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fuckyeahdindjarin · 1 year ago

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Voicemail

A Seams oneshot, but can be read independently of the series

{ Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Rating: T

Summary: You find Joel's old Nokia at the back of a drawer.

Warnings: Angst, description of a panic attack, grief, comfort, no use of Y/N, reader has a nickname related to her job, reader has no physical description, definitely incorrect description of how mobile phones work, very lightly edited.

As always, Seams oneshots are set on a relaxed timeline. Voicemail can be considered to take place at an unspecified time after Part IV.

Word count: 1.8k

Notes: I don't know if anyone has written anything similar, but I've always wanted to write something about Joel's Nokia (the idea for Butter actually came from the phone scene in episode 1 - can't you tell? lol). This idea took me by surprise one night and didn't let me go.

Important note: I know voicemails don't work this way, but let's pretend that they are saved onto the mobile phone itself and can be accessed decades later, and that a Nokia can indeed survive the apocalypse.

After the outbreak, after Sarah, after missing his shot - he doesn’t remember much of those early, blurry days. Tommy barely managed to drag his catatonic ass to an abandoned house somewhere on the outskirts of town, where he had to punch him in the face to snap him out of it.

It being a cocktail of shock, grief, pain and numbness that should’ve killed him, could’ve killed any man. And for the longest time he wished that it did.

It was in the aftershock of that punch, left cheek snapped to his shoulder and his eyes downcast, that Joel saw his Nokia was still clipped to his belt, by some miracle unscathed when everything else had fallen apart.

And he keeps it all these years.

He hadn’t meant to take it with him when he packed up his meagre life to leave Boston behind. But the grubby afternoon light glanced off the screen when he was grabbing maps and hammers from under the dusty floorboards, and with a fuck it, he shrugged and shoved it into the bottom of his backpack.

If he was being honest with himself, it didn’t feel right leaving it behind.

And so the phone made it to Jackson, and survived the detour to Salt Lake City, largely forgotten. Joel was almost surprised by the sight of it when he finally unpacked his bag in the house that was now his and Ellie’s.

With a wry smile, he tossed it into a nondescript drawer in the garage, never to see the light of day again.

Until one weekend, Joel asks you to help him find some obscure screwdriver in his garage, not able to get up from where he’s on his back, stemming the flow of the perpetually leaky sink in Ellie’s bathroom.

The space is cool, the shutters down and the air dank from the lack of sun. Under the flickering fluorescent light, you go through a frankly ridiculous number of toolboxes without sighting the elusive screwdriver. With a sigh, you try the middle drawer in the workbench, which is clogged with what looks like everything under the sun.

Your lips twitch - Joel Miller is a messy man.

Digging around the random clutter, you startle when your fingers brush the long-forgotten, yet instantly familiar plastic case of the Nokia.

Wrapping your hand around the rectangular frame, you smile, in disbelief that you’re holding a mobile phone. You had a similar one that got lost in the confusion of the first days of the outbreak, and you haven’t seen one in the years since. At least not one in such good condition.

Joel’s faraway voice jolts you out of your thoughts. ‘Found it, sweetheart?’

‘Just a second!’ you call back.

Tucking the phone back where it came from, you grab the nearest screwdriver and hope for the best.

It takes you a few days of asking around town, poking around dusty storerooms and untangling twenty year-old electric cords, but you eventually find what you’re looking for, and there’s a spring in your step as you cook dinner that evening.

Joel seems to pick up on your energy, and he grins, amused, when he brings in the empty dishes after you eat.

‘You’re buzzin’ out of your skin, sweetheart,’ he teases, grabbing you by the waist. ‘What’s up with you?’

You cock your head to the side. ‘Well, I have a surprise for you.’

‘Is that so?’ he hums, then lets his voice drop an octave in playful insinuation. ‘What kind of surprise, hmm?’

‘Not that kind of surprise,’ you huff with a smile. ‘It’s - it’s hard to explain.’

‘Try me.’

Twisting out of his grip, you open a cabinet and pull out something that fits neatly in your palm. Joel frowns, confused by what looks like - a charger.

When you speak, it’s slow, as if you don’t want to startle him. ‘There’s a whole warehouse of wires and things down by the canteen. A patrol stumbled across an electronics shop in a nearby town a few years ago.’

He gives you a crooked smile. ‘And what am I s’pposed to do with it, sweetheart?’

You take a moment, making sure that his eyes are on you before the words come out. ‘I found the Nokia in your garage the other day, when I was looking for the screwdriver.’

You watch as Joel processes your words, and he goes still, stiller than you’ve ever seen him.

Then he blinks and shuffles his feet, glancing down at the charger. ‘I - I didn’t expect this.’

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. ‘I know. And you don’t have to do anything with it, really, but I just wanted you to have it.’

He nods, slowly. ‘Ok.’

Hesitating, you stutter, ‘So, um, do you - want to take it -?’

Joel holds his hand out, calloused palm quietly upturned. You half expect him to jump at the contact, but he doesn’t move a muscle when the black wire lands in his grasp, and his thick fingers curl around them.

‘I got the dishes, if you want to go first,’ you prompt softly.

Joel swallows, then nods. ‘Yeah, I think I’ll do that. If y’ don’t mind, sweetheart.’

‘Of course,’ you smile, pressing a kiss to his lips.

It’s cold outside, but he doesn’t feel it, not when the charger seems to be burning a hole in his hand. When he gets back to his house - empty, Ellie is at Lucy’s for dinner - he heads straight to the garage, and tugs open the drawer.

The Nokia stares back at him, screen blank.

Flinging the charger into the drawer without seeing where it lands, he shoves the drawer close with a snap.

Weeks pass. It hangs in the back of his mind like a spector, even though you don’t bring it up again, and he doesn’t either.

He’s not sure if he’s afraid of it, or dreading it, or worst of all - hopeful of what he would find on it.

It’s been twenty years. Electronics don’t last that long. It’s gotta be wiped clean.

One Wednesday night, Ellie is upstairs, music blaring, doing ‘homework’ or whatever she does on a weeknight (he doesn’t believe in helicopter parenting), and Joel finds his thoughts drifting to that damn drawer.

Feeling reckless, he reaches for the top shelf in the kitchen, pours himself two fingers of whiskey, and charges into the garage.

Hopping onto a workstool, he takes a big gulp of liquid courage and sets the tumbler on the work surface. Before his resolve slips completely out of touch, he yanks on the handle, and he winces when the drawer yawns open with a screech.

The Nokia feels foreign to the touch, like he’s forgotten how to hold a phone. It was, of course, glued to his ear almost all hours of the day and night once upon a time. He turns the plastic case over and the other way around again, smoothing the pad of his thumb over the buttons.

There’s no putting it off forever.

In goes the plug into the electric socket, and he looks down, phone in the left hand, the end of the charger in the other.

He thinks he’s seeing double until he realises that his hands are fucking shaking.

In one determined motion, he slots the charger into the bottom of the phone and drops it like it’s acid.

Then he downs the rest of his whiskey.

He’s not sure how long he stares, the very air around him as unmoving as himself, and he feels the alcohol spread its warm fingers through his veins.

Just when he’s about to look away, it happens.

The battery sign appears on the screen.

Joel almost chokes on a chuckle. He can’t fucking believe it. You really can’t kill a Nokia if you tried.

It doesn’t take long for the familiar home screen to pop up, the time on the top right corner, the battery in the bottom right. The bright green glare casts a cool glow in the dim. Joel picks up the phone, only to be nearly knocked backwards off the chair when the words flash across the screen.

1 NEW VOICEMAIL.

He’s sure his heart has stopped, it definitely feels like it, a deadweight in his chest sinking into his stomach. But he hears it, the relentless beat of it, pounding violently in his ears. Too fast. Gripping the edge of the work surface, he tries to breathe, mouth open, but air isn’t getting in.

It could be nothing. Could be a voicemail he missed from a client that night, or a junk call.

He’s not sure if he’s afraid of it, or dreading it, or worst of all -

He’s trembling so badly that he needs both hands to hold the phone steady, just so that his thumb presses the selection key.

He doesn’t hear the pre-recorded message, his brain skips it entirely. Then there’s five seconds of silence, and his life flashes before his eyes at the familiar beep -

Dad, are you on your way home? Please tell me you remembered the cake. Uncle Tommy bet me ten dollars that you won’t and I kinda need that lunch money tomorrow. See you soon, love you dad -

And everything goes white.

When Joel comes around, he’s on his knees, the empty tumbler in crystalline pieces around him. The phone is no longer attached to the charger, clutched so tightly in his hands that he feels the imprint of every button in his palm.

He won’t know that his face is wet with tears until you thumb the streaks off his cheeks on your doorstep minutes later, no memory of how he got there. You draw him into you, but your embrace barely contains his broad frame.

You can’t get him far in his state, whiskey on his breath and shivering all over. You drag him across the living room and onto the couch, where you curl up against him, warming him up with your body heat, cradling his head on your chest. The candlelight bounces off the phone screen, which glows green in his grasp.

It will take him weeks to get his head around what you have given him. And when he does, he will ask if you want to hear Sarah’s voice - shyly - as if you would ever say no.

Watching him watch you, Sarah’s warm, fun-loving voice in your ear, the seams of your lashes sting with tears as your heart clenches, swells, breaks for him - and then put together again by his hand finding you, fingers filling the gaps between yours.

But for now, he lies prostrate, his weight pinning you to the couch, as you comb soothing fingers through his hair, anchoring him to you.

‘I got you, Joel,’ you whisper in his ear, and his eyelids droop and his breathing evens out, as if he’s run a thousand miles. ‘I got you.’

As he drifts off to sleep - his baby girl's love you dad echoing between his ears - he knows that you do.

More notes: I don't lean too hard into angst in my fics as a rule, so this took me places I haven't been for a while, but it's ok cos Pin's got our man 🥺 Thank you for reading, as always! ❤️

#fuckyeahseams #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x fem!reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller angst #joel miller oneshot #joel miller imagine #the last of us fanfiction

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birdie-in-arcadia · 3 days ago

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In Our Wake

Chapter 12 is here, and this one is long and emotional, so as always, read at your own discretion, loves. Enjoy <3

CHAPTER TWELVE — RETURN (Vessel’s POV)

It’s strange how quickly time stretches when you’re trying not to feel anything. The flat has been… silent. Clean. Predictable. Exactly what I thought I needed. But now that I’m back, I realize I’ve missed the noise more than I ever expected. The clatter of equipment cases. The soft strum of IV warming up before soundcheck. The barely veiled sarcasm in III’s voice when he’s pretending everything’s fine. And her. Especially her.

I don’t see her straightaway. We’re back at a venue in Glasgow, somewhere between beautiful and broken. Cracked tiles in the green room, velvet couches that have seen too much. Home in a strange way. I unpack in silence, letting the weight of the room settle back around me. Then I see her. She’s sitting in a folding chair near the stage door, knees tucked to her chest, notebook open but the pen motionless in her hand. Her face is turned slightly toward the window, catching what little grey light leaks in from the alley beyond. She doesn’t see me yet. She looks smaller. Thinner, maybe. Tired in a way I can’t place; not just physically, but spiritually. I cross the room slowly. No need to announce myself. She looks up just before I reach her.

And there it is, the flicker in her eyes. Not surprise. Not quite relief. Something quieter. Something like grief and hope tangled up together. “Hi,” she says, soft. “Hi,” I reply. She looks at me like she’s trying to read a book she used to know by heart but can’t quite remember the ending of. I want to ask how she’s been, but I already know. I want to ask if she missed me, but I don’t want to hear it if the answer is yes. Because if she did, I’ll never be able to leave again.

She closes the notebook slowly. “Didn’t think you’d come back,” she says. “I wasn’t gone forever.” “No,” she says, looking down at her lap. “Just long enough.” I sit beside her, but not too close. She doesn’t flinch. That feels like something.

We sit there for a while. Saying nothing. Breathing in each other’s presence like a song we’re both afraid to sing out loud. I finally say, “You seem… different.” She smiles faintly. “So do you.” A pause. “Are you okay?” I ask. She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “I don’t know,” she says, and it’s the most honest thing I’ve heard in weeks.

Before we’re called to soundcheck, she glances at me. “You really didn’t want to be near me, did you?” I look at her. “It wasn’t that,” I say gently. “I just... needed space from the turmoil. I needed to write, but I couldn’t focus at the house...” I lie. Her breath catches. “So, you abandoned me at my lowest point to write fucking songs? Knowing that you were the only thing I had to keep me sane?” she asks, fury leaking out through her gritted teeth.

My heart falls out of my chest and straight through the floor. I want to tell her everything. I want so, so badly to explain myself and lay everything out on the table, but I can’t. I can’t complicate things for her any more than they already are. If she needs to hate me for this, then that’s okay. Maybe that’ll be better in the long run.

I stay silent for a moment before I apologize to her. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, love, I promise I didn’t.” But before she can respond, someone calls my name from down the corridor. She nods once, almost to herself, and gathers her notebook, standing slowly. “Guess we should get back to it.” she says in an attempt to be dismissive as if the conversation didn’t hurt her. I understand why. She’s got her walls up again, and it’s my fault. I nod. But long after she walks away, I remain seated. Because I know this now: distance didn’t protect either of us. It only made the inevitable louder.

__________ (My POV)

Vessel's back, just like that. No warning. No explanation. He’s here again, like the silence he left behind didn’t cut clean through me. Like being abandoned by my only friend didn’t push me off the edge and into a deep, dark headspace. I tell myself not to feel anything about it. But of course, I do.

When I first saw him, standing there in the shadow of the stage door, hoodie sleeves pushed up, eyes unreadable, I almost said his name out loud. Almost. Instead, I said hi like we were strangers who remember too much. And when he answered, it felt like someone had lit a candle in the middle of a cold room.

I should’ve said more. I should’ve said where the hell did you go? I should’ve said I missed you every night you weren’t there. But I didn’t. Because part of me still believes I don’t have the right to be angry at someone who never promised me anything.

__________

Later, after soundcheck, I find myself alone in the corridor, leaning against the wall. That’s when III finds me. His steps are quiet today. Careful. “Hey,” he says, soft. I look at him. He looks… haunted. Tired in a way I recognize in myself. Eyes rimmed with a kind of sorrow I’ve seen before, but never aimed inward like this. “I meant what I said the other night,” he continues. “About being sorry.”

I nod, but my chest is a coil of something I can’t name. He steps a little closer. “I don’t know how to undo what I’ve done,” he says. “But I want to be better. For you. For us.” And I want to believe him. God, I want to. Because there’s a part of me that still remembers who he was before all this. There’s a part of me that I think still loves him and wishes to see him succeed. The fire. The thrill. The way he made me feel like the center of gravity. But I also remember the yelling. The nights he made me question whether I was the problem. The words he threw like knives. The silence that followed when he realized he’d cut me too deep. “I need time,” I tell him, my tone flat, but defeated. His jaw tenses. Just a flicker. “Time for what?” “To figure out if I’m still in love with you,” I say. “Or just in love with the memory of who you used to be.” He doesn’t answer. Just nods once, sharp and unreadable.

Then he walks away, hands in his pockets, shoulders tight like he’s trying not to collapse in on himself. When I’m alone again, I exhale like I haven’t been breathing for days. And the worst part? I’m still not sure who I’m angry at more; him, for hurting me, or Vessel, for leaving when I was breaking. I sob silently, my shoulders trembling as the dams behind my eyes break.

__________

That night, I find Vessel in the green room. He’s tuning his guitar, head down, completely absorbed. I stand there a moment, just taking him in. He doesn’t look up, but h doesn’t need to. Somehow, he knows it’s me. “I didn’t mean to disappear,” he says, quiet. I sit beside him, arms crossed. “You did, though.” I murmur. “I know.” he replies solemnly. “You left me alone with all of it. With him.” He nods. “I thought it was the right thing to do.” “Why?” “Because being near you was starting to hurt.” I look at him then, really look. And he looks wrecked in the way only someone who kept everything inside too long can be. And suddenly I don’t want to argue. I just want to understand.

__________ (My POV)

I don’t sleep, not really. I doze, more like. I watch headlights bleed across the ceiling of the hotel room like ghosts trying to get in. Sometimes I hear Vessel’s voice in the back of my mind. Quiet. Careful. “Being near you was starting to hurt.”

It keeps echoing. Not because I didn’t know it. But because I didn’t want to admit I felt it too. I could tell that I was just dragging him down right along with me. I really shouldn’t even be upset that he left. He did what was best for him, and I can’t fault him for that. He did what I still don’t know if I have the strength to do.

The band’s call time is mid-morning, but I’m up early. Wandering. Coffee in one hand, jumper sleeves tugged past my knuckles. No one stops me as I make my way through the quiet hallways.

I find myself in the venue's small backstage lounge, still empty, lit by cold grey morning light. I sit cross-legged on the couch, mug balanced between my palms, and let the quiet press in. It feels like the only thing that makes sense anymore.

I think I’m grieving. Not a death, but something close. Grieving the version of myself that believed love could fix things. Grieving the boy I fell for, who lit up a room and made me feel like the only thing he wanted to hold onto. Grieving the space between me and Vessel, safe and sacred. But it doesn’t feel like something I’m allowed to want, either. Not after being accused of sleeping with him multiple times, or after dragging him right down into my personal life bullshit. I feel guilty that it’s affected him on this large of a scale. I never meant for it to happen. I just needed someone.

I tried so hard to keep everyone together. To smooth over cracks with innocent affection. But now I feel hollow. And no one notices how quiet I've become, because I was always the quiet one beside the chaos.

When I close my eyes, I remember the first time III kissed me. The thrill. The fall. The fire. Now, when I picture him, I see the look in his eyes when he told me I was just like the others. And when I picture Vessel… I see hands that never reached for me without asking. I see a room made safe just by his presence. But he left, and I don’t know what that makes him anymore.

The door creaks open behind me, slow. I don’t turn around. I know that footstep. Vessel says nothing at first. Then: “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.” “I could say the same.” He hesitates. “Are you alright?” “I don’t know,” I whisper. And there it is again; honesty, raw and painful. He doesn’t sit next to me, he just stands near the door, unsure. Instead, I say: “I feel like I’m mourning someone who’s still alive.” He finally steps forward. “That’s the hardest kind of grief,” he says. “The kind that still breathes.”

We stay like that for a long time. Quiet, still, not healed, but not alone either.

__________ (Vessel’s POV)

I’ve never felt this useless before. Not on tour. Not in music. Not even in grief. Because with music, I can give something back. I can channel pain; alchemize it into something people find meaning in. But with her… I can’t make a sound that will make any of this right. She said she feels like she’s mourning someone who’s still alive, and I know exactly who she meant. And I hate that I couldn’t stop it. I hate that I left her behind in that room, in that house, in that wreckage. I told myself I was protecting her. Protecting the band. Protecting myself. But mostly, I was afraid. Afraid of what I’d say if I stayed. Afraid of touching something I couldn’t ever take back. Afraid of ruining my brotherhood within the band. Because I don’t just love her, I ache for her. And I think part of me has since the day I saw her in that lounge.

When she spoke today, sitting cross-legged in that empty lounge, voice cracked and far away, I didn’t know how to breathe properly. She looked like a flame that had run out of air. Not extinguished, just… flickering. Smoldering. I wanted to reach for her, but something stopped me. The same thing that’s always stopped me. Respect. Restraint. Fear. If I reach for her now, it won’t be out of comfort. It’ll be because of want. And that kind of want has teeth.

She’s still with him. Technically. But even he must see it; the way she’s slipping further away each time he tries to hold her tighter. He never learned that love isn’t about possession. It’s about presence. And presence, real presence, doesn’t leave bruises behind, literal or metaphorical.

I pick up my notebook and write a few bars. Chords that feel like autumn; soft endings and the promise of something colder underneath. I write until the ache in my fingers distracts me from the ache in my chest. It doesn’t help, but it’s something.

Maybe IV was right all along. Maybe I should’ve said something sooner. But if I had, she might never have trusted me the way she does now. And maybe, just maybe, the only reason she’s still standing, however unsteady, is because I didn’t say the thing I’ve been dying to say.

I love you. I love you enough to wait. Even if you never choose me. Even if you never know what that wait has cost me. I. Love. You.

__________ (III’s POV)

I think I’m losing her. And worse than that, I think she’s already checked out.

She’s still here. Still walking these halls. Still sitting on the far side of green rooms with either a cup of tea or coffee between her hands like it’s the only thing holding her together. But her eyes don’t find me anymore. And when they do, they’re empty, lifeless, and they don’t stay. We used to be gravity. We used to be the only creatures on the planet who could love each other this much, more than anyone has ever loved anyone. Now she floats around me like something untethered. Completely disconnected. Like a ghost who hasn’t realized they’re dead yet.

And I fucking hate how much I miss the version of her that looked at me like I was everything. Like the world would stop turning if she wasn’t by my side. But what I hate more is the version of me who burned that out of her. I saw her talking to Vessel again. She talks to him more than anybody else lately, even me. Especially me. Didn’t have to hear what was said. The way her shoulders softened. The way she looked up when he walked in, like she was remembering how to be a person again.

And him. Always still. Always present. Like he’s been standing in the same place all along just waiting for her to notice he never moved. I believe she’s already forgiven him for disappearing. I just wish it were that easy for her to forgive me. But I didn’t abandon her. What I’ve done is much worse. I’ve made her abandon herself.

Part of me wants to hit him. Not because he’s done anything wrong. Because he hasn’t done anything wrong. And maybe that’s the part that kills me most. Seems like everyone around me is just so fucking perfect. Why did she choose me over them? Her judgement is shite, I’ll tell you that. The prospect that I’m probably one of the worst decisions she’s made in her life seeps over me slowly, maddeningly. It raises chill bumps so strongly on my flesh that it’s painful and it settles in my stomach like fucking granite.

These blokes are my brothers. We’ve been through it all and stayed close. Tours, being fucking doxed, stress, exhaustion, women, men, depression, failure, longing. Everything. Yet somehow, I don’t resent them for taking her side. It definitely raises red flags for that little voice in the back of my fucking skull. But the question is, it is some unlikely coincidence that all three of my brothers want to fuck her, or am I just the intolerable asshole? I think I finally have my answer. If only I could keep myself reminded of that when I’m pissed. My brain falls out of my ass when I’m angry and I say and do whatever it takes to hurt, and I don’t know if I’ll ever figure out why that is. But I do know that I can’t keep hurting people dear to me while I try to figure it out.

IV won’t look at me properly lately. He talks like I’m something fragile he’s not allowed to set down too fast. Vessel tries to talk to me and hang in my room to play games with me, but it’s tense, and I can tell there’s a hundred things he’d like to say, but he won’t. II acts like he doesn’t even hear me half the time, and he’s got this kind of scowl that settles on his face whenever I enter the room. And I know what that means. It means they’re preparing for the fallout. It means they think she’s what needs protecting now. And they’re probably right.

Last night, I walked past her door. I didn’t knock, didn’t say anything. Just stood there with my fist clenched at my side like I could punch my guilt into submission. I thought about everything I could say. I’m sorry. I’m scared. I love you. Do you regret me? I don’t know how to love someone who won’t run from the worst parts of me.

But I didn’t say any of it. Because I know it’s too late for words. And too early for the consequences. When she finally walks away for good, I know I won’t try to stop her. Not because I don’t want to. Because I won’t know how. Because I know it’ll be the best thing for her. And I fucking hate that that’s true.

__________ (IV’s POV)

Some people think silence is absence. But silence can be everything. The unsaid. The unfinished. The unbearable. It fills rooms when people forget how to listen. And lately, it follows her like a second skin. She’s unraveling. Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just... fading. She speaks less. Smiles less. Leaves cups half-finished, and thoughts even more so. I pass her in hallways and her eyes flicker like she’s somewhere else entirely. She haunts the halls in clothing that no longer fits her frame with the cuffs of the sleeves clenched in her fists at her side. She’s paler, smaller, and I swear her hair looks thinner. Like she’s wasting away right in front of our eyes, and we’re just... letting it happen. She’s not broken. Not yet. She’s exhausted. And I don’t think any of them see that the way I do. My anger at the situation flares as my fists clench at my sides and nearly collide with the navy-painted drywall next to me.

III’s unraveling too. In his own way. You can see it in the way he stands; shoulders hunched, always braced for impact. Like he’s already expecting to lose everything and trying to decide whether he deserves it. I don’t think he knows how to stop the cycle he’s created. He only knows how to brace for the wreckage.

And Vessel? He’s a shadow of what he used to be. There’s grief in his stillness now. A kind of waiting. A kind of knowing. He looks at her like he’s reading a prayer he’ll never say out loud. And she looks at him like she’s afraid to believe there’s still something safe in this house. He tries to offer her some sort of solace and relief, but I don’t think even that is enough anymore. None of us know how to help her. Well, we do, but it’s not exactly something you can force.

They all orbit each other now, in loops so tight I’m not sure how we’ve avoided collision this long. But it’s coming. You can feel it in the walls. In the tension before soundcheck. In the way we all avoid being the first to speak when we enter a room. We’re all just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

She’s going to leave soon. Not forever, maybe. But far enough that we’ll all have to learn how to speak in past tense. I don’t know if it’ll be a silent break or an explosive one, but at this point it is inevitable. And I believe we’re all terrified of the possibilities and the carnage. As for me, I’ll be here. As I’ve always been. Holding steady ground. Watching. Waiting. Saying nothing. Until I have to.

__________ (My POV)

I don’t go back to III’s room that night. Or the night after. At first, I sleep in the spare room or on couches at venues. I stay in corners of the green room with headphones on, pretending the world is quieter than it is. Then Vessel offers his floor. No questions. Just a folded blanket and a soft, “You’re safe here if you need it.” And I do. More than I want to admit.

He never crosses the space between us. Not even in sleep. He stays on his side, and I stay on mine. But sometimes, on the hardest nights, I hear the soft scrape of his guitar or the slow scratch of his pen in the dark. Those sounds settle me in a way III’s arms never could. Not anymore. Just knowing that he’s there. That I’m okay in this space. It’s a massive comfort.

III barely speaks to me now. He doesn’t ask where I go at night. Doesn’t follow. But I see it in the way he watches me from across the room. The twitch of his jaw. The way his fingers curl into fists when he sees me next to Vessel, even if we’re only sitting in silence. He knows. Or at least, he suspects. And that’s worse somehow, because there’s nothing happening. But the air between me and Vessel is so thick with almost that I don’t even know how to name it anymore. He’s a shelter in the storm. His kindness and understanding are always unwavering. Unconditional. He never asks for anything in return, and I don’t know if I’ll ever understand why he does it. Part of me keeps waiting to find the end of his patience, because I know he won’t tolerate me and all my bullshit forever. No one can give forever. He’s already left once, so I know he’ll do it again. And I dread that day with every fiber and filament of my bones.

One evening after soundcheck, I fall asleep on Vessel’s hotel bed while he works quietly on a song across the room. When I wake up, there’s a mug of peppermint tea on the nightstand and a blanket over my shoulders. No note. No gesture made of it. Just care, offered without condition. And for a moment, it hurts more than anything III ever said. Because it reminds me what love is supposed to feel like, even if it’s platonic.

The next day, III finally speaks. Not with words. With silence that’s sharper than glass. He doesn’t greet me. Doesn’t look at me when we pass each other in the hallway. And later, when I laugh for the first time in days at something II says during load-in, I catch him watching me from the back of the room. Eyes like cold fire. Mouth set. Hands clenched at his sides. That night, when the lights go down after the set, I know it’s coming. The waves are rapidly receding, and what comes after will be catastrophic.

I try to avoid him after the show. I duck backstage, stick close to Vessel and IV, act busy. But he finds me in the corridor near the stairwell, just outside Vessel’s room. “Where’ve you been?” he asks, voice low. “Getting air.” I reply, trying to keep my tone even. “With him?” he demands quietly. I fold my arms, my eyes rolling ever-so-slightly. “Don’t do this. "I say, pleading. He takes a step closer. “Then tell me what’s going on.” “Nothing,” I snap. “Because I’m not allowed to feel anything, remember? I’m just supposed to sit there and absorb the heat while you burn through everything else.” “You’re staying in his room.” he seethes. “Because I feel safe there.” He recoils. Just a little. I wish I could take the words back. But I don’t. Because they’re true.

His voice drops. Quieter. More dangerous. “I knew it.” he scoffs. “There’s nothing going on between us, III You don’t get to virtually ignore me for two weeks, then pop up and accuse me of sleeping with your friend, my friend! Have you ever considered that maybe, just fucking maybe, he’s my goddamn friend too?!” I say lowly my voice raising in tone, the exasperation in my tone evident. “But you want there to be something there, don’t you.” he retorts, blatantly ignoring my outrage. And the worst part is… I don’t know how to answer. Because there’s a version of myself, somewhere, maybe not far, who might. I truthfully do not know. I’ve been so completely consumed by this shit with III that I can’t see anything or anyone else; not even myself. I’m just trying to fucking survive.

“I needed you,” I say, voice cracking. “And you made me feel like I was the enemy.” He shakes his head. “You chose to walk away from me.” he says. “No. I escaped.” I sneer. That’s when he slams his hand against the wall. Not near me. Not touching me. But close enough that the shock of it trembles through my spine. I don’t flinch. But I want to. His chest heaves. His eyes burn. And for a split second, I think he might say something venomous.

But all he manages is: “Don’t go back to his room tonight.” I meet his gaze. Steady. Hollow. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

__________ (My POV)

I wake to the sound of fists on wood. Not a knock. A threat. The kind of pounding that rattles the walls, vibrates through the floor, and hits your chest before your ears can catch up. It’s jarring. Violent. Familiar in a way that makes my blood run cold. Then I hear the voice. Slurred. Loud. His.

“Open the fucking door!” III screams. My body goes rigid. Breath catches hard in my throat as I sit up too fast, the sheets twisted around my legs like a trap. Another crash sounds as he throws himself against the door, his shoulder taking the brunt of the impact. “I know she’s in there, you bastard! Come on, open up!” he slurs.

Beside me, Vessel shoots upright, wide awake in an instant. His hair’s a mess. His torso is exposed, but he’s still cladded in the sweats he laid down in. But his eyes are clear. Alert. He turns to me. “Stay here.” “No, don’t,” I whisper, reaching for his arm. “He’s drunk. He’ll hurt you.” I plead. “I’m not letting him scare you.” Vessel says, a hint of protectiveness in his tone. Another crash.

“Don’t make me break this fucking door down!” III is relentless. My heart stutters violently. A cold sweat breaks across the back of my neck. I want to disappear. Vessel stands, pulling his hoodie on over his head in one sharp motion. He moves to the door slowly, deliberately. Calm. Controlled. But I see the tension in his back. I see the way his jaw clenches. I hear it in his breath.

The second the deadbolt turns, the door swings open hard, bouncing off the doorstop on the opposite wall. III stumbles into the room without waiting. His shirt is half-buttoned, hair soaked from sweat or rain or both, and he reeks; cheap whiskey, sweat, rage. “You fucking snake,” he snarls at Vessel. “You thieving, gutless little leech-” Vessel doesn’t move. “She’s mine. You hear me? She’s not yours to sneak into at night like a fucking vulture.”

His eyes land on me, curled in the bed, frozen. “And you, you lying little slag-” III spits. “Enough,” Vessel says, voice low, but shaking now. “You’ve been shagging him this whole time, haven’t you? Behind my back-” III continues, ignoring Vessel’s warning. “Shut up!” I scream, voice cracking with something between rage and terror. “You don’t get to speak to me like that anymore!” He laughs. Not joyfully. Ugly. Bitter. Cruel. “No? You move on that fast? What, you get bored of me, decide to shack up with the mute martyr instead?” Vessel’s fists clench at his sides as he yells through gritted teeth, “Goddamn it III, stop! I never touched her!” III completely ignores him, continuing to step toward me as I stand from the bed, hands clasped in front of my chest; a form of protecting myself from III’s barrage of insults and accusations. “You think this wanker’s gonna love you better? He’s not even a man. He’s a ghost in a fucking hoodie,” Vessel moves. Not toward him. He just stands straighter. Solid. Breathing heavy now. And then, like a dam bursting- “I love her.” It cuts through everything. III stops. Blinks. The room goes still. Even I stop breathing. Vessel stares at him like fire incarnate.

“I love her, you twisted, selfish bastard. I have loved her through every fucking tear you caused. Every bruise on her spirit. Every time she smiled like it hurt.” His voice rises now, no longer calm. “I watched her fade because of you. And I kept my mouth shut. Because I thought she needed to fight her way out of you on her own. But I can’t stand here anymore while you stand in this room and call her such vile things.” III’s face contorts. Rage. Shame. Fury. He steps forward, and shoves Vessel hard in the chest. Vessel doesn’t even stumble.

He absorbs it. Then explodes. “You think you’re a man because you know how to break things? Because you know how to control people with fear and fists and tears? You call that love? You call what you did to her devotion?” His chest is heaving now, his gestures wild and flailing, eyes wide and face red. His voice shakes with every word. “I was there when she stopped eating. When she cried in dressing rooms. When she slept in stairwells because she was too scared to go back to you. I was there when she said she felt like she was disappearing.” His voice cracks.

And when he speaks again, it’s devastated. “And I loved her through all of it. Quietly. Respectfully. Desperately. Because I knew touching her before she was ready would make me no better than you.” III doesn’t respond. Because what can he say? He’s finally lost the one thing he thought he owned. Not because Vessel stole me. Because he let me slip away. He pushed me away as hard as he could. I step out from behind the bed. Barefoot. Shaking. But no longer afraid. “Leave,” I say. He looks at me. Something flickers in his eyes. Not love. Not hate. Just emptiness and intoxication.

He gives us both a nod, his eyes fixed on the ground as he turns walks out without another word. The door clicks shut behind him. The silence that follows is deafening. Vessel turns to me. But I don’t speak. I walk into him like gravity’s pulling me there. My arms wrap around his waist. His hoodie smells like sweat and soap, and he holds me like he’s terrified I’ll shatter.

We stay like that for a long time. No words. Just breathing.

__________ (My POV)

The door is closed. The shouting has stopped. The silence that follows is thicker than anything III could’ve screamed. But it’s not empty. It’s heavy. Breathing. Full of everything we haven’t said. Vessel sits at the edge of the bed, head bowed, hands braced on his knees like he’s holding up the weight of the night. I’m still standing, a few feet away, wrapped in my oversized hoodie like its armor. We quietly and solemnly coexist in this charged space, contemplating, processing, comprehending. Part of me is waiting for the door to slam open again. It doesn’t. Neither of us move. Not for a while.

Not until I speak. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?” My voice barely cuts through the quiet. But he hears it. His shoulders rise. Fall. Still, he doesn’t look at me. “Because it wasn’t my place.” That makes my chest ache. “Even when I was falling apart?” I whisper. My saddened gaze drifts over and falls upon his form.

He finally turns to me. His eyes are tired. Raw. Still burning faintly from the fire he unleashed only minutes ago. But there’s no regret there. Only grief, and something softer. “I saw the cracks,” he says. “But I also saw how hard you were trying to hold everything together. I didn’t want to be one more thing pulling you in another direction.” I give a moment of pause, then I reply, “You wouldn’t have been.” “You were with him.” he mutters. “That doesn’t mean you had to stay silent.” I say, my tone low and sympathetic. “No,” he says. “But I chose to.” I step forward. “Why?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Because I didn’t want you to think I was another man waiting for you to break so I could sweep in and collect the pieces.” I stop. That lands harder than I expect. “I just wanted you safe,” he adds. “Even if it meant loving you from far enough away that you never had to carry the weight of it.” I sit beside him. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him. Close enough to hurt.

I reach out, slowly, fingers brushing the edge of his sleeve. “And now?” His breath catches. “Now I wish I’d told you sooner,” he admits. Silence again. But it’s not cold this time. It’s full of the question neither of us wants to ask. What now?

We lie back on the bed without saying anything more. Fully dressed. Barefoot. Facing each other in the low light, heads on opposite pillows. His fingers find mine between us, tentative at first, then certain. His hand is warm. Steady. Safe. Like he’s always been.

“Do you still feel it?” I ask. He blinks. “What?” “The love. For me.” His jaw tightens. Then he nods. “I think I always will.” It should scare me. It doesn’t. Not anymore.

I shift closer, resting my forehead against his. He closes his eyes. His voice is almost a breath. “I would’ve waited years if it meant you got to find peace.” I don’t cry. I just lean in, eyes fluttering shut, and kiss him once. Slow, soft, full of everything we’ve both left unsaid. His lips don’t move like he’s claiming something. They move like he’s letting go.

When we part, neither of us speaks. We just stay there. Holding each other. He pulls me gently against his chest, and I curl into him like I was made for the space between his arms. There’s nothing rushed. Nothing possessive. Only this moment. Only us. If this is the last night we ever get to feel this… I’m glad it feels like home.

__________ (Vessel’s POV)

She’s asleep in my arms. Her breath is slow, steady, warm against the hollow of my collarbone. One leg draped across mine. Her hand still lightly curled in the fabric of my hoodie like she needs to hold onto something even in sleep. And I don’t move. Not a muscle. Not even to blink more than I need to. Because this… This might be the only night I ever get to hold her like this. And I don’t want to lose a single second of it.

The room is quiet, lit only by the soft amber glow from the lamp by the bed. Outside, the city hums faintly; taxis, wind, rain tapping softly against the window like it knows not to intrude. Inside, the silence feels alive. Sacred. She kissed me. She kissed me and I didn’t deserve it. Not because I’ve done something wrong, but because she’s not mine to keep. She never was. But for a moment… For a breath in time that I’ll never forget… She was.

I replay it again. The feel of her lips on mine. Soft. Uncertain. Full of gratitude and sadness and the tiniest echo of something that might have been love. She kissed me like it might be the first and the last. And I kissed her back like I knew it absolutely was.

Not because she’ll leave me. Not because we’ll part ways in some dramatic fashion. But because the version of her that needed me like this, the broken, aching girl who found safety in the space beside me, she’s going to begin to heal. And healing means she won’t need to hold my hand forever. I want her to be free. Even if that means she runs from me. Even if she wakes tomorrow and never kisses me again.

God, she’s beautiful. Not in the way people usually mean it. Not the magazine kind. Not the stage-lights kind. She’s beautiful because she feels. Because she stayed soft even when the world tried to sharpen her. Because when she looks at you, really looks, it’s like she’s seeing past every lie you’ve ever told yourself. Every shred of self-doubt, every insecurity.

And when she smiled at me tonight, that tiny, tired smile, it felt like forgiveness. Not for something I’d done. But for everything I hadn’t said. Why didn’t I say something sooner? Because I was terrified. Terrified that loving her would be selfish. Terrified that she’d turn away. Terrified that she’d look at me and see someone else trying to claim her.

So I kept it buried. I let myself love her in silence. In glances. In stupid small things. Like knowing how she takes her tea without asking. Like standing between her and the press when she flinched at the flash. Like sitting with her in dressing rooms when she didn’t want to be alone but couldn’t quite say why.

I’ve loved her every day in invisible ways. And tonight, when she finally looked me in the eye and asked if I still felt it, I swear my heart skipped a beat. Because it’s never stopped. Not once.

I should’ve left the kiss alone. But I couldn’t. When her lips brushed mine, I felt the whole weight of restraint I’ve carried for months crack straight down the middle. She kissed me like she was giving me something precious. And I kissed her back like it hurt to breathe. I didn’t press for more. Didn’t deepen it. Didn’t pull her closer. Because this isn’t about getting. This is about being. Being the place where she can finally fall apart without fear. Being the arms that hold without taking. Being the answer to a question she didn’t even know she was asking.

She shifts in her sleep, pressing her face closer to my chest. Her breath ghosts across my skin, and I swear it almost makes me cry.

I’ve spent years on the road. I’ve stood before thousands in silence. I’ve worn a mask every night and never once felt as exposed as I do now, lying in bed beside the one person I would give my entire soul to, just to make sure she wakes up tomorrow feeling lighter than she did yesterday. And she’s here. Wrapped around me. Trusting me. Needing nothing more than space and warmth and presence. And that’s all I’ve ever wanted to give.

What happens tomorrow, I don’t know. Maybe she’ll still need me. Maybe she won’t. Maybe we’ll move forward into something neither of us can name yet. Or maybe this is the chapter that ends without a sequel. But no matter what comes next, I know one thing. Tonight mattered. This moment, this hour lying in the dark, hearts beating just inches apart, no walls between us, it’s real. And no one can take it from me.

I close my eyes. Let my fingers softly trace the curve of her spine through the cotton of her shirt. Just once. A ghost of a touch. She exhales, a content, unconscious sigh, and nuzzles in closer. And I know… Whatever this was. Whatever this is… It’s love. And I will never love anyone the way I love her now. Quietly. Fiercely. Completely. Even if I never say it again. Even if this is the last night she ever lets me hold her like this.

@yourgirlisa here you go! If you'd like to be added here, let me know.

#sleep token #sleep token fanfic #sleep token fanfiction #sleep token iii #vessel #ii sleep token #iv sleep token #in our wake #in our wake masterlist

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melissa-titanium · 11 months ago

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uh violence ask game

ok . ok. i'm gonna talk about my two current faves right now because imFucking deranged

khan. im so serious .he is so fucking interesting i honest to god havent rewatched md in a hot second but if you think about his concepts & how he acts in ep 7 AND HONESTLY EVERY SINGLE EPISODE THAT HE'S IN . he's just. hes just so interesting??? i don't see people talking about him alot for reasons that are totally justifiable but just once i wish to see character analysis that isnt about n or uzi..

i want to know about his dynamic with nori. i want to watch his descent into depression (?) after she died & i really, REALLY want to see his redemption. because he does care. everyone is capable of change, and even if he's had a few hiccups in his appearances in the show, i really think he can improve. he DOES care. even if he's forgotten how to show it. i find the conflict between him and uzi very interesting esp involving n. because i think he understands n's a good friend for uzi but there's that innate fear he's immortalized in his brain after having to put down his wife who was attacked by the very creature uzi's new friend is.

the guy's clearly traumatized. he lost his wife, he's emotionally distanced from his child, he's clearly poured himself into his work. and this is from the . like. ten minutes of screentime he's gotten. like COME ON. even if you have no interest in him you have to admit there's a lot there to unpack. even if you have no interest in HIM, you have to admit it's fucking hilarious that his pringles logo ass pulled NORI of all drones. come on. i'm also very curious because he seemed to be a drone that came from before the core collapsed... assuming he and nori were similar ages, he must have had personal run ins with humans. i wonder what that was like

i can completely understand where people are coming from when they say they dislike him because he reminds them of their dad. but i guess i have a different opinion on him cause of how My dad was? i don't know i don't want to get super personal about fictional robots but to put it bluntly i don't have a relationship with him. a lot of factors in my life that weren't directly his fault lead him to being pretty absent in my life and i guess i connect alot to khan because i kind of. wish. he w as . my dad ? i dont know. khan is like an exact parallel of my dad if he Cared. so like. yes :) i have a weird affinity for khan haha. mr uzi!

ok. mob psycho. other than my absolute faves who are hilarious & underrated , inukawa, goda, mezato and TOME <3333 ... my absolute fave has to be tsubomi motherfucking takane. i have not read the reigen spinoff, but i'm REALLY fucking hoping we get to see more of her in the spinoff. because. she's so interesting. she's so fucking interesting.

the entire series presents her as this unobtainable thing of goodness, the end-all of mob's goals. this is ESPECIALLY emphasized in the show which makes her (in the words of ONE i think) more heroic in appearance... and by that i mean they gave her yaoiful eyes. like they made her really pretty in the show to emphasize how mob's looking at her through rose tinted glasses, which is such a cool detail because as the story progresses we see her with her original comic design as mob realizes she's just a person like him! she's literally the driving force of the entire narrative, but barely gets ANY screentime... in the moments we do see of her, she shows a lot of interesting traits. but BESIDES her interactions with mob, there's so much more i find interesting about her. i've only been into mp100 for a month and ive only watched it maybe 6 times so please forgive me if my information is skewed.

in the divine tree arc... dimple points out how she's very openly honest about her wants and is not afraid to deny someone, no matter how forceful. she's literally the only fucking person next to teru who was described as being able to withstand the mind control. not even fucking reigen could.

she rejects a shit ton of people in one of the arcs i can't remember. but literally the fact that someone asks her "why :(?!" when she rejects them and she's like. oh do you really want to know? and goes out of her way to ROAST THE FUCK out of this random ass guy.

in the confession arc, mezato talks to mob about the things she's learned about tsubomi (which is gay as hell btw. i know she's a reporter but god damn) about the fact that she appears to feel strongly about maintaining her image. she's very polite upfront with friends she talks with, but when she's alone/away from other people seems to drop that facade into something more disinterested/distant... which sort of tracks, considering a lot of people only want to connect with her because of her looks/the popularity she can give them by interacting with them. that gets exhausting, i can sympathize lol. she also seems to have trouble trusting others / feels like she's constantly got to be on guard. maybe her place in the school's hierarchy is really the only thing she has? i don't know, but her reaction to literally. sneezing in front of other people was so overblown it really seemed she thought her life would be ruined if her friends saw her needing a tissue which is so interesting to me.

EVEN RITSU DESCRIBES HOW DISINTERESTED SHE SEEMED IN OTHER PEOPLE when she left them playing hide & seek as a kid LOL. like she's in her own little world. my takeaway from her scenes is that she's constantly keeping everyone else at arm's length because she doesn't trust anyone. to her, everyone just wants to get close to her because they want the positives coming from being near her, not because they want to get to know her. everyone seems to know her behind her mask... which i know i said i wouldn't compare her to mob (and i'm not! i just find this comparison interesting, she's incredible on her own) but they have this in common from my understanding. mob has also hidden himself away from the world via insane suppression & masking because he had an experience that taught him that expressing himself was dangerous. tsubomi hides herself away from the world with masking I Think because she believes it's dangerous/can cause unnecessary grief to get close to other people because they'll always fuck with her in the end (hence the fucking. sneezing scene IDK WHAT TO CALL THAT SCENE HAHA)

so like. mob's infatuation with her is like him grasping at a life that's out of his reach... when in reality, she's not on a higher level than him -- she's just like him. i don't know i'm thinking about this now. okay. i really like tsubomi.

#mel roars #asks #murder drones #mp100 #THANK YOU FOR SENDING THIS ASK #EIUARHIUJTDHIOFJ

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kingkennny10 · 2 years ago

Text

Mike Makowski x f!Reader

just a lil smut ive had in my memos for a good month, i changed some things to make it a f!reader as ik most people arent nb like me :/ mike is ooc asf i apologize also this is barely proof read so lmk if theres any mistakes, yall are past legal drinking age in this btw

THIS IS SMUT, 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI

cw: smutty smut smut, knifeplay, blood kink, pain is most definitely involved, jealous mike, established relationship lil bit of a size kink, p in v creampie, fingering

You and Mike arrived at your air bnb in the afternoon the day before your 2nd anniversary. You both wanted to quickly get to the beach but the long drive caught up with you guys and you decided to take a nap once everything was unloaded. Mike was the first awake and was unpacking both of your things for the week, you smiled at his thoughtfulness. "Mikey~ you should have woke me up to help you," You pouted as you propped yourself up on your elbows. You giggled when he physically jumped clutching at his chest dramatically.

"Holy shit baby, you scared the soul from my body!" His words caused you to giggle again and you crawled your way towards the foot of the bed where he sat on the floor with the suitcases. "Anyways, I wanted you to get as much sleep as possible before we go to the beach, plus I can handle putting our things away sweets." You huffed and rolled over on your back with a small pout on your lips.

“Wheres my bathing suit?” You asked noticing the sun was only just now setting.

“In the bathroom waiting for you.” Your lover said with a smile evident in his tone. He knew how badly you wanted to go enjoy the beach on the first day so he got your stuff ready for you. “I don’t have much left to put up so you better hurry sweetheart~” You rolled back over onto your stomach with a shocked expression.

“What about you?” You said teasing, when he stood up to put something into the closet and you rolled your eyes. He was already in his trunks and a old school Dracula tank top, ready to go. “You bastard!” You huffed and got up making your way to the bathroom leaving him to laugh at your faux insults. Your bathing suit was neatly placed next to the sink as well as the new cover up you got to match before the trip. Your bathing suit was all black while the cover up was a neon green to match his trunks.

“Almost ready sweets?” You heard Mike on the other side of the door. Instead of responding you walked out the door only to be immediately picked up and swung around. “You look so good angel!” He said muffled into your neck. He set you down and placed a soft kiss on your lips pressing your foreheads together. “From what I’ve seen outside there seems to be a party going on tonight. You excited?” He asked you punctuated with another kiss on the lips. You smiled brightly at him before answering. Mike didn’t like crowded spaces very much, but he would brave it for you if it meant you were happy.

“As long as I’m with you I’m the happiest person on earth.” His cheeks turned pink at your statement and he pulled you in for another tight squeeze. Once he was done hugging you he held your hand and guided you out of the house locking it up behind you two. Your air bnb was right on the beach and only a minutes walk to the outdoor bar where the party was happening. You could immediately see a handful of drunk people amongst others. A gentle squeeze to your hand brought your attention back to Mike.

“Looks like drinks are free due to the party. You ready baby?” He asked looking into your excited eyes. You rapidly nodded your head and pulled him along with you to the bar. You wasted no time ordering both your usual drinks of choice. The music was loud all around you and you barely noticed the bartender setting your drinks down. Both of you took a sip of your drinks as you began swaying in place to the music next to Mike. You nudged him all but two times while he took a few more sips of his drink. “I’m sorry sweets but I am not dancing tonight, especially not to this.” He shook his head making you pout. You understood how he felt though, being in a crowded area like this was already too much for him.

“Thats okay, are you gonna watch me though?” You asked hopefully, giving him the best puppy dog eyes you could muster. You finished off your drink setting the empty cup down.

“Of course my love!” He said sweetly turning to face the crowd continuing his drink. You giggled and stepped into a clear spot where you could still see each other. Slowly you began to feel the music and began swaying and dancing along all alone giving Mike a show to remember. The orange light of the sunset and the blue LED lights of the bar contrasting against your skin. To Mike you looked like heaven on earth and all he could do was smile to himself as he watched you enjoy the music. Soon enough his drink was catching up to him and he was going to have to use the bathroom soon. You were too entranced with the music to notice him trying to get your attention so he decided to just rush and use the bathroom and hopefully be back before you noticed his absence. Unfortunately for you both, it wouldn’t be this easy. As soon as Mike walked away from the bar there were hands on you. Thinking by chance it was your lover you turned around in their arms with a smile, which quickly faded when you seen the unfamiliar face accompanied by the strong smell of beer. A scowl stretched across your features as you looked the drunk man in the eyes. You attempted to pull yourself away from him which led his hold to tighten around you pulling your body flush with his.

“Let go of me.” You say through gritted teeth. Bracing your hands on his chest to keep space between you. He laughed dismissing you and swayed you to the music with him. You glanced over to the bar only to see Mike was gone.

“Don’t be that way sweetheart, you looked lonely dancing here by yourself!” He said cheerily continuing to sway you. You kept pressure on his chest to keep him away from you.

“Get away from me, let me go!” You barked out making the drunk man frown. Quickly his frown turned to a smile accompanied by one of his hands sliding down to your ass giving it a firm squeeze. In your head you were begging for Mike to come back and save you from this disgusting perv before you get a battery charge on your record. “GET OFF!” You shouted this time. The mans grip loosened on you but in a flash he was knocked to the ground from a swift punch delivered by your knight in shining armour Mike. He had one of the most angry expressions you’ve seen decorating his face and all you could do was blush.

“How about next time you LISTEN when your told to back off.” Mike said with venom looking down at the drunk fool. He snaked one arm around your waist and spat on the ground next to the guy, you couldn’t help the wetness beginning to leak from you at the sight of his anger along with his possessive touch. “If you ever touch her again you’ll be missing some teeth.” Mike was absolutely fuming as he left the bar walking you back to the house. The whole time your skin was burning hot from his display of anger, there was no way he didn’t feel the heat radiating off of your skin. Theres just something about him being so protective over you that has your stomach doing flips. Finally making it inside you flop face down onto the bed as Mike paces back and forth beside you. “Baby I’m sorry I left, I really had to use the bathroom. I wish people could just keep their hands to themselves.” He let out a frustrated groan and you just hummed in response, the cogs were turning in your head. When you finally reached your conclusion you sat up, your legs hanging off the bed. Mike stopped and looked at you to gauge your expression, he couldn’t place it.

“Come here.” You said, voice dripping in arousal at his earlier display. He approached you with no hesitation. You placed your hand on his neck and pulled him in for a deep kiss. “Did you bring your knife with you?” You asked looking into his eyes. For you and Mike, knifeplay is nothing new, you’ve done it plenty times before but it was obvious by his confused expression that he had no clue what you were getting at yet.

“Yeah, why?” He asked genuinely. You absentmindedly squeezed your thighs together at the thought of the blade on your skin. Your eyes darkened as you looked up at him, his appearance only added to your heated thoughts. His slightly toned arms out on display for you his green and black hair framing his handsome face.

“I want you to put your name on me.” You said with a devilish smirk playing across your lips. Mikes eyes widened in awe at your words, his own arousal fogging his brain. Your heated words flipped a switch in his brain. When he spoke next you could tell you both were on the same page, he couldn’t help but let his possessiveness take over.

“Have I ever told you that I love every idea you’ve ever had and that I worship the very ground you walk upon?” He said before he leaned back in for a more heated kiss. You gripped the front of his tank top and dragged him down onto the bed with you wrapping your legs around his waist. One of his hands pressed firmly into the mattress next to your shoulder while the other glided over your mostly exposed body and up to your neck applying pressure ever so slightly making you moan into the kiss. Mike smirked before letting his tongue explore your mouth. He pressed his hips into yours letting you feel his quickly hardening length through the thin fabric of his trunks leading you to let out a gasp of excitement. He pulled away from you to take off his tank top, you also took this time to toss away your cover up. When you looked up at him he could tell just how much you wanted this which only added to his own arousal and need for you. He reached over to the bedside drawer pulling his pocket knife out without breaking physical contact with you. You whined as he slowly opened his knife up without taking a glance at you. He watched the blade as he slid the knife flat against your skin from sternum to navel making you shiver from the cold touch of the steel. He smirked as you writhed underneath him, body begging for more.

“Mikey please. . .” You whined breathlessly as you watched his hand slowly drag the knife around teasing you. “Cut me. Put your name on me.” You moaned out pathetically. You needed it, you needed to watch his prideful expression as he sliced every letter into you. A dark chuckle passed his lips as he finally looked back into your eyes. He didn’t miss the fact that your hips rolled into him and your thighs weakly tightened around his waist.

“I will sweetheart, be patient with me. I need to see if i can fit my last name too.” A devilish smirk spread across his lips at his final sentence and all it did was leave you wanting for more. He took his index finger and glided it across the skin just below your bikini top leading goose bumps to form in their wake. “I think here would be perfect for my name, don’t you think?” He looked back up into your eyes. You bit your lip and nodded along, you were growing impatient now. His grin never faltered even as he moved his knife into position on your delicate skin. “And so it begins my angel.” He said before he applied pressure to the knife. The initial slice is truly the only one that hurts, at least in your experience. You wince in pain as he continues the first long slice, it’s never deep enough to gush blood but its enough for pretty little dots to pop up along the fresh red line. 3 more slow slices later and a very clear ‘M’ was marked on you. You hips rolled into his again, your need for him wasn’t slowing down any time soon and it only grew as he leaned down licking up the dots of blood littering your fresh wound. “3 more letters pretty girl.” He said against your skin as he left kisses along the cuts.

“Please, i need you mikey.” You begged as he readied to finish his name. His free hand moved over your hips and cupped your heat pressing his index and middle fingers between your folds through your thin bikini bottoms. Your hips rolled into his fingers, aching for any source of relief. He smiled and quickly sliced the knife forming an ‘I’ on your skin following it up with a glide from his hot tongue. He didn’t remove his hand from you, only applying pressure every now and then rubbing you slowly through your bottoms. As he began with the ‘K’ you couldn’t hold back the pure ecstasy you were feeling from the beautiful mix of pain and pleasure. As he finished the ‘K’ and ‘E’ he removed his hand from you and began untying your bikini top. He put the knife down on the night stand and untied the back of your bikini top fully releasing your breasts. He licked the blood from the final two letters and left a trail of kisses up to your lips where he pulled your chin down with a free hand as to let his blood covered tongue explore your waiting mouth. When he pulled away from the kiss the hand on your chin moved down to your throat giving it a teasing squeeze which led to you rolling your hips in pleasure. His other hand slid harshly over his name in your skin making your back arch with the painful pleasure.

“My little masochist, you look so beautiful like this.” He praised, voice low showcasing his lust for you. He removed his hands from you and pulled away from you making you whine. He placed his hands on your knees and slid them up your thighs until he reached the top of your bikini bottoms sliding them down your legs. He tossed them to the side and brought his hands back to you, one placed at your hip and the other sliding down to your dripping core. You mewled in response to his movements rolling your hips against his slender fingers. All he could do was smile knowing he was the man who could do this to you, he’s the one you wanted, he’s the one with his name carved into your skin. Finally he plunged his fingers into you, his ministrations were slow but he made sure he was hitting your sweet spot each time. The hand on your hip moved slowly up your stomach to where his name was and this time delicately slid his fingers across each letter, he felt your walls tighten as you moaned out his name. “I can’t wait to feel that on my cock angel.” He spoke with a groan. Your hands that laid above your head the whole time reached out to him as you grew closer to your orgasm. Your nails dug into his biceps slowly as you fucked yourself onto his fingers. Mike wore a proud smile on his face as you left your marks on him. He quickly removed his fingers from you and brought them to his lips, taking a small lick before he fully inserted them into his mouth to lick off all of your sweet wetness. You whined in protest to the emptiness but he quickly shushed you when he grabbed one of your hands bringing it down his chest to the waistband of his trunks. “Don’t you want me to fill you up princess?” He asked in a sweet tone. No words could form on your tongue, all you could do was whine out in agreement nodding your head. “On all fours angel.” He said softly, you obeyed him swiftly getting yourself into position. From behind you could hear the fabric of his trunks as he pulled them down letting his cock free. Your mouth watered as you brought your chest down to lay against the soft sheets of the bed. He chuckled when you wiggled your ass impatiently. You mewled out when you felt his tip slide up and down your wet slit. “You’re all mine isn’t that right sweet pea?” He asked as one of his hands gripped your ass firmly. You moaned out biting your lip. “Words angel, use them.” He said firmly as he pulled his cock away from you continuing to stroke himself slowly. Your eyes began to water as you need for him started to become too much.

“I’m all yours Mikey, I’m yours forever!” You moaned out spreading your legs more. Slowly your arousal was dripping onto the pristine sheets below you and all he could do was stare in amazement. He bit his lip as he lined himself up with your soaking cunt. “Fuuuuck~” you moaned as he stretched you out on his cock. Your knuckles turning white from your harsh grip on the sheets.

“So tight for me baby, god you feel so good wrapped around me.” He groaned out finally bottoming out in your plush walls. He bucked his hips into you all but twice before one of his hands reached forward gripping your hair. “I wanna hear what belongs to me, lemme hear you scream.” He said darkly as he began pounding into you, you couldn’t help but give him what he wanted. His name on your chest gliding against the sheets not letting you forget how fresh the cuts were, if you were to get up you’re sure you’d see faint blood smearing the white sheets.

“Fuck Mike! Harder!” You moaned out, and who was he to deny his little angel what she wants. He picked up his pace slamming deeper into you, the sounds of your skin slapping like music to his ears. You knew you wouldn’t last long with this pace, he was in the same boat. “Im close Mikey, please don’t stop.” You moaned out. All Mike could do was let out a pleasured groan. In a swift motion he leaned down wrapping an arm around your chest and pulled your back to his, his other hand still gripping your hair pulled your head to the side giving him access to your unmarked neck. He made quick work of leaving fresh marks along your neck while the hand on your chest slid down you roughly drag across his name in your skin. You cried out at the sensation beginning to see stars. Your pussy clenched around his cock leading him to bite down into your neck, it was sure to leave a big mark.

“You’re all mine, mine alone!” He spoke against your shoulder. His hand slid down from his name to where his tip would poke out at your lower abdomen. He pressed his hand firmly feeling his cock pounding through you. “You see how deep I’m gonna come in you baby? You ready?” You nodded frantically as one of your hands moved over top of his on your stomach your other gripped his hair behind you. You were right on the edge of your orgasm as he picked up his pace. Mike continued marking up your neck pressing into the skin of your stomach in random intervals.

“Gonna come Mikey.” You mewled, only a few seconds later did your walls spasm around him, your hand gripping onto his wrist as he rode you through it. He was very soon to follow. Three harsh thrusts later and he slowed as his seed spilled into you. You bit your lip at the euphoric sensation.

“My pretty angel, now everyone will know who you belong to huh?” He spoke lowly into your neck. Your legs shook before you collapsed onto the bed when he pulled out of you. He took a moment to watch his come leak from your used hole, his chest full of pride from the sight. “Let me get you cleaned up baby.” He said as he walked away towards the bathroom, his trunks fixed back to normal. You didn’t hear him, you were too focused on bringing your own heart beat back down taking deep breaths. You jumped at the feeling of the warm cloth against your thighs, he did quick work cleaning you up. He flipped you over taking another look at his name smiling before he placed a few more kisses on it. “I love you baby.” He said bringing his face to yours to leave kisses all over your cheeks.

“I love you too sweets.” You said before gettin in position to sleep, him soon following suit.

its done finally, im very proud of it actually! i havent seen anything like this on this app before so im excited to see what others think, maybe not everyone is into knifeplay like me but damn is this delicious 🤤 maybe ill put others onto mike makowski after this, i cant think of what to name it so i just titled it mike makowski x reader, someday ill get good at titles, after this theres more kenny x reader coming 😈

#south park #south park x reader #mike makowski #mike makowski x reader #vampir makowski #vampir makowski x reader #sp #smut

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thefutureiswhat · 1 year ago

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My (brutally honest) thoughts on Fargo 5.10

I was gonna wait awhile to write up my thoughts, but my mind is racing and I've had too much caffeine, so here goes nothing...

Gonna be real here, my reaction on first watch was major disappointment. Going into the finale, this season was neck and neck with 3 as my overall favorite, and I felt like this episode ruined that.

Basically as soon as Witt died I checked out. I don't usually say this about fictional characters because I feel like it often misses the point, but he deserved better. And that death was so ridiculously preventable. Roy refuses to drop the knife, is basically telling Witt he's gonna kill him, Witt has a gun... JUST SHOOT HIM!

The moment with Gator and Dot just didn't feel earned to me. This guy breaks into your house, threatens your family, refuses to help you when you're being held hostage, says he hopes you die... and you're gonna bring him cookies in jail?

Nothing after the scene with Dot in the back of the car is real life, and I'm shocked that more people don't realize this.

The FBI drives Dot to her burned-down house that doesn't even look that damaged despite firefighters still "extinguishing the embers" the next morning, instead of... I don't know... a hospital? Lorraine's house? That woman needs an IV!

After the time jump... it's the height of the pandemic (the era Hawley said he wanted to avoid) but no one's wearing masks or distancing; Scotty is wearing pink; lactose-intolerant Wayne is eating sour cream, cheddar, and buttermilk; Dot is wearing clothes (yellow cardigan, plaid coat) that shouldn't have survived the fire.

Also the title is "Bisquik" (not "Bisquick") for a reason.

That entire cemetery scene was the cringiest thing I've ever seen. It was like something out of a Lifetime movie. It was the most un-Fargo scene in the entire series.

Dot doesn't seem to know even the most basic details about Witt despite it being a year since he died and her being so distraught over his death? Did she not go to the funeral? Read his obituary? Talk to Indira in the past year?

Indira is taking care of Witt's cat? They barely knew each other, and he has six sisters! Wouldn't one of them get the cat?

Munch coming back for his "pound of flesh" in real life after his last encounter with Dot just... doesn't make any sense? Does he want to kill her? Why didn't he do it when he had the chance? Why isn't he doing it now? What is he waiting for?

That whole scene with Munch was just... too long.

Okay, I'll stop being quite so negative...

I'm still on the fence about the execution, but after looking at the episode according to @tdciago's "Gaear is the author" theory, there's A LOT to unpack here. I need to watch the finale (and the entire season) again to really solidify it.

Basically, I think 5x09 was about wrapping up the "justice for Jean Lundegaard" aspect of the story (which I absolutely loved -- that last scene with Dot and Munch was one of my favorites of the entire series), and 5x10 was about wrapping up the "forgiveness for Gaear" aspect.

What I love about this show is that it always strikes such a wonderful balance between compelling storytelling/character work and deeper thematic/symbolic meaning. I think this episode lacked the former and had a heck of a lot of the latter (deceptively so). So I'm pretty much split down the middle on it... like a car cut in half with a chainsaw. Kind of perfect, actually.

More thoughts/analysis surely to come.

#fargo spoilers #season 5 #my posts

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achangeinreality · 11 months ago

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Here is the second part! I pasted it from google docs and some stuff like italics, bold, and horizontal lines didn’t transfer properly. I tried going through it and fixing that stuff but I don’t think I did a very job my bad lol

Encounters Part 2

Sigma Octanus IV

2552

Linda sighed in relief as the last of those she was responsible for evacuating got on the Pelican. There hadn’t been many to evacuate but any was better than none. She was still covered in both James blood and whatever that hulking monstrosity they came across in the museum’s blood. Of all the funky and horrible variety of aliens that she had come across in her life, this was a new one. It had taken all of her and her fellow Spartan’s effort to bring one down. She was sure that Halsey was going to have a field day reviewing all of their new data. As their pelican linked up with the Leviathan, Linda started to feel a knot in her stomach. Surely they would find a more efficient way to bring down whatever these new creatures were. She wasn’t too keen on the idea of another soldier losing an arm to one of these every time they fought one. Lost in thought, Linda made her way off the pelican. As she got off, Linda looked up to see a squad of ODSTs talking amongst themselves. One of them had an oddly familiar posture. She stared at the soldier and felt thrown back in time when she caught sight of the side of the woman’s face.

“Hagan?”, she inquired incredulously. The soldier spun around at the voice and her mouth dropped as she looked at the hulking Spartan before her. She looked at Linda’s insignia before responding with. “Spartan 058??” She saluted and stood at attention at her superior. “At ease, soldier. It’s good to see you, I didn’t think I’d run into you again.” Ira chuckled but before she could respond, one of her teammates interrupted. “Is there anything you need from Corporal Hagan sir?”, asked a man in his 40s and a rather pointed look. Linda took him in, his posture was stiff, his expression was disapproving, and the way his arms were crossed gave off an air of disdain. It was no secret that between Spartans and ODSTs, they didn’t necessarily get along. Linda never fully understood why every ODST made it their personal mission to act like a thorn in their sides when it would really be more productive to just get along. She sized him up and said, “Actually yes, but that’s none of your concern. Corporal I’d like to talk to you in the mess hall later but I am preoccupied at the moment. Does 2100 hours work for you? I realize it is late.” She could have sworn that a small chuckle started to escape from Hagan’s mouth. The corporal replied with, “Yes sir I will be available at that time. It is very good to see you again, am I free to go?” Linda looked at her and took her in. She had changed over the years. Gone was the naive, young look in her eyes. Rather replaced by the reflections of war and death. A look she recognized in herself and her family alike. She answered, “Dismissed soldier. I look forward to our meeting.” Hagan gave her a small smile and walked away.

Oh my god what just happened, what do I do?, she thought. Ira sped walk to the dorms to get herself cleaned up. Her mind was racing at the encounter she had just had with Spartan 058. There were too many things to unpack. Never in a million years did she ever think she’d come across the Spartan again. Not to mention the fact that she actually remembered her. And to top it off, she wanted to talk to her later? Why? What was happening? Peace with the Covenant seemed more likely than the series of events that had just transpired.

Over the years, Ira Hagan had grown exponentially. Her encounter with death on Draco III had changed her life so dramatically that she barely recognized herself most days. More often than not she dreamt of her friends and family, except they weren’t how she remembered them. They were gory and undead. The massacre she survived scarred her in more ways than she could count, to the point where it twisted and tarnished the faces in her past. It seemed like death was not done chasing her, seeing as just the day of her ceremony, the space station was attacked. This time however, she was not in any condition to fight. She had the marines on the space station to thank for escorting her and anyone else that was at the med bay to safety. Ira had been evacuated to yet another ship, which then engaged in another fight against the CPV class heavy destroyer, The Guiding Light. The worst part about this was that the entire time, she was stuck in a hospital bed with nothing to do but be afraid and think.

For two days she wallowed in self pity and trembled in fear at the thought of being boarded and given the same fate that her teammates on Draco III received. On the third, fateful day, that fear almost became reality. The enemy ship must have sent an infiltration team because out of nowhere, she started to hear scuffling and chittering sounds from the next room. Heart pounding and lightheaded, she held her hand to her mouth to keep herself as quiet as possible. She used her other hand to press the comm button on her data pad.

”Covenant in the med bay,” she whispered softly, praying that no one answered back lest she be noticed. She received a text message from the security team that acknowledged her warning. Ira rose up slowly and quietly out of bed. She had been given a few get-well gifts from those onboard and one of those gifts had been a small but effective hunting knife. She gripped the handle so hard that her knuckles went white. Ira got back in bed and pretended to be asleep as she heard the doors slide open. A metal tray clattered to the floor. It almost caused her to jump and reveal her façade but she stayed stone still. She could hear one of them poking the beds with their gun, likely a ranged weapon of some sort. As it got closer to her, the doors opened up again and this time, the sounds of gunfire and human voices flooded the room. Her would-be attacker turned his back to her and screeched. It ducked and held its rifle up to shoot back when Ira turned in her spot and brought the knife down in its neck. It didn’t die immediately but the adrenaline coursing through her was so much that she ripped the blade right out and stabbed, over and over and over again. Her face and hands became covered in dark stinking blood but she was unfazed. Given that the marines had the upper hand in this situation, they finished the rest of the infiltrators. She laid back in bed, shaking and breathing heavily. Every nerve inside of her was on fire and the only thing she wanted to do was keep fighting.

After the fight subsided, a revelation came to her. She must not be so bad at war. She must be more capable than she thought herself to be. Ira realized that her circumstances were sort of incredible. She somehow survived a world wide massacre, was rescued by a team of Spartans, got shot, hit on one of the Spartans, survived the wound, got slam dunked when she tried flirting with the same Spartan again, and then survived another fight against the Covenant while laying injured in a hospital bed. And to top it off, she didn’t want to stop. Ira wanted to keep going. To keep fighting, protecting, and avenging. For when she killed the Jackal, every stab felt like an homage to each of her teammates. And there had been so many more that died than simply 4. It was decided right then and there that she must do better. She must focus on her skills and fight until every last one of the Covenant falls. It was not a better night when she went to sleep later that day. But at least in the morning her conviction was strengthened.

As for right now however, she was as nervous as her first day of boot camp. Surely the Spartan didn’t remember that incredibly embarrassing memory did she…? Of course not, it was silly and surely she had much more important and crazy things happen to her than that thing. Ira cringed heavily at the blurry memory of laying down, covered in grime, high as a kite telling the Spartan she was so so pretty. In all honesty she would actually rather be fighting an alien than be reliving the memory.

After showering, Ira brushed her long, wet, black hair. The UNSC regulations required hair to be chin length or less for women or in a secure hairstyle. Ira’s favorite part of the day was taking the tight bun that she normally wore down. It was so uncomfortable against her helmet that she often considered just hacking off her hair. But it was one of the only ways that she could remember her mother. Ira’s mom had long black hair for as long as she could remember and it felt comforting to keep her own long too. Ira considered leaving it down, since the meeting would take place after hours. But she was technically still on duty and in the presence of a superior officer so… it was a no go. Up it went into a tightly braided ponytail this time. She hoped that the light mascara and tinted chapstick wasn’t too much.

Ira waited so long for the right time to come that by 2045 she was already making her way down to the mess hall. There weren’t a lot of people in the hall by then and no food was being served. Still though, it was quiet and most importantly, she was waiting on someone. Ira walked over to the water fountain and served herself a glass of water. She sat down at one of the corner tables and fidgeted with the glass. After 20 minutes, Ira’s stomach started to twist and turn. Surely the Spartan would be here soon. Another 10 minutes went by and Spartan 058 was still nowhere in sight. Ira felt a tightness in her throat as she started to remember their last interaction. “I would have still meant what I said,” she had told the Spartan. She wasn’t sure what kind of response she expected to get but complete silence wasn’t what Ira thought it’d be. It stung pretty hard then but looking back, it had been completely preposterous of her to double down when she didn’t even know the Spartan’s orientation. Still, Ira would have preferred a strongly worded lecture or even a write up instead of complete silence. Oh to be naive and young again, she thought.

As all hope started to feel lost, an extremely tall and muscular woman walked in. “Corporal Hagan at ease, I apologize for my tardiness. I was detained for longer than I had anticipated. Thank you for waiting,” she said. Ira smiled and fought the urge to wave her over. She had been mid-stand up when the Petty Officer said, at ease. Linda walked over to the table and sat front facing Ira. Ira looked at her and thought, I’m fucked.

Linda was glad to see that Corporal Hagan was still in the mess hall waiting for her. As 2100 came closer, she started to get uncomfortable. It wasn’t in her character to be late to things and especially not meetings that she was responsible for. It irked her that this debriefing was taking so long. Each Spartan had gone in to answer questions at least 3 times, what else was there to reveal? They wore cameras in their helmets for a reason for god’s sake. Needless to say, by the time they were all dismissed, Linda made her way to the mess hall. She greeted the corporal and sat down in front of her. Neither woman said anything for a moment but there it was again, the intense, soul burning stare that the corporal was so keen on using. It unsettled Linda because she struggled with eye contact yet found herself unable to look away. The corporal spoke first. “How are you?”

“I’m good. I was surprised to see you again. When did you become a corporal?” Linda was pretty proud of herself for being able to string more than 1 sentence together this time around. She had been practicing in her head and listening to other people’s conversations in the last few years. It’s not that she found very many people to have conversations with other than her fellow Spartans, but she didn’t like the feeling of being lost for words. It was her choice to be silent and observant, but she didn’t like feeling forced to stay that way simply because her conversational skills were inadequate. She supposed this was one of the biggest hurdles that Spartans struggled with. They were not raised to be socially adept, rather to be lethal killing machines and for a long time it wasn’t something she stopped to ponder on. But surely there was more to life than killing. And right now, catching up with the corporal was her mission.

“A good surprise I hope. I was promoted last year,” Ira replied. Linda tried smiling but it felt unnatural and forced so she let her face relax instead. “Of course. I’m glad to know you have survived all this time, and an ODST no less. You must be proud,” she added. Ira’s eyes brightened and her whole face lit up. “Well I worked really hard to become one so yeah I am pretty proud! What about you, anything new?” Oh this was where conversing got difficult for Linda. Truth be told there wasn’t much she could say about herself. So much of her life was classified that it was hard to answer truthfully. In the last 8 years she had gotten an upgraded Mjolnir armor, seen countless worlds go up in flames, and now she had encountered a new species of the covenant. But none of that was eligible for discussion. Classified. Just like everything there was to know about her. Linda shifted uncomfortably and made an effort to appear unperturbed. Before she could answer, Ira asked, “Classified?” Linda felt herself relax a little and she nodded. However, she was determined to not let herself get tongue tied and so she added, “It’s like you read my mind. But I guess at the end of the day nothing is actually new. Same enemy, same fight as you know.” Ira nodded in acknowledgment. She then asked, “So… what brought this meeting on?” Linda looked at Ira for a second. The woman looked young but there was a hardened, more mature atmosphere to her demeanor than their last meeting. Not uncommon in their line of work, it was a consequence of war. “My name is Linda,” she said awkwardly. It had come to Linda’s attention that she had never actually told the corporal her name. After listening to several conversations over the years, that seemed to be the starting point for most casual interactions. Ira smiled warmly and responded, “My name is Iradell but everyone calls me Ira. Thanks for telling me your name. I was starting to get tired of referring to you as Spartan 058 in my head.” Linda cocked her head slightly and asked, “I’m in your thoughts?”

Ira had been blessed with tan, olive skin that very rarely burned in the sun or got noticeably red. But in this moment she could feel her entire body burning crimson. Her voice hitched in her throat and she inwardly cursed the day of her birth. Instead of running to the airlock for self destruction, she choked out, “I didn’t mean it like that, I just sometimes wonder if you’re out there saving people like you did me.” Linda looked at her confused and asked, “Why are you red? Do you need more water?” It was at this moment that the airlock was starting to sound more and more like a good idea. However, from what Ira could tell, Linda didn’t seem super socially aware. It was probably a byproduct of her career choice seeing as conversation seemed a little difficult for her despite her efforts. It was likely that Spartans didn’t get a lot of down time and so these kinds of interactions were likely not often for them. This could be a saving grace for Ira’s deeply embarrassing slip up since Linda clearly didn’t understand her reaction. “Yeah let me go get more water I’ll be right back,” she said and walked over to the water fountain.

There it was again, the feeling like something had just happened that she was unable to understand. Linda felt like she was squandering this social interaction. Maybe this was a bad idea. Everyone Linda cared about was either dead or at imminent risk of death so what was the point of trying to befriend someone who was likely to meet the same fate sooner than later? She frowned at herself. No, she would keep trying. It wasn’t in her character to give up easily. When Ira sat back down, noticeably less red, she told Linda, “So uh my birthday is in 2 days. My teammates were going to throw me a little party in the evening. Would you like to come?” Linda brightened up, glad that she wasn’t doing as terribly at socializing as she thought. A party? She had seen marines celebrate other soldier’s birthdays in the mess hall a few times before but she never partook in them. None of the Spartans had ever had a ‘birthday party�� either seeing as none of them knew their actual birthdays. Nevertheless, a first time for everything. She answered back, “I’m going to be on this ship for the next few days so I will be available to attend. Thank you for inviting me.” Ira smiled in relief and exclaimed, “Oh good! I’ve been looking forward to it. I’ve been so preoccupied that this is the first time in 3 years since anyone has celebrated my birthday. I’ll be turning a ripe 28 this year!” Linda almost choked on her spit when she heard Ira’s age. Was she old? Ira added, “Can I ask you something?” Linda nodded in agreement. “Is your birthday coming up anytime soon? Maybe I can send you a gift if we’re on other ends of the universe!” There it was. The dreaded question that Linda sometimes found herself wondering as well. Sometimes on particularly difficult nights she thought to herself, is it today? Linda sighed and answered, “I don’t know when my birthday is. I don’t have access to that information.”

Ira fell silent suddenly. She didn’t want the moment to feel awkward but she was also incredibly curious. To not know one’s birthday must mean that something pretty significant must have happened during early childhood. Maybe her parents had passed away? She couldn’t ask that it was too personal a question. Before Ira could say anything Linda followed up with, “I was adopted. The people who took me in never bothered to fill me in on my previous life.” There was something fishy about the answer but Ira didn’t want to push it. “Oh I’m sorry to hear that. Do you know your age at least?,” Ira asked. Finally a question that Linda could answer. “Yes I’m 41.” Something warm stirred in Ira. She pushed it away and stayed focused. “Hey at least that’s not classified! Now I know something about you,” she said, smiling. Linda’s mouth opened slightly. That was not the answer she thought she’d get.

“Yes I suppose that’s true.” She noticed that Ira’s pupils had dilated slightly more than they already were. Was it too dark in the room? She wouldn’t know given her night vision augmentations. But then again she remembered that all those years ago at the award ceremony when she had gone up to Ira to talk to her, her eyes were dilated then too and it was rather bright in the room. “If you don’t mind me asking, are you scared of me?” Linda inquired. Ira looked taken aback and confused.

“No, why would you ask that?”

”Because your pupils dilate when you talk to me and I’ve only ever seen that on people that look at me in fear,” Linda replied. Again, Ira went red but froze this time. I said something wrong didn’t I?, Linda thought. Ira let out an awkward laugh and looked down at the table, closing her eyes. She looked back up at the Spartan who was now looking at her inquisitively. Ira took a deep breath and responded, “I’m not scared of you. I’m attracted to you. I wasn’t going to say anything about it but I didn’t realize my involuntary reactions were so loud.” This time it was Linda’s turn to blush deeply. And once again, a complete lack of ability to respond to the situation. She felt her brain lagging at the words just like the last time. Linda swallowed and was finally able to let out a tight, “I’m sorry, I did not mean to intrude.” Ira closed her eyes and sighed, feeling an old painful tug in her heart. “It’s okay,” she said in defeat. Both women sat in silence for a moment. Ira stayed sitting with her eyes closed and Linda simply stayed looking at her, mind still lagging. Even though the moment was only 5 seconds, for Linda it was lifetimes. Spartan time was something every Spartan II knew how to control to avoid time feeling like it was overly slowed. But sometimes, it was to her advantage that she could experience a moment longer than normal people could. She took advantage of the moment this time to think. This was uncharted waters for her because not only did this woman admit to being attracted to her 3 times by now, but Linda wasn’t entirely sure that she wasn’t. There were so many problems with this though. For one, UNSC regulations did not allow for members of the military to become entangled with another, let alone someone of a much lower rank. Secondly, Linda didn’t have the emotional capacity to let someone other than another Spartan II in. And this was something that she was painfully aware of. Not only that but it would be grossly irresponsible for Linda to allow someone to attach themselves to her when her life was in constant danger. It went both ways but that wasn’t something she was ready to think about. With all of this in mind, why did she feel a warmth in her chest when Ira admitted her attraction? It didn’t make sense.

”Your eyes have also been dilated the entire time you’ve been talking to me. I don’t suppose you’re scared of me either.” Ira’s eyes had opened and she was looking at Linda boldly now. Ira wasn’t a child anymore. Not that she was 8 years ago either but she was certainly more of an adult now. If this war had taught her anything, it was that at literally any point in time, regardless of how prepared or how good your skills were, death could always take you. She had seen so many people of higher and lower rank meet the same fiery, grisly death that she was just happy to still be breathing now. Uncomfortable as the situation had suddenly gotten, Ira wasn’t a child anymore. “This can’t happen. I’m sorry for bringing it up but I know you understand that this can’t go anywhere,” Linda replied. Ira nodded then said, “So you like me too then?” Linda exhaled and rolled her eyes, saying, “I didn’t say that.”

“Then tell me otherwise,” Ira challenged. Linda looked at her with a peeved look. She stood up and turned towards the direction of the dorms. Before she walked away she said softly, “Goodnight, Corporal.”

”Wait-“ Ira began, standing up too but it was too late. Linda’s long legs had already crossed the room and turned the corner. Ira tried to catch up but she had disappeared by the time Ira got to the doorway. She sighed and leaned against the wall with her eyes closed. With heavy eyes and a heavier heart, Ira made her way to the dorms as well, determined to get some much needed rest.

#halo #fanfic #linda 058 #linda058 x OC #kelly 087 #fred 104 #john 117 #socially awkward lesbian

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bulldog-butch · 5 months ago

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Would you be willing to describe what being on T has been like for you physically and mentally? I just had top surgery and am debating if I should go on T. Top surgery was such a clear cut decision for me, I had no doubts. But going on T I am so hesitant on. It’s weird because I have this feeling that I want to be on it but I think about individual changes and they kind of scare me. Muscle growth and fat redistribution and bottom growth/changes appeal to me. But my voice dropping too low and facial hair scare me. Other body hair growth doesn’t bother me quite as much, I feel more indifferent on. That one just worries me because I still have so many self doubts about my current body hair with being raised a woman and societal expectations even though I am a non binary butch. But I’m still mainly around people that expect me to be perfectly shaved because at the end of the day, they still view me as a woman. It’s frustrating. But like having a little bit of a happy trail and bush and arm pit hair brings me joy when it’s just me. I love to look at it. So I think some body hair growth in T would bring me those little moments of euphoria when I see them in the mirror. But facial hair isn’t super appealing to me.

Sorry I’m telling you my life story. I’m just always curious about other people experiences, especially the amount of people that talk about how their mental health improved. I’m just so up in the air about T right now.

oof okay lots to unpack here. my first inclination is to ask why you’re fearful of specific changes like voice drop and facial hair. not wanting those changes is one thing but the fact that you used the word scared or afraid several times makes me feel that this is more than just a preferential thing and could be driven by outside expectations like the body hair stuff.

now more toward your specific questions, for voice drop, if you’re going to start testosterone, even a low dose, there is a very high likelihood that your voice will drop. now i don’t know what qualifies to you as “too low” but i want you to be aware that for many people including myself, voice drop is one of the first outward indications of testosterone working (the first internal indication for me was the intense horniness lol). ironically toward your other concern, unless you’re someone already prone toward having some visible facial hair, it’s often one of the later things to come along or more likely to start on a higher dose. but that’s no guarantee. i can speak to my own experience that two years in having been on a relatively low but not super low dose, i have a barely visible mustache and only the beginnings of other facial hair. but shaving is always an option or if you have the means electrolysis is also a path. my point is, you could start on a low dose and chances are it would be a really long time before facial hair at all becomes an issue. another thing you can do is take finasteride which is primarily taken to stop hair loss, but it can have the effect of slowing down body and facial hair growth as well.

the great thing about hrt is you can start slow and change your mind at literally any moment. i would highly recommend starting just by talking to a doctor who knows about hrt and telling them what you want out of it and they can tell you what’s possible and what isn’t and all the details about starting and what dose etc.

i hope you’re able to figure it out anon. i can’t say i love every change ive had on hrt, but i love myself and my body more now than i did before and i am so thrilled about the changes i will carry with me forever even if i decided to stop hrt tomorrow. at the end of the day its easy to remind myself that cis people also don’t love all the changes their bodies go through due to hormones and they do things every day to avoid them, and being trans is no different

#hope this is helpful in any way #if you have more specific questions feel free to ask #also just caveat i’m obviously not a medical professional and this is all just based on stuff i’ve read or experienced myself #asks #anon

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yuukei-yikes · 2 years ago

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SHOW US ALL THE OG/FANMADE KAGEPRO MERCH YOU OWN!! (please) (with cherr y)

i own exactly 1 merch.

this kano keychain. my big sibling had an exhange student year in japan in 2015, and they brought him back! and i kept him! he's my little buddy hanging out next to my desk where i draw, with miku and that squishmellow keychain half my datefriend got me

i also own the third volume of the manga, but its packed somewhere (ive moved countless times and packing and unpacking books eventually gets... tiring)

erm. anyways. i dont have any merch because....i live in argentina!! which means i cant buy stuff outside the country without a ridiculously high tax and risking losing it in the mail anyway <- which happens even with purchases inside the country lol. all u can get here is basically the manga volumes. and for fan merch, im not saying it doesnt exist here but specifically in my city's little cons ive never stumbled across it... i follow an artist on ig who made some ene and shintaro stickers once (id link them but i honestly dont remember their @), but they're from buenos aires and i dont live there so i wasnt attending that con u_u but it does exist! i just havent gotten lucky...yet...

getting a lil personal, i was in switzerland for a year and i actually came home like 4 months ago, and while there i did consider buying the novels and even merch but augh packing and weight limit for suitcases...yknow, not the best idea to buy Books. so i didnt. and for merch, i Did look for some stuff online but i gotta say. im so paranoid abt losing stuff in the mail and losing money i didnt get the balls to buy anything that wasnt from neighbour countries. i BARELY bought stuff online in my time there LOLLL

back in early 2022 my buddy red (@/fightxer here on tumblr, @/redpksp on twitter) and i collabed on these

i made the sketch and he did... erm... everything else. color+lines, ordered, shipped them. lol. these pics are also from him, bc i dont actually own this charm in real life. they were gone by the time i went to switzerland so i didnt get one 😞

sry i kinda rambled abt my personal life ofc i dont need to justify why i dont own any merch but heh i felt like it.

#ask tag

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nahalism · 10 months ago

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heyyyyy 🖤 ofc ignore and dont feel pressured to answer if this goes into too personal territory. Did you ever get diagnosed/got suspected personality disorder(s) and (if yes) did it give you any guidance/deeper understanding of yourself?

<3 heyy, — i havent been diagnosed with a personality disorder, although there was a period of time i questioned if i had bpd, specifically quiet bpd. there are still symptoms of bpd i resonate with, but they could be related to other mental health issues ive dealt with (depression, anxiety, cptsd etc) so idk. tbh, because of how cloudy it all gets, i no longer look to being diagnosed as a solution. i personally dont want to be medicated, & outside of medication, allopathic medicine (imo) doesnt have answers or solutions for the 'issues' i face. ive used therapy during moments where i feel unable to look after myself/see the situation at hand clearly, (mostly to make sure i dont regress / i have someone objectively able to evaluate my decision making, which helps a lot cause when im spiralling i can doubt myself & feel out of touch with reality) but thats about it.

that said, every symptom ive dealt with/deal with, has helped me understand myself. the way i see it every problem pushes you toward its solution. e.g, (trigger warning) self harm was a symptom of the issues i was dealing with. it led me to understand that i struggled with regulating my emotions and that i held a lot of rage. i also realised that when i experience deep rage (rooted in fear), i take it out on myself, not on others. partly cause i didnt want to harm people, also because as much as the people, or situations i was in, caused me harm, i didnt want to push them away/give them a reason to 'leave me/my life' because that would reopen wounds i had regarding abandonment and not being good enough. each realisation was something i had to confront and deal with individually. thats just one example, but hopefully it details how i acknowledge symptoms i experience, then unpack them to point me in the direction of solving the issue.

knowing these things doesnt make the issue disappear. i still get distressed, and at times my impulse is still to hurt myself. but because ive taken time to understand the issue, i have coping mechanisms in place that help me self regulate and put things in perspective (e.g journaling, mindfulness practices, learning to address situations, and communicate my issues rather than take it out on myself). at first its not easy and it feels like 90% failing. sometimes you'll know the right thing to do, & not want to do it, orrr be doing the wrong thing whilst knowing what the right thing to do is. but awareness is the first step, and eventually it gets easier. over time (and by choice) ive learned to respond to myself with love. even though i have urges to be self destructive, i have enough compounded experience and perspective on what being destructive does to me and the people i care about to not do it. deeper than that, ive trained myself to stop recognising stress and chaos as 'normal' or my baseline. shadow work helps with this a lot. id recommend reading 'owning your own shadow' by robert a johnson, it helped me understand what to do with the left over destructive energy i was no longer using & how to put it into creativity rather than let it be damaging—

i know this was super long but i had to be specific because imo theres a lot of people who claim personality disorders are a life sentence / or who demonise people who struggle with them and that something i have never agreed with or felt was fair. i do think recovery is possible. however please bare in mind, im sharing my experience & whilst i stand on it & believe it can work for anyone, i have not been diagnosed with a personality disorder. it is completely possible ive found solutions to an issue/symptom that crosses over but does not belong to the issue ur asking me about. (e.g someone could use ashwaganda to solve their anxiety & panic attacks, but that might not work for someone who has panic attacks triggered by ptsd). the way i went about things was unconventional. it worked for me, but has taken a long time, has not been easy & im aware its not a path everyone would choose. (im not saying that to be quirky. its literally given me everything but cost everything in the process). if this resonates and feels like something you can do i highly recommend it. but if you begin to struggle, get lost in the weeds or feel like medication/therapy & whatever other solution better suits you, plsplspls do what it right for you and safest for you.

🖤 sending u big love. i hope this helped

#ask

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dragons-and-yellow-roses · 3 years ago

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I have! My own! Apartment!!!!!!!

Okay I'm exhausted from the whole process, because I got accepted and then six days later I moved into the new place. I moved in on Monday!

Oh my god yeah Monday I paid rent, picked up the keys, picked up the moving truck, loaded up my life, and then moved it all into a new apartment thirty miles away. After a full day of work. I got everything unloaded around 1am, then went shopping for garbage cans, hand soap, etc. I finally went to sleep at 6am! I called off of work on Tuesday because I couldn't do that to myself. On Tuesday I went to IKEA for dishes and a dresser and a mattress!! My little car could barely contain it all.

Now my apartment is full of boxes and boxes and boxes and some plants, and a nice new mattress!!

One of the loveliest features of this apartment is the loft. It's your normal studio apartment, but then you go up six steps and there's a tiny room, just big enough to fit a queen sized mattress. That's where I sleep! I lined all sides with pillows, so I have a cozy little sleeping nook!!

My kitchen is adorable and has a windowsill that's the perfect size for four plants. One side of cabinets is old and has funky little latches on all of the doors. The other side has modern cabinets. I love it.

God I love it and I love living alone so much. I bought pink grapefruit scented soap! My bathroom garbage can is teal!! I hung a cute painting that I bought at an estate sale in the entryway!! Eventually I'm going to have a dresser and a kitchen table, and I'm going to fill the windowsills with plants. I'm gonna go home and cook something in my working oven, with food out of the fridge that I don't have to share with anyone!!!!!!! I can lay on the kitchen floor whenever I want. I don't have to worry about someone going into my room without permission, or eating my ice cream, or stealing my towel, or moving any of my shit. It's just me! I'm the only person that can go in my room or eat my ice cream or use my towel or move my shit! I am so fucking happy oh my god!!!!!!!! What a life I'm leading. I'm about to go to a cafe!! Then I might take a nap, and I don't have to worry about anyone making noise while I nap!!!!!!! I love everyone and everything!!

#wrote this in February when i actually moved lol #idk why i didnt post it in February #yeah i moved!! at my last place i had a 43 year old roommate #we barely interacted with each other and we were both okay with that #the area was decent and there was a starbucks within walking distance #i miss that starbucks...#but i never felt at home in that apartment #i felt like i lived in my roommate's apartment. not that i lived in our apartment #so i moved!! and now im so happy!! ive got a life here. my own life #theres a cute little coffee shop i go to a few times a week to do work on my laptop and just vibe and destress #theres an artsy place near me that has weekly 'open nights'#which means open mic and you can use their art supplies and make shit #i have a buikt in bookshelf in my loft #i still haven't really fully unpacked because im bad at life #but im the only one that has to live in this mess #actually my gf had to put up with it too. sorry honey #but my gf can come over whenever at any time of day without worrying about bothering a roommate #we're gonna get hello fresh (or some other similar service)#i go for a walk every night #i am really living my best life out here and im very happy about it #cleaning out my drafts

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insidereagan · 3 years ago

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heyyy! i don’t really know how to start this but this is partially inspired by a post from @overgore where he talked about the possibility of jr using the holochanmber as a way to say everything he wanted to say to rand at tamiko a wedding but couldn’t and idk i felt like writing a fic inspired by that :]

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/71jjC4TICsr9wqN4z81njf?si=Z_xyV-OoRea6LcsR2qmKMg i wrote this while listening to this playlist i made so its here if you wanna listen to it while reading :)

if i like this i might publish this on my ao3 (@cxpher) but ive already written 2 jrand fics on so idk haha.

this is angst/no comfort btw!

forever hold your silence

Jr knew this wasn’t healthy. He knew he should just get help to help him unpack his years of trauma instead of reliving the same moment in his life over and over again. It wasn’t healthy, and he fucking knew that. But he couldn’t really do anything about it.

I mean, how would he be able to explain the fact that he runs a company that owns a large room that allows him to simulate himself into practically any scenario he wants without saying that said company is secretly running the world and is watching your every move? And Jr would rather die the most gruesome death imaginable than tell anyone outside of Cognito about his career. He was a rich CEO, and that’s all anyone really needed to know about him.

So Jr didn’t have any choice but to creek down Cognitos winding staircase late at night, dressed in his dark grey tux, white blouse and granite-coloured tie, the same outfit he wore to rand’s actual wedding, 40 years ago. He set the simulation to the wedding, took a deep breath, and for what was most likely the millionth time, entered the world that engulfed his thoughts since it happened. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. No matter how much he tried to distract himself with golf, retail therapy, and sleeping with rich ladies, he was filled with regret. He fell in love with Rand (A/N: no idea why he’d actually fall in love with rand but,, y’know,) almost the day they met, and this was his last chance to admit it. And he’d fucked up, chickened out at the last minute, and now he was pretty sure he’d never forgive himself. If he was honest, half the reason he fired Rand was because Jr couldn’t even bare to look at him. He didn’t know if it was out of spite, jealousy, regret, or all of the above, but he just couldn’t. So, he fired rand., God, what he’d do to go back in time to when his only problem was trying to hide his crush on his business partner.

Jr knew he’d spend over half of his life in that goddamn chamber reliving the same 2 hours of his life, saying everything he wished to say to Rand before, but never got the chance to, but there was no way anyone could really do anything. He couldn’t change the past, but he could relive it, even if it was through rose-tinted glasses, and false hope like neon in a glass. Because Jr needed to accept the fact that he’ll never be able to truly relive that moment. Only recreate it with pipe dream fantasies from his own mind. This addiction was slowly killing him. But was the only thing that made him feel alive.

Jr knew this wasn’t healthy. He knew he should just get help to help him unpack his years of trauma instead of reliving the same moment in his life over and over again. He didn’t want to do this. But Jr Scheimpough had no choice but to enter the chamber nightly, while the rest of D.C was sleeping, to reminisce and mourn the one moment in his life he thought he deserved to get a second chance at.

a/n: hellooo, sorry this was so sad haha, but i hope you like it !

#inside job #reagan ridley #brett hand #gigi thompson #andre lee #magic myc #glenn dolphman #inside job reagan #inside job brett #rand ridley x jr scheimpough #jrand #jr scheimpough #rand ridley #jr scheimpough x rand ridley

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dorminchu · 3 years ago

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Insult to Injury: The Director's Cut — Chapter 04 [Revised]

IV: MA JEUNESSE EST RESTÉE LÀ AU DÉTOUR DE CE CHEMIN

The first time Madeleine discovered her father’s Beretta 92S she was looking around for the bleach. Like everything else in the kitchen cabinet, the gun had a use, and was not to be tampered with. With no one around to chastise her, Madeleine cradled it in unpractised hands, careful to keep her fingers off the trigger.

When the adolescent thrill of bending the rules faded into disillusionment, she was still on the kitchen floor, and maman was snoring in the living room. Madeleine simply put the gun back.

⁂

December, 1995.

The last time Madeleine lived under the same roof as her father, they were flying back to Austria from Morocco. Growing up, she’d hear that old adage, how children should be seen and not heard—that was Frederich König. A presence felt, rather than observed. Calling him papa up ’til a few years ago, this stranger standing arm-in-arm with her mother in weathered family photos. To the men from his protective detail, and the associates distinguishable by the cut of their suits and bottomless apathy, he was just Mr. White.

Back home in Altaussee, she walked up the stairs, through the front door after her father. The house was quiet. Her father told her, “I have to make some calls. Go upstairs and get unpacked.”

Madeleine’s room, on the second storey, looked out over the lake and the surrounding roads Puchen and Fischerndorferstraße. In the winters, she’d stand right next to the glass and see how long she could tolerate it without shivering. Thanks to the generator, the house never froze over.

Her father’s voice drifted from the floor below, migrating from kitchen to hall to living room. Madeleine caught the names Ziffer and Blofeld, and the phrase éminence grise. A heavier door opened, closed. His voice faded, though he couldn’t have left through the back.

Madeleine crept downstairs to investigate. Her father’s coat hung up in the closet. He wasn’t in the living room or the kitchen. There was a door between the two rooms which she and maman never touched, because it was always locked.

Madeleine put her ear against it. It was too thick to hear anything. She pulled away, frowning. The knob turned and Madeleine jumped back as Mr. White stepped into the kitchen.

“Maddie,” he said. “What are you doing down here?”

Madeleine admitted that she finished unpacking. Then asked, What were you doing in there?

“For the next month,” he said, “I’ll be working from home. So don’t make too much noise upstairs.”

Madeleine didn’t understand. You’re always away on business trips.

White chuckled. “That’s your mother talking. An associate of mine has agreed to take over in my absence. It won’t be permanent.” White considered her for a moment. Glancing at the kitchen sink, he said, “This was going to come up, sooner or later.” He opened the door with one arm. Madeleine stood on the peripheral between childhood home and the great unknown. Over his shoulder, he said, “No need to be shy. Just be careful on the stairs. There isn’t any handrail.”

Following him down a flight of steps, into the basement glowing under bare bulbs. A map of Morocco hung on the wall above a row of black storage cabinets, with several blankets folded neatly atop. Stacks of VHS tapes organised with a VCR. A pair of CRTs displaying a black-and-white image of the front and rear exits.

Madeleine’s attention drawn to the old oak desk in the left corner of the room. It looked heavy enough to break the staircase, and very beautiful. A flat plane gleamed obliquely on its surface.

She went over to get a better look. A framed photograph, reflecting the light. Ten soldiers in khaki uniform, standing against a hand-painted mural of an octopus engulfing a fighter jet. A message scrawled behind them, Les Spectres de Pierre, 1982.

Who is this?

Madeleine pointed to a face in the front row. The smallest of the group, with piercing eyes and a thin smile. His blonde hair, a little fuller on his scalp, was cut short.

“Mr. Blofeld and I were in the same division,” said White after a pause. “It was a long time ago.”

Gesturing her over to a stainless metal bench, along the opposite wall. There was the Beretta 92S. Running through the basics: this button at the bottom of the grip released the magazine; slide-mounted safety that also functioned as a decocker.

“Ideally,” said White, “you want to keep a round chambered and the safety off. The first pull will be a little stiff, but in a realistic scenario it won’t impede you.”

His gnarled hands passed the gun into her own. While Madeleine lacked the muscle memory of a soldier in the French Foreign Legion, his approval was a powerful motivator.

Each day, the two of them spent an hour or two in his office after school. Once she was comfortable with the gun he took her outside, setting up targets. “Shot placement is crucial. Go for the vitals. The lungs or the heart. The head, only if you are certain you won’t miss. At the end of a string of fire, always decock and then move the safety back up.”

Once she was able to consistently get chest-shots, her father introduced her to the concept of a ballistic vest.

“At close range,” he said, loading the Beretta, “it’ll knock you off your feet.”

Madeleine instinctively squared her shoulders. She’d seen what that gun could do to a target.

Does it hurt?

White paused. “Oh, you might have a bruise. Nothing too bad.” Taking aim while Madeleine fought against the muscles in her face, not to cower. The way he described it sounded no worse than a needle. He fired one round exactly into the centre of her chest; Madeleine went sailing backwards through the air, skidding in the snow which cushioned her fall.

“How do you feel?” he called.

Madeleine blinked a couple times to clear her vision. Pushing herself to stand, brushing the snow off her clothes. Unzipping her coat, running her fingers along the dent left by the bullet, she said in a slightly halting voice, My jeans are wet.

Her dad chuckled. “Not so bad, eh?”

Madeleine’s mouth curled into a wavering smile.

“That vest is what we call soft armour. It’ll stop a handgun bullet and protect you from fragmentation. If someone comes at you with a rifle, you should be wearing hard armour. Even then, by the time someone is pointing a gun at you, it’s better to shoot first.”

He caught her at the perfect time. Before this burgeoning curiosity about his job curdled into abhorrence. Ten years old, tough enough to get back up without sniffling. Interpreting compassion as the Kevlar vest around her torso, rather than the gun itself.

⁂

One morning, Madeleine came downstairs to find her father pacing from room to room. Talking agitatedly to someone named Herr Ziffer. Madeleine had to leave for school with the guard. Coming home that afternoon, her father was in the living room. Stacks of paper, where her mother usually took up residence. Briefcase placed at his feet. Wearing his suit and overcoat indoors.

“Hello, Maddie. How was your day at school?”

Madeleine told him the usual. Her father’s greatest concern was that she keep up with her studies. She said, How was your day?

“Busy as usual.” His tone was a little off. Attempting levity without any credence. “They’ve called me back into work. Your mother is well enough to come home.”

Is it because of mom?

White shook his head. “It has nothing to do with either of you.” Turning around, giving her his undivided attention. “If there is any trouble while I am gone, you know where the gun is and which number to call. You are to tell no one about the basement, or the gun, not even your mother. Do we understand each other?”

Yes, papa.

⁂

After thirty days of counselling, Maman could walk around by herself. Usually, she just sat in the living room, huddled under blankets, nursing a glass of mineral water. Or a cigarette. She was supposed to give up smoking as well as alcohol, but her husband couldn’t force her to comply with the doctor when he was on a business commute. She still had a terrible cough.

Sobriety opened up her personality in other ways.

Five days into January, Madeleine came home to find her curled up on the kitchen floor, weeping about her husband. Trail of blood from the clenched fist on her knee. The bread knife and conspicuous loaf of bread scattered at her feet. When Madeleine tried to touch her, her mother shoved her away and said she didn’t need any damn help.

Madeleine sat with her anyway. Convincing her that it was okay to bind her hand, helping her to stand. Walking her to the living room, to sit by the window. Before she could go and clean up, her mother pulled her into an embrace, kissing the top of her head. All she whispered was, “Thank you.”

Madeleine said nothing. Pulling away from her mother with a strange ache in her chest. In the kitchen, wiping down the bloodstains and discarding the bread, she could hear maman humming La petite maison bleue. Creeping upstairs, she shut the door to her bedroom before smothering the inevitable loss of composure into her pillow.

On a better day, Madeleine would eat breakfast to the sounds of Ella Fitzgerald, Françoise Hardy, Charles Aznavour. This morning, she did not have school, so she had no excuse to avoid sitting with her frail mother, collecting dust in an isolated cabin.

“It’s already been an hour,” her mother said with a scoff. “This is unacceptable. I’ll have to talk with your father about these thugs he hires.”

Madeleine glanced out the window. The sky outside brilliant blue.

Maman.

“Hm?”

You want me to put on a record?

“Pars?” Madeleine got up. As she was putting the record on, her mother said, “How was Tangier?”

They never discussed her father’s business or his friends, if it could be helped. Especially when he wasn’t around.

Madeleine told her a little about the dinner, in Morocco. Faceless men in well-tailored suits. Mr. Le Chiffre, who was friends with her father. And Ernst.

“Mr. Blofeld. Don’t be rude.”

Yes, sorry.

“That bastard. He’s been waiting to get his claws in you since your father signed the prenup.” Madeleine averted her eyes. “I told your father he wasn’t allowed to bring his Legion friends around here anymore. This is his idea of a solution.” Her mother was nearly out of mineral water. When Madeleine walked over to check if a refill was in order, her mother said, “Just promise me you won’t get yourself involved with men like Blofeld.”

Okay.

Her mother’s face contorted. She grabbed Madeleine’s hand in her cool ones.

“You don’t know what he’s capable of. For your own sake, I need you to promise me.”

Yes, said Madeleine, not sure what she was agreeing to, I promise.

Her mother let go. Madeleine had an excuse to put on the B-side; La Bambola, and Dans La Ville Endormie. But she said,

Mom?

“Yes, dear?”

What’s an éminence grise?

Her mother leant forward. “Where did you hear that term?”

I just read about it somewhere.

Glancing out the window with a scoff, shake of the head, her mother said, “An éminence grise is someone who exercises power or influence without holding an official position of authority. Imagine a person who never shows his face in public. This person relies on other men to do his bidding. So, if something goes wrong, they will take the blame instead.”

Is my father an éminence grise?

Her mother raised the glass of mineral water to her lips. “He definitely works for one.”

Veering into the kitchen on the pretense of taking her mother’s glass to the sink, she stopped by the closet to put on her old pastel coat, fuzzy grey boots. Ignoring the dirty dishes on the counter, she opened the cabinet. Took the Beretta 92S from its holster, shoving it in her coat pocket.

Her mother asked where she was off to in such a hurry.

Madeleine told her that it was a nice day out. Seemed a shame to stay in here all morning. When she passed by the living room again her mother had averted her eyes to the dying cigarette in its ashtray. Madeleine added if she would like to join her outside, that was okay.

Her mother looked up. At the same moment there was a harsh knocking at the front door. The gun weighed against Madeleine’s hip, despite adjusting her stance. Her mother said, “That must be your goon. Get the door, would you? I don’t want him in the house.”

The man on the other side of the door wore a white parka, snow pants. Porcelain mask betrayed no humanity beyond the glittering eyes beneath. He tilted his head down at her and asked, “Vy Blanshar?”

Madeleine was looking at the rifle slung over his shoulder. The bodyguards all referred to their employer as The Pale King. Sorry, Madeleine said in French, you must have the wrong address. She went to close the door. He stopped her with his arm, one gloved hand resting on the jamb. Madeleine, light-headed, had to crane her neck to look him in the eyes.

Her mother called, “Shut the damn door. It’s the middle of January.”

The man’s head lifted in the direction of her voice. “Chto ona skazala?”

At school, a classmate once told her he could understand Russian partially, on account of his fluency in Polish. He was the only kid to admit to knowing Russian in such a capacity. Madeleine’s conception of Russia limited to the dissolution of the USSR, when she was five years old. A few terms on the news and in the newspapers, like glasnost and perestroika. All of it so far away. Abstract to a child who grew up without want of food, or safety.

“Blanshar,” the man reiterated, in accented English. “She is here? You know her?”

The only way to get into her father’s office was the key he carried on him. Madeleine had a very small chance to deceive this man, playing mute. With a mask, his visibility was limited. All she had to do was reach into her coat and take aim.

Rather than ask twice, he simply forced his way over the threshold. The back of his head in line of sight. Madeleine couldn’t move. Not as he turned the corner into the living room, out of sight. Not as he asked in that same, accented English, “Are you Blanshar?”

“What the hell are you doing in my house?” her mother snapped, “I can hardly understand you with that mask.”

“A message, from Adelheid.”

A wheezing, repetitive shudder; her mother’s laughter. In French she hissed, “Ernst, you son of a bitch,” switching back to English, “all right, what is this about? Money? Favours? We do more than enough for that family.”

“Your husband forgets his obligations. You will make sure he gets the message.”

Cowering against the wall, Madeleine stuck out like a bullseye in her winter coat. Shoving one hand into her coat pocket and clutching the Beretta 92S so tightly her fingers hurt.

Her mother was saying, “If you are the best Adelheid can afford, I pity her. Someone must really abhor you. I’m sure you feel very confident, under your mask. So, when I’m finished talking, you’re going to turn around, walk out the way you came in. Explain to Ms. Adelheid, or her contact, that my husband is not here, and I’ve no idea where he is. He doesn’t tell me a goddamn thing about his SPECTRE friends or the trouble he is in. Tell Adelheid I will pass along this message of yours whenever he deigns to come home. Now get the hell out of my sight.”

Two shots overpowered Madeleine’s scream. With the blood roaring in her ears, she wasn’t thinking about ballistics or shot placement. Ten years old. Choking back her breath in one fist to stop from hyperventilating.

Gunman came into view as did the shine of dark red on hardwood, the soles of his boots. The rifle around his shoulder, at ease.

Just like that, Madeleine was not a child anymore.

She drew the gun, aiming between the eyes. His whole body tensed up, an animal about to spring. Turning himself away, at an angle where the bullet wouldn’t penetrate his skull. The first shot grazed his the jaw—shattered the mask, drawing blood.

Madeleine emptied the magazine into his chest.

⁂

The colour of the sky was fading into crimson when Primo confirmed her father’s arrival in Zürich. He would be at the penthouse in a matter of minutes.

Madeleine took up a seat at the living room, where she had line-of-sight of the entrance hall.

Mr. White was a businessman first. When all was said and done, only her surface-level concerns would be addressed. It was better to settle for whatever answer she got, because he’d happily keep her waiting the rest of her life if she allowed him the opportunity. Approach him, not as her father, but a business partner who wanted to cut her a deal.

The front door opened. Her father’s voice drifting in. Despite living in a variety of different countries during her lifetime, he had never been able to leave behind his Austrian accent.

Coming into view, he’d dressed for the weather in a sharp grey coat and matching homburg hat. As he moved up the hall into the living room, his gait was a little slower. His cheeks sunken. Greyer around the temples. Through all these years spent running from his shadow, on his dime, she’d never stopped to notice. “Hello, Madeleine.”

Right out of the past, and back into her life. “Hello.”

Mr. White did not remove his hat. His eyes lingered on her face. Safin motioned to Primo, who went out. White said, “You’ve grown out your hair. It looks lovely.”

“Will you be staying?” Madeleine asked, focused on her father.

“I’m afraid I can’t for very long, I’ve got a meeting in Rome, tomorrow.” The words and tone of voice didn’t match his expression. Body language closed-off, eying her critically. Less the concerned parent and more a discerning realtor. Madeleine said nothing. Mr. White’s mouth thinned. “You must understand, Madeleine I’ve done everything in my power to let you live as you wish. And you have been exceptionally self-sufficient, always. But there are exceptions to any rule, and given your situation—”

“—are you going to tell me why?” Mr. White paused. His frown set the lines in his face into sharp relief. Madeleine levelled her tone: “I’ve been uprooted from my previous life without advance notice. Explain it to me, what could possibly be the issue? Is it my finances? Poor choice in men?”

Safin averted his attention down the hall, towards his associate. White glanced at him, back to Madeleine. Scowling. “Don’t tell me you’re still seeing that—what the hell was his name, Olivier?”

Madeleine gave a little jerk of the head. “Arnaud. The one from Oxford.”

“Oh, of course,” said Mr. White. “And, how is Arnaud?”

“He threw himself out the window.” She glanced coolly at Safin. “That little stunt in Paris, was it meant to frighten me off as well?”

“What the hell is this about?” asked White sharply, to Safin.

Safin didn’t miss a beat. “An attack, meant for her.” Giving her a look that said, don’t test your luck. “We intercepted.”

Madeleine would not be ignored. “Maybe you can tell me who was behind the insurrection in Conakry?”

“Dr. Swann,” said Safin tersely.

“It’s got to do with Conakry,” said Mr. White slowly, “but you were smart enough to keep your nose clean. Your connections to me have attracted some… let’s say, unwanted attention. Right now, it’s in your best interest to lay low. I’ve sent your credentials to a private clinic in Norway, and they are keen to interview you as soon as you’re available. It will be a higher-end establishment, but you know how to conduct yourself. They specialise in forensic psychiatry. One of your interests in university, if I recall correctly?”

“You’ve been spying on me that long?”

White ignored this. “You’ll find that once you get into the right clinics, no one is going to bother you.”

“I don’t need to hear your excuses,” Madeleine said coldly. “For once in your life, at least, tell me the truth.”

White chuckled. “You think you can sit across this table and dissect me, as if I am one of your clients? That doctorate is just a piece of paper. All it tells me is that you know how to recite from a textbook. You do not understand what I have sacrificed to keep you safe.” White looked around the room, out the window. The sunset in the glass, over the ocean. He sighed. “I don’t fault you, for however you may feel. I could have interrupted your studies. I could have pushed you into taking over the family business, in spite of your interests, and watched you grow up into the spitting image of your mother. Would you have preferred that?”

Madeleine studied her hands. “I still dream about that house in Altaussee, you know? When you finally got back, it was sunset. I had been waiting for hours. I got frostbite, because I was so afraid to go back inside.”

White shrugged. “You still feel guilty? Buy Droit a nice bouquet this Christmas.”

“I understand what you are willing to sacrifice. Perhaps I’m just another failed investment. But that’s no major loss, is it?” The look of shock on his face was almost worth the unretractable line. Madeleine looked into the old grey face. She was so tired of running. She exhaled, slowly. “I hope you will excuse my tone, papa. It’s been a very hectic week, without answers. I understand this is for my protection. And, I will not refuse your generosity.”

Mr. White blinked several times, then forced a smile. “Of course.” A man who had always been apathetic, unshakeable, showing the first signs of age. “Well, if that’s all settled, I’ll be on my way.”

Madeleine stared at his retreating figure. When the door shut behind him her eyes lingered on the empty space his body had occupied. She stood up. “What do you think you’re doing?” said Safin.

Madeleine turned. “With all due respect, it doesn’t involve you.” Too tired to argue with any conviction but unable to settle her emotions properly. “It’s not as if I’m going to change his mind on this. God knows, my mother tried. But it’s all the same trivial matter to you, isn’t it?”

Safin went very still. Six days did not leave a lot of room for prolonged familiarity, but the expression on his face engendered an immediate sense of regret.

“I forget,” he began, in a voice that came from a dead throat, “how ignorant you are of your situation. I will explain, this one time. Your family spat, and what you believe you witnessed a week ago, are of no importance in the big picture. If you value your life, you will take me at my word.”

Madeleine’s eyes drifted to the window and the empty horizon. Trapped in her contempt, unwilling to back down for the sake of pride. Safin wasn’t her father, or Arnaud, or anyone else that could be bartered with. She did the next best thing and checked the larder in the kitchen. Fetched the bottle of liquor that had not been touched. Opening cabinets, setting the glass on the counter with unnecessary force, pouring a shot. Downed it like medicine, coughing. Her nose burned. Glancing at Safin through a grimace, she said, “You think you’ve got me all figured out, don’t you? Just another trust-fund baby with daddy issues.”

The smile was very slight, but it touched his eyes. Amber eyes.

Madeleine averted her gaze to the bottle on the counter with uncharacteristic interest. “How much do you suppose I could drink before I pass out?”

“Assuming your tolerance, it won’t kill you. You might wish it had.”

“Please,” said Madeleine with an imprecise wave of the hand, “don’t pretend as if you care.”

The expression on Safin’s face would suggest he was, at best, affronted. “You speak this way to all of your CPOs?”

“Oh, yes. You’ve been assigned to babysit me. Did my father select you personably?” Safin threw her a very odd look. “Personably? No, that’s—personable. Merde. Personably.” She ambled to the kitchen table with a slight waver and took a seat. She scoffed. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“You pity me.” He kept her in his peripherals. “That’s your problem, you know? You want me to think you don’t give a damn, but you stare too much.” He was definitely studying her. Just to make sure this wasn’t some kind of half-assed attempt at a come-on. Some phony mental exercise. Trailing off for a second with renewed fascination, she added, “You have beautiful eyes.” Safin blinked slowly. “Ah, I guess that was a little forward. Has anyone told you?”

“You’re intoxicated,” he muttered, with a slight scowl.

Madeleine didn’t need a doctorate to tell you that keeping a man’s attention was no different anywhere. An unfixable melancholy in her eyes and smile. The humanitarian angle never got her any points, but it looked good on a resume.

“I don’t usually do this, sorry. I must be causing you a lot of trouble.” Interpreting his silence as a grant to continue. “Can I tell you a secret? I don’t believe I have ever been in love. I don’t even know how to lie about it. If you put a gun to my head I don’t know what I’d do. Does that make sense?”

“Dr. Swann.”

“Don’t be so formal, you’ve already called me Madeleine.” A flood of warmth stirred within her breast, separate from the buzz of intoxication. Admitting her feelings in such a casual, vulnerable way. The esurient flaw of the lonesome. “People must tell you all sorts of things. Do you just learn to tune it out, or—” Safin came over and took her by the arm about as graciously as when he’d steered her into the Jeep “—pour l’amour de Dieu,” she grumbled, brushing him away, “I’m tipsy, that’s all. Give me a minute.”

He obliged. Madeleine glanced down at her hands. Seeking closure from a man whose job it was to remain impartial. Maybe trust was a bridge too far.

“Do you drink tea, Dr. Swann?”

Madeleine blinked. Safin was on the other side of the room, opening and closing cupboards, retrieving a porcelain tea set and kettle. A dark silhouette against warm light, filling the kettle with water at the refrigerator tap. Moving over to the stove, clicking on the burner.

“When I used to live with my mother’s sister. She made a lot of black tea. I remember that it was awfully bitter but I didn’t mind at the time. It might have been Earl Grey.”

“Did she squeeze the sachet?”

Madeleine looked up sharply. “How did you know?”

“It shouldn’t be overly bitter. But a lot of people never learn how to make tea properly.” He indicated the tin to his right. “Any preference?”

“Decaffeinated. It’s getting late.” Madeleine got up. Hiss of the boiling water put her in a soporific trance that could just as easily be attributed to the liquor. She lingered by the counter until her arm bumped his. He glanced over. Not accusatory, assessing.

“It won’t be as strong,” he said. “The temperature should be in the range of 71-100°C, depends on the kind of tea. Red tea, or black tea to you, it brews at 100°C. But only at sea level. This matters more with delicate brews. Even a commercial brand—” he gestured “—is workable if you know what to do.” Transferring the boiling water from kettle to teapot, placing a sachet into the empty teacup, he poured the boiling water directly onto it. “Should be five minutes. Any longer, and it will be too bitter.” He paused. “I’m not boring you?”

“No. You don’t exactly come off as the type to offer anyone tea.”

His mouth twitched. “Primo would get along with you.”

Madeleine smiled back. “What kind of name is it? Safin,” she clarified.

“My mother told me it was Turkish, pronounced it Şahin. My brother said it was Arabic.” His shoulders lifted. “There are many different Safins in the world. Could just be misspelled.”

Four minutes later, he removed the sachets. She took the cup, scorching against her palms. Rather than sitting at the table she stood at the counter. “So, you’re seeing me to Norway?”

“That’s correct.”

Staring into her cup. “I didn’t really mind, leaving Paris. The rent was tolerable. I couldn’t stand working at that clinic. Everyone wanted to be friends. What I would do, to have problems like that. I used to daydream about it when I was a little girl. Whatever normal people did with their lives.” Madeleine shook her head. “Look at this. I’m actually talking to you about my life.”

“You’re not special. Just another bleeding heart with too much money.”

Madeleine chuckled. Grief stuck around in her stomach like a tangible weight. The liquor, just a counter to stoicism. “At least you’re honest.”

“You mistake self-preservation for altruism. It is not your job to be the world’s saviour. There are those that will die in your stead, not because you are weak but because life can be very cruel. It’s impossible to protect everyone you love, no matter how much it pains you.” He paused. “As far as charities go, there are worse ones than Médecins Sans Frontiers.”

“I’m so glad you approve,” Madeleine drawled. “Why don’t you explain this to me, I’m absolutely fascinated.”

He paused. “They are dependent, most often, upon the goodwill of donations. If an overwhelming crisis were to occur, cast them in an unfavourable light, it would be simple enough to take over. Once you are in control of operations, whatever you wish. Circumvent the money’s destination. Blame it on terrorism.” He glanced over. “The problem isn’t altruism. That’s good for business. It is everything else that gets in the way of honest men.”

She frowned. “You’ve thought about this very deeply.”

Safin shrugged. “It’s relative to what you’re trying to accomplish. You see enough suffering in the world. You are willing to face it. I can respect that.” Something almost imperceptible in his expression. Could have been a trick of the light. “Who taught you how to shoot?”

“My father. We had men on-post, around the house.” She took a sip of tea. “There was one time, they were unusually late. My father was away on a business trip. His gun was in the kitchen cabinet under the sink, and maman didn’t know how to use it. There was a knock at the door. She guessed it was the bodyguard. He was wearing this mask you might see in a museum.” Another sip. “Anyone with half-a-brain could tell you he was not there to take me to school. He kept asking for Blanshar, which was maman’s surname.”

She shook her head, mouth dry.

“I thought I could keep him busy because I had my father’s gun in my coat. But he invited himself in. Said he was there on behalf of Adelheid, I’ve no idea who that could be. My father never mentioned anyone with that name. Maman was just sitting there, and I—” tears sprung to her eyes, unbidden. Blinking them away, she continued in a girl’s wispy register “—I wanted to kill him so badly I didn’t care about dying myself. That’s what I thought. I fired nine shots into his chest. He must’ve had a bulletproof vest, which I didn’t consider at the time. I just assumed he would kill me—but, he let me go. Not maman, of course. Only me.

“My father found me outside that same evening. He put me into boarding school so I would have an excuse to miss the funeral. I remember hearing that he paid a lot of money for a closed-casket, which I never understood. There was no body to speak of. He moved back to Nittedal that same year, because there was a gas leak,” she scoffed, “if you catch my inference.”

“What happened to the gunman?”

“My father kept the old arrest records. Turns out it was this contract killer from the CIS—Vadim Durmaz. The police had his hotel reservations and the rifle he used. He was still injured when they found him.” She smiled. “Could you believe he was only seventeen? Anyway, it’s been about that many years, since it happened. I like to think he’s rotting underground somewhere.” She drank the rest of her tea. Safin was staring down into the tin. Madeleine said, “It’s not a very conclusive story.”

Still, he didn’t answer. Tension in his shoulders persistent. She got up to take her empty cup to the sink and he said, “My French was terrible.” Madeleine stopped in her tracks. “I spoke German well enough to get by at customs. Of course, my accent couldn’t be helped.”

Turning around as Madeleine took a step back and then another. Retreating until the backs of her legs hit the table. Shaking her head, whispering, “No. No, this isn’t—you are not making sense.”

“I didn’t know König had a daughter. My client told me where to go and who to shoot.” He gestured to a small scar just under his right ear. “If not for your hesitance, I would be dead as you say.” The expression on his face struck someplace in her gut. Like making eye-contact with a guard dog on the opposite side of a fence. “Later, I was told the authorities planted the physical evidence into the room of a different tourist at a different hotel, close-by. He’s likely the one who showed up in the arrest records.” Safin turned away first. “You shouldn’t worry about being targeted. You are smarter than your mother.”

“What the hell is this? Your idea of a confession? Were you hoping for my forgiveness? What, because you decided not to murder me that day? Because I’m smarter than someone who was so sick, she could barely walk around by herself?” A flicker in his expression, jarred out of indifference. Human vulnerability. She sneered with all the power she had left, “Don’t tell me you feel guilty.”

“It was a clean hit until you opened the door.” He didn’t have to raise his voice to make himself clear. Speech deliberate, tightly controlled, not for her sake. “I just didn’t want collateral.”

Madeleine’s laugh came out harsher. “Of course. Nothing is ever personal to men like you.” Safin turned around, but there was nothing to say that could acquit him. Her only weapon was contempt. “Don’t try and justify yourself. I don’t want to hear it.”

Retreating into the privacy of her room, the curtains were drawn. Suitcase laid on the centre of her bed. The door to the bathroom ajar as she’d left it. In the bathroom the light was on. Collapsing to sit on the edge of the bed, heart in her throat, she pushed her face into her palms.

Violent, wracking sobs without noise.

The first time unmasking this phantom through records, Madeleine was unprepared to find only a man. A face and identity assigned to her recollection. Human just like her, only seven years older. Perhaps with a family to mourn his loss. Her father speculated mob ties. Madeleine stared at the photo, trying to corroborate the two identities; Vadim Durmaz, L’homme masqué. Crossing paths only in dreams.

Once she lost the strength to cry, once the old burden around her heart subsided enough to breathe, only then did Madeleine rise from the bed. Stumbling into the bathroom to fix her face. Checking the suitcase to discover her new clothes already packed. She dug out the Glock 32, tucked between the folds of that morbid raincoat. Sitting at the end-table by her bed, ejecting the magazine. For old time’s sake.

She heard the gait coming. Could be Primo, coming to check if she was rational. Perfectly lucid. Just having a moment. Didn’t these men understand that jarring her out of such a fragile state could be detrimental? What did a couple of hired thugs know about empathy?

The knock at her door still made her hackles raise. “Dr. Swann.”

She said, “It’s unlocked.”

The knob did not turn. Madeleine got up. Opening her door to the same monster under a different alias, corroded by time and exposure. At this range, it would take one clean shot to the chest. An insurmountable burden lifted from her shoulders with the surprise flickering over his scarred face. Wine-red stain blooming across the dress shirt. Catching himself on the jamb, leaning against it. His breath wheezing, congealed. With a punctured lung he would have fifteen minutes. Less with the likelihood of internal damage, or the associate’s reaction time. Sliding to the floor, a trickle of blood from his mouth. Drowning from the inside. Primo would catch up, and that would be the end for the daughter of Frederich König.

Such a pity that her parents brought up a liar, not a killer. Hands balling to empty fists, nails into her palms, grounding her in this seventeen year-old nightmare. The heartless killer still had the courtesy to give her space. She whispered, “No one has ever told me what really happened to maman.” Her eyes prickled. Worrying her lip. The child’s anguish bleeding through cracks in her composure. “Tell me,” she said, gesticulating to the gun on the table, “why you would give this to me, after what you have explained?”

In one hand, he produced the box of 9mm Speer Gold Dot JHP ammo. “Protection.” His voice a little softer. She could be forgiven, for misinterpreting reassurance out of apathy. “That is the only reason, Dr. Swann.”

The way he looked through her, it made her whole body turn cold. Her greatest triumph was to lay in bed each night, whispering to no one, I could have stopped this. I could have.

Now, grasping at this inexorable truth, this exoneration from her mother’s slaughter, she almost asked him to stay. A preposterous notion with no acceptable conclusion. Her mother’s killer, sitting by the bedside, watching over her. Watching the door. As a child, there was never a hand to hold in the dark.

Safin said, “Your flight departs at at 07:40. We’ll leave an hour before then. Be ready.”

He closed the door softly. Madeleine took the Glock, placing it back exactly as she found it. Beyond the curtains, there was no one left to lie to but her reflection.

EDIT: 11/06/22: Cleaned up the ending dialogue and fixed formatting in html.

#fanfiction #fanfic #lyutsifer safin #madeleine swann #mr. white #nttd #multichapter #no time to die

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alrightberries · 4 years ago

Text

glimpse of me and you

❈ pairing: levi ackerman x reader

❈ genre: fluff. ❈ word count: 2.6k

❈ summary: It’s your first day out of the Underground District and on the surface. Levi helps you get settled.

❈ trigger warnings: profanity.

a/n: i would like to confess that i was in A Mood.

mini sequel: truly, madly, deeply

i. morning

The first thing you noticed was that it was bright. Too bright.

Not the kind of brightness you saw in the warm glowing lamps that littered the Underground District, but the kind that made your eyes squint and feel sore- like they were going to pop out of your head any time soon. Your hand slips out of Levi’s to block out the light hurting your irises.

He stops walking up the staircase and turns to look at you.

“Here.” He murmurs. He places down the boxes he was holding and takes off his green Survey Corps cape, draping it around your shoulders and clasping it at the front before drawing the hood over your face. The sunlight is no longer as harsh.

“Better?” He asks, and you nod.

“Much. Thank you, Levi.”

He hums in acknowledgement, one hand picking up the boxes with your luggage and the other one slipping through yours to slowly lead you up the staircase once more. He could tell from how you squeezed his hand and kept taking deep breaths behind him that you were nervous. He couldn’t blame you, either. He remembers being the same with Isabel and Farlan two years ago.

Two years. That’s how long it’s been since he was captured and taken to the surface. Since last saw your face and heard his name slip from your lips.

It took the better part of two years to barely scrape up enough money to buy you citizenship, but as he leads you through the stairway with your warm hand in his, he knows he wouldn’t hesitate do it all again.

For you.

“It’s going to be brighter once we reach the surface.” He says. The last step of the stairway was nearing. “I know you won’t, but close your eyes if you have to. You might get disoriented if you don’t.”

True to his words, you did end up getting disoriented because you refused to close your eyes. But really now, how could you? 26 years you’ve waited for this day to come. And you would be damned if you didn’t take everything in the second you set foot above ground for the first time.

As you reached the surface, Levi notices you flinching, turning your head away from the light and gritting your teeth once you set foot on the cobble stoned streets above. Despite your clear discomfort at the brightness, you made no move to close your eyes. In fact, you even braved to let them roam around.

“Stubborn dumbass.” He scolds quietly.

He leads you a little ways off from the exit of the stairway to put your stuff in the small wagon in front of you. The small wagon was drawn by a gorgeous black horse, and you realize that this was probably the beloved mare Levi spoke of in his letters.

“Is this Estreya?” You ask. Levi hums in agreement and takes the last box you were holding to place it with the rest of your luggage with a low grunt.

When he looks back at you he notices your eyes are still squinted, but your teeth were no longer gritted. The hood was still drawn over your face and one of your hands was still shielding your eyes from the burning light. You weren’t even going to lie, you were half terrified that your eyes were going to melt from how hot the sun was.

“Have you ever ridden a horse before?”

You scoff. “Yeah, because horses are really common in the Underground.”

He doesn’t reply to your quip. Though the way his eyebrows relax and his lips twitch up in the slightest doesn’t go unnoticed by you.

“Ride the wagon. You’ll fall on your ass if you try to go on horseback.”

“If you say so, Captain Levi.”

It was now his turn to grit his teeth. He knew he shouldn’t have told you about his promotion.

“Tch, just get on. Or I’ll leave you stranded in Wall Sina.”

ii. noon

The wagon ride to Wall Rose was something you could only describe as ethereal.

You hadn’t the faintest idea the sky was so big and blue, and how fluffy the clouds seemed to be. The sky seemed to stretch for miles and miles, and knowing that there wasn’t a ceiling above you almost made you want to cry.

Wall Sina was beautiful, as well. Especially the market. The market you passed by almost made you want to stop the wagon and drag Levi from stall to stall to see what they had. They housed probably the most vibrant colored fruits and vegetables you’ve ever seen, and the smell of freshly baked bread made your mouth water. Not to mention, the air didn’t smell like moisture or piss or shit.

“Don’t get any ideas.” He says, noticing your longing stare at the colorful tents. “You look like you’re about to jump off the wagon.”

“Will you leave me stranded if I do?”

“Yes.”

“Fine.”

Undoubtedly, though, your favorite view from the ride would be what Levi called “the suburbs.”

The tallness of the trees. The freshness of the air. The sounds of ruffling leaves. Birds and critters running around the ground and flying through the sky. The beautiful greens and blues were the biggest contrast to the drab grays and blacks you typically saw in the Underground District, and now you understood why Levi was so hellbent on taking you to the surface and never looking back.

“We’re almost there.” You hear him call out from in front of you.

Your eyes stop wandering around what Levi called a “valley”. You look past his figure sitting on the horse, spotting a castle made of bricks. It looked small from this distance but the closer you got, the more you realized that distance could be deceiving.

“Is that the Survey Corps’ base?”

“No, it’s a fucking circus.” He replies sarcastically.

“What’s a circus?”

“It’s— nevermind.”

iii. afternoon

When you got to Levi’s private quarters, you didn’t hesitate to ask for a spare towel so you could take a shower.

You didn’t even bother kissing him or unpacking your things or… making up for lost time, if you will. Instead you made a beeline for the private bathroom connected to his bedroom and spent a good hour inside, talking to him through the door about how you’ve been looking forward to taking a proper shower all week. Levi had to drag you out and stop you from wasting more of the Survey Corps’ water reservoir.

“So, let me get this straight.” You mutter.

You were sitting on his bed and he was sitting on a chair across from you. Your hair was still damp and your upper half was clad in a spare Survey Corps button down, while your bottom half was clad in nothing but your underwear.

Levi had complained that your clothes from the Underground were too dirty and would have to be washed. You called him rude, only relenting when he offered to do your laundry. But he wasn’t about to complain about the extra chores when it gave him this view.

“You’ve been captain for an entire year and only bothered to tell last week?”

“Yes.” Came his stoic reply.

“But why?!”

“I’m not hearing the end of this any time soon, am I?”

Before you could respond, Levi hears loud banging from his office door (which you noticed was connected to his bedroom) and he sighs as he wordlessly covers your bare legs with a blanket. Confused eyes met his, and all he could do was shrug as he heard the office door breakdown. The loud banging was now being directed at the bedroom door, the only thing separating you from what you assumed was some rabid raccoon.

“Levi motherfucking Ackerman!” You hear someone shriek from the other side of the wood. Okay, so maybe it’s not a rabid raccoon. “Open this door right this instant!”

You hear the lock clicking and the knob turning rapidly. Despite knowing you should probably be scared, you can’t help but smile at Levi’s clear irritation. It wasn’t the genuine kind of irritation. It was the kind he showed to Isabel— the one where he pretends to be annoyed but secretly enjoys their company.

“It’s not locked, four-eyes.” He replies.

Ah, so this must be the Hange he’s been complaining about.

“Then why can’t I open it?!”

“It’s push, not pull.”

Immediately, the banging stops, and silence takes over the room. But the silence is short lived when Hange suddenly kicks the door open and you jump from surprise.

“Don’t think that I wouldn’t find out about you bringing a civilian to the base, Ackerman!” Hange points an accusing finger at Levi’s bored face.

“I’d be more surprised if you didn’t. Considering I asked you to sign the authorization letter.”

The soldier ignores Levi’s quip and quickly makes their way over to you, sitting down next to your side and extending a hand.

“The name’s Hange Zoe, Section Commander of the Survey Corps. And you are?”

You warily accept their offer of a handshake. Your eyes briefly flit over to where Levi was still sat, relaxing a bit when he nods to your silent question of whether or not it was safe.

“Y/N.” You give them a polite smile.

“When Moblit told me Levi brought a civilian to the base, I was ecstatic!”

What the fuck is a Moblit? You wonder.

Your hands were still joined, and you weren’t sure if prolonged and drawn out handshakes were a custom of the surface. Not wanting to be rude, you continued to shake Hange’s hand, nodding along as they continued on.

“I didn’t peg shorty as the type to play boyfriend.”

“Neither did I.” You chuckled. “But he’s been more than wonderful. He’s more than I could ever ask for.”

Levi bites back the smile teasing his lips.

“Stop shaking Hange's hand. You’ll catch rabies or some shit.”

iv. evening

It was nearing six o’clock when Levi finally convinced Hange to go away, but only with the promise that he would introduce you to his squadron later at dinner. Normally he’d detest the idea of sharing intimate details about his personal life, but as he listens to you ask question after question about the surface, he deems the small sacrifice was more than worth this small moment with you.

“You said the surface was going to be hot. Why is it so cold now?” You ask, settling into the bed. Levi lifts up the blanket and begins to lie down beside you.

“Because it’s almost night.” He says simply. “It’s hot in the day and cold in the night.”

“Is it always like that?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “It depends on the season.”

He feels you shift closer to him, lifting his arm up and placing it around your waist as your head rests on his chest. He takes a deep breath, and the smell that was so uniquely you fills up his lungs. He almost hums in delight because it’s been two years; he hasn’t had this in two years, and no force on earth could ever take it away from him again.

“Season?” You murmur, sleepy eyes staring into his.

Levi immediately knows that you’re a bedtime story away from snoozing, and he figures the fatigue is to be expected. You were, after all, being introduced to too many things at once. And judging by the bags under your eyes, you were probably too happy about going to the surface to get any sleep last night.

“Yeah. There are four seasons above ground: winter, summer, spring, and fall. Right now, it’s spring.”

“Will you tell me about the seasons?”

He feels you shift, pressing a kiss against his cheek.

“You missed.”

You smile. A hand gently reaches out to grasp his chin, pulling his face towards yours to give him a gentle kiss. When you try to pull away, Levi pulls you back in.

“If you’re going to kiss me, do it properly.” He muses as your lips broke apart. The arm wrapped around your waist holds onto you a little tighter as you relax to his side once again, nuzzling your face in the crook of his neck. His thumb rubs small, gentle circles into your arm.

“The flowers bloom in spring. Everything blooms.” He explains. “In fall, the temperature gets colder so the leaves start changing colors.”

“What colors do they become?”

“Mostly brown or orange.”

You nod.

“In winter, that’s when things start getting really cold. Colder than the Underground. Snow starts falling and everything gets covered in it. It’s annoying.”

“But don’t you use winter as an excuse to... y’know, convince your bosses to spend more money on tea leaves?”

It was now his turn to nod, and you merely let out a chuckle. He feels your breath fanning against his neck and he doesn’t stop his head from lulling into yours. He really did miss having you in his arms.

“Figures.” You yawn. “You’re obsessed with that stuff.”

He feels a sleepy kiss press against his collarbones, and he places a tender kiss to your forehead.

“Get some sleep.” He murmurs. “I’ll wake you up for dinner.”

“But you haven’t told me about summer yet.”

A small smile makes its way to his lips, and Levi was thankful that you couldn’t see. He’d never hear the end of your teasing if you did.

“If I tell you, will you stop annoying me?”

“Possibly.”

“Okay.”

v. midnight

The first thing Levi notices is that it was dark. Too dark.

A brief glimpse out his open window confirms his suspicions that it was, indeed, night time. He probably slept through dinner.

The second thing Levi notices is that his entire right side was numb and there was a heavy weight on his body, some of it crushing his arm. He hears your sleepy voice mumble his name in your sleep, and he relaxes once he remembers the events of today.

He kept his promise.

You had an entire future ahead of you, and Levi’s heart warms at the thought. Sure, you were a civilian who couldn’t stay in the Survey Corps base forever; and he should probably start helping you job hunt so you could both start saving up for a new house. He’d fight you tooth and nail if you tried to join the military though, and something tells him you probably wouldn’t listen.

But he kept his promise. And that’s all that mattered for now.

He hears you shift in his arms before taking a sharp inhale, and your eyes sleepily open. They glance around the room, trying to remember where you were, before landing on him. A small smile teases your lips, adoration blossoming in your heart at the man in front of you.

“What time is it?” You softly ask. One of your hands reaches out to rub your eyes before he feels a warm palm come to rest on his stomach.

“Late.” He replies. His free hand lands on your soft cheek, and he tilts your head down so he can kiss your forehead. “Go back to sleep.”

You only nod, too tired to argue. You break free from his grasp and Levi is momentarily disappointed when you turn the other way. But then your hand reaches out behind you to sling his arm over your waist, and he shifts closer when he realizes you wanted to spoon.

“So I don’t kill your arm.” You explain quietly.

Levi presses his chest to your back and his leg wraps around yours. His nose is buried into the crown of your hair and he couldn’t help but take a deep inhale and close his eyes. Your hand intertwines with the one slung around your waist, and he feels you lift up your conjoined hands to place a kiss to his knuckles.

“I love you, Levi.”

This time, Levi doesn’t bother to hide his smile. It wasn’t the first time you’ve said I love you, and it definitely wasn’t going to be the last. But it would never cease to amaze Levi how just three short words could turn his stoic and uninterested demeanor into one of smiles that reached his eyes.

“Y/N.”

“Hmm?”

“Marry me.”

mini sequel: truly, madly, deeply

If you want to be added to the tag list, click this link!

#i figured since i wrote a rlly angsty smut #i should write a rlly soft fluff #and this happened #also i was in A Mood #writing #levi ackerman x reader #levi x reader #levi ackerman imagine #levi imagine #aot x reader #attack on titan x reader #aot imagine #attack on titan imagine #snk x reader #shingeki no kyojin x reader #snk imagine #shingeki no kyojin imagine

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kimnjss · 5 years ago

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desperate housewife | jjk

⇢ pairing: jungkook x reader (ft. taehyung) ⇢ genre: smut. ⇢ word count: 5.5K ⇢ theme: husband!jungkook, housewife au, established relationship ⇢ rating: explicit. ⇢ warnings: soft angry guk, car sex, nipple play, unprotected sex (stay safe loves!)… this was lowkey kind softcore, ngl. ⇢ summary: bored with your husband gone all the time, you decide to take up a new hobby... jungkook can only seem to focus on one thing when it comes to your new pastime. ⇢ A/N: this was heavily influenced by desperate housewives, okay. ive been binging it during quarantine nd kind of spit this out lmao. also!! want to apologize if this feels all over the place, kept on stopping nd starting again... so yeah!

The day your husband proposed, he gave you his word that you'd never have to lift a finger once you were married to him. His faith in his career and talents fueling his proclamation. You would've said yes even without it, but it was nice how badly he wanted to treat you like a princess.

You and Jungkook had been together for two years before he decided to get down on one knee. He made it known that he thought you were the one from the beginning and you had always thought, it was soon to tell- but he was right.

Your agreement was no short of immediate, wedding date set for an exact year after that day and you couldn't wait. Jungkook was oddly helpful with the planning and organization, way more than you'd expect a husband to be, but he was genuinely interested.

With his help, you two pulled off a gorgeous ceremony. His family and yours filling the place, watching as you agreed to become one with this man. It was all you wanted. Becoming Mrs. Jeon Jungkook was the best day of your life. Three days after your honeymoon in Malta, Jungkook was urging you to quit your job.

You did.

Jungkook was serious about keeping his word, didn't plan for you to lift a finger at all. A maid was hired to do the cleaning, chef to do the cooking, a yard boy to tend to your pool and pretty garden. You even had a personal driver to drive the car he had purchased for you.

Not once did you think of complaining. It was nice. Not having to worry about this or that or the other thing. Having everything done for you really freed up time for you to do the things that you really liked to do. The only problem was, you've been busy working your whole life you never really had the chance to figure out exactly what that was.

And it wasn't like you could hang out with the husband you loved so much, he hardly had time to cut his hair, let alone hang out with you. So you spent your days at home, chatting with the members of your staff and counting down to the days that Jungkook was able to come home.

It wasn't until you caught yourself in a heated argument with the yard boy about the exact inch length of your front lawn did the realization hit you. You needed a hobby. Shopping, getting your hair and nails done, that wasn't going to cut it. You needed something that was just for you.

You just needed to figure out what that was.

Sat on the couch with your feet propped on an ottoman, you flipped through your catalog. Sulin, the maid, stood across from you, wiping the windows down with glass cleaner. The sound of a car door slam had your fingers stilling, your body perking as your attention was brought to the large window in your living room.

“Mr. Jeon is home,” Sulin informed you, but you were already standing; all but running out the front door. Jungkook was waving goodbye to the man who had dropped him off, hands clutching his way too large suitcase. “Baby!” You squealed, not being able to contain yourself as you leaped for him.

Your husband and his ever so impressive reflexes were catching you easily, allowing your legs to wrap around his waist as he leaned up for a starved kiss. His hands were properly placed on your sculpted bottom, slowly inching up to grip the flesh. A squeal flew from your lips as you pulled back, playfully swatting at his shoulder.

“Do you really think the Jefferson's want an eye full of you groping your wife on the front lawn?” You questioned with a raised brow. Jungkook shrugged his strong shoulders, tilting his head up to reach for your lips again.

“The Jefferson's have been married 30 years, have six kids, I think they know a thing or two about groping.” You pushed the thought of your ancient neighbors going at it, instead deciding to concentrate on the cute dimples indenting your husband's cheeks as he flashed a boyish grin. Not only was this man blessed with deadly good looks, but he also had the heart and spirit of a young child. Things never got boring with him around.

Your hands cradled his face, leaning down the rest of the way to press your lips to his again. “I've missed you so much.” Your words are barely comprehensible, considering your mouth is smushed against his. Somehow, he understands you totally, sharing your sentiment with a wide grin.

His hands finding your ass again, Jungkook holds you to him as he begins taking long steps toward your house. You could feel his length against your thigh with each step he took and you knew exactly what you were in for once you reached the bedroom. Or maybe the kitchen. Hell, he might even give up on the front porch and do it there.

Yeah, things never got boring with Jungkook around.

An entire week had passed since Jungkook came back home. A whole week filled with laughter, games, impromptu trips, spontaneous dates. A full week of fun with the man of your dreams. Every waking moment was spent together, genuinely enjoying each other that you forgot he would be leaving come Sunday.

This is why you wore a permanent scowl on your face as you neatly folded his clothes, taking on the task to pack his suitcase. Sulin had been doing it when you entered the bedroom, but for some odd reason, you felt like you wanted to. She was more than happy to pass the task on to you, moving to get dinner started.

Since it was Jungkook's last day in the house, Sulin had suggested she made all of his favorite foods for dinner tonight. No protests on your husband's side, of course, and you figured your waistline could suffer if it meant witnessing that huge bunny smile that took over his features.

Warm arms wrapped around your waist, chiseled chin nuzzling into the crook of your neck. Jungkook pulled you into his embrace, taking in the sweet smell of the perfume you prayed whenever you got out the shower. “How's my princess doing?” His tone was soft and caring.

Jungkook knew that you were upset that he was leaving. But he also knew that you weren't upset with him. Couldn't be upset with him because you knew what you were in for from the beginning. It just annoyed you that his job always cut into the time that the two of you got to spend together. He was hardly ever home, never really unpacked when he was home because it was just a matter of time until he was leaving again.

It was like your house was just a rest stop and that annoyed you, passionately. You didn't want to make him feel bad, though. You knew he was trying his best; could tell with how he fought sleep when he was back just so he could spend time with you. It was hard on him too, so there was no reason to make a stink out of it.

You pulled his suitcase closed, zipping it before turning in his arms. Your scowl had morphed into a pout, arms wrapping around his neck. Lifting up on your tiptoes, you pressed a sweet kiss to his lips. “I'm okay. What time is your flight?” You wanted to know just how much time you had left with him.

“Javier will pick me up right after dinner.” Guess you only had a few more hours left with him then. A sigh slipped from his lips, his hands cupping your face and thumb brushing over your cheek. “I won't be gone long this time. Just a week or two and then I have a month off,” He offered up with a grin and you matched it, nodding your head.

“Can we visit that resort when you get back, then?” You looked up at him hopeful, his head was nodding not even giving a moment to think of the request. “Whatever you want. Just put it on the schedule. A whole month, I'm all yours.”

It was like time was on a treadmill whenever you were with him. Before you knew it, dinner was being served and the two of you sat across each other at your way too big dining table. “You know,” He was speaking after some time had passed without either of you saying a word.

You were playing with your food, eating in slow motion as if that would keep time from moving so he wouldn't have to leave just yet. Head lifting at the sound of his words, you tilted your head to the side. “Sammie Fields and a couple of her girlfriends all take dance lessons at the gym across town.”

Face contorted, you tried to figure out why he was offering up this information all of a sudden. “Alright, you got me. Why are you telling me this?” You pushed out a laugh, hoping not to sound too harsh. You just wanted to enjoy your silent dinner before he was being whisked away.

“Maybe you should join them sometime?”

“Is this your way of telling me that I need to start working out? Believe it or not, Jeon Jungkook I'm in-” He was quick to cut you off, quick denying shakes of his hands as he leaned toward you. “No! No, it's nothing like that. I just... you said that you were bored,” Your cheeks darkened, had forgotten that you had shared that with him while catching him up on everything that had been happening while he was gone.

“Oh, yeah. Right. Sorry.” You smiled sheepishly and he shook his head. “I don't really get along with Sammie and her friends. Don't think they'd really care for me tagging along.” It was no secret that the girls on the block weren't all too fond of you. You weren't sure why, but they didn't really seem interested in being your friend – had their little clique made before you even moved in.

And they weren't taking any newbies anytime soon.

“Ugh, I wish you could just come with me. I hate that you're stuck in the house bored all the time.” It had been suggested and shut down when you two first got married. Jungkook didn't really want to travel without you with your marriage so new, so he came up with the idea that you just came along with him.

His manager was quick to veto his proposal, deeming you an unnecessary distraction – the asshole. “I'll be fine, don't worry about me.” You pushed a smile onto your face, but he didn't look convinced; cut into his pork with a quizzical look on his face. His teeth worried his lower lip and you could almost literally see the wheels turning in his head.

“Or! You know what, I could take up tennis?” You suggested, with a grin. “Tennis? Since when were you into tennis?” A shrug of your shoulder was sent in his direction as you reached forward to grasp your wine glass, bringing it to your lips. “It's never too late to learn,” He nodded.

“Are you sure you're going to like it? I mean... not to discourage you, but baby, I've not even seen you pick up a ball. Well, besides...” From the smirk on his face, you knew exactly what he was alluding to. You rolled your eyes, trying to hide the smile that tried to peek through.

“It could be fun,”

You could tell that he was happier now, at ease knowing that you weren't just going to sit around watching grass grow as you waited for him to come back. “Alright, then! I'll get you the best trainer there is. Let me just...” His hand reached for his phone on the table, your hand quick to stop him.

“You don't have to do that, baby. I'm sure there are plenty of good enough trainers at the gym. Cheaper too.” Although you loved being pampered and spoiled by him, you didn't marry him because he was stinking rich.

You married him because you were madly, deeply, truly in love with him- so there was no need for him to hire 'the best' anything for your new hobby.

“I guess if you're sure.”

“I'm sure. I'll head to the gym tomorrow and meet someone,” He nodded, attention being drawn back to the meal in front of him. Finally being able to enjoy his favorite food without worry creasing his brows.

Two days after Jungkook had left, you were dragging yourself out of bed and heading straight to the gym. You were excited, always had liked tennis and the whole idea of it; you figured it would be fun to actually play it.

Finding a trainer was a lot easier than you had thought it would be. After a brief conversation with the lady at the front desk, she was leading you down a long corridor into a sectioned off area of the gym. More elaborate work out machines were back here, a large TV and a sauna.

“Mr. Kim.” She called to the man running on the treadmill. A fitting long-sleeved top hugged his muscles, loose shorts bouncing with each movement of his strong legs. The woman called out to him once more before he was pulling the headphone from his ear, pressing a few buttons on the machine to slow his steps into a walk.

“What's up?” He replied, a bit out of breath.

“This is Mrs. Jeon,” She introduced you formerly, despite how you insisted she uses your first name. The man cocked a brow, sparing a sideways glance in your direction. Undeniably handsome, a face appears to be carefully structured by the gods. A strong jaw, pink full lips, cheekbones, nose a little large but fitting for his handsome face, dark intense eyes guarded by long eyelashes. Even his eyebrows were pretty, what the fuck?

The man pushed a long finger against the machine in front of him, stopping it completely. “She's in looking for a tennis trainer. I figured you would be fit for it.” He was hopping off of the machine, turning to face the two of you fully.

“Have you ever played before?” His words were directed to you, but you were distracted by the deepness of his voice. Did he really sound like that... all the time? How intimidating. His head tilted, awaiting your answer.

You could feel the heat rushing to your cheeks, desperately trying to rake your brain from what he had just said. “Oh!” You spoke a little too loudly. “Not really, no. I've just always wanted to...” The intense way he was staring at you had your sentence trailing off.

He didn't speak, eyes scanning over you carefully; making you feel small. Even the girl that brought you here sensed the odd tension, shifting uncomfortably on the balls of her feet. His tongue pushed out to lick his dry lips, a smirk taking over his features as he dragged his gaze back up to your eyes. What you would give to know what was going through his mind just then.

“It'd be my pleasure,” His voice velvety sweet with some promised laced in his words. You grinned, taking hold of the hand that he had extended out to you. “I'm Taehyung.” He introduced himself with a small smile.

Taehyung nodded at the sound of your name, going to release your hand from his grasp just as the piece of jewelry wrapped around your fourth finger caught his attention. Mindlessly, his fingers brushed it, his eyes finding yours once again.

There was something going on in his mind, you knew it. Could tell by the furrow of his brow and the smirk on his face. You just couldn't decipher what it was. His hand was dropping yours, slipping into the pocket of his pants.

“Lynn will set you up with my schedule. See you soon, Yn.” Taehyung flashed that teasing smile before tucking his earphone back in and climbing back onto the machine. Lynn led you out the same way you first came, stopping at the front desk to schedule you.

No matter how hard you tried to concentrate on the words coming out of her mouth, you couldn't shake the thought of Taehyung from your mind. It was weird. Sure, you've been swooned by attractive guys before, you were married; not blind. But this was different, he was different.

You didn't know what it was and you were scared to find out. There was no point in either way. These were just tennis lessons. Nothing more, nothing less. You were married so that was it. Halfway home, you wondered if you should turn around and demand a different trainer. Decided against it, surely nothing will happen..., right?

Two weeks had passed since Taehyung had become your personal trainer. It was fun, learning the sport and getting to know the mysterious man that paid so much attention to your skills. He had this set narrative of what you were capable of and never accepted less, always pushing you and oddly you liked it.

Your game was getting better as the days rolled by. Time no longer standing still with this new hobby of yours. You two met every day at 3 o'clock, most lessons lasting for an hour... maybe two if he wasn't busy, three if he got hungry in the middle. It was fun and you were quickly feeling as though you could think of the man as a friend.

The tension that surrounded you two when the first meeting had died down. You weren't interested, no matter how many smirks he threw in your direction. Jungkook was the love of your life and messing that up was at the bottom of your list. It wasn't even on your list. Taehyung got the hint without you having to spell it out for him. You appreciated that.

A gentle hand on the small of your back stilled your movements, your head turning to face the handsome man standing behind you. “You need to straighten your back,” His deep voice instructed and you nodded your head, following his orders.

He smiled, hand leaving your back to grasp your elbow- the other hand reaching for your wrist. “Tuck your core in when you swing, gives you more power.” The hand on his elbow dropped, splayed fingers landing over your belly button. You brought your arms back, tucking your core in and going for the swing.

You could feel the difference. “Oh! I didn't think it would-”

“What the fuck do you think you're doing?” Your sentence was being interrupted by the booming voice of your husband. His face twisted with anger as he approached the two of you. “Get your hands off my wife!” He shouted, the words making Taehyung release you, jumping back a few steps.

“Jungkook? You're back early.” It was the only thing you could muster in your shock. Never had you seen him this angry before. His hand wrapped around your wrist, tugging you behind him as he stood square in front of Taehyung.

He sized him up, jaw clenched and fists balled. “Who do you think you are? Touching her like that?” Despite having the big muscle pig that was your husband in his face, Taehyung didn't seem the least bit intimidated. Arms crossed over his chest as he stared up at Jungkook, bored.

Sensing this could take a turn for the worse, you decided to step in. “Jungkook, baby. Relax. He's my trainer!” Jungkook only half-listened to your words, squaring his chest as he stepped closer to Taehyung.

“Does your trainer know that you're happily married?” His words were delivered through clenched teeth to the man standing in front of him. Taehyung was rolling his eyes, hands patting at your husband's shoulders.

“I suggest you calm down there, buddy. I can have you kicked out and your wife banned with a snap of my fingers.” He wouldn't do that right? Ban you? You two were friends, he was just saying that?

You didn't want to be the one to call his bluff. Hands finding Jungkook's elbow, you tugged him toward you. “Let's just go, baby.” He scoffed, tugging his hand from your grasp before turning and passing you, stomping up the hill.

You quickly followed behind him, legs moving quickly in fear he might leave without you. He had stopped in front of his car, hands in his pocket. You landed a soothing hand to his back. “Baby, I promise you. Nothing like that was happening. He was just helping me with my form!”

His hand pulled out from his pocket, your big, expensive wedding ring between his fingers. “Why aren't you wearing your ring?”

“Oh.” You could feel your cheeks darkening, embarrassed as if you had been caught. But you hadn't! You just knew what he was thinking and how all of this looked. You reached your hand forward, taking the jewelry from his hand. “I only take it off for training, I didn't want it to fly off.” You tell him, and it's the truth.

He doesn't believe you, rolling his eyes right in your face. “Yeah, fucking right and you just so happened to get paired with the young attractive trainer, rather than someone who is actually qualified.”

“It's not like that! Don't you trust me?” Wedding ring secured back on your fingers, you reached up to cup his face in your hands. You offered a soft smile up at him, thumbs stroking his clenched jaw. “I would never do something like that, baby.”

Scowl not falling, but an arm wrapping around your waist; you could tell he was softening. “It's not you, I don't trust.” He grumbled and you nodded in understanding, standing up on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips.

“I know, baby. You'd be the first to know if he tried anything,” Your words are murmured against his lips. The grasp he holds on your waist tightening as he pulls your body tighter against his. You feel his grasp dropping from your hips to your thighs until he's lifting your body off of the ground; easily wrapping your legs around his waist.

Your back is being pushed against the cool exterior of his car, his body pressed tight against yours as his kiss gains intensity. His mouth desperately searching yours as if trying to imprint himself on you. His hand slid underneath the bottom of your tank top, smirking at the realization of your lack of bra.

Jungkook was breaking the kiss, leaving your lips yearning for more of him. Dark eyes stared into yours, heavy breaths leaving his lips as his thumb caresses your hardening nipple. “I can't fucking believe you.” He snarled, fingers pinching at your nipple; making you yelp.

He didn't even allow you a moment to reply, lips crashing against yours with much greed, hunger as his hips pushed up into yours. You could feel how hard he was even through the fabric of his jeans and you wondered if he'd fuck you right here... against his car where anyone could walk by and see you.

The thought had a rush of arousal pooling between your legs. You leaned into his kiss, returning everything that he was giving you. Jungkook's kisses were everything he was; sweet, passionate, determined, horny. His hands dropped from your body, grasping the behind you as his tongue pushed further into your mouth.

With unbelievable swiftness, Jungkook was pulling the car door open, lifting your body off of the car and laying you across the back seat. Reluctantly, he broke the kiss to climb onto you, trapping your body between his strong thighs.

You slid your hands up the front of his shirt, the rapid beating of his heart surprising you. He still wore that scowl on his face and you frowned. “I love you, Kookie. You know that, right?” You offered a sweet smile up at him, which he only nodded to. His hands hastily pulled your shirt up and over your head.

His face was buried in your neck, attacking your slightly sweaty skin with his lips and teeth. Big hands grasped your breasts, teasing them. Hearing the whimpers, the moans that his touches caused did wonders for Jungkook's ego. He loved knowing that he was the only one that could get you like this, see you like this. Fuck that Taehyung guy, you were his and he was more than willing to prove it to you.

He couldn't help the primal instinct to cover your body in his marking to make it completely and utterly clear that you belonged to him. Quickly, his hands were dropping and rounding your body to grasp your ass; using his grip to pull your body against his. At that exact moment, he was sinking his teeth into the skin just above your collarbone, sucking harshly on the spot right after.

“Fuck, Jungkook!” He loved the sound of your sweet moans. Loved it even more that it was his name falling from those pretty lips. Jungkook rolled his hips forward, grinding his hard and growing erection against your scarcely covered pussy. Such a tiny useless skirt, did you really think he'd have nothing to say about you prancing around in this?

Your shaky hands found the dark curls of his hair, tugging at the roots as his lips dragged their way down your chest. You were already so needy for him, back arching in an attempt to push your breasts closer to his lips, hoping he'd take the hint. He did. A breath of relief fell from your lips as his mouth finally wrapped around one of your hardened buds, wet tongue drawing circles around it, pulling desperate moans from your lips.

He was pulling back with a hiss, teeth sinking into the flesh of your tit, making you yelp. His gentle tongue soothed the skin, dark eyes peaking up to admire your lust-filled, half-lidded eyes. A gentle kiss pressed against the marked skin, “You're so pretty like this.” He grinned.

Jungkook reached his hand down to still the grind of your hips that had started without your knowledge, he pinned you against the leather seats and you whimpered. “What is it that you want, baby?” Fuck, his voice. It wasn't often that Jungkook took on a dominant role, sort of liked to go with the flow. But right now, the way he was looking at you, handling you, hand an unfamiliar twist building in your stomach.

There was no way you'd be able to keep your composure if he kept on like this. “I need you, Kookie. I need to feel you.” Never did you think he'd be down for car sex, but you weren't opposed to the idea; not one bit. With that, though, you knew that you had to be quick; there was no telling who could come rushing down the hill. Which meant foreplay wasn't really in the cards for you two right now.

Jungkook was quick with leaning back on his knees, tugging at the buckle of his belt until it came undone. He only pushed his jeans down enough to pull his cock out. No matter how many times you saw it, you always seemed to find yourself mesmerized by Jungkook's cock.

It was no surprise that it'd be long, Jungkook was a big guy and it was only fitting that he'd have a big dick. Rested nicely just inches below his belly button. It was thick too, pretty veins wrapping around the length and a pink tip that had your mouth watering and pussy clenching.

Jungkook watched you expectantly, a subtle smirk on his lips. He had definitely caught you ogling. It took you a moment to figure out why he was looking at you, but you were quick to catch on, lifting your hips to wiggle out of your tiny skirt. “Fuck, baby.” He breathed, eyes fixed on the way your panties clung to your damp lips. You felt your cheeks darkening.

He never had to do much to get you like this. A giggle left your lips, “You're the only one that makes me like this.” You reminded, hands reaching up to reach for his shoulders as you pulled his body down onto yours. The smile that took over his features didn't go unnoticed. His hand was fitting itself between your legs, long fingers rubbing at your folds gently.

Freehand lining the thickness of his head up with your center, and sliding all the way in with one powerful thrust. You let out a loud cry, caught off guard although you expected the intrusion. Gentle lips pressed wet kisses against your skin, allowing you the time you needed to adjust to his large size.

It didn't take long for you to get used to him being this deep inside you. Yeah, he's been gone for weeks, but your body had grown accustomed to him, always recognizing his return. Just a single roll of your hips was enough to get him to fuck forward, the breath he had been holding being let out.

He was quickly losing himself in you, forgetting if he had ever been mad in the first place. It was like he wanted to make sure you felt every last inch of him. Gradually, he was speeding up the movements of his hips, tickling the sweet spots buried deep inside of you before full-blown pounding against them.

Each thrust hit right where you needed him to, high, needy moans fell from your lips. Calls of his name as your nails dug into his back. You could feel yourself climbing higher and higher toward your release. Jungkook's hand grasped tightly on your thigh, lifting your leg to reach deeper inside of you. He was panting, sending you praise, reminding you that you were his.

Nothing else seemed to matter at this moment. Not the fact that you could be caught at any moment, the uncomfortable bend laying in the back seat of his car caused, Taehyung; it was just you two. “Kookie, I'm gonna...” You tried to tell him, the pleasure making its way into your veins and spiking through your body; cutting your sentence short.

He understood you completely, though. “Shh, I got you, baby.” He rasped, eyes finding yours in the cloudy haze of pleasure the two of you had created. He loved to see you like this, fucked out and desperate for him. His hand was sliding between your legs to find your sensitive clit, using his fingers to push you over the edge.

Nails dragged down his strong back, as you clenched down around him. With one final call of his name, you were falling apart, hips bucking and head falling back. The sight of you unraveling, was enough to push Jungkook over the edge. His head ducked into the crook of your neck, teeth, and tongue finding your salty skin. He pounded his hips powerfully into you until his body was stilling.

A drawn-out moan left your lips at the feeling of his thick release coating your pulsing walls. Warmth spread throughout your body as you began to relax under him, breath heaving as your body laid limp against Italian leather.

“Fuck,” Jungkook breathed out a laugh, eyes dropping to watch his dick slip from inside of you. The mixture of your release dripped out of you and he watched, amazed. “You're my perfect girl.” He complimented with a wide smile, droopy eyes lifting to find your smiling face. “I can't believe we just-”

His words were being cut off by a sharp knock against the window just above your head. Your body sprung up, arms wrapping around your body to cover your bare chest. Wide eyes landing on an annoyed-looking Taehyung.

“You can't do that here!” He called through the glass. Jungkook was smirking, reaching for the door to roll down the window. You stopped him, only being able to imagine what type of snarky remark he was about to spew.

“We're leaving!” You called back, officially kissing your weekly tennis lessons goodbye when you saw the scowl on the older male's face. He turned with a roll of his eyes, stalking his way back up the hill. “He's an asshole,” Jungkook noted and you laughed, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his lips.

“Just take me home, want you to fuck me properly.” He perked up at the sound of that, hands quick to adjust his jeans before he was climbing into the front seat. “You lay comfy, I'll have you home in no time.” He grinned, quick with turning the keys in the ignition.

God, you loved this man. With every fiber of your being, you loved him. He was perfect for you and you could never imagine yourself with anyone else. You were sure he felt the same, making sure that you knew it every single day. The time apart only made your heart grow fonder, made every day with him that much more special.

You wouldn't change a thing.

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morganaspendragonss · 4 years ago

Text

dancing on the edge of something new

huge thanks to alice ( @reyeslonestar ) for letting me talk this through with her at midnight when it was causing me huge trouble 🥰

five dances in tk and carlos’s life

ao3 | 2.3k | @911fluffweek day 3: getting together // dancing

TK looks over when Carlos slides off the hood of the Camaro, his hand trailing after him until he’s forced to let go. Carlos is smiling almost shyly, shifting from one foot to the other, and TK can’t help but smile back, propping himself up on his elbows.

“Carlos?” he prompts, confusion growing as no explanation is forthcoming. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, of course. I just, uh…” He bites his lip, then takes a decisive step forward and holds out a hand, cocking a brow suggestively. “Wanna dance?”

TK laughs. “Seriously?” he asks, but he’s already sitting up and placing his hand in Carlos’s, allowing him to pull him off the car and to his feet.

“Well”—Carlos shrugs, yanking TK close and smiling at the oof he makes when their chests collide—“it’s how we began, isn’t it? I figured, if we’re starting again, then it feels only right, no?”

TK stares, stuck dumb, unable to do anything but follow Carlos’s lead as his arms slip around his waist, guiding them into a gentle sway. He rests his own hands on Carlos’s chest, the realisation that he gets to do this now—gets to touch Carlos and be with him like this—hitting him all over again. To think he almost threw it all away… Well, none of that matters anymore. What matters is that they’re here, dancing in a field with no music save for the shuffle of their feet in the grass and the occasional bird or cricket, like a pair of lovesick idiots in a romcom.

And he’s never been happier.

He slides his hands up until his arms are resting loosely around Carlos’s shoulders, fingers playing with the stray curls at the nape of his neck. He stares into those familiar brown eyes, so full of warmth and light, Carlos cast in the beautiful glow of the Northern Lights above them, and TK feels an intense feeling take root in his chest. It’s not love—not yet—but it will be.

He can’t imagine not falling in love with Carlos Reyes.

ii.

The club lights strobe around them, bathing the room alternately in lurid colours and strange shadows. The place is packed, the doors practically straining on their hinges, but the only thing TK is aware of is Carlos’s body moving against his own, their movements perfectly in sync with each other.

It’s been a while since they were last about to do this, to come out and just let loose for the night. In fact, TK thinks the last time might have been when they were out with Paul what seems like a lifetime ago; so much has changed since, and TK feels like a completely different person to who he was back then.

He and Carlos have officially been together for a few months now, but it’s like the universe has been working to stop them from actually being able to enjoy it. They’ve managed to squeeze in some dates here and there, but between the shooting, the solar storm, TK’s medical leave, and weeks of opposing shifts, getting a moment to themselves has been difficult.

But now, finally, they have one. And TK is going to milk it for all it’s worth.

He turns slightly in Carlos’s grasp, his head tilting up to catch his lips in a searing kiss. Carlos grips TK’s hips tighter, pulling them flush against his own as he deepens the kiss, and TK gasps, a sharp thrill shooting down his spine.

The night stretches out blissfully in front of them, the knowledge that this isn’t just a fling that will end with the cold light of dawn making it all the sweeter. It’s still a little surreal, even now, but it also feels so damn right.

TK’s heart hammers in time with the music and he sinks into Carlos’s hold, losing himself in his heat.

iii.

It’s not that TK never felt at home at the condo. The opposite in fact; Carlos’s place had been home even before he could officially call it his, and he feels the loss of it keenly. The thing is, though, even after he’d fully moved in, it had been a struggle to think of it as theirs.

It had been home, sure, but it had also been Carlos’s place.

Carlos had found it a little funny, and it had taken several slip-ups on TK’s part and just as many gentle corrections on his for TK to get used to our dining room, and our bedroom, and our house.

And then—well. Just as he’d started to get used to it, it was all gone. Ashes. It hurt, deeply, but TK knew that it was his turn to be the one to lean on, to let Carlos be the one to set the pace. Carlos had lived there for years, after all, and what was TK’s month compared to that?

Really, anywhere that Carlos is would be home, but this—holding the keys to a house they’d picked out together, a house they’d signed the lease for together, a house they’d picked the furnishings for together—feels like coming home.

He hates that it was the condo burning down that got them to this stage, but TK can’t stop a grin from emerging on his face as he slips his key into the lock.

He finds Carlos in the kitchen, humming and shimmying to a song playing from the speakers. To his credit, TK really does try to bite back his laughter, but he can’t quite manage it, letting out a loud snort which has Carlos stopping in his tracks, flushing a deep red.

“I see the unpacking’s going well,” he says, walking over to the kitchen counter and leaning a hip against it.

“It was, actually,” Carlos defends, still blushing. “I didn’t realise you’d be back this soon.”

TK shakes his head; as adorable as Carlos’s embarrassment is, he needs to let him know he’s not making fun. “You can relax, babe. You know I always love seeing you move those hips.”

“Mmm, don’t I know it.” Carlos leans in and kisses him, lingering a moment before pulling back, a wide smirk on his face. “How about you help me finish unpacking here and we’ll see about showing you more of that hip action later?”

TK grumbles, but does as he’s told, the two of them falling into a comfortable rhythm as they work to getting their house in order. It’s ended up being the perfect blend of their different styles, which probably shouldn’t work together, but somehow do, and TK loves it here. They both do, he knows—nothing will ever replace what they lost in the fire, but being able to build a home together is beyond special.

He keeps sneaking glances at Carlos as the afternoon goes on—sue him, his boyfriend is built like a Greek god—and TK smiles when he realises Carlos has started dancing again. He probably doesn’t even realise he’s doing it, which makes the whole thing so much better.

TK watches for a while, then walks up to Carlos and taps him on the shoulder. “Mind if I cut in?” he asks, gesturing to the wooden spoons he was twirling around.

There’s a brief moment of confusion, before Carlos’s eyes light up with realisation. He barely wastes a second in tossing the spoons aside (though, it’s more like a careful placement in the correct drawer) and grabs TK by the hand, sending him into a literal spin.

TK laughs, taking a moment to right himself after the sudden movement caused him to stumble inelegantly. Neither of them are in time with the music as they dance around the kitchen, carefully avoiding the boxes still scattered around, but it’s not important.

For the first time in his life, TK feels fully, completely at home. It’s not a feeling he wants to let go of.

iv.

“I think they were expecting something slower,” TK murmurs, burying a laugh in Carlos’s neck. Their guests are all wearing expressions with varying degrees of shock, and he can’t really blame them—he’s pretty sure the last thing anyone expects to hear during a first dance at a wedding is a country song. “I still can’t believe you even remember it.”

Carlos shrugs. “I still can’t believe you don’t. It is our song, after all.”

TK rolls his eyes, remembering their first conversation on this topic months ago, back when they were still sorting out all the wedding minutiae.

“‘Our’ song, babe?” he’d said, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “Why, because we danced to it for five minutes before leaving to get off in the bathroom?”

“Exactly,” Carlos had replied, his tone so serious that TK wasn’t sure whether he was joking or not. He’d rolled his eyes and lightly shoved at TK’s shoulder. “No, babe. Because it was the first time we danced together on the night that we met. That’s special, right, even if it did only last five minutes?”

TK hadn’t exactly been able to argue that one, and he has to admit now that it was a pretty good choice. If only to see the way Judd almost choked on his champagne in surprise when the song started.

It’s a little untraditional and, if he’s being honest, TK had never thought that one day he would be getting married in Texas on his new husband’s family ranch, with their first dance being to a ‘cowboy song’, as he’d once called it, much to Carlos’s horror. But he and Carlos have never been ones for tradition, and TK wouldn’t have it any other way.

“It’s perfect,” he admits, his eyes never leaving Carlos’s. He stops the dance, not caring that the song is still playing, and steps closer, pressing their bodies together. Everything else fades into the background as he leans up and kisses Carlos, barely moving when they break apart. “I love you, Husband.”

Carlos’s face lights up in a grin that could rival the sun in its brightness. “I love you too, Husband.”

Music is floating through the door when TK gets home, and it’s enough to alleviate the weight he’s been carrying all day. It’s not that it had been a bad shift per se (though, when your standards for a good day are ‘nobody dies’, your view tends to get a bit skewed) but it had been long and tiring, and he’d missed his family desperately.

Sometimes, he still can’t believe this is really his life. But Ana, now three, has been living with them for a year already, and TK can’t imagine their home without her anymore. She’d been a blessing, coming into their lives after years of fighting to get on adoption registers, right when they were beginning to despair of ever managing it.

They did, though, and now TK gets to come home to scenes like this.

Scenes like Ana standing on Carlos’s toes as he guides her slowly around the room in a basic dance. TK watches for a moment before getting his phone out and hitting record; he’ll be damned if he misses the opportunity to get this on film.

Carlos, having heard him enter, rolls his eyes when he sees what TK’s doing, but flashes him a quick smile before returning his focus to Ana. She hasn’t noticed TK’s entrance, her face scrunched up in deep concentration as she grips onto Carlos’s hands as tight as she possibly can.

When the music ends, Ana claps her hands and giggles. TK takes the moment to make his presence known, dropping to his knees and holding his arms out. She barrels into him, almost knocking him over, and presses her face into his chest, her tiny hands creating creases in his uniform shirt.

“Hi, sweetheart,” TK murmurs, dropping a kiss in her hair. He gently detaches her from him and manoeuvers them until she’s sitting in his lap. “Looks like you guys were having fun while I was at work.”

She nods enthusiastically. “Papa was teaching me to dance! Abuela showed me photos when I was with her and Abuelo and I wanted to be just like her!”

“Abuela got out the photo albums again, huh?”

Ana nods again. “Of her… Her…” She frowns and looks up at Carlos.

“Her china poblana dresses,” Carlos says softly, smiling as Ana grins and points at him.

TK laughs and draws his daughter into a hug, rocking them gently, his gaze going up to Carlos. “Well, from what I saw, you were dancing even better than Papa,” he says, smirking as Carlos gasps in mock offence. He looks back down at Ana, tapping on the back of her hand. “You know,” he starts, smiling, “I think I might need some dancing lessons too. Think you can teach me?”

Ana lights up and immediately gets to her feet, as if she’d been waiting for him to ask. She grabs TK’s hand and pulls him up, leading him to where Carlos must have cleared a space for them earlier. The music begins to play again and TK lets his daughter take charge, playfully sticking his tongue out at Carlos when he laughs at TK getting firmly told off for putting his foot in the wrong place.

At some point, Carlos joins the dance, the three of them stepping and bouncing around the front room. Ana’s laughter fills the house, shrieking with delight when Carlos sweeps her from the floor and wraps both her and TK in his arms. TK leans his head on his husband’s shoulder, a hand placed on their daughter’s back, and breathes out slowly, all the exhaustion from earlier forgotten.

At last, he’s home.

#911fluffweek #911 lone star #911 lone star fic #tarlos #tarlos fic #tk strand #carlos reyes #lone star #911ls #fanfiction #my fanfiction #writing #my writing #userjillian #tuserjamie #userkimmy #tuserpaige #reyeslonestartag #tuserjenny

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