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mrzombielover · 8 months ago

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- slow ride ch2

feat. sinner!adam x fem!hotel worker!reader

previous chapter || series masterlist || next chapter (wip)

warnings: NSFW, more substance use in this one, a bit of angst?, readers emotional issues

a/n: i feel like my writing sucks esp in this chapter cause im sorta rusty and sick so i cant even tell if this makes sense but oh well😭😭😭 anyway pls send me hazbin reqs!!!!! having the worst brainrot lately esp for this horrible man!!!

wc: 2.9k

“I'm not breaking up inside / I'm much to proud to moan / Baby, please come home”

Oh my god. What did I just do? Why did I do this?

You turn your head to look at Adam where he’s lying on the other side of the bed, and find his expression closely mirrors your own. Pure disbelief is written on his features, and you grimace, turning to look back at the ceiling.

After a moment, you sit up, grabbing your box of cigarettes and a lighter off your bedside table. Once lit, you swing your feet off the bed to reach for shirt and now ripped panties, standing up when you’re partially dressed. You hear Adam sit up behind you.

“Soo, that was… uhhh…” He trails off, mouth hanging open as he thinks of what to say.

“Let’s… not speak about this again,” You say carefully as you turn back to face him.

“Yeah. yeah, i’m good with that,” He says quickly, finding his robes off the floor. You’re surprised he doesn’t say anything about the smoke.

You cross the room to get your pants off the floor, pulling them up as Adam grabs his jacket. You pull up your fly, and look up to see Adam’s staring at you with an expression you can’t read. His eyes flicker to your lips, and he starts to lean closer.

“Kiss me and i’ll cut your fuckin’ tongue out,” you say as you turn your head away.

“Oookay then. I’ll, uh, see ya,” For once, he has no snarky comment or crude joke to make as he straightens up and leaves your room.

After that, you told yourself never again. It happened once, it’s out of your system, it’s done. A one time thing.

But then it happens a second time.

“It’s a disgusting habit! All your clothes, your whole room fuckin’ reeks!”

“Are you tryin’ to get me to loose my temper here? ‘Cause i’m about to shove you out that fucking window!”

“And look how angry you get, you fucking fiend, it’s been like 2 hours!”

“Why don’t you mind your goddamn business?”

You raise an arm to hit him, but he catches your elbow, twisting you around so your back is to him and he can hold you in place. You struggle to break from his grip, when suddenly-

“Oh my god,” You deadpan, but your voice doesn’t come out as disgusted as you expected at the feeling of something hard poking into your lower back.

“Okay, this is not my fault-“ Adam says quickly.

“You- fucking perv!” You spit, but your words hold no weight when he flips you again and lifts you up, placing you on the counter and you make no effort to struggle. You spread your legs so he can slot between them as items pushed out of the way cascade off the counter, falling to the floor with loud crashes.

You then told yourself that would be the last time. But not even you fully believed yourself. And once it happened a third, fourth, and fifth time, you just accepted this is something that happens now. You’re not proud of it- some of you hates yourself, but another part of you finds a a sick, primal pleasure in it. It’s the only guaranteed way for you to get him to shut up, if only for a few minutes. The fight for dominance- fuuck you’re messed up, huh?

Thinking of the humiliation you’d feel if any of the others found out- oh god, how could you look Alastor in the eyes again- you change absolutely nothing about your behavior around Adam. On the surface, nothing has changed at all. You two still bicker and argue all the time, if anything, worse than ever. Yet the other members can feel something’s up, that something changed. Adam’s insults feel more hollow. He always said shit just to rile you up, but there was usually an undertone of truth to his words. Not anymore- it’s all stupid shit that everybody can tell he doesn’t care about. Nobody says anything about it, though, until-

“What the fuck are you smilin’ for?” Angel’s voice makes Adam jump as he enters, sitting down on the couch beside him.

“What-? I wasn’t smiling,” Adam quickly denies. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh my god- are you’re gettin’ laid?” Angel grins, sitting up. The look on Adam’s face tells him everything, and he can’t help but laugh. “Oh, you so are! No wonder you’ve been in such a good mood lately,”

“Uh, duh i’m getting laid, I’m Adam, I’m the origin-“

“Yeah, yeah, original dick. But that’s not what I mean and you know it.” Angel grins widely, and Adam can feel his face heating up. Oh god- why is he blushing? Since when does he care? He pushes the thought from his head.

“…You don’t know her,” Adam decides to say, crossing his arms and turning back to face the TV, hoping Angel will just leave it at that.

“Try me,” Angel leans closer, looking intently at Adam’s expression. When Adam says nothing, Angel laughs again.

“Oh my god I so know her,”

Adam grits his teeth but says nothing as Angel laughs.

“Okay, fine, don’t tell me who you’re havin’ weird secret kinky sex with,” Angel shrugs, turning to face the TV. “I’ll find out eventually,”

That makes Adam sweat.

You can’t help but laugh, nearly spitting whisky everywhere while Husk chuckles to himself. Sure, it’s a bit trite, ranting to the bartender about your shitty day while he pours you a stiff drink, but Husk could always make you laugh about it, and call you out on your bullshit if needed. He was real, and you liked that about him. Plus, it beat drinking alone when none of your other friends wanted to party on a Wednesday.

“-and not a crazy bitch like I’m a crazy bitch, crazy like she lit her mom’s hair on fir-“

“Husk holy shit!”

Both of you look in the direction of Angel Dust’s voice as he runs from the hallway towards you both. He leans over the bar, eager to share whatever news he had.

“Adam’s fucking somebody- somebody here!”

You choke on your whisky, spitting it back into the glass. Angel and Husk both look at you with a raised brow.

“My bad,” is all you say. you can’t think of anything else that would play it off, so you just quietly wipe off your face while Angel recounts his encounter with Adam. You feel an eye twitch- you could strangle that prick for being so conspicuous.

“You’re quiet, Y/N,” Angel says in a teasing tone.

“I just could not care less if I tried,” You say back, firmly but with a shrug, and you hope it suffices as an acceptable explanation, and that you come off as your usual apathetic self. You finish your whisky, and luckily, Angel doesn’t give you any more shit. Slightly unsettled by that interaction, you avoid Adam for the next few days.

Late one evening, everybody’s gone up to their rooms and the hotel is quiet. You’ve already eaten, smoked, brushed your teeth and put on pajamas, but there’s nothing good on TV and you’re bored and high and just want a task to keep busy. So you wander aimlessly into the kitchen and find yourself doing the dishes that Charlie was too stressed out to do earlier.

As you scrub brown charred bits off a pan, you find your stupid weed-addled brain wandering to Adam. You haven’t fought with him in a while, mostly because you’d run away before he had the chance to start, but still. It feels weird, being so calm lately. No wonder you’re bored. It’s the way things used to be at the hotel, before he arrived. You guess you hadn’t realized how used to his presence you’ve gotten. Gross. You cringe at the thought.

Luckily, your phone starts to vibrate on the counter, giving you a distraction. You pick up and hold it between your ear and shoulder without looking at the caller ID.

“Yo, where are you right now?”

Of course.

“Adam? What the fuck, when did you get a phone?” You snort. When you realize you’re smiling you clear your throat and force your face to relax.

“Whatever. Can you come upstairs?”

You pause. He sounds slightly odd.

“What, like, to your room?” You raise an eyebrow. “Why?”

“ohmyfuckinggod- can you not be difficult for fucking once and just do what I ask?” Then, as an afterthought, he adds “Please?”

Damn, okay. You don’t say anything for a moment, thinking maybe you’re just smacked and he’s being normal.

“Suuuure… Just uh, gimme a minute,” You say carefully, putting the dishes down. Then, he hangs up on you. What a dick.

Unbeknownst to you, while you’ve been thinking about him, he’s been thinking about you way more.

You’ve been avoiding him- obviously. Not unexpected, but it pissed him off to no end. He’s fucking Adam! Who are you to ignore him? Aren’t you supposed to be keeping an eye on him, anyway?

By now, the others have started to accept him- including them in their plans, drinking with him, no longer leaving a room when he enters- so he doesn’t really need a chaperone anymore. Despite this, it still feels wrong. Even in a room with every other patron of the hotel, he’d started to notice when you weren’t there.

He didn’t even notice he was starting to miss you at first. It wasn’t until he and Charlie were seated at the bar, and he drank more than he probably should have, that he mentioned you were avoiding him.

“What’dya, miss her?” Husk asked.

“Awww, Adam!” He still remembers the look on her and Husker’s faces. “You are starting to change! That’s so sweet of you!”

And then because she was drunk she kept rambling about it for like 30 minutes, but he doesn’t remember the rest of what she said, just the utter humiliation he felt. He shut up for the rest of the night to avoid spilling his guts any more, but Husk- the annoying fucker- still gives him knowing looks every now and then.

And after Nifty had washed his sheets, and he’d noticed that his pillows lost the scent of cigarettes, perfume, and shampoo you’d left behind, he knew he was royally fucked.

The worst of all, though, is that he feels helpless to feeling these emotions- and even worse, he doesn’t want to stop feeling them. Before he’d even noticed it, he was thinking about you all the time, and he was fine with it. The embarrassment was killing him, even though, supposedly, nobody knew.

On this particular night, he’d probably had just a tad too much beer with his dinner, because when he’d returned to his room and flopped on his bed, there was a little bug in the back of his brain that kept whining about how empty it felt. He tossed and turned for a bit, just wanting to sleep it off, but he eventually gave up, reaching for his phone.

“Adam?” Before you’re finished knocking, Adam jumps up to get the door, pulling you inside quickly. You make a noise of surprise as he scoops you up immediately, not saying anything as he carries you to his bed.

“Damn, needy, huh?” You laugh. This time, it’s him telling you to shut up as he tosses you onto the bed and crawls over you.

You sit up slightly to help him get your shirt off, and then his lips are on your neck, trailing down to your chest as he unclips your bra.

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” He says with a casual shrug as his hands run up your torso to grope at your tits.

“mm,” You hum, arching your back into his touch. “missed this?” You smile sarcastically. Missed you, he thinks.

“Sure missed these,” He pushes the thought away and grins back, squeezing your chest for emphasis. He pulls back briefly to rid himself of his own shirt, then bends back down to press more kisses to your flesh. He looks up, staring at your expression as he takes one of your nipples in his mouth, reveling in the whimper he’s rewarded with.

“fuckin’ perfect tits…” He mumbles into your chest before nipping at your skin. You let your eyes shut as his free hand slides down, under the band of your shorts and his finger brushes the hot skin beneath, skimming over your lips. Adam thumbs at your clit through your panties, relishing in the whine he rips from your throat.

Impatiently, you shift your hips up to slide off your shorts and panties, then reach to tug at his belt loops to signal he should do the same. When he looks up and sees the desperate look on your face, he decides not to keep you waiting, and pulls back to rip off his pants and boxers.

You guess avoiding him these past few days has affected you, too, because you’re surprisingly desperate. You sit up, wrapping your fingers around his cock, smearing his arousal across his length, and whatever he had been planning to say dies and comes out a needy garble of nonsense that makes you snicker.

To your surprise, he has no quip as he crawls over you and pushes himself between your legs. He bites back a gasp when you rub the head of his cock between your folds, a groan following a moment after as he begins pushing into you.

Your thighs are trembling by the time he’s fully inside of you, and you wrap your legs around his waist weakly while you adjust to the stretch.

He sits up fully, and from this view, you look stunning. The way you're laid back on his pillow, tears pricking in your eyes, he thinks you look more angelic than anything he ever saw in heaven.

“fuuuck,” He groans, letting his head fall onto the bed as he starts to move his hips.

“Adam!” The way you whine his name is truly sinful, and he feels his dick twitch in response.

“holyfuck, ‘s so big,” The slight burn makes you regret your impatience now, and his face makes you regret stroking his ego. You make a point to ignore his self satisfied laugh, focusing instead on how his cock stretched you open, making you to tighten and release around him. You turn your head, looking at his wicked fucked-out smile that grew wider and wider as his movements got deeper.

You can’t speak, you just moan helplessly as your hands search for anything to grab onto to steady yourself. You throw your hands around his neck and bury them in his now dark wings, in the way you always did. You gripped the feathers tightly and let out a moan and oh, god, he’s not going to last long, he thinks, with you gripping the sensitive feathers like that. He groans again, then his lips find your shoulder, where he leaves messy, open-mouthed kisses trailing towards your neck.

“so fuckin’ sexy, so, so good for me,” you barley even register that he’s speaking, with your entire focus being on the way he moved in and out of you.

“you’re- so beautiful,” he says between grunts. your eyes widen.

“wha-ahh-“ before you can question that, a particularly hard thrust makes the words die in your throat, and you’re clawing to his biceps again.

A warmth of pride erupts in your chest at the way his breathing has turned labored and his grip on you tightens. An arm snakes around your waist, the other under your head, pulling you impossibly tighter against him as he continues to desperately pound into you. The proud smirk you wore is wiped off your face when you feel one hand releases you and his hand trails down, eventually pressing a thumb your clit, rubbing small circles that make you moan and twitch beneath him.

You can’t even warn him before your whole body erupts. You spill over, you lose sense of where and who you are, all the while, Adam pounds into you, strokes you inside and out. You vaguely hear a sudden crash and him mumbling, thanking god that you came before him because seconds later, he’s spilling his own cum inside you with a broken wanton groan.

Adam stills for a moment, panting as he holds you close. When he rolls off you, he keeps one arm around you, pulling you against his chest. Huh. That’s new.

Neither of you say anything. That was… different, than you’re used to with him. You furrow your brows as you think, and find yourself confused. The cogs in your head turning something terrible in your mind, questioning his intentions.

Once you’ve caught your breath, you sit up, pushing away his arm as you go to find your clothes. He frowns, watching you pick your shirt up from the ground and pull it over your head. You looked guarded, like a cornered doe, like you were just waiting for the chance to sprint away.

Adam grabs his own boxers from the floor and pulls them on, quickly crossing the room to where you were. He looks down at you, and feels an odd, tightening in his chest, something he’s felt a lot since falling to hell.

He leans against the door, putting on a cocky smile.

“Soo… this was like a booty call, huh?”

“…Yeah, whatever. See ya,”

#i am SO out of practice writing smut holy shit this is so bad #took me fucking forever too #but hey i’m sick so i have a lot of time to write!#also i promise the next one won’t end immediately after the smut like these last two 😭 i’ve got the plot more figured out now #adam x reader #first man adam x reader #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #!my stuff #!not sfw #first man adam #hazbin hotel adam #female reader

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spacecadet-ticklesinspace · 1 month ago

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Tickletober Day 2: Chase

Fandom: Marvel (Guardians of the Galaxy)

Pairing: Peter Quill and Yondu (platonic)

Summary: Even though Peter may be older now, he never quite learned not to antagonize Yondu.

(This story takes place after the second movie in a setting where Yondu survived ❤️ :) Gotta show some love to Dad Yondu and his "adopted" son Peter Quill ❤️ :))

"Could you drive any slower?"

"Boy, if I hear one more word out of you."

"Seriously?" Peter motioned outside the windshield with one hand. "We'd be there in half the time if you'd simply increase the speed!"

"Quill!" Yondu shoved Peter's hand out of the way. "I ain't running her on full speed! Until we get those new parts for the engine, this is the speed we're staying at!"

"We have a whole hoard of killers breathing down our necks!"

"Ya don't think I know that!"

Peter threw his hands up and started to walk away.

"Don't you walk away from me boy!" Youndu turned his chair. "You started this fight now you'd better dang finish it!"

Peter whirled around. "I don't need to finish any dang thing with you!"

"To blazes with you!"

"Well . . . to blazes with you too!"

Yondu turned his chair back around with a huff.

Peter glared daggers at the back of the blue Zatoan's head. No matter the circumstance, the captain of the Electra had a way of dancing on his nerves and boy did it get under his skin today! Here they were, limping along in space, all because Yondu refused to risk burnout and run the engines at full power after their recent encounter with an enemy ship. They were sitting ducks out here when a simple increase in power would have them to the nearest port within a couple hours. Worst of all, Quill's ship and crew were waiting for him with a possible death trap behind them.

Peter tightly gripped the tin cup in his hand. "Why don't you ever listen!"

Yondu didn't even flinch when the tin cup collided with the back of his head. All he did was stare dead ahead for exactly three seconds before he finally shouted out, "That's it!"

Peter stumbled forward as the Electra came to a full stop and two crimson red eyes landed on him. If Yondu brought his ship to a complete stop, he was mad. Very very mad.

Quill immediately scrambled up. "Crap!"

Before Yondu even stood, Peter was already down the hall. He could hear those familiar boots stomping after him as he desperately tried to loose Yondu in Electra's halls

If other Ravagers on board the ship didn't move out of his way, Peter shoved to the side with a loud, "Move!"

One unlucky soul even got shoved into an opening that he could not pull himself back out of.

"Coming through!" Peter shouted back to the angry cries behind him with just enough time to slide under two Ravagers carrying a box of supplies across his path.

Just as the younger half human scrambled to his feet, a high pitched whistle reached his ears.

Quill's sleeve was snagged. He slammed into the wall behind him, unable to move from the arrow pinning his sleeve to the wall.

The sea of Ravagers around him parted to reveal Yondu's storming figure.

"L-look Yondu, I'm sorry. My temper got the the better of me and I-I-ow!"

The blue skinned Zatoan swiftly snagged his arrow with one hand and Peter's ear with the other. "Kraglin, take over."

Yondu's second mate nodded before quietly leaving the room.

"The rest of ya, back to what ya were doing!" Yondu's crimson eyes found Peter's green eyes. "I've got some business to take care of."

A solid yank pulled Quill forward to the hall.

"Ow! Can you not pull so hard!"

Yondu yanked Peter's ear even harder as they continued walking.

Quill cried out. "Look, I said I was sorry! I shouldn't have gotten so mad!"

Without a word, Yondu shoved Peter into the captain's quarters. "I've had enough of your crap."

The younger half human stumbled to the floor.

A loud thud followed as the door behind Yondu snapped shut. The blue skinned Zatoan stepped forward.

Peter held up a hand in front of him. "WaitwaitwaitwaitWAIT!"

With one sharp whistle, that same hand became stuck to the floor where the arrow embedded itself.

Peter's second hand then became pinned between Yondu's knees when the captain knelt to the floor. "No matter what ya always gotta run that mouth of yours."

"Yondu?"

The blue skinned captain leaned closer to Peter. "Blah blah blah all day long."

"Yondu."

"Well I've had enough of your yabbering."

"Yondu please.

"Ya got something ya wanna say then say it," Yondu hissed as one hand grabbed Peter's chin.

"I---am so so sorry and it will never ever happen again---."

"Shut up!"

The next sound to fill the room was a very loud screech as Yondu dug his fingers into Peter's ribs.

"This'll shut your yap!"

"YONDU PLEHEASE! IHIM SORRYHY!"

"Sorry doesn't fix disrespect boy." The blue skinned Zatoan latched both hands onto Peter's ribs and squeezed.

Another screech shot out of Peter's mouth just as he arched his back.

Yondu kept up the harsh tickling on Quill's ribs for a few moments longer before jumping down to shake his hand into the middle of his stomach. "Stay with me Quill."

Peter's knees shot up to his chest before slamming back down. "NOO! YONDU PLEHEHEHEASE!"

"Ya gonna keep sassing me."

Peter shook his head.

Yondu moved down to dig into Peter's lower belly. "Swear on it."

"AHHH! IHI SWEAR! I SWEHEAR!"

"Why should I believe you boy?"

"NAH, YONDU PLEHEHEHEAHAHASE!"

"Again." Yondu's hand grabbed onto Peter's side and squeezed in time with his words. "Why should I believe you?"

Peter desperately thrashed side to side in the captain's hold. "I DOHONT KNOHOW!"

Yondu jumped back up to Peter's ribs. "Wrong answer."

"SHHH--!" Quill snorted. "YOHOU OLD BAHAG OHOF CRAP!"

Yondu immediately latched onto Peter's most sensitive rib.

"NAHAAAA---!" Peter fell into silent laughter.

Yondu pulled his hand away. "Stay with me boy."

The younger half human beneath him collapsed into a pile of exhausted giggles.

After letting him catch his breath, Yondu gripped Peter's chin again. "Now, are ya gonna behave?"

"Yehes."

The blue skinned Zatoan yanked his chin forward. "Yes what?"

"Sir! Yes sir!"

Yondu studied Peter's face for several seconds before letting it go in favor of yanking out his arrow. The blue skinned captain stood and put his arrow away while Peter sluggishly rolled onto his side. "Come on, I didn't even get ya that much."

Quill made no response.

With a shrug, Yondu turned and strode toward the door. "Klinger'll come get ya for supper.

Peter held up his hand and made a very rude gesture at the blue skinned captain.

Yondu just chuckled. "Love ya too boy."

After flicking off the lights, Yondu stepped into the hall, leaving Peter alone to rest on the floor of his cabin.

#peter quill #yondu #guardians of the galaxy #ticklefic #tickletober 2024

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angelwings-crossbowstrings · 1 year ago

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Some Things, Only God Can Forgive

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Setting: Alexandria

Warnings: Implied/mention of teen pregnancy, mentions of premature birth, implied/mentions of CSA, mentions of domestic violence

Summary: You’re hurting and have to share something about your past in order for Daryl to understand.

A/N: I’ve allowed parts of my life to wiggle their way into my writing before but this may be the most personal thing I’ve ever used my writing to vent about. I implore you to read the warnings and not venture further if any of those will trigger you. Also, the decision the reader made in her past may be controversial. Please, just… be gentle with me on this one. I needed the outlet badly.

Gif by @daryl-dixon-daydreams

He found you sitting on the grass near the graves of the loved ones Alexandria had lost. You didn’t seem to be looking at the makeshift crosses, instead staring up at the sky, all orange and purple as the sun bid you goodnight. He approached you carefully, having seen you struggling throughout the day; tears you had tried to hide during your chores and the way you were so easily frustrated with yourself and would storm off to god knows where before returning like nothing had happened.

“Hey.” Daryl said quietly. His knees cracked as he lowered to sit next to you. He mimicked your pose, stretching tired legs out in front of him but chose not to move when you drew your knees to your chest and wrapped your arms around them. The position made you look so small.

“Hi.” You answered, barely loud enough for him to hear.

“Y’okay?” The archer tried to keep his gaze on the darkening sky but found his eyes sliding over to watch you when you sighed.

“No.” You whispered. He started to ask what he could do, what you needed but you didn’t give him a chance. “I need to tell you something.”

That wasn’t reassuring. “Ya can tell me anythin’.” And you could, he hoped you knew that. His temper had calmed over the last year and a half. He found himself to be more thoughtful, his need to be quick to anger diminishing, though not completely absent.

“Before the world fell,” you started, but your lip began to quiver. He watched you struggle for a moment but you seemed to settle. “Before the world fell, I was a mom.”

Daryl tried not to let the surprise show. Out of all the things you could have told him, this was not on his bingo card for the year. You had both spoken of your lives before the turn. He knew you had never had it easy, but a kid? Not trusting his voice, he hummed his acknowledgment and nodded for you to continue. You still weren’t looking at him but you must have seen because you did.

“I was still a kid myself when he came along. I had no idea what I was doing.” You laughed but it was humorless and somehow made his heart ache. “Still, he was perfect. He was so small because he came early, but fuck, he was a fighter.” When the tears started to flow, the archer went against his better judgment and wrapped an arm loosely around your shoulders. You didn’t object. In fact, he wasn’t sure you even realized he had done it.

“He was my world. Kept me going between the beatings and the other shit life would throw at me even after I ditched his asshole father.” You drew in a deep breath and the small smile you had managed to find faded. “He grew up. He was 18 a couple of years before the first walker turned.”

You remained silent for a while. Daryl wasn’t sure if you wanted to share anything more but he remained where he was and waited. Finally, you looked at him, tears in your eyes and an expression that would haunt him for the rest of his days.

“That little girl didn’t deserve what he did to her, Daryl.” The bowman’s heart all but stopped. What were you saying? You turned away again, this time staring at the ground in front of your feet. “And he did it over and over for years. He wasn’t even a teenager when it started.”

Jesus.

His arm around you tightened. He couldn’t help it.

You sniffed and rubbed at your eyes and nose a little harder than necessary. “I found out just before his 19th birthday. I kicked him out of my house and turned him in, but the legal system did what it does best. Failed. I don’t even know what happened to him. We never spoke again.” Your face screwed up again, more tears cascading over your cheeks. “She was just a little girl.” Your face disappeared against your knees, hard sobs wracking your small frame.

Daryl did the only thing he could think of and pulled you toward him, finding you willing to bury your face against his chest and cry while he held you. What could he say that would make even the tiniest bit of that raw pain you were carrying any better? His lips pressed against the top of your head, his hand rubbing circles across your back. The sky was black and littered with stars when you finally calmed down enough to pull away from him.

“I’m sorry.” You offered, seeing the dark spot on his button-up shirt.

“Ya ain’t got nothin’ to be sorry for.” He made sure to be extra gentle when he thumbed away the remaining wetness below your eyes. You offered him a small smile when he leaned forward to press a kiss to your forehead, much like Carol had done for him only a few months prior.

“I should have told you before now.”

“Don’t make a bit’a diff’rence.” The corner of his mouth lifted into a little half-smile when you met his eyes questioningly.

“It doesn’t?” Your voice broke on the last syllable. “You still love me?”

“Course I do. Ya did right by that girl even when it meant ya had to lose someone ya loved. Weren’t no easy thing to do.” Daryl allowed his knuckles to whisper down your jaw. “The hell ya think that’d make me—oomph!” He nearly toppled over when you launched yourself into his chest, your arms winding around his neck in a hold tight enough to restrict his ability to breathe properly.

“Thank you.” Your hold loosened but didn’t fall away.

“For what?” The archer asked, managing to climb to his feet with you still thoroughly attached. His hands came to rest softly on your waist.

“For being everything I thought I’d never see of love.”

Daryl felt a familiar sting in his own eyes, fighting back the urge with a hard sniff. The two of you stayed that way for a while longer when you suddenly pulled back and grabbed his hand, yanking him toward the cluster of houses. He stumbled comically before righting himself with a grumbled ‘the hell, woman’ but soon fell in step beside you, listening to you list off the food items the two of you had at home and ponder over things to make for a late dinner.

Of course, he still loved you. The archer was certain there was nothing you could tell him that would ever change that.

#murda writes #daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon fanfiction #the walking dead #daryl dixon fanfic #daryl dixon x y/n #daryl dixon x you #daryl dixon x female reader #writing as a coping mechanism #writing as therapy #Spotify

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mahi-wayy · 6 months ago

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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑-𝐈 | 𝑻𝑶𝑿𝑰𝑪

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Bhalladeva by any means was not your average prince, he was stronger, smarter and more equipped than anyone in Mahishmati, with exception of his brother of course.

He had the strength to fight a bison all on his own, so did his brother. He had the smarts to answer any given administration question at any time, so did his brother. He understood the power of the empty throne that looked down at the Mahishmati's courtroom, so did his brother.

What set him apart from the darling prince of Mahishmati was his politically powerful mind. As competent as Bahubali was, he couldn't compete with his older brother when it came to politics or deceiving people.

He thinks it was a natural talent of his own and definitely not from his parents. His father, Bijjaladeva, for all his smarts about navigating politics loses his temper way too quickly and from where he sees it politics is all about patience.

As for his mother, the great Sivagami, politics was all about the fear she could impose on her opponents so they don't even think about standing opposite her, very monarch-like behaviour from her, he knows. It's effective most of the time.

But she had a fragile ego, very controversial thinking on his part, he knows that too. It was true though, with his mother it's like you never know which side the camel would lean when he sits down.

A kingdom was all about its people, yes contrary to popular belief he knew that fact too, and with Sivagami he has noticed people sometimes hesitate to speak about certain stuff.

He means people approach him better than her sometimes and he's anything but approachable and he likes being that.

He doesn't have time to waste listening to and concerning himself over people who don't even acknowledge him all that much. Go to your darling prince, leave him alone for God's sake.

He has, a long time back, accepted the fact that the whole Mahishmati royalty was way too different from him and he doesn't really gel well with any of them for that matter.

So getting a bloody headache is very predictable when his brother and mother are having it out over Devsena, the woman he wanted to marry but she, too like everyone else, loves his brother. Typical situation.

“Stop."

“Bhalla?”

He didn't think Sivagami would catch his groan, he really didn't think her mother was even remotely paying attention to him.

“I meant this is all is unesscary ma, I won't pretend I am happy or stuff. I wanted to marry Devsena yes but that was because I liked her based on her painting, these two are in love after they spent time together. Their emotions out weigh mine. It's fine.”

His brother's expressions are soft and grateful, how predictable, his mother however just wouldn't let it go.

“Nahi Bhalla, bhul tumhare bhai se hui hai to ise chuna hoga, Mashishamti ka singhaasan ya iska pyaar.”

How dramatic of her but good for him because he knew what his brother would do and sure enough Bahu picked Devsena over the throne and he had a hard time suppressing a grin.

He would be crowned the king in four weeks, like he always wanted loosing a girl he found mildly attractive to his brother was a small cost to pay, he was used to loosing people to his brother anyways.

Being called by Sivagami first thing the next morning did make him curious but he was in a good mood so he decided to put up with whatever it was.

“Whatever happened last night was not how wanted the things to go. I couldn't keep my word, I know you liked the girl very much, that’s why you asked me to fix the marriage. You loved her didn’t you?”

No he didn't. He really didn't.

Devsena wasn't his type, personality wise, too righteous and impulsive. He just found her beauty attractive.

Forget her, love itself isn't his type of thing.

But he keeps these thoughts to himself and gives his mother a forced looking smile.

“It's okay ma, I am not mad at you or Bahu for that matter.”

Weirdly enough, he seriously wasn't.

“You can say that all you want but I do feel guilty so this time I have picked someone. Someone who's worthy enough to be your wife.”

Oh great.

“Ma this really isn't-”

Her raised hand stops him mid sentence, she really had decided to get him married, well this is going to be tricky.

“Okay, can I atleast see her painting?”

He frowns a little at his mother's smile and the way she nods, she wants him to turn around? But the there is no painting…

There have been very few instances Bhallaladeva's mind has gone blank, the number is yet to cross single digits but the painting infront of him has achieved the rare achievement.

The woman was gorgeous, tan skin, dark eyes, long open hair falling to her waist and a mysterious smile. She was wearing a heavy greyish lehenga-saree, her leaning the way she was on the armrest really had his eyes stick to the her waist.

Adorned with jewelry from head to toe she was the peak of beauty to the point that his thoughts were stopping.

One thing rarer than his mind going blank was him loving his mother, right now it was one of them. He really liked the choice she made, Devsena was nothing compared to this.

Giving the portrait another quick once over, he schooled his expression and turned to the older woman.

“Ma ye-”

“Rajkumari hain, Suryagarh ki, Mohini.”

He knew the meaning of that name, the one who enchants people. It suits her and something tells him this beauty comes with danger, maybe a illusion leading people to their own doom.

“She's beautiful.”

He has no idea how he sounded, his eyes are too busy scanning the portrait as if it would give him the answers he wants.

His mother chuckles a little, speaking up as she sits down.

“She's known for her beauty, even after being a small nation, Suryagarh receives alliance and marriage proposals from everywhere, just because of her.”

He guessed that much, very basic.

“Would she accept our proposal?"

His mother's face changes as soon as he finishes saying the sentence, a small call back to how Devsena treated their proposal. He did it on purpose.

“She will. Not everyone has big egos blinding their common sense."

Ironic coming from her but he keeps his lips sealed and face straight.

“I won't ask for a promise neither do I want you to make this into one.”

He keeps his tone leaning towards a little somber paired with another small smile as he poked another wound.

He was a petty man, do what you will.

“But I won't mind marrying someone like her.”

And he lets the smile grow a little more on the genuine side. Perfect.

He takes his leave after she reassures him that this marriage would happen, entering his room again, he really wasn't expecting his father to be there.

“Father.”

He greeted in a blank voice, not like his old man was going to notice it with the way he was drinking.

“Bhalla, come come what did your mother say?”

Ugh, he really doesn't want to have this conversation because he can already see the scene his father will create.

“Nothing, just some things about coronation ceremon-”

“LIES!”

He was cutt off by the wine that landed right on his chest and face first, not the yell when Bijjaladeva snapped. He's used to his too but that doesn't mean it wasn't irritating.

“She has decided to marry you to someone else while that Devesena have the time of her life with that bastard Bahubali. She should be punishing her for the disrespect towards you but she is getting them married.”

His father is impossible, he understood that at a very young age. He is very used to it by now.

When you have a parent who drinks like no tomorrow and babbles all kind of stuff about your mother and adoptive brother, you eventually get used to dealing with it.

“Father, you should let it be.”

He really isn't in the mood to deal with these dramatics, he would like a bath after the wine fest he was honored to.

“It's your mother, she had always been the problem. Treating you like you're the adoptive son and that scoundrel like he's her own blood…”

He tunes out before his father completes the second sentence, he knows this speech by heart at this point, listening to it since he was seven really had him learn it word by word.

It takes him a hour or two to calm his father down enough to urge him out of the room, asking a servant to take him to his room.

Next thing he did was take a hot bath, for the second time in the day, washing off the sticky wine and some memories that had made a involuntary comeback in his thougts and then decided to lay down for a minute to breathe but a knock foils his plans.

“What!?”

Did he sound harsh and rude? yes. Did he care? as if.

“My prince, her highness has asked for your presence for some preparations for the coronation ceremony.”

“Tell her I will be there.”

Fuck his life.

______________________

taglist : @warnermeadowsgirl @mayakimayahai @jkdaddy01 @vijayasena

#bhalladeva x reader #bhalladeva x fem!oc #bhalladeva x oc #bhalladeva fanfic #bahubali the conclusion #bahubali fanfic #south indian fanfic #bahubali

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mysticcollectionbee · 1 year ago

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Loki S2 Ep.2 (Breaking Brad): Pros & Cons

(SPOILERS!)

First the Bad to get it out of the way:

• Biggest thing I got a problem with: NOT a fan of the TVA brutality thing and really hope the TVA isn't seen as a 'flawed' system but just a system built to be awful. Only thing I agree with Sylvie is that the overall system is bad. And the protags shouldn't be chill using these tactics. Gonna hope this was just a one time thing because of X-5 just being a massive dick and pissing them to an extreme extent (Doesn't make it right, but if someone blamed me for a loved ones death...I might loose my morals a bit too).

• Sylvie being a bitch to Loki FOR NO REASON. Like everything else going on with her I love, but, why is she being horrible to Loki? He didn't betray or stop her. SHE BETRAYED HIM AND SCREWED EVERYTHING OVER, BUT SHE'S THE PISSED ONE?

Now that we got all the bad out of the way, onto the good stuff:

•Badass Loki, with MAGIC, with a bit of intimidation? YES. Sure, I don't like him and Mobius torturing X-5 BUT I'm all for Loki weaponizing his villainous history. And surprisingly keeping his temper under control. Nice.

• Unlike Mobius...My dude ya good? I love what this could be hinting and going for. And also showing that he isn't pure good, but as Loki said, Not all good which is why they get along.

• Loki being the one that kept a cool head and is the one trying to comfort is so interesting! He's never tried doing that for anyone besides Thor in a few small scenes. And that's his brother! He just wants to be there for Mobius and let him have some pie while they chill and talk stuff out, even trying to relate to mobius (albeit a funny ridiculous comparison).

•Both of the time duos being horrible with tech makes a bit too much sense. They are great at manipulating and reading people, but they probably can't build a single IKEA chair.

•CASEY! I love Casey actually becoming more of an important/useful character. And apparently a fan of O.B. So maybe our tech guy won't have to wait hundreds of years for a visitor anymore!

•B-15 being the heart of the team and the TVA, she should be in charge. Please. Also I need an offical name for her and D-90 because I really want to call them by actual names.

•X-5 is an asshole but a well written and neat asshole. I do kinda want him to get back to his movie life, that way he won't be such a dick to the characters I like and he gets to keep having his dream life. Win-win.

• Sylvie gets a fun retirement life please! I don't think her being on the team is good for her or for the team. I think she should only join when her life is endangered and when it's all over get back to it. I used to think she might join Loki and Mobius on maybe continuing fighting Kang after the season is over but like...That's not her fight? Leaver her be. And bad for the team cause well...The morale is already kinda shit and she's gonna be miserable and make everyone else miserable too.

• Just realized this: Is everyone keeping secrets??? Loki seemed to not have been planning to tell the others about the Ravonna and HWR convo until it was needed to mention (Mobius literally was asking, "When were you gonna-" then was caught off), Mobius seems to already know or have a serious fear that he's hiding, B-15 has yet to mention what she saw of her past life despite it obviously leaving an impact, etc.

#mcu #marvel #loki #loki season 2 #theory #loki spoilers #lokius #kinda #episode 2

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four-white-trees · 11 months ago

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Sunday Six

It's everyone's favorite day of the week. Tagging the buds: @overdevelopedglasses @mike----wazowski @ohayouasagohan @skysquid22 @passthroughtime @fire-tempers-steel @woundedheartwithin @fragilitease

More Ghost Boys for yall this week! Since she's heavily involved in this scene, I'll briefly explain my OC Kaede Tojo: She was the wife of Makoto Tojo, the founder of the Tojo Clan, and died in the HQ house protecting it. She's now its guardian and she's the one that summon the Ghost Boys for help.

“Can ya walk? I can stick around with ya here, and Nishikiyama-san can go find��” but his words were cut off, because when he turned to Nishiki, he found himself face-to-face with the business end of the golden gun.

Nishiki glared deeply at Ryuji, nearly shaking with rage. His stupid sword glowed dully in the darkness of the hallway as if it were mocking Nishiki. “Who were you to Kiryu-san?” he hissed.

“Eh?” Ryuji, looking past the gun’s barrel to meet Nishiki’s cold gaze.

“Kiryu-san took the trouble to bring your sword here,” Nishiki said through gritted teeth, “and I’m betting he did the same with your remains. Why the fuck would he do that for an Omi man?”

Behind Ryuji, Kaede sighed heavily and picked herself up off the wall.

“Maybe it ain’t your fucking business,” Ryuji said, bringing down his sword arm. He stepped forward, trusting the sword forward toward Nishiki’s face, but stopped mere centimeters from his left eye. Nishiki didn’t flinch.

Nishiki’s finger wrapped around the trigger. “My sworn brother wouldn’t trust an Omi man,” he hissed.

“Your so-called sworn brother wasn’t a damn yakuza when I knew him,” Ryuji said.

“You’re lying,” Nishiki spat. “Kiryu would die before he left the Tojo.” Except you know that’s not true, Nishiki thought, but he pushed it away. His finger began to squeeze the trigger, his chest pounding with rage.

“Ryuji-san, duck!” Kaede’s voice called out. The big man dropped to his knees just as Kaede loosed an arrow, the projectile sailing almost as fast as a bullet through the air. Nishiki hardly had a moment to react, but the arrow sailed over his head and struck something that had attached itself to him.

He fell back with the force of what felt like claws ripping off of his shoulders. His skin burned, and he dropped the gun to put one hand to his shoulder, thinking he’d feel a wound there, but his hand did not come away bloody.

Ryuji leapt forward, jumping over Nishiki, and he thrust his sword forward into the shadow body of a spirit, this one far smaller than the others they had encountered. He turned his wrist, then pushed the sword in faster. The creature evaporated under the blade, and Ryuji stepped back, shaking his head.

Nishiki got to his feet, catching his breath. His chest had ceased building that wrathful pressure he’d been feeling since the armory room.

“Little one,” Ryuji said, rubbing at one ear. “Sure screamed real loud.”

“What just happened?” Nishiki asked.

“That spirit was feeding off your jealousy,” Kaede explained as she approached Nishiki. She glanced between him and Ryuji. “When they attach to you, they bring up the worst of your emotions. I’m afraid you’ll need to be careful with your feelings.”

Nishiki stared at the gun in his hand. He had been jealous of a man he had never met before. Truthfully, what Kiryu did after Nishiki had tried and failed to kill him was none of his business. Yet the thought that Kiryu would have honored someone–an Omi, the enemy, and a complete asshole–when Nishiki did not know if Kiryu would have done the same for him burned his stomach.

Because why would he have? Nishiki had done his best to take everything from Kiryu in his desperate climb to power. It would have been best if Kiryu had forgotten him altogether.

“Shame is equally as attractive,” Kaede said, standing beside Nishiki now, her voice piercing his thoughts. He met her gaze, but could not speak.

Then Ryuji clapped a large hand on his shoulder, nearly pushing Nishiki off his feet. “We oughta find that other guy, then,” he said, apparently holding no grudge against Nishiki for what had passed moments ago. “He’s got negative emotions comin’ out all his holes.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Nishiki said, and Ryuji laughed. Kaede herself broke into a chuckle, and before Nishiki realized it, he was laughing too.

The air lightened around them, like someone had opened a window in a stale room.

#sunday six #fanfiction #writing #ryu ga gotoku #ryuji goda #akira nishikiyama #yakuza

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voidendron · 1 year ago

Note

interview questions: 2, 5, 17, 18 for terrin or jen

how 'bout both? :D thank you! 💚💜

[roleplay interview ask game]

2. Tell us a little bit about yourself.

"...You're not expectin' a sales pitch on why I'm a great leader or whatever, right?" She laughs, crossing her arms as she leans back comfortably in her seat. "Uhhh.... What is there to tell? I accidentally became Commander, I'm Mando, got a bit of a temper and like fire. I was a bounty hunter feels like a lifetime ago, sick of all the faction and Force nonsense. That good enough?"

5. Do you have any role models? Tell us a little bit about them.

A wide grin stretches her face. "Well, Dad of course gotta be one of 'em. Maybe not the best role model, all things considered, but he loved me and wanted me to be ready for the galaxy around me, and I looked up to 'im.

"But, uh... For the most part, most of the people who shaped my view on things, I learned what not to do from 'em. Dunno, guess I was just bad at pickin' who I hung around as a kid."

17. Have you ever been in love?

"Of course! Look, I could be cheesy and say Torian's the only love I've ever known, bla-bla-bla, but I've loved people before. Sure, not many, but a few! Had this huge crush on a partner I had for my first hunt without Dad - about broke my nose walkin' into a doorframe when he kissed me." She laughed at her own misfortune, rubbing the back of her neck.

"But most of 'em were just flings; teenage boyfriends, a girlfriend here and there. None of 'em lasted long, even if I thought I was 'so so in love' at that point. Not 'til Tori." Her grin turns gentler. "When we started dating, I just...knew this one would be different. I knew he was the one."

18. Have you ever been kissed?

"Oh, totally - that's not even counting Tori. I've even kissed one or two of my bounties - I ever tell ya about my first solo one? Force, she's when I realized 'Oh. Well girls are hot, too, I guess....'"

2. Tell us a little bit about yourself.

With two fingers, he plucks the toothpick from his mouth and leans forward with a crooked grin. "You're tellin' me you haven't heard of the Voidhound? Well, feast your eyes on the greatest smuggler to ever live~! I can get through a blockade without a scratch, drop off a weapon shipment, kill a Hutt, an' still be home in time for dinner."

5. Do you have any role models? Tell us a little bit about them.

"Ma and Dad raised me like they'd been raised - and I guess I'm raisin' my own that way, too. So... Them?" He scratched behind an ear with a painted claw, glowering when the action pulled some hair loose from his ponytail. "Smugglers, livin' among the stars, never stayin' one place for too long, big ol' bleeding hearts - wonder where I get all that from, ha!"

"Uh... Don't tell him I said this, but I guess the Old Man, too. He pretty much helped raise me, y'know? Grumpy, sure, sure, but gives good advice and has lived way longer than any bounty hunter ever should. And he's great with the kids, Jeva loves him. Might be an old curmudgeon, but hey." He grins a grin full of sharp teeth. "We'll give the guy a pass - he's dealt with me all my life, after all."

17. Have you ever been in love?

"Y'know somethin' funny? All the folks I've f-- uh, spent the night with, I'd never really felt any deep attachment to 'em. Beryl's maybe the closest, but even her... Eh. Could never see her as more of a 'friend with benefits' type of deal. Never really thought I'd be one to settle down with one partner."

He looks away, a dreamy look falling over him. "'Til I met Kitty. Maybe it's 'cause he was on the crew, maybe it was his kiddos, that we had time to be friends and get to know each other first, I dunno. But one day I just...looked 'im in the eyes as he berated me for bein' an idiot and gettin' myself hurt bad enough he had to stitch me up, and I just couldn't look away." He leans forward, putting an elbow on his knee and propping his chin firmly over his knuckles. "And now I couldn't imagine life without 'im or the kids."

18. Have you ever been kissed?

He bites down firmly on the toothpick, offering a simple wink. It seems he figures that's suffice an answer...

#swtor #bounty hunter #smuggler #chiss #cathar #voids ocs #tales from the void #oc: ar'eonis'terrinxx #oc: jen sept #terrin x torian #answered ask #ic ask game #anonymous #long post

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glennrheesdaughter · 2 years ago

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Daryl looses his temper and you get bad end of it.

You were always born different. You had abilities no one could understand. Your parents were scientists and always experimented. But when the outbreak happened.

You were alone. Then you met Glenn and Maggie, they showed you pure love, and they became your parents.

Right now you were with Judith in the woods. You were hanging out as you felt a presence." There ya two are." Uncle Daryl yelled as he looked passed.

He marched up to you." Don't ya know what time it is? Walkers come out at sundown." You flinched." We have two hours."

" Two hours? It took me Three to find you. What if it had gotten dark?" He yelled. Daryl never yelled at you, unless if there was a walker.

Your magic started whisping. He grabbed your wrist." Don't Young Lady. You don't think. You're so stupid. Glenn should have left you at that stupid hospital."

You lifted your hand and he blew back, hitting a tree." Stop! Just stop!" I yelled , as he looked." I'm not going to say here and let you remind me about all the things I hate about myself!" I yelled. As he looked wide eyed seeing what he had done.

You looked up with tears streaming down your face." I never asked to be like this! I never asked to be made!" I yelled as I used my magic to fly away.

A few hours later

You were sitting under a tree, petting Dog's head as you heard footsteps." Mum, I'm not in the mood."

" it's me." You heard Daryls voice." Even worse." I whispered, as he sat down next to me.

" I'm sorry for what I said, Negan was driving me up a damn wall. And I know that is not an excuse, but I shouldn't of taken it out on you." Daryl said, as he put his arm around you.

" Am I really a freak?" I asked, as he pulled me closer.

" Bull Shit, I'm sorry I made ya feel that way. But yer not. You are a beautiful woman who has been given a powerful gift. A girl who should be treated like a national treasure. A girl who has so many fucking pairs of loving arms that will always be there to welcome her." He said.

" besides, yer magic got us out of a lot of shit." He said, making me laugh.

" There's that beautiful smile." He whispered. " I love you, Robin Hood." I smiled." Love ya too, Katniss." You looked up." You read?"

" Carol read it to me." You smiled." That makes more sense." " OI!" I laughed at his mock offended face.

#x reader #glenn rhee #the walking dead #walking dead #daryl dixion imagine #daryl imagines #glenn x maggie #glenn x reader #daryl x reader #spotify #negan smith #negan fic

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liebgotts-lovergirl · 2 years ago

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A December to Remember ~ Joelix Hallmark AU Part 2

(Pt. 1)

Summary: Alix is forced to confront her trust issues as she struggles to reconcile the past with the present.

A/N: The second installment of the Hallmark AU + Past Life AU, just in time for Christmas, thank God. 🤭

Taglist: @latibvles @softguarnere @mccall-muffin @lieutenant-speirs @brassknucklespeirs @parajumpboots @emmythespacecowgirl @holdingforgeneralhugs @bellewintersroe @ax-elcfucker-blog @vibing-away @hxad-ovxr-hxart @aerokriegs

"Sorry for being a pain in the ass,” Alix called over the din of the airport parking lot’s crowds as she hauled her duffle bag over her shoulder. “I know it's a real hike."

"'S no trouble at all,” the cabbie replied easily as Alix plopped the bag into the trunk. “I was headin’ that direction anyway.”

Seeing her beginning attempts at wrestling the largest suitcase into the back, he quickly tucked his cigarette pack into his back pocket before jogging over to help.

“Here, lemme get that for ya–” he offered but Alix shook her head stubbornly, readjusting her grip and giving it another heave.

“No, I… Ow, shit!– I got it…” she managed between a panoply of grunts and swears.

Straining all her muscles, she had just barely gotten it off the ground and as she dropped it just inches from the open trunk, she could hear the cabbie fighting to contain his laughter.

The disgruntled actress shot a glare in his direction but he didn’t flinch, leaning against the car’s open door and tugging a loose cigarette out from behind his ear.

“Hey She-Hulk,” he remarked bemusedly as he lit it, the gold flecks in his eyes dancing like sparks from the flame. “Don’t give yourself a hernia, okay?”

“Oh fuck off,” Alix panted with a joking roll of her dark eyes, trying to “lift with her knees” like Benji, her brother’s boyfriend, had tried to teach her when she had helped him move in.

But lifting was not kind to her formerly-torn ACL and she felt one knee buckle, dropping the suitcase onto the ground again with a muttered curse of frustration.

One of the drivers behind them honked and she could hear the man yelling, "Hey Liebgott, get your slut outta the road, will you?! I got a fare!"

Alix whirled around with a frigid glare, shouting at the guy to go around them if he was so impatient but to her surprise, the look on her cabbie– Liebgott–'s face had changed.

No longer a good-natured smirk, Alix could see a vein jumping in his jaw now and his caramel-brown eyes were narrowed.

Nostrils flaring, he threw his cigarette down and stormed off to the taxi behind them, eyes narrowed as intensely as a hunting dog who'd sighted its prey.

Alix didn't know how but she'd seen that look from him before in a dream…or a nightmare.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pow!

"Wanna live? Keep dancing, asshole!"

Pow!

"Dammit Joey, that's enough!"

Alix recognized her own voice, frantic and shrill as a hawk's cry, and she saw her own dirt-stained hand on Joe's shoulder, tugging him around to face her.

"You've made your point, okay? Leave them alone."

His warm brown eyes were cold as steel and flashing murderously. He'd lowered his rifle but she could still see the fierce determination in his eyes burning like a wildfire.

He was a force of nature.

"Not now, Ziskeit." His voice had risen to a warning tone and Alix blinked in surprise at the sharp edge.

Somehow she knew he'd never used it with her before.

"Do you know who they are?" he demanded, clearly noticing her wounded expression. "Do you know what they've done?!"

"I lived it, Joey, you know I do!"

"Then don't ask me to lay off 'em, okay, not after that!"

"I'm not!" Alix could feel her own temper flaring. "Shoot them for all I care! I'm just asking you not to fucking torture them! Is that so hard for you?!"

Despite the blood, sweat, and dirt that painted Joe's face, Alix swore she could see a flash of pain in his expression but as quickly as it had appeared, it disappeared behind his rage again.

"You know what, Zees," he snapped curtly, his raspy voice clipped as he reloaded his rifle. "Maybe it is."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alix was brought back by the sound of nearby voices arguing and she could see her cabbie– Joe– arguing with the driver who had shouted at her.

"I said don't call her that, you piece of shit."

"Tell her to hurry the fuck up then, I wanna use your spot!"

"Langley, you got half a fuckin' block to pick up your fare but you wanna ride my ass waiting for my spot an' complain about it?! I don't fuckin' think so."

"Look, just get your bitch outta the way and it won't be a problem, okay Joe?"

"We already got a problem," Liebgott snarled, drawing himself up to his full height so he could get into the bigger man's face. "'Cause I told you not to call her that."

"Joey, can you c'mere?" Alix called hurriedly and Joe's head instantly whipped around, his expression softening the second their eyes met like he couldn't believe what he'd just heard.

Suddenly, the argument didn't seem to matter. Nothing else seemed to matter.

Alix blinked hard, past and present suddenly blurring before her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The gray haze of cigarette smoke in the brisk night air. Warm brown eyes wide with surprise. A kaleidoscope of butterflies fluttering jubilantly in her stomach, the muffled crooning of jazz music underscoring conversation.

Joe was dressed up, in…was that a vintage service uniform?

"Joey, huh?"

The corner of his lip quirked up into a lopsided grin.

"Nobody's ever called me that before."

Alix had opened her mouth to apologize, to explain it had just slipped out, but he silenced her easily with a shake of the head.

"Don’t,” he chided gently. “I like it. But-"

He chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. "Think I’d like anything that comes outta that pretty mouth of yours.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alix snapped back to reality with the sound of someone clearing his throat.

The other driver, Langley, had moved down several spaces and Joe was standing before her with a wry grin.

She had expected him to shove her into the car, muttering about her “being difficult” like her ex would have, but he didn’t.

When she looked up, Joe’s eyes seemed to sparkle and he gestured towards the open car door.

“You comin’, sweets, or do I gotta pick you up an' put you in myself?”

»——————⋆◦★◦⋆——————«

"You should feel proud, y'know," he remarked moments later, shifting out of park and peeling out of the airport’s buzzing traffic. "Usually nobody gets to sit shotgun."

"So I'm special, huh?" Alix teased over the Christmas music blaring from the radio with a quirk of her manicured eyebrow.

Joe chuckled, a warm sound that quickened the young woman's heartbeat for reasons unknown.

"Somethin' like that."

As her dark eyes swept across the car, Alix noticed a scarlet ribbon tied around the gear shift and she smiled.

“That’s for good luck, right?” she asked, nodding to it. “I always thought that was just an Italian thing.”

Joe grinned and shook his head fondly.

“Nah, lotsa cultures do it. My Ma’s kinda superstitious so when I started drivin’, she put it there for me and it’s never left.”

Noting a cracked iPhone perched by the meter, connected to the taxi by a long, thin white cable, the screen showing a glowing 80%, Alix hemmed and hawed for a bit before finally giving in.

“Hey Joey, um, I’m sorry but when you’re done, can I borrow your charger? My phone’s dead and-”

“Sure thing!"

It was such a small gesture but Joe's willingness to immediately unplug his so she could plug hers raised Alix’s eyebrows.

Clayton would’ve never done something as nice as that without complaining.

How did this man she’d just met already treat her better than someone she’d known for years?

It just didn’t make sense.

Joe noticed her watching him and turned the radio down, cocking his head with concern.

“What’s on your mind, sweets?”

Alix bit her lip, debating with herself.

Should she tell him?

“Nothing,” she lied defensively. “Just zoning a bit.”

Joe eyed her skeptically from his periphery for a moment as though he wanted to say something and Alix fidgeted under his gaze before angling her knees to the door, avoiding the concern in his deep brown puppy-eyes and leaving the pair in an uncomfortable silence underscored only by the forcedly upbeat Christmas music emanating from the cab’s radio.

»——————⋆◦★◦⋆——————«

About an hour later, Joe finally found his voice.

“So where ya from, sweets?”

It was a simple question, unintrusive and innocuous, and Alix was about to reply when she was interrupted by the familiar chime of her phone.

She checked it quickly before flipping it over with a small huff, simply resolving to ignore the message even as three more came in.

Ding!

"Someone's popular,” Joe joked.

"Hardly," Alix scoffed as she buried her phone deep in the pocket of her coat. "It's just my agent asking about the audition.”

"Audition, huh?" Joe eyed her wryly from his periphery. "You some kinda movie star or somethin'?"

"I wish," Alix laughed. "I’m just a girl from Philly who fucking blew it.”

“Doubt it.”

The taxi driver shook his head as highway traffic rumbled past and flashed her an encouraging smile.

"You’re prob’ly better than you think.”

Her heart fluttered slightly and Alix found herself staring again.

There was something in his smile … He seemed so familiar, like a word on the tip of her tongue, but she just couldn’t place him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The brassy sounds of jazz music and people laughing, clinking glasses and conversation but the idle chatter around them seemed far away now and for a second, it was just the two of them gazing into each other’s eyes from across the table, each searching for the right thing to say to the other.

He spoke first, leaning forward so she could hear him better over the noise.

“Doll, I’m gonna need you to quit that,” he said, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

Alix cocked her head inquisitively.

“Quit what?”

Joe scratched the back of his neck with a sheepish laugh.

“Smilin’ at me like that. I can’t think straight when you do and I need to get my shit together before I make a damn fool outta myself.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alix shook herself out of her reverie.

“Sorry, did you say something?”

“Jesus, am I that boring?” he joked with a good-natured grin that let her know he was just kidding. “I asked what the audition was for.”

Alix knew he was just kidding but she still felt bad. It wasn't Joe's fault she was having…

What were they? Flashbacks? Daydreams? Hallucinations?

Alix blinked hard, forcing herself to focus on the present.

"Sorry," she blurted out again and Joe snuck a look at her as they came to a red light.

His devil-may-care smirk was gone now and his dark brows knit with concern.

"You don't gotta apologize for everythin', y'know." His voice, slightly raspy but gentle as a murmur.

"You been apologizing since you got here."

"Sor-" Alix began but stopped herself, her shoulders slumping in defeat.

He was right.

Since Clayton, it seemed like guilt and apologies were just a part of her now, as natural as breathing.

"It’s called ‘Pirate Queen’," she answered, grateful to change the subject. "It's about Grace O'Malley."

Joe cocked his head.

“Who?”

“The Irish pirate, known as the Dark Lady of Doona.”

“Sounds pretty badass,” Joe grinned. “D’you get a sword too?”

“I don’t get anything because I fucked up the audition,” Alix sighed. “I was called in last minute for a cold read. It was in the morning too so my voice was all scratchy and I probably looked like shit.”

“You sure 'bout that? 'Cause it sounds to me like you don’t give yourself enough credit. And I bet you looked fuckin’ gorgeous, to top it all off.”

»——————⋆◦★◦⋆——————«

“Sorry again for all this,” Alix grimaced, glancing guiltily at the clock. “Hopefully you’ll get home in time for whatever Christmas Eve plans you have later tonight.”

“Well, considering I’m Jewish, I ain’t got much going on for Christmas,” Joe chuckled, fishing the Magen David out from inside his collar so Alix could see it.

“The music’s for you. But I do gotta get home to light the shamash with my folks tonight.”

“Don’t feel bad though,” he added quickly as if reading Alix’s mind.

“I should be able to make it before Shabbat. Only about an hour and a half difference from McClellan Park to Oakland and if I do get held up, my folks’ll understand. It'd suck to miss the first night but it ain't the end of the world.”

»——————⋆◦★◦⋆——————«

“What about you, gorgeous?” Joe asked as they slowed for a stoplight. “What d’you got planned for the holiday?”

Alix grimaced.

“So I was supposed to fly home but I’m not too torn up about it, to be honest. The flight cancellation’s more of an inconvenience than anything else because I didn’t really wanna go anyway.”

The red glow of the traffic light cast a shadow across his handsome face as he looked at her, brows knit.

“Why’s that?” he inquired, seemingly confused by why someone wouldn’t want to go home for the holidays. “You don’t have family?”

“Oh I have them,” Alix muttered, a bitter edge sharpening her rising voice. “I just don't want them. My parents are fucking intolerable. My brother and his boyfriend were the only ones who made it bearable and they’re not coming this year. Gio said it’s because of the snow but it’s really because he can’t stand them either.”

She huffed, glaring at the dashboard as though trying to ignite it from her stare alone.

“They’re fucking ridiculous,” she spat, gesturing wildly as she spoke.

“My parents make Christmas miserable. It’s all about fucking appearances: Everything has to be perfect, every gift expensive, and everything is a fucking photo op so they can show their equally snobby friends and brag about their perfect fucking family.”

Suddenly realizing she’d gone off on a rant, her chest rose and fell with a heavy, exasperated sigh.

“I’m sorry, I don’t even know why I’m telling you this.”

“Hey, what’d I say about apologies?” he asked softly, giving her a wry look out of the corner of his eye and Alix exhaled through her nose sharply.

“I know, I know, I apologize too much.”

“You’re damn right,” Joe responded. “And you don’t need to, ‘specially not about talking to me.”

He gave a small, sheepish laugh and scratched the back of his head self-consciously.

“Call me crazy but I could listen to you talk all day.”

“Oh you’re crazy alright,” Alix teased, finally cracking a smile, even if it was just at a stupid pickup line.

The cabbie shot her a playful wink and Alix felt her stomach do a little somersault of glee despite her doubts.

“I’ll be anything you want me to be, gorgeous, you just say the word.”

Alix rolled her dark eyes in mock-irritation, trying desperately to ignore the delighted racing of her heartbeat at his playful flirtations.

“Just keep your eyes on the road, Liebgott,” she replied in a not-at-all convincing tone. “That’s what I want.”

#Part 2 babey!!#have some minor hurt/comfort #they're warming up to each other & I kinda love it #Sorry for the wait y'all I've been in another state for the holidays!#But more work is coming your way shortly!!#Band of Brothers fandom #Band of Brothers #Hallmark AU #BoB #Joe Liebgott #Joe Liebgott x OC #Joe Liebgott x reader #Band of Brothers fic #Band of Brothers fanfiction #Band of Brothers fanfic #HBO War #hbo band of brothers

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twothpaste · 1 year ago

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fic snippet. lucas & isaac boating hours, feat. worldbuilding, flashbacks within flashbacks, and layers upon layers of remorse.

Lucas' kayak was carved from red cedar. Gold in the morning. Vermilion by sunset. Thread it deftly through any tide, like a needle mending a torn shirt. He learned to paddle when his arms were still made of sticks n' twigs, n' his scars were still cleft in crimson. As were Nowhere's. Weaving the channels between ruptured cliffsides. Dodging grisly swaths of surfaced bedrock. Perilous was the word after - at least, upon first glance. 'Til the Dragon's shadow draped down, to temper the waves. Kid grew into his strength. Sturdy biceps, sure. Muscles not so lean. Ain't your arms that get ya there, though. You row from your core. This vessel was - and still is, in his lonesomest hours - his home away from home. It's his heart that carries it.

Bronson did the bulk of the handiwork. Whittling away the chilly mornings, while kiddo slept off tears n' terrors. "But really," he'd insisted, come Christmastime, "It's a gift from all of us." Jill had beamed her best ear-to-ear grin. Abbey n' Abbot, in their matchin' holiday sweaters, gave meek waves. Tessie'd done a fine job wrapping the goshdarn thing. Leder, from his mile-high vantage, had picked the perfect tree. Lighter lent his axe. And so on.

A hero's greatest thanks, apparently, take the form of smiling sobs.

"It's wonderful. Really. Th.. Thank y'all."

To his left strode Isaac's big ol' canoe. Beige as could be. He'd mentioned need of it, offhand, the spring after. Gruffly resigned himself to the task. Takin' clumsy bites out of a fallen trunk, with an unsharpened carving knife. While jetsam surfaced, and shifted about, in his aching head. Again - the guy was indeed a woodsman. Friend to the trees, n' creatures that be. His role was aptly set. But he was no lumberjack. N' far from a shipwright. In his dreams - to this day - he roams the desert-dry creeks and lakebeds of Appalachia. Searching in vain, for survivors of any clade.

Lighter found him there (or rather, not there at all) on the Sunshine Forest floor. Chipping haphazard pieces. Tree rings laid bare. Scattered about, in choppy chunks.

"… Yer goin' about it all wrong, y'know."

And Isaac leered up at him. Squinting through the crack in his glasses.

He could growl back, if he wanted. Proclaim otherwise. Or shrug it off. Say not a damn thing, n' wait for him to leave. The hermit could tell his forsaken neighbor to go to hell, for all he cared. Made not a lick of difference. His protests were for less than naught. Before he knew it, Lighter n' his boy were at his side, salvaging his wreck. Showin' him the craft. Teach a man to fish. N' all that.

He didn't deserve it, then.

Maybe he does, now. Who's to say.

The vest he had tailored was snug to his chest, and almost familiar. Lucas' was all but identical. "Mm… Maybe make it a size up, if ya could," kid told Tessie. "I'd prob'ly outgrow it in a few months, otherwise." And he'd've been right, by his next birthday. 'Til then, his vest hang slightly loose over him, ruffling in the breeze. Such thoughtful foresight had always distinguished him from the rest.

Isaac wore a badge, as well. Courtesy of Bronson, n' Fuel's apprentice metalwork. It weighed him down. Like every other ounce of generosity. Perhaps this too was an exercise in penance.

They made another for Lucas. He kept it at home. Stowed away, in a little bedside drawer. Ranger or not, never again would he dare pin anything of the sort to his vest, nor jacket, nor any breast pocket.

Call it what you will.

Both boats twined the Murasaki-Highway border, upon this fine 11 AM. Both Rangers kept their eyes peeled. Roving the myriad islets which splattered the Mapson's handiwork, in search of their quarry. A cluster of pink snouts. A ragged, weedy sprout.

Got a tip from the locals, see. An ex-militant encampment, takin' up residence in the asphalt ruins. The Pigpen, they called 'emselves. Proudly. Colonel Hox used to reign as their Napoleon. Three years prior, she n' they had stood in rebellious opposition to Tazmilian civility. Like a gang o' rowdy Lost Boys. But with Peter Pan in prison, and their winter stockpiles dwindling, separatist resolve seemed an increasingly fleeting fantasy. Offers of aid, a less damnable prospect.

"We're overgrown with the little hellions," Hox's guys told Isaac. Barkin' up at him, like tin toy sergeants. "Can't hardly breathe, what for all the spores. You can bash 'em all ya like, but they just puff out more of the shit! N' then five more sprout in their place! If you bleedin' hearts think you can help, be our guest. Here."

Neither soldier would even grace Lucas with a glare. A pair of hoggish masks found their way into Isaac's hands, instead. Battered to hell n' back. Calamine pink. In contrast with the cobalt blue that stared him down.

"Don't get it twisted, now, private. Colonel's only lettin' ya borrow these 'cause of your service history. If it were up to me, though? Heh. I'd let ya both choke to death."

"Noted," answered Isaac . His frown unwavering. "Thank you, Tyson. We'll be back by sundown."

And Tyson froze, for a sec. Sputtering vaguely. Surprised the craven hillbilly oaf had remembered his name. The Rangers took his hesitation as an opportunity to skedaddle. Head back shoreward, n' get to work.

Thus, their first outing had 'em relocating Pigtunias off the sundered Highway flats.

Their latest has 'em on a pontoon. Layin' out a crescent of netting, 'round the Harbor's periphery. Catch whatever garbage may float astray, before it's lost to the wild blue yonder. The motor revs n' rumbles at their ears. Lucas is a stiff, peculiar, not-quite-Lucaslike kind of quiet. In for four counts, through his nose. Out for eight. Teeth barely ajar. Eyes kneading the horizon line. Just as dirty nails knead calloused palms.

He bore the same silence then, too.

Isaac, the selfish prick he'd always been, would carve any quiet into klutzy splinters. Bustling banter was his bane. Small town gossip n' coworker rapport drove him reeling back to the shade. Lips curled, head spinning. A stark reminder of un-belonging. But quiet? Oh, he could hardly hold the peace. Find a clearing, and barrel right in. Fashion a goddamn therapist's couch, on the spot, with his gruesome carpentry skills. It's why he'd said such awful shit to the kid - made a total ass of himself - back before. Why he found himself rambling like a maniac to a goddamn fourteen-year-old, fishin' by a ripped-to-shreds river, about ye olde Forest Service. How his whole pitiful life story had to precede his apologies. And how, therefore, Lucas of all people was the only hapless sap who got to hear either.

"It's alright," the kid had told him. And meant it. At the time, how could he not? With everything that'd drifted up from the depths, in lieu of Leder's bell? Most everyone had lost a mother. A brother - for real, n' for good. N' a few undeserving billions besides. So, who was he to wield a cudgel? To bear grudges down upon clueless traitors, and their countless burdens? "Nah," he'd said. "It's fine." It was fine.

Even though it wasn't.

On the canoe, Isaac broke the silence with a story. That one from the Bible. His namesake. He'd carried it with him since he was small. It tumbled outta some tangential pocket.

Lucas said, low and brittle, he was glad to hear it at sixteen. As opposed to six. The nightmares wouldda been ceaseless.

On the pontoon, Isaac breaks it with a request. Not for his own sake. Someone else's. Progress comes in increments. ...

#dubbing this segment “the blinding of isaac”#cracking this guy open like a geode lately #osha's eleven #2thprose

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moondirti · 1 year ago

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goodness

listen. i’ve been saving this for a rainy day because i knew how much it would do for me. ever since i saw those tags, i’d been thinking about friends-to-lovers and pining idiots with gaz. i mean, the man is built for it. he’s so boyfriend in a way that is also so personal to me, and no one could have executed this better than you lev. i love u. i love this. i feel like i’m both about to cry and choke because this is exactly what i needed today

It hurts to lose a friend, you'd always think. A small moment of grief, of loss. But not like this. Never like this.

Stuck in a downpour in the middle of Manchester, you realise you miss him. Have been missing him.

the way this is built of feels so realistic and it makes the pay off so much more worth it. i was already in tears at this point – credit it to the parallels you’ve miraculously managed to draw to my life - and if that isn’t any indication of how devastated i was by the mid-point, idk what to tell ya.

There's tension in the air. Static. The pressure builds and reeks of ozone when it presses into you, knuckles digging into the hollow of your throat. It renders you unable to speak—locked in a paradigm where the world beyond the honeycomb of his eyes ceases to matter, to exist almost. Thick honey ensnares you. Molasses. It clots against reason, logic, and makes you feel weightless. Floating, unmoored, in this unfamiliar abyss that closes in around you.

just a lil segment for this gorgeous piece of writing. i mean,, hello? I could bite into it and let it melt in my mouth

How could you possibly describe the feeling that spumes in the pit of your stomach outside of undiluted comfort?

Home.

It feels like like in shades; muted. A soft undercurrent that lingers inside something else, something deeper—

something something best friends who understand each other on an intrinsic level and are drawn apart only by time and other priorities, yet always try to make time for each other regardless because the love is there and always will be. you’ve compartmentalised it and made all the complicated emotions that come with such a melancholic scenario comprehensive, and it healed me. truly.

i feel so strongly about these two based on 6k words alone. I need them to be happy forever. I’m gonna fund all their kebab exploits and live vicariously through all the fluff as a result

you’ve nailed it on the head with this one. Please write gaz forever because i will never get enough of your characterisation. ITS CANON TO ME OKAY!

The look on his face is upsetting—not because Kyle never makes that expression, or because he's never uncertain about anything, ever, but because you don't know it. It's not something you've ever seen before. And it hurts.

highlighting this to let u know this is where i started sobbing uncontrollably

It isn't much. It isn't poetry. You're not even sure the words were real. A figment of your imagination, broken free because of baristas in Amsterdam and losers from Kent, abysmal dates and the unending fear of being wholly alone in a world you're not prepared for, all without the person who makes you feel a little bit better about the nothingness that permeates around you.

frame this on my wall tattoo this on my skull. I’m gonna come back to this quote whenever i feel depressingly hollow with the same exact fear.

now where’s my mr. garrick to come and pull me out of it😞

“Fuck—” he groans again, breath stuttering out in sharp, deep gasps. “Can’t bloody tell you how long I wanted to do this for, fuck—”

i’m done. i’m dead. i simply cannot

i’d kiss him until my lips turn blue and flake off

thank u for this lev.

lavender skies | Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x GN!Reader

Then suddenly, and all at once, there's a loudness in your head: a hundred whispers echoing in time to the same off-beat rhythm, full of memories and moments shared between you, threads woven throughout the years all buoying to the surface as you realise you're a little bit in love with him. (And that, maybe, you've been a little bit in love with him the whole time.)

tags: friends to lovers (but the type of friends who are basically already dating and everyone knows except them - until suddenly they do), mutual pining. Slight Kent bashing, oops. Golden Girls as a coping mechanism. warnings: none. very tame, considering who I am as a person. Heavy make-out sess, though. word count: 6,6k notes: This has been sitting in my requests forever (I lost the original, but the gist was: Gaz + pining + idiots in love). You can blame a lot of this on summer rain and 80s city pop. Been going to the pier and listening to it while I wrote this. Not my best, sure, but it was fun.

The Tinder date he warned you not to go on (and seriously, mate, who uses Tinder anymore?) ends like this:

Your date, the biggest gentleman in Kent, as proclaimed in his bio (a red flag in hindsight—there's no such thing as a gentleman from Kent), sneaks his number to the waitress, and then leaves you behind in downtown Manchester to go bar hopping with a group he just met.

It's not a great loss. All things considered, it's not even the worst date you've ever been on. It was just a spur-of-the-moment whim—equal parts anxiety and megrim: the sudden fear of being single forever (and no, despite what Kyle might say, it has nothing to do with the wedding invitation you'd gotten on Facebook, or the three others that came before it)—and therefore, there isn't much to be upset about. Not really.

But the world doesn't work on half-hearted lies and shaky truths, and on a dank little corner in Manchester, abandoned by your ride home, your abysmal date who barely looked at you, you can't deny that it hurts. That it's a little bit of a hit to your self-esteem in a way that makes you angrier than you were before, because, honestly—he wasn't even a catch to begin with.

Stupid.

You should have listened to Kyle, to his immaculate wisdom and emotional maturity far beyond his years, but you hadn't because—

Well. Sometimes the world should work on little lies. If only to the ones you tell yourself. Ones like:

It's completely fine—really it is—if your friend of nearly eight years is moving on with his life. And it's totally, absolutely okay if your best friend meets some flighty barista in Amsterdam and won't stop talking about her for the meagre three weeks he's been back from his impromptu trip to the Netherlands, then to Mexico. It's fine. It's all fine.

Because maybe you are, too.

And maybe that's the reason you went out with David from Kent.

From Kent? He texted, only hours before your date. (Hours because he'd been busy with this thing for his job—his boss is corrupt and the world is, too, but at least Amsterdam Barista is doing fine). You can do so much better than that, birdy.

You wanted to say, what? Like someone from Amsterdam instead? but you're doing this new thing where you try not to sound as mad as you think you are. Zen, maybe. Internal peace and happiness. So, instead, you say:

He's nice. I like him.

Words that, of course, have come back to bite you.

He isn't nice. He wouldn't stop staring at the waitress, and talking over you, or just generally ignoring your existence. He left you downtown, stranded without a way home. You don't like him. You really don't even think you were that interested in him.

But it makes sense.

Kyle is moving on. Your friends are getting married.

And where does that leave you?

Well—

It leaves you stuck downtown with shoes that were intended to be used for aesthetics, the kind that means standing entirely still and immobile, and not walking the fifteen kilometres to your flat because you'd spent all your money on this super flattering outfit and these unfunctional shoes, and can't afford a cab or an Uber.

Sometimes, you pretend you're a functional adult—one who knows how to navigate everything with ease, and you live in the present, the real world, where time is fluid and unchangeable, and things make sense (maths and geometry and physics) unless they don't (black holes and the vastitude of space and fate)—but moments like these remind you that you don't. That you live, instead, somewhere in the parentheses of both.

The indigo sky, murky black and void of any stars, seems to grumble along with you as you turn toward the street, readying yourself for the long walk home. Except the groan sounds less commiserating and more ominous. A noise that seems to reverberate through the crowded street, and right into your bones.

Some have the wherewithal to find shelter. A smart move because almost a moment later, the heavens split, and a summer deluge drenches the street. It's unrelenting in its downpour, soaking everything in its path in a shrill roar.

Caught in the middle of St Peter's Square, there are not many places to duck under for sanctuary, but you find an alcove beside a store, and dart toward it. The non-functional boots are pretty to look at, but with each step, you feel the hard synthetic rubber grind against your heel. Blisters form, break. The burn makes you inhale sharply against the pain, hobbling now on tender feet.

The wall is slick with condensation, but you lean against it to keep your feet from taking the brunt of your weight.

It reminds you, quite suddenly, of that night in Cardiff with Kyle. When you'd drank three-dollar margaritas at some downtrodden bar with your friends and ate rather limp-looking fish tacos (a mistake, of course, and Kyle still can't look at corn tortillas the same way), and laughed until your belly hurt at something he'd said—the words lost to alcohol and faded with time—and then leaned over, promptly throwing up in a bush.

You still can't drink tequila without giggling (and gagging) at nothing, a phantom memory, and the thought presses against a tender spot in your chest in all the wrong ways.

Time is fluid. An unavoidable truism that you can't escape.

There are people you've known since you were a child whose faces you can barely remember. Ones you promised the world to, to always be together, who you hardly think of anymore.

Moving on. Moving forward.

You think, then, of Kyle. Of the distance that lingers between you both, widening each day. It's nothing you've done, nor he; it's just—

Life. Concurrent. Everpresent.

It hurts to lose a friend, you'd always think. A small moment of grief, of loss. But not like this. Never like this.

Stuck in a downpour in the middle of Manchester, you realise you miss him. Have been missing him.

Huddling under an awning, you fish your phone from your soaked pocket, and pull up the only person you want to be around right now, in this moment of vulnerability. Loneliness.

You send him a quick text, date was a bust. Stuck downtown. Are you busy?

Kyle's reply comes three breaths later. For you? Never. Send me your location.

You send him your pin.

Another message pops up: stay put. I'm on my way.

You met Kyle Garrick at university.

It's one of those things in life that just sometimes happens. A happy accident. An eventuality that makes the world feel a little less daunting. A lock and key sliding into place. Sunsets in pretty ochre.

Someone you knew and someone he knew (two people who are now best man and groom in the upcoming wedding) decided to invite all of their friends out for a night, and it was then, slightly tipsy on cheap ale when you realised the boy in the back—a head taller than everyone else and more befitting inside the glossy pages of a magazine—was different, somehow, from anyone else you'd ever met.

It started when some stupid kids decided to pick on another. A smaller boy with a blue cap.

Kyle was the only one who noticed. The only one who seemed to care.

It was his anger that drew you to him in the first place. Moth to a flame. It's quick—the sizzling flame of a lit match: suddenly burning the wick and nearly uncontrollable. But it's short. A flickering star, burning bright, burning hot, and then being tempered and swallowed down until it's smouldering. Still hot, still dangerous, but—

Managed.

It was a snap. He was laughing, jovial. Telling jokes, and having fun, but still maintaining that enviable enigmatic persona: reserved but kind. Funny, but mature. And then it crumpled in an instant, folded away into anger. Bright and blistering. He walked to them, eyes blazing, and didn't wait for any excuses when the kids noticed him, just quickly decimated their foundations, and crushed their feeble lies between his teeth.

"Bullyin'? That's a pretty foul thing to do, innit, mate?"

And that was that.

He handed the kid back his hat—the one the others knocked off into the gutter—and told him, clipped, that he was better than them.

Just keep your chin up, yeah? Fuckin' losers, that lot. Don't go messing about with them anymore. Fucking pricks. That's a nice hat, too. Where'd you get it? Really? Oh, that's mint—

It was that moment when, unprompted and unnoticed, he easily slipped away from the group to help some kid he didn't even know that you realised you were very keen to get to know him.

"Fancy a kebab, hero?" You asked, smirking up at him.

A grin broke across his face. Sharp, feral. "I could always go to a lamb kebab."

The rest, really, just came quite naturally. Your best friend. The person you go to for anything—even terrible dates that leave you stranded in the rain.

You just wish you knew when it all began to change, to fall apart.

Kyle meets you near St Peter's Square.

You spot him first from your hiding spot beneath the awning, catching sight of his form moving through the (now) empty streets, hands shoved in the pockets of his denim trousers, the bottoms tucked, sensibly, into his fawn-coloured boots.

Even with the hood of his windbreaker pulled low over his brow, you can pick him out of a crowd with an ease that is as warming as it is jarring.

You wave him over when he stops on the mouth of Mount Street, looking in toward the Starbucks on the corner.

He finds you just as easily. And oh, his expression makes your toes curl in your misshapen boots.

Anger pinches the corner of his mouth, and hangs off the furrow of his brow, the divot between his eyes.

"Unbelievable," he huffs when he reaches you in the middle of the street, and sucks his teeth when you open your mouth to protest.

"It is what it is," you offer, playing the peacekeeper. You fall into step with him, trying not to wince. "I'm over it."

"Yeah?" The shadows across his brow deepen. "Are you sure? 'Cause… I'll fuck him up for you."

Setting your friend on a man from Kent feels entirely too vindictive, despite how much of a rush you get at the thought of seeing the man cowed a little bit. You shake your head, playing the part of a reasonable adult.

"It's okay. I'm just—I'm just, over this, yeah? Can we—"

Kyle stops you with his hand against your shoulder. "You alright?"

"My feet hurt," your smile is strained. "Terrible shoes."

"Take 'em off."

"Are you crazy—?"

"I brought slides for you. Figured you'd wear something stupid."

"Okay, fair. But—ouch? We can't all be crazy good-looking Armani models. Some of us have to work for it."

Kyle snorts. "Just take your shoes off, yeah? Throw 'em in my bag."

You can't deny it feels blissful when you lean against the slick wall outside of a shop, toeing off your tight boots. Aching feet freed from their prison. The sigh you let out makes him glance up at you from the pavement, bent over the rucksack he brought.

There's disapproval in his gaze—maybe at your choice. Choices. The date he warned you about. The boots. The socks he spots are stained with blood on the knob of your foot.

He tuts. A soft admonishment that cuts through the silence of the empty square. But it's all he says. He swallows the rest and drops the shoes he grabbed on the pavement in front of you, slowly pushing them forward with the tip of his toe.

You try not to grin when you see them.

Crocs. The ugliest ones you could find in Schuh. You'd bullied him into getting a matching pair with you. Neon yellow adorned with little clips.

You slip them on as Kyle reaches down to grab your boots. He pauses with them in his hand, eying them with something that taints the air with his disdain.

"When did you buy these?"

"On Friday." When he was sleeping off his impromptu trip to Chicago. He brought you home deep-dish pizza, frozen, and promised that it tasted much better fresh. "For the date."

"Why?" Is all he asks.

You shrug. "They're cute…?"

His eyes stray to your shoulders. The wet fabric of your shirt. His chin lowers slightly, but his eyes stay fixed on your flesh, on the goosebumps that bubble to the surface, spreading over your exposed skin. Eyes flicker, catching a droplet of water you can feel running down from behind your ear, falling over the slope of your neck. It breaks against your collarbone. He watches it all.

Except—

It isn’t.

There’s something aberrant about it, anomalous, that you can’t ignore; but beneath it sits a preternatural sense of familiarity that bends the paradox into knowns. Into tangibles. Concretes.

This is the same tension that has been simmering—festering, almost—since before he joined the miliary. In Cardiff when he leaned against you in the taxi, boney shoulder digging into your arm, and said, ‘dunno what I'd do without you, y’know?

It was the hazy smear of neon from the shops perched on the street. An ethereal gold hue streamed in from the window, cutting across the tenebrous in an asymmetrical chiaroscuro. The light was soaked up by him. Warm honey, the perfect compliment to his eyes, to the soft pink of his lips.

How could you possibly describe the feeling that spumes in the pit of your stomach outside of undiluted comfort?

Home.

It feels like like in shades; muted. A soft undercurrent that lingers inside something else, something deeper—

Moments in the foyer when he was heading back home for the evening. When he’d linger in the doorway, shoulder balanced against the frame, arms folded over his chest, and warned you not to watch Taskmaster without him.

He’d know, he said.

When you asked how, he just said:

“Because I know you.”

It feels like that. Like that and something more. Everything, all of it, coalesces into this. Into this moment where you can’t stop staring into the flecks of mahogany and charred birchwood in his eyes, and he can’t seem to decide where to keep his, vacillating between the slope of your neck and matching your stare. A lurch, a flash of something in your chest when your gazes meet. The deep sfumato of a bare forest in the middle of winter—rich browns, raw topaz, honey and amber in a sea of white. A sleepy hinterland. Solemnent and peaceful. Dreamy. Hypnogogic.

The world always seems to shudder into a deep slumber whenever he’s around.

He dips closer, swaying into you. Gravity, maybe. Tidally locked satellites on the same rung. Something bubbles in your chest. Unwinds from its dormant perch between the gaps in your ribs, and climbs up your esophagus. Ready, you think, to be free—

In the distance, tyres squeal against the pavement.

—and all at once, the moment burst, breaks. Shatters into a million pieces, cosmic dust, and you watch them fall around you, blinking rapidly, as though you’ve just woken.

It feels like slowly coming down to earth when you quietly gather your things, words now stuck in your throat. In their prison.

Kyle tears his gaze away from your bare skin, clearing his throat.

"Hardly." He murmurs after a moment and slips his jacket off his shoulders before wrapping it around yours. It smells of rainwater, wet rubber. Beneath the polymer, you can smell Kyle—vetiver, cypress, jasmine; sweet and heady—and you bury your nose in the hood when he turns back to the empty street. “Well, uh—”

You can’t speak. Not yet.

He seems to understand.

"Yeah," he nods, and reaches out, tugging on the end of the drawstring. "Let's get out of here."

The rain lightens into a muted drizzle, soft droplets that fall, almost rhythmless, on the wet pavement. The town sleeps, the streets bare. Empty. The only sounds come from your slick footfalls, a horn in the distance.

It’s an easy silence that lapses between you—not at all unlike the lulls before, when things were easy and featherlight and endless; when you could talk to him about everything, anything, and all of the worries in your life were saved for something else. Never him. Never, ever him.

But it tugs at something in your chest. The same pressure blooms at the edges, lingering in the periphery. You think of the spell you fell under—quiet yearning—and shake your head, desperate now to break it.

It’s just as easy to slip into familiarity. To tease, and taunt. And so, you do.

"I'm surprised you haven't said I told you so by now. That's so impressive self-restraint."

His gaze slides over to you. "Well, you know, it's implied."

"Oh, is it, now?"

"Yeah, like when you messaged me and told me about it and I said—"

"Who even uses Tinder?"

"—that he's knobhead, and you're gonna get hurt."

You scoff. "He's from Kent, so."

"Even worse," he makes a face, derision contrasted by the jaundiced lamp spilling over the pavement. "A Tinder date with a guy from Kent? What's next? Moving to Bristol?"

"It's a nice area."

He rolls his eyes. "Sure. As nice as Essex, maybe."

"The two are not even comparable—"

"'Dunno why you're rushing into anything, anyway,” he angles his chin toward you. “If this is about Carver's wedding, I said I'd go with you, didn't I?"

"Yeah, but…"

"But what?"

"That's sort of—like, you just have your own thing going on. I don't want to get in the way."

"I've always had my own thing going on. So have you. But that's never stopped us before, has it? What's changed."

"What about—" you swallow down something thick, bitter that wells in the back of your throat. "You know. Amsterdam. The Barista, or whatever."

His brow knots together. "And what about David from Kent?"

You sweep your hands out, motioning morosely toward your Crocs, your damp outfit. "This is what happened with David from Kent. Not exactly the fairytale meet cute you have with Amsterdam—" he makes a noise, like he means to interrupt. You cut him off. Bury it. "And besides, you should take her. I'll just—"

"I want to go with you."

"Why?"

Kyle falls to a stop near the Kebab shop you usually go to whenever he comes back from his missions, when he's craving good, hearty food that will rot his insides and clog his arteries. A small comfort from before, when everything he has now was just a dream, and you were struggling students in university who could barely afford a meal each and would split a lamb dinner over ale and terrible movies from the noughties back at your flat.

The suddenness of it all makes you blink beside him, slowly angling your chin up at him. A questioning noise wells in the back of your throat, but when you finally turn your gaze to him, it does out. A snuffed flame.

He brings his hand up, finger scratching at the soft patch of skin on the bridge of his nose where it starts to arch up. The look on his face, hidden, slightly, by the night blanketing overhead, but just illuminated enough by smears of neon and flushed street lamps for you to see it clove into something slightly flustered, hesitant. Sheepish, almost, like he hadn't meant to say what he did, and now doesn't know how to proceed forward. Cards tucked tight to his chest. Does he play his hand or fold?

You blink. Then blink again. Struggling, almost, to take in the suddenness of his flustered state.

Because the thing is:

Kyle doesn't get embarrassed or sheepish.

A running gag in your mutual friend group is that Kyle is twenty-eight going on sixty-five. An old man crammed inside the body of a young adult. He runs hot—passionate about his beliefs, quick to temper when he thinks an injustice is being doled out; a disciple of loose stoicism, but of a new age variety that is half parts stereotypical stoner chillness and ripe maturity—but he rarely is ever caught unawares enough to become embarrassed by something. He just has a perfect gauge of himself and those around him, able to quickly make friends with anybody he meets, and self-aware enough to know when he's in the wrong, when he needs to dial it back.

Being his friend for so long, you know the nuance of these expressions. His mien is ingrained in your head: known and catalogued. Nothing about Kyle is a mystery to you except the things you're barred from knowing (his second life away from home, you often joke: wholly confidential, entirety draped in secrecy).

But the look on his face is entirely alien to you. An expression you hadn't thought him capable of making.

It's jarring. It bludgeons into you with a ferocity that takes your breath away.

You know the man standing beside you, but this, everything else, is so unearthly. So foreign.

"Kyle," you hedge, taking a small step closer to him. You're not sure why. Maybe to reacquaint yourself with the man standing before you. Maybe to find something of familiarity within him to comfort the sudden crescendo of your pounding heart because even just the heady scent of his cologne—vetiver, amber—quells the sudden bloom of anxiety in the pit of your stomach. "Are you—?"

"No," he mumbles, then huffs out a soft laugh. It sounds mean, in a self-deprecating way, and your heart lurches for him. "Yeah, no. I'm alright. I just—shit, you know? 'Course I'd wanna go with you. Should be kinda obvious, no?"

Sure, you want to say. Sure, no, totally. Very obvious. And maybe had he not stopped, not made this peculiar expression on his face—like he isn't sure what to do when he always knows what he wants, what he's meant to do—you might have said them. Might let them tumble from your lips, equally self-deprecating and a touch forlorn despite never really knowing why, but that would be a lie, now.

Because you do.

It's stupid. This whole thing. It shouldn't make you feel some sense of loss when he does something you don't expect. He always does. It's his brand, now—jettisoning across the world to catch bad guys and slap the trite American sense of justice and liberty for all across the faces of anyone who tries to oppose it—and you're very much acclimated to this side of him, the one he hides away from you, giving nothing at all about where he's going, what he's doing, what he's done, until he's back in England, safe and sound, and texting you at six in the morning for an English spread because he missed home. And maybe, maybe he missed you, too.

Those quiet moments are tucked into a cosm where it's only you and him, and greasy food, and reruns of Golden Girls together with your feet in his lap as you sit on the chaise and pick favourites (his is, of course, Rose) until the sun goes down, and he heads home because he has a debriefing in the morning in Hereford, and you have work. It's bereft of unease, of tension. Time slips through your fingers fluidly, and you hardly notice it's been hours since he first arrived. Comfortable, wholly, in his presence and in your skin.

Soulmates, everyone used to joke. You just get each other. Near finish each other's sentences.

Except for lately, where there has been this undeniable tension simmering between the two of you—a sense of fragility that you can't comprehend.

Growing apart, you thought. And then: guess it's time to do the same.

It made sense to make the first move. To download Tinder—much to his chagrin—and start looking for your—

Your Barista from Amsterdam.

And oh.

Oh.

Maybe it's the way the street light frames the angles and plains of his face, or the shadows that run deep lines of tenebrous across the valleys in his eyes, the sharp slope of his lips, the soft pout. The inscrutable expression that rents a jagged divot between his brow, and an unsure twist of his mouth. Maybe it's everything. Nothing.

But the only thing you know right now is that you know him. Have known him. Deeply. Intimately. In a way that goes beyond the boundaries of bodies, of flesh and blood. Bones and marrow. You know his soul. His essence. The foundations of who he is cobbled together in a lonely kebab shop over cheap ale, commiserating on an endless stream of papers and assignments; the eventuality of ever after when you hand in the final one. Over beans and toast in the afternoon, a whole day spent lounging in your flat watching reruns of Golden Girls, and petty arguments over Taskmaster that always seem to go a little bit too far, and never far enough. Fights that end two days later when he shows up with Greggs and a complete box set of that show you said you wanted to watch but never had the time for. Bargain shopping in Tottenham on an early Saturday morning because there's this chair, you see, one that you saw on their Instagram page and you simply must have it.

Soft moments in between, brackets where life doesn't seem to wrap its cold hands around your throat. Time spent in each other's company just for the sake of it.

Climbing onto your roof—a thatched mess of moss and straw and broken asphalt shingles that will one day give under your weight—and watching the stars, always searching for one that rockets across the sky while he murmurs beside you, quiet in this stillness that falls like snow in the dead of night around you. A hushed whisper as he relays the places he's been—all stars, he rasps, hand brushing wide strokes across the raspberry sky, dusted with light pollution: I'll take you there one day to see. Best fucking beer I'd ever had, too, just don't tell my cousin because he thinks the shitty lager he makes for his bar is good—and you try to picture it amongst the grey clouds. A life on the opposite side of the world. Just the two of you. Always.

And that's what it's always been, hasn't it? Just you. Just him.

It's sometime past midnight on a street corner in Manchester. Your feet hurt from walking all night, and your clothes are damp from the rain that caught you off-guard. A summer downpour. It clings to your skin in a way that's both freeing and wholly uncomfortable, but you're not thinking about that. You're not thinking about anything at all, not now. Not really. There's a silence in your head as the world falls into pieces, breaking like the jaundiced light that cuts crevasses and canyons in the tenebrous that colours sharp valleys of his face. He turns, then, a gentle list of his head as he takes you in, breathes your silence and questions the wideness of your eyes, the soft parting of your lips. The movement makes the light spill over the arch of his nose, the slope of his brow. The dawning of a new day. A new world. The untouchable of the moon where no light shines now burning hot under the sun.

(And maybe you've been a little bit in love with him the whole time.)

So, you say it. You whisper all the words that bubble up, impatiently waiting between your teeth, effervescent and burning white-hot as they throw themselves over bone and flesh to be free.

Confessing goes like this:

Molten agony in your guts as the secrets you barely understand yourself dissolve into the atmosphere, spoken aloud and born on cobblestone and petrichor. Wide-eyed shock, uncertainty, as a new quiet falls over your shoulders, louder than anything you'd ever heard. Guncotton in your nose. A million detonations in your ears.

You've never much liked the silence. You break it, then, with your bare hands.

"...and that's basically it."

And sure. Sure. You don't need him. If Kyle decided never to speak to you again, you'd cry and you'd hurt, but you wouldn't be less of a person because of his absence. He doesn't complete you in the same way you've read about in thick books with strong-willed protagonists and an abundance of petty misunderstandings, but he compliments you. Elevates the good and stifles the bad. You want to experience things with him—not because there's some grand force at play, red strings knotted around your fingers that lead you back to him—but because you like his company. His thoughts. His mind. His presence. His essence fills you with joy in the same strokes it makes you want to pull your hair out sometimes. Good and bad. You want it all.

You want it. Want him.

And he—

He's taking you home a little past midnight where you'll make yourself beans and toast and maybe try and sleep, or turn on the television to watch four women you're intricately connected to eat cheesecake and solve each other's problems. He could be at his own flat right now, playing that video game he said he wanted to try when he got back, or watching that movie he was supposed to with his flatmates, his friends. He could be talking to some barista in Amsterdam.

But he isn't.

He's here with you. Still. Still.

"I just—," you say, or try to.

But the rest is a muffled gasp against soft lips when he presses his against yours, stealing the words out of your mouth.

You can feel your heart beating through your lips. Taste him on your tongue when he draws you closer, hands reaching, grasping. Pulling you into him, into his body. You fit against him, tucked safe between the parentheses of his arms. He tastes of cardamom and cornflower. Lavender notes between his molars. Hints of milk on his tongue. You drink him down and know, then, that this is what they mean they talk about love being a feast because you chase this taste for the rest of your life and never be satiated.

He loops his arm around the small of your back, dragging you closer still. As if any atom between your bodies is an affront. There’s no hesitation in the action, in the way he burrows into your skin. No trepidation.

And maybe it would be silly for there to be any. You know him—every iota, every inch; secrets whispered at midnight in a shallow breath and dreams uttered at noon. To be known, to know, is a powerful thing. You feel it ghost across your flesh, featherlight, and reach for it with your bare hands. Seeking, searching. You don’t stop until the tips of your fingers meet his warm skin, curling around him. Anchoring yourself to him. Stuck, now, in permanence.

You find spots that were untouched before. Behind his ears, the dip of his brow, the curve of his nose, and the slope of his jaw. Cupping it in the palm of your hand, a plinth for him to rest his chin.

Your canvassing makes him groan, makes him tilt down into you as he begins his own exploration, chasing you in a mad pursuit. Sliding over your valleys, your plains. Running over the rugged mountains and the steep cliffs. He scours your topography with eager, nimble fingers. It’s slow, languid. There’s no rush with this, a consensus you both seem to come to rather quickly when he pries open your mouth and tangles his tongue with yours. It’s sweet, soft. His hands mimic his chase, sliding along your body as if he means to commit the entirety of you to memory, searing it in his brain.

It’s only when he comes to a crossroads at your navel, pushed flush against his body, does he stop. You moan in despair at it, wanting more and more, not ready to give up this taste that curls over your tongue—saccharine sweet, salty—and Kyle echoes the noise with a groan, a quiet plea for air that both of you desperately need but can’t quite make yourself take.

“Fuck—” he groans again, breath stuttering out in sharp, deep gasps. “Can’t bloody tell you how long I wanted to do this for, fuck—”

His words seem to peel back the dreamy gossamer of a slowly burning sensuality. It ignites in a blaze, not at all unlike the swiftness of his anger. The sharp, sudden strike of a match. The crackle and hiss of flames renting the air.

The blaze starts at the point where your upper lip touches his, and almost immediately, it consumes you.

It's frenzied when he kisses you again—feral and wild: all teeth and tongue and nips against your bottom lip but the moment you sink into the fervour, Kyle changes it. Slows down. Chaste pecks to your sore lips amid a sensual onslaught. A languid roll of his tongue, soothing the burn his teeth left behind.

The way he kisses you feels like a paradox.

It's organised chaos. Refined madness. A cluttered mess of finesse and deliberate suckles; an artist's masterstroke.

You can't keep up. His rhythm is fierce and uncatchable.

Each step seems to stutter. An avartan you can’t keep pace with. Elongated taals, dips. A crescendo of harmony that is matchless, unreproducible. You struggle along with his swift current, his unerring tide that sweeps you away; unmoored, adrift. The tentative exploration ends. He knows you, now. All of you. And this is his summit. His scramble to the top. It’s biting passion; roaring flames.

You cling to him, holding tight to the liferaft he offers in a slow huff, a gust of mirth across your lips and into your lungs, slowing down to accommodate you. Malleable, now, he lets you lead, lets you take over, and move seamlessly with him. In tandem, parallel. Equilibrium brings you to heel, and you sigh into his mouth—a deep exhale of everything that has been building and building, tipping the scales around you until it was unbalanced and precarious. Teetering on the edge a precipice unknown.

His hand roams across your known geography—hills and streams, rivers and canyons—until he reaches your hand still bracketed around his cheeks, slowly peeling it away from his flesh to slide his fingers between yours, holding tight, and—

Kissing is immaculate. Bending at an altar, and making an offering to something bigger than yourself. It’s the spark of lightning flashing overhead, static in the air. Magnets drawing closer and closer until they snap together in the middle.

But holding his hand?

It feels like coming home.

The world tipping back into place. Amber warmth in your veins; the softness of a jasmine petal. You suck in a deep breath at the shock of it all.

You think of missing puzzles and loose sea ice drifting alone in the vastitude of the ocean. You think of a life where he isn’t in it and find yourself shuddering at the wrongness that emanates from it.

You want him. Want him—

It’s Kyle who pulls away first, resting his forehead against yours. You blink slowly, eyes catching dark amber, honeycomb. It draws a smile from you, full and deep. Giddy on the taste of him, of this.

The only thought in your head is finally, finally.

You see his lips curl in response, eyes lidded and heavy. Blooming with want, affection. Adoration.

"What, ah—," he laughs a little, then, breathless and happy, and the noise anchors itself to your breastbone, pressing into the hollow of your ribs. A place you'll keep it forever. "What now?"

He hands you the starless sky, and places it into the cup of your palm. Breathes laughter in the air, paints the moon with his joy. You think about the places he wants to take you, and the ones he swears you'll never go. You think about aeons from now when the world is gone and the stars all die out, when there's just the hazy lavender of endless abyss you can't make sense of. You think of him, and you think of you, and you wonder when it started to just make sense for there to always be two.

Maybe that night in Cardiff when he held your shoes and gave you his coat. When he draped his arm around your shoulders, laughing at something stupid you'd said. A year before he joined this task force he makes cheeky remarks about but never goes too deeply into detail. When it was just endless summers spent working and drinking and eating good food.

He'd asked the same thing, then, half slumped over in the taxi, and three sheets to the wind. It made his eyes darken, endless pits. Black holes. The expanse of the sky is framed by brown lashes, and drooping lids.

And you'd said—

"Beans and toast?" It feels right. It feels good. "We can—"

He huffed, too, just like he does now, and squeezes your hand once, tugging you along.

"We're not watching Golden Girls."

You watch Golden Girls. Kyle wraps his arm around your neck, keeps you tucked in close to his side. He steals kisses from you when Sophia says something that makes you laugh until you're breathless and trembling.

When David from Kent texts you, he grins wide, and whispers in your ear, think I've always been a little bit in love with you, you know?

Yeah, you say, and kiss back until the taste of him is etched into the space between your teeth. Since Cardiff. For you?

"Since Uni for sure." He smiles again, sheepish and a touch flustered. It glitters on his brow and nips the apples of his cheeks. "You stole my heart when you devoured four lamb kebabs and then ate my tabbouleh. Said to myself, yeah, that's the one for me, innit?"

"On second thought, what's that Barista's number? Might try my luck instead."

"Nah, you're smitten," he presses his lips into the hollow of your throat, nips his teeth against your pulse point. "And you're all mine. No take backs."

"Ah, for fuck's sake—"

Ahhhhhhhh. Sappy romcoms are my kryptonite and it shows.

COD MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION

#༄dee recs #kyle ‘gaz’ garrick x reader #༄favourites

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