#flashback: a long trail of ashes

[pedrospatch]

to hell and back l two

Post Outbreak! Joel Miller x Female Reader

series masterlist l main masterlist l next chapter

summary: After escaping a group of brutal slavers, you are left with permanent physical and emotional scars. Unwilling to put your trust in another human being ever again, you spend a year fighting for survival alone in the post outbreak world. But when you choose to save the life of a man named Joel Miller, the wall that you’ve built to protect yourself slowly begins to crumble.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. canon violence, canon language, reader has a flashback, mentions of slavers, implied threat of assault, guns, reader gets groped, reader has a panic attack, a lot of angst, trauma. soft Joel, protective Joel, and i even threw in some domestic Joel because just imagine that old man making you a nice lil late night snack. 🥹 i think i got most of the major warnings out of the way, i’m sorry if i missed anything!

Word Count: 8.7k

Smoke was coming off my jacket

and you didn’t seem to mind

I left a long trail of ashes and

you said, I like your style

California l Spring, 2023

Your hand trembled slightly as you gripped your pistol and aimed it at his chest.

You’d never pointed your gun at another human being before. At least not one that was still alive.

“Hey now, it’s alright. You can trust us.”

Anxiously, you glimpsed from the man who had just spoken to the woman who stood beside him.

Surely the two had to be related. Both possessed the same fiery red hair, a face full of freckles, and vivid green eyes. They stood before you with their weapons lowered in an attempt to show you that they weren’t a threat to your safety. 

The man, who had to be in his mid to late thirties, moved to step forward, but halted in his tracks when he caught sight of the way your finger had twitched over the trigger. “My name is Mark,” he said, carefully gesturing to himself with his free hand. In his opposite hand, he clutched his rifle, an assault style weapon that made your gun look like a fucking toy in comparison. Still, it was you who had the upper hand, at least for now. “This here is my sister. Her name is Jessa.” He paused and when you said nothing, he asked, “Can you tell us your name?”

Chewing your bottom lip, you shook your head at him in response. 

You didn’t trust them.

Not quite yet.

Jessa, who was younger and looked to be closer to your own age, offered you a kind smile. “That’s alright. You don’t have to tell us your name until you feel comfortable.” She took a look around at the small, makeshift camp that you had made for yourself. “Are you all by yourself, sweets?”

You quickly wracked your brain. 

“No,” You fibbed. “I’m with my father. He should be back any minute now. He’s armed and he does not take all too kindly to strangers, so you’d best be on your way before he sees you.” You added in a steadier tone, “He won’t even think twice. He’ll just kill you on the spot, so you better leave right now. Or else.”

Amused, Mark let out a soft chuckle. “Oh, come on now, dollface. You don’t have to lie to us,” he stated, shaking his head. “Let’s try this again and let’s be honest this time, alright? How long have you been alone?”

Your throat bobbed as you swallowed harshly. 

Fuck.

He had seen right through the bullshit threat. 

“For about three or four days now,” You admitted, your shoulders sagging in defeat. “I was with my father and my sister. The three of us were on our way up north. We were trying to get to Seattle to the quarantine zone, but then they were—”

You suddenly stopped.

It felt like someone had driven their fist right into your gut, knocking all the wind out of your lungs and hindering your ability to speak.

You couldn’t even say it out loud.

Gruesome images of them being torn apart limb from limb flashed through your mind. Bile slowly started climbing its way up your throat and your stomach churned violently.

You were going to be sick.

“Are they both dead?” Mark questioned you.

You nodded, whispering shakily, “Yes.”

Jessa frowned. “I’m so sorry for your loss, honey. If it’s any consolation, me and Mark know exactly how it feels. We lost our entire family about three years ago. It’s the hardest thing we’ve ever been through.” Swinging back her own rifle behind her, she approached you and reached out, placing her hand over yours—the one that was still clutching your weapon. She didn’t even so much as flinch at the way the barrel was now pointed at her, how it was just an inch or two away from her chest. It didn’t seem to faze her that all it would take was you bringing your index finger down a bit harder on the trigger and she would be dead. “We know you must be fucking terrified, but it’s okay. You can trust us. We’re good, honest people and we just want to help you. But we can’t do that if you try and kill us, now can we?”

Slowly, Jessa guided you to lower your gun. She then looked over her shoulder, exchanging a look with her brother, as if asking him to back her up.

“Yeah. She’s right. We just want to help you,” he repeated after her. “We aren’t going to hurt you. If we wanted to, we probably would have by now, don’t you think so?”

You let out a tiny breath you hadn’t even realized you’d been holding and loosened your iron grip on your pistol.

He did make a fair point.

Now that your gun was pointed at the ground, he could have easily killed you. And yet, he’d made no move to blow your fucking head off. 

Maybe they really were good people.

But what if they weren’t?

What if it was just a trap?

You didn’t know what to fucking think.

All you knew was that you were so helplessly lost now that your family was gone.

You were afraid.

Alone.

Jessa turned back to you. “Listen, we’re part of a settlement,” she informed you. “It’s not all too far from here, maybe six or seven miles tops. We’ve got a really big group of people and we’re always looking to bring in anyone in need. Come with us, sweets. There’s plenty of food, water, and we can you into some fresh, clean clothes too. How does that sound?” 

You momentarily hesitated, still unsure whether or not you could trust the two strangers. 

How did it sound?

It sounded too fucking good to be true.

“It’s a safe place,” Mark assured you from behind her. He could see the reluctance written all over your face. 

“It’s as safe as safe can be,” Jessa promised. She touched your arm and flashed you another smile, one that was more kind than the first—one that was so comforting it made you feel like you could actually trust her. “So? What do you say? Will you come back with us? Will you let us help you?”

You nervously bit the inside of your cheek.

Scared, starving, and exhausted, their offer for a safe haven was much too tempting to decline.

Besides, how long could you possibly survive out here all on your own?

“Alright,” You finally agreed after a moment. “I’ll come with you.”

“There’s just one condition,” Mark stated, falling into step beside his sister in front of you. “We’re going to need you to hand over your weapon.”

“What?” You stared at him. “Why?”

“Oh, don’t worry. It’s protocol,” he said, waving a hand dismissively at you. “It’s purely for safety reasons. Anyone who comes into our group must surrender their weapons. We want to be sure that we’re bringing in someone who isn’t going to be a threat to our people. We have children, so we just want to be cautious, you know?”

“I guess that does makes sense,” You admitted. 

“You’ll get it back,” Jessa reassured you. “Once you speak to the council and they determine you aren’t a threat, you’ll get your gun back. Okay?”

Left with very little choice, you agreed. “Okay.”

Mark held out his hand for the weapon.

Slowly, you placed your pistol in his open palm.

“Perfect.” Jessa chirped. “Now grab your things and let’s get going. If we hurry up, we can make it back before nightfall.”

Nodding, you turned around to grab your pack. 

The second you turned your back, the barrel of the same gun you’d just handed to Mark poked you between your shoulder blades and you froze, your blood running cold in your veins.

“Hands up, bitch,” Jessa commanded. Her warm and friendly tone had vanished. “And turn around towards me slowly. Now.”

Terrified, you did as you were told and you lifted both of your hands, turning around on the heel of your sneaker to face her.

Her expression, much like her tone, was frigid.

Hostile.

“You’re going to do exactly as I say when I say it.” She held up her rifle, aiming it at you. “And if you don’t, you fucking die. Do you understand?”

“Please,” You choked out. “Don’t—”

“Do you fucking understand?” Jessa repeated in a hiss, her finger hovering over the trigger. When she was met with a small, meek nod, she turned to look at her brother. “Cuff her.”

Mark smirked. He tucked your gun away into the waistband of his jeans and reached into his back pocket, pulling out a pair of rusted handcuffs. He walked around and stood behind you, instructing, “Hands behind your back.” Once he had both of your wrists in one hand, he used the other to slip on the cuffs, tightening them so hard that the old oxidized steel dug painfully into your skin. “She’s a pretty one,” he murmured. As soon as he made certain the cuffs were securely fastened, he put a hand on your ass, groping it roughly. “Oh, you’re going to be popular with the guys, dollface. Kind of makes me want to break you in, right here and right now—give me a few minutes with her, Jess.”

Completely paralyzed with fear, all you could do was stand there in silence as his hands continued to roam your lower body, feeling you up through your jeans. He squeezed at your inner thigh, then brushed up over your zipper.

“Mark! That’s not what she’s for, you idiot,” Jessa reminded him, rolling her eyes. “Now quit fucking around and let’s start heading back to camp.”

She whirled around and started leading the way.

Mark grinned and pressed his mouth to your ear as he whispered in cruel reassurance, “Don’t you worry, now. I’ll get my chance with you—we’re all going to our chance with you.”

He grabbed you by your upper arm and roughly shoved you forward, leading you to what would inevitably be hell on earth.

Joel leans against the tree with his arms crossed over his chest. His dark eyes are fixed intently on you, carefully observing you from where he stands, more so out of concern rather than curiosity. Something isn’t right.

It’s late in the afternoon and the two of you had been about halfway into the six hour trek down south to Jackson when Joel offered to stop for a while, just long enough for the both of you to rest and take a quick breather, find a second wind before finishing the journey—but as he continues watching you, Joel starts to realize that perhaps stopping had done you much more harm than it’s done you good. 

Just a few feet away from where he’s standing and keeping a watchful eye on you, you sit perched on top of a small, flat boulder hugging your knees up to your chest with both hands wrapped tightly around the grip of your pistol. 

You’re in a trance like state, staring straight off into the distance at nothing in particular. Your face is completely blank. Emotionless. It appears that while all the lights are on, nobody is fucking home. 

Squinting against the sunlight, Joel takes a closer look at you. He sees it so clearly, the faraway look in your eyes. 

You are gone. You’ve checked out and completely disconnected from reality. 

He would go as far as saying you’ve disconnected from this fucking planet.

You’re sinking, slowly drowning in some kind of thought or perhaps it was a memory—whatever it is that’s currently preoccupying your mind, it sure as hell isn’t anything good. He has no fucking clue how he’d managed to clock it so easily, so quickly, but Joel had sensed something was wrong the instant you’d drifted off. 

The deeper you go and the further you lose yourself, the harder your hands clutch at your grin, the thin delicate skin on your knuckles stretching taught over the bones. It’s not until Joel notices the way your chest begins to rise and fall rapidly as your breaths quicken, the way you start struggling for air, that he knows it’s time for him to intervene before you worsen and suffocate under the weight of whatever it is that’s sitting so heavily on you. 

Pushing himself away from the tree, Joel begins to approach you, taking extra care so as not to spook you into turning your pistol on him and pulling the trigger in a moment of panic. He lifts both of his hands and holds them out in front of him. Cautiously, Joel makes his way over towards where you’re sitting on the boulder, his footsteps slow and careful. 

“Hey,” he calls out to you, keeping his tone firm, but somehow still gentle as he tries to garner your attention. When you don’t even acknowledge him or his presence, he tries again, speaking a little bit louder. “Hey. S’okay. S’alright. Everythin’ is alright—come on back now.” Joel draws closer and closer to you, taking tiny step after tiny step on the steel toes of his worn, black leather boots. “S’alright, darlin’. I need you to come back to me now, okay? You ain’t where you think you are. You’re alright—”

The sound of a twig snapping underneath his boot startles you. Jumping to your feet, you aim your gun at him with shaking hands and wild, terrified eyes. 

Even as your finger trembles over the trigger, Joel remains calm. “Hey, c’mon. Take it easy. S’okay. You’re alright. Look, it’s me. It’s just me and I ain’t gonna do anythin’ to hurt you,” he swears. He shows you his empty hands, hoping that you would be able to snap out of it and realize that he isn’t a threat. That you aren’t in any kind of danger. But as you hold your weapon, chest heaving as you panic, Joel knows it doesn’t matter that his hands are empty. It doesn’t make a fucking difference. He knows it isn’t him who is standing in front of you.

It’s someone else. Whoever you were seeing standing there in his place, it’s someone who had done god knows what to you. Joel has a gut wrenching hunch it had something to do with the marks he’d seen around your wrists back at the cabin. The mere thought of it is enough to send an unpleasant chill up and down the length of his spine. 

Joel speaks again. “I ain’t gonna hurt you.” He feels the sudden urge to reach out for you, but knowing it would be unwelcome, he resists it. All he can do is try and use his words to bring you back to the present. Back to him. “Breathe. You’re safe. I need you to breathe, can you do that for me? Do you think you can breathe for me, darlin’?”

Somehow, his voice penetrates its way in through the thickness of the white fog that you’d been lost in. You had been stumbling around helplessly in it, desperately searching for a way through. Joel’s heavy, deep Southern drawl permeates the memory, causing the haunting images from that fateful day when your life had taken a sharp turn for the worst to dissolve into nothing. 

“Just breathe. Nice and slow. Inhale through your nose, then out through your mouth. Easy does it.” Joel controls his own breathing, slowing it down to demonstrate. He inhales deeply through his nose and exhales slowly through his mouth. 

You stare at him with wide eyes as you fight to get the rise and fall of your chest to match his. How the hell do you know what to do? 

Joel can practically hear your question ringing in your mind amidst the chaos. “My kid, she gets these awful nightmares sometimes. Wakes up in a panic thinkin’ she’s somewhere else, somewhere she ain’t safe. So my brother’s wife, Maria, well she was kind enough to show me what to do whenever it happens. She taught me a couple different breathin’ techniques that help soothe Ellie and calm her down. Told me it helps if I do them with her,” he explains to you. He can tell that you’re now coming out of the worst of it and that you’re finally starting to get some oxygen back into your lungs. He lowers his hands. Your pistol is still aimed at him, but Joel trusted you enough to know that you wouldn’t pull the trigger and blow his fucking head off. “C’mon, breathe. There we go. That’s it. Easy does it, now. In through your nose and out through your mouth, that’s it. That’s a good girl.” 

It takes you a good minute or two, but your breaths fall into sync with his own and before you know it, the two of you are breathing together in harmony. 

Oh. You’re not in California.

The man standing before you doesn’t have red hair and green eyes. He doesn’t have that twisted smirk on his face. He isn’t putting his hands on you. He’s not hurting you. He’s helping you. 

Swallowing dryly, you lower your weapon. Your gaze meets Joel’s and somehow you find the courage to look him in his eyes for the very first time. Even though you had turned your gun on him, he doesn’t seem to be bothered by it all. He isn’t upset or angry. The look of worry on his face has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that you could have easily killed him just now. It’s as if he’d known for certain that you wouldn’t pull the trigger.

“There we go,” Joel says after another minute passes by. “You see? You’re alright. You’re safe.”

There’s comfort in his words, in his deep brown eyes.

Fuck, there’s comfort in him. 

Still. Your mind refuses to allow you to accept it.

At least, not completely. 

Averting your gaze, you shuffle your weight from one foot to the other and then back again. 

Joel clears his throat lightly. “It’s gettin’ real late,” he murmurs. “We should get a move on. We’ve still got a bit of a way to go and we really don’t wanna get ourselves caught out in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere after dark for too long, y’know?”

You give him a small nod and start to gather up your belongings. You pick up your canteen, which is now almost completely empty after you’d shared your water with him during the first leg of the hike, and shove it into one of the side pockets of your back.

“S’kinda cold,” Joel states. “And it’ll only get colder as nightfall approaches. You, uh—you warm enough in that little denim jacket?”

You shrugged a shoulder at him, not thinking anything much of the question. I’m fine. 

However, as if on cue, a chilly breeze blows its way through Wyoming’s plains, causing you to shiver.

Joel quickly shrugs out of his brown jacket. “You mind if I—?”

You toss him a confused glance. 

Do I mind if you what? 

Joel steps towards you and lifts his arms as if he’s going to put them around you. Flinching, every muscle in your entire body goes rigid and he halts. “S’alright. I’m just gonna give you my jacket, that’s all,” he assures you, his arms frozen midair. He patiently waits for a small nod of approval. Once he has it, he drapes his jacket over your shoulders and then takes several steps back, giving you your space. “Should keep you from freezin’ your ass off out here.”

As he turns around and walks over to where he had set his rifle down, you stand there somewhat stupefied over what he’d just done. Something so simple, and yet you can’t seem to wrap your fucking brain around it. 

Willing yourself to move, you carefully slide both of your arms into the sleeves of his jacket, wrapping it around your body. The scent of him, a mixture of earthy sandalwood and whatever soap he uses to wash his clothes, fills your senses and a strange, but pleasant warmth radiates throughout your chest, gradually spreading itself to the rest of your body from head to toe. 

Ignoring the feeling, you pick up your backpack along with your bow and quiver of arrows, slinging everything over your shoulders. 

Joel slings the strap of his rifle over his shoulder and turns back to you. “Ready to get goin’?”

Pistol in hand, you gesture for him to go ahead and walk in front of you, much like he’d done for the first half of the trip.

He lets out a small sigh. “Alright, I get it. Still don’t fully trust me. Well, we’ll keep workin’ on that, then.”

A couple of hours had gone by. The slanting rays of the setting sun give a warm orange tinge to the skies as late evening begins settling itself in. 

“Y’wanna know somethin’?” Joel asks, breaking the silence between you.

You look up at the back of his head, your eyes fixing themselves on his mop of thick, unkempt salt and pepper waves. Occasionally, as you’d been slowly trudging along behind Joel, you stole glimpses of the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck and brushed against the collar of his henley.

Despite the lack of a response, Joel continues to talk. “Earlier at the cabin, just when I was startin’ to come back around, I heard a woman singin’ to me. At least, it sure seemed like she was singin’ to me. It was a real pretty song too.” He glances over his shoulder at you with curiosity. “Was that you?”

You blink at him, keeping a straight face. 

“Hm, no I s’ppose it wasn’t you,” he answers his own question. He turns his attention back to the path ahead of him. “I reckon that it must have just been some sorta dream I had while I was out cold. But it sounded so vivid, y’ know? It sounded so fuckin’ real. And the strangest part of it all is that I don’t know how it’s even possible for me to dream of a voice like that,” he muses aloud. 

Oh? Unable to help yourself, you move yourself from behind Joel and fall into step beside him. Now it’s you that’s riddled with curiosity. What do you mean by that? 

Joel glances down at you. He grips the leather strap of his rifle and shrugs his shoulders. “Well, to be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever heard a voice quite like that in my whole entire life,” he tells you. He shrugs once more, his arm brushing against yours by accident. Joel half expected you to deck him for it, but much to his surprise, it doesn’t seem like his touch had bothered you. “It was too fuckin’ gorgeous. So beautiful that part of me wonders if it was someone or somethin’ out of this world.” He pauses and peered at you, detecting a slight glimmer of light in your eyes. “Felt like I had a real life angel singin’ to me.”

You feel the corners of your lips threatening to turn upwards into a smile. Turning your face away from him, it takes everything you had in you to force them back down. 

“Well look at that. You’re walkin’ right next to me,” Joel observes after a minute, raising an eyebrow. 

Your head whips back around.

“Must mean that I’m doin’ somethin’ right, huh darlin’?”

You snort and roll your eyes.

I think I liked it better when you weren’t talking.

Still, you remain at his side. 

The rest of the trek is silent.

Night had just fallen by the time that you and Joel finally made it to Jackson. The moment that you set your sights on the massive wooden gate out in the distance, your heart begins to pound, slamming against your ribcage.

The closer the both of you draw to the barrier, the easier it is for you to see the men and women who are standing on a platform on top of the gate, heavily armed as they keep watch—their lights illuminate the perimeter of the settlement and light up the velvet purple sky. 

You stop dead in your tracks. Oh fuck that.

Joel shakes his head. “S’alright. Don’t be scared.”

There’s six people standing on top of that gate armed with fucking assault rifles. And you don’t expect me to be scared? Are you for real?

“Look, things might be a little tense at first when the patrolmen see us,” he admits, raking a hand through his hair. “None of them have any idea that I’m still alive, but as soon as they see that it’s me, they’re gonna stand down. All I need is for you to stay calm and follow my lead, alright?” He nods at the pistol in your hand. “M’also gonna need for you to put your gun away and out of sight.”

You glare at him, your eyes flashing angrily in the darkness.

You said I could have my weapons on me. 

Joel holds up his hand. “I promise that I ain’t gonna let anythin’ bad happen to you, alright? I swear it on my fuckin’ life,” he vows. “You have my word. No one’s gonna hurt you. I won’t let them. Just stay calm and do as I say. Please,” he adds, a hint of desperation lacing his tone. “Y’think you can do that for me?”

Your mind is screaming, begging you to run and run fast. Instead, you find yourself reluctantly tucking your gun into the waistband of your jeans, concealing it just like Joel had asked you to do. 

“Stay behind me,” he instructs, shoving his own rifle behind him. He begins leading the way towards the gate and beckons for you to follow close. 

The second the two of you step out from the darkness and into the light, the sound of firearms cocking breaks through the silence of the night. 

“Stop right there!” A woman’s voice shouts. “Freeze! Or we’ll fucking shoot!”

“Melissa, it’s me!” Joel calls out, holding up his hands. “It’s Joel!”

“What?”

He huffs and yells again, “It’s Joel!”

“Wait a goddamn minute, everyone fucking stand down!” Melissa loudly barks the order at the five other patrol men and women who are standing on either side of her with their firearms aimed and at the ready. “Joel? Joel Miller, is that really you?” She leans her body forward over the gate and squints at him, letting out an incredulous laugh. “Well butter my fucking ass and call me a goddamn biscuit, the man is fucking alive! Quick, open up the gates! Somebody go and get Tommy! Let’s go, fucking move it people!”

Joel drops his hands, sighing in relief.

You, on the other hand, are scared shitless and wonder if it’s too late to make a run for it. 

“Remember,” he says, looking back at you. “Calm. Okay?”

You force a small, tight nod of your head. 

Okay. 

The gate’s doors pull apart and he leads you up to them and through to the other side where you and Joel are met with a frantic crowd of at least two dozen people—the obnoxious, overlapping chatter coupled with the blatant stares you’re receiving cause an overwhelming feeling of anxiousness to wash over you in a massive wave that, if you allow it, is going to drown you right there on the spot. Refusing to make eye contact with anybody, you fix your gaze on Joel, keeping it focused on the broadness of his back as more and more people circle around the both of you, caging you in with nowhere to run. 

“Joel!” Melissa elbows her way through the large crowd, rushing up to him. She grabs him by the arms, giving him a quick once over. “Holy shit! We thought you were fucking dead! I can’t fucking believe it!”

“Where’s Tommy?” Joel asks her.

“At home with Maria. Lisa went to pull him out of bed—where the hell have you been, Joel? It’s been three fucking days!”

Joel purses his lips together tightly. He can feel you inching yourself forward, trying to stand as close to him as possible as more people join the scene. The toes of your boots touch the heels of his, your chest lightly brushing against his back. While Joel doesn’t blame the people of the town for being curious, he isn’t all too fond of the way they’re staring at you—the gestures and the finger pointing, the mutters and the whispers. He doesn’t have to see you to know it’s making you uncomfortable, and his priority is to get you out of there and somewhere where you would feel safe. “Listen, it’s a real long story that I ain’t got time for right this minute. I need Tommy—”

“Miller!”

A loud, booming voice comes from behind Melissa.

It belongs to a tall, bulky blond haired man—his mere presence is intimidating, proven by how it had taken absolutely nothing for the crowd to part and make room for him to pass through. Smirking, he saunters up to Joel and remarks, “I thought you were a fucking goner.”

Joel’s jaw clenches, but he says nothing. 

The tension between the two men could be sliced with a fucking machete.

His blue eyes flit over Joel’s shoulder to you. “Well, well, well. Who is this sweet little lady?”

You step even closer to Joel, pressing yourself against his backside and taking a fistful of his shirt.

“None of your fuckin’ business, that’s who.”

Keith’s smirk widens. “Actually, as head of safety and security for this community, it fucking is my business,” he reminds him. “She infected?”

Joel raises his eyebrows. “Does she look fuckin’ infected to you?”

“You know the commune’s rules, Miller.” Without tearing his eyes away from you, Keith calls over his shoulder, “Bring out one of the hounds! Now!”

Behind him, Joel hears a small gasp.

Hounds?

Joel whirls around. “Hey, s’alright,” he says quickly before you can start to panic. “We have dogs that have been trained to sniff out the cordyceps infection. S’just gonna smell you, that’s all.”

The crowd backs away as a woman with cropped hair brings out a large black dog on a chain leash attached to a brown leather harness. Once it catches sight of you, the unfamiliar newcomer, the animal begins to bark and growl, thrashing around as it tries to lunge towards you. The dog tugs and pulls at his leash so violently that he nearly knocks his handler over. The woman unclips the leash and sets the dog free—it approaches you, snarling and baring its teeth. 

You start to back away, but Joel stops you.

“Relax,” he mutters to you under his breath. He moves to stand beside you and holds out his hand, offering it in an attempt to comfort you and ease the fear. He hadn’t expected you to accept it, so when you place your hand in his and lace your fingers with his own, he’s taken by complete surprise. 

You squeeze his rough, calloused fingers as the dog comes closer towards you. Nervously, you hold your other hand out to it, prompting it to snap at you, its teeth snapping together. Somehow, you muster enough courage to hold your hand steady and the animal growls, but then gives it a sniff. When it doesn’t detect what it’s searching for, the dog happily wags his tail and gives your hand a friendly lick before running back over to its handler who puts the animal back on the leash. 

You breathe out in relief. 

“There,” Joel snaps at Keith. “You satisfied?”

Keith clicks his tongue. “Almost,” he drawls. He walks over to you, another smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “What’s your name, dollface?”

Your stomach drops at the nickname. Looking down at the dirt, you don’t reply.

“Aw, she’s shy! Well isn’t that just adorable.” Keith lets out a raspy laugh, causing a couple of the onlookers to laugh along with him. “What’s the matter, sweetie pie? Hm? Cat got your tongue?”

Joel drops your hand, his nostrils flaring. “Back off asshole or else—”

Ignoring him, the blond patrolman eyes the weapon hanging on your shoulder. “That’s a really nice bow you’ve got there,” Keith states, cutting off Joel’s threat. “But we do have rules here. Newcomers have to surrender their weapons so they can be stored away securely. We don’t know you and until we can know for sure you won’t be a threat to the people of this town, you’re going to have to surrender that bow along with all other weapons you’re carrying.” Keith lowers his voice as he adds, “And I would advise you not to try and hide anything because I’m going to be the one to pat you down—and I’ll be thorough. I don’t take all too kindly to liars, so keep that in mind.”

“You just threaten her in front of me?” Trying his hardest not to cause a scene with so many people watching the three of you, Joel keeps his voice low and quiet—but the sharp, dangerous edge to his tone can’t be missed. 

“Of course I didn’t,” Keith responds, innocently. “All I was doing was letting her know how we work around here in Jackson. We’ve been operating the town the same way for years now for a good reason. The rules we set in place apply to any and all newcomers, regardless of who they came here with.” He holds out his hands to you. “Surrender all of your weapons to me. Now.”

Shaking your head, you take a step back. This was not what you’d agreed to. This wasn’t the promise that Joel had made you back at the cabin. 

Joel glares at him. “She ain’t surrenderin’ a goddamn thing—”

It’s too late.

Keith steps towards you and goes for the bow. As his hand shoots out to take it from your shoulder, you quickly turn your body and swiftly dodge it. He feels his face burn with red hot anger as several onlookers gasp at your act of rebelliousness. Furious, Keith reaches for you again and grabs you, taking the upper part of your arm in a harsh grip that makes you squeak out in pain. 

You lift your opposite arm and swing a curled fist up towards his face, but he catches your wrist in his other hand before it can connect with his jawline. 

Joel!

You try to say his name, but you fucking can’t. 

Your mouth opens and nothing comes out. For as hard you push and try to force it, you can’t find your voice. Instead, all that falls from your lips is a pathetic, strangled little cry. You yank and pull, struggling as you try to tear yourself out of Keith’s grasp. 

Livid, Joel nearly goes fucking blind with rage. He snatches Keith by the collar of his leather jacket, ripping him away from you. Though he’s still sore as from the fall off of his horse three days ago, he uses every ounce of strength he has left in him to throw him down into the dirt at the feet of a fellow patrolman named Wyatt. “Don’t. Fuckin’. Touch. Her.” He barely manages to bite out the words through gritted teeth. “Ever.”

Wyatt helps him up to his feet. “You alright, man?”

“Get the fuck off me!” Keith snarls, pushing him away. His chest is heaving and his face turns a deep shade of red. Whether it’s because he’s embarrassed or if it’s because he’s angry, no one can quite tell the difference. One thing is for damn sure, he isn’t used to someone going against his authority and everyone watching holds their breath, waiting to see what he’s going to do next. After all, the man going against him happened to be their leader’s brother in law. “What the fuck is your goddamn problem, Miller? It’s protocol—”

“Not today it ain’t.”

Keith approaches him, his hands curled into tight fists at his sides. He stands so close that the two of them are chest to chest, ready to tear each other to shreds. “Do you think just because your fucking brother is second in command, you can just do as you please? Is that it?” He questions, bitterly. “It doesn’t fucking work like that. We have rules set in place for a reason, Joel. We are going to do this by the fucking book whether your little girlfriend here likes it or not, got it?”

Stepping around him, he starts towards you but Joel is quick to block his path. He stands in front of you and squares his shoulders.

He speaks, his voice dangerously low. “You listen and you listen good. If you even so much as think about layin’ another fuckin’ finger on her, I’ll make sure you spend the rest of tonight pickin’ up your teeth off the ground. You understand me?”

“That a threat?”

“It ain’t a threat. It’s a fuckin’ promise.”

Keith pulls his arm back and he’s about ready to take a swing when he’s stopped by the sound of Tommy Miller’s frantic voice. 

“Joel! Where is he—where the fuck is Joel?”

The much younger, raven haired man approaches the scene, shrugging a blue denim jacket over his cotton white t-shirt. The instant that he spots Joel, he runs up to him and throws his arms around his shoulders. “Fuckin’ Christ, I thought I fuckin’ lost you out there! What the hell happened?”

“Where’s Ellie?” Joel demands. “She okay?”

“She’s fast asleep at my place with Maria and the baby. She’s been with us this entire time.”

Joel’s shoulders sag in relief.

Tommy looks around, frowning. “What’s going on? What’s everyone doin’ out here?” He then sees you and raises his eyebrows at his older brother. “Joel? Who’s that?”

“Look, I’ll explain everything, can we just—can we talk in private?”

Although he’s confused, Tommy nods. 

“Of course. C’mon, let’s go back to my place.”

“Well I’ll be damned,” Tommy states as soon as Joel had finished recounting the story—well, what he could remember, anyway. It wasn’t much.

You’re sitting beside Joel across the table from Tommy and Maria in the kitchen of their home. All three of them speak in quiet, hushed voices so as not to wake Ellie and Samuel, Tommy and Maria’s infant son. Maria had offered to go upstairs to pull Ellie out of bed so that she and Joel could reunite, but when Tommy mentioned tonight had been the first night since Joel had gone missing three days ago that she had finally managed to fall asleep, everyone agreed it would be best to wait until the morning. 

“So, she saved your life,” Tommy concludes. His brown eyes, even darker than those of his older brother, flicker over to you once again. You sit there in complete silence, staring at the top of the wooden table, refusing to meet his gaze—or that of his wife. 

Joel nods. “She did, Tommy. I don’t fuckin’ know how, but what I do know is that if it wasn’t for her, then I wouldn’t be sittin’ here at this table right now.”

You shuffle uncomfortably in your chair. Though the couple had been kind to you, it didn’t make it any easier when they stared at you like you had a second head. 

“She saved your life and you don’t even know her name?” Tommy’s in complete disbelief.

“No. She doesn’t talk.”

Maria hums. “I have an idea. Let me find her a notepad or something to write on,” she suggests after a minute. She stands up, wrapping her cotton blue robe around herself, concealing her pajamas as she walks over to the kitchen counter. It takes her a bit of digging around, but in one of her junk drawers, she finds a pen and a small notepad. She makes her way back over to the table and sets the items down in front of you. “Can you write down your name for us?”

You don’t move a single muscle.

“It’s okay, honey. Just write down your name—”

“Best we don’t push her too much,” Joel warns her, holding out his hand to stop her from coming too close into your space.

You glance up at him, your lips parting slightly.

“Don’t worry,” he tells you. “You ain’t gotta tell us anythin’ until you’re good and ready. Alright?”

Tommy clears his throat. “Joel? Can me and you have a quick word in private please?”

Your heart skips an anxious beat.

No, wait! Please don’t leave me.

Less than eight hours ago, you’d been wary of this man, unable to fully trust him. Now, just the mere thought of him leaving your side puts you on edge.

“S’fine, we’re just gonna be out in the hallway,” he assures you. “It’ll only be for a minute or two.”

Realizing you didn’t want to be left alone with her, Maria jabs a thumb over her shoulder towards the gas powered stove. “I’m going to make myself a hot cup of chamomile tea. I can boil water for an extra mug if you’d like some?” she offers, warmly.

You’d turned down food and water already, much too afraid to accept anything from her. However, a warm drink did sound tempting and truth be told, Maria did seem like a nice woman. She’s Joel’s family—maybe it wouldn’t hurt to at the very least try and trust her too. 

Finally, you nod your head.

“Great,” Maria smiles, looking pleased. “I think it’ll do you some good. Chamomile is very soothing. It helps me relax—something that’s hard to do when you have a fussy six month old,” she kids as she whirls around and goes about preparing the tea. 

After making certain that you’ll be fine without him, Joel follows Tommy out into the hallway. 

“Joel, what were you thinkin’ bringing her here?”

“What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

Tommy sighs. “We need to be careful about who we bring into Jackson—”

“Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me right now? You worried about this girl bein’ a threat?” Joel stares at him in complete shock. “You serious, Tommy?”

“For all we know, she could be a threat. She didn’t want to give up her weapons, Joel! She even took a swing at Keith!” He hisses. “And she did it in front of a fuckin’ crowd!”

“He put his fuckin’ hands on her—”

“She didn’t cooperate, Joel. You know damn good and well what happens when someone isn’t willin’ to cooperate with the rules. It leads to nothin’ but trouble and you know it as well as I do,” Tommy says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Her first impression here wasn’t a good one. And to make matters a whole lot worse, we don’t know anythin’ about her. It’s a risk takin’ her into the community.”

Joel can’t even believe what he’s hearing. 

“So you’d rather I just left her out there alone?”

“Look Joel, we don’t know what she’s capable of,” Tommy reminds him, quietly. “If she’s managed to survive out there all on her own for this fuckin’ long, then who the hell knows what she’s done or what kind of blood is on her hands—you might be thinkin’ that she’s some helpless little victim, but maybe she’s not. Hell, we’ll never know because the girl can’t fuckin’ talk. Or maybe she just won’t talk. Either way, we’re runnin’ a huge risk by takin’ her in without knowin’ who the hell she is or where she came from.”

Joel glares at him. “Listen here, whether she can’t talk or just won’t talk, that doesn’t fuckin’ matter,” he says. He pauses briefly, long enough to take a peek back into the kitchen where you’re still sitting at the table. After she’d finished making the tea, Maria took the two steaming mugs and sat down in the chair beside you. She’s now trying almost desperately to get you to write down your name on the notepad. He immediately notices the way that you’d started wringing your hands together anxiously in your lap and he knows you’re debating in your mind whether or not you should reveal your identity to the stranger. He turns back to his brother with a frown. “She ain’t a helpless victim. She’s a survivor. She saved my fuckin’ life out there, Tommy. If it weren’t for her, I would be dead right now.”

“And where is she gonna stay?”

“With me and Ellie, of course.”

Tommy almost laughs. “Wait. You’re gonna be in charge of her? Someone who won’t fuckin’ talk to you? Whose name you don’t even know? Are you serious?”

Joel doesn’t even think twice about it. “Yeah.”

“Look Joel, I know you can be kind of a fuckin’ dumbass, but you can’t possibly be this goddamn dumb, big brother. Think ‘bout it—”

“I already have thought about it. She’s stayin’ with me.” Joel shrugs. “I know it ain’t gonna be easy, but maybe I can get her to trust me enough to talk to me.”

Tommy raises an eyebrow at him. “You really think she can talk and she’s just choosin’ not to?”

“I think she wants to talk, but she can’t. She’s too scared right now. But if I can get her to really trust me—”

“That girl ain’t gonna fuckin’ trust you, Joel.”

“She trusted me enough to come to Jackson,” he says, fiercely. “That has to mean somethin’, I just know it does.”

Tommy exhales a long and heavy sigh. He already knew just how fucking stubborn his brother could be. There’s no changing Joel’s mind once it was made up. 

Maria steps out into the hallway. “No luck,” she tells them, shaking her head lightly. “I can’t even begin to imagine what she’s been through. If she’s too terrified to even give us her name—”

“It must’ve been somethin’ real bad,” Joel finishes for her. He places his hands on his hips. “I think I might have some idea of what happened to her.”

“What do you mean?” she asks. 

Joel lowers his voice as he briefly tells Tommy and Maria about the scars he’d seen around your wrist. “Like she’s been in handcuffs or somethin’,” he murmurs. “Think it could’ve been FEDRA?”

“Possibly.” Maria thinks it over for a moment. “There’s also a good possibility that she’s been a prisoner in a slave camp.”

Slavers.

Joel’s stomach churns at the thought of it. He’d heard about those kinds of groups, about the cruel and inhumane things they did to their prisoners. 

He fucking hoped that wasn’t it. But something in his gut told him not to be so goddamn naive. 

“Listen, we feel for the girl, Joel. We do,” Tommy admits. “And we’re willin’ to give her some time to adjust, same as we did with you and with Ellie—same as we do with all newcomers. But regardless of what she’s been through, she’s still gonna need to pull her weight around here, just like the rest of us. She’s expected to take on work duty just like everybody else. It’ll be hard findin’ the right job for her if she’s not gonna talk to anyone so the sooner you can get her to break her silence, the better it’ll be,” he advises. He points a finger at his brother. “From this point on, she’s your responsibility.”

“I can handle it, Tommy.”

“For your sake, I really hope you can.”

“Good to know you’ve got faith in me,” Joel makes the sarcastic comment under his breath, but he’s certain Tommy had heard it. “It’s gettin’ pretty late now. She’s exhausted and so am I. M’gonna take her back to my place and get her settled in for the night.”

“What ‘bout Ellie?”

“Best she just stays here with you two tonight. As soon as she’s up in the mornin’, you can bring her on over to mine if that’s alright with you and Maria?”

Tommy nods. “You got it, brother.”

“Besides, I figure it’ll give me a bit of extra time to think of how I’m gonna explain everythin’ to her.” Joel suddenly realizes that he hadn’t given much thought about how he was going to tell Ellie about you—how he was going to explain your condition to her and how you’d be sharing a roof with them from this point on. 

Tommy chuckles. “Yeah, good luck with that one.”

Rolling his eyes, Joel roughly shoves past him and back into the kitchen. 

You hadn’t drank the tea Maria had made you, but you’d wrapped your hands around the ceramic red mug to warm them up. 

“C’mon,” he beckons to you with his hand. “Let’s go. M’gonna take you home now.”

Home. 

The word rinds oddly in your ears.

You stand up from the table.

“Wait.” Maria picks up the notepad and pen, handing them over to you. “Here. Take these with you. Just in case you decide you want to use them.”

Joel pushes through the front door, switching on the lights in the foyer of his home before stepping aside to let you in. He watches as you stand there at the door looking rather apprehensive. “It’s okay, darlin’. S’just me and you here tonight.”

Carefully, you step over the threshold. When was the last time you’d even set foot in an actual house? One with running water and electricity?

You couldn’t remember.

Joel shuts the front door behind you and locks it. “Let’s go upstairs.” He gestures for you to follow him up the cherrywood staircase. “It’s pretty late, so I’ll show you the rest of the house tomorrow in the mornin’,” he promises you over his shoulder. At the top of the staircase, Joel switches on more lights that illuminate a short hallway. He points to a door at the end of it, stating, “That one there at the end, that’s mine. This one here is Ellie’s. We also have a third spare, it’s right across from her.” He nods with his head towards the door of the bedroom he’d been referring to. “Go on. Open it up and check it out for yourself.”

You want me to open the door?

Seeing your expression, Joel chuckles. “Go on. It’s alright. There’s nothin’ bad in there. I promise.”

You momentarily hesitate. Fingers trembling, you reach out and grasp the brass door knob, slowly turning it and pushing the door open. You peek inside and flip the light switch next to the door frame.

You gasp. Holy shit, is this fucking real?

The spare bedroom is fully furnished with light oakwood furniture—a dresser up against one wall, a desk nestled in the corner, and two nightstands on either side of the most comfortable, full sized bed that you’d ever seen. The décor is minimal, but whoever had occupied the space before had a clear adoration for simple, warm, earthy tones. You nearly smile at the shades of mud brown, forest green, and autumn orange. Setting your things down on the hardwood floor, you make your way over to the bed and sit down, planting your hands firmly on either side of you. You relish in the softness of the cream colored duvet comforter. 

“I’m guessin’ you like it.” Joel can’t help but grin a little. “I’ll be right back. I’m gonna go see if I can get you one of my shirts or somethin’ that you can sleep in. Make yourself comfortable.” He spins around on the heel of his boot, disappearing into the hallway. 

Unable to resist, you lay back onto the bed. Your body sinks into it, melting right into the mattress. It feels like a fucking cloud. 

Joel reappears in the room just seconds later. “I can see you took what I said about makin’ yourself comfortable quite literally.” His voice causes you to shoot back up into a sitting position. Joel stands there at the door holding a long sleeved, navy and white flannel shirt in one hand—in the other, he’d been holding a gray hooded sweatshirt and from his arm swings a brown canvas tote bag. “Not too sure what you would prefer to sleep in. I figured you might want somethin’ on the warmer side. Here’s a couple options to choose from. I’ve also got t-shirts if you’d rather sleep in one of those.”

Standing up from the bed, you walk over to him and he holds out the articles of clothing for you to see better. It’s his flannel you gravitate to the most. Taking it from him, you run your fingers over the fabric.

“I can throw your clothes in the washing machine for you first thing tomorrow so they’ll be clean by the time you wake up,” he adds.

You breath out shakily.

A fucking washing machine.

“Overwhelming, ain’t it?”Joel drapes the hooded sweatshirt over a nearby chair, deciding to leave it for you as well. “Trust me, I get it. I felt the same when I first got here with Ellie. It took a lot of time for the both of us to adjust to this new way of life after being out there for so long,” he confesses to you. “The important thing is to take it one step at a time, darlin’. And somethin’ is tellin’ me the next step for you is probably takin’ a nice hot shower?”

Your mouth falls open. A hot shower? Hot?

“You’ll have to share a bathroom with Ellie.” Joel leads you out of the bedroom and to another door adjacent to yours. He shows you the bathroom, telling you which knob in the shower was for hot water and which one was for cold water. “You can use Ellie’s shampoo, m’sure she won’t mind. I’d offer you some of my own, but I don’t think you’ll wanna walk around smellin’ like sandalwood and spice.” Joel hands you the canvas bag he’d had draped over his arm. “Here. Should be pretty much everythin’ you’re gonna need. There’s a bar of soap, a couple clean washcloths, a toothbrush, and a tube of toothpaste. There’s also a razor.” He pauses. “It’s a men’s razor, one of mine I’ve never used, but I reckon it does the job just the same as a woman’s razor.”

Amused, you quirk an eyebrow at him. What the hell are you trying to say? That I need to shave?

“Not that you have to use it,” he adds quickly, his cheeks burning bright red at what you thought he had been insinuating. He shifts awkwardly from boot to boot. “I tossed it in there just in case you’d want to, but you ain’t gotta use it, that’s not what I meant at all—”

Deciding you don’t want to see him squirm, you lift a hand up to stop him and shake your head.

Truth be told, you actually couldn’t fucking wait to shave your legs.

Calm down, cowboy. It’s all good.

Realizing he hadn’t offended you, Joel relaxes. “I’ll let you get to your shower. You take as long as you want, but just try and leave some hot water for me since I’m next,” he chuckles. “As soon as we both get all cleaned up, we can meet downstairs in the kitchen for a quick bite to eat before bed. Deal?”

Deal.

He’s about to leave you to it when you stop him, grabbing his arm. Wait a second, Joel.

Joel’s eyes meet yours. “Yeah?”

Thank you.

Your gratitude might have been silent, but it was there and he knew it. 

Feeling brave, Joel reaches up and places his hand over yours for a moment, his thumb brushing against the softness of your skin. “No need to thank me, sweetheart.” 

Letting his hand drop away from yours, Joel then turns and leaves the bathroom, closing the door behind him to give you your privacy. 

Once you have the hot water running, you kick off your boots and start to peel off your clothes, tossing them into a pile on the floor near the door. Completely naked, you turn your back towards the oval shaped mirror hanging over the bathroom sink, unwilling to take a look at the scars on your body—painful reminders of the cruel punishments you’d endured during your time in captivity. 

You grab the toiletries from the tote bag Joel had given you and set them on the side of the tub. Pulling the yellow floral curtain aside, you step into the shower and position yourself directly underneath the scalding hot water, letting it burn your skin to give you an entirely different kind of pain to think about, even if it was just for a minute until your body adjusted to the temperature of the water and it no longer hurt. 

You begin washing yourself, trying your hardest to keep from crumbling. But you couldn’t. Lump in your throat and a tightness in your chest, tears brim your eyes, ready to fall. 

You’re willing to let them. 

Two years. For almost two fucking years, you had been suppressing your emotions. You’d been in a constant survival mode, there had been no time to feel anything. And now here you were, standing in a fucking shower with all the freedom in the world to just let it all out. 

Silent sobs wrack your body, bringing you down onto your knees. 

Joel’s shower had been a quick one.

You hadn’t left him very much hot water—but he couldn’t even be mad about it.

He pulls on a pair of light gray sweatpants and a black t-shirt. He haphazardly dries off his hair and makes his way downstairs, knowing you would be heading down there any minute now to meet him like you’d agreed. Without much time to make a proper meal for you to eat, Joel goes about the dimly lit kitchen and prepares a couple of cold turkey sandwiches. He’d just plated them and set them on the table when the soft padding of bare feet on the hardwood floor prompts him to look up. 

His breath catches in his throat. You stand there in the doorway wearing nothing but his flannel shirt. The hem of it falls to the middle of your thighs, and it takes everything in him not to think about the fact that you weren’t wearing anything under his shirt. His fucking shirt.

Clearing his throat lightly, he makes sure not to let his gaze wander where it’s not supposed to. “I bet you feel a lot better, don’t you?”

You sigh softly. Oh, you have no fucking idea.

Noticing you’re holding your hands behind your back, Joel shoots you a puzzled look. “What’cha got there?”

You bring your arms forward. Clutched in your hands is the notepad and pen that Maria had given you.

Although he takes it as a sign that you are willing to communicate with him, Joel knows better than to get too far ahead of himself. He’d wait until you were ready to make the first move and he’d follow your lead. “I made you a sandwich to eat,” he tells you, pulling out a chair at the table. “C’mon, come have a seat.”

After you sit down, Joel goes over to the sink and fills two glasses of water, one for you and one for himself. Setting them down on the table, he finally takes a seat across from you—that’s when he notices the redness in your eyes. You’d been crying. Even though he wants to ask you if you’re alright, Joel decides against it for the time being and the two of you eat in comfortable, tranquil silence.

“I can make you another one if you’re still hungry,” Joel offers when you polish off the last couple bites of your sandwich. 

Shaking your head, you place your hands on your belly signaling that you’re full. You’re not, though. You’d eagerly scarf another three of them down if you could, but you were a lot more exhausted than you were hungry and you couldn’t wait to crawl into that bed upstairs and get some sleep.. 

Joel studies you. “You okay, darlin’?”

You shrug. This has just been a lot to process.

“I know it’s gonna be tough for you. It’s like I told you earlier, it’s gonna take some time to adjust to your new life here in Jackson. But I need you to know you ain’t alone anymore. I’m gonna be here to look out for you. And trust me, I know you don’t really need me to.” Joel pauses and shoots you a crooked little grin. “Hell, you took a swing at Keith. You’ve got bigger fuckin’ balls than half of the men in this town. Includin’ myself.”

You let out a huff of amusement from your nose and the corners of your mouth tug into a small smile—you don’t try to force it down. 

Joel blurts the words before he can even think to stop himself. “You’ve got a real nice smile, y’know.”

Biting down on your bottom lip, you move your empty plate off to the side and grab your pen and notepad. You swiftly scribble something onto the blank page, then slide it across the table to Joel. 

He picks it up, an odd sensation fluttering inside his chest when he realizes what you had done.

You’d written down your name for him.

He says it out loud, and then looks up at you.

“That’s a real beautiful name.” Sincerity drips from his tone, going hand in hand with his compliment.

Cheeks burning, you glance down at your hands, which you’d begun wringing together on top of the table. It was out of nervousness, but this kind was different. You couldn’t quite explain it. 

“I know it’s gonna take a whole lot more than a hot shower and a sandwich to get you to trust me. But I swear that I’m gonna do whatever I can to show you that you ain’t got anythin’ to be afraid of. Not with me around. Okay?”

Okay. 

You open your mouth, trying to repeat the word back to him. 

Joel’s eyes widen slightly. You wanted to talk to him—you were actually trying to talk to him. But it was a clear struggle. Something wasn’t letting you find your voice. 

Clamping your mouth shut, you sigh and sink back into your chair. I’m sorry. I can’t.

“It’s okay,” he says, softly. “We’re gonna take this one step at a time. Together.”

[powderblueblood]

HELLFIRE & ICE — eddie munson x f!oc as enemies to star-crossed lovers

CHAPTER SEVEN — WELCOME to the REAL WORLD, JACKASS

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summary: christmastime in hawkins brings a bunch of cherry bombs in the boy's bathroom, a trip down memory lane via seven minutes in heaven avenue, and the least likely trio this town has ever seen. content warnings: MINORS DNI i'm going to fuck you up and santa isn't real so we've got, smut including references to and descriptions of male and female masturbation, smoking, swearing, a pregnancy scare, era-typical misogyny and ANGST in the form of a flashback!!! word count: 12.5k. merry christmas babies

Dear reader, it takes you less than five weeks to become incapable of imagining your life without Eddie Munson.

Which, given his propensity for being an absolute neanderthal, is concerning.

Eddie Munson talks with his mouth full and plays his music too loud. He never closes a cabinet all the way. He walks through anywhere, literally anywhere, be it a store or the library or Ronnie’s trailer–leaving a trail of destruction in his wake. He talks during movies and puts his feet up on the seats at the Hawk. He makes fun of the books you read, but always grabs them away from you to stare at the blurb on the back. He never finishes a cigarette all the way before lighting another one, which is just wasteful. He pretends to be good at holding his liquor, but he’s not. 

He stands too close to you in places where he’s got plenty of room to move. He makes you laugh, even when you don’t want to. He holds the door for you in school, at the bookstore, getting out of the van, even though you’re more than capable of doing that yourself. He takes advantage of you when you’re in a good mood, like making you scratch his head as if he were a cat.

Sometimes he calls you ‘baby’, as if you don’t have a nickname already. As if you two are…

You lean toward the only mirror in the girls’ room with decent light, reapplying the red lip stain you’d taken to wearing– it was coming on Christmas, for god’s sake, and despite everything, you’re feeling festive. Quick. Lighter on your feet than you have been in a long time. 

“Hey girl, could I borrow that?” an out-of-tune simper rings right next to your ear and you almost jump out of your skin, lipstick clattering into the sink.

“Jesus!” you say, and Eddie Munson cackles. You knock him back with a one-handed shove, face setting into that funny little grimace you’ve taken to wearing when he acts up– and he’s always acting up. You’re gonna get wrinkles if he doesn’t cut it out. “What the hell are you doing in here? Hair in your eyes make you miss the sign that says girl’s room?”

You know that’s not true, because you were the one that just about tied him to a chair in Ronnie Ecker’s trailer so you could trim his bangs last week. 

This is a fuckin’ violation of my human rights, Lacy!

Every time I’m seen with you, people think I’m out walking a goddamn Briard. Hold still!

“So, hot off the press, newspaper girl,” Eddie says, leaning against the yellow porcelain, “One, I am literate, much to everyone’s shock and awe. And two, someone threw a bunch of cherry bombs down the john in the boy’s bathroom and the place is fucking Hiroshima, but wet and kinda shitty smelling. So we all got told to use this…” He gestures around at the clean-ish tile. “...salon of iniquity.” 

“Was it you?” you ask, plucking a cigarette from the soft pack he’s offering you. 

“Huh?” He scrunches his brows, leaning with a lighter ready. He’s taken to doing that; cigarette at the ready, lighter at the ready, low-grade explosives at the ready, probably.

“The cherry bombs, was it you?” you say through a reel of blue smoke.

“For once, no,” Eddie sighs, head slumping forward like a Peanuts character, “Some other gorgeous, anarchistic genius got the jump on me.” 

“Oh, god,” a frown sets in; you pick up your dropped lipstick and in its wake, ash into the sink, “There’s no other bathrooms on campus you animals could use?”

“Nuh-uh. Unisexuality, baby, it’s the way of the future,” Eddie tells you, fanning out his hands like P.T. Barnum. 

A beat. You think. This bathroom, the unofficially allocated senior bathroom, the one you and the rest of the Hawkins in-crowd had been using since sophomore year, got crowded at the best of times. The fumes of Aquanet were a definite health risk, but that’s an occupational hazard when it comes to being a girl. You add boys into the mix, nay, couples into the mix–

Damn.

“We’re about to witness the conception of so many toilet babies.”

Realization dawns on Eddie, his brown eyes flaring. “Oh shiiiit. I never thought of that.” 

“The band geeks alone, Eddie,” you whisper, head tilting toward him all scandalized-like, “We’re gonna show up at our fifteen year reunion and every single one of these suckers is gonna have their own little freshman clones.”

“Spare a thought for Heather Holloway.” Eddie’s face, a mask of mock concern, makes you roll your eyes.

“Why?” you scoff, not a fan, “She doesn’t inspire many.” 

“Objection. Her implants do.”

You turn to face him fully. “J’excuse?” 

“Swear to god,” and his palms are up, “Just saw her in Chemistry.”

“Good? Bad?”

“Conical. Jayne Mansfield.” Aaand his hands are gesturing, animatedly. Crassly. Pervily. “Take your goddamn eye out.”

“Wow. Christmas came early.”

“Christmas ain’t the only thing that’s gonna be coming early…”

“Ew.”

Eddie smirks and flicks his cigarette into the sink, hitting the faucet to wash it away– there were at least three good drags left in that, you think. 

“Heather H, first one to get knocked up in the Great Bathroom Insemination Project of 1984. Mark my words.”

“And you think you’re in with a shot?” Your tone is dripping in sneer. 

Eddie regards you for a moment, so you know something deeply annoying is about to happen. His voice goes all serious, barely above a whisper, as he closes space between you like he’s trying to beat a draft. 

“This is a once in a lifetime opportunity, Lacy baby.” His hands brace either side of the sink you’re standing at, trapping you against him. See? No respect for boundaries. But– Hm. Not… that annoying. “Oversexed teenagers sharing the same bathroom– at Christmas, with all that mistletoe around and shit.” His eyes, searching you with a glint that’s s’posed to be provocative. You, elbow propped up by your folded arm, puff a plume of smoke into his face. He doesn’t even blink. Smirk pursing his lips up. The two of you have established a rhythm. “Anything could happen.”

“Ew, what the hell are you doing in here? This is the girl’s room.” Enter some upstart underclassman, and Eddie’s peeling away from you.

“You didn’t see the biblical flood on the second floor, Pippi Longstocking?” His voice is big and booming and bouncing off the tile, making the underclassman cringe. “Forcible takeover. This is my house now.”

“God, shut up, freak.” She shuffles by the two of you to a vacant stall with a look you recognize– she’s so telling her friends about those two trailer park abnormos just about copulating in the bathroom later.

“Great choice!” Eddie exclaims, door of the stall slamming, “I warmed the seat for ya!” 

—

“Watch where you’re going, you almost milled down that stroller!”

“I wouldn’t need to go so fast if you two, freakin’ Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Priss Ass, didn’t insist on getting to this place before it closed!” 

“We wouldn’t need to rush if you hadn’t spent all freakin’ afternoon at goddamn Lipton landing getting all– all–”

“All?”

“--toked up and shit!”

“Market research, Ecker! And, I’m gonna remember you said that! Later! When you want to get all toked up and shit– woah!”

Listening to Ronnie Ecker and Eddie Munson bicker in the front seat while you balance on a drum stool in the back of his van, clutching onto Ronnie’s passenger seat for dear life– no better way to get into the spirit of the season. You’d be joining in the milieu if you weren’t currently suffering from major motion sickness. 

Eddie takes a harsh pull into a parking spot outside of Family Video and–“Go, go, go!”--you three load out like soldiers, locked on the target. He takes the lead, swinging the door open for the two of you ladies, but a voice calls out from the counter before Ronnie can even get a toe over the threshold.

“Oh, no– no way, no way!” Steve Harrington’s yelling from the helm of the ship, waving his hands. “We are– fifteen goddamn minutes away from close, I can’t do this tonight!” 

“Highly unwise of you to turn away paying customers, Harrington!” Eddie gasps, Ronnie ducking under his arm. 

“You guys come in here and spend honest-to-god hours talking shit in the aisles and– and you never even rent anything!” 

“Well, your luck’s about to change!” Ronnie says, and Steve regards her with a mask of total confusion because, well, it’s likely he’s never heard her speak directly to anyone other than Eddie before. 

That’s when you roll in the door under Eddie’s arm-arch, color rising in your cheeks that’s not from the cold. 

“I am deeply reconsidering my association with you guys.” 

“Tough shit.” “Find another trailer park.” “You love it. You love us. You’re obsessed.” 

You pinch both of your hands towards them, the universal action to encourage zipping it, and cast a glance towards Steve. His shoulders relax. His vest is green and garish and a terrible color on him and… he’s wearing elf ears. And he’s Steve Harrington. And your stomach clenches, though it’s more muscle memory than anything else. 

“Hey, Steve,” you smile, soft and small and not really all that there. 

“Lacy. Hi.” He does smile at you, after a beat. “You responsible for these assholes?”

You hadn’t seen him since the night of his party, that grand inferno that had landed you here, standing between Eddie and Ronnie and feeling not entirely awful about it. Well, you hadn’t exactly seen him then either, except for a flash when Eddie was dragging you out of his house. 

So, y’know, the blush is entirely justified.

“She’s bankrolling us,” Eddie says, closing the door to keep the heat in and speaking just to break the tension. True, too– you’d scored a part time gig at The Bookstore after a confrontation with the eagle-eyed Ivana regarding certain missing copies of Little Women, The Woman Destroyed and Fear and Trembling. You assumed you were working off the thievery, which you never directly admitted to and she never directly accused you of– but then, she paid you. 

Ivana, it turns out, is incredibly pro-workers rights and even more incredibly anti-Hawkins gossip mill. Which works out a treat for you. The bookstore’s become more of a haven than it had been before. 

“Can you scatter already?” you direct two thirds of your threesome towards the stacks. “Let’s make this breezy, I feel a wave of mortification rising.” 

“No. I was promised in-store bickering,” Eddie says, rooting himself to the spot. You catch a weird flash of– something in his eyes. Ronnie, with her unlikely band geek strength, groans and yanks him toward the horror section. “It’s my favorite part! It’s like the pre-show!”

You take to the counter, gingerly, shyly. Why are you shy? Why, all of a sudden, after showing your ass in such a spectacular bruise-garnering fashion, are you shy to speak to Steve Harrington? Is it because Nancy’s dropped a tidbit here and there that he’s not exactly great boyfriend material? Is it because you sometimes secretly think, good, I hope you two are having a terrible time, even if you and Wheeler are making baby steps towards a friendship?

Is it because you never forget the first person that called you Lacy?

Fuck knows. Some of that. 

“So you’re… what, hanging out now?” Steve asks, gesturing to the twin dipshits. There’s a bite in his voice from a former incarnation of Steve Harrington, one with (somehow) bigger hair and an unchecked ego. It doesn’t all shed at once, you figure. He’s sloughing it off and there’s still some left over, judging by the way he’s staring at Ronnie and Eddie. 

You look over your shoulder to them. It would be so easy to deride it, right– only due to my unfortunate proximity to them, yes or girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do for a ride these days or it’s community service, I swear. 

But you don’t. You turn back to him with a pinchy little smile. “I’m this close to getting them to let me play tambourine in their band. Can you even deal?” 

Steve, after a beat and a brow furrow, sort of half nods. “Think I kind of… get that.” 

You’re about to answer when another body comes barrelling in through the back. 

“Just wanted to let you know, dingus, that I just got off the phone with Keith–you remember Keith, right, our manager who is currently in a war of words with our boss trying to keep this place open–and your little stock-take fuckup has cost us, like, weeks of manhours in work and���” Robin Buckley, complete with a light-up Santa hat, stops dead. Counts every person in the room. Shakes her head like she’s in a dream. “What is…”

“H–hi Robin!” Ronnie calls, her voice all squeaky– due to the scuffling headlock that Eddie has somehow managed to put her in without you and Steve even noticing. “Don’t worry, we– we’ll be out of your hair in a second!” 

And Robin– wait, is Robin kind of… blushing? She backs down immediately, putting her Family Video branded binder flat on the counter. “Yeah, no… that’s totally okay, take your time!” 

You look at Steve. Steve looks at you. You quirk an eyebrow like– is that, is she… And Steve shrugs like, don’t ask me, sister. Pleading the fifth. Saving Robin’s dignity. 

But you’re still you and you’ve been bugging Ronnie about her situation for weeks so you hold up a finger.

“What are you two idiots arguing about?”

“Black Christmas–” “Silent Night, Bloody– ow, Ronnie, don’t pull hair, you girl!”

A swivel back to Robin, who is totally pink-cheeked. “We need a professional to settle this.” 

Her mind seems to stutter like a badly wound tape. Oh, she’s suckered. “Uh– uh, Black Christmas, for sure. Not exactly the coziest thing to watch, but–”

“We’re not cozy people!” Eddie yells, Ronnie coming at him with arms like weed whackers.

“--but Margot Kidder, right?” you poke, goddamn Jimmy Page and John Bonham for the Midwest set slamming into the counter on either side of you.

“Olivia Hussey,” Ronnie says breathlessly. Eddie seems to have winded her somehow. “That’s– she’s cool–I heard she was in this–”

“Exactly!” Robin lights up, excited, “She– she played Juliet in Romeo and Juliet–”

“Wait, don’t you see her boobs in that movie?” Eddie jerks in. 

“Yes,” Robin and Steve chime in unison. And glance at each other. Telling. 

Ol’ Munson there snaps his fingers. “Sold.”

“But not in Black Christmas,” you say, almost gently, so as not to… let him down?

Eddie rolls his eyes and tilts his head toward your shoulder. “I’m a man with an imagination, ain’t I?” he rasps. You pretend-shudder.

“Okay, let’s do Black Christmas and– you got a copy of The Thin Man?”

Blink-blink goes Robin, like a cartoon. It’s nearly audible. “... like, the William Powell, Myrna Loy Thin Man?” 

Your turn to roll your eyes. God, you guys love to roll your eyes, huh? “Is there any other?”

“Like the black and white movie. You’re sure? I just didn’t think it’d be your–” 

But Eddie cuts right through that assumption that’s making an ass out of you and Robin, because he knows. He knows because you’ve made him sit through Double Indemnity at the Hawk, scolding him for putting his feet up (god forbid, right!) and you’ve even threatened to drag him to some Buster Keaton retrospective that’s playing there after the holidays. He keeps thinking, man, if Wayne Munson ever comes across this girl, he’s a goner, and then he remembers why that won’t be happening any time soon. 

“She’s a freak.”

You regard him with a tight smile. Kind of a thanks, kind of a fuck you. Kind of your thing. 

“I’ll watch it when these bozos pass out.” 

—

Something’s gotten into Eddie. 

You three are absolutely basking in the glory of your one night of freedom– see, Granny Ecker’s away on a weekend hotel stay in Indianapolis with one of her special friends from the Hawkins Senior Center. Which, on the one hand, gross, Eddie never ever wants to think about Granny Ecker getting lucky no matter how happy for her he is. But on the other, in the words of her beloved granddaughter–

“God bless the Indiana Sweepstakes!”

Eddie has stolen Granny’s usual spot, the kick-out recliner that seems to sag more with every movement. You and Ronnie are bunched onto the little two-seater together, with Ronnie shyly suggesting that you paint her nails (black, how totally hardcore)– now, Eddie knows this move. This is so she can distract herself from the bonafide creepiness of Black Christmas because while she tries to put on a brave face, Ronnie’s eyes for horror movies are way bigger than her stomach. She’s all nerves. It’s why she’s such a good drummer. 

As you’d predicted, by the time the movie ends and you all clear the six pack that Eddie had procured, Ronnie’s nodding off– but Eddie is determined to stay wide awake. You make a move off the couch and she grumbles, having narrowly avoided propping her head on your shoulder. You move to arrange her in such a way that she’s sleeping Nosferatu style, crossing her arms over her chest. “Because I spent an awful lot of time on that polish and I won’t see it ruined, not on your account,” you chide, real quiet. Ronnie’s not listening, she’s pretend honk-shooing. Eddie, on the other hand, is. 

He likes you like this. You’re sweet to Ronnie, in your prickly little way– making her flustered with your misdirected flirting, bonding with her about things so far out of the realm of his male understanding. Being a girl with her. It’s occurred to him that Ronnie, in her testosterone-soaked world of current comrades, might actually need that. Like, she’s friendly enough with Jeannie and that Vickie girl from band, but they’re not people she’d go out of her way to make a case for so’s that Granny Ecker will let them stay for dinner. 

Which she’s done for you. Once or twice now. Which you’ve nervously accepted and even ruined your manicure for, by insisting on washing up the dishes. Eddie dried, because of course he did, because the Ecker trailer is the only place close to home that the two of you can hang out.

You’re, like– friends. 

Which is horrible.

Eddie tosses you a cold can of soda from the fridge. You catch it, hands basketing above your head.

“Power forward.”

“Cheerleader.”

You lean over to the TV to swap the tapes out, insistent on watching your dumb little black and white movie. As you do it, your skirt lifts a little bit and– 

Eddie’s gotta break eye contact. Stare at the floor for a second. Cock jumping like the fucking mole from whack-a-mole.

He almost hits it.

You bitch, are you wearing thigh highs?

“You need to pull trig, Munson?” he hears you from the kitchenette, clicking the video player’s play button. “You only had two beers.”

God, maybe. Was the room spinning? “Smoked a lotta weed today.” 

“Right. Lipton landing,” you smirk. Ronnie’s derisive little nickname for Reefer Rick’s place. “Are you gonna get over here and snore through my movie or not?”

I do not snore, or some muttering of a similar fashion comes out but he’s doing exactly what you tell him to do. He can’t help it. Brain function gone all freaky from that flash of flesh squeezed out the top of your– yeah. 

Eddie lands on the floor next to you with a little groan. Your eyes flick between him and the now-empty recliner. 

“What are you doing down here?” 

Oh. Busted. “I’m a gentleman, Lacy. Take the damn seat.” 

Your face screws up in that silly way it does whenever he talks sense to you but you don’t wanna hear it. Brat. “No. I like to sit right up near when it’s something I really want to watch.”

A shrug of your little shoulder as you wrap your arms around your knees like a kid. Face illuminated by the greyscale on the television. Skirt rucking back against the carpet. Fuck.

Eddie lets out an unsteady breath, crawling forward to lie on his tummy. Closer to you. “You’re gonna get square eyes if you keep doin’ that, dorko.”

“Who died and made you my optometrist…” but you say it in this half-hearted, distracted way, eyes on the screen.

“Y’know, if you–” Eddie starts, eyes on the lace top of your–yes indeedy–stockings.

“Shut up,” and you tap him on the shoulder. “I love this part.”

Your hand stays there as some fancily dressed chick totally eats shit in the bar of some hotel or something. Christmas presents flying everywhere as she falls. 

Women and children first, boys.

Say, what is the score anyway?

Oh, so it’s you he was after.

Hello, sugar.

Your hand stays there as you’re totally mouthing every single word, you true-blue nerd. Eddie, completely at a loss of how to react to this other than gaze, gaze, gaze at you, snaps his teeth at your hand. 

You, so completely embroiled in Nick and Nora’s white hot banter, gasp at the near-bite and swipe at his head. Eddie dodges the blow by rolling onto his back, hair fanning out on the Eckers’ rug. He grins up at you, and all of a sudden the rise and fall of his chest in that worn-out Alice Cooper shirt is very distracting. 

Pretty girl. 

Yeah, she’s a very nice type.

You got types?

Only you, darling–

“--lanky brunettes with wicked jaws,” you say, beat-for-beat with William Powell. 

“Talkin’ about me?” Eddie says, lips peeling back, eyebrows quirking.

“Not in your wettest, wildest dreams, Eddie Munson.” 

“Oh, you don’t wanna know what happens in those dreams. It’s filthy.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s twisted. It’s disgusting.” 

“I bet.”

His hand is absent-mindedly stroking his chest, shifting the hem of that t-shirt up a little bit. Brushstrokes. You remember that? Eddie Munson has a happy trail like– 

“You’re so nice to me. It’s so fffffucking hot.”

“How wildly out-of-character,” you scoff, and he laughs, and you shift in your spot the teensiest bit. Eyes back on the screen, back to safety. 

From here, where he’s lying, Eddie has a fully illustrated view of the flash of skin up your skirt. Now that you’re not looking at him, he’s looking at it. Swallowing back saliva. Ignoring Nick and Nora. 

It’d be simple as pie to walk his fingertips along the rug and brush up against you there–oops–by accident or design. Feel how soft that skin is. Feel that heat radiating from your–

“It’s alright,” he hums, eyes flicking to the ceiling. Otherwise, all the blood’s gonna drain away from his head and he’s going to fucking die. “I know I’m not your type anyway.”

Your head lolls to your other shoulder, exposing a flash of your neck. It’s sorely missing a tongue running along it, he thinks, breath shuddering a touch. 

“You wouldn’t know my type if it hit you with an eighteen wheeler.”

“Can Steve Harrington drive an eighteen wheeler?”

Lolling your head back in the most exaggerated form of exasperation, you groan. “God. The way you talk about Harrington, I’m willing to put money on the fact that you have a crush on him.”

Eddie shrugs, hand resting on his sternum. You had your hand there once, you recall.

“I got prescribed one on the first day of freshman year, just like everybody else. But it wore off.”

“Sure about that?” Your eyes narrow.

“Sure as I am that I saw you makin’ googly eyes at him at the Family Video tonight.” Eddie crosses his own peepers for effect. Your attention darts back to the screen.

“I was not–”

“You can just say it, Lace.” His face is a twisty little smirk, if you’d care to look. “Regardless of how utterly pedestrian it might be.” That was a dig at you, by the way. That was an almost eerie impression of you. 

“The things I felt in seventh grade don’t really have a lot of gravitational pull on me anymore,” you shrug, not giving. Because, when you think about it, you don’t have to give. It was a baseless kind of thrill, seeing Harrington tonight. One hit wonder. “He’s a cute boy. Reminded me I have a pulse. Nothing wrong with that.”

Eddie’s quiet for a few seconds, flicks his eyes up to watch the TV from upside down. Nick places an ice pack on a drunken Nora’s head. 

Hmm… what hit me? 

The last martini.

He smiles as you smile, and he wonders if you’re thinking of the same thing he’s thinking of. 

“Alright, well– we can forget this ever happened. Resume being assholes to each other on Monday. Don’t, like, die in the meantime.”

“You say resume like we ever stopped being assholes to each other.”

“Funny you mention seventh grade…” Eddie trails off, tugging at the rug underneath him.

“Funny ha-ha or funny peculiar?” Your voice is distant again. 

“Little bit of both.”

“Why?”

Well, he thought you might be fucking with him, but– “... God, you really don’t remember, do you?”   

“Remember what?” He sees your brow pinch, he’s getting to ya.

“Not a fucking clue.” No give, no glory, eyes on the peeling ceiling. 

“Remember what?” You’ve snapped your neck and are looking down at him now, thirsty for him to fucking spill it already.

“Total–” he blows a raspberry, “--blackout before freshman year, right?”

“Eddie.”

His name makes him sit up. Pavlovian, sure, and he’s trying to deny the fact that he’ll do just about anything you say when you call him Eddie in that slightly-tinged sour way and not Munson like you’re writing him off. He’s trying to deny that. He swears.

“Nancy Wheeler’s thirteenth birthday party.” 

You two are shoulder to shoulder, him facing the couch, you facing the screen, his breath warming the bare skin of your off-the-shoulder top which is an insane thing to be wearing in the dead of fucking winter, but praise Jesus hallelujah you’re wearing it. Your expression is unimpressed. 

“... yeah?”

“We played Seven Minutes in Heaven.” He lays that out a little too plain for your liking. Playing Seven Minutes in Heaven at a thirteen year old’s birthday party is like the non-denominational Hora for pseudo-white bread Christian teenagers, at least in Hawkins. Everybody does that shit. But hold on.

“... you were there?”

“Fucking obviously, dimwit, that’s the setup to the whole story.” He sighs in a puff, and he’s very close to you. Chin almost on your shoulder like that night at the Quarry. “Tommy Hagan ripped into me for like, fifteen full minutes because my spin of the bottle landed on you.”

Confusion is a disease and you’re terminal. “That was… not you.” 

Insistence is a disease and Eddie’s fatal. “Yes. It so was.”

“That was John Hudson-Wasserman.”

“That was not–,” Eddie full on splutters, like slapstick splutters, reeling his head away from you, “you’re gonna get me confused with John Hudson-Wasserman? The guy who was like, pathologically obsessed with the Kennedy assassination? The guy who moved to Des Moines like, two weeks after that party?”

Then you’re spluttering back all of a sudden. Everything you two are doing is contagious. “His parents named him after John F., can you blame him? –actually, I can totally blame him, that was bizarre.”

“Lacy.” Well, the way he says that straightens your spine. “Use that pretty little brain to think for a second, huh? There’s one unmistakeable detail I bet I can get to jog your memory.”

But you’re already there. Activated. Like a sleeper cell. 

“Your hair was all buzzed off. You had that bandage on your head.”

“I did. And you asked me what was under it, and I said–”

A hole. They cut out a part of my brain so I’d be– The Wheeler’s linen closet was tiny and you were breathing in lavender detergent from all angles. 

The boy in front of you, scrawny and angry, had an aura around him like a firework. You knew it was dangerous, but you wanted to look closer. 

–less of a freak? you finished. Such was the accusation du jour for this kid. 

Less of a danger to society, he said, chest puffed. They let me keep it in a jar. Just in case shit gets really real and I need to shove it back in. 

You don’t quite know what to do with that. Like. He is so weird, and his hair is unevenly shaved and he’s got little cuts and scratches and scabs all over him. Like he’s been running through brambles. He looks like a kid someone found in the wild. 

Did you name it? you ask, finger drawing circles on a nearby towel. Your jar brain.

Eddie Junior, he told you, crossing his arms. 

Aren’t you already Junior? Shouldn’t it be Junior Junior? 

His jaw hardened. No. I’m Eddie. 

You nudged forward on your toes to get a better look at the bandage– he was taller than you. It lumped out of his head, unmissable. Nothing to be done about it. 

He seemed to cringe away from you. 

Don’t try anything, skank. 

You bounce back onto your heels. 

I wasn’t, asshole. We don’t have to do anything– just… like… did it hurt? 

He paused for a full ten seconds (you counted) and swallowed real hard. Eyes wide as hubcaps, and dark, and frightened. He craned his neck toward you a little. 

Then the door swung open, Tina Burton standing there hand-in-hand with an irritated-looking Steve Harrington. Time’s up, losers! 

Al hadn’t asked if it hurt, when he beat the crap out of him for doing something so stupid. Wayne hadn’t even asked if it hurt, when Eddie came back from the hospital like a dog with its tail between its legs. 

You were the first, and you were the last, and it was before everything. Before you were even Lacy.

“What happened, anyway?” you ask. Soft. Like that last time.

Now, in retrospect, Eddie sees the error of his ways.

“I lit all my hair on fire with a butane torch.” 

“You what?!” 

“It’s not– entirely my fault! I think I saw someone with hair on fire in an X-Men comic and I thought, y’know, that’s an achievable look.” That’s a severe understatement. It was Johnny Storm from The Fantastic Four and Eddie believed that he could be like Johnny Storm only more badass and maybe with like a sick motorbike. What, you’re telling me you didn’t go through a pre-teen-to-mid-teen phase where you were secretly convinced you had superpowers? Smarten up. 

“And how high–”

“Yeah, okay, I was also hitting a Reddi-Wip can like crazy.” The nitrous oxide did not help these delusions. 

“Why the big bandage?”

“Eh, I got some, like, bitsy little burn. Total overreaction.”

“Do you have a scar?” Before he can answer, you’re parting his hair, right near the place you remember that bandage being. Eddie freezes, your frigid fingertips searching his scalp. You are… very close. 

“Uh– no, I don’t.” He gulps, avoiding looking at you directly in your bright, curious little face. “Can I tell you something truly fucking dumb?”

“Wouldn’t be out-of-character for you, that’s for sure.” 

Deep, deep breath. Fucking shit fucking goddammit fuck. Balls. “I regret it.”

“The hair thing? Yeah, you’d think–”

“No. Not kissing you.”

“Oh.” Your hands drop from his skull but don’t exactly leave his hair. Just kind of wound in there, hovering, the way you feel like you’re hovering now. 

“You asked me if it hurt, and then I was gonna– but then, fucking Tina–” Eddie says, eyes dashing to you in these minute little glances. Away, back, away, back.

“Fuckin’ Tina,” you breathe. 

“--and Harrington.”

“Ah.” You shut your eyes. He didn’t notice you were wearing green eyeshadow until right now. “The square root of the problem.”

“Huh?” Barely heard it. Too busy looking at the glitter on your eyelids. The way your eyeballs shift around underneath.

“You’re totally lemon sour bitter with Harrington because you think he made you blow your shot with me.” You open your eyes with a squint.

“That is so not–” Break a spell, why dontcha! But then, Eddie takes a bite. “Actually, if you pop-psychology that, there might be somethin’ there, but… I regret it because I didn’t just–”

You cut in. “Go for it.”

“Shoot.” He confirms.

“Power. Forward.” You emphasize, lips curling.

“Cheer. Leader.” Eddie says, gravel in his voice.

Do you know that your hand is still in his hair? Like, are you physically aware of it? (Answer: no.)

Nick. Nicky?

What.

You asleep?

Yes.

Good. I wanna talk to you.

Your head swivels back from the screen. He watched you look away, dart your tongue out onto your lip, look back at him. 

“Eddie.” There’s fizz in your voice.

“Yes, Lacy.” He wonders what flavor. 

“I think…” and you finally extract your hand to lay it in your lap. Withdrawing, willing to be shot down, but you’re you and you know that you won’t be. “We could make a case for making up for lost time.”

Eddie’s mouth has become very dry. “... meaning that…”

“Eddie, I think that you should kiss me like a seventh grader– eighth grader? So weird, why did Wheeler have eight graders at her bir–”

“Lacy. Back on track, please,” which is another horrendously pin point perfect impression of you. And he needs to be sure that you just said what you just said and that isn’t the ghosts of Lipton landing talking.

“We should try it out. An honest-to-god, never-been-done-before Seven Minutes in Heaven kiss. I happen to think it’d fix something in you.”

“Oh, come on,” he scoffs.

“No, I’m serious!” And it is kind of fizzing out of you, and you might not be entirely just talking about him for this next part, “I think you’re holding onto a lot of pent up energy that may have just gotten even more pent since we became, y’know–”

“Zoo animals with parallel enclosures?” Eddie says with an arching eyebrow. 

“Wow,” you swallow a breath. “That really sounded like me.”

“I’m afflicted with a Lacyism from time to time.”

“Is that like astigmatism? Because you should get that looked at.”

“Who died and made you my optometrist?”

“Eddie.” Your voice, coming from your face, which is all dappled in the unserene technicolor glow of the Eckers’ Christmas lights, highlighted by the blaze of the black and white on TV. You make it look like stained glass. He would walk into oncoming traffic– “You trust me, right?” He would go and play on the freeway if you asked him to.

Eddie, Christ, he’s got to gather himself. Like the sweat gathering on his palms, he thinks, great work ethic, I need some of that. He gets a bright idea, brighter than those twinkling lights. “I think I need full authenticity in order to make this experience worth it.”

“What?”

“We need to find a closet.”

It’s pretty much a hard no on whether or not the Eckers have a linen closet (you’re a long way from Maple Lane now, babe), so it’s agreed that you’ll give Granny Ecker’s wardrobe a shot. You follow Eddie in there with tentative steps, like you can almost feel her watching all the way from the Best Western in Indianapolis she’s no doubt staying in. Trespassing is bad, yadda yadda, but it’s also exciting.

It’s exciting, being in here with him. 

He glances back at you, eyes a glimmer in the darkened bedroom. “After you,” and he flourishes a hand toward the open closet. 

You two are so not seventh graders anymore– heads bang against hangers, you’re kind of melting into a lot of denim and fleece and you… you don’t have much breathing room. No lavender detergent, just the beer-and-old-weed-sweet smell of Eddie Munson pushed close to flush against your chest. The scent of that shampoo you both use caught somewhere in the middle. 

Your breathing is so shallow, you feel like you might be having an asthma attack. You don’t have asthma. 

“Tight,” he says, and knits his brows, “I mean–”

“Cozy,” you correct, unsure of where to put your hands.

“We’re not cozy people.”

“So let’s do this,” you attempt to smooth your face into something resembling nonchalance, “Kiss me like a seventh-or-eighth grader, Eddie Munson.”

He clears his throat, shaking his head. A smile keeps flicking and dying on his lips. Heart about to burst out of his chest because of how weird this is, because of how weird you are, because of how– how– 

Eddie knits his fingers behind his back in an imitation of you, your girlish pose, and leans forward. About ninety percent, just in case you decide this was a stupid idea, or you don’t like the look of his face up close, or– or–

You close that perfect ten. Your lips feel like flower petals. Light. Baby-soft. Crushable.

It’s so chaste and it’s so innocent. It’s so the diametric opposite of the two of you, brash and harsh in your diverging, abstracting ways– waving only to meet in the middle. It’s pretty, like you are, and Thumper-from-Bambi-thumping-his-foot nervous like he gets around you.  

You pull away a fraction, and Eddie swallows a sound. To save face, he is about to say something– I give it a six or that’s what I’ve been missing out on this whole time or you flap that mouth an awful lot for someone who doesn’t know how to use it, something equally goading. Something that would make this… normal.

Until you take his bottom lip between yours. And it’s wet there. And it’s warm. And your lips are so, so crushable– 

Eddie’s fingers unweave and find your arms, find your waist. Slow, slow, he takes it slow because he could scare you and he doesn’t want to scare you. You’re curving into him, lips slicking against his, and then his tongue licking it’s way into your mouth which you just fucking open for him and it’s so good–

–and he tastes like salt and smoke and he holds you like he’s anchoring himself against you. Your hands wind on up, up, up his chest, catching on his t-shirt where his chest is (duh duh duh you fucking idiot), where his heart is thrumming under that smatter of a tattoo you got caught staring at that night in his trailer. It’s all you’ve got in you not to tug it up and off him, but Christ, no, because you need to keep kissing him. It’s so nice, it feels so nice, kissing him, when was the last time something felt as nice, that’s all you can think with sensation seeping through your body like a sugar rush. Hands move to either side of his neck and he makes a noise. 

Your fingers, fishing hooks in his hair, pulling him closer and closer to you. 

The heat. Of his body. Matched only by the heat gathering in the cherry pit that lives in your stomach. 

And he needs, god, Eddie needs it fucking bad. It is a lot of things. It includes your tongue so far inside his mouth that you can taste the Tab on his uvula this time. It includes more of your tits pressed against him, so he can feel if your nipples have hardened under his touch. It includes this moment, just this moment, just kissing you as your body winds around him–

But then you pull back. Before he can whisper the little, “No…” that’s coming like a reflex, you cover his mouth with your hand. The mouth that’s all slick from kissing– you. 

Jesus Christ. You had really done that. The stupid, idiot both of you. 

“Guys?”

Eddie, dizzy and down-the-rabbit-hole tipsy Eddie, gets the impulse to lick your hand, to take your fingers in his mouth and just start sucking, but he doesn’t do it. Because he has now snapped to the fact that that’s Ronnie Ecker calling out for you. 

The two of you, twisted around each other like snakes in her grandmother’s closet. 

“Go,” you hiss– no, you breathe. He was just expecting you to hiss. But you’re breathy and unsure about the command you’re giving. Still, you jerk your head. 

Well, Eddie’s pretty hard up about telling you this, but, “Can’t. Need a sec–” Like, can’t you feel that?

Eddie’s standing more than half to attention, pressing in between the both of you. 

You let out a jagged breath that sounds like oh, fuck, and it’s not the kind of oh, fuck he was hoping to hear and his heartbeat stutters. 

And then you’re gone. 

Eddie stands there, hands held aloft around the ghost of you that was there, that was right there and kissing him. Like you meant it, like it wasn’t an experiment or a joke or a dare or anything other than what you wanted. You wanted him. You wanted him. “Oh, Jesus Christ,” he breathes into his hands, dragging them down his face, his lips, the smell of you still lingering around him. “Oh… I am so fucked.”

Kentucky fried fucked. 

You make your way back to the living room on trembly legs, reaching for every steadying surface, attempting to destroy the evidence of a swollen mouth and Munson-finger ruffled hair. You find Ronnie sitting upright on the couch. Nick and Nora have nearly solved the case. You don’t give yourself enough time to make a mask of your face that could easily lie to her. 

“Munson had to pull trig,” you say, and it’s not steady enough for Ronnie to not call bullshit.

But she doesn’t. Not outright anyway.

“He okay?” she asks, nearly wary.

“I don’t know. Could be comin’ out of both ends, I don’t know,” you start scrambling around for your bag and your shoes and your coat and not your right mind because you left that back in the closet, somewhere between Eddie’s teeth and tongue. “Look, I hate to ditch on you, but my mom–”

“She’ll be on your ass,” Ronnie says, measured like a cup. “Sure. Go on. I’ll think about calling 911 if he chokes.”

Breathing out some piss-poor rendition of a thanks, you dip out of Ronnie’s and past his van and all the way back the lot towards home. 

It’s freezing. You’re not. For once.

When Eddie finally reappears from the closet, Ronnie is sitting in the exact same position. Except this time she looks somewhat judgier– maybe because it’s easier to be judgier toward Eddie than it is toward you. Some kind of girl politico he doesn’t understand. 

“You feel better?”

“Huh?” Eddie says. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. 

“Do you feel better. Lacy told me you had to barf.”

“I… I guess.” Eddie has already cashed in his once-in-a-lifetime lie convincingly to Ronnie Ecker voucher. 

“She also told me you maybe shit yourself?”

Alright, well, that was unnecessary. “Alright, well, that was unnecessary.”

“I guess I was just hoping that…” she sighs, crossing her arms, “... that you weren’t puking and shitting yourself…” she sits back against the couch, “... when you were making out with her. In my… bathroom?”

He really does consider leaving out this detail. “Granny’s closet.”

“Oh, you’re fuckin’ kidding me.”

“She’ll know. She’ll kill me.”

“Oh, she’ll kill ya,” Ronnie mutters, “And then I’ll go to work on ya.”

—

You two have got to stop fucking each other over like this.

Fucking each other over, conceptually, actually, is interesting. Because Eddie’s done a whole lot of fucking you over in his mind since that closet. Sliding your panties aside and fucking you with his tongue, polyester lace of your stockings creating static against his hair, sparks snapping off your inner thighs as you rub against his nose. 

Following you back to your trailer and fucking you with his fingers against the cold, metal exterior, your nails digging into his neck and your voice stabbing his name into his eardrums. 

Pulling you into his lap in the driver’s seat and tearing through the cotton of your underwear with sheer animalistic fervor, making you lean back against the steering wheel as he sucks your tightened nipples, cock safe and warm in the slick, deep wet of you. 

Somethin’ like that. He didn’t sleep much this weekend.

Mind stuck on the one track, your lips smacking against his. Now in fabulous 3D!

In every single one of these fantasies, too, his idiot sap ass is whining your name fifty billion times more than you’re whining his– so much so that it breaks the fantasy barrier and he’s crying, “Fuck, Lacy-yy–,” into his limp pancake of a pillow, cum careening down a fist that should have nerve damage by now. 

He is exhausted. And to make it worse, he hasn’t seen you. 

He hasn’t even been avoiding you this time. So that’s all on you, you bitch.

“You bitch…” he mumbles, head resting against the cold brick of the newly-unisex senior bathroom, which has become a hellhole in no time. First period on a Monday is usually an okay time to get a bit of peace and fucking quiet, though, because everyone else is at least making an attempt at starting the week off on the right foot. 

But not Eddie. Not worn out, prick-tired Eddie. 

And not whoever is doing a horrible job of hyperventilating in the stall next to him. 

“Excuse me?” a breathless voice says. He thinks he kinda recognizes it but–

Then, ew! Some gagging, some violent coughing, a little ugh, Jesus, please not again–

Eddie slides out of his stall and knocks on the next door– and it swings open with ease. 

She’s crouched over the cistern–gross, fucking gross–and tears are streaming down her peachy cheeks, catching on her pointed chin. 

“Christ, Wheeler. S’matter, you pregnant?”

Nancy Wheeler’s eyes flash in a flare of rage, a choked scoff spitting out of her. She’s about to fucking cuss Eddie out, it looks like, which he kind of wants to see, but then whatever straw that’s holding that together snaps and she lets out this wild sob of total incredulity. 

Ohhh, as much as he would love to bolt out the door like it’s not his problem, Eddie realizes that this has now, somehow, somewhat become kind of his problem. 

—

“I gotta talk to you.” 

Ronnie Ecker appears like a lightning flash, knocking you clean out of your reverie of slowly crawling fingers and lips and teeth and guilt that had been plaguing you all weekend. 

You had spent most of the last forty eight hours staring into the middle distance, ready to glue upright nails into your shoes and walk on them for penance. You fucking stupid slut. Kiss me like a seventh-eighth grader, Eddie Munson. You unbelievable fucking cowshit. See, because, okay, do you know what you’ve done?

You’ve taken the first real friendship you’ve possibly ever had in your life (save for Phoebe, God rest her soul that moved to Saskatoon) and completely entirely fucked it sideways, and sure, you’ve also spent a lot of the weekend thinking about other things getting fucked sideways, like you since you’re now cursed with the knowledge of the vague suggestion of the outline of Eddie Munson’s dick but moreso, foremostly and mainly you want to fucking take a swandive off the edge of Sattler’s Quarry. 

Addendum– there’s too many quarries in this fucking county. 

A ping-ponging of guilt-to-orgasm-to-guilt-to-orgasm-to-guilt-to-orgasm-to-guilt-to-slinking your way to first period the long way that’s only now broken by Ronnie Ecker coming down on you like an Acme anvil.

Meep meep.

She knows. Of course she knows.

“Ronnie,” you whisper, eyes following her as she lands herself into the aforementioned Munson’s seat behind you, “I can explain…”

“Don’t!” There is this vigor, this knife’s edge in Ronnie’s voice that is terrifying and kind of thrilling but mostly scary and having been in the presence of Granny Ecker even those few times, you knew she always had it in her. 

You recoil. A little.

“If Eddie wants to be a fucking moron about you, please can we just let him, and not–” Ronnie’s mouth clamps closed like a Muppet’s might. Like she’s physically trying to calm herself down. “Look. I really like being your friend.”

Oh, Christ, your heart. “I r– I–”

“You’re dogshit with the emotional stuff, I get that, but I’ve been friends with that asshole so long that wearing my heart on my sleeve is like, second fucking nature so I’m not and I’m pissed off, frankly, that there’s a chance of him coming between, like… us.”

You and Ronnie. You, and your friend Ronnie. “Oh, it’s–”

“Because technically, by absolute technicality, I was your friend first, okay? We were lab partners first and I thought we had a vibe goin’ in Biology and I was the first person you wanted to talk to at the Hellfire table even if it was a thinly veiled ploy but you’re so good at ploys and you’re such a piece of work and you’re so funny and I wouldn’t know what Ponds cold cream actually does if it wasn’t for you. Fuck.”

“Granny’s a soap and water girl.” There’s a fluttering in your chest and a thickening in your throat. You swallow big, and you think you might actually start– “This doesn’t mean I’m gonna try fencing, Ron.”

“But it’s fucking cool, even if we do it with sticks.”

You take her in, baseball cap shoved over her coiled hair, darned-all-to-hell sweater sagging out under her overalls and you really feel like something is about to bust out of your chest. Your honest-to-god friend, Ronnie Ecker. 

“Miss Ecker, last time I checked, that’s not your assigned seat.” God, Kaminsky’s such a relentless dickwad.

“I’m having a conversation,” Ronnie says, with the kind of as-yet-unheard volume from her that makes the rest of the class go ooooh!

Jesus fucking Christ, have you turned Ronnie Ecker into a bad girl?

“I don’t give a shit!” rumpled Kaminsky says, slapping that dusty chalkboard duster full of dust, “Have it in detention.”

“Hey! That’s–”

But if you can do one thing for Ronnie. “No can doozy, Mr K, Miss Ecker has a prior commitment.” 

“Oh, Jesus Christ, not you again,” he mumbles not-quite-under his breath. “And what is that? Lacy?”

Before you can even say the words peer tutoring, none other than Eddie Munson is barrelling through the door. He stops comically short at the top of the classroom, gesturing to Ronnie in his seat like what the fuck? 

“Lacy!” he eventually says, and he’s breathless and flustered and just like you imagined him in–

“Munson, what in the name of the goddamn Father Almighty–”

“Weekly Streak–” and guy is just snapping his fingers, blinking wildly at you, “–thing!”

You stare on in a state of confusion until you spy Nancy Wheeler right in your eyeline, right through the open classroom door. Her little face streaked with tears, and god, she looks like shit, and she’s beckoning to you with a flutter and a fury. 

“No, of course!” a little murmuring, uh, shit, and you hurry to the top of the classroom, slamming the homework that Kaminsky’s obviously going to ask for on his desk with a rattle. 

“Kaminsk, my man, the future of print media is forever in your debt!” Eddie calls, ushering you out the door and into the echoey hallway. 

“What is going on?”

Both Eddie and Nancy shuffle you down the hallway, avoiding the monitors (rat finks!), dipping under the east stairwell. A great stairwell. So much illicit shit has happened in this stairwell and you have an itemized list of it all, somewhere in your brain. The kind of person people tell things to.

Nancy’s just full tilt gulping like a fish out of water, and Eddie’s all, “Wait, shit, are you gonna barf again?” and you’re all, “Answers, please, tout suite!”

“I’m late.” Nancy’s voice doesn’t even tremble. She’s that scared.

“Fuck.”

“Very?”

“Extremely.”

“You’re sure?” you press, and suddenly you’re the kind of person that grabs Nancy Wheeler’s shoulders. 

Her lip trembles. “I mean, I haven’t–” 

“Well, we gotta. Right now.” And it occurs to you that Eddie is just standing there, a polite enough distance away that he’s involved but kind of not involved, but respecting the space that you two need. How does he know how to do that? How does he always know the right… “Eddie.” 

He snaps to attention, mouth all serious and eyes all eager. You want to kiss him again, but this shit is not about you. 

“We need a ride to the drugstore.” 

The three of you pile into Eddie’s van, him insisting on doing the honors of opening the passenger door for you again, and Nancy quietly requesting that you share the passenger seat with her. You two are squished together, her spindly thighs overlapping yours. Denim versus dark suede. There is a very tense silence in place the entire van ride there, Nancy digging her nails into her palm and Eddie nervously thrumming against the steering wheel. The tape deck plays resumes mid-play– Metallica’s Ride the Lightning. 

For your part, you experience a harsh zoom-out moment– Nancy, who you’ve learned is almost as strong-headed as you, just on a better moral track (lawful good versus chaotic neutral, you think Eddie once framed it), is stranded. She’s the eldest sibling to that little shitstain Michael and Holly, who’s a baby so to you has no discernible personality, and her mother is kind of an airhead and her father… you don’t know shit about, but it’s Hawkins, so dads. The responsibility of everything seems to fall on her all the time, and you can only be so resourceful as a teenage girl in a town like this. Especially when the other teenage girls seem to, at best, keep you at arm’s length, or at worst, ostracize you. 

And Nancy had lost Barbara Holland. Who, when she mentions her, is talked about with such a glow that’s followed by such a wave of sadness that it nearly takes you under too.

She misses her so much. She misses her best friend so much. 

Barb should be the one dealing with this. Not you. Which sounds like you’re shirking responsibility. But really, it’s because you don’t know if you fully deserve the privilege of helping Nancy. 

Truth is, Nancy would probably be okay, handling this on her own. Sure, it’d be another inch of depth added to the chasm of loneliness building in that poor girl’s psyche, but she’d do it, because she’s Nancy and she handles things.

Just like you’re Lacy and you handle things. 

But however Eddie Munson ended up as part of this situation… he brought her to you. Because he knew you’d know what to do. So she wouldn’t have to do it alone. 

Because Eddie doesn’t want people to do things alone. 

You only really have that impulse if you know how terrible it feels. 

And if you don’t see kindness as a weakness.

Which Nancy doesn’t. And Eddie doesn’t. And you… don’t want to, anymore.

You reach and peel Nancy’s fingernails from the grooves they’re digging into her flesh. You don’t even look at the half-moon marks they’ve made. You just glue her palm to your palm and web your fingers. And over the frizz of Nancy’s perm–the nice kind, salon kind, the kind that doesn’t stink of egg–you look at Eddie, just as he glances at you.

He smiles, small and unsure and wavering. You bite your lips between your teeth and try the same. 

“Shit, I don’t think I can go in here.” 

The van has skidded into an inconspicuous (but not entirely, because have you seen that fucking vehicle) place near the drugstore.

“Why?”

“People– the pharmacist knows my mom and everything,” Nancy shudders, “There’s no way that people won’t have something to– fucking say.”

Eddie’s eyes widen and you give him a look like, welcome to the Nancy Wheeler Actually Swears Club. Care for a canape?

And y’know, you could argue so what. So what if people have something to say. You’re young, mistakes happen, the world keeps turning. But one skip in a perfect twelve-inch record of reputation like Nancy’s can make her life a living hell. You know that. 

Shit, she knows that– you weren’t not aware of that stroke of creative genius vandalism that went up on the Hawk marquee that one time.  

And it would shatter Nancy’s mom’s heart. And while you don’t have the same time of day for her, Nancy really loves her mom. 

Once you’ve ruined your reputation, you can live quite freely. 

That moveable feast motherfucker was onto something. 

Click, and Eddie’s glovebox pops open in a clatter of tapes and a one-hitter and other ephemera. You reach in, retrieving sunglasses you’d left in here a little bit ago. 

“So let’s give ‘em something to talk about,” you say, sliding on the shades. 

Nancy clutches your arm, eyes wide and searching. “Lacy.”

You shrug, like it’s nothing. Except nerves have started nibbling at you. “Spot me a ten. What am I, a goddamn Rockefeller?”

“Not anymore,” Eddie Munson grins at you. Sun breaking through the bleak midwinter. The nerves cease their nibbling. 

—

The tension doesn’t exactly ease when you make a beeline for the drugstore (particularly because you’ve just accepted a goddamn miniature hero’s quest and he’s a little… well, he’s not not watching your ass as you walk away, let’s put it that way). 

Eddie and Nancy Wheeler are still absolutely enormous universes apart. Not even the same species. He doesn’t mind keeping it that way. This right here is just, like… the right thing to do. 

He moves to turn the radio down, figuring that the thrum of Fade to Black might be a little much for her right now. “Sorry. Didn’t mean for–”

“No, it’s okay.” Wheeler smiles that flat, priss smile reserved for the barest of polite gestures. 

Eddie nods, propping his elbow against the window, cupping his face in his hand. He keeps kind of sneaking sidelong glances toward Wheeler, because– well, had you told her anything? About… Seven Minutes in Heaven? Does she even remember that, from her birthday party all that time ago? He knew that you two weren’t exactly tight, but were well on your way to getting tight, but not as tight as you are with Ronnie and certainly not as tight as you are–or were–with him and Jesus Christ almighty, he’s got to find a synonym for the word tight.

“You… play Dungeons and Dragons, right?” Wheeler asks all of a sudden.

Eddie glances down– he is in fact wearing his Hellfire shirt. She’s a sharp one, that Nancy.

“I dabble,” he says, a derisive little chuckle that’s not all-the-way mean spirited.

Wheeler bobs her head. “My brother, Mike,” she says, and he sees now that it’s an effort to keep her nerves steady, “he loves it. Like, he’s totally obsessed. Him, and his friends, they’ve got their own little party going. Majorly long campaigns, very involved.” 

“Campaigns, parties. Using terminology like that, I’d say you’re something of a dabbler, Wheeler.”

Nancy chuckles. “I– may have dressed up as an elf for one. Or two. When I was way, way younger, though.”

“Well, your brother– Mike?” Eddie checks and Nancy nods, “Once he gets to high school, why dontcha tell him to look up Hellfire. Could be the best-worst decision he’ll make for the next four years of his life.”

“Right, because you’ll be passing the torch,” she says, grinning.

“And possibly to a Wheeler. Oh my stars and garters,” Eddie gasps, clutching his chest in mock-shock. 

Wheeler laughs and, okay, maybe she’s not so bad.

“Shoot, we have movement.” And out you come, holding the Advance pregnancy test over your head, gleaming and victorious– but Eddie and Nancy flap their hands, willing you to put that fucking thing away! We’re being subtle!

Climbing back in the van, you announce, “Alright, so the good news– no doctoral interference, obviously. The wonders of modern medicine, everybody give thanks to Johnson and Johnson, et cetera. The bad news– who knows of somewhere we can steal–” you glance back at the box, “--thirty glorious uninterrupted minutes of time?”

“Lacy, I can just–” Nancy starts, but you stop her short with a tap to the head. 

“And have you sitting in class all day with your guts churning because you don’t know what’s up or down that spout? I think the fuck not. We’re doing this now.” This is out of the goodness of your heart, you swear it is. 

But there might be a fraction, just a generous sliver, that still loves the drama. 

Like Steve Harrington, it’s not an immediate shed of the ego. It’s a slough. 

“Well, my place is a no-go,” Nancy tells you, shrugging into herself. “My mom will definitely be home.”

“Ditto,” and your mother is the only person you know that loves gossip more than you do. Besides Eddie, of course. 

After a beat or two of wondering silence, Eddie raises a hand. “I may… have someplace… we can go.”

—

How many cherry bombs does it take to make a boy’s bathroom look like the bombing of Dresden?

“So fuuun fact, turned out that some nerd swiped a hunk of sodium from the Chemistry lab and just blew this mother to shit,” Eddie brightly informs you and Nancy as the two of you pour over the instructions for the pregnancy test kit. 

“While everyone was distracted by Heather Holloway’s implants, you mean?” you murmur, scanning over the small-sheet size booklet.

“Streets are saying she was an accomplice.”

Holy fuck, these instructions were involved. Nancy stands clutching the little rectangular tray that her pee is supposed to go in, nailing Eddie with a look beyond normal categorical nerves. “You’re sure no one’s gonna come in here?” 

He shakes his head. There might as well be police tape all over the door of this bathroom, that’s how off limits it is. “It’s cold, it’s broken, it smells gross. Maybe some people are using this place to huff paint, but I can guarantee, Wheeler–” and he bends a little to meet her earnest eyes, “--I will bark like a fucking rabid dog to clear ‘em away if I need to.” 

Nancy nods shortly. Jerk, jerk. She disappears into the least dilapidated stall with her pee rectangle. 

“God, she is so scared,” Eddie murmurs to you, crossing his arms. 

You’re still studying the instructions. This shit has droppers and test tubes and color changing strips, oh my. “Pissing shouldn’t be a problem, then.”

Wrong.

“Guys.”

“Yes?” “Yeah, Wheeler?”

“I’m a little, ahem–” Bladder shy. Perfect. Awesome. Not that you guys aren’t going to be shacked up here for thirty minutes anyway, but that’s only after Nancy Wheeler goes number one and you, like, mix up the pregnancy oracle potion. 

Shit. “We’ve gotta do something to like, make her chill out–” Eddie half-mouths at you. 

“Yeah, but she’s so high strung, that’s like–” a spark hits you. “Wait, have you got anything on you?”

“Fresh out. Waiting on a shipment from Lipton landing.” 

You smack him, not even thinking, and he winces. “And all that shit you were smoking the other day, that was–” “That was market research, babe, and I told you that–”

Nancy clears her throat from inside the stall. “Please, don’t quit bickering on my account. I’m only trying to figure out whether or not I need to start rehearsing lullabies.” 

Damn Nancy, Eddie mouths and you almost laugh. Wait.

“Nance, what’s your favorite song?” 

“Huh?”

You shake your hands. “Like, the song you absolutely cannot go without hearing? The one that makes you feel, just–”

“Ticklish?” Eddie suggests, the paragon of knowledge, the pinnacle of your annoyance. You thump him again. “I need a safe word.”

“Um– uh…”

“C’mon, Wheeler, the song that makes you feel just… awesome and chill and on top of the fucking world, c’mon!” Eddie encourages, kicking detritus around the bathroom floor.

Nancy eventually, eventually mumbles something. 

You pivoting around on your heel by the sink. “Louder, Wheeler, I wasn’t born with sonar.”

“It’s– it’s ‘Just What I Needed’.”

What? Eddie mouths to you, arms binding across his chest. 

“What, like– The Cars, ‘Just What I Needed’?”

A pause from Nancy’s end. “... yeah.”

You know this song. You know that song, right, it’s like duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-DEW-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-DEW… Shaking yourself out, you brace up like a boxer heading into the ring. 

“Gimme a lead in, Nancy.” Holy fucking shit, you’re really doing this. Nancy hesitates, probably because she can’t believe any of you are really doing this. 

A mumble… “I don’t mind you comin’ here…”

“--and wastin’ all my time!” you jump in, “”cause when you’re standin’ oh so near, I kinda lose my mind…” 

Visions of a plush lilac bedroom, yours, and a mountain of clothes and makeup and drained wine cooler bottles on the floor. You, standing on your bed in your socks and shorts, vamping– Tina and Carol singing hairbrush backup, Nicole on air guitar and Cass smoking out the window. There were flashes of this, you know, when it wasn’t all boiling vitriol and subtle shivving and one-up-manship. When you and those girls that you wished you weren’t near but knew you needed actually felt like friends. 

A memory like that makes you feel empty. 

“It’s not the perfume that you wear,” oh my god, “It’s not the ribbons–in–your–hair,” is he really, “And I don’t mind you comin’ here– and wastin’ all my time!”

Why the fuck does Eddie Munson know this song?! Your jaw drops open, your eyes go wide and your feet stamp against the tile like a goddamn kid. Yes! Yes! Amazing! You’re both so fucking out of tune, like there is absolutely a reason he does not sing a single note in Corroded Coffin but by god alive, you’re giving it everything you got in that fucked up boy’s bathroom. 

Eddie’s so much better at it than you are, pouring every bit of obnoxious showmanship into it that he possibly can– complete with pulling you in for a fully nonsensical dance number. You spin into him, crashing into his chest with a clumsiness you never thought possible, laughing so hysterically that you can barely get the words out. He’s holding the reins, and holding that falsetto so badly you think the mirrors will shatter. 

Your skin is buzzing, your heart is hammering and Eddie is pressed against your back and you are both scream-singing to the door of Nancy’s cubicle– “I guess you’re just what I needed! Just what I needed! I needed someone to feed– I guess you’re just what I needed! Just what I needed I needed someone to–”

“Pee! Pee, you guys, I’m peeing!” Nancy’s voice, bright and high from actually laughing, rings from the busted toilet. 

You and Eddie erupt into a triumphant yell, him shaking you like a rag doll against him. The laughter peels away and then it’s just kind of him, looking at you from over your shoulder. His arms wrapped tight around your waist. His lips, a little cracked. Breath a little labored. Lashes still so long. You nearly–

The door flings open and he jumps away from you first. Nancy heads toward the sink and you resume the position, helping her figure out the Chemistry play set that holds the answer to how the rest of her life pans out. Thirty whole minutes, they’ve got to wait. 

Nancy notes the time on her watch. 

She even suggests that you guys can go at one point, but Eddie reminds her that a) he’s keeping an eye out for paint huffers and b) “... y’know, maybe it’s not so great to…” “Do this on your own,” you finish for him. Nancy nods, silent and grateful and so fucking nervous. 

At about the seventeen minute mark, when you and Eddie have smoked four cigarettes each and Nancy has tried a puff of one (“Nope,” she hacks, “still totally vile…”), Eddie tosses this stink bomb between you two. Nancy has excused herself to stand with her head against the cubicle door. Something about calming her nerves. Coming up with a plan. Something to tell Steve, no doubt. 

So it’s just you and Eddie, you sitting on the edge of the sink and Eddie rhythmically kicking the wall. 

“You ever wanna be a mom?”

“Jesus, what a time to land that one on me.” You almost make a joke like you haven’t even stuck it in me yet, but that’s in bad taste. And implies a yet. 

Eddie smiles over his shoulder, fluttering his eyelashes. Stupid. Stupid eyelashes. “Grounds of relevance.”

You pinch your lips between your teeth. “... fine. But, I fully reserve the right to change my answer given the fact that we are eight-shitting-teen years old.”

He points to the cubicle and mutters, “Well, she’s seventeen.”

You, wide-eyed at his dumbassery, mouth I know!

“Okay. Sorry. Go.”

“Fuuuuuck no. No babies pour moi, merci, c’est bon, au revoir!”

Eddie turns to lean against the wall, propping one leg up. God, but he does lean great. 

“Why?”

“Genetic fate.”

“Huh?”

A sigh flutters out of you, shoulders slumping forward. “A certain… how do you say, thread of assholery runs through my family, I don’t know if you’ve noticed.” 

Eddie nods sagely and you kind of want to punch him for it. “Daddy issues. Right.”

“Uh!” A hand flies up in your defense. “Let who among us here without them cast the first stone.”

From the cubicle, Nancy calls, “Not me.”

Surrendering, Eddie grumbles, “Yeah, not me either.”

“Glad we agree.”

There’s another tick and tock of silence, and you get the distinct feeling of something being pried open in the atmosphere. 

“... whatever happened with your dad, anyway?”

Ah. The million dollar question. Whatever happened with your dad, so-called upstanding member of the Hawkins community, poor little poor boy done rich, scaling his way up the ladder of property management in this delightful little Midwestern enclave?

“Not a big fan of the news, are we, Munson?”

He seems to grimace at you tugging on his surname. “Print’s too small.”

“Taking offense to that,” Nancy chimes. 

“It was the big ‘E’,” you say, kind of not into bantering about it. 

“‘E’... ‘E’... ‘E’...” Eddie kicks the wall on each utterance. Possibly forgetting that he could also be the big ‘E’, if he wanted. You wonder if, just in terms of size…

“Embezzlement, Eddie,” you cut that thought off cold. 

His eyes widen, eyebrows shooting under his shaggy bangs. “Shooooot.”

“Score.”

“What all did he, like… embezzle?”

The raising of the hackles is not entirely intentional. “Y’know who’d be able to answer that question, Eddie?”

But he sees it. He calms it. In unison, you both shrug, “Al Munson.”

Boom! Cubicle door flies open again. You’re starting to think that Nancy might just love making an entrance. Lot of flourishing happening here. Not entirely unlike Eddie in that way. 

“It’s time.” 

Each and every one of you beeline to where the test is set up on one of the sinks. Nancy gingerly plucks the offending strip from the test tube and Eddie, a man with money on his mind, asks another million dollar question. “So how do you know…”

You grab the instruction leaflet that you’d been tearing corners off of, making it look nearly moth-bitten. “Wait, it’s white, right?”

“It’s white,” Nancy whispers.

“It’s not, like… off blue, or…”

“No, that is white,” she’s trembling. “Is white– is that good, or– I can’t remember.”

“Nancy Wheeler…” you breathe, peeking over the paper, “Congratulations. You are nobody’s mother!” 

She emits a shriek like nothing you’ve ever heard and barrels straight into you, near knocking you off your feet with a strength you didn’t know this little waif was capable of possessing. Her arms wrap boa constrictor tight around you, her words bubbling over like a shook up can of pop. “Jesus Christ, I’m so relieved, I just– I–!”

“You’re relieved?!” Eddie yells, ringed hands tearing down his face, “I’m way too young to be an uncle! Fuck! Thank god!”

Nancy chokes out a laugh through her tears, tears of relief, thank god and– and you don’t know if it’s selfish and you don’t know if it’s possible but you hope… you hope that’s helped close the chasm. Just a little bit. That she didn’t have to do this all alone in a shithouse bathroom that smells like sulfur and piss. 

Breaking away from you (damn, you wish you knew how to hug), Nancy straightens herself up. Not that she needs to. She’s a pretty crier, that bitch. 

“Just one more thing, you guys.” 

“Anything,” you say before you even know you’ve said it. 

“This is… between us, okay?” her eyes dart from you to Eddie, and you both take a step closer to her. Ceremoniously, Nancy holds out her two pinkie fingers. You link. Eddie links. His finger looks comically large compared to hers– and yours, when he reaches and hooks it around your unsuspecting baby finger. 

“No one can know. No one needs to know.” There’s that headstrong Wheeler reserve you’d been missing. 

“Cross my heart,” you proclaim.

“Hope to d– well, I don’t hope to die, that’s a little dramatic–”

“Eddie!” you both bark, varying degrees of amusement. Yours is on the lower end. “Swear on something real,” you push. 

He hesitates a moment, then gives Nancy a look. “Alright. Swear on Hellfire.” 

“Swear on Hellfire,” Nancy grins all tight, and kisses her right hand, hooked into Eddie’s finger. “Lacy?”

“Swear on Hellfire…” You mumble, rolling your eyes and kissing your Nancy’d hand. You need to swallow, first, before you tug your hand that’s hooked into Eddie’s toward your mouth. 

And he does the worst thing. He leans down to meet your gaze, suckering you right in as his lips pout. They’re hungry. You’ve met those lips. “Swea-aar,” he sing-songs. 

“--on Hellfire, okay,” you scoff, half-laughing into the little kiss. 

“Ha!” Eddie barks, so fucking loud that it jumps off the walls. “Trick! You just made a deal with the devil, ladies, so I hope you enjoy eternal damnation at the hands of yours truly!”

Dumb as he is, Eddie might be right. If the way you’re looking at him is anything to go by.

author's notes: MERRY CHRISTMAS MOTHERFUCKERS. WE GOT IT WE DID IT WE MADE THEM KISS WE MADE THEM REALIZE SOMETHINGS NOT ALL THE THINGS SURELY BUT IT'S. IT'S SOMETHING. IT'S A START! on to the fun bits, like the jokes in the christmas crackers - absolutely obsessed with the mental image of eddie munson's bangs grown too long and he looking like this - cherry bombs down the john is a reference to the classic prank but mostly to american graffiti my beloved. later in the chapter, eddie says that some kid just threw some sodium down there which is something i read about on this reddit thread when researching cherry bombs. domestic terrorism at hawkins high! - p.t. barnum is that mfer that the greatest showman is based on. horrible man! not a fan! - heather holloway's jayne mansfield titties got me thinking about the jayne mansfield-sophia loren photo which has its own wikipedia page??? anyway, lacy coded! - black christmas is a stunning christmas horror film from 1974, which is loosely in part based on a bunch of murders that happened in the westmount neighborhood in montreal, quebec. fun fact, i just moved back from mtl after living there for a year. anyway black christmas kicks ASS - lipton landing is 100% a juno reference. big up my king elliot page - the thin man is one in a series of fantastic lil films from the 1930s all about nick and nora charles, a married couple that get drunk and SOLVE CRIMES. i'm not doing it justice by describing it that way but myrna loy and william powell are the royals of married banter and i model everything i write after their rhythm, more or less. - you're trying to tell me eddie munson didn't do whippets as a kid fucking wise up - one of my personal precious favourite recurring jokes in this series is 'who died and made you my x' and baby. i love a recurring joke - ronnie saying "oh she'll kill ya. then i'll go to work on ya," is a special reference because a) it's from my favourite film of all time, ocean's eleven and b) ayo edebiri, who i've fancast as ronnie ecker, has an ocean's eleven tattoo. we are sisters and also wives! - meep meep! - all i could think about when writing about how guilty lacy was - another metallica needle drop!!!! - pregnancy tests in the 80s really were that insane and involved! there's a great scene in glow (rest in fucking PEACE! gone but never forgotten) of alison brie's character using one, and here's more of the history - maybe the best needle drop of this whole series imo - finally peeped into those daddy issues. look forward to more of that and with that my hellcats, i wish you the merriest of holiday seasons wherever you find yourself and whatever you're doing. i will be back after the christmas break because i have to fully wreck my bank account and see every single person i have ever known and drink every espresso martini on dry land. sorry if there's typos in this, i have been labouring over it for... ever. reblogs, comments, likes and asks are always appreciated and i love you so much it's bordering on criminal! thank you!!!!

[dilemmaontwolegs]

Transcending Time || CL16 {2}

Charles Leclerc x princess!reader Summary: Destined to be together, you and Charles’ love transcends time to find one another again and finally get the future you never had - the one with a happy ending. Warnings: 18+ only, angst, fluff, flashbacks WC: 2k F1 Masterlist || One || Two || Three

Monaco, 1662 A thousand candles burned in the citadel but their radiance was second only to the smile on Charles’ face as the priest announced your vows were complete. No one but the drunkards and whores would be about at this late hour and not one of them would dare step foot into the church. It ensured the marriage would remain a secret.

“Now our souls are bound to each other in this life and the next,” Charles promised as he sealed it with a kiss. “Not even the devil himself could keep us apart.”

“It’s not the devil I fear.”

The priest had reluctantly done his duty, mostly thanks to the more than fair donation you had squirrelled away in the form of gems and jewels, and he was quick to take his leave after signing the cross over your joined hands. The only sound of his departure was the jingle of the leather purse with each step he took back to the rectory.

When the heavy wooden door creaked closed, Charles cupped your face and gave you a kiss that should have melted the stone carving of the Virgin Mary behind him. “Your brother wouldn’t harm you. No matter what, he cares for you.”

“I couldn’t care less about my safety,” you said as you rested your head on your husband’s chest. “If anything were to happen to you…you are my life, my reason to breathe.”

Monaco, 2023 “Wow, you look just like her,” Charles murmured as he stared up at the old portrait, the colour faded with time.

“That’s my namesake, which doesn’t bode well considering she threw herself off the old prison wall,” you chuckled nervously. 

“Why?”

You shrugged and shuffled along to the next portrait of Louis the First. “I don't know, no one talks about her but it must have been bad. Why else would she have been in that place unless she went insane?”

Your brows pinched as the words felt like ash on your tongue. Insane. It was what one tutor had called you after an episode. You couldn't remember what had happened but something during the history lesson had triggered you to lose yourself for a time. It had taken days to regain clarity and shake the cold that seeped into your bones each time it happened.

“Maybe it’s hereditary,” you muttered as your eyes drifted back to the mariner shimmering beyond windows. Longing to feel the cool water on your skin overcame you and the urge was not one you could ever deny. “I need to escape.”

You instructed Charles to the old servant's steps that were easily missed if one didn’t know where to look. His arm tightened around your waist with the first step down the well-worn stonework and you trailed your fingers along the wall like you were greeting an old friend. 

“Are we supposed to be here?” Charles whispered despite being alone.

“I would think not, but I have never asked to be sure. Can you keep it a secret? This is the only freedom I have.”

He stumbled to a stop on the step below and kept you balanced off your leg as he turned to face you. Even with the dim lighting you could see the surprise on his face and it made him look younger. “You’re trusting me?” he finally asked, his lips so close to yours that it was impossible not to wonder what they would feel like on yours. 

“Would that be a mistake?” A strange feeling washed over you as his thumb caressed the birthmark on your ribs and you swore it burned with familiarity. 

“No,” he was quick to answer. “You can trust me, princess.”

You had no evidence to believe him but you did, so you nodded your head to the door at the end of the hall. “It’s just through there.”

He helped you down the last steps that had passed beneath the streets above and watched you find an old iron key stuffed into a crack. “What is this place?”

You turned the key and tugged at the heavy door as watery light flooded into the hall. “Home.”

Monaco, 1661 “I met your mother today.” You sighed sadly and rested your head on Charles’ shoulder as he curled an arm around your waist. “I’ve never met anyone so warm.”

Charles kissed the top of your head where your tiara had sat before he removed it, leaving it with his coat and shoes away from the waters edge. He could hear the longing in your voice and knew just how cold your own mother was towards you. “She always wanted a daughter,” he said as he ran his thumb up and down your side to soothe you. “She would love you.”

Pascale was one of the reasons Charles couldn’t just run away with you, as much as he wanted to free you of the golden chains that imprisoned you. Pascale, Lorenzo and Arthur. Life was not so simple when love was involved. She had been devastated when Hervé had died of the sweating fever over winter and Charles hadn’t been the same since. An air of sadness descended on his shoulders and he worked longer hours to provide for his family.

His pride refused to accept the money you offered to ease his burden so you tried to help in other ways, promoting his business to whatever duke or marquess you happened to be forced to dine with. 

“Prince Wilhem is arriving on the morrow,” you whispered as the words threaten to silence you. “I cannot marry him, Charles. If I’m going to die I would rather it be by my hand than that brutes.”

“Please,” he choked on the plea as his eyes reflected the water in the rock pool. “I cannot bear to hear such talk.”

“Then help me,” you begged as you climbed onto his lap, your fingers reaching for the hem of his shirt hanging loose over his trousers. “Save me, Charles. You are the only man I can trust.”

He caught your hands before they could reach for the leather strap that laced his trousers tight over his narrow hips. “I can’t,” he admitted after swallowing deeply and looked away. 

Pain lacerated your heart, the ache immediate and immense enough that you looked down to see your corset where a knife should have been. “Why?” you asked before you lost all courage. “Mother told me I wasn’t pretty enough for a love match, is she right?”

Charles hands dropped yours so he could cradle your face and guide your eyes back up to meet him. “Your mother is a bitch, and you are the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes upon.”

“Then why? Help me to understand.”

“There are too many reasons why,” he said as he brushed a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends as he did when he was frustrated. It was the first time you had been the cause and not just the witness. “For one, I have been told the first time it hurts and I don’t wish to be the cause of your pain. Two, you are a princess, the princess. And three, you deserve more than losing your maidenhead to a lowly clerk.”

“You are stupid. And your reasons are stupid too,” you growled as you clambered to your feet. “Whatever pain I might have felt with a gentle soul who held my heart would be but a modicum of what Wilhem will do should we be wed.”

You stared down your nose at him, missing the flinch as anger blinded you. “Should I survive his sadistic tendencies long enough to birth his heir then I will only hope I find a better fate than his last two wives and the stillborns that took them to the grave. But thank you for saving me from a momentary pain, Saint Charles.”

You only took two steps before he caught you, his strong fingers wrapping around your wrist and tugging you back into his embrace. His arm snaked across your back and pinned you chest to chest as his head dipped down to capture your lips before you could say another word. 

You had felt his kiss on your cheek, on your forehead, on your hand, but never on your lips. His kiss erased all thoughts that weren’t of him, it evaporated the anger and the fear and the pain. His kiss gave you hope in return. 

Your hopes were dashed like the waves upon the rocks as he broke the kiss first and pressed his forehead to yours, shaking his head slowly to regain his composure. “I love you, princess, and I cannot make love to you once, knowing it will never happen again.”

Your fingers gathered his shirt in your fists to keep him from taking another step away. “Once? Charles, I want you for a lifetime, hell, eternity wouldn’t be long enough to stop loving you.” You took his hand and placed it over your heart. “This already belongs to you, make my body yours too, ruin me for all others.”

Monaco, 2023 “How has this stayed a secret?” Charles gasped as he stepped out of the doorway and saw the azure waves lapping at the rocks in the sheltered cove. 

“Like so much of our history, this too was forgotten,” you said as he helped ease you down to sit on the ledge where you could dip your swollen ankle into the cool water. “I don’t know how long it was abandoned before I came here, possibly centuries.”

Charles sat down beside you, unconcerned about getting his suit dirty from the sand and salt, and pulled off his dress shoes so he could dip his feet in the water too. “So how did you find it?”

You twirled an heirloom ring around your finger and watched how the sunlight caught the crests of the waves and turned the blue to gold like midas’ touch. “Would you believe me if I said I dreamed about it? No one ever does.”

If it is not in the library records, it does not exist. Foolish girl, just like your namesake. You are lucky you are pretty, since you are clearly not intelligent.

You blinked away the memory of the old librarian laughing in your face and found Charles staring at you. “You dreamt of this place?”

“You can laugh, I’m used to it,” you said with a sigh. “It doesn’t change the fact it is true.”

“I believe you.”

You snorted an unladylike laugh and rolled your eyes. “You don’t have to be polite on my account.”

“No, really! I do. I have been having this recurring dream where I trip over a crown of all things and it stabs me in the back.”

Tears started to blur your vision and you rose to your feet, pushing through the pain that flared in your sprained ankle. “I said you could laugh, not ridicule me.”

“No wait,” Charles rushed to follow, his fingers curling around your wrist to keep you from escaping and you both jumped at the static charge that jolted through you. “I wasn’t making fun of you I swear. Look.” He released your hand as he turned and tugged his shirt out of his trousers, lifting the material up to show the sun kissed skin of his lower back, a pale jagged line marring the left side. “No one believes me, they say it’s a birthmark.”

The scar held you in a trance and you reached out to trace its shape, your cold fingertips making Charles shiver beneath your touch. “Tiara, not a crown,” you whispered, letting your hands fall to your side as you recognised the seven sharp points spaced perfectly across his skin. “I believe you.”

Click here for part three.

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[socially-awkward-skeleton]

All Along the Watchtower (Chapter 5)

Pairing: Captain John Price x Fem!OC (3rd person POV)

Word count: 3.1 K

Warnings: Minors DNI - descriptions of torture, misogyny, threats of violence, morally gray characters, swearing, smoking, mentions of human trafficking

Summary: Flashback #2 - after finding the women and children in the terrorist outpost, Rory's skills with interrogation and torture are put to use on their captor

A/N: Rory Sinclair is a dual citizen (both Canada and the UK) who's been living in the UK since she was 14. She is 28 at the time of this fic, Price is 32. This series is set in 2017 before the events of the first MW game. Rory's thoughts are bold and italicized, other italics are used for emphasis

[Read on AO3]

2016 - Syrian Outpost 

The soldiers remained in silence as they sat outside the room where Walker interrogated the target. Muffled sounds of groans coming from the other side of the door drifted in to invade the hush that had fallen over the siege forces. Sat on a table, on the other side of the room across from the door, Rory had already stripped the tac vest from her shoulders in order to catch her breath. The sight of all those faces in the dock facility below had caused her stomach to twist and ache. Her head hanging low, chin pressed to her chest, she rubbed at the back of her neck trying to relieve the tension that built there. 

Andrew looked over at her, watching her hands start to tremble and he slipped the pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Pulling one out for her, he lit it and nudged her with his elbow to get her attention. “Hey, take this.”

Her gaze fell to the trail of smoke that began to lift from the tip and she happily accepted, bringing the cigarette to her lips and taking a long, deep drag of it. Enough to make her head spin and her lungs feel like they were filled with ash.

“Thanks.”

“A pleasure.”

Moments later, Officer Walker entered the room where the soldiers waited, the door creaking behind him as he let out a heavy sigh. Worn out, he wiped the sweat from his brow with the collar of his shirt, exposing armpits now darkened by sweaty halos from his hard work. Wiping his hands of the blood that had collected on them on the front of his shirt, he added to the red already splattered there. “Fucker ain't breaking,” he groaned, looking over at two of the soldiers in the corner of the room. Beefy and brawnier than the rest, Walker gave them a wry grin. “Hey Turbo, Lazer, either of you have experience in breaking someone?”

The two soldiers shook their heads in unison, still lost for words after having witnessed what they’d seen in storage.

Andrew nudged Rory's side again, whispering to her. “Go on then.” He tipped his head towards Walker. “You do.”

“Andy, no,” she said with a glare.

But her Lieutenant would never leave it at that. He’d seen her do it more times than she would ever care to admit. He encouraged it, carrying her preferred tools with him just in case. He was the one who had given her the name ‘Lamb’ and it had stuck because he knew what really lay below the surface. 

“Sinclair does,” Lieutenant Owen spoke up.

Walker’s grin dropped, his brow furrowing as he looked over at Rory. “Little miss humanitarian over there, really?”

She huffed out a laugh, blowing cigarette smoke up towards the ceiling. “Oh, don't worry, sir. I only save the bleeding heart act for the innocent.”

Walker looked her up and down, not really believing it. Cracking a smile, he shook his head. “Hey, I'm all for equality, sweetheart. If you really think you can do a better job than me –”

“She can, sir,” Andrew was quick to add.

“Andy,” Rory hissed.

“You're bloody good at it, don't deny it.” His icy stare froze her, looking at her as if he saw through her. One of the only ones to see behind the mask. 

Pushing a hand through her hair before hopping off the table, her boots landed with a heavy thump on the concrete below, the weight of the world and the responsibility just handed to her dragging her down.

Her Lieutenant was quick to pull out a set of brass knuckles and a plastic bag from his vest pocket, looking up at her with a small smile as if offering a gift. “For you, Sergeant.” 

Rory nodded, taking them from him and stuffing them into her back pocket before taking another drag from her cigarette and moving closer to the door by Walker.

“Go on, sweetheart,” Walker leaned down towards her, chuckling, the sarcasm practically dripping off his words, “Show that bastard exactly what girl power looks like, huh?”

She scowled, swallowing heavily as her hand twitched. Her throat always got dry moments before she’d have to face down her opponent – and that’s what they were – interrogations weren’t a battle, they were a game of chess. Digging into their heads, convincing them to play the way she wanted them to, finding their weak spot and then attacking it directly. Finding the pressure point and pushing down on it until they couldn’t take it anymore. That’s where most people failed to be successful. With unassuming Rory Sinclair, on the other hand – soft on the outside, hardly a threat – when left alone in a room with her, it was the last place any enemy would want to be. 

Before she could walk any further, Walker grabbed her arm and his amber eyes tried to read her sneer. “You really think you can handle this?”

Her mouth twisted into a sickly grin as she bit down on her tongue to stop her from spitting venom, jaw clenched tight as she tilted her head away to blow out smoke. “Yes, sir.”

“I wanna know where the weapons are and who he's working with. I don't want any sappy bullshit about the cargo, you hear me?”

The stink of his sweat clung to him, mixing with the cheap aftershave he wore, and it made her stomach twist more as he crept further into her personal space. 

“Understood.”

Giving her arm a quick squeeze, he couldn’t help but keep up with the patronizing tone and smile. “I'm counting on ya, honey.”

Rory flinched, rage burning down the length of her spine like a wildfire. All that anger that swelled within her at the sight of those women and children boiled just under the skin and behind her eyes. Taking another breath, dragging her teeth over her lip and tasting bitter hatred on her tongue, she headed into the room.

The metal door shut tight behind her with a heavy clank and she stopped and stared at Al Ghulam bound to a chair before her. Blood dripped down his face, his eye swollen and puffy on one side, encapsulating his socket in purple flesh. His fancy clothes had been stained with blood along with his teeth as he smiled at her, a long trail of red saliva dripping from his lip.

“Is this the American way? They send in the woman to do the job of men?”

Ignoring Abdullah was all too easy as she kept walking forward, exhaling smoke from her nostrils before her fingers curled around the cigarette dangling from her lips to take another drag.

“Hal taelam madha 'afeal bialnisa' mithlaka?” <In Arabic: Do you know what I do to women like you? >

Rory stretched her neck from side to side, feeling the tension pop and release. Unfazed by his threats, used to the inane ramblings of bound men. Every single one of them seemed to resort back to threatening her womanhood. Using feeble attempts at scaring her by trying to make her feel small or inadequate. It was the sign of a weak will. 

She cracked a half grin from around her cigarette “Lal taelam madha faealt bialrijal mithlaka?” <in Arabic: Do you know what I've done to men like you?>

Al Ghulam chuckled at her response, spitting blood out on the floor between his feet. “You speak Arabic?” 

Her eyes narrowed and she drew closer, one sure and steady step at a time, watching his eyes widen and the sweat start to form on his brow. A foggy cloud of smoke curtaining her features before leaning forward with a darkened stare. “Do you know?” Her voice was low and ominous, her question anything but a casual threat – it was a warning.

He shook his head, staring up at her, mouth kept tightly shut. He still had fight in him, but she had patience.  

“Now’s as good a time as any to find out, eh?” She stood in front of him, hands on her hips. “Where are the weapons, and who are you working with?”

“I already told your CIA, I don't know.”

He was lying and she knew it. “Where are the weapons and who are you working with,” she repeated in the same calm, cool tone of voice.

“Are you deaf?”

Grabbing him by the face with one hand, digging her nails into his cheeks as she grabbed his jaw, Rory pulled the cigarette from her mouth with the other and pressed the burning end of it to his cheek. Twisting it against his skin as it sizzled like sausages in a frying pan, holding it there even as his screams echoed through the room. Spittle flying out from between gritted teeth as he seethed, staring at her with the same burning hatred she felt for him. 

“Where are the weapons?” She looked down at him, continuing to hold the cigarette there even as he struggled against it.

“Fuck you,” he spat, squirming under her.

She cocked her brow, impressed somewhat by the fact he wasn’t willing to give in quite so easy. He wasn’t quite as passive as she had thought. Slipping the cigarette back between her lips she stood up straight and pulled the plastic bag from her back pocket, circling Al Ghulam the way a predator would around its singled out prey. 

As she stood behind his back, his body went rigid. The natural fear response that took over when someone was being followed from behind, the one that made a person start walking a little faster while alone at night, the one pricks like him enjoyed making women feel. Rustling the plastic bag in her hands as she held it out taut, she noticed every little fidget he made, the little shiver that shook down his back. “Are you scared?”

“Never.”

Another lie. 

Rory quickly moved forward, bringing the bag down over his head and gripping back on it tight enough to hear the screeching sound of stretched plastic as it constricted against his mouth and nose, the squeak dampening his scream. 

His fingers squeezed at the armrests as he gasped for air, his mouth working against the plastic as he fought to breathe, his feet kicking out slightly. She held on just a little longer, just enough to bring him right up to the edge where he feared she might kill him, and then pulled the bag away, waiting for him to catch his breath before asking her questions once again.

“Where are the weapons?”

“You fucking whore. I'll kill you. Think you scare me? I can hunt you down and set twenty men on you.” 

She pulled the cigarette from her mouth and leaned down towards him, her head resting near his, exhaling smoke into his face. “You should know, it’s quite easy to tell that while you may call the Middle East home now, you weren’t raised here. The way you dress, the way you speak…it’s clear you were raised in the West, went to good schools…” Glancing down at his hand, she smirked as she noticed the gold band on his finger. “And that’s no class ring. What poor woman got stuck with you for a husband?”

Al Ghulam went to speak, and she stopped him by shoving her thumb into the pressure point of his shoulder. “Before you even think about threatening me, I know you spend an awful lot of time traveling between here and Dubai. That’s where she lives, right? Keeping her hidden away from the unspeakable things you do.” She tilted her head as she pondered on the reason. “Perhaps you’re embarrassed. Doesn’t much matter to me.” She squeezed a little tighter and his body convulsed involuntarily. “I can find her, bring along my trusty rifle, and add another notch to the barrel.” His breath hitched in his throat and she released her thumb. “Take a moment to think on that, eh?” 

Rory patted his shoulder and then wrapped the bag around his head once more, twisting the plastic in her hands so it gripped his face tighter. Staring out into the middle distance of the room, she held the plastic bag over his head long enough that his nails began to bend and crack against the metal armrests he was tied to as he struggled, a horrible wheezing noise escaping him like a balloon slowly deflating until she finally released the bag from his face, placing her hand on his shoulder and squeezing the pressure point there tightly once again. “I can do this all day. I’m not so sure you can. So, before I have to become a little more convincing…Where are the weapons and who are you working with?”

His breathing was becoming more strained, each breath heavier and harder to take. Near his breaking point, it wouldn’t take very long now, she just needed to tip him a little bit further. She hadn’t even broken a sweat yet in her quest to prove how far she was willing to go, and it was becoming clear to her that with Al Ghulam she wouldn’t even have to go as far as she had in the past. She could smell it on him.

“I’m going to kill you myself. I’ll slit your throat and watch you bleed,” his words spilled from his trembling lips.

Threats of violence were a common thing, it always shifted from demeaning her to the threats of taking her life. More a benefit to their own ego, an attempt to make themselves feel strong, holding on to some semblance of the image they thought they were supposed to have while she broke them. 

“Very well.” Moving to stand in front of him once more, watching him huff back on his rasping breaths, Rory tossed her nearly spent cigarette on the floor, stomping it out with her boot before grabbing the brass knuckles from her back pocket and slipping them onto her fingers. Clenching her hand into a fist, she appreciated the weight as her thumb ran over the solid metal accessory, feeling each dent and groove she had made in it on the bones of her adversaries. Staring at Al Ghulam with dead eyes, her breathing was perfectly relaxed, her heart rate holding steady. “Once I’m done here with you, I’ll be making my way to Dubai, there might be just enough left of you for your wife to mourn.”

“No, please.” His eyes bugged from his head as he slumped forward in his seat, a defeated man. “ Fuck . I’ll tell you.”

“I’m listening.”

The door creaked open once more and Rory stepped out of the room without a speck of blood on her or a drop of sweat, she was perfectly relaxed as she slipped the brass knuckles from her hand and placed them back into her pocket. Her slow, heavy footsteps on the concrete was enough to cause the eyes of every soldier to lift and stare. They had all heard

the muffled yelling and the long stretches of silence from inside the room, and their reactions to her entrance were all the same – confusion. At a loss for just what the hell she had done in that room. 

All except Andrew. Giving her a smirk, the cigarette between his lips lifted up into the curled corner of his mouth as he looked over at her. He knew exactly how it would play out. It was always the same. 

The little ‘ Lamb ’ had teeth.

Rory walked right past Walker as if he didn’t even exist, and he grabbed her arm, his eyes flaring at her. “What happened in there?” Looking her up and down, he waited expectantly for an answer. Expecting some story about how she tried but just couldn’t break him. How batting her eyelashes at a terrorist and a human trafficker just wouldn’t work for whatever reason. How a big, strong man would have to go in there and finish what he had started, and she had failed to deliver on.

Her hazel eyes bore into him, her mouth drawn in a tight, straight line as she reported Al Ghulam’s confession. “There was a swap made, a trade deal. Lives bartered for the weapons.”

“With who?” He got into her face, but she never flinched. “Who’s he working with?”

“Not the insurgents.” She shook her head. “A PMC. Independant . European . Weapons are on their way into enemy hands as we speak,” she said with a defeated sigh, knowing all too well the lives of civilians and soldiers alike would be taken soon. Yet more casualties of war. Numbers turned into statistics to be reported on the nightly news in a minute long segment, if they even really mattered to most anymore. 

“Motherfucker,” Walker spat, pacing back and forth, muttering under his breath.

“The lives we found downstairs, they’re only half of what there was.” She broke his train of thought and he looked at her with disinterest. “They’re the rest of the payment for another shipment that’s coming.”

Turning on his heel, he met her with his furrowed brow. “When?”

“Two days' time. Your intel was either too late or too early.”

“Good.” Walker scratched at his stubble as he continued to pace. “Good, we can work with that.” He tipped his head and gave her a slimy grin. “I don’t know what you did in there, sweetheart, but I might just have to make you a returning member of my roster.”

Biting down on her molars, Rory grimaced at the thought of having to work another mission with the CIA officer and his less than respectful attitude towards her. “My pleasure,” she said as her pained expression shifted into a scowl and she moved to sit with her Lieutenant once more. 

Andrew’s smirk had become a wry grin at this point, enjoying the faces of every other soldier in there including Walker’s. The look of people taken completely off guard by the fact someone like Rory could break a man faster than some brazen, fast-talking American with little scruples. 

“You look like you need a fag, Sinclair.”

“Do I ever,” she huffed. 

“You didn’t even need the knuckles this time, did you?” Andrew lowered his voice, leaning in towards her as he passed her the cigarette that had been burning between his lips. 

She snatched it from him and brought the cigarette to her mouth, taking a long drag. Shaking her head, Rory passed the brass knuckles back to him, dragging her hands up and down her thighs as she took a seat on the table beside him once again.  

He chuckled dryly and slipped them back into the pocket of his vest. “That’s our Lamb.” His grin grew wider, until teeth began to show. “I knew you had it in you.”

[alolanrain]

I’m just going to start piling my Ta!au quotes into one post instead of spamming everyone's timeline with it. 

----------

(after a missions, Ash had a nightmare and can’t sleep and neither could Rowan)

Ash: That’s a terrible story.

Rowan: not all of us fight Gods and win, my boy. so take what I have. 

Ash:.... tell me how you survived the Dragalge again? 

----------

(later in the Alola timeline-think before Kukui announces the first league)

Ash: You're an asshole, you know that?

Lillie: Mankey see, Mankey do.

Ash: *flashbacks to all the times he’s used the exact phrase* *deep sigh* fair enough. 

------------

(on a simple date after a long stake out mission)

Ash:*tired AF* Are you going to keep looking at me like that or are you actually going to kiss me?

Raihan: Can’t I enjoy looking at my meal before digging into it? 

Ash... *tired, flustered and now angry because he’s flustered*

Raihan: *too pleased, the smug bastard* that’s what I thought. 

------------

(after noticing Meowth working at the new malasada truck outside of school, completely ignoring James and Jessie who ignore him in return)  

Ash: hey-not here to pick a fight, put your claw’s away-do you know Lillie’s brother?

Meowth: *suspicious but interested* the emo kid? 

Ash: yeah.

Meowth:... why? 

Ash: would it be insulting to you if I call him a ragged wet Meowth? 

Meowth: *instantly relaxing* if you don’t call him that I will. 

Ash: *grabbing the malasada's James hands him without making him pay* let’s tag team him then. 

Meowth: sounds perfect to me, now get going. you’re holding up the line Twerp. 

-----------

(meeting and conversing with Goh and Chloe for the first time)

Goh: my mission is to catch Mew and then go on my first Pokémon journey!

Ash: *bites tongue and thank the legendries he’s where sunglasses to hide his uncontrollable flash of anger* 

Chloe: Don’t listen to him-

Goh: Hey!

Chloe: -he’s the dumb one

Ash: *silently already picking favorites* I see. 

------------

(after a prank war) 

Gary: does my life truly mean so little to you? 

Ash: *w/ neon green hair and permanent marker on his face* YES!

------------

(on a random Tuesday in Alola) 

Ash:*swinging in a hammock with sunglasses and his hat* Are you here to kill me? *slurps annoyingly loud at his drink*

Mewtwo:... no but I’m thinking about it now.

--------------

(after loosing the kids in the forest for a while)

Ash: where have you been!?

Lana: *sopping wet*

Mallow: *beginning of a rash on her lips* 

Kiawe:*looks like he got into a fight with something and lost*

Sophocles: *also looks like he got into a fight with something and lost*

Lillie: *covered in flowers with a few Cutiefly buzzing around her* 

Lana: I think you already know. 

-----------

(Champion meeting in Kalos-Lance is sick and Ash is his second by Orange Isles proxy)

Diantha:  You're late. As usual.

Ash: *not high as a kite but not sober either* be happy that I’m even here in the first place. 

Rose: it’s really innapro-

Ash&Diantha: not a word out of you. 

------------

(Kiawe and Lillie hanging out with Ash even though he’s cleaning all his knives)

Ash:  Put that down! You're like a child.

Kiawe: *pouting and placing down a sheathed knife* I’m a teenager, not a child. 

Ash: uh-huh. 

------------

(Ash begrudgingly letting Lana indulge the rain before class one day)

Ash:  Well, don't stand there in the rain all day. Come on.

Lana: but I like the rain.

Ash: okay-let me rephrase then so you understand. Don’t make me give you detention-

Lana: *darts on past* 

Ash: *smirking and start to trail behind* that’s what I thought. 

-----------

(after being trailed by some mercenaries from a Gala) 

Rowan: we’re safe now, aren’t we boy? 

Ash: *checks around corner of the alleyway they ducked into to loose their trackers* Yeah... yeah I think so old-

Goons: *appearing on the other side of the alleyway* there they are!

Ash&Rowan: *in unison* fuckshitfuckingtitballs-

----------

(in Hisui) 

Ash:  I swear it wasn't me.

Cyllene: *annoyed but in a motherly way* now why don’t I believe that? 

Ash:.... because I’m your favorite survey member? *Growlith eyes and slight cheeky smile*

Cyllene: get out of my sight.

Ash: *squeaks* yes, Captain!

---------------

(after an intense debrief after a mission going tits-up as Ash was unknowingly stalked by another mercenary)  

Gary: Who did you piss off this time?

Ash: *slumping down in a chair next to Gary and the large as computer screens* it’s more like who I haven’t pissed off. 

-------------

(after first trimester of finals)

Kukui: *walks into the classroom, see’s Ash blank face and staring at the other doorway where Kukui originally left though* 

Ash:

Kukui:

Ash: 

Kukui: you gonna keep staring or what? 

Ash: *broken out of the strongest dissociation spell in a long time**jumping out of his seat and making a fool of himself while falling down onto the floor* cheese and crackers on balls, you motherfucker- 

[soranihimawari]

Diamond Dogs

A regular story about an expensive bottle of sake and why world famous model, Miya Osamu, chooses “diamond” as your nickname.

Pairing: photographer!reader x model!au

Warnings: nsfw// mentions of random hookups// sexual awakenings talks & fantasies//

Notes: both leads are 20-somethings…this is a flashback story

Rating: MOF (miya osamu fluff)// nsfw

Part 1

“Osamu!”

You’re nineteen years old when you travel on your first company cruise. The cruise was to celebrate the magazine’s twenty-fifth year of publication, hence why you were welcomed aboard and there are models, drugs, champagne, all parts essential to an industry party. You’re just rubbing elbows, saying hi to familiar few faces, some tease you about pulling that amazing fierce shot at Cannes of two Hollywood actors in their sharpest Armani suits imported no less.

With all that white noise, you see an old friend. How old? You don’t remember much from your time in Hyogo because for both of you, it seemed a lifetime ago. Perhaps before he was a world famous model with his iconic twin, he was the silver haired mischievous fox of the school. Miya Osamu was a royal you couldn’t touch let alone even dream about in a romantic light unless you were popular and had your wits about you. That being said, he did find you once in a corner of the school, ridiculed for your, “shite shots of out of focus flowers” and “crappy angles because you cut the volleyball team out of a wonderful cloud scene,” and somehow you stood there unfazed by it. The scene of you having the camera you had exposed to the light and you sniffling saying your midterm reel was lost sort of made him snap. Vulgar words were said and you, pick up the camera, the photos with the muddy foot prints because it rained that afternoon, half smiled at him saying, “you’re not so bad afterall,” which meant you tried to thank him.

“It’s ok to cry ya know,” Osamu offers you a kerchief he used to wrap his bento. “‘S just us in this stairwell, uh…”

“Been in the same homeroom since last year middle school and you don’t know my name? That’s a bummer,” you sniffle. “You may be pretty like a diamond, but sometimes you’ve got to be built like one… metaphorically. Thanks for the kerchief. I really should get to my cram school session.”

You hand him back the kerchief and you walk tall.

So that wasn’t just a memory that played whenever you saw him thereafter. You remember him sending his twin to find out your likes and dislikes and when Atsumu would say he found nothing, Osamu was so irate. Until you needed help with Modern English Granmer—your teacher paired you together because Osamu was in need for extra credit and tutoring was one of the viable ways to keep him both on the volleyball team’s good graces and away from his women fanclub.

Years pass, uncanny friendship aside, Osamu is aboard this ship. Why? Because Atsumu is so, so close to figuring out how long his brother has been in love with you. Even if Atsumu grew to love you more, the ash blonde was miles away ‘screwing’ some new plus one the tabloids would eat up. You think it’s a funny ploy, however whenever the boys’ dating live came up, it left up with a sour taste.

Regardless, your friend calls Osamu over, not being fully read into your past with one half of Cartier models duo, and much to your surprise he sauntered over.

“You grew up quite nicely, filled out, I mean,” he greets your friend making some suggestive hand signs.

Your friend laughs before pulling the, “have you met my friend, yn? Turns out they know about Hyogo too…”

You sip your champagne nonchalantly as a catering waiter walks by with a trail of desserts. Your friend could see Osamu watch you curious… with enough time, you return to the conversation they were having. Time passes a little after that when you bow politely and excuse yourself when you’re about to relieve yourself and redo your hair. You must have muttered it because Osamu is sneaky with his free hand and holds yours, whispering, “ya look fine. It’s been a while.”

One of three things happen after cocktail hour: first, the boat docks in the harbour. Second, you remember now that you’re not in Tokyo for this trip, you’re in Singapore. Third, you don’t have to decline Osamu’s invitation to show you around the city, but he does when you seem a bit hesitant. You wear medical masks and sunglasses blaming it on the brightness of the city lights making references to several CyberPunk films.

Miya Osamu’s many things, but charging was a forgotten quality even now as you eat Singapore style Mai Fan. He laughs easily with you, you smile a bit.

“That’s a first,” he says dreamily while you raise your glass to your lips and drink the warm liquor inside.

“What is?”

“Your smile.”

The smile disappears off your face as you retrace your steps with him in your mind. Quietly you lean in and reminded him he made you laugh uncontrollably in the library as teenagers.

“But this is the first time I’ve seen it come so effortless,” he replies, his hand frozen in the air almost touching your face. “May I?”

“Not here,” you stand and leave some notes behind.

Osamu follows you shortly thereafter into an abandoned alleyway by the swank hotel everyone on the yacht was staying at. He kabedons you this time, and when your brain catches up to your heart, you’re already in the midst of gripping his collar in an air tight exchange via mouth to mouth. He knocks the wind out of you pushing you higher against the walls, like he has always envisioned in his imagination. Your body responds for you, hooking your legs around him when his lips leave yours to kiss and bruise your neck.

“Ahh… ‘Samu,” you’re trying to focus a little , but you remember how relentless the Miya twins are. They got what they wanted, always have and will…

And tonight? Miya Osamu wants you.

Luckily enough after the teasing game his hands played with your parts below the belt, you make sure you’re not followed by any lingering cameras when you enter his room and he suddenly reflects on the one time he called you Diamond. It’s not important now as he has proof of what his presence can do to you all over his fingertips. Your outfit not ruined by his manhandling just yet until he has the fabric having so low off your body in his room.

“Vintage loan, careful with that,” you say when he slips off the remaining parts of the outfit.

“Take these off for me, yeah?”

Osamu sits on his haunches as you attempt to take his buttons off, he notices your hands shake.

“Nervous?”

Three buttons, more down the seam to go…

“It’s been a long time since we’ve done anything this risqué,” you say. “You taught me how to kiss, what foreplay was, what sex can be and actually is…”

“You make me sound like Atsumu.”

“But I’m with the better Miya.”

He chuckles when you kiss him sliding his shirt off of his shoulders.

“Let me have you,” his voice is low and ignites your skin on your neck. “Please. You have no idea how much I’ve been needing this. Needing you.”

“Where were you, huh?” your voice is sinister as it drives him madly faster to undo his pants, he slides your garments to the side and manhandles your hips higher so he can tease you below your own waist too.

“Too busy trying to find a decent fuck in this town and your friend called me over,” he kisses your thigh before easing himself into you.

You hiss and whine, saying to give yourself some time to breathe and within the next breath a few curses on either side of this sexual encounter has Osamu buried to the hilt, your body ignited a primal spark in his soul and he unleashes every ounce of formidable restraint since you reintroduced yourself to him. This was how it ought to be, he thinks selfishly. You’re right where I need you, his subconscious drinks your panting and glistening body in, he lets you curl into him when he kisses your shoulders; the bed moves with the force of his and your combined movements.

“Ngh~s’good,” your nails dig into the back of his tensing shoulders. Both boys had different tells, you’d know this since you’ve watched them do exclusively nearly nude shots for other designer brands. Atsumu’s was slurred words once he did decide to eat his date for dinner, or so you heard at the model agency lending out their most experienced ladies for a California-coast inspired swim line; Osamu’s is the tensing of his beautifully sculpted back, one you saw by accident when he was in a quick change.

Either way, with either twin, you knew you’d experience pure unadulterated bliss. And so with Osamu, muttering how he’d never outgrow the greed of your sexual escapades (with him)—he commands your body’s inhibitions to create an artistic mess of young love in this hotel. He does fuck you like a dog should, lest he forgets how much of a lustful demon you can be in bed, snarling his name after your first two highs—you turn him over like an alligator and while you ride his cock, his eyes roll to the back of his head as do yours and he cums… your translucent juices stick to his lower abdomen as even his seed slips down your inner thighs. Osamu’s hands keep your hips steady at the angle he yearned for. Your hands find their way to his throat and with a gentle, yet firm squeeze, you choke him and he laughs smiles.

“Again baby,” he’s amused when his canines smirks at you.

The bed creaks when you bend down to whisper in his ear, “Beware the diamond dogs are fucked…”

And your lips curl into a smile as you lick a stripe between his neck and ear, ending with a nibbling bite and Osamu moans into the darkness of the night.

[ruiniel]

Endless - IV

Fandom: The Silmarillion

Rating: M

Relationships: Maedhros/fem!OC

Characters: Maedhros, Celegorm, Curufin, Maglor, Caranthir, Fingon, Fingolfin, Amrod, Amras, Original Elf Character(s), Sauron, more to be added

Tags and warnings: alternating POV, Recovery, Trauma, Beleriand, The Sindar, The Noldor, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Dehumanization, Flashbacks, Past Torture, Canon-Typical Violence, Angst, Mental Anguish, Survivor Guilt, Past Abuse, Alternate Universe, Psychosis, Internalized ableism, POV Original Character, Maedhros POV, more tags coming

Also on AO3

IV. Before dawn

The night was cold and unyielding when Mithiel reached her tent, her mind afire over the first encounter with the king of these people.

I am not at my best.

She chewed her lip, placing the journal Maedhros had given her on the table in the corner and taking a seat. He wanted to learn their language, which would apparently become part of her responsibilities. In truth, having now seen more of his demeanor — vastly different from his earlier mood at dinner — the prospect was as good as the circumstance allowed and would suit her approach. She hoped.

And Mithiel had spoken true on the topic of escaped thralls. But what she had seen of them, what she’d dealt with treating the shells of the Elves they once were, the vacant gazes and broken wills… the scarred Elf sitting before her tonight had possessed none such traits. He was undoubtedly marked and maimed in more ways than one by his ordeal at the hands of the Enemy, but there was resilience, that same silver-gold hope brimming in the depths of a blue-grey stare, fuelling her own determination.

He was often in pain, that much was certain; both physical and otherwise, but still he’d tried his best with her and that had also been evident, apologies notwithstanding. Mithiel still recalled the jerk of his body and the brief look of caged despair when she leaned closer to touch him, to wipe his cheek.

What have you lived through? she wondered, opening the journal and skimming over the writings in the hand of one who, it is said, turned to ashes upon death, finally consumed by the fire of his willful fëa.

Undoubtedly, this was his son, Mithiel concluded with half a smile, long fingers trailing over the neat binding and crisp pages, the beauty of the flowing script. 

She pored over the notes for some time, indeed finding nothing to correct: the observations were insightful and showed an unmistakable linguistic prowess. Mithiel read on, the soft light from the holders splashing over details on her people’s customs and language, all through the eyes of a newcomer.

Once the letters began twirling before her eyes, adding to a yawn’s overture, Mithiel closed the journal. She looked to her new bed with its welcoming folded arrangements. Despite the lateness of the hour, the prospect of sleep — or rather, of lying still — beckoned little. She felt like a seabird bound to a cliff, a wave seeking shores to crash against. Her limbs moved, set to remove her outer layers of clothing while her mind roamed far. 

She did not pity him, no. She thought of the way the yellow lights gleamed on his auburn hair, a beautiful shade framing a face carved by wielders of woe and hatred. As she sat on the bed, undoing her plait, their conversation resurfaced like restless fireflies. 

His questions, the cool assessment of her on his part Mithiel attributed to uncertainty. After all, this Elf had lived through the horrors of the mountain dungeons, had borne the yoke of slavery to the endless dark. His interest in her experience with the others was genuine, she could not fault him that.

She was pacing through the tent again before long, and since sleep eluded her and would do so for a while — since the first rising of the sun, parsing the waking hours from strips of night left erratic resting patterns — she donned her outer layers again and her cloak, then exited the tent. A little reconnaissance on her own away from the watchful eyes of princes would aid in obtaining a footing besides.

“What are… what are you doing here?” Maedhros asked, eyes still feverish as he took in Fingon’s windswept hair, the pronounced hollows and dips in his features, highlighted by the tall fires lit nearby. He was much thinner than in Valinor times, the struggles marked in his yet handsome face.

Fingon shrugged, glancing at his cousin with a kind smile, one of those crooked affairs leaving most people seeking more of it. “You might think me foolish.”

“Many already do, for your deliverance of me. Say on.” 

His kinsman sighed. “I had strange, strange dreams as of late. One learns to discard some of Irmo’s nightly incursions into one’s mind, but I was restless during the day, moreso after sundown. I wanted to… I must return soon, I cannot stay. I will not linger on news, my cousins will no doubt relay all that business when they reach you,” he spoke as Maedhros regained himself. 

Maedhros nodded. Fingolfin would not look kindly upon his son’s incursions into the Fëanorian camp, that much was plain, no matter the honor Fingon had gained among them, and irrespective of the few changes it brought. Thinking of current matters pacified his mind, and the cold bit into his cheek, seeped through his thought and quelled its feverish unrest. Fingon’s presence also aided though Maedhros could do little but pull at the loose threads of his own tunic until they unraveled completely, a ceaseless habit developed since his return to consciousness.

“Shall we go to your marquee to speak?” Fingon asked, looking this way and that, to the guards and other folk staring long at him — some with respect, some with awe, most with unease still. 

Maedhros swallowed. Cowardly though it was, he could not return there, not now. “Or… or join me by the fires?” he asked, blinking away a flashing vision of sharp, white teeth. He gestured at the people already gathering to one side of the settlement. 

Fingon acquiesced, “As you wish.”

They settled for a place farther from the others, sitting side by side down on a woodcrafted bench, watching the figures hallowed by flames and the sparks from the bonfires soaring up and dying in the night.

“Your people would rally to you,” Fingon spoke suddenly, and Maedhros knew why he had come.

He threw a stick into the nearest fire. “But yours would not.” He sighed. “Finno…”

Fingon gazed at him silently, urging Maedhros to continue with a dip of his chin. 

“I have seen…” Again, his tongue was in knots though he wanted to speak of it, knowing Fingon would listen if it meant it brought him relief. But he could not. To this day, he could not even share with his brothers what squirmed and haunted his innermost burrows of the heart. He stared into his cousin's expectant, hopeful gaze. Yes, he wanted to speak of it, but each time he tried, the stench of decay stifled his thoughts, and shadows blurred his memory. And then, there was… there was… 

Fingon shifted in his place, his speech low on the backdrop of other voices rising in soft humming a distance away. “Nelyo? I am here.”

Maedhros conjured his first memories of that lair, later proven to be only a skim of what followed. He closed his eyes at the unreal pressure of savage fingers wrapped around his throat, and turned his mind to the present, latching onto the sounds of a flute playing nearby. “I stood before the creatures he breeds; I knelt before his throne.” He glanced sideways at Fingon, catching the tremor of his clenched fists. “There are... no words, for the ways they seek to humiliate our people; for the torments they devise.”

Fingon peered at him with that cutting gaze and a calculating, righteous flare of ire Maedhros knew all too well. He burned with his own fire. It urged him to continue on the same spur that, in happier times, drove them together. Past the fires he looked, where his—their people gathered and mingled despite the foul-smelling fog, sharing in sweet-scented mead, their cloaks and shawls drawn tight about them. The words inched away from his scarred lips; the Silmarilli were bright in his mind. “The way we stand, now, will not avail us,” Maedhros said at last. 

“Somehow, I knew you would say this... and then?”

“I have yet to find an answer to that. But…” Maedhros looked his cousin in the eye. He knew Fingon, like the rest of Fingolfin's people, had not wholly, if at all, forgiven the betrayal. He knew his cousin had sought to retrieve him, desperate and alone, mainly for the closeness they once shared and the love that still bound them. “We should act as one host, not two.”

His kinsman nodded, then his bright gaze sought the skies, perhaps for long lost stars.

“I will… try to speak with Ñolofinwë,” Maedhros added. “Many are still wary and resentful, as I know they have a right to be,” he looked in sorrow upon Fingon, who’d lost friends, whose brother had lost a wife to the Ice and more. “The odd fights and conflicts, while not as frequent as before, have not ceased, have they?”

Fingon shook his head. 

“I know many of our own are remorseful,” Maedhros unraveled another thread from the sleeve of his right wrist. “Many had friends and kin among your host; many had looked in wonder upon you and saw crippled families, grief and a loss that is their own.”

“And yet.”

“And yet.” Maedhros clenched and unclenched his good hand. “Penance must be shown. Somehow.”

“Please tell me you do not speak of yourself, Maitimo,” Fingon murmured, shaking his head. “Even if it were so, your penance I have seen with my own eyes. You need not do more.”

Maedhros grit his teeth at the name, though coming from Fingon, it lost some of its acquired dread in the dungeons. “Dear Findekáno, you always thought too much of me.”

“One of us has to,” Fingon muttered, not unkindly. “Tell me, what are your thoughts?“

Maedhros nodded, looking blankly ahead. “It would be a start. It must be done. And then, our deeds should match our words.”  

“Nelyo.” Fingon raised a hand, his hesitant palm close to Maedhros’ shoulder, the question in his eyes.

Maedhros could not blame his caution, for after all, he had scratched and torn at his cousin with wiry limbs before, first prey to a rabid confusion upon the eagle’s back; he remembered mighty wings spread like great sails, and a confusing warmth cocooning him after years being whipped bare by the elements. He lowered his head, swallowing at the slight pressure on his shoulder. “That is not all,” Maedhros said.

Fingon released him slowly. He curled a knowing brow. “No.”

“Even before we set out on the march, there was division, was there not? You remember; I stood by Father, I could do nothing else. I... we, loved and still love him fiercely, you know this truth though it must hurt. But it was impossible to ignore how many looked to Ñolofinwë, to you; how many refused to renounce him. Do you recall?”

Fingon let his head fall back, gazing through the mists. “I remember the arguments, the fights. I remember fearing you’d break with so much tension amid all that strife, which both troubled and drew me closer to it all. But even those who had no love for my uncle were moved by his words, and I was one of them.”

Maedhros stared ahead, then back down, noticing his restless fingers had unravelled the hem of his sleeve. “But you did not knowingly slay your own.”

“No,” Fingon gritted, his voice turned hoarse, “we did so unknowingly,” he added with bitterness. “Do you forget most of us carry the guilt for those same crimes? I have not, nor has Father. They changed us all.” 

Maedhros said nothing, and Fingon sat and pondered for a while. The murders lay thick and heavy between them, in blood and saltwater. “How strange to look upon the past. We all saw untrodden lands before us, a return to an ancient homeland, to thrive with our knowledge and skill.”

“That may still come to be,” Maedhros spoke unto the flames, his voice flat and expression thoughtful. 

Fingon hummed. “You know, Russo, there is aught I’ve come to know on these shores,” he glanced at his cousin, a glint in his eye reminding Maedhros of bygone Tirion. Fingon was much the same in spirit, he found, save for the sharper edge to his dusky features and the icy resolve in his eyes. “The shadows are deepest before dawn.”

Maedhros turned the words over in his head. He added, lighter of mood than he’d felt in weeks, with a shade of snark he used to wield well. “Then, we must be near to dawn.”

Fingon shook his head with barely a whiff of laughter. “This I will say. Father is of a like mind with you. But keep your own counsel on this, for now. Please.”

“Have I ever been loose-tongued?”

“No, indeed. My father’s always known division will cripple us after we met the Enemy on the field, faced his stronghold and leaguer. But he is loath to foster more conflict and bring forth more dissent from ones holding resentment against those who abandoned them. Some would still rather punish than forgive.”

Maedhros caught Fingon’s gaze, and with much difficulty, smiled his smile that hurt. The light of the flames danced crookedly upon his scars. “I am hoping my attempt will aid in that respect.”

“My cousins—” Fingon began.

“... are my subjects,” Maedhros countered, frowning as he stared ahead. “Leave that matter to me.” Surprising even himself, he found a strong belief in his own words.

Fingon sighed again, his dark brow lifting in tune with a pointed half-smile, both tender and sorrowful. He lowered his head in a nod. “Well. I, for one, trust you.”

The muscles in his jaw unwound into the broader likeness of a smile, and Maedhros nearly did not utter the words. “After everything.” Emotion wound about his inner being like stubborn weeds on barren mountain paths.

“Moreso, after everything.”

When done paying a short visit to see her horse, pleased at the care with which he’d been tended to and sheltered, Mithiel took to wandering aimlessly through the settlement. The chill brought a sprint to her step, her silver hair hallowed in the pale blue light shed over paths by those peculiar, captivating lamps hung throughout the wide campsite area.  Soon, this will be as sturdy as a kingdom proper, since their builders I’m told are as gifted and speedy as their kin abiding on the opposite lakeside,  she thought. Mithiel knew these same folk had already built stone dwellings there, which they abandoned upon the arrival of their bedraggled kindred who’d survived the Ice. 

She walked, and walked, until the restless discord of thought within was somewhat abated, and her spirit was soothed by the stir of life around her. Already she missed her home, the small, warm cottage with its dark wood, its strong scents of herb and poultice. Already Mithiel missed her father, but steadied herself thinking of the duty promised to fulfil. 

The night spread like a giant formless beast slumbering across the land, and somewhere not far, a flute was playing. The music soothed, and as drawn by a foreign spell, Mithiel neared, finding her way towards many tall, bright fires. They soared against the blackness as in defiance of the persistent fog, and the folk gathered round them seemed none too different to her own during such cold, endless a night as Mithrim had known, long before the rising of the Sun. 

A flat, shining surface reflected back golden light not far to the right — the expanse of the great lake. Mithiel approached; by this time, it should be layered in ice, she thought, as happened already with many pools in the area at this time of year. She looked to the fires, but though their warmth teased her cheeks and the gathering seemed merry, her feet took her closer to the water’s edge. 

Drawing nearer, she saw another standing there, alone, gazing out into the distance; she discerned a tall, lithe frame, a dash of auburn in the ever-dancing firelight. At first, she wavered. Had he not found rest yet, either?

Turning back would be cowardice, though she halted some distance away, thinking he might favor his solitude; all Mithiel truly wanted now was to look upon the great mirror. 

She gazed into the murky darkness, unable to discern anything on the far opposite side due to the brume. But the stray light behind her glittered gold and orange over the glazed body of water, and though she missed the stars, this had a beauty all its own.

“Does rest elude you, Mistress?” 

Mithiel started, not having expected him to recognize her, let alone speak. They parted amiably enough—considering the circumstances, and she wanted to keep it that way. After all, she had work to do.

“No more than it does you, my—lord,” she settled. 

There was silence again, for a long time.

“Your people were the first to inhabit these lands, were they not?” came the question after a while.

“It is so,” Mithiel replied, still watching the lake, receiving a hum in response.

Though his manner was not light, the question had been merely that: a question. And so, Mithiel dared her own. “Is it true?” she asked. “That you looked upon the faces of the Ones of the West?” She knew the Ñoldor worshipped them, more than any of their kindred, and had heard they abided by their side and thrived in the kingdoms of that realm. 

“I have,” came the answer, “Even as they cursed us, I have.”

Mithiel faltered, “I— I am not sure I understand,” she added, her damned curiosity getting the better of her; suddenly she fretted having upset him; from what she’d seen of his nerves, they were curled and strung to the point of snapping most of the time. 

“No. But perhaps one day you will,” Maedhros said, and turned away even as Mithiel, out of instinct, neared to aid him; he stopped her with a sharp gesture of his left hand. “Good night once again, Mistress. I will see you on the morrow.”

“Rest well, king Nelyafinwë,” Mithiel spoke, and thought she heard a snort as she watched his retreat, and she wound her arms around herself tighter against the bitterness in his voice. 

Part I

[blackplanct]

when she finally recovered from the other woman's blunt confrontation, ashanti was dealt another blow: the glint of the dazzling rock on izidora's ring finger. she tried not to seem affected, but her eyes were locked on the perfect, round diamond, the sheer size of it. suddenly, the restaurant became a lot smaller, and the chatter, much too loud. this was not ideal, throwing a multi-million-dollar wrench into her plans. but if the industry did nothing else for her, it taught ash how to smile when she wanted to seethe. with a sharp breath, she did just that, ignoring the diamond for now. "i wanted to apologize for the what i sent to rich, yeah," ashanti nodded her head slightly—still a hint of malice laced in her tone. she was only human after all. the one, maybe two shady tweets, she believed, did not warrant an apology, and she wasn't prepared to deliver one. she barely felt any remorse for the nudes. it's not like it worked anyway— at least not yet. there were times keith tried to play hard to get as payback, but he always folded eventually. "like i said, i didn't think it was serious. he'll get no more pictures from me." she promised with a swiping gesture, and she was genuine this time. what was the point of a paper trail?

as their meeting continued to unfold, ashanti remained vigilant, observing izidora's insecure body language, the pain in her voice as she spoke— the very fact that she entertained this dinner. it all lent ashanti the upper hand. izi was raw with absolutely no room for pretense. there was no hiding her frustration in her contorted features or the tension in her muscles. her heart was on her sleeve, completely vulnerable and just within ashanti's reach. her talons patiently danced atop it, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. she poked and prodded until the mention of keith's mother. izi's tone was short again, and ashanti's interest was piqued. "really? how did that go?" she quipped, trying not to salivate at the thought of keith's mom despising her.

pouring salt in the wound, ashanti circled back to just how little stock she placed on izidora and keith's sudden nuptials, likening the bride to a toy. it was true. keith often threw tantrums when he didn't get his way — particularly after an intense week of lovebombing, when he wanted ashanti most and she wanted to focus on other things. that was all part of the thrill of she and keith. the bass in izi's tone at the mention of it deeply amused her. though she ballparked it at over a million, the ring's actual price point stung. that was a steep cost to pay, but she didn't put it past the nepo baby of an almost billionaire. also, she could be lying. either way, she blinked at izidora, a blank stare. her demeanor was eerily calm as she leaned in, "he's so desperate for me...i think he would." it's a stretch, but she's not going to bitch out now.

"listen babe, you're cute and all. you're new and fresh and exciting to him, but i know keith. for years now. he is not one for commitment. yes, he's all about you now and it's fun and sexy," she lingered with a quick flashback from one of their many sexy moments together, "until he gets fucking bored, and he moves on." ashanti explained with a snap. up until izi entered the picture, that was pretty spot on in regards to keith's love life. he wasn't the type to commit long-term; marriage was definitely out of the question. yet, here they were. "hey, maybe he's changed...maybe he just needed someone real," ashanti suggested, somehow making real a pejorative. she pointed to the ring, "rich sure was tryna to prove a point, though— huh? it's gorgeous...but you know what they say..." she brought her glass of ice water to her lips, "the bigger the ring, the shorter the marriage."

izi doesn't budge at the stunned laughter that comes from the other woman in response to her rigid question, nor does she react to the compliment thrown at her feet. in fact, she just stares at ashanti with a nearly bored expression; almost urging the woman to get to the goddamn point with little more than a look. however, izidora does react when ashanti suggests that she invited her over to apologize. at that, her brow raises just slightly — this had to be a joke, right? "apologize for what?" izidora interrupted, leaning into the table a little to gesture in between them with her left hand. "apologize for the shit you was tweetin' 'bout me, or for the shit you was sendin' to him?"

irritation bubbled beneath her skin all over again at the audacity. she should've expected a slew of jilted lovers at their doorstep, but something about the way ashanti spoke about keith felt oddly personal; completely ignoring the question of their seriousness, the longevity of the relationship. she even starts to ignore the reminder that keith was actually ridiculous enough to conjure an entire fake family just to fuck with his parents. but when ashanti brings up meeting his mother, izidora felt a pit widen in her stomach. she has a soft spot for me. a painful pang settles in her chest, hearing this woman speak of an approval she never would get. "i met her." izidora's tone didn't give away the humiliation she felt as she recalled his mother's cruelty towards her. but the pit widens the more ashanti spoke, giving way to nausea.

maybe it was the baby, or maybe it was the callousness behind ashanti's next words, but izidora felt completely sick to her stomach. her jaw clenches tightly, swallowing down the bile creeping up her throat as the words settle. losing his favorite toy. she's reminded of the antics he pulled outside of her job, the way he'd gotten in her face over her absence. it aligned near perfectly with the example ashanti gave. was that all she was to him, really...? izidora felt numb as she dismisses the waiter with a shake of her head; she didn't want a fucking thing from ashanti, and she braves herself for what could've come next as she attempted to regain composure, iciness in her tone as she spoke. "yo' attention? you that desperate, you think he gon spend over four mil on somebody else for some fuckin' attention from you?"

[trash-muse]

Continued from here.

John ducked his head slightly as he noted the critical look over Azra was giving his apartment. It wasn’t much at all. Kind of embarrassing, really. But it was all he had, least until the band started getting a few more gigs.

He closed the door behind himself and moved the few steps into the kitchen area. “It’s only the meal that sets you up for the day. Breakfast refuels the batteries after a good sleep... or other nightly activities.” John grinned before looking in the fridge and finding a half dozen eggs and a couple of strips of bacon.

“Are you vegan? Vegetarian?” He asked, looking back at Azra over the top of the open fridge door. The usual confident act dropped for a moment of true concern over Azra’s preference.

@dark-musngs​

[so-sures-blog]

Headcannons: Pokéguys with affection

I was in a Valentine's Day mood, alright? 💗

Ships: Poke, Contest, Ikari, Wish, Geekchic, Oldrival, Handyman, Fourthwheel hints

… and Brock

WARNING: LONG POST

Ash

— Ash is legitimately good at flirting — but the thing is, he doesn’t even know he’s flirting.

— He and Misty are walking through the Kanto snow all bundled up, and Ash notices Misty rubbing her hands together and shivering.

— “You cold, Mist?” Ash asks, and before she can respond he just. Takes her hand, locks their fingers together, and puts her hand in his pocket.

— Misty damn near has a heart attack, sputtering and turning bright red. Before she could say anything though, Ash continues on, holding her hand as they walk.

—He’ll also be complimenting her, saying “Wow, Misty, you look beautiful with your hair down!” or “Misty, you were incredible battling that Pokemon today!” 

— Misty feels like a little girl talking with her childhood crush (okay, maybe that comparison was a little too accurate …) so the only thing she can respond with are stuttering half-insults before fleeing in shame.

— Ash is a very physical person. Always has been, always will be. He’ll be slinging an arm around her shoulder, walking close so that their bodies bump, pull her into a side hug, even arm wrestling her. The touch is so casual, but it’s so often that Misty can’t help but psychoanalyze every interaction.

— Poor Pikachu has spent many nights with Misty’s face cuddled in his fur to hide her blush. He’s had his ear talked off with Misty’s ramblings of “—does he even know he’s flirting with me?! Is he even flirting?! He’s gotta know! Or am I just making it up all in my head again? Is this psychological warfare or something?!”

— Misty doesn’t know if Ash is flirting with her, if he even knows if he is, if he’s even aware of what he’s doing. Misty gets so flustered she becomes angry that she’s so flustered. She wants to beat him with her mallet for making her so embarrassed; another part doesn’t because she likes the Butterfree he puts in her stomach.

— Ash Ketchum is so impeccably smooth at flirting and pulling moves he isn’t even aware; he just thinks he’s being nice and friendly. He has a trail of hearts behind him after all his travels and he doesn’t even realize.

***

— Brock is a little ways behind them, watching with pure shock.

Drew

— Roses. It’s always roses with those two.

— When Drew would give roses to May ( *ahem* sorry, Beautifly) it was a mocking. The flowers were filled with taunts about how her Pokémon were carrying May to victory.

— Then as Drew starts noticing May, his roses become fleeting — everyone knows what red roses meant. How could Drew give out roses when he didn’t even know who he was really giving them to?

— Drew fell in love with May, and May fell in love with Drew, and there was a trail of roses between them like a timeline.

— When they date, they are the most lovey-dovey couple in the room. At first, all of their friends were happy that they got together, but soon they grow sick of the constant PDA

— Honestly, whenever Max walks into the room and see May and Drew in there, he just straight up walks right out. May gets so offended, but she quickly forgets her brother’s disgusted face when Drew pulls her in for a kiss

— May and Drew have started dating, and May finally drops the bomb about meeting her family. Drew instantly gets flashbacks of Max’s judgey looks, know-it-all expression, and suspicious eyes from Hoenn and almost regrets dating May.

— Apparently, May has been holding off the meeting for quite a while, but has finally conceded. Caroline is sweet and welcoming, swooning about May getting a boyfriend and gushing how handsome he is. Max is still as skeptical as ever, but has softened to the idea of Drew thanks to his traveling partner, Bonnie.

— And Norman … May left Drew and her dad in the same room for less than a minute, and when she came back Drew spent the rest of the time subtly hiding behind May

— When Drew asked May to marry him, he made it this big extravagant proposal. He led May on a scavenger hunt, each rose with a romantic letter on where to find him. When she finally found him, she had a dozen red roses and a ring on her finger on the beach of Slateport City.

***

— Brock is a little ways behind them, watching with pure jealousy

Paul

— Reggie is the first one to notice the way his brother is always touching Dawn. It’s so subtle, Dawn doesn’t realize it; Reggie doubts that even Paul realizes he’s doing it. But for someone who has been raising his younger brother all his life, it’s so obvious.

— Paul is usually adverse to physical touch, so seeing Dawn and Paul interact is like a slap to the face. His hand is barely touching her hip as he guides her to where they’re going. When they sit together their shoulders brush. He leans down to Dawn’s level to lowly talk in her ear. Not to mention the way Paul looks at her —

— Reggie honestly can’t believe his eyes when he sees them together for the first time. He can’t help but tell Maylene, and of course he confronts Paul with some teasing.

— Whenever someone asks about Dawn and Paul’s relationship, Reggie cheekily replies, “They’re an affectionate couple.” Paul always scowls darkly.

— Dawn had no idea until Maylene lets it slip. At first, she just stares and laughs, because the words Paul and affectionate don’t even belong in the same sentence.

— But then Dawn suddenly realizes: she is always the first one to initiate contact — through a held hand, a hug, or a kiss on the lips ...

— But Paul was always the one to let it linger. He never pulled his hand away, he would let her hug him (sometimes he would even lean into it), and he would even kiss her in private.

— Dawn was always the one who pulled away first: becoming embarrassed if someone would walk in on them or pulling away to look at a cute store.

— She immediately sets out to do an experiment of her own: to see how long Paul could deal with physical affection.

— One day Paul is laying on his couch doing whatever, and Dawn sees the perfect opportunity. She strolls over, stands over him, and just … clambers on top of him, resting her head on his chest and fitting her body snugly between his legs.

— He was effectively pinned down. Paul went stiff with surprise, and Dawn honestly expects him to push her away and mutter complaints under his breath as he stalks away.

— After a moment, Paul sighs and drapes his arm around her waist, going back to whatever he was doing. Dawn’s heart leaps, and her belly does a dozen backflips. She honestly can’t believe she’s getting away with this.

— But this was only half of the challenge. Now, Dawn had to wait and see how long he would tolerate her. So she settles down, closes her eyes, and falls asleep to the feeling of Paul’s warmth and even breathing.

— When she wakes up, hours have passed. Paul’s hand is still on her waist, she has drooled a little bit in his shirt, and he was undoubtedly uncomfortable from sitting for so long.

— Still, it is a testament on how much he truly likes her when he says nothing about his discomfort when she wakes.

— For some reason, he distinctly feels like he’s passed a test when Dawn sees that he’s still there and kisses him

***

— Brock is a little ways behind them, watching with pure disbelief

Cilan

— Chilli and Cress absolutely adore Iris. She’s sassy and blunt and determined, and a perfect fit for Cilan. Chilli loves going back and forth with Iris trading sarcastic quips and Cress appreciates her blunt honesty

— She’s practically a part of the family, inviting herself over to the gym and spending weekends there. Half the stuff at their place is practically her’s, and she shows absolutely no shame in that fact.

— When all of their friends know they’re dating, they are simultaneously surprised and not in the process. It’s just that Cilan and Iris are so different, one a sophisticated civilian and another a animalistic wild child. But they just fit together, so well that none of their friends can ever imagine seeing them with another person.

— When Ash hears that they’re dating, he is beaming. Because while he’s happy that all his friends found their significant other, none of them have gotten together with their traveling partner (except for Serena and Clemont, but that comes later)

— Ash feels like a proud matchmaker because he says Iris and Cilan would not have gotten together if it weren’t for him. Iris calls him a little kid.

— Cilan shows his love through words of appreciation, which never fails to embarrass Iris.

— Whenever his Dragon Master wins a battle, he showers her with praise for her and her Pokémon. It’s like his evaluation times, filled with so much fervor and passion.

— Iris always gets so embarrassed, especially if her friends and rivals are there teasing her, but she secretly likes the attention and the praise she gets from Cilan (he is her boyfriend, and a World-Class Pokémon Connoisseur)

— Sometimes when she gets particularly embarrassed, she just marches over to Cilan in the middle of the battle, yanks him down to her height, and kisses him hard to shut him up.

— It always works (Cilan turns bright red and dazed, and to Iris’s satisfaction, he always, always shuts his mouth afterwards) but they don’t know that Iris’s kisses inadvertently fuel Cilan to go on his rants.

— So in actuality, does it really work?

***

— Brock is a little ways behind them, watching with pure awe

Clemont

— Clemont has always admired Serena ever since their traveling days, but he would always push aside his feelings when he saw the way Serena looked at Ash.

— Back then, he had low confidence and even lower social skills. There was no way he can compare to Ash. So he pushed aside his feelings and focused on being her friend instead, supporting her and working to improve himself.

— It took a long time for Clemont to work up the courage to ask Serena out. She was trying to get over her crush on Ash, and they were both too busy focusing on their dreams

— One day, Serena went with Bonnie to cheer Clemont on in a super important Pokémon match. Clemont won, of course, and right before his final move Serena is struck.

— Clemont’s face was bright with electricity and his eyes were clear with confidence. Serena is struck, because she just realized Clemont wasn’t that geeky kid with low self-esteem and inventions that blew up anymore. Clemont was grown, and Serena feels like she is seeing him for the first time.

— It wasn’t just how he looked (Serena was mature enough to admit that Clemont looked … well, amazing during the battle), it was his confidence.

— It wasn’t the Ash type of confidence — bold, brash, and brave. It was the Clemont type of confidence — intellectual and sharp, confident in knowing he would win because Clemont was a lot of things, and no one could ever say he wasn’t smart.

— When Clemont wins, he immediately turns to Serena and Bonnie with a bright smile. Bonnie is beaming and bouncing on her feet, and Serena finds herself blushing with her heart pounding faster than the time she kissed Ash.

— Ever since then, Serena can’t get the stupid feelings out of her head. Her crush on Ash feels childish and far away compared to Clemont.

— Clemont is shy and awkward, but he is sweet and charming. Serena has always known this, but now it’s in a whole new light. She can’t help but notice all these little details about him, like the way his hands move when he talks, or the way he pushes up his glasses and the way his eyes light up.

— Whenever Clemont is working on an invention, Serena finds herself genuinely trying to listen and help. Whenever she stays over, she offers to help Clemont with the cooking.

— They go out to see the lights on top of Prism Tower, Serena teaches Clemont to properly dance, and they spend late nights in the gym just enjoying their companionship.

— At first, Clemont is frustratingly oblivious, blinking innocently and awkwardly laughing whenever they seem to have a romantic atmosphere lingering around them. Serena wouldn’t label it as Ash-Level-Oblivious, (because, frankly, nobody can ever be denser than Ash) because back when she had a crush on him, she was actively trying to hide it.

— Clemont, however, for all his bright intelligence and love knowledge (mostly stemming from Bonnie) can’t figure out for the life of him that Serena was flirting with him. She didn’t know how much more obvious she could get!

— (Just last week, Clemont’s father, Meyer, wouldn’t stop smirking knowingly and last month, Misty had thrown her a half sympathetic-pitying-understanding look when she and Ash came over to visit.)

— Clemont hasn’t noticed Serena’s flirting, but he has noticed that she’s been acting strange. With him, specifically. It’s almost as if she’s flirting with him, but obviously she isn’t because they are just friends.

— Clemont’s heart already skips beats whenever Serena dresses up, and he sometimes gets tongue-tied when she smiles at him, and his face feels very warm whenever she hold his hand but — they are just. friends.

— Clemont doesn’t want to give himself false hope and he already feels like he’s betraying Serena’s friendship with his stupid infatuation he’s had since they were kids.  

— (But still … still …)

— Clemont can’t help but compare what Serena is like now to when she had a crush on Ash. He can’t help but notice the longer hours she spends at the Lumiose Gym, even when Bonnie’s not here. He can’t help but notice the way she smiles at him, holding him close as she teaches him how to dance. He can’t help but notice how her eyes sparkle when she looks at him, shining brighter than they ever did when she looked at Ash.

— Bonnie is totally oblivious to the growing tension whenever Serena is over at the Lumiose Gym, or to the stolen moments the two seem to have that she unassumingly walks in on. Serena’s always been close to the family, and she and Clemont are friends.

— It’s Max, Señor Skeptical, Mr. “I hate romance, why focus on love when you can focus on Pokemon” Maple, that has to tell her what’s going on (seriously, he thought she was the love expert) and she flips out.

— She then immediately plots to get them together (mentally planning their wedding in the process) and drags Max along in the mix despite his protests

— She does everything she can to create romantic atmospheres for Clemont and Serena (Max told her that proposing to Serena for Clemont would only scare her off).

— Clemont and Bonnie argue over her schemes and Max is standing behind her, mentally trying to communicate with Clemont his utter sympathies.

— Finally, after a long uphill battle, Bonnie triumphs by embarrassing Clemont enough to make him ask her out.

— Clemont is red and stuttering through his whole proposal, and Serena, having figured out what he was planning on asking her a while ago, just decided to put him out of his misery and kiss him, blushing pink.

— Clemont is breathless and dazed afterwards. It was so cute, Serena finds her gut clenching hotly and her biting her lip to hide the enormous smile growing on her face. It was definitely worth it, waiting this long.

***

— Max and Bonnie are little ways behind them, and Bonnie throws her arms around Max in celebration

Gary

— Gary Oak has known Leaf Green since childhood. She had grown up with him and Ash. They were the trio of Pallet town. Gary spent days at his Grandpa’s lab with her and Ash and nights at Delia’s house for dinner.

— Ash and Gary were rivals, but him and Leaf were something else. Ever since they were kids they were always arguing, going back and forth with each other. 

— They go separate ways as their journeys take them on separate paths. Gary becomes a successful Pokemon researcher and Leaf has traveled all over the regions. 

— Years have passed when he runs into Leaf again by complete chance.

— At first he can’t believe his eyes. How on earth was this gorgeous woman the bratty girl he grew up with? It’s the same for Leaf. Gary has always been a know-it-all as a kid, but when did he grow into this handsome researcher? She had always brushed him off as that guy who cared more about his hair and girls.

— They catch up and it’s like no time has passed. They still bicker and argue about every little thing under the sun, but now Gary is finally able to label the tension between them.

— They get kicked out of the place they’re in, and when he gets home, he has the biggest, goofiest smile on his face that — quote Misty — “makes him look like an idiot” and Leaf’s number in his pocket.

— Professor Oak knows right away that his grandson has met Leaf, and tells him to invite her over to Pallet Town. Oak has always had a soft spot for Leaf; ever since they were kids he could see that she’s the only one for Gary.

— Before Leaf is suppose to come over, everyone can tell that Gary is nervous. He does his best to not show it, obviously, but he was surrounded by the people who knew him best. Gary keeps running his hands through his hair and the Pokémon are particularly skittish (Pokemon reflect their trainers, after all). Ash, Tracey, and Misty tease him relentlessly while Delia and Oak look on in amusement

— When Misty meets Leaf she instantly likes her: Leaf is strong and stubborn and determined. She is striking and vivacious, and the perfect match for Gary. She’s honestly the only one who could put up with him.

— Misty and Leaf get along great, and when they meet up they constantly make fun of their boyfriends. They are both fierce battlers, and often challenge each other to battles whenever they see each other just like Gary and Ash in their younger days.

— Gary and Leaf spend time together, exchanging snarky flirty comments with each other. They both like to drive each other wild with their teasing and their friends are crazy with the thought “oh god, will those two ever get together?” They’re both hot, and they know it. 

— Sometimes Gary gets pulled away with work, so Leaf joins him whenever he’s on a research dig. She brings warm coffee and offers insight to what he’s missing and fights back a smile whenever Gary geeks out about his findings (she finds it cute how his eyes light up when he rambles — even though she has no idea what he’s saying).

— Leaf absolutely wears the pants in the relationship, because there’s no way she’s letting Gary dominate their relationship. Gary is not willing to admit he’s whipped for Leaf but he is. And everyone can see it. Gary would ruthlessly make fun of everyone for their girlfriends wearing the pants in the relationship, but it’s the exact same with Leaf. He’ll be stubborn, pout, whine, and complain, but will ultimately do her bidding. Everyone is amused.

— Leaf likes the fact that Gary is smart, and is able to hold an intelligent conversation. Back when they were kids, he would go on these spiels of Pokemon facts and would rub the knowledge in her face. It made him very punchable. Now, Leaf can’t help but be immensely attracted to Gary whenever he goes on rants of his research findings. 

— With Gary, he likes how Leaf can keep up with him. Gary can never really get bored with her like he does with other girls because Leaf keeps him on his toes. Their banter keep him up for days on end, and her flirting makes him wild. Her strength and perseverance makes his heart jump in admiration. She makes him want to be better.

***

— Brock is a little ways behind them, watching with pure annoyance

Tracey

— Tracey met Daisy through Misty when she invited him to the Cerulean Gym, and the first time he saw the eldest Waterflower sister his heart skipped a beat

— He had only heard of Misty’s sisters through her long rants over the phone, so he had a (less than appealing) idea of who they were — even though he had tried his best to remain neutral

— But the first time he saw her, his fingers itched with the urge to sketch as he shook her hand. They didn’t say anything beyond greetings before Misty came in and dragged him away, he found he couldn’t stop thinking about her the whole visit

— He had to go back to Pallet Town eventually, and he finds himself drawing distracted sketches of Daisy when he’s supposed to take notes.

— He can’t help it. Usually when he’s struck with inspiration, he sketches it down instantly. With Daisy he didn’t get the time to do that, so it made sense why he couldn’t get her out of his head

— That’s what he told Gary anyway, when he caught him drawing a sketch of Daisy’s face. Gary merely shakes his head, calls him and idiot, and sends him packing for Cerulean City before he can even blink

— Tracey’s heart is beating unusually fast when he asks Daisy if he can sketch her, and a flattered, surprised, beautiful grin crosses her face (he immediately starts drawing it down)

— They spend a lot of time together, and Tracey finds out he can’t get enough of Daisy. They end up talking about everything under the sun, sharing secrets and sketches with each other.

— Tracey is fascinating and unlike anyone Daisy has ever dated. Daisy is much more that she appears, and Tracey wants to peel back every layer to see her true beauty

— (picture Jack and Rose from the Titanic. They definitely do the draw-me-like-one-of-your-French-girls when they start dating. )

— Tracey feels denser than Ash when he realizes that the feelings he associated with sketching Daisy were actually for Daisy herself.

— Tracey stays around Cerulean City for a while, using the excuse of checking out the water Pokemon and helping with the plumbing so Misty doesn’t get suspicious

— Misty is definitely suspicious of the way Tracey turns red whenever Daisy makes a flirtatious comment, or the way her sister seemed to brighten whenever she heard he was around or coming over

— It took her a while to corner Tracey and demanded answers, but he finally admitted to it. Misty instantly accepts him, but she makes a show of threatening him if he hurts his sister

— (all of her sisters boyfriend’s have to pass the “Misty Test”. Misty refuses to be around douchebags (minus Gary) and to have to deal with her sisters crying after a failed date or broken heart. The Misty Test has scared off multiple suitors, but her older sisters are ultimately grateful despite their complaining of not as much boys around the house because of Misty’s Gyrados)

— Daisy ends up asking him out because Tracey was too much of a coward. She laces their hands together, kisses his cheek, and tells him to pick her up at 5.

— Tracey ends up staying the night

***

— Gary is infinitely smug, and Professor Oak merely shakes his head with amusement

Brock

— Brock has been a sad, sad boy watching all his friends grow up and fall in love — and yet Brock can’t seem to find his special lady! He is a successful Pokemon doctor, a great breeder, a good cook, and shoots the best one-liners, if he does say so himself.

— Brock becomes so desperate he actually goes to the guys for help … and it goes exactly as expected. Ash is clueless, Paul says nothing, Drew is unhelpful, Clemont was shy, Tracy was nervous, Gary was Gary, and Cilan was just overall confusing.

— Then he goes to the girls for advice, and while their insight was helpful to an extent … that was it. He went to Misty, May, and Dawn, listening to their offhanded remarks on who liked Brock back (it was a pathetically short list) while wearing face masks and nail polish.

— Brock was about to resign himself to a lonely, loveless life of a bachelor before he came across an offer.

— Bonnie, satisfied that her brother has found a suitable wife in Serena, offers her help in the matchmaking business — and drags Max along with her.

— Arceus, it pains Brock to take orders from Max’s smug little mouth, but he finds equal petty retaliation by pointing out how easily Bonnie bends Max to her bidding

— It takes a while for them to get in sync with each other — Brock was chasing after every other girl and Bonnie was eager to help by doing the exact same thing. Max was the one with the only brain cell when it came to girls

— The trio bond through terrible rom-com movies for “research” — Brock chose the movies, Bonnie got the snacks, and Max would rather die than admit that he actually liked the dramas

— Between Bonnie’s sweet blue eyes, Brock’s cheesy (but romantic) lines, and Max’s intellect, the trio soon have this matchmaking thing down in the bag

— They find him a perfect match and send Brock in (“— just be yourself, cheesy one-liners come later —”) and it’s a huge success. Brock has swept her off her feet and he can hear Bonnie cheering from outside the Pokemon Center’s window

— Brock is right where he’s meant to be, glowing with happiness.

***

— He isn’t done yet, though. He still has to get Max back for all the ear-pulling he did back in Hoenn.

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

Words: 5,556 Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader, this part is (some) Daryl's POV Reader pronouns: she/her Era: flashbacks + Pre-Negan Alexandria, Warnings: language, otherwise none really! Summary: Through a few more flashbacks, we continue to learn about Y/N and Daryl's past relationship, and they finally confront it head on in the present. A/N: EEEEK! I'm SO excited for you all to read this one.

This is a series! Read the previous parts at the links below. Part 1 Part 2 (Daryl’s POV) Part 3 Part 4 

Your name: submit What is this?

 * * * 

 Carol was holding tight around Daryl’s waist as his bike tore down the dirt road, heading for the highway. His mind was a blur. Pure chaos. How many of you were dead? How many made it out? He’d run across the lawn heading for the stables, the last place he saw you. He was yelling your name desperately, his eyes whirring over the ground searching for a boot track, a depressed trail of grass, anything. But when he turned and saw the horde approaching, the barn already in flames, he knew he had to get out or he’d soon be among the dead. He waited as long as he could, driving circles around the property looking for you, inhaling the smoke and dust, and dodging grappling hands, but finally all was lost… and he had to go.

He could hear Carol crying quietly behind him, and it seemed a fitting soundtrack for how he was feeling. Terrified. Angry. Sick.

What if you hadn’t made it? What if he’d failed you? After you were attacked by JR and his men, he’d promised you (and even more so himself) that he’d keep you safe and now he didn’t even know where you were.

The bike jarred as he finally hit pavement and he sped to the highway as fast as he could, weaving through the gridlocked vehicles and arriving at the place they’d once hopefully left supplies for Sophia. And then, there were others. Rick and Carl stepped out from behind a truck. Daryl kicked his stand out and climbed off hurriedly, accepting Rick’s hand before pacing anxiously back and forth, his eyes turned back up the highway toward the farm, searching. If you weren’t here—if you didn’t show up, he was going back. He didn’t give a shit. He’d go back and kill a thousand fucking walkers if he had to.

But a shuffle behind him caught his attention and he spun to see Hershel stepping out from behind another vehicle. And then—there you were. Your face and arms were smudged with ash and walker blood but you were there. Alive. Safe. Without thought, an instinctive reaction, Daryl rushed to you and grabbed you into a hug so tight he squeezed a little of the air from your lungs. You wrapped your arms around him and leaned against his strong chest, breathing in the smell of his leather jacket and holding back tears. The archer hugged you desperately, like he had a thirst you were quenching. Hershel and Rick exchanged a knowing look and small smile at the archer’s urgency.

Daryl drew back from you, still unwilling to completely let go and his blue eyes studied your face. “I was afraid—I looked for ya everywhere,” he drawled. “I was about to go back and—”

“I was at the stable, and then I saw the walkers coming and then Rick and Carl run into the barn. I ran over to meet them and the… the whole barn went up in flames,” you said.

“She almost got caught in there,” Rick said gravely.

“I didn’t know they were lighting it,” you explained. “Made it out at the last second.”

Daryl nodded, chewing on his bottom lip and finally forcing himself to let go of your shoulders. His heart was still pounding from the wild fear that had seized it.

“Are you okay?” you asked him, looking up into his bright blue eyes. He nudged his nose up in a nod again, his eyes scanning your expression.

“Ya. Ya, I’m alrigh’. Are you?”

You hesitated, but nodded. “I’m alive.”

* * *

* * *

You were sitting apart from the group on a boulder near the edge of the stream. The others were preparing to move on, but from Daryl’s vantage point you seemed suspended, frozen. He swung his crossbow over his shoulder and paced over to you, stopping and grabbing a seat on another rock. Your expression was blank as you stared at the water. You didn’t seem to notice him until he spoke.

“Hey.” You looked up, a little startled, and Daryl was taken aback by the grief in your eyes. “Ya alrigh’?” he asked, his fingers nervously tugging at the strap of his bow.

You gave him a long look, your expression turning more pensive, before your eyes drifted back to the water stumbling over stones just in front of you. You didn’t say anything.

He shifted, his stomach clenching into a pit. “We’re gonna be okay,” he drawled. “All of us. We’ll find somewhere. Someplace new an’ safe.”

You closed your eyes and hung your head, pressing a hand to your forehead and then settling it over your lips. “I feel like I just lost him all over again,” you murmured. “Which feels selfish to say, considering Hershel and Maggie and Beth just lost the only home they’ve ever had and more members of their family. And we don’t know where Andrea is.” You sighed heavily. “But he’s back there in the ground… And now I’m leaving the last good place we were ever together in. The last place he was—whole and alive.”

“I know,” he drawled. “But there ain’t nothin’ for it. We gotta go forward. We can’t go back.”

Your eyes snapped back over to his face and you shook your head a little. “I don’t know if I can. Not while he’s out there… I feel like it’s eating me alive.” And as you spoke those words, Daryl thought you looked haunted.

“We’ll find him. We will,” he said. His voice was strong and he tried to sound reassuring. He really believed that someday he would put JR in the ground for what he did to you, what he brutally took. “But for now we gotta find what’s next first.”

* * *

* * *

The sun was almost down when you made it back to the group’s makeshift camp. Almost everyone was huddled around the small fire for warmth. The weather was growing colder, and you all knew that you needed to find shelter for the winter, but ever since the farm had fallen it had been a constant struggle to survive. You moved daily, burning energy you didn’t have, searching for a place you could hunker down. The dead seemed endless.

You’d shot a rabbit and at least that would be enough for Lori and Carl to have some sustenance, but food had been an afterthought when you’d gone out ahead before the sun had even broken over the distant horizon. When Daryl woke up at dawn, your bed roll had already been packed and he searched the ground for your footprints, following them a short distance off into the trees. Rick called him back to help get everyone moving, and soon Daryl led the way, tracing the steps you’d already made several hours earlier.

Daryl stood watch in the evenings, waiting anxiously for you to come back to the group. You always did, just before it got dark. You moved ahead during the day and then circled back to find the group’s new camp. You never said much on your return, but Daryl knew you were looking for him.

This was how it had been since shortly after the horde had destroyed what little you had left at the Greene farm. On the road, Daryl would wake to find you gone, and just before it grew black as pitch again you’d return to the group. At first it would be maybe once a week, and then it was every few days, and finally, without fail, when Daryl woke up, you were already gone.

Sometimes he’d wait up all night so he wouldn’t miss you sneaking off and he’d accompany you out on your searches, but he always felt like he was in your way. Even so, that was better than feeling sick to his stomach all day, tormented by the thought that something bad was going to happen to you while you were alone. Sometimes you’d come back with scavenged supplies or a hunting kill, but Daryl knew those were incidental finds. Your mind was fixated on finding JR. It seemed to consume you now. Daryl had tried to talk to Rick about it, tried to ask him to tell you to stop wandering off, but frankly the sheriff had bigger worries and he appreciated every little bit of something you brought back. Lori was pregnant, and he had Carl to worry about, and it was winter.

One evening, Daryl’s worse fears were realized. It was dark. And you weren’t back.

He paced endlessly at the edge of the small circle of firelight, glancing back at the huddled forms of the others. He strained his eyes, staring out into the blackness. His mind kept transforming every shadow into an approaching walker or some other lurking threat, and finally he couldn’t stand it any longer. He went and woke Glenn, asked him to take watch, and started tracking.

He had no idea how long he’d been walking, tracing your steps in the darkness only by flashlight. He lost the trail several times and had to make wide circles to find it again. Dark thoughts pounded into him like waves crashing on the rocks at high tide. You’d been bitten. You’d had some sort of accident. You’d run into more bad people. You’d found JR and now he had you.

He urged himself forward, moving silently through the cold night until his light shone on something that twisted his stomach. Blood. Dark and already dried where it speckled the leaves, looking almost black in the beam of his light. Enough to be concerning. The droplets followed along with your boot prints and impressions exactly.

The archer readied his bow and moved more cautiously, but still at speed. You were obviously injured, and his mind resumed its panicked spinning. A small, dilapidated cabin eventually came into view, and the blood trail was leading right toward it. Daryl rushed to it and froze at the door, straining his hearing. He couldn’t hear anything. No walkers, no people, no sound at all. He forced in a deep breath, raised his bow at the ready, and kicked the door in with a crash, flashlight darting over the room and catching on a glint of something metallic.

The barrel of your gun aimed straight at him. “Daryl?” Your voice drifted to him sounding as strong as ever. You were squinting into his light and you lowered your pistol when you recognized the familiar broad shoulders.

He almost collapsed with relief. His chest heaving, he dropped his crossbow to his side and stared at you. You were laid up on a dusty couch, your leg propped up, pant leg rolled up to reveal a bloody bandage. He shut the door on the night and took a few steps closer to you, his light again landing on your face as he scrutinized your condition. You didn’t look feverish or overly pale. The beam landed on your leg again and his brow furrowed. “Tell me that ain’t a bite or scratch,” he drawled.

“No,” you said. He stared at you, waiting for an explanation. “A walker surprised me. I fell. Cut it open on a rock.”

You watched as he squeezed his eyes shut, dropping his head for a moment. He seemed to be trying to regain control of his breathing. He swung his pack down onto the floor and leaned his bow up against it before his eyes met yours again. “Ya got any idea how goddamned worried I was when ya didn’t make it back to camp?” he said, his voice a little gruff, the edge of a growl to it.

You peered up at him, your expression calm and your eyes throwing bits of light back at him. “Worried enough to track me all the way here,” you said.

You watched as he shifted his weight anxiously and his free hand clenched and unclenched a few times. You were about to reassure him that you were fine when suddenly he crossed the space to you in three long strides.

You didn’t realize what was happening until he’d already fallen onto a knee beside you, clasped your face, and crashed his lips into yours. A small hum of surprise escaped you, but the next moment you looped your arms around his neck and were kissing him back fervently. His hand slid down to rest along the side of your neck, his fingers sliding into your hair. It started a little rough, hungry, and you could feel his pent-up anger and frustration at you, but then it softened and became almost desperate, pleading, and by the time he pulled slightly back to look into your eyes again you were both breathless.

Your lips stayed slightly open, your arms around his neck. His eyes flickered between yours. “Ya gotta stop this,” he said, his deep voice thick with gravel, heavy and resonant in his broad chest. “Please. ‘fore somethin’ really bad happens and I—I couldn’t live with that. Ya can’t just be wanderin’ out here on yer own, lookin’ for him aimlessly. S’gonna get ya into some worse shit. Y/N, I can’t—if somethin’ happened to ya—”

Your eyes welled a little with tears but you blinked them back. You hadn’t seen him look so alarmed, so worried since you’d woken up in the farmhouse after it happened. You gulped and nodded, your eyes not leaving his. “Okay.” You drew in a breath, clasping his face and running your thumb along the strong line of his jaw. “Okay…”

Daryl’s heart was pounding and the only thing he wanted was to kiss you again but his nerves suddenly took over. Luckily, at that moment, the only thing you wanted was the same thing. He watched nervously as your eyes closed and you leaned in, finding his lips softly with yours. He was reeling with goosebumps as your fingers trailed lightly over his skin, into his long, wavy hair, hardly believing this was fucking happening after so long of wondering, wanting.

When you broke apart again, the two of you were both starry-eyed and you smiled and bit your bottom lip as his nervousness returned and his cheeks and ears flushed pink.

He cleared his throat and turned his attention back to your leg, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Alrigh’. Lemme see ‘bout this leg…”

The next morning, the two of you returned to the others together. And later that day, you found the prison.

* * *

* * *

“Still no sign of him?” Rick asked, the door into the guard tower slamming behind him, the echo sounding lonely. You glanced at him briefly and then fixed your eyes back on the gate again.

“No,” you said softly.

Rick leaned forward on the railing heavily. “Well, I’m sure everything is fine. Try not to worry too much unnecessarily.”

You scoffed at this and shook your head. “Carol said he left before dawn this morning. But she didn’t know why.” You looked back over at Rick. “Don’t you think that’s strange? He always tells someone where he’s going. I thought we were going to go hunting when I got back from the run with Glenn today.”

Rick shrugged and sighed. “You know how he gets inside the fences sometimes. I’m sure he’ll be back tomorrow as soon as its light, if not tonight.” He placed a friendly hand on your shoulder, but your eyes didn’t leave the gate. You were nervously chewing your thumbnail. “Try to get some sleep. You must be tired from the run.”

When you didn’t respond, Rick simply headed back down from the tower and rejoined the others, leaving you to worry endlessly from your vigilant post.

Daryl didn’t come back that night. You stayed awake, your stomach churning, staring out at the silent and still prison yard, your eyes still straining to see the gate. Many times you imagined the single headlight of an approaching motorcycle, but when you looked properly it was never there.

The door opened softly as the sun came up, startling you from a hazy half-awake state. It was Maggie, two mugs in her hand. “Here,” she said, sinking down next to you on the outside platform, handing you a steaming mug. “It’s just that freeze-dried instant stuff, but it’s not bad.”

“Thanks,” you murmured, pulling your jacket more tightly around yourself and the morning chill. You could feel her looking at you. “Don’t say he’s fine,” you said a little harshly. “We don’t know—” you broke off, your voice suddenly failing.

“I wasn’t going to. If it was Glenn, I know how worried I’d be.”

Your eyes snapped over to meet hers and you felt heat flush your face. She’d guessed at the something between you and Daryl so easily. You wondered how many of the others had too… She only gave you a small, good-natured smile. Then, right when you’d taken your eyes off—you heard the drone of a motorcycle engine and were instantly on your feet. Eyes to the gate, you could make him out easily. Daryl. He was back. “Thanks for the coffee,” you tossed over your shoulder, mug forgotten on the balcony of the guard tower as you raced inside and down the stairwell, running as fast as you could to meet him.

Rick and Carl pulled open the gate and you heaved a sigh of relief as he drove toward you. You opened the second set of gates for him to pull in close to the main building and rushed to be there when he parked and climbed off his bike.

You faltered as you got closer and he turned to face you. Your stomach dropped. Half his face was bruised and he was moving a little gingerly. He looked like he’d been in a nasty scrape with someone or something… You rushed the rest of the way to him and stopped squarely in front him, your eyes studying the injuries visible to you.

“Where’d you go? What happened? Your face—” you reached out to clasp it and he leaned into your touch, his eyes closing.

His blue eyes opened again and he shifted his weight anxiously, licking his bottom lip and then pulling it in and capturing it between his teeth as was his nervous habit. You felt your own brow furrow and you drew back, your expression questioning.

He gulped. “ ‘M sorry I didn’t tell ya where I was goin’,” he drawled.

You didn’t know why but your stomach clenched into a hard pit. “What happened?” you asked again.

His eyes turned down toward his boots for a long moment and you could see him struggling to find the words, his chest heaving a little. “I found him,” he drawled. It was so soft you almost missed it.

“…what?”

“Look, I—I got a lead from those people we brought in last week who were just movin’ through. It sounded like him and—Y/N, I found him.”

You were staring at him, dumbfounded, trying to make your diaphragm work and pull in air. You pressed a hand to the center of your chest absently. “What do you mean you found him?”

Daryl licked his lips again nervously and stepped toward you. “It was him. And I—I killed him. S’over… He’s dead.”

You stared at him, paralyzed, looking almost as if you hadn’t heard him. You tried to swallow the sudden constriction in your throat but it didn’t move, and you felt suddenly dizzy. Daryl watched you reel for a moment and then you simply stepped back and turned away from him. You squeezed your eyes shut, not believing what you’d just heard. Your hands clenched into fists so hard that your nails dug into your palm and left little red crescents. You started to almost stumble away, in a daze.

Daryl watched you drifting away and rushed to catch up to you. “Y/N—ya okay?” He reached out and touched your arm but you shook him off and rounded on him. A veil of confusion passed over him as he took in the look on your face; anger. You were angry. But when you spoke, it was soft.

“How could you do this?” Your tone was disbelief. Betrayal. Daryl stepped toward you, an instinct to be closer as he felt you closing off. But you recoiled and he felt like he’d been burned. He’d never seen you look at him that way before and it felt like a hot poker was just rammed into his heart—the beat totally stalled out.

“How could I—” Daryl sputtered. “How could I not? After what he did—to—to yer dad. Right in front of ya!” Daryl’s voice broke. “After what he did to—to you. I told ya he was a fuckin’ dead man!”

Your voice was no longer soft. “It wasn’t your fight!” you yelled, angry tears burning in your eyes. “How could you—to not even tell me when you suspected, let alone—” You broke off, shaking your head.

“I had to end it! It was eatin’ ya alive, tha’s what ya said! I was protectin’ ya. Ya were gonna get yerself killed and I—”

You turned away and made a beeline for the prison. Quick bootsteps behind you and you felt his hand on your arm again.

“Y/N—”

You threw his hand off again. “Don’t touch me!” you yelled. You wouldn’t look at him, and that hurt far more than if you’d glared at him again. “How the hell am I ever supposed to sleep?” You said it quietly, almost as if to yourself.

And then you left Daryl standing there, puzzling over your reaction, confused by your words.

* * *

Daryl almost felt like someone else was in control of his movements for a moment, like he was watching himself from the outside as he stepped close to you again, surprised when you didn’t step back. His heart was pounding, but some internal urging kept him going. He looked to your hands again and gently took them in his, his thumbs smoothing over the scars on each wrist so lightly it was like the kiss of a breeze. You felt like you couldn’t breathe. “This is why I did it. This right here,” he said strongly.

“Don’t.” She said it again. Seemed like she’d pulled herself outta somethin’ and she was quick to wrench her wrists from my hands again too. There was warning in her tone. “Don’t. Don’t you dare act like you didn’t do anything wrong.” I saw her jaw clench, her teeth set on edge. I was good at getting that reaction, though I never wanted it.

But I wasn’t actin’ like I hadn’t done anythin’ wrong… That wasn’t it. I knew I’d fucked up as soon as I’d told her back then. I may be a dumbass but I’m not a complete moron. Her reaction told me more than enough. Hell, I think I knew it was a mistake before I’d done it. But I just needed it to be over. For her and for me. It was eatin’ her. Anybody could see that. And she was obsessed, though she never broke her promise to go runnin’ off alone again after that night in the cabin. After that night, I started to see glimpses of the light in her kindled back to life again. Just—little moments. Her and me. We never defined it. Never labeled it. I guess I thought that him, still bein’ out there was what was suffocatin’ that flame and keepin’ it from burnin’ all the time. It felt like it was holding us back. Us. I used to think of it as us. Her and me.

But after I’d done it… after I’d tracked him down and made sure he’d died bloody, after I came back and told her… everything was different. Can’t even say how many nights I laid awake in my damn cot, wonderin’ how the fuck I could fix what I had so obviously broken, knowin’ she was a floor below me, probably also wide awake. All I’d wanted was to head down those steps and—but it didn’t matter. I had royally fucked up and I knew it, even if I didn’t really understand all the reasons she couldn’t deal with it.

“I ain’t ever said I didn’t do nothin’ wrong,” I countered, taking a step toward her again. “Hell, I—I knew as I was leavin’ the prison in the dark that it wasn’t—” I broke off, not even able to truly explain what had been going on in my head at the time.

She was still staring at me intensely, her eyes narrowed and the muscle in her jaw twitching. “Then why?” she asked through her clenched teeth. “Why the hell would you do that?!” She was yelling, and the walkers outside the slatted, metal door responded with banging fists and louder growls. “You purposely hid it from me! You left before it was light! You didn’t tell anyone where you were going!”

I scoffed. “Don’t that sound fuckin’ familiar, huh?” I roared back, stepping up to her again. She stepped back reflexively but her back found the wall.

But she wasn’t done yellin’. And Y/N never was one to be afraid of bein’ cornered. “This isn’t about me! This is about what you did, Daryl! Stop deflecting!”

“What the hell do you want me to fuckin’ say? ‘M sorry? Is that what ya want to hear?! ‘Cuz I can’t even count how many damn times I’ve tried to say that to you over the years. Shit, I’m lucky if ya even look at me these days let alone hear a goddamn word I fuckin’ say!” It was like now that we’d both started yellin’ we couldn’t stop. It felt like somebody had turned the heat on in the shop full blast.

“No, that’s not what I want to fucking hear! I want you to give me a better reason why you did that without me! I want a better fucking reason than Daryl Dixon’s hero complex!” She jabbed a finger right into the middle of my chest and I felt a prickle up my spine.

I let out an exhale that was more of a growl than anything. She knew exactly how to push my buttons. I stepped up until we were almost nose to nose, her back pressed against the wall. She held my eyes fearlessly. “What the hell ya want from me?! Huh?!” I roared at her.

“Tell me the real reason why!” she yelled back.

“Because I’m fucking in love with you!” I didn’t plan on sayin’ it. I didn’t think for half a second. It just came out. And when I looked, I realized I had hold of her wrists again, almost pinnin’ her back against the wall. And I could feel those scars beneath my hands, such a contrast to the usual silk of her skin. All the anger that had been on her face a split second before was gone and replaced with a stunned look, her eyes wide, her chest heaving. She stayed frozen as I tried to process what I’d just said. “I—I’m fucking in love with you,” I said again. “And I—I had to end it…” All the thoughts I’d always had raced through my head rapid fire; that she was gonna get herself killed, that he might find her first, that she was obsessed and it was drownin’ her, that I wanted to make him pay for what he’d done. But I couldn’t get any of them out, couldn’t even give her anythin’ else. Besides, what did it matter? I’d said the real reason. I’d said it. I’m in love with her. And I have been for a long time.

She finally seemed to break outta her stillness and her head leaned back against the wall behind her, her eyes shutting so I couldn’t even read what was going on in her head.

I was suddenly terrified and I let go of her and stepped back, digging the nail of my index finger into the cuticle of my thumb until it bled. I stared down at the dirty tile of the auto shop, my heart runnin’ away on me, feelin’ like I could barely draw breath. When had somebody tightened a belt around my fuckin’ lungs?

She sighed heavily and when I cautiously glanced up at her, her eyes were back on me, her lips in a soft pout. “What you don’t get—is that it’s not over. It didn’t end. It’s not over for me.”

It felt like somebody had shoved a sock down my throat. Hard to breath. Couldn’t speak. All I could do was stare back at her and brace for what she was about to say—that she didn’t love me, couldn’t love me after what I’d done—that she hated me.

“It’s not fucking real to me, Daryl. I wasn’t there. I didn’t see it. So, he’s still—he’s still here. He’s alive.” She paused and closed her eyes again, like she was tryin’ to steady herself, and my heart was dropping lower and lower as I watched her struggle to explain. “He’s like a ghost, haunting me. That’s why I can’t sleep…” She crossed her arms over her chest, almost hugging herself as she went on. “I needed to be the one to do it. I had to see it. And you took that away from me. You didn’t even talk to me about it. You just—you just went without me.”

I hung my head and shut my eyes, unable to bear the fuckin’ stabs of guilt I felt lookin’ at her. I hadn’t known—I didn’t know. I knew she had nightmares about him. I knew she was… haunted in some way. But I’d stupidly thought that if I took care of it, that his hold would be gone. And turns out I was wrong. And I couldn’t take that back. She was right. I felt like my whole body ached. “I—‘M sorry,” I said. It felt stupid to even say it. She already said she knew I was sorry. It didn’t change anything.

I didn’t expect anything else from her. I was on the edge of walkin’ away to give her some space… probably for the rest of her life, when she spoke again. “You—you said you’re in love with me…” she trailed off. That brought my eyes right back to her face. “You thought—you thought if he was gone that it’d be… fixed,” she said. All I could do was nod. She looked at me for a long time and I could see her eyes searching my face, studyin’ me like she was tryin’ to read my mind. “Why didn’t you just talk to me?” she asked in a whisper.

I let out a wry laugh and flicked my hair out of my eyes. “We both know I’m shit with words.”

She didn’t laugh. In fact, her face didn’t change at all. “You aren’t. Not to me.”

Fuck. I gulped. I had to try. I took a hesitant step back toward her. “It felt like that—he was what was standin’ in the way. Not just for you but—but for—us…” I sighed, frustrated at my own weak ability to fuckin’ explain exactly what I was thinkin’, what I felt. “Look, I ain’t good at this. But it felt like ya were drownin’. And that was the only thing I knew to try to stop it. And ya have to know I didn’t do it to hurt ya. That was the last thing I wanted. That is the last thing I want… I was tryin’ to protect ya, and I know ya don’t need it. I know that but… I just have to.” I paused and swallowed again at the lump in my throat. “And ya never told me it was like that. Ya never told me how bad.”

Now she avoided my eyes. “You were already worried about me enough.”

“That ain’t ever gonna change. No matter what.”

She sighed, still hugging her arms around herself. “I need… I need some time…” she said softly.

I felt like I’d left an armed nuke sitting on the floor between us. I’m in love with you. Fuck. All I could do was nod, and watch as she shot one final glance my way before she headed toward the other room.

[plasma-studios]

Chapter 6: FLASHBACK I - THE IMMORTALITY OF CREATION

content warnings for implied war, invasion; described fire, smoke, attacks and widespread death. someone still alive buries themself; description of being in the coffin, may trigger claustrophobia. you can probably infer depression so maybe that should be a tw too. abandonment, kinda?

stay safe yall!

THE INK CHAPT!

Ink had tried to save them. The wind was carrying the ash away to the stars; steadily, it grew louder and louder. He’d thought that he could save them. Tucked away in the corner, the trail of blazes were whistling their dying breath. They were blurred over by the smoke like an afterglow. He had tried to save them. He had thought he could. The fires could not touch him; to him, fire was the closest thing to warmth. He’d thought he could’ve saved them

He’d wanted to save them. 

There was so much ash in his lungs. So much dust. 

From ashes you rise, to ashes you return. 

And when Ink opened his eyes again the fires had long burnt out.

--------

He was not born with the name Ink.  

His name had been given to him by the loveliest little girl. She had been so sweet, so kind; and she had been very amused by his intrigue of inkwells; so amused with his fascination with the ink that she began calling him just that when he couldn’t tell her his name. 

Ink. That was what she called him. She had been half his height. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to tell her his name. He had had no name before that day: mortals were named on the day of their birth, if they were fortunate; others named some time after. 

Ink had been born without anyone to name him. No one before that little girl. 

And she had yelled at him to hide when the invaders came. Invaders, but the word enemy was the one thrown around. Ink had not hid in the end. He’d had no need to, they could not hurt him. 

Yet they had. The village had been ablaze. The fires were beautiful— but in a strange, cruel way. Even the stars had shone dimmer, the light of the fire evidently having chased the glimmer away. The smoke had only blocked out more of the sky.

Still they had shone.

It had been silent. He had never known such an agonizing sound, silence. 

Then they had found him. They had wrenched him by his wrist and yanked him away. The little girl too had took him by his wrist, but had her grip ever been so rough? The little girl had had tight ringlets of brown hair and small hands, smaller than his by far. She had the brightest little laugh, and her eyes were like— 

It had been as if his mind blotted over. A grip on his wrist, a foot on his back, the soil on his tongue and anger. Wrath, if he had known the word then. It had been blurry, muted, almost: and the wind had seemed to carry his words for him. 

A strange, vague feeling; their smiles were scowls, bleeding the same hue of the freshest lightning; as sharp as always. They had lunged forward; a few with hands and fists, some with daggers. They had been shouting, then, but he had not cared enough to listen. He could not even try to.

They could not hurt him.

His footsteps had been silent. The wind had been growing noiser still.

He could barely perceive the lazy motion of a raised hand; somehow, even less so the resounding thud of bodies after.

“You come here? You dare?”

The wind grew louder and louder; at a certain point his whispers had become the howling wind in the air. You dare? You dare?  

The screams came all at once. And the world was a darkness that lunged for souls, piercing through the brittle thickness; just as easily it tore through lungs and hearts and final breaths. It had been silent as it moved through the earth.

The darkness tore through the soil, as if reaching for the stars; then finally, finally it was satisfied. 

Had he been crying while they died? Even if he had been, the darkness would’ve swallowed it all up when it receded into his shaking body. 

The wind had tasted of blood. He had collapsed and sobbed.

--------

But that was then. He could not save them. 

Ink could not find the little girl. There was little difference between charred corpses, and what little there was, he could not tell. Ink spent his time left there burying the dead. Even the ones who had been the last to die; the ones who had brought war to them.

He should not have lost himself. He shouldn’t have killed them. 

The darkness swirled within him, but did not emerge. I am inside you. I am inside you. He would not forget. The fires had been deadly enough on their own; there would have been few survivors without him.

There had been none, because of him.

He had to venture further to find uncharred flowers. 

The darkness within him swirled. He had done something terrible. They had brought fire and smoke and death with them— but they were mortal. They killed mortals and died mortal. 

Yet he was the one who taught the wind what blood smelled like. He was not mortal. He would never be able to pay that debt back. He could only try, and inevitably fail. 

Ink would carry that debt to his grave, and then some. 

Would he have been able to prevent the bloodshed? Stem the blood before it started flowing?

But you spilled the blood too. The darkness within him stirred. No. He clamped down on it. He wasn’t just a darkness. Not just a weapon. Not just a wrath.

The darkness was silent. 

The darkness was too silent. 

The darkness was no more.

Hello. It tickled him from the inside out. 

Ink stilled. His fingers drew to his chest; the ‘darkness’ answered his call, but it unfurled instead of swirled. It was not darkness. In its place— in its place—

It was a warmth. It was— it was— 

It reminded him of fire. Not the smoking blazes: no, this was a more delicate heat, like the flame of an oil lamp. 

I cannot go on with you.

And his being had responded, then I will change myself for you.

--------

But he still owed a debt, and it weighed on him.

--------

By the time the sun set on the flowering graves, he had been long gone. 

For an empty soul, for a still heart, rites were needed. For the dead, he was told. Bury them. Let them rest. It is what they are owed. 

He felt himself, cold and tired and hollow, thought, surely, this is what death feels like, and dug himself a grave. 

He buried himself, too, since there was no one who would do it for him. He lay there, beneath thick layers of soil, and waited. He waited for a long time. 

He waited to die. 

He lived. 

Perhaps this was good enough. A silent home. A place where, if he could not die, then he would sleep. He practised it a thousand times, closing his eyes and mouth, lying there stock still like he was part of the earth. 

At a certain point he started hearing his breathing. It was so loud, louder than any storm rattling and rustling the surface he was buried under. Every breath seemed to echo around his grave like a demand, an accusation. It was a terrible sound. He began to anticipate thunder. Rumbling sound that pierced through— everything, really. It was grounding, and if he closed his eyes tightly enough he would see the accompanying lightning bolt searing against the sky.

There was guilt, so much guilt, at every thought of it. He had promised himself he would sleep if he could not die, but he could not do even that?

No, he couldn’t. He could not bear to be a corpse in a silent grove while the world above him lived.

One day, or night, he unburied himself: he reached out and tore his way out a useless tomb.

This time, he decided, he would not sleep again. He would never sleep again. There was no point in it. He would never let the world leave him behind again.

The world had changed, and he knew it. While he was picking every grain of soil apart, the world had grown. It was no longer a world of fire. It was a world of blood. 

So he had to change alongside it. 

--------

Ink learnt how to mimic others and how to pretend to be mortal. He learnt to react, adapt and reflect. He learnt how to do what others wanted him to, and what others hoped he wouldn’t.

He became one of them. He became good at it. But Ink wasn’t one of them. 

So what was he?

He would find the answer in a very simple place. Stories. Stories were such a diverse thing, were they not? Legends and myths and truths— and he had all the time in the world for every story there was, especially once he taught himself to read. 

He did not know the word till it was taught to him, but he would forever remember the first time he heard the word God. It fit him like a glove, yet something was still missing. Ink was a God among men. 

But still, he did not know what he was the God of.

“It’s a nice story, isn’t it?” Someone’s voice managed to reach him. They looked his way and smiled. “It’s funny how beautiful stories can be.”

“I know,” He said quietly. “Most stories are very beautiful, yes.”

They tilted their head, as if in thought. Their eyes flickered away, the ghost of a smile still playing on their lips. Ink briefly smiled back.

He would not remember them, nor the moment. It was just another in a long line of moments and memories. 

Ink soon learnt that, to survive as a God; to survive as he was, he had to learn to love the world. Love his existence, to make it less— exhausting It was a demanding task, and some days he couldn’t help the burning hatred that he had been born as a God. 

He had known from the beginning he was different. He did not know the word God, but he did know the concept of different. That was what he was.

He found that to love the world was an increasingly difficult task, for the world could only be loved wholly, with its losses and gains; deaths and lives; despairs and hopes. How could he love and not mourn? How could he love while mourning? 

It would be easier, he realised, if he could love just what he was meant to. If he knew his purpose.

What was his purpose?

Ink became known as many things. An immortal, a warrior, an enigma; sometimes even a God. If he didn’t know what he himself was, then he had to be what the world said he was. So Ink changed as the world did. 

Whatever the world wanted, he became.

And Ink would not remember the person whose voice had reached him so long ago when he’d found the truth of his Godhood in a simple story.

He would only recall them, a century later, when he heard a voice and thought haven’t I heard you before? and turned to find a pair of eyes flickering to his, and then in a stark moment of I remember you; Ink froze.

Oh, he thought. You’re like me. 

It would be the first God he would meet, and the first God he would befriend. 

Their name, he learned, was Nim. The God of Mortal Creation, or as they put it, Life. 

--------

There was once a God of the World. He did not know himself, but he did know that he’d been existing for a very long time. He wandered the world for a long time, watching it grow and unfurl; watching, because of his self-oath that he would never look away again. Perhaps the stories captured him in some capacity, but the depictions were incredibly diverse. One would tell the tale of an artist, another would tell the tale of an enigma. Another, and another. 

And there was the God of Life. The stories about her were not as incohesive, but they were still stories. The reason for life itself, they whispered around campfires. From the smallest star to the oldest tree, all owed their very existence to the God. The God of Life was powerful, ancient, and perhaps even kind, but nonetheless they were indeed a terribly grand thing.

But Nim was no grand thing. Well, they were a God, but they did not bathe in glory and grandiose; Nim was just Nim.

--------

But Nim indeed was kind. She too recognised him, and the two Gods found some semblance of friendship in each other. Perhaps it was the simple kinship between Gods. 

“They say you’re the God of Life,” Ink murmured with the breath of a laugh one afternoon, fingers lodged in the soil; summer was a wonderful time for sunflowers and there was no time like the present. “Can you grow flowers?”

Nim chuckled. “Isn’t that what we’re doing now?” She reached over to pass him another seed once he withdrew his hand from the soil.

“You know what I mean.” He dug into the soil again to make room for the seed. Not by a lot, just enough. “Can you make them spontaneously grow?”

Nim hummed amusedly. “You can try, if you’re interested.”

Ink huffed. That took him off guard; when had he become so reactive? But Nim didn’t seem to mind, so he didn’t correct himself and continued, “Why not? You’re the God of Life, right?”

“I don’t know what I’m the God of,” They said simply. Ink’s small grin faltered. 

“Yes,” He began without so much as a quiver in his voice. “But the stories still call you that, so that must be what you are. Or, at least something close.”

“Perhaps, if that’s what people perceive me to be. But I don’t know for sure, Ink,” She said softly. “And if I did, what would that change?”

It would change everything for Ink. Give him purpose, meaning to his existence; but Nim didn’t need that, did they? They already had an existence they were pleased in.

Then what am I? “Then what am I?” He whispered.

Her eyes passed over him, softened. “I don’t know, Ink. But I do know that you’re a friend of mine.”

And perhaps… perhaps that was enough.

“Tell me,” He murmured. “Why can’t you make flowers?”

“Life must have the right conditions to grow,” She said patiently, and gestured for him to move on with the next seed; the ready seed was already in his hand.

Later, they would stop once the dusk was in the sky above them. Beautiful, rolling shades of orange; the moon was waiting its turn, but already the twilight hues were spilling in impatiently. 

Nim was waiting for him as he washed the dirt off by the river. When he came back, he murmured to her a thanks. 

She smiled, as if tickled by his thanks. “Anything for a friend.”

--------

Nim made Ink feel like a fledgling God. It felt strange: were they both not Immortals? Yet she seemed to know so much more about the nature of existence than him.

It was not entirely unwelcome.

--------

They continued planting flowers. Sunflowers became chrysanthemums, chrysanthemums became orchids, and so on. Soon it became a garden they were tending to: some haven of the earth, and it was theirs.

“Do you have a favourite season?” He asked her, curious. She shook her head.

“No, I don’t have a favourite,” She murmured. And that was the end of it.

Ink blinked. Nim must have caught something on his face, because she burst out into laughter. That set off Ink, too; and he had to bend down to collect back the seeds that had spilled from his hands as a result.

Nim bent down to help him too, but there was a beautiful glint in her eye, but Ink did not catch it.

--------

Ink did not live with Nim. He still just wandered around, but stayed within the town’s borders. So it was not much of a surprise when he didn’t meet Nim for some weeks: really, anytime they crossed paths it could be considered coincidence. 

Weeks turned into months. Perhaps even more than that. Ink continued tending to their garden, but he tended to it alone.

He had never been the best with time. So it felt like a long time before Nim went to find him again, yet once they met it felt like the wait had been very short indeed.

“Nim?” He stopped, a pair of shears around a stem ready to be pruned. “Where have you been?”

“What do you mean?” She walked to him and looked at the stem he was able to cut. “That’s definitely ready to be pruned, go ahead.”

It felt like an instinct; the stem fell to the ground. “You were gone for a while. Were you busy?”

They paused. “Oh, I was helping out the couple down the river. They just moved in, I think.”

Ink recalled them vaguely. But hadn’t they moved in ages ago? Was it a month or two? Was it just last week? Neither of them were very good at time, so he said nothing of it.

--------

It became a pattern. There was a stray dog, I fed him and led him back to his family. The farmers needed a bit of help, the rainy season’s really harming their crops. The town square’s tiles were a little cracked. The old miner's roof was leaking.

But Ink didn’t mention it, because Nim always came back in the end. 

And Nim’s friendship felt like home, so he had no need to question it.

--------

But, like many things, it could not last.

--------

One day, he looked up and realised Nim was gone. Whether it be a moment where he was pruning a stem, a moment where he was burying a seed, or even a moment when he was looking into the sky; he suddenly realised it. 

Nim was gone.

He had waited for them for— years, was it? How long had it been since their last interaction?

The next time he saw Nim would be out of town. 

--------

“But where have you been? Why did you— why did you leave?”

--------

“You're more than capable of being on your own, Ink. Go, go find your own path in the world. I know you can.”

--------

Ink didn’t understand. Why did Nim leave? But he realised, Nim left intentionally. And every single time they left and didn’t come back, that was always intentional. 

It made sense, in a way. But it had still hurt in some foreign, alien way. Nim had never considered their garden as permanent; they had always been ready to move on. Now he remembered his laughter, his huffs and his groans. He'd seen Nim's eyes glint and gleam brighter and brighter every time; had he remained a quiet soul, speaking only in murmurs, would Nim have stayed?

They’d brought some semblance of Godly purpose into his life with their own, and now they were moving on. Nim was— a paragon, of what a God could be. Should be. The world had so many other people that needed her help. It would be selfish to demand her to stay, and cruel to follow: he only wanted another God's company because of his own failings as a God, after all. 

That made sense, and yet— there was something deep in him, something wounded.

But he had to move on.

--------

He would not see Nim again for centuries. But he did see her again. 

On Mercy (ao3: x)

The Council has been at war with the Emperor (more colloquially known as the King of Nightmares) for a long, long time. After defeat after defeat, they find themselves with no option but to request help from his fabled twin.

However, Dream will not help them for free; he locks eyes with Cross, and decides he wants him in exchange for the war victory. It is an easy choice to make.

But Cross is terribly apprehensive, because he his loyalty is not to the Council, but to Nightmare as a spy, and Dream is Nightmare's mortal enemy. Moreover he suspects Dream chose him knowing this, wanting information about his twin; and the issue is, Nightmare is absolutely unforgiving of traitors.

But he cannot offend Dream, for he too is an Immortal and God. He cannot forget that both Dream and Nightmare is dangerous, that any wrong move will end in his demise or worse.

(He forgets, however, that he himself is mortal.)

[OR: A Empire/Kingdoms UTMV AU, where Cross is caught between the crossfire of Immortal/Gods! Dreamtale Twins and some involvement with God!Errorink too.]

Inspired by love, in fire and blood by cicer

Chapter 1: a deal is struck

The tides would shift soon, they told themselves. Each day’s fresh defeats were a necessary evil, soon the tides would shift and they would have their victories. This war would be theirs to win. 

That was the belief of the dreamers among them. Those who held onto their hopes even as they buried their comrades day after day.

Then there were the defeated, the broken. Those who had given up their hopes for a better life and fought to survive. Sometimes they just gave up and let the ocean take them, or the earth. It would be a kinder fate than joining his army of the dead.

Even with all the Kingdoms of the World allied together, his Empire overshadowed them all. Even in their Council, even with Kings and Queens and Dukes and Countesses they all seemed to have some grasp on the truth. Some awareness of their position, of defeat after defeat.

Cross watched them debate, then argue, then lament. They were losing, they all knew it. He knew it too. Even as a lowly soldier (it was what he was best at) he knew it, saw it in the numbers they were losing and the grim lines in their faces. He didn’t say anything, however, and lowered his head as they discussed troops and strategy. 

As if he’d heard nary a word of the King of Nightmares.

There were rumours about him. He went by other names, too. The Cruel Prince, once. The Boy of the Night. There were rumours that he was a God, some that he was an immortal. (The Moon Immortal, they called him.) Some that he was just a regular mortal drunk on power. But what mortal lived for centuries?

The Council, at least in part, suspected his immortality. Perhaps even Godhood. But they did not want to, because their hopes of success were already dismal. 

But there were stories that brought them impossible hopes. Stories about his twin, the Light to his Darkness. Stories, not rumours, for the twin was so little known about him and far less about his twin. At one point the numbers had climbed too high and someone bravely made the suggestion. Could we reach out to his twin for help? First, it had been a casual remark. But slowly it made its way into the official discussion, its feasibility and possibility debated alongside strategy and supply. Not happily debated, of course, for the implication was that they had no other choice. But Cross, again, remained silent as they worked out the finer details. First, they worked out how they’d contact him in the first place; a letter, perhaps, but it would need to be published everywhere to get his attention. That meant that it couldn’t contain anything sensitive, but they could work around that.

A few sessions later (and a couple lost battles) the letter was drafted. Soon after, published world wide. Hours later, they got their response. Though they would not discover it till the morning after. His reply had been burned into the walls of their Council Chambers.

To the Council:I hear you. I agree that my brother has been excessive in his terror; I also agree that you cannot win this war without me. It is not a matter of your weakness, but rather his strength. It’s time my brother is stopped. 

However, I will not do it for free. On the Summer Solstice I shall attend your Council to discuss our terms. I sincerely hope we’ll find an agreeable compromise then.- The Sun Immortal.

At this the Council was entirely silent. There was only the sound of breathing, then gasping, and slowly they erupted. Insolence and arrogance bounced across the room: “What hubris!” “Is it hubris if he’s an Immortal?” And, of course, the confirmation of immortality. Though that was somehow the least shocking tidbit. 

The writing was oddly neat for having been burned in, Cross noted. Then how long till the Summer Solstice? and what can we offer him?; of course they hadn’t been so optimistic to assume he would help them free of charge, but faced with the confirmation they suddenly found it difficult to discern what an Immortal would want in exchange. Gold and jewellery seemed like rewards for the living, for the mortal; would such material rewards be accepted? 

What if he wanted land, instead? A crown, a Kingdom? What, then? They spent more time debating their terms than drafting the letter. But they had to come to a conclusion soon, as Asgore reminded them: the Summer Solstice was a mere three days away.

Finally they voted, and it was decided. They would ask him what he wanted in return first, and work from there. Surely if he was taking the time to discuss with them, he did want the deal to go through, and if he wanted it to succeed, he would not ask for something impossible. Surely?

However, they still prepared for all the options thought up in their hours of discussion. Rubies, sapphires and emeralds polished and stored away in trunks with gold and silver coins beneath them; carefully stored crowns with freshly gilded gold and polished jewels; cloaks and clothing made out of silk or laced with furs, etc. 

Even obscure recipes were brought out, like boiled gold soup and silver ingot bites. The food once regarded as the highest cuisine, only for the wealthiest. Not anymore, of course, but nonetheless.

Finally, the preparations made not in official Council discussion but covert exchanges to prepare a variety of beauties. Some fair-skinned, some not. Some freckled, some not. Some muscled, some not. Some more compliant, some more recalcitrant, some more aggressive.

We don’t know his tastes, and there was an undercurrent of humour in it, even. It would not be the first time someone demanded people for their war efforts.

It was a little extreme. Even Nightmare’s tastes were… ah, somewhat sane. But Cross didn’t know the Sun Immortal, so perhaps his tastes were indeed less sane. Nonetheless the day of the Summer Solstice arrived like the sun rising for each day.

Now the Council would be arriving earlier today for fear of missing the Immortal’s visit, but though they’d arrived at their predetermined time (just after dawn) there was already someone there. A stranger in light silks, asleep in one of the chairs. Arms folded, head dipped, sleeping quietly.

His breathing was quiet, but it was still there, and in the silence of their held breaths they heard it clearer than their own. No sooner had the first of them stepped over the threshold, however, did the stranger’s eyes flutter open. “Ah, good morning.” His voice was clear and light; like a drink of water in the desert. “I assume you’re the Council?” There was a silence, before CORE Frisk responded, “Yes. I assume you’re the Sun Immortal?” At that, a sweet chuckle. Still so light, sweeter than honeycomb. “Officially, yes; but just call me Dream.” At that, whispers again: but they were quickly silenced by a look from Undyne. The Council had tentatively started filling in, all the while Dream was looking at them rather curiously, a hint of amusement in his gaze yet any mocking absent from it. Just like how an adult would look at a child. Like an immortal gazing upon mortals?

Cross was familiar with that sort of look.

Dream got to his feet and tilted his head. “I’m assuming I wasn’t so fortunate to choose my seat on a guess?” “Unfortunately not, but we’ll show you to your seat?” CORE Frisk had taken a tentative step forward when he raised his hand abruptly— lazily? “No need.” He reached over and grabbed the shoulder of the nearest Guard. “You.” He smiled. “Show me to my seat.” The poor Monster was so very stiff as he led the Sun Immortal to his seat; a cushioned, grand thing, positioned in the centre of the rows of seats wrapping around it in a circle. 

Cross made sure he wasn’t scrunching his eyebrows. Wouldn’t that be obvious that it was his, a seat in the middle? And once again that sweet, clear laughter. “Oh, that’s— aha .” His fist crumpled over his teeth and mouth. “It’s just— ah, it’s almost as if I’m on trial.” He pulled his hand away from his mouth. “So, terms! What will you offer me?” And Cross swore his golden eyes, though still agleam, sharpened. 

Dream had not taken his seat.

“What would an esteemed Immortal such as yourself prefer?” Asgore’s tone had found the cadences of officiality, of usual Palace affairs or even mundane Council business. Still, it seemed to interest the Immortal (Dream, was it?) as he looked to him intently. “Such as I?” He laughed again, but this time it wasn’t as sweet. “Unfortunately, I don’t know what I want. It’s up to you to make a good offer, Your Majesty.” 

In the Immortal’s mouth, the title was like dust. But to his credit Asgore maintained his composure and answered. “I suppose I should start off with the simplest offer. Coin? Jewels?” And it was evident that he did not think Dream would accept this offer. And he was right, Dream only raised an eyebrow. “I can find jewels anywhere. Coin even more so. What else do you have?” And then the silks, the cloth. He was as unimpressed with the offer as with the first, but strangely, Cross noticed from his place against the wall, not an inkling of disappointment lined his face. Still he let them offer more, and more. Offer after offer was raised with the speed of bullet fire, flying across the space as they desperately tried to appease the Sun Immortal.

Silently, Dream raised his palm. It seemed his patience had reached its limit.

“And what if I said I want people?” Immediately the tension in the room thickened. Looks were exchanged, confused blue on repulsed green, yellow irritation on pink curiosity. CORE Frisk observed Dream quietly, but did not speak up. Dream smiled a tiny small smile.

“Well, Esteemed Immortal,” Duke Isre murmured hesitantly. "If it would please you, you may have your pick of the courtesans of my court.”

“And mine, of course!” Another hurried to protest. “The courtesans of Sere are known for their allure—” “Oh?” Dream’s eyes seemed to sparkle. “Tell me more.” Then there were a dozen, more than a dozen, speaking at once; all so eager to grasp at the Immortal’s interest. 

But that wasn’t a sparkle. Cross swallowed the sigh into his throat. It was a gleam: the gleam of amusement, of sardonicism. Dream was not interested in them, not truly.

But their offers of concubines and courtesans only continued, each one more outlandish than the first. Blue eyes like sea sapphires. Gold hair like threaded gold. Skin as smooth as a babe’s. Teeth like mermaid pearls. He had to force his eyes not to roll. Somewhere in him, however, there was the smallest shred of pity. Of irritation. If the Council failed to negotiate terms, they would lose their last hope. They were making too many mistakes; mistakes that were obvious in hindsight, but not so much in the doing; mistakes that were his job to report back to Nightmare to be exploited.

He did pity them, somewhat. He couldn’t just stand around and not see how much the common people were suffering. Starving children and cold corpses. Empty homes and unburied bodies.

But the Council was full of Kings and Queens, Dukes and Duchesses. People who’d never lived a day of hardship in their lives. People who, only a century ago or two, would’ve been delighting in tasteless gold delicacies while the people starved of famine. The generals and soldiers, he was annoyed less by. They were competent, at least. But they still could not fight a God, certainly not Nightmare. It was their deaths he felt more guilt over.

“Dream,” CORE Frisk suddenly cut in. “You haven’t accepted any of our offers. May I ask what they lack?”

Dream locked eyes with CORE Frisk. To their credit. CORE Frisk stayed unflinching. There was a moment of quiet, of tension.

Cross realised Dream was no longer smiling. “Since you’ve asked, CORE, I’m more than willing to oblige. You see,” He gestured vaguely around him. “I believe I never said anything about wanting someone to warm my bed.”

He turned his eye upon the one who had gotten the ball rolling. 

“You know, I’m beginning to rethink this,” He said casually. “Maybe we aren’t suited for an alliance after all.” There was a dead silence. And then there was nary a sound, save for CORE Frisk: “I’m sorry for any offence caused, Dream,” They began. “May I ask why?”

There was sharp laughter, in the silence. Not a single eye wasn’t upon the Immortal, and Cross unconsciously noted CORE Frisk too was on their feet. “You want me to answer to you?” Like a violin string drawn taut, like the lightning striking the earth, backs straightened and sharp, fearful gazes were exchanged. “A little pretentious, don’t you think?” His eye was on CORE Frisk. The string, taut and tauter. CORE Frisk opened their mouth, but no words came out. 

Too taut and now the ripped alliance between them. Dream still looked unbothered under the fearful and indignant glares of the Council. 

“May I ask what it is that you want?” CORE Frisk tried, ever the meditator. “Or even just what you don’t want.” Dream looked into the rows and rows of people. Slowly, he turned his gaze down the row.

“I’m beginning to think,” He said softly. “That you don’t have what I want."

Well, that was it, then. There was relief of having finally bitten the bullet. Dream wasn’t going to help the Council after all. Nightmare would be happy to hear that, right? Momentarily his eyebrows almost scrunched together.

It would be difficult to get news to him, especially news of this nature. He’d have to wait till Dust came by to pass the news: it was always risking making contact on his own.

A pity, though. CORE Frisk’s face was blank, but they must’ve been disappointed. They weren’t as bad as the rest, really. But CORE Frisk was one person and the rest (whom he had little pity for) always outweighed them. 

A pity, but a small amount of it only. CORE Frisk was blank, but probably carefully blank. 

Dream locked eyes with him. 

“You.” 

Cross stilled. Those golden eyes, bright and alert, were on him now.

“Come here.” His outreached hand was curved, fingers beckoning. Cross did not move for the first few seconds. His eyes were on Cross’; no mocking, no amusement: there was nothing Cross could recognise. 

Then, slowly, he took his first step. Then another. Then another. All the while the quiet had been broken but quiet exhales, gasps, confused rustling and carefully blank faces almost faltering.

Soon he was before Dream. A smile was pulling at his teeth. “Ah, may I ask for your name, sir?” Cross felt the welt of saliva in his throat. “Cross, Esteemed Immortal.” Dream smiled indulgently, and reached for his chin. His breath was in his throat; then, ever Cross’ saviour, CORE Frisk interrupted. “May I ask what the Esteemed Immortal wants of this Guard?” “A Guard, huh?” There was interest in his eyes, but his hand still did not let go. “I see. I don’t suppose he’s a recent one?”

On instinct, most of the Council turned to Undyne, but she was looking to CORE Frisk with a sigh in her throat. “He was recruited by CORE, not me.” “He was not raised to be a Guard,” CORE Frisk said delicately, as it was the custom. “But he was enough strong and clever to be one, and I happened upon him a few years ago. I beg your Esteemed Immortals forgiveness for any caused offence on his behalf.”

A light laugh, through the hall. Suddenly the weighted air lightened and Cross could breathe again when the hand withdrew from his chin. “No no, no offence at all. I’ve merely found my answer to your question, CORE Frisk.” Just slightly, they tilted their head with the air of curiosity. “You have?”

There was ice in Cross’ stomach. 

“I shall help you in your war. By next month you will regain your frontlines,” He said casually. “You may reveal my part in it, or you may not. This I have no concern about. But in exchange,” And his eyes turned on Cross.

Fuck.

“Will you come with me?” And his voice was so soft, so sweet. It was so different from Nightmare’s, yet exactly the same air of persuasion.

Cross’s words were in his stomach; weighing heavily. 

“May I clarify your intentions, Esteemed Immortal?” CORE Frisk carefully asked.

In turn, Dream sighed. “Why does everyone here insist on calling me that? Have I not said to call me Dream?”

“May we clarify your intentions, Dream?” The voice was just as dry.

“Isn’t it obvious? If he’ll have me,” He turned to him slightly. Cross steeled himself. “I’ll have him.”

Undyne frowned. “He is not a pig for sale. Courtesans, maybe,” And the look she sent the Court was no less disdainful than Dream’s earlier words, “Because it’s their job. But Cross is one of the Guard, not a cow to be bartered away to be a bed-warmer.” At cow, Cross almost flinched. God, that comedic timing was terrible and hilarious at the same time. Dream turned his gaze onto Undyne, who did not flinch, but subtly drew back. “I believe I have made myself clear,” He said quietly. “For him, I shall help you with your war. Without him, you die and your Kingdoms turn to dust. Simple as.”

There was a very clear swear in Cross’ head, confusion tenfold as he looked to CORE Frisk (he could do that, it would be in-character for what they knew him as) but there was conflict and no more in their gaze. 

“CORE, perhaps— perhaps it would be best. If the Immortal wants him, in exchange for victory…” The voice trailed over. Dream’s gaze was still on CORE Frisk, waiting. 

Abruptly Cross became aware of the eyes on him. The knowing gazes, the knowing eyes. Cross felt his face warm. 

“No.” CORE Frisk finally spoke, firm. “No, he is not a pig for sale. Jewels and gold, I can offer you. Land and palaces, yes. Silks and furs, yes. But I will not barter you a person who has yet to say anything on the matter.”

“But I did not ask you.” Once again his words held the air of spelling out something incredibly obvious. “I asked you, Cross.”

And once again Cross found himself at a loss of what to do when his gaze was upon him once more. “Will you come with me? For the war?” Well, I’m actually on the other side of it, Cross thought anxiously. But he kept his voice steady (or as steady as it should be for someone about to be sent away) and spoke to CORE Frisk. “CORE, if I agree, will— will it stop the war?” CORE Frisk held his gaze for a second more. “Yes, but… but it’s still your choice.”

Ha. No it wasn’t. He could feel the weight of a thousand eyes, of expectation, weighing on his very bones. It seemed Dream knew it too.

Dream and CORE Frisk exchanged a strange look.

Cross opened his mouth, little choice left. “Then I accept. I will go with you, and you will help—” He almost said them . “ Us, win the war.” He only hoped Nightmare would not see it as traitorous. 

Dream smiled brightly. “That was easy, wasn’t it?” He pulled a ring off his finger (and it was then Cross noticed the rings on his fingers, gold but the gold not of solid ingots but of the gold of sunlight) and gently took hold of Cross’ hand. He stiffened almost immediately, but Dream said nothing of it as he slid the ring on.

Onto his ring finger.

Well, a very public engagement.

“A gift,” Dream explained. “I will pay your family the rest of the dowry the next time I visit.”

The words stuck in Cross’ throat. “I don’t have a family.”

Because family did not seem like the right word for, ah, Nightmare’s right hand men. 

Dream blinked slowly. “Oh?” But he did not soften. “Nonetheless, I’ll come by soon.”

Cross, almost imperceptibly, nodded. It was all Dream needed, it seemed. With a rustle of silk, a gleam of light, he was gone.

And Cross was alone in the middle, a thousand eyes upon him. 

“Is there anything else?” Undyne said sharply. Angrily, almost. Cross kept his gaze on the floor. He would not know how to act if he locked gazes with anyone else. There was a silence. But Undyne did not speak again. Still there were a thousand gazes on him.

Cross feet turned and he left the Council chambers though it was against protocol. He knew no one would blame him for it; there would be no point, and far too risky to lay a hand on an Immortal’s betrothed. 

Just before he passed the doors, however, he had faintly registered that the burned-in words on the walls were gone.

Cross prayed that Dust would come by soon, so they’d hear the news from Cross’ own mouth and not rumours spreading quicker than wildfire. Not Horror, the hole in his skull too recognizable, and certainly not Killer with his messy dripping eyes. Dust was always the one sent by Nightmare. So Cross left the windows unlocked, staying awake for hours at a time. But, it seemed his prayers did not hold that much weight at all. If ever. Dust did not come the next day, nor the one after. He had the feeling something was going on behind the scenes, why else would an Immortal choose a random Guard? But he could not confirm his suspicions, for there was no one to talk to. No one came for him.

[socially-awkward-skeleton]

tagged by: @kyber-infinitygems @cassietrn @direwombat @nightbloodbix @unholymilf @adelaidedrubman @g0dspeeed @aceghosts and @thesingularityseries for another fine week of wips. Thank you all!

tagging: @ocdemon-747 @wrathfulrook @amalkavian @fourlittleseedlings @harmonyowl @mccarthycormac @mxanigel @madparadoxum @carlosoliveiraa @confidentandgood @trench-rot @roofgeese @inafieldofdaisies @voidika @clicheantagonist @strafethesesinners @statichvm @peppertheferalraccoon @josephslittledeputy @marivenah @simplegenius042 @theelderhazelnut @josephseedismyfather @v0idbuggy @florbelles @poetikat @cassieuncaged @shallow-gravy @strangefable @stacispratt (no pressure of course)

writing tag list here to be added/removed

I haven't had much to share this week while I'm starting to work on the next chapter of AATW. This is still a rough first draft, and very likely to change, but have some of a flashback to Rory about to start an interrogation while under the leadership of CIA Officer Walker (I hate him entirely, he is a bastard) *cw: misogyny and references to torture*:

The soldiers remained in silence as they sat outside the room where Walker interrogated the target. Muffled sounds of groans coming from the other room drifted in to invade the hush that had fallen over the siege forces. Sat on a table, on the other side of the room across from the door, Rory had already stripped the tac vest from her shoulders in order to catch her breath. The sight of all those faces in the dock facility below caused her stomach to twist and ache. Her head hanging low, chin pressed to her chest, she rubbed at the back of her neck trying to relieve the tension that built there. 

Andrew looked over at her, watching her hands start to tremble and he slipped the pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Pulling one out for her, he lit it and nudged her with his elbow to get her attention. “Hey, take this.”

She looked over at the trail of smoke that began to lift from the tip and happily accepted, bringing the cigarette to her lips and taking a long, deep drag of it. Enough to make her head spin and her lungs feel like they were filled with ash.

Moments later, Officer Walker entered the room where the soldiers waited, the door creaking behind him as he let out a heavy sigh. Worn out, he wiped the sweat from his brow with the collar of his shirt. The armpits of his shirt darkened by sweaty halos from his hard work. His hands wiping off the blood that had collected on them on the front of his shirt, adding to the red already splattered there. 

“Fucker ain't breaking.” He looked over at two of the soldiers in the corner of the room. Beefy and brawnier than the rest, Walker gave them a wry grin. “Hey Turbo, Lazer, either of you have experience in breaking someone?”

The two soldiers shook their heads in unison, still lost for words after having witnessed what they’d seen in storage.

Andrew nudged Rory's side again, whispering to her. “Go on then.” He tipped his head towards Walker. “You do.”

“Andy, no,” she said with a glare.

But her Lieutenant would never leave it at that. He’d seen her do it more times than she would ever care to admit. He encouraged it, carrying her preferred tools with him just in case. He was the one who had given her the name ‘Lamb’ and it had bloody stuck because he knew what really lay below the surface. 

“Sinclair does,” Lieutenant Owen spoke up.

Walker’s grin dropped, his brow furrowing as he looked over at Rory. “Little miss humanitarian over there, really?”

Rory huffed out a cynical laugh, blowing cigarette smoke up towards the ceiling. “Oh, don't worry, sir. I only save the bleeding heart act for the innocent.”

Walker looked her up and down, not really believing it. Cracking a smile, he shook his head. “Hey, I'm all for equality, sweetheart. If you really think you can do a better job than me –”

“She can, sir,” Andrew was quick to add.

“Andy,” Rory hissed.

“You're bloody good at it, don't deny it.” His icy stare froze her, looking at her as if he saw through her. One of the only ones to see behind the mask. 

She sighed, pushing a hand through her hair before hopping off the table, her boots landing with a heavy thump on the concrete below, the weight of the world and the responsibility just handed to her dragging her down.

Pulling out a set of brass knuckles and a plastic bag from his vest pocket, Andrew looked up, giving her a quick, small smile. “For you, Sergeant.” 

Rory nodded, taking them from him and stuffing them into her back pocket before taking another drag from her cigarette and moving closer to the door by Walker.

“Go on, sweetheart,” Walker leaned down towards her, chuckling. “Show that bastard exactly what girl power looks like, huh,” the sarcasm practically dripped off his words.

She scowled, swallowing heavily as her hand twitched. Her throat always got dry moments before she’d have to face down her opponent. And that’s what they were. Interrogations weren’t a battle, they were a game of chess. Digging into their heads, getting them to question their moves, convincing them to play the way she wanted them to, finding their weak spot and then attacking it directly. That’s where most people failed to be successful. Unassuming Rory Sinclair, soft on the outside, hardly a threat, but alone in a room with her was the last place any enemy wanted to be. 

Before she could walk any further, Walker grabbed her arm and his amber eyes tried to read her sneer, his voice dropping low, “You really think you can handle this?”

Her mouth drawn in a straight line twisted into a sickly grin as she bit down on her tongue to stop her from spitting venom. Her jaw clenched tight as she tilted her head away to blow out smoke. “Yes, sir.”

“I wanna know where the weapons are and who he's working with. I don't want any sappy bullshit about the cargo, you hear me?”

“Understood.”

Giving her arm a quick squeeze, he couldn’t help but keep up with the patronizing tone and smile. “I'm counting on ya, honey.”

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Custody Battle - Prologue - Happy to Serve

The sequel to "Ritual of Propagation" is now on AO3!

Or. The prologue to it. It's going to be a very long fic. Please feel free to bookmark and check in later.

The Ritual of Propagation has succeeded. Aziraphale and Crowley are ready to welcome the newest member of Their Own Side.

But the Archangels have other plans. No young angel has ever been raised outside their closely guided care, and they have no intention of changing that. How can Aziraphale and Crowley keep the newly created life entrusted to them safe from the most powerful angels in existence?

This fic is rated M (prologue is more T), and covers all the same potentially triggering topics as the previous fic, including r*pe, forced pr*gnancy, m*scarriage/child loss, emotional and psychological ab*se. Prologue contains metaphysical r*pe and pr*gnancy as well as grooming/abuse, though none graphically described.

However, this one will focus more on the after effects of abuse and trauma, as well as the politics of Heaven, rather than constant flashbacks to the r*pe itself (though there WILL be some of these). There will also be some lighter moments, some of which aren't just distractions before I stab you in the heart. Hypothetically.

Excerpt should be triggering-content free, apart from Michael being obviously manipulative and gas-light-y. Or read the full fic on AO3.

--

Michael led Aziraphale and three other Guardians down endless corridors. Colorless, identical, twisting back on themselves as if the building were some sort of maze, bringing him deeper and deeper, a trap that would be sprung before he knew he was in danger.

He tried to hide his anxiety, to walk as a proper Soldier should. Head held high, chest out, wings folded, sword at his side. Marching neatly, moving in step with the rest of the group. Constantly watching his surroundings, noting whether each door he passed was open or shut, taking stock of all potential threats—

The other Guardian shoved him and Aziraphale stumbled back. Michael didn’t react, but the rest all glared at him, silent accusations, expressions of pity and disgust for the Soldier who couldn’t even walk without drifting into the being next to him. Ducking his head with shame, Aziraphale gave up, trailing along behind the group with his usual unsteady gait.

Why was he here? Punishment, almost certainly, though he couldn’t think of any specific error that would have earned him an extended Duty away from his platoon and the front lines. The last battle had gone well for Heaven’s faithful angels and while Aziraphale had not particularly distinguished himself, he hadn’t hindered his side in any meaningful way.

It wasn’t that he was a bad Guardian. Before the War he’d always felt perfectly suited to his Duty. Granted, there hadn’t been much to do since none of his charges had been created yet, but he felt he had the appropriate attitude of joyous expectation, at least. He’d paid attention to the progress of Creation, tracking developments across the celestial, physical, and astral planes. Talked with the other angels about their Duties and domains, each with their own little view of the larger picture to come. Lent a hand where he could, or an encouraging word, or a smile. Happy to serve in whatever way he could.

He’d been competent with his sword, strong, obedient—everything a Soldier should be.

Until the fighting started and Aziraphale discovered how truly useless he was. He didn’t have it in him to harm another, even knowing that the Enemy would burn the Creation he loved to ash. He couldn’t harden himself to do what needed to be done. To be ruthless the way War required.

Still, he tried. Supported his platoon mates, followed orders. Pushed the Enemy back again and again. But his heart was never truly in it, and he’d long suspected that the others could tell.

That, then, must be what brought him here. Punishment not for a specific incident but for his innate failures, his overall lack of courage, his unwillingness to do what needed to be done.

But why here?

There were several classified projects run by the Archangels, secret weapons in the endless War. Tools that harnessed the half-completed forces of nature, throwing them back at those who would destroy them. Attacks that could manipulate the Enemy’s minds, or memories, or even a mysterious new force known as time. One team, it was said, was perfecting a method of transforming one type of angel into another. But this facility…

The group of Soldiers halted abruptly as Michael stopped and pulled open a door, identical to every other they had passed so far, and with a smile she ushered the four of them through. Inside, in front of the assembled rows of at least two dozen Guardians, a line of angels waited on a raised platform. As Aziraphale began to recognize them, his eyes went wide.

Not just Michael, but all the Archangels were here. Gabriel, Sandalphon, Uriel, Phanuel—all easily recognizable, all very active in the War. Raphael, Archangel of Healing, with xyr three assistants. Sabrael, the Archangel of Science, looking ready to welcome them each personally. Barachiel, Archangel of Storms, Orifiel, Archangel of the Wilderness, and Ramiel and Kafziel and Zadkiel—all twelve Archangels, arranged at the front of the room, each accompanied by two or three angels of lesser stature, Seraphim and Cherubim, some known to Aziraphale, many not.

As Aziraphale and the other newcomers took their place, Michael strode to the front and ascended the platform. After exchanging a few smiling words with the others, she turned back to the crowd.

“I’m sure you’re all wondering what you’re doing here. First, I assure you, this is not a punishment.” The murmur of nervous laughter through the crowd told Aziraphale that he wasn’t the only one who had been worried. “I know you’ve all probably heard rumors about what goes on here. And I know it isn’t glorious, the way fighting on the front lines is, but it is essential. The Enemy, the Dissidents, they press us back again and again, and though we fight them off, our numbers are falling rapidly. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you more than that. Every one of you has lost friends and squad mates in this War.”

Aziraphale bowed his head, remembering. His platoon had been particularly hard-hit three battles before, and the Legion had by now lost almost a third of its Soldiers. The Enemy clearly had no difficulty being ruthless.

“You have been brought here because we desperately need your service. We need reinforcements, as many Recruits as we can, as quickly as we can, to ensure our troops continue to fight, to protect our home, our world. Shortly, you will be instructed in your new Duties, and take part in one of the most sacred tasks ever granted to angels by God: the work of Propagation.”

She smiled encouragingly, though Aziraphale felt his stomach sink. “Out of all the Guardians, you are given the unique chance to not just save lives, but to create lives. Whether you produce one clutch of Recruits or a dozen, whether God blesses you with many younglings or just a few, your service here will be as valuable as your time on the battlefield.”

All at once, the room felt too crowded, too stuffy, some unknown force pushing against him from every side, some threat he couldn’t name. Aziraphale clutched at his sword, not to fight, but for the comfort it gave him, pressed against his palm. Michael’s eyes swept the room, picking him out of the crowd, and she seemed to speak directly to him:

“I applaud you for your courage in coming here, for your loyalty to Creation, for the hope that you bring. All of Heaven thanks you for your sacrifice.”

Read the rest on AO3!

[dwritesstuff]

PART 2 OF MY FEXI SMUT

She had almost made it to her childhood street. She felt the tell tale pull of the tire. Flat. The rain was cascading down. What was it about coming back to this town that made every thing that went wrong magnified? She knew if she explored that question that she already knew the answer. So, she swept the thought away.

Caution lights blinking chaotically on the side of the road and water rising, she weighed her options. She had road side assistance but they could take up to two hours to arrive. Nope, she would get it done herself. She wrestled the spare, jack and lug wrench out of her trunk.

She had just positioned the jack and had started to press the lever when a hand came out of nowhere. A hand she knew almost as well as her own. She looked at up into a pair of eyes that she would never forget as long as she lived.

“Your shoes look too nice to be out in the rain. You should get in my car until I’m done.”

She blindly walked over and sat in his passenger seat. She took five deep breathes in a row to try bring calm to her frenzied mind.

She stared at him from the window. The rain adhering his shirt to his back as he worked to change her tire. After he placed the jack and lug wrench back in her car, he walked towards her and all she could think was what she was going to say when he sat in the car. He didn’t go to the driver’s side. He opened the passenger door and waited. He wouldn’t make eye contact with her. She sprung out of the car.

“Thank you.”

She saw his jaw set and he swallowed noticeably.

“You’re welcome.”

She ran across to her car and he waited until she drove away. After she reached home, she sat in the car with her head in the steering wheel. Gulping air and willing her eyes to not let tears fall.

After spending two days with her mother, who had just made six months sober, she decided to throw away her pride. Or maybe to regain it. She would show him she was not petty and was mature enough to be his friend. Maybe he was right. She had been dating in college. And it had been fun. It would fine. It had been over two years. Just because she almost had a break down in the car meant nothing.

Flashbacks of the first time she walked through the door of the gas station shot through her brain.

His smile. His voice. The jolt to her insides when she realized he was excited to see her too. Her name never sounded so good.

Her shoes clicking on the cement floor caused him to look up from the register.

“Can I help you?” It wasn’t cold. Just flat. She didn’t realize how much she had wanted him to say her name. To step back in time to their old banter and familiarity.

Her eyes caught a sign in the counter. When did they start selling tires?

“I came to get a new tire. You know because of…”

Her voice trailed off.

“ I didn’t know if you’d come by here. We just starting selling them recent. What did Ash call it ? Diversifying. Yeah we diversifying.”

“Is Ash around ? I’d like to say hi.”

“Nah, he is at our other location.”

“Other location ?”

“Yeah. Diversifying. We got a goal of having two more rent houses and another location by next year. And then, we will be completely legal.”

The smile she had been longing to see returned and she couldn’t help but smile, too.

He coughed softly and looked away.

“Anyway, I checked your tire size the other day and pulled one from the back. I’ll go put it on.”

He turned toward the back of the store and changed his mind. He pulled a chair out the back room and motioned for her to sit.

“It’ll be about 15 minutes.”

She rehearsed over and over again in her head what she would say when he came back.

She was sorry she said those things to him and he was right. He had done what was best. Just like always.

He came back in. Hands greasy. He went to the back room and she heard the water running as he washed.

He came back out to the register and tapped a few buttons. She noticed the veins on his arm were distended. She longed to trace one with her finger.

“With labor. The total is $25.”

She blinked a few times.

“$25 for a new tire? Including labor ?”

“Yeah, um, student discount”

She stared with her mouth open slightly.

“Student discount?” She parroted him.

“Friends and family discount?”

She pulled out her credit card and handed it to him. He handed her the card back and pen to sign the receipt. She couldn’t help but notice he fumbled the pen a little.

The whole interaction knocked her previous thoughts out of her head.

“Well, thanks.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

“I’ll see you around I guess. “

She turned to walk out.

“How long you gone to be in town?”

“3 weeks. “

“You…you want to have dinner with me tonight ? There’s a new place in town. “

She changed her outfit 3 times. Finally, she decided on a simple dress that hit her in all the right places. Casual enough to say she tried but not too hard.

She has just made it to the middle of the stairs when door bell rang. Her mom opened it.

“Fezco! You look good.”

Lexi stood wide eyed.

“Thanks, Suze. That lock still working on the back door?”

“Of course it is. You did a great job fixing it.”

“Mom?”

“Hey, baby. You look so pretty. I’m going to go back and finish my show.” Suze gave Fez a side hug and returned to the living room.

Fez looked up at her as she drifted down the stairs. His face was neutral as they walked out to his car. He opened the passenger side for her. Just like always. Her butterflies calmed a little bit.

Over candle light and pasta, they caught up. Fez went into more detail about diversification. How he had gotten his GED. Lexi told him about her classes, her on campus friends, and one of the plays she had co-written for the theater department.

“I’m real proud of you, Lex, it sounds like you really blossoming.”

“You’re proud of me? I’m so proud of you. You are working so hard to do better.”

The bill showed up and he sent cash back with it before she could protest.

“You want to go back to my place? Just to chill. Unless you want to go home or something.”

“Yeah. Ok.”

He unlocked to door for her. It felt like her favorite pair of shoes. Worn in and fitting just right. Except one thing.

“You got a new couch?”

“Yeah, it was just time. It had a lot of memories. After my grandma passed, I decided to make a change.”

“I heard about that I’m sorry. I sent you a card. I don’t know if you got it.”

“Yeah, that was real sweet. You didn’t have to.”

It had been a year ago. An olive branch. She wrote from her heart and made sure he knew it was okay to call her. And she heard nothing.

They sat on the couch and for a while all you could hear is their breathing.

“When did you and my mom get so close?”

“ I saw her coming out of a AA meeting after I dropped Rue off at a NA meeting. She told me how you were doing in school. She’s real proud of you, too. And we just started talking. She mentioned she had a broke lock and I’ve always been kinda handy.”

He shrugged and stood up.

“You want some water or something ?”

"Sure."

When he returned, they both took a long swallow.

"Sounds like you've been really busy. Have you been seeing anybody at college?" He said the last part with so much speed she had to look over and make sure it was him talking.

"A few guys. Nothing serious. You know me. School first."

"Yeah. So, smart. One of my favorite things about you."

"How about you?"

"I mean. Nobody has really caught my eye in a while. People don't always have the best intentions. Not many ride or dies out there."

"I still haven't. Well, I haven't..you know. I don't know why I feel like I have to tell you."

"Oh."

His non response response flicked a switch in her brain.

"I guess I should go. I feel like I'm saying too much."

She was about to stand up to walk towards the door but she knew she had to say something. What was it about this man that made her mouth disconnect from her brain.

"Why didn't you call me after I sent you that card? I text six months after I left for school why didn't you answer then. How can you take me to dinner and invite me back to your house like we just didn't spend the last almost 3 years of our lives ignoring each other's existence? I'm tired. I'm going to let go because I have been to stubborn to realize that you did a long time ago. I've been beating a dead horse. Being the only one reaching out."

His voice came out louder and clearer than she had ever heard it.

“You said you were the only one reaching out. That I just forgot you when you went away. I read that card every night before I go to bed. You think I befriended your moms just because I'm a nice dude. She made it feel like you were close. You ever heard of the Vanuyle scholarship fund ?”

“Yeah, they funded my last semester at college and I have to turn in some paperwork for the funding for next sem-“

She squeezed her eyes closed

“Yeah. Vanuyle as in Saskia Van Uylenburgh.”

“Rembrandt’s wife” they said at the same time

“I had a gut feeling but I just didn’t want to admit it”

“ I never stopped loving you. What kinda guy I am to not help you live your dream? Just cuz I couldn’t be part of it.”

“I’ve never said you couldn’t be part of it. You decided that all on your own. Those two weeks before I left for college I cried every night. I wore your stupid, expensive green sweater to sleep for a year and a half. I finally had the strength to put it in my bottom drawer.”

“Why didn’t you throw it away?”

“Because unlike you, I can’t just throw things away that I have an attachment to.”

She bounded up from the couch and made a beeline to the door and turned the knob.

His hands stopped the door. His whole body surrounded her. His cologne consumed her senses. His breathe tickled the hairs on her neck. His arms snaked forward and pulled her towards him.

“The truth. The reason why I couldn’t go through with any other time. It wasn’t you. Not your hands on my body. Not your lips on mine. Maybe it will terrible. Maybe we will drift away again. I just want you. You’re the itch I can’t scratch.”

She turned around and they connected again. Her hands snaked up his neck. Ragged breathes as his lips found her neck and gravitated to her mouth. That familiar pressure found her again. He lifted her off the ground and held her with her legs around his waist.

“The couch, please, Fez.”

He let out a slow quiet moan, carried her over to the couch and placed her gently on the couch.

“Will you talk to me ?”

“Like talk nasty?”

She giggled.

“Yeah.”

He took her mouth in a kiss again. His hands roaming to the hem of her dress. Yanking it up over her hips.

“You wanna christen the new couch? “

He leaned down and kissed along the top of her underwear. When he reached the middle, he grabbed the fabric with his teeth and pulled it away. He caught the fabric with his finger and pulled them the rest of the way off. He pushed her legs further open and looked at her.

“It looks like you do.”

He placed a long finger inside her and thrust in and out a few times.

“It feels like you do. “

He pulled his finger out and tasted it.

“You taste like you do.”

She knew her face was bright red but she almost couldn’t bear for him to stop .

“Please. “ she whispered almost inaudibly

“Please what?”

“Don’t stop.”

He gently slid her dress over her head and swiftly pulled her bra away. He explored her body with his eyes, then his hands, and finally, with his mouth.

“You ever make yourself cum, Lexi?”

She felt heat rising all over her body. He reached over to her hardened nipples and gently massaged them.

“Yes.” She hissed out.

“Show me.”

She started the well practiced movements. Movements she had practiced during stressful days, boredom and when her fantasies of him overwhelmed her.

She locked eyes with him and pushed her hips foreword so he could watch her. Fingers hitting just the right spot in her clit.

He stood up and pulled off all his clothes. Piece by piece. Slowly. So, he could keep his eyes on her. He slid back down beside her on the couch. Fully erect. Her fingers traced the tip of his hard shaft and she felt his breathing change. She let him go and he looked at her with a question in his eyes.

"I've waited a long time for you to be inside of me. Please. I want you inside of me."

He let a grin spread over his face and wrapped her legs around his waist again.

"Let me know if I go to fast."

The tip teased her entrance. He slid in further and her gasp stopped him.

"Does it hurt?"

"A little but don't stop."

He thrust his entire length into her. He kept a gentle motion going as kissed her lips, face and neck. She crossed her ankles behind him and fought to catch his rhythm. She bit into his chest and dug her nails in his back. She trailed her hand down to his bare ass and squeezed it.

"Hey!"

"Why'd you stop talking?"

"Sorry. This pussy so wet. Its all I could think about. Why you so wet for? You trying to make me cum?"

"God, yes."

"But you didn't cum yet."

"I mean I know women don't always cum the first time and this feels so much better than i thought it would. I won't be mad."

"Nah. We not gonna do it that way. "

He changed his position slightly and began rubbing her clit while he thrust. She could feel her muscles start to ache from wanting to release.

"I feel that. You like that?"

"Mmmm." was all she could articulate.

"You going to cum for me? Cum for me. Make my dick sloppy wet."

She felt the tension release and she felt a little shaky like she hadn't eaten in days but mostly she felt good.

He pulled out suddenly and she grabbed his leg.

"Its okay. You can cum on me."

He let out an extended moan as his cum shot across her stomach.

They just stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity while their breathing returned to normal. Lexi started to giggle.

"What?"

"I just don't know how I am going to be able to talk to you normally in public without thinking of you talking dirty like that."

He scoffed.

"I'm gonna go get a towel to clean up. Then you want to shower together?"

"Yes."

[aquadestinyswriting]

The Librarian’s Lament

Summary:  A POV piece inspired by the description given by Brenan Lee Mulligan in the first five minutes of episode one of EXU: Calamity. Selene’s point of view of the arrival of Harbinger into Toreguarde with the first section being a PTD flashback. Not sure how to classify this, honestly.

Words: 542

Warnings: PTSD flashback, disassociation, depersonalisation, derealisation (not sure if they’re all relevant, but putting here just in case), trauma response.

tags: @druidx, @strosmkai-rum, @homesteadchronicles, @warriorbookworm, @asher-orion-writes, @mariahwritesstuff

Light, heat and a distant rumble that shook the very roots of the earth under her feet. People were yelling to move away, but it was muffled, as though from several rooms away. A buzzing in her ears that keened into a whine that was almost beyond the edge of hearing. Everything moved as though through water. 

The library falling into the crumbling ground. Pieces of parchment fluttering away on the breeze as the stone and wood fell impossibly slowly into the ever widening maw that yawned open in what should have been good, solid earth. 

A flash of grey, escaping to soar away to places unknown. A flash of indignant anger immediately guttering out to utter despair. Almost a century of her master's work, lost for all eternity. 

Blink

A whoosh of hot air, filled with ash, embers and smoke choked her lungs. Finally the buzzing in her ears ceased, causing the sounds around her to crash into her ears with a roar so loud, she had to clap her hands over them. A shadow, impossibly huge, loomed overhead, then was gone.

A crash and the cracking of stone and shattering of glass. A baleful red-orange light lit up the street, casting blood red shadows onto what was once gleaming white stone. 

"Hear me and despair, for doom has come to this pathetic world!" 

More ash, more smoke, enough to choke the lungs of everyone alive in this moment.  Barely able to catch her breath, she looked up.

Ancient, more ancient than can possibly be imagined. Claws digging into once perfectly shaped stone, raking huge rents. Windows all shattered. Liquid magma trailing rivers of desolation from between claws too big to comprehend. Smoke and ash falling as a waterfall from wings huge enough to encompass the world. A maw, big enough to devour cities dripped the blood of a world and breathed a hurricane of wind that would easily scour all life from its wake.

Terror. Mind screaming to move, yet limbs and eyes remain locked in place. A jostle, enough to break her frozen mind. People running, screaming, weeping. Look around at the chaos. Track gaze back to the creature that would call itself Death.

Stone cracking, crumbling, burning. Wood and fabric already in flames. Tiles shattering under weight or crashing to the ground. Parchment fluttering on breezes incomprehensible. Anger, hot and bright burning in her breast, all too quickly guttering out to despair. Too late. Too late to stop everything she'd worked so hard to build. 

"My tower!" She wailed. Not the tower. Not really. Stone and glass and wood can be rebuilt. Knowledge. Knowledge was harder to replace. She should know, she has had to do it once already. She cannot bear to start all over again.

Selene trembled as she stared up at the more than ancient Pyroclastic dragon leering down at her. The Grand Magus of Toreguarde glared back at it, steeling herself to defend the only thing she truly cared about in this moment. It did not matter if she would never survive the confrontation, so long as the last ten painful years of work did. Never again would vital knowledge be lost to the evils of the world so long as she drew breath.