#i got about halfway through this yesterday and then was told that the bead curtain was important to today's chapter

[redwinterroses]

I’m doing my very best not to format this as a literary analysis paper but that’s basically what this is so forgive me if I slip back into those old habits at all. And I'm going to tag @betweenlands and @fluffy-papaya in this because guys look what your fic made me brainrot. XD

(This is a long one, y'all. We're talking 2k words. Sorry.)

That said:

Hey, let’s talk about the bead curtain in Dog at the Door.

That dang bead curtain, and why I’m currently fixating on it, and how I think it has symbolism that may or may not be intentional.

(At this point, I’m assuming it’s intentional. Everything about this fic is intentional. Including the pain. Heh. “The only difference between a running gag and a recurring theme is how seriously you take it,” says Solar. Cool. I’m taking it seriously.)

The curtain first shows up in chapter one. It’s one of the first things we see in the van, and the first thing we know about it is that Doc finds it obnoxious. Ugly. Revolting. Renbob loves it, obviously, but Renbob has odd tastes. Doc, on the other hand, literally uses his hatred of the curtain to motivate him to get out of bed in the morning.

The Red King, when he shows up, also has similar dislike of the thing, but his reaction is a little more measured, a little less extreme. More distaste, less disgust. He finds it “distasteful” and compares it to wearing a labcoat without a shirt (lol). But he doesn’t loath it like Doc does, and when Doc suggests (in chapter 13) that they take it down and use it for friendship bracelets, he’s as displeased with that idea as Renbob is. He has an ambivalent opinion, overall.

And then Ren. Ren actually reacts the least to the curtain—but ends up with the most dramatic interaction with it, which we’ll come back to in a second. He simply says (chapter 24) that normally he’d find the beads hideous, but that the light of Doc’s eye reflecting off it into the shadows makes it oddly peaceful.

There’s exactly one other use of the word “curtain” in this fic, and it’s this line right here:

“I haven’t done anything but possess him and lead his soul back to the controls.” RK throws his hands up in the air. “He’s put himself behind the curtain because he thinks I’m out to get him. My only crime is the original contract I made with him, doctor.”

In this instance, RK is talking about their “imperfect metaphor” of Ren being behind the curtain that separates the “driver’s seat” from the rest of the van that is Ren’s mind/soul. He’s saying that Ren has deliberately put himself in a position of defeat and surrender because he (Ren) doesn’t think there are any other options.

M’kay. Right about now, any sane person is going, “Red. Why are you so fixated on this bead curtain. It’s a running joke at best.”

And... I mean, sure. Kinda. But also definitely not.

This is the part where I really step out on a potentially-shaky limb with all the confidence in the world, because here’s what I'm seeing: the dividing line between life and death is often portrayed in literature as a curtain.

(And it’s interesting to note that the curtain is a barrier, a separation, but it’s only a curtain, and this one is made of beads at that. It’s a flimsy and fluid barrier, easy to pass through. Back and forth. Surrender and control, life and death.)

In fact, even in this fic it’s used that way: RK may be referring to the metaphorical bead curtain in their van of an explanation for how his and Ren’s relationship works, but in the story at that point Ren is convinced that he’s dead. Or is supposed to be dead. And by putting himself “behind the curtain,” he’s surrendering to that. Almost insisting on it, because that’s the truth of how he sees the world right then and he can’t process any other possibilities. He’s basically saying “I’m supposed to be dead, and this side of the curtain is death, so that’s where I’ll stay.”

So if the curtain in the metaphor represents the two sides of that, it’s really interesting to look at the various characters’ reactions to the literal bead curtain and see how it reflects their attitudes toward death—and specifically Ren’s death.

Renbob is... chill. He has an entirely comfortable relationship with the bead curtain, with life and death, with his own emotions—even with dealing with the emotions of the others he’s chauffeuring across the universe. While he isn’t immune to the grief of losing (or thinking he’s lost) Ren, he deals with it in a relatively healthy way—at least as much as we see. I think there was a possibly-canon ask at some point that said he was journaling and meditating so... yeah. Renbob’s got this. And 50 other bead curtains in storage. He’s the only character in the fic who passes in and out of the curtain regularly and without it being a big deal.

To put it simply: Renbob is on good terms with whatever happens in life, up to and including the end of it. (Renbob is arguably the equal and opposite of Grimdog. Two sides of the same coin in more ways than one.)

Contrast that now with Doc. Doc is... not a fan of the bead curtain. It represents a loss of control to him, (“freakin’ hippies”) and a separation from what he loves. In the past, he and Ren were on opposite sides of that conflict, and the beads still somewhat represent that tension (though in a mostly nostalgic, and not actively-antagonistic way.) But the language Doc’s narration uses to describe the beads is strong. “Obnoxious.” “Accursed.” “Horrendously evil.”

Nearly as scary as his best friend trying to kill him.

It’s played for laughs, obviously, and it is funny. But if we project the symbolism of “the curtain represents death” onto Doc’s reactions, it gets a bit less amusing. And it really fits with Doc’s attitude toward Ren’s death in the whole fic. It’s the worst thing he’s ever faced—to the extent that until RK’s seemingly-permanent presence forces him to, Doc doesn’t even try to process it. He goes right to work on the prosthetics, growls at anyone who tries to make him do anything he doesn't want to do, accepts RK as “New Ren,” and pretends that he’s going on with life.

He refuses to look at how weird the whole situation is, because if he does that he has to deal with Ren being gone forever. He ignores the thing that’s right under his nose and pretends it’s not there until a moment of quiet or actually having to interact with it brings it back to his attention, and then his reaction is vitriolic.

Doc hates that curtain, and he hates the concept of death, the concept of losing control. Even in his nightmares, he holds tight to what little control he can take, even if it’s just taking the initiative to sit in the snow and let it kill him faster. Hold onto that thought, because I’ve got more to it, but we have to talk about RK and Ren first.

RK holds both distaste and acceptance of the curtain. He doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t want it destroyed either. The distaste, notably, is when he’s with Doc, and the acceptance comes from being around Renbob. The Red King, as a blood god, is not exactly unfamiliar with death. It’s literally in his job description, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it. A necessary evil, if you will.

It doesn’t hurt either that, at least up until Ren, RK has always been the one on the other side of the curtain, completely in control of the situation. He goes back and forth on his attitudes, but in the past he has been the one in control and the bringer of death. His reaction is negative, but not emphatic—the way someone who has plenty of indoor plans might react to a rainstorm.

Ren... now, Ren. Ren has, like I said, the least recorded reaction to the actual, physical bead curtain. But. But. While he normally would call it hideous, “there’s something oddly peaceful about watching light fractals spin off the walls, cutting off into the shadows.” The shadows, it’s worth noticing, are specifically implied to be RK/hiding RK in this moment. Doc’s light and RK’s shadows interacting with the curtain bring peace to Ren. He passes through it easily to find Renbob.

Ren has already accepted his death—he accepted it long before the fic even started—to an extent that he’s actively insisting on it for a large portion of the story. It’s only when he realizes that Doc is in potential danger that he starts fighting RK for control of the situation again. (“Stay away from Doc, you bastard. He wasn’t part of our bargain. Leave him alone.”)

He dislikes the bead curtain, but he doesn’t hate it, and when seen in the (literal) light of Doc’s protective, watching eye—even if he is asleep at the moment, bless—even the shadows of RK’s presence are suddenly beautiful and peaceful to him in a way that, without the “reflecting fractals” of the beads, wouldn’t be possible. Again: this is the chapter where Renbob’s influence is felt, and his peace with life and death directly affects Ren and his reactions. (“It’ll all sort itself out, eventually, and I’ll be here for you while it does.”)

And then...

And then Ren rips down the curtain altogether.

The separation is gone. For better or for worse, that divide between control and surrender, between RK and Ren, between life and death... it’s gone. It’s scattered across the floor of the van, glittering in Ren’s hair, and in the carpet. Ren has broken through that barrier, and now we just have to wait to see what the consequences of that are for him.

But... we can already see at least one consequence for Doc. Because now there is no more illusion of control and surrender for him to maintain. That division is no longer there, and we see Doc’s first real surrender in the whole story. Even in his nightmares, he was still in control: he knew it was a nightmare, and he fought against it until he “gave up”—in a way that still put him in control. He chooses to sit in the snow so it’ll kill dream-him faster.

He acts like he doesn’t care, but it’s still not that: he takes control in the only way he knows, aware that everything is only a dream and no matter what how it treats him, he’ll still wake up in the end. He looks at the nightmare and says basically “Do your worst, I dare you, but you won’t get what you want from me.”

But now—now he surrenders to Ren. He gives up. His core truth (“I’ll do anything to protect those I love,” which I talked about in this post) looks like it’s not going to be enough to save them. He can’t save Ren—from RK or from Ren himself—and that means he’s lost in the worst way possible. In this moment, it looks like Ren doesn’t even trust that Doc’s core truth—that he will do anything to save his friends—is true.

This is Doc’s lowest point: that Ren seems to think Doc’s loyalty and love have failed. And to Doc... that’s a fate worse than death.

So he gives up. He tells Ren to kill him, and he fully expects him to do so. Doc doesn’t want to die, but at this point he has completely let go of any control of his own fate. Even when facing down Ren with the Skizz blade, he held tightly to his control of the situation. He literally takes the sword in his own hand and removes it as a threat. But now—now the curtain is gone. The illusion of control is gone.

Ren is the one in control of the situation—for possibly the first time in the fic—and he chooses to remember that Doc is his friend, that he’s missed him. But Doc leaves it all to him. Even when Ren backs off, Doc stays in that surrendered state (“I can’t do anything right, unlike [Martyn.]”). He realizes that he's been in the passenger seat the whole time, and he’s now where Ren was before: no longer even trying to take back the driver’s seat.

The curtain is gone. Now we just have to wait and see who ends up on which side of it at the end.

#long post #dog at the door #datd #i got about halfway through this yesterday and then was told that the bead curtain was important to today's chapter #and I thought: okay. I'll wait and it'll probably blow my entire theory out of the water. #and then NOPE turns out I'm pretty sure this is where it was going all along and I'm just a nerd who happened to notice

[commonwealthoccurences]

The Kids From Yesterday

TW: Injury and it’s symptoms description.

Note: To clarify none of this is supposed to be interpreted as Deacon hitting on Sole. Their friendship is familial in this case and that’s it.

Request:  “ So imagine, the Sole Survivor is secretive about their identity. They never show their face, their voice bounces around their helmet, and Deacon's 90 percent sure they use heeled boots. But they're a good leader and a good person, so everyone lets it be. One day, Sole is out with a Companion and they hit their head. Companion has no choice but to take off the helmet to check for wounds, since Sole's knocked out. And they learn why they never show their face. They're a teenager.”

It was a hot day in the middle of summer. Sole and Deacon were trekking across the Commonwealth to Diamond City, hoping to get a decent room for the night before they left to check out a nearby safehouse. Sweat beaded across Sole’s forehead, the intense heat made worse by the helmet they always wore. “Sheesh, Boss. I’m committed to privacy, too, but are you sure you don’t wanna take that off? I’ll look the other way, promise.” He held up his pinky to imply his innocent intentions.

Sole rolled their eyes despite Deacon not being able to see. “Yeah, sure. For about two seconds before you use those sunglasses to your advantage. I know your tricks by now Deacon.”

He grinned, unashamed. “Busted.”

They continued their hike in silence. Deacon had known Sole for more than a year and a half, and not once had they even given a hint about their identity. Sure, they came from a vault and they were trying to find a family member, but that’s all Deacon knew about them. They had managed to hook up a voice modifier to their helmet, which changed pitch every day. Their armor was bulky and hid any defining features. They were decently tall, but even then, in the beginning they walked unsteadily which led Deacon to believe their boots had built in heels. Conversations were kept anecdotal and light, and if they told stories, no one involved in them had seen Sole’s face either.

This ate at Deacon. He respected their privacy as much as they respected his. Neither tried to pry too much, but he couldn’t help but be curious. His entire job was to figure out mysteries and despite the fact that he made sure not to go too far, he really wanted to know even a little bit about who they were. 

However, he didn’t need to know any more about them to respect them. They were a hard worker and a fantastic leader, and didn’t hesitate to put their life on the line for the Railroad and the Minutemen and the synths under their protection. Deacon was no stranger to keeping his distance; as long as they continued to do what they did, they were good in his books.

Sole’s commitment to their secrecy could be to a fault, though. They never let anyone help treat their wounds; Deacon had to listen to them sew up their own injuries from the other side of a curtain multiple times and each was a struggle for him to stay in his seat. Yet every time they patched themself up, put their armor back on, and stepped out from behind the curtain with a silent nod.

And now, they were refusing to put their well being first and take their helmet off for even a small breath of fresh air. Of course Deacon was mostly joking when he implied he’d take a peek at their appearance, and he could understand their caution, but still, it was putting their safety at risk.

They had made it about halfway there when Sole began stumbling. The sun had reached its fullest height and its rays were beating down onto the Commonwealth. Plants had shriveled up across the fields, ponds had been turned to mere puddles, and the light reflected harshly off the rocks, rivers, and the scraps of metal that decorated the sides of the roads.

Sole’s line of vision tilted as they struggled to re-orientate themself. Deacon moved to grab their arm, but he didn’t move fast enough due to his own exhaustion, and Sole went tumbling, their helmeted head slamming into a fractured guard rail. He swore loudly when they didn’t move to get up.

“Sole? Hey, you need to wake up.” He leaned over them in an attempt to block out the sun and shook their shoulders. No response.

Fear struck him when he realized just how limp their frame was. It was pure dead weight. “Hey! Sole, can you hear me?” He shook them again.

He had a decision to make. They had hit their head hard and that was never good. Either he respected their privacy to the fault they were so infamous for and left their helmet on, hoping for the best, or he kept them alive and let them yell at him later. He barely hesitated. Sole had saved his life multiple times, he couldn’t stand by for the sake of their anonymity.

“I’m sorry in advance, Sole.” He muttered, crouching next to them and reaching for their helmet.

Sole awoke in an unfamiliar room. An oil lamp flickered on the nightstand next to the cot they were reclined on, casting dancing shadows across the room. There was a table of medical supplies to their right along with a water pitcher and an empty, clean cup. Carefully, they began to sit up. The room spun as they inhaled sharply and squeezed their eyes shut in an attempt to make the nauseating feeling go away.

When they reopened their eyes to a right-side-up room, they reached for a knife that had been left on the tray next to a bandana. They gripped it tightly in their hand, knuckles white as they began to swing their legs over the side of the mattress. Their body felt extra heavy, like weights had been attached to their joints.

With a sharp breath they forced themself to get to their feet, leant against the railing attached to the cot. The room seemed to be a doctor’s office more than anything, but they had been stripped of their padded armor and helmet; someone had explaining to do. When they were finally steadily on their feet they picked up the bandana and tied it around the lower half of their face, securing the knot at the back of their head. “Taking off so soon?” A voice startled them from the doorway and they tightened their grip on the knife.

Their eyes snapped up, causing another wave of nauseating dizziness. Deacon- well, three of him, actually -stood in the doorway. The figures blended together before separating again, clueing Sole in on just how bad their dizziness was. As carefully as they could, they lowered themself back onto the cot. “That’s what I thought.” He sighed.

The whole ‘disappointed parent’ vibe was starting to piss Sole off, and it was exactly the reason they never gave clues about their identity. “Save the lecture, Deacon. Where are we?” They asked, attempting to regulate their tone.

“Diamond City clinic. We’re still having this conversation, though.”

“Later, when we’re somewhere secure. I’m not having less-than-fortunate discussions within earshot of nosy people. Or worse. The Institute.”

Deacon fought the urge to make a face. Sure, they were right. What he knew now didn’t change that they knew what they were doing and how to keep themself safe. It did, however, make him struggle with the idea of standing by while they continued their path of work. As they fought to stand again, he knew he couldn’t stop them, regardless. “Will you let me help you?” Deacon asked quietly, dragging a hand over his face.

“Yeah, knock yourself out.” 

He crossed the room and gripped their forearm so they could brace themself to stand. “Slowly.” He warned, reaching around to grab their other arm as they swayed.

“Don’t start babying me now, Deacon.”

“I’m not. This is what caring about someone looks like.” His tone was biting.

Sole suppressed a roll of their eyes and continued to make their way towards where their armor was laying. “What time is it?”

“Ten-ish at night. We’re safe to get to Dugout Inn without you overheating again. I already booked a room and the brothers agreed to make sure the place was cleared out and everyone was in their rooms before we got there. The doc never saw your face, by the way, I kept the bandana over it.”

“Thank you.”

Carefully, Sole began putting their armor on. They started to lean forward to put their shin guards on and Deacon stopped them, kneeling to adjust the straps for them. Piece by piece he strapped them into their armor before reaching for the pitcher of water. “You need to drink something before we leave. He administered fluids but we shouldn’t risk it.” He handed them a glass of water and waited for them to finish it off.

Slowly and carefully, they made their way from the Surgery Center clinic through the alleys to the Dugout Inn. Their face was still covered, and Sole thanked God for that, but they still turned away as soon as the brothers looked over from where they were talking quietly behind the bar. “Do you guys need some help?” Vadim asked.

Deacon shook his head. “Nah, we’re all good. Thanks, though.”

Sole’s feet shuffled against the ground as he led them to the nearest room, which he had the foresight to request. With practiced ease Deacon shifted their arm over his shoulder and gripped their waist, twisting the doorknob to the room open and swinging it open. He moved them in and transferred their weight onto the nearby bed. “Alright, let’s talk.” They sighed.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“I wanted to be taken seriously. If I had said anything, no one would’ve respected me enough to let me lead. Hell, I doubt they would’ve even let me out of Sanctuary.”

Deacon began to pace slowly. “How old are you? Minus the whole popsicle situation.”

“Seventeen. Since April.”

Deacon swore, his hands on his hips as he stared at the dusty floor. Silence filled the room and Sole didn’t bother breaking it; Deacon would talk when he wanted to and it was pointless to push. After a pause, he dropped down onto the nearby couch and put his head in his hands. He swore again under his breath. “I’m sorry.” He said finally.

“Come again?”

“I’m sorry. I mean- kids have to go through a lot here already, you know. But you’ve had to do things adults from this generation couldn’t even fathom and you weren’t born into this world, I- I don’t know what to say other than I’m sorry”

When Deacon looked up at them, his sunglasses had slipped down the bridge of his nose. Sole watched carefully as he reached up to remove them, instinctively getting the urge to avert their eyes. He folded the arms together and set his sunglasses on the coffee table in front of him, his eyes clouded with emotion. “I just want you to know I’ve got your back, Boss. We’ll come out on the other side of this and you can get old with Dogmeat in Sanctuary, y’know. But you have to stop pushing yourself so hard.”

Sole, not seeing the point of hiding anymore, tugged their helmet off and settled it in their lap, running their fingertips over it as they examined it carefully. “I don’t mean it relative to your age, either. You push yourself way too hard to please everyone in this area and it’s gonna get you killed. You’ve already proved yourself. You’re already good enough. It’s time that you see that, too, and maybe take some time to just- are you gonna shoot me with my own pistol if I said ‘to just be a kid?’”

Sole tipped their head back and laughed. “No. I guess it’s fair.”

“Thank God. Hey, you need to put another cap in the ‘Near Death Experience’ jar when we get back home.”

Sole snorted. “I think we’re single handedly filling that damn thing.”

Deacon couldn’t disagree. He got up briefly to lock the door, not wanting any late-night ambushes, and settled back onto the couch. It was customary for him to take the first watch while Sole got a nap in, and considering their condition, that wasn’t going to change. “Get some rest, Boss. We’ve got an early morning.” He leaned over to the nearby lamp and paused, waiting for Sole to settle down under the blankets, the bandana still tied over the lower half of their face.

“Goodnight, Deacon.”

“G’night, kid.”

“Don’t push it.”

Deacon laughed quietly and blew out the lamp.

#thank you again for your request #fo4 #fallout 4 #fallout 4 imagine #fallout 4 blurb #fallout 4 oneshot #fallout 4 companions #Deacon #Deacon blurb #Deacon imagine #Deacon oneshot

[nurseofren]

A Saturday in New York

Relationship: Charlie Barber x Reader

Words: 2100

Summary: Saturday mornings with Charlie are usually spent running around doing errands and catching up with friends. Not this one, though, not if you have any say in the matter.

Tags: PIV sex, cowgirl position, praise kink, delayed orgasm, starts and ends with fluff.

ST Rambles: I read a piece by @thetorturerwrites yesterday and it got me in the mood for Charlie. Why do all my fantasies happen in the morning? Very strange given I detest waking up early. Maybe I’m projecting, who knows? Anyway, here’s this. I have never written daddy kink and don’t really know if this is it because it’s so tame but whatever. I think this is also the first time I’ve written Charlie as well, so just a lot of firsts here haha. Hope you enjoy (:

--

Flutters of muffled traffic trickled into the fourth-floor apartment window, left open last night to permit the breeze of a New York autumn. Every few minutes or so you’d hear the ring of a bike bell, the bark of a startled pup, or the lightheartedness of a child’s giggle. It was a Saturday morning in the city and many were spending it out and about, getting an early start to their planned activities before the bustle of the day set in. But, in the soft light of the bedroom, the organza curtains blowing in the wind’s rhythm, you knew there was no place you would rather be.

A comfort of breath swelled into stiff lungs, Charlie’s scent warming into you just as the sun left heated stripes on the comforter. You’d woken nearly ten minutes ago, but instead of jumping into routine, you decided to take this unusual occurrence in stride.

Charlie was never one to sleep in, always running around chasing projects and ideas. His mind was beautiful and brilliant, but it was a hindrance to have so many thoughts and so little time, leading him to always wake before the sun. But today was different. He was still fast asleep, dreaming away just below you. With a gentle nature, you led the tip of your finger down his sternum and watched as his lips twitched, stopping when you thought you’d take him from peace.

A soft smile played at your mouth, the sight of his brow creasing bringing a skip to your heart. This was the most relaxed you’d ever seen him, and with your head propped on his chest, chin resting on his lowest rib, you let yourself believe that you had something to do with it. There was a security your presence offered him, a safety that allowed him to indulge in an excess – however small – of rest. The thoughts bloomed through you, your lips pressing to his bare chest in silent gratitude.

Closing your eyes for just a second, once more pressing your face against him, you heard tiny grunts bubble into his chest, little attempts at words rumbling against your ear. He was in the throes of an intense dream, his fingers even twitching against your hip while the sounds came quicker and clearer. The happiness this brought you made it hard not to giggle, but you bit down on your lips and quelled the need, not wanting to wake him.

Listening more closely, you found the beginning of every grunt was that of the first letter of your name, drawn out and fuzzy. You stiffened, eyes opening slowly as if it would help you focus on the sound. Three starts fell to nothing, but the fourth sent shivers down your spine; his low, tired voice was needy as it stumbled through the beginning of your name, finishing the rest in a whispered pronunciation.

He was sleeping through his internal clock, so peaceful and safe, and it was because of you. The knowledge nearly made you shoot up, but you only allowed yourself a slinking effort to crawl up to his face, a ginger choreography to bring him closer. Just one last moment you spent peppering awed, sublime eyes over each fluid feature, basking in his presence as he dreamt of yours.

With closed eyes and intentional frailty you pressed your lips to his, sensitive skin just barely brushing against his. As you held yourself back, though, the same need you’d heard in his unconscious plead found you, lighting your skin with a fervor to meet him halfway, to lead him into morning just the same as he was evading it.

Bringing your hand to his cheek you painted thumb strokes under his eye, your other hand pushing you up and supporting you while you dragged a bent knee over his lap and straddled him. Two starving hands fled into his hair in search of him while parched lips moved into his stillness. An indulgence of air came into Charlie’s nose, a shudder of his chest moving below you while your hands lifted his head to you, pulling him simultaneously from slumber and from his pillow.

It was obvious the instant he came fully to, a yearning grunt moving past his lips and onto yours, his own hands now gripping onto your hips, needy pushes of breath warm on your cheek while he allowed you to caress his head. Large hands skimmed over glittering skin, sliding up your bare curves and finding your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples while gasps left you. Two toothy smiles met, now, both of you thankful for the others need.

Keeping his head held, you parted from him and pressed your forehead to his, biting your lip and reveling in the warmth his nearness provided.

“Good morning, handsome.” It was more a sigh of relief than anything.

Charlie hummed and shifted his hips, hands pushing on yours to grind his new erection into you. “Mm, it is.”

Leaving his head and trailing down his chest, he relaxed back into the pillow, watching you situate yourself so the tip was placed at your entrance. The muscles beneath his soft abdomen tensed tight with each surprise bite of your nails as you leaned up from him, back now straight. His hands fell back to your hips, now sliding up and down the tops of your thighs, thumbs massaging the tissue of your inner thighs. Maybe not purposefully, but there was a slight pressure in his hold, impatience obvious as you circled your hips around his positioned cock, teasing him just a little and watching it build in his gaze.

“You were dreaming of me.” A smirk cast down to him.

“I think I still am.” Grogginess grated against his throat, lungs still trying to wake up.

The words registered both in your ears and your core, a knowing brow hitching on his pleased face. Catching his hands while they were on your waist, you pulled them up and interlocked your fingers with his. Keeping his gaze, he tensed his arms so you could push down onto them while you lowered yourself onto him, feeling every impossibly thick inch force against your walls and fill you. A groan left Charlie’s plush lips as you took him in completely, letting him feel the way you throbbed for him for a few seconds, clenching onto him and feeling his fingers grip tighter into your hands.

When you brought your hips back up, steadying yourself with his hands again, you ached while he left your center, body clamoring to pull him back in. A seethe sprayed spit into the rising sun, falling onto the expansive muscle below. Sinking back down you began to find a rhythm, gyrating on top and squeezing his hands, feeling him deep within you. It stole your breath, looking at his features shift with each bounce, hearing his breath heighten and watching his cheeks flush as desire rooted in his blood.

When you felt comfortable and steady you led his hands back to your breasts, placing his palms over your nipples and pushing your chest into them. Keeping pace, your drive towards pleasuring him blatant, you lifted your arms to undo your hair, allowing the strands to slowly fall from their bedhead collection, observing the way Charlie reacted with a groan, half-lidded eyes, and a tighter grip over your chest.

“God, you’re so gorgeous,” he said, voice evident of and saturated in his need for you.

The praise parted your lips, a mewl leaving as you quickened your pace, reaching down to sate the electric need of your clit. Charlie stopped you before you could, blocking your hand and pressing his thumb against the raised nub, an instant shock of pleasure igniting and falling into a sweet swell of skin-singing bliss. Coming down harder and faster you felt your core pulse around him, the feeling sending your head back and arching your chest into his hand.

“Oh, yes, yes,” you moaned, jaw now slack, “yes, don’t stop. Never stop.”

The thrumming of your pussy around his cock was obvious in the way his breath caught, his hips now driving upward, meeting your bounces with fast thrusts. Within you felt release coming, your legs stiffening around him, abdomen tightening and sweat beading where your skin met his. Fast breaths chorused in the early morning, huffs and pants heavy between you and him.

“You’re doing so – God – so good,” he could barely separate his words. “Don’t cum yet.”

Fire swallowed you at his instruction, a pitiful whine leaving in its wake. “Charlie, no, please.”

It was becoming increasingly difficult to stave off release, your bounces jagged and without pattern, fingers biting into his hips while you leaned forward. He was trying to keep his own eyes open, to watch you obey him, to see your need singe into you as he came closer to his own climax. Though he’d told you not to cum, his thumb was burgeoning into your clit without mercy, every swift stroke earning building a deep moan in your throat, your body hanging on by less than a strand of will.

“Just a little longer.” The tension in his voice proved he was holding on as well, his release bludgeoning his body just the same as yours.

Hair stuck to the sweat at his forehead, his teeth gritted as he continued to buck into you, desperation heavy and surging in the air, no sounds registering but those of squelching skin and pleading breaths. The same as you, Charlie couldn’t form words, and when he shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut you knew he was signaling permission.

The first to cry out was him, a frenzied gnarl of curses coming in the form of prayers; his hands thrashed into your curves as you joined him in bliss, finally feeling the harmony you’d built sink into you with a rapturous heat, an insurgence of immense glee splaying over your skin in the presence of release.

Falling forward, still slightly bouncing on his lap, you clashed into his mouth. Two pairs of fumbling lips found each other in the blinding euphoria, each gifting the other with groans of praise, high-pitched moans vibrating into each other until all that was left were two people at a loss for words, thoughts, and reality.

Limp limbs fell over him, the feeling of his tiding chest in tune with his gluttonous breathing acting as the melody of your afterglow. Sweat-slick skin melded your body to his, your lips now pressed into the crook of his neck while his fingers drew mindless lines up and down your back.

“You did so well, little girl.” He swallowed, your periphery catching sight of his bobbing throat. “Always a good girl for daddy.”

Slipping off of him, your leg rested over his, foot locking under his knee; a sated hand dragged a lone finger down his sternum again, eyes fixated of the way it lifted in sequence with his swelling chest.

“Let’s stay here. All day.” You propped your chin up onto his shoulder, gaze  concentrated on the way he regarded you with an impossible amount of adoration.

“Mm, all day?” It was a low rumble, reluctance fading from him.

“We can order in—” the tip of your finger trailed down from his clavicle to his xiphoid process “—and we can keep the windows open—" trailing further down his abdomen you circled around his navel, pressing a light kiss onto his tricep, keeping your eyes with his “—and we could watch a movie—” your finger found his happy trail and pulled gently “—or we could just, you know—” following in your path, you watched his jaw flex when the tips of your fingers found the hot flesh of his cock, grazing over it until grasping around him and making a single stroke “—not watch a movie.”

Momentarily he bit at his bottom lip, cheeks tense as a smile bloomed and a breathy laugh left. “I’m not gonna get any work done today, am I?”

A string of giggles filtered from your lips as you pulled yourself back on top of him, flourishing his face with fast kisses, his hands coming to weave into your hair. Finally stopping and looking down at him, seeing the acceptance in his eyes, you pressed one long, firm kiss to his lips before you pulled back again.

“What’re you thinking for breakfast? Sweet or savory?”

Charlie brought you back in to press another kiss to your lips, his tongue sliding onto yours before his head dropped back to the bed.

“Sweet. Definitely sweet.”

#Charlie Barber #charlie barber x reader #charlie barber x you #charlie barber imagine #one shot #adam driver #adam driver imagine #A Saturday in New York

[izzielizzie]

can you do a one shot of addy interviewing to work at Contigo and maeve goes for moral support and sees Luis there? Maybe an AU where they didn't sit together at lunch?

Yes. Maeve and Luis sort of know each other, and this is in the weird point of time where Luis has a crush on Maeve and Maeve doesn’t have one on him yet. Enjoy!

I know there is always a point where your love for your best friend is tested, but I just didn’t know it would be so soon after I met mine. Addy Prentiss, usually the most confident girl in the room, is now clinging to the door of my mom’s car like her life depends on it.

I sigh for what feels like the billionth time. I’m starting to get a little light headed. “Addy. It’s just an interview.” I’ve been saying this since dinnertime yesterday.

“Maeve. I can’t do it,” Addy wails in response. Again. I’m glad I took my sister’s advice and drove Addy here an hour early. It’s taken forty minutes to get her to unbuckle. Now I’m standing outside the open passenger door. Addy is twisted at a weird angle to remain seated, but also be able to hold the handle. Even though Addy only has an inch and a half on me, I know I won’t be able to drag her out of the car. I wish Bronwyn was here, but she’s ditched me to go study across the country.

I crouch in front of the door so I’m closer in height to Addy. “Ads,” I put a hand on her knee, “I’ll be there the entire time. I promise. And you said yourself the restaurant owner is really nice. All you have to do is be yourself. He’ll hire you.”

Addy’s blue eyes narrow. “If you lie to me Maeve Rojas, I’ll-”

“Have my head, I know,” I interrupt calmly. Addy gets a little formal when she’s threatening people. I tilt my head to the side and wait Addy out. She’ll cave eventually.

“Okay, fine. Let’s get this over with.”

“Thank you.” I stand and hold my hand out to Addy. She takes it hesitantly, but lets go when I slam the car door shut. We walk side by side to the entrance of the restaurant, and Addy seems her bubbly self for a moment. When we walk into the restaurant, however, it’s a different story. Addy stops in her tracks when she sees the deep blue walls, tin roof, and tiled tables. I do too, but only to take in the beauty. I’ve never been here before, which is surprising since it’s so close to my house.

“Addy, now what,” I hiss. She had made a weird shrieking noise and now she looks like she’s seen a ghost.

“That’s Luis Santos.”

I follow Addy’s gaze to see a tall boy who seems about our age with dark hair, a sharp jaw, and tanned skin. I vaguely remember him from when he sat with Bronwyn, Addy, and their friends at lunch. He’s standing behind the counter, wearing an apron.

“So?”

“So? What if he’s interviewing me?”

I make a face. “Doubtful. He probably just works here as a waiter. Like you will be doing if you ever go through with this.”

Addy ignores me and instead puts a hand to her forehead. “I feel faint.”

I think she’s being dramatic until she starts wobbling. “Oh, okay.” I rush forward and grab her around the waist, helping her lower herself into a chair.

She stares ahead for a second before she grabs for my hand. “I’m so nervous!”

I let her hold my hand. It’s only three more minutes until her scheduled interview anyway. About one minute later, I regret letting her hold my hand though, since her grip is so tight I can feel my blood circulation stop.

“Addy, do you mind loosening your grip a little?” I ask irritably. Addy’s nervousness has made me nervous too, which is making me annoyed. All in all, it’s not a good look.

Addy obliges, but squeezes again a moment later when Luis walks towards us. I can feel one of my joints crack. I didn’t even know finger joints could crack.

“Hey,” Luis says when he reaches us. He drops into a chair in front of us.

Addy squeaks in response. Luis looks at me, confusion etched across his face. I just shrug. Luis shakes himself a little. He looks kind of affronted, as if Addy had interrupted a speech he had planned.

“Um, did one of you have an interview planned today?”

Addy nods frantically. I don’t know how close Addy and Luis are, but Luis clearly thinks she’s insane. “Addy has in interview,” I supply.

“Oh. What are you doing here then?”

“Moral support,” I say, holding up my hand, which has surpassed red and is now purple.

“That looks painful,” Luis says. I widen my eyes and nod. Luis smiles at me, and it makes my heart flutter a little. He has a really nice smile.

“Well, when you’re ready Addy, my dad’s in the back room. Just pass through the beaded curtain. Good luck.”

That’s a very obvious cue for Addy to get up, but she doesn’t. “Um, Addy? You gonna get up, babe?” I ask.

Addy looks on the verge of hyperventilating. I sigh. “Addy, if you don’t get up right now I’ll call Bronwyn and tell her you stole her favorite sweater and lost it.”

Addy balances even more. My sister is a force to be reckoned with, and Addy, since she has logic, knows that getting on Bronwyn’s bad side is a bad idea. Addy pushes her chair back from the tables, sighs, and stands. “I’m gonna walk over there myself, Maeve.”

“Okay,” I say. I’d make a comment about how I wasn’t planning on walking over her to begin with, but that would be mean considering Addy’s current state of mind. I watch her walk away, her fists clenched at her sides. They’re tapping a rhythm on her thighs, and I’m positive that if the treat of Bronwyn’s anger wasn’t hanging over her head, Addy would have already been out of the door and halfway back to her sister’s apartment by now.

“So, you’re Bronwyn’s sister, huh?” Luis asks me. I turn back to see him staring at me. I nod. “I knew I recognized you. You sat with us at lunch sometimes, right?”

“Yeah.” I pause for a moment. “Your dad owns Contigo?”

Luis leans his chair back and smirks. I’m suddenly reminded of Nate Macauley, Bronwyn’s boyfriend. “Yep. We’re looking for some new waiters for the fall. You sure you don’t want to apply?”

“I’m pretty sure I’d be a terrible waitress.”

Luis shrugs. “You might be. But you might not be.”

“Yes, thank you for laying out the only two possibilities.”

Luis laughs and brings his chair back to the ground with a bang that makes me flinch. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

We sit in silence for a few more minutes, and I’m starting to wonder why Luis is still here when he suddenly says, “you should swing by more often.” I tilt my head quizzically, and Luis shrugs sheepishly. “I mean, if, you know, Addy gets the job. Which she probably will. It’s good to support your friends, you know.”

“I know.”

“Good. So, you should, you know, stop by.”

With that eloquent sentence, Luis stands jerkily and heads back to the counter, where he busies himself with the cash register. I don’t have much time to figure out what Luis meant, because a second later, Addy comes barreling towards me, nearly crashing right into a chair. “Oh, whoops, damn that hurt. Maeve!”

“Yes?”

“I got the job!” I let Addy pull me into a hug.

“See? I told you'd get it, Ads.”

Addy grabs my hand - gently this time - and leads me towards the door, talking a mile a minute. “You have to come hang out sometime.”

“I’ve already been invited to, actually,” I say when Addy pauses to take a breath.

“By who?” she asks as I pull open the door.

“By whom. And to answer your question: Luis.”

“Wait, Luis Luis?”

“How many Luises do you know?”

Addy ignores that. “He likes you Maeve.”

“No he doesn’t,” I mumble as I glance back inside the restaurant. Luis is watching us, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. He nods at me when our eyes meet. I smile at him, and his gorgeous smile is the only thing that I can see in my mind as Addy leads me away. She studies my face as we sit in the car.

“Oh yeah, you like him.”

“I-”

“Don’t. Yeah, okay. I think we should get ice cream to celebrate!”

Addy switches topics so fast I nearly get whiplash. It isn’t until we’re sitting in Glenn’s Diner sharing one of their sundaes does she bring up Luis again. She goes on and on about how we’d be a perfect couple, and I’m not really paying attention to her because I’m too busy figuring out how I can get Luis to smile at me again. 

I guess maybe I do like him.

Notes:

ahh okay so that ending was rushed and sucked and I apologize

that was fun to write though

feel free to request more

especially stuff with Maeve and Addy being besties

I love their relationship.

#maeve x luis #izzielizzie's fics

[ohprettyweeper-fics]

The Last Bandito: Vulture Generation

Part Two: Statement of Purpose

Summary: As adjustments are made to the way life is now, some decide their next move. Warnings: Sickness, mentions of death.   Word Count: 1860 A/N: Book #2 of The Last Bandito series. Prompts are in bold; translations are from Google Translate.

Masterlist

Nico looked out over the district of Dema he presided over as the Heathens returned to their assigned quarters for the evening. They filed toward the buildings silently; one man looked up to the window where Nico was, paused and pursed his lips together, and then continued on his way. 

This man — who was no longer a man, really — had once looked at Nico with eyes that longed to be privy to every bit of truth and knowledge the Bishop held. Now, after the last invasion from the Bandito child and another nemesis they had yet to name, all of the Heathens looked at him differently. Respect and adoration had changed to tolerance and skepticism. 

“You are troubled, my lord.”

Nico turned away from the window. He had been aware of Keons’s presence before the other Bishop had even arrived to his quarters, but had been too lost in thought over the grouping of Heathens to acknowledge Keons before now. 

“They are losing their faith in us,” Nico stated. “This Bandito child coming here, taking away Heathens and humans alike — threatening the Bishops. She’s given them something new to have faith in.”

Keons did not look bothered. “They will return to us, as they always do. The older generations of Banditos filtered out, eventually. It takes time for them to see the truth, but what is time to us? Nothing.”

Nico pondered over the words for a full minute before shaking his head. “This feels different. Do you remember what you told the child’s mother the first time you visited her?”

“I told her that the child would be something new, something different. That was no great prophecy, Nico. A Heathen and a human had not before created a child together, and they haven’t since. We knew that whatever being was born from that woman, it would be a creature the world had not seen before.”

“Perhaps you were more correct than you understand,” Nico suggested. “She is something new. Something different. She threatens our way of life here. If we are to take over the new city, expand the old, then we must have the full faith and trust of every citizen of Dema — so long as she is doing what she has always done, that will not be the case.”

Keons stood a little straighter. He did not want to ask his next question, but he knew he must. “What would you have me do, pochesnyy?”

“Break her. They need to see her broken so we can gain the respect that we deserve.” 

* * * * * 

Tyler was beginning to worry about Ildri. After she went into her tent following the conversation on the ridge, she refused to come out for several days. Tyler brought her food, forced her to eat, and, eventually, slept on the ground next to her. He gave up his tent to a couple of newcomers who had almost nothing, save for the clothes on their back. He wanted to comfort Ildri, but he had to admit that he felt more comfort, too, being close to her. 

One morning, he woke up and Ildri was gone. He told himself not to panic; she was likely around camp, maybe washing up in a cold creek somewhere. The sun was barely visible over the horizon — in fact, some areas of camp were still mostly dim. Tyler rubbed the sleep from his eyes and wandered over to the big fire in the center of camp, warming his hands and his body by the flames. 

The group that had assigned themselves as the cooks of the camp were cleaning up from breakfast before Ildri came back over the north ridge. Her hair was fixed in intricate braids away from her face, with metal beads adorning her stitched locks. Yellow paint was smeared in two upward-pointing arrows under her left eye, with three small lines set over her nose. Yellow dots arched over her right eyebrow, and a thin yellow line divided her bottom lip. 

Tyler jogged to meet her halfway and gestured to her face and hair. “That’s new.”

“I had a dream last night,” Ildri started her explanation, “about the Banditos who used to live here. Generations before we were born. The women did their hair this way, some of them, and all of the ones who rescued escapees from Trench wore the face paint. They all stood at the top of ridge and looked down on a man in Trench, running from one of the Bishops. The Bishop caught up to him, but they made plans to go into Old Dema and get him — not through the front gate like Quinn and I did, but underground. They took him out of Dema and into Trench — Tyler, what if we did that? Some of them can escape on their own, but a lot of them can’t. That’s what I did for New Dema. If I can do it on my own, rescuing some here and there, why couldn’t we rescue more of them together? We gather a group of —”

“Wait, Ildri. Breathe.” Tyler put his hands on his shoulders, gripping gently. “I’m all for this, but you understand, if you start this, you will be the leader Josh said you already are. There will be no handing it off, no going back.”

Ildri took a deep breath. “I know that. And, I think, this is what I was made for. Not to be a victim of the Bishops, not to be a pawn of The Conference, but to do this. To give others a new beginning. I am the last Bandito, Tyler. Shouldn’t that mean something big?”

Tyler could feel the Heathen virus boiling in his blood at the thought of doing anything to go against the Bishops. He had known even when they were young that Ildri was going to do big things with her life; it was an unspoken truth, something understood but not talked about. Never, in either set of memories, did Tyler ever imagine he would be part of something like this — something life-changing, not only for them, but for so many others. 

* * * * *

Faylinn lay awake in her hotel room in New York, wondering at all the noise outside her twelfth floor window. Cars raced past at all hours, voices floated through the hallway at any given time, and the lights of the city were so bright, she often felt the sun never went down. 

She got up to pull the blackout curtains closed. The thick material didn’t block out the noise, but if she turned on the television set, maybe that would give her brain different noise to concentrate on. 

“Comedy,” she muttered, coming across reruns of an old sitcom she had loved as a child, “that’ll work.”

When the sound of the television did not help her sleep, Faylinn pulled the heavy, paper copy of her manuscript from the nightstand onto the bed beside her before opening the document on her laptop. The publisher was extremely interested in circulating her manuscript, but an editor had nearly torn the thing to pieces, marking it all up with suggestions in red ink — although the term ‘suggestion’ had been used lightly. 

Faylinn couldn’t help but feel her past hanging over her like a thundercloud as she worked through the recommended edits of her novel. As she read over the words she had written about Old Dema, her mind wandered back to the night she had followed Ildri and Quinn there, then watched them murder those innocent people. 

That was part of the reason she was still in New York. She could have easily gone home to do these edits, but it was so much easier to keep the distance between herself and what now felt like her old life. 

Then, a wave of realization hit her. “I don’t have to go back. I could stay here, forget everything about my life there. Only this novel would remind me. After all, I betrayed them all. What do I have to go back to?”

Her cousin’s words echoed in her mind then. When you realize who you are, then maybe you’ll understand. Ildri didn’t hold Faylinn to any fault, so why couldn’t Faylinn release herself from the guilt? Perhaps it was the way Josh had looked at her when she said she was coming to New York. Or the way Quinn wouldn’t even meet her eyes. 

“There’s nothing to go back to,” Faylinn spoke out loud, closing her laptop and pushing it, and the manuscript, to the foot of the bed. “So I won’t.”

* * * * *

The blood pressure cuff around her arm was tight — too tight, really — and gave Quinn the urge to tear it the monitor off and run far, far away. Her decision to stay in New Dema had been the safe decision; the one she had made after coming down from her bloodlust, unable to believe the carnage she had left behind her in Old Dema. 

And now, she was dying. New Dema’s best scientists were trying their best to come up with a cure for the Heathen virus, and it was Quinn’s only hope at the moment. 

The best anyone could surmise was that the Heathen virus was, essentially, not compatible with the dearg-due genes. The two strains were going after each other, and her tissues were caught in the crossfire. 

“Same as yesterday,” the nurse told Quinn, jotting down numbers on a notepad to later put into a computer. “Feeling the same?”

Quinn shrugged and nodded. “More or less. I think I slept a little more yesterday, but it may have just been the day.”

“Do all the resting you can,” the nurse encouraged, “your body needs it to recover.”

“If I recover.”

The nurse pressed her lips into a thin line. “You know, you’re the first non-Heathen patient here. They brought you down from The Conference, and I couldn’t believe that you had the virus — your eyes weren’t red and you weren’t hungry for blood or anything.”

Quinn whispered, “Not at the time.”

The nurse forced Quinn to look at her. “My point is, Quinn, you are different. Not everyone goes into Old Dema and comes back out, for starters, but the virus hasn’t become who you are. You can fight it. You have to fight it.”

Quinn looked at the other woman with tears in her eyes and hurt in her voice. “How do I fight death? Do you understand, that’s what’s what I’m doing here? I came here to stay in the place that’s become my home, and found out I’m dying. I’ve accepted it, and you should, too.”

The nurse stood from the bed, tucked the note with Quinn’s vitals into her pocket and gave a single nod. “Well, if that’s the way you feel about it, then I won’t bother.”

The lump in Quinn’s throat as the nurse left the room was nearly suffocating. She hadn’t truly accepted that she was dying, not yet. There was still that last, frayed strand of hope she was clinging to, hoping and praying that the scientists would soon find a cure for the Heathen virus and save her life. 

* * * * * * * * * *

Tags: @takenvysleep @tylersheavydirtysoul @apurdyfulmind @adversaryproject

#twenty one pilots #dema #trench #bandito #the last bandito #fanfiction #fanfic #fic #tøp #dema inspired #trench inspired #can you save my heavydirtqueue

[mollymauk-teafleak]

❝ My mother always hoped my kids would end up like me…I’m so sorry. ❞ everything's ok au, maybe some eliza/maria bonding? 😏👍🏼

Okay so this is for @childofdustandashes because I love her she’s had a rough few days and she deserves to be happy and smiling all the time so I hope this helps.

“My mother always hoped my kids would end up like me,” Elizasighed gently, shifting little sniffling Liza on her hip, tenderly wiping away someof the shiny snail trails running down her daughter’s cheeks, “Guess they did…”

She turned her face and chuckled apologetically, “I’m so, sosorry.”

Maria had to smile, Eliza’s upturned lips were always soinfectious. It was like she pulled good moods and sunny moments out of nowhereand, even better, let her friend share them. Like she was holding an umbrella upagainst the rain that Maria seemed to spend most of her bad days in, that she’dconvinced herself was just her version of normal, but Eliza gladly suffered alittle of the wind and the pattering mist to let Maria shelter under there withher.

“It’s my job,” she pointed out as she wrestled her hair,finally allowed to grow thick and wavy and naturally in the last few years,into a solid bun at the nape of her neck, “And my pleasure.”

“But after AJ’s fractured finger yesterday and Philip’sblack eye the week before,” Eliza sighed a little fretfully, taking a seat onone of the hard plastic chairs made for people much littler than Eliza herselfthat sat in a perpetually neat row along the left wall of Maria’s nursestation, below the colourful sunburst mural and the growing population of picturesfrom her young patients, little thank you’s for smiles in the corridor on themorning, sweets pressed into palms to reward tackling injections, for hugs andband aids and spoonful’s of medicine.

Maria loved looking at that wall. Of course, Susan’spictures went right in the centre.

“And this littlemadam,” Eliza rolled her eyes with more than a little bit of affection, pushingback her little girl’s lion mane of ringlets where some had stuck to her tearstained face, still a picture of misery, “Who seems determined to break everybone in her body before she’s six years old.”

“N’ma fault, mama,” Liza put up a feeble protest, alwaysready to argue back, too much of her father’s blood in her veins not to getdefensive.

“Oh?” Eliza smiled gently, her heart softening considerablyat poor Liza’s weak indignance, cuddling her little girl closer, letting herrest her head on her chest, “So it wasn’t your fault you were up in that tree,huh?”

Liza considered the tricky logical corner that backed herinto. She pushed her bottom lip out, “Yes. AJ dared me.”

Maria muffled her giggle into her palm, covering it up bypretending to rattle the tin of tongue depressors with an errant elbow. Elizawas hiding a smirk herself, sticking her tongue out across the room at herfriend when Liza wasn’t looking.

AJ’s reputation preceded him. Apparently becoming a teenagerhadn’t matured him any.

Good, Eliza would think, when she saw him dropping waterballoons on his elder brother’s head from the upstairs window or throwingclever innuendos at her Alex from across the breakfast table. She hoped henever changed, she hoped none of them ever did, they were perfect the way theywere.

Though, she amended that thought in her own mind, editingher own thoughts. She’d like her little namesake’s penchant for getting herselfinto trouble would fade. Just a little.

“Well how about the next time AJ dares you to do something,”Eliza chuckled, “You tell him to go take a hike. Alright?”

“Okay,” Liza gave a shaky sigh, the movement making the achein her arm, the deep burn buried under her skin that had been throbbing sinceshe whacked it on a branch falling out of the tree in the backyard and,thankfully, into her father’s arms, flare up angrily and a low wail escape herlips, “Mama, it hurts.”

Eliza’s heart broke, the way it always did when one of herchildren was hurting. Maria nodded gently, motioning for her to turn Lizaforward, kneeling in front of the chair, pulling her white nurse’s coat aroundher.

“Well, let’s see what Auntie Maria can do about that, huh?”she smiled gently, “Can I have a look at your arm please, pumpkin?”

Liza looked like she was about to, for just a moment, beforeit jostled her arm and she turtled right back into Eliza’s arms with afrightened squeak.

Maria’s gaze softened, and she murmured in a comforting, lowtone, “Oh honey, I know it’s sore. I promise, I only want to help.”

She’d quickly realised after fulfilling her dream of workingwith children that she had a natural talent for getting frightened little onesto put their faith in her, trust her at their most vulnerable moments andbelieve her when she smiled and told them that everything was going to be okay.

Of course, Maria had had plenty of practise doing that, withone scared, frightened little girl in particular, her little Susan, her dove.She’d somehow made those words believable back then, as she’d pressed Susie’sthin little body against her chest like she could somehow fold her up good andsmall and tuck her away safely in her heart were no whisky stained breath andcareless swinging fists could hurt her.

Doing it now, for these sweet kids, was so much easier. Becausenow Maria knew it was true, things really were going to be okay.

Liza peeked out at her auntie dolefully, her pain brightenedeyes making her look like a little jungle mammal. Maria smiled encouragingly,the deep red lipstick perfectly applied to her lips enchanting the little girland earning her the last scrap of trust she needed.

Maria loved the bright red lipstick she wore, she always hadever since she’d saved up her money for two weeks as a thirteen-year-old dizzyon freedom and independence, to buy her first tiny stick of it from the grown-upcounter of the department store. It made her feel powerful, strong, made herstand just a little taller.

James had told her it made her look like a whore.

Now, every time Maria put on that lipstick in the bathroommirror while Susie sang loudly and tunelessly and beautifully in the shower orsaw the smudges of it on the lid of her coffee cup halfway through the day ornoticed the gloss of it on the lips of her girlfriend Martha, the ghost oftheir sweet goodnight kiss that made Maria’s heart soar because yes, such a honeyperfect moment deserved to live on; every time she saw it, Maria would grin andfeel such pride, her painted lips would turn upwards in a stunning smile.

James could keep his words. She had things that were real.

 Once she could carefully study Liza’s little arm, pokinggently at her tawny skin, she could nod and keep her promise. Everything reallywas okay, nothing broken, just a nasty sprain and probably some internalbruising. Wearing a sling for a few days and a short course of painkillerswould take the youngest Hamilton back to her usual bouncy self. She’d betumbling out of the ancient, awkwardly curving oak tree and (hopefully) intoAlex’s arms by next Sunday.

“See, pumpkin?” Maria beamed as she expertly tied the knot behindher curtain of curls, “Just got to wear your special pirate sling for a whileand all the hurt will be gone.”

“What do we say to auntie Maria, Liza?” Eliza smiled proudlyfrom where she perched on the examination table, swinging her legs. Though whoshe was prouder of out of her daughter and her friend, it was impossible tosay.

“Thank you!” the girl with Eliza’s name and Alex’s features,the perfect mix of both her parents, chirped brightly and pulled Maria down bythe lapels of her coat for a kiss on the cheek.

Maria grinned so wide it illuminated her whole face, givingLiza a kiss right back so she ended up with a perfect red lipstick kiss on onecheek and waving as the little girl suddenly forgot all about her injuries andwar wounds and sped out of the nurse’s office, determined to go play with thetoys she’d seen in the waiting room.

Eliza shook her head fondly, sighing and looping the oldbeaded purse she’d carried around as long as Maria had known her, “That girl…”

“She’s wonderful,” Maria smiled and she meant it.

“So, how’s the rest of your week been?” she continued, hertone somehow always that bright and cheerful and ringing with the truth thatshe honestly did want to know the answer, “Apart from being run off your feetpatching up my family, I mean?”

Maria chuckled, leaning against the counter, “You guys keepme busy, I’m not complaining.”

“I am,” Eliza rolled her eyes, “With as many kids as I have,you’d think one would have some sense of self preservation…”

“They’re too much like their father,’ Maria shrugged placating,“Well…I’ve yet to see Jamie in here?”

Eliza shook her head, “No dice. His hands are covered inburns. He insists that all good chefs have them.”

“Occupational hazard,” Maria smiled fondly, thinking of thebox of frankly heavenly peanut butter brownies the quiet, contemplative middleHamilton had given her the other week. They’d been so good, she and Susie andMartha had gone through the whole lot over the course of one Disney moviemarathon.

Maria could remember a time when she’d so carefully guardedeverything she ate, not just because there was little of it and her daughter’sneeds always came first but also because even the slightest hint of a curve inher stomach, thighs or hips would bring down a hail of cutting words that madeher not want to get out of bed, to pull the covers up over her head and sinkinto a world of sleep where she didn’t have to look at herself in anyreflective surface.

Now she ate happily, she ate freely, she ate just to tastenew things and revisit old favourites and just because she simply wanted to.And the mornings Maria didn’t want to get out of bed were usually becauseMartha would be wound around her, nuzzling at the musky hollows in Maria’s neckso pleasantly. And she looked at herself in the mirror proudly, fondly, likeshe was looking at the face of a friend rather than someone who she didn’t understandand felt betrayed by.

“Hey,” she chirped, a bemused smile spreading over her face,“What you said back there, about how you’re sorry your kids are like you? Whatdid you mean there?”

Eliza blinked, tilting her head in that way she did, “Oh!Oh, the clumsiness, the constantly getting bashed about, that’s all from me.”

Maria was surprised, “I thought it was Alex?”

Eliza grinned, shaking her head almost proudly, “Nah, allme, hon.”

“No way!”

“Yes way!” her friend giggled, “I’ll prove it.”

Eliza began rolling up the sleeves of her cream colouredblouse, revealing her slim arms, “Okay, brief history of baby Eliza Schuyler’sexploits…”

She pointed with one prettily painted nail in a slate grey(done by Alex, Maria guessed, the guy had an odd talent for it) and she noticedan old faded scar.

“That one’s from where I fell into the pond out back of myparents’ place to save a duckling from getting eaten by a heron…” the finger travelledup and found another, slightly more gnarled scar, “That’s from where I fell offthe roof, a baby blackbird got wedged in the gutter…,” a ridge of puckered,slightly shiny skin, “There was a fire in the barn one really hot July and Iran in to go rescue our gardener’s dog’s litter of pups…that one I got when theladder slipped when I was painting the roof of my fort…see, there? I fell offsome rocks down by the seaside and got my leg trapped…oh, my nose is crookedright there cos I was sliding down the banister and cracked my face off thetiles…”

Maria was creased with laughter, “Oh my god, Eliza!”

“So yeah,” Eliza blushed a little but she was laughing too, “Youcan blame my Alex for a lot but not that. That one’s on me.”

“Well, I’m glad you calmed down,” Maria chuckled, “Go on,get out before I start to lecture you…”

Eliza gave an exaggerated look of horror and dived for thedoor, pausing just before she moved out of sight, “Thanks for everything Maria.See you this weekend, yes?”

Maria nodded, “Sure,” her smile widened, “Wouldn’t misscelebrating you giving me another baby Hamilton to patch up every other day.”

Her eyes flickered down to Eliza’s abdomen, making herfriend flush with happiness. Maria was one of the few people she’d told so far.

Once the goodbyes were said, Maria closed her eyes, stillsmiling, feeling like she’d always be smiling for the rest of her life.

She’d never felt so warm.

#everythings okay au #maria reynolds #eliza hamilton #baby fluff #also? #I know you probably meant that eliza/maria in a platonic way #but the emojis making me suspicious and its always good to make clear #I dont ship mar/liza and won't fill requests for it #sorry