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romanarose · 3 days ago

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The Ghost of You

Banner by my dear @commonmisery

Ghost!Joel Miller x fem!reader

TLOU 2 SPOILERS AHEAD! YOU"VE BEEN WARNED!

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Summary: After moving into Jackson, you're put up in a house that hasn't been lived in for years. Soon, you realize you aren't alone. Can you help Joel move on to the next life to be with his daughter? Or will you keep him here selfishly with you?

Warnings: TLOU 2 SPOILERS, ghost!sex, mentions of violence and the things Joels done and what happened to him. bittersweet ending. Body marking and blood but it v consensual. It's loving.

A/N: This is my goodbye to writing Joel. I've made a few statements on thi before and if you've followed me for a while you know why. I won't rehash it. But I wanted to write this idea I had talking to @multiversed-daydreamer as my goodbye. i won't say it my last joel forever but it is for along time. all other series are cancelled. I am also just largely essening my writing for p-boys but I'll still be around witing frankie and javi and marcus sometimes. You never know. My main focus rn is logan howlett, triple frontier, and my original content

This is my love letter to the Joel fandom that has given me so much love and friendship

Looking for something similar? Brother by @macfrog is Tommy saying goodbye, and The Devil's Wife is devil!Joel, similar theme of halloween by @noxturnalnymph

8.5 words

It was cold. That was annoying. How you’d wandered your fucking way out to Wyoming, you’ll never understand. One minute you were in Florida complaining about the heat, now you were being treated for frostbite in your toes.

You’d arrived in Jackson last afternoon, nearly frozen to death and had been crashing in the clinic bed ever since. The doctor, a nice older man, took care of you and a few nurses checked in overnight, and today you were cleared to get settled. Word of mouth had told you Jackson was the place to go, a safe haven, a community where people actually take care of each other. Maria Miller, the town founder, had just left your room saying she’d be outside doing paperwork whenever you were ready for the short tour. You’d get the full spiel eventually, but right now the frostbite made walking a little hard. She'd just show you her office, the mess hall, a few quick essentials and then take your to your new home.

That was when you heard shouting outside the door. One voice was Maria, the other you didn’t recognize. It was hard to hear, but you listened in with your ear pressed to the door.

“It’s been 3 years Tommy. I know this is difficult for you but-”

“You don’t know shit!”

“Excuse me? Who was there for you when you drowned your feelings in moonshine for years? Who took care of Walker while you went off on pointless revenge missions!”

“Don’t you bring him into this. Don’t fucking do that shit, Maria, you know I had too.”

A beat of silence. “You had to do whatever you had to do to deal with what happened. We forgive you, we took you back here and the whole town in glad for it. But Tommy… Jackson is growing. We need the space-”

“You never fucking liked him! You never wanted him around! I bet you’re glad-”

The shouting began to overlap each other, voices raising until you were uncomfortable enough with the man’s temper you grabbed your gun and opened the door, pointing it at him.

“Settle down there, cowboy. Ain’t nice to yell at a lady.”

The next few minutes were embarrassing, to say the least. Maria explained that Tommy was her ex-husband. She didn’t go into the argument, but she assured you, not without gratitude, that firstly she could handle herself, and second that Tommy wasn’t a threat.

After Tommy left with a pointed ‘fuck you’ in your direction, you turn back to find Maria rolling her eyes.

“He’s a good man. I promise. Good dad, works hard, takes care of his people. He just gets… well, there’s some sore spots. C’mon let’s get you home. I bet you’re tired.”

Settled into the house that felt way too big for just you, your thoughts drift to the man. He was older, 50’s maybe? Dark brown hair with a few streaks of gray and tired lines around his eyes, but handsome. He was so angry, and angry at you. What the hell did you do? You hadn’t even been here a day! Fucking unreal. Men were men no matter where you went, but their temper tantrums never ceased to amaze you.

The house was pretty empty. You’d been given a few furnishings, but the house was stripped of all character, certainly taking apart everything the previous owner had. Had the place been occupied since the world fell apart? Or had someone who lived here died? You wondered how. You wondered if they had family, or if the town was their family.

The kitchen had kindly been stocked up pretty well, and you’d been given some toiletries so after eating, you enjoyed your first warm bath in a long time. Running water, and it was warm? Fantestic. You boiled a pan of water and tossed it into the tub for some extra heat just how you liked it.

In bed that night, that’s when things got weird. You felt a coldness wash over your body, a shiver you didn’t expect under the warm blankets. Then the window unlatched and flew open. You gasp, fearful at first, but then justify that since it’s on springs, the latch must’ve been not done right and just sprung open. No big deal. But then you felt a hand on your cheek and you froze.

It didn’t linger more than a second. The touch was fluid, but not wind, not air. There was a roughness to it, the distinct feeling of a large hand cupping your face… but you weren’t scared. Instead, you felt calmed. Relaxed.

It became routine, after a few weeks, you refused to go to sleep until you felt it, the touch of warmth on your face, and you felt safe. It didn’t take long for you to believe you had a ghost; after the cordyceps, ghosts were never far from disbelief, something you’d always been open to, but the question was who.

That would be answered soon enough. You could just ask, yeah, but you wanted to find out, in their own words. As the days progressed, you’d been given time to recover and adjust before working, so you spent a lot of time settling into your house. This was not without its encounters with the ghost. More and more, they seemed to get stronger, able to do more, communicate more. There were items shuffled around, bigger and bigger until the couch was moved.

“I don’t like it there.” You said out loud, pushing it back a few feet.

They moved it again.

“Come on, you’re being annoying.” You move, just for it to get moved back again.

You throw your hands up in the air. “Fine! At least be useful and carry the chair upstairs.” No response, no movement. “Dick.” A gust of wind through your hair and you giggle.

You scribble together a make-shift ouija board, a circle tied from some guitar string you found in a box the ghost knocked off a shelf that must’ve not been cleaned.

Candles lit, you cross legged on the floor, you try to get information. Requests for the name came up empty, but the string moved to “yes” when asked if they were a man.

“How old are you? Or- were you?”

5. 6.

“Old man.” You chuckle when wind brushes your hair. You’d learned this was his way of teasing.

“How did you die?”

D-o-n-t-g-o-g-o-l-f-i-n-g

“Don’t go golfing? What does that mean?”

No response.

“Was that a joke?”

Yes.

“Well, I don’t get it. You know that, right?”

Yes.

“Fine, don’t wanna talk about death I see. Fair enough, never been there myself but I heard it’s not fun. Uhhhhhh got any kids?”

“Go on.”

2 g-i-r-l-s. 1 d-e-a-d.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that… where is the other?”

I-d-o-n-t-k-n-o-w

“Shit, i’m sorry about that too. Must be confusing.” Not knowing where your daughter is must be hard. “Is your other daughter with you? In the afterlife I mean?”

e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g-i-s-d-a-r-k

That broke your heart. “Must be scary.”

Yes

Then, the string moved again.

N-e-w-t-o-p-i-c

a-b-o-u-t-y-o-u

For whatever reason, this makes you blush. You spend the evening telling him about yourself, sharing details and asking him the same. He didn’t like talking about his family, refused to answer any more questions. Wouldn’t say his name.

But it was the first time you’d been called beautiful over ouija board, you knew that much.

Even after you began working, every evening you’d run home to spend time with this ghost of a man. The most people saw of you outside your day labor was a pop into the mess hall to take food home or the clinic as they checked you were recovering okay.

“Don’t see much of you.” The doctor commented. “You adjusting okay? I know it’s a lot to get used to.”

You blink in confusion. You were fine. Happy, even. Sure, you didn’t get to know anyone… but why would you? You did your part for the community, then you went home. Hell, you volunteered extra hours sometimes, picking up more than your fair share. You just didn’t want to get close, that’s all. People died, you’d learned that hard lesson early in life, and learned it over and over and over again. There was no point in making friends, falling in love. Not when it was all so fragile.

But you had your ghost man. He had already crossed that barrier, so there was nothing to fear. Nothing to lose.That night, you talked out loud to him about your day as you always did, he made little sounds knocking cabinets together or brushing a breeze on your skin to let you know he was listening. Sometimes winds rustled your hair when he thought you were funny. Then, the wind turned into a gust, and two firm hands pressed you down the hall, the message clear.

“Jesus! I’m going I’m going!” You follow the breeze bushing you. Fuck he was getting more powerful every day. Pushed to the kitchen, you’re face to face with the fridge.

“If this is a fat joke- hey!” Two distinct fingers pinched your cheek and you laughed. “Okay, tell me what you want!” A breeze, and you hear a fluttering between the fridge. When you bend down and dig around the dust bunnies, you find a piece of distinct photograph paper, and pull it out. On it was a picture of a man, 30’s, maybe 40’s if you were pushing it, his arm wrapped around a hung girl holding a trophy. They looked happy.

“Is this you?”

The picture ruffled in your hand.

“And the girl, that your daughter?”

The pictures motion was repeated. This looked like it was from before, from long ago… you assumed the girl was the daughter that died.

“It’s so cute…” You traced the picture of your ghost, having a face but no name still. Your feel warm, a blush creeping around your skin and a deep heat settling in your stomach. He was handsome. You’d never really pictured him,, besides a few wandering thoughts here and there, but nothing stuck. You put his picture on your fridge.

At night, the image of his face danced in your head, unable to sleep. It was weird, this friendship you had with the ghost in your house, but you didn’t really care. There were worse things in this world, darker ways to cope. So what if a dead man made you happy, made you blush and grin and giggle. So what if he was the reason your hand was currently being shoved into your PJ’s.

You’d be lying if you hadn’t touched yourself that first night, but this was the first night you pictured his body on your, his face, that beard…

“Are you watching me?” You asked, panting. That was a first too. You knew there was a possibility he watched, but you didn’t really care. Never had. Now, you hoped he did.

A pause.

Then, the liquid touch of a hand on your face. He was here. He was watching.

“Good.” You assure him, hoping he stays. “Want you to watch.” Your fingers begin to pump in your cunt, and you kick off the covers. So what if it was cold, you wanted him to see you. You thought about what it would be like to feel his face buried between your legs, what his voice sounds like, how he’d touch you-

“You can touch me, if you want. Not just my face.” It was a bold statement. Things with you and him had been friendly, close, a little flirty… but nothing so far had suggested more. For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t. Maybe he just watched to watch. Maybe you embarrassed him and he left.

Then his touch landed on your face, slowly trailing down, down, until you could feel hands on your breasts. The slightest brush on lips ghost the shell of your ear, your cheek, and your heart swells. He wants to kiss you.

“You can kiss me. It’s okay.” It wasn’t as strong a touch a his hands, but he ridgid texture of chapped lips touch yours, and ripples of pleasure flow throughout the erogenous zones on your body, far ore reach than two hands ever could. It tickles, and it feels fucking good.

“Wish you were here….” You mumble, still fucking yourself as hips bucked against yoru fingers, sopping wet sounds fill the quiet bedroom. “Never connected to anyone the way I have you.” A squeeze on your leg reassured you, and soon your tits were being messaged in a way clumsy human hands couldn’t do. It was like the rolling ocean crashing and waving and peaking on the tender flesh, a surreal experience to your touch-starved body.

“I’m gonna cum, I’m f-fuck, you’re gonna make me cum-”

Then you hear it, clear as day, sharp and quick against your ear.

“Joel.”

His name. You cry it out as your pussy clenches down on your fingers.

After that, ghost sex was something you and Joel regularly engaged in. He couldn’t really speak much still, usually only getting out one word. Generally it was ordering you to cum, sometimes a single word compliment slipped through with a southern accent.

“Beautiful.” He whispered as you lay in bed, satiated and panting.

He thought you were beautiful when you came.

There was never another reason to go anywhere outside of your home other than to work or get food, and more and more you just got groceries and worked with what you had. You liked cooking with him ,you didn’t want to be away.

Today, as you tried to make soup, you couldn’t help laugh as he managed to speak “More seasoning” and lift a fuck ton of herbs up and into the pot. At least he was a helpful ghost.

“You can just make it next time!”

You expect to feel your hair rustle, but instead his voice speaks.

“Tommy.”

Then a knock on the door. You were so startled (people never visited you) you almost didn’t answer. No one outside that door could be worth time away from Joel, but he pushed you to answer, a desperation in his actions that matched the tone he spoke the name.

When you answered, you would have shut the door if you weren’t curious about Joel’s reaction.

There stood the man who got in a shouting match with Maria. Oh, yeah, Tommy, that’s right. But why was he here? Tommy was tall, but his posture at the moment was sunken, sheepish. When he looked at you, pink dusted his tan skin. “Can I talk t’yuh?”

You narrow your eyes. “Sorry, but the last time we spoke you weren’t exactly polite enough for me to feel like welcoming you inside, and every time I’ve seen you, you give me dirty looks.”

He nods. “I understand, that’s why I uh… wanted t’explain myself. I shouldn’t’ve done that, but I was angry. Ain’t right, still…”

“What could I have possibly done to you?”

His eyes were large, brown, and wet. “This was uh… my brother’s house. He died 3 years ago.”

5 Minutes later, Tommy was sitting on the couch with you, cup of soup in hand. You hadn’t felt or heard Joel, but this was your chance. Some answers.

“Funny.” He pats the couch. “This was his. Was right here for years, never moved it.”

“It’s uh… a good stop. Now, I think you had some explaining to do?”

“Right…“ Tommy rubbed the back of his neck. “The house has been empty since he died. My wi- ex wife, I guess, kept it empty out of courtesy but she was right. It was time to move on.”

“Did he die in here?”

He shook his head. “No.”

Tommy explained it to you. The revenge that was enacted on his brother for saving the girl, Ellie. You wondered if that was his daughter he mentioned, but Tommy just referred to her as his kid. How the woman and their group killed him, Tommy saw his brother's head bashed in, brain matter on the walls.

The gold joke still didn’t make sense, but you’d figure it out. You learned more about Joel too, that he was from Texas, that his daughter, Tommy niece, died on outbreak day. Joel’s birthday. Joel played the guitar, he liked to swim, was an overbearing brother and loving dad. He was married once. He learned to cook to get Sarah to eat veggies so he was pretty good at it. Was a good man. The best, the way Tommy spoke.

“I know it ain’t right the way I’ve treat’n yuh. And I know it’s not your fault. I just hadn’t been handling his death well, you know? Lost my wife, almost lost my son… I ain’t been the man he raised me to be. I now you don’t… do anything. In town. That’s probably my fault and I’m so-”

“You think I stay home because I’m avoiding you?” You nearly bark out a laugh, his eyes growing in confusion. “Man, I ain’t scared of no man, if I wanted to go to the movie nights I would have!”

Tommy processes this information, sipping on the last of the soup broth. “Oh… I guess I just assumed...”

“Well, you know what they say about assuming. Make’s an ass out of you and me. Here, gimmie.” You take his mug, walking to the kitchen to rinse it and still giggling.

Tommy follows you. “Well I’m sorry! I guess I just figured, the time’n ‘n all.”

You throw a look over your shoulder. “I stay home because I like it here. Because I’ve been alone for years, so I’m fine with it.”

“But why not-” He stops in his tracks. “Where did you get that?”

You follow his line of view and realize your mistake. “Uh. I uh. I found that while cleaning the kitchen, by the fridge. I guess I thought it was nice, so I hung it up… why? Who is it?”

You knew the answer before he even spoke Joel’s name. You had to pretend to be surprised, but even worse, you knew what you needed to do.

“Keep it.” You say, pushing the picture closer to him, breaking you a bit. You had to hide ever emotion, because there was no reason for you to have any attachment to it. He didn’t know what you and Joel shared with each other. Who he was to you. It didn’t matter, because Joel was his brother. The girl was his niece. He deserved the picture.

“That’s here. That’s Sarah.” Tommy continued, confirming your suspicions as his finger trailed over the girl.

“She’s adorable.”

“Yeah… she was. Great kid too.”

Tommy helped you wash up the dishes from making soup, you and him talking more. He was nice when he wasn’t yelling. You could understand why he was so upset at the time, and you forgave it.

You told as much as he stood in your doorway. “I don’t hold it against you. I promise.”

He nods, smiling and looking more at ease. “Promise you’ll come to the next movie night, it’s tomorrow. It’ll be good for you, I promise.”

“What’s playing?‘

“Scream 2!”

You roll your eyes. “Not the first one?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Tommy says with a tease. “Is fucking scream 2 at the end of the world not enough for you?”

You shove him out of your door, laughing. “Fine! I’ll fucking come. But only to see Timothy Olyphant.”

You shut the door, and turn around still laughing. But what you see shocks you so bad, you’d have screamed if you didn’t cover your mouth.

It was Joel. Faint. Barely there. A dead eyed stare. Much older than the picture and his hair was longer. But it was him.

“Joel?” You say, tentatively walking towards him. He wasn’t looking at you, instead, he was looking at the door, unmoving, unblinking, unbreathing. Your hand passes through him and when his form dissipates, you fall to the ground and cry.

“Are you mad at me?” You ask. He was strangely quiet the rest of the day, only a few little touches here and there. No ghost sex that night. When you are getting out of work clothes and putting something warm on for the movie, you bring it up.

“No.”

“Well, you’ve hardly talked to me. Is it because I asked Tommy as those questions about you? I;m sorry, it’s just easier that way and I wanted to know what happened to you-”

“I miss him.”

Three whole words.

“You’re getting stronger. Did you mean to appear to me yesterday?”

“You saw me?”

“Yeah, and I hear you really good now.” You grin. “I can’t believe you’re talking this much. Maybe I’ll skip the movie, I don’t wanna lose-”

“No. Go.” a brief pause. “Please.”

“Joel Miller,” You tease him. “Are you having me check on your baby brother?” He rustles your hair.

So, you started hanging around Tommy more. It started as filling Joel in on his life, but really, you liked being around Tommy. He was easy to talk to.

You lay on your side in bed, trying to picture his face as you’d done every night for months as you talk to him. Joel’s voice was clear, fully communicating with you now. Every now and then you could see a glimpse of him in a mirror or the faint frozen picture of him standing somewhere, usually after Tommy was over.

“Walker is doing really well.” You tell him about his nephew you’ve met a few times. For a few years, Tommy was barely around after Joel’s death, most of the time he was drunk. There was an incident several months ago whereTommy passed out of the couch and Walker tried to start the stove, resulting in a small kitchen fire, and Tommy effectively lost custody of his son. Not that family court existed here, but Tommy knew he couldn’t be there. This was shortly after you moved in, and was the reason Tommy finally got sober. Things were going better now, and he’s repairing that relationship.

“You met him?”

“Yeah, he’s quiet. But he’s very polite.” Tommy said he takes after Joel. Walker and Joel had been very close before he died, Tommy adored the little boy. The little boy in question was now 8, growing up.

He sighs. “Yeah, he was a good kid. I never had a son, figured raise’n Tommy was close enough. But when I was with him… Sometimes I think back to when Sarah died, how hard Tommy fought to keep her alive… yuh know, after she died I was just, I was drowning in my sadness. There was no room for Tommy’s grief, I guess. He’s stronger than I gave him credit for, because he was always there for me. If I had lost Walker… I dunno if I could have been that strong.”

A few days later, you invite Tommy and his son over for dinner, and as you stare at Walker eating his food and laughing you can see Joel. He’s no longer a still picture, he’s moving, and smiling, and laughing too. No one else can see or hear him.

But he looks right at you.

You can see him now, laying on the pillow beside you as the pair of you talk. Sometimes he’s tangible, hands touching your face and you can see his tan skin through your peripheral. Sometimes it’s more faint, like he’s using all his strength to be see and he can’t materialize his touch. You don’t know how it works, but you’re happy to see his face. Joel has kind eyes, a softness in a world of blood and violence.

“You're beautiful.” And it’s your voice whispering it to him, because he is. Every line on his face, the scar on his forehead, the tired darkness under his eyes as if an eternity to sleep wasn’t enough. Every little freckle you could map on his face on days he was more clear. It was perfect. It was him.

A sadness crosses over those pools of brown. “I really don’t deserve you…” When you open your mouth to protest, he continues. “I’ve killed people.”

That wasn’t a shock. Who hasn’t? “I have too.”

But Joel shakes his head, curls staying in place as if gravity is now inconsequential, as if he’s frozen in time with a single lock on his forehead. “No, I’ve killed innocents. A lot. Me ‘n Tommy, before… and protect’n Ellie…”

You thought about this for a while, a chill of cold reminiscent of when he first came to you makes you shiver, but when you look at him, you don’t feel the repulsion you know he expects. “You kill children?”

“No.” He says firmly, a glimmer of sadness crossing his eyes. You didn’t think so, knowing he knew what that loss was. “But that don’t make it much better.”

“Did rape anyone? Kill people for fun? Get off on it?”

Disgust mares his features. “No, never.”

You nod. “You kill any innocent people since coming to Jackson? Settling here?”

Again, a shake of his head doesn’t knock loose a single hair. “No, but before-”

“I’m not worried about before.” You voice is soft, and you tentatively reach a hand out to caress his face. His skin was soft, softer than a man in his 50’s would be, but that’s what happens when you aren’t fully there. “I don’t care about that. Really, I don’t. You deserve a second chance just as much as anyone does. The world out there-” You vaguely whisk your hand around. “Does things to us. As far as I’m concerned, as long as you’re not a rapist, didn’t kill kids, not one of those really, really bad people… I think you deserve to leave that all outside the gates of Jackson.”

His eyes soften, affection pooling with something more. “Thank you, darl’n I mean it. I wasn’t always forgiven in that life. Nice to know someone does in this one,”

Your heart aches for him, so you try to ease his pain. “Tommy forgives you, I know it. You heard how he talks about you.”

But he;s still distant. “Maybe. But maybe he just misses me. That’s different. Besides, there’s someone I know hasn’t.”

“Ellie?”

He nods. “She…. well, we just started talk’n, right before I died. Didn’t have the chance to find out if she ever would, you know? Now I never will.”

“She does, Joel. It’s been years, I know she does.”

But he didn’t beleive you.

Joel’s words stuck with you, simmering in your head like the soups he helps you make. Today you were on patrol with a fairly quiet partner, so you had nothing left to do but think, thnk, think. Why did his words affect you so much? He was so stuck on forgiveness, even though hed never know-

Oh.

That’s why he was trapped here, wasn’t it? Joel’s ghost remained behind because he didn’t have the closure he needed. Tommy and him had made up, but Joel died not knowing if Ellie ever did. Years of estrangement for taking her from the hospital, for saving her, for lying, and he wasn’t sorry, he told you himself. But he needed Ellie’s forgiveness. He needed to know Tommy didn’y hold resentment. He needed to know they were safe, that they were okay.

Joel couldn’t talk to Tommy. For some reason, you could hear him speak when Tommy was around, see him, but Tommy never reacted. Joel couldn’t even move things or create a breeze when he was around…

If Joel got what he needed, the forgiveness, the resolution he longed for, he could move on. You knew it. He was getting stronger every day, his appearance crystal clear, his touch more and more solid, less fluid than before. You wanted little more than to have him like that, as close to a real person as he could get, at your home you shared with him every single day, every hour, sleeping next to him, cooking with him, fucking him… part of your mind told you that you could do it.

But that wasn’t right. He’d be little more than a housewife, a sex doll, a captive. You could keep him there, to be your only friend outside of occasionally seeing his brother, the person who knew you best, someone always there to talk because what other options did he have?

That wasn’t you. The rational part won out, and your knew what you had to do.

Tommy’s face was one of worry when you told him you’d seen the ghost of his brother. You’d spilled it all out, sparing the ghost sex details, but instead of shock, he just asked you if you ere okay.

“Yes! Tommy I’m fine-”

“I dunno, you’re kinda a weird person to begin with, see’n shit wouldn’t be that new-”

“Tommy!” You stand abruptly from his couch, pulling at your hair. “I’m not seeing- I’m not hallucinating him! You don’t understand, I see him, I see him every fucking day that’s why I don’t go anywhere!”

A sympathetic look crossed his face. “Honey, maybe you’re seeing him because you’re alone every day.”

“I’M NOT CRAZY!!” You shout at him, and he softens.

“I know, I know.” Tommy stands. “Maybe… maybe you should stay here a few days, maybe this is a yellow wallpaper situation, you gotta get fresh air, a new environment-” he reaches for your arm but you yank it away.

“Does the term ‘don’t go golf’n mean anything to you?”

Confusion crosses his face. “Not really, why?”

A deep breath. “He… I asked how he died, with a ouija board i made and he just said don’t go golfing. Never explained.”

Tommy’s skin paled, the freckles on his face a stark contrast against him. His face a deadly calm. “How did you know that.”

You can’t help but groan. “I told you, he-”

“ENOUGH GAMES!” The sudden shout shocks you, and you step back. Tommy must’ve realized he was scaring you, so he calmed down just a bit. “I’m serious. This isn’t fucking funny.”

Tears of frustration and sadness filled your heart, begging him to believe you. You didn’t think Tommy would hurt you, but the distress he was in was clear. “I wouldn’t joke about this… he- he said it was a joke I wouldn’t get, and I don’t. Tommy please, I’m being serious…”

Then, the realization dawned on him, clear as day. He believed you. “Holy shit. You’re telling the truth…”

“I am.” You sob. “Tommy I swear I’m telling the truth. He needs help, he’s trapped here… we need to help him…”

He was shaking. “C-can I see him?”

It broke your heart to say no. He can only appear to me, I think…He’s tired when you are over…“

Dizzy, Tommy sits down. “He was round… whenever I was over, wasn’t he? That’s why I always feel so calm there…”

You nod. “He calms me too. I don’t know how.” You join him on the couch again. “Tommy, what does don't go golfing mean?”

His face is buried in his hands, and you think he’s crying. It’s a lot, you know, it’ a lot to spring on someone, especially that he can’t hear or see him still, his own brother so close and yet so far. But you were doing this for him, so that he could move on, so that he could see his Sarah in the afterlife.

When Tommy finally looked up, his face and hands were soaking wet.

“He was killed with a golf club. We never told anyone about that.”

Joel stood behind you, clear and crystalline, his body practically human. He was cold, but he brought you comfort. “Something on your mind, darl’n?”

You don’t wanna lie to him, but you can’t tell him what’s happening, not yet. You want a few more days without this hanging over you both.

“Tommy left for a few weeks. Just worried.” You didn’t tell him he went to find Ellie, to go back to the farmhouse she lived in with Dina and see if she’s there, if Dina knows where she lives kows anything. To try and convince Ellie that this woman she’s never met his eeing her dad as a ghost and they need to help him move on. But hes gonna try.

A week later, the town was in a ruckus, Tommy returning to Jackson with the prodigal daughter, her girlfriend, and a little boy.

Turns out Ellie went back to Dina, begged for her back on hands and knees, and they’d been living alone out in the country for years raising JJ. They all looked good, healthy, happy… Ellie was skeptical but she agreed to come as a favor to Tommy. Everything was planned for tomorrow, but as you lay in bed with Joel for the last time, you can’t bring yourself to tell him.

You wanted one last night.

Joel kissed you, languid and soft, his hands roamed your naked and prone body and for the first time, you noticed something. A tent in his pants. A ghost had gotten an erection for you.

“Joel…” You moan, feeling him rutt against you.

“I know, I feel it too.” His voice is husky against your ear, and chills flow throughout your body as you realize what this means. Joel was firm, his body fully here and he was hard. Joel could fuck you.

He went feral after that, yanking down your PJ shorts so fast your barely had time to lift your hips, but it didn’t matter. You spread your legs to welcome to fingers the plumged into your body, absolutly dripping for the man laid beside you. Joel’s breath was hot, growling and grunting as e finger fucks you open, preparing you to take his cock for the first time.

“You’re always s’fucking wet.” He says between sucking kisses on your neck. You didn’t care if he left hickies on you, you were just beyond ecstatic that he was strong enough to leave marks. You wanted him to be with you in some way permanently. “Been wish’n I could feel you since that first day, so sweet, so beautiful, always so ready for my touch.”

You paw at him, groping his body and trying to just get his massive form on top of you. “Need you.” You beg like a needy young thing, like you’d never been fucked properly before, like you needed to be filled and taken and ravaged.

“I got yuh, darl’n…” Joel murmur, rolling over on top of you, his cock heavy- when had his clothes come off?

Knelt before your body, Joel was magnificent. His body was broad, thick, not quick as barrel chested as his brother, he held it more in the shoulders. Down his chest and stomach held scares, fat, and a trail of hair leading down, down, down to where his cock hung thick and leaking and cut. You forgot he was a ghost; he didn’t feel like one, he felt real. He felt here. Tears filled up in your eyes, and Joel leans over, his body covering yours in his cool skin.

“What’s wrong, baby?” He asks in a gentle voice, thumbing away a stray tear. “I hope yuh ain’t scared’a me? Are yuh?”

You’ve never been more sure of saying no in your life. “Ain’t scared.” You whisper. “I just… I love you so much…” It wasn’t necessarily a lie. You did love him. But that wasn’t why you were crying, not really anyway. No, you cried because this was goodbye.

Joel’s eyes, black pupils swallowing the beautiful brown with lust, grew wet themselves as he smiles down at you. “I love you too. So damn much.”

Your nails did into his back, relishing in the firm, solid feel of him. This was real. He was real. “Fuck me, please. Make love to me. I want to feel you, really feel you…”

Plush lips kissed you as he slid inside, a wave of calm relaxed your body, allowing you to take his considerable length inside you. He was big, stretching you open slowly while you accommodate him.

“Fuck, it’s like you’re made for me…” He moans in your ear, desperate like he’s falling apart at one stroke. But he doesn’t. When he fucks you, it’s with more vigor, more energy than you’ve ever felt from a living person, a slap of skin from his hips meeting your thighs, his balls heavy and slapping against your ass, his fingers digging, digging digging so deep inside as you wished he’d bruise you, wished he’d cut you open and crawl inside so he could never leave you, two souls as one. To know and to be known at the deepest level. Souls and bodies barred to each other. Nothing left to hide.

He couldn’t do that, so as Joel slammed his cock into you, you begged for something else. “Mark me.” You whimper, getting a reaction of confusion from your lover, so you take his hand and dig his nails into your tender hips. “I need to know this is real. All of it.” The tears come again when you can see him want to deny you. “This isn’t forever, you know this can’t before but I- Joel I need something to be forever! We can’t get married, you can’t leave me pictures or presents or- or kids, Joel, I need to be able to remember you.”

His movements slow. “Oh, pretty baby…” He murmurs lowly. “I’ll give anything if it means you can’t forget me.” he kisses you deeply, sucking in your tongue and before he pulls away he nips your lip. “Tell me to stop if it’s too much.”

But nothing of Joel could be too much.

A shape gasp as he dug into you, left hand bracing himself on the bed as he never stopped fucking you, rolls of pleasure coured your body like it had tha first night, swirling over your clit and dragging you screaming to the edge. And screaming you were.

“Don’t stop! Don’t stop!” You shout so loud you don’t care who hears you. Half the town thinks you’re fucking Tommy anyway. Don’t stop fucking you, don’t stop marking you, don’t, don’t, don’t go.

You could keep him to yourself. Tell Ellie and Tommy you lied, or that he went away and you can’t see him any more. Anything so that he doesn’t get what he needs, that he stays with you forever.

He’s impossibly deep inside, but in your leaking, dripping channel and into your hip. The cut of his nails goes further than they should go, but you don’t question it. Instead, you focus on the feeling of him marking your flesh, of him making your insides as his as he cums deep in your stomach. Your cunt pulses around him as your draw out whatever he’s filling you with, you don’t care. It’s him.

“More, more” You cry into his shoulder, but he’s already slowing his thrusts.

“I’m as deep as I can go, baby…” He stays bottomed out inside you, but his hands withdrawal from your side as you come down. His bloody hand cups your face, dripping with your own warmth.

You sob against his cold skin, Joel wrapping you into a hug as the overwhelming emotion of what happened floods you, and it’s too much. You need more, but it’s not him deeper, not him scaring you, and not him filling you up.

It’s more time.

You wake up with blood on your face and your wounds cleaned and bandaged, with Joel’s body gone, as it usually is in the morning. It took until the afternoon for him to appear again.

“Sorry baby.” He apoligized, hugging you. “I dunno why I can’t control coming better.” He poked your side, and you knew he meant a double entendre but you didn’t have it in you to laugh.

“It’s okay. Last night used a lot. You probably needed to rest.”

“Yeah…” He touched the bandage he’d put on your hip with soft intent. “How you feel’n bout this?”

You smile. “Great. But Joel…” You turn around to face him, his face frowning with worry. “I gotta tell you something… I told Tommy about you…” Before he has a chance to ask questions, you spill it out. “And he went and found Ellie, she’s hear. I think… I think if you reconcile with her, with Tommy, once the air is cleared… you can move on.”

For a long moment, he stares at you, unmoving, unblinking, frozen as the picture that used to hang on your door. Then he speaks. “You know… that means I can’t see you again, right.”

Damn the tears the spring forth, damn the well of emotions overflowing your body, a trickle of a leak in the damn, then it cracks, and it all breaks. You begin to sob in his arms. “I know, I know… but it’s not right for me to keep you here! You- you said it’s dark, and you’re scared.”

“I ain’t scared when I’m with you…”

“But you won’t always be with me! I need to help you move on! It’s unnatural, it’s wrong, you need to be with Sarah, you need to be at peace knowing Sarah and Tommy love you, that they forgive you!”

He lets you cry, holding you close in strong arms as he realized what was happening. He’d see Ellie again. You were willing to give him up just so he could get his happy end.

His voice in your ear.

“Ellie.”

She was skeptical, understandingly. Pretty, short, in her 20’s with brown hair cropped into a pixie and looking annoyed. She sat next to Tommy with her arms crossed and practically glaring at you.

“I’m gonna need more proof than some golf joke.”

“It was enough to get you here, wasn’t it?”

She rolled her eyes. “I owed Tommy for every fucking time he saved my damn life, that’s why I’m here.” She turned to her uncle. “We’re even, by the way.”

“Sure as shit are.” He sighs, then looks at you. “He here?”

You gesture to the couch. “Yeah he’s sitting right- hey!”

Ellie swung her hand over where you said Joel was sitting, doing nothing but annoying Joel who tried in vein to smack her away, telling her to cut the shit.

“I don’t fucking feel anything.”

“That’s not how it works Ellie!” Tommy flicked her arm. “Relax.”

With a huff, she crossed her arms again. “Fine.”

Tommy looked to you, then to Joel, then back to you. “Tell her something only Joel would know.”

When you turn to Joel, he’s looking at Ellie with sadness. She looks different, a lot older, yet she’s still Ellie to him. He doesn’t turn to you. ‘David.’ He instructs, and you turn to her.

“Do you know a David?” And suddenly her skin blanches. Ever so slightly, she’s shaking, but then she turns to Tommy. “Did Joel fucking telling you that!?”

From beyond Tommy’s protests that he doesn’t know who Daivid is, did she mean David Turner, who was a local here, or David Sanchez, who died last month in a raid? Joel insists he’d never tell that to anyone, but Ellie can’t hear him.

You try to calm them. “He says he was someone you met after leaving Jackson the first time, that you did the right thing by killing him.”

“Yeah! I fucking did!”

“He says if he goes to hell, David is the first person he’s finding.”

She stops, information processing in her head that there was no way Joel wold have told whoever David was to Tommy. “David tried to rape me when I was 14.” She grits out. “I stabbed him to death and let his body burn up.”

Tommy turns to her, horrified but doesn’t speak.

You nod. “Good.”

And then, she sinks into the couch. “Whenever I had nightmares… Joel always told me David was the first person he’d find in hell. He was convinced he was going there.”

You chuckle. Yeah that sounds like Joel. “He loves you both very, very much… and the uncertainty is what’s keeping him here. I need to help him move on.”

“So what? You’re some sort of fucking medium?”

“No, I’ve never had anything like this happen before but… He started appearing to me. Little touches, cold spots, breezes… then he started moving things, hearing his voice…. Now I can see him, he’s as clear as you are, honestly.”

Tommy speaks now. “He’s gotta know-” He tries to turn to where you said Joel was, but you can tell he’s struggling to talk to a brown cushion. “You gotta know we love you, don’t know? How can you doubt that?”

‘Tell him I do. But tell him… I don’t know if he forgives me.’

“Joel knows you both love him, but that’s not why he’s stuck. He needs to know you forgive him.”

Ellie is staring sone faced at a wall, but Tommy is looking down at his hands now, this seems easier. “Joel… those things we did… it’s been a long time. I was angry, yeah, I fucking hated you for a while but…” He shakes his head, silver streaks shimmering in the deep brown of his hair. “I got Walker now and… after he was born man, I think I got it. The things we did to survive… you were willing to do some of the worst shit out there, damning your own soul to save me. I’d do the same for my kid, if I needed to.”

‘But I shouldn’t have made you do any of it, Tommy.’

“Joel feels bad that he made you participate.”

“You didn’t make me do fuck’n shit, brother. I was a grown ass man, even if you still thought of me as a reckless teenager. I made my choices, and I understand why you made yours. You lost your baby, I know damn well you couldn’t take lose’n your brother either. I forgive you, but you also gotta forgive yourself, brother.”

Ellie pipes up. “I get it too, Joel. I told you that night, I didn’t know if I could forgive you… telling you I couldn’t… but… UUGHHHH!” She slumps down, covering her face. “Joel I was angry! I was angry and I was stupid but I was a teenager! I was just- just a kid who had these grand schemes of changing the world! But we don’t know if it could’ve worked. But I forgive you, Joel. I was always gonna forgive you, even before you went and fucking left me! I don’t know why I had to do that, why i treated you the way I did-”

‘You were a teenager, that’s normal-’

“But I think about it, every single day I think about it and what I should've said and done better but I get it now. I don’t know what you’ve been told but I got my kid now. I know you’re old man brain is probably trying to work out how two women had a baby-”

Joel laughs, and so does Ellie.

“But it’s Jesse’s. Dina got pregnant before Jesse and her broke up and he… he died. But I’ve been raising him with her the last few years… She took me back… You ask me on the porch that night if she treats me good and Joel…” Ellie sighs, smiling. “She really does.”

‘Tell ‘er I’m glad. That I always liked her, and I wanna know the kids name.’

“Joel says he doesn’t blame you for being mad at him, or how you talked to him. He says he’s glad Dina and you are happy. What’s the babies name?”

Ellie grins, pride in her eyes. “The baby is almost 4 now. His name is JJ. Jesse Joel.”

Tear fill up Joel’s eyes, fatherly love overwhelming him and for a moment, you think how sweet this is, how nice. Then you notice he’s not as clear as he was before.

“Joel!” You rush to his side and take his hand, kneeling at the couch. “Joel, I think it worked… you’re fading…” You try to grip his hand, as if holding on tighter would keep him here with you, keep him ground in this world. Without him, you weren’t sure what you’d do with your life, who you’d talk to or confide in…. But you knew, you knew above all you’d miss him. There would never be another Joel.

‘Please-’ He sounds desperate now, scared even. ‘One more time, tell them I love them, I just- I love them so much fucking much.’

Through your sobs, you relay the message. “He needs you to know how much he loves you guys. He talks about you all the time, he- you’re everything to him.” You see Ellie and Tommy holding hands, Ellie crying and Tommy looking close.

“We love you, Joel. All of us.” Ellie says, to nowhere in particular.

‘And the kids. Walker and- fuck I ain’t never met JJ but I love him too. If, if there’s a heaven I’m gonna…’ His words start to fade, but you know what he’s saying. His strength is going fast, Joel letting go and passing on, but even still his body shook. He was scared. If there was a heaven, Joel was going, but he wasn’t sure about that.

“He says he loves Walker and JJ, he’s gonna watch over them in heaven”

That breaks Tommy, who lets the tears come now as he takes your hand too, squeezing it tight.

You look up at your lover. “I love you, Joel. I’m always gonna love you, always gonna remember you. It’s gonna be okay, I promise you. We’re gonna be alright, we’re doing okay. You can let go now. It’s okay to let go. There’s no one left you need to protect.. we’re safe.”

Even though he’s fading away Joel looks into your eyes. He can’t speak, his strength fading, but it’s all communicated through those eyes that say so much. One last time, he cups your cheek, and the hand that isn’t holding Tommy’s brushes over the cold fingers, feeling liquid and unstable again. There’s fear in his eyes, mixed with that tender love, but then something changes in him.

Joel looks forward, past you, Tommy and Ellie and onto something else, something more. He smiles. ‘I see her’

All his fear his gone, and his face is peaceful.

For the final time, a breeze rustles your hair, and Tommy and Ellie see it.

Joel is gone, and all you can do is sob into his couch.

When it finally subsides you feel numb. Ellie and Tommy have joined you on the floor, the three of you talking about the experience you shared together, something no one will ever believe.

“His last words were, ‘’I see her’....”

Tommy whispers Sarah’s name, and you nod.

“He’s with her now. He’s a peace. I know a better place is a cliche, but…” Ellie wipes her tears. “We all know how much he missed her.”

Everyone nods solemnly, and for a while, you stay there, talking about Joel, memories and his jokes and his cooking. It was nice to share this secret with other, and suddenly you felt less alone in it. They believed your stories of the ghost in your walls, and they liked hearing the knew things he told you. You liked learning more of his past.

Eventually, everyone had to get back to their families. You were alone, but you didn’t feel lovely. Something had shifted, a closeness to Ellie and Tommy that didn’t scare you the way human connection used to. Maybe you would go to the mess hall, see some movies. Your patrol partner was quiet, but nice. Tommy was still around, and Ellie and Dina decided to pack up their things and return, wanting JJ to have friends. It was going to be okay, and as the sun set on the day, somehow you felt it rise on your life. A new, beautiful world of opportunities for friendship and love was out there.

You stared in the mirror, butt naked, feeling strangely open and vulnerable despite being alone for the first time in months.

It all felt surreal, something that seemed impossible, that went against every logical explanation.

But when you took off the bandage on your hip to change it, there they were, clear as day. 4 crescent fingernail cuts deep into your skin, something that would scar forever.

No matter what happened, you’d always carry these with you, proof that Joel and your love for him was real.

I cried pretty good writing tht end, knowing its my goodbye. I want yall to know I love each and every reader so so so so much. You mean the world to me. every kind word lives on in me forever. I hope you'll stay for my other writing, but if not, thats okay! I wih all of you the best.

Please be kinder to each other. the fanfic writers do this for free, they do not deserve the things they've experienced here. It is a beautiful world out there.

Trust me, it feels way better to send anon love rather than anon hate. I wont be writing tlou for a minute but ill return with a tommy series !!!!

follow @romana-after-dark for dark content and @riley-blue-byron for upcoming original works!

So long, and thanks for all the fish <3

reblogs are greatly appriciated, would make a nice send off <3

@princessanglophile @missladym1981 @goodwithcheese @dancinglotusbud @glitterymanboy @koshkaj-blog @sixhours @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @fandxmslxt69 @miraclesabound

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tyinghershoe · 2 days ago

Note

This with bakugo except yall aren't dating and he has a lil crush

I died laughing reading this. I couldn’t NOT write this out.

Bakugo finds out that you’re telling people he’s your babies father.

Above all, Bakugo is flustered!

Sure, the first shock arose a hint of anger and embarrassment - as expected when your crush is telling people all sorts of things - but afterward, there was an underlying feeling of giddiness, a type of glow as he thought about how “holy shit, y/n talks about me? I'm on their mind?”

So, it’s safe to say that he isn’t ENTIRELY bothered, but he is confused. You talk here and there sure, being a part of the same friend group does that, but there was never and inclination that feelings were reciprocated, nor has there ever been a moment that could lead to, well, the current gossip you're spreading around now (He doesn’t want to this too much about this aspect though).

Now here he is, sitting down in the common area waiting for you to walk right in (you come in every day at exactly 5:28 to watch a show with Mina! Not that he memorized that or anything) so he can hopefully get an answer out of you.

As expected, there you are. Trotting down to sit on the couch while holding on to your favorite snack, you brought the smaller bag this time, which means you won't be staying down here for long. Actually, you won't be staying here at all, as Bakugo stands up the moment you two make eye contact.

“Y/n, we need to talk,” he says, choosing to ignore the slight shake of his voice. The confused look on your face is all he needs to know, as he does his best to keep a calm attitude. Stay cool, Bakugo! The last thing he wants is for you to think that you’re just as much of a nuisance as his other friends.

“Sure.” Confused as you are, you still walk towards him as he strides slightly away from the couches and into a more private area. This is for his sake only, as you seem unaffected by his cryptic commands.

An urge to stay calm sits in the back of his head, and he turns to stare into your eyes.

“Hey.”

“...hey?”

FUCK! He thinks - that wasn’t what he planned at all! “Was that too casual? Should I just be straight up? She probably doesn’t even like me, screw it.”

“Why are you telling people in your baby’s father?” The twitch of his eye goes unnoticed, and only now does he realize that the situation is as stupid as it seems. There's an echo in the hall, adding amplification to the tension.

You however look at him nonchalantly and shrug your shoulders a bit.

“I don’t know. Bored as hell.”

That’s all that comes out of your mouth, and for a split-second Bakugo thinks that maybe you really are a nuisance, or maybe Denki accidentally fried your head, only that can explain this reasoning.

“That’s it? You’re telling people that because you’re bored?” He gasps as if that explanation isn’t good enough (it really isn’t), but you are undoubtedly you - so the chuckle that escaped your lips is one of obvious reasoning.

“I mean what am I supposed to do?” It’s as simple as that, really. It comes off as almost factual: the sky is blue, the grass is green, Bakugo is the father to your baby.

“Study, train, use a different dude for your damned rumors.” His voice is laced with grit, but the faint hue of pink that is laced onto his ears and cheeks is noticed by you.

“Like you’d let that happen!” You challenge.

His voice hitches for a second. He wants to scream at you, say that “Obviously I wouldn’t! That bastard you’d pick wouldn’t even compare to me! Have fun having an ugly baby with whoever comes next!” but all that comes out is a simple scoff, “As if.”

You just smile, and feign innocence to the fact that you know he’s jealous. He sighs and looks at his shoes for a minute, grumbling something softly.

“At least let me take you out first.” the words are so faint you swear you’re hallucinating. But the shifting of his body lets you know it isn’t a joke.

“Really?” A smile is etched onto your face, and that “unbothered” attitude of yours quickly folds, showing your true excitement.

“Yes really!” he begins abrasively, “If you’re gonna be spewing some of your weirdo stuff, then at least let me go out with you for real. The last thing I want is some more rumors.” The excuse is aggressive and simplified, but it’s good enough for the both of yall.

A nod of your head is all he needs for approval, and finally, he can breathe.

“Tomorrow?” You ask softly, as it is now your turn to act coy.

Theres a hum of approval, and he turns to leave – which is for the best, there’s only so much giddiness two lovers can take.

“Tomorrow.”

He walks away.

“I’m not retracting what I told everyone earlier!” the halls echo, but it’s now a reminder of the turning chapter.

Check out my masterlist here!

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pruesgaultier · 2 days ago

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lets talk: agatha all along finale

ahead: spoilers obvi, and my VERY annoyed thoughts read at your own risk. and remember something VERY important: these are MY thoughts, MY opinions on MY page.

before i get into the bad, which there was a lot of imo, lets talk about what i loved

☆ i loved that jen got away and got her powers back. i really love her character and i hope we see her again. still crazy how agatha is the one who bound her like omg ???? good for her love that diva

☆ i love the agatha and nicky scenes. and then creating the ballad together, soooo sweet. she was such a good mom im so sad

☆ i love the alice part as heartbreaking as it was

☆ the part where billy created the makeshift grave for alice, lilia, and sharon

☆ "MY LOVE" "YOU LOVE ME" "WHY DON'T YOU WANT ME" im sickkkk they're absolutely insane and i love them so so much

☆ rio planting the flowers over agatha's grave, im sickkkk

☆ AGATHARIO KISS !!! was so so beautiful and passionate i love them.

☆ ghost agatha is sexy, don't know how i feel about her hair tho. some angles i like it, some angles i dont

now what did i hate, just about everything else.

☆ i hate how the first time we get a lesbian kiss in marvel, one of them dies. the bury your gays trope is so fucking tired. wrap it up. i don't care about male gay rep because they already had it in the mcu with eternals, it's not fair that when lesbians finally get rep, we don't get to keep it.

☆ not only do i just not fucking like billy, i hate how so much of this show centered around him, like if this was supposed to get me excited and into billy, it failed drastically. FUCK BILLY ??? WHO CARES ??? the show is called agatha all along and i feel like it was billy all along in too many parts. we didnt even get to see too much of her because of HIM. ALSO her sacrificing herself just to end up basically being his ghost side kick is also stupid. because while i get agatha not being able to face her son again, then why kill her ? why not let her live, what because he's a maximoff that we're supposed to see in later projects ??? like who gives a shit.

✧ they put entirely too much of this show on wiccan / joe's popularity and it didnt work nor make sense.

☆ also, on the topic of billy, i don't get why agatha just didnt drain his power and kill him. i know she made the deal with rio and stuff but he could've reincarnated into another body and they could continue wiccan's journey like that but in a different body. it honestly just seems like marvel sacrificed agatha to keep joe locke and its like who fucking cares.

☆ i hate how im left with more questions than answers.

✧ how and why did rio and agatha get married? agatha has been killing witches for so long, and im assuming rio appeared everytime, when did they get together?

✧ rio referes to nicholas as nicky, why? from what we saw in those 6 years agatha and nicky were together, she wasn't there.

✧ why did they make it seem like we would see them raising nicky together?

✧ they described agathario's history as "long and complicated", yet we never saw that or the aftermath of their relationship after rio took nicky? did rio and nicky meet before? because he seemed to know her or at least not be scared enough to feel "stranger danger" like what happened.

✧ in episode 4, we get agathario almost kiss and hat seemed like a healing moment for them and in the end we get agatha never wanting to see rio again ? why ? what happened that we didn't see for this seemingly drastic change.

✧ in ep 5, rio very clearly hates agatha's mother and refuses to let agatha go with her, and obviously we as an audience can infer the reason why, agatha told her what happened but still.

✧ how did the agatha trading nicky for the darkhold rumor even start ? agatha gave birth alone in the woods and gave him a completely different name, who knew about her son ? how did they find out ? im sooo confused by all of this

i love this show, or at least the concept, but i don't love the execution. it was supposed to be about us learning and getting to know agatha and i honestly feel like i don't know her at all. i loved eps 1-4 and ep 7, everything else, eh.

thanks for coming to my ted talk !

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sil-te-plait-tue-moi · 2 days ago

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My heart is a bloodhound!

PART 1 ★ PART 2

Quick summary: It happens again, when the year festers into August again and leaves the two of you raw and vulnerable like open wounds.

Word count: 15K… 🤓

Warnings: canon-typical mentions of death, violence and injury (there is mention of like eating people but idk); grief; misogyny; Rust's personality; semi-public SMUTT T-T (MINORS DNI); same level of pretentiousness, maybe a little more, as the first part.

A/N: Holy fuck this sucked the soul out of me (wish Rust Cohle would suck the soul out of I MEAN WHAT), i am super proud of this though!! Went through many iterations and this was the least shit! 🎀🎀🎀 This is technically part two to The idler wheel but can be read by itself too. May or may not write other things for this guy but for the time being, I need a cleanse 😭 BUT please please enjoy and please please interact, i love reading comments and so many lovely people commented on the first part, im gonna do my best to respond to any/all this time 🤘MWAH MWAH

***

It’s difficult to differentiate between the thrill of being left alone here with him and the slow-sinking dread of the implications of that.

With the return of the musk of the summer, those three ruthless, windless, unrelenting months that would seem to drag on for several lifetimes when I was a kid, the memory of where I was last year—and the year before that, and the one before that—hangs brightly in my mind. Stale, not quite dead – so bright. Crawling with mildew.

Stepping into the bar had felt like entering another dimension. Maybe it was the suits that gave it away – every single God-haunted patron—the truckers, the farmers, even the old dog lying at a man’s feet—had turned, sensing foreigners as acutely as the immune system registers a bodily threat. I knew Johansson felt it: that dark pull over the back of the neck. But under Marty’s overconfident, swaggering lead, that winning smile, we soon assimilated. Skin swallowing a bullet.

God forbid you ever leave the town you grew up in. Shame on you if you don’t, though. How sanctimonious of me to change my mind and return after earning a spot amongst the lucky few escapees.

Something in this place still irks me.

At least, in Brooklyn, there was always noise: cries of a baby in the apartment over, the discord of traffic bursting through the streets below, the rush of a crowd, the overlap and slur of private conversations. At least the badness would stare you right in the face; at least people were evil to be evil. At least there were corners where things could hide, where it made sense for shadows to exist: all to explain the paranoia that stalked me.

But here?—it seems so open. Like, if a rare, hot wind would blow through a Louisiana town, it could do so in one straight path, through walls, through people, without ever getting disrupted. Everything is so light in the blazing sun, you can practically hear it: the hum of rays passing over every surface. Nothing should be able to hide. And, at night, with no sun, no rays, there is no noise. Maybe a dog. And ghosts. But perhaps it’s just the area in which I live.

When Marty started drinking, flirting with the twenty-one-year-old barkeep, Johansson’s face had stiffened. He himself had never even touched a bottle of beer – devil stuff. We shared a look once the blond detective started gabbin’ like an idiot.

“Know what Maggie thinks?” he had laughed, slumping over the sticky table of the booth, big, sweaty palm choking out his drink. “She thinks you might be pissed at me.”

Johansson blinked hard to keep his nose from wrinkling, but, even then, he couldn’t keep from physically cringing away. “Who?” he asked, confused by those hazy, unfocused eyes.

Marty cracked a toothy grin – there was that slight gap between those front two, which had been charming at first and only managed to thoroughly disgust me now in moments like these – and pointed his finger right at me, accusing. “You.”

My stomach churned dangerously at the sight of him.

“Marty,” his partner had drawled, a low warning.

Waved away like a fly.

“Naw, it’s like—you’re on your high fuckin’ horse or somethin’.”

The words were spoken through a laugh, but I knew there was meat behind that so-called good mood. He was one of those people that tended to overcompensate. A mistake, an ill feeling. He liked to point out how I was alone, and often, too, poorly disguised as a passing joke, complete with one of those shit-eating grins that seemed to come so easy to him.

Shouldn’t he have been happy? Not only had he gotten our case, by then, but we’d handed it over with smiles on our damn faces. Nice enough to walk them through the original crime scene, introduce them to the key witnesses. Complicated. We didn’t have to do shit for ‘em, but we did. Hell, even that beer he was clutching to his chest was paid for out of the goodness of my own fuckin’ heart. Who was he to moan about the situation? He was the one who insisted on staying in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere, brushing off any and all pointed questions on whether his family would be missing him at dinner.

“You know, I’d rather you were pissed,” he continued, where, really, I should have just smothered him into silence.

Rust was staring into the side of his flushed face, iron-grey eyes like a drill, like he was thinking the same thing.

“Look, you’re smilin’ at me now, but I sure as hell don’t trust it, buck. You wanna bite my head off, don’t ye?”

Like I ever could have done that.

Though the familiar weight of rage curdled in my chest, I would never admit it to the likes of Martin Hart. When he got like this—jealous, insecure, whiny—I wondered whether it was just a temporary lapse, or if this him, this true him, just lay under the surface all the time.

It wasn’t that fucking hard to plaster on a smile and take what you fucking got – I did it all the time. He could dream of a different life, but this was the one we were dealt. Fact that his grown ass hadn’t accepted that by now twisted violently in my gut. Between the two of us, I was the one that knew this – so why did he get myfucking case?

In my head, I’d let Salter have it, too. How could I ever admit I had an ego? How could I ever admit I had a mind to wrench the teeth out of the sheriff’s fucking gums?

But I have plenty of practice acting like things don’t bother me, which is why it was so easy to plaster on my amiable smile and laugh, “C’mon, man, you know it’s only ‘cause o’ the workload.” Not that you could comprehend that, lazy fuck. To Marty, my kind’s natural state was amiable—anything otherwise would be a defect—so I’d expected to convince him. “You’ll do right by it, ‘m sure.”

If he were sober, I know he would’ve bought it – he could convince himself that the way of the world was right and I was only being sweet to be sweet, because he deserved it.

But Marty was drunk. Piss-drunk, loud drunk. His mind was clumsier than usual, unable to muster the energy to jump points, ignore the evidence, like he did daily. I hoped I had the power—if I had to let the case go, I wanted to at least retain an into its goings-on—but there was only one way to really have power over men like Marty when they were drunk, and I had had no interest in being one of his girls.

My partner twitched beside me, picking at some spongy, yellow fluff protruding from a thin split in the chocolate-brown fake leather of the booth. He was just as furious as I was beneath his fort of calm.

Marty took a swig of his beer. “She wants you over soon. Maggie. Barbecue or some shit.”

“Maybe you should go home,” Johansson interjected, sharper than intended. If I were him, with his body, with his life, I’d have hit the fucker—long time ago, too. I couldn’t, but Johansson wouldn’t. He didn’t lack the temperament for brutality—I’m not sure anybody does—but, rather, couldn’t justify it to a necessary degree in his head. “I’m going home,” he’d reasoned kindly – he made it sound so easy. “Just let me take you. It’s on my way.”

Itching to leave, to return to the comfort of his wife and his little daughter. Marty had always found Johansson’s fondness of them disingenuous, had disliked my partner as long as they’d worked in the same office. He complained to me once that none of his stories seemed complete. When I asked him what he meant by that, he couldn’t answer—but I knew.

Breath short in my chest, I had half-expected Marty to lunge over the table, scratch Johansson’s eyes out. Only, Rust leaned over, dipping his head down to mutter something quietly into his partner’s ear, which was all flushed red.

And then he went willingly into Johansson’s car, stumbling through the still, open night into the backseat.

My partner had squeezed my shoulder goodbye – I’m not sure why I didn’t leave with him. Now, I was doomed to leave with Rust.

There, he sits across from me, smearing the ashy tar of his half-smoked, flaking cigarette over the mottled glass ashtray dragged over to his side of the table, little circles, waves, absent-minded art. Has me transfixed, some hypnotist.

If I look down like this, if I sacrifice the opportunity to look at him, I earn his careful attention: this sits in the back of my idle mind. I’ve been taking advantage of it more and more since summer broke through the sweetness of spring, which has since curdled like milk, sour. His stare drags over my face like fingers – I can almost feel his touch pressing into the softness of my cheek, dragging over the ridge of the orbital bone.

“You’re okay?” he asks after a couple slowed heartbeats, pulling me out of the honey-pit of my thoughts.

I dart my eyes up, breaking the spell – his observation retreats, clouds, and drifts away to fix on the broken clock on the wall, the one that reads one forty-five at eleven o’ clock.

Primarily, his question irritates me. Nobody asks “are you alright?” imploringly, not unless it concerns themselves and their own wants. Salter had asked me that, right after telling me he was pulling me from my case, and, then, I had thought about crying, just to unsettle him. But what good would that have done? He’d only asked “are you alright?” to test the waters, to see if there was a future possibility of letting him pull the rug out from under me with zero consequences. Again. I couldn’t win.

But Rust doesn’t want much from me. He doesn’t even want the case, really, which just twists the knife even further.

“You—you know I’m good in there, right? In the box.” I carve a jagged thumbnail into this message in the table, twisting the characters wider, or taller, risking splinters.

Why should I have to give it up? And to a fucking idiot? Marty wasn’t the one who stayed all those late nights alone at the office, wasn’t the one scoured over heaps of files under low light, wasn’t the one who took the fucking beating when the suspect fought against arrest. Marty was not the one who conducted an interview like that.

My mouth thins into a hard line, but I know the words will come out whether I let them voluntarily or not. Around Rust, it’s that way. I should’ve left when I could.

“It’s just that—it was so weird,” I continue, my head pulsing with the unwanted memory of that cabin. Marty didn’t have to experience it, Rust didn’t have to experience it—but I did. “Not jus’ wrong, or sad. Makes me feel strange, thinking about it.”

Often, the suspects underestimate me. Johansson’s broad shoulders and tough-set jaw come off as offensive—nothing like my voice, low and gentle, and my eyes, sympathetic and warm. I’m the mother who will never judge, who is spilling over with unconditional love.

Beneath this, though, I am good at the maths of the job, the connections. Though all detectives technically develop the same constituent skills—close attention to body language tells and other biological betrayals—I ain’t sure most understand the sensitivity and strength required to confront shit like this head-on. To not avert your eyes at the mutilated woman on the bed. To inspect her eunuched boyfriend’s severed appendage, to have steady hands when photographing the scene—with flash, of course, to highlight every detail with sufficient clarity—for evidence, which must be returned to and examined again and again, each time with greater fervour still.

I could name a few who’d joke about a thing like that, to ease the burn of that image in their heads, to sleep better at night, to leave behind the uninvited, vicarious sensation of a knife teasing over the meat of their dick.

But the boyfriend’s corpse, we eventually located separately in a cabin in the woods, laid into the basement freezer, so peaceful, such a brutal image. Pretty parts of him preserved for mauling.

And Salter��has the fucking audacity to take it away. He wasn’t the one to see something like that, to feel sick to his very stomach, to gag and have to turn away, to cringe and writhe like his skin suddenly wasn’t his, like he ought to pick himself out. I’ve been reeling with that image for weeks, living with motion sickness, and have been denied the relief of vomiting.

“So, you need me to get that confession.”

Rust comes back into focus, perfectly still.

I nod, the back of my neck prickling with mean goosebumps. “Campbell, his DNA was all over the bodies. He was proud of it, even.” My ribs still glow with the phantom-sensation of his brutal kick there when we located him. Stomach clenching, I struggle to remain level. “But there ain’t no way in hell she wasn’t involved. He denies it, but the house is registered under her name. Maiden name, Phelps.”

“I read,” he confirms.

I tremble in frustration – I almost wish he hadn’t.

“It’s just—this lady’s tough.”

Eyes darting over to the dim-lit bar, scouring the scuffed hardwood floor, I can feel my face growing hot with indignation. Christ, it sounds pathetic, like a whiny kid insisting on continuing a task all wrong in order to protect their damaged pride.

“You know Johansson: once she starts with the tears, he can’t see past ‘em. Southern manners ‘n’ all: a crying woman is a delicate thing not for a man to understand but to comfort. But, with me, it ain’t the same. She doesn’t respect me.”

“What d’you mean ‘respect ’? Don’t need respect in this game.”

I scoff, which would’ve been a dire mistake with anyone else. “Y’wouldn’t know what I’m on about,” I tease through an easy smile, though I’m not feeling so funny at the moment.

He inclines his head down to me, an invitation to elaborate.

My boot feverishly taps against the floor, thrumming light like a jackrabbit on the run.

I sigh, mouth twisting. “She keeps asking me if I’ve slept,” I confess. “Says I look like her daughter.”

For all my mothering, here comes a perp who’s desperate to play me at my own game.

I can see how intelligent she is: some hollow glint in her eyes with nothing behind; past that gleaming screen of kindness, something black, like a cherry pit.

Sitting across from her, it felt like looking into a mirror. Not just physically—though her skin is a similar shade to mine, her nails bitten and splitting like mine, and she looks close to what I imagine my own mother could’ve grown into. It was in the way that, when I smiled, she smiled. When I took a sip of my coffee, she would drink some tea. At times, it would even seem like she would speak in my voice: the pitch, the intonations, the phrasing all far too similar. I was reluctant to tell her my name. It reminded me of this folk tale, of these tall, dark creatures who only required your name to speak like you, to look like you, to replace you in your own life. Its victim would die—in some way or another. Wander the woods, eaten alive.

A harrowing feeling had crept over me, winter pressing against the two-way mirror – I was sure Johansson, on the other side, would pick up on it. Only, when I confessed my worries to him, he’d given me this doubtful look, and I really wasalone then.

“She’s playin’ you,” Rust states simply, tracing his fingers over his mouth like some pseudo-cigarette.

“Yeah.” I grind my teeth together. Under the table, where he cannot see, my fingers curl into a tight fist, trembling with my secret violence. “And now Salter wants Marty to have it? Bull.”

I should’ve socked him right in his dumb, slack fuckin’ jaw. One day, I will.

“He don’t want Marty to have it,” Rust retorts smartly, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His eyes are warm in the dark – I should’ve taken my chances, raced to meet ‘em, but I’m too late. “He wants me to have it.”

Yeah, well, I wish what was mine would stay mine.

Even if I’m inclined to be pissed off at Rust by proxy, I just can’t be. The difference between him and Marty is that he actually pays attention, real attention, not the selfish kind. Just by watching, I can tell he knows exactly what he could say, how he could act, in order to appeal to somebody—which is why I find it so odd that he chooses not to. I sacrifice my damn dignity to keep myself palatable. He does not. As a result, he is not well-liked at the office – people tend to feel caught out by him; they don’t like to feel observed, known.

When did being seen become a threat? I thought it was intimate. Though, I suppose, a piece of shit never wants to believe they’re a piece of shit.

Everyone’s the hero of their own story.

Rust slides Marty’s half-empty beer across the table to me, which I receive with a crooked smile and a quick hand.

“Sure I won’t catch whatever he had?”

He shrugs. “Y’ain’t as deadbeat as the rest of ’em. Oughta drag you down to their level.”

I snort. “What, you don’t think you’re deadbeat?”

He huffs. “I’m worse.”

Bitter, the beer washes over my tongue, leaves that funny aftertaste I never really liked, not the first time, not the last. I don’t suppose I’ll ever turn one down though, not if it was offered to me: I’d accept it if only to win points with whoever it was, points I could spend at a later date.

“Maybe,” I start, “if you were a little more deadbeat, you’d be popular. Go out with the boys.”

When he meets my eyes momentarily, smirking, I have to grip my hand over my knee, fingertips digging into bone, and consciously remind myself via mantra not to let my face freeze. He hums, voice smooth and low like liquor, “What, like youdo?”

I should be pissed off, really. Maybe I will be. Instead, though, I choke on the smart retort I had meticulously configured in my head, some quip that would’ve maybe interested him based on what caught him before.

I don’t know whether it would have been worse pretending like it never happened. That’s my strong point: pretending. It’s his, too, when he wants it to be. Maybe we could’ve outlasted it – all we needed was stamina.

But, instead, it’s this. Looking across at each other and knowing exactly what’s going on in the other’s head. I can see exactly how he thinks of me, what he wants to do. When he tilts his head ever so slightly, my neck glows with a promise, like the movement was mine in the first place. When I would bite at the pendant of my necklace, he used to narrow his eyes, like he ought to yank the chain off my neck. But now, he looks on softly, so unlike him, his own fingers at his own lips. I know what it feels like – I’ve kissed him there, too.

“Don’t give me that. At least Geraci would stop shit-talkin’ ye,” I manage, tearing myself away. “Swear he’s stuck at sixteen or somethin’. But—you don’t mind it, do you?”

He shakes his head. “‘f he was smarter, maybe I would. Jus’ likes the sound of his own voice.”

The clock has replaced me as his focal point – I can’t help but feel jealous.

“S’why I like you,” I mumble from behind my beer. “First time I met you, I thought you’d make me feel stupid.

That seems to get him.

He blinks, a barely noticeable twitch. “Do I? I don’t mean to.”

Can I spin this? I’m sure, if I were a little more awake, I’d be able to spin this.

Some evil part of me hopes to make him feel guilty, to trick him into feeling tenderness for me, though I know the pursuit of that would be in vain. The type of men I know how to work—creatures of habit that take the exact path you want them to, to believe that they’re the real seducers—Rust seems entirely separate from that. He can sniff out rehearsal and practice, that robotism, like a dog – he sees it enough in criminals, doesn’t he? That’s why he’s called in for favours across state police departments.

When I met him the first time, I shook his hand, smiled, friendly-like, only to be met with rigidity and stoicism. No trouble, of course: some people just are that way. Wild horses on the highway. But his quietness?—now, that had set alarm bells off in my head. Boys at the precinct were loud – you couldn’t pay ‘em to shut up about their weekends, their football, their college years, their fuckin’ yards. When I was first exposed to it, I thought I’d gain a lot of friends. But then I realised they weren’t so much talking with me as they were talking at me. It’s why they’re so easy to read: they just tell you everything you want to know right off the bat. Even their secrets are bursting at the seams of their fat mouths, begging to be released.

But Rust?—doesn’t talk until he finds it necessary. It’s impressive. Before that, though, the trait was enviable. I had—have—no comparable method. Even though, at first, it can seem blunt, even cold, his eloquence is refreshing. Never running in circles – only determinedly forward. So intimidating, almost like a freight train – I have to consciously keep myself from jerking back and out of the way.

How low he must really think of me then, to see me like this. And I know he does: he sees. Everything I might have done to prevent it perhaps even had the opposite effect. I hate, I burn, I curse: it’s ugly. I cry over cases I would’ve left behind in two months tops, anyways, onto the next. I obsess over just another woman in the box. I think about him almost constantly.

“You don’t,” I mumble, wondering if I ought to be wishing myself far away. “Make me feel dumb, that is. Not me. Others, I can’t speak for.”

We’ll have to leave soon – no doubt, this local bar is used to slow days and early nights, a blissful routine rudely disrupted by two outsiders who haven’t even really shown them good business. I glance over at the barkeep, slumped over the scuffed wooden counter and flatly watching the football up on the boxy TV set, and I recall my first job. Then, too, I’d let men twice my age buy me drinks, flirted with them. Was worth the tip money.

Rust hums, though I really wish he wouldn’t speak at all. “Don’t pay mind to what Marty said.”

My neck prickles.

He’s not trying to console me, is he? No, that’s not like him. Besides, it’s not like any amount of coddling could reverse the merciless truths I’m constantly reminded of in this line of work – if I’ve learned anything about sympathy, it’s that it doesn’t fix shit. If anything, it’s just another complication. It can seem beautiful, but, really, it isn’t. I can miss it, miss its warmth, miss the kind, sweet nothings my husband would whisper into my hair on the hardest nights, but it never changed the fact that I would have to get up in the morning and do it again. Rust knows this, has maybe lived this, so he’s not trying to console me.

Maybe he’s trying to defend Marty.

Sharp and sure, that anger comes lurching up in my throat, slashing and snarling.

The sensible part of me—what I hope is the larger part of me—knows this is not possible. Rust understands Marty’s faults better than anyone, even himself, even his wife.

“Thing is,” I mumble bitterly, “he really means it, don’t he? He just don’t show it.” I trace the warm, smooth rim of the bottle with a light finger, though my mind is currently toying with the idea of jamming it violently down the opening. “Maybe it means more that he does keep it hidden – at least some part of him knows it’s wrong.”

Placid in the periphery of my vision, Rust shrugs. “‘s what separates us from our killers. Feelin’ it ain’t the problem. Resistance is where strength is tested.”

“Ego,” I chuckle darkly.

He hums. “Fragile ego.”

Underneath my smile lies an uneasiness stirred by his criticism.

Rust is not gentle with his opinions – I don’t suppose that’ll ever change. Resistance is a losing game – not even he is immune to the impermanence of these things. I’m sure he said that to me once, on a night like this.

I’ve never been very good at refraining from things. Even from an early age, I just couldn’t say no. Teenage years: alcohol, drugs, sex. If it was tossed my way, I’d take it, anything I could get, hungry to experience something.

Ha!—maybe I actually am more like Marty Hart than I’d like to admit. He’s trying to be an adult, albeit really, really poorly. As long as he believes he’s a good, family man, then his reality is protected. But I know I’m rotten, really. One of the boys at the precinct will call me pretty—in that sick way somewhere between the unchecked lust of a man and his paternal right to claim—but, below, I know I’ve got sickness swimming through my veins. Not blood. Something accumulated over the years, maybe from pretending all the time.

I feel like I want to cut things, break them. Told myself to hang on until I retire, but I don’t see that happening any time soon. I’ll break. What will Rust think of me then?

Maybe I was his low point: that fault in resistance.

Some awful, gnawing feeling collects at the pit of my stomach, like black tar. Must be all those cigarettes.

“Wha’s in that head?” he probes suddenly, stealing razor-sharp, fleeting glances.

I shrug, swallowing down a bout of nausea. “I dunno.” And I really don’t. Behind the surface tension, I don’t know what I feel, only that I do, and it’s so, so much. “It kinda—makes me happy to see him like that: jealous. ‘Cause he knows I’m good, and he’s wondering why he’s finishing what I started. He knows he don’t deserve it. Not like I do.”

My confession lingers in the air like smoke – I have mind to reach a hand up and wave it all away, or suck it down, deep, erasing reality. Fuck. I’ve always been a little off when reading into Rust’s quiet – with that tightrope he seems to have mastered, I know I should avoid any step at all—it could just as easily miss its mark—but I can never seem to help myself.

I stare at him—and I think it makes him uncomfortable, though there’s nothing there, not any normal human reaction, in his face for me to draw from. That’s fine. In my gut, I’m pretty sure I’ve got it down.

“You want to be seen as competent,” he finally says, a simple-enough statement.

I scrunch my nose up distastefully. “No, I want to be competent.”

“Well, what good is bein’ somethin’ if there’s no-one there to witness it?”

Unable to press down an exasperated sigh, I close my eyes, roll them with all the subtlety I can manage.

Foul words push under my tongue, like vomit.

I don’t know if I’m in the mood for this tonight: smart conversation. What feels like debate. Maybe if he hadn’t been given my case, I’d take him up on the challenge, but I’ve already lost.

I eye him, try to figure out his game.

“I dunno, Rust,” I tell him flatly. “I think that’s called having an identity issue.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Most people do.”

My chest burns. “This isn’t a go at me, is it?”

Slow, he draws the ashtray towards him from across the table, as if the grind of the glass against the wood is a noise that ought to be savoured.

I could be deaf, but reading his lips would be easy: “And how’d this be about you exactly?”

I’m able to fight off the initial instinct to wince, the way in which he delivers the words, calm and deliberate, stinging like a slap to the face. What’s worse is the growing impression that he’s as bored of me as I am.

With a furrowed brow, I watch him, heartbeat thrumming in my ears.

“I ain’t out to get you, s’you can quit lookin’ at me like I kicked you or somethin’.”

Frowning shallowly and trying to pretend like I’m not, I glance away and commit to rearranging my face—but at the glimpse of that twitch at the corner of his mouth in my periphery, I know I’m only digging a deeper grave for myself. The noticeable heat of my embarrassment must please him.

Playing with the food.

And I’ve got nothing to say to him—not a single word or phrase up to par, nothing to measure up to Rust’s clinical detachment, let alone destabilise him. He might’ve been reciting the coroner’s report. There’s nothing I can say to scathe him—and fuck, I want to leave a mark, prove to him that I can. I scan him for weakness, but either I’m still too stunned to see it or there is none. I have no plan of attack and no line of defence.��

Rust seems to soften in the knowledge of this.

“I mean,” he begins, knowing now that I’m really listening, “identity ain’t fixed – it’s not permanent. I don’t scrutinise my appearance. I don’t mind my body, and my body don’t mind me. My personality hardly feels under my control – ‘s just somethin’ that is and will be—‘n’, I guess, will change, but only against my will, never because of it. Feels pointless to feel insecure about that.”

Is this supposed to be some fucked-up attempt at advice?

My priorities changed, but this place never has, never does, never will. So, it’s all dumb and the people are dumb and this bar is dumb and the boys at the precinct are dumb and, fuck, I wish Rust were dumb, too. I feel pathetic, and he does not alleviate that feeling at all. If he were dumb, I could laugh at him and make myself feel better. I could laugh at myself for sleeping with a dumb man. Instead, I think of him religiously and crave his approval. Afflicted with the knowledge that he needs to be corrupted to want me, that I’m awful enough to want it enough to corrupt him again. Tainted waters. It would be so much more comfortable if I could look down on him.

My skin writhes and ripples, and I know the only thing that would soothe it is if he touched me. Jesus and the sick man—or some polluted version of that.

My world swings under a bout of nausea as it begins to spiral – the beer does not help.

Maybe he’s waiting it out, like I’m trying to. Forgetting is the wisest decision anyone could make, the most fortunate outcome. Though, my efforts are paradoxical: I think so, so much about not thinking about it all.

“Sure seems like y’think about yourself a good deal, too, s’don’t you criticise me,” I mumble, clumsy. It’s a mistake to even open my mouth again – he’ll use it all against me eventually.

Rust hums again, low, some muscle twitching in his jaw, like his body has no clue what to do when not blindly occupied with a cigarette. “Never said I don’t think about myself,” he rectifies, staring at the sweaty palms I’m wringing together tightly against the lip of the table.

I allow my mouth to pool with saliva, trying to combat the increasing dryness of my mouth.

“Guess the thinkin’ part is where insecurity comes from in the first place,” I add after swallowing.

When my eyes dart up to look at him, his are on my throat.

Immediately, I look away.

Maybe this is the bad kind of intimacy.

The intensity of his attention is looming, sifting through my thoughts like sand.

Sometimes, I think he has me figured out but just couldn’t care less about what he’s found. He’s feeling the power of my burning desire for him – maybe it amuses him. Maybe he’s waiting to mechanise it, letting me sit idle while a use for me finds him (if ever). Maybe I know things. Maybe I can break things open. Maybe he can take my cases from me. Maybe I can tire him out, put him to sleep.

It’s almost worse that he hasn’t put me to work yet.

Maybe it really was just something in the water. Maybe all I need is to visit somebody close to me.

“Ever heard o’ that theory? ‘bout internal monologue?” Rust asks softly, leaning in and tipping his head down like only I’m worthy of hearing this here.

My leg jerks and I can’t place why. I nod, face hot.

“I think ‘s bullshit—‘bout some not having one. Think everybody’s got that voice in their heads.” He pauses, squints. “Mm, maybe that’s a little generous.”

I laugh – I hope it makes him feel good. In truth, I know he couldn’t care less.

“What d’you think it’d be like? No voice.”

The world seems so close right now, wrapping its fuzzy arms tight around us, buzzing in my ears, shadows fur-soft over my face. What does he want me to say? I wish he’d tell me, offer me respite.

I shrug, and it’s honest, my resignation. “No voice don’t mean no thought.”

“Alrigh’. Then, what about no thought?”

I shrug again. “I like thinking.”

He huffs, angling himself back away from me. Have I disappointed him? Somewhere deep in the pit of my tummy, there’s that fleck of worry, something that tastes an awful lot like vomit.

I expect him to finally stop talking.

But “I get tired of it,” is what he says instead. “In between cases, or these—moments where I feel like I could burn a hole through myself ‘f I spent ’nough thought on it. ‘s heavy, like they weigh me down.” He pushes the ashtray away, his fingers the only part of him moving.

Swept up in the rising tide of your own life, hurting around you in some never-ending circle or spiral of which you happen to be the centre. Swimming with black-eyed angels. I know how he feels – I used to feel that way. Maybe I still do, sometimes. Clinging on to the tenderness my husband used to have for me like it could save me from the guilt I would feel when I moved on. No-one would pull me out: that much was true enough. That memory of stability, of the good times, only depressed me, moving from Brooklyn back to Louisiana. Feeling small in my own life, like a piece on a chessboard, with no semblance of control, only duty, chasing this idea of who I used to be. Hunting down the bad men, wondering what upper hand is driving them across the squares, contemplating the carpenter that fashioned the pieces. Too big of a big picture can be detrimental. The fact that I know this to be true doesn’t make me an exception.

“I think you’re tired of the things you think about,” I muse, a headache beginning to expand between my temples – perhaps the heat has finally gotten to my head. “Space better occupied by other shit.”

I’m careful not to pay attention to Rust’s reaction, if there even is one, since the weight of his interest is pressing over my face where I really wish his lips would.

“Like what?” he challenges.

His eyes glint with curiosity, a blade’s sharp edge.

I bite my tongue.

“You think you know me?” It’s more a statement than a question.

I shrug. “You think you know me, don’t ye?”

Though, he kinda does. I think he’s proud that he can read me, but maybe that’s me overcomplicating things. Maybe I’m just another person to him. I wonder if he thinks I’m predictable. Boring, negligible, painfully average. Good for one thing, and that one thing was a mistake, anyway.

Look at him, now: his eyes have dropped to elsewhere, but there’s a soft smirk that curls up on his face, the hint of a pink tongue that traces lightly over his teeth.

Geraci always talks shit about that look whenever Rust closes yet another case, securing a tough confession. “So fuckin’ up ‘imself, ain’t he? Jesus.” Sure, he pisses me off—for different reasons. I’ve long since come to the conclusion that he’s worthy of admiration.

He smiles to himself – I don’t trust it. “You’re calling me arrogant.”

“Are you?” I press, gnawing at the inside of my cheek. I’m surprised at the tepidity of my voice, considering how I’m covered in boils and burns in my head.

He doesn’t have anything to say to that, only hums in response, seemingly amused.

“Doesn’t have to be a bad thing,” I murmur. “People are scared of bein’ known, so nobody really tries no more.”

“I don’t observe people for intimacy purposes.”

Then why does he fucking look at me like that?

A year ago, I’d have put it down to my own desires warping my perception of reality. Really, he wasn’t interested; he was only paying me my due amount of scrutiny in order to keep his mental file of me up to date. Really, he didn’t want to touch me; really, he was just someone who fiddled with his own hands, maybe to remind himself that he could be his own from time to time. Lust is such a dangerous thing – any deeper than surface level, and it has the very strong potential to kill you. If you want something against your better judgement, do you really even want it? The haze of having Rust come so close to me is dampened by such doubts.

But at this point, he either wants me, or I’m crazy. Shit, maybe I’d rather be just that. I’ve seen his eyes like this—dark and bottomless—when hands were unzipping my skirt, or dragging over my skin. To deny intimacy? Now that’s arrogance. Anddelusion. Shit, and I thought he was so above all that stuff. Does he think I can’t figure him out?

Surely his opinion of me can’t be that poor.

My hand cramps up as I punch down the instinct to pinch the bridge of my nose.

“Sure you do,” I press. And I’m right. I hope I’m right.

His stare thickens into something different, what I think might be a black, molten form of gratification. Then, it hardens, cools in a split second into these tough, jaw-breaker pellets. I’d say it was confrontational, but then his eyes flutter just as he happens to swallow thickly. Is that his pulse in his throat?

I rub at my puffy eyes with a stiff set of fingers.

Rust drops his eyes, brushes his hand over the side of his blazer where his cigarettes are sitting warm and ready beneath.

“What, you—lonely again or some shit?” he asks.

I almost recoil at the sudden bitterness of his tone.

I snort good-heartedly, but, really, the comment stings just right—he knows where to press—all the breath knocked out of my chest. “O-kay, Rust. That an accusation?”

“No. ’S an observation. Thought you jus’ loved those,” he combats flatly.

Chest burning, I have to save myself, jump ship, and look away. My mouth tastes like grainy bile.

“You were lonely last summer. That’s why you came to me.”

The dim light above us flickers, his face phasing in and out of shadow before me like a candle in the wind.

I roll my jaw.

Does he look back on it with disdain?

“No,” I snap instinctively, instantly burned by the satisfaction that crosses his eyes.

My breath hitches plaintively. Every fibre of my body trembles and burns to defend myself. There’s not a single word that could repair his opinion of me.

“Or—yeah.” Shut up.

I rub at my temple, desperate for relief – do they have pills for this shit? – which does not come. If he feels any pity for me, it certainly doesn’t show.

The harsh line of my mouth trembles. “I just thought you understood me. Or made an attempt to, at least, but maybe that part was self-projection. ‘Cause nobody ‘round here’s like you. I know you think that’s stupid and I was being naïve or—” I swallow though my throat is dry as ever, “—or dumb, or somethin’, but that’s what I felt. At the time.”

His gaze is fixed on my neck.

“At the time,” he echoes. It’s a question, I realise after a couple moments.

“Yeah. Fuck y'want me to say, asshole? 'm not—I’m not gonna embarrass myself with you, Rust. That what you want me to do? Show you just how dumb I can get—?”

“Sure like to speak for me, hm?” he bites back quietly, making it so damn easy to run right over him, to feverishly stamp out that insufferable fucking softness to his voice. Shit, I wish he’d just raise it and yell at me already.

“—Yeah, whatever. You like this shit, don’t you? Y’think you deserve a fight?—well, I’ll give you one. That what you want? ‘Cause what?—what, you get to ignore me, pretend I don’t exist, act like you’re above fuckin’ me—” his eyes flit away, bringing my roiling frustration to a crest, “—No, don’t you fuckin’ look away,” I scold, a bite, jutting a crooked finger into his space.

He obeys, but that look in his pale eyes is so hollow, it almost makes me feel bad for saying anything at all. Almost.

I try to press down my anger, but it’s spilling over, now, far beyond things so trivial as control. I clasp my hands together in a prayer that they will finally listen to me and not move again.

“Fact that you feel anything at all makes you feel like shit, huh?”

His expression has glazed over, cool and smooth.

Half-expecting him to walk out and rightfully abandon me here, I stare hard at him, like I might chip into that exterior. If I managed it, I’d slip it in my pockets as proof. Silently, I beg him to prove me right.

“Sorry,” I snap. No, I’m not. I hope it cuts at him. “You do what you want, I don’t fuckin’ care. But, please, do not patronise me like that again, Rust.”

God offers no help with the silent plea I send Him. He does not care, so I shouldn’t care, and that’s the end of things. I’ve survived worse natural disasters than him. He’s just a man, and this is just what happens with them. Still, the disappointment floods like poison under my skin. I’m a stupid girl, really.

“I understand if you regret things, but you don’t have to say it out loud. It’s mean. But, fuck, I dunno, maybe you mean to be.”

I take a moment to untangle the knot in my throat. He watches it all, quiet again, his eyeline sitting heavy over where the skin shifts and stretches over my neck.

I adjust the collar of my shirt, fiddle with the gold necklace that sits hot over the contour of bone. Rust stares as I wedge the small pendant tightly in the vice of my thumb and forefinger.

“Feels like you don’t even fuckin’ like me half the time. All the time.”

Christ, I should’ve left with Johansson.

My heart is racing like a wild mustang – it’s a surprise, really, that that old hunting dog lying over by the bar hasn’t noticed, singled me out as something to chase, to kill. My belly’s exposed, soft and ripe and asking for it. I forget, sometimes, that there are things out there that kill things that kill, too.

He doesn’t plan on giving me a break; I wouldn’t deserve it, anyway. “Wha's it matter to you if I like you or not?”

My cheeks burn furiously.

I stare at that bone-bird tattoo that fledges from the nest of his sleeve. With the way my head’s spinning, it almost looks like its skeleton wings are actually moving, unfurling and ready for pilgrimage.

“It don’t.” It’s a disgrace to myself to answer that god-awful question, but what’s more pathetic is the way I shrink into myself when Rust’s attention crowds in over my face. “I jus’ thought you knew me almost as well as I did.”

“And currently?” he asks.

The moment hangs.

“Just answer. I already know – just wanna see if you’ll lie again.”

I close my eyes a second—mistake—and breathe, breathe in and then breathe out, shaky but slow. It’s no use.

“Same.”

He nods. “Not better?”

I shake my head. “No, never better.”

Furrowing his brow, Rust tilts his head down slightly, a soft curl falling gentle over his tense forehead. “But you wanted intimacy.”

So it is intimacy to him?

Maybe this should count as a win for me, but it certainly don’t feel like it. This isn’t the slow slip and slide of last summer’s end – though the heat had swallowed whole everything from here to the other side of the Mississippi, there was something so clipped about the words that left me, left him. I’m sure I was more drunk then than now, but, even so, my mind had been so level, like I’d done it all in my sleep. Now, here, I have done it in my sleep. I’ve revisited him a hundred times in my daydreams, but all that practice has left me for dead. I would’ve killed for an opportunity like this a month ago – it’s like he’s taunting me. It should be easy.

Rust is smart enough to make me wonder if he wants me to feel this way.

Intimacy is planned and eventual, whether that’s due to his power or some cosmic fate. Everyone knows the decision they’re going to make, somewhere in their brains, deep inside. People only ask for advice to condone their decisions, to spread out the responsibility, which, at the end of the day, still remains solely with them. Shit, he’s rubbing off on me: I sound like a fuckin’ asshole.

No, all this thinking won’t save him from the sensation of human feeling, emotions. No amount of planning prepares you for skin-to-skin touch. No time spent evaluating can undo it either, and I’ve tried so hard. His way doesn’t work.

“Everyone wants intimacy,” I end up rambling, voice thin and dry and brittle. “Even folks that don’t want intimacy want intimacy. ’s not love or sex, really, I don’t think, though those are good, too. It’s not a way to find yourself. It’s jus’ trust. Or companionship—”

“And that’s what you want?”

Carefully, I rake my eyes over his face. Does he ever flush from the heat?

Hopeless and too muddled to bother with concealing it, I try to assess whether he’s displeased with me. I try to memorise this moment, so I’ll be able to turn it over in my head later, just another one of my crime scene photographs.

“Dunno yet,” I confess quietly. “I’ve had partners. And partners. When I was younger, I thought I’d have this life packed chock full of amazing relationships, and these—connections.”

The soft, disappointed eyes of my husband come to mind, which haunt all my relationships. I’m so hungry for another body, for connection. Why does it seem so easy for other people?

“Truth is, it don’t happen all that much. To me, at least. You?”

Surly and bone-tired, Rust shakes his head. “Didn’t have much hope for it growin’ up,” he admits.

“But you wanted it,” I press, clumsy and clinging to the sag of his voice. Of course, he’ll pick up on the trace of hopeful, aimless, false victory that undercuts my words; he’s the only one who ever could.

For a moment, though, I second-guess myself.

It’s pathetic, really: I’d give almost anything to walk as him for a day, though, even then, I’m not sure I’d understand him any better.

Sometimes, my imagination runs away from me: in my dreams, I do. I wake under the impression that we’re one and the same, that, just maybe, he, similarly, is dreaming as me. It’s a pulsing obsession, difficult to conceal. Whenever a moment becomes still, I think about it: at night, he is transported; in his dreams, he touches with my hands, sighs with my voice, tastes with my mouth. Then, at least, that would explain these funny sensations I get in the morning: so weathered and worn, a strange ache in my muscles, like I’ve been sleepwalking.

How else could he know me so well?

Or maybe I’ve really fucking lost it. Somewhere along the way – maybe after seeing that half-eaten body swaddled in thin cotton in its freezer cradle – I think something else took the wheel. Why that thing is racing towards him, I have no idea. It’s laughable, really.

Rust blinks calmly down at his hands. “Reckon the deniers are dumb?” he murmurs.

Squeezing the bridge of my nose, I do my best to press back against the foul memory of dismembered limbs. Whoever had eaten the man—who was now beyond recognition—did they feel satisfied? Comforted with how forever close he was to them now? When I was small, I used to think sex was crawling into another person's body, like a cave, and letting all of their insides warm you, love you, wrap you tight.

I swallow thickly.

“Your words, not mine,” I reply through a tight smile. “Reckon it’s easy to find a distraction.”

"Have you given up?" he asks. “Finding a distraction?”

I don’t entertain him with a proper answer to that – I merely shrug and scratch at my scalp, tucking loose strands of sweaty hair back into the loops of my braid. Rust must be frustrated with me. To want a companion, to want the good life. Rivalling Marty in my delusion.

He slides his hands into his lap, continuing: “Distraction is the way to peace?”

I shrug again – I think it’s starting to piss him off. “For a time, I guess.”

“So, ‘s that how you’re takin’ quittin’? Think about other stuff whenever you want a smoke? Occupy yourself?”

Once I realise my leg is going dead, fuzzy from sitting still so long in this dark booth, I flex my thigh, flex my hands under the table, wide-open and then tight-shut, processing the blank slate of his gaunt face. I press my fingers into the sticky vinyl, delight in the interrupted drag of them up, up, up as they curl to fists, my shoulders up to my ears.

When he says things like that, it makes it so hard to dislike him. I almost wish he’d ignore me, like he did the first couple weeks before it became clear to the both of us that it couldn’t be undone: his back constantly to me, sending messages only through Marty, refusing to look in my direction, like I might tempt him again into being a version of him he hated. At least, before, his coldness hadn’t been directed at me specifically. Then, it was a retaliation, a wall meant to keep me out. Where were his books on philosophy then?—to tell him that attachment leads to desire leads to suffering? That kind of suffering would be better than this kind.

This is worse. This is so much worse. I’d rather not have something at all than have it toy with me like this.

It takes a considerable amount of co-ordination to fabricate the apathy in my posture, my eyes, my expression, to compensate for the unease that pulses like a new artery in my throat – though, at the silvery glint that flickers in his eyes, I know it’s all for nothing. He’s already seen the hurt that, really, I can’t pin on anyone but myself. He’s raking his eyes slowly over my face. It’s fucking mean. Do me the favour of a mercy-killing, God.

I never even told him I was trying to quit.

“What,” I begin, concentrating very hard on keeping myself from stammering and from slurring, from crying and from grasping at his hand, “like that association thing?”

I’ve heard of it, obviously. I know every trick at this point: old wives’ tales to the latest research papers at the state university library. It’s psychological: whenever you want something, instead, think of awful, gross, repulsive things, and make yourself hate it. I’ve tried it before, but it doesn’t always work. How can you convince yourself that one thing is disgusting when it’s undeniable how good it really was?

Rust nods.

“I mean, I tried it,” I tell him lowly.

Overstatement: I tried it for approximately three days and two nights before I caved, unlocking the drawer in my study with shaky, desperate hands, hungry.

“But I’m always thinkin’ about it.”

Shit. He seems to have regained a nerve: Rust stares calmly ahead at me—not through me or just past me; at me. This is what I wanted, isn’t it?

He leans his weight over his forearms upon the table, on offence. Is this how he works his suspects? Well, shit, I’ve studied his methods from the privacy of the other side of the false mirror enough times to be able to answer that, actually: this is how he works his suspects. Initially, at least, to gauge their personality, their wants, their fears, what they need him to be.

Thing is, I can’t pin down his intention with me. Is it just the satisfaction of the kill? Or maybe revenge for what I did to him last August. I broke down his walls: an unforgivable sin. I condemned him to the effort of building them back up, of shoving me out—if I ever managed to intrude in the first place. Maybe I deserve this.

With his sleeves folded back, the dark lines of Rust’s tattoo jut out, growing along his tawny, leather-tan skin like lichen. I try not to stare.

His eyes complete a pre-emptive scan of my face, and, really, I know I should not let him see any change there in my expression, though my mouth twitches to frown. I try to gather my forces. I try to prepare myself for it, for that inevitable intrusion.

“‘f you’re so desperate for it, why’re you fightin’ back?” he asks, unblinking and cruel.

My mouth twists, and I let it fall into the frown it wants. “‘Cause I wanted to feel better.”

It sounds dumb because it is dumb, even though it’s true.

Low, he hums. He straightens, softens, and finally leans away. It’s like the vacuum around me leaves with him, and, there, now, it’s easier to breathe.

He must note the way my chest rises and falls so stiffly, like there’s a weight resting over my heart.

“Withdrawal’s a breeze, ain’t it?”

“You’re not fuckin’ funny,” I scoff, digging my nails punishingly into my palm. He smokes and drinks like he welcomes cancer, or hopes for it, so I don’t think we’re on a level playing field.

He quirks his head. “Well, do you?”

“Do I what, Rusty?”

Amused, he rolls his jaw. Good – I hope I’ve provoked him.

“Do you feel better?”

I run my tongue over my teeth. “Sometimes,” I reply truthfully. “Not right now.”

He searches my face.

“I can give you a ride home,” he offers.

Fuck, and what will that be like? Ten times worse than this. I’ll come away the husk of a woman, worn down by his disapproval. My own fault for wanting anything from him in the first place, really.

Teeth gritted together, I shake my head, ready to pull a muscle in my damn neck. “Didn’t mean anythin’ by it. Sorry.”

No, I’m not. I ought to slap him, and then run away, back home, or back to my house, or to a brand new city. Or he could finally cuss me out, save me the wondering. Then, I could lick my wounds and they would finally stop reopening.

I scratch at my scalp.

Rust eyes my hand like he’d like to rip the bad habit away from my body. For a moment, I think he will—the tendons in his hand flex and writhe under the skin—but, no, he only brushes a thumb against the valley between his nose and cheek, and he holds his tongue for once.

“Wasn’t offended,” he corrects firmly. “I’ll take you home.”

Flashing with annoyance, my eyes dart up viciously to penalise him. “And what?” I hiss.

He sits back, doesn’t answer the question.

Jaw clenched, I wait to see if he’ll look away, but he doesn’t.

My irritation soon fizzles through, condenses to a low, simmering understanding, steadily tended to by the intensity of his steadfast gaze.

Oh.

My eyes soften.

Oh – I have him, don’t I?

He shows no signs of the tentativeness he had displayed last time—if Rust could ever be tentative. His eyes do not shift and scuttle around me; they meet mine, challenging my comfort. He does not tuck himself into a corner; he remains leaned over the table, just like that. How could I have known?

I stare back, brow pinched in confusion.

In the heat of last August, I’d peeled away from him knowing exactly how I’d convinced him he wanted me. Maybe I was evil for it – a good person wouldn’t use somebody’s faults against them, would they? And maybe that’s what it was: selfish. If he hates me, he’d be right to.

Which is why I’m so puzzled that he doesn’t. Or rather, indifference was the baseline. Hell. And this? I don’t know.

Swelling dangerously with the well-loved memory of his delirious mouthings over my skin, I grow rigid.

My temples throb and ache, the threat of tears still very real.

“Mind?” he asks – I watch, wide-eyed, as he pulls a pack of Camels from his pocket.

Trembling slightly, I shake my head, though saliva is already pooling over the pit of my tongue, warm and soft, just like my desire. Luckily, he’s too preoccupied with his lighter to see it: how my body ripples at the scrape of his voice.

The promise of nicotine dances like a phantom in the mouth, just from watching him place a cigarette between his lips. When he flicks open his Zippo, the sharp, shuddering candle of it taunts me, and I finally understand what they say about moths and flames.

I watch him take a long drag.

That all-consuming hunger lurches up in me again, and I swallow the warm spit that’s steadily been filling my mouth.

Oh, Christ. This can’t be real. Desire shouldn’t be this bloody. Desire shouldn’t be the thing with teeth and claws, the ugly thing that tips into violence. Or obsession. With how often my thoughts return to us in the summer, I’ve wondered obsession as a possibility. The difference between myself and those who commit crimes of passion is control. Rust is dangerous for me. What is he thinking? What’s in his head? I ache to pry it open and explore, to swim close to him, for my skin to melt into his, to consume and be consumed. Not a moment’s peace, and that’s what I’m chasing, isn’t it? Peace and quiet?

I don’t have to say anything – he can read it all, mulling over the fine changes in my expression, the softening of my body, some pre-emptive instinct. Will he touch me tonight?

With a cautious hand, ready to jolt back if met with teeth, I reach out to him and remove the cigarette from his pinched fingers—which he allows—then bringing it to my mouth, taking a drag myself, nice and slow, good and deep, a sigh, like home.

He watches me.

“Don’t say anything.”

And he doesn’t. He just watches, watches, watches as I take another drag. He shivers, and I feel it reverberate through my bones.

“What are you thinkin’ about?” I ask him softly, pressing down a quivering breath, smoking his cigarette. I’ve never mustered the courage to ask before.

For once, though, I really don’t have to: I know exactly where his head is. Where else? He’s back in that room, infected by the drowse and drunken fever of August, with me, living it again. Where I’d coaxed him into the temptation, wicked as the snake in the garden. He should’ve pushed me to leave with Johansson and Marty – of course, I would’ve stayed. I’m a rotten thing, and my heart is a bloodhound. He’s the better of the two of us. I’ll take whatever of him I can get – anything.

He meets my eyes directly, so hopeless, so raw. Is he asking? He shouldn’t be.

But what will he have me do? I’m at his disposal, really.

“And?” I ask, throat dry.

When he moves to speak, the words that leave him are low and slow: “You did something to me,” he manages.

I scoff.

“S’that a good or bad thing?” I ask.

Rust huffs like what I said was funny. More likely, though, it’s the way my eyes are so wide, the way my hand is pressed between my thighs, that amuses him. “Can’t decide.”

My mouth trembles as my eyes scrape over his neck, which I know, I remember, to be hot and alive, thick with it over the pulse. I was so high off of it: his warmth, his weight, his press.

I indulge in one last drag, using the last scraps of my energy to conjure the pungent stench of rotting flesh in the cruel sunshine, the pick of eager flies and their cacophonous buzzing, the churn of vomit in the stomach. I look at Rust and try to do the same: the months of silence, his back decidedly turned to me, him accepting my case, and his arrogance and his apathy and his severity. He is a harrowing connection that I should rather not have made.

The technique doesn’t work. I don’t know why I thought, even for a minute, that this time would be different from the last.

With him staring calmly at me, like I deserve it—the trap, the squirming sensation over my spine, the hopeless, unavoidable heat that claims my face—it’s just another arrow pointing to the same conclusion. Maybe we should just let August have its way with us again. Twin plagues.

Trembling ever so slightly, blood so warm, so thick, I flick ashes out into the tray between us.

“I should put this out,” I mumble, though my hand yearns to return it to my mouth.

“’s my cigarette,” Rust mutters.

“Sorry.” I offer my hand to him. “Want it back?”

I know what I must look like to him, pupils dark, the size of the moon, like a plate. Here, in the darkest part of the dark bar, I open myself to him, warm, molten, inviting. And God, this must be a dream—because I know what he wants, and I know that he’ll accept me. How we got here doesn’t matter anymore. Maybe he’s thought about it for some time, and only now, in a moment of stillness with him, have I even noticed. Too caught up in the fine details of a painting to think of the artist’s intention, which is always more important.

Silent, stare inexorable, he accepts the cigarette, only touching my fingers quick, like I’d burn him. Maybe I will. Serves him right: he was always going to haunt me either way. I ought to get mine while I still can.

The hunger laps at me.

I want to coax him open-wide. I want to peel away his demeanour and wrap myself close to him. Body heat is the best way to keep warm, isn’t it? I’m sure I read about that somewhere. It’s still fresh in my mind, like a cut. I can’t manage a day without playing it over at least once. I want it again: I want to breathe him in and let him sit in my chest and seep into every cell and let him be part of me that way, at least until the next breath.

He can see it in my eyes: the freneticism of my thoughts, racing like a storm, desires like bullets like rain.

“You ever think about what you want?” I try asking him, voice strained tight over my heart in my throat.

“People only ever think about what they want,” he parries, batting away any trace of diffidence. He secures his cigarette between his lips, shifting. “Let’s leave.”

At his first movement, I slide out of the booth.

Sometime during our conversation, the place emptied out. It must have been around when I finished Marty’s leftover beer that the weight of the locals’ beady stares—which had already faded to the back of my mind, in the same way that a dark alleyway can still make you uneasy though you know nothing would ever happen to you there—finally left me. There are no witnesses left to see me following after Rust like a dog, my body thrumming like the lone bug zapper out on the porch, which cracks! just as we exit.

The broken clock reads three o’clock when we leave, but I know that, really, it’s only midnight.

Fortunately, the heat has cracked for once, like old, beat-up, splitting leather. Stepping out onto that night path, the breeze is warm and fragrant, dancing over my cheeks, playing gently with the loose threads of my hair. It’s a clear, blue, never-ending night – the dirt road which accompanies us is a long, winding, indigo river that spills unseen over the far, far horizon. The neighbouring fields—one a rolling stretch of grass; the other of wheat—are alive in the wind, flung one way on exhale, drawn the other upon inhale.

Thank God for the noise of it: their rustling whispers, in a language we can’t understand; the soft whistle of a passing gust of air; the firm, crisp crunch of dry mud and dust under my boots. Thank God for the sway of things: the cradle of humidity; the press of my arm to Rust’s, which he permits only for a second, with his face angled away. Then, he slows, coming to walk just behind me, still parallel.

Flickering strands of long-grass brush my knuckles – I grab onto one, pull the seeds off it in an easy swipe, and scatter them as we go, one by one.

Briefly, I glance over my shoulder. Sure enough, his eyes are fixed on me, on my every movement, like he’s making sure I’m actually real. The corner of my mouth twitches up into a smile.

Rust’s cigarette flares between his lips.

I scratch gently at my wrist, reminded of the flowing of my blood just beneath the skin, hot and thick.

You get nowhere in life just hoping things will fall into your lap like this—and, anyway, what good is getting something that you didn’t work for? Where’s the gratification? It’s artificial, feeble as plastic. Christ, it was even a struggle to get my head around Johansson and his propensity to dole out favours. I understood a write-up – won’t pretend I’m above ass-kissing – but tidying up the office kitchen and keeping quiet about it? I thought it was stupid: letting people reap the rewards of your own effort, and for what?

So, the buzz of earning Rust’s touch that first time?—shit, nothing compared. No drug, no high; nothing. I really thought I did something. Satisfied some secret ambition I didn’t know I held. To have him like that. To be able to replay that night, swallow it like a pill. To look at him and know what was underneath his clothes and his skin, and perhaps further inside, too. Shit, I took so much from him, but the mental gymnastics of the effort justified it, right? And, now, he’s going to give it all up again. Wants it, even.

Haven’t I played this out a thousand times in my head? I’ve seen the future—a number of futures—where I’m able to argue for his affection. Fight for your love – that’s what my daddy used to tell me whenever he was feeling sentimental after yelling.

I’ve had endless conversations with him in my head, edited accordingly as time passed, as he changed, as I changed, as the air between us changed. Possible flirtation seemed silly, futile, after a week. Sex appeal would go unnoticed by him – wasn’t like he looked, anyway. Not the type to chase tail. I found myself longing for him to please linger uncomfortably in doorways to rooms I was in, to leave things near me and come and collect them just after I was gone so that, maybe, he’d still feel the warmth of my presence and understand it was only ever warm that way for him. The idea of genuine confession always sprung up during the quiet nights alone together in the bullpen, but I was always able to talk myself out of it when he wouldn’t so much as glance at me after two, three hours.

It must be a million threads of conversation up in my head, which is why I guess it’s so hard to untangle the great knot and retrieve just one, because, now, there are no words that come to mind when it matters. Or maybe it doesn’t matter: I don’t think he needs convincing at all.

“What you so quiet for?” he asks faintly.

When I look back, he’s stark against the brooding sky like some shadow-man. His outline hums like he’s pulling away into his own silhouette.

I can’t seem to smile. “Nothin’.”

He won’t push—at least, not on this—and I’m glad for it.

Rust’s beat-up semi is all lonely sat in a dip up in the road, waiting for us. Same semi he’d driven me home in from work this one week I was getting my car fixed up, in which a series of slow, mutual interrogations would take place along the light-streaked highway. In the office, you were lucky to drag a full sentence out of Rust, but, alone, it wasn’t so hard to get him to talk at all.

Maybe I had just wanted to be better than him, to learn how he worked, how he was such a good interrogator, and bleed him dry. That was why I couldn’t look away: every choice in his demeanour could help me surpass him.

Even then, I learned to be careful with my looks. I had the feeling he’d morph into something else if I stared long enough, the way the shadow in the corner of your bedroom changes shape when you’re bone-tired. Sometimes, he would. And on the Thursday night of that week, when he had pulled over and thrown up, shaking, into the dark thrush, I hadn’t uttered a word as he climbed back into the driver’s seat. But, as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, I’d stared at him with the filmy eyes of a hungry nocturnal animal.

Then, at least, the curiosity wasn’t a burden. Not like it became when I drove myself home come that morning after.

I could tell it was different the moment I shifted awake, feigning a sleep for just a couple more minutes.

Dressed again and putting on a pot of coffee, his back was to me. I had shuffled up, pulled on my clothes, and I knew the stupor of the night had faded. So, really, when I stepped past him and he closed the door behind me without a word, I shouldn’t have been upset.

When I reach the pick-up first, I twist to look at him.

Rust has slowed to finish his cigarette at a safe distance, eyeing me warily.

He crushes the stub into the dirt, then glancing out into the long night.

“Straight home?” he asks.

I shake my head, and the rigid line of him gives just a little. It’s so dangerous to be seduced by your own influence, but the realisation that I’ve had any at all is fuel enough to the plea in my wide eyes.

Rust advances haltingly. If I move, I’m sure he’ll flinch and bolt. So, I test the theory: better to weed out what’s already decayed.

I angle myself towards him, open like a door. He tosses his jacket into the bed of his pickup, stepping through.

The heat seeps back between us, slow and thick like a flood of molasses, and it becomes very clear, suddenly, that we never should’ve tried to barricade ourselves. Pretty sure Rust’s known this a while, anyways: he’s the one who leans in for me, kisses me slow.

This time, his hands are quick to curl around my body, where the tension in that tight cord all down his spine has snapped. Or just eased up on him—but that’s unlikely. And unimportant. With his firm touch petting up my spine, climbing each rung, it’s all unimportant.

A pulse of arousal strikes me like an electric current as Rust pulls the blouse out of my skirt, his face close to me.

His tongue pushes into my mouth again, and I hum over the husk of nicotine. It’s a haze in the brain, one I’ve missed. My skin tingles and my thoughts warp in this leer, like a nic rush, only I haven’t had one of those in years and years.

I can’t exactly call what I’m feeling satisfaction. There’s no win to this. My teeth sunk into him so sweet last time, and the thrill of getting him, of tripping him up with his own desire, was almost as good as the actual feeling of him inside me. But it’s different now: so obvious, it’s funny. Though my first instinct is to doubt and pry apart, maybe want is the most trustworthy thing a person can feel. It’s animal and instinctive, and it’s inevitable, so it’s always true. Ugly, sometimes, but always there. There’s no room to question his want, because I can taste it on his tongue, I can feel it pressing over my stomach, I can hear it in the way he hums at the sear of my skin.

It must be a favour to me: the blatancy of it all. For however direct he may be, I’ve always felt that Rust has these plans within plans. Nothing is as it is on the surface: you have to dig to get to the good stuff. It’s disorienting, having it all laid out for me. And I’ll take anything he gives me.

I don’t want to leave any room for doubt in his mind either.

So, I clutch at him hungrily, so drunk on his warmth, and thump my back against the door he opens for me to close it again.

I don’t ask, and I’m glad that he doesn’t make me, only presses my body flush against the cool surface of his side-door, until the only part of me free to move are the fingers that curl over his arms, as if they could sink through the fabric and then the flesh underneath. There’s only dogs and ghosts out at this hour, anyway; eyes in the long-grass. No-one but them and him to see my hips jerk against the precise hand under my skirt.

He hadn’t looked at me this much before. Even when my eyes go glassy and I have to blink hard to try and regain my smarts, to not finish too quickly, I know he’s staring at me like a scientist.

When the next needy noise is drawn from me, I bury my face into his neck to save myself the embarrassment of being seen like this, even though it’s pointless. His fingers are dragging aside the damp fabric of my underwear anyway, sliding through my silky desire. When his knee shoves between my legs to keep apart, he changes the pressure of his hand, circles tightly over where shame does not apply. Restraint is a man-made practice that never prevails over biology. I should know this. Still, though, my face is hot as I whine into his shoulder.

Rust doesn’t ask me to look at him, not yet, and I’m so grateful for it. I bite into the meat of him at the push of one finger, then keen all the way to my toes at the hook of two, rocking against his palm thoughtlessly as he fucks the both of them in deep.

The clink of his belt buckle barely processes through the smoke of sticky eyes and open mouths and the press of his body. But the absence of his hand from my hip, of it working between us?—that’s what ushers normal sensation back into me. I recover from the limp slump against him, but not quickly enough to understand or resist him guiding my hand to wrap around his swollen cock, coated with spit.

He grunts as he tightens my grip around him, coaxes my hand how he wants it. In the back of my mind, though, of course I remember. Only, his fingers are so far inside that my head is spinning, teetering on the precipice of another thought I know I’ll lose, one that dissolves at the slight scrape of nail, one that would never matter as much as the soft then firm press of him against my cervix. My eyes water, and there licking at me is only a faint, abstract impression of embarrassment when Rust grips over my jaw, calloused heel of his palm heavy on my neck, and hauls me away from the hiding spaces of his body’s crevices.

“What, you fuckin’ shy now? You wanted it, so look,” he mumbles, digging his fingers into the soft parts of my face a little more, like there’s some hidden button beneath the surface that can make my droopy eyes fly back open. There must be because, somehow, it works. He angles my face by the scruff of my neck.

I can only stand to look between us for a few jumpy heartbeats before my eyes settle on the comfort of his even face, which he seems to accept readily, breath hitching. He does not blink. The intensity of his observations hounds me, lights me up like points on a star, even when my vision smears and melts at the dizzying curl of his fingers. Lucky for my weak knees he’s got his hand over the nape of my neck, his thighs pinning my own. I shake against him, some pathetic thing, and tremble when he keeps massaging there deep inside.

“Don’t go dumb on me, girl,” Rust scolds quietly when my hand loosens around him, his own having to leave the heat of my neck and come down to correct the pressure, the pull. My head lolls without the support of his hand. “Ain’t gon’ say nothin’?”

Words spill uselessly into a pool before me, slipping through my fingers. My pulse slams in my throat, lower, too, against his touch, each beat meeting him as he works me over again.

What I manage is a choked noise, all clogged up inside. I have little to do with it: just a body, a heartbeat and a compulsion to be near, nearer, nearest to him. Half a mind that’s lagging worse than the computers at work, that realises far too late that the body is curling into itself again, so tight, so wet, and fuck, fuck.

He removes his fingers, that slow drag, and tells me to turn. When I don’t—completely without, dull and aching—Rust twists and shoves me against the window, which goes cloudy at the breathy moan pushed up from my slack stomach.

Slow-like, a cold hand snakes under my shirt, smooths up my burning spine, all the way up, all the way down, hooking in the waistband of my skirt, knuckles burrowing into the soft dimples in my back. My whole body shivers as he slides his palm over the back of my neck—a comfort for which I’m desperate to become familiar—and squeezes gently. If I keep my eyes open, all I can see of him is that black silhouette in the window, a reflection. A homogenous mass, humming at the edges, devoid of the detail of things: can’t see the way he drags his thumb up along the line of my spine, traces where it meets the skull; nor the way he steps forward, teases the air out of my lungs, enjoys it, tugs my hips closer to him by the gusset of the underwear webbed between my thighs; nor the way the cool metal buckle presses red lines into flesh.

The sight of Rust doesn’t matter so much as the understanding that it’s him behind me, that it’s his truck my cheek is being pressed into, that it’s his—fuck—that it’s him sliding through the heat of me, so close. The tip notches and makes it all the easier for my eyes to flutter shut. It helps with the vertigo that follows the rough push of him inside.

My fingers grasp for the little ridges in the door. Best place for them ends up to be under my mouth, though, to keep my head on my shoulders, to muffle the noises I was sure only animals made. My knee jerks sharply against the truck at the first white-hot pulse of pleasure – I hiss, smearing the drool at the edge of my mouth with the back of my hand, so glad he isn’t in clear enough line of sight to chastise me with his tendency to notice and never forget.

But he knows—he must fucking know by now—because the heavy hand clasped over my scruff curls around my face, and Rust forces two fingers into my parted mouth, presses over my soft tongue.

He pulls himself out just to feel the total length of me taking him again, so painfully slow. Feel the initial resistance, the spongy give, the sweet slip, the drag, all of it. So full, I feel sick with it. Overindulgence. Knocks me weak, doesn’t mind it when I bite down on his fingers to take most of the weight out of my sob. What I take from him, he takes from me—we’re even that way—so Rust, already with his nose flirting with the crook of my sweaty neck, nips over my erratic pulse, pushes his tongue over where I’m sure he can see the skin throbbing with the violence of it. Vampire. He could draw blood and I wouldn’t mind: he knows I need bloodletting.

So fucking dumb to think for a second it could be sated by just one time. I needed it again before it even ended – I knew it in the split second he touched me. The grief of closure was as adamant as a shadow. Stupid. He must think it, too, because, shit, the snap of his hips is mean. Punishment: you should’ve known.

“We ought’a be in your bed. I should be fuckin’ you through your bed,” he complains gruffly, his mouth dragging over hinge of my jaw.

I moan around the fingers in my mouth, which hook together with his thumb to pinch the fleshy inside of my cheek, challenging my lost focus. No matter. There’s nothing we can do now.

The seize of my body doesn’t take him by surprise at all, not that I expected it to, and the words that follow are easy, like he’s been thinkin’ of them as loud and clear as day as it would be to speak ‘em: “Shit, that feels good, sweet girl, huh? Tha’s it, just take it. That’s good.” And he lets the warmth gush out before stuffing it back in. “You’ll take one more.”

I stare at the endless field to the side of us, melted over the curve of his door, shivering despite the humidity that always finds you around here. I choke more on my own tongue than his fingers as Rust fucks me slow, like I deserve it.

“Need it s’bad, huh?” he drawls into the shell of my ear. “Why you gone all quiet on me, baby?—thought y’wanted it.”

He drags his fingers out of my mouth, daring me to speak. He slides his hand between my stomach and the side-door, gliding down between the thighs, smearing my dripping arousal over the skin.

My toes curl tight again as he pushes deeper than before, sits there like he knows my mind will do the rest of the work. The grate of his zipper as he shifts draws a mangled sound from the pit of me, not hidden by the brace of my trembling arm.

He zeros in on my clit, all sticky, and circles tight. I shudder.

“Give in,” he says to me in a voice so low and soft that it barely reaches me above the high frequency splitting through my skull. He rolls that bright pearl between his finger and thumb. “You feel it?”

Mindless and eyes all milky, I still manage a nod, grateful for the mean pin of his knees against my shaking thighs.

He hums. “So give in.”

Fuck, this is absurd. The mind can just about string two and two together when Rust lends a forearm beside my head for me to rest on, to grip over: so he’s pictured this, wanted this, for how long? I knew the stagnancy was a front, swallowed something else, but—my mouth goes wet and slack over his forearm at the languid roll of his hips—but it wasn’t realistic to imagine it was this. Rust struck me as someone incapable of reconciling himself with his wants. Shame over acceptance because he thinks it’s atonement. Should’ve known better than to think Rust believed in redemption.

The silhouette in the window is looking over the empty road, scanning for cars that won’t ever come—but his hand is warm under the tent of my shirt, easing over my waist, slow, as everything clamps up, trembling, again. Body and a heartbeat, he tugs my hips back to him, again and again, until he’s a hot, shuddering line all through me, face in my neck, crushing the fight out of my lungs.

His nose presses over my cheek, and his breath is coarse there, too, panting, when he lifts his heavy head. My throat goes so loose and open, greedily drinking in the sweet-sticky scent of him.

“C’mon, now,” he says to me once he’s pulled my underwear back up, dragging the cool, damp gusset against the mess of me for good measure. He pinches my hip, then over my thigh, like that might get me to quit shuddering. “Time to go.”

When I don’t move, he smooths a hand gently over my hair. Tucks a loose chunk of it back into the mess of my braid before deciding it’s best if he lets it loose completely.

Rust winds down the window as he holds open the door for me to clamber onto the bench.

“Y’can sleep ‘f you want,” he mumbles once he’s got me curled up on the seat, leaning through the frame. He tilts his head – the shadows have always hidden his eyes, but I like how the pinch in his brow has melted away at least.

If I had half a mind, I’d use it to shove his face out my goddamn way. Instead, I settle for the narrowing of my eyes and a decided huff. “Won’t.”

Lie. I fall asleep like anything, mellowed by the sweet rush of wind over marshland, the spirit of it weaving inside, and the weight of Rust’s hand tucked in the tight bend of my knee.

#rust cohle #rust cohle x reader #true detective season 1 #rust cohle x reader smut #the idler wheel td #marty hart #true detective #i want to [redacted] his [redacted] until he [redacted] all over-#who said that #female manipulator doesn’t need to manipulate in this one??? crayzay #fic is basically them talking but im hoping ive been accidentally super introspective and deep #her vibe is like mannnn i have to make this guy love me #and his is like girl you don’t have to try I literally already do #i know it’s 15K but i swear it feels shorter if you get into it #got #whatever #only took me a year 😃#fucking finally

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hanniesluvr · 2 days ago

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the boy is mine | k.mg | teaser

pet play w mingyu

pairing: kim mingyu x reader

genre: strangers -> fucking lol, bit of crack kinda?, smut, fluff

wc: ~300 (full fic: hopefully ~ 3k… but we all know me… it’ll be a novel)

synopsis: when one of your best friends (who also happens to be a frat bro), seungcheol, invites you to his halloween party, you hesitantly accept. you were never really the party type… but one guy, one of his friends to be exact, might single handedly change that.

a/n: HAPPY HALLOWEEN !!!!! you GUYS you guys omg you guys this is fucking pathetic how much i’m putting into this like im just supposed to be making this for kinktober so like…. mayyyyybe 2k words tops right ? nah yall im at like 1k and mc has JUST laid eyes on him so… yeah. ill def be cutting it down regardless. anyways… ummmm if you guys end up liking the full kinktober installment of this, i may make it a series ? or at least a two parter ? idk i think mc and gyu may have some insane chemistry maybe ????? o.O room for growth and a cutesie little spark ? maybe ? anyway lemme stfu HERES THE TEASER !!!!!

ALSO!!! it’s not too late to be added for the tag list for this last kinktober installment!!! comment if you’d like to be added!! <3 esp since i don’t know the official drop date im so sorry

“what’s up?” you look over at chan who’s finishing your drink up, and he’s got his phone between his ear and shoulder. “oh shit okay! we’ll be right out!” he hung up, sliding the phone in his pocket, then turned around handing you your drink. “pretty lady,” he smiled. “cheol lets go. that was vernon, they’re outside.” he said, patting cheol on the shoulder, making his way out of the kitchen hurriedly.

“okay! you two wait right here, i’ll be back.” seungcheol requested, then ran after chan.

“oh god,” you walked forward to the counter and turned so your back was leaning on it with yuqi. you two looked out from the kitchen, into the crowd of people that had seemingly gotten significantly larger since you’d arrived minutes ago. “they’ve all gotta be members of the mystery inc huh…” you trailed off.

“i wonder what poor guy they got to be scooby,” yuqi empathized.

“i bet it’s soonyoung.”

“be so fucking for real, y/n. he’s a fucking tiger every year,” yuqi said pointedly. she was right.

just then, the room got significantly more quiet which meant- oh those boys and their group entrances…

it was never anything elaborate, but they did have to make their presence known. cheol almost always walking in first as the rest of the boys followed.

you and yuqi made your way out of the kitchen to the living room, disregarding cheol’s words from earlier. you two managed to push toward the front of the swarm of people that were gathered near the door. shouts then could be heard from all over, praising the commitment of all the boys. first cheol as fred, then chan as daphne walking alongside wonwoo as velma, and last but not least vernon as shaggy and… not soonyoung as scooby. “who the fuck is that?” you nearly drooled leaning over into yuqi’s ear.

tag list: @skzooluvr @jenoslutie @map0fthes0ul7 @unlikelysublimekryptonite @goblynnrockz @actuallynarii @glttrlix @ninigyuuu

#svt smut #kinktober #mingyu smut #mingyu x reader #hanniesluvr

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seenoversundown · 2 days ago

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For Death Or Glory : Chapter Twenty-Five

Jake Kiszka x Charlotte (Fem OC)

Warnings: 18+ Smut (you know the drill) Fluff, Mild Anxiety, Some sad themes momentarily, A LOT of tears, Jake is in it so the uncomfortably timed jokes are also in it, and it's just painfully cute and sweet and fluffy.

Smut Warnings: Fingering (f receiving) a slight depiction of masturbation (m), sexy phrases being moaned, and last but not least we are practicing safe sex!! (wrap that shit up guys)

Word Count: 7.1k

Summary: After Charlotte leaves the Anniversary Party at the bar, she spends a bit contemplating her choices while she packs and ultimately comes to her decision.

Author's Note: Hiii 🥹

I can't believe this is the last chapter, it feels like we just started this last week. I really hope this is the ending you were rooting for, because it feels very fitting.

I'm going to stick another note at the end to not spoil anything before you read.

Happy Thursday (and Halloween) 🖤

Sea Of Love - Cat Power "Come with me, my love, To the sea, The sea of love."

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“Drive safe, Red.”

“Will do, Captain.”

The second he walked away from my car, the tears I’d been choking back came out, and unfortunately, I hadn’t stopped the entire drive back to the house to finish grabbing everything, which seemed silly because I could have packed before I went to see him. I spent the whole day trying to decide if I should even go, with breaks where I would just cry because I couldn’t believe that I couldn’t just spit out what happened.

The way he still insisted on walking me to my car speaks volumes about him, and I really didn’t know what I expected, but I was mentally prepared for him not to want to talk to me after everything. I don’t deserve him by any means.

I couldn’t stop myself from hugging him. I knew he wasn’t going to try anything because he’s always concerned about whether or not I’m comfortable, and I’m sure he didn’t want to take any chances of getting rejected.

9:20 p.m.

I pull into the driveway, crying harder as I put my car in park. I don’t want to go home. I should have just stayed there. Taking a deep breath, I force myself to go inside. I set my bag and phone down on a chair in our kitchen, knowing that if I had my phone with me, I’d never get anything packed.

I wander around the house, silently crying as I grab my things and shove them into my bag. Changing out of my jeans and into some leggings, hoping that maybe being more comfortable will help. Even though I know the only thing that would help right now is him.

Knowing that he came here so we could still spend the night together is making this worse. The way he so happily changed our plans and drove out here. I sit down on the couch, thinking about how he somehow made my catching up on emails more enjoyable. Rewarding me with kisses every time I finished one, I don’t think I’ve ever worked more efficiently than knowing I get to smooch a cute boy every time I hit ‘send.’

He was so sweet when I started to fall asleep, wanting to make sure I was comfortable. I was a little surprised when he said he would stay since he wouldn’t be able to check on the bar. Feeling how warm he was when he got into bed with me. Granted, I also was teasing him as he took his pants off. Quietly laughing at the thought, even with tears rolling down my cheeks.

He always has a way of making things better, even when he isn’t here. When we weren’t together, he’d send me random things he was thinking about throughout his day or asking how my day was going. I don’t think we’ve gone more than a few hours without talking since I called him that night.

My throat tightened, and I remembered how he reacted to Cass. The way he immediately just pulled me into his arms, letting me take my time to explain. He fully just listened to whatever I had to tell him like he genuinely wanted to know her. I just know that if she could meet him, she would absolutely adore him. Especially considering how he treats me, she would be planning our wedding already.

I walk through the house one last time to make sure I have everything. I should just go back. My stomach turns at the thought. I don’t even know what I’d say; I’ll just text him tomorrow—shutting the lights off as I walk back towards the kitchen.

I bring out the bulk of my stuff, shoving it all into my back seat. Quickly walking back inside to grab my bag and lock it up, my chest hurts as I pull the door shut behind me.

I grab my phone from my bag to check the time, and his name is on my Lock Screen.

11:02 p.m.

Jacob: hi, just wanted to say thank you again for everything. I don’t know if you’re still driving or not, so don’t feel like you have to reply right away

Jacob: but I’m still down to keep you company tomorrow, if you are. 🖤

My eyes are full of tears when I laugh—my sweet boy. Dropping my phone into the driver's seat, I stand there with my face in my hands, letting out the sob that had been waiting. I need him. It was like I needed something to tell me that it was the right choice to just go back to him, and that was enough.

I look up at the moon, “Cass… thank you.” My voice shakes as I say it, but god, it feels good to get it out. “You were right. I needed to find my Scott, and now, I just wish you were here to meet him.”

I have to go get him.

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My heart races as I drive down the dark roads, waiting until I get a little closer to Portland for more street lamps. But as I’m driving, I swear every song that comes on just makes my mind wander.

Hearing him call me honey for the first time in his office. His arms pulled me in so fast I didn’t have time to think about it. Talking me down or trying to, at least. I felt so safe with him, and I had only met him once before. Something about him was so comforting in that moment, whether it was the way he knew I was about to break and brought me into a quiet space to have my moment. Or the fact that he didn’t let go until I was ready.

The look in his eyes as he wiped my tears away, gently holding the sides of my face like he thought I would crumble if he added any more pressure. And to think that was just a glimmer of how thoughtful he is.

I’ve never met a man who just wants to do things like he does. He walked me to my car every night when I was at the bar, opening my door for me like he was straight out of the fifties or something. Always asked me to let him know when I made it home; it was a soft level of protection that I didn’t know I needed.

Standing there next to the water, the street lamps barely gave us enough light to see each other, but the way his lips looked and how he kept glancing at mine.. I knew I had to take my chance.

“Is this okay?”

His smile into me as we kissed made it hard for me not to fall for him. The way he so sweetly giggled against me. Keeping me close to him because it was cold out, but not wanting to stop. Oh, the first of many ‘one more’ kisses. Which always meant another ten minutes trying to escape him, not that I ever really wanted them to end. I’m almost positive that both of us genuinely started contemplating quitting our jobs to hide away together a handful of times.

Going out of his way to surprise me so I could still go to Salem. Taking a day off, even if I had to badger him a little about not checking in constantly. It was for his own good. It was so adorable how he just happily followed me, looking at all the haunted sites and letting me tell him all the history as we walked around. I suppose it helps that he’s definitely into those types of things, considering the pirate knowledge.

His sweet face turned red when the girl told us our aura colors were pretty compatible. But I can’t blame her for assuming when he grabbed my hand while she explained them to us. I knew it was because of what she was saying, and he just wanted to make sure I was okay.

I’ve simply never met a man who understood emotions like he does. I don’t understand how considering he grew up with two brothers, he’s definitely the odd one out of the three. The way he can stay so calm in most situations is beyond me. Even tonight, when I showed up, he seemed nervous for a second, but the moment I said something, he came around.

I could park right outside the bar because there was nobody out, but I decided to park around the corner so I could mentally prepare.

Just see if he’s still in the bar, and then if not, he should be at home. I don’t think he’s supposed to see his parents until tomorrow.

Shutting off the engine, I sit there staring at the sky. Ever since he pointed out the moon that night, I’ve felt comfort in it. Whether or not Cass can hear me, I will keep talking to her through it. I’d like to think she knows.

I step out, feeling the wind against my skin, shit- it’s cold. I start walking towards the bar, taking a deep breath before turning the corner. I pulled out my phone one more time, just to make sure he hadn’t said anything while I was driving here. No notifications.

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11:35 p.m.

I round the corner, and he’s already standing outside as if he knew I would come back. I see him putting his phone into his pocket and looking down at his boots. It feels surreal to see him for some reason. He finally looks over as I get closer; I can see him trying to fight the smile growing on his face.

As I walk up to him, I whisper, “Hi.”

“Hey, you,” he whispers back, his voice alone made my eyes well up again. I look down at my feet, hoping to swallow the emotions, but fail miserably. Here goes nothing.

“Um,” I let out. I feel my lip quiver, so I tug it in with my teeth a little.

His voice was quiet, asking, “What’s wrong?” as he gently tilted my face up to look at him, which only made the tears flow faster.

“I don’t want this to be over, Jacob,” I choke out, pointing between the two of us. I have cried in front of this man far too many times in the last three weeks.

He sweetly wipes the tears before he finally says, “Hun,” Pulling me into him and placing a big kiss against my forehead. “It doesn’t have to be over.”

“I just want to be able to kiss you and be with you,“ I ramble out. All of the feelings I’ve been holding back started falling out of me.

He shakes his head slowly and calmly tells me, “I want that more than you know.”

“I don’t want to feel like we have to be quiet about it.”

“We don't have to.”

“Jake, I just,” I start, my voice sounded a little panicked at this point. “I have stronger feelings for you than I anticipated and—”

He quickly tells me, “I promise those are most definitely mutual, honey.”

“It scares me a little,” I admit quietly.

“Hey–” he cuts me off, “I will have you however you’ll let me,” holding my face in his hands, and then he says, “I told you before- whatever you’re comfortable with.”

“I don’t want you to feel like I’m interested in anyone else,” I start, “Because I only—.” My brain is moving faster than I can move my mouth while still trying to calm down from crying when he leans in. –Want you. The most relieving kiss I’ve ever felt; time slowed the second his lips met mine. My hands find their spot on his stomach; just having extra contact with him helps me slow down.

He pulls away, and his hands are still holding the sides of my face as he looks at me. He looks like he wants to say something, but I watch him swallow hard before he finally caves. I feel like I know what’s coming.

“Say the word, and I’ll forget about the ‘friends who maybe sleep together' thing,” he whispers. “I would do anything to call you mine.” His face is still so close to mine as we stare at each other for a second in comfortable silence. There is only one right answer in my mind.

“Please.”

His lips find mine quickly, smiling into me like a kid on Christmas morning. My heart pounds as we practically relive our first kiss. Not knowing how to stop, giggling as we take turns placing little kisses everywhere.

“You’re sure you want this?” He asks, his hands still holding my jaw. “Like absolutely positive?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been more sure about something,” I tell him, a small laugh sneaking out. He stares at me for a second before looking up; his eyes close before he shakes his head a few times. His arms fall, sliding around my waist. When he looks back at me, his eyes are glistening. My hands quickly grabbed him, wiping his tears as they finally fell, “Aw, baby.”

“I feel ridiculous,” he giggles, trying to sniff the emotions away.

“I’ve cried enough times in front of you— I think you’ve earned it.”

He looks up again, letting out a small laugh, and then looks back at me. His hands grabbed mine, holding onto them tightly when his adorable little voice wavered, telling me, “I just really thought I had lost any chance with you.” He breathes in a shaky breath and, on the exhale, says, “And I’m just so happy that I get to keep you to myself now.” A few tears sneak out as he tells me. He really is the most precious man alive. I steal one of my hands back from him, gently wiping his face again.

We stood there giggling like teenagers when the realization hit me, “I get to say you’re my boyfriend now.”

“Mhm,” He hums against me. “I’m all yours.”

Kissing him a few times before giggling against his lips, “Jacob, I’m your girlfriend.. we’re dating.” He just smiles against me, and I can’t stop the excitement from coming out as I bounce back and forth in his arms. “Did you ever think this would have happened?”

“Honey, you have felt like a fever dream to me for three weeks.” He chuckles to himself, “No, I never thought I would be lucky enough to find someone like you.”

After a few minutes of bliss, I finally have to come out with the truth, all of them.

“I want to tell you something,” I tell him. “Well.. actually, a couple of things.”

“Go for it,” he says; his smile might be permanent. Let me start with the least important thing.

“Cass made me promise that if I found some boy with long hair and nerdy interests, I had to try,” I admit. “I just didn’t know how to handle it when I found you because I haven’t been in a ton of relationships— but you made it so… easy.”

“I’ve never been more relieved to be a long-haired nerd in my life.” He giggles at himself, kissing my cheek when he mumbles, “I hope I make her proud.”

I don’t know how I could cry more at this point, but my voice shakes when I tell him, “Oh, she would have loved you.”

He tugs me back in for a hug; I just snuggle into him for a minute. Naturally, he would say something like that.

“What else is there?” He asks quietly.

“Well..um,” I hesitated. Just spit out, Char. “I have to go home, like up-north-home, or I’m going to get fired.”

His eyebrows pull together, letting out a small laugh before finally asking, “You? How would you get fired?”

“I sort of have been lying to my boss to be .. here,” I tell him, dodging his eye contact. It’s quiet for a beat before he finally speaks up.

“Wait– is that why you were so upset?”

I nod, “Mhm..he called when I was at Quinn’s, and I had been freaking out since because I was .. scared to tell you.”

“Oh, hun. Fuck, I’m so sorry,” his smile fades quickly.

“No, I’m sorry,” I tell him, grabbing his hands, “You didn’t know, and I was acting like a dick to you.”

“I still wish I hadn’t panicked so fast,” he says, the look on his face making my heart hurt. “I’d never say anything like that to you ever again. I thought I’d lost you as soon as it came out.”

The tears prick my eyes as he tells me. It makes even more sense now– he thought his heart was about to get shattered. The thought of not keeping him around had never crossed my mind; I would have figured out a way.

“I knew you didn’t mean it, baby,” I told him. “I forgave you the second you started crying.”

He pulls my hands up, kissing across my knuckles, letting out a long breath. Looking back at me, “So, if you have to go back home, what do we want to do?”

The way he says ‘we’ could make me cry.

“Well,” I start. “I don’t mind driving here. And I typically only work during the week, so I could come to you right after I clock out on Fridays.”

“I will never say no to that,” he tells me. Quickly following up with, “But I can also come to you during the week since the bar isn’t as busy.” His hands gently squeezed mine.

“Are you going to be able to handle not being here?” I tease him.

“Oh, shut up,” he laughs; oh, I love that laugh. “I’m gonna need to get over it at some point. At least I’ll have you as a distraction.”

I just hum back, “Mhmm.”

“We’ll make it work, hun,” he says; he sounds so sure of it.

“You really don’t mind?”

“Not at all,” he tells me, “I’ll do whatever I need to if it means getting to be with you.”

My hands hold the sides of his neck as I kiss him a few times, whispering, “You’re unreal.” Enjoying the butterflies as he giggles against my lips, finding it increasingly more difficult to focus every time I kiss him. I need to tell him first, and then we can have fun. I get a little chill just thinking about getting to spend the night with him after this. FOCUS CHAR.

“Um, there’s still more,” I spit out. “I sort-of-maybe-kind of lied to you.” Kissing his cheek a couple of times before looking at him with an uncomfortable smile.

He lets out a laugh, “Really just getting it all out there, are we?”

“I can’t start a relationship with you and not just tell you all of this!”

“Whatever you need to do, hun,” he laughs. “Go on.”

“I didn’t need to be here at all,” I start. “Melody could have just done everything in like a day and your paperwork had been sitting in my car already settled for the past two weeks.”

“I know.”

“What– You know?” I stared at him, my eyebrows pulled in immediately, wholly lost in how he knew what I was doing.

“Of course, I know,” he giggles. “Who do you think helped Josh get certified, honey?”

My mouth hangs open for a second, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Well, honestly— it took a few nights of you being here for me to realize, but also,” he laughs, his hands finding mine. “You really think I’m gonna out the most beautiful girl on wanting to be around me–” he pauses, looking at me with his eyebrows raised before shaking his head with a quiet, “Absolutely not.”

I can’t get anything out before he quickly adds, “I honestly had just forgotten about it when I hired Mel, so when you asked, I just assumed it was about to screw me more.”

“Wait— so, you just.. let me interrupt your schedule for like two weeks to vaguely help train Mel?” I ask quietly.

He nodded quickly at that, “Gladly.”

“But.. that’s so..” I hesitate.

“I think it paid off,” He lightly tips my chin up to meet his gaze, “Don’t you?” Leaning in and leaving a small kiss on my lips.

I can’t stop the giggle that sneaks out when I whisper, “Think you’re so smooth, huh?”

“Is it working?”

“I mean, you got me,” I laugh. “So, I guess I’m gonna have to say yes.”

Taking every chance I have to kiss him, like I’ve been deprived for so long. A bit dramatic of me, but how am I supposed not to kiss him at this point?

He shyly asks, “Do you still need to leave?”

“I can leave in the morning,” I tell him. “They can survive a couple of hours tomorrow without me.”

“So.. you’ll stay with me?” He asks, biting his lip subtly.

I giggle at how cute he is before whispering, “Yes, baby.”

“Thank the lord,” he lets out, pulling me into him.

My arms slid around his neck as snowflakes decorated us slowly. Pressing kiss after kiss onto his face and lips, dimly lit by the street lamp nearby. Fighting the urge to cry again, holding the back of his neck, I kissed his cupid's bow; the tears that had been threatening to fall made their escape. Pulling away, I start to lean back so I can compose myself again. Seeing the tip of his nose is red, and I can’t shake the chill in the air. Stopping this moment feels wrong, but I cave.

“Can we go inside? It’s freezing,” I asked, scooting a little closer to him. I traced my finger down his nose, tapping its tip a few times.

“In a minute—”

With no hesitation, his arm wraps around my waist, pressing me up against him. His free hand quickly wipes the tears away from my cheeks. I watch his eyes dance between my eyes and my mouth like he always does. His hands found my jaw, and just like our first kiss, he lingered a breath away before he whispered, “One more.”

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The moment his bedroom door shuts, I can’t stop myself. My hands pulled his face to mine, and his lips pressed into mine like we hadn’t seen each other in months. Our breathing is already heavy, and we’ve hardly made it past the threshold.

“I know I told you, but” he pauses to kiss me. “I’m so sorry for everything, and I promise—never again.” He litters my face with little pecks.

I slide my hands into his, pulling him towards his bed until I feel the frame hit the back of my knees. Tilting my head slightly as I lean into him, kissing him again.

“No, I’m sorry,” I tell him quietly. “I shouldn’t have lied to you— about any of it.” He leans forward, pressing his lips against my forehead a few times.

Sitting back on his bed, I grab the collar of his shirt, pulling him to me. Both of us smiled into each other; I couldn't stop myself from holding his jaw.

“Move back for me, honey.”

I never want him to call me anything else. I move myself up his bed, laying back on his pillow. He follows suit, watching his necklace swing as he crawls over me, making my mouth water.

The feeling of his body pressed to mine when I slid my arms around his neck, pulling him against me in a hug. Nothing could have stopped me from kissing the side of his neck a few times.

“This feels fake,” I tell him quietly, letting out a small giggle.

He kisses the side of my head before pulling back to look at me, “It does feel different.” Tucking the hair behind my ear as he just stared at me, the slight smile on his lips.

His eyes gazed down for a second before meeting mine again when he leaned in, his lips finding my bottom one. Every kiss felt more desperate until my hands found their way into his hair. I could see his chest moving from how heavy his breath was.

His hips shift against me, and it sends a little wave of pleasure through me, letting out a small ‘mmm’ into his mouth, and I can feel the smirk on his face.

He rolls his hips into me again, pulling another quiet moan out of me. I grab his bottom lip gently with my teeth, giggling as I let it go. His eyes are still closed, but that lethal smile of his beams at me.

“Hi, baby,” I whisper. I felt butterflies when he finally opened his eyes to look at me.

“Mmm.. honey,” he mumbled back. His hand slid down to the waistband of my leggings, hooking his finger into it. “May I?”

I lean up, kissing him slowly before telling him, “Please.” His hands waste no time, sliding my leggings off and tossing them on the floor. He lightly drags his fingers up the inside of my thighs, letting his right hand timidly run over the damp fabric.

“Oh?” He says quietly, popping an eyebrow up at me.

It’s hard not to blush when he’s hovered over me, looking the way he does. Sliding the fabric over, he rests his hand on me for a minute as he kisses my cheek.

I feel his finger as he teases me, only for a second before letting it slip into me. Even just his middle finger alone makes me fall apart. Slowly pumping it into me, making my body tingle with every time he grazes that one spot.

“You’re so pretty.”

I let out another ‘mmm,’ watching his eyes light up at the sound. He starts moving his hand a little faster, and the way his palm is pushing against my clit is making my head spin.

Snaking my hands down, I unbutton the rest of his shirt. Good lord— he’s so fine.. wow I’m so fucking lucky. Moving to undo his pants, when he giggles softly.

“Is that what you want?” He whispers, and even hushed, his voice makes me melt.

I nod a few times, “Please, baby.” I pulled the zipper on his jeans as far as I could reach before just letting my hand run over him.

Watching him slide his shirt and jeans off, I swear I can feel my pupils dilate. I’ve never been so attracted to a man in my life. He leans back over me, in just his tight boxers, feeling my thighs tense at the sight.

I just want to touch him constantly, letting my hands run over his shoulders before moving to his chest. His skin is always so warm and soft, and it takes all my willpower not to kiss every inch of him.

I’m still not used to the way his hair will brush against me when we’re in positions like this. But— he is so sexy when he pushes it out of his face, flipping it to one side. Or pulling it back before he goes down on me like he did the night we were drunk. I hope he knows how gorgeous he really is.

The way his eyes light up when he slides my sweater off will never get old. He’s always so gentle with everything, even when he slides my bralette over my head. His hands so softly grab at my tits, grazing his thumbs over my nipples. It’s honestly really adorable how much he likes that they’re pierced.

Littering kisses over my collarbones and then slowly working his way down until he hovers over one of my nipples, letting his tongue lead the kiss. Watching his plump lips wrap around it, a man surely doesn’t need lips like his, but lord, am I glad I’m the one he’s putting them on. It never seems like it could get better, and then he moves to the other side, and I get to relive it.

He sits up after a minute and reaches over to his nightstand, pulls out a condom, and quickly sets it next to me. Leaning back down, he starts peppering my neck and collarbones with little pecks, running his hand up my side.

“Babe, you know you don’t have to—” I whisper, glancing over at it.

He holds my chin, giving me a slow kiss and giggling to himself as he pulls away, finally saying, “Hun, as much as I’d love not to— I’m not taking any more risks right now.” I can’t stop the laugh that sneaks out of me.

“Plus, this is easier to clean up since Josh is down the hall,” he mumbles quickly, that sweet little smirk of his coming back. Letting my fingers lightly drag down his sides and over his hip bones as I look up at him.

He slides his boxers off, kneeling between my legs. He starts to stroke himself as he looks at me. My jaw falls open at the sight.

“What?” He asks through a laugh. You’re so fucking hot. Not only am I able to see his chest and stomach in front of me, but the way his arm is flexing as it moves and how his hair falls around his face when he looks down.

My brain stalls trying to answer because seeing how his hand is wrapped around his cock has me thoroughly captivated. He grabs the condom, ripping the foil, and quickly rolling it down the length of him; I’ve never seen a man make that sexy, but there’s a first for everything.

He leans back down, lining himself up with me and slowly pushing in. We both let our little moans at the feeling. He bottoms out in me and just sits there for a second, looking at me with his hands cradling my head, when he whispers, “I missed you.”

“Oh,” slips out. I pull him in, kissing his face as he starts to move his hips. Gently rocking them into me, fully engulfed in the moment, we take turns pressing kisses into each other. This kind of sex feels different.

Being able to kiss him and run my hands all over him, just enjoying the feeling of being so close. Holding eye contact while he pushes himself into me slowly, like he’s savoring every second of it. My heart pounds as we look at each other.

He starts to move a bit quicker, and I’m fighting every urge to moan, knowing we aren’t home alone. But nothing could stop me from letting out a quiet, “Harder, babe.”

Watching his lips curl up, he leans forward, kissing my forehead before sitting up on his knees. His hands wrap around my hips, pulling me closer to him. Thrusting hard into me, he slides one hand over, lightly toying with my clit. His mouth hung open slightly, necklace bouncing off his chest, that small trail of hair on his stomach, his hands touching me; the sight of him alone brings me closer.

A moan sneaks out; my eyes go wide at him.

“Does that feel good, honey?” He says, his voice lowered; his voice alone makes me wet.

I nod, pulling my lip in with my teeth. I tap his hip a few times so he’ll stop. He looks at me with his eyebrow raised.

“Lay down, babe,” I tell him. He moves back as we trade spots, except he leans against his headboard. His hands guiding me onto his lap, feeling so full as I sit on his cock. Taking a second to adjust to the position, I lean into him, letting my lips hover over his ear when I whisper, “You fit so perfectly inside me.” His delicious little groan as the goosebumps flood his skin.

I start grinding against him, feeling my own orgasm creeping closer, letting quiet whimpers out next to his ear, kissing down his neck. Anything to shower him in affection because he deserves it.

“Char,” he mumbles. “If you keep doing that, I’m not gonna last long.”

Resting my forehead against the side of his head, I whisper, “Touch me.” His hand snakes down, rubbing my clit quickly, pulling some quiet moans out of me. I sit up, and my hips start to lift off of him, bouncing slightly. The angle of being on top makes him hit every right spot as I move. My body is starting to feel warm as his hand keeps rubbing tight little circles.

“Jake,” I breathe out, my hand grabbing the headboard behind him. “Oh my god. Baby, I'm gonna—.”

His eyes light up, and I can feel how wet I am as I come down on him, over and over. He finally whispers, “Fuck me, honey.”

I’m seconds from losing it, and my body is tingling; I can feel the knot in my stomach, and even my nipples are peaked when he sends me over the edge, quietly moaning out, “Oh, my sweet girl. Wanna feel you come for me.”

It hits me as I come down on him, my legs refusing to lift me back up as my head drops back in pleasure. His hand slowed and joined the other, holding my sides to support me.

I lean into him, tucking my face into his neck, feeling our chests rise and fall together. His arms wrapped around me, holding me close.

“Hold on tight,” he mumbles, so I slide my arms around his neck quickly. Sitting up, he holds me against him with one arm, flipping us over. Making sure not to knock my head against the headboard, he sets me down carefully.

He leans into my ear, giggling, “This is gonna last like two seconds.” His hips start thrusting into me; he locks his arms behind my knees to hold them up. Driving himself into me quickly, his eyebrows pulled together as his mouth started to open slightly.

“Mmm, Jake,” I moan quietly, knowing it’ll only help him. “God, you feel so good.” Watching his face get a little red at the praise, his hips move a little faster, he's gotta be so close. I pull his face down to mine, hovering my lips over his, whispering, “Come on, baby. I’m all yours.”

I can see him suck in a breath before he lowers himself, tucking his face in close to mine as his hips start to struggle. His little jagged breaths next to me when he lets out a small “fuck.” His sweet face presses into mine, letting his lips rest on my cheek, lazily leaving little kisses on me while I’m just running my hands along his back, letting him have his moment to recover as he does for me.

“Char,” he whispers after we have been lying there for a minute.

I turned my face towards him, “What?”

“I’m so.. happy,” he says. “I can’t believe I get to call you mine, finally.”

I run my hand down the back of his head, “I’m happy too.” Holding him close for a second, it feels like I could cry just lying here with him. I can’t fight the giggle that comes out when I tell him, “Let’s go take care of ..that.. we have a night of cuddling to make up for, Sir.” Giving him a little double pat on his ass that makes him laugh.

“You’re right,” he giggles, moving off of me. I slide out of bed, standing up, and before I can grab anything to pull on, his hands grab my hips.

“What are you-“ I start to ask until I feel his lips against my ass. He sucks in gently, almost nibbling on my skin for a second before pressing another small little peck against it.

“Told you I didn’t need to try that hard,” he says, shooting a wink at me as I look down at him.

My jaw just falls open for a second, glancing down at the small bruise that’s forming. Something about him doing that lit a small fire in me.

“Um,” I let out.

He just smiled at me as he stood up, “What?”

“Since when have you liked doing that?”

“You like that, huh?” His hands slid around me, giving me chills. “Why don’t you stay here? I’ll bring something back to clean you up.” He mumbles, kissing the side of my head.

“Well, hurry up,” I giggle. “We have new things to discuss when you get back.” My eyebrows pull together for a second as I tell him.

I tap his phone to see the time when I’m caught off guard by his Lock Screen. When did he..? There sat a photo of me from our day in Salem, and I felt my eyes start to tear up over him again. He is absolutely everything.

He’s only gone for a couple of minutes, wandering back into his room, only wearing his little boxer briefs. I’m never going to complain about that. It makes me happy that he’s already comfortable enough with me to do it.

I sit up to take the towel from him, but he just holds it away from me, shaking his head.

“Absolutely not,” He tells me, fighting a small laugh when he says it. “I can take care of you. You’re my girlfriend now; let me have this.” He kneels on the floor, pulling me to the edge of the bed.

“So.. when you did it before was because..?”

His face starts turning red at the question, his little smirk as he clears his throat, trying to avoid it. Just quietly making sure everything is clean; he really is so cute sometimes.

“Oh, you have to tell me now. You can’t get all shy on me,” I tease him.

He looks up at me with those dumb brown eyes, “Definitely wasn’t because you were already mine.. in my head.”

“Ooohhh,” I coo, gently holding the sides of his face and placing a little kiss on the tip of his nose. Giving him a slow wink when I tell him, “Your secret is safe with me.”

I can’t describe the feeling I get when I watch him. Even with things as simple as him picking up a few pieces of clothes from his floor, I just want to stare at him as he does mundane tasks. Maybe it’s because of the slight chance he’ll glance over and shoot me one of those lethal smiles. Sometimes, he just looks at me, and my heart cartwheels. I’ve never felt like this about anybody I’ve dated.

My heart pounds as I sit here, watching him grab a sweatshirt for me from his closet. He turns around to hand it to me with that soft smile on his lips, a loose strand of hair falling into his face. I can’t help but admire his chest and stomach as he stands in front of me. But nothing prepared me for the look in his eyes when I reached out to take it from him.

I love you.

I feel the heat rush into my face at the thought. Is that crazy? I take the sweatshirt from him, but I don’t break eye contact until I pull it over my head, flipping my hair out from it. He’s still staring at me, which makes my whole body heat up.

I can’t help but laugh out, “What?”

“You,” he says.

My eyebrows raise, “What about me?”

He slides into bed, facing me, and grabs my hands. His eyes looked all over before saying, “I don’t want to say too much.”

I squeeze his hands a couple of times, telling him, “You’re never too much for me.” The look in his eyes changed when I said it. Almost like they softened a bit, and the corners of his lips turned up, we sat there quietly for a moment.

“Are you okay?” I cave, asking him as he looks down at our hands. His thumbs run over the backs of my hands.

He nods, his eyes moving back up to meet mine, the smile is still there. “I’m more than okay.”

“What is it then?” I move closer to him. He seems comforted whenever we’re touching.

He takes a deep breath, “I just want to make sure it’s clear that I still mean it when I say ‘whatever you’re comfortable with,” pausing for a second, “I never want to make you feel uncomfortable or pressured into anything.”

“I will tell you if anything is too much,” I tell him, “but I promise that I don’t think you could scare me away, babes.”

His sweet little smile at the pet name, “Is that a challenge?”

Both of us giggled at him, trying not to be loud since it was late. Sitting here with him, just talking and laughing, feels so natural with him.

“This is nice,” I tell him quietly.

He just looks at me, wishing I could hear what he was thinking. His arm slides around my waist, pulling me into him as he falls into the pillows. Trying not to laugh too loudly as he peppers my face with kisses, holding me hostage in his arms. Everything with him feels like a dream.

We finally settled into bed, and I’m curled up against him. Laying there in the quiet, it hit me that he was already outside when I got here. He wasn’t smoking.. I can’t stop myself from finally asking, “Why were you outside?”

“What do you mean?”

I prop myself up on my elbow to look at him, “When I got here, you were already out there?”

“Oh,” He looks over at me with a soft smile, gently reaching out and pulling me in close. His lips landed on mine gently, letting a little exhale out mid-kiss like it was what he really needed at the moment. Pulling back to look at me, his hand still holding my jaw, letting his thumb run along my cheek. The look in his eyes had me falling in love with him all over again— and then he whispered, “I was waiting for you to come home.”

My eyes well up as I look at him. Oh, I really do love you. I softly wipe my thumb across his lip, leaning in close to him.

“I’ll always come home to you, Jacob,” I whisper. Watching his eyes light up, and just before he kissed me, he quietly let out the two words that changed everything.

“Oh, honey.”

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Author's Note Part 2 :

😭🖤 my heart is so full. I'm so happy that you finally got to see them fall in love. I can't wait for you to see what else is in store for The Caravel Tavern Series. But please know, I'll keep writing Jake & Char as long as you want to read about them. 🖤

Love you guys so much xoxo

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Chapter Twenty-Four

FDOG Master Post | Masterlist | Playlist

Sam & Willa : Sparrow Of The Dawn

Josh & Quinn : Amongst The Stars

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specialagentartemis · 23 hours ago

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trick or treat! (tell me something about your no longer prehistoric murderbot au)

Ice Age Murderbot AU kind of. Bifurcated into two different things haha.

The one where still-with-the-Company Murderbot is in transit and experiences a wormhole malfunction and gets dropped 20,000+ years in Earth's past, to meet AU!PresAux on this cold, technology-less planet, and it's freaking out about that... it still exists! I think it's super interesting!... for different reasons than I find the Ice Age Origfic Story interesting, lol.

Murderbot POV on being fully free but on the condition of being separated from the rest of the universe forever - no new media, no feed, no medical repair technology, nobody who has ever heard of a SecUnit before - combined with it trying to do wilderness survival to help its humans who are much more familiar with the terrain and how to survive her but don't know what germs are, is fascinating to me. It's a different, bitter kind of freedom, free but trapped, and trying to decide what life means for it now.

However, the one-off joke that Paleolithic!PresAux are a bunch of Ice Age humans and Gurathin is the token Neanderthal that hangs out with them made me go. Huh. How did that happen, I wonder.

Then it got a backstory.

Then I wanted to do things with the backstory that I realized having them be 1:1 Pin-Lee, Mensah, Preservation, Makeba, etc. didn't quite allow, and I had more flexibility telling the story I wanted to tell with that if I just. Made them completely original characters in an original setting. This backstory was pre-Murderbot-arriving anyway so it was like five degrees off being a fully original setting anyway!

---

Kurrat is a Neanderthal 30,000 years BP, part of a small and dwindling clan. Most of the other Neanderthals are gone; Kurrat has never known any others besides his own withdrawing, insular group. It has also become authoritarian and paranoid due to the steady and undeniable population decline, inbreeding, and advance of the other people in territories that oral history says used to be their own people's. His mother told him that her mother said that her mother remembered when it wasn't like this, but what good is that now? Kurrat's clan is dying and they all know it and the leader refuses to acknowledge it, instead commanding with increasingly strict expectations of obedience.

And worse, it's a hard winter. It's Bad. The animals have gone elsewhere and the early frosts killed a lot of the foods they could normally count on for much longer. The group leader decides that a sacrifice is in order. Somebody's life needs to be given, their throat slit and their warm lifeblood fed to the hungry earth to bring back the bounty of the world. Also one less mouth to feed in such a hard winter can't hurt either.

They're going to choose the least-liked person in the group to sacrifice and Kurrat knows it's gonna be him. He does not exactly get along well with. Well. Most of the other people in the clan.

So he goes "fuck this shit, I'm out" and votes with his feet, as it were. He leaves on his own before he can get sacrificed.

Course that's not exactly a great prospect when you're already hungry and it's already deep in the winter.

Pendíkhia belongs to a human (Homo sapiens, that is) tribe split into three clans; they spend summer together but winter apart. Her clan of ~30 people is in their winter base camp, and they are Not Doing Well. It's a hard winter for them too. They have always come out to the steppes to meet the caribou herds moving south to their winter grazing areas... but this year the caribou aren't here. Trying to figure out where they are is a major preoccupation of most of the clan's hunters right now. A runner has also been sent to the other clans' winter camp are to check in with them and ask for support. They're starving and scared. It's Bad.

But one afternoon Pendíkhia spots a thin trail of smoke rising in the distance. That's... weird. Who's out here?

She and clan leader Narémákhia go out to investigate, see who's here. And they find a man curled up looking fully frozen to death by the sputtering embers of a campfire.

Poor guy. What was he doing out here alone? Was he insane?

Narémákhia walks off to see if he was travelling with anyone else, if there might be any survivors. Pendíkhia is poking around his body to see if he had a pouch of food on him or anything... when this prompts a reflex, a twitch and shudder and huff of breath. Pendíkhia pulls back. Oh, shit. He's not dead. He looked pretty dead but he is actually still alive.

And Pendíkhia looks out to where Narémákhia is. She didn't see this. She thinks this guy is dead and is planning to come back out tomorrow to give him proper burial rites, because she's a good and responsible person and that's why she was chosen as leader. Pendíkhia is the only one who knows the guy isn't dead. She could just... not tell anyone. Nobody has to ever know. The sun is setting. He'll freeze to death overnight, and really, that's a gentle way to go, nicer than starving or dying of an infection from the cold and wet. When Narémákhia comes back tomorrow morning he'll be dead and she'll never know he wasn't. If he's alive, well, then they're honor-bound to take him back to their camp and help him, try to save him, and they're already struggling and suffering, and they don't have the resources or the energy to spare on a stranger.

Their founding narrative is one of being helped when they were driven out of their home by the ice and the water bearing down on them, by joining with other clans to create the tribe as it is now, and their moral center, their founding myth, the thing that is core to who they are, is this duty of welcoming and helping strangers. It's never been hard before. It's never been a choice before. And she can come up with all these reasons that it's better, really, for everybody, to just leave this guy here.

Pendíkhia has a choice to make...

#long post #asks #needlesandnilbogs #Ice Age Story #my OCs #inbox trick or treat

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altocat · 19 hours ago

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Losing my mind over how they’ve set up Angeal and Sephiroth’s friendship to be now. Angeal is gonna go through so much work to get Seph to open up and trust again, to overcome all that shit he went through on Rhadore — and we know it’s gonna happen. Seph will start to heal and grow closer to Angeal, they’re gonna become “dear friends” like Angeal says in Dissidia….they’ll be close for a solid eight years pretty much….

….AND THEN ANGEAL IS GONNA FUCKING LEAVE WITHOUT A WORD BECAUSE HE DOESN’T WANNA DRAG HIS FRIEND INTO HIS OWN PERSONAL CRISIS BUT IT’LL BACKFIRE BADLY AND THE LAST TIME ANGEAL SEES SEPHIROTH BEFORE HIS ASSISTED SUICIDE IN MODEOHEIM WILL BE WHERE HE NOTICED HOW HAGGARD AND DEPRESSED SEPH GOT OVER HIS ABSENCE AND THEY WON’T BE ABLE TO FIX THINGS IN TIME GHFJDKLS;GFHDJ

Me at the beginning of this ask: :)

Me at the end of this ask: 😭😭😭💀💀💀🔥🔥🔥

FFFFFFF cruel reality. I'm so glad they got closure of sorts in Opera Omnia. We at least know that Angeal never intended on hurting him, and was willing to die for him if it meant staying with him. He said so himself --he wanted to stay with Sephiroth until the very end. It was just too late for them...

#asks #ff7 #ffvii #final fantasy 7 #sephcanons #crisis core #sephiroth #angeal hewley #first soldier #Ffvii first soldier #Opera Omnia #dffoo #Sephgeal

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janetbrown711 · 2 days ago

Text

To My Alcoholic Friends

Despite the fact it never, ever ends well, Pigsy, Tang and Sandy spend another Friday night out on the town, drinking and dancing and losing all of their inhibitions before they know it. This can only end well

LMK Bad Things Happen Bingo Prompt: Didn't Want to be Saved

tw for moderate gore, violence, homophobic slurs, hate crimes, anger issues, post traumatic stress, and some very tame horniness before everything goes to hell in a handbasket

Ao3 Link

Pigsy, Tang, and Sandy went out every Friday night, despite it almost ending in disaster every time. Tang would get shitfaced, Pigsy would run his mouth, and Sandy would get into a fight or two just about every other week. Frankly, it was a miracle they were even allowed in bars anymore, but the bar owners always said they'd seen worse, somehow. Pigsy had his doubts about the whole thing, but was glad to be able to go out and away from the pressures of society. After all, heaven knows Tang needs these nights out more than anyone, and someone had to watch Sandy's back to make sure he didn't get himself killed, so Pigsy was always glad to go along and pay the tab.

It was a delicate balance, the three of them, but Pigsy liked it that way. Everything felt right in the world when he was protecting those he cared about.

“UGH, God, if I have to deal with that professor nagging about how I shouldn’t use oxford commas one more time, I'm going to fall into an early grave,” Tang flung the door open to the bar, finding an empty stool and sitting with a huff.

Pigsy laughed. “See, this is why I say college is a waste of time. All that scholar talk's nothing but hogwash to make them all feel superior to guys like us,” he smirked, sitting next to him.

Tang rolled his eyes. “You know my father and mother are both professors, right?”

“Yeah, and they also suck ass, ergo…” Pigsy gestured vaguely, making his partner push him playfully before ordering shots for the group.

Sandy snorted. “That's one way to put it.”

“Parents, who needs ‘em?” Pigsy elbowed Tang as the shots were placed in front of them.

“Ugh, you can say that again,” Tang instantly downed his shot before his face twisted with regret. “Man, I hate tequila. Why do I keep doing this to myself?”

“Because we’re broke as shit,” Pigsy teased.

“And because it’s cheaper than therapy,” Sandy added before slamming his.

“And God knows we can't get your piece of shit ‘father’ outta the paper if we tried,” Pigsy added, finally taking his shot too.

“You're telling me,” Tang grumbled. “And what's worse is I'm in that stupid photo– all day people have been walking up to me and talking about his achievements in space technology and blah blah blah– I'm sick of it! I'm sick of him! He's an asshole! Not someone who's going to unlock the cosmos!”

“Yeah, your pop's a real piece of work,” Pigsy cringed.

“More like a piece of shit. Tossing you out, and for what?” Sandy growled. “He's weak and pathetic, and if I ever see him in public, rest assured I'd teach him a lesson ‘bout respect,” Sandy swore, eyes dark and dangerous.

Tang scratched his neck. “I-I don't know if that's necessary, Sandy, but thanks,” He gave a pitiful smile, while the river demon just grunted.

“Right, well… another round, gentlemen?” Pigsy suggested.

“You know it,” Tang immediately agreed, going back to massaging his forehead. “I can't take another second of thinking about my stupid thesis or my parents, or this song, ugh,” he bemoaned, looking around the bar for a jukebox or whatever the music was coming from.

“Sandy?” Pigsy looked his way.

“Wouldn't be a Friday night without at least three shots of that horse shit,” the river demon agreed, slightly less dark in the eyes, and so another round was ordered.

However, by the time they were ready, Tang had already wandered off to fix his annoyance. It was hardly surprising, but made Pigsy shake his head nonetheless.

“You– uh– good on your own?” Pigsy asked.

Sandy chuckled. “Go find him. I'll be fine waiting until the smooch fest is over.”

“Har-har,” Pigsy rolled his eyes, taking his and Tang’s shots from the bar before beginning his search through the crowded bar.

It took a bit of weaving and bobbing, but eventually Pigsy found Tang standing by the jukebox with his coin purse out.

“Don’t tell me you hate this song that much you’d waste 50 mao– you could buy shitty ramen with that money,” Pigsy gave an exasperated sigh.

“I’m not allowed to buy shitty ramen anymore, remember?” Tang gave a little smirk, before going right back to the machine.

Pigsy rolled his eyes. “You and your spending habits fascinate me.”

“Trust me, this song’s gonna be worth it,” Tang insisted before inserting the five mao and selecting the right number.

The scholar watched with a dumb smile as the little robot arm took out the old CD and swapped it with the new one, eyes lit up like new years. Pigsy couldn’t imagine having that much excitement about some dumb machine, but it was one of the things he liked about Tang; He had a spark Pigsy lost years ago.

“Oo! Okay– okay– it’s starting!” Tang clapped his hands and finally turned to Pigsy, and jumped as he realized he had been holding their shots the entire time. “Sorry about that– I was just so excited– here,” he apologized, taking the drink from Pigsy.

“No worries,” Pigsy couldn’t help but laugh. “Ganbei?”

“Ganbei!” Tang cheered, clinking his shot glass against Pigsy's before they both drank just as the music started playing.

Immediately Pigsy's ears perked up as the familiar synth started to climb, and he started practically doubling over with laughter once the drums started.

“See? I told you you'd love it,” Tang grinned all stupid and dorky, making Pigsy wish he didn't know any better so he could grab his waist and kiss him already.

“This song is so stupid,” Pigsy said instead.

“What? You don't agree? Don't wanna ‘Lay All Your Love on Me’?” Tang batted his eyelashes.

“Tang,” Pigsy's face got all red and hot with pleasure, embarrassment, and a smidge of the alcohol kicking in.

“‘Don’t go wasting your emotion~ lay all your love on me,” Tang sang along, swaying his hips and throwing his hands in the air like a total idiot.

“You are way too much of a lightweight, you know that?” Pigsy raised a very amused eyebrow.

“And you’re too much of a hardass! C’mon, let’s dance,” His partner didn’t care one bit, moving to the beat with drunken, and irresistibly enticing carelessness.

“C’mon Tang, you know we can’t–”

“‘It was like shooting a sitting duck,’” Tang continued to sing, hands moving down his hips in an enticing way. “A little small talk, a smile, and I was stuck~”

Pigsy just rolled his eyes and stepped back, watching his partner with a stupid grin and hot face as he continued trying to serenade him.

“‘I still don’t know what you’ve done with me. A grown-up woman should never fall so easily,” Tang fake swooned, making Pigsy fold with laughter, the desire to join him growing stronger with each stupid flail and look.

“I feel a kind of fear, when I don’t have you near,” Tang batted his eyelashes. “Unsatisfied, I skip my pride, I beg you dear~” Tang extended his hand, and this time, with all inhibitions washed away with alcohol, Pigsy took it.

“‘Don’t go wasting your emotion, lay all your love on me~’” Pigsy sang along, and Tang looked so happy Pigsy could kiss him (but instead settled for placing his hands on his hips).

“Don’t go sharing your devotion, lay all your love on me~” Tang sang too, his fingers crawling up Pigsy’s arms in a way that made him shiver with delight.

They danced the whole music break together, the music and lights and Tang's general Tang-ness making it harder and harder for the pig demon to keep his hands off of him. It didn't help that the alcohol was certainly kicking in by now, making him feel all giddy and unable to look away from Tang's shaggy hair or how his changpao swayed and clung to parts of his body.

Damn it– Pigsy couldn’t take it anymore, Tang was just too irresistible when he was like this– and with the look Tang was giving him he had to know he was driving Pigsy insane– he needed him– he needed Tang now–

And so, not caring that the last verse wasn't over, Pigsy grabbed Tang’s hand and dragged him out to the back alleyway where he immediately started making out with him, which the scholar didn’t protest in the slightest.

“You’re– like– really fucking hot when you sing, you know that?” Tang said between kisses with a smug little grin.

“And you’re hot when you dance,” Pigsy replied shortly, wanting him to shut up so he could kiss him more.

Tang giggled. “Maybe I should dance for you back at the apartment~”

“Maybe you should.”

“Maybe I will~”

“God, shut the fuck up.”

“Oh sir, yes sir~”

“Tang–”

“Pigsy~ Oh-!”

That worked.

“Hey!” A voice called from down the alley.

Pigsy ignored it, gripping Tang's hair and scratches tight under his fingers, completely lost in the enchanting taste of his lover. Besides, he could easily be talking to someone else.

“Hey! I’m talking to you! What the hell you two think you're doing?”

Fuck.

Fuck– okay, slow down Pigsy, maybe he’s just step back and breathe. He's another dipshit in a long line of dipshits. You can deal.

Pigsy muttered under his breath, wiping his lips before he turned to face the bozo ruining his makeout session, sure to stand in front of Tang as he did. “Yeah?”

“This look like a fuckin’ fag house to you two?” The man spat, fingers curled into fists.

Pigsy rolled his eyes. “Maybe you oughta mind your business. What we’re doin’ ain’t got nothing to do with you,” he glared, and Tang put a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t do this, Piggy, it’s not worth it,” his partner whispered, but Pigsy brushed it off.

“We don't need more of your kind muckin’ around and taintin’ all the good bars in town,” the man sneered. “Every where I fuckin’ look there's more and more of you peach eaters.”

“Pigsy, let's just go back inside,” Tang urged, squeezing his shoulder.

“Look man, we're not here to cause trouble. Just go inside and–”

“You…” the man suddenly straightened up and pointed right at Tang, who hid closer to Pigsy. “You're the son of that rich space guy on the news, the one who’s gonna ‘take us to Mars’. I didn't know his son's a fuckin’ fairy– oh imagine the scandal,” He laughed, making Pigsy's blood boil.

“You leave him outta this,” He growled.

“What? What is this? Some kinda ‘Sugar Daddy’ situation? You suck his cock and he pays your rent?” The man howled with laughter.

“Watch it, I'm warning you,” Pigsy bared his teeth.

“Or better yet– his father kicked his faggot ass out and you’re the son of a bitch paying that jiàn fucker to have sex with you,” The man smiled and stepped closer. “How much for ‘im, huh? Ten yuan? Twelve? Five for a blowie, seven for a hand job?”

Pigsy heard Tang wince, which made Pigsy angry enough to shove the man. “I said to leave him outta this.”

“Pigsy– wait–”

“Aww, c’mon? You jealous? Or do you just not want word gettin’ out about your little wh–”

Pigsy sucker punched the idiot right in the jaw before he could finish his sentence, but the man was deceptively strong and managed to keep his stance.

“Oh I see how it is,” The man spat out some blood. “You wanna dance? Let’s dance.”

Pigsy swiftly went for another punch, but the man managed to dodge, grabbing and twisting Pigsy’s arm. His arm burned with pain, but Pigsy managed to kick the guy in the shin and knee, getting him to let go. When the demon went in for another punch, though, the man dodged and countered with one of his own, which hit him pretty hard.

“Yeah, you like that, you sick fuck?!” The man licked his lips, before he stuck the back of Pigsy's knee hard, bringing it to the ground.

“Pigsy!” Tang cried, getting the attackers attention.

“Oh, I'm sorry lover boy, am I hurting your paycheck?” He asked before trying to kick Pigsy in the ribs, which he mostly succeeded in, though the pig tried to grab his leg to stop it.

“You… leave him outta this!” Pigsy growled, anger burning just bright enough for him to grab and toss the guy to the ground. He gave a hard kick to the ribs for good measure, before running to Tang.

“Tang–” he panted– “Tang– you gotta get out of here– go– I can handle ‘im,” he urged, grabbing his shoulders.

“Wha–? No! I'm not leaving you like this! W-we should go together,” Tang shook his head tearfully, taking Pigsy's hand and pulling.

“Go back inside and find Sandy, it's okay,” The demon stood firm just as he felt the man get up and grab his shirt collar. Pigsy immediately jerked his head back, freeing him from his grasp.

However, he needed a stupid second to recover from the choking sensation, which was just long enough for the man to grab Pigsy's front collar and shove him against the wall, punching him again and again and again– and not just in the face, but in the stomach, in the ribs– everywhere. There was even a loud CRACK at one point that made his lungs feel on fire, but the man just kept going and going–

Until he suddenly stopped, though kept Pigsy pressed against the wall.

“Hey sweetheart, let's make an offer, eh?” The man suddenly looked to Tang who was trembling on the ground and pulling on his scarf, eyes wide with terror. “Let's say I get to take your sweet little queer ass home in exchange for this little piggy to live, eh?”

“S-stop this-! Let him go!” Tang choked out, finally bursting into sobs.

“I will! Just let me have the honor of seein’ you do a little dance or two for me,” the man grinned all smug, spurring up Pigsy's rage once again.

“You leave ‘im outta this, you son of a bitch,” Pigsy spat blood on his attacker, who gripped his throat tighter.

“C'mon, sweet thing, it's either you or the pork,” his assailant reached into his pocket where he had a switchblade– fuck–

Pigsy saw Tang's eyes go wide and briefly meet the chef's own. Immediately Pigsy shook his head– he wasn't worth it– he won't leave you alone– I can still fix this– Go. Home– when out of the blue the man was pulled away from him and Pigsy fell to the ground.

He felt Tang rush to his side instantly, though was alarmed when he realized he heard his attacker screaming– though when he looked up, it wasn't a surprise as to why.

Sandy had grabbed him, bending his arm the wrong way before kicking him to the ground and pinning him down. The man instantly begged him to stop– that he would just forget he ever saw any of them and call it a day, Pigsy knew that look in Sandy's eyes, and the river demon started striking again and again and–

“Pigsy–! Can you hear me?! Are you okay?!” Tang had apparently been trying to talk to the demon, though when he finally met his eyes, it didn't seem to matter as Tang just hugged him anyway.

“I'm so sorry– I'm so sorry– I could've stopped him– I was scared– I'm so sorry, I could've lost you,” Tang hiccuped.

“It's okay, Tang, it's okay, its–”

CRACK

Pigsy and Tang froze at the sound as the night air went still and silent, except for the sound of Sandy grunting and continuing to punch the ma–

The man's skull was cracked open– blood and liquids and chipped pieces of bones flowing and splattering out while Sandy continued– punch after punch after punch it just got worse– blood coating his friend's fist– splashing up to his elbows. The body squelched and cracked in noises so unholy it had the demon praying to the heavens it would stop and he could just forget the look in his friend’s eye– the look of pure, unfiltered, unadulterated rage as he beat the dead man again and again and again. It didn’t matter if he was punching a corpse, Sandy wouldn’t stop (maybe even couldn’t) until his rage– his bloodlust was satisfied.

Pigsy had known Sandy had anger issues, but never anything like this before…

Eventually, Tang sniffled and broke the embrace. “W-well… we should probably get you home– or to a hospital,” he smiled, looking over his shoulder. “Sandy–”

An unholy sound escaped Tang, as he instantly fell back and away from Sandy, grabbing Pigsy's arm as he watched in rigid terror. The sound was enough to make the river demon finally stop and stand, unnaturally still.

Pigsy struggled to make sound, the noise trapped in his throat. He tried to stand, and despite the fact it filled his chest with the intense burning of a thousand suns, he eventually got up.

“Sandy– it's– we can fix this, w-we just gotta get outta here, alright?” He looked around anxiously. The music was still thumping from inside the bar so it was impossible to hear if anyone was nearby, but Pigsy– Pigsy was sure they could make it.

“Y-yeah, we'll just– we just need to get outta here, alright? We'll just toss– toss… it, and then go to the apartment and just--we'll figure it out from there, alright Sands?” He forced a smile at Sandy, who didn't meet his eyes.

“Tang– Tang, let's get you up, okay? It's fine, we're all good, it's– we'll get new clothes, move to a new city, get new names– a new life. It'll be okay, everything is okay,” Pigsy tried helping Tang up, but his partner shriveled away from his touch, actively shaking with the wildest eyes Pigsy had ever seen.

“Tang– Tang, it's okay, it’s okay– we’ll just go home and lay low for awhile, it’s okay, please– just stand up and–”

“Pigsy, stop.” Sandy suddenly spoke up, deep voice cracking with emotion Pigsy couldn’t understand.

The pig blinked. “S-Sandy– Sandy, it’s okay, it’s gonna be okay–”

“No. It won’t.” He looked at Pigsy, revealing a face and bear battered with blood and bits of Pigsy’s attacker– a man– a person who was now completely annihilated and unrecognizable at the hands of the river demon.

Pigsy shook the thought away– he needed to get Sandy and Tang out of here, and fast. They were currently at the bar on Ba De and Shengli roads– Pigsy’s restaurant wouldn’t be for a couple blocks, but if Tang stopped by a corner store and got some baby wipes–

“Pigsy, you can’t make this better. Stop trying,” Sandy growled, making the chef take a step back directly against the wall of the bar.

“No! This– this can be fixed, he was an asshole anyways, w-we can just– we’re gonna go back to my place– Tang’ll go and buy baby wipes to clean you up a-and we’ll just fucking chill the fuck out for a couple days, alright?! It’ll be fucking fine!” Pigsy demanded, though shrank back when he saw Sandy’s eyes flash dangerously.

“Pigsy, it’s fucking over. Take Tang, and go home,” Sandy ordered.

“No! It’s– it ain’t over until I say it’s over and I don’t say so, s-so–!” Pigsy couldn’t stand looking at his friend, but everywhere else was stained and oozing and making Pigsy’s breathing even worse than before.

“Pigsy, it’s over, goddammit!” Sandy shouted, fists clenched in rage. “That man is dead, I killed him, and there is nothing you can do about it.”

“God, fucking– I didn't ask you to do this, Sandy!” Pigsy suddenly shouted, adrenaline pumping fast in his broken chest. “I had it handled! I coulda fixed this fucking problem all on my own but you had to be a fucking hero like you always do–”

“You really think if I hadn't arrived exactly when I did, your sorry ass wouldn't be bleeding out right now?” Sandy spat out a bitter laugh.

“I would've figured it out! But no! You have to go a-and make everything worse for yourself– and of course you won't let me fucking help you either! You're ridiculous!” Pigsy could laugh too, though it made him wince in pain.

“Take a look in a fucking mirror, Pigsy,” Sandy looked away and shook his head. “You need to get Tang and get outta here before you end up ruining not only your life, but Tang’s life too–”

“I didn't ask you to rescue me, alright?! You didn’t have to swoop in. I didn’t want this– I didn’t ask for this!” Pigsy’s voice cracked, and before he knew it tears started to form in his eyes.

“Yeah? Well I didn’t ask for you to be such a dipshit you’d let yourself get caught again, but you know by now we don’t all get what we want now, do we?” Sandy’s eyes narrowed.

“Jesus– this is just like you, you know that?” Pigsy threw his hands up, exasperated. “I go outta my way to try and protect you, and this is all the thanks I get. Nice. Real nice, Sandy,” he spat.

“Pigsy–”

“No… No, you know what?” Pigsy laughed, wiping his face of hot tears. “Let’s just– just shut up and go home already. Once we’re home, we can cool off a-and think straight and then we’ll have a plan for what we’re gonna do and what we’re gonna say. We just gotta get home first, I’m sure my Nana’ll be to help,” Pigsy tried to assert and grab Tang’s arm, but Sandy interfered.

“What, so you’ll drag her down too into this whole fucking nightmare too? Tang and yourself not good enough?” Sandy’s voice rumbled low and dangerous.

“Dammit, Sandy! I’m not letting you throw your life away! Not like this!” Pigsy begged, a sob making a quick escape before being suppressed.

“Pigsy, go before I make you,” Sandy warned, completely unmoved by the onslaught of emotion.

“No! I don’t care! I am getting you outta here a-and we’re gonna go home– and we’re gon–” Pigsy’s rambling was cut off by Sandy’s fist that sent him flying down the alley, another terrible shriek escaping Tang.

Immediate ringing flooded Pigsy’s ears, a fuzziness that had been mild before increasing tenfold now. He could feel Tang on him, grabbing him, shaking him, trying to see if he was okay. When Pigsy opened his eyes though, all he saw was Sandy holding the dead man’s knife and glaring down silently.

After a good, hard look, Sandy whispered, “Leave,” and before Pigsy could accept or refuse, Tang grabbed his arm and forced him to run up and away.

They made it all the way to the opposite block before they stopped, Pigsy's sides stinging and head throbbing too much to go on like that. Once the fuzziness cleared and the ringing in his head stopped, he finally got a good look at Tang and–

Oh. Oh god– he was still shaking like an animal, eyes wide and muttering utter nonsense to himself, a waterfall of tears streaming down his face as he rubbed his arms up and down and up and down.

“Tang– Tang, it's okay, you're okay,” Pigsy grabbed his shoulders, successfully getting his partner to look at him and loosen his shoulders a bit.

However, the second he relaxed he began to wretch and quickly stumbled to the nearest trash can where he puked his brains out while sobbing.

“Hey now, it's alright, you're okay Tang, I got you, you're alright,” Pigsy soothed tiredly, rubbing circles into his back while the scholar trembled at the effort.

It took ten minutes, but when he was done, Tang embraced his demonic partner, burying his head into his shoulder and sobbing out apologies and fears and worries and promises at lightning speeds. It made Pigsy feel like he was going to puncture a rib, but let Tang have his words, pressing a soft kiss against his head he didn't care if anyone saw and nuzzling close.

“It's alright, Tang. I got you. You're safe. It'll be okay,” he whispered, tears stinging his eyes yet again. He couldn't have chosen a more blatant lie in his life– his best friend killed someone, and was just left facing it all alone– it wasn't right! It wasn't fair! And by God was it infuriating.

Sandy was probably going to be sentenced to death for his crime, meaning the last interaction the two would ever have was him punching Pigsy in his stupid face.

Pigsy clenched his eyes shut and buried his face in Tang's scarf, finally letting out a loud sob.

His best friend was going to die because of him.

#lego monkie kid #lmk #pigsy lmk #sandy lmk #tang lmk #my fics #angst #homophobia #tw slurs #tw homophobia #tw violence #tw gore #freenoodles #pre canon #hate crimes #hurt no comfort #rip gang i'm so sorry for what I've done to you

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l-in-the-light · 2 days ago

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The Otherworlds merging... or is it something else? (spoilers for Silent Hill 2!)

Remember when James said this line to Eddie? Kinda ironic, considering the scene below...

Remember what he did just before he killed Mary? He tucked her in bed, kissed her goodnight (on the forehead), and then stared into her eyes for a good moment... turned his eyes away, then back again to hers, and he snapped immediately after.

"You can't just kill someone cause of the way they looked at you..."

"You see it too? For me, it's always like this"

Why is James able to feel the heat of Angela's Otherworld and the coldness of Eddie's? Why is he fighting Angela's monster? Why does Angela mistake him for her mother?

I don't think their Otherworlds are merging just because they have spend a lot of time with each other (they really didn't, it was like three meetings each in the original). They definitely couldn't have bonded to the point that James can understand Angela's pain and see her trauma personified.

Nobody can understand another person's pain and suffering, we're all different people with different experiences. Understanding that is the first step towards showing true empathy for someone.

If Abstract Daddy/Ideal Father looks the way he looks because we see him through James's eyes and through his life experiences/trauma, then why is it also Angela's monster and why are we fighting it? Does it suggest that James and Angela share similar (but not the same, it can never be the same) experiences in this particular case? Does James have traumatic memories related to his own father, Frank Sunderland?

Of course James also just wants to help Angela, to save her. James seems to have a saviour complex, which might be the result of Mary's illness (he wanted to save her but couldn't, because the disease was untreatable and fatal, there was no way to cure Mary and he could only watch her dying. He failed her).

But there's another side to this, if we consider that Silent Hill is a reflection of character's own personal traumas and creatures might represent personal triggers...

"Even my mama said it. I deserved what happened"

"You fat, disgusting piece of shit! You make me sick!"

"Well, what are you looking at? Get the hell out of here!" / "I was so angry, I struck out at everyone I loved. Especially you"

Angela, Eddie and James. They all share one theme in common in those lines above: being on the receiving end of emotional/verbal abuse.

When we look at the design of James's monsters, they share something in common: emphasis on the mouth area. Lying Figures early design had a very distinguishable mouth, the final design instead sprays "vomit" on you, which is said to represent Mary lashing out verbally at James. Bubble Head Nurse has a red square covering her mouth, like to seal it shut. Flesh Lips is the boss that is a lump of flesh with detailed pair of lips. Abstract Daddy actually follows this design trope as well.

It's James's monster, it represents him suffocating Mary, the memory he repressed. The monster wouldn't look this way if it was Angela's. Abstract Daddy doesn't represent what you think it does! It would look completely different if we saw it through Angela's eyes and it would look most likely like her father, not two people having intercourse on a bed. In other words, it was never depicting intercourse. It's supposed to be surreal representation, not *literal*, and if you think it's intercourse then you're going for the most literal interpretation ever, not symbolic. The "James suffocating Mary" might not even be the final interpretation of it either.

Why did they all met in Silent Hill in the first place?

Angela wanted someone to save her but also wanted to find her mom, Eddie had enough of the abuse but was a coward, they don't seem to have much in common, besides this: they both experienced lifelong abuse, lasting ever since their childhood, and at least big part of it was emotional/verbal abuse. If the story in Silent Hill 2 is told through parallels, then it suggests Mary wasn't the first time James experienced abuse either.

It makes sense. That's the reason why he couldn't bring himself to visit Mary in the hospital. She lashed out at him, it triggered him, but he didn't understand why he's reacting like that, why he has such a hard time going back to visit her, why he starts to hate her. Finally, he succumbed to alcohol to deal with the anxiety of resurfacing past trauma. Eddie btw did a similar thing, but he was overeating instead to deal with his triggers. Food calmed him down, even though it also made him gain weight and caused the bullying to intensify (most likely).

James forgot what he did to Mary. He shows signs of dissociating in many moments of the game (especially in the remake, like when he first cries after Maria died and then leaves her behind emotionlessly). His behaviour fits behaviour of someone used to being verbally abused as well: his quiet withdrawn behaviour, him shutting up immediately after someone lashes out at him (for example when Eddie screamed at him), never defending himself (Angela calling him names and he was just standing there quietly). James seems to remind Angela of her mother. In a family with history of abuse it rarely affects only one person. Her father was probably abusive towards the mother as well and if he lashed out at her often, she was probably a very withdrawn person, never defending herself, speaking in low quiet voice etc. This might be exactly the part which reminded Angela of her mother when she saw James, because that's how he always behaves as well.

He thought Mary died three years ago, because that's when Mary's disease started, and with it the verbal abuse as well. Maybe it wasn't even his first blackout experience either. When Laura locks him in the room, he has a really strong reaction, even begs her to let him out (despite not wanting to beg at first), and after Flesh Lips fight we have this weird sequence of staring at the ceilling, hallucinating Mary's voice, and James wakes up in a completely different place, doesn't know how he got out of that locked room. My guess is that was yet another of his dissociative blackouts.

You didn't want her around anymore. Admit it!

No...

You probably found someone else!

NO!

(this is literally the only moment in the game in which James assertively stands up for himself. Through the rest of the story he simply lets Maria, Laura and Eddie trashtalk him)

I wanted you out of the way. The truth is, I hated you *shakes head*. I wanted my life back.

If that's true...

Despite saying it so clearly before that he wouldn't want Mary out of his life and searching so desperately for her (I just want Mary back, I can't go on without you anymore), at the end he admits Angela was right... or was she? She didn't actually know him much. Mary, on the other hand, knew him probably the best in the world, and she claimed that what he said is not true. But if it's not true then why did James say that?

That's because he doesn't understand why he did what he did. He killed her most likely while experiencing a blackout or he snapped after reaching his breaking point, while triggered, and only later experienced a blackout. The only thing he remembers is the feelings he felt for Mary after she lashed out at him (hatred, helplessness, self-loathing), which weren't his feelings for Mary, but his reaction to the verbal abuse he experienced. But he couldn't seperate the past traumatic event from the trigger he was experiencing in the present. Vivid flashbacks and feeling like re-living a past trauma in the present moment are all signs of PTSD. As the result, a person might avoid meeting other people or situations that can even remotely remind them of their traumatic experience. Sounds like James avoiding to visit Mary in the hospital, to me. He of course didn't understand why he is behaving like that or why he feels so overwhelmed, so he ended up blaming himself and thought he is a bad partner as the result, as many people suffering from PTSD would, even though what they're going through isn't their fault.

I'm not saying that what James did was good (it definitely wasn't, and that's not the point I was trying to make at all). I'm just trying to point out that James shows signs of PTSD, just like Angela and Eddie do as well (is it a good depiction of PTSD? Definitely not perfect, but not too bad either. Could be better without the murder plotline). Silent Hill 2's story at the heart of it is actually a tragedy, not a murder story.

I wish we could know more about James and his past...

#silent hill 2 #silent hill 2 remake #james sunderland #trauma #ptsd #angela orosco #eddie dombrowski #it's been sitting in my head for a while #my tumblr is One Piece only but I'm making an exception #Silent Hill 2 is my favourite game after all #major spoilers for the game duh!#the actual reason for what James did #parallels in the story

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thenerdofthegroup · 1 day ago

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So, about the finale, as a lesbian I feel I can speak about this. And I think it’s slightly different to how others view it

Yes you can be disappointed. But the kiss WAS NOT the kiss of death. Agatha absorbed her magic. She didn't need to kiss her. She didn't need to caress her face. That is the last thing Agatha ever wanted. She wanted to kiss Rio that passionately, she wanted to feel her face, she wanted to be with Rio in her last moments, only her. That is beautiful. Yes she dies (but I don't mind her dying IF IF IF THEY SHOWED HER TRULY LOVING AND LIVING IN HER PAST but oh well) but it wasn’t the kiss. The kiss was her trying to truly live before she goes. Finally feeling love that she hasn’t felt in centuries.

Actually if I were to pin it, and it is using something someone else said, the kiss was forgiveness. Him bringing up nick was bad but she didn’t sacrifice herself for him. She did it as an apology. Rio did do so much for her BUT a mother will never have enough time with her child. And Agatha is an angry person. She will never see what Rio did as a gift in her rage but IN THAT MOMENT she realised. She realised it was a gift that she hasn’t paid back. This is her paying it back. And she knew she could be a ghost so… it was a calculated risk! She apologised and through it she can still be around

But…

Now, if I could add two thing that wouldnave made all of this fine and not fall flat (and learnt they did actually do the first which makes it worse):

Agatha FULL history. From birth to the present. That episode should have had 30 minutes more AT LEAST of just her backstory

They should have had a talk in the after life. Agatha and Rio. A proper conversation. No lying. No false. Because Agatha was still being fake for a lot of it. I fully believe they were not really fighting they were pissing about. Because two of the most powerful magic users just throwing energy blasts?!?!?! No. One of the only truly real things we got in 8 and 9 from Agatha is her kissing Rio. That was pure love. For Rio and for nick. We needed a continuation. So the death didn't feel like the end. Yes Agatha is a ghost but it was the stopping point for her and Rio. What should have happened is a conversation in the afterlife where Agatha calls for her and Rio appears and they just talk. They talk about why Agatha has been so cruel, why Rio has been doing everything. Just a talk. That's all we needed.

What Kathryn and Aubrey did give us in the time they allowed was beautiful. And learning that they apparently removed so much of Agatha's backstory so Billy could have the last third hurt. It really did. (Toast of twitter said that the entire finale was her backstory but they changed it).

So yes, the update is I'm still curious about the stuff we didn't get and it ending with billy trying to fucking banish her, give the lamest dialogue ever and suddenly Agatha wants to help find Toby. I still fully believe she is only tagging along to find Wanda but yeah. Agatha’s story in the end was thrown to shit for billy but fine. What SHPULD HAVE BEEN is we got more. And I'm positive we did get more before Disney got it’s guillotine to it and the very few Rio seems we would have gotten because Aubrey was filming a whole different movie she clearly wanted to do more than this, they cut. Because there was meant to be more. I am positive of it

But safe to say, I love ghost Agatha. And the grey hair is personal to me. Do I wish it will become a curly bob and she looked like, to me, her closest resembling comic panel (below, like tell me that isn't Kathryn in her 70’s) yeah. But that's nitpicking because her hair is long and luscious. The nits I will be picking is above. Because the above would have made everything fine.

#agatha harkness #agatha all along #kathryn hahn #kathryn you do no wrong #I love you #and the kiss isn't the problem #it was the lack of anything afterwards #THAT is what would have made it fine #to truly see it wasn't the end #but… it kinda was #now she's just going to be a side character again #with very little

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narcjsistx · 2 days ago

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𝐔𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐃 | kaiser x reader

— part three

plot: kaiser comforted you after a bad and slow breakup, but what will happen now considering what you two shared? is everything still unexpected or is there something you both simply have yet to realize?. fluff shit 'cause yeah!!

words: 2.9k (2951)

extra: it will probably become a multi part story, tell me if you're interested in a part four!

𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ; take a look, trust me!

The airport, at night, had always seemed like an extremely quiet place to you; often your flights, just like this one in the end, arrived at their destination when it was already dark outside, and going down the steps of the plane in the cold night had always been a pleasant sensation for you. But not this time, when everything seemed out of place while your head still hurt from the fight with Gabriele

Even if at least 3 hours had passed and you were completely in another country, Gabriel's shadow always seemed to be a few steps behind you, looking for the right moment to attack you and suck every last drop of blood from you

The flight had been quick, barely two hours. Berlin had welcomed you with its usual beauty, which fascinated you every time. Your phone had run out of battery just before entering the Milan airport, leaving you with no news from Kaiser. You didn't know if he had read the message, if he was at home, if he was first of all still convinced of his proposal: everything still seemed to be understood, and not having the situation under control was strange for someone like you

During the flight you often thought about Kaiser, but it's often a nice and reductive way of saying always: the thought of seeing him again, of hugging him, of living under his roof again were all sensations that you had terribly missed. His touch was something you craved after so many hands that had touched you only to hurt you

You simply needed Michael

The moment you plugged in the charger at the airport and your phone came back to life, your phone's notifications were flooded with nothing but Kaiser: you had received a few calls, a few messages and even an email. You find yourself smiling almost unconsciously, opening the chat

mihya ♡

— are you serious? — 17:59

— tell me you're not joking and you actually accepted — 18:00

— y/n?? — 18:13

— your phone shows disconnected, maybe you're on a plane — 18:29

— call me — 18:32

— call me as soon as you get off, I'll stay outside until I see the plane land — 18:41

— you don't know how happy it makes me to know that you are here with me again — 18:57

Reread the last message more than a few times, and the smile on your face doesn't seem to want to fade; Kaiser never dares to say such sweet things, but the fact that he did it with you makes you extremely happy. Suddenly, to yourself, you wondered why you hadn't moved back there before. You would have suffered much less

mihya ♡

you — I'm at the gate — 19:47

— I saw you. I'm coming to you — 19:47

You write the message and look up, looking for him among the sea of people walking in their own hurry. Knowing that he responded right away and was waiting for you warms your heart. Noticing blonde and blue hair should be simple, yet where is he? why don't you see anyone approaching?

"Damn" you whisper to yourself, standing on tiptoe to look for him, but you feel as if Gabriel's shadow disappears to make room for another, more reassuring one. You whip around and a pair of cerulean big eyes stare back at you, the usual smirk on his pale, smooth face "Found"

For just a second, the world seems to stop; you look at each other, one's eyes on the other's figure, and for a fraction of time that seems to last too short, you find yourself thinking about what it would be like to kiss him again. Kiss him out of love, not driven by the moment as had happened to you that night in the hotel. Simply knowing what his lips would taste like for a kiss given on the fly, just like that. But the feeling doesn't last long, replaced by one of strangeness for even having imagined such a thing

“Hey” you say, waving at him with your free hand, the other holding the suitcase. But it's not long before he pulls you into a hug, his hands resting on the small of your back. Sweet shivers run down your spine, and you wonder why you all suddenly you seem like a whore for his touch. You just really hope he doesn't notice, because it would be extremely difficult to explain. He stays like that for a few seconds, before you place your free hand against his back, returning the hug. Kaiser lets out a satisfied sigh before pulling away, picking up your suitcase without even asking your permission "I can carry it" you say trying to take the handle again, but he shakes his head "Don't you dare. Are you tired?" he asks

You would like to answer him simply, tell him that at the moment tiredness is eating you alive and the stress of the last fight with Gabriel is still corroding your veins. But now, with him, everything seems a little lighter

"A little, but because of the flight. A good sleep and I'll be better" you say walking next to him as you head towards the airport exit. He watches you, but doesn't seem completely convinced by your words "Is that all?" he asks raising an eyebrow, and you know very well that sooner or later you will have to explain the situation to him in full “For what you need to know now, yes"

You exit the building, your suitcase in the back seat and you and him sitting comfortably in the front seats. The car leaves, walking a road you already know: when you lived with Kaiser, you were often the one who came to pick him up when he returned from another country, and you walked along the exact same road that led, and continues to lead, to his house

"This sudden decision?" the guy says, switching gears "Don't get me wrong, but you still had some doubts on the call. You told me to wait before you hung up on me, and I don't know why" he says, and you understand what he means. You look through the window, Berlin slowly returning to your memory with all its particularities

"Gabriel is back" you say, and notice how his expression changes radically "He acted crazy, and still being there made me realize that there would probably be bad consequences. So I accepted, removing any doubts" you say, your hands calm on your lap. Kaiser nods, but his grip on the steering wheel remains tighter than necessary

"I should have asked you before, but I thought it was one of your usual things where you argue and two days later everything is normal. I'm glad that this time you've really opened your eyes, at least on this topic" he says almost in a sarcastic tone, which however you don't understand all of a sudden "At least in this topic?" you ask, and Micheal turns to look at you for a few seconds before looking back at the road ahead, leaving you with no answer. You glare at him for a few seconds, then sigh; you look back out the window, and suddenly the silence seems to weigh heavy between you

The road passes quietly under your and his gaze, and even before you realize it, you arrive at the iron gate that opens onto Micheal's house. The car passes him and stops in the cobblestone driveway, before it shuts down completely. Kaiser gets out and consequently you too, heading to get your suitcase, but again he is the one who picks it up and carries it into the house.When you enter the house, an old feeling of familiarity enters your veins, reminding you of many beautiful memories: the dinners at midnight when he returned from training, the sports themed evenings where he forced you to pass the ball to him inside the house, the days where you simply stayed lying on the sofa together was the only solution. There is a reason, after all, that you consider the years here to be your happiest

And knowing that for now this will be your new home makes you calm, much more than you were in Milano, always suspicious and sad

"The house also missed you" the boy says ironically, placing the suitcase at the entrance; you giggle, rolling your eyes as you take off your coat “And I missed the house” you say feeling more confident. Kaiser lets out a laugh as he motions for you to follow him into the kitchen, which you do. As you walk, nothing seems to have changed except just the color of the walls, which have now gone from light white to grey

“You didn't have dinner, right?” he asks going towards the fridge "No. I didn't have the chance" you admit, but in fact you weren't really hungry, still with an upset stomach after the fight "I suspected. Sit down, I'll make you something" he says taking some eggs, but you shake your head before approaching and taking the food in your hand "Don't worry, it's not a big problem. Have you eaten?" you ask, and he glares at you, almost hurt "Don't worry about that, I'll eat something later. Sit down" he says moving his head, and you're about to reply when he shushes you again "This is your home again, you don't have to well done" he says, and a smile tugs at your lips before you sigh, finally sitting down

Kaiser starts preparing something, and you watch as he moves around the kitchen. You were used to seeing him cook, but seeing him do it at his house with the knowledge that it was yours again had a different flavor. You wanted to ask him so many things, but above all if he really wasn't often at home or had only told you to convince you. The company, appreciated above all, would not have hurt you like someone else “Mihya” you call to him, and he turns around “Hm?” he murmurs, returning to his work "Are you really not home often?" you ask, thinking about it "I know you guys are playing some kind of league right now, so you're busy. I also saw that you had a game today, but in Berlin" you say, hiding the fact that you had this afternoon's game against PxG seen in full “When are you leaving next?” you ask

Kaiser places a plate of eggs and vegetables in front of you, before sitting down on the chair in front of yours "I'm often not at home because of the championship, yes. Today it was a coincidence that I was playing in Berlin, but in general I go to hotels with the rest of the team. The next game should be in Cologne tomorrow afternoon, so I should leave tonight, but-" he says, and you interrupt him almost immediately "You should get ready if you have to leave, then" you say worriedly, but he shakes his head "-But, since you have arrived, I will leave alone and ask to come back first. You are here, and I don't like leaving you alone no matter how much you want it. The team will leave tonight and I will join them by train tomorrow morning" he says, putting down his head on the table on his folded arms

The carrot you were eating gets stuck in your throat, and a sense of embarrassment spreads around you. You look at Kaiser, who gave up something so important just for you, who looks at you with an attention he has never paid to anyone since you've known him. The gaze is returned, and a strange sense of tension stops between you

You want to let win your intrusive thoughts that tell you to kiss him and ask him why you had sex win, but you resist for the shred of dignity you have left. But, in your eyes at least, he also seems to be fighting the urge to do something

"You shouldn't have. But thank you, Mihya" you say trying to get everything back to normal, but his damned look doesn't seem to give in even as the words return to compensate for the silence

You eat in silence, glancing at each other as you finish your meal. Without really noticing it, it's later than you expected: you both enter the room you used a few years ago, and everything is left as you left it, only some of his prizes have taken their places on the shelves "I'll take them out as soon as I have a few minutes" he says, placing the suitcase on the floor "Don't worry, I like them. They're shiny, they reflect you" you say sitting on the floor, opening the suitcase which contains few stuff for a stay. Kaiser notices this immediately "You didn't bring much stuff" he says, sitting down on the bed, his knees a few centimeters from your face "I know. I'll buy something here or have the rest shipped to me somehow from Milano" you say, sticking out a underwear vest, which you decided on the spot that you will use as pajamas. Micheal nods almost immediately as he watches you place some of your things in the room. You missed these four walls, you missed everything and especially Kaiser

Right now, the situation you're in is even more confusing: even though you know he'll be out of town a lot, sooner or later the topic of that night will come up. And probably, knowing both yourself and him, other topics will come up in the heat of the moment. Your goal is to put this situation off for as long as possible, because adding this to your already stressed state would be fatal for you. At the same time though, you need so many answers that you can't count them on the fingers of your hands. However, you also need answers from yourself, because after a fresh breakup you already find yourself having such strange thoughts with the last person in the world you should have them about, your best friend

Best friend. Kaiser has been your best friend for a long time, but what are you actually to him? His best friend, he would tell you, the girl who is closest to him at the moment. But how can you still consider someone you slept with as your best friend and with whom you have always sought physical contact ever since, even as simple as holding hands?. The way you loved each other that night wasn't best friends, not even fuck buddies because otherwise you wouldn't have given it any weight once it happened. That gesture was dictated by love, and it scared you

Love had reduced you to something insignificant, and above all, loving Kaiser wasn't possible: he was your best friend, or at least that was the label you felt like saying. Loving him meant going back to that time many years ago where you had desperately loved him but never done anything to call him yours. You were a little girl at the time, now you were a woman and, above all, in the midst of a world class scandal. Everything indicated that there was no possibility, even remote, of being able to love him again. Then, you didn't really know what he thought about it, and on the one hand you preferred to stay in the dark so as not to face other problems

You were confused, maybe he was seriously having fewer problems than you were having everything. Maybe it really was all in your head

“Y/n” Micheal says, snapping you out of your thoughts that were seriously going to the worst “Sorry I got distracted, tell me” you say folding some sweatshirts, putting them in your new closet “I'm seriously happy to see you here again. I'd rather you be alone but well than with that crazy guy" Kaiser says, getting up from the bed as he approaches you. You watch him, his hands pulling you into a hug again, slower this time, as if he's taking his time: his arms slide along your sides, practically ending up on the outer part of your lower back, his head resting on your shoulder

You would like to say that his words don't have as much effect on you, that it's not a problem like all the others already on the list, but you would be lying. It's doing exactly what makes you even more confused, making your brain feel like goo

"Mihya, I-" you say embarrassed, not knowing how to respond to such an important sentence like his "You don't need to tell me anything. Let me stay like this for a few more minutes before I go to bed" he says against your neck, and now even that little bit of brain you had is now officially gone. You sigh perplexedly, now placing your arms around his neck as you let yourself be lulled by the beautiful sensation

“I'm glad to be back here. I missed all this” you say, caught up in the moment. You didn't tell a lie, because actually the first months away here were extremely complex, and still remained so after years. You fiercely loved the feeling of living with Kaiser, but for a long time you had had to hide it from Gabriel, thus minimizing trips to Germany and especially to the blond and blue boy's house

"I missed you instead" he says almost in a whisper, but it reaches your ears straight like a blow, an electric shock, straight to your heart

Maybe the situation was even more complicated than you imagined until a little while ago

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