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upsidedownwithsteve · 1 year

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Simmer #1

CH1. Home Style | The Menu [3.7K] Eddie Munson x shy fem!reader: a line cook au.

Jim’s Midnight Grill wasn’t the magical place the name made it sound like.

In fact, it was worse at night. Hawkins' only diner sat on the outskirts of town, just before the road that took you out alongside the cornfields. In the height of a sunny day, the water tower cast a shadow over the old building and the gas station next door only had one working pump.

The leather booths were constantly sticky, the table tops grainy with spilled salt, but if you made your visit on a Thursday night after nine, milkshakes were two for one. The back alley was littered with cigarette butts, graffiti on the walls telling you who to call for a good time— and someone called King Steve used Farah Fawcett hairspray? The regulars were permanent fixtures on the bar stools, coffee stains on the counter in front of them, stolen sugar packets in their pockets, frowns on their faces.

The staff didn’t want to be there, the owner refused to replace the flickering lights and the cook had a bad attitude and liked to communicate with heavy sighs and eye rolls. But he made a mean grilled cheese. The walk in freezer was reserved for the pitiful weekly deliveries and breakdowns, a stolen kiss or two. Or three, or four. But no one liked to tackle the clogged sink and god forbid anyone change the TV channel— Mr Creel always had something to say about it.

—————

Honestly, Hawkins wasn’t your first choice when you decided to move to a smaller place. The idea of a big city was all fine and well until you lived a year in Chicago, the dream of a brownstone apartment quickly disappearing when you realised jobs were hard to come by and finding friends was even harder. Living alone wasn’t all that fun, especially when your landlord hinted at sexual favours to justify late payments and he didn’t care to fix the leaking radiator in your bedroom. The nights were never quiet and the city hardly slept, but instead of neon lights and late night bodega runs, you lay awake on the broken spring in your bed and flinched at the sound of backfiring cars and people arguing on the street below.

It was lonely, living somewhere so big and busy and always eating dinner by yourself. So you sold the old car you didn’t really use and cried enough that your landlord eventually gave in and ripped up your lease that still had four months to go. Packing your stuff was an easy enough job, hardly enough belongings to fill the duffel bag you’d dragged with you. You dug into the back of your freezer for the wad of cash your grandma gave you, threw it into the bag and grabbed your greyhound ticket and decided you’d get off the bus when the skyline turned a little more green. When the buildings shrunk, when the smog lifted and when wildflowers sprouted from between the cracks in the sidewalk.

So you rolled into Hawkins before the day broke, way before the sun crept up over the quarry, before the small town came alive. The apartment you’d found was the same tiny size as the one you’d had in Chicago but it was cleaner and the carpet was new. Nothing leaked. Nothing smelled weird. The parking lot was filled with cars and none of them had bullet holes in the side, your trash can wasn’t on fire and god, god, the first neighbour you saw - an elderly woman who was walking with a yorkie on a leash - smiled at you.

She smiled at you.

So despite the lack of twenty four hour stores and pizza parlours, Hawkins was already looking up. There wasn’t much on the Main Street, a library, a tiny bakery run by a couple who offered you a free croissant as a welcome to town gift. There was an outdoor pool with sun bleached bunting across its chain link fence, an arcade next to a video store, a high school that was derelict due to the summer months. The larger houses across from the park were lined with cherry trees, neat lawns with white mailboxes and flowers under the windows and suddenly Hawkins was a million miles away from Chicago and the buzz of traffic and car horns.

The librarian let you print out some resumes the day after you’d settled in, and you found your way around town by asking kind strangers, buying a coffee and a breakfast sandwich in exchange for directions out of your neighbourhood. It was easy to stroll along the sidewalk with an iced latte and your headphones around your neck, blue skies above you and the sound of sprinklers in their yards, breathing in air that didn’t smell like diesel. You found a man by a rundown garage, white haired and tired looking, mechanic scrubs tied around his waist as he smoked a cigarette.

You took a deep breath, and then another one, smiling politely - warily - as you approached. The man lifted a brow at you, a little suspicious, but he held the burning stub away from you, smoke billowing in the opposite direction.

“You lost, kid?”

You were. Just a little.

“I’m looking for Jim’s, uh,” you glanced down at the pink flyer that had been pinned on the library's notice board. “Jim’s Midnight Grill? I got told it was out this way, but—”

You looked around, noting that there wasn’t much out this way. The busiest part of Hawkins was behind you, tidy sidewalks giving way to long roads out of town, a lone bus stop by the garage, a farm in the distance across the street. You squinted against the sun and shrugged.

“You wanna keep going for ‘nother mile or so, it’s just before the town sign,” the man pointed further out where the cornfields were overgrown and the sun faded billboard told everyone ‘thanks for visiting Hawkins!’ You weren’t sure the bus ran that far out. “Jim should be there, but if he’s not, jus’ ask for Eddie, he’ll sort you out.”

“Eddie,” you nodded, peering into the distance. You couldn’t see another building, but this man didn’t seem like he was lying. “Right, okay. Just keep to the road?”

The man nodded and he cracked a smile, small but soft. He stubbed out the end of his cigarette and gestured to an old pick up that looked like it had seen better days. “You needin’ a ride?”

The urge to say yes was strong, especially after walking all the way from your apartment as the heat soared. It snuck up on you like a slow roll, going from pleasant to warm to too hot, far too quickly. Beads of sweat clung to your skin underneath your sundress but you shook your head, shyness crawling up the back of your neck. Accepting a ride from a stranger didn’t seem the wisest idea, no matter how kind he seemed.

“It’s okay,” you told him. “Thank you, though. I appreciate the help.”

The man smiled again, a little bigger this time, crows feet crinkling, the sunlight catching the white of his five o’clock shadow. “That’s alright, kid. Jus’ tell ‘em Wayne sent you, yeah? Follow the road, you’ll see Forest Hills - the trailer park - keep going a lil’ ways and it’s right across the road.”

It turned out Wayne was right.

You kept walking, the heat soaring, the fields on either side of you growing taller but you bit back a smile at the sight of the wildflowers that snuck through the cracks in the concrete. Eventually they gave way to a trailer park, just as Wayne side, a quaint place that hummed with generators and had lines of laundry between each mobile home. Across the road sat a sandy lot, a diner in the middle, a neon sign letting passer-bys know they’d arrived at Jim’s Midnight Grill. Except the ‘r’ was loose, hanging from its wire and buzzing blue and purple.

Cats patrolled along the roadside, going from trailer doorsteps to the back alley of the diner, hoping and waiting for a free meal that they all knew would eventually come. You stopped to pet an orange kitten, a little scruffy looking thing but cute all the same, your CV clutched in one hand as you peered suspiciously at the front of the restaurant. It looked too quiet, like it wasn’t open yet. But there was a black van parked along the side of the building and some steam leaked from a vent on the roof, so you opened the front door.

The bell jingled but the patrons at the dining bar who sat on their stools didn’t move, didn’t turn to look. The place was nearly empty, some people nursing a coffee, some staring blankly at the buzzing television screen that was mounted in the corner. No one stood at the host desk, the menus stacked messily, the phone off the hook. In fact, there wasn’t a server to be seen as you made your way to the counter. You grimaced as you leaned on the surface, elbows sticky, avoiding spilled coffee the best you could. You waited, resume still in your hand, patience on your features.

No one came.

So you rang the bell that was on the bar top for the very purpose of gaining attention, but the man beside you glared at the noise. Still, no one came. The fans overhead squeaked and whirred, the TV fizzed with bad signal and from somewhere behind the open serving hatch, you heard the clatter of pots and pans. You tried to crane your neck to see through the window, steam and smoke billowing from it, the slight shadow of maybe a person moving through it.

The person swore, dropped a skillet and swore again.

You leaned in further, elbows on spilled salt grains and drops of ketchup, trying to gain a better view into the kitchen from the bar top. “Hey, ‘scuse me? Can I— can someone—”

You huffed as the figure moved out of sight, falling back onto the stool that squeaked and the man next to you snorted into his coffee cup. You frowned and took further action, sundress falling back around your thighs as you hopped off the chair and made your way to the side of the counter that lifted up. No one paid you any mind, no one at all, but you still hesitated before ducking under the bar and hovering by the hatch. You could smell garlic and sage and something a little sweet now you were closer, the scents of the kitchen winning over the stale coffee, cigarette smoke and engine oil that clung to the patrons clothes behind you.

You peered into the kitchen, your paperwork still clutched to your chest. It wasn’t much cooler in here than it was outside, the AC unit broken and the fans working overtime to combat the heat. The kitchen seemed empty now, a stovetop still on despite no one to supervise it, flames licking high up the sides of a steel pot, big enough for you to fit both feet in. There was something inside bubbling, foam rising to the top and chopped courgette and red onions sat on the workbench beside it, abandoned. A radio played, staticky and fuzzy, an old sixties tune floating out to mix with the smoke.

“Come a little bit closer, you’re my kind of man. So big and so strong, come a little bit closer, I’m all alone.”

“H-hello?” You cleared your throat and braced yourself to speak a little louder. Stronger. Braver. “Hello?”

No one answered. In fact, it seemed like the entire diner was run by ghosts, no waiting staff, hosts or cooks to be seen. Maybe you’d imagined the silhouette in the smoke, maybe the heat was finally getting to you.

“No customers back here, what d’you think you’re doin’?”

You startled, jumping back a little only to knock an elbow into a half filled coffee pot, the brown liquid thankfully lukewarm but it still spilled across the countertop, soaking into stray packets of sugar and scattered napkins.

“Oh, fuck, uh—” you grabbed at whatever dry napkins were left, hurriedly mopping up the spill before it dripped to the floor. Old coffee dotted the red and cream tiles, into the gaps between your sandals. You grimaced and looked up, only half paying attention. “Shit, I’m really sorry, I just— there was no one there and—”

You stopped, swallowing hard, cheeks hot, eyes wide. The person in front of you was half hidden behind the serving hatch, but he was scowling through the window with a ladle in his hand. Big brown eyes, unnervingly expressive and dark hair to match, unruly looking curls that were pulled back with an elastic band in a bun that wouldn’t have passed a health inspection.

A boy, unfairly pretty, and annoyed looking with tattoos peeking out from his chef whites, a black paisley printed bandana knotted around his neck. There was a furrow between his brow, lines etched there so deep that it made you think they were a permanent fixture on his handsome face.

“—no customers behind the cash desk, sweetheart, you look bright enough to understand that.”

Your mouth fell open, a burn creeping across your cheeks. Annoyance settled in your chest but you realised you weren’t quite brave enough to do anything about it. So you lifted your resume and slapped it on the hot steel ledge that separated the kitchen from the coffee bar. “No one’s working,” you tried to explain, gesturing with one hand to the empty diner behind you. “I rang the bell—”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” The boy scoffed, raising a tattooed forearm to wipe away the sheer layer of sweat from his brow. “Havin’ a spa day? Shit, no one rings the damn bell, don’t you know that?”

You scrambled for a response, the burn on your face growing hotter, an awful clawing feeling coming across your chest. You swallowed, your throat tight, but you pointed at your CV once more. “I’m here for the job opening. I need to speak to Jim? About the kitchen porter role?”

The stranger laughed, a breathy thing that you didn’t think was supposed to come across as mean as it did, but it stung all the same. You shrunk a little, a hardly seen thing as the boy turned his head to check on whatever was bubbling in the big pot. “Look, sweetheart, I don’t wanna be a dick about it, but uh, I don’t think you’re cut out for the kitchen - sorry.” He turned back to you, a slightly more apologetic look on his face instead of the frown. “You understand, right?”

You were speechless, just for a second. Blinking away the confusion, you made noise of protest as the boy started to move away. Your hand touched his bicep and he swivelled back, scowling once more. You snatched your hand away, glancing at your fingertips as if the ink from his tattoos would have stained them black.

“Sorry— it’s just, I, I need a job.” You swallowed, hoping none of the customers could hear your desperate plea. “I just moved into town and honestly, I’ll take anything, like anything. I’m supposed to talk to Jim— or Eddie?”

The boy seemed to mull over your words for a second or two, a passing of sympathy or something just as kind coming over his features. He sighed and shrugged, turning away to stir the pot before it boiled over and he shouted at you through the smoke and steam. Not meanly, just enough for his voice to be heard over the music, the hissing of the stove, the hum of the freezer. “I dunno where Jim is, sorry.”

You deflated, sliding your stack of papers off of the ledge and back to your chest. You tried not to appear too frustrated as you asked, “what about Eddie? Someone - a guy, at the garage - he told me to ask for Eddie.”

The ladle clanged against the pot, some soup - or maybe stew - spilling out the sides. The boy frowned at the mess, dragging a rag over the spots before he glanced up at you. You tried to smile, tried to tamp down the watery doe eyes you knew you couldn’t help but have on show, but you felt desperate. Leaving Chicago with nothing more than the bag on your back and no plans was suddenly seeming like an awful idea.

“Sorry,” the stranger said again. “I dunno an Eddie.”

—————

Sitting in a sticky leather booth in the corner of Jim’s Midnight Grill for another hour turned out to be worth it.

Just before two o’clock, a man walked in, greeting the same customers who were still nursing their coffees with a muttered ‘hello,’ a familiar thing that everyone grunted back at. He was a tall man, broad shouldered with a moustache and a shaved head that was covered with a battered wide brimmed hat. He looked more cowboy than business owner, checked shirt dirt covered boots and all, but you heard someone call him Jim and you were up and running after him.

Your sneakers stuck to the linoleum tiles, the ‘shtick shtick shtick’ of your soles pattering between the aisles of empty tables until you caught up with the man just before he disappeared into the kitchen. He raised his brows at your sudden appearance at his elbow, wide eyed and hopeful as you clutched the same resume you’d tried to hand the cook, the pieces of paper stained with coffee now.

The man lifted his chin to a small table before you could speak, gesturing to two chairs by the window. You startled, wondering what was happening as he pulled out a seat and pointed at you to sit in the other one.

“You’re new, right?” The man - Jim - fumbled with a packet of cigarettes, most of them crushed and bent, but he found a good one to lift to his lips. He lit it and blew smoke upwards, staining the already yellowing ceiling. “Here, in town?”

You nodded, unsure how he knew that. You guessed that news travelled fast in a place as small as Hawkins, so you decided to elaborate for the sake of talking. “Uh, yeah. From Chicago. I’m inquiring about the, um, the porter job?”

“What’s your name?” Jim leaned forward in his chair and poked gently at your forearms. “You don’t got a lot of scars, you done soft jobs? No kitchen stuff before?”

The AC unit kicked in and rattled a vent above you as you stared at the man, trying to work out what he meant. Stammering, you told him your name and passed over a resume, pointing out your last few jobs, doing your best to try and make them sound more professional than they actually were.

Librarian's assistant.

Barista. For two weeks.

Cashier at a knock off Chuck E. Cheese.

“I guess they’re what you could call, uh,” you squinted Jim, floundering for the word he’d used, “soft jobs. But I’ve got a scar on my knee from pulling a kid out of the ball pit. He’d come straight from little league, he still had his spikes on and there was a considerable amount of blood even th—”

Jim stopped your spiel by jamming a thumb back towards the kitchen hatch. You could still see the boy there, pretty and scowling all the same, a dark curl falling from his hair band to fall over his cheek. You watched him blow it away and flip something in a skillet, the sizzle of it just heard over the music, the bad TV in the corner of the bar.

“You ever worked a kitchen?”

You shook your head, stomach sinking. ‘Fake it til’ you make it,’ failed you once before, and the owner of the coffee shop in Lincoln Park quickly realised you were wasting both your times when she discovered you didn’t know the difference between a mocha and a latte. “No, sir.”

“Our line cook is real particular ‘bout who we put in his kitchen with him,” Jim pointed to the boy, who’d now been joined by someone else. Another male, one with even longer hair, sleek and dark and they seemed to be arguing over blocks of cheese. “Now I don’t think it’s a good idea to throw you in there—”

Dread bubbled in your stomach. If you didn’t manage to land this job, you weren’t sure where else to look. A small town brought on few opportunities, and you’d already exhausted most of the businesses on Main Street. “Sir, please, I—”

“—but there is a waitressing gig available.” Jim frowned as he tried to remember the details. “Full time, forty odd hours if you don’t mind doing lates.”

“Yes!” You blurted out the answer too loud, loud enough for the customers to turn away from the TV screen for a second or two. The boys in the kitchen peered out the hatch, one curious, one annoyed. “Yes, sorry, yes. I’ll take it, thank you.”

Jim nodded and stubbed out the amber end of his cigarette in an ashtray beside the sauce bottles. “Easy enough job, minimum wage, you keep any tips you make.” He listed off each point on his fingers. “You start tomorrow.”

You could only nod back, eager and grateful. “Of course, yeah, sure. Uh— do I need—?”

Jim waved you off, already standing as he lit up another cigarette. “Just come by for eight, Eddie’ll sort you out with a uniform, locker, that kinda stuff.”

You frowned, confused. Looking around the quiet diner, you wondered if there was someone you hadn’t noticed before, but the number of visible staff members remained the same. The two boys in the kitchen, the pretty cool who you’d spoken to back at the stove, tasting its contents with a teaspoon.

“Uh,” you coughed awkwardly, feeling stupid. “I thought— I thought there wasn’t an Eddie who worked here?” You pointed warily to the boy with the messy curls, the black tattoos across his exposed forearms, he was staring at you, like he knew you were talking about him. He was scowling. “He said there wasn’t.”

The noise and heat of the diner and the summer outside didn’t do anything to diminish the embarrassment you felt at Jim’s next words. His gaze followed to where you were pointing and snorted. “Kid, that is Eddie.”

#Eddie munson #eddie munson x you #Eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fic #Eddie munson fanfic #Eddie munson smut #eddie munson fluff #Eddie munson oneshot #Eddie munson imagine #linecook!eddie

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mapis-putellas · 1 day

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[ᴄᴏꜰꜰᴇᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄʟᴇᴀᴛꜱ ]

Summary: You never intended to meet the love of your life on a random Friday at work, and you definitely never thought she’d be world famous footballer Alexia Putellas.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑

Your date with Alexia ends up lasting the entire day. After getting ice cream -the second activity Alexia had planned- you'd ended up taking a small road trip to the nearest beach just a few miles away. Due to the time of day it was still relatively crowded, but you'd managed to find a small unoccupied area near the water where Alexia had promptly laid out the hoodie she'd brought from the car for you to sit on.

She'd sat herself opposite, cross legged, just like you, with her knees flush against your own. It was kind of perfect honestly, just sitting with her talking about anything and everything. She even teaches you a few more Spanish words, high-fiving you and intertwining her hands with your own whenever you got something right.

Had it been just an excuse to touch you? Maybe? But you certainly hadn't minded.

You'd then spent at least an hour walking hand in hand down the shoreline, comfortable conversation still flowing smoothly between you. It was only when the sun had started to set did you make the joint decision to call it a day, the car ride back feeling a lot quicker than the initial journey there. She'd pulled up outside of your apartment just as the clock strikes nine pm, leaving the car running as she unbuckles her seatbelt and steps out. You watch her round the vehicle before reaching to your open door, not hesitating to take the hand she offers you and allowing her to help you out of the car.

You'd stared at one another for a few moments before you had step forward to loop your arms around her shoulders, pulling her into a tight hug, Alexia responding almost immediately by securing her arms around your waist and lifting you slightly off of your feet.

You cup the back of her head, effectively bringing her with you when she sets you back down and pressing your lips softly against her own. A few murmured assurances about a second date had briefly filled the silence, and then you'd both bid one another a rather reluctant goodbye, you waving her off from your place on the sidewalk.

You had entered your apartment feeling both ecstatic and sad. Ecstatic because this was officially the best date you'd ever been on and sad because it was over. That continues as you get ready for bed, but a text from Alexia sweetly bidding you a good night immediately cheers you up.

Throughout the remainder of the week, you and Alexia text pretty frequently. It's mostly in the evenings when she was free and the conversation was mostly pretty friendly with the occasional i hope to see you soon thrown in. It bums you a little that nothing had been brought up about a second date; especially when you'd asked her to let you know when she was free so you didn't plan something when she was busy. But it could simply be the fact that she had no free time and was waiting for a day to be available. That's what you've been telling yourself anyway, so not to drive yourself insane with the what ifs.

About three days after your first date is when she FaceTimes you for the first time. It was a little after eight at night, so you were in the bathroom getting ready for bed when your phone buzzes softly against the counter. You pick it up, blinking a little in surprise when you see the name on your screen but not hesitating to press accept.

"Hey." You smile, propping her up against the back of the sink as you continue wiping off your makeup.

She was in her car, you think, though it didn't seem as though she was driving. It was slightly dark, but you could make out the fact that she was wearing the same football kit she'd been wearing the day you'd met. Man, she really liked football huh?

"Hola, amor." She greets, reclining her seat back slightly so she could get more comfortable. She props her elbow up on the door, resting her head in her hand. "How has your day been?" She wonders.

You shrug slightly as you wet your face before uncapping your face wash, pouring some out onto your hand and rubbing it onto your skin. "It's been alright," you shrug. "work was long but productive. I ate some dinner and read my book and now I'm getting ready for bed. How was your day?" You quickly rinse off your face before drying it off with a clean towel.

Alexia sighs softly. "My day was good, gracias, amor." She offers you a tentative smile, one you don't hesitate to return. You bend down a little, resting your elbows against the counter and resting your face in your hands. Alexia tilts her head to the side, looking inquisitive as you stare at her.

"What is it?" She whispers after a few silent moments, and you sigh softly as you tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

"Is it weird to say that I missed you?" You admit a little more bashfully than you would have liked, your cheeks flushing a light shade of red.

Alexia's features soften as she holds her phone a little closer to her face. "No," she shakes her head. "It is not weird. I missed you too. I have been trying to find a free day for our second date but I have been..."

"Busy," you nod, letting out a soft sigh as you pick up your moisturiser. "I know, I understand. I just wanted to tell you."

She nods. "Actually, I call because I have a question...for you."

"Ask away." You assure.

"I have training tomorrow, and I want to ask if...you could, wanted, to go with me?"

"Football training?" You ask, turning off the bathroom light and making your way into your bedroom.

"Sí." Alexia nods.

"You want me to go with you to training?"

"Yes. If you want to. Of course you do not have to, it will be boring, just sitting in the stands but..."

"I'll never turn down an opportunity to see you Alexia. Of course I'll come with you." You were quick to say as you settle against her headboard of your bed, propping your phone up with a pillow in front of you. "Just know I have no idea how any of it works." You warn somewhat seriously.

Alexia laughs. "That is okay. I will explain it to you." She assures.

"You will, huh?" You grin, reaching back to pull your hair back into a ponytail. Your tank top slips up your body at the action, slightly exposing your torso, and you pretend you don't notice the way her eyes not so subtly flicker down to get a look. She clears her throat softly just a few seconds later, a sheepish smile slipping onto her lips when she realises you'd caught her in the act.

"Promesa." She says after a few seconds, and you hum softly as lean back against the headboard of your bed.

"Wait," you abruptly sit back up. "does training count as a second date?"

"Uhhh..." she sends you a guilty smile.

"Alexia! I was supposed to plan the second date!"

It was only when Alexia pulls up outside of a large looking stadium the next day do you realise that maybe this whole football thing was a lot more serious than she'd been letting on.

You look around as you exit the car, seeing many others in matching football kits as Alexia grabs a large duffel bag out of the trunk. Some look right at to with a look of confusion on their faces, making you wonder if Alexia really had permission to bring you here after all.

You turn, ready to question her, but Alexia subtly shakes her head as she gestures you towards the entrance of the stadium. Though your confusion deepens, you comply and follow her inside, your eyes widening when you take note of people with cameras and phones filming everyone who passes as Alexia grasps your hand and pulls you out of the way of everyone.

"Alexia, what's going on? You said this was football training-"

"Sí," she cuts you off, squeezing your hand. "It is football training. I...I play for Barça."

"I-okay? I don't know what that means. Why are there people taking pictures? Why are there cameras?" You whisper the last part, not wanting anyone to overhear.

Alexia sighs lightly. "Vale. I...I am Alexia Putellas."

You raise an eyebrow as you lean back against the wall, shoving your hands into your pockets. "I know your name, dummy."

"No," she shakes her head. "I do not know how to explain in English. I do not know the right words. You have your phone, sí?"

You nod, your eyebrows furrowing.

She swallows heavily as she gestures for you to pull it out, and you comply. "Google my name. That will explain and I will answer the questions you have."

"I am so confused." You mutter, unlocking your phone and typing Alexia's name into google. Your eyes widen in disbelief at the results that greet you, lips parting in silent surprise as your body becomes entirely still. You blink rapidly, trying to clear the fog of bewilderment that had clouded your vision.

Alexia Putellas didn't just like football like you had assumed. She was a famous footballer.

You jump reflexively when you feel her hand gently come to rest on your arm, wincing a little when Alexia rips her hand away a though she'd been scolded.

"I..." you have absolutely no idea what to say.

"I know," Alexia murmurs. "I am sorry, I should have-"

You shake your head, holding a hand up to stop her from talking. She complies, but grows more antsy the longer you remain silent. You swallow heavily as you lock your phone, stuffing it back onto your pocket with a little more force than was maybe necessary.

"You're...famous. You're a famous footballer and you didn't think to tell me before bringing me here?" You didn't sound mad, just...confused, and maybe a little hurt too.

Alexia adjusts her kitbag on her shoulder before softly clearing her throat. "I wanted to," she promises. "but, I did not know how to say it. So I thought-"

"That bringing me here would tell me for you." You cut in, and Alexia visibly winces.

"Sí." She murmurs. "I am sorry."

You sigh lightly. "It's okay. I have...more questions, but you apparently have training and I don't want you to be late."

Alexia nods. "Are you still..."

You nod. "I'll still watch." You say, smiling a little at the breath of relief that slips from Alexia's lips as she tentatively holds out her hand. You take it, feeling the way she squeezes tightly as she leads you outside and towards the stands.

She offers you any of the seats, and you decide on one that was close enough to be able to see what was going on but far enough away where you wouldn't be too easily noticed. The last thing you wanted, or needed, right now, was questions. Questions you had no idea how to answer. You sit down with your bag on the seat next to you, expecting Alexia to head off to training but blinking in surprise when instead she crouches down before you and rests her hands on your knees.

"I am sorry, again," she murmurs, still evidently feeling bad. "I did lot mean to lie to you. I was just-"

"I know," you assure. "Like I said I'm not mad at you. Just confused. But you'll explain everything to me later, right?"

"Sí. Yes. Promesa," Alexia nods, "but I still-"

"Ale." You gently cup her cheeks, trailing the pads of your thumbs over the warm skin. Brown eyes flicker up and meet your own, lips quirking up into a hesitant smile. "we've only known each other a week. Been on one date. It's a big thing, telling someone this. I understand, truly."

Alexia shifts softly as she leans into your touch. "But you seemed upset," she whispers. "You jump when I touch you."

"Because I wasn't expecting it," you admit with a soft smile. "I didn't flinch because I was upset. I flinched because it genuinely made me jump."

"Oh," Alexia mumbles, "vale. That is good then. I-"

"Alexia!" Someone calls her name.

You both turn your heads, spotting Mapi's familiar face staring right back at you. You wave, genuinely happy to see her again and Mapi grins widely as she returns it before she once again gestures for Alexia to come over.

Alexia nods in acknowledgment before turning back to face you. "I have to go now, you have food yes? And drinks?"

"Sí." You nod, taking the hands on your knees and giving them a soft squeeze. "I have entertainment too. I have a book, my iPad. I'll be fine. Go do what you gotta do."

Alexia nods, leaning forward to kiss your cheek before standing up. She goes to walk away before abruptly stopping and unzipping her bag before rummaging through it, turning back to face you just a few seconds late with a hoodie in her grasp.

You shake your head softly. "Ale, it's hot. I don't nee-”

"Just in case, amor," She folds it up before placing it on your lap. "I do not want you to get cold."

You know full well you wouldn't get cold, but the thought of Alexia worrying that you would and offering you her hoodie fills your stomach with butterflies.

"Okay," you accept. "Thank you."

Alexia nods, sending you one last smile before hurrying down to the large field. She was immediately greeted with Mapi's knowing smile, Alexia rolling her eyes playfully as the rest of her teammates approach her. Someone says something promoting every single pair of eyes down there to meet your own, and you stare wide eyed for a second before bravely bringing your hand up for a cautious wave.

Some wave back. Some smile. One in particular; a brunette with her hair tied back into a ponytail slips away from the group, a wide grin on her face as she makes her way towards you. You wince internally when neither Alexia or Mapi seem to notice, hoping to god your terror wasn't noticeable as she makes it to the seat next to you and sits down.

"Hola," the brunette grins. "Soy Aitana. Eres la novia de Alexia?"

You stare at her blankly.

She frowns. "No hablas español?"

You somehow manage to understand this and promptly shake your head.

"Ahh," she nods before pointing to herself. "I am Aitana." She says slowly, accent thick, before pointing to you. "You are?"

"I'm Y/n."

"Ahh. And you are Alexia's girlfriend, sí?"

"Aitana! Vuelve aquí!" A voice you don't recognise calls out, but Aitana ignores it as she looks at you expectantly.

You swallow heavily before shaking her head. "Um, no. I'm not her girlfriend."

"You are not?" She frowns, and you shake your head again.

"We've only been on one date. This is the second." You explain.

Her frown deepens. "El entrenamiento de fútbol fur su gran idea para una segunda cita? Idiota, Alexia." She grumbles to herself.

You didn't understand the first part of her sentence, but you sure did understand the second. She thought Alexia was an idiot.

"Aitana! Ahora!" Calls that voice again, and Aitana waves them off as she sighs heavily and turns in her seat a little to face you.

"I will talk to her." She reaches her hand out to pat your leg in what you assumed was an action of reassurance, and though you didn't quite know what she planned to talk to Alexia about, you find yourself nodding your head in hopes it'd get her to head back to training before she got you both in trouble.

"Aitana!"

"I am going now, but we will talk later, yes?" She questions as she rises to her feet, and you nod somewhat dumbly as she turns makes her way back down to the field. She skips right over to Alexia who was in the middle of talking to someone, tapping her on the shoulder to get her attention. The second she has it, she begins talking, waving her hands about animatedly as she gestures from you to the field around you placing her hands on her hips.

Alexia watches on in mild concern and confusion before her eyes flicker over to you. Her eyebrow raises in silent question, and you nod assuringly, not at all affected by Aitana despite how enthusiastic she'd been.

Her other brow raises, almost as though she was asking if you were sure, and you nod again, this time throwing her a double thumbs up for good measure.

Alexia nods, turning back to face Aitana. As she begins to talk, you rummage through the small bag you brought and pull out your iPad. You'd download a few new books this morning that you knew would occupy you for the entirety of the time you were here, and as you select one, you lean back a little in your seat in hopes of getting a little more comfortable.

Alexia's training ends up lasting a little over four hours, and you surprisingly manage to keep yourself appropriately occupied for little over three of them. You read your book, play a few games and even make a good dent in the snacks you'd brought. It was part way through the fourth hour that you start becoming a little restless.

In an attempt at distracting yourself, you try and follow along the little scrimmage match that Alexia and her teammates were having, but it ultimately proves ineffective when you have absolutely no idea who was winning or what was even going on.

Eventually, you're forced to stand, shrugging on the hoodie that had been on your lap ever since Alexia had put it there before beginning to pace, subconsciously bringing the sleeve to your face to take in her scent. It smelt just as you remember.

You manage a total of five laps before your name was called, your eye's immediately flickering towards the direction it had come from. It was Alexia. She was stood at the edge of the field, gesturing you over with a smile on her face, and you hesitate for only a second before grabbing your things and making your way down.

She immediately throws an arm over your shoulder the second you were close enough, pressing a rather sweaty kiss to your forehead in which you just about manage to refrain from wiping away. You completely miss the smirk that graces her features at the sight of you in her hoodie.

"They want to meet you. Is that okay?" She murmurs quietly, gesturing to her teammates who were talking amongst themselves just a few feet away. You glance between them and Alexia as you lean slightly into her side, a rather hesitant look on your face. Alexia's facial expression was much the same, almost as though she'd tried to talk them out of it but had ultimately failed to to do.

"You can say no, amor. I will not be mad, and they will not either.” she assures softly, and you let out a quiet exhale through your nose before nodding your head. Getting it over and some with would be the easiest option, right?

"Vale, come on then."

Tags:

@simp4panos @goldenempyrean @xxnaiaxx @liloandstitchstan @girlgenius1111 @codiemarin @marysfics

#alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas x you #soft alexia putellas #alexia putellas x y/n #la reina #woso appreciation #woso community #woso soccer #woso x reader #series #@lots of pockets > @mapis putellas

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kimbapisnotsushi · 3 months

Text

Hajime’s nineteenth birthday is the first he spends without his best friend.

They’re far from each other and far from home. It’s strange, Hajime thinks, to no longer be confined by mountains and farm fields. Not that California doesn’t have those things—it’s just . . . different. The air is different. The sunshine is different. The way Americans call him by his first name is different. The fact that the driver’s seat is now on the left side of the car instead of the right is different.

Not having Oikawa Tooru by his side is different.

It wasn’t like Tooru hadn’t tried. He’d sent Hajime a birthday text at the stroke of midnight, and then they spent two hours FaceTiming each other until Hajime had shooed Tooru off, because he knew that Tooru had practice in a few hours and needed at least some shut-eye. And then Hajime had laid there, in the dark of his apartment, wishing and wanting and aching for something a million miles away.

Five thousand and five-hundred thirty-nine miles, to be specific. Not that Hajime is counting. Not that he’s keeping track of every minute that passes between their time zones, because that would be all kinds of pathetic, and Hajime likes to think he's coping with Tooru's absence much better than that.

Anyways. His nineteenth birthday. Off to a great start, obviously.

It’s also the first birthday he spends with Ushijima Wakatoshi. If you had told Hajime last year that he’d run into Ushijima at a university in California to speak with Ushijima’s father about internships, he probably wouldn't have believed you. If you had told him he’d be stuck in the backseat of a minivan with Ushijima, cruising through the southern Californian desert to watch the stars on his nineteenth birthday—American pop music cranked high, hot wind grazing his shoulders, the van floor littered with chip crumbs and empty boba cups stuffed in the cupholders, with people he’s barely known for the better part of a week—he definitely wouldn’t have believed you.

But here he is. Munching on shrimp chips, listening to Ushijima’s friends belt out Fall Out Boy.

Ushijima’s UCI friends are . . . something. Riding shotgun is Kevin Nguyen—he’s what Ushijima calls a “frat boy” and a “gym bro”, but Kevin seems nice enough, if not overly familiar. Selene Hiraishi wears dramatic eyelashes and nails, and her family has been friends with Utsui since he moved to California, so Ushijima’s known her for some time. Citlaly Torres has about a dozen piercings in her ears and graciously offered to drive for the three-hour trip to the park from the university. Avery Cherent, Hajime was happy to discover, is a fellow Godzilla nerd with short silver-dyed high-top curls. Jaesung Han is never seen without their black bomber jacket and a pair of ripped jeans, and—Hajime has noticed—keeps their eyes on him more than the others seem to do.

They’ve taken to Hajime like ants to a cookie, and Hajime is grateful for it, really. He's grateful for anything that can distract him from that empty, aching tug in his chest. From knowing that he'd wake up lonely, and that today would have been a lonely day if it weren't for these plans.

The road is bumpy, and honestly—Hajime is hesitant to even call it a road. It’s more like a wide stretch of dirt that’s been cleared for cars. Joshua trees—the park’s namesake plant—dot the landscape far into the horizon, sharing ground with desert brush and craggy boulders. Outside the open windows, the sky looks like it’s been brushed with watercolor; deep oranges and purples and pinks bleed from the setting sun like the branches of a river.

Citlaly turns into a pullout, kills the engine, and twists around to grin at everyone. “Made it in one piece. What did I tell you guys?”

“You almost crashed into that Honda Civic right off the freeway,” Kevin says. “‘One piece’, my ass.”

“The One Piece is going to be a far greater treasure than your ass, Kev,” says Avery loftily. “They haven’t gone through six hundred and twenty-eight episodes just for that.”

Jaesung claps Kevin’s shoulder as they clamber out. “Don’t worry, Kev, I think you have a great ass.”

Kevin beams. “Aw, Jae! I think you have a great ass, too!”

“Your friends are weird,” Hajime remarks while he and Ushijima hop out the backseat. “Nice, but weird.”

Ushijima smiles. Before today, Hajime hadn’t even known that was something the guy was capable of doing. “They are, aren’t they?

-- an excerpt from wherever you go in this world (i'll come along), an iwaoi bday fic i really really wanted to finish today but perhaps later this week???

#iwaoi #iwaizumi hajime #oikawa tooru #ushijima wakatoshi #haikyuu!!#haikyuu #sou writes stuff #sou's fics #sou says stuff

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probably-writing-x · 1 year

Text

Armour - Chapter Five

Summary: Having your heart broken was one thing. But Rafe watching somebody break your heart? That was something nobody could prepare for.

Warnings: Cursing, I thinkkkkk that’s everything?

Author’s Note: I LOVE this series and I LOVE y’all for loving it <3 thank u thank u thank u thank u

———

You’d been in the same routine with Rafe for over a month now, constant calls, constant conversation, constant effort. And it had got to the point of feeling like second nature - like your hand reached for the phone at the same time every day when you knew his shift would be ending, you cooked your food and knew to wait for him to finish cooking his before you’d both facetime and start whatever film or episode you’d picked for the day. Since that one random day, he hadn’t said ‘i love you’ again, and you were yet to say it back. So far, you were sticking to your promise of waiting to see each other.

It was a strange feeling, really. You’d been single for two months now, though it hadn’t really felt like the kind of single you expected you’d be. You thought you’d still be crying if you thought about it, or you’d be scrolling through old photos on your phone acting like they were memories you hated, fearful of every day you were having to spend alone without the person you’d spent nine years of your life with. But… you were okay. You slept just fine on your own, you ate in restaurants and in cafes alone, you were experiencing a new city by yourself. And it was in those moments, all of the little bits that made up a day, where you truly realised that you’d moved on from James. Part of you would probably even want to thank him for ending the relationship when he did, maybe it was the best thing he could’ve done for you. You felt like yourself again.

Where Rafe fit into that new version of yourself was something that you hadn’t yet decided. It worked strangely well with the two of you thousands of miles apart, would things change when you were back to being at home. You couldn’t stop thinking about it. Were you fooling yourselves to think that it would ever be the way it was when the two of you were younger?

—__—__—

“(Y/N) hurry your ass up!” Rafe hisses from the car, quietly screaming into the air.

The passenger door is open and he’s leaning over the console towards the empty seat, watching as you tug your shoes on at the door, stumbling over untied laces to find your jacket and keys. There’s a mess of blankets tucked under one of your arms and you grab a pillow from where you’d left it on the stairs before hurrying out towards him.

“Shhh,” You hiss in return, tossing your stuff into the back seat of the car before climbing in.

Rafe had passed his driving test only two weeks before, and his father had bought him this truck almost instantly - you’d joked about him being spoilt but you weren’t exactly complaining now that it finally gave you the freedom to do things like this. Right now, it was 4:45am and the two of you were sneaking out to drive over to the far side of the island to watch the sunrise. If your parents knew that you were going, they’d give you the talk on how you had to watch yourself with Rafe - how you had to keep a fair distance from him. So far, you were yet to listen to that advice.

“You know, I still don’t trust you to drive,” You shake your head, resting your feet up on the dashboard of his car.

The summer heat was stifling in the Outer Banks this year, and even at this hour of the night, the windows of the car were rolled down to try and alleviate some of the burning in the air.

“Oh yeah? Don’t trust me?” Rafe raises his brows at you, gripping the wheel a little tighter as he swerves the car left and right down the street.

“Rafe!” You exclaim a hand reaching out to grip his arm.

He laughs a little, the kind that creases his eyes briefly. Rafe straightens up the car and glances away from you to focus back on the road, “You can trust me. Just get your shoes off my dash.”

—__—__—

When your phone rings a few days later, you don’t expect to see Cleo’s contact flash up on the screen. It’s late over there, and even later over here. You’d been fully asleep when the phone had first rang, fumbled around on your nightstand to find your phone and eventually managed to answer the call before it rang out.

“Hello?” You croak out, flicking on your bedside lamp as you prop yourself up in the bed, your mattress practically begging for you to return to sleep amongst the sheets.

“(Y/N)!” She exclaims excitedly on the other end of the call, “I’m so sorry, I know it’s late.”

“No, no,” You clear your throat, blinking the sleep from your eyes, “Is everything okay?”

“Well…” She pauses like she’s waiting for someone, “We’ve got news.”

“We?” You frown, dragging a hand through your messy hair.

“We’re engaged!”

Both her and Pope’s voices speak at the same time, only half a second delayed from each other as his voice trails to finish the phrase just after she had - but both of them sharing the same excitement in their tone that seemed to radiate through the screen.

“Oh my god I-“ You exclaim with as much energy as you can muster, “Congratulations!”

“Thank you!” They both say in return before Cleo continues on her own;

“We just couldn’t wait to tell you. Please tell me you’re coming home soon, we need you here to celebrate!”

Your eyes trail over the dark shapes of your room, barely visible in the low light, but they eventually settle on your laptop set out on the small desk occupying one wall of your bedroom. In a few clicks you could have the flight booked. Your Air BnB reservation ended in two days anyway, and you hadn’t exactly thought of what you’d do after that. The thought of going home had been one you’d been putting off for a long time but you had to bite the bullet eventually. Going back might make you stop running from it all, but maybe you didn’t need to be running anymore.

“Um, yeah, yeah, definitely, I’ll be home soon.”

—__—__—

“Rafe I swear to god you’re taking up way too much space,” You nudge at his side again and again as he laughs beside you.

“I’m not doing anything! You’re just dramatic,” He points out, “You’re going to miss the sunrise at this rate.”

“Move over!” You exclaim once again, trying to push his form towards the other side of the truck.

The two of you had set up your makeshift camp in the open back of his truck. There’s a single pillow propped up behind you, in the middle so that both of your heads could rest on it, and the blanket was sprawled over the top of both of you - though Rafe was probably taking more than half of it.

“There’s no space!” He shakes his head, stretching up one of his arms to tuck under his head, his hair flattened against the bend in his arm.

“You’re the worst,” You roll your eyes at him, eventually accepting defeat as you shift to lay back down in the space next to him.

You’re at a weird angle with the pillow shared between you and your neck is crooked to try and keep a good enough view of the sky in front of you. For now, the view was still littered with stars, but they’d disappear soon for the sun to instead break over the horizon. It was peaceful, nobody else on the island would be up this early. There was something about that for you and Rafe - a comfort you found in nobody else. He was your best friend, though you would never admit that to Sarah.

“Okay, question,” Rafe comments, “Do you think you’ll stay here after school ends?”

“Here?” You frown, both of your eyes staring at the point where the water met the sky.

“Yeah, here, in the Outer Banks.”

You take a deep breath. School finishing was still over a year away - that felt like a lifetime. Anything could happen between now and then. But the thing about living in OBX was that it generally felt like nothing ever happened. You couldn’t imagine being here forever, but you couldn’t exactly imagine being anywhere else.

“I don’t know, maybe,” You return, “Would you?”

He doesn’t respond for a little while but you watch his shoulders shrug when you turn your head towards him, “I guess, I’ll have to be here to take over from Ward anyway.”

Both of you fall to silence and somewhere in the calm, you move your head to rest on his shoulder. It’s comfortable, like it grounds the two of you in the moment - both forgetting completely about the discomfort of the entire setup you’d made in the truck. Rafe tilts his own head so that his cheek rests atop your head, seemingly melting his form against you like he relaxes completely.

“I couldn’t imagine being here without you,” Rafe mumbles into the dead air, “I don’t think I could be anywhere without you.”

As he speaks, the first glimpses of sunlight poke above the clear horizon and spill onto the water. They catch on the flat waves and dip over to reach you, brightening the air around you.

You take in a deep breath and lean closer against him, “You’d be lost without me.”

“Yeah, yeah, I think I would be.”

—__—__—

There aren’t any direct flights between London and Norfolk, of course, and it feels weird when you arrive at JFK - so close to Rafe and yet incapable of seeing him. He was in meetings all day today and apparently it was something really serious, though he told you it was way too boring for him to explain to you. With the flight times and shitty service, it had been a while since you’d spoken to him anyway, but it felt weirder than ever to be going back home now. You didn’t feel like the same person you were when you left, and it felt like your entire life had changed in the last couple of months. But you were going back home, more sure of yourself than ever.

The taxi drops you just outside of Sarah and John B’s house and you drag your suitcase along their driveway with a strange anticipation.

Before you can even knock, the door swings wide open.

“Oh my god you’re really here!” Sarah exclaims, her arms outstretched wide to hug you.

You grin and drop the handle of your suitcase, hurrying over to her. You hug her cautiously, her bump swollen in the space between you - much larger than when you’d seen her last.

“I’m so happy you’re home,” She lets out a sigh of relief against you, “I missed you way too much.”

You laugh and step back from her, looking down at the bump, “And everything is going well?”

“Yep, two months to go, nursery is pretty much done now,” She smiles, “And if John B makes any more furniture for the baby, we won’t have any space in the house.”

“Did you expect anything different?” You smile.

She leads you inside and tells you that your old room is still there for you, obviously. And it feels like a little piece of you has returned home, truly.

—__—__—

The sun has fully risen before either of you think to move but you start to hear the way Rafe’s breaths even out beside you. Somewhere between the night meeting the day, his arm had moved from his side to wrap over you, his hand resting across your torso. You hadn’t thought to move it - it just felt natural. He’s snoring just slightly, barely audible, but it seems to rumble in the air between you as his head snuggles against yours.

You tilt your head just slightly, enough that you can catch a glimpse of him. His soft features. The way his cupid’s bow dips prominently above his lips, shadowing over where the slightest hint of stubble grew across his upper lip. His hair needed cutting but he hadn’t thought to worry about it yet. His eyelashes look longer than ever as they fan down to cast shadows just over the faint dark circles under his eyes.

In that moment, you know. You’d stay here if he was here, you’d go if he left, you’d want him to follow you if you went. Because home wasn’t in so-called ‘paradise on earth’, or with your family or by yourself - it was with him.

In your movement, he stirs from his slumber and his lips part with a groan, stretching beside you as his arm disappears from your torso, leaving a hot mark in it’s absence. He stretches his legs out and his arms extend above his head until eventually his eyes follow suit and open too.

“What time is it?” He mumbles through his fatigue, blinking against the now blinding sun.

“Um, like nine I think,” You return, leaning up onto your elbows.

“We should head back,” Rafe grumbles, pushing himself up to sit, the blanket falling around his hips, “Good to go?”

“Um, yeah, yeah, sure,” You nod, shuffling yourself out of the back of the truck and following him around, going your separate ways to the driver and passenger seats.

The two of you drive home quietly as the rest of the town starts to wake up around you, businesses opening and cars passing by you on the busier roads. Rafe taps his hands on the wheel in time to the quiet music coming through the speakers, and every so often he hums along, silencing when he pulls into your driveway and puts the car into park.

“Okay, now I have a question,” You speak into the space between you, leaning your head back against the headrest of your chair.

“Go ahead,” He leans his head back too, rolling it so that his eyes are focused on your direction.

“Did you mean it earlier? That you couldn’t imagine being here without me?”

Rafe laughs lightly but you’re sure you catch the sight of his cheeks turning just a little bit pink, “Are you kidding? There’s nobody else that I like here.”

You smile a little and bite your lip so that it doesn’t extend too far onto your face, “I jus-“

“This place is unbearable, you know that. If you weren’t here I’d be bored out of my mind,” Rafe continues, “Then again, I can’t imagine you want your entire life to be here. You’ll go to college, probably find someone, settle down somewhere that’s not here.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you’d been holding, “Yeah, yeah, maybe.”

“You know Sarah thinks there’s a guy at school that likes you, maybe you should go for it,” He persists, raising his eyebrows at you.

You can’t quite figure out the expression on his face, one that seems as though it’s hiding the slightest glimpse of pain. But Rafe was always good at hiding his emotions.

“A guy at school?” You shake every other thought out of your head, the slightest quiver in your voice that you try to avoid focusing on, “Did she say who?”

“Some guy called James,” Rafe traces his finger over the curve of his steering wheel absently, a sort of glass look to his eyes.

“Oh, right, I didn’t know,” You clear your throat, “Maybe you’re right - maybe I should go for it.”

—__—__—

“Is this okay? Or is it too fancy?” You brush your hands over the material of your dress, checking it over in the mirror once again.

You were getting ready to go to the engagement party that Pope and Cleo were hosting at his parents’ house. They’d told you to dress fancy but you never really knew what that meant with this group - JJ would likely still show up in shorts.

“You look gorgeous!” Sarah exclaims, fixing her hair in the other mirror - getting ready like this felt like being back to when the two of you were younger, gossiping over things that were likely to happen at the next party, dreading the thought of seeing people you hated.

You’d opted for a flowy silk dress, one that Sarah had in her closet but had never worn. It hugged your curves and flowed airily around your legs, thin spaghetti straps either side of your chest. Your hands brush over it once more before flattening over the slick back bun of your hair, tilting your chin to check your light covering of makeup.

“Okay, okay, I’m ready,” You nod, oddly nervous to see the people that had known you for a short forever.

It didn’t feel like you were the same person that they’d known before, just slightly changed in every aspect by the loss of what you thought was your future, perhaps changed even more so by the realisation of what you really wanted instead.

You grab your bag from the bed and follow Sarah downstairs to where John B was waiting with the car already running, engine humming impatiently in the air.

It’s a short drive across the island to where Pope’s family home was and John B parks the car amongst the few dotted vehicles of people that were already there - JJ’s bike is on the far side against the porch, accompanied by the similar one that he’d got for Kie, spending months working on doing it up.

You follow Sarah and John B across the way to the front door, already open to let in the air and the flow of people coming to congratulate the happy couple.

Instantly, you’re met with Pope and Cleo as soon as you enter, their faces lighting up at the sight of the three of you.

“Congratulations!” You all say in chorus, enveloping the couple into some sort of group hug in a mess of all of your arms.

You jumble through questions of ‘how did it happen’ ‘did you cry’ ‘what did your parents say’ before spending at least a minute in awe of the ring decorating Cleo’s hand - it had belonged to Pope’s grandmother.

“Well, we bought you these to say congratulations,” John B holds out the flowers in front of him, a bouquet wrapped in brown paper .

“That’s so sweet of you, thank you!” Cleo beams, “Would you mind putting them over on that table? I’ll go get you guys some drinks too, what do you fancy?”

“I’ll take them,” You offer to John B, taking the flowers from him along with the couple of cards you were already holding.

There are already bouquets of flowers lined up along the table, along with a few cards all expressing different forms of congratulations. You set the flowers into one of the available vases already filled with waiting water and make sure they look somewhat presentable against the other fancy bouquets. Just as you go to set down the two enveloped cards, your eyes brush over the ones already there. There’s one from Pope’s parents with a heartfelt message that almost brings a tear to your eye, another from JJ and Kie with a message along the lines of ‘fucking finally’. But there’s one out of all of them that catches your eye - handwriting you’d never forget.

To Pope and Cleo,

Congratulations to the two of you on your engagement. You were meant to find each other .

Rafe

There’s a lump in your throat before you’ve even scanned the words, reading them over again just to make sure the name was what your mind was telling you it was. No. He must’ve just sent it in the mail. Right? It could’ve got here in that time. Then again, this was the Outer Banks - nothing ever ran that fast. Maybe he sent it as soon as they told him. Maybe?

“(Y/N)?”

It’s John B that speaks up from behind you and you can’t help the flinch in your shoulders as he snaps you from your thoughts.

“Everything okay?” He says as you turn around, a frown settling between his brows, “Pope and Cleo said everyone else is outside - I thought I’d come and get you before we went out.”

“Right, yeah, of course,” You clear your throat, “Sorry, just looking through the cards.”

“I got you a beer, is that alright?” He outstretches his arm to you with a cold bottle of beer held in his grip.

“Perfect, thanks,” You offer a smile in return, taking the drink into your hand to slightly mask the shake of your fingers.

You follow behind him through the house until the two of you reach the final room and he stops in his tracks, so abruptly that you almost knock into the back of him.

“What are you do-“ You’re cut off as he steps aside, far enough for you to see what stood right in front of him.

There’s a lump in your throat almost instantly, a sort of numbness in your entire body, a determined focus on not dropping the bottle in your hand as the cool condensation seems to itch at your skin.

He’s there. He’s here. He’s home.

His hair is shaved now, cropped short against his head, and there’s a tan to his skin seemingly enhanced by the cool grey of his suit, the crisp white of his shirt. His eyes are on you and only you.

Somewhere in the moment, John B has made himself scarce, sure that each other are all you need in this moment.

“I took a wrong turn on the way to work,” Rafe says nonchalantly, his lips curling into a smile as he speaks.

You laugh gently and set your bottle down on the nearest surface, stepping across the short distance between you to wrap your arms around him quickly, finding their way around the back of his neck.

Rafe chuckles gently against your ear as his head dips into your shoulder, arms around your waist strong enough to lift you up from the floor.

His laugh in your ear breaks into a symphony around you, like an entire chorus has just begun as the simple sound of his joy. A symphony for him. For being home.

“Why didn’t you say?” You pull away from him enough to look at his face, scanning his features, your hands on either one of his shoulders.

Rafe shrugs gently, hands settling on your waist, “I didn’t decide until you were already on your flight. And then I just left, I just knew I had to be here.”

“I can’t believe yo-“

He hears your voice crack over the words and takes it as his instant task to stop your tears.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Rafe shakes his head, “I’m mainly here to see Pope.”

You laugh and the tears in your eyes seem to settle, sniffing them back just to be sure before you step reluctantly away from his arms.

“It’s really good to see you,” He confirms with a sincerity you couldn’t even try to deny.

It lights up a smile onto your face that you were sure wouldn’t ever be matched by anyone else, a brightness only he brought to you.

“Yeah, it’s really good,” You nod, hand slipping down from his chest.

He catches it before it falls completely to your side, lifting up your hand in his as he laces your fingers together, squeezing gently before pressing a kiss to the knuckle of your ring finger.

Rafe doesn’t need to say more, and neither do you. It’s enough in that moment, nothing else needed. Your hands drop back down to your sides, still laced with his as he picks your drink up from the counter and hands it to you, leading you out to the group outside.

It was an odd feeling really - not a single one of them commented on it. Nobody thought to make a corny comment about the two of you, or pick up on the way he stood so close to your side, the way he looked at you when you spoke, the way his eyes lit up when you laughed. Because, for the first time, all of this felt just a little bit natural - like the two of you starting to gravitate towards each other. And all of them were happy to let it finally happen.

For the rest of the party, you and Rafe mingle separately around the crowds. He speaks to Sarah about how the pregnancy is going and tells her he still can’t believe it is happening. You talk to Cleo and Kie about starting on wedding plans, and Kie says she can’t even start to imagine what JJ will say in his best man speech. They ask you about London and tell you that you looked the best you’d ever been - and you agree, it’s the best you’ve felt. JJ jokes that James would be kicking himself for the next decade for losing you. It’s another realisation that you’ve moved on when you don’t feel anything at the mention of his name.

Eventually, darkness starts to slip over the garden and the warmth of the sun slips away just a little.

“Hey,” You’re greeted by the feeling of a hand pressed against your back, soft and certain against the dip towards your lower spine.

You turn your head slightly and glance at Rafe, his form towering over behind you.

“Fancy getting out of here for a bit?” His face has that same boisterous energy that he had when the two of you were seventeen, the same brightness in his eyes.

“Okay,” You hum in response.

He slips his jacket off from around him and sets it over your shoulders, squeezing the skin before his hands leave you.

With that, you follow him out around the back of the mingling crowd of people, down towards the side of the house that would lead out down to the water.

“It’s crazy seeing them two engaged, isn’t it?” You comment, “And with Sarah and John B having a baby.”

Rafe nods, matching the stride of his steps to walk alongside you, “A lot is changing, we’re all growing up.”

You laugh and follow him down the dock, watching the way the moonlight seems to reflect from the water and into his eyes. He sits down on the edge of the wooden dock and stretches a hand back for you to sit down beside him, helping you lower yourself to the makeshift seat.

It’s peaceful, the sky and the sea quiet around you.

“So,” Rafe nudges his shoulder against yours, “Are you happy to be back?”

“It’s nice, it’s comfortable, you know?” You nod, your hands in your lap.

All of you wants to reach out to him but there’s a slightly irrational side of yourself that is scared to, fearful of overstepping a line that neither of you had drawn.

“Yeah there is something nice about coming here, knowing everywhere, knowing everyone,” Rafe continues, “I know when the sun sets and what stars you can see, which route gets you home faster away from the tourists.”

You laugh, “Yeah, I don’t think anywhere in New York would get you away from the tourists.”

“I liked New York,” He persists, “It was a good escape.”

“Was?”

“Well, I can’t just leave my job there or anything, but I don’t need to escape anymore,” He smiles gently at you, dimples prominent on either side of his cheeks.

Both of you fall to silence again and he reaches over to take your hand into his, still resting the interlocked hands over your lap.

He’s certain then, as he’d been certain with so many other things recently, that he knows it. He knows that this is all he’d been waiting on. A moment of peace, with you, your hand in his. Knowing you were here, that you were home.

“Do you remember when you first got your car?” You say quietly, letting the words catch on the breeze in front of you, “When we used to sneak out together.”

He chuckles deeply, “Of course I do, I’d come and pick you up in the middle of the night and we’d find the sunrise.”

You nod, “There was one day we went and you fell asleep on me and I remember laying there and thinking then that I knew. I knew that I wanted to be with you, that I wanted you by my side.”

“But I-“

“You drove me home and in the car you told me that I should give James a chance,” You swallow the lump in your throat, staring at an unmoving spot in the water, “I went out on my first date with him four days later. I knew I was in love with you and I still went with him.”

“Why didn’t you-“

“I was so terrified of losing you as a friend that I spent that entire first date convincing myself that I liked him and I didn’t need to love you. And I did the same on our next date too, and again and again and when he asked me to be his girlfriend I said yes without a second thought because part of me really believed that I could do it - that I didn’t need to love you anymore,” You let out a shaky breath, “I was kidding myself for nine years.”

Rafe looks down at your hands intertwined and smiles to himself, a little laugh passing his lips.

You turn your head to look at him, hints of a frown toying between your brows, “Are you laughing at me Rafe Cameron?”

He turns to look at you, “I told you to wait until I saw you for you to tell me that you loved me, and I think you just did.”

You can’t help the ferocious heat that claws at your cheeks and you bite at your lip to stop your smile from spreading too widely over your face, “I think I just did.”

Rafe grins, releasing your hand from his to cup your chin between his thumb and forefinger, drawing your focus solely to him. Slowly, but with nothing short of certainty, he pulls himself in towards you, eyes flicking down to your lips before he presses his against yours in the softest kiss the world can muster. It’s gentle and calm, and your hand moves up to grip his shoulder as if the contact needs to ground you into this exact moment. He deepens his kiss against you, fingers shifting from your chin to around your jaw, fingers stretching to the back of your neck as his thumb caresses your cheek, fingers gripping you into him.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do that,” He half laughs as he pulls away, his forehead pressing into yours, lips curling into a smile as his breath fans hot over your skin.

You laugh and bring your hands to either side of his face to hold him in your grasp, as if reminding yourself he was really there.

“God, I love you (Y/N).”

“I love you too.”

———

Taglist: @viianey @baby19sthings @tsokaro @hotch-meeeeeuppppp @starkeylover @kylianswag @eggingamazinglove @allsmilesreally7 @m-indkiller @maybankslover @shara-ne

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capybaracorn · 2 months

Text

Israel promised ‘limited’ operation. Two months on, Rafah turned to rubble

The Israeli military invites reporters into Rafah, the first time international media visit the city since it was invaded.

Israeli army vehicles transport a group of soldiers and journalists inside southern Gaza. [Ohad Zwigenberg/AP Photo]

(July 8th 2024)

Israel invaded Rafah on May 6 promising a “limited” operation against Hamas fighters, but two months on, the southern-most city has been turned into a dust-covered ghost town.

The Associated Press photojournalist was among the first foreign journalists allowed into the Palestinian city, which sheltered most of Gaza’s more than two million people displaced by Israel’s devastating war. Israel has barred international journalists from entering Gaza independently.

More than 150 Palestinian journalists, who have been reporting from the ground, have been killed in Israeli attacks, making it one of the deadliest conflicts for journalists.

Abandoned, bullet-ridden apartment buildings have blasted out walls and shattered windows. Bedrooms and kitchens are visible from roads dotted with rubble piles that tower over the Israeli military vehicles passing by. Very few civilians remain.

Israel, which has been accused of disproportionate use of force in Gaza, says it aimed for a complete defeat of Hamas. More than 70 percent of the enclave’s houses have been destroyed in Israeli air and ground offensive since October 7, 2023.

In the last week of May, the International Court of Justice (ICJ) ordered Israel to “immediately” halt its military assault on Rafah, which faced a humanitarian crisis due to the blocking of aid. In January, the top UN court had ordered Israel to prevent acts of genocide.

Nearly 40,000 people have been killed, half of them children and women.

Rafah, an area of about 65sq km (25sq miles) bordering Egypt, was considered a safe zone where most Palestinians fleeing from Israeli bombardment took shelter. But Israel invaded the southern city despite international concerns, saying Hamas fighters had moved to the area. It provided no proof for its claims. Israel has repeatedly targeted areas designated as safe zones since the war began nine months ago.

An estimated 1.4 million Palestinians crammed into Rafah after fleeing Israeli bombardment elsewhere in Gaza. The UN estimates that about 50,000 remain in Rafah, which had a pre-war population of about 275,000. Last week, the United Nations said most of Gaza’s 2.4 million people are now displaced.

Most people are clustering in squalid tent camps along the beach with scant access to clean water, food, toilets and medical care.

Efforts to bring aid into southern Gaza have stalled as Israel closed down Rafah, one of two important crossings into the south of Gaza. The UN says little aid can enter from the other main crossing – Karem Abu Salem (Kerem Shalom) – because Israeli settlers have attacked aid trucks.

On Wednesday, a line of trucks on the Gaza side of Karem Abu Salem was visible, but the trucks were hardly moving – a sign of how Israel’s pledge to keep the route safe to facilitate the delivery of aid inside Gaza has fallen flat.

UN officials say some commercial trucks have braved the route into Rafah, but not without hired armed guards riding atop their convoys.

Israel says it is close to dismantling the group as an organised military force in Rafah. In a reflection of that confidence, soldiers brought journalists in open-air military vehicles down the road that leads into the heart of the city.

Along the way, debris lying by the side of the road made clear the perils of aid delivery: carcasses of trucks baking in the hot sun; dashboards covered in fencing meant to protect drivers; and aid pallets lying empty.

The longer the aid delivery is frozen, humanitarian groups say, the closer Gaza comes to running out of fuel, which is needed for hospitals, water desalination plants and vehicles. Most of the hospitals have been crippled by repeated Israeli attacks.

“The hospitals are once again short on fuel, risking disruption of critical services,” said Dr Hanan Balkhy, the World Health Organization’s regional director for the Eastern Mediterranean. “Injured people are dying because the ambulance services are facing delays due to fuel shortages.”

As the humanitarian situation worsens, Israel is pushing ahead with its offensive. Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu has reiterated that any potential ceasefire deal should allow Israel to resume its operation in Gaza. The Hamas group wants an end to the war as part of any deal.

After journalists heard nearby gunshots on Wednesday, the soldiers told the group they would not be visiting the beach as planned.

The group departed the city soon after, with clouds of dust kicked up by vehicles temporarily obscuring the mass of destruction behind them.

The Israeli military invited reporters for a tour of Rafah, which has witnessed widespread destruction since the invasion on May 6. [Ohad Zwigenberg/AP Photo]

Before invading Rafah, Israel said Hamas fighters had retreated there, though it provided no proof for its claims. [Ohad Zwigenberg/AP Photo]

Israel says it has nearly defeated Hamas in Rafah. But most of the city's population is displaced. [Ohad Zwigenberg/AP Photo]

Israeli tanks are seen next to destroyed buildings. [Ohad Zwigenberg/AP Photo]

Israeli army vehicles transport a group of soldiers and journalists. It has barred international journalists from entering Gaza independently. [Ohad Zwigenberg/AP Photo]

Israel says it is close to dismantling Hamas as an organised military force in Rafah. [Ohad Zwigenberg/AP Photo]

Soldiers brought journalists in open-air military vehicles down the road that leads into the heart of Rafah. [Ohad Zwigenberg/AP Photo]

The UN estimates that about 50,000 Palestinians remain in Rafah, which sheltered more than 1.5 people displaced in the earlier phase of the war. [Ohad Zwigenberg/AP Photo]

As the humanitarian situation worsens, Israel is pushing ahead with its attacks. Combat in Rafah is ongoing. [Ohad Zwigenberg/AP Photo]

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the-ships-to-rule-them-all · 2 months

Note

strollonso in mother carva 👀👀👀

hello friend! please enjoy 1.6k of horny, in love, idiots. I wrote this in a fever dream, thanks for the inspo to the discord chat

Before they leave the paddock at Silverstone, at their home race, after both he and Fernando have both gotten points for the first time in awhile, Lance hears his name. He turns to see Anna, one of their senior hospitality directors. Only she’s the one in charge of the Mother. And has been since his dad had started incubating a new one when he’d decided on the rebuild.

Lance slows down, waits for her to catch up. “Anna,” he greets her. “Everything good?”

Anna just shrugs, lips pressed together in a way that tells Lance the answer is a mostly no. “We’ve figured out why the car is shit. We’re going to need you and Fernando in the factory these next two weeks before Hungary so there’s time for the babies to start forming during Break.”

“What happened?” Lance frowns. He remembers going in with Fernando right after Abu Dubi. He’d done all his usual routine, just with more kissing and more touching and actually enjoying the getting fucked. It had been nice.

Anna laughs a little. “Lance, you know how we affectionately call you a cat sometimes because you’re petty if you don’t get enough of Fernando’s attention.”

“Yeah,” Lance says slowly.

“The Mother gave you a bad car because you didn’t give her enough attention.”

Lance stares. What?

“Fernando won’t like that,” Lance says quietly. He loves his boyfriend but he also knows how possessive he is.

“I’ve already talked to him. And he wants podiums so he just has to deal with it. Cause this is how he gets them.”

Lance wrinkles his nose. He thinks back to the want he’d felt when they’d stood together in 2022, the admiration, the desire. The longing.

He nods. “You want us at the factory when?”

“By Tuesday afternoon.”

Lance is going to do something stupid. Reckless. It’s probably too soon for it. But he’s on his phone to the jeweler from his hometown as he walks to the car. By the time he meets Fernando in their apartment, his bank account is short a cool $2 million.

The next couple days are weird. Fernando keeps going to touch him and moves away. Lance swallows down casual “love yous” before they spill from his mouth. They don’t have sex.

They do drive together to the factory together and Lance pauses the music when they’re about 5 miles out.

“I don’t think manufacturing longing is going to get us a better car.”

Fernando sighs. “No other Mother has been this,” he says.

“Jealous?” Lance asks. Fernando nods.

Lance scratches the back of his neck. He hates acknowledging it but in this moment it’s actually important. He forges forwards, not meeting Fernando’s eyes. “Babe, she’s kinda, well, me.”

Fernando pulls the car over to the side of the road at that. “Explain,” he requests.

Lance chews on his lip, thinking. “I was with her when she first incubated. I was the first driver to touch her. I was the first driver to come inside her.”

Fernando stares at him. “You were there for the incubating?”

Lance nods.

Fernando swallows hard. “Okay, okay. Cool, cool, cool.”

“No doubt,” Lance adds, cackling, Fernando looks at him blankly. “It’s from Brooklyn Nine Nine, have you really,” Fernando shakes his head, “okay, we’re watching that on the flight to Hungary.”

“Sure,” Fernando agrees. His whole demeanor has shifted. The tension and stress replaced by smugness. It happened in a blink. Lance doesn’t understand it but Fernando drives to the factory, one hand on the steering wheel, the other possessively on Lance’s thigh.

When he gets there, pulling into the parking lot, he tugs Lance into a kiss with enough tongue it leaves him breathless and drops the car keys in his lap.

“Mysterious bastard,” Lance comments to the empty car, even as the fondness threatens to overwhelm him. He takes a deep breath and eyes himself in the mirror. The team’s seen him look worse. Whatever.

Besides, the entire afternoon is blocked off for the Mother. He’ll look even more of a mess when he leaves to go home. Getting out of the car, he makes his way towards the area that houses the Mother, the babies, the cooldown room for the drivers. Anna is leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

“Can I go in?” Lance asks. He likes to say hello to the Mother, to sit cross-legged like a child and tell her what he’s been up to before the business starts.

Anna shakes her head. “Your boyfriend is with her now. Said he needed to be alone.”

“Sure, that makes sense,” Lance says. It’s another 20 minutes until Fernando walks out, whistling. He presses a kiss to Lance’s cheek and squeezes his waist.

Lance looks at him, raises an eyebrow. “Do I want to know?”

Fernando shrugs. “I’ll tell you later,” he says, striding off in the direction of the higher ups offices.

“He’s planning something,” Lance says. Anna just shrugs.

“It’ll be to everyone’s benefit. That’s how he’s been since he fell for you,” she points out. Lance grins, ducking his head. He feels warm, a little spoiled, a lot loved.

He brings that feeling with him as he says hello to the Mother, strokes her gently with his ring finger. She pulses, welcoming, the walls dotted with sweat. “How was Nando? He was good to you, yeah?”

There’s no answer, not that Lance had expected one. The Mother doesn’t exactly communicate. “I bought a ring,” he admits, looking down. “Not even Dad knows. Hopefully that makes up for last year. Which, I’m sorry about by the way. We didn’t know.”

He grins. “I’m going to be an uncle.”

It’s easy after that, sitting there, one hand on the wall, telling the Mother about his life. He stands up after a bit, goes and opens the door and finds Fernando waiting.

“Ready?” He asks. Fernando nods, eyes dark, teeth gleaming. He looks hungrier than Lance has seen him in weeks, pushing Lance until he’s caught between them. The Mother at his back, Fernando’s hand cupping his face.

Fernando pauses, stares into Lance’s eyes, and then kisses him, fiercely, devotedly. Lance melts beneath it, cock jumping to hardness in the confines of his jeans fast enough it hurts. Fernando only kisses him harder, licks into his mouth as he gets their clothes off. Once he’s naked and Lance is down to his boxers, the kiss breaks. Fernando doesn’t go far, reaches down and tears open a packet of lube.

Lance wants to sink to his knees, wants to get Fernando off with his mouth but the look in Fernando’s eyes stops him. He clearly has a plan. One Lance will enjoy as he’s spun around, his back getting goosebumps from Fernando’s chest hair.

His boxers are stripped, fingers sticky with lube stroking his ass. “Gonna treat you nice,” Fernando says. Lance spreads his legs wider, pleading.

“You always do. Always give me what I want,” Lance says, his voice low. He feels the Mother reacting, as though she hadn’t understood last time. As though she understands now. It feels like they’re being cocooned, kept safe. He feels the sweat from Fernando’s body sink into his own. Feels his cock twitch, precome leaking at the tip as Fernando slides into him.

Lance groans at the feeling of Fernando’s hands on him, familiar and welcome. It feels like coming home. Especially as Fernando speaks to him in Spanish, ‘carino, quiero, amor’ repeated over and over. It doesn’t take long. Fernando’s teeth on his neck, his fingers wrapped around Lance’s cock.

“Please,” he whines, pleasure spiraling through him as Fernando finds his prostate. He’s probably leaving nail marks on the walls of the Mother. He wants to apologize but doesn’t when he realizes that the Mother is letting it happen, flesh becoming malleable as Lance shakes apart.

“Love you,” Fernando pants out, his voice rough, his body steady. Lance comes at that, his want exploding out of him. Fernando pulls out so the tip is resting against his ass and Lance starts babbling, needing it.

It feels consuming, like nothing else has ever felt this good. Like nothing ever will.

“Nano, please, come for me. I want you to,” Lance pleads. He arches his back, twists his neck so they’re kissing, pours everything he feels for Fernando into it. It’s biting.

Lance understands why there’s a rule about coveting in the 10 commandments when he’s with Fernando, when he’s naked and vulnerable and all his.

“Mine,” Lance breathes out, closing the gap again, swallowing Fernando’s tongue, stealing his air.

“Yours,” Fernando echoes, a vow, his orgasm dripping down Lance’s thighs. Lance turns, wraps his arms around his boyfriend and buries his face in his neck. Fernando’s hands are gentle, stroking his back, his shoulders.

“Shit, that was,” Lance murmurs.

Fernando nods, pressing a kiss to Lance’s forehead. “The car’s gotta be good.”

Lance laughs. “How many do you think we can make?”

“We got nearly two weeks and the team has basically demanded we’re in here every afternoon,” Fernando smirks. He eyes Lance, gaze catching on where their seed has intermingled on Lance’s thighs. “Would she be mad if we bring props?”

Lance raises an eyebrow, twines their fingers together. “Why?”

Fernando shrugs, eyes glinting in a way that makes Lance shudder. “Car might be faster if I make you wait.”

Fuck. Lance nods, eager. He kisses Fernando again. The cocoon that formed around slowly backs away and Lance can see the door again.

“Should we?” he gestures. Fernando nods. He pauses, eyes wide as he looks at where Lance had dug his fingers into the Mother. Lance follows his gaze and sees. Oh. Lines dragging down the wall of the carva, like scars.

They look old already, worn in. As though they were supposed to be there.

“Uh,” Lance mutters, a bit dumbfounded. Fernando just grins at him.

#strollonso #strollonso fic #abby writes #carva #so this happened #please enjoy #1418 #f1

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gaysindistress · 1 year

Text

When Night Comes - ten

Summary: Who would win in a staring contest? New York’s resident mob boss and master of the side eye Bucky Barnes or the daycare teacher who really wants to go home and smoke?

pairing: Mob!Bucky Barnes x reader

warnings: mob!Bucky, cursing, major character death mentions

word count: 2.3k

nine | masterlist

Tag list: @vickie5446 @cakesandtom @thebuckybarnesvault @buckybarnessimpp @hidden-treasures21 @unaxv @thebuckybarnesvault @elizacusi-blog @mal-adaptive-dreams @vonalyn

disclaimer: credits to original creator/poster of image/gif. found on Google/Pinterest

Wyatt, the sweet boy, is playing with her mother’s hand when the car pulls up to the jet. Peggy slides her phone into her pocket as Steve puts it in park and rushes to engulf them in a hug. Too close of a call is how he might describe the events at Sunny’s apartment. When Sunny gets out, Wyatt wiggles out of his parent’s arms and tackles her with the strongest hug he can muster.

“Ms. Sunny, Mommy said you were coming with us on a trip!” She forces a smile when she confirms, “It’s going to be so much fun, bubby.”

Bucky walks behind her and gently grabs ahold of her arm to walk her toward the jet. For the sake of Wyatt, she doesn’t try to pull her arm away and lets him guide her. The boy runs back to his parents and they all climb the stairs to the jet. Yelena is the last one to board with a redhead woman in tow. They’re talking to each other in hushed tones and grow even quieter when they see that Sunny is watching them through hooded eyes.

Bucky leads her to the seat towards the back and sits next to her. Yelena and the other woman sit across from them while the Rogers take their seats in front. Wyatt tries to get a look at all of them but is quickly buckled up by his mother.

“Any word on Alix’s whereabouts?” Bucky asks the two women.

The redhead speaks, “She got into a car with Juliette and head east but after four miles, we lose sight of them. All of their known hideouts within a 20-mile radius are clear but Wanda and Peter are still searching.”

“And Jessica?”

She grimaces at the name, “DOA.”

Sunny chokes and covers her mouth so that the sobs are muffled. Wyatt asks Peggy why she’s crying but she quiets hum. Yelena gives her a sad look and goes to offer her hand which the redhead blocks with a shake of her head. Bucky is closest to her and therefore should be the one to comfort her. He takes her free hand in his and gives it a light squeeze. Rather than dropping it like he expected, Sunny grips it back and turns to face the window.

Her brother laying dead in her arms flashes across her mind and she snaps her eyes shut to will away the painful memories but it doesn’t work. The sirens and EMT chatter fill her senses as she processes that her best friend was not only working with her ex but is now dead. Sunny didn’t even get a chance to come to terms with the betrayal but it doesn’t matter because Jessica’s gone now. The one constant in her life since leaving California no matter how fake it was, is gone now and she’s left with a team of supernatural creatures to protect her. Any shred of hope for normalcy is gone now and the lack of warmth in Bucky’s hand is too harsh of a reminder of that but she can’t let it go. Even if he is the last person she would want to support her, he’s all she has now.

“Yelena,” the redhead, Natasha, says to Yelena, and jerks her head to the side, “Let’s give them space.”

She agrees and they move to join the Rogers. The jet begins its take-off sequence and Sunny continues to grip Bucky’s hand while watching her life disappear once again.

Fresno to New York and now to Bucharest.

Tall grand buildings line the narrow roadways and echo the history that the city has seen. The moon shrouds the city in an ominous light as a few people scurry to get inside before midnight. Only a brave handful wait for the old black car slowly cruising down the cobblestone road and whisper amongst themselves. As the years have passed fewer and fewer people know who this car belongs to but the elders are still painfully aware of its owners. When the driver makes eye contact with the brave onlookers, they give a brief nod and rush inside.

Sunny had yet to speak and refused to look away from the window to watch the city around her. She’s not holding Bucky’s hand anymore but is practically glued to his side. He, Yelena, Natasha, and Steve are all speaking to each other in another language, no doubt talking about Alix and her whereabouts.

“Unde naiba ar fi putut să plece?” Where the fuck could she have gone? Bucky says in a low tone, gripping his hands together tightly to calm himself.

“Crezi că știe unde suntem?” Do you think she knows where we’re at? Natasha offers up.

Peggy twitches at the thought and shudders but not for the same reason as the others.

“Cum a putut?” How could she?

“You can speak in English. I already know what you’re talking about,” Sunny mumbles still facing the window.

Bucky glances over at her before switching back, “Are you sure? I don’t want to upset you.”

“It’s not like I can’t figure it out from your tones.”

“I think we’re done talking anyways,” Natasha says, pulling out her phone and typing away.

Bucky shoots her a harsh look, “We can’t find Alix but we’re safe here. Lycan is banned from Romania so it would be a death sentence if she even tried to come here.”

“As if that’s stopped her before,” Sunny says in her normal tone now turning to look at Bucky, “you said I would be safe in New York but Jessica is dead and I’m in Europe against my will. Can you call that being safe?”

“I didn’t kidnap you.”

“That’s what you focus on? Me accusing you of kidnapping me?”

“Well, I didn't so.”

“Be so fucking for real right now.”

He gives her a blank unamused stare in place of words.

She scoffs and rolls her eyes which causes him to do the exact same. The tension grows thick and the only person immune is Wyatt who is fast asleep on his mom’s lap with his head resting on her shoulder. Steve looks back at Bucky to judge his emotional state but the blank look he has pulled across his face gives no indication of what he is feeling. The only thing Steve can gather is that he’s not pissed off enough to lose his cool but that point is coming very quickly.

“Do me a favor and leave me alone from now on. I’m sick of your shit,” Sunny tells the man who’s been plaguing her every thought for months now. She wants in reality; she wants him in her life and to act like how did at the kickback turned party but she also knows that Bucky is a ghost now. The flirty and carefree Bucky she started to fall for disappeared almost as quickly as he appeared, a thought that tugged at her heart and threatens her emotional state.

“Fine by me,” he agrees with a level of childishness that makes her want to scoff even more. The large, imposing man is not immune to the pettiness that everyone craves to act on.

Wyatt makes a small noise akin to a whimper and everyone jumps into protective mode. Peggy shushes him and gently rocks him back to sleep, easing everyone in the car’s worries. Sunny crosses her arms over her chest and looks back to the landscape outside. She might have once been excited to visit Europe but not in this context with these people. A bittersweet memory this will be.

Peggy quickly puts Wyatt in a bed and checks that he is still asleep as she dials Alix’s number. She gives the room a once over before talking to a very angry Alix.

“Margaret tell me what’s going on?”

Peggy nervously looks over at her sleeping son, “I’m done. I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“No no, you don’t get to do this to me. Don’t back out now. Remember you wanted this. You FOUND me and asked for my help.”

“You didn’t tell me about Y/N so I think our deal should be called off. You withheld information from me.”

“Says the one who asked me to kill your husband’s best friend. How do you think Steve would feel if he found out?”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“Really? I think I would,” there’s a pause, “Did you get that witch to hex his gun?”

“Yes but…” “But nothing. Get him to shoot it and follow through with the plan like a good little bitch. It shouldn’t be that hard, he’s a mob boss anyways.”

There’s a click and the dial tone replaces Alix’s voice. Peggy wants to scream and shatter her phone but the sleeping child only feet from her stops her. Instead, she sinks to sit next to him and lays behind him. Cuddling her son, she starts to cry. The years of unhappiness take over and she lets all of her tears flow. She had met Steve in the 40s when she was visiting New York after she graduated high school. Immediately enthralled with his sweet smile and gentle ways, she spent those three weeks running around the city with him. He showed her everything she’d wanted; freedom and unconditional love but it came with a cost. She would have to leave her life behind and join him and Bucky in their business. At the time, she had been blinded by the winds of her first loved and agreed before fully understanding what his conditions meant for her. Peggy refused to go back to England and married Steve the day she was supposed to leave. He swept her off of her feet and brought her to the house they are in now, the Bucharest estate. Then is when she learned the full story of who Steve was and who Bucky was for that matter. She had been horrified and rightfully so. Steve hadn’t told her about their illegal business or their true nature and it came as a massive shock to her system. The only person who provided comfort was Bucky’s wife, Celeste.

Celeste had been with them since they turned 100 years prior. She had been a vision of heaven and a spitting image of Y/N. The two women were identical down to their smile and laugh. Celeste told Peggy stories of how she fought Bucky for years before finally agreeing to marry him when their love began to blossom. When it came time for Peggy’s turning, Celeste had been right by her side the entire time and walked her through every step of the way. The day Bucky found her body in the river nearby in New York, his screams of agony could be heard for miles. A rival mob had gotten to her and done unspeakable things to her. Peggy felt like it was her fault because the two women had vowed to each other that they would protect each other when their husbands were gone. She had failed Celeste, something Bucky never forgave her for, and ever since, he had given her the cold shoulder. Peggy couldn't take it anymore and turned to the very mob that had taken Celeste to now take out Bucky.

It had been Alix’s great-grandparents who had murdered Celeste so it only seemed fitting that she be the one now to end Bucky’s life. The emergence of Y/N had complicated things seeing as how much he had changed since meeting her but the plan was too far gone and she couldn’t stop it.

Peggy had already hammered the final nail in Bucky’s coffin with no way to open it.

The only remaining picture of his bride had been locked away in his room shortly after she’d died. In his grief, he had all of her pictures and belongings put into her study, permanently locking away any memory of her. One small portrait from their wedding day remained on his bedside table and he all but refused to look at it. Only Steve and Peggy knew of her and what she looked like however that didn’t stop him from pursuing Sunny. Bucky knew it was wrong; chasing after a lookalike in hopes that she would match his Celeste. Imagine his surprise and joy when Sunny did mirror her in every way down to how she pushed him away at first.

Trying to replicate what they had would not end well for him but he had been assured by witches that Celeste would return to him and here she was. Bucky watches the doppelganger… Sunny walked down the halls of their home, head moving quickly back and forth to take in all that she must have missed. It had been just shy of 80 years since she had been home and he could only imagine the yearning her heart must have been feeling. His heart has ached nonstop since her death and now that she stood only feet from him, it began to slow to a dull throb. Sunny did not love him in the way Celeste had but she would or at least that’s the hope he clung to after all these years. It’s the only option and he would do anything to ensure that she found that love he knew she had for him.

I love you. Always and forever.

That had been their promise to each other. Sunny would learn that phrase too and soon would echo it back when he held her at night.

Just not right now.

So with a heavy heart, Bucky seals away her feelings and hopes she has the chance to find her way to him. She had to do it on her own without his influence or it wouldn't be true as the witch told him. Sunny’s hand itch to touch the paintings that line the walls and she looks over her shoulder at him in amazement. It crushes him to see the same look that she had when they picked out those paintings but nonetheless, he offers her a half smile and turns his attention anywhere else.

Always and forever needed to come sooner.

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callmelittlebuttercup · 5 months

Text

Peace Offerings Pt. 9

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Series Summary: Joel and Reader leave the old couple’s house and find themselves surrounded by men on horses. They end up in a community called Jackson where they meet some new and some familiar people. Emotions are at an all time high and Reader walks off to get some fresh air, but ends up running into some trouble- yet again.

Series Warnings: Slow burn, Age gap (reader is 34, Joel is 56), 18+ Minors DNI, Sexual Themes, Violence, Injuries (depictions of blood, bruising, broken bones), Cursing, Grumpy!Joel, Minimal depictions of reader's appearance (hair color/length.)

Chapter Warnings: Beginning of the Jackson au!!

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Part Nine

After we said our goodbyes and thanked the older couple, we started back on the road. A few miles from the cabin, we came across sounds of running water and hurried up the bank. A huge reservoir, still turning out water gushed before us. “A dam… and it’s still running.” I remarked. Joel came to stand next to me, his eyebrows knitted together as he took in the potential sign of life. “Might not mean anything.” He said before looking down at me. “It’s been 20 years, Joel. You expect a dam to be running this smoothly after being untouched for 20 years?” I argued. He turned his gaze back to the rushing water before shaking his head and pursing his lips. I rolled my eyes and pushed past him to continue onto the trail along the reservoir.

When we rounded the reservoir, we came across a larger river and began to climb a hill. The sound of voices and hooves pounding against the ground stopped us in our tracks. Before I could even flinch to grab my gun, a group of people on horses had come out of the treeline and surrounded us. Joel grabbed my hand and practically threw me behind him. Each of them had a gun pointed straight at us. “We ain’t looking for any trouble, we’re just passing through.” Joel called out with his arms raised. His signature greeting. “Drop the gun.” The closest guy called out. Joel obeyed, slowly and cautiously. “Girl, take five steps back.” The man demanded. I began to take slow, shaky steps back from Joel, having to pry his hand off my wrist. “How about we just talk this through.” Joel said calmly. “How ‘bout you shut the fuck up.” The guy suggested sternly. “Ok, ok. Easy.” Joel kept his hands raised as the man approached him. “You been near infected?” The man asked. “No infected around here.” Joel answered. “The hell there ain’t.” Our attention was directed to the sound of a dog barking, and we turned to see a man struggling to keep his grip on a huge german shepherd. “Last chance for a bullet. If you’re infected, he will smell it and he will rip you up.” The man’s voice sounded far away as my heart pounded in my ears. I was pretty sure I wasn’t infected, neither was Joel, but the mere possibility of the dog ripping us apart was terrifying.

I held my breath and closed my eyes as the dog approached. I felt it’s warm breath on my leg as it sniffed me. Nothing. I released the trapped air from my lungs, and dropped my hands to my sides. “You just bought yourself ten more seconds.” The same man said, “What are you doing out here?” Joel answered, “Just looking for our brothers. That’s all, nothing more.” Once those words left his mouth a woman with long, dark dreadlocks rode forward from behind the man calling out, “Hey! What’s your name?” “Joel.” She eyed the both of us, “And yours?” I eagerly told her my name. Her face dropped in realization, and she then ordered the men to lend us their horses as we rode back. One man gave Joel his horse, and I rode with another man from the group. I gripped the man’s jacket tightly as we followed the others along their path towards giant wooden gates in the middle of a long stretch of tall fencing. One of the men on the horses raised a red flag, and the gates began to open.

My jaw dropped at the sight. It was as if the town hadn’t been touched by the tragedies that the rest of the world were touched by. There were people laughing and talking as they stood along the streets outside of shops and houses. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I looked at Joel and watched his eyes searching for his brother, and I was brought back to the reality of the situation. Please let them be here. I begged. We rode a little further into town, passing more people who were now staring at us. All of a sudden, Joel called out, “Tommy!” I raised my head up to see if it was really him, not even knowing what he looked like. I caught sight of a man quickly descending the stairs of scaffolding on the side of a house. A look of pure disbelief was painted on his face as he stared at Joel. I could see the resemblance between the two. Joel stepped off the horse and enveloped his brother into a bear hug. The biggest smile I’d ever seen stretched across his face. They shared a long embrace and a few hearty laughs. Soon after, Joel came back over to help me off of the horse and introduce me to Tommy. I smiled at the man as my feet hit the ground, and introduced myself as I reached out a hand. He repeated my name back to me with a warm smile, and shook my hand firmly. Joel came to stand next to me, and as they talked I couldn’t help but notice Tommy’s eyes flitting back and forth between us. I stepped away from Joel, not wanting him to get the wrong impression.

Through all the fuss of the brother’s reunion, I heard my name being called from a distance. My eyes widened and my chest filled with excitement. I stood on my toes to see over the men’s heads, and I finally caught sight of him. I smiled and pushed past Joel before jogging to hug my brother. He looked the same as the day he’d left Boston, except for the beard. “Matthew.” I sighed as we finally embraced. “You made it.” He said before placing a kiss on the top of my head. “Barely.” I joked as I pulled away, “You can thank him.” I said as I gestured to Joel. “Who’s that?” He questioned. I bit my lip, “Uh, his name is Joel. He’s Tommy’s brother. We found out both of you were here and he offered to let me travel with him.” I could see Matthew’s jaw clench before he let out a deep, “Mhmm.” I studied his face, wondering why he seemed to have an opinion about Joel before even meeting him.

Matthew and I caught up as Tommy and Maria did the same with Joel. They’d brought us to the restaurant in town and Maria gave him and I two plates of food. My eyes widened and my mouth watered as I eyed the first square meal I’d seen in years. “Where did you get this stuff?” I asked as I stabbed a piece of fresh broccoli with my fork. “We have some crops. We managed to get some seeds through a trade.” Maria explained. I nodded in understanding, my mouth too full to give a verbal reply. As he and I scarfed down the food, I noticed my brother staring at Joel, who had sat next to me. “So, Joel, things go well on the road with my sister?” Matthew asked as he crossed his arms. Joel’s eyes left the plate and traveled between Matthew and I. I gave him a reassuring look, hoping it would encourage him to answer. “As well as they could go.” Joel said before shoving a bite of food in his mouth. I bit my lip nervously, hoping Matthew would just take the answer and end the interaction. “And what do you mean by that?” He questioned. “Matthew, please.” I blurted, unable to stand the tension any longer. He pried his accusatory gaze off of Joel and back onto me, “Can I talk to you outside, sis?” I eyed the other witnesses of the interaction. Tommy sat with an eyebrow raised, and Maria’s face was stone cold. I huffed impatiently and got up from the table, not bothering to push in my chair.

“What is your problem, Matthew?” I seethed as he pulled me around the corner of the restaurant and into the alley. “I’ve heard things about that man,” He whispered, “He’s killed people, sis. A lot of people. He did all sorts of illegal shit in the QZ. Did you have any idea who you were travelling with? Did he hurt you?” The words left his mouth in a panicked flurry. “Where did you hear those things?” I asked. “Nevermind that. How stupid can you be to travel across the country with a dangerous man like that?” He prodded angrily. I stared at him for a moment, unable to believe the fact that I’d travelled across the country to save him and I was being yelled at about who I chose to do it with. “I travelled hundreds of miles to find you, and all you can think to say is this shit?” I scoffed. “He’s dangerous.” He said after taking a deep breath. “He may be, but who isn’t, Matthew? Who hasn’t killed to survive these days?” I argued. “He killed for the wrong reasons. He’s a smuggler, a raider.” I shook my head, “No. You’re wrong.” My brother’s face dropped in realization. “You didn’t…” He muttered in disbelief. “Didn’t what?” I asked panickedly. “Please tell me that you didn’t fuck him. I swear to god I will kill him right now.” His face reddened with rage, but I pressed my hands into his shoulders, “No, Matthew, I didn’t. I swear. Nothing happened between us. All he did was make up a plan to get us here and he protected me when I needed it. We barely even spoke to each other the whole time. Now will you please calm the fuck down so I can go finish the first meal I’ve had in months?” I begged. The tightness in his shoulders eased after hearing my explanation, and he nodded, “There’s nothing going on between you two?” He asked, needing my reassurance once more. I shook my head, “I promise.” I lied.

Before Matthew and I could move to go back inside, we heard the door to the restaurant bust open. It was Joel, storming out of the restaurant. He caught my eye and paused for a moment, but kept walking off towards what looked like a stable. The urge to follow was tugging at me, but there was no way Matthew was letting that happen. I followed him back into the restaurant and finished my meal silently as he had a hushed conversation with Maria and Tommy at the bar.

Later that night, after being shown around more by Matthew, we neared the front porch of the house he’d been living in. “This is it.” He said proudly, “Fixed it up myself.” I followed him into the front door and felt as though I’d walked into a thrift store. Not one piece of furniture went with another. “When did you get your interior decorating degree?” I smirked before plopping down into a red bigham armchair. He rolled his eyes as he reached into the fridge, “I didn’t have much to work with. Beer?” I nodded and reached my hand out to grab the cold can from him. Cracking it open and tasting the malty liquid was a feeling I never knew I missed.

“You owe me an apology.” I said after swallowing a huge swig from the can. He pressed his lips together as he plopped down onto the hideous floral patterned couch, “I do. ” I sat up, resting my elbows onto my knees, “Three weeks, Matthew. Three weeks without a fucking word from you. I thought you were dead.” He took a sip of his beer then knitted his fingers around it, “We were told to stop contacting outsiders. That they were threats to us.” I flinched, “Threats?” He nodded, “We had too much traffic around the perimeter. Maria decided it would be safer if we kept outside communication to a minimum.” I stared at the floor, unable to look at him, “Your own sister, a threat.” He sighed, “Look, I tried my best to contact you.” I stood up off of the chair, wanting nothing more than for this conversation to be over. “Not hard enough.” I spat as I stalked to the front door, slamming it behind me.

My mind reeled as I walked aimlessly down the street, my way being lit by hanging lights and trash can fires littered along the blocks. I looked around, attempting to find any building that was familiar from earlier in the day. I spotted the stable I’d seen Joel rush into earlier and figured it woud be empty at this time of night. I neared the door and unhooked the latch before opening it slowly, not wanting to spook the horses. With the tiniest bit of light shining through the door, I caught sight of a beautiful chestnut horse with a white stripe down its face. It reminded me of the horse my uncle owned on his farm. “Hi there,” I whispered as I offered it my hand to nibble.

I’d been so deep in my own head that I hadn’t noticed the sound of voices traveling from somewhere outside the stable. Itching with curiosity, I stood on a hay bale and put my ear up to a hole in the wood. “I don’t want to hurt her, Tommy. After Sara, after Tess… I can’t do that to her.” My heart sank when I realized it was Joel. Who was Sara? And Tess? “It’s safe here, Joel. If you stay, you’ll have the opportunity to start over… like I did. I’m gonna be a father in a few months. And to be honest I’m scared to death. But I don’t know… I think I’d be a good father.” Tommy said. “I guess we’ll find out.” Joel sighed. Tommy clearly didn’t like that response, “I guess we’ll find out? Maybe you think your life stopped when Sara died, and believe me, I thought mine did too, but I found a way to start it again. You can too.” Joel scoffed, “It won’t be as easy for me. You’ve never lost a child.” The men’s voices became more intense, “I lost her too. I was there, Joel, remember?” Tommy grunted. I gasped quietly, the realization that Joel had a daughter, maybe even a wife before all of this. It all made so much sense now.

I’d been so focused on the conversation that I hadn’t noticed the hay slipping out from under my feet. Before I could regain my footing, my boots lost their grip and I tumbled to the ground. I couldn’t stifle the shriek that escaped me as I felt the pain in my ribs all over again. “Shit.” I grunted through clenched teeth. The men’s voices turned to silence, and I heard footsteps outside of the barn. I tried to get up, but was dizzied from the pain in my abdomen. The door creaked open, and a flashlight shone in. My name left Joel’s mouth as he caught sight of me. “The fuck are you doin’ in here?” He grunted as he placed his flashlight down and pulled me to my feet. I swallowed. My mouth felt like it had been filled with cotton. “I uh… had a fight with my brother. Just needed somewhere to think.” He looked at me through the light peeking in through the door. “The hell did you do? Your nose is bleeding.” He said before reaching up to my face. I pulled away and pressed the sleeve of my shirt to my nose. “I’m fine.” I insisted as I used the wall to pull myself up. “You’re obviously not.” Joel grunted. “Joel? What was that?” Tommy asked as he appeared in the doorway. Joel and I’d heads snapped to look at the figure. “Everything alright?” Tommy questioned again. “Yeah, I just… tripped over something in the dark.” I said. “Well what were you doin’ in the first place?” Both of the men looked at me, then Joel turned to his brother and said pointedly, “She had a fight with her brother. Needed some peace and quiet.” Tommy shook his head and shrugged defeatedly, “A congratulations would have made things a whole lot easier.” I stood there awkwardly as the two men shared a tense look, and finally Tommy disappeared from the doorway after huffing angrily.

“I’ll walk you home.” Joel said as we exited the barn. “I’d rather sleep in the stable.” I scoffed. He looked at me, seeming annoyed at first but his face quickly twisted into concern. “Jesus, your nose is bleeding like hell.” He breathed as he reached into his pocket to try and find something to wipe it with. His attempts were fruitless and he dropped his hands to his side. He looked to be struggling with something internally as his eyes shifted between me and the house we were standing in front of. I waited patiently, holding my hand to my nose to stop it from dripping onto my shirt even more. He sighed, “Dammit,” and grabbed my arm before leading me into the house. “Joel, you don’t have to-” I tried to argue, but he pushed me onto a chair at the island in the small kitchen. He stalked over to the sink and wet a rag, then pulled a chair over to sit in front of me. “You’re always gettin’ yourself hurt.” He grumbled as he pressed the rag to the base of my nose. I winced at the contact, and his eyebrows furrowed as he focused on cleaning up the blood. “‘S probably broken.” I didn’t respond. Between the lightheadedness from the pain and the feeling of Joel being close to me again, I didn’t have much to say. For the first time, I didn’t feel patronized by him helping me, didn’t feel like it was some sort of peace offering. He wasn’t doing it because he had to, he was doing it because he wanted to.

I couldn’t help but watch him intently as he focused tending to my nose. He subconsciously leaned closer and closer, and I was able to feel his warm breath on the bare skin of my chest, causing goosebumps to rise there. All of a sudden, Joel froze. I’d been so distracted I hadn’t noticed my hand moving up to rest on the forearm of the hand that he was using the rag with. My first instinct was to pry it off panickedly, but that wasn’t what this moment was about. It wasn’t about instinct. My instinct was always to run away from the uncomfortable things, and it seemed like that was Joel’s too. It was about facing our fears. Joel had pushed his fear of caring for someone aside, and it was my turn to push through my fear of intimacy.

My eyes didn’t leave his as I pushed down on his forearm, lowering his hand to the table. His face was inches from mine, and soon milimeters away. I hesitated, but was encouraged by a hand on the back of my head pulling me into a gentle kiss. He pulled away and looked at me in a way that seemed like he was asking for approval. I answered his question by standing off of my stool and pressing my lips to his once more. His hands moved to grip my waist as our lips began to move together, our desperation for each other taking over once more. I wrapped my arms around his neck and he pulled me closer so that I was standing between his legs. His hands slid underneath my shirt and traveled up my back, his fingers gently gliding across my skin sent shivers up my spine. His hands continued up onto my neck, lingering there, then tangled in my hair and pulled at it lightly. I bit his bottom lip as I pulled away and looked into his eyes. They were staring at me hungrily, and widened slightly as he felt my hand press up against his firm length through his jeans. I felt him twitch against me and watched his face as I began to rub him gently. His eyes closed and he let out a long, heavy breath. His obvious pleasure fueled my fire and I leaned in to close the gap between our lips again. He met me with just as much hunger. I pulled lightly on his jacket to get him to stand, and pushed him backwards towards the couch. He stumbled backwards, drunk with lust, and sat down. He practically worshipped my body with his eyes as I stood over him. I straddled his legs and sat down, pressing myself against his excitement. His hands slid up the sides of my thighs and onto my hips as I instinctively grinded against him. He breathed into my ear as I leaned down and pressed gentle kisses into the scruff on his jaw. My hands traveled down to the hem of my t-shirt and I began to pull it over my head, but Joel caught sight of my bruise again and was pulled back to reality. “I think that’s enough for tonight.” He gently pushed me up and off of him, “I think.. you should get some sleep. I’m sorry, I lost control.” He stood and adjusted himself through his pants. I couldn’t help but feel rejected again. “Was that another mistake?” I scoffed. He glared at me, “You know it wasn’t.” I sat all the way up now, facing him, “Then why did you stop?” I pressed. “I didn’t want things to get out of hand.” He said as he plopped down on the couch and slid his hands down his face. “What does that mean?” I questioned again. “You know…” I rolled my eyes, “Joel.” He groaned, now fully backed into a corner. “I just don’t want you to get attached.” He finally said.

There it was. The familiar feeling of my stomach dropping. Of course. Of course he would find a way to ruin this, just as we were connecting further. “You don’t need to worry about that.” I spat as stood up walked towards the door, and as my hand gripped the doorknob he finally spoke, “Where are you goin’?” I turned around and hooked my hands onto my hips, “To sleep in the stable in the hay. Like the baby Jesus.” He rolled his eyes at my attempt at comedy and stood up off the couch, “You’re not sleepin’ in a stable.” I straightened my back as he approached, “What do you care? I thought we weren’t getting attached.” He placed his hand on the door frame above my head, “You’ll annoy the horses.” I saw a smirk threaten the corner of his mouth, and a full smile stretched across mine. For the first time in months, I almost laughed.

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Author's note:

Hi all! Sorry for the wait! Finals are coming up and I've had a lot of school work to do, but I've been trying to work on the fic as much as possible. <3

Taglist:

@demonsasss @ayamenimthiriel @ashleyfilm

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38 notes · View notes

oohnotvery · 7 months

Text

Edges of the Night (Chapter 1) *new fic*

Like all my other works, this is also posted on AO3 (I'm the_eternal_optimist).

Scully’s moving on autopilot tonight. Pack up briefcase. Slip into jacket. Turn off lights. Lock office door. Move through silent halls. Wave goodbye to the security guard manning the entrance. Walk one hundred steps to the car. Unlock door. Shuffle inside. Seatbelt. Engine on. Lights.

It’s been a while since she’s felt this tired after work. With her days normally so quiet and undemanding, she usually leaves the office looking forward to the night to come—dinner with Alan, or maybe her downstairs neighbor Andrea. A glass of wine. Sometimes a movie, maybe the next JAMA article. In bed by nine, or if Alan is staying over, ten. Ten-thirty if things get rowdy. Usually, she plans this all out in the car ride home. It’s not a long drive to her apartment from work, but lately she’s been taking the scenic route home, the one that goes by the ocean. She likes to roll down the windows and drink in the salty sea air. It frizzes her hair but does wonders for her mood. For the first few months she lived here, it seemed the ocean was the only thing that soothed her fury, her hurt, her brokenness.

Tonight, though, she decides on the shortest, quickest route home. All she can think about is whether she’s going to eat or take a bath first. It’s been ages since she’s had a day full of meetings and she’s forgotten how draining it can be listening to someone droning on and on and on and on about budgets. She can’t remember if Alan said he was staying over tonight. Although she enjoys his company, she desperately needs some alone time. There’s a headache building from hours spent staring at spreadsheets, and wouldn’t it be nice to be snuggled under the sheets by eight o’clock?

But then again, maybe he’s already there and maybe he’s made dinner. Last week, he made something particularly delicious in the crockpot. In this aspect, he’s more than proven his worth. On second thought, it might be quite nice if there’s a pot roast waiting when she breezes in through the door. Although it’s just February, spring has arrived early on the California coast and the weather might even be warm enough to eat outside on the balcony.

She stops at a red light and glances at her reflection in the rearview mirror. A street lamp illuminates her long red hair and bright blue eyes and she carefully traces a thumb along her lower lip, removing a smudge of lipstick. If Alan indeed is at her place, she should probably consider powdering her nose before she goes inside. Of course, he’s seen her in various stages of composed and not-so-composed, but it’s a nice gesture to make an effort.

The light shifts to green and she turns left onto her road. This part of the street curves up a slight hill enveloped by thick eucalyptus trees, their shaky branches interrupted by the occasional palm and sweet-smelling jacaranda. She hasn’t lived here long enough to see the jacarandas in full bloom, but childhood recollections of their lavender blossoms fill out her memories of San Diego summers. She’s glad to have something beautiful to look forward to this year.

Her car climbs the steep hill, its headlights illuminating the dark road. Her apartment is just a mile from the crest of the hill, and as she approaches it, she glances in her rearview one more time to study her appearance. Satisfied, her eyes flit back to the road, just in time to see a car whip out from a side street several feet in front of her, traveling the opposite direction. Before she can react, it pulls into her lane, coming towards her at full speed, its headlights glaring brightly in her windshield. Shouting in surprise, she yanks at the steering wheel and pulls her car across the road, missing a direct collision by mere inches. She slams on the brakes and her car hits the guardrail with a smash, but it’s not hard enough to deploy the airbags. Her mind, all-too-familiar with trauma, reacts instantly, quickly starting to piece together what just happened. Car accident. No injuries. Drunk driver? College student? Those dumbass frat boys who live in the apartment above hers?

But then she hears it, a sound she hasn’t heard in months. Gunshots. With a shriek, she dives across the front of the car just as a bullet hits her back window, cracking the glass.

Another bullet zings into her rear bumper and she covers her head protectively. In an instant, her thoughts turn from frat boys to murderers. This was no accident. This was intentional. Unarmed—because she has no need to carry a weapon these days—she knows she needs to get out of here fast. She’s about to force the car into reverse when she hears another sound: the scream and squeal of a violent crash, metal grinding against metal. She grits her teeth and braces for impact, but seconds go by and she doesn’t feel anything. Her car doesn’t move. And then everything around her falls eerily quiet.

She counts slowly to ten, then glances up and tries to peer through the back window, but with the shattered glass, she can’t make sense of anything behind her. Very slowly, she cracks her door open and peers outside. Ten feet away, the other car has slammed into the guardrail too, but the driver’s side of the vehicle looks completely crushed. Her pursuer must have hit the railing at a ferocious rate of speed.

She stares at the wreckage for just a moment, trying to memorize details of the other car—beige Ford Taurus, nondescript—when its passenger door opens. She gasps—someone survived.

A man sticks his head out of the door and begins to violently throw up onto the pavement. She knows she needs to move, needs to get away from this person who is likely armed, needs to get to safety and call 911. But there is something unnervingly familiar about this man, with his long legs and lean torso and dark hair. He coughs and spits and gags and retches for another half a minute, and even from this distance, she sees the sheen of blood matted in his hair. Her doctor’s eyes make the quick calculation—head injury. Likely concussion. Possibly from hitting head on dashboard.

She’s about to withdraw into her vehicle and make her getaway when the man lifts his head. His eyes climb to meet hers across the distance and her heart stutters to a stop.

Mulder.

It’s Mulder.

After all this time, impossibly, unbelievably, incredibly, it’s Mulder.

All rational thought, all anger, all hurt, all pain escapes her brain. She clicks off her seatbelt and climbs out of her car to run to him. Her heels clack loudly on the pavement as she approaches the vehicle. He’s staggering unsteadily to his feet and without a second thought, she jumps to catch him, avoiding the pile of sickness at their feet. They haven’t touched in nine months, and yet he sags into her with the relief and trust that only years of familiarity can bring. She briefly notes that his hands are zip-tied together. Bracing one hand on his chest and another on his shoulder, she supports him, then leans down into the car to glance at the driver. The sight is grisly—a smashed, bloody head against the driver’s window; his crushed body against the door. Most certainly dead. She wrinkles her nose and draws her eyes up to Mulder’s face. He stares down at her hazily.

“You okay?” he manages to ask, his eyebrows bent in pain.

She nods shakily. “I’m okay. Let’s get you to the car.”

She helps him into the passenger seat and leans over him to buckle him in, ignoring the way her stomach clenches as her torso presses briefly against his own. Before she clambers back into her side, she quickly assesses the damage to her car. All she notes is a dented-up fender and a cracked windshield; she considers herself very lucky.

“I’m taking you to the hospital,” she announces quietly as she shifts the car into reverse.

Mulder shakes his head just like she knew he would. “We need to drive, Scully.”

Scully.

She swallows past a wave of emotions. No one has called her that in months.

“No,” she says firmly, maneuvering her car around the other vehicle. “You need immediate medical attention.”

He leans over and with bound hands, grips her wrist, clamping on so tightly that she yelps. She glances over at him and immediately recognizes the emotion flitting across his eyes—fear. Crippling, devastating fear.

“Please,” he begs. “Just drive.”

And then his hands release hers to fumble clumsily around in his pants pocket. After a moment, he pushes something into her palm. She slows the car to a crawl and glances down at her hand. In it, there’s a piece of paper and a key. She unfurls the paper and sees the scrawl of an address.

An address in Montrose, Colorado. Montrose, Colorado? She’s never even heard of that place.

“You want me to drive here?” she asks in disbelief.

He nods, then winces. He lifts his hands to touch his forehead and seems surprised when his fingertips come away bloody.

“Oh, Mulder,” she sighs under her breath, and reaches over to wipe a trickle of blood off his eyebrow. He meets her eyes and she regards him tightly, then drops the paper and key into a cupholder.

For five minutes, she doesn’t ask questions, she just drives. She drives past her apartment and notes offhandedly that Alan’s dark green truck is in the lot. A wash of worry and guilt flushes over her and she shoves the feelings away. She won’t be coming home tonight; that much is clear.

Beside her, Mulder has started falling in and out of consciousness. She pulls her bottom lip through her teeth anxiously and considers her options. She hasn’t made up her mind yet if she’s going to drive him to Colorado. She’s exhausted from a long day, wound tight from the accident, emotionally shaken from their encounter, and Mulder himself is in no physical condition to endure a long drive.

But whatever happens next, triage comes first. She needs to find a place where she can properly assess his injuries. His eyes have closed but she senses him breathing. Every few minutes, she places her palm to his forehead and cheek to assure herself that he is still alive. From her angle, she doesn’t see any more obvious injuries other than his bleeding head, but she needs to stop as soon as she can.

Despite her worries, her exhaustion, and her emotions, she feels herself starting to sink into a calm, collected mental space—FBI mode. She is reminded that she once used to be a field agent—and a pretty damn good one at that. In this headspace, she drives to a familiar spot, a park that overlooks the ocean. There’s a deserted campground at its edge and a playground that’s usually full of children. At this time of night, however, the parking lot is deserted. Under the cover of a leafy tree, she throws the car into park.

Mulder’s eyes crack open.

“We have to keep moving,” he mumbles.

She unbuckles her seatbelt and opens the car door, throwing him a warning look. “We’re not going anywhere until I’ve looked at your head.”

A very slight smile ticks up on his lips, but he makes no reply.

In her trunk, she pulls out the sturdy black bag that she hasn’t had a chance to use since moving to San Diego. When she slides back into the car, she flips on the overhead lights and starts pulling tools out of her kit—gauze, ointment, sterilizing pads, alcohol. Mulder grumbles something about the light being too bright and she shushes him.

“Come here,” she mutters, tapping at his bound wrists. He holds them up to her and with a pair of surgical scissors, she cuts the plastic of the zip ties. They fall away and Mulder rotates his hands gratefully. Red, raw marks stain his wrists and she frowns. Whoever tied him up was intent on inflicting pain.

She dabs some antibiotic cream onto his wrists and then motions for him to lower his head. Scooting up in her seat, she carefully begins to move her hands through his thick hair, which is matted with blood.

“Oh, Mulder,” she murmurs when she finds the source of the injury. “I really need to wash this.”

He glances up at her. They are close, her hands buried in his hair, her body leaning over the console. Their noses are just inches apart and for a second, she can’t breathe. The last time they touched was so uncharacteristically violent that it has played in her mind on repeat for months. For weeks after she moved to San Diego, any time she closed her eyes, she saw the scene in her head—his hands shoving her away, her palm smacking at his arms. To touch him now with the careful gentleness that used to embody their relationship feels abnormal, bizarre.

“We have to keep driving,” he reminds her.

“Are you going to tell me why?” she asks, and he nods, then winces. “That hurts?”

He mutters a yes.

“What else hurts?”

He closes his eyes. “My head is throbbing. It feels like I’m going to redecorate the inside of your car at any moment.”

“Concussion,” she says as she reaches into her bag to pull out more supplies. It is difficult in these circumstances to properly clean the blood out of his hair and expose the wound. There is a nasty red gash at his hairline. “This really needs stitches,” she laments, praying she has some butterfly tape with her.

She does, and after cleaning, sterilizing, and protecting the wound as best she can, she seals it with tape, wondering if she should just try to stitch him up here in the car. But his breathing is labored and his eyes have shut tight, and she doesn’t know if he could withstand the pain right now. She touches his shoulder gently. His eyes blink open.

She doesn’t want to drive across the country in the middle of the night, especially with an injured, semi-conscious Mulder. She desperately wants to admit him to a nearby hospital, but she remembers the way he looked when he begged her to drive. Afraid. Something is very, very wrong. Why and how and under what circumstances he ended up here in San Diego—outside her apartment, in a potential assassin’s car—is beyond her.

“Please,” he asks, breaking her thoughts. “I wouldn’t ask you to do this if I didn’t think it was important.”

She shuts her eyes briefly, contemplating his insane request. There is so much tugging her back to reality—Alan, her job, her tiredness, Mulder’s injuries. All of those things are screaming at her to stay here, just stay here.

But Mulder is sitting here in the flesh, after all this time. This is the first request he has made of her in nine months. This is their first communication after a rift that she assumed couldn’t be repaired in a hundred lifetimes. And despite the way they left things, it is impossible to ignore the way a familiar sort of comfort washes over her in his presence. His scent alone seems to bring her heart rate back to normal. The feeling of his skin under her fingertips grounds her to the moment. The warmth of his grey-green eyes soothes the pain in her chest. An otherworldly sort of communication is taking place between their bodies. If he is asking this of her, under these circumstances, she knows it is serious. They have lost a lot in these nine months of separation, but one thing remains. One thing will always remain.

“I’ll drive,” she finally concedes, “because I trust you.” Palpable relief and something else, something stronger, wash over his face. To her astonishment, he grabs her hands in his and brings them to his mouth, pressing his lips to her knuckles. Her heart starts to pound even as her brain demands she ignore the way his touch provokes her to sentimentality, nostalgia, tenderness.

“Thank you,” he breathes, catching her eye meaningfully. His fingertips slide across her hand and when they catch on the sparkly ring on her left hand, he freezes in shock. Her cheeks blaze hotly, similarly astonished by his discovery. He was never supposed to know about her personal life. She tugs her hands away and he stares at her like a kicked puppy.

Don’t look at me like that. You forced me out, she thinks angrily. The memory of their last encounter slices through her brain, instantly souring her tender thoughts.

He drops her gaze and falls back against his seat, his eyes closing once more.

“I’ll wake you every hour,” she promises after a moment, her hands tingling with a long-forgotten ache. In the Before Times, she would have reached out and brushed his cheek or maybe patted his thigh, reassuring him of her presence, her trustworthiness, her care. But instead, she just flips off the overhead lights, buckles her seat belt, and pulls out onto the darkened road.

And then she drives.

#dana scully #mulder x scully #x files #the x files #msr #msr fanfic #txf #x files fanfic #fox mulder #xfiles fanfic

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ckerouac · 9 months

Text

Too many books came in at the same time from my library queue, so @redheadgleek suggests a poll and yes, let’s poll! Y’all can see my… varied reading interests lol

What should I read next?

Daughter from the Dark: Late one night, fate brings together DJ Aspirin and ten-year-old Alyona. After he tries to save her from imminent danger, she ends up at his apartment. But in the morning sinister doubts set in. Who is Alyona? A young con artist? A plant for a nefarious blackmailer? Or perhaps a long-lost daughter Aspirin never knew existed? Whoever this mysterious girl is, she now refuses to leave.

The Brilliant Life of Eudora Honeysett: Wanting to organize an assisted death on her own terms, world-weary octogenarian Eudora Honeysett forges an unexpected bond with exuberant ten-year-old Rose, who drags her to tea parties, shopping sprees, and other social excursions.

Flesh and Bone and Water: André is a listless Brazilian teenager and the son of a successful plastic surgeon who lives a life of wealth and privilege, shuttling between the hot sands of Ipanema beach and his family's luxurious penthouse apartment. In 1985, when he is just 16, André's mother is killed in a car accident. Clouded with grief, André's father loses himself in his work while André spends his evenings in the family apartment with Luana, the beautiful daughter of the family's maid. Three decades later, and now a successful surgeon himself, André is a middle-aged father, living in London, and recently separated. One day he receives an unexpected letter from Luana, which begins to reveal the other side of their story, a story André has long repressed.

Geek Love: The Binewskis are a carny family whose mater- and paterfamilias set out-- with the help of amphetamine, arsenic, and radioisotopes-- to breed their own exhibit of human oddities. There is Arturo the Aquaboy, who has flippers for limbs and a megalomaniac ambition worthy of Genghis Khan. Iphy and Elly, the lissome Siamese twins. Albino hunchback Oly. And the outwardly normal Chick, whose mysterious gifts make him the family's most precious-- and dangerous-- asset. As they set out across the U.S., family values will never be the same.

Same Bed Different Dreams: March 1919. Far-flung Korean patriots establish the Korean Provisional Government to protest the Japanese occupation of their country. This government-in-exile proves mostly symbolic, its petitions ignored by heads of state as Korea's nationhood is erased. After Japan's defeat in World War II, the KPG dissolves and civil war erupts, resulting in the North-South split that remains today. But what if the KPG still existed now, today-working toward a unified Korea, secretly harnessing the might of a giant tech company to further its aims?

Unholy: why white evangelicals worship at the altar of Donald Trump: Fueled by an anti-democratic impulse, and united by this narrative of reverse victimization, the religious right and the alt-right support a common agenda--and are actively using the erosion of democratic norms to roll back civil rights advances, stock the judiciary with hard-right judges, defang and deregulate federal agencies, and undermine the credibility of the free press. Increasingly, this formidable bloc is also forging ties with European far right groups, giving momentum to a truly global movement forecasted to last long after the Trump era.

Comemadre: In the outskirts of Buenos Aires in 1907, a doctor becomes involved in a misguided experiment that investigates the threshold between life and death. One hundred years later, a celebrated artist goes to extremes in search of aesthetic transformation, turning himself into an art object.

I Who Have Never Known Men: A young woman is kept in a cage underground with thirty-nine other females, guarded by armed men who never speak; her crimes unremembered... if indeed there were crimes.

Road of Bones: Kolyma Highway, otherwise known as the Road of Bones, is a 1200 mile stretch of Siberian road where winter temperatures can drop as low as sixty degrees below zero. Felix Teigland, or "Teig," is a documentary producer, and when he learns about the Road of Bones, he realizes he's stumbled upon untapped potential. Accompanied by his camera operator, Teig hires a local Yakut guide to take them to Oymyakon, the coldest settlement on Earth. Teig is fascinated by the culture along the Road of Bones, and encounters strange characters on the way to the Oymyakon, but when the team arrives, they find the village mysteriously abandoned apart from a mysterious nine-year-old girl. Then, chaos ensues.

#reading poll #this doesn’t count my audiobooks #but we’re gonna go with murderbot 2 for that

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riahlynn101 · 1 year

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Day Nine: "Mistaken Identity."

TW: Implied/referenced killing, mild gore, and children in distress.

Takes place pre-security breach.

Once again, I got the basic idea of The Mimic obsessing over Gregory from 'Gregory's Personal Bodyguard' on Twitter.

Good memories aren't something that The Mimic has a lot of. Most of his memories are categorially bad. Like the ones where his creator was so, so angry at him. Or the worst one, the time his best friend ran out into the road, and there was a car and it....

(He doesn’t like to think about that particular memory. It leaves a bad taste in his mouth.)

Most of his other memories exist in a gray area. Not bad. Not good. They just exist as is. He can take from them whenever and wherever he needs to. Usually, he only does so to lure someone in or play a trick on some unsuspecting person.

But some-a very small handful-The Mimic looks back on fondly. The ones with David before he…

The memories where David would talk a-mile-a-minute, nonstop. Or the ones where his best friend would try to feed him ice cream, convinced that The Mimic was missing out on something absolutely delectable.

And maybe he was. The Mimic wasn’t built to be able to taste or smell, but his friend always seemed genuine in his attempts to feed him.

David was….

….kind.

Kinder than anyone The Mimic has ever met in his entire existence. It used to hurt knowing that he would never see David again. (Even if the human concept of an ‘afterlife,’ is true. It’s unlikely that something like himself-a robot-would ever get to experience that.)

Following David’s supposed death, his creator's outburst, and years of tormenting anyone and everyone that came across him, The Mimic met his maker.

He was trapped, powered down, but not gone.

The Mimic was aware. His programming caught a ride on some unsuspecting employee’s Wi-Fi hotspot, and into another Wi-Fi hotspot, until he was in a brand-new building. A brand-new building with people who knew nothing of his existence.

Even reduced to his programming, The Mimic made quick work of them. Nameless, faceless pawns that struggled against him, but ultimately lost. For once, he had a singular purpose. He needed to find someone, just one person, that he could force convince to hang around the (still unbuilt) Pizzaplex and fix him. Maybe do his bidding. It probably wouldn’t hurt to have some company.

Vanessa was that person.

She was intelligent but vulnerable. And while Vanessa was tougher than she first appeared, The Mimic eventually won. He forced brainwashed convinced her to join him.

He renamed her Vanny.

He used Vanny’s eyes to scout the location a lot, especially in the early days of the Pizzaplex. The Mimic got to see so many new faces. Ones that-sometimes in his bitterest moments-The Mimic dreamed of tearing from their bodies. He imagined ripping them apart limb-by-limb, placing them all in neat little flesh piles.

Until one day, about five months after the Pizzaplex opened, The Mimic-still watching through Vanny’s eyes-saw someone he hadn’t seen in years. He watched as David-with his unruly brown hair and big brown eyes-comforted a girl. David was just as kind as The Mimic remembered him. He looked a little older, which confused him greatly.

The Mimic wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but it had to have been decades by that point. Logically, his friend should be in his forties or fifties. But, he reasoned, hopeful, maybe he counted wrong.

Still, David was his friend. Which meant he belonged with The Mimic.

He had Vanny fetch the boy. While out of costume, her ways of luring people in were a lot more discrete. She had a way of making people trust her.

“Who…who are you?” David asks, sounding almost… afraid.

The Mimic takes a step forward.

David, with his big brown eyes and unruly hair, responds in kind by taking three steps back. Which offends him a little. He isn’t a monster. His friend should know that.

“David,” he starts, taking on the voice of a man, “I’ve missed you so much.”

“Who?”

The Mimic sighs, a little annoyed. “Your name? David?”

David shakes his head. “I’m not…who’s David?”

The Mimic’s nonexistent heart breaks a little. A story of events unfolding before him. After the car hit him, David must have lost his memories. Which explains why he never came home.

“Oh, you dear sweet boy,” he coos. He steps forward, but David’s back is mere inches from the wall so he can’t escape this time. “Don’t worry, I’ll fix everything.”

David shudders, which he takes to mean the boy is cold.

“Do you want a sweater? The Pizzaplex has plenty.”

“Huh?” David continues to stare at him, confused. “I…who are you? Why am I here? I…I need to go home. My dad is waiting for me.”

The Mimic sighs again, bending down to his height. His poor friend must not realize his father is dead. (The fact that he was killed by The Mimic’s own hands is a minor, insignificant detail).

“David-”

“My name is Gregory,” he murmurs.

“David, your father’s dead.”

The boy’s eyes go wide, filling with tears. “What?”

The Mimic shushes him, bringing his friend son in for a hug. “But it’s okay. I’ll take care of you now. You can stay here with Vanny and me.”

The boy winces a little, as if struck.

The Mimic has to force the next words out of his mouth. “Tell you what? If you go with Vanny over there,” he gestures to the blonde woman standing idle in the doorway, “and play a fun little game, I’ll call you Gregory.”

A calculated look crosses the boy’s face. “Okay…”

The Mimic reaches over to ruffle his son’s hair. “Atta boy. Now, Vanny’s going to show you where to go. After that, you’ll come back here for bed.”

David Gregory nods, but the calculating look hasn’t left his face.

He watches them leave and sends Vanny careful instructions on how to program the game correctly. It shouldn’t be hard to program him, but just in case he tries to flee. Tying his son down wouldn’t be his first choice, but children are such erratic beings. Being a little forceful is sometimes necessary.

While they’re gone, he sits on his son’s bed. The sheets he folded into a bear-like shape sits in the corner of the bed, resting on the pillow. He can hardly wait for Gregory to see it.

#whumptober2023 #no.9 #“Mistaken Identity.”#tw death #tw kidnapping #tw mild gore #fnaf the mimic #gregory security breach #fnaf vanny

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annaphoenix1994 · 2 years

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Michael Brings Your Daughter to Work to Visit You

Reader x 2018 Michael Myers

*Sorry, I love Peepaw Myers with all my heart and even though OG and RZ have a special place in my heart, Peepaw overtakes it. ❤️*

You had been having a rough day at work. You had been running late and got stuck by a crossing train, causing you to be ten minutes late to your job.

You hated being late, especially if it was for a new job.

What was funny was that you were a minute late the day before due to school traffic, so you left home ten minutes earlier to take a long route to bypass the school zones.

That was until an idle train sat at the crossing, dividing you from your place of work. The only other way around being two miles away and through the west end of town, sure to hit traffic yet again as well as other traffic lights.

Having no time to text Michael to let him know you made it to work OK, you rushed inside to clock in, getting straight to work in hopes of making up for lost time.

And yes, Michael hasn’t destroyed the phone you gave him to keep in contact with him throughout the day.

And no, he doesn’t like the little device, but if it keeps in touch with you when you’re not around, he’s not complaining.

However, it made you laugh when he would randomly text you a letter because he doesn’t know how texting works.

But by golly he could send photos of what he was doing when you asked. Nine times out of ten it would be a picture of what he was working on.

And no, he’d never take or send you a selfie. Although the thought is nice.

It was like passing a Judicial Bill to get him to take a photo with you at family events.

He really liked to take things apart and put them back together.

Although you’d think he likes to make weapons…

You had just returned to work after maternity leave, frustrated that you couldn’t get back on a normal sleeping routine due to the long break.

It was late Fall and freezing temperatures began to present as the days went on.

Even with no ice on the road, Michael worried about your commute every day and began to get nervous after not hearing from you for roughly an hour.

Sending you a text message first, he simply asked: “Did you make it to work okay?”

You had heard your phone go off, but couldn’t check it right away due to an early morning rush coming into the office - meaning that paperwork needed to be done by noon and finalized by three o’clock.

You worked as a receptionist for a veterinarian's office in the middle of town. You enjoyed it because you got to see different animals every day and every shift wasn’t the same. Although it did have the downside, which tugged at your heartstrings.

Working hastily, you had skipped your breakfast and was dying for noon, growing frustrated that your lunch break would take place at 12:30 instead of 12:00 due to a Friday morning rush.

With the time now being 12:15, you looked up to greet the next client after hearing the bell on the door ring. Smiling instantly at the little infant, you immediately recognized your daughter as Michael held her securely in his arms.

Unfortunately, Michael was not the true father of your little girl. However, he had saved you from a nasty and abusive situation while you were pregnant with her - the father, and your now ex-boyfriend, didn’t live to tell his side of the story.

You had known Michael for years prior, tending to him and many other patients at Smith’s Grove, serving as a nurse for nearly fifteen years before thinking you had settled down with the man of your dreams. However, it was not the case.

You were grateful that Michael accepted you even though you had another man’s child, but he took the child as his own to be a better father than your ex - and now dead - boyfriend would be.

Smiling at him, he returned the gesture and sat down in the waiting area, admiring your little girl as she was awake and aware of her surroundings, her big brown eyes looking at the dogs and lights in the waiting area.

Once you were dismissed from your break, you greeted him and your daughter with a smile, Michael bending down to level the baby to you as you kissed her temple, never getting tired of the “new baby” smell. “I definitely wasn’t expecting this. Thank you.” You smiled, greeting him with a kiss.

God, he smelled good.

“You look beautiful today.” He complimented, loving you in scrubs, especially the blue bottoms with the patterned top. He never got tired of it.

“Thank you. I can say the same about you,” You blushed. “What do you want for lunch today?”

“I brought you something. Figured you didn’t want to get stuck in traffic for a half hour.”

You smiled, nodding in agreement before Michael handed you the baby, exiting the building to retrieve the lunch he had brought you, which was your favorite lunch - leftovers from the supper before.

#michael myers #james jude courtney #h40michael #michaelmyers #og michael myers #peepaw myers

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johannestevans · 2 years

Text

Green Thumb

Horror short. A farmer tries to impress his new neighbour.

2.6k, rated M. A chicken farmer tries to impress his new neighbour by growing him some flowers, but everything that he grows dies. Adapted from a TweetFic.

---

Jacob’s trade, in actuality, is handyman, but he does all sorts in and around the area, uses the skills his parents had given him.

His father had been a carpenter before he’d died, and his mother had been a prize-winning gardener in the area for years until she’d gone with her second husband to live in Cornwall a few years ago.

Jacob hardly minds that that’s what she wants to do – she’d been so apologetic going, worrying about him running the farm by himself, but they’ve only ever had a small plot, and he’s never had trouble keeping track of the chickens himself. She was getting on and on in her years, nearly seventy when she’d met Hamish after nine years widowed, and the work had been wearing on her enough that he was really quite glad she’d be so far away and no longer feel obligated to help when it was increasingly beyond her ability.

Apart from keeping track of the girls and setting their eggs along the road to sell at the Barnsleys’ farm shop, he does all manner of things in and around Chesterton town – apart from his own garden, where he’s won a few ribbons for his own rose varieties apart from his mother’s own awards, he does the beds outside the village library, he does the flowers in Burnleigh’s central square, and he always wins this or that at the annual festivals – for his flowers or for his bramble jams, occasionally for flower-arranging, although he doesn’t do that sort of thing too often.

He likes to keep busy, is the thing, and so he’s often doing this or that and getting paid for it, mending fences, helping people repair their rooves or their sheds or help with this or that on other people’s farms, minding things for them when people are away.

The new neighbour is called Piers Hoult, and he lives about a mile down the road just on the edge of the village proper in a nice, fancy little cottage that had used to belong to Mr and Mrs Steele, before Mr Steele had died, and Mrs Steele had gone to live in some sort of residential home close to their grandchildren in the city.

He comes over from The Daisies one Monday morning on foot – he doesn’t drive, and when he goes into the city, he rides an old-fashioned bicycle – and knocks on Jacob’s door, stands on his doorstep.

He’s very pretty, except that Jacob feels that word catch in his head like it’s not the right sort of word – Piers Hoult is undoubtedly handsome, isn’t particularly feminine or girlish-looking or any of that, but he’s… He’s beautiful, is what he is. He’s got big, dark brown eyes that glint in the morning sunshine, his hair thick, dark, and glossy, and his lips are carved into a perfect cupid’s bow, and his skin is a sort of creamy white colour, shined almost to a polish.

“I’m so sorry to bother you, Mr Raine,” he says, wringing delicate hands with beautiful pink nails that have been buffed to a shine. He’s got a very soft voice, barely more than a whisper, but it’s warm and honeyed, sweet. “I’m sure you’re terribly busy, as ever – but would you have any time in the week, do you think, to give me some tips for gardening and that sort of thing?”

“Gardening?” repeats Jacob, drying his hands off on the towel he keeps in the hall, still wet with suds from the washing up.

“I’ve been trying desperately to grow some flowers,” says Piers in his warm, quiet voice. “And I’m having no luck at all.”

The Daisies is mostly stonework in the back and front garden – the Steeles had never been much for gardening.

“Of course, I can help,” he says immediately, unable to hold back the immediate assent. “Let me grab my coat.”

Piers Hoult, he decides in the coming weeks, is cursed.

There’s nothing wrong with his fucking soil, that’s for certain – the Daisies isn’t far from Jacob’s farm, and even if it was the soil, any sort of compost in pots Jacob brings around doesn’t seem to do anything. He fills in the flowerbeds that the Steeles had just had pebbles in, and nothing grows in the earth; he tries to put in pots, and that doesn’t work either.

He grows flowers at home in pots and brings those over, but when he comes back two days later, they’re already dead and wilted in their earth.

“You must think I’m poisoning them,” says Piers miserably, and Jacob assures him, “No, no, of course not!” although privately, he had been thinking that.

But even if he had been putting some sort of poison in the pots, he couldn’t possibly be poisoning everything in the garden, too.

“Do you think it’s my fault?” asks Piers, his eyes wide as dinnerplates. “Is it something wrong with me?”

“No,” says Jacob. “No.”

Piers keeps looking at him, his eyes not quite as wide, his voice barely more than a whisper as he asks, “Are you sure?”

Something about it makes Jacob’s hair stand on end, the back of his neck feeling prickly, a shiver running down his spine.

* * *

Jacob keeps trying.

He tries everything he can – seed trays where the soil stays barren for weeks on end no matter how carefully he coaxes the seedlings to come up; bringing cuttings over, or ready-grown seedlings over that wilt overnight if not before his eyes; bouquets wither within hours.

He brings over a yukka and it takes four days, but bit by bit, he really does watch it die. Before his eyes on day four, already having begun to darken, it dies off entirely, each long, spiky leaf turning brown at the base and yellow at the tip, wilting down and flopping against the trunk, some of them falling off in dead pieces.

It’s late in the evening, and he’d been working all day before coming around here, so exhausted he could cry even though it’s not even eight yet.

“Let me get you a cup of tea,” says Piers, his hand cold and making his body jolt when it lands between his shoulders. He nudges Jacob into the living room, pushing him to sit down on his very plush, antique sofa, the only green thing in the house that won’t fucking die. He slides his palm back and forth over the fabric, looking blearily at the back of the sofa, at its arms. There’s something about it that’s just…

“How old is this?” he asks as Piers pads out of the room, slowly lying down and putting his cheek against the arm, feeling how plush it is. His eyelids are desperately heavy, and he can’t keep his eyes open, but the sofa feels wonderful. It smells faintly of something floral – lavender, he thinks.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Piers’ voice drifts in from the kitchen. “I bought it in 1887, I think.”

In retrospect, he’s pretty sure he dreamed that: he’s embarrassed as anything, but he’s asleep before Piers comes back.

He’d been up since four o’clock, helping with the lambing at the Barnsleys’ across the way before spending all day getting the flowers done in the big park, and then he’d been working in his own garden and tending the girls, and by the time he’d come over to Piers’ he’d been tired to his bones, but that was no excuse for this.

It’s one or so in the morning when he wakes, sitting up sharply.

The nice, fancy living room with all its antique and beautiful furniture that Jacob feels a bit too common to be allowed to be inside is dark, and there’s no sign of Piers himself – he has a splitting headache and his shoulders ache, a glass of water on the coffee table beside him, a blanket over his shoulders.

He’s embarrassed to face up to him, intentionally avoids the other man for a few days – it’s bad enough not to be able to do so much as grow the man a weed, but falling asleep on his fancy sofa still wearing his muck-covered work jeans is humiliating.

The door is unlocked when he leaves.

* * *

He trudges the mile home and sleeps in his own bed, and he’s been awake for a few hours when Piers shows up on his doorstep.

“I’m so sorry, Jacob,” he says, holding a plate of what and smell like fresh-baked pastries, offering out the plate. He’s taking one before he can stop himself, mumbling a thank you. “I know I oughtn’t have left you there, but you just looked so tired—”

“Oh, no, don’t, don’t worry about it,” he says, because if anyone should be fucking apologising, it’s him.

He’s biting into the croissant, almost moans aloud at the taste of it, chocolate and something else, and he nearly chokes on it when Piers reaches out to play with the zip on Jacob’s dungarees.

He doesn’t know what to say about it, what to do, about Piers’ handsome fingers with their impeccably pink nailbeds and their perfectly clean and buffed nails reaching across the gap between them, stroking over the corduroy and making sure the zip of his pocket sits flat.

“I wonder what people thought,” says Piers idly, interrupting him before Jacob can tell him, desperate to tell him something, that these dungarees had been his father’s. “Seeing you rush out of my home at so late an hour.”

Jacob gulps down his mouthful of croissant, and Piers’ smirk grows just a little wider.

“I wouldn’t, um, presume—”

“What are you presuming?” asks Piers, raising his eyebrows and letting one of his fingers curl just under one of the straps of his dungarees. “I’m always terribly happy to have a strong, handsome man in my home.”

When Piers leaves, Jacob is left almost swaying, watching the slight swing of Piers’ arse as he departs.

* * *

He doesn’t try at growing anything else at Piers’ for a little while, focusing on preparing some of his vegetables for the next few months, the prize-winners in his greenhouse. He wonders if a greenhouse would help at Piers’, even just a little plastic one on his garden table, although it probably wouldn’t.

When Piers invites him for dinner, he brings a bouquet of cut flowers, some of his own and his mother’s roses mixed together – in truth, he’s probably more proud of his turnips than he is his roses, but Piers doesn’t eat them.

He’d told Jacob that like it was a terrible secret, whispered it with one finger over his lips, apologetic, almost ashamed – “I don’t eat turnips, Jacob. I don’t eat carrots or potatoes, either.”

He eats meat, certainly.

Jacob is too shy to say the steak Piers has cooked him is a little rare for his taste, especially because Piers eats his own blue, bluer than blue, and there’s a streak of blood on his plate.

A little shines on his lower lip as they eat, and as Jacob watches, stunned and enchanted, Piers slides his thumb slowly through the redness before sucking it from his skin.

“You don’t eat much meat, do you?” asks Piers, cocking his head to one side. “Me, I’m an abject carnivore.”

Jacob shivers.

When Piers kisses him an hour later, Jacob almost expects to fall to the ground, he’s so dizzy with it, but Piers doesn’t taste like blood, which Jacob had expected.

Jacob staggers home feeling like he’s drunk even though he barely had any of the wine Piers had poured him, and almost isn’t upset that the roses he’d brought are already brown.

* * *

Piers visits Jacob’s garden now and then, visits the park and the library and the central square in Burnleigh, wherever it is that Jacob’s working, sits on benches and basks in the sun or reads his books. He’s pretty well-off, as far as Jacob knows, but he honestly doesn’t have an idea what the man actually does for his money.

It seems rude to ask.

It especially seems rude to ask when Piers says that he likes to watch Jacob work, and when Jacob so enjoys Piers enjoying him working – whenever Jacob, sweating, comes up to him, Piers always tugs him into a kiss, like now.

His mouth is slightly open, so that when Piers comes in to kiss him he almost sucks on the side of his jaw, and drags his tongue through the sweat shining there.

Jacob’s knees go weak and he’s laughing, but Piers catches him before he can fall, surprisingly strong for being such a beautiful, delicately built man.

He eats dinner with Piers again, and after they’re done eating, Jacob pulls his surprise out of the basket he’d been keeping it hidden in: a plant pot filled with compost.

“It’s empty,” says Piers, pouting.

“It’ll sprout,” promises Jacob. “You’re going to put it somewhere, and I’ll come every day to tend it until it does.”

Piers smiles, and his white teeth seem so sharp for a second, glinting in the light, when he pulls Jacob into the next kiss. “I know just where to put it,” he murmurs against his mouth, and leads Jacob up the stairs by his wrist.

He indicates the bedside table, says, “Just here.”

His bed is a large, comfortable-looking thing, so plush it seems like you might sink right into it, and it has red silk sheets and a canopy and golden-tasselled ties around its four posts, and as soon as Jacob puts the pot down, he’s shoved down onto this bed on his back.

Piers’ kiss, this time, is more than a dizzying thing: it’s hungry, overpowering, and Jacob’s heart is pounding hard in his chest, his lungs aching with how hard and heavy he’s breathing, how the peaks of pleasure leave his vision going dark at the edges until the edges are all there is.

* * *

He wakes the next day groggy and confused, watching Piers through eyes he’s too exhausted to open fully. Piers looks beautiful, like he’s glowing in the sun shining through the window: he’s entirely naked and gracefully smoking a cigarette, the sun landing on his shining white skin and also on the clouds of white smoke.

“S’a bad habit,” he says out of habit, his words slurring. “It’ll kill you.”

Piers’ laugh is beautiful, musical. It makes Jacob feel like he’s been drenched in icy water.

“Time’s it?” he asks, voice coming out in a clumsy, half-swallowed mumble.

“Oh, about five,” says Piers. “PM.”

“No,” says Jacob, wanting to shake his head but finding himself too dead tired to try.

That can’t be fucking right. They went upstairs when it wasn’t even ten – he can’t have been sleeping a whole seventeen hours and be so exhausted he can barely raise his head.

“So much energy, such strength,” says Piers warmly: his voice is sticky sweet, and it reminds him of tree sap. It reminds him of the way tree sap slides down tree bark, the way ants get caught up in the slide, drowned in it so they can’t even struggle. “And look, darling.”

Jacob flicks his eyes – he can’t move his head – to stare, uncomprehending, at the pot he’d brought with him, which is at Piers’ feet in the sunlight: from amidst the dark soil, a tiny shoot of green is sprouting.

“It might even last,” says Piers sweetly. “You won’t.”

Unable to hold his head up any longer, Jacob falls back onto the bed, and darkness takes him.

FIN.

#short stories #fiction #horror

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poll-ventures · 2 years

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Perdition 1.4

< >

I hung up. I stared at the phone in my hand, its screen showing an old rotary telephone slamming into its receiver.

Numbly, I watched it repeat several times before it faded away into the black of the dead screen. Why had I done that?

What am I doing?

I broke into a sprint down the road, running as fast as I could to the woods.

*****

The woods of Old Hill were untouched. Serene, tranquil, and still easing itself awake from the dusty silence of early morning. I tore through the trees at a sprint, thin vines and branches tearing at my coat as I sped over the cold packed dirt and gnarled forest roots.

I was following a creek, and I was relatively sure it was the same one that Noel meant. I’d seen the maps of the land in the museums, but those had never held much truth when it came to small details like a small creek in the heavy western woods. Noel's parent's mansion had been built only a few decades ago, so I was guessing at a ghost.

I slowed as I approached a large fallen basswood tree, leaning on it as I caught my breath. I really wasn’t made for running, and my lungs screamed with the icy air pulling and pushing out of them. As I sat on the cool bark, I faced the way I’d come, and recognized it.

I’d been here before, with Noel, when she needed a break from her homework, or life in general. This was near the right spot.

“Noel!” I shouted, turning around on the tree to search for her. The quiet, yet alive chatter of the woods slowed as my voice rung out, then returned as it died.

A woodpecker stabbed a rhythm into a far away tree, and the forest all together went on uncaring. I swore under my breath, and moved my legs to straddle the cold dead tree like a horse.

The felled basswood spanned the creek, and I stared down its length as I caught my breath. Moving my gloved hand down the trunk, I found my glove was sticking to something.

It was a carved heart. The injured wood was green and fresh, sap building up and out at the edges of the cut.

The letters in the heart read N + J, then a date. 2-3-23. Very fresh. I stared at the ‘N’, brushing the older sap aside with my thick gloved digits.

Natalie.

The name still burned painfully in my heart, incorrect and shameful in the memories it wrought. One word from a well meaning stranger, one reminder of the date of the accident, that’s all it took.

February 15th, 2020. The night was alive in my mind again, without my asking. I turned my head up, to face the woods.

The woods, as many dark and cold nights on the road had taught me, could be very dangerous. Refusing to drive or even be driven after the accident, I had backpacked my way down from New York.

I’d thought the trip would be quick; Google Maps said ten days, and I thought I'd be in Old Hill in nine, maybe eight days, easy.

After the money for inns and motels had run out, I had realized that walking worked on the same kind of time that hospitals and classes right before lunch did: Slow time.

Time that stretches on until you're sunburnt and dehydrated, until you want to turn back, but that would make things even worse, and everyone back home doesn’t want you there anyway, so just keep on heading down I-81 counting the mile markers.

Slow time traps you in this until your eyes roll into the back of your skull, and you’re willing to sleep on a pile of rusty nails because at least they don’t fucking honk at you for having the gall to walk on the shoulder instead of in the gluttonous mud trench that sucks your falling-apart-shoes down its shit-coated-throat.

So, after a long day of trudging, the sun would go down, sometimes obligingly slow, sometimes slipping right out of slow time and into blink-and-you’ll-miss-it time, diving below the horizon and leaving you soaking wet, struggling with two damp sticks to make a fire.

This, however, was preferable to the perils of the interstate’s shoulder and its many bored, cloying cops and just-like-me vagrants.

If I had to choose, though, it’d be the vagrants. I’d shared a few kind fires with a number of them, sometimes learning their names and their stories, sometimes sitting in uneasy silence until we wandered off to sleep in private.

As the weeks wore on, I had been moving into a cold front, and not sleeping in front of the fire had become impossible.

More often than not, I’d made camp in a thin layer of trees that lined a highway-side property. Sometimes you’d need to hop a fence, which started out hard, but by the second week was routine.

This was technically and legally trespassing, but a camo sleeping bag and a good spot usually got you through the night without disturbance. Usually.

More than once, I’d been woken by something rummaging through my belongings, sometimes even the coat I’d been sleeping in. Sometimes it’d be curious and annoyed animals, but most times it had been people. The cops had always been the worst.

“What you’re doing is illegal,” they’d say, then look at me confused and finish either with “Sir,” or, more often, “Ma’am.” Always with disapproval in their voice and always using more force than needed.

Sometimes they’d let me move on, or I’d get a ride to their office, where they called my father, confirmed he knew where I was, then bewilderedly let me go, usually with a stern warning.

Most cops, when they understood, had offered food and drink for my trip. Some had even offered rides, which I graciously denied. Some offered neither, and just let me go.

One, the worst, had left me locked up in the little town’s singular cell for three days and three nights. It was just outside of West Virginia, right after I’d crossed the Kentucky border.

Jessup, as the nothing little two-road town was called, apparently had trouble keeping folk around. Or so I was told by Jessup’s top boozer, who said his name was Jesse. He’d already been in the cell when I was thrown in.

The officer who’d found me on the side of the road, a mean mugging ugly woman, had given Jesse her meanest mug as she walked away with a clipboard securely tucked beneath one arm.

Jesse of Jessup played harmonica, and drank like a fish. In the morning he was always set free, but at night, he was brought to the cell, what he lovingly and drunkenly called ‘Jesse’s Little Corner of Jessup’.

On my last night in his town, he’d snuck in a small bottle of Fireball, a deck of cards, and his dirty harmonica, still wet from its play in the bar. After the mean-mugger had left for the night, Jesse showed me how to play Hearts, Bullshit, Garbage, and the 'ca.

He was good, and I told him as much. In his jovial way, he corrected me: “I’m not good,” I remembered him slurring, “I’m mean. ‘Jesse,’ you should say. ‘You play a meaaaaan har-moan-i-cah,’ you should be saying.”

So I did, and he cheered. We shared no campfire, but did huddle and did dance around the rattling radiator, him blowing sharply into the ‘cah and me stomping my boots and clapping my hands.

He’d thanked me for my company, and kissed me gently on the cheek. He’d reeked of alcohol and worse, but I thanked him for his good humor, and let him sleep.

After the mean-mugger had exhausted all of her attempts to find me guilty of various crimes, she’d let me go. She had demanded I shower first, staring me down with a disappointed grandmotherly glare. So, thanks to her, I walked out of Jessup and up the highway on-ramp cleaner than I’d been in weeks.

The memory of the mean-faced officer set a worry ablaze in my stomach as I stared down the creek. Again, the stab of the woodpecker cut through the wood’s idle chatter. Why was I out here?

Why in the world had I ignored direct orders from an officer of the law, when they knew my name and phone number? It gnawed at me. I’d never done anything like this.

I finally crossed the log, and stepped off of it onto the other side of the creek. “Noel!” I shouted out again, this time more of a bark. A quick check of the woods revealed nothing but the quiet apathy that suffused the trees. Wasting my time, when she could be in danger. What the fuck am I do-

“Hands up,” a thin, scared voice said from behind me. I recognized the slight southern accent.

“Noel,” I said, half turning my head. “I-”

“I said hands up!” She was shouting now, and I turned to face her with my hands up.

Noel, almost thirteen and dressed in stained Hello Kitty pijamas, held a rifle aimed at my chest. The lever action rifle was almost comically large in her arms, and I laughed nervously, falling, then stepping backwards as she approached me slowly, gun held level against her shoulder. She was trying not to cry.

“Where is my father,” she asked in a broken voice, screwing up her face in a grimace.

“I-I don’t know, Noel, what are you doing? I came here to help you,” I blurted out, still holding my hands in the air carefully. “Please, put the gun down.”

She shook her head. “Answer me,” she said, waving it in the air. She stood on the basswood I had crossed the creek on, and faced me, searching my face for a clue.

“I don’t know,” I repeated, feeling the cold press of a tree against my back. The creek babbled quietly next to us, and I stared at her. We both stood, unmoving.

Carefully, she stared at me, then raised the gun to point at my head. “Stop fucking lying!” she barked at me. I flinched, closing my eyes.

“I’m not! The cops said you were missing, nothing about your dad! I don’t know what the hell is going on, I just want you to stop pointing that thing at me,” I said, breathing heavily.

“Bullshit,” she spat, the curse sounding foreign in her light voice. “Don’t move,” she said, and braced the rifle against her with one arm as she dug in her pocket for something. Then she threw it at me, and adjusted her grip on the gun.

Her phone landed next to me in the leaves, the screen lighting up to show a picture of Noel and her mother, smiling happily in a selfie. I looked up at her, facing the glare of the rifle’s blackened metal barrel. She stared at me, raw anger in her eyes.

“You know the passcode,” she growled. “Open it. Watch the video.” I blinked, then nodded, crouching slowly and taking my right hand down to put in the numbers. 9-2-1-2. Her birthday.

The phone opened, showing a paused recording of a computer monitor. The woodpecker stabbed his staccato into a nearby tree. I tapped on the screen, then pressed play.

The video was a recording of the security system in the house I’d lived in until yesterday, portrayed in black and white. It was a view from the top of the grand staircase, watching the front door and most of the upstairs balcony, and the time in the bottom left corner read 2:03 A.M..

Noel, holding the camera in the video, was quietly and carefully breathing, the view slowly moving with her breath. The time in security footage flipped to 2:04 A.M.. The real Noel’s breathing suddenly broke out in a gentle shaking wheeze, I wasn’t sure if she was sobbing, or laughing. “Keep watching,” she choked, seeing I was looking up at her.

Car headlights streamed through the front door’s windows, casting shadows on the wall of the balcony floor. The balustrade’s shadows fled quickly across the wall, then slowly melted away as the headlights died. A moment passed, and then the door opened. Noel’s father walked in.

Kyle Montgomery was a tall man, ambiguously young but mature and well kept. Grey was seeping in at the top of his scalp, peppering his blond, jaw length hair. Carefully hanging his keys on a hook near the door, he stared at himself in the full length mirror next to the door, straightening out his thin mustache and checking his jawline.

He mussed up his hair, then turned his head back and forth to check if it was correctly incorrect. Nodding in approval, he shrugged off his heavy business coat, and let it drop to the floor as he walked up the stairs. He shed his suit and loosened his tie, leaving him with just a tailored pinstripe button up tucked into perfect black slacks.

As he rose to the top of the stairs, he stopped and carefully undid the highest button of his shirt, the tie hanging loosely about his chest like an ascot.

Then, he paused, staring down at the mess of his coat on the ground, the stairs, then the hall the opposite way, where his wife and child were asleep. He looked small in the video, and suddenly very tired. Still facing his bedroom, he raised his hand gently to his mouth, and bit down softly on it.

He turned to face my bedroom, biting down on his own flesh hard enough to draw a bead of blood. He walked to my door, then knocked on it, drawing his wounded hand to his side, near his hip. He looked as if he were going to draw a sword, though nothing was there, just his right hand hovering a few inches away from his left hip.

The door opened, and I was standing in the crack. I was dressed in pijamas, and looked at him confused. He said something, the recording silent. In the past, I nodded, widening the door.

My brain felt like it was dropped in a bath of ice water, pure confusion washing over me. “What the fuck?” I said aloud, watching myself open the door further, letting him step in. I walked away, disappearing into the room as he slipped through the doorway, then closed it.

I stared at my door in the video, nauseated. “Noel,” I said, staring up at her from the floor of the forest. “I don’t remember this.” My voice was cracking, confusion and fear seeping into my words from my core.

“Bullshit,” she croaked. She readjusted the grip on the rifle. “I’ve literally seen you do it. I watched you open that door for him! I don’t know what you’re doing in there, but it’s got to be why he’s gone. Where is he?”

“Noel,” I pleaded, “That’s not me. There’s no way, I’m not lying. I wouldn’t do that to you, or your mom,” I said. “Beli-”

“I don’t believe you,” she shouted, almost sobbing now. “You’re a liar. You stole my dad, or killed him, or something, ‘cause you knew it wasn’t right. Almost every night at two A.M., since you got here. Look!” She gestured towards her phone with the rifle.

I looked down carefully, cringing away from the gun as it came back up to point at me. Noel in the video was shaking, watching as her father left my room, five minutes after he had entered it.

He looked the same as when he’d entered, save for the blood and bite mark on his hand. They were gone. He walked calmly down the stairs, grabbed his coat, and left the house. The car’s headlights cast the familliar shadows in reverse.

The camera spun, and the mouse on the desktop shakily moved to a new folder, reading 2/13/23. Two days ago. The mouse maneuvered to the video file labeled 200, the second file in the folder, and opened it.

Almost on the dot at 2:03 A.M., Mr. Montgomery stepped into the foyer, shrugged his coat onto the floor, then climbed the stairs.

This time, he didn’t pause on the way to my door to bite his hand, stopping only to knock, clearly hover his hand over his empty hip, then enter my room.

I hadn’t even looked up at him. I’d just let him in.

“What the fuck,” I whispered hoarsely.

The mouse skimmed the video to five minutes later, when Kyle exited punctually, closing the door after him carefully, then taking the stairs two at a time to leave the mansion.

The video then clicked through random nights at two A.M., watching the same process occur many times over, sped up.

Sometimes he bit his hand, sometimes he just knocked. Always, his hand reached for the empty space at his left hip. I watched, silently, until the video ended suddenly in the middle of a night.

Noel had been staring at me the entire time, burning with silent rage. “Just tell me.”

I took a deep breath, and sat on the cold, packed dirt. “I don’t know, Noel. That’s not me. There’s no way…”

I wasn’t one to repress memories. My worst traumatic memories, I could remember in painful detail, burned into the fabric of my being. It could be an actor, but no, I’d been there at two A.M., almost every weeknight for a year. I could very distinctly remember my nights, they were usually taken up with studying and listening to music.

A coldly horrible idea formed in my head. He could have been drugging me to make me forget. Something in a drink, or something in food. He hadn’t been carrying anything in with him…

But it could’ve been in his pocket. I writhed in disgust, and I drew my knees up to my chest, feeling my breath hitch inside me as I stared emptily at the phone.

“What the fuck was he doing to me,” I said, hollow, not really there, not really meaning to. What had he done to me? Why couldn’t I remember? If he was drugging me inside of my room, how had I let him in? Would I let that man in my room if he knocked? No. Definitely no. “What the fuck,” I whispered, rocking slightly.

“Parker?” Noel asked softly.

“No,” I stated, almost to myself. “It’s a fake, a fake video or a fake set that he made to set me up. It’s just an actor, just…” Noel was staring at me, shaking her head.

“What do you mean?” She asked, lowering the rifle a little, stepping towards me.

“He was never home, he could’ve been, I don’t know, setting this up? There’s no way I’d let him into my room. I don’t even like your father as a person, let alone,” I stopped, feeling bile rise in my chest. “No. This isn’t real.” I stated firmly, and felt like I was coming back to myself, at least a little.

“No, Parker,” she said, stepping back again and raising the rifle. “I watched you do it. After I recorded this, I stayed up to watch you. He knocked, you let him in.”

“No,” I pleaded.

“Please, don’t lie,” Noel whispered.

“Stop calling me a fucking liar! I don’t remember any of this!” I was shouting now, on my knees in front of her.

"Just tell me the truth!" She cried, matching my intensity.

"I am!" I screamed I picked up the phone, throwing it back to her harder than I needed to. She staggered backward, shocked.

"Liar." Noel almost growled the word, dripping with resentment.

She bent to pick up her phone, momentarily hugging the rifle against her chest, hand still on the trigger guard. It was pointed at me. My eyes darted up to Noel's. She wasn’t looking at me.

What do you do?

< >

#Perdition 1.4 #Perdition #tw deadnaming #tw gun mention #tw implied abuse #tw offscreen abuse #tw cops #interactive game #interactive fiction #interactive novel #interactive writing #choose your own adventure #cyoa #poll #polls #adventure prep #tw alcohol #tw unsanitary #tw gaslighting

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ukrainenews · 2 years

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Daily Wrap Up October 9, 2022

Under the cut:

A Russian missile attack early on Sunday struck an apartment block and other residential buildings in Ukraine’s southeastern city of Zaporizhzhia, killing at least 13 people and injuring 87 others, including 10 children, Ukrainian officials said.

Engineers restored external power to the Zaporizhzhia Nuclear Power Plant on Oct. 9, a day after the facility lost connection to its last remaining operating power line due to shelling, forcing the plant to switch on its emergency generators, Director General Rafael Mariano Grossi of the International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA) said in a statement

Ukrainian authorities have exhumed the first 20 bodies – including children, civilians and soldiers – from makeshift graves in Lyman, Donetsk Oblast.

Car traffic on the Crimean bridge has resumed in two lanes, Deputy Prime Minister of Russia Marat Khusnullin said in a Telegram post Sunday. Train traffic has also resumed on the bridge, but larger vehicles like heavy trucks, vans and buses continue to use ferry boats.

Russian President Vladimir Putin blamed Ukrainian special services for blowing up the Crimean bridge.

“A Russian missile attack early on Sunday struck an apartment block and other residential buildings in Ukraine’s southeastern city of Zaporizhzhia, killing at least 13 people and injuring 87 others, including 10 children, Ukrainian officials said.

The pre-dawn fusillade was the second of its kind against the city in three days. It came a day after a blast hit Russia’s road-and-rail bridge to Crimea, the key supply line for Russian forces battling to hold territory around the southern Ukrainian city of Kherson.

Russian aircraft launched at least 12 missiles into Zaporizhzhia in the latest strike, partially destroying a nine-storey apartment block, leveling five other residential buildings and damaging many more, said Oleksandr Starukh, governor of the Zaporizhzhia region.

"Twelve missiles came, all from planes," he said on state-run television.

At least 13 people died and 87 others were wounded, 60 of whom were hospitalized, regional officials said. The wounded included 10 children.

The rescue operation at the nine-storey apartment building was complicated by a fire that broke out in the rubble, Starukh said.

"We pulled people out quickly and saved eight people already, but when the fire starts then people (under the rubble) have practically no chance of surviving as there is no oxygen," he added.

Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskiy condemned the attack as "absolute evil" by people he called "savages and terrorists", vowing those responsible would be brought to justice.

Zaporizhzhia city, about 52 km (30 miles) from a Russian-held nuclear power plant, has been under frequent shelling in recent weeks, with 19 people killed on Thursday.

“Zaporizhzhia again. Merciless strikes on peaceful people again. On residential buildings, just in the middle of the night," Zelenskiy said on the Telegram messaging app.

Emergency workers and firefighters cordoned off the nine-storey building and dug for survivors and casualties in the smouldering rubble of a massive central section that had collapsed.

The blast wrecked cars and left torn metal window frames, balconies and air conditioners dangling from the building’s shrapnel-pitted facade.

Rescue workers carried the bodies of residents who died out through a window and laid them out on the ground under blankets and in body bags.

Most of the Zaporizhzhia region, including the nuclear plant, have been under Russian control since the early days of Russia's invasion. The capital of the region, Zaporizhzhia city, remains under Ukrainian control.

Ukraine, the United States, the European Union, and human rights organizations have accused Russia of committing war crimes since its full-scale invasion began in February, saying attacks on civilian infrastructure, including schools and hospitals, have killed and wounded thousands of people.

Moscow denies deliberately attacking civilians during what it calls a “special military operation” to demilitarize its neighbour.”-via Reuters

“Engineers restored external power to the Zaporizhzhia Nuclear Power Plant on Oct. 9, a day after the facility lost connection to its last remaining operating power line due to shelling, forcing the plant to switch on its emergency generators, Director General Rafael Mariano Grossi of the International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA) said in a statement.

"After the repair work was successfully completed, the 750-kilovolt line was reconnected to Europe’s largest nuclear power plant in the evening, enabling it to start switching off the emergency diesel generators that had provided it with backup electricity since the connection was cut early on Saturday," Grossi said.

Ukraine’s state nuclear operator Energoatom reported on Oct. 8 that overnight shelling had cut power to the nuclear plant, which requires cooling to avoid a meltdown, forcing it to resort to its emergency generators.

After the power was cut, Energoatom head Petro Kotin told the BBC that the diesel generators have a limited supply of fuel. “If (the generators) run out of fuel, after that they will stop, and after that, there will be a disaster… there will be a melting of the active core and a release of radioactivity from there,” Kotin said.

The nuclear power plant's six reactors are currently in a "cold shutdown" but still require power for cooling and other essential nuclear safety and security operations.

Russia has occupied the plant since early March and has been using it as a base to launch attacks on Ukraine.”-via Kyiv Independent

“Ukrainian authorities have exhumed the first 20 bodies – including children, civilians and soldiers – from makeshift graves in Lyman, Donetsk Oblast.

The identification procedure is complex, as "most of the bodies are in a state of change; there is a package that contains only bones," Ukraine's National Police reported on Oct. 9.

The police say the exhumation works continue at two mass burial sites, where there may be about 200 civilian bodies.

Since Sept. 29, Ukrainian authorities have found 87 bodies in Donetsk Oblast.”-via Kyiv Independent

“Car traffic on the Crimean bridge has resumed in two lanes, Deputy Prime Minister of Russia Marat Khusnullin said in a Telegram post Sunday.

“Traffic has already been launched along two lanes on the Crimean bridge,” Khusnullin wrote, adding that earlier, one lane was being used for cars traveling in both directions, slowing down traffic since the explosion.

The deputy prime minister also posted a video showing the cars moving in two lanes across the Kerch bridge.

“Lighting was adjusted on the road part, new markings were applied, barrier fences were restored,” Khusnullin added. “Now it will be possible to drive faster on the bridge by car.”

Train traffic has also resumed on the bridge, but larger vehicles like heavy trucks, vans and buses continue to use ferry boats.”-via CNN

“Russian President Vladimir Putin blamed Ukrainian special services for blowing up the Crimean bridge.

Source : Putin during a meeting with the head of the SC of the Russian Federation Oleksandr Bastrykin, reports RIA Novosti and TASS

Details : According to Putin, the authors, executors and customers of the bombing of the Crimean bridge are the special services of Ukraine.

The President of the Russian Federation also called the undermining of the bridge a "terrorist attack".

Putin's direct speech : "Here... there is no doubt. This is a terrorist attack aimed at destroying Russia's critically important civilian infrastructure."”-via Pravda (Ukrainian language source)

#Daily Update #Ukraine #Russia #War in Ukraine #Crimea #Zaporizhzhia #lyman #donetsk

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