his lips quirk in a needle of something he hasn't felt in a long time.

"They did."

The words are uttered like a promise. His busted pinky twitches, and it makes her smile. A bloom of petal pink flowering across her face. Soft and tender. The swell of a sea mark burgeoning out in the gloom of grey.

And all for him.

Joel pulled her in close. Closer still.

(Too close, maybe, because now he doesn't know how he'll sleep without her by his side)

His thumb slips over the tumid skin poking out from tight, black sutures. The threads are the only thing keeping her together.

Beneath it is a bruise. Black. The tip of his thumb presses against the cresting peak. Knuckle to skin, it's a perfect fit.

(In all the same ways he and she aren't.)

"I'm okay, Joel," she whispers, and the thick, dulcified tone of her voice shakes him from the labyrinth of his mind.

It's his own fault, he thinks, for stuffing his grief in the same place he keeps his worry.

"Yeah," he intones, and he isn't sure if he's speaking to her, himself, or a god he hasn't spoken to since he was eighteen and Sarah got sick for the first time. Maybe everyone, all of them, all at once.

It makes her huff. "Am I losing you already, old man?"

"Ain't that old," he bites back, hips lifting when she slides down. It makes him nudge something that has her eyes fluttering, mouth dropping, slack. Her nails catch skin when they rake over his chest.

Sex has always been an outlet. A comfort. It blankets that part of his head that never quiets—failures, failings—and offers a respite from it all. Her weight on his hips, chest, thighs doesn't dull it all but buffers it.

White noise in his ears when her nails rake over his skin. The scent of her clings in the air around them—sex, kerosene, cinder, ash: the scent of a wet forest after a wildfire scorched the earth—and clots out the fetor of decay, of mildew, and moss, the earthy tang that reminds them of death. Of them.

It's a distraction. Distance in skin, sweat, and heat.

It's just sex, just—

"God, Joel," she gasps loud, sharp, when he pitches his hips into her, blunt and unforgiving, and hits deep. Carves out the shape of him in her soft, fluttering flesh, and tries not to get lost in the thick scent of her.

It dusts over everything until he still smells her even when she isn't here.

Temporary made permanent.

It's the very thing he runs from finally catching up. He feels the graze of fingers ghosting over the nape of his neck when he looks at her, poised and centred above him. Aphrodite in flesh and bone. Her fingers prickle his skin with their sharp tips, and the indents left behind are soothed over when she gasps his name like it's something special. Meaningful. An orison murmured in the quiet box of a confessional booth.

The curtain rustles.

"Yeah," he grunts, low and filthy; the noise sticks in the back of his throat when he feels her tighten up around him. A little apple-sized fist of pleasure. He flexes his thighs, hands grasping her tight, and knows he's going to keep her here again tonight. "Fuck, sweetheart—"

The way she moves is liquid. Mercury. He watches, eagle-eyed and enraptured, as she squares her shoulders, and takes him to the root. The base.

Her presence in his life atrophied his defences until they lay scattered on the sheets that reek of her. In the folds of his pillow where he rests his head at night. The featherlight wood of his guitar when she leans over his shoulder, and says, play me another one, Joel.

He's a dog without an owner. A stray mutt on the outskirts of town, wandering through the city in search of sustenance.

She's the one who keeps feeding him. Lays out a dish just for him, and scratches her nails behind his ears until the curl of his lips subsides. A slow broiled trust. He stops showing her his canines, his claws, when she shows him the vulnerable curve of her neck, and lets him mark her skin with his touch.

Joel will mourn her the same way he does everyone else—achingly empty, and tearless—but he thinks, now, that he might think of her once, and then never again. He's selfish. Always has been.

(Can't afford not to be when she looks better bearing his mark. When he sleeps easier with her breath in his ear.)

Just sex. The words are weak in the back of his head, and he feels the shaky resolve begin to crumble, chossy wobbling under unsteady feet, when her head falls back in a mockery of prayer, the utterance of his name heavier than the sins on his shoulders. Just sex. Just—

The grille falls, and shatters into smelted pig iron at their feet.

—it's just her, him, and the beats in between. A slow simmer of sex to something more. Something he isn't quite ready for, yet knows he can't let go of. Won't. Not now, not ever. He won't give her anything, nothing but the touch of his hands, and the weight of his body, but it's juxtaposed to the worry heavy in his chest, the anger still lacing the broken bones in his fingers when his thumb brushes the curve of her wound.

It splits in her ardour. The bottom scab tugged too much, lifting from broken flesh.

Ichor pebbles on the seam. It pools an angry merlot against the indigo scab, but when it slides down her flesh, it's Phlegethon red.

His thumb catches it. It's warm, and sticky. He smears it over her quivering belly, and fights the urge to try and lick it clean. Knows, somehow, it would taste of Lethe.

Joel's teeth ache when he grinds them together, tongue lashing across the ivory seal. He's thinking too much—abstracts, concretes; they blur together in a cacophony of want, take, run, hide—

Keep.

"It's okay," she says again, as if all his secrets laid bare. As if the talons digging into his flesh somehow tapped a vein, an artery, that leads directly to his stem, and she's syphoning the thoughts in his head with the same ease that she steals the breath from his lungs. "It's okay, Joel. It's—"

She doesn't finish. Her words are shorn, bitten at the grain when he reaches up, holding her around the waist, and brutally fucks into her weeping cunt with the finesse of a starving man invited to a feast fit for a King.

It jostles her. Breasts swaying, head bobbing back and forth as he nearly lifts her off the bed with the force of his thrusts.

The brutality of it screams one shrill echo of it isn't. None of this is okay. None of it.

She's chiselling him open until he's a raw wound exposed to the unforgiving air. Until he bleeds and thinks of her. Until the only sound that drowns out the terror raking across his synapses is her voice when she murmurs his name.

"We're fine, Joel—," it carries the flavour of axiom. Aphorism when she says: "we'll be okay."

She trembles over him, muscles straining to keep up. This isn't her taking; despite being perched above him like a queen astride her throne, she gives. Lowers herself the way he likes. Circles her hips until he sees white behind his eyelids.

The weight of her feels like an anvil. The heat is enough to liquefy his bones.

"Keep goin'," he rasps the words out—a strange limbo of being both an encouragement and a demand. It lacks the bite it had before, when he'd bend her over and fuck her until he was satisfied, until the howling in his head, and the ache in his bones was eased with the soporific gossamer only sex could give him. "Just like that, pretty thing—"

It's a slip. An accident.

Her rhythm stutters. Her ribs expand wide under his palms; ballooning up so much he wonders if she's trying to burst them at the seams or float away. Irrational, of course. Sex makes him stupid. Makes him hungry and needy, and has him feeling like he's almost, almost human, and—

He holds on a little tighter.

Pretty thing. Her lips form the words in a soundless exhale. Pretty thing. She's used to him calling her all sorts of sobriquets smeared in a palpable stroke of derision. It's not contemptuous, but he makes his mockery of it clear with the flout in his tone. Sarcastic, caustic.

Sure thing, beautiful. If that's what you want, sweetheart. Go on then, gorgeous.

She always wore the same sour twist to her lips, the exaggerated eye roll. The heavy huff.

It was never flirtatious, never complimentary.

This—pretty thing—is the softest he'd ever regarded her.

He watches her throat bob when she swallows, eyes tracing the nervous flutter as she struggles to grasp the concurrency of his words, the way he said them. Their meaning. It flickers through those depths that threaten consumption whenever they dust over the length of him. Thinking. Thinking.

They were always abstract, but his words are concrete, and she isn't sure how to carry the heavy cinder he drops on her. Her fingers are used to the ephemeral weight of his scorn; the delineation of distance—unspoken but unignorable. Unequivocal in its separation.

"Wow," she breathes, tremulous. She grasps at normalcy but he can see how much those two words have rattled her. She swallows again. Eyes narrowing. Viper pits. "Getting soft in your old age, huh?"

Joel isn't ready to acquiesce.

He pitches his hips up, letting her feel the solid length of him—blunt, burning iron—and feels his chest flutter when she whines, head dropping back as he bludgeons into her core.

"Fuck, Joel—"

He isn't soft. Isn't malleable. He's made of carbonised grief, anguish, despair. Reinforced with volcanic clinkers running rivets of apoplectic fury.

He isn't soft. Isn't what she deserves, or needs, or should even want—

But the way she says his name is pyrolysing.

Cinder. Soot. Ash.

He spent so much time holding firm against the walls to keep her out, he never bothered to filter the air he breathed. She clots in his lungs. The scent of her builds. A mass forms. Metastasises inside of him.

Her hands fall there, palms drawn to the steady thump of his beating heart. It drums under her skin, a stuttering rhythm that makes her own chest swell with her shaky inhale.

His slide, rough skin scraping over her soft flesh. She burns hotter than the acorn stove in the corner of the room, and he feels the heat simmering in his veins. Scents the sulphur and volcanic ash in the air when she leans down, bending at the elbows to press her lips against his. It's chaste, as far as their usual kisses go. Biting and vitriolic. As if being sweet, tender, was forbidden.

Maybe it was. He doesn't know what he'd have done if she kissed him like this back then. Honeyed rich, and molasses slow. It tastes like smoke but reminds him of the rock candy he'd make at home with Tommy when he was young.

She moans into his mouth when his hands slip around her waist, her thigh. He holds her steady, and rocks up into her to the same tremulous beat as her clumsy, fragile kisses. The vibrations buzz on his bruised lips, and the tingle of her voice washing over him makes his cock twitch inside of her.

The press of him, unyielding and firm, against her soft, soft walls makes him grunt. Another noise pulled into the cacophony of them. It's lower than anything he's ever made before. New. Novice.

Fucking her now feels marginally different than it had only yesterday. It's raw. Vulnerable.

He thinks of a slow burn. A candle wick.

Wonders, then, if she feels it, too. This rawness that sits in his thundering chest; a scraped-out, hollow feeling that draws in more and more of her until the crater is filled with the essence of her sweat, the heavy breaths she tries to stifle in her throat to keep kissing him like she'll never get the chance to again.

And that must be it.

This isn't what he normally gives her—bruises and bites, beard burns over the delicate softness of her flesh; he leaves her kiss-bruised and drunk off of the taste of him, malt-heavy and whisky sour.

Intimacy is saved for moments when she cums around him, tightening up like a strung bow in his archer's hold; when she squeezes herself into the nook of his shoulder, whimpering as he fucks her through her high, and chases his release in the spasming clutch of her willing body. When he cums, painting her stomach, her thighs, her ass, with the stain of his spend, the only physical proof he'd been inside of her, and smears the wet mixture of them on her heated flesh, still buzzing with the aftershocks of her orgasmic haze.

It's reserved for the microcosm carved from their shared release, drenched in the glow of the chemical slurry that saturates their brains, releasing endorphins until they feel nothing but the buzz of each other. Skin to sweaty skin. Each breath a gasp.

He lets her linger in these soft moments. This singular dissonance sits incongruously with everything else between them. But then she shifts. The microcosm that filmed around them bursts.

She slips away after he does, slowly leaning over to pull on her discarded clothes, and wipe the stain of him from her body.

His fingers itch for a cigarette when he watches her through lidded eyes as she stumbles around on fawn legs.

She always hesitates for a moment. Joel often wonders if she's waiting for him to ask her to stay.

He never does. She leaves.

(Rinse. Repeat.)

But now—

"Easy, now," he murmurs, tongue slipping through the gap of her teeth to chase her taste. "Don't rush this, sweetheart."

Everything about this is unlike him, and she moans her disquietude into the scant space between them, brow knotting together when her stitches pull, and he leaves a bloodied trail across her waist, knuckles split and bleeding anew.

They're both bloodied, he finds. Drenched in each other's sweat, spittle, and blood.

It makes dizzy. Makes his fingers dig into her flesh, holding her closer to his heaving chest as he takes. His hips raise off the bed—a clumsy slant into her welcoming sex, and he feels her shudder when he hits deep, cock nudging that soft place inside of her that always makes her forehead crease.

He can't see it when she leans down, peppering wet kisses across his grey beard, and painting hard through her nose when he presses the flat of his palm against the base of her spine and fucks into her with sharp, unrhythmical thrusts.

"That's it, take it just like that—," he grinds the words off, and tastes the condescension in his tone.

In response, she bites down on his pulse point.

Another break in the routine. The rules lay scattered around them, smouldering embers of this incipient beginning to something neither of them is ready for.

Her hands wiggle out from between their chests, bringing them closer together than before, and when she tangles her fingers in the damp curls behind his ears, he swears he can feel her heartbeat echoing through his ribs.

He spears himself into her faster, seeking that place he knows will make her melt—

"Joel, oh—ah, fuck—"

—and once found, he cruelly angles the head of his cock into it, rasping out words of patronisation into her ear.

Good girl, he says, and groans when her cunt tightens around him like a nautical bow. Taking me so good. Gonna cum for me? Gonna cum around my cock—

He can feel his release brimming up like a fever in his veins. White-hot and arctic cold. It sets his nerves on fire, and the pressure of her around him makes him see pure white.

He thinks of church on Sundays when she chants his name like a hymnal—Joel, Joel, Joel—and finds nirvana when she sinks her teeth deeper into his flesh, unmarked and unclaimed until now. He'll have the perfect impression of her teeth embedded in his skin, and thought alone makes that gnarled spool inside of him loosen.

Joel is taken by surprise when she cums—voice a shaky, shrill howl of his name, and the sound of it, the blood that stains his beard when she turns, baring her teeth and pressing them flat to his jaw, makes him grunt. It's raw. An oozing wound.

She flutters around him like the beat that echoes through his bones, and feels a hunger inside of him grow.

The uncoiled knot inside of him rears, once dormant and dead to the world, now gnashing its jowls at the hands that prodded it from its slumber. Rapacious. A black hole when it yawns.

The town knows she's his. Has since she sidled up to him, all soft smiles and viper eyes, and asked him to dance, for a drink, and what's a handsome man like you doing in a place like this? Got anyone I should worry about, Joel? Wanna dance? Wanna fuck—

And they know, now, that he's hers when he carries her in his arms, and knocked his forearm into the necks of anyone who tried to pry her from his clutch.

They know. They know, but it's not enough.

He wants to mark her, stain her. Leave her with the permanent smear of him on her pretty skin.

Fuck—

This wasn't supposed to happen, but the keen awareness comes much too late.

He fucks the frustration into the tight clutch of her willing, forgiving, body, and tries not to come apart at the seams when she mewls his name like he's just as much of a burden to her as she is to him. Bankrupt. Bereft of the walls and the rationale that kept him lightyears away from everyone else around him (until Ellie, the hospital—this place that reeks of stagnancy and burrowed into his marrow), he crumbles in her hold once more.

His release hits him like a sucker punch to his gut, and the force of it makes him ache.

He doesn't pull out like he always, always, does despite the contraceptive she has, and spilling inside of her spasming cunt feels too much like heaven for him not to come apart at the seams. For him not to shatter into pieces when she pulls him closer, and murmurs, that's it, Joel. That's it—cum for me. Just let go, I got you—

And for the first time in a long time, he does.

It's an awkward assemblage of limbs that don't fit together, bodies that are too incompatible, but he tugs her down onto the mattress beside him, and makes it work. She rests the flat of her palm over his sweat-slicked chest, nails raking through the dusted grey smatter of hair on his chest. The inside of her thigh is wet with him, with her, them, when she slides it over his hip.

Her head rests on soft tissue where his arm and shoulder meet, ear nestled into his armpit. His arm around her back, fingers resting on the curve of her elbow. It's then, when he finds his thumb brushing small circles into her dewy skin, that he realises what this is.

Cuddling, he thinks, a touch derisively, in the apocalypse.

It was never a burning release, the aftermath of that intoxicating chemical bath of endorphins, oxytocin, and then a quick until next time.

Being trade partners for most of the scheduled shifts—his brutality, and her knowledge of survival made them a perfect match outside of this clumsy moment of intimacy—meant that she often stayed for a few hours afterwards discussing plans, and who to barter with next or the places they haven't yet scavenged. Lying naked beside each other, shoulders sometimes brushing as they spoke—that was the extent of their post-sex ritual.

This, he knows, is new. Different.

It has the same cadence as last night when his massive hand swallowed her wrist in his palm, and he said, just sleep here, but it's a syncopation. Lighter, somehow, than the gruff way he demanded her company, the brutal divot between his brow.

She moves, slow and languid, and for a moment he thinks about letting her leave. Repairing the chasm that crumbled between them into heaps of broken ruination and anguish, her hand brushes his when she pulls away, and he knows he won't.

For such a massive presence, she's surprisingly small in his grasp. The bump of her wrist bone fits snug against the broken, swollen knuckle of his middle finger when he folds his hand around hers.

The hitch in her breath, the rapid flutter of her pulse beating against his too rough, too worn palm are the only measure of her hesitation, her confusion.

They're not themselves in this moment.

The moor around him collapses. A sinkhole forms.

He clings to her and drags her under with him.

The words won't form on his lips. His throat is bereft of what he feels in his marrow, unable to utter them aloud, to make them real. As if speaking his burgeoning desires is somehow worse than a death sentence.

Wanting in this world is dangerous, and ruinous, but when Joel sees the dawning realisation buoying to the surface in those unfathomable black holes, he knows there's nothing more worrisome, more deadly, to him than her insatiable appetite. Her desire for more.

More—

And just him.

Something in her gaze splinters. Cracks. Her shoulder slump in something that tastes of the same defeat that taints the pinch in his brow.

"You are getting softer, Joel Miller," she takes a stab at a joke but her hands shake too much for it to land properly. "Who'd have thought all it would take is old age and mortality—"

"Shut up," he grumbles, and fights the thrum of satisfaction that spumes in his veins when she lays back down beside him. "Didn't hear you complainin' this much five minutes ago."

"Yeah, well—" her hands settle on his chest, fingers carting through the damp, matted hair. "There's a reason I'm always on top, you know. Worried you might throw your back out."

"You say that like I haven't already."

Her chin scraps over the soft flesh where his bicep meets the curve of his shoulder, eyes bright in the morning sun that smears rays of ochre across the bridge of her nose.

She's pretty, he thinks, and feels that same gnawing in his guts, that same hunger, when she dips, and presses a kiss to his skin.

"Poor baby," she coos, brows drawing together in mock sympathy. "I can't believe a little missionary ruined you so badly. Guess I should take better care of the elderly."

"Wasn't the missionary," he huffs. Her skin is soft, tacky, when he runs his fingers over her shoulder. "It was carrying your heavy ass home."

"Did my heavy ass snap your hips, too—"

"Christ," he bites out, but it lacks any heat. "You just never shut up, do you?"

He hears the click in her throat when she swallows.

"Guess you'll just have to shut me up, won't you, old—"

He presses his lips to hers, and steals the goading words from her quivering mouth.

"Call me an old man again, and I'll spank your ass, little girl."

The condescending tone is thick, but where he expects her indignation over the same words spoken to her by everyone else when she said she wanted to go with him on runs—stay here where it's safe, little girl—it instead makes her suck in a sharp breath between her teeth. He feels the vacuum of it against his lips, and blinks up at her.

"Did you like that—"

"No," she snaps, and drops her head to his chest. "God, Joel, you really know how to ruin a moment."

"Is that what this was? A moment?"

"Yes," she volleys back. "You don't think it was?"

He swallows down the tang of panic that salts his tongue, and presses his lips to her crown instead.

"Ain't much of one, was it?"

"We'll make a better one," she murmurs, the lilt of a promise heavy in her words.

When she settles in his fold, cheek laying flat against his chest—hiding her embarrassment he tones with a particular thrum of fondness so sweet it makes his teeth ache—he folds his arm over her shoulder, keeping her tucked into the bracket of his body.

She's too small for him to ever be a perfect fit. Too hard inside that pretty little head for him to ever wiggle through. Too soft for him not to ruin her completely when he holds her too tight in his hands that overlap in a way that sometimes makes him dizzy, feverish with want, with fear.

She doesn't click in the same way Tess does—did.

A silent agreement of unspoken distance. Never ask for more, it hissed because you'll be brutally disappointed. Never hunger because you won't ever be satiated. Don't yearn. Don't want. Don't, don't, don't—

No, she doesn't click. She doesn't fit. Not with him. Not at all.

(Tess left him whole.

She devours.)

Consumes.

Her eyes are black holes, and ever since she looked at him through the fanned ring of her lashes, and said: you won't break me that easily, he's been standing on the edge of her event horizon waiting for that perfect singularity to swallow him whole.

(He thought her pull would happen quickly. Instantaneous.

But she's been ripping him apart the entire time; morsel after morsel until all that remains is raw nerve. Scraps.)

A slow descent into comfort, kinship.

She's on the same plane of existence as Tommy, Ellie. Maria, too, he supposes, a touch begrudgingly. His circle widens, expands. The bubble encompassing her, too, and he knows that he'd mourn her in the same hushed breath as the rest.

I'll outlive you, old man.

(He's never wanted something more in his life right now than for those words to come to fruition.)

For the first time since the walls reared, since the gunshot that still echoes in his ears like a reminder of his sins, his failures, Joel thinks of tomorrow. And the one after that. And after that.

He thinks of her, and them, this, in the afternoon. Over old stew. Tommy's laughter. Maria's knowing glances. Ellie's anger. Her scorn. Distrust.

Wasting the night away in the bar that's always several octaves too loud not to make him tense, antsy. Watching her dance around the room, ballerina nimble with a sprinter's pace. Listen to her joke and laugh with the men who look at her a touch too long, and a shade too intense, and—

Bringing her home after. Back here in this small house where he rots. Where he plays his guitar as if the chords of Hurt would ever be enough to drown out the bullets and the bloodshed. The clicks, the groans. The scent of moss, and fungus.

Taking her to bed in the sheets that hasn't stopped smelling like her since he fucked her three times over Christmas until she sobbed into his pillow, and begged him for respite. When she brushed the grey hair from his temple with fingers that wouldn't stop trembling despite the ease in her grin, and the polynya in her eyes as she regarded him with more than just desire. More than just sex and sweat and the comfort that comes with losing yourself to the chemical high of another body tucked into the crevasse of your own.

She doesn't fit. She doesn't belong.

But fuck—

He knows he's gone when he can't imagine her anywhere else.

"Sure," he says, and wonders when she let herself into his life, into the gnarled remanants of his chest. "Whatever you say, sweetheart."

(He only dreams in black and white, but when he closes his eyes and dreams of her, it's in a startling palette of browns, reds, and blues.)

#genuinely need a million billion years to recover #like im not even joking #you wENT ALL OUT WITH THIS ONE #i swear to god #i love u i love u i love u #giving u every kiss i can thro the screen #this is perfect #and i #i dont have to words to even truly convey my feelings #bdjejdjdnxndnd #༄favourites #༄dee recs #joel miller x reader #fanfic #tlou

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