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titoslondon-blog · 7 years

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New Post has been published on Titos London

#Blog New Post has been published on http://www.titoslondon.com/ranking-the-22-absolute-worst-characters-on-the-oc/

Ranking The 22 Absolute Worst Characters On The OC

Can you believe it’s been ten years since The O.C.’s final drama-driving chapter? We definitely can’t—it’s as if Mischa Barton never competed on Dancing with the Stars, Benjamin Mckenzie never turned 38, Adam Brody didn’t settle down with Blair Waldorf, and Rachel Bilson never got with Anakin Skywalker. Ahh, what a time to be alive. As much as we miss those four years of O.C. madness, there are a couple of characters we wouldn’t dare invite to our fantasy reunion — in fact, there are 22 of them. The series wouldn’t be what it is without them, but we would’ve a lot of edits to their time on screen. Scroll down below for our definitive list of the worst of Newport Beach’s many shady characters. 1. Oliver Trask (Taylor Handley)

Any true, or even casual O.C. fan will tell you, Oliver Trask was the worst thing to ever happen to the series. Yes, worse than the road raging “surf Nazi.” Volchok’s character flaws were never glossed over by any of the Newport Beach crew—even Marissa knew what she was getting into. Oliver, however, managed to turn Ryan’s friends against him in an elaborate ploy to steal his girlfriend. (EVIL.) Despite his inherent awfulness, Oliver ended up creating one of the most exciting story lines in the show’s four-season run—plus everyone learned a valuable lesson: always trust Ryan Atwood. ALWAYS. 2. Kevin Volchok (Cam Gigandet)

Surprise, surprise, the man who killed fallen O.C. golden girl Marissa Cooper and tarnished the bulk of season three with his unchecked aggression is not a standup guy. I hold Volchok 100% responsible for the series’ ultimate cancellation. Booooo. 3. Johnny Harper (Ryan Donowho)

Okay, unpopular opinion, but Johnny needed to go. To me, Johnny was Oliver 2.0—just another whiny obstacle standing between star-crossed lovers Ryan and Marissa. Silver lining: without Johnny, we never would have heard the amazing Sufjan Stevens song that played at his funeral. 4. Trey Atwood (Logan Marshall-Green)

Like Ryan Atwood himself, we held out hope that Trey would follow in his brother’s footsteps. Spoiler alert: he so didn’t. Trey takes advantage of everyone in Newport Beach, including his brother’s girlfriend (!)—in short, he’s the anti-Ryan. 5. Kaitlin Cooper (Willa Holland)

After about a year away at boarding school, Marissa’s lil’ sis’ returned to The O.C. as a literal different person (the precocious tween played by Shailene Woodley was replaced by wild child Willa Holland) and consequently became the worst. After Kaitlin’s initial return in the third season, Holland became a fourth season regular—signaling to audiences everywhere that the series was far past its prime. 6. Charlotte Morgan (Jeri Ryan)

Conning rehab-goers? That’s pretty low, even for the depraved money-grubbing residents of Newport Beach. Charlotte literally pretended to be an alcoholic to get to Kirsten’s money—eek! Even the show’s creator, Josh Schwartz, found the story line pretty ridiculous. “We were told to add this Jeri Ryan character to the show that we had no idea what to do with, Schwartz told Vulture, “We were just told we had to add an adult female character. It went nowhere, and we had no plan for it, and it just didn’t fit the show.” 7. Reed Carlson (Marguerite Moreau)

Reed, who helps publish Zach and Seth’s comic book—sorry, “graphic novel,” Atomic County, causes some major riffs between Seth and Summer. Byeeeee! 8. Jess Sathers (Nikki Griffin)

Oh, Jess… Trey’s drug-dealing moral equivalent and sometime girlfriend was welcomed into the series’ narrative after being found unconscious in the pool. Somehow, this was a totally appropriate introduction to Jess Sathers. 9. Dean Hess (Eric Mabius)

Harbor’s Dean of Discipline was out to get well-intentioned bad boy Ryan, and he was carrying on an affair with a student (Taylor Townsend). BAD MAN. 10. Eddie (Eric Balfour)

Theresa’s ex and presumptive baby daddy crashes Newport parties, punches Ryan in the face, and gives Theresa a black eye. Game over, Eddie. 11. Jodie (Emmanuelle Chriqui)

Alex’s (Olivia Wilde) ex interfered in her relationships with both Seth and Marissa. Ugh! Luckily, Marissa and Alex exact their revenge by stealing a sentimental necklace from her bedroom. BOOM. 12. Grady Bridges (Colin Hanks)

The Valley star puts the moves on teen soap-obsessed Summer while she’s dating Seth—um, ew! 13. Donnie (Paul Wesley)

Though Donnie may have a way with “the honeys,” he’s really not the kind of guy you want hanging around. He shot Luke, after all! 14. Gabrielle (Nichole Hiltz)

The fact that a twenty-something model was dating Kirsten’s dad is a travesty unto itself—but worse yet, Gabrielle and Ryan’s fling drives Marissa to sleep with Luke! If you connect the dots, Gabrielle’s interference basically leads to Marissa ODing in Tijuana. Go home, Gabrielle. 15. Theresa Diaz (Navi Rawat)

Let me count the ways… Not only does Theresa disturb the peace (and love!) between Ryan and Marissa, she also lies to Ryan about the baby he’s vowed to raise, and judges him for leaving Chino. WHAT. A. JERK. 16. Lindsay Gardner (Shannon Lucio)

She’s perfectly nice, I guess, but we really can’t forgive her for breaking Ryan’s (and Kirsten’s!) heart. 17. Taylor Townsend (Autumn Reeser)

Ryan-Taylor politics aside, I think we can all agree that Ms. Townsend was one of the most obnoxious residents of Newport Beach. 18. Holly Fischer (Ashley Hartman)

Marissa’s “BFF” made fun of her dad and hooked up with her boyfriend. Good riddance, Holly!

19. Rachel Hoffman (Bonnie Somerville)

Sandy’s presumptuous co-worker tried to seduce him one late night at the office—not cool. 20. Lance Baldwin (Johnny Messner)

This ghost from Julie Cooper’s desperate past (read: she starred in the epically titled The Porn Identity) comes back to blackmail the now wealthy Mrs. Cooper Nichol. We later learn Lance isn’t all bad, and then he and Julie share a magical moment set to the strum of Poison’s “Every Rose Has Its Thorn,” but still, he hammered the final nail in Julie’s already questionable reputation, and for that there are no second chances. 21. Taryn Baker (Kimberly Oja)

The Newpsie Queen desperately needed some damage control. 22. Matt Ramsey (Jeff Hephner)

Continued below…

Matt was one of many unfortunate cogs in Sandy’s weird turn as the C.E.O. of the Newport Group following Caleb’s death. Also, he took teenaged Ryan to a strip club—we object.

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thee-morrigan · 11 days

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also while I'm thinking about Holland, I will add: possibly the funniest thing I've ever done is put Maisie Peters's "Run" on her playlist exclusively because it contains this one line: "if a man says that he wants you in his life forever: run"

this is the single most Holland-core lyric I've ever heard in my LIFE and it makes me laugh every time I hear it/think about it.

#in the context of the song it's way less relevant but as a standalone lyric? it's her. it's she.#anyway. enjoy this quasi-holland lore drop which is also just me being entertained by myself #oc: holland townsend #katie says things

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thee-morrigan · 3 months

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Hey 💖 If you're still doing these: 19 and 20 from the nsfw asks for Petra and Holland?

of course - and thank you for the ask!💕

oc nsfw asks

19. When they “dress-up” for sex, what’s their go-to outfit? Lingerie, suit, gown, etc.?

I love this question because I love thinking about/developing a character’s overall style profile and aesthetic so this is just enabling me further haha Petra has great legs, so her go-to looks are almost always something short (and, to be fair, she’s also quite tall, so there’s a lot of clothes that are going to look short on her that might not on a person of average height!). She’s probably pulling out one of her many silky negligees. Holland goes for either a matched set or bodysuit, typically black or jewel tones, in either lace or velvet (or some combination thereof). she’s very partial to pieces with cool details, like the pearls on this piece and the stitching and paneling on this set.

20. What do they like seeing their partner in when they “dress-up?”

…I’m gonna be so astronomically fr with you right now, my train of thought went from “hmmm Holland’s answer is probably ‘Nate in a suit’,” to “oh but wait what about Ava in a suit” and then I just. stared into space for several minutes. ANYWAY. MOVING ON. I do think that would be Holland’s answer, though — which is v funny to me only because for a girl who spends most of her time at home in a band tee, she’s apparently got a real predilection for seeing her boyfriend in formalwear. (understandable, but funny nonetheless.) for Petra…anything that’s an alternative to one of Ava’s three grey t-shirts?🙈 no but she’s a big fan of Ava in anything that shows off her arms or shoulders. Also, although not really outfit-related, she especially loves any time she gets to see Ava with her hair down (…aaand now I’m just going to be thinking about Petra playing with Ava’s hair for the rest of the day 😌)

#they may or may not now have lingerie sections on their pinterest boards bc of this ask lmao #oc: holland townsend #oc: petra carlisle #answered

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thee-morrigan · 3 months

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NSFW 1, 2, and 3 for Holland and/or Petra, please! 🥰 (~agentnatesewell)

it is always the and for me ahaha (and thank you for indulging my continued hyperfixation with them <3333)

oc nsfw asks

1. Are there any names they like to be called in bed/names they call their partner? Any names they wouldn’t use/can’t stand?

answered for Holland here. <3 Petra just loves hearing Ava say her name, honestly (since it only took her forever to stop being So Formal in general). she's also not opposed to the flirty/suggestive use of "Agent" from time to time 😜 the only name she truly can't stand being called is "pet" — she's had partners try to use it before (which, yeah, obvious nickname option for her) and has really never liked it. she tends to rotate through pet (ha) names for Ava — she does call her "pretty girl" fairly consistently, though.

2. Are they a “the socks stay on during sex” kind of person?

Holland is definitely not, unless it's a heat-of-the-moment situation/one in which she's not getting fully undressed (*ahem* such as the scenarios in the next question!). despite her perpetually cold feet, if she's not wearing shoes, she's rarely wearing socks anyway, so it doesn't factor in that much as a thing to take off or leave on. Petra, on the other hand, 100% is not thinking about what may or may not be on her feet if she's getting busy. she is WAY more likely to be surprised if she finds a rogue sock in her sheets later. like, "was I wearing socks earlier?? did I kick this off in my sleep last night?? ghosts???"

3. Quickies vs Planned sex—thoughts?

Petra likes the idea of planned sex, but she’s far too impulsive to always follow through with any kind of waiting if she doesn’t absolutely have to haha. Like, she will plan a date night, decide sometime midday that there is absolutely no reason they can’t sneak away for a quickie and then still enjoy their originally scheduled sexy evening plans later. (and will probably be a giant dork about it and provide Ava with an entire substantiated argument about why this is actually the most productive way to go about one’s day) Holland loves planned sex (the anticipation! the teasing potential!) but is also Extremely Prone to pulling shit like nonchalantly asking Nate to come look at something...and then “something” turns out to be a supply closet or a particularly secluded library alcove. ("You said you wanted my opinion on something?" "I do — how soundproof do you think this corner is?")

#petra once again being Secretly Chaotic as all hell #(and not-secretly a colossal dork <3)#oc: holland townsend #oc: petra carlisle #answered

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thee-morrigan · 3 months

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Happy Valentine’s Day, lovely person 🌹

It’s been wonderful to get to read updates for À la recherche du temps perdu again. I love your writing, your prose, so much! A small confession: you were one of the people whose writing I was (am) in awe of, maybe even a little intimidated by, before joining tumblr. Luckily it turned out that you’re also very nice haha!

Here’s a romance-themed OC question for any OC(s) of your choosing (no pressure to answer on Valentine’s day itself, or at all):

What does your OC get as a Valentine’s gift for their LI (if anything)? What does their LI get them?

hey, Nonny, quick question: is this weekend good for meeting my family or would next be better for you? they keep asking about the person whose name I've been doodling on all my notebooks with a bunch of hearts and rainbows, so, you know. call me, maybe? 😘

seriously, though, this made my whole day, so thank you, sweet friend -- and happy valentine's day!! 🌼💕

and I LOVE this question, so thank you for that, too!

tbh, the answer I thought of immediately is the V-Day fic I wrote two years ago for Nate/Holland, in which Holland gives Nate a wild goose chase of a scavenger hunt (and in return Nate gives her the gift of not teasing her too much about putting so much effort into a holiday she continues to insist she doesn't care about lmao).

But! That is a link and not *really* an answer! So here is the other thought that sprang to mind for Petra/Ava:

Experiences count as gifts, right? because Petra 100% gifts Ava one of two things: she either takes her on a laser tag date (and somehow really believes she has a chance of winning, which, of course, she does not) OR they spend a day doing wine tastings (in my head, Petra's Wayhaven is more or less based on/around the Willamette Valley, so this is a pretty accessible activity).

Ava gives Petra a personalized crossword puzzle. Petra does the NYT crossword every single day (and not-infrequently times herself because she's a competitive nerd), so this is a perfect gift for her -- especially because who but Ava would understand the importance of making the clues sweet/heartfelt but not easily solved?? (Alternatively, Ava could gift Petra an afternoon with an adult-sized bouncy house and a jumbo bag of green apple jellybeans, because yes, she is a competitive nerd, but also she is often essentially a very tall child.) ..and my snarkier answer for Petra and Ava is a kiss where no one cries fjdkjsf (I mean. after B3 and Holiday Magic, they! both! deserve this!!)

#this was lovely to wake up to!#and I've been thinking about it ALL DAY #this was SO NICE anon thank you 😭💖💖💖💖#soz if this was unnecessarily long lol #also look I love all my OCs equally but some of them take up more brain space than others idk what to tell you #answered #oc: petra carlisle #oc: holland townsend #ship: a light in the dark #ship: your entire heart

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thee-morrigan · 10 months

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what happens after you?

the wayhaven chronicles // nate sewell x holland townsend (f!detective) // rated E bc smut (with feelings! and so much eye contact!) // ~4.7k words // cw: mild body horror in the intro (concerning the skeletal mechanics of becoming a vampire)

Well, sex with your vampire boyfriend is one way to distract yourself from a nightmare about turning into one yourself, I guess.

read on ao3

Two hundred and six.

There are two hundred and six bones in her body, and all of them are breaking, each one beginning to remake itself before the break is even fully realized.

These are messy, cracking fractures: crush-injury fissures snaking along her ribs, spiderwebbing across her sternum, the irregular cavities of her spine chipping into shrapnel that tears at the soft, friable tissue of the organs that evolution built them to protect.

Two hundred and six pieces of her very foundation, powerless against this too-foreign threat of supernatural seismology. Bones turned to bombs, to just-fired bullets, casing exploding free, all surroundings made collateral damage.

In any other circumstance, she might appreciate the humor in bone growth cells being called osteoblasts.

Most of the joints in the adult human body are considered freely movable. She knows this, tries to remind herself how many of the connection points across her bones are built to stretch, to fall apart and fall back together. Tries to forget those that are considered immovable, like the sutures between the flat bones of her skull, which feels like it is attempting to supersede basic biology in an encore ossification that her body is not meant to handle. Not built to endure.

Tries to remind herself of the extraordinary capacity of bone tissue to remodel itself in response to mechanical stress, but she can’t think, can’t think, can’t think around this devastation and reform. Can hardly breathe through it, as if her ribs have caged the very air in her lungs.

However moveable her joints were meant to be, she does not think they were meant to stretch this feely.

Does not think her bones — her cartilage — her tendons — were supposed to demand space from her in this way, to demand space for themselves that her body would have forfeited sometime around her twentieth birthday. To demand space she doesn’t have, is not supposed to have at this point, cartilage pushing relentlessly through the seams of her, sure as ivy on old buildings.

And just as invasive.

Pushing and pushing and pushing, until there are no words she knows to voice any emotion, let alone the aching roar rending through her bones. No language to give shape to the relentless, gripping pressure squeezing her limbs, holding her down, restraining her, containing her in this body that is not her body—

“Holland.”

If he hadn’t had supernatural reflexes, she might have broken his nose.

Some small part of her subconscious latched onto the sweet sound of his voice like a lifeline and she jerked awake and upright with a strangled cry. She wrenched her body away from the mattress as if she weren’t sure she could, kicking her legs free of the tangle of sheets and duvet before folding herself over her bent knees. She pressed her forehead against her kneecaps and willed her breathing to level out, willed herself to focus on the sensations she felt now, the ones that were real, instead of the ones in her mind.

The stretch of muscle in her shoulders — mild, almost pleasant — as she leaned forward.

The cool pressure of her own fingers against the backs of her ankles, the sharp edges of her fingernails against her skin, and the little half-moon indentations she was undoubtedly leaving there.

The gentle weight of Nate’s hand on her back, smoothing slow lines along her spine, the warmth of his skin seeping through the thin cotton of the oversized t-shirt she'd worn to bed. His hands were always so much warmer than hers, and she wanted nothing more than to sink into it, the warmth of that body heat, wonderfully solid and real.

“Are you okay, rouhi?” His voice was a murmur, as soft and gentle as the caress of his hand along her spine.

Holland gave herself one more deep breath to settle the frenetic drumming of her heart. One more breath, and she unclenched her hands from her ankles, easing her shoulders back and turning her head to look at him, cheek resting against her knees.

One hand still rubbing her back, Nate leaned forward and brushed the other over the side of her face, smoothing back the hair that had fallen across it, the pale strands almost silvery in the dim glow of the street lamps and moonlight that filtered through her bedroom windows.

“Yeah,” she rasped, wincing at the dryness in her mouth. And at the worry creasing his face as he watched hers.

Cleared her throat. Tried to clear her mind. “Just bad dreams.”

"So I gathered." His frown deepened, and she had to flick her eyes away from his, from the sadness and concern clouding them.

He traced his thumb along the ridge of her cheekbone, a feather-light graze. She leaned into it, that gentle touch, pressed her cheek against his hand like a stroked cat, her eyes drifting shut as she released another slow breath. Let the sensation ground her, pull her out of the hollow, jangly space in her mind, fragmented with remnants of the nightmare, lightning-quick flashes of slides on a reel. Pull her back out of that dream-body, frozen and breaking, hers and yet not.

"You were screaming," he added, and even with her eyes closed, the thread of worry in his voice burned a bright line through her, wove itself into a burning knot in her chest.

She grimaced and opened her eyes again. At least they'd stayed at her apartment last night instead of the warehouse. Otherwise, she'd have gotten the added bonus of probably alarming all four vampires rather than just the one in her bed.

"Sorry," she said, apology streaking across her face. "I didn't mean to wake you up."

His frown deepened again, briefly, before smoothing into a gentle smile, though it didn't entirely mask the worry in his eyes. "Please don’t apologize. I’d rather you wake me than deal with it alone," he said, running his thumb over her cheek again.

“You are incessantly good to me,” she said, the taut line of her mouth easing a bit as she straightened, shifting closer to nestle her body into his. He wrapped his arms around her, letting her tuck herself against him as he leaned back against the headboard.

"It's very easy to be good to you," he murmured, fingers brushing along the ends of her hair, stroking the back of her neck. "And you deserve nothing less."

Curled up against him like this, Nate’s voice was something she felt as much as she heard. Lulled by the steady rhythm of his breathing and the warmth of his body, Holland felt herself start to relax, the tension in her muscles easing. She let out a contented sigh as she buried her face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in.

At this hour — whatever hour it was — it was so easy to let herself drift into this feeling, to cocoon herself in the soothing scent and feel and sound of him, without interrogating it. Without wondering if and how much she should worry about the effect he always seemed to have on her. Whether she relied on it too much.

Without wondering, too, as she sometimes did, whether he realized just how deeply he affected her. The hold he had on her.

His fingers still rubbing gentle circles along the back of her neck, he spoke again, his voice a susurrant rumble against her ear. “Would it help to talk about it?”

She blew out a breath. “I don’t know. I doubt it. I only remember bits and pieces, anyway.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, a warm drop of sunlight.

“You could tell me the bits and pieces,” he said into her hair.

I was the bits and pieces, she thought, though she kept it to herself, swallowing the accompanying bubble of mirthless laughter that threatened. She knew her tendency towards casual irreverence usually tended to make him worry about her more.

Especially if that irreverent commentary happened to be about a nightmare wherein she was fairly confident she had been midway through becoming a vampire herself. Or about to die trying.

Although perhaps that at least answered the question of exactly which part of what he’d said to her all those weeks ago had scared her most. Or at least had latched itself most securely into her brain, where it now shifted and scraped like a stone in her shoe. Which was kind of refreshing, she supposed, if she wanted to be all silver-linings about it.

When you’re my age, I’ll remind you of this conversation.

At the time, she’d been more fixated on a different piece of subtext in his comment: the casual confidence with which he’d seemed to be suggesting —assuming — that they’d still be together, or at the very least still in each other’s lives, after a few hundred years.

As if that were something anyone could possibly know.

Let alone with the degree of certainty usually reserved for statements like, "The sky is blue."

Honestly, she’d given relatively little thought to the other implication in his words that day. At least, not in the context of their relationship. Tried not to think about it in that particular context, actually.

Her humanity. Her mortality.

Later, she knew, she would have to. Later, she would have to think about it — would have to talk about it — in a great many contexts, probably. Would have to face questions whose answers eluded her, ones that she couldn't answer, at least not now.

She hoped they even had answers. Hoped they were ones she could face.

And hoped that, when she did have to face them, those questions, their corresponding answers were better than — were something other than — “I don’t know.”

Her stomach clenched. No, that was not a conversation she was prepared to have right now. Not with him or anyone else.

Herself included.

It was much easier to focus on the steady beat of his heart and the way his fingers moved along her skin, coaxing her into a state of calm.

"Honestly," she said finally, shifting against him as she tilted her face up to look at him. "I'd rather just forget about it."

Nate traced his fingers over her jawline, thumbing her bottom lip free from her teeth, where she’d been worrying it absentmindedly, digging her canines into a corner of her mouth as she thought.

“All right,” he said softly, eyes searching her face, thumb still resting against her lips. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. But I am always happy to listen if ever you do.”

That burning knot in her chest tightened again at the depth of emotion that simmered in his dark eyes, the open sincerity of his face. Her throat bobbed. She knew he meant it. Knew he'd be just as willing to listen even if he knew what thoughts shaped her nightmares, what fears woke her in the middle of the night.

It was too much. The way he looked at her, the way he touched her, the way he made her feel.

She had no idea what to do with it, with everything he made her feel.

She knew one thing, though: she didn't want to let it go.

She reached up to trace the curve of his jaw, her fingers trailing down his neck as she leaned forward to brush her mouth against his.

It was slow at first: gentle, indolent, as if they were savoring the taste of each other, and she let herself sink into the warmth of it, the warmth of him, seeping into her skin and settling against her unbroken bones.

They broke apart for a moment and Nate rested his forehead against hers, voice soft as breath against her skin. "Are you sure you're okay?"

No. Maybe. She would be, anyway.

"Yeah." She opened her eyes to meet his, dark with wanting, though not so much that it masked the shimmer of concern. "I'm okay," she murmured.

He searched her eyes for a moment longer before leaning in to kiss her again, more deeply this time, sucking gently at her bottom lip and coaxing a moan from her. He smoothed his hands down the curve of her back, sliding beneath the hem of her t-shirt, tracing the soft skin of her hips, her waist, his fingertips feather-light as they skimmed over her bare skin.

She shivered at his touch, leaning into it, into him, threading her fingers through his hair as she deepened the kiss, pulled him closer. It was always like this with Nate — a slow-motion free fall into something that felt increasingly — dangerously — essential. His hands tightened on her waist, tugging her forward until she was straddling him, bare thighs bracketing his hips, her body flush against his. He rolled his hips up into her and she arched her back, a soft gasp spilling from her lips as he broke the kiss, brushing his lips over the curve of her jaw.

Her fingers trailed down the back of his neck, sending shivers down his spine, and he couldn't resist the urge to kiss her again, slow and thorough, savoring the sweetness of her mouth. He'd never had anything like her—had never felt so drawn to someone, so consumed by their presence. It still surprised him, the effect she had on him, the intensity of his feelings for her. He pulled her closer, running his hands over the smooth skin of her thighs, and up along the curves of her hips, hands tightening as she rocked into him, sliding a hand down his chest and tracing lines along the smooth, skin-warm fabric of his shirt, fingers toying with the buttons.

She flicked the top one open as she broke the kiss with a shuddered breath and trailed open-mouthed kisses down the column of his neck. Her tongue dipped into the hollow of his throat as she thumbed open the next button and Nate groaned at the gentle scrape of her teeth against his collarbone. By the time she reached the third, her mouth had almost caught up to her hands, a wandering trail of kisses against his chest, his skin like silk against her tongue, a flame against her skin.

He pulled back, releasing her just long enough to tug his shirt over his head and toss it aside.

“So impatient,” she teased, angling forward again and nipping at the soft skin just beneath his ear.

He closed his eyes, skin prickling at the sensation, his hands tightening on her hips as he pulled her flush against him again.

“You have that effect on me,” he replied, the words a warm kiss of uneven breath against her throat as he lowered his mouth to her skin once more.

She laughed even as she arched into him, breath catching at the coaxing, languid kisses he was pressing up the curve of her neck. “I’m just saying,” she breathed, unable to keep the half-smile from her face, her voice, “I’m not the one who was so insistent about enjoying the anticipation. Something about it being ‘delicious’, I think?”

He slid his fingers along her jaw, tipping her face to his as he kissed her again. Again. Again.

“You are delicious,” he murmured against her lips, a soft smile curving his mouth as he pulled back to look at her. "And I intend to savor every inch of you."

The midnight-softness of his voice slid over her like a physical touch, a warm caress across her skin, and she loosed a breath at the warmth that pooled in her, even as she arched a brow at him, another ghost of a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Promises, promises."

He skimmed his hands along her thighs, her hips, as though he were mapping her body by touch, his eyes darkening with an irresistible combination of affection and desire.

“Every promise I make to you, ya rouhi,” he said, his voice low and soft, “I intend to keep.”

His tone itself seemed to be a kind of promise, and Holland felt her breath catch at the weight of it, at the way his eyes held hers with such gentleness and warmth. When he cupped her face, she leaned into his touch, her eyes drifting shut. Nate kissed her again, his lips moving languidly against hers as his hands continued their exploration, sliding under the hem of her shirt to brush against the bare skin of her stomach, his fingers tracing the curve of her waist, and Holland shivered.

He pressed a line of kisses down to the base of her throat, feeling the rapid beat of her pulse against his mouth as he nosed at the collar of her shirt and pushed it aside, baring her shoulder to his lips. She shivered again at the gentle scrape of his teeth over the delicate skin of her collarbone, and the sound that slipped from her was as much from actual sensation as it was from how careful his mouth was against her skin, how gentle every part of him always was with her.

He tugged at the hem of her shirt and she pulled — reluctantly — away from his mouth, lifting her arms and letting him pull the fabric over her head.

For a long moment, he simply looked at her, bare skin wreathed in shadow and the streaks of moonlight that filtered past her curtains. The bruised, haunted expression she'd woken up with had faded, those green eyes no longer darkened by whatever stalked her nightmares but with something else entirely, a heady melange of lust and affection and a flicker of something else, there and gone before he could name it.

On Nate’s face, Holland saw something like reverence.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, brushing a hand along the curve of her shoulder and down the length of her arm, curling his fingers around hers. "Do you have any idea how much I want you?"

Her mouth twitched into a smile as a breath of a laugh escaped her, even as heat bloomed across her cheeks. “I might have some idea,” she said, leaning in to kiss him again with an emphatic little roll of her hips against him. “But I wouldn’t stop you if you wanted to remind me.”

Nate groaned, his arm curling around her waist as he deepened the kiss, his other hand tracing the line of her spine, and shifted, sliding her off his lap and onto the bed. He lingered above her for a moment, drinking in the sight of her once more before pressing a kiss to her forehead, her nose, then finally her lips. It was a slow, indulgent thing that had Holland’s eyes fluttering closed, fingers curling in the hair at his nape as he deepened the kiss. He kissed his way down her neck, lower, his tongue flicking out to taste her skin, nibbling and sucking and stroking until she was aching and pliant beneath him.

His hands roamed over her body with excruciating gentleness, fingers tracing every curve and dip, every inch of skin that was bared to him. And when his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of her underwear, thumbs tracing indolent circles around her hip bone as he eased the garment down, she arched against him, hips lifting in a wordless plea for more. His mouth was on her neck again when Holland felt his hand slide back up her thigh, tracing the curve of her hip before moving inward, fingertips ghosting along the crease of her hip, the tops of her thighs.

And then, finally, brushing a knuckle, once, against her, light as breath.

Light as the breath against her ear as he purred, “Are you always this wet for me?”

She swore, her own breath snagging in her throat, eyes fluttering closed. Another light brush of fingertips had her hips tilting into his hand, chasing that sensation, and he made a low, pleased sound against her neck. Yes, her body seemed to answer for her; yes, always.

Nate's lips curved against her skin as his hand skated higher, another quick, teasing brush, followed by a slow, deliberate circle that had her hissing another curse as she arched against him, hips canting into the touch of his hand.

“I hope so,” he murmured, lips brushing against the shell of her ear with a breath of a laugh as she shivered.

Oh, he was entirely too pleased with himself, she thought, even as her hips shifted again, seeking more, more.

"Nate," she groaned, hands gripping his shoulders, her nails biting into his skin, scoring it with little half-moon scratches that would no doubt have healed by the time she moved her hands.

"Look at me," he whispered, voice low and honeyed.

She opened her eyes, and the look in his, the expression on his face, had her breath catching in her throat, hips rolling against his hand once more.

"I love watching you like this, Holland," he said, the words soft, "Seeing the way you react to me. It's intoxicating."

The way he said her name made her feel as though her blood had been replaced with something electric, a thrumming undercurrent that sparked along her nerve endings.

He dipped his head to kiss her again, slow and thorough, and her entire body seemed to melt into his. He brushed his thumb against her, fingers slipping inside her with a slow, deliberate stroke, and the world became three things: his hands on her body, his mouth against her skin, and his voice in her ears, low and sweet and utterly, utterly indecent.

He pressed his mouth to the base of her throat, his fingers continuing their gentle rhythm as he kissed a path along the curve of her neck, pressing a litany of praises and endearments onto her skin, the murmured words soft and tangible as a caress.

Holland felt her cheeks flush with pleasure at his words, his touch, and her body sang with it as he moved lower still, mouth tracing a slow, winding path down her body, tracing every curve, every hollow, until he finally (finally) pressed his mouth to her slick heat with a soft groan that she felt as much as heard. His hands moved to her hips, holding her in place as he tasted her, each slow, languid movement sending another series of sparks through her veins.

"You taste so good," he murmured, the words a low, intimate hum against her skin.

She bit her lip against a moan and pressed closer, tiny, crackling starbursts of pleasure streaking through her with each slow movement of his tongue. Holland's fingers curled in his hair as he moved against her, her back arching as he found a rhythm that had her breath stuttering.

"Please," she breathed, the word barely more than a whimper as her entire body tightened, a steady, thrumming tension urging her ever closer to that sweet, shimmering edge. "Nate. "

She felt the curve of his mouth against her and knew without looking that his expression would probably be, among other things, almost annoyingly self-satisfied. But she flicked her gaze to him, anyway, found his already on her, and forgot to even consider whether she’d been right about his expression. Because, self-satisfied or not, the look on his face as her eyes met his — the intensity of it — had every last thought eddying from her mind.

Nate kept his eyes on her as she came apart under his mouth, moaning something unintelligible against her skin as every nerve in her body incandesced into pure starlight.

He held her through it, mouthing gentle kisses against her before brushing a light kiss against her inner thigh and easing his grasp on her hips. Pulling away just long enough to discard his pants, that silken fabric the last barrier between them, Nate moved back up her body, pressing a kiss to the curve of her neck, then her mouth, his hands cupping her face as he kissed her.

She could taste herself on his lips, and the thought of it — of him — had her wrapping her legs around his waist and pulling him closer, closer, and still not nearly close enough. She was still reeling, still warm and weak and more than a little drunk on the way he made her feel, and she wanted him closer, wanted to hold him and feel him and taste him, wanted more, more, more.

He held her gaze as he slid inside her, his eyes dark and wide and utterly focused on her, like she was the center of the world, like she was everything.

He was everything, she thought as she gripped his shoulders, fingers curling against his skin. She had never wanted anyone, never wanted anything, like she wanted him.

He kissed her again as he thrust deeper into her, his mouth moving against hers with a soft, broken sound that had her arching up against him. He held her close, his hands gentle on her skin, as he moved against her.

"You feel exquisite," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple, her cheek, her jaw, her ear, her mouth.

She held his face in her hands, fingers drifting along his cheekbones, the curve of his jaw, the back of his neck, and he pressed his forehead to hers, eyes half-lidded and dark, breath warm and uneven against her face.

The look in his eyes — god, the way he looked at her —

She couldn't get enough of it, the way he looked at her.

Couldn't get enough of him, either.

He looked at her like he was the one coming apart, and the thought of that, the image of it, had her tightening her hold on him, hands moving to his shoulders as he pressed deeper still, harder. Deeper, her body arching into his, that look in his eyes like something she wanted to bottle up and keep, the way it so perfectly mirrored the way she felt, in this moment and in so very many before now, warm and soft and full of something fierce and bright —

She was the one who was unraveling.

Holland kissed him again, hard, and pulled him closer, kissing him until she was dizzy, until she was breathless, until she was utterly unmoored.

His hands on her face, his voice against her skin, his body moving against hers, within hers. Holland let her eyes flutter closed, her breathing ragged, her body arching up against his as she met him stroke for stroke.

There was nothing but Nate, nothing but the sound of his breath, the feel of his skin, the taste of his mouth. The way he moved inside her, the way he touched her, the way he looked at her, the way he kissed her —

He kissed her each time she whispered his name. He kissed her when she came, the sounds he made low and raw against her skin as he followed, her name on his lips, his hand buried in her hair, his voice a broken whisper against her skin.

He kissed her like he never wanted to let her go.

And when Holland opened her eyes and saw him, that look in his eyes, that look like he could never get enough of her, she was the one who could not bear to let go.

—

“Sweeter dreams this time, rouhi,” he murmured against her shoulder, pressing a drowsy kiss there as he settled against her, curling around her as if he was already half-asleep.

“Mm.” She hummed in assent and pressed in closer against him, squeezing the arm he’d wrapped around her waist.

She didn’t yet know how to tell him he was all of her sweetest dreams. Hadn’t yet figured out how to take a full breath around the enormity of that feeling.

Even if what he was — what she wasn’t — had begun to haunt some of those dreams, too.

#this fic brought to u in part by the time i tried to wake my partner up from a nightmare and he kicked me in the shin #(in his defense he thought i was a zombie)#katie writes things #twc #the wayhaven chronicles #nate x detective #ship: your entire heart #oc: holland townsend #nsft

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thee-morrigan · 3 months

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1, 17, and 22 for Holland for the nsfw asks? I hope you’re having (or had) a wonderful day! 🥰💙

thank you, Chrys! hope your day is/was lovely, too! 💖💖

oc nsfw asks

1. Are there any names they like to be called in bed/names they call their partner? Any names they wouldn’t use/can’t stand?

hmmm I don’t think there are any particular names that she actively prefers to be called? but having a possessive appended to whatever name definitely Does Things to her ahaha (e.g., “good girl” is fine, but “my good girl”? fully weak in the knees). she definitely wouldn’t use anything degrading/derogatory and would generally prefer those kinds of names not be used on her, either. as for names she does use, she calls Nate “baby” quite a bit when they’re alone. (and occasionally “Nathaniel” when he’s done or said something particularly scandalous.)

17. What’s their go-to safe word?

“stop,” usually, since she’s not really into the kind of sex where “stop” wouldn’t just mean, well, stop. alternatively, physically tapping out (either as supplementary to saying “stop” or if her mouth is otherwise occupied).

22. Favorite thing/part about sex—intimacy, role-playing, etc.

okay, my immediate answer was “the intimacy, bar none,” which I think is true, but is specific to sex with Nate, not sex in general (they! are! soft!!). she was never in love with any of her past partners (and she is so very in love with Nate), so it’s just, like, this whole new experience for her (again, they are so disgustingly soft, it’s actually ridiculous). in general (although this is obviously very much A Thing in her relationship with Nate, too), she loves the build-up — all that anticipatory tension and wanting and waiting is delicious.

#what's that quote that's like 'here's my dumb soft heart!'? bc yeah that's holland being in love lmaooo #oc: holland townsend #answered #ask games

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thee-morrigan · 1 year

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sincerity is scary

character(s): Holland Townsend, plus a lil Verda at the beginning (technically, Nate's not in this but my god is he living rent-free in Holland's mind) wc/rating: 3.2k / T (swearing) warnings: so many spoilers for Book 3 (all below the cut ofc!) read on ao3 in case anyone’s wondering, Holland still thinks the scariest thing she’s up against is her own stupid heart.

“Come on, Verda, you have to have something for me. I want to do things. I need to do things.”

“You know, some research suggests that feeling the need to be busy all the time is a trauma response,” the pathologist responded mildly, not looking up from the tray of instruments he was busy sterilizing. “That it’s a fear-based compulsion to distract your brain from meaningfully processing traumatic events.”

“You wanna send me those citations, then, and I can distract myself with some light reading?” Holland snapped back, but there was no heat in it.

Verda paused his work then and turned, giving a huff of laughter whose lightness was somewhat diminished by the careful assessment in his eyes as they swept her face. Although they’d started out, as many good friends do, brought together not by fate or fortune but chance proximity, they had quickly discovered bright shared threads of themselves in each other beneath the veneer of professional courtesy and had found themselves fast companions ever since.

He respected her as a colleague, of course; more than he’d expected, if he was honest. She had a stronger background in his line of work than he’d dared to hope in such a small station, which made her a useful colleague to have when he found himself stymied by something. And — perhaps most importantly — she didn’t pester him with questions she didn’t even know were asinine when a case experienced delays. He’d liked Detective Reele more or less, but she’d been marginally tolerable when things didn’t move at the speed she decided appropriate, regardless of whether he could make degraded tissue spontaneously re-materialize when she decided she wanted clearer fingerprints. No, Detective Townsend was a better colleague, that was certain.

More than just respecting her work, though, he liked Holland in general; she brought a borderline acerbic levity to the station that balanced against Tina’s more exuberant nature and his own tendency to forget to venture upstairs at least once a day. She wasn’t calmer than Tina, exactly — he wasn’t sure calm was a word that had ever been used to describe Holland Townsend. But if Tina was something in the neighborhood of bubbly, all iridescent soap shine and rounded edges, Holland was something sharper, something fizzing, like a live wire.

When he looked at her now, though, he saw less of the bright crackle of energy and more of the kind of nervous energy that led people to market abhorrent devices like fidget spinners. She looked restless. She looked tired.

—

Holland was tired. Goddamn exhausted, actually, if she was honest with herself, which seemed to be almost never these days. She didn’t let herself linger on the way that thought chafed any more than she let herself slow down enough for that bone-deep weariness to press its full weight against her.

It was better to keep moving.

“You know, you’re probably overdue for a vacation,” Verda’s voice, more tinged with concern than it had been a moment ago, cut through her reverie. “I’m pretty sure your promotion to detective didn’t entitle you to less PTO.”

The spark of wry humor in his comment didn’t fully mask the shade of careful observation in his eyes, but…it was an attempt. An easy out for her to muster her usual grinning nonchalance — the irreverent charm Adam had once snarked at her about relying on too heavily.

If it ain’t broke, I guess, she thought, swallowing the urge to sigh as she indeed summoned a half-smile, made herself look her friend in the eye as she tilted her head at him.

“There you go with that concern again, V,” she teased, rising from her perch on the edge of a spare lab bench.

“It’s almost like we’re friends,” he said dryly, although some of the tension in his face eased.

“Which is why I’m gonna let you get back to it and quit bugging you.” Holland moved toward the open lab door and paused, resting one hand against the door jamb as she flashed Verda a more genuine smile. “Thanks, though. For letting me bug you.”

He waved her comment off, though he returned her smile. “Anytime. Besides, I’m hoping things will finally start calming back down with those recent cases sorted. Then we’ll both probably relish any interruptions to the usual humdrum.”

It was all she could do to dredge up a hum of laughter in agreement before stepping back into the corridor, only letting her shoulders slump once she was safely ensconced in her office.

She hadn’t told any of them yet that she was leaving the station. She’d have to soon; she knew that, knew she’d been putting it off far too long already. And, as her mother had pointed out, it wasn’t as if she was never going to be able to see them again. Her friends would still be her friends. They just wouldn’t work together anymore.

Or mostly get to know what she even did for work anymore.

She wasn’t even entirely sure how much she could still keep Tina in the loop, as much as she might wish to. She didn’t have any reason to be particularly suspicious of Agent Pierson, the woman the Agency had sent to spy on Tina from within the station. But as much as she trusted Tina —with her secrets but also to take care of herself— she worried that the balm of having a confidant who was just hers was no longer truly available to her, at least not in the way it had been. Part of that fear, she knew, came from knowing she couldn’t reveal that the so-called new officer was not exactly who she seemed. In all likelihood, the whole arrangement probably really was for Tina’s safety, and probably nothing to worry about, but…Holland still felt like she was lying to her. And not the kind of lying she was comfortable with.

A liar and a coward, she thought as she sat at her desk, chin propped in her hands. She felt that constricting weight begin to settle against her, her skin too tight along her bones, and jerked to her feet again before that melancholia could curl catlike into her lap and trap her there.

She supposed it was useful that everyone had become so inured to her abrupt comings and goings from the station; no one bothered to look up as she walked out into the bright heat of the midday sun, its sticky warmth blanketing her body after a morning spent in the over-conditioned chill of the station’s air.

—

She ended up back in her apartment more out of habit than any real desire to be there. For a while, she found herself drifting, unmoored and aimless, between rooms. She should try to rest, she knew that, knew that if she could sleep she would feel better.

These days, though, she too often found herself reaching for sleep only to close her fist around endless, empty time.

She tried to read, to lose herself in another universe for a while, but gave up after she realized that while she’d technically read a whole chapter, she had no idea what had happened in it.

She thought about playing guitar but figured if she couldn’t focus on reading, she probably wouldn’t fare much better at making anything that sounded like music instead of discordant strumming.

Plus she was already bored of sitting still in the empty quiet of her apartment.

Pushing herself off her window seat, Holland strode to her dresser and tugged out shorts and a sports bra. Experience had taught her long ago that she couldn’t outrun her own brain, but at least she could tire her body enough that she was forced to sleep, at least a little.

—

Because she was already tired, it took longer than usual to find her pace, especially without any music to give her a cadence she could match. In deference to safety, she’d decided against headphones; probably a wise choice — definitely a wise choice, she reminded herself, hardly a choice at all unless she decided to start actively courting disaster — but one that did nothing to lessen the weight of that heaviness that kept pulling at her, brutal and swift as a rip current. Still, after three miles, she felt some of the tension in her body ebb, some of that near-constant tightness in her chest yielding its grip enough for breathing to come easier, deep and steady draughts of air filling her lungs.

For a long while, there was only the blessed gentle warmth of summer air, the quiet scraping thump of her sneakers against the sidewalk, and the pleasant ache of her muscles stretching and contracting. Slowly, mile after mile, she felt her body become less foreign, each pounding step bringing it closer to the skin and bones and thudding heart that she recognized as her own. Felt each clenching beat of that too-human muscle in her chest insisting it was where it belonged, safe within its cage of bone and flesh. Felt the reassurance that her heart hadn’t been torn from her chest and left, raw and bleeding, outside her body.

No matter how it might feel lately.

A liar and a coward.

The sharp dig of a knife between her ribs, the claws of that familiar tightness latching into her chest again, and—

Breathe.

She sucked in air with a sharp gasp, forced her lungs to expand, to draw air in and in and in until she could feel those claws retract.

Until she felt the thought she’d almost had, the one she still hadn’t let herself articulate even within her own mind, retract with them.

Another kind of lie. Another thing she was too much of a coward to confront.

Holland sucked in another breath, letting the sultry weight of that summer air fill her, fill all the cold, empty spaces that lurked within her. Let the warmth of it incinerate the other unarticulated thoughts and shadows of memory before they could turn their baleful, accusatory eyes back toward her.

Turning her own gaze outward once more, she scanned her surroundings, squinting at a nearby street sign as she passed and trying to decide how much further until she really would need to loop back. Holland’s run had taken her well into the outskirts of town. It wasn’t her preferred route, which snaked through the woods near the Cornerstones and eventually toward the marina, but at least this route hadn’t taken her through Wayhaven proper. Or required her to skirt the station, as her usual path would have. Even if she was leaving — even if no one seemed to really notice or care whether she was, at any given moment, in her office these days — she still didn’t think running directly past the station in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon was necessarily appropriate.

So Holland found herself instead approaching the winding series of long hills that would eventually lead her toward the hospital. Her knees ached just thinking about those hills. None were particularly steep, but they stretched further than was typically noticeable in a car. On foot, though…no, it was probably past time for her to begin finding her way back home.

It had been a while since she’d been on a long run. A long while, actually, and she knew her legs would likely ache come morning, even with the shorter maintenance runs she tried to squeeze in whenever she could. Which had been no chance at all these past weeks, between work and what felt like an endless cycle of injury and suffocatingly long recovery. Indeed, she felt the muscles in her thighs protest as she crested one hill before veering right, toward the streets leading back into town. Oh, she would certainly feel the cost of this impromptu long run in the morning.

Although it might be a nice change, she supposed, if her body ached from something other than having the shit kicked out of her by Trappers. Or crumbling buildings. Or winged giants who caused said buildings to end up in pieces on top of her. And those were only some of the most recent aches.

She rolled her shoulders, shaking her arms to diffuse the pressing tension of that memory, her breath a sharp scrape against her throat.

Fine. She was fine. Despite the strain of these past months, she continued to be perfectly fine. Had gotten through everything that’d been thrown at her. Not entirely smoothly, certainly not effortlessly, but…she had gotten through it. Would continue to do so, perhaps with greater ease than before if her new role indeed provided increased training. She could handle it. She would handle it.

It was the same argument she’d given Nate after the auction, almost two weeks ago now. As to whether she believed it any more now than she had then…another thought she wasn’t ready to have yet.

I am in love with you, Holland.

Another familiar ache in her chest, one more bruise on her already battered heart. She shut down that train of thought, almost stumbling as she worked to redirect that particular train of thought. To shut out the image that flashed across her mind’s eye, of how Nate’s face had looked in that conversation. The way he’d looked at her, the agony that had streaked across his beautiful face, and how neatly and thoroughly it had eviscerated her.

That pain. That pain that she had caused.

I don’t know how this is going to work.

She’d had to remind herself how to breathe. Had to remind herself to breathe through the lashing pain of how much she’d hated herself for putting that look on his face. And for knowing that it would likely be far from the last time.

Because she didn’t know either.

She didn’t know how to avoid it, this hurting him. Didn’t know how to be an easier person to love.

And as for what she did know, what she’d suspected and quietly fretted over for weeks now…

That hideous weight tugged beneath her ribs and Holland sped up, pushing past the bleating tremor in her thighs, the burning ache in her chest. Pushed that thought out, out, out—

“Fuck!” The word was little more than a hiss as the world tipped and roiled and Holland went flying, elbows skidding and knees barking as she hit the pavement.

Between the subsequent string of violent curses and what remained of her pride, she supposed she was relieved to still be closer to the outskirts than the town center. If running past the station in the middle of a Tuesday was arguably inappropriate, the selection of words that flew out of her mouth as she eased to a seat on the ground was indisputably so.

She winced as she examined the shredded skin on her forearms, her knees. She hadn’t even fallen well: the most she’d done before splaying gracelessly on the street had been to land more on her arms than her hands. Not her first choice, or at least it shouldn’t have been, but at least she hadn’t broken her wrists. Or anything else, as far as she could tell, looking her latest batch of wounds over as she rose to her feet.

Holland hissed again as she gingerly flexed her left leg, which had borne the brunt of the impact and now sported angry red scrapes along her knee and halfway up her thigh. Just scrapes, but ones that stretched painfully when she bent her leg.

Swallowing another mouthful of curses, she pulled free the water bottle attached to her running belt, unstoppering it with her teeth before she squeezed a stream of water along first one leg, then the other, and then the smaller scrapes on her arms and elbows. They stung like all hell, but at least they looked slightly better with most of the dirt and grime rinsed away. Naturally, she’d forgotten to bother checking if she’d needed to restock the handful of bandages she usually kept in one of the belt’s pockets; naturally, she only unearthed one after fumbling through every goddamned pocket, the lone bandage too small to be of much use unless she fancied ripping adhesive off part of an open wound later.

She exhaled, sharp and impatient, and raked a hand over the sweat-dampened strands of hair that had broken free of her stubby ponytail and now lay plastered to her forehead.

No new scars indeed. She snorted as she recalled Nate’s words in that forest clearing, back before they’d even known what manner of myth hunted her. She doubted it had occurred to him that she’d likely continue to rack up scars earned through her own sheer stupidity. God, but that felt like a lifetime ago.

She drained the remains of her water bottle before slotting it back in its elastic holster at her hip. She toed the ground, wincing at her protesting kneecap, and considered. Depending on the route she took, she wasn’t that far from her apartment. The circuitous route she’d intended to follow was obviously out, but she could take a more direct one and be back relatively quickly. Walking, it would take…she did the math, frowning. Walking back, assuming she kept her regular pace, would likely take her the better part of two hours. She stretched her legs again, shifting experimentally from one foot to the other. She was hurt, yes, but it was definitely only superficial, and not so bad she couldn’t probably run home as well as she could walk. Running would be faster, even with what would certainly be a much slower pace. Would likely cut the return time in half, actually, though she knew it would hurt. Of course, it would hurt to walk home, too.

Holland’s shoulders sagged. Since she’d stopped moving, her body had started to register physical exhaustion, had begun to grow heavy with it, and she wanted to be home. Wanted a shower and her bed and a different kind of silence than the kind that felt like a scream.

She did have another option, some small part of her mind pointed out before she shut that thought out, too. Technically, the warehouse, where she had a bed and a shower and certainly less silence, was a bit closer to her current location than her own apartment. However begrudgingly, Holland had to admit the thought tempted her. Tempted her more when she thought of the magic-imbued salve, leftover from what had been her most recent batch of injuries, stashed in a bathroom cabinet. To say nothing of the vampire whose mere presence soothed her more than any medicine.

Her frown deepened. She was tired of showing up at the warehouse battered and bloody. Really goddamned tired of it.

She straightened, rolling her shoulders and breathing deep. Her apartment wasn’t that far, and it was only a skinned knee. Well, two skinned knees, actually, and her elbows, but…

Holland released that deep breath and set off, a tentative jog while she found her new pace, toward the town center and her apartment beyond.

She didn’t much feel like reminding anyone how easily she broke apart.

#this is so maudlin lmao sorry #she's not having a great time #katie writes things #twc book 3 spoilers #twc spoilers #twc fics #oc: holland townsend #ship: your entire heart

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