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florencemtrash · 1 year ago

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The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Chapter Eighteen

Summary: Y/n's clairvoyance is a gift from the Mother, but it feels more like a curse. With the power to gain knowledge through touch alone, Y/n holes herself up in The Alcove and hopes her powers and parentage will remain a secret. But things will change after the Summer Solstice ball and a chance encounter with a certain Shadowsinger.

Warnings: Nothing super specific, but things get pretty dark (at least in my opinion). Mentions of torture.

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

Azriel grabbed Rhys by the front of his jacket, hands shaking horribly despite all his efforts to stop. It had started this morning, when another disastrous attempt to talk to Andrian had left Azriel with his mind in shambles, knife pressed against his own throat. It had been going on for weeks now. Someway, somehow, Andrian would find a way to break through Azriel’s defenses and force him to relieve his worst memories. Sometimes he dreamt of his burning hands. Mostly he thought of you, and the day he’d nearly killed you.

“Tell me you didn’t,” Azriel growled desperately. “Tell me!”

It was too easy for him to pick out when his brother was speaking with Feyre, and something about the way Rhysand had been looking at him— like he was a fraction of a second away from splintering into a million pieces — told Azriel enough about who had been sent for. You were the only one who could calm him. The only one who could do what he and Rhys had failed to do.

Violet eyes shone from a perfectly handsome face. A face he knew too well. A face that he wanted to punch right now.

“I’m afraid I can’t, brother,” Rhysand responded gravely.

Azriel slammed his fist against the wall instead, taking out a chunk of granite that spit grey dust into the air. He swore beneath his breath, pacing the hallway and trying to steady his racing heart. He’d never wanted you to see this place. He’d never even wanted you to step foot on the island above, its rolling peaks a stark contrast to the tunnels below where Azriel conducted his business. Business that stained his hands a thousand shades of red.

“You’ve been working yourself ragged, Az, and Andrian still hasn’t said anything. Not to you. Not to me. We need to know all we can about Koschei. Vassa’s on the brink of madness. Henna’s dead. I can’t even get past Andrian’s mental wards. What the fuck are we meant to do?”

“So you thought to go behind my back and bring Y/n into this?! She’s not something for you to use, Rhys.”

“She’s already in this mess.” Rhys reminded him, as he often did. His eyes softened as he looked to the locked door at the end of the hall with its small, rectangular window. Bars breaking up the lamplight glowing from within. “And you know she’d agree this is the best course of action. She’ll be able to do it.”

Azriel’s hands shook. “Give me another week and I’ll get us the information we need. Tell Feyre to turn around. Don’t bring Y/n here.” Don’t let her see this part of me.

“The boy doesn’t have another week. He doesn’t even have a day.”

The shaking traveled throughout Azriel’s entire body. His eyes darkened and he began the process of hiding his heart away within the void that curled inside of him. That wicked beast that was always on the verge of swallowing him whole.

Feyre winnowed you both to the outskirts of the northern territories and you went from sweating in your fur-lined leathers to shivering in the knee deep snow. The Illyrian Mountains rose behind you like predatorial rows of shark teeth and the endless sea stretched in front, slate grey and empty except for lonely ripples of sea foam. Through the frosty haze you could make out a smattering of islands, each with their own tooth-like tips capped with snow and ice. Feyre looked at you, her eyes leaning more towards blue now that she’d tapped into the Winter Court’s power to stave off the cold.

The Warren was protected by wards that made winnowing impossible, so you let Feyre scoop you up in her powerful arms, wings growing from her back like unfurling shadows before the ground dropped away from her feet and she took off into the sky.

You clung to her shoulders, eyes slamming shut so you wouldn’t have to look down at the churning black waters and the rocks they crashed against. If you were to fall now, you could only hope you drown before the waves ripped your body to pieces against the rocks like meat torn between a pair of canines.

You stayed frozen and tight as a coil until the rush of wind stopped and you no longer felt your stomach creeping up into your throat. You could have dropped to your knees and kissed the ground if you weren’t sure your lips would freeze there. You did shove your hands into the gritty sand though, breathing slowly through your nose until you finally had the strength to stand.

Feyre led you down the long stretch of beach, waves whistling in the wind — a haunting, beautiful melody, like a woman crying.

Azriel had discovered The Warren centuries ago. After a particularly brutal brawl that had left him with a broken arm and cracked ribs, he’d taken to the skies, desperate to escape the hard packed floors and burning scent of sex mixed with alcohol that seemed to invade every corner of the Windhaven barracks. He’d been fighting over a woman, a woman that had been dragged into the rowdy common room trembling with the telltale sign of a whisky haze over her burnt umber eyes, dress ripped and muddy.

Did it even matter that he’d brought her back untouched to that leaning house with its wooden slabs frosted over and the chimney coughing up black smoke like a diseased lung? Azriel had wondered as he flew without a destination in mind. And when he’d finally collapsed on the island, frozen ground beneath his hands and knees and spitting out blood from his cut up gums, his shadows had tugged him towards the gaping mouth of The Warren, urging him to explore a darkness that was his and his alone. It had been his escape. A safe place in the world that had so few. But when Rhysand became High Lord and he the Spymaster, Azriel hadn’t hesitated to give up The Warren in the service of the Night Court, adding it to the long list of sacrifices he made so that he might actually start to feel like he deserved his place with his family.

You stilled in front of The Warren’s entrance, black walls glittering and damp from sea spray. Jagged, cracked bone rocks hovered overhead like axes ready to fall, jutting out of a cliffside and curling over the beach in the shape of a hunched back or an unhinged jaw. Wind whistled from within like asthma — high-pitched and keening.

“This is where you keep all your prisoners.” You weren’t asking a question, merely stating a fact.

Feyre had had little time for explanations back at the House. She’d focused on defending your body against the frigid cold to come, her mind split between you and Rhysand as he worried over Azriel from miles away.

“Not all of them. Only the ones Azriel finds useful.”

“The ones he plans to torture for information.”

From somewhere deep within the earth you swore you heard the clanging of chains, a growl, and a desperate groan that had the hair on your neck rising.

Feyre’s usual warmth was gone, replaced by something with more tact and less care. “This isn’t a place for the faint of heart, Y/n. And neither is Azriel. He’s tried to hide this from you, but it’s as much a part of him as anything else and if you care for him as much as I believe you do, you’re going to need to get used to this.”

There was the faintest flicker of doubt in your heart. “Andrian… he’s just a boy… you haven’t—Az hasn’t—”

“No,” Feyre said quickly. Horrified. “Azriel found him weeks ago trying to slip back into Day Court. We brought him here because it’s the most heavily warded place in Prythian and because the world needs to be protected from him as much as he needs to be protected from the world.” She grabbed your hands. They felt cold as ice. “Y/n. I swear to you, we haven’t hurt that boy. We won’t hurt him.”

“I know. I just… I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking.” Already you felt sick to your stomach just for asking. Azriel was many things — dangerous, cruel to those he felt were deserving of it, maybe even murderous at times — but he was still Az… and you weren’t afraid. Not even as you let Feyre lead you into The Warren, and you were swallowed whole.

The mouth of the cave quickly narrowed into a tunnel before turning at a severe angle and twisting like a corkscrew downward. If it weren’t for you and Feyre’s glowing bodies, you might have missed one of The Warren’s slick steps and tumbled down forever.

You passed by two offshoots, each branching out into their own secret tunnels that whispered and echoed and smelled faintly of blood. Coppery and sour.

One of the rooms you walked through smelled like metal and limestone. The rust-colored ground and drain in the center of the floor told you all you needed to know about its purpose and before you could stop yourself, before you could even think about whether this was truly a good idea, you found yourself pressing a hand against one of the chains hanging from the ceiling.

If Feyre was right and this was truly a part of Azriel — something horrible that needed to come with all of the good that he was — then you wanted to know. You felt that you had some right to know, and if it was the power the Mother had granted you, then you would use it when you saw fit.

Feyre froze when your power flooded the room without warning, feeling the energy and fury radiating off your skin without even turning to look at you. You kept the memories a safe distance away, but drank in the knowledge of every horrible hand that had hung from that ceiling like you were reading a list of names from a book. You read their crimes. You read every drop of blood that Azriel had spilled on the ground.

“Y/n?” Feyre asked tentatively, fearfully, when you blinked and released the chain.

She had every hope the bond would snap in place for you soon and that you’d help end Azriel’s centuries of loneliness. That you might be the one to finally show him he was deserving of kindness. But to love Azriel as he was, with all his rough edges and the pain he could inflict as much as he carried… it was not for the faint of heart.

“I understand why Azriel wanted to hide this place from me. This part of him,” you said quietly and to no one in particular. Not even to Feyre. “But he shouldn’t have.” Your eyes turned harder than stone. “They deserved it. Each and every one of them.”

Feyre stood, shocked into silence, and it wasn’t until you gripped her arm and nudged her into the next room that she found she was able to walk again.

You passed by more hallways and more rooms, some disturbingly clean and empty, others with chains hanging from the ceiling or littered on the floor. But the strangest part was, you could smell Azriel within these cramped walls, and that alone made you quicken your steps.

You chased that familiar scent, walking confidently through the dark and passing Feyre until you were spit out in a long, neat tunnel with one metal door at the end. Tendrils of shadow flickered from around the corner.

“Azriel?”

Your heart pounded in your chest when you saw him leaning against the wall, hands folded behind his back. Rhys’s eyes flickered to you, then to his mate as she followed closely behind. Azriel stiffened, his eyes locked and heavy. Shadows tugged at his eyes and accentuated the sharpness of his cheeks. He looked like he hadn’t slept since the day he left you… which wasn’t so far from the truth. Because the whole time he’d been here, he’d been thinking of you, and the ways you might hate him for what he did and the sick corners of his soul. For—

You sailed into his arms, wrapping yourself around his torso and pressing your face into the hollow of his neck. Part of your mind chastised you, calling you silly and desperate as it reminded you it had only been ten days since you’d last seen him. But you didn’t care. It felt far longer than that. Too long.

You needed this almost as much as he did.

You disappeared behind his wings, cocooned safely in membranous folds and shadows that kissed your skin. Azriel himself buried his face in your hair, feeling some of his worst worries dissipate. You hadn’t run away. You hadn’t been so disgusted as to leave just yet.

“Y/n,” he murmured your name before kissing your temple. “Gods, I missed you.”

“I would hope so.” You murmured into the curve of his jaw, “I might be a boring bookworm but I’m better company than this place.”

Azriel winced. “You have no idea.”

You missed the pointed look that Rhys and Feyre threw your way, but Azriel didn’t. He was tall enough to see over your head as Feyre pointed to the door at the end of the hallway, eyes glistening. They had come here for a purpose, and the sooner it was over with, the sooner they could all go home.

Azriel’s arms tightened around you. “I didn’t want you to come here. I didn’t want… I didn’t want you to see the things I do.”

“I know.” You traced the curve of his jaw, thumb smoothing over his cheek. “But I’m not afraid, Azriel.”

His eyes flickered from fear to relief to love, like one of those picture books you had to flip through to see the scene play out.

“You’re not?”

You shook your head no. Then you kissed him on the lips and whispered the words for him and him alone. “I trust you. You’re the most terrifying thing here anyway, and you’re mine.”

Yours.

Azriel quitel liked the sound of that.

Even here in the dungeons burrowed beneath empty frozen lands, Azriel found it within him to hope. Horrid creatures might be hidden elsewhere, creeping like slugs under the earth that he’d have to crush beneath his boot or tear treasured secrets from, but for now you were still by his side. For now you were still his and he would always be yours.

You looped your arm through his and moved towards that door at the end of the hallway, steeling yourself for what you already knew was behind it.

The light from the barred window flashed warm and cool then warm again. Light warped and pranced. The scent of rot hung in the air, humid and choking. You touched the door handle, feeling the magic fall away like it recognized you and opened up into a makeshift, but quaint bedroom. There were no windows here for there was nothing to see below ground, but some of Feyre’s landscape paintings hung on the wall. Faelights bloomed overhead, throwing light and heat on a child’s bed with green sheets, a table, and a bookcase overflowing with an assortment of puzzles and novels and toys. You felt your blood turn cold. They’d once belonged to Nyx before being repurposed for the little boy trembling on the floor.

You stared at him in horror.

The little boy who’d been so violently bright that morning in the marketplace was dull. Although he was wearing fresh clothes, his skin had turned a stone gray, black marks dotting his once silken, silver skin like a disease. He was aware of his condition, weeping on the plush rug cut in the shape of a flower as he batted at his arms, willing them to turn healthy again.

“No no no no no no,” he sobbed. He grabbed at his pillowy hair in frustration and tugged. A cloud of fragile strands came away and he cried harder, trying to stick them back to his scalp.

Rhysand’s face was broken and pale. He tried not to look at Andrian. He was too young. Reminded him too much of his own son.

“You were right.” Rhysand’s voice was hollow, laced with a pain that grabbed your throat and squeezed. “Koschei did kill him. He’s been dead this whole time.”

“NO!” Andrian screamed. “HE DIDN’T! HE PROTECTED ME!”

Fat tears rolled out of filmy eyes, dusty and brown as pond water. Rage filled him with new energy and he tried to attack your mind as he’d already done with Azriel. But there was something altogether different about your magic, something flexible that morphed and rearranged your mental walls until it felt like he was trying to attack himself.

He gave up when your walls didn’t fall, and chose the physical route instead. You recoiled as he took a swipe, bony arms reaching out in an awkward lunge. But his legs were too weak and crumpled beneath him. He looked like a fish laid out to rot on a summer day — bloated and slick.

“Koschei brought him back to life for his powers—”

“HE LOVES ME! PAPA LOVES ME!”

“To use as he saw fit when the time was right.”

“But he can’t survive being separated for so long from Koschei’s power, can he?”

Just like Vassa. Left on their own without their maker they couldn’t handle the curses that had been placed on them. They’d bend until they broke… unless they found another way…

“The killings,” You murmured as the pieces slowly fell into place, “He killed those Librarians and the tailor and the florist…” You didn’t want to be right about this. You prayed to the Mother that you were wrong.

But Azriel read the thoughts in your eyes and nodded. Feyre could only stand still and Rhysand couldn’t do more than speak out in that dead voice of his.

Andrian had killed those fae, not just to send a message, but because that was the price for going against nature, for being brought back from the dead. Power demanded balance. To stay alive, Andrian had needed others to take his place. Those Librarians and the Velarians hadn’t been murdered. They’d been sacrificed.

What Koschei had done to this boy — what he’d turned him into — made you want to crawl into a dark corner and stay there forever.

Andrian’s sobs died out. A crack of lightning followed by unnerving silence that had Azriel’s blood freezing in his veins. Andrian wasn’t much older than he’d been when he’d first been tossed into that dark cellar. When his brothers had set his hands aflame.

“He loves me,” he declared, as if saying it would make it true. He stayed curled up in a ball on the floor, rocking back and forth on his heels. “He stayed when Henna left me. He wasn’t afraid of me like the others. He took care of me.”

But Koschei hadn’t taken care of him. He’d taught Andrian to love him. To worship him, because that’s what he craved above all else. He’d helped the boy control his powers and had allowed him to live so he could send him off to die when it was most convenient. You’d thought Henna was Koschei’s perfect soldier, but you were wrong. Andrian was. He’d been broken and molded into something that should never have existed. He’d been sent to Prythian after his sister’s death to take her place. A boy who would have no choice but to return to the lake or die trying.

And he was dying. You could see it clear as day. Two teeth clinked onto the floor and Andrian’s hands flew up to his mouth. He whimpered, eyes locking on you like you might be able to fix this.

You wanted to beg Rhys and Feyre to do something, to fix him, but it was a useless endeavor. They wouldn’t have brought you here if they could just reach into Andrian’s mind and end it all peacefully. Andrian was too powerful for that. But you could use another way.

You approached him like a wild, injured animal, grimacing when he tried to run at you only for his ankle to twist and then snap. He fell to the floor in a pathetic sprawl.

“Hey there, little feather.”

Andrian paused at that familiar nickname, watery eyes looking up. You said it just like Henna had once upon a time. The same inflection in a differently pitched voice. His lips trembled.

“She left me.”

You shook your head before kneeling on the ground in front of him. He smelled of death. It clung to his linen shirt and trousers. It clung to the few strands of hair still woven into his scalp, skin so thin you could make out his skull.

“She didn’t leave you, Andrian.” You poured your voice out over him, as soothing as you could make it, forcing the tears down. “She thought you’d died and that you’d stayed dead. She had a little ceremony for you out near the willow tree and buried your favorite toy beneath it with a handful of water lilies. Do you remember it? The little wooden doll you dressed up like a soldier with the red cap and the silver shoes?”

He clamped his hands over his ears, shaking his head while his weak neck teetered dangerously atop his shoulders.

“Andrian—” You pulled his hands away and in a bold, dangerous move brought them to your temple and slowly lowered your mental wards. You didn’t give him free reign, but rather guided him through snippets of memories you’d taken from Henna before her death. They all revolved around him. Before, and even after Koschei had poisoned their minds, Andrian had remained her true priority.

The boy’s eyes flashed from anger to confusion then, finally, to despair.

“She didn’t leave you.”

Andrian waited a few moments that had your heart seizing, then rushed into your arms, tightening them like a vice around your shoulders and burying his face in your hair. You held your breath, but tightened your grip. You weren’t his sister, but you were the closest thing he had.

Slowly, like sand falling through an hourglass, you felt his arms weaken and fall from your shoulders. He stared at you, wide and terrified as his hand snapped off at the wrist and fell to your side in a grey heap.

“Make it stop. Please make it stop.”

You smoothed back his hair, shoving down the tears that threatened to fall. His eyes were white now and unseeing. “It’s ok, little feather. It’s ok.”

“I don’t—” Even his voice was crumbling apart. Raspy and broken like cracked glass. He had little time left. The fight in him gone. “I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go to that dark place. Please don’t make me go.”

Azriel had been watching the entire time, trying not to picture the little boy with dark hair, weak wings, and bandaged hands. He went so, so still.

“Hey, hey, it’s ok. It’s going to be ok.” You promised. You forced your trembling lips into a smile.

He took in a rasping breath. “Will you go with me this time, Henna? Please.”

You gritted your teeth, brows furrowed in an effort to stay here instead of turning and sprinting back to the surface.

“I will. That’s why I came” You brushed his hair away from his forehead, saying nothing when the wispy white strands were torn away from his scalp like silk… just like the memories of Koschei’s lake you plucked from his mind without him knowing. You swallowed the pain of what you knew was coming. “I won’t let you be alone.”

He went quiet after that. Maybe his voice had deteriorated beyond saving, maybe he finally felt at peace. All you knew is that you needed to keep brushing his hair and holding onto his hand when he laid down and placed his head in your lap. He was like a little windup doll that had run out of string. He kept breathing until he finally stopped.

<- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ->

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Author's Note:

So... this was a rather sad one, bit of a tonal shift if you ask me, but I wanted to wrap up the stuff with Henna and Andrian before we continue on to other things.

BUT, you have to appreciate when Y/n walks into what's effectively a torture chamber and goes "yeah, nope, still in love with Azriel." It's just one of those things that gets brushed under the rug but like... this guy's WHOLE JOB is inflicting pain upon people.... and you know what, it's a fantasy book, so who the hell cares. We stan Y/n being supportive of Azriel's career lol

#the shadowsinger and the inkbird #azriel x reader #azriel x y/n #azriel x you #acotar fanfiction #azriel x reader slowburn #azriel shadowsinger

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becomeundeath · 4 months ago

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Fragrances for the Dead

A list of fragrances that would be fitting of the dead and undead. Many of these sellers have more intriguing fragrances in the same theme, so be sure to check them out. Prices are included and listed in USD.

Midnight Mass by Amorphous

"Aroma palette is smoky, incense, and resinous. Highlights include frankincense, myrrh, ancient moss, aged merlot, antique woods, and extinguished candle wick." Price: $26/5ml oil / $160/50ml EDP

Vena Cava by Amorphous

"Aroma palette is woodsy, floral, and metallic. Highlights include dark florals, merlot, orris, ylang ylang, oud, and blood accord." Price: $26/5ml oil / $160/50ml EDP

Bloodflower by PARFUMS QUARTANA

"Aromatic anisé liquor stirs a metallic blood accord into a frenzy of nocturnal delight. Accords: Licorice, Anise, Blood Accord, Cloves, Orris, Bulgarian Rose, Amber, Patchouli" Price: $11/2ml EDP / $195/50ml EDP

Grave by Redwood Alchemy

"This scent is reminiscent of freshly turned grave dirt, damp grass, powdered flowers, coffin wood and etched granite slabs cloaked in moss. Notes: Etched Gravestones, Pine Boxes, Old Creeping Moss, Freshly Turned Grave Dirt, Dry Flowers." Price: $42.99/10ml / $119.99/30ml

St Louis Cemetery by Alkemia

"An atmospheric brooding of Spanish moss, crumbling stone, old cement, red clay brick, and graveyard dirt." Price: $20/5ml extrait / $95/30ml extrait

Olympic Rainforest by Olympic Orchards

"Notes: cedar leaves, green sword ferns, rhododendron, forest mushrooms, beebalm, myrtle, wildflowers, oakmoss, black spruce, balsam fir, Port Orford Cedar, earthy accord." Price: $3/1ml / $65/30ml

Zombie for Him by Demeter

"Both Zombie scents are described as a combination of dried leaves, mushrooms, mildew, moss and earth." Price: $25/30ml

Inexcusable Evil by Toskovat'

Based off of the concept of war and the horrors of it, said to smell like gunpowder, concrete, blood, and iodine. Price: Sold Out (originally $255/60ml)

Bonus: Accent fragrances

Blood by Redwood Alchemy

"This unique layering accord reeks pungently of realistic, fresh blood. Notes: Blood, Iron & Copper" Price: $54.99/10ml / $139.99/30ml

Dirt by Demeter

"Our most emblematic fragrance, Demeter's Dirt was made to smell exactly like the dirt from the fields around the Pennsylvania family farm belonging to our founding perfumer." Price: $25/30ml

Funeral Home by Demeter

"Funeral Home is a blend of classic white flowers including lilies, carnations, gladiolus, chrysanthemums with stems and leaves, with a hint of mahogany and oriental carpet." Price: $25/30ml

Bonfire by Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab

"The perfume of withering leaves, their brittle forms surrendering to the flame, releasing a sigh of bitter smoke that is flickering with the ghosts of summer’s memory." Price: $29 oil

The Fifth Veil by Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab

"Putrefaction, the veil of decay. A yellowing shroud of raw-edged Muga silk, banana-spotted with chunks of fermented fig and exuding rich, earthy puffs of mushroom dust." Price: $31 oil

Ezekiel 16:49 by Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab

"Blood musk and ashes." Price: $33 oil

Where to get samples:

I personally recommend Luckyscent and Surrender to Chance for decants of brands that might be out of stock or don't offer samples. Most samples will be anywhere from $3 to $8 and these sites will often have sales, especially during the holidays.

Some places such as Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab, Hexennacht, or The Strange South are partnered with Ajevie to provide samples.

Additional:

Fragrances more often than not are NOT cheap. I highly recommend tracking down a sample of whatever fragrance you want BEFORE spending the money to get a bottle. Always try fragrances in a small amount beforehand to make sure you have no reactions to the formula or scent, and wash it off quickly if you do. When wearing perfume oils, keep the area out of direct sunlight.

#cotards delusion #cotards syndrome #once again tagging the alterhuman community to include them #deadkin #undeadkin #corpsekin #zombiekin #vampirekin #ghostkin #actually dead #actually undead #Edit: Removed Necromancy by SIXTEEN92 as I have been informed they often fall through on delivery

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heylittleriotact · 2 months ago

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💚 WIP WEDNESDAY (because I actually have a WIP for you!) 💚

Here’s a chunk of Chapter 19 of i heard people are saying to get in here.

Tagging: @emmg @aldisobey @razildor @preciouslittlebhaalbae because i am a nosy nelly

💚💀💚💀💚💀💚💀💚💀💚

Rook had been helping him set up a service in the main chapel when Vorgoth materialized seemingly out of nowhere, while she was setting out the RESERVED chair covers on the first two rows for the family.

"Rook."

She flinched and whipped around at the sound of the enigmatic manager's stoic baritone, nearly dropping the stack of green velvet fabric draped over her forearm. "Fuck!"

Emmrich glanced up from arranging the urn spray around the base of the handsome brass urn containing the cremated remains of Mr. Herbert Knox.

If Vorgoth had taken issue with Rook's language, they made no indication of it, their face - solemn and bearing same sort of ageless wisdom as hewn granite - remained as unreadable and emotionless as ever.

"Sorry–" Rook said, shoulders slackening. "I didn't hear you come in."

"The maintenance staff has done well to ensure that the hinges of the chapel doors are appropriately lubricated: they shall be commended for their diligence."

"Errr... uh... good?" Rook offered, smiling weakly.

"Is your duty pressing?" Vorgoth asked, though it wasn't really asking - they had a knack for re-arranging your priorities as they saw fit. "It falls to me that I must discuss a matter of great importance with you."

Emmrich might as well have been invisible for all the notice Vorgoth had spared him - as far as they were concerned, they and Rook were the only ones in the room. He frowned and went back to primping the blooms and leaves around the base of the urn that was set out on a set of nesting cherry wood tables at the front of the chapel, keeping an ear open: what important matter?

"Uh... yeah, sure." Rook sounded just as caught off guard by this as Emmrich was. Hopefully it was nothing unpleasant... another chargeback, or Maker forbid a family complaint, but he very much doubted it: Rook was so detail oriented in her work, and had an undeniable aptitude for knowing how to meet the bereaved on their level in terms of communication and body language.

"Follow me." Their head turned with a smoothness that was decidedly un-human, and their dark and undeniably unsettling black eyes met Emmrich's. "Take care, Volkarin."

"And you, Vorgoth."

"Pray for me," Rook mouthed to Emmrich after Vorgoth turned and started silently retreating up the aisle, and then she followed them.

She wasn't gone long - a bit more than ten minutes had passed before she slipped back through the chapel doors, heaving a huge sigh as she ensured they were closed behind her.

"Is everything all right, darling?" Emmrich felt his stomach twist unpleasantly at the grim expression on Rook's face. He set down the photo frame he was wiping down with a dust cloth and met her halfway down the aisle.

"They put me on probation," she said sullenly, eyes turned downwards as if she couldn't bring herself to look at him. "I guess a family I helped with an obituary complained because it ran in the Times with a pretty big mistake that I didn't catch. It's not my fucking fault they gave me a printed copy of a typed obituary to re-type - if they'd sent me the actual Word document…”

"Probation?" Emmrich repeated in disbelief: how could such action be justifiable when the employee in question was held in high esteem by colleagues and management alike?

"Yup. Gotta straighten up and fly right, I guess..."

She still couldn't look at him, her shoulders hunched with shame and embarrassment, all of the wind stolen from her typically confident, self-assured sails.

His heart ached at the sight of her in such a state, and then ached further when it occurred to him that, of course - yes - they had dinner plans tonight to celebrate Rook passing her road test and getting her license. This certainly put a damper on the occasion...

"Rook..." He drew her into a hug in the middle of the serene space and stroked her soft black hair as he held her close in an attempt to comfort her.

Oh dear, the poor thing... he could feel her trembling against him.

"Sweetheart..." He pulled back enough to get a look at her, fully expecting tearful eyes and wet cheeks only to find himself gazing into Rook’s beaming face. “Wha—?”

“I love fucking with you.” She grinned. “Flora is being let go and they want to move me permanently to Pemberly Crossing!”

Brat. You are a brat, Rook Ingellvar, playing games with an old man’s heart-rate like that, he wanted to say.

#emmrook #emmrich x rook #emmrich romance #emmrich smut #emmrich volkarin #dragon age emmrich #dragon age #datv #dragon age the veilguard #Veilguard #modern au #funeral home au #wip wednesday #emmrich #v writes #this is an emmrich thirst post #i heard people are dying to get in here #I’ve basically just made Vorgoth a cryptid who works at a funeral home and no one seems to care or mind

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deadpcnned · 5 months ago

Text

Sealed by the Storm (jj.m)

chapter six

pairing: jj maybank x reader; marriage of convenience

content warning(s): references to abuse (luke)

author's note: i don't really love how this chapter came out, but it was needed to keep the story progressing :/ on a happier note, i've been getting more fun asks about sealed and i got one that i loved smmmm. i basically made an unofficial playlist for this series, if you wanna read that post

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To you, the lapping of waves against the hull of the boat is like the rock of a cradle for a nursing child. You had spent a large chunk of your formative years on ships where nautical turbulence was the norm. You can still remember those first few months when you’d joined Terrance’s crew, thinking there would never come a time you would accept it, let alone find comfort in it.

It comforts you now, too. The surrounding water has much less impact, considering you’re floating over a lake, not an ocean– waves replaced by ripples– but you can still feel that subtle shift in movement when you focus on it. You’re focusing on it now, trying to pass the time while you're cooped up in the cabin bedroom.

One ground rule you and JJ set was that during the day, you’d either stay on the boat or off until sunset to avoid getting caught. It has been a week since the night he brought you here, and your recent status of being unemployed has made your lack of a schedule painfully obvious. You spend most of your hours texting Cleo, but her responses come slow since she’s been taking shifts at Heyward’s shop.

You’ve been awake for over an hour but haven’t left the bedroom in fear of running into JJ. After the two of you had unpacked your backpacks that first night, the air between you had changed. The awkward energy between you was palpable as you tried to learn how to exist in each other’s space. With the limited square footage and your fractured relationship, you worry that any misstep could end with you stepping on his toes. You know it’s no way to live– hiding in the bedroom and wasting your morning– but it’s comfortable.

You sigh as you get up, accepting your fate and preparing to face it. After you’ve made your bed and brushed your teeth in the detached restroom, you take a few more steps and enter the lounge area. JJ’s there, lying face-down on the leather couch, and while you can’t believe he’s knocked out at half past noon, you also feel an immense amount of pity wash over you. He’s curled into himself– trying to make himself smaller to fit on the narrow cushion that curves around a table– but his legs are still too long to fit. His arm is bent under his head as a makeshift pillow. You don’t need to imagine how wildly uncomfortable he must be.

Trying to be quiet, you reach for an apple and a knife, which Sarah had kindly dropped off along with a few other essentials. You can tell the knife is from the set Rafe keeps in the apartment, but you appreciate it the same. Cringing at the taps of the knife against the counter, you try your best to complete the task more quietly. You slow your actions, but it’s to no avail because you hear a groaning sound behind you after a moment.

“Mmm,” Placing the knife on the black granite, you turn to see JJ stretching, his face set in a displeased expression. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you reply, returning your attention to the apple. “You sleep alright?”

“Uh,” You can tell from the sound of shuffling and his voice he’s coming closer. “Yeah, slept good.” You know he’s lying. There’s no way a man of his height and build could sleep comfortably on what is essentially a glorified rock. You let him lie.

JJ clears his throat, indicating that you should make space before he reaches his arm out in front of you to grab one of the two glasses in the corner. The limited counter space makes his hip rub against yours as he moves, the warmth of his touch bleeding into you. He flicks the sink faucet, filling his cup with water– downing it in two gulps. He goes to fill the glass again, and you’re about to snap at him to let you finish cutting your apple when he extends the glass out towards you.

“Drink up,” He instructs, his tone casual. You pause, looking up at him to see what he’s getting at, but his expression is so neutral you can’t make heads or tails of it. You take the glass from his hands while he remains silent. Without any gloating or taunting, he heads to the restroom.

You drop the knife on the counter too harshly, your fingers curling tightly around the glass. It’s irrational how deep those simple words bury themselves under your skin. You can’t be mad at him for being in your shared space. You can’t be mad at him for using the cups you share. Yet, you are.

“Drink up,” you mimic in a much higher pitch than JJ had spoken. You down the water in quick gulps, not registering the sound of the restroom door opening and closing.

“That supposed to be me?” The only reason you don’t jump at JJ’s voice is years of practice hiding your surprise. You remain silent, turning back to face your half-cut apples. You feel him then, inching closer. The minimal space highlights how close he really is with each step he takes. When his fingers pull at your forearm, you don’t respond, making him apply just a little more pressure to get you to face him.

He towers over you, his face mere inches from yours and an ever-growing smirk coloring his lips. “You know,” he starts, and his drawled words crawl further under your skin. “For someone who hates being told what to do,” his eyes shift to the blue glass for only a second before returning to yours. “You sure took that water without a fight.”

You’re holding your breath as he reaches past you to grab a slice of the apple, chewing on it slowly as he studies you. His bites twist around a smirk as his blue eyes study something intently.

“Interesting,” He hums, reaching for another slice and stepping back. That does it. That single, seemingly innocent word infuriates you because what could he possibly be putting together that you aren’t?

JJ sits on the lounge couch, resting his arms against the table as he swipes through his phone. An empty table. Because there’s no money to put food on it. Just like that, you find your jackpot.

“You need to get a job,” You all but bark at him. JJ looks up from his device, his brows furrowing. You walk closer to him, abandoning your breakfast, and cross your arms across your chest. “Waking up in the afternoon and sitting on your phone isn’t going to keep us out of any more trouble.”

JJ just watches you quietly as if he’s deciding how serious you are. His expression shifts, and then a despondent sigh escapes between his lips. You watch as he shakes his head, casting his eyes down at the table, making you both more angry and want to hide.

“Did you hear me?” You ask.

“I heard you just fine,” JJ’s voice is as sharp as yours, but he doesn’t raise it. “What job have you got, again?”

“I’ve been looking for one,” You tell him. You have. You’ve been calling numbers on listings in the paper– like this is the 1900s– for jobs you may be a good fit for, but the paper you’ve been using is a little outdated, and every job you’ve called for has been filled. “You’re not even trying.”

“Who said I’m not trying?” There’s an unreadable look in JJ’s eyes. He gets up, walks through the cabin door, and leaves you alone. You’re fuming at his audacity to leave you in the middle of what you’d consider a conversation when he returns, his fist tightly wound around a paper. He drops it on the table and leaves again. This time, you wait a few minutes, and when he doesn’t return, you lean over the table to look at what he’s left there.

JJ closes his eyes and lets himself slip back in time. He’s sixteen again. The HMS Pogue is rocking gently, the air thick with salt and laughter. He sees Kie sitting at the boat's bow, teasing Pope about his meager alcohol intake in the name of a history test. Pope reminds her – as he always does – that he plans to make it out of this town. John B is sitting behind JJ at the wheel. His mind’s only half on the task at hand, a palm resting lazily against the wheel, too focused on finding the perfect opportunity to add his own quips to Kie and Pope’s argument. The argument has branched into a tangent about whether college is necessary, and Kie calls Pope classist while Pope argues he can’t be because he’s the working class.

JJ’s lying smack dab in the middle of it all, his head propped against the edge of the boat, rolling a blunt between his fingers. The sun’s harsh against his skin, and he doesn’t have sunscreen on, but he likes to think his skin has grown accustomed to the UV rays the island offers at this time of year. He can hear birds in the background, their choice of music today since Pope forgot the speaker he got for Christmas four years ago.

JJ isn’t thinking about the problems waiting for him on land. The chaos of home and the weight of never having enough are forgotten on this sacred vessel. He knows his life outside the HMS Pogue is waiting patiently for him to return and deal with reality, but he’s not worried about that. His biggest concern is whether Kie will agree to bake them some special brownies since her parents have a fancy ass oven (‘the bigger the oven, the bigger the batch, Kie!’).

In his mind’s eye, nothing happens next. They become frozen like this – sixteen, careless, clueless, even after everything they’ve already seen. They don’t move forward. They don’t break.

JJ didn’t used to think he was happy. He was always searching for the key to that emotion, thinking it was locked away with a shitload of money. He’d been so eager to find the gold and leave that life behind, but he guesses what they say is true– hindsight really is 20/20. Because he’d already been the closest to happiness he was ever going to get and hadn’t even realized it.

Sarah and Cleo aren’t in his mental image. He doesn’t mean for it to be that way. The sentimental part of him he usually tucks away around the others likes to think that you’d all have found your way to each other somehow.

You aren’t there either. You’re here. Behind the door that he’s slumped against to remain hidden from wandering eyes. When he opens his blue eyes, it’s dizzying that the surroundings all look the same as the fond memory, but the people aren’t there.

Those times of never going a day without seeing each other are gone. Somehow, he’s gotten lucky and stretched that lifestyle a few years longer than most childhood friends. College didn’t tear them apart like he used to hold his breath for. Neither did getting his ass thrown in jail.

Nothing was keeping you guys apart. It’s a choice. Sarah and John B are choosing to prioritize the start of their family. Pope is prioritizing polishing his now muddied resume for a chance at college admissions. Cleo is prioritizing learning the ropes of running a business from Heyward. Kie is (suddenly) prioritizing her relationship with her parents.

You’re the only one who doesn’t have something that takes precedence over JJ. The remaining piece of the puzzle that’s been undone. The problem is, you can’t stand to be around him. He hasn’t missed how you run off to the bedroom each time you’re in the lounge together or how you hold your breath when he passes by you closely, an inevitable byproduct of the size of your “home.”

He thought you were making progress, starting to get along after the months-long drought your friendship endured. You were laughing at his jokes again, trusting him with secrets. Trusting him with the boat. The boat was huge. It was the first time JJ felt you’d put aside his mistakes and were willing to move forward. Now, it all felt like a trick of the light, and with one step to the left, the illusion vanished. He should be used to it; people not wanting to stick around.

His entire life has been about people not wanting to stick around. Luke, Groff. God, he really should be the poster child for Daddy Issues.

He figures he should be grateful Groff didn’t stick around this time either, but his absence does nothing to put his worries to rest. JJ hadn’t seen Groff around, and he’d heard through Sarah that Groff had apparently been a part of some pyramid scheme Rafe fell victim to and skipped town. If that intel is correct, Groff must be furthering his search for the crown, which means he’d be distracted from returning for JJ. JJ doesn’t know if Groff will come back after finding the crown, but Groff has to know the police found the body, so maybe that means he’ll never come back to the Outer Banks. JJ — maybe for the first time in his life — really hopes Groff will be one of the people who doesn’t come back. The further away Groff stays from the island, the further away the stench of Lightner's body will be from you. And him.

Throughout his life, JJ has tended to compare himself to Luke. He was so entranced by the concept of nature vs. nurture. He’d thought Luke was his blood, half his DNA. At the end of every internal debate, he’d come to the conclusion that it didn’t matter whether nature outweighed nurture in making a person who they were or not because all he’d ever known was Luke. If Luke’s blood was in his veins and Luke’s hand was the one that raised him, he had no choice but to turn into his father eventually.

That all is changing now. Luke’s genetics hadn’t played any part in creating him, but he had raised him — raised maybe wasn’t how most would describe it, but it was Luke all the same. So, now, what won? Nature or Nurture? Was he Groff, or was he Luke? Was he both?

Was his future going to be him constantly jumping between being a drunk and a con artist? Maybe he and Groff aren’t all that different. He’d known he was lying that day on the back road. JJ noticed how Groff talked faster when he told JJ he had locked JJ in to protect his son. He’d helped Groff anyway. Did that make him just as bad?

JJ, at sixteen, had been willing to go to any length to get any treasure they could. He’d been at the forefront of it all, leading the Pogues into this nightmare. He’d convinced Pope to abandon his academic dreams, which JJ knew were his only chance at stability. He’d let Kiara’s already contentious relationship with her parents worsen instead of letting them figure out their way over the bump of teenagehood. He’d let John B lose his father again. That rapacity seemed just as strong in Groff.

Could JJ ever kill for money? He hadn’t thought he could. He’d tried being that man. The one who totes around guns and threatens dangerous men. In the end, he couldn’t follow through. But maybe there’d been a teenage version of Groff who hadn’t been able to follow through either. Then, somewhere along the way, maybe Groff had placed his finger against the trigger and finally pulled it. That could be JJ one day.

Would life on The Cut, always in trouble and always full of want, turn him into a murderer. Could JJ kill his wife for money? JJ had pieced it together by now. The fact that Larissa Genrette’s death wasn’t the tragic but faultless result of a bad storm. His mother had been murdered. By his father. JJ used to wonder what his mom was like – the girlfriend Luke claimed skipped town when it got too much to take care of him. Now, the truth was settling into his bones, weighing him down more than ever. She hadn’t gotten tired of caring for him. She hadn’t looked at his face one last time and decided she’d had enough.

She was taken from him by the man who was supposed to love him and love her but loved money more. JJ felt sick every time he thought of it, every time he imagined his mother’s decaying body in that tomb. Had she been in love with Groff? JJ has never been in love but wonders if he will someday be. Would he hurt that woman like Groff hurt his mother?

A shiver runs up his spine as he realizes that you are his wife despite the unusual circumstances that have brought him to this point. It’s a borrowed title, not his to keep for you, but his for now. He doesn’t think he could put money above you. He’d promised you he was done with the treasure. After three years of being led by his thirst for more, he finally put down the glass, and it was in your name. In part, it’s because the reality of how dangerous this was was catching up to him, even if it was a few years too late. But mostly, it’s because that day, after he’d burned the knife, he’d been moved by the look on your face. Never in the past two years had he seen you so… rattled, helpless. Destroying the weapon Groff used had brought something out or maybe suppressed something in you, and you’d been turning to him for comfort. He can’t explain what it is that’s put a deep-seated desire to grant you that comfort, but he finds himself letting it take over. He let that need to protect you take him to the metaphorical altar, and he let it cause a rift between him and his best friend since kindergarten.

Even now, when he’s having one of those rare moments where his anger is justified, he wants to go back in and keep the job search going. He wants to put your mind at ease. Be the kind of man who protects, provides, and does all the other domestic bullshit he knows he’s not cut out for. It terrifies him how easily he could slip into this part – the part of a doting husband – if he let himself.

Realistically, he knows you both need jobs. He’s been trying to land something, but his reputation on the island’s never been too good, and the past few years have only made that worse. Every call he makes is met with the line being cut before he can say his last name or hesitant apologies – the latter are few and far between. He hasn’t even been able to lock down lawn-mowing gigs. Embarrassingly, he’d called the one listing searching for a dog walker and had also been rejected for that. It didn’t look like he could find a job, and he didn’t know how to tell you.

Sighing, JJ takes out his phone from its spot in his back pocket to check the time. He’d been out here for an hour and a half without realizing it. He decides it’s time to bite the bullet and stands — careful not to stand to his full height in case anyone passes by the dock. When he enters through the door, he doesn’t expect you to still be sitting in the lounge area. But there you are — sitting on the rounded couch, your finger trailing down the page of the paper he’d left for you to find. You’re holding your phone in your right hand — an old iPhone 7 Kiara had lying around and had given you to use when you’d moved here.

When he closes the door behind him, you flick your head up. Your eyes greet him with a flood of questions and something softer that he can’t place.

JJ lifts his hands. “I was just outside the door. No one saw.”

He watches your face fall a bit and wants to make his tone a little less irritated, but he’s always had a hard time not wearing his heart on his sleeve. Whatever he feels, always makes itself known.

“Okay,” you reply quietly. You avert your gaze from JJ and return to the list in front of you. You don't say anything else, and JJ decides he should go wash up — anything to avoid being in this cage of awkward tension with you.

Just as he’s turning, he hears you speak again, “JJ?”

JJ waits wordlessly for you to continue.

“Do you want to go through these listings with me?” It’s not an apology. It’s not even an acknowledgment. It’s your emotionally suppressed version of an olive branch, though, and he wants to take it. If you’re stuck in this living arrangement for the unforeseeable future, you’ll have to be able to get along, or it’s going to be hell.

JJ sits across from you, the table between you feeling like a safety net for potential fallout. You push the paper between you as you say, “I called the first five, and they’ve already been filled. Isn’t it weird that people actually respond to these listings?”

JJ shrugs, knitting his brows together. “Not really. Pogues kinda survive off these things.”

“Oh,” you mumble. “Well, that explains why I’ve had no luck.”

You and JJ start splitting up the listings, alternating between who takes each one unless you find one that seems like a perfect fit for the other. The process leaves you both in silence longer, only the occasional sound of the paper being pushed between you. But you break the stillness when you find an opening for a private surf instructor.

You scoot around the couch, closing the space between JJ and you until your arm presses into his. You speak with your hands moving in a flurry, excitement seeping into your voice.

“This is perfect for you,” You say, nudging your knee against his and tapping a spot on the paper. Your voice holds a note of confidence in him that almost makes him believe it, too. Almost.

JJ hasn’t mentioned that he’s gone through almost the entire list and got turned away from this position the second they heard his name.

JJ doesn’t want to burst your bubble and watch your expression change if he tells you now. He’s worried it’ll only prove to you that JJ is poisonous and his reputation has not been left unscathed. Before he can explain why that position may not be the best fit, you’re already dialing the number and putting the phone on speaker. When the voice rings through the opposite end of the line, you look at him expectantly, waiting for him to introduce himself. You jostle his shoulder when he doesn’t say anything before giving him a funny look and speaking on his behalf.

“Hi! My name is Y/N, and I was calling for your ad in the paper. The one for the private surfing instructor? Is it still open?”

He watches as you wait with bated breath like this one might be the one that sticks. Your anticipation makes his chest feel tight. He’d told you once, in passing, that he used to win free surfing competitions the OBX hosted when he was a kid. It was the only thing the Kooks who knew him ever gave him credit for. It never made them care about the boy behind the borrowed and battered board, but the brief applause he’d received made him feel like he was on top of the world. It’s why he still loved to surf as often as he could. It was one of the few things he knew he was good at. He was a great surfer, if not the greatest on the island. That just wasn’t enough right now.

“Ah, yes. Yes, it is. Are you interested?” The voice on the other end of the line belongs to a woman JJ’s never met but apparently knows him far too well. “My son Eric's in a bit of a phase but refuses to attend group lessons. If you’re willing, we can arrange a meeting and discuss everything.”

“I am interested!” You remark and then correct, “Well, not for me. I have a friend who would be perfect for the job. You may have heard of him. JJ May—”

“Absolutely not.”

You pull the phone back from you, looking up at him with a confused pout that he tries not to pay too much attention to amid this chaos. “JJ Maybank? He’s a really great surfer. Won multiple competitions—”

“I already told your friend I will not give him this position. If he tries to reach me again, I will call the police.” With that, the line cuts, and you look up at him, your eyes full of confusion and a hint of something like remorse. JJ can’t look at you, so he turns back to the paper and clears his throat. He’s dialing another number, not sure exactly what it’s for, when your hand rests against his, pushing the phone out of the way.

“How many of these people have you already called?” You ask. JJ considers lying and claiming the woman has no idea what she’s talking about, but he knows he’s lost any footing to make it believable.

“Um,” JJ clears his throat again, shrugging. “All of them except the last three.”

You’re quiet, then. He keeps his eyes trained on the table, still too ashamed to meet your eye. He wonders if you’ll be pissed he made you waste all this time.

“Gross, why would you willingly talk to those assholes again?” JJ’s head snaps up, and your face is morphed into a comical expression of disgust.

“Need a job,” JJ shrugs, not ready to test the waters of humor you seem to be threading, just in case he says the wrong thing.

You nod then, “Not with people like that.”

JJ’s never heard that before. As Pogues, there’s no being picky. There’s no sticking up for yourself. He’s always been taught to keep his head down and do as he’s told. He’s horrible at it, but that’s the advice he’s always been given. You’re the last person he’d expect to go against that type of thinking. Not only because you’re a Pogue like him but because you place survival above everything else. It’s like the mode you're permanently set to. There’s no place for pride and principles when a person’s just trying to get to the next day.

“What choice do we have?” JJ lets his head fall back against the stiff leather of the couch, getting reminders of how uncomfortably he’s slept the past couple of nights. You mirror his actions, resting your head against the unforgiving surface only to pull your head back up with a wince. That makes JJ smile.

“What’d you wanna be when you were younger?” You catch JJ off guard with your question. His fingers, which had been idly tapping against the table, still as he raises a brow at you. You’re waiting for an answer, your attention entirely on him, and he takes a moment to consider his reply.

“Not really sure, if I’m honest. Never really had the chance to dream like that,” JJ tells you.

“Oh, come on,” You push, not buying his answer. You tilt your head as if that’ll do something to make him reconsider. “Every kid has dreams.”

There’s an earnestness in your eyes that reaches out towards JJ and squeezes his heart. He’s never admitted this to anyone, not flat out, but he finds himself wanting to tell you. “The shop, I guess. Since I was twelve. I used to sketch out pictures of how it would look in my textbooks and everything.”

Your eyes gloss over, a film of sorrow that he knows matches his own, replacing the playful glint in your eyes. It still doesn’t feel real that you’ve lost the land. He watches as you reach out, and he squeezes it when you take hold of his hand. Despite any animosity, this pain is yours to share.

“It was one hell of a dream.”

“Yeah,” JJ nods, shooting you a sad smile. “It was.”

A moment passes with the two of you sitting just like that, gazing at each other. Then, JJ asks, “What about you? What’s your dream?”

You look down, your lips bashfully turning up at the sides as if embarrassed by your answer. “I wanted to be a CEO.”

JJ lets out a laugh before he can stop himself, and your smile mirrors his, though you add an unimpressed roll of your eyes. “I’m being serious!”

“Oh, I’m sure. Making money off bossing people around? Checks out,” You scoff, but don’t deny it, and JJ knows you couldn’t even if you tried. “What kind of company would you run? I can’t see you in, like, fashion.”

You scoff again, your voice dripping with sarcasm as you say, “Cause that’s the only thing girls can be in charge of?”

“I don’t know. What else do little girls dream of?”

“Oil and gas.” JJ stills at that, his mouth falling agape slightly.

“What? Oil and gas? That’s some Kook shit if I’ve ever heard it. How’d you land on that?” JJ’s too caught up in how unlikely your answer is to catch when your expression shifts back to serious, but he sees the moment you try to pretend it didn’t happen. You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

“Family business,” You say. JJ stills then, not exactly understanding what to make of your words. Family business, as in your family’s business? The one JJ knew nothing about. If your family was in an industry like that, that would make you… not the kind of Pogue he’d thought.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you whisper, breaking the silence he’s letting stretch over you two.

JJ shakes his head, “Like what?”

“Like, I’m not who you thought I was.” Your voice is more melancholic than JJ has ever heard, more than he ever thought it could be. You’ve never opened up about your past with JJ, not anything before you met Cleo. Your stories revolved strictly around that time, and he hadn’t even considered what came before that. It’s hard not to let it catch him off guard, but he doesn’t want to lose this moment to learn more about you. To learn you.

“I, uh, it's just surprising, is all,” JJ clarifies. Then, in an effort to keep you talking, he asks, “Your parents were in oil and gas?”

“Y-yeah,” You hesitate, your fingers fussing with the edge of your shirt, a nervous habit JJ’s picked up on. “My dad’s side. It was a generational thing. My great grandfather, I think.” You chuckle, though it’s entirely humorless. “I used to say I’d be the first girl to take over the company.”

“How…” JJ wants to ask you how someone goes from that to this. How’d you end up with Terrance? Why didn’t you take over the company? But you're begging with your eyes for him not to finish that question, and he doesn’t want to see that forlorn look any longer. Instead, he settles on, “I can’t believe you’re a Kook.”

You give a half-hearted laugh. JJ searches his mind for anything else he can say, but he’s drawing a blank. The best he can come up with is, “So, like, were you the country club kind of Kook?”

You sigh and bite your lip. “Worse. So much worse.”

JJ shifts towards you, leaning in and genuinely interested in what you have to say. “Give it to me. I can handle it.”

“I…” You give him a side eye that makes him want to laugh in this moment of faux seriousness. “I was in training to be the next season’s most sought-after debutant.”

JJ blinks slowly, then lets out a disbelieving laugh, and you shove your shoulder against his. “No way. You?” Without thinking, he throws his arm out and rests it against the cushioned seat behind you. He’s still laughing at your displeasure as he says, “I’m sorry. I just can’t imagine it. I mean, I’ve seen you punch grown men. I can’t line that up with dresses and tiaras.”

Your laugh is soft, but JJ catches the way your eyes flicker like you’re shuffling through those memories. He’s watching you, trying to find the puzzle pieces he’s been missing. He always thought that if he had a life like that – full of money and stability – he’d never know what worrying meant. But you had that, and now you’re sitting here, sharing this cramped space with him. Something had to have gone horribly wrong for you to give up a life like that and end up here.

“So, tell me, what were you like then? Did you actually enjoy that stuff?” JJ asks.

“Mmm, some of it. I liked wearing the dresses. Thought they made me look like a princess.” Your nose crinkles, like you feel silly admitting it. JJ had never seen you in a dress until the day of the wedding. Your style isn’t exactly edgy – mostly just plain, cropped shirts and well-fitted jeans – but it also didn’t scream hyper-feminine in a way JJ associated dresses with. “The other stuff… It's complicated.”

“How so?” JJ ventures to ask. He’s not sure you’ll answer with how evasive you’re being, but he still tries.

“I guess,” You stop for a moment, and he can see you analyzing every possible choice of words before you speak them. Then you shake your head and say, “The dresses could get itchy sometimes.”

You’re deflecting, using humor to throw him off the scent of what you want to say. You’re not as okay as you’re trying to present yourself to be in this moment, but he won’t push. He won’t make you relive something you’ve clearly tried so hard to forget. For now, he’ll give you a little piece of him that he’s scared to let go of. A piece of honesty that he’s trying to bury.

“You know, uh,” JJ starts, his fingers tapping against the cushion. “I’ve been thinking about it recently. What my life would’ve been like if I'd grown up a Genrette. Or, Groff, I guess.”

You tilt your head as you say, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” JJ nods. “Like, would I have met John B? I can’t imagine my life not being defined by him. It’s always kind of been like before him and after him.”

“Wow,” you say, breathlessly. “That’s like really fucking beautiful, JJ.”

JJ gives you a lopsided grin because he knows it sounds dramatic, but it’s also what he truly feels. Before John B, JJ was a seven-year-old left to his own devices too often for them to be considered safe. After John B, safety still wasn’t a facet of his life, but at least he wasn’t wandering alone.

“I kind of feel that way about Cleo,” you offer. “I know what was before her, but after that, everything’s defined by her. I would’ve never followed Sarah and John B if she hadn’t decided it was best for us.”

“How can you find it in yourself to trust her so much?”

You lean the side of your head against the cushion, but JJ hasn’t moved his arm, so you’re resting against him. You don’t move your head away, and JJ doesn’t move his arm away. JJ’s feet are firm against the boat floor, but his torso is twisted towards you. Sometime in the midst of this conversation, you’ve brought your legs up and tucked them beneath you, making your knees brush against his upper thighs. The two of you are so close to each other, wholly invested in what the other has to say, as the baton of vulnerability passes from one to the other.

“Easy. I realized one day that her choices never ended badly for us. I trust her because she doesn’t give me the chance not to.”

JJ swallows thickly, his hand, which was resting against the cushion, now brushing against the top of your hair. He’s unsure where he gets the audacity, but he doesn’t take away his touch.

“That’s kind of a high bar,” he says, trying to keep his vulnerability at bay and away from his voice. “Only trusting someone who gets it right every time.”

“It’s the best I can do. I can’t afford to make mistakes.”

There’s a thread of hope that JJ didn’t realize he had left that frays at that moment. Any chance of you ever learning to trust him seems to go out the small rectangular window above the lounge table. As long as JJ is precisely who he’s always been, you’ll never be able to trust him.

Even with this reminder, he doesn’t find it in himself to want to pull back and put some distance between you. Instead, he stays right there, his fingers still deftly playing with the hair at the crown of your head.

You shake your head, making your hair tickle JJ’s palm. “It’s not about getting it right every time.”

“No?” JJ asks.

You shake your head again. “It’s about knowing that the mistakes won't ruin everything. That we’ll still be here after. Together.”

Your voice breaks at the last word, and JJ feels the crack extend into his heart. He doesn’t know if you’re doing it on purpose or if you’re so caught up in being honest that you don’t realize, but you explain exactly why you haven’t been able to tolerate JJ. Until the property hearing, all of this felt like his fault. Bidding all that money at the auction and then betting the rest at the enduro? It was exactly what had proven to you that he didn’t deserve your trust.

But you’re still together. Even if it’s just you two on this boat, it’s still a part of your family that hasn’t been taken away from you yet. He might be the last one you want. Maybe you don’t want him at all. But he could be the one to bring the rest of the pieces together. He doesn’t know what he can do, but he decides at this moment that he’ll figure it out and do whatever it takes.

“Look, I—” JJ’s attempt at making you a promise he thinks you need to hear is cut short by the melodic ring of your phone. Your heads snap to the phone that lies forgotten on the table. You're getting a FaceTime call, Cleo’s name written in bold text across the top.

As you pick up your phone, JJ expects you to get up and take the call in your room like you have every other day this week. Instead, you shift your body to face the table and pick up the call, but don’t move from your spot next to him. You swipe the answer button to the right, pushing the phone back so you’re both in the frame, and Cleo pops up on the screen.

Cleo is lying her head against a red shirt he recognizes as Pope’s, and when she registers that JJ's there, too, she pulls back the screen so Pope is visible.

“Woah-ho-ho,” Cleo sings. “Rudeboy, what’s up, man?”

Despite the tense moment that JJ is still coming off of, he smiles at the nickname Cleo gave him. He’ll admit he kind of loves it.

“Nothin’ much,” JJ replies. “What’s up with y’all?”

“Just chillin’,” Pope adds, resting his head atop Cleo’s. “Didn’t think we’d catch you both in the same room.”

You scoff next to him. “We live together. Why would we not be in the same room?”

Pope just hums and says, “Y’all look cozy.”

A warm flush of embarrassment creeps up JJ’s neck as he registers Pope’s words and your position. JJ badly wants to reach through the screen and slap the smirk off Pope's face. He considers moving his arm from behind you but then decides against it. Instead, he relaxes further into the seat, relishing how you press further into his touch just the slightest bit. It’s not enough for Pope and Cleo to notice through the camera, but he notices how your skin pushes further into his palm.

“We were looking through job listings,” You tell them.

“Hm, sounds boring,” Cleo says.

“But necessary.”

“And necessary.”

You and Pope laugh at your synchronized speech. JJ’s head falls back with a dramatic sigh.

“Great,” He groans. “Now, I’m stuck with two Popes.”

“How's the boat been?” Pope asks, his tone a little more serious.

“It’s been… manageable,” You say, looking up at JJ. “I’m glad we found it.”

JJ easily understands the real meaning of your words. It’s your way of saying thank you. He gives you a gentle smile, and you return it with a subtler one.

“Ooo, Kiara is pissed, by the way,” Cleo’s quip catches JJ’s attention pulling it away from you. He gathers she’s said something she isn’t supposed to by the way Pope quietly whispers ‘babe’ through the side of his mouth. “What, it’s true!”

JJ doesn’t have to ask what she’s referring to because he already knows. You, on the other hand, likely have no clue why Kie’s upset.

“At me? Why? What happened?” You ask, and JJ feels at fault yet again for something going wrong in your life.

“Oh…” Cleo trails off. “Cause JJ said he didn’t want to stay on the boat? When she suggested it for the two of them?” Cleo has always been a bit too blunt, but right now it’s really bothering JJ.

“Huh?” You ask, but your attention is trained on JJ. “She wanted to come with us?”

“Uh, not exactly,” JJ mumbles, side-eyeing Pope and Cleo on the video call. “ That’s not what happened.”

“Alright, well, I’m exhausted.” Pope is clearly finding an excuse to leave because it’s only five in the evening, but JJ lets it go, bidding the couple goodbye. Once the line clicks, JJ gets up from the couch, suddenly wanting to move his legs.

“JJ?”

“Hm,” He hums.

“Why’s Kiara mad?”

JJ sighs because he genuinely does not want to hash this out with you or anyone for that matter. Kiara’s anger – whether justified or not – has been something he’s been trying to ignore for the past week. He pushed it to the further corner of his mind, and it was easy until now. Everyone was so busy settling into their new places that he hadn’t seen her since the day she’d walked away from him. She’d suggested something he couldn’t bring himself to do, and his inability to follow through had severed something between them. Whatever existed between them, he felt it snap and morph into something much uglier at that moment outside their old house.

“She…” JJ huffs out a breath of annoyance. At what he’s not sure. Himself, maybe. “She suggested that we come to this boat. Like, just me and her. Before we found out about Sarah.”

Your brows furrow as you consider this. “Like, instead of you going to Sarah’s?”

“Yeah.” JJ stops his pacing – the three-step shuffle he's been doing because the walls of this boat are so damn close. “She said it’d be… simpler.”

“Ah.”

“But I said no because… I don't know,” JJ lies.

He told Kie that day, in the shadow of their old house, that he didn’t want to come back to this boat. The boat wasn’t just a way he made a quick buck when he was younger, but it’s where he’d seek refuge when things got especially bad with Luke. When the drunken insults were too much to swallow or the beatings seemed endless, he’d run away and seek shelter here. It was where he’d hide when the Chateau wasn’t an option—when Big John and John B were out of town or when the damage was so bad he couldn’t let anyone see him. Kie knew about it because sometimes, her or John B would find him here after he went AWOL for a couple days.

But when he’d found out Sarah was pregnant, this was the first place he thought of. He thought he’d put the days of hiding out in this boat behind him, but for you he didn’t think twice about returning to this haunted cabin.

“Ah,” You murmur again. You stand up but lean against the table, maintaining the distance he’s put between you two. “She can still come.”

JJ just looks at you in disbelief at your impossible suggestion. The boat is hard to manage between the two of you; adding a third person would be unmanageable.

“I can take the couch–”

“Y/N.”

“And you guys can–”

“There’s no–”

“Take the room. Then, when we start working–”

After you've thrown enough nonsense out, JJ crosses the space between you in one swift step, takes hold of your hands, and pulls you towards him. The sudden motion throws you off balance, and your eyes widen in surprise.

“Would you shut up?” Your look of shock from his abruptness changes to an indignant expression.

“Excuse me–”

“Kie’s not coming to stay with us,” JJ says firmly, unwilling to go down this line of thinking with you.

“I don’t want to come between you both,” You say, your eyes shifting away from him awkwardly. It’s a conversation you both haven’t had yet. One he's been actively avoiding like he usually does with most challenging stuff. JJ’s not sure what he’d say if you did. He doesn’t exactly know where he stands with Kie or where he wants to stand with her, so he wouldn’t know where to begin explaining the situation to you. “She’s my friend.”

“She’s my friend, too, " he concurs. "But our space isn’t big enough, and right now, I need to keep my focus on you.”

The second the words leave his mouth, JJ wants to take them back. This isn't the first time he's expressed that he has your back in all of this, but this time it feels different. Heavier and bigger in a way than he's ready for. He can't describe the tug in his chest when he's looking at you like this - eyes tilted up at him in wait. It's different from the panicked knot he gets when spiraling, which usually makes him unravel. This tug feels like a call to action. And it's telling him to not let anything bad happen to you anymore.

JJ knows he should say something to make his words seem like they mean less, but his brain short-circuits. For some reason, he doesn't feel as afraid as he should about wanting to be the one who keeps you safe.

"Okay," you say, sparing him from finding the right words.

"Okay." He repeats. He's not sure exactly what you're agreeing on. That Kie can't come? Or the fact that he needs you in his line of sight? But he knows he'll have to have that dreadful conversation with Kie soon. After that he'll have to figure out why when you step away from him, taking your touch with you, it feels wrong.

taglist: @thxtmarvelchick @theater-bitch @ayy1234567 @tpwkyarely @lovesanimals0000 @b3rryb3t @mvaldez7821 @ummmmokaynotme @chloemaybank @sandaltoesocks @thexplosivegirl @marleymarleymarleymarley @awurtzx06 @yumwhy @rudypankowisbae @agnxstic @otra-chica-0 @velyssaraptor @kanpaeki @rinaarii @kaisgirlie @loophole3 @flourelle @xobeautifulfaith @brooklyn789 @jjscoquette @mariaenchanted @enchantedstarfish @outerbankslover888 @rachaelann18 @beyondtheselegsonlythoughts @bee-43 @imsiriuslyreal

#jj maybank x reader #obx x reader #jj mayback imagine #jj maybank angst #outer banks x reader #jj maybank #sealed 𓂁 ☼♒︎

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ourfag · 1 year ago

Text

ed: what else comes in slabs?

stede:

stede: sorry, what?

ed: oh did i not say any of that other stuff out loud

stede: no—

ed: —sorry—

stede: —i don’t think so. what about slabs? just let me catch up

ed: well, okay, so you can have a slab of marble, for example

stede: uh huh

ed: and you can have a slab of cement. but there’s not a lot else that gets measures in slabs, right? marble and cement, that’s it

stede: mm. stone? in general?

ed: huh. yeah, i guess. like, slab of granite—

stede: of granite, yeah. and—i don’t really know any other stones. you could have a slab of wood, maybe? does that work?

ed: i don’t think i’ve ever heard “slab of wood.” i think that’s a plank. or a board…

stede: i came home with that slab of parmesan that one time.

ed: the what

stede: that we grated over the soup and it wasn’t that good? but we kept trying to say it was good because the parmesan was good and the soup was good so we thought together they should be good

ed: oh. the soup cheese?

stede: really disappointing

ed: babe, that was a brick

stede: it was a slab

ed: it wasn’t a slab, it was—

stede: it was flat. it was dimensionally a slab

ed: way too thick to be a slab, man. that’s a brick.

stede: how can you even tell

ed: slab is a slab. a brick, that’s just a specific breed of chunk

stede: a slab is also a breed of chunk

ed: mate if youre not going to take this seriously—

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loveandleases · 6 months ago

Note

All I see is my MC yelling when talking to someone about how they caught Chris cheating on them: "ON MY GRANITE COUNTERTOP!!! Do you know how much money that cost me?! They went and defiled it, IT'S RUINED BEYOND COMPARE!!!" They will never look at granite the same way again... unless they're demolishing one, then that's a different story LOL

Also, knawing at the bars of my enclosure for M x Ardent X MC poly.. but still #1 Ardent Lover. Gonna have to snatch that title from my cold dead hands...

Listen everyone needs a hobby, if MC feels better after taking a sledgehammer to an old chunk of granite countertop no longer in use..have at ye! Therapeutic in it's own way. Maybe Ardent has some old cabinets or something in storage somewhere. Fun trio, them three. Ooh, I will say (it's probably noticeable by recent posts) Ardent has been getting himself some love lately. Might have to work for first place.

#love and leases #loveandleases #ardent #never let him go to ikea #ever

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 2 years ago

Text

Old Scars, New Blood 2

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, manipulation, borderline bullying, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Reader has accepted that she’ll never be wanted, not only by the man she’s crushed on for years, but by anyone. That is until a new player enters the game. (f!, short!reader)

Character: Lloyd Hansen, Thor Odinson

Note: Man, I need some sleep.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

As the large house fills with the rabble of strange men and flowing alcohol, you retreat back to your quarters and stare at your dead phone. Still not sign of life from Lloyd but that doesn't worry you in any existential way. He always finds a way to scrape by, it's just that you usually hear from him by now. Even when he leaves you behind, he has a dozen orders for you. Not that time.

You lean against the headboard and mull the walls. Maybe you'll finally leave this life. You should be proud you got this far. You weren't exactly honed in blood like these underhanded mercenaries. You're just an executive assistant who took a chance. A woman and a Craig's List add, what an origin story.

After a while, you find it hard to sit still. You leave your bed in a mess from the turmoil of your nerves. You drag yourself to the door. You must look like you're going through a breakup, at the very lest, a crisis. A grey gap hoodie and black leggings. You shuffle around in your beat up Keds and drift downstairs, concealing yourself in the distraction and cacophony of the full house. Valhalla and his men jeer from the dining room as you slip past, a quick peek inside at the joining of forces.

Rico sits near the head of the table next to the gargantuan blonde with his braided locks and rugged jawline. The host looks less than impressed as his guest guffaws and claps his back roughly. You don't stay and watch, hurrying on as your stomach squeezes hungrily. You find when Lloyd's not around to demand his meals, you tend to forget to feed yourself.

You enter the kitchen and find chaos strewn over the counter tops. Bottles, some half-filled, others empty, littered over the granite. Crumbs and whole chunks of cheese and meat tossed around carelessly, a lingering stench hanging in the air. You assume the staff is hiding until there aren't men mixing alcohol and firearms.

You pull open the fridge and growl to find your neatly stacked containers gone. You keep your own food and Lloyd's precisely curated. You're a planner and meal planning is your greatest pride. While the other men depend on the processed foods dished up by the help, you make sure to feed your boss his preferred organic cuts. The door shuts as you let it go and turn to peruse the kitchen. There's a bag of biscuits with some spilling out. You leave the spilled cookies on the counter and claim the rest.

You stop as you come to face the wine rack. A single bottle remains in the crisscrossed slats of wood. You're not exactly fond of Risling but you've never been very picky. Nor much of a drinker.

You slide the bottle out with a soft clink against the rack and consider the label. You're not expert, would it pair well with shortbread? You compare the rumbled package of cookies and the pristine font on the bottle.

"Another!" The booming voice makes you leap and you spin around, the wine sloshing in the glass and loosening your grip. You face the large man as he bounces into the kitchen and the long neck slips free entirely. You step back with a surprised squeak as the glass smashes around your feet, sending a splash of wine up your leggings.

Valhalla stops short as he finds you standing in the ruin of your surprise. His rosy cheeks pale and his cheeks draw to a more sober expression, a glint still gleaming behind his bright blue irises, "ah, pardon, my lady, I didn't mean to startle you. And look at what I've done," he gestures to your feet. You lift a shoe and he makes a noise, "ah, ah, do not move."

He comes closer as you stand dumbly in the shards. You look down then back at him. "I have shoes on--"

"And you wouldn't want to stain them," he insists as he nears. You shy away but not fast enough. He picks you up easily, like a hero in a ridiculous story, scooping you over the broken glass and carrying you to safe ground. "Forgive me for wasting the wine."

"It's fine," you wiggle in his hold, the bag of cookies wrinkling loudly, "really, I think..." you look down, dizzy as you see the pattern of tile below, "you can put me down, sir. Please, if you don't mind."

"As you wish," he places you gently on your feet, "what an introduction. Valhalla," he holds out his large hand, his palm rough and calloused, fingers thick but lock, "and you, beautiful woman lurking in the shadows?"

Your breath is stolen by the unexpected compliment. You remind yourself that it is only gas. He's like Lloyd, he must be, compliments are only currency. You take his hand and introduce yourself as sternly as you can. Your voice is barely more than a mousy squeak.

"It is you," he lights up as he tilts his head, clinging to your hand.

"Me?" You question.

"Oh, I hope you remember. I suppose I am forgettable. We emailed... how pathetic I must sound," he chuckles at himself.

"No, I remember," you wiggle your hand and look at it, still trapped in his grip.

"Apologies," he lets you go, fingers brushing your palm reluctantly, "I only... I was disappointed when you disappeared."

"I disappeared?" You frown. "You never answered my last message."

"I..." he pauses, "I was in communication with Hansen, he said he preferred to take on the negotiations himself."

"Oh," you nod. Lloyd never mentioned that. "Of course, I'm so... careless. I have so much going on. I... I should've said goodbye. I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he pleas, "you've nothing to be sorry for. I should be. I might make it up to you. You like wine, so let us grab a bottle and catch up."

"Catch up," you muse meekly, "you make it sound like we're old friends."

"Aren't we?"

"Emails..." you murmur.

He laughs as he turns and goes to the wine rack, ignoring the puddle of glass and wine by his feet.

"That was the last bottle," you say dully.

"There must be a cellar, I'm certain the best vintages are there," he turns as he pokes his finger into the air, "let us go scavenge."

"Uh, that's nice and all but I think... cookies are just fine for me."

"Cookies?" He comes back to you, eyeing the bag in your hand, "shortbread. My favourite."

"Oh, well, erm, if you want some--"

"Only if you come with them," he meets your gaze and you shy away at his implication.

You open your mouth but no sound comes out.

"I mean, I'd like to eat them with you. Share them," he stammers slightly, another rocky chuckle escapes him, "I've been on the road long, I'm afraid I'm bit delirious."

"It's fine, I wouldn't want to-- you and your men should settle in and maybe tomorrow--"

"Tonight. Right now. I can't wait. I'm not known for it," he seizes your hand, "come, meet my men."

"I... please," he tugs you, moving you with little effort, "I'm only an assistant."

"Bring your cookies," he insists, ignoring your protests.

You can't stop him. Your soles squeak and slide under you as he drags you into the hall and through the wide archway of the dining room. The men at the table are drunk and a few whistle as you pass by, even as female agents sit smattered among the group.

Valhalla brings you to the head of the table and claims the empty chair awaiting him. Before you can react, he lifts you onto his lap, his arm firm against your back.

"Wait-- what are you--" you can barely catch your breath with how fast everything is moving, "I really should-- Lloyd will be back soon and I have to--"

"Forget him. I want to know about you," he bows his head, focusing on the cookie bag as he slips his fingers through the open top. He plucks one out, admiring it before holding it out to you, "please, you first."

You go to take the cookie from him, shifting on his leg, uncomfortable as you hear the snickers from the table. You must look ridiculous. This man is like a storm, he just comes in and blows everything out of sorts. He pulls the cookie away from your reaching fingers, instead hovering it before your mouth. You swallow, too humiliated to look anywhere but him.

"I can--"

He shakes his head and presses the shortbread to your lips, quieting you. You open your mouth and bite into the crumble buttery goodness. You snap your teeth shut and chew stiffly, lowering your eyes as he watches you. He tosses the rest of the biscuit into his mouth and hums.

"Delicious," he remarks as his fingers tickle the back of your arm, "now, we have tonight. Tomorrow we can work, but now, you will tell me everything."

"Lloyd--"

"Not him," he interrupts again, "you," he cups your chin in his hand, "I travelled all this way, won't you humour me just a little?"

You rub your lips together. What can you say? Every time you try to come up with something, it begins 'Lloyd...' Is there even anything interesting about you? Have you lost yourself so completely to your own foolish crush?

"Tell me," Valhalla rests his hand on your shoulder more firmly, "anything. Tell me your favourite cookie. Just speak and I will listen."

You look at him again. Listen? How long have you longed for someone to do just that? To be heard? To be seen? It's almost as if he knows and is heeding that desperate call inside of you.

"The little..." you put your fingers up to show the size you have in mind, "jam-filled ones," your voice grows less wobbly as you speak, "with the bit of custard."

"Ah, those are a delight," he proclaims, "my brother is overly fond of those. I caught him sneaking some at the family holiday last year-- anyhow, he is another matter. I see it, you are sweet, you like sweet things." He frames your face with his hand, "and you have a sweet voice, tell me more.”

"I..." you begin and push your shoulders into a shrug. You take out a cookie, needing to do something with your hands, "I'm not that interesting."

You nibble on the cookie as he laughs again. Not mean or judgmental like Lloyd, just fun. You focus on chewing, wilting away as you feel him watching you.

"I'm interested," he intones, his timbre blowing through you.

You don't know what to say. There are no words. It's like you're the centre of the world in that moment, or at the least, of his. A man you hardly know, a man you only ever encountered in text.

Or maybe you're all wrong. Maybe you're misinterpreting every word he says. Just like you did with Lloyd. Searching for any sliver of longing.

"In fact," he leans back, rubbing your back casually, "you're the only interesting thing I've found in this place."

❤️‍🩹

The night sweeps you up like a whirlwind. You don't quite remember it ending, waking up in bed with remnants of the evening dancing in your mind. Valhalla's voice nips at you, sending spirals over your flesh, zapping every nerve as it echoes in your ears.

You almost feel guilty that he's your first thought. How he never looked away, never spoke to anyone else, only you. His entire focus was yours.

And yours was his. You listened to his stories, mentions of his family, though his reputation never suggested sentiment. His tales of firefights made comical by his retelling. The way he described his homeland like some mystical paradise. He filled the void left by your own boring life.

You stretch and roll over, sitting up as something dangles down your chest. You look down. Still inhe same hoodie you wore all night was a charm hanging between the strings. You take it between your fingers and examine the medallion, a bullet lodges into it, the burn of gunpowder seared around it. Strange.

A waft of amber and citrus clings to the sweater. You dare to take a whiff before you stand. It smells like him.

You peel off your sweater reluctantly and hang it, opting to skip the hamper. You strip your leggings and your undershirt and pick a fresh outfit. Something more appropriate.

You force yourself into the shower and come out feeling awake. You pull on each piece; a pair of stiff slacks and a striped blouse, paired with a gray blazer. Your usual dull attire.

You sit and slide into a pair of leather flats. The mornings aren't usually hard. Something is different. Something has changed.

You head downstairs and find several staff working at tidying the previous night's ribaldry. You enter the kitchen and set the keurig to brew a cup as bodies scurry around you. Everyone has their place here; you, Rico, and Lloyd.

But not Valhalla.

At the very thought of him, a blaring horn takes over. Your ears throb and you forget your mug as you race to the front door. There's a man passed out against the wall in his own puke. Wonderful.

You pull open the left door as the gate opens and tires bounce over the paved drive. Lloyd is behind the wheel to your surprise, laying into the horn as he skids to a halt. Grumbling comes from behind you as Rico drags his feet and peers out over your head.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

The alcohol lingers in his breath. You step outside to escape his stench. Lloyd swings open the door and hops out, smiling at the sky as he presents himself as some great hero returned home.

“Morning, fuckers!” He bellows.

Silence, only an odd rhythm. You realise as a figure jogs around the east wing that it's footfalls. You turn to look as Rico and Lloyd do the same. It's him, Valhalla, running towards you.

He smiles, unaffected by his brisk pace as he nears, a smile on his face as he waves. He slows and you get a clear sight of his shirtless torso. He wears only running shoes and a pair of riskily short shorts.

There's a sheen of sweat over his skin but he hardly seems spent. His veins bulge beneath his skin and his muscles are thick but toned. His chest is broad and trimmed in golden hair, every part him immense and statuesque.

You almost let out the ‘wow’ as it creeps up your throat.

“Who the fuck is this ken doll?” Lloyd asks as he points to Valhalla.

“Ah, you must be Hansen,” Valhalla ignores his brusque question and holds put his hand.

“Who's asking?” Lloyd rests his hand on his holster.

Valhalla smiles and gives his name, unfaltering as he keeps his hand put. Lloyd doesn't shake it as he scowls. He looks the larger man up and down.

“You're early.”

“Or you're late,” Valhalla challenges and turns, clapping his hand on Lloyd's shoulder as it goes unshaken, “I thought you'd be bigger.”

Lloyd tilts his head, a grimace twisting his features, “huh?”

“I must day, it's a nice property,” Valhalla continues, gesturing to the house. He smirks and gives you a wink, “very welcoming.” He grips Lloyd's shoulder and pulls him closer, “I could get you somewhere even bigger. How about that?”

Lloyd squints at Valhalla, head craned awkwardly, “yeah?”

Valhalla smiles, “let's talk.”

#lloyd hansen #thor #dark lloyd hansen #dark thor #dark!lloyd hansen #dark!thor #thor x reader #lloyd hansen x reader #the gray man #mcu #marvel #avengers #fic #au #series #multifandom #dark fic #dark!fic

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