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doomhands-jr · 5 months ago

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The Devil's Advocate - Chapter 7

Pairing: Delinquent!Noah Sebastian X Pastor's Daughter!Reader

Summary: Noah is a delinquent with a lot of anger at the church. You're a pastor's daughter plagued by moral perfectionism, charged with overseeing the community service he's been sentenced to complete. You've never encountered true temptation before. How will you fare up against Noah, who not only isn't bound by the same rules of purity as you, but actively scoffs at them?

Rating: 18+ Minors DNI

Warnings: Angst, religious guilt, mentions of religious trauma, mentions of masturbation. Mentions of anti-choice propaganda.

Masterlist

Banner by @flowerynerds

Authors note: Maybe grab a cup of tea for this one.

_________

Noah Davis didn’t like to think of his actions in terms of morality. He understood that right and wrong were subjective. That life didn’t exist in binaries of good vs. evil, and that things like virtue and righteousness weren’t so easily defined.

That didn’t mean there weren’t some steadfast rules he followed:

Do his best to act in a way that aligns with his internal moral compass

Reduce harm much as possible

Do what’s best for the collective, while still keeping his best interests in mind

That line of thinking has served him well over the course of his lifetime. He’d freed himself from moral obligations and had done what he truly felt was best, and in doing so, he was able to walk through life with his head held high, standing by his actions.

The idea that some of his behavior was sinful had not entered his mind since he formally left the church.

But now, as he laid in bed, recovering from the tsunami of brain chemicals that just flooded his system, he felt like a sinner .

The sin coursed through his body, sick and bittersweet. It flowed through his veins, infecting his cells and rotting his bones like a poison. Like a drug.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, clammy palm meeting clammy forehead, cock still twitching with the aftershock.

He’d expected you to put up more of a fight. He’d banked on you shutting him down, batting him away and telling him to behave himself, but you’d walked so willingly into his snare, so eager and needy, offering up yourself on a platter with almost no hesitation.

It was a vile thing that you brought out of Noah. An ugly, profane creature that lurked in the shadows of his soul. He’d been aware of its existence in his periphery. It had been a sleeping beast. One he’d hoped he’d never have to contend with.

But now? It had taken its first shuddering breath, and with it, thrown down its gauntlet. Its demand? You—not as a partner, but as a sacrifice. Sprawled out on an altar for it to consume and defile. To claim for the sake of hubris.

Noah longed to find a way to cleanse himself—confess his sins and pray the rosary. Baptize himself in holy water. Take communion and walk forth a forgiven man. Would that be enough?

War had been waged within Noah, and the odds were stacked against him. He was David, standing at the feet of Goliath. Jonah, staring down the gullet of the whale.

He squeezed his eyes shut and the image of you at the apex of pleasure flashed across his vision. You’d made that offering to him. It was sacred. He’d cherish it for the rest of his life.

_______

Noah had no holy water available to him to wash his sins away. He did have a hot shower, though, and at least that was a start.

Turning on the water, he allowed the steam to gather in clouds around his bathroom. His skin had grown sticky with sweat, and his shoulders ached. As soon as he stepped under the spray, the tension began to dissipate.

He pressed his forehead against the cool tile wall and allowed the stream to trickle down his back.

He had a duty to himself—and to you. There was no denying his affection for you, but therein lied a glaring problem: you were ready for more. You deserved more. You deserved to push past these boundaries of purity and explore who you were outside of faith, and that made you vulnerable. Because whatever sickness lived inside Noah was itching to exploit that vulnerability. Not for your benefit, but for its own.

“Help me figure this out,” he whispered against the shower wall. It was a prayer in the most ironic sense. He wasn’t sure if he even believed in what he was praying to, but without any other ideas, it felt like the right thing to do. “I don’t want to hurt her, but I’m afraid.”

He received nothing but silence in response.

He scoffed at his own actions. What did he expect? Divine understanding?

He grabbed the soap, lathering it up before scrubbing it over his disgusting, unclean body. Why did he even bother? He learned long ago that nobody was going to save him but himself. If he wanted his demons to die, he’d have to be the one to kill them.

________

On a snowy Sunday morning, Noah didn’t have a church to attend, but he did have a pair of work boots, a heavy coat, and a trail through the woods that allowed him to commune with nature.

He also had a pre-roll he stole from Nick, which he cupped against his jacket to light. It took a few tries. The wind wasn’t biting, but it was present, and it flickered the flame in his lighter. He eventually got it lit though, and he took a deep drag, holding the smoke in his lungs and waiting for it to take effect.

Exhaling slowly through his nose, he closed his eyes to focus on the high setting in. His body began to lift, a warm, cloudy, hollow feeling expanding out from his chest to his limbs, and ten minutes later, the joint was spent and Noah was intricately connected to the forest around him.

He walked on the trail, delighting in the way the frozen leaves crunched under his boots. He forgot his gloves again, so he stuffed his hands in his pockets as he walked.

You were probably in church right now. Might even be on stage leading the praise and worship music alongside Isaac, where you were safe.

No, that wasn’t true. You deserved more than the life you’d find within the church. If you stayed put, you’d eventually find yourself on the arm of some 30-something with a trust fund and a perfect attendance record at Sunday school. You’d have to hide who you were from society, pretending to fit in where you didn’t belong.

Noah dug his nails into the palms of his hands. He wanted you to have more than that, but he wasn’t the right person to give it to you. At least not in his current state.

Giving up the idea of you was painful, yes. But it also gave him time to figure out how to contend with the ugly parts of himself. If he could let go of his desire for you, then he wouldn’t have to risk that part of him taking over. He could lock it back into the cage he’s kept it in for so many years and continue on in life as if nothing had ever happened.

He’d never have to know that hunger again.

He breathed in deep, allowing the frigid air to sting his lungs and throat. It wasn’t painful enough for him. He needed to toil and sweat and suffer to repent for his sins. He picked up his pace, letting his feet fall heavy onto the ground. Within a few minutes, his heart rate sped up, lungs stretching to accommodate his increased need for oxygen. All systems firing to pump fresh blood through his body.

That helped. Maybe he could sweat the fever out. Force the toxicity to exit through carbon dioxide and leave it as an offering to the forest so it can convert it back to oxygen.

He broke out into a run, thinking back to the time he caught you running in the rain and wondering if you’d been seeking the same energetic cleanse.

You’d cried in his arms that night.

He slowed his pace, down from a run to a jog.

It was the first time he’d noticed something wrong—the first time he sensed that his control was slipping.

A stray root caught his foot and he fell hard to the ground, catching himself with his palms and knees. He stayed there for a moment to assess his body and see if any damage had occurred, and when he found none, he rolled onto his back and laid in the snow and mud, stretching his arms and legs to the side and creating a snow angel.

The snow fell lightly, catching on his eyelashes. He stuck out his tongue, allowing the tiny flakes to melt upon contact and tasting the nothingness of it all.

He closed his eyes, and he was thirteen again. A nude magazine lay open on his floor. He’d just finished masturbating for the third time that day. Sobbing, he grabbed the leather belt hanging over his desk chair and whipped himself across the back with it. Harder this time than last. Perhaps with enough pain, he would learn his lesson.

He bunched a shirt up and stuffed it into his mouth, biting down hard to muffle himself as he wept. God surely wouldn’t forgive him again after this. He would be sent to hell for being so unclean.

For months, he’d tried to break this disgusting habit, but it was to no avail. He was sick and perverted, and lacked the self-control he needed to resist temptation.

He didn’t want to go to confessional. He didn’t want to have to hear his priest’s disappointed voice telling him to say ten hail-marys.

He took a deep, shuddering breath in, noticing how the icy air stabbed at his lungs. He didn’t want to dwell too long on that memory. He could already feel his throat constricting.

It wasn’t until he befriended Ruffilo that he realized he wasn’t uniquely perverted. Ruffilo hadn’t been raised in a church. He talked about porn as if it was something exciting, rather than shameful. He’d been the first one to bring up the subject of masturbation, making casual comments and jokes about how often he got himself off.

Ruffilo’s world—a world without shame—had been a foreign concept to Noah. After being exposed to it, he realized that faith and freedom were mutually exclusive. There was no way to balance the two, so he chose freedom and never looked back.

Noah’s fingers found a frozen leaf. He caressed the edges, feeling how smooth they were and remembered brushing bits of leaves off your coat that time you’d jumped in the leaf pile. He remembered how you gasped when his frigid hands ghosted over the nape of your neck. He could have cut the tension with a knife.

He couldn’t go back to the church. There was too much pain there to revisit. He cut off that part of him a long time ago, back when believing in God meant engaging in his own self-destruction.

Being with you meant dipping his toes back in the water of religion. You and faith were a package deal. He knew that. You weren’t going to give it up any time soon, and certainly not for him.

He closed his eyes again and felt the sting of saltwater. He wasn’t going to cry. He’d done enough of that in his adolescence. But the feelings were there, and they weren’t going to let him off the hook without being felt.

It was you or self-preservation.

He inhaled deeply and forced himself back up, turning to start the long trek back to town. A conversation needed to be had.

________

There was no priest to whom he could confess his sins, but there was Folio, and late on a Sunday afternoon, he could be found stoned in his room.

“I fucked up,” he announced, standing in the doorway.

Nick was on his bed, controller in his hands and headset on. From where Noah stood, he couldn’t see the screen, but he guessed his friend was mowing down enemies in Call of Duty.

“In the middle of something,” he said. “Give me a few.”

Noah invited himself into the room and sat in Nick’s desk chair, observing the décor. Nick decorated his walls with posters of women in various states of undress. Some of them were holding fish. Others were posed on top of cars.

His fishing rod and tackle box rested in the corner next to his desk. An electric drum kit lined the far wall. Clothes were strewn about the room, along with drumsticks, food wrappers, and half-empty water bottles. A few cans of beer spilled out of the overfull trash can. On the nightstand sat an ashtray with the spent ends of several blunts stuffed in the center.

Quite the confessional booth.

“What’s up?” he said, taking his headset off and turning his attention to Noah.

“I fucked up,” Noah repeated.

Nick blinked twice, but made no other movement. “Okay,” he said. “In what way?”

“You already know.”

“The pastor’s daughter?” Nick guessed, tilting his head lower to stare at Noah through furrowed brows. “Did you fuck her?” His tone was accusatory, and deservedly so.

Noah shook his head. “Not exactly.”

Nick turned on his bed to face Noah head-on. “What did you do?”

Noah deliberated over exactly how much to tell his friend. What happened between the two of you last night was private and he didn’t want to share your business with someone else unless you said it was okay, but he needed to get some things off his chest.

“So,” he began, taking a deep breath and shaking his head. “I think I need to stay away from her for a while. I’ve got some stuff to sort out and until I do, I might hurt her.”

Nick gave himself time to fully process what Noah had just said. He inhaled deeply through his nose, letting his eyes drift away from Noah and relaxing his focus as he mulled it over.

“You really care about her?” he asked.

Noah nodded.

“Want me to stay away from her, too?” It was an honest question, and Noah was suddenly struck with how much his friends cared about him.

Noah squeezed and relaxed his hands a few times to increase circulation in his fingers. They were still cold from his walk.

“No, actually. If anything, I think you’d be a really good influence for her. She could use someone like you.”

Nick’s eyebrows pulled up in the center. He tilted his head to the side. “Why do you say that?”

“She needs to have more fun,” he said. “She’s been repressed for a really long time and I think she’s ready to break out of that and live life.”

Nick’s eyes went wide and he pointed to his chest. “And you want me to be the one to help with that?”

Noah didn’t want Nick to do that. The last thing he wanted was to see you enjoying yourself without him, but if it was between that and you staying miserable under the church’s influence, he at least wanted you to be happy.

“I think you’d be good for her,” he said, working hard to make sure he didn’t sound bitter at all.

“What if I fuck her?” he asked, his momentary sincerity seemingly over.

Noah’s face dropped. “Don’t fuck her.”

“But what if I do?”

Noah clenched his jaw, grinding his molars together as he steadied himself. He knew Nick didn’t mean anything by it. He was just being himself and trying to rile Noah up, but Noah wasn’t about to give in.

“Then make sure you’re on the same page with her about what it means. Don’t lead her on.”

Nick chewed on his tongue. “Where is all this coming from?” He asked. “Why do you think you’ll hurt her?”

“I guess,” Noah said, picking at a bit of dead skin on his lip, “It’s sort of just a gut feeling? I don’t know how to describe it, but there’s something in there that tells me I gotta sort myself out before I get involved with anyone.”

Nick blinked up at his friend, softening. “I didn’t realize you were so serious about her.”

“I don’t know what I feel,” said Noah. “I just need some time to figure that out.”

“You okay?” he asked, hand coming up to scratch an itch at the back of his neck.

Noah nodded. “I will be,” he said. It was true, he would be okay eventually. He was sure of that. He’d survived worse than this. He just needed to figure out what the best course of action would be.

Nick’s eyes flicked back to the paused game on the screen. “So you’re saying it’s cool if I fuck her then?” he said.

Nick could be a real asshole at times. He was abrasive by nature. Many found his personality overwhelming, but the ones who stuck around knew that he was an antagonist, not to be mean, but to challenge people—coax them out of their comfort zones and force them to confront their triggers. He wasn’t always right, and he often stuck his own foot in his mouth, but when he was right, he was so right, it made up for all the other times.

This time, however, he used his skill to diffuse the tension.

“Man, fuck you,” said Noah, slapping the ash tray off the end table. It tipped over sideways and spilled its contents onto Nick’s bed, coating his sheets with ash and spent roaches.

“Bro!” Nick shouted, but Noah was already out of the room, hissing to himself with laughter, and Nick was too couch locked to chase him.

________

“Noah said to tell you he’s sorry. He got called in for overtime again,” Nick said as he walked into the community center seven minutes late.

Your heart sank. Not just because you wouldn’t get to see Noah, but because he could have easily texted this information to you himself.

It was as you’d suspected. Noah was avoiding you.

Over the course of the week, you’d grown more and more stressed. Sunday was fine. You’d woken up feeling well rested, having dreamt of Noah throughout the night. At church, you couldn’t focus on any of the sermon because you were too consumed reliving the previous night.

Monday came and went with no word from Noah. You thought for sure he would have texted you to say hi or check up on you. Some sort of acknowledgement that the dynamic between the two of you had shifted. But you’d also heard it was customary to wait three days.

So you waited.

By Wednesday, your patience had grown thin. You’d given him the benefit of the doubt, wondering if maybe he was nervous and waiting for you to reach out, so you had, sending him a casual hey .

He never responded. You’d been checking your phone religiously over the course of the week, but it had been radio silence on his end.

“Okay. Thanks for letting me know.” You kept a straight face and a steady voice while you spoke, but it took effort. “We’re supposed to be shoveling snow today but since there’s only us, I’m going to veto that.”

Nick sighed in relief. “Thank god . I wasn’t built for the cold.”

“Get inside,” you nodded towards the doors. “We’ll start with windows.”

He offered up a salute and bounded through the doors, eager to escape the cold.

As Nick got to work, you processed this information.

Noah’s silence was deafening.

Was this your punishment? Was God unhappy with your behavior and was this his way of letting you know?

An element to this was fitting. This was the cost, you realized. This was the price you paid for giving into temptation.

A bitter laugh escaped under your breath.

Was the church right about everything? Was there a reason you shouldn’t fall into temptation?

Maybe Hell did exist—and it wasn’t a lake of fire, but the absence of Heaven after you’d already tasted it.

Even after everything, you probably would still have done it all over again if you had the opportunity. He’d introduced you to a part of yourself that had been dormant for a long time and for that, you were grateful.

But the price was steep.

Your biggest regret was that you hadn’t even gotten to touch him before it was all over. You felt so stupid. Why couldn’t you have held out a little longer? Resisted temptation until you had him fully within your grasp?

But then again, perhaps the loss of him would be even more painful, wouldn’t it?

You sighed and stretched your arms up, resting your forearms on your head as you observed Nick spraying down the windows with cleaner.

You could get through this. It would be hard, but it was within your grasp. People have survived much worse. In the grand scheme of things, this heartache was minor. It would hurt for a while, but eventually you’d recover and life would go on.

It was just a matter of getting to the other side.

You wanted to remember this pain. Savor the full impact and hopefully this would be the only time you needed to learn this lesson. You’d grow, heal, and move on a better and stronger version of yourself.

Eventually.

Right now, you needed to focus on the task at hand: overseeing community service without getting yourself into any more trouble. And that’s what you were going to do. ________

That did prove to be a tougher job than you anticipated. Nick was charismatic as ever and kept trying to get your attention.

You’d throw him a bone every once in a while, if only because it genuinely did lift your spirits to be around him. He was a much safer presence.

“How many weeks do I have left?”

You were strewn across the back pew, doing your best not to wallow, but failing pretty spectacularly, when Nick’s voice broke you out of your ruminations.

“I’m not sure,” you said, sitting up and looking at him. He leaned casually against the back of the pew, rag thrown over his shoulder. His fingers tapped a rhythm on the wood. “I have it written down somewhere. I’d have to look.”

“Can you let me know next week?” he asked, bouncing on his heels. You could see what attracted Ava to him so much.

“Yeah.”

“Or actually, maybe this Friday. Isn’t that when your Christmas thing is?”

You blinked stupidly up at him. You’d forgotten all about the upcoming showcase.

“Oh, yeah. It is. I didn’t realize you knew about it.”

“Yeah,” he said, and then shifted on his feet as if he was trying to figure out a way to avoid saying that Noah told him about it. Which would mean that Nick was also aware of the awkwardness between the two of you.

“Were you thinking of going?” you asked. “You don’t have to.”

“I thought it might be fun to see you sing,” he said, voice soft and lips smiling.

You were momentarily taken aback. You didn’t think Nick cared about anything you were doing. The thought that he might be interested in your life outside of community service was one that hadn’t crossed your mind.

“Really?” you asked.

He looked side to side and nodded, as if it should have been obvious to you.

“Nick, that would mean so much. I would love for you to come.”

“Good,” he said, a self-satisfied smile back on his face. “But try not to suck or I won’t be donating anything.”

You snorted loudly. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Anytime.”

The conversation died down, and you could feel the elephant in the room rearing its head.

You could ask how Noah was doing. It wouldn’t be too out-of-character. But you’d give yourself away easily if you did.

Besides, nothing good would come of it. If Noah wanted to contact you, he would. If he didn’t, then he was just someone you needed to get over.

Nick lingered, just as hesitant to leave the conversation.

“You doin’ okay?” he asked.

You sighed, leaning into the back of the pew. “Yeah,” you said. “I’m fine.”

“Wanna talk about it?” he asked.

You rolled your head across the pew to look over at him. His face held a neutral expression, but there was softness in his eyes.

“Maybe some other time,” you said. “Thank you, though.”

“No problem,” he said. “I’m here if you need me.” He punctuated it with a squeeze to your shoulder and your hand came up to clasp over his on its own accord. He was warm, and truth be told, you really needed the gesture.

Perhaps you’d be okay.

_______

“And there were no signs prior to this?”

“No,” you said, collapsing on Ava’s bed while she worked on her Contemporary Art project from her desk. It looked like a big lump of Styrofoam. She held a strip of sandpaper, rubbing it back and forth over a corner and causing little pieces to flake off and litter the desk and floor beneath her.

“And neither of you talked beforehand about what it would mean?”

“No,” you grumbled, recognizing your first mistake. You absolutely should have talked about what it meant for the both of you before doing anything, and you can’t understand why you’d been so foolish to skip over that. “It just sort of…happened?”

Ava fixed you with an imploring stare.

“Babe, I’m really sorry that you got hurt, but. I don’t know,” she began. “Aren’t you always the one preaching about that kind of thing? It seems like you could have used a little bit of your own advice, don’t you think?”

You turned over and let out a loud groan into Ava’s pillow.

“Not helping.”

“I know, I know. That was probably insensitive. I just,” she trailed off, turning back to her project. “Maybe this was a lesson you needed to learn? Not to look down on others for the things they struggle with. And maybe also to recognize that we’re all human. We’re all sinners. Even you?”

You pouted. “You really think I needed to learn that?”

“You’ve been known to judge in the past.”

“I’ve been better about that!” you said, throwing your hands up in the air.

“I know,” she said. “I know you have.” She pouted back at you. “Maybe I’m not the best person for this kind of talk.”

You sighed, crossing your arms over your stomach. “No, you’re fine. I think I’m just feeling sorry for myself is all.”

Ava got up from her desk, brushing as many Styrofoam flakes from her clothes as she could, and crawled into her bed with you, wrapping her arms around your shoulders. You melded into her touch. “You’re allowed to feel hurt. He did send you mixed signals.”

“What about you and Nick?” you asked. She chewed on her lip for a moment.

“Nick and I…we talked about it beforehand. We knew it was just for that night going into it.” She rested her chin on your shoulder.

“You didn’t want to pursue anything more?”

Ava shrugged beside you. “Neither of us is looking for anything.”

You leaned your head on her shoulder. It would have been nice had you had the same disposition going into the encounter with Noah. You could have just enjoyed it for what it was and then went your separate ways without any complicated feelings. You admired Ava’s ability to do that.

“You’re right,” you said. “We should have talked about it beforehand. Made sure we were on the same page.”

You turned to bury your face in her shoulder, squeezing your eyes shut to keep any tears from escaping.

“It doesn’t always work out that way,” she said. “Don’t judge yourself for your mistakes.”

She stroked your back as you failed to prevent your eyes from leaking. “Is it okay if I cry on you?” you asked, voice muffled by her shirt, a stray piece of Styrofoam finding its way into your mouth.

“Babe, of course. I’m here for you.”

You nodded into her shoulder, allowing the first of many sobs to fall. She continued to stroke your back, soothing you as you wept.

It hurt. You’d trusted Noah to care for you. You never would have believed him to be the type to get what he wants and then not call.

Plus, he still had five weeks of community service (you’d checked), and there wasn’t any way he could get out of that.

“How am I supposed to face him on Saturday?” you whined.

“Hmmm,” she said. “Is Folio talking to you?”

“Yeah,” you sniffed. “He’s actually been really nice.”

“What if you just talk to him? Use him as a distraction so you don’t have to talk to Noah. Who knows? Maybe having fun with him would help you move on.”

You pulled away to look at her.

“You mean like…?” you trailed off.

She laughed. “I’m not saying have sex with the guy,” she said. “I doubt he’d do that since Noah’s like, his best friend. But he’s a good guy and he’s fun to be around. And you could use that kind of energy in your life.”

You sniffled again and let your head drop back down to rest on her, spitting out another fleck of Styrofoam. It truly was everywhere.

You doubted that hanging out with Nick would help you get over Noah. If anything, it would just remind you of him. But you did need more friends in your life, and he was someone you could see yourself getting along with.

Perhaps focusing on your friendships would help. You squeezed Ava’s middle.

“I love you,” you said. “Please be my friend forever.”

She breathed softly, squeezing you back. “If you play your cards right.”

______

Friday’s showcase had a much larger turnout than expected. People lined the pews and even stood in the back after all the available seats had been filled. You peeked through one of the side doors that entered onto the stage and saw Nick sitting in a middle row. Ava sat a few rows in front of him. She caught your eye and gave you a big thumbs-up for good luck.

Your eyes scanned over the crowd, searching for a tall, tattooed figure and coming up short.

He said he was going to come. He was the one who had pressed you for the information in the first place.

You looked down at your phone screen. 6:53. He still had seven minutes to make it.

You exhaled a deep breath and shook your hands out, trying to calm your nerves.

“Want to pray?” came Isaac’s deep voice to your right. You looked over to find him standing quite close to you. His usual v-neck and beanie had been swapped out for a white button-down and black tie, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair was tied neatly in a bun atop his head.

“Sure,” you breathed, figuring you could use some prayer.

He grasped your hands in his. His were warm. Steady. They helped to soothe your nerves.

“God,” he began, “please watch over us and guide us as we work to spread the good news of Jesus’s birth. Let us not falter. Allow our voices to ring true and fall on ears willing to hear. In your name. Amen.”

“Amen,” you repeated, working hard not to roll your eyes.

It wasn’t that you didn’t appreciate the prayer. It was just that Isaac talked as if he were living a hundred years ago, trying his best to sound profound, and you weren’t entirely convinced it was solely for God’s listening pleasure. He was a performer, after all.

He squeezed your hands, smiling. “Almost time. Are you nervous?” he asked.

“A little bit,” you said, noticing the discomfort in your gut.

“Don’t be. You’ve got this. It’s just the one solo and then you’re in the choir for the rest of it.” His thumbs rubbed over the backs of your hands, and you were about to pull your hands away from him, but it actually was quite soothing. He seemed like he genuinely cared about you. And he smelled nice. Some sort of expensive-smelling cologne that was the complete opposite of whatever spiced oil Noah wore, but in a really good, clean way.

“You look great, by the way,” he added, taking a step back and giving you a once-over. “I like the dress.”

The dress in question was a high-necked A-line in a bright shade of red to match the holiday theme (Christmas theme, your father would correct you, because apparently no other holidays existed to him).

You wore a dark green cardigan overtop, along with a gold necklace and black heels. Your lips were painted to match the dress. It was the most dressed-up you’d been since last Christmas. When you chose the outfit, you were still under the impression that a certain tattooed someone would see it.

“Thanks,” you said.

You could tell by the way Isaac lingered that he wanted to continue the conversation, but you didn’t feel much like talking. Needing an exit, you excused yourself to go get a drink of water.

Weaving through other soloists and members of the church choir, you made your way down one of the two hallways that flanked either side of the main sanctuary. You rounded the corner, where one of the members of your church’s worship band—Darian—was passing out programs for the event.

“Hey! You ready for your solo?” he asked when he saw you.

You smiled, breathing out a nervous laugh. “Yeah,” you said, scanning the stragglers still arriving for any sign of Noah.

“I’d be nervous if I was on first,” he said. You took your eyes off the latecomers and looked to find him smiling encouragingly at you.

“Yeah,” you said, shifting your weight awkwardly. “Isaac insisted for some reason that I open.”

Your stomach sank even more. You couldn’t see Noah anywhere.

“He mentioned it was because your song would set the tone for the evening,” said Darian, but you were only half-listening. “Do you want one of these?”

You looked back at him. “What?”

He held out a program for you to take. “In case you wanted to keep it. For posterity, or scrapbooking or whatever.”

“Yeah, sure,” you said, grabbing it without really thinking.

Your emotional bandwidth had been all but used up, chest tight and head foggy. You felt bad that you weren’t really engaging in conversation, or even paying attention to it for that matter, but hoped Darian would forgive you.

Sensing that you weren’t in the headspace to talk, Darian wished you luck and went back to handing out programs. You thanked him and continued walking across the foyer and down the opposite hallway with no real destination in mind. You were to go on in less than a minute.

You shook your head, trying to get out of it and into your body. You needed to connect with your voice in order to perform, but you couldn’t seem to steady your breathing.

The sanctuary was laid out in a rectangle, with the foyer lining the back, hallways with classrooms running the length of either side, and then a room behind the main stage, so from where you stood at the end of the hall, you could see through the windows of the doors to the stage that the lights had dimmed.

Isaac walked out to the center of the stage from the hallway opposite you. A spotlight appeared on him, and with an abundance of charismatic charm, he thanked the audience that had gathered, before leading them in yet another prayer to bless the evening’s performance and to let God’s will be done.

Throughout the entirety of his introduction, you’d zoned in and out. Your nerves ate at you, consuming your focus and leaving you feeling detached from your surroundings.

You’d performed this song a dozen times at least, and in front of much of the same audience, too. You performed every week in front of the congregation on Sundays. Perhaps you’d struggled with stage fright at one point in your life, a decade ago when you were still fairly new to performing, but these days you were at-home in front of a microphone.

And yet.

Your knees shook. A cold sweat had broken out on the back of your neck, and your stomach clenched and released several times in quick succession.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, please enjoy O Holy Night, performed by my dear personal friend, and co-leader of our praise and worship team,” Isaac began.

You heard your name being called, snapping you out of the haze.

The audience applauded. Isaac gestured to the doorway opposite you, where he assumed you would be entering from.

Taking a deep breath, you opened the door and walked to the center of the stage. Isaac turned when he heard the doors open, looking caught off-guard for a moment, but he recovered quickly, gesturing to you and clapping to signal to the audience that they should keep their applause going.

He slowly backed away and gave you a double thumbs-up before exiting the stage.

Recognizing you were still holding the program Darian had handed you, you clasped your hands behind your back and stepped up to the microphone.

The soft piano intro played out over the loud speakers. You closed your eyes and inhaled deeply.

O holy night,

The stars are brightly shining,

It is the night of our dear savior’s birth.

The first note came out shaky. You’d pushed too hard with your diaphragm, allowing more air than was needed to pass through your vocal folds. You closed your eyes and focused on breath control, feeling the spotlight heat your skin.

Long lay the world

In sin and error pining

‘till He appeared and the soul felt its worth.

Back in the late 1843, a church in the south of France had its organ renovated. After the renovations were complete, the church reached out to a French poet by the name of Placide Cappeau, asking him to write a poem that could be used as a hymn. In response, Cappeau penned the first iteration of O Holy Night.

Placide Cappeau was a known atheist.

A thrill of hope. The weary world rejoices

When the Catholic Church got wind of an atheist creating a Christmas carol, they did their best to bury the song. They claimed it lacked musical flavor. At the time, the idea of all men and women owning souls was highly radical.

For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.

O Holy Night has since become one of the most popular Christmas carols known to western society, thanks in part to John Sullivan Dwight translating it to English in 1855.

You knew this, because you’d written a history of the carol for an end-of-semester project back when you went to high school at Calvary Baptist.

Fall on your knees. O hear the angel voices,

At the time, you’d wondered how an atheist—someone who, in your mind, stood against everything you stood for, could write such a beautiful song that touched the hearts of you and so many others.

O night, divine. O night, when Christ was born.

How could someone with no connection to God write something that so clearly captures the essence of the Holy Spirit?

You chanced a look out at the crowd, once more searching for the familiar face you so wanted to see. The atheist who understood more about Christ’s love than so many in the church ever would, and found no sign of him.

You squeezed your eyes shut, preparing for the high note that signaled the climax of the song.

O night, O holy night.

Your voice rang out, loud and with a pleasing vibrato you’d finally learned to control three years ago. You paused for effect. The music cut out, and you sang the last line.

O night divine!

It was over. You’d done it. The piano melody came back in for the closing notes, and you curtseyed elegantly as the crowd applauded.

You exited through the same doors you entered, heading straight for the restroom so you could take a moment to yourself before you had to be back on stage in the choir for O Come All Ye Faithful.

Placing your program on the sink counter, you ran your hands under cool water, intending to splash some on your face when a small blurb on the bottom of the pamphlet caught your eye.

Collection plates will be passed around. Please help us save countless unborn lives by making a donation.

Unborn lives.

Isaac was donating the proceeds to a pro-life organization.

You’d been unknowingly roped in to an anti-choice fundraiser.

A wave of anger erupted from deep within you, washing over your entire body and pulsating through it.

You snatched the program from the counter, storming out the bathroom, across the foyer, and to the adjacent hallway Isaac stood at the end of.

“What the Hell, Isaac!?” you near-shouted, bounding toward him.

Isaac’s eyes widened upon your approach. He took several steps back, running into two of the other choir members, but it wasn’t enough. You slammed the program into his sternum.

“Whoa!” he said, grasping the program you’d thrust at him with one hand and holding the other out to keep you from coming any closer. “Where’s the fire?”

“What is this?!” you said, stabbing the program on his chest with your finger where the blurb appeared.

He looked at you bewildered, then down to where your index finger pushed into his chest, and then back to you like you were a mad woman. “We said we wanted to give the proceeds to charity.”

“Yeah,” you said, ripping the program out of his hand and throwing it down at his feet. “Like a soup kitchen or a toy drive. Not to Life Alliance!”

Isaac’s eyebrows pulled together in blatant confusion. “What’s better than saving innocent lives?” he said.

“Oh my God,” you scoffed, not caring whether or not it counted as taking the Lord’s name in vain.

Suddenly all the air in the room felt like it had been vacuumed out and you found yourself struggling to breathe.

Taking a step backwards, it dawned on you that this was your limit. The church had compressed you your entire life, and you’d finally reached your breaking point. “I can’t participate in this.” You said it not to Isaac, but to yourself. “I have to go.”

“Hey! Hold on,” Isaac said. “You can’t leave. You’re our first soprano. We need you for the high G.”

You shook your head, turning on your heel. You wouldn’t have been able to hit that note even if you wanted to with how your throat was constricting.

“We can talk about this. Maybe we can do more than one charity,” he said, but you were already halfway down the hall, tears threatening to spill over.

The heels you wore made it hard to run down the icy sidewalk, but run you did. Down the sidewalk, down the street. You didn’t stop running until you’d put several blocks between you and the church.

You’d once thought of it as a sacred place—a home away from home.

Now, the only time you felt at home in it was on Saturday mornings, sharing the space with two delinquents who didn’t even believe in God.

Nowhere felt sacred anymore.

Nowhere except the shed in the backyard of Jolly’s house. But you were cut off from that now, too.

Where did you belong now? __________ How are we all feeling after that? Also, if anyone has any artistic skills and would like to help me make a moldboard or a banner or something for this story, I would be forever grateful!

Taglist: @dem11, @starcrossedwasteland @alm0std3add @reyadawn @karenfranco, @glam-cherry-bomb @simpingforniragi, @koalakoala8, @themorticians-world, @sleepytoken99, @xmagdalenaxbrenaxorestes, @dark-mist666, @fuck-me-muke, @xmads-omensx, @just-randomm-stuff @spookychaosstranger, @gravitysembrace, @somebodyels3, @sundamariis, @noahsebastions, @cyber-tiny @livingdeceasedgirl @xxkittenkissesxx @treacheryinblue @flowerynerds @1toreyouapart @badomensls @rain-down-on-me @ilovemewwwww75 @poisongirl616 Click here to join the taglist!

#noah sebastian x reader #bad omens fanfiction #noah sebastian fic #noah sebastian smut #noah sebastian #bad omens #the devil's advocate #bad omens x reader #bad omens smut #bad omens fic

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ivystoryweaver · 11 months ago

Text

Fairytale of New York

Summary: A tired, pathetic puppy wanders into your diner on Christmas Eve. Things...escalate.

Pairing: Llewyn Davis from Inside Llewyn Davis x f!reader who wants what she wants

Word Count: 2.2k

Content: nsfw, mdni, language, mentions of past mistreatment, talk of contraception, gun but no violence, oral -f and m rec., not beta'd

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Bone-weary.

Your grandmother used to say it.

The man in front of you looked deep-in-his-bones, forlornly, kicked-puppy exhausted.

Which was a feat in and of itself, seeing how you were surrounded this evening by hungry, homeless people, and he was definitely the most handsome one by far.

Chocolate curls tumbled effortlessly across his forehead. His dark beard was kempt - not the fuzzy, matted mess of the men around him.

At first glance, you wondered if he was here to order a regular meal or volunteer. He almost looked put-together enough.

But he sighed - a bone-weary, defeated, groaning sigh.

"Cold night," you commented, noticing how he struggled to create even the tiniest spark of warmth from his corduroy blazer and wool scarf. He seemed to try and make himself smaller, as if willing the too-thin layers of fabric to truly envelop him.

"No shit," he fired back, clenching his fingerless glove around the handle of his guitar case. Noticing your look of slight amusement, he sighed, tiredly. "Sorry. Long night. Wondering if I could get some coffee?"

"Sure thing," you nodded past him to an empty two-top, offering him a warm smile.

Your boss Sal was a hard ass with a heart of gold. On Christmas Eve, anyone could eat free from ten to midnight at this fine dining establishment where you earned your measly paycheck.

You were living the dream - serving diner tables. But Sal was good to you and the other guys and gals you called coworkers - granting holiday bonuses and sometimes, you could swear he beefed up your tips at the end of the night. Just a couple dollars here or there, but it helped.

You returned to the pathetic puppy of a man with a fresh, hot cup of coffee. "Want something to eat? Everything's on the house tonight."

One eyebrow shot up curiously. "Free? You're serious."

"It's Christmas Eve," you said mysteriously, wiggling your fingers as if casting a spell. "Sal's got a soft spot for people who need a hot meal and got nowhere to go."

Kicked Puppy nodded, his eyes momentarily flickering up and down your body.

"So, what'll it be, handsome? You want something to warm you up besides that coffee? Or do you have a pressing holiday engagement?"

Narrowing his tired, dark eyes, he looked like he was trying to come up with a clever reply, but ultimately let out a defeated, bitter-ish chuckle. "Got friends, but...every one of them's pissed at me. On my own tonight."

He shrugged helplessly. "I guess I'm kind of an asshole sometimes."

Wagging your finger, you went along with him, playfully. "I could tell that about you, right when you walked in. I took one look and thought, 'that guy is definitely an asshole. Probably shouldn't serve him.'"

He almost chuckled, but it was a weak laugh at best.

"Bowl of chili sound good? Or...I have chicken noodle, or a hamburger. Not much left in the kitchen," you offered.

A few minutes later, Mr. Handsome Kicked Puppy sipped his bowl of chili while you finished up with your other customers. A few of the homeless guys liked to flirt with you, but they were pretty harmless.

Everyone knew not to cross Sal and his employees anyway.

You noticed Kicked Puppy's gaze fixed on you, so you made your way back over and checked to see if he needed a refill.

"I'm good," he waved you off, but something made you linger. Probably the fact that he was kind of beautiful.

"You a singer?" You prodded, nodding to his guitar case.

He made a face - seemed to be a sore spot for him, but concurred. "Sang across the street tonight. You ever been?"

Peering out the window, you read the club's neon sign. "No, but I always wanted to. What kind of music?"

"The only kind," he shrugged.

You motioned to the spot across from him. "Mind if I sit a minute? Feet are killing me. Promise I won't ask you to sing."

He leaned back, folding his arms over his chest, eyeing you curiously. "Oh, you won't?"

"'Course not," you smiled, waving your hand dismissively. "Everyone knows musicians hate that. It's like...your living. You can't just sing for free."

His eyebrows shot up as he leaned in. "You're mocking me..."

"No," you laughed. "I'm serious. It would be like someone asking me to serve drinks at a party without paying me." You motioned around you. "Not much of a career but I should still get paid for it."

"Thank you." He gestured animatedly. "My...friends - some of the people who usually let me crash - always try to parade me out at dinner parties, like an attraction. Fucking annoying."

He paused for a moment. "Almost feel like I owe them sometimes, you know... Can't do it, though."

"You have your pride," you sympathetically reasoned. "That's fair enough."

You stood, reaching to collect his dirty dishes. "So, who's couch is it tonight if everyone's pissed at you?"

Running a gloved hand over his beard, he shook his head and shrugged. "What time do you close?"

"Midnight."

He slowly nodded.

"What's your name, singer?"

"Llewyn."

You smiled softly and introduced yourself. "You don't have anywhere to go after midnight, do you?"

He shook his head as his gaze dropped.

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12:24 A.M. - Christmas

"Can't believe you're letting a strange man sleep in your apartment," the handsome bone-weary puppy voiced as you turned the key in your deadbolt.

"You're not a stranger anymore, Llewyn," you replied, trying to find just the right way to wiggle your key... "Got it! Damn thing sticks all the time."

Shouldering your way inside, you tossed your bag on the tiniest kitchen bar in existence, motioning for him to come on in.

"Like I told you - it's not much. You might be warmer sleeping in a car, but the love seat will keep you off this frigid, hard floor. And the water's warm, since we're over the diner. Sal's my landlord too. He keeps everything running nice enough. Cheap ass on heat though."

"No, I really appreciate it," he gratefully returned, “especially on Christmas. You sure I'm not interrupting anything?"

"No..." You let out a wistful sigh. "No, I don't have anyone." You smirked at him playfully. "But I do own a revolver if you're having any weird ideas."

"Holy shit," he whistled. "Glad you take care of yourself, I guess."

Llewyn reveled in your attention and care over the next half hour. You made a batch of hot cocoa while he took the warmest shower he'd had in weeks. You turned on a Christmas record and found a couple of thick blankets for him to sleep (or attempt to sleep) cramped up on the love seat.

"Thank you for this," he quietly voiced, sipping his cocoa, his eyes drooping with exhaustion. "Don't deserve it. If you knew me, you'd push me right back out that door."

"Maybe," you shrugged, sipping your own warm beverage as you curled up in the only chair in the place. "But it's Christmas. Even assholes and loners need a break sometimes."

He regarded you with interest, his eyes raking over your form for the millionth time. "That what you are? A loner?"

You hid behind the ceramic of your mug for a moment of reprieve. "Have to be. What else is there for a woman who doesn't want a marriage and kids?"

You shuddered, remembering how many times your ex had sabotaged your efforts at contraception...and how violent he'd become when he found out you were actively trying to not get pregnant.

Hence the waitress job, freezing apartment...and the revolver.

"You don't want kids?" He asked, clearing his throat. Maybe you were somehow...perfect.

"I really don't. You’d think women would have a few more options now that it’s the ‘60s. So I got my revolver to make sure my ex stays away. He’s a bigger asshole than the two of us," you answered, transparently. Noticing how his dark eyes widened at your candor, you laughed.

"Scared yet?"

"No," he chuckled. "But I guess that answers the question of whether or not we're gonna fuck."

Smirking, you took one more sip of cocoa before pushing off your chair to kneel down in front of him. Your eyes met his challengingly as you spread your palms over his thighs, pushing them up to his hips.

"That why you're an asshole?" You challenged, reaching for the zipper of his trousers. "Can't be bothered to wear a condom?"

"Can't afford that shit," he fired back, enjoying the view down your t-shirt.

"Definitely an asshole," you shake your head, dragging his zipper down and tracing your fingertips over the outline of his hardening length.

"My pussy's off limits unless you want my revolver shoved up your ass," you inform, leaning over to suck on his leaking tip through the fabric of his underwear. "But fuck it. It's Christmas. You can come in my mouth."

"Fucking hell," he groaned at your forwardness, shifting his hips to give you easier access to pull his cock free.

"Oh shit, you're big," you marveled, running the tip of your tongue over your lips in anticipation. Wrapping your hands around him, you turned your eyes up to his. "Merry Christmas. Don't say I never gave you anything."

You licked a stripe up the underside of his shaft before placing him on your flat tongue. Your eyes flickered back up to his tauntingly as you slowly wrapped your lips around him and swirled your tongue.

"Jes....oh fuck," he moaned, gripping the arm of the tiny couch.

Bobbing your head up and down a few times, you pushed yourself past the point of comfort and swallowed his tip. Your mouth stretched to take him, and the challenge of it made you instantly wet.

“Holy f-fuck,” he responded eagerly, “just like that.” You let him fuck your mouth, free hand gripping your jaw as his hips found a rhythm thrusting and gagging you.

Something about how pathetic this man was - how eager and responsive to your touch - it was doing it for you. You hadn’t done anything this spontaneous in a long time, but it felt good. And you certainly didn’t mind a heavy, hot cock in your mouth.

A few heavy thrusts and gags later and he coated your throat with his spend, letting out a near embarrassing whine as he came.

You let him soften before pulling off him and licking your lips clean. “Bet you’ll sleep well now.” You winked.

“Holy shit,” he gasped, shaking his head as you stood and started to shed your clothes. Remembering you were pretty clear about not fucking without a condom, he slowly stood, stuffing his soft cock back into his pants. “What are you…”

“I have a twin bed, but you’ll fit better than on that thing.” You nodded to the love seat, now standing in front of him completely nude. “But to sleep with me, you’re gonna need to return the favor. I’m fucking soaked.”

Minutes later, this rather beautiful, bearded man knelt between your legs in bed, his prominent nose nudging tauntingly at your puffy clit. His plush mouth sampled your pussy lips, as if he was making out with your cunt.

“F-fuck yes,” you groaned as he fucked his tongue into your hole, sucking and slurping at your juices.

Your hands slid into the softest curls, twisting them around your fingers as you rocked your pelvis up to meet his soft beard.

The he started humming. And not just a humming sound but a fucking tune. After several delicious, deep thrusts of his tongue, he pulled out, making you whine at the loss of stimulation.

His hum gently morphed into a few lyrics as his eyes gazed up at you, equal parts cocky and pussy drunk - your slick coating his beard and lips.

‘Hang me, oh hang me…I’ll be dead and gone…’

He slid two fingers into your slick, warm hole, curling them with the dexterity of an instrumentalist. Then lowered his smirking mouth back down to trace circles around your clit with his tongue. Kept right on humming.

Laying his tongue flat, he laved your sensitive bundle of nerves with a few rough licks before wrapping those sexy lips around it and sucking.

He added a third finger - you were plenty wet enough for it and the slight stretch made your back arch off your twin bed. Fingers curling, lips sucking, and that insistent hum sent you right over the edge into earth-shattering bliss. Your body seized in mind-altering pleasure and then went completely white as you rode out the best orgasm you’d had in years.

He worked you through it before blatantly licking you clean and climbing his way up your body to cage you in. The look on his face told you he was definitely satisfied with himself, but the hot flesh of his cock prodding at your thigh meant he didn’t want this to be over.

"Is that my revolver or are you ready for more?" You teased, reaching to wrap you fingers around his cock. "Don't think I have any condoms big enough for all this."

He groaned, hips shifting into your grip. "Maybe we could just - "

"I'll will shoot you. Go the fuck to sleep, Llewyn."

And that's how an exhausted, pathetic puppy of a man, with soulful brown eyes, and the voice of an angel, ended up in your twin bed on Christmas Eve.

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#1000 followers #oscar isaac fic #holiday fic #holiday celebration #oscar isaac characters #celebration #1000 follower celebration #christmas fic #llewyn davis #llewyn davis x reader #inside llewyn davis

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meeks-just-wants-to-scroll · 3 months ago

Text

Lucie / Cooper Davies Info Dump! 🎀✨

This is a disorganized because I just want to talk about one of my favorite characters from Hare, Fox, and The Moon (written by me and @cupiidskiss ♥️)

This means there will be spoilers for Hare Fox Moon, but I’ll keep major spoilers to the end.

🎀💕🎀💕🎀

Who is Lucie?

Lucie is an American citizen of German-French decent in his mid 20’s. He/she is introduced in chapter 9 (Argument) as a cross dressing man of the night.

“‘I’m not a waiter, honey,’ grinned the… man? Malt squinted at him and noticed the more defined jaw bone and masculine features under the makeup… His lipstick lips parted, ‘I can get you and I something if you’d want. Only if you treat me, just one night.’ His voice is husky for someone of similar stature to Malt, maybe shorter, thicker in some places, and lacking facial hair.”

Lucie was introduced into the story, a little on a whim so Malt would have someone to talk to and progress the plot while Malt and Boone had their first major plot point where they were away from each other. She later developed into an askew parallel of Malt and Boone’s relationship.

Lucie functions as tangible proof that Boone has a history of non-heterosexual behavior, which is a step forward in the “is Boone gay for Malt?” plot.

“‘Boone.’ The prostitutes eyes went wide. ‘Boone Quinn?’ Malt nodded. ‘Oh wooow, I really did twist the wires in his head, didn’t I?… He was one of my clients.’”

Up until then, the audience assumes Boone has always been this gruff, blood hungry cishet man. Lucie happily explains (at a price) how Boone is actually a softie and bends easily to the allure of femininity. While Boone has internalized homophobia problems, it is implied numerous times that Boone enjoyed his night with Lucie. It is mentioned a few times how Boone even thinks about Lucie and what their night together meant.

“boone whipped his body around to finally face malt. ‘that [night together] was a one time thing, i don’t…i don’t want to think about it. it was a mistake.’ … ‘i don’t know... how i feel… i mean, fuck. im a man. he looked like a woman but. I just.’ shame dwelled in his chest, he felt sick almost. ‘i think about it so much. i shouldn’t be thinking about it this much’” (chapter 15, Boner).

Lucie offers Malt an openly queer man he could bang, but Malt passes on it because he (unaware of it rn) is terribly dependent on Boone and can’t imagine picking anyone else.

Lucie’s first appearance is a little brief, and without the context of who Cooper Davies is, a reader would think Lucie was a one time character.

Cooper Davies 💈

Cooper Davies is Lucie by day! He works as a barber in Saint Denis and is well liked for his charisma and ease of conversing. He has feminine features, but not enough to make people judge him. He passes well enough as an eccentric cishet man to exist in the world without trouble (as of 1898 at least). He has a roommate-partner of sorts who is a working girl. The two of them pass well enough as a straight couple to help keep Cooper’s homosexual behavior out of the limelight.

The first time Cooper is mentioned is in chapter 24 (that isn’t released as of the moment). His scene is brief, only being present at Wallace Station to buy Boone and Malt tickets to get back to Saint Denis after… a lot happened to Malt and Boone. After Boone offered Cooper a pseudo name when they met, the text states,

“cooper took in that boone didn’t use his real name—or maybe that was his real name, boone quinn could have been a fake name for all he knew, and he knew many things” (chapter 24).

Lucie and Cooper and never stated to be the same people, but it is hinted in segments throughout the chapter how Cooper recognized Boone, and how Boone vaguely recognized Cooper’s face but couldn’t pin point where. He later misremembers and says he recognized him from the barber shop (which isn’t wrong but also isn’t the full picture).

Cooper has had a history of indulging in underground drag and frequenting a secret queer bar called The Golden Lantern. He later began selling his services around the bar and streets for a little extra cash. It’s not a necessity but a thing he does to express himself. He spends more of the night talking and connecting with the queer community than actually having transactions.

It is illustrated later in the story that Cooper lives in an upper floor apartment outside of La Bastile (the saloon Boone frequents) and began to study Boone after their night together. He already people watched, painted, and wrote poetry from his balcony so it wasn’t too odd for him to begin noticing Boone’s habits.

Like I said with the askew parallels: Malt and Cooper both obsess over Boone and are queer men with feminine characteristics. The thing that sets them apart is how Cooper is accepted into society, while Malt is perpetually at the outskirts and unable to carve a fulfilling life in Saint Denis.

Cooper forever longs from a distance, too chicken to initiate an interaction with Boone again. Boone doesn’t know Lucie is Cooper, so when Boone comes in to the barber shop, Cooper can’t naturally bring it up without outing himself as queer. Since the interaction is business, neither gets to be especially close even in a customer and employee way.

Malt gets to have hands on interactions with Boone day in and day out, but he lacks any career or family outside of what Boone provides. His obsession is not just that, it’s also a dependency, and that’s partially why Lucie feels bad for Malt by the end of the story…

Spoilers for the end of Hare, Fox, Moon‼️

Cooper has a speaking role one other time in Malt’s epilogue. By then, the time is somewhere in the 1910’s and Boone had been hung.

His possessions could have been reclaimed by anyone who stepped up to take them, but no one did; Boone had no kin, no partner, no friends, no one who remembered him for being anything but a brutal man who womanized.

Cooper didn’t step forward to take the belongings because he was convinced he was a nobody to Boone and had no right to own his possessions, even if Cooper badly wanted to keep them. He thought it was selfish to take something that didn’t belong to him, clinging to a deadman’s memory.

Instead, he stashed drawings, poems, newspaper clippings and excerpts. Way back, he used to watch Malt and Boone laugh and smile and grow undoubtedly close. Cooper became so infatuated with Malt and Boone because Cooper saw it as a way to voyeuristically satiate his desire.

So when Malt bumbled into Saint Denis after ~11 years, Cooper was heart broken to realize Malt came to reunite with Boone. He had to delicately (without outing himself as being Lucie) inform Malt that Boone had been dead for a while.

Little remained to remember Boone by, most people forgot about his death, just yet another name in the newspaper of criminals. This broke Malt because all the tangible things Boone gave him (braided hair, bolo tie, hair flowers, gun holster, food chain knife, custom engraved revolver) were all gone, lost to the sands of time.

Feeling bad for only being able to offer bad news, Cooper gives his heartfelt collection of Boone memorabilia to Malt. He tells Malt a little bit about why he has so many hand-made things of the two of them, but overall lets the papers speak for themselves.

Now, this part breaks my heart, but Malt is a wanted criminal and Martelli’s mafia wants him dead. When Cooper is questioned for his involvement talking to a criminal, he reluctantly tells the officers where he last saw Malt heading. He is inconsolable that he had to do that to keep himself, his girlfriend, and his family safe. ;-; in one action, he killed the last remnant of his fixation from all those years ago.

While the epilogue ends rather grimly, it is possible for Cooper to have a kind of happy ending. Cooper and Kathrine are two of the only people who survive til the end of the story and had any personal interaction with Boone. Me and Paige joke that they trauma bond and have a “meh” happy ending together as friends in a corrupt city that is somehow even worse than it was before.

🎀💕🎀💕

That is the bulk of the info dump, I just really like her design and story. Sighhhh, Lucie and Malt could have been such friends together, If only Lucie/Cooper had the balls to talk to his crushes.

also bonus info i had no easy way to slot in!:

Lucie / Cooper has gynecomastia :)

when at work, he loosely binds, but since his chest isn’t that big and he wears layers, he doesn’t have to worry.

when dressed as Lucie, he wears a pushup bra to make it look more like breasts.

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overwhelmed-overweight · 6 months ago

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Plant-Based Benefits and Tips!

A couple of lovely people asked for some elaboration on plant-based eating! I studied nutrition & dietetics in college before I dropped out so I'm not a professional in nutrition but I do have a broad understanding of the biochemistry behind what we eat.

This is kind of a long post, so continue under the cut!

Starting with the basics!

I aim for a more whole foods plant-based diet, which is essentially a low-fat diet that focuses on removing all animal products, limiting processed food, and minimizing oils.

Looking at micronutrients, both protein and carbs have about 4 calories per gram, but oil has 9 calories per gram. Low-fat diets are often easier to manage calories on, as you can fill up on a higher volume of protein and carbs (specifically fiber) to reach satiety, whereas processed/high-fat foods are higher in calories per serving, meaning you get less volume.

You DO need fat in your diet, but it's preferable to reach for nuts, seeds, avocados, etc. instead of oil, which is comparatively nutritionally void.

FIBER IS YOUR BESTIE. Fruits, vegetables, and whole grains are low in calories meaning you can eat more of them, reaching satiety faster than you would with something processed. Fiber makes your digestive system happy. Be sure to incorporate more plants into your diet gradually so your digestive system can adjust.

Let's talk about animal products...

They are inflammatory by nature. If it comes from an animal, particularly red meat and ESPECIALLY processed meat, it will cause stomach issues in most people.

Fun fact, we are biologically closer to herbivores than carnivores. Our digestive tracts are much longer and our stomachs are less acidic than a carnivore's, meaning we are designed to most efficiently digest plant matter. Carnivores, on the other hand, have short digestive tracts and significantly more acidic stomachs for breaking down flesh and bone. This is why many people experience gastrointestinal discomfort when consuming meat. This leads to bloating, gas, and constipation. We are omnivores because we CAN consume animal products for survival, but it is nowhere near optimal.

Dairy is highly inflammatory and is directly linked to hormonal cancers (breast, prostate, etc.) It is also high in saturated fat, which is inflammatory. When we are born, we have the "gene" necessary to process breastmilk, but for many people, as we age, this "gene" gets switched off. Past infancy, we don't need milk (or other dairy products) because we can get our nutrients from other food sources. Black and Asian individuals have the highest rates of lactose intolerance. Not to mention, dairy is full of foreign bacteria, especially from factory farms, which causes an immune response in the body, leading to further inflammation.

Eggs are saturated fat and cholesterol bombs. They're high in protein, sure, but you can get protein and a wide variety of other nutrients from things like tofu.

To summarize, animal products are high in fat, high in cholesterol, high in calories, and cause inflammation, bloating, gas, and of course, constipation. Eating whole foods like vegetables, fruits, whole grains, beans/legumes, tofu, nuts, and seeds will boost your fiber intake, fill you with antioxidants, foster healthy gut bacteria, and reduce gastrointestinal issues.

Make sure you add more plants to your diet GRADUALLY. If you immediately go full force into eating plant-based, your stomach will experience distress due to the sudden increase in fiber, creating gas and bloating. But this will subside, and you'll feel better overall!

I highly recommend listening to seminars on YouTube by Dr. Neal Barnard, Dr. Michael Greger, Dr. Will Bulsiewicz, and Linda Davis RD to learn more in depth about what I've talked about.

Extra tips:

An air fryer is going to change your life when it comes to cooking without oil and making stuff taste good and have a better texture! I use mine multiple times a day.

TOFU!!! I'm a soy addicts, and tofu is my favorite source of protein. There's so many ways to prepare it, too!

Berries are so nutrient dense and delicious-- nature's candy!

There's honestly nothing wrong with protein powder even though it's processed. Just be sure to opt for vegan protein powder so you aren't loading your body with whey.

Stevia is a godlike sweetener, imo.

Eat a wide variety of different plants to diversify your gut microbiome and to get a variety of vitamins and minerals!

Take care of yourselves :') 💚🌿 I may add to this post as more things pop in my head!

When I tell you it's so goddamn easy to do dishes when you don't cook with oil 😭

Don't drink alcohol... this is the most hypocritical thing I can say lmao but it will wreak havoc on your gut microbiome

#th1nsp1ration #th1n$pø #overweight diaries #tw ed but not sheeran #⭐️ve #starv1ng #⭐️rving

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hollowed-theory-hall · 10 months ago

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How many muggleborns actually are there in the UK?

So, I think, the first thing I post here should be what started my HP theorizing journey. Which was an IRL friend asking me how many muggleborns even are there in the Wizarding World to cause this much strife?

So strap on in for a journey of demographic statistics and me documenting every name in the book and their blood status like someone who actually cares (I don't, but I do have some things to say about blood status, inbreeding, and magical genetics, but that's a whole different post)

So, when I started thinking about how to figure out what percentage of muggleborns are in the British Wizarding World, I decided to start simple. Harry's year (according to JKR's notes and Harry Potter and Me) has 40 students. Fewer are mentioned by name in the books, but I created the closest approximation on these 40 students according to book information and notes from JK.

(In general, book canon precedes any other source)

Harry's year is a good start since it gives us a look at all wizards and witches born in the UK in the same year, as it seems all Hogwarts years are similar in size. So this is a good enough rough approximation of blood status across the wizarding world in the UK as a whole (and the one we have the most information about).

Some definitions about blood status and the way it seems to be treated in the books so we'll all be on the same page:

Muggleborn - a wizard with two muggle parents

Pure-Blood - a wizard with two magical parents of which none are muggleborn and at least one is pure blood (i.e a child of a half-blood and a pure blood would be considered a pure blood for this list)

Half-Blood - Only one magical parent who isn't a muggleborn

At least one magical parent - a character we knew for sure isn't muggleborn but do not have further information.

So without further ado, here are the 40 wizards in Harry's year:

In Gryffindor:

Harry Potter - Half-Blood - Book text

Ronald Weasley - Pure-Blood - Book text

Dean Thomas - Half-Blood - Book text

Seamus Finnigan - Half-Blood - Book text

Neville Longbottom - Pure-Blood - Book text

Hermione Granger - Muggleborn - Book text

Praviti Patil - Most Likely Pure Blood - In book 1, Praviti and Pansy Parkinson are shown to be on a first-name basis and familiar from before Hogwarts. I don't see the blood purists Parkinsons being acquainted with who they consider "lesser blood".

“Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?” said Pansy Parkinson, a hard-faced Slytherin girl. “Never thought you’d like fat little crybabies, Parvati.” - Philosopher Stone, page 108

Lavender Brown - Pure-Blood - According to Harry Potter and Me Notes.

In Slytherin:

Millicent Bulstrode - Most Likely Pure Blood - due to the Bulstrode family appearing in the Sacred Twenty-Eight. (I'm aware in JK's notes mentioned in Harry Potter and Me, Millicent is described as a half-blood, but as many of the characters there didn't make it into the book, they are less canon than the book information)

Vincent Crabbe - Pure-Blood - Book text

Tracy Davis - Half-Blood - According to Harry Potter and Me Notes.

Gregory Goyle - Pure-Blood - Book text

Daphne Greengrass - Pure-Blood - The Greengrass family appears in the Sacred Twenty-Eight

Draco Malfoy - Pure-Blood - Book text

Theodore Nott - Pure-Blood - The Nott family appears in the Sacred Twenty-Eight (Nott's grandfather/great-grandfather is also the most likely to have written it)

Pansy Parkinson - Pure-Blood - The Parkinson family appears in the Sacred Twenty-Eight

Blaise Zabini - Pure-Blood - Book text

In Hufflepuff:

Hanna Abbott - Pure-Blood - The Abbott family appears in the Sacred Twenty-Eight

Susan Bones - Most Likely Pure Blood - Mentioned to have multiple magical relatives including Amalia Bones (Head of the DMLE) a prominent figure in the incredibly corrupt Ministry of Magic that practically runs on nepotism (a subject fro a different post, probably).

Justin Finch-Fletchley - Muggleborn - Book text

Wayne Hopkins - Half-Blood - According to Harry Potter and Me Notes.

Megan Jones - Most Likely Pure Blood - Mentioned to have multiple magical relatives (even if the wiki calls them half-bloods, there are a lot of wizards from this family).

Ernest Macmillan - Pure-Blood - The Macmillan family appears in the Sacred Twenty-Eight

Zacharias Smith - Most Likely Pure Blood - As someone who brags of being a descendant of Helga Hufflepuff and being able to trace magical lineage so far back.

In Ravenclaw:

Terry Boot - At Least One Magical Parent - As he goes to Hogwarts during the 1997-1998 school year when muggleborns were forbidden from doing so.

Mandy Brocklehurst - Half-Blood - According to Harry Potter and Me Notes.

Michael Corner - Half-Blood - According to Harry Potter and Me Notes.

Stephen Cornfoot - Pure-Blood - According to Harry Potter and Me Notes.

Anthony Goldstein - Half-Blood - According to Harry Potter and Me Notes.

Sue Li - Half-Blood - According to Harry Potter and Me Notes.

Morag MacDougal - Pure-Blood - According to Harry Potter and Me Notes.

Padma Patil - Most Likely Pure Blood - Same as Praviti Patil.

Lisa Turpin - At Least One Magical Parent - Most likely. This is a character nothing is stated about, but I assume that if she was muggleborn it would have been mentioned during the second war.

Unknown House:

Oliver Rivers - At Least One Magical Parent - Same reasoning as Lisa Turpin.

Roger Malone - At Least One Magical Parent - Same reasoning as Lisa Turpin.

Lily Moon - Most Likely Pure Blood - Has other magical relatives of the name Moon across HP media.

Sally-Anne Perks - At Least One Magical Parent - Same reasoning as Lisa Turpin.

Sophie Roper - At Least One Magical Parent - Same reasoning as Lisa Turpin along with other wizards with the same surname.

Runcorn - Most Likely Pure Blood - As she is likely related to Albert Runcorn who worked in the Ministry of Magic under the Death Eaters' rule and worked as an intimidator and blackmailer of alleged muggleborns.

Sally Smith - Most Likely Pure Blood - As she is likely related to Zacharias Smith.

From this we see that we have:

23/40 = 57.5% Pure-Blood and Most Likely Pure Blood

9/40 = 22.5% Half-Blood

6/40 = 15% At Least One Magical Parent

2/40 = 5% Muggleborn

This kind of percentage is one we see among the Order of the Phoenix (another group of wizards who accept muggleborns and we have information about their blood status) as well. So, it's not just Harry's generation that is low on muggleborns, but that muggleborns are a very small percentage of the wizarding population.

At the Order's peak in members during the First War (therefore before most potential mass muggleborn killings) it had 25 members, and I'll make this list shorter:

Pure-Blood: 8/25 = 32%

Alastor Moody, Alice Longbottom, Elphias Doge, Fabian Prewett, Frank Longbottom, Gideon Prewett, James Potter, Sirius Black

Most Likely Pure Blood: 6/25 = 24%

Dedalus Diggle, Edgar Bones, Emmeline Vance, Marlene McKinnon, Peter Pettigrew, Sturgis Podmore

Half-Blood: 6/25 = 15%

Albus Dumbledore, Aberforth Dumbledore, Mundungus Fletcher, Remus Lupin, Reberus Hagrid, Severus Snape

At Least One Magical Parent: 3/25 = 12%

Benjy Fenwick, Caradoc Dearborn, Dorcas Meadows

Muggleborn: 1/25 = 4%

Lily Potter

-----

Only one of the Order members is a muggleborn - Lily Potter.

The fact that even among a group like the Order of the Phoenix (who fought against Voldemort and blood-purists) we see practically no muggleborns just proves the above statistics in Harry's year are the norm. There is probably one or two muggleborns who arrive every year at Hogwarts and they are, overall, a very small present of the population.

This is kind of interesting to me in terms of how much of an issue their very existence is made to be for some wizards in the books, and I thought I should share it since I never see anyone doing maths to calculate population statistics and demographics for the Wizarding Wolrd.

At some point, I should post about the death rates of the two wars with Voldemort along with other stats and timelines I've calculated.

#harry potter #harry potter theory #harry potter thoughts #wizarding world #wizarding population #overthinking #blood status #hp theory #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #hollowedtheory #hp thoughts

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usafphantom2 · 5 months ago

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Surplus A-10 Warthogs Could End Up In The Jordanian Air Force

If Jordan is truly interested in the A-10s it would boost its ground-attack capacity and it could open the door to transfers elsewhere.

Joseph Trevithick Updated on Jul 10, 2024 1:37 PM EDT

The Senate Armed Services Committee has directed the Pentagon to look into the possibility of transferring retired A-10 Warthog ground attack jets to Jordan.

USAF

Jordan has emerged as a possible future operator of A-10 Warthog ground attack aircraft. The U.S. Air Force is planning to stop flying the venerable Warthogs operationally before the end of the decade. The impending retirement of the type in U.S. service has already prompted discussions about sending A-10s elsewhere, including to Ukraine.

On Monday, the Senate Armed Services Committee formally directed the Pentagon to look into transferring A-10s to Jordan. This came in a report accompanying a new draft of the annual defense policy bill, or National Defense Authorization Act (NDAA), for the upcoming 2025 Fiscal Year. As of the beginning of the year, the Air Force still had around 218 A-10s in service spread across active duty, reserve, and Air National Guard units.

An A-10, seen here firing its iconic 30mm GAU-8/A Avenger cannon. USAF An A-10 fires its famous 30mm GAU-8/A Avenger cannon during training. USAF

Specifically, “the committee directs the Secretary of Defense to report to the Committees on Armed Services of the Senate and the House of Representatives, not later than February 1, 2025, on the feasibility and advisability of transferring retiring A-10 aircraft to Jordan,” the Senate Armed Services Committee’s report says. “The report should include an analysis of Jordan’s ability to maintain the aircraft on their own.”

How active Jordan’s interest in acquiring A-10s might be and when the country first started eyeing the Warthogs is unknown, but it is hard to imagine this matter being raised at all if there wasn’t a real desire for the aircraft. The War Zone has reached out to the Jordanian government for more information. Before the Senate published its recent report, Colombia and Ukraine were the only countries known to have expressed interest on any level in acquiring A-10s in the past.

At a hearing before members of the House Armed Services Committee in April, Secretary of the Air Force Frank Kendall did mention that he was aware of one country that had expressed interest in potentially acquiring A-10s, but that he was not aware of any active discussions in this regard at that time. At that same hearing, he also alluded to the country in question not being Ukraine. The Air Force declined to identify the country Kendall was referring to in response to subsequent questions from The War Zone.

Ukrainian authorities very publicly looked into getting A-10s soon after Russia launched its all-out invasion in February 2022. At that time, U.S. officials pushed back on that request, citing the general condition of the approximately 100 Warthogs then in storage. Many of the A-10s then in storage at the boneyard at Davis-Monthan Air Force Base in Arizona, especially dozens of older A variants, are non-flyable and could not be reasonably returned to service due to heavy cannibalization for spare parts over the years. The Warthog has been out of production since 1984, which has created supply chain complexities for the aging jets. There is also a question of what it would take to train pilots to fly these aircraft and maintainers to support them.

An example of the condition of some of the A-10s at the boneyard. USAF / J.M. Eddins Jr

At the same time, as the Air Force now moves toward retiring its A-10s for good, the Warthogs going to the Bone Yard will include newer A-10Cs that have received significant life-extension modifications, including new reinforced wings, and other deep upgrades in recent years. Best known for its iconic 30mm GAU-8/A Avenger cannon, the Warthog today is a capable precision strike platform that can employ a broad array of munitions. The GBU-39/B Small Diameter Bomb (SDB) just got added to the jet’s arsenal last year. The aircraft also still retains the design’s other trademark features, including its ability to loiter over particular areas for extended periods of time.

An A-10C armed with a mixture of GBU-39/B Small Diameter Bombs (SDB), laser-guided Advanced Precision Kill Weapon System II (APKWS II) rockets, and AIM-9M Sidewinder air-to-air missiles at an undisclosed location in the Middle East in November 2023. USAF

For Jordan, a major U.S. ally in the Middle East in counter-terrorism and other operations, A-10s could give its Air Force a valuable boost in close air support and general air-to-ground capabilities if the jets can be reasonably sustained. Jordan is also currently actively engaged in a counter-drug campaign along its border with Syria, which has reportedly involved air strikes. The Warthogs are particularly well suited to supporting lower-intensity operations in permissive airspace and could also be used to conduct armed surveillance and border patrol missions.

The Royal Jordanian Air Force’s fixed-wing aerial combat fleets currently consist of nearly 60 F-16AM/BM Viper fighters and smaller numbers of turboprop light attack aircraft. Some years ago now, the country put its pocket fleet of CN-235 and C-295 cargo aircraft that have been converted into gunships up for sale and the current status of those aircraft is unclear. As such, the infusion of A-10s could also expand the service’s ground attack capacity, which could help free up the F-16s for other missions, including against aerial threats. Just in April, Jordanian F-16s shot down a number of Iranian drones headed toward Israel as part of larger reprisal strikes.

A Jordanian single-seat F-16AM Viper, in front, flies together with one of the country’s two-seat F-16BMs. USAF

“The committee appreciates the long-standing alliance between the United States and the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan… The committee commends Jordan for [the] defense of its air space [against Iranian threats headed for Israel] on the night of April 13, 2024,” a separate section of the Senate Armed Services Committee’s recently released report says. “The committee also recognizes the need for additional critical capabilities, including F-16 aircraft, to counter growing air threats, including unmanned aerial systems, within Jordan and across the U.S. Central Command area of responsibility.”

Jordan is currently in the process of acquiring a dozen new Block 70 F-16C/D Vipers.

A further section in the report also calls on the Pentagon to help Jordan otherwise expand its air and missile defenses with a particular focus on countering threats from Iran and its regional proxies.

Whether or not the Pentagon ultimately concludes that it would be both feasible and advisable to transfer A-10s to Jordan, or if the country actively pursues the acquisition of Warthogs regardless, remains to be seen. The Senate just raising the possibility of sending A-10s to Jordan could well reignite discussions about other potential future operators, especially Ukraine. Other interested parties could emerge if a fleet of Jordanian A-10s looks increasingly viable.

If nothing else, the Senate’s recently published report points to the potential for a new chapter in the A-10’s story even as the Air Force moves to retire the Warthog before 2030.

If it is deemed to be workable, sending A-10s to Jordan could be a welcome addition to that country’s air force that also opens up new possibilities for the Warthogs after they leave Air Force service.

Contact the author: [email protected]

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cariantha · 10 months ago

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Drink Had Me

Book: Open Heart, Book 2 Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Dr. Sawyer Brooks) Rating: Teen Category: Fluff Word count: 3.3K Prompt: Ethan has too much to drink and winds up on Sawyer’s doorstep in the middle of the night. Event: I’m participating in the Song Rewrite Challenge hosted by @choicesprompts. This fic is a rewrite of Drink Had Me by Jordan Davis.

🎵Hell, I was up to nothing

🎵Just sittin' home alone

🎵Yeah, I was gonna cash it in

🎵About to put down my phone

🎵And I had a message waitin'

🎵Them boys won't let me sleep

🎵So I told 'em I would meet 'em out

🎵And just have one drink

Ethan was mentally and physically exhausted. He could feel the stress he’d been carrying deep in his bones. His muscles sighed as he sunk into the comfort of his couch and rested his head on the back cushion. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, enjoying the peace and quiet of his empty apartment.

He tried to push aside the thoughts that had plagued him. The budget crisis. The selfish billionaire. The competition with Tobias. The situation with his mother. But mostly, it was Sawyer that occupied his mind. He worried that the constant push and pull between them was nearing a breaking point.

She had recently gone behind his back and opened Pandora’s box. She compromised the team’s mission. She called him a “goddamn diva” in front of his colleagues. Worst still, it’s what she said when helping him set up his Pictagram profile. “It’s love, Ethan. It doesn’t have to make sense. I guess you just… feel it.” The words nagged at him constantly, and not because she was probably right - like she was right about everything else - but because he felt something. Something unfamiliar. Something scary. Something he hoped was reciprocated.

DING! That sound used to annoy him, but now it made him eager to check his phone, because there was only one person who insisted on texting him. Quickly reaching for his phone, he sighed disappointedly when he saw the message was not from Sawyer.

Ethan groaned. He had forgotten that this morning, while working out with his gym buddies, he made plans to meet them at Donahue's for drinks and a game of pool. In an attempt to rouse Rafael from his suspension-induced funk, Sawyer proposed the night out. And in all honesty, Ethan only agreed because he saw it as an opportunity to spend time with her. It was only after he committed to attend that Sawyer bothered to mention she had prior plans with Stephanie, their coma patient.

Ethan arrived at Donohue’s thirty minutes later and swore to himself he would only stay for one drink.

“... and then she said, ‘Oh, would you prefer to be called a spoiled child or an entitled jackass?’ You should have seen your face, man.” Baz, who had wandered over earlier to say hello, couldn’t contain his laughter as he told the story of Sawyer calling Ethan a diva to everyone gathered around the pool table.

Rolling his eyes, Ethan ordered another drink while the guys racked the pool balls for another game.

“... speaking of workouts... Raf, remember when you asked Sawyer why she liked to work out? And she said because she wants to look good naked. Dude. Best response ever,” Bryce recalled with a laugh as he shared another round of tequila shots.

Ethan gladly accepted, swallowing the cheap liquor in one gulp when the memory of Sawyer standing in front of his bedroom window came to mind.

Every time Sawyer’s name was mentioned, which was surprisingly often, Ethan put a glass to his mouth. Better that than inadvertently slipping and revealing something he shouldn’t.

“Okay, time for a round of Fuck-Marry-Kill,” Bryce announced, earning a groan from Rafael. “Since you’re so excited to play, Raf, you can go first. JLo, Shakira, Taylor.”

“Easy. Fuck JLo. Marry Shakira. Kill Taylor,” Rafael answered. After taking a sip of beer, he turned to Elijah. “Your turn. Lara Croft, Leeloo from Fifth Element, and umm… Jamie Lee Curtis' character in Halloween.”

“Damn, man. Uhhh…” Elijah twisted up his lips as he pondered his answer. “I guess I’d fuck Croft, marry Leeloo, and go all Michael Myers on JLC.”

Raising his hand excitedly, Baz jumped in. “Oh, oh, I’ve got one for Ethan… Harper, June, and Sawyer.”

The other men snapped their heads to Ethan, bracing for the explosive impact. But to everyone’s surprise, Ethan threw back another shot and answered without hesitation. “Fuck Harper. Marry Sawyer. Kill June.”

Reggie made the announcement for last call, and at midnight he kicked everyone out, including Ethan. The inebriated men stumbled outside to wait for their rides. Ethan decided to walk for a while, and bid them good night. He strolled down the block until he reached the rose garden near the hospital. Resting on a park bench, he dug his phone from his pocket. But instead of dialing for a ride to take him home, he called Sawyer.

🎵But the drink had me

🎵Callin' you up, talkin' all crazy

🎵Talkin' 'bout us

🎵And catchin' a ride over to your room

🎵And keepin' your roommates up past two

Sawyer’s phone lit up on her nightstand with an incoming call, but she didn’t notice. She had fallen asleep a couple hours ago.

On the other end of the line, Ethan heard her voice. “Hi there, you’ve reached Sawyer. Leave me a message.”

“Sawyer,” he sighed before continuing, “I don’t want to lose you.”

Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees and stared at the phone screen. Sawyer’s contact picture smiled back at him. “I’m sorry I’ve been an asshole lately. I just… I want you so fucking bad,” he confessed. “I need you to be with me.”

He dropped his chin to his chest in defeat and growled. “But I can’t have you.”

He took a deep breath and lifted his head to look at her picture again. “I’ve been losing my goddamn patience with this situation. I don’t want to push you away anymore. It kills me to know that I’m hurting you, but I’m still afraid of what might happen if people find out about us.”

Ethan stood and held the phone at eye level as if trying to look her in the eye. “I feel like I’m on the verge of losing you, Sawyer.”

He began to pace back and forth and rambled on. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said a couple weeks ago. It really fucked me up, because I don’t think I’ve felt like this before.”

“God, Sawyer, you’re the best I’ve ever had,” he admitted, running his fingers through his hair. “I don’t want anyone else.”

He closed his eyes and whispered to himself. “Sawyer, say it back. Please say it back to me. I don’t want to be alone in this feeling.”

There was a long pause while Ethan stared at his phone, hoping for some sort of reply. “Fuck it. I’m coming over.”

<><><><><><><><><><>

It was nearly two o’clock in the morning when there was a knock on the apartment door. Sienna, who was still up baking, checked the peep hole and unlocked the door. “Dr. Ramsey! What are you doing here so late?”

His eyes were bloodshot and he smelled of whiskey and beer. The drink and exhaustion rapidly stripped away what little control of himself he had left. Ethan steadied himself with a hand on the doorframe and answered, “I need to talk to Sawyer. I need to see her. Is she here?”

Sienna invited him in. With her five-foot-nothing frame, she nervously guided the towering and swaying six-foot-four-inch sack of muscles into a seat at the kitchen table. “I’ll be right back.”

Gently knocking first, Sienna let herself into Sawyer’s room. “Sawyer? Sawyer, wake up,” she whispered loudly.

Sawyer awoke with a start, finding Sienna crouched at the side of her bed. “What’s wrong?” she panicked.

“Ummmm… Dr. Ramsey is here.”

“What?” she asked, confused.

“He said he needs to speak with you,” Sienna explained.

Sawyer threw her covers aside and stumbled out of bed wearing nothing but a t-shirt and underwear. She quickly checked the time on her phone, noticing the missed call and voicemail notifications from Ethan. “I swear to God, if he’s here to drag me out of bed for another diagnostics case…” she trailed off.

“I don’t think that’s why,” her friend said, leading her down the hallway.

Once her eyes adjusted to the fluorescent lighting in the kitchen, Sawyer spotted Ethan sitting at the kitchen table, his head buried in his hands. His body language reminded her of the times when he had felt pretty hopeless, like when Dolores died and when Naveen was sick. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

Ethan lifted his head and let out a small sigh of relief recognizing her. “I wanted to talk to you,” he said, his voice tired and gravelly.

She followed his eyes to Sienna, who had gone back to her baking. “Let’s go to my room.”

Ethan stood and followed her down the hall. A sudden wave of dizziness washed over him and he threw himself against the wall to keep from stumbling over. Sawyer grimaced at the loud thump, hoping it didn’t wake her other roommates. She quickly tucked herself under his arm and helped him the rest of the way.

Just as her door clicked closed, Jackie poked her head into the hallway. “What the hell was that?” she called out.

Sienna came into view from the kitchen. “Sorry, Jackie, that was me. Sorry I woke you.”

“Do you ever sleep, Trinh?” Jackie yawned, shutting her door and going back to bed.

🎵The drink had me

🎵Wantin' one more

🎵Wantin' to forget what we broke up for

🎵And doin' that make up, wake up thing

🎵I just went in there to have one drink

🎵But the drink had me

Sawyer sat Ethan down on the side of her bed, then stood in front of him casually crossing her arms. “What’s going on? Did something happen? Is this about your mom?”

His head felt like a sloshing fishbowl when he shook it. Focusing on her bare feet, he attempted to ground himself.

Getting more worried, Sawyer stroked her fingers through his hair. “Hey, talk to me.”

Slowly lifting his head, Ethan’s eyes trailed up her long legs to the oversized Hopkins t-shirt she wore. “Is that my shirt?”

Glancing down at the heather gray tee, she replied with a hint of embarrassment, “Yes.”

Sawyer braced her hands on his shoulders to keep her balance when Ethan tugged her close. Standing between his knees, he hugged her tightly around the waist and rested the side of his face against her stomach.

“I miss you,” he mumbled.

A beat later his hands dropped to the back of her thighs. His fingertips lightly caressed her soft skin, eliciting goosebumps. Lifting his eyes to gauge her reaction, he slowly slid his hands higher, palming her backside and giving a gentle squeeze.

“Ethan,” she warned, gripping his forearms to prevent his hands from wandering any further.

“I want you,” he said, kissing her belly through the t-shirt she had stolen from him.

“Ethan, you’re drunk.”

“Say it back,” he whined.

“Say what back?”

“That you still want me.”

She sighed deeply. “Ethan…” When he looked at her with desperate, pleading eyes, she took a seat on his knee. “I want you too,” she repeated and cupped his cheek, “but not like this. Not a drunken mistake.”

“It’s not a mistake,” Ethan asserted. “I know what I want.”

She shook her head. “I know you, Ethan. You’ll regret it in the morning when you’re clearheaded.”

Ethan began to protest when the nausea hit. “I won’t… I–,” he paused and swallowed, “I’m going to be sick.”

Sawyer jumped off his lap and grabbed her garbage pail just in time. Ethan wretched the contents of his stomach while she soothingly rubbed his back. When he was finished, Sawyer offered him a tissue and a sip from her water bottle. She then knelt before him and removed his shoes and socks.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting you ready for bed. You’re in no shape to go anywhere right now. You can stay here and sleep it off.” As she stood, she reached for the hem of his shirt and lifted it over his head. “Scoot back and lie down,” she instructed. Ethan complied.

She met his hooded eyes, giving him a look of warning. “Don’t get any ideas,” she said before unbuttoning his pants. “Lift your butt.” After carefully tugging off his jeans, she neatly folded his clothes and set them atop her dresser. Returning to his side, she tucked him under the covers.

“Where are you going?” he murmured when she stepped toward the door.

“I’m just going to clean this up and grab you some aspirin,” she answered, picking up the small waste bin. “Do you need or want anything else?”

Ethan shook his head.

“I’ll be right back,” she promised with an assuring smile.

When Sawyer returned a few minutes later, Ethan’s eyes were closed and he was lightly snoring. She turned out the lights and crawled under the covers. Hugging the edge of her full-size bed, she resisted the urge to curl up next to him, and soon dozed off.

🎵Next morning came too early

🎵Heart poundin' in my head

🎵And it took me just a second

🎵To realize I know this bed

🎵And it ain't where I belong

🎵But you got my T-shirt on

🎵I blame the alcohol

🎵No, it ain't my fault

🎵The drink had me

Ethan’s head throbbed. The sound of distant, muffled voices had woken him. He cracked his eyes open, thankful for the dim surroundings. Blinking away the fog in his vision, he focused on the ceiling. There was something familiar about the dangling light fixture overhead. A single lightbulb hung from a rope cord. The gentle breeze that wafted through the window caused it to sway back and forth in a hypnotizing motion. Aware that he was not at home, Ethan’s eyes swept the small bedroom, taking in every detail. As recognition set in, his heart began to race, intensifying the pounding in his head.

Taking a deep breath through his nose, his senses were overwhelmed with the sweet smell of her. Daring to cast a quick look downward, he found Sawyer tucked into his side. Her arm was draped across his torso, her thigh across his waist, with a foot nestled between his legs. Ethan’s right arm was at her back, holding her close. His left hand gripped the back of her bent knee, as if he had been using the leverage to keep her locked in place. She was wearing his t-shirt, and he was only wearing underwear.

He reached into the black box of his mind for any remembrance, but came back empty handed. He didn’t know what to be more upset about. The eventual fallout from this reckless encounter, or the cruel twist of fate of taking Sawyer to bed again and not remembering a damn thing about it.

When her alarm rang out, Ethan silently cursed. “No, not yet.” He needed more time to figure his way out of this mess. More time holding her body against his.

Sawyer groaned in frustration as her phone sang a melodic tune of chirping birds. As she did every morning, she buried the tip of her cold nose into her pillow and inhaled. Only it wasn’t her pillow she smooshed her face into this morning. It was Ethan’s chest. His warmth and scent aroused her senses, and she was instantly awake.

Seeing that he was too, she pushed back from him and tried to cover herself with the forgotten comforter. “Shit, sorry,” she whispered, rolling away to silence her phone.

Her surprise and embarrassment confused him. “Why are you apologizing?”

She turned to face him, making sure to keep a safe distance. “I tried to keep to my side. I must have rolled over in my sleep and snuggled up to you.”

“Keep to your side? Did we not…?”

She shook her head.

Ethan looked up at the ceiling and expelled a breath.

Sensing his relief, Sawyer swiftly climbed out of bed. “I’m going to get ready for work. Your clothes are on the dresser and your phone is charging on the desk. My roommates should be leaving soon.”

“Sawyer-”

“It’s fine, Ethan,” she said, rummaging through her dresser drawers. “We can talk about it later when you feel better. Or if you prefer, not at all, because nothing happened.” Ethan rubbed the spot between his eyes. “There's some water and aspirin on the nightstand,” she pointed out before stepping into the hall and closing the door behind her.

A while later, they left the apartment and shared a ride to the hospital, successfully avoiding the topic of last night. They limited their conversation to simple questions and one-word answers, merely enough to get out the door and on their way.

“Thanks for the ride. I’ll see you tomorrow,” Sawyer said, and not waiting for reciprocation, she hurried away.

Ethan watched until she disappeared through the sliding doors of the hospital’s main entrance. He cursed at himself the entire walk to Donohue’s to retrieve his car. They may not have slept together, but he still ended up on her doorstep last night and tangled in her bed this morning. He hoped once the hangover cleared, he would remember why, so they could clear the air.

<><><><><><><><><><>

Sawyer was slow to leave the diagnostics office when their team meeting ended the next day. The tension between her and Ethan was so thick it felt like it could be cut with a knife. She couldn’t take it anymore. She turned to study him, watching as he stacked case files, doing his best to ignore her. “This feels like the morning after Miami all over again,” she finally spoke.

Ethan stopped what he was doing, took a deep breath, and braced himself for the conversation he had been dreading. “I’m sorry for inconveniencing you the other night.”

She shook her head as if she didn’t care about that. Shifting her gaze out the window, she bit the corner of her lip before speaking again. “Do you remember calling me? Leaving a voicemail?”

Ethan swallowed hard. He had checked his phone yesterday and knew that he dialed her number, but didn’t recall leaving a message. “No. I only remember bits and pieces after leaving Donahue’s.” He took a cautious step toward her. “What... what did I say?” he asked, trying to hide his nerves.

“It doesn't matter,” she sighed, still looking out the window, “you probably didn't mean it.” She downplayed her disappointment with a quiet chuckle, “I never pegged you for a sappy drunk.”

Ethan stepped in front of her, cupping her chin to force her to look at him. “I meant it,” he said firmly.

“You just said you don’t remember–”

“I don't,” he interjected, “but if the result was me showing up at your door, and waking up with you in my arms, then whatever I said… I meant it.” Gazes locked on each other, Ethan gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. He breathed a sigh of relief when Sawyer’s lips finally turned up in a small, forgiving smile.

That smile slowly changed to a mischievous one. Ceasing the opportunity, she started to back away as she spoke. “Well in that case…" She bit her lip to keep from laughing. “I want to get married in June. A fancy church wedding and a huge reception. Oh, and let’s honeymoon in Paris! It will be so romantic.”

“Funny–”

“But you should know, I plan to keep my last name,” she continued teasing.

“You’re a brat. Get out of here,” he demanded, playfully tossing a pen in her direction as she scrambled to leave.

“Hey!” she yelped, using the door as a shield.

“Oh, and I want my shirt back!” he hollered.

Poking her head back in, she offered a deal. “If you can get me out of it, Ramsey... it’s yours. See ya!”

A/N: Ethan's drunken confession was also inspired by the song Say It Back by Nicklas Sahl.

Tag List: @choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics @peonierose@potionsprefect @trappedinfanfiction @jerzwriter @queencarb @coffeeheartaddict2 @quixoticdreamer16 @jamespotterthefirst @liaromancewriter @zealouscanonindeer @tveitertotwrites @tessa-liam @youlookappropriate @kyra75 @socalwriterbee @txemrn

#open heart #open heart choices #open heart fanfic #ethan ramsey #ethan ramsey x mc #ethan x mc #ethan x sawyer #choices stories you play #choices open heart #playchoices #choices fic writers creations #cfwc fics of the week #choicesprompts #songrewrite

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nerdieforpedro · 9 months ago

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Wednesday WIP

I was tagged by @wannab-urs @for-a-longlongtime and @pedroshotwifey so let's see if I can figure this game out... 🥸

Step one: Post Snippets of the fics you're working on (can be a summary if there's no snippet)

I picked my top five (yes five, I switch around a lot and have random ideas. This is Nerdie. 👀). Some of them I have mentioned before, I came back to them because my smut fairy 🧚‍♀️ came back thanks to @magpiepills and her Javier Pena being a whore (affectionately and very interested what happened with the pantyhose)

1. Two Hearts on the Ocean - Javi G x (Abigail) OFC

Abigail and Javier sipped their tea while chatting about the last movie and how both of them had fallen asleep. Expressing his displeasure at falling asleep during a Nicolas Cage movie, Abby confessed that she had fallen asleep during ‘Ghost Rider’ before and this was the first time she’d been awake through the whole movie so he shouldn’t feel bad. Javier told her that it was because he was here with her to keep her awake. She agreed that he was likely right. They planned to re-watch ‘The Sorcerer's Apprentice’ another day and Javi walked her to her room after stopping off in the kitchen on the way to drop off the mugs. It felt like earlier in the day when he’d walked her to her hotel room though he wouldn’t be so far away this time. She gave him a peck on the cheek and said goodnight as Javier did the same.

2. Roc & Doc - Tim Rockford x (Doc) OFC

“I think you should send Tim a picture of yourself in your outfit. Show him what he’s missing out on by sitting at home in his boxers or sleeping in his office gazing lovingly at his murder board.” This elicited you to choke on your punch and put a hand to your chest.

“I-I- who is that fun for exactly?! What is wrong with everyone this week?!” Knocking back the rest of your drink and pouring yourself more, you’re holding onto the table to keep yourself upright. “First the damn notebook, a bone song, now I find out and meet…”

3. Diddle your Dieter to Disco - Dieter Bravo x plus size female reader

“There’s my Kit Kat. I was trying to entertain myself while waiting for you. I wanted to surprise you.” His face laid against your stomach, giving it a soft kiss as his hands roamed. You took the glitter and poured two quarter sized glops on his back to which he hissed at the sudden cold from your hands spread along his shoulder blades and down his spine, spreading the silver glitter slinging it onto his skin. Now in the different lights, the sparkles danced across his skin, Dieter moaned from your touch, digging his hands into your thighs as you continued to massage his back. “Fuck…yes baby. What are you putting back there?” He asked as one hand snaked under your skirt and squeezed one of your ass cheeks, he enjoyed his hand sinking into your plush skin.

(Smut below the break - FYI)

4. Foul Play - Javier Pena x Aria Davis (plus size OFC)

Aria headed straight home after meeting Javier. It needed to be while his memory was fresh in her mind: His voice telling her he wants her, to grab her, hold her, bend her, mold her, mark her, whispering to her as he’s deep inside of her. His grin as he told her to undress. Maybe as she stood before him as he laid back on the bed, waiting for her to come to him. His moan from his first bites of his food. Could he make that same sound with her? His hands messy with the grease from the empanada. He had wiped them off but she could picture him licking them. His pink shirt and jeans clinging to his slim body from the humidity.

5. Florida Heat - Dave York x Santiago Garcia

Dave is aware that his moan is too loud. He should not be feeling it this much, he hated it and was trying to plan how to turn the tables of Santiago. To see him break apart before him as he was doing right now, in his hand were both of their throbbing shafts. He was certain if he could hold out a bit longer, Garcia would climax first. He could then use his recovery to overstimulate him. Pull his curls, toward him as he fingers Santi’s ass with lube, stretching him so he can prod his entrance with his cock and slowly…Dave felt it on his face first, a small splatter before the ropes landed on his chest and stomach. He was panting from the picture in his head of Santiago Garcia whining for him to fuck his round and full ass. One of them had climaxed. One of them relaxed. One of them was laughing.

Step two: put them in a poll and let people vote on which one you should work on

Step three: Every vote is one minute you put on a timer to work on that fic (ex. 15 votes =. 15 minutes of writing)

Also if you want to ask questions about any of my fics, myself comments and asks are wide open, like the thots. 😘

NPT: @maggiemayhemnj @lady-bess @legendary-pink-dot @morallyinept @undercoverpena @goodwithcheese @trulybetty @rhoorl @musings-of-a-rose @megamindsecretlair @soft-persephone @soft-girl-musings @saturn-rings-writes @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @perotovar @agentjackdaniels @angelofsmalldeath-codeine @alltheglitterandtheroar @tinytinymenace @survivingandenduring @immarocketman @draculasfavoritewife @joelslegalwhre @anoverwhelmingdin @frenchiereading @javierpena-inatacvest @inept-the-magnificent @secretelephanttattoo @iamskyereads @connectioneverywhere @yourcoolauntie @alltheotps @pamasaur @fhatbhabie @heareball @laurfilijames @chronically-ghosted

#wip wednesday #wip games #pedro pascal characters #fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #dieter bravo #javier pena smut #tim rockford #javier gutierrez #Dave york #Santiago garcia

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magicalincorrectrobodokiquotes · 30 days ago

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"You Glow, Girl (Be a Glow-Getter): From the Album Be- Side" Clip

“That’s dad.” Kandi smiled.

“Oh! Hi, Mr. Kaine!”

He looked over, waving nervously.

“...If it’s about the scars…I don’t mind.” Booloo reassured him. “They actually look kinda badass-adorable.”

He smiled.

“He ain’t much of a talker.” Cody explained.

“Even when we were kids.” Cassie added on.

“So if dad speaks more than a few words at a time, something big’s going on.” Kylie shrugged.

“Noted. That’s how we know there’s a curse or jinx.” Booloo whispered as quietly as she could.

Evidently not quiet enough.

“A what?” Cody, Kylie and Cassie asked.

“The red eye thing I was telling you three about.” Kandi groaned.

“Oh.” Cody paused.

“Gotcha.” Kylie winked.

“They know?” Booloo sighed in relief. “Thanks for warning them in advance…I hate doing that.” “I know ya do.” Kandi teased.

“So how’s the janitor thing going-” Booloo started, only to notice-

“Is that what this thing is for?”

-Cassie picking up her youngest sister’s compact with her magic.

“Yeah! It is. And it’s very important.” Booloo insisted. “That’s why it’s on her person at all times.”

“Got it.” Kylie mused as Cassie handed it back.

“Thanks.” Kandi nodded. “Now, I think Dad needs help setting the table for the potluck.”

“The others are on their way.” Rocky explained, grabbing his wand to get some fae spices.

“Cool beans. Can you introduce the others to my girlfriend?” Kandi grabbed some plates. “Oh, and make sure the fae spices won’t turn Booloo to a frog or something.”

“On it, baby sis. Besides, we do NOT want a repeat of the incident when Blossom first brought home Frankie…” Rocky mused. “Splash, Bones, this is Abby- but she prefers going by Booloo.”

Beat.

“Remember when I said that once Kandi and I rushed over to someone’s house, crash landed in someone’s room- which had a burnt down door AND the room occupant didn’t even stir?” he asked.

“...Yeah.” Splash spoke slowly.

“Well, remember when I said it was because Kandi had to help someone?” Rocky chuckled nervously.

“Yep.” Bones nodded.

“This is who she had to help.” Rocky gestured at Booloo.

“Was it one of those jinx things?” Splash asked.

“Yes, it involved…gardening.” Kandi chuckled.

“Yeah! Basically, she got mad that she was allergic to plants.” Rocky lied.

Beat.

“...I don’t believe it, but I don’t wanna know the alternative.” Splash chuckled.

“Makes sense to me, though.” mused Bones. “Some people have pollen allergies, Splash.”

“Hello.” Booloo waved. “It’s-a me…heh…” Silence.

“...I love her.” Splash squealed. “She’s…she’s so-” “Compose yourself.” Bones scolded. “But yeah…”

“Yeah…” Kandi laughed. “She’s adorable.”

“...So…heard you guys were in a band.” Booloo pulled out her phone. “I saw a recording of your first single- Kandi sent it. You Glow Girl is SO GOOD!”

“We’re making a band. Our keyboardist is sick and our cowbell girl is running late.” Bones said.

“And you’re going to go far.” Booloo beamed. “Love Bullet has a unique sound! Like Panic! At The Disco and I Don’t Know How But They Found Me.”

“Indie-rock.” Splash explained. “That’s what I’m calling it.”

“Exactly!” Booloo beamed.

#magical robodoki #creative arts #mr. kaine #kandi kaine #booloo faebelle #mentioned: cody kaine #mentioned: cassie kaine #mentioned: kylie kaine #rocky kaine #mentioned: blossom kaine #mentioned: frankie kaine #pamella “splash”#davy “bones”#not an incorrect quote #robodoki clip #1:30 pm

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dragoon-mid-jump · 3 months ago

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FFXIVWrite 2024 Day 3: Tempest (Pirate AU)

tempest (n.): a violent windy storm.

Rating: T (Blood+death mention, swearing)

Word count: 241

Storm clouds suddenly swirled in the sky above the ship as the sea tossed and turned around it. The pirate captain looked up frantically as rain began to pound down upon the deck. "What the fuck? Where did this storm come from? And where the hells is my crew?" He spun around and saw the "thrall" he had been given after making his deal with Davy Jones' Locker approaching nonchalantly, failing to notice the bloody bone sword in his hand dragging across the wood. "You! What are you just standing there for? Hoist the sails!" He barked. The thrall just stood and stared at him. The captain only grew more enraged. "I command you, Byron! Hoist the damn sails!"

Byron raised an eyebrow, and the winds began to howl, quickly picking up speed to the point they ripped right through the sails. He continued walking, eerily silent. The captain's eyes finally fell to the sword and looked up at Byron in horror.

"You...Did you kill my crew?"

"Yeah." Byron's face showed no sign of remorse. In fact, it showed no trace of any emotion.

"Who...What are you? You ain't no thrall, are you?"

"No."

"You bastard!" The captain whipped out his own sword. "I'll send you back to whatever briny depth you crawled out of!" He charged.

"Time's up." He raised his hand high and snapped his fingers. A wicked bolt of lightning instantly came down onto the captain, vaporizing him.

#ffxivwrite #ffxivwrite2024 #Byron Attikos #AU: Pirates #ffxiv #My WoL Adjacents

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shmorp-mcdurgen · 1 year ago

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Home Sweet Home AU: Martyrdom

Thatcher gets a late night call from an unknown number, saying they have something they need to discuss.

TW: blood, mentions of/implied character death

Notes: around 3'800 words long, being the shortest HSH fic so far. I don't have much to add here, but hope you like it!

February 12th, 1995. 10:24 PM.

Thatcher was awoken that night by the sound of his cell phone ringing in his office.

He couldn’t recall falling asleep on his couch, lying on a pile of discarded papers and dirty clothes. If he had to guess, it was due to exhaustion and/or sleep deprivation, though he could barely remember anything aside from staring at the wall for an hour or so. He groggily sat up, holding his head and wincing when an all-too-familiar headache pounded in his skull. Everything felt sore, with his right shoulder feeling as if it was ripped out of socket again. He looked down at his shoulder, pulling away his shirt to see that his collar bone was still pressing against his skin awkwardly, causing a bump in his shoulder. He sighed, remembering the reason he no longer laid on his side as he tried to ignore the deep pain shooting from it.

Oh right. The phone.

Thatcher stood up, letting out a deep, somewhat annoyed groan as he made his way to his office, pushing open the door to see the phone on his desk. He stood still for a moment, pondering whether or not he should simply let it ring and go to voicemail. Despite his best efforts not to care, he sighed in defeat and answered the phone, expecting to hear the sound of one of his co-worker’s voice, telling him to come into the station for some late-night incident or something.

“Thatcher Davis, MCP—”

“I already know who you are.”

A familiar voice, though not one that felt necessarily comforting in that regard.

“Who is this?” Thatcher furrowed his brows, absentmindedly beginning to pace back and forth in his office.

“That doesn’t matter right now.” The man on the other end of the phone stated. “St. Gabriel’s Church, as soon as possible. I need to talk to you.”

Thatcher paused in place, staring at the floor before speaking quietly yet urgently. “…I won’t do that until you tell me who is speaking.”

Silence for a moment.

“You know me.” The man said. “You ruined my life.”

“…I d—”

“Meet me at the church, tonight.” The man commanded. “This is an urgent matter. I’ll be waiting in the west bell-tower.”

The caller hung up, leaving Thatcher in a confused haze as it attempted to figure out who it was, or why the voice was familiar. The man’s somewhat raspy, yet desperate-sounding voice resonated in his head, despite the concern and almost fear of taking the call. He stood in place, staring at his phone before flipping it shut and shoving it into his pants pocket. He took in a breath as he silently approached his desk, opening a drawer and seeing nothing but junk inside. He brushed it all away before he finally found what he was looking for; his pistol. He grabbed it, checking the magazine to see that it was loaded before looking back into the drawer and fishing out his gun holster. He threw the holster over his left shoulder before sliding his gun into it, deciding not to change into a better outfit aside from his worn jeans and faded, oversized shirt.

He walked back into his living room in silence, grabbing his grey, shabby trench coat before pulling it over his arms. He tried to ignore how it too was oversized, nor the fact that he had received it as a gift from a friend, despite it being a reminder of her every time he wears it. Perhaps it was a good thing to be reminded of her. He snapped out of his train of thought, realizing he stopped moving for a second before he finally walked into his kitchen, grabbing a pair of leather gloves to somewhat protect his thin hands from the cold. He let out a deep breath as he grabbed his keys and headed for the front door, pausing as he turned his head to look behind him. He looked towards the dining room table, one that had multiple chairs despite no one coming over. On it was nothing but a single police radio, resting in the middle of it. Thatcher stared at it for a moment, pondering whether he wanted to take it, just in case, before he decided against it. He shook his head, walking through the front door into the night, only hoping he wasn’t walking into another trap.

He at least had some comfort in knowing he had a weapon.

11:03 PM

Thatcher wished the radio in his car worked as he drove down the dark, damp road to the church. The sound of his barely functioning heater blowing through the vents was the only sound that even remotely replaced the music that would’ve been playing, though it wasn’t enough to drown out much of anything. Thatcher stared forward, seeing the snow-covered trees pass by on the sides of the road, along with the snow landing on his windshield. He glanced at his right hand, wishing he could just take a break and scratch where his prosthetic rubbed against his skin under his glove, though he decided that getting the call over with was better; at the very least it meant he could go to sleep earlier.

If he’d be able to go home at all.

After all, he was working off of the assumption that the man on the other end of the phone was a human; a real person that knew Thatcher in the past and genuinely wanted to talk about something important. Thatcher felt a sense of uncertainty wash over it as it turned down a gravel road, wondering if he was going to be lucky again and that if the man wasn’t who, or rather what, he claims to be, the gun pressed against its left set of ribs would be enough to scare it off. Though perhaps Thatcher was stupid to think it was capable of being lucky.

Thatcher slowed to a stop when it saw the tall steel gate that led into the church property, barely seeing the church behind it through the trees and snow. Light from the lamp-posts bled into the gravel lane as Thatcher exited its car, looking around before approaching the gate and pushing it open, happy to see it was unlocked. After he swung the gates to the side, hearing the shrill squeaking coming from its hinges, he jogged back to his car, hopping inside and slamming the door shut. He glanced into his rearview mirror, checking that his back seat was vacant before he drove through the gate, finally driving onto asphalt as he pulled into the large parking lot.

He parked in one of the spaces, seeing a short fence between him and the church in front of his car. He exited his car, locking it before shoving his keys in his pocket and staring up at the towering cathedral before him. It had two large wooden doors at its entrance, along with a giant circular, stained-glass window above it, with many smaller circles surrounding it. A large, metal cross was to the left side of the entrance, seemingly rusted despite the church still being active from what Thatcher remembered. He looked up towards the slanted roof, seeing two giant bell towers, with one to the right, and one to the left, reaching towards the pitch-black sky. Thatcher couldn’t help but notice the pit in his gut he felt looking up at the giant building; it almost felt like vertigo, despite not looking down. He shook his head, letting out a breath as he turned to the right, following the fence towards concrete staircase that led down to the entrance. As he walked, a figure stared at him from the west bell tower, watching him as Thatcher walked towards the entrance, pushing the heavy doors open and walking inside.

The first thing Thatcher noticed aside from the deafening silence was the vastness of the inside of the church. It had a domed roof, with painted patterns on the walls. He looked forward, his shoes clacking against the marble floors as he looked around. Lines of pews ran down both sides of him, all facing a stage to the front of the room, one with a large organ front and center.

“Hello?” Thatcher called, his voice echoing off of the tall walls. “Thatcher Davis, MCPD. You called me here?”

No answer aside from his own voice reflecting back at him. He looked to his left, seeing a few archways that led to other parts of the church, deciding it was the best place to start looking for a way into the west tower, like the man had said to meet him. He walked in between pews and walked through one of the archways, being met with a hall that led into a few smaller rooms. However, when he looked to the left, he saw a stairwell, one he presumed to lead into the tower. He paused, thinking of the inevitable pain his knees were going to feel before beginning to scale the stairs.

He walked, further and further up into the dimly lit tower as he pushed his trench coat to the side, exposing his holster and firearm in preparation in case something other than a human was up there. He could smell dust and an overall musty smell as he pushed open the small door above him that led into the belfry, poking his head into the room to see a small electric lantern in the corner, lighting up the room. Thatcher huffed, pushing the door to the side, letting it clatter off of the floor as he hoisted himself up into the room. The belfry was larger than he expected it would be, with one large, brass bell hanging in the middle of the room. He looked around, seeing a large, arched window in front of him, with the cool wind hitting his face as he approached it.

“You actually came.”

Thatcher turned around quickly, the voice startling him enough to instinctively hold his hand close to his firearm. He turned towards one of the corners, seeing a man leaned against the wall, holding his arms close to his torso, clearly cold despite wearing a thick, turtleneck sweater. Thatcher looked up at the man’s face, his intense stare and low brows feeling familiar, though it took a few moments for Thatcher’s mind to finally connect the dots.

Arthur.

“Mr. Heathcliff.” Thatcher stated, almost surprised to see the man after so long.

Arthur’s eyes had dark rings around him, and his blank, yet irritated stare didn’t wane. “Lieutenant.” He responded, as if saying the word was some sort of profanity.

“Why did you call me here?” Thatcher questioned as Arthur stepped away from the wall, approaching Thatcher yet keeping his distance.

“I needed to…talk about some things.” Arthur said. “With you.”

“How did you even get my number?”

“Asked around.”

Thatcher remained silent, not super confident that who he was looking at was human like it seemed.

“…It’s…quiet tonight, isn’t it?” Arthur stated, looking through the window, past the parking lot and towards the lights in the distance from the town.

“What are you even doing up here?” Thatcher questioned, standing beside Arthur as he stares at the priest with a look of mild annoyance.

“It has the best view.” Arthur stated simply. “I come up here to…get my mind off of things, y’know?”

Thatcher gazed out into the distance through the window; Arthur was right about the view being nice at least, though it was hard to make out anything outside of the light from the lamp-posts.

“Though tonight, I couldn’t help but think.” Arthur continued, turning to face Thatcher with the same, almost angry look in his eyes he’s had the entire time. “…It’s been…what, nearly 3 years now?”

“…Since what?”

“…Since Mark went missing.”

The mention of the Mark Heathcliff case sent a shock to Thatcher’s system, making him skip a breath. He couldn’t respond, with an all-too familiar feeling of dread and guilt beginning to creep up inside of him.

“I’ve…been thinking about it…nonstop lately.” Arthur explained. “And I just…is he…dead, or not?”

Thatcher remained silent, staring at Arthur with a tinge of sadness added to his tired stare.

“…Well?” Arthur appeared impatient. “Is he?”

“We did all we could.” Thatcher stated, trying to cover up the uncertainty in his voice. “We…never found anything.”

“…Of course.” Arthur said under his breath, barely audible enough for Thatcher to hear.

Thatcher felt the weight of the thick air of guilt and anger around him, with the silence making it feel heavier than ever. Arthur crossed his arms, looking through the window as he thought to himself.

“…God teaches to…forgive and forget.” Arthur said quietly. “To love thy neighbor…to forgive thine enemies.” Arthur turned towards Thatcher, his face barely lit by the light outside and the light from the lantern. “But for some reason I can’t bring myself to forgive you.”

“I’m not asking to be forgiven.” Thatcher responded plainly. “…I understand what—”

“No, you don’t.” Arthur glared at Thatcher, lowering his arms as he faced the lieutenant. “Do you know how much I’ve lost? Mark runs off, and because of that, I lose the only people in my life that matter.” Arthur paused, taking in a deep breath. “…Leah and Sarah moved to Bythorne recently, you know that? Left me here…to just…rot. To try and figure out how to…fix all this.”

“I tried to help you and your family the best I could,” Thatcher responded. “I’ve done all I possibly could to try and solve this case, but I’ve already told you, we found nothing.”

“Right.” Arthur nodded, though it didn’t feel genuine. “So you ignoring the many disappearances in this town and brushing everything under the rug is you giving your all?”

Thatcher couldn’t even get a word in as Arthur continued.

“I’ve tried to forget about this; to move on and just live my life the way the Lord above wants me to,” Arthur stepped towards Thatcher, who backed away a few steps. “But it keep coming back to me, ALL of this. I’m trying to keep up a sense that I’m alright even though everything in my life is falling apart, all because you couldn’t do your God damned job.”

“You don’t think I’ve given everything to solving this case?” Thatcher snapped back.

“You failed to find him, Davis.” Arthur accused. “You barely did anything to help aside from twiddle your thumbs and take some of Mark’s junk. At least the other cop tried to help Leah as she went through the worst event of her life; but what did you do?”

“Arthur, you don’t understa—”

“I’ve lost more than you could ever know due to your negligence,” Arthur interrupted, standing in front of the window, the light from outside hitting his back. “I lost Leah, and now I won’t even be able to see my own daughter grow up. All because you didn’t do anything to he—”

“Ruth is dead because of this case.”

Thatcher felt the words leave his mouth, his tone sour and hateful. Arthur appeared to pause for a moment, at least giving Thatcher time to speak. “At least…that’s what everyone else thinks. She…I lost her, and…I don’t know where she went. I tried my fucking hardest to fix things, but now only more people are gone because of it. Arthur, I know what it’s like to lose what’s closest to you because I’ve gone through the same thing.”

Silence fell between the two, leaving them to stare at each other in a hateful silence. At least, until Arthur started speaking again.

“…All I want is to have my family back, yet you won’t even help me with that.” Arthur continued. “If you find Mark…then maybe I’d be able to have it back—”

“You talk about Mark like he’s a burden.” Thatcher stated. “Like he’s just a prop that will fix everything in your life. Do you truly even care about him?”

Arthur stood in shocked silence, staring at Thatcher with an appalled stare for a tad too long for comfort.

“Do you?” Thatcher questioned. “Or did you just want to make another you.”

“I did.” Arthur claimed. “I…I did love him. He was my son; you think I didn’t love my own flesh and blood?”

“I never got the impression that you did.”

“God damn you, Davis.” Arthur said quietly. “I hope God will have mercy on your soul.”

“I’m not religious.”

“You bastard.” Arthur said, his tone hateful as he clenched his fists. “I’ve tried all I could, and I can only hope God will forgive me for having the hate I feel towards you. This town is in shambles because of you! All because you refuse to help those you claim to protect!”

Arthur stepped towards Thatcher, who stood his ground as he grew closer.

“If you won’t do anything, I will.” Arthur claimed. “And I know that God will reign by the end of this! I know that these ‘alternates’ will cower away from his light! And by the end you will be left alone, all because of your own mistakes!”

“Get away from me.” Thatcher growled as Arthur continued to step closer.

“By God, I’ll show everyone just how much of a coward you are!” Arthur yelled. “You failed to help the vulnerable, and now you will suffer the consequences of your actions!”

“Step BACK!” Thatcher shoved Arthur away with one of his arms before turning away. He went to say something, but was interrupted by the sound of a surprised yell behind him. He swung around, seeing that Arthur was gone, leaving only an empty, cold room behind. He heard screaming outside of the window, fading away for a second before he heard the sound of a sickening crack that sent a chill up Thatcher’s spine.

Its wide eyes stared at the open arched window in silence. Its face was a shade paler, with its eyes unblinking and its jaw slack. He couldn’t even believe just what happened, wondering if it was just a dream or nightmare. It went to fast for him to even process the events that transpired, with all that was left being a feeling of pure shock and a rapidly beating heart.

Thatcher couldn’t even bring himself to move as he stared at the open window, with the silence feeling all encompassing, choking out whatever words Thatcher could possibly say. He stumbled backwards, looking down to see the trapdoor leading into the stairwell before he silently, yet hesitantly, began stepping down the stairs, shutting the trapdoor above him.

As he frantically descended the stairwell, only one thought ran through his head, over and over like a skipping record: “No, no, no, no, no, no, no.” He couldn’t even process what he was feeling as he entered the auditorium, running into the middle aisle before rushing towards the front doors. He froze when he reached them, staring at the wood before he pressed down his sudden pensiveness and pushed open the door.

He walked out of the church in silence, staring at the pavement, feeling as if he couldn’t even force himself to look to his right in fear of what he’d see when he did. It continued to stare at its feet before forcing itself to look up and forward, his eyes not blinking once despite the growing stinging feeling from the cold. He turned to his left, walking up the stairs to get to the parking lot, staring at the ground as he walked to his car. He unlocked the driver’s side door, opening it and stepping into his car as he silently stared at nothing in particular. He started the vehicle, finally looking out his windshield, staring towards the bottom of the west tower. He froze, staring at the crimson blood dripping onto the pure white snow from above. He quickly looked away, hands trembling as he grasped the steering wheel. He drove out of the parking lot the fastest he could. He knew the guilt of what happened was going to take hold of him later on, but at that moment, he thought of nothing more than going home and trying to grasp the situation.

All he knew was he wasn’t going to sleep any time soon.

February 13th, 7:16 AM.

Thatcher blankly stared forward, his mouth covered by his hand as the light from the television reflected off of his wide open, bloodshot eyes. He sat in a dark living room, all the curtains pulled over the windows and the lights off. He watched, not blinking once as the news program played in front of his face.

“—Right now we are following the breaking news at the St. Gabriel’s church, where the priest of aforementioned church, Arthur Heathcliff was found dead on the property just this morning. Our reporters are at the scene now, with the most up-to-date news on the situation.”

The camera changed to shots of the church from a distance as another broadcaster spoke over the footage.

“We are currently at the St. Gabriel’s church, right on the border of Werksha and Mandela county, where a nearby home-owner reported that they heard screaming at around 11:45 last night. The scene is closed to the public until further notice, with the circumstances of the death remaining unkno—”

Click.

Thatcher shut off the Television, delving the room into near complete darkness. He stared at the black screen, his breath quiet and his mind blank. He was going to be called about this as soon as he went to work; he knew it. He didn’t move from his spot on the couch, instead hunching over and clasping his hair with his hands. He thought to himself, wondering how many more people were going to die due to his own mistakes; how many more people were going to suffer while he was on the force. The image of Arthur’s body, hanging from where it was impaled on a metal cross was burned in Thatcher’s mind, refusing to leave no matter how hard he tried to get it out. He hadn’t slept the previous night, remembering the hauntingly vacant stare and look of horror on the body’s face.

He couldn’t. He just couldn’t do this anymore. He couldn’t handle being the cause of more and more pain and death. The next time he went to work would be his last. Thatcher was a coward, and now, he knew it, so the only option he felt would help people, was to quit. He was sorry; so deeply sorry for everything he did, and everything he failed to do. He just hoped the next lieutenant would be better than he was.

He was no lieutenant, just a scared boy with a gun.

How ironic.

#the mandela catalogue #mandela catalogue #tmc #tmc home sweet home au #arthur heathcliff (tmc)#hsh thatcher #character death tw #blood tw #shmorp writes sometimes #Yippie!! Thatcher has a bad day the au!!!! /VVLH HJ #I feel like this fic speaks for itself so i'm not sure what else to add that won't hint at anything in it- /lh #So. read it. now /LHJ NF

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