supercaliwhat

[egberts]

posting without context but this took an embarrassingly long time and i got lazy with the bg because at the end of the day it’s all about the ocs baybee

[untilthenextencore]

Of Hopes & High Grace Pt. 1: Clearly: Up in the Canyons~...

~

~

Laurel Canyon, 1965~

Walking up the driveway into the house, from his tour around the grounds by the house's owner, Jimmy let his eyes scan the room. Turning left, he saw his date for the evening Jackie sitting in the pit - a sunken floor & seating area - chatting with one of their friends. He had come to the party with her that day. Jackie had been something of a regular or semi-regular presence in his life. They'd been on & off for a few months since working together both on her music, songs for others like Marianne Faithfull, or even his own attempts at solo work. Though the less said about that single, the better he figured now.

Turning right & taking a sip of his drink as he tried to clear that from his mind, he saw a bunch of kids dancing in the center of the living room. They weren't really kids, actually. Most looked about his age from what he could tell. They twisted & moved in front of large double glass doors that looked out on quite a view of the city below. The setting sun streamed in through the windows, starbursting over the dancing kids. One in particular caught his eye.

She was in a slim fitting sheath dress with a scoop neckline & a mottled shimmery watery blue & lagoon green print. The dress skimmed what he could surmise was a very alluring figure. Long dark hair flowing loose around her shoulders, tawny skin, a hint of cat's eye eyeliner framing two deep brown eyes. Full rosy cheeks. Even fuller berry rose lips. She laughed & clapped & spun about with an older male friend as the guitar in the song trilled.

Try as he might, Jimmy couldn't tear his eyes from her. She was lively. Spirited. Drop dead gorgeous. He simply had to get her name.

Nudging his host for the evening, he motioned to the dark sylph dressed in siren's blue & asked. "Who's she, mate?"

His host Tony turned to peer in her direction before smiling. "Ah, her? That's Mariella. She lives up here. Bought a house on Appian Way not too long ago. Made a few papers. Rather young for being a homeowner, she. Teenage homeowner. You know how papers eat that stuff up."

Jimmy nodded at that. He knew all too well. So she was a teenager, was she?

Tony explained further. "But she's more known for her music."

"Sings, does she?" Jimmy asked with a sip of his drink.

"Like an angel!" Tony nodded. "Though she sings mostly in Spanish. Mexican music & the like. Her father is a singer, too. A famous one in his field. Carlos Ignacio Alamilla. She sometimes used to tour with him. Now she goes between performances with him & her own local club gigs."

"I see..." Jimmy nodded, mulling over the many ways their similar lines of work might give him an in with her. "Mind introducing me then?"

To his surprise, Tony laughed.

"What's so funny?" Jimmy asked, half annoyed, half confused.

"Nothing. Except I feel I must warn you. You being new here & all you probably don't know. She's not too forthcoming with new people. Her father is extremely protective of her, with her being his only daughter. And even if you get past him, there's no promise you'll get anywhere with her. The running joke is that while most everyone's first word was "mama," hers was likely "no."

Jimmy snorted.

"It's true. Not to say she's mean. Just very careful in meeting new people. Wary even. Once you get to know her... If you get to know her... Once you get close... If you get close... You'll find she's a delight... Sweet girl... Just very shy I guess... Impossible not to love her, that one..."

"I see..." Jimmy breathed those words in a dragon's puff of cigarette smoke.

A delight...

Sweet girl...

Shy girl...

Indeed...

What's not to love?...

Jimmy contemplated everything he was told with another puff of his cigarette before asking it & announcing with a wry grin in yet another dragon's puff. "Well, now I have to meet her now don't I?"

"Alright." Tony drawled, placing a hand on Jimmy's shoulder. Don't say I didn't warn you. And don't be surprised if she's not as forthcoming with you. It takes her awhile to warm up." With that he led the way as he & Jimmy weaved their way through the crowd.

Each undulating body seemed to serve as a fluttering curtain. A momentary eclipse. All of it making it so as they neared Jimmy saw her move in sections. In snapshots. Rotoscope images that burned & swirled in his brain, searing themselves into the grey matter. Each fleeting glimpse only serving to intrigue & tantalize him more. The time it took for them to cross the few feet's distance they had to traverse, feeling like one long scene in slow motion. The music falling into silence. The silence cut only by the sound of his blood thumping in his temples. His heartbeat pounding like a drum of war.

Jimmy's mouth went suddenly dry. He swallowed hard. He could be wrong but he swore that lump he felt in his throat, if it wasn't his Adam's apple, might've been heart-shaped.

Just then, Tony's voice cut into his train of thought, slicing through the thumping silence. "Hey, Mariella."

Black hair fanned out as she whirled to face them cutting her dance short, before coming to rest framing her face as she turned.

Lovely face, Jimmy thought.

A look of confusion crossed her features before her eyes lit up in recognition. "Tony! There you are! I was wondering where you had gone off to!" She spoke in a bright voice colored with an indeterminate accent. "I knew you were here but I didn't see you. How are you?" She asked with a hug.

Perhaps, this would be easier than Tony said it would.

"Just fine, doll. And clearly you seem to be enjoying yourself too. Great mix of songs you brought this time as always!" Tony smiled & returned the hug warmly. "I've been looking for you too by the way. I have someone I want to introduce to you. He's a friend of mine."

"Oh?" She looked up at him with a curious pout.

"Mariella Alamilla may I introduce one of the latest English imports to hit our shores, A Mister James Patrick Page." Tony motioned to Jimmy, snickering at his own overly florid introduction.

She, Mariella, turned to face Jimmy, regarding him with the same curious pout. Indeed there was a touch of wariness edging those eyes as they scanned him guardedly. The young girl stayed close to Tony, anchoring herself to him amidst this stranger before her.

Now was the time.

Jimmy gave her his best disarming smile & extended a hand. "Pleasure to meet you. Call me Jimmy. And may I say you have a phenomenal taste in music. What's the name of the song if I may ask?"

"Pleasure's all mine I'm sure." Her voice was cool & soft as she placed her smaller hand in his lightly. Feathersoft. Fleeting, hesitant contact. None of that brightness & effusiveness that had been so evident in her chat with Tony. "And thank you. It's one of my favorites. It's called "El Boogie de la Guitarra" by Los Crazy Boys. Mexican Rock. Tony likes me to bring some music by artists he and the gang might not have heard of." She explained in a polite yet matter of fact tone.

Mariella had undergone a sudden transition. She went from alive & incandescent to hushed & removed. Her light still shone but now it flickered like a candle in a breeze. A light in the window of a tower, or at a high altar. Still burning. Still present. Still bright. Yet just out of reach. So near & yet so far.

So Tony was right after all! He WAS gonna have to work with this one. Interesting...

Bringing her hand to his lips he kissed the back, eliciting a jolt, soft gasp & the slight widening of eyes.

At least he could get some kind of reaction out of her. A delicious one at that.

Fighting a grin at the sight of her trying to reel in her reactions so & giving a soft curtsy in semi-formal / semi-playful response to his florid actions, he continued. "I hear from Tony you're in the music game too."

"Yes." She replied, still soft yet pointed. "I sing with my father at times & at other times do my own thing."

"Which is?..." Jimmy asked, maintaining his hold on her hand despite the momentary soft pull he felt. She attempted to retract her hand after the kiss, clearly expecting that to be it. Clearly, it wasn't though. And so her hand remained in his, his thumb rubbing the kiss-printed back as the rest of his hand swallowed hers whole & kept it there. Jimmy meanwhile did his best to distract her from this fact by adding. "Tony told me you sing Mexican music?"

"Yes." She nodded, swallowing hard herself. Clearly she was trying to ignore her nerves. Trying to ignore or quell the tremble in her hand that was locked in his. A fact he clearly reveled in. "I sing Mexicana with my older brother, father and his band. Banda. Boleros. Mariachi. That sort of thing. When on my own I sort of mix that with an indie kick. Maybe a little jazz. Maybe a little rock. Maybe something else. It all depends on my mood." Lifting her gaze from her hand in his & pinning him with a look that was at once both curious & cutting, she asked. "Do you sing too, Jimmy?"

He & Tony shared a knowing laugh. "Not really I'm afraid. I plan to stick to the guitar & maybe my art otherwise."

Tony nodded, explaining simply. "Jimmy went to art school before things really kicked off for him. He's now one of the most in demand session guitarists there is, doll!"

Jimmy did his best not to blush at the compliment. He didn't want to be too conspicuous. Though he had been content to remain silent up to this point, Jimmy saw that Tony's eyes had volleyed from Jimmy himself to Mariella and back like he were witness to the most captivating tennis match ever.

"Really now?" Jimmy heard the first lilt in her voice in what had been quite awhile. The light in her eyes flickered anew. The corner of her sweet mouth lifted as she asked. "That seems to be quite a frequent occurrence. Tell me, Mr. Page, do all you Englishmen flock to art school before you hit the music scene?"

Both he & Tony laughed again. "Boy if it don't seem like that sometimes, huh?" Tony nudged Jimmy, grazing him with an elbow to the ribs.

"Yeah it does. A lot of us sure seem to but it's not like a dead set rule or anything." Jimmy smiled as he met her gaze. His laughter crinkled eyes were met with a gaze that was still just as inscrutable as it was penetrating even as little flames of mirth danced in her eyes & in the corners of her soft, wry smile.

Where had he seen such a look before?

He couldn't put a finger on it.

Shaking out of that thought, he added with a soft pat to her hand, still locked in his, with his free one. "In any case I do hope I'll get the honor and pleasure to hear you sing while I'm here."

"Maybe you will." Tony smiled.

Though Jimmy's gaze hardly left Mariella, Jimmy could still catch the barest glimpse of him signaling to someone off to the side.

Another soft curtsy by the young lovely in the blue dress followed, recapturing Jimmy's full attention. "I hope you still find it such a pleasure afterwards if you do."

Jimmy was sure he'd indeed find her such a pleasure.

In more ways than one.

Just then Jimmy found his attentions pulled to his side as a certain familiar blonde, curled her way around him, linking arms with him.

It was Jackie.

"Jimmy..." She drawled, snapping her gum sharply. "Where've you been. I've been looking everywhere for you. And who's this?" He saw her eyes scan Mariella warily.

Mariella for her part barely flinched. Her features hardly changed. One eyebrow lifted in the barest perk as her head tilted slightly. "Nice to see you again, Jackie. How've you been? Haven't seen you since the last music show we did together. Hope you've been well." Her voice was as ever cool, controlled & polite. Where some would fight fire with fire, she clearly preferred to ice out the flames entirely. And rather aptly at that. Smooth.

"Oh hi, Jackie. Tony was just showing me around & introducing me to people." Jimmy explained as coolly as possible.

"I see..." She cast a nonplussed look his way before turning to regard the dusky brunette once more. "Ah, Marie-Ella..." Jackie cooed, breaking her name up in some sort of southern double name special like her own government name was. "I'm so sorry. I didn't realize it was you!" Her voice was super sweet as she laid it on as thick as honey. Though try as she might she still came off as something a little short of genuine in her apology & attempts to ingratiate.

Had she always been this cloying?, Jimmy thought.

"Long time no see indeed!" Jackie giggled. "How's the eighth grade? Or is it ninth now? It's been such a long time I just can't keep track."

It was then that Jimmy & Mariella's hold on each other broke.

Eighth grade?

Ninth?

What was that in terms of forms again?

Jimmy cast a stunned look at Mariella who just shrugged.

"Actually I'm in high school now, thanks for asking." She replied matter of factly. Calm. Cool. Collected. Sweet & smooth. "How's the school of life treating you, Jackie? Well, I hope." There went that soft yet inscrutable stare.

Jackie just scoffed & smacked her gum again. "Well enough thanks." Then tugging on Jimmy's arm, she announced. "Jimmy let's go. I have some people I want you to meet."

Before he could think to respond with more than a mere. "Wait, Jackie. Wait..." Mariella gave him a playful salute with two fingers to her temple.

"See you around then. Bye you two."

And with that, she & Tony disappeared into the crowd as Jackie pulled him away.

~

As ever this is forever under construction~!

Hope you guys enjoy~!

[safic4-m]

🏳️‍🌈Characters in Pride month🌈

~Master list~

One-shot

Wattpad

So…I’m not really sure what this is about but that’s what came out, okay. That’s how I perceive the characters and if you don’t have the same point of view as me, I invite you to fuck your mother…, haha not true, but if you don’t like it please don’t leave hateful comments.

P.S. Orders are open for anyone who wants them.

-Lana winters

June is a very important month for Lana, for a long time she had conflicts with her sexuality, then her whole family stopped talking to her, but when she met you, she realized that she didn’t really need any of them, you were her family and that made Lana more than happy to have you in her life. Obviously there was a change in her show, the set being adorned with some flags. 

-Cordelia Goode

The academy dresses in the colours of the flag as soon as June starts, besides being one of the most LGBT+ places in New Orleans (I mean we are talking about a witch academy so obviously it must be gay), the supreme one takes time out of her busy schedule to be able to experience this month with you and her girls.

-Sally McKenna

This time puts Sally in a somewhat melancholic mood, mostly because of all the people who for years had to repress these feelings because of society and the fear of being judged for loving someone; but it’s not all sadness and pain, as this helps her to have inspiration to create songs, not to mention that the blonde always writes one about how amazing it was for her to have met you.

-Audrey Tindall

The Brit loves this, saying that every month should be like this and not just one a year. The world goes crazy when you two show up at the march wearing shirts that say things like, “Homosexuality is not a disease, but homophobia is” and “I didn’t ask for your opinion on whether loving a woman is OK”. As well as going out to parties and gay bars where everyone wants to take pictures with your girlfriend.

-Ally Mayfair-Richards

This woman transpires homosexuality…, rather it is the definition of homosexuality, Ally is one of the most excited people when the month is approaching and with the position she has, she manages to make the whole city full of flags. But it’s not all rosy, as that’s when she gets into the most trouble Oz, usually over arguing with her peers about Pride month or if someone makes a comment about one of her mothers. 

-Wilhemina Venable

Wilhemina is known for being a very reserved woman, so she’s not the person who celebrates Pride month the most, but that’s what you’re there for, your energy is more than enough for this month. Something not many people know is that the stoic Ms. Venable is a staunch protector of trans kids.

-TB Karen

For Karen it’s just another month, she doesn’t see any difference, yes the streets are full of colour and her paintings tend to be gayer, but for her it’s just another month. Although she doesn’t just say she enjoys this month a lot, she loves to see how the world turns from being so grey and gloomy and becomes colourful, but what she likes the most is the fact that you become so alive. 

-Alma Peregrine

This woman has a house full of children, so it’s very important to her that her children grow up without prejudice and you hang out with their headmistress, so they are familiar with this. The ymbryne loop is September 3rd 1940 and by this time, it was not a very visible thing to celebrate this month, but even though they live in this year they have a vague knowledge of how it has taken on visibility over the years.

-Alice Macray

GOD…this woman is the cutest thing ever, for her this is the most colourful month, she thinks it’s cute how people come together and go out and march. She may still be a little shy about coming out and expressing to the world that she loves a woman, but it’s nice how she lives this month proudly wearing a rainbow pin on her clothes.

-Diane Sherman

The redhead likes the idea of staying at home with you and watching movies more for the month, but if you asked her to go out with you she would never refuse. This month she’s prone to having the house blaring “Born this way”, which has gotten annoying, as she wakes up to the music blaring, but loves to see you so happy as she puts on a show of dancing to the choreography

[highbeamtf]

Introduction

Hello there, after much thought I decided to give this a shot again. Been a while since I've used this platform and I accidentally deleted my old accounts which is fine as I barely used them anyway. You can call me Highbeam or HB! Friends who know me from Renaissance Festivals usually call me Duchess, and those in the vintage 1940s/50s pinup circuit know me as Lucy. Quick facts and info about me! I became a Twitch streamer in April 2021 and have loved it. Started off with the idea of focusing mostly on Transformers collecting and product reviewing, maybe eventually moving into cooking streams. However I got caught up in gaming in a way I hadn't since I was a young teen back in the day. It started with the Transformers War For Cybertron and Fall of Cybertron games, then I started introducing things like Sea of Thieves and various silly Indie games. Then came my one-year Twitch anniversary in April 2022 when I decided to pull up a bit of nostalgia which I wanted to play back when it came out, but I didn't have the right gear to play it, DOOM 2016. I'm now thoroughly addicted to the game and the lore around it. We'll discuss that in more detail in future posts! I have been active at Renaissance Festivals since first attending one in 1999, but really getting into it when I made my first full outfit in 2003. My happy place is playing a lady of nobility, whether it be my original character Duchess Lucrezia of Spain, or playing as historical characters but with my own unique twists. I also enjoy dressing up as a pirate lass because who doesn't like being a pirate? I have dabbled in a bit of Cosplay at local comic cons, though I've enjoyed creating my own unique 'inspired by' cosplays more than literal portrayals of existing characters. I collect Transformers action figures like crazy. My collection goes back to the early 2000s, but would've gone back to the original G1 if my childhood toys hadn't been lost in a basement flood. I have created 3 original Transformers characters, one being my namesake Highbeam who has a deep story that I hope to one day turn into a spotlight style comic. I also enjoy collecting diecast model cars, select Funko Pops related to my fandoms, I enjoy cooking a lot, and I love to draw. All the graphics I use in my Twitch stream including my emotes were created by me. As briefly mentioned above, I do some 1940s and '50s style vintage pinup too. Nothing risque, all family and event friendly. I particularly enjoy a bit of Hollywood Glam mixed with Cheesecake pinup, something I can elaborate in a future post as well. I've competed in several pinup contests and even got first place in two contests! I have been published in a couple pinup magazines as well. I love dressing in a pinup look to attend car shows and air shows, and have volunteered at various events with and for WWII veterans and original Rosie the Riveters. I'm even in a commercial for Carhartt celebrating hard working women! I think that gives a nice rounded idea of who I am for now and I can go into more depth in future posts. I want to use this page to share my thoughts on things that I stream, discuss DOOM game lore, talk about fun events I attend, and review new additions to my collections! Catch you later!

[aryareyes]

***

Title : The way your eyes burn my soul

Pairing : Gruvia

Summary : Surprise!

Spotlights were shinning brightly, illuminating the dark interview hall, but what set the hall on fire was the audience's energetic ovation.

At the center of the hall, the interviewer, a beautiful young woman was smiling ear to ear, in front of her, her guests of the day, the best duo of the Pop world were seated, delighted matching grins on their faces.

- " Welcome to Pep Talk! Today's a very special day for us because we've our favorite Pop duo, Gray and Juvia with us!!"

The crowd whistled and cheered again as the two stars bowed their head respectfully to the crowd.

- " Thanks Mira, it's our pleasure to be here." The raven haired man answered as he flashed a grin to the public, making girls squeal.

- " Gray's right! We're very happy to be here!" The blue haired girl added, clad in her navy cocktail dress.

Again the crowd cheered but it was mostly male public this time. Mirajane smiled at the public and shifted her attention back to the duo.

- " So, Gray, Juvia, first of all, Congratulations for your last album, Icy Waves. It's a mega huge success! But most importantly, your fans—no actually, people who I know that don't like pop are into it after listening to that album. How do you feel about it?"

The female artist waited for the applause to end before talking,

" We are really glad to hear that." She chuckled contently, a glance at her partner before trailing, "Gray and I worked hard on it...and it was our first album together so..."

- " She worked extra hard for it," Her partner added as she shook her head playfully glaring at him. He smiled as he added, " It was her idea, so Icy waves wouldn't be possible without Juvs here." He winked at the girl, earing a smile in return.

- " He's exaggerating, its our team work."

- " Of course not." He rolled his eyes in response.

Mira chuckled at their bunter eyeing them carefully. Let's get my very wanted scoop.

- "I'm sure your fans love your teamwork. Now, let's talk about this particular song..." she started grinning slowly, earning some whistles and the name of the single from the crowd.

- " Looks like they want the same... The way your eyes burn my soul..." The interviewer paused glancing at the young stars who's cheeks were flushing slightly—at least Juvia's—Gray was doing a great job hiding it.

Mirajane Strauss cleared her throat slightly, getting their attention.

" Your voices...the feel in the song is..." she sighed softly looking for the right word, "...Magic...How did that magic happen?" She asked sincerely.

- " You said it, magic. I guess magic happens in music." Gray answered cleverly, shrugging.

- " I think that answer is too vague Gray," Mira chuckled imploring him to continue.

Gray's lips tugged up as he slid in a more comfortable position on the couch.

- " Recently at your album's success party, there were rumors of the two of you dating, so is it safe to assume the magic wouldn't have happened without that?"

Juvia smiled softly, adorable rosy hues adorning her cheeks.

- " Yes, I think it wouldn't have been magic if there's no feel in it."

Gray's smile turned into something genuine as his eyes were fondly looking over his girl beside him.

- "Are we lucky enough to get more details about it then?"

- " it, here means song right?" Gray lifted an eyebrow playfully earning some chuckles.

- " Definitely the song, but Juvia mentioned something about feel." Mira retorted with a mischievous smile, "So, I'd say the magic of the song—or love."

Gray scoffed. The audience cheered louder.

No wonder she was known for the title of the sweet devil.

Nonetheless, he responded with a natural expression. Years of experience of being the center of spotlights learned him to keep his cool in any kind of situation. He knew to give what the public wants to hear without revealing too much about his personal life neither.

- " We've known each other for a very long time. We'd each other's back through the thick and thin of our careers...so our friendship turned into something more, and I'm truly happy with the change."

The crowd went crazy and Juvia blushed slightly. He looked at her with a soft smile who smiled back brightly. God, she's so beautiful. He thought.

- " Heard that you guys! We were right! Our lovebirds here are dating!" Mira exclaimed in delight—she's a gruvia shipper after all.—" I guess it's time to say—excuse me for my language— Fucking Finally! "

People erupted more into cheers and whistles and chanted their favorite pop stars' ship name. Once the audience calmed down, the interviewer started talking again.

- " Well honestly, almost everyone were shipping you two together since forever and your chemistry is just so perfect. We felt it in the song." She stated as the stars thanked her and their fans.

- " So, now that you got your answers and I've my scoop, let's move to the fun part, shall we?" She continued cheerful with a glance at the public.

- " I don't feel it." Gray stated frowning and Juvia laughed at it.

- " The game is called 'tas-quest.' It's very simple. I'll ask you both questions concerning your partner which you've to answer honestly. Same goes with the tasks."

The two of the nodded and proceeded to play the game.

- " Okay. First question is for Juvia. Who's Gray's crush?"

- " Ouch. You sure want our couple to last?" The said guy retorted with fake mock. "I don't have any other crushes than my girlfriend, right here." He blow a kiss in her way but Juvia hit his arm, glaring at him playfully.

- " Babe. What?"

She huffed with a grin and turned to Mira, " He's a crush on his childhood friend."

- " What?! That was years ago! I was eight! And she's married now, thank you very much." He crossed his arms with a huff.

- " It's still a crush." She argued back.

- " She's a point." Mira smirked as Gray glared at her.

- " Your turn, who's the most jealous between the two of you?"

- " Obviously Juvia." The male singer laughed though his companion she gasped offended at him.

Mira bit back a chuckle as she looked at the young couple in amusement. Juvia pointed a finger at her boyfriend, "You got jealous of a fan on our last concert." 

Gray crossed his arms with a roll of eyes. " He was too close."

- " Because he wanted to take a photo." She retorted with a scoff.

- " Yeah right. He invaded your private space and I protected you being the charming boyfriend I am." Gray muttered under his breath, not loud enough for the fans to here but Juvia and Mira did. The latter smirked while the female singer rolled her eyes but allowed a smile.

He was too cute when he was jealous.—She thought endearingly. Without a word she placed her hand on the his that was resting in the bare space between them and caressed it to smooth him. It worked as he gave her a look and she smiled. He turned his aside fighting back a smile of his own.

The reporter cleared her throat to her their attention, "Moving on to the next  quest—oh it's actually a task for Juvia." She set her gaze on the girl who hastily pulled her hand away.

- " Yes ?"

- " You've to admit to Gray three of your secrets concerning him that you never would have told him." That earned chuckles and whispers.

- " Now it's interesting. I'm all ears Juvs. " He crossed his arms in curiosity, a playful gleam in his eyes.

- " Oh god, tell me I've a joker." She groaned in response—"Nope." Gray and Mira said at the same time.

Juvia pouted, "If I tell him my secret then it's no more a secret."

The sweet devil giggled, " That's basically the point of the game." The girl pouted more but turned her body slightly to her partner who was looking at her amused.

- " I've always found you cuter when you're sleeping...because you're messy, relaxed and actually a kid." She smiled tenderly at him as his cheeks tinted slightly. Their fans cooed. "...So I may have or may not have snapped pictures of you while sleeping." It was her turn to blush as he recovered from his flustered state to smirk at her handsomely.

- " Will we get some of them? " Mira interrupted.

- " Absolutely not." Juvia chuckled, "They're mine." The young girls sighed heavily but grinned at their favorite couple.

- " Next secret Wat'drop." Gray raised an eyebrow challengingly.

- " I stole one of your hoodies a few months ago and got to know recently that it's your favorite since you went through your room for it." She admitted with a cute frown.

- " Wait. My Detective Conan?" He asked in disbelief. His girlfriend bowed her head. " Guilty." She looked up at him again, " You're mad?" He rolled his eyes at her cuteness. How could he be mad at her when she was looking like that?

Instead of giving her a verbal answer, he ruffled her hair affectionately. Juvia smiled and promised herself to find him the real one he was looking for—the one he had that she stole (because she missed him too much), was not the one he wanted originally. The stocks wore off as it was a limited edition and he got himself the closest thing to the original. So, she would  buy him the one originally he wanted.

- " You guys are really cute together!!" Their interviewer squealed as she looked at them and the crowd agreed with her.

They thanked her and Juvia proceeded to the last secret with a groan. "Arghh...I can't believe I'm confessing this to you on a live show."

Gray's eyebrow lifted, " That much secret?" He frowned concerned, " You don't need to tell it."

Juvia shook her head, " No, I should play fair." She mumbled as she stared around at her fans and smiled at them. She then squeezed Gray's hand and locking her eyes on him.

- " I had a crush on you from the very first day I met you." Gray's eyes widened slightly, surprise written all over his face. They forgot they got a loud audience as he blinked at her.

- " Really?"

- " Really." She said softly. He leaned to her side, and kept his voice low. The public didn't notice their murmurs as they've gone wild since Juvia's confession.

-" I don't understand...you didn't like me back then..." He frowned. Juvia gave him a look that meant 'later'.

Mira cheered and turned to them,

" Thanks for playing fair Juvia! You're awesome!"

- " Well, it's almost time. I've a last..." She looked at the small card in her hand before looking back at Gray. " task for Gray."

- " Tell us three things you like the most about Juvia." A gentle smile crossed his features as he glanced at his girl before facing Mira.

- " I think the list is long but I'll keep it short..." He held a hand up, enumerating. " She's one of the most talented and dedicated person I know. Whether it's job or studies or other common things, once she gets into it, she's determined to finish it and gives her hundred percent in everything she does. She's a hard worker and I honestly think that's the reason of her success."

Juvia was touched by his words as she stared at the man she loved talking about her so highly and proudly. She knew why she loved him so much.

- " She's a very good friend—she's this kind of friend who you would call if one day you committed a murder and don't know what to do about it. She'll help you bury the body and get you safely out of the mess." Juvia along with others laughed at his statement.— "Not that I'm planning to murder someone." He added and Juvia laughed more, leaning into him before giving him a look that meant, 'call me if you do'.

- " I guess what I'm trying to say is, she's trustworthy and be there for you through thick and thin. The kind of friend everyone needs to have in their life and I'm grateful to have her in mine." He got everyone's heart with that—if he didn't already had—as they stared at him in awe.

Gray turned to Juvia and locked his eyes with hers as he was about to say his last one. " What I love the most about you is how you look at me. You look at me as if I was your world and you love me so freely and so...easily. You accept my imperfections and love me for myself and not because I'm a star..." He held her hand and pulled her up with him as she started tearing up despite trying hard to not cry. Gray smiled lovingly at her—the one he only reserved for her and never showed in public. " Thanks for loving me, Wat'drop."

Without minding the public—because she saw only him—she brought a hand to his face and he leaned in her touch still giving her that loving look. She smiled, her heart and mind racing as her whole being was consumed of an overwhelming love for the man standing before her. She leaned in and pressed her lips against his in a sweet, soft kiss that sent the room shaking in fan's wild ovation.

When the lovebirds departed from each other with matching grins, hands still intertwined, Mira almost fainted but managed to end the show with hearts in her eyes.

*

The young couple was in the back of Gray's car as they were been driven back to their respective homes. Juvia was asleep on his shoulder as he kissed her head and stroked her hair tenderly. She's been working on her new album for the past week when they just finished their album and even before the interview, she was asked in her studio. He knew that she barely had enough for the past months. Gray was grateful to his production house to be on vacation but it's not the case for Juvia. She's to work for at least a week or two before her own holidays. Thankfully, he would be still on holidays by that time, hence he'd already planned their vacation—It was a surprise for her.

Half an hour later, Gray was carrying his girl to his bed in his penthouse slowly to not disturb her sleep. He lied her gently on it and proceeded to take her heals off and stripped himself, leaving only his boxers before climbing up in the bed with her. Juvia almost immediately clung to him like a koala, her head placed on his chest, a leg on his and an arm across his stomach. With a soft smile, he wrapped his arm around her and squeezed her to him.

- " Are you sure you don't want to get comfortable before sleeping?" He whispered after a moment. She only tightened her hold on him. Gray rolled his eyes and ran a hand in her hair as he stared down at her.

- " I know you're awake Juvs."

- " Why didn't you change my dress?" Her voice was muffled due to her position as she buried her face in his neck. "I don't mind it. It's just you."

Gray's heart skipped a beat and he rubbed circles on her bare arms.

- " I respect you too much to take advantage of you while you're sleeping." He murmured.

She raised her head up with a yawn but gave him a sleepy smile. "Gray, changing my dress to make me comfortable on bed is not taking advantage of me. You're my boyfriend so it's basically your right." He returned her smile, tucking a strand behind her ear to stare into her beautiful blue orbs.

His smile turned soon into a gorgeous smirk. Oh boy. Juvia flushed and  shivered in his hold as his hand pulled the straps of her dress slowly. His eyes were intense on her as he murmured, "Why, I don't have a problem stripping you Wat'drop." His fingers caressed her bare shoulders burning her skin as they went by.  "In fact, I prefer you naked around me." His lips trailed from her ears to cheeks down her jaw and Juvia placed her hands on his chest to push back slightly to stare down at him with an adorable pout.

- " You're such a pervert." She murmured. He pecked her lips in response before looking at her innocently. " I'm using my boyfriend rights here." She hit his chest lightly with a soft frown that turned into a smile, wiggled out of his hold ignoring his protests.

- "Close your eyes boyfriend."

- " Nope." Gray grinned back as he found the perfect position to stare at her, his eyes trailing to her bare neck and shoulders as she held the dress to her chest.

Juvia glared at him for a moment and he held her stare before she shrugged. Gray's eyes widened as she let her dress fall and pool around her feet and stood before him, clad only in her undies. He openly gaped at her too surprised to react as he took her in.

Gray knew Juvia was beautiful. He's known her for almost six years now and he'd seen her in daring dresses before.—it was part of the job. But right now, she was actually standing in his room, in his arm length, only in her navy matching underwear. She was a goddess. Before he could even process what was happening, her hand was unclasping her bra and Gray hurriedly turned to the other side, cursing as Juvia's laugh filled the room.

He was a goner if he saw her naked. He wouldn't be able to not jump her after so Gray shut his eyes tight and pushing away the amazing vision he just saw into the back of his mind as he waited for the little tease of his girlfriend to finish changing.

A moment later the bed shook and her arms slipped around his torso from behind as she placed her face on his cheek. He felt her bare legs slipping on his and he knew that she was wearing his t-shirt. He could handle it. He'd already seen her in his clothes and she's very—Stop right there, Gray.

- " Comm'o look at me..." She chuckled, "...I'm not naked—

- " Shut up." He groaned. She placed a few kisses on his cheek with a smile and after a moment, he finally turned on his back. She smiled brightly at him and wrapped her arms around his neck.

- " I love you." She whispered and kissed his jaw before tucking her face under his chin.

- " I love you too Wat'drop." He kissed her head squeezing her to him.

- " You said sweet things at the interview." She murmured.

- " I was being honest." He said as he caught her looking at him lovingly—as if he was her world. "And I meant every word."  She was his world.

She hummed happily and closed her eyes. His arms were her safe, warm cocon. Her place.

-" Speaking of interview..." she lifted her head up in question, crossed her arms on his chest and placed her face on it, staring at his face.  " You said something about crush." His lips tugged up and her own tugged hp in a slow smile under his curios gaze.

Juvia cupped his face with a hand and smiled adoringly down at him. " I had a crush on you in high school. Remember our first meet?"

He recalled it with a fond smile, " You fell on me with books dropping on us. There's so much dust and we started sneezing and the old librarian was yelling at us like a mad woman."

The blue haired girl chuckled happily. " Well, I guess I didn't only fell on you that day but also fell for you."

Gray's eyes widened, " You loved me back then?" His heart thumping against his chest and he was sure that she could hear it, judging by her smile.

- " I thought it was a crush at first. You were so handsome and—"

- " Were?" He raised a teasing eyebrow. She rolled her eyes. "—are and I just liked looking at you..." her eyes locked with his in a playful gleam. " That is until I knew that you were my rival in everything. Literally everything!" She groaned dropping her head on his chest. "It was so annoying. You always beat me in one point or just behind me in a point. So annoying!"

Gray snorted rubbing her back. " I was not used to have a competitor and I hated to lose." She mumbled before lifting her head to face him.

" You hate to lose too." He chuckled but didn't say anything letting her rant about how annoying it was to be constantly on war with him in high school.

- " But I loved bickering with you. I couldn't spend a day without bantering with you. Really." She looked up at him stroking his cheek. "Then, there's this project in our second year and we were partnered up."

- " We ended it, won the first prize." He murmured as she nodded eagerly. " We became friends during that period..." He trailed tracing his finger on her cheek.

- " We were already kinda friends—frenemies, I guess. I've always admired you. You were the first person I've ever met with so much determination to win." She whispered eyes closed.

- " Hmm, I liked you too. But too arrogant to admit it." She snorted at his statement.

- " Then best friends. We were inseparable by the end of high school..." Gray hummed a nod. " You supported me before my uncle to pursue music career."

- " It's because you were incredibly talented Wat'drop." He said sincerely. She smiled as his finger traced the form of her lips.

- " That's an exaggeration but thank you for the compliment." She opened her eyes to look at him, " Want to know something? " He rose an eyebrow, silently asking her to continue. "You were my inspiration to fight for what I want, to fight for my dream." She kissed his forehead gently, " I won't be here without you, Gray Fullbuster."

- " And I won't without you. You were my only family when things fell apart." He retorted as he recalled his dark period—when Ur died.

" You were my strength and my very reason to not give up." Her eyes glistened as his welled up, and she kissed his eyelids, lingering when lips there. "If it wasn't for you, I'd be in streets."

- " You had all our friends with you. We all had your back."

- " True. I'm grateful for them but you, Juvia, you're special. You held me together." She smiled tearfully.

- " You are special to me too. Always have been."  He mumbled an 'I know' and rolled them over earning a surprised squeal from her as her back hit the mattress.

She stared up at him bringing him closer with her arms around his neck.

- " When did you know you loved me?" He asked gazing into her eyes.

- " Last year, when you were in your world tour." His love brushed the hair of his nape as he leaned his forehead against hers. " It started with little things. Like when I spent weekends in our friend's place watching movies and how you were not there to lean on or throw my legs on..." He grinned.

- " Then, we'd go to get a coffee and you weren't there to know that I don't add milk in my coffee. Then, I started missing your voice. I'd call you and couldn't get you so I would listen to your voicemail to hear your voice."

He leaned back to look at her apologetic, his being bursting with love for her. " Sorry about that. You know we barely have our phones on world tour."

- " I know, don't worry about it. But I yearned to hear your voice." He kissed her nose and lips in response.

- " By the time you were back, I knew I was madly in love with you and I couldn't imagine a life without you."

He could feel the love in her voice as she said it.

- " You aren't kidding—you practically choked me to death when you hugged me once you saw me in the airport." He teased with a grin.

- " Yeah well, I just realized I loved my best friend for years and you weren't there for eight moths. I wanted to lock you in a room and never let you go away from me."

- " It's creepy." He grinned.

- " You wouldn't have minded would you—wait why're you grinning?"

His grin widened and she held his face up and forced his eyes to hers. A moment in silence passed between them. Both of their hearts beating in sync as the realization settled over.

Juvia worded it slowly.

- " You loved me." Her tone was barley a whisper as she remained their eye lock.

- " I've loved you for a long time Wat'drop. A very very longtime that I denied and fought back my feelings."

- " Why?"

- " Because I've just lost Ur. And I've lost everyone I've loved. You, losing you...was unimaginable... I was terrified that my feelings will take you away from me so I fought them back to keep you with me. "

- " You wouldn't have lost me if you made a move earlier, Gray." She took a breath, " I've always denied my feelings for you as a crush and admiration until I really couldn't lie to me anymore..."

Gray sighed in response, "We we're both idiots huh..." She groaned, " We wasted years! We could've been together while we were still in Uni!"

Gray looked up at her, " Hey, we're together now and we've always loved each other without knowing so we're good." He shrugged and pecked her lips as she still had her pout on.

- " I'm a bit worried you...we are no more high school kids. We are popular now, successful stars in industry. And we're dating." Her voice dropped as she looked at him, " Going in public, was it a bad idea?"

- " Do you regret it?" He brushed away her hair, and she shook her head. "I'm just concerned about what it could do to our relationship...as much as I love my fans, when it's comes to their favorite celebrity's love life, they'd go crazy. Especially when two celebrities are dating. They don't see the fact that under the mask of popularity, it's two normal people with feelings and we can't really fault them." Her eyes started stinging as she stared at him. "I can't lose you, Gray."

He quickly reassured her pulling her in a tight hug. " You won't lose me." He pulled back slightly despite her pressure to stay like that. He stared into her eyes, " Didn't you say that I'm the most determined person you know?" A nod, "Juvia, I fight for what I want. " He lifted her chin up. " I'll always fight for you." He swore.

- " Promise?" Her tone was frail, and he smiled at her. " Promise. And you promise to fight for me?"

- " Always."

She brought a hand between them, holding up her little finger, He wrapped his around it and smiled when he saw their tattoos matching as their fingers locked together. Juvia dragged him to the tattoo parlor past midnight to get it in their half drunken states a few weeks ago. It was on the day of the success party of their first album together, Icy Waves. So they got themselves tattooed a drop of water on his finger and a snowflake on hers.

There's no ice without water and no water without ice. And Gray would be damned if he didn't keep that promise.

**********************

💧❄️ Happy Belated Gruvia day! ❄️💧

[7demonhoes]

Lucifer x MC smut

Lucifer learns that he’s not MC’s first and decides to show them that they only belong to him.

Warnings: 18+, very graphic, bdsm, sub/dom, MC is female and Lucifer calls them “girl” once 

Word count:  2,500

I walk into my room with a sigh after a long day of classes and listening to all the demon brothers argue. Mostly over me. I’m not sure if I’ll ever get used to that. 

Once I close the door behind me, I lean against it and run my hand through my hair. I close my eyes and take a deep breath in an attempt to relax. When I open my eyes, I glance at my bed-- and see something on it.

I walk over to it; as soon as I see what is placed upon it, my eyes go wide and my mouth is caught in an awkward place between a smile and a gasp. 

It’s lingerie. Beautiful, black, and lacey. And very, very see-through. The thin fabric would hug my curves perfectly. I swallow, picking up the note that’s placed on top of the clothing. I open up the thick, folded piece of paper, and immediately recognize Lucifer’s handwriting: 

I’ll be waiting.

My cheeks turn red as I read the short sentence. A shiver goes up my spine in anticipation. I've known that he's wanted me for a long time. He’s been leaving notes for me and giving me these… looks that make it hard to fall asleep at night, and I didn’t know how badly I wanted this moment to come until now. 

Gingerly, I pick up the lingerie and put it on. It fits perfectly, unsurprisingly. I wonder how he got my measurements? He seems to know details about me without asking, especially if it has to do with my body. Does he study me that closely?

I look at myself in the mirror. Lucifer isn’t the first demon I’ve slept with, but this is different. I don’t just feel excitement-- there are little pinpricks of fear sending anxious butterflies all over my body. I think he’ll like that.

I pull away from my reflection and slip on a dress for the short walk over to his bedroom. Mustering up the courage before it leaves me, I walk out of my room and into the hallway, which is blissfully empty. I don’t know if I would be able to face anyone right now. 

By the time I reach Lucifer’s room, my hands are shaking. I knock on his door. I bite my lip; he’s been teasing me for weeks now. A gentle touch here, a secret smile there… I’ve never felt a longing so intense. I need this to happen.

The door opens, and just like every time I look at him, it takes a lot of effort for my mouth to not gape open at the sight of Lucifer. He’s wearing a linen blouse with the first few buttons undone, revealing his sculpted chest and a few wisps of chest hair. His shirt is tucked into tight, black pants. 

Soft waves of black hair partially cover his eyes and trail down to his hard jaw. He’s smirking at me, his rosy lips contrasting against his pale skin.

And his eyes… those red eyes are looking me up and down. I think I might collapse. 

He gives me a knowing look, and opens the door just wide enough so that I have to squeeze between him and the doorway to get through. 

The black walls of his bedroom are flushed with candle light. The candles shine in every corner of the room. My eyes instinctively travel to his massive bed, and I gulp as I see the items placed upon it. 

I barely notice the soft click of the door closing behind me, followed by the turn of a lock. I twist to face Lucifer. Slowly, he reaches out and traces his fingers against the side of my face, barely touching my skin.

“I can smell your emotions, you know,” he whispers. His voice is deep and filled with such a hunger that my knees start to shake. “Your excitement, your lust…” He circles around me, his fingers moving from my cheek to my neck. He brushes my hair aside and leans in so his lips barely touch my ear. When he speaks, his breath is hot on my skin. “... your fear. Darling, are you afraid of what I’m about to do to you?”

I glance at the riding crop on his bed. “Sh- should I be?”

“Hmmm,” he growls into my ear. “Don’t you want to be punished?” He faces me and steps towards me, slowly backing me up against the wall. “I’ve seen the way you’ve been looking at me. You’re a human, lusting after a demon. Isn’t that wrong?” He cups my face with the palm of his hand, and I lean into it with a sigh of pleasure. “And don’t get me started on how I’m not the first one you’ve been with.”

I blink slowly at him. Candlelight flickers across his face, sending deep shadows across his hard features. “You know?”

His smirk turns into a growl, and I tense up immediately. “I know everything that happens in this house. I know every detail about your day. I know who you’ve been with, who you dream about, and who you want the most.” One of his hands hit the wall, inches away from my head. Claws scrape against the black paint. He places his knee firmly between my legs. “I wasn’t your first.” He leans down, his lips trailing along the side of my neck. His other hand traces one of my thighs, moving underneath my dress and stopping once he touches the edges of my lingerie. “And I think you need to apologize for that.”

I’m breathing heavily now. My entire body is aching for his touch. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. 

He presses his tongue against my neck, and I gasp. “Not good enough. Try again.” 

I swallow, pushing against the rising confusion at his words. What does he want me to say? I bite my lip. His tongue travels up my neck. 

I close my eyes, not able to stop the slow grin on my face. “I’m sorry...,” I say, slightly louder this time, “Sir.”

He smiles against my neck. “That’s a good start, darling.” He leans away from me, staring at my dress. “Now, show me what I got for you.”

Warmth creeps up to my cheeks as I slide my dress over my head and toss it to the side. He stares at my body with a satisfied grunt. Slowly, he reaches his hand to his chest and places a claw against his skin, trailing down to the first button of his shirt. Where his claw meets his skin, a thin line of red appears. 

“You drive me crazy, looking like that.” He takes a step forward, slowly closing the gap between us. “Tell me that you’re mine.”

“I’m yours.”

His lips are soft against mine. I reach up and wrap my hands around his neck, pulling him closer. He responds with a guttural growl. One of his hands is wrapped around my waist and he clenches it hard enough that a soft moan escapes my open mouth as tender pain erupts from his touch. 

He cups my cheeks in his other hand and squeezes before slipping his tongue into my mouth. I can’t help but moan again, moving my hands from around his neck to undo the buttons of his shirt. 

“No,” he snarls, taking my hands and pinning them against the wall. “This is what’s going to happen: you will follow my orders. If you refuse, or move without me telling you to do so, you’re in trouble. Do you understand?”

I nod. “Yes, sir.”

With a low moan, he reaches down and bites my neck. He pulls his hands from mine and trails his palms from my shoulders, over my breasts, and to my thighs, stopping his hands just before he reaches what’s between them.

He kisses me again, biting my lip as he pulls away. “You’re dripping.”

Before I can stop myself, I reach towards the bulge in his pants. Before I can touch him, he wraps a hand around my throat with a roar. He wrenches me around so that my back is facing the bed. He stares at me, his red eyes glowing with a mixture of desire and anger, and I realize with a start that the look in his eyes only makes me want him more. “What did I tell you?” He shouts before pushing me with such force that my feet lift off the ground before landing on his bed. I softly rub my already aching throat as he strides towards me. I try to prop myself on my elbows, but he places his hand on my chest and pushes me firmly back onto the bed.

He kneels above my hips, his power coming off him in waves. “You want me so badly that you disobeyed my orders right after I gave them?”

I nod, unable to look away from his eyes. “Yes.”

He gives me a scary smile, reaching over and grasping the riding crop. He places it softly on my chest, moving it along the curve of my breast to my hip. Without warning, he puts his hand under my ass and flips me over. 

I feel the cool leather of the crop against my skin. I clench my hands into fists, taking tight hold of the silk sheets of Lucifer’s bed.

“You do as I say,” Lucifer gently glides the crop along my ass. He takes it off me, and I tense. With a loud smack, he hits me and I moan. “You only move when I tell you.” Two more hits, and I swear. He leans down, his hand in my hair as he presses the bulge in his pants to my butt. He forces my face to go deeper into his bed, grinding himself on top of me. He moans softly, his cock twitching in his pants. 

He goes back to his former position, and he places his hand against my butt. I prepare for another hit, biting my lip. “I own you!” He yells, hitting me twice more with the leather crop. 

Before I can recover, he flips me back over, picks me up as if I weigh nothing, and gently places me so that my head rests on his pillows. 

“Arch your back,” he demands. I do so, and he takes off my lingerie, leaving me naked before him.

With a dark grin, he grabs the rope from the center of his bed and expertly ties my wrists to the corners of his bed. Once he’s satisfied with his work, he kisses me again before placing his mouth on one of my breasts. 

I gasp loudly as his tongue traces my nipples, his mouth and teeth stimulating them to the point that I’m writhing underneath him. He laughs softly, and as he bites the flesh of my tits, he softly traces my thigh until he puts his fingers inside of me. 

I moan as he fingers me, pleasure spiking through my body as he toys with me. “Yeah, you like that?” Lucifer asks. 

I can’t say anything beyond “Fuck,” as he takes his fingers out of me and places them in my mouth. I suck on them and taste myself as he stares at me, obviously pleased. 

He takes his hand from my mouth and slowly starts to undress himself. My breathing quickens as he reveals his sculpted abs. He takes off his pants, and my eyes widen at the sight of the bulge throbbing against his underwear. That comes off as well, until he is just as naked as I am. 

He leans towards me to wrap his hand at the back of my head. “I want to feel your mouth on my cock.” He maneuvers so that he’s straddling my chest, and without breaking eye contact, he slips his dick into my mouth.

He moans loudly as he slowly thrusts into my mouth, watching me as I take him. He starts off slowly, eyes bright, before gradually increasing the speed of his thrusts until I’m not sure if I can handle much more. He grunts with each thrust as he fucks my mouth, and I clutch at the rope tying my wrists to the bed.

With a hungry groan, he pulls away from my mouth. He moves so that his pulsing dick is resting against my stomach and immediately kisses me, his tongue slipping into my mouth. He grasps at my knees and pushes them so my legs are spread. 

“Beg.”

My voice is raspy from his abuse, but I still manage to speak, “I need you to fuck me. Please, Lucifer.”

He places his thumb against my clit and starts gently playing with it. “Louder.”

I swallow and repeat myself, raising my voice as I do so.

He touches my hair and softly pets it. “Good girl.”

Just as not having him inside of me becomes unbearable, he finally slips inside. We both moan, his thrusts hard and fast. One of his hands are against the headboard, the other still on my clit, and the entire bed creaks and shudders as he slams against me. 

My body screams with pleasure as he stimulates me, and I fight against my restraints, needing to touch him. He grins as he watches my feeble attempts and fucks me harder than I ever thought possible. Time slows and blurs, and there is nothing but him and his body and this wonderful, aching pleasure...

The pressure inside of me builds until it finally breaks and I scream his name as one of the most powerful orgasms I’ve had shoots through me. He moans, feeling me cum, and flashes a mouthful of fangs at me as he just. keeps. going. 

With a cry, he abruptly changes into his demon form. I find myself staring at those horns and wings of his in wonder. 

He never slows, and all I can do is moan and gasp and scream his name again as I feel myself getting close to the edge. When I cum, I pull so hard at the rope binding me to his bed that the wood of the headboard groans under the pressure.

Lucifer roars, pulling out of me and straddling my chest as he cums onto my face. He leans his head back, sweat gleaming along his entire body. He twitches, wiping the hair from his eyes. Slowly, he reaches down to kiss me, unbinding my wrists as he does.

Finally, I’m able to touch him. I gently caress his face, and he purrs. 

He breaks apart from me, a lazy, content smile on his face. His features are soft now, and he stares at me with a look of adoration that I thought I would never get to see. 

“I’ll go get you a towel, darling,” He says before getting off the bed and disappearing into his private bathroom.

I sigh. It’s a good thing he offered to go get it, because I doubt I’d be able to stand. 

[lilyeholland]

just like that

tom holland x reader

warnings: SMUT-TY as hell!!! mostly a bj (inspired by the gif, of course)

a/n: it literally looks like he’s saying “just like that” in this gif so i HAD TO

add yourself to my NEW taglist :)

the hotel door slams open, the two of you melting into each other as one. you both kick off your shoes and attempt not to break the contact. loud groans and impatient moans float through the room as tom drives you over to the bed. holding himself above you, parting lips for a few moments to admire your rosy-heated cheeks, he smirks seductively and places a lonesome strand of hair behind your ear.

“you’re so pretty,” he whispers, shaking his head like he can’t believe the sight that lies before him.

“you’re one to talk,” you say breathlessly. you rummage your hands through his slightly sweaty hair. with the heat of the world around you and the intense make out session you just had in the car (and a little bit in the elevator up to your room), it only made sense for both of your bodies to be writhing and radiating already.

you look at each other for another long-lasting moment, hiding so many words behind loving smiles and a sweet peck here and there. it’s nothing crazy now, just you soaking it all in before time goes by too fast to appreciate this.

tom shakes his head again and dives into you, tongue asserting dominance over you as well as his body; his hands holding your wrists down to the bed. he can tell you’re struggling to keep them under him, seeing as you need him so badly. he smirks again into the kiss, letting your hands free to touch his body. up and down his chest and back and into the back of his curly hair.

simultaneously, you flip over to be on top. tom’s hands now find their way to your waist and breasts and ass, feeling you up everywhere he possibly can. it’s just now that you realize tom still has his clothes on - a tight fitted button up shirt with gray suit pants. the dark blue tie around his neck was already loose from the events that happened in the car.

with his hands firmly gripping your ass, you move the momentum to his neck, leaving wet and sloppy kisses all while trying to undo the tie completely. maybe it wasn’t loose enough, maybe you were just too distracted, but no matter what you tried, it wouldn’t come off.

tom sits up straight, you in his lap just waiting patiently and touching over the bulge in his pants out of habit. he rips off his tie and throws it somewhere across the room. he grabs your face with both hands, getting right back into the kiss he never wanted to have left. now he’s back on top, leaning over you at the foot of the bed.

for the purpose of catching his breath only, he stops and huffs out a smile at you, inching his way further and further down your body until he reaches such desired destination. the dress you were wearing was just tight enough and short enough he could easily pull the lace thong you were wearing off your legs. he pulls you closer to him, spreading your legs as he kisses your inner thighs and hips. just hovering you, his hot breath touching you, he knows exactly what he’s doing and watching you squirm and beg under his touch is the only thing he wants.

“baby, don’t tease,” you start and pull him up to be at your level. although his lips are now back on yours, where they’ve always belonged, his fingers are still teasing you at your entrance, where they’ve always belonged. he slips the tip of his finger in, curling it as he pumps it in and out.

you buck your hips as your back arches off of the bed, drawing tom in closer by grabbing on his curls and moaning breathlessly into his mouth. he slips another finger in and distracts you from the kiss. your head falls off the edge of the bed, leaving more neck space for tom to work with and kiss. he just keeps getting lower and lower with his kisses, his fingers going deeper.

with two fingers still pumping in you, curling in a “come here” motion, he flicks his tongue right over your throbbing clit. eventually moving all around it. your back is arched completely as your hips move with his mouth. he smirks up at you, tongue still out and making it’s magic.

“oh fuck,” you say through your breath, holding a fist full of curls in one hand and holding tom’s hand with the other. “i’m so close, babe.”

tom just flashes you a devilish smirk; evil, even. he slows down his pace, knowing he’s driving you crazy. he just wants to see you beg for him.

“ugh tommy,” you say as he pulls his fingers out of you, slipping them in his mouth to replace the warmth. “don’t be like that, you shake your head at him as he shrugs with this sheepish little naughty smirk on his face.

“oh, you’re bad,” you say to him, crawling over to him as he props himself up with pillows.

he gestures to the way he’s laying and then crosses his arms, his bottom lip in his mouth and his eyes watching you and teasing you. “is that so?” he raises his eyebrows.

you scrunch your nose and flash him a playful dirty look, your legs now straddling his waist. “i hate you,” you snark at him, lips only inches away from his.

“mmhm, yeah, you keep telling yourself that,” he looks at your lips, then back at your eyes, smiling a devious smile at you before diving in for your lips.

it’s slower and gentle. although you want it to be rough and fast-paced, you enjoy the soft touches of his nose against yours and the delicate scoops his lips make with yours. you moan a little into his mouth, needy for more. his hands slowly start to touch you again, only his fingertips dancing along your waist as you suddenly grab his wrists and pin them down on the bed.

his eyes fill with curiosity and wonder as he looks your face up and down, only picturing in his wildest imagination what you could do next.

“no, no,” you pry yourself off of his body, still straddling him and holding his hands out to his sides. “you’re not getting back in that easy,” you tsk at him.

“are you serious?” his mouth opens wide, almost surprised at how dominant you’re acting.

you nod your head, “dead serious.”

his eyes are devious, his lips are twitching; aching to say something but too curious to decide what should be said. making your way down his body, hands and fingers taking theit sweet time caressing every curve of his making goosebumps appear all over his skin.

with his shirt now unbuttoned and open, you trickle your fingers down the center of his abs and stop right at his belt. it’s one of his ticklish spots so he squirms a little and runs his fingers through your hair as you stare at his groin area in aw.

you unbuckle his belt, smiling up at him and seeing this needy, almost whiny look to him. and as you pull down the waist band of his briefs, his hard member pops out and sticks straight up (of course with that little curve to it that you loved so much).

“oh wow, is this all for me?” you tease while actually gawking at how mesmerizing his whole figure is.

tom rolls his eyes playfully, his hands still in your hair, “just shut up and put your mouth on it,” he teases back.

you smile at him and shrug (playfully), laughing it off with him as you purse your lips right over his tip. you know if you start off heavy at his tip, he’ll be close to bursting soon.

just by swirling your tongue around it repetitively, he bites his bottom lip, sucking in air and releasing it through moans and grabbing fistfuls of your hair tighter.

you very slowly ease into it - tommy’s friend can be a little much to take on all at once - glancing up at him and smile when he tries to hold in moans or when his jaw drops even ever so slightly. you could brush your finger across the very bottom and he’d moan, that’s how needy he was.

once you get into a groove, bobbing your head up and down while moving your tongue randomly over his tip and down his shaft, his moans get louder and he’s no longer trying to hide the fact that he’s getting blowed from anyone.

he starts to get really vocal - “that feels so good”, “you’re so good at this”, and just nonesense words through moans and deep gasps.

his hand is still on the back of your head, holding your hair back when he guides you further and further down until your lips reach his skin and the tip is at the back of your throat. the feeling of being so deep is scary, but so worth the thrill when you see the look on his face - amazed and pleased in so many ways.

you keep going faster, knowing he has to be close soon since you’ve started to massage his gems with it too. he’s watching you take all of him, and then his vision goes darker and he looks up, panting breathlessly before he relaxes his head completely.

a few breatht grunts escape from tom and you try to make out what he’s saying before it becomes clearer. “oh my god,” he breathes out again.

“just like that.”

he’s bucking his hips and holding the back of your head, closing his eyes to focus only on the pleasure he’s receiving. “mmm, don’t stop. i’m so close.”

you don’t. you go deeper and faster just because he’s said this, knowing he’s close makes you want to take him so far over the edge so you keep going.

you can tell he’s about to cum when he tightens up every muscle and every grasp he has on you, when he flexes his abs and moans louder and louder as you keep sucking him off even after his sweet warmth has filled your mouth and you’ve swallowed. once he gets too sensitive, he starts shaking a little and that’s when you know when to stop.

he’s breathing so heavily, still not able to open his eyes, a little sweaty, but it’s hot. you lay down next to him, catching your breath as well, smiling at him and waiting for some feedback.

“babe,” he starts. “that was amazing. please do whatever you did every time.” he turns his gaze to look at you and kiss you deeply, passionately, roughly.

“your turn now?” he suggests with a wink.

you just shake your head and chuckle at his cute face. “i actually just wanna be like this, cuddling naked and kissing and maybe falling asleep?” you play with the distinct curls of hair by his ears.

“okay,” he smiles so brightly at you, admiring you and brushing his thumb across your face.

@jackiehollanderr @melaerica @unfortunatekiwitrash​ @blackawsum​ @savethebabyseals @mischiefmanaged49​ @ellabellaboo124 ​ @yavony @laurfangirl424​ @jadajackson1 @emross2000​ @between2worlds ​ @goldenchemistry​ @tryn25 @bishopl @bvmakk​ ​ @da5haexowin ​ @pvnk-bivch​ ​ @skelkitt​ @shaniyuri @inspiredbynewt​ @roses-hxlland @ixchel-9275​ @tai-holland @slytherinbratt @bailey-walsh745 @makennac17 @yourwonderbelle @spidey-pal @peterparkd @completefictionaltrash @therealme133 @castellandiangelo​ @tiny-friggin-human @lokilvrr @inlovewithmob-tom​ @fuckfem​ @logan8546 @imaginesletmesurvive​ @until2am @marvelouspottering @butithasntkilledyouyet ​ @lil-miss-weirdo @stcrgczed @whatdafricklefrackle​ @babylsn​ @ynough​ @tellythabi @errorloadinghappiness​ @gendryia

[finaliity]

&.  【  sh, do you hear  TROUBLEMAKER  by  BEACH HOUSE  playing ? that must mean  NEVE CHANNING  is coming, the  31  year old  CIS FEMALE  that goes by  SHE/HER,  currently employed as an  ER NURSE.  they’re a  BANSHEE in oldgate for eh, i’d say about  SIX MONTHS.  tough luck, huh ? least they got their  SELF-POSSESSED,  COMPASSIONATE,  ALOOF  and  SELF-RIGHTEOUS  stuff to fall back on. anyway, it’s best to get out of here. their  (  a revolver hidden in the nightstand, late night jogs with a canine companion, light blue scrubs beneath a leather jacket, silent screams while dreaming  )  vibe gives me the creeps !  -  ADELAIDE KANE.

a brief history. trigger/content warnings: murder, death, graphic violence, mental health, postpartum depression, suicide, cancer, drug mention, parent death, medical, euthanasia mention, stalking, guns

THE FOG CREEPS IN ; GIRLHOOD IS A GRAVEYARD

neve channing is born on a cold, grey february sometime around midnight to douglas and paula channing while the heavy oregon fog kisses the modest concrete jungle of portland oregon like a phantom. paula gives her a big name, telling the nurses with heady confidence that she’ll be famous one day, and it’s the biggest gift she ever gives her. baby genevieve is in her arms so often, she hardly touches a cradle, but it’s not long until douglas feels an uneasiness creeping in.

paula is bohemian silk skirts and crushed velvet. she grows restless being trapped in the plain, modest home in northeast. she is a woman that is easy to fall in love with—not meant to sit at home idly with a collicy baby, where she finds herself in tears more than ever. douglas returns from work to find baby neve screaming unattended in her crib while paula cries in the backyard with an ashtray full of cigarettes. she tells him she’s worried she’ll crash the car one day on the way to the grocery store with them both inside. douglas digs his teeth into his bottom lip and tries not to cry. he squeezes her hand and tells her she needs to go to therapy. what he really wants to tell her is that their baby needs her. he leaves paula outside and spends the afternoon tidying the house with neve swaddled against his chest. it’s a warm feeling.

it’s not long after that paula starts disappearing for periods of time and douglas learns she can’t be trusted to watch after the baby on her own. she screams all the time and perseverates on death in the most unhealthy of ways. when she calls from downtown in tears, hyperverbal and desperate, he picks her up in his old chevy truck and brings her home. she agrees to see a doctor and for awhile, they figure out how to live again. some days are even as sweet as the rhubarb pies she starts to make again.

there are only two ways neve later remembers her mother, and the first is lovely–paula is picnics and shakespeare in the parks. she’s dried roses in the window and salmon tacos with mango salsa. she is whirlwind adventures and laughter. she teaches neve to make wishes on stray eyelashes, blowing them into the wind like dandelion seeds. on the good days, paula’s eyes are filled with stars. on the bad days, they are left black as the night sky while she cries the constellations down her cheeks. occasionally, she is cruel. mostly, she is absent.

by the third grade, neve expects this. douglas has never been much of a cook–save hamburger patties with canned green beans and a baked potato. she cooks their dinners from recipes she learns from her grandmas and helps around the house. most nights she’s home alone until the grumbling sound of the chevy breaks through the dark and signals her father’s return. eventually, she stops missing her mother from the everyday–it’s only when the other kids talk about their moms that she feels the pang of loss and wonders where she is. some nights neve finds herself sitting in her bedroom window pulling out eyelashes just to have something left to wish on. some of paula’s friends overdose on heroin or get murdered in the nights when neve is sleeping; she stays up late and hopes that her vigil will keep a distant mother safe.

there aren’t many trees on their street–unlike some of the other neighborhoods. the big weeping birch in their backyard that drives her father crazy as he rakes leaves every fall is neve’s pride and joy. there is comfort in the shade its branches cast every summer. at night it makes her lonely as it blocks the silhouette of the waxing moon. on lazy summer days when her father leaves for work, neve sits with her back curved against its rough trunk and reads the day away.

on a cool april afternoon, just after preparing a plate of cherry poptarts with a thin layer of butter on top of the frosting ( much to her father’s chagrin ), neve ventures out to the modest yard to sit under her tree. the familiar crushed blue velvet of her mother’s favorite dress catches her off guard and she drops her breakfast onto the unkempt lawn as her mind makes sense of the unnatural height of its hem as paula swings–marking the time of neve’s pounding heartbeat. the butter solidifies as it cools in the dirt, the heel of neve’s hand-me-down airwalk sneakers mashing her breakfast. the cherry filling sticks to the sole like bubblegum; she’ll never eat them again, but she can’t help but recall that her mom always preferred the maple and brown sugar.

THE ODDS ARE STACKED AGAINST HER ; A GIRL LEARNS TO COUNT CARDS

portland in the eighties and nineties is less portlandia and more drugstore cowboy. a lot of kids from other neighborhoods don’t go downtown. the ones that do have an air of palpable grit. neve takes the max, rides her skateboard in the dark. douglas has cautioned her a hundred thousand times, but paula’s death has instilled such a great fear of losing his daughter that he lets her get away with more than he knows he probably should. he fears paula’s ghost will someday possess her and she’ll wander off into the ether. most days he insists that the only parts of paula he sees in his cherished daughter are the good ones–neve holds onto the corporeal world with claws. it’s only on the worst nights–paula’s specter cooling the sheets of his bed in the dark–that he wakes up with the fear his daughter is gone.

douglas’s new wife, rosie, does her best to pit them against one another, but sometimes–she’s not so bad, neve thinks. it’s nice to have a mother figure in the house again even if she falls short most days. sometimes she thinks that maybe they could learn to love each other. if nothing else, she’s sure she owes a bit of gratitude to the woman; the nights of her father’s haunting sobs have become fewer and farther between. it isn’t until douglas begins receiving late notices on utilities that he begins to grow suspicious. rosie is quick to throw neve under the bus–a young girl like that? she’s probably stealing their money to spend on drugs and CDs at sam goody. douglas has never bet on anyone like he bets on his daughter; rosie’s gambling debts are news to them both.

the fallout of the relationship leaves douglas and neve in dire financial straits. the father is heartbroken–another love lost, he blames himself for always choosing the wrong lady luck. despite their financial ruin, left in rosie’s wake, douglas has a hard time getting out of bed most days and blows through what little sick time he has available to him. school takes a back burner and neve barely attends it at all–favoring her time on finding work ( legitimate and illegitimate ) to help keep their small family afloat. she attends class when it’s profitable and waits tables or washes dishes when she can. it’s still not enough.

a few kids turn neve onto small crimes to turn a profit. they ride the max to the suburbs and crash parties–stealing pills out of medicine cabinets and turning them over for profit. calculus wasn’t worth a good goddamn, but distribution teaches skills. it’s hard not to get caught up in petty thefts and the occasional break-ins. neve and her friends find it easy to justify in the spirit of class war. a pin on her denim jacket reads ‘eat the rich’ and it doesn’t sound so bad. portland is a cannibal and it eats its children.

neve is a cat with nine lives and despite her friends being caught by the long arm of the law or the stronger arm of revenge, she evades detection. even such cats live with a fear of death, and as consequence catches up to members of the small circle she runs with, neve knows she is living on borrowed time. sooner or later, she knows, her luck will run bone dry. it seems so unfair that death follows her and yet, she is unable to wield it as a weapon. everything she is feels like mourning.

SPRING RETURNS TO PORTLAND ; THE FROST CLINGS TO FRAGILE BONES

neve dropping out of high school is a wake up call for douglas. he sees farther than she does and knows that she deserves a better life than the one he’s scrounged together for her. most days, he blames himself for a life that could have been; some kids like her wore neatly pressed dresses and folded over lace socks on picture day. some kids had piano lessons and summer camps. there’s a lot of insight in hindsight, but neve staunchly opposes his masochistic remorse and becomes determined to prove him wrong. it takes her a couple years of working to figure out what she wants to do–a girl baptised in her mother’s blood is born with the kind of heart that takes on too much. she is meant for saving lives and carrying the world on her shoulders like atlas himself.

it takes time, but as douglas gets their house in order and starts working again. neve is able to start up at portland community college. she takes up a work study job and works a steady flow of odd jobs on the side to support herself. lady luck shines her fortune on the pair for the first time in forever to make up for the steady losses they’ve sustained over the years. life isn’t lavender and gardenias, but somehow waking up becomes little and less painful each day. some days neve wakes up and forgets that she can’t breathe. most days she spends her gratitude in the heap of debt the world owes her–waiting for the other shoe to drop.

the rebirth of their family is a hearty soil; both channings flourish as if made anew. the dew drops that cling to garden spider webs in their window signal the looming anniversary of a mother’s misty breath and neve learns not to fall apart. douglas works hard to do right by her and make up for the years of never knowing what to do and waffling between what is best and what is desirable. he is a man that longs for dreams–feet barely brushing the earth like her mother’s did on that day–but he is learning to make dreams work too. his dreams take root around his daughter once more; he builds them around her and builds her up with them.

the highschool dropout graduates her community college adn bridge program and she can hardly believe it when she’s accepted to ohsu for her bsn. there are no college diplomas with the channing name hanging on walls with peeling wallpaper or tucked away in trunks with paula’s things. douglas has saved his money for months to get her the right graduation gift and neve laughs, downplaying that it’s not a real graduation, but still walks in the ceremony at his insistence.

she returns home to the small party of friends she’ll start to grow apart from when she gets tired of the jeers about how she thinks she’s ‘too good for them’ now. neighborhoods like hers don’t always love to watch you grow if it means you’ll leave them. they’ll still blow up her phone for medical advice, but the invitations dry up like the drought of portland natives in southeast. for now, it’s a pleasant barbecue. the highlight of the evening comes in the small bundle of inky fur that douglas proudly produces after neve’s second burger. peering out from his strong arms are the brown eyes of a young siberian husky. douglas begs her to name the pup murphy over robocop, but loses easily–a hearty chuckle on his lips. they are bonded instantly–girl and dog–robocop becomes neve’s second most stalwart companion next to her father.

nursing school is hard, but it’s not impossible and it is full of new kinds of joys. she makes new friends and they eat lunch from the thai foodcart—nestled within the pod of south waterfront—and lay on the quad drinking smoothies and complaining about the next pharmacology exam. nose in a book and a drink in her hand at happy hour down at cha cha cha !, neve attracts the attention of pa student shane stone. he knows a nursing school classmate of hers from high school and is quickly incorporated to their study groups with a couple of his friends. he is tall with dark hair and kind eyes and just the sort of person a girl dreams of falling in love with. he spends little time worrying about things like rent and bus passes. it’s not even the end of the semester before study dates evolve into movie dates. there’s an entire world between them, but somehow the pair build a bridge.

DEATH RATTLES AND DYING BREATH ; THE GIRL’S OTHER SHOE DROPS

as neve focuses on school, douglas seems to be making steps to keep himself around longer. they go for long walks with robocop around the neighborhood. southeast portland is becoming a different neighborhood and the cost of living is high. restaurants crop up with around the block waits and family friends are forced to move to grayer pastures. it seems, to the channings, that it’s the end of an era. with neve spending most of her time at shane’s apartment on south waterfront, douglas’ weight loss is hardly noticed–everyone assumes it is merely the byproduct of increased activity. it isn’t until his stature becomes gaunt that neve starts to worry. she is having dreams again. she can smell graveyard soil around him.

shane holds neve close when she finally breaks down–sneaking into the single bathroom of the clinic to let her fall apart the way he knows she can’t do in the open. like a wild animal, the girl he loves hides herself away when she feels death’s acrid breath on her neck. he doesn’t know what loss is and he certainly can’t relate to what she’s been through. douglas’ diagnosis is like watching the noose tighten around her mother’s neck all over again. her throat is dry like she’s choking on the fibers of that same rope; the world has a foggy edge—hollow like street lights illuminating an empty suburban neighborhood on a clear, dark night. everything is wooden; everything feels like a dollhouse.

it’s hard to keep up on her studies, but somehow neve muscles through. shane gives up his idyllic apartment and moves into their modest southeast home to help out. he makes a lighthearted joke about finally being a real portlander and moving so near the trendy, revitalized mississippi neighborhood and neve drops and breaks her coffee mug on the unfinished wood floor of the kitchen. it’s just another reminder that he doesn’t belong in her world any more than she does in his. it doesn’t sting as bad as the ink on his mother’s checks that she cashes to keep her father comfortable on his deathbed while she learns to be a better caretaker. life ebbs and flows, but douglas’ drains away until she hardly recognizes the sinewy, pale hands that hold hers so strongly for a man that can’t sit up by himself any longer. she curses her mother once more for leaving and twice for never having been there in the first place.

death isn’t slow or peaceful like the woman from her father’s church will lie about at the funeral. his death rattle lasts for hours and the bellows of his chest quake with weary breath. part of her wishes that the hospice nurse had started an iv on him and a sick, hidden part of her wishes it because a sweet dose of morphine would’ve ended it all sooner for him. she wonders silently if that would do more to ease his pain or hers? he hasn’t been conscious in two days. shane sits with her at the side of his bed with rapt attention and as his breathing slows, neve crawls into the hospice bed next to him. the next several months are a blur and a father misses his only daughter’s graduation. neve is barely present there herself. all she can hear is the sound of her own scream.

shane insists that she’s not an orphan–his parents fly in from denver and treat her like one of their own. it guilts her that she can’t help but resent them for the simple virtue of living while her own father is reduced to a cold dust. she wears his ashes around her neck in a pendant from the funeral home and spreads the rest in every beautiful place she can find. some of them spill into her purse during a hike with robo and shane and she breaks down in tears. there are so many small things that make her sick or numb. a multitude of tiny memories that weigh as much as planets; isn’t dust what helped create the milky way? even around the stone family she feels alone. maybe especially around the stones.

HACKLES RAISED, A GIRL LEARNS THE DANGERS OF BEING FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE

the emergency department attracts all kinds of people in myriad dire straits. people come in at the end of their ropes–infections ignored too long, stabbings and shootings, a broken bone from slipping off the slide, and sometimes when they feel like they can’t live any longer. evan does not fit into any of these categories when he comes in. among the myriad failings of the medical system, lack of access and use of primary care is one of the larger contributions to higher emergency department volumes and evan is another data point in a sea of statistics. he comes back to neve’s room with a sly grin plastered on his face and states that he’s new to the area and can’t get into a new primary care for a few months. his daily asthma inhaler is out and he needs to renew the prescription and get a referral to a clinic.

there’s nothing on the surface that identifies this man as a threat. he’s almost charming and he’s nontoxic appearing–a nice easy patient in a sea of sick people is sometimes a great relief. they make some small talk and it’s the usual stuff she chats about with patients: ‘where’re you from?’ ‘where did you go to school?’ he expresses an interest in nursing and she recommends the program she attended at the hospital she now works. there’s almost a tension there, and when he makes a casual comment about the tan line on her finger she tells him that she doesn’t wear her engagement ring at work because it can tear the gloves. that’s only half right. maybe he can sense the rest of the truth; she’ll wonder that later when she pieces together every scrap of something she can use to blame it on herself.

he sends her a message on facebook, which makes her lips curl downwards in uncertainty. even that isn’t entirely alarming. it opens up reminding her that he’s knew to the area, and that he’s interested in the nursing program she went to. it’s a surprise, but he makes mention of a girlfriend’s wifi and he even asks how shane is doing. he loves her dog and mentions wanting one himself. sure, it’s a little weird–unconventional–but neve has always been interested in helping others find nursing and agrees to meet him for coffee to discuss the program. when they meet, she sees the mistake inherit in it before she even opens the cafe door. he’s disheveled and hyperverbal when he speaks to her and she can barely get a word in edge wise. between the gift he’s brought her and the intensity of his stare, she wonders how she could have read him so wrong. it’s then that he drops the bomb that makes her stomach sink into the trench it detonates in–will they take him in the nursing program with a record? she doesn’t ask, but he provides the details anyway. death threats to some girl he barely knew that wouldn’t leave him alone, he paints the canvas well, but she can read between the lines. evan stevens is dangerous and his lethal eye is trained on her.

she makes an excuse to leave–the first of many excuses, the illusion of being unavailable, unattainable. it’s the advice she’s given to women before, but never had to follow. those words offered to women in distress seem so trite now, so hollow. there is so much fear in cutting ties slowly–the strategic approach to keep an impulsive person like that from escalating. she wishes she could take those clinical offerings of textbook wisdom back from those women and hold their hands. she wonders how many of them still live. he starts blowing up her phone constantly. he comments on all her social media. all day and all night. if she doesn’t respond, he threatens suicide. some days he asks if she’s working and says he brought her lunch. if she says she’s sick, he asks for her address to bring her tom yum takeout from the restaurant she’s posted about on instagram. everything makes her sick now.

A FINAL GIRL IS FORGED ALONE ; THERE IS NO SUBVERTING FATE

god, it’s hard to speak about. she can’t even let the words reach her tongue, lips and teeth to birth them. they shrivel and die in her throat, festering there until she swallows them and they rest in her stomach like great stones. she wonders if evan will cut her stomach open like a wolf and find the rocks there. that’s not how the story goes; she tells herself so many versions as she lies awake in the dark afraid to sleep.

when she finally tells her friends–a smattering of girls and guys from nursing school, the er, and her neighborhood–the response is like the knife she dreams about in her gut. she shows some of the girls at her work his picture, worried that he’ll come in asking about her. she’s chided by these friends, “he’s actually pretty cute, florence nightingale” they joke. “it must be flattering to have the attention.” even shane suspected that there’s some indulgence on her part. that maybe she likes trying to fix people who are broken so much that she gets some sick reward from the experience. he doesn’t speak the words, but neve is fluent in shane stone. he says it in his eyes, the downcurve of his lips, the tense way he sighs when her phone dings over and over again during date nights.

on a cold night in december, neve works on meal prepping alone in the kitchen. evan has been out of town helping his mother remodel her kitchen and neve feels like she can finally breathe in the space he’s left behind. turning on the wireless speaker, she tries to pair her phone to play music as loud as the thin walls of her father’s modest northeast portland home will allow and instead hears, in the cold, robotic voice ‘pairing with neve’s iphone and evan’s iphone.’ robocop doesn’t even lift his head in suspicion the whole night. she calls 911, but they find neither hide nor hair of him. in the morning, neve nails the windows shut and buys a gun–a smith & wesson .357 snub nose revolver. the weight of it is heavy in her hands and she buys a membership to a gun range, calling into work and practicing until shane returns. she doesn’t tell him about the gun and she stops telling him how bad things have gotten with evan. the click of his tongue and disapproval in his eyes is more dooming than a death sentence and she can’t bear to bring further disappointment. neve channing is a strong woman–a smart woman. things like this don’t happen to women like her. the nightmares begin, but they’re different this time. she can’t tell if they’re coming true this time or if it’s only her anxieties, amplified and strange.

somehow, evan is everywhere and he knows all her secret places as if he exists as an extension of her. maybe he even believes he is–sending her voice messages about how they’re connected. they are the same; they are foils of one another. he send her a picture of his ouroboros tattoo from a new number after she finally blocks him. ‘we are the same.’ he is an all-consuming, devouring force, but she is not a serpent’s tail. he is moloch–besmeared with blood, the great, horrid king–but she is not a child and she will not be sacrificed for sins she has not committed. he has not right and there’s only one way she can see this ending as the days grow longer. like life itself begins, this too will end in blood.

LOVE IS A HARD KNIFE ; A GIRL CAN’T STOMACH AMBROSIA

there is a consequence to every action and every inaction. every little thing she chooses not to tell shane fester and boils. the late nights at work and the new passcode on her phone seem more to shane like cheating than a worsening of some creep’s obsession. she hasn’t even mentioned evan to him since the trees started blooming again. when he elects to cheer her up and bring her lunch during a shift she traded so she could practice at the gun range, his suspicions deepen and while she sleeps that morning, he rifles through her work bag and finds alongside her locked cell phone the cold steel of a secret that he cannot abide by.

it’s not his fault either and she means that from the bottom of her heart. every kindness from the stones feels like another debt and neve can’t help but let the resentment fester in the tasteful diamond on her finger. when she looks upon his face now all she can see is death and it’s the world’s cruelest joke, because she’s the one with cemetery dirt underneath her fingernails. she can’t tell which of the two of them she resents more and they both deserve lives where ghosts stay buried and the dead don’t whisper malcontent in her ears while she struggles to fall asleep. nightmares are her own warm milk; she’s sick of the cold metal of a gun as she moves it from her night stand to her purse each morning. she’s tired of being made to feel like she had a stake in any of this.

it’s not the kindest way to leave a man, but she’s not sure she’s ready to face him again after all that’s happened. she leaves her house keys with her cousin paloma and packs up shane’s stuff. paloma has just started nursing school and can use neve’s father’s old house to sublet. the rent’s free and she’s always been gentle hearted. neve can’t think of anyone better to care for her father’s old house. with dear john letters to both shane and the hospital, neve takes robocop and enough of her things to fit into her subaru forester. it’s not goodbye. it’s never goodbye, she thinks as she hugs paloma on the modest porch. it still feels so permanent, but neve tells herself that big decisions always do. she yearns to discover who she is outside of grief and fear and love. a daughter cannot bloom in her parents’ shadows and she is suffocating underneath the gentle love of the mourning glory.

on the road without a real plan–because if she doesn’t know where she’s going, then neither does evan–neve signs on for a travel nursing company. the first assignment she considers is salem hospital an hour south and it’s a great department, but it’s too close to home. he’ll find her there easily. st. charles in bend isn’t far enough away either. it doesn’t feel like enough of a difference and none of them do until she’s cruising down the interstate through blythe, california and she sees a listing for a emergency department in oldgate, louisiana. it feels like it could be the right place to burn and be born again.

A GIRL AND HER DOG; SOMETIMES PEACE IS ITS OWN KIND OF PRISON

the cool steel of the snub nose .357 revolver lies buried beneath her registration and owner’s manual in the glove compartment. she wonders briefly as she pulls out her sunglasses and slips a salty french fry into her mouth. the car stereo fades in and out along the highway, switching between some smooth-talking radio host and the tinny crooning of buddy holly. it makes her think of her father, and she blinks back tears–plugging in her iphone to switch to a tune that doesn’t bring back such painful memories. robocop whines in the backseat and neve discovers that she’s hardly far away from oldgate, but her gps is out of service.

there’s no sense in pulling over and pulling out the map of louisiana she purchased from a disinterested teen in the first gas station she’d come across in the state. there’s only two days before the job starts and, according to her recruiter, they’d already moved the orientation up a day, cutting her time to adjust to her new ( temporary ) place before work in half. taking a long drink of coffee–now as cold as her french fries–she blinks hard to keep awake and just when she thinks she’ll have to pull over and sleep in her car huddled close to robocop’s warm, furry body.

neve has spent three peaceful months in oldgate. the gun no longer lives shoved into the bottom of her work bag or nestled into the glove compartment of her subaru. now it spends its days in solitude in the coffin-like drawer of her bedside table. evan will never find this place, she is almost sure of it. he might be looking for her, but he’s not looking for oldgate. some evenings on her long strolls to work, she smiles and closes her eyes–listening to the soothing sounds of the town. she’s learning more about herself in this town and more still about the hidden world around her. perhaps she’ll renew that travel contract.

wanted connections.

i. friends ! i’d love to see someone who has taken to showing her around oldgate, someone she meets up with regularly for drinks, or goes to the dog park with her.  ii. i would really love a relationship where they aren’t enemies to friends / lovers, but there is a certain amount of shit talking between the two of them. maybe they did dislike one another at first, but now they both try not to admit that they actually like one another’s company. iii. someone who is perhaps a regular at the emergency department, either for themselves or a family member. either way, neve and this person see one another often and there’s a budding friendship from it. 

[fiinalgiirls]

GENERAL INFORMATION.

FULL NAME - genevieve sloane channing NICKNAMES - neve GENDER / PRONOUNS - she/her DATE OF BIRTH - february 12, 1988 PLACE OF BIRTH - portland, oregon CITIZENSHIP / ETHNICITY - united states american; irish, scottish, welsh RELIGION - atheist / agnostic SOCIOECONOMIC STATUS / POLITICAL AFFILIATION - grew up very low socioeconomic status in ne portland, before the gentrification, but is now considered middle class due to her nurse’s salary. she’s liberal. MARITAL STATUS - single ( previously engaged ). SEXUAL & ROMANTIC ORIENTATION - bisexual, leaning more towards an attraction to men. EDUCATION / OCCUPATION - bachelor’s of science in nursing; emergency nurse LANGUAGES - english, spanish, and a few small phrases pertaining to medical emergencies in vietnamese and russian.

FAMILY INFORMATION.

PARENTS - doug and paula channing, both deceased. SIBLINGS - none OFFSPRING - none PETS / OTHER - robocop ( a black and white siberian husky ). i’d also like her to get a cat at some point ! give me this plot point !! NOTABLE EXTENDED FAMILY - none

PHYSICAL INFORMATION.

FACECLAIM - adelaide kane HAIR COLOR / EYE COLOR - brown / brown HEIGHT / BUILD - 5′3″ / slight, athletic TATTOOS / PIERCINGS - nostril piercing, small tattoo on anterior right forearm. DISTINGUISHABLE FEATURES - a scar above her left ear that goes into her hairline approximately three inches, bold, full brows. freckles. usually has bruised knees.

MEDICAL INFORMATION.

MEDICAL HISTORY - laceration to left temporoparietal area, sprained ankle, fractured collar bone, well-controlled asthma. KNOWN ALLERGIES - penicillin, watermelon VISUAL IMPAIRMENT / HEARING IMPAIRMENT - nearsighted, but usually uses contacts; tinnitus. NICOTINE USE / DRUG USE / ALCOHOL USE - occasional alcohol use, former smoker ( has had an errant cigarette on occasion ), drug use as a teenager.

PERSONALITY.

TRAITS - compassionate, resilient, tenacious ; self-righteous, cynical, aloof TROPES - nerves of steel, canine companion, good is not soft, deadpan snarker. TEMPERAMENT - melancholic ALIGNMENT - chaotic good CELTIC TREE ZODIAC - rowan, the thinker MBTI - infj HOGWARTS HOUSE - ravenclaw VICE / VIRTUE - pride ; liberality LIKES / DISLIKES: animals, reading, running and weight lifting, not having to share her popcorn, take-out, breakfast for dinner, leather / denim jackets, white sneakers, fresh cut flowers, solitude, people who think about others,  /  medical dramas, arrogance, science deniers, bok choy, people who talk to her at the gym or when she has headphones on, movie remakes, passive aggression. QUOTE:  ❝take a body, dump it, drive. take a body, maybe your own, and dump it gently. all your dead, unfinished selves and dump them gently. take only what you need. ❞

FAVORITES.

FOOD - curry. DRINK - coffee. PIZZA TOPPING - pineapple ( yes, she’s that bitch ), but with olives, mushrooms, tomatoes, and tabasco. COLOR - earth tones, grey, black and white. MUSIC - synth, hip hop, indie. BOOKS - horror, true crime, historical philosophy of science and medicine. MOVIES - the thing, nightbreed, notorious CURSE WORD - fuck, goddamn it. SCENTS - lavender, vanilla, chocolate.

BIOGRAPHY,

trigger/content warnings: murder, death, graphic violence, mental health, postpartum depression, suicide, cancer, drug mention, parent death, medical, euthanasia mention, stalking, guns

THE FOG CREEPS IN ; GIRLHOOD IS A GRAVEYARD

genevieve channing is born on a cold, grey february sometime around midnight to douglas and paula channing while the heavy oregon fog kisses the modest concrete jungle of portland oregon like a phantom. paula gives her a big name, telling the nurses with heady confidence that she’ll be famous one day, and it’s the biggest gift she ever gives her. baby genevieve is in her arms so often, she hardly touches a cradle, but it’s not long until douglas feels an uneasiness creeping in.

paula is bohemian silk skirts and crushed velvet. she grows restless being trapped in the plain, modest home in northeast. she is a woman that is easy to fall in love with—not meant to sit at home idly with a collicy baby, where she finds herself in tears more than ever. douglas returns from work to find baby genevieve screaming unattended in her crib while paula cries in the backyard with an ashtray full of cigarettes. she tells him she’s worried she’ll crash the car one day on the way to the grocery store with them both inside. douglas digs his teeth into his bottom lip and tries not to cry. he squeezes her hand and tells her she needs to go to therapy. what he really wants to tell her is that their baby needs her. he leaves paula outside and spends the afternoon tidying the house with genevieve swaddled against his chest. it’s a warm feeling.

it’s not long after that paula starts disappearing for periods of time and douglas learns she can’t be trusted to watch after the baby on her own. when she calls from downtown in tears, hyperverbal and desperate, he picks her up in his old chevy truck and brings her home. she agrees to see a doctor and for awhile, they figure out how to live again. some days are even as sweet as the rhubarb pies she starts to make again.

there are only two ways neve later remembers her mother, and the first is lovely–paula is picnics and shakespeare in the parks. she’s dried roses in the window and salmon tacos with mango salsa. she is whirlwind adventures and laughter. she teaches neve to make wishes on stray eyelashes, blowing them into the wind like dandelion seeds. on the good days, paula’s eyes are filled with stars. on the bad days, they are left black as the night sky while she cries the constellations down her cheeks. occasionally, she is cruel. mostly, she is absent.

by the third grade, neve expects this. douglas has never been much of a cook–save hamburger patties with canned green beans and a baked potato. she cooks their dinners from recipes she learns from her grandmas and helps around the house. most nights she’s home alone until the grumbling sound of the chevy breaks through the dark and signals her father’s return. eventually, she stops missing her mother from the everyday–it’s only when the other kids talk about their moms that she feels the pang of loss and wonders where she is. some nights neve finds herself sitting in her bedroom window pulling out eyelashes just to have something left to wish on. some of paula’s friends overdose on heroin or get murdered in the nights when neve is sleeping; she stays up late and hopes that her vigil will keep a distant mother safe.

there aren’t many trees on their street–unlike some of the other neighborhoods. the big weeping birch in their backyard that drives her father crazy as he rakes leaves every fall is neve’s pride and joy. there is comfort in the shade its branches cast every summer. at night it makes her lonely as it blocks the silhouette of the waxing moon. on lazy summer days when her father leaves for work, neve sits with her back curved against its rough trunk and reads the day away.

on a cool april afternoon, just after preparing a plate of cherry poptarts with a thin layer of butter on top of the frosting ( much to her father’s chagrin ), neve ventures out to the modest yard to sit under her tree. the familiar crushed blue velvet of her mother’s favorite dress catches her off guard and she drops her breakfast onto the unkempt lawn as her mind makes sense of the unnatural height of its hem as paula swings–marking the time of neve’s pounding heartbeat. the butter solidifies as it cools in the dirt, the heel of neve’s hand-me-down airwalk sneakers mashing her breakfast. the cherry filling sticks to the sole like bubblegum; she’ll never eat them again, but she can’t help but recall that her mom always preferred the maple and brown sugar.

THE ODDS ARE STACKED AGAINST HER ; A GIRL LEARNS TO COUNT CARDS

portland in the eighties and nineties is less portlandia and more drugstore cowboy. a lot of kids from other neighborhoods don’t go downtown. the ones that do have an air of palpable grit. neve takes the max, rides her skateboard in the dark. douglas has cautioned her a hundred thousand times, but paula’s death has instilled such a great fear of losing his daughter that he lets her get away with more than he knows he probably should. he fears paula’s ghost will someday possess her and she’ll wander off into the ether. most days he insists that the only parts of paula he sees in his cherished daughter are the good ones–neve holds onto the corporeal world with claws. it’s only on the worst nights–paula’s specter cooling the sheets of his bed in the dark–that he wakes up with the fear his daughter is gone.

douglas’s new wife, rosie, does her best to pit them against one another, but sometimes–she’s not so bad, neve thinks. it’s nice to have a mother figure in the house again even if she falls short most days. sometimes she thinks that maybe they could learn to love each other. if nothing else, she’s sure she owes a bit of gratitude to the woman; the nights of her father’s haunting sobs have become fewer and farther between. it isn’t until douglas begins receiving late notices on utilities that he begins to grow suspicious. rosie is quick to throw neve under the bus–a young girl like that? she’s probably stealing their money to spend on drugs and CDs at sam goody. douglas has never bet on anyone like he bets on his daughter; rosie’s gambling debts are news to them both.

the fallout of the relationship leaves douglas and neve in dire financial straits. the father is heartbroken–another love lost, he blames himself for always choosing the wrong lady luck. despite their financial ruin, left in rosie’s wake, douglas has a hard time getting out of bed most days and blows through what little sick time he has available to him. school takes a back burner and neve barely attends it at all–favoring her time on finding work ( legitimate and illegitimate ) to help keep their small family afloat. she attends class when it’s profitable and waits tables or washes dishes when she can. it’s still not enough.

a few kids turn neve onto small crimes to turn a profit. they ride the max to the suburbs and crash parties–stealing pills out of medicine cabinets and turning them over for profit. calculus wasn’t worth a good goddamn, but distribution teaches skills. it’s hard not to get caught up in petty thefts and the occasional break-ins. neve and her friends find it easy to justify in the spirit of class war. a pin on her denim jacket reads ‘eat the rich’ and it doesn’t sound so bad. portland is a cannibal and it eats its children.

neve is a cat with nine lives and despite her friends being caught by the long arm of the law or the stronger arm of revenge, she evades detection. even such cats live with a fear of death, and as consequence catches up to members of the small circle she runs with, neve knows she is living on borrowed time. sooner or later, she knows, her luck will run bone dry.

SPRING RETURNS TO PORTLAND ; THE FROST CLINGS TO FRAGILE BONES

neve dropping out of high school is a wake up call for douglas. he sees farther than she does and knows that she deserves a better life than the one he’s scrounged together for her. most days, he blames himself for a life that could have been; some kids like her wore neatly pressed dresses and folded over lace socks on picture day. some kids had piano lessons and summer camps. there’s a lot of insight in hindsight, but neve staunchly opposes his masochistic remorse and becomes determined to prove him wrong. it takes her a couple years of working to figure out what she wants to do–a girl baptised in her mother’s blood is born with the kind of heart that takes on too much. she is meant for saving lives and carrying the world on her shoulders like atlas himself.

it takes time, but as douglas gets their house in order and starts working again. neve is able to start up at portland community college. she takes up a work study job and works a steady flow of odd jobs on the side to support herself. lady luck shines her fortune on the pair for the first time in forever to make up for the steady losses they’ve sustained over the years. life isn’t lavender and gardenias, but somehow waking up becomes little and less painful each day. some days neve wakes up and forgets that she can’t breathe. most days she spends her gratitude in the heap of debt the world owes her–waiting for the other shoe to drop.

the rebirth of their family is a hearty soil; both channings flourish as if made anew. the dew drops that cling to garden spider webs in their window signal the looming anniversary of a mother’s misty breath and neve learns not to fall apart. douglas works hard to do right by her and make up for the years of never knowing what to do and waffling between what is best and what is desirable. he is a man that longs for dreams–feet barely brushing the earth like her mother’s did on that day–but he is learning to make dreams work too. his dreams take root around his daughter once more; he builds them around her and builds her up with them.

the highschool dropout graduates her community college adn bridge program and she can hardly believe it when she’s accepted to ohsu for her bsn. there are no college diplomas with the channing name hanging on walls with peeling wallpaper or tucked away in trunks with paula’s things. douglas has saved his money for months to get her the right graduation gift and neve laughs, downplaying that it’s not a real graduation, but still walks in the ceremony at his insistence.

she returns home to the small party of friends she’ll start to grow apart from when she gets tired of the jeers about how she thinks she’s ‘too good for them’ now. neighborhoods like hers don’t always love to watch you grow if it means you’ll leave them. they’ll still blow up her phone for medical advice, but the invitations dry up like the drought of portland natives in southeast. for now, it’s a pleasant barbecue. the highlight of the evening comes in the small bundle of inky fur that douglas proudly produces after neve’s second burger. peering out from his strong arms are the brown eyes of a young siberian husky. douglas begs her to name the pup murphy over robocop, but loses easily–a hearty chuckle on his lips. they are bonded instantly–girl and dog–robocop becomes neve’s second most stalwart companion next to her father.

nursing school is hard, but it’s not impossible and it is full of new kinds of joys. she makes new friends and they eat lunch from the thai foodcart—nestled within the pod of south waterfront—and lay on the quad drinking smoothies and complaining about the next pharmacology exam. nose in a book and a drink in her hand at happy hour down at cha cha cha !, neve attracts the attention of pa student shane stone. he knows a nursing school classmate of hers from high school and is quickly incorporated to their study groups with a couple of his friends. he is tall with dark hair and kind eyes and just the sort of person a girl dreams of falling in love with. he spends little time worrying about things like rent and bus passes. it’s not even the end of the semester before study dates evolve into movie dates. there’s an entire world between them, but somehow the pair build a bridge.

DEATH RATTLES AND DYING BREATH ; THE GIRL’S OTHER SHOE DROPS

as neve focuses on school, douglas seems to be making steps to keep himself around longer. they go for long walks with robocop around the neighborhood. southeast portland is becoming a different neighborhood and the cost of living is high. restaurants crop up with around the block waits and family friends are forced to move to grayer pastures. it seems, to the channings, that it’s the end of an era. with neve spending most of her time at shane’s apartment on south waterfront, douglas’ weight loss is hardly noticed–everyone assumes it is merely the byproduct of increased activity. it isn’t until his stature becomes gaunt that neve starts to worry.

shane holds neve close when she finally breaks down–sneaking into the single bathroom of the clinic to let her fall apart the way he knows she can’t do in the open. like a wild animal, the girl he loves hides herself away when she feels death’s acrid breath on her neck. he doesn’t know what loss is and he certainly can’t relate to what she’s been through. douglas’ diagnosis is like watching the noose tighten around her mother’s neck all over again. her throat is dry like she’s choking on the fibers of that same rope; the world has a foggy edge—hollow like street lights illuminating an empty suburban neighborhood on a clear, dark night. everything is wooden; everything feels like a dollhouse.

it’s hard to keep up on her studies, but somehow neve muscles through. shane gives up his idyllic apartment and moves into their modest southeast home to help out. he makes a lighthearted joke about finally being a real portlander and moving so near the trendy, revitalized mississippi neighborhood and neve drops and breaks her coffee mug on the unfinished wood floor of the kitchen. it’s just another reminder that he doesn’t belong in her world any more than she does in his. it doesn’t sting as bad as the ink on his mother’s checks that she cashes to keep her father comfortable on his deathbed while she learns to be a better caretaker. life ebbs and flows, but douglas’ drains away until she hardly recognizes the sinewy, pale hands that hold hers so strongly for a man that can’t sit up by himself any longer. she curses her mother once more for leaving and twice for never having been there in the first place.

death isn’t slow or peaceful like the woman from her father’s church will lie about at the funeral. his death rattle lasts for hours and the bellows of his chest quake with weary breath. part of her wishes that the hospice nurse had started an iv on him and a sick, hidden part of her wishes it because a sweet dose of morphine would’ve ended it all sooner for him. she wonders silently if that would do more to ease his pain or hers? he hasn’t been conscious in two days. shane sits with her at the side of his bed with rapt attention and as his breathing slows, neve crawls into the hospice bed next to him. the next several months are a blur and a father misses his only daughter’s graduation. neve is barely present there herself.

shane insists that she’s not an orphan–his parents fly in from denver and treat her like one of their own. it guilts her that she can’t help but resent them for the simple virtue of living while her own father is reduced to a cold dust. she wears his ashes around her neck in a pendant from the funeral home and spreads the rest in every beautiful place she can find. some of them spill into her purse during a hike with robo and shane and she breaks down in tears. there are so many small things that make her sick or numb. a multitude of tiny memories that weigh as much as planets; isn’t dust what helped create the milky way? even around the stone family she feels alone. maybe especially around the stones.

HACKLES RAISED, A GIRL LEARNS THE DANGERS OF BEING FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE

the emergency department attracts all kinds of people in myriad dire straits. people come in at the end of their ropes–infections ignored too long, stabbings and shootings, a broken bone from slipping off the slide, and sometimes when they feel like they can’t live any longer. evan does not fit into any of these categories when he comes in. among the myriad failings of the medical system, lack of access and use of primary care is one of the larger contributions to higher emergency department volumes and evan is another data point in a sea of statistics. he comes back to neve’s room with a sly grin plastered on his face and states that he’s new to the area and can’t get into a new primary care for a few months. his daily asthma inhaler is out and he needs to renew the prescription and get a referral to a clinic.

there’s nothing on the surface that identifies this man as a threat. he’s almost charming and he’s nontoxic appearing–a nice easy patient in a sea of sick people is sometimes a great relief. they make some small talk and it’s the usual stuff she chats about with patients: ‘where’re you from?’ ‘where did you go to school?’ he expresses an interest in nursing and she recommends the program she attended at the hospital she now works. there’s almost a tension there, and when he makes a casual comment about the tan line on her finger she tells him that she doesn’t wear her engagement ring at work because it can tear the gloves. that’s only half right. maybe he can sense the rest of the truth; she’ll wonder that later when she pieces together every scrap of something she can use to blame it on herself.

he sends her a message on facebook, which makes her lips curl downwards in uncertainty. even that isn’t entirely alarming. it opens up reminding her that he’s knew to the area, and that he’s interested in the nursing program she went to. it’s a surprise, but he makes mention of a girlfriend’s wifi and he even asks how shane is doing. he loves her dog and mentions wanting one himself. sure, it’s a little weird–unconventional–but neve has always been interested in helping others find nursing and agrees to meet him for coffee to discuss the program. when they meet, she sees the mistake inherit in it before she even opens the cafe door. he’s disheveled and hyperverbal when he speaks to her and she can barely get a word in edge wise. between the gift he’s brought her and the intensity of his stare, she wonders how she could have read him so wrong. it’s then that he drops the bomb that makes her stomach sink into the trench it detonates in–will they take him in the nursing program with a record? she doesn’t ask, but he provides the details anyway. death threats to some girl he barely knew that wouldn’t leave him alone, he paints the canvas well, but she can read between the lines. evan stevens is dangerous and his lethal eye is trained on her.

she makes an excuse to leave–the first of many excuses, the illusion of being unavailable, unattainable. it’s the advice she’s given to women before, but never had to follow. those words offered to women in distress seem so trite now, so hollow. there is so much fear in cutting ties slowly–the strategic approach to keep an impulsive person like that from escalating. she wishes she could take those clinical offerings of textbook wisdom back from those women and hold their hands. she wonders how many of them still live. he starts blowing up her phone constantly. he comments on all her social media. all day and all night. if she doesn’t respond, he threatens suicide. some days he asks if she’s working and says he brought her lunch. if she says she’s sick, he asks for her address to bring her tom yum takeout from the restaurant she’s posted about on instagram. everything makes her sick now.

A FINAL GIRL IS FORGED ALONE ; THERE IS NO SUBVERTING FATE

god, it’s hard to speak about. she can’t even let the words reach her tongue, lips and teeth to birth them. they shrivel and die in her throat, festering there until she swallows them and they rest in her stomach like great stones. she wonders if evan will cut her stomach open like a wolf and find the rocks there. that’s not how the story goes; she tells herself so many versions as she lies awake in the dark afraid to sleep.

when she finally tells her friends–a smattering of girls and guys from nursing school, the er, and her neighborhood–the response is like the knife she dreams about in her gut. she shows some of the girls at her work his picture, worried that he’ll come in asking about her. she’s chided by these friends, “he’s actually pretty cute, florence nightingale” they joke. “it must be flattering to have the attention.” even shane suspected that there’s some indulgence on her part. that maybe she likes trying to fix people who are broken so much that she gets some sick reward from the experience. he doesn’t speak the words, but neve is fluent in shane stone. he says it in his eyes, the downcurve of his lips, the tense way he sighs when her phone dings over and over again during date nights.

on a cold night in december, neve works on meal prepping alone in the kitchen. evan has been out of town helping his mother remodel her kitchen and neve feels like she can finally breathe in the space he’s left behind. turning on the wireless speaker, she tries to pair her phone to play music as loud as the thin walls of her father’s modest northeast portland home will allow and instead hears, in the cold, robotic voice ‘pairing with neve’s iphone and evan’s iphone.’ robocop doesn’t even lift his head in suspicion the whole night. she calls 911, but they find neither hide nor hair of him. in the morning, neve nails the windows shut and buys a gun–a smith & wesson .357 snub nose revolver. the weight of it is heavy in her hands and she buys a membership to a gun range, calling into work and practicing until shane returns. she doesn’t tell him about the gun and she stops telling him how bad things have gotten with evan. the click of his tongue and disapproval in his eyes is more dooming than a death sentence and she can’t bear to bring further disappointment. neve channing is a strong woman–a smart woman. things like this don’t happen to women like her.

somehow, evan is everywhere and he knows all her secret places as if he exists as an extension of her. maybe he even believes he is–sending her voice messages about how they’re connected. they are the same; they are foils of one another. he send her a picture of his ouroboros tattoo from a new number after she finally blocks him. ‘we are the same.’ he is an all-consuming, devouring force, but she is not a serpent’s tail. he is moloch–besmeared with blood, the great, horrid king–but she is not a child and she will not be sacrificed for sins she has not committed. he has not right and there’s only one way she can see this ending as the days grow longer. like life itself begins, this too will end in blood.

LOVE IS A HARD KNIFE ; A GIRL CAN’T STOMACH AMBROSIA

there is a consequence to every action and every inaction. every little thing she chooses not to tell shane fester and boils. the late nights at work and the new passcode on her phone seem more to shane like cheating than a worsening of some creep’s obsession. she hasn’t even mentioned evan to him since the trees started blooming again. when he elects to cheer her up and bring her lunch during a shift she traded so she could practice at the gun range, his suspicions deepen and while she sleeps that morning, he rifles through her work bag and finds alongside her locked cell phone the cold steel of a secret that he cannot abide by.

it’s not his fault either and she means that from the bottom of her heart. every kindness from the stones feels like another debt and neve can’t help but let the resentment fester in the tasteful diamond on her finger. when she looks upon his face now all she can see is death and it’s the world’s cruelest joke, because she’s the one with cemetery dirt underneath her fingernails. she can’t tell which of the two of them she resents more and they both deserve lives where ghosts stay buried and the dead don’t whisper malcontent in her ears while she struggles to fall asleep. nightmares are her own warm milk; she’s sick of the cold metal of a gun as she moves it from her night stand to her purse each morning. she’s tired of being made to feel like she had a stake in any of this.

it’s not the kindest way to leave a man, but she’s not sure she’s ready to face him again after all that’s happened. she leaves her house keys with her cousin paloma and packs up shane’s stuff. paloma has just started nursing school and can use neve’s father’s old house to sublet. the rent’s free and she’s always been gentle hearted. neve can’t think of anyone better to care for her father’s old house. with dear john letters to both shane and the hospital, neve takes robocop and enough of her things to fit into her subaru forester. it’s not goodbye. it’s never goodbye, she thinks as she hugs paloma on the modest porch. it still feels so permanent, but neve tells herself that big decisions always do. she yearns to discover who she is outside of grief and fear and love. a daughter cannot bloom in her parents’ shadows and she is suffocating underneath the gentle love of the mourning glory.

on the road without a real plan–because if she doesn’t know where she’s going, then neither does evan–neve signs on for a travel nursing company. the first assignment she considers is salem hospital an hour south and it’s a great department, but it’s too close to home. he’ll find her there easily. st. charles in bend isn’t far enough away either. it doesn’t feel like enough of a difference and none of them do until she’s cruising down the interstate through blythe, california and she sees a listing for a level one trauma center in tuscon, arizona. it feels like it could be the right place to burn and be born again.

A GIRL AND HER DOG; SOMETIMES PEACE IS ITS OWN KIND OF PRISON

the cool steel of the snub nose .357 revolver lies buried beneath her registration and owner’s manual in the glove compartment. she wonders briefly as she pulls out her sunglasses and slips a salty french fry into her mouth. the car stereo fades in and out along the southbound highway, switching between some smooth-talking radio host and the tinny crooning of buddy holly. it makes her think of her father, and she blinks back tears–plugging in her iphone to switch to a tune that doesn’t bring back such painful memories. robocop whines in the backseat and neve discovers that her maps aren’t loading any longer, the gps unable to locate their vehicle.

there’s no sense in pulling over and pulling out the map of arizona she purchased from a disinterested teen in the first gas station she���d come across in the state. there’s only two days before the job starts and, according to her recruiter, they’d already moved the orientation up a day, cutting her time to adjust to her new ( temporary ) place before work in half. taking a long drink of coffee–now as cold as her french fries–she blinks hard to keep awake and just when she thinks she’ll have to pull over and sleep in her car huddled close to robocop’s warm, furry body.

neve passes a hospital on the outskirts of town–lit up all pretty against the dark desert sky. it looks nice enough and the longer she drives, the more she considers that her recruiter might’ve told her they were full up in tuscon. maybe that was why they moved the date up for orientation afterall. in the dark august night, most of the businesses are closed and the lights in the mobile home park neve passes are off. the first place she sees open is bj’s food mart and she stops to get a fresh cup of coffee and stretch her legs. she learns inside that amen county is always hiring and leaves with a smile on her lips.

neve has spent nine peaceful months in boot hill. the gun no longer lives shoved into the bottom of her work bag or nestled into the glove compartment of her subaru. now it spends its days in solitude in the coffin-like drawer of her bedside table. evan will never find this place, she is almost sure of it. he might be looking for her, but he’s not looking for boot hill. some evenings on her long strolls to work, she smiles and closes her eyes–listening to the soothing sounds of the town.

soon enough, neve is sure there really was no travel assignment to reach. or, if there had been, she can’t remember where it’s at. instead, she takes some time to enjoy the small town and the anonymity she feels there. she’s not even living out of the silk bonnet hotel anymore. she hadn’t seen boot hill on any map during her road trip and, if that’s universal, her past can’t find her without a destination to set its sights on. there is more than great comfort in that. by the end of her first month, she can’t imagine living anywhere else.

the emergency department is not the bustling trauma center she was used to, but there is an appeal to the autonomy rural medicine offers an experienced nurse. hell, in some places the doctors only come in if you call them. neve can’t exactly remember the application and interview process anymore. it seems like there are so many things that have become mysteries and she can’t find herself caring enough to investigate them long enough to follow an actual lead. it seems like she’s always worked there–an instantaneous sensation of home. she couldn’t even leave if she wanted to.

[dreamdaddydutch]

The Fairytale She Wove

Pairing: Dutch x original f! character (Javier x original f! character) 

Category: Drama/Fairy-tale/Smut/Angst & Fluff - Other Warnings: Violence/Miscarriage (not linked) Death/Suicide (rdr1 connection) - Word Count: 17,279. 

18+ only, do not read/interact if under 18. 

Summary - A long one-shot depicting the life and times of Dutch’s s/o, from when they first meet until his dying day. I wanted to capture what it would be like to be with him, all the love/praise/adoration, but also the paranoia/neglect/rage.

A few important notes - The story does skip a little time wise (in terms of going back and forward, reminiscing) But I hope the way I’ve written it and the way I use tense to convey what’s happening, makes sense. Dutch’s s/o is an ofc, I originally was going to write this about Molly, as there’s a lot of similarities, but considering what’s canon in the game, I decided that wasn’t right (but I do love Molly). There are no chapters, but due to the length of the piece I have used some dividers. I really hope you enjoy this, I’ve poured 30 hours or so into this over the past 6 weeks and honestly I’m still not 100% happy with it, so they may be a revised version in a few months! For example, although I touch on it I do want to add more about the tram crash and the impact it had on Dutch, I also worry Isla isn’t as likeable now as she was during my first draft. I haven’t focused too much on many of the characters or specific events, if I had this would have been a hella lot longer and would have taken away from the point of the story. Also, I deliberated over how old to make her for a long time (it was between 18-21), she needed to be young enough that she grows into herself with the gang, but obviously of legal age. I imagined that she meets Dutch sometime before the events in Blackwater also. Finally - I deviate from canon at the end in regards to the first game, I agonised over what to do, but the other option was too depressing at the end of a pretty angst-laden story. 

I made a youtube playlist to go with this - Here. Also thanks to @cassandrafey​ for beta reading the 1st finished version. Finally - there is a massive reference to Angela Carter’s ‘The Company of Wolves’ if you’re wondering. 

And when she’s around him her breast is full and she blossoms and blooms so that everyone can feel it. The atmosphere of the camp changes, and it’s like a grassy field after rain. When she sits beside him and his hand trails up her thigh, grabbing her flesh tight. Too tight perhaps in front of the rest of the camp, she flushes neck upwards but spreads her legs a little too wide to accommodate him. Her ruddy cheeks are not from shame but from desire, he wants to show the others she belongs to him, and she, isn’t ashamed to let her need show.

Like a cherry blossom tree she goes through seasons, there are times when she comes into bloom around him, her face lights up, she lives for him. And there times when there is a drought, when all her leaves fall, tattered and neglected around her.

She tumbles in all her skirts for him. She is grace, fallen. She is grace in every way when she isn’t with him. He is her undoing. How he watches her unravel, relishing in carnal sin. 

Her heart beats around him, her neck like that of a crane, follows him wherever he goes, savouring any attention, any small morsel makes her feel larger than the woman she is.

Arthur and John would tease her relentlessly, informing her often that some of her actions weren’t ladylike in the slightest.

And she would reply, laughter rising as she spoke, “I never claimed to be a damn lady!”

“Oh okay..” Came Arthur’s response as he too laughed. 

Dutch would be there, ever under his watchful eye she would vie for his approval, but it was never enough. Only with age, tragedy, and betrayal, would Isla learn that it would never have been enough. Dutch dreamed of an age long past, of blind loyalty. She had been enough for him, once, but that had faded like an old man witnessing the sun set on his last day. 

Oh oh it was good, when his kisses were full of teeth, bruising her collarbone as he worshipped her. When stubble started to grow, she would crave for it brushing against her inner thigh, sending chills up her spine whenever he did so. She would long for those moments when his moustache tickled her bud. In the beginning their love and passion was bountiful, he worshipped her like the goddess he believed her to be.

The ground shook for her the first time she set eyes on him, only 19 years old, all her plans, everything she had spent years meticulously mapping out, fell from beneath her feet, unimportant now in the face of such a man. She’d given him everything she had, promised herself to him, she needed no maps, nor books, nor guidance from family. She’d left the shores of home and before she’d started on her path, he had swept her up into his arms. 

On reflection, as her skin begun to map the storms she'd weathered, she realised she never stood a chance. He was always hungry and the consequence of this was that he had planned on having her from the moment he laid eyes on her.

Their first night out in town together had been an extravagant affair, of course members of the gang had laughed, of course Dutch would have organised no less and of course the others were jealous. 

There was a way he looked at her which she couldn’t describe in her journal, it wasn’t just hunger, there was a kindness there, perhaps she had mistaken it for love. Though, when she wrote those words in her diary when things would sour, she regretted them before the ink had a chance to dry. He had loved her. She believed, foolishly perhaps, that he had always loved her. But then when he was gone she pondered how easy it must be to feel remorse on one’s death bed.

When he first took her out in Blackwater he had taken her shopping, bought her dresses and lingerie and a beautiful green and gold shawl. All dressed up he had taken her for dinner, every part the gentleman, he doted on her in a way that made her feel like a princess. In the early days he would transport her to her childhood, to the stories her mother had told her of princesses locked in a tower and the gallant knights who came to save them. 

“You look ravishing my dear,” his words had swept her up. Silken, soft, the object of his desire and affection brought to life through his words so she would so readily believe him.

They didn’t return home that night, instead he had paid for a hotel and it was there he first slept with him, her virginity slipping through her fingers like sand through time. One moment she had been a girl full of foolish, naive dreams, and the next, as she listened to the ticking of Dutch’s pocket watch he had taken her. His weight near crushed her, made her feel loved and safe, he adorned her with kisses and praise, took his time, made sure to wait up until the second she was ready.

When they rode back into camp the next day on The Count, there were members of the gang who sensed the change in her, the women mostly, but Arthur had guessed. Arthur had always known what was up with her, but the smile she wore on her face paired so perfectly with her rosy, plump cheeks.

Arthur had helped her down from the saddle and she hugged him so enthusiastically, like a sister throwing her arms round a brother she hadn’t seen in a long time. There was a relationship they had with one another that barely required words, they just knew. But Dutch had been good to Arthur and looking out for him like a son, Arthur had no reason to worry about him and Isla.

The first time Dutch told her he loved her, she was lost, she should have known at that moment she would never have found her way home, even if she had tried. 

“Will you stay forever?” He asked.

She had laughed playfully, her wrist gently fanning herself, “Forever is a long time Dutch van der Linde.”

He’d smiled, eyes warm, not seeing her as prey for once, “I mean it, I love you Isla Robinson, will you stay with me?”

She’d stopped moving, frozen in the moonlight, carried away by all his previous promises, his words so sweet like nectar to her in the midst of a drought, “Like you even need to ask, I am yours.” 

The first few times they slept together at camp she had been nervous of the noise they were making, afraid others would hear and mock.

“Just let them try,” he had soothed as he kissed her knuckled, her wrist, kisses going up her arm to her neck. 

She could never say no to him, not her knight. So with the music that filled their tent, she set aside her fear and slid so willingly into his lap. His large hands would wrap round her waist just so, a perfect fit for one another, her eyes sparkling with adoration as she looked down into his weary lidded eyes. 

“Dutch?” She would ask whenever he seemed quiet, whenever she sat on his lap and his eyes seemed to fill to the brim with sadness.

“Sorry petal it’s nothing, as long as I have you, we’ll be alright,” he would reassure her so frequently and so easy in the early days and oh how she longed for that in the years that were to come. 

His thumb would trace her lips so gently that it felt like a butterfly’s wings. He would gently press against her chin, his fingers tracing her neck and she would welcome it, melting like butter under his touch. Her hips would roll involuntarily in his lap, there was a chuckle he had, it was low and often followed by a guttural moan. These were the sounds he made when she rode his lap as his thumb put pressure on her lower lip, asking permission for entrance without words. 

Her mouth would open and he would slip a finger inside, she would suck, grateful for all contact she had with him. The sucking would drive him crazy, how much care she took with just a finger, her tongue swirling round the digit, making him hard as her hips continued to roll into oblivion. Because when they were joined in the early days, nothing existed outside the tent.

He would cup her face, look at her like she was the world he would often pull her into his lap, especially when she least expected it, which would result in fits of giggling and him lifting her into the air, his most precious possession. 

And maybe that was the problem, for Dutch thought of her like she was something he owned, and in that breath, nothing she ever could have given him would have been enough.

One day as he sat reading, pawing his hands over the pages she had been feeling mischievous. 

“You know anything is edible.”

He looked up from his book, curious as to where she was going with this.

“Hmmmm,” he licked his lips hungrily.

She got up from where she sat and walked over to him, stood over him, placed her hands on his shoulders and applied just enough pressure that for a moment it was her who controlled him. Dutch gulped, looking up at the swelling in her bosom.

He smirked, “How will I ever get any plans made with you around, you’re my poison.”

She bent down and whispered in his ear, “You know, it’s the dose that makes the poison.” She sucked on the spot on his neck where his pulse could be felt and for a moment stayed like that, gently sucking as Dutch’s hands clasped her waist and then slapped her on the behind. She gave a moan and within minutes they were rolling around in bed, losing sight of time and all purpose. 

“You’re our lucky mascot, my guiding star you know that?” He asked sincerely as she mounted his hips and looked down at him sprawled on their cot. 

She smiled and bent down to kiss him, “Shhh silly.”

And she was both the poison and the remedy to Dutch, in the end those words would haunt her, she realised the dose of Dutch that she received had indeed, poisoned her. Like the foxglove, just enough would have been enough to numb pain, save her life and to give her purpose. But she’d overdosed on it and the flame that had burnt so brightly within her had all but turned to ashes within years. 

But in time, after Blackwater, things had started to go South, their relationship changed so slowly that she barely noticed what was happening until it was too late. 

At both Horseshoe Overlook and Clemens Point, things had relatively been the same, just the odd thing here and there, but she paid no attention to it. Of course there had always been a question in her mind, a fear that was starting to spread like ivy tendrils on an unloved building. The more she tried to ignore what was happening between them as well as to the gang as a whole, the darker the fears became.

She’d confided in Arthur mostly, he had reassured her, though he himself appeared to have his own demons and concerns about the future of the gang. This didn’t help, but at least she didn’t feel alone. There had been good days in Horseshoe Overlook and at Clemens Point, great days in fact, but her Dutch appeared to be ageing rapidly and in the end, her little legs just couldn’t keep up. 

Both herself and Arthur didn’t trust Micah, there was something about him that made her skin crawl and set her on edge. Watching Charles, Susan and Javier’s reactions with him she realised soon that it wasn’t just the two of them who felt like that. By the end, when she knew the truth, she had wished she had done or said something sooner. Hindsight is after all the most precious gift that she, nor any of them, would ever have. 

If Isla was being honest with herself, Micah’s betrayal had broken her heart but also she found it hard to place all blame on him, Dutch was not the saint he had sold himself to be when she had first met him. Her fists clenched when she thought too long on their characters, their nature, no amount of punching pillows would make it any easier. Mankind, we really are no better than animals, worse in fact. 

It was in those darker days when she begun to get closer to other members of the gang, Javier in particular would take her fishing or on small jobs as a distraction. Often the two of them would sit in silence, but she found his revolutionary heart much like her own, full of fire just waiting for a sign. The silent comfort they found in one another soon became her favourite place alongside having Dutch between her thighs. 

But things really started to turn when they left Clemens Point and entered the stale camp that was Shady Belle, their relationship wained, forgotten, lost in the fog that surrounded them and in the maze of trees. They would continue to be intimate, but it was fucking mostly, not love-making, it’s not that she hated that, sometimes, it was perfect, but she would have liked him to kiss her more often, to hold her after sex. When they fucked, he would forget about her, forget to reciprocate the pleasure. In the end, she got so used to it that when he did touch her or go down on her, she would forget the rest of the world. 

Her back would arch with pleasure, wishing she could hang in that moment forever. Those were the moments when he would call her pet names again, his love beyond all love. He loved her more than money he would say, more than anything, he would die for her… And she ate them up, every last lie, she knew the words were false, that she had praised Dutch, looked to him like a deity. This false god she had fallen on her hands and knees for, would crawl over broken glass for, he would be her end and still she loved him unconditionally. 

And in the end, even when she knew he was beyond saving, still she tried. She fought, with every last breath. 

“I can’t abandon him!” She had cried to John and Arthur as Sadie packed up their horses.

Arthur had shaken his head, not with anger nor disbelief, but the sorrow for what could have been. For the moment of tangency. It was a sorrow for the fact he couldn’t save her, just like she already knew in her heart she couldn’t save Dutch.

For when she was with him, dancing outside their tent, her face aglow from the campfire, opera playing, that was home. It were as if her ribcage were made of willow bark, sparrows had settled in to nest for Spring and moss had started to grow between the branches. Dutch was home. He had nested into her.

The first time they made love, felt like it like a lifetime ago in the moments before the final showdown, and yet she remembered all of it, every small movement, every beat of his heart and trace of his finger tips. 

The first time they had confessed their feelings for one another, she had entered his tent to speak about something trivial, at least that’s what the others would call it, that’s how they would remember it. Arthur though, Arthur would write in his journal that she entered for love, and that wasn’t a lie. She had entered into his tent to borrow a book, it was where they first found this common ground. He was was overjoyed to show her his personal collection and watched her closely as she pawed over his greatest treasures, gently opening them and inhaling the scent of leather. That was his scent. 

She would remember it years later, and when he was off in one of his rages, or worse, a fantasy, not a fantasy that involved him taking her against a wall, rather a fantasy about a plan, she would try to bring him home. Her chest was open to him, the birds sung, lonely now their children had taken flight, the heaviness of her heart that was only lifted when he was near. She would go to him, time and time again with a book she had acquired in town, clutching it to her breast, her dress pulled lower than she used to wear them. Cleavage more defined, her bosom exposed, overflowing, anything to gain his attention.

She’d sit beside him like this, book on her lap, fingers twirling in her hair, playfully resting her head on his shoulder, “Please,” she would beg into his ear, longing for a moment alone. And when he didn’t respond she’d sigh, praying to the goddess that he would listen to her, heed her pleas, “Dutch, please, be with me tonight.”

Dutch would shift uncomfortably, sigh, clearly irritated, “Not now!” Too often was his answer. 

There were times, not many, moments she could count on one hand, but that was enough. Times when she heard him mutter under his breath, “Damn woman,” as she walked away. 

Like a wasp, it stung, festered in her heart, turning it slowly into a fetid state. And like an untreated wound, it turned her cold, just like him, too often she would see him look at other women with the kind of lust he held once reserved for her only. And there were nights when he’d disappear completely, whilst the others in the camp never confirmed her worst fears, she knew he had taken comfort in the arms of other women. It was rare, true, but there had been a few moments when he appeared particular stressed that he would disappear into town and not return till the following morning, seemingly less pent up. 

He woke one night to find her straddled on top of him, “What are you doing?” He asked, unable to mask his annoyance. 

“This is the only way I can get you to look at me,” she’d replied woefully, no life left in her voice that had once been so soft it could have harkened larks. But she’d find once he was awake she couldn’t look him in the eye. 

She stared instead to the gap between the opening to the tent, the flicker of the campfire, the stars, anything was more appealing then, than staring into the eyes of the man she loved but no longer had.

She’d wanted to be powerful, a lioness in a lion’s den, to take control just once. But once she looked at him, she had been lost to his eyes. The silver now creeping through his moustache, his hair, her Dutch was getting old and foolish and it was breaking her heart. 

Though the tears had stung her eyes, it was nothing new, it had happened all the time.

“Dutch, we don’t need to sleep together, we don’t even need to kiss, I just want you to talk to me! We promised ourselves to one another remember? We promised we’d always look out for each other, I promised I’d never leave your side and I meant it. I’m here, you’re not alone you know that? If something is getting to you, please talk to me.” Every word she spoke hurt, because looking at the indifference on Dutch’s face, she knew he was barely there, so lost in his thoughts, whether it was worry, pride or guilt… There was a sin consuming him and the barrier he had built for himself to shut the world out, to shut her out, was made of wrought cast-iron, no amount of pretty language could break them.

He told himself he put up his defences to protect her, in reality it was a lie, the truth too painful to swallow. 

There were only two speeds when they fucked, there was painfully slow and loving, all tears and apologies, or there was hard and unrelenting. It was often the latter. Dutch would dominate almost always, because that’s what Dutch did, she could have predicated that. And it was how she liked it, over and over again. The control kept her in check. The control told her she loved him.

Always. The control he would show with Arthur and John. The discipline towards The Count. It was always the discipline which told her she was loved. And oh she would have done anything for him, she would have even gone as far as fucking John or one of the others for his pleasure. 

There was a time whilst at Shady Belle when nightmares filled her head after what happened to Kieran. She dreamt often that Dutch was a headless horseman, chasing her through the mist drenched woods.

She’d been wearing nothing but a thin, white, night gown, lace trimmed, the perfect material to see her pale, firm breasts underneath. Her nipples cold in the night, stood to attention like soldiers on a hill. In the dream she could never catch her breath. Could never run fast enough and oh how she wanted to save him from the nightmare. 

Twigs snapped underneath her bare feet, now covered in mud and dirt. She was revealed by the night in her truest form.. A long-eared owl flew overhead, ready to take the life of some innocent creature, for survival, that was what Dutch would say about the gang, their survival was dependant on taking lives.

The owl swopped down and caught a mouse, it’s talon piercing the creatures soft skin. No chance of escape, there was no kindness or mercy in the killing. As the mouse’s eyes dilate, it knows it cannot live another day, it watches the world from above as the owl carries it away and snow falls all around it. Splatters of blood fall to the ground in front of her, snow soon to cover them and let the world start again. 

The horseman would always catch her, his arms and chest covered in a thick carpet of fur. Her grandmother had warned her that men were like wolves, hungry, ravenous, always looking for their next meal.

And she knew in her dream she should run, should try to hide, but his scent, his black eyes, the way he looked at her, she knew this wolfman, knew somewhere within him there was a still beating heart. So she would approach the horse, arms held out and he would watch her. His hot breath hanging in the air, his horse not stirring. She would pull the sleeves of her dress down over her shoulders, her arms, she would step out naked into the snow and open herself up to him. 

As the horseman got down from his horse without a word, she would tilt her head, intrigued by him, the smell of death suddenly alluring. She knew what he wanted from her, she would lay in the snow, let her knees fall apart, undignified, exposing her sex, he would climb onto her, pinning her to the ground, his weight unbearable. His large hands holding her wrists captive above her head. He would slide into her with no warning, her teeth clenched at the pain from his engorged cock. 

As the horseman was about to devour her, she would awaken, dripping in sweat, screaming, untameable, wild, lost. And Dutch, it was always Dutch who was right there by her side. Soothing her, stroking her matted hair.

His eyes in the moonlight affixed on her and despite her fear, despite the comfort, there was always something in it for him. There had to be. Taste. He wanted to taste her, to devour her. Covered in sweat, glistening, she appeared to him far more delicious than any meal Pearson could cook up.

“Sweetheart, I’m here, I’m here, let me soothe you,” and Oh oh ohhhhhh how pretty his words were, how they slid from his silver tongue and how she gobbled them up. His sexual prowess, under the guise of care and concern. 

When she had told him about her grandmothers warning he had laughed, “Well am I supposed to hold back? not want to taste you.”

And Dutch loved to taste her.

It started with the lips, with her mouth, her delicate, pink tongue. The mixing of their saliva. 

It started with the neck, the collarbone, her porcelain breasts. 

Her thighs. Thick and unforgiving, enough to strangle a man with she had once joked.

“Dutch, you know, I could eat you for breakfast?” She’d said in a sultry manner.

They say there is nothing that can keep a man from his dinner, this was true of Dutch, when he wanted to eat her, he would take her. 

Her legs would part all too easily for him as he greedily grabbed and kissed her soft flesh. He would moan into her sex as his tongue worked effortlessly, sliding in and out of her, her hands buried in his hair. 

His finger would work expertly at her clit, moving in small, slow circles. That was how he knew she liked it best, yes. He would work her up into a frenzy from nothing, slowing building the warmth in her stomach. Sometimes when she was feeling more frisky she would wrap her thighs round him, holding him in close to her so he couldn’t move if he wanted to. At the same time she would push his head into her, forcing him to give her head. 

“Dutch….” Every time she said his name it was like she had waved a spell over him. And when she said it during sex, any power or authority Dutch thought he had, in that moment was gone. His name fell so readily, so pretty from her pursed lips. 

She wore rouge on her lips, she loved red, but knew what it made her look like, so that was reserved for parties or the bedroom. Red lipstick marks on his cock, that was what Dutch lived for.  Sometimes when he’d bathed, he’d ask her to kiss his cock when she’d freshly applied lipstick, just so throughout the day he’d see the marks there and remember she was his. She’d wear lipstick on every day days that was a subtle matte pink. It made her lips come alive.

Every time Dutch pulled her into his arms, he thought of her like an apple, freshly picked from the tree, juicy and sweet, needing to be tasted. 

And, in the early days, he was patient and he was good. She’d sit beside him, watching him trace lines of paper, his finger would caress the page as he read so she could follow the words. Sometimes she would sit on his lap as he read to her, and he would worship her like a princess.

There was a book she loved in particular, Wuthering Heights, one year for her birthday he had bought her a copy that was hers to cherish, leather-bound and illustrated. Then he had sat patiently on their cot as she read the words to him, correcting her when she stuttered. If she got flustered and cried, he would brush her hair with a rose gold brush that had been a gift when they were first together. He would run his hands through her hair, massage her scalp as he cooed, “Shhhh sweet girl.”

If she got too frustrated with what she was doing and threw a tantrum, he would pat his lap gently. The first time they did this it had both frightened and intrigued her. “You must learn my love,” he spoke softly.

She had laid across his lap, ever the obedient student, so he could spank her, sometimes it was sexual, sometimes not. Though the fear had been real at first, she melted into him, each slap of his palm across her soft flesh made her feel needed, wanted, loved. 

Sometimes he would make her count out loud, after every number his palm would come crashing down. Sometimes she would act up, squirm underneath him, “Now, now, princess,” he would say softly and brush her hair, “You must be patient.”

The first time she called him daddy, it took her by surprise, Dutch had just chuckled, “Daddy ay? Oh yes, I could be your daddy.”

Her cheeks burnt was shame but when she called him that, when his palm connected to her skin, she felt stronger, bolder, more certain. And even in the later days when things got bad and they barely had sex, it would only take for him to lay her across his lap once again for her to believe in him, to know just how cherished and loved she was. Even if Dutch didn’t realise it. 

As time wore on, Arthur truly had become like a brother to her, always looking out for her, sometimes they argued, but he was always there to soothe her when she and Dutch argued.

Dutch had loved her in abundance, had loved her fruitfulness, her nature was kind. But then it was her nature that would betray her in the end.

The first time her stomach had started to swell with child he had never been more proud. They were at Clemens Point, she had loved it there, the storms on distant shores, the rising and setting of the sun, and the fishing had been perfect. 

She didn’t announce her pregnancy straight away, she decided it was better for a few months to pass, until she was certain. 

Dutch had announced the news round the campfire one evening, much to the delight of most of the camp. Micah didn’t seem too impressed, but then she had expected that, he had never shown her much care or thought, if anything a child was just another mouth to feed, a nuisance, a distraction from money and trouble. 

The women of the camp had all offered their support, Abigail in particular. The night was full of drinking and song, Javier had promised to sing to her child, Tilly would teach them dominoes, Arthur had promised to take them fishing when they were old enough. The men had all been so proud in that moment and shown such care. Charles had offered to do anything to help make her comfortable… 

It was in those months that Dutch had been his old self again, hugging her from behind when they were in bed, his hand loosely trailing down to her stomach and stroking her slowly swelling belly. He would kiss her and talk to his unborn child, the one who would carry on his legacy. 

It was three months into the pregnancy when mother nature came to call and take back what had been so briefly hers. When she declined the woman’s greatest wish. They had been sat round the campfire, laughing and singing when she felt a stabbing pain. She tried to ignore it, convince herself blindly it was just her baby growing. But when she couldn’t take it anymore she stood to reveal blood seeping through her dress and felt it trickle down her thighs. 

She had run then, ran as fast as she could, it was in that moment she felt like she had been living in a dream which had slowly turned into a nightmare. A fawn, doe-eyed, innocent, caught up in the middle of a battle between beasts, she ran as fast as her legs would carry her. 

Dutch had run after her, finding her sat under a tree, cradling a dead sparrow. She held it so beautifully, with such love in her arms, like a child she cried over it, tears falling onto it’s soft, downy feathers. 

She had heard his approach, had looked up to find his eyes as lost as hers, “I’m sorry Dutch, I’m sorry.”

He’d knelt beside her, stroked her cheek, “Nothin’ to be sorry for darlin’” He kissed her gently.

On reflection, that was probably it, Blackwater had been the trigger for their decline, but since the first miscarriage, things had gotten worse. They weren’t as close, not like they used to be. 

Again, the sex became more animalistic. She swallowed him whole, her throat opening for him, his fingers tracing patterns across her skin as if it were lace. Her pale skin would flush hot at his touch, the blue veins on her chest, like rivers heading towards her breasts, which tumbled and crashed over rocks when he came inside her. 

He had promised her the world, a world without recourse, a world where she no longer need be afraid. And all he gave her in the end was dust, a dream that could never be realised for his stubbornness and hot-headed ways.

Around the camp fire at night Arthur and Charles would sit beside her in silence as they listened to Javier play guitar and sing. Sometimes Arthur would put a reassuring arm round her or rest it on her shoulder, Charles would offer to talk to Dutch for her and Javier… As Javier played guitar he would look across the fire at her, lost in his own world and yet staring at her through the flames, how the fire reflected in her eyes, there were moments when he forgot himself. 

How many times had one of the other’s tried to talk her out of it, reminded her that he had been with Susan once and let her go. Perhaps if she broke things off with him, the love he once had for her would be strong enough for him to allow her to stay in the camp. There were other men who would love her better, friends who were concerned about her. For a moment she allowed herself to dream, to believe that there could be another life for her. She would nod along, thank them for their time and care, and then the dream would be over. 

There was an evening after a particularly bad row in Shady Belle that she was sat in their tent, the wind howled and frame shook, she curled up into her blankets and buried her face in her knees. 

“Isla, are you okay?” She heard Javier’s voice, just above the sound of the wind.

She didn’t know how to respond, she didn’t wish to lie, but was afraid to tell the truth. She took only a second to decide what to do, in the end she wasn’t okay and longed for the company. 

“Come in,” she instructed.

She heard his footsteps enter the tent and felt the cot sink under his weight as he sat down, she turned around, still laying down, with knees still up to her chest. She looked up at him briefly and he reached out to place the backs of his fingers against her cheek.

“You’re so cold,” he said, every part concerned. 

“Javier….” The words left her lips so perfectly, her face sunken, eyes cast downwards. 

And Javier had wanted her, but then could never betray Dutch. There was a love that swelled in his heart for her, they had gotten on well as friends since the early days of her being in the gang. They had often patrolled the camp together, sat up keeping watch together, he taught her more about firing a gun and fighting than Dutch ever had. 

Dutch had liked to keep her pretty, to keep her pure, all books and music and art and curly hair tumbling over naked shoulders. But Javier, like the others, knew the game they played was dangerous and should anything happen, she would need to know how to defend herself.

It wasn’t that Dutch had been against her owning a weapon, he had bought her a gun when they first met, had it engraved with a wolf. He had taken her out shooting, but that was all her lessons with him amounted to. Javier was different. 

“It isn’t fair,” she had wanted to ball up her hands and punch him, punch her bed, rip down the walls of her tent and run into the night, the wild, get caught up by the wind and carried away somewhere else.

But she didn’t, instead, she let her tears fall and looked to Javier for comfort. He stroked her hair, “I promised Dutch I would look after you,” he spoke softly. 

She snorted, “Sure, so suddenly he cares about me.”

Javier shook his head, “Dutch, has always cared about you,” he paused, searching his mind for the right words, “He’s just under a lot of stress.”

And she had believed him, as she always did, looking back when she was older, had she known then what she knew in her dying days. She’d of fucked Javier there and then. Let him trail kisses along her breast, eat her out and fuck her hard from behind, pulling on her hair, all grace and dignity discarded.

Instead she propped herself up, leaned in and kissed his lips, gently, softly, just once and pulled back.

“All I want is some damn warmth in this world, that too much to ask?” And the words pained her, it stung for her to confess to him this desire, how broken she was on the inside. 

Javier sighed, as he had done many times before. His loyalty to Dutch was unfaltering, he could never of hurt him, even if he had wanted to sweep her up into his arms.

Javier found he was unable to answer her, still shocked that she had kissed him, all he could so was stare at her, wait for something to happen. But he found he was so lost in her eyes, so lost for he had no clue how to comfort her. 

“I see that look in your eyes Javier Escuella,” she said breaking the silence. 

Javier cocked his head to the site, “What?”

“Pity,” her face remained emotionless.

Javier was unable to answer, because he knew the words she spoke were true.

“Ahhh mierda, I’m sorry,” he said, had he really meant to be that obvious with his reactions to her plight?

They left it there for that night, he tucked her up, kissed her cheek and sat beside her, rubbing her back until she fell asleep. It was only when he was certain she had drifted off to sleep that he left with a sigh, hoping that the dreams she had would at least offer some  comfort and break from the cruel world she found herself in. 

In the weeks that passed she would shake her head as she always did, saunter over to Javier and sit beside him, sometimes she would drunkenly climb onto his lap. Imagine for a moment that it was him she loved, Javier could be rough, but at least there was still passion in the man, passion for life, for her… Dutch had noticed a few times, but they never kissed, it never went any further and so he just shot warning glances in their direction. He too had become adept at lying to himself and telling himself everything was okay. 

Her offer was always there, always ready to talk to him, to sleep in his arms, he knew that, but the longer he went without saying anything and the worse things got, the harder it became for him to open up to her. He tried to bury his emotions, told himself it was for the best, that she loved him, but right now love wasn’t his concern.

Whilst at Shady Belle she had fallen pregnant once again, her and Dutch had a proper bedroom and so, at least for a few weeks, before Kieran’s death, they had slept together frequently and acted like love birds once again.

Whether it was the horror of what happened to Kieran, or the paranoia that plagued her heart when Dutch, Arthur, Bill, Javier and Micah went missing, the pregnancy didn’t last. Just like the first time she had a few moments of believing she could be a mother, that maybe a child would fix Dutch… That fatherhood would somehow make him a better man, the man he once was.

When she felt the familiar stabbing pain and saw the blood pool in her lap, she made the decision that she wouldn’t try again, she was not destined for motherhood. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but somehow, in accepting it she came to terms with the bed she had made for herself. 

Charles had looked after her then, held her close, told her stories of his youth. He had taken her with him hunting to distract her not only from the loss of her child but from the whereabouts of Dutch and the others. When Charles stroked her cheek and brushed her hair for her at night, refusing to leave her tent until she was asleep, she felt she could cope then. But the moment he was gone, she’d never felt so lonely. 

It was unbearable for her, yet she found she had to be strong for the others, to do nothing but cry and stress all day would do no good for the remaining members of the camp. For it wasn’t just those who were missing, with Hosea and Lenny lost to the sands of time and John locked away, hope seemed like a childhood fantasy. 

But she, Charles, Sadie they had to stay strong for the others, provide comfort and words of encouragement and so in a way, 

She missed Dutch terribly, missed him holding her in his arms, missed the way he smelt, the cigars he smoked. She missed watching him read from the corner of her eye, she missed the way they still occasionally danced and it reminded her of when he first swept her off her feet. She missed Arthur more than she cared to admit, her old friend who was always there for her. And Javier, her heart hurt when she thought of him, sometimes she would close her eyes and believe she could hear him singing or the soft gentle strum of his guitar. Though she couldn’t play, she’d picked it up several times and sat with it in her lap, finding herself talking to him without meaning to. 

The day they returned, she froze on the spot, pinching herself to check she was still breathing. She’d run to Arthur and Javier first, hugging them, kissing them both on the cheek, terrified if she let go they would slip through her fingers, fade away and that this was some cruel trick her grief was playing on her. 

She looked up and between their two shoulders she saw Dutch, he looked more tired and dishevelled then she’d ever known, her heart swelled for a moment and she begun to cry. “It’s okay Isla,” Arthur had reassured her, “Go to him, he needs you.”

She ran into Dutch’s arms, he lifted her up and her legs wrapped around his waist, when they kissed her heart was mended, the elation in that moment knew no bounds. He had taken her to their tent, still in his arms and laid her down onto the cot, “We have so much time to make up for,” he muttered in between kisses. 

And so the days passed, turning into weeks, months… So the seasons swept them up and brought change, never a moment to breathe from the dance of life. After Hosea died, that was when she noticed the biggest difference in him. Hosea had been the one that had held Dutch together, made sure he didn’t go too far. In a way he had been Dutch’s sanity.

And then Arthur and Sadie brought John home and the chaos that had been kept at bay, it didn’t creep in slowly, no, it poured down like torrential rain and wrecked havoc. Washing away all that was good that had remained, that had clung on like a gossamer in the wind carried by a light breeze, now thrown to the ground and lost in the fields of time. 

There was a moment, late one evening in Beaver Hollow, by this point, any dream she had had of a better tomorrow had died along with the many members of the gang they had lost. Her faith in Dutch was all but lost, yet she clung onto it desperately, hoping that the nightmarish memories of the past might be crushed once again by his love. 

She had sauntered, standing tall into their tent, Dutch was sat on the cot, grave, head in hands and oh how she had tried to comfort him, tried to turn his beating heart from that of panicked canaries to song birds free. She had done everything she was supposed to do, to be a good woman, the perfect woman. She had stroked and smoothed his hair, whispered every good word, kissed his cheek. She had taken her clothes off slowly, stood in nowt but her underwear, but Dutch wouldn’t look at her. He wasn’t angry, he wasn’t anything, he was a husk of a man.

When she had forced him to look, all she saw reflected in his eyes were her own, lost, dim, a dying light as the candle flickered into nothingness, bearing back the years she had given to him. 

Her faith diminished, “Quia peccavi” she whispered. Admitting and wanting to repent for her sins to a god that wouldn’t answer. And Dutch had stared beyond her, he didn’t recognise her in that moment, two perfect strangers meeting for the first time, it was then that the spark was irrefutably gone.

“Dutch we need to talk,” she spoke softly. “I can’t help you if you can’t help yourself,” she bit down on her lower lip, the loneliness had been killing her for so long. 

She was certain he no longer loved her, he had disappeared for the night not that long ago and she’d heard Micah talking the following day about the women they had paid for. Micah had talked loudly, shooting a glance to her just to be cruel. In the past she’d let such fancies go, but not this time, if Dutch could seek comfort elsewhere, so could she. Yet, something still held her back, wanting to give him yet another unearned chance. 

Dutch looked back at his book and ignored her, it felt as if her heart was in a vice, about to be crushed at any second, but she refused to let him see her cry. 

“I will only ask you once,” and her voice didn’t tremble as she spoke, so certain was she now of herself. Grown into womanhood in front of the wolf who had stolen her away.

“Do you want me tonight? Or do I seek the comfort I need in the arm’s of another?”

Dutch remained silent, lips shut, internally he screamed, a sob built in his chest, ready to explode and so he said nothing. They didn’t speak about what happened that night for a long time, though he guessed, strange she felt, for the jealous type, he never held it against her. In the end, it was one of the nicest things he had done for her. 

There had been moments when she considered intervening in his plans, providing her own thoughts and suggestions, in the early days he had listened to her, now she was just a distant noise that barely registered. So she had stayed silent, but as she turned to leave the tent there was something she could hold back no longer, “What you’re doing right now, your involvement with Eagle Flies, it’s wrong…I,” she paused, took a moment to consider her words, “I want to believe that you’re helping him because you care, a part of me believes you do. But,” she sighed, “There’s always something in it for you, I’m not even sure you know you’re doing it.”

She had left his tent then, conflicted, she didn’t run, or make a lot of fuss, just smiled sadly. There would never be a child. Not for them, they weren’t meant to be parents.

She ran, still only in her underwear, past Arthur and John, ran into the woods, gun in hand just in case she met anyone. 

“Meā culpā….” she cried against a tree, sinking to her knees in the dirt and leaves. She dreamt of England, dreamt of home, of the church where she and her family had worshipped. She dreamt of the University she was supposed to have attended, of her siblings, of all the books she was going to write and discoveries in biology she was going to make. She knew she had lost it all, her life had become meaningless and no god would answer her now. Not after she had turned her back so violently against him.

Javier hadn’t seen her run into the woods, but when he appeared in camp, Arthur had laid a hand on his shoulder and told him where Isla had gone, “You should go after her, you’re the closest save for Dutch,” Arthur paused and shook his head, “Maybe closer than Dutch.”

Javier had thanked Arthur, though the two of them hadn’t been close recently, a cold wind had descended on all the camp, turned those who remained ugly and untrusting. There was a paranoia now that poisoned the air and acted against any camaraderie that had the potential to bloom once again. 

Javier ran into the woods, “Isla,” he had called, panicked for her.

He saw her then, a heap on the floor, shivering, her legs covered in dirt and he had dropped down beside her, “Querida.” he stroked her face.

She didn’t need to ask him for it, he knew what she wanted, could feel the heat from her thighs, though shivering from the cold of night. He placed his warm hands on her skin, “You’re so cold,” and with that he had pulled her into his arms, holding her strong, fighting off the doubt and pain that threatened to destroy her. 

Javier was hesitant at first, but so much had changed and in the end he took her, She would of had him against the tree but he insisted going back to his tent when no one was looking.

Once away from the prying eyes of others they had tumbled into the cot like young lovers, hands exploring one another’s bodies, hungry for flesh, for something to fill the void they both felt. His lips were so hungry, needy against her open and her lips had parted so eagerly for him, to allow his tongue to taste her. 

He’d insisted on going down on her before they fucked, wanting to make sure she’d climaxed at least once before he took his pleasure. It reminded her of Dutch, how he’d been when they were younger, how keen he’d been to please her, there was a moment where she thought about stopping but Javier’s lips were kissing the inside of her thighs and the wetness pooled between her legs. Her hands found their way far too easily to his hair as his tongue dipped between her legs and his lips engulfed her. 

She couldn’t help but lift her hips, rut against his face as his hands squeezed her fleshy thighs, his name spilling silently from her lips as she came. 

Before he entered her, they kissed again, playful, youthful, rolling around and nipping one another’s necks. 

Javier’s hand clasped over her mouth to muffle her moans as he slid into her. Her legs wrapped around his waist allowing him to penetrate her deeper. Once they got into a rhythm he removed his hand which was quickly replaced by his lips, kissing her as he rode her to orgasm. 

The sex was full of love, he helped her to reach orgasm three times that night, taking care with every stroke of his fingers, he had opened himself to her. The first woman he had laid with in a while, the first he had loved since home.

“Javier…I think, I love you,” she said to him afterwards, catching him off guard as she curled up in his arms. Her head laid on his chest for a long time afterwards, listening to his heart go from frenzied like a beast in heat, to calm like the river. 

“Shhh now hermosa, less of that,” and it had pained him as he spoke the words. She cried into his chest but had understood perfectly, nothing more could happen, nothing more could be said or done. 

“Javier, promise me… promise me you’ll look after me.” Before he had a chance to answer she continued, “I know we can never do this again, I know that I have no right to ask this of you.”

“Shhh, I promise, I promise I will do everything within my power to protect you,” he kissed her head.

The following morning, she had emerged from his tent, Arthur, Bill, Susan… they had all seen, they all knew what had happened, and no one spoke a word of it, not to them, not to Dutch, they kept the secret. 

Dutch knew what she and Javier had done, he wasn’t even angry, he didn’t complain, he just took it. He was jealous, that went without saying, he was fiercely protective of the things he loved, and he resented himself for allowing her to leave him the night before, for not opening up. Jealousy coursing through his veins, threatening to boil over any second if Javier was to look at her just once more.

When he left his tent, determined to seek out whether there was any truth in their affections for one another, he saw Isla sat by the campfire, book in hand. It was the book he bought her years ago for her birthday, she was reading intently. He studied her for a moment, realised it had been such a long time since he had drawn her, such a long time since they had slept together. He didn’t question her or Javier that day, he never did. He simply lit up a cigar and sat near her, basking in her tranquility. 

That night he even started to talk to her about the tram crash, that he hadn’t felt himself since, that he was lost without Hosea. It had been her turn now to comfort him, to kiss his knuckles as she felt the love swell in her breast for him. Guilt regarding her night with Javier had started to consume her. 

“Dutch,” she had said nervously one night.

They were laying in one another’s arms, her head on his chest, this was the place where she felt the most safe. He was stroking her hair gently, one of his arms wrapped around her and pulling her in tightly to him. She started to cry into him, silently sobbing, hoping he wouldn’t hear.

“What is it my love?” He asked calmly. 

“It’s just…” she started, speaking through the tears that fell so easily.

“Shhhh take your time.”

She took several deep breaths and propped herself up so she could look down into Dutch’s eyes, “I want to apologise. I know the pressure you’ve been under, losing your oldest friend…I.” She blinked back the tears. Dutch had been a far from perfect lover to her, his words regarding her inability to provide him with a child had had deep. The months of silence, lack of physical contact had driven her near mad, but, but she hated herself for the fact she had allowed to be consumed by momentary weakness. 

She loved him more than the thought of home, wanted to nestle into him once again and build a house, not of straw or wood, not of bricks. She wanted a strong foundation for their future, but it was crumbling in front of her eyes.

“I am sorry,” she felt bile rising in her throat, she knew Dutch was no fool, he’d have realised what Javier and her did some time ago, “Know that I was a fool, that I love you, in a moment of weakness, I slept with Javier…but, but it was my fault not his, I led him on, I…”

Dutch held up a hand, “Please stop.”

She closed her eyes and sobbed, feeling the bile rise in her throat, mankind’s eternal enemy, the mind, manifesting itself as this unbearable pain, “I’m sorry.”

She felt his hand warm against her cheek, felt his weight shift as he pulled her down to him, “Don’t apologise,” he said softly, “I never should have neglected you like that, you tried to get me to open up, but I’m a stubborn old fool.” He gave a small, mirthless laugh, “You know Hosea was the only one I could be that honest with?”

She didn’t respond, just opened her eyes to look down at him, his mysterious, dark eyes that she had fallen so easily in love with, taken in by his warmth and strength. 

He kissed her softly and when he pulled away explained, “I haven’t been myself of late, I think the tram crash did more damage than I’d care to admit… I, I am the one who should be sorry, I will do better I promise.” He kissed her again, arms snaking round her. 

In so many ways it was like a trap, she believed him, he believed him. His words were not lies, just love, honesty in such a rare moment like the passing of a comet across the sky. But a comet passing is a rare phenomena that can last a few days once every 80 years or so. His words were not lies, he fully intended to let the past die, but Dutch was not as strong as he thought he was.

And so they had several weeks of peace, she had always known it was too good to be true, but ever the optimist, she told herself to live in the moment. There things the gang were involved in now, they were so close to reaching their goal of leaving for Tahiti, but like a house of cards, she knew it was only one mistake for the whole thing to come crashing down around them. And so she enjoyed Dutch’s company once more, sat on his lap as he read to her, he spanked her again, kissed her, bought her a new book, told her he loved her more than once a day. The book he had bought her was The Picture of Dorian Grey, by Oscar Wilde, how appropriate she had reflected later in life, almost farcical. 

He made a vow that he would try harder with her, try something new in the bedroom to rekindle their love and make them feel close again. Only this in itself was a lie, Dutch van der Linde wasn’t going to suggest something that was all for her, to worship her and shower her with love.

Dutch was going to suggest something designed to give him more pleasure, and more than that, it was a sadist act, to assert his dominance over her after what Javier had done. Dutch didn’t blame her or Javier, no, that was true, but he felt she was tainted now, somehow ruined. The cracks born of jealousy were beginning to show. 

But he wanted the connection they once had to be mended. It was like a tapestry dictating a long tale, there would be good times and bad, occasionally threads came loose. 

“How about we try something different tonight?” He drawled across the tent at her.

“Different, what like?” She sat up, propping herself up on her elbow. Before Dutch spoke she had been daydreaming, ashamed to admit it was the thought of Javier’s lips that was making her blush and grin in the dark. But the moment Dutch spoke, she banished the thought. 

“Like…” It was clear from the tone of voice he knew exactly what it was he wanted, though he seemed nervous to say it. He came at her with those predator eyes and sat in between her legs, pinning her waist down with his own weight.

“She could almost hear a slur in his voice, whilst Dutch enjoyed drinking whiskey, he wasn’t one for getting drunk, it was one of his finest qualities. But tonight, the slur should have been a warning to put a stop to the chaos that was about to unfurl like a fern deep in the woods, quick, the kind of plant that could take two forms in the space of a day. But how was she to know?

“Okay Dutch, what kinda position….” Isla was game, always for him, determined to prove herself, her legs always ready to spread for him. 

“I ain’t talking about position as such…”

She could sense he had been nervous, that was strange for Dutch, it took a moment but she realised what he meant. That was why he had been drinking. 

She had quivered under him in anticipation, “Oh….” the way she breathed was enough for him to want to rip the clothes from her.

“It’s okay, it’ll be okay, I just gotta get you ready is all,” he reassured her. 

She blushed, “Okay…I trust you.”

Dutch could have asked for anything, a threesome with her and Arthur, her and Sadie, he could have asked her to watch her and Javier fuck, she’d have said yes. She vied for his attention, needing that like the air she breathed, needing it the way she needed water. 

He grabbed some oil from the bedside table, he had parted her legs so gently, going against the throbbing of his groin. He placed a finger at her lower entrance and then slipped it inside her. 

“Ahhh,” she let a slow soft moan escape as he pushed through the wall of muscle. She felt herself relax, he pushed a further finger into her and then pumped in and out a few times before adding a third.

Dutch bent down and kissed her tenderly, the taste of whiskey still fresh on his lips. the anticipation she felt reminded her of the first time they made love, her hands reached up to his face as he tasted her hips. When they parted she noticed she was shaking, but Dutch’s voice soothed her just as it always did. 

“Dutch, I think I’m ready now,” when she spoke her voice had quivered so, in a manner which told her lover she wasn’t quite ready.

Dutch unbuckled his belt and let his trousers drop to the floor, he positioned himself by her.

She gasped, even though she knew how big he was, this was different. He lubed up his member with the oil and pulled at himself a few times making sure he was nice and hard. 

He thrust into her slowly, “That okay?”

She bit her lip not nodded. Her eyes watered, she clenched her fists in the bedsheet, bit down on her lip. She closed her eyes and imagined it was Javier, he wasn’t quite as thick as Dutch, but he was longer. 

“Look at me,” Dutch grunted.

She didn’t comply, in that moment she was so lost in thought, lost in the pain that her eyes didn’t open. That had been her biggest mistake, she had been with Dutch for long enough to know that when he asked for something, you had to do it, save hurting his pride and causing suspicion. 

“Look at me!” This time Dutch barked so loudly that her eyes flew open. 

“You’re thinking about him aren’t you?” Dutch sneered as he thrust into her. It was as if a switch had been flicked in his mind, he had gone from being the loving Dutch she had fallen so easily for, to a monster in a matter of seconds. 

“No, no, never!’ She lied, suddenly panicked. How could this man who claimed to love her have gone from a moment of tender preparation and kisses to this beast in front of her.

He was every part the wolf from her nightmares now. 

“Don’t lie to me!” He barked as he continued to fuck her harder. 

She shook her head, thrashing her arms as she did so, “Please believe me,” she let out a moan as he thrust into her again, she hated herself for it, for enjoying the pleasure at the same time as being so angry with him. 

Dutch looked hungrily at her and continued at the same pace, “Didn’t I tell you not to lie girl,” he spat, his hands now going to her throat. She had loved to be choked by him, loved it when his fingers laced around her neck, but this was different, the pressure was increased.

“I’m not a girl, I’m a God damn woman, and you will treat me as such,” she choked. 

He raised his hand to her and for a moment she believed he would strike her, “Dutch my love, please!” She screamed, panicked. 

He held his hand above her, not striking. Dutch had vowed never to hurt a woman, though that had changed in Blackwater. He had never raised a fist to a woman he loved, he remembered that then. But didn’t lower his hand all the same. 

She saw light as the flap of the tent opened, Javier entered with Arthur stood behind.

“Dutch!” Javier shouted.

Dutch turned to the side, he lowered his hand, her cheeks burnt with shame. A sly, wicked smile spread across Dutch’s face as he thrust into her hard again, not breaking eye contact with Javier. Dutch continued to fuck her as the others stood in disbelief. 

“Go, please, I don’t want you to see me like this,” she pleaded with them both.

“Are you okay Isla?” Javier asked.

She nodded, lying once again and through tears she spoke, “Go, I beg you.”

Javier and Arthur, though reluctant, bowed, “We’ll be stood right outside, don’t you dare hurt her,” Arthur said, clearly disgusted. 

She was glad that they had come into the tent in a way, glad that they were there incase anything happened. She was also glad that they didn’t hang around, that they didn’t intervene anymore, this was between her and Dutch. 

When Dutch had finished and spilt his seed into her, he had removed himself, showing her no after-care, giving her no kisses or reassurance. He didn’t help her clean up. After she had dressed herself she approached him. He was sat at the end of the cot, reading a book, acting like nothing had happened. 

She slapped him hard across his left cheek, “Fuck you Dutch van der Linde, this was supposed to mend us…but you fucked it up, again!” She pulled her skirts down and stormed out of the tent, past Arthur and Javier.

She knew then, that there were many things in life that could be fixed with love, this wasn’t one of them. Their relationship was too broken to save, but she had come such a long way with him

She caught Javier’s eye as she left the tent and he followed her to the camp edge, held her while she cried.

“Should I leave him Javier?” 

Javier sighed, “I think you’d break him, you know he loves you…but, if he raises a hand to you again.”

“I know,” but as she spoke the words, she wasn’t sure what it was she knew anymore. As a child she had been so certain of herself, believed that life, like fairy tales was all happy endings, that she would meet a guide, a fairy godmother of sorts and that things would become clear. But they very rarely were, the older she became, the mirkier the water. 

If she thought that it was only now in Beaver Hollow that their relationship was ruined, she was lying to herself. She recalled a time back in Clemens Point, after the first miscarriage when she broke for the first time.

“Look at me! Look at me,” She’d cried, stood up to her waist in water. Stood in the lake, fish swimming round her, her skin orange from the setting sun. A shiver had shot up her spine like a lighting rod, more than once this happened but she refused to move. Barefoot. Broken. Unforgiving. She stood in the sand, stones and sediment, waited for her love to rescue her.

“What in the hell are you doing woman?” Dutch shouted, he hadn’t sounded angry, not exactly. More confused. Dutch cared, she knew that, she knew he was capable of love, she knew this when she watched him from afar studying blue jays, talking to the dog Cain that Jack was so enamoured with. It was in the way he kissed her, even if it was missing from his speech. 

“I need you to look at me!” She had screamed through tears.

Dutch didn’t care that the rest of the camp would hear, that they were undoubtedly watching, for the first time. Dutch didn’t have a plan. 

In the end he had wadded out into the water, collected her in his arms, wet skirts and all. Carried her to the safety of their tent, ordered Miss Grimshaw to run a bath for her. He had watched her through the night, carried her through her fever. 

In the middle of her fever, she had been muttering, repeating the same things over and over, “Daddy look after me, don’t let me die…” later when the fever broke, “I was supposed to be someone,” she cried. 

Dutch hadn’t left her side the night of the fever. He recalled this moment as he sat in his tent in Beaver Hollow, sat with the shame at having nearly hit her, sat with the horror of what he had done in front of Arthur, a man he called son, in front of Javier, the man he could so easily loose her too.

He put his head in his hands and wept, “Oh mother what have I become,” he muttered to himself. Appalled at his own behaviour, he recalled another not so pleasant memory that haunted him. 

There had been another night, in Shady Belle, during a storm, after a plan hadn’t gone the way it was supposed to. There was one horrid night, the air was thick with electricity and spirits were high for all the wrong reasons. The camp was swamped with mud. Rage encircled the camp like a hyena circling it’s prey. And at the centre of the circle, there she was, innocence and solitude. 

“Isla are you coming to bed?” But the way Dutch spoke, it wasn’t a question, more of a demand, she knew that.

She was the last one by the campfire, the others were slowly drifting, but she found herself unable to move away from the warmth of the burning embers. Dutch’s voice behind her, like an angry fire god, demanding more of her than she was able to give. So much of her life had been snuffed out by him, a fire smothered of oxygen, that when she looked at her skin, all she imagined were ashes about to be scattered in the wind. 

“Did you hear me?” He asked, his voice raised now

“I heard you Dutch, I’ll be there, soon.” Her voice was void of all emotion.

She heard him stomp off, purposefully making a lot of noice as he went, muttering, not so silently under his breath about how unwieldily she’d become. 

Reluctantly she stood up, she looked to where Javier and Charles were sleeping and imagined how nice it would be instead to curl up in between the two of them. How much safer and loved she would feel by the two men who had become such dear friends. 

She walked to her and Dutch’s tent, inhaled and exhaled deeply before stepping inside and clenched her fists at her side, determined to confront Dutch about what had been bothering her so greatly. 

When she entered the tent, he didn’t look up from his book, just continued to read as if she were invisible. This was how it had been for such a long time, on and off. There were times despite the fact that they slept in the same cot, that she doubted whether he loved her, that she wasn’t even sure if they were together anymore. 

She sighed, resigned to the fact that this was her life now, yet, not wiling to give up hope, “Dutch, you can talk to me. I just want to know what’s going on inside that head of yours, I can help you know.”

Silence. It was the silence that killed her.

“Will you not say anything? Not even have the curtesy to look at me?”

And oh how Dutch had wanted to, his hands were trembling as he held tightly to the book, fingernails digging into the leather with anger, not at her but at himself. How had it gotten to this? To the point where he could no longer open up to the woman he loved? What had happened to him, to them? Their relationship was on the same convoluted and tragic path that the gang appeared to be on, round and round it goes. The cycle was breaking him.

“Please Dutch I can help!” She cried this time and stomped her feet on the ground.

Silence. And that was when she broke, the weeks, months of letting it go. 

“You don’t touch me anymore,” she had said without warning, stood defiantly, fists still clenched at her sides. 

Dutch didn’t look up from his book, but she gathered from his expression that he was no longer reading, of course he was listening. There was almost a slight smirk on his face which suggested he was going to enjoy this, he enjoyed acting, playing a part. Of course she had learnt this in the early days, Dutch was a man who played up to an audience. He would act smarter than he was, ever vigilant with appearing like the perfect leader, despite his ever more obvious flaws. 

“Dutch will you look at me?” She screamed. 

Again, silence, acting, nothing inside the tent moved.

She took a step forward, “Really, this is what you’re going to do to me? I thought you loved me,” she spat. 

She was determined not to lose her cool in front of him, to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much he had damaged her, moulded her into what he wanted her to be. 

She marched across the tent to him, grabbed the book from his hands and in that moment it took any remaining restraint she had not to slap him across the face with it, instead she slammed the book down on the cot beside him.

“You’re a fucking pig Dutch van der linde you know that? A fucking pig,” she screamed now, tears in her eyes. 

There had been a time when she had told herself she was strong, that she would remain strong no matter what and that she would never let him see this side of her, never let him witness the doubt. She reserved her tears for when she was alone, or for when she was confiding in Arthur, Javier, Charles or Mary-Beth. They were her go-to’s, they were her support network. 

She had promised herself that just as Dutch played a part, she too would play a part of dutiful partner, she wouldn’t let the cracks show and break in front of him like a china doll. 

But the rage had consumed her, she was unable to escape it in that moment, just how sly and pleased with himself he looked, did he not love her at all?

“I hate you,” she said through gritted teeth, “You think you’re so fucking special don’t you, this great leader, you’re a fraud you know that? Half your plans are shit, you don’t care about others, all you care about is yourself and I see you, I see you Dutch van der Linde, I see you and into you and through you and I know your secrets you know that?”

She paused then, shocked at her own admissions to him, she took a deep breath and waited for the inevitable barrage of abuse to tumble from his mouth. 

Dutch. Lost for words. Dutch, silent. Dutch in a rage with himself did the one thing he never wanted to do, “You? You couldn’t even give me a damn son!” He snapped, like a crocodile’s jaws round young prey, the damage was done. No matter how wide he opened his jaw afterwards to apologise, to blame the booze, to blame everyone but himself.

She’d stopped talking, stopped moving, stopped breathing. He had followed suite. Until the day he died, he would never be able to forgive himself for allowing those words to tumble from his mouth. And so easily, so readily, so stressed.

It was one of the few times she had backed away from him, left his tent for the night and sought comfort in the arms of another man. It wasn’t for sexual gratification, neither herself, nor Arthur would have done that to Dutch. But she couldn’t bare to look at him, instead she went to Arthur’s cot and slid behind him, pulling the blankets up around her neck and crying into the small of his back until sleep took her.

“Listen…I’m sorry. I’m sorry okay.” He repeated the words in a way that made her feel this was how he was dealing with the situation, the gravity of what he had said, the more times he repeated himself the more he could believe it. 

“I don’t know what came over me, I’ve been under a lot of stress. I never should have said those words to you, been so cruel. It wasn’t your fault, how could it be, my princess, my jewel in the crown of his camp. You are everything to me, I love you, forgive me?” Dutch had begged her forgiveness, and of course she accepted his apology. Of course she jumped into his arms and pretended nothing had happened. Of course she had known he must have written the words he spoke to her down, he must have practised them at least several times. 

But. But she had believed him, she knew despite the rehearsal the words were true. Maybe it had been her own ignorance of the situation, but there had been another change in him which she hadn’t really noticed at first, perhaps because she knew so little of what happened. She knew there had been an accident involving a tram, Arthur and Lenny had reported that Dutch had hit his head pretty bad. She realised then, almost in horror that the worst stuff had been after that, not just after Hosea died. 

Guilt trickling down her throat, a moment where she believed she had fucked up. The hands of time could not be turned back, she was not able to undo what she or Dutch had done to one another. 

After his apology, after it had sunk in, she had dropped to the floor by his feet and buried her head in his lap, she looked up to him with the same admiration and love he had seen on their first day meeting.

“Dutch, why don’t you open up to me like you used to?” 

The question, clearly had caught him off guard, “Isla I…”

She pressed on, “We’re meant to be in a partnership right? You and I against the world? So you can tell me anything, you could have told me anything before…If you were struggling,” she felt herself welling up inside as she spoke. “I asked you before to talk to me, that you weren’t alone in this,” she reached up to his face and brushed away the tears on his cheek.

He didn’t reply but offered a weak smile, one that told her how much he loved her, “Come here,” he spoke softly, she complied, as always, raised herself higher, taller then slid down onto his lap like the old days.

“My girl,” he stroked her hair as he spoke, “Always my girl, we’ll be alright won’t we darlin’?” 

She nodded, “Yes Dutch, I love you,” and when their lips met, all was forgiven, just like that. 

And so this is how they were, backwards and forward with their words, their arguments, each staking their claim to the violent world they inhabited. There had been so many beautiful moments of tender love and forgiveness, of genuine care and hope… But all of these memories were fragile now, so easily shattered by the unbearable truth. 

They spoke of marriage once, after the second miscarriage. But after that fateful date, after the storm which had destroyed the final hope she had, she declined his offer.

“For I’m not worthy of you,” and he had touched her face, stroked her cheek, “What if you meet another woman, someone capable of giving you all of them?”

The smile he had given her then had been one of the saddest she had known, “But, my love, you have, you have given me your all,” his kisses peppered her knuckles, it was the deepest sorrow she had ever known. 

On the mountain, at the end of days as Arthur laid dying, a part of her died with him. She suspected the same went for Dutch, though he never mentioned it. At the end of days, she went with Dutch. Part of her reason for siding that way was Javier, she didn’t hate Arthur, John, Charles or Sadie… She didn’t hate those who left early, in a way she had been jealous of them. For the freedom they gained. But herself and Javier, maybe they stayed with Dutch because of one another.

Shortly after, she saw Javier for the last time. She broke. There was love in his eyes, Dutch had barely tried to keep the remaining members of the gang together. He became hollow, a shell of the man he was before. Isla knew that as he watched Arthur, the man he called son, slip away into the afterworld, a part of Dutch had died too.

Regret, Dutch would confess years later, he regretted so much, his pride had cost him his family and all his dreams. 

Javier had left for Mexico in the end, the calling of his home country too much for him to ignore anymore. He had asked her to go with him, she had smiled sadly, as was common when she was around him, “Goodbye Javier.”

Their lips had met one last time, Dutch had watched from afar but had no strength in him to say anything or try to stop them. Javier’s lips were soft, the kiss hungry as he pulled her into a tight embrace.

“You look after yourself, you know,” Javier stopped pulled away for a moment, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “The thought of you, was what kept me going in Guarma, when they tortured me, I thought of that smile of yours in the pale moon light.”

Isla had looked at the ground, conflicted and torn, Javier took her chin and gently tilted it so she was looking at him again, “Don’t be afraid,” he looked over at Dutch, “He’ll look after you, and if he doesn’t Mi amor, you can always join me later…” Wordless, she had kissed him again, pulled him into her arms and held him tight, afraid of the chill that would replace where he had stood when he left. 

After that, her and Dutch had lived a simple life on a small homestead, mostly keeping out of trouble, she had worked as a bounty hunter and sold meat and pelts to trappers. Every time she felt any hint of regret creep into her mind, she pushed it away, dotting on her old man, simple kisses and what love was felt keeping her afloat. 

There was one evening, sat outside in the dying light of day that Dutch had turned to her, his hand on hers, “Why didn’t you leave with him?”

“Huh?” The question had caught her so off-guard she didn’t know what he was referring to at first. 

“Javier, you could have gone with him, I know how close you were,” he seemed much older then, in the dusky blue and pink light, the spark inside him had finally gone out. 

She leaned in and kissed his cheek, “Because he wasn’t you, because I made a promise to look after you, and I intend to keep that promise.” 

And she did, they rarely slept together but on occasion would be close. He spent most of his time reading, occasionally reading to her, occasionally brushing her hair, occasionally apologising for the things that were but could not be changed. 

She slept with John once, in the aftermath of it all, whilst Abigail and Jack were away, she found him and with him Charles and Uncle. It had been nice to see the others again, they didn’t speak of Dutch, she was sure John would want revenge and so she only stayed the one night, after they’d all been drinking. She’d spent the night with them reminiscing over old times and John had taken her into his bed, in the home he had built for Abigail. 

On a mountain for a second time, with John, as he pointed the gun at Dutch, ready to end a miserable life, Isla had to step in. Despite her wanting it all to be over, the love she had had for him, it knew no bounds. 

“John please!” She begged through tears.

She turned to Dutch, her old man looked so frail, so helpless. Wrinkles, grey hair, a world away from his glory days 

“I had a plan…” Dutch spoke.

She shook her head, “No silly, you didn’t, no more plans, no more,” she struggled to talk, to breathe as both anxiety and pain ripped her apart.

She turned back to John, stared down the barrel of his gun, “My friend, my brother, I love you, I love you and I know, I know why you’re here. Hell if I were you, I would do the same, but please, please don’t take him from me.” She fell to her knees in front of Dutch and John, sobbing into her skirts, “He’s all I have. Don’t save him for him, save him for me, spare his life and I promise, I promise you’ll never see either of us again.”

And John had relented, for a moment he had lowered his weapon, unsure of the path he would take. For Dutch, for the sake of old times but more for the sake of her, he lowered his weapon. He felt he would hate himself until the end of days for it, but he had Abigail, he had Jack, Charles, Sadie, Uncle… He had his family. Due to Dutch’s relentless ego, she was left with nothing, apart from his love. 

John witnessed Dutch cry, witnessed the broken man fall to his knees beside her and cradle her. 

“She deserves so much better than you!” John spat, “Arthur deserved better than you, we all did!”

Dutch had looked up, “I tried, I really did.”

“I know,” John found he couldn’t look him in the eye when he said that. 

Dutch turned to Isla, her cold hands in his own, “Why, why didn’t you let him finish me off? You could have gone with him, lived a good life…”

“Because I love you, you stupid fool,” she sobbed into his shoulder.

“Even after all this time?”

“Especially after all this time.”

“You were the only one who believed in me.”

“Not true, they all did.”

Dutch slowly got to his knees, smiled sadly at John and then looked back down at Isla. 

“Isla, I love you, I always have, I will always will.”

All of her tears, all of her fighting, her last stand, her very soul couldn’t save him in that moment.

“Look after her for me John!” Dutch shouted as he took a step back.

She watched helplessly as Dutch took another step backwards, finally stepping off the mountain ledge, he looked so old to her then, so frail. He didn’t turn to face his destiny, he welcomed it with open arms.

Love dripped from her, melancholia that would haunt her till her dying breath, embraced her then in that moment. Icy fingers held her steady, against her very nature, she wanted to jump up, run to him, hold him back, grab his hand. The final fight he put up was one she knew she couldn’t compete with. Letting go was the hardest lesson she had to turn. Flash backs of the years of happiness, flooded her senses like a hot summer’s day in a meadow full of daises.

The saddest thing, then, was as he stepped off the mountain his face changed, muscles relaxed, a weary smile of a father ready to meet his son once again. A man beaten by himself. A man who in his final moments became what he once was, passionate, yet soft, unyielding against the relentless tide of a cruel world.

 John ran forwards, had to hold her back, his arms holding her steady against the beating of her heart, her wings so desperate to fly against this violent act.

Dutch had been there for her for most of her life, she had left her home, her family to start a new life. A new life that never got a chance to be born, for Dutch had swept her off her feet before she had a chance. But she hadn’t minded, despite any doubt, she didn’t regret the life she’d lived with him.

John and Isla, too stunned to talk, sat in the snow as the wild wind tore past them. Though both unbearably cold, neither had it in them to move for a moment. John had slummed to Isla’s side, wrapped his arms around her and that was where they stayed, relishing in one another’s warmth for the moment. Neither strong enough to stand up and look over the mountain edge.

When they finally stood, they did it together, arms wrapped around one another’s waists, the tears had taken any energy left in them. The pain to raw to even begin to comprehend. They walked slowly to the base of the mountain, the second she laid eyes on Dutch’s body, blood splattered like a Rorschach around him, she sunk to her knees once again, her breaths were short as panic took control of her. 

“Hey, hey,” John was there, rubbing her back gently but keeping enough distance for her to breathe. 

“I don’t know what to do John…I can’t just leave him like that, look at him…” she looked up across the snow at the still body of the man she had loved more than anything. How peaceful he now looked. 

“We won’t leave him sweetheart, we’ll take him home, give him a burial,” he knew his words were hollow in comparison to what she was feeling. 

In a way to John, Dutch’s death had been easy, had he of pulled the trigger he might have found it hard to live with himself, had he and Isla gotten away, well that too may have had similar consequences. In a way, this was the perfect ending to an already tragic tale.

Isla got to her feet and nodded to John, slowly, taking baby steps she walked towards Dutch. She was visibly shaking as she went, for a moment the tears had stopped but her cheeks were still damp, she tasted the salt on her lips and felt thirsty. But any need for her wellbeing was overridden by the sight in front of her eyes. 

She let out an almighty cry as she reached Dutch’s side, the sight of her poor frail old man, the man whom she would have married if the branches of life’s great oak tree had grown in other directions. 

“Isla,” John spoke softly.

She didn’t respond, she dropped to her knees beside him, cradled Dutch in her arms, “You stupid fool,” and all the tears that flowed splashed on his face, cold yes, but some warmth remained in him still. She gripped his shoulders, hoping if she squeezed tight enough, the pain might wake him from his slumber.

In Dutch’s death, the birds that had been caged for so long in her ribcage, burst free, she watched them fly until they disappeared beyond the horizon, into the nexus.

She buried her head into his chest, all those years, all those years she had wished for an escape, had wished she could re-write history and give her fairytale of running away a happy ending. But staring into Dutch’s still eyes, seeing how the light had faded so fast, her heart shattered. 

Until that moment she had had hope, it was hope beyond hope, a fools hope… That one day the remaining members of the gang would reunite, Dutch would redeem himself further, Micah’s death had been the start, but there was so much more he could have done. Up until that moment she had never really allowed herself to grieve over the loss of Arthur or the fact that Javier had left her, she didn’t grieve because Dutch didn’t, at least not openly or often.

Dutch had cried when they were alone, she had stroked his damp hair from his weathered face, had told him that his son was asleep now, no harm could come to Arthur, that Javier was free. That they were all free and could live a simple life, no more pain. And for the most part she had been right, Dutch would never get over the events that led to the gangs demise, would never stop criticising every decision he made. 

Isla would try to help, try to reassure him, even when she knew the words she spoke were lies, she couldn’t bare to inflict any further pain on an already troubled man. 

She wept now into his chest, her arms cradling him as she had once cradled that dead sparrow. There was a sorrow so deep that no one word could surmise how she felt, but it was a sorrow for what could have been, now in his death there would be no more plans, no light shining at dawn to give her new hope for the two of them. The road she had embarked on long ago when she boarded that ship, only 19,  so young to the world, so excited for what could be, she knew as she pressed her ear to his chest, to be comforted only by emptiness, she was at the end. A middle-aged woman staring now into the precipice, a life well lived for the most part, utterly lost, she was 19 again. 

She didn’t hear John’s footsteps approach her, but his voice broke her from her melancholy,  “Why don’t you come back with me to Beecher’s Hope for now? Charles would be happy to see you, Uncle too.”

She offered a sad smile, “What about Abigail?”

“Abigail don’t need to know what happened between us.”

“I’d feel too awkward…”

“Don’t be silly, come back with us for a few days at least and decide where you want to go from there. You can stay with me if you like, or we’ll see you right so you can go start your own adventure,” he paused, “Javier is still in Mexico, I think… I know how much you wanted to go there one day and,” he paused again watching his friend kiss her dead lover’s forehead, wondering whether or not this was an appropriate thing to say, “I know how close you two were.”

She gave a mirthless laugh, “Really, the love of my life is still warm in my arms and you’re talking bout me running away across the border to find another lover.” She sighed.

“That’s not what I…” John had tried, he knew he wasn’t a poet like Charles or even like Arthur had been.

He retreated for a moment, wanting to leave her to grieve in private, staring up at the sky, watching the crows, watching the vultures circle, he hoped he had done enough, that he had and would do good by her. As Isla got to her feet, John thought of Arthur, he hoped that his brother would be proud. 

When they were both ready, when there was nothing left to do but say goodbye, Isla helped John lift Dutch’s body up onto her horse. The two of them rode in silence back to Beecher’s Hope. She spent several days there, happy to see the others, to eat alongside her old friends and see how much Jack had grown. 

Charles especially had warmed her heart, both sharing a long hug that seemed to go on forever. Afterwards they sat on the floor by the fireplace her head rested on his shoulder as she discussed her plans for the future with him, he listened intently, gave advice when she asked for it, let her know he would always be her friend if she needed anything. Losing Dutch had been the hardest thing she had ever known, but in the shadow of that dark day, her rekindled friendship with John and Charles, the reassurance from them both, the knowledge that she had a home if she needed it. That had been her reasoning for carrying on. 

John, Charles and Isla dug a grave for Dutch and buried him there in the morning, “So that he may live on throughout the day,” Isla said. Those were the only words she spoke at his burial, she didn’t cry, the time for grief had long passed. For it wasn’t just Dutch she was grieving for, it was for Arthur, for the others, for herself and her innocence lost. For her life that could have been, for the children they could have had. 

She laid carnations on the grave and placed a kiss to the cross Charles had made, “Goodbye my love. Now you take good care of Arthur.”

When it was done, she’d been embraced by John and Charles, the three of them stood in silence as Abigail watched from the porch, a sad smile on her face as she considered how lucky she had been in comparison to others she loved. 

She decided to leave for Mexico in the end, the allure of Javier after all these years, too much. Whilst she was glad she hadn’t left with him all those years ago, it seemed fruitless now to deny what was in her heart or for the craving of flesh that plagued her mind. 

The following day she sat with John on the porch, “I’ve decided to leave for Mexico,” she said matter of factly. There was no use denying the feeling she still harboured for Javier, or the fact that she no longer had a life here now Dutch was gone.

John had nodded as he sipped his coffee, there was something he needed to tell her if she was going to pursue his old friend, “Isla… I saw Javier, not that long ago. I know where he was.”

She looked across at him, “Where he was?”

He sighed and placed his coffee down, he turned to her and took her hands in his, “I was sent to track him down, to hand him over, dead or alive.”

The world stopped for her then, “But you said, you were the one who was encouraging me moment’s after Dutch threw himself off a fucking mountain to pursue him!” She snatched her hands away from John as she saw red, unable to comprehend what he was saying.

“Listen,” John continued, “I didn’t okay…I, it’s a really long story. but I saw him, we spoke, I couldn’t do it, couldn’t pull the trigger, but to hand him over and not let him die a free man…I let him go, I told the authorities where he was the had to figure out my own shit a different way. But the last thing I heard he was still alive.”

She felt the tears in his eyes, a sob waiting to come out but instead she buried her head in her hands and gave a muffled cry, so he was likely alive after-all. 

John placed his hand on her shoulder, this time she didn’t pull away, but sat up, face red, stained with tears and threw her arms around his neck, “John… I, promise me, promise me if things don’t work out, if I can’t find him, I can come back here.”

“I told you,” he soothed, “Abigail and I, we’ll always have a bed for you here.”

She sat back and nodded, trying to compose herself, she knew she was acting erratic and needed to take a moment to breathe. She stared up at the moon, contemplated it’s beauty, the moon was a woman, a goddess and a goddess was what she had been to Dutch. But that’s how it always worked with gods in love, near impossible to live side by side in peace. The comparison made her smile, yes, they had been two great gods at the heart of something larger than either could understand. The turning of the world, as sure as the tide and the seasons, they had fought, battled on against a world that had no place for them anymore, a world that didn’t want them.

“Don’t you see John,” she smiled, “We did it, even though we failed, we fought against a world that had no place for us and for a moment, they were afraid of her,” she gave a small laugh, “For a moment we won, we earned our place in the history books, don’t yah think?”

John could only smile sadly, her words too much to comprehend in a single moment, all that was left to say was, “Arthur’d be so proud of you.”

“And you...”

The following morning she packed up her horse, said her goodbyes to the others before John walked her out to see her off.

He couldn’t promise her that Javier would be waiting, that his revolutionary heart was even still beating. But he told her where he’d last seen him, told her the likely places he would have traveled to. And so Isla left with hope, John had at least given her that. Besides, there was nothing left for her in America anymore, as the sun set she said her silent goodbyes to Dutch and Arthur, reflected on the fairy tale she had woven to make it easier to swallow a bitter truth. 

And so we battle on, against the raging of the storm, love, love could never be consumed by something so fickle as the weather, something so bereft of heart and fleeting.

As she rode across the desert she was born again, returning to a transcendental state, one that she had known a long time ago, a 19 year old girl full of hope sailing across the Pacific Ocean dreaming of an adventure. 

[literallyawriter]

No Strings Attached 01

CrissColfer story with mentions of Mia and Will -- CrissColfer is endgame.

Visit to my AO3 page for additional warnings and mentions!

____________________________________________________

Summary: Hooking up seemed to be the solution to all their problems. But what happens when meaningless hookups -- just to clear your head -- turn into something more powerful and you have to face reality when suddenly there are feelings involved?

x x x

Chapter One -- Friends with benefits

Thump, thump, thump. The headboard of Darren’s bed bangs into the wall multiple times, and Chris is annoyed by it but moves his hips nonetheless, the creaking of the bed already becoming a background noise of their activities that has Chris focusing even harder on the breathy moans that escape Darren’s lips, or the sound of their skin slapping together. 

The grip Darren has on Chris’s hips tightens as he comes, his eyes squeezing shut as Chris works him through his orgasm, following suit with his own before collapsing on top of Darren’s chest. 

Truth to be told, it’s not the first time they’re doing this, more like some drunken hook up that keeps recurring even though they’re not drunk, at least not all the time. Chris doesn’t even remember how it started or when, he just knows that he’s not going to deny the fun that he gets out of it. 

They’re used to this sort of routine by now, just them getting off together with no strings attached. Sort of a friends with benefits kind of thing that allows them both to take whatever they please and simply enjoy it as long as it lasts. Nobody knows what they’re up to and they’d be screwed, in a not so pleasant way, if somebody ever found out. They’re both trying to uphold their careers and reputation, which isn’t always as easy as they thought it would be. But they agreed on this, one Saturday evening a couple of months ago. Casual hookups, no strings, no further questions asked, just them. Chris still tries to believe that he’s just doing this to sustain his freedom in some sort of fucked up way, which is downright ridiculous and a big fat lie.

“Hey,” Darren breathes softly and that’s when Chris realizes that he’s been entirely zoned out, with Darren fumbling beneath him seeing as their position is slightly awkward. His gaze shifts between their bodies for a moment before he snaps out of his thoughts.

“Shit, sorry,” Chris replies, quickly hoisting himself off of Darren, averting his gaze as he turns his back towards the elder male, fiddling with the nightstand next to him to get some tissues for post-sex clean up -- only for the time being, of course.

“Must’ve been some crazy orgasm to get you to space out like that, Colfer.” Darren’s breath ghosts over his shoulder as he snatches the tissues from him, pressing a peck to the side of his neck that sends chills through Chris’s body. 

“Yeah, crazy,” Chris says, still not exactly focussing on the topic at hand. He’s too busy trying to remember what it was exactly that made him take a forty-five minute drive over to Darren’s house in the first place. Usually he calls him up when he’s stressed out, when his writer's block is killing him, but what exactly is it today?

“Are you… are you alright?” 

Chris realizes he’s been wiping at his chest for the last couple of minutes now, as if he’s desperately trying to brush off something invisible and he quickly spins around to face Darren, who’s gotten so close to him by now that it scares him for a moment and has him jump in his spot. 

“You’re acting weird,” Darren states, shifting in his position on his knees behind him. “Did I actually fuck your brains out, or what’s going on?” 

Chris forces a smile and shrugs his shoulders while he stands up, collecting his clothes before he starts to get dressed again. “Fuck you, I’m acting just fine. My brain is alright,” Chris snaps, struggling to get his pants on which ends in a tirade, and he has to sit back down on the edge of the bed to work on getting his clothes back on properly. 

“Okay, okay. Don’t tell me then,” Darren makes a quick work of picking up the clothes that went flying earlier, tossing the bundle into the hamper in the bathroom. He tugs on a new pair of briefs, snatching the empty condom package off of his nightstand to throw it away and leans against the doorframe of his bedroom, watching Chris. 

“Where’s my phone?” Chris spins around, scanning the bed and the nightstand, turning towards Darren when he doesn’t see it anywhere. 

“Still in the car maybe? Man, I don’t know. Don’t look at me like that, I have honestly no fucking clue.” Darren runs a hand through his curls and Chris wishes it wouldn’t make his knees as weak as it does, to see him standing there in his briefs, chest glistening with sweat, his cheeks rosy and his eyes still as dark as they were when he first arrived and he rushed off to the bedroom to push the elder male down onto the mattress, palming his dick through his pants as he--

“Earth to Chris, someone there?” Darren snaps his fingers in front of his face and Chris jumps back into reality, a blush settling high on his cheeks. 

“I should get going,” Chris gets out in a rush, pushes past Darren to get downstairs in a hurry in hopes to get out of his house as soon as possible. But he’s made the deal without Darren.

Chris is almost at the door when Darren catches his wrist, spinning him around. “What’s gotten into you, Chris?” Oh boy, his eyes are even bigger as he steps closer and Chris knows he’s going to lose this battle as quickly as it started. Darren’s hot breath is ghosting over his face, his eyes practically boring right through his to catch a glimpse of the inside of his brain.

“You, but I think that’s not what you wanted to hear, is it?” They share a laugh and Darren pulls Chris impossibly closer by hooking a finger into his belt loop, staring right into his eyes, hazel crashing into blue. 

“Are you sure you want to leave just yet?” Darren asks seductively, both of his hands placed on Chris’s hips and Chris tries convince himself that yes, he wants to leave, he should leave… but he can’t force himself to say it. “I mean, you could go… but we could easily just get back upstairs and, y’know. Make it a two-time-thing for today.”

“Dare…” Chris tries, collecting all his will power in order to tell him no, ready to come up with some witty reply that has Darren laughing so he can sneak out of the door, but he’s in a disagreement with his body as he finds himself leaning in to press their lips together, despite his head screaming at him to grab his keys and get going and leave.

Darren doesn’t hesitate as he backs Chris up against the front door, keeping their lips sealed together while his hand travels down to where Chris is already semi hard again, cupping him through his pants. It’s deliciously hot even though it’s mostly tongue and teeth, the slick slide of their lips against one another.

“I have meetings, early in the morning, I--” 

“Shush, C. None of that.” Darren kisses along the side of Chris’s neck, nibbling on the spot just below his ear and that’s when Chris knows he’s lost, his body is beyond betraying him already. He’s lost the control he used to have over his own body and he doesn’t even try to argue further as Darren starts to unbutton his pants and sinks down to his knees. 

His mind goes completely blank the second Darren’s warm mouth is on him in such a familiar kind of way, his head thumping back into the door as he groans. Chris is crazy about him, he hates and loves the way Darren has this effect on him that makes him forget about anything. He loses the ability to speak right then and there and focuses on how smoothly Darren’s mouth works over him, engulfing him completely. It’s definitely a sight worth doing this for, with the elder male down on his knees, bobbing his head and looking up through his long lashes to catch Chris staring at him in return.

“Fuck,” Chris moans, carding his fingers through Darren’s curls and tugging on it when he feels his orgasm approaching way too quickly for his own liking. It doesn’t take more than a couple of minutes until he’s a complete mess, spilling down Darren’s throat while breathily moaning out his name. He should be embarrassed about how little it took for him to come again, but his mind isn’t back to functioning properly, instead he pulls on Darren’s curls harshly to get him back onto his feet, only to spin them around, eager to want to return the favor.

Darren catches his wrist again, just as Chris wants to fall onto his knees and get down and dirty, but instead he’s being pulled in for another searing kiss, their lips meeting softer this time, and Chris can taste himself on the others tongue which drives him insane and he still wants more, despite the fact that he’s come for the second time that night already.

“You could… stay the night, if you wanted,” Darren offers, brushing a stray of hair out of Chris’s face while Chris tucks himself back into his pants and zips them back up. 

“Isn’t that the opposite of no strings attached?” Chris asks breathlessly, his chest heaving with every breath he takes. 

Darren shrugs his shoulder, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth and Chris swears he’s just a hopeless addict when it comes to Darren. 

“So?” 

“I can’t, Dare. I really-- I wish I could, but I can’t. No offense.” Chris doesn’t miss the slight hint of disappointment Darren’s eyes give off, but it’s quickly dismissed and he wonders why he suddenly feels guilty, as if he’s leaving him hanging, which he is not. 

They have sex, they get dressed, they leave. That’s what the whole thing is about when it comes to no strings being attached to anything, right? So why is there this knot in his stomach, making him want to apologize?

“That’s alright. None taken. I guess I’ll see you around, just shut the door on your way out, will ya?” Darren spins around in his spot and walks off down the hall, waving him off as if nothing ever happened.  

Chris stays back for a couple of seconds before he reminds himself that he’s about to leave, so he grabs his keys from the counter and picks up his phone he remembers having left down here, seeing as they didn’t want to be disturbed earlier.

He looks back down the hall, shakes his head and then he leaves.

[angel-dust-bitch-archive]

👠

sex+romance headcanons!

👠 What was my muse’s last serious relationship like?

"Huh... M'last serious relationship, huh? Dat's a tough one-- Can't really rememba, honestly. Have I actually ever had one?"

"Wait wait hold on-- I got one for ya~ Doh Not sure if it counts as a "serious relationship"-- call it m'first love!

More below the cut!! (You opened a can of worms with this one!! xP)

So there was this chick I used ta hang wit' up top-- Now, you's gon' laugh but met her durin'one o those Arranged Marriage Things....Honestly? She was cool as shit. Sharp, drop dead gorgeous too-- M'talkin' fuckin' HOT. Crazy-- But HOT-- If I wasn't gay? Woulda totally found her fuckable-- on repeat-- Even m'bro wanted ta bang her-- HA! An' I was totes gon' marry her too-- Not for Love or nothin' doh. Mostly ta shut our families up-- see-- she knew I was gay. Caught on real quick-- said I was pretty, funny, tall, Charmin' an' a all aroun' bad bitch-- Told me she woulda fucked me in a heart beat If I wasn't a dandy! Her exact words! I ain't fuckin' kiddin' ya! HA! We had a whole plan too-- we was gonna marry each other, have a kid or two so the family would shut up bout havin' an heir-- Plus-- I ain't gonna lie to ya-- I want kids. I always wanted kids ya know-- but back then, well there was only one way ta have'em...yeeuh. Tink da term is called Queer Platinic? Anyway we had this whole plan ta show on da surface while behind da curtains we jus did our own thing-- but uh-- a wrench hit that plan when she fell in actual REAL love wit' m'brotha...an' uh...yeh I wasn't gonna get in da way'o dat-- anyway-- dat's a whole otha story-- Back ta dis one. Now this girl-- she was a party girl-- like me ya know? thrill seeker lived for a good time. So we went to a few-- she was gonna introduce me to a friend'o hers see-- A dandy jus' like me-- as she referred to him heh heh. Needless ta say I was floored when she walked up wit dis...gal, ya know? Real pretty an' all-- but again-- a dame? Yeh. I gave her this look ya know, like "Are ya fuckin' shittin' me, Rosie?" But-- then the dame spoke and her voice dropped an octave or so. Turns out "she" was a guy in drag! Heh Heh. Yeh His name was Vinny-- Prettiest man I eva did see-- Crystal blue eyes, soft light hair, Skin like Porcelin-- you wanna talk about usin "Doll" as a pet name-- it suited him! An' since he liked to dress like a damn-- an' knew how to act and sound like one-- made for an easy cover-- started seein' Vinny more n more-- But uh-- well...good t'ings don' last rite?

"See uh...Some uh...members of da family they uh....yeh they...they found out'bout Vinny...an' uh....It wasn't pretty. Didn't see much of Vinny afta dat... I didn't know what happened to him, an...for a long time I wondered...then I found out. They Uh...Well....They hurt him. Dat's suga-coatin' it, but-- well ya know how "Hurtin" goes when it comes to Da Mafia...especially for uh...dandy gents... I found out about dis-- an...also came ta find out dat...it was so brutal-- Vinny-- He uh...well he wound up takin his own life not long afta...So...it made sense-- Why I ain't seen Vinny since...

I...I wasn't there ta protect him-- an' at....dat will continue to eat away at me for eternity."

[wheredidhiseyebrowsgo]

Are there any fics where Stiles and Derek are dating but don't even realize it? Where they're super domestic but neither of them ever asked the other out.

AND

Anonymous said:hey do you have any fic where stiles and derek are domestic but not dating (they have feelings for each other and they're oblivious and end up dating)???? 

 Sure thing! - Anastasia

In which Stiles is in denial by seraphina_snape

(1/1 I 577 I Teen)

It’s not like Stiles wants to cuddle with Derek. It just… happens. Again and again.

Accident (Waiting to Happen) by Jerakeen

(1/1 I 1,247 I Teen)

You’re just jealous of our friendship,” Stiles says cattily, butting the top of his head more firmly into Derek’s armpit.

“Right,” Scott says, putting his jacket on. “I’m jealous that I don’t get to snuggle on the couch with the two of you.”

“Obviously,” Stiles agrees.

Inconceivable by LadyLade

(1/1 I 1,268 I Not Rated)

After they finish bemoaning Derek and Stiles and their combined stupidity (it takes about a week), Lydia and Jackson come up with a fool-proof (well, Stiles-and-Derek-proof) plan.

Step One: Compile a list of on-going actions that mean Derek and Stiles are dating.

Step Two: Show said list to Derek and Stiles and humbly accept their gratefulness when they are enlightened.

Step Three: Veggie shakes.

Is It Cool if I Hold Your Hand? by HalfFizzbin

(1/1 I 1,343 I General)

“So,” says Sheriff Stilinski, raising one eyebrow. “You decided not to play video games at Scott’s, after all?”

“Uh,” Stiles says. His eyes are wide and caught-out, and he’s got his arms wrapped around two giant tubs of popcorn. Beside him, Derek Hale—the same Derek Hale that the Sheriff last saw in his interrogation room—is handing a $20 bill to the cashier and clearly trying to appear as casual as possible. He fumbles the change three times before he gets it into his pocket, though, so it’s a lost cause.

The Catch by sir_yessir

(1/1 I 1,901 I Teen)

“You know,” Stiles jokes (because if he has any kind of a superpower, it’s the power to make an awkward situation way more awkward) “If we keep doing stuff like this people are going to think we’re dating.” In which Stiles learns that he’s really super oblivious (but to be fair, Derek is also too subtle for his own good).

Welcome to Rosie’s Diner can I interest you in an eye-opener? by crossroadswrite

(1/1 I 1,999 I Teen)

When the unfairly attractive couple walks in, at their usual hour, Kat starts humming the wedding march.

Jason elbows her sharply in the ribs, trying to hide his snicker even as he waves nicely at them.

“Fuck they’re so pretty,” he sighs mournfully, “why did they have to be a couple, that’s just unfair.”

“I know,” she commiserates.

(Or: The one where Stiles and Derek are regulars at Rosie’s diner and exactly zero of the employees believe they’re not actually a couple, I mean come on look at them.)

Didn’t See It Coming by tabbytabbytabby

(1/1 I 2,469 I Teen)

When Stiles and Derek finally get together they both know it’s been a long time coming. Apparently the pack doesn’t seem to think so if they’re shocked reactions when they find out are anything to go by.

We Could Be Happy by alphagottadonk

(1/1 I 2,676 I Not Rated)

Derek starts scenting Stiles who thinks its a pack thing until he sees Scott doing it to Kira.

Strut into Your Heart by Brittanica2015

(3/3 I 4,059 I Not Rated)

Derek is a college freshman who’s working as a barista in order to get enough money to satisfy his book addiction. Everything is fine until one day his favorite model, Stiles Stilinski walks in and completely changes his life.

A Little Sugar by exclamation

(1/1 I 4,987 I Mature)

The first time they had sex, it was after Derek paid Stiles’ rent. The second time was after Derek bought Stiles’ groceries. It wasn’t hard to work out the pattern. Derek hates himself for taking advantage of Stiles and tries to convince him that any form of payment is unnecessary, but he can’t seem to break the cycle.

Stiles is the Stupidest Person on This Side of The Milky Way by TenSpencerRiedPlease

(1/1 I 5,689 I Not Rated)

“Aren’t you at least the least bit curious why everyone keeps asking if you are dating?” Lydia asks.

“No, why?” he says, mostly to be an ass. He didn’t actually care why people thought he was dating Derek.

“Oh my god.” Lydia says taking a shallow breath, rubbing her temples as if she had just gotten the world’s worst brain freeze. “You are the stupidest person in on this side of the milky way,” she says, sighing deeply.

Dress Rhymes With Mess by LadyDrace

(1/1 I 8,138 I Teen)

Derek likes to wear dresses sometimes, and when Stiles finds out he doesn’t react like Derek thought he would.

Breakfast for two by MyWolfIsAnAssbutt

(3/? I 8,277 I Not Rated)

Stiles didn’t know how, or when it had happened but suddenly he and Derek had breakfast together every morning. They’d joke and talk about their feelings and sometimes bitch about the townsfolk.Then that’s when Stiles realized that no matter what, he’d always take Derek’s side over the Argent’s. He didn’t even care what Scott had to say…

Lunches, Knitting and Definitely Not Dating by noxlunate

(1/1 I 10,107 I Teen)

“So, I uh, managed to get myself pregnant.”

“You what?!”

“Got myself pregnant. Y’know, up the duff, knocked up, a bun in the oven, in a family way, eating for two, with child. I could go on Dad, really, stop me before I exhaust the list of pregnancy euphemisms. There’s still caught an 18 year STD, my eggo is preggo, building a person-“

“Stiles.”

“Hosting a parasite, harboring a fugitive-“

(Just a weird mpreg fic with Derek and Stiles totally kinda dating without realizing it, and Stiles figuring out this whole having a baby thing.)

Convenient by exclamation

(6/6 I 10,755 I Explicit)

Stiles knows what he is to Derek: convenient. He knows that Derek isn’t looking for a relationship, just someone to have casual sex with. Which is why Stiles is so surprised to find Derek setting up a romantic dinner for Valentine’s Day.

Something More by kaistrex (weishen)

(6/6 I 19,148 I Explicit)

“Derek, what’s going on?” Erica asks.Derek hesitates to respond, trying to decide on the most concise way to tell the story without his disgust bleeding through. Marie beats him to it.“After the Argents’ attack, we were the only pack who would give them shelter. As thanks, it was agreed my daughter would marry a member of the Hale pack when she came of age.”“But Derek is no longer an option because a marriage pact can’t interfere with a pack’s hierarchy,” Lydia fills in, disbelief dripping from every word. “And now every other member of the pack is mated, you’ve finally come calling to sink your claws into Stiles.”

*

When Derek and Stiles stumbled into a friends with benefits relationship purely by accident, they weren’t expecting it would one day save their asses when a threat from Derek’s past comes knocking. All they need to do is pretend to really be in love to avoid an arranged marriage agreed to years ago with a pact of blood. Considering they hadn’t bothered setting up boundaries when the ‘benefits’ first started, it’s no surprise that the lines begin to blur and Derek’s eyes are eventually opened to a truth he hadn’t been ready to face.

Stiles and the Eight Groupons by pallidvixen

(10/10 I 60,013 I Teen)

The Sheriff goes a little crazy with Groupons. Derek helps Stiles recover from the aftermath of the sacrifice to the Nematon.

[acourtofredqueens]

ACOTAR: Wings and Starlight Part 3

Here is part 3! I think this is my favourite chapter so far! You get to see a bit more of the back story to why people are quite protective of Layla. Enjoy!

Tagging : @dreamworld-1997 @crazybookladythings @foreverlovingthenightskies @my-ships-will-never-be-sank

Moonlight glimmered on the Sidra as the group waltzed along the iridescent river that traversed through the City of Starlight. Aidan and Briana skipped ahead laughing, fully enjoying Velaris under the star lit sky and admiring the various stalls that lined the streets.

Behind them Layla and Rhydian walked arm in arm, quietly giggling at the pair in front as they hopped to a food seller and Briana stuffed a huge piece of chocolate cake in her mouth as Aidan quickly paid the man who smiled at their antics. Honestly, Layla had no clue how her cousin managed to eat after the dinner. She was absolutely stuffed to the brim and the sight of food made her actually want to turn and run the other way.

Layla sighed.

She was perfectly content to walk around the city, her city, in the arms of her best friend talking about everything the other missed in their lives. But… it seemed her delightful twin and cousin had other plans as they turned down a street onto the lively square full of shops and bars. Briana always running to the nearest dresses and pulling them against her body in exaggerated poses while Aidan ran his hand through his deep blue tinged hair as he either shook his head or nodded eagerly in mock love. Sometimes, Layla thought, her cousin inherited too much of her father’s sass while she paraded around the city like a princess – like her mother.

It was a cool winter evening and the frost bit into her skin like tiny irritating bugs. Why didn’t I bring a thicker coat? Layla thought to herself as her body began to shiver with cold so in a hope to steal some of his body heat, she huddled even closer to Rhydian. But, Rhydian the oh so ever observant male looked down at her as his chestnut hair fell over his eyes and smiled. That stupid crooked smile that made Layla weak at the knees.

“Are you cold?” Rhydian asked as he put his arm around Layla’s shoulder and pulled her flush against his body.

“A little,” Layla replied, trying not to sound too desperate for warmth. They came to a stop on a bridge as Aidan and Briana rounded a corner. Let them have some fun. Rhydian swiftly stepped away and Layla almost whined. Almost… Until, she noticed him shrugging off his thick coat and putting it around her shoulders. His scent soon cocooned her and she breathed it in, forever encasing it in her memory. Mist and jasmine. Layla smiled in thanks which immediately turned into a frown when she saw Rhydian smiling at her. She looked down to find she had begun to faintly glow which always occurred when she was happy. A rosy blush crept up her cheeks as Layla tried to dim her obvious power.

How embarrassing.

“Oh no, don’t. I like it when you glow, it means I succeeded in making my friend happy,” Rhydian exclaimed, taking a step towards Layla. Layla could do nothing but stare at his beautiful face set in a wide grin as he took in her blushed appearance. Why did her heart beat so fast? Quickly, she shook her head and grinned, “At least one of us does. It’s embarrassing!”

It was - to have her emotions so openly on display.

Rhydian took one step. Then another. “I think it’s cute.” At this point, Layla had to look up at Rhydian’s loving gaze but had to avoid his eyes by looking down, which evidently meant looking at his broad chest, as another blush rose like vines over her cheeks. That was when she realised he was wearing even less clothing than her without his coat keeping him warm.

“Shoot, Rhy! You must be even colder than me! Here, you can have it back. I’m warmer now,” which sounding unconvincing even in her own head. It must have sounded as bad as she thought because Rhydian lightly covered her shoulders with the coat again saying, “No it’s okay. I’m used to the cold.” Layla felt a twinge of guilt.

Of course.

Of course, he was. The Illyrian training camps were in the harshest conditions Layla could imagine. It was as cold as ice. Mostly because it was covered in ice. She wished he never had to return there, that he would do this stupid Blood Rite and then come live in Velaris with his friends. With her.

Layla graciously smiled and accepted his coat again. He was one of the most kindest and caring people she had ever met even though he had grown up in such a gruesome setting that left no room for love. A silence settled over them like a blanket and Layla walked up to the railing and leaned over peering into the glistening reflection. Rhydian’s reflection joined hers on the water undulating with the current as he stepped up to her side.

“I missed you so much Rhy” Layla sighed.

“I missed you too my Petite L’etoile.” The nickname warmed her inside even more than his coat did. She hated to ask but… “When do you have to go back?”

Rhydian looked down, avoiding her gaze. “The day after tomorrow.” No. That was not nearly enough time to be with her best friend. Not nearly enough when they had been separated for almost a year. “That – that’s so soon,” Layla stuttered.

“I know. I’m sorry but there is not a day that goes by that I don’t wish I could be by your side.” Rhydian gently took her delicate hand in his own as she fought to hold back tears. “Besides, someone has to make sure you don’t get into any trouble.” Layla playfully nudged him but still an overwhelming sense of sadness consumed her. Her best friend was being taken from her. Again.

There was no noise except the tranquil lapping of the water as both Layla and Rhydian enjoyed being in the other’s presence. Suddenly, laughter filled the air as Aidan and Briana retreated around the corner to find them. “Hey, that’s where you went! We’re heading to Rita’s if you want to join us?” suggested Aidan.

Rhydian looked to Layla to see what she wanted. Layla reached out into his mind which Rhydian gladly let her in to (Rhys had taught him how to raise and lower his mental shields to be safe.)

Can we stay out here for a bit longer? I want to spend as much time as I can with you.

Of course, my Petite L’etoile. Whatever you want.

“I think we will stay out here for a while, then join you later if that’s alright brother?” Rhydian answered to which Aidan just shrugged and said, “Suit yourself.” Layla giggled at her brother’s mock hurt and just to make him feel better she added, “We will be over soon. Go enjoy yourselves!” Aidan held out his pinkie and Layla slipped hers around it as their magic joined in only a way a twin would as it searched for the other piece to its soul.

“You two with your weird twin things” Briana said as she rolled her eyes. Aidan just chuckled and ruffled her hair and then turned to Rhydian and fist bumped him with a “See you in a bit,” while Briana flattened her wavy hair with a squeak. The two sauntered off and Briana joyfully stamped on Aidan’s foot which Layla could only assume was punishment for messing her hair.

When they were gone, the two of them stood by the river chatting about everything they could think of from life in Velaris to life in the Illyrian camps. When they stopped, they both stood gazing at the water below them wrapped in each other’s warmth. Rhydian turned back to Layla and took both of her hands in his and quietly said, “I haven’t seen you since what happened last year… how are you?” Layla was waiting for him to ask this question so was already prepared to answer it.

By “what happened”, Rhydian meant the incident last year when a rebel group had captured her and… she didn’t want to talk about it but Rhydian had found her and carried her back to her parents and stayed with her in the first two months after the incident to help her recover. He never left her side until he got called back to the Illyrian camps for more training.

“I’m perfectly fine.” Layla lied and sensing her lie, Rhydian raised an eyebrow in question so sighing, Layla continued with her eyes fixed on the water as if it gave her courage to talk about it. “I am fine… I still get nightmares sometimes but… they’re slowly leaving. Father is very protective of me but I understand he doesn’t want it to happen again - to anyone. Physically I’m fine, probably even better than before with my Uncles’ training.” She huffed a laugh. No one had to remind her what had happened to the certain group that attacked her that day. She added softly, “Thank you for staying with me. I never got a chance to say it in person before you left.” She had people send messages to him, usually one of her uncles or even her father to tell him but it didn’t feel as right as saying it now.

Rhydian leaned in and pressed a small kiss on her forehead. This crazy blurred line between them still consistently there.  “You have nothing to be thankful for. I wouldn’t have just left you.” Sensing the mood to take a turn into a pitying atmosphere, Layla playfully tugged on his arm saying, “Come on. Let’s go to Rita’s. The other two will be wondering where we are.”

Rhydian grinned. “Race you.”

Oh it’s on, Layla thought.

Running all the way there, Layla hating to admit she only won because Rhydian let her, they entered the building. Briana and Aidan reached them as soon as they were through the door, pleased they had finally turned up. The four of them danced and drank and sang all night. Layla did not want Rhydian to leave. She did not want him putting his life in danger in the Blood Rite despite knowing he wanted to prove himself to her family. So, she danced and danced with him, wishing to never let him go. Little did she know, Rhydian, holding Layla in his arms as they twirled around the floor was thinking the exact same thing.

That was part 3! Hope you liked it!

[fiinalgiirls-aa]

GENERAL INFORMATION.

FULL NAME - genevieve sloane channing NICKNAMES - neve GENDER / PRONOUNS - she/her DATE OF BIRTH - february 12, 1988 PLACE OF BIRTH - portland, oregon CITIZENSHIP / ETHNICITY - united states american; irish, scottish, welsh RELIGION - atheist / agnostic SOCIOECONOMIC STATUS / POLITICAL AFFILIATION - grew up very low socioeconomic status in ne portland, before the gentrification, but is now considered middle class due to her nurse’s salary. she’s liberal. MARITAL STATUS - single ( previously engaged ). SEXUAL & ROMANTIC ORIENTATION - bisexual, leaning more towards an attraction to men. EDUCATION / OCCUPATION - bachelor’s of science in nursing; emergency nurse LANGUAGES - english, spanish, and a few small phrases pertaining to medical emergencies in vietnamese and russian.

FAMILY INFORMATION.

PARENTS - doug and paula channing, both deceased. SIBLINGS - none OFFSPRING - none PETS / OTHER - robocop ( a black and white siberian husky ). i’d also like her to get a cat at some point ! give me this plot point !! NOTABLE EXTENDED FAMILY - none

PHYSICAL INFORMATION.

FACECLAIM - adelaide kane HAIR COLOR / EYE COLOR - brown / brown HEIGHT / BUILD - 5′3″ / slight, athletic TATTOOS / PIERCINGS - nostril piercing, small tattoo on anterior right forearm. DISTINGUISHABLE FEATURES - a scar above her left ear that goes into her hairline approximately three inches, bold, full brows. freckles. usually has bruised knees.

MEDICAL INFORMATION.

MEDICAL HISTORY - laceration to left temporoparietal area, sprained ankle, fractured collar bone, well-controlled asthma. KNOWN ALLERGIES - penicillin, watermelon VISUAL IMPAIRMENT / HEARING IMPAIRMENT - nearsighted, but usually uses contacts; tinnitus. NICOTINE USE / DRUG USE / ALCOHOL USE - occasional alcohol use, former smoker ( has had an errant cigarette on occasion ), drug use as a teenager.

PERSONALITY.

TRAITS - ( + ) compassionate, resilient, tenacious, ; ( - ) self-righteous, cynical, aloof TROPES - nerves of steel, canine companion, good is not soft, deadpan snarker. TEMPERAMENT - melancholic ALIGNMENT - chaotic good CELTIC TREE ZODIAC - rowan, the thinker MBTI - infj HOGWARTS HOUSE - ravenclaw VICE / VIRTUE - pride ; liberality LIKES / DISLIKES: animals, reading, running and weight lifting, not having to share her popcorn, take-out, breakfast for dinner, leather / denim jackets, white sneakers, fresh cut flowers, solitude, people who think about others,  /  medical dramas, arrogance, science deniers, bok choy, people who talk to her at the gym or when she has headphones on, movie remakes, passive aggression. QUOTE:  ❝take a body, dump it, drive. take a body, maybe your own, and dump it gently. all your dead, unfinished selves and dump them gently. take only what you need. ❞

FAVORITES.

FOOD - curry. DRINK - coffee. PIZZA TOPPING - pineapple ( yes, she’s that bitch ), but with olives, mushrooms, tomatoes, and tabasco. COLOR - earth tones, grey, black and white. MUSIC - synth, hip hop, indie. BOOKS - horror, true crime, historical philosophy of science and medicine. MOVIES - the thing, nightbreed, notorious CURSE WORD - fuck, goddamn it. SCENTS - lavender, vanilla, chocolate.

BIOGRAPHY.

trigger warnings: murder, death, graphic violence, mental health, postpartum depression, suicide, cancer, drug mention, parent death, medical, euthanasia mention, stalking, guns

THE FOG CREEPS IN ; GIRLHOOD IS A GRAVEYARD

genevieve channing is born on a cold, grey february sometime around midnight to douglas and paula channing while the heavy oregon fog kisses the modest concrete jungle of portland oregon like a phantom. paula gives her a big name, telling the nurses with heady confidence that she’ll be famous one day, and it’s the biggest gift she ever gives her. baby genevieve is in her arms so often, she hardly touches a cradle, but it’s not long until douglas feels an uneasiness creeping in.

paula is bohemian silk skirts and crushed velvet. she grows restless being trapped in the plain, modest home in northeast. she is a woman that is easy to fall in love with—not meant to sit at home idly with a collicy baby, where she finds herself in tears more than ever. douglas returns from work to find baby genevieve screaming unattended in her crib while paula cries in the backyard with an ashtray full of cigarettes. she tells him she’s worried she’ll crash the car one day on the way to the grocery store with them both inside. douglas digs his teeth into his bottom lip and tries not to cry. he squeezes her hand and tells her she needs to go to therapy. what he really wants to tell her is that their baby needs her. he leaves paula outside and spends the afternoon tidying the house with genevieve swaddled against his chest. it’s a warm feeling.

it’s not long after that paula starts disappearing for periods of time and douglas learns she can’t be trusted to watch after the baby on her own. when she calls from downtown in tears, hyperverbal and desperate, he picks her up in his old chevy truck and brings her home. she agrees to see a doctor and for awhile, they figure out how to live again. some days are even as sweet as the rhubarb pies she starts to make again.

there are only two ways neve later remembers her mother, and the first is lovely–paula is picnics and shakespeare in the parks. she’s dried roses in the window and salmon tacos with mango salsa. she is whirlwind adventures and laughter. she teaches neve to make wishes on stray eyelashes, blowing them into the wind like dandelion seeds. on the good days, paula’s eyes are filled with stars. on the bad days, they are left black as the night sky while she cries the constellations down her cheeks. occasionally, she is cruel. mostly, she is absent.

by the third grade, neve expects this. douglas has never been much of a cook–save hamburger patties with canned green beans and a baked potato. she cooks their dinners from recipes she learns from her grandmas and helps around the house. most nights she’s home alone until the grumbling sound of the chevy breaks through the dark and signals her father’s return. eventually, she stops missing her mother from the everyday–it’s only when the other kids talk about their moms that she feels the pang of loss and wonders where she is. some nights neve finds herself sitting in her bedroom window pulling out eyelashes just to have something left to wish on. some of paula’s friends overdose on heroin or get murdered in the nights when neve is sleeping; she stays up late and hopes that her vigil will keep a distant mother safe.

there aren’t many trees on their street–unlike some of the other neighborhoods. the big weeping birch in their backyard that drives her father crazy as he rakes leaves every fall is neve’s pride and joy. there is comfort in the shade its branches cast every summer. at night it makes her lonely as it blocks the silhouette of the waxing moon. on lazy summer days when her father leaves for work, neve sits with her back curved against its rough trunk and reads the day away.

on a cool april afternoon, just after preparing a plate of cherry poptarts with a thin layer of butter on top of the frosting ( much to her father’s chagrin ), neve ventures out to the modest yard to sit under her tree. the familiar crushed blue velvet of her mother’s favorite dress catches her off guard and she drops her breakfast onto the unkempt lawn as her mind makes sense of the unnatural height of its hem as paula swings–marking the time of neve’s pounding heartbeat. the butter solidifies as it cools in the dirt, the heel of neve’s hand-me-down airwalk sneakers mashing her breakfast. the cherry filling sticks to the sole like bubblegum; she’ll never eat them again, but she can’t help but recall that her mom always preferred the maple and brown sugar.

THE ODDS ARE STACKED AGAINST HER ; A GIRL LEARNS TO COUNT CARDS

portland in the eighties and nineties is less portlandia and more drugstore cowboy. a lot of kids from other neighborhoods don’t go downtown. the ones that do have an air of palpable grit. neve takes the max, rides her skateboard in the dark. douglas has cautioned her a hundred thousand times, but paula’s death has instilled such a great fear of losing his daughter that he lets her get away with more than he knows he probably should. he fears paula’s ghost will someday possess her and she’ll wander off into the ether. most days he insists that the only parts of paula he sees in his cherished daughter are the good ones–neve holds onto the corporeal world with claws. it’s only on the worst nights–paula’s specter cooling the sheets of his bed in the dark–that he wakes up with the fear his daughter is gone.

douglas’s new wife, rosie, does her best to pit them against one another, but sometimes–she’s not so bad, neve thinks. it’s nice to have a mother figure in the house again even if she falls short most days. sometimes she thinks that maybe they could learn to love each other. if nothing else, she’s sure she owes a bit of gratitude to the woman; the nights of her father’s haunting sobs have become fewer and farther between. it isn’t until douglas begins receiving late notices on utilities that he begins to grow suspicious. rosie is quick to throw neve under the bus–a young girl like that? she’s probably stealing their money to spend on drugs and CDs at sam goody. douglas has never bet on anyone like he bets on his daughter; rosie’s gambling debts are news to them both.

the fallout of the relationship leaves douglas and neve in dire financial straits. the father is heartbroken–another love lost, he blames himself for always choosing the wrong lady luck. despite their financial ruin, left in rosie’s wake, douglas has a hard time getting out of bed most days and blows through what little sick time he has available to him. school takes a back burner and neve barely attends it at all–favoring her time on finding work ( legitimate and illegitimate ) to help keep their small family afloat. she attends class when it’s profitable and waits tables or washes dishes when she can. it’s still not enough.

a few kids turn neve onto small crimes to turn a profit. they ride the max to the suburbs and crash parties–stealing pills out of medicine cabinets and turning them over for profit. calculus wasn’t worth a good goddamn, but distribution teaches skills. it’s hard not to get caught up in petty thefts and the occasional break-ins. neve and her friends find it easy to justify in the spirit of class war. a pin on her denim jacket reads ‘eat the rich’ and it doesn’t sound so bad. portland is a cannibal and it eats its children.

neve is a cat with nine lives and despite her friends being caught by the long arm of the law or the stronger arm of revenge, she evades detection. even such cats live with a fear of death, and as consequence catches up to members of the small circle she runs with, neve knows she is living on borrowed time. sooner or later, she knows, her luck will run bone dry.

SPRING RETURNS TO PORTLAND ; THE FROST CLINGS TO FRAGILE BONES

neve dropping out of high school is a wake up call for douglas. he sees farther than she does and knows that she deserves a better life than the one he’s scrounged together for her. most days, he blames himself for a life that could have been; some kids like her wore neatly pressed dresses and folded over lace socks on picture day. some kids had piano lessons and summer camps. there’s a lot of insight in hindsight, but neve staunchly opposes his masochistic remorse and becomes determined to prove him wrong. it takes her a couple years of working to figure out what she wants to do–a girl baptised in her mother’s blood is born with the kind of heart that takes on too much. she is meant for saving lives and carrying the world on her shoulders like atlas himself.

it takes time, but as douglas gets their house in order and starts working again. neve is able to start up at portland community college. she takes up a work study job and works a steady flow of odd jobs on the side to support herself. lady luck shines her fortune on the pair for the first time in forever to make up for the steady losses they’ve sustained over the years. life isn’t lavender and gardenias, but somehow waking up becomes little and less painful each day. some days neve wakes up and forgets that she can’t breathe. most days she spends her gratitude in the heap of debt the world owes her–waiting for the other shoe to drop.

the rebirth of their family is a hearty soil; both channings flourish as if made anew. the dew drops that cling to garden spider webs in their window signal the looming anniversary of a mother’s misty breath and neve learns not to fall apart. douglas works hard to do right by her and make up for the years of never knowing what to do and waffling between what is best and what is desirable. he is a man that longs for dreams–feet barely brushing the earth like her mother’s did on that day–but he is learning to make dreams work too. his dreams take root around his daughter once more; he builds them around her and builds her up with them.

the highschool dropout graduates her community college adn bridge program and she can hardly believe it when she’s accepted to ohsu for her bsn. there are no college diplomas with the channing name hanging on walls with peeling wallpaper or tucked away in trunks with paula’s things. douglas has saved his money for months to get her the right graduation gift and neve laughs, downplaying that it’s not a real graduation, but still walks in the ceremony at his insistence.

she returns home to the small party of friends she’ll start to grow apart from when she gets tired of the jeers about how she thinks she’s ‘too good for them’ now. neighborhoods like hers don’t always love to watch you grow if it means you’ll leave them. they’ll still blow up her phone for medical advice, but the invitations dry up like the drought of portland natives in southeast. for now, it’s a pleasant barbecue. the highlight of the evening comes in the small bundle of inky fur that douglas proudly produces after neve’s second burger. peering out from his strong arms are the brown eyes of a young siberian husky. douglas begs her to name the pup murphy over robocop, but loses easily–a hearty chuckle on his lips. they are bonded instantly–girl and dog–robocop becomes neve’s second most stalwart companion next to her father.

nursing school is hard, but it’s not impossible and it is full of new kinds of joys. she makes new friends and they eat lunch from the thai foodcart—nestled within the pod of south waterfront—and lay on the quad drinking smoothies and complaining about the next pharmacology exam. nose in a book and a drink in her hand at happy hour down at cha cha cha !, neve attracts the attention of pa student shane stone. he knows a nursing school classmate of hers from high school and is quickly incorporated to their study groups with a couple of his friends. he is tall with dark hair and kind eyes and just the sort of person a girl dreams of falling in love with. he spends little time worrying about things like rent and bus passes. it’s not even the end of the semester before study dates evolve into movie dates. there’s an entire world between them, but somehow the pair build a bridge.

DEATH RATTLES AND DYING BREATH ; THE GIRL’S OTHER SHOE DROPS

as neve focuses on school, douglas seems to be making steps to keep himself around longer. they go for long walks with robocop around the neighborhood. southeast portland is becoming a different neighborhood and the cost of living is high. restaurants crop up with around the block waits and family friends are forced to move to grayer pastures. it seems, to the channings, that it’s the end of an era. with neve spending most of her time at shane’s apartment on south waterfront, douglas’ weight loss is hardly noticed–everyone assumes it is merely the byproduct of increased activity. it isn’t until his stature becomes gaunt that neve starts to worry.

shane holds neve close when she finally breaks down–sneaking into the single bathroom of the clinic to let her fall apart the way he knows she can’t do in the open. like a wild animal, the girl he loves hides herself away when she feels death’s acrid breath on her neck. he doesn’t know what loss is and he certainly can’t relate to what she’s been through. douglas’ diagnosis is like watching the noose tighten around her mother’s neck all over again. her throat is dry like she’s choking on the fibers of that same rope; the world has a foggy edge—hollow like street lights illuminating an empty suburban neighborhood on a clear, dark night. everything is wooden; everything feels like a dollhouse.

it’s hard to keep up on her studies, but somehow neve muscles through. shane gives up his idyllic apartment and moves into their modest southeast home to help out. he makes a lighthearted joke about finally being a real portlander and moving so near the trendy, revitalized mississippi neighborhood and neve drops and breaks her coffee mug on the unfinished wood floor of the kitchen. it’s just another reminder that he doesn’t belong in her world any more than she does in his. it doesn’t sting as bad as the ink on his mother’s checks that she cashes to keep her father comfortable on his deathbed while she learns to be a better caretaker. life ebbs and flows, but douglas’ drains away until she hardly recognizes the sinewy, pale hands that hold hers so strongly for a man that can’t sit up by himself any longer. she curses her mother once more for leaving and twice for never having been there in the first place.

death isn’t slow or peaceful like the woman from her father’s church will lie about at the funeral. his death rattle lasts for hours and the bellows of his chest quake with weary breath. part of her wishes that the hospice nurse had started an iv on him and a sick, hidden part of her wishes it because a sweet dose of morphine would’ve ended it all sooner for him. she wonders silently if that would do more to ease his pain or hers? he hasn’t been conscious in two days. shane sits with her at the side of his bed with rapt attention and as his breathing slows, neve crawls into the hospice bed next to him. the next several months are a blur and a father misses his only daughter’s graduation. neve is barely present there herself.

shane insists that she’s not an orphan–his parents fly in from denver and treat her like one of their own. it guilts her that she can’t help but resent them for the simple virtue of living while her own father is reduced to a cold dust. she wears his ashes around her neck in a pendant from the funeral home and spreads the rest in every beautiful place she can find. some of them spill into her purse during a hike with robo and shane and she breaks down in tears. there are so many small things that make her sick or numb. a multitude of tiny memories that weigh as much as planets; isn’t dust what helped create the milky way? even around the stone family she feels alone. maybe especially around the stones.

HACKLES RAISED, A GIRL LEARNS THE DANGERS OF BEING FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE

the emergency department attracts all kinds of people in myriad dire straits. people come in at the end of their ropes–infections ignored too long, stabbings and shootings, a broken bone from slipping off the slide, and sometimes when they feel like they can’t live any longer. evan does not fit into any of these categories when he comes in. among the myriad failings of the medical system, lack of access and use of primary care is one of the larger contributions to higher emergency department volumes and evan is another data point in a sea of statistics. he comes back to neve’s room with a sly grin plastered on his face and states that he’s new to the area and can’t get into a new primary care for a few months. his daily asthma inhaler is out and he needs to renew the prescription and get a referral to a clinic.

there’s nothing on the surface that identifies this man as a threat. he’s almost charming and he’s nontoxic appearing–a nice easy patient in a sea of sick people is sometimes a great relief. they make some small talk and it’s the usual stuff she chats about with patients: ‘where’re you from?’ ‘where did you go to school?’ he expresses an interest in nursing and she recommends the program she attended at the hospital she now works. there’s almost a tension there, and when he makes a casual comment about the tan line on her finger she tells him that she doesn’t wear her engagement ring at work because it can tear the gloves. that’s only half right. maybe he can sense the rest of the truth; she’ll wonder that later when she pieces together every scrap of something she can use to blame it on herself.

he sends her a message on facebook, which makes her lips curl downwards in uncertainty. even that isn’t entirely alarming. it opens up reminding her that he’s knew to the area, and that he’s interested in the nursing program she went to. it’s a surprise, but he makes mention of a girlfriend’s wifi and he even asks how shane is doing. he loves her dog and mentions wanting one himself. sure, it’s a little weird–unconventional–but neve has always been interested in helping others find nursing and agrees to meet him for coffee to discuss the program. when they meet, she sees the mistake inherit in it before she even opens the cafe door. he’s disheveled and hyperverbal when he speaks to her and she can barely get a word in edge wise. between the gift he’s brought her and the intensity of his stare, she wonders how she could have read him so wrong. it’s then that he drops the bomb that makes her stomach sink into the trench it detonates in–will they take him in the nursing program with a record? she doesn’t ask, but he provides the details anyway. death threats to some girl he barely knew that wouldn’t leave him alone, he paints the canvas well, but she can read between the lines. evan stevens is dangerous and his lethal eye is trained on her.

she makes an excuse to leave–the first of many excuses, the illusion of being unavailable, unattainable. it’s the advice she’s given to women before, but never had to follow. those words offered to women in distress seem so trite now, so hollow. there is so much fear in cutting ties slowly–the strategic approach to keep an impulsive person like that from escalating. she wishes she could take those clinical offerings of textbook wisdom back from those women and hold their hands. she wonders how many of them still live. he starts blowing up her phone constantly. he comments on all her social media. all day and all night. if she doesn’t respond, he threatens suicide. some days he asks if she’s working and says he brought her lunch. if she says she’s sick, he asks for her address to bring her tom yum takeout from the restaurant she’s posted about on instagram. everything makes her sick now.

A FINAL GIRL IS FORGED ALONE ; THERE IS NO SUBVERTING FATE

god, it’s hard to speak about. she can’t even let the words reach her tongue, lips and teeth to birth them. they shrivel and die in her throat, festering there until she swallows them and they rest in her stomach like great stones. she wonders if evan will cut her stomach open like a wolf and find the rocks there. that’s not how the story goes; she tells herself so many versions as she lies awake in the dark afraid to sleep.

when she finally tells her friends–a smattering of girls and guys from nursing school, the er, and her neighborhood–the response is like the knife she dreams about in her gut. she shows some of the girls at her work his picture, worried that he’ll come in asking about her. she’s chided by these friends, “he’s actually pretty cute, florence nightingale” they joke. “it must be flattering to have the attention.” even shane suspected that there’s some indulgence on her part. that maybe she likes trying to fix people who are broken so much that she gets some sick reward from the experience. he doesn’t speak the words, but neve is fluent in shane stone. he says it in his eyes, the downcurve of his lips, the tense way he sighs when her phone dings over and over again during date nights.

on a cold night in december, neve works on meal prepping alone in the kitchen. evan has been out of town helping his mother remodel her kitchen and neve feels like she can finally breathe in the space he’s left behind. turning on the wireless speaker, she tries to pair her phone to play music as loud as the thin walls of her father’s modest northeast portland home will allow and instead hears, in the cold, robotic voice ‘pairing with neve’s iphone and evan’s iphone.’ robocop doesn’t even lift his head in suspicion the whole night. she calls 911, but they find neither hide nor hair of him. in the morning, neve nails the windows shut and buys a gun–a smith & wesson .357 snub nose revolver. the weight of it is heavy in her hands and she buys a membership to a gun range, calling into work and practicing until shane returns. she doesn’t tell him about the gun and she stops telling him how bad things have gotten with evan. the click of his tongue and disapproval in his eyes is more dooming than a death sentence and she can’t bear to bring further disappointment. neve channing is a strong woman–a smart woman. things like this don’t happen to women like her.

somehow, evan is everywhere and he knows all her secret places as if he exists as an extension of her. maybe he even believes he is–sending her voice messages about how they’re connected. they are the same; they are foils of one another. he send her a picture of his ouroboros tattoo from a new number after she finally blocks him. ‘we are the same.’ he is an all-consuming, devouring force, but she is not a serpent’s tail. he is moloch–besmeared with blood, the great, horrid king–but she is not a child and she will not be sacrificed for sins she has not committed. he has not right and there’s only one way she can see this ending as the days grow longer. like life itself begins, this too will end in blood.

LOVE IS A HARD KNIFE ; A GIRL CAN’T STOMACH AMBROSIA

there is a consequence to every action and every inaction. every little thing she chooses not to tell shane fester and boils. the late nights at work and the new passcode on her phone seem more to shane like cheating than a worsening of some creep’s obsession. she hasn’t even mentioned evan to him since the trees started blooming again. when he elects to cheer her up and bring her lunch during a shift she traded so she could practice at the gun range, his suspicions deepen and while she sleeps that morning, he rifles through her work bag and finds alongside her locked cell phone the cold steel of a secret that he cannot abide by.

it’s not his fault either and she means that from the bottom of her heart. every kindness from the stones feels like another debt and neve can’t help but let the resentment fester in the tasteful diamond on her finger. when she looks upon his face now all she can see is death and it’s the world’s cruelest joke, because she’s the one with cemetery dirt underneath her fingernails. she can’t tell which of the two of them she resents more and they both deserve lives where ghosts stay buried and the dead don’t whisper malcontent in her ears while she struggles to fall asleep. nightmares are her own warm milk; she’s sick of the cold metal of a gun as she moves it from her night stand to her purse each morning. she’s tired of being made to feel like she had a stake in any of this.

it’s not the kindest way to leave a man, but she’s not sure she’s ready to face him again after all that’s happened. she leaves her house keys with her cousin paloma and packs up shane’s stuff. paloma has just started nursing school and can use neve’s father’s old house to sublet. the rent’s free and she’s always been gentle hearted. neve can’t think of anyone better to care for her father’s old house. with dear john letters to both shane and the hospital, neve takes robocop and enough of her things to fit into her subaru forester. it’s not goodbye. it’s never goodbye, she thinks as she hugs paloma on the modest porch. it still feels so permanent, but neve tells herself that big decisions always do. she yearns to discover who she is outside of grief and fear and love. a daughter cannot bloom in her parents’ shadows and she is suffocating underneath the gentle love of the mourning glory.

on the road without a real plan–because if she doesn’t know where she’s going, then neither does evan–neve signs on for a travel nursing company. the first assignment she considers is salem hospital an hour south and it’s a great department, but it’s too close to home. he’ll find her there easily. st. charles in bend isn’t far enough away either. it doesn’t feel like enough of a difference and none of them do until she’s cruising down the interstate through blythe, california and she sees a listing for a level one trauma center in tuscon, arizona. it feels like it could be the right place to burn and be born again.

A GIRL AND HER DOG; SOMETIMES PEACE IS ITS OWN KIND OF PRISON

the cool steel of the snub nose .357 revolver lies buried beneath her registration and owner’s manual in the glove compartment. she wonders briefly as she pulls out her sunglasses and slips a salty french fry into her mouth. the car stereo fades in and out along the southbound highway, switching between some smooth-talking radio host and the tinny crooning of buddy holly. it makes her think of her father, and she blinks back tears–plugging in her iphone to switch to a tune that doesn’t bring back such painful memories. robocop whines in the backseat and neve discovers that her maps aren’t loading any longer, the gps unable to locate their vehicle.

there’s no sense in pulling over and pulling out the map of arizona she purchased from a disinterested teen in the first gas station she’d come across in the state. there’s only two days before the job starts and, according to her recruiter, they’d already moved the orientation up a day, cutting her time to adjust to her new ( temporary ) place before work in half. taking a long drink of coffee–now as cold as her french fries–she blinks hard to keep awake and just when she thinks she’ll have to pull over and sleep in her car huddled close to robocop’s warm, furry body.

neve passes a hospital on the outskirts of town–lit up all pretty against the dark desert sky. it looks nice enough and the longer she drives, the more she considers that her recruiter might’ve told her they were full up in tuscon. maybe that was why they moved the date up for orientation afterall. in the dark august night, most of the businesses are closed and the lights in the mobile home park neve passes are off. the first place she sees open is bj’s food mart and she stops to get a fresh cup of coffee and stretch her legs. she learns inside that amen county is always hiring and leaves with a smile on her lips.

neve has spent nine peaceful months in boot hill. the gun no longer lives shoved into the bottom of her work bag or nestled into the glove compartment of her subaru. now it spends its days in solitude in the coffin-like drawer of her bedside table. evan will never find this place, she is almost sure of it. he might be looking for her, but he’s not looking for boot hill. some evenings on her long strolls to work, she smiles and closes her eyes–listening to the soothing sounds of the town.

soon enough, neve is sure there really was no travel assignment to reach. or, if there had been, she can’t remember where it’s at. instead, she takes some time to enjoy the small town and the anonymity she feels there. she’s not even living out of the silk bonnet hotel anymore. she hadn’t seen boot hill on any map during her road trip and, if that’s universal, her past can’t find her without a destination to set its sights on. there is more than great comfort in that. by the end of her first month, she can’t imagine living anywhere else.

the emergency department is not the bustling trauma center she was used to, but there is an appeal to the autonomy rural medicine offers an experienced nurse. hell, in some places the doctors only come in if you call them. neve can’t exactly remember the application and interview process anymore. it seems like there are so many things that have become mysteries and she can’t find herself caring enough to investigate them long enough to follow an actual lead. it seems like she’s always worked there–an instantaneous sensation of home. she couldn’t even leave if she wanted to.

[separating-my-porn-and-tjlc]

Sherlock is being DRUGGED

Thesis: One of Moriarty’s players has drugged Sherlock with a “dangerous new drug” that doesn’t come up on any current testing. Sherlock is not consciously aware of this and it’s being done without his consent.

Mycroft’s body language in this scene suggests he thinks Sherlock may actually be high. He knows what a case-high looks like for his baby brother and this is not it. It feels wrong.

I was on board with “it’s a case high” until the rest of TST ended up being fucking crazyballs.

We get lots of weird water effects (slosh, slosh) at times when we know there’s no water in the room. We know water represents emotion, but the effects are meant to feel unsettling, out-of-place. It happens in the Welsborough family’s study:

(lol I didn’t tamper with these subtitles)

We get distortion effects in other stuff, too, like pretty much everything is fucking nuts?! I’m not even convinced John actually moo’d at this point. But mostly the skull portrait being ten kinds of wrong at all times is a big giveaway. You don’t need a picture of that from me, it’s everywhere.

Right after this distortion moment, Sherlock is looking at the creepy tory Thatcher shrine explaining to John that he’s giving it special attention due to his intuition (which is that smashed Thatcher busts smell like Moriarty’s work):

“They represent data processed too fast for the conscious mind to comprehend.”

^ This is really fucking important. Sherlock is explicitly saying that his intuitions are vital in figuring out what Moriarty’s going to do next. IF ONLY he’d listen to the solid intuitions he had in his gay Victorian fever dream... ::eyeroll::

So later, when Sherlock says this:

^ Hey, bud. You should really listen to yourself. First off, your “joke” deduction is clearly everything-you-believe-about-Mary and if you’d take that intuition seriously, you might feel better-equipped to protect John and Rosie. But maybe you also remember someone drugging you out of your mind? I don’t know how it’s administered or who did it, just that it’s Moriarty who ultimately pulls the strings at the top of the terrible puppet show pyramid. For our purposes, let’s say his Belstaff is laced with “a dangerous new drug” like the totally-made-up-and-utterly-bonkers poisoned dress France sent to Elizabeth I in that Cate Blanchett movie. So whatever, it’s either long-lasting or they’re administering it to him repeatedly.

(The Moriarty stuff is based on M-theory basics, go read it if you haven’t-- @loudest-subtext-in-tv does not claim to be omniscient but I think the core of it is so thoroughly laid out that I find it difficult to argue with. Moriarty is controlling peeps and it helps me understand the show because I know it doesn’t matter what pieces he moves in what ways as long as some means get him to his end.)

Sherlock is super-duper drugged and not by choice. Remember this from HLV?:

He doesn’t like to have his mind impaired when he’s working. Stopping Moriarty is our boy’s top priority so he’s not trying to fuck around. Someone else is drugging him, Scarecrow fear toxin-style.

Back to the Thatcher busts. The Thatcher-smashing scene transitions look cool but they’re meant to be fucking weird, too. Thatcher’s face superimposed on Sherlock’s?! NO. That’s the definition of this feels wrong. And then there’s the original TST write-up with Pietro and Beppo on John’s blog.

The blog is meant to be canon. We’ve seen word-for-word text on screen match up with the blog content in past series. TheImprobableOne’s comments are important clues into Moriarty’s mentality. The main argument that the blogs no longer have to be considered canon is that “John Watson is no longer updating this blog.” per the notice at the top of every page. I would take that idea more seriously were it not for the fact that...

Papa Lestrade’s over here begging the audience to go check out John’s blog write-ups repeatedly. So they want the audience to see the original TST post and question Sherlock’s perception in S04E01 TST. Perhaps he’s in a waking dream state due to being drugged by Culverton. A state which will persist into TLD and result in the trippy long walk through London. Regardless, right now, Sherlock is a bit obsessed with Thatcher-smashing. John calls it:

Ella, and presumably Sherlock before her, call it:

There’s a good chance bustin’ Thatchers has nothing to do with his recurring dream--we’ll find out next week. ;) Maybe it has to do with kissing John! xxxxx

Onto mirror imagery--the three Sherlocks:

Follow the link above to read a little more detail into what I think each Sherlock represents. Basically? I think foreground Sherlock is our logical detective (with a great heart). Level One Distortion Sherlock is his brain running on fear, when he suppresses important intuitions like the knowledge of how Moriarty could have faked his death or the danger “Mary” poses to John. Level Two Distortion Sherlock represents Sherlock’s mind when he’s drugged and afraid. Shit goes crazy, as we’ve seen all throughout TST. And it’s gonna get worse before it gets better.

Case meta that could be clues about Sherlock being drugged:

The Cardiac Arrest: Sherlock may end up physically attacking Mycroft while he’s perceiving something completely different/doesn’t know he’s doing that.

Fresh paint to disguise another smell could = some fragrance (or anything, really) being used to cover up the smell or some other property of the drug that would make Sherlock suspicious enough to detect it. Moriarty’s burn-Sherlock plans are meant to demoralize Sherlock as much as inhumanly possible, so they don’t want him to discover the drug and get sober until after he’s adequately mindfucked.

Oh, and Moriarty’s player may have done a test run of the “dangerous new drug” on Charlie.