#*my brain screaming* the gray !!! in the beard!!!!!!!!!

[fangirleaconmigo]

Lambert and the Tribute

Ok. Hear me out. You know how there is the porny/smutty trope of the witcher who saves a family/town from a dangerous beast? And the towns folk are like, well, we don't have (or want to spend) money, so, here is our young sexy innocent but eager son/daughter as a tribute? *cue porn music*

So as usual last night, I was thinking about blorbos and shit instead of sleeping, and was like...how about we turn that trope around a bit? (not that there is anything wrong with it, I just like fiddling with tropes)

I present to you my concept, and I'm using Lambert for this because as I thought of it, I could hear his voice in my head.

...

So, Lambert comes back from the hunt, exhausted, out of breath, bruised, cut up, but triumphant.

He stands in front of the penniless farmer with the gnarly severed head of a beast. He has saved all of their lives. Because of him, life continues.

But the poor farmer is clearly distraught. He is a young man, early twenties, and is like...thank you so much Mr Witcher sir, we are mighty obliged. But sadly, tragically, we have no money. The harvest was lost, and we are hungry as it is.

The poor farmer tries to explain. Sir, I would gladly offer you my sexy and eager but wide eyed and innocent daughter as tribute, but tragically, my kids are too young to be sexy tributes. Mr. Witcher, they simply aren't reproductive age yet.

And the farmer is standing there, just anxious as hell about what the witcher will demand instead, like, will it be his young bride? His beautiful raven haired wife? They're basically newlyweds still and so very much in love. He can't abide the thought! He's racking his brain, is there anyone young and nubile and teen of aged in the next town???

And then he realizes fuck, WORST OF ALL, I hope this fucker doesn't want the law of surprise because that never ends well. Inside, this man is screaming, please do not take my kids in any capacity.

But isn't that what witchers ALWAYS want??? Children to make into MUTANTS????

So this poor (in every sense of the word) guy is stammering and angsting, but Lambert isn't paying any attention to him. He literally has not said a single word to him. He's not even looking at him. He's leaning a little to the right and looking past this guy, over his shoulder.

The farmer starts to get annoyed. Mr. Witcher, he thinks, I'm struggling here, help me out a little.

Lambert drops the nasty monster head with a thunk and turns back to the guy. Lamb is not particularly put out. He knew this family was poor. But still. This doesn't have to be for nothing.

He wipes the bloody sweat off his forehead with his arm and nods behind the man.

"What about him? He game?"

The farmer looks like his brain has just blanked out. He stares in silence. He slowly turns and looks behind him. Then he turns back to Lambert, waiting for him to laugh or to clarify. Lambert just stares at him expectantly.

"Well?" Lambert asks.

The penniless farmer is like.. "You---you want...m-...m-"

The young farmer doesn't wanna say it because that can't be right and he doesn't wanna embarrass himself. But Lambert is not helping him out at all. He's just looking at him like he's an utter dumbass, just waiting for him to get his shit together. "Spit it out, man."

Farmer tries again. "Mr. Witcher, sir. Are you saying that you want...my... FATHER?"

Lambert looks back at the object of his fascination. An older man is working, hauling bales of hay, loading them up in a wagon. And this man is like, mid-fifties, barrel chest covered with gray hair, full beard, inhospitable expression, overalls, dusty boots. He's thick, muscled and hard, he's covered in sweat, he's got calluses, he looks exactly like a man that's been busting his ass in the fields for more than a few decades.

As Lambert stares at the father, his expression starts to look a little hungry. "Is that your pops?"

"Uhhh yes?' The farmer's voice kind of screeches into a higher register.

Lambert shrugs. "Ok, well yea, your pops then. Ask 'im if he's game. Go ahead. I ain't got all day."

The young farmer just swivels, his eyes still in disbelief, still thinking he's going to humiliate himself. He wants the ground to open up and swallow him. He is starting to think maybe his youngest kid would make a good witcher after all. But Lambert is waiting and doesn't look perturbed. He doesn't look like he's kidding.

"Uh, dad?" The farmer is well, well into adulthood but his voice still cracks. But his dad hears.

The big older guy drops his bale and turns around. His eyes are sharp and hard. "Yep?"

The young farmer swallows. "Yes, um, father, the witcher here saved us."

"Obliged." The older man's voice is low, gravely, and he sounds like a man who does not suffer fools.

Lambert nods, an eager twinkle starting to gleam in his eyes. "Glad to help. It's what I do."

The young farmer continues, "And well, you know, we don't have any money to pay him. What with the bad harvest and all."

The dad nods, waiting. He's quiet too, not helping the young farmer out at all. So the younger farmer soldiers ahead. "So, father, he, the witcher that is, was wondering, um, if you would, um, want to be the uh..." he takes a breath and tries to say it fast, "tribute."

The young farmer almost faints from mortification. He's waiting for his dad to laugh at his idiocy. To shout at him. To kick his ass.

But what the Dad does is slowly raise his eyebrows. Then he turns purposefully towards Lambert. He switches his weight a little to one of his hips, and just quietly begins to look Lambert up and and down, assessing him with extreme interest. He is silently just raking his eyes from the top of Lambert's head down to his toes.

Lambert's grin gets wider, like it gleams, because at this point, he knows he's in. If the man is checking whether he is his type, then well, he's good with men. And Lambert just knows he'll be this man's type. Why wouldn't he be for fuck sake?

When the older man's gaze gets to his crotch, Lambert gives his prick a cocky little squeeze and licks his lips.

The older man grunts, and if the young farmer didn't know it was an interested noise, he certainly does when his father gives Lambert a wink. "Name's Abe, young buck."

The young farmer whispers several prayers for the gods to deliver him from this moment.

"Hi Abe," says Lambert, just eager and smug sounding as shit.

Abe takes his gloves off and hands them to his son as he passes him. He only says three words. "Don't wait up."

Lambert chuckles to himself, and there is a little hop in his step as they walk off together, since he is already anticipating the cock in his ass and could not be more overjoyed. Abe slides his hand down Lambert's trousers and squeezes his ass possessively.

The younger farmer just stands there with his jaw dropped. He had no idea whatsoever that his dad has this side to him. That man silently and stoically raised a family of seven children with his dearly departed mother, rest her soul. All his father ever did was work. You think you know a person. Honestly.

Lambert and Abe are long gone, and the son is still standing there in shock, when his beautiful young bride comes out of the house with a toddler on her hip. "Where did father go?"

The young farmer always likes that about his bride, she calls his dad father. "Yes. Heeee, um, went to pay the witcher for his services."

The young bride is surprised, she didn't know that father had money after the poor harvest they'd had, what with the locusts and all that. But oh isn't that a nice surprise, she thinks. "Well how generous of him. What a kind and giving man father is."

The young farmer puts his arm around his beautiful bride and pulls her in tight. "You know what my darling," he says, "it didn't seem like he minded in the least."

---the end

(and if any of you talented writers out there wants to write the sex scene, I would pledge my eternal friendship and love to you)

#the witcher #the witcher fanfic #lambert #this is for my lambert loving homies #you know who you are #descarada writes

[lillygamine]

⚝ 𝒩𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝒱𝒾𝓈𝒾𝓉𝑜𝓇 ⚝

♡ Warning: Female!Reader, Male!Monster, MonsterXFem!Reader, NSFW, Dub-Con, Somnophilia(Maybe?), Mention of Aphrodisiac, P in V, Slight bulging belly, Overstimulation(Maybe?), Mention of anal sex. ⚠️ Minors please dni with most posts/follow ⚠️ ♡ Note: This is my first post in this blog, and I thought the dream I had years ago might be a good way to start this blog. I have no experience with SMUT, but I hope it was acceptable. ♡ Note2:I don't speak English so I'm sorry for any mistakes in writing.

The night is peaceful, the cool, comforting air offsetting the heat of the day. My body is so relaxed and feels light as a feather. I oscillate between sleep and consciousness. I feel my body, I feel my soft bed and the short satin pajamas I chose to get rid of the heat. I feel my surroundings but I can't move, I'm not asleep but I'm not awake. But something changes, the air feels different, the environment seems to have changed in seconds and I feel a shiver run through my body. I hear and feel the surroundings but I can't move, what's changed? What's different? And then I feel a weight on my thigh, it's big and hot, the sensation makes my skin tingle. Wait, does that look like… A hand? It's so big it almost covers my entire thigh, I feel something sharp smooth my skin, are they nails? No, they look like claws… I feel my body moving, it's moving me like I'm a rag doll I feel dizzy, like everything is spinning. My senses are confused, what's going on? I feel it touching me under my clothes and then I feel it ripping through them, exposing my body to the unknown. I feel its claws in my mouth, opening my lips and then the limb enters my mouth. It's big and thick, slimy and hot, it moves like it has a life of its own. What the hell is going on? What's touching me? Why am I so hot? My body feels on fire, feels sensitive and needy. I feel my pussy throb and tingle. Damn it, why is it so good? I feel something crawl between my pussy lips, it's big and heavy… Wait, that's…

It's sudden, it enters my pussy all at once. I feel the air leave my lungs, making me give a silent scream. Now I feel everything, I can move, I can see. I can see what's inside me rearranging my insides.

It was a tall and strong creature, its skin was lead gray, with long black hair, with a thick beard and black hair in some specific areas of its body and it had the same hair color. It had goat's feet, blood red eyes, big ram's horns, and long, sharp black claws that looked like they could rip through my flesh with no effort. The creature is too big for my room, so it was leaning over, but its horns were hitting the ceiling. He had a hungry look in his eyes, and as soon as he realized I'd regained consciousness, a wide smile crept across his lips. I look down to where we're connected, feeling my whole body shiver at the sight of the bulge in my stomach. His dick was too big, how did that get inside me? Why does your dick feel so good inside me? The creature forces me to move on his cock, I can feel his cock moving inside me, and it feels torturous, I feel like I need more or I'm going to go crazy.

"O-Oh my fucking God!" He lets out a laugh that makes my pussy get even hotter. "Oh no my little lamb, it's not God you should beg!" His smile seems laden with desire and lust, but I can see something wicked in his eyes momentarily. "I'm the one fucking your sweet pussy." He starts thrusting deep and brutal, I feel my brain start to speak as a coil grows rapidly in my stomach. It goes deep and it feels like it's going to split me in two, my brain feels like it's about to burst, I can only moan and whimper. I had never felt anything like this before. The coil in my stomach finally snaps, I'm hit with a spasm, my orgasm is so violent it leaves me breathless for a few moments, but I can feel him filling my quivering pussy with his hot cum.

"Ah, that, just like that...Fuck! I knew your pussy would be amazing but holy shit! I've never fucked one this good before!"

I can only whimper, my stomach swelled with the amount of cum he filled me with. I'm feeling heavy and limp. I feel him slowly pulling out of me, and then his cum dripping from my quivering hole.

Fuck, look at that pussy, full of my cum. I can't quite process what he says after that, my eyelids get heavy and I feel sleep starting to take over. I let out a breathless scream as I feel his still hard cock enter my ass, it entered just a little and I feel like I'm going to rip in half. He licks my face, holding my thighs against my chest.

"I'm not done with you my little lamb ~"

#creature #monster #monster lover #monster x female #monster x reader #monster x you #monster smut #eldritch #monster fucker #terato #exophilia #monster boyfriend #monster x human #smut monster #monster romance #lillygamine

[ashintheairlikesnow]

okay Ash but older nanda and Jameson comf? If he'd lived? Pleeease? Just a snippet. A headcanon. A crömb. -theo-

@boxboysandotherwhump I totally forgot you had asked for me to do this AU so so long ago. Found this old ask abandoned in my inbox and you were PROPHETIC.

Continuing the AU, the last chapter (plus a link to the first) is right here.

-

CW: Intimate whump, some derogatory language, dubcon, some, uh, choking

For a long time, there is only the sound of each of them breathing. Jameson is ragged, rasping at the edge of a sob as he pulls himself back into control, his fingernails digging into the soft leather of the reclined passenger seat. His heart pounds, blood rushing past his ears.

Nanda's breath is nearly silent, far more even. His chest is warm against Jameson's bare back. Even through his expensive fucking shirt, though, Jameson can feel his heart pounding, too.

"What..." Nanda trails off. Jameson has never heard him sound so stunned. Nanda always plans for every angle.

But he didn't plan for this one.

"... what do you mean, someone else?" His mouth moves against Jameson's hair, sending a shiver down his spine. "Are you fucking the woman you live with, pet?"

My name is Jameson. I just told you that.

He bites the words back before they can make it out.

"N-no, not her. Fuck no. No. Absolutely... Absolutely not." He shifts, managing to get his shirt off the rest of the way, stop it from keeping his wrists tangled. It gives him an excuse for how his voice shakes - just from the effort. Only that. "Someone else. Different house. Someone... Someone else."

Nanda is quiet again. He's quiet for far too long. Then, he shifts back inside the tiny space. "Roll over. I want to see your eyes."

Jameson swallows, obeying the easy command with a little curl of warmth. He tips his head back against the headrest, looking up at Nanda, his beard and the line of his jaw beneath the silver and gray. The way the muscles in his arms seem written even more in stone. Nanda eases himself back down, and his weight feels reassuring and terribly final at once.

"Who is it?" His voice is mild. Spoonful of sugar tinted pink, sweetness and salt on Jameson's tongue. He could drown in the taste of Nanda's voice. Used to feel like he did drown, under voice and hands, tied up in ropes and brought to the good kind of screaming.

"... They're called A-Allyn. They, they ran away like I did. Well, not the-... Their owner died, too. They... They understood that I missed you..."

He reaches a hand up, hesitantly, trying to touch Nanda's face. The older man's big hand snaps up to close painfully tight around his wrist, forcing it back down.

"I wasn't dead," Nanda says mildly.

"I already told you, I didn't exactly goddamn know that-"

"No, you were dumb as rocks the one time I could have used the brains we both knew you had." Nanda's voice stays mild, but the insult stings regardless.

"I'm-... not-"

"Oh, you're not? You didn't know how to check a fucking pulse, but you're not dumb, huh? You ran off instead of waiting or calling for help but you still love me, right? Hell, you fuck someone else, but you're not a slut anymore. Isn't that what you're saying?"

Jameson's wrist feels like it creaks as Nanda tightens his grip further and further. The man's other hand drops down to unbutton and unzip his own pants in quick jerky motions. They're down low off his hips in seconds.

Jameson grits his teeth against the pain, refuses to be seduced by it. Or by the way Nanda punctuates the accusations by rolling his hips, the low warmth remaining stoked back into a flame.

God, he feels so hot.

They're both burning.

"If you were d-dead-... Ah! I would have lost you when they took you out of my head, I already s-said that-Jesus that's fucking good-"

His other wrist is grabbed now. He tries to pull it away, but they both know he isn't trying very hard. Nanda's mouth drops to graze against his. To catch him in a kiss, brutal and firm, until he's whimpering and rocking his hips like some mindless fucking idiot, like he used to do.

Nanda chuckles bitterly, pulls back and listens to Jameson's angry hiss at the sudden loss of connection. "If there's someone else, why did you get in my car when I came for you?"

He swallows, closing his eyes. Nanda's burn too much for him to take. Those hips roll against his again and he meets them with his own, arches his back, lets legs shift apart to welcome Nanda between his thighs. He could come from this, if it goes on long enough. "I don't-... I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No! Fuck you, no I don't know! You were dead and now you're here and I, I forgot who I am for a second, but I'm-... I'm not that anymore, and I want-... I want to-..." God, he feels it so much, his skin is all raw nerves and sensation. "... I want-"

"You want me."

Nanda had let go of his wrist at some point. He only realizes it when that heavy hot hand closes around his neck.

His breath stutters, gets lost trying to find his lungs. His head spins as the hand tightens, he feels his Adam's apple move against Nanda's palm. "Wait-"

" I spent all these years trying to find you, pet-"

"Jameson," He rasps, barely able to force the word out in a whisper. "Use... Use m'fucking name-"

"Fine. Jameson." God, it sounds so good in Nanda's voice, his own name tastes perfect in his tongue when Nanda is the one to say it. His eyes nearly flutter shut at the simple pleasure. "I have been searching for you-"

"Doing a shit j-job of it, could've used your help a couple y-years ago when I was in some asshole's dog cage-"

"Let. Me. Finish." The grip on his throat tightens even more. There is so little room for him to breathe, chest heaving. He never moves his hands to try and push or fight, though. He knows this tone, the look on Nanda's face. "However you feel about someone else... I looked for you. And I found you. I searched every goddamn corner of California trying to figure out where you fucked off to, and I find you all fucked up for someone else, another pet, huh?"

"I... I loved you... I still-" His voice catches, his throat clicks when he swallows. His eyes are wide, and he sees the anger in Nanda's and wonders why it used to thrill so much more to see it than it does now. "But I-... grieved-... Rebuilt, built n-new... life... I, I fucking deserve to l-live-"

Nanda's lip curls. But he doesn't say anything while Jameson fights for enough air to speak again. They're both still hard, still moving together, and the pleasure mixes with the pain in his throat and the dizzy lack of air, crossing all his wires and leaving him squirming in helpless unwanted arousal beneath Nanda's familiar perfect weight.

"I... deserve s-someone... who l-loves me... back-"

He expects mockery, black spots flashing bright like camera lights around Nanda's face as his vision starts to go, tunneling in on those eyes.

He sees, in the center of the closing tunnel, the whites of Nanda's eyes.

"Please-... If you e-ever... loved m-me-... Please, fuck, please s-say-... it..."

Nanda's thumb pushes against his windpipe as he kisses Jameson. Their mouths open to each other, and Jameson's arms move, finally, only to grip onto Nanda's shoulders. An anchor as he drowns on land, fighting for air.

Then the grip loosens.

Jameson's head pounds as he groans, his throat aches as he gulps air desperately. He'll be marked, bruised. He's been bruised there before. "N, Nanda-"

Nanda's head drops to Jameson's shoulder.

"... Nanda?"

A pause.

"You stupid thing. Why would I have looked so long for you if I didn't?"

#jameson au #nanda #whump #bbu #pet whump #box boy universe #box boy #intimate whumper #recaptured whumpee #dubcon tw #choking tw #dubcon #choking #captor bonding

[sunflowersandsapphires]

Fall Drabbles, Day 9

prompt: cold air in the morning

pairing: Michael Kinsella x fem!Reader

summary: After dealing with his family for far too long, Michael is happy to let you care for him.

warnings: Swearing, fluff

a/n: AHHHH this is my first time writing for Mikey so please let me know what you think! This piece is dedicated to @chvoswxtch, my Kin watch buddy! And a huge thank you to @bellaxgiornata for the advice on writing his accent!

w/c: <1k

Trudging up the street in the dim light, Michael grit his teeth against the weariness growing with each step–exhaustion sitting atop his shoulders like a barbell, slowly driving him into the pavement. A stiff breeze battered his cheeks, irritating his already gritty eyes, but he ignored it. He was no stranger to the numbing cold, and its unmatched ability to clear his head of racing thoughts, but he didn’t welcome it today. Rather than anchoring him, it rubbed at his nerves uncomfortably, leaving an almost acidic sting in its wake. 

His breaths were measured, but the tension in his lungs loosened marginally when the familiar structure finally appeared on the horizon. Willing his aching body to move faster, he focused on the dull red of his front door, a shining beacon in the dreary gray morning that promised rest and safety. He was running on fumes, his brain unable to process more than the stench of petrichor in the air and the burning in his lungs. 

Though it couldn’t have been more than a five minute trek, the walk felt like an eternity. Fitting the key into the lock sapped all of his remaining strength and he slumped backwards against the door, shutting it more forcefully than intended. Stifling a grimace at the noise, he swallowed hard as he plodded over to the dining room table and collapsed into a chair–his body folding in on itself until he could hold his pounding head between his palms. Every contraction of his heart sent another pound of pressure to his skull, slowly expanding like a balloon about to pop. He was tired and frustrated and hungry and alone and it was all quickly becoming too much. 

A creaking floorboard above him startled him out of his stupor. Tensing his legs to dart for his gun, which he’d stupidly left by the door, your voice called down the stairs. “Mikey?”

The question was soft, barely loud enough for him to hear downstairs, and your voice was raspy with sleep–but it sent a current of warmth through his senseless limbs. “Ya, pet. It’s me.” His own voice was hoarse after his restless days spent screaming about the family business.

Padding down the stairs, you smiled when you saw him, dashing right into his open arms and giggling drowsily as he pulled you into his lap. You pressed your lips to his, sending a jolt of energy through him like an exposed wire. He couldn’t fathom why you looked so happy to kiss his noticeably chapped lips, but your sweet smile was melting the icy shell of prolonged displeasure around his gut. “I’m sorry to wake ya. What’re ya doin’ here, love?” 

You shrugged, eyes flitting over the myriad of cuts on his face as one of your hands carded through his hair, tenderly untangling the strands. “My place was too quiet so I came here. Did you want me to leave?” 

Michael’s hands instinctively clenched, tightening their grip on your waist. “Fuck no.” 

Chuckling, you leaned your forehead against his. “How was it?” 

“Grand.” He scoffed, averting his eyes as you stroked a thumb over his beard. “Tirin’.” 

You hummed, plush lips tilting into a frown. “I’m sorry, love. Did you sleep at all?” 

“A bit. Not enough.” Your free hand slipped under the hem of his shirt, icy fingers drawing circles on his stomach. “Christ, yer so cold, pet.” He laughed as you wriggled your other hand up his bare skin as well. 

“Come back to bed with me? It’s chilly without you.” Wrapping your arms around him, you nuzzled a kiss against his prickly jawline. 

Nodding sluggishly, he gladly let you tug him out of the chair and up the stairs—more than willing to sleep the day away with you.

#michael kinsella #michael kinsella x reader #michael kinsella x you #mikey kinsella #kin amc #kin #kin rte #charlie cox #mk #my writing #fall prompts 2023

[intheorangebedroom]

Pleased To Meet You, chapter 14

Summary: Now Frankie has the answer he sought, what will his reaction be? And how will you navigate your relationship with him, and with Benny? Time to make some decisions.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x French fem!Reader.

Rating: Explicit 🔞

A/N: Please no one screams at me for this chapter 🫣 I cannot be held responsible for these two and their bad decisions. Additional note at the end to avoid spoilers.

Unrelated of sorts, I have been so close to giving up lately and deleting the whole thing. I shouldn't be telling you that, and I only am so that I can properly thank @frannyzooey @nicolethered @dreamymyrrh and @pedrorascal for their love and support. Ladies, I love you more than words and I can never thank you enough for cheering me on 🧡

And then there's the case of you, @meandorla my dear. I love, I love, I love you, I want to hug you and squeeze you so hard it hurts. I was stuck and couldn't start, and you saved my life 🧡 And then you worked your beta magic, despite you-know-what. I am SO grateful for your patience, your support, for making me laugh and for helping me make this story better with your big wonderful filthy brain 🧡

End of sap.

Word count: 7k (sincere apologies)

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Chapter 14: Love is Blindness

The pebbled skin of his neck.

The room feels oddly silent, as if in the aftermath of a natural disaster, or a car crash, undisturbed but for the sound of your solitary, ragged breathing. 

The dimple of his smile.

You draw in another drag, long and deep. Ashes are sent flying when you lower your hand to rest it on your knee, twirling briefly before they land on your denim. You don’t brush them off, staring at it emptily, looking without seeing. 

The wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. 

You draw harder on the next one, oblivious to the crackling sound from the burning stub. It’s raining again, sparse raindrops falling onto the beige carpet underneath the opened window. The chill air wafting in feels incongruous when the sun shone bright and cheerful just over an hour ago. But you’re not cold. In the small of your back, the press of his splayed hand lingers, warm and righteous. 

The gray strands in his patchy beard.

How will you shake off that vision? The tension in his frame and the tick in his jaw as he glared at that piece of paper. You didn’t want to tell him. He didn’t need to know. What good could possibly come from that knowledge? All this loss. All this mess. Because of a fountain pen and the fucking rain. 

The situation was easier to handle in the immediate aftereffects of seeing him again, back when you feared his resentment, and you chuckle bitterly at the irony. You know better now. You can’t stand his heartache. It is crushing you. 

The unpleasant smell of the burning filter brings you back to the room. You put it out in the coffee cup balanced on the windowsill and grab the pack of cigarettes, and the lightness of the box makes you wince. 

You stare into the empty pack for two minutes, as if this might conjure up an extra one.

What do you want?

You know what you want. But you can’t think of one outcome in which getting what you want wouldn’t result in him losing his best friend, if not all of his friends. Your heart’s only desire, at arm’s length. But you will not put him through that. 

What you need now is to decide whether you want, or rather can live with the current status quo. Or if you are prepared for the alternative. Because breaking up with Benny would mean losing so much more than just Benny. It means losing Will. It means… it means losing him. 

You clench your eyes until flashing white dots start dancing under your eyelids, fighting unproductive thoughts of your own failings. You need to move, make a choice and act on it, and you know who could shake you back into focus. You can’t imagine it's going to be pleasant, but you need to move. It’s been long enough. 

You unlock your phone, press on the green Phone app, and swipe down to reach the top of your favourites list. You’re about to press on Rosie’s name when an incoming call punches the air out of your lungs. You consider sending it to voicemail, but that’s another return call you’ll have to make, so you might as well get ahead of it. 

“Hey baby,” Benny’s happy baritone feels like shattered glass in your ear.

“Hey,” is all you can articulate.

“What you’re up to, tonight? You coming home? I thought we could watch Don’t Look Now.”

This was your life, three months ago. Your wholesome, happy routine. Not quite perfect. But nearly complete. 

“Oh I like this movie,” and the regret in your voice is sincerer than he will ever be able to comprehend, “but I can’t, I’m meeting with Rosie. For dinner.”

You regret not having had the time to call her first, and you’re hoping she won’t be working. And willing to see you after your deplorable behaviour on her birthday, followed by your guilt-ridden silence. 

“Oh, ok,” his disappointment trickles through your chest like cold water, “You wanna come after? You’re taking a cab, right? You said you would.”

“I’ll take a cab but I think I’ll go home. To my place, I mean,” you wince at the unnecessary precision. 

“Ok, baby.” He pauses, and his voice is uncharacteristically quiet, hesitant, when he adds, “I miss you.”

“Miss you too,” and you clench your eyes again, this time at the empty lie. “You should still watch the movie. I’ll call you tomorrow morning.”

“Ok. Have fun.”

You lower your phone, about to hang up when you hear his voice again, “Hey baby, everything ok?”

You need to move.

—

The doorbell is still ringing when Rosie swings the door open, her lean figure seemingly taller than usual, certainly taller than you feel standing small on her doorstep. An eyebrow raised over her dark eyes, the left corner of her mouth curled up in disapproval, she has yet to open the screen door, which you knew better than to do yourself.  

“There she is! The elusive librarian,” she crosses her arms over her chest, her strong shoulders accentuated by the black tank top she’s wearing, and her annoyance fills the doorway. You’ll have to earn your way out of the doghouse. 

“Ok, ok, I come bearing gifts,” you say, raising the plastic bag you hold in your right hand. 

You swung by her favourite Thai place, an impressive detour between your apartment and her house, and an effort she acknowledges, finally pushing the white frame of the screen door and stepping to the side to let you in.  

The house is a classic, two-story building on Terrace Ave, with a large living-room to the front, a bow-window overlooking the street, and a kitchen to the back, opening on a small lawn. The first floor is divided between two bedrooms and a comfortable bathroom that she had entirely renovated before moving in. 

Rather small by American standards, the house is gigantic for your Parisian paradigm. After breaking up with Éric, you had not been able to afford anything bigger than a 25m² studio apartment, despite making a decent living. You are immensely proud of your friend for achieving her dream of becoming a home-owner, something her mother couldn’t have imagined for herself.

The house is well maintained, the fake brick façade pristine and the lawns trimmed on a regular basis, but the interior presents a starkly different aspect. Rosie has many qualities, tidiness not being one of them. In all fairness, her job doesn’t leave her much spare time, and you don’t blame her for not wanting to spend it cleaning around. She has professionals come over to mow the lawns, clean the gutters, check the roofing. But you've known her long enough to acknowledge, not without a certain tenderness, that she’s always been like that. 

The living-room is overcrowded with mismatched pieces of furniture, cross stitch cushions, photographs, and all sorts of disparate objects. Clothes and magazines are scattered across all surfaces. You kept the place organised as long as you stayed with her, but it had returned to its natural state the minute you had left. 

You follow her into the kitchen and set the table while she unpacks the food containers, sheepishly declining the beer she offers you with an appraising glare. 

Aside from some appliances, such as the microwave and fridge, Rosie chose to leave the kitchen untouched. The 1970s furniture and wallpaper create a comforting atmosphere, evocative of the early 1980s movies you love and grew up watching. Sitting in there with your best friend, you usually don’t feel a day over 18, giggly and carefree.

Which is yet another thing that seems to have been irremediably altered by the recent turn your life has taken.

The amount of food you bought is ridiculous, especially with the current state of your appetite, and especially because Rosie cannot be bothered to hold a grudge for too long, but you figured that a satiated stomach would lend a kinder ear to the necessary conversation that is to follow. 

She’s the first to initiate small talk, speaking with her mouth full of rice noodles, thawing both the air between you and your heart. You’re not sure if you deserve her clemency, so you don’t stall any longer and gather the courage to speak, at last. 

“Hey, Rosie, listen. I’m sorry I ruined your birthday. I behaved like an idiot, I know I don’t do well with tequila and I-” you trail off before you’re tempted to lie about accidentally get yourself in that state, but your words are sincere when you add, “I hope you can forgive me.”

You put your chopsticks down and look her in the eyes, so she knows these are not meaningless words. 

“Look it’s fine,” she says after a brief pause. “If anything, it’ll make a fun memory I can use to guilt you into doing stuff.”

You chuckle feebly, knowing she’s not done. 

“It reminded me of our trip to Berlin. Remember that one? I was a fucking mess and you put up with me. I never said sorry for that,” she continues, and you accept the implied apology with a nod of your head. “You know you can talk to me, right? If something’s wrong, I mean. I know you miss Paris. I know I got you to come over here, if ever you-“

“Oh Rosie, no,” you interrupt her hastily, “I like it here, I mean it’s fine, I don’t regret coming. It’s just that-“

Here it is. All of a sudden, you realise you haven’t prepared for this conversation, and you have no idea how to present her with the situation. You’re not even sure how you feel about the fucking situation. 

“I saw him,” you blurt out bluntly. 

She shakes her head at your cryptic statement, and you understand there is no scenario in which you can present yourself in a good light, coming clean so belatedly about something you should have shared with her months ago, so you keep going, throwing yourself into it.

“Frankie. I saw him when I went with Benny to that bar, to meet his friends. He’s-” you draw in a short breath, “he’s Benny’s best friend.”

Rosie sets down her fork on the table and leans back against the padded back of her wooden chair, her smart eyes narrowed at you.

“Well, that must have been an awkward conversation.”

It is you, in turn, who visibly fails to comprehend. 

“With whom?” you murmur, and she leans forward with a sharp glance. 

“With Benny? Your boyfriend? Surely you must have told him that you fucked his buddy twenty years ago? Or that Frankie guy did?” Something plays across her face and she suddenly softens. “Oh, is that what it is about? Did Benny dump you?”

You open your mouth and close it immediately. The clatter of your teeth resonates in the silent kitchen. Rosie’s nostrils flare in anger when you shake your head and answer, “He doesn’t know.”

“You got to be fucking kidding me!” she exclaims, throwing her palms upward in the air, “You’re telling me neither of you told him anything?”

“Fifteen, actually” you mutter, rooted to your seat, “sixteen in July.”

“What?”

Her voice sounds at least an octave higher, and you should know better than to speak again, yet you hear yourself say, “Not twenty years ago, it’ll be-”

“Oh for fuck’s sake!”

“Listen,” you try, “I know I should have told you before, but I think you’re-”

“Not me, dumbass,” and you grimace in agreement, “your boyfriend! And what’s the plan, here, now?” 

You straighten up uncomfortably on the rigid bench. You expected her to get somewhat irritated, but you didn’t anticipate this heated outburst.

“Well, that’s the point, Rosie, I’d like to talk it out with you.”

The request backfires immediately, fanning her wrath, and she stares at you in disbelief, her eyebrows shooting to her hairline. 

“What is there to talk about, exactly? You’ve been with Benny for a year,” this time you don’t risk correcting her on the timeline. “Are you seriously even considering throwing it all away for a one-night stand you had with a random guy twenty, or whatever years ago?” 

Rhetorical as it is intended to be, the question, and its formulation, shocks you out of your numbness. 

“That’s a real low blow, Rosie, you know damn well it wasn’t a one-night stand, and it certainly wasn’t a random guy,” you emphasise your words with your index pointed in her direction, which only raises more hell from her.

“Oh wake the hell up, will you? This guy’s a fantasy! You don’t even know him anymore, if you ever even knew him!” 

She stands up abruptly, her exasperation uncontainable, and starts pacing the tiled floor in front of the table, while you remain pinned between the table and the wall to your back. “You know Benny. Benny’s good, you said so yourself. Aren’t you happy with him? You’re seriously telling me you’re willing to jeopardize that for what, for a dream?”

“It is not a dream, Rosie, it was real, it is real,” you insist, raising your voice, “when we were together this morning everything was just the same, it felt right and-”

“Excuse me, you did what, this morning?”

She stops her pacing abruptly and faces you, staring at you incredulously from across the square table, but you withstand her glare, sitting up straighter. You exhale through your nose and roll your eyes exasperatingly. 

“Chill, ok, nothing happened. I tried to buy a car, and he came with me for advice. And it was Benny’s idea, I’ll have you say!”

“Oh well then, if it was Benny’s idea, then I guess it’s fine!” she scoffs. “Jesus, do you fucking hear yourself?”

This entire conversation is getting out of hand. Being with Frankie was never an option for you, but somehow you’re miserably failing to tell her as much. You never performed well in confrontational situations, your breaking point is just a few words away, before your defensiveness gets the better of you and you start throwing names. You can’t risk losing your best friend, your sister, over this mess.

“Look, I came to you for help. I need to find a way, to do something about it, I don’t know what, but this is not helping me. You’re not helping me,” you say, appealing to her friendship.

Much to your dismay, her wide eyes turn glassy as they fill with tears. She grips the back of her chair with both hands and leans in closer to you, speaking in a low, restrained voice you struggle to recognise. 

“Don’t you come here and tell me shit about helping you. Do you know how I found you, three years ago, before I dragged you here? The state you were in? The state you put yourself into? You don’t seem to realise, but you go so far, you retreat so far within yourself, and I, I have to live with the fucking fear that one day I won’t be able to get you back.”

Her words ring out in the room, burning your skin as if she had just slapped your face. Slowly, purposefully, you push away from the table and stand up, to the sound of the ticking clock on the wall.

“I don’t want to sound ungrateful, Rosie, but I never asked for your help,” you start in a low voice, your anger and outrage barely in control. “You provided it on your own accord. I’ve been alone my whole life, and I do not need anyone’s help, not yours, not Benny’s, not anyone’s. It is my choice and my problem if I want to- to live isolated.”

Less than a minute later you’re storming out of the house, tumbling down the flight of stairs and rushing in the direction of Kennedy boulevard to catch a bus. For once, you really wish you owned a car, but you’ll have to ride the Jersey City public transportation with a sniffly nose, reddened cheeks smeared with mascara, and a brow creased in anger, or fear, or despair. Who the fuck knows. 

You’ve never fought with Rosie before. You’ve never fought much, with anyone, except maybe for Éric, and of course your mother. You want to stop and sit on the curb, pull out your phone and write down everything that has just happened, because in a short while, the words will be lost to you. All that will be left, all that your brain will let you access will be a collection of indiscernible feelings, Rosie’s manifestly unjustified albeit immediate anger, and how, in reaction, you kicked over the traces.

You turn on Kennedy boulevard in time to see your bus drive past the stop and you curse loudly in French, ignoring the woman next to you who stares you down, as she tightens her grip on the handle of her kid’s stroller. 

This is uncharted territory to you, both in your relationship with your friend and in your personal life. Aside from political matters, you’ve never felt this strongly about anything, and have certainly never been this collected and assertive in your argument. You’re not sure what you were defending back there, your perception of personal freedom, or the reality of your connection with Frankie. 

You reach the bus stop and ponder waiting there, but there will be at least half an hour until the next one and you can’t stay still for that long. Instead, you choose to walk to the deli next to the bookstore to get cigarettes. A long walk, but you don’t care, you’re unsure why but you want to speak French with the Moroccan grandpa who works there. 

What you said is untrue. An ugly lie. People have helped you in the past, whether you would like to admit it or not. Rosie of course, and Dolores, countless times. Laura, your former boss, although to be completely fair, in most cases it was just your competency being rewarded. 

But you know what Rosie is referring to. Your preference for aloneness. Throughout the years, you’ve proven yourself capable of making friends, albeit very few. Will stands out amongst them, giving you space with an almost uncanny instinct. Shielded behind your smile, you were unanimously appreciated in your former job, by superiors and colleagues alike, for your bright, amiable personality. An exhausting lie, at times, when you remain, in truth, unable to fully trust anyone or to commit yourself.

Because the most uneasy relationship you’ve ever had is by far the one with yourself. Your interactions with the world are challenging, at best. The torment subsides when you hide within you. 

You don’t know if your mother is to blame, either for rejecting you or because you inherited this trait from her, and in any case, you couldn't care less, because it’s who you are, and at this point in your life, you’re finally at peace with forever treading on the edge. 

And also… And also because there is one place where you didn’t feel the need to hide. Where none of it mattered. One place where you were able to let go, almost instantly. Where you were not asked to be anything more than what you wanted to be. Than what you could be. 

Perhaps Rosie would understand, if you’d given her the chance, if you tried to explain. But you highly doubt that. 

You know of only one thing that can quieten your mind, turn the raging ocean inside you into still waters.

The pebbled skin of his neck.

You’re going to need alcohol to get you through this night.

—

Situated on the fourth and last floor of a brick building on the corner of Seaview Avenue and Old Bergson Road, your apartment is graced by the first morning light from winter through autumn. A convincing argument of choice for any realtor, and your personal hell. 

Presently, the blazing sun of the first day of summer inundates your bedroom, burning your eyeballs through your closed eyelids. Your groan of discomfort drags you out of sleep and you resurface to a state of semi-consciousness. You try to flick your eyes open and you take in the pillow, where the right side of your face is crushed, an unpleasant dribble of saliva pooling at the corner of your opened mouth. 

There’s a sharp pain in your spine, from lying heavily across the bed on your stomach, on top of the undone sheets, your back unnaturally curved inward. The same position you were in when you passed out around 2am, fully clothed. 

An old AC unit sits idly on one of your bedroom windowsills. Already broken when you moved in, you never had it fixed, being used to life without it in Paris. On days like today, however, you come to regret your dismissal. If the sweat beading in the dip of your lower back is anything to go by, it’s going to be a hot one. But that might also be the whiskey.

Some apartments in the building have fire escapes. Not yours. Which was fine as long as you didn’t feel the urge to take up smoking again. The three living-room windows are cracked open, but the lingering smell of cold tobacco makes your stomach lurch dangerously. 

You stretch your left arm and reach for the night stand, blindly fumbling for your phone, which you hope is somewhere nearby. 

You’ve just put your hand on it when the ringtone startles you. Your body recoils in surprise and a new bolt of pain shoots through your back. You struggle to get up on your hands and knees with a hissed “Putain,” your head throbbing lightly, each one of your muscles sore.

The screen is illuminated with the caller’s picture: Benny’s smiling face, the pine trees of Harriman State Park in the background, your favourite photo of him that you captured three months back, at the very end of the winter. 

8am. He’s setting out for his morning run. You’ve managed to sleep longer than usual. 

You let the call go to voicemail, staring at his picture with a cocked eyebrow, and when your phone falls silent, you get off the bed and undress, get out of the bedroom and walk naked across the living-room into the open kitchenette. You pour yourself a tall glass of water that you chug down greedily, followed by a second one. The voicemail notification tinkles, but you pay it no mind, dialing Benny back instead.

As always with whiskey, your hangover is mild. Your mind is strangely acute, your ideas sharper than they’ve been in weeks. Asserting what you want, at last, has lifted that dead weight off your lungs. Even if what you want is out of your reach.

 “Hey baby,” his voice sounds different, you notice it immediately. Devoid of his natural cheerfulness. 

“Hey, what’s up?” you croak, and you hold the phone away from your face long enough to clear your throat. 

“Listen, yesterday I went-“ he starts, before cursing under his breath and asking, “sorry, how was your dinner with Rosie?”

“Good,” you lie reflexively, increasingly intrigued by his unusual behaviour. 

“Cool. Yeah, yesterday I went out with Fish for drinks-“

Blood rushes out of your face all the way down to your toes and leaves you swaying on your feet.

“And we talked about some stuff, and anyway, he says you can’t sleep? Because you didn’t hang the curtains?”

You are frozen where you stand, your mind reeling with the implications and potential consequences. With the mental image of these two men, talking about you over drinks. 

“Hey, baby? You still there?”

“Yeah,” you swallow the lump in your throat, “yeah, I wake up early. And the street lights kinda bother me, at night,” you add in earnest. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” the reproach is palpable in his low voice.

“Why- I didn’t think it mattered. I spend most nights at your place, anyway. Why- why is it important?” you ask tentatively.

“Because I’m your boyfriend, I’m supposed to take care of you.”

You bite down your retort. Now is not the time to argue that you can take care of yourself. You did not, in fact, get around to hanging these goddamn curtains. Besides, you’ve got enough clairvoyance to understand that this is not what this whole conversation is really about. 

Perhaps because of your silence, he seems to relax a bit, and his voice sounds warmer when he asks, “Can I come by after my run? I’ll do it quickly and then we could have lunch together?” 

You rub your eyes with weariness, and stare at what’s left of yesterday’s makeup smeared over the tips of your fingers. 

“Sure. Sounds great.”

You hang up and start the coffee maker before stepping into the small adjoining bathroom. 

In the shower, the scalding water eases the tension off your shoulders and revives your sore limbs. You let it run over you for a long while, some of your anxiety running with it down the drain, before washing your hair and scrubbing your skin raw, and when you exit the bathroom, cleaned up, perfumed, and wearing fresh mascara, you almost feel like yourself again. Whoever that may be. 

You drink your coffee while dressing and begin to tidy up the apartment, starting by airing out the place. Clouds of dust fly out of the paper bag when you pull out the plastic packaging. Perfect. Now you’ll also have to vacuum the carpet. You unwrap the curtains and stack them neatly on the small coffee table in front of the couch, sorted in two piles. The colours you’ve picked are still to your liking two and a half years later, you’re happy to find, a dark yellow mustard shade for the living-room, and charcoal gray for the bedroom. The curtain rods are standing by the kitchen counter, against the wall, and you swipe them clean with a rag. 

You empty the contents of the cup you use as an ashtray into the trash can, grimacing at the smell, and proceed to your bedroom. 

You stand hesitantly by the bed. You should probably change the sheets, but you don’t want a pile of dirty laundry lying about. The weekly trip to the laundromat is an aspect of this life you can’t get used to. It’s not about the time you spend there, quite the contrary. It’s the incongruity of sharing such an intimate appliance with complete strangers. Your washing machine is probably what you miss most from your Parisian life. Sorry, Orsay.  

When your doorbell rings an hour and a half later, you've just finished brushing your teeth. You take a deep breath before swinging the front door open and nearly topple over in surprise. 

Frankie is standing in the doorway, his broad silhouette backlit by the corridor’s fluorescent neon bulbs. His head cocked to the side, his eyes instantly find yours from under the brim of his cap, his jaw tightly clenched. 

“What are you doing here?” you murmur, but your body doesn’t question his presence, and you move away from the threshold to let him in. He steps inside briskly, closing the door behind himself and turns around to you, a hand extended in your direction asking you to remain calm, and you notice a bulky case hanging from his left hand. 

“I’m with Benny, he's parking the car,” he whispers hurriedly, “he dropped by earlier to borrow my drill but he says he doesn’t know how to use it.”

You hardly suppress an annoyed sigh before Frankie’s eyes set on the empty pint of Black Bush standing tellingly by the trash can behind you. You follow his gaze, and exhale an exhausted “Merde.” 

His eyes return to you, an eyebrow raised in a silent question, and his obvious concern feels like ants crawling over your clean skin. 

Your brain swivels, searching for a reassuring lie, but once again, you don’t feel like you need to lie to him, and you don’t want to. So you simply shrug. 

Stepping closer, he crowds you with his height and breadth, standing close enough that you can smell the detergent from the faded black t-shirt he’s wearing inside out, close enough that you can see the dip between his collarbone and the pebbled skin of his neck. 

“Look, half an hour and I’m gone. I promise to be as fast as I can. It’s my fault,” he adds, and his hand moves forward, as if to run his knuckles over the exposed skin of your arm, but he catches himself and stops half an inch short. 

Your eyes are pleading when you look up at him, your carefully crafted composure crumbling under the scrutiny of his soft, brown gaze. 

“You’re not the problem, Frankie,” you whisper shakily. 

“Yea, I know. I know,” he husks, and you can hear the “baby” missing from his phrase. 

Approaching footsteps echo in the corridor and he quickly moves away from you. You hurry past him to hide the empty bottle inside a cabinet. 

As you let in your boyfriend, as he kisses you voraciously, Frankie averts his eyes, turning his attention to your living space. 

The small room certainly is very luminous, with its three windows lined up on the opposite wall to the entrance door. He easily identifies the prints hanging between each of them: Tina Modotti’s interpretations of the Mexican Revolution, which he immediately recognises because they are Izzy’s favourite works. He notices the old turntable on top of a vintage cabinet and the small collection of vinyls on the rack underneath it. 

On the door’s left, against the adjacent wall, a gray, beaten up but comfortable looking sofa fills up most of the room. It’s surmounted by another large print, Berenice Abbott’s New York At Night, another of his sister’s best-loved pictures he can name without hesitation. 

On the opposite side of the room from the kitchenette, wooden shelves frame the door to your bedroom and cover the entire wall from floor to ceiling, seemingly threatening to crumble under the colossal weight of an impressive number of books. He can make out exhibition catalogues, and what looks like fiction, paperbacks and fancy leather-bound editions. 

In front of each cautiously lined up row of books are photographs, most of them ancient, tintypes, autochromes, and other curious photographic objects, alongside colour photographs he’s dying to take a closer look at. The display reminds him of Will’s office, a room he’s only ever been in once. 

You fit in perfectly with the two Miller brothers, the kinship undeniable, and with the same sincerity with which he promised you to be fast, mere minutes ago, he promises himself that after this, he will let you be. Get out of your life once and for all. For real, this time.

His eyes linger for a moment too long on your bedroom door, cracked open just enough so that he can see your bed, made with pale blue linen. A memory blurs his eyesight, whirling across his mind. A vision of you, folding his white sheets, in the orange bedroom.

“Frankie?”

“Yea?” he turns around to face you. 

You’re standing behind the kitchen counter. Benny’s lost into you, mellow with fondness, standing behind you with his hands on your waist, breathing in your hair. As if he were the one whose life had been stripped of your presence for too many years. He places a kiss at the base of your neck, and you keep your eyes trained on Frankie. The air stills. The silence rumbles between you. 

“Coffee?” you repeat in a little voice.

He nods quietly and Benny asks if you have something else. One thing he doesn't like about you is your coffee, too strong for his taste.

“Can I use the bathroom?” Frankie asks suddenly.

You indicate the door behind you. Once inside, he locks himself in. 

Frankie’s moving fast. This is his only chance. He has to find it. He runs the tap and, avoiding his tensed reflection, he opens the mirrored door of the cabinet above the sink. There are very few medicines, nothing stronger than ibuprofen, and some plain-looking lotions and creams. Most brand names look French, and he briefly wonders how you manage to source them here. It can’t be easy. It can’t be cheap. He pushes away the implied meaning, the disheartening thought that you might feel constantly homesick. 

A tall, rectangular glass bottle catches his attention: your perfume. The label reads “Chanel n°19 Poudré”, and he makes a mental note of the name as he takes off the cap to smell it. It’s close, but it’s not it. 

Benny’s laughter rings out on the other side of the door. Frankie moves faster, opening a couple of bottles, to no avail. He throws a glance at the bathtub. Three bars of soap lie on an enamel soap dish near the shower faucet. He nearly drops the first one, still wet and slippery from your earlier shower, but he hits the mark on the second. A woody and spicy smell, a manly fragrance, the one he thought was Benny’s.

He flushes the toilet and comes out. Benny’s already crouched over the opened drill case and he’s about to go join him when you hand him a mug of steamy coffee. He knows he doesn’t need to ask, knows it’ll be to his taste, no milk, no sugar. 

He grabs the mug by placing his hand underneath it, avoiding your fingers, and thanks you in a hushed tone.  

The room is blazing with the mid-morning sun, the heat already barely tolerable. The drapes will help with that too. He starts fumbling in the case for the right drill bit when a sudden thought darkens his eyes. He glances at your bedroom door, sticking his tongue inside his cheeks, and ponders his next move. 

“I think the ¼ inches are enough,” he tells his friend, handing him the long piece of metal, “I’m gonna go check the wall in the bedroom.”

You watch him as he crosses the room in two long strides, with a resolute gait, his t-shirt pulled taut across the plane of his back, highlighting his dorsal muscles, and your entire body goes numb. 

He’s careful to shut the door behind him, and makes a beeline to your bed. In an hurried but deft motion, he lifts off his cap and grabs the pillow with his other hand, burying his face into the cottony fabric. He inhales deeply, madly, and his shoulders sag in relief. 

It’s here. At last. It’s this, your distinct and unique powdery scent, he recognises it now, as the memory of it comes back rushing, flooding his senses. He can’t let go. Doesn’t know how. It’s the crook of your neck and the crown of your head, it’s the inside of your wrist and it’s your inner thigh. It’s that faint fragrance laced with his own on a sunny and warm Sunday morning in July. 

How does he come back from that? Now that no doubt remains as to your feelings and your truthfulness. 

A fountain pen, and the fucking rain.

Your voice. Your voice, once again, brings him back.

When he steps out, Benny and you are standing by the window to the left, you just brought him a can of Ginger Ale. 

“So what,” you start, doing your best to sound as casual, as playful as possible, not a trace of reproach in your tone, “you really don’t know how to use a power drill?” 

“No, no, I know how,” he answers with a bashful chuckle, before pointing at his friend, “but he has a Makita. Those things cost a fortune. He’ll kill me if I fuck it up. Right Fish?”

Frankie doesn’t raise his head but answers with a quick smile. 

“And I want to do this right, for you,” Benny adds with a sweet, eager smile. 

You can’t help but return that smile, reach out and brush a strand of blond hair off his forehead.

Frankie didn’t lie, half an hour is all that it takes for them to complete a task you’ve postponed for over two years. 

You stay on the outside as you observe them work, listening to the low, round humming sound of Frankie’s voice as he occasionally gives directions. This is a different side of them, one you never got to see until now, far from the happy gatherings, the teasing jokes and the thunderous, tipsy laughs. 

The two men move in tandem and with acute focus. You read the years of shared experience in their tacit coordination. Their language is their own, spoken without words, weaved with knowing glances and understood nods. And soon, you’re left with the unsettling feeling that you are trespassing on something with a level of intimacy that shouldn’t be shared with you. 

You don’t follow them into the bedroom. You simply sit and wait on the couch, resigned and tired, chasing away the thought of Frankie’s hair curling around his ears, of the droplets of sweat beading on his nape, of the tangy taste of them. 

The result is far beyond what you had expected. You never doubted their handiwork would be any less than irreproachable, but it’s something else. Benny draws shut all three thick drapes to test their efficiency, and the room is plunged into near total darkness. They tie the room together, give it a cosy, homely atmosphere that had been missing until now. All of a sudden, it’s a home. Your home. It feels like you’re settled in at last. Like you are going to stay. 

Melancholy washes over you, tinged with apprehension, and you feel your chest tightening a bit. Benny jokes light-heartedly about staying at your place more often, and Frankie’s eyes instinctively fly up to you from where he’s kneeled, arranging the screws and pegs back in their square compartments in the case. 

It’s like a reflex, something almost beyond his control, the way he wants to get up, stand close behind you and shield you from it. But from what, exactly? This is your life. The one you’ve chosen. And he promised you, if not himself, that he would leave you be.

Your first “thank you” is almost inaudible. You shake your head at the sound of your own voice, hoarse and weak, and you pull yourself together, thanking them profusely and offering to buy lunch.

Frankie gives you a strong look, and then declines, explaining he’s meeting with his sister, and you don’t know what to make of it. Very little, if nothing, in his attitude, has given you a clue as to how he feels about what you told him yesterday morning. 

The imperceptible glances, the kind words, the reassuring hand. It’s always been there, since the very beginning, even back in the bar, when his eyes glared at you but his words spoke another story. It might just be who he is. After all, Yovanna had said so herself, Frankie is a good man. 

And then it strikes you. Nothing’s really different, because it’s not about something new. It’s about something missing. His anger is gone. And the distance that came with it.

Frankie watches as the realisation plays across your soft face. He has to get out of here. 

He’s dependent on Benny to drive him home, but Benny insists that you come with them, and it is, indeed, the practical thing to do. You eventually persuade him, arguing that you need to vacuum here before, and if you were never much of a liar, the urgency helps you sound convincing.

When the door closes behind them, you let out a long, trembling breath, and feel the steely tension that has been building steadily between your shoulder blades since you came out of the shower.

You take another measured and steadying breath, stretching the strained muscles of your neck. If you hurry, you might have the time to smoke a cigarette before Benny comes back. You start collecting the mugs and glasses from the coffee table when your eyes land on the cap lying on the kitchen counter. 

Standard Heating Oil. 

The blue, worn-out hat fills you with a disproportionate dread. You can’t have this thing in here, god knows what you’ll do with it, tuck it under your shirt against your skin to sleep with, or worse, inhale it like a madwoman, you need it out. 

You drop the dishes unceremoniously into the sink with a clatter and grab it, rushing towards the door, thinking you can still catch them downstairs, but when you open it, you collide into Frankie’s solid chest.

The cap falls to the floor when you steady yourself by placing your hands on his arms, that wrap around your waist with a bruising grip, and your feet hover above the ground when he lifts you with his combined strength and momentum and carries you across the room to pin you against the wall, the draped curtains cushioning the shock with a muffled thud.

Your brain bails on you, you struggle to make out what’s happening. You lose all your bearings and are left with nothing but sensations, burning, blinding, incandescent and dizzying, the tight grip of his left arm, his knee nudging your legs open as he presses you into the wall, moulding the shape of your body into his own, the heat from his chest against yours, the press of his right hand skating up along your side, brushing past the swell of your breast, his calloused fingers a rough caress on your collarbone, on the soft skin of your neck.

The firm muscles of his arms shudder under your palm, you moan at the scent of him enveloping you, at his commanding pull on your hair when he tilts your face to the side, at the sharp ridge of his nose crushed into your temple and the tickle of his mustache. Your splayed fingers dig into his arms when he runs his plush lips over the line of your jaw with unexpected softness. 

His words are spoken into your skin, whispered with a fervor, slowly, articulately.

“I have missed you. I have missed you so fucking much.”

And he’s gone. The door shuts with a loud banging noise behind him. He’s gone and your body slumps down against the wall, quivering and cold.

****

Additional note: I threw in a little nod to Joel Miller, in there, just for fun. Did you get it? Also the gif is from this awesome FishBen set, please go check it out.

Taglist (thank you 🧡): @elegantduckturtle @mashomasho @lola766 @flowersandpotplantsandsunshine @nicolethered @littleone65 @bands-tv-movies-is-me @the-rambling-nerd @saintbedelia @pedrostories @trickstersp8 @all-the-way-down-here @deadmantis @hbc8 @princessdjarin @harriedandharassed @girlofchaos @gracie7209 @mrsparknuts

#pleased to meet you #Francisco Catfish Morales #Frankie Morales #The Pilot™️ #frankie morales x fem!reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x ofc #triple frontier fic #ben miller #benny miller #santiago pope garcia #will miller #william ironhead miller #triple frontier #pedro pascal #garret hedlund #oscar isaac #charlie hunnam #frankie friday #my beloved Yovanna #adria arjona #feral frankie friday #francisco catfish morales #the pilot™️ #the husband one #the one and only #Frankie #Frankie morales x fem!reader #frankie morales/fem!reader #frankie morales/you

[cevansbrat0007]

Feral

Summary: You return from dropping off the girls at Grandma’s house, only to find that your husband has been raiding your library. Andy Barber x Black!Reader

Warnings: Feral Andy Barber, Possessive Reader, Breeding Kink, Marking Kink, Chase Kink, Cursing, Daddy Kink, Smut, Talk of Werewolves, Minors DNI

A/N: Still stuck in a hospital bed, but hopefully I get to go home tonight. Enjoy the smut! As always, I’d love your feedback. All mistakes my own.

___

You’d just gotten back from dropping the girls off at grandma’s house. While you would miss them, you knew they needed time with Grandma Lisa, who was always so happy to see them. She spoiled them to no end.

And that is one of the many, many reasons you loved your mother-in-law.

Besides, having your babies out of the house meant that you’d have some time to reconnect with your man. Wherever he was.

“Andy?” You call out. “Baby, where are you?” You walk around the house looking for your husband.

Only to see him stroll out of his study with what looked like several books in his hand, wearing nothing more than a pair of light gray sweatpants that left very little to the imagination.

While your man has always been covered in tattoos, your eyes can’t help but immediately flit to the newest additions. He’d gone and gotten you and your daughters’ names inked on his chest, just below his heart.

“Like what you see, baby?” He purrs.

You lick your lips at the sound of his deep, sexy voice. “Always.”

God, this man was a menace. After all these years, he still managed to drive you wild. And now that he was rocking a little gray in his beard? Shit. You wanted his ass all of the time.

“Whatcha got there, Big Man?” You ask, gesturing towards the books in his hand.

“Oh, these? I got sick of my own books so I decided to raid your library. I needed a little change, you know? Wanted to cleanse my palate.” He says with a devilish wink.

Uh, this could not be good.

“So, after a little debate I decided to go with one of those paranormal series you seem to love so much. Wanted to see what all of the hype was about. This one was all about werewolves finding their fated mates.”

As he slowly begins to advance on you, you give into the primal part of your brain that is screaming for you to back away from the predator.

“Oh, yeah?” Your voice comes out a little shakier than you would like.

“Tell me, Y/N. Do you think we’re fated mates, or do you think your true mate is still out there somewhere waiting for you? I’m curious.” He growls softly.

You keep moving backwards, your gaze never leaving his heated one.

“I, uh, um.” You stutter.

“Answer the question, baby.”

“You’re my mate, Andrew. I believe that we were always meant to be together. We were always meant to find each other.”

Andy’s lips purse as he considers your answer. “I agree.”

“You know what else I like about these books? I love the fact that the females are feisty. They value their freedom and won’t hesitate to run from their mates to preserve their way of life.”

Your pulse is pounding in your ears.

“You ran from me, remember? Made me chase you.” He growls. “These females make their men work for it, so when they finally catch them, they’re willing to submit. I like that their submission is earned and freely given.”

Your island bumps into the corner of the kitchen island.

“Their submission is a gift. You give me that gift all the time. But you still make me work for it.”

“Only because you’ve earned it. I give it to you freely because you’ve earned it and I know you won’t abuse it.” Comes your breathy response. You could feel your nipples harden and pussy grow damp.

“Thank you for that gift - I promise to always cherish it. I’m a lucky man with a beautiful little mate.” Your husband flashes you a wolfish grin.

“Moving on, the men in these books feel compelled to mark their mates. They sink their canines into their female’s neck during the heat of the moment so that every male will know that she’s taken.” He continues to stalk you, his movements controlled and measured.

Your back collides with the kitchen table, prompting you to regroup and change directions. You needed to get to the living room and figure out your next move.

“I’ve wanted to mark you for a long time, my love. Did you know that? Did you know that I used to wish that I could tattoo myself, my name, all over your beautiful skin?” His words come out harsh, making you shiver.

You shake your head “no”.

“That urge was satisfied each time I filled your belly with my babies. It let every man know that you were mine. That you belonged to me. I’d love to fill you with my baby again, if you’d let me. Will you let me, Y/N?” Your man’s eyes are glazed over with lust.

Your throat is dry and your body aches - it wants his attention and it wants it now. Still, you don’t stop moving.

“Will you let me mark you again? Will you let me fill you with my pup?” His tone is somewhere between a purr and a growl.

“Ye-yes, Andy. I - I will let you mark me again. I want everyone to know who I belong to, that I’m yours.”

Wait. Were you really agreeing to have another baby?

“I can’t wait to fill you up. To watch your belly grow.”

You could almost swear that his muscles were swelling as his entire demeanor grew more and more feral.

Rolling his shoulders, he flashes you dark smirk.

“Run.”

You don’t have to be told twice. Turning, you take off, your short legs moving as fast as they can. You can hear him right behind you.

You make it as far as the den before he tackles you to the ground. He rolls to his back, ensuring that his body takes the brunt of the impact.

Giving into the primal urge that had been guiding you this entire time, you begin to struggle. He flips you both over, but you don’t stop. You continue to fight and buck against him, your sharp nails raking their way down the bare skin of his back.

“That’s it, baby. I love it when you fight me, just like the men in those books.” He lets out a dark chuckle.

Somehow, you manage to throw a leg over his hip and use your momentum to once again flip your bodies so that you are on top.

You glare at him, before leaning down to sink your teeth into flesh of his neck. Hard. Right where the tendon meets his shoulder.

“Go on.” Andy growls. “Mark me, little mate.” He rasps.

You suck on his neck, ensuring he’d end up with a bruise.

Eventually letting go, you move down his body to slide his sweatpants down his narrow hips and off of his body. Of course your man was going commando.

But your focus immediately shifts to his big, fat cock. You longed to take him in your mouth, to chase that long thick vein with your tongue.

Instead you wrap your hand around him. “Mine.” You growl with a squeeze. Just as you lean down to suck him, he drags you back up his body.

Andy yanks your shirt over your head. He goes to undo the clasp of your bra, only to get frustrated. So he simply rips the fabric in two.

But you’re too far gone to care.

You make quick work of your shorts and panties so that you’re bare beneath him.

He parts your thighs and buries his face into your sopping wet cunt, inhaling your earthy scent. And then he moves back up your body to give you a swift, bruising kiss. You moan into, dragging your nails down his back once more. Marking him.

He surges into you with one quick, hard thrust - making you scream. And then he starts to move. Your hands go to grab his ass, silently encouraging your Big Man to go as deep as possible.

“Gonna fill you up so good!” He snarls as he throws one leg over his muscles shoulder.

“Ahhhh!” You cry out when his cock makes contact with special spot inside of you.

“That’s it, baby! Milk me. Milk Daddy’s cock!” A thin sheen of sweat coats his big body.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god!” His hips keep going, pounding your tight, wet pussy. “I can feel you in my belly, Daddy!”

“Uh huh.” Andy grunts. “I know how to take my cunt.”

“I’m about to give you my baby! You fucking hear me, Y/N?” His rhythm starts becoming erratic, letting you know he was close.

“Ah ah ah!” You wail. “Fuuuuuuck!” You cry out as wave after wave of your delicious orgasm washes over your body, making your eyes roll back in your head.

Seconds later, Andy lets out a roar as his finds his own release, spilling his hot seed inside of you.

He collapses on top of you, both of you breathing hard. After a moment, he rolls away to lay next to you. Your husband grabs your hand and kisses it.

“I love you, baby girl.” His voice hoarse. “And I can’t to devour the rest of your library.”

Still unable to form words, you settle for whacking him in the chest.

END

#Chris evans #andy barber #chris evans black!reader #andy barber black!reader #chris evans woc!reader #andy barber woc!reader #chris evans imagines #andy barber imagines #chris evans fanfic #andy barber fanfic #cevansbrat0007growing pains series #chris evans smut #andy barber smut #andy barber x female reader #andy barber x you #chris evans x y/n #chris evans x female reader #chris evans x you #chris evans x yn

[chawarin-panich]

“ i remember our first kiss. ”

@kun-is-my-daddy had prompted the same thing and theoretically he will be getting his other prompt filled. I am sorry for trying to write collapsing timelines after getting high, knowing full well that tenses are my ultimate enemy. I hope you like this and this makes more sense to you than my poor brain going and WHICH LEO IS THIS AGAIN

----

title: and we are here

pairing: kunessi

rating: PG-13 It takes some time for them to return to their room. It’s partly because Leo can’t move an inch without five people seeking his attention but also because - holy shit - they’ve finally done it.

All of them. 

And Kun wants to be with his teammates because it’s not just a game or a tournament, is it? It’s every day and every year they have spent together, it’s every failure and success, it's every person who’s gotten into this jersey and dreamed these dreams together. 

Kun wishes he were younger so that he could share it with those he looked up to, the way the kids look at him. He wishes he were younger so that it would feel less final, swimming in a sea of possibility instead of finally finishing a marathon that he’s been running his whole life. With Nico screaming in his ear it's easy to forget that it's a race he technically never finished. Leo has the good sense to seek out a towel so they can dry off the collective sweat of the albiceleste and celebration beer off them. He throws them onto one of the freshly made beds, in particular Kun’s he notes, and grins at him. They look at each other like that, stupid grins cutting through the moment thick with awe and disbelief, and then Leo’s hand is curling into the back of his neck and pulling him in.

He feels overcome with a different kind of madness, where the enormity of what they have achieved for the briefest of seconds allows him to feel everything all at once; every up and every down, every moment of loss and euphoria they have weathered together right there at the seams of his lips that Leo is drinking in. 

And still it overflows, desire wrapping around them, contentment within the warmth of Leo’s arms as they tumble backwards and onto the bed Leo caging him in.

Cariño

Leo whispers softly above him and it feels like coming full circle, looking up at Leo and having the intensity of that gaze trained on him, hearing the word for the first time said with a tinge of something shifting between them and those beginnings stretching out now to this moment, Leo’s hand sure on his hips, his face full of wrinkles they drew together.

Kun pulls Leo down to himself with a boldness he had to fake all those years ago, now filled with a desperation that almost rivals the quiet longing for Leo that had overflowed in the ecstasy of being young and swimming in a sea of possibility, of winning the Olympics together. Leo’s body sets him ablaze now as it did when he was shy and awkward but no less determined, kissing Kun with furrowed eyebrows and a blossoming devotion that had charmed him so thoroughly.

Leo pulls away from him slowly, rather regretfully, his body feels like it’s being peeled away from Kun’s like the opposing poles of magnets. Leo had pulled away from him then too, both of them hard and a desire crackling between them that could only be tempered by the desire to do this right. So they had stayed awake that night cuddled together, the axes of possibility running as strong between them as it did for their futures.

But today Leo has responsibilities, egos to juggle and reporters to satisfy and they could afford themselves this stolen moment together only because they had to, only because it felt like he was slowly buzzing out of his own body and could feel the same happen to Leo. Leo places a soft peck on Kun’s lips on his way out, the anticipation of later already building. Kun feels a bone deep satisfaction at watching him go. He feels again like that boy giddy in Leo’s embrace. He lets that boy see him as he is today with his graying beard and treacherous heart and feels that, perhaps, he did good by him.

#like genuinely i dont remember writing half of this fic #kunessi fanfic #nani writes

[dreaminghour]

quiobi h/c nightmare prompt for 'reclaim the tag':

Person A gets woken up by a scream and they quickly realize that Person B must be having a nightmare. They slowly wake them up, so they don’t get more scared and stay awake with them for as long as they need it.

i tried to write it all in one sitting so I'm not thrilled by my final line :sigh: but I'll try to clean it up and share it on AO3 soon. There's no warnings, just some soft hurt/comfort. 600 words.

Obi-Wan woke from a dead sleep to screams. For a second he was thrown back to the war, and then his brain caught up with him, to the scratch of clean cotton and the smell of fresh laundry, crickets chirring in the night through the glass. He quickly reached for Qui-Gon, to reassure himself of that last truth: the man sleeping beside him.

Qui-Gon was stiff as a board, panting, eyes firmly shut, muttering now, but without a doubt he was the one who had been screaming.

Moonlight slithered across them both as Obi-Wan's eyes slowly adjusted. Qui-Gon's skin was clammy beneath his fingers and he began to rub along the sleeve of his sleep-shirt to just ground them both, for all that Qui-Gon couldn't feel it. First he matched Qui-Gon's panicked breathing, but then through the Force, he linked their breaths and began to gradually slow his, pulling Qui-Gon into the calm with him.

The moon shifted across the sky, Obi-Wan woke up more and more, and then Qui-Gon was breathing evenly.

Obi-Wan gently stroked tears from Qui-Gon's soft cheeks and called his name.

"Qui-Gon," he murmured. "It's just a dream."

He repeated the words over and over.

All at once Qui-Gon twisted, opening his eyes to darkness, not seeing Obi-Wan for all that they were lying side-by-side until he did. His breath was held, there was so much fear in his gaze, and then he let his breath out slowly.

"It wasn't real," Obi-Wan murmured, stroking his beard. "It was just a dream."

Qui-Gon closed his eyes again, but not as though trying to sleep. Obi-Wan continued to smooth the lines from his brow and the hair from his face.

"Do you want me to rebraid your hair?" he asked.

Qui-Gon snorted softly. "It's a mess, isn't it?"

"Got a bit tangled when you were coming out of it, yes."

Qui-Gon just grunted. For a long moment he didn't move and Obi-Wan kept stroking his hair but then he rolled over and sat up. Obi-Wan went with him, rubbing his hands up Qui-Gon's back until his shoulders began to uncurl. At last Qui-Gon pulled the tie from his hair and ran his fingers through the mess until Obi-Wan took over.

It was so soothing, just gently trying to untangle the thick and graying hair, brushing through it with his fingers, wafting the scent of his hair — something clean but also him — between them both. Obi-Wan knelt to raise himself higher and then in the moonlight he loosely braided Obi-Wan's hair together again. It hung like a thick rope down Qui-Gon's back, darker hair streaked with gray, and he leaned in to kiss the bare patch of his neck.

Qui-Gon smiled, a quiet sound, and met his lips over his shoulder.

"What was it this time?" Obi-Wan asked softly.

"What else could it be?" he asked.

They wouldn't discuss it tonight, it seemed, and Obi-Wan wouldn't push. Instead he pulled Qui-Gon back down to the bed, half expecting Qui-Gon to half-cover him and kiss him. But he didn't. He lay down on his side, tugging Obi-Wan closer, to curl against his back and lay his lips on his neck.

"You're alright," Obi-Wan murmured.

For all that Qui-Gon might not agree, he didn't speak against it.

Obi-Wan didn't know when he drifted off, but when he did, he was still rubbing his hands along Qui-Gon's side. When he woke, Qui-Gon was still there. The fear of sudden and unfair loss never left them, but they were there for one another all the same.

#dreamy does fic #quiobi #quiobi fic #hurt comfort #dreamy does wips #dreamy's wips #idk what tag i was using :D #wip stuff #reclaim the tag #quiobi writing server

[saintkeaton]

Ignorance

why drag your

beautiful legs

across a

rusted guardrail

just to prove a point?

old friends & family from

years long past send messages telling

of divorce & cheats & heartbreak &

one million I told you so’s

I wait a few days before accepting

just to keep up the façade of

being busy & important

as emo as it sounds

I wish the darkness wasn’t tattooed on

me from teenage years of

satanic rebellion & goofy punk

immature attitude selfishness

Trent Reznor’s distortion

is the only comfort I get in the rock quarry

of my brain

sadly

Tyler Childers' gospel album

only makes everything seem that much

farther away

early morning

all alone sitting

in empty parking lots watching old

men gamble & fuss over

water heater’s & biscuits n gravy

factory workers with long

faces & scruffy beards of beautiful

gray tint shuffle in/out of aluminum

jailhouse paycheck

myself caught in

ugly blue dawn

knock down fight with the

love of my life

while our

daughter screams for

it to be over

I’ll write on the new

machine & the old machine

things split by

decay & decades

&

old bones clicking on hard keyboards

& dainty thumbs feather tapping

without pain…

is there anything

worth talking about

because (sadly) pain is the

hottest topic going tonight

there’s another one

that seems to

grow from the center

all

along the bastard walls

of my soul

now with the sun falling I

can see how deep the

grave goes

from a low look into your

bloodstream

oh how precious the

feeling of letting it all

bleed out must be

how it must be lit

(lighting) down in Hell

with

enormous upside down

black light crosses

crushing the mass of

sinners into the pit

how hard life must be

with no

care at all

how empty & void the

universe must feel on a

Thursday

I smoke 900 cigarettes

& sit smug in the face

of death

daring the reaper to knock

on my door with his

skinny feminine claws

can’t handle TikTok videos instant

play of world gone mad with

self & sex & pity money &

showing dick on only fans to

pay for unnecessary jet ski toys &

bragging

I’ll hide myself in old

Bukowski books &

David Lynch &

David Foster Wallace &

Jesus

if he’ll have me

so I let the black of

night eat through all my

bad decisions dating back

years & years to

1985 when I decided

to come on in

——————————————

#poem #poetry #original poem #original poetry

[fosterfilmgal]

by Dawn Natalia

Social Media, that strange place where "like" is a noun and "friend" is a verb.  Where we connect with old friends, current friends and suggested friends, we didn’t even know we needed to meet. The month was November, the year was 2017, and I was living in my log home in Foster, RI, divorced with my cat Pringles (yes named for the chips.)  Life was good!  My latest film had landed me a slot in the finals of an international filmmaking competition, and I was dating a tall handsome young man named Joe. Then it all fell apart.  My next short film bombed and Joe ghosted me.  That Foster winter was so harsh and cold it broke me, so I called it quits and decided to head south, and move near family in Port Saint Lucie, FL.

Months later, I settled into an apartment nearby my mom and sis, and spent a good amount of time binge watching sitcoms on my cellphone.  I stumbled upon a fun sitcom starring Fran Dresher, remember from The Nanny?  It was called Living with Fran.  A middle aged and divorced Fran finds herself falling for and moving in with her contractor, twenty years younger.  The handsome young man reminded me of Joe, who was also twenty years my junior.  In August of 2019, I decided to look him up on facebook.  I was shocked to learn that he was in a horrific car accident, air lifted to RI Hospital and spent three months in a coma.  I wasn’t facebook friends with him, but we had a mutual friend, so I sent him a note through Messenger. 

He didn’t get back to me.  Life in Florida wasn’t going that great.  Film opportunities were slim, so I picked up a server job, the guys for dating were pretty flaky, and my roommate was a nightmare.  I was living with Luna, a 28 year old “Instagram Model”, who was validated only by male attention.  Unfortunately for me, this meant no peace at home.  She brought a parade of young men, drugs and sex, several calls to the police.  One night it got particularly bad, and I heard screaming and fighting coming from Luna’s bedroom.  I had had enough, and told her she had to leave.  Did I mention she was a mean drunk?  She lost it.  She trashed my room, pulled my hair, kicked me.  Yup my first girl fight!  Finally, she threw a wine glass at me.  I know, now this is sounding more like The Johnny Depp/Amber Heard trial than a blog about social media, but stay tuned.  The police came and escorted her off the property for good.

In March of 2020, things settled down, but then…Covid.  Now, it was March and I was stuck at home in my apartment.  Out of the blue, I received a Facebook Message…It was Joe!  We exchanged a few flirty messages and decided to make a drink over skype.  His hair was longer and darker with a full beard with some gray mixed in.  His speech was a bit slower, but it was Joe.  He was alive, and the chemistry was there as always.  I told him I still had the log home back in RI, and he said, “Oh, really, where is it?”  I replied, “What do you mean where is it?  It’s in Foster.  You’ve been there many times.  You love it!”  Joe fessed up.  He said, “To tell you the truth, I don’t remember how I know you.”  Now, the filmmaker was living in a movie of her own.  Did my life just turn into a real life “Fifty First Dates!”?  I refreshed his memory and we started over.  The cool thing about it is because of his near death experience, he had a real “I don’t care what you think of me” attitude, which I found to be very refreshing, and I was super attracted to his unapologetically authentic self.

In May of 2020 I faced more challenges.  Down in FL, I had a stroke, that landed me in the hospital for a few days, while my tenant back home passed away from a sudden heart attack.  Needing my good healthcare based in RI, and not wanting to trust my home to new tenants at Covid time, when many renters weren’t paying, I decided to return home.  Joe and I reunited in person and had a magical time.  We relived out first two dates, to try and jog his memory, but a traumatic brain injury made it difficult for him to recall them.  So, we had a fresh start.  The dates were great, but Joe made it clear he wasn’t ready for a serious relationship.  He ghosted me again.

Now I was heartbroken.  I was devastated, and decided I would do anything to try and get him back.  So, I went to the one place, I thought could help…Youtube!  I started following all the dating gurus.  I devoured content from Matthew Hussey, Mike Goldberg, Coach Craig and Coach Margaret, Mat Shafer, and one Coach Lee, who preached a dating rule called “The No Contact Rule.”  I purchased his Emergency Breakup Kit and practiced his cardinal dating rule, which was the dumpee should have absolutely no contact the dumper:  no calls, no email, no texts, no social media contact.  Nothing!  And it worked.  A couple of months later on my birthday, I got a call.  It was Joe, and he wanted to get back together. 

Today, we’ve been together for over a year, and he lives with me and Pringles in that log home he couldn’t remember.

Now, that Facebook and Youtube saved my personal life, I am taking a Social Media course to get my business life to the next level.  Currently, I am obsessed with watching what’s called Lawtube.  Basically, it’s bunch of lawyers commenting on The Johnny Depp/Amber Heard trial.  I follow Legal Bytes, Runkel of the Bailey, Law and Lumber, The Lawyer you Know, etc.  It’s a guilty pleasure.  But the trial will be over soon, and hopefully this blog on Tumblr will be the first step in kicking my trial addiction, and focusing on using social medial to promote my film career.

Dawn Natalia #SusiSummer22definesocialmedia

#Dawn Natalia #SusiSummer22definesocialmedia

[kennethbrangh]

Ciarán Hinds in Circle of Friends (1995)

#ciaran hinds #ciarán hinds #circle of friends #have you ever seen a man so handsome you cried #*my brain screaming* the gray !!! in the beard!!!!!!!!! #@ ciarán teach me a few lessons #gifs*

[popopretty]

Storm Bringer Spoilers (10)

A small part from the Epilogue where Chuuya and Dazai met up with Dr. Wollstonecraft. It was from one of the translation requests I got long ago and this part is fun, everyone is so adorable, so here it is.

Feel free to retranslate if you want. Just note that I am not a native speaker in either Japanese or English so I make mistakes sometimes.

Chuuya went back to the pier, and as he was about to get on his bike, a black car slowly approached him. The window at the back seat slowly came down and the person inside called out, "Chuuya".

That was Dazai. It was a rare sight. He had his black suit and his tie on, the formal attire for guests greeting.

"Work is in five minutes."

Chuuya and Dazai were standing under the gangway of a luxury passenger ship.

That was a ridiculously expensive fancy liner. The ship that Shirase had boarded before that was incomparable to it, both in size and materials. Its paint was chalk-white without a spot, the five-story guest rooms were decorated like the finest hotels. No matter where the passengers went, they would be accompanied by a skilled guide on board. The ship was also known for its navigational capability. Even when it sailed at twice the speed of an ordinary ship, its turbulence was less than one tenth of a normal one.

That ship was called "The Boswellian".

The government's passenger ship that only high-ranking government officials were allowed to board.

The gangway was lowered and delegation descended in front of Chuuya and Dazai's eyes.

First were the guardsmen in black suits. They cautiously looked around at all directions. The bulges around their waists showed that they were all carrying guns.

After that came some bearded men who looked like officials. Old, capable, with gray brown eyes that showed no hints of what they were thinking. Their clothes were of top-quality. A man carrying a cane with a golden spiral pattern on it was pushing the crew who was trying to help him off board with the tip of his cane, so crudely as if he was chasing away a stray dog on the street.

"The noble demons of England have showed up." Dazai murmured in a voice that only Chuuya who was standing next to him could hear.

Those people were high-ranking officials of the British government who came here for the post-incident investigation, the “Assassination King incident" that occurred through multiple levels of state secrets. A team of investigators were dispatched to Japan to investigate this serious case that went beyond a normal criminal case, and report to the government. And Port Mafia had come forward to welcome the team and cooperate with them in the investigation, as a party to the case.

Illegal organization Port Mafia is in charge of welcoming the investigation team of the British government.

It was an odd situation, but there was a certain rationale and calculation of the Boss behind it.

First of all, the one who had the whole picture of the incident this time was neither the Ministry of Foreign Affairs nor the police, but Port Mafia. As from the beginning, the European governments had been trying to hide it completely from the Japanese government. Also from the Port Mafia side, they also had a reason to keep a close eye on the movements of the mighty British government.

That was because they suspected that these people might try to eliminate every person of Port Mafia who was involved in this incident to cover up the "Assasination King incident" that arose from the state secrets.

Obviously, Port Mafia had no intention to reveal the truth and the secrets of the case. But it was hard to tell how much the British would believe in words of a criminal organization. That was why Dazai was sent to greet them. If they really had the intention to eliminate the people involved, Dazai would have to negotiate to stop that from happening. If the negotiation failed, then Port Mafia would have to eliminate the investigation team before the other party had the chance to eliminate them. That was why Chuuya was accompanying him. Depending on the other party's actions, this might turn into an interstate war that involved the whole Port Mafia.

“Well, let the fun deception game begin.”, Dazai said excitedly as he headed towards the investigation team.

The guard men immediately reacted to the person approaching, their hands reaching for their waists where the guns were.

“Thank you for coming all the way here, ladies and gentlemen of the great British Empire.” Dazai's attitude changed completely as he greeted the guests with a fluent and courteous voice. “You must be the members of the investigation team? I know this is sudden but may I ask who your representative is?”

“Representative?” the guardsman whom Dazai directed this question to looked rather confused and tilted his head. "This is the technical advisory unit of the investigation team so if you say representative, I think that might be Dr. Wollstonecraft...”

Dr. Wollstonecraft?

Chuuya tilted his head. He had heard that name somewhere before.

“Aa!” Dazai seemed to get it right away. “I heard that name before. That’s the skilled engineer who designed Investigator Adam Frankenstein, right? Hmm... you must be Dr. Wollstonecraft then?” Dazai followed the gazed of the guardsman and called out to the most dignified and oldest man in the investigation team. He had a shaggy white beard, a receding hairline, and two medals for achievements in the military science sector pinned to his chest.

The old man noticed Dazai’s voice and laughed out cheerfully.

“No no, I’m not Dr. Wollstonecraft. I’m just tagging along. Doctor is... Look! She's getting off the ship right now.”

Dazai and Chuuya followed the old man’s eyes and looked up at the ship’s gangway. At the top of it, an oversized travel suitcase was left there unassisted. Wait...

“Okay. Nice to meet you. I’m Dr. Wollstonecraft... Oh so this is the said country? It looks bigger than on the map.”

The small figure that appeared from behind the suitcase, no matter how you looked at her...

“... How old is that?”

That was a little girl.

Blond hair, white blouse. The suitcase was big, but she was also small enough to be completely hidden behind it. She wore a big pair of round glasses that covered half of her face. And on her chest were more than twenty medals for achievements in science.

“Hey hey...” Chuuya made a drawn face.

“Oh! It's getting interesting.” Dazai laughed happily.

The little girl struggled down the gangway. She was holding the oversized suitcase, or rather, clinging onto it as it dragged her downwards.

“Heave ho! I am.. heave-ho... Dr... heave-ho! Wollstonecraft Godwin Shelley, heave-ho!”. The girl spoke every time she got off one step, still clinging on to the heavy luggage. “People call me the girl with a genius brain but, heave-ho, those are people who don't have the ability to see the essence of things. Heave-ho! My achievements are thanks to my special skill that make any designs possible. Heave-ho! And because I am a genius.”

“Hey, aren't you going to help her with that heavy luggage?” Chuuya couldn't stand it anymore and asked the bearded old man next to him.

“Hahaha. Doctor is the type of person who doesn't want anyone to touch her luggage.” the old man laughed cheerfully. "Even Her Majesty wouldn't be able to take that from her. Because if we do so, she will start crying and screaming, just like a kid who has gone back 10 years in time."

“If she goes back that much, isn't she gonna end up in her mother’s belly again...?” Chuuya said with a tired face.

“Also, she may look like that, but Doctor was really looking forward to this trip. That case is filled with her favorite essentials for this trip. No-one will be able to take it from her.”

“Old man! Don’t go around talking about me like I am just a normal little girl! I might be short but I will be a full-grown decent adult very soon.... heave-ho!”

Dr. Shelley finally got to the end of the gangway. She wiped off the sweat on her face and fixed her clothes with her hands. “Phew! Nice to meet you again, people of Japan. Well... you are Chuuya-kun right? Thanks for taking care of Adam.”

Upon hearing Adam’s name, Chuuya's face looked like he just shallowed a bitter thing down his throat. "I am not sure." , he then said. "The one who was taken care of was me."

The little girl fixed the big glasses to the middle of her face and stared at Chuuya.

“He died saving me... Doctor, Adam is your best work, right? I'm sorry for breaking it.”

“Hmm.”

Doctor Shelley observed Chuuya from the left, from the right, then stared at him closely from the front. Like she was observing an interesting research subject.

"You are right, Adam is my greatest work." , she said with her arms crossed. “Rather than sending him to a good-for-nothing island country like this for investigation, I’d have him in the lab and continue the research to upgrade him.”

Chuuya listened in silence. His expression was not looking at something in front of him at that moment. What he was seeing was some scenes of the past.

Doctor Shelley cleared her throat like a child then continued, “The best thing about Adam is that, he is equipped with the intelligence to think and judge the situation by himself. In other words, Adam chose to sacrifice himself out of his own will, his own judgement.” Dr. Shelley smiled. “Because you are worth it. I believe in Adam. I appreciate your apology, but it’s not something you need to worry about.”

Chuuya opened his mouth, trying to say something but he couldn't put it into words. Just like a child who had forgotten his way home, he just stood there with a stunned look on his face.

Seeing Chuuya like that, Dazai giggled as if he couldn't do anything about it.

“First off, from the beginning I didn't like the idea of using Adam for such a worthless investigation.” Dr. Shelley crossed her arms, looking sullen. “The government is always like that! They send out machine investigators for missions and when they are done with it, they just blow it up together with all the secret information. Even though we could have got the best test data from interacting with different cultures from those solo missions! Just because it's for the sake of human's life, they think that they can neglect science like that?”

To Chuuya and Dazai’s surprise, Doctor Shelley ordered her subordinate for “that” and had a black tube the length of an arm brought to her.

"That's why, such an ill-natured person like me had installed a detachable sub-processor and non-volatile memory. Without telling the government.” She took out the thing inside the black tube. “In here.”

The thing inside the tube that had the length of an arm, was actually an arm.

That was Adam’s right arm, the arm that Chuuya sent flying and stuck into the ground when he was escaping from inside of the Demonic Beast Guivre.

“This is...” , a question mark appeared on Chuuya’s face. “After the incident, I searched the scene but couldn't find it anywhere. Why is it here?”

“I mean, it's rather obvious to do this, isn't it?” Dr. Shelley put her finger on her huge travel suitcase. After her vital signals were verified, the auto-lock was released.

The figure that came out from the suitcase took the arm. And he said as he was attaching it to himself, “Do you want to hear an Android joke, Chuuya-sama?”

Chuuya stood still in shock. He kept his mouth open in surprise. Finally, he took a breath slowly through that mouth. A deep breath, as deep as he could. Then his expression changed as if he was about to burst.

And he laughed, "Hahaha...!"

#bsd #storm bringer #sb spoilers #bsd spoilers #spoilers #nakahara chuuya #dazai osamu #mary wollstonecraft #bungou stray dogs

[slasherkisss]

CABIN FEVER - JASON VOORHEES X READER [CHAPTER 8]

Summary In an effort to remove yourself from your previous life in the big city, you move to Crystal Lake. The cabin you had inherited from your father makes the perfect place for a fresh start, however, there is a secret in these woods (and within yourself) that you must come to accept…and to love.

A/N I finally managed to get some muse for this again! I have an idea of where I’m going to go with it and I can’t wait to actually finish this project, I’m gonna do it if it kills me. Here’s the next chapter at least...a year later lol 

——————————————————————————————

Months passed between the day of slaughter, and something inside of you felt heavy even after the deed had been said and done.

True to his word, Jason had taken care of everything. You had woken up the day after the Incident to clean sheets and the disappearance of both blood and body in your mind. It was as though the back of your head was trying desperately to push the thoughts of slaughter from you. To lock it away inside of your subconscious in a way that you would never be able to reach it again. It was something you didn’t need to remember, your brain insisted with desperation lacing the tone it usually took when it spoke to you, and you should simply accept that it would never be like that again.

The nightmares did not let you forget, though.

Each night seemed plagued with them, some more grueling than the other. More desperate in its plaintiveness each time you thought through the story that played within it. Your body in each dream pushed itself through dark, craggy forests and against the bare ground of soil. Roots curled with hunger at your legs as you chased your victim, breath heaving and weapon tight in your fist as you caught up to the terrified little thing. Your weapon always seemed to change in the time of your rest. Sometimes it was the trowel, pointed at its tip and built only for tilling the earth, and other times it was a machete with a glimmering blade and reflective steel like teeth bared for murder.

Sometimes, you were the one running from yourself. Your own form silhouetted in the darkness as you chased down who you knew you had to kill. Sometimes you tripped on the edges of roots so thick they might as well have been hands, and looked up into your own wild gaze. Your own form as you shakily held up the trowel against your fingertips. Sometimes it was you who screamed into the darkness as the weapon fell down into your skull and - oh - you could feel the pain in your body as the pressure drowned you in rivulets of dark red against soil.

You woke up more often than not during the night now, the nightmares ripping through your body in the form of a loud, shaky scream that would fill the forest late into the evening. You found yourself more than once awoken by Jason. His hands would cling to your sides and be pressing you firmly into the bed, keeping your arms away from yourself as what cuts you had given your skin due to your ragged nails blossomed over you. It was as though you were trying to write a message into your own body. If you squinted close enough, the lines you had scribbled with your keratin on the soft flesh or your inner arm were almost readable in their entirety.

Your fault. You did this. She’s dead. It was you! Always you.

As you pondered the threats of the voice inside of your head, staring idly at the slowly healing scars that littered your body now, you were pulled away by a knock at the door. It was a pounding and forceful thing that sent your already sensitive head reeling into a momentary headache. You could feel the pain behind your teeth and you could already tell it would slowly become a migraine after a few more hours of leaving it be. You were sure you had some pain killers somewhere left in your bathroom’s medicine cabinet. If not, you mused, you had willow bark and some rosemary out in your steadily growing garden. You could always whip up a remedy for it using those.

The second solid knock on the door made you more weary as you approached it, however. It was not how Jason knocked. He did so gently, afraid of breaking your doorframe if he slammed on it too hard. He never wanted to startle you with his force and, besides, as of late you’ve been allowing him to simply walk into your home without knocking. It was his home now as much as yours and the thought permeated your weariness to offer a fleeting touch of euphoria.

The third knock was accompanied by a voice.

“Hello? Is anyone home?”

You tensed, palms suddenly sweaty as you stared at the doorknob. You felt your stomach lurch in terror as you chewed on the inside of your cheek, biting down hard enough to feel the skin give into a bruising press of your molars. Jason was not due back from his daily patrol of the lake for an hour still. Likewise, he did not speak. He did not have a voice like that. Rough. Open. Unknown.

With a deep, long inhale you gripped the doorknob and slowly opened it up, the old wood creaking with every turn. You made a mental note to oil its hinges when you could.

The man standing in front of you was middle aged, the graying of the hairs littered in his beard giving it away that he was pushing closer to his 50s at the earliest. The thin lines of his wispy hair were hidden behind a dark brown Stetson rimmed with a small tassel of gold and a badge that indicated his status as a police officer from the local town station. Your mind could not read the words decorated on his tanned uniform. They floated against his skin like ancient hieroglyphs as you gripped the doorknob of your home tighter. Your knuckles turned white behind the frame.

You felt a cold rush of air hit your body and you stiffened, brows furrowing as you tried to act surprised and not as terrified as you felt beneath your skin.

“Afternoon, Ma’am,” The officer tilted his hat respectfully at you, “Sorry to bother you in… Your home. I just had a couple of questions for you regarding a few missing folks if that’s alright.”

You did not miss the pause in his tone as he looked around the forest, clearly uncomfortable in the vast outdoor space. You almost wanted to snort. Wasn’t it his job to patrol the woods? To keep hooligans and stupid hunters out of here in the first place? No, he wasn’t even doing that. Instead it was Jason who protected this forest. Who kept everything within it safe, far better than this fool who stood before you could ever do. You shifted on your feet, ignoring the damp spot of sweat growing on the back of your neck.

“Y-Yes that’s quite alright,” You managed out in a surprisingly even tone, your stutter passing as surprise for seeing an officer so suddenly, “It’s horrible to hear some people are missing, especially this time of year.”

“I know,” He sounded almost genuine in his remorse, “That’s why we’re asking around in case anyone’s seen them. Last I heard from another source, they were up camping out in the forest area around here. I figured since you lived up here, you’d be able to tell me if you’ve seen anything of ‘em around or close to your property? Have you ever walked around the forest and caught sight of some folks? Or seen any campsites set up close by, maybe?”

Your mind flashed to the images of the bodies dead on the forest floor, their red blood soaking into the mossy ground. Dead eyes stared forward at you in your mind, glossy with haze and their faces contorted into fear as their brains decorated the edges of tree trunks around you. You remembered the woman, your spade lowered into her skull and her blood warm on your hands as you watched her still pulsating organs devour themselves in an ouroboros of sin.

“Ma’am?”

You looked up with surprise, snapping yourself out of your momentary disassociation. You swallowed and sighed.

“Sorry, I was thinking if I’d seen anyone,” You were surprised how easily the lie left your lips as you shook your head, “Unfortunately, I haven’t seen anything but the deer lately. As far as I know, no one’s been around here.”

There was a momentary pause in the conversation. A quiet lapse as the officer gazed forward at you, a furrow to his brow marking his concern. Your heart pounded hard in your chest, moving its way up to your throat. He knew, you thought with terror rising in your veins, he knew that you were lying. That you had done it. He saw through your lies and into your soul. Into your sins and-

“Alright,” He nodded, “Thanks for your input. Now you don’t hesitate to call the station if you see any suspicious activity in this place, alright? It’s dangerous living alone in this forest, but rest assured we’ll keep it under control.”

“It’s been pleasant so far,” You find yourself speaking out softly, almost with a smile, “But I… appreciate the security, Officer…”

“Hughes. Darcy Hughes,” He introduced himself, his smile lines emphasizing his age as he gave you a brisk nod, “Take care of yourself and don’t get into any trouble, then.”

“I’ll certainly do my best.”

With another tilt of his hat and a hum to his lips, he turned away from you to file back into his police car that he had brought out, the top of it already slightly covered by fallen pine needles and leaves. He brushed them off gently before getting back in, offering one last wave to you through his windshield. You waved back, a smile plastered on your face as you watched him start up his vehicle, back out of the dirt driveway, and turn down the barely wide enough path to the town once more.

You didn’t stop waving until you were sure his car was out of sight. Slowly you turned back into your home, closing the door behind you, where you stood for a long, quiet moment.

Your legs shook the next second, trembling so hard that they gave out from underneath you. You collapsed to the floor, gasping for a breath you didn't realize you had been holding this whole time. You coughed, wincing at the pain of splinters gathering in your kneecaps, and you threw your hands out to catch yourself as you heaved. For a moment you felt like you were going to vomit onto the floor in front of you, but your throat was so dry with exhaustion that nothing dared to come up and ruin its scratchy heat.

You did it. You had made it out of that situation. Yet the weight on your shoulder burned like a brand, searing an invisible mark into your flesh as you cried out in pain, arching your back as if to escape the sensation.

Liar, your mind laughed at you, what a liar, lair, lair-

A new knock on the door startled you from your writhing episode on your floor. Your face paled in terror. Was the officer back? Maybe you could ignore his knocking. Maybe you could pretend to be in the back of your house and ignore the sound that scratched on your eardrums like a funeral march. Perhaps it was Jason? Returning early from his patrol and sensing your distress behind the door of your home? Your heart momentarily sparked with hope as you stood up on your feet again, feeling light headed as you turned and reached out, wincing at the feeling of the knob beneath your hand once again.

When you pulled it open this time, it was neither Hughes nor Jason. But someone new.

He was an older man, older than Officer Hughes certainly, with barely any hair on his wrinkled, liver-spotted forehead. The way his lip shriveled around his mouth indicated his lack of teeth, his sagging cheeks only serving to make the glare of dark brown eyes he trailed on you all the more intimidating. He stepped forward, invading your space the moment you opened the door. The scent of alcohol was radiating off of him, making you want to gag and cover your mouth as you took one step back into your home, swallowing hard.

“C...Can I help you?”

“Saw you talkin with Officer Friendly there,” He growled out with a raise of his eyebrow, “Told him you didn’t see nothin, didn’t ya?”

“Well, yes I-”

“Been a while since you been in town too, huh?”

Your eyes widened in surprise. It was true, you rarely visited the small town just outside of Crystal Lake. Since your self sustaining farm had taken off, you really only visited for canned goods to stock up on during the winter, or to sell some of your fresh produce to the local grocery store for a little extra money in your pocket here and there. When you did visit, you rarely talked to any of the locals that did not demand your immediate business. You exhaled, your fingertips drumming on the wood of your door.

“I haven’t had a need to.”

The man smiled, confirming your hypothesis on his missing teeth.

“Ya may have fooled the police, girl, but oh I know. I know just what you are, you know. Ain’t gonna pull the wool over ol’ Eddie’s eyes, oh no siree.”

He - Eddie you guessed - got closer to you, his eyes narrowing in a squint as you set your jaw in worry.

“Yer a witch, ain’t ya.” The way he said it didn’t mean it was a question, “Livin out here with yer potions and yer nature. I bet ya killed those folks, too! But oh, it don’t matter. You got em fooled, don't you?”

He was advancing more now, dangerous in his posture towards you as you swallowed hard. You stepped back into your home, moving your grip on the door to quickly shut it, but his boot clad foot blocked the entrance so it didn’t shut all the way. You gasped as he crawled through the gap, a spider with crazed eyes and gnashing jaws as he reached out for you with a glare.

“I knew you’d be trouble since ya came! Changing our town’s ways an communin out here with them spirits. Y’ain’t gonna fool me, not me! You’ll get turned right in and they’ll see ya for what ya are, ya witch! Ya daughter of Satan! Ya-”

He suddenly wasn’t there anymore. With a surprised yelp his entire form was peeled away from your door. You held your breath in surprise, your heart beating loud in your ears as you waited for another sign that he would come in. That he would break the door down and rip apart your form in search of his evidence. In search of anything to call you a witch once more. You looked at your hearth of bones and dried plants, setting your jaw as you understood the accusations, but did not want to hear them.

Instead all you heard outside was another strangled gasp of surprise. A solid snap of something fragile. A thud of body to wood.

You waited a few more seconds before gripping the frame in trembling hands, slowly peeling the door open to reveal what had happened just feet from you in your home.

Eddie’s head was bent to face his back, his eyes wide and dead in shock as his jaw hung limply, broken and bruising the tender skin of his old face. Only a small amount of blood dribbled from the dislocation of his jaw and neck, the tendons bursting against the bruising skin. His fingers curled in on themselves like a dead spider would curl its legs on itself. You stared, blank and unsure for the longest of moments as your heartbeat slowed in your chest. As you licked your suddenly too chapped lips in an effort to hold back your growing smile.

You failed, exhaling as the edges of your mouth upturned into something of a wide, relieved looking grin. You looked upwards from the crumpled body before you, a blush heating your cheeks as you admired the man standing in front of it, his breath coming in ragged gasps against his chest as he followed your gaze.

Jason reached out to you, ignoring the body on your porch. His fingertips roamed the vast expanse of your skin, feeling for any wounds or any indication that you had been hurt before he could reach out to protect you. When you gave a swift sign of ‘I’m fine’ his shoulders sagged in relief. His gaze returned momentarily to the body at his side. One hand reached up to his form, the awkwardness of signing with just a single one making it hard to read but understandable nonetheless. He refused to let go of you for even a moment.

‘What happened?’

‘Police came. Townsfolk are getting suspicious.’

The hand on your shoulder tensed, the pressure in creasing for only a moment.

‘Then I’ll kill them.’

‘No! You can’t get all of them.’

‘I want you to be safe.’

‘I’m safe with you. Always with you.’

Jason paused then, his hand finally freeing your arm as he looked away. He gazed down at the body in front of him, its tangled limbs and broken spine an homage to just what he would do for you. As if aiding in his thoughts, the wind blew gently through the trees. Fallen leaves swirled upwards in a momentary tornado. In the background, your chickens clucked in their coops and the soil housing both your plants and the dead bodies gathered for fertilizer filled Jason with a suddenly intense sort of want. He looked back at you. Through his mask you could see conviction. Surprised at the look, you tilted your head at him, brows furrowed in confusion. You reached your hand out to touch his face, rubbing along the rough edges of his hockey mask in a gentle gesture, one he leaned into as your touch grounded him.

“What’s wrong?” You spoke this time, your tone a weak whisper as you searched his gaze, “What are you thinking about?”

How he knew the next sign was beyond you, yet he moved his fingertips with such conviction that you could not help the heart stopping gasp that welled inside of you when he managed it:

‘Marry me.’

#jason voorhees x reader #jason voorhees imagine #jason voorhees #friday the 13th #friday the thirteenth #cabin fever #cabin fever series #slasher x reader #slasher imagine

[ricinbach]

for the record. | chapter 1 - alpha

off-duty time would not last you for too long.

After all these years, the world never ceased to remind you that rules never changed.

While the players of the game always rotated along with the enemy and the friendly alike, this dangerous life that many chose to lead had undeniable constants - etched onto your brain in a devout mantra, something to remember in your darkest or most fleeting moments.

Kill, or be killed.

That was the first thing that they taught you, at the beginning of those long and arduous days of training in the barracks. Scout out the situation and if there is any sign of remote danger, pull your gun first, or you will end up with a bullet in your head. Sometimes, it was better to shoot first and then ask questions - if you were still alive by then.

Though in your line of work, the learning phase never ended. Warfare shifted and changed constantly, forcing you to adapt. It was something you had to just come in terms with. At that point in your career, as sad as it was to think about it from a civilian’s perspective, it was all more creative and effective ways of getting confirmed kills. New weapons, new tactics brought with them new problems - along with new ways of dealing with them. Technology tackled advanced aircraft and armor, adding up to your arsenal.

One thing remained the same.

It all added up to the big stirring pot of the everlasting recipe - mass destruction.

And with destruction came in the casualties. The aftermath of modern combat. The rivers of blood on pavement, hands clawing at the burnt metal, scathed bodies crawling out of the smoky debris. Sights and sounds and screams you wanted to erase from your memory for a lifetime. The pain coarsing through the body after the penetration of a bullet. Sickening roars of helicopter engines giving out.  

Yet, as a soldier, all you could do, all you were authorized to do was to bury them deep down - so you could live to see another day. Another day to fight for the flag. For peace, for honor and for the sake of lives.

The lives of many against your only.

The warm mug a welcome distraction in your hands, your eyes would wander around the busy Regent Street of London, people walking around in the usual hustle and bustle of the shopping district. The smell of freshly ground beans from the cafes scattered around, mixing in with the pleasantness of the gray post-rainfall. A spectrum of vibrant colors of shopping bags and clothes pleasing your eyes - it had been a while since you had gotten to enjoy a couple of hours all saved for yourself. The book whose pages were between your fingers moments ago then closed, as your conscience lost itself within the faces creating the sea of people.

The lives you were sworn to protect. Sometimes it felt like remembering another life, far far away - that you had been one of them. A civilian. Who needed protection in times of immediate danger.

Some were smiling and laughing, without a care in the world, radiating energy and happiness which had been a blessing in the usual London gloom. Some were in professional attire, their strides just a bit faster  and their expressions harboring that of stress, concern and exhaustion. Not too long ago, you had been one of them - but your brain did not let you dissociate from the constucted reality you had left just yet.

None of those troubles mattered when snipers left and right rained bullets on you. The stress of studying for a big test was nothing compared to being caught in blast radius, fearing to look around you so you do not see your friends dead and gone.

The echoes of your last name originating from an accented, deep voice reached your ears, rippling inside the busy cafe you had chosen to visit for the day. Coming closer and closer until they associated with a couple thuds of heavy feet and finally, a face, as you turned around to face whomever was looking for you.

Out of all places, Captain.

It did not take you too long to get to your feet out of respect and sheer habit, offering him a nod in an attempt to hide your surprise. “Sergeant,” he would greet you with your rank, the commanding voice he used on the field to lead dampened - yet still powerful. It even had a small smile attached to it too, which was not unusual.

It made the thumping of your heart slow down. A civilian visit from your Captain usually meant bad news and noticing his mouth curl up under the beard calmed you down more than you ever thought.

“Captain Price,” you greeted back, arm gesturing to the seat right in front of you across the marble table, inviting him. “Please.”

The man, whom you had become so used to seeing in the famous military green was dressed in the simple and casual combination of a black jacket   with jeans. It was a welcome change - not often did you see your commanding officer at a coffee shop in the heart of the city. Consequently, the air had been a bit awkward - just like how it felt when you felt the need to always show your best self, like there had been no room for mistakes.

That did not mean you could not try to get on his better side.

“Can I get you anything, Sir? Tea? I doubt they have a good pint here.”

That was when he looked directly in your eyes.

They said all soldiers had this blur in their eyes wherever they looked at. That no matter how happy they had been, no matter how much sparkle covered their worn-out irises, the dusty haze that veiled them was ever present. His familiar blue glint was subdued by some unknown, yet not lifeless. Not soulless. There was some sort of drive fueling him, the origins of it unbeknownst to you - the only thing you could discern was that it must have been for some good, judging by his chuckle and the slight shake of his head.

A file stamped with the all-too-familiar red confidential sign slid across the white marble along with him as he got settled in the chair, leaning his elbows slightly over the top.

“Raincheck, Sergeant, but I do have something that you might like.”

And with that, his fingers pushed the rather thin file over to you, blue eyes gazing around the shop as he undoubtedly made sure everyone was minding their own business. Here at London, he knew he had been safer than most places and yet you could only attest to the cautiousness of the man.

An eyebrow slightly raised as you leaned a bit forward, the initial welcome surprise slowly yielding to apprehension of what was inside the document. Another mission assingment had been the last thing you wanted to see after the literal living hellhole of the battlezone you had last been to. A part of you did not want to open up that cover but the other half of you yearned desperately to.

With a quick look to confirm, once you got his nod, you yielded to your other half.

And with every second spent looking at the papers containing profiles and overviews adorned with the faint Crusader shield watermarks, your eyebrows would furrow even more in confusion. Towards the bottom of the page, you could spot the one-liner character profiles for soldiers - some you had recognized and worked with, some names ringing no bells at all.

Then there it was. It was a mystery to you why it had taken you that long to find it. Right under the line occupied by a certain “John ‘Soap’ Mactavish” was your full name, with a old picture of you that belonged to one of your earlier days of training.

What the hell kind of a name is Soap?

“Now, I know you’re on the reserve for the time being,” Price spoke, breaking you out of your silent concentration as your head snapped up to divert focus into him. “But your skills in combat were not unnoticed.”

That made you proud inside, yet on the outside - it manifested in a subtle way of a simple yet courteous nod as you waited for him to continue. Closing the file for the time being, you felt the air shift as he leaned in towards you - voice dropping lower and tone growing grave.

“We have a huge war looming in the horizon, Sergeant,” he said, piercing orbs staring right into your soul. The kind of stare that could have the toughest of soldiers crack and break down, that could stop the bullet in trajectory.

“Millions of lives are at stake. You saw what happened in Urzikistan - you were there, on the frontlines.”

The mere mention of the place made your jaw clench and a gulp run down your throat, the memories of utter bloodshed still fresh in your mind.

“It is going to happen again.”

“How can I help?” slipped out of your mouth before your brain could control it, completely forgetting the fact that you had been granted off-duty time and was currently on it. Forgetting that you had to worry about taking care of your own demons in your head first, before jumping right into a war you thought you had just ended.

“I want you to be on my team,” he simply said, a look of reassurance thrown your way as he folded his arms on the table, head tilting just a bit to gauge yur reaction. His finger reached out to gently tap on the folder, gently opening the tab and pointing to the list of soldiers including yours truly.

“You will be working with handpicked warriors, the toughest of them all. Undertaking the most covert and dangerous operations - changing the world as you do it.”

There was this tone of finality in his voice that made it feel natural for you to follow everything he was instructing you to. Of course it was - he was your commanding officer, yet what he was asking out of you this time was much more than a simple recruitment for an operation.

No, what he made it sound like was that his team would be something akin to a ghost - working behind enemy lines, not alerting a single soul. It honored you that he had included you along with the names of seemingly renown soldiers, selected for off-the-grid duty due to your previous success. But was there really a need to add any additional danger to your already-risky life? It was a miracle you had not died yet and you were not so sure if another covert operation team would help with your chances. These kinds of operations only ended in either of the two ways - your mutilated corpse in a body bag or carrying your friend’s instead.

There probably also would not be many other occassions where Captain Price, one of the most trusted officers in the Services, would approach you with such an opportunity.

As your mind raced in crazy thought traffic, the sounds of the outside world and the otherwise peaceful cafe had been muffled. It was only you, him, and that little paper file you grazed your fingertips on, in order to maintain at least a slice of reality. Decisions like these had never been easy to make, especially when they would completely change your life and possibly your entire outlook. They never would be easy - there was not much “easy” associated to your line of work.

And yet going into it in the first place was something you had willingly chosen.

After all of that blood, sweat and lead - how could you say no?

Taking a deep breath as your lips moved to echo your determined voice, you spoke sofly with a nod. Chest loosening as you let out a breath you had no idea you had been holding for so long.

“I’m in, Sir.”

The ghost of a smile turned into a real one as his hand extended itself over the table, an almost proud nod as you shook it as firmly as you could.

“Welcome to the 141.”

next chapter

#here we GOOOO #lmk what you think!!! #john mactavish x reader #john soap mactavish #soap mactavish x reader #cod #modern warfare #cod reader insert #lets goooooo #john price #captain price #mw #mw2

[marshalllee0vampireking]

Some adventure time shit

Finn: Hey Jake, why do the insides of you smell like vanilla

Jake: Oh a wizard put a curse on me

Finn: I can’t hang with those guys I’m full of stupid

Finn: Because that idiots about to walk right into the sun and burn up. And we’ll be done with him.

Jake: No man he’s just walking into his house

Finn: Oh, what? HE BUILT HIS HOUSE ON THE SUN :0

Jake: Finn did you eat your breakfast?

Finn: No. Why?

Jake: Because you forgot how the sun works.

Jake: You got to eat your breakfast man. You need that protein >:( helps ur brain

PB- The answer was there all along! I was just too smart to see it!

Banana Man: THERES NOT ENOUGH BOOM BOOM STICKS IN THE STICK HOLE

Finn: but I’m tough my whole body is a callous:(

Finn: Just gonna float around like a chubby bat :)

Finn: I like the pain

Jake: flips over coffee table B A L O N E Y

Finn, in the most monotone voice: our pizza....take the rest to go

Finn: Holy fudge man this place is yoga balls hUge

Finn: JJ FLIP what the zip????

Finn: Can I have my backpack back. pack.

Finn: I DONT LIKE BEING ABANDONED. IIIIIM SENSITIVE TO IT

Finn: There’s gotta be something useful in here pulls out empty bucket :/

Finn: Iiiiiis pb straight up naked rn ?

Finn: I’m gonna be frank here. Your sons a real time jingle blaster

Finn: aaaaAAAH CRAM IT TO THE BUTTERNUTS

Finn: screams into pillow I got traumatized by those underpanties.

Finn: SOMETIMES RED THINGS R GRAY

Jake: you’re a little colorblind

Lemon grab: unmake me

Abraham Lincoln is the magical ruler of Mars

Finn: yuooooo sUCCUBUNT

Finn: How long have you had this house?

Magic man: yes that is true

Normal man: oooh hey gets hit with a pan

Pb: But soon the entire kingdom was infected by his beard flakes.

Neptr: But isn’t breaking and entering wrong?

Finn: Nooooo...

Jake: Maybe helping the starving homeless man is the wrong thing to do :D

Finn: yOUTH CULTURE FOREEEVEEEER

Jake: I LOVE YOU BILLY I GOTTA SECRET CRUSH ON YOU BILLY

Kim: I freaking HATE Trudy

Finn: kIM I WILL DESTROOOY YOU

Finn: I watch u while you sleep...I can’t help it I take pictures

Ice king: What’s wrong with me

Cosmic owl: hooo ur a sociopath

Finn: I am no mans bosom

Jake: Finn...say smth to reassure me

Finn: iLl hUg yOuR mOm

Finn: I don’t wanna go dentist Jake. They put u in a hole filled with snakes and rotten butter and they leave u there.

Finn: IM TOO STRONG FOR THE WOOOOORLD jumps off roof

Simon: throws chair through window Vandalism is bad Marcy

Finn- dudeidontlikethat

Finn- stupid king of ooo walking around like dj snaps

#adventure time #adventure time quotes #finn mertens #finn the human #princess bubblegum #jake the dog

[lovelikedestiny]

1. Nile: I will break down the gates of heaven

I'll hold you close,

and share my heat.

In her life, Nile has already heard many terrible things: the news of her father's death, the heartbreaking sobs of her mother, the crying of her brother, fuck, the breaking of her own bones.

Joe's piercing scream as Nicky dies digs into her ear like a hot needle and she knows that she can never forget that sound. He wails as if his beating heart had been torn from his chest while he was alive, an animal sound, broken and shattering, from the depths of his soul.

Final. That word hurts like a merciless lash, and the meaning behind it is even worse. This death is final. 

After the two shots nearly killed Nicky, they had been so eager to protect him and prevent what seemed to be becoming more and more inevitable. It is unbearable that Nile has disappointed her new team, which has already grown dear to her like a second family, now so much.

For a few seconds, which feel like a yawning eternity, in which Nile can hear her own pounding heartbeat, she stands frozen in the brightness of the headlights. She tells herself that the blinding light makes her eyes water. The others are almost swallowed up by the shadows, which feels like they're getting thicker and thicker, and Nile involuntarily takes a step towards the people who gave her a home after her life went downhill. Because suddenly Nile is gripped by the fear of being abandoned. Even though she can see the others, she feels...alone. Incredibly alone and Nile resists the urge to curl up and cry and sob so hard that she can no longer breathe.

I do not want to be alone. I want to see my mom and my brother.

But she is or was a goddamn Marine! She cannot allow the events of tonight to crush her like a boulder. For the sake of her team, Nile has to take charge of the situation and keep going. While Joe screams and pleads in the background, Nicky in his arms, and while Booker and Andy frantically try to secure Quynh, Nile goes to the wreck of their car with wobbly knees.

Bending down reminds her of collecting stones with Nicky and she sniffs breathlessly, her fingers curled around the phone. "Oh fuck, oh fucking shit...”

"Nile? Is that you?” Copley. Copley is still on the phone and heard everything but has no idea what exactly happened. "What's happening? Was that really Quynh? And...is that...is that Joe?”

She doesn't want to answer him, chokes on the lump in her throat and clears her throat several times. Lord in heaven give me strength to get through this.

Quynh comes screeching back from the dead, a fury in human form, and Nile tenses as Quynh starts to fight back, but Booker quickly shoots her in the head.

Tears run down Andy's face, which looks so ancient that Nile almost expects to find dust and cracks in the ancient, porcelain-like skin. Barking, she instructs Booker to get something to tie Quynh up and he stumbles past Joe and Nicky's corpse - oh god - past Nile, grabs a bag and hurries back.

"He's not breathing!" Joe screams, rocking the lifeless Nicky back and forth and Nile has to support herself on the wrecked car, gasping helplessly into the phone. At the other end Copley slowly starts to figure out what happened through Joe's desperate shouts.

"Good lord...” He breathes. "Is Nicky dead? What the hell happened?"

"Q-Quynh,” Nile chokes out, the name burns on her tongue like embers and her body has not forgotten the wounds Quynh inflicted on her earlier. The blood that Quynh let flow in her furious rage - all of their blood - is gradually drying on Nile's skin and she wants to scrape it off, remove the traces of today and stop thinking about it. “Quynh r-rammed us and she killed Kozak and attacked us and then k-killed Nicky. And fuck, Copley, he's...he's dead...” Saying it out loud is even worse because it makes what happened true and the truth has a fucking habit of going right between the ribs like a deadly dagger.

"HE IS NOT BREATHING!" Joe howls and with his hectic, wild look, the tears that run into his beard, the blood-stuck curls and the broken, headless screams, he offers a picture of absolute panic.

No, Nile corrects herself mentally. This is what it looks like when you're devastated.

“Andromache! Sebastien! Help me! Nicky...Nicky isn't breathing! Please! Please...“ Joe stammers, floundering several times as if his tongue were suddenly no longer able to form words properly.

With an ash gray face, Booker looks up from Quynh, whom he is tying up, infinite sorrow in the downward curved corners of his mouth, before he asks Andy with a nod of his head to go to Joe.

This is probably the right decision, because Andy looks more helpless than Nile has ever seen. Andy needs something to focus on instead of thinking about the devastating reunion with Quynh. They're all bloodstained, but Andy is mortal, and Nile makes a mental note of tending to her wounds when they're in safety. Now that Nicky is no longer here, the rational part of Nile's brain whispers, and she mentally beats it several times because she can't stand it.

Andy is visibly reluctant to leave Booker alone with Quynh, who kicks around again, but Joe's whimpering "Andromache" is decisive and Andy crouches down next to him and Nicky. For a split second, her hand hovers over Nicky's body, drowning sadness in her gaze, before she places it on Nicky's, which is tightly gripped by Joe. Nile turns away from Andy and the gentle words with which she tries to talk to Joe, taking a deep breath. She has the feeling as if the blood that has been spilled makes the air heavy, suffocating.

"Nile? Nile, listen to me,” Copley speaks to her, and Nile blinks confused because she has apparently zoned out. “You will now take Quynh's car and drive to the safe house. I'll be waiting for you there and then we'll see. We will find a solution, all right? Everything will be fine, Nile.”

Nothing is going to be fine.

They are both aware that this time it is not a small problem for which a suitable solution can be found quickly. But Copley's calm, matter-of-fact tone helps Nile calm down a little and concentrate only on the next steps and nothing more. Not the loss, which is the undeniable, invisible weight that has begun to lie on them.

Your strength, my sweet girl, Nile's mom used to tell her. Is to keep your head up when the crown is too heavy for everyone else.

"I understand," Nile replies in a much firmer voice. "Where's the safe house?" Now that Quynh has found them, further secrecy is pointless.

"I'll give you the address."

After hanging up, Nile braces herself as best as she can before turning to the tragic scene that's taking place on this remote country road. There is a large blood stain on the hoodie that Joe gave Nicky as a gift and colors the words Look Irresistible in a grotesque red.

Nicky's sweet smile when he told her the hoodie was given to him by Joe two years ago tugs at her control over herself. The thought that the ...and I am taken on the back of Nicky's hoodie is now being cruelly fulfilled because death got Nicky into his pale hands, making Nile breathless.

Keep going. You have to keep going!

Continue reading on AO3 ;)

#the old guard #fanfiction #tears on marble face sequel #light in byzantine eyes #chapter one #it's finally here!!! #*screams hysterically*