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spencersmagic · 3 years

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a knife twists at the thought - SR

Prompt: a knife twists at the thought that i should fall short of the mark - Arctic Monkeys

Summary: Spencer is new to this, and the poor boy is terrified

Couple: Fem! Reader x Spencer Reid (i picture season 2/3 Spencer but y’all do you)

Category: angst

Word count: 3086 words

Warnings: general criminal minds stuff, mentions and descriptions of torture, descriptions of loss, HAPPY ENDING!!, my 3am writing, tooth rotting love, uhmm spoilers for Orwell’s 1984 (if anybody hasn’t read it), humiliation, Spencer crying and breaking my heart (lmk if you need anything warned or trigger tagged).

A/N This is very loosely based on 2x15 (VERY LOOSELY). I’m quite proud of this one :)

masterlist // 505 series taglist

*****

They say you never see it coming.

When a tragedy occurs, and someone’s life is turned upside down forever, they never see it coming. It just... hits them. Like an oncoming car ramming into a bystander who was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

No one has time to prepare. In our time-starved lives, there is no place for such a warning.

One day, you just wake up. And they’re not next to you. They’ve disappeared, leaving the stickiest, most unforgettable parts of themselves behind for others to grieve to: the smell of their shampoo in the pillows they used to share, the seconds just as you wake when you still feel like you have them - only to gain full consciousness and realise they left you behind - even the fucking jars, which never seem to be open because he’s just not there to do it.

And you feel your heart breaking all over again as your soul sticks to the parts that couldn’t be erased with the rest of him as he left. Because you needed him, you had him, and now he’s gone. No warning, no letter, no signs which could’ve helped you foresee such a tragedy, because how could he? He didn’t disappear on purpose.

She doesn’t understand why he's so absent. So unequivocally missing. And the person she would turn to to ask these riddled questions isn’t there to answer. Because he’s gone.

But they’re not there yet.

And she feels so close to that feeling - the helplessness, the pain, the empty cups next to her bed because he always carried them to the sink when she was finished with her tea the mornings of those rare days they got to sleep in. Those days when they had time. She can practically touch, with the tip of her fingertips, the waves of pain that would surge over her if he was gone for one more fucking minute.

She has to remind herself, over and over again, like a mantra. He’s not gone yet.

The “yet” at the end of her mantra just breaks her all over again.

She was always the one to tell Spencer “if you worry before something happens, in case it goes wrong, and then it does, you’ve managed to suffer twice through something painful for absolutely no reason”. It usually worked. Needless to say, she felt like a hypocrite right about now.

Because Spencer is gone. And she doesn’t know how to bring him back.

She knows only to watch the monitor, never once blinking, taking in everything that happened in that damned livestream - every word, every sound, every reference. She can only try to hear anything over the whimpers and sobs her love was letting out as he’s tortured by that man. She can only hear the cracks of his knuckles against Spencers soft skin, the same soft skin she had kissed mere hours ago before telling him to “be careful”. Her own way of saying the three little words the couple was too young to hear. She can only see his lips parting, sobs rumbling out of his body as the unsub abuses his frame over and over again - same lips which had kissed her forehead before telling her “i always am”.

Then again, she isn’t sure if its his voice which is filling her head with painful sounds or if her mind is playing tricks on her, memorising the horrifying vibrations coming from his chest for her to ever consider anything else. She hasn’t stopped hearing him since she turned on that damned computer.

She isn’t sure she’ll ever stop hearing it.

As a man of great intellect, Spencer always recurred to knowledge to understand difficult occurrences in his life. Burying himself in textbooks, novels, poems, and even music to understand pain, and himself having a life filled with it, he was an incredibly knowledgeable man.

He knew much. But right now, he only knew one thing.

In Orwells’ 1984, as Winston was being tortured (much like Spencer is right now), Orwell described the following:

“Never, for any reason on earth, could you wish for an increase of pain. Of pain you could only wish one thing: that it should stop. Nothing in the world was so bad as physical pain. In the face of pain there are no heroes, no heroes”.

And, as a man who had acquired most of his intellect by immersing himself in trivial content in the face of pain, he found himself doing the same thing as the unsub hurt him over and over again, each blow seemingly more painful than the last. As his skin bruised, a causality of his abusers torment, he analysed the seemingly logical quote.

It must depend on the person, he was sure. In fact, a number of factors must be taken into consideration at this statement. For starters, Winston lives in a society incapable of any human feelings. There is only dominance, and those who attempt, in vain, to challenge it. Surely, if he had felt happiness, like the one you feel when the first day of spring rolls around, or like the one that creeps up on you as you look into the eyes of your loved one, surely, he would understand that some things can outweigh pain.

Love.

If Spencer’s mind could make sense of what he was feeling right now, he would understand, something he would figure of were he to leave this damned place, that he was thankful to the Gods, were there any, for having the unsub kidnap him and not Y/N.

Winston hadn’t understood emotional pain because emotions weren’t dealt with regularly. They were discouraged. That’s why he believed that there are no heroes in the face of pain. Because he doesn’t understand emotional pain.

He knew he was suffering. He also knew that Y/N was at the other side of the blinking camera suffering more than he could ever imagine.

They say emotional pain lasts 12 minutes. Anything one feels after this would be the aftermath of the cause of the pain in question. Pure emotional pain, the one you practically feel in your chest, the one that says “i can’t think, feel or be. not until this feeling dissipates”.

She had learned this from Spencer.

And she wished it were true. As she watched that damned monitor, she wished that all the venom the unsub was spewing at Spencer, all the verbal abuse, was long forgotten. She wished he could only feel the physical pain. Because the mind is incredibly stronger than the body - it could keep him awake, alive, for just enough time for the team to rescue him.

The entire team had huddled around the monitor around her. She was painfully aware that other people were seeing this. Which meant it wasn’t her imagination. It wasn’t another one of those damned dreams she would have when she slept a little too far away from Spencer’s touch.

They had only been together for two months, but his touch was all that could get her to fall asleep.

She jolted as the unsub landed another slap on Spencer’s cheek, swiftly grabbing his hair for him to look into the camera. He had a cut above his right cheek, just where she would kiss him in the mornings, and bruises all over his neck, jaw and left eye.

“Say hi to your team!” he mocked Spencer, chuckling darkly as he moved his almost lifeless body around for the team to watch in horror. Spencer let out a heartbreaking sob, feeling so vulnerable.

“Why don’t we make this interesting?” he jumped, as if he had gotten an idea. The unsub reached behind himself to grab a pistol, clicking off the magazine safety to put one bullet in one of the eight slots, leaving the other seven free. He pointed it at Spencer’s temple.

Her entire body shook the thought of seeing Spencer’s lifeless body, held up only by the ropes and that sick man’s grip around his curls. The same curls she grabbed as she kissed his face when she wanted his attention.

“I’m going to ask you some questions...” he said, voice dripping with sickening sweetness as he turned the roulette, “and if i don’t like your answer i’ll pull the trigger! Let God decide what I do with you. Sounds good?”. He wanted to humiliate Spencer.

However, Spencer made the mistake of not answering him. He was quickly reminded as the barrel of the gun pointed right between his eyes, pulling the trigger, a loud bang! sound expanding through the barn.

“I asked you a question!” he suddenly yelled into Spencer’s face.

“Y-yes, Sir” he whimpered, shaking at the ease at which the man pulled the trigger.

“Good, you’re learning”.

She experienced it by bits. Hotch’s hoarse voice. “Talk to me Garcia”. “We’ve got coordinates”. Everybody rushing to the SUVs. Tripping over her own feet on the way to the car. Morgan’s voice. The iPad, which still carried Spencer’s whimpers and the man mocking tone.

“I’ve got your diary, Spence” his sing-song voice didn’t match the disgusting man she was looking at. Nothing made sense.

“And I wanna know why...” he drew out the ‘y’ as he looked for something between the worn pages between his hands.

Of course she knew Spencer owned a diary. But she was mature enough to keep her hands to herself and her eyes on her own pages as he wrote on his, eyebrows creasing as he recalled all which he had experienced during the day. His face would twitch slightly at the memories, both good and bad, as he basically described his day word by word.

“...why did you wait until you were 24 to lose your virginity?” he asked in a clear attempt to humiliate and ridicule Spencer in front of his team.

“I-I didn't-” he could barely finish a word before a sob wrecking through his body at the humiliation, chest rumbling and voice wavering. “I didn’t want to lose it before, i w-wasn’t in a hurry” he rushed out. The man brought the pistol to his own chin, tapping it as he thought. “Hmm... I’m satisfied with your answer. Let’s dig deeper, shall we?” he asked as he went back into the pages.

“ooh! This one is new” that sick bastard was having fun with this, completely unaware that the team was less than 5 minutes away from their location.

“Care to read what you wrote three days ago? Right here” he turned the pages so Spencer could read them, though he was painfully aware of that entry he was talking about. His body shook violently. “P-please. D-don’t ma-make me do t-this” he whimpered, body feeling defeated.

“Wrong answer” the unsub said before pointing a gun at him and pulling the trigger.

A shriek was heard from the iPad. The SUV went silent.

“He’s alive” she whispered, unable to speak up. “He-” she swallowed. “He’s alive. We’re not there, yet” her mantra became a reminder that she hadn’t been quick enough to help him. She had the tools to save him. Every second she had the knowledge to save him and didn’t was another second she remained impotent at the risk of losing the love of her life.

Spencer’s voice spoke from the iPad.

“C-can you at-at leas-st turn off t-the ca-amera?” he said between sobs.

And it hit her.

What hurt him the most wasn’t the memories he had to relieve, but the fact that the rest of the team would have to hear his most intimate thoughts. His deepest secrets.

He could bare the pain. The humiliation? That broke him.

“Aww” the unsub chuckled mockingly, “are you embarrassed?” he said, slouching down to look into his eyes. “Well too fucking bad!” he screamed into his face, spitting with every word he spewed at him. Spencer’s sobs got louder.

“O-okay okay!” Spencer caved, accepting the journal that got shoved into his face.

“Read, pretty boy” the unsub sang. That son of a bitch was having fun.

“We’re two minutes away, Y/N” Hotch said. Maybe it was he sobs, which were barely audible to herself, having accepted them as second nature after all the heartbreak she was experiencing, but Hotch needed her to be okay.

His own heart thumped into his chest, feeling as helpless as he’d ever felt. Seeing a member of his team - someone he was supposed to take care of, someone he was supposed to keep safe - was sobbing as he was physically and emotionally tortured. But he was painfully aware of the feelings Y/N was experiencing. The sheer fear that was running down her veins at the idea of them running out of time.

After a few sobs, Spencer started reading, interrupting himself occasionally with his whimpers:

“It’s been three months. Today, three months, seven hours and forty-six minutes ago, she did what I didn’t have the courage to do. She asked me out. “I’ve been wanting to ask you pretty much since the day i met you” she had said. Those words keep ringing in my head like a beautifully written symphony, intrinsically designed to make me face my deepest fears. Opening my scars one by one, dissecting them and reaching the simple conclusion that i was a coward.

She didn’t say it, but what she meant was “i’ve been waiting for you to do it, but you never did, so i had to”. We wasted time - a time so precious and sacred - because i was a coward.

I’ve never felt like this before. I never understood a love so deep as to move something so stubborn as the human spirit. I’ve read textbook after textbook, and novel after novel, and still I’ve never learned more than with her. But I was a coward. And i wasted her time. I fear that I still am.

A knife twists at the thought that i should fall short of the mark. It’s impossible for me to ever be enough for her”.

Her heart broke at this confession. Even worse at the thought that he wouldn’t’ve told her, instead inhaling fear and exhaling rejection at every breath he took next to her.

“We’re here” she heard Hotch, looking at her. She grabbed a bottle of water and dropped the iPad, not hearing the teams objections at the lack of vest and preparation and ran into the barn.

She isn’t sure if she’ll ever stop hearing his whimpers. As she runs closer, she hears them louder and louder, decorated with sobs and cries, and small, meaningless replies to his abusers’ mocking words.

She kicked the door down, the loud bang booming across the room, only helping in raising Spencer’s sobs as he feared the sound had been the result of a certain trigger being pulled. As she looks at him, she realises just how much pain he’s been put through.

She remembers Orwells words, much like how Spencer had remembered them mere hours ago. And disagrees, wishing over and over, praying to the Gods that she would be the victim of such atrocious abuse. She wished she could take his pain. Morgan joined her at her side mere seconds later, yelling. “FBI! Put the gun down!”.

Spencer used the last bit of energy to lunge forward, hitting the unsubs stomach with his head, successfully getting him on the floor for Morgan to apprehend. Y/N rushed to Spencer’s side, untying him, as his now nonexistent sobs grew louder and louder, not only at the prospect of getting out of that horrible place alive, but also at the knowledge that Y/N had heard what he had so dreadfully recited.

Spencer collapsed into her arms, crying into her in the same way she was crying into him, and she wondered just how to take away all his pain. So they cried into each other, desperately grasping each others hair, skin, clothes, anything that would make them feel like they wouldn’t have to spend another damned second without the company of each other.

Spencer was the first to break the silence.

“I need-” he stopped, coughing. She reached for the bottle of water she had brought with her because she knew he would need it. She always knew what he needed.

He chugged it desperately, stray drops falling down his chin at his eagerness. He took a deep breath trying to steady his lungs.

“I need to get out of here” he choked out.

She grabbed him under the shoulders, careful not to hurt him - not being successful, realising that there wasn’t much of him the man hadn’t hurt. Y/N pulled him out, sitting down on the grass with him. Their legs intertwined, pulling each other impossibly closer. They kissed, over and over again. Not as an act of any sexual relevance, but as a reminder that they had each other in any way, shape or form. That they weren’t out of time.

The team was certain they would stay there, never letting each other go for another minute.

After what felt like seconds in their time-starved little world, she broke the silence, which had only been filled with their own cries and occasional sobs.

“Spence” she grabbed his chin to look into his eyes. They were dull, red and hooded. He was exhausted. “Mhmm?” he let out, looking into hers. She was his solace.

“How could you ever think you were anything but completely and unequivocally enough?” she whispered the words he dreaded.

But as Spencer looked into her eyes he knew, better than he had ever known anything, that he was enough. And she was enough. He realised that which she had known for the past three months (possibly longer). They fit like two marvellous puzzle pieces.

Her hands grabbed his cheeks slowly, as to not hurt or startle him, pulling his forehead into hers. “Baby, I can’t imagine anybody else waking up to me every morning. You’re so much more than enough”, she planted a small kiss on his forehead before resuming her position. “I’ll remind you every day of the rest of my life if that’s what it takes for you to believe it”.

And with their eyes closed, foreheads and noses pressed together and legs tangled between each other, pulling each other close, closer - around grass and voices and his abuser pressed into the hood of a police car, they only felt each other. With their shaky breaths, even shakier voices, fearing any words that would leave them in case they triggered a cascade of tears down their oh so vulnerable cheeks, they were more than enough.

***

I hope y’all liked it!! Feel free to let me know by liking, reblogging, or sending me a message :)

super cool kid taglist: @lady-anon-x @spencerreid-mgg @eoupe @inlovewithbabygirl @galaxydefenderjulia @username2002

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yannasunflower · 4 years

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dust to dust | chapter two

chapter one | chapter two

ao3

You don't know what makes you save Kuroo Tetsurou's life. All you know is there is no world to save anymore, but damn if you're just stupid enough to try.

Genre: hurt/comfort/romance/angst Rating: Mature, subject to change (gore, violence) Kuroo x fem!Reader Word count: 3.5k

hey everyone! here's chapter two, as promised. this fic is also cross-posted to AO3, where i'm under the same username. linked above as well! next chapter, action picks up, plot picks up, and we get more Kuroo, promise. enjoy, and as always, please reblog, like, and comment <3

Nobody ever told you how absolutely boring a zombie apocalypse could be.

Your ragtag group of survivors have scavenged what entertainment they can - books and gym equipment, even a few board games. People like Suga and Takeda keep busy with the children, teaching them to read and garden and how to survive if mommy and daddy never come back for them.

You open one lazy eye as a gaggle of them stumble after Suga, hanging on to his every word.

You’re not sure how the two men handle placing a long knife in a child’s chubby hand, fingers barely able to grip it,and showing them how to strike right at a nighstalker’s heart, fast and deep. Their giggles float through the air and the sound is almost dreamlike and if you keep your eyes closed, you can pretend this is a movie and when you open them, the credits will roll and you can go home.

Others tend to the elderly, of which there are only three in your group. You try to keep them comfortable and as far from danger as possible. But your body constantly prickles with the knowledge that they aren’t just vulnerable - they are a vulnerability. A hole in the brick wall you are attempting to build around this little community.

The healthy and fit young people patrol and take rotations on the watchtowers. Teenagers help with the lessons. Takeda had been firm about this. Once a kid turned seventeen, they were allowed to join the patrols, but until then, they stayed sequestered away.

It was almost comical, telling a tall, strong, angry Tobio that he had to mind the children. He towers over you, but he had bent to your will after a brief glaring contest. And then a week later, Shoyo had bounded into everyone’s hearts, including his, and the pair were inseparable.

Kiyoko, for her part, had taken one look at Yachi, shivering at Hinata’s side, and adopted her, sweeping her under a protective wing and keeping her there.

For people like you, who have no “bedside manner” as Kiyoko puts it, there are chores and day to day mini emergencies to keep you busy. Somehow, in the months since the world finally decided to fall apart, you have become mediator and negotiator. It’s an unlikely role; you can see your mother’s arched brow if she was still alive to see you now.

You barely have the patience for grocery shopping.

She would have laughed, elbowing your father, who would have made a valiant attempt at a straight face.

These are useless memories but you allow yourself to indulge for a moment. You have nothing better to do. Lunch is cooking, inventory has been completed, the guard rotation is set for the next two weeks. Ukai had waved you off this morning when you finally managed to corner him, complaining about your ceaseless energy and the “mad glint” in your eye. His words.

“That look means trouble for me,” he had growled, pointing an accusing finger at you. “Go to your cell and get some sleep for the love of anything you find holy.” Without another word, the man had leaned against a wall, put his feet up on his desk, and closed his eyes. A clear dismissal. You tried not to huff but you definitely stomped a little bit on the way out.

You don’t know how to tell him that staying in your cell, with your eyes closed, is inviting the living nightmares. You don’t know how to tell anyone, really, that you are just as haunted as this prison, as Daichi’s eyes.

That the only holy thing left in this world is fear and if you succumb to that, you’ll never move again.

You let a sigh tumble out of you. Forcibly, you shove your thoughts in another direction.

It had been a week since you brought home your latest stray. Kuroo had spent the first three days doing little else but sleep and eat. Daichi has taken to walking him around the Pit every day, explaining the way things work, and Suga showed him his pride and joy just yesterday. Kuroo had been suitably impressed by the garden, if the generous second and third helpings Suga thought he was sneaking to him at dinnertime were anything to go by.

The man has filled out nicely. He looks less skeleton, more human after sleep and hot food. You had peeked in on him in the grey of dawn that morning after Daichi not-so-subtly hinted that Kuroo had been asking about you.

He sleeps curled up on his side, hair falling against his cheek. In another world, you would have taken a picture.

Kiyoko tells you that the men like him, that Tanaka has stopped regarding him with all the wariness of a stray cat, and that she’s pretty sure Yachi has a crush on him.

You open your eyes into a blazing afternoon, unsurprised to see the subject of your thoughts stretching in the courtyard, the weak sunlight rippling over his bare arms. His black hair is messy as ever and you are struck all over again by how tall he is.

Tobio got a new babysitter, you think with no small amount of amusement. The gangly teenager needs someone to keep him in line and frankly, you don’t have the time and Hinata is just as likely to suggest some stupid shit for them to get into as he is.

You are still stretched out like a cat on a bench, letting the sun warm you, half-hoping it will lull you into a nap.

It’s boredom, more than anything, that makes you turn your head toward Kuroo.

“If you’d like to get some exercise, we have equipment. I’m sure Noya can show you,” you call.

Kuroo jumps and swivels to look at you, eyes wide and so, so dark. You look away. Something about him is like staring at the sun; too long, and your eyes burn.

“Didn’t see you there,” he admits easily, sauntering over to your bench. You eye his approach, noting that he really must be feeling a lot better. His movements are more fluid now, lean muscles becoming apparent on his shoulders.

Daichi has blessed every woman, and a few men, in the Pit by finding Kuroo a pair of grey joggers and a muscle tank top for everyday wear.

“I don’t do well with sitting still,” he says, leaning over you. His head casts you in shadow, blotting out the sun. “This is something I think you can understand.”

Up close, you can see that the shadows beneath his eyes are retreating gradually. His smile looks less like a grimace today.

You hum, swinging your legs over the bench and sitting up. Blood rushes from your head and you lean back against your palms. Kuroo lowers himself to sit next to you.

“Daichi forces me to limit my rotations on the guard towers and patrols,” you answer. “When we first found this place and cleaned it out, I was working overtime and made myself sick. Him and Kiyoko have been conspirators against me ever since.”

Your fingers thrum against your thigh as you say this. You feel more than see Kuroo’s eyes on them.

“They love you,” he points out, a little unnecessarily.

You snort.

“Love is expensive nowadays and everyone in the Pit is broke.”

“You love them back even more.”

You glare at him but he is just looking at you, tracing the planes of your face. A frown tugs at your lips.

“How are you feeling?”

Kuroo rolls his shoulders experimentally, stretching his arms above his head.

“Better,” he affirms. “More like myself.”

“A nosy busybody who talks like a grandpa?”

“Exactly.”

He is grinning now and you have to fight to keep yourself from returning the expression.

The bruises on his face are yellow now. You estimate it will only take a couple more weeks of regular meals for his face to fill out and his skin to look youthful again. You don’t bother asking him how long he had been alone, what happened to his family. None of that matters now. The apocalypse is a great equalizer.

“I talked to Takeda and Kiyoko this morning,” you begin, leaning your head back and closing your eyes against the sun. “They agreed to give you another week before putting you on guard rotation.”

“I would appreciate that. I want to earn my keep, however I can.”

A ghost of a smile dances across your lips.

“You’re just bored,” you tease. It’s been a long time since you felt sleepy and loose enough to tease anyone.

“You say that now, but newbies get the shittiest schedule possible,” you warn him, unsure why you’re telling him this. “Be prepared. Once you’re back to top form, we’ll discuss sending you on patrols for medicine and expanding that garden of Suga’s.”

There’s silence but it’s comfortable, easy. You let yourself enjoy it for just a few moments before standing, opening your eyes and offering Kuroo a full smile and your hand.

As he shakes it, looking only a little confused, you wonder how much longer he would have survived on his own in the city.

“Welcome to the Pit,” you say before turning on your heel and walking away.

~~~

Nightmares are as plentiful as soil on Suga’s fingers.

A sliver of moonlight is all that keeps you from sinking into the darkness, skin clammy, chest heaving. Your fingers twist into the sheets. A prayer is whispered that you didn’t scream this time. You can’t bear the thought of Kiyoko running again, feet bare, knife in hand and tears glistening on her cheeks. Her utter, pure relief haunted you for a month.

It would be so easy, you think, to never get up again.

Kiyoko would care for you. Daichi would stop by, every day, and update you. Ukai would read to you, probably, or nap in your cell, unlit cigarette dangling from his lips.

These are the thoughts that force you up, out, stumbling into your worn boots, shrugging a jacket on.

Takeda finds you in the office hours later, hunched over inventory reports in his neat handwriting, hair pulled back. He puts a pot of coffee on and hands you a steaming mug, holding a hand out for the report you’re struggling to understand.

“Winter is coming,” you sigh as you hand it over. He doesn’t ask about the shadows beneath your eyes, doesn’t comment on the fact that it’s barely six-thirty in the morning and you’ve clearly been awake for a number of hours.

A smile quirks at his lips.

“I didn’t know Tanaka managed to get the TV’s up and running,” he jokes. You wave your hand in a vague gesture, taking another sip of the liquid heaven in your hand.

“We need to get winter supplies,” you answer and that sobers him up. He nods, slowly, eyes roving the paper.

“Winter isn’t for over six months,” he reminds you. An eyebrow is raised. A teacher, waiting for an explanation. In moments like these, you see the high school teacher that you’d found barricaded in his office, babbling a stream of students’ names that Daichi had quietly whispered as your group cut them down, reading them off their uniforms.

On Takeda’s worst nights, as you guarded the door to his cell, you’d heard those same names, apologies and nonsensical gibberish streaming from his mouth as he grappled with his dreams and feverish tremors.

You stand, stretching, before stepping in front of a map of the city that Suga had snagged on one of his patrols. It’s huge, taking up an entire wall. Little markers litter the paper, different colors, and you run your finger over the pale blue ones in the northeast corner.

“There’s a limited supply of winter clothes in the city. I don’t want other groups getting to it first - we don’t need that bastard holding it over our heads when we have food and they don’t,” you remind him. Your arms cross behind your back automatically. “With the snows, we’ll need snow boots. The kids need jackets and thermals. We need to completely outfit the prison’s entire water supply system to last through snowstorms. We need hot water before then or half of us are going to be too sick, and the other half will be taking care of them. We need medicine, too.”

You tick off each item on your fingers, pausing to consider if you’ve missed something. You’re probably missing ten somethings and you struggle to see what they are. You need more coffee.

Takeda is twenty-nine, but when you turn to look at him finally, he seems sixty, glasses dangling from his fingers, nose bridge pinched between his knuckles.

He mutters something suspiciously close to a curse under his breath before opening his eyes.

“You’re right,” he admits. “We’re going to need at least seven months to prepare.”

The morning is a whirlwind. You send the youngest children, always the earliest risers, to fetch Daichi and Kiyoko, both much more bright-eyed than they have any right to be. Takeda drags a yawning Ukai into the office moments later and Tanaka slouches after them. Suga pokes his head in to give you a little wave and knowing smirk that everyone else finds nonthreatening before ushering the children to the cafeteria for their breakfast.

You’re positive you’re not imagining the pale pink coating Daichi’s cheeks.

After explaining the situation, everyone sucks in a collective breath.

Tanaka never sits and always faces a door. From his corner of the room, he glowers at the map.

“Well, fuck,” he neatly summarizes. You nod your appreciation for his conciseness.

“We need to get a hold of meat,” Ukai points out. A something you had missed.

You grab a marker and the portable whiteboard Takeda had grabbed a few weeks ago. In neat characters, you begin documenting everything thrown around the table.

“Raising livestock will be another way to keep the little ones busy.”

“We can’t ask people to shower in cold water during winter, that’s cruel.”

“Tanaka, is there any way to get the heating system up and running by then?”

“What about air conditioning? We have to get through the summer to get to winter, and heat is just as likely to kill us.”

“If other groups realize what we’re doing, we could be in trouble.”

A headache is brewing somewhere behind your temples and you bite back a groan. Kiyoko pushes a cool water bottle into your hand and you know she isn’t fooled for one second.

“I think we’re missing someone here,” Kiyoko points out mildly after what feels like an eternity of circular conversation. All eyes turn to her and she’s unruffled, fingers still wrapped around her mug.

“Kuroo could be a huge help to a lot of this,” she continues. “I’m sure he can help Tanaka and Noya with everything on their list, and we need more able-bodied men on the patrols anyway. He can help us with medicine, our food supply, all of it.”

A furtive glance in Tanaka’s direction is not encouraging. He’s glowering, eyes hooded.

“We barely know him,” Tanaka hisses. You have to privately agree.

“We barely know each other,” Ukai shoots back. “We’ve been here, what, three months?”

“He hasn’t even been on a patrol yet and you want him helping us make important decisions that affect everyone, including the kids?”

“That’s unfair, and you know it, Tanaka,” Takeda says patiently, but somehow reproachfully at the same time. “Kuroo has been in no condition to patrol. The man was emaciated.”

Takeda continues, levying everyone at the table with a stern face.

“We all trust each other now because we took the gamble and brought people in and allowed time to prove it. It was always a risk, and it will always be a risk, but we can’t let that stop us. What we’re doing here is more important than just working together to survive.”

It’s a flowery, nice sentiment, to be expected from a literature teacher, and you barely hold back a snort at Ukai’s warning look.

“None of this matters,” you cut in. “Takeda’s right. And so is Kiyoko. He could be a huge help to you specifically, Tanaka, and he’s getting better every day but we have to give him time before he’s physically ready. You saw him when we brought him in – he was skin and bones.”

Tanaka subsides into grumbling acceptance and you take it as a win.

Daichi returns with Kuroo in tow just minutes later, and if Kuroo is at all confused, he doesn’t show it. He folds himself into a chair, all long limbs and wide feet.

The problems are laid out on the table again. You watch as Kuroo absorbs it, eyes narrowed, flicking sometimes to the map on the wall.

“Frankly, I wish we were in an apartment building,” Tanaka reveals after an hour of debating the best way to acquire livestock.

You sigh, rubbing the heel of your hand into your eyes hard enough to see colors. You know it’s not Tanaka’s fault, that he’s saying out loud something you’d privately thought before. That the electrical systems in apartment buildings would be much easier for him to coax into submission.

But you’re tired. Kiyoko is rubbing the old wound on her shoulder again, Ukai’s fingers are tapping a loud rhythm on the table, and Daichi is watching you lose your mind with that same placid smile in place.

“I wish the apocalypse didn’t happen and we all didn’t have nightmares every damn night, but here we are,” you snap. “I wish we were all cozy in furnished apartments right now, too, and I wish we didn’t have to talk about these things.”

You wish the children didn’t have to hold knives, you wish Suga would stop forcing you to eat, you wish you could forget your mother’s laugh, you wish and wish and wish.

Tanaka’s mouth is open and Daichi is sighing, rubbing a hand over his face. Kuroo’s eyes are expressionless and he just looks like he’s waiting, though for what, you can’t even begin to guess.

You find that you don’t have the energy to regret the words, so you barrel on.

“The apartment buildings are stacked with nightstalkers. It would take weeks to clear even one out, and we would lose people. Guaranteed. We lost one person clearing this prison out and that —”

You’re cut off by a strange choking noise in your throat. The memory of Ennoshita is sweet, cloying, poisonous. Takeda looks pale and strained at the mention of it. His last student.

Your voice is pitched low when you manage to blink away traitorous tears. The sound of your chair scraping is loud and grating against your ears as you stand. They all watch you silently. Waiting.

“Ennoshita is buried here,” you say and the surprise on their faces is almost insulting. “So is Ayasaki’s little girl. We have a life here, one we built and fought for. The kids love it here, it’s as safe as it can get, and it’s isolated from the turf wars in the city. You know why we chose this place, you were part of the vote that decided it, Tanaka.”

Deep breath in. Out.

“I know I’m asking for a lot, but it’s necessary, and we’re all up to the task simply because we have to be.”

As far as motivational speeches go, you’re sure this is ranked pretty low. But Daichi straightens and Kuroo’s eyes are gleaming as he stares at you. Kiyoko is almost smiling and you take that into both of your hands and hold on for dear life.

“I have to protect them.”

Everyone in the room opens their mouth at pretty much the same time but Ukai beats them all to the punch with his lazy drawl.

“You’re a moron,” he sneers. “An absolute idiot if you think you’re doing any of this alone. Now run along and get some breakfast before Suga drags you there by your hair.”

~~~

It doesn’t surprise you when Kiyoko finds you later, on the roof, scribbling half-mad ideas into a plain notebook. She always knows where to find you.

“I think you should stay home tomorrow,” she says without preamble. The word home nearly sends you stumbling off the roof.

“Why? Am I dying and I don’t know it?” you ask dryly. The look she levels at you nearly makes your heart stop.

“We agreed to let Kuroo go tomorrow,” she explains, settling into the spot next to you, peering curiously at the notebook in your hand. “But you haven’t been sleeping and we can’t afford to lose you because you’re too tired to stand properly.”

You scowl. Damn the four eyes. Her and Takeda know too much for their own good.

“I’m fine,” you wave a hand dismissively. “I’ll get some rest tonight, promise.”

She let’s the matter go, which is a point for you, but you watch warily as she opens her mouth again.

“Tanaka is looking for you.”

A sigh.

“I should apologize.”

“That’s what he said.”

A laugh, short and barking, escapes you. Kiyoko smiles at the sound.

“We’re all such idiots.”

#haikyuu #haikyuu!!#hq #kuroo x reader #haikyuu fanfiction #haikyuu x reader #zombie!au #haikyuu zombie!au #this is purely self indulgent #kuroo x you #kuroo angst #my writing #yanna speaks #text #fanfiction

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lahyene · 4 years

Text

A Hollywood Love Story.

Pairing: young!chris evans x reader

Summary: Making it in Hollywood is hard, and when you run into the up and coming Chris Evans at a party, you can’t help but be a little intrigued by the frat boy vibes he practically emanates. You never knew you’d actually fall in love with him while both of you climb the ladder to the top.

Themes: romance, fluff, alcohol, smoking

Word count: 2208

You’re sitting on the kitchen counter, your crop top barely covering your breasts and your shorts practically the size of underwear. As a girl must dress if she’s trying to make it big in Hollywood, being nothing but an Instagram model. Cigarette in your mouth, you take a drag and let the smoke blow out rather close to the face of the man who’s desperately trying to chat you up right now, but you couldn’t care less as your eyes wander the scene of this house party. You’re here to network, to find connections. If you can’t make this work, you’re going to have to move back home and that’s the last thing you want after being exposed to so much freedom.

You saw him the second you walked into this party. He hasn’t quite made it big yet, but he’s probably the most famous one here. Chris Evans. He’s appeared in a few movies, nothing blockbuster, though he’s very well known for his incredibly handsome features and well defined body. You’re sure the two of you have more in common than one would think, being seen more so for your appearance than your personality or talent. People assume you to be trashy and shallow, but they don’t realize that in this world, you have to come off that way in the beginning. No one’s going to wait around to get to know you or the level of depth you have. It’s all about your looks until you finally make it.

When you last saw him, he was on the couch with a girl on either side of him, taking turns making out with each. You’ve heard he’s quite the party boy, dabbling in drugs and alcohol, and practically drowning in female companionship. You thought he was dating Jessica Biel, but seeing his tongue shoved down this blonde’s throat as his hand snakes up the thigh of the brunette, you figure they’re not as committed or exclusive as they let on.

Quite honestly, you’re not interested in him in terms of networking. He isn’t going to do you any favors, he’s probably in a phase where he needs to look out for himself before anyone else. And you completely understand. It’s what Hollywood does to you-- makes you selfish, desperate, twisted. You know there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, but damn, is it a long tunnel.

You’ve barely even realized the male in front of you is still talking. You’re about to shut him down when you see Chris enter the kitchen, without his little playthings, surprisingly enough. The two of you make eye contact. You don’t even have to try; you can already tell he’s intrigued. You aren’t sure whether that’s flattering or concerning. He seems like he’d be intrigued by a hobo, as long as said hobo were to have a vagina. He walks over to you with a gait of confidence, corner of his lips already tugging upwards. He steps in right next to the man, his presence shutting him up.

“Hey there. Haven’t seen you around here before. What’s your name, beautiful?”

You take another drag as you listen to him, your expression barely changing. This time, you turn your head to blow the smoke out before looking to him again. “Y/N.” You tap the cigarette in the ashtray next to you, arching an eyebrow. “And you’re Chris, if I’m not mistaken? It’s nice to meet you.”

“So you already know who I am.” He states, and you’re almost amused by that arrogant twinkle in his eyes. “It’s very nice to meet you too, Y/N.” The male standing next to him finally speaks up in annoyance, “Excuse me, I was in the middle of a conversation with-”

“It’s not a conversation if only one person is talking.” You cut him off, disposing of the cigarette entirely before handing him your empty cup. “Make yourself useful and toss this out for me, would you?” He scoffs incredulously but takes it, grumbling as he walks away. Chris looks at you with a grin, clucking his tongue. “Damn, baby girl. Ice cold. Not that I can blame you, you looked bored as fuck sitting over here.”

“Were you watching me?” you ask innocently, your voice silky as you gaze up at him. His eyes are gorgeous, you have to give him that. His whole face is, really. As much as you’d love to say that he’s overrated, you can’t. He’s handsome, and he knows it. “A little bit, yeah.” He admits shamelessly, glancing back to the spot where he was sitting on the couch, the area slightly visible from where you are in the kitchen. “Those little kittens over there are great and all, but… I dunno. Something about you is more appealing.” He looks back at you and smirks, continuing, “Probably the fact that everything about your beauty is natural.”

He’s right, but you imagine he probably says this to even the most Botox-ed of Hollywood women.

“Thank you.” You practically purr nonetheless with a small smirk. “Wanna step outside with me for a bit? It’s getting kind of hot in here.”

“Sure. Let me grab us a drink too. What do you want?”

“A beer’s fine, thanks.”

His eyes practically light up, his smirk growing wider. “Oh, yeah? Damn, I’ve never met a girl at one of these parties that drinks beer. Always complaining about how it’s going to make them fat or whatever.”

You shrugged nonchalantly as you slid down from the counter, tapping your lightly toned stomach. “Fast metabolism, I guess. Those fruity cocktails and shit have way too much sugar, I’d probably get less sick if I just drank rubbing alcohol. Beer’s good.”

He laughs and you can tell he’s already impressed. You feel strangely good about this. “Alright, sweetheart. I’ll meet you out on the deck.”

____________________

It’s a whirlwind of a romance.

You never thought this would happen to you. You constantly hear about celebrities getting together after knowing each other for ten seconds, getting married after dating for eleven. You’d scoff at the thought. That’s infatuation, not love.

Now as you’re holding Chris’ hand as he uses his other one to shield you from the lights of the paparazzi cameras flashing in your face, you wonder how the hell you got here. Going on dates every week, spending the night at whomever’s place is closest- you’ve even Facetimed his parents a few times, for God’s sake, and you’ve only been dating for three months.

You haven’t told him you love him yet, nor has he told you. You’re not ready for that. He’s clearly still dripping in the residue from his playboy days, and you’ve simply always had a difficult time with… well, emotions.

It’s the main cause behind any arguments you two have. While he still has a very frat boy-esque mentality, he’s also very sensitive to feelings. He’s a romantic at heart; he’s like an open book, and he surprisingly has no problem being vulnerable. You, on the other hand, keep everything bottled up. It’s what you’re used to.

Still, you make it work. You’ve never been in a relationship that feels so serious. Even the arguments only furthermore make it seem real, like you've been dating for years rather than a few months.

The two of you finally approach the gate of the apartment complex, entering as you let out a little breath upon being free from the paparazzi’s clutches. “I don’t know how you deal with this everyday.” You shake your head, barely laughing. “It’s exhausting.” He chuckles and guides you inside, raising a brow. “Well, baby doll, it’s going to be your life pretty soon now that you’ve found yourself an agent- you know that, right?”

You can’t hold back your smile, even though you’ve been strictly telling yourself not to keep your hopes up. “I don’t have one yet, it’s just a meeting. I can’t get too excited!” He scoffs and suddenly grabs your waist, playfully tackling you down onto the couch as you squeal. “Well, I’m going to be excited for you then. C’mon baby, look at you. You’re fucking gorgeous, and you’ve been gaining more and more followers by the second. And the agency reached out to you first to set up a meeting, you didn’t even have to send your headshots in. You know how good of a sign that is?” He playfully starts tickling your sides and you practically shriek in laughter, squirming through your giggles. “Chris!!”

He finally stops and you exhale, breathless but smiling as you reach up and hold his face lightly. “You really think I’ll make it big one day? That I’ll eventually be walking that runway during Paris Fashion Week?”

“Hell yeah I do, cupcake.” He murmurs, leaning down to peck your lips, “And I’m going to be sitting front row at every single fucking show.” You smile, briefly shutting your eyes before opening them again as you trail your fingertips along the stubble of his jawline. “Oh, yeah? What if you forget all about me because you’ll be a big Hollywood star by then? What if you show up front row, sitting next to your girlfriend Megan Fox?” He blinks and laughs deeply, moving his mouth down to kiss at your neck. “Mm… I’d be watching you walk that runway and dump her right then and there to beg for you back, that’s what.” You hum softly in delight as he nibbles on your sensitive skin, his husky voice continuing, “But you know that’s not going to happen, right baby? I can’t imagine doing this whole Hollywood thing without you by my side. You support me so much, and I want to do the same for you. I just… have a really good feeling about this relationship.”

You lightly move his head to look up into his eyes, reading his expression. He looks nothing but genuine.

“Me too.” You whisper, caressing his cheek lightly with your thumb. “I think we’re both gonna make it big one day. And we’ll be doing it together.”

____________________

“He was my first.” You laugh softly as you wipe at your eyes, looking up towards the ceiling of the lavish five star hotel room as if that will stop the tears from returning. “I was only eighteen when we met. Still new to LA, only had a few thousand followers on Instagram. God, why am I crying right now?”

Your friend Taylor hands you a tissue, shaking her head. “It’s okay to cry sometimes, you know. It’s good to have feelings.”

You scoff through the tears, taking the tissue and wiping at your wet eyes. “I just can’t believe everything we’ve gone through. Me becoming an international model, him becoming Captain freakin’ America, adopting a dog together, traveling the world together for his press conferences and my photoshoots, meeting each other’s families…” You sniff, finally letting a tear actually slide down your cheek. “Do you remember when I had to get an appendectomy? And I was so fucking freaked out about the surgery, I had never had one before- but he was there with me the entire time I was recovering. He even told the director of Gifted that he needed a few days off.”

“Yes, Y/N, we remember.” Jasmine sighs, handing you a glass of wine. “Drink up girly, you clearly need it tonight.” Candice raises an eyebrow, questioning, “Hasn’t she drank enough? I think that’s why the crying is happening…”

“And we even talked about having kids together. We just knew we’d make it, you know? That our relationship would last forever. It wasn’t delusional, we knew it.” You sniff, taking the wine nonetheless as you take a sip. “Oh my God, remember when I had that pregnancy scare? And it looked like I’d be having a baby, and I was so nervous to tell him, but when I did he was so fucking ecstatic. Guys, he was so happy. Literally jumping for joy. He told me he wanted nothing more than to have a baby with me, even though we hadn’t planned for one that early.”

“Well, thank God you weren’t actually pregnant,” Meng pipes up, a glass of wine in one hand as she goes to open your closet door with the other. “Because then shopping for this would have been a lot more difficult with a baby bump.” She pulls out the wedding dress, playfully moving it from side to side in front of her body. All the girls immediately laugh, cheering as they raise their glasses. “Hell, yeah! Our girl’s getting married to the love of her life tomorrow!”

You giggle through your tears. Your happy tears, to be exact.

“C’mon, Y/N, stop crying already!” Elsa laughs, shaking your shoulders lightly. “You’re acting like Chris dumped you!” You laugh too, wiping at your eyes. “I can’t help but be a little emotional, okay? God, this is his fault. I never used to be such a crybaby until I met him.” You lift up your glass for another toast as you smile widely. “To the best damn bridesmaids in the world. Thank you for dealing with my sensitive ass during this whole marriage process.”

“Anything for you, soon-to-be Mrs. Evans!”

#chris evans x reader #chris evans fluff #chris evans x you #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans fic #writing

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vaguely-concerned · 3 years

Note

Do you find it kinda interesting how TF’s parents are never mentioned in his lore? His grandparents are, since they taught him how to use the cards but his parents… aren’t. Which is weird Bc you’d expect them to protest their child being left on the river bank. What do you think?

(I personally think they could have been killed then TF was young, leaving him into he care of his grandparents, since the river people were not welcome on what seemed to be their own land if you know what I mean. Thank god League isn’t a political game, am I right?)

Oooh yeah I think there are some posts back in the annals of my league of legends tag from when I was just getting into TFGraves and was going through their bios and stuff where I rambled a whole lot about this hahaha. from what's on page I think we only know that he had a grandfather (seems to have taught him the card tricks and the more mystical side of things) and an aunt (seems to have taught him about reading people while playing), and no other close family is ever directly mentioned?

like you I have taken that as either his parents were no longer around by the time he got exiled, for whatever reason -- death, sickness, abandonment, broken relationships, who knows -- which left him vulnerable to whatever family politics lead to so easily abandoning a child with nothing (if his grandfather was still alive at that point maybe he was too old or sick to really be of help even if he did come with him? we know the only thing TF was left with was his grandpa's old deck of cards, which suggests to me some kind of care or love enduring in that relationship). or, kind of sadder to me at least, whatever parent(s) he had were terrible and just fucking LEFT HIM THERE!!! like if you couldn't talk the rest of your people around to letting him stay, you'd at the very fucking least go with him wtf!!!! from the way it's written I'm guessing he was somewhere in the 12-15 age range at the time? he was definitely still seen as a child, since he 'grew into manhood on the road' and everything. it's just. it's just kind of shady no matter how I look at it lol.

I do somehow feel that if his parents were actively killed that's big and dramatic enough that his bio would have mentioned something? personally I lean towards more of a like... y'know, mundane everyday sadness there, the way families break apart in real life, and he might not have been old enough to really know them before they were gone and no one was too keen to explain it all to him as he grew up? it's a neat contrast to the ~*cool mysterious*~ persona he's built for himself to me, the whole Twisted Fate vs. Tobias um Theme doing its thing in the background.

(and yeah as you say... they really don't quite know what to do with the romani coding they've put in there do they. I guess it's an improvement on how they handled it initially but if that isn't damning with faint praise... lmao)

#in my fic I've gone with him having a mom still around at the time but she was uh. not great haha #so it's a situation where a lot of his charm and ability to ingratiate himself with people was built to try to make it y'know.#easier for her to be a 'good mom' to him (needless to say she wasn't but it was more on the emotional neglect side of things)#league of legends

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withoutmonsters · 4 years

Text

My Body Yearns (and Turns for A Sleep that Won’t Ever Come)

tags: Harringrove, post s2, pre-s3. pre-slash, implied/referenced child abuse, underlying internalized homophobia, pining!fic.

link to ao3

There was a monster out tonight. And not just any monster, Steve thought, eyes scanning over the snow-coated shapes of trees looming in the night, it’s the kind of monster that will kill me if I stop.

The words were peculiarly clear in Steve’s mess of a brain, warring between the sheer panic of a late-night attack, and the calm exhaustion of giving up and dying. He knew they were gone; had gone back to the lab like everyone else at one point just to see the wall that used to be the gate.

But that never stopped the feeling like something was watching him, and he was sick to death of the twisty-turny squirrelly feeling itching at the back of his head most nights. Patrolling was the only thing that kept it at bay, for short periods of time, so he’s out here, and he’s looking for monsters, and he hoped to god that if he found one, he might actually be smart enough to kill it.

He was expecting demodogs, but what he found was Billy. Shaking and shivering and looking half-dead.

Steve cursed, jumping out of his car, taking in Billy’s split lip and wavering form.

Billy slurred through his chattering teeth, “Stevie? What the fuck?”

Steve wanted to ask that very same thing. “Jesus, man, you’re frozen! What are you doing out here?”

Billy sneered like he was a professional at it. “What’s it to you, pretty boy?”

Steve gritted his teeth, trying not to let out a very incredulous scream. A particularly icy gust rushed over them, and Billy shivered violently. Steve thought that he could actually see his body temperature falling. Billy wasn’t exactly dressed for the weather—just his denim jacket over a thick shirt.

“Alright,” Steve said. “That’s it. Get in the car.”

Billy raised his eyebrows. “Why should I?”

“Because you’ll freeze to death if you don’t,” Steve snapped. “In the car, Hargrove.”

Billy raised his chin, like he was going to protest—because of course he was—but Steve didn’t let him, crowding uncomfortably close, laying his warm hand on Billy’s frigid cheek. It felt like ice. Billy flinched, drawing back slightly. Steve moved closer, breath ghosting over Billy’s lips, trying not to notice the green-blue of his eyes, how he imagined that they were the exact color of the ocean on a sunny day.

“Get in the car,” he whispered, not nicely.

Billy got in the car.

When they got back to Steve’s place, it was apparent that there was more wrong with Billy than just near-frostbite. He moved with an odd sort of shuffling stumble, ginger and soft. Steve frowned at him.

Billy raised a belligerent eyebrow. “So, Harrington? You got me alone.”

It was obviously supposed to be a dig couched in flirty words. That was Billy’s main modus operandi when it came to Steve—flirtatious come-ons said so aggressively that they sounded like insults.

“You need to dry off,” Steve said, “I’ll get you something warm to wear.”

“I’m not taking my clothes off,” Billy snapped.

“Yes, you are,” Steve stepped closer, feeling like he was looming over Billy. There was something that seemed small about him. Vulnerable.

Steve wasn’t usually one to initiate space-sharing. No, that was Billy’s role in their relationship—hip-checks in the hall and grinding during gym. But Steve was just really done with Billy’s bullshit tonight.

“I’m not letting you freeze to death in my house, Hargrove.” He tugged at the hem of Billy’s shirt. It was soft and worn and thick under his fingertips. “Off.”

He didn’t wait for Billy to comply, instead turning and marching up the stairs. When he got back downstairs, sweats and a thick comfy sweater in hand, Billy was shirtless in his living room, looking like he was about to murder somebody. A distant part of Steve’s brain noticed his expression and was alarmed, but Steve pushed it aside. He liked not being afraid of Billy, if only for a little while.

There was a stark bruise forming over Billy’s solar plexus, looking fist-shaped. Another on his stomach, bigger and meaner.

Billy’s face twisted when he noticed Steve looking.

“What happened?”

“None of your fucking business, Harrington,” Billy snarled, pushing right up in Steve’s face. And just like that, their normal dynamics were restored.

“It looks like it hurts,” Steve said, quieter than he meant to be.

“It doesn’t,” Billy snapped.

Steve snorted, shoving the clothes into his hands. “I’ll get something for it while you change.”

He darted to the upstairs bathroom, taking his time a bit so that Billy would have some privacy to shuck his snow-soaked clothes. When he returned, Billy was looking a bit like a drowned rat, wet hair limp from the moisture outside, snowflakes nearly all melted and ruining any volume he might’ve achieved. His jeans were in a heap by his feet, sweats tugged over his hips, bunching because they were slightly too long. His expression twisted in a deep scowl; he was still shirtless.

Steve popped open the tin of balm in his hands. He had gotten it after his fight with Billy, finding that it helped with soreness and swelling. He dipped two fingers in, scooping up some, and then reached out, smearing the balm over the bruises. Billy flinched. His skin was, a little surprisingly, hot like a furnace under Steve’s fingertips. Steve rubbed it in, trying to ignore the fact that Billy had crazy muscle definition. Steve stepped back, wordlessly recapping the tin. A muscle popped in Billy’s jaw as he gritted his teeth, but he didn’t say anything. He just pulled Steve’s sweater over his head. It was thick knit fabric, worked in a cable pattern, ordered from Ireland. It was one of Steve’s coziest and warmest sweaters. It leant Billy a strangely homey vibe, like he was getting ready to settle in for the night after a long day of doing—something. Steve cut himself off, trying not to think about how, even in shapeless sweats, Billy still looked like a model.

“Fire’s in the den,” Steve murmured, voice thick.

Billy sneered. “You keep a fire going when you’re not home?”

“It’s gas, asshat,” Steve snapped, storming ahead and flipping the key to get the fire started. It blazed to life with a whoosh.

He heard shuffling behind and saw Billy still doing that ginger-walk into the room, eyes darting everywhere. He immediately looked at the fire, and—reluctantly, Steve saw—went over to it. But it was clear real damn fast that no matter how much Billy didn’t like needing anything, he needed warmth. His skin, still cold, was gaining a slight flush from the fire. Billy sunk down in front of it, looking oddly young. Steve supposed it was his feet—they were bare, tucked under him as he kneeled. It made him look about five years old and gave Steve the strange urge to go get him a mug of hot chocolate with marshmallows and whip cream.

Steve didn’t, instead sitting in one of the chairs and leaning his head into his palm. He was irrevocably tired, as he always was, and the warm fire combined with the fact that he wasn’t alone was enough to push him—unwillingly, teeth-gnashingly—into slumber.

When he woke up, Billy was gone.

#harringrove #stranger thi #post s2 #pre s3 #implied/referenced child abuse #Billy Hargrove #Steve Harrington

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weirdochick56 · 4 years

Text

Trapped- Campbell Eliot Imagine

Campbell Eliot x Reader

Warnings: Explicit language. Dark!Campbell (obviously)

Disclaimers: This isn’t a light character and this isn’t a light relationship or situation. This is dark and violent so please read with care if abusive situations aren’t your jam!

Word Count: 3,914 words

Summary: Campbell Eliot is your bestfriend’s, Sam, brother. He’s a disturbed individual who doesn’t feel emotions like the rest of you do. His gaze and heart are dark and sadistic and yet- you’re drawn to him. So when he comes looking for Elle and no one gives her up, he offers another aleternative; he’ll take you instead. But he’ll only keep you for a limited amount of time. If by the end of that time you still want to leave him, he’ll let you and Elle go-- definitively. If not, you’re his. Should be easy right?

***

(Gif is not mine!)

You lick your lips, flipping through another page of the book, eyes intensely seeking out every word, soaking every syllable in your head.

This was you third time reading Jane Eyre, but each time it just got better.

You’re so immersed in the fictional world of the young woman, in fact, that you don’t notice when someone comes in until he speaks- voice gruff and bemused.

“Good book?”

You jolt off the couch, heart instantly clenching in shock as your gaze flickers to person which has spoken.

“Campbell,” his names leaves your mouth in a barely-registered, unintentionally breathless mumble.

He grins at you. “Did I scare you, doll?”

You swallow, avoiding eye contact. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Shrugging, he steps closer to you. “As happy as I am to see you, I’m here for Allie and Will. They’ve got something that belongs to me.” He motions loosely around you. “You wouldn’t happen to know where they are would you?”

You shake your head. “And even if I did why the hell do you think I’d tell you?”

He pauses suddenly, face falling and the move is so startling, your heart does too.

He stares you down as he steps closer. You refuse to move or maybe you just can’t- his gaze paralyzing you entirely.

It isn’t until he’s a mere foot away from you, scanning you from head to toe pensively, that he finally speaks.

“You’re too fuckin pretty and smart to be aiming this low, Y/n. Always were.”

You scoff at him. “And according to you what the hell is so low that I’m aiming at?”

“This. This house, these people. You don’t belong here.”

You laugh wryly, shaking your head. “And what the hell would you know about belonging Campbell? All your life, all you’ve done is not fit in. You try- you hang out with the cool kids but even you can’t make yourself believe that you actually feel good with them. That you actually fit in.”

He clenches his jaw, clearly on the verge of snapping, before a small ominous smirk grows on his face. “Yeah. You’re right, dollface. But at least I’m actually going for the people that matter. Allie and her pathetic little crew won’t stay in power of this town for much longer and then you’ll be on the losing side.”

You smirk. “We’ll see about that.”

At the smugness in your face, something suddenly snaps in him and he laughs.

“You’re so fucking lost. I’m willing to show you the way though, Y/n.” He tilts his head mocking, eyes scanning you from head to toe with a malicious glint in those mysterious eyes.

You swallow your fear. “Yeah? And how’s that?”

“If you open those long legs of yours for me, I’d be more than willing, dollface.” He licks his lip mockingly.

You’re sure he doesn’t actually mean it; Campbell is always playing games and this is another one of his sick manipulations to get you riled up.

And it’s working.

You first your hand, raising your arm in a flash, ready to punch the living daylights out of him, but he catches his arm just before your fist connects with his annoyingly sharp jaw.

He yanks your closer to him, clicking his tongue with pretend disapproval. “Now, Y/n, that’s not a very nice thing to do to a guest, is it?”

“Listen, I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but I’m not your fucking toy, Campbell,” you hiss at him, despretely trying to tug your arm from his painfully tight grasp, fighting the panic rising in you at your vital mistake.

No one else was at home and they wouldn’t be for a while. It was just you and him— no one was here to save you if he decided to do something.

Truth be told, he terrified you. But that didn’t mean you’d let him know that. You knew the sick motherfucker got off on that shit, and you weren’t going to become just another helpless victim trapped beneath his sharp claws.

Not you.

At your venomous response, Campbell simply raises a dark brow at you, scanning you from head to toe with decisive carelessness and a cold indifference that made you feel like a minuscule bug beneath his shoe.

That was one of the things with Campbell- he had a way of making people feel like worthless little things. Especially in comparison to him. It was this effect that made you detest him even more than usual. He wasn’t just a jerk, he was manipulative in the worst way possible because he didn’t only manipulate you for his own benefit, but against your own. He made you hate yourself so much you’d have no choice but to comply with him.

And you weren’t immune to it, no matter how much you tried to deny it.

And yeah, sure- physically speaking, Campbell Eliot could more than easily overpower you. No doubt.

He was taller, towering over you like a damn mountain. And he was clearly stronger- the lean muscles that flexed beneath his shirt anytime he took a menacing step toward you were enough evidence.

But somehow you knew it was stripping your mind of its power that he really enjoyed. Being able to trap you in your own fucking body- that’s the real power trip he craved.

He raises his hand, fingertips softly brushing a few strands of hair away from your face as you stubbornly stare him down.

The touch is shocking in its contrast to the death grip he has on your arm and it nearly makes you whimper.

He curls his hand over your jaw, placing his thumb under your chin, fingertips softly brushing against your neck.

You watch him so closely that your heart nearly drops when he suddenly twitches- it’s very small, but seeing as you’re quite literally holding your breath for his next move, you catch it- and it’s as his hand sweeps lightly over your neck...over your throat.

You watch his face closely. His lips part, his breath hitches and his eyes darken even more beneath the dim light of your living room.

He catches himself quickly, though. So quickly in fact, you’re sure if it weren’t for the fact that he were so close and you were so fucking scared of him, you wouldn’t have even noticed.

But you did. And a chill runs up your spine when you think about what he must’ve been thinking in that messed up head of his.

This fear grows when he uses his thumb to force you to look up at him, leaving your jugular totally exposed and vulnerable to those big hands.

“Oh, dollface, but you are,” he responds with sardonic sympathy. “You all are. Now, tell me where they are.”

Your breath hitches when he abruptly digs his fingers into the skin of your arm, sinking his claws into you.

Tears prickle your eyes at the sudden and sharp pain. You try to blink them away and hold back the tiny sobs threatening to exit your slightly dry lips, but a few of both escape anyway and you hate yourself for being so damn weak in front of him.

That is why, to reserve your dignity (or what’s left of it anyway), you don’t dare back down, looking at him dead in the eye and gritting your teeth as you lean in.

You wait for him to expect something of you and then you talk.

“Fuck. You,” you grit out with biting anger.

He smiles in a sickengly smug way, dark eyes practically drinking in the sight of you twisting in pain beneath his touch, of the humiliation embedded deep beneath that fake bravado of yours.

And as much as you hated admitting it, despite it all, there was such beauty in that gaze, such intriguing depth.

God, if it weren’t for the fact that you could see the sadistic joy -far darker than you had initially thought- clearly swimming in them as well, you could’ve confused him for handsome. If for a mere second.

If for a mere second, you could make out a striking resemblance between him and Dorian Gray in the infamous painting- the version before he turned into a monster that is.

His face was structured in that same classical beauty kind of way- high cheekbones, sharp jaw, bold brows, delicate pink lips, and a thick set of long lashes encasing a pair of piercing blue eyes.

But seconds go by and that mere second sure as hell did.

And all it gives way to is the pain you’re currently feeling and the perpetrator behind it. His beauty is dangerous. It’s deceiving to what truly hides beneath it. The ugliness simmering beneath, just waiting for something to snap from within to explode and take with it everything in its path.

He leans into you all of a sudden, making your heart jump all the way to you throat at the abruptness of the movement.

Not go mention; you’re fucking trapped between him and the wall now.

You catch a whiff of his cologne- a subtle but manly scent and the musk of his sweat and it makes your head spin. That along with the bitterness of the situation you’re in, nearly makes you faint with fucking desperation.

A trapped animal. That’s what he was minimizing you to. A fucking animal.

You swallow past the lump in your throat, hard. Licking your dry lips, you anticipate with almost overwhelming anxiety his next move.

His gaze flickers down to your lips as he laughs softly.

The warmth of his breath as it brushes against your face sends another chill down your spine and you can’t quite decipher if it’s because you’re shitting your pants or because he’s abandoned his indifference and is now looking at you like you’re his next prey and he can’t wait to chase you down and devour you.

His thumb softly caresses your chin, fingers moving into your hair. Your lips part at the delicious sensation and despite yourself, you lean into his touch.

“Careful what you go wishing for there, Y/n. Might just come true,” he warns mockingly, his whispers hoarse. His gaze sweeps over you- shameless as ever.

He made you feel invaded in your own body, the way he looked at you. His gaze and the liberties he took with them as he roamed your body and face made you feel like you were mistaken and actually his to look at. Like you were his to undress with his eyes.

It was a strange feeling to have him close after watching him from afar for years. Even as Sam’s best friend, you’d only ever talked to him twice before in the past.

Both were calling him out on treating Sam like trash.

To which he’d only laughed and walked away as if you were but a pesky little thing. After that, you had made it a point to stay away from Campbell. He was intimidating even in his nonchalant disregard.

But now, after what has happened, after almost everyone in your town had disappeared- he was making you question everything you believe in. And he seemed to be targeting you rather than just shake you off.

The fucker.

You suddenly can’t breathe, your heart beating so fast, you feel feel fucking dizzy with all the adrenaline it’s pumping through your veins.

You inhale shakily, trying to keep your fitting in this slippery slope of a situation you’d gotten yourself into.

“Let me fucking go, Campbell. I already told you I don’t know where they are,” you say- tone far too soft to be anything even remotely close to imposing.

He clicks his tongue at you mockingly and when you feel him tangle his fingers into your hair, wrapping the strands around his hand, you know something bad was going to happen.

Suddenly, he yanks your head back. The searing, burning pain coming from your scalp was unexpected and lethal and you cant help but let a loud yelp escape your lips.

“I’ll let you go when I fucking feel like it, you got me? I still don’t think any of you fucking understand, so let me make it crystal clear,” he snarls, forcing you to look him in the eye.

They’re stone cold, emotionless, the only emotion he had -sadistic joy- is gone and in its place there’s only searing, voidful, palpable anger.

“Everyone in this fucking town is scared of me.” He briskly releases you, knocking you back into the wall as he takes a few steps away from you. “And it’s for good reason.”

With a tiny grunt, you glare up at him. “Asshole,” you mutter.

He ignores your petty little insult, scoffing down at you like you’re a worthless piece of shit.

“Even you.”

You scowl. “Well I don’t know about everyone else but I, for one, am not afraid of you, Campbell.”

His lips curl upwards as he stares at you with a bemused look on his infuriatingly attractive face. “Sure you fucking aren’t. You know,” he clicks his tongue. “I always found it strange that even when you and Sam were attached at the hip, you never tried to get even remotely close to me. I mean aside to give me shit about the way I chose to treat Sam.”

He suddenly grows serious, a predatory look instantly growing on his face. Then he clenches his fists so tight, his knuckles turn paper white.

“Oh, the things I could do to you,” he mumbles, eyes zeroing in on your chest and then your neck. He drags his tongue over his thin upper lip, eyes flickering back up to you.

If that asshole knew how bothered his eyes on you made you feel, he ignored it. Or perhaps he enjoyed watching you squirm. Probably the latter.

They’re so dark now, that under this lighting- they almost look black. Far from his natural pools of blue and strikingly menacing.

His silver earring glimmers dangerously under the light and then you catch a glimpse of something else in his hand as he holds it up to the light.

Your blood runs cold when you realize it’s a blade.

He casually plays around with it, twirling around his hand with ease.

“You wouldn’t just be afraid...” he closes his eyes for a second, as if imagining it in his mind. A sick, perverted smirk instantly curls his lips and his cold gaze pins yours down once more when he releases a tiny hum.

“You’d be begging me to hurt you some more. Hell you’d get on your fucking knees and ask me to like the nice little girl you make everyone think you are.”

Your chest rises but doesn’t fall as you hold your breath. You’re trembling at this point, but you hope to god he doesn’t fucking notice.

“You’re sick,” you whisper roughly, eyeing him cautiously.

He shrugs nonchalantly, fingers running the knife some fucking idiot had left lying around.

“Maybe. But at least I’m not weak.” He looks at you pointedly. “At least I know how to take care of the things that belong to me.”

You huff, swallowing down your fear and letting your mouth run. “See, that’s the fucking problem with you Campbell. You think you’re entitled to owning people. But I’m not going to let you manipulate me.”

He raises a brow. “Oh, trust me, Y/n. Right now, with you- this is as real as I get. If I was manipulating you, you wouldn’t know it.”

Despite how much his words chill you to the bone, and your strangely strong urge to ask a whole bunch of questions, you merely chuckle sarcastically at him, putting on a brave face.

“Fortunately, that’s never going to happen.” You smile before quickly letting it drop. “Now if you’re done, get the fuck out.”

He sighs with fake defeat, putting the knife down casually.

“Fine. I’ll go.” You don’t budge, refusing to drop your guard at his words.

He smiles and even though you know that it’s not real- for a split-second you forget who he is because of how damn charming it is.

“Tell your friends I was here, will you doll?”

You almost let out a sigh of relief when he spins on his heels and begins to walk away but that gets trapped in your windpipe when suddenly pauses near the doorway, glancing at you over his shoulder.

“You know, it’s a shame.”

“What is?” You snap.

“That we hadn’t talked like this earlier.” He grins darkly. “I actually kinda enjoyed this little convo of ours.”

And with that he walks out, slamming the door shut.

Once you’re sure he’s gone, you release a huge breath, falling against the wall.

Your arm was throbbing aggressively and so was your scalp, your chest aches with pent-up anxiety.

And yet....

And yet all you can really think about is those eyes. That smirk.

The darkness inside of him wasn’t entirely empty, you conclude the more you thought about the genuine joy he had as he saw you in pain.

It was fucked up for obvious reasons, but you couldn’t help but think that what he held in that gaze was far more than that emotionless exterior he showed everyone. It was darkness nonetheless, but it wasn’t entirely devoid of all emotion.

Everyone said he didn’t feel like the rest of you did. But he felt something didn’t he?

There was something almost mesmerizing about figuring out what he was thinking. What he was feeling. About what made him tick.

It was crazy, but he’d always seemed like a sad person to you. Even underneath all that hard skin he’d built over the years, underneath that emotionless existence he’d been living, he seemed sad.

He scared you so much, it was practically impossible for you to comprehend why he also intrigued you just as much- if not more.

His darkness was as terrifying and unpredictable as it was alluring to you.

You sigh a little, glancing the already-forming bruises marring the skin of your arm. They were dark imprints of where he’d sunk his fingers into you.

You shiver just thinking about his hands on your skin.

You can never forget how dangerous he is.

Because if you do, you could find yourself trapped under his claws.

You tug on your long-sleeve subconciously, looking at Allie with furrowed brows.

“He said he was looking for you guys.”

Will shares a look with the blonde girl before looking back at you. “Did he specify why?”

You shrug. “No. Just said he needed to talk with you because you had something that belonged to him.”

Pursing her lips, Allie sighs. “We’re sorry for leaving you alone, Y/n. We should’ve had someone from the guard here. But he didn’t like-” she hesitates, watching you closely. “He didn’t hurt you or anything, did he?”

You look down, tugging even more at the sleeves and shake your head. “No.”

Allie had enough on her plate as is, you didn’t want to add another thing to it and be a bother.

She nods and sends you a look, fairly enough not looking convinced at all by your meek firmness.

“Well-” just as she begins to speak, a loud knock at the door abruptly cuts her off.

All three of you share a look this time, and you swallow harshly, heart racing. “Campbell?” you mumble with dread.

Allie motions to Grizz to check who it is. He nods, prying the front door open only slightly.

“What do you want Campbell?” He spits.

The small, indifferent, mocking, cold laugh he gives as a response floats in from the other side of the door and sends a shiver down your spine.

“I need to talk to Allie,” he says simply.

Grizz goes to protest coldly, but Allie shakes her head at him, motioning for Campbell to come in. Grizz clenches his jaw, but complies, stepping aside for him to step in.

Campbell smirks sumgly, leering down at Grizz -who looks just about ready to explode- as he passes by him.

Then his gaze shifts to you as you stare at him and he grins brightly. You instantly look away, scrutinizing your hands.

Your spine goes rod straight as his footsteps near the kitchen, where you currently sat on a stool by the counter.

“What the hell do you want Campbell?” Allie raises a brow at him.

He slightly glances at you before smirking up at her.

“Elle. Where is she?”

Allie shakes her head. “She’s not your property Campbell. And you can’t just barge in here like that.”

His smirk drops and he glowers at her. “Give her to me or I swear to God-”

“Or what?” Will interrupts. “What will you do?”

Campbell refuses to back down. “Or I will come over to your house every fucking night and make your life miserable until you do.”

Allie heaves a heavy sigh. “Campbell-”

“Unless...” he softly sing-songs.

Everyone pauses, staring at him.

And when his gaze gently glides over to you, you know what he wants before he even says it.

“Unless?” Will murmurs.

Campbell bites his lip delightfully, gaze never leaving you. “Unless you give me her instead.”

All at once, everyone around you protests.

“What are you crazy?!”

Campbell shrugs, mumbling beneath his breath . “A little.”

The outrage continues. “No fucking way we’re doing that.”

“Listen,” Campbell shushes them. “The way I see it is; this town is fucking sick and tired of you Allie. So I really doubt they’ll have a problem helping me make all your lives a living hell. Now, I can take Elle and keep her because she’s mine. Or I can take sweet little Y/n here and return her after I’m done with her. That is; if she even wants to come back after I’m done with her.”

None of them even consider his offer. They start protesting again against him.

You just sit there, staring off blankly. And when you finally speak up. moments later, everyone falls silent.

“I’ll go with you,” you whisper.

“W-what?” Allies sputters. “Y/n, no.”

You look at her. “Allie, this is my choice, okay?”

She purses her lips in a silent reprimand.

Campbell snorts at your words as you look up at him. “But you have to give me back after a month.”

“Two.”

“One and a half.”

“Deal.” He smirks with satisfaction.

He looks at Allie pointedly. “Deal?”

The blonde glances at Will, Grizz and finally you. It’s clear she hates this; they all do.

You take a deep breath, getting off the stool. You walk towards her, taking her hands in yours.

“Allie please,” you murmur. “Elle has been beaten down enough by him. He’s broken her.”

“And that’s exactly why I won’t let him take you too,” she insists freverently, squeezing your palms tightly.

You deadpan, lowering your voice to a whisper only you two can hear. “Allie, Elle is a badass, but I’m stronger than her, we both know it. I’ve known Campbell my whole life, I know his startegies. I know I can hold out for a month and half. I know that I’ll come back to you and he won’t be running a damn campaign agaisnt you then. It’s a win-win.”

“But-”

“This town needs you, Allie. Even if they don’t see it now. Don’t let us down.” You smile reassuringly for her sake more than yours. “I need you to trust me on this.”

She blinks back tears, nodding lightly.

You nod at her, fighting back your own tears and you step away. You turn to Campbell; your fucking nightmare incarnate.

“Let’s go,” you say softly.

What the hell have you gotten yourself into?

***

Why is there such a shortage of fics on Campbell? He’s such an interesting character and let’s be honest; fine as hell.

(with that earing bruh?)

I definitely have a thing for hot psychos and it concerns me a lil bit.

A special thanks to:

My forevers

@jessikared97

@ladyofletters67

@sammykb1994

@lilypalmer1987

@mogaruke

#campbell eliot #Campbell x reader #Campbell eliot imagine #campbell eliot x reader #the society

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nabrizoya · 4 years

Text

This was the original reply/draft to prompt sent by @zvko way back in may (ily bro). this draft didn’t seem to suit well for the prompt, i thought. now though, i’ll let you decide. partly-edited. or just plain unedited lol.

54: One reaching for the others hand to comfort them, to provide support. A thumb brushing lightly against skin. + Jesse and Lucie.

Lucie was aware of the Tower bell chiming at midnight as she stared steadfastly at the barren windowsill. She preened her ears to hear the ghost of his laughter, all to no avail. The night looked unfazed by the atrocities her mind imposed on her. She sighed, restless and wide awake in her bed, and continued to stare at the ceiling.

She missed him. She craned her neck to the windowsill yet again and closed her eyes, thinking about the nights they had spent awake, talking and laughing until dawn drew them apart. She remembered the games of chess they played, the way he gestured for the pieces for her to move and would win. She reminisced the nights they had spent outside, in the rain and fog and snow, venturing on midnight voyages. And her stealthy pursuits for books on necromancy right under his nose and getting away with her plans? Successful.

She missed him. Terribly.

It had only been a few weeks that they had been apart. Jesse was back to life, still sick and weak and mentally worse than he was before. She didn’t have to see him to know how his nightmares plagued him- they haunted her too. They were fantastical in their graphics, elaborate and daunting. She could project her torment into her writings, her own sense of twisted terror and trepidation. She wondered what Poe’s thoughts would be if he ever read her works; would he be just as fascinated, terrorized and amazed as she was when she read his works?

Lucie couldn’t bear it any longer. She pushed the duvet off her and sat up. The windows were empty of his presence and the clouds behind them carried their gossips, barely sparing a glance at her as she changed into her gear. She fastened a rope and a grappling hook around her waist and drew the cloak around her. Then marched noiselessly into the night towards Gideon Lightwood’s house.

Once she reached the premises, she observed the windows were barely lit and darkness spilled through most of them. Lucie wondered which of them led to Jesse’s room. She was conscious of the panic that began to bubble within her. Jesse wasn’t a ghost anymore; he was human and breathing. She could not risk being found, especially not after what had happened to Eugenia and how Daisy had handled hers. She wasn’t panicking at getting caught; she couldn’t fathom what excuse she could provide for her unannounced arrival.

Jesse was sent to Basilias for three weeks following the utter destruction that Belial had ensued. Lucie had heard, er, eavesdropped on her parents and collected that Jesse Blackthorn was back in London only that evening and that Gideon had proposed to take him under his care for the while.

And there she was, under the window from which the barest of candlelight was spilling through, hoping it was Jesse’s room. She threw the hook and fixed it around the metal that held the pipelines in place and climbed. And to her utter horror, in the littlest of light, she could see the figures of two people entwined in a rather intimate embrace, their faces barely visible.

Lucie was never the best to reciprocate shock; her hands let go of the rope of their own accord, and she gasped as she fell backwards. She held onto the rope as quickly as she let go, but chafed her palms throughout her futile attempt at a safe landing. She tumbled to the ground with a thump and bit down her lip to prevent the scream that was beginning to erupt.

She whimpered as she sat up and looked at her hands, scratched and slightly bloodied. She tried to fish for her stele but could hear the sound of window panes opening. Lucie struggled to free the hook and it came off in an instant, much to her surprise. She covered herself just as Thomas’ voice floated with confusion in the air. “’Think that was a burglar?”

“No,” the other voice said. “I should think not.” Lucie smiled despite the raging pain in her limbs. She could see Alastair help Thomas secure the window and disappear behind them. The iratze was quick to draw; the pain vanished as swiftly as it had come, her hands looking as good as they ever were. She looked at the windows in desperation, her momentary sense of joy now gone. Where was Jesse Blackthorn?

She critically examined the windows. Jesse liked keeping his windows open; his room in Chiswick -when she had spied for necromantic books, a perfectly reasonable adventure- had revealed as much. There used to be plants around the sill and the room usually overlooked a scenic sight ‘ten times worth the painter’s imagination’, as Jesse had once claimed. She trudged through the backyard towards the other end of the house and looked for the one set of windows that would set her heart in a frenzy.

Lo and behold, there it was: two sets of them open as curtains balled close by one set of windows. She watched the cherry blossom sway its flowers to sleep, the wind mumbling a mellow lullaby to it. Her heart lurched; she was so close to him. She drew another rune of stealth at her throat and fastened the hook. She climbed up the rope nervously.

When she reached the window, she tapped at the pane and fixed her foot on the metal around the pipe. Jesse was next to the window in no time. It was a blurry few moments until he reeled back in shock and then come to his senses. Jesse guided her in gently, though Lucie knew better; the moment was gone before she knew, replaced by Jesse’s anger. With Jesse promptly reprimanding her for her impetuousness.

“You can’t possibly be here-” he thundered. But Lucie paid him no heed. She was smiling, her attention wholly captured by the beauty of him. He looked healthier than he was when he had left London. His face was less pale, though there were shadows under his eyes. He wasn’t as thin; there was flesh to him when she touched his shoulder in a daze. His words ceased when she held his scarred hand, in awe with the utter humanness of him. He didn’t look strong, not as strong in the sense of shadowhunters, but at least as strong as any human could be. He had been sick for his entire life, and then dead, but he was better in just three weeks and he would be better even more. Lucie was proud of him.

She stepped back, still lost and removed her hand from his. But he reached forward and held hers, tightening both his hands around hers and holding them close to his heart. “You could be ruined, Lucie. Why are you here?” he asked her softly.

She shook her head. “You look all right,” she said. “But I know you are not.”

He dropped his gaze to the floor just as he let her palm loose. Lucie only stepped closer to him and wrapped her arms around his neck comfortingly. She hugged him tight and heard his heart hammer, feeling the joy of his life tear at her heart. Jesse froze for a moment before he wrapped her in his embrace, burying his head in the nook of her shoulder. She stroked his hair, knowing the glint of sadness in his eyes very well. “I’ve missed you, Jesse,” she mumbled. “How are you?”

Jesse said nothing. They stayed in the embrace for Angel knows how long. Neither of them dreamed of pulling away. The breeze from his open windows swayed them in their song, whistling through the curtains and swooshing them out and away. The two of them were knit into one another, their embraces tight and safe and reassuring. As slow as the night, Lucie’s shoulder grew wet with Jesse’s tears, his shoulders shaking with the pent up agony and pain he bore voicelessly for so long. Lucie felt the overwhelming need to shut the windows and keep him close, cut him away and protect him from every thorn that would dare to come closer. His knees buckled away and he pulled her to the ground; Lucie didn’t mind the pain. She held him in silence, and when his sobs grew louder, she murmured gentle reassurances to him. She held him for hours, suddenly remembering the time Cordelia had held her for hours, preventing her from falling off the cliff. The urge to protect someone so fiercely could never be cultivated. It just came without a question and you protected them without a doubt. She patted his back, the young traces of his muscles reassuring her about his onward health. She cursed the universe for damning him for the sins of his parents.

At some point, she found herself murmuring a lullaby into his hair. Her eyes were thick with tears she hadn't shed when she’d heard that Jesse was gone without a goodbye. Four weeks, the first one having been taken away for questioning by the Clave and the rest at his stay in Alicante. She blubbered, her own sobs mixing with his as she thought of all the people she had lost, of the sacrifices Jesse had made and the pain he had endured. She cried of her mother’s and her brother’s agony when they were tortured by Belial. Of the people who had died and the chaos that each one of her friends had borne, of heartbreak and crumpled wishes. Jesse swayed her this time, letting her cry and complain on his shoulder.

The two of them were a mess. But they were there for each other.

When their sobs stopped, they still held one another. Lucie clutched at him for dear life and Jesse caressed her now unbound hair. “Don’t leave,” she mumbled as she pulled back, wiping the tears on his cheekbones. She sat up on her knees, pulling him closer, and pressed her lips to his burning forehead. Jesse tightened his arms around her waist and held her tight. “You are all right. And you will be all right,” she whispered and drew back, staring down into his eyes that were so open and vulnerable. Jesse reached for her hand in his and linked their fingers together, his fingers caressing the scars on her hand. Their gazes never left one another’s. They stared and stared until the moon shied away from the fierceness in their eyes. Their promise on the light with which they loved each other.

“I won’t,” Jesse promised. He kissed the back of her hand.

Yeah, um. Dunno why the world had to read this, but this was The (TM) first ever time I wrote after a really long time. Kinda like how this one turned out, the direction it took, though er, the writing...; thanks for reading, either way!

#meh #good idea or not?#idek lol #jesse blackthorn #lucie herondale #the last hours #tlh #mine*

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it-stheaulifeforme · 4 years

Text

There was a loud ferocious barking, angry voices and scuffling outside the cabin door, and Tintin’s head snapped around against the bars of the cage, eyes wide with panic. It could have only been one dog making that noise, causing that kind of chaos for the crewmates that had only recently left the cabin where he was being kept. He felt a sick feeling of anger and fear rise in the pit of his stomach, dreading what could be happening to him right outside that door.

He cursed, wrists chafing against the rope around them, overcome by more fear than anything else that burned especially across his face and through his stomach. He felt a numbness creep up his legs, his shoes scuffing against the floorboards in his attempt to free himself or at the very least, be able to stand on two feet.

He stopped, sensing the noises outside and trying to listen closer. The voices were muffled and though he couldn’t hear, there was definitely a level of threat involved. Tintin was normally level-headed even in situations like this, but this was involving his dog. His throat was dry and he swallowed, feeling the unmistakeable racing of his own heart. No, no, no, don’t, please don’t, he’d never let anything happen to him—

The voices got quieter, Snowy’s barking fading into the distance along with a few footsteps. Normally his instinct was to do something, but the racing panic and now anger simmering underneath the surface seemed to put him in freeze mode. He did manage to have some strength to pull himself up though onto his feet with one of the bars though, his body shaking with adrenaline.

He heard the door open and shut behind him as he managed to stand. He felt a mix of emotions - fear, panic, anger, disgust, distress - at anything happening to his trusty little white dog. Would they kill him? Maybe. Would they hurt him? Almost certainly. But it was also certain they were doing this so they could force his hand to help them, he guessed. His hands felt dirty and he felt terror and nausea simultaneously just thinking about it. He couldn’t, wouldn’t think about him doing anything to help them or what could be happening to Snowy.

That kind of stroll on the floorboards with a lighter shoe was pretty much recognisable. Of course. Who else would it be? He only ever talked to somebody when he wanted something. He didn’t have any friends. It was nothing but what he wanted and what he could get from anyone. What a sad life.

“If this is about my dog—” he bitterly remarked, trying to get his voice to remain cold, before he heard the familiar interruption of that faux affable, almost mocking, laugh.

“I believe you heard the commotion outside,” Sakharine replied behind him, a sick politeness in his tone, “I assure you, nothing bad will come to him—”

Tintin finally spun around, making direct eye contact with the man in red in front of him. The audacity in his voice and the clear coldness of his eyes demonstrated nothing but pretentious bullshit, to be frank, in his own mind. He stepped forward as close as he was able to, unable to help the fire burning in him to come straight out of his own mouth.

“—unless I don’t help you, of course,” he spat, refusing to stop looking this man in the eye, “You could not frankly be more obvious about what you want and why you have him, so stop acting so damn nice about it.” He laughed, a laugh laced tremendously with venom.

Sakharine’s smile faded slightly, threat underlining his expression. He was perturbed by the boy’s reaction. Nonetheless, he was confident that this could be a breaking point. Let him be angry; not like there was much he could do. He could only be like this for so long.

He stepped forward so he was barely a foot away from him, the boy’s spiteful expression not budging. Though it was an obstacle to what he wanted, he was fascinated by the fire in his blood. He could see it in his eyes. I mean, he’d ended up here, hadn’t he? Such an eagerness for adventure and mystery at a young age that he forgot not to involve himself in business that clearly had nothing to do with him.

“You know,” he remarked, “I do wonder why such a young boy is involving himself in something like this. It seems considerably reckless of you to interfere with what the…adults are doing.” He grinned at that last part, his voice taking on a more patronising tone by the end. The boy’s expression took on more of a disgusted appearance, demonstrating that this wasn’t the first time this had happened.

“I don’t exist to be patronised, Mr Sakharine,” Tintin stated, addressing him in that familiar way, “My age is not important when the adults are busy committing to illicit business affairs.” He repeated it back similarly, malice heavy on that word in particular. He didn’t know if he had forgotten his fear or just ignored it, but he wasn’t in the place to debate that.

Sakharine was about to say something, but the boy clearly had the attitude to interrupt him. He’d pay for it dearly, evidently.

“And before you spin some sort of story right now, yes, I haven’t forgotten about my dear dog,” he said, practically snapping at the man, “I doubt harm will not come to whilst he’s with you.” His eyes appeared to burn both hot and cold at the other man, refusing to budge. He had not been one to shy away from these circumstances of intimidation.

Sakharine was not one for sentiment (maybe apart from his falcon, but that felt different), but the persistence of this boy about his dog demonstrated enough how easy it was to use others’ for his own gain. He didn’t care what happened to that white little mutt that meant so much to the ginger brat just so long as he got what he wanted from him.

Though frankly, with the way the boy was going with this, he might just have his men break a leg or two or even half drown the damn thing to get him to stop.

He laughed in his usual faux affable tone. “Perhaps,” he said, stressing very specifically on that word, “You’re far too attached to that thing to be involved with these affairs, so you should be…very glad I haven’t thrown it over board to die.” He similarly did so with the last sentence, displaying a sick grin as he studied the boy’s reaction to this response.

Tintin’s eyes flashed in anger, mouth twisted in scorn and teeth bared. “It’s very obvious life has no value for you unless it gives you what you want,” he viciously remarked, face pressed against the bars, “I’ve seen it all before. You’d step on anything to get what you want because the only person that matters in your life is you. That ‘thing’ is my dog, and if anyone’s blood here is going to be spilt, it’s mine.”

He appeared so serious, Sakharine almost wanted to laugh. “How noble of someone so young to throw yourself in front of your dear dog.” He displayed a contemptuous grin. “I’d say brave, but that doesn’t suit you. This isn’t a decision for you to make.”

The boy’s clear eyes appeared to shine more in the dim light, despite still maintaining the direct eye contact with him. Was that just him? The boy might be beginning to break. It was amazing that this attachment to this dog was enough to start such a ball rolling. For the boy’s spirits and capabilities, this seemed far too easy.

He took a step back and went to turn away, but the teenager couldn’t help but let out a particular desperation in his voice. “You have no right to make that decision! You have no right to take what isn’t yours!” He turned back around, relishing this moment. Those eyes were burning with emotion, that fire across his features. As endeared as he felt to that, this brat had no idea what he was dealing with.

He turned back, making a long, menacing step back towards him, faces now only inches apart. The boy’s brows furrowed, trying to maintain his anger despite the air of distress in his eyes. If no one else was going to put this child in his place, then he would.

“Listen here, you actual child, I think I’ve made it very clear that I am not one to preach to about fairness!” he exclaimed contemptuously, a sneer across his face, “You’re on my ship interfering with my business, I don’t care if it was rather you you’d want me to hurt instead of your dear mutt! Maybe if your parents taught you better, I wouldn’t have to be dealing with a brat and his dog like you!”

He stopped, taking in his reaction. Normally he’d come back with a quick response, but he was speechless. His clear eyes glistened more in the light, mouth shaking as if he was trying to say something. His brow remained furrowed, now full of a new emotion that perhaps he hadn’t felt in a while. The boy was probably used to this somehow, but maybe this time Sakharine had hit a nerve.

Tintin’s mouth was shaped in a scowl, disgust, anger and distress roiling especially underneath the surface. He couldn’t speak for a few moments, cursing this fresh vulnerability at the older man’s exclamation. He’d heard similar stuff before, his reputation with enemies beginning to precede him. But this villainous type seemed to hit him out of nowhere, and it was probably all the more painful when they had his dog besides.

“I don’t think anyone has been able to show you exactly what you’re dealing with,” Sakharine continued, voice softer and all the more sinister, “you’re a child, Tintin, if that is your real name, and I have no idea how someone your age is getting involved in business that is no concern of him.”

“You’re hurting others just to get what you want! Besides, you stole my ship!”

“You broke into MY house with a clear idea of what you were doing! You seemed it think it was fine and dandy to snoop around a place you didn’t belong!”

“I doubt it had ever crossed your mind that I had simply found a nice ship at the market before you got involved. Who else was I supposed to suspect but you when I had bought it, clearly trying a bit too hard to convince me to sell it to you?”

Their voices had risen not so much in volume, but emotion. This boy had been too much of a smart ass from the beginning, and finding out he was a reporter was enough of a breaking point. If he was getting this conversation more in his control, he’d turn it back around. He wasn’t about to be outdone by a literal child. It was beginning to go absolutely nowhere as a result.

“I was trying to be reasonable,” Sakharine responded, a faux affable tone returning to his voice, “but since you have continued to not understand who you’re dealing with, I think I’ll go ahead and have your precious mutt’s legs broken. Call it a small comfort that I won’t make you watch.”

Tintin’s face appeared to drain of colour as Sakharine’s face split open at a sick grin at what he just said.

“You touch my dog and I’ll–” Tintin said, voice now cracking before he was interrupted.

“Or you’ll do what?” Sakharine asked mockingly, malicious amusement clear in his voice, “What could you possibly do in your situation if I touch that poor little white dog of yours?”

Anger and distress was now boiling on the surface, and Tintin could feel tears collect in his eyes. He was not one to do this, this was not him. Even for someone his age, he was usually strong-willed. But, perhaps, not enough for Snowy.

The older man was relishing in this new sight of this pesky ginger brat finally be compromised this emotionally. He was in the authoritative position here and seeing that release of tears, though pathetic, be somewhat enjoyable. It had taken threatening to hurt his trusty little animal to break him so easily.

“Don’t you dare,” Tintin said, voice shaking with a quiet anger, “he doesn’t need to be a part of this.”

Sakharine stepped back and turned, sighing. “If you’re going to remain this stubborn and refuse to cooperate, I’m afraid he’ll be even more involved. You two have given me enough grief already.”

The tears were carving even more of a wet path down Tintin’s face now, watching Sakharine as he turned and began to walk away. He pressed his face as much as he could against the metal bars. “Fine! Do whatever you want, but don’t you dare touch my dog!” Tintin snapped, voice bitter and angry despite how broken it felt. The older man refused to stop but merely smiled self-satisfactorily away from him as he strolled back towards the door.

Let him rant, he thought. They could wait. It was enough to get him to even attempt to cooperate, but even better that he found it easier to break the boy’s spirits. Maybe leaving him on his own in there would put him in his place whilst he was none the wiser about his dog, and shouting would get him nowhere.

“Listen to me! Don’t you even think about it!” Tintin began to shout as Sakharine opened the door and stepped through, not even thinking to look back as it finally shut. He heard the footsteps as he felt a sob rising in his throat. He wouldn’t, no he wouldn’t. This wouldn’t happen to him, despite everything that others had thrown at him.

Now that he was alone, he began to feel the fresh release of tears as they burnt across his skin. He was angry, of course he was angry. There was too much he was angry about. But he was scared, he was upset, he had no idea what was happening outside of his current prison, things he’d refuse to admit to himself. He opened his mouth to shout something again, but stopped, coming to the realisation that it was hopeless.

He stepped back, sliding against the bars on the opposite side until he was sitting again. His wrists felt raw from the rope biting his skin and he leant his head back until he was staring at the ceiling. The sob that had settled at the back of his throat finally escaped from his mouth, and he shut his eyes as hot tears fell faster down his face. His dog brought at least solace and affection in dire situations like this, but now he had no idea what was happening to him.

“Snowy…” he finally spoke into the silence, voice quieter than ever, “I’m sorry.”

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lost-in-sokovia · 4 years

Text

toxic - chapter 8

so... congratulations on finally kissing ransom! but are we sure it ended there? keep reading to find out😉 (may contain spoilers to Knives Out)

Your eyes slowly fluttered open.

You sighed as you came to all your senses, feeling a strong pair of arms around your waist and light breath on your shoulder. You knew you weren’t in your bed and only had bits and pieces of the previous night in your head. You couldn’t help but blush slightly as you fully came to remember what happened.

Wait.

You froze and looked down, carefully lifting up the blanket covering you and Ransom.

Holy shit-

Your brain scattered. What was this supposed to mean? Were the two of you just friends with benefits now or were you actually dating? You were staying for two more days, what the hell were you supposed to do now?

You quickled glanced around the room and spotted your pile of clothes. Slowly slithering out of Ransom’s grip, you got up and snatched your clothes as you shivered in the cold. You quickly glanced back to make sure he was still asleep before making a quiet run for it to your room.

Your mind raced as you quickly threw on your undergarments and hopped into your bed. Was this supposed to happen? What did Ransom want? What did you want? This was not at all what you had intended to happen on this trip.

You glanced over at an alarm clock when you realized your phone was still in the pocket of your pants.

9AM.

Damn, you thought. Ransom should be getting up at any time now. There was a knot twisting in your stomach as you thought about what could possibly be coming next.

~•~•~

Sun peeked through the curtains of Ransom’s room and shined on his face. He scrunched his nose and sighed heavily, scratching the top of his head.

His eyes slowly fluttered open and looked around. He saw that the blankets had been messed with and something felt empty.

He remembered. He remembered how he fell victim to his own feelings last night. He remembered how stunning you looked and how you let him do whatever he wanted to you.

So, he did it. He expected to feel some variation of accomplishment or pride, but he felt empty and attached. How could he let himself do this to you? You were so kind and intelligent and witty and gorgeous-, and he had played you. Ransom also felt attached. That was something new for him. He’d never felt this sort of affection towards a girl before. He wanted to stay with you. He wished you were still right next to him so he could kiss you again and tell you he liked you. But you were gone, probably sleeping in your own bed.

Ransom looked up and sighed. What was going so well could be starting to tumble.

~•~•~

You dressed, brushed your teeth, and cleaned your face. You had that morning after hair which you put into a low ponytail to avoid the obvious. But how could you hide something like that? You both knew it happened, you two made it happen, so why have to go through the extra trouble?

You sighed and threw your hands onto the sink, staring at yourself. You didn’t want to go downstairs and face him. Maybe you could play it off like you were sick?

No, you were too mature for that. And with a deep breath and more tugging at the knot in your stomach, you slowly made your way downstairs.

Ransom hadn’t come down yet so you took it upon yourself to get yourself coffee and sit down. The sun shined through the windows and lit up the whole room with an autumn glow. On any other day you would’ve appreciated it, but today was not the day for good weather. You sipped at your coffee, not having much of an appetite. You sat and tapped your foot against the floor as you stared out the window.

Ransom slowly walked in and leaned against the wall, looking at you with pity. You were a nervous wreck. He felt bad, and he pictured that young school girl he was friends with and made many memories with. And now here she was, staying at your house and engaging in certain activities with him.

He cleared his throat just loud enough for you to turn around and acknowledge his presence. You quickly glanced with beady eyes before turning back around and messing with your own hands.

“Hey,” Ransom began.

“Hey.” You didn’t look at him. You didn’t want to. You didn’t know how to take hold of this particular situation so you left that up to him. Ransom frowned as he made himself breakfast, still standing over at the counter and staring at your back.

“Nice morning, isn’t it?” He tried. You nodded and replied with an “mmhm” before silence filled the room again. Thoughts bubbled up inside you and your stomach turned and turned. You felt like you were going to puke. You slammed your fists on the table and stood up to face Ransom sharply.

“Okay, what the hell happened last night? I can’t take it anymore we gotta talk,” you pleaded with sad eyes. Ransom stared at you for a moment, seeing how vulnerable you were and scared of the situation. His heart swelled against his will just at how cute you were.

He chuckled. “Do you need me to say it for you?” He retorted. You couldn’t believe he was trying to humorous about it. You turned red and held up your hands.

“No Ransom, no. Please don’t,” you stated uncomfortably. He shrugged.

“Then what do you want me to say?” He asked with an annoyed chuckle. You shrugged back dramatically.

“I-I don’t know Ransom. Why? Why did we do that? How long have you liked me? How did we go from your family Thanksgiving to making out here?” You asked desperately. Your voice was breaking and your eyes were watering as the two of you stared at each other from four feet away. His expression saddened. He didn’t mean to do this.

“I don’t know,” he mumbled. You wiped a tear away and continued to stare at him. He slowly walked over and wrapped you in a hug. “I’m sorry.”

You shook your head against his chest.

“I am, (Y/N), I’m sorry,” Ransom repeated again. You looked up at him.

“Do you like me?” You whispered sadly. Ransom nodded. Your heart skipped a few beats and you hugged him in return. The two of you just stood there in the moment with each other.

“I probably did a spectacular job at hiding it, right?” Ransom joked lightly. You smiled.

“I didn’t ever think this was going to happen,” you confessed. Ransom hated himself for what he said next.

“Yeah, me neither.” He lied straight to your face. His stomach twisted and he felt so stupid and like he had a giant weight on his chest. How could he bring you this far into the situation and just lie again? He was desperate though, and he didn’t want to lose you again.

You sniffed and looked up to prevent any more tears falling. Ransom picked you up and carried you to the couch, laying down and setting you against his chest. The two of you began to talk again like old times. He traced meaningless lines on your back and twirled strands of your hair. As that day went on you two would laugh at old memories and talk about your current lives. You two sat on the counter and ate ice cream, took a walk, and listened to slow music.

Later that night as the two of you were back on the couch, his intrusive thoughts paid him another visit. Was this his karma for lying? Most definitely.

What a liar. Just wait until the truth comes out.

You don’t deserve a girl as pretty and smart as her. She’s way better than you.

She will leave you, you know.

Your feelings for her aren’t even real, Ransom, come on.

Ransom inhaled sharply and your laughing stop as you looked at him. His eyes showed pain and he was frowning.

“Ransom what’s wrong?” You asked. He shook his head. “No Ransom, tell me,” you said a bit sternly. He didn’t make eye contact with you.

“It’s just these stupid ass thoughts I get in my head occasionally...” He trailed off. You frowned.

“Maybe you need-“

“No I don’t have problems.” He cut you off quickly. You stared at him.

“Getting therapy or the help you need doesn’t mean you have ‘problems,’ so quick that mindset right now,” you told him. He didn’t look at you, but you stared at his hurting expression. “Ransom promise me you’re going to do something,” you said softly.

He gave you a tiny nod. You kissed his shoulder and laid back on his chest.

You closed your eyes and thought about the wonderful day you had. Ransom had truly changed and was no longer the troublemaker he used to be. Yet still, the nagging thought lived in the back of your head:

What was this and what did it mean for the future?

~•~•~•~•~

You spent the night in Ransom’s room.

You woke up and yawned, looking behind you to see the gorgeous sleeping man behind you. You turned around and kissed his cheek softly, causing a corner of his mouth to tug upward.

“Ransom,” you whispered. His blue eyes fluttered open and met yours. He smiled; oh how beautiful you were. He pulled you close to his chest and you sighed as he kissed your head.

“Hi gorgeous.”

You hummed. You wanted to ask him where this put the two of you relationship wise. You took a deep inhale. One more day you got to spend with him, so you might as well know what the plan was.

“Ransom, I was thinking...” You started. He chuckled lightly.

“You were thinking? Aw man, what are we going to get ourselves into now?” He joked. You laughed shortly.

“Where does this put us in perspective of a relationship?” You asked. He froze. How was he supposed to know? He never thought things were going to escalate the way they did, so what was he supposed to say. He bit his lip.

“Where do you want it to put us, beautiful?” He asked. You shrugged.

“I live three hours away,” you argued. “How would we make something like this work?” You asked. “I mean if either of us knew something like this was going to happen, maybe we would have prepared better,” you said and kissed his chest. Ransom caught his breath as his blue eyes darted aimlessly. He backed himself into a hole, goddammit. How was he going to lie to you now.

He swallowed thickly. “Actually, (Y/N), I uh...” He started nervously. You looked up at him with curious (Y/E/C) eyes. He felt guilty as he looked into them, pushing a strand of your hair behind your ears. “I kinda, sorta, knew something like this could happen...” He confessed. You cocked an eyebrow.

“What do you mean?” You asked as you pulled away and propped yourself up on your arm. Ransom sighed in defeat.

“I’ve been alone for the past three months. I haven’t gone out to any parties or clubs. And when I started having these goddamn thoughts, I knew I had to do something about it,” he explained. Your expression got angrier as he kept explaining. “And when you texted me, I thought it would be the perfect distraction for me. I could get you here and spend the holiday with you,” he said meekly. Your eyebrows were furrowed and your mouth was parted in shock.

“So you brought me here to sleep with you?” You asked sternly. He looked over at you and bit his lip. You nodded and quickly got out of bed. “Nice, very nice Ransom,” you said shortly as you began to walk quickly to your room. He hopped out from under his covers to follow you quickly.

“(Y/N) you don’t understand!” He tried to reason. You stomped into your room and began to pack all your belongings.

“What don’t I understand Ransom?” You shot back as you shoved clothes into your suitcase. He ran a hand through his brown locks.

“I didn’t think I would get this attached and-“

“Ohoho, so you totally intended to use me as a toy, Drysdale?” You asked. He didn’t respond. He couldn’t, it was true. You scoffed and grabbed some clothes. You walked into the bathroom and locked him out so you could change. He came up and stood against the door.

“(Y/N) I’m sorry okay?!” He said. You pounded your fist against the door and he jumped back. Not a moment later you were back out with all your toiletries as you shoved them into your suitcase. You were crying now, so betrayed and hurt by what he did. “You’re leaving?” He asked in astonishment. You shrugged.

“I don’t want to spend another minute with you,” you said flatly. That hurt him.

“But your flight doesn’t leave until tomorrow,” Ransom said desperately. You slammed your suitcase closed and zipped it forcefully. You stared straight at him.

“I’m going to Harlan’s because I know he won’t treat me like shit,” you told him.

“(Y/N), I’m not driving you, I won’t let you go,” Ransom argued. You grabbed your suitcase and walked past him and out the door. He followed you down the stairs.

“Then I’ll walk damn it, I’m not five,” you sneered. You walked to the door and pulled on your shoes.

“(Y/N) please just give me another chance,” Ransom pleaded. You opened the door and looked straight at him.

“I thought you weren’t who you used to be,” you choked. Ransom’s expression saddened as he saw how broken you were. “After I got here I thought we could go back to how things were when we were young. I-I thought I was going to leave here with a regained friendship.” You sniffed and shook your head, glancing away from him. Ransom listened sadly in silence. “But no. Turns out you’re just as toxic as you used to be and how everyone sees you as, you piece of shit.” You cried angrily. “Maybe you do have issues, Ransom.” You said flatly before turning and walking away from his home.

His heart stung. He watched you walk away and leave. He shut the door and turned around. He yelled in anguish and punched the door. He threw his back against it and slid down to the floor. Tears of anger and sadness began to flow down his cheeks. He wiped them away. He couldn’t remember the last time someone who wasn’t his dad made him feel this way. He just lost the one person he finally made a connection with, and it was his fault. He screwed up.

He closed his eyes and didn’t fight the thoughts coming into his head. He was numb. He felt weak and like he couldn’t hold himself together any longer.

He curled his knees to his chest and put his head into his knees.

What a loser.

im so sorry i had to rip you apart from him so quickly, i’m sorry🥺 but what were you supposed to do? you don’t deserve to be treated like trash! anyway, i do want to mention a good friend of mine @lookalivefrosty ! she’s been helping me with some of the plot so you should definitely give her a follow or mention her in the comments to thank her!!🤍 anyway, we’ll see what happens next soon, shall we? chapter 9 is in the works, stay tuned.

taglist:

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xmxisxforxmaybe · 5 years

Text

Decryption_Error: “Undefined^Behavior”

Summary: Refusing to give up, refusing to shatter the trust she had worked so hard to build, Y/N fights to get Elliot back; only, when she reaches out, she meets someone new.

Decryption_Error: All Chapters

Word Count: 6200

Tags: @sherlollydramoine @rami-malek-trash @teamwolf2411 @limabein @txmel @alottanothing @ouatlovr @backoftheroomandnotbelonging @moon-stars-soul @free-rami @ramimedley @hopplessdreamer @sweet-charmie @polarcrystall @hah0106 @clumsybookworm18 @diasimar @ramisgirl512 @aboutthatmelancholystorm

Warnings: Angst and believe it or not, SMUT

I hung up the phone and pushed my chair back from my desk, standing to stretch and shake away the agitations of the day and of my life. Lying for Elliot all week had my mind bouncing between irritation and a desperate, black sadness threatening to swallow me whole if I let myself get too close to it.

As I walked to the panel of windows in my office, I thought back to my conversation with Darlene. When Elliot missed work on Friday, I had texted her that evening to see when she could meet me. Leaning against the cool class of the window, a comforting chill creeping across my arm and my forehead, I was reminded of how she and I watched the people from the coffee shop window as we talked about her brother.

Darlene was not one to get out of bed until double-digits popped up on her alarm clock, so we agreed to meet at a coffee shop about a block from Lafayette and Broome at noon on Saturday.

My eyes swept over the muted beige walls and the dark wooden tables of the small, cozy seating area, and I saw she had snagged a corner stool at the high-table built to look out onto the street. I smiled as I took in her legs as they stretched out across the stool beside her, unapologetically taking up twice the space a person needed. My smile split into a grin as I saw the two extra-large coffees clearly purchased without her even bothering to take off her heart-shaped sunglasses.

Darlene let her legs flop to the underside of her stool as I approached. She spun to face the window, reaching up to slide her sunglasses to the top of her head while I shrugged out of my coat and sat down.

“Thanks for meeting me. And for caffeinating me,” I said as I took a cautious sip, cringing slightly as the scalding coffee washed over my tongue. I longed to guzzle it considering I had barely slept since the incident with Elliot.

Darlene looked over to give me a flicker of a smile as she twisted her coffee cup between her fingers, her apprehension palpable.

“No big. What’s up?”

I pressed my lips together as I took a breath to buy a moment as Darlene watched me from the corner of her eye.

“Have you talked to Elliot, uhm, since Thursday night?”

I glanced at Darlene’s profile as her big eyes watched the people on the sidewalk scurry by. For once, she was holding back.

“Don’t,” I pressed. “We know each other too well to start holding shit back now.”

Darlene huffed and swirled on her stool. She leaned back into the wall as she looked at me in that same searching way as Elliot, like a child deciding whether or not to reveal their secret for fear of being punished.

“I haven’t talked to him, okay?”

“You know what happened.”

Darlene fidgeted as she plucked at the tights she was wearing under a pair of a stone-washed denim shorts. “He wasn’t answering my texts so I went to see him last night. He was a dick. So I left. We didn’t really chat.”

I took another sip of coffee, formulating what to say next. Any conversation with either of the Aldersons had the potential to turn bad pretty fast. Darlene was always the easiest of the two to be straight with, but if she felt like she needed to protect her brother, I knew I wasn’t going to get very far.

Mostly, I didn’t want her to feel like she was making a choice: me or him. Darlene and I were both on the same side, whether she fully believed it or not.

“He wasn’t himself on Thursday night,” I stated, opting to avoid another question.

“That’s just it, Y/N. He is himself, right? Isn’t that what’s so fucked up about this whole thing?” Darlene pushed off from the wall and swiveled on her stool again, returning her gaze to the sidewalk. “And he wasn’t, like, the crazy version of himself. He was just . . . a dick. He gets like that sometimes, too.”

“We can all be dicks.”

“Duh. But this was different,” Darlene said, her voice quieting. “I interrupted him.”

A prickle of fear crept down my spine and I tightened my grip on my cup.

“Interrupted what?”

“He was writing a kernel rootkit. When he noticed me looking, that’s when he told me to get the fuck out.”

“And I’m sure you smiled politely and did as he asked,” I said with a huff of a laugh. “I’m guessing there’s no way to swing that it was work-related?”

Darlene chuckled darkly, “Maybe your ship’s gone to shit since you moved up to the big office?”

“Elliot was supposed to be working on new scripts to track WiFi vulnerabilities.”

“Definitely not what he was doing,” she said as exasperation tinged the edges of her words.

I turned away from Darlene’s profile. People were passing quickly by on the sidewalk, tucked into their coats to stop the early-spring wind that always seemed to hold the threat of rain. I watched as cars sat bumper to bumper, waiting for the light at the crosswalk to change.

The longer our silence wore on, the longer I watched such seemingly normal bits of life pass by, the louder my mind repeated the names of the people who had been hacked at my company and at Dad’s.

Colin. Bill. Kurt.

The other anonymous hacks flashed through my mind, the ones I couldn’t assign a name to, and I wondered, really wondered if Elliot was responsible.

Don’t be crazy.

Elliot and I were together more than we were apart up until a few weeks ago. What could Elliot have even gained from those hacks? They had nothing to do with E Corp, which was the only hack I was really worried about him committing: a vengeance hack.

“This is such a mess,” I forced myself to say to distract my thoughts before they could spiral. “I need to see him.”

“Give him space. It can be awhile before he’s normal again.”

“He missed work, Darlene. I . . .”

“What?” she said, turning her light blue eyes to my face.

“I lied. Said he had a death in the family.”

“Fuck!” Darlene said too loudly, making me jump and drawing the eyes of other patrons.

“Jesus,” I hissed, “What’s wrong?”

“I fucking hate this!” she said, her voice low again. “We were hanging out more. Having fun. He was . . . happy. I was happy. Things felt normal for fucking once and here we fucking go again. I can’t keep doing this shit.”

My lips turned down in a frown of compassion. Sometimes I forgot how young Darlene really was.

“You aren’t his keeper, Darlene. He should be taking care of you. Actually, you should be taking care of each other.”

She made a little huff of derision.

“Yeah fucking right.”

“I’m serious. You need to prioritize your own well-being.”

“He’s all I have, Y/N. He’s all I’ve ever had,” Darlene said sadly, then with irritation, “But I’m sick of his fucking shit.”

“I wanted to talk to you today because I’m not giving up on him without a damn good fight. I promised you that.”

Darlene took a big gulp of her coffee and without turning to look at me, she linked her arm in mine as it sat on the tabletop and leaned into me, resting her head on my upper arm.

I sighed, “Let me take care of him this time,” and tilted my head so it was resting on top of hers, the slight warmth radiating out to my cheek.

We sat like that for a long time as I reminded myself that all Elliot needed was one more reason to close himself off forever. I started our relationship knowing he had an inability to trust people, an inability to even like people. It was clear he had never let someone in this far before and the appearance of this other told me I was right.

We watched the people outside, feeling like we were actually the outsiders, looking in on something we couldn’t understand. As I breathed in her scent, oddly similar to Elliot’s, I realized that Darlene hadn’t let anyone in this far either, not in a long, long time.

* * * * *

I pushed back from my office window and rubbed at the cool spot on my arm, nibbling at my lower lip as I thought about how I took Darlene’s advice and gave Elliot space.

Except that under the guise of giving him space, I was actually scratching a very selfish itch.

My parents had kept their apartment uptown as they transitioned to permanently living in Greenwich, deciding that it was more convenient to keep it while Dad still sat on the board. Their apartment was close to a library that was open late into the evenings because of the slew of after-school programs it ran for kids with nowhere else to go. So, instead of going home to my empty apartment, I took the 4 uptown and spent most of the evening diving through psychiatric volumes on disorders that fit Elliot’s symptoms. I was smart enough not to so much as google anything slightly related to Elliot’s possible condition; I didn’t trust that he wasn’t keeping tabs on me in the best, safest way he knew how.

I started with the list Jill had ticked off months ago, and after eliminating anxiety and most stress disorders, I was left straddling dissociative identity disorder and schizophrenia.

After spending so much time with Elliot, I couldn’t recall any instances when he seemed to hear or see things that weren’t there. I couldn’t even really recall him being flat or withdrawn, something schizophrenics tended to be as a result of everything that was going on in their minds. Elliot was almost always happy, or at least content and relaxed, when he was with me; if he was distant, it was because he was sad and it almost always had to do with him believing I was unhappy or upset with him.

I also hadn’t noticed any episodes of him losing time aside from the server room incident and Jared’s smashed nose, which both surely qualified as being traumatic enough to trigger a flashback.

According to my research, traumatic experiences didn’t trigger schizophrenia—that was DID. And what I witnessed on the Fourth and on Thursday was someone protecting Elliot. The more I pushed about the cause of his changes or outbursts, the angrier that protective personality got.

Both disorders scared me because I knew neither one could be addressed without psychiatric care. Schizophrenia, at least, could be managed with medication, but DID was a developmental disorder with no medication available to treat it, psychotherapy and behavioral modification being the most practiced options.

After nearly a week had passed with no word from Elliot, I texted Jill. I was armed with my research and ready to seek a medical opinion. Being a PA in an ER had exposed her to a lot of patients with mental health issues. If anyone could discreetly give me some more information, it would be her.

I finally walked away from the window and back to my desk, settling in to answer the cache of emails that never seem to stop growing. I glanced at the clock on my computer five times before I squeezed my eyes shut and willed myself to focus on work until I needed to leave.

I kept all my texts ambiguous, no longer trusting in Elliot’s promise to ask, not hack. My message to Jill was lighthearted, a simple, friendly check-in since I hadn’t seen her much since Christmas.

It was just after 7 when I popped into the hospital cafeteria, my eyes catching the wave of Jill’s hand as I scanned the room.

“Hey, babe! It’s been a minute!”

“A long, long minute,” I said as I sat down in front of her, twisting to hang my tote off the back of my chair.

“What happened?” Jill asked, as she bit into her sandwich wrap.

“I don’t even know where to start.”

“Weren’t things literally rosy on Valentine’s Day?” she asked, her words slightly muffled as she chewed.

“Yeah,” I sighed, “Things were.”

I stopped and bit my lip, surprised by the tears that filled my eyes. Sometimes friends could bring out your vulnerabilities just because you knew they loved you without condition.

Jill put her wrap down and waited, her face soft, compassionate. It was no wonder she was so damn good at taking care of people.

“I guess … we just stopped communicating. And it built into this weird tension.”

I knew I had to be careful—I trusted Jill, but there was no way I could tell her, or anyone, about E Corp.

“Do you remember the night you met Elliot?” I asked in a rush.

“Hard to forget. Handsome and wounded. Rescued by the one person who’s always trying to save everyone from their worst selves.”

I smiled, a quick upturn of my lips to show my appreciation for her assessment of me.

“You have no idea just how wounded, Jill.”

I took a deep breath and recounted what happened in my apartment a week ago with as much detail as I could. My eyes were fixed on her sandwich as I fought to maintain an even tone.

When I finally lifted my eyes, to meet her serious gaze, I continued, “And he—whoever he is … was—that was the last I saw of him. I’ve tried calling, texting, emailing. And I tried from work, too. I had to lie to HR today so I know I’ve got to go see him. I can’t just let him fall into the void, but I need to know—what the fuck was that?”

“Shit, Y/N,” Jill breathed.

“Any ideas? I know you’re not a psychiatrist, but you see a lot of people in a day.”

“You said it was like he wasn’t himself? Like he was a completely different person?”

“Yes.”

“Did his voice change pitch?”

“No … but the intonation was different. The words he used were different. It wasn’t like Elliot at all.”

“Was he Elliot when you first got home—like for sure?”

I thought for a moment and nodded yes.

“Did anything happen, even something seemingly normal before he changed?”

“What do you mean?

“Well, like a tic. A neck crack, a twitch, body tensing, fluttering eyelids—even a prolonged blink.”

“Yeees,” I said slowly, then excitedly, “Yes! His eyelids fluttered and … and it seemed like he was withdrawing into himself.”

Jill was quiet, her brows furrowed as she thought. With an even voice, one that I recognized as her doctor-voice, she said, “I really think it’s dissociative identity disorder.”

“I do, too,” I replied with a sigh of relief. “I’ve been researching.”

“Unsurprising,” Jill said with a small smile.

“What do I do? Do I tell him—”

“No,” Jill answered quickly. “He needs to see a psychiatrist. DID is an incredibly complex disorder. People who have it spend a lot of time pretending to be normal, and there are parts of Elliot that may believe they are perfectly normal—maybe not normal, but at least in control. It’s all a part of the system’s coping mechanisms. If DID was easy to detect, it wouldn’t serve its purpose of protecting the core from their trauma.”

“So my research was right—DID is the result of severe trauma.”

“Severe, yes. Also, prolonged emotional, physical, or sexual abuse. Because DID usually begins in childhood, most cases involve parental neglect. A child is rarely able to cope with any sort of abuse on their own, so without a parental protector, the mind copes with that abuse anyway it can.”

“From what Elliot’s sister told me, neglect only begins to describe what their mother did to them.”

“Y/N. You can’t fix everyone who needs fixing.”

“You sound like Franco.”

Jill sighed, a smirk turning up the corners of her lips.

“I just want you to be careful. You absolutely cannot handle this on your own. Elliot needs professional help.”

“Can he—” I struggled to ask the one thing that scared me the most, the one thing never clearly answered in my research, “Can he ever get better?”

Jill frowned, “There’s no definitive answer. Some psychologists believe that if the alters can be integrated, a person with DID can live a normal life. But that doesn’t mean it’s a cure. A person with DID will always run the risk of dissociating. And if more trauma occurs, more alters may be created. It’s—complicated.”

“I never really knew there was anything wrong until Elliot was triggered. What if he’s not triggered anymore?”

“Well, that’s part of the most effective treatment. He needs to explore his triggers, learn his trauma, and heal. It’s years of therapy,” Jill said as she reached out and squeezed my arm.

“I love him.”

Jill finally smiled, “I know you do. And he loves you. I have no doubt about that, babe. But you have to realize there are no guarantees with this disorder. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“He’s worth the risk.”

I was already resigned to fight for Elliot. Every bit of our relationship was one step forward, two steps back, so it came as no surprise that with a leap forward, it was time to damn near fall back off a cliff.

* * * * *

Later that evening, close to 10, I used my key to let myself into Elliot’s apartment.

I was unsurprised to find it empty but surprised to find it in the same state of mess it had been over Memorial Day weekend: Dishes in the sink, unmade bed, clothes scattered, an ashtray near the window almost overflowing, and the trash full.

I took a step toward the garbage bin and realized that it was full of packaging materials and old computer parts.

Why the hell did he need to do a complete scrub?

I walked over to his computer desk and realized everything was new—tower, monitors, all of it had to have been purchased since the last time I had spent the night.

My mind again flashed to the hacks, and there was a gnawing in my stomach that I knew I couldn’t dismiss. Maybe Elliot wasn’t capable of such destruction and manipulation, but whoever he was when he wasn’t Elliot sure as hell might be.

With a sigh of mental exhaustion and because I had no idea how long I’d need to wait, I started fusspotting. I made Elliot’s bed, or at least I started to. As soon as I caught that sweet, citrusy scent of his shampoo mixed in with stale cigarette smoke, I spent the next few minutes sobbing into his pillow. He was broken and I was helpless to put him back together.

But I wasn’t helpless to pull myself together, so I sat up, scrubbed the tears off my cheeks and after a hearty sniff, I finished making his bed.

I glanced at his computer again, and felt a strong pull, like when high tide is coming in and the ocean’s waves are crashing and pulling with a ferocity. I could feel the water rushing past me, sucking me into the abyss.

I took another step toward his desk, my fingers twitching at my sides. I glanced at the door to his apartment before I slid my hand over the cool wood of the back of the chair.

My mind was at war.

Elliot hacked me.

Because he didn’t trust me yet.

He hacked my ex-boyfriends.

Because he didn’t trust himself.

He hurt me.

I withheld information about his own father.

Elliot loves me.

And I love him.

I backed away from the desk, swallowing thickly, my heart beating fast. I ran a shaky hand through my hair as I made my way into the kitchen and flung open the cupboard where Elliot kept his dish soap. I filled the sink with scalding water and concentrated on getting the few dishes in the sink commercial-clean.

I cleared the counter of the few take out containers that let me know he had at least eaten something this past week, and I stuffed them into the already full trash. I took the trash out to the dumpster alongside the building, and returned to the apartment, still empty.

I looked around for Elliot’s weed box and contemplated smoking up, but there was nothing inside. He was either too busy to refill or he was smoking that much now.

I scrolled through my phone, blindly reading a few work emails before I stopped and pulled up my messages. I stared at the screen, Elliot’s name already typed, a stupid black heart beside his name which felt achingly symbolic now. I had thought it was funny once—my dark little soul in his dark jeans with his dark hair.

I typed a message telling him I was waiting at his place but I deleted it, realizing that if I spooked him, I had no idea when I’d get another chance to talk to him.

Tossing my phone on his worn couch, I stood up and began pacing. After several laps, I pulled a book off the shelf and settled on Elliot’s mattress to read, my nervous energy slowly giving way to tiredness as the night wore into morning.

My head snapped up when I heard the keys in the lock; it was 2:30 in the morning when he finally came home, backpack on, hood up, my little black heart finally in front of me for the first time in a week.

He started to shrug out of his backpack as he walked further into the room, but he noticed me as I shifted on his bed, my feet sliding off the mattress to ground myself on the floor.

He froze.

His eyes were wide, staring at me like this was the first time he had ever seen me. Then they started to dart all around his apartment. I could see the panic settle across his features, and I tossed the book off my lap as I stood.

“Where the hell have you been?” I said with an anger that startled us both.

Elliot’s eyes washed over my face in a wave of apprehension, but he remained silent, his eyes moving away from my gaze to focus on the book I had dropped on the bed.

The longer he was silent, the more agitated I got. I knew what was going on wasn’t his fault, but it wasn’t fair he got a pass for walking out on me, consciously or not, I really didn’t care at the moment.

“I lied for you, Elliot. First Ali, then HR. I told them your mother died because you’ve been gone for a fucking week.”

His head snapped up and he fixed his eyes on me for a few seconds before reverting them to the floor. He shrugged the rest of the way out of his backpack, tossing it beside the kitchen table. He glanced up again, his gaze traveling slowly up my face to look at me once more, his eyes a stormy hue as they peered at me from beneath his hood.

Still, he said nothing.

“Well? Where have you been?”

He took a deep breath, his mouth hanging open just a bit as he pulled his hood down and subconsciously fixed his hair.

I froze, my own face twisting into confusion.

There was something different about his movements.

This Elliot was slower, more deliberate, as if he were carrying on a conversation inside of his head before he decided to do anything, even blink.

“You know what—fine,” I said quietly, my mind swirling with a confused anger that I was now using to build a barrier between us. “You win. Everything is always on your terms. Fuck you, Elliot.”

His eyes snapped to mine as I took a few bold steps forward, determined to brush past him and get the fuck out of his apartment.

But he closed the distance between us, moving more swiftly than he had since he walked in the door. He grabbed my shoulders and stilled me. My eyes were burning into his as his searched my face, as he looked at me as if maybe he’d never seen me clearly before.

“How could you do this to us?” I asked, my voice a choked whisper, my eyes bouncing between his as I prayed to whatever god that was listening that he would finally answer me.

“Us?” he questioned in a gruff voice, his brows drawn and his eyes still the dark grey of a sky before a storm, still searching.

“Us,” I repeated, my voice barely audible.

His eyes bore into mine, contemplating, struggling to understand, then suddenly he closed what distance was left between us and kissed me.

When my lips parted with a soft oh of surprise, he pushed his tongue into my mouth as his fingers dug into my shoulders, steadying me.

My mind raced.

Elliot didn’t kiss like this.

Elliot didn’t move like this.

Elliot didn’t burn like this.

I pushed him back and stared at him, wondering if he was the same as he’d been in my apartment, but there was no iciness in his gaze, no boldness: only an unabashed want, a need. He seemed . . . more Elliot than not.

And I missed him.

I stepped closer to him, my hands shaky as they reached up to cradle the back of his head and the side of his face.

“Is this—is this okay?” he asked, his voice thick with lack of use, as one of his hands circled my waist and flattened against the small of my back while the other moved to tangle in my hair.

“I’ve missed you,” I said in answer, leaning in to kiss him, to get lost in this not-quite-Elliot.

I knew I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t stop myself. Looking back, I should have known in that moment that if I was too weak to resist him, I was going to be powerless when he needed me to stop him—when he needed me to protect him from this part of himself, a part that would prove far more dangerous than his protector.

His hands were roaming over my body, grasping and kneading as we made quick work of each other’s clothes. He walked me back toward the bed, and I expected him to comment on the fact I made it, but he didn’t.

This Elliot didn’t care.

His hands found my shoulders and pushed me down, my breasts bouncing as they hit the mattress, but he was on top of me before my heart could even hammer out its next beat.

He stopped attacking my mouth long enough to pull back as he dragged his fingers over my body, pressing into my soft flesh and leaving little red lines that seemed to fascinate him until he bent to lick along wherever he left a trail.

His want was palpable, as if he had gone without human contact for far too long.

I tried to push him off so I could settle on top of him and slow things down, but he pushed back, clearly craving control.

His body was heavy on top of mine, pressing into me as he slid his hand between my legs, his fingers becoming slick with my arousal, especially once he pushed two of them inside of me, pumping once … twice, before he replaced his fingers with his cock.

I groaned as I yielded to him, my eyes slipping shut for a moment as I shuddered when he bottomed out.

His eyes were shut tight as he began to move in me, so I reached up and squeezed his shoulders before sliding my hands around the base of his neck, squeezing at his throat until his eyes shot open, his mouth parting in a long sigh of satisfaction.

I couldn’t read him at all as he looked at me, his eyes now making a solid argument for dark blue.

His eyes stayed locked on mine as he bucked his hips into me.

I moved my hands down to his chest, grasping at his pecs before he grabbed one of my wrists and squeezed, shifting as he pinned it above my head. He did the same to my other hand and I clutched onto the edge of the mattress since he didn’t have a headboard.

He stretched out over me, holding my hands in place as he fucked me.

“Control? Is that what you need?” I breathed out.

He said nothing, but he released my wrists and moved onto his haunches, pulling me with him.

Elliot did not have sex like this.

He grasped me around my rib cage as he pushed into me, fucking me slowly until his fingers crawled to the flesh of my breasts. He kneaded them, tweaking my hard nipples before he grasped onto the sides, pushing them together as he started to pound into me.

His fingers dug into the flesh of my tits as he picked up his pace and pounded into me, and I knew there would be tiny bruises in the morning. Air was escaping his mouth in breathy little pants, and still, he didn’t speak.

My fingers clenched around the edge of the mattress as I braced myself against him, wanting to take it all, wishing I could give it back—I wanted to consume his anger and his hurt, but I also wanted to feed him mine.

He pulled out of me with a hiss and scrambled to stand beside the bed. He held his hand out for me and when he yanked me to the edge of the mattress, he reached down and gathered a handful of my hair. He held me still as he pressed his cock against my lips, silently commanding me to open for him.

He was so quiet as he slid past my lips and onto my tongue; the only noises he emitted were sighs and low moans. He didn’t ask permission to come in my mouth and I added that to the list of reasons this was not-Elliot.

Not-Elliot, who watched with fascination as I swallowed every bitter drop he left in my mouth.

I barely had time to take a breath before I found myself pushed back on the mattress with his face between my legs. His lips immediately wrapped around my clit and sucked with fervor, demanding my orgasm instead of coaxing it. I tried to squirm away, the feeling too much, too soon, and when I firmly told him to stop, he did.

He looked up, his lips still glossy with my arousal, his face a twisted combination of confusion and frustration. It was clear a very strong part of him did not want to obey my request.

“Ease up. Please.”

He lowered his gaze slowly before he dipped his face back between my legs; this time, his tongue worked my clit and the little noises that escaped from his mouth made me impossibly wet.

I felt my orgasm building, my body desperate to clench around something, but he was either denying me intentionally or denying me because he didn’t know my body like Elliot did.

I had to settle for thrusting my hand into his hair and grinding up against his face as I came; he took it, burying his face against my heat as if he couldn’t get enough.

For only a moment, a hummingbird heartbeat, I relaxed into the mattress as my senses returned.

But before I even opened my eyes, he maneuvered my body onto all fours and was sliding into me with a long, low moan.

Elliot and I had a solid, satisfying sexual connection, but tonight, this part of himself was unleashed, like he had been caging some form of an animal-self.

We fucked for well over another hour and by the time he came again, this time while buried deep inside me, we were both spent, sweaty, bruised and scratched.

By the time I came out of the bathroom, he was asleep, passed out on his back, the sheet barely covering his body despite the chill that had crept into the apartment. I laid down and pulled the comforter up over both of us, keeping to myself on one side of his bed and wondering what the fuck just happened.

I didn’t want to fall asleep because I needed to be at work in a few hours, but I must have dozed off because I woke up to Elliot’s fingers ghosting over his handywork on my chest. When I opened my eyes, I startled him, his hand freezing along with his face.

With one long look into his eyes, I knew; whoever he was last night, was gone.

“If you want to keep your job, you’re going to have to come back to work on Monday.”

I knew he was listening, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the fingerprint bruises on my breasts. He swallowed thickly as his fingers brushed across a red scratch on my arm.

“You were a little rough last night.”

“I hurt you.”

“I let you.”

Elliot’s eyes filled with tears and he began to move away from me, his hand lifting off of my skin like it was poison.

“Do you remember last night? Or the past few days?”

He looked at me, helpless and hopeless, as a tear crested and slid down his face.

“You have to see someone, El. I can’t handle this on my own.”

He swiped at his eyes and at his cheek before he nodded in agreement.

“Come here,” I said softly, opening my arms so he could settle onto my chest.

I held him tightly, refusing to let him put anymore distance between us, and eventually, I felt his body shift and his arms circle around me.

“I—” he croaked and then tightened his grip.

“I’ll go. I’ll do whatever you want because I can’t lose you.”

“That’s the problem, El. You have to want to get better. Not because I want you to—but because you want to.”

“I want to be normal,” he said, his voice a desperate ache.

“At least I finally understand what that means,” I said with a dark, soft chuckle. “I fought you on it, but you’ve been right all along. You hurt so deeply. Until you stop hurting, you’re never going to feel normal.”

“Don’t—please don’t leave me.”

“I don’t want to leave you. But if you can’t stop hurting, you’re not going to stop hurting me. I can’t—I’m not a saint, Elliot. I get angry, depressed, and when you hurt me, it’s the scariest, most empty feeling I’ve ever had.”

I felt his tears start to spill onto my chest, hot and wet, and my own eyes welled up in response.

“I’m so sorry,” he rasped, his voice thick with tears.

“Oh, El,” I breathed, burying my face in his hair. “I love you.”

“I’ll go. I want to go,” he said with a determined desperation, his voice breaking its characteristic monotone.

“Okay,” I whispered into his hair, not bothering to hide the relief I felt.

* * * * *

Glassy-eyed and in yesterday’s clothes, I texted my secretary to let her know I was running late. I wanted nothing more than to crawl into my bed, my exhaustion a malignance, settled deep, all the way to my bones.

But I had Elliot, my Elliot, back.

And more importantly, he knew he had a problem that was beyond his control and he was finally willing to face it. If we could just get through this next stage, I knew there wouldn’t be anything left that our relationship couldn’t weather.

I snagged a seat on the train and I leaned back, my body gently lurching from side to side as the train sped toward my apartment.

The clatter of the train and the quiet of the early-morning car permitted my mind to drift back to the Fourth of July, and I was assaulted by a deep sense of happiness, by a longing for a real future with Elliot.

I saw him, my little niece sitting on his lap, but slowly, Molly’s hair darkened and instead, there was a little boy, the spitting image of his beautiful father, sitting in Elliot’s lap. The little boy’s face was filled with awe as he watched the fireworks explode overhead.

This imagined Elliot turned to me and smiled with a picture-perfect grin of contentment.

Yes, I thought, my mind flirting with the edges of sleep, falling into a dreamy, dangerous state of half-consciousness, dangerous because my mind was too awake to ever forget the image I had just created.

Yes, I thought. It’s possible.

#Elliot Alderson #elliot alderson x reader #female reader #rami malek #mr robot #mr robot fanfiction #Elliot x reader #rami malek character

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coolkat122 · 3 years

Text

Twisted Teeth: Vampire Gaara x Reader Chapter 1 Part 1

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I was on my way home after handling business in another village in my father's stead, it was pretty late into the night but I didn't feel like making any rest stops.

As to get home as fast as I could, to be with my family and friends as soon as possible, I never really liked being away from them for too long, guess I'm too family-oriented? (Ha, ha).

Though I guess it can't be helped when I love them so dearly, they are the world to me and I enjoy every minute with them, except for the few fights, could do without those, just thank the heavens it's never anything we can't work out.

I best try my hardest not to wake anyone when I make it home, they should all be in bed by now and I doubt that they expect me to be home so soon' No one would have guessed that I would have forgone, resting at the other village till morning.

Since it's not really wise to travel so late into the night with bandits and "other" sorts of unsavory things lurking around in the night...

It truly was unwise of me but in my defense, I was feeling lucky and I really didn't care for the idea of staying in the mist village, they are decent enough for business though I wouldn't go getting comfy there.

Not the greatest place to spend the night given their reputation they are known for their high murder rates (and "drownings" if you catch my drift)...

Obviously, when my father got sick he didn't want me going there in his place but I couldn't let him go in his condition and yes my mother was strong in her own right, no misunderstandings when I say that.

She wasn't cut for this kind of traveling nor do I believe she could handle doing business with some of the people in the mist village, and lord knows my brother was too young for this.

Which left only me as the only one who could do it, and it had to be done since breaking arrangements with the man my father agreed to meet with has been proven for merchants and traders alike to be a really bad idea.

I heaved a heavy sigh, 'So I'm glad I was actually able to handle it as smoothly as I did' with the amount of pressure that was riding on me, I'm quite surprised I didn't crack.

That man certainly didn't make it easy for me to remain unscathed though somehow I managed, so I took some pride in that with a great big smile on my face that was filled with pride.

Happily, I rode down the road feeling successful and a little prideful of myself though my smile was soon replaced with a look of worry and concern as from the corner of my eye. (<Might change this)

I caught sight of a man stumbling out of the forest falling to the ground with a groan, he was clearly very injured and in need of help.

Despite my better judgment, I decided that I would be that help as I stopped my wagon and rushed over to the unconscious man.

Once I had approached him and became close enough to properly examine him, I soon discovered that the man wasn't human, evident by his pale skin, pointy ears and when I checked just to be sure I wasn't just jumping to conclusions.

Sharp fangs that were previously sheathed by his lips... having seen that what I thought was a fellow human was actually a creature known for preying upon my kind.

I heavily debated my next actions, I could do what everyone would say was the right move and finish him off or I could be the better person and help him.

All life was precious and God cherishes all, right?... At least that's what our village priest would say but I'm sure if he were here, the man would be screaming at me to call that devil (his words not mine) which I'm pretty sure contradicts the meaning of "all" life having a value and a right to live in God's eyes.

So this leaves me in a prickle... I'm no killer and it really feels wrong to harm someone who hasn't even done anything to me yet and on the other hand I also strongly do not wish to give him the chance, but.

As I stand here looking down at his weak and fragile state, I can by no means call myself a good Christan and just leave him here as vulnerable as he is.

My heart ached and my world was becoming topsy turvy the longer I pondered, the right moral decision I was forced to make, I was torn in two on what was right, as one half of me warned me that helping him would be a mistake while the other.

Told me I would never rest easy knowing that, I let someone die even if that someone was a horrible creature... again despite better judgment, I took hold of the poor man's body and began dragging him toward my wagon where I carefully loaded him up.

'I'm going to regret this I can tell' I thought knowing that I was going to regret my choice either way so I figured may as well do the one I thought was morally sound.

At least then if he turns around and sinks his fangs in me, I could go knowing that I tried to be a good person.... with another sigh, I whipped the horses to go.

'I obviously can not take this creature home with me, I can't risk him harming my family nor the other villagers so I have to find a spot that was far enough away that I wouldn't have to worry about him causing trouble' It took some thinking and slight digging through my old memories to recall such a place.

The little shack that Naruto's Godfather used to stay in as he wrote his "novels" for peace and quiet, Jiraiya had pretty much abandoned it once he started a family of his own, and Naruto doesn't really care to visit it anymore either, so.

It was the perfect spot, no one besides those really close to Jiraiya knew of it and they hardly if ever even visit the place especially since the man himself no longer inhabits it.

With a new location in mind, I directed the horse there and since it was closer than my village I arrived there a lot faster then I would have had I still remained on course.

I tried to carry him in as carefully as I could but he was quite the heavy fellow and I wasn't exactly the strongest woman in my village (that titled belonged to my pink-haired friend), so there were some bumps and bruises along the way.

Nothing too serious though, once I had him settled in and the horses set, I begin to treat his wounds as best as I could all night (I also kinda tied him up, for safety reasons though I'm sure he's not going to be thrilled with that when he wakes).

At some point, I fell asleep as I was tending to him, thankfully it wasn't anywhere close to him enough so that he could do me any harm but it wasn't stopping him from trying as I awoke to the sounds of him desperately trying to slash me with those claws of his.

I frowned deeply at this as I rose from my seat with my arms crossed and in a stern voice that I've used many a time on my brother and Naruto whenever they acted out of line.

"Is that any way to thank the person who treated you?" His animalistic glare deepened as he snarled (Am I sure he wasn't a wolf or something? I heard vampires were more "classy" than this or at the very least more alluring...).

"Why would I thank a human that did this in the first place" He spit back at me.

"How good of a look did you get on the ones who cause you harm? Cause I can assure, I was not one of them nor did I play any part in it, I was just heading home when I saw you fumbling out of the forest as you did" He remained silent as he stared at me intently with those sea-green eyes of his.

"And you thought me some pathetic human in need of saving?" I really wanted to roll my eyes at this because he says this in a manner that makes it sound like he wasn't in some serious need of saving and I also really didn't care for his tone on human (and like it really even mattered rather he was a human in need of my help or a vampire cause rather way he did need it!)...

"No, I SAW that you were a vampire in need of saving which by the way, you are quite welcome, I really appreciate the gratitude and warm welcome as I awaken to see your grateful eyes shining ever so brightly upon me... really makes me feel like all the trouble I went through was worth it" I'm not sure when I had crossed my arms but at this point, I uncrossed them, and begin heading over to the cabinets.

I was hoping Jiraiya had something that was still good though as I really thought about it, obviously he didn't because of this I missed the look of confusion that crossed his face for a moment only to be replaced with a clear expression by the time I turned around sighing with disappointment.

"Well... Breakfast is going to have to wait..." I subconsciously begin to pout as I thought about the long ride I still had ahead of me and how hungry I was...

I should have brought some hunting tools with me, 'damn it all' I mentally cursed.

"...then... why did you help me?" I was pulled from my thoughts by the vampire as he gazed at me with an unreadable expression as he waited for my response.

My brows furrowed and my face took on an empathic expression as I gazed back at the vampire and answered honestly, "because it was the right thing to do... it felt wrong to just leave you there to die, I could never live with myself if I had".

The vampire's eyes searched for any detection of a lie and found none, his eyes widen for a moment as his expression morphed into this mix of confusion and sadness, he genuinely looked so lost at the idea of a human... wait no, that anyone would help him...

Were vampires not a helpful bunch to their own kind or something? Pretty sure that's a touchy subject so I won't ask, his green orbs cast their gaze toward the wall over to his left as he appeared to be in thought.

'I think I might have sent him on a self-journey at the moment...' I stood there in silence for a moment, not wanting to disturb his train of thought and also not really sure what I should do next...

I mean, I helped him...yay? But now what? I can't just untie him, he could still very well attack me and I don't really think I should leave him here.

He could starve to death and if I feed him he could gain the strength to break free, oh god did I not think this through...

After coming to the realization that I am a flipping idiot, I immediately begin to beat myself up over the fact, 'how did a fool like me ever manage to make it as far as I did in life?'

This was a tough world and it's a well-known fact that you need brains and commons sense to last long in this life so how did I make it as far as I did and is this where it ends for me?

'I really hope not...' a moment of silence as I pay respects to my fading life, may it rest in peace...

"Thank you" My head snapped up as I stared wide-eyed at the vampire, question myself if I heard right.

"I'm sorry, did I hear you right? I was lost in thought" The vampire frowned as he repeated himself.

"I said, thank you, I am not without manners, I am sorry that I went as long as I did on saying it, I didn't get a good look at my attackers as you said and I assumed that you might have been one of them... I never imagined that anyone would ever extend me any kindness" His face though was strong and clear of any emotion, his eyes told a different story.

They showed pain, gratitude, betrayal, a slight willingness to trust though it was also still clear that he was on guard and doubtful, like he couldn't believe it true that anyone would dare to be kind to him.

I offered up my best smile as I replied, "You are welcome... and honestly do not trouble yourself over it, I'm sure waking up bound would give anyone the idea that they were in danger, and I'm sorry about that" The vampire remained silent, still unreadable even his eyes were too this time around.

"No, you made the right call, had I not been tied up... I'm sure I would have drained you in your sleep" My smile fell off my face as it was replaced with a disturbed and worrying look.

The vampire took notice and apologized, "I'm sorry, I should have kept it too myself" I tried to reassure him that he had no need to feel sorry and that I appreciated the honesty (at the very least).

"...very well"

I was becoming more uncomfortable the longer this went on, so to hide that I turned my head ever so causally toward the window to break eye-contact while also taking a slight break from this whole ordeal and suddenly became aware of the time.

"Oh darn!" This made the vampire curious for my little outburst as he questioned.

To be continued➡️

#Vampire Gaara #Gaara #gaara of the sand #suna no gaara #Naruto #reader insert #Vampire AU #alternate universe #fanfic #short story #part 1 #chapter 1

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carry-the-sky · 5 years

Text

these heavy words, your open heart

summary

“You told me once that I was honest. That I don’t lie to you. But the hospital—you asked me to start over, and I said I didn’t want that.”

Karen sucks in a breath. Frank’s eyes are still on her, wide and bright. It’s the most vulnerable she’s ever seen him look.

“I lied,” he says.

chapter one | chapter two

He still doesn’t reach out to Karen. He knows he’s being a chickenshit about it, but there’s just too much he wants and needs to say. It’s an unspoken deal he makes with himself—soon, but not yet.

Not yet.

Sometimes, Frank wonders if he ever really came home from the desert.

The thing is, killing feels the same here as it did over there. Less chaotic, but the muscle memory sticks. He remembers the first time he killed someone, how quick and precise it was. Finger to trigger, the pop-pop-pop staccato of gunfire, and it was over. (He’d been sick, afterwards, vomit on his boots and in the sand. It’ll get easier, Schoonover had said, clapping him on the back.)

He wasn’t wrong.

After losing his family, Frank thought he’d never get his fill of it. No matter how many shitbags he put down, it was never enough. Even later—after taking out the gangs, killing Agent Orange with his bare hands, Bill, Billy fuckin’ Russo—even after all of that, he was running on fumes, still empty.

Frank tells himself that’s why he falls back into it. The city’s retching up scumbags left and right, and he likes it that way. Down in the filth, he knows who he is.

So why does he feel so goddamn tired?

It doesn’t happen overnight. There are parts of this lifestyle set too deep, things that make his fingers itch for a trigger. He still comes home a couple magazines lighter, still has to scrub to get the blood out from under his nails.

Pete Castiglione’s right where Frank left him, so it’s not difficult to slide back into his skin. He snags a part-time construction job and finds an apartment that leases longer than month-to-month. Still doesn’t sleep through the night, but he dreams less. A small, twisted part of him misses the nightmares. It’s the only way he can see his family now.

One month ticks by, then two. He’s got a mental list going of the people he needs to make things right with, everyone who got caught up in his shitstorm. Curt, the Liebermans, Amy, Madani.

Karen.

Bare minimum, he owes her an apology. Owes her a hell of a lot more than that, if he’s being really honest with himself, but this—building an after from scratch—it’s a work in progress. He’s starting small, working his way from there. It’s all he can do.

So he does it. He works his way through his list. Grabs lunch with Curt a few times, goes to one of his meetings. The Liebermans invite him over for dinner, just the two of them. David says the kids are spending the weekend with their grandparents, but Frank suspects that’s not the whole truth. He’s not offended—if anything, he’s relieved that he doesn’t have to face Zach and Leo, not after all the shit they’ve probably heard and seen about him on the news.

Madani offers him a job every goddamn time he calls her, and the kid—she seems happy, doing who the hell knows what down in Florida. She sends a photo the next time she writes, and he almost doesn’t recognize her with short hair and a beach tan.

Not yet.

Frank starts jogging on the mornings he’s not working. It helps to ease some of the tension that winds up, all the shit he’s not able to work out with a sledgehammer. He carves out a nice route that goes along the water, runs until his legs start to ache. There’s a winter market on the weekends that he likes to hit on his way home—he grabs fresh produce some days, breakfast and coffee on others, like today, when there’s a shorter line than usual at his favorite breakfast burrito stand. He finds a nearby bench overlooking the harbor and tucks in.

It takes him a moment to realize he’s being watched. There’s a familiar sensation, the nape of his neck prickling. Frank swallows the bite he’d been chewing and glances to the side, grabbing the napkin he’d set beside him on the bench to mask the movement—

It’s a dog. A dog is watching him.

Frank blows out a breath, shaking his head as relief floods through him. The dog is several feet away, twitching its nose tentatively in his direction. Frank doesn’t have to guess at what it wants. He can see the poor thing’s ribs from here, jutting up between patches of scruff. It’s a pit bull mix, judging from the shape of its face, and Frank has a sudden image of a family turning it away because their apartment complex has breed restrictions, another image of some faceless thug pulling it into a dog-fighting ring. He digs his nails into his palm, once, twice, working out the simmering anger that’s building in his chest.

The dog has turned its head towards the market. Taking care to move slowly, Frank kneels on the ground and holds out the last of his burrito palm-up. He doesn’t have a lot of experience with abused animals, but he knows enough. He knows what it’s like to be alone and hurting.

He keeps his eyes fixed on the ground and stays very still. A minute passes—then there’s movement in his periphery, paws crunching in snow. Another long pause before he feels the dog nose his hand, its tongue warm and wet as it devours the burrito in one bite and licks his palm clean.

“You liked that, huh?” Frank asks, and he feels the dog tense at the sound of his voice. “I know, shh, shh. You don’t know me, I get it. But I’m not gonna hurt you.”

The dog makes a low, rumbling sound in its throat, but it doesn’t move. Neither does Frank. He’s still looking away, still holding his hand open when the dog finally walks away. Frank watches it go, tail between its legs as it slinks off down the sidewalk. Another block, and it’ll be out of sight.

Frank gets to his feet. Maybe he could try to get it to a vet, see if it’s been micro-chipped or if anyone’s been on the lookout for a lost dog. It’s not like he has anything better to do, and more importantly, he wants to. He wants to help.

Frank keeps a reasonable distance as he follows. The dog cuts a haphazard path through the neighborhood, down alleys and little side streets that take them away from the press of people. Frank rubs his arms as he walks—his long-sleeved shirt and sweatpants are enough to ward off the biting cold when he’s jogging, but now he’s starting to feel it. Just a bit longer, he tells himself. How he plans to coax the dog when he has no more food, he has no idea. He’s operating on instinct here. A few more minutes, and then he’ll call it.

But he doesn’t get a few more minutes. Frank turns a corner, follows the dog back onto a main road, and very abruptly realizes where he is.

Her apartment building looks the same. A little more festive—someone’s strung lights on their balcony a few floors up, and there’s a large wreath hanging on the doors leading to the lobby—but still the same, squat brick building she’d brought him to all those months ago.

He knows, because there are flowers in her window.

He shouldn’t read anything into it, even though his heart’s kicking and there’s a fresh layer of sweat slicking his palms. The roses were a one-time thing, a way for her to contact him when he still thought David was a threat. After the way things went down at the hospital, everything he said—and didn’t say—to her—

No. Sometimes flowers are just flowers.

Still, he remains rooted where he stands. What if this is something else? Karen has no other means of tracking him down—she’s a damn good investigator, but he knows how to bury his head in the sand. Maybe something’s happened and this was the only way she could get his attention, maybe she’s in trouble—

It’s not a choice, not when it comes to her. Frank surveys the building. He doesn’t want to chance going up the fire escape in broad daylight, so he heads through the front doors and takes the stairs to her floor.

The hallway is empty, and quiet. There’s no answer when he knocks on her door, and his pulse jackhammers a little quicker. He digs in the pockets of his sweatpants, gaze scouring the floor for anything he could use to pick the lock.

“Can I help you?”

Frank startles a bit at the sound, but covers by running a hand over his head. Jesus, he’s rusty. He turns to see a young woman—Amy’s age, maybe—coming out of the apartment across the hall. She has a friendly face, but her eyes are narrowed slightly in suspicion. He’s forgotten what it feels like to be looked at that way, like he’s something to be feared. It’s like pulling on a pair of old jeans and discovering they still fit.

“Hey, how’s it going,” he says, cranking his lips into a smile. “I’m a friend of Karen’s, thought I’d drop by since I was in the neighborhood.”

It’s a piss-poor explanation, and by the look on the woman’s face, she thinks so too. He really can’t blame her for not buying it. Strange man acting twitchy and lurking outside a single woman’s apartment—he knows exactly what this looks like.

“I think she’s out,” the woman says slowly. “I can tell her you came by—”

“Nah, you know what, I’ll just swing by some other time.” Frank’s already moving down the hall towards the stairwell. “Thanks.”

He ducks down the stairs without a backwards glance. Christ, that was a goddamn disaster. He really has been out of the thick of it for awhile.

Once he’s back on the street, he slows his pace. Still moves quick enough to put some distance between himself and Karen’s building, but not so fast as to attract attention.

He’s halfway down the block when he remembers—the dog. Shit. He throws a glance over his shoulder, but there’s no sign of it. Even if there were, he’s overstayed his welcome. Karen’s neighbor seemed like the kind of person who wouldn’t hesitate to call the cops on someone suspicious hanging around the area.

His stomach twists at the thought of the dog spending another night on the streets, hungry and cold, but he can’t look for it now. Karen and her safety are his sole focus. There’s still a way to know for sure if the flowers in her window are for decoration or not.

Frank fishes his phone from his pocket, scrolls until he gets to her name. His thumb hovers over the call button for a second before he punches it. It rings and rings and then goes to voicemail.

“Karen, it’s—me. Call me when you get this.” He rattles off his number. “Just—call me. Please.”

He jogs the rest of the way back to his place. There’s a familiar, restless energy building up in his bones, and he knows no amount of running or working with a sledgehammer will quiet it this time. Either he’ll hear from Karen, or he won’t. He knows what he has to do if it’s the latter. Karen Page is worth going to war for.

#kastle #kastle ff #kastlenetwork #kastlechristmas #c sand #my fic

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bbrandy2002 · 5 years

Text

The Fall of Cordonia

Chapter Three

Trigger Warning: Infant mortality mentioned, suicide, sexual assault and murder.

A/N: Im a little shook from writing this 😬

Word count: 2342

Characters belong to Pixelberry.

Thanks to my girls @burnsoslow and @emceesynonymroll for prereading snippets.

Tagging: @khakie4 @jemrmax2love @princess-geek @rainbowsinthestorm @annekebbphotography @ao719 @texaskitten30 @of-course-i-went-to-hartfeld @lodberg @romanticatheart-posts @duchessemersynwalker @cordoniansqueen @burnsoslow @kimmiedoo5 @innerpostmentality @sirbeepsalot @emceesynonymroll @janezillow @cordoniantrash @jovialyouthmusic @dcbbw @moonlightgem7 @polishchoicesfan @jessiembruno @lovemychoices @mallorycortez @angi15h @hopefulmoonobject @gardeningourmet

Nikolas had not stopped crying since being placed in Marguerite's arms many hours ago. She sat on the edge of her bed with him, thrusting her nipple into his mouth, attempting to feed and soothe him; disregarding the fact her supply dried up months ago. Each time he suckled desperately, his tiny mouth released into an erratic fit, fingers balled into tight fists, unsatisfied with his continuing thirst.

Her scent was different, the sound of her voice unfamiliar, and the beating of her heart did not have the same rhythmic tune that usually lulled him to sleep.

The Princess continued her attempts to feed and bring comfort to him, however, the baby refuses her breast. After the night she had, all the crying, Nikolas refusing to bond with her, sleep deprivation, she wasn't sure if her plan would be plausible, if this child would ever accept her as his mother.

She rose from the bed and gently laid him in the bassinet that sat directly next to her, staring at his swollen, bright blue eyes, that were full of rage and fear. Those same eyes were similar in color and form as her own newborn son, except his had been void of any emotion...there were no tears, no blinking, no pain, just stillness.

Her own eyes began to mist as she thought about that day, privately delivering a stillborn child, two months before her due date. She knew the minute she saw the soft, downey hair of blonde that covered his small head, the father was not a current King, but, rather, a former prince.

Nikolas was the closest thing she now had to keeping her miserable reality a distant memory. Nearly the same blood that coursed through his tiny veins, was the also the one that burned with desire and passion for her almost a year ago. Would Leo ever accept this child as his own? He had been so relunctant to before, but, now, just maybe, if he held their baby in his arms, would she be able to entice him back into her world. Except, this wasn't their sweet baby, she wasn't his mother and Nikolas was making damn sure, without a doubt, she knew it.

Feeling depleted, she plopped back down onto the bed, the sheer volume of his ever continuous crying, driving her to the brink of insanity. She was positive, at that moment, all of Monaco could hear the weeping of the young prince of Cordonia; it was almost a symbolic gesture of his first duty, to share the downfall of his country and to share his displeasure.

Her hands began to shake uncontrollably and an intense pressure started to rise in her chest that caused breathing to become laborious.

She had to silence him somehow and quickly, to end the nightmare of her own enduring agony.

With her first real attempt at being a mother, seemingly failing, she called for her maid servant, unable to take it any longer. She hastily wrapped Nikolas in the blanket he arrived to her in, which bore a tiny phoenix in the corner, the crest of his mother's house. Marguerite dropped the child in the arms of her servant, at which time, his crying began to subside. She made explicit instructions to rid her of the reminder, that once again, her failure to secure an heir and the man she lusted for, would be in vain.

The servant bowed and shuffled from the room with Nikolas nestled in her arms.

Marguerite turned to face the wall opposite of her, the one that held the sword of generations of Monacan monarchs, her tiny hands releasing it from its mount.

Gripping the pommel, she held it in front of her, and with a deep breath, thrust the blade into her gut and twisted. She fell back onto the bed as pools of hot blood flowed at her sides. The Princess ran a finger down the cool, shiny, silver blade, embracing her pending death and inevitable peace.

******

Liam directed Paul to take the remains of his step mother back her quarters and placed with dignity in her bed. He then ordered the other guard to lay the Countess with her, until proper arrangements could be made, if it ever could at this point.

With Regina and Madeleine's death happening within the walls of the palace, he was wrought with nausea, pondering who else had succumbed to this senseless atrocity. He wanted to believe Bastien's words that it was possible, Riley and Nikolas were safe, yet, the Auvernal army was able to breach the guard and protection of the palace. They had successfully taken out two of the most powerful women in Cordonia, the Queen and Prince was sure to be a bullseye in this sick game of wit and intellegence.

It was exactly one year ago yesterday, when against his better judgement, his new bride was beckoned by Queen Isabella, to visit with her in Auvernal, while they were in Texas. In a rather hostile move, Isabella, without hesitation, put on a troublesome display of the military might of her country, in what could only be construed as intimidation.

In a rather bold move, she tested Riley's ability to literally withstand the heat, a test he wasn't surprised she accomplished flawlessly. Would Liam really be able to outwit his opponent without his queen by his side? If Bradshaw was the man Isabella described him as during that trip, obviously weak and vulnerable, she could potentially be far more dangerous than he was.

When Nikolas was born three months ago, both Riley and Liam agreed their son would not be part of a marriage agreement. They both felt that what they shared and their experiences together, was far more important than any political alliance. A healthy relationship built on love made the monarchy stronger in their opinion.

They both knew the reprecussions of their decision, yet never expected an all out war for it. He presumed the greatest threat to Cordonia would be an embargo on trade with one another and political alliances, that he in turn would render economic sanctions against them. Would he have changed his mind had he known this would be the fate of that conclusion? He didn't know, not yet, it would depend on the personal cost to his family and his people.

Last night, Liam was sure that he had lost everything that truly mattered to him, but, something in his heart gave him a sense of peace. He had always told himself that he didn't exist without Riley, yet, here he was, living, breathing and feeling. Liam could sense her in his soul and he was prepared to move heaven and earth to bring her and their baby home to him.

He sat down at his desk, eagerly awaiting word from the Italian officials, to give him an update on the retaliatory attack. Francesco was already working tirelessly to gather other allies together and provide security and assistance for Cordonia.

Bastien found an unbroken bottle of scotch in the cabinet and poured two tumblers of it, handing one to Liam. They eyed one another, both in understanding of the calamity that would be ensuing, knowing it had to be done.

Bastien raised his glass to the King, gesturing for one last toast, in light of the situation.

Liam swirled the contents of his glass before tapping that of his head guard's.

"To my King and Queen, long may they reign"

Liam nodded in kind to Bastien, then downed the liquid, "To My Queen...".

*******

Leo dropped to his knees, clutching the hole that burned in his stomach, with a mixture of shock and remorse scrolling across his face.

"You were saying?", Bradshaw asked, before Leo fell face first to the floor, his head bouncing from the surface.

Bradshaw casually placed the gun back into the safe, pulled a handkerchief from his suit pocket, and wiped the moisture and soot from the palm of his hand.

He strolled over to Leo, dropped to one knee and lifted his lifeless head up by the back of his hair. "Leo, Leo, Leo....it appears we both have something in common....we never miss our targets". He mused, thinking about Marguerite and her lost baby, that neither he, nor, Leo wanted anything to do with. He releases Leo's head and it thuds to the ground.

The King's informant ushers into the room with fervor, asking permission to speak about grave information.

"Your Majesty....intelligence from Rome has informed me of an impending attack on our city by the Italian's in retalliation of Cordonia".

"How much time do we have?".

"Just under an hour, sir".

Bradshaw furrowed his brows, preparing to unleash his next plan earlier than anticipated, but, it was, afterall, his ace in the hole.

Bradshaw leads his guards, dragging a bloodied Leo behind them, leaving a crimson trail out of the dining area. They walk briskly down the corridor and to the room where he is holding Riley hostage. He directs his men to throw her brother in law on the bed next to her.

Riley is barely conscious, she has a few broken bones and extensive bruising throughout her body. She watches groggily as they enter, then lets out a blood curdling scream as she catches sight of Leo's gunshot wound. Its then that she realizes she was a hostage. Recognizing Bradshaw immediately, she makes a concerted effort to move, to run, to fight back, however, the pain is too great.

Bradshaw orders everyone out of the room, his guards, the nurses and servants. He checks the video feed and when he is sure it is ready, he sends a direct link to Liam's email; time was of the essense.

As he waits for Liam to respond, he eyes Riley, admiring her petite frame and curvacous figure, just as he had the day she was first introduced to him at Valtoria. He licks his lips, as lustful thoughts take hold of him and he trails an unwelcome finger down the length of her cheek and across her neck. She was his prisoner, completely dependant on him and he wanted nothing more than to hear his name screaming from her lips.

He leans down, licking her face and across her tightly closed lips, feeling greatly aroused by her whimpers and powerlessness. He runs a hand across her flattened stomach, only covered by the thin white gown the nurse changed her into.

He grabs her cheeks with one hand and squeezes harshly until she can no longer keep her mouth closed; he immediately thrust his unwanted tongue into her own as she tries to pull away. His mouth catches her every groan with the deepest pleasure and he inhales her barely escaped breaths.

"Get the fuck off my wife!", an irate and panicked Liam yells as Bradshaw pauses his assualt.

He looks behind him at the laptop, set up for this particular moment, seeing the ire and disgust on Liam's face. Bradshaw curls his lips into an evil grin, this was more satisfying than he had anticipated.

"Riley! Love...can you hear me...I'm right hear...I'm right here", his voice cracking with relief at her survival.

Bradshaw lets out a small laugh, "And she is right here.....I assume you will be calling off your minions....or is it boom boom for...your love".

"Liam....I love you", Riley forces the words out of her lips with a horrendous sob.

"Sweetheart, oh god, I love you too....is Nikolas with you, is he alright?".

Bradshaw interrupted, rolling his eyes, "Oh please, spare me of the sickening declarations of love.....are you calling off the Italians or what Liam?".

Liam motioned for Bastien, giving him directions to contact the Prime Minister at once to halt their sssault immediately.

"What do you want Bradshaw?", he asked, while Bastien made his call.

"You know what I want."

"A political alliance and a marriage contract between our children...do I still have a child, Your Majesty?".

"You do....not that you'll benefit much from him".

Liam let out a shaky breath, closing his, thanking God for the knowledge that his son and wife were still living.

"I'll ask again, what do you want then?

"Surrender Cordonia to me".

"No Liam, don't!", Riley yelled out, before Bradshaw turned, smacking her harshly in the face.

"DAMN IT BRADSHAW!". Liam screamed in anger and frustration, feeling completely helpless.

"I give you your wife back, tell you where your son is, and all you have to do is surrender your reign and country to me".

There was no question what Liam's answer would be, however, it wasn't that simple, "I can't...not without consent from the council....this isn't something I can control alone and I presume half the fucking council is dead".

Bradshaw shrugged his shoulders and pursed his lips, "Then I have no choice but to force your hand further".

"What do you mean?", Liam asked, knowing he did not want to know the answer to his question.

Bradshaw, still positioned next to Riley, reached over, gracing one of his hands up her thigh and the other cupping her breast over her gown. Riley began to cry out, begging him to stop.

Liam stood from his desk, watching the exchange, "I'LL DO IT....I'LL DO IT.....JUST LET HER GO!!!".

Bradshaw ignored Liam and Riley's cries, immensly gratified by his complete control over them...he was the puppetmaster.

Liam had both hands clutching his hair, tears streaming down his face, his whole body shaking, "You fucking peckerhead, so help me, I'm going to rip your throat out".

Bradshaw tugged on Riley's panties and he groped himself through his pants, slowly pulling down his zipper.

With Liam still screaming in the background, Riley turned her head, unable to look at her husband as Bradshaw prepared to defile her.

She stared at Leo, whose head was only a few inches from hers, his eyes starting to flicker open. She let out a fearful gasp, as her legs started to slowly part and Leo could see the trouble in her brown eyes.

Inhaling deeply against the pain he was wracked with, he bolted up, grabbing Bradshaw around the neck with such force, the King thought it would pop off his shoulders.

Bradshaw hit Leo in his wound, while trying to tear the powerful grip he had around his neck.

Leo took his other hand, placing it on the jaw of the man before him, and twisted as hard as he could., until he got the desired snap he wanted.

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buttsonthebeach · 5 years

Text

Fire and Water

@kittlesandbugs was the nicest ever and got @bearly-tolerable and @ellstersmash a holiday gift, except really it was a gift for me because then I got to write about Makon and Athi!!

Thank you so much, you three <3 I hope you enjoyed it!

Pairing: Makon x Athi Lavellan

Rating: Explicit! Sexy times ahead!

********

The first time Athi Lavellan saw a grey hair in the mirror, she panicked, pulled it out, and then immediately set to questioning whether it had been there at all, an exercise which ended in her combing out all of her thick brown hair, searching for more, and then hating herself for doing it. She had never expected to be the kind of woman who obsessed over such things. Aging was part of life. She’d admired the rich silver hair of the older women in her clan before, how it caught the sun.

So she resolved herself then and there - no more obsessing.

Except the second time she found a grey hair, she did the exact same thing.

And the third.

And the fourth.

And then when she was in the market next, she started looking at the hair dyes they sold for the first time, trying to determine if any of the henna that came out of Tevinter and Rivain might work to keep the auburn luster of her hair. And then she found an Orlesian stall that sold creams for your hands and face, and owned by a very emphatic Orlesian merchant who swore by all of them.

She was halfway through counting out the exorbitant amount of gold she would need for the purchase before she snapped back to herself.

“This is ridiculous,” she said, making direct eye contact with the merchant, and then turning and leaving without further explanation. Why would she believe a man who came from a nation where they all wore masks, anyway? And weren’t laugh lines and crows’ feet just signs of wisdom, of all the joy life had given you? And she barely had them anyway. She’d checked carefully in the mirror for them before they left for the market.

“Which merchant tried to cheat you?” Makon asked, startling her out of her thoughts. He loomed at her side, big and gentle and handsome and looking exactly the same as he had on the day they met so many years before.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Athi Lavellan was a simple Dalish elf, and her partner - her handsome, clever, loyal, thoughtful partner - was a druid of the Donarks, destined to live for centuries.

“An Orlesian, of course,” she said. “Did you finish all of your deals for the day?”

“Yes.” Makon cocked his head, narrowed his eyes just slightly. “Are you well, Athi? What did the Orlesian do, anyway?”

“Nothing. Orlesian things. Let’s get going before we lose too much light.”

Makon watched her a moment longer, still skeptical, before he smiled, took her hand, and walked on.

It was two more years after that day that Athi gave in and started dyeing her hair, learned to make salves from elfroot that were supposed to rejuvenate the face. It was fine, she told herself. It was early for her to start showing these signs, anyway. She wasn’t really ageing. Wasn’t really starting to outpace Makon on the long road that everyone walked.

But then came the morning when she stood up from bed and her whole body was a symphony of popping sounds, and her neck ached all day because of how she’d slept on it, and she had to let the younger elves go on ahead of her to continue foraging because she just needed to sit and rest.

And there, sitting on that rock, watching the elves of the clan she and Makon had helped rebuild, bit by bit, after the devastation of the darkspawn - Athi Lavellan had to acknowledge that she was getting old.

It had been twenty years since she left Clan Lavellan to be with Makon. She’d gone into it with eyes wide open, or so she thought. She knew what it would mean to live among the druids and their ancient way of life, the cord that connected them all the way back to the seven magisters that tried to breach the Golden City - to their great ancestor Danu and the High Dragon that she was bound to. Makon and his kin would not change with the passing years the way she would.

“Are you certain?” Makon had whispered to her quietly one night when she first joined him. “I know what it means to choose this life, but you do not.”

Athi had rolled to face him, traced the shape of his strong square jaw, memorized the way the moonlight silvered his brown skin. Makon was speaking of the spouses that had gone before her in his long life. None of them had been druids, either.

“I am choosing you,” she’d said, and kissed him, hard, without reservation.

But Athi saw now that she’d been kidding herself when she thought she knew what she was getting into. Like someone who’d twisted their ankle, insisting they could walk it off, refusing to use a crutch, pretending the pain wasn’t getting worse. She realized after that day sitting on the rock, watching the others, listening to the jungle sounds she’d come to know, that she couldn’t ignore it any longer. It was hard to wake up every day at Makon’s side and see that he had not changed, then to go to the mirror and see that she had.

“Fuck,” she sighed, not a curse so much as an acknowledgement. She was getting old.

She probed the pain as the day went on and found that it was not jealousy. Makon was the best person she knew. If anyone deserved to live a life that spanned the ages of Thedas it was him. She’d seen the same of many of the other druids she lived among. Their deep love of their jungle home, their peace, their gentleness. They deserved this. She, on the other hand, did not. She was brash and stubborn and she had not lived a life of peace before she came to live with them, and she would not sully their culture by treating it as a means to an end, a way of cheating death.

But did it have to hurt so much to look in the mirror and see those lines around her eyes and her mouth, the silver that showed through at the roots of her russet hair, the softness in her belly and her thighs that came with age? If she’d known this was coming all along, couldn’t she just - skip to the part where she accepted it?

She stewed in that feeling all day, even after she returned from the foraging trip. All the way until Makon came home from his audience with the king.

“Good evening, vhenan,” he said, warm and smiling, and Athi saw him and she did not regret a single thing.

“Hi,” she said, and went to him, and kissed him, with perhaps more force than she usually put into a welcome home kiss. It took him a moment to melt into it, but then melt he did, his lips parting, welcoming her in.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of such a greeting?” he asked.

“The usual. How handsome you are and all that,” Athi said, trying for casual - but she wondered if he could hear it - the knot in her throat, made up of unspoken words. Our time together is limited, and now I have undeniable proof that it is slipping away.

“I see,” he said, looping his arms around her waist, nuzzling into her hairline and leaving a kiss there. “Then how should I reward you for being so beautiful?”

Promise sat full and ripe between them - a promise they had taken each other up on many times before. The promise of pleasure, connection, intimacy, heat. It thrilled Athi as much as it had the first time to imagine taking him up on that promise.

“I think you know by now,” she said, leaning in to him.

Makon chuckled. “Let me at least wipe myself down before I join you. I was clearing jungle for the new huts all day.”

“I’ll be ready and waiting,” Athi said, warmth already pooling low in her belly at the thought of all the ways Makon would turn his careful attention on her now.

All of that came crashing down like a sudden storm of ice when she went around the partition that separated their living and sleeping quarters, and undressed, and took in her own body in the dim light. Her desire for him was undimmed but her body had changed so much since those first heady times. And surely he had noticed it by now. Did he miss the way she was before, young and strong and beautiful? Her stomach twisted, queasy and unsteady.

She heard him rustling through their food stores. Cleared her throat.

“Take your time eating, vhenan. I’m not feeling as well as I thought I was.”

She was already dressing again when he came around the partition, bare to his waist, only his simple trousers on now.

“Oh? What’s the matter? Ukior mentioned that you had to sit out for a while during the foraging trip today.”

Ordinarily, Athi loved their small, tight-knit community. At that moment, Athi felt like barging into Ukior’s hut and demanding to know why he felt the need to spread her business around.

And now she was naked before Makon, something she had never once worried about before. She had flaunted her body for him before, proud, in love, full of need - been vulnerable to him in her times of sickness, too. She hated the shame that roiled through her now, foreign as a fever.

“Just tired,” she said, trying quickly to gather her clothes again, turning away from him.

“Vhenan,” Makon said, and she could hear his frown in his tone alone, because they had known each other so many, many years. Years that were written on her body now.

“I said I’m fine,” she said, not hiding the fact that her teeth were gritted.

“That is manifestly untrue. What is it?”

“Nothing!” she said, turning to him at last with a huff, safe underneath her clothes again.

Makon’s eyebrows were still knit close. “I can’t force you to tell me what’s wrong -”

“Then don’t.”

“- but I would appreciate it if you did.”

Ah.

There.

He’d found her soft underbelly, the thing she tried to protect from the world. He knew he could not fight her temper, her stubbornness. But he knew he could remind her how much he loved her, and how much she loved him. Damn him. Damn the knowledge and closeness that twenty years could bring.

“It’s so stupid,” she said, and felt at once that knot in the base of her throat.

“I am sure it isn’t,” Makon said, closing the distance between them.

“I’m old.” Athi blurted the words on the heels of his. “I’m old, and I feel old, and I don’t see how you can desire me like this. I wouldn’t.”

Makon did not seem as shocked as Athi thought he would. The words were a shock to her. Saying them out loud left her with a raw, dangerous feeling, like she’d cornered herself. Her mind leapt next to his other spouses, the ones he’d watched age and die before her, and then she was angry that he was not shocked, angry that he had already experienced all of this before, that it could not hurt him the way it was hurting her in that moment.

It was quiet, she realized. She wondered how much her emotions had shown on her face.

“Well?” She said, raising her arms helplessly and then lowering them again.

“I think you should take your clothes off again,” Makon said, voice low.

“Why?”

“So I can show you exactly how much I desire you.”

Athi’s whole body flushed hot and embarrassed as it had not since she was a young girl.

“No,” she said, but none of the heat found its way into her voice.

Makon shrugged, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Very well.”

His little half-smile - his handsome face - damn him.

Athi was already halfway across the space between them before she knew she was moving, already kissing him before the words of argument she wanted to say could slip out of her mouth. Just because I’m giving in to this doesn’t mean I’m not old, Makon. Doesn’t mean I’m not just going to keep getting older. Doesn’t mean that at some point you won’t find me too old to desire me. Instead she groaned hungrily, fiercely into his mouth, hoping he would understand from that sound alone all the feelings that were roiling within her.

His answering sound, the nip of his teeth on her lower lip, his big hands cradling her close, lifting her onto her tiptoes, tangling in her long brown hair, told her that he did.

Damn him, but she loved him. Loved his quiet equanimity in the face of her storms, his steady understanding of the world and all things in it. The sound he made when she leapt from her tiptoes and wrapped her legs around his waist. The strength of his arms as he held her there. The utter safety she felt, clinging to him, kissing him, mouths parting and rejoining and then parting again, the quick dart of his tongue and the way it made her toes curl against the small of his back, made liquid fire fill her belly, so warm she could endure anything as long as he kept stoking it, and yet unbearable in its own way.

She never wanted to lose this feeling. But even as Makon turned and pressed her up against one wall of their bedroom, groaning, his own body shuddering, making small attempts to grind against her despite the difference in their height, Athi became sure again that she would. This fire would die, as all fires did, and it was unfair.

She pulled back from their kiss and looked into Makon’s eyes, bleary now with arousal.

“I love you,” she said, throat close, words small.

“And I you,” he said, leaning his forehead against hers.

“No, you don’t understand -” she began, and there was not fire in her voice now. There was water instead. “I love you, and this isn’t fair to you, and I’m -”

“I know, love. I do.” He moved one of his hands to her cheek. “Let me love you, now.”

Letting go was not something Athi did easily. She was a fighter, a holder of grudges. But Makon’s quiet insistence was the ocean tide to her rocky shore and he would have this, now, her surrender, piece by piece. And Athi knew it was what she needed, too. So she dropped back to the floor, on her own two feet once again, and began stripping her clothes off. Makon stood, watching, and this brought the shame again, a flashfire all over her skin. She wanted to cover herself. The places where she had gone soft and sagged, the scars. All of it.

For fuck’s sake, Athi. Are you really going to be like this now?

Her own scolding worked. She kept her hands at her sides, even if they were in fists. Makon’s eyes were roving, searching, an explorer committing a map to memory, as though he had never seen her before.

“Gods,” he murmured. “I am a lucky man.”

Athi felt the impulse to argue bubbling up in her chest but it didn’t have time to escape before Makon was on her again, still fully clothed, kissing her everywhere but the lips now - her forehead, her cheeks, her ears, her neck, her collarbone - while his hands mapped the rest of her. The slope of her back and the peaks of her breasts and the roundness of her buttocks and thighs. The swiftness of it stunned Athi, stole her breath, overwhelmed any other thought but those of his closeness and the smell of his skin and the feel of his calloused hands. Her heart was in her throat already and he had not even touched her where she wanted it most.

Yet even that need seemed secondary. Arousal was just one of the many things she was feeling as Makon turned her suddenly, making her face the wall now, bracing herself against it as he began his exploration again, this time beginning with the back of her neck, the spread of her shoulders, the long valley of her spine. He ran his nose along it, kissed it, traveled the length of her legs with his hands. They were places he had kissed and touched before, surely, in their twenty years together, but there was something new in all of this. This was not one of their lazy, comfortable joinings after a long night by the fire, as dreamlike and perfect as those were. This was something primal, something that seared, like looking too long at the sun.

Before Athi could adjust to the feeling of him behind her, Makon had risen to his full height and turned her again, crushing her body to his, kissing her hard on the lips. Then he was lifting her into his arms so suddenly it made her yelp. The motion had jostled her sore left hip.

“Okay?” Makon asked, his breath a little short.

“Yes,” Athi said. It did not matter. It didn’t. She wasn’t going to let it. She was going to be here, in this moment, with this beautiful man who loved her as she was.

He laid her down on their bed and hovered over her, looking down at her, simply watching for a moment.

“I am not lying when I call you lovely,” he said. “I never have been. Nature doesn’t look the same in all seasons, but each one has its beauties. People are the same. I look at you now, my love, and I still see each and every one of yours.” He ran his hand down the curve of her cheek. “Your eyes, your skin, your hair. I can see all the smiles we’ve shared in the lines of your face now. I think that might be the loveliest part of all.”

Athi did not fight the tears that welled up at his words. They trickled out and Makon caught them, one by one, wiping them away with his fingertips, and then kissing the tracks they’d left behind. He ended at her ear, and whispered quietly in the hollow there:

“I want to make you feel good. Can I, Athi?”

His hand was on her hip now. A promise. Arousal surged to the front of her mind once again, sticky and sweet already between her legs.

“Please,” she gasped, and kissed him hard and deep as his fingers slid inward, across her belly and down where she was soft and wanting, and it was as electric as the first time, the way his fingers rubbed up and down, exploring her folds, testing the depths of her desire.

“Gods,” he whispered, more to himself than to her, sliding one finger into her, and then two. Athi canted and rocked her hips, seeking more of the sensation, but he just held there, making the tiniest crooking motions, spreading her open, listening to her breathe.

“Makon,” she whined when this went on for a seeming eternity.

He hushed her, kissed her ear, nipped the lobe. “I want to remember this forever.”

It was the most beautiful thing he could have said, and he probably knew it, too (damn him). It brought the tears back, and was aging not about moving forward but about moving backwards, returning to adolescence, to the sense that your body was beyond your control, changing too rapidly for your mind to understand - to the last time in her life that it had been so easy for her to go from tears to smiles in an instant?

He hushed her again, kissed the tracks of her tears, kept working her with his fingers ever so slowly, brushing against the swollen-up place insider her, sending skitters of pleasure through her belly, not letting anything build too much.

“I have you,” he said, shifting now, resting his thumb against the swell of her clit.

Athi believed him with all of her heart. That brought a rush as sure as the first press of his thumb, that first slow, soft circle. Makon would always have her, no matter what. She was not the unlucky one in this partnership. She was the luckiest of them, because he had her, and she was safe, no matter what happened with her body, no matter how many years passed.

“I love you,” she gasped, turning her face, seeking his lips.

“I love you,” he returned, kissing her, pressing more firmly now, stroking her inside and out, still slowly, still trying to build her up.

Athi was panting when their kiss ended, wriggling against him, trying to quicken that pace. Her pleasure was a slow tide, pulling her out somewhere far away, flooding her with heat. She was so wet around his fingers that she could hear the sound of him working her and that only made her wetter, tighter. He made a low animal sound at that first pulse of her around his fingers.

“More,” she insisted, rubbing herself against him, shameless in her need for him.

She had to ask twice more before Makon obliged, his movements so quick they startled her as he moved suddenly from her side, withdrew his fingers from her entirely, and then moved down their bed, settling between her legs and sealing his lips over the sweetness of her sex before she even had time to process the idea of it. Now he did not waste his time. His tongue was everywhere, tasting and kissing and darting in and drawing circles and then finally (finally) sucking and licking the hard point of her pleasure, and just as Athi thought she could take no more his fingers slid back in and then she was all sensation, no thought, just a keening body, strung out on need, bending and folding and seeking more, more, more of the very thing that was breaking her.

Makon only left her hovering there once, which was a good thing, because as much as Athi loved him, she might have killed him otherwise. The second time he let her tip over that edge, made her come so hard she forgot anything other than what it was to feel good, to be full of that hard squeezing heat, to be shaking with delight. To love her body again, the way she had before.

When she came down from the dizziness of it all, Makon was there, leaning over her, smiling. He was naked now, his trousers and smalls finally shucked off.

“I can promise you that without a doubt, I will never be tired of seeing you like that. It will never stop being the highlight of my day,” he said, smug and tender all at once.

“Shut up and kiss me and then get inside me,” Athi said, arms outstretched.

Makon laughed, and he obliged her.

He kissed her, returning to slow movements again, gentling her, wanting her need to rebuild slowly. Wanting to take his time. Athi could read that in the softness of his kiss, the way he eased himself on top of her and then settled there, warming her with his weight, how sometimes he drew away and kissed her forehead or her eyelids instead. Each time he kissed her like they had all the time in the world, like there was nowhere else he would rather be. His fingertips retraced the paths they’d followed before. He was no longer an explorer memorizing a new map or blazing a new trail, but a lover returning to a favorite place. She was his favorite place. Even now that she had changed. It made sense when she thought of it that way, though, as she played the words he’d said earlier over and over in her mind. She didn’t love the trees less because their leaves changed in autumn or disappeared in winter. Why would he love her less?

So Athi let herself settle into the moment with him, enjoy the feeling of his warm smooth skin on hers, take in with a thrill how hard he was against her belly, the length and breadth of him there. She let herself think of nothing but how much she liked the sounds he made when she slipped one hand between them and held his cock tight, how his whole body went tight like a new-strung bow when she swiped her thumb over the head of him, starting stroking him slowly, and then faster, limited though she was by the space between their bodies.

“Ma vhenan,” he gasped finally. “Be gentle to an old man whose stamina is not what it was.”

“Liar,” she said, even as the words seeped into her heart. She looked at him and saw him unchanged, but that was not how he saw himself. He saw himself as an old man, too. One who perhaps felt too old for her when they first met. Who saw her drawing closer and closer to the age he felt, and was not afraid.

She kissed him on the lips, and wrapped her legs around his hips, and guided him into her, and it was as perfect as the first time, the way they fit together, the way he held his breath until he had bottomed out and then let it out all at once, like he’d been waiting for that feeling all his life. The way he stretched and filled her, and then held still, reveling in that moment of connection.

Makon rested his forehead against hers and closed his eyes and stayed still even a moment after Athi expected him to move. He was memorizing this, she decided. Memorizing this because as much as she feared growing old and undesirable, he feared losing her. They were both in the jaws of things they could not control. They were - neither of them - alone.

Athi wrapped her arms and legs tight around him and held him close, and he held her too, and they were together, the two of them, perfect in their stillness, whole in their fear and their love. She kissed him, and they both spoke the things they could not express with words into that kiss.

Then Makon moved once, a sudden, hard thrust that made Athi tip her head back and gasp sharply, and just like that she was back in the moment again, back in her skin, focused on nothing except how good it felt to be with the man she loved, on the flexing of his back and his buttocks as he thrust into her, on the sweet friction of him moving inside of her. He was steady, hard, unbreakable as the rhythm of sun and moon in the sky as he made love to her, and she clung to him, harder and harder, because it was so good, him filling her up, him hard and thick within her where she was soft and wanting and warm, the frantic rhythm of her own heart - and she clung to him because there were finally too many feelings within her to name them all and her need for him was one of them, unnameable and huge as a starless night sky.

So she just murmured three words to him over and over again, rocked back to meet each and every stroke of his body moving into hers: I love you, I love you, I love you.

And he replied, and each one was different, and each one made her cry: I know, I love you too, my Athi -

And then finally his whole body went rigid and he pushed himself hard and deep into her and he forgot how to breathe and he was coming, and Athi tried to memorize this exact moment, their sweat and their panting breaths and the feeling of him pulsing inside her, the ache in her muscles and her lungs. It was messy and beautiful and them and as precious as any moment they had ever shared when she was young and beautiful because it was theirs, real and true, more deeply felt than anything they had experienced in those early days.

The stiffness left Makon’s body and he softened, curled around her, no longer mindful of keeping his weight off of her. Athi ran her hands up and down his back, treasuring the way he shivered at the simple contact.

“Thank you,” she said.

“What for?” he asked, a sleepy murmur.

“For tolerating me.”

“Ah, that. It is quite a burden. I am glad you can acknowledge that.”

She hit his shoulder, no force behind the blow. She could feel herself coming down from the high of their lovemaking, even though he was still inside her, even though she could feel the wet warmth of their pleasure mingling between her thighs.

“I wish I could handle this with grace,” she said. He was starting to feel heavy on top of her but she still regretted it when he raised himself up, looked down at her. His hair was a mess now, falling long and brown around his face.

“I love you exactly the way you are,” he said. “Always. I love the fierceness of your feelings in all things. Even in this. Who needs grace when you have that fire in your heart?”

Athi wondered if this was just another sign that she was becoming an old woman - how easily the need to cry rose again. She quelled it this time. Even if she was becoming old and sentimental, there was no need to give into it every day. Besides - she would much rather put her energy into curling up against Makon’s back once he settled himself in bed beside her, memorizing the shape of it, the slope of his shoulders, the sound of his sleeping breathing. This moment, like all moments, would never come again.

Athi was going to treasure it for every day remaining to her.

#beach writes #beach does commissions #makon #athi #bearly-tolerable #ellstersmash #dragon age fanfic #smutty literature #ahhhhhhh i so enjoyed thissss

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