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sergeant-spoons · 1 year

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Secret Santa ‘22 (Pt 3)

Happy holidays, @rebeccapearson! Here is your third and final gift fic. I hope you like it! 💕

College Girl Christie

Pairing: Joe Toye x Female OC

Word count: 11,939

Tone: strangers to friends to lovers, idiots in love, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, city girl/small town boy trope; if you squint, it could be a Hallmark movie

Warnings: mentions of war trauma, PTS(D), and grief

Prompt: “It’s hard to get used to…” “What is?” “Being someone that someone cares for.”

Summary: It’s the Summer of 1945 and Winona Christie is on her way to bigger and better things at Boston College. She’s a few days into her drive when she gets stranded in a small Pennsylvania town in the dead space between Scranton and Wilkes-Barre. A friendly local takes an interest in her woes, and despite her best attempts to frighten him off, he sticks around, and before long, the shell around her bitter heart begins to crack. OR The one where Joe Toye knows what it's like to have a string of bad luck, one shitty thing after another.

Read it here on AO3!

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"Oh, fucking finally."

Winona Christie slumps against the side of her 1934 Ford Coupe, letting her head fall back on the roof of the old car. She's spent the last two days driving through Pennsylvania and she's sick of it. It's mid-August, for fuck's sake, she should be swimming in the community center pool back home, not roasting in a metal box without air conditioning, keeping the windows down in a last-ditch attempt to keep cool. The landscape is made up (for the most part) of fields that go on for miles, boasting various crops (predominantly corn) in the last stages of maturation or the early days of harvest. She has passed more tractors today than she has cars and seen more cows than people. Her gas tank has run low, it's almost nightfall, and her eyes are smarting from hours and hours of staring down the most uninteresting road she's ever had to drive. If it's possible to have a least favorite highway, Route 81 would be it. Now she's finally made it to a tiny gas station with an attached store the size of a suburban garage and two pumps, only one of which is in working order. There are a few teenagers smoking cigarettes around the back of the store, but otherwise, there's no one around. Nona doesn't pay the kids any mind and they, in turn, ignore her.

Nona is tired, Nona is sore, and the greater Pennsylvania commonwealth is quickly sinking to the bottom of Nona's travel list.

"Long drive?"

Scratch that. Looks like there she's going to be bothered after all.

"What? No," she says as drily as she can muster, refusing to open her eyes. "Don't you think I've had the time of my life staring at stupid fucking cornfields all day? Fucking hell."

She hopes her obvious disinterest will send the stranger on his way, but he just chuckles and stays right where he is.

"Yeah, that's Pennsylvania for you." He shuffles a step, and Nona guesses he's looking at the gas meter. "Shit, you're still going. Guess you really were driving a while."

"And I guess you don't know how to take a hint."

"A hint?"

She cracks open one eye, letting her head loll to the left, and the tart response of kindly fuck off, would you? sticks on her tongue. This is not some creep who thinks he's about to get lucky with some out-of-towner—in fact, there is nothing sinister about this young man whatsoever. His low, gravelly voice did not at all prepare her for what he looks like. He's got big dark eyes and wavy hair that he's combed neatly down to the tops of his ears, the kind of hair you want to run your fingers through to see if it's really that soft. He's leaning on a crutch, but even with it, he's seriously tall. Nona doesn't bat an eye at his empty pant leg—with the war on, she's seen plenty of young men come home missing a limb or two—and there's something in the way he tilts his head that makes her think he appreciates it. Still, he's managed to catch Nona off-guard by how he's looking at her like she's an old friend. For a moment, she wonders if she should recognize him, but he hasn't called her by name, so he probably doesn't know her. She stands up straighter, the gas pump clicks, and the stranger offers his hand to shake.

"I'm Joe," he tells her, "Joe Toye."

She can't help a small smirk, and he grins.

"Toye with an ‘e’, sweetheart," he rasps, and she squints at him.

"I'm not your 'sweetheart', Toye-with-an-'e'."

"Sorry." He flashes that grin again. "Just thought you were pretty enough to be."

He's trying to make her smile, but she won't give in. He studies her face for a moment, then lets go of her hand and goes to the pump, putting it away for her and even going so far as to screw on her filler cap.

"Still waiting to understand that hint, College Girl."

Nona has moved to sit halfway on her driver's seat, one leg dangling out of the open door as she cleans her sunglasses with the hem of her shirt. Now, she pauses and looks up.

"'College Girl'?"

"Yeah." Toye points at the baseball cap on her head. "You go to Boston College, right?"

Nona takes it off and smooths down her hair, suddenly and uncharacteristically self-conscious.

"Not yet," she admits. "I start my first semester next month."

"Good for you." He itches the side of his nose. "I'm not smart enough for college."

"Says who?"

"Says me."

"Well, fuck that."

They stare at each other. After a beat, Nona cracks a smile, and Toye touches his free hand—the one not steadying his crutch—to his cheek.

"I can't believe it," he gasps drily, "she actually smiles."

"Oh, shut up."

She swats at his arm and he drops his hand, chuckling at his own humor.

"How'd you end up here, College Girl?"

She considers whether or not to tell him the truth, or just a fraction of it, or nothing at all, but then he looks at her with that old soul kind of sympathy and she relents.

"I've been driving cross-country for the last two days," she tells him. "This is the fifth gas station I've passed in the last three hours and I almost ran out of gas because I couldn't stop at the other four."

"No?"

"The first one was out of order, the only person around at the second one was this old guy who was already leering at me before I pulled up to the pump, so I just kept driving, then the third one was also out of order, and the last one a couple of miles back looked like something left over after the Blitz. Seriously. And no way in hell was I stopping there around dusk, so I kept going, and now I'm here, at the only gas station in working order in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. And to top it all off, the sun's setting, which means I'm stuck here overnight." Defeated, Nona throws her hands up toward the cloudy, slowly darkening sky. "So fuck me, I guess."

Toye's eyes widen just a little. As he bends his mouth in an upside-down smile, he leans against Nona's coupe, trying to strike a nonchalant pose.

"Sure thing," he teases, glancing her up and down, "but how about I buy you dinner first-"

She hits him on the shoulder, and though he teeters a little, he snorts a laugh.

"No, but really," he says, dropping the suave act, "that's some really shitty luck that landed you here."

"Where is here, even?"

It's the question Nona's been reluctant to ask, but Toye doesn't even bat an eye.

"Hughestown, Pennsylvania." He looks down the road into town as if he can see the Atlantic Ocean from where he's standing. "Sorry, sweetheart, but you've still got a few hours to go 'til you hit New York—and that's just the state, not the city."

"Fuck." She leans against the car and groans long and hard. "Fuuuuck. Shit."

"You know, you swear a lot."

"And you-" She waves at nothing. "You don't shut up a lot."

"Uh-huh. Real quick. Sharpest comeback in the West."

She glares at him.

"Sorry. Sharpest comeback in the East."

Nona can't help a sigh. He's having too much fun with this conversation. She is not. Still, she might as well make some good use of his goodwill and try to find out where she can stay for the night. When she asks, he takes a moment to consider, and she thinks he might answer her seriously this time.

"You could stay with me."

"Yeah, no." Nona blinks at him. "You do realize we're still strangers, right? I don't know you."

Toye, flushing slightly, coughs, choking on his own discomfiture.

"Right, you don't know me," he repeats, and she's willing to bet the way he scratches behind his ear is a nervous habit. "I didn't mean to... Well. Sorry."

Despite herself, Nona hesitates, a little afraid she might not have any better options. Then he nods down the road and tells her there's a motel just ten minutes down the road that's always got a few rooms to spare, and she relaxes.

"We don't get many travelers through here," he adds, and Nona snorts.

"Well, shit, I wonder why."

It slips out without her thinking. Nona's face starts to flush, but Toye snorts a laugh, unoffended.

"Yeah, yeah. Not much to see around here, I get it." He pats the hood of her coupe and—finally—starts to step away, a bit slowly due to his crutch. "Good luck, College Girl."

Nona's almost sorry to see him go. Almost.

"Thanks... Joe."

He's got the hint of a smile on his lips as he turns away, and just like that, he's gone. She expects she'll never see him again. Not that she minds. He was nice enough, but she's got real things to worry about, like getting to Boston and starting college and having her whole life ahead of her, not kind-of-sweet, kind-of-snarky small-town boys from Hughestown, Pennsylvania. It starts sprinkling as Nona pulls out of the gas station, and by the time she gets to the motel, that drizzle has turned to buckets and buckets. She braces herself, then steps out into the downpour and gasps—it's cold, not warm like she'd anticipated. She forces the trunk with the broken lock open and yanks out her traveling suitcase, nearly wrenching her shoulder in her haste. Racing into the lobby, she gasps in a few breaths as her adrenaline fades, grateful for the stuffy, uncomfortably dry air of the indoors. The attendant at the desk doesn't look at Nona even when she comes right up to him, and she realizes he's asleep in his chair. She rings the bell and that does nothing, so she kicks the desk and he wakes with a start. He sleepily checks her in and gives her a key, and when she asks where her room is, he has the gall to point all the way across the parking lot.

Great. Just fantastic. Now she's got to go back out there in the deluge—but at least she'll have a ceiling over her head once she gets there.

Wrong again.

As soon as Nona tries the key in the lock, she can tell it's not going to fit. She wiggles it around a bit, then—after glancing around to make sure there's not a soul around, and there really isn't—attempts to shoulder the door open. It's flimsy enough that she could probably kick it in, but that would be a bad idea on so many counts, so she grits her teeth and turns over her shoulder to look back at the single light coming through the lobby window. She's not about to leave all of her things here in the dark and the rain for anyone to grab, so yet again, she hauls her suitcase all the way back across the parking lot, growing more agitated with every sopping step. At this point, she's drenched down to the bones, and the sound of her shoes squelching across the shitty carpet wakes the attendant from where he's been dozing off again. He looks confused when she tells him the key isn't working, then takes it and tells her almost immediately that it's the wrong key, not even batting an eye at his own mistake. Nona just barely manages not to cuss him out, mutters her thanks for the right key through gritted teeth, and traverses the parking lot one last resentful time.

The room is lackluster at best, but Nona wasn't all that optimistic, to begin with. As soon as the door is shut and locked behind her and all the shades are drawn on the windows, she hurls the suitcase onto the floor in the corner and strips off her sopping clothes. She rings them out over the sink and hangs them on the towel rack to dry, but now she's shivering, so she wraps herself in a scratchy towel and starts the shower. No matter how long she runs the water, it only gets lukewarm. She should have expected as much. Still, she steps in despite her mumbled curses and feels a little better once she's washed all the grime of the day away. It takes her a bit to brush all the tangles out of her hair, but by then, she's calmed down quite a bit and is starting to realize just how tired she is. So she goes to lie down, but the bed is lumpy as can be, and she gets up again almost immediately. In a last-ditch attempt, she grabs a paperback romance missing its cover off the meagerly-stocked bookshelf and curls up on the surprisingly-comfortable armchair. From page one, she can tell it's going to be a terrible book—the kind even her soft-spoken mother would call 'trashy'—but it fits the bill for her lousy day, so she keeps reading until she's bored asleep.

When Nona wakes up the next morning, she's got so many aches and spots of soreness that she's not sure she can even move. She manages to after a time, and when she goes into the bathroom, the light switch has stopped working. Thankfully, there's a small window above the shower that lets in enough daylight for her to see, for the most part. Once her eyes adjust, she brushes her teeth, combs her hair, and gathers up her clothes, which are still damp but no longer drenched. She knows they'll start to smell musty if she stuffs them into the suitcase like they are, and then all of her clothes will smell, so she decides to drape them over the passenger seat in the coupe and let the sun dry them through the windshield as she drives. Once she's dressed, she takes the key back to the lobby, and the same yawning attendant from last night wishes her happy travels. Oh, if he only knew...

Shaking her head to herself, Nona dumps her suitcase in the trunk of the coupe and gets into the driver's seat. She adjusts her rearview mirror, checks that she's still got her map in the glove compartment, and turns the key in the ignition.

Except, the car doesn't start.

"No, no, no, no, no-"

She tries again, then a third time, and by the tenth, she slumps forward, defeated. Her forehead hits the horn on the steering wheel, and when it blares, she groans right along with it. No one comes out to complain, not even the attendant, so she just sits like that for a minute and groans into the wheel. This is what she gets, isn't it? Maybe she should have been nicer to that Joe Toye at the gas station. He was a looker, wasn't he? Doesn't matter now. No one can help her now that the coupe's run its course. She should have known better than to keep holding on, but all three of her brothers drove this car before her, and she's been hard-pressed to trade it in for a newer model. She wishes she could say the age of the coupe is no big deal, that nine years isn't that old for a car, but that kind of thinking is exactly what has landed her stuck in a motel parking lot, turning a key that won't catch and listening to the car sputter and groan like an old man refusing to wake up from a nap in his best recliner.

And then someone comes up and raps on her window, and when she looks up, she can't tell if it's a blessing or a curse that Joe Toye has found her in dire straits yet again.

"Morning, College Girl."

Though his voice is muffled, Nona can read the words on his lips. She furiously cranks down the window, gaping at first and then glaring.

"You again!"

"Me again."

He gestures with such half-hearted bravado that it makes Nona want to snort with incredulity instead of laughter.

"Of course, you just have to show up like this. Again." She narrows her eyes at him. "Are you following me?"

"No."

"Then what the hell are you doing here?"

He holds up a box of donuts, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder at a busy bakery across the street. "Getting breakfast for me and the old man. Want a donut?"

"No, I don't want a donut!"

He shoots her a disbelieving look and she, frustrated to the breaking point, slaps her steering wheel.

"I just want to get the fuck out of here!"

"Something wrong?"

"Well, I'm still here talking to you, aren't I?"

He seems either unphased or amused by her outrage, and Nona isn't sure which is more infuriating. Taking a bite out of a plain-looking donut, he scans her dashboard display.

"Is it your car?" he asks through a doughy mouthful. "That something's wrong with, I mean."

"Yes, it's my car!" she shouts, and a single frustrated blink later, she finds a donut in her hand. "What the hell...?"

"It's an old-fashioned. Best kind, in my opinion." He gestures with his own breakfast treat. "C'mon, eat."

Nona is at a loss, staring at the donut, torn between stewing in her misery and taking the appeasement he's offered. Toye adjusts how he's standing on his crutch, one hand on the windowsill while the other balances the donut box, and studies the hood as if he can see the issue with it still shut.

"What's wrong with the car?"

"I don't know, why don't you tell me!"

He comes back to the window but withdraws his hand. He looks like he wants to be hurt but is choosing to be amused instead. Nona manages to keep her glare going for a good three seconds more before she drops her chin and takes a reluctant bite of the donut. It tastes better than she expects, and better yet, her nibbling seems to have appeased Toye.

"I'm sorry," Nona says at last. "I didn't really think you would've tried anything malicious."

"Malicious, huh? Big word."

She shoots him a look, but there isn't much oomph behind it, and he doesn't bother to react.

"Look," Nona sighs, utterly defeated, "I am sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you. I'm at the end of my wire, but it's not like it's your fault."

There's a smile creeping back onto Toye's lips, and Nona, for a reason she can't place, is relieved.

"Hey, no sweat. I get it."

She frowns lightly at him, skeptical, already halfway through the donut. She is hungry, despite her earlier protests, and Toye is wise enough not to comment on her change of heart.

"You've been in this situation before?" she asks him.

"What, the almost running out of gas, the storm last night, and the oldest car I've ever seen finally throwing in the towel?"

There is something about having her misfortunes listed out like this that makes them seem less abominable, and Nona softens a little.

"Yeah, that."

"No," Toye admits, "but I know what it's like to have a string of bad luck, one shitty thing after another."

"Yeah?"

His gaze drops toward the pavement, and Nona doesn't have to look to know he's looking at his missing leg.

"Yeah."

Feeling a bit guilty, Nona twists in her seat to face him. He grasps the car door with his broad hands and leans down to look at her, his strong arms filling up half the window frame. When he leans his chin on his hands, looking up slightly to meet Nona's eye, she wonders for an instant how she ever could have thought him a scamp.

"So?"

"So? So what?"

"So you live around here, right?"

He nods.

"You know who I should call for a tow?"

His smile begins to grow, pushing up his cheeks. The dimples it reveals make Nona want to smile, too.

"I think your luck just might be turning around, sweetheart, 'cause you've just befriended the best handyman 'bumfuck nowhere' has to offer."

Nona's cheeks heat up. So he did catch that, last night. Her embarrassment must show on her face, for Toye snickers. When she squints at him half-heartedly, that snicker becomes a laugh.

"We've got Scranton to the northeast and Wilkes-Barre to the southwest," he chuckles, standing up straight, "and you still think we're in the middle of nowhere?"

Although there seems to be nothing but cornfields and tired old streets as far as the eye can see, Nona shrugs and holds her tongue.

"You said you're a handyman," she points out, "that doesn't necessarily mean you're a mechanic."

Toye scoffs. "What good's a handyman if he doesn't know how to work a car?"

Seeing Nona's disbelief has persisted, Toye pouts at her, and she almost feels bad. Almost.

"Really, what else am I supposed to do around here? I get a job fixing someone's busted AC one week and then changing a lightbulb or two for some old lady the next—if the ceiling's low enough that I don't need a ladder. Work comes slow around here for a guy like me."

They both know he doesn't want her to question the 'guy like me' bit, so she skips over it and remarks instead, "So you are a mechanic."

"Yeah, I work part-time at the auto shop down the road. Give me fifteen, I'll drive my pickup back and bring the tow truck to you."

"Are you serious?"

"Of course, I'm serious!" He looks almost offended again. "I'm not gonna leave a pretty girl such as yourself stranded—and if that look you're giving me means anything, I should probably remind you that it is, in fact, my actual paying job to help you."

Nona sighs and tugs her key out of the ignition. "Alright. Well, thank you."

"Like I said, of course."

He tips his head at her, then turns and saunters away toward his truck, wobbling a little with the quickness of his pace. Nona frowns.

"You're going to trip."

He ducks his head, and she can already tell there's a grin splitting across his face without having to see it.

"Aww," he calls over his shoulder, "you do care."

Nona fights back a smile and then resists the opposing urge to flip him off.

"Are you going to get that tow truck or what?"

He waves off her concern, tugging open the door to his pickup, and Nona grumbles empty complaints as she sinks back into her seat. She doesn't realize she's still staring at Toye until he waves and shoots her a smirk. Pretending she hasn't seen, she turns and starts rifling through her glove compartment as if she might find something to captivate her attention there. She doesn't find much there other than a few sticks of gum, two expired ration slips for white sugar (for a cake that the birthday boy never came home for), and two brand-name chapsticks that have melted gruesomely in the heat. She grabs the map off the passenger seat and occupies herself figuring out how to fold it back up. This takes her a few minutes, and by the time she looks up, Toye is far gone down the road behind her, a dark, shimmering speck in her side mirror. In the dashboard console, she finds a packet of Lucky Strikes that her father left there absentmindedly and takes one of the two left. Her lighter is at the bottom of her purse, and by the time she finds it, she no longer wants to smoke. She's just sitting back up (from where she'd bent over her purse) when someone honks their horn. She hits her head on the headrest, and as the cigarette falls into her lap, she swears loudly. Twisting to lean out her window, she readies a snappy word or two only to find Toye grinning at the wheel of a battered tow truck idling behind her.

"I'm back," he calls unnecessarily, and despite Nona's feigned disapproval of the man, she grabs her purse and gets out of the coupe.

Toye hooks up the car and Nona helps a little, then follows his direction to hop in the passenger seat of the tow truck. If he tries anything—which, at this point, she doubts—she's got a solid punch, and the brass knuckles in her purse (just in case) are never far from reach.

"You can drive?" she questions as he opens the driver's side door, then feels incredibly stupid and insensitive for having asked.

"I only need one foot—the clutch is up here on the wheel."

He taps the steering to show her, then hauls himself up—it suddenly makes sense to Nona why his arms are so buff—and settles in behind the wheel. There's a second, smaller seatbelt affixed to the side of his chair, and she watches curiously as he latches it over the stump of his leg.

"Keeps me balanced," he says when he catches her looking.

"It's a good idea," she replies, seeming to surprise him. "I know a lot of people who'd get a lot of use out of something like that."

Something in his gaze has shifted when he looks back at her, something tenderer than she deserves, and she turns away. He doesn't speak as he maneuvers them out of the parking lot. She's glad for the silence until it lasts too long and she realizes with a start that she misses the sound of his husky voice. He catches her jolt and eyes her for a beat, then opens his mouth.

"So... where to?"

She squints at him. “The auto shop.”

“No, no, I mean-” He waves vaguely. “Where are you going once you get outta Hughestown?”

Nona huffs, reticent.

"You know where I'm going, Joe."

He shrugs, a small smile creeping upon his lips as they both realize she's just called him 'Joe'.

"Just trying to make conversation."

They pass a minute or two in silence. Then:

"See any good scenery on your drive so far?"

She shoots him a skeptical look, and he raises his brow at her, awaiting an answer.

"Cornfield after cornfield after fucking cornfield. And then, oh, what's that?" She gestures out the open window. "Soybeans! And not two minutes later: fuck, it's another cornfield."

Toye's laughing, and there's something about the sound that makes Nona—who usually knows when to let a joke end—keep going.

"I've seen more corn in the last three days than I've seen in my entire life—more than I'll ever need to see again!"

"The western half of the state does have a lot of corn, I’ll give you that."

"Holy hell, talk about the understatement of the century."

She throws her hands up, but she's mostly playing her exasperation up to get him to laugh again, and though she's pretty sure he knows it, he plays along.

"So, what, you came up through West Virginia?"

"Ohio."

He hums a note of recognition. "Alright, Ohio. Then straight into Pennsylvania?"

"Yeah, straight into Pennsylvania, which was, to be frank, a fucking mistake."

He snorts a laugh, and there's a twinkle in his eye that Nona finds hard to look away from. "Oh, so you're Frank? I didn't know that was your name."

"It's not, and you know it," she chides him, making a face, but he doesn't tease her like she's expecting him to—in fact, he says nothing. He glances over at her, both hands still firm on the steering wheel, and does it a second time before he speaks.

"Actually," he reminds her carefully, "I don't know that."

"Oh." Nona blinks. "Wait—so you came to help me, a total stranger, out of the unfathomable goodness of your heart, who's cussed you out multiple times, and you don't even care that I haven't told you my name?"

"I never said I didn't care." He tilts his head to the right, then the left. "It would be nice to have a name to call you by, not just 'College Girl'."

Nona's still stuck on the fact that he's helping her just because he can. It feels weird. She's not so sure she's able to believe it, even if she wants to.

"What makes you think you can trust me?" she goads. "That I'm not gonna- I dunno, rob you of all that you own?"

He doesn't even have to think about it. "Your smile."

This baffles her even further. "My what?"

"Your smile," he repeats, turning on his blinker and leaning forward slightly to see around an overgrown bush. "You don't smile much—or, at least, not around me—but when you do, it's like, uh..." He drums his fingers on the wheel, trying to think of the right depiction. "Like when the sun rises after a stormy night. It's... reassuring."

Nona isn't quite sure what to say to that. They pull up to a four-way stop and Toye puts the truck into park. He looks at her and she realizes he's not going to go on without her telling him her name. She feels silly for having withheld it so long, and in an attempt to make amends, she reaches across the dashboard console and insistently takes his hand to shake.

"I'm Winona," she tells him at last. "Winona Christie."

He gives a low whistle. "Like Agatha, right? I like her books. Good mysteries. I borrow them from the library sometimes."

"We're unrelated, sorry to disappoint."

He shrugs. "Not disappointed." A beat. "Winona."

"Oh, no," she quickly insists, "call me Nona."

When he grins at the green traffic light ahead of them, she expects he would be turning that smile upon her were he not focused on completing a U-turn.

"Nona," he muses. "I like it. Nona. Short and sweet." A slight smirk. "Like you."

"Uh-huh."

He quirks a brow at her. "Jeez. Tough crowd."

She shoots him a look, and he lifts one hand off the steering wheel to plead his defense.

"Alright, you win. Look—we're here."

They passed by the auto shop about half a minute ago, and Nona was wondering why until Toye made the U-turn. She sees now that there is no way to get to the shop from the other side of the street, as there is a raised concrete divider smack in the middle despite the road being one lane in either direction.

"Fucking Pennsylvania," she gripes as she gets out of the truck. "Can't build a goddamn road without something wrong with it."

"Now that," Toye says, unbuckling his two seat belts, "I can agree with."

It takes him a minute longer than Nona to get on his feet, but she doesn't say anything about it, and neither does he. He's shutting the driver's side door when an older gentleman in overalls and a button-up shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows comes out of the auto shop. He looks a bit like Santa Claus, with his cheeks all red and his nose big and round. His name is Mr. O'Connery, and as he eats three donuts in a row without ceasing to talk (even more of an impressive feat considering that he's talking coherently), he tells her that he's got a daughter who's a nurse who looks an awful lot like her. She's in Australia, and Nona is here. She feels a little small for a moment, a little useless, and then Joe interrupts and points out the coupe on the back of the tow truck, and Mr. O'Connery is off like a shot. They haul it down and push it into the shop as Nona watches, chewing nervously on her lower lip. They're careful with the old dear, though, and get it into position without a scratch. As Mr. O'Connery eagerly pops the hood, Joe sidles up to Nona and tells her not to mind the old mechanic's chatter—he'll be bragging about his children until the day he dies.

"And that includes you, Joe," Mr. O'Connery adds, overhearing, and when Nona looks at Joe in surprise, she finds him sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck.

"In a lot of ways," he tells her, "the old man's another father to me."

Marveling at how old the coupe is (though Nona would beg to differ), Mr. O'Connery calls Joe over to have a look inside the hood, and Nona amuses herself by wandering around the shop. For the most part, the visible walls are covered in various tools and places to hang other equipment, but there's a spot about three-quarters of the way to the back where the only thing from floor to ceiling is a landscape painting the size of a small windowpane. Nona gets up close to look at it, and as she admires the water lilies floating on an unknown pond, she can hear Toye's crutch-step, crutch-step pace coming up behind her. He settles at her side and she points at the painting, her curiosity authentic.

"What's this?"

"It's a painting."

"No shit, Sherlock."

Toye thinks for a moment, then looks at her with a smile, endeared that she's harkening back to his enjoyment of mysteries. Feeling a bit warm in the face, Nona turns back to the painting and gestures at it vaguely.

"Where'd you get it?"

"Paris." He studies the canvas. "Bought it off a street artist 'cause I thought it kinda looked like a Monet."

"Oh, yeah." She tilts her head. "It kinda does."

She's being genuine, and when she straightens up, she sees he's looking at her again. She huffs and steps back, smoothing her hands down her skirt.

"You do that a lot, you know."

"Do what?"

"Stare at me."

Toye snorts. "No, I don't."

"Liar," chuckles Mr. O'Connery as he ambles on over. "Yes, you do."

He holds out his fist and Nona bumps it with her own. Toye groans.

"So?" Nona asks, pretending not to notice how Toye's gone right back to staring at her. "What's the verdict?"

The old man looks at Toye, then at her.

"I think I'm gonna need a few more hours to figure it out."

Nona sighs, and he grimaces sympathetically, slinging a greasy rag over his shoulder.

"Come back around, say, five in the afternoon, and I'll let you know what I can do." He turns to Toye. "Hey, Joe, be a gentleman and take the lady to the diner, yeah? Bet she's starving."

"Are you?" Toye looks worriedly at Nona. "Hey, did you have dinner last night? I know they don't serve food at the motel..."

Nona glances aside. "Maybe."

"So that's a no." He gives her a meaningful look, then starts toward the door, beckoning her after him. "Come on. One donut isn't enough to sustain you for a day—even if it is an old-fashioned."

The diner is mostly empty by the time they get there. Nona supposes that's because it's too late for breakfast and too early for lunch, but she has a sneaking suspicion that the place doesn't hit full capacity even during rush hour. Maybe it's just because the town isn't that big and is full of working people who can't afford to eat out every day of the week. Nona's hesitant to order a full meal, but Toye raves about the steak and cheese until she gives in, and when it arrives, it blows her expectations out of the water.

"You didn't do this justice," she mumbles around a heavenly bite. "This thing-" She points at the sandwich. "-is incredible."

"Right?" He points at the pink delight sitting by her elbow, so far undisturbed. "Try the milkshake."

She does and slumps back in her seat, blissful. Toye takes a sip of his own milkshake and hums a note of appreciation.

"Good, right?"

"I love this place." Nona looks around, her mood drastically improved now that she's got some food in her. "I never want to leave."

Toye laughs. "Because of the company, or...?"

"Don't flatter yourself," she replies, but she's teasing, and it only makes his smile grow.

"I think you like me, after all," he says, trying to steal a fry off her plate and wincing when she swats his hand away. "Hey! Yours are hotter than mine."

"Yeah." She nibbles at her fries, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "That’s ‘cause they're mine."

Toye snickers. "Don't flatter yourself."

With a gasp, she pretends to be offended and throws a fry at his face. He moves his head quicker than she's expecting though and catches it with his teeth.

"Show-off," she grumbles, and he chuckles as he munches away.

"So, College Girl," he says, "tell me about yourself."

"Really? We're doing this, now?"

"Why not?" He dabs at his lip with a napkin. "We're just wasting time until five o'clock."

He's right, so she answers him in full. She's on her way to college, which he already knew, and she's driving there alone because her folks can't travel well, her father with his knee, and her mother with her back. When she mentions that she's from Columbus, Ohio, he perks up.

"I knew a guy in the service from there," he says. "Johnny Martin. You knew him?"

"Johnny Martin who always looks angry unless he's smiling? Johnny Martin who's married to my neighbor Pat? That Johnny Martin?"

Toye's nodding grows more excited the more she speaks. "Yeah!" he agrees almost incredulously. "That Johnny Martin!"

They share a laugh.

"Small world."

"Yeah, small world." He considers, glancing up at the ceiling. "I got a letter from him last week, actually."

This news—that Johnny Martin, who Nona knows only by proxy of Pat—cheers Nona up far more than she would have expected. She beams at Toye and he pauses with the last of his sandwich halfway to his mouth.

"What?"

"Nothing. It's just- it's good to hear that. Really. So where's he at?"

Toye's smiling again, and Nona gets the feeling he likes her more now. "Couldn't say. Censors and all that. But he said it's green and warm and they've got a lake to swim in, so my bet's on France or Austria."

"Ooh, a lake," Nona muses, a tad jealous considering the sweltering heat of the last few days. "And if it's in Austria, it's probably somewhere up in the mountains."

Toye nods. "If it's a vacation they've got, they've more than earned it."

"No doubt about it," she agrees, meaning it wholeheartedly, and his smile broadens.

"Mhm."

After a beat, he leans forward a little, putting his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand.

"So what else? About you."

After she graduated high school, Nona took a gap year in order to save up money for her secondary education. She'd expected to take a four-year working hiatus, but then several sums of painfully-won money came into her family's possession—she's not ready yet to tell him how, and he doesn't ask—and she was able to go this year instead of '48.

"Why Boston?"

"I got in," she answers with a shrug. "It was either that or Ohio State..."

And Ohio State was where my brothers would have gone.

"And Ohio State was too close to home."

It's the truth, but it's not the whole truth, and though he seems to realize that, Toye doesn't mention it.

"So, I'm going to BC. I started the drive to Boston on Tuesday-" Three days ago, including today. "-and now I'm here. And you know the rest."

"Good for you." He points with a fry. "About, uh, 'BC', I mean. Whole world's your oyster now."

"Why do you say that?"

"You're gonna have a college degree in, what? Four years? Two? A Bachelor's or an Associate's in whatever." He shrugs, munching on the fry as well as several of its brethren. "Pretty much everyone's lookin' for one of those these days. Can't get hired for much more than the kind of work I do—work with my hands—without one."

"That's not true," she says without really believing herself, and Toye shoots her a skeptical look.

"Trust me, sweetheart. Times are changing. Soon there's not gonna be much room left for stupid guys like me."

"You're not stupid, Joe," she argues. "You read Agatha Christie mysteries, for one, you bought a street artist's painting in Paris because you knew it looked like a Monet, for two, and for third, I suspect you've looked into this whole college thing for yourself, or you wouldn't know the difference between a Bachelor's and an Associate's degree."

Nona realizes she's glaring at him and quickly blinks away the expression, leaning back as she hopes she hasn't made this strange friendship of theirs any more awkward.

"Well." She crosses her arms. "So there."

He stares at her for a moment longer, then puts his milkshake down and crosses his arms on the table.

"My Dad made me drop outta school when I was fifteen," he reveals quietly. "I had to go work in the coal mines so my brothers and sisters could eat."

Nona's face suddenly feels hot with anger—not at Toye, but at what he had to go through. Her family has never been well-off, especially not during the Depression, but she never had to drop out of school to work. No child should have to do that. And for the coal mines? Jesus Christ Almighty.

Nona doesn’t realize she's been mumbling most of her sentiments aloud until Toye grimaces and tilts his head back and forth.

"Yeah. Well, they can eat now, without my help. But hey, at least it wasn't war." He chuckles grimly. "That came a few years down the road."

Nona looks down at her plate and pokes at her fries. She's not hungry anymore. When she offers them to Toye, he makes a face and apologizes for bringing the mood down. She hesitates a beat, then asks if he'll allow her to sink it to the floor.

"Go ahead."

"My brothers are dead. All three of them."

She looks out the window. She hasn't cried in months, and it's strange to think she might start now.

"It happened over the last few months. First Patrick, then Don—Donaghue—and finally Michael."

Toye is silent for a long moment.

"So you've got an Irish family?"

While they've been sitting here, dark clouds have rolled in, threatening more rain. She can see her companion's reflection in the glass of the window. He doesn't look all that concerned. In fact, he looks like he's spent a long time talking about Death—as it stands, he's probably narrowly missed meeting the man himself—and he knows how to do it well.

"Yeah," she answers softly, knowing she's waited too long for her reply to make sense, but he gets it right away.

"Me too."

He ends up taking her fries, then leans back and nudges her foot under the table with his own, nearly losing his balance in the process. He's been too kind to Nona for her to mention it, even in teasing, and she nods, allowing him to say whatever it is he wants to.

"I get it now."

"Get what?"

"Why you're so bitter."

She balks, but he shakes his head, drumming his fingers on the table.

"No, really, I get it. I was pretty bitter too when I first got back."

She glances at the crutch leaning against the side of their booth, and he nods.

"Happened last January. You ever heard of the Bois Jacques?"

"No."

"Nobody does. Not unless you live there—or General Eisenhower boots your ass to the middle of the fuckin' woods." He leans over the table, and though he tries to hide it, Nona notices his shiver. "Like I said, it was January."

"Brrr."

Just then, thunder rumbles, and the lights in the diner flicker. Toye winces and Nona instinctively reaches across the table to touch his hand. He stares at her fingers covering his, and just as she's about to draw them back, he turns his hand over and takes hers to hold.

"You wanna get outta here?" he asks, still studying her hand as if trying to put it to memory.

"And into that?" She frowns at the rain starting to pelt the windows. "No fucking thank you."

So they stay at the diner for another two hours until the weather lightens up, and by then, they're so deep in conversation that neither wants to leave. It's not like Nona's got anything to do all afternoon other than stick with Joe. But maybe she shouldn't phrase it that way—after all, she's really starting to like him. So when he offers to take her back to his place, telling her it'll be quieter and that he's got a pitcher of fresh iced tea in the fridge from his mother, she accepts. At the stop sign just around the corner from his house, he pulls to a stop even though there's not another car in sight. She half suspects he's being warier as a driver now that he's got her in the passenger seat. She appreciates it, even if she wouldn't tell him so. They end up sitting at his kitchen counter, sipping iced tea so bitter it makes their lips pucker and talking about everything under the summer sun. When her watch finally indicates it's a quarter to five, she almost doesn't notice, but Joe does, and he gets her to the auto shop right on time.

"Bad news, I'm afraid," is what Mr. O'Connery greets them with, and when Nona's shoulders slump, she catches Joe about to wrap his arm around her in a side hug. She wishes he would, but he drops his hand instead and clears his throat roughly.

"What bad news?"

"I'm gonna need more than a couple o' days to fix this old puppy up." He looks back over his shoulder as he puts his hands on his hips and rocks on his heels. "Shouldn't be too long, less than a week, but, uh... You're stuck with us until then, kid."

"I kinda figured as much," Nona sighs, already picturing another night in that miserable motel, but then Toye pokes her arm and she remembers she's got a friend to fall back on now.

"I know you called me a creep last time I offered, but, uh, I do have a spare bedroom..."

To her surprise just as much as his, Nona turns and hugs him in a burst of gratitude. It's brief, but it's still something, and when she steps back, she sees he's blushing.

"Sure, yeah.” She glances aside, not sure if she should be embarrassed or endeared at his pink cheeks. "And, uh, Joe—thank you."

She ends up staying with him for a week and a half. It's longer than she thought, and she keeps having to make calls to her landlord out in Boston to update her on the situation. She's not very happy at the delay, but she's forgiving enough, knowing that there's nothing Nona can do about it. She calls her folks, too, and though her father thinks it's just the funniest thing that the old coupe finally broke down, her mother starts sobbing, and they have to hang up. It's jarring and raw and Nona freezes with the receiver still in her hand until Joe comes up to her and gently hangs it back up. He holds out a deck of cards and distracts her with canasta for the next hour until the iciness in her chest has abated and she can take a full, deep breath again.

She's not sure when she started, but she's taken to calling him 'Joe', addressing him by name much more regularly than she did before she moved in. He gets a twinkle in his eye whenever she does. He still calls her 'sweetheart', but she knows if she told him to stop, he would. Strangely, she doesn't him want to. Only sometimes does he address his teasing to 'Nona', and when he does, she gets a little flutter in her chest. It's just her name, what everyone calls her, but there's just something about his voice, something about him...

A week in, she looks at herself in the bathroom mirror, her hands shaking as she clutches the sink, and swears she's not falling in love with him.

She goes down the hall and discovers the pleasant smells coming from the kitchen are him making breakfast for her. It's almost done, he says, knowing it's her without having to check, pull up a chair. The second she sits down, he serves up two fried eggs, a slice of bacon, and four triangles of toast, and she stares at it for a moment, her heart thudding in circles around her chest. That first day in the diner, he was asking her all sorts of things she thought were silly, like how she liked her eggs in the morning. She told him rather flippantly, but he's remembered nonetheless. He keeps stealing glances at her from over at the stove like he wants to know what she thinks, so she takes a bite and smiles at him. When he beams right back, his whole face lights up, and she knows she's done for.

He takes her all over town during that week and a half. She can tell it's not easy on his arm and his leg to be walking around with his crutch all the time, but she knows he would hate her worrying over him, so she says nothing, just walks a little slower than she usually would and then speeds up to open doors for him before he can ask. He drives them everywhere, and though Nona has offered once or twice to sit behind the wheel, he says he likes driving. It's one of the few things he can still do almost exactly the same as before. He brings her to a different place every day. First, it's the diner, then the library, then the park, then the movie theater... If Nona didn't know any better, she'd think he was trying to squeeze six months' worth of dates out of ten days. But he's just her friend, and 'date' is not a word they could ever use to describe these outings with just the two of them looking at each other too long. He's just her friend, just for now while she's stuck here in Hughestown, and even if that makes her sad to think about, she'd never tell him. If she did, she's certain he'd look at her with those sad, soulful eyes, and she'd tell him how she's falling, harder and faster than she's ever fallen before, and how she knows he's going to break her heart when she leaves, and that's why she's so sad. Not because she'll miss a new friend, but because she's leaving a piece of her heart here, whether she likes it or not.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

It's been nine days and Nona is still in Hughestown. She's sitting with Joe in their usual booth at the diner, and for a change, she's the one staring at him. She ducks her head and twirls her straw in her milkshake, taking a slow sip as if it will hide her from his curiosity. It does not.

"No reason," she mumbles, and he snorts a laugh.

"Uh-huh. I definitely believe that."

When she looks up, he smiles encouragingly, like he wants to hear what she has to say. She's still getting used to that. Even with her folks, she doesn't really have that kind of open ear. Not that she doesn't love them, she does... They were just always more attentive to her brothers. Now that she's the only one left, it isn't much different. Maybe it's just that they're all still grieving. Yeah, that's got to be it.

Nona's chipped heart won't let her believe otherwise.

"It’s just... It's hard to get used to," she admits aloud, then goes quiet, not sure she's got the courage to tell him the rest.

"What is?"

He pokes the side of her hand, looking a little worried that he's done something wrong, and that just won't do, so she tells him the truth:

"Being someone that someone cares for."

He softens, taking her hand to hold.

"Of course, I care about you." His smile tugs up at the corners. "I need somebody to help me pay the rent, and I've been thinking maybe you could stick around-"

It's exactly the kind of joke she needs to hear, and she grabs her hand back, laughing and scolding him for his beautiful, thoughtful insensitivity.

"What do you think of Boston?" she teases him, actually a little curious as to what he'll say. "Or is that too big of a city for small-town Joe Toye?"

"Depends on how high the rent is." He leans his chin in his hands and drums his fingers against his cheeks. "I'll consider it."

It's the closest they ever get to the stay with me? they both know better than to ask.

Nona made Joe take her on routine visits to the auto shop for the first few days, but then Mr. O'Connery told them not to bother and that he'll call Joe's home phone when the coupe is ready to go. Still, they drive past the building sometimes on their way to the diner. The traffic light outside the shop is always green. Nona has decided it must be broken. Either that or she and Joe have impeccable timing. On the tenth day, the stoplight is red, and Joe puts his blinker on to make the U-turn. Now that she thinks about it, he's been antsy all morning. Is her car fixed? Now she's the antsy one as they pull into the parking lot. Mr. O'Connery is already on his way out of the garage, and why he looks a little grumpy, Nona couldn't say.

"Here we go," Joe mumbles as he climbs out of the pickup, and Nona doesn't get the chance to ask him what that's supposed to mean before the old mechanic is upon them.

"I know you like her," he says to Joe, thumbing at Nona, "but that coupe's been taking up space in my garage for the last ten days."

"I'm sorry," Nona says, reasonably shamed, "I had no idea the problem was that bad."

"That bad?" Mr. O'Connery blinks at her. "You needed a few engine parts replaced, but that only took me a few days." He points at Joe. "I called this fool nights ago and he said you'd be around to pick it up in the morning."

Nona gapes at him for a moment, then whirls on Joe, who looks incredibly guilty. When he sees how upset she is, he starts to harden, hiding his hurt behind a set jaw and a stern brow. That just makes her feel worse. He's never closed himself off to her before, and she's certainly not about to let him now. She marches right up to him and crosses her arms, bending her neck to try and catch his gaze. Those dark eyes of his that she's come to adore, that now look anywhere but at her, dart away, ashamed, and her heart twists into something ugly in her chest. She thought she could rely on him, her one friend in this lonely town. Evidently, she can't.

"Joe. Joe."

He finally forces himself to look at her, blinking hard, and she's not even sure what to say until he licks his lips and she looks at them, and her splintered heart cracks even further.

"What the hell?" She throws up her hands. "Seriously, Joe, what. The. Hell. What the fuck!"

"I'm sorry."

She scoffs. Just a few minutes ago, she would have believed anything he said. Not anymore.

"No, you're not."

Turning on her heel, she starts to march away, heading for her car and the open road, the only two things she knows she can trust right now.

"Nona."

She ignores him, and then he starts to come after her, and then he falls, and the sound of him hitting the pavement is ten times worse than her heartbreak. She goes to him at once and helps him off the ground, and when he looks at her, it’s the first time she’s ever seen him scared.

"I'm leaving now," she tells him, but then Mr. O'Connery clears his throat, and Nona gets the sinking feeling that she's going to be stuck here for a little longer.

"You can't take it yet," he says a bit awkwardly, tugging at the straps of his overalls. "I still have to tow it up to the gas station... I had to make sure you were actually coming to get it before I filled up the tank." He sucks on his upper teeth and tilts his head back to look at the grey-blue sky. "Come back in, say, an hour and she'll be good to go."

"Can't I just come with you?" Nona starts to ask, but then the pickup starts behind her and she remembers all of her things are back at Joe's place. "Shit. Nevermind."

"Hey-" Mr. O'Connery wags his finger at her, and she nearly slaps his hand down in a flash of ire. "-he didn't mean anything by it."

"How do you know?" she snaps, and he squints at her, meeting her bitterness head-on. She can see where Joe gets it from.

"I've seen the way that boy looks at you." He shakes his head soberly. "Don't you lose him to something like your pride."

She stalks away without responding, but she does call a weary thank you over her shoulder for having fixed what seemed to her a hopeless case of a car. She'll pay him as soon as she gets back, not just for the work but for the gas, too, but first, she's got to get her wallet—and all the rest of her belongings—from Joe's house.

They drive back in silence. Nona is huddled up against the car door. She can feel it when Joe looks over at her for more than a second, and she turns her head further away each time. When they get to the house, she jumps out of the pickup and hightails it inside, letting the screen door slam behind her. She thinks, cruelly, maybe if he can't get in, he won't be able to break her heart again. She's in the guest bedroom, throwing her belongings into her suitcase, when she starts to feel the anger fade. She slows her frenzy, then stops and looks around. There are still Easter decorations in here from last Spring, courtesy of Joe's mother. She tears her gaze away and nearly hiccups, feeling the shadow of her own mother's grief. On the desk, there are a dozen letters Nona has started and never finished, addressed to her brothers. She snatches them up and throws them in the wastebasket by the bed. Worst of all, there's a blue baseball cap sitting beside the lamp on the bedside table that she's worn so much, Joe has told her to take it with her when she leaves. Her hand hovers over it, but she can't bring herself to pick it up. She turns her palm up toward the ceiling and watches her fingers shake until a voice comes from the doorway.

"I told you you could take that hat."

Nona stuffs her hands into her pockets, then pauses, a little confused as to when she put her jacket on. It must have been while she was dashing about the room, running high on the red of anger.

"I don't want it."

"Really?" His voice breaks, and she wishes it hadn't, because there goes her heart, straining against her ribcage for her to go to him. "I thought you liked that hat."

Finally, she turns around, leaning against the wall and crossing her arms. Joe comes a few feet into the room, then stops when she asks him:

"Why are you trying to keep me here?"

He looks like he might start shaking at any moment. She's afraid if he does, he'll blow away like a leaf in the wind, and then she'll really never see him again.

And despite it all, she really wants to see him again.

Which is why it hurts so much when he looks at the floor and shakes his head as if he can't give her an answer that won't hurt her.

"Joe, come on, just tell me."

"I shouldn't."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" She pushes up off the wall and starts toward him. "I'm not stupid, Joe—and neither are you, so don't even start with that—and I know you've got a reason, and I think at this point, I deserve to know-"

She's started to raise her voice, and then he looks up and it all falls away. She can't speak. He licks his lips, takes a deep breath, and puts his shoulders back.

"Nona," he tells her, and she feels like she's watching his heart break in real-time, "I'm in love with you."

He's right, he shouldn't have said that. And then he says more, and Nona can only gape.

"I'm in love with you," he repeats miserably, "and I know that if I say goodbye, I'm never going to see you again."

"That's-" She waves her hands, but her feet are cemented to the floor by desperation, and she cries out. "That's so selfish, Joe! Don't you know that?!"

His face falls. When she abruptly starts toward him, almost falling as her feet are suddenly released from their anchors, he doesn't seem to realize she's got more to say. He winces, ducking his head again and retreating into his shoulders like a turtle who's lost his shell.

"I know. Fuck, I know. I just..."

He trails off when she arrives and cups his chin in her hands, lifting his head slightly so she can look him in the eye. Tears have gathered in his lashes, and now they begin to fall. He swallows thickly.

"I just couldn't help it."

Guilt at having caused his tears heats Nona's cheeks, but the pounding of her cracked heart echoes in her ears and tells her she can't back down now.

"Don't you know I'm selfish too?" she whispers, and before either of them can say another word, her lips are on his. She kisses him hard enough that he comes close to losing his balance, but he puts his trust in his crutch, and once he's steady again, he flings his arms around her—both his arms. His fingers flex with emotion as he clutches at her back and she feels the bittersweet knife of longing cut a jagged trail through her chest. She has to leave, she has to go to Boston, there is no changing that—it almost makes her break away. But Joe kisses her again and again and she cannot bring herself to step back. Even when they do part, they don't go far; she can still feel his shaky breath on her lips when he lets it out in a wanting sigh.

"Maybe you're selfish," she whispers at last, "but I'm worse."

"What? How?"

She gulps back the floundering excuses her fear wants to offer up and forces herself to tell him the honest truth, no matter how it burns her throat coming up.

"I'm kind of, well- I'm in love with you, too," she confesses, brushing a lock of hair off his eyebrow, and he stares at her like she's just told him there's an eighth wonder of the world and he'll be the first to see it.

"But..." He fumbles for the words. "But how is that worse?"

"Because I'm the one leaving."

She expects him to let her go—it is no less than she feels she deserves—but instead he pulls her back to him and wraps her in a hug. He pushes his face into the crook of her neck, brushes his lips there in a kiss, and holds her so tight there is no room for her fear to stand between them. Eventually, she relaxes, and he takes a deep breath before standing up straight. They do not separate entirely but stay in a sort of half-embrace, touching but not locked together as before. Joe leans in and kisses Nona on the forehead, reverent, and it is his tenderness that makes her finally start to cry.

"Oh, no, no," he pleads, brushing his thumbs gently across her cheeks. "Don't cry, sweetheart. Don't cry because of me."

"How could I not?" she chokes out. "I've just got you, and now I have to let you go."

He gets a funny look on his face, but there is a determination building beneath every stirring motion. He moves his hands to hold her face, his palms cool against the sudden heat in her cheeks, and Nona tries to force her trembling lip to still.

"Whoever said that?" he asks, and his voice is softer than usual, drawing over Nona like a warm wool blanket on a chilly morning just before dawn.

"I, um..." She shrugs, not quite helpless but not strong enough to make this decision on her own. "I don't know."

"Well, you can tell them they're wrong. Very wrong." He leans forward and rests his forehead against hers, watching her with a slight wariness as if he's afraid she'll start crying again. "The most wrong, even."

She giggles, just a little, but it is enough, and a smile cracks Joe's serious expression.

"There it is. Oh, that smile." He draws his thumb over her lower lip. "I'm gonna get a photo of that smile before you leave, yeah?"

"Yeah," she agrees against his lips, unsure who started leaning in first but not caring now that they've met in the middle.

"You promise?" he pulls back just slightly, though not without effort. "Promise you'll smile for me, sweetheart."

"I promise," she whispers, then goes back in for another kiss.

Forty-eight minutes later, once she's gone and paid Mr. O'Connery for his hard work, she drives the coupe right back to the house. Come hell or high water, she's going to keep that promise—and she does. When the sunlight comes out from behind the clouds and streams in the windows, it finds her sitting at Joe's kitchen table, looking just past the lens of his dented Kodak camera, and smiling because it's him she's looking at, it's Joe, her Joe. He takes the photo, waits a moment, then comes around the camera and kisses her.

"Call me when you get to Boston," he whispers, twirling a lock of her hair around his finger. She's tempted to cut it off and give it to him right then and there.

Her suitcase is waiting by the door. She's already a week and a half behind schedule. She has no more excuses—and no more time—to delay.

Nona strokes her thumb across his jaw and studies his face. He leans into her touch.

"Joe?"

"Hmm?"

He's been looking at her lips. She's been looking at his.

"Think I could stay one more night?"

She leaves for Boston in the morning. Before she wakes up, he takes a photograph of her tangled up in his sheets, her hair splayed across the pillow like the streams of Mother Earth, her body a beautiful Appalachia beneath the covers. He tells her what he's done and she can see his relief when she smiles and tells him to get it developed.

"To remember me by."

Nudging a kiss against her shoulder where her shirt has slipped down, he tells her he could never forget her, and she believes him.

The summer flies, and though the heat persists, her life is happier with him in it. Her parents think she's crazy for driving back and forth to Hughestown every other weekend to see him, but hey, her roommate at Boston College thinks it's romantic. Secretly, Nona does too. Sometimes she meets Joe in the middle. At first, this means Hartford, Connecticut, but they quickly get sick of the dangerously wild traffic and relocate their meet-up spot to Poughkeepsie, New York. It's quieter there. Still, she prefers seeing him in Boston, where he seems happier, and Hughestown, where he seems happiest, so they brave the commute. On the day the war finally ends, she cries on the phone with him for three hours. He's not afraid to cry, too. Johnny Martin comes home from Austria (they were right, after all) and he and Joe meet up once or twice to catch up over drinks that Autumn. Nona is very happy for them and sends her love to the newly-pregnant Pat.

By the time Winter overtakes the East Coast, Nona has been to Hughestown dozens of times and ultimately decided the middle of bumfuck nowhere isn't so bad after all. She thinks she might like to grow old in a sleepy little town like this—but not for many years. For now, she'll take Boston with all its gritty glamor, or Columbus, where she returns for Thanksgiving and then Christmas. Joe comes with her for the latter, after which they drive overnight to see his family on the 26th. Nona isn't prepared for all the friendly attention she gets from his older siblings, and when Joe finds her crying outside on the porch in the snow, he takes her out to their old spot at the diner, gets her a milkshake, and just sits with her until she's okay again. He gets it. He always does.

Months and months go by, and as Winter melts into Spring, Nona starts getting antsy. She wants to be with Joe more often. She's smart enough not to forsake her studies for more time with him, but it's hard, and she misses him, and he knows it. Loving someone so far away is immensely difficult, but at the end of the day, she wouldn't trade him for the world.

He shows up in Boston right before Easter with his pickup packed with all his worldly possessions. There is still a little snow on the ground from the last blizzard. She watches him skirt it on his way to the door. He's wearing a tie. Why is he wearing a tie?

Nona nearly falls down the stairs twice as she flies to meet him on the stoop.

"I've come to stay," is how he greets her when she flings open the door. "Marry me?"

Nona has never fancied herself the marrying sort.

Then she sees the ring in Joe's hands and the tears in his eyes, and immediately, there is nothing more precious in the world than the thought of being his wife.

"Yes," she whispers against his cheek, clinging to him like they're the last two on earth. "Yes, Joe, of course, I'll marry you."

"Of course?"

She smashes her lips against his and he melts, smiling into her mouth as he finagles the ring onto her finger. When they part, they've both started to cry, and Nona laughs, cupping Joe's face in her hands.

"Of course."

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

Taglist: @tvserie-s-world @thoughpoppiesblow @victoryrollsandredlips @now-im-a-belieber @50svibes @mgdln97 @tina1938 @drinkwhiskeyandsmile @ask-you-what-sir @indecisiveimpatience @whovian45810 @brokennerdalert @holdingforgeneralhugs @onlyyouexisthere

#band of brothers #joe toye x oc #gift fic #hbowardaily's secret santa '22 #secret santa #rebeccapearson #band of brothers fanfiction #hbo war show #hbo war show fanfiction #band of brothers one shot #hbo war show one shot #joe toye #happy holidays!

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beholdthesword · 11 months

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Personal post alert -

Last week I talked to an old friend on the phone and ended up telling her probably more about my sexuality than I had ever really told anyone else which wasn’t a lot because I don’t really talk about it and I think it cracked open the well of loneliness inside of me that I pretend doesn’t exist

A few days later I spent the morning reading tlt fanfic and jerking off, a combination that sometimes has the opposite of the desired effect and instead of enjoying myself I felt like I was just sinking further into feelings I didn’t want to have

i was doing better! i had plans! I was going to go outside and be with my friends in the afternoon but it didn’t matter all that mattered was that I was reading fic that hurts me to read and I couldn’t stop I wanted to know that broken people could find each other and survive but it hurt because it wasn’t true, it wasn’t real, it’s just fic. It’s one thing to read it but it’s another to believe it and i just couldn’t believe that id ever crawl out of this hole where I’m so alone and no one will ever care

In honor of pride month I decided to read a bunch of queer stories as a vehicle to get me out of my book slump. i started with stone butch blues. i was surprised how quickly it pulled me in. I’m almost at the end and in the midst of the pain and confusion there’s a beautiful moment of love. “I can’t believe I finally found you.” i had to put the book down.

I just saw a post with a quote from Nona the ninth and I want to reread it because I remember how I cried. it hurt to read and I still don’t know why but I feel like that again now

there’s so much love and I try (oh my god do I try) to put love out into the world, to do things for my friends for no other reason than I love them and think it will make them happy and I KNOW I get it back but I can’t FEEL it I can’t believe it and I can’t make myself believe that I’m worthy of anything more than I get because this is all I’m left with -

I wanted this to all go away. I started some meds, was feeling better. Waking up isn’t so hard anymore. I can do tasks a little easier. But I just had to stop in the middle of making this post because I was crying so hard I gave myself a panic attack and couldn’t keep it in

Happy pride month to me I guess. I’m not really out - (not that I even know what that looks like when half the time I just pretend I know what’s going on with me (do I want love do I want sex do I just think I want sex do I actually want love? could I even find love? I know I don’t feel the same as everyone else - but what if I do? What if I just don’t recognize it what if I’m just too disconnected from myself to realize it - then what? how do I possibly begin to unpack repressing myself for my whole life, how could I expect anyone to deal with that but how scab I do it alone) as if I’m not constantly beating back fear (that it too late for me to even try, I’m too far removed from sex and intimacy, my inexperience will be a dealbreaker, how could anyone ever want to wait for me to try, I’m fifteen years behind everyone else, what if I’m disappointed, disappointing? how could I ever crawl back to this version of existence after that? how can I live with it now?) - I’m not really proud (the labels just feel like another box I don’t really fit into)

I spend all my time searching for ways to be, as if I can read enough to finally figure out how to exist in this realm of reality where things make sense to me, where I can understand how people form relationships and how they keep them how they navigate the minefield together. as if I can observe enough people so that I can understand how people are supposed to work how I’m supposed to be

I don’t know if I know what love feels like. I don’t know that I could recognize it if I do. I know it must be there but I can’t feel it and it drives me crazy. I cry myself to sleep at night for want of love and I don’t even know how I would recognize it. I surely wouldn’t believe that it’s for me. how could it be when I’ve been alone this whole time? i take care of everyone I know the best way I know how and I don’t know what it’s like to feel cared for and I’m afraid I never will

If I ask for it (help, care, love) how do I know it’s real

sometimes I wish I didn’t have to feel anything at all

#this went really off the rails #sorry for the incoherency to anyone that reads it #don’t read it please read it #I’m desperate for connection but afraid of what it means #I should really talk to my therapist about all this but I’m so scared to let it out #i can hardly write it down how can I ever put it into words out loud #but two loneliness/sexuality relate panic attacks in a week is probably not a good sign

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iviarellereads · 11 months

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Nona the Ninth, Day Two, Chapter 7

(Curious what I'm doing here? Read this post! For detail on The Locked Tomb coverage and the index, read this one!)

(Second House icon) In which we learn many things, but few of them useful right now.

MUSH FOR BREAKFAST—HONESTY’S JOB GOES TERRIBLY WRONG(1)—THE CITY HAS A WORSE DAY—CAMILLA-AND-PALAMEDES—“KEEP HER HOME TONIGHT”—FOUR DAYS UNTIL THE TOMB OPENS.

Nona is awakened abruptly(2) and screams when something wet and heavy hits her face and splashes drops around. Cam tells her to start, and Nona resentfully describes her dream.

“It’s the sitting part. My feet are in the nice water, the safe water. The water’s in my boots. My socks are full of it. I’m talking to her but I can’t see her face. I tried to, Cam, but it’s what always happens, I don’t manage to look at it, it just doesn’t work.”

She goes on to describe that they talk, but she can't really understand the words. They touch hands, and it's always her hands, both the ones she's touching and the ones she's using to touch them. There are red eyes in the darkness, and in the dream she's very hungry. And she might have remembered more, but then a wet cloth hit her face.(3)

Nona gets changed, though she doesn't like the t-shirt she laid out, which shows a hamburger with legs.(4) It feels too juvenile now that she's got it on.

Cam apologizes for the sponge, and Nona apologizes for not waking up. Cam still promises not to do the sponge again, as the experiment failed. Strangely, Cam asks about her hands in the dream, though she usually doesn't ask anything after dream talk time is over. She asks if Nona likes the hands, and Nona says no, not at all. The narration tells us Nona hates having hands.(5) Cam squints at her, but doesn't ask for a reason, just thanks Nona for the answer. Nona asks if that was another clue, do they know who she is yet? Cam says simply, "No."

Nona expresses her love for Cam and Pal, brushes her teeth, and goes out to breakfast. Pyrrha made cold mush, with fruit juice and dried sultanas.(6) Pyrrha describes yesterday at work, where two men got into a big fight. Nona says her friends don't want to kill each other, though they say it often. Hot Sauce is good at quieting them when they get too rowdy. Pyrrha says Hot Sauce could have a big future with a different name. Nona says Honesty told her Hot Sauce's name was very special, and she (Nona) should ask her (Hot Sauce) about it some time.

Nona remembers last night's discussion and asks Pyrrha why We Suffer hates her.

“Because I remind her that her God was just a human being who could get tired and fuck up,”(7) said Pyrrha instantly.

She continues that We Suffer probably doesn't hate her so much anymore, after seeing her famous charm. Nona says if Pyrrha's charming, why's she single? Pyrrha affects a dramatic pose and says her heart is broken and she'll never love again. Nona wonders if Pyrrha is being more honest than she'd admit. It would make sense: she lost the Pal to her Cam.

Cam emerges and complains about the baby food for breakfast, which means it's not Cam but Pal. Pyrrha says options were limited. Pal asks what happened to her pay. Pyrrha admits she had to pay a bribe to some Site C guys. Pal offers a swap for Site B, he and Cam have ways- but Pyrrha says she'd rather save them taking such risks.

“I greenlight it every time, I thoroughly scan her for—” “You should be draining and replacing her fucking brain fluid,” said Pyrrha. “When Gideon and I designed that trial, I used to crack his skull and sieve it myself, just as a control variable. It’s aggregative. I doubt you’re testing her white blood cell count either. The only other people I put through that damn trial were Mercy and Cris, because only Cris didn’t mind being trepanned(8) on the regular.(9) Fucking around with souls is the problem, Sextus … you can’t ever get the full data on souls.”

Nona interrupts their argument to ask if they're fighting because everyone else in the city is. They both look guilty, and Pyrrha says they're just under a lot of stress, and Nona should eat her mush, even if it's awful. Nona thinks it's not so bad, really. At least it's easy to eat more of it than she usually does.

The timer goes off for Pal, and Cam comes back, looks at breakfast, and asks what happened to Pyrrha's pay. Pyrrha says she isn't arguing it twice. So, they all get on with their morning stretches, and then head out. Nona gazes longingly at the merchant stalls as they go past, and when Pyrrha asks what she's looking at, Nona says she'd like a gift for her six-month birthday. Cam says she can get one at a year.

Nona was alarmed; if she didn’t get a present now there was a good chance she would not get to have one later.(10) But Pyrrha said, “God, you think she’s ever gotten presents? I visited her hometown back before Anastasia got settled, and it was grim as fuck then. Just spooky caves all the way down…” This interested Nona, except Cam said sharply, “Don’t lead,”(11) and Pyrrha said, “No leading, ma’am, I understand. What do you want for a gift, Nona?”

Nona asks for a pack of coloured rubber bands for her braids, so she can have different colours on them. Pyrrha says she said a present, something that costs money. Nona says she chose it because it's cheap, so Pyrrha can probably afford it even on half pay. Pyrrha calls domestic life depressing, and Cam says, "Sometimes".

They continue walking, until Pyrrha splits off, kisses the top of Nona's head, and says her see-you-laters. Cam escorts Nona to school, just in time, and leaves. Nona is puzzled that Cam didn't come up with her like usual, but her attention is distracted by the voices of her friends.

In the classroom, "the nice lady teacher" is applying a cloth to one side of Honesty's face. Honesty asks that Nona do it, for his dignity. The teacher is relieved to see Nona in the doorway, and hands off the cold cloth duty. Honesty has a nasty black eye, and Nona is flad to cover it back up with the "cold, tingly-smelling cloth". The teacher tells the others to leave Honesty some space and prepare the room for class.

Nona asks Honesty what happened, but he won't answer.

Hot Sauce doesn't show up until the Angel arrives, not late but looking even more tired than the day before. She examines Honesty, to the Teacher's further relief, and pronounces that nothing has ruptured, he'll just be in some pain from it, and asks what hit him. Honesty asks how she knows it wasn't a fist, and the teacher says she (the Angel) is a doctor. The Angel clarifies that she's adjacent to being a doctor and is "getting a good crash course in, er, triage."(12)

Hot Sauce had come in "a suitable and careless distance" behind the Angel, and takes a tiny child's seat next to the window instead of her usual. The teacher asks her to switch back at break, but Nona figures she won't.(13)

At break, Nona gives half her fruit to Honesty, even though it was promised to Born in the Morning, who doesn't argue. Hot Sauce asks Honesty who did it, and Honesty says he can't tell her, and she doesn't need to freak out. Hot Sauce does a funny thing with her face that makes everyone nervous. Honesty tells her to stop, but she persists. Eventually, Honesty admits that he ran into a streetlight, and blacked out.

After eating some of the fruit for comfort, soggy berries you have to suck off the stems,(14) Honesty admits he got scared on the job he got, and he says he won't be working with those guys anymore. He fidgets with the empty spray from the fruit, takes one of Born in the Morning's, who again doesn't complain, and describes the job. It was supposed to be easy, but they talked themselves into a third robbery after two easy ones, and the third went bad.

Nona finds the story mostly incoherent, as I do, but essentially someone on the crew got separated from the rest, but opened the cargo hold on the third trawler anyway. And, instead of valuable cargo, he saw people with whited-out eyes, who all moved in unison to look at him.(14) This scared him so badly, he was freaking out everyone else once they picked him up, then they were being followed by more militia trucks, and Honesty ran off and got his brain damage.

Born in the Morning calls out that Honesty just said so many swears, but Honesty tells him to shut up. Born in the Morning says it's not fair he gets in trouble with Nona for swears but Honesty doesn't, and Kevin tells him to shut up. The shock of that act's rarity does the job, shuts Born up, and breaks some of the tension.

Hot Sauce says she'll take care of Honesty. Then, the teacher suggests they clean up, and Nona should ring the school bell and leash up Noodle. Before she does, Nona says she'll take care of Honesty, too. Honesty asks who wants her taking care of him, dumb as she is.

Hot Sauce asks how many vehicles it was. Honesty says he's sure it was the Convoy his job-crew tried to rob.(15)

=====

(1) Oh no! I like Honesty, he's a cute kid. (2) Hmm… That's funny, Nona waking up abruptly as soon as John gets cut off mid-word talking to the person who may or may not be Harrow. (3) See, it's not even the same dream… but why, then, would those interruptions be back to back? (4) Note Nona's outfit on the cover art. This must be a big day. Or it's just rather a vivid picture to describe. (5) That's an odd detail to be so specific about. (6) Overnight oats! Also, this is such a tiny thing, but… do you remember how excited Nona was at the thought of cold breakfast but not cold eggs? Pyrrha noticed. She's a warrior but she's also such a mom. I love her so. (7) Huh. Why would that upset We Suffer? Is it easier to rally a cause against a truly omnipotent God? I should've thought quite the opposite. (8) Trepanation - the cutting of a hole in the skull. Documented in tens of thousands of years of skulls, many with healed edges proving it was done well before death, and in ages with no modern anesthetic. (9) Side note here… Hm. Pyrrha is the cavalier, and G1deon the necromancer. She says she checked his cerebrospinal fluid regularly, for whatever the marker is of this soul-overlap going wrong. But, Cristabel was Mercy's cavalier. So, which role requires the CSF checking? Or is she just not mentioning having herself and Mercy checked as well? (This is the sort of thing I'm curious about potentially being fixed in the paperback edition, or left in place…) (10) Why wouldn't Nona get a present in six months? (11) Presumably, "don't give hints as to who Nona might be, and lead her to behave like someone she's not just to please them". Ever the scientist, Cam. (12) That sounds way more suspicious than lying about being a doctor. (13) I believe this is done as a power play of some sort, though I'm not entirely sure how or why. It's also possible she's so angry about seeing Honesty hurt that she needs to calm down before she confronts him about it and she knows she won't if she's sitting near him. (14) I'm operating under the assumption these are very sad refugee city grapes. There are plenty of edible green berries out there, but since Pyrrha put sultanas in the mush, it makes sense they have access to grapes at some level to make raisins. (15) But why would the Convoy be driving around with creepy horror-movie human cargo?

#the locked tomb #tlt #nona the ninth #ntn #nona the ninth spoilers #ntn spoilers #nona #camilla hect #pyrrha dve #the angel (ntn)#hot sauce (ntn)#honesty (ntn)

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rosesmith18 · 2 years

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High Risk

This scene takes place three days before the events of Razputin’s Getaway, and is supposed to give a bit more detail to Razputin’s reason’s for running away just like Greatest Fear.

Razputin readies himself, shrugging his shoulders, twisting his neck, cracking his fingers before he feels good about taking the trapeze bar in his hands. He glances towards the floor several feet away from him, where Dion and Frazie are in standing positions beside one another, then towards his father on the board across from Razputin.

“You ready, Razputin?!” His father calls out to him, and Razputin smirks, his goggles obscuring his cocky brow.

“Ready when you are, Dad!” He calls back, the confidence in his tone is palpable, and he knows Dion is rolling his eyes.

“Alright! Then on the count of three;” Augustus begins to count, taking a step closer to the edge of the board as does Razputin. “One…” Another step. “Two…” They’re both at the edge now. “...Three!” They push off the edge at the same time; Dropping towards the ground fast before the ropes on the bars stop gravity. They use the momentum to swing their legs in the air, propelling themselves back and forth, swinging with nothing beneath their feet.

Razputin cries out with glee at the feeling of sailing through the humid tent air, his bangs smacking into his forehead, his body as free as that of a bird. For a moment, he forgets that he’s holding onto a trapeze bar, hanging from a wood pole, practicing a trick with his father and older siblings, and just enjoys feeling free.

“Okay, Razputin, four more swings and then switch!” His eyes snap open, waking him up from his daydream however, as his father’s voice breaks through his painted sky. It deflates his enthusiasm for a split second, but then he’s back on track, counting the swings in his head. ‘One…’ He looks at his father, his face is stern, as it has been for the last week. ‘Two…’ He stares at the ground instead, and Dion glares at him when their eyes meet, nothing new. ‘Three…’ Frazie still refuses to give Razputin the time of day, he understands. ‘Four…’ He swallows something back down into his chest as he releases the bar. It’s a slower release than it should have been, but he and his father make the transfer fine, and he flips himself around before picking his rhyme back up.

He thinks about the time Sasha Nein and Milla Vodello were washed away by the wind during a massive explosion; Sasha calculated in the way he stumbled to the ground, Milla as graceful as always as she falls on top of him. Razputin enjoys it when the wind takes him away, and he would love for it to happen on a mission, out saving the world. “And, count!” Again, his father breaks his picture, this one of bombs exploding as he runs down the halls of a villain’s lair. Razputin pouts, but starts counting; ‘One…’ Mother berated him today for being difficult to wake up. ‘Two…’ Mirtala told him he looked terrible with his ‘rudolph’ nose. ‘Three…’ Nona said he should eat more if he’s going to stay up so late. ‘Four…’ Razputin shakes his head, he doesn’t feel tired. He fabricates that his leap into the air is calculated and graceful, and when he turns around on the bar, his fathers face assures him it was not. Razputin feels heavier than he did when they started, like gravity is pulling him down just a bit harder, or maybe he’s just imagining it.

He arches his back, and his shoulders, and his neck to make sure he isn’t stiffening up too much. He needs to land on top of Frazie when he jumps this time, he doesn’t want to bruise them with his heel like last time, they ignored him twice as much that week. He takes a deep breath, tries to think about the crowds that will show up in three days-”And, counting!” His father’s call, did it come quicker this time? He barely got a thought in edgewise. Okay, no dawdling, breathe, count; ‘One…’ The air feels more humid than when they started, stuffy even. ‘Two…’ It kind of hurts when his hair hits him. ‘Thre-’ His father jumps, and Razputin can’t even wonder about the change in time as he tries to keep up. He swings himself off the bar, he spins in the air, but it’s childish and makes him dizzy. He attempts to grab the trapeze bar, but wait, he’s supposed to fall. He only grazes the handle before he’s plummeting towards the ground. Oh, no. His form is all wrong, he’s not going to land right, he’s going to hurt Frazie. They’re going to be so upset if he bruises them again. They’ll ignore him, not for one, but two weeks-he’s sure of it. His attention snaps to Frazie, his brow taunt behind his goggles as his lips tremble. They refuse to look at him, they’re not going to be able to fix his mistake, they’re not going to see it coming.

He feels his heart drop into his stomach. He can’t do that to them; They were being so kind to him, he couldn’t ruin what they had, he had to stop himself. And, he does. He leans to the side in the air, and misses Frazie by a few inches. His back meets the floor of the Aquatodome before anything else then his legs then his head. He’s curled into a ball as he feels adrenaline cover up the pain. He did it. He didn’t hurt Frazie. He messed up the trick, but that’s okay, he can handle that.

“Oh my god, Raz!” Frazie screams, hearing the thud of something hitting the floor before they turn their face to see their little brother lying on the dirt ground. They race to him, flipping him over on his back instead of half-way on his side. Razputin feels them wipe the dirt off his face, and smiles, their hands are as soft and warm as he remembers.

“What the heck happened?!” Dion all but cries as he marches over to the two with Augustus in toe.

“Raz? Are you alright, son?” His father’s voice is softer than it has been the last few days, and there is clear worry in his tone. Razputin doesn’t want to worry him, and does his best to lean up against his bruised palms. His back aches, disagreeing with Razputin’s desire to move it, but he ignores himself.

“..so-rry,” Razputin chokes out, and puts more effort into sounding okay with his next words. “Didn’t jump off quite right.” He tries to make it a joke, it’s the best way to cover something up, and Dion seems to believe him…

“I’ll say! Could you mess that up any worse?” Which should be a good thing, but it sure doesn’t feel good when Dion puts it like that.

“SHUT. UP. DION.” Frazie bites back, pulling Razputin to their legs. They’re glaring daggers into Dion, and he takes a step back, even if he does huff at their command.

“No fighting you two.” Augustus jumps in, looking between the two teens, then bending down to Razputin’s level. “Son? Are you okay?” He repeats, and Razputin can manage to give some kind of grin, can even manage to nod, but he can not manage to answer.

“Dad..” Besides that hoarse chuckle at least. Augustus doesn’t argue, Dion rolls his eyes, Frazie…looks very uncomfortable, and Razputin feels his stomach churn. Why did they seem mad? He moved out of the way for them, he didn’t hurt them, they came to his aid. Why were they acting like they didn’t want to be here?

"Uh..um,-Frazie?" Razputin mutters…they pull him tighter, but they don't LOOK at him. He senses it bubbling up in his throat; tight, hot, thick.

“Yeah, Raz?” They reply softly. He doesn’t say anything. He can’t. It will come out if he does. So, he pushes himself up off the ground, away from them, and Dion, and Augustus, and runs.

“Hey, what’s the big idea Pootie?!” Dion hollers, Frazie is on their feet in an instant, and slapping him on the back of the head.

“DION.” They growl.

“You two, stop it.” Augustus reprimands a bit more sternly this time before turning to call out; “Razpu-tin…?” But, Razputin is gone.

Razputin leans against the side of his caravan, holding his stomach, his head all kinds of dizzy. He tries to swallow, and it burns, like really burns. It hasn’t been this bad in awhile. Where does it keep coming from? He tries to breathe, doesn’t help, he chokes on air. He hacks, coughs into the palm of his free hand, and it rushes up his throat; onto his hand, and the side of the caravan, and the grass. His vomit is thick like gravy, and brown like it too. It stings his throat till it’s begging for water, but that never helps. He lets it spill out since it’s already happening; Eyes watering as he inhales the warm, odorless scent. He swallows the best he can when it’s all out, and begins to hiccup then sob. He hides in his caravan for the rest of the day. His family is going to be upset tomorrow. Mom wanted them to practice all day, Dad cleared up his schedule for Razputin’s performance, Dion & Frazie were forced to comply, Mirtala made him promise to unbraid her hair before bed, he was supposed to kiss Queepie goodnight, Nona had a story to tell. But, Razputin didn’t-couldn’t-care. Not today, not tonight. He needed to be alone, no, he needed a hug; from someone who REALLY wanted to hug him. But he wasn’t going to get that, so he went to the next best thing; True Psychic Tales.

#psychonauts #razputin aquato #frazie aquato #dion aquato #augustus aquato #scene #fanfic #pre-canon

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crimsoncircle2 · 4 months

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so, carry on | trial 5 | execution reaction | dmitri

Nona Blacklung, he had said, wanting Gia to grow as old and comfortable as she desired. There’s a glorious transition which occurs when the skin begins to sag and the muscle begin to pop out less, when the sun spots dapple and darken and lay down in patterns like a sailor’s back tattoo, taking him home. How he had hoped to still be visiting her when she was eighty and he was fifty, how it would feel to be as grown as Gia La Malfa was when she changed the course of his life forever, and by then, she would’ve stopped smoking. Nona Blacklung, oh, Nona Blacklung.

It’s not for him, he thinks, the words of sons to a man failed by parents at every corner, weighed down by the sacrifice they made for their children. His mother would say the same sometimes, whenever she was mad, whenever she felt old, or ugly, or wanted to be alone: Haven’t I sacrificed enough in this family? How she had, yes, she had given what was in her material means, the bread and the house and the water. It is not meant for him, but still Gia’s words reach out to his core as though they could absolve him. The tears don’t stop. They are soundless little things, hitting the floor and shattering like glass. In another time he may have offered himself up to trade, exchanged cogs in the wheel of sacrifice, but he had told Gia a commitment to living after over a decade of looking to die. A hundred times she would’ve smacked his hand away if he offered to exchange places. A hundred times, he would’ve felt a horrible, dirty coward.

When the execution begins, he is stunned still. It would be insult to try to pry open the doors for Shisa, and it would be sacrilege to, as one of the votes for her, tremble his lip, look away, or apologize. But Gia might catch something he leaves to the wind on his voice, there as he leaves her the last comfort he can, and perhaps the only thing he is now able to do for her:

I will see it through.

Then she’s off to die.

Dmitri, for once, raises the eyepatch off, squeezes it in the palm of his hand, and witnesses a demise with two of his eyes, as he does for his opponents in their earnest, final moments— a respect he only gave when completely alone, here, surpassing all barriers and boundaries of his conduct because it is for Gia. The stage presents him with a story of a what-if, a Gia La Malfa who became a boss in her own right, and dares to imply that she was a fruit of the same tainted tree his ilk derived from, destined to sow seeds that would rot the ground further. Her love, left to sea, swallowed by that legacy, and her son, now severing her to set himself free from that hellish yoke and mantle, to suggest that this, at her core, might be what it means to be Gia La Malfa as she sits in that very same spot, closes her eyes, and bleeds.

But it is not, and may he crack Leviathan’s jaw and split them down the middle for even so much as insinuating such a thing.

The Gia La Malfa who he knew came to him in spite of the ways he was gleeful and wild and obviously grieving, and never asked him to change, or hide his face, or stray from the path he was leading. She put down her gun and chose another path, one where she gives a young man chocolates and reconnects with a lover and around the world serves and host and guest and pillar. Her warmth was not of a fire, but perhaps a coal, an ember, kept in the pocket of a coat to keep the soul warm at the coldest, cruelest hour, a figure in the distance and the wind pushing you onwards. Gia La Malfa had loved, and lost, and found, and in every confident stride, in every smile and touch on the shoulder, she lived with the tenacity to show the world of discarded assassins that their world was not yet over.

Her time was up, and the change she championed, perhaps she always knew it would never be by her hands, bloodied with feuds, splattered by mothers and fathers taken before their proper ripe time. And perhaps she always knew she would join them, humoring Dmitri when he always counted just how much she had grown old when he counted her wrinkles and wanted to mark that she had passed one hundred. Perhaps at that bridge she wished he was eight and she was almost forty and she could have done something more besides break the bones in his body. There was no means to undo what had happened to the boy, but she set the man on a path that would at last open the eye he had closed to the world, the very path that would convince him to transform his scales into vines. They could never be family, but they were far from coworkers, delegates, master and apprentice, a relationship which would forever blur the lines of definition, but the depth of what was there was always felt, if not said.

(In his own words, he would imagine it’s the love and forgiveness you wish you could give to your younger self. How you are so different from them now, how she and him were never quite the same, but he wanted to raise his head and ask her so many things about the future, and she could tell him about all the ways it would turn out okay.)

Around him brews vengeance, rotting in the air as it grows thick, stagnant, iron. A rage of revenge has birthed its own, and the cycle of scorn may continue yet again, held in the knives of two children and the breath of a man who slew his own father in turn, rage communal, collective, stemming from the young thousands in the world of assassins who killed for someone dead. He too could join them, calling for this to be solved all with Leviathan’s head— but for a moment, just an infinitesimal moment, it’s as though the islands themselves speak to him.

The crack in his face is where it all pours in. Grief delirium, maybe, a pain he swallows so deep down to prevent its bubbling that it takes him out of this moment to see the foundations upon which this place is built. He thinks of all the blood spilt so far, the bodies on the beach, lining up by the coast so that their blood trickles into the water as one red cloud. Perhaps he places Atticus’s mother there, and Gia’s father, her grandfather, and Shinichi’s parents, Arcadia there as well. Bodies upon bodies stack up by the coast, those he knows among them they have lost, and those beyond, the rising cascade of corpses from people he has no idea the validity of but knows must have died in the pursuit of all this, and suddenly each grain of sand is a grief of someone who once loved. A world not built on good deaths, or necessary ones. It was built on rage, and betrayal, and no hand with which to hold someone. He wonders if Gia, standing on this shore, knowing its truth, had to close her eyes when the noon light reflected off the water. Leviathan contents to burn it all down, leave them all messily afloat, and Ouroboros intends to build it better, stronger, arrange the bodies in the walls so they hold tight like a word in a throat. Neither of them, in his eyes, truly cares for those who died.

Dmitri is awash with guilt, and grief, and every emotion on the spectrum which makes him feel adrift. But unlike ever before in his life, even as his knees shake and his stomach churns, Dmitri Zakharchenko has a promise, a direction, and a future to build so others may go.

It was a world without legacies! A world where we don’t have to prove ourselves in tests that break us! A world where you don’t have to do what you’re doing right now…!

And he wants to cry to the beyond: What a beautiful world it is, Giovanya! I want to see it! I want to touch my forehead to its grass and kiss its dirt!

Some part of him alters, another metamorphosis of his self. Dmitri suspects he will never be Sasha again. That was the name a boy chose when he had nothing else. But for the sake of what she entrusted him with, he will become the man who can see that through. It hurts. It hurts. But he will rise above it, as he has again, and before.

Giovanya, Nona Blacklung, товарищ, тётя, woman like the sun, woman whom that wolf loved. I will not do it for you. I will do it for myself, and everyone, as you would give me the right to choose. Forgive me for what I have taken from you, this life, your world— but only do so after I have given enough back to the world, ten, hundred, thousand-fold.

#trial #reaction #ch5 #sasha #submission

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stephspurs · 3 years

Text

A Family Affair | Euro 2020 Football Fanfiction

Hi besties!! here is the long awaited part 9!! I hope you all enjoy it as much as I did whilst writing it!! a big thank you goes to @emwritesfootball for proofing this part & making sure its up to scratch for all of you lovely readers! Let me know what you think babes hehehe!! Love Always, Steph xx

Part 9. | nona parte

word count; 2006. writing tools; third person until dashed line, first person thereafter. next update; Friday 13/08 5pm AEST. Updates are three times/week (Monday, Wednesday & Friday)! tags (as requested by users); @footballffbarbiex @obsesseds-world @abysshaven link to fic masterlist here

The season kicked off in the middle of August and Amelia had been more than prepared for her first match in the premier league. She spent day after day analysing the players in the first team, introducing them to the magical world of rehearsed tactics. It wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows for the brilliant girl; she had to learn how to implement the plays coupled with the speed of the game. But so far, so good. Chelsea have been winning and her plays have been working, the boys were getting the hang of it - no matter how apprehensive they were at the start.

Jorgi played a big part in demonstrating the success of the play, performing best in his midfield role to guide the game and direct the change in play to his teammates. By the time they had played a few fixtures, they had really gotten the hang of her approach to set pieces and began to put their trust in the young girl. They were starting to see results and wanted to keep the winning streak going while they could. The fourth fixture in the new season was one that Amelia was looking forward to, personally: Chelsea v Aston Villa, Stamford Bridge, 3pm kick off.

Jack and Amelia had grown closer and closer, FaceTime‘dates’ as Jack would call them, a weekly occurrence. She had spoken to him just as much as she had spoken to Jorgi - and they were still carpooling to and from Cobham together. Her friendship with Jack was full of easy conversation and flirtatious banter, teetering over the line of friendship but being that they were kept physically apart, the friendship line remained largely intact. One person that had drifted even further away from her, despite her believing that it couldn't be possible, was Ben Chilwell.

Every time she walked into a room that he was in, if he didn't have to be there he would immediately leave. Amelia didn’t understand what the problem was. Yeah sure, they were flirty together in Mykonos but they never crossed a line together, no matter how many times the wine went straight to their heads. If anything, she should be the one running away from him. She was the one who sent him a couple of messages here and there that he just opened. She spoke to Mason, Jorgi, Billy Gilmour - who was another one of the boys she had developed a strong friendship with - and all of them insisted they didn’t understand their friend's strange behaviour.

On the evening before the Villa match, Amelia was laying on the couch in her townhouse binge watching yet another docu-series on Netflix when her doorbell rang. This was strange, most people that came past the house these days had their own set of keys (her parents, her brother, Jorgi) or they texted to let her know they were outside. Her townhouse was three stories high, so if she was upstairs on the top level vacuuming the chances of her hearing the door were slim to none. Either way, she got up off of her loveseat and walked to the front door, peeking through the peephole - she lived in London, alone, she wasn’t opening that door until she knew exactly who was on the other side.

______________________________________________________________

“To what do I owe this visit, Benjamin?”

“Hi, Mils.”

“Wow, nickname basis already - I thought only friends called each other by their nicknames.”

“Did you think we weren’t friends?”

“Well, friends don’t treat friends the way you’ve treated me since the evening I left Mykonos.”

With a sigh, Ben looked down at his feet. I did feel a small bit of guilt for that one, but he deserved it. Continuing to find the cracks in the marble step of my door’s threshold more interesting than facing my expression, I took a step back and forced Ben to look up at me.

“Well, are you going to come inside? I’ve got the kettle on and a really good series going that I would like to get back to.”

With a charming smile, Ben took a step forward, took the door handle out of my hand and shut it behind him. Slipping out of his shoes, he followed me down the short hallway to my kitchen and pulled a seat out at the island bench.

“So, really now - why are you here? Nervous about tomorrow?” I questioned as I took two cups out of the cupboard and brewed one tea for him, one coffee for me. 3 years in Italy and coffee in the evening became the norm for me. It was my comfort drink.

“I’m here to apologise for the way I've been acting towards you for the past six weeks. I’ll be honest, I don’t know why I’ve been like this”

“Cut the crap Ben, you know exactly why you’ve been doing it. Now tell me the truth or, as far as I'm concerned, you never came here tonight and tomorrow we will be back to how we were yesterday - you running away from me and me pretending that it doesn't bother me. Even though all it does is bother me.” Not expecting that outburst to come out of me, and to be fair neither did I, Ben looked me in the eye and stayed silent, choosing his next words carefully.

“The first time I saw you, the night you told your brother off in the rec room at St. George’s Park, I thought you were the most determined woman I had ever seen in my life. Not scared of the 30 grown men who were very obviously all on the same side, literally. Then the next time I saw you, after the final match, how you comforted your brother when you were at the highest of highs and he was lower than low, I thought you had more compassion than every person in that stadium put together.”

“When you came to SGP again the next day and delivered the tactical analysis of the game you won, I thought ‘wow she is so intellectually brilliant’. And then when you turned up in Mykonos, all sunkissed and relaxed, sitting next to me and involving me in conversation with my pals but making me feel like you wanted my contribution...I remember it like it was yesterday. Amelia, you smiled at me and my heart did a somersault in my chest.”

“You shut me down outside the club that evening, and when we came back inside I caught the end of your conversation with Jorgi about Fede. Putting two and two together, I understood all that I needed to. The few days after that we carried on like normal. Then, you left and I didn't know if I would ever see you again to be fair. When you messaged me, I got too nervous to reply because I didn't know how to just be your friend. And then when I thought I had finally gotten through a day without thinking about my friend's little sister, you showed up at Cobham as my tactical analyst. I didn’t know what to do Mils, I don't know how to be just your friend when I've had nothing but unfriendly thoughts about you since the first time I saw you command that room of men you had never met in your life.”

The whistle of the kettle ringing out behind me is the only noise filling the kitchen. I’m staring at Ben; he’s staring back at me with nothing but truth behind his eyes and his heart on his sleeve.

“Benj, what you were feeling, what you are feeling is totally valid and I never want you to feel like you can’t share those feelings with me. You’re right, Mykonos changed things for me. What you were feeling was reciprocated, but Ben, I was going back to Italy. At that exact moment, I had no idea I would end up here. I thought I was enjoying a break before another high-intensity season in Italy. I wanted to kiss you so badly at the club that night, but I knew it would only hurt you. I’m used to being hurt, it's a feeling I've grown to expect. But you, you’re too pure to experience the kind of hurt that comes along with knowing you’re making a bad decision, but doing it anyway, because I wanted to be selfish with your heart.”

“Amelia, can I ask you something?” I nodded, holding my breath as I braced myself for the question poised behind his eyes. “If you were in the mood to be selfish, what would have come from that evening?”

“I can probably show you better than I can tell you,”

Walking around the island bench, I pulled the back of Ben’s chair slightly so he pivoted towards me. Standing in between his tracksuit-covered legs, I ran both hands up his arms until I got to his neck and finally beside his face. Threading my fingers through his hair, I pulled his face towards mine and our lips met. It was as soft as a butterfly kiss but as powerful as anything I had ever felt before. His hands wound around my waist and settled themselves on the small of my back before travelling down and giving my backside a gentle caress, forcing a laugh out of my lips and straight into his mouth. Pulling away slightly, so we both had a bit of breathing space to sort out our lightheadedness, Ben spoke his next words very softly.

“I need you to promise me something, Amelia.You need to promise me that you will stop thinking about my heart before your own. I am old enough to make my own decisions, and the decision to ignore you for these past few weeks has been one of the worst ones I've made in a really long time. But I did make it, and it was because I got scared, and I hurt you, and I am so sorry. The decision to come here tonight however, I feel like it more than makes up for that one very very stupid one”

“You’re such a smooth talker, Benj.”

“Say my name again, Mils, you don’t know what it does to me.”

“Down boy, your tea is going cold and I need to find out who killed Sophie in West Cork.Meet me in the lounge.”

A few hours had passed and it was nearing 10pm, well past Amelia’s bed time, but Ben was still sitting on her couch, feet on the table (despite her telling him to remove them) and arm around the back of her shoulders.

“Chilly, I don’t want you to think I'm not interested in you because I so am, I just don’t want to rush into anything. What I left behind in Italy was complicated and heavy; I'm still trying to learn how to exist without him if I'm honest. I want you to just give me the space I need to grow into my own here in the city, if that’s okay with you.”

“Of course it's okay, Mils. From what Jorgi has told me about Fede, I can understand why you want to take it slow now. But please, don’t call me Chilly. My friends call me Chilly, and Mills. I thought I made it clear before that I don’t want to be your friend.”

“To me, you’re Benj. Thank you. Wait - what do you mean what Jorgi has told you about Fede?”

“I may have asked a couple times about you, and for the record, he is team Bamelia.”

“Bamelia? That is the ugliest word I have ever heard. Never use it again.”

“How can it be ugly? It's mostly your name, and nothing associated with you could ever be considered anything less than beautiful.”

“Stop being so smooth Benj, you’re going to make me blush in a minute.”

“Good, can’t wait to see how you could possibly look even cuter than you do right now.”

“That’s enough Benjamin.”

“Okay I’m done now.”

Part 10. | parte dieci

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jessitheninth · 2 years

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I have a theory. A crack pot Megatheorem actually. My math game isn't super strong but I think I got an idea.

If Nona is turning 6 months old and has dreamed of nothing but her skull faced bae this could equate to the time frame Harrow sees and can only dream of The Body on the Mithraeum after she enters The River for the first time and becomes a hallucinatory furnace full of multitudes and AUs.

Or conversely, if Nona is turning a year old that would be the amount of time Harrow saw The Body after her parents suicides. So it could be Retrocausal either way. Time distortion, my dudes. Maybe they just dream of each other from the moment Harrow lays eyes on Alecto 😂 since the past and future start effecting each other from that point on. Harrow could have even seen her own 18 year old body when she entered The Locked Tomb at age 10.

John says he wished he mastered time instead of death. Maybe he meant it literally 😂

Let's get into some Maths actually. Alecto has been insensate for 9800 years, 9801 come HtN. Harrow has been alive for 18 years. 9801 divided by 18 is 544.5 but more on this number in a second since it requires a bit of explanation.

Gideon (likewise a part of Harrow who could be a part of AL) has been compartmentalized for 9 months. The river bubbles distort ones perception of time, making 8 months 8 weeks to Abigail and the others. So could it be mega distorted for Alecto if her soul is frozen in some River Bubble up until Harrow opens the Tomb at age 10? Let's say GtN is 3 months, HtN is 9, and Nona picks up another 6 months later, equating to roughly 18 months. And 18 months written out in days is 540 if you don't account for the months that have 31 days (544 days even). Ohh and as an aside 540 ÷ 6 (months) is 90 or Nonagesimus. Now take the 10th place from 90 and you're only left with 9 (aka Nona).

Potentially making AL's perception of her insensate state whittled down from 9800 years to 18 years to 544.5 days to Nonagesimus by her reckoning before Nona starts and everything begins to unravel when she's fully freed into either Harrow or Gideon's body. This is like a conversion of energy but applied to time essentially.

So theoretically could Alecto's experience of being imprisoned/insensate in The River or beyond it, amount to everything that's Harrow's existence? 9800 years rendered down to 18 years of suffering alongside Gideon for sins neither of them committed in the end? So if she's Nona ~~the Ninth~~ could it be that she's no longer bound to this equation of 10 to the Ninth and 9 to the Tenth?

Am I crazy or has my dislocated knee cap rendered me insensate with closed eyes and stilled brain?

I'm still thinking Harrow and Alecto are two seperate entities, as if Harrow is Alecto's Adam created from the same sort of stuff or in the same way though. Just that Alecto could be akin to Harrow in an incarnation in the same way Alecto might be akin to Nona after the Host Soul of Harrow willingly gives herself over.

#the locked tomb #tlt #nona the ninth #theories #harrow the ninth spoilers #gtn spoilers #htn spoilers #crazy bullshit #alecto the first #alecto the ninth #harrow the ninth #harrow the first #harrowhark nonagesimus

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writer-panda · 3 years

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The Hit on the Groom and What Became of It - Chapter 4/I’ll never let you down (in an open casket)

Chapter 1 -|- Previous -|- Next

The Hit on the Groom and What Became of It - Chapter 4/I’ll never let you down (in an open casket)

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As she hanged up, Marinette rushed to the doors and let her mother in. The previous night she spent mostly on working with Kwamis to prepare. Most were in agreement that she needed to act and not leave her kitty’s fate to chance. Tikki protested for a bit, but in the end, she saw that there was no changing Marinette’s mind and joined in on scheming. Except she had no way of tracking Adrien. Not… until she received the call!

Except now her mother entered. Sabine greeted her daughter by giving her a bone-crushing hug.

“I was so worried! When the police called I couldn’t just sit there and wait!”

“Maman. It’s alright. I’m okay. See?” The girl did break away from the hug and smiled.

“I know. But I couldn’t help but worry.”

“Maman… Adrien’s been kidnapped.”

“I know.” Her mother’s expression didn’t reveal any emotions now.

“I… he’s been miserable ever since that wedding mess, and now this.”

“I know.” Again, nothing.

“He’s my friend.”

“Not the love of your life?” Sabine questioned with a bit of amusement in her voice.

“No. He doesn’t need another fangirl. He needs a friend. Someone who can support him. I… I wasn’t a good friend before this…” She didn’t reveal that she wasn’t a great partner either. Chat hid things well, but from time to time his shell cracked. She should’ve seen the signs. She could’ve done something. Or at least do something with Lila. She had connections and Lila deserved a lawsuit or five.

“Oh, sweety. You were a great friend. You are a great friend. I’m happy to see you’re not about to chase after some misguided love, but after friendship.”

“I know I’m only… wait, what?” Marinette.exe stopped working. If the problem keeps repeating itself, please contact customer service or the nearest Kwami.

“When I was fifteen, I dropped out of… school to explore the world on my own. It wasn’t until a few years later that I met your father.” Sabine said in a bit dreamy voice like she was reminiscing. “We had several adventures across Europe before finally settling down in Paris.”

“But… Papa’s a baker.” Marinette protested. “I thought he was always a baker, like his father.”

In response, her mother chuckled. “No. Your father had much more in common with your Nona than with his father. I met him when he was fighting in an underground cage-fighting club.”

“Whoa…” Marinette’s eyes widened. That was a story she never heard before. “So how did you two got together?”

“I will tell you some other time. The point is, I know that even if I took you to Paris with me, you would’ve run away to look for your friend.”

“Maman!” For a moment, the girl wanted to protest. But then she decided that there was no point. “Yes… you’re right. But I can’t just let it happen! If the police find him, he will end up back with his father!”

“I know. And what’ll you do about it?” Her mother had this mysterious smirk on her face.

“I guess… I need to be the one to find him. I will get him situated somewhere safe. Maybe stay with him for a bit. He’s smart. And a quick learner.” He mastered being a superhero faster than I did.

“Good. Then you have my blessing.”

“I can’t just abandon-” Marinette.exe stopped working again. Contacting the customer service might be in order. Technically, Sabine kept hinting about it. Practically, Marinette would miss a clue even if she was holding a gun to its head. “I have your what now?”

“You can go. Save him. Find yourself. And maybe kick some asses while you’re at it.”

“Most parents would be worried sick about their not-yet-adult children running off to an adventure.”

“You wanted to know how I met your father. The answer is I was the first to beat him in that cage.” Sabine’s smirk was replaced with a serious expression. “Of course I will worry, sweety. I’m your mother. But holding you back now will not help you. You’re a strong young woman and to be fair, I’m not sure how we could hold you down. You have steady access to the rooftop and two years of parkour training.”

“What now?”

“Did you honestly think we wouldn’t notice you sneaking off through the balcony?”

“And you didn’t even tell me?”

“It would be hypocritical of us.” Sabine defended. “And if the worse came to happen, I had several… souvenirs from our travel around the world.”

“Thank you, Maman. I promise I will come back; And call you often. Well, maybe not too often.” Marinette already dashed to start packing.

“Of course you will. And don’t get into too much trouble. I would hate to have to go and find you.” Sabine threatened with a bright smile on her face.

“I’ll try, Maman.” The girl was only half-listening now. She couldn’t waste any more time. She learned how to trace the call about one-and-a-half years ago when she was still a bit ‘stalker-ish’.

Sabine watched her daughter with amusement. So many memories returned to her now. Youth mostly well-spent if someone asked her. The ‘mostly’ part came to bite her just that moment as her phone pinged. She quickly checked the message and frowned.

“I’m sorry, my little cupcake, but I need to go check it. An old friend turns out to be in town.”

“I’ll call you later!” Marinette called from where she was furiously working on her laptop.

When Sabine left, the kwamis swarmed her immediately.

“Your mom is so cool!” one of them cooed.

“And she’s one bad-”

“Roaar!” Tikki scolded the tiger kwami.

“What’s the plan, pigtails?”

“Adrien’s call was made from within Gotham City. He’s still here for now. I also managed to track him to Burnley.”

“Didn’t that mercenary you called mention some Lawton?” Trixx offered.

“Yeah. I did try to search him up, but the only one with that name that I managed to find is Zoe Lawton. Wait. There is more!” She beamed up. “An old article in some Mexican newspaper.” She clicked on the link and read it aloud for her co-conspirators “Floyd Lawton, also known as Deadshot, was recently arrested after an assassination of a small group of smugglers. It is yet unknown if it was a hit or was it personal.” The article went on, but there was nothing more of interest.

“So the guy’s a mercenary too? That’s good. He’ll bring Adrien to you.”

“Not so fast. I remember hearing about him. Deadshot is one of the few mercenaries who try to keep some resemblance of a code. He’s also noted to be soft around children.”

“Isn’t Adrien almost an adult though?” Kaalki asked rather uncaring.

“Have you met the guy? He’s a literal ray of sunshine!” Plagg protested.

“So… he won’t deliver him and won’t return him.” Seeing that some Kwamis didn’t understand her logic, she clarified, “I don’t think that if he learns how Gabe treated his son he will be in any hurry to return him.”

“That makes sense.” The little being all nodded in agreement.

“So what’s the alternative?”

“He could adopt him,” Ziggy suggested.

“Please.” Marinette dismissed the idea. “He’s not Bruce Wayne.”

“He could smuggle him out of the country.”

“No. Everyone’s looking for him.” Roaar countered. “He would try to lay low somewhere.”

“Burley is large and full of potential safe houses.” Marinette started to think. “But there is also a large concentration of organized crime. Alone, we would have a hard time, but if we got them to help…”

“Is it wise to involve more criminals into your schemes Marinette?” Tikki asked skeptically.

“Don’t worry, sugarcube. To catch a bird you need wings. To catch a criminal you need crime.”

“I’m not sure that’s how it works.”

“What’s the worse that could happen? I will go there as Seamstress. I won’t even appear in person. Right, Trixx?”

“You can count on it.” The fox kwami grinned.

“But… but…” Tikki wanted to scream her head off. Why did the previous guardian choose a juvenile criminal for her holder. Marinette used to be such a sweet girl. Where did Tikki go wrong?

---------

It was dark when an eerie mist filled one of the less-than-legal clubs in Burnley. From among the smoke, a figure entered. She was wearing a godet-type black dress with a side-cut that reached to her belt. The dress was overlayed with a very visible deep-blue corset that pronounced her blue eyes. It had some intricate laces on it. She also wore a puffy-sleeved blazer (also black, but with a dark blue finish) with large and very pronounced cuffs. Around her neck was a white double jabot fixed to a choker with a large black gem surrounded by diamonds. Her long deep-blue hair was let loose and hung over her shoulder. A simple black-and-white domino mask hid her features.

As she marched, one of her legs shifted the fabric to reveal she was wearing dark-blue socks reaching above her knee and black leather boots. A knife was strapped to the right one and several leather strips around her thigh and knee suggested she had more weapons on her.

One of the men whistled.

“Looks like the entertainment arrived, boys!” Several cheered at that shout. At least until the man who dared to say it ended pinned to a wall with a rather large needle holding his jacket in place. It was also uncomfortably close to his jugular.

“I’m not entertainment.” The Seamstress hissed.

“Then you’re not invited.” Several men got up, many were holding now-empty bottled which they turned into impromptu weapons.

“You will help me find what was taken from me.” She demanded.

“Yeah? Or?” One of the men laughed before charging at her.

What followed next was perhaps the strangest carnage Gotham City has seen in years. The Seamstress danced between the attacks with almost unnatural grace and agility while stabbing the attackers in various places with large needles. None of the hits were life-threatening and most would heal within hours. The wounds were meant to incapacitate with minimal long-term damage.

By the time she reached the far end of the bar, almost every man was laid out on the ground groaning in pain or scrambling in fear.

“I am not asking. You will be rewarded for your obedience.” She then disappeared into the back alley. One brave/foolish enough who still had some fight left rushed after her, only to find the place completely empty.

On the rooftop, Marinette let out her breath. She didn’t use any miraculous for that one, but she kept Plagg’s ring on. Chat Noir wasn’t seen in some time, so it would’ve been easier to explain that the ring was stolen by a criminal. She would really need to thank her mother for all the training she forced on her ever since the Akumas started to appear, as well as the lessons during her childhood. Those were all only the most basic grunts tonight, but she got their attention. One of them would run to their boss. There, she could actually do what she planned.

--------

Just like she predicted, some of the less injured guys left the bar in hurry and drove their bikes to another part of the district. They disappeared into a three-story building. The windows were boarded, but some light seeped through on the top floor, so that is where she climbed. Indeed, by hanging on the edge of the window sill, she was able to hear the panicked screams inside.

“...and then she just disappeared! It was like that damn Bat, only much more terrifying. She was so small, and yet there was this… this… aura of power.”

Thank you Chloe for being queen B. Marinette stifled a laugh. Mimicking Chloe was the right choice.

“Probably another one of his useless brats.” The boss dismissed them. Marinette decided that it would make the best impression if she contradicted him right now.

She wondered for a moment how to enter the armored building. She could rip the boards away and enter that way, but she was aiming for ethereal, not brute. In the end, she pulled a pair of glasses and put them over her mask.

“Kaalki. Would you please help me break into headquarters of a criminal organization to scare them into serving me?”

“How many sugar cubes is it worth?”

“Ten. No more, no less.” Marinette had a small window of opportunity.

“You’ve got a deal.”

“Kaalki! Full gallop!” The light enveloped Marinette. When it died down, she was still in her outfit, only now the blue accents were brown instead. The gem on her neck held the symbol of a horse miraculous. “I love magical clothes. So easy to maintain the image.” Marinette muttered before a blue portal opened before her and she entered.

Inside, the five men (two who came to report, the boss, and his two guards) watched as the blue portal opened before them. The mist started to pour through it as well as through the boarded window. A figure calmly stepped inside.

“I didn’t expect the Gotham criminal organizations to be so… cliche.” She commented. Two needles sailed through the air and pinned the guards to the wall. Her horseshoe weapon waited patiently on her back should she need to use it.

“Who… who’re you?”

“Me? Oh. I’m The Seamstress. I had business in Gotham, but a fool dared to double-cross me. I need to find him.”

“Why… W-why shou-should w-we help… help you?” One of the guys from the bar asked.

“Oh. I’m not asking. I’m telling you that you’ll help me.” She informed. “I’m about to make you an offer you shouldn’t refuse.”

The boss was now shaking. Damn city with its damn overpowered supervillains. They think they can simply run things as they want. First Red Hood took out most of the top brass of the underworld and then this? Working on his father’s farm was sounding more and more appealing. Then there was the shouldn’t. The reference to the classic movie was not lost, but she said shouldn’t. Not can’t. Once more he remembered how Red Hood took over. Submit, or die. This was the same. She clearly wouldn’t hesitate. He liked to think he could see those things.

“I’m waiting.” The lady growled. “I’m not used to waiting.” Channeling Chloe is actually fun here.

“Fine. You can have my seat. I’m going back to dad’s farm. Just let me go and you can have them.” The boss stood from his seat and motioned for her.

Marinette.exe is not responding. Do you want to execute the process? Not yet.

She managed to keep enough cool to smile and take the seat, although she didn’t even register what was that.

She would panic later. For now, tracking Adrien. “I need to find where Floyd Lawton, also called Deadshot, is hiding with my… asset.”

“It… I will see to it, Boss… lady.” One of the guys from the bar nodded very fast before rushing out of the room.

“I… will bring you the list of current assets.” One of the guards informed and walked somewhere. They were used to aggressive takeovers. This was their third. Boss change, guards remain. This was honestly the first time the previous boss managed to escape with his life.

Meanwhile, Marinette finally realized what just happened. She really wanted to hit her head on the desk, but she was too afraid to show any signs of weakness. Why did she end up in this mess again?

----------

Sabine Cheng was waiting for her plane back when an airport guard approached her.

“Lady Cheng?” Sabine’s blood froze for a moment, but she refused to show any outward reaction at her past codename. “There is a man who wishes to discuss some… past debts.”

Damn it. And here she thought that bald bastard would forget about her. He had several more suitable people. He knew the risks of angering her.

Then again, she knew not to anger him either.

“Lead the way.” Her face was stone cold as she stood up.

Inside a comfortable private lodge sat a blad man in a suit more expensive than the yearly revenue of her bakery.

“Ah… Lady Cheng. I’m so happy you could’ve joined us.”

Sabine looked around and noticed that there was another man there, standing slightly in the shadows. A man she came to despise just as much as Luthor. Standing there was Gabriel Agreste.

“I can’t return the pleasure, Luthor.” She snarled, not letting her gaze drop from Agreste.

“Figured you’d say that.” The billionaire laughed. “But it doesn’t change that you came.”

“Be quick. I’ve got a plane to catch.”

“About that.” Lex smiled. “I’m afraid you won’t be on that plane. I need you to do something for me.”

“Sadly, my calendar is full for the foreseeable future.” She retorted coldly.

“Then you will clean it. Unless that is, you want me to tell my good friend the president about your little assignment for me twenty years ago. If I recall, your pardon didn’t cover that particular crime.” The man chuckled.

The only upside of this whole situation to Sabine was that Agreste finally realized exactly who she was. Or at least how dangerous she was. The deal she made ensured that Lady Cheng disappeared from everywhere but some people’s memory. To her dismay, Lex didn’t forget. And he still had that damning evidence.

She also knew exactly what was the job.

“I don’t do jobs involving kids, Luthor.” She seethed through gritted teeth. It wouldn’t matter, but she hoped it would at least give him a pause.

“Adrien Agreste was about to be married. I think that can calm your conscience. He was all but adult.” That despicable man dismissed her concern, as she predicted.

“I’m a little rusty. Don’t you have someone younger? Someone who would actually want to do this?” Sabine deadpanned. She kept true to the deal she made for her and her husband’s pardon and didn’t do any… extracurricular work.

“Alas, the fact you’re unwilling is why I need you. You see, the client, whoever they are, picked Agreste Jr. as a target in a… battle royale of sorts. It quickly stopped being about the ludicrous money reward. It’s now about proving who’s the best. And they won’t stop until they deliver him to that mysterious Seamstress.”

“So what do you want? I’m sure you could’ve bought some of them to drop the glory part.” She really didn’t want to do this.

“I offered to pay five times the price, but most of the competent ones want a shot at whatever that job is. A mysterious benefactor with no history, nonexistent in any database in the world, paying a small fortune for a simple job and offering further work? Doesn’t it sound familiar?” Lex reclined in his chair and smiled.

“One job only. I want everything you have on me. And ten times the bounty.” She noted his discomfort. “Don’t give me that look, Luthor. You can afford it. My daughter’s about to start a university.” Sabine turned to Gabriel. “I must thank you for the idea. Homeschooling really helps when one is gifted.”

“I’m sure we can come to an agreement,” Lex grumbled. If he didn’t know the quality of her works, he would’ve laughed at the price. Except he foolishly revealed that he was desperate.

“Oh, I’m sure we can.” Sabine smiled. She was like a cat that just caught a mouse.

#maribat #miraculous #ladybug #miraculous ladybug #mlb #mlb x dc #dc #DC comics #dcu #batman #Hit on the groom

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thetorturerwrites · 3 years

Text

Lamb Ch 11 - Tell Me

***This amazing artwork was gifted to me by @elmidol. Please do not re-use or re-post it without permission from them and/or myself. Don’t be a dickbag.

Previous Chapter

Summary: “Please don’t pretend.” It was little more than a hoarse croak that cracked at the end. “I can’t bear it. Let me be.”

“What do you know of pretending?”

He pinched your chin and bade you look. It wasn’t a rhetorical question; he expected an explanation, but there was no simple answer.

“I know you don’t like me. You’ve made it clear.” You sniffed and looked down, hiding behind your lashes. “I just don’t know why.”

Author’s Note: This chapter has my heart. I hope you enjoy.CN: Mentions of pregnancy, mass death, self-harm inclinations

***

Even in Hosnia, with its perpetual twinkling twilight, there was night.

Gradually, a stillness swept over the land. The stars dimmed to a faint flicker. The wandering wind settled down to rest. And the expanse of The Ren’s keep went stone silent. Not a ripple in the bath. Not a creak from the ages-old walls. Not a crackle of candlelight.

It was a crypt. Your crypt.

And yet, you could not die in it. You remained suspended in this agonizing in between. Perhaps if you lay quietly enough, you could slip beyond his enchantment, will your heart to beat slower and slower. Perhaps if you wallowed low enough in your grief, you could trick yourself into believing you weren’t apart from your family when the bombs dropped. You’d died with them.

Perhaps if you concentrated on it enough, you could simply cease to be.

These morose notions kept you curled into yourself. After leaving him in the throne room, you’d escaped to his bed, hoping for a few hours of reprieve. You kept on your cloak, hiding your head and face in the folds of the hood. You tucked your knees to your chest and hugged them tightly, imagining it was Nona. It was the only comfort you would get here, but it was hollow. Hollow, like everything else.

Numb, you ignored him when he entered. You didn’t need to see him anymore to know he was here. He changed the atmosphere by entering, altering the barometric pressure enough that you had to pop your ears whenever he came near. When the work was put down for the night and the souls collected, he came for you.

You thought briefly that maybe he would leave you alone. You’d fulfilled your part of the agreement. As far as you could tell, you were, in fact, pregnant. You’d done your part. But you let the wish die, as everything did here. He was too arrogant to stop turning your body against you. For all of your hostility and heartbreak, your body responded to him in a way you couldn’t quash. Regardless of how hard you tried.

You didn’t bother unwinding from your ball. He would move and position you how he saw fit. Your eyes, dry and red from staring into nothing for so long, closed in preparation. You found you could endure his emptiness if you did not look at him. It made the times he bent you over to have you less bitter. You’d been grateful for the ability to bury your head and not be tempted to look.

Tonight, however, he did not pull you from your self-pity. Neither did he jerk you from your cocoon. He watched you; you could feel it, but you would not, could not, give him the satisfaction of looking over your shoulder. You were simply too wrung out to care. Whether it was pity or anger or outright meanness, he slid into the bed behind you without a word.

An inkling nagged at the back of your mind, an anger you were too deadened to acknowledge. His presence comforted you, irrespective of your ire. Knowing where he was and that he was so close made you feel safe. He was the only indomitable soul in the whole of existence, and you had quite a good reason to be protected. More so now.

Despite yourself, you fell asleep.

You awoke to a tangle of limbs and the decadent scent of belladonna. You’d nearly forgotten how good he smelled close up. Having rolled out of your nook in your slumber, you'd stretched out and were cradled in his embrace with his fingers lazily stroking the back of your head in a way that made your scalp tingle.

Alarm bells rang in your mind. This was dangerous ground, and you needed to escape. He could fast make you forget your commitment to staying away. You shifted in his hold enough for him to ease it open slightly; but when he understood you meant to flee, those wrought irons trapped you again.

“Let me go,” you said timidly.

He not only ignored you, he tipped your face up to press an almost chaste kiss to your wrinkled brow. It was too much, the very thing you feared. Your fight erupted, and you twisted to get free. You heard yourself telling him you’d done what he asked; he could leave you alone; you can’t do this.

He doused your outburst by rolling onto you, punctuating your feebleness. With one arm and one leg trapped beneath him, you gulped down fear and exasperation. He slid his leg up between yours, situating you so your cunt rubbed his broad thigh. Your cheeks burned, a complex mix of mortification and yearning. You’d finally found an empty place, a desolate oubliette in your heart where you could hide, and he was already dismantling it.

“Please.” You turned your face to one side, lips quivering. “Don’t do this.”

You knew you begged more tonight than you did when you arrived, more than you did when he fucked you the first time, but it was unstoppable. You wouldn’t come back from this. If he broke you, if he cracked you open to make room for himself, you would never again be able to contain the sadness. You would ache and cry and pine without solace.

"This," he said flatly. It was an admonition and a challenge combined into a single syllable.

“Please don’t pretend.” It was little more than a hoarse croak that cracked at the end. “I can’t bear it. Let me be.”

His thumb swept across your pulse, feather soft and lingering. His jaw ticked the way it always did when you frustrated him, but you’d weather it. It was worth the risk if you could get free.

“What do you know of pretending?”

His patronizing question stoked the resentment lurking in the dark matter of your brain, but you fought it, blowing out as steady of a breath as you could manage. He pinched your chin and bade you look. It wasn’t a rhetorical question; he expected an explanation, but there was no simple answer. You knew you made far too many assumptions about his character, but he wouldn’t tell you anything to color your vision of him otherwise.

“I know you don’t like me. You’ve made it clear.” You sniffed and looked down, hiding behind your lashes. “I just don’t know why.”

“Hm. Why.”

He dipped his head to place another soft kiss to your neck, right above the hollow. He enjoyed finding the particular places that made you shiver. You pushed at his shoulder weakly, a last ditch effort, but he caught and drew your offending limb up over your head. His granite fingers latched around your wrist, keeping you bound to the bed, to him.

This was bad. Both hands at his mercy. One leg stuck between his. His thigh perfectly situated to welcome your body’s yielding. You felt more bare, more vulnerable, more weak.

Carefully, he pulled the string holding the hood of your cloak in place. Until he untied that bow, you’d forgotten you wore it. Dutifully, he unpeeled you, layer by layer and in a fashion far too intimate. You’d jumped through that door with only your cloak because he kept you clad in as little as possible for easy access. And plunder as you might through room after room, there were simply no other clothes that would fit you available.

That idiot decision led you directly to this moment and this torturous undoing.

You suspected the lack of attire was deliberate, but you forgot about all of that when he tugged the hood apart and pushed it further back. He caressed the length of your jaw with his knuckles, deliberately drawing out your suffering. This was calculated; he had millennia to learn manipulation, physical, mental, and otherwise.

You didn’t stand a chance.

“You ask too many questions.”

Egregiously slow, he popped the first button on your cloak, the one below the same hollow he’d kissed. With his index finger, he drew a small circle there. Your toes and fingers curled involuntarily. You wanted to argue that you only asked questions because he wouldn’t tell you anything, but you realized he answered your accusation. It was why he didn’t like you. A boulder dropped into your belly because you didn’t want to hear it. It was enough that he didn’t; you wouldn’t recover if he told you why.

“You are stupidly reckless.”

The second button met a similar fate, a leisurely unfastening. It wasn’t only the fabric he plucked apart. It was also you, and you squirmed beneath the utter slowness of it all. You wanted him to edge you forever and to hurry the fuck up.

The last button sat over your heart, and you cursed it for being so bloody prophetic. You felt like howling. You wanted to hurt and sob, but the trail of his fingers made you forget your own name. With the third button gone, he traced the line of your sternum before dipping down to lick up a bead of sweat between your breasts.

“You distract me,” he murmured, lips crawling back up towards your pulse.

That last one cracked lightning in your head. The room tipped sideways into spinning. Your lungs turned to steel, struggling to expand. You ground your jaws together painfully, and your throat burned with acrimony. With those three words, he shredded your tender soul to ribbons. Ruined, you squirmed, all pins and needles and lust. It felt like you wept, but your cheeks were too hot to be damp.

I don’t. I don’t. I’m sorry. I don’t. I’m sorry. I can’t. Don’t.

It became your litany. You chanted it, lamenting and weary, but his hands did not waver from their task. He flipped the cloak open, bearing your flesh to the cool midnight air. His slightly calloused palm smoothed up from your calf, along the curve of your hip, and over the ripe swell of your breast. He squeezed, fingers digging in until your hiccups changed to whimpers. The noise he made right before he covered your straining nipple with his mouth coaxed your entire body into a jerk.

“Kylo,” you choked, barely able to get it out. “Please. Don’t make me.”

It was the first time you said his name, and his head shot up. His eyes bored holes into you, swirling incandescent. Fast as a feline, he shifted, settling more of his body on you and looking down. He went from halfway lying between to spreading your thighs obscenely wide with the sheer size of his frame.

You didn’t want him to see the things you couldn’t hide, but he clearly had no plans to let you loose.

“Make you.”

His truncated parroting was infuriating, but you fought valiantly to not be goaded into an argument you'd never win.

His thumb breached your lips to swipe at your tongue, and your body surged up painfully as though he electrocuted you. You’d worked hard to forget the sugary taste of him, the way his skin drugged you to an erotic high at the briefest taste. He was deadly in every way and sexier than anyone had warned you, or maybe even knew.

It was pointless to argue any further. He would win. He would always win. Hardening yourself against what you knew to be a hungry gaze, you looked up at him. For a flash of a second, he wavered at the sight of you, but he disguised it with the press of his lips into a steadfast line.

“Don’t make me feel like I’m not alone.”

You said it with much more calm and confidence than you actually felt. Your time in his captivity, beneath him and wrapped around him, developed this new ability to distill your rambling down to its foundation. He didn’t like questions or mortal nonsense. He wanted it plain, always, and you’d learned how to do it. He didn’t like a lot of extra words; but no matter your newfound skill, you overflowed with them. The essence of your human-ness was to make connections, to find understanding and empathy.

“I have nothing. Not a home, not a family, not you.”

You studied the way he studied you, watching him swallow what looked startlingly like a feeling.

“I’m not like you. I’ve had to mourn my family alone, and…” You stalled, but you knew he wouldn’t let you not finish. “I have to mourn you every time you say something nice to me or do something that looks like kindness but isn’t.”

His brow cocked, a clear response to what he felt was your false presumption, but you didn’t care. You were beyond it all. You may as well say to him whatever you wanted because it couldn’t get worse than his stony countenance day after day, and the alternative to that was the peaceful forever of death.

“I’m not asking you to like me.” Foolishly, you carried on, but your voice dropped, quieter and more afraid. The bravado you felt faded fast. “I’m asking you to not make me like you.”

The way he looked at you, slightly off stoic but decidedly demanding, boiled your blood. He reached down and hooked his fingers under your knee, drawing your leg up and around his hip. It parted your legs more for him, opening you up in a way that made you swoon. You thought you could stay out of reach of his dick; but with it so close, you practically salivated for it.

“It's far too late for that.” Following the first, he tugged your other leg into place around him. “Your body gives you away.”

You wanted to disagree, but his teeth nipped your cheek. You shuddered at the tease of his hard length sliding through your mess, seeking its target in the warm and wet that never quite abated. Your everything swelled for him. Breasts, nipples, pussy lips puffy and engorged with your rushing blood. He wasn’t wrong, but you despised him for pointing it out.

Your breath ruptured into wild panting, sharp through clenched teeth. You stared up at him, hopelessly lost to the spiraling of color in his irises. He took advantage of your deliriousness and pushed your previously pinned arm above your head with the first and held both down with one massive hand. It elongated your body and arched your torso up into him, a thing he enjoyed if the thrum in his chest was to be believed.

You imagined yourself an insect, wings stretched out and nailed to the bed; and all the while, the mad scientist above you inundated your senses. His mouth descended upon your breast once more, eliciting a strangled keening when your vocal chords caught up to the rest of you. He batted the hard nub with his tongue until you writhed pitifully, and he only switched to the other when you tried to buck him off from the over-stimulation.

Playing more and more into his hand, you hugged his sides with wobbly legs and tried to draw him in closer. Your body did truly lead the way, each movement beyond your mind’s purview. It no longer hearkened to your whims but to his. Your insides leaked out of your sex, painting both you and he with heat and want. It scented the air and mingled with his tempting poison.

You were seconds from begging him to fuck you when the blunt head of his cock found its place. He gripped your hip and mouthed at the side of your neck as he rocked himself further into your weeping slit bit by bit. Your eyes rolled back in your head, and your fingers dug into his because it always amazed you. He was long and thick and perfect; and though he stretched you open to the point of burning, it was intoxicatingly good. Thankfully, he bottomed out right when you thought you surely couldn’t take any more.

You whined his name, which spurred him to bite at your shoulder. You convinced yourself it was to cap off the grunt you heard in the back of his throat. He masked another noise by burying his face into your nape and sucking a mark into your salty skin.

You clamped your eyes shut because these were the sounds you so desperately wanted to hear for weeks. Anything to show you did well, to show that he enjoyed you, or at least your pussy, in a way he would never say. You’d forgotten, however, that shutting your eyes so hard contracted your cunt at the same time until he withdrew without warning and rammed back in to enjoy that tightness. You yelped in surprise but angled your hips to give him a deeper channel. The moans you tamped down for so long clamored to the surface. Ablaze, you couldn’t be quiet to save your soul. You mewled and yowled with each powerful snap of his hips and the way he pillaged you for every last centimetre your cunt had to offer.

This was unlike any time he’d had you before. He kept your limbs immobilized and your body taut. He kept his pace persistent but unhurried, which had you pleading pitifully. And he kept his mouth on you, lips grazing, tongue tasting, teeth scraping. Enticing, sinful noises were pushed into your skin as though he didn’t want you to hear them but couldn’t contain them.

And then, it happened. The thing you wanted so passionately. The thing you dreamed about.

He snuffed out your cries with a fiery kiss, blasting through the last of your willpower.

His mouth was heaven, delicious and plump and divine. He knew exactly how he wanted to kiss you, and he led you to it expertly. He tipped your face precisely the right way and wrecked you with the spice in his spit. And when your lips trembled, agitated by sadness and relief and passion, he bit them, as though to chase those things away and replace them with himself.

Abruptly, it all came to a halt. He pushed up to his knees, lifting the lower half of your body in the doing. He didn’t pull out, not willing to surrender his occupation of your body. Nor did he relinquish his rigid grasp of your wrists, opting instead to splay his free hand across the soft swell of your belly, pushing down to trap you there. Your head swam, and you groaned because you felt more full as he pressed on your abdomen. You knew he waited for you to look at him, but you blundered, destroyed and witless.

“Do you want to die?”

His normally razor sharp tone lilted into something you could not name. Your eyes struggled to settle on one particular feature because he was hypnotically beautiful. His eyes shone brilliantly bright; a soft pink blush blossomed across his nose and cheeks from his arousal.

Punctuating the question, his hands found the magic he laid upon you at your forearm and thigh. He rubbed through the ever-looping blood, which, somehow, made your insides shiver. It was a wicked sensation, a stroke to your very veins that pulled a carp from the depths of your being.

“Tell me.”

Your eyes stung. It was cruel of him to ask you this while buried to the hilt inside you, while he was in the middle of obliterating the walls you tried so hard to build between you. But it wasn’t a threat. As you peered up at him, charting a course from one irresistible mole to the next, you saw he asked in earnest. He offered you the escape you hopelessly sought.

Strange how you weren’t so sure you wanted it.

Your loved ones still lay unavenged. Your call for the annihilation of The Resistance still had not been answered. You fought so hard to make it here, sacrificed so much of yourself to that end. What would it say about you if you abandoned it? Weak. Childish. Unworthy.

Beyond that, you had to admit he was right. It was too late to pretend your feelings for him didn’t complicate the issue. You weren’t so stupid as to think he loved you, but you burned for his kind word. You craved his touches even when they weren’t kind. He lit a fire in you and made you feel, a feat you’d not accomplished on your own since the death of your people.

Not yet trusting yourself, you worried the inside of your lip and sought his eyes, but you weren’t prepared for the way he looked at you. He was primal desire manifested, ragged and raw need encased in the skin of a man. The first man. The only man.

But what if he died? What if he found Vader and walked off his own cliff? You’d be here, alone and lonely, with only whatever semblance of a child he produced to stop you from going mad.

How you answered would change the arc of your life irrevocably. If you said yes, this teetering on the edge of begrudging coexistence ended. You could slip into nothing and be done with all of this. If you said no, he would have his hooks in your spirit for eternity. No matter if he never loved you, you wouldn’t be able to refuse him. Ever.

“N-no.”

It was a jittery, hesitant sound, but it was true. He accepted your supplication by pulling you close so he could lift you up. He guided your fingers to his shoulders and settled back on his haunches, holding you closer than ever before. Your weight sunk you down onto his cock and you whinged from the way it nudged your sensitive cervix. You crossed your ankles and tried to inch upwards for a bit of relief.

One chiseled arm held you aloft, while the other traveled your length, winding from the nape of your neck to wrap around your generous hip. He found the spot between where your thigh ended and where your ass began and made a handle, using it to move you up and down, forward and back.

In mere moments, he had you wound up and ready to combust all over again.

“S’ansur yien,” he crooned into your neck, a murmur more profound than thunder. “Tyor ilohira.”

“Kylo? I…”

The way he growled into your neck and slammed his hips up into yours when you said his name settled your curiosity. There was no doubt he enjoyed hearing you say it, and you wondered if he’d ever heard it on another’s lips before. You clung to him as his pace quickened. Over and over he said those eloquent, alluring things into your neck, your hairline, your shoulder. Things you'd never heard before; things it seemed like he couldn't not say.

Tyor ilohira. Yie ilohira. S’ansur yien.

His presence expanded, saturating the room with a consuming euphoria that addled your mind. All while he worked you on his cock in much the same way he did that first day, using your body for his pleasure. Unlike before, he was as deep in your cunt as he could physically be without ripping you apart, and he strained at the seams to keep from doing so.

You quaked. There was nothing for it but to brace. Your pussy stung, and each subsequent shove of his dick tore at your cunt more. You bled for him, as you had so many times before, and you knew he could certainly smell it tinting the air with the slightest hint of iron. It roused him to a roughshod railing every time.

His mouth lined up with yours in a kiss that could only be called a brand. It was fierce and full of urgency, lusty and skirting frantic. His grip turned brutal, possessive; and then, it was your turn to swallow the indecent sounds he made as he flooded your battered cunt. He rode the orgasm out, pumping his hips slow and insistent until his satisfied hum abated.

You swayed, coiling your fingers in the hair at the base of his neck to not topple backwards. You were wary but content to stay here however long he might like. You traced the line of his scar down to his shoulder blade with a skimming fingertip. He was ethereal, holy, and you wanted to pray to him, to exalt all that he was and would ever be, though you didn’t know why. He hadn’t exactly earned that level of worship.

He didn’t meet your stare. Instead, his luscious lips rolled together as he pieced his indifferent veneer back together. A gasp lodged in the back of your throat because he had been affected. You saw it; here was your proof. He’d ridden that whirlwind with you, the result of which was plain as day on his face.

“Kylo?” You dared a whisper, not wanting to break the moment, but your ludicrous need to know things simply would not allow the niggling question to go unasked. “What was that you said?”

His lips lifted at the corners, an entertained huff that won you a nudge of his nose to yours. His eyes softened slightly. And you thought you might fly out of your body.

“No more talk of cliffs,” he said, blatantly dodging your question.

An almost affectionate kiss to your forehead closed the book on the topic, but you’d remember what he said forever, the secret he accidentally shared. You’d already begun plotting the rooms you’d ransack for the language texts you found while he was battling Solo.

The mesmerizing crest to which he carried you ebbed further and further away. A fatigue seeped into your muscles and bones. At his withdrawal, an altogether bleak vacancy infused you with doubt, right down to your marrow. You tried to curtail the childish grumble, but it escaped through the harsh way you chewed the inside of your cheek.

Had you been conquered or consecrated?

What you wanted at the moment was sleep. Whereas he needed none, you still required it daily, a marker of your human fragility. The bath, and its healing ripples, could wait until tomorrow. He did not see fit to allow you this luxury, however. Instead, he scooped you and the blanket you tried to wrap about yourself up. He stepped into the hallway and turned in the opposite direction you expected. You peered over his shoulder forlornly, having decided that a bath would be preferable to whatever this would be.

He walked towards the doorway that started this insanity, dousing the embers inside that had you believing you might make it through today. You shrank more and more into yourself the nearer it drew. A blind terror took over, but you couldn’t move a single cell to save yourself.

The choice he asked you to make meant less than nothing. His decisions were the only ones that mattered here; and having debased you, having obliterated all that you were, he intended to throw you out anyway.

You dared yourself to be furious, to find indignation and hate in the cavity where your heart should be, but there was none. There wasn’t fear either, only resigned acceptance. A heavy sigh sunk your shoulders down, and you closed bleary eyes. You might not fight your fate, but you wouldn’t welcome it.

But the blast and crackle of the portal opening did not come.

To your dismay, he set you on your feet in front of the free-standing obsidian wall in his throne room. The disturbing looking glass you tried so hard to avoid these days. The temptation to lose yourself to memories of Nona was too great. Scowling, you refused to face it. When he attempted to tip your face up, you stubbornly shook your head and crossed your arms over your chest.

It was his laugh that drew you out of what you were quite aware was a fit.

You amused him, and it might have annoyed you had it not been for your outright astonishment. It wasn’t a smile so much as a smirk, and it wasn’t a full laugh so much as a chuckle, but it was a thing you had absolutely no idea how to process. You’d only seen him angry, lewd, or uncaring. You didn’t know how to process…. affable.

Disregarding the flabbergasted look on your face, he turned you about, but you were so afraid of what you would see that you stepped backwards, trying to dodge what came next. His trunk-like arm cinched about your middle, anchoring you in place as he leaned over your shoulder on the right. He shushed your uneasy chirping and placed his hand upon the cool rock.

“Kylo,” the warble in your voice betrayed your apprehension, “I don’t…”

The picture burst onto the surface, cutting off the woeful entreaty you planned. It took a full minute before you understood what you looked at — the destruction of a world. Your hands flew to a throat filled with fiberglass. Revolt roiled in your stomach and turned to chalk in your mouth.

“No!” You yelled and thrashed. “I don’t want to see this!”

The aggravated rumble in his chest didn’t dull your attempt to look anywhere but where he wanted. His fingers at your side dug in painfully, cementing you to this spot. It wasn’t that you feared for your safety. With him engulfing you like this, there was no safer place to be. The concern was that you didn’t want to see what annihilation truly meant. You wanted that to remain as nothing you could imagine, the scope of it too far beyond your insipid, idiotic mind.

He wouldn’t let you go until you obeyed, though, and you knew it. The tears that had been threatening to spill for hours broke loose, rushing over your horrified flush. The devil at your ear spoke, but it was lost to the dreadful cinema playing out before you. There was only the ringing in your ears as you watched blackness detonate and spread outwards across a lovely land that was so alive before.

If he hoped to stun you into a stupor, he succeeded.

Your thunderstruck neglect allowed him to slide the blanket from around you and toss it aside. The next time his mouth found your pulse, it was with the press of his bare body to yours. He plied the back of your neck with slow kisses until you exhaled. You didn’t remember stopping, but a burn in your ribs forced the issue.

“D’Qar,” he said quietly as the dead planet faded.

Another took its place, and your mouth went slack. You couldn’t help but place your hands there to gag yourself or to foolishly forestall what already happened. It assuaged your own guilt by little more than a fraction. The next planet met the same gruesome end.

“Yavin Hoth.”

Your brow knit, and you tilted your head to hear him better. Taking advantage, he licked a stripe from his thorny collar to behind your ear.

“Dantooine.”

The picture shifted once more; the devastation coming quicker and with less and less mercy. Your eyes shot open, bulging out with understanding. He begat a war inside of you with this burdensome lesson because you knew those planets. You recognized them from the miserable, despondent plight that led you here.

“Takodana. Ilum.”

Resistance planets.

Your knees buckled, the weight too great to bear. It was only his sturdiness that kept you from hitting the floor. With his ghastly slideshow finished, his hands were suddenly everywhere. Around your throat, squeezing your ribs, hauling you onto your toes with fingers in your sticky pussy.

“Is this not what you asked me for?”

His dramatic declaration did not match the reality of what he was and what he did. He took your request, your dying wish, and hideously warped it. You asked for The Resistance to be exterminated, but what he’d done was use your heartbreak as an excuse to further his own cause. He wiped out entire worlds with you as his unwitting muse.

Worst of all — You couldn’t tell him to stop.

What did that mean for you?

You dropped into him, a sack of flour against marble. Torn between two truths, you choked on an appeal, unable to get it to leave your lips. The first was that you did this. You were responsible. There was no separating from the fact it was likely you who sparked the idea for his crusade. You’d unknowingly unleashed him upon the Galaxy when you asked him to avenge you.

The second was that you didn’t regret it. With all that happened, with the icy isolation, the bruises you bore for him, and the devastating fact that you’d snuffed out billions of lives, you regretted no part of it.

Disgust clogged your mouth and fattened your tongue. Many of those people did not deserve to die. The overwhelming majority of them did not deserve that fate. But The Resistance did. In the darkest pit of your heart, you were glad. Glad those planets were gone. Glad The Resistance lost so much. Glad he’d done what was in his nature and wiped so many of them from existence.

You were so mired in the swampy feelings and cloudy thoughts you didn’t feel the slide of his lips over your shoulder. It wasn’t until he pushed you face first into the thing that you broke from your reverie. Just in time for his mouth to connect with the bottom of your spine. You shot up to your toes when he bit your ass and hauled your hips back towards him.

Before you could protest, or think of why you ought to protest, he planted his face between your thighs and directly into the center of your cunt. You barked a curse, arching and squirming under the sinful slither of his tongue. At your front, his insistent thumb found your throbbing clit and pressed in, eliciting the most abject whine you’d ever produced.

It wasn’t the first time he’d tasted your blood, nor the first time he’d enjoyed toying with the rips he made in your fragile flesh. It was simply the first time he seemed to care if you enjoyed it.

You’d been in his bed for weeks, maybe years given Hosnia’s disparate slog through space and time; and though the first few encounters were decidedly more patient and mild, he’d long since tired of waiting for you. Lately, he fucked you hard and fast, and he didn’t care for anything other than filling you as many times as necessary for his seed to take root.

But now…

Now, Kylo Ren, Death, the embodiment of all endings, was on his knees. For you.

He laved your cunt with his saliva and sucked your plasma-tinted slick down like candy. You vibrated each time his tongue delved into you and scratched at the infernally smooth surface to keep from tangling your fingers in his hair. His nose rubbed indecent parts of you that had never received such attention. His teeth tugged the engorged meat of your labia until it popped loose with a squelch. Your cunt pulsed around his probing, and he moaned in what sounded like delight.

Like a bitch in heat, you twitched in exquisite agony.

You pressed your forehead to the wall, barely upright, blinking heavily, and hardly seeing the floor. Overwhelmed was not an apt description for the moment, but it was the only one you could latch onto.

What you could see, however, what you could make out between your legs and just past his punishing hand, was the bob of his cock, recovered and standing tall, proud, and ready. The thought of him rendering you further asunder dropped you off the edge, and you shuddered. You couldn’t muster a moan through the orgasm; it was too entrenched in your guts, too laden with emotion.

But he knew. He knew, and he claimed it all with sloppy kiss after sloppy kiss to your exhausted lower half. Cunt. Thighs. Hips. Ass. Vertebrae. You hissed when he slid two impatient fingers into your well worn core to scoop out the very last remnants of your downfall.

He did it. He won. Conquered, not consecrated.

The tangy aroma of you wafted close by when he collected you in a new embrace. He folded you into his dizzying gravity, covetous of his prize.

“Kylo?”

Your brow crinkled because a strange flutter disrupted your equilibrium. You struggled to identify it because it had been so long since you felt it. You pressed a hand to your hot forehead, to your belly, to your ear, trying to uncover the source. Was it fever? Exhaustion? Had you pushed the limits of his spellbinding too far?

Untroubled, he hummed his response into the side of your head, no doubt expecting another of the endless questions you produced.

And then it was there. This bodily function you’d forgotten because you didn’t need it here.

“I’m really… hungry.”

Whatsoever The Ren offers me, I shall accept. He will carry me across dark waters, guide me to the distant shore, and bear me hence to my ancestors.

And I will praise his name for all my time there.

#kylo ren smut #kylo ren x reader #kylo x reader #kylo ren imagine #kylo ren #lamb

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zecretsanta · 3 years

Text

FIC: Four Times Hazuki Kashiwabara Almost Lost Her Kids (and One Time After They Found Her)

To: @mortellanarts

From: @grumpsterkitty

For mortellanarts for Zecretsanta 2020 – “Lotus and her kids on Christmas”. This story mentions a near miscarriage.

AO3 LINK

(1)

It was an accident.

An honest accident. Not like the ones that would happen at home.

She asked to watch the surveillance tape, after, once she had seen the doctor and she had reassured her that everything was fine. Even in black and white, she could see the horror on Wendy’s face as she tripped over the electrical cord. She replayed the moment when Wendy stumbled into her, knocking her into the copier. Watching as her pregnant belly seemed to compress to an impossibly small size.

If she had lost the girls, she probably wouldn’t have been able to forgive Wendy.

To be honest, she hadn’t forgiven Wendy.

Which wasn’t entirely fair; perhaps the bulk of the blame was on the repair technician, or whoever decided to put the copier against the west wall, which had fewer power outlets, or whoever built and wired the building to begin with.

The blood - her blood - looked dark grey on the video. It looked innocuous, like spilled soda.

She left the job three months after the twins were born, when she was sure they’d all be able to transfer to her husband’s insurance.

(2)

She cursed under her breath as she dropped the first aid kit. The alcohol wasn’t even in here, she remembered, as she saw the band-aids scattered across the ground. A tiny drop of blood slid down her ear and onto the Ace bandage.

The doorbell rang just as she managed to find the alcohol in the clutter under the sink. She sloppily splashed some on a cotton and glanced at herself in the mirror. The blood hadn’t gotten on her outfit, at least. The doorbell rang again, and again, and again, as she barreled down the stairs.

“Dammit, when did you get so impatient? Girls, Liz is early, are you done with -?”

She was cut short when she entered the dining room and saw their dinner plates still on the table, barely touched, and her daughters nowhere to be found.

“Girls?”

The doorbell ringing continued, but she ignored it. She went through the rest of the house, picking up the pace as each one was empty. She was only upstairs for what, ten, fifteen minutes? Just long enough to change and put on her damn earrings. She called out their names as their babysitter kept pressing on the doorbell.

In panic and rage, she stormed to the front door and flung it open, ready to scream. But it wasn’t Liz, just Nona and Ennea standing there with popsicles in their hands.

“We didn’t realize the door would lock behind us,” Ennea explained. The grating music from the ice cream truck got louder as it came down their street.

Hazuki allowed herself a sigh of relief before she chastised them. “You left, without even asking, to get dessert, before you finished dinner?”

Nona just shrugged while Ennea at least had the decency to look embarrassed. “Mom, come on. You know they’re the only one who have the blueberry ones we like. We’ll still eat our dinner. We promise.”

“We promise,” Nona reiterated. “Even the carrots.”

“Maybe half the carrots?” Ennea said, a grimace on her face. “I read if you eat too many, you can turn orange.”

“You eat too many blueberry popsicles, you’re going to turn blue. You have a perfectly reasonable portion of carrots on your plate and I expect them to be all gone when I’m done.”

Her daughter’s expression changed, from disgust to worry. “Mama, what happened to your ear? Daddy … he didn’t come by, did he?”

“No.” Hazuki kneeled in front of them. “Remember that paper I told you about? He can’t come here or he’ll get in a lot of trouble. It’s just been a little while since I wore earrings and my holes must have closed up. I tried to force it through and I shouldn’t have. Now finish up your dessert and eat your dinner.”

Her twins exchanged a glance before heading to the dining room. She took a deep breath and went back upstairs to finish getting ready. As much as she had wanted to wear her new jewelry, she could see the earlobe swelling up.

There would be time for wearing earrings, later. Now that she didn’t have to worry about her husband ripping them out of her ear.

(3)

It started to drizzle, but she stayed on the bench. She could see Deanna about to cross the street into the park. She had her hand on the stack of hundreds in her purse. Deanna waved at her and Hazuki clenched her teeth.

It was silly. Nobody had tailed her, she was certain.

Deanna sat next to her, seemingly uncaring that the bench was wet. Hazuki handed over the envelope of cash without a word.

“It’s definitely done?” Deanna asked.

“I think he could appeal, but he probably won’t. He didn’t actually want the girls. He just wanted to hurt me.”

“I hate men.” Hazuki must have made a face, because Deanna laughed. “I can hate men and still be a hooker.”

“I thought women in your price range called yourselves ‘escorts’.”

“We’re all the same. Just because I don’t stand on a street doesn’t make me better.”

“Well. Thank you.”

The smile faded off Deanna's face. "I've done this before. That wife wanted to get out of a prenup and take his money. Which I could respect. Guy was an asshole. Do you have a picture of your kids?"

The sudden shift in topic left her mental gears spinning for a moment. She supposed there was no danger in it; she had researched Deanna thoroughly before emailing her. She dug into her bag and pulled out her keys, with the keychain the girls made for her last year. The picture inside the heart-shaped frame was of the three of them, the girls flanking her on either side, all of them smiling.

As she handed it to Deanna, the other woman looked like she might cry.

"I see my boy a few times a year, and that's it," she said finally. “My ex didn’t have a problem with what I did when he got to benefit from the money I made. Then I found out he was having an affair and he needed to tell the court I was an unfit mother so I wouldn’t get custody and he wouldn’t have to pay child support.”

“System is biased against women.” She took her keys back and tucked them back into her purse. “I work hard, take belly dancing lessons, and already started dating again. That was enough to make the judge question if I was a good mom. If you hadn’t been willing to –”

“Nobody’s going to protect us. We have to do it ourselves.”

They sat there in silence for a few moments as the rain started to taper off.

“What does your ex do, exactly?”

Deanna snorted. “He works for a health insurance company.”

“Any idea how good their firewall is?”

(4)

“Excuse me? Hello? Does anyone work in this hospital?!”

The nurse who came over looked exhausted, with dark bags under her eyes; any other day, Hazuki would have felt bad being so harsh, but she had been there for almost ten minutes and hadn’t gotten a single answer.

“Which kid is yours?” the nurse asked in a near monotone.

“Nona and Ennea Kashiwabara. I got a call they were brought here.”

“Ah, the twins. Yes. I’ll find their doctor.”

“Wait, are they okay?” The nurse seemed to ignore her as she walked down the hallway. “Can someone just tell me if they’re okay? What the fuck is wrong with you people?”

She felt a hand on her shoulder and almost took the man’s head off when she turned around. He was entirely too tall, with a well-chewed pen stuck behind his ear.

“I’m Detective Lynch. Can I help you?”

“I just want to find my damn kids!”

“Kashiwabara, right? The staff here are a little overwhelmed, but your kids are in good hands. And your girls are okay. Nona has a scrape on her knee, but that’s the worst of it.”

“Did you interrogate them? They’re minors. You can’t –”

He held up a hand. “I met the detective who rescued them at the pier. I rode with one of your girls here.”

“Did you say the ‘pier’? The – but – I was told they were found in a building in Nevada. Where – what the hell happened to them? They were missing for days!”

Lynch opened his mouth as if to respond, but suddenly seemed distracted by something just off to her left. She turned to see what he was staring at, but he reached out and took her hand.

“We’re looking into it,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “When the nurse comes back, go be with your daughters. Take them home. I’ll give you my card.”

He barely took his eyes off her as he pulled out a business card and scribbled something on the back. He handed it to her and walked off without another word. His cursive was sloppy, but she could clearly read the message – not safe, text me, I’ll call you.

“Mrs. Kashiwabara? Your girls are in room 407.”

When she turned around, there was no one there but the tired-looking nurse.

“The … the policeman who found the kids, where is he? Is he still here? Can I talk to him?”

“No, ma’am. I think he went back to the station. 407 is this way.”

She realized she was clenching her fists and had crumbled up Lynch’s card. But the writing was still legible.

(+1)

“Are you really sure you’re both okay with this?”

Nona cracked open the oven and clucked her tongue. “Not quite. And yes, mom, although it’s a little late to ask again now. And stop eating all the deviled eggs, or you won’t have room for dinner.”

Hazuki rolled her eyes; before she could grab another egg, Ennea swiped the plate out from under her hand.

“Need me to help with anything?”

“Sure mom, you can make the cranberry sauce.” Nona handed her can and an opener. Hazuki sighed heavily as she cut the lid off and schlorped the dark red jelly tube into the bowl.

“There, sauce is made.”

“It’ll be good to see Mamoru again.” Ennea told her.

“Oh, you’re on a first name basis now?” Nona teased. “What happened to Detective Watanabe?”

“He hates formality and you know it. Did you know he shares a name with a porn director?”

“Seriously?”

“Girls.”

“It’s true, though,” Ennea insisted. “The guy did a film called Virgin Rope Makeover.”

“Did Mamoru tell you that?”

“No, mom, the internet is a thing.” Nona peeked in the oven again. “Ah, finally.”

Hazuki tamped down the urge to remind her daughter that the turkey pan would be hot and heavy and to be careful. She had never been one of those mothers while her girls were growing up, but ever since … ever since, it was hard not to be overprotective. As soon as Nona had the turkey out, Ennea put in the pie. And then the doorbell rang.

“Okay, please no mention of porn directors,” she told her daughters.

Ennea rolled her eyes as she set a timer and followed Nona out to the living room. When Mamoru came in, he had to duck his head to avoid hitting it on the doorjamb. He inexplicably had a large cardboard box in his hands.

“Hey, so, uh, hi. I brought wine, but then I realized I didn’t know if you liked red or white, to I got both, but the girls couldn’t drink it, so I got grape juice, but then I realized I didn’t know if they liked red or white, so I just got both of those, too.”

Nona took the box from him and grimaced as if she hadn’t anticipated how heavy it was. “No worries.”

He shrugged out of his coat and Ennea giggled as she took it from him and put it on herself. It was so big on her it was practically a dress, and when she held up her arms, it was clear her hands were where his forearms were supposed to be.

“I call it … Three and a Half,” she declared. Hazuki smiled and Nona chuckled, but Mamoru looked puzzled.

“Oh,” he said finally. “’Cause I was Seven.” With that, he let loose a loud guffaw.

“Go on,” Ennea told him. “Dinner is basically ready. Do you feel like carving the turkey? Mom and I usually butcher it when we try.”

“Uh, sure.” He followed Nona as she hauled the box of beverages into the dining room.

As Hazuki put her arm around Ennea, she heard Nona ask, “Is it true you share a name with a Japanese porn director?”

(fin.)

#zero escape #9 hours 9 persons 9 doors #mortellanarts #grumpsterkitty #zecret santa 2020

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goose-books · 3 years

Photo

goose-books productions: a 2020 review

view the image in higher quality here! (open the image in a new tab to zoom in.) thank you to my dearest @yvesdot for the template

transcripts and month-by-month details under the cut! for reference, you can find my projects here :-) overall, new and old followers, thank you for another good year over here! [holds your hand] [holds your hand] [holds your hand] [holds your h

january

i spent late 2019-early 2020 working on 2019’s nano project, quark, aka the speculative fiction thing about new york city and prophets and dissections of the chosen one trope and gay people. quark is my second-oldest project (five years!), but it’s also probably the most ambitious, so it’s been... difficult to wrangle into place, and i didn’t end up finishing a first draft. oh, well.

enjoy a snippet that is devastatingly emblematic of everything about quark. the tone. the homoerotic tension. the ensemble cast all talking over each other. the fact that caelum has spent pretty much this entire scene crying. fun autopsy report meeting.

Marble stares at the notebook in Shade’s hands. Or maybe he’s staring at Shade’s hands. Dawn feels a little voyeuristic, so she does what she does and says a dumb and unrelated thing: “Augustus, I think this pizza-on-the-floor thing is hurting my ass.”

Augustus flutters his hands. “Sometimes nonconformity is painful.”

“At least we’re originals,” Caelum mumbles into his sleeve.

“Exactly,” Augustus says.

“True originality doesn’t exist,” Marble says.

“Oh,” Shade deadpans, “it’s going to be a fun autopsy report meeting.”

It isn’t.

february

in january i stressed myself out trying to make the plot of quark work. so in february, i decided to take some time and write something Entirely For Fun. like, entirely for fun, no rules. and. my god. how do i explain the project i started calling “third eye for the bad guy.”

it was an unholy mashup of many of my past hyperfixations, including the gone series, a tale of two cities, warrior cats, and the left hand of darkness. one of the characters was a canon scalie and one was a canon fictionkinnie. it centered around a polycule of wannabe-evil-overlord high schoolers. i only wrote like three chapters but i was lost in the sauce for all of february and then i just… like… wiped it from my mind and moved on? somehow??? one character was a werewolf and that literally wasn’t relevant at ALL

Someone was going to die on these steps.

This had been Ivy Lee Palomo’s thought last year during the all-school photo, and it rose in her mind again now. The one hundred marble stairs leading up to the great double doors of Saint Constantine Academy were the school’s pride and glory, steep as the mountain, sharp as the blade under Ivy Lee’s skirt. With the cutting wind and snow glazing the stone more often than not, with the freshmen wild and wired on their first day of their first year, it was really only a matter of time before someone slipped and cracked their fucking head open.

It wasn’t going to be her. Not when she had Doc Martens and reflexes like an electric coil. Still. Ivy Lee didn’t want to watch someone die. She didn’t get along with dead people.

march

in march, i got back to the project i’d started in 2019 - AMT, my podcast! it’s a shakespeare retelling set in a modern high school; this excerpt is funnier and also more unnerving in context. (double, double, toil and trouble...)

INDRAJIT: What the hell are you doing?

[PAUSE.]

DEE (like she’s lying): Making pasta.

[ALL THREE OF THEM LAUGH.]

NONA: That’s right.

MORA: We have the keys to Mab’s office.

DEE: We’re using her stove.

NONA: To make pasta.

DEE: Do you want some?

[A TENSE PAUSE.]

INDRAJIT: No.

april

and darkling rears its head! all of my other projects have existed for at least a year; darkling (specfic king lear retelling) is... special. it was conceived in april, when i started hyperfixating on king lear, and i still managed to write an absolutely ridiculous amount of content for it. it was like the power of hyperfixation let me speedrun the entire process. which. okay.

iv: control

They say Cressida Stayer was nine years old when she turned her hair to gold. They laid her down in bed blonde, and the next morning, the waves cascading down her shoulders were solid metal, glinting harshly in the sunlight, weighing her down, creating that odd head-cocked expression she still wears now. Nine years old. Two or three years before most people develop enough magic skills to dye a single curl. Much less transfigure their hair into precious metal.

People also say Leovald Stayer’s immediate reaction was to hack it off her head and melt it down for cash. But generally they say that part a lot quieter.

may

in may i wrote AMT episode 15, by which i mean that in may there was a day when i sat in my room with the door shut for literally five straight hours listening to the same three songs on loop as i wrote the climax of one of the plotlines of AMT. so. that sure was… a day.

ISAAC: Do you want… do you want someone to drive you home? Hawk, you’re worrying me -

HAWK (almost cutting him off): Don’t. Don’t say that. I’m here to help. With your… thing.

ISAAC (quietly): I… don’t know if you should be here to see this.

HAWK (a little louder, more audibly upset): Well - what else am I going to do? Go home and - and have my dads talk at me and - and not be able to answer them? Because I can’t? I can’t. I don’t know what to say.

[PAUSE.]

ISAAC (V.O.): I wonder if this is what he feels like, on the outside, looking in at me. Watching someone else hurting. Helpless and afraid.

He still fits perfectly in my arms. I rest my chin on top of his head and pull him close to me, like I can stop him from shaking, like I can stop anything from happening the way I know it’s going to. I bury my face in his hair. He smells so familiar. He’s so warm.

God, Hawk. I love you so much. You shouldn’t be here to see this. Something bad’s gonna happen. And you’re not the kind of person who belongs in a tragedy.

june

okay, honestly, i should talk about “night shift” here, because in june i wrote a whole short story in one night (and then foamed over it for a week), but i am still in the process of submitting it places! so i am terrified to put even a sentence of it online. instead: the other thing i did this month was to finish AMT! (sixteen episodes and somewhere around 175k, iirc, but don’t quote me.) these lines are the opener to the final episode!

RAHMA (V.O.): The combined series of sophomore year disasters stretched through November. It’s June now. It’s taken me… a long time to get this all put together. I was going to make a vlog about it, initially - well, calling it a vlog sounds frivolous. I was going to make a video recounting the whole deal. All of it. From when I kissed Avery Fairchilde to the very last night. I scripted dozens of drafts; I put together dozens of bullet-pointed lists of what to cover… and it was never enough. Because Avery and I weren’t the only ones involved. Even if I was only focused on the two of us, it wasn’t just the two of us.

So… I gathered up everyone else. The whole town of Ellisburg is still talking about the week the town went crazy, but it wasn’t just a week. There was a lot leading up to it. And I think if anyone’s going to talk about it, it should be us. The people who lived it. So here we are. The most ambitious Rahma Ashiq production of all time - at least so far.

july

every july i pause whatever else i’m doing to celebrate the birthday of aurum & argentate, twins from my oldest and dearest WIP The Mortal Realm. july fifteenth! mark your calendars. they’re princes, though argentate would really rather not be; you can read the full birthday piece here.

“Do you… plan to get dressed?” A bit of the usual humor crept back into Aurum’s voice. “Although if you want to speak to the kingdom in your underthings, by all means, you have my full support.”

Argentate scrubbed at his face. He wasn’t dressed, no, but the usual malaise hung over his shoulders like a cloak. Guilt. Nerves. The sick sense that he hadn’t done something he was supposed to. The numb knowledge that it was too late to change a thing.

“I meant to,” he said. “Get dressed, I mean.” The rest went unsaid: I have just been sitting here. On the floor. Thinking about how I should get dressed.

“Ah,” Aurum said, extending his hand. “The traditional route. We’ll save the nude speeches for the future, then.”

Argentate took his hand, stumbling a little as Aurum pulled him to his feet. He steadied himself on the closest wall, taking a few deep breaths. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. His hands found their way to the cross, again and again.

august

this summer, i wrote an entire draft of Valentine Van Velt is Dead, AKA “holden caulfield goes to exposure therapy,” AKA the weird little personal side project i keep tucked into my coat. interesting features include second-person narration from a narrator who doesn’t like the main character all that much. so reading it is kind of like the book wants to kill you? with an added dash of general melancholy.

You used to live here. That’s the thing that’s got you feeling so off.

You didn’t recognize your old house. I mean, you kind of did. You remembered that the road was on a hill. That hill felt like a goddamn forty-five degree angle when you were a kid. But if you didn’t have the address written down you wouldn’t have known it at all. It would have been just another little suburban house in rows of perfect little towns that make your skin crawl.

So now you’re in this diner looking out a gross smudgy window trying to block out the elevator music pumping through the speakers in the ceiling or whatever. I don’t know how speakers work. You’re trying to tune that shit out. The waitress comes over and catches you by surprise so you just point at some coffee thing on the menu so she’ll go away. For the record: you don’t drink coffee.

There’s a public library across the street. A little square building. You probably used to go there. The lady comes over and thunks your coffee on the table and gives you a kind of look, like she wants to know what in the goddamn hell you think you’re doing here and not at school. You sip your coffee and look out the window until she leaves you alone again. And then you spit it back into the cup because, for the record: you don’t drink coffee.

september

i spent september and october prepping for nano, so i was mostly working on darkling...

It’s late spring; still, at this time of night, on a rooftop, there’s a chill. The wind plays with the end of Ruby’s coat, with her hair. She hands the bottle off to Jasper, stares up at the fogged-over sky, wishes she were lying in Dany’s arms in Dany’s bed instead of here. Wishes, even, that Dany were the one on the roof with her. At least then they’d be cold together. At least then she wouldn’t have to imagine what Dany would say; she could just listen, and watch Dany’s flashing smile and her flinty eyes.

(She cuddles. This is another thing Dany does that Dany probably shouldn’t do, based on everything about Dany; it’s not like rattlesnakes cuddle. But Dany likes to nuzzle into Ruby’s side and rest her head on Ruby’s collarbones and toss an arm over Ruby’s chest, and hold her down like she’s worried she’ll float off somewhere. She’ll card her fingers through Ruby’s hair and hum. Even though they could get caught, even though she’s probably got better places to be - Dany cuddles.)

Ruby imagines it, momentarily, both of them on the roof together, sprawled like horrifyingly beautiful gargoyles, sharp teeth flashing, blood running hot. Up here - it’d be like they ruled the world.

But whatever. Jasper’s fun. He’s hot. He’s got a sharp tongue in a lot more ways than one. And she likes when he lets the mask down. She likes seeing the soft bits underneath. She wants to sink her teeth and nails into them so hard she draws blood. Masks don’t bleed. Ruby would know; that’s why she is what she is.

october

...though i was also in creative writing class in school, and thus ended up writing a bunch of poems of varying quality (my teacher had a real thing for poetry) and also one darklingverse short story where rory and cressida hold hands! which you can find here.

Lorelai Rory Flowers is afraid of thunder.

This is a bit of an embarrassing thing to admit, as they’re seventeen (“at least seventeen,” they like to tell people, “maybe two hundred, who’s to say?”) and generally wise beyond their years, or whatever it is that adults say about kids with too much psychological baggage. Being afraid of thunder is not a very wise-beyond-one’s-years trait. And yet the state of affairs remains: loud noises make Rory want to melt into the earth. Back when they still went to school, even the fire alarm sent them scuttling under their desk to hide.

Right now, in the elevator, all they can do is shrink into their sweater.

They haven’t let go of Cressida’s hand yet.

november

and then november of course was nano which was an adventure all the way through. (opening tumblr on the fifth day of nano to find out about d*stiel... was something.)

“Apologize to me. Or get out of my house.”

Gracen’s voice is very, very low. For a moment she thinks he hasn’t heard her at all. Then he spins, eyes blazing. “What did you say?”

Gracen watches her own chest heave. She pushes herself up off the desk, stands with the effort of pushing a mountain off of her back. Leovald is six-foot-four. Gracen is six-foot-two. In her heels, in the heels she must wear to be a professional woman, to be a lady - they are the same height.

Gracen wipes her nose. When she lowers her arm, there’s a streak of blood across the back of her hand. Fire shivers in her chest; her heart rings in her ears; her voice could cut steel.

“I said,” she says, low, slow, volume building, “apologize to me. Or get. Out. Of. My. House.”

december

and finally, the poem i posted this year! it’s called the beast sonnet, and you can find it in its own post over here (with commentary! how sexy.)

i kill the beast and drop down to my knees, my blade stained dark with blood of stygian hue, and for a moment these scarred hands shake free, and hold a world unfurled for me anew. but once-mourned victims, victors, vices find; fear winged me; now its absence strips me bare. my sword now dulls, my legs, my voice, my mind; the beast, pried from my throat, leaves no skill there. and still i hear it laugh, O DEVOTEE— O CHILD DEAR, NO GLORY WITHOUT ME.

i was quite productive this year; i have to think it was because i was avoiding things... the peak of my productivity happened over the summer and in november, AKA, college app hell. (almost done with the last applications! pray for me.)

a general breakdown of what occupied me this year:

(no, i don’t know why the “various other things” category ended up so large... i blame all the one-off projects i wrote a single page for, and also whatever the fuck happened in february. yes, i do know why it looks hideous; it’s because each of my WIPs has a theme color

thank you once again for spending some time at goose-books dot gov this year! what to expect for next year: well, i very much hope i can produce AMT... also hoping to get darkling ready for beta readers, so keep your eyes out!

#max.txt #and that's a wrap!!! what a goddamn year.#okay. breath in. tags:#quark tag #third eye tag #(i think there are like. two posts in that one?)#amt tag #darkling tag #tmr tag #vvvid tag #wow that was a lot of text. if you read all this... [blows you a kiss] thank you!#max actually writes #year in review

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rohirric-hunter · 3 years

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Hathellang of Bree-Land (Léonys of Rohan Pt. 4)

Part 1 | Part 3 | Part 5 | Part 10

I was originally going to have the whole story from Léonys’ point of view, with no other POV characters, but I figured that A) I needed to explain how this story diverges from canon within the story and the original part 4 doesn’t really have room for that and B) I needed to explore Hathellang and his relationship to Léonys a bit more. He turned out to be a bigger motivating force for her than originally intended.

Drof is another of my alts. Most of my alts exist in the same “universe” if you will.

***

This is how it is to be Hathellang of Bree-Land:

Drof idly stirs the bean-and-bacon mess in her tin plate as she glares at you over the cooking fire, one of several puddles of light fending off the cold dark of the Mines of Moria. There are safe passages through now, from one end to the other, but evil still lurks in the shadows, and everyone resting at the Dolven-View huddles close around the fires that shelter them from it.

“You’re telling me you can’t cook? At all?” she demands.

“I can,” you say. “But you probably wouldn’t want to risk eating the results.”

“And this Léonys you’re always on about. Can she?”

“Not exactly.” In truth, Léonys cannot cook any more than you can. It was Lady Hackberry and a hobbit-lad named Gareth who did the cooking at home. You take a bite of your meal. It’s not especially tasty, but Drof has shown her usual cunning with spices and an uncanny knowledge of just how long to simmer something and it’s far from bland. If she were to add some young leeks, perhaps a couple of small potatoes, it would almost be the first meal you ever ate at Lady Hackberry’s, after you were unceremoniously herded there with Léonys one night by two hunters who drunkenly mistook you for one of the good lady’s wards and a town guard who absolutely had not, but thought it might be a convenient way to curb some of your more criminal habits without filling out any paperwork.

“Then what do you want to marry her for, then?” Drof asks, horrified, “If neither of you can cook?”

Goat-hooves clop against stone as a fairly large group of the beasts arrive, bringing an additional pool of light with them in the form of gleaming lanterns that cast long shadows across the floor. The Dolven-View is one of the central waystations that the Iron Garrison has set up, and people are always coming and going on their way to somewhere or other. There is no consistent day-cycle this far beneath the earth; people sleep when they are tired, and wake when wakefulness finds them.

“Well, there is this thing she does sometimes with bear intestines,” you say teasingly. “I haven’t tried it myself. Haven’t been desperate enough yet, but she says it’s decent.” She does not, in point of fact, say any such thing. On your journeys as you stood against Angmar, Léonys provided a great deal of sustenance for the pair of you through talented foraging, informed by a childhood love of gardening that she rarely pursues these days. But raw carrots and plain boiled potatoes irk after a time, and eventually the harsh ground in the north defeated her ability to collect anything she could identify as edible beyond doubt. Some of the hunters who congregate in the Prancing Pony speak of bear intestines and worse things, but Léonys does not, and you suspect that they are merely lying to goad a reaction from their audience -- much as you are. The lie is worth it for the look of disgust and disbelief that flits across Drof’s face before she cottons on to the fact that you are joking.

“I’m sure you’ll be very happy eating slop together,” she says very seriously, the words not so much directed at you as grumbled into her beard.

You laugh. “We’ll learn,” you say. “We have time.” Neither of you know your exact ages, but you are both young, twenty-five at the most, and have many years before you. You do not speak, or allow yourself to think too hard, of the darkness of Dol Guldur, or the webs of the Scuttledells, or the evil yet slipping through cracks in the stone not too far from where you sit now, or any of the close brushes with death or worse that you and Léonys have survived over the past several months.

“Hathellang?” a new voice says.

You turn to see the owner of the voice is not a dwarf, but a human woman, sun-reddened skin offsetting deep blue tattoos snaking over her limbs and face, matching her shirt and some of the threads in a thick plaid cloth belted about her waist. She wears a long sword at her side that seems different in make from the trinkets braided into her armbands, or the brass hoop earrings, or any of her other metal adornments. You encountered a few Dunlendings in the south of Eregion, before you joined with the dwarves on their quest into Moria. She bears some similarity to these, though you mark that her manner of dress is distinct from theirs. She steps toward you, eyes combing across you consideringly.

“That’s me,” you say, standing to face her.

She nods, apparently having satisfied some silent question. “I have been seeking you,” she says. “Léonys suggested that I might find you in Eregion, and the elves there said you had entered this mine.”

“You have seen Léonys?” you ask. “Where?” The last you had heard of her she had been in Rivendell, and while Lord Elrond’s borders lay open to all free people, you do not recognize the woman before you.

“In Dunland,” she says. “She travels with a band of North-men, the Grey Company, they call themselves.” The name means nothing to you, and you comb through your knowledge of the Men of Eriador in an effort to place the group. “I thought it strange; the other horse-lords do not seem to trust them, but she rides as one of them.”

“What is she doing in Dunland?” you ask, and then years of Lady Hackberry correcting you on your manners constrain you to quickly speak again before she can reply. “My apologies. I am Hathellang. But you knew that. This is Drof of the Stout-Axe Dwarves.” Drof stands and offers a nod of greeting.

The woman stands straighter. “I am Nona of the Uch-Lûth. I am short on time. I have found Hathellang, and now I seek the Golden Wood, and an Elf-queen who lives there. The dwarves tell me it lies beyond these caves.”

“It does,” you say. “What is your business there?”

Dark eyes narrow in thought. “I do not know,” she says. She accepts a plate of stew from Drof and settles down across from the two of you. “I know that I must go there, and that you must come with me.”

You shift uncomfortably. You’ve never quite outgrown your mistrust of strangers who want you to come with them; a street urchin in Bree-town is an easy target for certain individuals, and you had to learn early how to evade such dangers. Still, she aims for Lothlórien, and there are few safer places you could travel to with any companion. “Why me?” you ask, fighting to keep the suspicion out of your voice.

Her eyes narrow as she spoons some beans and bacon into her mouth, chews, and swallows. “Léonys said you would say that,” she says. “She gave me a token to bring to you.” She sets her plate aside and draws from somewhere about her waist an arrow, which she hands to you.

You take it and examine it by the light of the fire. It is Léonys’ craftsmanship, that much is clear, a straight shaft of black ash wood fletched with crow feathers. In Bree she tipped all of her arrows with iron tips provided by Helena Twobarrow, but this one sports only a sharpened fire-hardened point, and you can make out scores along its length and faint bloodstains, and one spot where it has splintered and the wood shifts minutely in your hands. This arrow has seen battle already.

A scrap of light grey fabric is wrapped around it just below the fletching, and your hands tremble as you undo the thin string that keeps it there. The handwriting is messy and difficult to make out in places, ink bleeding across the fine linen threads, but clearly Léonys’.

Hathellang,

You can trust Nona. (The name is crossed out several times, with variations in spelling, and in parenthesis another hand has added a word spelled out in letters you do not recognize.) I am travelling south with our unlikely friends, to meet Strider in my country and offer him aid. Nona (she has settled upon the second spelling) has a different mission, one I do not completely understand. She will tell you of a dream she had. She dreamed of you. I believe her, for she described you to me with great accuracy, and others. I fear Strider and his companions face some unlooked-for danger. Aid her (here there is a large inkstain, nearly engulfing the last word, and the message begins again after it in a different ink) if you can. I am needed here, and dare not write of the nature of my mission, for fear this message should fall into evil hands. I hope it finds you safe.

Léonys

It hits you harder than you expected, to, after everything, hold in your hands something that she made, and a hastily scribbled note on what looks for all the world like the ripped edge of a cloak. She has not written Léonys of Rohan, which is how she has insisted upon signing letters since you have known her, but it is easy to see why; such a signature would give away her destination, which she clearly hopes to keep secret for a while yet. Still, the oddity stands out to you and you slowly crumple the note in a fist.

“I will take you to the Golden Wood,” you say, quietly. “You wouldn’t get in alone, anyway. The elves don’t like strangers.”

There is a pause. Nona looks at you with sharp, understanding eyes. “Then they are not unlike my people, Hathellang of Bree-land,” she says. “But we have welcomed many duvodiad into our midst in these evil times, and if these elves are wise they will do likewise.”

Drof snorts, and you roll your eyes as you pocket Léonys’ note. “Well, Drof?” you ask. “Do you want to --”

“No!” she cuts you off. “I’m quite content with what I’ve seen of it.”

“You’ve seen the fringes,” you accuse, frowning.

“And that’s more than enough.” Her demeanor softens. “I must stay with my people. Mazog’s death is a blow to the orcs of Moria, but there is much to be done here still. I wish you luck on your journey, wherever it takes you.”

You look to Nona and she spreads her hands. “To the Golden Wood,” she says. “My dream meant little to me. Perhaps once we arrive there we will know more.”

“Perhaps,” you say, and you hold up the arrow, black against the firelight, and turn it in your fingers. The light gleams around it, red and gold against black and grey. Then you look up, and despite yourself you grin. You are excited for this new adventure, there is no lie there. “Whatever it is, we will find it together, Nona of the Uch-Lûth.”

Part 1 | Part 3 | Part 5 | Part 10

#lotr #lotro #lord of the rings #lord of the rings online #lord of the rings online fanfiction #lotr oc #leonys of rohan

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iviarellereads · 10 months

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Nona the Ninth, Day Four, Chapter 17

(Curious what I'm doing here? Read this post! For detail on The Locked Tomb coverage and the index, read this one!)

(Plant shoot icon)(1) In which the children and the adults make a plan.

WHERE IS PYRRHA?—THE GANG SWEARS AN OATH—THE ANGEL MAKES A CALL— HOT SAUCE DRAWS HER GUN—FORTY-EIGHT HOURS UNTIL THE TOMB OPENS.(2)

Nona wakes, confused about how she fell asleep in all her clothes.

The evening was awful, but Cam didn't ask any other questions once she learned Nona had waited at the school and been driven home by a teacher. She only asks if Nona heard about the broadcast. Nona is ready to tell her about the girl from her dream, but Cam doesn't press the issue, just went to ask Pal something. The last she remembers from the night was admitting she didn't contradict Crown about dating Cam to Pal, and then Pal trying to figure out where Pyrrha went, and realizing she probably went to steal the shuttle, just before Nona passed out.

In the morning, Cam has Nona recite her dream into the recorder alone, while Cam does the washing up that Pyrrha usually does. Nona feels adrift, wondering if the girl in the broadcast really was the girl from the dream or not. By the time she realizes she should start recording, she forgets which button to push, and hits them at random until something happens, and she starts hearing Cam's and Pal's messages to each other.

On the recordings they discuss why the BOE would want a Lyctor on tap, then commiserate about their shared loneliness without each other. Pal can't bear eating Cam's life like this, but Cam says she'd carry his memory anyway, she'd rather have any part of him for real.

Just as the recording moves on to a recorded session with Nona and her dreams, Nona in the present notices Cam standing in the doorway. Nona apologizes and says she didn't hear anything, but Cam just tells her to wash up before breakfast. Nona worries about Pyrrha, and who she'll tell ass jokes to.(2)

In this saintly, uplifted, and really quite terrified state of mind, Nona looked at herself and found that she was very grimy. In a welter of fearful bravery she sponged herself at the cold-water tap until she was free of smuts(3) and old blood and dust, and the water was so cold it made her skin purple and blotchy. She called out, “Camilla, can I borrow a shirt?” and was pleased to hear, “Sure,” so she picked out one that was only a little too big but smelled comfortingly of Camilla. She looked in the cracked mirror and decided her hair was probably all right. The braids were a bit fuzzy but still doable. Thus armed, she went into the kitchen to see about breakfast.

Nona eats more of her breakfast than usual without resisting, so much that Cam doesn't even encourage her to eat more. Nona asks if they're going to wait for Pyrrha, but Cam says, no, Pyrrha's been gone for almost a full day, and Cam's been stuck at home that whole time. She needs to see the broadcast and look for Pyrrha, whose guns are still here, indicating she didn't intend to be gone far or for long.

Cam says she and Nona will go to the spaceport. Nona is excited, but asks to stop in at the school first, to make sure her friends and teacher are safe. Cam agrees, as Pal had wanted to thank the teacher anyway, but… this may be the last time Nona can see her friends. Nona understands, has been expecting it any time now, and says she's loved her friends. Cam says "we" (she, Pal, probably Pyrrha) know it.(4)

Cam goes to get dressed and cleaned up, and Nona does something she never would have normally: she peels up the sniper blazing(5) and looks up at the blue sphere in the sky.

She so rarely got to look at it from here. It hung on the morning horizon, and as she watched the sphere made a low, voiceless moan—a wanting sound—but quiet, on the edge of hearing. A whispered vocalisation and nothing more. “Can you help me?” Nona whispered. “Can you do anything? Do you know where Pyrrha is?” But it only lowed sadly, like a cow.(6) “That’s all right,” whispered Nona. “Sorry for asking.” Then: “Don’t do anything weird, okay? I’m having enough trouble right now.”

Nona gets the blazing pressed back down just in time for Cam to come out. She dresses for outside, and they leave. They can hear voices and sounds like people moving boxes behind doors, and Cam takes the elevator to conserve energy for what's to come.(7) Nobody pays them any attention, but there's an electric tension in the air of the city, as though waiting for a big event.

Nona felt sorry for the city: it wasn’t its fault. It was as tall and tumbledown and snaggletoothed as always.

Nona buzzes into the schoolhouse, and Honesty opens the door. Nona's so glad to see him again. Beautiful Ruby almost gives away that Nona snuck off to the broadcast, with Cam unknowing right behind Nona, but this gives way to asking where Hot Sauce is and Nona explaining. Beautiful Ruby thought Nona would "get a massive hiding"(8), and says Nona's "pimp" scares him. Nona says Pyrrha hasn't come home since yesterday, and they can't tell anyone.

Beautiful Ruby said instantly and kindly, “Won’t tell. Don’t worry, Nona, pimping is long hours and you have to go all over,” and she turned on him and something in her eyes and face made him stop immediately and say, “It was a joke! It was a joke. Oh my God, don’t be crazy at me, stop it.”(9)

Instead of talking more about Pyrrha, Nona asks where Born in the Morning is, but silence answers her. Honesty says breezily that all his dads probably joined up. They're all silent until the door buzzes again, but it's only the Angel and Noodle and Hot Sauce.(10) Cam thanks the Angel, but she waves it off, and suggests they talk once the kids are settled. The other teacher won't be coming.

The Angel brings them all upstairs, and they all sit spread out across the room as usual. Cam takes a seat near the back, strangely meek. The Angel asks if everyone and their families are alright. Beautiful Ruby, calling his mother by her first name, says she said they should give in to the Houses. Hot Sauce says she's weak. The Angel says it can be hard to be strong for more people than yourself, and you should judge people by what they do, not what they say. Hot Sauce says, so if someone says they're a necromancer, you should wait until they do something before you shoot them? Nona risks a glance at Cam, who is listening so intently Nona doubts she's Cam anymore.

The Angel says if Hot Sauce sees a necromancer, she should run in the opposite direction. There's no point fighting them, is there? Honesty asks if the Angel is scared of Necromancers, and she replies that of course she is, she was born on Lemuria. Cam asks what happened there. The explanation seems to make it clear that it was a turned world, and inhabited right up until the moment the final switch occurred between thalergy and thanergy. The Houses won the confrontations in the upheaval of the flip, and twenty years later, here's the Angel.

Beautiful Ruby still thinks his mum is embarrassing him by wanting to give in. The Angel says it's not wrong to not want to fight, and if you think all in black and white, your mind can't be agile. She suggests Ruby try to understand his mum's point of view.

Nona asks if they'll have normal school. The Angel says she can't or doesn't want to teach most of the regular subjects, but she thought she could teach them how not to get into too much trouble in the coming conflict.

She takes out a huge waxed paper map of the city, and lays it on a table. Nona can't understand the map any more than any other writing,(11) but the group discusses where in the city is safe and not safe to go. At one point, when discussing whether one place is safe or not, the Angel says "What we know is that we don’t know anything." Nona likes that as a motto, and a summary of her life.

The Angel asks Honesty to find Southgate and colour it blue. Honesty says, only for her, and colours it.

The Angel said, “Southgate is a good place to go in an emergency. Why do you think that is?” Nona said mechanically, “Because it’s got access to the road out of town and there’s a water pump and the ground is stable and it’s not a priority target for any kind of orbital strike or bombardment.” Everyone looked at her. Then they looked at Camilla, sitting in the back. Camilla didn’t move. She had found some bit of paper and was writing on it furiously,(12) so Nona didn’t even get a “Well done, Nona,” which she deserved because Cam had taught her all that. “What’s bombardment?” asked Beautiful Ruby suspiciously. “No idea,” said Nona proudly. “An interesting group, your family,” said the Angel slowly, with an eye on Camilla. “I mean, you’re totally right—if you have to run away, run there and keep close to the road.”

She continues that they shouldn't wait for each other there, and they couldn't survive in the open desert, but they should make it a priority to find and fill water bottles. Any problem will be short-term. The Angel suggests Hot Sauce show them the building she picked, and Hot Sauce points to a watchtower she's hidden out in before. It's stable and has supplies. She threatens whoever tries to sell her stuff, but Honesty swears he's her best boy, and the Angel reinforces that action is likely to be short-term.

Beautiful Ruby says the necromancers can't do anything anyway, but the Angel points out that now there's a Lyctor involved. They shouldn't be able to do too much, with "the blue madness", but it's good to have a plan.

The lights go out, and the Angel says that will be it for school for now. She tacks the map up so Honesty and Hot Sauce can memorize it, and the rest are to clear out the fridge and take home what's in it so it won't go to waste. Cam is lost in her own world in the back of the classroom, so Nona gathers up the drawings they did yesterday. She can tell which is whose, and organizes them, then hands them to the Angel, who says it might be nice for the children to have a "reminder of normal times" at home. Nona asks if they're never coming back, and the Angel says the broadcast changed everything. Nona knows that much, and says so, sadly.

“I thought you were your own boss here,” said Nona. “I have a lot of bosses,” said the Angel. “How many?” “Millions,” said the Angel, with perfect truth in the set of her shoulders. “Don’t worry about that for now—I’m being unhelpful and unkind—it’s just that, Nona, there comes a time in your life when you have to separate the things you do because they make you feel good from the things that make you—” The Angel stopped so dead midsentence that Nona thought she had had a heart attack, that she had been hurt in a way Nona couldn’t understand. She was staring at the topmost drawing of the sheaf of papers. Nona peeked over, ready to apologise for another one of Honesty’s explicit anatomical sketches. “Oh—that one’s mine,” she said, wanting to break the spell, wanting to help. “It’s mine, don’t worry.” The Angel was speechless for a moment. Then she looked at the paper, then looked at Nona again, and looked at the paper. She said, “Sure,” as though everything were normal and she hadn’t acted like she had been knifed. She laid the drawing aside and said, “Give the rest out, why don’t you?” and smiled at Nona, but it was a weirdly awful smile, as though the Angel had forgotten how smiles worked.(13)

Nona passes the rest out, and the gang all gather in the cloak room. Hot Sauce says they can all come with their families, even Beautiful Ruby's traitor mum, and Hot Sauce can defend them. They pile their hands on like a sports team about to start.

“Doesn’t feel right without Born in the Morning,” muttered Honesty. “It’s for him too,” said Hot Sauce. Then she said— “We swear to protect each other and die for each other. We are loyal to each other forever. Any zombies we kill, we kill for each other, and we’ll say, ‘This is for the others.’ That’s it.”

Honesty, Nona, Beautiful Ruby, and Kevin all swear, and Hot Sauce, as the boss. They go to open the door and Born is there after all, having snuck away. They all swear again, and most of them take off. Nona and Hot Sauce go back upstairs, and Hot Sauce says they won't see Born again until most of his fathers die, they're just baggage holding him back from the gang.(14)

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(1) Another new icon. What could this one mean? There's nothing particularly plant-related here, is there? (2) Whomst among us hasn't had a weird day where our routine is thrown all the way off and had sad weird thoughts only loosely related to it? (3) The nearest common usage of "smut" near this context I can find is a class of fungi that typically infect plants (you may have heard of "corn smut" which is a delicacy known as huitlacoche in Mexico). It may also be used to mean soot. Alternately, since "smut" derives from an old Germanic word for "dirt", it could just mean dirt stains of unknown origin. (4) I feel this implies that Cam wouldn't ask Nona to say her goodbyes if she didn't have to. (5) I think it's been mentioned before, but I don't think I ever went into exactly what was… possibly because I can't quite be sure. Searches for "window blazing" all just return "window glazing", or how to make your Windows computer blazing fast. My assumption is that it's a layer of some sort of vinyl to obscure the positions of those inside and thus foil snipers. The blackout curtains are separate so I assume it's not an opaque black, it may just be like window frosting or it could be more complex. But, the peeling is what makes me think of window frosting, because I used some vinyl window frosting on nearly all my apartment's windows to prevent people seeing into the bathroom, bedrooms, or kitchen when I want curtains open for natural light but don't want to be Observed or Perceived in those spaces. (6) So, Pyrrha definitely wasn't the only one who could communicate with Varun. (7) Ominous. (8) It's interesting how common child abuse seems to be in this community. It's taken as a given. (9) Interesting for Nona to be scary to anyone. (10) Priorities, Nona has them. (11) She can parse drawings, even photos, but nothing meant to convey information? (12) Pal is absolutely taking notes on Nona's behaviour in a group. I'm frankly shocked neither of them thought of doing this sort of sit-in before. (13) What did Nona draw? An animal she's sure makes anatomical sense, from the chapter where she did it. But what could cause the Angel to react so? (14) Hot Sauce is one of the most interesting characters in a book, in a series, so chockablock with interesting characters you can't turn a page without seeing at least one.

#the locked tomb #tlt #nona the ninth #ntn #nona the ninth spoilers #ntn spoilers #nona #camilla hect #palamedes sextus #the angel (ntn)#hot sauce (ntn)#honesty (ntn)#born in the morning #beautiful ruby #kevin (ntn)

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