#sudbury haveli

[buzz-london]

The woods of Vraj are covered in frost! Gopal-lal goes out to herd his cows in the dark hours of the pre-dawn, wearing a bright red coat!

Paad inspired by this darshan -

અરી દેખો બૃજ લાગત ફિકો,

દેખો બૃજ આજ લાગત નીકો!

ચલો ગોવરઘન, ગૈયા ચરનકો,

હસત કુદત સબ ઠંડ ભગાવો.

થીજ ગયે હે ઓસ કે બીંદુ,

કોહરા ચહુ ઓર છવાયો.

ષ્વેત સીંગાર વન ઉપવનકો,

ભાવત શ્યામ સુંદિર વિચરનકો.

(Sorry for spelling mistakes)

[miniconsuffrage]

the actual answer to that poll is that neither schooling nor homeschooling can ever be truly good without child autonomy which can in theory be found in either place but often isn't

[sleepyjas]

.

[moondirti]

cigarettes out the window

A colossal, behemoth of a man, trapped in such a cramped room – he fills the space with brawn and the scent of wet firewood. Fresh rain on camp, sizzling coal that dies with a touch. It trumps the mould that functions as insulation, the dust that gathers on brittle rations – you’re a girl again, roasting honeyed marshmallows.

You run your tongue along your teeth, but all that clings is the bitter taste of smoke.

pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x f!Reader rating: explicit (18+ mdni) word count: 9.5k summary: stakeouts and cigarettes warnings: cunnilingus, masturbation, tummy bulge, size kink, unprotected p-in-v, nicotine/smoking addiction, reader has a backstory, mentioned alcoholism and illness, self-loathing, anxiety, canon typical violence, light gore, squirting notes: absolute fucking beast of a fic that took me way longer than precedented. no plot, just vibes - listened to the tv girl song of the same name throughout this.

Tendrils of silver-blue smoke dissipate into sour air – a slow, creeping stench. You’d tried opening a window; it hadn’t been enough. Testosterone and mildew clings to this room like a second skin, crusty stubbornness, impossible to scrape even as the sickly yellow wallpaper peels off thin adhesive.

The stakeout wasn’t supposed to last this long.

Laswell had given you two, three days tops. But the sun drowns behind the horizon line, and a dull navy sky blankets over failed reconnaissance once more. Night seven – your gloves are just as much ash as they are cotton. 

A cigarette lays tucked between your forefinger and thumb. An ashtray, one you’d set, packed, glares up at you. Blown glass infracts a kaleidoscope of harsh fluorescents from the signage outside. Motel – warped on a divets edge. It’s empty.

You blink and draw another deep inhale. Your nose ignites with the acridity, tarnished herbs that rage as chemical warfare – a fog that clings to you.

Tar-coated throat, sticky with disappointment. You’d hoped for a blood red eventide, doused in merigold, full-saturation. You should have known better – Sudbury is stuck in perpetual insipidity. The season is verging on spring, yet pewter tones and lurid lighting are all that bloom. 

You’re beginning to rot alongside it; skin wilting, bruised. You never were a peach, but you think you must have held something – some ripeness, plush, primed to sink into. You feel it shrinking now, draining out to feed some ignoble cause. 

Or, perhaps, the tobacco carved it out of you years ago. 

The thought does little to temper your efforts. The stick has burnt to its end, wrinkled, blackened with dying embers. You should stop – throw your lighter out the window and wake Johnny up. It’s his turn for watch.

Instead, you light another.

The buzz is instantaneous, intoxicating. Clean water poured over a blistering wound, relief for a tender moment before the sting boils over to become unbearable. Cyanide; you rely on poison in sheep’s clothing. 

The door creaks open, rusty hinges a non negligible constant in discretion. You don’t have to peer over your shoulder to know; that manufactured energy, of which you pull from a box, triples, snapping bones to contort into something pulsing – genuine. His walks away from this decaying dollhouse are frequent; we all have our cravings. 

You wish he’d hang around more. 

The dank carpet blunts his heavy footfalls. Even then, you can’t miss his size. A colossal, behemoth of a man trapped in such a cramped room – he fills the space with brawn and the scent of wet firewood. Fresh rain on camp, sizzling coal that dies with a touch. It trumps the mould that functions as insulation, the dust that gathers on brittle rations – you’re a girl again, roasting honeyed marshmallows. 

You run your tongue along your teeth, but all that clings is the bitter taste of smoke. 

“He still asleep?” Simon – Ghost, with the hard-shell mask still fit to his face – asks. You take a puff and force your eye to train on the wet concrete outside. Softened cement, muddy puddles pool in potholes to mirror their miserable surroundings. It’s not hard to believe that the sidewalk could collapse in the weight of his presence. A distinct vacuum, all consuming yet contained. 

You wonder if he wears those layers for varied causes. Forked paths; keep out, stay in. 

In the time it takes for his laden stare to leave your back, you’ve blazed through your piece ten times quicker than the last. Crackling nerves brush across your most vulnerable parts, you’re skinned, but you manage to screw the loose bolts in your confidence. 

“Did nothing all day but act like he took a whole squadron on his own.” 

Your chuckle lacks the humour you wish it held. Bone-dry, forced – it doesn’t tend to be that way with him; with his morbid jokes, shared between gunshots and close fatalities. 

Alrigh’. I’ve got another for you, Scout. Husked in your ear, over the channel only used by the two of you.

Hm? You’re crouched on a rooftop, sniper fixed on a potential target talking to a member of the 141. It was snowing in Holland that day, powdered-ice a blanket for your moored elbows. 

What kind of streets do Ghosts haunt? 

Go on then. Spit it out.

The target had pulled a knife out on your operative. 

A dead end. 

His chuckle warmed you enough to pull the trigger with little shake.

Dead ends, dead ends. 

He provides you with a noncommittal grunt that’s lost amidst rustling fabric. Your spine is stiff, reinforced titanium, ice-cold with frigid winds that pull in from the north. You can’t look back if you tried. 

There’s little to discern from his reflection in the grimey window – where Simon starts, where Ghost ends. Deft shapes move between shadows, dressed in all black. There’s the metallic glint of a zipper, dragging down. The white smear of his mask. His shoulder catches dim light; he’s in his combat shirt, long sleeves, fit to tree-trunk arms. That familiar hum in your core returns, singing its pleas. 

You swallow back the urge to continue the conversation, to extend the joke at Johnny’s expense. Instead, you prop your foot up on your seat to rest your chin on the curve of your knee. A boot remains anchored to the ground, keeping you balanced on the broken stool. One leg shorter than the others; it hadn’t been that way when you’d gotten here, but someone had insisted the wooden piece could hold his weight. 

You slide your gaze to the man in question. He’s spread across the small cot in the corner, an arm thrown over his face. He’s rigged, gun in holster, pinky curled in its direction. In a slow wave state, but a soldier still. 

You take turns resting, you and Soap. He says you snore. 

He’s jus’ taking the piss. 

And how wad ye know that, Lt? Ye're never around.

You hid your smile, then. It was a half truth. Ghost doesn’t rest, not here, but he makes a point to take his eight hour shift when you do. 

Ever-present, as fleeting as twilight. You’ll wake every now and then to find him standing by the window (never on the seat.) In your transitional consciousness, you think his body might be slightly angled to you. But chalky stibnite smears over his eyes, and your quiet nightmares flicker like worn film – you can’t tell whether he’s looking at you; whether he stays to have your back or so he can leave when you wake.

“Anything new?” He’s crept up behind you now. A full-bodied voice, it’s muffled canon fire, sliced with that cockney inflection. Does he know his query is command? 

“Feral cats got into a fight.” You settle on something to lessen the blow of his dissatisfaction – syrup, a flavouring agent. Additives to a sharp-pill mission. “Calico attacked that ginger kitten, over there. Mother was furious.” 

If he notices your frantic dodge, he doesn’t comment on it. 

He huffs instead, and places a white plastic bag on the table next to you. In it, styrofoam cartons stacked atop one another, pressed for space. You reel a string of focus to the street outside, still on the job, then scoot a little towards it. In spite of the lack of logo, the contents are unambiguous. A heady aroma, poignantly familiar; shallots, ginger, garlic, chilli. 

Chinese. Your favourite. Yet–

You’re enraptured by sycamore; heavenly ascension into the woody musk of the overbearing body next to yours. He’s close, still standing, hips at eye level. You credit your sudden heat to his permeating warmth, and not the flush that crawls to your cheeks.

No, certainly not heaven. Purgatory – an intermediate condition. You’re waiting on some higher power to tell you what to do; move closer, hold back.

Dead ends. You itch for a third cigarette; should you offer one? You picture pink lips puckered around white paper, a sight for sore eyes. You’d suck the cancer from between his teeth, perched on one thick thigh. 

Atta’ girl. Nice shot, Scout. Hit that one right on the mark. Kandahar, Afghanistan – the mark being a general’s eye.

You’d bathe in the blood of a thousand more men to rehear the feathered praise. It sits, ingrained in the gummy lining of your skull, there to stay until you’re cleft open to the world. It’ll happen one day. 

Atta’ girl, whispered crackle into your ear.

Your heart lurches, beating on the hollow bars of your ribcage. It takes every bit of willpower to combat the reckless abandon that floods through you at the feeling. 

With trembling hands, you take out the top box and ignore the way your elbow brushes the fabric at his crotch. SZC is scribbled on its cover with dried-out ink. Szechuan chicken. 

You refuse to face him when you ask: “How’d you know?” 

He moves to hand you a bottle of flavoured water, wrapped in a large palm. Clementine.

Right.

Jaunty cheers, claps on the back. You’re squeezed between Gaz and Price on one side of a booth, still equipped in full gear. The aftermath of your first assignment with Al Bravo, minimal damage. Your cheek is cut up, but you hardly feel it in the hazy satisfaction. Dim, golden lights. The tabletop is sticky with spilled booze. 

Outlined eyes linger on the site longer than the pain does. You squirm and tell yourself it’s for lack of wiggle room. 

“--and your plans?” Laswell nods, curving attentions to you. She’d been talking about her wife, about returning to a house someone has kept alive. Watered plants, betta fish too. You search for an answer that’ll hold as much significance and come up empty. Your lone fern is long dead by now.

“Order take out. Chinese probably, something spicy. Sick of the protein bars.” 

“Mobile cooks are rare to find.” She chuckles. “but hey, I’ll drink to that.”

You don’t reciprocate, though; she turns to talk to Price in lieu of your frown. Simon’s still on you; hawk-like, scrutiny framed by the dark fabric of another mask. Bulky arms cross over his chest, his shirt folded to his elbows. You’d been surprised to find tattoos, ink shading the entirety of an exposed forearm, folded to the contours of rippling muscle. Missiles, dog tags, barbed wire.

You hope your droopy lashes are enough to hide the way you study him in turn.

Soap, ears tinged pink, beckons the barmaid. “Round o’ beers for the table, lass.” It pulls you from your stupor. 

You wave at her – “Just a LaCroix for me, thanks.” – and bite your lip through the onslaught of objecting groans. It’s your second one, she knows to get you the orange kind.

Gaz: “How d’you ever let loose?” 

Price: “You deserve as much of a break as the rest of us, Scout.” 

You grimace and shake your head until they temper down to bemused grunts. 

Then –

“You don' drink?” 

It’d been a while since he’d spoken. His voice seeps like molasses onto snow. You think of the backyard maple popsicles from girlhood, your mom on the porch, drunk as she watches, uninterested. 

“No,” You chortle. “Dangerous when I’m loose lipped.”

He’s spread across the ratty couch you’ve never bothered using – diagonal to you – legs parted with both feet on the ground. You look anywhere but the space between his knees. 

“Don’t understand why we’re still here.” Capsaicin blazes up your tongue, vengeful in the fresh bout of air as you speak. Your stomach weighs heavier, cushioned in the swell of your gut, twinging uncomfortably – not for lack of space. Uncertainty; it looms like a mushroom cloud, the devastating fallouts of nuclear strife. You can’t imagine the Lieutenant a perverse man. Yet, to be eating alone like this–

“Chicken?” You offer, tipping your box with the prods of your chopsticks.

He cocks his head to the side, pupils trained on your conciliatory expression.

“More of a sesame guy, myself.” 

Of course. Sesame; honeyed, cloying.

Las Almas – Graves’ betrayal too deep a wound to do anything but smoke as you wait for Soap to find his way back to you. Rendezvous at the church. 

I’d murder for a whiskey. 

You mean scotch? 

I drink bourbon.

You’d giggled into the collar of your coat. Ghost’s tense leg tips towards yours, bumping knees. 

Got a sweet tooth, Lt? Hummed for only him to hear.

Problem, Scout? 

Negative, sir. 

He’d taken your cigarette and extinguished it on a decorative cross, half-moon stare fixed on you as he did. 

Simon’s one for caramelised spice, smooth sugar on the senses. Johnny had been shocked – like a good ol’ boy – but you thought it fit, oddly. This life means constant calamity, precipitous wrecking balls to unsteady foundations you try to rebuild. Bones, flesh – they shatter and rip and leave you with nothing but sand-grain memories that slip like water. 

It’s hard to indulge in something so fragile. Heedless, stupid. 

There are constants assured to never waver; you all have your vices.

“They’re in there. Jus’ a matter of waiting for ‘em to show their hand.” He adds to your initial inquiry. Sighing, you push your food away.

“Can’t we send in an extraction team?” 

His silence is telling. Bottomless pits pin you down, an anvil in influence alone. Your lips thin to a pursed line. 

It makes sense why Laswell won’t act on it – the compound across the street, said to be packed with chemists in cahoots with foreign extremists. If they’re truly a threat to national security, their circumspection is indicative of the havoc they could wreak. A treacherous threat is a quiet one. 

Your pocket droops with evidence to the fact, your shoulders alongside it. 

Bowed posture, loaded brow – exhaustion slowly inches up on you. You hadn’t noticed your arid state, sandpaper eyes, stooping lower with every blink. You foolishly wonder if he did, though; if Simon reads you like you do him. Does he know you trace your palm when you’re tired, marking the creases an old fortune teller read long ago? Your life line is vague, hun, so too is the sun. But would you look at that, oh! Your mother should be so proud – as thick and long as a tree root, that’s your heart line, right there. Sweet girl.

Your mother couldn’t have cared less. 

You roll your neck to loosen knotted kinks and reach for the paperboard container in your hoodie’s side. 

The cigarette doesn’t fit right in your hands this time; a paper-thin thing you draw life from,  too easily collapsible. There are more substantial materials in this world. Rocks, erosive seasalt – a hobby or two. Muscle, timbre, blue-black eyes. A skull that meant death to most, but not to you. 

You hold out on lighting it. Partially for current company. (More so than you’d like to admit.) 

Simon’s arms rest on the back of the couch. He looks sinful like this, tempting. Freshly ripe apple at the centre of Eden; you don’t think he’d lead you to damnation, but his cold study tells you otherwise. 

The hush isn’t awkward, not really. You can continue; you know he’d prefer it. 

But something in him is blinding. Not a sun – red-hot, sweltering – he doesn’t make you sick after too long in his presence. No – more akin to an interrogative light; harsh, illuminating the sweat that beads at your temple. He urges you to spill, spill, spill, until what squeezes your chest releases its iron clutch and you’re panting with the release of a secret you never wanted to keep.  

So–

“Where do you go all day, anyway?” You tease, cheeks rounded with a soft – or what you hope to be soft, and not an unsure grimace – smile. 

“Out.” Simon responds, a scratch in his words. His chest squares, broadening into a behemoth that should intimidate. That’s why no one talks ta ye, Lt. Soap broached once. Ye’re too big.

All for weeding out pointless chatter, he’d said.

This is pointless. But he’s still here, drawn to bite back at your ludic jabs, tuned in to the miniscule breaths that escape you as you scramble for a response. You think you know him, think he knows you. You lick your lips. “Mmm. That’s news to me.” 

And if you hadn’t been you – if you hadn’t been talked through a bullet to the thigh by his brute reassurance and dry humour alone – you might’ve missed the amusement that laces through his next syllables. “And where do you think I go?” 

The reciprocation licks at the base of your spine. Yearning. 

You suppress a shiver; seven trumpets to the apocalypse. His deep tone calls for devastation, Armageddon. 

You spit the first thing that comes to mind. 

“To shag it up with the girl in apartment eight.” 

And still with the revelation of what you just said. 

Your hands bury into your lap, embarrassment rising like a high tide in the pit of your bowels. If you were Soap, you’d have gotten away with it. Banter; she's aye asking about ya, Simon. Y’should give ‘er a chance. 

But you’re a schoolgirl again; fresh-faced, wide-eyed. Pencil shavings, question erasers – flip it and ask about the boy you like. You’re naive enough to try it until ‘yes’ faces upwards. 

“Afraid she’s not my type.” 

And that’s all he gives you. 

A silly hope bubbles, absent of all logic. You want to push it; to tear at delicate petals, chanting. He loves me, he loves me not. Silly recess games, dancing around each other on the playground: what is your type, Lt? Girls in sheer dresses to welcome you at the door? God forbid – the sergeant? John Mactavish with his stupid little mohawk and sunshine grin? 

Probably far away from women who have their inhibitions compromised – who run on nicotine and not much else. Vacant husk.

But if it were him. If he was the force between your fingers – blood-filled, thickset, shooting into your willing mouth – you’d abandon it all in a heartbeat. Cheek on his shoulder, cunt speared on his knuckles. Pumping, slick. Licking the salt up off his forehead. 

Fuck. 

You tut and flip your cigarette – unlit – to put back in amongst the others. The exposed end, stuffed with grey cinders, sticks out like a sore thumb. 

You’ll come back to it when you’re over this, when your dependency singles down to material things. Thirteen bucks, that’s all a pack costs – your wager on Ghost veers dangerously close to bankruptcy. 

“Go to bed, Scout. I’ll take next watch.” 

You don’t tell him Soap called dibs. They can hash it out between themselves.  You dream of kissing covered lips. Dead ends.

You: Ran out of shampoo. 

read at 3:25 am 

He brings you 2-in-1, head and shoulders. Sandalwood. 

“Didn’ know what you liked.” 

You’re beside yourself – barely contained, beaming ear to ear. Your lungs push for space against the pitter-patter rhythm of your heart. 

“Is this the one you use?” It comes out softer than precedented. Warbled, almost a purr; your chin is mere centimetres away from his chest as you look up at him. They bump when he mutters an affirmative. It’s convenient. 

In your proximity, he fills the entire expanse of your vision. Simon’s massive on his worst days, titanic as he bursts through a sea of soldiers – but here, now, he’s larger than life. Impossible. Enigmatic. Either shadow or brick wall if you reach out, press yourself into him. A crook of the elbow and your hand would be at his groin. 

You can smell it on him. The thin barrier of his balaclava doesn’t prevent it from reaching you; santalol. Mixed into his firewood, earth. He has fresh paint on his eyes. 

It reminds you of scorched newspaper, doused in stimulants and the bite of tobacco. You crave it, even when your last still clouds bitter at the back of your throat. It’s more muscle memory than anything; a nervous tic. To flick a lighter and chase that short headrush. 

He’s enough to hold you over for now, a drug in his own right, but you know – you know the second you turn to the cramped bathroom, door shutting behind you, your knees will buckle. You’ll step over grimy grout and scrub yourself until your skin is irritated, red. 

You hold out for just a moment longer, peering up at your Lieutenant. 

Anxiolytic. 

Then, when you start to outline the rest of him, following the planes of his mask, you force yourself to pull away with an overturning ache. 

You lie and insist you’re not too far gone.

Yet, you touch yourself to the thought of him. 

Holed in the small square shower, your hand clamped over your mouth. The water runs discontinuous, broken by loud hisses and weak pressure. It’s cold at this point, nipping away at heated flesh. Has he left by now? 

No, you hear muffled mumbles right outside. Johnny’s laugh barks loud. 

You’ve long since finished cleaning off, engulfed in a heavy perfume. Sandalwood, masculinity. Ghost. Simon. A projected image lights your closed eyelids; him looming, cornering you into the tiled wall. The showerhead would come to his browbone at full height, but he’d crouch down and kiss you and his hair would drip, droplets beating your cheeks. 

Atta’ girl. 

Husky compliments for only you to hear, cleaving you open on his cock. (Your fingers slip faster over your clit.) Folding you in half, pumping you full, overflowing. (You whimper into your palm.) Biting down on his shoulder, divotting yourself amidst battle-borne scars. 

He’d pinch your guts, you’d feel him in your chest. Tummy bulge, too much, too big. (Your hole quivers around the meagre thrust of your hand.) Spitting in your mouth, filthy, pushed down into a pillow, a wall, the floor. Bruised glutes, pistoning hip. (A bubble in your core nears popping.)

Problem, Scout?

Euphoria builds, a swelling cacophony of string-plucked and pressed pedalboard longing. A colourful sunset bursting into sight. Your legs squeeze; the air tastes like mist and warm sex – you chase the hints of masculinity that drift into the mix. His shampoo, his eyes. A presence more profound than anything else, unmoving and stubborn in the undercurrent of your life. Lodged into a river bank, a buoy when drowning.

A constant assured to never waver – blameless vice. Like sweets, like cigarettes. 

You picture his broad spread – shadowed gaze, hulking thighs. Arms powerful enough to manhandle you into anything and everything, wet clay to his ministrations. It’s not enough – this frantic rutting, hurried masturbation confined to a cubby. You need to feel the extent of him, every bit of skin pressed into yours. To trace those tattoos with washable markers, idle and lazy on a couch, laid up on his lap after a long nap. Domesticity, the type you lacked back home.

A knot clusters at the base of your spine, stuttering in and out of existence. You won’t be able to place it, can’t coax it out. Only him, only him.

Simon.

“Ya almost done, lass?” Soap raps at the door. 

Your heels slide on wet ground. You’re able to pull your hand out from between your thighs in time – smacking against cool walls to stabilise yourself – but not before you let out an emphatic yelp. 

“Bonnie?” He exclaims, louder. 

You gather your breath, blinking. The world tilts.

You’ve been in here too long. 

“Yeah! Yeah, don’t worry. I’ll come out in a bit.” 

Bloody hell.

You halt the spray of water and towel off in a stunned silence – floodgates locked once more. You will yourself to think of anything else – the threat across the street, chemists, terrorists, flavoured water and the saltpetre you shoot off with little thought. Kerosene, bullets lodged in gaping wounds, your mother’s liquor cabinet – closed off, cold heart. 

They always round back to him, duplicitous hands that lead you astray. Off on the wrong path.

Prominent veins that disappear behind painted gloves. Knives strapped to bullet-proof vests. Remembering you liked Chinese, and returning with supplies mere minutes after you’d sent the text. His voice, burrowing deep into marrow, thrumming the very sponge.

Or – maybe he’s everywhere, all at once. 

Dead ends.

When you emerge, your skin is still slightly damp, clinging to the loose clothes you’d thrown on in a fit. Soap leans against the door frame, waiting on you.

“Had us worried for a second.” He smirks. Us – you glance at the other. Simon stands by the window, diligent. “Hope ta God ye didn’ use up all the hot water.” 

You mimic his shit-eating expression. Faux mirth, it doesn’t quite resonate. “The cold is good for your skin, Johnny.”

“A'll take yer word for it, then.” Soap nods, patting your shoulder before slipping past.

You’re left alone with him. 

There’s a persistent twinge, still lodged up velvet walls. It returns with gnawing sincerity at the sight of him. You hold it back, dismissing your internal pleas for a promised release, and tentatively pad over to where he stands.

“Hey,” You whisper. His head tilts the slightest bit, just enough for his spilt-ink irises to latch onto yours. Your gaze flickers down to the jut of his chin. 

“Alright?” 

Three beats before your response. No. Never. Can’t be. 

“‘Course.” The tremble in your legs speaks to the contrary. Nails bite into your palm. You add – “Nothing happened?” – with a vague motion to the street, redirecting your tension to something substantial – a mission with a foreseeable goal. 

“Kitten lost its mother.” He echoes, taking in the way your expression lifts. “Roadkill.” 

“Oh.” Your chest throbs, a faint bang of the doldrums. 

“And,” He appends. “Laswell’s informants say the targets will make a move sometime tomorrow.” 

You ruminate on the knowledge, turning it over in your head. It doesn’t exactly fit, too slippery to be anything to trust. You concede for the time being.

“And when they do?” You ask. 

“We’ll be ready for them.” 

Naturally. You hold onto his tone, that grim determination fizzing through you, charged particles, rallying electricity. And the lightning, that devastating bolt that burns with every bullet, every spotted threat, is a credit to him. Lieutenant, spearhead of your team. 

You find yourself thinking about the after. When sloshing alcohol fills their stomachs in celebration, and the report has been typed, filed into a manilla folder to spoil on some general’s desk – would this memory, too, gather dust? The glimpse of you, doused in his scent, flushed. Takeout, asleep with company – a semblance of true home abandoned between these musty walls. 

It’ll be hard not to miss it. 

You click your tongue, still on the precipice of something. Like hanging off a cliff – you can’t see far enough to gauge whether there’s water to break your fall. Your orgasm is a forgotten prospect by now; you’ve depleted the limited alone time you have for the day.

But–

You search for your cigarettes, that familiar grittiness stuck to the roof of your mouth.

They’re laying on the table, next to Simon’s car keys and gun. 

You take the smallest step forward, wrist spasming. But a large hand wraps around it, completely overtaking you. 

You’re stopped before you can even reach out. He’d been following your eyes. 

“MacTavish’s certainly got bad timing, hasn’ he?” He starts, slowly pulling your hand up to his face. You’re a ragdoll, succumbing to his command. 

What did he mean by that? Bad timing? 

Your gut bottoms out, sinking to unfathomable depths. 

He can’t know. Can he? 

The Sahara Desert. Cracked lips, sunken skin. Your nose burnt, peeling under an unforgiving sun. 

He’d noticed you lagging behind. I’ve got water in my bag. 

I’m good. 

You’re not. Drink. 

And unscrewed the bottle when you proved too weak. 

Ghost is renowned for that brutal efficiency, barked demands in a chaotic field. His strength rings louder than any grenade, released strikers, thrown into your line of vision. As it charges, you picture death and the unfulfilling void your life had been. Mud blows onto your face. Mud, and flaming plastic, and the gore of other victims. A shrill sound only you can hear; danger of going deaf. Danger, danger. A final fatality. No survivors. 

He doesn’t miss a thing. 

He halts when your fingers bump the stretched fabric of his mask. You can feel his breath, hot steam. Skin prickles, and your panties pool with the reminder of his mortality. A ghost, but living nonetheless. 

He draws a deep inhale. 

He knows. 

“Didn’t finish, pet?” 

Shit.

That fucking voice – pestle onto mortar, grinding you down into a candied paste to gorge on. He’s a century old being, emerging from a prison – Tartarus – only to find you, supple and sweet as nectar and completely willing. You blink up at him with lidded eyes, damp eyelashes fanning the crease of your lid. 

“No.” Barely a whisper, all breathlessness. 

His head dips, stooping low to match your height. You can trace the lines that paint seeps into. 

“Turn around. Face the window.” 

Chastised, guilty as a child caught doing something naughty, you swallow the stone in your throat and do as he says.  Somewhere, floating in the deep recesses of your mind, you’re aware you can refuse. He won’t strike up a counter – would pat your hip and send you off to bed.

But your back is to his abdomen now, swapping body-heat and the groans of your internal organs. He’d almost bled out on you once; on a mission in Russia – limping, bread-crumb trail of maroon ichor on untouched snow. Your fear had you heaving into a metal bowl, tucked away in an aeroplane bathroom, refusing to leave until he’d been stabilised next door.

You’d be the traitor that shot him before you pass this up.

A widow’s sky; bedarkened, weeping. Clouds roll over the moon, kraken-cruel, coughing great gouts of water onto the drab buildings in your area. It’s hard to see much beyond the hazy neon sign, scintillating behind fog, and the lone street light. The weather is ideal for enemy attack; they could camouflage in the great pour. 

As it stands, though, all you focus on are the gloves that brush up and down your arms. 

“Keep an eye out. Got it?” 

Wet hair shakes when you nod – so quick to succumb to his every whim. His torso rocks from behind you – a soundless chuckle – and the air shifts as he moves, occupying himself with something, just out of observation.

You’re determined to do right by him. Atta’ girl, rumbled in that inflection of his. Squinting, you leer out on that wretched building, as it has been eight hours a day for the past nine. 

But warm hands start to run up your shirt. Calluses skim, finding the knife-wound scar at your side, pressing into dimpled flesh. He kneads you – tapping into that lush centre, tender as a peach, still there. You’re ripped from your moniker, Scout, and transformed into a blubbering miscreant. 

It takes you a stupidly long time to piece it together. You feel it before you realise; the rough-leather touch, dry enough to scrape gooseflesh. Fingernails, cut short, scratching nerves, wheedling so they shoot liquid desire down to your core.

He’d taken off his gloves. 

Your back arches with renewed vigour, jaw hinging, no barrier between the empty room and your drawn out moan. He’s fucking fire on you, licking up the available expanse of skin until his thumbs brush the plush underswell of your breasts. 

You frantically search for his forearms, scrambling for purchase in his onslaught.  It’s not exactly ecstasy, far from it — no rainbow blooms, tingling gold from your toes to your nose – but it’s been ages since you were last caressed like this. Enough for you to feel brand new, wrapped gift in a prim little bow, eager to be spread, undone. 

A plea balloons in you, knocking teeth, choking. He pinches your pebbled nipples in reprimand, a speechless warning, and you understand, tilting upwards to keep an eye out, lips shut. 

“Look at you, desperate little thing.” He groans, working your tits with Herculean strength. You nearly collapse at the glorious pain it elicits – unwavering focus pointed solely on you, that pragmatic means to an end. You tighten your hold on his wrists, his frame your only support.

“O-Only for… ah–” One hand travels down your navel to coast on the waistband of your sweats. You hiccup, forcing your resilience, staying on task. Keep an eye out

“This what you think about? When you stuff those tiny little fingers up your cunt and tell yourself they’re enough?” 

But you see nothing; nothing but glowing prospects, the sight of what you could be. Rain – inundated, broken to blacking out, sparking power lines, exposed wire. 

You wobble and tail end into a prominent bulge, lower back skimming coarse denim. Simon meets you halfway, lugging you closer, until you fit perfectly against him. Head to chest, back to –

He grinds his pelvis into you, etching himself permanently there. An invisible scar, another brand for your time with the 141 – one marked in black, virile crest onto wool. He’s massive; no one can ever be enough after him – if it was up to you, there won’t be.

“Fuck.” You pique into a whine. “Please… Please, S–” 

“Not here.” He says, slotting his nose above your ear. It’s damnation, this game of tug-of-war, tightroping the line between seething torture and bliss. 

“We can be quick,” 

And he growls, ripping into a feral noise that stuffs your senses as he cups you, finding your soaked distress at its source. “I’ll take my time with you. With this–” He twists a nipple, a sharp sting. “With this–” He pinches the plump fat of your cunt. “Fuckin’ hell, pet. Wicked, is what it is – what you do to me.” 

You bite your tongue and drink the blood that beads, vision blurring with hot tears. It’s the lull after an extinguished tab, the crawling addiction – more, more. 

You need to see him, to look straight ahead at an eclipse as it darkens your world. 

“Yours. I– D-Do whatever… you want,” 

Simon shudders, shaking you along with it, as though you’re one. “I’ll ruin you.”

“M’already there.”   

And then two digits press into your folds, gathering the slick that drips. It must be phantom, with the way the sensation shoots through you, undeterred, stirring that coil of buried pleasure. It must be – supernatural, unreal, startlingly mythological, spoken only through word of mouth for fear of what legends can wreak on paper. 

But it’s fucking real. You’re far too familiar with fleeting dreams, of grinding down on pillows that are too pliable to compare to him. Reading fairy tales to take you someplace else, those books burnt, along with your oak shelves.

This tangibility – the true ripple of muscles under, behind, around you – is nothing of the sort. You feel it in your liver, your throat. Picking the plaque that lines your lungs. 

Simon absolves you of all treason, all guilt. You only exist as you are now, a puddle of divinity.

But as he starts circling your clit, you’re able to discern a slip in the shadows through your bleary lust. 

Along the perimeter of the compound walls, just across the street. 

“H-Hey–” You croak. He tugs you tighter against him, thick finger starting to breach you. Seizing his arm, you bury your lips into his sleeve. “Simon.” 

He slows his efforts, buried quarter way, at the first knuckle. It twitches within you – he can taste the gravitas in your tone. 

“Lt… I think– I think I see something.” 

Destiny switches on its axis, warping back to grim reality. When Ghost instantly withdraws, bolting for his gun, you emerge from the pool of ignorance you’d so willingly dove into. Disappointment, devastation. Undeserving of more than this fleeting touch, non-ordained. Whatever good deed you’d committed to be able to encounter heaven, combated by the kills you’d enacted – hellish girl. 

“SOAP, OUT, NOW.” Ghost bangs at the bathroom door.

He turns to order you – something about spotting him as he goes to confront the threat. 

You’re at a standstill, paralysed – your irises the only things that move as you hunt the cause to his sudden urgency.

Why’s he so worried? 

It was only a shadow. 

Could have been the kitten. Or the Calico that terrorises it. 

A car. Some teenager reckless enough to drive in this downpour. 

You’d ruined your one chance. Your position will be compromised, and when the gunpowder clears, he’ll wake from this purgatory and paint you just as you are. His teammate, relative rookie, nicotine kiss. 

And him, Ghost – Lieutenant. You’ll be stuck searching for Simon in the fissures. 

But your name is not for nothing. 

Scout. You’d earned it in Mexico, on your first mission with him. Spotted a cartel’s corps from a mile away, crouched in the undergrowth, dressed in all green. 

You’re the reason we’re alive, kid. 

It comes to you clear as diamond, purified with static pressure and graphite. Filling in the scratches, glinting – winking – at you. 

A red laser, pointed straight at your chest. 

Sniper. 

“GET DOWN.” That cockney cadence, launched louder than ever before. 

Your Lieutenant doesn’t yell, not at you. 

At Soap. At Gaz. Sometimes even at Price. 

Never at you. 

“SCOUT.”

A careening mass throws you down onto the carpeted floor – a crushing boulder in weight alone. You hardly register the solid arms that wrap around you – the hard-plate chest you’re tucked against – before a clamorous whistle strikes the motel.

The blast bursts near your head, spewing merciless fusillade. The walls cave in, fire rupturing from the screeching bomb. 

Red clouds your vision – blood or ire or your harrowing life, flashing before your eyes.

There’s a ringing in your ears. You think of Simon, of climbing sycamore trees and sleeping on its branches. Eating honey from a pot, disposing of your damned habits – that one upturned stick, to be lit once you’d moved on. Your Papa had told you the tale, skin-wrapped bones, laying on his deathbed. 

Back in the trenches, my friends and I would invert a single cigarette upon buying a new pack. If we lived long enough to smoke it, we were of the lucky few.

You lose consciousness, buried beneath rubble and a hulking body.

Kerosene, arson – gunmetal sulphur pouring into your bedroom in the dead of night. You had owned a collection of vintage dolls, dressed in decorative lace and bonnets, given to you by a distant relative. Their porcelain faces had melted in the heat. 

You’d been counting stars the evening before, perched on a ledge, waiting for one to blink onto the obsidian. There was a meteorite instead, a streak of glimmering marvel on the edges of a tree, dissolving in earth’s atmosphere. You hadn’t made a wish, but you’d left the window open for your Papa to come back. 

It was the only exit out when your door crumbled to ash. 

A vermillion blaze versus a two story drop. You took your chances barefoot when your mother’s liquor cabinet fed the flames, inferno now. Jumping out into the muggy yard, your nightgown snagging splinters. Cushioned by a rosebush she had stopped tending to – dry, with razor-sharp thorns. 

She was too inebriated to rise on her own two feet. Dead, along with the house, once home.

When you come to, you’re in the medbay back on base. 

You suffered a second-degree burn on your shoulder and a head trauma worth eight stitches, and not much else. 

Your brain, switched out for bromine-doused cotton, takes a while to recall the events that led you here. You play a game of catchup before you greet the world, memories stuck behind a blurry pane of overwhelming emotion. You don’t exactly remember so much as you feel; desire, confusion, a terrifying sense of peace while embraced by a force that meant safety. 

No, that’s not quite right. 

Your neck aches. When was the last time you ate? 

You need a cigarette.  

Not embraced. 

Your eyes fly open. 

Simon. 

“Hey, hey.” Gentle hands press your torso, thumbing you back down on the stiff cot. The voice is higher-pitched than his, softer. Laswell. “Easy there, Scout. You’re still hurt.”

The monitor picks up on your alarm, beeping in tandem to the staggering tread of your heart. Your ribcage closes in on itself, paradigm of dread – you can’t stop the nervous tremor in your fingers. 

A white halo frames the Inspector General, highlighting the flyaways on her blonde bun. Her blouse, typically steam-pressed to perfection, gathers in wrinkles instead. 

You’re sure you look worse. Your tongue wilts with lack of hydration.  

“W-What happened,” Thankfully, she picks up on the croak in your tone and hands you a bottle of water. Unflavoured – not clementine. 

She goes about explaining as you drink. Faulty information, distorted by word of mouth. Turned out to be one day off. They’d been intent on transporting their cargo – the unlawful compounds worked on for months – until someone tipped them to your location. One too many sightings, I’m afraid. The boys were reckless with how often they left. 

You digest the events with little more than a nod. Building anticipation constricts your throat; your attempt to address it comes out unsteady,

“And…” The question dies before it's posed, breaking off to clot the air. Your fears; too afraid to speak them into fruition.

But Laswell gives you a small smile, patting your blanketed calf. 

“They’re alright. MacTavish is still out – he got the worst of it I’m afraid. Was as naked as the day he was born when we found him, but he’s stable.” A cold wave of relief urges the humourless chortle to tumble from your lips – an excavation of a grim unease, fossilised deep in your gut. “The Lieutenant was discharged last week.” 

Biting your lip, you duck your head to idly observe the IV taped to your forearm. A new haar of synthetic smoke purges you; for once, a deep inhale of a substance that won’t rot. The knowledge that he’s okay – fully whole, out there, somewhere – lends itself to that tantalising urge, fulfils it better than thirteen bucks every will. 

You follow the tube that pumps you full of drugs and land on your phone, glowing on your nightstand. 

“We were able to salvage a few things. It’s broken, but it works.” 

You blink and hope your appreciation flashes through.

Lemon antiseptic, the metallic tang of stainless steel left out in the open. An intercom, someplace distant, blares static orders to the late night nurses that bustle down the hall.

It’s not until Laswell leaves and you’re alone, restless, entangled in taut sheets, that you check your messages. 

Two unopened. Both under one contact – Lt.

Found him in the wreckage.

sent tuesday

Accompanied by a photo.

A ginger kitten with a scalded nose, curled up in the crook of a tattooed forearm.

You don’t see him for a month afterwards. 

The Captain and Kyle visit after Soap wakes. They crowd into your room, in full arms, and tell you stories about Damascus. 

Kibbeh, they call it. I was just about ready to stuff ten into my pockets. It was just that good.

Don’ tempt me, Garrick. A'v been livin’ off soup an jello for two weeks.

You slump into your single pillow and imagine you’re anywhere but here. 

Bulgur wheat pounded with meat, rolled into a ball – toasted pine nuts and spice. Standing below mosaic arches, cover from the light shower and a fragile, pellucid sky. Backgammon in a cafe. 

Atop a windowsill, legs swinging as you look for your Papa in the night. Still full from your peanut-butter and jelly sandwich dinner, made with grubby little hands, tiptoeing to reach the kitchen counter. Roses, just watered, still thriving.

Coffin nail, death stick. Flipping a cigarette, seated across a man who refuses to let you light it. Szechuan chicken smeared down your throat, a disused motel transformed sanctuary. That titillating crush, culminating to desperate gropes, attuned to what you like. 

As your sutures dissolve, you spend an endless stretch of time hovering over a keypad. Your last sent message – what’d you name him – left with no response. Dead ends.

You ask Laswell to get you a pack of Marlboro red and deplete the twenty before you’re discharged. She brings along a fresh set of clothes; leggings, a hoodie and gloves. They keep you snug when you step out into the winter wind. 

Snow detonates under the crunch of your boots, the world around you imprisoned in a glair-white silence. Nothing sounds, nothing stirs, nothing sings. Your breath is visible, glittering like angel-fire. A buzzing mind – founded in two cigarettes over the past hour – entices you to act beyond reason. You rent a car and drive three hours out. 

It’s 9:02 pm when you text him, curled up on the couch in your safehouse.

You: finally out

[attached: current location] 

And you don’t wait for a response. You place your phone face down and click to a random gossip network. All on D-list celebrities – you forgot to pay your cable bill. 

Actress baby bumps and divorce scandals sing you to sleep.

read at 9:03 pm

Broad shoulders – dusted in powder from the storm outside – occlude your entryway. 

You bat away the exhaustion roiling your senses, breathing through the obnoxious lurch of your stomach. 

Ghost towers over you, ball cap and mask covered, larger than you remember him. 

You’re the one who invited him. And yet–

His actual appearance unnerves you to the point of emphysema. 

It all comes swarming back to you.

The pulsing ardour, renewed vitality pumped into a hollow conch. Wet firewood, camp smouldering as fat droplets, sobbing clouds, splash on a barbecue. That smell that carries in with harsh weather – coal and warmth from an unknown source, snuggling under a quilt with a window swung open because you just can’t get enough. 

Bottomless chasms, anointed scelaras – central heterochromia, flecks of blue and a ring of black painted onto pupils that pin you down. 

Your brow furrows, indents to store the unspoken, bereft of assurance. Your inquiry cracks with a petrifying amount of vulnerability.

“How are you?” 

He takes a step forward. “Your head–” 

“Almost a scar at this point,” You grin, brushing over the wound. 

“And Johnny?” 

“Better than ever.”

“You mean to tell me, you haven’t been in contact with anyone since Sudbury?” 

A candle flickers from its place on your television console – peppermint and the aroma of melted wax. You’d muted the program at one point. Now, all there is to go on is the polychromatic motley of cartoon characters, suffering injuries that progressively grow more animated. 

The scene illuminates Simon’s otherwise shadowed form – pink and blues lighting the skull on his face mask. You’d travelled to your couch, spread across its length with him seated at your feet. His thigh tenses by your ankle. 

“Hm.” Pinky twitching, it brushes your heel. 

“Sent on some other mission, then?” 

“Negative.” He gruffs, the clipped answer popping like kindling logs, and shifts towards you. Cushions sink, unused to his musculature, and LED hues warp along the exposed skin of his forehead. His hood is still up, hat fixed on his head – you can’t see his hair – but ashen eyelashes tell you it's blonde. 

You watch the way his knee jumps, boot tapping the hardwood floor. Since you invited him in, suspense has radiated off everything he does. Like he’s primed, in that instinctual mode that triggers before a fight, panther on its haunches. 

You think you know why. 

“It’s not your fault, Lt.” 

His brow bone sets, hanging over the boundless stare that slides to you. 

Knees bending, you tuck your legs underneath you to move closer. Pandora’s box.

“I left too often. Got spotted too many times.” 

The concession comes in an earth-shattering quietness. 

Simon tends to corners, alleyways too narrow to fit him, eclipse, his subtlety the upper-hand in every battle. Dressed in tenebrosity – a gloaming shade, stibnite eyes – he veers on the precipice of anonymity. He had been, for the longest time. Ghost and that’s all, assurance to a quick kill before he fades from the radar. No safehouse, no name, a quick glimpse at a face. His file, composed of black bar censors.

Who’s he? Newly introduced to the 141, tail of liquor not far behind you. 

That’s your Lieutenant. You’d do well to keep him as just that. 

When you were a kid, you thought twilight was when the world would be plunged into the slag, a stygian crypt. Darling child, you should be in bed. When the moon turns its back on you and you’re left with nothing but the northern star.

But your Papa pointed the truth out on one of your several camping trips, just the two of you in the midst of a congested wood, laying against thick Sycamore trunks. 

Twilight is when the sun rounds just below the horizon. 

That little clarity, paling blue. When you wake up to the reflection of its rays blushing your tent walls, and you’re able to see the outline of your hands. Still dark enough to go back to bed, but a sign you have a new day waiting on you. The tipping point of tranquillity. 

He’s twilight; here, now. Laying down a slice of guilt he stuffs bone-deep.

“And you saved my life.” 

Simon takes a moment, then nods, a minute incline of his head. 

“I’m sorry too, y’know.” You smooth over the hair that feathers his forearm. This one is a blank canvas, completely bare save for the white scars that cross it. “If I hadn’t distracted–”

“No.” His hand is sweltering when it engulfs yours. “Don’ apologise for that.” 

An ignored promise rustles. Not here. I’ll take my time with you.

“Simon…” 

He murmurs your real name in response, the sound pulled deep from within the recesses of his chest, as though it’s been stored there for aeons. A gem in a dragon’s den. It calls to vertigo, a surge of adrenaline, free-falling. Like tilting your body back on a swing, legs kicked to the air – knowing there’s sand to break your tumble but screaming nonetheless. 

“I still–” 

His head dips low to face yours. Nose on nose. A warning rumble as he snarls. 

“I know, pet. Me too.”

Your pulse thumps, centred in on that bundle of nerves at your core. Cornered prey, backed into the arm of your couch. Touching yourself to the thought of this very thing, enclosed in a shower, him right outside – he fills your view. All you see are those eyes that light with lechery. All you feel is his arm, rounding your waist.

“Y-You– haven’t… haven’t seen my bedroom yet.” He shudders, then stiffens, clasping you securely to his man of steel. His mouth tucks to your ear, subsequent whisper a savage vow.

“I think I’ll be able to find it.” 

With one swift heave, he throws you over his shoulder, resolute against your coquettish squeals.

“Don’t you fucking hide from me. Spread your legs, pet, let me see that cunt.” 

An iron wall presses you down onto the duvet, suffocating, completely submerging you in skin-wrapped sinew, meaty arms caging you in on either side. Your panties were the last to go, stubbornly moist and clinging to glossy lips. He had helped you slip them from your ankles. 

“J-Jus’ fuck me… We can do the oth… other stuff– ah-” 

He’s still in his jeans, a staunch contrast against your nude, slot between your trembling legs. Nails graze the edge of his belt buckle. The bulge constrained by denim is enough to tempt you in forgoing the foreplay.

But he slaps your thigh, the blow sharp as the sting that blossoms under impact. Your hips buck, a hiss blowing from between your teeth.

“It won’t fit like this,” Simon grits, hooking those large hands under your knees. He manoeuvres you with little effort, folding you in half to bear your pussy to his wandering eyes. The hoodie slips off when he hangs his head low. 

Honey tresses, dirtied blonde – streaks of brown. Cropped short at the sides but unkempt where he’s able to brush it back under the balaclava. 

Your panting halts for the second you take him in. Eyes flicker up to your open expression, lips parted. You don’t see it, but he smiles – just the slightest bit – under the mask. 

“You’re quivering.” 

“Huh?” 

His thumb swipes over your hole. 

“Oh–” 

He takes advantage of your reverential state and dives, sliding to lay on his front. You’re hardly able to register it when he flips off his mask, before his nose presses to your clit, stifling heat completely engulfing you. 

“Fuckin’ hell.” A groan, muffled by lewd slurps and squelches. Your back arches, and his arms move to support it as you thrust into his eager mouth. 

Simon fucking devours you, absorbed in the endless slick that seeps. Dextrous, mimicking the motion’s you’ve long since memorised in your fantasies. Those nights in Sudbury, where he kept you company as you dreamt of being splayed on that cot, three fingers plunging into your airtights depths. He sucks the moisture, that sticky sweetness that transforms into something else in his presence. From polluted waste, toxic chemicals rung from cigarettes and self-loathing, to nostalgia, nectar – life before it had gone to shit. 

He’s stone while keeping you in place, intractable, offering you no choice but to clutch onto fresh sheets and sob out to nothing. No prayers, no pleas; you’re an incoherent mess in his onslaught, tangent syllables of Si…mon and so g-good. You don’t beg for release or deceleration – nothing you say goes. It’s just him, just that fucking… expert tongue, sinful desire. Fingers buried into flesh, calling sore bruises.

To find purchase in that hair, clinging onto locks that are still somewhat damp. He’d showered before he came, soaped in sandalwood – 2-in-1. It’s convenient. You’ve gained an affection for the fragrance, foraging for it everywhere. Cologne, air-freshener, chapstick. Jotted on your grocery list, shampoo, body wash – timbre tinted, essence of him. You capsize into the masculinity that emanates from those honey curls, pushing him onto you, tongue swatching deeper. Deeper. 

You’d take him raw, too. Post-workout, sweat-coated. Stripping those layers after a mission, laying him down. Lemme take care of you. Musk, unadulterated redolence. The salty tang down his pecs, licking fervent adoration, a four letter word spelt in glistening spit upon a muscled abdomen. Cupping his balls with steadfast devotion, gaping fauces clicking with the ram of his tip, swallowing him deeper. Deeper. 

The digits that had been there – testing waters before the motel was bombed – return, gathering the liquid that pools down the crest of your ass. He brushes the tight ring of muscle, pauses, then carries on in his endeavour to stretch you open on his fingers. 

Nothing could prepare you for the empyrean pleasure that wracks through you when the two are fully situated, up to their ends, quirking back to hit that spongy wall. 

“So fuckin’ tight. Can barely move ‘em, pet.” He groans. Your eyes squeeze shut, neck thrown back, rising into salvation. Paradise. 

No; beyond that. This gratification wasn’t born in strife, no wars were waged in its name – the first crusade, witch hunts. It’s a thread, separate from it all, diverging from literature and alcohol, taking with it nicotiana, an uprooted plant. It’s something new, something the two of you create – Simon, Ghost, embedded into someone who’s waiting a lifetime for him. 

“I– I’m–” Your insides entwine, tingling self-indulgence skipping up your spine, hightailing your head. He’s added a third, scissoring your velvet walls apart, giving into the vacuum and delving with twice the power. “Simon! Ple… Please–”

“Give it to me, c’mon.” Your calves curve over his back, holding him there. Gut, intestines, your heart; they threaten to snap, to succumb to the eternal gravitas of the force between your legs. 

You gush into his wide mouth, flooding him in a heady ambrosia. 

And Simon – leviathan that prospers in the cavernous wet – swallows it all, kneading tempting circles under your knees.

“Atta’ girl.”

“I bought you something.” You mention between hushed moans.

His heavy body wraps around yours, holding you to a bare chest, his hips pistoning lazily into the plummet of your pussy. A swollen cock spears your open, wedged so deep it touches your cervix with flighty pecks. 

Likewise, he presses sloppy kisses on the bend where your neck meets your shoulder. His chin is still soaked with liquid sex. 

“Yeah?” The taunt vibrates through you. You feel it settle in the place you reserve, just for him. 

Delirious, stuffed chock-full of your favourite vice, you giggle. “Mmm. Chocolates.” 

Rough fingertips seek your clit, deliciously abrasive as they rub it in, unyielding. Your fourth orgasm slithers up on you. 

“Chocolate?” 

You turn to meet his lips, clacking teeth. When you speak again, you realise with dizzying lucidity that the taste of tobacco is long gone, replaced by the evidence of intimacy and lingering bourbon. 

“Y-yeah… Sweet tooth.” 

Simon drives himself deeper into you.

“There are sweeter things.”

He’d named the kitten Tommy.

[solar-sunnyside-up]

I'm really curious about what you think schooling would look like in a Solarpunk world/future!

Because the current public school system is broken af and the homeschool system isn't much better. I personally have looked into things like Sudbury schools and found good things and also issues. I've always been a proponent of the IDEA of Unschooling (which I understand to be, letting the child learn naturally through the world around them, learn reading through reading to them or teaching math and even basic chemistry through teaching them to cook, etc) but it seems like most parents use it as an excuse to not educate their kids...

I really think kids should learn practical things alongside the Academic stuff (three Rs, science, etc) but no system seems right...

Oooh boy! Have I thought about this one endlessly!

So background info that I have to frame where I'm coming from-

A- the current system is built for school>> factory worker pipeline

B) it also evolved from ppl working at factories and needing to put their kiddos somewhere while they worked their 9-5! Thus Sunday school evolved from something to teach basic literacy to a full time job for children (it's legit nearly 40 hour weeks for CHILDREN) so there's a lot of padded time to ensure they meet that quota

C) it's used of a massive scale it was NOT designed to be used at

Soooo!! Let's imagine a better one!

Personally, based on children's development I think schooling should be broken up into focused chunks and then obvi each kiddo should be able to work at their own pace within these chunks of time.

0-6 Motor and sensory skills- introduced to music/shapes/building, "helping" with community chores (laundry/windows/dishes/sweeping), basics of plants/gardens, learning about transportation and basic navigation.

7-10 Written- literacy (reading/printing/telling time/storytelling/etc), health (emotional+physical), basic cooking + tool usage, basics of history/geography, basics of all sciences, gardening more independently

11-13 social + advanced work -- advanced history/science/literacy/home eco/etc.. start working within the community in a vollunteer capacity, Starting to specialize in interests, focuses in philosophy/analysis/debate,

14-20 community and citizenship --greated focus in Philosophy/debate/analysis in addition to apprenticeships of testing out what they'd like to do with their lives

20+ whatever they wanna do! Personally I think our adulthood should start over from 0 here. Bc after you hit 20 your a baby adult, but like a 35yr old is nearly a teenager as should be treated as such! Finding themselves, building community, getting the swing of all that jazz.

Then the WAY this is taught would be with ppl close to the kiddos, neighbors and parents and community leaders would be in charge of these chunks. Much more like a tutor or professor style where each teacher specializes in both the thing their teaching but also the kiddos their raising.

[youcouldmakealife]

SOTM: Vinny/Tony, Fourniers; one-trick pony

For the prompt: Dying for a Vinny/Anton update!

Thomas never had time for hobbies, not really. As a child, maybe, but the first time he volunteered to play goalie in house league he knew that was what he wanted to do.

He doesn't mean in a ‘with his life’ sort of way, though it was that too. More like every time he wasn’t actually on the ice, in the net, he thinking about it, practicing skills for it, working on his reflexes, his flexibility. Doing a hundred jumping jacks a day after a teammate’s older sibling told him it’d make him taller. He kept it up even after his coach told him that wasn’t how height worked, just in case he was wrong. Anything to get better.

It’s not that Thomas slacked on the rest of his life or anything — when he was at school he was at school, and when he was with friends, he was with friends, though he did make Meg shoot on him more than he probably should have, and when he was camping with his dad, he was in the wilderness.

But he never had enough ice time to satisfy him, never had enough teammates putting shots on him, never had enough time one-on-one with the Sudbury Wolves goalie coach that gave him some sessions as a favour because he was his teammate Zack’s uncle. Because Zack told him that Thomas had ‘it’.

And if Thomas didn’t have ‘it’ before those sessions, he did after, that edge that nobody else his age had. Advice on his blocker hand, sure, but more important things: on eating a clean diet. On prioritizing mobility above everything else. On what he could play through, and what he couldn’t, and if he didn’t know, to take that time just to be safe. That his mental toughness was as important as his physical toughness, and then some.

He had teammates who would sneak time during the long drives to games in the surrounding towns, entertained by Game Boys, books, Pokémon cards, but Thomas had a bad case of motion sickness he didn’t manage to shake until he was in Juniors, and spent so much time on a bus it started to feel stranger not being in motion. Besides, he was already thinking about the game ahead.

But lack of practice or not, Thomas probably should not be doing worse than two fifth graders at Pictionary. Right after he was worse than them at Just Dance — ‘Uncle Vinny, you’re supposed to be an athlete’ was said, and his feelings are still a little hurt. Also worse at baking cookies, apparently, though all three efforts tasted pretty good to him.

“Can’t you do anything other than hockey?” Vanessa said, so offhand he knew it wasn’t meant to sting, but, of course, it stung anyway.

Thomas doesn’t know how to explain being so focused on one thing impoverishes everything else, and he definitely doesn’t know how to do it in an age appropriate way. It’s good, he thinks, that they don’t understand — at their age he’d already started cutting away parts of himself that didn’t, couldn’t fit. He couldn’t join any of the after school clubs, or play any other sport above house league level. No sleepovers, except with teammates, because he had practice first thing on weekend mornings. At a certain point it was just hockey. It had to be.

Vanessa and Olivia can be anything they want to be. Maybe not literally — there was a point he remembers Olivia wanted to be a mermaid, and he doesn’t know how achievable that goal is, though he does know if he ever brings it up Olivia will furiously deny that ever happened and then refuse to speak to him for the rest of the day.

But they have Fourns and Chloe as parents, two of the most supportive people Thomas has ever met, and Fourns had a long, successful NHL career, so money isn’t a barrier either. They can try everything, do what they’re good at, what they enjoy, what they love. Which is dancing to Rihanna, baking cookies, and hurting a poor goalie’s feelings.

That night, Thomas brings his batch of cookies home with him, because the girls didn’t want them, and eats three standing right at the kitchen island. They’re perfectly good cookies. He doesn’t know what they’re talking about.

Anton comes downstairs when Thomas is on cookie three, hair damp from the shower.

“Good day?” he asks, then says, “Cookies,” before Thomas can actually answer him, shoving one into his mouth.

“Good cookie,” Anton says, through a mouthful of crumbs, squeezing Thomas’ shoulder on his way to the fridge. He doesn’t even notice Thomas beaming at him, too busy investigating, probably because last time Thomas went to the Fourniers he brought back half a cake and two pizzas. The Fourniers don’t do leftovers.

Thomas doesn’t know if Anton would have even played hockey if he wasn’t Vladimir Petrov’s son. It’s not exactly something that could ever be tested. Anton’s been surrounded by hockey his whole life: he literally sat in the Stanley Cup before he ever got a pair of skates. Hockey wasn’t just an option, it was the option.

Anton loves it, Thomas knows that — he wouldn’t have gotten this far if he didn’t genuinely love hockey. Wouldn’t put up with hearing ‘as the son of the legendary Vladimir Petrov…’ if he didn’t love it, or the teammates he calls immature idiots, like he didn’t get into an elbow-off with Thomas over who got the last pancake just last week.

He definitely wouldn’t put up with the media if he could avoid it, and he likes meeting fans more than he pretends he does, especially when they’re kids, but he likes his privacy more, and nobody gets much of that in Montreal, not if they’re playing for the Habs.

Even Thomas finds it a little overwhelming at times, and he not only gets recognised less than Anton does, he loves meeting fans. It makes it feel real to him, when sometimes the practice-game-flight-repeat lulls him into taking it all for granted. There’s only so much time left before it’s all over, and Thomas doesn’t want to waste it.

He’ll probably need hobbies in retirement. Scratch probably: Thomas gets bored when they go three days between games.

And retirement isn’t that far away, he knows — every contract he’s depending on the Habs still wanting him. The minute they don’t, his choice is going to be retiring or going somewhere else, leaving behind his city, his team. Tony, who’d probably take it pretty personally. And that’s if Thomas could even bring himself to do it. He doesn’t think he could. But without hockey, he doesn’t know where that leaves him. Here, he guesses. Making subpar cookies.

“How were the monsters?” Anton says.

“They said my cookies sucked,” Thomas says.

“What?” Anton says, immediately outraged on Thomas’ behalf. “They’re good cookies!”

“I thought so!” Thomas says.

Anton grabs a second cookie, taking a big bite out of it.

“Good cookie!” he says through another mouthful of crumbs. Thomas doesn’t plaster himself against him right then just because he’s afraid the cookie might choke him. He waits for him to swallow.

[edmundhoward]

obsessed with the fact that the tower of london is built atop the bones of traitors. that the archbishop of canterbury, simon of sudbury, was dragged, kicking and screaming, from the royal chapel mid-mass to be hacked to pieces, and the same chapel is built floors above the dungeons where hundreds were imprisoned, tortured, and died. the stairs leading to that chapel were where the bones of two children, possibly the princes murdered in the tower, were dumped. beneath the basement is [redacted]. the walls are scarred with self-made epitaphs. the skeleton of a lost civilisation is cleaved through the grounds. princes spend the night before their coronation where their victims have their limbs wrenched from their bodies. the symbols and regalia of their office are housed there alongside gunpowder and instruments of war.

[enchantedsoulofmine]

Morning View

Chris Evans x Fem!reader

Summary: The morning view you love watching.

Warnings: Nah

The sun rays peeked through the curtains which made you rub your eyes, groaning. Your hand came in contact with silky cold sheets instead of a warm muscular arm. Your eyes opened wide and the smell of avocado toast  filled your nose and you smiled knowing that the chef was none other than your husband, Chris. you felt so lucky to have a spouse like Chris. The charming boy you met when you moved to Sudbury, Massachusetts was now your husband and the soon-to-be-father of your child. You got up from the bed and wore your pajamas which were laying down on the floor from the previous night’s activities. 

You went down the stairs and as nearer you got to the kitchen, you felt your stomach growl from the delicious smell of the breakfast, Chris was making. You opened the door slowly so as to not letting him know that  you were there. You leaned on the wall and watched as Chris put some milk with strawberry inside the mixer, guess its strawberry shake for breakfast too. ‘’Good morning love’’ Chris greeted you which made your eyes go wide [how did he know?]. ‘’Good morning Chris’’ you greeted back, smiling. ‘’how did you that i was here?’ you asked curiously, in to your response, Chris just laughed. 

‘‘ I know your footsteps love’‘ Chris said which made you bite your lips. ‘‘Enjoying watching my bare back huh?’‘ Chris said and you could hear his smirk with a smug look on his face. ‘‘i love seeing this view, Chris’‘ and you did. ‘‘Ah, do you now?’‘ Chris finally turned around and started coming towards do. He held your waist with one hand and caressed your cheek with back of fingers. ‘‘Mhm...’‘ you hugged him and hid your face in his chest, his breathing and the heartbeats made you feel relaxed and offered you comfort. ‘‘you okay, was i hard last night?’‘ Chris face filled with worry as he said this, ‘‘i’m okay Chris’‘ you assured him, still his worried look was not gone from his face, ‘‘i promise i’m alright Chris, don’t worry’‘ you smiled and kissed his cheeks. ‘‘okay’‘ Chris sighed and kissed you. 

‘‘Are you okay bubba?’’ your husband kneeled down and caressed your invisible bump. ‘‘Can’t wait to meet you lil peanut’‘ he kissed your stomach. 

Chris took out the chair for you to sit and bowed his head, ‘’Mrs Evans’’ 

~~~ 

Reblogs, feedbacks and comments please. If you want to added in my taglist let me know. My requests are open. 

[haveyouseenthishorrormovie]

Stats from Movies 501-600

Top 10 Movies - Highest Number of Votes

Drag Me To Hell (2009) had the most votes with 1,156 votes. The Sudbury Devil (2023) had the least votes with 363 votes.

The 10 Most Watched Films by Percentage

Aliens (1989) was the most watched film with 59.5% of voters out of 785 saying they had seen it. Roadkill (2011) had the least "Yes" votes with 1.0% of voters out of 597.

The 10 Least Watched Films by Percentage

The Purge: Anarchy (2014) was the least watched film with 71.8% of voters out of 570 saying they hadn’t seen it. Awoken (2020) had the least "No" votes with13.4% of voters out of 677.

The 10 Most Known Films by Percentage

Aliens (1989) was the best known film, only 1.1% of voters out of 785 saying they’d never heard of it.

The 10 Least Known Films by Percentage

The Sudbury Devil (2023) was the least known film, 86,2% of voters out of 368 saying they’d never heard of it.

The movies part of the statistic count and their polls below the cut.

Wrong Turn 2: Dead End (2007) Wrong Turn 3: Left for Dead (2009) Wrong Turn 4: Bloody Beginnings (2011) Wrong Turn 5: Bloodlines (2012) Wrong Turn 6: Last Resort (2014) Leatherface: The Texas Chainsaw Massacre III (1990) Texas Chainsaw 3D (2013) The Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Beginning (2006) Ghostwatch (1992) Nekromantik (1988)

Hostel: Part II (2007) Hostel: Part III (2011) Antiviral (2012) Dead Ringers (1988) Drag Me to Hell (2009) Becky (2020) Stepfather 3 (1992) Roadkill (2011) Black Sheep (2006) Awoken (2019)

Exeter (2015) Excision (2012) Psycho Goreman (2020) V/H/S/94 (2021) The Lair of the White Worm (1988) Mad God (2021) Dash (2022) Don't Open Till Christmas (1984) C.H.U.D. (1984) Satan's Slave (1976)

Bad Taste (1987) The Deadly Spawn (1983) Let's Scare Jessica to Death (1971) Dark Night of the Scarecrow (1981) Laid to Rest (2009) Chromeskull: Laid to Rest 2 (2011) Rosemary's Baby (1968) The Midnight Meat Train (2008) Underworld (2003) The Last House on the Left (1972)

Little Shop of Horrors (1960) The Hills Have Eyes (1977) Aliens (1986) Wrong Turn (2021) A Haunting in Venice (2023) Old (2021) Cloverfield (2008) 10 Cloverfield Lane (2016) Cloverfield Paradox (2018) The Invitation (2022)

Saw II (2005) Saw III (2006) Saw IV (2007) Saw V (2008) Saw VI (2009) The Curse of La Llorona (2019) Saltburn (2023) Saw 3D (2010) Jigsaw (2017) Spiral (2021)

Child's Play 2 (1990) Child's Play 3 (1991) Bride of Chucky (1998) Seed of Chucky (2004) Curse of Chucky (2013) Cult of Chucky (2017) Paranormal Activity 2 (2010) Paranormal Activity 3 (2011) Paranormal Activity 4 (2012) Paranormal Activity: The Marked Ones (2014)

Paranormal Activity: The Ghost Dimension (2015) Paranormal Activity: Next of Kin (2021) The Purge: Anarchy (2014) The Purge: Election Year (2016) The First Purge (2018) The Forever Purge (2021) Don't Breathe (2016) Don't Breathe 2 (2021) American Psycho 2 (2002) Dawn of the Dead (1978)

Day of the Dead (1985) Night of the Living Dead (1990) Diary of the Dead (2007) Survival of the Dead (2009) Happy Birthday to Me (1981) Bloody New Year (1987) Saw X (2023) Pieces (1982) The Sudbury Devil (2023) Demon (2015)

Butterfly Kisses (2018) 12 Hour Shift (2020) Bloody Birthday (1981) Def by Temptation (1990) The Hunt (2020) Godzilla (1954) The Babysitter (2017) The Babysitter: Killer Queen (2020) The Silenced (2015)

[majaloveschris]

I don't believe there was a MA wedding on the 9th, but imo too much is being made about the weather. It rained off and on (sometimes heavily) throughout that weekend here in the Concord area, but it was not a hurricane. If they had an at-home event as originally reported by Page Six, then they likely had an event tent set up in the yard; some tents can withstand severe inclement weather. Granted, they would have been taking a chance because it would have been a problem had there been high winds or lightening, but many people plan outdoor events and have to deal with the same possible weather challenges. I would not plan an event such as a wedding this way, but it is not impossible.

A few other things:

-IF they married in a town on Cape Cod, then they didn't do it on the Sept 9th. CE was spotted in Concord that morning and in Sudbury that afternoon. Given it would take a few hours to get to the Cape (particularly with heavy traffic of beach-goers on what was a hot weekend), it is impossible for him to have married on the Cape that day regardless of whether the party was there or back in Boston. Plus you have the celebrities who allegedly were back at the Boston hotel by midnight and out of town guests staying at CE's Concord house who were still at the house on the afternoon of the 9th and on the 10th.

-There was a sighting posted on a Sept 9th from someone claiming to have seen a tent set up after riding by his house. While part of the Concord house can be seen from the main road, the yard cannot. The Carlisle house is in a totally secluded area. If someone actually saw a tent at either location, it would have had to have been seen by someone affiliated with the wedding itself. Also, the Concord house is close enough to other homes that neighbors likely would have seen/heard things.

-It would be a challenge for anyone looking for a MA marriage certificate to find it. Per MA law, an officiant has 60 days from requesting a license to return the signed document to the registrar. In addition, MA law allows one to apply for a license in any MA city/town and then get married anywhere in the state. IF there was a lega marriage, they did not necessarily apply for the license in Concord or Carlisle even if that is where they ended up getting married. In order to obtain a copy of a MA marriage certificate, one needs to know in which city/town the paperwork was filed. Again, I don't think they legally married in MA, but it would be easy for them to try to hide the paperwork.

Yeah, it's not impossible, and maybe it wouldn't even be that weird if there weren't other things that didn't really make sense about this whole thing.

This whole Cape Cod thing didn't really make any sense to me. You know that I don't believe people without any actual proof, so like a picture where you can visibly see his face or where you can clearly recognize it's him. But even if I don't consider people seeing him in C and S, it still doesn't make any sense. Page Six was the one reporting the whole thing and didn't even mention Cape Cod. Now we can obviously question whether P6 just ran with the rumors or got the information somewhere. They are running with the marriage thing, so I'd say they got the information, probably from their or her team. I'd say they made the story up on the go; it didn't seem like they had one in mind, and since then there wouldn't have been several articles about adding and correcting details. I still find it really unbelievable that they went to have a ceremony in Cape Cod but then went back to C to party. Why? Why couldn't they just have a ceremony at home? It would definitely reduce the possibility of people seeing them there since they want to keep this whole relationship so private. Or why couldn't they have the party on Cape Cod? Why would they and all of their guests drive from CC to MA for like 2 hours just to have a party when they could've had both things at the same place? And do you want me to believe that nobody saw them in CC? Not a single person? So nobody saw Chris, any other Avengers, or any other celebrities there? Not a single person. Nobody saw them. This sounds pretty unbelievable to me.

I could say the same thing about the MA party. Nobody saw or witnessed anything. And as you said, they can't see his backyard from the streets, so yeah. However, there is a road going from the main road that goes to his and the other houses there. I think you can drive there if you want, and from that road, you can see his backyard, but I still doubt every single person in Concord who witnessed, saw, or heard anything is so nice that they wouldn't have sent something to DM, tweeted something, or taken a picture. This was the only person who said something, so it's weird to me and a bit suspicious.

And don't even talk about the license.

[buzz-london]

Happy 1/1/23

Best wishes for the New Year from Sudbury Haveli, London

[sadcatjae]

Whumpee who is actually a conditioned cold-blooded villain and a dangerous obedient weapon, discarded like a broken toy, so they live the rest of their lonesome life in agony and delirium. And Caretaker, who actually wants to survive the encounter with “Whumpee”, but also desperately trying to help and save them 🥺🥺🥺

Ahhh yesyesyesyes so much yes that i actually wrote a thing?????? What the--

Erm and it's awkwardly written and has too much lore but i wrote a thing and I'm very happy that I wrote AT ALL so yay! Thank you for your amazing prompt!! And sorry I didn't respond until now ;u; <;3

Also - I knoooow Kasin is like, caring for someone who literally tried to kill him one second ago, but he's a himbo and a Good Boy (tm) and has no idea if Mercy is legit dying or what sooooooo V_V

-

CW: Mentions of murder/hanging, PTSD/flashbacks, panic attack, dissociation, scarring, mentions of torture, self harm, knife wounds, dehydration.

-

“You picked a helluva time to sign up, mulch,” is the first thing Senior Officer Tophel says when they meet. 

“How do you figure?” Kasin grins, taking the proffered sword and admiring the Blue Guards’ sigil in the glinting silver hilt. 

The older man glances over his new recruit’s perfectly pressed uniform and gives a begrudging nod of approval. “Mercy’s coming to Everlost.”

“Mercy?”

“Ain’t you ever heard of Mercy? The Emperor’s Arbiter and Royal Steward. Apparently he got himself exiled. Though for what, I ain’t privy to. All I know is he’s coming here.” Tophel huffs and shakes his head, fingers twisting the ends of his walrus moustache. “Fact that his head’s not on a pike is no small wonder.”

Kasin twists his mouth to the side as he sheathes his new sword. “What did this Mercy do, to warrant such a gruesome end?”

Tophel sweeps up the loose papers on his desk into a neat pile, his expression one of sheer disdain. “No-one visited by Mercy is left intact. That’s all you have to know. Just keep out of his way and if you can’t - aim to kill, because there won’t be anything left by the time he’s done with you.”

The younger man frowns, uncertain how much one civilian can do against an armed guard. Then again, bluebloods in the Imperial City are known to be well versed in combat, having the best training from a young age. Maybe Kasin should err on the side of caution. Just this once. 

“I assume you’re telling me about this man for a reason,” Kasin says, raising a brow. 

“Looks like we have ourselves a mulch with brains,” Tophel scoffs, sticking his pipe into the corner of his mouth. “It’s what the Captain wants. A simple assignment to watch over our newest resident. No contact, no interference. Just watch. You’ll be on a rotating twelve hour shift with Dazer and you’ll both be assessed for other duties in a month. Any questions, mulch?”

“Why ‘mulch’?” Kasin isn’t stupid, but he asks anyway. Tophel’s greying at his temples. He’s sun weathered and rigid; got a mean, stubborn lock to his jaw. He doesn’t look like he enjoys challenging the status quo - so it’s probably best if Kasin plays his part.

“It’s what you’re gonna be by summer’s end. If you don’t like it, then prove me wrong. Anything else?”

“Am I to disguise myself while on assignment?”

Tophel smiles around his pipe, but it’s more like a leer. “No. Captain wants you in full uniform and full view at all times.”

-

Mercy’s place of residence could only be described as a hovel. It’s a shack on the edge of the forest, with swathes of spoiled land on either side. The nearest neighbour is the Sudbury Farm to the east and the dumping grounds to the west. The trees here grow black and twisted. By all rights, they shouldn’t be growing at all - but the roots have stubbornly taken hold of the arid land and the branches contort upwards, greedily drinking in every drop of rain and glimmer of sun to feed their wasted bodies.

The biggest and ugliest of these trees grows in front of Mercy’s shack, not thirty feet away. This is where Kasin stations himself, standing in his sky blue uniform, just under the gnarled black branches. He stands out in this desolate landscape, like a vibrant drop of paint on a blank white canvas. The restless movement in the dust-caked windows attests to his bold presence. 

Mercy is nervous. Aware. He peeks out the window every few minutes, but never lingers long enough for Kasin to get a proper look. 

Mercy is just a flitting shadow. No more than a ghost. 

It’s like this for three days. From morning to dusk, Kasin stands under that black tree, dutifully watching those grimy windows. Nervous shadows and obscured motions greet him like clockwork. And then Dazer, the other new recruit, shambles up (long past dusk) to take his shift. 

On the fourth day, he arrives to an angry crowd of civilians swarming Dazer with a variety of makeshift weapons in hand. 

“We want him gone, Dazer!” One of them shakes his pitchfork at the hassled guard. “I know in my gut that he’s the one stealing my chickens and cured meats!”

Dazer laughs nervously and pats the air. “Now, now, Mister Sudbury. I don’t have any say in his stayin’ or leavin’–”

“I caught him going through my trash!” another shrills, red-faced like her equally enraged comrades. “I don’t care if he’s a toff from the Imperial City, I want him out of my town!”

“Miss Daisy, going through trash isn’t technically against the law–”

“Oh, Jim's told me all about that ghastly beast you're defending. He's killed hundreds of innocent people to sate his perverse cravings, and hides behind His Majesty's goodwill."

Another voice shrieks, "He’s a demon that wears the skin of man!”

The crowd surges in volume and fury, inundating poor Dazer until Kasin finally reaches his side. The townsfolk pause for a moment, recognising this young man who has, in his twenty-five years, garnered a strong reputation in Everlost as a reliable, kind, and moral character.

“If anyone has grievances to be heard, please send a missive to Captain Locke,” Kasin announces over the discontented grumble. “Dazer and I have been ordered to keep watch of the situation. You can be rest assured that nothing will elude our attention - so please. Return to your fields and businesses and homes. Should there be any cause for concern, you will be informed.”

For a moment, Kasin’s reassurances seem to have worked. The townsfolk relax, their makeshift weapons drop to their sides, and they consider his words. But then Sudbury, always the inciter, raises his pitchfork and bullrushes the shack, hollering, “DEATH TO THE DEMON OF MIDOTHAL!”

Two other burly men split off from the re-ignited crowd, following Sudbury to the front door. Before Kasin can even react, they’ve kicked down the flimsy wood and dragged out a hooded figure from the gloomy interior. 

One word comes to Kasin’s mind when he lays eyes upon the fearsome Mercy for the very first time. 

Fragile. 

The figure enshrouded by a tattered grey cloak isn’t by any means frail. In fact, they are imposingly tall and there is evidence of a wiry, athletic figure. However, Mercy stands stooped over like his crooked black trees, hooded head cast down, and his limbs shaking as though it were mid-winter instead of summer. 

His bare feet, filthy and as grey as his cloak, stumble every second step. Kasin suspects that if he weren’t being dragged by Sudbury’s men, he would have collapsed not one foot out the door. 

Kasin yanks his sheathed sword free from his belt and rushes to Mercy’s side. The latter’s thrown to the dirt, crumpled and silent. 

“Stand down Powle, Richard, Bolt.” The young guard points his sheathed sword at the three men in turn. His oaken stare, intense and penetrating. Something in his eyes has them hesitating, their righteous anger withering to dust. “While we may know each other as well as family, I will not hesitate to arrest you should you enact your own justice. This is a land of law. Which means we abide by the law and entrust the administration of justice by the court of law. As a citizen of Everlost, this is the contract you have agreed to.” Kasin pauses, gaze sharpening. “Do you agree?”

The three men exchange wary glances and begrudgingly respond.

“Aye.”

“Yes.”

“I s’pose it is.”

“Very well,” Kasin says, his stern expression relaxing. Though he does smile, his gaze remain severe. “It is not our place to question His Majesty’s decision to exile this man to our humble town. Nor is it our place to judge this man. Return to your lives and invest your concerns in your own matters. In this drought, there will be many, I’m sure.”

He doesn’t lower his sword until the last fires of outrage are doused. Only reluctant acquiescence remains, and eventually, the crowd disperses in terse clumps. Sudbury and his men are the last to leave, and they don’t do so without parting words. Words that promise later retribution. 

“I better report this to Tophel,” Dazer sighs, wiping sweat from his brow. “Thanks for saving my ass, Kasin. I really thought I’d have run old Daisy through for a moment there.”

Kasin sends him a wry smile. “I think she would have run you through first.”

“Eh. You’re probably right.”

Kasin watches Dazer set off in a trot up the dirt road before turning his attention to Mercy. 

The hooded figure picks himself up unsteadily, legs quaking from the effort. Now that they are alone, Mercy finally raises his head. There’s a glimmer of pale skin and well defined features - a sharp jawline sweeping into the shadow of the hood, and a pair of cracked, bloodless lips pressed into a tight grimace. Odd marks mar the pallid skin, but it’s difficult to tell from this distance.

Kasin, who had always considered himself to be quite tall, feels a little intimidated by the other’s imposing height. Mercy must stand at least a foot above, and the young guard has to angle his head back a tad to address him. 

“Mister Mercy, I presume?” Kasin says, politely. “I must apologise. They aren’t normally this…angry. They are all good people, truly. I promise you this was an anomalous event that will never happen again. You are safe here. I will ensure it.”

Mercy’s lips twitch into a faint sneer. “How.” His voice is hoarse, grating, as though unused for many months. 

The guard blinks. “I am an officer of the Blue Guards. It is my duty to ensure your safety as a resident of Everlost. And - as you are well aware by now - I have been ordered to keep watch over you. Along with Officer Dazer. Between the two of us, we will prevent any future aggressions.”

Mercy is silent for a time. Kasin has the distinct feeling that he’s being stared at. So he stares into the shade of the hood, directly where he assumes the other’s eyes are. 

Eventually, Mercy turns his head to the side. “You are not watching me for my safety,” he says, impassively.

“I don’t know my Captain’s intent,” Kasin says, evenly. “But I can tell you that I care for the wellbeing of all townsfolk. Exiled or not.” There’s a teasing lilt to the last three words which seems to agitate the other man. 

Without another word, Mercy unsteadily returns to his shack. Kasin slips his sheathed sword back into his belt, uncertain whether to follow him or not. His decision is made for him when Mercy trips over the broken pieces of his door and staggers into something with a tremendous crash. 

-

Mercy seethes and kicks the broken cot into the wall. And just like that, he’s lost his bed. His cot was the only comfort he’d bought for himself with the little coin he’d had left. And now it’s gone. 

Just like everything else.

‘Exile’ means being exiled in all sense of the word. Meaning, he was exiled not only from his home, his work, his title, but also his land and wealth. Whatever coin he’d had on his person when he was informed of his new status, is all he was allowed to carry into his next life. 

The ex-Arbiter clutches his throbbing leg, allowing himself a moment of weakness, before Kasin appears in his doorway like an irritating gnat. He straightens up, every muscle tensing as his abode is so rudely trespassed. 

“Ah…your door…” The guard crouches down and picks up a large piece of broken wood. He gives Mercy a guileless smile. “Sorry about that. I’m a pretty good carpenter if you’d like me to fix it up for you.”

“Leave,” is all Mercy can spit out. His heart’s pounding near out of his chest and his hands are shaking, shaking, because this creature is in his house. He’s touching his things. He’s talking to him. He’s smiling, smiling like Mercy’s just another person, just another townsfolk who has a face and a future.

But Kasin isn’t listening. He’s walking further into his house, looking at his meagre possessions, casually commenting on the state of his broken furniture. “I can fix this too - no problem. But is this cot big enough for you? With your height, I’d imagine it’s quite a squeeze every night. Maybe I could extend the end a bit, so that you can stretch out? I have a lot wood back home that’s going to waste. And there’ll be no charge - consider it compensation for today–”

Mercy feels it. The Hollow. It slithers in like a snake, starving for prey, and sending venom straight into his veins. It unfurls, uncoils, until he’s no longer in possession of himself. There’s only the Hollow that knows only consumption. He loses himself to blissful domination and there’s its voice, its cloying voice, which commands him to do what he does best. 

-

The broken halves of the cot drop to his feet in a clatter. Kasin freezes. Hands gone numb. His eyes staring blindly at the swollen, mouldy wall in front of him. 

The sharp prick in his back is unmistakable.

“What are you doing, Mister Mercy?” He keeps his tone calm, friendly even, but his insides tumble about like loose rocks. 

The prick turns to real pain. He feels his skin snap and flesh give. Blood wells. It’s only an inch, but it’s enough to make Mercy’s intent clear. 

“Mister Mercy? Did I say something wrong?”

“Yes.” 

Kasin feels a chill run down his spine. That voice is void of emotion. Near inhuman. Is this man really a killer? 

“Ah. I apologise. I tend to speak without thinking. It’s a terrible habit, really. Can’t seem to shake it. Look, I'll apologise properly, but you'll need to lower your weapon. Can you do that for me, Mister Mercy?”

“No.”

Kasin’s heart sinks. He pulls in a shallow breath. Tries again. “I understand. You wish to protect yourself, but you must know that I mean you no harm–”

There’s a steely grip on his shoulder which tightens and jerks him around. It plants a blow on his chest, sending him staggering back into the wall. The cot cracks and splinters further under his clumsy feet. 

A dagger of beautiful yet simplistic design, pokes a new shallow hole in his stomach. He winces but maintains his smile. Even when he finally lays eyes on Mercy’s face. 

The hood must have fallen away at some point, for the mien before him is exposed to his scrutiny. Mercy’s features are sharp and handsome - his eyes shaped like petals, delicate and soft, if not for the flint-like coldness they hold. Not a flicker of recognisable emotion or thought can be seen in these callous eyes, and unlike his name, they speak of no mercy. 

Black, greasy hair, matted with dirt and perhaps dried blood, gathers upon his shoulders, overgrown and impossibly tangled. But the most striking feature of Mercy’s visage are the heavy scores etched deep into his flesh. 

At first, they appear to be freshly scarred wounds from random slashes of a knife. Reminisce of a clawed attack from a bear. But then, as eyes adjust, one can see a single word taking shape - carved into the entirety of Mercy’s face, from forehead to jaw, in big vicious letters: AMOS. 

Amos. As in, Crown Prince Amos, the Emperor’s eldest son. 

Bile surges up Kasin’s gullet which he swallows with difficulty. As frightened he is of the knife sticking into his gut, he’s also greatly pained by the man’s scars. What kind of torture had Mercy been subjected to? Kasin suspects that there’s more to see beyond those cruel letters. 

A part of him is in disbelief. The Crown Prince is known for his heroic and generous deeds. Many espouse his virtues and compare him to his father, Emperor Midothal who ends wars without ever raising his sword. After all, isn’t Mercy’s exile proof of his forgiving nature? If Mercy is truly a deviant, indulging in his wicked appetite behind the docile mask of Midothal’s loyal Arbiter and Steward, then he by all rights should be sentenced to death. However, His Majesty had instead chosen to spare Mercy’s life and exile him instead. Why would he do such a thing, if he was the type of man to allow this torture?

Kasin licks his dry lips, nervously. Never mind all that, he thinks. There’s a knife pointed at his stomach - that should take first priority. “Mister Mercy,” he begins, slowly, amicably. “I can see that you are not quite yourself. Perhaps a conversation between friends could ease your burdens? How about a shared meal? There's a tavern close by that does a wonderful meat pie. Come, friend. There need be no bloodshed today.”

The taller man simply stares at him, hollow eyed, detached. His shaking has dissipated entirely. And his stance is lean and centered. Kasin knows that whoever this is, it’s not the same man from moments ago. 

There’s no getting out of this. Not with words alone. 

Kasin lets his training kick in. In one fast motion, he simultaneously grabs the blade and Mercy’s wrist, and twists the latter to a painful degree. The knife, he wrenches free and tosses to the side. 

There’s no reaction to the sprained wrist. Mercy whips into action, attacking the guard with a flurry of perfectly executed blows. Kasin meets them with his own, and they fight like this for many minutes, neither tiring or relenting to the other. Not once does Kasin pull his sword. It’s not his intention to kill this man after all - despite Tophel’s warning.

Finally, Mercy sweeps Kasin’s legs from under him and pins him to the ground with his foot, pushing his weight into that single crushing point. His other foot pins down the guard’s right hand, preventing him from going for his sword.

Kasin groans and chokes, agony spreading through his upper trunk like spilled lava. “Mer…cy…!” He’s not sure if he’s asking for mercy or calling his name, but it’s fruitless either way. 

The man simply isn’t here. 

Kasin flails. He strikes. He yanks and pulls and kicks. But Mercy’s like a steel column, unyielding, unmoving. 

With every compounding inch of pressure upon Kasin’s chest, the less air he’s able to suck in. His vision begins to darken around the edges. His ribs are on the verge of snapping. He knows he has only a few precious seconds of consciousness left. If he doesn’t do anything - he will die. 

So as he squints up at the stony, impassive face looming overhead - he takes one final shot in the dark. “A…mos..!”

The pressure stops. A sliver of air seeps through. 

He squeezes the word out again. “Amos–!”

Suddenly, as though struck by a powerful force, Mercy violently recoils. His body crashes into the wall, causing the entire structure to judder. Clawed hands desperately scrabble at his hood, attempting to cover his head - or rather, his face. 

Kasin raises himself upright, clutching his aching chest and gasping for air. He feels the creeping fingers of regret upon seeing Mercy’s powerful reaction, but for now, he’s alive - and regret momentarily takes a backseat. 

-

Amos.

Mercy clutches the side of his head, dragging the hood further down. Darkness sweeps him up into its comforting embrace - but he’s yet to feel at all assured. 

Pants seep through clenched teeth as he slams his head into the wall, trying to knock the scattered fragments of his mind back into place. The swirling, discordant noise knocks him askew. He’s both here and there and nowhere at all, and it takes every shred of his cognisance to keep from falling apart. 

Amos burns. 

It burns like he’s sinking into him again. Like he’s back in that place, that dark and enduring place, and he bites down on his hand to keep from crying out. This pain is real. Grounding. But the burn is soul-deep. Impossible to ignore. 

“Mister Mercy?”

A voice. Firm. Concerned. It reminds him of the dusk. 

“Leave.” He’s enough mind to utter a single word. Not a demand. Not a suggestion. A plea. 

Please. Please leave. Leave so I can stop fighting. Leave so I can rest.

“Please.” Another plea. Not his own. “Please, Mister Mercy. Tell me what ails you. Is there anything I can do? Are you in pain?”

“Leave–!” The word cracks midway. Wavers. Mercy claws at the wall, smashes himself into it like he can phase right through. He’s shaking now, and chilled right to the bone despite the summer heat. He can smell metal. Copper. His face burns. 

Amos burns. 

“Mercy. Tell me what’s wrong.” There’s a hand now, touching his face. Gentle fingers pushing his matted hair to the side. Sunlight sneaks in as his hood’s nudged back. He panics. 

He’s touching him. He’s pulling off his hood. He’s here, he’s here, he’s here–

Mercy scrambles to his feet, holding onto the wall for support. He holds out a trembling hand, ready to shove Kasin away should he venture too close. But the guard keeps his distance. 

Mercy pants through his panic, his eyes wild and face a shock-white. The world spins, lurches, and his legs buckle and bow. The noise reaches an agonising crescendo, drowning out every scattered thought in his brain.

Kasin steps forward, reaching out, alarmed. This time, Mercy relinquishes. He accepts. He exchanges the wall for the guard and collapses into his sturdy arms. All sense of self-preservation dissipates. He’s purely in survival mode. There’s desperation for an end to this suffering, this chaos, like a primal keen. 

Amos burns.

Kasin lowers him to the ground and kneels beside him, keeping a firm grasp of his upper arms. “Keep still. Don’t try to move. Here, have some water.”

A flask’s brought to his lips, but he can’t do more than wet his cracked lips. He’s breathing too hard, too fast, rocking in the guard’s arms like he’s trying to escape his own skin - but he can’t, he’s trapped, so he just rocks. 

And all the while, his face burns. 

Kasin presses his palm against Mercy’s forehead. It’s a light touch but the latter flinches like he’s been scorched. 

“Sorry, sorry–” the guard hastily apologises. “But you’re hot, like you’ve a fever, and you're not sweating. When’s the last time you drank water?”

“Burns…” Mercy rasps, on the edge of delirium. 

“What does?”

“Amos…Amos burns…” 

Somewhere far away, or maybe not far at all, Mercy hears the trickle of water. Murmured words, not quite for his ears. And then a cool, damp cloth pressed gently upon his forehead. The burn lulls. Subsides. The damp cloth dabs across his brow, to his left temple, down his cheek. In the wake of Kasin’s ministrative touch, Mercy - impossibly - finds relief. 

His panicked breath slows, lightens. The noise quietens in his head. Mercy sits there, eyes closed, swaying and trembling, as the young guard, this stranger, dabs his burning wounds. These ugly, jagged scars that laid waste to his flesh. Like a soothing rain dousing the blazing, destructive wildfire, Mercy finds a kind of peace in that touch. 

Another’s touch is never good. But this touch…this touch is good. 

An anomalous event that will never happen again. 

When Mercy finally comes to, Kasin has once more doused the cloth - his handkerchief - with water from his flask. The guard’s propped Mercy against the wall to free his hands, and he’s crouched before him, brows furrowed deeply in concern. 

Kasin raises the handkerchief to Mercy’s temple, and stills. Oaken eyes, swirling with deep, unfathomable emotion, lock onto a hazy coal-black stare. 

“Mercy? Have you returned to your senses?”

Mercy feels drained. Hollowed out like a gutted animal carcass. He wants nothing more than to curl up on his - broken - cot and sleep the day out of existence. 

He grabs Kasin’s wrist and yanks it from his face. The guard loses his balance and falls onto his rear. 

“Don’t touch me,” Mercy croaks. Should this guard return with a platoon to have him hanged, then so be it. He’s tired of fighting. “I need…” Mercy pauses. Shivers. He feels raw. Weak. And in truth, he is. It only took a single touch to draw out the Hollow. And a single word to break him. “I need you to leave.”

For once, the young guard doesn’t protest. He simply nods, climbs to his feet, and brushes himself off. He leaves his flask and handkerchief on the only standing piece of furniture in the shack - a rickety table salvaged from the dumping ground. 

“Try to drink some water,” Kasin says, quietly. “I’ll be outside, keeping watch, so call out if you need anything. I'll...keep your dagger safe. For the moment. A fair exchange, I think, for almost taking my life.” He turns to leave. A pause in the doorway.  “I am sorry about what I said. I shouldn't have...I didn't realise you would--" He bites his tongue. Smiles tightly. "I’ll fix you a new door and bring it by tomorrow.” And then he’s gone, off to take up his usual post under the gnarled black tree, with the dagger tucked securely in his belt. 

Mercy doesn’t move. He just stares at the naked doorway, lost in the memory of another doorless cell, and the utter incomprehension of simply leaving.

.

Part 2

[arkadenboden]

update on the fanfic for the nation. The first chapter is being edited and should be finished soon, however may be delayed because I kind of want to make art to correspond with the release of each one. For now, here are some headcanons that will be going into it:

starting with more minor ones that are just little things:

-Kim graduated with a degree in filmmaking!

-Ramona makes deliveries across Ontario, not just in Toronto.

-Kim’s father called himself “King Jeremy, the Wicked” as an unofficial nickname in highschool. This is a reference to Jeremy by Pearl Jam(Out of universe, anyway. Jeremy wouldn’t have been in highschool by the release of Ten because Kim was born in 1980)

-Kim’s hometown is in Greater Sudbury.

More important, spoiler-ish ones under the cut. Just cause.

-Jeremy wanted to be an artist, but settled for it being a hobby when his wife got pregnant

-Kim has OCD. I don’t see it represented much in media, let alone well. It’s something I also struggle with and I thought putting my experience with intrusive thoughts and compulsive behaviors into a fic like this may help with the desire to see myself represented

-Kim is the result of a teenage pregnancy. This decision was made specifically because I always thought Kim’s parents looked very young in comparison to the other older characters, and looked more like background characters that Scott would be acquainted with than Kim’s parents. They are both currently around 38-39.

-Kim’s little “area of subspace(think the desert Scott dreams about)” is a recreation of her hometown during her childhood. Things are exactly the same way they were when she was 7-15 ish. Subspace doors open onto a local trail, and pass through the trail and exit at the end of it. Ramona frequently passes through this area, but doesn’t encounter Kim for a while, as she has a tendency to wander off of the path and go elsewhere while Ramona uses it to move along.

-A character’s “Nega” form isn’t actually called that. I don’t know what they would officially be called on like a Wikipedia page but I think that is just what Scott thinks of Nega Scott as. Kim’s is dubbed “the Eidolon,” because she perceives it as a phantom or ghostlike figure of some kind.

thats all i can think of for now hope u enjoyed

[the-goya-jerker]

What are your favorite movies? Any recommendations?

ALWAYS.

I love film. I love TV shows. I love to watch things.

I'll try to group these up. But they're below a cut because this will get long.

Oh, also, I recommend checking out the Does the Dog Die and/or Unconsenting Media page for movies on here. These check for common triggers for the first, and specific sexual content in the second. Both are quite thorough, and Unconsenting Media always needs more contributers.

Please, if you have triggers of any kind, curate your experiences, advocate for yourself. These sites can really help you.

If you like straight up horror:

The VVitch is an absolute favorite, I'm an absolute sucker for historical accuracy.

The Sudbury Devil is of a similar vein. It's weird! Don't get me wrong! The quality isn't the best, but I did like it!

St. Maud is another one, very religious and very creative.

I like the original Wickerman, but I don't really see it as horror... That guy was a dick and a cop.

The Wind is fun, I didn't like the ending much, but I'm really into atmospheric horror. There's a fun game based on it. (Even if I find the creator's other works a little... suspicious, ideologically.)

Bride of Reanimator has a special place in my heart.

V/H/S '94 is a recent watch of mine. Not every piece in it is good, and the framing device is weak, but I liked it for what it was nevertheless. Big youtube short films/ARG vibes.

Go watch Portrait of God on youtube. It's scary, eerie, and it made my stomach churn a bit.

Crimson Peak is also very very good. Very gothic, but I'm grouping it here for how violence is presented.

If you like things with horror elements that are more gothic than straight up horror:

Interview with the Vampire is a big favorite of mine. I love the books, the show, and especially the movie.

Donnie Darko is fun, very philosophical, a little weird, but I've loved it since I was young.

Ex Machina is interesting to me, I find it enjoyable, even though I have criticisms of how it handles some things.

The Tragedy of Macbeth is lovely. It captures the feeling of a stage play while also using the unique capabilities of film to propel itself into something uniquely good.

The Green Knight on the other hand is not a faithful adaptation. But it has something new to say and do, and I love what it does.

Poor Things deserves every big of hype it gets. If you haven't seen it, it's Frankenstein but with delightfully surreal worldbuilding. The world feels like a painting. Also it's very good as a feminist piece, in my opinion. If a bit singular.

The Love Witch is beautiful, and fascinating to me. I have a special fascination with wicca and neo-pagan movements though, as well as witchcraft and folk-magic.

For things entirely unrelated to horror:

Hedwig and the Angry Inch restructured my brain.

Technically HBO's Angels in America is a mini-series. Watch it like a movie if you can though. I watched it that way for a film class and it's closer to the original play that way.

The Man From U.N.C.L.E. is a very fun spy romp. Listen, just watch it and turn off your brain.

The John Wick movies, while "basic" are a beautiful ballet of violence and action. I do like the mythological elements as well.

The Harder They Fall fucks severely. It's a western centered on an entirely black main cast.

Mama Mia, need I say more.

I do not consider Renfield horror, but god if it isn't fun.

Dungeons and Dragons, sometimes you need a good, well made, movie that's kinda a little stupid.

Barbie Princess and the Pauper isn't good, but I like it.

Spider-verse. Like the whole series. I have a special attachment to these. They're utterly beautiful.

Cats. Is it good? NO!! But you should watch it anyway. Let the awful CGI melt into your brain, let it consume you and just watch. (Someone wants me to say you should watch the movie of the stage production instead)

Watch The Invitation. Go in blind. I'm begging you. Just give it a shot. Don't look up anything.

[moondirti]

Ok but like… catch Simon smoking one day and you just, sit on his lap, and kiss the smoke out of his mouth and it tastes like smoke and bourbon😍😍😍 mans would go feral I think

all i do is turn cute thoughts angsty. no i will not apologise i would recommend you read 'cigarettes out the window' before this. not entirely necessary, i just make references to it you might not understand otherwise. ghost x scout (reader) warnings: smoking, nicotine addiction, shotgun kisses

You find him on the roof, reeking of singed leaf and tobacco. Your lungs battle the frigid cold that pours through a sharp inhale; you desperately cling to the traces you can catch. It's a smell you're well accustomed with - an old friend that's quick to curl it's relentless grip around you. Even now, you lean into it.

Just when you'd gotten good at battling the urge.

He hates it when you smoke. Though it never stops him from frequenting the bad habit himself.

The thought filters, flares, then sinks to a faint nothing at the base of your skull. It's hard to focus on your shortcomings when he's this close - you digest the sight of him; imposing, a spill of ink against the backdrop of snow. In the never ending cover, you're barely able to make out the tendrils of grey that stream from a thin cigarette, clutched between thick fingers.

(Comical, almost. It looks like a toothpick in his clutch).

"So, you took my lighter."

His shoulders tense for a small moment - barely perceptible, you'd be the only one to notice.

But they do, of course. You have an odd habit of sneaking up on people.

"I told you I'd confiscate it." He doesn't turn to face you. Instead, he pulls another puff. You think you can feel it flood you. Head rush, buzzing adrenaline.

Or, maybe that's him. Almost eight months since Sudbury now, and you're still dizzy over the situation you've happened upon.

"I've been good, though." You whisper, almost whine, and come up behind him. He's sat on a ledge, his legs hanging off the edge. You wrap your arms around his shoulders both for the sake of it and the smallest fear that he fall off.

But Simon's a figure forged of resolute steel, tempered in some planet's core that far supersedes the burn of this world. Gunpowder. Nuclear fallout. Butane, swishing liquid inside the all-black lighter Soap had gifted you for Christmas.

It's all ye ever wear, Scout. Didnae know whit else ye'd like.

Nothing tips him over.

Almost.

(You graze your lips on the cut of his jaw - bared, now, with the balaclava rucked to his nose - and feel as his muscles flex underneath several layers of cotton.)

"We both know you're not up here for me, pet." He growls, the depth of it registering tenfold in your new proximity. His voice, thick with a cockney diction, seeps like molasses and hardens on the gummy lining of your lungs.

Your pocket heaves with the weight of a new pack. He's right.

"Hm. No, not originally. Bummed a lighter from Price."

"Then?"

You kiss his jaw again, a week old stubble chafing over your lips.

"Then, God had other plans."

A gale moves in from the North, biting at your cheeks. You can't see it, but you imagine Simon's nose is red, blushed in that way only you got to see on a regular basis. You bury your face into his neck to hide the fond smile that threatens to crack your face.

Timbre. Wet rain on a campfire. That sandalwood shampoo he still insists on using no matter how many alternatives you buy him.

From the shift of his body underneath yours, you assume he takes another drag. But he doesn't shrink with an exhale, not for a while.

When you look up quizzically, his lips touch yours. Just barely, a soft graze of chapped flesh, cold and split at the corner from where he was punched just last night.

Your nose ignites, smouldering acridity, tarnished herbs doused in the aftertaste of bourbon. You don't know why you stumble - whether it's the kiss, the shotgun, or the terrifying relief of an old vice. All there is are the gentle cradle of snowfall on your lashes, half-lidded, and the behemoth that breathes temptation to your gut.

"Hope you're not too disappointed, pet."

(Never.)

[k-evans-reads]

In Living Color

Chapter 13 - Part Two

Summary: When Natalie Marton, lead character designer for Buzz Lightyear, meets the voice of Buzz, Chris Evans, the sparks are undeniable. But when their work pushes them away from each other, both physically and emotionally, will the sheer differences between their worlds be enough to force them apart?

Pairing: Chris Evans x Pixar Animator OFC Natalie Marton

Word Count: 6,838

By: @k-evans-writes and @ourfinest-hour

We do NOT give permission for our works to be reuploaded, translated, or reposted on any other site. Our work is our own.

Warnings: Discussions about death.

Previous | Main Masterlist | In Living Color Masterlist

October 29th, 2021

“Okay so tell me again who’s going to be there tonight?” Nat asked, her fingers tapping against her denim jeans as they rode in his SUV to Sudbury. It was early in the evening on her first full day in Massachusetts with Chris, and after sleeping in for a bit they’d taken Dodger for a walk around Chris’ home and on the trails behind his home before they each sat at his kitchen table with their computers, catching up on some work they needed to do. Once the clock had struck two in the afternoon, they consciously put their devices away, wanting to enjoy the weekend without any of their work duties hanging over their heads. 

“Obviously Ma,” he reminded her as he stopped, then looked side to side at the four-way intersection before he resumed their drive. “And then my oldest sister Carly and her husband and kids will be there, and my little sister Shanna and her fiance.” 

Nat’s brows furrowed, glancing over at Chris as he adjusted the hat on his head with one hand. “I thought Tara was going to be there too,” she recalled. 

He shook his head, turning on the turn signal and shifting into the turn lane just before they reached a large neighborhood. “Nah, I thought it might be better to keep it just family. Ma is dying to meet you,” he admitted, slowly turning the wheel and slowing down appropriately as they passed houses, heading deeper into the neighborhood. She glanced into the backseat, smiling to herself as she watched Dodger’s tail wag as he began to recognize the passing homes.  

Her hand moved to take his left as he turned onto a street. With each house they passed, she tried to imagine which was Lisa’s – which home was the one he grew up in and spoke so fondly of. “I’m excited to meet them but I’m not going to lie, I’m really nervous,” she chuckled, just as Chris slowed down more and turned into a long driveway, fallen leaves covering the pavement in front of the car. In the backseat, Dodger sat up, his tail thumping the backseats excitedly as Chris turned the car off. 

“Don’t be, baby. They’re going to love you,” he murmured reassuringly and squeezed her hand. “Besides, they’ve already heard a lot about you from me and Scott.” 

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Nat muttered as she unbuckled her seatbelt, ready to climb out of the car but was stopped when a warm hand came to rest on her leg. 

Nat turned her head, looking at Chris’ soft blue eyes gazing at her for a long moment before he leaned across the center console to kiss her deeply, leaving her with a soft smile on her face when he pulled back and assured her, “It’s going to be just fine, Nat.” 

“I hope so,” she replied, adjusting her brown suede jacket as she frowned slightly. 

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice quiet but capturing her attention. He waited until she met his eyes, then told her, “I love you, Nattie.” 

“I love you too,” she smiled, leaning across to peck his lips quickly. 

And although that reassurance brought comfort to her heart as Nat climbed out of the car, taking Chris’ outstretched hand before they walked up the pathway to the front door with Dodger, she couldn’t help but feel a little bit sick to her stomach. She knew just how close Chris was to each and every member of his family, having a deep and meaningful relationship with all of them, but that only made it even more nerve-wracking. 

It was different when she had met Scott, knowing him so early on back when her and Chris were just friends and she had no idea what was in store for the two of them. But now it was different. It had been months of them dating at this point – nearly half a year – and Nat was in so deep for Chris. She knew that she loved him like nobody else, her whole heart belonging to him without a second thought, but the knowledge of that fact coupled with knowing how dedicated he was to his family only made this more terrifying. 

She knew if his family didn’t like or get along with her, there was no way this was going to work out. Although he had never even hinted at such a thing, she knew it because of how she felt about her family. She knew that anyone that didn’t get along with her family was a relationship that wouldn’t turn out well in the long run, and Nat knew that would be true with Chris and his family, only making their approval of her that much more important. 

Nat could feel that knot in her stomach as they approached the front door, Chris unlocking it with his key and rested his hand on the small of her back as he guided her through the doorway while Dodger trotted in behind. She could hear the sound of loud voices but felt like she could hear the sound of her rapid heartbeat even louder than all of it. Chris helped her off with her coat, hanging it on the small hook by the door before he did the same with his own and then brought his hand back to it’s spot on her back as he led her down the short hallway to the living room where she saw it full of faces she’d only seen in pictures before. 

The room was loud and chaotic, everyone talking over each other and laughing but Chris’ voice became the loudest as his voice boomed a loud hello before the kids came running over to throw their arms around him. For just a moment, Nat forgot all about her nerves, her focus being pulled away as she just enjoyed watching the pure joy that was shining on Chris’ face. Although she hadn’t been in Massachusetts long, she could see just how different Chris was here. 

She hadn’t even realized just how much more of his anxiety and tenseness was evident in California. It had always seemed to disappear once they were behind the closed doors of his home or in her apartment, but there seemed to be a weight off his shoulders and a lightness in him that she felt her heart warm at being able to see. It was obvious to see the deep love the family all shared as she looked around the room and it reminded her that the Chris he was when he was alone with her, or here with his family, was the true person he was, not the professional demeanor and guarded way he had to be at times, and that this was the guy she was madly in love with. 

Nat couldn’t have felt more welcomed by his family members, it was as if she’d known them for years as his sisters and mother came over, greeting her with huge hugs and excited smiles as they finally met each other. She introduced herself to the kids, smiling when they barely batted an eye and took off into another room with Dodger in tow. She took his older sister up on her offer of a glass of wine, accepting the stemless glass of red gratefully as she saw Chris do the same with a beer, then she followed the Evans siblings into the living room with their mother.

She smiled as she was introduced to the sisters’ partners in the living room, hugging both of the men before they all settled on the large couch and armchairs around the television while a basketball game played on the television. She chuckled quietly and shared a smile with Chris as they heard the kids laughing echo down the hall and into the room, along with an excited bark from Dodger. 

“We figured if you were going to spend the evening with us that you’d need some wine,” Carly smiled at her as she settled on the couch next to her husband, Kevin.  

“What are you talking about? She’d only need it if Scott was here,” Shanna asked with a laugh, gratefully accepting her glass of water as her fiance, Daniel, handed her it. 

Carly smirked as she looked at the youngest Evans, reminding her sister, “She’s dating Chris so she needs it.” 

“Well the first time I met Nat was her slamming into a glass door and the first time Scott saw her she had locked herself in her apartment so I think Nat wins the award for the most chaotic in this relationship,” Chris informed his family with a chuckle as he took a sip of his beer.  

Nat shrugged half-heartedly, raising an eyebrow as she told him, “I have to keep your life interesting.” 

Nat smiled when she saw the way he smirked at her, before lifting her wine glass to her lips as Chris dove into starting telling a story to his family loudly. She wanted to laugh to herself at how much Chris reminded her of Dodger in the moment, looking like an excited puppy dog as his hands started motioning wildly, managing to smack Nat’s arm and making her wine glass clinking against her teeth before the wine sloshed onto her white shirt. 

“Oh shit, I’m sorry Nattie,” he instantly apologized, rushing to grab some of the cocktail napkins from the coffee table as she looked down at the now-soaked and stained shirt. 

Daniel laughed, grabbing more napkins while Carly rushed into the kitchen, returning quickly with a roll of paper towels. “Looks like you might want to take it back about not being the chaotic one in the relationship,” he reminded Chris. 

“You really had to do this while I was in a white shirt?!” Nat asked Chris incredulously, accepting a wad of paper towels from Carly. She handed Chris the glass of wine and began dabbing her shirt, frowning as she saw the damage he’d done. 

“C’mon, it’s not like you would have made it longer than an hour without spilling yourself,” Chris murmured sarcastically, taking the roll of towels from Carly as Lisa offered to grab her a shirt. 

“Wow, you made me spill, and probably chipped my front teeth and now you’re making fun of me?” 

He huffed, rolled his eyes and told her, “You did not chip your teeth.” 

“You don’t know that,” Nat pointed out, getting up to find a trash can for the soaked towels. “I think they feel loose. My gums are probably bleeding too, thanks to you.” 

“But you’re not dramatic at all,” Chris called from behind her. 

“Be careful buddy, this is your fault so you better be nice to me,” Nat replied as she found a trash can, disposing of the towels and turned, shooting him a look from across the open space. 

“Christopher, go get her something to wear,” Lisa interrupted their mock-argument by giving her son a look. 

She saw Chris nod before holding his hand out for her, but Nat just raised an eyebrow as she looked at his hand, asking, “I’m not sure if I should touch you. That didn’t end well for me last time.” 

There wasn’t a verbal response from him as they rounded the corner of the hallway but she felt his heavy hand delivering a swift playful smack to her ass, making her laugh as they began to climb the stairs. Once they reached the top of the stairs, she let Chris pass her so he could lead her to the room on the right saying, “Welcome to childhood Chris’ room.” 

“Wow, you really weren’t kidding when you said you were a dork as a teenager, were you?” Nat laughed as she looked around the room. It obviously wasn’t a perfect relic of the past, instead being a representation of the mix between his childhood room and one he’d stayed in throughout the years as an adult during visits home. But there were still posters on the walls that he’d clearly chosen as a teenager, beat-up furniture with random stickers on it, and books and the random pieces of his childhood scattered throughout.  

He shot her a look as he shut the door behind them, asking her, “You really are just asking for me to smack that cute ass of yours again, aren’t you?” 

“I might be,” she shrugged. 

She saw his left eyebrow shoot up as a sultry grin crossed his lips, muttering, “I’m going to have to remember that.” 

“So are you going to let me get out of this shirt you ruined or what?” Nat asked as she gestured at the wet fabric clinging to her, the sweater now uncomfortable as the wine spread through it. 

He shrugged, smirking as she pulled the soaked sweater off of her and rested it on the well-worn wooden desk underneath a window. “I’m kind of a fan of you getting out of any shirt,” Chris began, raising an eyebrow with a smirk.

“Will you just get me a shirt already?!” 

He turned with a smirk to the closet in front of him, opening the door as he sorted between random clothes his mother had wanted to keep, overflow jackets and dressed, to finally old sweatshirts of his. “Oh here’s a gem,” he smirked, pulling a hanger out with a black sweatshirt on it. “I’ve still got an old sweatshirt from high school.” 

“At this point I don’t care, I just want something dry,” she admitted.

Chris closed the closet after grabbing the black sweatshirt off the hanger but when he turned around and Nat saw the way he was looking at her, she knew she wasn’t getting that piece of clothing right away. She watched him come closer as he wrapped his arms around her waist, his warm hands resting on the bare skin of her back. His movements were slow and methodical as he pressed a kiss to her cheek before trailing them down her neck and started to pepper them across the bare skin of her chest, his beard tickling her skin but his actions making her feel warm from the inside out. 

“You better cool it, because I’m not going to let you fuck me with your family downstairs and a Sandra Bullock poster staring at me,” she breathed, her hands slipping into his hair as her eyes slipped shut.

Although she felt him chuckle against her skin, he just kept kissing as he tenderly said, “I just love you Nattie, and my family loves you already. I can tell.” 

She let out a breath as he kept peppering her skin with kisses, admitting to him, “I think your family is just really nice.” 

“They are,” he agreed easily, but soon his eyes opened and he met her gaze. “But trust me, I know you’ve won them over already, although you seem to do that with everyone pretty quickly.” 

“I really like them too Chris,” she confessed, her hand raking through his hair as he rose to his full height, looking down at her.  “And I like seeing you with them. You’re so happy when you’re here.” 

“There’s nowhere in the world I’d rather be than here with my family and with you,” he easily agreed, finally handing her the sweatshirt. She slipped it over her frame and put the sweater back into her hands, following him downstairs as they heard the sounds of plates being put down and the kids cheering in the kitchen. She slipped the sweater into her bag before she followed Chris’ lean frame and joined his family at the table. 

They all laughed and traded stories while they ate pizzas from a local place in town. Nat couldn’t help but want to laugh at herself for how nervous she was just an hour ago, when she now felt as though she’d known the family her whole life. She was so comfortable around them and greatly enjoyed hearing the various embarrassing stories about Chris from his childhood, watching as he ranged from laughing along with the stories to blushing and staying quiet. 

They stayed around the table for a while, before Carly, Kevin, the kids, Shanna, and Daniel headed out to their respective homes for the rest of the night. She was sad to see them go, having enjoyed their time together, but soon her attention was drawn to the thick albums in Lisa’s hands as she came back into the kitchen and headed to where Chris and Nat were sitting at the island.

“Ma, don’t bring out the photo albums!” Chris groaned as he leaned back in his barstool. “Save that at least for the second visit.” 

But Lisa waved him off, setting them down as she replied, “With Nat living all the way in Burbank, I think it’s only fair she gets to see them now, and besides, we have to make up for the fact that we’re only just now meeting.” 

“Yeah I agree with that,” Nat laughed, taking a sip of Chris’ beer as she watched the mother and son bicker.

“Of course you would,” Chris muttered, reaching down to pet Dodger before the dog moved to the living room. “You just want dorky pictures of me as a kid to hold over my head.” 

“I already have plenty of dorky pictures of you as an adult.” 

“Remind me again why I brought you here?” He asked sarcastically, smirking as she smacked his shoulder lightly.

Lisa moved the albums in front of Nat, waving a hand towards Chris as she told him, “Go watch the game or something, I want to show these to Nat.” 

“No way, I want to see what you’re showing her,” he shot back, taking a long swig from his beer as the first album opened in front of her, with baby pictures right in front of her. 

“I just want to show Nat my sweet boy,” Lisa happily said, eyes locked on the page of pictures before she looked at her oldest son.

Although Nat was busy looking down at the first page of pictures, she saw out of the corner of her eye the way that Lisa turned to kiss Chris’ cheek before his thick arm came around her back, his hand resting on her shoulder, the small movement showing the deep love and affection between them before they all started looking at the glossy photographs in the album. 

She loved getting to look through all the pages, seeing snippets of Chris’ childhood and hearing the happy memories shared by both Lisa and Chris as they went through each and every page. It was something Nat loved, getting to know him even deeper throughout the experience and learning about his growing up years that were stuffed full of wonderful stories. But as she watched them flip through page after page, she noticed just how many photos there were of Chris and Lisa together or how he was hanging on her even in group photos. In the center of all of these photos, she could see just how much the kids adored their mother, and it made Nat realize that these were all the types of photos that she didn’t have growing up, the spot of her mother having gone empty for nearly her entire life. 

Nat tried to push the thoughts from her mind, not wanting to dwell on her unresolved feelings and instead easily fell back into listening to all the memories shared between mother and son as they worked their way through each one of the albums. It was dark by the time they had finished them all, not having missed a page as Lisa stacked them back on top of each other and asked, “So Nat, you’re going back to California on Sunday, right?” 

“Yeah I couldn’t get any more time off. With the holidays coming up, we’re pretty busy this time of year,” she admitted sadly. She would’ve loved to stay in this bubble with him, hearing and learning all about his past from the very people who raised him, but the looming departure of her return flight was hanging over her at every turn. 

“I’m glad you were able to come out. It was so wonderful to finally get to meet you,” Lisa confessed honestly, her hand squeezing Chris’ shoulder from where it rested over his flannel shirt. 

Chris looked at Nat, meeting her eyes as they shared a smile. “I feel the same way,” she admitted to Lisa. 

And Nat knew just how true that was. Although she had walked into this house hours earlier with a knot in her stomach, she left feeling the warmth of being invited into the Evans family so easily. She followed Chris and Dodger into the car, letting the silence of the moment hang as they headed back to his home together. He yawned as they pulled into the garage and slowly made their way into the house, and chatted back and forth a few times until they reached the kitchen. 

She headed into the pantry to get Dodger a scoop of food while Chris grabbed them each a beer from the fridge. She reached into the bag of food with the scoop, getting enough before she headed back into the kitchen while Chris told her, “You really are special Nattie, no other girlfriend has gotten the baby pictures on day one of meeting my Ma.” 

“Well I’m glad that I got the special privilege of seeing all the photographic evidence of your bowl cut,” she laughed as she poured the food into Dodger’s bowl, then got the dog more water as well. “And the special privilege of you ruining my sweater.” 

He groaned and shook his head, eyes narrowing as she headed back into the pantry to put the scoop away. “You’re not going to let me live that down, are you?” 

“Have you ever let me live down when I locked myself in my apartment?” She asked loudly as she put the scoop away and closed the bag of food, then came out of the pantry. “Or when I had that squirrel chase me? Or when I fell in that bush?” 

“That’s because those were such memorable things,” he laughed as he reached for a bottle opener, popping the top of their beers off. 

“I’m trying not to remember them,” she chuckled, turning off the light and shutting the door to the pantry as she came back into the kitchen. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll help remind you if you do forget,” he smirked as his eyes found her and he handed her a beer. 

Nat playfully glared at him as he just chuckled while turning his back to her, letting her reach out to smack his firm backside, only making him smirk as he looked over his shoulder and wondered, “I thought you were the one who enjoyed that… or were you just teasing?” 

“I guess that’s something you’ll have to find out for yourself,” she shrugged, a smirk spreading across her lips. 

All she could do was laugh when he sent her a flirty smile and a wink before she put her beer back down on the marble countertops and passed him again. She was washing her hands at the sink, staring out the window at the trees in his dark front yard before her brows furrowed and she noticed the picture sitting on the windowsill, one of him and Lisa at Disney World when he was a young boy, for the first time next to a plant. 

She tried to think if that was one of the many photos she’d looked at earlier, but couldn’t seem to remember it, only adding it as another to the list of the tons of photos of the pair together. Nat felt those same feelings from earlier start to swarm inside her, seeing some of what she’d missed out on growing up, but she did her best to ignore them as she had for many years. 

“Oh Nattie, my dad said he really wants to meet you the next time you’re in town,” Chris told her, his voice quiet as he scrolled on his phone and sat down at the butcher block island. “He would have loved to meet you this time but he’s at a conference this weekend and doesn’t get back until after you leave.” 

She nodded, her mind a bit far away as she stared at the picture in front of her, her mind racing with overwhelming thoughts. “I’d like to meet him too,” she told Chris. 

And although Nat’s words were honest, with the emotions that were currently swirling, she couldn’t help but be reminded how Chris even as an adult had both of his parents heavily involved in his life… something Nat never had the chance of having. Her eyes stayed fixed on that picture in the window, just staring at the happy faces and Lisa’s arms tightly around the little Chris. A pain in her chest began to ache and tears started stinging at her eyes the longer she looked. 

“Nattie? Baby, what’s wrong?” Chris asked, his voice suddenly closer. She felt his hand tentatively touch her back before she shuddered, a hand coming up to wipe her tears away before her arm wrapped around herself again. 

“I…” she hesitated, unsure if she finally could speak about the very thing she’d been suppressing nearly her entire life. “I don’t have any pictures like this.” 

Chris gently turned her to look at him, eyes worried and confused as he asked her, “What do you mean?” 

“I don’t have any pictures of me and my mom,” she whispered, her voice tiny and anxious, her eyes dropping to stare at their feet. 

“Oh Nattie,” he breathed, his arms moving to wrap around her tentatively. She felt the tears spill down her cheeks quickly as she hugged him back, burying her face into his chest as she cried openly.

His hand moved up and down her back as she cried into his black tee, practically clinging to him. As he whispered reassurances and comforted her, she straightened up, wiping the remaining tears away before she washed her hands again, busying herself with putting away a few of the now-dry dishes from their lunch. 

“Are you okay?” He asked her, his voice quiet and concerned as she fiddled around the kitchen. Tears continued burning her eyes as she did so, but she focused on putting the plates and pans away from their meal. 

“I’m okay, sorry,” she shrugged, avoiding his eyes as she put the few utensils away in the drawer. “I guess I just had an emotional moment. I’m probably still tired from the flight.” 

He sighed, and she snuck a glance at him and saw the deep frown on his concerned face. “Nattie,” he paused, choosing his words carefully. “I think we need to talk about this.”

She frowned, staring at the ground as she listened to Chris’ words. She never felt comfortable or safe enough with anyone – even with Shane – to share these fears and feelings with them before. With Chris it was different, she trusted him implicitly, and she knew he’d never judge her. But it didn’t mean it still didn’t scare her, to be opening up something she’d kept locked away for nearly the last thirty-one years. 

Her fears were brought right to the surface when he, slightly unexpectedly, asked her, “Why do you not want to talk about your mom?” 

She sighed, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning the small of her back against the marble countertop. “It’s not that I won’t talk about her, I just don’t even remember her so there just isn’t much to talk about,” she told him. She had no memories of her mother, no firsthand knowledge of what she looked like when she smiled, what her laugh sounded like, what she smelled like… not even how it felt to hug her. These were all things everyone else took for granted, something that was as easy as breathing to them, whereas she had nothing. 

“C’mon Nat, you know that there’s a lot of feelings that go with what happened,” Chris insisted, his voice firm. “Your mom dying when you were what? Three? That’s a big deal.” 

“I was almost two,” she corrected with a whisper. 

“Just because you don’t have memories of her doesn’t mean you don’t have feelings about her.” 

She felt the burning of his gaze on her and shrugged, unable to explain how she felt in a way that anyone would understand. “I don’t know,” she whispered, her voice quiet. 

He let out a frustrated sigh, his voice confused when he pointed out, “This isn’t like you, Nat.” 

“What?” 

“How you’re acting right now. It’s not like you to not deal with your feelings or not even be willing to talk about them,” he paused, waving a hand in her direction before he shook his head. “There’s obviously some reason you won’t.” 

She sighed, frowning as she insisted, “It’s nothing Chris, it’s fine. You’re trying to make this out to be a big deal and it’s not.” 

“Yes it is because you won’t say more than two words about it,” he muttered, crossing his arms over his chest as he stared at her. “C’mon, just tell me what’s going on. Just say it. Say how you’re feeling.” 

“I just feel like… I feel like I’m being disrespectful or ungrateful to my dad if I do, though,” she finally admitted, shifting her weight on her feet before she leaned against the cabinet again. 

“Why do you feel that way? How is it being ungrateful to your dad if you have feelings about your mom?” 

“Because you don’t understand what he did for my sisters and me,” she confessed, a lump in her throat and tears spilling down her cheeks. She saw Dodger jump onto the couch in the living room just off the kitchen, reaching a hand up to wipe the tears away as they blurred her vision. “My dad was heartbroken over my mom and still is. He had to watch his wife that he adored waste away to nothing because of cancer and then had to figure out how to raise three girls on his own and he did an incredible job. He did everything in his power to fill the role of both parents and I couldn’t ask for a better dad.” 

“I know that, Nattie,” he murmured, hesitating before he slowly crossed the short distance between them. He leaned against the side of the island in front of her, holding a hand out to grasp her own. “I know how wonderful your dad is and how much you love him, but that doesn’t mean that you can’t miss what you never got a chance to have.” 

“It just feels like that though,” she whispered with a shaking voice. 

“Why?” He asked, genuinely confused. “Nat, I want you to tell me. I want you to say out loud what you’ve been bottling up inside.” 

“It feels like I don’t have a right to miss her or be sad about the fact she’s gone,” Nat began, feeling herself relax a bit as Chris squeezed her hand gently. “My dad, Heather, and Alex… they all remember her and miss her, but if it wasn’t for pictures I wouldn’t even know what she looked like.” 

He nodded, nothing but understanding and concern on his face. “It is a different loss for you than it is for them, but it doesn’t mean your loss is less. You have to grieve someone you didn’t get a chance to know,” he reminded her. 

“It’s just weird,” she told him with a frown, her eyes staring at his chest. “Like I don’t have that connection that they all have to her… I don’t even know how to explain it. This person who was a huge influence in their lives is someone that I can’t even remember.” 

The frown on his face grew as he listened to her, asking, “Nattie… have you ever told your family any of this?” 

“No,” she replied quietly. “My dad still misses her so much and my sisters do too. I don’t think any of them would understand, and I think telling them how in certain ways I don’t feel that same connection they do would just hurt them.” 

“So you’ve just been keeping all of this in your whole life?” 

“I just don’t feel like anybody gets what it’s like,” she chuckled bitterly, reaching up to wipe her tears away with her spare hand. “And the only people who do are my family, but if I talk to them, I’m only going to make their pain worse.” 

“Nattie, I’m so sorry,” he breathed, standing up straight and moving closer to her, his hand shifting from holding her hand to instead rest on her hip. “I’m sorry that you lost your mom and I’m sorry you had to watch your family hurt. I wish I had the right thing to say or an easy answer to all of this but I don’t. The only thing I do know is that it’s not going to get better by keeping it all inside.” 

“I know, it’s just not easy to talk about it,” she shrugged, quiet as his thumb moved side to side underneath the sweatshirt on her bare skin. “I don’t even know how it makes me feel half the time.” 

“I think talking about it would help you be able to sort it out easier,” he suggested, his voice calm and quiet. “I think you just need to give yourself permission to be sad. Your loss is different from your sisters’, but it doesn’t mean you didn’t have a loss. There was a hole in your life and it’s okay to be sad about that. I’m sad about it for you.” 

“...I am sad,” she finally admitted. She’d been masking it for years and it’d been easier this past year as she’d grown closer with Chris, having something to look forward to every day, but it was still below the surface with each passing moment, stronger at some and quieter at others. “I think sometimes I can forget about it and I’m so thankful I got to have and still have so many great memories with my dad and my sisters, but then I see things like I did tonight with you and your mom and I just… I’m sad I never got the chance to have that.” 

His frown deepened at her words and he gently pulled her towards him, giving her a chance to pull away but she reached for him as well, wrapping her arms around him as he hugged her tightly. He rocked her side to side slowly, helping to pull out all of the tension built up in her body. It felt so good to finally be able to give voice to the feelings that had plagued her so long, and have her words fall on understanding and loving ears. She hadn’t expected to be dealing with all of these feelings being brought up by seeing Chris’ loving mother, but Nat knew that she’d be better in the long run for starting to tackle some of them. Although that ended up being something that didn’t surprise her too terribly much, knowing that ever since she’d gotten with Chris, all he’d done was make her life better. 

After several moments of nothing being said between them, he tilted his head down to look at her and asked, “Want to go to bed?” 

“Yeah,” she agreed, taking a deep breath as they pulled apart. “Chris?” 

“Hmm?” He asked, distracted as he let Dodger out one last time before he grabbed both of their since-abandoned beers, draining them in the sink before he put them in the recycling.

She smiled a little, watching as he sprung into action while she still was trying to find the energy to wipe her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered. 

“You don’t need to thank me,” he grinned, rinsing his hands and drying them off before he moved back over to her. “I’m always here for you, Nattie.” 

“I know,” he smiled, his eyes flicking down to her lips before she leaned up on her toes, pressing their lips together. “I love you…even if you did chip my teeth tonight.” 

He rolled his eyes as Dodger barked outside, scratching at the glass door. “How many more times are you going to bring that up before we even get to bed?” He asked loudly as he stepped out of their embrace and let the dog in, locking the door once it shut. 

“Oh at least a few more,” she smirked. After getting a glass of water, she led Chris and Dodger down the hall to his bedroom, yawning as the long, exciting, and emotional day caught up with her. 

Chris hopped in the shower while she washed her face and brushed her teeth, meeting her in his bed with damp hair and a pair of sweatpants on his hips. With one soft instruction, Dodger moved to the foot of the bed and Chris slipped below the covers next to Nat.

They were quiet as the minutes ticked by, with Chris reading an email on his phone while Nat watched Dodger, reaching down to scratch his ears with a smile. Her mind kept racing while he had been in the shower, and it didn’t seem to be slowing down anymore. She was determined to take his words to heart, wanting him to see she was trying to be more open about these things, and finally began, “I always hated Mother’s Day.”

His brows furrowed, but he didn’t seem surprised at her words as he locked his phone and plugged it into the charger on his nightstand. “Really?” He asked, turning to give her his full attention. 

She nodded, watching as he moved closer to her, laying on his side. “At school we’d always make something for it, you know, like a poem or card or something,” she paused, and he nodded, likely having experienced the same. “And I just remember in first grade sitting at our desks and the teacher telling us that we were all making a card for our mom’s and then she looked at me and said ‘And Natalie, you can make one for your Dad’ and I cried so hard my dad had to come pick me up from school.” 

Chris’ face fell and his eyes turned angry – not at her, but for her – as he listened to those words. “Nattie, I can’t imagine how hard that was for you,” he whispered, his hand resting on her hip for a moment before it slid underneath the old sweatshirt of his she’d kept on, rubbing back and forth on her bare skin again comfortingly. She slid closer to him, her hand coming to rest in his drying hair before it slipped down to his shoulder. 

“After that my Dad always let me stay home that Friday before Mother’s Day so that I would have to sit through making a craft for a mom I didn’t have,” she recalled, forcing the lump in her throat to go away as she didn’t want to get emotional again. “I just hated that I didn’t get to have what everyone else had.” 

“I wish I had a way to make it better,” he admitted, his voice wavering as his anger was still evident. He tilted his head to look up at her, giving her a sad smile as he assured her, “All I can say is that I’m sorry, I’m here for you, and I love you.” 

“That’s all I need.” 

He grinned, leaning up to press their lips together before he told her he loved her, then slid back over onto his side to turn the lamp off just as Nat did the same. They found each other as they laid back down, with Chris on his back and Nat, laying on her right side, laid her head on his bare chest. 

As she rested her hand on his chest and listened as he yawned, then began to fall asleep, she couldn’t help but feel that this peace, this comfort she’d always associated with being around Chris, around her safe person…. Instead was a feeling of being home. 

Home would always be partially in Washington due to her family and upbring, but Chris… Chris was starting to feel like home. He was where she laughed the loudest, smiled the brightest, and felt the happiest, no matter where they were and who they were around. Chris was the only consistency in that equation and as she realized that fact, the slowing beat of his heart under her ear and the longer and deeper breaths he took as his chest rose and fell was all she needed to remind herself that right now, her home was right here in this bed with him. 

A/N: We hoped you enjoyed this chapter! It is very close to our hearts and we can't wait to hear your thoughts!