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wannab-urs · 11 months ago

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Title: Crawling Back to You

Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader

Summary: After some particularly awful shit goes down, Javi distances himself from you. But he always comes crawling back.

Tags: Angst, smut, more angst, reference to s2e3 events w Carillo, Javi sleeps with Gabriela (that’s the one from S2E3 y’all), sad!Javi, self hating!Javi, references to blood, wounds, rot, etc, all metaphorical, drinking/alcohol, as always: excessive cursing, me trying to speak spanish (translations provided), arguing, manhandling, dry humping, fingering, oral f receiving, face riding but while lying down, hair pulling, actual riding, Javi very briefly picks you up, that one position from s1e2, unprotected PiV, creampie, Javi crying, Javi yelling, reader yelling, did I mention angst? WC: 2130

A/N: I'm sorry? And thanks to the HBH for beta reading <3

Series Masterlist | Javier Peña Masterlist | Main Masterlist | AO3 | Kofi

Crawling back to you Ever thought of calling when you've had a few? 'Cause I always do

Javi has avoided you for two weeks now. He got himself involved in some truly fucked up shit with Carillo and couldn’t bear to face you after that. He couldn’t let you see him like that – completely ashamed of himself, broken. He went to Gabriela instead. He knew she wouldn’t ask too many questions, that she would let him take out his anger and helplessness and shame on her.

When he got home that night he still almost called you, just to hear your voice. You calm something inside him, something dark and violent. But it feels like a sin to expose you to it in the first place. He’s terrified of letting you in. Sure, he’s afraid of getting hurt. Afraid of giving his heart to you and possibly watching you crush it in your hands. But what he’s really scared of is letting you get close enough to see the blood in his teeth, to smell the rot in his chest. Afraid his darkness will infect you, ruin the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on. He is a bad man and you are so so good. You deserve better than him.

And yet he can’t truly let you go. Just another reason he doesn’t deserve you. He’s selfish enough to keep going back to you, to keep knocking on your apartment door and burying his pain in your body, only to tuck tail and run the second you push him for more. Most selfish of all is how much he wants more with you. Wants to come home to you every day. To cook dinner with you, to share a bed with you, to share his life with you. He wants everything you want and more and he’s terrified and horrified at the prospect.

You haven’t called him. Maybe you finally listened to him. Finally accepted he’s not what you want or need. Do you think about calling him? Maybe after a bottle of wine, listening to your maudlin records and relaxing on your couch. Do you drink yourself into a stupor before you can make that mistake like he does?

He dreams about you, about your body wrapped tightly around his, your nails dragging down his back so sharply it snaps him awake. He finds his whiskey glass turned over and spilled on his couch. His back aches from falling asleep sitting up. He eyes the phone.

Fuck calling.

Javi stares at the brass numbers on your apartment door. What the fuck is he doing here? He just can’t leave well enough alone. He pounds on the door until you answer.

“No.” You slam the door closed.

He bangs on the door again, fist pausing mid-air as the door swings open.

“You can’t just come crawling back to me when you get tired of your whores, Javi.” You look beautiful. Standing in your doorway in one of his t-shirts and a pair of panties. Righteous anger puts a fire in your eyes, gives a hard set to your jaw.

“No es así y tú lo sabes.” (It’s not like that and you know it).” Javi steps closer to you, you don’t step back. “Me haces falta. (I miss you). Let me in.”

“Oh you fucking miss me? It’s been two weeks. Y no llamaste. (and you didn’t call).” You didn’t call him either, but that’s not the point. You didn’t show up at his apartment.

“Sé, lo siento. (I know, I’m sorry).”

“No. No lo eres. Déjame en paz.” (No. You’re not. Leave me alone.).

“No puedo. You know I can’t.” Javi looks defeated, run down. You know he needs you. Despite the advice of everyone you know and your own better judgment, you step aside and let him in. “Gracias, cariño.” And he sounds so relieved, you almost feel bad for keeping him out, for not calling him. Almost.

He closes the door behind him and you stalk off to the kitchen, still not quite ready to face him. You pour yourself a glass of whiskey and shoot it, wincing a little at the burn, before grabbing another glass and pouring one for each of you. You set both on the coffee table and sit on the couch, folding your legs beneath you.

“Why are you here, Javi?” He’d asked himself as much.

He picks his glass up off the table and sits on the couch next to you. You watch his adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “I need you. I don’t know what else you want me to say.”

“Start with why you disappeared.”

“Classified.”

“Bullshit.”

Javi sets his glass down and manhandles you into his lap. He crashes his mouth into yours and at first you don’t even respond to his touch, but it doesn’t take long to fall into him. You can’t deny that you’ve been miserable without him. Craving his touch, missing him so much it hurts. He’s like an itch you can never scratch enough to satisfy. A festering wound that won’t ever heal. So you may as well pick at the scab.

Javi pulls your crotch flush with his. He’s already hard against you. You bury your hands in his too-long hair where it curls at the nape and lose yourself in him. You grind down on him and he thrusts up against you, the denim of his jeans and hard line of his cock creating delicious friction even through your panties.

He breaks the kiss, dragging his lips up your jaw, and whispers in your ear, “Can you come for me like this?” You don’t answer him, simply grind down on him harder, faster, nearly rubbing your thighs raw on his jeans. He peels his t-shirt off your body, throws it behind the couch, and immediately sucks a nipple between his plush lips. He bites down and it sends a jolt straight through your core.

“Fuck, Javi. More, baby. More,” you whine. He grabs your hips and drags you along his clothed length hard and fast. You feel your core tighten around nothing, and a keening moan falls from your lips as you come.

You don’t even have time to catch your breath before he’s thrown you onto the couch. He drags your ruined underwear down your legs, tossing them over his shoulder, and buries his face between your thighs. He sucks your clit into his mouth and pushes two fingers inside you, pumping slowly and rolling your clit gently between his teeth.

You arch up into him, and instead of pinning you down like he often does, he lets you grind your pussy on his face. The hard ridge of his nose, the rough drag of his mustache, the plush softness of his lips, so many different sensations hitting you as his fingers plunge into your cunt, curling into your g-spot over and over. It’s completely and utterly overwhelming. You fist his hair and hold him tight to you as you ride his face, and he moans into your cunt. He fucking loves it when you let go like this, unabashed moans filling the room, probably filling the whole apartment complex.

You fall apart again, like this, hips stuttering to a stop as you squeeze his fingers so hard it almost hurts. Javi peers up at your blissed out face, the rapid rise and fall of your chest, takes in just how beautiful you are. He drags his tongue through your slick one more time before hovering over you and licking into your mouth.

You suck your own slick off his tongue, licking into his mouth as you feel him shove his jeans down enough to free his cock. He pulls back, sits on the couch and drags you into his lap. You straddle him and he helps you line up before grabbing your hips and pulling you down on him.

You collapse forward, the feeling of him inside you is like being split apart and it would probably hurt if you weren’t so wet. He grabs your hair and pulls backward until your back is arched. “Montarme, cariño.” (Ride me, baby). You start moving your hips, slowly picking up in speed until you’re bouncing on his cock so hard and fast you can barely catch your breath.

He hitches your thighs around his waist and wraps his arm around your back, dropping you on the couch. He shoves his jeans down, stepping out of them, and drops one knee to the couch. He pulls you into his lap, wrapping your legs around his hips. You cling to his shoulders with your left arm and drop your other one behind you for leverage, rolling your hips into his. He meets you with his own thrusts, holding your body to his and burying his face in the crook of your neck.

He’s so close, you’re so tangled up in each other, he’s so fucking deep inside you, barely even pulling out before rolling back up into you. You fall back onto the couch and he follows, still holding you in his arms as he fucks you. Your orgasm hits you like a wave, rolling over your body and giving you chills as your cunt flutters around his cock.

He comes with you, fully collapsing down onto you. You should feel crushed under his weight, but it’s comforting. He holds you so tightly it’s like he’s afraid to let go of you. Afraid that when this moment is over you’ll kick him out and he’ll be alone again. Afraid this is the last time he’ll ever get to touch you.

You pet his hair gently, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. It’s late. You’re so fucked out you feel high and maybe the whiskey is loosening your tongue a little.

“I don’t understand, Javi. If it feels like this, why won’t you love me? What more could you want from me? What am I missing that you need?” This is going to ruin everything.

Javi pushes up on his elbows to look you in the eye. “Cariño. It’s not you–”

“I swear to God, Javi, if you use that line on me I will burn your apartment down with you in it.”

“You don’t understand. You won’t understand. I’m not good. I’m only going to get you hurt or killed.”

“You already are hurting me, Javi,” you wrap your arms around his shoulders and pull him back down to you.

He’s silent for a long time before he half whispers into your shoulder, “I’m just so afraid.” His voice breaks and you feel a tear land on your skin. You stroke his hair, drag your fingers along his heated skin.

“I know you, Javi. I know who you are and I don’t care. I think about you all the time. All the fucking time. I can’t stop thinking about you no matter how hard I fucking try. It’s torture.”

Javi shoves himself away from you, standing and grabbing his jeans off the floor.“That’s my fucking point!” You flinch at his volume. He pulls his jeans on, grabs his boots and crams his feet into them, already heading to the door. He turns around. “I am only ever going to hurt you. I am a bad fucking person. I hurt people on purpose and you are not immune from that just because I care about you or because I love you.”

You stand and try to take his face in your hands but he grabs your arms and holds you away from him. “I’d let you crack open my chest, rib by rib, while I watched if it meant I could have you. If it meant you’d be mine. Stop running away from me! I’m begging you!” You’re sobbing, yelling, pleading with him to just listen.

Javi looks at you, brow furrowed, big brown eyes shiny and bloodshot with tears. He lets go of you and steps away slowly, putting distance between the two of you. His mouth opens as if he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t. He drops his head and closes his eyes, takes a shaky breath, and walks out the door.

He knows he will come crawling back to you, tomorrow or a week from now, he can’t ever stay away. But maybe this time the wound will be too raw. He will have hurt you too much, and you will shut him out. He fucking hates it, hates the thought of being without you, hates the way it feels like he’s clawing out his own organs hurting you like this. But this hurt is so much less than what he would do to you given enough time. This wound will scab over, form an angry scar, he will have left his mark on you. But you will heal.

dividers by @saradika

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novashelby · 4 months ago

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Daddy, Don't Preach~Tommy X Daughter!Reader

Pairing: No romantic pairing-TommyxAdopted!Daughter!Reader

Warnings: mentions of sex, abortion, some angst, language

Word Count: 2.2k

Summary: Tommy's daughter has to confess that she's been hiding a secret.

A/N: It was a request. I am not 100% thrilled with how it came out, so I may write a different version soon. :) But I still wanted to post it.

Please comment and reblog!

Aunt Polly was the first one to notice. The young girl had become increasingly fatigued and nauseated. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together considering she’d been setting a boy from St. Michael’s just across the way. He was a nice boy, but Aunt Polly could read people well enough to know it was nothing ending with a ring. Puppy love they call it, but unfortunately for her niece, it wouldn’t end as easy. She watched the young girl yawn over breakfast and rub her temples. Simple, but something she loved was eggs. But when Aunty Polly pushed the plate over to the girl, there was a hesitation.

Pursing her lips, she asked, “not hungry?” The young girl could hardly answer, balled fist pressed against her mouth trying to keep down whatever was begging to come up. Shaking her head, she slid from the table and rushed for the sink. Aunt Polly gave a knowing grin as she sipped her tea, listening to dry heaving. ��You’ve been getting sick a lot,” she commented from the table. Her niece walked out, dabbing the corner of her lips.

“Just a bug,” the young girl replied, taking her seat again and pushing away the eggs, opting to only eat the toast.

There was a moment of silence before Polly asked, “when did you and that boy have sex?”

She was about to take a bite of toast when Aunt Polly dropped the questions. Slowly, she looked over. “I’m sorry?” Aunty Polly arched her brows, knowingly. Was it that noticeable? She wiped her mouth with the back of wrist and took a drink of milk. “Peter and I don’t have sex-”

“No?”

“No.” She confirmed. “Besides, Peter has moved to Cambridge. Last week, in fact.” She stood from the table and gathered her coat from the brass hanger at the door. “I should run an errand. Daddy’s asked me to drop some things off at the post, I need to pick up a few things at the store, and Aunty Esme has asked me to watch the children while she goes to the clinic.”

As she was swinging her coat over her shoulder, Aunty Polly commented, “you’ve haven’t gotten your monthly bleed in nearly three months.”

Sighing, she responded, “and how do you know that?”

They connected glances for a second before Aunt Polly looked at her tea. “I wash your linens.”

“I’ve been more careful-”

“You no longer wear your button blouse.”

“I stained it the other day-”

“For fucks sake, dear,” Aunty Polly sighed, rolling her eyes. “I’ve had two children. I know when a woman is pregnant. Well, in your case, a girl.” Defeated, she pressed her coat neatly over the nearest piece of furniture. The color drained from her face, and she could no longer look at her aunt. It was true. She and her best friend went to the clinic three weeks prior. Without a rabbit test, he couldn’t say for sure. However, her symptoms were unmistakable. “Does he know?” Aunty Polly asked. “The boy, I mean. Is he aware that you are pregnant-”

“He wants nothing to do with it,” she interrupted, finding herself falling into the sofa. “Why do you think he’s sent himself to Cambridge?”

“When do you plan on telling your father?”

She hadn’t thought about that. Well, she had, but only briefly just before pushing it to the back of her head never to ponder again. “I’m hoping it kinda just…goes away.”

“It will,” Aunty Polly said, getting up and joining her side on the sofa. “In six months time, it will go away. Instead of being in your stomach, it will magically appear out and poof! Into a crying, screaming, shitting human being.” She grabbed the girl’s chin lightly, eyes narrowing. “I won’t tell him, but you best tell him sooner versus later because you know what Tommy hates more than a pregnant daughter? A lying pregnant daughter…”

The girl shifted uncomfortably on the sofa, turning averting her direction. “ I’ll tell him soon, I promise.”

“Good,” she said, standing. “He won’t kill you, but be prepared for some yelling…maybe some throwing. That’s the best case scenario, anyway.”

“Worst case?” the girl winced.

“Well,” she started, thinking for a moment. “Well, Peter won’t be staying in Cambridge, that’s for sure.”

Time went on, and each day she wanted to tell him. She went to bed every night feeling ready. However, when the morning came, she backtracked. Aunty Polly would give her these patronizing side glances. Almost as if she was threatening to spill the news herself. It was finally when the young girl walked into his work office, interrupting a meeting. He was mid-conversation when he looked up and said, “darling, I’m busy. Do you mind giving me a few moments?” It was now or never. If she walked out those double doors, she wouldn’t walk back in. She’d run, she was sure of it.

Taking a deep breath, she let out, “no. I need you…I need m-my daddy….” Her words came out as a long scratchy stutter. Tommy paused, studying the girl’s quivering bottom lip. “Daddy, I need you…I need to talk to you.”

Tommy sighed and nodded, looking at the two gentlemen across from him. “Alright, just give me a moment and I will be with you.” He walked over to the door and looked down at her quietly, motioning for her to go outside. “What happened?”

“Daddy,” she trembled. “You should sit down on the couch-”

“Love,” he stressed, rubbing at his temple. “Just fucking tell me…I don’t need the run around.”

She couldn’t look at him. The way he was staring down at her. Since the moment he adopted her, she was placed on a pedestal. The daughter who could do no wrong. She was his perfect girl. He’d say it all the time. Look at my perfect girl. “I’m pregnant,” she said in a very low whisper.

Tommy had to have misheard it. “I’m sorry?” he asked, brow arched. “Love, I’m getting old here. I can’t hear you-”

“Daddy! I’m pregnant!” she yelled that time, enough for a few floaters in the background to hear. The workers stopped. In fact, the whole world froze. She slowly looked up at him, her eyes brimming with tears. He had no expression, no reaction for the first few seconds before he slid to the couch. There were no words to describe the ache he just felt. It was as if someone took a club and beat his chest with it. The last thing Tommy wanted was to yell at her. If there was anything in the world that he could describe as porcelain, it’d be his baby. Porcelain; something delicate and precious. While most fathers pictured their daughters meeting a good man and getting married, giving them beautiful grandchildren, Thomas was the opposite. To him, she was always going to live with him because no man on the earth was good enough. “Daddy, please say something. Anything.”

He slowly drifted his attention from the blank wall to her face. “Tommy, I got the paperwork from the ba-what’s wrong?” John walked in, file tucked under his arm. Tommy looked over at him and got up, grabbing the file, nodding.

“Take her home,” he said, in a monotone voice.

“Daddy!” she cried as she watched him walk past her and go through the two double doors. Her heart shattered like glass. She felt as though her body was going numb as she slowly slid to the ground, silently sobbing. John kneeled at her side about to say something when the door burst open.

Tommy paused, playing with the barrel of his gun. “I’m gonna fookin’ kill him. I’m going to fookin’ shoot that mother fucker in the nutsacks! Then after that, I’m going to shoot his fucking arsehole off his fooking body.” Tommy had never felt rage as such. Angrily, he kicked the leg of the sofa then knocked a picture off the wall, words grumbling under his breath. It hit John and he slowly looked at the girl, swallowing.

“You’re pregnant?” he asked, and when she nodded, he shook his head. “You’re bloody fuckin’ sixteen, eh? Where’s Peter?”

Tommy stopped pacing, staring at her. “Pregnant? Like actually fuckin’ pregnant?! Sixteen, fuckin’ pregnant, I’m…how!?”

“I think she had sex, Tommy,” John said, which was not received well.

“You fuckin’ had sex!?” he yelled, turning and rubbing the back of his neck, running his hands through his hair before punching at the door frame. “You had sex! Why did you do that!? You were never, ever suppose to fuckin’ do that….I’m going to shoot the fucking bastard, John…I’m gonna fuckin’ shoot him-”

“I know, Tommy,” John agreed, trying to calm his brother down. “I know.”

“Right in his fuckin cock!”

“Right in his cock,” John continued.

“His cock…they had sex,” he said, trying to catch his breath, leaning on the door frame. “My little fuckin’ girl. He put his cock into my- no, no, no. She’s not pregnant. Absolutely fuckin’ not. It’s not possible! Where would they have been able to do that?!” She watched her father go through several degrees of grief, nervous playing with her skirt hem. He turned to her. “You’re playing a fucking joke on me…not funny! You’re a virgin because you have to be a virgin.”

“Tommy, I think you’re deflecting now,” John said. “How about you and I, we take a ride and talk through it, eh? Get a drink?” He shook his head and reminded John to take her home. “Alright. I’ll come back-”

“Take her home and we’ll talk about it when we get home,” he said, slowly looking at her. “It’ll be okay. We’ll talk about it when I get home. Stop your crying, eh?” Tommy reached over and patted her on the cheek before walking back into his office.

Later that night, she was laying in bed, rubbing her tummy and staring at the ceiling when he came in…no knocking. She turned to look at him, blotchy red face. Pointing at her as he did, he asked, “what are you doing?”

She sat up, resting over her elbows. “Bed?”

“No,” he said, pulling up the vanity chair. “Love, what are you doing about the baby?” She hadn’t thought about it. Sighing, he raised three fingers. “You have three options, love. One, you and I tomorrow morning take a trip to Liverpool-”

“Women die from that, Daddy,” she said. “I’m not getting an abortion.

“Alright, but that means you’re going to have this baby. You’re going to start showing and other people are going to notice. People who were once your friends, may not be friends with you anymore. School may kick you out and I wouldn’t be surprised if the church no longer wants you there. Understand the consequences. You’re an unmarried girl. Number two, you have the baby and we send it off to the orphanage. It’ll find a new home and you’ll be able to resume your normal life. Three, you have this child-”

“I’m having my baby,” she said. “Daddy, I couldn’t-”

“Fine.” He wasn’t happy at first with her decision, having to leave the room for a moment before coming back in. “Let me tell you something, I’m not fucking happy! But, this is the situation and there is nothing we can do about it. But let me fucking say a few things. That piece of shit,” he paused, pointing at the door. “Peter better stay the fuck off. Understand me? As far as I’m concerned, he’s lost that privilege. That child is a Shelby and it’ll be named a Shelby.”

She slowly started to smile. “So, you aren’t going to kick me out?”

He softened a bit and joined her on the bed. “No, I’m not kicking you out. But another thing…I’m not grandpa. Understand me? That child is not calling me grandpa. I don’t have enough fuckin’ greys to be called that.”

“Then what would you like to be called?” she asked, grinning. “Papa?”

Tommy gave her a look. “Fuckin’ ‘ell! Papa?! No. They’ll call me Mr. Shelby until we’re on speaking basis. We’ll move up to Tommy then go from there.”

Ten Months Later

“Come see pap-pap,” Tommy cooed in a light hearted tune, bypassing his daughter who rolled her eyes. He looked down in the crib, making kissy faces. “Ahh, look at my little poopah,” he said, picking up the four month old and cradling her in his arms. He’d just come home from a business meeting.

“Daddy,” his daughter whined. “I just put her down for a nap-”

“What!? Ah, please, she’s fine,” he said, waving his hand. He played with her bottom lip making mock baby noises. The little one whined, little hands grabbing for nothing. “Aww, you want pap-pap’s hat? Don’t you? Yes you do. Pap Pap is going to get you your own little hat! We’ll be twins!” He smiled wide, looking at his daughter, who was unamused.

She sighed, crawling under the sheet. “Well, you go play twins and I’m going to take a nap.”

He hardly said ‘goodbye’, happily tugging the baby out the door with him. From the bed, all she heard was, “Pap Pap loves his little poopah. You so pretty, you so chunky, you so…you so…smelly! Uh Oh! Poopah went poopy. It’s okay, we were visiting Aunty Polly anyways. She’ll clean you right up, eh? We’ll just say you pooped in the car on the way, okay? C’mon. Put that hat on again….”

#Tommy Shelby #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby fanfiction #tommy shelby fanfic #tommy shelby imagine #Peaky blinders #one shot #fanfic #fanfictions #fanfiction #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders fanfiction #fluff #angst

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honorarysimp · 3 months ago

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Chapter 2: None the Wiser

series masterlist

You navigate your motorcycle down a quiet suburban street, the sun beginning its descent towards the horizon.

The houses lining the street all have a sense of tranquility about them, each one seemingly occupied by a picture-perfect family.

Eventually, you come to the correct address, the number nailed to the mailbox in front of the home. You kill the engine of your motorcycle, the silence that envelopes you as it dies almost soothing.

A frown tugs at your lips as you remove your helmet, your fingers running idly through your hair.

The sight of the house Lorraine calls home surprises you, the image of the "American Dream" lifestyle seeming at odds with the person you knew her to be. The white picket fence, meticulously kept lawn, and cozy abode all seem too perfect, too generic.

But then again, five years can change a lot.

You kick down the kickstand, the sound of the metal connecting with the concrete almost too loud in the still air. You swing your leg over and slip off the bike, the metal still warm from the overbearing sun of the afternoon.

With your helmet still in your hand, you nervously fidget with it, the metal of the strap cool against your fingers.

Taking a deep breath, then hooking your helmet on your handlebar, you approach the fence surrounding the home with a mixture of trepidation and curiosity.

You reach the gate, its white paint unblemished and gleaming beneath the fading sunlight. Hesitantly, you grip the latch and pushes open the gate, the hinges creaking slightly. You carefully step through just as a shrill caw cuts through the air, boots thumping against the manicured lawn.

The house stands in front of you, its pristine exterior almost unnaturally perfect. The windows sparkle, the white paint of the siding gleams, and there's a manicured rosebush that borders the front walkway that has been neatly trimmed into a small ball. A stone walkway leads to the front door, its brass knocker polished and gleaming.

You raise your fist, ready to knock, when a sense of wrongness suddenly washes over you. Something about this house doesn’t sit right with you, though you can’t quite place your finger on what it is.

Just as you’re about to shake off the feeling and knock, the door suddenly swings open.

Your brain processes the sight in front of you in an instant. The perfectly styled blonde hair, the picture-perfect smile, the air of false politeness.

Oh, no now this makes more sense.

You feel none the wiser with exactly who would greet you at the door, and you should’ve known better than to think this was Lorraine’s residency.

Bobby-Lynn, prior captain of the cheer squad back when you were all in high school, stands before you. Her blue eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief.

You barely manage to mutter a disbelieving "you've gotta be fucking kidding me" before she envelopes you in a fierce hug.

The scent of her perfume fills your nostrils, the sickly-sweet scent almost suffocating. You stand there awkwardly, your arms remaining stiff at your sides as she grips you tightly.

“Oh my gosh! Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes! Lorraine said you were comin’ but to be honest, I didn’t believe her-“

Lorraine? Oh. Oh, that little shit. She’s got some explaining to do.

After what feels like an eternity, she finally releases you, her perfectly manicured hands remaining on your arms as she steps back, her smile still plastered on her face. "I haven't seen you in years!" she exclaims, her voice dripping with false enthusiasm.

You forcing a smile, the gesture feeling more like a grimace than anything else. You take a step back, putting distance between yourself and her sticky sweetness. With a bluntness that masks your discomfort, you reply, "that was sorta the point”.

Her smile falters for a brief moment, not expecting your blunt response. Her gaze flickers for a moment, her eyes studying you closely, before that false smile returns, wider than before. "You never change, do you?" she quips, her voice dripping with artificial affection.

You ignore her question, the memories of high school and her presence causing your stomach to twist with unease. You glance over her shoulder, scanning the interior of the tidy living room for any sign of Lorraine. "Is Lorraine here or not?" you ask, your tone bordering on curt.

Bobby-Lynn’s false smile dips once more, but she quickly recovers, maintaining her sweet demeanor. "She’s in the kitchen, helping cook dinner as usual," she replies, her voice annoyingly cheerful.

You can’t help but make a face, your thoughts racing as you prepare to ask about Lorraine. You're about to speak, but before you can even ask, she links her arm through yours, the action nearly making you stumble.

“A lot has changed since high school, Rooks. Wipe that look off your face,” she says with a faux-chiding tone, her voice grating on your nerves.

You find yourself being pulled into the house, the door shutting behind you with an ominous finality. You cast a glance over your shoulder at the closed door, a frown tugging at your lips.

But before you can dwell on it, Bobby-Lynn guides you into the living room, her arm still linked through yours. As you look around, the space feels more like a lion's den than a comfortable living area. Every inch is meticulously arranged, the decor designed for maximum aesthetic appeal, yet everything feels cold and sterile.

Before you can even process your surroundings, the sight of Jackson — the once-star quarterback and now serving your country last you’d heard — standing to greet you catches you off guard.

His broad frame stands tall, his face a bit more weathered than when you last saw him in high school. But his greeting is what's most surprising, his face lit with an enthusiasm you've never witnessed him direct at you before.

“Rooks! You came!”

Jackson steps forward, his arms outstretched, and pulls you into a firm hug. You can smell a hint of his aftershave as he clasps you tightly, his broad chest pressing against yours. He pulls back slightly just as you register what’s going on, his hands remaining on your shoulders, and offers his condolences for your Pop.

"I'm real sorry for your loss," he says, his voice sincere as he gives your back a firm pat, your frame going rigid under his touch “best goddamn Mayor this town ever had”.

You remain still, your body taut as a bowstring, the forced embrace and pat on the back causing your skin to prickle with discomfort. You offer a nod of acknowledgment, but your expression remains stoic beneath his gaze.

Just as Jackson releases you fully, another voice intercedes, a familiar tone that causes your stomach to sink further. "Is that Rooks? Well, I'll be goddamn," the voice echoes, their tone filled with a mixture of surprise and a hint of mockery.

You turn, eyes landing on the source of the voice, and nearly laugh aloud at the sight of the man who stands before you. It's Wayne, his familiar face now sporting a hint of stubble and a few new lines around his eyes. But it's the woman who stands behind him that shocks you even more—Maxine, her red hair still as vibrant as your memories serve you.

Wayne continues speaking, his smooth voice layered with sarcasm and wit. "Well, look who decided to grace us with their presence again. Rooks, back from the dead. Never thought I'd see the day," he quips, a smirk on his lips.

Meanwhile, Maxine stands silently beside him, her gaze fixed on you. Her eyes study you intently, that vixen look you remember from high school still present beneath her lashes.

Bobby-Lynn's voice cuts in, admonishing Wayne. "Wayne, that's not funny. The poor thing’s Pop just passed. Show some respect," she says, her words laced with a hint of irritation.

Wayne's smirk falters slightly, and he offers a half-hearted apology, "sorry, Rooks. Didn’t mean to ruffle feathers”.

Your irritation mounts at Wayne's sly remark, and you respond curtly, your eyes narrowing.

"Clever," you mutter dryly, voice dripping with sarcasm. The sound of them using your old nickname only further adds to your annoyance.

You’ve never been fond of it, the name representing a part of your past you've been trying to leave behind.

Which gets brought to attention as Wayne sidles up to you, slinging his arm around your shoulders with a familiarity that sets your teeth on edge. He grins as he says, "I gotta ask, do you still see ‘em? Or did you finally grow out of that?"

His words sting, reminding you of the countless times he teased and belittle you for your ‘hallucinations’ way back when. A part of you wants to shrug off his arm, but you remain still, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

You push past your discomfort, your words filled with bitterness and sharp with anger. "I haven't been 'seeing things,' Wayne. That was just your and everyone else's bullshit way of making my life a living hell" you snap, your voice dripping with venom.

His arm drops from your shoulders as you step away, creating distance between you and the unwelcome touch.

Wayne raises his hands in a mock surrender, a smirk still on his lips “whoa, relax, Rooks. I was just messing around," he says, his voice dripping with false innocence. His apology is insincere, the sarcastic tone he uses making it clear he hasn't changed one bit.

Just as you're about to lose your temper, the front door opens and Lorraine appears from around the corner, her presence making you feel even more on edge.

Your eyes flicker to Bobby-Lynn, a sense of betrayal washing over you as you realize she lied to you. You shoot her an accusatory look, your expression giving away your anger.

Lorraine steps into the room, her sweet and timid demeanor immediately defusing the tension in the air. Her voice echoes through the room, asking with gentle concern, "everythin’ alright?"

The sound of her voice instantly has a calming effect on you, even though you're still seething on the inside.

Maxine, whose gaze has been studying you almost hungrily, finally pipes in, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "Oh, we was just catchin’ up," she says, her gaze unabashedly raking over your form.

Yeah, definitely still the same manipulative snake she was in high school.

You turn your gaze to Lorraine, preparing to ask her about why she made you come here, only for your words to die in your throat as you spot another familiar figure behind her. Your heart drops as you recognize the face of the man you thought would rather be caught dead than be around this crowd.

It's RJ, a scrawny band geek from high school. He was the epitome of ‘weird’ back then, always lingering on the outskirts of social groups. Oddly enough, he stands right behind Lorraine now, his presence here seeming completely out of place.

As your eyes roam over his figure, the last person you would've expected to see in this gathering, you can't help but feel a mix of surprise and old memories resurfacing. After all, you were just as much a ‘freak’ to everyone in the room at one point in time.

The sudden appearance of RJ toting up and showing off two bottles of wine awkwardly, stuns you into silence, your mind struggling to catch up with the unfolding situation. Everyone else, seemingly used to RJ's odd behavior, voices their approval with enthusiasm.

Everyone except Lorraine, who remains unnervingly silent, observing you intently as her eyes studying your every reaction.

You're still trying to wrap your head around RJ's appearance at this gathering when Wayne pipes up from beside you, putting his hand on your shoulder once again, this time his touch slightly less mocking. He speaks with a more sincere tone, his voice lacking the previous sarcasm.

"I'm sorry, Rooks. I was just tryna cut the tension a bit. I didn't mean to come off so harsh," he offers apologetically, his eyes locking onto yours.

You take a moment, trying to sort through the whirlwind of thoughts and feelings swirling in your mind. As you stand there, RJ leads the others with a surprising confidence into the kitchen, leaving you feeling lost in a sea of unexpected emotions.

You remain frozen, your mind struggling to process the flood of emotions coursing through you. Wayne's hand drops from your shoulder as he follows the rest of the group into the kitchen, leaving you standing alone in the living room.

Too much. Too much. Where do you even start?

Lorraine silently approaches, her gentle presence having an unexpected calming effect on your tumultuous emotions. She looks at you intently, observing your expression and demeanor with a careful eye. For a brief moment, the two of you simply stand there, the silence filling the air as she waits for you to speak.

Your voice is tight, almost strained, as you whisper to Lorraine, "are you fucking kidding me? Them? Of all people?" Your body is tense, your chest feeling like a coiled spring as you take in the situation at hand.

The sight of all those who tormented you both from your past all gathered in one place, is overwhelming, and you're struggling to keep your composure.

Lorraine's voice is soft and earnest as she whispers to you, her gaze never leaving yours. "I'm sorry," she says quietly, her tone conveying a sense of understanding. "I know it must be overwhelming seeing them all here, but they've changed. You'll see”.

Her words cause a ripple of uncertainty to cross your features, but she adds a final thought, her tone gentle “you need people right now, and you wouldn't have agreed otherwise."

You clench your jaw, struggling to keep your emotions in check. A mixture of anger and disbelief washes over you as you glance towards the kitchen, where the sounds of boisterous laughter and conversation fill the air.

It's almost surreal to think that these people, who use to verbally crucify you on the daily, are now considered Lorraine's friends. Your anger and frustration bubble just beneath the surface, a bitter taste settling in your mouth.

Lorraine's gentle voice breaks through your thoughts, her soft "hey" drawing your attention back to her. Her eyes, wide and innocent, bring an unexpected sense of reassurance, grounding you for a moment.

"I'd never lead you astray," she says, her words filled with conviction. Looking into her earnest eyes, you can't help but believe her.

Your heart is racing, torn between anger, disbelief, and the unexpected comfort Lorraine manages to bring. You stand there, feeling the inner turmoil that threatens to spill over.

As Lorraine walks past you, her eyes never leaving yours until the last second, she offers a knowing look, as if she understands the whirlwind of emotions swirling within you.

With that, she continues on towards the kitchen, joining the others, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

You stand there for a moment, undecided. This is the point where you'd normally leave, walking away from the people who caused you so much pain. You don't owe them anything, including Lorraine.

The words echo in your mind as you think about the decision you're facing. Why on earth would you stay in this situation, surrounded by people who had made your life miserable in the past? But then you think of her.

It's Lorraine, for Christ sake.

She has never been anything but kind and true to you. She's the only one you consider anywhere close to a friend, the only one you could ever… is trust the right word?

You feel a strange pull, as if some invisible force is urging you to stay, to give it a chance. Your mind races, trying to evaluate the situation and reason with yourself. Despite your reservations, you can't help but wonder — what exactly do you have to lose?

You take a deep breath, running your tongue along your teeth and clicking it against the roof of your mouth. You shake your head, sighing in frustration.

But Lorraine's words echo in your head, and as much as you hate to admit it, you can't deny that you do need people right now.

You may have despised your Pop, but he was still your father. Besides, it’s either this or return to that goddamn house of horrors.

With a clenched jaw and stiff movements, you slowly pivot on your heels, forcing yourself to move forward towards the kitchen.

Your reluctance and trepidation are evident in every step, but you push yourself onward, accepting the reality of your situation.

As you get closer to the kitchen, laughter and chatter grow louder in your ears, and you mentally brace yourself for what lies ahead.

You must be out of your goddamn mind, that has to be the explanation. This town, this fucking town.

Internally, you pray this won’t be a mistake.

____________________________________________

Over the past two hours, you've silently observed and taken mental notes on this odd group of friends, your inner investigator at work. You've noticed the subtle changes in their personalities, the unexpected friendships, and the hints of something lurking beneath the surface.

It's clear that time and circumstances have altered these people, and they're not the same ones you remember from high school.

But then again, they are. It’s strange.

Through your observations, you've noticed that Bobby-Lynn and Jackson are a couple, which isn't surprising given their past. However, the revelation that Wayne and Maxine are together comes as a surprise.

But what truly shocks you is the revelation that RJ and Lorraine are a couple now. You never saw that one coming.

You've noticed how RJ tries so hard, but it seems like an uphill battle. His overzealous and awkward enthusiasm clashes with Lorraine's quiet and soft-spoken nature. It's like watching a fish and a bird try to dance together, it just doesn't quite fit.

You observe the group from the sidelines, sipping on the same half-filled glass of red wine you've been nursing for what feels like days, always the outsider looking in.

Your eyes roam over the scene in front of you — the raucous laughter and the growing tipsiness of your old classmates. The familiar feeling of being the quiet onlooker takes hold, keeping you firmly on the fringes.

While observing the group, you’ve noticed the subtle glances exchanged between Bobby-Lynn and Maxine, each silently communicating something unknown.

It disturbs you, how its sole focus seems to consistently shift to Lorraine, who has also been sipping the same glass of wine since the first bottle was opened. There's a strange energy in the air between all three women, and you almost want to assume there's something deeper going on beneath the surface.

You don’t trust Maxine nor Bobby-Lynn as far as you could throw them, and that’s not saying much considering you don’t even trust them at arms length.

Lorraine's fingers toy with the stem of her glass, her eyes darting between Bobby-Lynn and Maxine. The air is thick with something, and you can almost feel the undercurrents of unspoken words that linger in the air.

The way Lorraine glances back and forth between the two women, her gaze never quite settling, leaves you with a sense of unease. There's something going on here, but you can't quite figure out what it is.

You’ve also been observing RJ's behavior with Lorraine; he's being more touchy than necessary, and every time Lorraine responds with a forced smile, one you recognize as her plastering on a facade.

It makes you uncomfortable, you don’t like it.

Suddenly, your eyes inadvertently meet hers, gazes locking for a moment almost as if she’s finally begun to feel the weight of your attention.

You quickly look away, feeling like you've stumbled into something you weren't supposed to see, something more complicated and strained than it should be.

You find yourself looking back at Lorraine, your eyes drawn to her against your will, like a magnet pull. To your surprise, she's still looking at you.

When your eyes meet, she shakes her head subtly. A clear message telling you to drop it, then looks away herself. But for some reason, you can't seem to break the magnetic pull, your gaze remaining locked on her for a moment longer than it should.

You mindlessly fidget with the stem of your wine glass, your eyes darting around the room. Finally, they land on Maxine, who is watching you with a calculating gaze.

As soon as your eyes meet hers, she takes a sip from her own glass, her knowing look making you feel like she can read your thoughts. You quickly look away, trying to seem casual, as conversation continues around you.

You excuse yourself, citing the need to use the bathroom. Bobby-Lynn motions down the hall, informing you where it’s located before leaning back against Jackson, who’s engaged in a boisterous banter with Wayne.

You refuse to look at Lorraine and RJ, avoiding the sight of his possessive hold on her. You tell yourself that it’s their business, not yours, and yet the fact that it’s continuing to bother you makes you angrier than ever.

It’s maddening, this irrational sense of anger and protectiveness towards Lorraine, over a relationship that should mean nothing to you.

As you make your way down the hallway, you involuntarily stop just short of passing a bedroom. A strange feeling, almost like a tug on your awareness, makes you pause, as if something is drawing your attention.

Something about the room beyond the half-open door tugs at the back of your mind, an ominous undercurrent that raises the hairs on your arms. You stand there, staring at the door, feeling an intense sense of unease. Your heart races, the air almost heavy with a feeling of foreboding.

Something feels amiss, something that fills you with a sense of impending danger or revelation. Every instinct screams at you to turn away and keep walking, but you can’t, your feet rooted to the spot.

Against your own better judgment, you find yourself moving towards the room like a puppet on strings, your body acting on its own accord despite your logical mind protesting.

This unnerving sensation, the feeling of being tugged by something other than your own volition, is becoming a disturbingly familiar occurrence for you more and more these days.

You slowly step inside the dimly lit room, your eyes darting around the surroundings. There's a faint hint of burning sage in the air, mixed with the scent of herbs. As you tentatively walk around, your gaze lands on a small, worn velvet pouch resting on the bedside table.

It looks innocuous, but there's something about it that catches your attention. You walk over to it, almost in a trance, and pick it up. Feeling the weight of the contents shifting around inside.

Your eyes flit towards the open door, a brief moment of indecision passing over your face. Every instinct tells you that you shouldn’t be doing this, that it’s wrong, but your curiosity and strange compulsion propel you forward. With a sense of both trepidation and determination, you ignore the nagging guilt and pour the content of the pouch out and into your free hand.

As the contents of the pouch spill out into your palm, you're taken aback for a moment.

The first thing you notice are several strands of hair, clearly someone's locks collected and tied together with a thin strip of leather.

Then there's a collection of small bones, which range in size and shape, some from small animals and some human-looking, like phalanges. There are also a few dried and crushed herbs mixed in, the unmistakable scent of sage among them.

Your eyebrows furrow and your mind whirls, searching for a reasonable explanation.

What on earth would snooty, picture-perfect Bobby-Lynn have an assortment of witchcraft material on her nightstand for?

It doesn’t make sense, it all clashes with the image you have of her in your mind. Sure, she’s a snobby bitch, but this?

You hastily put the components back into the velvet pouch, taking care to place it back exactly as you had found it.

Your mind is a tangle of thoughts and conclusions, but you shake your head, refusing to let your thoughts jump to conclusions based on such limited evidence.

You take a deep breath and exit the room, cracking the door just a hair behind you, being mindful to leave everything as undisturbed as possible.

Yeah, no, fuck this. Time to go.

You feign nonchalance, forcing a yawn as you reenter the room. Upon rejoining them, you quickly offer up an excuse to leave, "I think I'm gonna head out," you announce, avoiding eye contact with no one in particular.

Liar.

The protests come all at once, a chorus of voices blending together as everyone tries to persuade you to stay. Amidst it all, the sound of RJ’s drunken voice stands out, loud and slurred. Your gaze drifts to Lorraine, who looks obviously disappointed.

Your better judgment tells you to stay silent and mind your own business, but you find yourself gesturing towards RJ and locking eyes with Lorraine. In a soft but resolute tone, you ask her, "did he drive you here?"

RJ, already a bit disheveled, attempts to defend himself, but he’s clearly inebriated. "I’m not that drunk-" he slurs, attempting to justify himself.

However, you cut him off and shut him down. "You're not driving anywhere tonight," you say resolutely, your tone brooking no argument.

A tension fills the air as Lorraine begins to speak, her voice soft and resigned. "It's fine, I'll drive us home," she says, attempting to brush off the situation.

It’s logical, because she’s a grown woman who can handle herself. Yet, it doesn’t sit right with you, the image of her driving home with a clearly intoxicated RJ in tow sends a jolt of unease through you.

You can’t help but blurt out a reason why it’s a bad idea, your concern for Lorraine’s safety overriding your usual reserve. "That’s not a good idea," you say, your voice firm “RJ’s in no condition to be a reasonable passenger, considering how he can’t keep his fucking hands to himself. It’s not safe for either of you or the people on the road”.

Your own outburst catches you off guard, and a wave of embarrassment should wash over you. But you find yourself surprisingly unbothered, too invested in the situation at hand to care about your lack of filter. The room goes silent as everyone looks at you, a bit taken aback by your vehemence.

Maxine mutters under her breath, just barely loud enough for you to hear, "loose cannon”.

Bobby-Lynn gives her a disapproving shush, which only has her roll her eyes. Wayne then speaks up, a sensible solution in his voice, "hows about I drive RJ home? It's on my way anyhow”.

The tension in the room rises as RJ puffs up his chest in protest, his inebriated state making him more volatile. But before even he can respond, Lorraine steps away from him and starts gathering her belongings with a steady and firm resolve.

RJ, still puffed up and tipsy, begins to ask "what are you—“ only for Lorraine to cut him off with a firm "stop, don’t even with me right now."

Her gaze then flicks to you, her expression unreadable, almost guarded. Without another word, she swiftly exits the kitchen, shaking her head in what appears to be frustration or disappointment.

RJ, still agitated, tries to follow Lorraine — shouting her name in anger. However, your actions are almost instinctively protective. You step in his path, creating a barrier between him and Lorraine as she exits the kitchen.

In his inebriated state, RJ becomes brutally honest, spitting the words in your face as he says "you don't get to just show up back here and think you have a place with us."

His words are harsh, fueled by a combination of alcohol and resentment. The sting of his words momentarily catches you off guard, but you recover quickly, hitting back with a truth of your own.

"That's rich coming from you," you reply, "considering I watched Wayne shove you into a locker Sophomore year”, your blunt response is delivered with a hint of bitterness, a reminder of old grievances and past tensions.

The others in the room murmur, no one is surprised by this revelation, simply watching with growing intrigue. RJ’s face colors with embarrassment, clearly not expecting his own past to be brought up like this. Wayne, uncharacteristically avoids your gaze, a flicker of guilt on his face.

As the tension in the room continues to mount, a soft touch on your arm brings a moment of clarity. Your head turns, and your gaze meets Lorraine's dark brown eyes. Her steady presence instantly has a calming effect on you, making you feel grounded and less on edge.

Her eyes remain locked with yours, a silent understanding passing between you. Lorraine’s gentle tug on your sleeve, accompanied by her simple request, "take me home?", is enough to make you snap out of the tense exchange.

You quickly nod your agreement, the thought of leaving Lorraine alone with RJ in his current state and driving off with him not the ideal situation. You know she needs a safe ride home. Without another word, you turn away from RJ and the others in the room, guiding Lorraine towards the exit.

As Lorraine and you make your way towards the front door, RJ clumsily tries to follow, stumbling and calling after Lorraine in his drunken state.

However, Jackson steps in this time, stopping him from tagging along. Sensing RJ’s aggression, you cast a sharp glare their way, not keen on having any further confrontations.

You and Lorraine silently descend into the front yard, the sound of the gate creaking quietly as you pass through it. The night air is crisp and quiet, a stark contrast to the tension and noise of the house you've just left behind.

Before you can mount your motorcycle, Lorraine gently catches your arm, drawing your attention back to her. You turn completely to face her, your motorbike momentarily forgotten.

The streetlamp across the road casts a soft, warm glow on Lorraine, illuminating her delicate features. Her usually stoic eyes are softened, and in the dim twilight, they almost seem to sparkle.

In this moment, with the gentle light playing across her face, she looks truly beautiful. Your thoughts are momentarily muddled, caught in the spell her gaze seems to cast on you.

With a hint of frustration and genuine curiosity, Lorraine asks, "what the hell was that? Huh? It's been five years, haven't you changed any? Or did you just leave for nothin’?" Her voice is firm, a hint of irritation behind her words. She's not looking for a fight, but she wants to know what drove you to such a display back there.

You find yourself opening your mouth to provide an explanation, but the words get stuck in your throat. You feel like a teenager again, flustered and unsure how to articulate your thoughts.

Your mind races, but nothing coherent comes out, leaving you just staring at her, your mouth hanging open uselessly.

Lorraine's expression softens, her doe eyes studying yours intensely. A sigh escapes her lips, and she turns away from you, but casts a look over her shoulder at you.

She then murmurs a soft request, "I don't live far, could you walk me?" her voice is quieter now, the annoyance replaced by a hint of vulnerability.

There's a sense of frustration and confusion swirling through you as you struggle to make sense of your emotions and actions. You feel unsteady, off-balanced, as if walking on shifting sand.

It would mean walking there and then all the way back here for your bike.

Yet, at Lorraine’s request, you step up next to her without hesitation, falling into familiar steps beside her, just as you used to. The silence between you is both comfortable and strangely tense.

You walk together, the only sounds being the soft crunch of gravel under your feet and the occasional bird call in the distance.

But you ignore it, you always ignore it when they call to you.

After a few more minutes of silence, Lorraine finally breaks it, clearing her throat and adjusting her bag on her shoulder. She looks at you with a sincere expression, her voice soft and slightly apologetic. "I'm... real sorry about that," she says, her voice sincere.

"I do mean it when I say they've changed. They're good people, y’know?” she speaks genuinely, trying to reassure you that the people you just left behind are decent, despite tonight's display saying otherwise.

Your mind drifts back to the odd bag you discovered in Bobby-Lynn's bedroom, filled with items that made your hairs stand on end. You haven’t had much a chance to process it, what it could be, what it means.

These thoughts spark a question to your tongue, which leads you to ask Lorraine, "how long have you been hangin’ around with them now?" your voice lacks accusation, yet hints at curiosity and maybe even a slightly protective tone.

Lorraine lets out a soft laugh, the sound echoing down the dark street. Her laughter prompts a reluctant smile to tug at the corners of your lips.

With a knowing look in her eyes, she replies, "long enough now that you ain't got nothin' to get your ass in a twist over” her response is playful yet resolute, asserting that she can take care of herself.

You hum and nod, shoving your hands into the pockets of your jacket, trying to appear nonchalant.

Then in a feigned casual tone that doesn't quite hide your curiosity, "and RJ?" you question, laced with subtle care as it falls from your lips despite knowing it's none of your business.

Perhaps you ask because despite the fact it’s been five years, you do care, more than you're willing to admit.

Dare you say, you always did care? Never.

Lorraine gives you a playfully chastising look before turning her gaze forward along with you. Her response, typical of her, is short and to the point.

She simply shrugs and says, "it’s good," her voice carrying a hint of resignation and perhaps a bit of frustration.

The ambiguity of her answer leaves you wondering if she really means it's ‘good’ or if she's just trying to downplay any issues.

Seeking to bring a bit of humor to the moment, you give her a lighthearted tease. "Good? Lorraine, that's about as vague as a politician's promise. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're holdin’ back on me," you say, your voice filled with a touch of playful banter.

Your words seem to hit the mark, as Lorraine lets out a soft, amused scoff, a hint of a smile on her lips. "Oh, shut up," she responds, but her tone is lighter now, less guarded. There's a sliver of familiarity in her reaction, a flicker of the old spark between you.

Maybe your friendship did somewhat survive the wreckage you left in your wake before you abandoned the ship that is this sinking town five years ago.

As you continue walking side by side, a comfortable silence envelops the two of you. After a moment, conversation begins to flow effortlessly. It feels natural.

You catch up on the past five years, sharing stories, news, and everything in between. The conversation is light, filled with laughter and genuine connection. Despite the years of separation, it's as if no time has passed at all.

The easy banter and familiarity between you make it clear that some things, like your bond, never change. It was rare for you two to talk like this back then, but now?

It’s nice.

As the conversation continues, you realize that you've reached the heart of the town, having slowed your pace without realizing it. You look around, taking in the familiar surroundings, trying to figure out your exact location. The realization hits that you must have arrived at Lorraine's place.

Your curiosity prompts you to ask, "you live around here? In town?”

Lorraine nods her head in affirmation, gesturing upward towards the upper part of the small town library.

"Yeah, I got the loft up there, all to myself," she replies. The revelation gives you a mix of surprise and a sense of familiarity. It feels strange yet fitting that Lorraine would live above the library.

As Lorraine reveals her living situation, you let a playful smile tug at your lips, unable to resist a little teasing. "Livin’ in the library, huh? It's like you were meant to be a resident bibliophile," you jest, a hint of friendly mockery in your voice.

Lorraine instinctively swats at your arm, a gesture that is unexpected but also far too familiar, making the both of you laugh.

As the laughter slowly dies down, you find yourself taking in Lorraine's smile, watching how her brown eyes glimmer in the soft light. In this moment, you realize that you've never fully noticed just how pretty she is.

Has she always been, and you just never noticed?

The realization catches you off-guard, and you question why this thought is suddenly so prominent in your mind. Confused, you wonder what's wrong with you, why you're suddenly so focused on her beauty.

“Thank you,” her voice softer now as she tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Before you can respond, she continues, her voice filled with gratitude.

"It's nice havin’ someone around that makes me feel normal again," she says, her words carrying a hint of vulnerability "I… feel like I can breathe”.

The honesty in her confession reaches you, and you can't help but feel a pang of guilt for the years you've been away. The implication that she hasn't felt normal all this time sits heavily on your shoulders.

You recall her isolation on her family farm, the strained relationship between her parents, and the weight of the unreachable expectations she faced from them both.

The realization hits you how deeply this town has affected her too, how it's left a lasting impact on her psyche as much as it did you.

That wasn’t your fault, you were drowning, you did what you had to do.

But this is Lorraine, you may not have been close but… maybe you were. More than you want to admit, and to admit that to yourself? That might shatter you.

You meet her eyes, your heart heavy with remorse "I'm sorry, Lorraine," you say, your voice sincere and filled with empathy. "I never meant to leave you here alone, dealin’ with all of... this... on your own” your words hang between you, the weight of your absence evident in the air.

There's a moment of silence as Lorraine looks away, her gaze drifting to the side as her thoughts race. The energy between you feels off, strained and awkward. You can't quite put your finger on what's causing this sudden shift, but the tension is palpable.

The words escape your lips before you can even think about it, “you should come by the manor whenever” you blurt out, the words leaving you like they have a mind of their own.

"I'll be there, gettin’ things together the next couple days. I wouldn't mind your company” you stumble over the words as they leave your mouth, surprised by your own impulsiveness.

Surprise flashes across Lorraine's face, but she quickly softens her expression into a small smile.

Concern fills her voice as she asks you, "are you doing okay? Bein’ there after everything?" Her eyes search yours, looking for some kind of confirmation that you're truly alright.

You start to open your mouth, intending to reassure her that you're fine. You're about to brush off her concern, even though you spent the night sleeping on a park bench with your backpack as a makeshift pillow. But something stops you. Instead of speaking, you remain silent, closing your mouth without a word.

Old habits die hard, you suppose.

After a moment of studying you, Lorraine gives you a small smile and reassures you, “I’ll stop by” her voice is gentle and sincere. She then follows it up with another “thank you”.

The weight of her words hangs in the air, and her gratitude seems to go beyond this conversation. It feels deeper somehow, as if there’s a hidden understanding between you.

As Lorraine turns to head up the stairs to the library, you find yourself lost in thought. The understanding you have between the two of you has always been there, but you never quite had the words to define it.

Perhaps it was a connection born from shared experiences, a bond that defied explanation.

As you consider this, you realize that even now after all this time, you still can't find the words to describe it.

And when she turns to give you one small departing wave before slipping inside, you find yourself forgetting what you were worried about in the first place.

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Tag List: @thatshyboy1998

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#lorraine day x y/n #lorraine day x you #lorraine day x reader #lorraine day

74 notes · View notes

inoreuct · 10 months ago

Note

i mean- if youre willing to write the angstier version 🥺🥺

https://www.tumblr.com/inoreuct/738704605780885504/thinking-about-zoro-being-the-crews-main

more than willing 🤭 enjoy!!

everything kind of hurts when nami comes to.

she honestly can’t tell if she’s opened her eyes or not; it’s all pitch black, and her eyelids feel gummy. the lashes of her left eye are crusted together with what’s probably the same thing making her forehead stiff, so that’s most likely blood. lovely.

the back of her skull bumps against something hard and cold with damp as she cranes her neck around, trying to get her bearings, and she can bend her wrists just enough to confirm that those are chains wrapped around them above her head. it's still too dark to see but she can smell salty air, mildew and rust, hear the vague murmur of the ocean; her body feels sore and stiff all over but she can't have been hanging here long. her shoulders haven't started hurting the way she knows they can.

something moves within the shadows ahead, and nami deliberately keeps her breathing even as footsteps get closer to her. the person reaches the wall to her left and pries something away— a plank, she realises, as moonlight starts spilling through the barred window and the face of her visitor is thrown into sharp relief.

the man is pale, slim to the point of being gaunt with a greasy, grimy quality about him; she presses her teeth together as he slinks forward and clasps his hands behind his back and cocks his head.

“cat-burglar nami,” he begins, beady eyes blinking. "tell us your plans."

her eyebrows go up in a flash, lips pinching in bemusement. getting right to business, are we? "we don't have any," she laughs, and chokes when a fist sinks into her gut.

she admits that she hadn’t expected that as she sputters, coughing as her lungs burn. people usually work up to it; a little bit more forceful questioning and a couple of threats against, say, anything and everything she’s ever loved, and then she’d figure they’d start punching. this man, or whoever he represents— they’re desperate.

and he just proves her right, god, men are so predictable. "what do you mean, you don't have any?" he spits, jagged nails digging in as he grabs her chin forcefully.

nami chuckles again, weak huffs that make her chest heave. her shoulders are starting to ache. “we see someone that needs help and we help them. we don't plan anything."

another swing, straight to her solar plexus. "where's your crew?"

"you don’t… interrogate people often, do you?” she wheezes, and holds her breath as his fist draws back again. the pain bites and then blooms across her cheek, blood-hot and thrumming like an infection, and she works her tongue between tooth and soft flesh, the pocket around her lower gums as she bares a grin and turns her head.

"where is your crew."

this time, when nami's laugh flutters from her mouth, blood goes with it. "here." she takes great pleasure at the fear that singes the edges of the man's face before he tries to blank it again. it’s not very effective. "they're here."

"impossible," he sneers. "we're on a deserted island in the middle of nowhere."

it’s false fucking bravado and it fills her with a sick sense of glee as she smirks at him through sweat-sticky lashes. "impossible's what we're best at, if you haven't noticed." she has no doubt that her nakama have already tracked her down. it’s a matter of time before luffy takes the roof off this place or sanji kicks the door down with a flaming leg.

the third possibility, well— this guy better hope it’s not zoro that comes for her.

she watches as the man digs into his pocket, his breathing harsh. “fine.” the brass knuckles he slips over his fingers gleam in the low light, a pretty polished bronze, and nami’s mouth goes dry. “you don’t wanna tell me? fine.”

all she knows for a while after that is pain. hell, she’d never even been beaten this badly under arlong’s thumb, and aside from the occasional swat to the wrist her mother hadn’t hit her either. this, though— it’s slam after slam of metal into her gut with a hand pinning her shoulder to the wall. her entire body shuts down for a moment when the hard edges jab into her liver, and she chokes back a scream when she feels her ribs snap seconds after she hears them break.

the air feels too thick when he finally pulls back, damp with her own breath, her body hot all over and shivery with pain. this isn’t an interrogation— this is someone taking out their frustrations, and it’s confusing because she doesn’t even know one, who this guy is and two, what they did to warrant such a violent retribution because, and she reiterates, she has no idea who the fuck this guy is. if it turns out that he’s just a nobody who got too ballsy she is going to be relieved but so, so mad.

her entire body’s starting to feel like one big bruise. the joints of her arms burn as she tries to lift herself up, to take some weight off her shoulders, but a cold chill settles in the pit of her stomach when she sees the glint of metal. something else, as if the knuckles weren’t enough— silver this time, sharp and liquid, and she is gonna throw luffy in the godsdamned ocean for taking his own sweet fucking time because where the hell are they.

her new personal annoyance breathes a huff of a laugh as he slowly drags the knife down the front of her blouse (and thank god she’d decided to wear one today), grazing over the shiny buttons until there's a soft snck and the dull sound of the very last one clattering to the floor. "still not talking?”

…okay, that's it. time to get out of here. "fuck you," she says loudly, turning her face towards the window so her voice carries even as she keeps her eyes on the leering bastard in front of her. hello? she wants to yell, the voice in her head steeped in annoyance and fringed in just the tiniest bit of anxiety. i needed backup in here ten minutes ago? ring ring? anyone there?

she can see the looks on her crewmates’ faces. luffy would have that big sheepish grin on, one hand pressed to the top of his hat on his head as she reams him out for their tardiness before he blames it on zoro, the swordsman looking off to the side with a hand on his hilts, in a stubborn sulk.

the knife digs into her cheekbone, grimy fingers squishing her face, and nami grins as she chokes out the first name that comes to mind, under her breath and half-mouthed. "zoro."

he's here, she's sure. her crew is already here and he’ll hear her, he always does. she can feel it in her bones, in the blood that's dripping from her chin, because zoro's never let any of them down. he’s one of the first people who had understood the weight of guilt and unwanted responsibility crushed onto her shoulders, even through her betrayal, and he’d fought for her freedom without hesitation. he won't let anything happen to her. luffy wouldn't, sanji wouldn't, usopp wouldn't— they're gonna get her out of here and then she’s gonna see these bastards burned to the fucking ground.

nami’s a pretty thing, she knows. all short skirts and slender hands and freckled skin but she packs a punch, and she can take one too. she’s held out this long and she can do longer if need be.

she isn’t afraid to ask for help anymore, either— not since then, that faraway time when she’d pushed metal through the only physical evidence of her ties to the man who she’d nursed so much hatred for, hatred that she’d turned into strength.

the man pushes her face away and the tip of the knife nicks across her skin, a shallow slice down to the right side of her upper lip and then the knife is moving, a bright flash of silver, and her voice breaks when it stabs right into her shoulder.

it fucking burns. the tip wedges between the joint, slowly snapping cartilage as the man twists it with a cackle, and she seethes through her teeth. luffy had taught her that strength was asking for help. that admitting that you need someone to save you, if only in that moment, is the bravest thing anyone could do. zoro had taught her to wield it like a weapon, to withstand the strongest of the storms of her own creation—

and she grins, now, as the blade cuts through her flesh and blood drips into her mouth, eyes wild. “zoro!”

the knife drives deeper into her shoulder, white-hot. "cry all you want. they won't get here in time."

that pain is a reminder that she is alive.

her core tenses as she kicks off the wall and drives her boot into the man's gut, heel slamming into his spleen— it winds him enough that he doubles over gasping and nami smiles painfully wide, a wild, vindictive thing. "fuck. you."

“you’re gonna regret that, bitch,” he hisses, and he’s shaking, trembling as he drags himself upright and nami knows that by the gods, he’s only human and she’ll kick him again. she’ll kick him as many times as it takes. sanji would be so proud.

she huffs a laugh, mean and low and raw as she presses her cheek against her bicep and lets her head tip down. she’ll rest, just for a little while before she gets back to fighting and clawing like a bat out of hell. something flickers at the edges of her vision, warm orange bleeding into the peripheral even through her lowered lashes and a soft, whispering crackle that carries on the breeze, smelling of ash— fire. a resounding boom shakes the walls and the man’s head snaps to the window, to say something or maybe to yell—

nami doesn’t get the chance to find out before a blade cleaves him clean in two.

the vertical halves of his body stay frozen for a split second before they slide apart and crumple into a mess of pink and ivory, slick red on the rough-hewn floor. wado gleams wickedly in the moonlight as zoro flicks the gore off her blade, shining silver streaked with the same blood that drips from the swordsman’s face.

“witch,” he grits out, eyes blazing beneath his bandana as he pushes a seething breath through his teeth, and there’s clear worry in the way he uses the side of his hand to push her sweaty bangs off her face and tilt her head up. it reminds her of her mother checking her forehead for fever, and she almost laughs. “you good?”

nami’s eyes burn as she stares at him tiredly. “no. i’m not fucking good,” she deadpans. “get me down.”

sparks shower down above her head as zoro cuts through the chain stringing her up, and her stomach swoops when she drops before an arm catches her around the waist. she cries out as it hits her ribs directly and zoro swears, his sword clattering— and then nami's world tilts as she's leaned carefully against the wall and zoro's face swims into view.

"hands out."

"what took so long?" she snaps weakly, trying to catch her breath. her hair bunches against the wet, grimy stone, and now that there's nothing to worry about she almost gags.

"they weren't completely stupid. took a while to find you," zoro grits, voice tight, before his face softens. "now put your hands out."

it's a struggle to lift them but she manages, albeit with her arms lopsided. the iron shackles around her wrists and rusted and heavy, tight enough that the skin of her wrists is itching, and her arms ache something fierce as zoro slices through the short chain connecting them and then eases his blade through the scarce gap between metal and skin to pop them open one by one.

she hears a cannon boom again. franky, probably— the walls shake and all of a sudden she’s aware of the raw relief coursing through her system, so much that it hurts, like blood rushing back to a limb. she’s lightheaded with it. or perhaps that’s… something else, she ponders faintly, as a knee buckles underneath her and zoro hauls her up before she can fall.

"just hang on, witch, i've got you,” she hears him murmur, squinting at him in the orange light as she’s lifted horizontal, an arm below her back and one beneath her knees.

her own arm flops uselessly, blood soaking her sleeve and collecting in the crease of her elbow. nami reaches up to find purchase and digs her manicured nails into the swordsman’s trapezium. "zoro."

a pause in movement as he looks down. "hm?"

she pulls herself up enough (or pulls him down enough, she can’t tell) to look him in the eye and says, low and dangerous, "i can't do it myself right now, so— give them hell, but don’t kill them. make an example of them. make them a warning.” the last word is spoken quiet enough that she can barely hear it herself, and zoro’s eyes are deadly serious. “death’s a privilege i don’t want them having just yet."

she can tell that the idea doesn't sit well with him; he bristles like an angry cat and his nostrils flare, but she knows he understands when he jerks a nod at her all the same as they step through the busted door and past piles of bodies, all the way out until they’re graced by the last smears of yolk-orange sun across the sky.

somewhere, luffy laughs.

nami shifts and as far as she can see, her crew is going fucking ham. she watches usopp shoot a man point-blank in the face with something that explodes in a shower of red dust and sends him twitching to the ground. another guy goes flying as jinbei quite literally throws him, and a whole row of goons get slammed into a crumbling wall as her captain swings his arm.

“cook!” zoro roars over her head, and it’s barely a second before sanji’s cutting a path towards them, kicking enemies out of the way left, right and centre before he stops right in front of nami.

his mouth parts in a silent question even as his eyes grow stormy blue with anger, face darkening when his gaze locks with zoro’s, and neither of them need to say anything. sanji just nods, solemn, before zoro carefully hands her off and makes sure she’s settled. wado sings as he pulls her out of her scabbard, and he’s relatively out of sight with a spray of coppery red.

nami swallows, suddenly very aware of her dry throat as her temple thumps down on his shoulder, and she gets the sudden ridiculous urge to apologise for her half-dried blood dirtying his suit.

“none of that,” he hushes, and fuck, she must be more out of it than she realised if she’s speaking out loud. sanji chuckles tightly. “you're alright, my dear. we've got you now."

she cranes her neck slightly to check her immediate field of vision, counting off mentally. "where’s everyone else?"

"taking care of things." an elegant hand appears and curls around her broken ribs, making sure they don't jostle as robin walks calmly into view. her beautiful face is serene. “they hurt one of ours. nobody except our crew is walking out of this place.”

nami blinks at her, limbs leaden, eyes narrowing with an irritated sigh as she cradles her injured shoulder against her body. “somebody better get my fucking clima-tact.”

she passes out.

the world is a soft blur when nami wakes, like she’s seeing things through dandelion fluff. or pain meds. probably pain meds. she knows she’s in chopper’s infirmary; the smell of antiseptic is painfully sterile, and she is glad of it. she vaguely remembers being carried in, sanji’s voice pitched low, someone sponging the blood from her skin as chopper’s hooves carefully prodded her torso.

the mattress dimples under her fingers and she jerks a little at the sound of slippers pattering towards her, cutting off abruptly with a yelp and a few hissed words. luffy’s hat is lopsided, gleaming in the afternoon sun.

she slips back into unconsciousness with a smile on her face.

the next time she comes too, she’s still in the infirmary. she doesn’t open her eyes just yet— soft breathing fills her ears, slightly raspy, a soothing rumble like the earth itself is shifting. she knows it’s zoro. it couldn’t be anyone else.

sure enough, the swordsman is asleep next to her pallet, squished into a chair that’s slightly too small with his arms crossed and his chin dipped to his chest.

nami coughs loudly, immediately regretting it as her chest and shoulder flares with pain, and then deciding that it’s worth it when zoro nearly tumbles out of his seat.

they stare at each other for a while. nami raises an eyebrow after three seconds of zoro being wide-eyed and open-mouthed. “how long was i out?”

the swordsman recovers himself with a swallow and a hand scrubbed through his hair. “not long. it’s the second morning after.”

she hums. “who were they?”

“a bunch of idiots who got lucky. we just jumped in and beat the shit outta them like usual.”

a muscle twitches in her forehead because god, they really were just idiots with balls too big for their pants. “and where are they?”

“marooned on that island, s’far as anyone’s concerned. luffy and franky turned their ship to splinters.” the grin that tugs at the corner of his mouth is a feral, satisfied thing. “ain’t no way they’re going anywhere anyway, even if they still had a boat. probably can’t even get their sorry asses off the sand. we didn’t kill them—” he says before she can get a word in edgewise, and nami closes her mouth, “but they’re closer to death than life, that’s for damn sure.”

a second’s pause, before she deems the answer satisfactory. “the others?”

“resting. or on watch.”

and it sounds to her for once like there’s nobody rootling around in the kitchens. “awfully quiet, no?”

zoro huffs a laugh, knowing what she means immediately. “the cook told luff to keep it down.”

both her brows go up at that. their captain is not one usually inclined to keep it down. “surprised he listened.”

“he does what he wants.” zoro shrugs, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “and he wants you to get better, so he listened.”

maybe it really is the simplest thing in the world. luffy is simultaneously layers upon layers and one thin sheet. he is so much and yet still so simple in the way that he cares. nami takes stock for the first time, vision widening to encompass the rest of the room. it’s early morning, early enough that the top of the sky is still dyed dark, pale blue and pink streaking the rest. her body aches all over, concentrated in her shoulder and ribs, bandages looped in layers beneath the soft, loose shirt that she’s pretty sure is sanji’s. there are dark circles smudged under zoro’s eyes and his hair is loose. her clima-tact sits on the table nearby, as does—

luffy’s hat glows in the early dawn, individual strands lighting up like spun gold. it’s old and battered and worn thin. it makes nami’s heart feel warm.

“sorry."

she blinks, turning back to zoro to find him with his head bowed, hands clenched tightly in his lap. “…hey."

"i'm sorry," he says again, taking a deep breath that shifts his massive shoulders as he sits back. "we should've gotten there sooner. they shouldn't have been able to get to you at all—"

"hey." nami pushes a palm against the mattress to sit up before the pain makes her decide against it, grimacing. "don't be stupid. you got there before anything happened."

zoro's eyes are blazing when he finally looks up. "that's bullshit. the fact that they got you at all is—” he bites off his words, chest rising with a measured inhale that she suspects doesn’t help much. “and something happened, witch. a lot happened. you're bruised half to hell. they broke your ribs. your shoulder—"

"will be fine," she stresses, rolling onto her uninjured side to face him.

“your face.”

“superficial.” nami reaches up to press her fingers over the bandage on her cheek, feeling the silhouette of stitches beneath. unbothered by the way zoro’s seething. “our doctor’s one of the best. at worse, now luffy and i match.”

“you’re missing the point,” zoro grits, fists and teeth clenched so hard they both creak. “this wasn’t supposed to happen. nothing like this. not with me around.”

she knows her physical injuries aren’t all he’s talking about. knows he’d noticed the missing button on her shirt. knows that it’s guilt that’s eating him up inside, staining his undereyes the same purple as her bruises and putting that haunted look on his face.

nami sighs. zoro's a dumbass on a good day and he's got the emotional awareness of a brick wall, but of course he has to get this of all things.

she says it sarcastically in her head, but the thought makes her want to curl up and cry. the way he’s staring at her, wide-eyed and waiting for her judgement, makes something in her ache so fondly that she sniffs before she looks down.

he looks his age, for once. not a child anymore but also barely a man. too young to have so much weight on his shoulders, but aren’t they all? the words would be easy to say. it’s not your fault. don’t beat yourself up over it.

but mercy towards himself a language in which zoro is still not yet fluent, so for now she’ll defer to a more familiar tongue. "i'm fine. promise,” she mutters, looking down like she doesn’t mean it with everything she has. like she wouldn’t say anything to make him feel just a little better. “but you keep up with this attitude and i'll add to you debt."

he sputters, weak but still incredulous. "i just saved you, you witch."

"so?" she swallows her heart as she arches a brow. "you didn't do it fast enough. what's your point?"

"you're a tyrant," he breathes, rolling his eyes and huffing a loud breath as he looks away.

nami smirks. "a tyrant who budgets for your liquor with our beri, might i remind you. now go get your cook to make me a snack."

"he's not my cook!" zoro hisses, half in shock, getting up on reflex like a startled animal to yank the door open and storm out.

nami can’t help it— she laughs as tears spill hot down her cheeks, and she swipes them away so her bandage stays dry. it feels so good to be able to banter like this again. she hears her crew now, their voices rising and falling as zoro breaks the news, the cheers going up against the still morning air; it warms her through like fire on a brisk winter’s day. the gauze wound around her torso restricts her movement, but nami eases herself back down into the pillows with a sigh and let the noise of her nakama wash over her.

it soothes the ache. they always do.

(zoro returns within ten minutes with a slice of tangerine cheesecake and a mug of rich, creamy chocolate. sanji's drawn a spiky, frowning mossball on the top with milk foam, and she giggles when she looks up and zoro's making the exact same expression.)

(later, before the sun is even properly up in the sky, her crew curls around her in the tiny room she’s temporarily calling her own. they sit on every available surface and take up every available space, in the infirmary, in her heart; luffy’s cross-legged at the foot of the bed, beaming at her with a mouth full of chocolate biscuit. robin’s hands lift her hair off the nape of her neck. franky’s knitting some sort of sweater with yarn that’s coincidentally her favourite colour, and jinbei’s voice is deep and calming as he chats quietly with brook.

zoro stands, a silent sentinel by the door, arms crossed and brow lowered, and when she catches his eye his face softens.

“you gonna stand there all day?” she asks, brow arching in expectation, and she scoots over to make space for him to squeeze in next to sanji by her hip. their lack of squabbling does not escape her notice, but she’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth— she’ll enjoy her peace and save it for another day.

and there will be another day. she’s planning on sailing with this crew for a long, long time.)

(even later, after everybody else has filed out of the room, zoro remains by her hip. his face is shadowed and unreadable.

“they should have died for what they did to you,” he says, low and soft. not tightly, no, not when she’d already told him it wasn’t what she wanted— not a protest. just a statement.

“you already bisected the one who did it first-hand,” she hums with her thumb shoved halfway through the middle of a tangerine, oil misting into the air, pith gathered beneath her nails as she pries it apart. “isn’t that enough?”

zoro doesn’t look up as he shakes his head, hands clasped in his lap, and nami feels something in her chest soften because zoro, for every good thing he is, has never been one to address how much he cares, and this— this allowance, however indirect, for her— it means a lot. it means everything.

his head snaps up with a frown as the piece of rind she throws smacks him square between the brows, staring down at the slice of fruit she offers him next like it’s something alien.

he shoves it in his mouth anyway, and she bites back a laugh.

they don’t say much more. they don’t need to.)

#well. this wasn’t as zoro-centric as it was supposed to be #more a zoro nami dynamic study. with a sprinkle of romance dawn trio #whatever it’s still delicious DINNER IS SERVED *rings bell to summon yall*#one piece #cat burglar nami #one piece nami #roronoa zoro #one piece zoro #strawhat pirates #romance dawn trio #zosan #because there’s always zosan…#also i find it hilarious how nami’s just kind of pissed off. woman’s barely stressed bcs she knows she’ll be fine she’s just MAD #ino writes

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 year ago

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Carpe Noctem 8

Warnings: dark elements, noncon, age gap, gaslighting, manipulation, other dark elements. Proceed with caution. (short!reader)

Note:Please let me know what you think as it helps me a lot with ideas and I love interacting with you all.

Part of The Club AU

You leave the motel under a cloud of reluctance and relief. You have little to your name but your wallet, phone, and a few snacks. Hesitation keeps you stagnant behind the wheel, hovering over the address saved on your maps. This is it, hit start and accept your fate.

You put your phone on the passenger's seat as the automated voice directs you. You shift into gear and pull out. Disbelief fades to indifference. You don't have the energy to feel.

You follow along, in autopilot, until the GPS announces your destination on the right. You slow down and look up at the large house. Of course. He's rich. Dirty rich.

You pull down the long lot and stop to the right side of the double garage door. You don't get out immediately, you lean back and close your eyes. You try to sort through your thoughts. It's not that big of a deal. Sleep here, go to work, find anywhere else to be during the day.

There's a rumble on the seat beside you and you snatch up your phone. You drag your thumb across the screen to answer, too late to change your mind. It's him. Of course it's him.

"Don't say a word, sweetheart," Lloyd looks down his nose at the lens, "I just need you to see this."

He switches cameras and you squint as he points it at a familiar wooden door. No. The brass numbers confirm his location; your home. Former home.

His hand knocks on the door as he shifts the phone in his hand.

"Lloyd! Stop. No, don't–"

"Fair warning, sunshine, I got you on mute, so if you're tryna change my mind, it won't work." He knocks again, pounding on the door.

As the door opens, Lloyd's fist flies from the edge and snaps Johnny's jaw. You watch the other man stagger and grip his cheek, only for a moment, before swinging back at his attacker. The picture skews as Lloyd dodges and his foot hits Johnny’s chest and sends him onto his ass.

"Think that's about even," Lloyd clucks as he enters your apartment and steps over Johnny.

He leads with the lens, giving you a glimpse of the front room as he inspects it. He finds his way into the bedroom and hums. He goes to the dresser, opening a drawer then shutting it as all he finds are Johnny's briefs. He slides out the next one and picks out a few neatly folded panties.

"You keep a nice place, sweetie pie," he remarks. "Boring…" he comments as he examines a pair of your cotton panties.

You want to cry. You want to just wilt away to nothing. Why is he doing this?

The camera blurs in a smear of colours suddenly and Lloyd grunts. You hear Johnny and a struggle. Banging, clattering, and clamoring. You hear them locked in contention, helpless as you're stuck staring at a wall.

Another growl and an unsettling thump. The phone lifts and Lloyd snorts as you get a glimpse of him, his nose slightly bloody. He puts the phone down and you hear the drawer snap shut.

"See ya soon, baby cakes," he says, slightly breathless, "make yourself cozy… don't miss me too much."

He taps the screen and the call ends. You gape at your phone and whimper as you slump forward. Shit. You're totally fucked and you have a feeling Lloyd knows exactly that.

You lock your phone and sigh. Well, no going back now.

You get out of the car and look around. It's a nice neigbourhood, a bit far from work but not terrible. God, you're really going to do this.

'High five, fuck, go on our way.'

His words reverberate. Does he really want that? From you? Surely you could just pay rent.

You head up the walk and pull up the passcode. You punch it into the keypad on the door and it beeps, a green light granting you access.

Inside, the entry is airy and bright. You pause to take it all in. You check your phone again. Maybe you should go to the apartment and make sure they're not killing each other. Or maybe you should let them. You might avoid a lot of trouble if you just stop trying so hard.

There's a table against the curved rail of the staircase. You near as you give a curious look to the basket on top. White with a bright pink ribbon snaked around the handle. Inside, you find various boxes, taking the first to cringe at the small bullet vibe through the plastic window of the packaging.

The rest of the contents are similar; bottles of lube, stimulating salve, toys, clamps, and even a few panties without much fabric. Jesus. You leave the array of erotic aids but take the small envelope from in front of it. He knew. He knows you have no other option and he's entirely prepared.

Inside the card, ignoring the exterior image of a dildo and butt plug beneath a pun, you find script typed in Arial. 'Welcome to the sex shack. Make yourself at home. Yours is the room with the tie on the handle. Leave it on for when I get there.'

Gross. Not just him, you. There can be no doubt that his intent is just as shallow and sick as he is as a person. But you, you're not going to walk out and sleep in your car. Just like with Johnny, you will roll over and take it.

#lloyd hansen #dark lloyd hansen #dark!lloyd hansen #lloyd hansen x reader #The gray man #Au #Drabble #Series #carpe noctem

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theblackphonelovvyhopper · 4 months ago

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TBP ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE AU

(+Lo and Louis, me and my friend’s ocs) (will not be putting headcanons for Louis, bc I don’t know his character enough to make headcanons)

Finney Blake - lead/guide

the lead, and the guide of the team.

he’s the most logical, decisive survivor.

he has a gun and a knife as his weapons.

he’s extremely protective of gwen, who wants to protect him too, but he can’t risk losing her.

he tries to feed himself, but makes sure his little sister eats just as much or more than he does.

he can barely sleep, he can somewhat pass out due to exhaustion.

best in survival skills, worst in stamina

Gwen Blake - craftswoman

craftswoman on the team

very efficient

she makes sure all her crafts are efficient.

she’s still religious, she prays that the apocalypse could end, or at least that they have a chance of surviving.

she usually has a knife, but at some point, she can use a pistol.

she would protect finney with her life.

she gets dreams about the possible future, or places to go, or warnings, etc

she sleeps a lot, but only briefly.

best in stamina

Robin Arellano - brawler

brawler of the team

when it comes to fighting, he’s more on using fist-to-fist, but Lo and Bruce insisted he used a weapon for minimum damage. He’s the more careful one.

he likes to show off his fighting skills in more brutal ways to survivors he doesn’t trust, to show that he, and his team, shouldn’t be messed with.

weapon of choice is his fists, but secondarily, a spear or pole.

he’s extremely protective of not just Lo, but all of his friends.

speaking of, during missions, he’s always paired up with Lo. he will NOT leave him alone.

he’s the second most altruistic out of the survivors.

when others are feeling down, he does his best to make sure everyone stays and feels strong and positive, he knows that’s what’s best for the future.

gets hot easily

best in strength.

Lo Hopper - Strategist/Patrol

he’s the strategist/patrol of the group.

always plans ahead for anything that could happen, or anything that can benefit them. executes his plans efficiently and as well as he can

borrowing billy’s spare jacket (despite being bitter with him)

weapon of choice are knives and spears

he hates loud weapons, like molotov cocktails, or guns

extremely controlling under stress

he doesn’t like to sleep, and he becomes an insomniac due to being afraid and paranoid. that’s why he chooses to be night patrol. but when he does sleep, he can’t do it without robin in his sight, or with him.

the most altruistic out of everyone

best in strategy.

Vance Hopper - Brawler

he’s the brawler of the group.

he’s very attentive to his surroundings, and tries to take the most logical decision to himself.

he can get a little reckless

weapon of choice are brass knuckles and maybe guns.

despite being an aggressive fighter, he knows how to do it as quietly as he can, if hes in bigger spaces.

the strongest out of everyone.

he’s extremely protective of the younger ones (Griffin and Gwen), and his little cousin (Lo)

he also doesn’t like to sleep, but eventually he does. he’s not a night owl.

he cares about Lo the most.

gets hot easily

good with kids

best in strength

Bruce Yamada - Medic/Weaponry Expert

he’s the medic/weaponry expert

his dad liked to teach him about survival skills, his mom liked to teach him about medicine.

his weapon of choice is his spiked bat, since he’s strongest with that.

every after fight, he checks on everyone’s physical states

this becomes a force of habit, and if he sees even just a scratch, he immediately does his best to patch it up.

likes to encourage the people in his group, with Robin. but his mental state is pretty down.

he’s a careful, calculated fighter

really good swings

makes sure everyone’s out of danger

best in intellect

Billy Showalter - Newsboy/Tracker

he’s the newsboy/tracker of the group

he keeps track of the state of their base, knows how to work and fix a radio, and keeps track of the zombies.

weapon of choice is a pistol

he needs a routine to himself, because when things are a little too chaotic, he ends up getting mentally overwhelmed.

he makes sure everything is being done efficiently.

follows Lo’s strategies to a fault, despite being bitter with him. he just likes the organization.

he lost most of his appetite watching the zombies eat people

he sleeps easily, but again, briefly.

runs really fast

best in stamina

Griffin Stagg - Craftsman

he’s the craftsman of the group

he likes to make things, especially anything with mechanics

he’s really quiet

doesn’t like to use weapons, but when he does, its usually a makeshift crossbow or a pistol

he helps gwen and billy when they need it

he likes to keep his blanket around, one that his grandmother gave him

the one who needs to eat the most

ends up sleeping a lot, but he’s aware of his surroundings anyway.

when everything is a little more peaceful, he likes to craft gifts for everyone to cheer them up.

surprisingly pretty smart, just has pretty bad memory

easily scared and startled

best in intellect

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maehwajuuuu-chu · 27 days ago

Text

[Seiren • Starsilver Sparrow]

“Eula, how would you feel if I suddenly get amnesia, hm? You know like Vetur finally having enough of me and shoving me off the balcony—" “Sister, Sir Meier would have a stroke if he were listening to our conversation,” Eula briskly piped in, lowering her chipped teacup with a delicate clink before shooting an eagle-like glare at her older sister. “However, more importantly why would you suggest such wretched events? Is Vetur being bothersome, once again? I thought he had become responsible and stopped after I had made him slip on his own clothes—MMF.” The older sister groaned, plucking another biscuit from the tray and warningly held it up to the younger’s girl’s indignant glower as she menacingly munched.

“It’s only hypothetical, you funny little lemon. I’ll get a mirror - you’re all blown up like an angry pufferfish.” She tapped the biscuit against Eula’s scrunched up nose and slowly pushed it into her mouth. “Keep this up and you’ll only get porridge for the next week, you hear me?” - - -

Pain rattled through her gritted teeth as a gloved fist yanked her up by her knotted hair. Smouldering eyes of glowing coal glowered down resentfully at her behind a cracked mask, with the distant groaning curses of fallen Fatui heard in the background as they attempted to crawl out from pieces of rubble and jutting stalagmites of golden creedite.

“What the hell is this?”

She smirked, blood smudged across her battered lips. Past the shattered frame of the tavern’s window, the hilt of the scythe glinted in the flickering broken light and Adrik’s hand curled over its blade in a last futile attempt.

How bloody damn hilarious.

“Hey! What are you gawking at?” The agent jerked onto her hair, his fire-water tinged breath spewing against her face, “Damn it, are you deaf?! Listen to me, you knight fool!!”

Blunt spikes dug into her cheek as a gauntlet slammed against her face. She spat out a hoarse curse, blood spattering from her lips and she venomously fixed a glare at the bloodless grin. Knees immediately slammed to the rocky ground, as the agent dropped her to the ground. Gloved fingers reached to peel away the draped bloodied locks of hair from her face, crooked teeth stretched.

“Now, I can see my punching bag a bit more clearly.” He leered, flicking a strand of copper with deep chuckle rumbling from his throat, “Oh! Look at this blood - So young and vibrant!”

Acrid burning crawled up her throat, eyes dilated in trembling rage. She smacked away the lingering touches, letting wisps of hair tear out from her bloodied hairline.

“Get ya damn mitts out of my hair.” she hissed out, defiance sharply flashing across her glower, “And just get this over and done with, you bastard.” The agent coughed out a surprised laugh, flexing the stained brass reinforcers with eager clicks. He stepped back as he pulled the flask from his jacket and popped its lid off, swinging its contents down his mouth. He wound in his fingers into an anticipating fist while he drew it back. Bracing for the impact, she closed her eyes as she tightly held her vision in her bleeding hand.

“I’d rather die remembering the lifetime we spent together, than not recognise your face when I see you again.” - - - YIPPEEE finally was able to finish this phew. Anyways say hello to Seiren, my chaotic little limb-hogging treasure hoarder! She's one of my older guys, she's been in my brain since 2022! She's one of Rai's old friends and I can't wait to yap about her, about her wife and about her daughter, and also yap about the whole Aster's Oath. She's one of the characters who are highly important to the main storyline! (Yes I did look at the genshin treasure hoarders and went what if murderous lesbean. and yes that is how she was birthed) Ok lols I'll stop rambling, but please keep an eye out for her in future stuff! :D

-> Got the drip marketing background from @/chie_zuu on twitter!

#genshin impact oc #genshin oc #genshin impact #oc: Seiren #Mondstadt #FR WANTED TO LIKE SHOW EVERYONE WITH RAI IN THE FIRST POST HERE #is ok I can do one at a time #art #oc

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beansprean · 2 years ago

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Some of my fav enablers @vampireshmampire and @phasmama and pejnt and Lu been talking about a Hercules au...

(ID in alt and under cut)

1. Full body of Jan as Hades in a long black dress with puffed sleeves and a long slit up the side over a darker black bodysuit with cutouts up the legs. She is wearing high top high heel sneakers and her hair is a blaze of blue fire. She sits on a throne made of bones, all the skulls of which are missing their incisors, and grins at the viewer with rows of sharp teeth. Behind her, the souls of the damned are wailing. She says, "Nandy, Nandy, Nandy... What do we do here in the Underworld?"

2. Reverse shot of Nandor as Meg, hair half up in a looping bun and wearing a short purple peplos clasped over both shoulders with brass brooches. He twiddles his fingers together and looks up at her nervously, responding, "We sweat?" Offscreen, Jan answers, "That's right!"

3. Wide profile shot as Jan gets up from her throne to stand in front of Nandor. One hand on her hip and the other pointing vaguely left, she says, "So go out there and work up a sweat to get that sweet little Van Helsing over here! And who knows - you may just earn back your humanity." Her grin is wide and confident, but her eyes are hard. Nandor perks up with a small smile at the mention of a reward.

4a. Knees up of Guillermo as Hercules, dressed in a short leather chiton and blue cape, hair styled in a little side swoop. He is grinning excitedly, holding up both fists as he says, awed, “I’m gonna be a vampire…” Nadja and Laszlo, dressed in pale red and pale green respectively, lean out from behind him. Nadja folds her hands on top of her husband’s head and rests her chin there with a sly grin, replying, “Yess, absolutely.” Laszlo wears a matching expression, posing his hands innocently under his chin. He adds, “You just have to do a few…” Nadja pipes up, “Quests!” Laszlo continues, “Yes, a few heroic quests for us, first!” 4b. In the background, Guillermo has his back to the viewer and is chopping madly at a vaguely yonic hedge with his xiphos sword, letting out a “ha!” of effort with each swing. In the foreground, Nadja and Laszlo are lounging and sipping from cups of blood. Laszlo calls over sternly, “No cutting corners, boy! I want a perfect likeness!” Nadja sits back lazily with her knees up and spread to provide a reference. /end ID

#wwdits #nandermo #mlm #hercules au #jan wwdits #what we do in the shadows #what we do in the shadows fx #my art #fanart #image described #how dare they get me invested in my least fav disney renaissance film #but hades jan HOT

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basilone · 2 months ago

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Can I request Benny x Darlene + ⁸⁴⁾ a steamed-up bathroom and cold floorboards, please? 💕

You most certainly can, thank you so much for sending this! 💙 Fair warning for this one, as it is one that packs a whole punch of feelings in it because it's a Benny/Darlene + post-stalag reunion... Also might give a tiny bit away about the state of another pairing in this particular narrative, but the main focus here very much is these two navigating Benny's homecoming.

Darlene shivers when the bedroom’s chill nips at her skin. It hadn’t been this cold when they’d first arrived – the same room they’d had last time when they were at the coast, the same comfortable bed that would get almost too warm in morning – but she supposes anything will feel colder than the steamed-up bathroom she’s just escaped from.

Escaped.

Her stomach twists at the notion. Feels like it’s sinking all the way down to her feet, plummeting abruptly toward the cold wooden floorboards without so much as a by-your-leave. Her hand shoots out before her next step becomes a stumble. She breathes, sharply, in through her nose and out through her mouth, when her fingers lock around the edge of the dresser beside the door.

Escaped is what the brass had said about Lot and Major Cleven, already back on base before all the rest of them had finally been brought home. Escaped, which Darlene supposes sounds like a prize you can win except for the part where she’s seen Lot’s hand shoot out simply to anchor Major Cleven’s trembling fist. Except for the part where they only sleep when lying together in the belly of their plane, but never in their separate bunks at night. She has seen Major Cleven’s body rest between Lot and everything else, as though their prison had created more shield than man out of him, and Lot’s eyes had followed Darlene’s every move through the plane with all the air of an animal that is not used to freedom.

She’s seen the same look in Ben’s eyes tonight.

Escaped wasn’t what they’d said about him. Liberated had been the term – the news, the joy, the pride – when they’d told her he was coming back to England.

Darlene scoffs to herself as she opens the dresser. She supposes it’s only apt to speak of liberation when you are sitting in some office back home, on some plush chair in the United States, ready to tell the people and the President that the boys are coming home. It’s a word to use in newspaper articles all right, becoming harder to stomach with every byline. Her own tummy roils at the thought of someone else telling her that Ben’s free. Liberated. She’s gonna damn well take a swing at the next fella proclaiming that sort of nonsense.

Her hands lock around the softest towel she can find. It’s softer than her hands, which are calloused and worn. Softer than the bedsheets, even, but Ben had met even those with a wonder he hadn’t…

Her fists tighten around the towel. Darlene swallows back the noise that threatens to claw out of her throat. Bites her tongue to stop it from rising again – halt that fucking wail, that horror of grief – and exhales past her teeth. Brings the towel up to her cheek to halt her lone tear in its tracks before it can multiply.

It’s not the place for tears. Not yet. She scrapes her throat. Blinks at herself in the mirror until her eyes stop blurring her freckles and the white lace of her top. Hold it the fuck together, Dar, she almost says out loud, except he’s in the warm bathroom next door and the walls here are too thin. She’s been telling herself she’ll cry later. Has been digging half-moon reminders of it into the palms of her hands since Lot’d come home and whispered a sorry into Darlene’s collar that had somehow managed to sound like an apology for all the goddamn hurt she’d caused. Has been biting it back since her arms had first locked around Benny – around what them damn Nazis had left of him, all bone and cold – and he’d been wet-cheeked enough for both of them already.

She exhales again. Clicks the dresser shut. Swings the door to the bathroom back open before the tears hit after all, welcoming its heat even though it’s gonna make her hair curl and frizz up to stay in it for long.

“Got ya a nice towel,” she announces needlessly, holding it aloft before dropping it onto the small stool beside the tub. “Knew I’d seen it somewhere in that damn dresser, hidin’ behind all them scratchier towels they want ya to use first.”

“You’re messing with their hotel business plan,” he replies, gaze gliding past the towel and straight back to her face. His mouth quirks a little, as if to signify how broadly he would’ve smiled about teasing her some months ago. “They’re going to make you pay extra for using that one.”

“I’d like to see ’em try,” snorts Darlene, vastly accustomed to all the ways in which people try and scam you out of having a good time. “Didn’t work last time we were here”– when they’d used towels like those for means other than a bath, which still brings color to her cheeks if she dwells on it too long –“and it sure as hell ain’t gon’ work on me now. They should be thankin’ us for comin’ back at all, given the damn sorry state of them pillows.”

Ben’s eyes are still soft when he looks at her. Impossibly soft, with some gentle twinkle of humor locked in them after all this time. He looks at her like he still recognizes her, from the top of her head where she’s piled most of her curls right down to her hands which are drawing small circles of comfort onto his skin. Like he still knows how to map every freckle on her skin – she’s seen his eyes follow familiar patterns, lips moving slightly as though the memory of kissing them is coming back to him the longer he looks at her – and like he remembers every detail of her eyes.

His hand is at her elbow, thumbing its crease. He doesn’t reply to her anymore, already drifting again amid the heat of the water and the touch of her fingertips. She scoots closer, as close as she can get without getting in the tub herself, and presses a close-mouthed kiss to the boniest part of his shoulder. Hears the soft rattle of his exhale. Hears the sniffle that follows it, with her lips still ghosting over his skin, with one of her stray curls tickling his collarbone, and silently blames the steam of the bathroom for misting over her own eyes.

“It’s all right,” she murmurs, summoning her last remaining vestiges what George had called bravery and what she’d dubbed foolishness. “Ben, it’s okay”– it’s not, it’s really not, but what the hell else is she gonna tell him? –“it’s all right, hey,” she hushes, leaning over to kiss the tear that’s slipping down his cheek away, “you’re here with me, all right? You’re home with me. We’re in that hotel ya dragged me to on our first weekend pass, that real long one ya’d wrangled without me even knowin’ it.” She smiles at the memory. Lets her smile rest against his cheek before kissing him again. “Thought it’d do us some good here. Ain’t nobody gon’ clock us getting into the same bed here. No write-ups happenin’. Just you an’ me.”

“Not…”

“Yeah?”

“Not a whole lot of use you’re getting,” he murmurs. “Not with… With this. Me.”

Darlene leans back just so she can fix him with the most beady-eyed stare she can muster. “You’re here, ain’t ya,” she deadpans, not even bothering to make it sound like a question. “I’m gon’ be the judge of use, Ben, Jesus Christ. Bein’ here with ya? Having…” She swallows, blinking, and almost curses as she sees the drip-drop of her own tears in his bathwater. “Having you back? Alive? Bein’ able ta… Goddamn it,” she sniffles, rubbing at her cheeks with a trembling hand, “being able ta hold ya? To kiss your cheek, to breathe ya in, to wake up with your arm around my waist? I dreamed about that the whole damn fucking time you was gone, ya hear? The whole goddamn time them Nazi fucks had ya locked up in there, I was thinkin’ about today. About right now, havin’ ya with me.”

“Dar…”

“Don’t talk to me about use, Ben,” she snaps, furiously blinking to stop herself from blubbering about the whole thing. “I ain’t in this relationship with ya just because the sex blows my fuckin’ mind, all right?” She pokes at his chest, unable to bite back a slight grin now that she’s gone and confessed that, and shakes her head as her fingers meet scar tissue that wasn’t there before. “You’re a goddamn idiot, Bernard DeMarco”– she laments, fingertips slipping beneath the water just so she can memorize that new scar –“if ya haven’t realized by now that I fucking love ya, I’d go fight the whole damn world to get to keep ya,” she whispers, hearing him go quieter than ever, “and I’d say yes to marryin’ ya in a heartbeat.”

It takes less than a heartbeat for his lips to find hers in a kiss that makes everything else go silent.

“Darling,” he murmurs, after, voice almost catching on the ache that resides inside it. “Darlene”– he exhales, breath a mere flutter against her cheek –“darling Darlene.” Ben’s lips find that little freckle, high up on her cheekbone, that he’d once proudly proclaimed was his favorite. “I love you too.”

He makes it sound like freedom.

#mota fanfic #bernard demarco #benny demarco #oc: darlene #benny x darlene #basilonefic #they are just sooooo !!!!

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coeurdalene · 1 year ago

Text

looking for some light

masterlist | ao3

summary: he tells raleigh, “i want to come back from this mission, ‘cause i quite like my life.” he means, there’s still so much i want to do, so much i have to do. (aka chuck wants to make it through this goddamn war so he can finally live a normal life, even if he doesn’t really know what that means.)

pairing: chuck hansen x reader

warning(s): character death (sorry), swearing, mentions of canon-typical violence.

word count: 3.86k

a/n: i meant to have this finished by the ten year anniversary of the movie but uh… anyways, here it is now! this is my love letter to chuck hansen and also a projection of my want for a beach house.

The universe gifts Chuck an unwanted Christmas present in the form of a memorandum. He swears under his breath when you trudge into the Mission Control Center that morning with a dejected frown on your face and shove the crisp paper into his hands. His eyes fall on the letterhead, embossed with the familiar spread-winged eagle, and he already knows what it contains. He’d been expecting it for months. He resists the urge to scream, to crumple the paper into a ball and hurl it at the trash bin with every ounce of remaining strength in his body. He doesn’t envy you when you announce the bad news to everyone else, fulfilling your final duty as Sydney’s Chief LOCCENT Officer.

Days later, not even twenty-four hours after the Shatterdome decommissioning and right at the beginning of the new year, the universe offers him—and the rest of Sydney—another unwanted gift.

Mutavore is an ugly thing. Nearly ninety meters tall and weighing over two thousand tons, it’s hunched over as if struggling to support its own weight, blade-like plates protruding from its head and back.

“I don’t care how many eyes it has,” he says after you read out its classification and measurements, “I’m gonna kick its ass.”

(Six. It has six eyes. Just because he doesn’t care doesn’t mean he won’t pay attention.)

The category four Kaiju plows through the coastal wall like a knife cutting through warm butter and tramps into Sydney Harbour, stopping only to raise its head and let out a guttural screech, as if barging through a metal barrier hadn't been enough to announce its presence. He wonders how many millions of dollars have now been reduced to rubble at the bottom of the bay and how many weeks were spent welding together beams that took only a few seconds to destroy.

Then, its beady eyes—all six of them—focus on Striker Eureka and her brass knuckles glinting in the sun. It screeches again before charging headfirst into Striker’s swinging fist.

Mutavore dies as quickly as it breached the wall, lying motionless in the bay, blood-soaked missiles lodged in its chest and Kaiju blue staining the water.

“That’s Striker Eureka’s tenth kill to date. It’s a new record,” he boasts to the reporter in the aftermath. He ignores the questions about the decommissioning and brushes off the look his father gives him. Don’t get too cocky, he looks like he wants to say.

When they return to the Shatterdome, the J-Tech crew cleans Striker, polishing her knuckles and wiping Kaiju remains from the Conn-Pod. Chuck takes a long hot shower. Then, the move to Hong Kong begins.

The Anchorage Shatterdome—the cold and stalwart Icebox—had been the first to close. He remembers how you had stared blankly at the official PPDC statement for hours while he watched the newscaster on the television read it out loud. The Marshal had been on the broadcast, too, brought on for further questioning. When the anchor asked about the future of the Jaeger Program, he had assured her that, as long as the Kaiju kept coming, the Jaegers would keep fighting. Chuck had laughed dryly at that. The dwindling funding from the U.N. would say otherwise and whispers of better opportunities at the wall hung in the air, getting louder with every passing day.

The closure of the Icebox set off a string of shutdowns: Lima and Tokyo later that month, Panama City in November, Vladivostok and Los Angeles a few weeks after. The clock was ticking and it was only a matter of time before that damned memorandum arrived in Sydney, his fate dictated by its contents.

His beloved Sydney Shatterdome closes at the turn of the year, leaving behind its only remaining sibling in Hong Kong. What had once been a robust network of PPDC hubs was now reduced to one.

And the clock continues to tick.

“We don’t need a stupid wall,” Chuck declares on the flight to Hong Kong, glaring at the news broadcast replaying footage of the Sydney attack. “We need better pilots.”

He’d expressed the same sentiment to the reporter who interviewed him after Mutavore’s attack, too, blaming the fall of the Jaeger program on the mediocrity of those involved. He isn’t sure if it’s that simple—you had explained something to him about politics and funding and morale, government nonsense he didn’t understand—but he sure as hell knows that the Jaegers would be winning if pilots stopped letting the Kaiju kick their asses.

“Have some respect,” his father chides. “Every pilot has fought tooth and nail to protect the people they love.”

And perhaps that’s the truth—it sure is for him. His days consist of sore muscles from training, never getting enough sleep, and always anticipating another fight. He does it for his father, who has been a soldier for as long as he can remember. For his mother, whose untimely death lingers in the back of his mind every time he sets his eyes on a Kaiju. For you, who frequently pulls all-nighters and agonizes over details to make sure the Shatterdome stays running. And for Max, of course. (Silly little dog probably has no idea what a Kaiju is.)

So, yeah, perhaps it is the truth. But it doesn’t change the fact that they only have eight months left of funding, or that the U.N. thinks a wall will fare better than a Jaeger.

“We won’t be getting more pilots. All we can do is work with what we still have,” you chime in, pulling Chuck out of his thoughts. “But, on the bright side, our remaining pilots are some of the best in program history.”

“Including me?” he smirks. You laugh, cheerful and bright, punching his arm lightly. Max shifts in his sleep at the sudden noise. His father gives him that look again. Don’t get too cocky.

He spends the rest of the flight listening to you read briefing notes on “Operation Pitfall,” the Marshal’s shiny new plan to end the war by detonating a bomb at the throat of the Breach. Somehow, the PPDC had procured a thermonuclear warhead from the Russians, entrusting Striker Eureka to carry it while the remaining Jaegers played defense.

Chuck is cynical about this plan. They had already tried (and failed) to drop things into the Breach. A bomb would only bounce back at them and kill anything in range.

He quips sarcastically if the Marshal had thought of that. You respond only by flipping through the file again for an explanation. He knows you won’t find one.

As he steps off the plane and onto the landing pad, he’s met with a grinning Tendo Choi shouting over the patter of heavy rain, “Welcome to Hong Kong!”

The man, wearing a grey suit jacket too wide around the shoulders shakes their hands in greeting before ushering them out of the rain and into the Shatterdome. Chuck sidesteps some J-Techs as he enters, surveying his surroundings.

He had been much younger the last time he visited Hong Kong and much less invested in all the inner workings of the PPDC. He remembers mechanics and pilots shouting and running about, dirt and scuff marks on the floor, and his father reminding him to keep a tight grip on Max’s leash. It had felt unfamiliar then, but he realizes now that it isn’t too different from Sydney. Same high ceiling, same metal catwalks, and almost the same arsenal of Jaegers towering over him. It’s a little older, a little grittier, and a little more worn down, but no longer foreign.

He spots Cherno Alpha in one of the bays, its stalwart form hunkering and heavy. The Kaidanovskys stand at its feet, engaged in conversation. Crimson Typhoon stands opposite it, brilliant red and regal. J-Techs gather around her three arms, inspecting and cleaning the rotating saw blades.

“Striker arrived a few minutes before you did,” Tendo gestures to the shiny silver Jaeger standing in the far bay, metal glinting under the bright lights of the hangar. “The crew is getting her settled in.”

Then, Chuck’s eyes fall on the fourth and final Jaeger. That last he had heard of Gipsy Danger was that she had been decommissioned, damaged beyond repair from a mission gone wrong. But here she stands—untarnished metallic blue, left arm intact, and definitely not lying forgotten in Oblivion Bay.

“What’s that old rustbucket doing here?” he leers, very aware that there isn’t a single speck of rust on her.

“She looks brand new,” you remark.

“She is, sorta,” Tendo replies, “We’ve been fixing her up: a new fluid synapse system, new engine blocks, and a new hull. She’ll be holding the defensive perimeter for you in Operation Pitfall, along with Cherno Alpha and Crimson Typhoon.”

“Does she have pilots?” you inquire.

“Not yet,” Tendo grins. “But she will.”

Chuck hopes that these pilots won’t be incompetent idiots, whoever they might be.

The peaceful moments are rare, but cherished and so welcomed. In these instances, he lets his guard down, breathes deeply, and allows himself to think of anything other than training or fighting.

One of his favorites is somewhere in between Striker’s fourth and fifth kills: a lazy afternoon in bed with your back against the headboard and his head in your lap, sunlight streaming in through the windows with your fingers carding lightly through his hair.

“After this war is over,” he declares, imagining a life without the chaos and destruction that comes with being a Jaeger pilot, “we’ll buy a nice house in the suburbs where we’ll live blissfully for the rest of our lives.”

“The suburbs are nice,” you contend, “but how about a beach house on the Gold Coast? Or Port Douglas?”

He chuckles at that, picturing what living by the ocean without the fear of a Kaiju attack would be like. He would spend his mornings engulfed in the soothing murmur of the sea, gazing out at the unbroken horizon. His afternoons basking in the warmth of the sun, feet buried in the soft sand. His evenings surrounded by music and your melodious laughter, trying not to step on your toes while you lead him through a dance in your living room.

Quiet, he thinks. Serene. The only unrest would be the waves at high tide or the gulls swooping down to steal his food.

“Wherever you want, as long as it’s you and me. And Max. Right, bud?” he grins at the bulldog lying at the foot of the bed. Max lets out a little grunt. Chuck takes that as a sign of agreement.

“Sounds lovely,” you reply, your hand moving to rest against his cheek. He turns his head to kiss your palm, heart soaring at the way you smile softly down at him.

All Chuck knows about Raleigh Becket is that he quit the Jaeger Program. That information alone is enough for him to dislike the guy. He doesn’t trust some washed-up pilot to run defense for him while he carries a 2400-pound bomb on the back of his Jaeger. Doesn’t care that his father fought alongside the guy in Manila or that he single-handedly piloted his Jaeger back to shore. Doesn’t bother to hold back a grimace when Raleigh tells him that he’d been working on the wall for the past five years.

“If you slow me down, I'm gonna drop you like a sack of Kaiju shit,” he hisses at him in the mess hall. He ignores the way his father watches him with disapproval as he stalks away.

His bad mood turns worse when Mako Mori is named Raleigh’s copilot.

He has known Mako for years. They had grown up in Shatterdomes together, met a few times when the Marshal had brought her to Sydney, and briefly bonded over their love of dogs. He’s close enough to her to know that she can fight well and that she has one of the best simulator scores he’s ever seen. (Better than his, although he’d never admit that.) But, she has no experience in a Jaeger and no understanding of what a drift is actually like, which, in his eyes, makes her no better than Raleigh. He isn’t surprised when they’re both out of alignment during their test run, your concerned tone alerting the rest of LOCCENT of the deviation, or when Mako begins chasing the RABIT, raising apprehensive murmurs from the crowd of onlookers. Or when it ends in Tendo pulling the plug on Gipsy’s power.

“Worse mistakes have happened,” Tendo sighs as Gipsy’s plasma cannon goes offline. Chuck scowls. There is no space for even a single mistake in the plan to attack the Breach, especially amateur ones like chasing RABITs. He knows that the Marshal understands this, too.

Later, as he paces in the Marshal’s office, still brimming with anger from Raleigh and Mako’s failure of a test run, he snaps, “He's a has-been. She’s a rookie. I don’t want them protecting my bomb run. sir.”

His father stands across the room, arms crossed and mouth set tightly in a frown. In the corner, you and Tendo are huddled over a tablet, discussing the drift results in hushed voices. The Marshal warns him to watch his tone. Chuck rolls his eyes in response and thinks to himself, He knows I’m right.

He finds Raleigh and Mako standing silently in the hall outside after his father kicks him out of the room. He rounds on the former, seething and jabbing an accusatory finger into his chest, “I want to come back from this mission, ‘cause I quite like my life.”

He turns to Mako, sneering and spitting out some distasteful things, ignoring the feeling that he’ll regret it later.

When Raleigh’s fist makes contact with his jaw, Chuck sees red.

On bad nights, he wakes up in a cold sweat, plagued by nightmares of being painfully ripped to shreds by sharp claws and teeth. Some nights he wakes up angry, frustrated with himself after overanalyzing his fights. Other nights, he relives the moment when he found out about his mother’s death, shaking with body-wracking sobs and shuddering with each intake of breath. But you hold him through it, your soothing hands on his back and comforting words in his ear. He focuses on your voice, steady and calm, and syncs his breathing with yours.

“You’re okay,” you murmur. “They’re just nightmares. You’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” he repeats.

On bad nights, you confess your fear that the war will never end, or that you’ll burn out before it does. Some nights, you feel that you’re not doing enough, that you need to get back to work even though it’s past midnight. Other nights, you worry that you’ll spend your entire life fighting, that you’ll never be able to rest. But he holds you through it, his calloused fingers on your cheeks wiping away your tears. You focus on his touch, firm and resolute, and rest your hands on top of his.

“It’s okay,” you contend, voice shaky but certain. “I have you. This is enough.”

“This is enough,” he repeats.

Yet, he can’t help but want more. He wants the beach house instead of the cold metal walls of the Shatterdome. Wants to wake up to the sun, your smile, and Max’s whining for food instead of doomsday alarms and Kaiju attacks. Wants you to be able to sleep in for once. Wants to spend his days sunbathing and learning to surf instead of training in combat drills and preparing for another attack. Wants to give you some peace, and to find some of his own.

He tells Raleigh, “I want to come back from this mission, ‘cause I quite like my life.”

He means, There’s still so much I want to do, so much I have to do.

Chuck has only felt true fear a few times in his life. Standing on top of his disabled Jaeger with only a flare gun in his hands is one of them. In the moment, he tells himself that he isn’t afraid, that a double event isn’t any different from any other Kaiju attack, and that Striker will come back online in just a second. The adrenaline coursing through his veins overpowers the feeling of impending doom anyway. But, later, as he reflects on the feeling of relief that had washed over when Gipsy’s fog lights enveloped him, he admits that he had been scared shitless. And, he admits (only to himself) that he’s thankful for Raleigh and Mako, even if they’re has-beens or rookies.

He holds you closer that night and knows that you’ve already picked up on all the details of his uneasy expression. Still, he musters up the strength to confess aloud, “I thought we were gonna die.”

You’re silent, responding only by rubbing your hand across his back and hugging him a little tighter. The heavy weight of his lingering fear sits in his chest as he continues, “Dad had injured his arm, our comms were out, Cherno and Crimson were gone, and there was a fucking Kaiju ready to swallow us whole. Shooting that flare at it made it even more pissed off.”

“Not your best idea,” you remark playfully. “You’d think all that training to prepare you for situations like this would help you keep calm and think of something rational to do.”

“It was Dad’s idea, not mine,” he shrugs.

“Well, I’m glad the flare managed to keep it occupied long enough for Gipsy to get there,” you reply, a soft smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “And I’m glad you’re not dead.”

“Me, too,” he sighs, the weight in his chest lightening slightly.

When he drifts off to sleep, he dreams of the war ending and a house overlooking the shore.

If, a year ago, you had told Chuck that he would be piloting a Jaeger with the Marshal Stacker Pentecost, he would have laughed in your face and asked why the Marshal wasn’t off doing better things (like convincing world leaders to keep funding the Jaeger Program or figuring out ways to increase pilot recruitment). And, if you had told him that he would hear the phrase “there’s a third signature emerging from the Breach,” he would have rolled his eyes and declared the situation impossible. (“I’d still kick its ass, though,” he would have probably said.)

Yet, here he is, strapped into Striker with the Marshal as his copilot, only three hundred meters from the Breach, watching a category five Kaiju materialize in front of him. He feels his stomach drop as he lays eyes on Slattern’s angular head and the sharp spike protruding from its chest. When it roars, the water around them ripples, and the ground beneath shakes. He barely has any time to think before the massive beast rears its head and charges, swinging its heavy leathery tail directly at them.

The hit knocks Striker off her feet and sends her crashing into a nearby hydrothermal vent. He winces and swears, body aching and head beginning to throb as streams of water push and jostle the Jaeger. Slattern prepares to charge again just as Striker regains her footing and he easily falls into a fighting stance along with the Marshal, fists clenched and ready to strike. This time, when it attacks, they’re ready—dealing out swift punches that send the Kaiju reeling.

He isn’t sure how much of it is the Marshal and how much of it is himself, but the exhilaration that rushes through him as one of Striker’s sting blades slices across Slattern’s throat reinvigorates him. The other blade cuts into its arms, blue blood spilling from deep gashes. It screeches, and he expects it to rush at them again, but it swims away, blood trailing eerily in the water.

He takes the moment of respite to breathe, and to survey the damage. The harsh red light of the many, many warning messages flashes across his vision. He fiddles with some controls, watches as the Marshal does the same, and sighs heavily when neither of their attempts fixes anything. He resigns himself to hoping that Striker can hold on a little longer. She had gotten him this far, surely she could see him through to the end of this war—and to the beginning of his life at peace.

But–

“The attack jammed the bomb release,” he notices. “We’ll have to manually override–”

A yell from LOCCENT cuts him off. Chuck’s stomach drops even further when he hears someone say, “Striker, you have two Kaiju converging on you fast!”

He curses loudly and immediately knows, There’s no time for a manual override.

The Marshal is on the intercom before Chuck can even begin to formulate a plan, shouting to Raleigh and Mako.

“You know exactly what you have to do,” he declares. “Gipsy is nuclear, take her to the Breach.”

“What can we do, sir?” Chuck asks, bracing for the hit.

“We can clear a path,” the Marshal answers firmly, a slight smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, “for the lady.”

Even without the drift connecting their thoughts, Chuck understands.

“Well, my father always said, ‘If you have a shot, you take it,’” he remarks, knowing that, on the other end, his father is listening with pride. Chuck can admit that he was an arrogant dickhead with no respect for any of the pilots around him and that he never bothered to hide his resentment for his old man, never gave him a reason to like the man his son had become. Yet, he knows—and has always known—that his father is proud of him. (He is proud of his father, too, for what it’s worth.)

In the final moments, his thoughts drift to you: swathed in blankets and gathered in his arms on cold winter nights, perched on the seat of a stationary bike and reading reports while keeping him company in the gym, wrapped in his brown leather jacket with Max’s leash in your hand while accompanying him for walks around the Shatterdome. He recalls your bright laughter when he’d crack stupid jokes, your serious voice you’d use only over the intercom, and the mischievous glint in your eyes when you’d pretend you hadn’t given Max extra treats.

“I love you,” he had said before entering the Conn-Pod, so quietly that only you could hear him, holding you tightly and kissing away your concerned frown. The warmth of your hands against his cheeks had lingered as he had stepped away.

“I love you,” he says now, loud enough for you to hear him over all the noise, swallowing the lump in his throat and blinking away the tears threatening to spill from the corners of his eyes. “I’m sorry we’ll never get that beach house.”

“But, I had you,” he says. “It was enough.”

When the bomb detonates, he’s surrounded by blinding light and a deafening boom. And, finally, peace.

In his dreams, he can’t tell where he is, only that Max is sitting at his feet, his father is somewhere in the distance, and you’re next to him with your hand in his, fingers intertwined.

#pacrim #pacific rim #chuck hansen #chuck hansen x reader #chuck hansen x you #chuck hansen imagine #my writing

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