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isthisthingeven0n · 4 years

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leave a message : s.r

on route to a crime scene to meet spencer, you leave him a voicemail message after he doesn’t answer your call. little does spencer know, that would be the last time he’d ever hear your voice. (2.3k)

it’s v angsty, and kinda sad. but there’s a fluffy(ish) ending. i took inspiration from s8ep19 for part of this, but I hope you enjoy!

“Hi, this is Doctor Spencer Reid. I’m sorry I can’t take your call at the moment but do leave a message and I will get back to you.” You smile at the formal answer machine Spencer has always had. In all the years you’ve known him, it’s never failed to lift your spirits, even if you can’t speak to the real him, a voice mail will do for now.

Rossi glances over to you, noting the smile falling from your lips as the officer continues to drive through traffic. “Hey Spence, Rossi and I are on our way to the crime scene, Garcia said there’s something important you’ve found?” You glance up ahead at the red light, hearing Rossi tut as he checks his own phone.

“Downtown for ya.” The driver inputs, easing the moment of uncomfortable silence. “I know a shortcut, hold on.” He quickly adds, and as the light turns green, he turns to the left instead of right.

“Just let us know when we see you, I love you.” You hang up after that, leaning back against the seat.

“Trouble in paradise?” Rossi quips, knowing you all too well to know you rarely say those three words in public, let alone to a voicemail message.

Putting your phone back into your pocket, you shuffle in the seat, tugging on the seatbelt as you turn to face Rossi. “Not really, I, I don’t think so at least.” You explain, but you’re holding back.

“Did you have a fight last night?” Rossi questions, having noticed like the others how you and Spencer had been distant when you turned up for work this morning, neither of you even looking at each other.

“It wasn’t much of a fight, Rossi.” You try to joke as you swallow back the lump in your throat. “I’ve been offered a promotion, counter terrorism in New York.” You begin to explain, watching as Rossi quirks an eyebrow.

“And what, you don’t want it?” Hearing someone else say it, you realise how ridiculous it sounds.

Why wouldn’t you want this job? You’d be living in New York, working for a team that you’ve heard countless things about and would have more structure in life.

“I don’t want to leave the team behind.” You mutter, blocking out the officer in the driver’s seat as he navigates his ‘shortcut.’ “It sounds stupid, but I know if I went for this job, I’d lose you all slowly but surely. Spencer included.”

Rossi sighs internally, wondering how you kids end up with these thoughts sometimes. “Y/n, dear, you’d never lose us.” Rossi tells you with an encouraging smile as you nod along. “We’re family, through and through.” He adds seeing that familiar smile cross your face once more.

“Thanks, Rossi.” You tell him quietly. “I just-”

Before you can finish, Rossi’s phone begins to ring. “Hey Hotch,” Rossi answers his phone, and you slum back into your seat as a thousand thoughts cloud your mind, leaving you oblivious to the car approaching you until Rossi’s body covers yours.

“Y/n!” Rossi screams as you shut your eyes tightly, feeling the impact as your body lurches forward, slamming into the driver’s seat and everything goes dark.

With his back against his front door, Spencer replays the same message once again.

“Hey Spence, Rossi and I are on our way to the crime scene, Garcia said there’s something important you’ve found?”

He listens as you pause, the driver stating he’d find a shortcut, one that would ultimately end in disaster.

“Just let us know when we see you, I love you.” Spencer can hear the regret lining your voice, knowing it’s centred around your brief argument about your future together, about your future career and whether to take it.

You shouldn’t have gone to sleep on an argument, that was something Spencer wishes he could take back.

If he could reverse the clock, he’d go back to that night and apologise. He’d tell you to stay, that you could move into his place and make it a home. Spencer would do anything to make you smile, he’d give up everything to hear your voice once more.

But until then, a voicemail will have to do.

Walking into the bullpen, heads turn as Spencer holds his satchel close to his chest. “Spence,” JJ breathes out, bringing Spencer into a tight hug that he doesn’t have the might to reciprocate, not yet.

“Hi,” He barely whispers, and instead focuses on the small part of the case he can help on. For now, it’s enough of a distraction.

Yet, as Spencer passes your absent desk, he tenses up. “Spencer, it’s okay.” Derek speaks up, resting his hand on Spencer’s shoulder.

“It’s not.” Spencer mutters, shrugging Derek’s hand off as he retreats from the bullpen and hides in the elevator, waiting to disappear back into his own world where reality doesn’t have to exist, a reality where you’re still here.

As the elevator doors close, the team exchange glances. “It’s too soon,” Hotch states as he picks up the fallen paperwork that was left on your desk. “but we have each other, and Spencer will open up when he’s ready.”

JJ nods as her heart sinks at the sight of your bare desk alongside Spencer’s, knowing she’ll never see you sneaking looks to your boyfriend or the late nights of paperwork where your laugh lightened the moods of everyone.

Weaving through the baskets left outside of his door, Spencer falls back down on the ground between various books he threw off the shelves days ago in a rage.

Logically, Spencer knows there are five stages of grief. He knows he’s teetering on the edge of denial and leaning towards anger, but he doesn’t know how to be angry about it. All he feels is lost, and so, he takes his phone and lies on the ground.

Staring up at his ceiling, Spencer holds onto his satchel tightly, imagining it was you in his arms as he replays your voicemail message, hearing your voice as tears fall down his cheeks.

It hadn’t been long enough, but Spencer couldn’t take the silence of his apartment, the empty feeling in his heart. He needed a distraction, craved something to keep his mind occupied for hours on end to stop the regret sinking further into his subconscious.

“Reid,” Rossi speaks up, and Spencer tenses for a second before turning around, seeing Rossi leaning on a crutch. “it’s good to see you, kid.”

Spencer keeps a tight-lipped smile as he nods to his senior. “How is the pain in your leg?” Spencer asks, now seeing Rossi is applying more weight to his left leg and the stitches he had in his face have been removed.

“Better,” Rossi nods. “how are you doing, Spencer?”

Clearing his throat, Spencer lifts up a series of newspapers and places them on his desk for Rossi to see. “I’ve been looking into a series of murders across the country, and I think there’s a connection no one is picking up on.” Spencer delves into his work, blocking out any thoughts of you and your last moments with Rossi in that car.

As Spencer continues his explanation, all Rossi can focus on is the red in Spencer’s eyes, how fidgety he is and the dark circles that have settled beneath his eyes.

“Have you been sleeping, Spencer?” Rossi interrupts, and Spencer pauses as his mouth remains a gap, unsure what to say.

“I, I can’t.” Spencer quietly admits, and Rossi simply nods before motioning for Spencer to follow him into his office.

Once the door is closed, Rossi walks over to his desk and takes a seat opposite Spencer who scans over various awards and framed copies of Rossi’s books. Part of him wonders if he’d have his divorce papers on display, but that would be a question for another day.

“Is it about Y/n?” Rossi leans over his table, noticing how Spencer holds his breath at the mention of your name and quickly runs his hands over his trousers repeatedly.

“I, whenever I close my eyes, all I can see is her in that hospital bed as her heart rate stopped.” Spencer mutters, that image forever being burned into his mind as he was forced out of the room no sooner than he arrived. “I never got to say goodbye.” He whispers as tears form in his eyes, but he sniffs to distract himself.

Rossi looks down at the photo on his desk. It’s one that no one else sees beside himself- one of his family, of the whole team at his mansion during one of their pasta nights. He’ll never forget your laugh as Spencer squirmed at the squid you held up in his face whilst he recited facts about squid ink.

“Y/n wouldn’t want you like this Spencer,” Rossi starts, knowing he’s walking on thin ice as Spencer focuses on him intently. “you need to take care of yourself, kid. I told you about my Uncle Sid and,”

“And the old car that he did up, yeah.” Spencer finishes, and Rossi can see a slither of humour lining Spencer’s expression. “I’m just not sure how to, Rossi.” Spencer admits with a heavy heart.

“Why don’t you sleep in here? Take the couch for a few hours.” Rossi suggests, motioning to the long leather couch to Spencer’s right. “You’ll be undisturbed, and it’s away from your own place.”

Spencer nods along, the temptation beginning to set in as he rises to his feet. “Thanks, Rossi.”

Nearing his door, Rossi glances back to see Spencer hesitantly nearing the sofa before sitting down. “We’re all here for you, kid.” Rossi reminds Spencer. “We, we all miss her.”

Tears brim Spencer’s eyes as Rossi closes the door, leaving Spencer to lie down on the sofa and within minutes of closing his eyes he passes out.

The doors to the elevator open, yet it’s quiet. The usual bustle of the office is absent, and confusion etches itself into Spencer’s expression as he walks through the glass doors to see you sitting on his desk, two coffees beside you.

“‘Bout time you turned up.” You giggle, and Spencer pauses as he focuses on you. “I was beginning to think you’d never allow yourself a break, Spence.”

Walking closer toward you, Spencer pauses in front of you. “You’re here?” The words are barely audible as they pass his lips.

“Technically, I am.” You shrug your shoulder before lifting one of the coffee cups, taking a long sip. “This is your dream, Spencer. But, this is also mine as I’ve been waiting to tell you something.”

Spencer watches as you slide off of his desk and reach out, taking his hand in yours. “You’re here.” A watery laugh leaves his lips as you squeeze his hand tightly, not wanting to let go, not just yet.

“Spence, I, I’m so sorry.” You begin to explain, but Spencer shakes his head. “No, please, let me just, let me say this.” You move closer, resting your hand on his cheek as Spencer leans into your embrace, feeling you wipe away his tears with your thumb.

“Okay,” Spencer mumbles as his eyes lock with yours, a sight he’ll never stop missing when he wakes up in the mornings.

“I just want to say thank you for making me so happy. For making the past three years the happiest of my life, and I know, I know we didn’t have the ending we envisioned.” You trail off as you look around the bullpen, your second home where you first met the love of your life.

Spencer could see you struggling for words, but didn’t want to interrupt. He needed to hear this in full, he needs something else to hear you say other than that voicemail message.

“But I want you to be happy, Spence. You deserve to be happy and carry on with your life.” You explain, but Spencer shakes his head in protest. “Baby, please.”

“I can’t,” Spencer states as you lift your other hand up, resting it on his other cheek. “I can’t without you, Y/n.”

“You can, Spence.” You tell him with your whole heart, no matter how much it hurts you both. “I want you to be happy, and for you to fall in love, to carry on with the team, to carry on watching Doctor Who with Penelope and watch Henry grow up.” Tears freely fall down your cheeks now and Spencer wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you against his chest.

“But you won’t be there,” He admits, resting his chin on the top of your head as he closes his eyes, not wanting to forget how you felt in his arms.

“Oh Spencer,” You chuckle as you look up at him. “I’ll always be here, even if you can’t see me.”

“I know that’s supposed to be sweet, Y/n. But it sounds slightly terrifying.” Spencer laughs and you join in, rolling your eyes.

“Way to ruin a moment, Spence.” You chuckle, your smile lighting up your entire face as Spencer homes in on every detail. “I’ll be around if you ever need to talk, but you need to heal.” You sigh, knowing it won’t be easy, but it’s necessary.

“I’ll always love you, Y/n.” Spencer tells you, watching as you begin to step away from him.

“I know, Spence.” You smile as a bright light encapsulates you. “I love you, Doctor Reid, don’t be so hard on yourself, okay?”

Opening his eyes, Spencer sits upright as his cheeks remain wet.

Looking down, a fresh cup of coffee sits on the floor beside him and the door to Rossi’s office remains ajar.

“I’ll never forget you, Y/n.” Spencer mutters as he lifts the cup of coffee to his lips, remembering how you introduced yourself with the same cup in hand three years ago. “Rest easy, baby.” He closes his eyes as he takes a long sip, knowing you’ll be there watching over him and your family, loving them all from afar.

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butgilinsky · 3 years

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december // mb

warning; heartbreak. that’s it.

summary; after he’s left alone in an empty apartment with the weight of the world on his shoulders, mat comes to realize that december’s his least favorite month of the year. based on the song december by neck deep.

word count; 3.8k+

add yourself to my nhl taglist!

mat doesn’t know how long he’s been walking around the block. all he knows is that it’s hard to see, even harder to walk straight, and he can’t shake the itch he has to call you. he just needs one more time, just one final attempt at hearing your voice, even if it’s just your answering machine.

“hey, this is y/n! i’ll get back to you-” he hangs up then, decides that he doesn’t have the mental capacity to leave another message.

it’s only been two weeks, but mat feels like it’s been years since he’s seen you. his heartbreak is just as fresh as it was when you walked away from him, tears in his eyes and mind going through the motions of trying to put itself back together again. two weeks isn’t long enough to heal from the gaping hole you left in his heart. there’s not enough time in the world for mat to heal properly.

he comes to the realization that he’ll never be the same fairly quickly. he thought you were it for him. he thought that every obstacle would be tackled by the two of you together. he thought you’d be in this shit show called life together, for the long haul. he can’t say it’s not his fault, can’t say he tried as hard as he could. he took you for granted, and he knows that now, but now it’s too late.

he thinks that december is the worst month to be face heartache. he can’t take you home for christmas like he planned, can’t kiss you when the clock strikes midnight on january first. he doesn’t get to see you shudder from the cold despite him telling you to bundle up ten times before leaving the house. the christmas decorations that line the street are a constant reminder of the ones you lined the apartment with, and mat starts to think he’ll never look at christmas decorations the same.

when he gets back home he sees a pair of your shoes by the door. he sees the christmas card from your best friend sitting on the table in the entry way. he sees little traces of you, almost fooling him into thinking you still live there. he has to remind himself then, your stuff is here but you’re not. you told him you’d pick everything up after he went to vancouver, wanting to limit your amount of contact with mat, but that only made it worse for him.

you didn’t want to see him anymore. he wants to see you, and you want nothing to do with him anymore. it’s a hard pill to swallow, losing you so quickly after having you for so long. he knows he should understand, knows he should come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t the best he could’ve been. he wasn’t the man he should’ve been, nowhere near the man you deserved. you asked for simple things and mat told you he’d never be able to give them to you.

he thinks about how hard it’ll be to go home, to open gifts on christmas when he knows that theres a pile of boxes in the back of his closet that’ll never be opened. he knows that he should return them, should take them back to the stores before his grace period expires, but he can’t bring himself to even look at the boxes. he can’t bring himself to return the gifts he bought for you, can’t imagine going over each individual one in the process.

tito offers to do it for him, says that he has a pair of pants he needs to return anyways, but mat knows better. he knows his friend is just doing what he thinks will help, and while it’s heartwarming, it’s also gut wrenching that his friends think he can’t take care of things himself.

the first time he sees you after you walked out is at a restaurant, sitting across the table from a guy he’s never seen before. anders asks if he wants to leave, says that there’s another place they can go to right around the corner. mat shakes his head and slides into his seat, says it’s fine even though it’s not.

he sits with his back to you, figures that’ll make it easier to resist the temptation to look at you. he doesn’t know that you watched him walk in, watched him slide into the seat facing away from you. he doesn’t know that your heart sinks into your stomach when you see him turn his back to you, silently telling you that it’s simply too difficult to look at you now.

you excuse yourself from your table, the man across from you offering you a worried smile before you walk to the bathroom quicker than normal. you grip the edge of the sink, leaning over it in case your stomach fails you. the world around you spins, makes it harder to catch your breath that’s only getting worse with every passing second.

you try to ground yourself, try to tell yourself that you did what was right for you, that this is what you wanted. it’s what you needed. you remind yourself that you want things that mat can’t give you. you want things that mat doesn’t want to give you. you need a life that mat can’t provide.

“what do you want from me, y/n?” it’s the same fight, the one you’ve had too many times to count. you ask for something simple, ask him to do the bare minimum only for him to act as if you asked him to pull the moon out of the sky and shove it in your pocket.

“i want you to tell me that we’ll get there! i don’t need it now, mat, but-”

“but that’s the thing, y/n. you do need it now. you want me to throw away everything i’ve worked for because you want some stupid house with a red door and shrubs around the lawn. you want to get married on a beach or in a forest. you want to have a large wedding, a reception in a big ballroom where everyone is smiling at you like you’re the only person in the room.

“you want kids that pull on your hair and draw on the walls. you want to settle down and have a life made for thirty year olds who sit in cubicles from nine to five and then go home and eat dinner at the kitchen table. but i can’t give that to you. you want a life i can’t give you.”

it hits you at full force, like a tsunami that nobody saw coming just before it wipes out an entire city. you try to ground yourself, try to bring yourself back to the restaurant bathroom that you’re in, rather than your place in the middle of your living room, crying and begging mat to just listen to you.

you don’t think you’re ready to leave the space just yet, but you’re reminded that you’re not here alone, and the guy at your table is probably worried that you’re crawling out of the bathroom window.

you run straight into someone on your way out of the bathroom, chests colliding into one another before you’re both rushing out apologies. you’re almost knocked off of your feet by the force, and grip onto the first thing that you can reach, which happens to be the person’s forearm.

anthony’s hands steady you, making sure you don’t topple over in the heels that are suffocating your feet. he tries to mask his shock with a warm smile, tries to hide the sympathy that’s eating away at him. it doesn’t work, but you can tell he’s trying.

he noticed the red rimmed eyes you’re sporting, and the way your eyeliner is smudged just the slightest bit. he notices the indents in your bottom lip from where you were just chewing on it to conceal the sounds of your sobs. it’s not the first time he’s seen you in a state similar to this one, and he’s not sure if he hopes it’s the last.

you see him look back at his table and make the mistake of following suit, feeling every muscle in your body tense when you find the same set of eyes you’d missed for two months. you can’t tear your eyes away from him, can’t even bother to notice that the guy who brought you here is watching the entire exchange.

mat doesn’t know what to do. he doesn’t know if he should look away and pretend like he never saw you or if he should get up and go talk to you. he doesn’t know where the boundaries are drawn or if he’s invited to overstep them regardless of what they entail. he wants to ask you, wants to stand up from his set and rush to take tito’s spot. he wants to hear your voice and feel your touch, feel his heart intertwine with yours in a bed shared by the two of you.

anders brings mat back, clapping a hand on his back and trying to integrate him back into the table’s conversation. you look at him for a little longer, only brought out of your thoughts when you hear anthony’s voice.

“y/n-”

“i have to go.” you leave him before he can say anything else, walking up to your table and rushing out a slew of apologies as you gather your things.

“i’m sorry, i have to go.” he notices the tears building in your eyes, asks you if you need a ride home or money for a cab, both of which you turn down but thank him for. he’s not sure what just happened but he knows you can’t stay here for much longer without tipping over the edge, so he lets you go.

you walk by his table then, trying to ignore the fact that you’re so close to him. you ignore the call of your name and cover your mouth with the back of your hand as you inevitably catch the attention of half of the restaurant.

“barz, don’t-”

“y/n!” he’s out of his seat and running after you before any of his teammates can bring him back down.

he doesn’t care that the whole restaurant is watching, doesn’t care that he’ll see stories about the exchange in the morning. he just focuses on you running out of the doors the best that you can, focuses on the fact that he’s getting closer to you with every stride. it’s not close enough, but it’s the closest he’s been in a long time and he’ll take anything he can get at this point.

“y/n!”

“don’t do this, mat.” it’s the first time he’s heard your real voice for month; the first time it’s not your answering machine or his saved voicemails from you. it’s not in a video he can’t seem to stop watching, or a figment of his imagination in the middle of the night. it’s you, and you’re here. for a moment, he thinks he’s dreaming.

“baby, please.” you move when he reaches for you, trying to hail a cab as quickly as you can so you can get the hell out of this situation.

“i can’t do this. please, mat, please don’t do this. i’m begging you.” he feels his heart sink at the desperation in your face, somehow coming to terms with the notion that you don’t want to talk to him right now, and you probably don’t want to talk to him ever again. “i can’t do this to me mat, because if i let you tell me what you’re thinking then i’m not going to be able to walk away from you.”

your words hit him at full force, almost knocking him straight off of his feet. he’s not entirely sure what weight your words held, but he does know the he wishes you’d give him the room to explain why that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

a cab pulls up to the curb and you’re reaching for the handle before he can get another word out, even though he doesn’t have anything else to say. he’s forced you into conversations that you didn’t want to have for months, he can’t bring himself to do that right now despite the questions swimming around in his mind.

he watches you slip into the backseat, locking eyes with him one more time before shutting the door and begging the cab driver to take you home. he knows he messed up, knows he should’ve stayed in the restaurant, knows that he shouldn’t have let you walk out in december.

you’re gone before he can process it. he’s left standing on the edge of the sidewalk, his hands shoved into his pockets and his eyes glued to the spot where you once stood. he feels a hand on his back, hears his friends telling him that you just needed time, that it was still all too new for you to face.

but they don’t know you the way he does. they don’t know that you’re never going to be ready to face this. they don’t know that all you wanted was mat in a big house with a rose colored door, and all he gave you was the opportunity to find him passed out in the bathroom at three in the morning, too drunk to crawl into bed.

he hears tito say the same thing he always does. the four words he hates to hear, but can’t seem to get his friend to stop muttering when the situation arises.

“pain is never permanent.”

he bites his tongue, doesn’t want to yell at tito and tell him that he knows that, but tonight it’s killing him. he doesn’t say that december has become his least favorite month, that he wishes time would slow down so he wouldn’t have to reach the end of the year.

the next time he sees you is a few months later. this time you’re in the park, hand gripping a leash with a dog he’s never seen on the other end of it. he feels his heart threatening to jump out of his chest when he sees you leaning into someone’s side, his arm wrapped around your shoulders. he has a leash in his hand as well, a different dog on the end of it.

he doesn’t know if they’re yours or his, the dogs. he doesn’t know if they’re still puppies or fully grown. he doesn’t know if the guy you’re with is your new boyfriend, or a friend that’s overly affectionate.

he gets his answer, unwillingly, when you turn to the man and smile brightly, watching as you push yourself onto your toes and press your lips to his. mat feels bile tickle the back of his throat, feels the gut wrenching feeling that comes with a heartbreak that’s never subsided.

he wonders how he’s forced to see you like this. the city’s so big, and he had to be at the same park as you and him today. his jog picks up pace, his frustration being fueled into his early morning run.

you see him when he passes you, eyes locking for just a moment before he looks ahead of himself once more. you know he’s mad, know he’s still grieving, but then you’re reminded of the man beside you, his hand squeezing your shoulder just as the dog on your leash gives you a firm tug as a reminder of where you are and who you’re with.

you smile at him and tell him that yeah, you’re fine. you walk with him, only glancing over your shoulder once. mat’s already gone, no sign of him anywhere in sight. you almost wonder if you’d made up the entire thing in your head.

it’s december again, and when mat reaches up to scratch his neck, he’s reminded of the facial hair he’s sporting. he remembers a time when you ran your fingers over his jaw, scratching gently at the stubble forming.

“should i shave it?” you hum, almost not hearing his question. he asks again, peeling his eyes away from the tv and looking down at you.

your head’s on his chest, and your eye are wide with admiration as you look up at him and shake your head. you tell him no, that you like his facial hair and it makes him look about five years older. he smiles, despite the fact that he asks you if that meant you didn’t like the babyface he usually wore.

you smile then, rolling your eyes and squealing when his fingers dig into your ribs. you try to swat him away, but he rolls the two of you over and effectively traps you between him and the mattress. he only stops when you struggle to catch your breath from laughing, both of you wearing wide, cheesy grins while holding eye contact.

you lean up and press your lips to his, humming when he pushed back against your lips with added pressure. his fingers dip down to your hips, gripping them slightly before slipping under the material of your shirt.

mat has to pull himself out of the memory before his mind goes too far. he can’t spend too much time dwelling on the moment, or he’ll back out. he can’t back out, not after getting this far.

he needs to tell you, needs you to know that he wants the best for you. he wants you to have everything you’ve ever wanted in life, even if he isn’t the one that gets to give it all to you.

he wants you to know that he loves you, and will until his last breath. the years he spent with you weren’t like anything else he’s ever experienced, and he has a feeling it was a once in a lifetime opportunity.

your smile spreads a warmth through his chest. he notices that it doesn’t reach your eyes, but neither does his. he walks into the coffee shop, know that there are so many thoughts bound to be left unspoken by the end of this. neither of you know how to start this conversation, but you take the first plunge.

“you look good.” he lets a soft laugh slip, not understanding how that can be the first thing you’re saying to him after all of this time. he takes it in stride though, and bites his tongue so he doesn’t return the sentiment.

there’s not much small talk. it’s practically impossible to sit in front of the other and pretend like the last few years never happened. he can’t act like he doesn’t know how it feels to wake up beside you, or have your lips moving up and down the skin of his neck. you can’t pretend you don’t know how it feels to watch him score a goal, or two, or three, and be the one that gets to go home with him afterwards.

so he takes a deep breath, and you sense the hesitation coursing through him. he notices your patience, remembers how that came in handy over the course of your relationship. he gives you another small smile, and grips the cup in front of him as a way to keep his hands occupied while he starts to speak.

“i just want you to know that i want you to be happy. i know that you are, and that makes me happy. i hope you get your ball room floor, and your perfect house with rose red doors. i know that it’s been a long time, and i couldn’t tell you that when-” he swallows, and attempt to stop the lump from forming in his throat. it doesn’t work, but it adds a sense of comfort in a weird way.

“i want you to know that i’m happy for you. i wish it was me, and i’d be lying if i said there’s a point where i won’t feel like that, but i know that you wanted things i couldn’t give you. i hope he's better than I ever could have been.” he doesn’t say that he doesn’t think that’s possible, and he doesn’t say that he’s ready to give you everything you’ve ever wanted, everything you asked him for a year ago.

he doesn’t say that he’s ready now, that he’s at a place that he didn’t think he’d ever reach. you don’t get the pleasure of knowing that mat’s ready for this, for you. you’re left with the thought that he’ll never be ready, and you’ll never be given the chance to see mat mowing the lawn of a big, two-story house with a red door and a wrap around porch.

you don’t tell him that you want to hear it, that you need to hear it. you don’t tell him that you’d drop everything you have right now if it meant that you can live that life with mat. he doesn’t get the pleasure of knowing that you’re silently begging him to ask you to leave your new life behind and run away with him. he’s left with the thought that you’re satisfied with what you have going for you, and he’ll never be given the chance to see you in a beautiful white dress, walking towards him with a smile so bright, he thinks it’ll blind him.

you sit across from each other, biting your tongues and holding back words that would change everything if just one of you would simply spit it out. if one of you could build the courage to just say what you were both thinking, your lives would change once again. your lives would finally end up being everything you wanted them to be.

but you don’t say anything, because you don’t think there’s a place for you to say it. mat doesn’t say anything, and he thinks he’s doing the right thing by holding back. he thinks he’s come to terms with how his life is meant to play out, and you think he’s still incapable of reaching the point that you need him to be at.

you leave the coffee shop with a weight on your shoulders that wasn’t there when you arrived. your stomach feels uneasy, maybe from the coffee but definitely from the realization that you’d never be able to move on from mathew barzal.

mat stays in his seat after you leave, not being able to hug you goodbye or watch you walk back to your car. he can’t find it in him to move from his spot, trying to give himself the time to come to the realization of what just happened. he knows that he still loves you, knows that he’ll always love you. he feels his chest ache and maybe it’s the weight of the situation, but it’s definitely from the realization that he’d never be able to move on from you.

it’s going to be another long, lonely december.

barzy taglist; @extratragic @vinceduhn @teenagekook @smit41 @sidscrosbyy

himbos; @babytkachuks @bricksatlandyswindow @anxietyandtacos @damndunner @dmonchld @kiedhara @sortagaysortahigh

#mathew barzal #mat barzal #mat x reader #new york islanders #islanders #isles #nhl #nhl fic #nhl imagine #mathew barzal imagine #hockey fic #hockey imagine #mathew barzal x reader #mat barzal x reader #barzy

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vasiktomis · 3 years

Text

Pomegranate, Chapter 17: Quiet Earth, Part I.

John Seed x Female Deputy

Rating: Explicit.

Read it on Ao3 here!

Notes: Thanks all who have been keeping up with this! I'm so consistently floored by the amount of content creators we have in this fandom corner and the sheer level of workmanship that exists here. This is the first chapter of Pom that I'll be posting to tumblr, and I'm hoping to draw up a little sketch with each update. If you have any suggestions, I'd love to hear them! Big thank you to @shallow-gravy and @consumedkings as always for dealing with my stupidity and being a pair of top-notch angels, and also just like, everybody who takes time out of their day to engage with this? Y'all really sticking with ultra slow burn and I swear after some wicked angst in the next couple of chapters I'll finally be able to throw some well-deserved smut at you. WARNINGS: Forced conversion, descriptions of dissociation and derealisation, explicit language, sexual content, depictions of violence, guns, blood and gore. Canon-typical debauchery.

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“Don’t touch him!”

Mary May lunged with enough force for John to feel the wake of air sweep through him, even with how quickly she was snatched up and yanked back to her place. The soles of her tennis shoes squeaked against the floor as she was dragged to the far side of the room, unable to be trusted with providing audience to Nick’s Atonement.

A shame, really. It was nicer as a shared experience.

The Baptist rolled his jaw, off-setting some of the tension arising from the shrieks that the blonde flung at the back of his head. He righted himself, taking the tattoo gun from one of his faithful with a gracious nod, and turned his attention down to the pilot currently pinned to the floor. Without a word, he sank to his knees, straddling the man, keeping silent as he could just to listen out for any change in his demeanour. Fear. Grief. Defeat. Acceptance. A sign to prove his readiness.

Nick didn't flinch, breathing hard through his nose and watching with hateful eyes. John hovered an indicating hand over the man’s bare chest, bruised from the fight he’d put up against his capture, mentally mapping out placement. Then, he came in with the needle, beginning with the stem of an ’E’, right in the centre of Nick's sternum.

The pilot snorted, masking discomfort with indifference, turning a wince into a scoff. “Figures you don’t use stencils. I ain’t got a hope in hell of this turning out good, do I.”

That casual old Nick attitude. He missed it.

If only he’d let him do this 5 years ago. He wouldn’t have had to miss it.

John feigned offense. “Oh I’m sorry, Nick. Did you want me to do the rest in cursive? Add a feather? Infinity symbol?”

“For fuck’s sake-”

“Talk about tonal dissonance. It’s not meant to be pretty.” He grumbled. “Might’ve gotten a little more practice if you’d-”

A yell from the rear entryway pulled John’s hand away from his canvas. More squeaking. More interruption. Jerome Jeffries getting hauled into the church, held under each arm by the pair of Chosen that John had sent looking for him.

The Baptist cast a look over his shoulder at them, content with the sight of Jerome adequately beaten and bloodied. “Ahh. Pastor. Try to run and hide? It’s no wonder your flock ran astray with a shepherd so quick to leave them to the wolves.”

Jerome ignored him. No reply. No eye contact. A crime John noted to make worthy of capital punishment in the New Eden. The Pastor was set down beside Mary May, who immediately began seeing to his injuries. Murmuring bubbled between them.

“Did you reach them?” The bartender asked. Must’ve been a negative, because the next thing she did was curse.

“The Deputy was calling when they caught me.”

And if she had half the spine to come and broker an agreement for her friends, she’d be inbound.

“Could you at least gag them? I’m trying to concentrate.” John ordered no one in particular, earning another scoff from Nick. “The faster we work, the less we’ll have to get through once she arrives. The quicker we can be out of this heinous town.”

“Stay away from her, shitbag.” The pilot ground out, this time unable to save face when John retaliated, pressing the gun just a little too hard, digging down through an extra few layers of skin.

“Nick Rye, you’re a married man.” John tutted playfully, resuming his work. “That sin of yours again. Take, take, take. Didn’t think the Deputy to be your type. Wouldn’t say you’re hers, either.”

Nick looked downright disgusted at the prospect. Less concerned for the state of his wife - which meant she'd been a likely getaway. “Always been so fuckin’ jealous.”

“Come again?”

“Think folks are stupid? Think I don’t know you?”

“You don't know me, period.” John bit back, skin on the back of his neck flushing between boiling and freezing.

“Anyone else givin’ you this much trouble’d be long dead by now. That shit on the radio? Reckon you’d be talkin’ like that if your family could hear you across the river?” Nick continued, averting his gaze when John shot him a particularly poisonous look. He didn’t, however, find it necessary to respond to such a veiled accusation.

At least until -

“Everybody knows you wanna stick it to her, John-”

As if he’d been awaiting the chance, John’s free hand shot to Nick’s jaw, aching in protest when he squeezed, not stopping until he could feel the man’s molars beneath his flesh. “That’s about enough from you.” He crooned.

John had his desires, yes. He’d accepted that much. Had he not been sworn to celibacy, he might have jumped at the opportunity to respond to Cora’s advances last night. That said, she was still an outsider, and while her Atonement made the prospect less dicey, he couldn’t consciously consider laying with the woman in real life.

No matter how torturous it had become to gear his thoughts toward anything else.

He could be content with just her company, without making any further advances on her. Last night had simply been a moment of weakness, and he’d prevailed by stepping away.

“If you’ll excuse me.” John switched off the little machine once he’d completed his piece and promptly stood to beckon for replacement parts. Mary May might have gotten away with an allergic reaction last time he’d attempted this, but considering he’d be slicing it out of her within the hour, he couldn’t see any reason for her to be complaining. The bartender had been a thorn in his side from the start. While Nick and his wife had once lent John their...whatever a sinner’s closest equivalent was to friendship, Mary May had always been trouble. Wore her heart on her sleeve and trusted no one she hadn’t grown up around. Bolshie. Almost fucking killed him, once.

John busied himself with needle transfers and a pleasant expression. He could feel the woman’s eyes on him.

Did she think what Nick proclaimed? That complete and utter lie?

How fucking crass. No, he did not want to ’stick it’ to Cora. At least, as far as anyone else was concerned. He was fond of her, and - while yes, he had encountered temptation - if one disregarded the cum-stained, stolen panties in his pocket, and the conjured fantasies, and the purely incidental erection he’d maintained after the Deputy stuck her tongue down his throat last night - there was simply no evidence to suggest to anyone else that he was even remotely tempted to break the rules.

Sex was the furthest thing from his mind. It was mere coincidence that today had just so happened to fall on a morning in which he’d needed to trim.

…

If, however, she were to decide that she wanted to continue what she’d attempted last night, then surely he couldn’t be to blame if he only failed to stop her. It wasn’t technically fornication if he didn’t initiate it. Nor was it considered intercourse if -

“Brother John.”

John jumped, heart stopping, whipping his head around to the Chosen standing at the door of the church.

“What?" He asked thickly.

“The Deputy’s arrived.”

Right on cue, the crackling of gunshots drifted in alongside the Chosen’s announcement.

“Tell everyone to hold their fire.” John ordered. “We have them outnumbered tenfold. The Deputy can’t be stupid enough to create a hostage situation. Direct her here, and peacefully.”

The Chosen’s throat bobbed, swallowing back outrage, and John squinted hard at him, trying to dispel the flicker of green light in the mist outside as it settled against the man’s temple.

“John, I don’t think-”

He never got a chance to act on that incoming insubordination.

Instead, he jerked, cut off by a sickening crack as a section of his skull blew out of his head. Red mist and liquified brain matter followed, splattering against the doorframe, and the Chosen slumped lifeless onto the front step.

John wasn’t so much shaken by the killing as he was irritated by everyone else’s apparent refusal to let today go according to plan. Maybe also the pile of brains and hair now sitting on his once-pristine red carpet. He’d made this easy for the woman: kill everyone he could round up, leave her with no one to claim duty to, and get this all over and done with. Have her home by mid-afternoon. Embark on a new chapter and achieve salvation. It was that simple.

Woe to him for trusting in her common sense.

“Fuck’s sake. Wrath begets more wrath.” He muttered, smoothing a hand over his chin. He didn’t have the patience for this any longer. “Fine. Sister -”

A woman stood from the pews as soon as John made eye contact, equally as unshaken by the scene mere feet away.

“Send out word: the Deputy wants to sacrifice her friends for the sake of a fight.” John punctuated the end of his sentence with a click as he returned his focus to jamming the needles into his tattoo gun. “Give her what she wants. Take her by force.”

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The smokescreen was beginning to clear, but despite the weight it was taking off her lungs, Cora would’ve preferred it remain just a little longer. At least until they’d cleared out the town. Had they been quicker, it might have lasted longer. Covered their approach to Fall’s End. Given them more cover to sneak about unseen.

The streets, while still hazy, were visible now. It wasn’t a difficult task watching Peggie silhouettes run from building to building in search of her team. Resistance members and civilians were either in the process of being rounded up, or littered the road and pavement, dead. The Ryes, Mary May, and Pastor Jerome were yet to be seen amongst either group.

Same went for Boomer.

Aside from the barking of orders from Chosen and faithful, there was little sound. Knowing how much of a fuss her dog had put up the last time he’d been caught by the Project struck Cora’s nerves. He was his own alarm, and he would not go peacefully.

Not hearing him was an indication of the worst.

Some part of her brain argued against the idea. Vouching that John wouldn’t have hurt the creature. That was her dog. He had to be an exception to the massacre, no matter how vicious he behaved.

She had to find him, and creeping through the rear entry of the Spread Eagle was the first point of call.

Luckily enough, the back door had yet to be boarded up. Peggies who rushed past covered windows hardly stopped to peek inside the place for fear of being tainted by the presence of alcohol. Sneaking in was simple enough, too, at least once Jess had picked the lock.

“I’m going to pretend that door was open.” The Deputy murmured her equivalent to praise, passing into the building.

Grace headed straight in after her, taking a left to search for any sign of Mary May while she took a right toward the stairs.

“You pretend the Cook’s head was already gone when we found him?” Jess whispered.

“Freak accident. You all saw it.”

“First floor’s clear.” Grace announced from the serving hatch in the kitchen, clearly unhappy about it.

“Right.” Cora acknowledged, “I’ll check up top.”

The second story was as dead-quiet as the first. Furniture had been knocked over in the hallway and bedrooms had been raided. None of it indicated anything good, but she still had to know.

Cora pushed open the door to her room, and while she held no expectation of what she’d find, her heart sank anyway.

It was empty.

Boomer was gone.

Only his makeshift collar and a tattered bandana remained atop the rug he’d been snoozing on that morning.

Her dog.

John had either taken him or killed him, just like the rest. He’d do the same to the rest of her team. She should’ve taken the Baptist’s offer before the latter had even become a possibility.

“No sign?” Grace affirmed once the Deputy slipped back down to the first floor. “My guess is either they’re in hiding, or John’s giving them special treatment. If they were dead he’d be parading them.”

Sharky and Hurk exchanged a frown when Cora offered only a nod, notably more meek than usual.

“Was he in there, darlin’?” Adelaide asked, a little too gently not to invite a sting to her eyes.

Cora felt her jaw clench. It was a different breed of nausea, trying to keep her composure under the scrutiny of the rest of the team. She managed to shake her head, and Adelaide’s hand found her shoulder.

“Could still be with the others, yet.” The woman offered.

“So how do we find them?” Jess asked.

Find John Seed, of course.

“Finding them’s one thing. Getting to them might be the harder part.” Cora began. “The smokescreen’s only getting thinner and there’s Peggies everywhere. It's grasslands from here to the hills. No way we can herd everyone across a field on-foot, safely. We’ve got to make sure they stay freed, first.”

“And?” Jess huffed. “We’re gonna kill some Peggies, right?”

The blonde considered that.

“We split up. Search the buildings for anyone who hasn’t been caught yet. Round them up and plant explosives as we go. With enough chaos, maybe we can have a shot at turning the tide in the short term.”

Sharky was practically trembling. “Explosives, like, everywhere?”

“Everywhere. The more damage, the better.” Cora replied. “Adelaide, Xander, pair up. Sharky and Hurk, same with you.”

“And us on range?” Jess grinned, trading a look with Grace who maintained absolute stoicism. “I’m so into that.”

“No.”

…

“Say what?”

“No more ranged attacks. I need you and Grace to head back to the van -”

Jess was advancing on her before she’d even finished her sentence.

“You’re pulling me outta the fight? The fuck gives?” The huntress loomed over the Deputy, incredulous. Cora made an effort to stay put, but Jess’s insistence managed to outweigh her stubbornness, forcing the blonde to compromise by leaning as far back as she could without falling.

“We can’t keep running on short-term wins.” Cora insisted. “We have to put our foot down. No more small assaults. No more hoping John gets demoralised enough that he hands himself over.”

Sharky frowned. “What’re you saying?”

She met his gaze, puffing out her chest, retaking her space. “I’m saying the Henbane Bridge is unmanned right now. If we get word to the County Jail, there’s no roadblock to stop them from helping us win this. John Seed’s throwing everything he can at us. I say we try for the same. I say we end it for good. We’re gonna take back Holland Valley. Today.”

“...You really like that dog, huh.”

“That too.”

Jess looked unconvinced. “So the two of us are running errands while the rest of you are holding the fort? Fucking bullshit.”

“I told you. No more range.” Cora bit back, jabbing a thumb toward Hurk and Sharky. “You’d rather send Boshaws and Drubmans to convince Tracey to send us her best people? No offence.”

“None taken, bitch.” Adelaide grumbled.

Grace exhaled, throwing away momentary hesitation. “We’ll be fast.”

Cora traded a nod with the sniper before looking to Jess once more.

Still unconvinced.

“They have cars with guns on them, remember?”

The corner of Jess’s mouth ticked. Temptation.

Mission accomplished.

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The tacky fucking carpet was the first thing she noticed, creeping along Main Street. Bliss petals had been sprinkled all over the road leading up to the church.

The carpet ended at the door. An invitation if she ever saw one. Boastful. Arrogant.

A pang of dread ached through Cora's bones, holding her in place while she drew her revolver. It could be an ambush. It probably was an ambush, but there was nothing she could feasibly do to avoid it. If the others were in there, then she couldn't wait around any longer.

She had to do this. At least hold out until Jess and Grace returned, with or without help.

She'd been running for long enough. All other options had been exhausted. At least John offered the least awful defeat.

Drawing close to the entrance, the Deputy pointedly avoided examining a dead crow that had been impaled upon the wall. She inhaled, holding the breath in her lungs, steadying her heart rate.

It was only freedom.

She opened the door, immediately training the gun out before her, following its guide into the room.

About a dozen Peggies dotted the space, leaning against walls, lining the pews - all angled at the pulpit, observing Nick on the floor. He stifled a cry while John sliced through the final remaining layers of skin binding the tattoo to his chest, peeling the word 'GREED' out of his flesh. Blood pooled on the floor around them, and the moment John had stepped away, the pilot was descended on with antiseptic and bandages.

The Deputy waited for nausea at the sight to take its course. It never did. She was all but numbed to the sight.

"Deputy, run!"

Mary May's voice cut through the silence, and the bartender lurched from her own spot on the ground. Guns raised all around the room, swinging around to aim for Cora.

”Hold!” John barked immediately, unconcerned when the Deputy shifted her aim to him. Instead, he busied himself with washing his sullied hands. “Hold your fire.”

His followers obeyed.

Cora, meanwhile, cocked the revolver in her grip. One foot edged into the room, and she glanced around for the Project’s captives before returning her gaze to John. All on the other side of the room. Pinned. Fuck.

“Hope County Sheriff’s Department.” She announced, staring the Baptist down, ignoring the grin that crept onto his face - like he found it fucking funny. “Weapons on the ground. Step away from the hostages.”

“Hostages?” John snorted. He gestured Pastor Jerome, Mary May, and Nick. “These are guests! This is their Atonement. This is your Atonement.”

“Drop the fucking weapons.”

John’s patience thinned. Quickly. “I’m not doing this with you.” He replied simply. “Not today.”

With his own look around the room, John inclined his head. An unspoken order to which everyone carrying a gun turned them on her allies.

“We both know you don’t have enough bullets for everyone. Nor do you have the time. So why don’t you put down my gun and surrender.”

“Don’t-” Mary May was cut off with the tap of steel against her temple. Warning.

John was right. She was outnumbered. There was no chance of getting any of them out with force alone.

She inhaled. Exhaled. Watched the fondness slip back onto John’s face like it had never left, and set the gun on the floor.

“That’s my girl.” John murmured. Then, he motioned. “Get her ready.”

Cora’s stomach dropped as two sets of arms coiled around hers, each pulling and pushing, prickling at her skin with unfamiliar, sickening touch. Biology told her to resist. Escape the sensation. The downward pulling.

“No, stop it.” Escaped her while she squirmed. “Get off. Stop touching me-”

“Her friends can’t be far. Find them.” The Baptist ordered, turning away toward the pulpit.

Cora’s knees hit the floor. There was no holding the repetition of protests, but even as she consciously elevated the volume of her voice, it grew quieter in her ears. Calculated attempts to jerk away and make an escape became automatic twitches.

One of John’s followers - a female - crept into view, fingers tugging at the top button on her uniform collar. John readied a tattoo gun over the woman’s shoulder, and the Deputy’s mind screamed alarm bells. Get out. Escape. Fight back. Regain control.

“I won’t hurt you, sister.”

This time, she sank, curling forward, angling herself away from the woman. Another attempt, and she wrenched away again, snarling. Then, the Peggies around her must have gotten tired of all the fuss, because the tear of cotton clawed at her ears. Ringing through her brain.

Her back felt cold all of a sudden.

Green material slipped down her arms, and at the sight of her own uniform pooling in shreds in her own lap, Cora ceased her thrashing. The shredded shirt was yanked from her belt and tossed aside, and she watched with growing resignation while John turned back around.

His gaze found hers. Then flickered downward, first to the compression bra, then a margin to the right. “Here I thought you’d be unmarked.” He commented, inspecting what was visible of the old ink on her lower ribs while he approached.

Hands pressed against Cora’s shoulders, and she drifted back until her shoulder blades hit the floor.

John continued to loom until he stood directly over her. He sank to his knees, expression softening with his descent until he was on all fours on top of her. He looked almost adoring, and she hated how it comforted her, just slightly. She hated how the hands had disappeared from her limbs, and yet she still made no further attempt to escape. He had every ounce of power now.

She didn’t know she’d started trembling until his free hand swept over her collarbones, mapping out her chest, calming the gooseflesh beading on her from the chill, or the fright, or perhaps just that this whole thing felt so humiliatingly exposing.

A blush swelled over John’s throat, maybe indicating some straying line of thought. He snapped out of it and settled to sit on her hips. “This looks familiar, doesn’t it?” He teased, hovering the tattoo gun right over the centre of her sternum.

“Dont.” Was all she could manage. Weak. Pleading. “I don’t want you to.”

“You have no idea how good you’re going to feel after this.” John cooed.

One of his fingers drifted along her jaw. An attempt at comforting her, but to no avail. He looked equal parts gentle and feral with excitement.

The machine buzzed, lowering pitch when the needles finally pressed into her flesh.

This was it.

She’d lost. There was no going back, anymore. No more normal, no more ridding herself of this family. They’d taken everything, and now they were claiming ownership over her, too.

The others were being hunted. It was only a matter of time. John was working too quickly. They’d be gone before the Cougars even crossed the river.

Cora’s nerves muted. Sound closed to just the rumble of blood in her ears. She receded into herself. Found a backseat in her mind, away from the sensory overload and the humiliation and her own failure while her body quietly continued: ”Dont, don’t, stop.”

She’d lost, and John wouldn’t stop. Not while he was branding the evidence of his victory into her flesh.

Defeat tasted worse than anticipated.

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Bullets whizzed overhead while Sharky and Hurk took cover beneath the window, watching helplessly as the aisle of potato chips and bar nuts was torn to shreds by the onslaught. Dorito dust filled the shop like mustard gas.

“Cuz, I think they found us!” Hurk barked, snapping an arm over his head in defence when a stray round ricocheted off the front counter.

“What gives you that impression?” Sharky hit back, hurriedly setting down his shotgun and shrugging his backpack to the floor.

“How many are there?”

“How about you check?”

A moment of quiet occurred while the cousins glared at each other, leaving their standoff to a battle of no blinking. Then the Peggies outside must’ve finished re-loading, because the back wall of the shop was suddenly being shot into swiss cheese.

They were okay. Everything was cool. Addie and Xander had taken their share of explosives and gone the quiet route. Grace and Jess were gone. Shorty had disappeared into the church, and while he couldn't count the best, Sharky was pretty confident that John had caught her.

Could they have kept on looking for survivors and breaking out captives? Sure - but why do that when they could kill, like 40 birds with one stone and beeline for the gas station? It was conveniently across the road from the church, empty of any and all life barring the dormant tanks underground. An explosion that big was sure to fuck up like a good portion of Main Street. Not even the Chosen would be able to resist checking it out.

Disconnecting the safety switches had been easy. He’d been arrested for doing it like 5 times already. Cops, Peggies; it didn’t matter - Sharky knew what he was doing, and without the giant swinging dick of the law hanging over him, the man was on a mission. Cultists shooting at him was fine. He was used to that.

Threat of death or no, he wasn’t giving up the chance to see this place blow sky high.

“We’ll be outta here any second, Hurky.” Sharky assured. “Just gotta sprinkle a little C-4 around the place and we’ll be gone before it even goes off.”

Hurk was sweating. A lot. He was accustomed to being shot at, but normally, he had more than just Sharky to get him out of a tight spot. “Alright, bro. Gimme some. Many hands and what have you.”

“Fuck yeah. First step, toss some at the tanker outside. We wanna get the place as fiery as possible up here to wake up the big boys underground, and-”

Sharky stopped in his tracks, eyeing the backpack he’d just been in the process of unzipping.

“-uhh.”

“Uhh?”

“Hurky, can I be real with you?”

“Is now the best time for a deep and meaningful?” Hurk hissed, crawling toward him nonetheless.

The arsonist stuck his hand down the pack, rifling through fluff and mesh. “I, uh, I think I brought the wrong bag. And by think I mean know without a shadow of a doubt.”

Hurk watched as his cousin tugged the green, furry headpiece of a dragon out into the open.

“You brought-...”

“I brought my fursuit.”

“Not the C-4?”

“Not the C-4.”

“Okay, bro. That's fine. I'm not mad. Human error. Not even a little bit?”

Sharky checked again, just for good measure. “Nope...so, uhm...you got a match?”

Hurk ran a hank through his hair. “Not to poo poo your ideas, but that probably ain’t the best move.”

So just like that, they were fucked.

Jess and Grace still hadn’t come back. The others were nowhere to be seen. Shorty was holed up in that church, and he and Hurk were about to be rounded up by born-again virgins.

Shit, if that were the case -

“Well, if this is gonna be the last opportunity.” Sharky grunted, tugging the suit out and unzipping the back. “May as well enjoy our last minutes of freedom, huh?”

Hurk took the cue, creeping across the destroyed shop floor and reaching for a popped bag of pretzels. He sat back against the wall, leaning against the rocket launcher he’d propped up against the corner.

“Man.” The brunette sighed, staring at the floor. “If only we had some other kind of ranged, explosive device.”

“No shit.” Sharky agreed. “Some high velocity shit would fix this.”

They exchanged a sympathetic look once the arsonist had zipped himself up and crept over and sit beside his cousin, both leaning on either side of the RPG.

Hurk held out the bag.

“Pretzel?”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Was that so bad?” John asked, placing the tattoo gun aside and framing the Deputy’s marked chest. ’WRATH', in true black, beading with blood. The skin surrounding the text was mottled and inflamed. Excess ink covered the area in patches, gathering in the dip of her cleavage, disappearing beneath her sports bra.

All that sin, already leaking out through the exit he’d made for her.

Gorgeous.

Cora didn’t respond. That was fine. Shock was normal. She’d thank him once this was all over. For now, she just trembled, lock jawed, dissociated gaze searching what John had thought was him until he sat up. No, instead she was watching the ceiling.

John flashed a smile, blocking out a tiny streak of dread at the sight of the woman so vacant. Sweeping a lock of stained hair over her shoulder, he smoothed his fingers past her neck, attempting to gently angle her focus back to him. “Hey. You can come back now. We’re all done.”

You're finally on the other side. React to it. React to me. Look at me-

The boom came first, hollow and deep, and John felt the floor beneath him rumble. Chandeliers and decorations wobbled from the disturbance. Several of his followers shot from their seats, immediately abandoning the Resistance leaders they’d guarded in favour of pacing back and forth, trying to get a look at whatever was happening outside.

“Is this it?”

“Is it the Collapse?”

“It’s time?”

“John, is it the Collapse?”

The panic escalated quickly, forcing the Baptist to break his attention away from the empty woman below him and rein in the flock.

“Calm down.” He exclaimed, “It’s not the Collapse. It’s probably just-”

Another boom. Almost deafeningly loud.

This time, the whole church shook. Windows shattered in their creaking panes and smashed to the floor while pews squealed heavily in protest.

Contrary to his assertion, John dove down, covering the Deputy with his body. Holy shit, was it the Collapse?

The tremor must have been enough to snap Cora out of her trance, because a muffled “Get your tits out of my face.” buzzed against John’s chest.

Tragically, however, the Baptist never got the opportunity to reply to her. Had it not been for the fucking tennis shoe colliding with the side of his skull, he imagined he’d have something very clever to say. Alas, pain shot through his head and he jerked to the side, fighting against the blow to stay put. A snarl from Mary May, his apparent attacker, sounded in retaliation. She dove into him, knee driving into his ribs, throwing him off of the Deputy.

His thoughts left him for the briefest moment, overtaken by ensuing gunshots and shouts and the shrieks of the bartender as she was clawed away from him. Her hand shot forward right as she was yanked up, intended as a punch. It didn’t land, and John couldn’t help but shoot her a smirk for her failure.

“Deputy, gun!”

Nevermind. It wasn’t a punch after all. Mary May had been pointing over his shoulder at the revolver that had been surrendered on the floor. His revolver. The same one Cora was now scrambling toward.

No.

John lurched, heart leaping into his throat.

Not now. Not after he’d won. Not when they were so close.

His hand found the leg of Cora’s pants, wrenching, pulling her away from the weapon, and she kicked against him. Her finger tips slid against the barrel of the revolver, tugging it into her palm.

God wouldn’t fucking undo his victory.

John snarled, catching the Deputy’s wrist when she tried to aim - at him no less. Without her own recovery time achieved, he was able to wrestle the weapon from her easily enough, flattening her struggling body beneath his just long enough to hook an arm around her waist. He twisted around, holding the woman’s back against his belly. Her squirming ceased with the press of the muzzle against her head, and the moment her allies had taken notice of the change, everything went still.

Finally.

A little civility.

Several of John’s followers lay on the floor, either dead or close to it. Only a half-dozen remained, though the pair of Chosen had survived and placed themselves closest to their leader.

Pastor Jerome had procured a handgun from within his own bible - something that pulled a breathless laugh out of John as he surveyed the others. Nick hadn’t been able to arm himself, but he’d still tackled one of the faithful to the ground. His knuckles were bloodied. A familiar sight. Mary May had wrestled a gun of her own away from the woman who’d seized her. She aimed it shakily at John.

Armed but outnumbered, outgunned, and now, they were in check.

They never learned, did they?

“The way you people behave, you’d think salvation was a bad thing.” John tittered. “Right. Now, let’s try this again. Atonement, or damnation.” To punctuate his meaning, he tapped the muzzle against Cora’s head. She grunted in protest, and he ignored her. Of course it was a bluff. No one else knew that but him, though. It was too risky a move for the Resistance to let him do away with the one person that banded their factions.

She was their leader. They couldn’t lose her.

John looked around the room once more, locking eyes with Jerome first - then Mary May. “Are we going to behave?”

The answer was immediate and clear: a gunshot cracking through the Baptist’s ears and the flash of a blast spilling from Mary May’s weapon. Cora’s elbow driving into his stomach and the reaction time of his Chosen snapping to attention, covering him, already hauling John out of the church and onto the street.

Fuck no, he wasn't leaving without his prize.

"GRAB HER!" John howled, struggling against the attempts to get him to safety. "Leave the rest!"

It was a reluctant effort, but the Deputy was yanked along as well, shoved into Johns arms on his repeated orders, with me, with me.

“Mary May, what the fuck!” The Deputy roared over her shoulder.

“Sorry Deputy! I missed!”

Missed?

“You sure about that? Jesus fucking Christ!”

More shots sounded, but only the noise pursued them from the building. It wasn’t until John had shoved Cora into the back of the waiting truck that he realised how warm his hand had gotten. Wet, too.

“Get to the ranch!” One of the Chosen snarled up front, casting a look back at the Baptist while the vehicle took off, watching as he peeled away from the blonde to inspect himself.

Blood.

He was bleeding. But where from? Barring the sting of his scabs and that kick to the head, nothing hurt. There were no wounds hiding under his sleeves or -

A hiss sounded from the Deputy beside him, curling in on herself.

Shit.

She hadn’t elbowed him.

“Cora-” John scrambled for her. "Cora, let me see."

“Told you not to call me that.” The Deputy grit out, kicking at him until she’d well and truly jammed herself into the corner of the seat and the car door. Her left hand gripped her right forearm, just below the elbow and to no avail. Crimson coated the skin on her side, encasing her arm completely and seeping through her fingertips.

She was bleeding. Not heavily, but steadily.

”Deputy.” John bit back, advancing. “You’re hurt. Let me help-”

Just like that, the kicking resumed. “Don’t touch me-DON’T FUCKING TOUCH ME-”

“For once in your fucking life, just relax!”

Only incomprehensible snarling came in response.

John rolled his jaw, brimming with as much irritation as he was adrenaline. The Resistance had made their choice. Regretful, but final. He’d gotten what he came for, and he wasn’t intending on losing her just because she was too stubborn to accept help.

He glanced at the revolver still in his grip. Then back at Cora, rotating the grip toward her. A threat. “Are you going to let me help, or am I going to have to calm you down?”

“Don’t you dare.” Her words came hoarse. She gave scowling a red hot go, but without the rationale to deny him, the Deputy lacked conviction. She exhaled. “Fuck it. We've done this enough already. You get ten minutes. Then you’re under arrest.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her cheek twitched. A weak chuckle. The slightest flash of acknowledgement as she let him press his weight over her forearm. Thankfully, the wound wasn’t pulsing; nor was there a puncture wound. A gouged strip had been carved into her flesh where the bullet had grazed, but nothing vital seemed to have been struck.

“That - you can keep saying.”

"You're a flirt when you're in shock, Deputy." Had John not been too busy regulating about a dozen other emotions, he might have flushed at her words. For a moment, he just sat there, basking in the borderline friendliness on her face. Then, it occurred to him that they were among watchful company, and he cleared his throat, returning to his task.

Minutes passed. No more words were exchanged. Not until they’d passed the Rye and Son’s sign.

The Chosen in the front passenger’s seat looked over his shoulder, dismissing another over the radio before regarding the Baptist. “The Resistance isn’t making ground. The faithful are still rounding up stragglers, and we’ve taken casualties, but numbers are looking strong. Medic will meet you at the ranch, John. We can deliver our newest sister to the Gate while you recover.”

John inclined his head. “Much obliged. We need this one to stay with us until she’s completed her vows. She can’t be trusted unsupervised, but I won’t put the responsibility of containing her back on our people again.” He looked to Cora, then. Her face had run pale and she’d gone clammy, but she remained upright. Just...woozy. Pacified, for now.

He’d got what he came for. Fuck the rest.

“I have something to say.” The blonde announced, swaying against John’s arm. “I know why Mary May shot me.”

“This another one of your jokes?” John deadpanned.

“This one’s funny, I swear.”

“...go on, then.”

“It’s because I never tip.”

For a moment, Cora looked very satisfied with herself. Then, she retched, slumping forward into the Baptist’s lap when he instinctually jolted out of the potential line of fire. He hurried to steady her, keeping tight hold over her wound, and grimaced while the noise escaped her a second time.

Thank God nothing came out; his shoes would’ve been the first to know about it.

The Deputy didn’t sit back up.

That was fine. So long as she wasn’t dead. So long as she wasn’t fighting back.

“It’s all the sin escaping you.” John explained, off-handed, when a complaining grunt sounded below. “Evil being expelled from your body. You’ll feel better soon.”

“Pretty sure it’s my blood pressure, actually. Soon as I’m good again, you’re history.”

When one disregarded the fact that she’d had a gun trained on him earlier - and the blood drying uncomfortably on his clothes - and the persistent pounding of a headache from Mary May’s heel, this was almost pleasant. The quiet roads. The Deputy, all but atoned with her head on his thigh. Not fighting back. Conceding defeat. Peaceful.

He got what he came for.

He’d won.

He was saved.

Passing his thumb over Cora’s ribs, John’s attention was pulled back to the old ink peeking out from beneath the band of her top. Text, blurred and flattened enough to be years old, and too obscured to decipher.

“Thought I’d be your first.” The brunette murmured.

“Jealous?”

Yes.

“Don’t be ridiculous. What’s it say?”

“‘The Mountains Are Calling’.”

A sickening wave of dread passed over the Baptist. The rock forming in his throat, icy and bitter and seizing him against any reply.

The mountains are calling.

Jacob. Joseph. The Trials. Atonement wasn’t the final step. Handing her over to his brothers was the final step.

He got what he came for, but the woman in his arms wasn’t the trophy intended for him.

He was saved. He’d redeemed himself. He’d completed his task and Joseph would permit him beyond the gates. That was all he was supposed to do. That was enough.

That had to be enough.

“‘And I Must Go’.” John completed quietly.

Cora tilted her head a little, not quite looking at him - almost like she was trying not to. “You know John Muir.”

“Not enough to warrant a photo on the bedside table.”

“Shut up.”

There was nothing convincing about the chuckle he offered. He was too busy observing her, studying the side of her face. Committing her to memory as if he hadn’t spent years acquainting himself with every spot and micro-expression.

“Maybe working for you will be bearable.” She murmured, and John’s heart only sank further. "If I don't manage to arrest you."

The mountains are calling.

She still had no idea that all the promises he’d made her had been fabricated. That she wouldn’t be staying. That he’d lied to her.

The mountains were calling. In a few days time, she’d know it. She’d despise him. She’d be taken off his hands and he’d assume his regular duties once again.

He’d saved both of them.

Cora’s thumb absently grazed back and forth on his knee. Ignorant. “Can I ask something?”

It took everything in him not to mirror the action against her skin.

“Of course.”

“Can I start next Monday?”

"What happened to you being such a workaholic?"

"To be honest with you, I'm really fucking tired."

She’d be incredible. Jacob would love her. Joseph would be proud. John had accomplished something near-impossible for his family, and even if the Deputy hated him - even if she forgot him entirely, he was content with the knowledge that he’d have brought her to salvation.

Even if they never saw each other again, he’d know that she’d passed through the gates. That she’d climb to the surface once the world had been scorched clean. She’d rebuild, and marry, and have children, and he’d do the same.

Hopeful anticipation and the agony of longing had never felt so similar before.

“Fine.” John smiled, giving in, sliding his fingers up her arm and coaxing a stray lock of hair out of her face. There were no promises he’d be able to do it again after this. “But on one condition.”

“What?”

“Spend those days with me.”

Cora stirred, angling to peer up at him out of the corner of her eye. She smiled crookedly.

“Deal.”

#far cry 5 #john seed #cora stammos #far cry 5 fanfic #far cry 5 oc #john seed x female deputy #all hail cora's big fucking muscles #no beta we die like men

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suituuup · 3 years

Photo

pieces - chapter eight

Five years ago, Chloe dropped off the face of the Earth. Beca didn’t expect to see her again dancing in a strip club, out of all places.

rated: E (drug use and emotional abuse in early chapters)

ao3 link

Chapter seven was published yesterday, in case you missed it! I was too lazy to make a tumblr post.

The term rollercoaster didn’t seem strong enough to describe the last six weeks of Chloe’s life.

Seeing Beca again. Leaving Marco. Getting clean. Finding out she was pregnant.

She felt like she needed to stop and take a minute to remind herself to breathe, but the weight pressing on her chest prevented her from sucking enough oxygen into her lungs.

“You’re…” Beca blinked twice in slow succession. “...pregnant. With a baby.” She grimaced in the next beat, releasing a breath. “Sorry, I-- I wasn’t expecting that.”

Chloe couldn't blame her for being shocked. She swallowed thickly and cleared the lump from her throat. “I made an appointment for an abortion. Tomorrow.”

Tears sprang up into her eyes before she could stop them, and she lifted a hand to her mouth to muffle the sob itching to come out.

“I’m sorry,” she croaked out, shaking her head.

“Chlo…” Beca murmured, setting a hand over Chloe’s back and the other one on Chloe’s. “You don’t need to apologize. What you’re going through is incredibly hard, and… if an abortion is what you feel is the best option, then that’s what you should do.”

Chloe had always wanted to have kids one day, but this was the worst possible timing. She didn’t have a place to raise that baby, or a job, not to mention that she was a recovering addict.

She nodded along to Beca’s words, as though attempting to convince herself further.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Beca asked. “To the appointment?”

Chloe hesitated. “I don’t want you to miss work because of me.”

“You’re more important than work,” Beca argued softly as her thumb stroked Chloe’s knuckles back and forth. “And I don’t think you should be doing this on your own, you know? But I don’t want to overstep either, so it’s completely up to you.”

Chloe sniffled, reaching up to wipe her tears away. “I… I think I’d like it if you could be there.”

“Done,” Beca instantly said, nodding firmly. She cleared her throat following a few beats of silence. “So um, is there anything you should do for your recovery? Now that you’re out of rehab, I mean.”

“The therapist there recommended one in the city, I need to call and book an appointment. I’m going to my first NA meeting in two days. Otherwise, I’ve been told having a routine could really help? Like go for a morning walk, do some yoga, cook, clean… that sort of stuff. But all I want to do right now is crash for a few hours.”

Beca nodded. “Sounds like a plan. Let me know if I can do anything to make things easier on you, okay?”

Chloe managed a small smile despite how heavy her heart felt. “I’m already so grateful for what you’re doing for me, Bec.”

“It’s what friends do. Help each other out.”

Chloe ended up sleeping for four hours straight. She had never felt so exhausted in her life, and she guessed it was a mix of the physical and emotional toll of pregnancy and rehab finally hitting her. She didn’t eat much for dinner and mostly pushed her food around in her plate, knowing most of it would come back up as it had for the last few days.

She and Beca got to the clinic ten minutes before Chloe’s appointment that next morning, and after filling out the paperwork, they were led into an exam room, where Chloe was asked to change into a paper gown. She sat down on the edge of the bed once she was changed, her eyes sweeping over the many baby pictures lining the wall.

Her attention shifted to the door when it opened, a middle-aged woman stepping inside.

“Hello, Chloe,” she greeted with a soft, reassuring smile. “I’m Dr. Harris.”

“Hi,” Chloe returned quietly. “This is my friend Beca.”

“Nice to meet you both,” Dr. Harris said as she approached. “I was told you’re here to terminate your pregnancy?”

“I-- yes.”

“Okay. As one of the nurses probably told you over the phone, I need to check how far along you are first so we can figure out if a procedure is required,” she explained, setting her chart down and snapping on a pair of gloves. “When was your last period?”

“I-- I’m not sure.”

She used to take the pill. But when you’re fortunate if you remember to eat one meal a day, it’s also easy to forget to renew your birth control prescription. That was just another detail among the many in her life that seemingly had ceased to have consequences or meaning the further she slipped down that rabbit hole.

“Okay, that’s alright. Can you lie down please, and put your feet in the stirrups? I need to do a vaginal ultrasound so we can see better.”

Chloe nodded, scooting back and lifting her feet. She reached for Beca’s hand as nerves sprouted in her belly, immensely grateful for her presence.

“This might not be the most comfortable feeling, but I’ll try to be as gentle as possible,” Dr. Harris said as she placed a condom over the wand before slowly inserting it. She tapped a few keys on the ultrasound machine, gently moving the wand around until a clear image popped up on the screen. It was another minute before she spoke again. “Okay… given the size of the embryo, you’re about seven weeks along, Chloe.”

Chloe puffed out a breath as a kaleidoscope of emotions swept through her. This was her baby, up there on the screen, and the sight of it suddenly made her question everything and ask something that she would regret shortly after. “Can I-- can I listen to the heartbeat?”

The doctor glanced at her. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Chloe confirmed. “I’m sure.”

Nodding, Dr. Harris pushed another key, and the most beautiful sound filled the room a second later. A steady, strong woosh woosh. Tears sprang to Chloe’s eyes, and she felt a squeeze to her hand as she attempted not to let them fall. Her own heart constricted in her chest, so hard it was nearly painful.

“Turn if off, please,” she croaked out, shaking her head as her lids slammed shut, those tears sliding down her cheeks and curling around her chin.

The doctor shut off the machine and withdrew the wand a few seconds later. “You can put your legs down, Chloe.”

Chloe nodded and straightened, taking the tissue Beca offered her and blowing her nose with it.

Dr. Harris watched on, her eyes soft. “You still have some time before making a decision.”

“Did it look healthy?” She found herself asking, then figured she should explain. “I just got out of rehab. I did cocaine and drank a fair amount of alcohol on a daily basis up until four weeks ago. And I was given um...” Chloe scratched her forehead as she raked her brain for the medication name. “Gabapentin for the first two weeks of rehab to help with withdrawal.”

Dr. Harris’ features remained professional as she nodded slowly. “The heartbeat is strong, and I didn’t catch anything abnormal. The risk of miscarriage is more present than for other pregnancies as the drugs crossed through the placenta when you were still using, and that up to twelve weeks. Problems could occur during and after the pregnancy. But the baby could also be perfectly healthy, since you stopped in the early stages of pregnancy. It’s hard to tell.”

Chloe’s mind swam with all these possible scenarios, and she didn’t know whether to listen to her brain or her gut feeling. “How-- how much time do I have to decide?”

Dr. Harris slipped her hands into the pockets of her lab coat. “Abortion is legal up to 25 weeks in New York state. Up to ten weeks, you can take a pill, past that a surgical procedure is needed.”

Chloe sniffled, swiping the back of her hand under her runny nose. “Okay. Thank you.”

Dr. Harris cast them both a tight-lipped smile. “Of course. I’ll leave informational pamphlets at the desk for you to read, as well as my phone number should you have any questions.”

“Thanks,” Beca said as the doctor walked out, then focused back on Chloe, reaching out to brush her hair back behind her ear. “I’ll give you a few minutes to get dressed? I can go get those pamphlets in the meantime.”

Chloe nodded, her insides caving in as soon as the door clicked shut behind Beca. She gripped the edges of the exam cot hard, her nails digging into the leather and her breathing turning chopped as a mix of panic and sadness unleashed within her.

It all seemed unfair, but she knew her own recklessness was the root of the situation she found herself in.

She eventually managed to calm herself down enough to get dressed, meeting Beca by the desk ten minutes later. The walk home was silent, and Chloe was grateful Beca didn’t push her to talk. She didn’t even know how to process her own thoughts, let alone speaking them aloud.

A few days passed. Chloe slept a lot, and tried to keep herself busy the rest of the time. One hour each morning consisted of hugging the toilet while she puked her guts out, and the rest of her day was spent craving that warm embrace of the rush cocaine once brought her.

The temptation was there. She knew there was a store on the corner of Beca’s street that sold booze, and she knew there was enough change in the bowl by the front door to afford at least a couple beers.

Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to. Not after seeing that tiny blob on that screen and listening to its heartbeat, because the biggest part of her wanted this. She knew it deep down, but she couldn’t silence those same voices that had been making her life hell for the past four years, telling her that she was bound to fail at this like she did with everything else.

Chloe woke up that Saturday morning to a churning stomach. Scrambling out of bed, she stumbled to the bathroom across the hall and made it just in time to empty the contents of her stomach into the ceramic bowl.

She slumped back against the wall afterwards, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as she reached out to flush the toilet with the other. Chloe glanced up when Beca appeared around the corner, a sympathetic smile curving her lips as she stepped closer and handed Chloe a steaming mug.

“Ginger tea. I read it helps with morning sickness.”

Chloe accepted it with a quiet thank you. She cradled the mug between her palms, her head tilting back against the tile behind her as she exhaled. “You can sit, if you want.”

Beca nodded and lowered herself next to her in the tight space, their thighs and shoulders touching. “Do you… want to talk?”

Chloe sucked in a sharp breath. “I feel… lost,” she croaked out, her head rolling to the side to look at Beca. “Before the appointment, I was so sure terminating the pregnancy was the wise option, but then I saw it on that screen and heard its heartbeat and…”

“You realized the wise decision is maybe not what you want?” Beca supplied when Chloe trailed off.

“I’ve always wanted to be a mom,” Chloe whispered before she broke eye-contact, focusing on the mug she held in her hands as she blinked away the tears filling her eyes. “But it’s crazy to even consider it, right? I don’t have a job, I don’t have my own place, and I’m still battling with my own mind because I crave something. All day, every day since my last hit.”

“But you didn’t cave,” Beca pointed out softly. “I know it’s only been four days since you got out of rehab, but you didn’t cave, and that’s already an accomplishment of its own.”

“I just… I don’t want to harm this baby more than I’ve possibly already done,” Chloe admitted quietly.

Beca nodded, and reached out to take one of Chloe’s hands, tugging it into her lap gently. “If keeping this baby is what you want to do, those things you’re worried about have solutions. You may not have a place of your own, but I’m not kicking you out. Even with a baby. This is home for you as long as you want or need it. A job shouldn’t be too difficult to find. Maybe it won’t be the greatest one on earth to start with, but it will be something to get your head back in the game,” she paused, tilting her head to the side and seeking Chloe’s gaze. “And what you just said? About not caving because of the baby? I can’t think of a better proof of your ability to be a great mom. You’re already putting that baby before your own needs, and I can’t even fathom how great and out of control those can become, and I think that’s admirable. And for what it’s worth, I think you should trust what your gut tells you. I listened to my brain instead of my heart once, and ended up making one of the biggest mistakes of my life.”

Chloe let Beca’s words resonate within her, basking in the temporary peace they brought her. There was no doubt about where her gut feeling lay on this.

“I feel like I’m turning your life upside down,” she whispered after a while, sniffling. “You’ve done so much for me already, I don’t want to keep abusing from your generosity, or jeopardize your relationship with Sarah.”

“You’re not abusing anything, Chlo. I promise,” Beca murmured with a squeeze to her hand. A stretch of silence settled between them, until Beca spoke again. “You still have time to think about it. Just know that whatever you decide to do, I’ll support it.”

Over the next week, Chloe found herself picturing what it would be like, caring and nurturing for that baby and raising them. For the first time in five years, cocaine wasn’t the first thing she thought about when she woke up, or the last thing on her mind before going to sleep.

For the first time in five years, it felt like she had purpose, in trying her best to be the mom her child deserved. That meant staying clean, leaving those demons behind where they belonged, and getting her life back together one day at a time, for that innocent being that came to light in the darkest time of her life.

She woke up earlier than usual that morning, and headed to the bathroom to pee, pausing as she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. A soft gasp escaped as she lifted her shirt and ran her palm over the barely perceptible swell in her lower belly. It wasn’t there yesterday, and Chloe felt tears pool in her eyes.

Happy ones.

“Hey there, little one,” she croaked out, her heart swelling against her ribcage as she rubbed slow circles over her skin. “We’ll be okay, won’t we?”

She puffed out a long breath, a watery smile breaking through.

One day at a time.

#bechloe #bechloe fanfic #chloe beale #beca mitchell

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undeadsnorlax · 3 years

Text

Alone at Midnight, Inside My Mind

@badthingshappenbingo

Ao3 Link

Bingo Card

using the prompt in a metaphorical sense, as opposed to the medical aid sense

Prompt: Crutches

Fandom: Yakuza/Ryu Ga Gotoku

Warnings: a lot of alcohol related issues, including addiction and withdrawal, some suicidal thoughts and body image issues, hurt/no comfort. set pre-Yakuza 2.

Wordcount: 5511

2pm. He could tell it was because his downstairs neighbour was home, attending to the array of plant pots she kept littered outside her door, and playing music on the radio that bled through the crack of the open window.

Daigo squinted in the afternoon light that managed to make its way through the blinds, groaning loudly.

“Fucking hell…”

Suppose now was as good a time as any to start the day. Especially when he felt his stomach rumble.

It took some effort to get to his feet, but soon he was dragging himself into the kitchen, yawning loudly. He needed something quick and tasty, now.

The fridge had nothing but convenience store sushi and days old leftover curry. The cupboards were also pretty bare, half a bag of rice and a ramen cup.

Daigo sighed heavily, setting his kettle to boil before grabbing the sushi. He stuffed a piece into his mouth, wrinkling his nose at the taste of stale rice but ate another without any complaint.

Head to the store. Get some more food, he thought, holding the ramen cup in place as he lifted up the kettle.

The water splashed on the counter a little, narrowly missing burning his fingers, making him forcefully slam the kettle back down once the cup was filled.

Daigo gripped the sides of the counter, closing his eyes as he felt a pulse of nausea rush through his body. If he forced the tension against the surface hard enough, he could stop his hands shaking for just a moment.

Eat noodles. Have a shower. Go to the store.

Opening his eyes again, he ate another piece of sushi, absolutely no taste on his tongue as he chewed it into mush, before taking his ramen into the living room.

He slumped down on the couch, turning the TV on and forced the food down him. He still felt nauseous, but he knew he wouldn’t actually vomit. He already had last night. Doubled over in a bush outside the train station and puked his guts out, despite not having much solids in him. Even now his throat felt sore from it. Classy.

He wasn’t even hungry, really. He was eating out of obligation, feeling his stomach gurgle happily at finally being filled with some kind of food.

As he ate, he noticed his cell phone on the table in front of him, discarded amongst the empty bottles and candy wrappers. It was flashing.

Daigo frowned, reaching over and flipping it open.

Three new answer machine messages.

Who the hell had tried calling him?

Message one - 9:25am

“Daigo, it’s your mother. Pick up.”

Message two - 9:43am

“Me again. Please answer your phone.”

Message three - 10:08am

“Daigo...it’s Mom-“

Daigo groaned, snapping his phone shut to end the messages. Nope! He was not dealing with this today.

He discarded the empty ramen cup and chopsticks with the rest of the trash on the table, storming towards the bathroom.

Shower on, clothes off. He used the toilet as the water heated up, catching the reflection of his upper half in the mirror as he finished.

“Hrmph.”

He ran a hand down his front, resting it on the middle of his stomach and huffed again.

His weight had been up and down the last ten years, though it had obviously settled during his stint in prison, with its shit food and no alcohol. Now that he was out, with all the freedom to indulge in every last inch of hedonism he could find though, he had developed a bit of a gut. Just a bump, but it was…noticeable, it was there. It stuck out.

No surprise really. How much did he drink last night again?

Enough I puked in a bush.

Daigo shifted on his feet, standing up a bit straighter and sucking his stomach in. It didn’t make much difference. He suddenly wondered how visible it was under his t-shirt, glad he usually wore a thick coat to hide himself in.

“Great,” he growled, stepping into the shower. Another thing to feel insecure about.

He stood there, forehead pressed against the wall as he let the water run down the Fudo Myoo on his back.

His hand started shaking again.

“Give me a break,” he said, clasping it to his chest, “A few hours, a day.”

He dried himself off, going back to his bedroom for a clean shirt and pair of jeans – both black, of course.

He also grabbed a heavy hoodie to wear to the store, a way to feel a little more comfortable in himself in a public place.

Wallet, keys, phone. Go to store. Buy supplies.

Daigo pulled his hood up as he jogged down the stairs, immediately blocked from leaving by the downstairs neighbour still gardening.

“Lovely afternoon, isn’t it Dojima-san?” Ito cried, beaming at him. She was older, always so chipper. How did she manage?

As much as he wanted to ignore her, Daigo had been raised with far too proper manners. He still remained casual, grunting a little and rubbing the back of his head.

“Yeah, suppose.”

“You came back late again last night,” she added, hands lifting a plant to move to another pot, “Ouma-san went off about it before going to work this morning.”

“Oh, did he now?”

Ouma was the guy around his age in the apartment next door. Always miserable, always bringing a new girl home every weekend that Daigo had to endure hearing fake horribly through his thin bedroom walls.

“I’ll try to be a bit quieter next time, Ito-san,” he mumbled. For her sake, not for that asshole Ouma.

“Or maybe you should stay in once in a while, hm?”

Daigo scowled, jerking his head and storming off toward the store. With any luck the old bag would have gone inside by the time he was back.

As he made his way down the street, he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He went to answer but paused, clenching his fingers tight into his palm. Nope. He knew who it was, and what she wanted, and he didn’t care.

His supply run was basic. More noodles, packs of chips and cookies, some onigiri and bentos that could last a few days.

Whilst picking up a few bottles of Staminan and Tauriner, he stared blankly at the alcohol.

His hands still shook. There was such a quick fix to settle that.

He grabbed a six pack of beer and a bottle of scotch and vodka, unable to help a crooked little grin.

The cashier looked at him a little oddly as he set his basket down on the counter. And yeah, he’d admit he looked strange. Sweating and shaky from withdrawal, under his eyes dark and his brow pulled into a near permanent scowl, face otherwise obscured by the shadow of the hood.

“Get me some cigarettes too, huh?” he mumbled, taking out his wallet and avoiding eye contact.

He was a mess.

He stared at the glass case of baked goods, unable to resist the pull from his sweet tooth, and asked for two donuts as well.

He arrived back home rather pleased with his haul. He had enough in him to pack away most of it, before he stared down the booze he bought.

He could...not do this, actually. He could not drink. It was easy, in theory.

He wiped his damp brow, licked his dry lips. His head hurt, despite the slight gloom of the kitchen.

They could sit there as an ultimate temptation. He could ignore them. He could do all manner of things.

But he wanted to drink, that was the issue. That was the whole point. Drinking was the only thing he had that stayed consistent.

He grabbed the scotch and slugged back a long mouthful, feeling everything just melt away. He let out a relieved gasp, the taste strong on his tongue and warming his throat. Felt like a part of him was back. His mind became a little clearer, his mood a little more elevated. He took a shorter swig for luck, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Much better…”

He spent the rest of the afternoon lounging on the sofa, playing video games. There wasn’t much else for him to do during the day.

Evening was his time.

When seven rolled around, Daigo got ready. His jeans and t-shirt were fine already, so all he had to do was put on his usual cross necklace to complete the outfit. He spent a while staring down himself in the mirror as he applied a shaky dash of eyeliner around his lid.

Once upon a time he shied away from doing this publicly, but since leaving jail he stopped caring. Wore eyeliner and straightened his hair. Painted his nails black and picked at the polish when he was anxious. Who gave a shit? Anyone dumb enough to say anything soon regretted it.

Keys, wallet, phone. Same routine. He chose his white puffer jacket to wear instead of his hoodie, enjoying the barrier it gave him from the rest of the world.

One quick metro ride later, he was in Kamurocho, just as the town was coming alive in a burst of neon. Daigo lost himself in the crowds, thinking of which bar to hit up first.

He paused for a moment down Tenkaichi Street, staring at the sign for Serena. Place was closed, and had been for a little under a year now.

He knew what happened last year, of course. Heard about Rina through another barkeep. Not that he’d known her well, or spent much time at Serena, but something in his chest ached hearing she was gone in such circumstances.

He soon forgot about it with another glass.

With a weary huff, he decided the Champion District on the other side of town was the best place to start. The bar he chose was quiet, no other customers, and a barman who knew when to keep his mouth shut.

Perfect.

Instead of conversation, Daigo focused on the soft jazz music playing as he nursed his whiskey. He was into heavier tunes, but he needed a bit more of a buzz before going to his favourite rock bar.

He tapped his nails against the glass, tilting his head. Good idea, actually. They did cheap shots and a big array of imports.

He slammed some cash down on the counter before stumbling into the street, glad to feel the slight evening chill on his cheeks.

Down to Pink Street, and into the rock bar he enjoyed. Already feeling at home with the heavy guitar music blasting over the speakers, most of the other patrons dressed in a similar style to him. He’d missed out on a lot of stuff whilst locked away, the slight sways in fashion that happened in such a short amount of time, but he liked knowing he was still on trend within his scene, mostly.

He sat at the counter, giving a half-grin to the girl working there, and ordered himself five shots of vodka.

His earlier drinks had been a warmup, these were the first leg of the race. The second came in the form of a large scotch, some new brand they’d started selling.

Honestly, the start to a perfect night for him, until he heard a small gasp from behind him.

“Hey! Aniki!”

Daigo’s heart sank at the voice, glancing over his shoulder. Five of the guys he usually hung around with were there – or more accurately, they hung around him.

He rolled his eyes and groaned, turning in his seat and glaring them down. He should never had shown them this place.

“What do you want?” he muttered, already knowing the answer.

“We didn’t know you were out today!” Arita cried, leaning up next to him, with that sycophantic look he always had in his eyes. As if Daigo wasn’t out every night.

“Why don’t you join us aniki?” Kubo asked, which actually translated to wanna pay for all our drinks because we’re cheap scrounging bastards?

Daigo groaned again, knocking back his glass and waving the bartender over again.

“If you quit calling me aniki.”

They didn’t, of course. They gleefully accepted the drinks he bought them with more coos of thank you Dojima-aniki. Daigo rubbed the bridge of his nose and ordered himself two double scotches, slugging them back like they were water.

“I was thinkin’ we could go to Dazzle after this,” Arita said, having not left Daigo’s side. He always babbled and talked too much, like he felt he had to fill every silence with his own voice save people be left alone with their own thoughts.

“Why there?” Daigo asked, thinking of all the things he’d rather do more than go to a hostess club, including and not limited to slamming his face into a lit stovetop and drowning in a hot tub.

“I just think the girls there are really underrated, y’know? I like that they have some slightly older gals, I love a mature lady. How about you?”

Daigo shoved a shard of ice from his glass into his mouth and let it melt on his tongue. “Come on then.”

He was paying for two hours and that was that. At least he could get a bottle for himself and work through that, sitting at the edge whilst the others enjoyed the girls’ company.

Dazzle might have specialised in more mature women, but the decor was a nightmare like every other hostess club. Why’d they always insist on so many sparkles, it gave him a headache.

“Um...are you enjoying yourself?”

Daigo lowered his gaze to look at the girl. ‘Mature’ really meant ‘late twenties’, and she was running on the younger side of that.

“What do you think?” he said coldly, swirling his drink in its glass.

She seemed a little dazed at this, glancing back at her fellow hostesses, but kept going.

“M-my name is Nashi. Yours?”

“Daigo Dojima.”

He clicked his tongue, emptied his glass and went to refill it, his shoulders slouching slightly. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be so short, you’re only doing your job.”

“Oh, it’s fine, I’ve had far worse responses.”

Daigo just gritted his teeth. Another reason he hated hostess clubs was he knew how other men treated these girls, saw it himself the times his father brought him along as a teen.

The least he could do was give this lady a nice conversation.

“Well, I’ll try to be a bit better than them,” he said, gesturing with his head towards the others, so loud and obnoxious.

Nashi smiled a little. “They’re not so bad. Your friends are just a bit...out there.”

He scoffed. “They’re not my friends. I don’t really...do friendship anymore.”

“Oh? How come?”

Shit. Of course, when you say something like that, people have questions. Daigo licked his lips in thought, considering how he should phrase this.

“You...don’t recognise my name, do you?”

Nashi blushed a little, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Um, well, you do have a bit of notoriety around town, Dojima-san. I know girls in other clubs, and they always talk about you.”

Daigo did a slight double take at this. “Wait, seriously?”

“Yeah. You’re a rather…” She gestured at his coat and skinny jeans. “A striking figure, you know. A lot of girls like the edgy emo bad boy look. It’s popular right now.”

“Hm, figures.” A lot of men are also fans…

Daigo sat up a little straighter, gazing Nashi down. “Do you?”

“H-huh?”

“Find me attractive?”

It was a joke, said with a dry smirk, but she flustered, clearly uneasy. Daigo grimaced, sliding up a little closer and putting a hand to her knee.

“Hey, hey. I’m kidding.” He made his smirk a soft smile, broke down the facade for just a moment to put her at ease. “Don’t worry about it.”

Nashi’s eyes went wide, but nodded, brushing down the edges of her dress.

“A-anyway, I...I’ve heard you...were involved with the Tojo Clan. Is that why you don’t ‘do’ friends?”

“Mm. Essentially.”

Daigo gave up on the glass, swigging back from the bottle which got him a funny look from one of the other patrons across the way.

“My only friend murdered my father,” he said, so matter of fact. He hesitated a moment, letting out a short huff. “Well. He went to jail for the crime, at least. He was actually covering for someone else. Either way, I was left without his guidance for ten years, thinking he had betrayed me like that.”

He paused a second, swilling whiskey around his mouth, before continuing.

“I came back to town a few months ago and...he hasn’t bothered trying to find me. Which shows how little he cares.”

“Oh. That sounds...awful, Dojima-san.”

“It sure does, doesn’t it?”

Daigo shrugged, tilting the empty bottle back so he could savour just a few more drops as best he could. “That’s just how my life is now.”

He grumbled a little as he set the bottle down, belching into his cupped hand before draping himself back against the seat.

“Sometimes you gotta deal with the hand you're given,” he added, scratching lazily at his middle, “And unfortunately, I’ve had a poor deck from the start.”

He shut his eyes before letting out a laugh, forced and hollow. “Sorry. I’m not the best at keeping things light.”

How many hostesses had he paid to listen to him whine? Then he thought how they were probably all used to it, which made it even worse.

“Well, given your circumstances…”

Nashi glanced back at her co-workers, the barely hidden looks of disdain towards the rest of the crew and their boorish behaviour.

“I’d much rather talk to you though,” she said, reaching over to grab another one of the bottles along the table, gesturing toward his glass, “You’re nice.”

Daigo swallowed, nodding in approval as she filled it to the brim. His head pounded, but he wasn’t sure if it was from the music or the cravings.

“If you say so.”

The glass was empty in a flash, and filled just as quick.

“You’re good at this,” he purred.

The bottle was empty by the time the waiter came by. Daigo had just enough mental capacity to dig through his pockets and pay, giving Nashi a shaky smile and a pat on the knee.

“Thank you for tonight. You’re great.”

His friends, on the other hand, all started to whine as the waiter began to urge them into finishing their drinks.

“Aw, c’mon aniki, let’s hang around a bit longer!”

“If you want that, pay yourself, ya cheap fucks.”

Daigo stood up, a bit too quickly as he felt the room spin. He stumbled to the side slightly, wincing as he contained a belch that very much tasted of vomit. Nope! No puking tonight. Keep it all inside.

“I’m outta here,” he mumbled, resting a hand on any available solid surface to keep himself steady as he left.

He blanked out the cries of the others as he did. He’d wasted enough time with them tonight, and he was craving something else.

“Burger,” he mumbled, squinting as he glanced up and down the street, “Pffft...that way.”

This was always the worst part of the night. Trying to sober up enough so he could keep going, or at the very least get home in one piece. Stumbling through the streets and trying not to crack his skull open.

It wasn’t just food he craved though. He felt...itchy. That was the only way to really explain it. The desire to go wild, start a scuffle. Really earn that reputation he supposedly had.

To hell with staying in one piece.

But first, Smile Burger.

The fact that the poor worker even understood what he said through his slurred words was impressive and soon he was curled up against the window, feet pulled up on the chair beside him as he made his way through a burger that tasted like the finest wagyu steak right now.

All the while, he kept his eye out.

Yeah, it felt shitty to target people for a fight like this, but he made sure it was a fair fight. Usually a few guys, who looked like they could take a hit as well as throw one, maybe even have a chance if they weren’t facing someone running on adrenaline and too much booze.

He cocked his head as he focused on a table nearby. Four men, mid-twenties, definitely young yakuza from some family. He couldn’t see any lapel pin from where he was sat, but they were perfect.

Childishly, he picked up one of his fries and threw it in their direction. It hit the back of one guy’s head, and he looked around puzzled. Daigo just threw another, chuckling as it hit him again. A bit too obvious, as he was spotted this time.

“What the hell’s wrong with you dude?” one of the four cried.

“I dunno,” Daigo said, stuffing a bunch of fries in his mouth before flinging another their way, “Target practise.”

This one hit a guy in a striking red sports jacket right between the eyes, and Daigo could barely contain the full-on cackle he let out at the expression he pulled. It was almost too easy.

He grinned when one came over and jabbed him in the chest.

“Outside. Now.”

“My pleasure.”

He followed them into a nearby side street, hands in his pockets and head held high. He liked an audience sometimes, but a private fight was fine enough.

The biggest one of them threw the first punch. He was expecting it, crossing his arms over in front of his face to block it, before kicking out at the guy’s ankles.

The whole fight was messy. The little gang clearly had never been in a proper fight, had no form. They kept punching poorly, wincing with any that managed to hit as they stung their knuckles.

Not that Daigo was any better. He was still far too drunk, but that was half the fun. Stumbling about and getting in a rough hit that frightened these kids who’d never experienced this before. He just wanted the thrill, the rush of adrenaline pumping through his veins. Anything to feel something.

Daigo landed a punch on that guy in the sports jacket, right in the middle of his face. It sent him flat on his ass, skidding down the street slightly.

“Come on!” he groaned, “Grab him, idiots! We outnumber him!”

A moment of pause. Daigo tried to catch his breath, but ol’ sports jacket was right. He was outnumbered.

Two of them grabbed his coat and pushed him back against the wall, holding him there. The third punched at his gut, over and over. Daigo gritted his teeth, tensed his stomach for every punch.

He knew he could get out of this, easily. The guys holding him were hardly doing much, weren’t even gripping his actual arms, just the sleeves of his jacket. It wouldn’t take much to duck and slip down, then send them crying home to their mommies.

“Come on!” he hissed, baring his teeth.

But he wanted them to hit him.

“That all you got?”

He wanted them to hurt him.

Sports jacket guy had gotten back on his feet now, face already starting to bruise. His fist met the middle of Daigo’s face hard, harder than they’d been hitting before. It stung, a lot, which is exactly what he wanted.

Not that it solved anything.

It never did.

“Oi!” They all froze, turning toward the entrance of the street. Daigo, semi-dazed, managed to look too, and felt his stomach drop.

Kashiwagi's expression, initially a scowl, changed the moment he saw him, shaking his head and blinking a little. “Daigo?”

He sighed heavily, storming over and waving his hand at the little gang. “Shoo. Don’t let me catch you boys doing shit like this again, you hear?” “Y-yes Patriarch Kashiwagi.”

They scurried off further down the street, leaving Daigo to stand up straighter, rubbing his nose. He groaned a little as he saw the streaks of rusty red on the back of his hand, sniffling heavily. “Great.”

“Daigo…”

Kashiwagi sighed again, rubbing at his temple. “What are you doing?” “I’m just...I’m just out.” Daigo sniffed again, scrunching his nose. “Just finished dinner.”

“You know what I mean…”

Kashiwagi looked around, then grabbed Daigo by the shoulder. “C’mon. Let’s talk in the office.”

Daigo went to argue, but it only took one stern glare, the kind the older man had given him his whole life, for him to clench his jaw and follow.

Kashiwagi led the way toward the Millennium Tower, hand on Daigo’s shoulder the whole way. It felt so patronising, like that time he accidentally broke a window at the Dojima Family offices when he was ten, and Kashiwagi had done the exact same gesture, marching him to his mother.

“Nice upgrade,” he still said, gazing out the wide window of Kashiwagi’s office once they arrived, “From that little place on Tenkaichi.”

“Well, we make do. I’m second in command now.” Kashiwagi set down the plastic convenience store bag he’d been carrying on his desk, letting out a small, bemused exhale of air. “It’s not all bad. Now come on. Why were you fighting?”

Daigo clicked his tongue and shrugged, staring at the blinking lights below them.

“Daigo…” “I just was, okay?”

He gave a dismissive shrug, walking across the floor toward a cabinet, throwing the doors open. Kashiwagi watched him with tired eyes, slumping down in his chair. “I think you’ve had enough to drink tonight.”

“How did you know that’s what I was looking for?”

“Your breath reeks of it, kid. Your whole body does.” He took out a bento and can of coffee from the plastic bag, raising a brow. “And I know what you’re like, especially lately. How’s being a free man by the way? Haven’t seen you since you were released.”

“It sucks ass.”

Daigo slammed the cabinet door shut, opening another and grinning as he saw half a bottle of whiskey there, as well as some crystal glasses. He heard Kashiwagi tut loudly as he slammed both down on top of the cabinet.

“What did you expect?” he scoffed, pouring a very large measure, “Mom told me the news the moment I got out. What Nishikiyama did. That it wasn’t Kiryu. He hasn’t even come to see me, to apologise for it.”

He knocked the glass back, the sensation warm and familiar down his throat. “Hardly feel free. Just not in jail anymore.”

“What happened to the boy I knew?” Kashiwagi asked, walking over and placing a hand on Daigo’s shoulder once more. This time it was gentle, kind, attempting to be comforting. Not Kashiwagi-san, one of his father’s men, but Uncle Osamu, his mother’s best friend.

Daigo scrunched his nose up, taking another slug of whiskey. “You say that like I’ve ever been cheery.”

“Well, okay, you’ve always been a serious young man, but…”

He just shook his head, moving his hand away. He grabbed the whiskey bottle in the process, making Daigo let out a pathetic little whine.

“I’m not going to enable you any more than I have,” he said firmly, before adding, “I mean it though. You don’t need to throw your life away like this.”

Daigo didn’t reply, because he didn’t like the real answer. There wasn’t much of a life to throw away. He was doing everyone a favour with this.

“You bring me up here just to lecture me old man?” he growled, narrowing his eyes.

Still looking for someone to fight. Kashiwagi would wipe the floor with him, he knew that, but he didn’t care. He also knew he wouldn’t get that kind of satisfaction.

Didn’t mean Kashiwagi wasn’t frustrated with his attitude. He closed his eyes, clenching his fists and let out a deep exhale from his nose. “I saw your mother today. She’s been trying to call you all morning.”

“I know.” The empty glass was set down heavily, with a grunt. Daigo dug around for his phone, holding it out so Kashiwagi could see the countless missed calls and texts from her on the home screen. “I know what today is.”

“...and is that why you’re-”

“You know I’m like this anyway.” He stared at the texts, all similar in tone - Daigo, please call me. Daigo, it’s important. Are you okay? He got them most days from his mother. She was trying so hard. He didn’t want her to. He would rather she forget about him. She deserved that much.

Kashiwagi wasn’t looking at him, staring up at the ceiling as he thought of what to say next.

“I understand that...none of us could have predicted the extent of what your father was like.”

Daigo did a double take, noticing Kashiwagi immediately cringe. At least he knew what he said was stupid.

“Sorry, that was-”

“Yeah. It was.” Daigo looked up, head cocked to his shoulder. “Anyone could have guessed, really. We just pretended otherwise, because somehow he seemed to be the only thing keeping the Tojo Clan from completely falling apart.”

He was up in Kashiwagi’s face now, feeling his chest clench tight. He was working himself up over nothing, over that bastard. He hated it, but thinking of what his father did to get himself killed, the kind of man he was, it made his skin crawl.

“He deserves to spend every birthday after what he did having the most miserable time in hell,” he said with a hiss, noticing his voice wobbling, “I know it. You know it. But Mom refuses to let go-”

The slap felt cathartic, for both of them. Daigo shut his eyes and nodded as his cheek stung. He deserved that. He was trying to provoke that kind of reaction and got exactly that.

“I take back what I said. That boy you were is still there. An insolent brat,” Kashiwagi said, walking back to his desk, “Daigo, one day, you’re going to have to grow up. You can’t keep doing this until you die.”

He threw a semi-sympathetic look over his shoulder, but Daigo mostly felt it was piteous. That’s what he was. A pitiful, useless mess.

“Go home, Daigo. Call your mother. And for everyone’s sake, don’t have anything else to drink tonight.”

Daigo sucked in through his teeth and nodded again as he walked toward the door.

“...good night, Kashiwagi-san.”

No response. Yup. I deserve this.

He made his way home in a daze, everything working in automatic. Kashiwagi’s words kept echoing in his head, over and over.

You can’t keep doing this until you die.

Because that’s what he was trying to do, wasn’t it? Die. Suicide by hedonism. He was born already holding the worst hand life could deal, and he was never going to get anything better. After his father was killed, the one tiny scrap of potential good he could have in his life was gone, even if that prospect was a life of crime.

So why not? Why should he grow up when there was nothing to grow up for?

The moment he was inside his apartment, he slid down the door, staring blankly ahead. He’d needed that talking to, he needed a few really, from people who were currently pretending like he didn’t exist. That’s what he really needed. For Kiryu to talk to him, apologise for ruining his life, try and talk some sense into him. He always knew what to do.

But it was like he didn’t exist. Kiryu didn’t care. Kashiwagi tried to care, but knew he was a lost cause. Who did care?

Daigo opened up his phone again, staring at the missed calls and sighed. That’s who cared. Mom.

He should talk to her. He knew he should. He was an awful son who loved his mother very much, which is why he knew she deserved better. She was trying despite knowing she’d made mistakes, but he just couldn’t let that go.

He hovered on her number, ready to press the button to call...but instead he tossed his phone to land on the couch, walked to the kitchen and wrapped his fingers around the neck of the vodka bottle still on the counter.

He licked his lips, swallowed heavily...but let go, pushing it away.

“You win this time old man,” he grumbled, picking up an energy drink and the donuts he’d bought earlier in the day instead. Kashiwagi could never be allowed to know that though.

He knew this self-control wouldn’t last long. Come morning, he’d be shaking again, a hangover banging in his skull, and he’d be dragging himself towards that bottle like it was the source of life.

The same thing every day.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

He couldn’t have it any other way.

#dojima daigo #ryu ga gotoku #trope: crutches #badthingshappenbingo #undeadbthb #highly recommend reading the end notes on ao3 for the buckwild place the inspiration for this came from

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laudedliar · 3 years

Note

♠: One character adjusting the other’s jewelry/neck tie/ etc.

♡: Accidentally falling asleep together

Cullrian, but i couldnt pick just one prompt so you're welcome to pick your fave or do both or whatever works for you :)

This is the falling asleep.

The adjustment will be happier, I promise. :)

Dunno why I like angst. But I sure seem to. Awkward.

~*~*~*~*~

Adamant. Once a bastion against the dark evils from the underbelly of the world, was now a ruined shell of it’s once glorious past. Cullen walked along the broken battlements and stone walkways, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as he stepped over more dead Warden’s and Inquisition soldiers. If what Solas said was true, their memory would forever be locked in a ferocious battle between the two. To be enacted again and again by spirits of the Fade. It was a tragedy that would be written and retold for millennia henceforth.

Cullen knelt at the side of an unblinking, lifeless Corporal. He reached down and let his fingers close the woman’s eyes, so she may rest peacefully in the next life.

“May the Maker take you by his side.” He murmured, pressing a kiss to his fingertips before laying them gently along the woman’s cold brow. Slowly standing from where he knelt, Cullen continued his weary walk, kneeling at each of the dead he passed (Warden and Inquisition alike) and sent his pleading prayer for their souls to the Maker.

He was tired. Exhausted. Physically, mentally, emotionally.

He hadn’t noticed he was weeping until a Chantry Sister approached him, her own robes reddened along the bottom hem from the gore she waded through as she blessed the dead in turn.

“Please, Commander. Go see a healer and take some rest.” The young woman reached out to touch his cheek, a thumb running along the dark circle under his eye. “We shall see these poor souls to the Maker’s side.”

Cullen nodded and stepped away from the woman, one hand roughly wiping at the cooling tear tracks along his cheeks. “Thank you, sister. Please, if you can save anything that we could send back to families...”

“Of course, Commander.” The Sister walked with him down the stairs until she was certain he was stumbling through the rubble back to the camp that dotted the open expanse in front of the large, crumbling keep of yore. Their large battering rams and trebuchets stood stark against the eve darkened horizon. Soldiers were already put to task to begin dismantling the war machines for use in the funeral pyres.

Funeral pyres that would undoubtedly burn from dawn to dusk and on until the morning broke once more.

He was tired. So tired he could feel it in his core. A bone deep weariness. The healer’s tents were collected nearest the keep. People rushing too and fro, cries from the wounded and dying filled the air with a melancholy chorus. It sent shivers rushing down Cullen’s spine and his feet detoured away from the wailing howls.

His wounds were minor, a few scrapes and cuts, a couple bruises. Nothing that wouldn’t heal on it’s own given time and a little care.

The camp was somber. Eerily quiet for a victorious army. A few gathered soldiers shared skins of wine but most sat in silent contemplation of their hearth fires. Many of the soldiers were Ferelden. And Ferelden’s remembered the bravery of the Grey Wardens. They remembered the horrors of the blight.

And they felt the loss of Warden Alistair Theirin acutely. The man, after all, had been with the Hero of Ferelden. Had fought beside him. Had been there when the Hero died to save them all. And the Warden had, in turn, sacrificed himself as well.

Heroes.

His throat tightened painfully and Cullen turned away from the fires of his subordinates to walk the lonely path up to the Inner Circle’s tents. Inquisitor Cadash sat quietly, staring into the fire before her own tent. Blackwall sat beside the small dwarven warrior, holding her hand and whispering soft sentiments to the stout woman. Leliana was nowhere to be seen and he could not fault her. She had known Warden Alistair. Had fought and bled with him. She had been in love with the Hero of Ferelden and the two had spent many nights in SkyHold laughing and reminiscing about their lost friend.

He skirted around the Inquisitor’s fire pit as well, not wishing to speak with either warrior pondering the flickering flames. The rest of the companions were interspersed through the tents. Most were weary from battle and huddled around their own fires or already in their tents. The Chargers were softly singing dirges for the lives lost that day, Iron Bull drinking from a large skin as he hummed along with his companies melancholy songs.

Cole was perched upon a chair just outside of the circle of light, watching them all drink and sing. His curious blue eyes flickered towards Cullen as the ex-Templar shuffled past to his own tent.

“Everyone is sad. I cannot help them all.” The boy said, drawing the blonde’s attention to him.

“It is impossible to help everyone, Cole.” He answered, shoulders slumping at the admission.

“But it is possible to help some.” The boy whispered as his eyes searched Cullen’s haggard face.

“Yes.”

“I want to help.”

Cullen watched the boy as his distant gaze slowly moved back out over the sprawling army camp. “Good night, Cole.” He muttered when the boy didn’t continue his thoughts out loud.

“Good night. Commander Cullen.” Cole replied, his tone distant.

A raised chorus of singing followed in his wake as he stepped into his tent. The heavy fabric dampened the mournful chorus as it fell closed and Cullen brushed a hand over his face, wiping away a flaking crust of sweat, dirt, and blood. He paused, hand resting over his mouth, as he noticed a hunched form on the edge of his sleeping roll in the dim candle light.

“Dorian.” He called softly, surprised to see the mage sitting in his tent. He would have expected the man to be with the Charger’s or the Inquisitor. Not here. Not inside the Commander’s personal accommodations.

Red rimmed grey eyes blinked up at him and the mage nodded slightly. “Commander.”

“What are you doing?” Cullen asked, a hint of anger on the edge of his words.

The Tevinter wrapped his arms around his chest and shrugged, glancing away to the far corner of the tent. “I am... Hiding. I figured no one would look for me here. And had not expected you to return for some time.”

“I see.” Cullen murmured softly, unsure exactly how to approach the situation. He shifted foot to foot for a moment before sighing. “And why are you hiding, exactly?” He asked as he began to toe off his blood soaked boots.

“Mostly to be alone.”

Cullen kicked the discarded footwear to the side and began to unbuckle his cuirass. “Well, I’m afraid this is my tent. If you wish privacy, perhaps your own would be better suited?”

Dorian’s hands clutched at his upper arms and the mage shivered as if chilled. He didn’t answer Cullen’s sharp retort straight away, instead remaining huddled on the edge of the sleeping roll as the blonde removed his armor with a groan. When the Tevinter still hadn’t moved by the time Cullen stood in his shirt and pants, the ex-Templar considered the man.

“Dorian.” He began, curious to the glazed far off gaze upon his counterpart’s face.

“Would you have made me Tranquil?” The other asked suddenly.

“I - What?” Cullen asked, eyebrows drawing together in concern.

“Do you believe me weak? Susceptible to - to temptations?” Grey eyes shadowed by a furrowed brow looked up. There was fear plainly written in the creases marring Dorian’s face.

Cullen frowned, pondering the man’s questions. No one had spoken yet of what had taken place when they’d fallen into the Fade. His teeth worried the inside of his cheek as he considered his answer. There had been a time he would have absolutely argued for Dorian’s tranquility. The man was brash, far too intelligent for his own good, and had a cutting tongue.

But time had tempered Cullen’s anger and impetuous desire to see any mage in shackles. He knew the ultimate price of such enmity. And he had vowed to see more than just a mage’s abilities. To see them for the people they were.

Carefully he stepped towards the man and knelt down to sit on the bedroll next to the mage. “No. I do not believe you are any of those things.” He finally answered.

Dorian seemed to relax with his assurance. The man let out a shaky breath and nodded carefully, as if the motion would cause his head to roll from his shoulders if he moved too quickly. They sat in silence for a while, each absorbed in their own thoughts.

Cullen once more found himself reflecting on Kirkwall. Thinking of all the Rites of Tranquility he had personally overseen. Thinking of the pleading, helpless men and women. Remembering as their struggles against their binds would suddenly... Cease. How they would stare cow-eyed at the surrounding Templars afterward, awaiting their orders.

No. No he could not imagine Dorian in such a state. Not without feeling the crushing weight of guilt at all those who were.

“You may stay here. If you wish.” He murmured, fingers plucking at the bottom of his shirt. In part because the mage was right in that no one would think to look for him in Cullen’s tent. But also because the ex-Templar himself did not wish to be alone with only his memories for company.

A soft hiccuping sigh was his only answer and Cullen did his best to look the other way when the mage sniffed lightly, a hand sweeping quickly across his eyes. He removed his sweat and blood stained shirt before crawling to lay behind Dorian on the soft bedroll. He waited a moment, eyes lingering on the back of the mage’s head before he reached up and gently patted the other’s quivering shoulder.

Dorian turned his head, his face dark in the dim candlelight. A soft squeeze on the man’s shoulder and wordlessly the mage rolled to lay beside him. The solitary lit candle flickered out as it’s wick burned down to near nothing.

Cullen rolled to his side, grimacing when he disturbed a growing bruise upon his ribs. He looked at his companion, the other’s eyes glimmering in the darkness of the tent. The mage’s profile shadowed as he contemplated the ceiling of the tent. The dampened sound of the Charger’s mournful melodies lent a haunting air to the mage’s brooding.

They lay beside one another, Cullen observing his unexpected visitor. He wondered about the other’s question. What had made him ask such a thing. What could possibly have driven the normally sharp witted Altus to his tent to hide of all things.

“What happened? In the Fade?” He asked, genuinely curious.

“A great many things. I wouldn’t know exactly where to start.” Dorian’s voice was tight, as if he were walking along a razors edge and barely keeping upright. The man’s breath came in shallow pants, and Cullen waited. He could hear words gathering along the back of Dorian’s breath, could practically feel them gaining substance as the mage collected them together. The way one can feel the roll of thunder just before the crackling rumble. “Tell me, Commander, does a Lion feel fear?”

A sharp hiss as he drew in a breath between shuttered teeth. “Of course.”

“What are they? A Lion’s fears.” Dorian asked, his head turning to face Cullen in the darkness.

Lips moved silently as he considered the other’s question. The bared vulnerability in the Tevinter’s voice and actions eased any suspicion. His throat tightened as he examined the answers to the inquiry.

“I fear not being strong enough. Of failing again. Of not giving enough of - of -” His throat flexed painfully and Cullen released a heavy sigh. “That I am inadequate.”

Darkened eyes flickered across his face and Cullen lurched in surprise when a soft touch brushed across his brow, smoothing a stray lock of hair back. “Thank you.” Dorian hushed.

They lay side by side, each considering the other. The smell of battle permeated the air between them, but underneath it all the scent of Dorian’s perfume tinted the air. And Cullen drew a deep breath, trying to place the faint spiced scent lingering beneath. He didn’t jolt away when another brushing finger traced the outline of his face. And when Dorian rolled to his side and slid closer, body warmly pressing against his own, Cullen allowed his hand to rest gently upon the mage’s waist.

The need to be near a <i>living</I> being after the horror of battle was heavy between the two men and they in turn answered that desire for the other. The closeness helping to push away the open dread each man gave voice to only minutes prior. The human hunger for touch pulling them closer in their open vulnerability.

“You are the strongest man I know.” Dorian whispered, the words brushing faint across Cullen’s skin with their proximity. “Would you make me a promise?”

“What is it?”

“Promise you will not let me - that you - that I -”

Cullen lifted his hand from Dorian’s waist and pressed his fingertips against the other’s lips. “I need not make that promise. You are more than what you fear. You have proven so again and again.”

A slight nod and those dark, shining eyes squeezed shut as a shuddering breath shivered through the Tevinter. His hand fell to lay upon Dorian’s rib cage, squeezing gently in assurance. They remained that way, Dorian’s fingers curling along his neck, his own resting on the man’s side. Weary exhaustion and an easy solidarity between the two beckoned them into sleep. Arms weaving around each other, as if their closeness could keep the nightmares at bay. Even if just for a short time. Keeping each other safe from the fears that crept through the shadows, bidding time until morning saw them part.

#Adamant #DAI #Cullrian #cullen rutherford #Dorian Pavus #fears #angst and comfort

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mangobilorian · 4 years

Text

Novelty | (explicit) ii

Pairing: Mandalorian x Reader

Genre: Smut

Words: 4646

read chapter one or three

Cold. Maker, this is the coldest you’ve ever been in your life. The air bites at your skin, seeping past your flimsy tunic, the clothing rendered useless. You try not to shiver because frankly, you were being overdramatic, but the temperature is the only thing you could focus on. It was either the cold or the dead body at your feet.

Groaning, you close your eyes. Every time you convince yourself to not look, your eyes eventually wander over to the dead Devaronian. He looks so… normal. As if he were simply sleeping. Of course, the blaster shot through his forehead ruins the tranquility.

“Stop looking.” Your head whips up at the Mandalorian’s command. You try to apologize, but no words come out. He just sighs. It’s an annoyed sigh, you can tell. The slight shake of his head, the biting quality of his breath. It stung. But could you blame him? After all, you almost cost him the bounty.

Mando picks up Ras Drun carelessly, hoisting the dead weight over his shoulder before sealing him in some… frost machine. The bounty hunter then heads up the ladder, his feet the last thing you see before he completely ascends.

Maker, how were you so careless? It was by complete chance that you met the Mandalorian after the… escapade in your bedroom. It was, after all, a fairly small city, and you hung out at the loading ports often. But out of all the possible places you could be at, you had managed to walk right in front of the Mandalorian’s ship just as a shoot-out began. Yes. A shoot out. Mando was the only one issued Ras Drun’s tracking fob and chain code, but he definitely was not the only person after the Devaronian. In fact, over a dozen trained people tracked Ras Drun to your city in the hopes of being the one to blast his head off. Unfortunately for them, Mando didn’t take his bounties personally. While everyone scrambled to have some heroic revenge on the criminal, Mando simply shot him straight blank then proceeded to shoot everyone else who blocked the way to his ship.

One of those people, however, was you. Scared shitless, you had curled into a ball by the closest object (a medium sized crate), and tried to avoid blaster fire. Hopefully, you’d get out of the situation unharmed with a story to tell your parents. But the Mandalorian had other plans. When he saw your trembling, pathetic form, he almost stopped in surprise. When others saw that he wasn’t trying to kill you, they took it upon themselves to aim your way. So Mando hauled you up, his armor blocking the blaster fire, and shoved Ras Drun’s body into your hands.

“Carry him while I get us out of here,” he had shouted, already taking aim and firing. Muted, you began to drag the body to what you assumed was his ship. The fighting didn’t stop until the ramp closed, the ding of blaster fire ringing against the metal. Mando had the ship flying in what felt like seconds.

And the body of a dead man lay at your feet. Well, it did until Mando froze it. You should be excited right now. At least, that’s what you're telling yourself. You shouldn’t care about the criminal Mando killed, especially since you told him Drun’s information yourself. And you’re finally on a ship for the first time in your life. One step closer to tracing your brother’s steps. The awful brothel girls are gone, the dreariness of that tavern will bore you no more, and the bedroom where you had your first kiss will never remind you of that amazing bounty hunter again. Except… your parents might not see their only remaining child, and you’re now flying through space in said bounty hunter’s ship.

Gritting your teeth, you rub your arms together, trying to generate some warmth at least. You stand up, knees cracking at being seated for what felt like hours when in reality you’ve only been in hyperspace for twenty minutes max. As you turn to the side, you let out a scream. Startled, you slap a hand over your mouth as the Mandalorian stares at you. Maker, how can someone be so silent when they climb down a ladder? Especially in a full suit of armor?

“Thank you for saving me,” you say. No response. Instead, he tosses you a shock blanket which you almost drop in embarrassment. “I… thank you again.” He grunts then heads back to what you assume is the cockpit. Alone again. After a few minutes of standing dumbly, you sit down. No use in angering the Mandalorian if you trifled through his stuff. You close your eyes, willing yourself to sleep. Surprisingly, your fatigue catches up, and you nestle deeper into the floor, already forgetting the Devaronian.

*****

A solid nudge pushes on your shin. You groan, huddling deeper into the blanket.

“Get. Up.” A harsh voice commands, the modulator morphing his words.

Eyes flashing wide, you sit up and see the Mandalorian’s knees. Hastily, you scramble to your feet, not daring to look at his head.

“We’ve just landed on Catonica. Canto Bight.” You nod, head still fuzzy from sleep.

“When will I go back home?” He releases a short sigh.

“Not for a while.” He turns to walk away, but foolishly you grab his arm to stop him. Immediately, he yanks his arm out of your grasp and clutches the base of your throat. Not hard enough to cut off your breathing, but still strong enough to make you wheeze. Without a doubt, he could see the faded purple and red marks littering your neck. The marks he left a week earlier. Before, your hair could hide the evidence but standing in a close proximity made the bruises all too clear. He loosens his grip then lets go.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Could you teach me to fly?” You both say simultaneously.

“I- what? Why do you want to fly?” For the first time, you see the Mandalorian confused. You don’t know how to explain it to him. Why do you want to fly? In simple terms: to get off your planet, trace your brother’s steps, and be more than your parents’ financial advisor. You’ve accomplished one of those goals already, but how do you explain the rest? You’d need to launch into your ‘tragic’ backstory for that, a story that would probably bore the Mandalorian.

“Because… it’s always been my dream to be a pilot. At the very least, I wanted to get off my planet. Thanks to you, I’ve done that. But,” you gulp, eyes averted, “I still want to know how to fly. If you’d teach me, I’d be very grateful.” A minute passes with no response.

“No. I won’t teach you.” He pauses as if he were about to say more, his chest piece rising with another breath. But he simply turns and heads to a cabinet. He opens it to reveal a multitude of weapons. Stars, it was completely excessive to have that many weapons, right? He doesn’t even have enough space on his body to carry that much.

The Mandalorian takes his pick before closing and locking his armory. He pats himself down like he’s double-checking everything then walks to the exit ramp.

“Stay here. I’ll be back in a few hours. Here,” he says as he throws a comlink at you. “Only use it for emergencies.” The door opens with a hiss, and he steps onto the ramp. Without another word, he exits the ship, the ramp closing right after.

Alone. You were alone on the Mandalorian’s ship with nothing to do. At least you weren’t cold anymore. Huffing, you look around. You didn’t get to really observe the interior of the ship. At least you knew where the weapons and the weird freezing capsules were. In the corner was a small cot. Then there were the stairs. Tentatively, you look behind you to ensure that the bounty hunter wasn’t secretly there before climbing up on shaky legs.

You enter a small room with a door at the end. Probably the cockpit. With careful steps, you nudge the door open and see the controls of the ship. There were three chairs, many lights for the console, and giant windows. From here, all you could see was the gray walls of the port bay Mando had parked at. You could only imagine the view if you looked out while in hyperspace.

The temptation to sit in the main chair and play pretend was strong. The idea made you giddy, eager to act like a pilot. But the thought of accidentally pressing a button and ruining the ship sent a shiver up your spine. With a sigh, you leave the cockpit in search of cleaning supplies. It was the least you could do.

*****

The Mandalorian was tired. With absolutely no leads on his bounty, he had to trudge back to the Razor Crest through the flashy casino city. He did not like Canto Bight, and Canto Bight didn’t like him. Under the bright lights, his dirty armor seemed more prominent. People stepped out of his way, and he wasn’t stopped despite being strapped with guns. They understood his purpose there. Mando couldn’t help the frustration that settled in his gut. He didn’t want to stay on Catonica for too long. Only after catching the fourth and final bounty could he return to Nevarro and receive payment.

His failure at getting a lead only made him jittery. And in a blitzy city like Canto Bight, he couldn’t simply find criminals to use as target practice. His bones were tired, but stars, he was restless.

Mando entered the Razor Crest to see spots of blood on the floor. Almost unnoticeable, but he knew what to look for. What the fuck happened? He hurried further to see you wrapping a bandage around your hand, a med pack open at your side.

“What did you do.”

“Oh...I tried to clean the ship, but my hand got caught on a sharp piece of metal. Just fixing myself off, don’t worry.” You smile sheepishly.

“I’m not worried.” Mando observes the way your smile falters, your blink of surprise, and the shift of your face into neutrality. Fuck. He was too tired to deal with placating your emotions right now. He rifles through the med pack and throws a bacta patch at your lap.

“Thank you,” you mutter but don’t pick up the patch. Maker, he was stupid. Why would you need a bacta patch if you already bandaged yourself? He wasn’t thinking clearly. Instead, all he could think about were the smattering of hickeys lining your throat haphazardly. He knew that if he were to pull your shirt’s neckline down, there’d be even more bruises around your chest. Damn it. All his earlier frustrations went right to his groin the second he laid eyes on your neck. He had to get away from you. But there was nowhere to go on his ship. Maybe the cockpit? He walked towards the ladder but stopped at your voice.

“Mando…? I- I’m really sorry if I’ve offended you. I know that I made life harder for you since you have to deal with me. I never should have been by your ship o-or asked you to teach me to fly,” you ramble on, voice shaky, “And I’m really s-s-sorry about last week. I understand if you think it was a mistake. If you want, you can drop me off at some other p-planet. I’m sure I can find my way back home. And-”

Mando presses a gloved finger to your lips. He sees the tears gathering at your bottom lash lines, the slight tremble of your lips, the curve of your throat straining to contain your emotions.

“It’s… alright. My life has always been hard. And… last week wasn’t a mistake.”

“What? Mand--” he holds up a hand to silence you.

“Actually, I wouldn’t mind if we could have a repeat.” Maker, the breath felt like it was knocked out of your chest. He wouldn’t mind? What’s that supposed to mean? Blood rushes to your head. As for Mando… his blood rushes elsewhere.

He goes through the med pack again, picking up thick bandages. Carefully, he positions them over your eyes, giving you enough time to back away. But you don’t. He leads you to the edge of his cot, the action similar to what happened a week prior.

“I’ll be back,” he whispered through the modulator before leaving to power down all the machines in the hull. After the ship is crowded in darkness, he makes his way back to you, and stands there, simply observing you. Your ankles are crossed, hands folded together in anticipation. He takes off his helmet, the locking mechanism hissing, and sets it down by your feet. He leans in, your warm, shaky breath on his face. Mando slowly captures your lips with his, a small moan escaping your mouth.

Stars, kissing you always felt good. Your mouth was so pliant under his, willing to do whatever he wanted. He places his hands on your hips as you entangle yours in his hair. You were so soft for him, so pretty, so willing .

The longer he kissed you, the more delirious you felt. You jolt when his hands grip your waist then pull you towards him, back arching while your pelvis is that much closer to his. He tugs on your bottom lip with his teeth, biting hard enough to make you wince. His tongue gently runs across the spot where he bit you.

You tilt your head back for some air, the sound of your combined breathing heavy in the silence. With no sense of sight, everything else becomes so much more amplified. The smell of his armor and sweat overlap with the crippling taste of his mouth on yours. Your teeth knock together when he dives back in for another kiss, the slight pain causing you to pull harder at his hair.

You try to wrap a leg around his waist but a hand stops you.

“No,” he rasps. His voice is much fuller, deeper, and undoubtedly sexier without the damn modulator. The hands on your hips travel downward, igniting fire on your thighs. They pull at the flesh there, pinching and prodding, while Mando’s tongue enters your mouth. Kriffing hell, this felt so good . If last week had been a dream, today was heaven. His tongue runs over your teeth before swirling around yours. Since when has the Mandalorian been so good at making out? He separates from you, head dipping down to your neck, no doubt to put more bruises there.

The kisses, the touches, and the caresses filled your head with a buzz. A euphoric, all-encompassing, addicted buzz. All your life, you’ve never felt wanted physically. Always in the shadow of the much prettier, more experienced girls working around you, it was hard to not feel inadequate. The quiver in your voice at confrontation, your hiding behind loose clothes were all plain manifestations of your insecurities.

Everyone thought you didn’t want attention, but they were dead wrong . Maker, you want attention as much as the next person, maybe more so. You ached to feel wanted, especially as a woman. To have caught the eyes of a Mandalorian, one as strong as the man currently kissing your neck, filled you with pride. And an immense urge to show said Mandalorian just how much you could help him. As inexperienced as you were, you would at least show him your enthusiasm.

Before you could notice, one of Mando’s hands reached your belt. Fumbling with it, you stop him, thumb pressed against his wrist.

“M-mando,” you gasp, his teeth nipping at your collarbone, fingers still trying to take off your belt. “Mando s-stop.” He clearly doesn’t hear you, and succeeds in unbuckling you. “Mando stop!” As if he were burnt, the bounty hunter jerks away, putting at least a feet between you two. You almost whine at the loss of his warmth.

“I-I’m sorry. I should have asked if that was okay. I didn’t kn-,” he cuts off when you hook a leg around his waist. Finally. Tugging at his wrist, he almost collapses on top of you, but stops his fall with a hand on the cot. “What are you doing?”

“Mando, you don’t need to be sorry,” you whisper. “I just… want to show you my thanks right now.” Tentatively, you try to plant a kiss on the column of his neck, but miss and land on his cheek instead.

“How will you do that?” His breathing increases slightly, the thought making your head pound.

“Can I… do this?” You slowly drag your free hand down to the bounty hunter’s waist, gripping at muscle there. “And this…,” your fingertips graze over the tops of his thighs, curving inwards. “What about this?” Gently, you reach out to cup the bulge in his pants. You barely touch it before the Mandalorian grips your hand in his. Tightly.

“I don’t think you know what you’re getting into,” he rasps.

“I know I’m clueless about this stuff. But… I can learn. Please, Mando, will you let me learn?” He sighs, the defeated burst of air answering your question.

“This was supposed to be about you. Not me.”

“Oh, Mando... You’ve done so much for me. Let me repay you? Let me solve your problem.” Without warning, your hand escapes Mando’s, reaches out to his pants, and squeezes at the hardness there. Mando curses at your boldness, but you're stunned. Stars, he is hard as steel.

“Still willing to help me?” His head buries into your neck, not kissing or biting. Is he… snuggling against you? No matter, you have another thing to address.

“Of course,” you purr, attempting to sound sexy, but Mando just chuckles. Face reddening, you reach into his pants. Your fingers fumble around but with Mando’s help, you manage to get his pants down by a few inches. The breathing in your neck only increases, and with that burst of confidence, you grasp him gently.

Maker, he was… hard but warm. Really kriffing warm. In awe, you simply run a finger down a prominent vein.

“Maker, grip harder. ” You wrap your whole hand around his cock, squeezing as tight as you can. “Fuck, stop. Not that hard. Like this.” He places his hand over yours, then loosens his grip so you can imitate his pressure. He slowly guides your hand up to the base of his cock then down to the very tip. He leads you through that rhythm before letting go. The tip of him is wet with some sort of substance, so you gather it in your fingers.

“Shitttt... yeah. Go faster.” You try to increase the speed of your hand, but there isn’t enough lubrication.

“You’re too dry,” you complain. He’s hard as fuck, yes, but still a little dry.

“Spit in your hand,” he groans.

“What? Why-”

“Just do it,” he snarls, hips thrusting into your grasp. You release him, then spit into your palm. Maker, this seems a little gross, but if it brings Mando pleasure, you’ll do it. When you grip him again, the extra lubrication makes it so much easier to glide up and down his shaft.

As you keep up your pace, the bounty hunter steadies your hand, and begins to thrust into your fist. Fast. Stars, he’s going really fast. The warmth, the hardness, the enthusiasm send sparks to your groin. Even though Mando was the one getting a handjob, you felt like the one spiralling into pleasure.

“M-Mando?” He grunts in response, mind too focused on your small, tight grip. “Do you want to… put it in my mouth?” He stills completely. Fuck. Did you say the wrong thing?

“You really want that?”

“Yes… please, Mando,” you whine, “ I really want to suck-” he jerks away from your hand then firmly grips your shoulders. He tugs you off the cot and onto your knees, your back arching instinctively. Once your knees touch the cold floor, you try to tug his pants down completely, but the armor covering his thighs stops you. Almost annoyed, Mando rips the armor off, the sound of metal clashing the floor making you cringe. You pull his pants down as far as they can go and blindly reach up his thighs.

Impatient, the bounty hunter lays his palm on the top of your head, leading you closer to him. After feeling around, you finally grip his pulsing cock, and Mando sighs at the sensation. A sense of dread begins to fill your stomach: a heavy, weighted feeling. Stars, why were you getting nervous now ? This is what you asked for, right? But your lack of experience makes you question just how well you can do this. Before today you’ve never even seen a naked man, much less have your mouth inches away from a hard cock. You really don’t know what you’re doing.

Before you can back away, Mando seems to sense your nervousness. He leans down to gently cup your face, his thumb tracing circles on your cheek.

“It’s ok if you want to stop.” Sniffling, you shake your head then realize that he can’t even see you.

“It’s not that. It’s just… I don’t know if I can make you feel good.” The both of you stay silent.

“Here,” he says as his thumb caresses your bottom lip, “I can teach you.” He pries your lips apart, and his thumb enters your mouth. His finger slides on the top of your teeth, and the rest of his hand widens your mouth. “Ready?” You moan in confirmation.

“Keep your mouth open.” He takes his thumb out and stands up straight. With a nudge from him, you slowly wrap your lips around the tip of his cock. Your mouth widens the deeper you take him until he’s almost to the back of your throat. You choke at the intrusion, and almost pull back all the way, but a reassuring hand holds the back of your head in place.

“Breathe through your nose. Yeah, like that.” You breathe in and out, adjusting to the feeling and weight in your mouth. And the taste. Maker, the taste is… something else. A little bitter and a little salty, you can almost taste the sweat the bounty hunter has built up over the long day. It did not taste as good as you had fantasized, but what else can you expect from someone with no experience? After a full minute of just… keeping the Mandalorian’s dick in your mouth, he begins to get irritated. He shifts his weight around, waiting for you to do something.

“Use your hands, pretty girl. Like before.” You hum in response, and begin to grip at the areas your mouth couldn’t reach. Mando controls your head to bob at a steady pace. With gasp, you break off and spit into your hand before connecting your mouth to his cock, fingers moving at a faster pace. This is what he wanted, right? He moans at your increased fervor, and you mentally high-five yourself at the success.

“Tongue. U-use your tongue,” he groans. You tentatively run your tongue on the underside of him, up and down. “Yeah. Swirl around the-- fuck-- yes, just like that. Around the tip.”

Emboldened, you trace his tip with your tongue, and the Mandalorian increases his grip on your hair. On instinct, you hollow out your cheeks, forming a sort of suction, and Mando curses.

You try to not get too messy, but your gaping mouth causes drool to slide down your chin. Maker, who knew that blowjobs were so messy? However, the increased lubrication makes it even easier to slide down the bounty hunter’s cock. A thought crosses your mind, and you use a free hand to cup one of Mando’s balls.

He jerks away, almost ripping your hair. You whine at the slight pain.

“Sorry. R-really sensitive there.” You loosen your grip on him, and store that information for later. For now, you simply squeeze him gently and pull downwards. Mando seems to melt on the spot, his moans filling the room. The sound goes straight to your neglected pussy. You don’t mind blowing Mando when you get to hear him like that .

As you play with his balls, you still bob your head on his cock, but the ache in your jaw becomes more prominent. How long were you supposed to do this? It’s amazing to see him like this and be the reason behind it, but he has so much stamina . Maybe if you go faster, it’ll end sooner.

You speed up, mouth running up and down Mando’s slick shaft, ignoring the pain in your jaw. Your increased pace makes you gag more often, not the most appealing sound. But to Mando, it seemed like the sexiest thing he’s ever heard. But the Mandalorian seems to sense your discomfort, so he pulls your head away.

“Just hands for now.” You release his balls in favor of stroking him. Like before, your hand eventually stills so he could thrust into your fist. Unlike before, he’s so much wetter . He’s fucking leaking.

He continues to blurt out obscenities while he uses your hands to pleasure himself. You clench your thighs at the thought. Your tongue still tastes a little bitter, but you’re used to it now. In fact, the idea that you even tasted the Mandalorian’s cock arouses you like nothing else.

Somehow, you can sense when Mando is close. It’s in the way his breathing becomes heavier, the faster pace, and harder grip on your hair.

“Can I-- kriff-- can I cum in your mouth, pretty girl?”

“Yes pleeeease,” you gasp. He sticks the tip in your mouth, then proceeds to stroke himself furiously. Your hands take purchase on his thighs, massaging at the muscles there. You brace yourself for some sort of sign that he’s reaching his climax. Out of nowhere, Mando releases a long groan, and a salty taste hits your tongue.

You cringe instantly at the taste but don’t pull back. Instead, you take more of him in, holding him in your mouth. After he’s done, he begins to pull away, but you stop him. You swallow the liquid in your mouth, gulping down. Mando curses at the feeling. When he tries to pull out again, you let him. Cool air replaces the warmth Mando provided, the drool on your face already beginning to dry.

“Did you really swallow?” You give a noise of confirmation.”Kriffing hell. You’re so good for me. Here,” he reaches down to grab your arms, and pulls you up. Your knees give a pop as they straighten. Without a doubt, they’ll be bruised. He guides you to sit down on the cot.

“My turn,” he says, dropping to his knees. But a yawn stops him.

“Sorry… I’m just really tired. M-maybe next time?” You lay down all the way, maneuvering yourself so your entire body is stretched across the bed. With the ache between your legs, you’d usually be too high strung to sleep.Yes, it’ll be your second nap, but it’s been a long day, and exhaustion caught up to you again.

Mando stands back up and just stares at the darkness. He contemplates turning the lights on, but a soft snore from you discourages him. Grunting, he tugs his pants back on, and feels around the floor for his helmet. Grasped in hand, the helmet swings around as he walks to the ‘fresher. He could really use a shower. Before he enters, he turns around, the ‘fresher light illuminating you. Next time.

Next time, it’ll be his turn.

#mandalorian x reader #mandalorian x reader smut #mandalorian #mandalorian x you #star wars fanfiction #a way out

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anteroom-of-death · 4 years

Text

Life, For Dummies p4

a/n: any one out here wilding? i’m just vibing and writing comes when you ave zero braincells left...

Waking up was a struggle, you’d never slept that deeply or that well. The combination between a long, hot shower and Earth-shattering sex made it all too easy to sleep. You were so, so sore, but it was good. You admitted you hadn’t been fucked like that, heavens, at all if not for a long while. You looked at the large mirror across from your bed, lifting up your shirt. You had a few book-related bruises.

Stretching and feeling out the fact that you obviously didn’t have your sea legs yet. Your knees and thighs were wobbling and weak.

Then you caught it in the reflection. The collar- your collar. You half- thought it was just a fever dream. But it was real, and it’s weight was light but suddenly very noticable. The ring pressed against your larynx, the bow at the back felt oddly graceful as you flexed your neck to get a better look.

You finally allowed yourself to cry- this was what dreams were made of. (hey now, hey now!) You were exhausted already, you were happy. You felt light years away from where you were before the Master whisked you away. Hell, the last time you saw the Doctor seemed just a memory.

So much had changed. You felt completely different. Yes, you had all your same traits, likes and dislikes. But a week with the Master? Chaotic, mind blowing, devastating, beautiful, enriching and most of all, beyond your wildest dreams and even your deepest darkest wishes.

You definitely were different. The collar around your throat and the bruises and sore, stiff muscles proved you were. Not only were you having a tea party with the Devil, but you were the Devil’s whore.

It was wicked, and all too amazing. He treated you well for the most part. Very well. For only knowing you a week, he seemed to harbor no true ill will.

You got dressed and wracked your brain, reconciling everything finally and putting thoughts in boxes where they needed to go. It was slow, but needed. And time really did not matter anymore. You splashed yourself with cold water from the sink and prepared yourself mentally for outside your solitary walls. You had no clue what was waiting outside and you needed to put yourself out of any more revieries that might pop up. You had a lot of thoughts, and a lot of places to add up. Obviously, pro and con lists were out of the questions these days.

You supposed if this was a standard exchange of power, that rules and limits would be in place, but there was already the imbalance of aliens with knowledge of all of history, time travel, and space. Humans were simpler and had an equal footing. Therefore it was always up for debate.

You were halfway through finishing your daily SPF and thought about what if’s. Where was this all going? You couldn’t ask, obviously. He made it all up as he went along as much, if not more than the Doctor.

Poor Doctor, you allowed yourself to think, picks you up from your mundane routine only for you to better fit in with her best enemy.

Her loss, his gain.

Things added up, morals and ethics wise. The Doctor could be just as callous and just as insane, yet hid behind the greater good. She was a spoonful of sugar whereas he was castor oil. Twin sides of a coin…

You shook yourself from these thoughts. Too much to process in one morning for you, especially without caffeine to mainline.

You finished up and made your way out after stretching and taking a few excedrin you found rattling around the medicine chest. This TARDIS was incredibly intuitive and even materialised all your usual products you used. Or maybe the Master read your mind and supplied them. Either way, it was a big help…

You made your way out and sat down to an already piping hot mug of coffee and a tinkering Master. Your heart and stomach gave a flutter. You rolled your eyes at your over-eagerness.

“You’re finally up, I was worried that I’d have to physically go in there…”

You sloshed into yourself, “How long was I actually asleep?”

“19 hours. I think that qualifies as a coma with you humans.”

“I obviously needed to sleep.” You talked into your coffee mug. It tasted good. Strong, a little crunchy, very much the perfect cup you didn’t have to add anything to.

“Mmn, you made this?” You asked, pointing to the mug held loft in your hand.

“Of course, I know how to make coffee, spent years on the Outback of Australia, I got bored, I know how to be perfect at everything…”

“Yeah, sure, perfect at everything.” You rolled eyes again, this time at him.

“I am the Master.”

“Alright, alright.” You gave a concessional hand. You stared into your coffee and contemplated breakfast. You weren’t usually a big fan of eating in the morning, but all things considered you scraped yourself away from the coffee and started looking through the cupboards to see if anything was appealing to you in the moment. Nothing seemed terribly tasty so you just grabbed a bowl of random cereal and some sort of liquid you assumed was oat milk by the scent.

You felt his eyes studying your back the entire time, you didn’t know if it was in an observational manner or just perversely taking a peek at your backside.

“You like the show?” You demanded jokingly.

“Of course, pet…” He leaned back and placed the device he had down. It was a long silver and gold rod with three prongs at the tip. “I see my pretty little pet has found her pretty little treat.” He went over and flipped a strand of your hair and fingered the collar at your neck before stroking at your sternum. He smiled down and flexed his lips open. The lighting made his teeth glitter dangerously.

The dim lighting really brought out a beautiful tone to his lips. You tried to return to your cereal, but you pecked him on the cheek and steered yourself to a seated position. Temptation could take a temporary back burner. You had to get some semblance of nutrition into you.

He joined you at the table.

“I was thinking of a few ideas, but I wanted your input.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really, I can more than enough make my own choices, but to spice it up, why not get some feedback? What chaos shall be wrought today?” He bent over the table, disregarding the personal space needed to eat a bowl of cereal and let actual brain-processing happen.

“What all did you have in mind?” You scooted back infinitesimally and tried to finish breakfast quickly.

He quickly pointed to some post-it notes, “Here’s the name of an intergalactic crime boss who owes me a few favors, figured we could go and rough him up until he squeals, giving me the powerful weaponry we all know he has. Or, here’s a plan to visit a certain set of pepper pots and make some deals that most definitely will backfire, but it would be great fun to see them get frustrated and deny the fact that they can get frustrated. Or I was thinking of visiting Earth and teasing Torchwood and UNIT around early 2000’s Cardiff, you know, for funsies. Oh! What if we went back to Raxacoricofallapatorius and destroyed their nursery?” He was spinning around and fluttering between notebooks and sketches including one where he was strangling a person in an army uniform and a handlebar moustache.

“Jesus, how fast does your brain go?” You massage your temples…

“Too much? Huh? What would you suggest then?” He pouted, placing a hand at his hip and jutting it out.

“Why don’t we just start slow and nothing Earthly? Crime boss seem good? Simple even…” You slurped the milk off the spoon, “But lemme finish Breakfast first!” Pointing it at him, “Slow your roll. Savor the day. Do you Time Lords even sleep?”

“Rarely.”

“Wow, that explains so much.”

He querched an eyebrow, “And what would that be, love?” The love felt oddly formal, not like being called a pet.

“I’ve only met two of you, mind, so I might be generalizing...but the high energy. Like... “ You pressed your fingertips together, “Napping? Don’t you enjoy finding a good place to sleep during the day and just sleeping and enjoying the restfulness and sensations of the sun through a window and maybe a breeze if you open it a bit.”

“No, I’d love to try it, sounds pleasurable…”

“And you said that you were the Master of Everything.” You false-scandalized then laughed, cupping his face and smiling at him. It was great. He really made you laugh in one of those cheesy, stupid ways.

“I could punish you for talking down to your Owner…” He teased right back.

“Oooh...dirty.” You gave a salacious wink.

You could feel the “You have no idea…” radiating from his pores.

“Come along, my pet…” He pulled you from the table and over to the console, “We got a crime boss to torture…”

He punched in the coordinates and grabbed his jacket, then pulled you out the door…

You were toasting your success in the newly acquired weapons-room that now belonged to, as he poured you a little more champagne.

You oddly enjoyed helping torturing the poor sap. He squirmed and you enjoyed him blanching from pain.

The machine you saw him working on was a laser screw-driver? And he gave it to you as he was attaching some high tech hand-cuffs to the man. He told you that the controls were intuitive and to “give it a whirl...see how that grabs you…” Watching the gross little green man scream and shake around, flushing and pleading- felt good. Felt powerful. It brought you a tingle of pleasure and you could see why the Master was fond of it. The device felt good in your hand and after the second whorl of your wrist, it felt like a natural extension. It felt right to hold it in your hand and be able to grasp such power.

A bit of sadism? Then champagne? And the thrill of a steal? All felt like an adrenaline rush.

What were you becoming?

A shred of our conscience echoed about the fact that you, obviously, had to kill him, something the Master allowed you to turn into him and avert your eyes as he shrunk his body and flicked it into a drainage gate. He knew your limits and didn’t go past what he knew you could currently take. You grimaced a bit as you heard a tiny clink. That was a tad harsh.

All in all, a busy day...

He was busy cataloging and cooing at all the tech he had access to his as he put it “fun, evil plans”...

It was hilarious and so endearing to watch. He was like a kid in a candy shop. Soft, feral, incorrigible.

You determined that a small nap whilst tipsy and moonstruck was a great gift to yourself. You felt the collar and played idly with the diamond heart until you blacked out.

You woke up to him watching you. “One of those fabulous little naps you talked of?” He stroked your thigh and massaged the fabric of your shorts. You pulled yourself up and propped yourself up on your elbows and coyly smiled, “Care to join me?” You winked, “Take a walk on the wild side. It’s a real treat. After that...who knows?” You teased him.

He considered it and then loosened the buttons, and took off his jacket before laying it down and rolling up his sleeves. He laid down and you offered him to slide up to you. He obliged stiffly but soonly gave in. You spotted his chest hair and stared at it for a moment. You then acted, you traced it, mildly twirling your finger in its mass, he shuddered and then left you to continue. You laid down your head on his chest and felt his hearts pounding between two different beats.

He murmured, “Keep the screwdriver. A little gift. From me to you…” You felt his hearts hitch a bit.

Sighing, you told him, “Relax." You let out a sleepy little moan. You embraced the warmth of his body and soothing echoing in his chest like a whitenoise machine. "You're doing excellent.." The Master eased up and you felt yourself ease up and drift off. You dreamt of falling through water and waves and the scent of fires and musk. You could feel a pair of eyes watching you, but they felt nonjudgmental, just guiding you deeper down. Deeper under the spell of sleep and total darkness.

#personal #i wrote this #dhawan!master #dhawan!master x reader #the master #master x reader #reader insert #doctor who self insert fiction #fanfic #sacha dhawan

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ivisite · 4 years

Note

For the drabbles game, could you do 1 please?

I’m sorry it took so long! I had a good idea for this one but I’m not at all this intimidating so I had to try and find some ~ bad bitch vibe ~ music and that was also hard because my music, while inclusive is as edgy as cotton candy OTL

#1. “ She never misses, she never quits, and never loses. If you’re alive, it’s because she wants you alive.”

Maven Black-Briar stood poised at the entrance of her home, watching everyone and everything closely so not to miss anything. She was a terribly intimidating woman, just as graceful as she was calculative. She knew everything that went on in Riften from the petty gossip of the inns to the underground network of shady dealings and whom was involved in them. Every detail of the city was stored and tucked away in her mental library for later use and she made sure not to let any bit of information go without heeding it’s usefulness. Maven was a powerful woman, for sure. She never misses, she never quits and she most certainly never loses. If by chance you find yourself alive within a realm of her own, it’s because she wants to alive or at least needs you to be for the time being.

While he son struggled to lock their home up for the day, she rolled her eyes and looked out to the marketplace. It was brimming with citizens being heckled by merchants but one stall in particular always kept her interest. Having a fancy to take a stroll over, she left her son to fumble with the key and made her way down the boardwalk.

She kept her foot in the most important and prominent peoples’ doors, using them just as much, if not more than they used her. Power and respect were things that she craved and with all of her gains within Riften and even the Empire, she intended on ruling what she controlled with an iron fist. As she passed vendors and citizens, people stepped aside, watching as she passed by and whispering among themselves. A cocky smile would make its way across her mouth, tugging at the corners until she re-composed herself. She had an image to keep and if someone were to see her true pride showing through, past her cold facade, she would have ends to tie up and who has time for that?

En route to one stall in particular, she kept her chin high as she walked through the crowd. People were either smart enough to step aside or were pushed past via careful footing and a firm shouldering. Maven had plenty of prominent friends in high places, but she made she to keep friends in low places, too. After all, getting dirty deeds handled best suited allies of lesser standing and Maven had a lot of dirty deeds show up on her desk.

“Brynjolf, this is just another scam. What are you going on about now?” A Dunmer vendor said, leaning against the wood of his own stall. The red headed man in question across the way shot him a charismatic smile in return.

“A scam?! I’m offended, Brand-Shei.” Brynjolf cooed, winking to a gaggle of older women that were walking past his stall. He was notorious for being one of the most charming if not questionable men in the entire marketplace, just as quick to pickpocket you as he would be to cut you a deal on one of his magic elixirs. He was above the law, it would have seemed and Maven was always impressed by the younger man.

While he bartered and tried to talk his way into selling his wares, Maven watched closely from the back of the growing crowd. He was apart of a guild that had all sorts of connections in all the darkest places and was poised to take over whenever the current master stepped down. Mercer, the current guildmaster was her true business partner in under-the-table type work, but she always had more interest in Brynjolf, Mercer’s protege. Orphaned after his family and farm in the Rift countryside were burned to the ground by wandering highwaymen, he made his way to Riften, living off the streets and his own smarts until his persistence landed him a place in the thieves guild under the sewers. No older than fourteen, stubble just sprouting on his chin, Brynjolf made his way through the ranks rather quickly, impressing not only the senior members but also Maven. She’d kept an eye on him since as long as she could remember and had plans for him, unbeknownst to the dashing thief.

Where Mercer failed her, she looked forward to the potential of the future that likely sat on Brynjolf’s shoulders. Given the right chances and opportunities, he could be greater than he or the guild could ever imagine and Maven would be sitting pretty on the throne above ground, running Riften under the jarls nose and the throne of the underground world with the guild as her headquarters and pawns. She had no interest in him herself and wasn’t concerned of matters of the heart in regards to marriage. With enough pressure and temptation of power, she looked to her daughter Ingun as a rung on the chain between Maven and having even more power. Ingun wasn’t interested in anything other than her potions, something that disappointed Maven, but when the moment was right she intended on making moves to have her married to Brynjolf. Love or interest aside, she wanted more power and with enough persuasions and threats if need be, she would have her way and guarantee herself a seat of power in the black-market of Tamriel.

A smirk made its way across her mouth subtly at the thought. She had everything planned out right down to the very fine print. Watching now, she could have laughed, a wicked lump of humor forming in her throat only to be halted at the sound of another voice. She’d stopped paying mind to the marketplace but knew all too well the person the voice belonged to.

“-Can’t believe you lot are passing up the chance to at least sample this man’s elixir. I admit I was cautious at first, too, but after one sip I felt invigorated. I swear I could have breathed fire."

The crowd watched with a sudden curiosity as another red head approached the stall, the owner, too, seemingly surprised by the intruder. Maven watched as the biggest threat to her plans made her way over and found herself a spot in the stall next to Brynjolf. She was a lovely woman, short for a Nord but with all the presence of one if not more so to make up for the height. She’d been a problem in days passed but was increasingly becoming a larger one in recent weeks. Saoirse was powerful enough with her social skills and bartering abilities but now that she was supposed to be some great dragonborn, a hero among mortals, she posed an even bigger threat to Maven. While the marketplace filled with curious mumbles and a few braver souls stepping forward to the stall for a closer look, Maven knitted her brows in disdain.

The two worked together like cogs in a machine, dancing around the art of bartering with the ease of breathing. To the untrained eye, they seemed like good business partners but to Maven it was far more than that. She could see all the subtle smiles and glances the two passed to each other when they thought no one was watching, how her end-game pawn Brynjolf found himself comfortable with the shorter woman, touching her shoulder or pressing himself against her a bit too much when reaching over her. He was enamored with the dragonborn, as he’d always been and it didn’t fit into the greater plan Maven had in mind.

The dragonborn being Saoirse made things difficult. Saoirse was a woman of a respectable nature, fond of making money and arguably superior than most at doing so. Her childhood spent traveling with Khajiit caravans, learning and watching as they used their masterful bartering skills and stealth to make riches beyond what the average person could imagine. She was potentially a powerful rival to Maven and while the younger woman seemed to be unaware of it, Maven was far too aware of what the potential her coming back spelled out. With full force in the guild, member or merely paying off a debt aside, Saoirse had the most prominent members of the guild and their allies on her side and that made Maven’s skin crawl. She was a rival for power without even knowing it and that simply added to Maven’s disdain.

Fist clenched under the too long sleeve of her fine dress robes, Maven composed herself and stepped forward, breaking through the crowd with her shoulders set firmly back and her chest forward. She had the walk of a queen, a terribly elegant and deadly sway that parted the crowd of people before her like waves against a cliff. She was razor sharp in her gaze and aura and set her eyes on the two red heads at the stall ahead. Brynjolf seemed more aware of situation than Saoirse, but Maven wasn’t surprised. His intelligence might be wavering but he was smart enough to lessen his presence and acknowledge greatness when it approached. His accomplice wasn’t nearly as intimidated, simply raising her brow at the sight of Maven and giving her an bored look.

"Brynjolf, good day.” Maven began, nodding to the Nord male. She let her eyes glance to Saoirse next to him, hoping the closer proximity would threaten the younger woman. It was to no avail, however.

“Dragonborn.“ She nearly scoffed.

"Black-Briar.” Saoirse retorted, switching weight between legs. The two shared an intense moment of silence before Brynjolf cleared his throat. He knew better than to get between two sabre cats so instead he changed the subject, stepping forward with a smile. He subtly pushed Saoirse behind him, unsure of what she would say if Maven prompted the wrong thing.

“Maven, to what do we owe the pleasure of a visit?” He asked with a handsome smile. Maven eyed the two for a moment more before chuckling darkly in her throat.

“Business, of course. Perhaps you and Mercer would like to have lunch?”

It wasn’t so much of an invite as a demand and Brynjolf was quick to nod. Maven enjoyed the obedience, dusting her sleeve off towards Saoirse as she smiled in a sickly sweet manner.

“Oh good, I’ll have my cooks start right on that.”

Maven is one of my favorite characters? She’s so badass and I love a good, powerful woman trope.

#thieves guild #maven black-briar #saoirse : oc #skyrim oc #oc ask #brynjolf

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hearteyes-for-killmonger · 5 years

Text

It's another smutty chapter.

Part 14: Desperation

“Quit touchin shit,” he mutters catching you as you try to masturbate. You thought he was sleep.

“Not when it’s mine to touch,” you counter, watching his back and waiting for him to show off. He doesn’t move as minutes pass. “Erik,” you whisper, “You’re not sleep. Why can’t you just let me borrow your tongue? You did it before.”

“Tongue machine broke. Dick machine up,” he mutters.

“NO. I want the tongue,” you reiterate.

“I know,” he says in a smiling voice that irks your soul. He knows his power.. But you're also sticking to yours.

"You can be so childish sometimes," you sigh getting up to take off the lingerie. It feels like such a waste.

“You the one with a puddle between your thighs still tryna control shit, it’s hilarious.”

You were fuming. You’d finally set your nerves aside to ask him for head, something you’d NEVER typically do just for the thickheaded negro to say NO.. Twice! It took you a while to come to an understanding as you stared at the polka-dotted lump beside you in disdain, only mildly embarrassed. You knew exactly what Erik wanted from you. He was playing a game that he expected to win by breaking you down until you relented to his sexual tyranny.

Your nostrils flare as you watch him sleep, his dreadhead smashed into the pillow. Thanks to his forced hydration, you’ve urinated enough times to fill an inflatable raft. Five times, your bladder has woken you and whispered up to your hand to slap fire out of him. The temptation has been great. The sixth time waking has you rushing to the toilet, groggy and irritated. You finally march out from the restroom slapping him on the shoulder and he doesn't stir. You shove him, his big body hardly moving, and he won’t open his eyes. He's that damn stubborn.

It's cool, I’ve got something for you, you nod. If he thinks your last move was bold, oh he'd see bold. Moving into the bathroom for a quick refresh of your nether-regions, you stick a careful finger up there to test it with a quick sniff and a quick taste. You're starting to think maybe you just don’t like the taste or mouth feel of bodily secretions in general. Looking in the mirror, you snatch your scarf off and adjust the PJ shorts and t-shirt you’d changed into after his threat. Although you wanted head, you weren’t ready for all of that extra that he wanted to do to you and you wouldn’t be intimidated into it. Erik's reign of tyranny would not commence.

Yours, however, would be effective immediately.

Watching your face in the bathroom mirror as you cackle soundlessly, mischief in your smile and intention, you turn to step from tile to carpet and pad silently back to the bed noting that Erik has not moved from that same spot that he's been buried in. That wicked smile stretches your face again. You've been a great pain in my ass, Stevens. It's my turn. You push down and kick off your shorts, not having underwear beneath and feeling the air. Suddenly this is all too real and you can feel your nerves kicking in, your heart racing. Whooshing out a calming breath, you blink and steel yourself. The A/C provides a low comforting hum in the background. No movement from Erik yet. Good. When you walk over to peek at his rugged yet youthful profile, still sleeping, you hesitate. The last time you woke him, he choked you on a reflex ingrained from his military days. You could still feel it when you thought about it. What would he do now, bite your clit off? Climbing gently back onto the bed, you throw your leg over his head and lower your pussy onto the side of his face that’s exposed, grinding. Spreading your lips, you make sure that your clit in particular wipes and grinds against his stubbly cheek. It feels good.. and bad at the same time but in the best way.

“Wake up,” you squirm. “Your country breakfast’s ready.” He still won’t move. “Eat it while it’s hot.” It's no later than 6 AM, but you've slept horribly and because of that it's time for him to pay.

He groans and breathes out deeply through his nose. “You got ya pussy on my face, ma?” His sleepy bass is so deep it makes you clench.

“I’ve got your breakfast on your face. Leftovers from last night that you’ve yet to finish. Aren’t you hungry?” Silence. You grind on his beard a bit more and wonder if he’s falling back asleep. Eventually you say ‘fuck it’ deciding to get yourself off using what you can access of his face.

“You nasty,” he mutters.

“And you’re allowing this to happen,” you contest, continuing your quest for an orgasm. His heavy hand collides against your bare ass cheek before gripping and rubbing it.

“Hella bold,” he sighs flipping over onto his back. “Go ‘head ride this tongue then.” His long pink tongue flops out and immediately the feeling amplifies. Now that he’s involved, he’s sucking and licking the right spots and making his tongue stiff for you to grind on and ride while you rock, grinding all over his lips, nose, mustache, and beard. When he snakes his arms around your thighs anchoring you down, you bite your lip containing a moan that threatens to spill. He knows what he's doing. He's got his soft lips clasped tightly on your clit and your mind goes blank, stalling like a frozen video on an old television with static. Suddenly he hums and oh my gosh... the vibrations go through you forcing your bottom lip free.

“Oh my God…”

“Mhm,” he hums, his tongue flicking for an added sensation that makes you leak. His lips suction off repeatedly with suction noises and every time, you feel yourself expand.

“Mmmmhh,” you moan breathing heavily, riding his face hard like it were a small mounted dildo or a stationary massager. “I’m gonna cum,” you gasp and he lifts you up off of his face right before you get there, flipping you onto your back. You can't stop your hips from moving as you stare up in anticipation.

---

Erik's dick was hard enough to cut diamonds having been celibate for days. He hadn't even masturbated. She looked down on Y/N's body naked from the waist down. Her pussy was engorged and ready, her sticky nectar wetting her juicy inner thighs. Her eyes showed perfect submission, her chest rising and falling fast like she was in heat. He licked his lips swallowing so not to drool, crawling over top of her body, his hands grabbing hers and pinning them over her head. Her hair still smelled like every good oil and he inhaled the scent deeply, his nose at her neck. She always smelled good, he could count on it. He kissed her right there on the side of her extended neck, biting and sucking her skin softly as she panted softly in his ear, mewling like a kitten, her hips still moving desperately. He had her. As much as she'd protested, he knew it'd end up this way. It always did when he touched her like this. He chuckled, the soft skin of her throat luring him in and calling him back. Sitting up to look her in the eye, he kept a hold on her hands.

"Relax," he whispered watching her dark pupils dilate. "I'm a let you go now. I want you to get up. Get dressed. I'm taking you to breakfast and we're gonna enjoy the day." Instantly she thrashed, like he knew she would. She was pissed. It made him laugh and his head dipped down beside her neck as she shook in her tantrum. She was so mad.

"GET THE FUCK OFF ME," she yelled, her lips balling like someone's mama telling them to put something back in the store. Erik was in hysterics.

"Nah, suffer, because you can't take it when someone does this shit to you. How long have you been telling me no? Hm?" She thrashed again trying to kick her legs, but it was a fruitless effort, she wasn't overpowering him. "Calm the hell down. I asked you a question, we can stay like this all morning. It's gonna suck when you gotta piss again."

"I don't know, a few times," she yelled.

"Tell the truth...," he cautioned, brows high.

"A LOT," she snapped.

"A while... See? You don’t like hearing no either! Being left to take care of your own needs when all your partner gotta do is give in? Annoying ain't it!? You see what the fuck you be putting me through?" She was seething, trying to intimidate him with a baby glare that only made him want to kiss her.. or break her. She didn't know what real malice was. She wasn't taking his words as seriously as she needed to and he was starting to lose his patience. The rougher dom was about to come through.

---

You glare at him, thinking of yanking your body again to try to knee him in the balls because he won't let go! Your pussy is still clenching uncontrollably and independant of you and you've finally had enough. All you can really think is, "Fuck you, Erik. Fuck this room. Fuck your motherfuckin house. Fuck your stupid gotdamn rules!"

"I like that dirty ass mouth. You tryna kiss my dick with that mouth?"

"You're such an asshole, I don't know why I bother with your stupid confused ass! You don't even deserve it!" You jump again and he releases you a bit before slamming you down harder, restraining your wrists and and legs with his weight. You think of yelling again but then you see his eyes and your voice leaves.

That deep.. menacing.. ice cold, unpredictable, penetrating stare. All the warmth leaves your body at once replaced with a chill and for a second you wonder who.. or what.. you're actually dealing with. It's that look from that day at your apartment when something strong in you warned you to run. You can't tell if he's angry or detached, but you also can't look away. His mouth approaches your ear and you hold your breath, frozen, your eyes on what you can see of him.

---

The sudden fear in her eyes made him check his expression. He had a bad habit of letting himself a little too loose with her. He was seeing her as prey. Hunt, chase, kill.

“I clearly remember telling yo ass these nuts ain’t free. I don’t give a damn how fine you are, you won’t get any nut off me until you beg me and I mean that shit. From the wells of yo mothafuckin soul, I wanna feel the conviction in your voice tingle in my balls.. until I say it’s enough. Then and only then will I give you what you need.. and trust me, sweetheart… You need this shit.”

Her back arched off the bed and he could feel her body tremble, her shoulders harlem shaking under him like she was cold. It came straight from her spine as he put his nose in the crook of her neck. Damn, she was sensitive.

“Don’t move,” he released her wrists to push down on her pubic bone. Her whole pussy was wet and it had spread to her thick and shining inner thighs. He slapped her pussy listening for her light gasp as she twitched before rubbing with his hand up and down the lips, massaging away the sting. “Wet ass pussy and you still playing.” His finger stroked up and down teasing her entrance feeling her clench before slipping inside to feel her. Her mouth opened and her eyelids went half-mast as he watched her dysfunctional pupils stare past him, seeing nothing. The wet, squishy flesh rubbing against his middle finger made his jealous dick twitch in his briefs. It was laying all up on her though his briefs, he knew she could feel it. He slipped in a second finger and it was instantly coated as his fingers pumped back and forth, curling to tap and stimulate her g-spot.

Her chest heaved and she exhaled a loud breath that tangled with a mangled moan, her lip wedged between her teeth. Her dumb ass was still holding back as her ass tried unsuccessfully to rise up from the bed.

---

“You don’t even have a clue,” he sighs, humored by something. You keep your attention on his eyes unsure of what he’ll do next. The seconds feel like minutes as he stares through you as if reading a passage that’s inked onto your very soul. “You a fuckin brat. You know what that is? Hm?” You can feel his fingers stretch you apart and pull out only to push back in, stroking and stimulating your entrance and walls. When his rough thumb rubs over your swollen clit, it’s the sensation you’ve been subconsciously waiting for. That sweet spot. Your brain stalls again, an image stuck on stutter as your eyes roll and your eyelids blink rapidly. He knows exactly what he's doing.

“Look at me,” he orders gripping your jaw when you can't. “I said look at me. Open them pretty eyes.” His grip tightens, his fingers digging into your cheeks smushing them into a fish face that you don't have the energy to focus on. He’s never ceased his motion in your pussy and you just wanna cum. It’s right there, you can feel it close. His grip on your jaw tightens again and you force your eyes open to look up at him fighting the urge to close them.

“There you go focus them eyes on daddy. You gonna be a good girl?”

“Don’t stop. Don't you d-”

“Shut the fuck up, I'm controlling this shit. I control the pace and what we do.” He pulls his fingers out and you pout as they go directly into his mouth, his eyes still on yours. You feel yourself throb, missing the feeling of him already. “BEG. Show me how bad you want that nut.” You bite your lip. “I'm not buying it,” he whispers in a sing-song voice.

“Dude,” you whine, “I've been horny out of my mind since last night, I'm dying! Do that thing you did before with your tongue... Please, please make me cum already,” you moan, with your eyes set on his. You still remember when he edged you in your own room and left you aching for release. “Please finish!”

“We in the same boat and I'm not used to dry spells... You on the right path though. Let that freak loose,” he whispers holding your face in his hands, his thumb lightly brushing your bottom lip.

“You’re turning me the fuck on right now and I’m already soaked.”

“Mm..” He licks his lips giving you flashbacks.

“Please..”

The more you talk, the closer her gets. He has that look again.. but it's contained his time. Not so scary. He's adapting.. to you. You can't help but feel a little proud.

“Grab my dick. Pull it out… What it feel like?”

---

“Lead..” she scoffs, “A velvet bookend.”

“...Why are you like this?” Erik shook his head, humored as her feminine fingers roamed up and down his shaft. He watched her as she bit the inside of her full bottom lip, looking up at him, her almond eyes falling all over his body in admiration as he stood shirtless with his locs free. He made his pecs dance and a fire brightened in her eyes. He could feel desire palpable and radiating from the brown goddess, her hips wide and rounding out into thick brown thighs.. the picture of perfection. She was still touching him in wonder and he caught the spark of an idea in her eyes. What you finna try, little girl?

“Let me suck it, please... Daddy?” That was the keyword. He knew she was smart. “Can I suck it? I wanna suck it so bad.”

Oh word?

“Put it in your mouth.” He was willing to bet money that she didn't know how to suck dick right. Usually, that would be a huge dealbreaker but somehow when it came to her, he always had the patience. He was confident in her ability to master anything she put her mind to. She put the tip in her mouth and sucked.

“Lick the shaft, up and down the sides,” he said watching her tongue flatten and glide up and down. “Spit on it. Make it sloppy. More of that,” he pointed out when she drooled spit onto him. She licked up and down the underside of his dick before returning the head to her mouth.

“If you bite me that's yo ass. Go ahead and suck that dick.” The longer she went, the more into she got, looking up at him through her lashes. “You tryna make daddy buss?” Her head bobbed in an affirmative, her tight lips and soft wet mouth enveloping him in warmth. Drool dripped down his shaft making him feel appreciated.

“Your life’s purpose as of right now is to please daddy as Daddy's lil angel. Convince me that you've given in completely to your role.” He rested his hands behind his back as she incorporated the use of her hands on his base. “You learn fast, baby.” The praise made her go harder. It made the head sloppier as she swirled her head around his head. He could tell she was loving it. “Twist your hands, like a pepper grinder,” he breathed, feeling like that nigga. “Keep sucking it. More, just like that.. yeaah, until I'm completely satisfied… Oh shit..” She was doing it a little too well now.

“You did this before?”

She shook her head no with a proud smile.

“My little genius.. lick them balls. Keep stroking my dick.”

---

You sucked, and licked, and stroked, and drooled as the more you did it, the more you wondered if you were doing it right. Would he ever cum? What was taking so long? He looked like he was enjoying it and you could hear his moans that had you dripping, but still no cum.

“If you think I’m that easily assuaged you must not know daddy like that,” he says suddenly reading your mind. “Surprise, my love,” he chuckles, “This shit stay hard like a jolly rancher. You gotta work harder.” You can feel it thumping in your mouth, his heartbeat. “Mm.. Do you want it down your throat baby? You want that big dick down your little throat?”

“Mhm.. mhm,” you mumble, mouth full.

“Say it. With the dick in your mouth, beg me.”

“Ah awhn ha hi hahee..,” he stares down and you add, “How hi hoat, hahee hees.”

“That’s my big girl.” You don't know how he understood you. “That’s how you ask for this dick. That’s how you get what you want. Tap my leg if you feel like you gonna throw up. We don't do that.” His dick slides back toward your throat. You can feel him pass your tonsils and you grab his thighs pulling him closer. You have no gag reflex. Surprise, nigga.

“SHIT BITCH,” he roars, cackling at the ceiling before he unleashes fire, throatfucking your face. Spit flies from your mouth and you can feel your nose run as his grip stays hard on the back of your head. You still need to breathe. “Look at me... Oooh shit. Eyes watering. I'm taking your fucking soul. Leave it on this dick, you don't need it.” When he pulls out, you pant with a thick line of drool down your chin and runny snot mixed with tears on your top lip. He goes to the bathroom to bring back tissue, wiping your nose and top lip clean. You still have drool galore.

“Spit that back on my dick... Now suck it,” he hisses, “Hands down don’t wipe it. Look at me and tell me what's rule three?”

If you own it it's yours and you'll do whatever the fuck you want with it. You mumble it around his dick as best as you can.

“I've been so damn patient, spoiling you. I ain't do half the shit I could've done to you. You were basically free. Now you don’t have a fuckin choice. I'm taking what's mine. If I hear a wait, stop, or no, I'm fucking you harder. Nod if you understand.” You nod and he pushes you off of his dick lifting you and tossing you back onto the bed before dropping over top of you. Your knees lift and you cover your face as they get pushed back out of the way, your ankles guided over his large shoulders. “Look down. I want you to watch as I fuck you.”

“I- w- LET ME SAY SOMETHING DAMMIT.”

“I don't wanna hear it, I already know! You look at the girls I fuck and you scared I’m a fuck you just like that, all rough and shit. Am I right? You scared I’m a slide this dick a lil too deep in that wet ass pussy.. hit it too good.. flip that switch and trigger something crazy. Newsflash, I already know you a freak.” His smirk is accusatory.

“Look! All I'm saying is.. slamming whatever amount of inches that is,” you point to the slimy monster that was just in your throat, “Into a 4 inch deep cavern is reckless and excessive. You’re a mathematician, Mr. Statistics, do the math on that. I’m not Cierra and my vagina has WALLS. You can’t just run through WALLS and what you won’t do is dog my pussy out. Save that energy for Ms. Bitch or whatever you named her. Ain’t no preparation in the world enough for all that.”

“You telling me how to give dick now? I give good dick on the regular. Yo ass never had it. How you gonna tell me,” he laughs. His dick pushes into you catching you off guard and sits at your pulsing entrance, heavy. “SHIT..,” you both gasp at once. He stalls allowing you to adjust. You can feel him throb as you squeeze, his eyes shut. Then he opens them, renewed anger on his face. “Oh I’m a fuck this pussy up.. Goddammit.. I'm a fuck you how you know deep down you need to be fucked and you gone take the shit like a champ.”

---

He went deeper as she slapped and shoved at his chest, arms, and stomach trying to keep him still. He'd already gotten a taste. It was too late. He slid deeper and she groaned, whimpering and whining between heavy breaths. “You finna cry,” he teased lowering his body down onto hers as his hips grinded into hers. “I got you. Go ‘head cry. Cry for daddy.” On cue her tears fell and he licked them as they slid past the outer corners of her eye, down the side of her face. Salt. He bit her quivering bottom lip as she moaned loudly, scratching his back with her nails. She couldn't control her volume, it was up and down, high pitched. "Way-way-wait," she gasped, pushing once she realized her mistake. "NO, WAIT!" His response was to slam his dick into her, over and over... stomach to stomach. She screamed and beat his back and arms with her fists while trying to squirm away. He kissed her neck, whispering in her ear. “Where you think you bout to go? You ain't going nowhere. You gone fuckin hate me. Then you gone love me.” Her nails dug roughly into his flesh and he knew he was bleeding, but it ain't phase him. He bottomed out listening as she whispered every profane word she knew.

"I feel you tryna nut. You think you deserve it?"

"Yess!" That was the only clear thing she said, the rest was unintelligible gibberish but he understood the spirit of it.

"Beg me for that nut," he grinned. He knew he was being aggravating. He planned to let her nut regardless. He was close himself. She begged and he could feel the urgency in her voice. She was so scared he'd pull out and leave her like that. Not this time though. She came hard, wailing, back to back her orgasms came... Her face and her eyes were stuck. He chuckled.

“Fuck.. you, mother..fucker, I hate you,” she cried breathlessly when she could finally talk.. an on and on.

“Your pussy ain't get that message. Listen to her.." The loud smacking in the air made his point. "She say FUCK you, she happy!” She was so wet, he could fill a cup. The loud smacking noise drove him crazy. “Make me wait all this fuckin time. You gone gimme my shit.” He lifted, flipping her over onto her stomach. “Toot that ass up. Spread your knees.”

She went straight to it and he sunk his dick into her pressing into her arch to deepen it.

“Oh you love this dick now,” he smirked, “Annoying ass brat. You know you irk the fuck outta me sometimes? You could've been had this dick, but you like to play. You like to tease a nigga till he grab you by your hair..” He gripped her kinky hair in his fist. “And fucks you till you can't think.. That's what you want?” Her moans were unceasing. He slapped her ass cheek watching it jiggle. "Words."

"Nnnmmmhh... Oh my God.."

"Come nut on this dick then." He fucked her roughly and she when she came yet again, the tears and whimpering returned full force. "Feel good?" Her body shook. He watched her spasm. Yeah, she was feeling good. Now it was his turn to chase a nut.

He fucked her like her name was Cierra and she'd broken ten rules, his hand gripping the back of her neck and her face in the comforter. He fucked her like he'd just lost a friend from a hit that went wrong and didn't have a chance to feel it. All of his anger and frustration and regret went into her pussy until he was sweating buckets and grunting.

She'd stopped moving. He looked down suddenly fearful, his heart skipping a beat.. slowing his stroke down a bit. "Y/N?.. Angel?"

She shuddered, blowing out a tired breath and her ass jumped in a twitch. He sighed in relief as he increased his pace again.

She panted desperately. Say no if you want, he laughed to himself. She couldn't talk.

"I'm a fuckin marry you," he gaped in awe. "I thought yo ass was dead. Hold up," he smirked, hand still dripping the back of her neck. "Daddy finna power up.. yeaah," he chuckled listening to her whimper. "Missed time, my angel... This yo fuckin fault..," he breathed staving off his nut with a grunt. "..Yo fuckin fault."

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sith-shenanigans · 5 years

Text

OTP Song Meme

Tagged by @lumielles and @frozenabattoir— thank you both so much! You may regret this. :>

I am going to wildly ignore the rules of this and post their entire playlist instead of a single song.

1. Lost Girls — Lindsey Stirling

[instrumental]

2. The Long Way Home — The Birthday Massacre

Here in the dark, don't fall asleep / We walk through the snow, trying not to breathe / Don't let me go / Stay close to me / Don't look behind us / There's nothing to see

Below / Let me go / From here I know / It's a long way home

Into the woods, under the trees / We follow the trail, down to the sea / There's nowhere to hide / Don't wait for me / Don't look behind you / There's nothing to see

Below / Let me go / From here I know / It's a long way home

3. Still Alive — Leslie Fish

Running from the living / Running from the dead / Running from the memories / Just one jump ahead / But you're still alive— / There's a face in the mirror / Still alive, the dead don't bleed / Still alive, life is a changer / And you're no stranger / Come take what you need

There will be an answer / The sun will rise / Love is a survivor / Open your eyes

4. Wish That You Were Here — Florence + the Machine

And if I stay, oh, I don't know / There'll be so much that I'll have to let go / You're disappearing all the time / But I still see you in the light / For you, the shadows fight / And it's beautiful, but there's that tug in the side / I must stop time traveling / You're always on my mind

You're always on my mind...

5. Still Here — Digital Daggers

Musing through memories, losing my grip in the grey / Numbing the senses, I feel you slipping away / Fighting to hold on, clinging to just one more day / Love turns to ashes, with all that I wish I could say

[...]

Every night, I dream you're still here / The ghost by my side, so perfectly clear / When I awake, you'll disappear / Back to the shadows / With all I hold dear / With all I hold dear...

6. Back From the Dead — Skylar Grey

I'm so confused, I don't know what to feel / Should I throw my arms around you or kill you for real? / 'Cause I worked so hard to put the past to rest / Now it's tumbling down on me just like an avalanche

[...]

I never thought that you and I would ever meet again / I mourn the loss of you sometimes and pray for peace within / The word "distraught" cannot describe how my heart has been / But where do we begin, now that you're back from the dead?

Where do we begin, now that you're back from the dead?

7. Bound — Suzanne Vega

Once you said I'm made of fine stuff / I've been corrupted, and taken enough

Now you appear, making your claim / Inside my heart is the sign of your name

8. Bleak December — Set It Off

In that bleak December, you're just too cold / But I need the answer before you fold / You would hold your cards inside your chest / I think I drove too far / For that bleak December / And how full of shit you are

[...]

Now what are you to me / But a fly inside a web of lies you weave / You're not fooling anyone, not you, not me / So I wonder how you stay alive / When all I do is freeze

9. How to Start a War — Simon Curtis

I thought we were meant to be / Thought it'd be you and me / Standing together at the end of the world

I guess that's not what you want / I guess that I should just move on / So tell me, how am I to move when I can't even breathe

This is not how you make love / This is not what we signed up for / This is not how it's meant to be / This is how you start a war...

10. Down — The Birthday Massacre

Tell me why / We never cared to do this when we still had time / We'll never have to give up if we never try / I know I'll only want it when it's gone / Into the fire

Show me now / I wish that I could fake it but I don't know how / I know we'll never make it but I can't stop now / We're only just beginning and it's over

[...]

Leave me here / I'll never see tomorrow 'til my eyes are clear / We never could run faster than the passing years / I know that I won't miss you 'til you're gone / Into the fire

Cross my heart / We'll never have to let this end if we don't start / We'll never see the light 'til we step into the dark / We're only just beginning and it's over

11. Enemy — Simon Curtis

All this time I thought you knew, I thought you were aware / Of how much I would do for you, of just how much I care / All this time you sat here thinking that I wouldn't give / Every bit of life of mine just so that you could live

And now I've got a feel from you it's bitterness and cold / I'm hearing what you say but not believing what I'm told

[...]

You built so many walls around me that you couldn't see / That without you there is no us there is not even me / I'm standing here before you with no armor lying bare / Lying stranded and defenseless you could help me if you care

You built so many walls around me that I wouldn't dare / Try to climb them but I'm standing with a white flag in the air

12. Bleak December (Acoustic) — Set It Off

[reprise]

13. Lies — Martina McBride

Hummingbirds don't fly backwards / Lovers don't say goodbye / Saturn has 7 rings / And I have never told a lie

[...]

I'm finally moving forward / Getting on with my life / I never dream of you and me / It's strange I don't know why

I'm really not that lonely / You never cross my mind / And when I hear your name / It doesn't cut me like a knife

I don't walk these halls / And I don't climb these walls / Every night...

14. Thick as Thieves — Shinedown

Evidently we can't work it out / I guess that courage ain't allowed / Evidently you're not in the mood / And everything I say just bothers you

You built this fortress / I stumble towards it

Evidently you look furious / Walls up and I know you're serious / Evidently I'm not always there / But you left and I looked everywhere

You built this fortress / I stumble towards it / I stumble towards it...

15. No Light, No Light — Florence + the Machine

Would you leave me / If I told you what I've done / And would you leave me / If I told you what I've become / 'Cause it's so easy / To say it to a crowd / But it's so hard, my love / To say it to you alone

16. Half Light — BANNERS

Sometimes I join you / Let you wash over me / When we're in the darkness / Only the blind can see

And you can tear it up / Oh, no one tears it up like you / Oh, you can rip it up / Oh, I can rip it up like you

When you're in the half light / It is not you I see / And you live a half life / You only show half to me

And can you shake it off / Oh, can you shake it off for me / When you're in the half light / I don't like the half I see

17. Burn — Silent Rival

You wrote a note from a pile of ashes / The pen in your claw got me laughing / No one believes I still feel the weight of your head in my lap

I shudder to think of you out in the cold / Wherever you are I hope you’re warm / Don't worry about me, I'll find my way back / Fire light in my path / Your light in my path

Watch you burn / You light up, you rise up, and you burn / Glow as you fly from the earth / Watch the engines ignite as you burn / Before I could say my goodbyes / Goodbyes, goodbyes, goodbyes / You’re burning and burning

Some call it pain, it's just a feeling / Some call it pain, I call it healing / Will I ever heal, I'm always raw / I'm always raw / Set fire to it all / Set fire to it all...

18. If I Say — Mumford & Sons

I came here without a choice / I'm sorry I could never thank you / For saving me more trouble / I didn't want any trouble / If you were given one more chance / Would you bring me back to life / Bring me back into the light / Into the light

[...]

Show me your hands / Are they cleaner than mine? / Show me your face / Did you cross the line? / Show me your eyes / They any drier than mine? / Your soul survives / But peace, you'll never find

19. Things We Lost in the Fire — Bastille

I was the match and you were the rock / Maybe we started this fire / We sat apart and watched / All we had burn on the pyre

You said, we were born with nothing / And we sure as hell have nothing now / You said, we were born with nothing / And we sure as hell have nothing now...

20. Magpie — The Mountain Goats

Feed the kittens in the kitchen / Set food out for the strays / Try hard to do your best / The magpie will have his way

Fill your mouth with berries / By the full light of the moon / Work all night if you have to / The magpie comes at noon

Shore up the crucifixes / Above the archways and the doors / The magpie will come at midday / And you will go down on all fours

And when the cherry's white with blossoms / Be ready and be brave / And remember what we had here / When there was something left to save

21. Supernova — Within Temptation

I'm waiting for your last goodbye / 'Cause I'm not over it, not over it / I'm waiting for your last goodbye / The kiss of time

Like thunder screaming out for a flash of lightning / Stars are falling down for God's applause / I'm waiting for the light of your supernova / Your last goodbye

22. Through the Mirror — Beyond The Black

Watch you spin in your veils of protection / Layer on layer of dark colors unwind / Shake them off, but you never forget them / Show your scars to the mute and the blind

Only showing your face to the lonely / Wear a mask for the masses so cold / Choosing roads that are broken and stony / Let me tell you my dreams of our destiny

Speak to me, sing to me, bare your soul to me / Step through the mirror, join me inside / Run to me, stay with me, till eternity / Show me the faith that you hide / You hide

You are wandering spaces in limbo / Hearing words from the voice in your head / Give a sign and I'll open the window / Step outside and I'll hold you instead

Only showing your face to the lonely / Wear a mask for the masses so cold / Choosing roads that are broken and stony / Let me tell you my dreams of our destiny

Speak to me, sing to me, bare your soul to me / Step through the mirror, join me inside / Run to me, stay with me, till eternity / Show me the faith that you hide / You hide...

23. Mercy Mirror — Within Temptation

I don't like to think about the pieces / All the cracks in the bricks that still remain / If I could breathe, I'd ask you

To look in my mercy mirror / I need you more than I have known / So look in my mercy mirror / 'Cause I'm not ready to let you go...

24. You Are the Only One — Sergey Lazarev

We can never let the word be unspoken / We will never let our loving go come undone/ Everything we had is staying unbroken now / You will always be the only one / You're the only one

Won't ever give up 'cause you're / Still somewhere out there/ Nothing or no one's gonna keep us apart / Breaking me down but I'm still getting nowhere / Won't stop, hold on

Thunder and lightning it's getting exciting / Lights up the skyline to show where you are / My love is rising, the story's unwinding / Together we'll make it and reach for the stars

You're the only one, you're my only one / You're my life, every breath that I take / Unforgettable, so unbelievable / You're the only one, my only one

25. Paradise (What About Us?) — Within Temptation

There's no sense, the fire burns / When wisdom fails, it changes all / The wheel embodies all that keeps on turning

Blood red skies, I feel so cold / No innocence, we play our role / The wheel embodies all, where are we going?

All in all, you'd expect the wise to be wiser / Fallen from grace / And all in all, I guess we should have known better, 'cause

What about us / Isn't it enough? / No, we're not in paradise / This is who we are / This is what we've got / No, it's not our paradise / But it's all we want / And it's all that we're fighting for / Though it's not paradise

You and us, or I and them? / There comes a time to take a stand / The wheel is watching all that keeps on burning

The venom works, it's like a curse / A Trojan horse, when will we learn / The wheel embodies all that keeps returning

All in all, you'd expect the wise to be wiser / Fallen from grace / And all in all, I guess we should have known better, 'cause

What about us / Isn't it enough? / No, we're not in paradise / This is who we are / This is what we've got / No, it's not our paradise / But it's all we want / And it's all that we're fighting for

What about us, what about us, what about us, isn't it enough?

#tag games #canon: liminality #oc: ahene coris #oc: sirue parhen #otp: don't call it destiny

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nik-barinova · 5 years

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Angel

The Caustic x OC fic no one asked for but here it is anyway

Crickets chirping just outside the window, and already it was enough to help Zoey sleep for some white noise. She slept soundly and peacefully before she’d turn over to throw her arms around her husband Caustic, but he wasn’t there.

She woke up and saw it was empty.

“Alex…?” she murmured while sitting up in bed. “Alex?” she repeated but louder while looking around the room. She took a quick look at the time: 1:36 AM. She sighed tiredly and looked around the room.

That’s when she suddenly heard loud, heavy coughing. She turned towards the bathroom and found it was faintly lit from the inside, so she stepped out of bed and went towards the door. She grew scared and worried for him as she slowly opened the door only to hear how much worse the coughing sounded. Her heart stopped when she found him hunched over the sink. “Alex…!” she exclaimed while rushing to his side.

While she rubbed his back, she looked down and felt her heart sink when she saw a tiny splatter of blood in the sink. “Oh god…” She put a hand on his back then rubbed it again in gentle circles to let him know she was there and would be ready to help him. “Z— Zoey. You—“ He started before he began coughing hard again with blood. “Baby, Ah’m righ’ here,” she told him in a hushed voice. “Whaddye need?”

He looked over to her with tired and pained eyes. As much as he didn’t want help, he really needed her now. “... Grab me my oxygen tank.” She nodded and quickly went out to go find his tank. When she got into his little lab in their house, she found the tank and brought it back to their room beside his side of the bed. “Here. Let’s getcha cleaned up…”

She ran some cool water to wash away the blood and to cool him off. She turned off the lights and carefully guided him back to bed but this time to keep him upright so that the coughing wouldn’t get worse. Alex leaned back against the backboard of the bed and let his wife strap him up for his oxygen therapy. She carefully placed the mask over his beard and had him turn the oxygen on. Zoey let him have some space, knowing how he was with having his time to recover from this incident. He was just about to close his eyes when she muttered, “Wha’ happened…?” She kept the cool towel nearby if he needed it.

He didn’t like being weak around her but his work was beginning to take a toll on his health. “I… I think it’s my work. You know how it is.” Zoey watched him over and placed her hand on top of his. “Ye dun think it’s ‘nythin’ life threatenin’, er somethin’?” she asked. Alex paused. “I hope not…” He took her smaller hand into his larger one. “Even if it is, I doubt I would have much to live for.” That made her frown.

“Bu’... you do.”

“Give me one example.”

“...”

She tried not to cry when she said this.

“Walkin’ yer daughter down dae aisle…”

His eyes widened at the thought and was suddenly resisting the urge to cry. He knew she was right. He’ll only get one opportunity to be by his baby girl’s side on her special day. The day he would have to give his little Daisy to whomever she would marry 20 or so years from now, he now can’t imagine missing. He hiccuped and gripped his wife’s hand tighter.

“Alex.”

He turned his head to her after returning to reality. He always did think she was as beautiful as an angel, even if he didn’t believe in such things. And what got him the most was that she was even as caring and loving as one, thus he’d call her his “angel” or “dark angel”.

But seeing his angel cry right now broke him.

“Baby, Ah know yer workin’ really hard on yer experiments, bu’ th’ least ye can do is live long enough tae be around an’ watch yer daugh’er grow up…,” she pleaded with a quiet voice. “She needs ye more ‘an ‘nythin’. She can live wit’out Chuy, bu’ she cain’ live wit’out you.”

He watched a tear roll down her cheek and he reached up to wipe it away from her. “... I will be there for her.” She sniffed and hiccuped and looked down while Alex removed his oxygen mask after he felt he was fine. After turning the machine off, he took his hand under her chin and had her look up at him. “Don’t cry,” he whispered as a tear fell down his face before he kissed her.

When they parted after a long time, he looked her in the eyes and smiled tiredly. “I’m so tired…,” he whispered, leaning his face into her shoulder and neck, to which she kept him there and gently combed his hair with her fingers. “... Have you ever heard of an old song called “Sound of Silence”?” he asked. The name sounded familiar to her and so she nodded. “Aye.”

“Do you think you could sing that for me to help me sleep?”

She was a bit surprised he asked for something like this. She never did think her voice was good enough but to him, it was a lovely sound. “I— Ah’ll try…” He adjusted himself so that he had his head in her lap; it was his favorite pillow afterall.

While she combed his hair, she tried to remember the words to it and would give it a try.

“Hello darkness, my old friend I've come to talk with you again Because a vision softly creeping Left its seeds while I was sleeping~”

Caustic knew what it truly meant, but in this case, he just loved hearing her sing it. It had a sweet and beautiful melody to it.

“And the vision that was planted in my brain Still remains Within the sound of silence~”

He kept his eyes on her as she sang. The way her hair fell to the side of her head made her look even more beautiful like he was looking at a mermaid or something to that line. He may not be the type to be physically affectionate to her publicly, but behind closed doors, he would be all over as if he hadn’t seen her in years.

“In restless dreams, I walked alone Narrow streets of cobblestone 'Neath the halo of a street lamp I turned my collar to the cold and damp When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light That split the night And touched the sound of silence~”

He couldn’t help but gently cup her face with his hand while she sang. He kept his eyes locked with hers, catching a glimpse at her grinning. She kept one hand in his hair and the other placed on top of his hand while she kept singing.

“And in the naked light, I saw Ten thousand people, maybe more People talking without speaking People hearing without listening People writing songs that voices never share No one dared Disturb the sound of silence~”

He wondered if he should speak his mind now or let her keep singing, but the temptation was too strong.

“Darling, what are your beliefs in angels?” he asked.

She stopped her lullaby and looked at him before chuckling. “Baby, ye know Ah’m not inta all tha’ afterlife shit,” she told him. “I know, I was just curious,” he sighed. “Though, I may feel as though… I believe in them now.”

She blinked. He was joking, right?

“Babe, yer a man o’ science. Wha’ makes ye say tha’?” she asked. He was quiet for a moment.

“Well… Because I’m looking at one right now.”

This only confirmed Zoey’s belief her husband was one smooth man.

“... How long were ye wantin’ tae do tha’?” she asked while hiding her blush and smile. “Ever since we met,” he replied with a small smile in turn.

“But, really, you are an angel to me for many reasons. You’ve cared for my health more than I’d say Ajay would like to admit. You have an aura that just feels truly loving and protective despite how you put yourself publicly. You’re beyond beautiful even with your flaws. You put yourself in danger in order to keep me alive from the Games. And… I’ve never been more grateful to have you in life this way.”

Zoey just looked down at him as he spoke with a tear welling in her eye.

“You are my dark angel. And I love you for that.”

She smiled slightly and laughed quietly while wiping her eye. “Alexander, ye one— Ye know exactly wha’ tae say, baby.”

Caustic smirked behind his beard and patted his hand on her side of the bed, to which she immediately laid beside him and had his arm around her to bring her into him. He liked the weight of her head on his chest and her hair in his fingers. It was always so silky.

He really did feel tired but he watched her fall asleep first before he kissed the top of her head and laced fingers with hers that lay on his chest. “I love you, Zoey. And thank you.”

He finally returned to sleep peacefully with her, able to live another day with his angel of a wife and baby daughter.

#Apex Legends #Canon x OC #Caustic x OC #Caustic #Apex Legends Fanfic #1589 word count for this #damn

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loki-subterfuge · 6 years

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Irked

Title: Irked Author: lokilover9 Chapter: #19 Notes: Movie ~ What Women Want with Mel Gibson and Helen Hunt Rating:Teen Twenty minutes after Shandis initial panic, coffee was finally brewing in the kitchen as Nat watched her pace back and forth from the table. “Sit, woman. You're making me dizzy.” “I can't believe Loki left his phone here. He’s to have it with him at all times. And why isn't Clint answering his? Where are they?” “Stop worrying, I'm sure they're together. Why would Loki go out in this storm alone? Clint probably left his phone in the truck. It's a habit. Shandi poured equal amounts of cream and coffee in her mug, then added three spoonfuls of sugar. “I'm Cactus sitting, responsible for him at all times. Couldn't he have left a note or something? What if Tony calls? Oh man.” Nat smirked, as she paced again. “Maybe coffee isn't the best option, for you.” “I'm worried.” “No shit.” Shandi then downed her coffee, went to look out the front windows, returned and paced yet again. “Final warning.” Said Nat. “You've about three seconds to halt, or be tied to something.” “If he thought I was upset last night, that was nothing. You wait, Natskies.” “The spanking paddle might be handy. Unless he runs.” Nats comment fell on deaf ears, then Shandi stopped abruptly. “I should go clean my room, make my bed and shit? Yep. Maybe that’ll help me relax.” She darted upstairs and Nat sipped her coffee. “I’m staying down here.” Another twenty minutes past and she heard Shandi shower quickly, run down the front stairs, grapple with something amidst a closet, run back up and start the Central Vac. Two minutes later, Loki and Clint returned. “I can't believe you convinced me to drive in this. You're a manic, Cactus.” “And you're a whiner.” Loki teased. “How does Kroshka even tolerate such nonsense?” “Bite me and you're now in debt another coconut cake.” “Shall I decorate it with candied nipple clamps?” “Go for it.” Nat suggested as they entered the kitchen. “Hardy har.” Said Clint. “Mind if I use your bathroom, to shower? I need more sleep too.” “Certainly baby cakes and again, thanks for the escort.” Clint started up the stairs. “Maniac!” “He was tanked last nigh, Cactust. How did you get him up so early?” “I threatened to tattoo ‘Porn Bitch,’ on his forehead. When ignored, I handed him a mirror.” Said Loki. “Baby cakes would have sufficed, but good choice.” Nat kept smiling, observing Loki organize what sat upon the island. “Something on your mind?” He asked. “Care to know why Shandi loves those movies, I mentioned?” “I do.” “Both are about men who fall for women, in ways they could never fathom. In the beginning, they mess up, then become determined to make amends.” “I see. I gather Shandi spoke of my deceit?” “Yes and you and I never had this conversation.” Said Nat. “I understand.” “Considering the subject, I convinced her you meant well, but may I offer more friendly advice?” “Of course.” “A beautiful heart, doesn't mean a weak soul, Loki. Disrespect her personal choices and she'll toss you to the curb.” He nodded in acknowledgement. “Duly noted, Kroshka. Anything else?” “Yes. The next time you go anywhere without informing her, remember your phone or consider leaving behind a horse tranquilizer?” “Whatever for?” Nat explained and he laughed. “My bad. As we’re on the subject, what did I miss from that scene in What Women Want, which captivates her?” “When they're dancing in the bedroom?” “Yes.” “Watch it on YouTube, Cactus. You’ll figure it out.” Shandi was toiling away in her room when the vacuum stopped and Nat entered. “I wasn't done with that.” “Yes you are, they're back.” “She flopped onto the bed with her arms stretched out. "Thank heavens.” Nat pulled her up. “Come on drama queen. There's something you need to see.” As they entered the kitchen Shandis mouth fell ajar. “What? He actually did this?” There on the island, sat everything Loki hadn't purchased during their shop, including her two boxes of Fruit Loops. “Yes beautiful. He went out in that storm, to make things right with you.” Nat smirked as Shandi blinked at her, misty eyed. “Are you just going to stand here like a love sick puppy, or go talk to him?” Loki had retreated to the library, closed the door and searched that movie scene on his laptop. It was very evident the love and adoration the male actor portrayed towards the female, as though she meant everything to him. ‘Do you seek such affections, Pet?’ Someone knocked then and he closed the app. “You may enter the God of Mischiefs lair.” Shandi peeked in and smirked. “Is it safe?” “For now.” Loki kidded. She leaned against the doorframe, in momentary silence. ‘Damn him when he looks at me like that.’ “I noticed you went shopping..in the storm. You didn't have to do that. I mean, I could've waited until tomorrow. Regardless, it was very kind. Thank you.” “You're quite welcome, Shandi. I apologize for my deceit.” A warm smile, overtook her. “I accept. Nat and I thought to watch another movie. You're welcome to join us.” Loki recalled Nats fantasy from the previous night, Shandis pleasured response and hesitated. ‘I've only presently escaped trouble. Perhaps I shouldn't lead myself into temptation.’ He cleared his throat. “You ladies enjoy. I've still some research on Shamus's hobbies to do." Two movies later, Clint woke and everyone except Nat, had some drinks. They stayed until late evening, Shandi disappeared for a few minutes, then brought some food from the entertainment room, to help tidy up. Loki noticed the booze had gotten to her and swiftly took action. Shandi returned from a second trip and found the drink she'd left behind, replaced by a water bottle. “Seriously Loki? Yur doin’ this again? Where's my drink?” She politely, asked. “Pardon me. I thought you were done and emptied the remaining contents.” “You should've assed.” ‘Assed? Good thing I didn't.’ “Next time, I'll be sure to.” He changed the subject. “I thought we'd visit Carters Bakery tomorrow, but may I take you someplace first?” “Where?” “It's a surprise.” “K.” She slid her hands into her pockets. “So’s this sorta’ like a..mini date kinda thing?” Loki smirked. “Would you like it to be?” Before she could answer, odd squeaky noises and the washing machine lid rattling, caught her attention. She darted down the hall and Loki followed, just in time to see bubbles overflowing from beneath the lid and her slip on soapy water, leaking out the bottom. She landed on her ass, legs spread on the floor and cursed. “Oh fur fuck sakes.” He burst into laughter, helped to her feet and turned the machine off. “Generous with the detergent, were you?” “The model hasn't a soap dispenser. You gotta pour it on yur clothes.” She lifted the lid and saw nothing beyond the bubbles. “Maybe I was too generous. Still, it must be broken if…” She faltered again and as Loki moved to balance her, she slid into him, grasping at the front of his shirt. Loki smirked and gently placed a hand on her back. “Welcome to my personal space.” ‘Oh lord.’ “Sorry.” “It's alright. I did say welcome.” ‘Stay a while.’ Shandis heart raced as she gazed between his lips and eyes, contemplating a kiss, when an uncomfortable sensation stopped her. “My butt feels soapy an’ wet.” He noted her rapid pulse, the sudden softness in her tone and how her hands spread open on his chest. ‘Please, Pet. Feel away.' “Norns, what a predicament you're in.” “Yeah..an’ now I've a melvin.” “And what pray tell, is a melvin darling?” Shandi slowly backed towards the door, shifting her hips and tugging at the back of her shorts. “It's kinda like..where your panties creep waaay too far into places ya wish they didn't.” Loki smirked. “I see.” “Let me go change, come back an’ clean all this up.” She left and he chuckled under his breath. ‘And risk yourself an injury? I think not.’ Magic fixed the problem and when she didn't return, he found her passed out in bed. ‘Might I assume, lack of sleep caught up with you? What a shame.’ She was sprawled out on her back, naked beneath a robe, with one leg folded and part of her hoo ha exposed. ‘I would've enjoyed watching you clean up in this attire.’ He resolved her impending hangover and licked his lips. ‘Time to occupy myself elsewhere.’ ***** Back at the Tower, Tony had just finished tinkering with one of his suits, when his phone rang and he put it on speaker. “Hey Cactus. Everything alright?” “Everything's fine.” “Oh. Where's Shandi?” “Sleeping.” Silence fell and Tony thought it odd. “Cactus? Are we still in the same dimension?” “We are and I've been thinking.” Tony's eyes closed and fists clenched. ‘If you're backing out of this, I'll call you a taxi for the fucking BiFrost.’ “About?” “Events, since my return.” His eyes opened as Pepper came up beside him and placed a finger to her lips. Loki then spoke of regret for the immense responsibility, Odin had placed upon Tony and apologized for all the hardships his presence, had brought each Avenger. He expressed remorse for being the reason Tony feared for Peppers life, the person he loved most and also expressed gratitude for every minute kindness, they'd shown him. Then he asked a question, Tony least expected. “Has requiring me for this job, weighted your concerns?” “It has.” “Remember my given word in the truck, regarding everything?" Asked Loki. "Yes." "Understand, it was genuine and I intend no malice. If Shamus is involved, I will learn of it and help resolve this problem to the best of my ability. Alright?” Tony was utterly astonished. “Uhhh..well, hey. Alright, Cactus and...thanks for all that other stuff too.” “Your welcome Tin Man. Goodnight.” The call ended and Tony looked at Pepper. “Do you think he's gotten into some spooky broccoli?” “And what would you know of it?” She asked. “Nothing..pshh..I..did that just happen? Can you pinch me?” Pepper obliged and he yelped. “Bully!” She rolled her eyes. “I think he meant it.” “You do?” “Yes. He's changed. A lot, recently. Are you coming to bed?” Tony picked up his phone. “You're asking all sexied up in your pajamas? Why wouldn't I?” They were halfway up the winding staircase, when Peppers bottom lip began quivering as tears filled her eyes. Tony stopped her. “Pepper?” She sobbed then and leaned into his chest. “I'm sorry, Tony.” After they sat for a moment, he lifted her chin. “For what?” Her sobs suddenly worsened. “I was worried because you were so worried..about this mission and..sending Loki and then..what else Obadiah might have done...I..feared adding to it.” Tony’s heart hurt, having never seen her so distraught. “Adding to it? Virginia, what's going on? Talk to me. Whatever it is baby, we’ll get through it.” “That's what it is. A..a baby, Tony. I'm pregnant.” At first his mouth fell open, then he beamed, cupped her cheeks and repeatedly kissed her face. “Ha! Tony Stark is gonna be a father! Well holy shitballs!" Then what she’d said struck and he became serious again. This is what you're sorry for?” “Yes. I haven't missed..a day of my new birth control, but it must've failed. I've known for two weeks, but..couldn't bring myself to tell you.” “Oh Virginia, please don't cry?” He sighed and wiped her tears. “Out of concern for my well being, you withheld this? We're in this relationship together and how selfish of ‘me’ for not grasping your distress. You're the other half of my logic, my serenity and often my sanity. By causing your inability to share such a significant moment in our lives, I've obviously taken that for granted. 'I'm' sorry.’ “That's untrue, Tony. You were stressed, you're human. Hearing Loki brought such relief, I just couldn't hold it anymore." “My point is, you shouldn't have felt required to.” He placed a soft kiss to her lips. "Baby, listen. Now that there's to be three of us, it's imperative you ‘never,’ forget this. I don't give a rats ass what I'm stressed about. If you need me, then come to me and I mean it. Always Virginia. Promise?" She nodded. "Promise. I love you, Tony." "And I you. How far along are we anyway?" "Eight weeks." "Whaaat? Who else knows?" "I'd never tell anyone, before you." "Perfect. To keep you safer, we only inform your family and close friends. Then when you get bigger, I'll buy you a porta potty for the limo.” “Tony!” He chuckled and scooped her into his arms. “Two months means a lot of celebrating we're behind on. Let's play catch up. Jarvis, please bring some champagne and whipped cream to our room?” “Whipped cream?” Asked Pepper. “I'm not sayin’ what that's for. You'll have to wait.” “I beg your pardon, Sir?” “I should fire him for not having legs.” Minutes later, Tony laid Pepper on their bed and was about to kiss her. “What is ‘whipped cream,’ Sir?” “Yep. He's definitely fired.” Pepper smiled. “Privacy please, Jarvis?” Tony kissed beneath her lobe. “Now that we're alone, Iron Man has something special just for you.”

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rosyredlipstick · 6 years

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NYE conchell drabble

this takes place during Rental Love Chapter 9 (AKA the NYE chapter) You don’t have to read that other fic at all to understand, just know that they’re all in the di Angelo manor having a party.

Anyways, a few people asked for this and there was no better time for me to post this ^.^ HAPPY NEW YEARS EVE

“What are you doing?”

Connor froze, his finger deep in wires and rope, and cursed.

Fuck. He and Travis had promised no pranks this time, but, well....

It was a balloon drop - the temptation had simply been too much.

Usually he could simply bribe whoever caught him, or blackmail depending, but he and Travis had promised. Di Angelo was going to kill them.

Connor turned, an excuse already on his lips, and his breath caught in his chest.

The stranger - leaning up against the side of the wall, his arms crossed, his expression curious - was, simply put, probably a god given human form. Probably. Most likely.

Connor went mute, his mouth hanging open without sound, and blinked back at the other man.

“You’re doing it wrong,” The stranger told him, a small frown on his face as he peered down at the mess of rope and wire. “You’re filling the balloons with paint, and you’re having them explode at midnight?”

Connor, staring up at the other boy, only nodded numbly. A small screaming voice in his head, sounding suspiciously like Katie, yelled at him to say something.

“You need to account for the added weight,” The boy took a small step forward, stripping his jacket in the movement. He was wearing a thin V-neck with his forearms on clear display. Connor never knew he was religious until this moment.

The boy narrowed his eyes at the mess of wires, “You just need to tighten the net holding back the balloons a little, I think. Any tighter they could start popping from being squished, but at the current hold I don’t think it’ll be as dramatic as you want. They’ll just plop on the ground. So if you -”

“I’m Connor,” he choked out in the middle of the other boy’s sentence, interrupting him. Connor blinked a few times, cursing himself.

The boy glanced over at him in surprise before grinning. “Hi Connor,” Fuck, Connor was so red. “I’m Mitchell.”

Connor swallowed, “I, uh, haven’t seen you at one of these before.” I would have remembered.

“My first one in a while,” The boy explained, “Piper - my older sister, you know her? - dragged me and Drew along.”

Ah. That explained it, a bit. He could see it now - that supermodel attractiveness that simply ran in her family. It was….evident, in Mitchell too.

Mitchell was already turned back to the balloon drop

“I think -” Mitchell leaned forward, his fingers nimble and light as they traced over the knots holding a majority of the netting together, “If you pull on these two ropes - maybe twist this wiring - and retie them here, it should hold a lot better.”

Connor blinked a few times, processing the other boy’s suggestion. Connor had just been planning on having them fall as was, no real flair to it. But Mitchell’s suggestion would better the prank, making all the balloons explode forward out of the next, instead of having them fall slowly down.

It was good.

He was brilliant.

Connor once again nodded numbly, and that set Mitchell to work.

It was quick work, just a bit of tightening, a few loose screws, tasks that Mitchell seemed to have no problem fixing. Connor watched him work with wide eyes, only blinking back when Mitchell suddenly stood, dusting off his hands.

“It’s rigged to go off at midnight?” Mitchell asked, continuing at Connor’s nod, grinning. “Then we better get out of here, right?”

“Right,” Connor breathed out, not making a move.

Mitchell gave him an amused look, his hand coming down to curl around Connor’s wrist. “Well, c’mon then.”

Connor, without much choice or fight against the matter, followed the other boy into the crowd, and let them get good distance from the balloon drop. Di Angelo would still know it was him, and Travis would probably come find him to proudly clasp him on the back but for the moment, it was unknown.

“Ten minutes,” Mitchell pulled the other boy close to tell him, the crowd pressing them closer together. “Wanna dance?”

Connor, whose automatic response wanting to be yes please or the gods know i want nothing in this world more please oh my god, in no way trusted his voice, and only nodded.

Mitchell shot him a grin, pulling him in closer, and…

And it was obvious Mitchell knew what he was doing.

And what was Connor doing? Usually he was the smooth and suave grinning troublemaker, never had he been so…

Mitchell shot a grin over his shoulder as he turned and began dancing on Connor.

His cheeks roared into color. Never before had he been so flustered.

He forced himself to get in better with the music, with the beat. He could do this.

He was just getting into it, into Mitchell’s body pressing against his own, grinning and flipping his blue hair, the other boy laughing and pressing jell-o shots into Connor’s hands as waitresses passed by, when the current song drifted off, and the DJ pulled up a digital clock and mic, hyping up the crowd.

Mitchell shot him a grin, stepping forward, as the DJ encouraged them to grab onto their sweetheart. Connor’s heart pounded.

The countdown began, and Connor hadn’t been this nervous about a New Year’s kiss since he was in junior high. Sweat, not from the heat of the room but only the moment, formed on the back of his neck, on the insides of his palms.

“Do you mind?” Mitchell grinned, patting down his wild blue hair. Connor swallowed.

“Not, I mean - Not at all,” Connor barely got out, before jerking towards the other boy, without much grace.

But what Connor lacked, Mitchell seemed to make up without hardly any effort. He wound his arms around Connor’s neck, a sweet devious smile on his face, his hands coming up to face through Connor’s curls. Mitchell, thankfully, seemed to know to take the lead. Connor wondered if he was being that oblivious.

The other boy had sugar on his lips, probably from one of the many cotton candy machines lined up against the wall. He pressed against Connor’s lips, his hand smoothing up and down Connor’s neck, a tease of tongue and heat. Everyone was cheering, the lights were flaring and, from a distance, there were shouts of shock and confusion as the balloons exploded and popped overhead, covering the crowd with paint and glitter.

Mitchell was still kissing him, even as a shock of rouge glitter splashed across them. His nose was pressing into Connor’s cheek, his hands were everywhere, and Connor felt like he was drowning in the other boy.

This was the best kiss of Connor’s life.

Mitchell pulled away, smiling, unwinding his arms from around Connor’s neck and stepping back.

Which, as Connor blinked in surprise and a bit in awe, was the exact opposite of what Connor wanted.

“It’s nice to meet you, Connor.” He smiled sweetly, “I should go find my sisters - make sure they’re not doing anything stupid.”

Connor could do something stupid. He could do many stupid things, in any order, if it meant Mitchell would stay close and watch over him.

And he did, actually, do something stupid - he stupidly gave the other boy a small wave, and watched him disappear into the group.

That...was probably the stupidest thing he’d done all night.

#conchell #connor stoll #mitchell #Aphrodite Cabin #my ocs #basically ok #my fic #rosy writes #happy new years!!!#rental love #Percy Jackson and the Olympians #Heroes of Olympus

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loveluredd · 3 years

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the coffee that we lost, and the moment that we gained.

“ It doesn't feel like I just met you, it's like I know you. Better hold my feelings back, because I just met you, and I don't wanna get ahead of myself. ” — https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RP3yYCmE1ic

There is something to the early evenings in the winter months, the nip of the frozen air as it washes over your cheeks, leaving a pinched pink to complement the golden light that dances its way across every face that braved it. Many would opt for the sweltering days of summer if given the choice, but no, they weren’t for me. I preferred it when the world was painted in white, a blank canvas upon which you could splash your own colors. More often than not with a worn scarf in my case, interwoven wools that had faded with the years, but the memories made in their presence clung to each and every fiber. As much as I loved a chance to start anew, a slate coated in untouched snow, some things were harder to leave in the last chapter. I could hardly say that I remembered stepping foot into the coffee shop that sat on the corner overlooking my favorite view in town. The ritual was such a part of me at this point, that my muscles needed no guidance to steer me home, my mouth needed no supervision to greet whoever stood behind the counter by name, no hesitation would be found in repeating an order made time and time again. The only real indicator of the fact that I’d even stepped inside, was in the instinctive unzipping of my jacket, the loosening of my scarf, as the heat being pumped out by radiators and tired machines seeped through the layers of disconnection to let me know that they were no longer needed. Times gone by danced through my mind, as if invited by the touch of fingertips to the material looped around my neck, vivid flashes of days lived pulling me under their spell. As memories tended to, they didn’t come in long stretches, there were no scenes that played out in their entirety, instead I was left with snapshots. Crystal clear pinpoints in time, from which roots grew, spreading outward with the faintest feelings of familiarity, touches of emotion weaving their way under the surface, until the only part that stayed true was the original snapshot. The rest tainted by attempts at forcing puzzle pieces into spaces that weren’t made for them, willing them into existence, hoping that hope alone could create a bigger picture. Then, bump. A flash of reality, a startling hit of clarity among the blinding colors that swirled beneath the surface. It was him. Those were the words that came to my consciousness, well before the awareness of the hot liquid that had been knocked over us. Both caught up in our own worlds, we’d collided, our finest shirts now forever marked by the coffee that we lost, and the moment that we gained. After a split second where time had stood still, nothing but his eyes locked on mine and a rush of affinity, came a sudden flurry. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, I am so sorry.” The words came with a frantic grab and offering of napkins that he thrust in my general direction, earning an undiluted laugh from me as I set down the now useless cup of coffee to take him up on his offer. “I don’t know why you’re saying sorry, I was the one away with the fairies.” Splitting the pile of tissue between my hands, dabbing one bunch to my chest, returning his gesture to him with the other. “Dry that before it gets to your skin, death loves nothing more than a cold night and wet clothing. As my mother would say.” A pause, as if a ghost had emerged from the shadows, just long enough to tap me on the shoulder and deliver a fright. “Wow, am I really at the age when I start quoting my mother? Shoot me.” That was apparently the key to wiping the deer-in-headlights look from his face, trading it in for something closer to the humor that had settled upon my features. “That really is tragic, you might as well head straight for the retirement home from here.” Eyes lifting from my assessment of the damage, finding myself caught once again, trapped in the weight of his eyes — lit up by the amusement of our blunder, yet somehow maintaining a captivating darkness that demanded undivided attention. Eyes like sinking ships on waters, so inviting, I almost jump in. “Oh, you think? Well, do you think they’d take the spilled drink as a ticked box on the senile checklist?” A groan surfaced with that remark, his hand lifting to smack the heel to his forehead, possibly the most comical and charming thing I’ve ever been witness to. “I really am sorry. I hope that isn’t an expensive shirt.” “Well, more expensive than the drink, and I’m far more upset about that.” Pausing in my own tracks, no cup in reach, yet I needed to drink this in. “Let me buy you a new one.” His hands flew up in protest, swiftly dropping, surely in search of the wallet he seemed dead set on. It was just as much his fault as mine, and it was the man’s job to step up, wasn’t it? A mix of his eagerness, and my own inner musings brought up a roll of laughter, along with a forward facing palm that demanded an end to his panic. “I don’t deal in patriarchy. I’m buying you a latte.” Just as easily as I’d waded into past memories and lost myself and time to them, I fell into the one that was in the making right before my eyes. If I’d wanted to know exactly how long we stood for, the concept of chairs lost to the unwillingness to halt conversation, I could have asked the staff that continued to bustle behind us. Though, part of the magic laid with the time forgotten, a precious thing I wasn’t willing to taint with something as unremarkable as numbers. There was nothing in this moment but us, swapped words, mingling laughs, and the wish that the world around us would never come crashing back into this place that was for us alone. We stood, we chatted, snickering exchanged over the ridiculousness of caffeine. You wanted it, until not having it put a blinding pain behind your eye and you hated the very fact that it existed, and then you needed it. Silent understanding shared and fingers twitching with a need to offer comfort as things turned from lighthearted, to anecdotes of our mothers and the wisdom we inherited from them, along with the accompanying scars. Our second attempt at drinks remained untouched, drifting away from warmth toward something iced — we didn’t seem to care for our second cups lost, not when something was being found. Wishes were all well and good, but they rarely had the chance to touch what we needed them to, and far too soon the world found its way back into our consciousness in the form of a gentle reminder of closing time fast approaching. I offered apologies for the lack of awareness, even though I leaned closer to wanting to scold the intrusion, but I tucked that away and made my way toward the door. As his steps fell in with my own, the reality of it all hit home, and the door that would separate us was something I couldn’t yet face. “I never even mentioned…” Trailing off as I turned on my heels, making a beeline for the raised bar, and the pen that sat atop it. Signalling that I had no intention of being a stationary thief, before shuffling back to the man whose eyes I didn’t dare look to, not yet. Not before I’d dipped low enough to get a clear view of his still full cup, so that I could scrawl a string of digits across it. Then, and only then, did I allow for the wave that came crashing down on me when his eyes found mine again. “My name is Toby.” He flashed a smile that already had the power to overwhelm me, to the point where I knew it would never be enough, that I’d spend the rest of my days hoping for one more hit. It was written across his face, that ‘oh, yes, we have names, as well as life stories to tell’ look. “Vic. My name is Vic.” We hovered in the doorway, societal norms dictating that there was nothing more to say, but the air that surrounded us screamed that we had everything in the world left to say. “Well. It was...really special meeting you, Toby. Maybe we can spill our drinks on each other again some time.” Everything in the world left to say, but that was enough for now, the promise of again. “Be warned, I’ll hold you to that.” The last laugh of the night, and we finally surrendered to the pathway that awaited us, that demanded we go our separate ways. With the hit of fresh air, I was brought back just enough to become aware of the way my head swam, the swell that pushed at my sternum, pressing forwards in hopes of following after its newfound home. I was already on the brink of something, something that I couldn’t quite name, and that alone led me to believe that it was possibly the edge of madness. Still, as close to falling as I felt, I couldn’t resist the urge that nagged at me, demanding that I check if my suspicions might be right. I slowed my steps, took in a lungful of the night’s air, and glanced back over my shoulder. And there they were, those depths that dared me to step in, glancing back at me like a mirror of my own actions. Lingering in that moment of mutual need, pulling out my most brilliant beam as a temporary farewell, before turning back to the journey ahead. I would pass multiple stops, serviced by a variety of buses that could carry me home much quicker than my own two feet, but they were no temptation tonight. Not when I had miles of road ahead, each step another moment that I could linger in, a chance to replay this night. Our words swirled, the way his smile dimpled his cheeks wouldn’t leave my mind any time soon, but there was one thing that hung higher than the rest. The moment of pause that had sat between us before we parted, so little space there, yet so much room for opportunity. Hundreds, thousands, millions of opportunities that could have filled those seconds, but one would do for now. A scenario where we had leaned into that feeling, into one another, and shared our first kiss. That was the image that would follow me all the way home, into the next day, and the days after that. It would follow me until it was pulled from the confines of my mind, and out into the real world.

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youngerdrgrey · 7 years

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easy there, oedipus (or, how to get away with impregnating your law professor) // part 2

about: alternatively titled, how to get away with impregnating your law professor and secretly parenting your child; or moments from a fic unwritten, updated and revamped for a season that only feeds into my need for Annalise and Wes to fall into the abyss together. — takes place in season 3

[read part one here or here, over on ao3]

notes: lol that finale has me so fucked up. fuck Peter Nowalk and the writing staff for those decisions in the s3 finale and most of s3 tbh.

vi. how Mama found out (part 1)

Annalise nearly hangs up the longer the line rings. But she grips her phone tighter in her palm and wills her mother to actually get all the way to the phone before Annalise loses her nerve. She’d called her mother once during her last pregnancy. One time, and by the grace of God, Ophelia missed the call. Gone to church when Annalise wasn’t sure whether or not to keep Sam’s baby and give in to a life she’d lose all control over. She’d wound up leaving a voicemail about sending some donations to the church, didn’t talk to her mom again until after she’d lost the baby. When the accident gave her a good reason not to visit. When some weak part of her wanted to hear her mother’s voice until she remembered what her mom actually sounded like.

Maybe this will be the same way. She’ll get on the phone, and Mama will say something awful, and Annalise’ll choke down her news and replace it with something else, like… how she’d make her way out there for one of the holidays this year. Or how she needed a new cast iron skillet and couldn’t find a decent one this far north, something that’ll really grab her mom’s attention.

Only, her mom — Ophelia — answers the phone already sounding over this conversation. She barely breathes more than a sigh before asking, “Who died this time?” TV nonsense drones on in the background, so at least it seems like she’s alone.

Still, Annalise sputters around her words, pulls the phone tighter and tries to sound above it all. “Mama!” As if there haven’t been bodies all over the town with her name on ‘em.

Ophelia clicks her tongue on her end. “Only other time you called, your husband died. So, who’s dying?”

They’ve been on the phone for two seconds, and Annalise already needs a drink. “No one, Mama. It’s…. It’s more like the opposite.” She tugs open a bag of pretzels to give herself something to do. Grabs a handful but doesn’t start chewing.

“Go on then. Tell me what’s happened.” Her breath picks up. “Ooh, did you and that fine man finally stop fooling around and do something?”

“No, it’s not Nate. It’s—“

She talks over Annalise’s interjection, saying, “Honestly, finally, Anna Mae, I was starting to think—“

“It’s not Nate!”

“Oh, okay. The boy then. The tall one, always following you around.”

“Mama—“

“I told you, that’s what makes sex the best. Someone’s always the student, someone’s always the teacher.” Ophelia chuckles to herself while Annalise reaches for the chip bag on her desk. "But I did like that Nate. Strong man. Big shoulders. Those arms—“

Annalise chomps down on a handful of pretzels. “Mama, please, don’t make me regret calling you.”

Ophelia huffs. “Fine. I’m listening.”

“Good.” Better than that even. If anyone can give Annalise a removed opinion, it’d be her mama. Someone who doesn’t look at Wes and see everything he’s lost and what this could do to him. On one hand, having a child could give him something he hasn’t had in over a decade — someone who could unconditionally care for him. On the other hand, he’s little more than a boy himself, and he still has years of education and training before he’s in a place where he could support another person. Not that he necessarily needs to. Annalise could support this child, if she even wants to keep it. Which… that’s it’s own conversation.

“Anna Mae, I can’t start listening if you don’t talk. Just spit it—“

“I’m pregnant.” It’s the first time she says the words aloud, and all she gets back is silence. A hard won silence, but silence nonetheless. And the world doesn't stop spinning. No one bursts in the room after overhearing. So, Annalise says it a second time. “I’m pregnant. Five weeks along.” The sobriety’s a good thing now, means she stares into an empty glass bookshelf in her office and doesn’t have that temptation. Means she’s not killing another child while it’s inside of her. “I kept getting sick. I thought the withdrawal symptoms were coming back, but…” Soroya had laughed at Annalise’s snacking and queasiness, had said it gave her pregnancy flashbacks, and Annalise had spent three days wondering if it were possible. Three days of crushing metal sounds and beeping hospital machines ringing in her ears. Three days of Sam’s hands on her belly before she’d gone down to the gas station two towns over and bought out their whole supply of tests. Took half the tests in the gas station bathroom right after. Barked at every person who had the gall to knock and rush her. She’s not built to do this again, not now. “Mama, how am I supposed to do this again? I’m not-“ ready, for one, and, honestly, “I’m too old!”

Ophelia breathes out a little, and it’s not a laugh per say. It’s soft, nurturing, like her mama cradles the phone just to let the air out. Her little cracked hands circling around it, pulling it about as close as she wants to pull her daughter in.

“Baby, you’re never too old for things to change.” Mama pats on something. Then she actually does chuckle. “I’ll say the same thing I say to everybody else. 'I raised my babies; don’t got enough time for everybody else’s.’"

Annalise chuckles around whatever’s lodged in her throat. A bad breath or something. A little emotion. Of course her mom doesn’t have a lot of time; Annalise barely has enough time, and she’s the one having it. Maybe having it. “I gave up a long time ago. Now it’s here, and I have no idea what to do.” Keep the baby, and now she’s brought someone small and dependent into this awful web of theirs. She could move, pack up the house and the baby, go teach somewhere that the board of directors doesn’t hate her so much. Bonnie would probably follow her, but where does that leave the rest of the kids? And where does that leave Wes?

Ophelia’s grin comes through all the way to Annalise — crooked and hopeful — when she says, “You could always come home."

And that’s a picture right there, Annalise on her side of forty, rocking a newborn, while her mom hovers in the background giving tips on the right way to parent. Never in Annalise’s life will that be her. She might need help, but running to her mom? At her age?

“You’re joking.”

Ophelia hums on her end. “You know me. I talk. I’m just talking. It’s not like I don’t have the room over here. But you won’t need it.” She sounds sure of that, and something warm spreads in Annalise’s chest. “You’ll figure it out, baby. You always do.”

Annalise’s throat feels a little tight, so she settles for a nod and a reach for that bag of pretzels she left on the desk. She should get off the phone soon. She doesn’t have much time until everyone’s out of class, then they’ll be here and she can’t freely talk about something like this where they could overhear. No one can know yet. Not until she knows what she should do.

Then Ophelia opens her mouth again and says, “Now, tell Mama which one of these boys done knocked you up this time.”

Annalise groans and groans, but she smiles when she does it. Beams down at a handful of pretzels. Talks out the side of her mouth. “You did say that’s how it worked best. Guess you weren’t wrong.”

“Mamas rarely are. You’ll see.”

She will, won’t she?

vii. or how Annalise spent her day hiding out

Annalise sinks into the wall opposite the meeting room. Someone’s class president campaign poster flattens a bit under the weight of her purse, but they should have thought about the fact that the school moonlights as a place for AA meetings before they hung them up. Besides, better a poster be hurt than anyone else. There’s a whole room full of people in there waiting to expel their demons and share their horror stories, and honestly she chokes over what she’s supposed to share.

Hi, her name’s Annalise, and she’s barely been sober long enough to form replacement habits, but now she snacks in bathrooms and screws her students on weekdays. (The days are not the problem. The problem is the boy waiting for her to come home so they can be adults about this. The one who’s probably making dinner and flitting around to make the place more homey for the both of them. Just — great.)

Her name’s Annalise, and she reached a low that she never thought would honestly happen for her. She spent most of the latter part of her marriage resenting the fact that her husband cheated on her with students and his clients, so she vowed to not be that person. Never be the one who screws those that you’re meant to be helping. That’s how she and Sam started, and that’s when her life took a turn down a road that she thought was helping. She left Eve — the woman she’d been seeing at the time — and she wound up eventually having her own practice and a stellar reputation with clients and co-workers and students alike. Then she took the wrong case. (If she were saying this, her lips would probably pucker, and she’d nod to herself because that case really was the turning point, wasn’t it?) And a woman died. A little boy — Annalise's boy died. Another boy lost his mother, and the reasonable thing would have been to help him as people do. But Annalise has never been that reasonable. So she tried not to think about the only person who could recover after that shit show, up until he got on the waitlist for the school she taught at. And a voice that sounded remarkably like her mother’s told her to help him. Told her that if we can help and we don’t, then we’ve failed….

His name is Wes, and she has no idea how to look at him now. It was fine when the others were there. Easy to comparmentalize and see them all as one, but alone, the set of his jaw makes her fingers itch. Pulse to the point where she needs to busy them to keep from reaching out and tracing the length of the bone with her nails. Right under the chin, so they snag a bit against the stubble he hasn’t quite gotten rid of yet. He does a better job of shaving these days. Probably as a sign to himself and everyone else that they’ve moved on, that they really are good, stable people now who don’t shoot their professors or chop up bodies in the woods. They don’t cover up murders, and they certainly don’t wind up in any crime scenes except the ones that their clients have committed and confessed to.

Only, good people don’t hide outside of AA meetings instead of going home. Good people don’t have to rehearse what they’ll say to make sure they don’t say the wrong thing. Good people don’t ruin people’s lives and then fuck them into submission. (She might be dramatic in saying that last part, but honestly, with the way she’d rode him, his heavy sleep was well-earned.)

“Annalise?”

She jumps at the sound of her name. Scans the hallway before remembering the phone in her hand. Hoists it up in time to hear Eve ask for her again. She shouldn’t have called. She should never call or contact Eve again. Just leave the woman alone to be happy in San Francisco rather than roping her into whatever drama of the week that’s surrounding this town.

“You’ve gotta stop answering,” Annalise says in liue of greeting.

“Maybe one day I will.” But even as she says it, Eve chuckles. She sighs into her words. “What’s wrong, Annalise?”

Because something is always wrong out here. Something’s been wrong with her for as long as she’s been alive, and she only spreads it around like a cancer to everyone else. Infecting them until their bones become as brittle as their senses of self. Until they splinter and crack and the breaks form sparks that burn out anything else left inside of them. Until they’re hollow like Frank, or forever reaching like Bonnie, or whatever it is that she is. Maybe a bit of both. Hollow and constantly seeking a way to fill the void, or forget that it exists.

“Oh you know, same old, same old.” Annalise shifts, and the campaign poster crinkles some more. “I don’t think these meetings are helping."

“Are you sharing?”

Annalise shakes her head. “Too much I can’t explain.”

“Then you can’t blame the meetings,” Eve says. “That’s on you.”

“What exactly should I tell them? That I drink because everything in my life falls apart and no matter how much I help everyone, they still only see that their lives turned to hell the moment they met me?”

Eve clicks her tongue, and that must mean she’s visualizing the right course of action. Her eyelids probably fall shut, but her eyes still move, like she’s reading the future in the breaths that fall between the click of her tongue beneath her teeth. Then they pop back open, a new shine in them, and her head’s got that slight tilt up that means she knows she’s right. Then out with something brilliant.

“Fuck ‘em.” Eve breathes out a laugh, and Annalise joins her without a second thought. “Seriously, fuck anyone who doesn’t see what a goddamn honor it is to have their lives ruined by you. If they can’t see that you have an endless amount of love to give — don’t scoff, you do; I’ve felt it — then you just leave what ever, I don’t know, mounds of emotion you’ve hefted over to them and keep on moving. You care so much, Annalise, and too many people out here aren’t ready to accept that you’re fallible too. You stash all of your pain away so well that other people don’t know where to look for it. But there’s a few of us, a lucky few, who will find it and help you get through it.”

People who will look into her eyes and joke with her rather than forcing her to acknowledge what she’s admitted about herself. People who bring her pizzas and re-stock her refridgerator with the right sort of junk food that won’t make her hate herself immediately. People who pick up the phone no matter how many times she calls, knowing that she might not do the same.

“You’re mixing metaphors,” Annalise says.

“Then let me be clear. What happens to other people isn’t your fault. And if they come to you, broken and lost and seeking someone to blame, then it’s not on you either. Stop carrying the weight of the world when you’ve already got your own baggage. Sorry, another metaphor.”

“It’s fine. I’ve certainly got plenty of that.” But the baggage thing isn’t a bad way to look at it. She can’t be expected to carry whatever this might mean for Wes. She could add another layer to the suitcase of issues that she has about that boy, but she doesn’t need to worry about how he’s taking this. She doesn’t need to try and protect herself or him or the memory of goodness in a fair society because, honestly, she has too much going on to do anything else. Maybe another time, she can take another trip and pick up some more stuff, but for now? She’s already way over her free luggage limit and Jet Blue wants a whole case’s worth of fees just to let her check-in.

“And if you need help, getting through some of that stuff, you know where I am.”

In San Francisco, with someone who can love her without losing herself in the process.

“I do,” Annalise stands herself up, “but I should be fine. Call this a moment of weakness.”

“Call me for the next one?”

“Hopefully not. This time difference is ridiculous.” Annalise honestly shouldn’t even check what time it is over there. Probably dinner. Eve probably hasn’t even left her office yet, and she’s texted apologies to her girlfriend for taking so long at work when she’s really talking an ex down from a ledge. “I should go.”

And Annalise can hear Eve nod, hear the rustling of her clothes and the tightness of her throat. “You should. Take care of yourself.”

“And you do the same. I’ve got bad coffee and donuts waiting on the other side of this door. If I sneak in now, I might get one of the ones with frosting. Fingers crossed.” She does the motion and waits for Eve’s goodbye to click off the line.

She’ll go into the meeting and then head home. She’s been moving with her baggage long enough today.

Her phone buzzes towards the end of the meeting. Bonnie first.

From Bonnie Winterbottom to Annalise Keating (10:19p) // Wes is looking for you. He’s resorted to messaging me so I’m guessing something went wrong. Did he pee on the carpet?

Annalise rolls her eyes and lowers her phone’s brightness. Replies.

From Annalise Keating to Bonnie Winterbottom (10:20p) // I’m at a meeting // Bug me later

But her phone goes off with a text from Wes before she can stow it away again. She stares at the screen before clicking over to that conversation. No telling what sort of guy he is on the next day. He’d seemed casual enough in the morning, but he hadn’t had time to respond back then. He’d woken up to her just moving on, so he’d had to. But what if he couldn’t handle this being nothing? What if he expected more from her?

Not that she wouldn’t possibly be able to do more, or give more. She just needs time to process and figure out her actions. Wes might be a great guy, and he might have moved in with her, but that doesn’t mean she’s trying to have a kid husband. She’s not trying to keep him necessarily. She just doesn’t want an empty house. She wants some light, and he has plenty to spare.

From Wes Gibbins to Annalise Keating (10:21p) // I got more juice

See, plenty. Then her phone buzzes again, part two of his message.

// Hey, they’re doing maintenance at my building tomorrow, so I’ll probably head over there to let them in.

And her throat dries out a bit. Maybe he really can’t handle this. She should’ve stopped it last night. She should’ve never let him move in or get that close. Now she’ll lose him. That’s what’ll happen. He’ll take off, or get back with Meggy, or something. And he’ll be gone.

Fine, if he wants to go, then she should let him.

From Annalise Keating to Wes Gibbins (10:22p) // Alright. Be sure to lock up after yourself.

Easy, breezy, the sort of flippant response that says, sure, run away from what happened and we’ll just go on being normal. She’s fine.

From Wes Gibbins to Annalise Keating (10:23p) // Of course.

Of course.

“Annalise?” Her name comes from the front of the room, and she flips her phone before looking to meet it. Another one of the alcoholics stares her down. “No phones in here. You know that.”

“Right. Sorry. Emergency. It’s off though. It’s—“ She shakes the phone with its black screen and slips it into her purse. “I’m present. Sorry. You were saying?”

The alcoholic’s neck vein throbs, but they talk through it. “I just made a lot of mistakes in my early recovery. Lashed out at people I should’ve cared for. I mean, I started using everything I could as a weapon, including sex.”

People hum in agreement, and Annalise pulls her bag up to her chest. She hadn’t used sex as a weaspon. Not with him. She’d voiced that too — if she knew exactly what last night had really been. Not a weapon, not a relapse, more like… letting go, like dunking under the wave instead of fighting it, like rolling her shoulders back and releasing everything she’d built up back there, like… like coming home after a long day to dinner smells and hums coming from the kitchen….

She can’t be casual about this, can she?

At least he won’t be home when she gets there.

viii. or the next time they talk

She sees him in the doorway from down the street. Her headlights brighten the whole damn porch, and there he is, endless body hunched over his bike while he tugs it on out of the apartment. He pulls the door closed behind him, locks it, and sighs out tot he street. No way to avoid talking at this point, not unless he fights his natural curioisity for once and manages not to look at the car heading his way. So she holds her breath as she drives closer and he finally glances her way.

He stares, and she stares, and he props the bike on the porch railing. She needs a plan of attack. Does she get out of the car and just go on in? Does she unlock the doors and let him climb in with her? Maybe she just nods as she goes her way and he goes his. Keep it simple, like they’re roommates and not everything else that they are to each other. That could work.

She pulls into the driveway. He doesn’t have the memo of course, so he stays there, standing on the porch. Her hand shakes when she puts the car in park and turns the engine off. Okay, they can talk outside. Low voices, not that anyone around here seems to pay attention to what she’s up to. A quick passing of thoughts, then she’ll drink some of that juice he bought and imagine it’s more bitter and alcoholic than it is.

He slips his hands in his pockets while he waits for her. But his eyes stay on the car. Almost like he’s waiting for her to turn around. It’s not like she could run anyway. It’s her house.

She gets a few steps his way before she decides to break the silence. Steer the conversation. “Maintenance, huh?”

He shrugs. “That’s what their emails tell me.” He scans the space around them, so points for being careful. “Annalise, I-I get it."

“Get what exactly?” Because she hardly understands how she feels right now, so he sure as shit can’t get anything. Her purse pulls at the side of her dress. She’d have to shift to fix it, but he’d only read that as nerves, wouldn’t he? She’s not nervous. She’s just cold. Cold makes her shiver, not the way his eyes bore into hers.

“You and me, we’ve got a real good thing going here. I don’t want to mess that up. I don’t want that to change. So, if it’s what you want, then what we did —“ just inside the house, down the hall, in his room “— doesn’t have to happen again. I’d like it to, but I also wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.” He gives a small version of his usual grin, still lopsided but a bit more reserved. “And I’m not gonna lie, I really do like living here. I like coming home.” To her, that’s what his eyes say, that’s what the parting of his lips and deep swallow before he averts his eyes conveys.

She does fix her purse. Since he’s not looking. Since she needs something to do. “I like it too.” She clears her throat. “We can, uh, play it by ear. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I hear there’s juice.” It’s a peace offering, and his smile gets a little wider. Shoulders raise a little higher.

“Pink lemonade actually, but you’ll see.” He nods, then turns to grab his bike off the railing. “I’ll be back.” His voice lifts up at the end though, like he’s asking her permission. It’d be easier for the both of them if she just told him no. Told him not to bother and to stay at his apartment and play house with somebody else. But she’s too fargone for that at this point.

“Bring back some eggs when you do. Those ones’ll be gone by Friday.”

He nods again. Takes the steps with his bike and gets on it. “Will do. Night, Annalise.”

He used to just call her professor. Or stutter over his words when it came time to talk to her. He’d rush through scenarios and the whole world could see him run the numbers. And look at him now, grinning over at her before riding off into the night, like it’s nothing. Like it’s easy. And who knows, maybe with him, maybe it could be.

[more to come probably. message me and tell me your thoughts, or just to vent about the s3 finale, whatever works.]

#annalise x wes #htgawm #annawes #annalise keating #wes gibbins #mine #easy there oedipus #updates

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