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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 9 months

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Napoleonville [Chapter 2: The Jailhouse]

Series Summary: The year is 1988. The town is Napoleonville, Louisiana. You are a small business owner in need of some stress relief. Aemond is a stranger with a taste for domination. But as his secrets are revealed, this casual arrangement becomes something more volatile than either of you could have ever imagined.

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), dom/sub dynamics, historical topics including war and discrimination, smoking, blasphemy, kids, parenthood, alcoholism, y'all know exactly who is in jail come on now, Pizza Hut, a wild ex-husband appears!

Word Count: 7k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @marvelescvpe @toodlesxcuddles @era127 @at-a-rax-ia @0eessirk8 @arcielee @dd122004dd @humanpurposes @taredhunter @tinykryptonitewerewolf @partnerincrime0 @eltherevir @persephonerinyes @namelesslosers @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @daenysx @gemini-mama @chattylurker @moonlightfoxx @huramuna @britt-mf @myspotofcraziness @padfooteyes @aemonddtargaryen @trifoliumviridi @joliettes @darkenchantress @florent1s @babyblue711 @minttea07 @libroparaiso @bluerskiees

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Amir is sitting at the kitchen table and icing peach cobbler cupcakes; he has a single white flower from a dogwood tree poked through one of his cornrows. He wears a short sleeve button-up shirt with a kaleidoscopic geometric pattern, high-waisted khaki shorts, and eyeglasses with large rectangular, tortoiseshell frames. He has one leg crossed over the other and is kicking it absentmindedly as he works, a habit he’s had since long before you met him in your 9th grade English class. The microwave is humming. Walk This Way is blaring from the little pink boombox.

“Ho, I mean it this time, I gotta get the hell out of this town.” Amir uses a fork to place a small peach wedge—sauteed in butter, sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, and vanilla—atop the swirl of buttercream frosting, then sprinkles the cupcake with cinnamon before moving on to the next. “Guess what some inbred neanderthal swamp creature did last night. They busted a window out of my car again.”

“I told you to take that thing off it.” Amir has a homemade bumper sticker on his Ford Escort that reads, in holographic rainbow cursive: Fuck Ronald Reagan (not literally)!

“That war criminal can let 50,000 people die of AIDS but I belong on America’s Most Wanted for exercising my First Amendment rights?”

“I know you’re not wrong. You know you’re not wrong. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

“To be afraid is to behave as if the truth were not true. Bayard Rustin said that.”

“And I’m sure he was a very smart man, but he didn’t have to live in Napoleonville.” The microwave beeps, and you remove the sweet potato inside with an oven mitt and place it on the counter alongside the others. This is a trick you’ve learned: they’re so much easier to peel and slice once they’ve been microwaved a bit, thirty seconds for a small potato, one minute for a larger one. “You want me to ask Willis to do a stakeout or something?”

“He might be the one committing vandalism.”

You frown down at the sweet potatoes as you peel them over the cutting board and toss the skins into a bowl so Cadi can feed them to the squirrels later. You doubt Willis is responsible, but one of his friends very well could be.

Amir sighs, acquiescing, wistful. “Six months from now I’ll be in San Francisco.” Yes, he will; he’s been saving up for years. The thought of him leaving is practically apocalyptic. You can’t envision a future without Amir. It’s like the very worst version of when you’re a kid and some event—Christmas, your birthday, summer break, prom—is so glimmeringly monumental that whatever life will exist beyond it is incomprehensible, a haze of other people’s dreams and warnings. Surely you won’t exist in that timeline; surely you will dissolve away once that fateful checkpoint is reached and become nothing but sun and sand.

You don’t tell Amir any of this. You don’t want to make him feel guilty. Instead you tease: “You sure you don’t want to stay and get a job on one of those shiny new oil rigs?”

He laughs as he pipes buttercream frosting onto the last peach cobbler cupcake. His artistic talents far surpass yours, but you bring the baking techniques and recipe ideas. Still, you have always split the bakery profits—however meager they might be—equally. “Yes, how could I possibly pass up the opportunity to lose half my skin in an explosion caused by company negligence? Or inhale toxic fumes, or have my limbs ripped off, or fracture my skull? Or fall off a platform in the middle of the night and be eaten by a gator before anyone bothers to fish me out? I will surely regret all my life choices when I’m lying on the beach in Pacifica next to my new boyfriend who looks like Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

The front door opens. It’s Mr. Fontenot, the town pharmacist. You call out: “Hi there! Come right on in! We’ve got your cake ready. Blue velvet with marshmallow cream and topped with candied blueberries. We read up on how to make them just for you. So thank you kindly for the learning opportunity.”

Since you’re wrist-deep in sweet potatoes, Amir leaps up to retrieve the box. He opens it so Mr. Fontenot can inspect his order. “When you cut into it, you’ll see that it’s a dark royal blue on the inside. Cookie Monster blue, not robin egg blue, just like you wanted.”

“Will ya look at that,” Mr. Fontenot says, beaming down at the cake. Written across the marshmallow cream in blue icing is (in Amir’s most elegant script): Happy 8th Birthday, Corey! “My grandson is going to get such a kick out of a blue cake.”

“He sure is,” Amir agrees. “Now can I talk you into anything else for the party? Some peach cobbler cupcakes, perhaps? Praline brownies? A brown sugar pie? Homemade Fruity Pebbles Rice Krispie Treats? Kids love them…!”

You say once Mr. Fontenot has gone: “He works for the company, you know.”

“Huh? Who?”

“Aemond. He works for Jade Dragon. He’s an engineer.”

“Ho, you are obsessed with that man!” Amir says. “You’ve brought him up, like, four times already!”

“Yeah,” you confess, a humiliation that is futile to deny. Parts of you are still sore from what he did to you; other places are aching for more.

“And you didn’t even get to see the dick?!”

You shake your head as you cut the peeled sweet potatoes into haphazard chunks. Amir puts a pot of water on the stove so you can boil them until they’re soft enough to mash into filling for a sweet potato pie. “Didn’t see it, didn’t touch it…”

“Didn’t lick it, didn’t suck it?”

“Okay, that’s enough, Dr. Seuss. But no.”

“Secret dick, scar on his face, missing an eye…” Amir mutters. “Maybe he’s a veteran who lost his andouille in combat! Yes! That’s it! He was there when we invaded Lebanon or Grenada or Libya and now he’s horribly disfigured and can’t bear the prospect of your inevitable horror and rejection!”

“His andouille is definitely unchopped. I could…uh…tell. Through his jeans.”

Amir closes his eyes and presses his palms together. “Sweet baby Jesus, please send me a gainfully employed big-dicked blonde man too.” He looks at you again. “But he really wouldn’t use it?!”

“Aemond said he wanted me to trust him first.”

“Maybe he doesn’t trust you. Maybe he thinks you might be on the prowl for Shotgun Wedding #2. You should tell him he’s got nothing to worry about in that department. You’ve been on the pill practically since Cadi was born.”

You murmur: “And I will be forever.”

“I know,” Amir says gently, pausing to squeeze your shoulder before taking the sweet potato hunks you’ve sliced already and dropping them in the boiling water. “So! When are you going to call him?”

You startle. “I can’t call him! I called him the first time. Now it’s his turn to call me. I can’t call him again, that would be desperate. Right?” Right?!

“Does he even know your number?”

“He knows my name, and he knows about the bakery. The number is publicly listed, he can find me in the phone book.”

Amir groans. “Lord have mercy, just call him! Pick up that pink phone right there beside the refrigerator and press those cute little buttons and say, loud and proud: Come on over here, big boy, I want to see that traumatized war veteran dick.”

The phone rings. You trip over your own feet as you lunge for it.

Amir snickers. “Pathetic!” He takes over slicing the rest of the sweet potatoes.

“Hello?!”

You hear a deep, slothful drawl; Willis’ family have been bayou people for longer than the United States has been a country. “Hey sugar, you want to bring your favorite ex-husband some dessert?”

You sigh. “Hi, Willis.” From across the kitchen, Amir makes retching noises.

“So what’d ya say? I just had a late lunch and got to thinkin’ of you. Gave me a sweet tooth.”

“Um, I don’t know, we’re really busy right now.” Amir snorts; you’ve had three customers in the last hour. There’s usually a rush first thing each morning and then again around closing time.

“Ya ain’t got time for me? Well, alrighty then. Maybe I won’t have time for you when you need a wild hog chased off your porch or a flat tire changed out there on Route 401.”

This is the eternal dilemma, the balance you wrestle with like a boat in a storm: not making him angry, not letting him get too close. You and Willis don’t have a formal agreement for custody or child support. You’ve worked it out yourselves, and he typically doesn’t make it too difficult. You’ve always felt that appeasement is the wisest course of action. As the elected sheriff of Assumption Parish, Willis Boudreaux is responsible for all criminal investigations, court proceedings, and tax collecting. Even when he was just a deputy, he had plenty of friends at the little white courthouse in the heart of downtown Napoleonville. You’re better off working with him than against him. “Okay, fine, I guess I have a few minutes. What do you want?”

“Why don’t you make a professional recommendation?”

You glance irritably at the kitchen table. “We have brown sugar pie, peach cobbler cupcakes, praline brownies, lemon blueberry cookies, uh, I’ve got half a strawberries and cream cake left in the fridge…”

“Definitely the cake,” Willis says. “I love strawberries. Remember how you fed them to me on the beach when we went to Grand Isle?”

That was…what, eight years ago? Ugh. “Barely.” You like when Willis has a girlfriend; then he mostly leaves you alone. Tragically, he and his most recent fiancé Colleen broke up last month. “I’ll drive the cake over now.” You slam the phone receiver into the base before Willis can respond.

“Let’s kill him,” Amir says.

You laugh. “I’ll consider it.”

“We can feed him to that gator out in the tree row.”

You grab a flat white bakery box off the pile, fold it open, and fetch what remains of the strawberries and cream cake from the refrigerator. “You’ll get that sweet potato pie in the oven if I’m gone for a half hour?”

“Yup. Then I’ll start working on the brown butter oatmeal raisin cookies. Is the recipe…? Oh, I see it, it’s right here on the counter. Got it. Have fun with your awful ex-husband. You sure you don’t want to add a little something special to that cake? Windex? Rat poison? He sure looks like a rodent to me. That nose? Those eyebrows?!”

“Amir, he’s just French.”

“He should be exiled to Saint Helena.”

“I’m going to have to put my own ad in the Bayou Journal,” you say, smiling sadly. “Who’s going to run the shop with me when you’re in San Francisco?”

Amir winks. “Maybe your traumatized, half-blind, hung-like-a-horse war veteran knows how to bake.”

Outside, the gator is sunning herself by the gravel driveway. She’s only about five feet long and dozing with her muddy green eyes closed, jagged upper teeth on display, missing toes here and there, back scarred by boat motors. It’s 90 degrees and sunny, warmth flooding over your bare legs and arms: denim shorts, lime green tank top. You can hear cicadas, doves, chickadees, starlings, goldfinches, ospreys, the benign droning of bumble bees. You throw the white box in the passenger seat and start your Chevy Celebrity, yellow paint, wood paneling, brown velour upholstery. You crank down the windows—the air conditioning is broken, that’s one reason why Willis’ brother was willing to sell it to you so cheap—and turn on the radio: 867-5309 by Tommy Tutone. You pull out onto Route 401, headed northeast towards downtown Napoleonville.

You pass fields of sugarcane and soybeans, shacks and trailers, grass green like emeralds. The hot mid-May air, humid and stagnant, blows through your hair. If the ride was any longer than ten minutes, you’d have needed a cooler for the cake. You find a parking spot on the street outside the Assumption Parish Sheriff’s Office and grab the box containing half a strawberries and cream cake, probably just starting to get melty around the edges. Deputy Melancon is on his way out when you arrive. He holds the glass door open for you.

“Comment ca va, cherie? Is that for me? I hope so!”

“I think your boss would chew your arm off if you tried to get between him and this cake.”

Deputy Melancon guffaws as he ambles towards his police car. “Have fun in there! It’s a zoo today.”

“What…?” But now you can hear the noise coming from inside the building: howling, banging, Willis telling someone to sit down and shut up, his Cajun drawl lethargic and calm. Willis is not a yeller, and you’ve never witness him raise his hands in violence. The being a cop part of his job is the aspect he enjoys the least. But sitting around jawing with his deputies until long after midnight, regaling them with tales of supposed glory acquired while you were home with a screaming baby, scrubbing floors, fixing dinner, still bleeding eight weeks after birth, waiting—because it was all there was to look forward to—for him to walk through the door and shuffle to the couch and collapse there with an ice-cold can of Bud Light in his fist, dripping condensation down his sinewy forearm? That’s what Willis lives for.

Willis is at his desk and grudgingly plodding through an intake form. His sunglasses have been shoved up into his dark curly hair; his hat—which he loathes wearing—is resting atop a mountain of deserted paperwork. There’s a poster of Heather Locklear on the wall along with a dartboard with a cutout of Tommy Lee in the center. There’s a man in one of the three holding cells that you’ve hardly ever seen used. He has slicked-back blonde hair, an aristocratic wisp of a moustache, an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt and tiny red shorts and thick foam rainbow-patterned flip flops. He’s the person responsible for the ruckus.

“I want my phone call!” the prisoner shouts as he beats his palms against the iron bars. “Hey! Hey, mullet boy! I want my fucking phone call!”

Oddly, the stranger has a British accent. Aemond? you think for a split second. But no; this man couldn’t possibly be related to Aemond. He is short, slouched, soft all over, uncoordinated and uncomposed, pathetic, petulant, innately pitiful. Willis ignores him. He speaks to you instead.

“Bienvenue, sugar. Ya got something sweet for me?”

Obediently—though not entirely willingly—you bring him the white box and set it on his disorganized desk. Willis produces a stack of Styrofoam plates and a Ziploc bag full of plastic eating utensils that he keeps stocked in a drawer specifically for such occasions. He opens the box and sighs euphorically, his eyes on the moist pink cake and layers of whipped cream frosting as if it’s the flesh of a naked woman.

“Hey!” the prisoner shouts, gripping the iron bars and pressing his flushed cheeks flat against them. “Hey! I like cake too!”

“Just what I needed,” Willis tells you, as if the man isn’t there. “Sit down, eat with me.”

“I really don’t have long.”

“Ya got five minutes, don’t you?”

I guess I do. You sit down but don’t take any cake. As Willis cuts himself a slice, you can’t help but watch the man in the holding cell. He stares back at you, a little ashamed, a little defiant, palpably weak. You ask Willis: “What did you book him for?”

“DWI,” Willis says with his mouth full of cake. “Driving While Intoxicated.”

“Huh. You don’t usually pick people up for that.”

Willis points at the prisoner with his fork for emphasis. “This one was very intoxicated.”

The man kicks the bars with his flip flops. “I want my fucking phone call!”

“Ya already used it,” Willis says pragmatically, and nods to something on the floor of the holding cell: an empty, grease-stained Pizza Hut box. The prisoner looks at it, regretful.

“I didn’t know I’d only get one,” he admits. “But also! You ate three slices of my pizza!”

Willis chuckles. “Consider it payin’ your taxes.” Then, to you: “It was tres bien. Meat Lover’s. Ya can’t argue with that.”

“Hey cake lady,” the prisoner says, his prominent eyes weepy, needful, a deep stormy blue. “Can I have a piece? Please? Please? I’m having a rough day here. My flip flops are giving me blisters and your redneck husband committed pizza theft. And I’m in jail.”

“Ex-husband,” you correct him.

“Good for you. Smart cake lady.”

Willis says: “You just settle down and I’ll drive you over to the parish jail as soon as I’m done with my dessert.” He shovels cake into his mouth; he eats like a gator, like a pig.

At last, you cut a portion of strawberries and cream cake—the whipped cream frosting turning thin and runny—and place it on a Styrofoam plate. Then you get up to take it to the prisoner. You have a soft spot for the freaks of the world. You and Amir, you know exactly what it’s like to be freaks.

“Don’t give him no fork or nothing,” Willis says around a mouthful of cake. “I can’t have him tryin’ to kill himself.”

“As if I’d give you the satisfaction, Sasquatch!” the prisoner flings back.

“It’s the Rougarou we got down here, son,” Willis replies, unbothered.

You set the plate on the beige linoleum floor close enough for the prisoner to reach out and drag it to his cell. When you step back, he retrieves the cake and eats it with his bare hands. “Oh, fuck, this is so good!”

You turn to Willis. “Cadi keeps mentioning some horseback riding camp that a bunch of her friends are going to this summer. Can we make that happen?”

“Are you kiddin’ me?! It’s over $300! That’s a new boat!”

“I think it would mean a lot to her.”

“Tell her if she grows her hair back out, maybe she can go next year.” Willis licks pink cake crumbs from his fork. “Why the hell’d she ever get it cut like that?”

You shrug, irritated. “Because she wanted to.”

“Never wears no skirts or dresses, doesn’t care about jewelry, always got dirt on her face…ain’t she gonna want a boyfriend in a few years? Who’s gonna take her out lookin’ like that? Who’s gonna marry her one day?”

“She’s ten years old, Willis.”

“She’s been spending too much time with your little friend, that’s the problem.”

You glare furiously at him, but are interrupted before you can say something unwise. The man in the holding cell has finished his slice of cake. He sucks frosting off his chubby fingers and then yanks on the iron bars in vain. “I gotta go home! I gotta feed my ferret!”

“Guess ya should have thought about that before driving 70 miles per hour in a school zone, Mr.…” Willis glances at the intake form to refresh his memory. “Targaryen. What the heck is that, Italian? Polish? It ain’t French, that’s for sure.”

“It’s Greek, you dumb hick.”

Willis jabs his plastic fork at him. “You oughta watch that, son, or you’ll catch yourself a nasty case of what the liberals call police brutality.”

“He’s a Targaryen?” you ask, stunned. The man in the cell peers back at you with large, ever-wounded, ocean-blue eyes, glassy but not entirely unintelligent.

“So what?” Willis says.

“Willis, those are the oil people. Jade Dragon, the new rigs on Lake Verret? The Targaryens own that company.”

“Well I’ll be damned!” he marvels. “Really? This bon a rien right here, his family are a bunch of millionaires?”

“Yes. And you should probably let him make another phone call.”

“Yeah!” the prisoner says excitedly. “Listen to the cake lady!”

“Alright, alright,” Willis grumbles. “Guess I don’t need no legal trouble.” He picks up the phone off his desk and walks it to the holding cell; the cord stretches just far enough. “Make your damn phone call, gros couillion.”

Mr. Targaryen snatches up the receiver, punches some buttons, and listens as it rings. “Hi. Okay, don’t yell at me. Here’s the deal. I’m at the Assumption Parish Sheriff’s Office and I need you to pick me up. Wait, I said don’t yell at me! Stop yelling!!”

“I really need to get back to the bakery,” you tell Willis as you make for the door. “I’ll see you around, okay—?”

“Hey, sugar.” You stop and wait for him to finish. He’s considering you in that way he does sometimes: mild, thoughtful, vaguely sad, how’d we end up like this? He should know, you’ve told him a hundred times, but that doesn’t mean he understands. “I’m supposed to be gettin’ a new deputy next week. When he shows, I’ll send him down your way, recruit ya another customer. Charge him a little extra if you want. He won’t know no better.”

“Thanks, Willis,” you say, and you mean it. Then you step outside into sun glare and the shrieking of cicadas.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s almost dinnertime when the phone rings. You’re heating up the turtle soup that Amir brought over earlier, stirring the pot as the sky outside turns from a crystalline blue—just like Aemond’s eye—to rust and amber and fool’s gold, as the twilight air breathes into the room warm and ancient. There’s a plump nutria nibbling on grass at the edge of the backyard. Wham’s Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go pipes from the boombox. At first you’re too startled to race for the phone—too terrified that it won’t be Aemond, too afraid to get your hopes up—and you hesitate just long enough for Cadi to answer instead.

“Hello?” she says, and then: “Yeah, school was good.”

Everything sinks in you, heart, spirit, the sweltering pressure of blood ebbing in your veins. Oh. It’s Willis.

Cadi continues chatting away obliviously. “Uh huh. Not really. We learned about robber barons and cannons of Italy. Yeah, captains of industry, that’s what I meant. Uh huh. Yup. It was okay, I guess. Yeah. Today it was pizza, but it’s always shaped like a rectangle. Exactly, no crust. It’s weird. Pepperoni. I always sit with Michelle and Erica. Erica has this totally tubular book about horses she showed us. Yup. I like the Appaloosas the most. Uh huh. Okay, I will. Yup. Bye.” Then she hands you the phone. “For you,” she says, then resumes setting the counter: cups, bowls, spoons, folded Bounty paper towels, dinner for two. You never eat at the kitchen table. The table is reserved for business.

You raise the pink phone receiver to your ear with some uncertainty. What does he want now? “Willis?”

“No,” Aemond says, amused. “Though we’ve been to some of the same places.”

You try not to let the smile fill up your face. You fail. “You were asking Cadi about her day?”

“Evidently.” You don’t know what this means; you don’t ask. “When are you free?”

“I usually have the house to myself on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays.” It’s currently Monday.

“Great. I’ll see you tomorrow. What time?”

“I should be done in the bakery at around 5:00.”

“I’ll be there at 5:01.” Then Aemond hangs up. So do you, your skull suddenly abloom like springtime, colors and promise and warmth. He’s going to be here in less than 24 hours. I really am going to see him again.

You turn towards the counter. “Cadi, what are robber barons?”

“Rich people who are mean to their workers to get as much money as possible. They don’t care about others. They just want more and more and more. They’re very greedy and are never satisfied.”

“So like the Rockefellers and Standard Oil,” you say, thinking back to your high school American History class. It feels like a lifetime ago, it feels like trying to catch lightning bugs in your bare hands.

“Yeah.” Cadi pours herself a cup of Tang. She’s wearing a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles t-shirt and green corduroy pants; her father would not approve. “Or Jade Dragon Energy.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Tuesday, 5:03 p.m., rattling cicadas and golden light like the lit coil of a stove burner. You’re still scrubbing dishes, and Amir is icing the last of the orange creamsicle cupcakes for the next morning. Aemond opens the unlocked front door and strides purposefully into the kitchen: ripped jeans, red t-shirt, Converses to match, Marlboro jacket. He is carrying a neon teal duffle bag that he drops on the sloping wooden floor where the living room meets the kitchen. He is momentarily taken aback when he sees Amir, then recalls what you told him about your friend who helps run the bakery. Aemond pulls out one of the kitchen table chairs and sits. He lifts the glass lid from a cake plate, takes the last peach cobbler cupcake for himself, makes unflinching eye contact with you as he licks the frosting off it with long, slow, sensual drags of his tongue.

Amir says: “Hey Scarface, that’s $1.”

“Amir!” you scold, mortified. But Aemond doesn’t seem offended. He smirks, extracts his black leather wallet from the pocket his jeans, and fishes out four singles. He slides them across the table.

Amir sighs. “This bitch can’t even count.”

“I’m sure he can count,” you say, smiling. “He’s an engineer.”

“He’s mouth-fucking this cupcake right in front of me, he’s clearly unstable.”

Aemond looks to you. His voice is low, imposing. “I need to know what your limits are.”

“Oh my God!” Amir squeaks, bent over the table and icing as quickly as he can.

“Okay,” you tell Aemond. You rinse the pearlescent soap bubbles from your hands, wrists, forearms. Then you step out from behind the counter and watch him, remember him, imagine what will happen next.

He gives the peach cobbler cupcake another lap. Buttercream frosting coats his mischieviously curled lips and then is swiftly licked away. “Can I spank you?”

“Yes.”

Amir mutters to himself: “Grandma is never going to believe this.”

“Can I tie you up?”

“Yes.”

“Can I bite you hard enough to leave bruises?”

You pause. “Only places that will be covered by my clothes.”

“And what should you say if you ever don’t like what I’m doing?”

“I just tell you to stop.”

“Exactly.” Aemond grins. His right eye skates from your face to your chest to your hips to your thighs to your ankles, drinking you down like the earth swallows rain, like the vines and cypress trees and Sanish moss of the bayou thieve sunlight and never give it back. His left eye doesn’t move at all, though this is not something you would notice if you didn’t know to look for it. “Good girl.”

“Done!” Amir announces triumphantly, completing the swirl of frosting on the final orange creamsicle cupcake.

“Can I pull your hair?” Aemond asks you.

“Yeah, I think so. Not hard enough to yank it out though.”

Aemond scoffs. “Of course not. I don’t actually want to hurt you. That’s what some doms are after, but not me. Not here, not with you. You don’t want real pain, do you…?”

“No, definitely not,” you say, relieved.

“Brilliant. Then we’re on the same page.”

Amir could leave, but he doesn’t. His eyes dart between you and Aemond from behind his large rectangular glasses, fascinated, scandalized, too astonished to move.

Aemond continues: “Birth control?”

“I’m on the pill and have been for years. I can show you the pack if you don’t believe me.”

“I believe you. I saw them in your bathroom last time I was here. I’m in the practice of using condoms regardless.” He tilts his head impishly. “Can I fuck your ass?”

“Um.” You hesitate. This is uncharted territory, though you cannot say that you are entirely unintrigued. “Maybe one day.”

“Noted. Some people find the sensation, the taboo, the fullness…quite pleasurable.”

“Do you?” Amir asks flirtatiously.

Aemond gives him a lazy, ludicrously charming smile. “Well I’ve never been on the receiving end, but I’m game to give it a try if you are.”

Amir bursts out laughing, then says to you: “He’s alright. He can commit abominable sins with you, I guess.” He stands and shakes Aemond’s hand. “Nice to meet you. Kind of.” Then he saunters off through the living room and out the front door. After a moment, you and Aemond listen to his blue Ford Escort rumble to life and then the crunching of gravel as it rolls out of the driveway. From the boombox drifts Just What I Needed by The Cars.

Aemond licks the last of the frosting from the peach cobbler cupcake and says: “Now you’re going to be the cupcake.” He crosses the kitchen, kneels down in front of you, roughly yanks down your denim shorts. He presses his face to your royal blue satin panties—hastily purchased this morning while Amir watched the shop and changed into just one hour ago in anticipation of Aemond’s arrival—and inhales deeply, desperately, like a drowning man gasping for air. Then, through the sheer fabric, he begins to tease you: nudges of his nose, nibbles of his lips.

Your fingers tangle in his short blonde hair. Blonde like the drunk man in the holding cell, you think randomly. “Aemond, why didn’t you want me last time?”

“I wanted you. I wanted you then and I want you now.”

“But I disappointed you. You didn’t finish.”

“Oh, I came,” he purrs. “Went home, got in the shower, thought of you. It didn’t take long. I would have disappointed you terribly. Woke up in the middle of the night thinking of you. Tried to miraculously get some work done yesterday while thinking of you. Crawled out of bed this morning thinking of you. Are you noticing a theme?”

You smile as his tongue presses forcefully against the satin. “I might be.”

“How many times in your life has a man treated his orgasm as essential and your own as an afterthought, if he considered it at all?”

Oh God. That’s the fucking truth. “A lot more than once.”

“So consider what we did on Sunday as one little notch in the other column. Just restoring a bit of much-needed balance to the universe.” He hooks his thumbs under your panties and tugs them off. “Open your thighs for me,” he orders as he pushes them apart with his palms: large, smooth, artful hands. You brace your own hands against the kitchen counter as he buries his face between your legs, not lapping in a tentative, exploratory sort of way but feasting on you, drowning in you, lips and tongue and then fingers that skate up the downy inside of your thigh to taunt you, enter you, fuck you expertly yet leave you wanting more of him, all of him. Your nerves are on fire, your blood is simmering. Outside the birds of prey are emerging from their liars and battle-scarred gators stalk boldly through the green prehistoric wildness of the Deep South.

What happened to his eye? you think through the lust-pink haze, knowing you cannot ask him. Aemond respects your rules. You must abide by his as well. How was he injured so gravely? Who hurt him? Did they atone for their misdeeds, did they pay the cost?

Suddenly, Aemond stands and pulls you against him by your waist, rips your yellow tank top over your head and unhooks your bra, kisses you fiercely. His mouth is dripping with you, clean mineral longing; his right eye is gleaming, famished, not just lustful but half-mad. No one else exists. No one ever has or ever will. “Go to the bed and wait for me there.”

“No.”

He spanks you once with his open palm; the sound is sharp and exquisite. “Go.” And this time you obey, counting the seconds in the dusk-lit splinter of time before he joins you.

In Aemond’s duffle bag—among other things, surely—are silk scarves the color of sapphires. First he fastens one over your eyes as a blindfold. Then he ties one around each of your wrists and binds both to the same bedpost, low enough that while your hands are kept up by your head, you still have some room to maneuver on the freshly-laundered, wildflower-patterned duvet. “Not different posts?” you ask Aemond.

“No. Tying your arms far apart like that can cause cramps in your back and your shoulders. It can even make it difficult to breathe. I want you to be comfortable. I want you to be focused entirely on what I’m doing to you.”

You moan as his fingers slip between your legs and circle over the place that makes your muscles yearn and twist and tighten until you feel they might snap, until you can imagine every string of you breaking and dissolving from the prison of flesh into water, air, gravity, the eternal silent progress of time. He bites and sucks at your nipples, flicking his tongue over them, admiring them, praising them, ravenous for them. You are enraptured by the weight of him on top of you. Without your sight, everything else is more noticeable, more real: his warmth, his sweat, his every brush of skin against yours, his smoke and cologne and gasps and sighs, the grinding of his bare cock against your thighs as he makes you ready for him. And you beg for it long before he gives it to you.

“Roll over,” he commands breathlessly, and then guides you: your fingers clutching the scarves that secure your wrists, your elbows propped on the mattress, your back arched and hips angled up towards him, his lips murmuring against your shoulder, your cheek, the side of your throat. He’s telling you so many things, perfect things, delicious things you’ll never hear enough of: how beautiful you are, how badly he wants you, how well you’re doing. There is the sound of Aemond opening a condom wrapper, and a strange sorrow ripples through you. I wish I could have him raw.

One of his hands reaches around to stroke you, keeping you soaked and supple for him. The other begins to guide his cock into your aching, starving wetness. You stretch for him, you accept him eagerly…and then there is resistance. He stills immediately and tries a slightly different angle. Nothing. He could force it, probably, but he won’t. He recedes from you, agonizing emptiness, dire unfulfillment. I’m disappointing him, he’s too big, I’m too tight, too nervous, too inexperienced at being dominated, I can’t please him. You whimper: “Aemond, I’m sorry—”

“No,” he says, more ferocious than any words you’ve ever heard from him. You are not allowed to criticize yourself. You are not allowed to give up so easily. He leans down and whispers into the shell of your ear, his ribs against your spine, his heat entombing you: “Relax. I’m in charge now. I’ll take care of you.”

You want him to. You need him to. His commandment rolls through your blood and bones like a wave, loosening those last vestiges of anxiety, shaking grim psychological heirlooms from the highest shelves. You can surrender yourself completely to Aemond. He is worthy, he is safe, he is euphoria made flesh. His fingertips are still stroking you. He pushes your thighs just a little farther apart and—slowly, cautiously—eases his cock into your throbbing warmth. He hisses in a breath, though he tries not to break character, to show you that he might just be a little bit at your mercy too.

You moan loudly and shamelessly, letting him know you’re alright, more than alright, in ecstasy, in bliss, in torment, on the edge. When Aemond thrusts, he finds a place that’s never been hit so directly or so well. The climax is on you before you are aware of it, one of those swells that rises out of nowhere, capsizes the boat, fades back into the endless blue of the ocean. It jolts through your pelvis, your spine, your skull, and then evaporates like steam from a bathroom mirror. And now Aemond is trying to finish too, but something is off. He tries a few different rhythms, can’t seem to get it right. You think you can feel him beginning to soften. No no no, I can’t leave him unsatisfied again.

You look back, though you cannot see him through the blindfold; instinctively, you want to be closer to him. “What am I doing wrong?”

“Nothing,” Aemond says. “Nothing, nothing, nothing is wrong. You’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect.” He turns your face so he can kiss you deeply, his tongue in your mouth, swallowing you down, entangled in every way possible. And only then he is able to come: powerfully, trembling, crying out like he’s in the kind of pain that leaves scars for life.

He glides his cock out of you, and you can hear him snap off the condom. Then he unties your blindfold and your wrists. You reach for him, then stop yourself; he reaches for you—a reflex, surely—and then shakes the notion away and collapses beside you on the duvet. You both lie there panting, gazing dizzily up at the long shadows of centuries-old oak trees that cascade across the ceiling, minds drained, bodies spent.

After a moment, Aemond clambers off the bed to grab a lighter and a pack of Marlboro Reds out of his jeans pocket. Then he flops back down next to you, lights a cigarette, takes a deep, slow drag. “So, cupcake,” he says nonchalantly, exhaling smoke, hand shaking. “Where’d you get married?”

You laugh; this is ridiculous. “Why on earth would you want to know that?”

“I want to know things about you. Things other than your tits and your pussy. I mean, those are great. I enjoy them tremendously, and I plan to keep enjoying them. But I also enjoy you.”

You sigh. Aemond waits, puffing on his cigarette. “The parish courthouse.” Plain, boring, economical. “I wanted a wedding at Saint Honoratus, but…”

“Saint…who?”

“The Chapel of Saint Honoratus of Amiens,” you say. “It’s this gorgeous place in a town called Belle River on the other side of Lake Verret. Very small, very old, it’s a historic site or something, they can’t ever knock it down.”

“Why couldn’t you get married there?”

You shrug; how much could the details matter now? Someone needed to organize it, someone needed to decorate, someone needed to pay for food and drinks, someone needed to send out invitations, someone needed to care enough to make it happen, and that someone would have been you, just you, seventeen and broke and bedridden with morning sickness until noon every day. “It just didn’t work out.”

“Sounds like a lot of things didn’t work out for you.”

You raise your eyebrows. Aemond winces.

“Sorry. That was…not the way I meant to express that sentiment.”

You forgive him. You’d forgive him for anything right now, right here, in a bed stained with his sweat and your wetness and the seed you wish he could have spilled inside you. You taunt him: “Should we meet up at your house next time?”

He recoils, horrified. “No. Definitely not.”

“Why? What’s at your house? An abandoned wife and six tall, blonde, prominently-jawed children?”

He chuckles; he has collected himself again. “No. It’s just that…well…I have family in town currently. They’re staying with me while I get set up with the new job and everything. Quite a lot of people. And my family is…unorthodox.”

You wish he would stop using words you don’t know. That’s the hazard of affiliating with a highfalutin petroleum engineer, you suppose. “So they’re strange?”

“That’s a kind word for it.”

“I like strange people. I like you.”

Aemond smirks warily. “You wouldn’t like them. Just trust me on that.” He traces the border of your face with his fingertips, contemplating your secrets, tending his own like a nightscape garden. “Do you ever want to do something…not in your bedroom?”

You grin and he kisses you, nicotine and quelled desire; he can’t help it. You say when you break away: “What, like dinner or flowers or any of the other activities that were very clearly not a part of this arrangement?”

“Arrangements are flexible.”

“Are they?”

“This one is. Increasingly so.”

You ponder his proposition. “There’s this new restaurant I really want to go to. I’ve never been before, but it looks pretty rad in the commercials on tv. It’s up in Gonzales.”

“The same town as your illustrious Kmart engagement. How fortuitous. Pease continue.”

“It’s an Italian place,” you say.

“I love Italian.”

“It’s called Olive Garden.”

Aemond’s mouth falls open. He is bewildered, appalled. His cigarette smolders forgotten in the crook of his fingers. You might as well have told him you wanted to run over puppies with lawnmowers. “You want me to take you to Olive Garden? Seriously?”

You are wounded. “What’s wrong with Olive Garden?”

“Cupcake, Olive Garden is not real Italian food. That’s like saying Taco Bell is Mexican.”

“…Isn’t it?”

“Okay,” he capitulates. He smiles as he smooths your disheveled hair and touches his lips to your forehead. “It’s fine. We’ll go to Olive Garden.”

“Really?” you reply, beaming.

“Really. You’re free Thursday?”

“Unless Willis has to switch nights for some reason, yeah.”

“Then we’ll go Thursday.” Aemond rolls off the bed and finds a mug—Return Of The Jedi, Princess Leia and the Ewoks—left on your dresser to put his cigarette out in. He looks through the screen of your open bedroom window as the sky turns ever-darker, as the moon and stars begin to rise, and he breathes in the verdant, humid, ageless witchcraft of the bayou. “You have no idea what the last few days have been like for me,” Aemond says softly, his bare back turned to you, the ridge of his spine like a road cut through a swamp or a forest or a field of sugarcane. “You have no idea how badly I needed this.”

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond x you #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x you

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juniperss · 2 months

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you requested headcannon ideas so how about the outsiders gang with a partner that loves to embroider so a lot of their clothes have random flowers and stars and hidden hearts AND their partner puts patches on their clothes for them when its needed

this is sooooo cute *screams* I really wish I knew how to embroider because I think it's super pretty. I'm so jealous of people who can do it!

(Gender neutral)

Darry:

You knowing how to embroider and you willing to help patch up clothes when he needs it is a HUGE blessing. He doesn't like to ask you to do it because he doesn't think it's fair so when you just started doing it to help out? OH his heart was about to burst.

I don't think he noticed the little designs that you snuck into the clothing for a while. He's busy and really doesn't bother with trying to "look his best" on a daily basis. As long as his clothes are clean for certain jobs, it doesn't really matter.

The first time he realized what you were doing was when he sat down next to you on the couch while you were embroidering after getting home from work. The boys were out and it was a rare moment of calm, he watched you working and noticed that you'd sneak a heart into the cuff of a sleeve on one of his shirts. He was so caught up in watching your fingers that it took him a moment before it registered.

This man felt his heart pounding in his chest and glanced up at your face before looking back down at the pattern. He doesn't say anything, but he kisses your shoulder and keeps watching you work.

He might bring it up later that night when you're in bed together after thanking you for patching up yet another tear in one of Ponyboy's pants. But I think you'd catch him always rubbing the designs you've embroidered into his clothing, his fingers always working at that little heart on the sleeve

He likes to work on projects in the house himself so you've got yourself a buddy when it comes to keeping your hands busy. He'll sit in the same room with you and work on his own thing while you're embroidering. He doesn't really talk during this time because he doesn't want to bother you, but if you initiate conversation he'll gladly listen to you.

Dally:

simply does not have the patience to worry about tears or holes in his clothing. He's the type to be like, "I'll just wear a jacket it's fine" when he has a tear in his shirts. And he always has holes or tears in his clothing. Which means that he automatically notices when you've patched them up for him.

he gets a little flustered because wow, you like him enough to do that? he's used to girls wanting to go out with him but he's not used to being take care of like that. The idea that you sat down and took the time fix his clothing is a lot to wrap his brain around.

he also notices the patterns right away. and he LOVES them. I definitely think that he sees your designs in his clothing as a type of ownership thing. Much like how he might give you his necklace to show others that you're his partner or how he gives you his coat when you're out and about, he sees the stars as your way of telling others that he's your guy.

He likes to watch you embroider and will just watch you work if you'll let him. Sure, he falls asleep with his head on your lap but he can't help it. It soothing to watch you do something so domestic in his company.

Sodapop:

Also notices what you've been doing really quickly but not in the same way that Dally does. He notices because he watches what you embroider most of the time. Sodapop is a big fan of everything you do and that includes your hobbies of embroidering and he takes an interest in it as soon as he learns about it.

Asks you a lot of questions about the process and if you mention that you can make fun patterns, he's the one who asks you if you could do some flowers on one of his old shirts. He hasn't worn it in a while because it was torn and he didn't have time to figure out how to repair it.

Once you begin working on the shirt he starts to get really excited and touched that you want to take on the task. He will wear that shirt all the time after you're done. And yes, he's showing Darry and Ponyboy the flowers.

He doesn't mind the other guys poking fun at the floral designs and boasts about how talented you are to be able to do this.

Starts to look for other patterns you might've put in his other clothes. It's kind of like a scavenger hunt.

#my writings #the outsiders #the outsiders x reader #darry curtis x reader #darry curtis #dally winston #dally winston x reader #sodapop curtis #sodapop curtis x reader

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thepunkmuppet · 5 months

Text

costumes / looks I desperately need gerard way to wear on stage (add your own in reblogs!!)

greek statue, he’s fully painted white including his hair with a white toga with a golden wreath thing on his head. I just think that would look sick

police uniform covered in blood

straight up zombie with full on green decaying gory make up

one of the heathers from heathers

either the blue cheerleader outfit from the i’m not okay mv or the iconic red ones from teenagers. then we’d have a little trio!

ghostface. possibly cunty ghostface as a treat

vanya from umbrella academy - young version with the school girl fit and black mask OR the all white comic version of course

also number five from umbrella academy (classic school boy fit)

this sounds weird but I think this would be really cool and meta for wwwy - a stereotypical mcr fan / emo. as in with that one black parade t shirt, heavy eyeliner, black nails, side swept emo fringe, studded bracelets and belts, skinny black jeans, vans or converse. again a very meta concept, after their old person looks in 2022 I can really see them doing this as a whole band this year and I would loooove to finally see gerard in the fashion style that’s so associated with him and his music

howl from howl’s moving castle

possibly also sophie from howl’s moving castle

slenderman

literally just satan. like the most stereotypical devil, give them fully painted red skin, horns, fangs, yellow or black eyes, maybe even goat legs. probably with a majestic black suit or something, or for a succubus vibe a black flowy dress with a slit down the leg. now that I think about it, this would be a SICK wwwy look to shock us all, esp if ray mikey and frank all dressed as other demons or the souls of the damned or some shit.

peni parker - he made her!!

question mark jumper from doctor who

also missy from doctor who omg

jane doe from ride the cyclone, possibly with added marionette or cracked porcelain makeup like in some renditions

classic majestic white-robed angel, with enormous fake wings and maybe even sparkly gold makeup and a big gold halo. also would be cool in all black, or all white but covered in blood (red, gold, or black, all would look cool)

buffy summers in prophecy girl, except he also has blood all over his neck from where the master bit her. I hope he’s watched btvs I think he would very much enjoy it this look would fit with their vampire vibe sooooo well

classic frankenstein’s monster

mothman. not only is he a heartthrob but he’s also a hunched goblin cryptid to me. the duality of man (he/theys)

jane prentiss from the magnus archives. if you don’t know she is a living flesh hive of sentient worms, she’s decaying and full of holes. again with all the nasty decaying rotting prosthetic makeup plus THE RED DRESS!!!

mr darcy vibes, sopping wet regency man with a big puffy white t shirt

opposite side of that, fuck it give him a full on ballroom gown

henry creel from stranger things (pre-vecna, nurse outfit)

any disney princess

crowley from good omens. my man looks GOOD in those anthony janthony aah sunglasses he has

cute flowy summer dress with like a flowery pattern. either go cottagecore with it and have flowers in his hair, or go full white soccer mum and put him in huge cunty sunglasses a massive straw sun hat with a ribbon on it

all-black cowboy!!!! the fact I’ve never seen him in a cowboy hat is actual sacrilege. also would very much appreciate an all-pink sequin studded cowboy

any alice in wonderland character, especially alice herself, the classic disney movie look with the blue dress and the bow in the hair. he would also do a great chesire cat (spooky big grin makeup paired with his weird ass dramatic facial expressions?? inspired) or a super extravagant queen / king / knave of hearts. also 100000% the mad hatter omfg, he was BORN to do a jefferson from once upon a time look!!

#he can just pull anything off #and so many things are just his VIBE like jane prentiss’s whole look and concept is SUCH a swarm tour gerard look like are you kidding me??#gerard way #gee way #my chem #my chemical romance #my chemical fucking romance #mcr #swarm tour #dear god I have too much free time on my hands I think about this more than is necessary or maybe even possible

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kekaki-cupcakes · 6 months

Note

Heyyy can you please write something for Nico x male reader where Nico has seen reader around camp and reader is friendly and always laughing and talking with everyone. And Nico develops a crush on reader and eventually he decides to confess to reader when he sees them in the woods. Fluffy mainly but like a little spicey at the end if u do that stuff? :)

hey there bestie, let's pretend it hasn't been two months. this fic is also for @golden-boy-muda 's request for nico x transmasc reader <3

I couldn't find an idea in my empty ol head for this request but then I was looking for old oil painting wallpapers for my phone and now you have this incredibly sappy 3.2k of art references [I advise you keep another tab open for cross-referencing if you want the fUlL eXpErIeNcE]

Oil on Canvas--- Nico di Angelo x transmasc reader [3.2k] »»————-　★　————-««

Nico definitely isn’t a stalker, he understands boundaries [once Jason explains them to him, of course], but he might have a bit of a staring problem.

Sometimes he’s just eating gluten free waffles with Hazel in the dining pavilion and ends up watching you shove your siblings around and plait your little sister's hair so it doesn’t get in her face when she goes Pegasus riding.

He spooned some blueberries onto his plate.

It’s not his fault.

It’s yours, if anything. What is he supposed to do apart from feel like there’s moths beneath his ribcage when you pose, your nose scrunched, up for photos with Drew’s polaroid camera that’s covered with inappropriate stickers?

Hazel elbowed him meaningfully in the side when he couldn’t help but grin because Holy Hades, a single person shouldn’t be able to look that much like the painting Ophelia [by friedrich heyser, to be specific], just because they wore a green camp shirt and a pearl necklace.

Maybe it was his fault that he was comparing you to beautiful paintings.

He scooped the blueberries onto his half eaten waffle and reached for the maple syrup Hazel had finished drowning her breakfast in.

The Stoll brother’s mortal mum had sent a stack of paintings from art galleries all over the world last Christmas, and they’d let him pick out a few of the older more poetic ones that didn’t have enough blood and guts for their taste.

Now the oil paintings of lakes and birds and crying angels and… mainly cats, actually, hung around the dark walled Cabin he slept in.

Your laugh when you threw strawberries at Kayla and Austin while they worked in the infirmary reminded him of Angel [carl von marr, of course] and he felt like Chat a difficult catch [charles van den eycken] when you walked right past him without even glancing back.

So he’d made peace with watching from afar how you would forget daily to put sunscreen on but somehow always remembered to wear this pair of white crocheted gloves that looked like cat paws.

On a completely irrelevant note, Nico was learning to crochet.

Hazel made eye contact with him again when he looked from you to her, and he plugged his ears and glared before she started kicking him in the shins and begging him to pluck up the courage to walk over and even just make eye contact.

Not that he didn’t want to.

He may have lined up in his catalog of daydreams, this scenario where you both went down to the beach. Any beach, really. You’d collect shells and eat popcorn and grapes and lemonade and squish sand between your toes and pick up crabs with him.

PROMENADE ON THE BEACH [Charles Atamian, obviously].

There was another scenario where he’d take you to the farmers market. It had the biggest bouquets of flowers, and rows upon rows of fruits and vegetables and incense and beaded jewelry.

When he was laying in bed underneath the fluffy zebra patterned duvets that Piper forced him to use, mainly because they matched the dark reds of the cushions and browns of the bookshelves and antique lamps in the cabin so well, you were walking down the rows of little stores with him.

You were holding his hand with those soft cat paw gloves and you liked the feel of his rings [he’d read that people liked rings in a book, somewhere] and you’d filled the Studio Ghibli tote bag you had with berries.

He’d watched most of the movies after he saw your bag. He liked Arriety the best.

Clarisse stomped past the Hades table, leaving bloody footprints no one asked about, and smacked him in the back of his head. Nico went back to eating his waffles and daydreaming about your smile.

In the farmers market you would sniff candles and never buy them because Hazel had far too many for all of her spells and the such that he would never run out. And what was Hazel’s was his and what was his was hers, meaning that what was Hazel’s was yours.

Because Nico would give everything he owned, even his favorite jacket, for you to look his way.

And he would buy you flowers, whichever were your favorite.

Maybe the ones from the painting Hazel forced him to take because ‘you can’t just not hang a painting that literally is you, Neeks’.

Italian Girl with Flowers. Joaquin Sorolla. 1886.

He didn’t see the resemblance.

But it didn’t really matter, because he’d get to watch you looking at all the cool things for sale and then he’d take you to the best gelato he’d found so far [he was making a list] or just use the shadows, and take you to a proper gelato shop. Whatever you wanted to do, really.

Nico blinked. He huffed, mainly at himself, and stabbed his waffle. It fell apart on the fork.

“Why’re you angry?”

He looked up from his plate, to Hazel. She was sitting opposite him with a mustache made of orange juice. “...I’m not.”

“You’re not supposed to be pushing down your emotions, remember?” she said sternly, and started picking the green bits off a strawberry. She was eating as many berries as she could, since she wasn’t allowed lollies anymore. The perks of braces.

Nico looked away. “I’m fine.”

“You’re thinking about the cat glove girl, aren’t you?” she asked with a smirk.

“Cat glove boy, remember?” he muttered, and took a bite of his waffle, wiping squished blueberries off his chin.

Hazel’s golden eyes widened, “Oh yeah. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” he said, and was grateful for the excuse to peek your way. You were eating toast. Very pretty-ily. He felt his face heat up.

Hazel perked up, a mischievous grin he didn’t appreciate on her face. “Okay! I’ll go apologize to your boyfriend then-”

Nico stared at her. Why was she like this? She actually went to stand up, and then he yanked her sleeve, pulling her back down to the table. “No! Don’t just… you can’t… stop!”

“You didn’t deny that he’s your boyfriend,” Jason chuckled, sitting down next to Hazel.

“I hate you all,” Nico said.

It was torture.

He felt like Sleepy time potion [Vanessa Stockhard], stuck in the middle of your loveliness, unable to do anything except stare and hope that his face wasn’t too as red as the mushroom he was sitting on.

In the painting.

Not in real life.

Obviously.

»»————-　★　————-««

Nico stared down at the hat in his lap.

He’d done it. He’d actually finished one of the hundreds of projects he’d started in Piper’s efforts to find him a hobby that wasn’t sitting on the fences of cemeteries or standing in line at Mcdonalds.

He had lots of other hobbies, he just… couldn’t come up with them when she was arguing with him.

So they’d gone through writing, painting, records, sleeping, which he excelled in, and then crocheting. None had lasted very long, but he may have had an idea half way through trying to stab Piper with the crocheting stick.

And now he had a white bucket hat with cat ears.

He threw it to the end of his bed, and hid underneath his duvet. Fuck.

Repose. Malcolm Liepke. 1953.

What on Olympus was he supposed to do about the way he wanted to hold you so badly he felt like throwing up and tearing his hair out?

He lay underneath in the pocket of stuffy darkness for a moment, before sitting up, untangling his blankets and teddies from him, and then standing. He may have just had the greatest idea anyone had ever thought of before.

Hazel was still in the shower, singing, most likely, so he grabbed his jacket from the coat rack that was actually just a skeleton, and then stomped out of his cabin, the stupid hat in his fist.

His heart was beating wildly. Stupid heart.

The Wedding Dress. Fred Ellwell. 1911.

He rubbed his face and groaned at the sky. The stars were just peeking out, but it was still pink and yellow, and the sun hadn’t dipped yet. It was hidden by the trees he was trudging through, though.

Fuck.

His chest was hurting.

Nico scrunched up the stupid perfect crocheted hat that just had to stupidly perfectly match your stupid perfect cat gloves because Nico was stupidly perfectly obsessed with you.

You, who was stupidly perfect.

Fuck.

Psyche Weeping. Kinuko Y Craft. 1995.

He trod on twigs that broke underneath his boots and weaved through the tree’s that slowly became more and more laden with hanging pendants and wind chimes and ruins carved into the bark.

He stepped over a thin stream. A frog croaked at him like it was dying. As if it could ever feel like it was dying. As if it could ever fall in love.

Nico groaned at the sky again.

“Just let it all out.”

He turned, and glared. “Do you mind?”

“Yes, actually,” Lou Ellen said, raising a purple eyebrow. It matched the undersides of her curly hair. She pointed to the cabin concealed in shadows and moss and stones behind her. “This is my house. And you are yelling very loudly.”

“I’m not yelling,” Nico argued. “I’m groaning.”

She stared at him for a second. She rolled her eyes. “Just come in, what do you need?”

“I need a spell. Or a charm. Or hex,” Nico said, following her through the wooden double doors. A wind chime tinkled even though the air was still. There were a few bunks lined up against the wall to one side. “Or a magic thing. I don’t care which one.”

The rest of the cabin was filled with small coffin shaped pet beds and empty pink soda cans and voodoo dolls hanging from the roof and rugs with cats wearing strawberry hats on the fluffy material and misty crystal balls.

Lou Ellen lent back on a desk stacked high with papers and paperweights that were actually jars filled with things. “Okay. I have three rules. I don’t kill people, and I don’t make people fall in love.”

“...And?”

“I’ll break both if it’ll be fun?”

Nico frowned. “No. Aren’t you supposed to say you won’t bring people back from the dead? That’s always the third rule.”

She squinted at him. “Uh…no. I send those people to you.”

Nico squinted back at her, sticking his tongue out. He fiddled with the stupid perfect hat and looked around. There was just more creepy things and stuffed animals. “Whatever. I need your help.”

“With what?”

“I need you to… like,” Nico started. He sighed. He looked away.

This was awful.

He was not about to admit that he might be in love, even if it was to reverse the feelings in the first place with whatever heart ripping out brain altering magic was necessary.

The Apollo cabin would find out through the witch in less than thirty seconds. He would never live it down.

Nico groaned again. “Oh for fucks sake, do you need me to fic your voicebox or something?” Lou Ellen hissed.

Nico glared at her. He groaned again, and then whirled around and stomped out of the weird mossy mushroom cabin. “Nevermind!”

“Fine! Have it your way!...weird little emo.”

Nico glared at the frog croaking at him, and kept walking through the forest.

He followed the little stream through the woods until he could hear wind chimes or Taylor Swift’s latest album anymore.

The little stream widened into a proper stream, filled with a lot more frogs. Why were there so many frogs? He nearly stood on a green one leaping across the path. Stupid frog.

Nico stuffed his hands into his pockets, along with the hat. He was tempted to just toss it into the river. Then he wouldn’t have to deal with all of the silly feelings that felt like the biggest things in the world to him and his silly head full of thoughts about your lips.

Maybe the frogs could use the hat as a home.

“Here froggie… Come here… I said, come here... No I am not taking a tone with you!”

Nico froze.

Fuck. He took a deep breath, probably too loudly. He glanced to the side.

Of course you were catching frogs, knee deep in a river.

You looked over, making eye contact, and Nico realized the moths underneath his ribcage were turning into bats. You squinted at him, hands on your hips, while water swirled around and leaves drifted from the trees above. A bucket was wedged between two rocks next to you.

A frog jumped out of it and landed near your leg, on a lillypad.

“Look Albert,” you said, turning to the frog. “It’s a little Victorian ghost.”

“...I’m Italian,” Nico said quietly. He stared at you. He couldn’t help it. Wow. Fuck. Leo was right. He really was pathetic. “And I’m not a ghost.”

“Okay, Victorian ghost.”

Nico stared at you. Fuck.

After that exchange, he should be able to hate you. Right? Right. He now resented you, and the moths turned bats would stop clawing at his chest and he would go back to having a normal life.

Right?

Wrong.

You squinted at Nico, and then slowly turned to Albert. “I think the cute Victorian ghost is having a stroke.”

Nico blinked once, gulped, and then marched forward through the cold water and frogs, his shoes squelching loudly. Gods. This was so embarrassing. But you thought he was cute, even if you also thought he was a dead english boy, so he would be content with dying from embarrassment.

He shoved the stupid perfect hat into your stupid perfect hands.

And then left in about 0.3 seconds.

»»————-　★　————-««

You stared down at your pancakes. Why were they so gray looking? Had someone poisoned them? You figured that it would be a pretty good way to die, and tipped extra maple syrup onto them before you dug in.

To counterbalance the poison, of course.

You scratched at the mosquito bite underneath the strap of your binder. It had flowers embroidered into it. Your binder. Not the mosquito bite.

One of your siblings across from you kicked at your shin, probably on purpose, but you continued to eat your odd tasting pancakes and picked blueberry grit off your white cat paw gloves. They were your favorite gloves.

They also matched your new hat. The new hat that the cute Victorian but actually Italian ghost boy had given you before he teleported away with whatever dark magic he had stored in all that goth-ness.

You tossed a blueberry at Clarisse when she walked past and tried to bash you over the head.

She wasn’t allowed to ruin your new hat.

You turned to see her flicking the blueberry over at someone else, and your eyes flicked past that too. Now way. You stood up, but you’d lost sight of the mess of dark hair when the Hermes cabin barrelled past.

You clambered onto your seat and stood up there. “Oi! Victorian ghost hat boy!”

The dining pavilion went quiet pretty quickly, and everyone turned to the cute guy with a skeleton hoodie and wide eyes. He pointed at himself when you pointed at him, and then went pink.

Clarisse stuck her arm out so you didn’t faceplant when you jumped down from your seat, and you held onto your new hat as you traipsed across the cracked floor.

You’d never figured out how that crack had got there. But there were bigger mysteries.

Like this cute goth.

His face just pinker when you grabbed his sleeve and tried to tug him out of the entire camp’s curious eyes. A dark skinned girl with a lot of butterfly clips and a Steven Universe t-shirt sent a thumbs up in your direction.

It was only when you were standing by the low burning fire pit in a patch of daisies did you realize you hadn’t really planned far enough ahead.

You took off the cat-ear hat and looked down at it. “...Uhm…”

“Sorry,” the goth said quickly, and when you made eye contact he looked away even quicker. “It’s creepy. Boundaries and stuff, I just… saw your gloves.”

“It’s not creepy,” you argued, putting the hat back on with a grin. He was really cute when he blushed. “I mean, I don’t even know your name, and I have no idea who you are but your eyeliner is really really great and… Holy Hades if you smile like that again can I… please kiss you?”

The goth with no name stared at you, and then nodded about ten times too many. “Yes please. But, uh.. If you’re gonna kiss me, please, maybe don’t get my dad involved.”

“...Wut?”

»»————-　★　————-««

Nico could feel his cheeks growing hotter.

Not because of the sun, specifically, but it was hot and bright in the woods. He’d worn sunscreen though. And forced you to put it on too, once he’d found watermelon scented sunscreen, because you refused to smell gross no matter how sunburnt you would get anyways.

His face was hot and red because of you.

You, who was stupidly perfect and also possibly kind of Nico’s stupidly perfect boyfriend.

“Psst, Victorian ghost boy,” you said with a sing-song voice, quietly, and waved your hand in front of his eyes with your pink, blue, and white painted nails. He blinked. You smiled. “You zoned out again.”

“Sorry,” Nico said, and pulled a daisy out of the ground. He handed it over. “I was thinking about you.”

He hadn’t realized the effect that saying that would have on you, but it was worth it when you opened and closed your mouth like one of the frogs you kept as pets.

“I.. well, what were you thinking about?”

Nico had played his cards right. He smirked, and you shuffled forwards on the checked picnic blanket Piper had stolen from Drew, who’d probably nicked it from poor unsuspecting Demeter or Iris kid. You knocked over the basket of strawberries too, and then took your bucket hat off and stuffed it in your lap with a grin.

He tilted his head down. You were both following a very well rehearsed script. “...Kissing you?”

You launched yourself forwards then with a laugh, your cat-paw gloved hands landing on either side of his waist and probably squishing some of those strawberries at the same time.

The sun reflected in your eyes and Nico held the sides of your face as he pressed his lips to yours.

You kissed back, and once you both stopped smiling widely, you could kiss back.

Properly.

He scratched his fingernails, the ones you’d painted rainbow that afternoon after catching more frogs and complaining about sunscreen, along your jaw when you bit down on his bottom lip.

Not as a complaint, certainly not, and you knew that too because you just sat back on your knees between Nico’s lap and tilted your head to fit deeper against Nico’s bruised lips.

The ones that hadn’t had a single day off since you jumped up in the middle of breakfast with your gluten free waffles you hadn’t realized were gluten free until he had explained it to you later.

It was intensely crazily unbearably romantic but it also meant whatever cold one of you managed to catch, the other would come down with only minutes later.

And Nico felt like that smug little cat from Julie Manet’s Auguste Renoir.

»»————-　★　————-««

#pjo fandom #nico #nico pjo #nico di angelo #pjo #percy jackon and the olympians #heroes of olympus #percy jackson #nico di angelo x reader #nico x reader #nico di angelo pjo #pjo hoo toa #hoo #nico di angelo x you #nico di angelo reader #nico di angelo x transmasc reader #lou ellen #lou ellen pjo

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lulu2992 · 1 year

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From the Inquisitor to the Baptist: The Evolution of John Seed

From the early stages of the development of a video game to the day it gets released, its gameplay, story, and characters usually go through many modifications. Far Cry 5 is no exception to this rule, and thanks to promotional images, trailers, interviews, official side material, and even deleted content still available in the game’s files, we can get a glimpse of what Hope County and its residents used to be like. John Seed, in particular, seems to have undergone quite a few alterations, both physical and moral.

In these posts, I will be listing and discussing all the changes I noticed in John and explaining why the man who used to be known as “The Inquisitor” isn’t identical to “The Baptist” we met in Far Cry 5.

All the sources and references indicated by the superscript numbers will be given in the last post.

Part 1: Physical appearance, clothes, and tattoos (concept art, promotional content, and side material)

What seems to be the earliest portrait of the Seed family is a piece of concept art that Lead Graphic Production Artist Nick Arnett shared on Instagram¹:

As you can see, many things look different from what we are used to, from the Eden’s Gate cross (behind Joseph’s head) and logo (on the pulpit, with an eagle) to the Seed siblings’ outfits. The man on the right seems to be John, and he’s sporting a two-tone blue shirt that resembles the one he will end up wearing in the game, but he doesn’t have a vest. Instead of a belt, he has suspenders, and his pants and shoes look darker and more formal than his usual jeans and boots. He already has a beard and, while his hair is slicked back, as it is in the game, it’s a little longer. He doesn’t have any visible tattoos, but if you look closely, you’ll notice that he does have something on his hand: blood, running from his knuckles.

In May 2017, nine months before Far Cry 5 came out, the game was officially announced and a few promotional pictures were released, notably these two²:

But before that, we can see what John looked like at an even earlier stage of the game’s development, during the making of those two aforementioned pictures, thanks to early sketches and visuals shared by AmCo Studio³ and Fire Without Smoke⁴:

John’s iconic vest and sunglasses have appeared, and while his shirt became white, it’s now partially unbuttoned and the sleeves are rolled up, which is how he wears it in the game. As for his hair, it’s shorter than it was in the first family portrait and looks more similar to his final design. We still don’t see any tattoos on his arms, but he has a watch.

In the final version of what I would call the “Last-Supper-like” images, John looks even more like himself, but there are still a few differences:

Although they are not strictly identical to the ones he has in the game, he’s wearing sunglasses with blue lenses on his head. His shirt became blue again, his vest is striped, and he now has his “EG” (Eden’s Gate) earring and belt buckle, grey jeans, and bunker key around his neck. He’s also wearing a coat, but while, at first glance, it looks like the one we all know, the pattern isn’t the same; instead of planes, there are “EG” symbols on it. The buttons, however, are already golden and decorated with scales.

In the pictures, especially the first one, the siblings are associated with symbols: a crown for Joseph (on his jacket and napkin), a sword for Jacob (on his music box), a pair of scales for John (on his coat’s buttons and in the bread/cake), and intoxicating Bliss flowers for Faith, a reference to the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse: Conquest, War, Famine, and Death, respectively, who. In John’s case, the scales could also be a nod to the fact he’s a lawyer. Indeed, scales are commonly used to symbolize justice.

This time, he finally has tattoos, and while some of them are the ones he will have in Far Cry 5, others are different. He already has small symbols on his fingers: an eye, a tongue, a hand with a drop of blood on it, a heart, a foot, a keyhole, and waves. The meaning of these symbols used to be a mystery to me, but it turns out they were inspired by Bible verses, specifically Proverbs 6:16-19⁵:

There are six things the Lord hates, seven that are detestable to him: haughty eyes, a lying tongue, hands that shed innocent blood, a heart that devises wicked schemes, feet that are quick to rush into evil, a false witness who pours out lies and a person who stirs up conflict in the community.

The flames on his right wrist will be in the game as well, but here, they are smaller. This tattoo seems to have been taken directly from this illustration:

It’s from a French (Breton, to be precise) collection of “Taolennoù Ar Mission” (literally “mission paintings” in Breton) by François-Marie Balanant, who was a priest, and it depicts a human soul being afflicted by the seven deadly sins⁶. “Taolennoù” were created in Brittany in the sixteenth century by the Catholic clergy in an effort to make religion more accessible to the faithful, some of whom were illiterate, with the help of drawings.

This particular image can be found on the Wikipedia page dedicated to the seven deadly sins⁷, which seems to have been the primary source of information and inspiration for several of John’s tattoos.

Clearly, the angelic figure with the dove, on his right hand, also directly comes from the drawing (upper left corner). This tattoo will later be redesigned and decorate the inner face of his left forearm.

As explained on Wikipedia, there used to be eight mortal sins, and their Latin names were:

Gula (Gluttony)

Luxuria (Lust)

Avaritia (Greed)

Tristitia (Sorrow)

Ira (Wrath)

Acedia (Sloth)

Vanagloria (Vainglory)

Superbia (Pride)

Tristitia and Acedia would later be combined, as well as Vanagloria and Superbia.

In the two promotional pictures, John has seven of these sins (except Acedia) tattooed on his left hand, as he does in Far Cry 5.

John also has letters on his fingers, but while, in the game, they spell “E-D-E-N” and “G-A-T-E”, here, we see G, G, S, E, W, P, and L, most likely the first letter of each deadly sin in English.

On his chest, instead of a scar and the mutilated word “SLOTH”, he has a tattoo. We see two crossed rifles, the number seven in tally marks (probably yet another reference to the deadly sins), what seems to be the words “Bros & Sis” above the design, and what probably is “Til Death” under it. It looks like an infantry tattoo, very similar to the example included below (center) by tattoo artist Garrett Tankersley, known as tat2garrett on Instagram⁸:

Finally, in one of the images, John is holding a tattoo machine. In the other, he’s holding a revolver. In the game, however, this weapon is nowhere to be seen.

Even though he will never use it in Far Cry 5, John was represented by this gun again on one of the game’s old official websites⁹:

At the time, as you can see, his title was also “The Inquisitor” instead of “The Baptist”.

On the PlayAsia blog, on a page dedicated to Far Cry 5, short information sheets about a few of the game’s characters were posted¹⁰. They look official, but since I have only ever seen them on this website, which was not created by Ubisoft, their origin and therefore the accuracy of the information they give are uncertain.

While most of what the picture says is either true (blue eyes, brown hair) or plausible (his height), John mathematically can’t be only 32 years old because he was already working as a lawyer about ten years before the events of the game, which is set in 2018. According to my research, it takes 7 years after graduating high school to become a licensed lawyer in the United States. In 2008, John couldn’t be younger than 18+7=25 years old, so it’s impossible for him to have been born after 1983. He could have skipped grades, but since this is never mentioned anywhere, I assume he didn’t and that he’s in fact older than 32 in Far Cry 5.

It’s possible, however, that he really was supposed to be 32 years old when the picture was made but that his backstory (and consequently his age) was then modified.

In the novel Far Cry Absolution, a few details are given about John’s appearance. For example, on page 6:

He was ten years older than [Mary May] and near six foot with brown hair and a beard that covered the lower half of his face.

Mary May is 29 (almost 30) in the novel, which makes John approximately 39 or 40 years old in the book. This age is more plausible, I think.

Then, on page 31:

John Seed, the younger brother of The Father, slighter in build, but cut from the same cloth. Both bearded and tattooed, and both with those all-seeing eyes that seemed to search through the dark with a kind of nocturnal prowess.

This isn’t the only time in the novel that John’s gaze is described as intense. The word “predatory” is even used on page 145.

Interestingly, and despite the fact it’s absent from Far Cry 5, the gun seen in his hand in one of the promotional pictures is mentioned in Absolution as well. It’s described as “a large revolver” on page 31 and as a “big magnum revolver” on page 57. He also uses a rifle “with a wood stock and bolt-action lever” (page 48) at one point, but this weapon isn’t in the game either.

Overall, aside from this detail, his physical description in the book is rather consistent with what we see in the game. And in this official picture posted in January 2018 to promote the book¹¹, he apparently looks the same as he does in Far Cry 5.

In the live-action short film Inside Eden’s Gate¹², Joseph is the only member of the Seed family who is played by the actor who also plays him in Far Cry 5, Greg Bryk. In the game, while John is played by Seamus Dever, in the movie, it’s another actor named Rob Evors who was cast in the role. His voice and face obviously don’t sound and look exactly like John’s, so these differences are not significant.

His outfit, however, has gone through several changes. I don’t know if the design was deliberately altered or if the clothes Rob Evors has in the film simply are the closest real-life equivalent to the ones John is wearing in the promotional pictures that the movie’s costume designers could get their hands on. Like in the development sketches for the “Last-Supper-like” images, his shirt is light-colored (but still blue, apparently) and he’s wearing his sunglasses normally, not on his head. They don’t seem to have blue lenses, but again, maybe the team could only find “regular” sunglasses. He has his Eden’s Gage belt buckle and earring, but instead of being grey, his coat, vest, pants, and shoes are brown/beige. The coat is decorated with “EG” logos, exactly like the one John is wearing in the promotional pictures, but lighter in color.

As for his tattoos, they are identical to the “old” ones we’ve seen so far, but two more are visible: the pair of scales on the side of his thumb and the snake (from the Taolennoù Ar Mission again, but uncoiled), which represents Envy, around his left wrist. These two new tattoos will be part of John’s final design in the game.

There’s another one between the snake and his watch, but it’s simply one of Rob Evors’¹³.

In the film, John’s tattoos were actually hand-painted¹⁴. Here’s a better look a them, from Makeup Artist Casey Lynn Stuckey’s Instagram account:

His sleeves are never rolled up in Inside Eden’s Gate, but it’s most likely because that would have meant covering up the actor’s actual tattoos and possibly painting more, so I suppose they thought it was more convenient to just hide them.

The last notable change regarding John’s appearance in the short film is that, for the first and seemingly only time, he’s wearing a shoulder holster, but his gun is not the revolver we’ve seen for far. Instead, it looks like a semi-automatic pistol, maybe a 1911. Since, in Inside Eden’s Gate, Joseph also has this type of gun and not the revolver he carries in Far Cry 5 (albeit rarely, and he never uses it), it’s possible that, once again, the team couldn’t find the right weapons for the movie and used the available props.

In the live-action TV spot “Anything Can Happen, Everything Will”¹⁵, John is this time played by model and actor Jon Oswald, who jokingly described the character as “the asshole in the Gucci trench coat” when he shared the video on his Instagram account¹⁶.

John’s outfit looks identical to Rob Evors’ in Inside Eden’s Gate (except the shoes and the holster, it seems), so it’s likely that they just reused the same clothes. Like in the film, John’s sunglasses (which are not blue) aren’t on his head; he’s wearing them. His hair is a bit different, but it’s probably simply because Jon Oswald’s hairstyle looked close enough to John’s and they thought it didn’t need to be modified, so I don’t think this “change” is significant.

Thanks to the pictures that Mackenzie Lawrén Johnson (better known as Kenz Lawrén), who plays Faith Seed in the short film and the TV spot, posted on Instagram¹⁷, we can have a better look at him and his tattoos.

They haven’t changed much compared to the previous ones, but we can now see a goat (a symbol for Lust, also directly from the Taolennoù Ar Mission) next to the snake on his left arm. In the game, the goat will disappear from his hand, be redesigned, and end up on his right forearm. We see two other tattoos in the picture, but they simply are Jon Oswald’s¹⁸.

In the image below, drawn by Anthony Winn, who made storyboards for the TV spot¹⁹, the character on the far right (who is not Joseph), wearing a vest and sunglasses, and standing next to a woman who is probably Faith, appears to be an early version of John. This time, he’s holding a rifle, different from the one described in Absolution, and not a handgun. For once, his sister is armed as well.

In The Book of Joseph²⁰, John, as a child, is described as “the best looking, the least odd” of the Seed brothers, which is why the narrator, Joseph himself, believes he was adopted first after they were sent to an orphanage. When they meet again as adults, Joseph says his younger brother is “strikingly handsome, elegant”, wears “tailored suits” and very expensive shoes, has gleaming hair, shiny teeth, and manicured hands. He also writes that, as John Duncan (the name of his adoptive parents), “physically, he was society’s very model of success”. Psychologically, however, it was another story… but this will be discussed later. Although the John Seed we meet in the game isn’t exactly the same person as John Duncan was anymore, he’s still “elegant” and seems to take care of his appearance. Joseph doesn’t mention tattoos, but it’s likely that John got them later, after the Project was created.

An official guide for Far Cry 5, by Prima Games, was released alongside it. In the book, which was written in 2017, we get to see what John looked like when the game was still in development.

This design is very close to the final one, but for some reason, his sunglasses, bunker key, earring, and tattoos are all (temporarily) gone. However, the “SLOTH” scar has now appeared on his chest instead of the tattoo he previously had, even though it’s a bit closer to his collarbone than it will be in the game. His outfit and facial features look slightly different, but this is also true for many other characters in the guide.

On IGN’s YouTube channel, a video titled “Far Cry 5: Why John Seed Is Your Charmingly Deadly Enemy” was uploaded in February 2018²¹. In it, we get a glimpse of an early version of the “You have been Marked” TV broadcast²², and although the setting looks different, John’s appearance is very close to his final one.

By the way, if you look at the noticeboard behind the TV, you’ll see that the Testicle Festival was supposed to take place in 2017 instead of 2018. When this early in-game footage was recorded, Far Cry 5 was probably still scheduled to come out in September 2017 (which is what the first rumors said and could also explain why all the calendars in the game suggest we are in September).

In the thumbnail of the YouTube video, John looks exactly like himself:

He does too in the “Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse” artwork²³, this promotional screenshot²⁴, and this poster²⁵:

And in a trailer posted by Ubisoft three weeks before the release of Far Cry 5, a “character spotlight”²⁶, John has his final design as well. The only difference is that, although the game was about to come out, they still called him “The Inquisitor” instead of “The Baptist”.

Then, on March 27, 2018, Far Cry 5 was released.

To be continued…

#far cry 5 #john seed #joseph seed #jacob seed #faith seed #far cry absolution #mary may fairgrave #the book of joseph #inside eden’s gate #rob evors #jon oswald

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biblio-smia · 2 years

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can you hear my heart beat for you? [ethan landry x reader]

pre - ghostface / no ghostface alternate! no spoilers for scream 6!

masterlist | requests are open!

pairing: ethan landry x gender neutral reader

warnings: none, just fluff

read part 1 here!

Your relationship with Ethan strengthened after everything, something you were grateful for. One result you didn't appreciate as much was the sudden awareness of the growing feelings for your best friend. You didn't know what to do with them, though you suspected they were reciprocated.

It was like something had hit the both of you after Ethan's now ex-girlfriend. A desperation for each other struck and both of you were unwilling to let the other go. If you were always together before, you were impossible to separate now. So, you found yourselves in situations like these; cuddled up on Ethan's too-small bed with his laptop playing a show you reserved to watch together.

It was all casual hangouts like before: doing homework together, watching movies, getting something to eat. Except now there was a degree of romanticism to it all, a charge in the air, one that you could tell made Ethan nervous. You had to comfort him repeatedly, reminding him that technically nothing had changed from before. You hadn't considered his nerves stemmed from his desire for things to change.

Ethan took his time with you, considering his inexperience. He wanted to take it slow and do things right this time. You deserved the absolute best and he would take all the time in the world to be that for you.

There was no pressure to change what you and Ethan had; you made sure to let Ethan know that the slow and steady pace didn't bother you at all. However, the beating around the bush frustrated your friends to no end.

Mindy created a new routine of asking if you and Landry are dating yet? everyday in the group chat despite the same answer from both you and Ethan, just like a little kid would impatiently ask if the destination had been reached yet. It was all jokes but Ethan's anxiety peaked every time, wondering if you would eventually get tired of his cowardliness.

The change began with a few texts from Ethan:

get ready tomorrow, 5 pm. i'll pick you up from your dorm. dress nice :)

You couldn't help but giggle, liking the smiley face message, wondering what Ethan had planned. On the other side of the dorm buildings, Ethan had shoved his phone into Chad's hands, instructing him on what to type and making him hit send.

「 ... 」

Your last class ended at two p.m.; it was no surprise Ethan picked a Thursday for your date event, considering he knew your schedule as well as (arguably better than) his own.

His only mistake was letting you know so early in advance; you couldn't help but think about what he had planned all day.

Ethan instructed you to dress nice, so you spent an hour rifling through your closet for the perfect thing to wear. Did he mean dress nice, as in super fancy nice? No, that wasn't his scene. He probably meant nice as in, not jeans and a t-shirt. Finally settling on something you liked, you hoped the two of you had the same idea of dressing nice.

The distinct pattern of knocks at your door came at exactly five, just as you'd finished getting ready. You'd packed a bag full of a variety of items that would prove useful at whatever event Ethan had planned.

You opened the door with a smile, nervously glancing at Ethan's outfit. He retired his usual jeans and sweaters for nicer pants and a sweater vest that was definitely Chad's over a white shirt. Your smile widened as the two of you had the same definition of dressing nice.

You'd been so busy worrying about your outfit that you hadn't realized Ethan was holding something behind his back until the bouquet of fresh flowers was in front of you.

"Do you like them?" Ethan asked worriedly, watching your expression carefully.

"I love them." You confirmed, gently taking them and emptying a container of pens.

"I should've gotten a vase—" Ethan started as you began filling the container with water.

You quickly shushed him, placing the flowers carefully in their temporary vase.

"They're perfect." You made your way back to Ethan at the entry way, placing a gentle kiss on his cheek.

Ethan's face erupted in red, but he didn't attempt to argue. Instead, he offered his hand to you, which you gladly took.

「 ... 」

The two of you walked for a while, talking and laughing as you usually would, hands swinging between the two of you. Caught up in the conversation and Ethan's presence, the realization that you were walking towards a destination didn't come over you until you reached it.

Ethan stopped next to you, a smile on his face as he awaited your reaction. It took you a moment to realize, your hand clapping over your mouth that had dropped in shock.

"Ethan—" Your voice came out slightly muffled from behind your hand as you turned towards him quickly.

"Do you like it?" Ethan's eyes shone and a bright red blush adorned his cheeks.

You were speechless but you were aware that if you didn't respond soon, Ethan's self-consciousness would trip up.

You pulled Ethan into a tight hug, basking in his warmth as he instinctively put his arms around you. You stood there for a while, breathing in the comforting scent of him. "I love it." You mumbled out quietly but sincerely. You know he heard it as his grip on you tightened and his shoulders relaxed. Your head moved from its place on his shoulder to reach up and land a gentle kiss on Ethan's cheek, watching with a small laugh as his face continued reddening, feeling the heat radiate from him.

You heard the snap of a camera and your head whipped around to see Chad with an alarmingly big grin on his face. You relaxed as he walked over, waving around the photo he'd captured of the two of you like it was gold.

"I'll keep it safe!" Chad called as he began his route towards the dorms you came from. "For an anniversary scrapbook!"

You flipped Chad off despite your smile, hearing his fading laugh as he ran off.

"He, uh, helped me set everything up." Ethan said nervously, as if somehow the detail would take away from the result.

The scene before you looked like it had come out of a movie, completely transforming the ugly spot of the campus green area. A few thin trees were adorned with tiny lights that glowed softly. Underneath them was a plush blanket spread out and surrounded by baskets of a variety of food and drinks, flower petals spread purposefully around.

Your cheeks were warm with delight as you took Ethan's hand in yours, leading him to take a seat.

Snacks, both yours and Ethan's favorites were opened and exchanged as easy conversation flowed between the two of you. Ethan couldn't take his eyes off you, your sweet voice drawing him in and keeping him close to you.

The sun was in the middle of its daily disappearance, gently touching the horizon as warmth creating a blanket of golden light over the two of you. Ethan was laughing at a stupid joke you'd made and you looked at him, eyes shut and corners creased, brown curls shining in the sunset. He was beautiful.

You must've said it out loud, for Ethan turned towards you curiously. His expression transformed into one of awe as he admired the way the sun seemed to shine only for you, showering you in a glow that only made you even more gorgeous. You caught Ethan's eye and smiled, and Ethan was in love.

He sat there stupidly staring at you, your lips, your eyes, you, with the heavy realization weighing on his chest right next to his pounding heart. He didn't realize it was the perfect moment to lean in and press his lips against yours with the sun sinking in the background, a moment you thought would follow. He didn't realize your heart was thumping as hard as his, waiting for something to happen.

The moment broke as Ethan lied down and the sun slowly disappeared beneath the sky line, an instant chill sent down your spine as the world grew dark. You'd really though Ethan would kiss you.

Ethan reached out to tap you, eyes wandering to the spot next to him, wondering why you hadn't joined him yet. You gave him a small smile as you complied, shoulder-to-shoulder with Ethan against the ground. You kept your eyes steady in front of you, watching as the sky grew dimmer and darker around you.

"We should probably pack up soon." You whispered into the rapidly cooling air.

"Soon." Ethan hummed, taking your hand in his, eyes stubbornly settled on you.

「 ... 」

After Ethan walked you back to your dorm and wished you goodnight with a hug, he made his way back to his room with the blanket and lights exploding out of a bag.

He entered the room with a dopey smile, dropping the bag on the floor and throwing himself onto his bed. Chad had been reading a book when Ethan came in, but he threw it aside and ran to Ethan's room upon hearing the hints of his roommate's arrival.

"So? How'd it go?" Chad asked excitedly, leaning against the doorframe.

Ethan smiled even wider, attempting to rub the blush out of his face. "Amazing. It was perfect."

"Did you ask... y'know..." Chad raised his eyebrows expectedly.

Ethan's face fell a little at the question, groaning. "No. I was going to but then I... I freaked."

"Hey, it's okay, man. There's always tomorrow. Or the next day. Just don't put it off for too long or I swear Mindy's head is going to explode."

Ethan managed to laugh at that but the missed opportunity kept him up that night. You'd just looked so beautiful and he couldn't get the words out. He spent the night imagining how the night could've gone differently if he'd just had a little more courage. How much longer would it take until he could finally know what it was like to kiss you?

「 ... 」

Ethan Landry's second attempt to formally be yours occurred a little under two weeks later. He invited you out as he usually would and waited outside your dorm until the clock hit exactly 7 p.m. before his knocked. You waited on the other side of the wood, letting Ethan's special knock end before opening the door. You too had stood there, waiting until the second your phone told you it was time, knowing Ethan would be there not a second later.

Your faces lit up once you saw each other, leaning in for a hug that lasted a little too long, both of you forcing yourselves to pull away.

The walk was much shorter this time, a curious glance creeping on your face as you realized you were walking towards Ethan's dorm building. Ethan only sent a smile in your direction as the two of you traveled the familiar route to his rather dorm.

Ethan totally lucked out with his dorm all thanks to his over preparedness — he was able to get one of the biggest spaces Blackmore offered, one of those dorms that had space for a living room along with its kitchen and two single rooms. You'd say Ethan got pretty lucky getting stuck with Chad too, considering how close the two had gotten.

"You know I could've just walked here." You noted with a smile, already knowing what Ethan's reply would be.

Ethan gave you a look as if you were crazy for even suggesting it. "I'd go over to walk you next door," Ethan replied and you knew he would. "Plus, at this hour? No way." Ever the gentleman. Ethan unlocked his door, opening it to reveal the setup he had laid out in the living room.

It wasn't as impressive as the picnic considering the limited space, but it was just as beautiful. Lights — the same ones from that day — were strung up along the walls, illuminating the picture-perfect pillow fort constructed. Most of the furniture that had previously occupied the space was gone — presumably shoved into Ethan's and Chad's rooms — and snacks peeked out from the entrance.

The strongest urge to kiss Ethan overwhelmed you, a minute needed to compose yourself.

"Ethan..."

"You like it?" Ethan said with a hopefulness in his voice as if you didn't think everything he did was perfect.

You stepped close to him, reaching up to cup his face in your hands.

"I love it." I love you.

You glanced at Ethan's lips, that urge taking the better of you — only for a second — before you finally decided to press a kiss to Ethan's nose. It caught him off guard and gave you time to keep the flush on your cheeks under control as you got to your knees, ready to climb into the fort.

Ethan followed after you and the two of you got comfortable. The fort was much more spacious than you'd anticipated, yet you'd ended up on Ethan's chest anyway. Ethan got his laptop ready, loading up your favorite movie. You'd appreciated the thought though you knew you wouldn't be paying attention. Not with Ethan radiating warmth under and around you, his arm keeping you close to him.

You didn't know how long passed as the two of you laid there in comfortable quiet. You adjusted your head, a little worried about your neck, and landed with your ear right above Ethan's heart. At first you'd mistaken the racing as the sound of your own heart but, upon closer listening, realized it was Ethan.

"Your heart's beating." It was pounding.

"No way?" Ethan responded jokingly, resulting in a gentle smack on his arm from you.

You raised yourself off Ethan's chest slightly, faces merely inches apart.

"Do you like me or something?" You asked with a teasing smile.

"Or something." Ethan replied cheekily, raising a hand out to cup your cheek.

"Are you gonna kiss me?"

"Do you want me to?" Ethan's eyes flashed with an adorable type of worry.

"I'd love you to." You whispered as you leaned in carefully.

Finally. Ethan's lips pressed against yours as you felt him sit up, hands moving to rest against his chest. He kissed you gently, slowly. He kissed you carefully and clumsily but with all the love he could muster. That was Ethan, a boy who loved largely and a lot, more than most people could understand.

But you understood, kissing Ethan back with love you couldn't express before. You broke away and you immediately connected your lips to Ethan's cheeks, his forehead, his nose. Small giggles escaped him that were the most beautiful thing you'd ever heard. Ethan pulled you closer — he'd moved his laptop to the floor some time ago and replaced it with you — placing lazy kisses to your head.

"You don't know how long I've been wanting to do that." Ethan confessed in a whisper.

"I think I have a guess." You replied with a smile before you kissed Ethan again. The taste of his lips was better than anything you'd experienced before, aligning perfectly with yours. Ethan was a quick learner, hands moving to your head to guide you gently.

You sighed happily once you separated again, reaching to move an out of place curl from Ethan's forehead.

Ethan's eyes moved around the small space quickly, landing on any place except you.

"Would you... want to be mine? I mean, not be mine, but be... together? Officially?" God, that didn't come out anything like he had practiced with Chad.

A small laugh escaped you as Ethan's awkward phrasing and you couldn't help falling more in love with him.

"I'd love to, Ethan," you reassured him quickly, thumbing over his cheek. "There's nothing I want more." You confessed quietly but you knew he heard as he smiled with rosy cheeks.

"Let's stay here?" Ethan asked nervously, grabbing the hand that had been placed on his face and pressing a soft kiss on it.

"As long as you want." You nodded, moving to lie down next to Ethan again.

「 ... 」

Chad wasn't sure until what time he was allowed to come in but Ethan had only told him a few hours. It had been past that and Ethan wasn't picking up and Chad was tired. He was almost positive it ended well; he just hoped it didn't end too well.

Chad pressed his ear to the door before entering; upon hearing silence, he entered quietly. The lights on the walls still illuminated the room, hinting that you and Ethan were still in the fort. Chad crept up quietly, lowering himself down to peek inside.

Sure enough, there the two of you were; sound asleep, you were half draped over Ethan, whose arms wrapped around you however he could manage, a tangle of limbs hidden under the thick blanket covering the two of you.

Chad smiled and had a sneaking suspicion things turned out all right. He left the two of you be (although not before taking a few pictures), heading towards his room with relief. He opened the door and walked in dreaming of his bed; though he didn't realize a small table previously positioned in the living room now occupied the majority of his room until his thigh came into contact with its edge. Chad grasped at the spot with a curse, knowing there'd be a bruise by tomorrow.

「 ... 」

Ethan woke up with a weight resting on him and an incredible pain in his back. It took him a few seconds to rub the sleep out of his eyes before he scanned his surroundings, spotting you sleeping peacefully next to him as the memories of last night came flooding back. Shit. He hadn't texted Chad.

Ethan reached for his phone in a hurry, checking his notifications before clicking on the one that caught his eye first — a photo from Chad in the group chat.

chad ▷ Photo

tara omg...

Ethan clicked on the photo curiously, rolling his eyes with a smile as he realized through the dim light that it was a photo of him and you before he typed out a reply.

ethan haha.

mindy EHTNA ETHAN DATING????? please.

ethan no. lmao im jk as of yesterday yes :)

#ethan landry #ethan landry x reader #ethan landry fluff #scream #scream x reader #scream 6 #scream vi #v writes #v + ethan

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thelampisaflashlight · 4 months

Text

Cryptid Biology Season 2: Litha

[Previous entry: Here. Edit: I legitimately forgot to write the easiest part of this entire thing, the description. Rain helps Bea set up for the abbey's summer solstice bonfire party and reaps the rewards of a hard day's work. I don't know how Rain wound up the way he is, but he's not changing anytime soon.] Below the cut.

It's hot as Satan's balls out -a misnomer, considering the Morningstar's junk is stuck in a frozen lake for all of eternity, or at least until the end of days- and Rain wishes more than anything that he was in the lake instead of lugging tables and chairs across the sandy shore, but at the very least he can use his magic to keep himself cool.

Bea, on the other hand, is positively drenched in sweat despite having stripped down to what is absolutely necessary... which Rain has to say is a LOT more clothing than he expected to see the groundskeeper in on a day like this.

She's dressed in a bright, electric yellow work shirt with "MINISTRY STAFF" emblazoned on the back.

It's supposed to protect her skin from UV rays, as is the floppy bucket hat she has on, but Rain can't help but find the whole get-up a little silly.

The shorts she's wearing doesn't make it much better either, to be honest; A pair of white swim trucks with multi-colored flowers splattered across them without any real rhyme or reason to the pattern.

It makes him feel a little nauseous trying to make sense of it.

Does blue come after orange and blue? Is red and yellow before purple and brown?

Why are some of the flowers brown?

Are there brown flowers?

...He files that question away for later, when he has his phone with him... or Mountain.

He'll ask Mountain later.

Then again...

"Are there brown flowers?" he asks, eliciting a grunt from the groundskeeper, who is preoccupied trying to make sure that the tables are level.

"Are there brown flowers?" he asks again, setting down another one of the folding tables, "Or is that just not a thing?"

Bea pauses, thinking.

"Ya know, I'm not sure." she says after a moment, reaching into the pocket of her shorts before clicking her tongue and looking across the lake at her cabin, "A question for later... or Mountain. Just ask Mountain. He knows more about flowers than I do."

Rain snorts.

"Glad to know the gardens are in your capable hands." he jokes, and Bea flips him the bird, crouching back down to lock the legs of the table in place, "So..."

"Mn?"

"Are you going to come to the party with anyone special tonight? You know, since it's the solstice and all."

Bea looks over her shoulder at him.

"Huh? Why would I do that?" she questions, turning back to the stubborn latch, "No, I'm staying in my cabin with the curtains drawn, and pretending y'all aren't out here throwing a rager..."

Rain blinks.

"...You're not going to come to the bonfire at all? Even though you're setting everything up?"

The groundskeeper shakes her head.

"I plan on being in my bed by the time things kick off tonight," she says, "sorry to disappoint."

"Mountain doesn't mind?" he wonders aloud, causing Bea to make a choking sound and look at him like he's sprouted another head, "What? I just figured, since you guys have something going on-"

"I dunno who said what about what, but Mountain and I aren't..." she throws her hands in the air, "...We don't have 'something going on', unless you count having a couple, uh, adult sleepovers, but it's not like that... We're just friends who fuck occasionally."

"Oh." Rain lets this information sink in, "And... And, again, Mountain doesn't mind? Just being friends? 'Cause he... You know how he is."

Bea turns to face him head on, arms crossed.

"You're asking a lot of bold questions here, water boy, you wanna cease the inquisition for a minute?" she huffs, "Look... Mount and me, we're both adults, and we've talked about 'us' before, enough to know that's not how either of us feel about what we've got going on. If he and I did have something going on, I wouldn't have fucked you that time."

Rain's ears twitch, and his face heats up.

"I... I mean, here... we're all pretty open and..." he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck, "I just assumed..."

"You know that they say about assuming things, Rainy, it makes an ass out of you and me." Bea chastises, then sighs, "I'm... just not looking for that sort of thing right now, and, like I told Mountain, I don't want to tie anyone down if I don't know if that's actually what I... what I want."

"It's... It's complicated, and I..." she frowns, crossing her arms, "I don't want to jump into a relationship on a whim, or because we had sex one time... I like Mountain, don't get me wrong, he's a good guy and he makes a lot of people happy, he's a loving and devoted partner from what I've seen, and a very attentive lover... but I'm not ready for that kind of thing."

"...Romance?" Rain asks.

"Love in general." she says, sticking her hands in her pockets, "Look, I really don't know how to... words. I'm not good at articulating this shit, I just know I don't like Mount like that. He's got a fuckin' good heart and a ten out of ten dick, but he's not for me."

Rain snorts.

"What?"

"Ten out of ten dick."

Bea rolls her eyes.

"You've seen it, you know what I mean."

"I do, I do..." the ghoul places a hand on his chest and stares out over the water wistfully, before turning back to the woman in front of him, "Still though, you should come to the party. You could just post up by the fire and play around with it. That's what all the fire elementals will be doing, might as well have someone around to supervise them and make sure they don't go ham..."

"Nah, I don't need more work..." Bea waves her hand dismissively, then looks at the ground, toeing a rock with her shoe, "...But, ya know, I might need a little help falling asleep, wat with all the noise and shit..."

Rain stands up a little straighter, taken off guard, "O-Oh?"

"The party starts in two hours, and the siblings are going to be swinging by any minute now to take care of the decorations, so..."

"Miss. Milne, are you propositioning this humble servant of the lord?" Rain raises his eyebrows, putting on a posh accent, laughing when Bea swats at him, "Okay, okay, I won't tease... We should hurry though, because if I have to endure another second seeing you in that outfit, I'm going to throw myself in the lake."

"Asshole."

"I guess we could try that hole this time."

Bea takes her hat off and hits him with it.

"Ow! Ow! I'll behave, I promise!"

"I have no idea why everyone thinks you're such a sweet, shy man, you're honestly the worst." Bea pouts, putting her hat back on.

"Who says that?" Rain asks, following Bea along the trail leading around the lake towards her cabin, "...Don't tell me you've been looking things up about us online, haven't you?"

"Not really, no." she says, "I mean, I looked up Sister Imperator once."

"You did??"

She nods.

"Obviously, I didn't find more than what anyone else already knows, but, I mean... Look at me." she gestures at herself, "Look at where I am. Do I look like I deserve to be here? Clearly, that woman has other plans for me, and, fuck, if I get to keep living like this in the meantime, I think I'll be okay if she... ya know..."

Rain bites his cheek.

"No, I don't know." he furrows his brow, "Bea, are you... Is anyone... How should I say this...? Is someone keeping you here against your will? Are you in danger?"

Without hesitation, Bea parts her lips and says a single, "No."

And for a moment, Rain wants to believe that's true.

But even as they ascend the porch, leaving their shoes outside the door as they slip inside the cabin, hands peeling away more clothing, Rain can't help but feel like he's trailing after a ghost.

Bea seems... weirdly resigned to her fate.

Detached.

He tries not to dwell on it, not right now, not when she's pulling him towards her bed, tugging at his belt like a leash.

She bumps the mattress and tumbles backwards, giving a soft gasp as Rain takes advantage of the undignified pose to slide her shorts off, revealing pink lace.

Her shirt comes off with a bit more of a challenge, the long sleeves catch as he tries to free her from it, and he growls his frustrations into her lips the moment its gone.

"You don't make this easy, do you?" he pouts, purring when she crooks her fingers under his chin, scratching at his beard for a moment before running her fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp a bit, "...I'll forgive you just this once."

Sitting upright, Rain straddles Bea's hips before kneeling down to kiss between her breasts; They're small, less than a handful, but they're soft and have little freckles dusted across them that are fun to trace with his eyes...

He's peeked at them more than he should probably admit to, even before he got to see them up close and personal, but given the harried nature of their encounter in the lake, Rain hadn't had much time to admire them.

He gives them a tender squeeze, bunching up the baby pink bralette in his hands, and watches as Bea bites her lip to contain a squeak.

"I like this." he says, thumbing over her nipples through the fabric, "Your fashion sense might be questionable at best, but you do know how to pick out some lovely lingerie..."

"I didn't..." Bea arches into his touch, "...I didn't pick it out."

"Oh~? A gift then? From who?" he gives a slightly harsher press, "Who should I be thanking for this?"

Bea writhes beneath him.

"...Don't wanna say..."

"A secret admirer then?" he lowers his head back down, licking one of the rosy buds, "Not Mountain then..."

Bea shakes her head, whining when Rain nips at her chest.

"N-Not Mountain..."

"He is more of a natural sort..." Rain hums, blowing a puff of air out of his mouth, making her shiver as his unnaturally cold breath wicks the saliva he's left behind, "He likes a bit of hair..."

Bea shifts her legs and Rain raises himself up so she can slide them out from beneath him, moving so that she can sit up in his lap.

"So do I..." she admits, gliding her hand over the trail of coarse hair that runs down his stomach, pawing at the soft pudge there, "...Well?"

"Well?" Rain repeats.

"Are you going to fuck me or what?"

Rain grins devilishly.

"Oh, Honey Bea, I'm going to ruin you."

"Anyone know where Rain got to?" Dew asks, looking around at the gathered partygoers, "He sent me a text, like, ten minutes ago saying he needed five more minutes, and then another one that looks like a keysma-...Well, well, well, look who it is."

Rain lowers his head apologetically, still in the process of redressing himself as he strolls up to the other ghouls, shoes untied and his fly undone, "Sorry, sorry... Got carried away with... stuff."

Dew hands him a cup of cider, "Does 'stuff' have a name, or are you going to keep us in suspense?"

"My lips are sealed." he draws a line across his mouth.

"Yeah, but your pants aren't."

"Aw, fishsticks..."

"More like, fishdick, bro, I can see your pubes!" Swiss chortles from nearby, "You going commando, or did you leave your panties with 'stuff'??"

Rain does a little hop as he buttons his fly.

"You guys can tease me all you want, I got what I wanted out of the evening, here's to you maybe, MAYBE, getting the same, my friends." he raises his cup in a toast and downs his drink in one go, "Guh, fuck..."

"Gentleman," he salutes, "I bid you adieu."

Dew and Swiss watch Rain saunter away, scoffing as he plops himself down in one of the chairs on the beach overlooking the lake.

"He's always so weird post nut, I swear to fucking Satan..." Dew mutters, "...He seems like he had a good time with whoever stuff was though."

"Yeup." Swiss sips his beer, "...Where do you suppose Mountain is?"

"Huh, now that you mention it, he's missing, too... I guess he's hooking up with someone, too... Man, it seems like everyone's getting laid but us."

"...I might have a solution to that." Swiss says, side eyeing Dew before sliding his hand down his back.

"What are you-Oh. Oh-ho-ho~"

#lamp writes #shitghosting #nameless ghouls #rain ghoul #ghost band #the band ghost #ghost bc #swiss ghoul #dewdrop ghoul #ghost band oc #sibling of sin oc #sibling of sin #Cryptid Biology 101

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television-overload · 4 months

Text

of our own making

(an X-Files fanfic)

Chapter 31/34 - home

[Read on AO3]

Their caseworker stops by in the morning to get their signatures on some paperwork and lays out the timeline for getting the adoption finalized in the coming months. For all intents and purposes, though, Madeline is theirs, and they're free to take her home. The birth mother's signature is there in black ink, signing over her parental rights to them. The sight of it brings tears to their eyes.

They won't soon forget what that young woman has done for them.

After one last checkup with the doctor, they pack up the room and get ready to leave. Scully dresses Maddie in a bright blue flower-patterned shirt with matching bloomers, a headband, and socks to keep her feet warm.

Once she's snug in her baby carrier, they lay a fuzzy pink blanket over her legs to keep her cozy on the trek out to the car. Mulder proudly lifts the carrier with one arm, and with the other, he reaches for Scully’s hand. There may be three of them now, but he hasn't forgotten who he came in here with.

Brenda walks out with them, and they bid farewell to the nurses that had looked after them during their stay. After this, they'll be on their own, just the three of them.

Before they reach the exit, Mulder stops suddenly, standing in the middle of the floor and looking down at Maddie. There’s something that has been bugging him, something left undone that just doesn't feel right. He whispers something to Scully, and then asks the caseworker a question.

He knows it wasn't a part of the agreed upon hospital plan, as set out by the birth mother, but can he really just walk out that door without thanking her? Without telling her how much this means to them?

“Is Krista still here?” he asks. “I know she said she'd prefer to keep to herself, but—”

“I believe she’s waiting to be discharged as we speak,” Brenda answers. “I can call and ask if she's open to a visit from you all, if you’d like.”

“Please,” Mulder says, and Scully nods in agreement.

Brenda steps away to make her call, returning a moment later with a smiling face.

“She said she’d be happy to see you,” she announces. “I can show you the way, if you're ready.”

Mulder bites his lip in thought.

“Give me a couple minutes,” he says, handing off the baby carrier to Scully. “I'll be right back.”

-.-.-

The room where Krista has been staying after delivery is in a different hallway than Mulder and Scully had been in. When he returns, bearing a nice bouquet of flowers and some chocolates from the gift shop, Brenda beams at them.

“This feels insufficient,” he says, shrugging self-consciously at his gifts.

The woman puts a comforting hand on his arm, shaking her head. “I'm sure she will appreciate it,” she assures him kindly.

She gives them one last glance to make sure they're ready, and then knocks on the door.

“You can come in,” a voice calls from inside. Without further ado, Brenda pushes the door open and pokes her head through the doorway.

“Got some visitors for you,” she says cheerily, before looking back at them and nodding for them to enter.

Krista is seated on the edge of her bed, wearing comfortable leggings and a Georgetown sweatshirt. She looks well, if a little nervous.

“Hi,” she says, smiling a little shyly.

“Hi,” Mulder echoes, entering the room with Scully right beside him. “These are for you,” he says, holding out the flowers for her, which she accepts with a smile.

“Oh, thank you,” she says. “You guys didn't have to do that.”

“We're the ones who should be thanking you,” Scully says, tears pricking at her eyes. I can't tell you how happy you've made us. This– This is a debt we'll never be able to repay.”

Mulder nods in agreement, returning to Scully’s side and placing a steadying hand on her lower back.

“We're going to do everything we can to give her the best life possible. I promise,” he says. “I just… wanted you to know that.”

Krista nods, and it's remarkable how at peace she seems, given the circumstances. Mulder can’t imagine being in her position.

“Can I ask—” Scully starts, adjusting her hold on the carrier nervously. “I mean, if you don’t mind sharing, can I ask why you chose us?”

Krista breathes out a laugh, her eyes settling on the tile floor. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” she says, amusement lacing her voice.

Mulder fights back a smile, glancing down at Scully with raised eyebrows.

“You might be surprised,” Scully says, turning her attention back to the woman who had given them a daughter.

Krista looks at them, her expression clear and honest and hopeful. She shrugs.

“She’s… meant to be yours,” she states simply, as if it were the most basic truth known to humankind. “I can’t explain it, but I just– I know you were meant to be her parents. I knew it from the moment I met you.”

Beside him, Scully sucks in a breath, and he feels his throat constrict with the swell of emotion.

“I had this feeling, when I found out I was pregnant, that someone else needed her. And… it was you.” She shakes her head, as if she can’t even understand it herself. “Do you believe in that kind of thing, Mr. Mulder? Dana?”

He looks down at the sleeping baby in the car seat, dressed in one of the first outfits they bought for her when they went out shopping.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, settling a hand on Scully’s shoulder. “Yeah, we do.”

Krista nods again and smiles, his words confirming what she had hoped.

They’re interrupted a moment later by a nurse stopping by with the last of the discharge paperwork, and they wait while Krista speaks with her. She’s probably anxious to get home. No one likes sleeping in a hospital several nights in a row.

When they’re alone again, Scully steps forward.

“Did you want to hold her?” she asks boldly, concealing a worried tremor in her voice. It’s the right thing to do, he knows, and he hopes someone would do the same for them if their positions were switched. But with the adoption still not finalized, there’s always that one seed of doubt that tells them she could still change her mind.

“We’ve already said our goodbyes,” Krista says with a bittersweet smile. “Besides, I don’t want to wake her.” Still, she does get up to peek down at her in her car seat, gently running a finger over the back of the baby’s tiny, bunched up hand. “What did you name her?”

Mulder clears his throat, blinking back the tears that have unexpectedly sprung up.

“Madeline,” he answers.

“Hm,” Krista laughs, her cheeks pulling back in amusement as she drinks in the sight of the baby she bore. “That was my grandmother’s name.”

If they needed any other sign that this was meant to be, that was it. It seems Krista feels the same way too.

“Well, I guess this is it,” she says, cupping the top of the baby’s head and softly smoothing over her wisps of dark hair with her thumb.

Scully brushes back an escaped tear from her eye. “Do you have a ride home?” she asks.

Krista stands and makes her way back to her bed, perching on the edge like she had been when they arrived.

“My best friend has been here with me, she’s driving me back,” she answers.

He’s relieved she has someone here with her. Scully had offered her support if she needed it, but Krista is a fiercely independent young woman, not unlike another person he knows. She’d chosen to keep things private, and they were respectful of that choice.

Still, it’s nice to get a moment with her before they part ways.

“If you ever need anything… Anything at all—” Mulder starts.

“You know where to reach us,” Scully finishes.

Krista inclines her head, a grateful smile passing over her lips.

“Thank you,” she says. “You guys will be wonderful parents, I can tell.”

-.-.-

The drive back to D.C. is one of the most stressful of his life. He white-knuckles the wheel like his life depends on it, resisting the urge to check the rear view mirror every few minutes to make sure Maddie is doing okay. Scully sits in the backseat with her just in case she's needed, and though Mulder misses his copilot, he's glad Maddie has someone keeping her company back there.

It's surreal, the walk up to their apartment. This is where their journey into parenthood will really begin. Late night feedings and diaper changes, cuddling on the couch; Eventually, she'll be making messes while eating squishy baby food in the kitchen and maybe even learning to crawl. All of it within these walls that he's thought of as home, in some capacity, for far longer than he's lived here.

His home is wherever Scully is. His home has been a thousand different motels across the United States. His home has been in the middle of the woods while being hunted by mothmen in Florida. His home had been hospital rooms, rental cars, run-down diners, and any number of airport seating areas over the years.

His home has been a dark and dusty basement, feathered with little knick knacks and article clippings that he thought would make him feel fulfilled. In reality, it wasn't until the day she walked in the door that the office ever felt like home. The difference was like night and day.

Now Scully opens the door to their apartment, and they're welcomed not by cheesy posters and doctored images of UFOs, but by a huge welcome home banner strung up on the wall on the far side of the room. Baskets of gifts, apparently from Maggie Scully's church group, sit by the fireplace, and a hand-knit baby blanket drapes across the back cushion of the sofa.

Scully’s eyes fill with tears as she takes in the sight. Mulder brings the baby carrier over to the kitchen table, setting it down so that he can let Madeline out. She stretches her back into an arch, squeezing her eyes shut in protest against being woken up from her nap. He smiles as he lifts her to his shoulder, holding her warm little body close and patting her gently in a comforting rhythm.

“Hey Scully, looks like someone loaded the fridge too,” he says, nodding toward a sticky note that he spies tacked to the refrigerator where it hadn't been before. Sure enough, it’s filled to the brim with ready-made meals for them. Those church ladies work fast. “Good to be home, huh?” he asks, just as Scully turns away from inspecting the freezer.

“I still have a hard time believing this is our life,” she says, finding her voice again. “Does it ever feel like a dream to you? Like you’re watching someone else’s life and not your own?”

He does know what she means. He’s felt it in little moments throughout their partnership, even from the beginning. He’ll never forget the way she’d shown him such loyalty, vowing that she’d only ever put herself on the line for him. He’d never known that level of trust and commitment before, yet she offered it so freely. It had stunned him into momentary silence, to hear it declared so plainly.

She’s his best friend. And—more than that—he is hers. That’s what had been truly unbelievable to him. He was never anyone’s first choice. Not until she came along. And now she has chosen him for something else, too. For a more lasting relationship. A decision that guarantees their lives will be intertwined for the foreseeable future.

He has to pinch himself to remind himself that it’s real. Evidently, she does too.

For once in their seven years together, they have found a truth that asks very little of them. It does not demand penance, or further suffering. Nor does it require some great sacrifice or heartbreak.

All this truth asks is that they let go. Surrender to it. Stop fighting. Stop running.

Because the truth they’ve found is love, and though it may have taken a while to come to terms with it, there’s no question in his mind that that’s what it is. All this time, everything had pointed him toward it, he’d only pushed it away. He has willfully ignored what was right in front of him, believing that it couldn’t possibly be the answer. He wasn’t worthy. She deserved more. There had to be something else, some other truth that would save him, that made all the suffering worth it.

But in the end, it was her. She is the truth that was sent to save him. This life they’ve begun together—that’s what he had been searching for all along. Not a replacement for the family he’d lost, but a chance to have one of his own. To build one quite literally from the ground up.

“This is our life, Scully,” he says to her, standing close to her in the middle of the kitchen. “I want to believe.”

~~~

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@today-in-fic @ao3feed-msr @agent-troi @angegova @baronessblixen @calimanc @captainsolocide @clo-thespin @cutemothman @danasculls @deathsbestgirl @edierone @enigmaticxbee @figureofdismay @frogsmulder @gillian-anderson-in-the-tardis @hippocampouts @invidiosa @monaiargancoconutsoy @msrafterdark @numinousmysteries @primrose19 @randomfoggytiger @skelavender @skylarksong @stephy-gold @teenie-xf @the-redhead-in-a-dress @vincentsleftear

#msr #txf #x files #xf fanfic #mulder and scully #my fanfiction #fox mulder #dana scully #of our own making #ooom #msr adoption fic #adoption

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