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beardedjoel · 8 months

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closer | part twenty one

joel x f!reader. non-apocalypse au.

series masterlist | main masterlist | ao3

chapter summary: it's joel's birthday, and you've got one thing on your mind when you pay him a surprise visit, the first time you've seen each other in weeks. 10.6 k words. chapter warnings: 18+ MDNI, age difference (joel is 42 and reader is 25), soft!dom joel, grinding, unprotected piv, rough sex, dirty talk, praise kink, overstimulation / multiple orgasms, posessive! joel, tinitest of spit kinks (blink and you'll miss it) a/n: thanks for the patience amazing readers, this one feels like it took me ages to get posted, but i'm feeling good about how it turned out! i hope it lives up to what y'all were hoping for joel and reader! heheheh

Birthdays have never been Joel’s favorite, and the older he got, the less he looked forward to waking up another year older. He supposes that most people feel that way as they age, anyways, and tries not to pay it much mind. He wakes up that Friday, his birthday, wishing it was just any other day. But knowing Tommy, he’ll have something up his sleeve for today, and he groans internally and externally as he sits up and climbs out of bed. If this is what being forty three feels like - back aching, stiff knees, living without the girl he loves due to his own colossal stubbornness - he doesn’t want any part of it.

Grumbling to himself as he gets ready, taking a quick shower and running his hands through his wet hair to try and have some semblance of a good appearance, Joel vows to just try to just get through the day. He doesn’t fail to notice the way he’s checked his phone several times while he was getting ready, knowing the reason why is wishful hoping that you’ll text him. The only reason he could find to care about his birthday is if it was you recognizing it, he thinks with a growing twinge of sadness in his chest. Messaging you first seems like too much, like he’s asking for you to wish him a happy birthday, and the thought makes Joel instantly cringe, the long standing pit in his stomach falling deeper.

He’d just try to make it through the day, that was all, that was his motto right now. He found himself saying that more days than not recently, though. How many more days until he just couldn’t make it through the day, until this little motto lost all its meaning?

He sighs, deep in thought as he pulls up to work for the day, expecting the worst. If there’s even one party decoration in sight, Joel swears he just might wring Tommy’s neck. His day goes uneventfully for the most part, much to his surprise. While Tommy chose to spare him on the decorations, he did bring a chocolate sheet cake to their job site for everyone to enjoy, and Joel’s thankful it doesn’t have too much frill to it. Tommy just had to have them write on it, making sure to put his age and everything out there for the world to see - Happy 43rd Birthday Joel! He swears the numbers are bigger than anything else on the cake, and he can picture Tommy requesting that exact thing at whatever bakery counter he’d ordered this from.

Regardless of his sour mood, the cake tastes so good that Joel finds himself having a second slice, and he claps Tommy on the shoulder, thanking him for going through the trouble at the end of their workday.

“No problem, brother. Know I love ya. You ready to head out to Murray’s?” Tommy asks, and Joel gives him a curt nod.

Tommy had agreed to drive Joel to the bar after dropping the cake and Joel’s truck off - that way he could drink as much as he wanted and Tommy had convinced one of their site managers, Don, into being a designated driver for the night to take Joel home afterwards. Don had grumbled on, saying why couldn’t Tommy do it but he knew Tommy Miller was a drinker, and wouldn’t want to miss out on celebrating his brothers’ birthday in the only way he knew how - getting belligerently wasted.

Typically, Joel may have indulged just as much as Tommy on a night like this, especially with how much he was additionally hating his birthday this year compared to other years. If you’d told Joel this time last year he’d end up sitting with a broken, hurting heart on his next birthday, he probably would have scoffed at the idea. Joel just simply wasn’t feeling up for having more than a few beers tonight, ready to call it an early night and forget this day ever happened.

He was already sick of watching the door religiously, a man with one prayer uttered over and over in his head for you to walk through it any minute, glowing and radiant as always, here to cure everything that ailed him right now. As far-fetched as he knew the idea was, it ate away at the back of his mind throughout the entire few hours he spent there while he tried to not be completely horrible company to be around. At least everyone else seemed to be having a good time for his birthday, he thought with a scornful chuckle to himself, shaking his head a little bit.

When he finally convinces Don to take him home, Joel feels relief as his house comes into view. He wants to just change out of his clothes, put on some TV, and binge eat cake until he falls the fuck asleep in front of the screen and can move on from his birthday. Don seems to sense Joel’s increasingly self deprecating mood, and gives him an encouraging squeeze on the shoulder, wishing him another happy birthday and telling him to get some rest.

Joel is focused now, so close to the safe, warm, comfort of his home and his little plan for the rest of his night that he fails to notice you sitting in the shadows on his porch until your voice squeaks out and nearly has him jumping out of his skin.

“Hey stranger… Happy birthday,” you say, and Joel hears your voice, so sweet and quiet, but can barely register it. You look like you’ve walked straight out a dream of his, even in the dark he can see your pretty eyes framed by your delicate eyelashes fluttering as you blink nervously, the way your dress is hugging in all the right places before it falls just around your knees. He feels like his breath is torn right out of his lungs, and he’s frozen right there, keys halfway in the lock, just looking at you. Your name slips quietly out of his lips as a question, almost unintentionally, and you straighten a little more in your seat at hearing it.

“Wh-what’re you doin’ here?” Joel asks, finally finding his voice.

“Waiting for you,” you say candidly, and Joel just blinks for a moment, looking at you.

“Hope it wasn’t long… I was at the bar.”

“I uh, I know,” you tell him, and Joel’s brow crinkles a little in confusion. “Tommy told me. Actually, he invited me…” Joel interrupts with an irritated scoff at Tommy, muttering “asshole” under his breath to his non-present brother.

“I’m sorry I didn’t go,” you say, giving him a small, lopsided smile. “I didn’t want to interrupt your nice evening with… well, me.”

Joel’s mind is spinning now, taking all of this information in. He’s still reeling from just seeing you after so long, looking just as perfect as always, and now he’s expected to have a conversation with you when he can barely think straight.

When he doesn’t respond for a few moments, shifting in place, you glance to the other wicker chair next to you and motion to it. “Want to sit with me?” you ask, giving him a hopeful smile, your eyes shining and slightly wet. Were you close to crying? Joel felt a pull in his chest at the sight of you like this.

“‘Course, sorry,” Joel replies, shaking his head a little bit to bring himself back. “Jus’ a little surprised to see ya.”

“Sorry, if it’s not a good time, I can go,” you say quickly, sitting impossibly close to the edge of the chair, ready to leave at a moment’s notice if necessary.

“No, no s’alright. Stay, sit back,” Joel says, waving you off and finally taking a seat next to you. You end up scooting back, getting a little more comfortable as you lean back in the chair and look over at Joel, a mixture of expectation and anxiousness written on your face.

“So… it’s your birthday,” you say with a teasing glint in your eyes, and Joel gives you a playful glare.

“Would seem that way, wouldn’t it,” Joel replies with an amused huff.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come to Murray’s,” you apologize again, “I didn’t want to make it a weird thing, since we haven’t… y’know, seen each other in a while.”

“Oh…” Joel says, musing for a moment. “Yeah, makes sense. But you’re here, now.” Joel feels a smile pull at his lips as he dares to look a little closer at you, seeing the familiar features of yours that he loves so much up closer. It’s been far too long since he got to gaze at you like this, he thinks to himself.

“I am,” you say, returning his smile. “Had to wish you a happy birthday.”

“Could’ve jus’ called,” Joel teases, despite feeling beyond elated that you’d showed up on his porch tonight. “Glad you didn’t, but just hope you didn't go through too much trouble.”

“If I had just called…” you say, dragging your words out, “How could I give you this?” You nudge a box on the little table in between the two chairs you’re sitting on towards him, and it’s the first time Joel even noticed it between it being dark outside and his transfixion on your face. He smiles tentatively as he gathers the box into his hands, pulling it onto his lap and inspecting it. A bright, confetti pattern adorns the wrapping paper with a shining red bow on top. It’s neat, tidy, perfect - exactly the kind of wrapping job he’d expect from you with so much thoughtfulness put into it.

“This is… real nice,” Joel stutters out. “Thank you…”

“Don’t thank me yet, you haven’t even opened it,” you say with a chuckle. You seem nervous - Joel clocks your hands moving around anxiously in your lap, a telltale sign that you’re thinking too much.

“Either way, even if it’s total crap in here, it looks great,” Joel says with a light laugh, one you return, and he can see your tension easing. Joel lets his fingers tuck under the flaps of the paper as he tears it open, revealing a small, wooden box. He lets his hand run along the outside, a quizzical look on his face as he inspects it.

“Open it already, you’re killing me,” you blurt out playfully, your hand going to your mouth to absentmindedly chew on a nail.

“Alright, alright, hold your horses,” Joel says, his eyes brightening with delight at the situation. He’s still not entirely sure any of this is real, but he savors the moment for another second before opening the wooden box perched on his lap.

Inside is an intricate, gorgeous set of hand tools for woodworking, neatly arranged in the box, all with their own little placeholders. Joel gapes at it, not even realizing how many times his mouth opens and closes, trying to find the words to say. He can make out enough detail on everything in the dim porch light, but he’d bet these will be even more beautiful once he can get a good look at them.

“Don’t even know what to say, darlin’... this is…” Joel trails off, picking up one of the tools and inspecting it. “This is too much.”

“No, it’s not, Joel,” you defend immediately, stiffening in the chair. You’re absolutely ready to go to war with whatever Joel’s thoughts are telling him right now.

“Y-you shouldn’t have done all of this. Don’t deserve a gift like this from you.” He shakes his head slowly, still keeping his eyes on the box in his lap, not wanting to look at you and show all the vulnerability in his eyes.

“That’s just not true Joel, I wanted to buy this for you, show you how much you still mean to me. Close the box and look at the lid again.” Joel gives you a weary look in response but does as you ask, inspecting the lid closer, and that’s when he spots it.

“See? It has your initials, right there,” you say, reaching over to point it out to him, your hand brushing dangerously close to his, and Joel feels his heart skip slightly in his chest at the proximity.

“I see that…” Joel sighs out, finally meeting your gaze. “This is perfect, sweetheart. Thank you,” he says solemnly, and while you don’t misunderstand Joel’s reaction, you feel a twinge of sadness that he’s having a hard time accepting this gift.

“I just noticed you didn’t have a ton of tools yet when you showed me your woodworking table, and I saw all those little wooden carvings you were doing - animals and stuff, so I thought maybe you’d need this,” you explain anxiously, giving Joel a half smile.

“Yeah, y’are right about that, didn’t have everything I needed yet. Been havin’ a hard time… with the small stuff…” Joel’s voice is coming out quieter than he wants, but he’s overcome with emotion right now. He swipes his hand over his eyes, trying to get his bearings, but you keep a steady gaze on him, observing his passing emotions. Joel feels your hand on his suddenly, fingers soft and delicate as you reach over from your chair to touch him.

“I want you to have this,” you say, and Joel looks up to see your lips curved up softly, eyes gentle and looking like they’re staring right into his very soul. Your fingers wrap around his hand, still closed around the box on his lap, and the warmth from your hand alone is taking him to another place, having wished and pined for your touch for so long now.

“Alright, I believe ya, then. Thank you again, it’s really… somethin’,” Joel says, a little bit of confidence growing in his voice again, and it lifts a small weight off of your chest to hear it.

“You’re welcome, Joel,” you say, giving his fingers a squeeze before starting to pull your hand back towards yourself. Joel’s hand catches it before it even leaves the vicinity of his chair, and holds on again, gripping tightly around your fingers.

You two sit for what feels like an eternity, just his hand holding yours, both of your eyes full of questioning, possibility, and something… more.

“I have something else… for your birthday,” you manage to say just above a whisper, your voice low and saccharine as you shift forward in your seat, sliding to the edge and standing up. You still haven’t let go of Joel’s hand, using it to guide yourself the few steps over to his seat. You fluidly guide your legs on either side of his hips and slide onto him, settling yourself to straddle his lap. Where your hands join, you guide it to settle on your hip, and Joel follows suit with the other hand, gently touching you as if he’s afraid of breaking you.

Honestly, he was. He was so afraid of that possibility that he stiffened under your weight, panic rising up in his chest. He couldn’t deserve this, he couldn’t be allowed this happiness again.

You read his tensing body immediately, and snake a hand up to ghost along his cheek, brushing gently with the back of your hand. Joel lets out a sigh at the softness of your touch, the repressed longing built up in every cell of his body finding some escape in this one little puff of air exiting his lungs. His eyes flutter closed as you do it again, flipping your hand this time to rake the pads of your fingers down his cheek and through his beard.

“I-” Joel starts, a rasp to the little noise that breaks your heart. When you look into his eyes, you find nothing there but desolation in his warm brown, and you shake your head slightly.

“Shh,” you say soothingly, leaning forward slightly, “I know. I know.” Your head goes into the crook of his neck, your hot breath alone sending a shiver down his spine before you multiply it with a brush of your lips against his warm skin. Fluttering kisses along his neck, taking your time with each one, feeling and hearing Joel sigh deeply each time your lips touch him. When you reach his ear, taking the lobe into your mouth and giving it a gentle suck, Joel seems to melt a little before coming to his senses enough to speak up.

“You shouldn’t be… don’t deserve…” Joel murmurs. You pull back slightly, nuzzling your nose against the side of his cheek, taking the other side of his face into your palm, pressing yourself as close as you can. He catches the scent of your shampoo as your hair falls forward over the back of your head, right into his face. A scent he’d started to forget, nearly panicking the day he’d realized it was happening. A scent that he could have spent a lifetime searching for in drug and beauty store aisles, knowing it could never compare to this moment right here, when it was combined with you. Joel breathes in shakily, his erratic inhales and exhales showing just how close he is to breaking down.

“I want you, more than just this. I want you, Joel,” you say, your confession laid bare. Joel’s heart thuds so loud he’s worried you can hear it clear as day as you two sit in a tense silence. You hold yourself against him with baited breath, now just left to wait for his response.

“You mean…” Joel starts, afraid to dare the question to leave his tongue for fear of your answer.

You nod into him. “Yes,” you breathe. “Can we… try again? I’m ready, if you want it still.” You keep your voice low, vibrating right against his ear, and Joel lets another shudder wrack his body. He feels impossibly taut, like his muscles could snap at any moment, like he could fully break. But when he hears your words, he feels an instant release, the breaking of a thread that had been pulling, pulling, pulling, these last few months, slowly choking the life out of him. It was gone now. His chest nearly ached with the sudden lightness, and he fought the urge to clutch at it, not wanting to let go of where he held your hips even for a second.

“If I want it? If I want it…?” Joel echoes in disbelief. His arms slide around to your back, folding you deeper into his embrace and he chokes back a sob. “All I’ve ever wanted… right here,” he says, tugging you even closer, impossibly close, so that you’re nearly melding together into the same person.

“Joel…” you manage to say, choked up with your own tears now. You could never express just how right everything feels at this moment, being back in Joel’s arms, being so sure of it when you’d been riddled with every worry and anxiety about this exact moment for weeks. You knew that you’d made the right decision, there wasn’t a doubt in your mind.

“I got you, I got you, sweetheart,” Joel says, his hand now gripping the back of your head as you hang your head onto his shoulder, burying into his neck and taking in his scent with a shaky breath, quickly blinking away your tears.

You push back against his hand, bringing yourself to eye level with him and peering into his eyes for what feels like the first time all over again. The emotion swirling there is nearly unreadable - a mixture of joy, care, wonder, and lust, and it’s all being directed at you, nearly taking your breath away. Before you can think, your lips crash into his, hard at first but turning delicate quickly, wanting to really feel this moment and the weight it has for you. Joel returns your passionate, slow kisses, his tongue begging entry into your mouth nearly immediately, and you let him, your tongues dancing together in the most beautiful way as you savor each other.

Your hips move with a mind of their own, slowly pushing forward onto Joel and back again, starting a steady grind on his lap. Joel groans so loudly you nearly jump, and you find a small moan escaping your lips when you continue going back in for more, more, more from him.

“Fuck,” he murmurs quietly into your mouth as you brush over the now obvious hard bulge in his jeans with your warm heat. You intensify the way you’re kissing him now, wrapping your fingers tightly around the back of his neck and hooking them deeply into the dark curls lying there, tugging enough to elicit another little noise from Joel, more desperate this time.

He uses the opportunity to pull back slightly, his heavy breathing mingling with your own.

“Are you su-“ Joel starts, but you cut him off, not even wanting him to finish the question for the fact that he’d be harboring any thoughts that you have doubts about this.

“I’m sure,” you say with conviction, locking your eyes on his again. His eyes seem to harden with determination then, nearly going a shade darker in the dim lighting of the porch. Joel lips find yours again and he devours you, practically stealing your breath with the ferocity of it. His hands slide to your ass, gripping it tightly and bunching the thin fabric of your dress in his hands before he pushes on you, forcing you forward to grind on him again. You let out a little whimper at his forcefulness, having missed the way his hands so perfectly guide you and show you exactly what you need. How he knows exactly what you need every time may always remain a mystery to you, but you’re not one to question perfection.

You continue your steady movements on top of him, letting Joel push you forward each time, his jeans beginning to rub a perfect rhythm on your aching pussy. It’s nearly too much already, too much Joel after being away from this bliss for too long, and you break off your kiss just to bury your head in his shoulder, mewling quietly next to his ear as you quicken your pace on his lap.

“Yeah, that’s right, baby, fuck…” Joel breathes out, already completely undone by the way you two are moving together as he starts grinding his hips back into you. “So fuckin’ perfect.”

You can feel your heart beating out of your chest, nervous for some reason as you decide you want more, to move things along with him. You think you’ll combust soon if you two keep up only making out like a couple of teenagers. While it feels amazing to be reunited, you feel the need to show Joel just how serious you are about what you’ve told him.

Your hand shakes a little as you reach between the two of you to grab at Joel’s belt, swiftly undoing it amid many approving sounds from Joel as his lips attach themselves to your neck, kissing along the length of it and up to your face, covering as many spots as he possibly can with an undying eagerness to taste you on his lips.

Joel lets out a hiss when your hand reaches inside of his jeans, your fingers brushing along the soft fabric of his briefs, tracing the hard length of him inside.

“Is this okay?” you quietly rasp, and Joel’s approval stretches from his little smile to his eyes as he nods.

“Gonna make me crazy already, baby, the way you’re touchin’ me,” he says as you continue your movement along his shaft and wrap your hand tighter for a quick moment before sliding your hand inside of his briefs. The warmth of his skin blazes onto your hand as he throbs beneath you with your light strokes. Joel hums pleasantly, his eyes glazing over with need when you dare to peek into them. His head nearly lolls back onto the chair with a little groan when your finger swipes the head of his cock, feeling the wetness of his precum before you swirl it around the tip of his cock with your thumb.

Your entire body feels on fire, warm from the inside out as your core twists deep inside with need, the desire to feel him inside of you reaching a dangerous territory of necessity for you.

“Joel…” you coo as your cunt aches so sweetly for him, more than ready for him to completely own it again. You wrap a hand around his cock, fingers feeling so small around his girth that it makes your mouth water with anticipation for what’s to come.

“I know, baby,” Joel responds as you pull his cock out of his jeans, freeing the length of him and you gasp a little at the remembrance of the full size of him, already finding yourself picturing it being thrusted deep inside of you. Joel smirks at the starry-eyed look on your face as you take him in again and places his hands on your thighs, sliding your dress up higher.

“Missed my big fuckin’ cock, didn’t you?” Joel asks, so cocky and sure of himself that it sends another wave of desire straight to your clit and you can only find yourself nodding. “‘Course you did,” Joel adds on when he sees your speechless, practically drooling response to his question. Joel’s hand has been steadily moving your dress higher until his hands slide right to your ass, playing with the fabric of your panties, tracing his fingers along the lace.

Your hips lurch forward with anticipation, and you bring your lips down to Joel’s again, kissing him with pent up passion as one of his hands comes forward to cup your cunt, finding it desperately soaked for him, and he tuts into the kiss as if he can’t believe what he’s feeling. You push into his hand, your clit eager for any kind of movement on it, and Joel obliges, letting you grind onto his palm through your underwear for a few moments

“Need to see this pretty little thing,” Joel murmurs breathlessly, and you nod feverishly in agreement.

“Just fuckin’ rip them off, Joel,” you tell him, your lips barely leaving his to utter the words, and Joel growls deep in his throat at your eagerness, his fingers wrapping around the side of your panties to tear at them. You hear the splitting of seams as the fabric comes apart with a swift tug from Joel. It makes you feel impossibly feral that his strong hands made such quick work of the fabric that you can't help the moan that escapes you as you feel your panties fall away, completely ruined as Joel pulls them out from between you and tosses them to the ground, his lips never coming apart from yours.

You lift your hips up, giving Joel the opportunity to slide his cock between your legs, and you moan immediately at the way he feels against your slick folds. He grabs the base of his cock with one hand, and your ass with the other, guiding himself to rub back and forth against you until you’re breathing so erratically that you have to stop kissing Joel for fear you won’t be able to catch your breath. He increases the pace, and every time his plump head presses and brushes against your clit you feel the build up tighten in your core even more until you’re ready to burst, the tension reaching a high as you nearly choke on your words.

“I’m gonna… Joel… fuck, I’m oh -“

Your hips roll and spasm down onto his cock, and he keeps up the pace, brushing his head quickly over your pulsing clit in rapid motions as you ride out your orgasm. Your head buries into his chest, covering up your moans of his name as you yell it out into his shirt with a hand clutching tightly to the fabric.

“Good, so good, baby, yeah, just ride it out f’me,” Joel praises, stroking the back of your head, “Come all over this cock, f-fuck…”

You whimper and slump into him a little to catch your breath and come down, but the feeling of his soaked cock still pressing against your folds sets you off all over again, and you need more.

“Inside me… Joel… fuck….”

“C-can’t wait much longer either,” he says, uncharacteristically shaken, and he vibrates slightly with the effort of holding back, but you roll your hips onto his cock as he slides up your seam again, and then surprises you by pushing himself in, the head of his cock bursting into your entrance. You gasp at the intrusion initially, but sigh with relief at the feeling of him slowly, deliciously filling you up inch by inch, stretching you practically beyond your means until you’re completely full of him. You can’t help the warm feeling that spreads through you that this is what you were meant for, exactly where you’re supposed to be.

“Fuck,” Joel grits out, completely sheathed inside of you, feeling you squeeze him as you shift your hips to adjust to the fullness. “Just want to feel you for a second,” he says. “Missed this so much.”

Joel’s hands go back to gripping your hips tightly, not allowing any movement as he just feels you around his length, but you squirm in his grasp, making his cock push against your walls. You let out a whimpering sound at the feeling, and Joel bites the inside of his lip, barely able to contain himself between the small movements and sounds you’re making as you squirm and leak all over his cock, your arousal dripping down onto his jeans. You grip his shoulders for some leverage to begin moving as much as you can, and one of Joel’s hands frees your hip up to come grab your chin, pulling it tightly between his fingers as he forces you to look at him.

“Please…” you beg quietly, the throbbing, aching mess between your legs taking over any and all thoughts you have.

“You lookin’ for me to make you fuckin’ scream right here on this porch, are ya? Can’t wait until we’re inside?”

You shake your head with panting breaths from the exertion of trying to break out of Joel’s grasp to bounce your hips and feel him moving inside of you.

“Good,” Joel says, a devious smirk on his face, “‘Cause I can’t either.” With his words he pushes his hips up into you, affording him that tiny bit of extra space inside of you and you groan before he pulls his hips back, lifting yours at the same time before repeating the motion, slamming back into you hard and deep.

You cry out loudly, feeling him push against every part inside of you imaginable - have you always felt him this much, or is it just because you’d been deprived from the pure pleasure of Joel that it feels like so much more now?

You start returning his movements with equal vigor, your bodies ferociously coming together as the chair creaks underneath your bodies with the harsh movement.

“Gonna break this damn chair if we keep it up,” Joel says with a chuckle, lightening his movements only slightly.

“So what?” you manage to reply through stunted breaths as you slam yourself down onto Joel over and over.

“Need to fuck you properly anyways, darlin’, c’mere.” Joel’s hands cup underneath your thighs, urging you up off his lap as you help him lift you, wrapping your arms around his neck. You bury your face there, not wanting even a moment to go to waste as your lips find his neck again and suck hard. Joel yelps quietly as he moves you to the banister of his porch, perching you on the edge of it, and you grip even more tightly onto his back, feeling your balance completely off on the thin slab of wood underneath your ass.

“This is what you call proper?” You laugh, and Joel looks at you with a smirk before diving back in to kiss you, slowly grinding his hips into you now with nearly infuriating movements. You moan at the feel of every inch of him dragging out of you before pushing back in. You clench around him as your body shakes in his grip, unable to control the whimpering that escapes your lips.

“Y’seem to be enjoying it,” Joel retorts, and you’re too lost in the feeling of his cock to even conjure up a snarky response. “You want it faster though, don’t ya? I know how my angel likes to take my cock,” Joel rasps eagerly, and you groan as you nod your head, begging for more of him.

When he starts thrusting into you faster and harder, the banister rocks under the weight of it, but you can’t find it in you to care. Even if it all came crashing down and you two fell to the ground with it, you doubt either of you’d stop fucking the other with the way you’re both desperately panting now as Joel’s hips snap into yours repeatedly.

Your legs slide higher up Joel’s back, your ankles hooking together around him, trusting his arms completely to hold you up from falling off the porch railing. When your hips angle enough for Joel to get deeper, you moan as he presses against the spongy part inside of you that makes you absolutely crazy for him, and he smirks as he sees your eyes flutter with each new brush against the spot. You whine out his name, and Joel tucks in closer and kisses you in response.

“That good, baby?” he whispers gently, a stark contrast to the way he’s absolutely ravaging your body right now for anyone walking by to see. You’re grateful it’s late enough that it’s unlikely, but even then, you can't be bothered by the thought with the way Joel feels inside of you right now.

“So good,” you whimper in response, barely able to form words as your core ignites again, twisting in anticipation of another high. “You feel perfect.”

“That’s cause this pussy was made to take me, made to take this cock, baby, fuck…” Joel says, grunting as he thrusts into you. “Can feel you baby, you’re so close, give me another one, sweet girl,” Joel murmurs, pressing as flush to you as he can get. The sudden change gives some stimulation on your clit from the soft, dark curls above his cock, and combined with another brush against your g-spot, you’re losing a grip on reality so quickly you almost can’t keep up.

“Joel… Joel… harder,” you cry out, desperate for your climax to burst out of you, to claw its way out from the tingling pit now formed right where Joel’s cock is pressing deep inside of you. He obeys, thrusting into at an alarming rate, your legs helping his speed as you press them into him with every inward thrust, matching his rhythm.

You moan out long and low, the pleasure too much to take as the pressure builds to a point you nearly can’t take it anymore before you’re finally pushed over the edge by Joel biting into your neck. You hadn’t even noticed his head move down to do it, so lost in your own ecstasy, but the sensation of the pain with pleasure is enough to send you careening straight into your orgasm, practically screaming and sobbing with the intensity of it. Your slickness pours out onto Joel’s cock and he grunts and mumbles into your neck at the feeling before you feel the familiar sensation of you squirting, knowing the mess you’re making right now must be catastrophic between that and how hard you’d came.

Joel seems intent on adding onto it, at the tail end of your climax as your cunt squeezes his cock, he releases with a long, loud grunt, cursing under his breath as he fucks into your cunt a few more times and spills himself into you. Ropes of his cum coat your walls, the warmth filling you nearly sending you over the edge another time in the midst of your oversensitivity. You feel tears rolling down your cheeks from the comedown of such an intense moment with him, feeling so fulfilled and grateful to be his.

Joel sits for a long moment, his cock buried deep inside of you still, holding everything in that’s threatening to leak out around him. He pulls back from your shoulder and sees the few stray tears and smiles gently before kissing your cheeks, lapping them up in the process. When he does pull out, it’s then that you notice just how much of a depraved, wet, mess you two had made together. Joel can see and feel the mess between your legs and he tuts, half-impressed and half-teasing before helping you off the banister and onto your shaky legs.

“Fuckin’ messy girl for me, ain’t ya?“ Joel cocks an eyebrow at you.

You find yourself shying under his gaze, something that hasn’t happened for a long while now, and it feels refreshing in a way, almost like you two really are starting new. Joel wraps his arms around you after tucking himself back in, smoothing your dress down your backside for you.

“S’okay, just how I like you, my messy little thing,” he coos, pinching your cheek quickly, and you giggle, pressing yourself into his chest, just letting him hold you.

“You comin’ inside?” he asks, and you can hear the hesitation in his voice, like he truly believes you may not want to spend any more time with him, that you’ll regret what you two did any second.

“Thought you’d never ask,” you tease him, hoping to lighten his seemingly aching heart a bit and Joel smiles brightly in response.

“Good, ‘cause I’m nowhere near done with you yet,” he replies, meeting your lips for a long, deep kiss. Unbelievably, you feel a swirl of desire crop up in your belly at the sensation, his perfectly plump lips giving in to yours so delicately but so deeply, and you let out a little moan. Joel pulls away, chuckling. “Sounds like neither are you,” he adds on, looking at you expectantly.

“C’mon, let’s go cowboy,” you say, grabbing his hand to walk to the door together.

“Cowboy, huh? That’s new,” Joel comments with a questioning brow.

“Trying something out,” you tell him with a shrug, grinning, and Joel laughs as he unlocks his front door and leads you inside. The second the door shuts behind you, you find Joel on top of you again, his tall frame crowding over you and his hands on your hips, quickly roaming over your back, ass, shoulders, anywhere he can touch as he takes you in, holding you close to him. His head dips down to breathe in your scent again, getting completely lost in it. You shudder under the feeling of his breath near your ear, hot and needy right on the sensitive skin there.

“Sorry, sweetheart, jus’ can’t help myself right now. Fuckin’ missed bein’ able to hold you like this, touch you anytime I want,” Joel confesses, still not letting up the way his hands are moving, landing on your ass to knead the plush globes there.

“Missed it too,” you breathe out, not minding one bit the things he’s apologizing for, finding your body melting into his again.

“How many times you think I can make you come before I’m ready for ya again?” Joel asks next to your ear, one of his hands gliding to the front of your body and slipping under your dress, immediately going right between your legs. You’re still soaked, remnants of your time outside all over you, your pussy feeling fucked out but still managing to respond to his touch. He slides a finger onto your inner thigh, where his cum has been steadily starting to drip down, gathering it onto his fingers and dragging it upwards towards your cunt. He swipes it through your seam, gathering some of your own slickness and then stuffing all of it back inside of your ravaged hole, pushing his fingers as far as they’ll go.

“Fuck…” you whimper, arching your back. Joel’s frame pushes against you until your back is pressed into the door behind you, completely boxing you in with his body. His fingers start to work circles on your clit while the other hand comes up to palm your breast gently, rubbing it through the fabric.

“So fuckin’ pretty…” Joel murmurs, sliding a strap of your dress down your shoulder, hoping to reveal more of your skin to him. He seems to change his mind halfway through, pulling both of his hands off of you to grip at the bottom of your dress and pull upwards, lifting it off of you, leaving you standing naked before him. You tremble slightly at the feeling of being so exposed with him again, and the air conditioning of his house sending cool air dancing over your now goosebumped skin.

Joel takes you in, his eyes roaming over your body, temptation screaming in his blown out pupils. You writhe under his gaze slightly, desperate for him to return to touching you again, but he continues to take several long moments of looking at you before gently brushing a finger up your arm. You shiver more violently now, and Joel’s hand grazes inwards, finally landing at your nipple, pinching the taut bud and pulling hard on it. You cry out, back arching against the door as your knees begin to shake a little.

“God, baby, said you were pretty, but this is fuckin’ beautiful. Fuckin’ divine, lookin’ at you like this,” Joel says, shaking his head, entranced by watching his fingers pinch and roll your hard nipples.

“Joel… please,” you whine out, your thighs clamping together desperately, feeling wetness and heat pooling between your legs again.

“Tell me, sweetheart, what d’ya need…?”

“Touch my clit, Joel.”

“All you had to do was use your words.” He grins, obliging you by resuming the circles on your clit, more languidly this time as he keeps his other hand playing mercilessly with your pink buds. It’s no surprise when the familiar swelling of pleasure rapidly builds deep inside of you at Joel’s touch, your breathing labored as you shut your eyes and lean your head back on the door, moaning quietly.

“Eyes on me, baby, need ya to look at me when you come,” Joel says, voice soft and sweet, with his sudden grip on your chin to tilt your head back down anything but. His fingers grab tightly, greedily, at your delicate chin, holding your head in place as your eyes threaten to roll back at the way his fingers are working between your legs, tight, perfect circles being rubbed on your clit.

“Fuck, Joel, I-I’m coming,” you cry out, followed by several loud, staccato moans that drag out into long whimpers as you buck down onto his hand, body shaking and impossibly taut as you come. Stars invade your vision before it goes fully white, pleasure rocking what feels like every cell in your body. All you’re aware of for those few blissful moments are the way Joel’s fingers move, riding you through the climax, and how his name spills off your lips over and over, begging him for something you’re not even sure of yourself.

Throughout all of it, you try to keep your eyes locked on Joel’s, but can’t help it when your eyes squeeze shut in the high. When you finally peek them open, Joel looks at you with a satisfied sigh, his tight hold on your chin turning into a softer, gentler stroking leading up to your cheek. He brushes the hair away on your forehead that’s now stuck there with the small sheen of sweat you’d worked up and tucks it behind you ear, his lips turning up into a small smile.

He kisses you, his lips barely fluttering against yours in a soft meeting of your lips, one that isn’t meant to lead anywhere further. Just soft, loving presses over and over to your lips, and you’re finally coming out of your fucked our haze to be able to return them properly.

“Lemme take you to bed, hm?” Joel says, pressing his forehead to yours. You nod tiredly, the pleasurable post-orgasm haze taking over your brain.

“Only if you carry me.”

Joel crouches to press his hands underneath your ass, urging you up by the thighs, so you grip his shoulders and let him lift you, wrapping your legs around his thick middle and supporting yourself around his neck. Joel can hardly think straight, with the whole of your bare skin pressed against him, clinging on tightly like he’s the only thing that matters in the entire world right now. He can feel the heat of you through his clothing, wishing with a fuzzy head that there wasn’t anything between the two of you, that he could envelop you in his own heat, that they could mingle endlessly together. He could hardly wait to get you in his bedroom and make that exact desire of his come true.

When Joel sets you on the edge of his bed, he stands in front of you, unbuttoning his shirt slowly and intently, watching you to see your eyes lighting up as he works at the buttons. You stand up and grasp his hands gently, moving them to the side to take over, unbuttoning his shirt and kissing each new bit of skin that’s revealed on his chest. Joel finally shrugs the plaid shirt off and onto the floor, and you get to work on his jeans, pulling his belt off and through all of the loops in a slow, dragging movement. Joel chuckles a heady laugh at the way you’re so perfectly teasing him right now before you unzip his jeans and pull everything down, leaving him standing just as naked as you are.

“C-can I jus’ hold you like this?” Joel asks tentatively, despite his cock being at full attention once again from the way you’d undressed him. You can’t help but smile when Joel shows this more shy side of himself and you give him a nod, pulling away to crawl onto the bed and lay down. Neither of you have turned on any lights in the room, instead letting the moonlight spill in through the front window and illuminate enough that it casts a low, shimmering light through the room.

Joel slides in right next to you, wrapping his toned arms around you immediately, pulling you flush with his body and you wrap one leg over top of him, one hand placed flat on his chest, rubbing along the dusting of salt and pepper hair there. You both sigh contentedly at the feel of the other’s skin, so warm and soothing after spending all that time apart. The silence is comfortable, despite the both of you knowing there are mountains of things to discuss between the two of you.

Joel clears his throat, a hand rubbing up and down your forearm that rests along his torso. “Not one to ruin a perfect moment like this, but I gotta ask…” he starts, swallowing nervously. “Why’d you decide to come tonight? What… changed your mind?”

You blink a few times, biting the inside of your lip, trying to compile everything you’d been thinking recently for Joel.

“I just… did. I saw you realize that you’d made a mistake, and how much it hurt both of us. I was scared to trust you again, but you never left my side once you realized what you wanted. I’ve never stopped… wanting it, Joel. Wanting you.”

“I never did neither, darlin’. Swear it,” Joel says quietly, nuzzling his mouth onto the top of your head, breathing you in. “Thought I was savin’ you from me. Thought I couldn’t be worth it.”

“You’ve always been worth it, Joel. All the shit that happened, worrying about my parents, people judging us, job offers, any of it. I just want to be happy with you, I promise.”

“I see that now, honey, how fuckin’ selfish I actually was. ‘M so sorry,” he replies, a slight crack to his voice as he keeps it quiet.

“I know you are, you’ve shown me and said it so many times now. Thank you for not giving up,” you tell him sincerely, rubbing absentminded circles on his chest.

Joel huffs, shaking your head on his shoulder a bit. “Should be thankin’ you for that, darlin’, not the other way around. Y’should’ve given up on an old man like me.”

“Never, Joel,” you say. “Even if you are an old man.”

“Hey, now,” Joel scolds you lightly. “Only okay when I say it.”

You both break into a quick laughter, and you shift and tilt your head up, offering your lips to his, and he takes it, leaning his head slightly to meet your lips with his for a chaste kiss.

“Fine. You’re so youthful, don’t even look a day over twenty five, I swear,” you say, a smirk tugging at your lips.

“Okay, now you’re jus’ bein’ mean,” Joel says with a frown.

“Thirty?”

“Mmm, better.” Joel chuckles, and you pull yourself tighter to him, your warm heat nearing dangerously close to his cock. Your hand traces down his chest, fingers gently grazing the base of his length now.

“Missed this so much. Missed you,” you say quietly, wrapping your fingers around his shaft, feeling him stiffen, his cock hardening from semi-soft to throbbing in just a few moments of you toying with it.

“Y’have no idea…” Joel replies breathlessly, his hips jutting up into your hand slightly as it roams over his length.

“Wanna just feel you… please…” you whimper, feeling precum already gathering at his tip, swiping it onto your finger and into your mouth, sucking the slightly salty, tangy fluid completely clean before putting your hand back to his cock.

Joel groans out at the entire interaction, his eyes blazing with heat. “God, sweetheart, want to fuckin’ wreck your little pussy, but…” He winces in embarrassment. “My fuckin’ back… from what we did outside. Went a little too hard.” You try to stifle your smile, having just argued over him being an old man, but you reign it in.

“That’s okay, baby. I can ride you just as hard,” you say with quirked eyebrows. Joel chuckles but splays his palms in the air quickly, as if to say be my guest.

You shift your weight, straddling Joel and placing your already dripping pussy above his cock, notching him at your entrance. You lean down to kiss him and with the same motion, you press your hips down, letting his cock slide inside effortlessly. You’ve been perpetually wet just being in his presence, and from the way you’ve been warmed up over and over tonight, he’s completely sheathed in you before you even know it.

You groan at the fullness from this angle, and Joel does the same, his eyes fluttering slightly as he shifts underneath you. He winces slightly from his back hurting but relaxes his tensing body as you start to bounce your hips gently, testing the waters. Joel smiles up at you, his features melting into pleasure as you basically start jerking him off with your cunt, letting him lay back and enjoy the sensations.

Shit, you think suddenly. You should tell Joel about Dylan. You don’t know why it crosses your mind right in this perfect moment, when you’re both so incandescently happy to just be together, but the sudden guilt hits you right in the gut. You know you aren’t in the wrong, but you want to be honest with Joel, not have anything between the two of you if you’re going to start over like this.

You slow your movement, pressing your lips together, and Joel looks at you quizzically, noticing the change in your expression.

“This might be the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever done to say this right now, but I have to tell you something,” you blurt out, and Joel’s eyebrows draw together, his eyes slightly widening in concern.

He rubs your lower back, sensing your hesitation. “Go ahead, sweetheart,” he says softly.

“When… we…w-weren’t talking, I slept with someone. It was just once, it was not even… it wasn’t anything, but I did do it. When I was drunk. And it wasn’t even any g -” you ramble breathlessly, still moving yourself up and down on Joel’s cock. He tightly grasps your hips, pulling you down, hips flush with his, stopping your movements.

“Woah, woah, relax, relax, baby. Okay, it’s okay,” he says.

“It is?” you ask, wide eyed.

“Don’t exactly love it, y’know how I feel about you bein’ mine and only mine, but I can’t say I blame ya. Left you high and dry out there.”

“Right…” you say quietly, still incredulous that Joel isn’t completely freaking out right now from this news.

“Gonna fuckin’ kill whoever it is, but ‘sides that,” Joel chuckles genially, “Don’t feel bad, baby. Jus’ makes me wanna fuck you even fuckin’ harder, make you forget that even happened.” He lets a small growl slip from deep in his throat, clutching onto the plush skin of your hips and ass, his long fingers spreading along both areas and kneading.

You start to grind your hips a little again, lifting slightly up and back down, beginning a steady rhythm on him.

“Oh really? Think you could?” you ask low and teasingly. “Honestly, it wasn’t any good, if that helps.”

“No? Not any good, huh?” Joel grunts a little as he lifts his hips up into you, unable to help himself despite his back aching and screaming at him.

You shake your head, pursing your lips as you continue your slow pace on top of him. “Mm-mm. Didn’t even get me off…” You run a hand down Joel’s chest slowly. “Shame, really, that no other man could ever live up to you.”

“Fuck…” Joel curses under his breath. “Gonna give a man an ego, sayin’ things like that.” Joel pauses, just enjoying the way you’re gyrating on his cock for a few moments. His eyes snap open again and he looks at you with a furrowed brow. “Didn’t get you off at all?”

You shake your head slowly and deliberately as you ride him.

“Fuck, need to do good to you tonight, then, baby,” he says, his voice slightly strained from the emotions he’s feeling. It’s a mixture of desperation, sadness, and fucking anger at what happened. How anyone could get a chance to be with you, to taste and fuck that sweet pussy of yours and not even give you what you deserved, it made Joel feel the feral side of him clawing it’s way out. His hand reaches up, cupping the side of your face before sliding around to the back of your head and pushing your head down so that it’s close to his mouth, forehead practically resting on his shoulder. He holds your hair tightly in his grip, letting his lips brush against the skin of your ear.

“Whatever you need to do to me, I’m yours… I want you to fuckin’ come so hard you never come back down, that you can’t never think of another man again ‘sides me. Want your fuckin’ knees shakin’, cunt drippin’, fuckin’ soaked f’me, squeezin my cock so hard, so full you can’t even breathe…” Joel mutters out, sending your entire body shivering and convulsing with the combination of his words and the vibration of his deep rasp right next to your ear.

You spasm your hips down onto him, pussy clenching at his words and feeling his cock throbbing and pulsing inside of you. “F-fuck…” you whimper, nearly reaching your high from his words alone. You pull your head back slightly with Joel’s permission, his tight grasp on your hair lightening up, and smirk down at him.

“Y’sure you can do that, old man? With your bad back and everything?” Your lips press together so tightly to repress your laughter that you feel like you’re going to pop. You begin to ride him faster as you speak, feeling all of you bouncing, your tits dancing appealingly right in his face. Joel lifts his head, takes one into his mouth and sucks harder than he ever has, and you gasp loudly, unable to pull away. He lets it go with a small pop and looks up at you, darkness flashing in his eyes.

“Gonna fuckin’ wish you never said that,” Joel states before he sits up, groaning quickly with the effort and then deciding its well worth it, grasps your back and flips you around, slamming you down into the bed with him. His entire weight is on you, straddling you, the movement from flipping pushing his cock so deep that you squeal out in both pain and pleasure. He ruts into you hard now, lifting both of your legs to his shoulders, putting you in a tight, cramped position where they’re trapped between your body and his now.

All you can feel is Joel, Joel, Joel - his cock pressing against your spongy part inside again, his sweat intermingling with yours, his ragged breaths as he pounds into you with no mercy. You cry out, tears stinging your eyes from how fucking deep he is, you think he’s hitting your cervix at this point and it’s a sensation you haven’t experienced before, but it’s tearing you up from the inside out how good it feels. You can’t do anything but whimper as Joel asserts himself over you, trying to make the words he whispered in your ear become a reality.

He leans even closer, the angle completely devastating you as a few tears slip free from where they’ve been brimming in your eyes. “Tell me how good I am to you, hm? Wanna hear you praise this fuckin’ cock,” Joel says, his voice so smooth and controlled for how hard he’s ravaging your body right now.

“So good, Joel, fuck… your c-cock… you’re so good to me.”

“Again,” he commands, turning his head to bite down onto one of your legs that are framing near his face. You whimper loudly, barely able to even think of the words to say, let alone speak them.

“N-never want another c-cock. Can only take y-yours, so good to me, so f-fuckin’ big and full, Joel.” Your face scrunches up slightly, a few more tears rolling down your cheeks as Joel snaps his hips into your over and over, your insides coiling with heat and everything good when he hits the perfect spots inside of you.

“That’s right,” he groans desperately, clearly as affected by your praise as you are his. Nearly effortlessly for his back hurting him, he pulls out of your cunt, leaving it squeezing at nothing. He quickly looks down at your fluttering, fucked out cunt and spits quickly in-between your legs before he turns your body belly down on the bed, your legs shaking as you bring them down and nearly melt into the mattress. You’re shaking, your knees and thighs completely quaking just as Joel had wanted, and you’re thankful for the break. Joel’s hands grasp either of your ass and lift it slightly off the bed, angling himself behind you and slamming right back into your cunt. You nearly scream, the stretch of him all over again nearly too much with how heightened everything feels.

“‘M I still so good for you, baby?” he asks. You can only nod, and breathe out a quiet, raspy “yes”, your face turned off the mattress to try to look back at him.

“Ready to come, angel? I can feel you, so fuckin’ tight, practically beggin’ for it, ain’t ya?” Joel says, his voice less controlled now, and you can tell he’s just as close as you are. He slides a hand between your body and the mattress, leaning himself closer, changing the angle of himself inside of you and it’s perfect, holy shit it’s perfect.

His finger finds your clit in a second, flicking and rubbing circles frantically as your body writhes and bounces into his thrusts. You moan over and over, his name, expletives, anything you can think of to finally reach your high. The tension low in your belly snaps, and you go off the edge, screaming Joel’s name along the way as your legs shake underneath him and your cunt tightens impossibly taut around him, fluttering and spasming. Joel curses, pushing in as deep as possible while he comes along with you, his vision going white as he grunts your name and claims you with his hot ropes of cum spilling inside of you. He relishes in the feeling, the way you take all of him in a moment like this, moaning louder as soon as you feel that he’s coming along with you.

You continue to tremble, trying to come down from the way Joel has just turned your world upside down. You should have known - when Joel says something, he means it, and the way you’d just went higher than the god damned heavens just now proves it.

You let out soft, whimpering sounds as you lay there, body completely slack and feeling unable to even lift your head until you regain some composure.

“Shit…” Joel murmurs, concerned, his body wrapping around yours in a second. “Y’okay, baby? You hurt?”

“N-no,” you croak out, trying to give him some semblance of a head shake. “Just… j-ust…”

“So fucked out f’me,” Joel teases, wiggling his eyebrows a bit as he feels the situation lighten. If you had the energy, you’d punch him on the arm, but you just groan in agreement. Joel laughs, nuzzling his nose onto your shoulder. “Just how I fuckin’ like it, means I did you like you deserve, sweetheart.”

“You can say that again… I mean, fuck, Joel.” You giggle a little bit, finally feeling your senses coming back to you as you try to roll over.

“Say the same to you, so perfect f’me tonight, baby. Promise I’ll take it slow next time. Give you all the sweet stuff,” Joel laughs at his own words and you roll your eyes.

“You’d better, I’m gonna barely be able to walk for days, swear to God,” you scoff.

“Jus’ means I get to take care of ya. My poor baby can’t even walk,” Joel clicks his tongue, “Cock jus’ too big f’ya?” he teases, and you let out a disapproving noise, trying to squirm away from him in irritation, but he holds you even tighter. “Jus’ admit it, s’okay honey. Not everyone can take it.” Joel says tauntingly, shrugging nonchalantly to add on to the teasing torture he’s lashing on you.

“You know I can take it, Miller. Fuckin’ better than anyone,” you snip back, trying to turn away from him still, but Joel manages to scoop your body into his, spooning you now, crossing his arms tightly over your chest.

“Damn fuckin’ right,” Joel admits, giving up the charade. He kisses the back of your head, trailing them down to your neck. “My perfect girl.”

“Yours,” you echo back, snuggling your body into his and feeling so at peace you could nearly cry. This is where you were meant to be, right here in Joel’s arms. Always.

taglist: @paleidiot@mumma-moonchild@soph55@chicville03@joelsversion@feliciab1990@fellinfromthetop@gossipgirl-03@sarap-77@blueseastorm@akah565 @pattwtf @scarlettthefierce

#some of the things i wrote here i will not be held accountable for i swear #i missed these two so much i needed them to have a lil bit of depraved sex #or a lot #anyways #fic: closer #joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal x reader

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cinnamoncitric · 1 year

Text

It all starts with Robin.

In truth, if one might get technical, it starts with Billy Hargrove. Then, in due time, it restarts with Russian spies and a fortress underneath a mall. But neither of the parties was there for the result, so: in all the ways that matter, which is to say, in all the ways that help, it starts with Robin.

In all things Steve Harrington, there are two authorities other than the man himself, and, though he has known him longer, she doesn't think Dustin has noticed. Steve himself doesn't like to talk about it, has only ever opened up to her on the subject under scrutiny and prodding. But avoidance doesn't change the fact: Steve's hearing has suffered.

He tells her this exactly once, both sitting side by side on the bed in his room. He says it looking down, ashamed, one hand tightly pulling at his hair, the other holding Robin's in a tight knuckled grip. His voice is small. He does his best to suffocate the anguish and the fear that flood it when he says, What if it gets worse?

There's no reason to believe it will, for now. At least, that's what the doctor tells them once she bullies Steve into a visit. As long as there are no other injuries, no other blows to the head, he isn't in danger.

But the thing is, there might be. That's just the life they lead – never knowing if the danger is truly over. So Robin sits her ass down and picks up a book on sign language because she knows he'd never do it on his own.

Come on, she tells him, months of secret classes in Indy later. I'll teach you. We can just use it to talk in secret in front of everyone whenever we want to.

Which is, of course, not how it goes down. They go maybe a month into sneaking awkward signs behind everyone's back until Dustin gets wind of it. And when child prodigy Dustin Henderson decides he wants in, there's not much they can do to stop him. And he gets all the other genius gremlins to do it, too. Imagine how useful it would be to communicate without alerting demogorgons, he tells them, when Steve explains he doesn't want to talk about the real reason for it. They all figure it out anyway.

Mike learns it like he'd much rather not. His only argument for doing it is that it might be good for his college application and that Nancy took an interest in it and is now forcing him to learn with her as "sibling bonding."

Will is shy, Lucas is earnest, El is curious. By some point, all of them pick it up. All the older kids, all of the adults – Hopper, Joyce, Murray, Claudia Henderson – and Steve feels like he could cry. They all took the time and effort to learn a whole different language, just for him.

He does cry, and it's all because of one Max Mayfield.

Hey, loser, she calls out one day when the two of them are waiting for the others, searching for him with her cane so she can stand in his direction. Are you looking at me?

Steve twists so that's she's perfectly in his line of view and then confirms.

Good, Max says in sign with a shit-eating grin, pose triumphant, Guess what I fucking learned how to do.

Just like that, there are tears streaming down his face. He tries his best to control his breathing while Max goes on.

Lucas showed me, she continues in sign. It was a pain in the ass because he had to keep moving my hands himself every time I got it wrong, but I wasn't about to let you guys have one over me.

When he doesn't answer, when he can't answer due to the huge lump stuck on his throat and the tears streaming silently down his face, she pauses. Then starts again, this time out loud, Hey, you know you have to speak to the blind girl, though, right? I can't see your hands.

Steve laughs wetly. Shut up. Language, Mayfield.

She laughs at the unintentional pun. Yeah, language. Oh, man. Are you crying?

Shut up, Steve says again. I'm gonna hug you now, okay?

She huffs. Sure, if it's to get it out of your system.

#platonic with a capital p #stranger things #steve harrington #hoh steve harrington #the party learns asl for steve #i can imagine they spend HOURS arguing about what sings they're going to make up for the upside down stuff #and for the signs they're gonna use for themselves #the party #robin buckley #platonic stobin #deaf steve harrington #deaf!steve harrington #steve harrington is hoh #steve harrington is deaf

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spicysix · 11 months

Text

now i don't hate California after all

“They arrived at the beginning of fall, and yet California was sunny, hot, and colorful. Jonathan saw it all gray. He hated the sun, the heat, the dryness. Hated how he was always sweating, bothered about the weather, about the place, about the people. Everyone was so nice, and cheerful, and happy. He hated it. He was miserable. Argyle was nice and cheerful and happy. He was sunny and warm and colorful. Jonathan hated him at first.”

rating: T

warnings/tags: it's a Jargyle fic, friends - there's weed. jonathan's POV, bisexual king johnny-boy byers, black cat VS golden retriever energy. he's just a lil grumpy guy :)

word count: 4k

author's note: HAPPY JARGYLE JURSDAY! and happy pride! 💛🏳️‍🌈 this is the first of a few fics i have planned to write and post this month, all with queer relationships. absolutely random note: I based Lenora Hills off of Barstow-California, based losely on the location shown on Murray's computer and the overview of the town. fic based on a song of the same name by my queen of queens, Carly Rae Jepsen. hope y'all like this, and hope i made justice by my dearly beloved stoners! 💛

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Jonathan hated it at first.

Of course he hated it. How could he not? It was his whole world changed from night to day. Seventeen years of his life packed in a single morning into a few boxes into a truck across the whole country. Away from the few friends he had, away from the girlfriend he loved, away from all of the only things he ever really knew.

Jonathan feared it at first.

Of course he feared it. How could he not? His mother was alone, no husband, no boyfriend, no friends. His sister was alone, no boyfriend, no friends, no father. His brother was alone. He was alone. All they had was each other. What if it wasn’t enough? What if they were alone forever, thousands of miles away, and each others’ companies didn’t suffice?

But he also understood. How could he not? It was safer. A fresh new start, away from the dangers that haunted them, the ones that found them and the ones still lurking. Far away enough, hidden enough that they wouldn’t be found again. His mom would figure it out, Joyce always did. They could adapt, they could find new friends, they could still call and send letters to the old ones. They could go back for spring break, or for summer, or the ones left behind could come visit. It could work.

Doesn’t mean Jonathan liked it. Jonathan hated it, actually.

They arrived at the beginning of fall, and yet California was sunny, hot, and colorful.

Jonathan saw it all gray.

He hated the sun, the heat, the dryness. Hated how he was always sweating, bothered about the weather, about the place, about the people. Everyone was so nice, and cheerful, and happy. He hated it. He was miserable.

Argyle was nice and cheerful and happy. He was sunny and warm and colorful.

Jonathan hated him at first.

Saw that guy, first day of school, wearing a ridiculous shirt with more colors than the human eye can capture. The baggiest shorts Jonathan had ever seen, and they had a different psychedelic print on each leg. Fucking rainbow socks with hideous square-print Vans. He attracted all the attention around and yet, somehow, people didn’t seem to care about him one bit.

He was everywhere, too. Not just at Jonathan’s Math, Science, English and History classes, but at his woodworking elective as well. He shopped at the same grocery store that sold the snacks El loved, at the same farmers’ market Joyce got the best fruits, at the same craft store with Will’s favorite items, he worked at the best pizza place in town. Jonathan couldn’t escape him if he tried.

It took them a while to share their first words. Woodwork elective, Argyle needed someone to help him with a big project he had — it didn’t work, at the end, and he cut the huge wood plank into smaller pieces and made smaller things. For some reason, he saw Jonathan with a scowl on his face, pure disdain of how colorful and cheerful Argyle was, and decided to ask for his help.

Jonathan might’ve hated the guy, but he was raised well and polite. There was no actual reason for him to hate the guy too, so he helped. And hoped to never have to talk to Argyle again after that.

Of course that didn’t go as he hoped.

Argyle, who was once just a dude in the background of every scenario Jonathan walked into, was now purposefully centering himself in front of Jonathan’s lenses (his metaphorical lenses, because his actual cameras were kept in his bedroom. He couldn’t find it in himself the desire to take pictures of Lenora, its dry hot deserts and cheerful colorful people). Argyle talked to him, constantly, sat by Jonathan’s side at every Math, Science, English and History class, chose Jonathan as his woodworking partner from then on. Was Jonathan’s shopping buddy at the grocery, called out to Jonathan at the farmers’ market, gave Jonathan tips on what to buy for Will, delivered the Byers’ pizzas personally every time they ordered.

As they reached the end of the year, the weather cooled down a little — nothing compared to what they had back home in Hawkins, of course. But it was easier for Jonathan. It rained a little too, which helped with the dryness. People went for neutral tones and colors, and the sun didn’t bother his skin as much.

Argyle was still just as colorful, warm and sunny. Jonathan hated him. No one else seemed to notice him.

Will and El still didn’t seemed to have find friends too, which didn’t help with Jonathan’s anxiety and hatred. He was worried all of the time. About himself, about his siblings. His mom was doing fine at least, it’s been a while since Jonathan had to worry about her, thankfully.

“My man, you gotta chill a little,” Argyle said one day as they were leaving their woodwork elective, somehow noticing Jonathan’s tension.

Jonathan didn’t talk a lot, Argyle did most of the talking. He didn’t seem to mind.

“Have you ever tried smoking?” he asked.

“How would nicotine help besides getting me an addiction?” Jonathan countered.

Argyle clicked his tongue, “Not regular smokes, man. Nature’s goodies,”

“The devil’s lettuce?” Jonathan asked, and Argyle cackled loudly. Jonathan had never seen him laugh so hard. It wasn’t even that funny. Jonathan smiled just a little at the sound anyway.

“That’s right, man! Have you?” Jonathan only shook his head. “You wanna try? I bet it’ll do you some good, you look so pent up all the time, man.”

Jonathan didn’t know how Argyle knew that. Not like he had seen Jonathan in any other state if not pent up to know the difference. Jonathan’s small, rare joyful moments always happened at home. When Will was excited about something at school, when El was excited about a letter from Mike, when his mom was excited about a sell. When he was excited about a letter from Nancy. Those have been scarce.

Jonathan shrugged as an answer to Argyle’s offer.

“Well, if you ever feel like it, I can set you up.” Jonathan liked that Argyle didn’t pressured him.

They parted ways at the parking lot. Argyle was always driving the Surfer Boy pizza van. Jonathan’s car was dying a slow agonizing death, and he had been fearing the day the car would stop working.

That day had arrived.

Jonathan tried to ignite the car while waiting for his siblings to show up from wherever they were. But it wasn’t working, the car wasn’t starting and Jonathan hit his head on the steering wheel a few times with all that pent up anger inside him.

“Jonathan, you’re gonna get a hole on your forehead,” Will spoke as he knocked at Jonathan’s window.

“The car won’t start,” Jonathan complained, leaving the vehicle and checking his wristwatch. “Mom might be able to come pick us in between calls, maybe. This piece of shit.” He turned around and kicked the front tire. El giggled behind Will, Jonathan didn’t think it was funny.

“Hey man, I can get you and the younglings back home. I know where you live,” Argyle showed up from somewhere, Jonathan hadn’t noticed he was still in the parking lot.

“You know that sounds creepy, right?” Will asked. “Who the hell are you?”

Jonathan almost laughed, “He’s the pizza delivery guy, and he’s also in my year. Argyle, these are Will and Jane, my younger siblings.”

“You don’t look like a surfer boy,” El commented, noticing Argyle’s Surfer Boy visor. He’d probably head to work after school.

“And I am not one, little friend. Couldn’t hold myself standing up on a board, not even for a miracle. Maybe sitting down, on a pool, not on the ocean with the waves. But then it wouldn’t be surfing, now, would it?” Argyle said, that cheerful happy huge smile of his. Jonathan huffed, El seemed amused by the answer. “Shall we?” he asked, already heading for the pizza van.

“I should get the car towed first. I’ll call from the public phone over there,” Jonathan said and did as he said.

Argyle entertained Will and El as Jonathan called and waited for the towing, and as he talked to the towing guy when he arrived. He asked for the car to be taken to his house instead of the garage, because Jonathan didn’t have the money to pay for a fix. He’d have to save up, or try and do the fixing himself.

He sat at the front with Argyle in the Surfer Boy’s van, Will and El went in the back and asked Argyle all of the possible questions to ask someone who works at a pizza place. He didn’t seem to mind answering them all. They also asked a lot about his hair, and Argyle told El he’d give her tips to grow her hair long and pretty like his. She looked radiant at the promise.

Jonathan kept it to himself all of the way back, but all of the rambling from his siblings and his colleague didn’t annoy him. They seemed to like Argyle, and that made the dude ease his way a little further into Jonathan’s own heart. That’s how it worked, isn’t it? The way into Jonathan’s heart was always going through his family first.

When Argyle stopped in front of the Byers’ house, Jonathan’s old Ford was already there, and he paid the towing people as Will and El entered the house.

“I can come pick you guys up tomorrow if you want,” Argyle offered when Jonathan went back to the passenger window to thank him for the ride.

“I don’t wanna bother,” he said.

“Nah, man, don’t worry, it’s all good. I’ll be here tomorrow then. See ya, dude,” he said and just took off.

Jonathan stayed there a little while longer, staring at the street where the van had rode by, confusion all over his face. That guy was the weirdest guy he had ever met. But he wasn’t so bad after all.

And then began their new routine. Argyle would always pick them up — most days on the brink of being late — and they would have all their classes together, and Argyle would drop them off after school. He kept easing his way in, and at some point Jonathan started easing his way out of the cave he had dug for himself, and Argyle wasn’t the one talking all of the time anymore. He didn’t seem to mind listening.

Jonathan talked about Nancy, and how she wasn’t sending letters that much anymore. Their plans to go to college together, and how Jonathan wasn’t feeling it as of lately.

Jonathan talked about his dad, and how he was an asshole.

Jonathan talked about his mom, and how she was working all the time, and how he had to be a responsible figure for his siblings.

“They’re twins, are they?” Argyle asked once.

“No, Jane’s my… well, sort of half sister. Her dad was a close family friend, and my mom adopted her when he passed, it’s… a long story.”

Jonathan didn’t talk about the Upside Down.

“They kinda look like twins, though. Wonder twins.” Argyle said, smiling. He didn’t ask. Jonathan was thankful for it.

Jonathan took Argyle’s offer for some weed one day, and after that it was… well, conservatives would call it ‘downhill from there’, but Jonathan finally felt at ease. He liked getting high, liked how his mind wandered away, how his fingers felt a little numb, how the bright colors didn’t bother him for once. How he started seeing some beauty in them.

Argyle’s clothes were still just as colorful, and he was just as warm and sunny. They smoked together, they laughed together, he talked to Jonathan and most important, he listened to him.

The worst of it all?

Jonathan didn’t hate him anymore.

Well, maybe not the worst. Maybe it was for the best.

Nancy and Jonathan broke up through the phone late November.

They didn’t call each other a lot. There were a bunch of reasons. Joyce worked on the phone, so it was busy most of the time. When it was free, either El or Will wanted to talk to Mike, and they could go on for hours. Bills could get expensive. And Nancy preferred the letters anyway. Jonathan thought the letters suited her well.

But they broke up through the phone. Maybe it was for the best. Not to taint the beauty of their past love letters.

Jonathan could hear the frown in her voice, and the tears. She could probably hear it just the same in his voice. He loved her, he did. But long distance was hard. And she wanted to go to Emerson, and Jonathan didn’t. His dream has always been NYU, and that dream might be all the way across the country very far away from him, but he could still dream about it. And Lenora Community wasn’t that bad, and Argyle would be there, and so would Joyce and Will and El. And god knows Jonathan couldn’t leave them, his family. Not even for the girl he loved. Not even for his dreams, much less for hers.

Argyle took him to an old junkyard and they smoked more weed that they ever had and they played ‘golf’, aiming the tiny balls into the old cars’ windows and whoever shattered more glass would win. Jonathan had a feeling Argyle let him win on purpose.

Argyle took him to Surfer Boy’s and baked a pie just for him and paid for it with his employee discount and sat across Jonathan on the table and told him insane stories about the kitchen staff and Jonathan had to hold his laughter or he would choke around a slice of pepperoni.

Argyle took him home in the van — Jonathan hadn’t fixed the car, because he didn’t have the money and because he didn’t have to, because Argyle picked them up and dropped them off and the kids liked him and Jonathan didn’t hate him either. As Argyle parked by the Byers’ house, he placed his hand on Jonathan’s shoulder, looked him straight in the eye and said:

“Plenty of other midwestern fish in the midwestern sea, man.”

Jonathan wasn’t so sure what to answer to that, so he just chuckled, left the van and went inside the house. Peered through the window as the Surfer Boy’s van took off, some weird dancy reggae loud coming from the stereo. He smiled to himself.

Christmas came, no colorful lights hung up on the Byers’ house.

Argyle gave him a coupon for a month’s worth of Surfer Boy’s pizza. Jonathan didn’t think they’d exchange gifts, but he ran as soon as he could to the little shop he knew Argyle got all his weed items from and brought him a new bong. Argyle loved it and they debuted it together on the back of the van, looking down on the town from the desert.

Some pine trees were decorated and the colorful lights on them weren’t as scary as they would be at Jonathan’s house. He didn’t hate them as much there. Argyle’s shoulder was pressed to his as they shared the bong, and his skin was warm and Jonathan tried not to think too much about how his lips were touching the same place as Argyle’s lips did when pulling in the smoke.

New Years Eve came, and Joyce wasn’t too mad about Jonathan not spending it with the family, not once he told her his plans. Him and Argyle traveled to Santa Barbara, to a New Years Eve Luau, of all things. Argyle had a bunch of friends there — Jonathan was his only friend back at Lenora. He wasn’t bothered by that. He could use some other friends too — Argyle was his only friend back at Lenora.

They smoked, of course, and they listened to music and Argyle even danced with a few other guys. He wasn’t too terrible. He tried to make Jonathan dance too, of course that didn’t happen, but Jonathan was content to just watch. It took him by surprise, that realization: he was content. The moon was in her full glory, it was weirdly cold for a night in California, the sound of the waves were soothing, Argyle’s dark brown hair flew around him and his dark brown eyes twinkled by the fire, and Jonathan was content to just watch him.

Some friend of Argyle lived there and he and Jonathan crashed at the dude’s living room pull-out, heater on blast and Argyle’s back pressed to Jonathan’s back helped too, because the guy was always so damn warm.

Argyle let Jonathan put on some of his cassettes on the ride back to Lenora, and Jonathan sang out loud along with The Clash and the Sex Pistols, and Argyle bobbed his head to the rhythm even though he didn’t seem to like that genre of music, and he said: “These dudes are kinda pissed at stuff, man. They suit you, and all that pent up anger of yours.”

Jonathan reassured him: he wasn’t as pent up, or as angry anymore. Argyle smiled wide at that.

School started again and even their woodworking teacher noticed Jonathan’s change of demeanor and came to tell him how happy he was that Jonathan was finally adapted to the move. The teacher kinda hated Argyle — well he was a menace in class, and his projects were always terrible ideas — and Jonathan wanted to tell the teacher he should thank Argyle for that. He kept his quiet, though, but Argyle seemed to understand the funny look Jonathan threw his way after the pep talk.

Jonathan took his camera — that same one Nancy had given to him on Christmas of ‘83 — out of its box for the first time mid January. Some biology project, and he decided to take pictures to illustrate his work about the local low desert shrubs. Lenora High also had a photography room, and it was better funded than the one in Hawkins High, and once Jonathan revealed his photos and showed them to Argyle, he looked incredibly admired, and asked Jonathan to take some pictures of his mushrooms — of course his project was about mushrooms. He payed Jonathan back in pizzas, of course. Jonathan didn’t mind.

Apparently Argyle gushed about Jonathan’s photos at work because later that month he had a gig with Surfer Boy Pizza’s marketing team. He was also booked for the opening of that roller skate rink downtown. And some early-thinking students hired him to take graduation pictures for them when the time came. Word ran through school and he joined the Yearbook staff, and oh god the school paid well. He could even fix his car if he wanted to — but he didn’t. He liked the van.

He used the money to buy more film, and he used the film to take pictures for himself like he used to. His passion was back, and suddenly he saw so much beauty in the California sun, deserts, colors. He saw beauty in the junkyard, broken, abandoned cars with windows crashed. He saw beauty downtown, the colorful storefronts and the busy colorful people passing by. He saw beauty in the suburbs, kids with their bikes reminding him of home but in a nostalgic way instead of the heartbreaking way he used to miss Hawkins when they had just arrived in Lenora.

Argyle, who was once just a dude in the background of every scenario Jonathan walked into, was now purposefully centered in front of Jonathan’s lenses — his actual camera lenses, and Jonathan was the one centering him there.

He saw beauty in the way Argyle chose his ice cream flavors by which one looked more colorful that day. He saw beauty in the way Argyle’s body would twist when he made a powerful throw with the gold club, strong enough to hit the furthest car in the junkyard. He saw beauty in the way the sun would hit Argyle’s long hair as El braided it for him when they went on a picnic for Joyce’s birthday. He saw beauty in Argyle’s wide laugh when Will said something snarky about a teacher, and he saw beauty in Argyle's soft smile when he noticed Jonathan was taking a picture of him.

“Gonna want to see that one, man,” he said and Jonathan only nodded. Argyle didn’t seem bothered to be his muse, and Jonathan somehow didn’t feel embarrassed to be caught on the act.

He did show Argyle the picture later when he reveled it. He showed all of them, and Argyle looked at them with fondness and looked at Jonathan with even more softness and something warm was happening inside Jonathan’s body that he could name if he wanted to — but he didn’t. He just let himself feel it.

Jonathan took couples' pictures on Valentine’s day, and with the money he and Argyle went to Santa Barbara again on the weekend, and Jonathan took pictures of Argyle sitting in the sand, of Argyle with only his feet dipped in the ice cold sea, of Argyle pointing at something beyond the horizon line from the pier, of Argyle lit and glowing by another luau’s fire.

They slept on the beach that time, because that other dude’s pull-out was booked already, but someone lent them a tent and theirs was just one of many, like a big beach sleepover, and Jonathan never felt hippier, and he never felt happier. He laid on his side and faced Argyle’s profile as he snored softly laying on his back, and Jonathan wanted his eyes to be a camera so he could picture Argyle’s face as he slept peacefully. And Jonathan never felt sappier, and he never felt happier.

As Jonathan woke up the next day he was the one being stared at.

“I’ve seen you taking pictures of me, man, but I have none of you,” Argyle said before even bidding good morning.

“I’m more of a behind the cameras kind of guy.”

“Well that has to change at least for once, because if you’re gonna keep a loving portrait of me in your wallet I want the same honor.” Argyle was smirking, which wasn’t common, and Jonathan laughed loudly, which wasn’t common. He felt high, and he hadn’t smoked since yesterday afternoon.

“I don’t keep a loving portrait of you in my wallet, Argyle.”

“Now I’m just offended. You gotta.” They both laughed again before settling.

The sun was high in the sky already, its light peering through the tent fabric and illuminating the inside, but it was like a refrigerator lamp because it was still too damn cold. Argyle’s body heat was comfortable, though. Jonathan was content.

“I’m not reading wrong into this, am I, man?” Argyle asked after a while.

Jonathan could lie or pretend not to understand the question if he wanted to — but he didn’t.

“You’re not,” he answered. “I’ll let you take a picture of me when I look more presentable.”

“You look pretty enough,” Argyle said, and that warm feeling inside Jonathan’s body creeped up to blush his cheeks, but he was still smiling. “You’ll let me keep it in my wallet?”

Jonathan could answer with actual words if he wanted to — but he didn’t. He just reached forward, leaned forward, and pressed his lips against Argyle’s.

He was warm, and sunny, and even his pajamas were colorful, and all that color bled into Jonathan’s life and painted his gray off. Jonathan hated it at first. Of course he hated it. How could he not? Pack all his belongings into a few boxes in just a few hours, take him out of his comfort zone, change his entire view of the world.

But as Argyle’s hand cupped Jonathan’s face, he was warm. He made Jonathan warm, from the outside and from the inside. Jonathan didn’t see it all gray anymore, no, he had an explosion of colors and he didn’t hate them.

Jonathan loved it. Of course he loved it. How could he not?

#jargyle #jargyle fanfic #jargyle fic #jargyle oneshot #jonathan byers x argyle #argyle x jonathan byers #jonathan byers #argyle #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfic #lui writes

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odetodilfs · 1 year

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Meant to be (Part 3)

Hey so uh after taking a break I've come back with this!! This part has smut so be careful.

Pairings: Jim Hopper x male reader Warnings for this chapter: Scent kink, sex pollen, lots and lots of sexual frustration and tension and Hopper's chest hair deserves its own warning here hehe Oh and Murray and Joyce are shown in this chapter

By now it had been 5 months since you’d started dating, for the first 3 months or so everything went to smoothly, but you both began to get increasingly horny for one another with both being way too hesitant to initiate anything with the other, now it was summer, and Hopper had gotten a mustache and a flower shirt that was making you want to rip it off and fuck him, but you couldn’t for some reason…

The sexual frustration was really getting to you both, ending in bickering, nothing toxic or abusive, just bickering out of frustration, your patience growing lower, you still loved each other a lot, you were just afraid to initiate something and scared of rejection. It was now summer, and Jim’s closest friends, Joyce and Murray had found out about you two and were finally happy their friend had someone to actually love, and now that it was warm enough you invited them to walk with you in the forest now that Murray had visited town for the summer, it was alright and you walked for 2 hours, but you could tell Joyce and Murray were getting sick of you and Hopper’s bickering all the damn time, “oh my god Jim, you did not just fucking lose the keys!” you said , angrily, he laughed as he took them out “I’m just playing with ya” he said, “Ugh!” you grumble loudly, “Okay okay, come on and stop fighting for at least 5 minutes,” Joyce interrupted, “Fine” you and Hopper said, “Now Jim, hug your boyfriend” she said, Jim obeyed, there was no not following Joyce’s orders. A sharp smell of musk and sweat entered your nostrils as he hugged you,

“Jim, you stink!” you said, pulling away slightly, “Okay you two, fucking enough!” Murray screamed, “It’s pretty clear you both need to work some shit out, so you can go fuck each other’s brains out and get this over with!!” he shouted, you, Hopper and Joyce staring at his boldness, “I don’t care who puts it in who, just get it over with, I don’t wanna hear your fucking sexual tension for 2 hours” he snapped, “Get in the car Joyce, let’s leave them to sort their shit out” and so they did.

The ride home was silent and awkward, neither you or Jim would say anything, you sat down in the living room at his cabin, “Alright, despite Murray’s… rather straightforward words, he was right, we really need to do something…” “You wanna do something?” he asked, “Yes, for months now, I was too scared to initiate,” you confessed, “Me too sweetheart, don’t worry, and you’re gonna get what you wanted,” he said as he pulled you to the closest wall and kissed you as you were against it, kissing down your neck, both of you sweating from the walk and suddenly Hopper’s smell was no longer an issue but rather a turn on.

“Fuck, I’ve wanted this for so long” you moaned, “Me too baby, me too” he says, grabbing you and taking you to the bed, he immediately starts licking your ass, “Jim… this is important…” you say, “What is it baby?” “Are you positive or negative?” you asked

“Negative, took a test last month” he said, going back to rimming your ass, “pass me that lube,” he said, you grabbed the lube and he started fingering you, holy shit did his fingers feel good against your prostate, “Fuck! Fuck!” you moaned as he pumped them in and out of your hole. Your dick hard as rock.

“Jim… need… your cock” you moaned as he fingered you, “I know baby, just let me do this for a while,” you weren’t about to be a patient guy, you’d held back for 5 months and here you were, covered in sweat with his dick 5 inches from entering your ass, you needed his fucking dick, he fingered you for 5 minutes, “Fuck, you clench so tight baby…” he said, “What? Gonna cum already?” he asked teasingly as you squirmed from pleasure, “Jim… give me your cock please…” you said, “Fucking christ,” he said, “The way you don’t just want it you fucking need it, and you’re about to get my fucking dick baby, trust me” he said, as he lubed up his dick and lined it up to your ass.

He entered you delicately but desperately, Hopper’s brain had disconnected from everything but you, holding back for 5 months for such a horny guy like him was living hell. He was drenched in sweat, the hair on his chest wet, his mustache still sticking out, his scent being so manly, goddamn, you wanted this man to fuck you. You grinded your dick against his bulging belly and you savored the sensation of humping his stomach. He started thrusting into you relentlessly, he was completely overpowering you, you licked at his chest, shoulders, biceps, taking in his smell, “And to think you were saying I stank, now you’re here fucking licking me while I fuck you” he teased, he started going harder and all you could do was moan, this was so, so fucking good. The pleasure rippled through you as he kept fucking you, your ass making squelching sounds as your precum smeared on his belly. Your face rubbing against the coarse wet hairs on his chest.

You repeated his name with every thrust inside you, your orgasm was so damn close, he started trailing kisses on your jaw as he finally got to your lips and started mashing his tongue against yours, your spit mixing, his mustache brushing against your skin, it was all fucking amazing and just when it couldn’t be better Hopper put his hand around your cock and started jerking it off, “Cum for me baby…” he said, “Jim, Jim, JIM!” you said as you came all over him pure pleasure coursed through you as your orgasm rippled through you, you clenched your ass down on Hopper’s cock, “Hmm, so tight, gonna- breed this ass-” he managed to moan as he kept fucking into you, beads of sweat from his forehead now already on your torso, “Oh god, baby, fuck yes!” he said as he moaned loudly, almost screaming as he unleashed his held back load inside you. He finished and cum was running down your ass and it was all over his pubes as he started fucking his own cum out of you, he pulled out and stared at you, amazed at how pretty you looked when he had bred you.

You smiled at each other and he lightly spanked you playfully, you laughed, “Jim… we gotta shower” “We?” he asked, smiling “No, me and the dog, of course it’s you baby” you hugged him, “I’m so tired, in a few hours?” “Fine,” you said as you drifted off to sleep on his chest, Hopper knew then that you really did love him, with his one night stands, he just held their hand as they slept, now, he was full on hugging you to him, and he’d never let go.

#jim hopper #jim hopper x male reader #jim hopper fluff #jim hopper smut #jim hopper headcanons #chief hopper #hopper is hot #hopper smut #boyfriend hopper #gay love

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canary0 · 9 months

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Aug. 1st - Dracula 2021

The Log of the Demeter

Fog has settled in over the English Channel, and the engines are down. The men are trying to figure out what the problem is, but the more experienced member of the engineering team already disappeared. We may have overstressed it in our haste. We're adrift, but moving, and the sense of doom, that cold knowledge that your end has arrived, is stronger than ever as we draw ever closer to wherever we're going. The mate is disheartened now even more than the others.

---

Mina Murray's Journal

I came up to the abbey ruin, just Lucy and I to have some girl's time and do some wedding planning. She wants to hold mine as soon as Mr. Holmwood returns from his father's side and Mr. Hawkins is able to come up. I will admit, I also made something of an odd invitation - Dr. Stankiewicz. I don't know if she'll accept since it's so soon and so far, but we wouldn't be able to get married if she hadn't helped Jonathan.

Either way, we went up, and the older woman we met before was there at Lucy's spot. I greeted her warmly and introduced Lucy. They took to one another immediately; Lucy's always been good with the elderly. She had considered becoming a nurse at one time to work with them, but the whole idea of her being around so much sickness made her mother terribly upset with anxiety.

We got onto the topic of the graves around us again, and she gave a warm chuckle. "Do you know? My great-grandfather, whom I told you about before, believed that the reason people have gravestones was to present evidence that they were a good person when they got to heaven. He said they all lugged these big stones up to the pearly gates and showed them to Gabriel and St. Peter!"

Lucy's eyes went wide, and she covered a giggle with both hands. I admit that it was not only what she said, but likely my expression that caused it, as I was quite confused, and voiced it. "Wouldn't it be better to make something more portable? And... detailed?"

She nodded enthusiastically. "I thought that too! Of course, he passed before I was old enough to think of that and get an answer." We all couldn't help but laugh at that.

"Though he was right that many of these gravestones don't have the truth on them, which was part of his argument. This is a coastal town, with a lot of fishing - though there's less business for that after the Brexit nonsense, don't get me started, dear - so you can imagine how many of them went."

Lucy nodded. "Oh... yes, they must have been lost at sea, so they wouldn't be here."

"Indeed!" She chuckled. "Actually, I didn't understand it at the time because I was terribly young, but the family thought to respect his belief with his inscription. Come here, let me show you."

She guided us over to where somewhat newer graves began and gestured to a tombstone. I read it aloud.

Victor Swales 1819-1897 Beloved father, grandfather, and great-grandfather. St. Peter & Gabriel: He's really a decent sort. Please go easy on him.

Lucy covered her mouth. "Oh dear! Isn't that a little sacrilegious?"

She grinned, showing some missing teeth. "Well, the two of them can take it up with the family when judgment day comes."

I noted, "You have his last name still - did your husband take your name?"

"Never did have one of those, dear."

Lucy looked surprised. "Really? From your manner, I could have sworn you were a grandmother."

"Oh, I am!" She replied. "Don't need a husband for that. But it's getting toward time to go. My daughter is visiting, and I don't want to keep her waiting."

We were surprised, but we both waved, giving our goodbyes.

(A/N: Fuck's sake, Mina, while is the entry after I've driven 12 hours so damn long? @_@ Time to get some rest.

I included a few fun things in this chapter, but particular shout out to the non-ace aros! I wanted to use the last name, but she also struck me as a grandma, so... there you go. XD)

#dracula daily #dracula 2023 #fanfic #just for fun #modern retelling #lucy westenra #mina murray

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foundtherightwords · 10 months

Text

Love in a Storm - Chapter 10

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Chrissy Cunningham (Regency AU)

Summary: A devastating loss threatens the happy marriage of Edward and Christine Munson, Lord and Lady Hurtsfield. However, when Edward is accused of a crime he didn't commit, Christine has to set her grief aside and embark on a perilous journey to prove her husband's innocence.

Warnings: childbirth, stillbirth, infertility, angst, false accusation, wrongful imprisonment, legal drama, some violence (non-graphic), some smut (non-explicit)

Chapter word count: 3.9k

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9

Chapter 10

It was early still, but Edward was ready when the guards opened the door to his cell and ushered him into the carriage that would take him to the Old Bailey. He hadn't slept. He wanted this day to be over even before it had begun, and it was only the thought of seeing Christine again that compelled him to enter the courtroom.

But she was nowhere to be seen.

He scoured the gallery in vain for those horrid blue feathers, though in truth, he would have still known her without them. He would know her in his heart and his soul. Yet his heart and soul were empty now, for where was she? At first, he had thought she was simply late. The street outside was crowded with curious onlookers; she might have had some trouble getting through them. But as the minutes ticked by and the courtroom slowly filled up without any sign of Christine, his impatience turned to apprehension. He beckoned to Murray, who went over to the dock.

"Did you talk to Lady Hurstfield at all after the trial yesterday?" Edward asked.

A shifty look crossed Murray's face as his eyes darted to the gallery, and Edward's fear multiplied tenfold.

"Only to advise her not to visit you," the barrister said. "But she insisted, and I didn't see her again after that."

"Why did you tell her not to visit me?"

Before Murray could answer, Lord Chief Justice Abbott came in, and the trial began, so Edward had no chance to continue his questioning.

There wasn't much left to the trial that morning. Several witnesses were called and testified that they had seen Edward around Cato Street before and on the night of the shooting of Benson, as well as the night the conspirators were arrested. On cross-examination, Murray established that nobody had actually seen Edward on Cato Street, only around it, which was perfectly reasonable given the closeness of the Misses Hargrove's house to the area.

Edward scarcely took any of it in. He was busy going over in his mind all the possibilities of where Christine could be. He recalled the way she had admitted to meeting with the Duke of Hauxwell, the doubt in her voice when she asked if she'd done the right thing, the fervor of her kisses, and her promise to do whatever it took to free him. Suddenly, the sweetness of their night together took on a hideous meaning. Suppose it was Christine's way of apologizing to him, or, worse, of saying goodbye to him, before she gave herself to Hauxwell? Could she do something like that? Would she do it? But if that had been her plan all along, why had she told him about going to see Hauxwell at all? Had it been a ruse, to lure him into a sense of false security, to make him believe she would never consider Hauxwell's proposition, when in fact she had already made up her mind? Question after question piled up in Edward's mind like debris piling up in a river during a storm. Soon the river would flood, and he had no idea what he would do then.

He remembered how Christine had brought up his mother's affair, and now he was certain it was because she had planned to go to Hauxwell. She had tried to gauge his reaction, his opinion on extramarital affairs. But surely, she knew the sanctity of marriage had never been that important to him; to him, it was mutual respect, affection, and honesty that bonded two people together, not some law of church or men. And if she had gone to Hauxwell, it wouldn't have been an affair. It would be blackmail, plain and simple.

Even as he thought this, however, Edward couldn't help feeling a pang of jealousy. He had told Christine, in no uncertain terms, that he would stand by her, no matter what she decided, but now, faced with the possibility that she had accepted Hauxwell's offer, he wasn't sure if he could keep his word. He knew it was cowardly of him, despicable even, to feel injured and betrayed, considering she had done so (if she really had) only to save him, but he couldn't stop himself, especially when he remembered how Christine had once looked at Hauxwell. She had been entranced, like one under a spell. Edward knew he didn't have that effect on Christine. He knew she loved him, of course, but he had never made her swoon with just a look. Perhaps Hauxwell had used that charm on Christine, made her an agreeable offer, and tricked her into thinking he would really help her... Anger burned in Edward's chest, made more unbearable by the fact that he was powerless to do anything about it.

Murray knew something, Edward was sure of it. The barrister wasn't his usual boisterous self that morning, not since the moment Edward pointed out Christine's absence, and though his tongue was as sharp as ever during the cross-examination, he seemed almost distracted. But Murray's distraction only confused Edward further. Surely, Christine wouldn't reveal Hauxwell's indecent offer to Murray, of all people?

The last witness stepped down. Abbott was turning to the jury, getting ready to recapitulate the evidence to them, when there was a ruckus in the back of the courtroom.

A clerk squeezed through the other functionaries, went up to Murray, put a piece of paper into his hand, and whispered something to him, before lowering his head and backing down in front of Abbott's glare. Murray looked shocked for a second, then, as he read the paper, a huge weight seemed to have dropped away from him. His look of concern and distraction vanished; the sarcastic glint came back into his eyes as he approached the judge's chair.

"My Lord Chief Justice," he said, "may I request a stay in the summation of the evidence? I was advised that new information recently came to light and must be taken into consideration."

"What new information?" Abbott barked. "The trial is completed, all the evidence is heard. I shall not have you disrupt my courtroom with your theatrics again, sir!"

"It is not theatrics, my lord," Murray said with the most ingratiating smile. "Would you deny testimony that could further illuminate the events?"

Edward could almost see the dilemma rolling in Abbott's mind. He might have been instructed by the Privy Council to secure a guilty verdict, but he was also a strict observer of rules and therefore could not break from normal proceedings, which demanded that every piece of evidence was heard, as long as the sentence had not been passed. Finally, with a gritting of his teeth, Abbott nodded.

Murray turned smugly to the door of the chamber and gave a signal. Every head turned.

A young woman was led into the courtroom.

It was Jane.

Edward's jaw dropped as he watched his sister approach the judge, but it was less because of her, and more because of the person following closely behind her.

Christine.

She was still wearing the same clothes she had the previous day, though without her monstrosity of a hat, and looking rather the worse for wear, but her blue eyes, as they settled on him, were ablaze with such a fire that he could have picked her out in a crowd of millions. Edward was so relieved he almost floated. He realized he might not have made her swoon with just a look, but no one else could make her light up like that either. How could he have been so foolish as to think that she had given herself to another man, when she looked at him like that?

Christine gave Jane's hand a squeeze, nodded at her encouragingly, then slipped back into the crowd of spectators in the gallery. Edward didn't follow her, but he could sense her eyes on him still. He felt ten feet tall, and he knew everything would be all right now, because Christine was here at last.

Jane came to stand in front of the judge. She, too, seemed to have gained confidence and was no longer the timid, fearful girl Edward had met two months ago.

"State your name, madam," Abbott said sternly, "and let us hear this 'new information' regarding the charges against Lord Hurstfield."

"My name is Jane Ives, of Bloomington, Shropshire. Lately, I came to London to escape a... dangerous situation, and received the assistance of Miss Beatrice and Miss Minerva Hargrove. It was at their house that I made Lord Hurstfield's acquaintance."

"The Misses Hargrove can testify to confirm this," Murray chimed in, which earned him a scowl from Abbott.

"I thank you not to interrupt in my courtroom, sir," the judge boomed, but without his usual vehemence. He motioned for Jane to continue.

As a hush fell upon the courtroom, Jane retold the events Edward had already known - a brief sketch of her flight from Henry Creel and the orphanage, how Edward had given her the pistols, how Creel had taken them from her, and what she knew of the shooting. It was the whole truth, save for the one fact - the familial connection between them. Edward was grateful that Jane chose not to divulge it. Such a scandalous secret would not win him any favor with the judge and the jury. But the foremost question in his mind was how Christine and Murray had pulled this off, how they had convinced Jane to come forward. Judging by Murray's initial shock, the barrister had been just as stunned as Edward. No, this was all Christine. She must have found a way to persuade Jane somehow, as he knew she would.

Once Jane had finished, Abbott's scowl of skepticism remained. "What proof have you that this man Creel was the one that fired the shot?"

Murray stepped up. "Allow me, my lord," he said, presenting the judge with the paper. "Here is an account from a Bow Street officer, confirming that last night, a man fitting Henry Creel's description was arrested for assault in Clerkenwell. A pistol was found in his possession, matching the pistol that was used to shoot Benson. There are also reasons to believe that Creel was responsible for the murder of a young woman named Patricia McKinney in Whitechapel last week."

One word caught Edward's attention. Clerkenwell. That was just outside of the Steel. Arrested for assault... Did this have anything to do with Christine's disheveled appearance and lateness? She wouldn't be so foolhardy as to face Creel herself, would she? He turned toward the gallery and caught her expression, a little smile that was both sheepish and triumphant, as if she was saying "I'm so sorry for worrying you, but it's all right now because everything has turned out well," which confirmed his suspicion.

Wild emotions rose within Edward. Anger at Creel for having the audacity to go after Christine, at himself for putting her in danger, at Christine for being so reckless, at Murray for allowing it, mixed with relief, and above all, thankfulness for Christine. His sweet, brave, precious Christine. He could love her for hundreds of lifetimes and it still wouldn't be enough to show his gratitude for her.

Abbott looked over the paper, his scowl deepening. Clearly, the judge was not happy with the way the trial was going, but there was little he could do.

"And where is Creel now?" he asked.

"Being taken to Newgate while Bow Street Court draws up the charges, my lord," Murray replied. "Do we agree that, if Lord Hurstfield had nothing to do with the shooting of Benson, then his presence near Cato Street on the 23rd of February was nothing but an unfortunate coincidence?"

"That would be for the jury to decide!" Abbott shouted.

Murray raised an eyebrow and inclined his head toward the jury.

Abbott heaved a long sigh. "Very well," he said, his mouth puckered like he was tasting something that had gone off. "The jury will take this new evidence into consideration."

An excited buzz grew, chasing away the hush that had settled over the courtroom while Jane told her story. The jury retired to deliberate. Edward's heart thumped so hard he couldn't breathe, and he didn't dare look in Christine's direction, afraid the blaze in her eyes would be too much for him to bear. He gripped the rough wooden surface of the dock in front of him, wondering how many prisoners had done so before him, and what hope and fear raged in their hearts. For his part, he didn't dare hope. He didn't even dare think ahead. He concentrated on counting the minutes until the jury returned.

It took fifteen minutes, though, for all of Edward's agonizing suspense, it could have been five hours. As the jurors filed back into their seats, he watched them carefully, trying to guess from their expressions what verdict they had come to, but his vision seemed to be blurring, turning the courtroom into patches of browns and grays and blacks. Only the blue of Christine's eyes, as blue as the summer sky above the Dales, as blue as the love-in-a-mist, their favorite flower, remained clear, for he saw it with his heart rather than his eyes.

"Has the jury reached a decision?" Abbott asked.

"We have, my lord," the foreman replied.

"And?" the old judge prompted, irritated.

"On the first count of murder, we found the prisoner not guilty."

The buzz rose higher. Edward wasn't sure if it came from the spectators or merely the pounding of the blood in his veins.

A glare from Abbott silenced the courtroom. The foreman cleared his throat and continued, "On the second count of treason, we found the prisoner... not guilty."

The gallery went wild.

Abbott and the prosecutors exchanged sour glances.

Edward felt his joints giving way all at once, and he collapsed in the dock, the hammering of his heart mingling with the hubbub around him into one noise. He lifted his eyes to the gallery and saw Christine's posture mirroring his own as she slumped in her seat, her face buried in her hands, her whole body shaking with uncontrollable sobs. Beatrice and Minerva were hovering next to her, rubbing her back and patting her shoulders in a futile attempt to soothe her. If he could, Edward would have leaped over all those tables and chairs and court functionaries and spectators to reach her, to wrap her in his embrace, and never let her go. Then her face emerged from behind her hands, tear-stained but radiant with joy, like the sun emerging after the rain. As she locked eyes with him, the rest of the courtroom faded away, and he reminded himself that there would be time to hold her later, all the time in the world.

***

Christine felt like one who had just wakened from a horrific nightmare. Darkness and the screaming demons were gone; there was only the comfort of a beloved's embrace and daybreak and birdsong outside.

The relief was so immense, she couldn't believe it. She had left the courtroom in a daze, and even now, even as Murray, Edward, and Jane emerged from the Old Bailey and she threw propriety to the wind and ran into Edward's waiting arms, she still couldn't quite grasp that it was really over, that those two months of agony and anxiety and fear were finished. Edward shook hands with the Misses Hargrove and Mr. Clarke, who had stayed in London to see the trial to its conclusion, and thanked them for their support, and joked about taking a nice long bath and never wanting to see another bowl of gruel in his entire life. He was making light of the whole situation, but from his tight grip around her waist and the slight tremor in his voice, Christine knew he was feeling the same way she did.

Afterward, Jane went back to the lodging house to gather her things before coming to Hanover Square to stay, per Edward and Christine's invitation. Christine offered to accompany her back to Southwark, but Jane declined, saying Edward and Christine should have some time together. Christine blushed a little at that, but she was thankful to Jane for her tact. Jane would have to remain in London to testify against Creel, but now that he was behind bars, there was no longer any cause for concern.

The crowds were so eager to get home after the entertainment of the trial that it took a while for Christine and Edward to find a cab, but eventually, down the street from the Old Bailey, a cab pulled up to them. The driver, wrapped up against the still-chilly spring air, called out, "Cab, sir?", and they climbed on gratefully.

Once the cab's door closed behind them, Christine fell into Edward's arms again, dropping kisses all over his face and his hands, mumbling incoherent words of gratitude, while happy tears flowed down her cheeks. Edward's cheeks were wet as well, though from her tears or his own, she couldn't tell. It was a long while before the tears dried and the two of them were somewhat calmed, as they settled into their favorite position - Christine reclining against Edward, with her back to his chest and her head fitted perfectly into the crook of his neck, and his arms wrapped around her.

But Edward still had other things on his mind.

"Sweetheart, please tell me you had nothing to do with Creel's arrest," he said, rubbing at a dirt spot on her dress.

The thought of Creel caused Christine to involuntarily shudder, as she remembered her horrifying flight from him. The shock of the fall on the cobblestones only lingered as a little soreness in her limbs, but the fear remained strong, the fear when she'd felt his grip on her foot, which turned into wild desperation as she'd kicked out with all her might and crawled away, and then the enormous relief when she heard a shout and the sound of jackboots on the pavement, as the guards of Coldbath Fields Prison came to her aid. Creel had tried to run, but they had chased him down, caught him, and handed him over to the police. They had even fetched the prison's doctor to take care of Owens's wound.

She knew Edward would ask about it, and she would tell him everything, eventually. But not yet. Edward must be exhausted after his time in prison and the trial, and she didn't want to vex him. So she took his hand, laced her fingers through his, and brushed her lips over his knuckles. "I promise you, I didn't do anything foolish or reckless," she said. And it was the truth. It wasn't her fault that Creel had followed her to the prison, knocked Owens out, and lain in wait for her. "Besides, I am here, I am safe, Jane is safe, Creel is arrested, and you are acquitted. Aren't those the most important things?"

Edward sighed. "But it pains me to think of what you had to endure, what you had to do for me—"

Christine turned around impatiently to face him. "You've said that you trusted my judgment," she said. "And my judgment is this: sometimes the end justifies the means." Then she added, to soften her stern words, "I shall tell you all about it when we are both calmer. But only if you cease all this useless self-blame."

Edward regarded her with something like awe, which took her by surprise. There were many things she knew she could always find in his gaze - love, affection, admiration, trust. But he had always been protective of her, almost overly so. Now he was looking at her as if he'd just realized she could protect him. His eyes sparkled softly, and it was his turn to kiss her hands. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to question your judgment. I know you're strong."

"Can you apologize better than that?" she whispered. He smiled in response and drew her closer and kissed her lips.

Their kiss was interrupted by a shout, indistinct but coming closer, accompanied by the frantic rattling of a carriage.

Edward opened the window and looked out. "Why, it's Murray!" he exclaimed. "He's hailing us—what on Earth—stop the cab!" The driver must be hard of hearing, for he only whipped the horse harder. Edward leaned out of the window and thumped the top of the cab. "Driver, stop!"

The cab slowed to a halt. The other cab caught up, and Murray jumped out and ran over to them, huffing and panting, his eyes popping out behind his spectacles.

"I just received a message from Bow Street," he said through the window, not even waiting for Edward to open the door. "Creel's escaped. He killed the constable who was transporting him to Newgate and took the carriage."

Fear crashed back into Christine with such a force that it knocked the wind out of her and set her heart pounding again. Edward glanced back at her briefly, and she saw her panic reflected on his face.

"When?" he asked Murray.

"A few hours ago."

Creel could be anywhere by now, vanished into the maze of London once more.

"Could it be possible that he knows where Jane is staying?" asked Edward.

Murray looked distinctly uncomfortable. "I... I don't know."

"Then we must warn her." Edward turned to Christine. "Sweetheart, return to Hanover Square and instruct the servants to lock all the doors and bar all the windows to the house. Murray and I are going to bring Jane—"

"No!" She grabbed his arm. She had just gotten him back, did he really think she was going to let him go again? "I know she is your sister, but you don't know what Creel is capable of. Let the police handle this, Edward. Please."

"If we wait for the police, it might be too late."

This was true. Christine chewed on her lips, torn between wanting to keep Edward safe and protecting Jane. "Then we shall go together," she decided. "Mr. Murray can find some constables and follow." When Edward still hesitated, she took both of his hands in hers and looked straight into his eyes. "I can do this, Edward," she said. "Let me do this."

He relented. "All right. Murray, do you have the address?"

"I remember the route," Christine said, before Murray could answer. "To Southwark, please, driver. And hurry!"

As the cab tore down the Queen Street Bridge, Christine kept her hands entwined in Edward's. Their fingers were both freezing cold, but at least the presence of another pair of hands—of his hands—was a comfort.

When they reached Southwark, Christine put her head out of the window to watch for familiar landmarks and directed the driver to turn here and there. After a while, the driver said, irritated, "If you have the exact address, ma'am, I could get us there much quicker than this!"

"I'm sorry, but I don't—we're almost there," she replied, noticing a familiar alley looming ahead. "Here, stop! We can walk from here. And if you wait for us, I shall pay double."

Christine ducked back into the cab to grab her reticule. "We're here?" Edward asked, and she nodded. Then, without waiting for the driver, she opened the door to step out—

—and found herself facing a razor-sharp blade and the chilling smile of Henry Creel.

Chapter 11

A/N: I'm sorry for ending two chapters in a row on a cliffhanger, but we're almost at the end now, so please bear with me!

#hellcheer #eddissy #hellcheersource #hellcheer fic #hellcheer au #regency au #eddie munson #chrissy cunningham #eddie x chrissy #chrissy x eddie #joseph quinn #joseph quinn fic #hellcheer week #hellcheer wip event #hellcheer anniversary week #oneyearofhellcheer

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timeagainreviews · 2 years

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The End of an Error

In October 2018, my partner and I visited the city of Nottingham for a convention. As we walked down the streets of that beautiful city, we saw a large billboard with Jodie Whittaker’s orange visage advertising the Doctor Who series eleven premiere. I was so excited that I took a picture and posted it to my Instagram. At the bottom of the billboard were the words “It’s about time.” It was a clever little tagline making both a pun about the program’s time travel element and highlighting how they had finally cast a woman in the role of the Doctor. Earlier this month I took the same trip down to Nottingham and wondered if I would again see a giant Jodie Whittaker, but alas, there was nothing. We did finally get an air date for her final episode that weekend. And I remember thinking “It’s about time.”

Up until the announcement of the release date, the fandom had been quite vocal about the lack of advertising around the centenary episode. Various fan outlets had done more promotion for the show than the BBC itself, which is a far cry from just four years ago. Fan anticipation felt more like frustration, and it’s easy to see why. After a steady decline in ratings and viewership, it feels as though the BBC has very little faith in one of its biggest flagship series. After all, why throw good money after bad? Perhaps they knew it wasn’t worth it. Compare the tepid fan reaction to official photos of the Master as Rasputin and the Cyber Time Lords in Doctor Who Magazine to the excited buzz around some fuzzy pictures of Beep the Meep.

Judging by social media, there are two types of anticipation for Sunday’s upcoming episode. The first type comes from people excited to see the thrilling conclusion to the Chris Chibnall era. The other type comes from people like myself who are thrilled to see the conclusion of the Chris Chibnall era. We’re basically excited about the same thing, but for totally different reasons. They want to see Jodie and Mandip kiss, while we want to see the end credits roll. While I wouldn't mind seeing them kiss, I'm more excited to get what has been an awful four years over with.

It was exactly 1,475 days ago when I had written my first article about my hopes and expectations leading into the Chibnall era. I was so full of hope back then. I even referred to Chibnall as things like “Mr Chibnall.” Even then, however, he was always my greatest worry- the weakest link in a strong chain of talent. At the beginning of every series since I have done an article of this sort. It’s become a bit of a tradition. While “The Power of the Doctor,” is not the beginning of a new series, I felt it merited some reflection before the episode aired. I don’t want my final review of the Chibnall era to become a dissection of it in its entirety either. I’d like to be able to talk about the story on its own merit, if possible.

Three nice things about Chris Chibnall

Growing up, my mom often quoted Thumper from the movie “Bambi’, when he said “If you can't say something nice, don't say nothing at all.” While I don’t exactly agree with the sentiment, it is a lesson from my childhood that has always reminded me to be kind when possible. No good criticism comes from a place of cruelty, so I thought I might take the time to say three positive things about Chris Chibnall.

Firstly, the man has an eye for talent. You cannot say that for the last four years, Doctor Who has looked like shit, except where it definitely should (e.g. Sontarans). The shots of the TARDIS in the time vortex are some of the coolest shots to ever grace the screen during a Doctor Who episode. A lot of the visuals felt like callbacks to the first three Doctors’ respective eras. Something which I often praised despite the quality of the episodes involved. Speaking of callbacks to the classics, the music was also a thing to behold. While some people miss Murray Gold, I really enjoyed Segun Akinola’s ambient scores which often felt like homages to the Radiophonic Workshop. His presence as the show’s composer will go greatly missed. Chibnall also gave us great actors in the form of Jo Martin, Bradley Walsh, and even Jodie Whittaker when given the proper material, which is really the crux of the matter. So many people were firing on all cylinders, but it amounts to very little when in service of mediocre writing.

Secondly, the man had ideas. I often times hear people trying to say Chris Chibnall has no good ideas, and I always reply with how wrong that is. Chris Chibnall is a man with loads of ideas, but sadly, not much time and/or ability to explore these ideas. The Doctor becoming a Weeping Angel is a great idea. It’s unfortunate then that it was used primarily as a cliffhanger ending. The idea of the Doctor being a woman is also a great idea. It’s unfortunate then that it rarely ever came up narratively. Even the timeless child storyline has the capacity to be interesting, but instead, it’s a confusing mess that contradicts far too much of what came before. Herein lies the problem of being an ideas man while not being able to go beyond the initial premise- once you do it, you can never do it again. If you fail to explore a brilliant idea, you’ve done nothing but waste its potential.

Thirdly, he has given me and others a greater appreciation for previous eras of Doctor Who. While I said I appreciate the callbacks to the aesthetics of classic stories, the real gift he has given us as fans is that of hindsight. A middling story like “The Sontaran Strategem/The Poison Sky,” seems like a work of art by comparison to the Chibnall era. We see Donna comparing her travels with the Doctor to the quaint neighbourhood where she lives and it tells us more about her character visually than any two Chibnall characters stopping the action dead in its tracks to tell each other how they feel. Simple things like basic character development now feel like precious gems comparatively. I know about as much about Astrid Peth in one episode as I do about Yaz over thirty-one episodes. It’s not that we expect Russell T Davies to blow our minds, but some character development is going to feel like that dank shit compared to the mids Chibnall’s been selling.

If you can’t tell, I told a bit of a lie. Those three things weren’t exactly nice, which I promise wasn’t actually by design. I have been trying to come up with three genuinely nice things to say about Chris Chibnall for months now. Every nice point I came up with always had a sort of caveat. It’s like when the Army tells prospective recruits that they have over 200 jobs and that you only need to find the right one for you. At the end of the day, it all still leads to being in the fucking Army. As much positive spin as you try to put on the situation, it’s all leading back to the reality of the situation- it sucks.

My “hopes” for the centenary

I’ve said it before, and I will continue to say it- I never watch Doctor Who hoping it will be bad. I want to love and enjoy the show as much as the rest of us. But unlike my initial article “The Eve of the Thirteenth,” my expectations are less rooted in hope and more rooted in reality. I would love to enjoy this episode of Doctor Who, but history has shown me time and time again that it’s going to be a mess. With the return of the Master, Bell and Vinder, the writing off of two companions, the re-introduction of at least two classic companions, the Lone Cyberman, the Cyber Time Lords, the likely inclusion of the Fugitive Doctor, and the death and regeneration of the Doctor, there are a lot of plot threads to tie up. Chris Chibnall couldn’t contain a single story within six episodes, how the hell is he going to manage ninety minutes? Oh God, this is going to be a mess, isn’t it?

All worries and logic aside, if I were to hope against hope, my two biggest desires for the centenary are that the Fugitive Doctor gets a proper send-off, and that Chibnall does no further damage to the show’s mythology. Jo Martin’s Doctor has been a fan favourite, but I have often been left underwhelmed by the show’s portrayal of her character. Unlike the War Doctor, she’s never really gotten a chance for her character to develop. While I don’t mind her being shrouded in mystery, I don’t exactly feel as though the show has given her any proper screen time to be the Doctor. In fact, I’m not even convinced she even is the Doctor, at least not from this universe. If it turns out that, yes, she is the Doctor, I’ll just chalk it up to bad writing and hope someone better comes along and actually gives her something worthy of Jo Martin’s talent. Seriously, why did Jodie Whittaker speak over her monologue in Flux? What a waste of potential. I want so much to like the Fugitive Doctor, but the story has been so piss-poor that I worry it’s up to Big Finish and RTD to do her any sort of justice.

You may laugh at my worry about Chibnall’s ability to damage the mythology of Doctor Who with only one episode left, but considering “The Timeless Children,” was only a single episode, you may understand my reservations. This is further compounded by the fact that Sophie Aldred is returning as Ace, one of my favourite companions from classic Doctor Who. Chibnall screwed up UNIT, the Time Lords, and the Doctor. He even managed to get Tegan wrong by handing her a giant gun and having her joyously blasting away despite her entire reason for leaving the Doctor was gun violence. With any other writer, I would be ecstatic over the return of Ace. With Chibnall, I’m very nervous.

This brings me to my deepest hope for Chibnall’s final story- I hope it’s simply just bad. I hope it’s a mediocre mess that’s boring and unfulfilling. History has shown me the futility of hoping it will secretly be good. So my only real hope is that it’s at the very least- not ruinous. I’ll still be happy to see Sophie Aldred, regardless of who is writing. I’m excited to see Jodie’s farewell. I’m hopeful that the Timeless Child storyline might miraculously make some sort of awesome sense. Maybe it ends in such a way that it actually fixes its many problems and truly does add more mystery to the show. I hope that we never see that stupid fob watch again. I hope they fix the issue of the flux wiping out 99.9% of the universe instead of ignoring it. I hope the Master is lying. I hope the Timeless Child is actually someone interesting like Susan or the Master. I hope that the best part of the episode won’t be the end credits. I hope that when it’s all over, I’ll have more to say than “It’s about time.”

#doctor who #the power of the doctor #chris chibnall #Jodie Whittaker #Jo Martin #BBC #centenary #100 years #sophie aldred #Time and Time Again #personal post

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marypsue · 1 year

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Full caveat I am the anon from earlier (and the one frequently in your inbox 😭😭) but One of the reasons I think S4 S3 fall so flat to me is that (as many people have pointed out) the main antagonist feel goofy. Part of why ST had a environmental tilt to it was this sense of nature is not wrong, it’s those that exploit it at other’s loss which is a familiar bedrock of a lot of good media both fiction and nonfiction. But the inclusion of the Russians is so over the top xenophobic and combined with the mind flayer apparently wanting dominion for reasons unknown so much of the show falls apart. Also I forgot how off putting all the Murray Hopper Joyce scenes are, it’s such a betrayal of who the characters could be to instead cheapen their dynamic to bickering. I will forever die on the hill that the season four subgroups were a disservice to all the characters!! I know you’re still only part fo the way through but are there any groups you would reorganize in S4/S3?

Lastly the Robin and Jonathan snippet has made me very intrigued and also lmao Jonathan really is committing to his powers and the inherent nosiness of them. But ooh very curious what the dynamics of the lab are now and what the negotiations between superpowers and ~authorities~ look like. That and I love Robin being so confused about Jonathan and Steve. ( I am sadly always a little bit SteveandRobin brain rot) lastly, I’m curious if Erica Sinclair will have her moment ( I love her but I also have many many qualms with the fact that the writers made an incredibly patriotic sassy Black girl (absolutely did not defy damaging stereotypes) and then had her be the youngest and showed her facing increasing violence with somehow no characters expressing regret or concern about her (if you make it to the end of S4, I would love to discuss which characters are shown hurt and bloodied and why it’s so icky)

Hello anon, I figured you might be! :) You have good thoughts, and I'm sorry it took so long to respond to this.

And yeah. Murray...the problem I have with him is that his whole shtick is being a smug, abrasive asshole, and that he's Right, all the time, about everything, and the narrative always takes his side. If it were one or the other, or even one only some of the time and the other the rest of the time, he could be a fun character! As it stands, I find him beyond extremely punchable.

I generally found season 3 really showed the characters (and, really, everything about the show) at their flattest. It's such a Saturday-morning-cartoon version of the show's whole premise (which is an insult to some of the Saturday-morning cartoons I've watched), and it was so disappointing. The first half of season 4, at the very least, seems to be trying to lean back in the direction of what I liked about season 1, but it just gets so undermined by its own thoughtlessness and appeals to its own name recognition and black-and-white spectacle-focused storytelling. It's really just. Disappointing.

But! I have dwelled upon my disappointment in great detail. Let us instead dwell upon what might have been.

I actually think that Nancy and Robin (season 3 Robin, the OG Robin, the one, the only, the true, the original) would have been a really fun and interesting pairing, especially if they bounced off of a Steve who still isn't totally over Nancy. Robin would get so many opportunities to judge him so hard, and probably also, eventually, an understanding of just why Steve's still not over Nancy. However, I think it might have been you, actually, who proposed Jonathan and Nancy each going to surprise visit the other over spring break and crossing paths in the air, and I love that and think it's hilarious and delightful, and I want to see Jonathan and Robin get to interact, so. Somehow I would want both of these things to happen.

I also think the Byers family + El grouping was criminally underused/badly used, but in concept, it's so so good. I especially want to see more of El and Joyce! And El and Will! And honestly, also El and Jonathan, if Jonathan's allowed to have the Big Brother Energy that was such a fundamental part of his character from the jump. I don't know how to combine that with the previous idea, but I'm not the one trying to come up with a coherent TV show season.

Also I would like to see Steve and Erica get more screentime together. As of the end of season 3, she's a little would-be queen bee who's been trying hard to hide her loser tendencies but just had a horrific monster-alternate-dimension-government-conspiracy experience that's blown her popularity-obsessed persona wide open. He rode that particular roller coaster in seasons 1-2. Also it would be hilarious to see how she'd react to him trying to position himself in that big-brother-mentor role that Dustin kind of shoved him into, for her. I don't think she'd be having any of it. She has a big brother. Even if he is a nerd.

Speaking of which. This isn't season-specific. I just always want more of the ST sibling squads.

As for what's going on in former heroes...I don't want to get into too-spoilery territory, but Barb surviving the events of season 1 means that Nancy and Jonathan didn't go on a crusade to shut the lab down in season 2, which means that its crimes (or a watered-down version of its crimes) aren't widely known. And that it hasn't been forced to shut its doors in disgrace. This absolutely has an effect on the plot.

Erica, too, is definitely going to get her Moment! Honestly it did bug me, after percolating on season 3 for a while, how the show said she was ten and then never really seemed to honour that. If I'm being generous and applying Watsonian logic, I'd say that everything with her constantly jacking up her 'price' for sneaking into the vents is a way to save face, to not look like a scared little baby while still getting out of doing the scary dangerous thing, and she never expected that Steve and Dustin would be serious enough about it to actually meet even her most absurd demands. And the yelling about all the social things she's going to miss and how her mom is going to kill everyone in the elevator if she doesn't get back in time is a cry that people care about me, people will miss me if I'm not where I'm supposed to be, people will notice if something happens to me, so don't let anything happen to me because it'll have consequences for you, too, even if you don't care for my sake. It's a heartbreaker, actually.

If I'm being generous from a Doylist standpoint (which. rare), maybe they were angling for a kind of The Goonies-esque Fun Cartoonish Adventure Where Nothing Really Bad Is Ever Actually Going To Happen To The Kids? If so, I wouldn't say it worked. The whole season has a really uneasy footing with the Scoops Troop storyline, like it can't decide whether it wants to be outsized and silly and not to be taken seriously or if it wants to be nail-bitingly life-or-death dangerous (especially with the Russian basement supposedly killing Hopper in the end), and it ultimately kind of succeeds in being neither. But now we're back to complaining about the show that gave me the characters I'm gleefully dressing up and parading around like Barbie dolls, so.

And is there anything 'sadly' about SteveandRobin brain rot? I think not. That friendship was easily the best thing to come out of season 3 and I will not apologise for loving it.

#chatter #stranger things

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longlivefanfic-net · 2 years

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Banished&Bloody: King Steve

Fic Summary: Post-Volume II. Eddie Munson wasn't dead when he was left in the Upside Down; well, he wasn't dead anymore. Steve Harrington has spent the days since they came back to Hawkins haunted by the idea that he could have saved Eddie--or at least died in his place. It quickly becomes clear that the Hawkin's group has to go back to the Upside Down and, when they do, they find an unfamiliar face. Vampire!Eddie Munson, Grieving Steve Harrington.

Chapter Summary/Content: Chapter 2 of 8. Steve is dealing with the constant ache of Eddie's death, the feeling that he should have been the one who died. Very heavy on the angst, grieving Steve Harrington, some mentions of Nancy/Steve.

Word Count: 3.8k

A/N: I really, really needed more info about what happened after Eddie died. Basically I just needed to know that it actually affected...anyone?? other than Dustin and Uncle Wayne?? so this is v angsty and sad bc IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN THAT WAY ON THE SHOW. anyway duffer brothers I'm outside anytime u want to talk

Chapter Two: King Steve

Always the babysitter. He was always the fucking babysitter, Mr. Mom as far as everyone else was concerned. Steve rolled his eyes, grabbing another package of Doritos off the shelf to pitch into the grocery cart he was pushing, thinking about how Jonathan had so casually suggested Steve run to the store for provisions when Dustin had complained that he was too hungry to think. The actual adults–a term Steve still didn’t feel like applied to him–were all at work, trying to make life look as normal as possible to keep the rest of them safe. Frankly, Steve, Robin, Nancy, Jonathan, and Argyle had more or less decided to keep their plans secret from Murray, Hopper, and Joyce: the “adults” needed to focus on things like keeping the cops off their backs, and it wasn’t like anyone was going to suggest that Joyce Byers go into the Upside Down. And, as Jonathan had pointed out, there was no reason for the adults to fret about what the rest of them knew had to be done. The adults knew the bare minimum of what was going on: they seemed to gratefully swallow the lie that the group of kids were all spending eight or more hours a day together just to sit and watch TV, or occasionally going in groups to visit Max at the hospital. Part of keeping their plans under the radar meant avoiding telling Hopper or Joyce too much about what they were doing or how often they were together; that left Steve in the grocery store, playing the role of grown-up despite the fact that a part of him still felt like the high school kid who had kissed Nancy in his bedroom after throwing her in his pool. But, he did have to admit, he wasn’t the same person he had been back then. He still kept his baseball bat full of nails in his trunk, and, even in the grocery store, he was aware of the closest exit to him at all times (at this moment, it was through the storeroom which would bring him out to the loading dock where he could either go back to the parking lot for his car or go straight out from). Picking up groceries felt useless, though. It felt like something anyone could have done, and by asking him to do it, Steve felt like the rest of them viewed him as useless. Was this why he had survived? He had beaten a demogorgon, had been tortured by Russians, had lit Molotov cocktails and thrown them at Vecna and still he felt like he was just…a necessary evil to the rest of them. A combination of bodyguard and babysitter.

A sharp slice of pain cut through his heart as he turned the corner into the next aisle. A combination of bodyguard and babysitter was what he had thought of Eddie Munson when he left him with Dustin to distract the demobats. He had known Eddie would keep Dustin safe, had seen the way Eddie looked at Dustin like he was a little brother, had heard Eddie’s admission to being jealous of Steve ringing in his ears. Steve had known in his heart that Dustin would keep Eddie from being stupid, and Eddie would do whatever it took to keep Dustin in one piece. He hadn’t counted on Eddie doing that same thing for him, for Nancy, for Robin. Dustin had told them, sobbing when they came back to the gate in the Munson’s trailer, how Eddie had tried to make Dustin go back to Hawkins, had gone back outside on his own to draw the demobat’s attention. Steve shuddered at the memory, his breath speeding up as he remembered Dustin soaked in Eddie’s blood, tear tracks clearing dirt over the round, youthful face that had suddenly lost some aspect of childlike innocence. Steve had looked at Dustin, and he had known that a part of Dustin had died when Eddie Munson did. They had worked together to pass Dustin through the gate with his injured leg, and Steve suddenly felt a phantom of the tickle against his chin as Dustin had buried his curls into Steve’s neck, sobbing as he was passed to Nancy and Robin in the trailer. But that’s not where he was right now–he was not in the trailer, he was not holding a crying Dustin, he was not wiping Eddie’s blood off his hands. No, Steve was in the grocery store, about to hyperventilate in front of the bread options. Eddie was dead. Dustin wasn’t. Steve wasn’t. Just because Eddie had broken his promise to Steve, had decided to be a hero, didn’t mean Steve had to– Had to what, he thought, suddenly angry. Had to feel guilty? Yeah, he did. If he hadn’t been so pissed about being the babysitter he probably would have been the one with Dustin. He, Steve, would have died instead of Eddie. And that was something he was going to have to get used to, because Steve knew it was going to burden him for the rest of his life.

Shaking his head, the brown locks flopping in front of his eyes as he cleared his mind forcefully, Steve grabbed the first loaf of bread his hands touched, threw it in the half-full cart, and walked to the front. He checked out quickly, barely making polite conversation with the cashier–a shame, too, because he was highly aware of the way she was flirting with him, but he couldn’t shake the itchy feeling in the back of his skull that told him he needed to be back with the kids, making sure that they were all safe. He loaded the food into his car, sliding behind the wheel with the intention of driving directly back to Hopper’s cabin. Most of their company, as Mike insisted on calling them, were living in the cabin together, so as soon as Joyce and Hopper were gone for the day it was the perfect place for everyone to convene and work on their battleplan. They had spent the last week talking through plan after plan, shooting them down one by one. They couldn’t be sure where Vecna would be; they couldn’t be sure that El’s recently returned powers would be strong enough to fight him again; they couldn’t be sure they knew how to kill him after their last plan had failed. Nancy had been angry, at first, when they had realized Vecna had lived. When they realized Vecna had taken Max–or taken her and given her back, Steve wasn’t completely sure–Steve had had to hold Nancy, rubbing circles in her back while she sobbed. Robin had held her hand, the three of them suddenly aware of the price they had paid for not being ready to face him. But, Robin had reasoned later, Vecna was going to take Max anyway–maybe it was because they had weakened him that Max was still alive, albeit asleep in a hospital bed. That’s what they all told themselves, anyway. That still didn’t make Steve feel better about Eddie, though. No one really talked about Eddie like they did Max. Every time they saw Lucas, someone would ask immediately if there had been any change in the young girl, if she had suddenly opened her eyes and started snarking at nurses. Steve had only heard Dustin talking about Eddie once after they left the Munson’s trailer–telling Mike that their Dungeon Master hadn’t survived. The two had clapped each other on the shoulders, quiet tears slipping down their faces. Steve had watched them, thinking how grown up they seemed; it was like they were more mature than him, closer to being adults than he was, because they could put their grief aside so easily.

Steve’s car suddenly slammed to a stop. He had spotted one of the many flyers lining the streets of Hawkins these last few days, and his foot had slipped onto the break. He maneuvered his car to the side of the road, putting it in park as he got out. There, fluttering in the wind, was a picture of Eddie. It was one of the signs his uncle had put up, covered with the word “Missing” instead of “Wanted,” and someone had drawn pentagrams over it. Steve knew Eddie wouldn’t mind the pentagrams–probably would have laughed–but the red ink that scrawled “MURDERER” across his face was too much for Steve to bear. He ripped the poster down, balling it up and tossing it in the open top of the trash can he passed on his way back to his car, that same slicing pain in his chest. He had made it a habit to scan the posters he passed, telling himself that he was looking for faces he recognized, keeping a mental scorecard of how many people Vecna had taken from him, but he really was watching for Eddie’s posters. Anytime he saw a “Wanted” poster, he would stop to examine it, making it look like he was only looking at the picture closer before he slipped it into a jacket pocket. The police force had enough going on as they dealt with the recovery from the “earthquake” that Steve felt certain they would forget about their missing “cult leader” within weeks. The ones Wayne Munson put up were different though. Wayne had used a better picture of Eddie, one that looked much more casual than the yearbook picture the police had pulled from Hawkin High’s files. Eddie’s lips were half crooked in the “Missing” photo, a begrudging smile playing at the edge of his mouth as he probably said something that would have confused Steve–something about Dungeons and Dragons, or the Mordor shit those kids were always going on about. In the photo, Eddie had his arms crossed in a defiant pose that, to Steve, spoke to his need to be different, separate himself from everyone around him. Steve tried to take most of the “Missing” flyers down too–there was no need to leave Eddie’s face to fade in the sun for weeks when they knew exactly where he was, where he would always be. But when Steve found the posters that had been vandalized, cartoon devil horns and cruel words scrawled over them, he couldn’t stop himself from letting just the tiniest bit of his anger out.

Eddie had fucking died for this town. No one knew it but them, but that didn’t make it fair for these people–hell, these assholes–to make a mockery of him. Eddie had told Steve that he wasn’t a hero; he had told him about how he ran, how he ran when Chrissy was dragged onto his ceiling, how he ran when the cops showed up, how he ran when Jason and his friends found him, how he was always, always running. Steve had clapped him on the shoulder, leaning in to remind Eddie that running is a survival instinct. You’re supposed to run from this kind of shit, he had said. Eddie had bristled at his response; “I know there’s no shame in running,” he had said, his voice low as they walked through the woods in the Upside Down. “But you don’t run, do you, Harrington?” Steve had half-shrugged at this, avoiding Eddie’s eyes. No, he wanted to say, but I want to and that’s just as bad. And that was just another reason Steve would feel guilty for Eddie’s death. If he had turned around, had put his hands on Munson’s shoulders, maybe even given him a little shake to force him to look in his eyes, and said “I want to run, I would always run if I wasn’t the only thing standing between these creatures and those kids; you should run and maybe I’ll run too,” maybe Eddie would be alive now.

Steve pulled up to the cabin, putting his car in park before turning the keys in the ignition. He had been so distracted with his thoughts about Eddie that he hadn’t even paid attention to where he was going, sheer muscle memory bringing him back to the poorly-repaired cabin. The slam of his car door summoned the younger kids to the door, and they fell on his car, pulling out the grocery bags, like a pack of starving wolves. “Yeah, yeah, slow down ya little–” Steve cut himself off when he saw Nancy standing on the porch, smiling. He smiled back at her, raising a single hand to wave. His chest twisted again. Part of him felt like it wasn’t fair. He had been so close to telling Nancy how he felt before they went after Vecna; if he had been able to stomach the idea of her living without him, he would have told her in no uncertain terms how he felt about her before they had gone to the Upside Down. Instead, he had waited, convinced he would be able to tell her when they got back, but there was always something keeping the two of them from having a quiet moment to talk. There had been one moment in her mom’s kitchen, while she grabbed trash bags and he waited to take them to the basement, that he had started to tell her. “Nance,” he had said, and his voice had broken. She had turned to look at him, eyes wide, and looked at him with a hint of panic in her face. “Are you…okay, Steve?” She had asked. He had been about to answer–about to say no, he wasn’t okay, he was pretty sure he was the reason Eddie Munson was dead and he was in love with her, and both of those things were going to be permanently weighing on his mind but he needed someone to know and he wanted that someone to be her–when Robin had bounced into the kitchen, pulling the box of trash bags out of Nancy’s hands and teasing Steve for standing around like an idiot.

Now, the only time Steve ever got to see Nancy alone was in his dreams. That sounded dirty, he thought to himself as he unpacked grocery bags in the small kitchen of the cabin, but it wasn’t like that. He dreamed about her almost every night, but he also dreamed about Dustin, about Robin, about Eddie most nights. He’d wake up almost every night, screaming, his sheets twisting around his sweat-soaked body. It almost made him grateful that his parents were never home; no one was around to burst into his room, to ask why he woke himself screaming until his throat was raw and sore, why this happened to him every night. Steve couldn’t help it: he would lay in bed every night, staring at his ceiling, and keep his eyes open as long as possible. He would think about good things–red lipstick on pretty girls, ice cream in the summer, the smell of his pool at midnight in the Fall–and he would still eventually close his eyes and wake up howling, a sound that didn’t even sound like it should come out of a human body breaking through his chest. Steve’s dreams were full of death. It wasn’t always bloody. Sometimes, he dreamed about Nancy in Vecna’s grip again, no music to pull her back to him as her bones snapped under his too-weak fingers. Sometimes it was Robin, coughing up bloody spittle as demobats pinned her down like they had done to him, and she’d reach her fingers out to Steve but he could never reach her. The ones that hurt him the worst, the ones that he would wake up from and spend the rest of the night sitting locked in his bathroom, the fluorescent lights on, a knife or his bat in hand as he crouched against smooth tile until the sun came up, were the ones about Dustin. Dustin being pulled into the air as his jaw cracked, Dustin pinned under one of those stupid demodogs like he had fed candy bars to, and–the really, really bad ones–Dustin being held down by Eddie, the demobats circling the two of them as Eddie dripped blood onto Dustin’s body and Steve stood there helplessly as Dustin’s eyes darkened, went glassy. Steve’s imagination had taken over, but only when he was asleep: during his waking hours he was still in control. As a result, he had basically stopped sleeping. What was the point, anyway? All he did during the day was work the occasional shift at the Family Video, essential to keeping Keith from getting too suspicious about where Steve and Robin were, and run errands for the people in the group who actually got things done.

Since coming back from the Upside Down, Steve had spent a lot of time thinking about one of the many assigned readings he had struggled through in high school. Reading wasn’t exactly Steve’s strongest subject, so Nancy had helped him make sense of the damn thing. Even though she was a year younger than him, she could read through the nonsense words and explain each scene to Steve, make the weird sentences and spellings into understandable moments that Steve could see when he closed his eyes and listened to her talk; he had spent the entire day fuming when she explained the ending, telling him that the hero had come back to get his revenge after being rescued by pirates because, really, who got rescued by pirates? But what he really thought about, more than anything else, was the ghost in that story. The guy had been haunted by his dad; his ghost-dad told him to get revenge for his murder, to kill his uncle because his uncle had killed him. Steve felt like he was being haunted by Eddie, every flier on the street with his eyes ordering Steve to get revenge for his death. Steve also worried about what that meant for Nancy because, if he was Hamlet, that meant she would be that pretty girl who drowns, singing about flowers. He shook his head suddenly–that’s why it was best to let Nancy and Jonathan stay together. Let him be her Romeo–well, that one didn’t end any better either, so maybe they could be…just someone else, someone happy.

A small hand patted him on the back, pulling him out of his reverie as he considered how few of his English class stories had happy endings, and Steve jumped. “Hey, calm down,” Dustin said over his shoulder. He reached out, grabbing the bag of Doritos Steve had just unpacked and ripping the top open. Dustin turned to Steve, smiling, and Steve tried to plaster a similar one on his face. If Dustin noticed the artificial smile or the dark bruises under Steve’s eyes, he didn’t say anything. “New plan,” Dustin said around a mouthful of taco flavored corn chips. “We’re briefing in the living room.” Steve followed behind him, taking a spot on the floor near Robin, still wearing her Family Video uniform from her shift that day, as the younger kids crowded onto the couch. “We go in, we get to Vecna, El holds him, right, and then–” Mike turned to El, his words bubbling over his lips, “we grab Max and we run, and you guys–” Mike pointed to the older kids as he said this, “go in and you hit him with fire and burn him, and then El will just like,” he clapped his hands together, “squash him.” They all sat, looking at Mike. “Okay, dude,” Argyle said from where he was sprawled on the floor. “How is this different from the last plan?” “It’s not,” Nancy said, voice sharp as she shot a biting look at her brother. “No, it is actually,” Mike said, “Because Will is going to be with El and he’s going to let Vecna take him like with Max,” Jonathan gasped, “but we’re all going to be together this time.” All of the eyes in the room slid to Will. He was looking at the floor, lip between his teeth. “You want Vecna to grab you?” Steve couldn’t stop himself from asking. “No,” Will said, sharply. “But I want to stop him.” He looked at Jonathan, and the two brothers shared a watery-eyed nod. “Do you…do you think this will work?” Steve turned to look at El. He had never truly gotten used to the young girl, with her odd speaking patterns and word choices, but he trusted her completely. She locked eyes with him, far too intense for a kid, and nodded. Steve bit his lips, looking back at Nancy. She nodded as well. “What do you think, Buckley?” He asked, trying to force his tone to be light. “We’ve made it out twice,” she said. “Might as well tempt fate again.” The two looked at each other, half smiling, and Robin’s eyes narrowed as they slid over his face. She searched Steve’s eyes, tilting her head to the side.

Once everyone else had agreed to the plan, Nancy immediately taking control of fine-tuning the instructions with Dustin, Robin pulled Steve outside. “What, what?” He yelped, her nails clawing into the soft skin of the back of his neck. “What’s your deal, Harrington?” Robin half-growled at him, getting too close as she poked him in the chest. “What do you mean?” Steve asked, brows slipping over his eyes in confusion. “You want me to make a move with Vickie, you tell me that it’s now or never, you immediately back off,” she whispered, “Nancy,” and then resumed her usual too-loud volume, “and then you start showing up here looking like…well, you look like shit, Harrington.” He shook his head at Robin. “Cool it, okay, with the…romance stuff, Buckley.” “No!” Robin said, throwing her arms out to the side. “Why should I have to carpe diem and all that if you don’t?” “Because you and Vickie actually have a chance,” Steve said, putting his hands on his hips as he leaned towards her. “Okay, despite the fact that you and I have equal chances,” Robin said, raising her eyebrows to add silent emphasis, “That still doesn’t explain why you look like you were dragged through a lake again.” “Don’t worry about me,” Steve said. “I couldn’t sleep last night.” He turned away from her, looking out over the woods. Robin’s voice was uncharacteristically soft behind him as she asked, “Why not?” Steve chewed his bottom lip. He didn’t want her–or anyone else–to worry about him, but he just doesn’t lie to Robin. “Nightmares,” he whispers, sliding his eyes to hers as his voice fades into the oncoming night. He turned, looking out over the oncoming night sky as the sun faded below the treeline. “What kind of nightmares?” Robin asked from behind him, her voice rasping. He half inclined his head towards her. “The bad kind, Robin.” She snorted then, realizing he was serious, put a calming hand on his shoulder. “What kind of nightmares, Steve?” “Nightmares about you,” he admitted, quietly, and her fingers tightened around his shoulder. “And Nancy. And Dustin, and–” Steve’s voice broke. “And Eddie,” Robin said. Steve just nodded, his throat tight. “He’s gone, Steve,” she whispered. “It’s my fault, I think.” “It’s not.” With that, Steve turned to look at Robin fully, smiling a half smile that likely only emphasized the bags under his eyes. “Agree to disagree, Buckley.”

Chapter Three here!

#Steve Harrington #steve harrington fan fiction #stranger things #my fic #steve harrington #feral fics #steve stranger things #steve harrington fics #babysitter steve #babysitter steve harrington #grieving #angst #grieving steve harrington #post season four #robin buckely #nancy wheeler #eddie munson #dustin stranger things #stranger things fan fiction

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kaypeace21 · 3 years

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Will and the car on fire (theories)

*this is just under the assumption this is Will in the pic and not some other character. Which is still very possible .

Why it could be Will (it's for sure possibly not)

But, most of the rebuttals saying it's not Will are iffy. Cause we really don't have much evidence to point to any 1 character. Like the hair counterargument: that the hair is too long to be Will's .Will's s4 body double has a similar hair tuff on the back of his neck. And we know st uses camera shots of the back of Will's neck/silouette ,in past seasons . So doing so here could make sense. And Will of course is the most associated with fire: using fireball for Will the wise in s1 (3 times), the will the wise drawing from s2 had flames on his cloak, Will being being burned in s2,etc.

So...Will looking at lightning. And (Will?) looking at fire. Both have a dark full body sillhouete and red in the forefront .

We also see this character is possibly wearing a watch like Will?

And i've been hearing this a lot here ... but southern california (where the Byers are) does have a lot of trees lol. Not sure why people think otherwise.But, regardless a trip from cali to Hawkins would most certainly have some forrest.

*Also, any movies I’ll be mentioning (in the theories , below) were stated to be inspiration for ST.

So theories...

Theory 1) It's Joyce's car ( and it was rigged to explode/look like an accident by Brenner or Lonnie). And Will wasn't there but sees it in a nightmare cause it's already happened/or it's a dream vision of the future.

Evidence: CAR TROUBLES: Joyce’s car model was infamous for exploding in car accidents-being sued by the state of Indianna before the start of the series. We also have Alexi tell murray about a way to cause cars to explode-and turn people into dust (and make it look like an accident). Brenner’s name means “to burn” and he already hurt 1 mother to keep a subject -so not out of the realm of possibilities for him to hurt Joyce (and make it look like an accident to try and get Will and or el).

In s3, we have Jonathan and Hopper try and fix the car-and after this cars explode with people inside. Jonathan lifts the car hood- and notices someone rigged nancy’s car . Than, right after,Billy’s car lights on fire with him inside. With Hopper (he also lifts the car hood) and joyce barely escapes the lit car (but she may not be so lucky next time).

We also have Joyce tell Will 3x she’s going to be ok... which is a bit overkill if she will be OK ...

And, notice during the hoodlift we see Will observing- which is similar to Alexi watching and warning them before hand that the car (with Joyce inside) will explode. So it’s possible foreshadowing since Will may predict the future and was was paralleled to Alexi.Alexi ‘can we watch lonnie toons now?. Will : can we play d&d now?

movie inspos:

It’s hinted s4 will be around Will’s b day: In gilbert grape- Arnie after his b day, has his mom die, and a fire was stagged that lit his mom on fire. ( Before this,Arnie was also raised by his older brother Gilbert cause his dad wasn’t around). stoker- kid’s parent dies in staged car ‘accident’ on her bday (this allows ab*sive relative closer to kid-since dead parent banned him from seeing kid). The kid was taught how to hunt, by dad. And is also a painter and bullied at school (like Will). what dreams may come-painter blames themselves for fam dying in freak car accident- the relative was getting a present for them when it happened. so they blame themselves. The descent- also had (right before a b day, the main character’s fam dying in a car accident) .And the sole survivor/family member of the deceased hallucinates a shadow chasing her in a empty hospital hall. Get out-photographer (jonathan)blames himself for mother dying in car accident.

There’s also a lot of other films where the kid (for no logical reason) blames themselves for their mom’s/parent’s death: goodson, dream catcher, analyse this,etc. Of course ... this could simply relate to max and el having survivors guilt after the mall killed their family members (in a fake ‘mall fire’). However, a fake out fire causing family to die (in s3) could be foreshadowing for it actually happening in s4?

rigged car explosions: scarface -have guys try and bomb a car with kids and parent inside. backdraft -guy raised by older brother had 1 parent die in explosion and sees the freak explosion occur- later in the film someone rigs a car to explode and masks it as a freak car accident. Same thing occurs in godfather- he sees family member die in rigged car explosion. The dark knight- rigs car to explode. batman v superman- calls superman a demon and says they need to burn the witch that bore him (aka his mom).

dreams (if in the past): Never ending story (reffed in s3)- starts with kid with bowl cut saying he had another dream about his mother who died. Peanut butter solution- kid has visions in dreams about people he knew who died in fire. this next movie (emily rose) is said to be Joyce byers inspo according to Winona - has (kid with 2 personalities) have nightmares from the past of her and her mother burning in a car fire. while screaming/sleep walking she burns windows with her hands -accidentally using her powers. Some people suspect the videogame “life is strange’ is show inspo too- it has character named max caufield with a ‘never maxine rule’, etc. Anyways in the game prequel queer chloe, who plays d&d, would have dreams/nightmares of her nice parent’s car accident . Despite , chloe not being present for the car accident. After the parent’s death, she’s stuck with her mean step dad.

dreams (if predicting the future): Will says in s3 Will the wise can see into the future. We also see Will/Will the wise via a dream predict Hopper was in danger-saying to Joyce “he’s going to die”. In ‘12 monkeys’ and ‘Rebel Robin st novel’ they mention the myth of cassandra- who could make accurate future prophecies , but was cursed to never be believed by those she warned. In 12 monkeys- he tries warning others of a dreaded event in future- and it’s dismissed as him being mentally ill. Since, Will’s other abilities were dismissed as his ptsd in s2-and with the Byers fam having a family history of mental illness (they may not believe him over such a prediction). In ‘the ring’-the movie opens with the guardian saying the boy is drawing the car accident that killed his mom -as a psychological coping mechanism. Only for the teacher to say he made that drawing before his mother’s death (and it’s revealed later the boy is psychic). Terminator 2- sarah conner says she is having future visions, which include explosions, and everyone dismisses it as her being schizophrenic. Like how in s2 a scientist said about Will “let’s see if this boy is a wizard or a schizo”.

If joyce survives the accident she may be hospitlized (and unable to have legal custody). In black swan the girl (with 2 personas) -blames herself for what happened to Winona Ryder’s character (who is in a coma after a car accident. They had had a verbal fight before the accident). In girl with the dragon tattoo- the main character (who is compared to a phoenix and dragon) has 1 parent burned in a fire- and after this her kind guardian is hospitilized so they can no longer take care of her- and she is placed with an ab*sive foster dad (who resembles her bio dad). If Joyce was in a coma - it would further parallel her to terry- and be another willel parallel.

if dead: Tokyodrift- mom loses custody, and dad who is a mechanic and abandoned the family years ago, later gets custody. Super 8-mom dies in freak accident- douche dad gets custody. Book of henry-mom dies pre-film, ab*sive dad got custody. Outsiders- parents die in car wreck, relative gets custody of teen who he slaps etc.In black swan-girl who blames herself for Winona’s accident is stuck living with ab*sive parent. good son- mom dies, stuck with violent and manipulative relative after this.

Of course-joyce may be fine. And Lonnie may just visit for Will’s b-day and ruin shit that way.

Theory 2) It's an undercover government car that Will uses his powers against in self defense... or in anger after they hurt someone he loves.

Evidence:

Joyce about ‘Will the wise’: If he’s so wise, why does he need the fireballs? Why can’t he just outsmart the bad guys? Will: cause the bad guys are smart too. Joyce: so he needs the fireballs? Will: Yeah, to burn them to a crisp.

* the fact-this flashback happens at a funeral of a Byers, could also be narratively significant as foreshadowing.

Gov agents in s1 are called “the bad-men” so Will may use fireball on “the bad-guys”(government agents) . Fire has been used on all the other adversaries relating to the upsidedown-so why not the gov agents (aka human villains) next? 2 movies on the inspo list caught my attention: firestarter & carrie (which are both stephen king adaptions with psychic kids who have fire abilities).

Firestarter- she has pyrokineseis (firepowers) . And unlike every other psychic in the film- she is the only psychic that doesn't get nose bleeds (aka mini brain hemorages) from using her powers (Will). We know el and kali gets nose bleeds.

(Anger): She only unleashes her fire abilities on gov agents after they kill her parent...

*And uses a literal “fireball” on them.

Could also be another willel parallel. kali about the US gov:" They took your mother away from you!" El str*ngles man from gov agency that incapacitated her mom . El before str*ngling him: " you hurt mama".

(self defense): While in carrie she kills people who tried to run her over with a car. And causes the car to explode.

Also, in s3 Steve does technically cause a car to explode to protect Nancy from being run over by a car (so maybe foreshadowing?). I believe, tumblr user ‘bran-who-writes-theoretically” was the first to point out the Carrie/car on fire parallel.

* This car scene could also be added to the list of Willel parallels. El in s1 uses her powers to flip a government-car upside down. And looks back at it. And it’s a ref to the film Et. So Will causing a government -car to explode and flip upsidedown (referencing carrie) could be a parallel.

Of course El flipped over a car in s3 to attack the Soviet agents and protect her friends too ( right before losing her powers). Sort of like Steve using his car as a weapon in s3 to protect his friends. so who knows, if not Will, maybe El (wearing a ponytail) got her telekenesis back and she flips the car and it explodes ? To be honest, I just find this explanation too boring, cliche, and predictable. And I still hypothosize the mindflayer took her telekensis (but not her other powers). Since in d&d mindflayers have ‘mage hand’ (what el is called) and ‘telekenesis’/ along with the ability to steal powers from other life forms. But, we’ll see...

Theory 3) The car flips (maybe caused by a deer jumping in the road) and it blows up after the crash- with Joyce inside. And maybe Jonathan survives it/ Will wasn’t there but had a nightmare /vision about it?

Evidence: in s1 Jonathan sees a dead deer that was hit by a car. This could be symbolic : because it related to Jonathan mentioning the hunting story with his dad and how he cried for a week cause he liked the film Bambi. Which in the film : Bambi (a deer) has his mother k*lled. And after his mother’s death, he’s taken in by his douchey dad who was M.I.A for most of his life ,until his mom passed away. And the hunters are the bad guys in the film . In ‘get out’ the photographer , Chris,blames himself for his mother dying in a car accident - and he sees a dead deer hit by a car -and the dying deer was used to symbolize the guilt he has over his mother’s death. in ‘the long kiss goodnight’ a character is driving home with a friend- they swerve and hit a deer and 1 of them is ejected from the car into the forrest. But their friend is unconscious in the car and it quickly explodes on the road. The survivor turns and sees the car in flames- disoriented they stumble and kill the dying deer. And it’s left ambiguous if they were helping the deer end it’s pain or if it was vengeful-hunting (since it caused the car accident that killed their friend). Cause their face was emotionless from shock.

Even in the st novel "suspicious minds' rabbits- like jonathan was forced to kill on the hunting trip with his dad (around his b-day) represented the bond between mother and child.And the mother sacrificing herself for the baby-to not get k*lled (by Brenner).

-so maybe?? jonathan before he gets the pizza job/car (may have his car break down , like hinted it would in s3).

So him and Joyce share the car (once his car stops working) and the accident happens while Jonathan is behind the wheel -with Joyce. And after this he gets the job at surfer boy pizza. Billy was a surfer boy and that memory was used to think about his mother who is no longer around (once he's stuck with his ab*sive dad after moving away from Cali). While Jonathan moved to Cali after his mom passed-maybe stuck with Lonnie.Jonathan's actor in recent pics has a blonde mullet - which sort of resembles joyce/Billy's og hair. This may be why he starts doing dr*gs - which is pretty out of character for him- but it could be a coping mechanism(like in the s4 films). One of many examples was 'enter the void'- the older brother was surrogate parent to their lil sibling and after a car accident k*lls his parents , he starts doing dr*gs to cope. Also ‘hunger games’ was on the list- and Katniss (who was a surrogate parent to her litle sibling, like Jonathan is to Will) in the sequel, saw her family die in an explosion. And it really broke her emotionally.

I've mentioned this before but Billy is used to parallel and foil Will and Jonathan. And it may be more than a ... what if Lonnie had custody scenario. But to show how Lonnie (like most ab*sers) will later bring out the worst in the kids (once he does have custody). Like how s3 has Will mimick lonnie with the baseball bat (and we see in s3 Billy being bullied by his dad to play baseball and flashbacks showing him mimicking Neil). I've also discussed how there's a theme with pretty much every character mimicking their parent- for better or worse.

Killing a deer would certainly hint at Jonathan's possible character regression (and mimicking Lonnie to a certain extent). if he not only blames himself for Joyce's death. But is also stuck with his ab*ser.

The animal k*lling motif , and after that, mimicking an a b*sive father is already shown with el. Brenner , in s1,tried to make her k*ll a cat (using her powers) and she refused (similar to the s1 rabbit hunting story of Lonnie forcing Jonathan to k*ll a rabbit ). But in s2, she uses her powers to k*ll a squirrel (and like a deer- it's typical hunting game). Than in s3 el does literally everything Brenner ever asked of her- she spies on people and repeats the words back (like brenner told her to do), she becomes a weapon to ‘fight the commies’ (which was said to be the reason he k*dnapped her in the first place), and when looking into the void to see the mf (she mirrors the words brenner told her - when he made her go into the void to face the demogorgan).

And some s4 movies are literally about being trapped in a house with your ab*ser and slowly losing your mind because of the ab*se and gaslighting- lighthouse , black swan , good son, are prime examples. But movies like scar face , girl with the dragon tattoo, and book of Henry touch on this theme a bit as well. And ordinary people- is about a guy who survived a vehicular accident but his relative in the same accident didn't- and it causes him alot of issues /survivor's guilt.

The shadowy figure could just be Will in the shot - seeing it in a dream before or after it happens?

Theory 4) Will sees a future vision or has his ’now memories’ of someone else's car.

Evidence: i guess the s4 shot parallels El (in s3) spying on Billy while he’s hurting Heather. During that spying scene: the shot is of El near Billy's car. So it’s possibly a diff willel parallel?

If not Will. Who knows ...if El’s telekenesis is gone maybe her spying abilities strengthened and look different because of it (and now she can see background details)?

Theory 5) it's Lonnie's car and Will escapes from the trunk and uses his powers in self defense

Evidence: I’m pretty iffy on this one. This goes back to how people suspected Lonnie took Will in s1 (and could be foreshadowing). Even the recent rebel robin book-has characters say Lonnie probably took Will. Jonathan suspected Will may be at Lonnie’s - so checks Lonnie’s car trunk (to see if Will is there). We also see how the mf in s3, knocked people out by dr*gs/str*ngulation, ties them up, and throws them in a trunk (to k*dnap them). Or how the cops raided jonathan’s trunk- which had stuff to track the demogorgan (and the demogorgan parallels Lonnie) . And after looking in Jonathan’s trunk-they suspected something fishy is going on.

*heather was described as “another me” by Will- who was thrown in the trunk.

movies: “tangled” was on the s4 list- and had an ab*sive parent later try and kidnap their kid ,and that parent ends up dying. in girl with the dragon tattoo (the girl associated with dragons & phoenixes- lights her ab*sive bio dad on fire. In ‘drop dead fred’ (girl who is in love with childhood friend, named Mikey, who she met at age 5) lights a imaginary version of her ab*sive parent on fire - while in a trippy memory world. Chrissy accidentally lights her ab*sive relative (nickname “daddy”) on fire in self defense- in a trippy hell memory scape. in ‘long kiss goodnight- the girl with 2 personalities (Will/will the wise) was kidnapped and put in a trunk and escapes by jumping into a quarry. Not sure if that could relate to a flashback or something else? like in ‘don’t breath’ the older sibling who essentially was a surrogate parent to the younger sibling-mentions how their dad left the family, and her parent would throw her in the trunk for hours as a punishment.

#will byers #jonathan byers #joyce byers #el hopper #stranger things #stranger things theory

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scapegrace74-blog · 3 years

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New Ways of Turning into Stone, Chapter 4

A/N Some strong reactions to the last chapter, which I admit caught me by surprise. Writing is a funny craft, where you spend a lot of time and effort trying to show your reader exactly the picture you have in your mind, but then also have to surrender to each reader’s interpretation of what you wrote. That said, some interpretations miss the mark entirely, and for that reason this chapter is entitled “False Assumptions”. Trigger warning for childhood disease.

Jamie’s weekly appointments continued through the grey slumber of late April and into the wakening month of May. Thursday became Claire’s favourite day of the week, for reasons she didn’t care to scrutinize too closely.

With regularity came a certain brand of predictability. Their appointments took one of two forms, she realized. Some days Jamie was full of life, witty and exasperating by turns. He would spin long yarns about some trivial aspect of his life, fascinating tales that turned out to be nothing more than surface reflections, revealing little of the murky depths beneath. He was also adept at using his considerable verbal charm to draw her into divulging more about herself than she ought. Those visits left her equally frustrated and challenged.

The rest of the time her patient arrived with a weary slump, the thousand watt bulb of his personality dimmed to an occasional flicker. Given his offhand comment about whisky and women, she tried not to ponder if he was hungover or suffering from the effects of an all-night hook-up. From a diagnostic point of view these days of low ebb were beneficial because Jamie was far more likely to offer some nugget of inner revelation, truth sneaking out through the cracks of his weakened defences.

“I was away on business, in Hong Kong, when my Da passed,” he said on one such afternoon, the skin below his eyes drawn tight and the copper in his hair somehow muted.

“Did it happen suddenly?”

“No’ really. Jen had been at me fer months tae come hame, sayin’ that Da was workin’ himself tae death.” Jamie looked out the window, eyes reflecting the overcast skies beyond. “I ignored her. Too wrapped up in my own grand self tae pay any heed. Twas Ian, my brother-in-law, who called tae say Da had dropped in the pasture. Massive coronary. I caught the first flight back, but he was gone before I landed.”

She watched Jamie’s face closely as he spoke, but beyond the understandable emotion of reliving the sudden loss of a parent, he remained inscrutable. The urge to draw him out overcame the deference she paid to Jamie’s well-defined boundaries.

“Do you think you’re to blame for his death?” she asked, half-expecting to be met with silence or a nimble deflection.

Jamie shook his head ruefully.

“Nah. I dinna think I’m tae blame. I ken it. I was the only surviving son, ye see? In the Highlands, tradition is everything, an’ a Fraser man had worked those lands fer generations. I was only meant tae complete my studies abroad, an’ then return tae Lallybroch and take o’er from Da. Instead, I left my sister an’ Ian tae watch o’er the farm while I played the business tycoon.”

“Is Lallybroch still in your family?” she wondered aloud, the name rolling about in her mouth like marbles.

“Jenny and Ian couldna keep it. I wasna well enough tae object, an’ they sold tae a developer. It’s some kind of corporate wellness retreat now,” he finished with a distasteful grimace.

For every disclosure Jamie made, two more questions arose in its wake, like hacking away at a many-headed Hydra. She wished she could delve further, but the chime from her computer announced the end of the session.

“Will I see you next week, Jamie?” she asked as he reluctantly rose to leave.

“Aye,” said with a sad smile. “I’ll be here.”

***

The following Tuesday, Claire took the afternoon off work to perform an errand she’d long been avoiding.

Her departure from the Royal Hospital for Children had been so precipitous, she hadn’t filed the necessary paperwork to close her employment file. The Human Resources department had been pestering her to complete the process for months. The threat of holding up the transfer of her accreditation finally forced her hand.

To her great relief, the personnel offices were nowhere near the actual wards. They lay at the end of a long white hallway broken by large windows looking into a series of meeting and activity rooms. Her plan was to get in, sign the damn forms, and leave without running into any former colleagues or patients.

The sun slanting into one of these sparsely furnished rooms glanced off the top of a bent head, causing it to glow like a freshly minted penny. She stopped and stared, trying to reconcile the image of James Fraser seated in a too-small plastic chair, surrounded by a group of hospital-gowned children.

He must have caught sight of her while she stood gaping. Running to the door before she could find the motor function to turn around, he called out joyfully from behind a blue hospital mask.

“Doctor Beauchamp! Fancy meeting ye here.”

She mumbled something incoherent, damning herself for the blush she felt enveloping her cheeks. Behind Jamie, a row of dewy eyes watched on. She recognized the paper-thin skin and missing hair of chemotherapy patients, and a salty knot rose in her throat.

“Can ye spare a few minutes? Ye’re jes the pair of steady hands we need.”

She longed to decline, to disappear, to come up with a plausible excuse why she couldn’t enter that room. Her heart thumped angrily in her chest, warning of its fragile state.

Seeing her conflict, Jamie extended a welcoming hand.

“Come, Sassenach. The lassies would love tae meet ye.”

The space smelled of sterile laundry and sawdust. With a habit borne of years of practice, Claire disinfected her hands in the small utility sink and donned a spare mask from the nearby dispenser, all while wondering what the hell she was doing.

The children were seated on colourful chairs arranged around a low table, its surface covered in pieces of pre-cut lumber, colourful pots of paint, a glue gun and all manner of cheap decorations such as you would find at a craft store. The little girls ranged in age from pre-school to young teen, but they all looked at Jamie as though he’d hung the moon as he addressed them.

“Ladies, I’d like ye tae meet Doctor Beauchamp. She’s a braw doctor but I bet she kens next tae nothing about woodwork. Ye’ll have tae show her how it’s done.”

A chorus of nervous giggles was the only response. Claire knew from experience that being a medical professional wasn’t going to endear her to children who spent much of their lives being essentially tortured in the name of science, hoping for some kind of miracle.

“Hello, everyone,” she waved meekly. “You can call me Miss Claire, if you like. Now, whatever are you doing with all this wood?”

It turned out that Jamie was supervising the construction of a half-dozen birdhouses. He had pre-cut the lumber for easy assembly, but was assisting each girl to create a custom masterpiece that would hang outside her hospital window. With the patience and steady manner of a primary school teacher, Jamie led the group through each step.

A waifish girl of perhaps six sat directly to Claire’s left, her bare scalp covered by a brightly coloured bandana, offset by a huge pair of peacock-blue eyes that glimmered above her mask. Eyes that were the mirror of the ones that visited her office every Thursday. Something heavy settled inside her ribs.

“What’s your name, sweetie?” she asked in a low voice as she pushed an open pot of sky blue paint away from the table’s edge. Small hands busied themselves pulling apart a package of cotton balls that looked suspiciously like the ones kept in the hospital’s supply cabinet.

“Margaret Murray, Doctor, errr, Miss Claire,” came the timid reply.

Not Fraser, then. But that didn’t necessarily mean anything. She snuck a glance across the table at Jamie, who was just then teasing the youngest girl by tickling her cheeks with a fake feather. Despite her heavy thoughts, she couldn’t help but smile. That smile faltered when she noticed that the inside of Jamie’s elbows bore a matching set of fresh bandages. A series of puzzle pieces tumbled into place.

Perhaps sensing the weight of her scrutiny, Jamie looked their way, whistling in admiration when he saw Maggie’s near-complete birdhouse.

“Tis a fine hame ye’ve built fer yer wee birds, Maggie. What is all yon white fluff for?”

“Tis clouds, Uncle Jamie,” Maggie replied with the certainty of childhood. “I dinna want the birdies tae miss the sky, even when they arenna flyin’.”

Claire watched the words hit him as surely as though they had been bullets. A frozen gasp, a shudder that travelled the length of his body and the crest of tears that he tried valiantly to blink away.

“Aye, ye’re right, a nighean. Any bird would be fair honoured tae sleep in yer skyhouse,” he managed to reply, voice bouldery with contained emotion.

When each birdhouse was complete and left along the window ledge to dry, Jamie set his small crew of helpers the task of clearing up the mess. Claire stood next to him as he loaded his tools back into a small carrying case.

“Thanks for inviting me to join you, Jamie. It was... well, it was unexpectedly wonderful,” she admitted.

“Ye’re most welcome, Doctor Beauchamp. We couldna have managed wi’out yer steady hand manning the glue gun,” he teased.

“You’re not my patient here, Jamie. You don’t need to use my title,” she said, a bit vexed by his formality.

“Aye, but it doesna feel right tae call ye by yer given name either. An’ Miss Claire is jes weird.”

She had to acknowledge that he had a point.

“What was it you called me earlier? Sassa-something?”

“Sassenach. My Da woulda skelped my hide if he heard me call a lady by that name,” he said ruefully.

“Why, does it mean something terribly offensive?” She was almost afraid to know, having enjoyed the delusion that Jamie felt as fondly towards her as she did towards him.

“Nah, tis jes an old-fashioned word for an English person in Scotland. Seemed tae suit ye, is all.” He shrugged, seemingly embarrassed by the explanation.

“Well then, Sassenach it is. When I’m not on the clock, that is.”

Jamie’s eyes danced above his mask the way they did when he smiled, and she imagined hers replied in much the same way. A long moment passed when nothing was said, neither of them looking away.

“You’re her platelet donor,” she said at last. “Maggie’s, I mean.”

“Aye. Every week while she’s in hospital for chemotherapy. Tis the least I can do.”

It was an explanation that fit all the facts, but one that she never would have guessed. Jamie had always worn long sleeves to his appointments, but she was certain the weeks when he was haggard and worn out coincided with the times he was donating the litres of blood necessary to distill into the platelet concentrate that would then be injected into Maggie’s body, helping her combat the poisonous effects of her chemotherapy.

“Whisky, women and song?” she prodded, relieved and yet frustrated that his offhand comment had kept her from seeing the truth. “Why didn’t you just tell me, Jamie?”

“I didna want yer pity, Sassenach. Fer once in my life, tis no’ about me, ye ken? I didna want ye lookin’ at me like I was some kind of hero.”

She held back her reaction that his was a textbook definition of heroism, and instead asked the next obvious question.

“Are you a compatible bone marrow donor as well?”

Jamie shook his head slowly. Although he was a close match, he explained, it wasn’t close enough. Maggie’s older brother, Wee Jamie, was a perfect match but the law prohibited him from becoming a donor until he was at least sixteen, in seven long years.

“We’re jes tryin’ tae buy her enough time,” he said sadly before stepping out of the room, explaining he’d be back momentarily.

Claire stood in a daze, running through everything she’d assumed about Jamie in light of these newest facts. A light tug on her hand drew her back into the moment. Maggie was looking up at her with wide, trusting eyes.

“Are ye the Sassenach lady Uncle Jamie and my Mam argue about?”

“I suppose I might be,” she replied, curious what had been said between the siblings that Maggie had overheard.

“Are ye a heart doctor?” Maggie continued.

“Well, no. Not exactly. I’m the kind of doctor who helps people who are sad, and I try to find a way for them to be happy again.” It sounded so easy when explaining it to a six year old.

“Sometimes Mam and Da talk about Uncle Jamie when they dinna ken I’m listenin’. I’m verra good at sneakin’,” Maggie confided, and Claire couldn’t help but smile. What a precious child. “I’m sure you are,�� she replied warmly, a hand coming to rest gently on the tiny cloth-covered head.

“Mam says Uncle Jamie is more stubborn than a mule and that he canna see past his own big heid,” Maggie continued. Claire couldn’t say that she disagreed with that assessment.

“But Da says Uncle Jamie’s heart has been broken too many times, and thas’ why he’s given up on living. Can ye fix his heart, Miss Claire, so that it isna broken any more?”

She couldn’t have stopped her tears if she tried. She knelt on the floor and gathered Maggie’s thin, fragile body in her arms.

“Oh, Maggie. I’m certainly going to try.”

#my writing #outlander

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aki-draws-things · 3 years

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I'm actually HOARDING angst ideas like a bloody dragon and I don't know how to stoooooop!

Brock is obviously older than Jack, and he was the one trying so step back when Jack proposed to actually be together instead of hooking up after every damn mission like horny teenagers, they already lived together so why not make it official and save more paperwork and shits?

But it's Brock who keep delaying it, for a reason or another, claiming he's too old for Jack anyway, despite Jack having that kind of "old soul", he'll find someone more suitable than him.

That, until project insight. Brock finally gives in, he decides that after this they would retire somewhere far away and pretty and live happily together. That was a great plan, everything planned out just perfectly. Except project insight failed. Except Brock fell, his skin burned and peeled off, and Jack...

Brock doesn't know what happened to Jack. Last he saw him they were parting for their respective positions, last he heard him Brock was climbing the stairs and Jack was entering the room with secretary Pierce.

He almost expect Jack to be at his side, like the younger man promised so many times, he wasn't. So he expected him to go visit, that he would surely do, right? He didn't. Alright, maybe it was dangerous, so Brock finds a way to escape the hospital and heads home. His and Jack's home, expecting to find him there.

Home looks like a storm passed right through, furniture and clothes and everything took apart and tossed. Blood dried on the floor, splattered on the walls, Brock hopes it's not Jack's.

So he goes to their other home, the one they made for retirement, the one only they knew about, and there he would be able to rest and search for Jack.

When he gets there the door is unlocked and blinds are lifted, like someone is living there. Jack, he finds himself hoping, begging, praying. It's not.

Winter is standing in front of him instead, in civilian clothes, and tired eyes, dark circle beneath them, Brock feels like he should be angry, he feels himself getting angry.

"lieutenant said you would have come here." and he sound... Small. Sad. "for him. To find him. He said --"

Brock noticed tears only when he steps closer and winter stumbles back slightly. Tears threatening to fall, making his eyes more blue.

"he said - he choked on his words and Brock swears he never saw him like that. Helpless. Desperate. - you always find him, commander."

He leads him to a room, their room, only to find stolen hospital equipments and Jack, on the bed, hooked up.

"he said he has faith in you."

And Brock feels like falling apart, because does he deserve that faith? Does he even deserves Jack? Because he doubts it. But he's alive, at least. Kind of alive. Kept alive.

"you took care of him until now?"

Winter nods and Brock notices how his eyes never look at him, only Jack, like he's going to disappear.

"I need your help again, winter."

Because Brock knows in his conditions he won't be able to help Jack like he needs. He almost expect winter to agree.

"sorry commander. I can't. I'm looking for someone too. You found him, now I can keep my promise."

Brock could order him to stay. He could say the words and have winter at him mercy. He could, but he doesn't, so he let's him go, convinced it's probably Steve Rogers that he's looking for, he only hopes he won't lead him there, but he has a plan for that too. He won't let anyone take Jack from him, not again. Not ever.

Until one day he's woken up by some kind of bickering coming from the kitchen, when the only people in the house are himself and a still comatose jack. So he grabs his gun and reaches the kitchen quietly, thinking of who could have found the place, and why. Except there's winter there, standing awkwardly behind Jenkins and Murray, the two bickering voices he heard. He blinks, confused at their presence there until winter finally turns, maybe a bit awkward, embarrassed.

"you said we were family." matter of fact. Brock blinks again and lower the gun as Jen and Murray turn and she crosses the room to hug him.

"we look out for each other no matter what. - she says, and Brock feels like he could cry, because he was so sure they were dead too. And instead... - that's why we're here."

"yeah. Winter came to find us and took us here."

"home."

And alright, maybe he planned that house to be his and Jack's alone, but perhaps they could share it in the end. Perhaps he can have that little family he dreamed of for so long.

#Hydra husbands #Strike team as family #Brock rumlow #Jack rollins #Jen&murray #(they're package deal... 😂)#Winter soldier #Post catws #Failed project insight #Angst and comfort... Somewhere #Marvel fic idea #Aki wants to write #But has no time

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bella-caecilia · 3 years

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#12 – power, please? 😊

Thank you for the prompt <3 I hope you like what I made of it (I only realised when I had already finished it that Robert basically isn’t in it but it does contain little hints of Cobert so I decided to go with it anyway). This is set in s1e1. Parts of the dialogue belong to JF.

Black – Power

The sun was high up in the sky and spent its heat with all its might. The brim of her hat gave Cora some protection from the burning light but it didn’t really make up for the stuffiness that was trapped under all the layers of heavy dark garments she was wrapped in. She hurried to take the few steps to the motor that waited patiently in front of the Abbey’s stately entrance.

Cora was on her way to her mother-in-law. Even in the summer’s heat, it was better to pay the Dowager Countess a visit instead of having her over and having her inviting herself for dinner when she was already there for tea. Mama might be an ally in the whole Mary business, from the entail to finding appropriate suitors, but the amount of time Cora could bear to be in her company until her snappiness bothered her too much was still limited. So, driving by the Dower House in her heavy mourning attire was without question the way to go.

Cora settled in the backseat of the motor and gathered her skirts around her legs before Thomas closed the door and the chauffeur started the engine. Her gloved hands ran over the extent of black material. Yes, they were in mourning because of James’ and Patrick’s unexpected death but Cora thought to make the best of the obligatory dress code. Today’s attire was very obviously one of complete mourning. Her gown and coat were high-closed, all she wore on her body was pitch black even the feather on her hat, there weren’t any coquettish accessories. But she somehow liked it and she had no problem posing confidently and gracefully in it. Her daughters didn’t share her attitude towards the mourning’s dressing. Edith was fully convinced that going into full mourning like that was the least they could do but Cora didn’t think her middle daughter enjoyed wearing black. Mary didn’t hide her aversion, and Sybil didn’t protest but as the sweet little sunshine she was, black wasn’t right for her either.

Cora didn’t despise the mourning’s black as the girls did, Mary especially. There was no question in wearing it the next months, and she wasn’t counting the days until the colours could return to her daily closet. Cora even liked how she looked in black. There were striking black gowns that did perfectly well on all kinds of dinner occasions, and they pulled Robert’s gaze to her exposed shoulders, arms, and cleavage in a slightly different way than her lighter gowns did. The effect of black was strong, and sometimes it felt to Cora as if this strength was something she absorbed when Robert watched her in her black dresses. When she had been much younger, she had thought at first (and maybe it had been like this in the very first years) that black made her – or any young woman for that matter – unapproachable; if it was mourning’s black or not. Though, it sometimes managed to give the wearer a strong appearance most often it was perceived as not very welcoming. Robert also had to learn that this hadn’t had to be the case. It certainly wasn’t anymore.

Now when she wore black evening gowns, she felt less like the young inferior bride but nearly like an equal to the men with might. Her power, though, was a wholly different one than the power of these men. But she liked being a bit more at eye’s level with the gentlemen and making Robert aware of the power she had over him and in their marriage.

When her thoughts started wandering into fields less grave and too pleasurable for times of mourning, the motor neared its destination and Cora tried to shake off the memories that intensified the heat under her high-neck gown.

Clouds covered the sky and the short moment of the real summer sun was gone already as she arrived in front of the Dower House.

Cora had asked her mother-in-law for an invitation because there was a letter she had received and wanted to discuss with the older lady. The letter had excited her but because it was a rather delicate matter, she had decided to approach her ally, her partner in crime, to make a real decision about it.

As soon as she walked up the way towards the front door the Dowager’s butler opened it and greeted her as obligingly as ever. With a small nod and a smile, Cora appreciated his silent effort to take care of her coat. The quietly muttered “Milady” was less talking than a necessary addition to moving around her busily, acknowledging her presence. When Cora touched her hat a little to make sure it was still in place, the knocking sound of the cane announced Mama’s arrival.

“It is nice of you to come, my dear,” she greeted. The form of endearment towards Cora was something she had used nearly since the beginning of Robert’s and her marriage but it never had anything affectionate about it primarily. It sometimes could be a way of showing a bit of empathy but that wasn’t the norm.

The Dowager Countess was in one of her all-black gowns as well. Mourning and all that came with it was something she knew better than anyone living at the Abbey. She didn't bother how it made her look as long as everything about the gown was proper. Cora thought the black attire perhaps made her mother-in-law look even more intimidating.

Cora followed her into the sitting room. She sat down slightly sideways on the armchair the Dowager offered with a rather impatient gesture of her right hand. Cora tried to adjust her skirts a little that strained slightly in the position the seat forced her to adopt. Violet repeated the nervous shake of her hand towards the butler.

“The tea,” she muttered before sitting down as well. Cora slipped her gloved hand between the folds of her skirts and brought out the reason for her visit. She handed the letter to Mama.

“Here, this arrived yesterday with the afternoon mail. Have a look at it.”

Violet grabbed her reading glasses from the small table next to her. As she unfolded the paper, she sent a short gauging look at Cora over the rim of her small glasses. All the while Violet skimmed the letter and the butler brought the tea, Cora tried to make herself a bit more comfortable on the antique seat. She was still warm in her clothes. For a moment she thought about slipping off her gloves but she wouldn’t stay long anyway. So, she just leaned back as much as possible (more would also have been improper) and held on to the cushion at her left. She enjoyed the slightest of breezes that brushed through the curls at her neck when the butler opened the door to serve the tea.

“So, the young Duke of Crowborough is asking himself to stay.” Mama had finished reading the letter.

“And we know why,” Cora inserted instantly, opening the conversation to the topic that had defined all their latest talks.

Mama provided her with a wary expression. “You hope you know why. That is not at all the same. You realise the Duke thinks Mary’s prospects have altered.” She took off her glasses and emphasised her statement by pointing to the letter with the folded pair of glasses.

“I suppose so,” Cora admitted. She had hoped Mama wouldn’t come to the same conclusion. It would all be much easier if the Duke was interested in Mary no matter what. But Cora knew best that this wasn’t how marriage and courting worked in the English aristocracy. When would a gentleman be interested in a lady just for herself first before securing his family and estate could benefit from her? Was it really always the same? No matter how rosy she managed to have made things work with her dear husband she was aware of the brutal and heartless business of marrying off one’s children, particularly daughters. She wanted her three girls to have good prospects for the lives ahead of them and apparently this meant she had to play this game of matchmaking the best she could. She would always do the best she could for her daughters even if this meant engaging in customs of the peerage that went against her beliefs. Her girls would be dependent on husbands that could and would secure them a safe and happy future. Safety and happiness were closely tied to position according to English nobility, and Cora knew that sadly there was a kernel of truth to it in this society.

“There’s no ‘suppose’ about it,” the Dowager countered with a short shake of her head. “Of course, this is exactly the sort of opportunity that will come to Mary if we can only get things settled in her favour.” She threw another short glance at the lines on the letter before she asked, “Is Robert coming round?” with a circling gesture of her hand.

“Not yet. To him, the risk is we succeed in saving my money but not the estate. He feels he’d be betraying his duty if Downton were lost because of him,” Cora explained calmly. The matter of the entail has bothered Mama, Robert, and her continuously over the last weeks, and Cora knew it wouldn’t help anyone if it was discussed with overbearing emotions.

“Well, I’m going to write to Murray.” Violet’s answer was resolute. She had made a plan with Cora and was determined to make it happen.

“He won’t say anything different.” Cora shook her head. It seemed like there were treading water and everything that had been decided for them – for her (years ago when she had to sign this stupid contract) – was out of reach to change.

“Well, we have to start somewhere. Our duty is to Mary.”

Cora was slightly baffled at her mother-in-law’s resilience. She had never thought that there was someone who would fight more for her daughters than Cora herself. Robert was very close but as became apparent once again (and Cora didn’t hold it against him) Downton was a very high concurrence to the girls. Violet, however, had a determination as fuelled as Cora’s when it came to securing what was right for Mary.

The Dowager Countess sighed, “Well, give him a date for when Mary is out of mourning.” She handed the letter back to Cora who took it with a smile. When Mama was thinking there was still something to fight for, Cora would certainly go with it. She really hoped there were good prospects for Mary. Maybe Mama and she could really achieve something if they continued putting their abilities together for good use. Cora had never thought she would be so powerful with Mama by her side when she had been the young bride she once was. That Mama and she were such a great team ironically was only one of the nice surprises the years had brought.

“No one wants to kiss a girl in black,” Mama said slightly theatrically before they started sipping their teas. Their conversation left them both with a lot to think and so they were mostly silent while drinking the warm tea. Cora was happy Violet seemed to have no other topics she wanted to discuss. She was glad to make her way home again and think about what could still be done about Mary’s situation. Dear strong Mary who shouldn’t be restricted in all her great abilities to form a promising future herself. Things didn’t seem right that way, to rob a girl of what could very well belong to her and could assure her great conditions for her future life. It just didn’t seem fair.

Cora sighed as the door of the Dower House closed behind her not much later. The challenge Mama and she had taken on wasn’t easy but Cora was sure if there was someone at the moment who could achieve something on that score it was the ally she and Mama had formed.

She walked back to the motor. The sun still hid behind a cloud but it was warm nevertheless. Cora moved sparsely therefore and gave a short nod to the chauffeur who held the car door open for her. She had power; she knew it. Strange only that out of all Mama was the one to remind her of that.

On the slightly bumpy road back to the Abbey Cora remembered a particular thing Mama had said earlier.

No one wants to kiss a girl in black.

Even if she shouldn’t, Cora had to smile remembering Mama’s words. She knew someone who didn’t object to kissing a certain girl in black. A girl that has already been kissed in black quite a lot of times.

#cobert fanfiction #cobert drabble #cobert #cora crawley #violet crawley #s1 #downton abbey fanfiction

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anoutlandishfanfic · 3 years

Text

The Alaskan Endeavor: Ch2 - Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner

So, again, this chapter update (can I call them PUPdates? they’re now PUPDATES) is in celebration of another race that finished up yesterday morning -- the Kuskokwim 300 aka The Kusko300, which is one of if not THE most competitive middle distance race in Western Alaska. We’ll get to the pups and more about racing in the next chapter but HERE WE HAVE THE MEETING Y’ALL HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR.

You can find chapter one here or over at AO3!!

Claire That evening

The Murray’s residence wasn’t far from my flat above the Abernathy’s garage — nothing in this tiny hamlet was — and I decided to walk the four blocks, taking in a remarkable summer’s evening.

Joe had warned me that the shift in daylight hours was more extreme here in Kozebue — twenty-six miles above the Arctic Circle — than where we’d reconnected on Kodiak Island… and I had to admit he was right. I’d made good use of the black out curtains that were installed in the bedroom, shutting out the sun that insisted on shining well into the night and starting up again ungodly early in the morning. I knew I’d have no trouble making my way back on foot after dinner.

It would still be broad daylight.

I rounded the final corner and scanned the lane for my destination…

“It’s a blue house with white trim… second on the left,” Joe’s wife Gail had easily informed me, for the Abernathy’s and the Murray’s were old friends.

Gail’s eyes had held the same suspicious twinkle that Jenny’s had when she’d invited me for dinner and I had a sinking suspicion that I was about to be set up on a blind date, hosted by Jenny Murray herself. My new patient had mentioned she had a brother when she was in earlier and if I were the betting sort, I’d place my life savings on him being the man in question.

How on earth did you let yourself get roped into this, Beauchamp? I sighed ruefully to myself as I spotted the abode.

Crossing the street, I took a few deep breaths, trying to steady my pounding heart as I got closer to the Murray’s front door. It was no use, of course, for it had firmly lodged itself in my throat about a block and a half back, and I was left trembling slightly as I mounted the front steps.

Wiping sweaty palms on my pants, I lifted my hand and knocked. Once — twice — three times.

… Jamie

“Can you get that?” Jenny shouted from the kitchen, the usual clamor of my nieces and nephew interfering but not obscuring her words.

Passing the youngest back to her father, I stood and answered, “Aye, I’ve got it!”

I wiped at the deposit of crumbs that wee Katie had left behind on my shirtfront, tugging at the hem in an attempt to flatten out the wrinkles pressed into it by the same. I shook my head and gave it up, knowing it was useless and that it shouldn’t really matter anyway.

Rolling my eyes at the ridiculous concern for my own appearance, I turned into the front hall and padded quickly down the plush rug to the door.

I turned the knob and pulled — then stopped dead as the door opened.

Christ, she was beautiful.

Her pale cheeks were slightly flushed, which made the small smattering of freckles across her nose stand out like brilliant stars. The curls were coming out of a plait that was draped over one shoulder and it gave her a delightfully adventurous air. She was a brunette like Jenny, but not nearly quite so dark. The light streaming in from behind her set brilliant copper highlights aglow as she flipped the thick queue away, making it disappear behind her.

One perfectly arched brow rose in question of me — and I knew I was staring — but the ability to form coherent speech left me entirely as her eyes locked on to mine.

Brown would be a woefully inaccurate word to describe such a hue as hers. They were rich like a fine whisky, a deep amber that all at once soothed and pierced your soul.

Pull yerself together, you clotheid.

I cleared my throat, trying to regain some semblance of composure and took a step back, sweeping a hand to usher her in.

“You, ah, must be Dr Claire,” I stammered, my lips still not completely able to do my bidding. “I’m Jamie, Jenny’s brother.”

Comprehension lit her eyes and she chuckled softly.

God, that sound.

It sent shockwaves up and down my spine and stood the hair on the back of my neck on end.

What I wouldn’t do to make her laugh like that again.

“Tell me, Jamie,” she kept her voice low, a conspiratorial gleam sneaking into her eyes. “Have Jenny and Gail been playing matchmaker with us?”

Raking a hand through my hair, I confessed dryly, “They’ve been trying to set me up for years.”

She tipped her head back and laughed outright and freely at my confirmation, commenting, “I thought so, but then I’d only met your sister this morning.”

“I’ve known her my whole life,” I grinned back at her. “Once Jen gets an idea in her head, it’s best to let her have at it ‘til it peters out on its own... unless it involves that wee fiend of hers.”

Delicate, slender fingers lifted to her lips as the color deepened in her cheeks, amusement still high in her voice, “Are you talking about Roger?”

“Right! Yes!” It was my turn to laugh. “You’ve met the numpty yourself.”

She grinned, “I’ve had the pleasure, yes.”

“Did she tell you he’s a service dog drop out?” I shook my head in mock derision.

Her eyes grew as big as saucers, nearly dropping the bag in her hand as she burst, “No!!”

“Oh, aye!” I scoffed, but my smile crept back in and betrayed my amusement at the whole ordeal.

“Too friendly… and easily distracted.”

“Are you two done bletherin’ out here?” My brother in law Ian stuck his head into the hallway, succinctly interrupting us with a knowing look.

“The food’s gettin’ cold!”

… Claire

Tucked between Jamie and his seven year old namesake, dinner was far from a dull affair. Jenny proved to be a remarkable cook and the table conversation ranged in topics from a nuanced detail of racing — that is, mushing — to my favorite animal.

“Do you mean in general,” I tested the waters, assembling another forkful of roast and potatoes, “or in a specific class or order?”

The little boy’s eyes lit up and I knew I’d found a topic that he particularly enjoyed… which was a stroke of luck for me, being that animals and their care was my field of expertise.

Thank God it wasn’t dinosaurs.

“Mammals!” He eagerly narrowed the field, then zeroed in even further, “What’s your favorite African mammal?!”

“Oh, that’s easy! A giraffe!” I supplied, my smile matching his. “I got to see them in the wild, you know… in Tanzania.”

This caught the attention of the rest of the table and began to field questions left and right about my time on the Serengeti. I didn't mind, as they were happy memories, and soon won over both the younger Jamie and his five year old sister Maggie with tales of elephants and zebras and all of the animals they’d only read about in books or seen on television.

“Did you see any lions?” Little Maggie’s voice dropped into what I supposed was her version of a whisper — as if one were right beside us — and she nearly vibrated with excitement as she asked again, “Did you see any lions, Dr Claire?!”

I heard Jamie, the elder and my supposed date for the evening, chuckle beside me and I wondered just what sort of mischief this little one could get into when she set her mind to it.

“I did see lions too, Maggie,” I assured her, taking on her affected stage whisper. “We went in a truck at night and had big flashlights and saw them getting a drink of water.”

“Dey sirsty,” two year old Katie informed the table proudly, making all of the adults grin.

I bit my lip to keep from chuckling at her innocent attempt at being involved in the conversation, but agreed, “They get very thirsty.”

“How’d ye wind up in Alaska, then?”

This turn in conversation came from Jamie’s father, an older man by the name of Brian.

“I went to university with Joe Abernathy in Seattle,” I supplied. “We went separate ways after graduation but I ran into him again when I was visiting my uncle on Kodiak Island… Joe offered me a position at his clinic and I couldn’t refuse.”

“He’s done a lot of good wi’ that practice of his,” Brian commented. “Been a dream of his for some time now.”

Nodding, I smiled at the memory of Joe’s eager rants and rails, “He spoke quite a bit about it in school. I knew how much it meant to him and was eager to help him in his cause.”

“He almost worked himself to death before you came along,” Jenny snorted, then shot me an apologetic look. “Bein’ the only vet in the Northwest Borough made for long hours an’ no rest.”

“That’s why I wanted to come… to ease the burden a bit.”

“Well, then you’re a saint, Dr Claire,” she sighed, surmising with a shake of her head.

“No,” I assured her quietly. “I’m just plain old Claire Beauchamp.”

… Jamie. After Dinner.

“Wait just a minute,” I protested. “You walked here?!”

We were at the front door again, this time in full control of my faculties, but the woman before me was quickly turning out to be more of an complexity than I ever imagined possible.

Her brow furrowed at this, as if she hadn’t thought of the incongruity of her walking the mile from the Abernathy’s to here on foot.

“Yes… why?”

“Well, it’s… it’s just that…'' I stammered, flummoxed. “Don’t you have somethin’ to drive?”

“Of course,” she looked at me as if I’d sprouted five heads from my shoulders. “I have a perfectly good vehicle, but why drive it four blocks when it’s beautiful outside and I can walk?”

I opened my mouth to respond to this and found I didn’t have a reasonable answer. She found great amusement in this and crossed her arms, waiting for me to respond.

Shaking my head, I gave it up and couldn’t help but smile as I offered to walk her home.

This took her by complete surprise and her jaw dropped, “Why?!”

“Well,” I pulled at the back of my neck, trying to come up with something and shrugged helplessly, “like you said… it’s a beautiful evening.”

Her brows nearly rose to her hairline, not buying this for one moment.

“Look, it’s the polite thing to do, aye? I know you live at the Abernathy’s because Joe told me… I’ll leave just as soon as you’ve made it to the front door, I promise,” I insisted. “Nothin more.”

She contemplated this, then clarified, “Just a walk?”

I dropped my hands, swinging my hands away from my sides in a clearing motion and then against them again with a soft pat.

“Just a walk.”

#outlander #outlander fanfic #the alaskan endeavor #the alaskan endeavor au #chapter 2 guess who's coming to dinner

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aquietwritingcorner · 3 years

Text

Writers Month Day 8: Water Word Count: 4316 Author: aquietwritingcorner/realitybreakgirl Rating: T Characters: Olivier Mira Armstrong, Captain Buccaneer Warning: Summary: Buccaneer isn’t sure of his new commanding officer. She’ll have to prove to him that she’s Briggs. Notes: Yes, I know that Olivier is a Major General and not a Brigadier General. I headcanon that she started out at Briggs as a Brigadier General and then was promoted to a Major General later. I gave the name Wendall to the guy Olivier gave the broken watch to in the series. I also headcanon that Buccaneer was there before Olivier, and he didn’t lose his arm until sometime after Miles arrived and the three of them had become close. AO3 || ff.net

______________________________________________

Water

Captain Cromward “Ward” Buccaneer watched as his new commanding officer went through her sword forms. He still wasn’t sold on Brigadier General Olivier Mira Armstrong. She hadn’t proven herself to him yet. Briggs was a harsh place, and for all her seeming strength and even the slight incidents that she had led them through, she still hadn’t proven to him that she was Briggs material yet.

Buccaneer had been at Briggs since his early career. Briggs was where the military sent people they didn’t want to deal with. They hadn’t wanted to deal with him, and his unconventional way of doing things. They hadn’t wanted to admit that his way in the mountains—a lot of which came from the ways of his ancestors, who lived in those mountains before either Amestris or Drachma—just might be better than theirs. So, they had stuck him out here and told him to go play mountain bear in the mountains. That had been fine by him. He excelled up here.

There were lots of people who had been up here for years. Mick Murray had probably been here the longest. Wendall had been here the second longest. Henschel had been here just a couple of years longer than Buccaneer. Doc had come the year after he had arrived, after their old Doc finally kicked the bucket. Neil had come two years after that, even though there was minimal use for an automail mechanic up here. Automail and Briggs temperature didn’t mix well. Their old commander had been here for years as well. Buccaneer had been here when he arrived and wasn’t surprised that he was still here when he left.

Their old commander had been a drunk of a general, too caught up on how he had been exiled to really care about the fort or the men. He did his duty, but that was about all he did. Buccaneer took care of training the new troops that came up, and between him, Murray, Wendall, Henschel and Doc, they managed to keep the fort running well enough to get by. Command sent them just enough supplies to get them through until the next shipment, but everyone knew that they considered Briggs little more than cannon fodder to slow Drachma down and raise the alarm for Northern Command.

Buccaneer had been sure that their old commander knew that too, and it was part of the reason he drank so heavily. Better to die drunk here than not, he’d told Buccaneer a few times. After all, they were all aware that the way most people left Briggs was in a body bag. Few people retired, and fewer people were reassigned. Buccaneer had been sure their old commander was going to be here until he killed himself with alcohol poisoning.

And then he had been sent a retirement letter, and she had been sent to them.

Buccaneer had been suspicious of her from the moment she stepped out of that car. He was familiar with the name “Armstrong.” An old Amestrian family with a strong military history. They were pure Amestrian through and through, high society at that. She had fit the bill, too. Blond hair kept back in a bun. Piercing blue eyes. Full, pink lips. A voluptuous figure. And a condescending attitude on top of that. She didn’t look like Briggs material; she looked like someone who had ridden a family name to the rank of general.

Although, Buccaneer had to admit that she wasn’t as bad as he expected. Her welcoming speech had proved that. She had slammed her sword down on the ground and proclaimed that she would turn Briggs into the finest military institution there was, and make the Drachman forces fear them. She expected all of the men at Briggs to put their all into their work, and she wasn’t going to coddle any of them. It was shape up or ship out. And then she had walked away. It had left everyone blinking and not exactly sure what to make of it or of her.

None of that had been cleared up when she met with Buccaneer, insisting on going through the six-week survival training with him, and declaring it mandatory from then on out. She had also spent the next three months after that working every job Briggs had to offer. She wanted to know how the fort ran from the bottom up, she had told Buccaneer. A good leader, she had insisted, understands the tasks of his subordinates. A good leader knows what the jobs take. She wanted to know and understand all of it.

It had, Buccaneer admitted, softened the men towards her a bit. She was far different from their previous commander. She, at least, appeared to care about them. She was also working on shoring up neglected parts of the fort and making plans to make it more self-sustainable. Buccaneer had heard her making waves on the phone to get what she wanted.

But even with all of that, he still wasn’t sure that she was Briggs. Briggs was more than knowing the troops, or getting things done, or learning a job. There was something much deeper to it than that, and he wasn’t convinced that she was the right material for the job. He was pretty sure she was a good commander, but he wasn’t sure that she was Briggs.

Briggs was solidarity, because no one else was going to look out for them, but each other. Briggs was knowing the soldier next to you, being willing to die for him, and him for you. Briggs was knowing everyone had secrets and baggage, and not asking or caring about it. Briggs was their own culture and traditions, with morbid, off the wall humor that made no sense to anyone else. Briggs was grit and determination. Briggs was knowing that you had a duty to perform, and no one would ever give you credit for it. Briggs was being willing to sacrifice yourself for the sake of the fort.

Their old commander had led them through more than a few Drachman attacks. But he had never been Briggs. General Amrstrong had led them through some incidents as well, but that didn’t mean that she was Briggs either. She had yet to prove her loyalty to the fort—to the men who sacrificed for the fort.

“Captain Buccaneer, sir?”

Buccaneer looked away from their new general as a sergeant walked towards him. Smicht, Buccaneer recalled.

“Yes, Sergeant?” Buccaneer answered.

“Here’s the latest reports from the patrols.” The Smicht handed the reports over to him.

Buccaneer looked through them and frowned. There was increased Drachman activity in the contested area. That was never a good sign. He had noticed that it had picked up a bit since Armstrong had arrived. Was Drachman feeling her out, the same way the men were? It was a possibility. And if Drachma attacked in full without Briggs having full confidence in their commander, it could be a problem.

“Thanks,” he said. He looked back down at Armstrong. “I’ll let the general know.”

Smicht saluted, and then left, and Buccaneer considered Armstrong again. He had his own ideas on how to deal with this, but he was interested to see what she wanted to do. He headed down to the lower level of the gym, and towards her.

What she wanted to do, it turned out, was investigate the areas of report herself. Buccaneer organized a patrol, but he bristled as he did it. Did she not think the Briggs scouts were accurate? They were well trained—he had seen to it himself. They knew how to tell what was what in the frozen forests of Briggs. But he didn’t argue with her. Instead, he went too, wanting to keep an eye on this woman.

He, General Armstrong, and patrol unit left the fort, all in full winter gear. The general had not needed any assistance in putting it on, but Buccaneer did notice her scowling a bit at her hat as the bun she kept her hair in would make it ride up in the back and down in the front. Still, she didn’t let it impact her as they walked, her sharp eyes darting about. Buccaneer approved of that, at least. Staying alert out here was paramount.

They walked until they reached the latest area that the Drachman forces had been seen at. It was closer to the fort then the others, as if Drachma was creeping increasingly closer. The patrol approached it cautiously, on guard for anything. Buccaneer stuck close to Armstrong as she examined the area. She looked around at the snow and at the trees around it. Her frown deepened as she did.

“…There’s something not right here,” she finally said.

“What do you mean, sir?” Buccaneer asked.

“I mean that something isn’t right.” She paused. “Do you notice anything unusual about the snow?”

Buccaneer frowned and looked at the snow. It seemed pristine. In fact, it seemed a little too pristine. “There’s no debris,” he said. “No tracks either. And it seems… smooth.” He was impressed. That wasn’t something that just anyone would have caught.

She nodded. “As if someone had come and put it down for some reason.” She scowled. “I don’t like this.” She looked back at Sergeant Gennis, their radio man. “Call back to the fort. Have them send some men out here with shovels. I want to see what’s under this snow.”

“Yes, sir!” Gennis said.

“You think they’re burying something here?” Buccaneer said.

“It’s a possibility,” she replied. “At the least, they did something near here, and I want to know what.”

There was bite and determination in her voice, and Buccaneer almost felt a grin start to form. He did like that. The general wasn’t through, though. She made them visit each of the locations, and each time the snow was just as unusual. Even if it wasn’t as pristine as the first place they visited, it was clear that the snow had been moved and replaced at some point. More teams were called in to dig and see what they could find.

It was at the location of the one furthest from the fort, the first place that the patrols had spotted the Drachman troops, that they took a break and stopped moving. Mostly, it was because there was no clear place to go on to, or at least, not that Buccaneer could see. However, the general hadn’t ordered them back yet, instead looking at a map, frowning over it.

“…Buccaneer,” she said, beckoning him over with her voice alone. “You know this land better than I do. I want your assessment.”

That wasn’t something he expected, but he came over to look at the map with her. “Yes, sir?” he questioned.

“These are the areas where patrols were seen,” she said, pointing out the areas on the map, “and these are the unusual areas we’ve found. Where do you think they’re likely to go next?”

Buccaneer frowned as he looked at the map and considered the area. Maps, he felt, were useful, but they weren’t the same as knowing the area yourself. Maps didn’t tell you where the tree lines and bushes were thickest, or where you knew the snow liked to pile up and hide hollows in the wintertime, or areas where the river froze and where it didn’t. That sort of thing required on the ground experience.

“…If I were them,” he said, looking down the locations on the map, “I’d say… probably here. Its closer still to the fort, and there’s a small clearing in the forest there. It would be a good place to do whatever they’re doing.”

The general nodded. She looked at the map, and tugged her hat further down on her ears as she did, her bun making the hat ride up again. “And how would you think that they’d get there?” She asked him.

Buccaneer considered the map again. “I’d go along the river. It’s rapid enough that it’s not all frozen up this time of year. Parts of it still flow.”

“Which parts?”

“Here… here… and here, specifically. Those areas don’t freeze up until the thick of winter.”

The general nodded and fixed her hat again. Buccaneer couldn’t take it anymore.

“Begging the general’s pardon, but why don’t you just take off the hat? Or take your hair down and tuck it inside your coat if you’re afraid the color might give you away? The hat might stay better that way.”

She huffed and thrust the map into his hands. “I’d rather it just function as it was supposed to,” she growled, but after a moment of fussing with it, just reached up and pulled several pins out of her hair instead, letting down the long blonde locks. Buccaneer blinked at her. If he thought it might make her look a little softer, he had been wrong. If anything, she looked more intimidating with her hair down.

“Alright,” she said as she settled the hat back onto her head. “Let’s go. I want to check that area out. If nothing else, we can get a watch on it. And get some men out here to dig.”

“Yes, General!” Gennis said, already turning to the radio.

“Buccaneer. You know these forest best?” It wasn’t a question.

“Of the ones here, yes, sir,” he replied.

“Then you lead the way, Captain.”

That was, again, not something that Buccaneer had expected. It made sense, sure, but a woman like her didn’t seem the type to let anyone else lead. Armstrong was just adding up to one big puzzle in his mind.

He didn’t have much time to dwell on it, though, as he took point, leading them through the forests the quickest way he knew how. As they traveled, Armstrong asked him questions about the forest, and what he knew of it. He answered them, and she seemed to take in everything he said. As they drew closer to their target, though, Buccaneer gestured for everyone to quiet down. The general looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

“I think there’s something up ahead,” he whispered, just low enough for her to hear. “Animals and birds aren’t around as much.”

She nodded, taking that into consideration and gestured for them to retreat a bit. “There might be something ahead,” she said. “We’ll split. Circle and see what’s there. No one act without orders or action from myself. We observe first, then act. Understood?”

There were saluted all around, and then she glanced at Buccaneer. It took him a moment to realize that she meant for him to pair the men off. He did so, quickly figuring out who would work well with each other. They all split, and Buccaneer lost sight of Armstrong as they moved.

He was, unfortunately, right, and as they drew closer to the edge of the riverbank, a group of Drachman soldiers stood there, unloading something. He couldn’t quite tell what it was, and he was far enough away that what little he could hear he couldn’t translate, not with his rusty skills. Still, he watched as they unloaded things from three thin boats, and moved them further up the hill, just past a slight area of rapids that the boats wouldn’t have been able to navigate even if they weren’t going against the current and slightly uphill. He was just about to gesture to the Warrant Officer he was with to move in slightly when there was a crack that caught everyone’s attention, and Private Shaw came sliding out of the tree line from the opposite side and towards the Drachman soldiers.

Immediately, the Drachman soldiers raised their guns, and just as immediately General Armstrong was bursting out of the forest herself. Buccaneer took that as permission enough, and he came up out of the tree line as well, the warrant officer close behind him. He roared, frightening the Drachman soldier closest to him, one that was still retrieving an object out of the boat. Buccaneer grabbed him and tossed him into the river, its frigid waters sweeping him away. He kept his focus on Shaw, though. They had to get him out of there!

He didn’t, it seemed, need to worry. With quick, fast steps, almost faster than Buccaneer thought possible, General Armstrong had made her way towards the Drachman soldiers, putting herself between them and Shaw. Her hand had pulled her sword so fast he barely saw the glimmer of it before she was cutting down one Drachman soldier. She had barely finished with him, before she was moving onto another, cutting him down with a powerful blow. She reached Shaw and hauled him up by one hand.

The poor kid looked scared to death, and she snapped something at him. Much to Buccaneer’s surprise, whatever she said seemed to bolster the kid, and he toughened up. But Buccaneer had his own problems, and so did the rest of the team. This was quickly devolving into a firefight, and one they had to be careful in, unless they wanted to hit their own men.

Buccaneer was just dispatching the men who came after him, when he heard shouts that sounded different from the troops further up the hill. There only appeared to be one Drachman soldier left alive, and he yelled something out that Buccaneer couldn’t translate and picked up one of the objects that they had been carrying up. The general, it seemed, understood exactly what the man was saying, and her eyes widened as she yelled for everyone to get out of there. Not wasting any time, the members of the small group did just that, the general included.

At least, until she saw Eartless on the ground. Buccaneer saw him too. He was bleeding from his thigh. Something must have gotten him there earlier. Both Armstrong and Buccaneer made their way towards him. Armstrong shoved him into Buccaneer’s arms, even as the last survivor of the Drachman party stood and yelled something out, hands poised to throw one of the things they had been unloading down at the group. In a flash, the General was gone, bounding back up the hill, her sword at the ready. Buccaneer got the wounded soldier down the hill to the others but turned back to watch this new general.

“Sir!” the warrant officer interrupted his thoughts. He had one of the objects and was examining it. “They’re bombs! Landmines!”

Buccaneer’s head jerked back towards Armstrong. In a flash, he knew. He knew that she knew, and that she was the best bet for stopping this madman from taking out her soldiers, and that she knew it and acted without hesitation. Her footwork bounded solidly, although, the soldier was quick as well. He moved, and it was almost as if General Armstrong didn’t see it. Her first strike missed him. She jerked her head, her hat falling off, her hair flowing down, and went for a second strike. The second on didn’t miss and the soldier went down, falling back into the pile of landmines. Armstrong turned to run, but it wasn’t quite fast enough. She was barely starting down the hill when the entire stack of landmines exploded behind her. It sent her tumbling down—and right into the icy waters of the river.

“General!”

Buccaneer yelled out for her, even as she hit the waters. It would only take a matter of seconds before she was swept too far down stream. He rushed to the bank. It was likely the rapids would funnel her this way. He just needed to—

There!

He spotted the blond locks and, without hesitation, plunged his arm into the icy river, making a grab for that hair. He felt his hand tangle around it, felt the tug of it stopping momentum, felt her hand come up to his, trying to relieve some of the pressure on her scalp.

He didn’t let go, just pulled on her by her hair enough that he could get a grip on something else, like her shoulder. He seized on something more solid than her hair the moment he could, and her head broke the surface, gasping and sputtering. He used both hands and pulled, pulling her out onto the bank of the river.

She was soaked, freezing, and violently shivering. She tried to say something, but she was far too cold to be able to do much more than gasp. Buccaneer stripped off his coat and wrapped it around the general.

“We’ve got to get her back to Doc now!” He said. “Shaw, Gennis, Bonoff, stay here, and get what’s left. Eartlesss, Nico, we’re going back to the fort. Nico, stick with Eartless. Gennis, call ahead and tell them what to expect!”

There were quickly snapped out “yes sir!”s all around, and then Buccaneer lifted the ice cold General up in his arms. Her wet hair was clinging to her, her pink lips were already turning blue, and there was something foggy in her eyes that she was clearly trying to fight.

There was no more time.

Buccaneer booked it back to the Fort the quickest he ever had, doing all he could to keep her warm. She kept trying to say things, as if she were trying to talk, but Buccaneer knew from experience that the waters this time of the year were mind-numbingly cold.

“I was wrong about you,” he said as they ran. “I wasn’t sure you were Briggs. But you risked your life for Shaw, Eartless, and the rest of us. You tried to stop that Drachman from throwing one of those landmines at us. You were willing to sacrifice it all for us.” He glanced at her. “That’s the Briggs way.”

She looked up at him from the folds of his coat—a coat that he could already feel turning wet—and for a brief moment, he met her eyes. There seemed to be understanding in them, even through her violent chills.

Buccaneer knew these forests and mountains like the back of his hand, and he knew them in every season too. He took the shortest route back to the fort, but even with that, and the added layers of Eartless and Nico’s coats, Armstrong’s skin was taking on a blue cast, her shivering had slowed, and her awareness seemed to be fading. Her hair stopped dripping water, but instead made small noises as the strands froze, along with the wet coats, and Buccaneer’s own arms.

As the fort came into view, Buccaneer could hear a lookout calling out, and then one of the lower doors was opened. He rushed through cleared hallways with the general in his arms, ice decorating both of them. He delivered her straight to Doc, who was on one of the lower and more interior areas of the fort. As soon as he laid her on the bed, Doc and a nurse were unwrapping the coat and starting on the general’s icy clothes.

“Go get yourself warmed up and dried off,” Doc ordered him, keeping her focus on the frozen woman under her hands.

“Will she be alright?” Buccaneer asked.

“Probably. I’ll let you know when I know. Now leave.”

Doc hadn’t slowed once while she was talking, even though she was getting to the lower layers of the general’s clothing. Buccaneer knew from experience that she wasn’t going to slow down or stop to protect the general’s privacy, not with her life on the line, and so Buccaneer left.

He told a lieutenant to find out the status of the teams out there, and report it to him, and then Buccaneer left for the showers. The best way to warm up was going to be to get out of his cold and damp clothes, get a warm shower, and then change into something dry. It didn’t take him long, and as soon as he was finished, he went back to stand outside of sickbay, taking the reports there and waiting to see what Doc’s word on the injured general and soldiers was.

It was a few hours before Doc came out and, seemingly unsurprised to find him there, gestured him in.

“Eartless is going to be fine,” she said, “He took a shot to the thigh. Too deep to be called a graze, but still not enough to bring too much concern. I’m putting him on light duties until I’m satisfied with its healing.”

“And General Armstrong?” Buccaneer asked.

“She’ll be fine as well. She definitely was hypothermic, but it’s nothing that can’t be reversed. We’ve already got her body temperature back up into a low but acceptable range. She’s also got some bruising and I’m worried about the possibility of a slight concussion because of how hard she hit that water. I’m going to have her here overnight, and then recommend rest and limited exposure to the cold for the next few days.” Doc glanced up at Buccaneer. “Eartless told me what she did.” Doc’s lips quirked up in a smile. “Sounds like she really put her all out there.”

“Yeah,” Buccaneer said, and he didn’t bother to hide the relief in his voice. “Can I--?”

Doc waved her hand at him. “Go. Just keep it quiet.”

Buccaneer nodded, and moved back to the curtained off area that the general was in. He pushed the curtain aside and looked at her. She was sleeping, covered in several heavy blankets, her hair spread out to dry, and a portable heater turned on her. Buccaneer watched for a moment, the pure-Amestrian, blonde haired beauty with a sword that they had been sent. For a moment, he just stared. And then, he turned, and stood at ease beside her bedside, keeping guard over his general. She was Briggs. She had proved that. And she had earned his loyalty.

#writersmonth2021 #captain buccaneer #Olivier Mira Armstrong #fma #Fullmetal Alchemist #fma fanfic #fullmetal alchemist fan fiction #Fort Briggs

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