#will I ever stop grieving the past if things keep turning out like this?
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I know I have a habit of always keeping things to myself… But why am I still surprised when people don’t know what I know?
#This applies to so many things in my life#this is so incredibly unhealthy#toxic even#yet i can’t help but keep doing it#and now my friends too#those who said the loudest ‘you have to talk to us if we did something you’re not comfortable with so we can come to terms’#turned out to be bottling the hugest amount of distraught then explode without warning#now everything is in pieces#and there’s nothing that could be mended anymore#thought we had something special you know#then why… why can you sabotage everything so quick and run away so fast#why you do this to us?#what were we to you?#You hurt us all and even yourself with your ego saying we don’t have to care about you#but what were we if not friends?#why?#please I can’t continue like this#I desperately aware that things will never be the same and I can never see you as the same friend I’ve known for years#but I still refuse to believe this is really happening#it’s like sand#the more I hold it the harder I clenched my hand they would still eventually fall through my fingers gaps#are we not friends?#why? Why you did it?#You said nothing and yet expect everyone to know how you feel and to sympathize with you and your reasons#I mean we could#we totally could if you just let us know just the tiniest hint you know?#so why things turned out this way?#where has the years gone?#will I ever stop grieving the past if things keep turning out like this?#what does the future hold anyway and where’s my motivation to grasp it?
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The Lost 1
Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of loss, grieving, death, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.
Characters: nomad!Steve Rogers
Summary: You move into a shared flat and encounter a mysterious man.
My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.
As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.
“And this is your room,” Muriel stops before a door along the short hallway. “You have a neighbour just across the hall, and two more on the other side of the kitchen.”
You nod. It isn’t an ideal situation. Not one you ever saw yourself in. But survival isn’t built for the fussy. There are many others like you. Those not so lucky, those who are dead. Many who never got the choice of a new home.
You keep your hand on your rolling bag, your other on your canvas knapsack. They’re full of items that aren’t your own. Second-hand clothes acquired from shelters and toiletries given out by the support workers. You’re on your own now.
“Anything else, dear?” Muriel asks to your silence.
“Thank you, Muriel,” you murmur.
She hands you the key and leaves. Before showing you your own space, she took you around those shared by the rest of her boarders. You suppose they’re your roommates now. A kitchen, two bathrooms, a front room with a tattered couch and old tube television. You’ll stick to your own four walls.
You slide the key in the slot, the metal grinding loudly. You hear a throat clear and peer towards the noise. The walls must be thin. You’re still alone. You let yourself into the room, pulling the door shut behind you. You flip the lock back into place before you shove your bags by the wall.
There’s a twin bed with a metal frame, a single night table, and a standing lamp. There’s also a shallow closet. It’s not much but you don’t need more than that. It’s good to have a roof over your head.
You sit on the lumpy mattress and the frame squeaks loudly. You stand up again and pace around. There isn’t too much room. It shouldn’t matter, you won’t need it. You’ll be out working and back to sleep again. You start tomorrow at the convenience shop.
You hear a thump and your head pops up. You can’t help but jump in your shoes. Ever since the city rained down around you, every bump, every sudden noise has you skittish. It’s nothing, only another boarder.
You go to your bag and unbuckle the flap. You pull out a can of beans and the pocket knife in the side pocket. You go back to the bed and sit, another shrill whine from the metal frame. You pull out the can open from the pocket knife and peel back the lid. On the same keychain is a small metal spork you use to scoop out the beans, eating them cold as your stomach growls hungrily.
You eat, bite by bite, staring at the wall, just beside the only window. It isn’t home. You don’t expect one of those. It’s just a place to live. To survive.
🚪
You take your toothbrush and your tube of toothpaste with you to the bathroom down the hall. It’s just across from the other bedroom on that side of the flat. The doorway is dark, beckoning you inside. You flip on the light and shut the door as you enter.
You turn on the tap and set to brushing your teeth. Such a basic and simple task but one you didn’t always have the chance to do. It’s almost soothing to feel the bristles in your mouth. It makes you feel almost normal.
You take your time as the mint flavour sticks to your tongue. You rinse your brush and flick off the excess water, sliding it back into the travel tube and capping the paste. You look at yourself in the mirror, not for long, just to make sure you still recognise you.
You clutch your things in one hand and flick the light off. You open the door and nearly shriek at the shadow waiting in the hall. You waver in the doorway as a tiny wisp escapes your throat. You blink as the dark silhouette stands with arms crossed in the dim hall.
“Didn’t mean to scare you,” the man says gruffly.
He's tall but mostly obscured. His hair wings out around his neck and his shoulders bulge broadly. You feel his eyes boring into you, as he can see through the darkness and you.
You dip your chin and sidle out, keeping your distance as you sidestep along the wall. You should apologise but your voice is buried deep down. You put your hand up in a show of deference.
“You done?” He asks.
You pause and look at the plaster across from you. You nod then turn your back to him completely. He must be the neighbour. You quickly shuffle to your room and hide behind the door. It’s much better than the shelter, you don’t have someone rolling into your sleeping bag, but still, you’re claustrophobic.
You mourn that most. The sense of privacy. Of personal space. Have a place that’s your own with people you know. People you love.
You toss your toothbrush and toothpaste onto the night table and huff as you sit on the bed. You frown and push your head back, trying to soothe the tightness between your shoulders. You blow out, breath rattling as your nose tingles.
You can never go back to Sokovia or how it was. You can only go forward and the road ahead is very lonely.
#steve rogers#dark steve rogers#dark!steve rogers#steve rogers x reader#drabble#series#the lost#mcu#marvel#captain america#avengers#nomad!steve
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persona non grata ╱ myg, 𝟏.
per·so·na non gra·ta: unwelcome or unwanted. not popular or accepted by others.
pairing: myg x f!reader
genre: suspense / noir / detective au
rating: mature | 18+
chapter word count: 3,067
content warings: crime, blackmail, missing person investigation, themes of violence and murder, 90's cult references, corrupt cops, mentions of physical fighting, cockroaches, depictions of dementia, substance abuse & addiction, reader is grieving a breakup;
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chapter i. goodbye, kanan.
Tuesday night, March 18th @ ViCAP Unit, Missing Persons Dept.
Your hands don’t feel clean. They just never do.
“It’s that same nightmare,” you rub them together, finding comfort in the heat.
Yoongi looks at you. He says nothing, because of course he doesn't. He already noticed the dark circles under your eyes this morning, how you looked at your cup of coffee with a bit more disgust than usual.
He admired your hatred, your devotion to your spiteful heart.
“Cockroaches.” Your sad chuckle is but self-mockery. Your gaze is crestfallen.
He’s left to calculate within the machinations of his mind whatever meaning there is in your nightmare.
Yet, Yoongi finds none whatsoever.
“Have you eaten?”
“Why?”
“Just asking,” he shrugs. “Take tomorrow off,” Yoongi hides his hands inside the pockets of his trench coat. His concern is disguised in his eyes, looking out the foggy windows of the department office. “You need it.”
“I can’t stop thinking about him.”
“Let it go.”
“He was eight years old! He was a child!”
The air tightens in your lungs and your throat thickens with silence. You didn’t mean to sound so exasperated, you didn’t mean to sound like anything, but you’ll have to be the first to face your emotional ties to the cold case of a young boy whose face is ingrained in the back of your mind.
Yoongi gulps ⎯ it’s the first thing he does when the truth’s engulfed in his stomach. You glare at him, but he doesn’t budge. Not for a few seconds at least, taking a few steps back as he still refuses to look you in the eye. All cops are cowards.
“You wanna know why we got this case?”
Your brows perk.
“It’s not because we’re good,” he scoffs. “Last year... I confronted McKinnon about the money. He called me a snitch… I didn’t- I didn’t tell him you were in on it, but I figured he knew. That bastard just.. kept looking at me with those filthy eyes and I- I hit him, okay? I got him good. He deserved it.”
“Is that why you kept avoiding me all those months?”
“Kind of. He said we wouldn’t come out of it alive if the ACU so much as dreamt of it… So I kept quiet. He gave us a case full of dead ends and shit evidence to keep us busy… Said we deserved it.”
The Anti Corruption Unit had been onto the agents’ tail that month. Not that it matters. Nothing was found.
“Why– why didn’t you tell me?”
He runs a hand through his hair, slowing down his breath. In the same second, he fails himself and his fury comes out in full force.
“Fuck’s sake! And risk you being dead? Or worse?!”
There are drops of sweat down his temple. You can see them because the yellow street lights glisten against his skin and you figure he’s telling you the truth. Even if he wasn’t, you’d be inclined to believe him.
No one else in this godforsaken unit has a commitment to the truth like Yoongi.
Thursday morning, March 20th @ ViCAP Unit, Missing Persons Dept.
Agent Gerwig gives you a warm, tight-lipped smile when you pass her down the hallways. You hurry past the agents down the coffee machine, avoiding small talk and nearly tripping down the stairs on your way to Yoongi’s desk.
The insides of your stomach are twisting and turning as you rush inside, uninvited and breathless, waiting for him to acknowledge you behind his incessant typing and the meaningless emails he reads everyday.
Yoongi seems as still and lifeless as ever, which somehow comes as a comfort to you.
“Days off are supposed to make you look better, not worse. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He types as fast as he comes up with witty remarks.
“That’s because I have!” You spit back, fists closed tightly around the newspaper in your hands.
He quirks up one brow, enough for you to know you’ve got his attention.
“Here,” you toss it onto his desk. “Read it.”
November 27th, 1991. Solved case: Thanksgiving kidnappings linked to man apprehended by police.
“That’s Adam Bowen. He got arrested a night after Kanan went missing,” you huff, catching your breath. “They never considered him a suspect because… the timelines didn’t add up, apparently.”
Yoongi looks up at you from the large frame of his glasses.
“And?”
“Police always suspected he worked with his brother… but they never found enough evidence to prove it. They never even found said brother, the guy disappeared out of thin air and Bowen never told them anything. Not a word.”
He leans back, stretching his arms. His gaze diverts away from you or the paper altogether and he’s staring into space, seemingly at a loss for words.
“They got one brother, huh? Looks like it was enough for them to settle it,” Yoongi clicks his tongue. “Sloppy as all hell.”
In your heart, there’s some feeble hope, but most of it has been filled with despair and a fierce jealousy towards anyone who still maintained a sense of normalcy. Your last seven years have been haunted by nightmares, tainted by the faces of all the missing person reports hanging on your walls.
“We got a second half of the story to figure out.”
Yoongi nods. He closes off his laptop and puts his hands around his gun belt.
Friday night, March 21th @ Agent ___’s home.
Circe’s orange tail swirls around your leg before she’s meowing next to her empty bowl, with cute and threatening eyes glaring into your soul. You can barely catch your breath on the couch ⎯ you got shit to do.
Her paws trail happily after you once you’re pouring the pack of Whiskas onto her tiny plate, making a mental note to throw nearly all the home decor away before Easter comes. The apartment is filled with portraits, vases and candles Yuri generously left you with.
Such courtesy of your ex-fiancée to have abandoned all your memories and stories behind.
You’re running out of coffee, hope and sugar.
Yuri was not a bad man. It’s what you told yourself, once. He wanted the kids and the white picket fence life, away from violent gangs and city lights, where he’d craft the perfect nuclear family, worthy of homemade apple pies and Sunday barbecues.
But you liked the urban loneliness, your shoebox apartment and the green subway lights on your way back home. You liked the comfort of knowing every neighborhood like the palm of your hand, the ins and outs of every highway and the thought of heartless strangers passing you by, not caring for your name.
You missed him. His warm body pressed against yours and his golden, brown skin; you missed him selfishly ⎯ your comfort zone walked away and resentment grew alongside the fondness.
You hoped he was happy without you, but not too much.
When your co-workers asked you about him, a few days after he packed his bags, all you gave them was a shrug and a poor explanation, the kind that everyone does: we were incompatible, it wasn’t meant to be, I wasn’t ready. The list went on and on.
The only one to not probe was good old loyal Yoongi. He was indifferent enough to other people’s personal lives not to ask. When you told him, he patted you on the shoulder awkwardly and placed your coffee by your desk with extra whipped cream.
Saturday afternoon, March 22nd @ Rosefell Nursing Home.
Violet Bowen was not, by any means, what you’d call a reliable witness. She seemed pale beyond human comprehension and her words mostly consisted of hummings or muttering. The moment you saw her, you felt a sting of empathy too strong to ask her of her missing, possibly outlaw brother.
She had no other relatives nor close visitors, except for a caring ex-neighbor who’d bring her flowers every Friday. With nails painted a deep shade of red, she looked to be around eighty, but you couldn’t quite tell. Violet was in poor condition, plagued by dementia and the loneliness of lost loved ones.
Her caretaker is a vibrant, blonde nurse. A blonde Southern belle whose name tag read in big, uppercase letters.
CAROLYN R.
NURSING ASSISTANT
It’s Yoongi who interrogates Violet, remaining unaffected by her lost gaze and brown eyes. He flashes her a picture of her brothers back in the 80’s, sporting what looks to be fluffy mullets.
She smiles then and her shaky hands point at Adam, but nothing else comes out of her aside from a gleam of life in her eyes. Even if she knew where they were, she wouldn’t tell them a word.
Carolyn’s smile grows disconcerted. Her hands lay on Violet’s forearm as she pulls a thick chunk of her blonde hair out of her face in typical Southern charm.
“I think my girl’s had enough here, yes?” She forces a grin, glancing over at Violet. “If you’ll excuse us, it’s tea time.”
Carolyn helps Violet out of her seat and into the cafeteria. You’re not sure if it’s bad timing or a deliberate attempt from the nursing assistant to end this conversation, but you’re leaning on the latter. Off they go, taking slow, mindful steps away from both of you.
You refuse to look at Violet’s way. Something about her made you want to cry your heart out; the thought of loneliness being an imminent threat to you, too.
“It’s pointless, Yoongi,” you mutter in your seat, slouching your shoulders. “She’s not going to remember anything.”
He hates to agree. Yoongi tsks, fiddling with his watch.
“Did you check her records at the reception?” He glances over at you, mind brimming with some sort of nefarious idea.
“Yeah,” you nod. “I mean- I didn’t check if she had any funds… It looks like all her properties and money were confiscated by the government, but I should run a background check on her bank accounts, to be sure.”
Monday afternoon, March 24th @ Tech Unit, Information Management Division.
Jenny’s doodles lie by her desk, making the room feel like a high school classroom. You haven’t spoken to her since December; what was once a blossoming friendship wilted away thanks to your cowardice and the desire to protect her from Deputy McKinnon’s claws. If Jenny found out, she’d jump the gun.
And she didn’t have the best aim.
Her Naruto sketches have improved greatly since you last saw them, a massive improvement for just a couple months. Both of you used to laugh at her poorly drawn stick figures, now it looks like she’s ready to take her comics career seriously. You’re happy for her ⎯ she’ll find a way out of this hellhole.
The air is thick and humid in the early Spring, but filled with an extra layer of awkwardness when she sees you from across the room. Jenny’s strides towards her desk are heavy with grief and resentment, but she holds her gaze your way.
“Have you had enough space from me after not picking up my calls?” She slides onto her chair, scribbling a few notes onto her monthly planner. “Long time no see, idiot.”
You don’t have much to say for yourself, even when your chest pangs with her affectionate, yet sarcastic use of the word idiot.
“A lot happened, is all,” you gesture sheepishly, hands reaching for the insides of your pockets.
“I can imagine.”
“I’m sorry, Jenny… I didn’t mean to-”
She looks up at you, eyes drenched with irony and something.. something which you can’t name. If it’s hatred or love, you can’t tell.
“Wat’cha want?”
You swallow dry and uneasy, unfolding the paper on your hand with Violet Bowen’s name and address. It’s crumpled and a little thorn ⎯ you were ready to throw it away seconds before coming into the Tech Unit.
“I- I need a background check on someone,” you mutter, lowly. “Bank account activity… Credit cards… Anything you can find from the last… thirty years, maybe?”
Your attempt at a chuckle fails, denouncing your regret. Jenny notices the furrow of your brows and how concerned you seem, ripping the paper away from your hands.
“Sure.”
The seconds fill with silence. You stand by her desk, waiting for a snide comment, a spiteful joke, anything. She looks at you like she knows you want to apologize again.
“Nice sketches!” You smile as a desperate invitation to make friendly conversation.
Jenny doesn’t cave in.
“You’re dismissed,” she nods at the doorway and hops onto her laptop. “I’ll text you when I’m done.”
Monday night, March 24th @ Agent ____’s home.
“Hey,” you mutter over the phone. “Just checking up on you and mom.”
“Finally!” Albeit sarcastic, your younger sister’s voice is nothing but chirpy, as it has always been. “We miss you, you idiot. You know that, right?”
Over the phone, you can hear your mom’s laugh and a few unintelligible words. It seems she’s adjusting to your dad’s absence. Somehow, you had stopped calling after the funeral. It’s not that you didn’t miss them back ⎯ you were sick of being flooded with memories every time you’d hear her voice. Like your dad was still there too, right beside her.
“Sorry, sweetcheeks. I’ve just been busy.” The explanations and apologies roll off your tongue.
“You know you can’t avoid us forever, right?” Her voice is so sober, it’s as if she’s older than you by a million years.
When you gaze out the window, loneliness overcomes you. The years spent playing hide and seek in your childhood home are long gone, replaced by miles of distance between you and your family ⎯ how you became so caring and so bad at expressing it like your father. You hate how much of you is made of all the people you love. And miss.
“You there?”
“Y-yeah, yeah I’m sorry.”
“I swear to God, you gotta stop doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“This.” She pauses. “Acting like we don’t exist. Seriously. We miss you.”
A pang of guilt flashes through your chest.
“I know.” Your voice is small through the phone again. In between the anxiety and the seconds, you fiddle with your bracelet. “I’m sorry.. It’s been hell.”
“I promised you I wouldn’t tell mom about your breakup, but she keeps asking me. It wouldn’t hurt if you opened up for once.” She sounds more hurt than angry, vindicating your mother after all the months you spent avoiding calls and texts under the pretense of your busy adult job.
Even in the softness of her voice, her words feel harsh. You gulp down a threatening tear, staying silent on the phone. She was still right, though.
“Listen, we love you, okay? I don’t know what kind of shit you’re going through because you won’t tell me everything.. but dude, please, seriously just come visit us sometime. I know you’ve got your job and all, but act human for once. Please?”
“Okay, okay. I’ll try. I promise.”
“Good. I gotta go now. Mom wants to go grocery shopping for some french-whatever-pie and I promised her I’d help. Give Circe my love!”
You chuckle, sadly.
“Yeah… Yeah, it’s okay. I’ll see you guys soon.”
When the call ends, silence deepens. It’s your own doing, you know, but that doesn’t make it any less suffocating. Even when you crave solitude, you’re just plagued by loneliness.
Wednesday morning, March 26th @ Java café.
Today, Yoongi thinks you look a little better. And by better, it means rested. Of course, your gaze is still very much zombie-like, with glimpses of terror in your eyes when you look away.
But in this line of work, it ain’t all rainbows and sunshine.
It’s never rainbows and sunshine, he realizes.
“So,” you sigh.
“So.” Yoongi punctuates, giving you room to breathe.
Your eyes are distant, watching children play in the puddles from last night’s rainstorm. The weather has been cruel to this city, punishing sinners and saints alike with a dreadful fog in the mornings and plenty of humidity to drive your hair follicles to the brink of insanity.
“Bowen’s alive, Yoongi. There’s a big chance he just… got away with it.”
Your words aren’t met with so much enthusiasm. You suppose it’s the skepticism in this field ⎯ even the good news don’t feel like good news. Before his questioning and theorizing begins, Yoongi brings up a valid concern.
“Why didn’t his brother spill his whereabouts, though? It’s not like Adam had any reasons to protect his brother any longer.”
“Unless he did.” You counter-argue.
“Why, though? It doesn’t make sense. In ninety percent of the cases, you know what happens. So-called partners in crime turn against each other. It’s good ol’ politics.” Yoongi leans back in his chair, nodding at the waitress for more coffee.
“Maybe he had something to lose,” you purse your lips. The biting of your inner cheeks is such an instinctive habit of yours that it barely stings until you realize how much tension you’re holding in. “Or someone, you know?”
“Several someones.” Yoongi blinks. “Do you remember the Mormon Heritage cult?” His eyes narrow as he scrapes the top of his head.
Your back and forth is interrupted by the local waitress pouring hot black coffee onto Yoongi’s cup. He seems like he’s on a roll today ⎯ it’s his third cup. That you know of.
“Uhhh, kind of. They were a thing in the nineties, weren’t they?”
“Yeah.. well… the Satanic panic might’ve contributed to that,” Yoongi nods, slipping his mobile out of his pocket. His fingers are hasty, typing up a Google search so he can word vomit every single fact possible. “But we know that the Jesus believers can somehow always be worse.”
He sounds so snarky, it earns a laugh out of you.
“The Bowens were around that time,” he says. “I mean ⎯ the connection seems unlikely, but with these people, you never know.”
You sigh.
“McKinnon didn’t give us this case for nothing, huh?” Even with half a smile on your face, you can’t help but feel defeated.
“Cheer up, buttercup. I think we got a lead.” He smiles with his teeth for once in a lifetime, raising his eyes from his phone to meet yours. You know he is up to no good ⎯ and that can only be a good thing.
“Buttercup?”
monvante © 2021 - 2024. all rights reserved. do not copy, edit or redistribute my work.
#yoongi fic#bts fic#bts fanfic#bts scenarios#bts imagine#bts imagines#yoongi x reader#yoongi smut#yoongi fanfic#yoongi x yn#yoongi x you#bts x reader#bts x you#bts smut#bts x yn#png: c001
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ngeyn
ngeyn [ŋɛjn] adj. tired
Anonymous Request: Neteyam x F!Reader where she’s super mentally and emotionally drained and exhausted?
+
Anonymous Request: Neteyam x Omaticaya reader where she flinched during an argument?
In this fic, Neteyam is an adult (about 20) at the beginning of Avatar 2.
762 words
The journey has been longer than I expected. Neteyam's parents had told me it would be, and still, it was harder than I thought.
The last year has been hard on all of us. Everyone has suffered, and we are all tired, and I try to remember that when I feel worn out or want to complain. I try to keep quiet, and almost all of the time, I do.
Leaving the only home I have ever known has put me over the edge. I agreed without hesitation, because Neteyam is my mate, and his family is my family; I will go where he goes, no matter how far - but I miss my parents, and my own siblings, and it's hard to imagine that I may not ever be able to see them again.
As much as I love the Sullys, as much as I am a Sully... I am something else, too.
When we arrive, the beautiful shores that the Metkayina live on ease my worries for only a moment, until I see the icy reception of their Tsahik. Neteyri and Jake do their best to defend our family, and we're allowed to stay.
But they look at us like we're aliens, and one of them grabs my tail, pulling a little too hard. I yelp, and Neteyam turns on his heels, hissing.
"Neteyam!" his father calls, and Neteyam turns to him, eyes narrowed, and we fall back in line with the family. We are led to two pods, mauri, they call them, side by side. Tuk bounces happily along, and Neytiri is clearly displeased. We walk past them to our own pod, just next door, and I set what few things we have brought inside.
"It's nice," Neteyam says, and I stare at him, dropping our bags. "We have to put on a brave face."
"I'm too tired right now, Nete."
He approaches, reaching out and grabbing my arm. "I know. Chin up. It will be okay."
More forcefully that I mean to, I yank my arm from his grasp. "You don't know that! Stop pretending like everything is okay. Everything is... everything is bad, Neteyam. Allow me a few moments, to grieve my parents, and our home, and our way of life."
It will be hard to adapt here, to submit to being a student, to learning all the different ways these people live. I liked our old ways, and our old home, and I don't know who to be mad at.
Neteyam reaches out again, and I flinch away. He stands up straight, backing away.
"Y/N, I'm sorry."
Finally, I break. I have been trying for a long time to remain strong, a steady support for Neteyam, but I can't anymore.
I keep thinking of my tail being pulled on the beach, and wonder what kind of people we've settled with. Now, their cruelty has caused me to flinch at my own mate, who has never laid a hand on me in that way.
Tears spill from my eyes, and I fall forward, into Neteyam's open arms. "I'm sorry," I manage between sobs, and we sink to the floor. Neteyam cradles me in his lap, rocking slowly back and forth, as if I am a child.
I feel as foolish as one.
"I am grateful that these people have taken us in, and I am grateful for you, Neteyam, always. I'm just so tired, and I want to sleep. The thought of learning a whole new way of life is... exhausting."
He runs his fingers through my wind-tangled braids, separating them gently. "We don't have to do that today, Y/N. Today we will just rest. Tomorrow, we can worry about everything else."
Slowly, Neteyam lays back, pulling me along with him, laying me beside him. Our legs intertwine, and he cradles me to his chest.
"Just sleep now, as long as you need to." He presses a soft kiss to my temple. "Tomorrow, we will figure this all out together. You're not alone."
It's just the reminder I need. Even though I'm sad, and tired, and scared... I'm not alone. I have Neteyam, Neytiri, Jake, Kiri, Lo'ak and Tuk, and they all treat me as one of their own.
Jake calls me daughter, Neytiri calls me beloved, and even if I miss my parents, I have a true and wonderful family here.
Most importantly, I have a mate who holds me tenderly and kisses me softly while I cry, and gives me some of his strength when I need it.
We will get through it, together.
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could u pleasee write a pt 2 to cold where they just .. grieve :’) and maybe you could weave bits of the reader in the story through flashbacks so we could get to know them? ^^
Empty Space (Cold pt2)
As it sets in, everyone has their own way of coping.
pairing: Sully Family x !Twin Sister! Reader
A/N: I wrote this in like a couple of hours I’m not sure if it’s good but I hope it is! 💔
Sitting on the sandy beach, lo’ak felt the breeze run through and past his hair. After a particularly tough day, the setting sun was his favorite thing to see. Closing his eyes, he breathed through his nose, already feeling the bubbling grief coming back up. Although times like these were pleasant, they left him stuck in his head, stuck in his thoughts. It’s been a week since she left, and it’s been racking the entire family down to sad glances and tight hugs as if the other would disappear just as she did.
¨What are you doing out here so late?”
Her voice was clear as day, a haunting memory. Quiet steps stopped right behind him, waiting for a response. She always knew. She, without fail, consistently saw the sad twinkle in his eye and always felt like the silence in his sentences hung far too long in the air for her liking. If it were up to her, she would have already begun comforting him before returning home, but she can’t force him to speak up, and she knows he certainly always will.
Turning his head, the only thing he saw was not her. Scoffing, he buried his head in his hands. He was going insane as the minutes ticked by, and his mind was suddenly catching up. Letting out a gentle whimper, he bit his lip, stopping it from quivering. He wasn’t sure what was worse—not feeling her soft gaze from across the room as she mouthed little motivations or not feeling her soul in his heart. Scrunching up his eyebrows, keeping the tears at bay, he looked at his family’s Marui pod. Ever since the funeral, he hasn’t spent more than an hour inside his home, fearing that if he took one glance at the places she spent most of her time at, he would break down and possibly do unspeakable acts that even she would frown at.
Slumping down, he succumbed to the feeling and let out tiny cries, mumbling her name between a few.
•~•
Neteyam, pushing past a couple of boys, even bumping shoulders with one, rolled his eyes as some started yelling insults at his back. Wincing at a stab of pain from his hip, he kept walking with the sack of fruits on his back. While the rest of his family either closed themselves off or spent the day growing softer, he grew angrier. He wasn’t sure what he was mad at, but he was confident that most of it was directed toward himself. If only he had run a bit faster, he would have missed it entirely and might’ve saved her.
Deciding that the throbbing wound had been annoying enough, he threw the bag on the ground. Grunting as he sat down, he noticed the eclipse coming faster than he had hoped. He planned to work outside for a while before returning home to help his mother with dinner. Taking a risky glance at his chest, her necklace sat comfortably around his neck. Before the funeral, he managed to keep it as a piece of love, but it only became a constant reminder that he wasn’t there again.
He remembers her weaving this necklace for about two days before she finished it. He had joked about wanting it for himself, and despite it being her favorite piece of jewelry, she only told him that one day it would be his. The only issue was that he expected it to be a while before it was his. Maybe she would have given it to him on his birthday, or maybe after their father had yelled at him quite angrily for something that wasn’t even his fault.
Frowning at how dull it looked now, he puffed out a breath, looking at his destination before he quickly got up and walked a bit faster this time, avoiding the pitiful stares he got from the others.
•~•
Although there had been conversations, silence spoke more than they had in the past hour. Kiri kept her gaze on tuk’s hair, avoiding her mother’s stare. She had been there; she had watched her sister die. She wondered how her brother was holding up. They were always the closest. His twin contained him just like a cup would do with water.
On the other hand, Tuk had barely registered that her sister had died a couple of days ago. Since then, she opted to sleep in the same position her sister had, feeling just a tad bit closer to her even though the truth was that she was very, very far away. She always left places with lingering gazes thinking, ¨She would like this, ¨ before smiling and walking away. Just as she did when she was here, she found comfort in her older sister.
•~•
Dinner had been relatively silent as Neytiri tried getting a couple of responses to her questions about everyone´s day. As night pooled into their home, Jake lay wide awake, eyebags much more prominent now as he desperately wished to fall asleep without waking up to a gut-wrenching nightmare from that day. He felt like something inside him had died, and it lay there clawing for a way out.
Every time he looked at lo´ak, it was like a punch to the gut. He looked so much like her, and now as he wore beads from a necklace she once wore in an armband, it simply became worse. The night she died, he spent almost every moment alone crying. Her voice, laughter, giggles, and even her scoldings replayed in his mind every second of the day despite his angry promises that he would stop thinking about his sweet, sweet girl.
¨Jake.¨
Flinching a bit at her sudden appearance, although she had been there all this time, he only felt like curling more into himself.
¨We need to le-¨
¨Every time I stare at the water, I see how scared she looked on that boat, Neytiri.¨ sharply sucking a breath in between her teeth, she sadly frowned at how she indeed saw the expression on her daughter´s face. As she held that bow with just as much confidence as she always had, her face and quivering hands gave it away, but Quaritch never noticed.
As much as Jake hated seeing how his daughter looked like her opposite, he felt guilty for feeling just a tiny bit terrified of the kid he knew to cry whenever she found a dead insect on her daily trek through the forest. Still, at that moment, he knew her as the girl who had fought three fully grown boys for simply insulting her.
Whenever he closed his eyes, he only saw how much anger she held in her eyes despite her hair covering quite a bit of her face from possibly the worst fight of her life. The snarl coming out of her as Quaritch pressed the knife just a bit deeper into her sister´s skin was engraved into his head.
Neytiri, fighting back a couple of tears at how badly this death affected them all, only took a deep breath and moved closer to her husband, who shook with quiet sobs. Her daughter was gone, and nothing was the same anymore.
#jake sully x daughter!reader#neytiri x daughter!reader#neteyam x sister!reader#loak x sister!reader#kiri x sister!reader#tuk x sister!reader#avatar twow
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if everyone in ragnarok had been in character
*Surtur scene*
Thor: Wait, is this a thing I do? Talk to myself? Have I always done this? It seems rather unhealthy.
Peter Parker: WOW, that’s judgey.
*************************
*The Tragedy of Loki scene*
Loki as Odin, lounging around eating grapes: And that, my subjects, is how a total dipshit would impersonate me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have actual ruling to do.
**************************
*Tragedy of Loki Part 2*
Thor: Nothing will stop Mjolnir, even your face.
Loki as Odin: That would be terrifying if I didn’t know how to do this *fucking vanishes*
Thor: Fuck, I forgot he can do that.
**********************
Sidewalk scene:
*portal opens up underneath Loki*
Loki: *turns into a bird and flies above said portal*
Dr. Strange: Fuck, I forgot he can do that.
***********************
*Odin’s death scene*
Odin: I love you, my sons.
Thor: ....are you telling me, Father, that you made no plans in the event of your death? Which was inevitable, because as you yourself once said, “We are not gods. We are born, we live, we die.”????
Odin: *fucks off into glitter no that is seriously what happened*
Thor: That’s very pretty, Father, but I’m still angry.
Loki: Now I’m REALLY not sorry I sent him to Shady Pines.
**************************
*after elevator scene*
Thor: Hey, what’s that on your back?
Loki: Oh come on, that’s the oldest trick in the---
Thor: Never mind, it’s just your hair. *picks it off Loki’s shoulder*
Loki: For a moment I thought you were going to attach an obedience disc to my back and leave me convulsing for the Grandmaster to find and presumably melt.
Thor: That greatly offends me! Only a complete ass would do such a thing! The only way it could be worse is if I made a self-aggrandizing speech about heroism and change while engaging in an act of torture!
Loki: That would indeed be nonsensical. Nearly as bad as me plotting to betray you for mere coin. And confessing to it, before I am safely out of the way of your inevitable counterattack.
*both stare at the camera like on The Office*
**************************
*Hulk turns back into Bruce*
Bruce Banner: *completely freaking the fuck out* Wait, what do you mean I’ve been murdering slaves for the past to years? The whole reason I left Earth was to keep from hurting anyone else! Are we going to address this at all? At any point? Ever?
Thor: No, apparently we are to engage in ten minutes’ worth of jokes about the anal cavity of one called the Devil.
Bruce: .....wHAT?
****************************
*after being promoted to Executioner*
Skurge: Um, my queen?
Hela: Yes?
Skurge: Why does the Goddess of Death need an Executioner? I mean, you can pretty much kill with a touch, right? You rule over the realm of the dead?
Hela: ...you know what? I’m honestly not sure.
Skurge: I mean, if having a fuckton of swords makes you the Goddess of Death, does that mean that if I go to CostCo and get a cartload of drain cleaner, I’m the God of Death?
Hela: .....
*********************************
*Surtur destroys Asgard*
Korg: Whoops there goes your foundation.
Asgardians: Who the fuck is this asshole can we just grieve for our entire civilization in peace for ten seconds
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Tumblr user bisexualhomelander bringing you what it says on the tin.
Domestic May Prompt: Somebody is being wrong (?) on the internet. Pairing: Butchlander
"They're wrong."
"Mhm. Or how about you turn that thing off?"
"No, but they're wrong! This is... preposterous! William, look at it!" The phone is being shoved into his face, too close to read anything, making Billy go cross-eyed.
"I can't look if you shove it down my throat."
Homelander acquiesces and holds the phone at an acceptable distance. Billy blinks and begins to read. Homelander has dragged up a post on supespace.net, an unofficial platform for fans of Vought's heroes and heroines. Billy has used it himself in the past, not to make posts but to gather intel. The fans of these cunts, however misguided they may be, have a keen eye and can analyse paparazzi shots better than any CIA agent.
The post in question is titled Homelander is bi and was posted by a user named bbygirllander. Billy only reads the first few lines: This sounds weird, but hear me out, we stan a bi king. He skims the rest before landing on the top comment: He is literally a Nazi. Billy barks a laugh. "Okay, what's so bad about this?"
"Do you see this shit?"
"Nothing on there is news, luv."
"Not you, too!"
"You seem more upset about the bi thing than you were about that Nazi comment up here."
"That's old news. They've been saying this ever since-" He trails off. Billy will never understand how he can be genuinely grieving Stormfront. Surely he doesn't believe their love was ever real. If yes, the bleach must have gone to his Aryan little head. But Billy sees no use in upsetting him further, so he listens and keeps his thoughts to himself. "But I'm not bisexual. I'm not any of... that. This has the power to destroy me. The tabloids will pick it up. It's been the top post for..." He scrolls up. "For two days. There have been ten hero announcements from Godolkin since then, and they haven't even scratched most viewed."
"Okay." Billy tries to think of what to say. He feels a pang of sympathy. He'd been twenty once, nearly drinking himself into a coma when he'd realised he liked dick. And he'd just been a kid from the wrong side of the Thames that nobody gave a damn about. Not a mega star. "If anyone talks about it, just make a statement telling them they're being wrong on the internet."
Homelander's mind was seemingly a few steps ahead. "I need to make an account. And deter them. I need to make ten accounts. I need to post this on Voughtstagram with a bunch of cry-laughing emojis, laughing about how stupid they are being on the internet. I need to get ahead of this. I need to get ahead of this..."
Billy interrupts him before he can talk himself into a manic episode. "D'you want me to read you some of them comments?"
Homelander looks on morosely, but at least he's stopped talking. "No."
Billy reads. "It's not anyone's business. Just because you watch his films doesn't mean you own him. Here's another good one, Good for him if it's true, but we can't take it as fact. If he doesn't want to come out, he must have his reasons. Oh, I like this one. It's in response to someone stating you've only been with women. I didn't realise I was bi until I was in my sixties. There's no timeline. Maybe Vought doesn't want him to go public about it, I mean, they are kind of conservative, and his fans consist of rabid right-wingers. See, the people are all on your side."
Homelander blinks. "I don't want a public coming-out."
"I'm sure Maeve said the same before you outed her live on TV."
"That was different. She had a girlfriend."
Billy heaves a sigh.
"If I address the rumours, it means we will have to stay on the down-low," Homelander says. "You'll have to continue sneaking in through the staff entrance if you want to see me or Ryan. We'll have to be more careful about anyone seeing us because evidently it's happened."
"I'd be gone faster than you know what hit ya if you ever were to go public with us. You know that."
"What if Ryan sees this?"
"What if-? Ryan, who knows I practically live here three days a week, who sees your toothbrush next to mine in the bathroom? That Ryan? Luv, he ain't a toddler you can fool by telling him your good buddy Billy is having a slumber party with ya. He's twelve. He knows we're fuckin'."
Homelander just gives him a look and shrugs, suddenly silent. Billy knows that look, the wide eyes and helplessly tensed lips. Homelander is close to tears. "That's all well and good. But I'm not bi."
"Fine by me," Billy says and means it. "The people are right, it's not anyone's business. Not even mine. You don't have to call it that."
"So you agree with me."
Billy cocks his head.
"They're wrong on the internet."
Billy picks up Homelander's phone. He mindlessly scrolls through some more posts. "Oh, lovely. Homelander is a natural blonde, y'all are being mean. Now that's what I call wrong on the internet. Wait. Wait. Have you guys been timing the breaks he takes on-stage? I have a theory they're bathroom breaks because he has to pee more because his prostate is getting bigger-"
The shattering glass makes Billy realise the phone has gone out the window before he even understands it's no longer in his grip. A pair of lips is seeking his own in a way that would leave the fans bug-eyed.
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Can we get a fic of Ray trying to thank (read: seduce) Sand for taking care of him after his accidental and Sand folding like an eclair?
So, I don’t think this is exactly what you were looking for (spoiler alert: there’s no smut), but I thought it was kinda cute anyway 🥹 Hope you enjoy!
Rating/Warnings: Teen & Up Audiences; mentions of past suicidal ideation
Word Count: 1727
Ray had tried to get Sand to leave at least a dozen times, but Sand refused to go. He had been by Ray's side for twenty-four hours straight and each time he chose to stay, the fondness in Ray's heart grew, blossoming into something deeper and more genuine than anything he had ever known.
After the accident, Sand had sat by his bedside in the hospital, offering what little reassurance he could while simultaneously researching lawyers to help with Ray's pending DUI charge. He had listened to the nurses explain Ray’s discharge instructions, knowing Ray wouldn’t do it himself. He had driven Ray home, run him a bath, shaved his face, and Ray deserved none of it. Because the last thing he had done before driving off on a suicide mission was call Sand a whore.
He didn’t know how to explain that he hadn’t meant it. That the words had been intended to hurt himself, not Sand. That he had driven away thinking he would never see him again and he hadn’t wanted Sand to grieve him. Because he didn’t deserve that either.
And yet, here Sand was—helping him out of the bathtub, drying him off, getting him dressed. He was an angel; Ray was sure of it. He couldn’t stop staring at him.
“Come on,” Sand said, running the towel over Ray’s hair one last time before tossing it to the floor. “Let’s get you to bed.”
And although Ray wasn’t tired, he went, because that’s what Sand wanted him to do.
Ray’s room was cold. The whole house was. It always had been. Ray hated it. He hated that his father was never there, hated that the ghost of his mother still roamed the halls, hated that everything smelled like liquor. But he liked that Sand was there with him. So when Sand held up the covers on Ray's bed for him to climb inside, he went, assuming Sand would follow him. Only Sand didn’t. Instead, he dropped the blankets and took a step back.
“Where are you going?” Ray asked, slightly panicked. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the flash of headlights coming towards him. Every time he was left in silence, he heard the screech of tires, the honking of a horn. He didn’t want to be alone when the memories came back to him—and, more importantly, he didn’t want to let go of Sand. His life line. His savior.
“I’m going to sleep on the couch,” Sand said, his voice emotionless. “If you need anything, just call out. I’ll hear you.”
He moved to leave, but as soon as he did, Ray’s heart started racing. Sand was the only think keeping him sane. The only thing holding him together. He couldn’t leave. He couldn’t. So he sat up, grabbed Sand’s hand, and pulled him back towards him. Sand turned in surprise.
“Stay,” Ray begged. “Please.”
Sand’s face was unreadable. “I think it would be better if I didn’t.”
“Why? Because I yelled at you? I yelled at everyone! I was drunk.” He pulled a little harder on Sand’s arm. “Please don’t be mad at me. I almost died.”
“And whose fault was that?” Sand asked. But this time, finally, he was smiling. “You never give up, do you?”
He sat down on the edge of the mattress and Ray’s heartbeat steadied enough for him to lay back down. He stared up at Sand, mesmerized—the boy that kept saving him. The boy he had taken for granted.
“I really am sorry,” he said, pulling Sand’s hand closer to his chest as if it were a stuffed animal keeping him warm. Sand let him do it. “I didn’t mean what I said.”
“Then why did you say it?”
Because he was hurting and he wanted other people to hurt too. Because no one ever listened unless he screamed his thoughts loudly. Because sometimes the only way to justify his drinking was by pushing everyone away and blaming them for his pain.
“I was angry,” he said. “And drunk. But you don’t have to worry about that anymore because I’m never drinking again.”
Sand raised a single eyebrow and glanced over to the bottle of whiskey sitting on Ray’s nightstand—a remnant of before. This was after. Ray pretended not to see it. He understood Sand’s doubt, but he was serious this time. He could have killed someone driving drunk. He could have killed Sand. And how would he have lived with himself then?
“Just stay. Sleep in here with me,” Ray said, eager to change the subject. “I don’t want to be alone.”
“Ray,” Sand warned.
“Please,” Ray begged, pulling on Sand’s arm more insistently, but he could see that he had finally reached the limit of what his puppy dog eyes could get him because Sand was not budging. So he pulled out the big guns. “Ouch,” he said suddenly, cradling his broken arm to his chest.
“Are you okay?” Sand asked. Immediately, he scooted closer to Ray and helped him sit up. “What’s hurting? Do you need more medicine?”
He gently grabbed Ray’s arm and began running a searching finger along it as if searching for cracks himself. Ray just watched him. It was the first time in a long time that he felt truly taken care of. He removed his arms from Sand’s grip and twined them around his neck instead.
“You dirty little—” Sand started. His eyes were already mid-roll when Ray kissed him, falling back onto the mattress and dragging Sand down with him. But Sand, it seemed, was still worried. “You were lying, right?”
Ray shushed him, ignoring the question, and then kissed him again. This time, Sand kissed him back. Hard. So hard that Ray couldn’t tell whether he was aroused or angry or both.
“I thought—you were—dead,” Sand said between kisses, his hands slipping beneath Ray’s shirt to trace the lines of his body as if he wanted to make sure everything was still exactly where it was supposed to be.
“I’m fine,” Ray promised, although it wasn’t entirely the truth. His arm was throbbing and Sand’s kisses were making him light-headed, but he ask him to stop. Not for anything.
Sand growled, clearly annoyed by Ray’s indifference, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he kissed him with the passion of a man who had thought, even if only for a moment, that he would never kiss his lips again. It touched Ray that he cared so much and he desperately wanted to repay him.
He reached between their intertwined bodies, searching for the buttons on Sand’s pants, but without the use of his left hand, it didn't do him much good. His grip was clumsy and inaccurate. Sand laughed and pulled away.
“What are you doing?” he asked even though Ray thought it was pretty obvious.
“Thanking you for saving my life,” he said, leaning in to give Sand a brief peck on the lips.
Sand pushed him away. “You’re supposed to be resting.”
“I can rest afterwards!”
“You really want to thank me?” he asked. Ray nodded. Sand leaned in, lips parted as if he meant to kiss him, but instead, he turned at the last second to whisper in Ray’s ear, “Then never, ever drive drunk again. Do you hear me?”
Ray let out a heavy sigh as Sand backed away, but he could tell by the look on Sand’s face that he was serious. That he wanted an answer. That he wanted a promise. “I won’t,” Ray said. He had learned his lesson and he knew now, unequivocally, that he had someone he could call if he ever needed help. Someone who wouldn’t judge him. A new emergency contact.
Sand nodded, pleased, and then crawled out of the bed.
Ray let out a noise of protest. “Where are you going? I agreed! Are you seriously just going to leave me like this? I can’t even jerk off.”
“Your other hand works fine.”
“Yeah, well, your hand would work better.”
But it turned out that Sand hadn’t been abandoning him at all. He had simply gotten up to shed his jeans and overshirt so that he could crawl back into bed and settle down for the night. Ray preened as he lay down beside him.
“You’re staying?” he asked, needing the confirmation. Needing to know that if he fell asleep, Sand would still be there when he woke up. He felt like a child seeking comfort after a nightmare. Maybe he was.
“If you can keep your hands to yourself, I will,” Sand snapped, straightening the pillows. “Otherwise, I’m leaving.”
“I’ll be good,” Ray said immediately. And he would. He didn’t want to risk this. Not when the thought of Sand leaving sent him into a panic. Sand laid down and closed his eyes to sleep, but Ray didn’t. Ray couldn’t. Not yet.
“Sand?”
“Ray, go to sleep.” Sand sighed. “You must be exhausted.”
Ray was. He hadn’t had a single moment of peace in over twenty-four hours and it had started to weigh on him. But there was one more thing he had to say.
“I just wanted to say thank you,” he said, making sure Sand could hear the sincerity, the vulnerability, in his voice. Making sure he knew, without a doubt, how much it meant to him. Sand opened his eyes and looked at Ray. “Seriously. I won’t forget it.”
Sand stared at him for a long time without speaking. “Go to sleep,” he finally said, his voice gentle and loving and kind. Then he reached out and ruffled Ray’s hair playfully.
Ray let out a squawk of protest that made Sand laugh and then they just lay there, staring at each other, the past and the future meeting in their gaze—a single perfect moment that never would have happened if Sand hadn’t been there to save Ray from himself.
Sand kissed Ray's forehead and then his lips before pulling him tight to his body, being extra careful not to hit his broken arm. Ray lay on his chest, listening to the strong beat of his heart, and soon fell asleep feeling like a whole new person.
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Spots and Stops
Continuation to Cookies and Cream
this isn't really a fix-it fic, cause like i got like a request to do so and i'll defs try to, but also i got like two people who wanted a part 2 so here it is
Word Count: 3.6K
A/N: People wanted a part two and i want to please the masses, and i have ideas so like here you go
-
Regret is all that you know. It consumes you, starting at your chest, making it ache the entire day, and settles in your stomach to the point that you can’t consume anything without it tasting bitter. You should have reacted better. You should have held him and told him that him being spotted wasn’t a dealbreaker.
But you didn’t.
Instead, you did everything wrong. He needed you. He needed someone, and he came to you. Somewhere, he thought to himself, that you would have accepted him, past your fear, past your hesitations and desires. He thought that you would want him.
In your entire relationship, you never thought that he would have ever been wrong. But he was, and in the worst way imaginable.
You have to force yourself to hide what belonged to him. You can’t bear to look at it- at him, at what used to be his. You hold his nightshirts in your hand, staring at them for far too long, lost in thought of what could have been. You really did think that you two would be together for a long time.
The fabric is wrinkled, the tag of the shirt curled in on itself and frayed at the edges. His toothbrush is still next to the faucet, and his face wash remains untouched. You can’t bring yourself to throw it away.
He won’t return. You won’t see him again, and as selfish and awful it is of you to keep something of the man that you rejected- you need to keep his things. You need to keep his shirts, and pants. You need to keep his skincare products. You need to keep his toothbrush. You need to keep some part of him with you.
A part of you wants him to return. You want him to come back; you want to take him up on that deal of starting fresh, of how he won’t hold what you said against you. How he was so willing to hide himself, just to stay with you. At some point, you expected to come into your home and find his stuff gone- the final sign that he has left your life- that he took what was his when you weren’t home. But he hadn’t. And he won’t. He would always listen to you. Always respected your wishes, and the final one was for him to leave.
You’re an awful person. You’re sickening. Tears dot on his shirt, and you place it beside you on the edge of the bed. Your knuckle wipes harshly at your eyes.
Taking in a deep breath, you force yourself to think of something happy. You don’t deserve to grieve the loss of the relationship. Not when you still have a home. A job. Loved ones. You have it all. He doesn’t. If anyone deserves to cry, it’s Jonathan.
You think of kittens and puppies.
You think of how his voice broke when he called your name.
You think of a memory with a friend where you had a picnic.
You think of how you couldn’t handle his touch.
You think of how he would hold your hand, and act as if it were the greatest honor to do so.
You think of him crying without a face.
You think of him lonely, and cold out in the night.
You bite your lips harshly, desperate to bring yourself back to your senses.
The sound of the city is alive outside your window. Lights flash, colors change, and you stand in the middle of your room, willing yourself not to cry.
-
You unlock the door, and throw your jacket on the couch. It slips and you pull a face at the audacity of having to pick it up. In your hand, you clutch the phone and listen to your friend talk.You shake the jacket, ridding it of any dirt that could have attached itself from the floor.
“Mhm,” you hum, kicking off your shoes and turning on the standing lamp, turning the knob to let a warm glow illuminate the room. You think you hear something somewhere, but you reason to yourself that it must be a pipe. “No, no. I get it. I mean, if it were me, I think I would have liked died.” Your grin is sharp when you hear your friend laugh.
“Exactly. So, that’s why I can never return to that specific bubble tea shop. Honestly, I just- it was so embarrassing,” they whine. You hear them sigh over the phone, and you stretch yourself over the couch, letting your head fall back. “Anyways, how was the date?” Your mouth pulls into a frown. “It’s been a good minute since-” they trail off, not wanting to mention his name, and you whisper a silent “thank you” at the courtesy. “Did you have fun?”
You straighten yourself back on the couch, pulling yourself close to yourself. “It was okay,” you mumble. “I don’t- I mean, he was nice and stuff, but I don’t know. I don’t really see it going anywhere.” You ate across from your date, and you wished that it was Jonathan.
“It doesn’t have to go anywhere,” the counter. “You can just have fun. You’re allowed to have fun after your last relationship.” You clench your jaw. “I know you really liked him, but he’s- you know.” You’re trying to find your words, but none come to mind. “You’re a catch- honest. You’re allowed to go on dates and enjoy yourself.”
Tears sting in your eyes, and you swallow the lump that’s made itself into your throat. “Yeah, you’re right,” you agree, without even trying to add faux emotion into your words.
“You uh-” they clear their throat- “Have you heard from him? Or about him? It’s kinda hard for a guy covered in-”
“I gotta go,” you mumble, not waiting for a response before you end the call. You toss the phone to the other end of the couch. You close your eyes, trying to steady your thoughts, and on the other end of the couch, you hear your phone buzz.
There’s another sound in your apartment, and you hope that it’s an intruder. You hope that they rob you blind and leave no witnesses. You hope- selfishly hope- that you can be put out of your misery without having to do anything. Then maybe, you wouldn’t have to feel guilt and regret eat away at you. You wouldn’t have to go on anymore dates or live in an apartment with items that don’t belong to you.
The room spins and closes in on itself and it’s difficult to breathe. Your chest feels as if it’s being crushed, held tightly with the palms of guilt and regret, squeezed until your ribs would splinter and heart would burst. Your breaths are quick and uneven. A hand clutches at your chest, and the other muffles any cries with the palm. You haven’t grieved, and the date that you went on, only confirmed that you shouldn’t. You tossed out your previous partner when he needed you the most. He cried in front of you, begged for you to accept him and you couldn’t. You’re able to continue your life as if nothing happened, he doesn’t have that same luxury. Even if you weren’t the one to cause the incident, you’re positive that you caused something worse to happen to him.
You miss him, but you shouldn’t be allowed to miss him.
Loneliness covers you in a warm blanket. It’s suffocating, and burning, holding you down as you wrap your arms around yourself. There is no comfort that you bring to yourself. There is no one that you can call. You wheeze and hold yourself. Tears burn themselves onto your face, and drip down your chin. You close your eyes tightly, biting on the bottom of your lip. You can’t cry. You won’t cry. You won’t allow yourself to feel bad about the ending of a relationship that you brought upon yourself.
Nearby, you hear a door click open, and footfalls thump softly against your floor. There’s a knock somewhere- too rhythmic to be a pipe or anything of the sort. You cry more, hiding your face in your palms, hoping that whoever is there will take pity. There’s another knock, and you shrink in on yourself. You can’t mumble anything other than a plea for nothing and anything. Finally, the other person speaks.
Your name is said softly, and you don’t respond. “I- I know you don’t want to see me, but are you okay?” Your chest shakes and heaves. You’re being tortured, you have to be. You’ve thought about him for far too long that you’ve begun to hallucinate his voice. “Do you need anything? I can um- I can get you a drink?” You take in a wheezing breath, one that hurts your lungs and chest. You hear rushed steps that echo away and come back in a flurry, and something blue is placed in front of you. You peek through the gaps between your fingers, and grab at a tissue.
Time seemingly doesn’t pass for as long as you cry. You sit there, whimpering and sniffling. You must look pathetic to him. And even then, he stands there. The thought of his previous form is what you picture. Picturing him as who he is now, only makes you cry harder.
You tried to get over your silly fear. You forced yourself to look at spots and holes in clusters. You forced yourself to eat cookies and cream flavored snacks. Even after all that exposure therapy, it still made you sick to look at spots.
This isn’t fair. None of this is. You wish that he had met someone better before he became what he is.
You bite the inside of your cheeks and look at him through wet lashes. You can’t even tell if he’s thin or not. His body is too off- too stretched at the limbs and compressed at the torso. You can’t remember if he looked like this all those nights ago.
“I know you told me to get out but I needed some stuff.” His voice rushes at the end, and he shifts his weight, tightening his hands around the clothes and pulling it close to his body. You watch as their clothes and other items fall into a hole, and fall in a crumpled pile near the door. You turn back to look at him. “I meant to do that,” he says weakly. He clears his throat, and stands taller. “I’m allowed to come in here and get my stuff. Okay? That’s fair.” The holes swirl around, thin black lines that wrap around the edge of the circle, smaller, black dots that linger around the bigger holes. You turn your head, tears still making their way down over the curve of your face. “But um, are you okay?” He connects his hands, and fiddles with his fingers, and you can picture who he was before.
Even after everything, he still asks if you’re okay. He does the one thing that you didn’t do for him.
You should tell him no. You should be honest. It’s not as if lying will do any good, especially at this state. Your face is wet, and you’ve cried. In the corner of your eye, you see your former partner stand and tilt their head, trying to get a better look at you.
Looking at him hurts in a way that it hadn’t before. “I’m sorry,” you say in a quiet voice. He doesn’t respond. “I’m so sorry,” you repeat, lowering your head. “I’m really sorry.” You cry, hiding your face in your hands once more. “I’m so sorry,” you wail, gasping for breath. Your shoulders shake, and your chest hurts. “I’m sorry, Jonathan,” you say as you gasp for breaths.
He stays silent, and you hope that for his sake, he left you. You hope that he’s the one who gets to leave.
Only quivering breaths that are coupled with a flushed face and teary eyes are the remnants that you mourned. Faintly, you remember a time where he held you, where he came home to find you crying, and how he raised over still in his work attire to hold you and rock you to sleep. You blink rapidly to rid yourself of that memory.
He sits beside you, and he’s made sure to keep his distance, perched on the other side of the couch. He turns to you, and your tissues crumble and drop to the carpet. “You look nice,” he compliments. “I always liked that color on you,” he mumbles, looking away.
You nod. “I went on a date.” Bile burns your throat at the admission.
“Oh.” Jonathan pats his thighs, and his nails claw, the spots seemingly swimming away from his touch. “Lucky guy.” He pauses, and clearing his throat, he turns to you. “How did it go?” He asks slowly.
“I didn’t like the guy.” Your shoulders slump, and tears prick your eyes once more. “Um-” your voice cracks, and in the corner of your eye, you see his hand jump, reaching over to comfort you, before having to pull himself back. “He was nice. But I wasn’t-” You stop yourself. You weren’t what? You weren’t ready? After all this time, after the break-up that you initiated, you weren’t ready to put yourself back out there. You weren’t feeling the date because it wasn’t what you wanted? You didn’t want him. You wanted- You clear your throat. “I don’t think I’m going to see him again,” you mumble. You cast a glance over to where he watches you, the hole where his face should be, spiraling and growing smaller under your gaze. “Have you been seeing anyone?”
He snorts despite the lack of features. “People aren’t really fond of my new look.” You wince and turn back to look at the floor. “But it’s fine.”
“How have you been?” You grab at another tissue, folding it into little squares.
“Well you know me, I’ve just been here and there. Messing with my holes and stuff.” You give a small smile, turning your head to look at him. “Money’s been a bit tight, but-” he lifts his hand in the air, doing a see-saw motion with it- “Eh. What can you do, ya know?” You force yourself to look at a small cluster of spots that have congregated at his shoulder. He turns to look at you, and when noticing where your eyes have landed, he covers the spot almost self-consciously. “And you? How have you been?”
You give a shrug. “My boss has been a bit of a dick as of late,” you mutter.
“The one with the mole?”
Your smile brightens up a bit. “Yeah, that one.” You look to the side, and back to him. “Cut my hours after I asked for a day off.” The tissue in your hand tears. “I probably should quit.” You tear the tissues into strips, letting them fall to the floor. You’ll worry about the mess later. “But after the lack of hours and the rent, I really can’t afford that.”
Jonathan stays silent for a moment. “You think you’ll be okay?” You give another shrug as your answer, and when you don’t elaborate, he presses on. “I have some money saved up. I wouldn’t mind- it’s you, you know. I know-” His offer only makes the tears start up once again, and he stops.
You take in a quivering breath, and rub at your eyes. “You shouldn’t,” you mumble. “I’ll figure it out.” You look away from him. “Plus, I’m sure you got your own things going on. Um-” you turn back to him- “where are you living?” You hope he gives you an address. You hope he has an address to give.
“Turns out, when you work for seedy people, they know even seedier people.” He doesn’t offer anything more than that.
Silence befalls the both of you. You should say something. You should close the gap between you. You should do anything.
Your hand slides beside you, reaching out, and you see his spot, lower itself, acting as his eyes, lowering his gaze to watch you. Sucking in your bottom lip, you turn your head. Your nails claw at the couch.
This is wrong. You shouldn’t do this to him. He deserves better than what you can give him. You haven’t even gotten over your trypophobia. But you still want to kiss him. You want to reach over and hold him, and beg to be forgiven. You want to cling to him like you used to after a long day. You want to kiss him, and hold his hand.
To whoever is listening to you, you plead for him to reach over. You want him to take another leap of faith and beg for you. You want him to need you as bad as you need him. The box of tissues becomes blurred, and your cheeks are wet.
“I should go.” The silence is broken, and you watch as he stands. His spots seem to drag, weighted at the bottom and stretching as he walks further away from you. “I think I got most of my stuff.”
The hole is his stomach bubbles around the rim, the circle wavy and imperfect. You rise with him, and he stands so much taller than he did before. “Do you want to borrow a tote bag or something?” He tilts his head at the offer. “It’s just that when you hold onto things, it um- it looks like they fall into you. I thought a tote bag would make it easier to carry,” your words trail off, softer and softer by the syllable.
“I’d appreciate that,” he replies.
You nod your head and rush to your room, grabbing at a tote bag from the closet, holding and running your thumb over the stitched handles. He’s going to borrow it. You bring the handle close to you, and press your lips softly against it.
When you walk back to the living, he stands at the end table, holding a photo frame of the two of you on an early date from what seems like a lifetime ago. You let your gaze linger on him, and when he turns, you scurry to the door, grabbing at his clothes and items, placing them delicately in the bag. You take your time to make sure everything is neat.
He meets you halfway across the room, and when you hand the bag over, he makes sure to hold the bag above your hands. His pinky touches briefly against your index. You clench your jaw, and try not to look at him.
“Thank you.” He pulls the bag close to him, and you give a curt nod.
“Anytime,” you answer.
Turning on his heel, he walks further from you, and he stops. “I’m going to use the bathroom. I don’t want you to see what I’m going to do.” You want to see. You want to get desensitized. “It won’t be long, I promise. I’ll be out of your way soon.”
“Jonathan?” You ask, tears springing to your eyes once more.
“Yeah?”
“I-” You need to apologize to him. You need to tell him that you’re sorry. You need to tell him that you miss him. You need him. “You can- You can always drop by if you need something.”
He visibly deflates. “Oh. Yeah- cool. Um, Thanks.”
All he has to do is say that he wants you. He needs to just say it, to ask one more time- that’s all he has to do. You can’t do it. Not when you broke his heart, not when you’re unsure about where you stand in his life and his wants.
He just has to look back, and you’d tell him that you need him. You’d kiss him, again and again. You’d plead for him to stay. You’d get over your dumb fear, and you’d be happy with him. He takes another step away from you, and you need for him to hear your heart beat against your ribs in an attempt to bully itself out of you. You need for him to stand there for a second longer, to watch and look at the lines that wrap around his body, and the holes that sift and move. You’d get over it, all for him.
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. He’s walking further away from you. He grabs at his body and pulls out a spot. Your stomach churns at the thought. Over the sound of cars and life, he needs to hear your heart break. He needs to understand that you need him the way that you need air. You’d die without him. You’d let yourself suffer. You stand, and lift your hand up, wanting to reach out for him.
Turn around.
Please.
Turn around.
That’s all he has to do. Nothing more. He doesn’t have to be someone else. He’s yours. He’s already himself.
The door to your bathroom closes, and you suck in a breath, tears springing to flood. “Jonathan,” you croak out, finally, and you rush to open the door to the bathroom, and when you do, he isn’t there.
You rush to your bedroom, and move the pillows, and you cling to the one shirt that he missed. The one that you hide underneath your pillows. The one that no longer smells like him, but still belongs to him. With all your might, you wish that he would return, but your prayers remain unanswered. Instead, you sit alone in a bedroom, clutching a shirt that no longer belongs to you. A shirt that has no owner. A shirt that is all that remains of someone who you need.
#jonathan ohnn x reader#jonathan ohnn#johnathan ohnn x reader#johnathan ohnn#the spot atsv#the spot x reader#the spot#atsv spot#the spot across the spiderverse#i wanted to title it i can't breathe#cause i was listening to mitski#but like i already had this title planned#so yeah#tbh i think it probably fits better that the other title#i really like mitski tho#i remember talking to a clients kid and told them that i liked mitski and they were like oh oh no#and im like yeah#:']#i know a lot of would like to be like heck yeah im sticking with my partner after he's become so interdimensional traveler#and like same#but also i think i would like think of the things that i would miss#idk#maybe not#geez it sure would be inconvenient if my partner turned into some scary abomination#hope it doesn't happen#(⓿_⓿)#༼ つ ◕_◕ ༽つ
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Berry🫐 Sweet
An Eddie Munson one-shot
TW: I just needed some fluff in my life right now and Eddie as a Dad melts my ❤️ - YoungDad!Eddie- Mentions of Eddie's girlfriend passing during childbirth, other than that just sweet girl Dad Eddie fluff❤️
Eddie -
"Daddy!!"
The sound was music to my ears. This was my favorite part of everyday, picking up my three year old daughter Phoebe from daycare. Every time I walked through that door I got a hero's welcome. She would stop whatever it was that she was doing and run as fast as her tiny legs would carry her, dark curly hair trailing behind her,to jump in my arms and hug me. After working a long day at the shop it was just what I needed.
It had been just Bea and I since day one, since the day that she was born when the powers that be decided to rip the one woman I ever loved away from me. My girlfriend, my life, my world , gone in the blink of an eye, passing due to complications from childbirth. One minute we were rushing to the hospital, both nervous and excited to finally meet our little girl and the next she was gone and I was alone, with a baby I now had to raise myself. I was both devastated and grateful, devastated at the loss of the love of my life, but grateful that I still had a part of her, that I would love and cherish forever.
I had read all the books, prepped myself for sleepless nights, but nothing can fully prepare for parenthood, especially when you're learning to become a dad while still grieving over your loss,but above anything, Phoebe was the reason to carry on. I had to take care of that precious little girl and give her the best life that I could. I loved her so much, she was my everything.
It took a lot of help, my Uncle, my friends and my girlfriend's parents were amazing, watching Bea while I was working, trying to keep the roof of our shitty little apartment over our heads, keep us fed and buy formula and diapers for the baby. We made it work and slowly over time we got into a routine, things got easier, I got more confident in my Dad skills and life pressed on. But one thing never changed, everyday the love I had for my little girl grew more and more. We were growing up together.
She was a good baby, a happy baby, full of giggles and smiles. Every time I would look at her my heart would swell, and I would beam with pride. I helped create this amazing little being.
Even know, as I held her in my arms I was amazed. I'd done something good.Eddie "The Freak" Munson, had created this smart, tiny , incredible human. A sweet little girl whose smile melted my heart, whose giggled turned my insides to mush and whose tears broke my heart. Out of all the things I had fucked up and failed at in the past, the one thing I was good at was being a dad.
My daughter buried her head in my neck." I yub you daddy."
" I love you too my sweet girl. I missed you. Did my busy Bea have a good day?"
"Uh huh. I played wib my friends!"
" That's awesome!" I squeezed her tight then went to her cubby to pick up her pink unicorn backpack and lunch box. Her daycare provider checked in with me letting me know that of course, my little darling was a complete angel today, and then we said goodbye and headed out to my van.
Gone were the days of having a van to carry all my band equipment and shit around, these days I was sporting a minivan. It just fucking made sense. Kids came with a lot of baggage, literally, and you had to lug that shit around. It was either station wagon which was a hard no or the minivan. I chose the latter of the two.
" So my sweet," I smiled as I buckled her securely into her car seat, " What would you like for dinner tonight?"
" Pancakes!"
"Ahh breakfast for dinner, excellent choice m'lady!"
She smiled." Booberry pancakes Daddy!"
Shit. I knew for sure that I didn't have any blueberries at home." We will have to run to the store first babydoll if you want blueberries."
" Uh-huh, my favewet!"
" I know they are your favorite, well let's go get some then!"
"Yay!"
" And some whipped cream so we can draw on faces!"
"Yay! And 'nanas?"
" Yeah we will get some bananas too."
"Yeah!"
" Well let's get going my little monster!" I watched as she stuck two fingers up behind her head and stuck out her tongue. I laughed and did the same. We both made monster noises. It was our thing, we were the Munson Monsters. I tickled her tummy and she giggled then I closed the door and we were on our way.
*******************************************"Let's stop and get a shopping cart?"
" No daddy, I walk."
" Are you sure? You don't want me to push you Princess?"
" No Daddy, I walk!" She looked up at me with her big brown eyes and smiled. My smart , strong willed, independent little girl. I grabbed a basket and took her hand.
" Ok, let's go get your blueberries-"
" And 'nanas!"
" You got it Ms. Bea!" I walked slowly towards the produce department, knowing that her little legs could only go so fast. I picked a perfect bunch of bananas then we made out way over to the berries.
" I pick em?"
" Yeah you can pick them. Want me to lift you up so you can see better?"
"Yes pweese."
Adorable and good manners. I smiled , setting down the basket and picking her up. I watched her face as she looked over the containers, contemplating which one to pick.
" I know, it's a hard decision isn't it?" A woman's voice said from beside us.
We both turned our attention to her and when our eyes met my breath caught in my throat. She was beautiful.
" Are blueberries your favorite?" She asked Bea, smiling. Her smile was warm and sweet.
" I lub booberries!"
" Me too, they are my favorite. " We watched as she picked a container looked it over and put it in her basket.
Phoebe did the same, small hands grabbing a container, then she looked it over like the woman had and held onto it.
" Do you wanna put them in the basket sweet girl?" I asked.
" No, I hold Daddy."
"Ok then."
" She is adorable." The woman grinned." She looks just like you."
" Are you saying I'm adorable too?" I joked. Real fucking smooth Munson, real fucking smooth. It's obvious that I have been out of the game for a while now. I'm so fucking lame.
She laughed," Maybe. I don't typically make a habit of telling men at the grocery store how attractive they are, there are a lot of creepers out there, but you give off a zero creepy vibe. And you are so sweet with your daughter."
I beamed." Shes my world."
As if on cue my daughter kissed my cheek. Perfect timing.
The woman sighed then turned to Phoebe."What are you making with your blueberries? I'm making muffins."
" Pancakes with smiles! Daddy, we make muffins too?" Her little eyebrows went up.
" I can try little darlin, but I make no guarantees as to how good they will be."
"Daddy make them good." She said nodding her head with a confidence in me that I wish I had in myself. I was shit in the kitchen, made enough homemade dishes to get by but definitely wasn't above dino nuggets and tater tots, some frozen veggies and fresh fruit to try to round things out.
" I bet they will be yummy." The woman said and I watched as my daughter smiled at her, she could be shy sometimes but really seemed to like her." Well I will let you get back to shopping, you have to get home and make some pancakes! " She smiled and gave us a little wave.
I noticed at that time that she didn't have a ring on her finger." It uh, was nice chatting with you, see you around." I smiled and thought about asking her her name, and maybe her number. We hit it off right? Bea liked her. But I chickened out.
" Nice chatting with you too. Good luck with the muffins."
" Thanks." I watched as she walked away. She had a nice ass too. Jesus, it has been so long....
" Daddy, I get down!"
I snapped out of my daze and put my girl down, taking her hand and grabbing my basket." Let's get the whipped cream and get out of here Doll!"
We made our way through the store picking up a few more things along the way, apple juice, eggs and baking supplies, like I even had a clue what muffins were made from, then we trudged to the registers. That is when disaster struck.
Phoebe stepped on her loose shoelace, shit, I knew I should have double knotted those fuckers, and fell ,dropping the blueberries she was so proud of picking out. I was able to catch her before she hit the ground but unfortunately the berries were not so lucky. The container hit the ground and popped open, sending blueberries scattering everywhere.
Bea looked up at me upset, tears pooling in her big chocolate eyes, bottom lip starting to quiver. It killed me to see her cry.
" Don't cry babygirl, it's not a big deal." I scooped her up and watched a teardrop roll down her chubby cheek, I gave her a big hug." It's ok-"
" But Daddy, the pancakes!"
I brushed the drops from her cheeks," I promise it's going to be alright," I knelt down with Bea in my arms and tried to pick up some of the mess... goddamn, that was a lot of berries...
I saw another hand reach out grabbing a handful of the soiled fruit and I looked up. It was her, the pretty woman from earlier.
" Thank you, so much." I gave her a thankful smile.
" You are so welcome." She flashed me an amazing smile.
Bea sniffed back tears." I broke em Daddy."
I kissed her on the top of her head." Honey, it was an accident-"
" I can take care of this." A store employee said joining in the pickup.
" I'm real sorry." I apologized.
" No worries." The teenage boy took over cleanup and we carefully stepped out of the way.
The woman walked up to Bea." Those blueberries just went on a little adventure, that's all."
My little girl wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, the corner of her mouth quirked up."An adventure?"
" I bet they have seen more of this store than any other blueberries have." She smiled and reached into her basket, pulling out her plastic container." Why don't you take these? They aren't as nice as the one you picked out but-"
"Oh we couldn't take your berries-" I spoke up. "Your muffins."
She laughed. " I insist. It is much easier for me to go grab another one than it is for you. You have your hands full Dad." She placed them in my basket.
Bea gasped." Thank you!"
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely! You can repay me by making some muffins for your little girl-"
" Phoebe. Bea for short."
" Phoebe! What a pretty name for a pretty little girl!"
Bea grinned at the compliment." I Bea, he's Daddy."
" Does Daddy have a name?"
" Eddie, I'm Eddie. And your name?"
"Y/N. It is nice to officially meet you guys."
God was she pretty." Thank you again for your help, and the berries."
" It was my pleasure. Maybe I will see you around?"
She was so sweet, I wanted to repay her." I uh, don't typically make it a habit, asking beautiful women out to coffee at the grocery store, but I would like to repay you for your kindness, I mean I totally understand if you say no, I mean we have only just met, I know it's kind of forward -"
She laughed." I would love to have a coffee with you sometime Eddie."
Holy fucking shit!"Really?" I said incredulously.
" Yes really." She reached into her purse and pulled out a piece of paper and wrote down her number. It had been so long since I got a number...." Call me and we will find a time that works. I'm sure your a busy man, I'm flexible. You could even bring Miss Bea along if you liked."
My eyes widened." You wouldn't mind?"
" Not at all. We could meet at the cafe around the corner from here. They have yummy donuts-"
"Donuts Daddy!"
I smirked" You said the magic word, she loves donuts."
" Same girl, same. Seriously though, call me." She smiled.
" I will." I put the paper in my pocket." Thank you again."
"Your welcome, again. It was so nice to meet you Eddie. I hope you guys have a wonderful night, enjoy your pancakes!"
"Goodnight!" Bea waved, grinning, little dimples in her cheeks.
" Bye!"
We both watched as she walked back towards the produce department. My heart raced. I was going on a coffee date with a gorgeous women. Holy shit. After all these years.
We finally made it through the check out, out to the car and home, the whole time I was reeling over the whole incident. Maybe it was fate?
I made the blueberry pancakes with faces as promised then we ran around outside in the yard, burning off some of the sugar we ate until it was time for bath and bedtime.
We both slept like babies that night. The next day I called Y/N and set up a date. A week later while on our coffee date, we set up a dinner date, then a movie date, then eventually a romantic weekend away date and then a year later a wedding date. I proposed by writing out out "Will you marry me? " In whipped cream on blueberry pancakes. It seemed fitting, considering that was what has ultimately brought us together. Whenever anyone would ask her how I proposed she would smile and tell them that I did it " Berry sweetly."
Thank you for reading ❤️ Please comment and re-blog❤️
Taglist:
#eddie munson#dad!eddie munson#eddie munson one shot#eddie munson fluff#littleblogsmatter#leeleiwrites
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The Pilot and his Girl - ch. 15
Sorry about the last chapter, I don't think this one is any easier, we're moving through some heavy angst territory here. But it is a crossover with The Last of Us and I did warn you 😋
Warnings have their own post and contain spoilers. Please read them if you know you might have a bad reaction to a sensitive topic.
Word count: 7.8 k
Series Master List
You’re honestly not sure how you keep him alive for the next few months. Frankie is with you, but he’s not with you. He doesn’t eat if you don’t put food in front of him. He doesn’t drink unless you give him your water bottle and tell him to. He doesn’t sleep, his nightmares are worse than ever. Not a night goes by without him waking up in a panicked cold sweat. More often than not he wakes up screaming too, waking you when the pain cuts through his subconscious. His screams are almost inhuman, ripping like a desperate wail from his throat, leaving it raw and ragged the next day. But you don’t hear his voice much now, he barely speaks, just a silent presence next to you as you go about your daily routine to keep you both alive for as long as possible. For what you're staying alive, you’re not really sure of any more.
You’d managed to drive the truck all the way back to the cabin, finding a detour past the blocked bridge, avoiding any towns, crossing over open fields when you could. Frankie had been in the passenger seat next to you, his eyes on the blood on his hands, rubbing it into his skin as he tried to wipe it off, his hands never stilling. As you pulled up to the cabin, your hands shaking in relief as you let go of the steering wheel, he wrenched the door open and strode down to the lake. You grabbed your gun and the rifle and ran after him. He walked straight into the water, stopping only when it came to his chest, washing his hands, scrubbing them together frantically. He ripped his shirt off and then his t-shirt, letting them fall into the water, as he scrubbed his arms, his chest, clawing at the skin.
“Frankie!” you called out to him, you longed to go to him but he was deep in the water and you didn’t even know if there was someone at the cabin yet. You held your gun by your side as you glanced back towards the dark house.
Frankie turned and looked at you for the first time since she’d died. His face was unreadable, as if you didn’t even recognise the man as he stared at you without saying anything.
“Frankie,” you said softly, calling out to him with a plea in your voice. He moved then, wading slowly through the deep water, back towards the shore, then he stumbled and fell to his knees, hands in the water, his head dropped down between his shoulders as they began to shake, sobs racking through his body.
“I can’t! I can’t!” he heaved, as you ran to him, holstering your gun and kneeling down in front of him, your arms wrapping around his shoulders as he grabbed onto you. Water seeped into your boots as your pants got soaked but Frankie’s hands dug into your back, his sobs making your body shake under him as he clung to you. You pushed your hands into his damp hair, raking your fingers through the curls, as he buckled around you.
“I can’t,” he sobbed, “I can’t. I can’t.”
You lost track of time that evening, you don’t know how long you sat with him on the shoreline, the chill went into your bones, your body shivering underneath him as you held him up in the water. Eventually, you both went numb.
And he stayed numb.
There was no one at the cabin when you came back that night. And no one came as the days slipped into weeks, months even. In the beginning you looked out the window almost all the time, listening for someone approaching when you went down to the lake for water, always on guard, but also always hopeful. But as time passed you stopped, it became too painful to hope that anyone of your friends had made it. And the worst thing was that you didn’t even know what had happened to them.
You grieved for Lucía too, going down to the jetty where she’d been fishing with Pope in July, putting the last wild flowers of the summer in a glass jar and then, when they wilted, the bright fall leaves. Frankie watched you pick the flowers and the leaves, but he never went down to the jetty. He just watched you from the steps of the patio, you'd usually find him there in the morning, the rifle across his knees.
When he couldn’t sleep, after waking from another nightmare, he’d go outside when you’d fallen back into an uneasy slumber, and watch the silent night slip away while he guarded the house. Guarding the one person that he still needed to keep safe.
He didn’t tell you, but often he thought about walking into the lake and swim in the cold water until he couldn’t keep himself afloat anymore, just let himself disappear. But then there would be no one left to keep you safe, so that was his mission, for now. Keep you safe.
You’d wake up and find the bed empty, and the first time you came running out, looking for him in a panic. So he tried to stay in bed. But the walls closed in on him in the dark room, the small bed where she’d slept only a few feet away. His mind pushed him out of the bed and he’d tuck you back in, pull his boots on, and go sit on the porch with the rifle across his knees. After a while you got used to it. If you woke up you’d wrap yourself in a quilt and sit next to him as the dawn broke. Sometimes you’d fall asleep again, leaning against his shoulder, needing to be next to him as much as he needed to be under the open sky to not suffocate when something inside him threatened to cut off his breathing.
During the days he forces his mind to just be numb, using bad tactics he’d learned in the military, compartmentalizing all the pain, all the fear. If he’d had coke on hand, he knows he would’ve been deep back into his old habit. He works himself into a stupor every day and crashes into bed at night. But it doesn’t help, at night, at night he can’t shut it out. You wrap yourself around him, after setting up the alarms around the house, and tuck your nose into the crook of his neck. He holds you, tangles his legs in yours, hangs onto you like you’re a life buoy, but it’s not enough at night. You fall asleep and then he lays awake, seeing the tendrils creep under her skin, the brown eyes that look so much like his own, broken in her perfect face.
He feels himself grow distant from you, he still needs you close, still needs to keep you safe, but his mind has nothing to say, nothing to give to you. You still put your arms around him, kiss his cheeks, his lips, the top of his head, lightly scratch his scalp, dragging your fingers through his hair in that way that used to make him melt into you. It still feels nice, it eases some of the tension in his body, but he’s still just numb. He doesn’t remember the last time he kissed you back, he doesn’t chase your lips the way he used to. He wraps himself around you at night but his body doesn’t respond, he just needs you close. And he knows you feel how unresponsive his body is, you never try to deepen your kisses or caress him the way you used to. Sometimes he wakes up, not from a nightmare, but with his cock hard, pressed up against your back. But as soon as he thinks he wants to wake you up, the heavy weight in his mind catches up with his body and everything goes dark inside him again.
He wonders how long you’ll put up with him in this state. Sooner or later you both have to leave the cabin and then, perhaps, he’ll find somewhere safer and then you can leave him. Or he’ll just walk away, save you the pain of having to put up with his broken shell. Because he is broken, now more than ever. If he thought he was messed up before, he knows it’s nothing to what he is now. He can’t give you anything anymore, nothing of all the things he knows you deserve. So he vows to keep you safe until you no longer need it, then he can take himself away and let you find a better life without him. He keeps the photo of you, him and Lucía in the front pocket of his flannel, he can’t bring himself to look at it, but feeling the stiff paper of the print as he moves, reminds him of the little trinity he used to belong to. And how he failed to keep it safe.
The leaves fall from the trees, heralding cooler weather and gray days. Your supply of food is running low, Denny kept the cabin well stocked but it’s not endless. You’ve been rationing it since you got back but now you’re down to about two weeks worth of food, three if you go hungry. Sitting back on your heels in front of the pantry you decide that Frankie and you need to leave the safety of the cabin and find more supplies. You’re also desperate to find out what’s happening in the world. Sometimes you nurture a small hope that things have gone back to normal, or at least less horrifying.
You find Frankie out back, chopping wood from the generous supply Denny had stored behind the garage. He’s stripped down to just a flannel shirt even though it’s nearly below freezing outside, sweat pouring down his face under the cap, and you can see steam rise from his body as he bends to pick up another log, placing it on the chopping block. He chops wood almost every day, the exertion and precision needed fits his mood, he can chop for hours and not have to think about anything but splitting the log in front of him. The first weeks he had blisters on his hands and his body screamed in protest from the exertion of swinging the heavy ax into the logs. Now his hands have healed, rough calluses on his palms, and his muscles don’t ache the same way, instead it craves the hard work, the exhaustion it brings at the end of the day.
“Frankie,” you say, to stop him before he lifts the ax again. He straightens up and turns to you, a questioning look on his face. Your heart aches as you see him, every time you speak to him now you’re reminded of the loss and what it’s done to him. Before he would’ve turned to you with a smile, his warm brown eyes would’ve crinkled at the corners, welcoming the interruption as he put his hand out to you, beckoning you in for a kiss before you even had a chance to tell him why you called his name.
Now his eyes are just black, dark circles under them, and no trace of a smile. He wipes the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand as you come closer. The rifle is propped up against a log next to him.
“I’ve been counting our supplies, the cans and the dry food,” you say, handing him a water canteen that he takes with a low grunt. “We have two weeks left at the rate we’re eating now, three if we stretch it. I think we need to see if we can find more supplies, and maybe find out what’s going on with the infection.”
Frankie nods and takes a long drink from the canteen, wiping his mouth before he drops his chin to his chest, thinking. You wait, looking at him as his fingers drum on the canteen.
“We take the truck and head towards Franklin,” he says finally, handing the canteen back to you. “There are small towns on the way, we can stop there and see what’s going on.” He bends and picks up the ax and as you step back he lifts it over his head and brings it down in a powerful swing, cleaving the log in two neat parts.
The next morning you don’t find Frankie out on the patio, instead he’s in the kitchen with your backpacks, packing them with necessary supplies, first aid kits and ammo. He’s got the truck loaded with extra supplies, treating it as a mobile camp for you both. The rest of the supplies he’s already hidden behind the big log pile in the shed, under a tarp. He reckons anyone desperate enough is going to find it if they come looking, but hopefully not at first glance.
You’ve got nerves swirling around the pit of your belly as you eat a can of chicken soup for breakfast, watching Frankie eat mouthfuls between restless checks of the packing. Triple checking your gun, putting into the leg holster, and making sure it’s tight, you grab your bag and bring it out to the truck. Frankie’s already put his in the back and as he locks up the cabin, you put yours there too. You wait for him by the front of the truck, testing something, and when he comes round and opens the passenger side door for you, you can’t help but smile. It’s like a small piece of the old Frankie is still there at least. He takes your hand and gives you a hand up the step and you squeeze it.
“Still not gonna let me touch that door are you, Frankie?” you smile at him and you see his eyes soften just a little as his lips curl up.
“Never, cariño,” he says, giving your hand a squeeze back, before he closes the door and rounds the truck. It’s tiny, but you’ll take it.
The truck is deafening when it rumbles to life, the quiet of the cabin and the forest has been all you’ve heard for the past few months. It’s strange not being able to hear your surroundings anymore and it makes you feel uneasy. You’re both on high alert as you scan the trees around you. Frankie makes the turn towards Franklin, aiming for the first small town a few miles away and you start hoping for cars, normal cars with families just driving along. But as Frankie drives, you meet no one. Whatever is going on in the country, it’s not back to normal. You pass by a few abandoned farms, you can see broken windows, some boarded up, and, in one farm yard, a charred pile of bodies. You quickly look away, looking over at Frankie instead. By the look on his face you can tell he saw it too and he reaches out and takes your hand, giving it a light squeeze.
“Don’t look, just keep your eyes on the road,” he says in a low voice.
The truck rolls through a small town, just a collection of houses on either side of the road, and there’s no one around as far as you can see. Frankie slows down as you leave the town behind and pulls in on a side road, turning off the truck.
“We’re gonna see if anything is moving” he says as he rolls down the windows, letting the cold winter air in. The first few houses of the town are just a few hundred yards away and you both watch them in silence. Twenty minutes pass and nothing stirs, no people, no infected and no cars. Frankie starts up the truck again and slowly drives back into the small collection of houses and pulls up next to the small gas station. Leaving the truck running, and you in the driver’s seat, he gets out and carefully steps through the broken door. You wait, anxiously looking around the truck, while you hear Frankie rummaging round the shop. It doesn’t take him long to come back with a handful of items, some candy, a couple of tubes of toothpaste and two cans of peaches.
“I’m gonna siphon some gas,” he says, putting the things in the back, and pulls out the rubber hose. Nothing stirs as he fills two spare gas canisters and the truck and after a quick stop at a small convenience store that’s been thoroughly looted you leave the small town behind you.
“The next town is bigger, hopefully we’ll find something there, I don’t want to have to go too far,” Frankie says as you pass him a chocolate bar and grab one for yourself. The chocolate is overly sweet after so long without any candy, Denny didn’t have a sweet tooth and despite there being a generous stash of potato chips at the cabin, there had been no chocolate, not even cocoa powder.
“If we find more chocolate I’ll be very happy,” you say, savoring the flavor, “didn’t think I’d miss it as much as I have.” You lick your sticky fingers as the next small town rolls into view.
“Gonna do the same again, drive through and then we wait to see if anything moves,” Frankie says and glances over at you, “And then I’ll find you some more chocolate,” his smile is small but you see it and you have time to think that this was maybe what Frankie needed to distract himself, a mission, something concrete to do, when the car suddenly jerks to the side and you feel the seatbelt dig into your chest.
“Fuck!” Frankie shouts and you see him tug at the wheel, outside the car several men have appeared out of nowhere and thrown several spike strips over the road in front of the truck. Frankie’s turning shapely to avoid them and twists in his seat, checking behind him but strips have been thrown out behind them too.
“Hold on,” he grits, gripping the steering wheel with both hands and flooring the truck, careening over the spikes, the truck jerks as the tyres blow but Frankie manages to hold it steady until a school bus suddenly rolls out from a side street. Frankie swerves to avoid it, the bus scrapes the back of the truck, making it skid sideways but Frankie parries and gets the truck back on track, speeding up, glancing behind him. He sees the men running after the truck and he pushes the truck faster, the rubber from the broken tyres flapping and bumping underneath. You look up ahead and see the main road barricaded at the end of town and as you gasp, Frankie curses next to you. The metal of the rims screech across the asphalt when he hits the break and makes a sharp turn onto the side street, the truck nearly topples but Frankie gets it back down again, slamming the breaks as you’re met by another barricade.
“Get out!” Frankie yells and yanks out your backpacks as you unclip the seat belt and throw open the door. He grabs your hand as you hear shouts go up from the main street and without turning he kicks in the door of the first house, pulling you into it. Holding on to him so hard it hurts, you run behind him, through the house, out into a backyard and across a small alley. Frankie stops for a second, scanning for the best way out, before he tugs your hand again and heads into a second house. Coming out on the other side he turns the corner into the next alley and before you have time to react a baseball flies up and hits him across the side of his head. His grip on your hand goes limp immediately as he crumples to the ground and you stumble, still holding on to him. A sharp pain shoots through your head and everything goes black.
The floor smacks the air out of you as you’re thrown into an unknown room and you cough, trying to catch your breath, as your muddled mind tries to shake the tendrils of unconsciousness. Before you can peel your eyes open, you’re yanked up off the floor and thrown on to a bed and someone tugs your arms together behind your back, and the sharp bite of restraints cut into your wrists. You force your eyes open and in the dim light you see a man bending over you as he grabs your ankles and pulls out a cable tie, securing it around your legs. He’s dressed in what looks like army surplus fatigues and biker gang gear, a revolver in a holster around his bulging waist, and greasy looking blonde hair in a ponytail. Your head is pounding, your vision seems misty, but as the man steps away from the bed you struggle to sit up, wincing in pain. He gives you a sneering grin as he notices that you’re regained consciousness.
“How’s the head, sweetheart?” he smirks, “You should’ve just stopped running, ya know?” He steps back towards the bed and watches you struggle to sit up against the headboard, your arms painfully pinned behind your back.
“Why..” you croak out, “why did you attack us?”
This makes him chuckle, “Because we can, sweetheart, and we want your shit.” He grabs your chin between his thumb and fingers, gripping it so hard it makes you wince, and fear pools in the pit of your belly. Forcing your face up towards his, he bends closer, “Incase you didn’t notice, the world’s gone to shit and it’s survival of the fittest, and we take what we want. Including you, sweetheart.” He pinches your face harder and you grit your teeth at the pain in your jaw. That seems to amuse him, a grin creeping across his ruddy face. His other hand suddenly shoots out and palms your breasts through your flannel shirt, squeezing hard as you kick your bound legs up to get away from him. His grip on your jaw is so hard you can’t get any sound out but in the back of your throat you growl, bucking your body away from him, and he laughs, sending chills through your bones.
“I like when they put up a fight, sweetheart, I’m gonna have fun to breaking you in,” he gives your jaw another sharp tug, forcing you to look at him as he starts working his way into your shirt, cold sweat breaking out on your back as you feel the rancid smell coming off him. “Yeah, we’re gonna have some real fun, you and me,” he leers as he bends closer to your face, “you’re gonna take my cock so well, might not even need to lube you up.” You feel yourself freeze up with fright as he roughly grabs your breast over your bra, giving it a painful squeeze and he cackles, leaning in as if to kiss you.
“Hey, Larry! Stop fucking the girl and come down here already, we need to deal with the guy first.” A second man has put his head around the door and is looking at the scene with impatience.
“She’s feisty this one, she’s gonna be a lot of fun,” the first guy, Larry, says, grinning back at the man at the door. But he does let go of your jaw and stands up, giving your shoulder a sharp shove so that you topple over on the bed, before he leaves the room, throwing you a final predatory look before the door is closed and locked.
Frankie comes to, as he’s dragged across a dirt floor, the toes of his boots catching on the threshold of a building, jolting him awake. His shoulders are protesting at the harsh angle as two men hold him up by the elbows, his hands tied tight, sharp cable ties cutting off his circulation. The side of his head is throbbing and he can feel sticky blood in his ear and on his cheek, it’s dripping down onto the floor. Gingerly he lifts his head and catches a glimpse of what looks like the inside of a barn before he’s hauled onto a chair and a ratchet strap is put around his torso, tightening until he can just about draw breath. He scans the room, looking for her, but she’s nowhere to be seen and he bites back the panic in his throat, bracing as a blonde man in army surplus clothes steps in front of him.
“Looking for your girl, huh?” he leers, giving Frankie a smug smile, “yeah, we got her too, don’t worry. We’re gonna deal with you first though.”
He gives Frankie a sharp back handed slap, stinging across the cheek, jolting his head to the side. Frankie draws a deep breath, willing his mind to calm, this he knows, this he was trained for. If they’re after the supplies then they will beat him up a bit first, then start asking questions, threaten him, ask again, beat him up and then continue the circle. He lifts his head and assesses the three men in the barn, all in surplus army fatigues and biker gang gear from the looks of it. Whatever they have planned, he’s pretty sure he can withstand it a lot longer than they realize. The question is how long she can, if they start beating her up, he hopes you just give them the information they need. There’s nothing at the cabin worth protecting, at least not with your life.
As if on cue the blonde man steps up and backhands him across his cheek again, following up with a clumsy punch to his gut. The slap stings but the punch is just a dull thud, bouncing off Frankie’s flexed core. As long as he has time to prepare for the punches, those weak hits won’t do any damage there. The punch is followed by another punch to the face, closed fist this time, but Frankie almost grins as he sees the man wince when he pulls back his hand. Hitting someone’s jaw bone with knuckles is a lot more painful than people think.
The man steps back and growls at Frankie, trying to intimidate him, but Frankie keeps his face impassive.
“You had a lot of good supplies on that truck, where’s the rest?” A man behind the blonde man steps forward, Frankie’s rifle in his hand.
“That’s all we had, we ran out, we were looking for more food,” Frankie says, “but you’re not gonna believe me so just get on with it.”
The blonde man grabs his gun and wacks Frankie over the cheek with the butt of it and Frankie feels the iron taste of blood in his mouth as something splits.
“You’re right, we don’t believe you,” he snarls, throwing another punch to Frankie’s belly. Frankie coughs, firming up his core just in time as the fist connects.
“Get his girl down here, he’ll talk if we hurt her,” the man with Frankie’s rifle thumbs in the direction of the barn door.
“Maybe, but I’d like to keep her unharmed for now,” the blonde man says, locking eyes with Frankie, “I don’t want her bleeding all over me when I fuck her later.” Frankie fights to keep his face impassive but he knows he fails, the blind rage that bubbles up inside him is clear on his face and the man opposite him sees it and grins. “Yeah, that got to you, didn’t it?” he cackles. “Why don’t you sit here and think about all the ways I’m gonna fuck that pretty girl of yours, and then maybe you can tell us where the rest of your supplies are.” He steps closer to Frankie, leans down, and Frankie can smell the unwashed body under the army surplus jacket, “I hope your girl’s a fighter, I like it when I have to pin them down. But I’ve already got her trussed up like a turkey, so maybe I’ll just flip her over and fuck her from behind, does she like it in the ass?” he leers. When Frankie tries to fight off the restraints the man cackles again and stands up, “Oh yeah, pal, you’ll talk soon enough.”
“I’m gonna fucking kill you in the slowest possible way just for talking about her.” Frankie spits out, venom thick in his low voice.
The man flinches as he sees the rage in Frankie’s eyes and takes a couple of steps back, Frankie grins without a trace of mirth at the man’s reaction as the barn door opens up and a fourth man steps over the threshold.
“We need the space, gonna divvy up the loot,” he calls at the three men, “the boss says to secure the guy in the back room for now.”
“Alright, we’ll get him in there,” the man with the rifle calls back and steps behind Frankie. “Come on, enough messing around,” he says to the blonde man, he’s still standing a few steps in front of Frankie, “we’ve got shit to do.”
The ratchet band around Frankie’s torso is loosened before he’s dragged, his hands and feet still tied together, to a small room off to the back of the barn. It has no windows and looks like it used to be a storage space, there’s a heavy iron bar in front of the door, locked with a large padlock. The men unceremoniously toss Frankie onto the floor and he hears the bar come down with a clank before the lock clicks. He quickly scans the room and rolls over to the wall, using it for balance as he stands up. His hands are tied in front of him with cable ties so with his mouth he tightens them as much as he can, before bringing his arms over his head and slamming them back down onto his hips, the cable tie snapping clean off his wrists. The impact smarts through his wrists but he wastes no time in working his way out of the ones around his ankles too, they come off easier. Quickly he tries the door, it’s locked tight, of course. He leans against the wall next to the door, waiting for an opportunity.
There’s noise outside as he hears a truck being driven into the barn and several men talking while unloading it. After about an hour the truck is driven away and the barn goes silent for a while until two pairs of heavy footsteps approach the door to the storage room. A key clinks in the padlock and as the heavy iron bar is lifted from the door Frankie presses himself to the wall next to the door, he’s only got one shot at this. The door swings open and the first man steps in, looking round for Frankie, the second man right behind him. Before he has a chance to react, Frankie grabs the second man's head and neck and twists violently, dropping the man as his body goes limp. The first man spins around at the sound but Frankie is already on him, grabbing the hand holding a gun and twisting it behind his back as his other hand covers the man’s mouth. The gun clatters to the ground and with a sharp crack, the neck is broken and the man drops to the ground too.
Frankie picks up the gun, getting a second one from the other man, and checks the both for extra ammo, slipping a vicious looking hunting knife from the first man’s belt. Waiting a beat to check if the scuffle attracted any attention, he stands pressed against the wall next to the door again, but the barn is silent. Quickly looking out through the door he scans the area but all he can see are a couple of oil lanterns hanging on the wall by the chair where they’d had him tied earlier. Moving silently through the dimly lit barn, it must be night out already, Frankie grabs a lantern and throws it against one of the wooden walls. The flames almost immediately start licking up the structure, the fire catching fast in the old wood. Frankie slips out through the barn door and into a dark farmyard, there’s no electric light, just a dim light from some of the windows of the main building on the other side. Skirting around the edges of the yard he hides behind one of the cars parked to the side of a tall fence. Soon a shout goes up from the house and he sees four men rushing out, running for the barn that’s now ablaze, casting a bright orange light over the surrounding area.
As the men are distracted by the fire, Frankie slips round to the house and finds the back door. With a swift kick he manages to break it open, the noise hidden by the flames and the shouting men. He moves quickly through the house, checking rooms for other people, working his way upstairs. The house is fairly large but at the end of the landing he finds a locked door that he quickly kicks in. You’re propped up against the headboard on the bed and as the door flies open you flinch, your fear giving way to intense relief as you see Frankie. You can only gasp out his name, tears welling up in your eyes as he moves across the room.
“Are you hurt?” he whispers, kneeling by the bed and pulling out the hunting knife, making quick work of your restraints, “Did they hurt you?” You shake your head and choke back a whimper as he frees your poor wrists, blood flows back into your arms and hands as you can finally move them again. Pulling you in for a quick hug, Frankie’s big hand clasps the back of your head, pressing you against him, before he pulls back.
“There are four men outside, I set fire to the barn so they are distracted, but I need to take them out. Stay up here, hide in the closet. I’ll come get you.”
“Frankie, you’re bleeding!” you choke out, your hand going up to his temple where his hair is clumped together, dark blood on his cheek and jaw.
“I’ll deal with it later, we don’t have time, I need you to hide now.” His voice is firm, pulling you to your feet, “do you understand?”
With wet eyes you give him a shaky nod and you let him lead you over to the big closet at the back of the room, handing you one of the guns.
“Be careful, Frankie,” you whisper, squeezing his hand before he lets go.
“Don’t worry,” he gives you a grim smile, “these hillbillies fucks are a piece of cake.” He gently shuts the door and you back into a corner of the closet, the gun tight in your hands. You hear his footsteps retreat from the room and out into the hallway, after that you can’t make them out anymore. Straining your ears you listen for any movements for several minutes, until sudden gunshots make you jump and grip the gun tighter. More shots ring out, there’s shouting and you can hear people running, more gunshots and then a man howls in pain. There’s another gunshot and the man shrieks and wails for a few seconds before another shot rings, seemingly drawing fresh shouts of pain from the unknown man. Lastly, a final gunshot rings out and the man falls silent, cut off in the middle of a scream. After that everything is quiet and you sit and wait, not daring to move from your spot. It feels like an eternity has passed when you finally hear footsteps coming down the hallway and into the room. You recognise Frankie’s steps and lower the gun as he opens the door to the closet.
“You ok?” he asks, holding out his hand for you, and you gratefully take it, stepping into his arms as he pulls you close. You nod against his chest, grabbing hold of his shirt as he presses his lips to the top of your head.
“We need to get going, cariño,” he mumbles, stepping back and pulling you out of the closet. Together you make your way down through the house, it’s lit with the eerie light of the flames engulfing the barn on the other side of the yard and you can see it spreading to the other service buildings. Frankie leads you to the backdoor and out into the yard in the back, he’s got his gun up, alert, as he moves you to a couple of cars parked to the side of the yard.
“Check this one for keys,” he says, pointing to the closest one, “I’ll check these two.”
You quickly move to the sedan and pull at the door, it’s locked, and so is the passenger side door. Frankie’s had no luck with the second sedan but calls you over when he checks the third one, the door is open and under the sunshield he finds the keys.
“Get in,” he calls to you, and you hurry over.
“What about our things?” you ask, “Did you see our bags anywhere?”
“No, and we don’t have time to look. This fire is bound to attract attention either from infected or other people. I took out the guys I saw but I don’t know if there are others nearby.” He’s started the car and is hastily reversing out, turning the car towards the gate in the wire fence. “Hang on,” he says and accelerates. The small car jolts from the force when it hits the gate but the lock snaps and the car shoots through the opening, onto the dark road. Frankie holds the car steady as it wobbles, keeping it on the road and floors it. You glance behind you, the barn is swallowed by the fire as the flames move towards the main building. Turning back to Frankie you exhale slowly and lean back against the car seat.
“How are you doing, cariño?” he asks, his hand finding yours and squeezing it tightly. “Are you sure you’re not hurt?”
You tilt your head to look at his profile as he keeps his eyes on the road, “I’m ok,” you draw a shaky breath, “but I was so scared.” You feel fresh tears well up in your eyes as you try to not think about the blonde man and the way his hands grabbed you. Frankie glances over at you and his eyebrows knit together as he sees your tears.
“Talk to me,” he demands, gently squeezing your hand again.
“Not now, later,” you say, dragging the back of your hand across your eyes, “did you kill them all? A blonde guy with a ponytail?”
“Yeah, him I got for sure,” Frankie growls, “what did he do to you?”
You just shake your head, “As long as he’s dead I’m good, Frankie.”
He takes his eyes off the road long enough to study your tear stained face as your jaw clenches and his grip on your hand tightens.
“He died painfully, I made sure of it,” he says, looking back at the road and you nod, pushing back the memory of his groping hands to the back of your mind.
You sit up straighter and look over at Frankie, suddenly remembering his blood stained face. “What about you, are you ok?”, you ask, inspecting the side of his head. In the dim interior light you can make out much except that his hair looks wet and sticky. “Shit, Frankie, we need to clean your head and your face!” you wince as you realize he has several fresh cuts on his cheek and jaw too, moving in your seat you try to see more of his face but he keeps his eyes on the road.
“We have no supplies, no first aid kit and no extra ammo,” he says, his tone defeated, “I’m taking you to Franklin, to the quarantine zone.” His grip on the steering wheel is hard, white knuckled. “I can’t keep you safe, I was an idiot for thinking I could keep you safe out here.”
“Don’t say that, Frankie, you’ve saved my life so many times, you’ve kept me safe at the cabin for months.” You put your hand on his leg and you can feel how tight his muscles are as you look over at him, trying to catch his eyes, at least for a second.
He sighs, biting back the anger inside him, anger at himself for not being able to keep you safe for even a day away from the cabin. The memory of what the blonde man had said he wanted to do to you, fresh in his mind. “It’s the truth, I can’t keep you safe, not while trying to keep us both alive out here.” He rubs a hand gingerly over his bruised jaw, feeling the tenderness, “I should’ve taken you to Franklin months ago, let you be safe there, be protected, I can’t do it out here. I’ll get you to Franklin and then you’ll be safe. The military must have some sort of safe zone setup, once you’re through quarantine.”
“Why are you talking like you’re only taking me there, Frankie?” you ask, frowning at him, “I am not leaving you, you are not allowed to leave me behind, you hear me?” You’ve turned yourself fully towards him but he’s refusing to take his eyes off the road.
“Frankie?” you say again, a sharper tone to your voice.
“I can’t keep you safe, I couldn’t keep Lucía safe and I can’t keep you safe,” he says, his jaw clenching around the words. It’s the first time he’s said her name out loud since that day. “It’s the only way.”
“No!” you shout, the sound jolts around the confines of the small car, “That is not an option. You are the only person who can keep me safe, you are the only person I want with me in this shithole of a world now. If you’re not with me, then why the fuck would I even bother?!” You stare at him but he remains silent, gritting his teeth, you see the muscle in his jaw working under his blood stained skin and scruffy beard.
“Frankie!” you blurt out, wanting to grab him and shake him, force him to react, but all he does is grip the steering wheel with white knuckles and stare at the road.
“You proposed to me, even after the world went to shit, you proposed to me and gave me a ring and said you wanted to spend the rest of your life with me. Does that not mean anything to you anymore?!” Tears are welling up in your eyes again, spilling over your cheeks and your voice breaks, “You said- you said, you wanted to spend every day trying to be the man I deserve and now- and now you’re bailing on me?” Your breath catches in your throat as you feel a thick lump threaten to cut off your windpipe as you gasp for breath between the words and your tears. Frankie shoves his hand through his hair and inhales sharply, squeezing his eyes shut for a second before looking over at your tear stained face.
“Frankie…” you plead, “you can’t leave me, I don’t want you to leave me and I don’t want to survive if you’re not with me.”
Frankie pulls in a loud, shuddering breath, his eyes back on the road and then pulls the car over to the side of the road, turning to you before the engine even quietens down. His hands are on your shoulders, pulling you across the center console and wrapping his arms around you, his hand grabs the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. You pull him in, your arms around him and he’s shaking under you, his shoulders heaving as the first cracked sob breaks from his throat. His grip is as hard on you as it was when he first clung to you in the lake the night Lucía died, his body is shaking, racking with strangled sobs as he holds you as tight as he can.
You can feel his tears soak through your flannel shirt, your own dripping hot onto the skin of his neck, and he gasps for air as the sobs force their way up through his body, his large shoulders convulsing under your firm grip. You move your hand up, tangling your fingers in his hair and caressing his scalp, he shudders under your arms, inhaling as if he’s coming up for air as his fingers dig into your flesh, sobs wrenching their way out of his chest in a fresh wave.
You hold him, never letting him go. You’re never going to let him go, no matter what he says.
It passes slowly, Frankie’s sobs quieten down and he falls silent. You can feel his hot breath against your neck, his wet eyelashes are brushing over your skin and his lips press against it. With a long exhale he pulls himself away from you and loosens his grip on your body. You look up at him, cupping his cheeks with your hands, rubbing thumbs over his wet beard and he inhales deeply, a sigh escaping as he drops his eyes, looking down at your lap.
“I don’t want to leave you,” he mumbles, his eyes still downcast. “I don’t want to survive if you’re not with me either. But I don’t know how to keep you safe.” He jaw clenches under your palms, grinding down on something, biting back words or a sob.
“Frankie,” you say softly, trying to stop fresh tears from spilling over, “I don’t know how to keep myself safe, and I don’t know how to keep you safe either.” You pull his head up so that you can look into his red rimmed eyes, still so soft and warm after all they’ve been through. “All I know is that I have to be with you, and you have to be with me, or there is no point in even trying to stay safe.” You lean in and gently press your lips to his, tasting the salt of his tears and iron from his cut, “I love you Frankie, stay with me,” you whisper as his hand finds your cheek and cups it, stroking his thumb over your skin as he sighs, exhaling slowly.
“Para siempre, mi amor, forever, I promise.”
Chapter 16
Taglist: @pimosworld @i-own-loki @casa-boiardi @littlenosoul @stormseyer @mxtokko @javicstories
#frankie morales#frankie morales x reader#frankie morales x you#frankie morales fanfiction#frankie morales fluff#pedro pascal character fanfiction#frankie morales fanfic#the last of us#the last of us fanfic#frankie morales angst#the last of us fanfiction
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Sam's Hands
Title: Sam's Hands
Summary: Sam is having a difficult time dealing with Kevin's death.
Characters: Sam Winchester, Reader
Word Count: 852
Warnings: Grief and loss
Author's Note: This story was originally posted by myself under the account Winchestersgirl92. It was published September, 2017.
The first thing you notice as you slowly withdraw from the comfort of sleep is the distinct lack of snoring. The room was far too quiet. You roll over in the bed, expecting to find Sam awake next to you, only to be greeted by an empty space where you know he’d been earlier. You sigh, stretching as you sit up. You pick up your phone to check the time. 3:37 AM. Setting the phone back down, you roll out of the bed. You pick up Sam’s earlier discarded flannel shirt and slip it on over your tank top before leaving the bedroom.
The bunker is quiet as you make your way down the hall; too quiet really. Dean had been gone for about a week now. Cas was in and out of the bunker. Kevin was…you shake your head quickly, pushing those thoughts away as you round the corner. You stop in the door to the library and look in at Sam, sitting at the table. He has a few different books open in front of him but he isn’t looking at them. He’s staring at his hands.
You frown and walk over to him quietly. When your hands touch his shoulders, he jumps before looking back at you. You smile at him and he gives you half a smile in return, turning back to his books. You begin to rub his shoulders gently, feeling how tense he is. He stares at his hands again.
“Sam,” you say, your voice gentle. “What are you thinking about?” He shakes his head slightly and tightens his hands into fists.
“I killed Kevin. These hands…killed Kevin,” he barely whispers. You frown more and move to his side. Pushing the books aside, you lift yourself up onto the table and take his two fists in your own hands.
“These hands were used. You were used. It wasn’t your choice, Sam,” you tell him. He keeps his eyes averted and you sigh, looking down at his hands. You begin to gently massage the two tightened fists as you speak. “These hands…are my favorite hands. They’re strong when they need to be and other times they’re gentle. I’ve watched these hands accomplish so much over the past few years.” Sam’s hands loosen slightly and you smile a little. “These hands have killed monsters. They’ve rescued children and comforted grieving widows. These hands have fought the Devil himself and won.”
Sam lets out a sigh and you know you’re getting through to him. You bring his hands up and press your lips against them, causing him to relax them completely. Smiling, you slip your fingers in between his and give his hands a gentle squeeze. He looks up at you now and you smile softer.
“These hands have brought me back from the brink of death. They’ve shown me what love is. They leave goosebumps wherever they touch me. These hands alone have taken me to highs that no other man has ever been able to,” you say with a slight smirk. Sam finally cracks a small smile and you grin before looking at his hands again. You twist the silver band on his left hand slowly. “This hand in particular may be my favorite. It shows all the other girls that you’re all mine.” He smiles a little more at that. “And someday…these hands are going to cradle our babies and raise our children. They’ll clumsily braid our daughter’s hair and toss a baseball to our son. Or braid our son’s hair more likely,” you say, reaching up and running your fingers through his long hair. He lets out a laugh and pulls his hands from yours. He grabs you by your waist and pulls you down into his lap. His lips find yours quickly and you smile into the kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck.
“I love you,” he breathes out when you’re forced to break for air. He rests his forehead against yours as your nails gently scrape at the back of his neck.
“I love you too,” you tell him. His hands run over your sides slowly. “Now come back to bed. Please. I can’t sleep without you snoring next to me.” He laughs again and his hands squeeze your sides causing you to squeal. “Stop it!!” You laugh as you fall against his chest. He smiles widely and wraps his arms around you tight before burying his face in your hair. The two of you stay that way for a few minutes before Sam loosens his grip on you. You rise from his lap and takes his hands, pulling him up from the chair.
His hands rest on your waist as you walk back down the hallway and to your bedroom together. His hands gently push his flannel shirt off your shoulders, letting it pool at your feet. His hands slowly pull your tank top off and over your head before dropping it. His hands carefully lift you up then lay you down on the bed. His hands spend the rest of the night showing you how much you mean to him.
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Spuffy style Reading Challenge - #27: Monthly Key Word Reading Challenge #3
1st month - Secret, Heaven, True, House, Come, Only, Know, Winter:
A Wonderful Awful Idea by The Danish Bird [NC-17]
With nothing apocalyptic looming on the horizon and hoping to avoid a certain thick-headed commando, it seems like the perfect opportunity when Giles mentions a monster terrorising the good people of Lake Tahoe. What could be more merry than a Christmas trip to the mountains to investigate?
The gang is all coming along, defanged vampire in tow. Buffy should totally be able to deal with the demon, ignore Spike and their recent “engagement,” enjoy some resort-town shopping, and be back with Mom on Christmas Eve. Right?
What could possibly go wrong?
Set in season 4 at the beginning of Doomed.
2nd month - Heir, Night, Bride, Down, Women, Hand, Teach, Guest:
Drive by Holly [NC-17]
Freshly turned and very grumpy about it, Buffy finds herself in a weird place. One where her friends smell like food, her former mortal enemy smells like heaven, and the so-called love of her life has made it clear that killing her is on his to-do list. Throw in some overly zealous army guys and this is not Buffy's idea of a party. So she and Spike decide to hit the road at least long enough to figure out why neither of them can hit anything else. And since they're both single and free, well, Buffy wouldn't say no to a distraction from the never-ending laugh riot that is her life. And Spike can be very, very distracting.
Good thing soulless vampires can't fall in love or she might be in trouble.
3rd month - Story, Hunt, Plot, City, You, Cry, Another, Paint:
I Can Get Money by scratchmeout [NC-17]
Spike puts his past to good use to get money for Buffy. However, things become complicated when her ex shows up and targets Spike.
4th month - Darling, Funny, Familiar, Somewhere, List, Meet, Never, Word:
First Alternate by Soulburnt [NC-17]
After ‘Not Fade Away,’ Angel gets the Shanshu. A thrilled Buffy gets her curse-free soulmate. And Spike? He gets his heart shattered again. Gutted and seeing no point in staying in a world without his Slayer, Spike doesn’t hesitate when pursuing a deadly demon through a portal. He finds himself stuck in an alternate reality where he truly died closing the Hellmouth. He also finds another Buffy, one who is devastated that her Spike didn’t believe she loved him. They console each other over their losses… but are they only consolation prizes? Or can two heartbroken people get a second chance for love?
5th month - Library, Dark, Drown, Ex, Iron, Done, Love, Stranger:
If I'm Butter Than He's a Hot Knife by scratchmeout [NC-17]
Buffy meets a man at a bar on Valentine's Day.
6th month - Ink, Fragile, Road, Summer, Breath, Every, Push, Sorry:
Favor by EllieRose101 [NC-17]
Spike asks an impossible thing of Buffy––and is stunned when she says yes. Could he really have gone up in her estimation?
7th month - Mine, Again, Honey, Paradise, Still, Club, Train, Legend:
Eucharist by Holly [NC-17]
He had it all. The prophecy and the girl, merrily ever after and all that rot. But life doesn't stop.
8th month - School, Cut, Sky, Fate, Wing, Belong, Justice, Way:
The Time We Had by Dusty [NC-17]
She was there and then gone. All his life long.
9th month - Twice, World, Man, Quiet, Sweet, Hold, Shallow, Invisible:
Pardon My French by Girlytek [R]
In retrospect, it was probably a bad idea to let Buffy perform a spell in French. Begins at No Place Like Home.
10th month - Vampire, Here, Mist, Death, One, Missing, Bite, Witch:
Sweet William by cawthraven [PG]
After the fall of Sunnydale, Buffy’s living in Boston and working as a waitress, grateful that here, not everyone knows her name. She’s free for once to be herself—and to grieve.
11th month - Spice, Life, Hello, Keep, Truly, Couple, Joy, Young:
Candy Corn Mischief by honeygirl51885 [NC-17]
Spike gets roped into taking Dawn trick-or-treating.
12th month - Snow, Season, Ice, Merry, White, Under, Mistletoe, Inn:
A Christmas Wish by all choseny [PG-13]
On one lonely Christmas Eve, Buffy makes a wish to a stranger and is given a glimpse of what might have been with Spike.
#buffy the vampire slayer#btvs#spuffy#ficrec#reading challenges#elysianholly#scratchmeout#dustyfics#boy I was really trying to have this list consist only new stories
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When a Paradise is Lost
Papa Emeritus IV x Fem!Reader, mentions of Papa Emeritus III x Fem!Reader (18+ ONLY, MDNI)
TW: this thing is angsty, death, pregnancy, pregnancy loss, grief, and of course smut.
Word Count: 13.4k
Hey Ghesties... It's finally here ❤️ I was hoping to have this out about 2 days ago, but life has inevitably happened. It's been a great escape working on this though. I hope you all enjoy it as much as I did writing it! I've written in the past for other fandoms but this is my first big boy story for Ghost, so please feel free to drop constructive criticism if there's any way I can make future stories more immersive. Okay, I leave you alone now, love you, bye! Enjoy 😉
Silence fell over the chapel as the head of the church apathetically entered through the heavy wooden doors. Even Sister Imperator froze mid sentence upon seeing him.
No one, save for a few of his closest ghouls, had seen Copia since that tragic night. The whole abbey felt very melancholy in the days following, and with no Emeritus progeny left, Sister Imperator had no choice but to take over some of Papa's duties, including leading mass, like she was now.
Paint clearly brushed on haphazardly and not doing a great job of hiding the red puffiness around his eyes, he stalked up the main aisle between pews, only stopping when Sister called to him by his nickname, "𝘊?"
Keeping his chin down but moving his eyes to look at her, he replies, "Please continue, Sister," before turning his eyes back towards the floor and moving to his intended destination: the open spot next to you.
Sister Imperator, who rarely ever hesitates, calmly tries to keep going with her lecture on the fight against corruption. A subject that frankly felt out of touch in this moment in the ministry, but it was probably in an attempt to take everyone's mind off of what had happened.
Not wanting to make a spectacle of your Papa seated next to you, you quickly peek at him out of the corner of your eye. He simply stared blankly straight ahead. Perhaps he thought it would look like he was listening, but he was clearly a million miles away. 𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦? You had only encountered Copia typically in formal settings or on the days that you hung on Terzo's arm while strolling the grand halls of the abbey. Perhaps it was the only open seat he saw, but it seemed more directed than that, to you at least. 𝘋𝘪𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦?
Lost in your thoughts, you almost don't hear the whisper that squeaks from his sore vocal chords. You turn your attention to him, eyebrows upturned with worry, "yes, Papa?"
"How-" his lip quivers, "h-how did you deal with it? How did you handle... this pain?" Still staring blankly ahead, a tear falls down his cheek.
Instantly searching your pocket for a handkerchief, you now understand what he's come to you for. You've had to admit to yourself that Copia's loss reminded you of your own, bringing up a flood of memories of the days, weeks, months after Terzo was killed. You're unfortunately all too familiar with what the antipope must be feeling after losing his own Prime Mover.
Just days prior, the ministry bubbled with excitement over the prospect of the newest member of the Emeritus bloodline arriving soon. Copia's Prime Mover could be seen wandering the halls, hand on her swollen belly, surrounded by ghouls and handmaidens who had been tasked with protecting her and keeping her as comfortable as possible, respectively. She really was a brilliant woman. Everyone liked her, as it was hard not to find her charming, and she brought out the best in her Papa. It made everyone immensely happy.
Naturally, it hit everyone very hard when news travelled that her labors had turned fatal for both her and the baby.
Now here you are, faced with a grieving man, asking you an unanswerable question. Gently, you bring the handkerchief you'd finally found to his cheek. For a moment, he furrows his brows as if he's angry and doesn't like you so close to him, so you make quick work of touching him up before giving him the only honest answer that comes to your mind: "There's no right way to deal with it. It's just important that you do deal with it; don't push the feelings down, but face them straight on."
He stares blankly again for a long time, before moving his eyes to look at you. His face softens, eyebrows quirking up, as he meets your gaze. "Grazie, Sorella," barely came as a whisper, before he turns his eyes back to the stained glass window at the front of the room.
He sits right there, unmoving, as mass ends and Siblings and ghouls quietly shuffle out, not wanting to disturb their Papa. As the room empties, you're unsure whether you should stay or go; clearly he had been seeking you out and you don't want to abandon him in his time of need. Even though he sits in silence, you can see the storm raging behind his eyes, the hurt in his heart from losing his love.
"Would you like company, Papa?" you gingerly ask.
"Sì. I would like that very much."
And so you sit with him in the chapel in silence as his mind races. It isn't much, but you know how lonely that feeling is, and how sometimes just having someone nearby can help ease that, if only a little.
• • •
There was no feeling in the world like being loved by Terzo.
He could make anyone feel important, as if they were the only one that ever mattered to him, just by talking with him. You reflect on just how important you felt when he lifted that veil from your visage and closed the space between your lips, making you 𝘩𝘪𝘴, forever, in the eyes of Satan, and before the eyes of all members of the ministry piled into the chapel that had started to feel like home. But not as much as 𝘩𝘦 felt like home.
As he twirled you on the dance floor at the reception of your Prime Mover ritual, you'd never felt so safe as you did in his arms. The promise of forever on his lips whispered softly into your ear. But that forever was cut short, sooner than you ever could've imagined.
• • •
A couple days later, as you're messily shuffling through papers that Sister Imperator was breathing down your neck about, a Ghoul sneaks up on you to request your presence in the papal suite. You aren't as familiar with Copia's group of Ghouls as you had been with Terzo's, but you can tell through the dark goggles of his mask that he seems a little nervous. Something must be wrong.
You quickly grab the arm of the Ghoul, muscle memory taking over as you walk hurriedly towards the space that once was so familiar to you. You haven't seen it in years...
You're quickly met with a "Sorella-" after a frantic knock on the door, "are you alright? It was not my intention to worry you." He grabs your hand, kissing your knuckles gently. He looks a lot better than he had in the chapel, but still not fully pieced back together; frankly, he never would be, and you knew this from experience.
He turns to the Ghoul, "Thank you for guiding the Stellina here safely."
"Uhhh..." he mumbles and tenses up, scratching the back of his neck with his finger tips, "It was more like she guided me," he chuckles nervously.
A small smile of realization crosses Copia's face, "Of course she did." It hadn't previously crossed his mind that you once lived here.
The Ghoul turns to leave, as Copia invites you inside. It looks very different than it had all those years ago. It hasn't lost it's elegance since you and Terzo resided here, but all the decor is much more elaborate now.
You chuckle at the memory of Terzo essentially just wanting to throw black silk on everything and calling it a day. "𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦... 𝘐'𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘪𝘭 𝘮𝘪𝘰 𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘢 𝘥𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘰." Satanas, even the memory of him could make you blush.
"Everything okie dokie?" Copia snaps you out of your thoughts; you must've been just staring blankly and smiling like an idiot.
"Oh- yes, it just all looks so different. Everything's all moved around." You surely look like a deer caught in headlights.
"Is it to your disliking?" Copia is such a considerate man, almost to a fault; naturally he would be concerned if a guest didn't like his quarters.
"No! No, not at all. It's just..." you look up at the ceiling trying to find the right word so as not to cause him more concern.
"Unfamiliar, sì?"
"Yes, unfamiliar," your eyes drop from the ceiling to finally meet his, full of kindness, but still red and puffy.
"Please, sit," he motions to the sofa that faces the marble fireplace; at least that still looks the same, although you suppose it would be a lot of work to replace all that marble.
Taking a seat beside you, Copia startes to fiddle with the tea glasses on the coffee table in front of you, "Would you like some, topolino?"
You let out a giggle at the nickname, appropriate considering his obsession with his pet rats. "Please, Papa."
"Oh, please, no need to call me Papa; I remember the days when I was just a cardinal to you... but that's enough reminiscing for now; I have a few things I wanted to discuss with you- or uhhh, just say to you really." He hands you a little cup of tea, having added a swirl of honey to it; you aren't sure what kind it was, but it's good. "Let me start by apologizing for pulling you away from your duties in the main offices," he gently squeezes your hand, "I know Seestor already has so much on her plate with everyone in mourning, especially having to see to my tasks, and now I've taken one of her best workers away for a little while. I'm sure she'll be frustrated," he sighs, seemingly in regret; he doesn't want to get you in trouble.
Now it's your turn to squeeze his hand, reassuring him, "It's 𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘦," you start, imitating him, "I can handle her."
He sips his tea and makes eye contact with you. For a moment it looks like tears threaten to build up in his mismatched eyes, the pain of loss clearly still fresh on him. You know how quickly it could bubble up, seemingly out of nowhere, while talking about things somewhat unrelated. But that was the thing about death hitting so close to home: it made everything related to it; every thought was about them, every little thing would remind you of them.
"Thank you..." It comes out as a whisper as he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, clearly trying to maintain composure. "I'm just so tired of crying. Sometimes I think I've run out of tears, but then somehow, more come." You sit with him patiently until he's ready to talk again.
In the silence your eyes drift back to the room, scanning over the beaded black lace of the bed canopy, the lush deep blue rug on the floor with metallic gold trim, the collection of art glass vases-
"Sorella." It comes out bluntly. Maybe you hadn't heard him the first time he tried to speak.
"Hm? I'm sorry- um, yes Papa?" you fumble over your words.
The tiniest smile tugs at the corners of his painted lips, "Sorella, I also wanted to thank you."
The deer-caught-in-headlights look is back, "What for?"
He puts his tea cup down and fidgets with his hands, looking down at them. "Throughout the last weeks, you're the only one that's been honest with me. Everyone else-" he chokes up for a moment, but pulls it back together, "everyone else just looks at me with pity, horror in their eyes because they can't imagine it happening to them." He grabs your tea cup, setting it down, and turns to face you, taking both of your hands in his. "That's why I knew I had to seek out someone who would understand, someone who wouldn't cry just because I was, someone who wasn't trying to sympathise with this... unimaginable feeling. It had to be real. It had to be you, Stellina."
You're taken aback. You had no idea how much your words would have affected him when you spoke them in the chapel. Of course, you had no one to turn to when you had been in Copia's shoes. At the time that the Emeritus brothers were killed, Primo's Prime Mover had long since passed, and Secondo's, stubborn as he was, ran off out of anger. You were the only connection left to their bloodline, and you hadn't even had the chance to provide Terzo with an hier. In that way, Copia's experience differs from yours; at least he has someone to talk to who understands the grief.
He continues, "I know we never had any deep conversation before they took Terzo away from you, and I've done horribly at keeping touch with you since becoming Papa; that wasn't fair to you, cara, I'm sure it only made you feel more isolated; that's why I appreciate your, ahhh... willingness to accept me. And my grief. I know it must be a lot-"
"Copia," you whisper, stopping him from rambling, "it's okay." You cup his cheek in your hand. "Or 𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘦, rather," you give him a warm smile, and get a laugh in return. "Now, was that all you brought me down here for?"
"Um, sì," he replies with a cringe, realizing maybe he shouldn't have pulled you away from work just to talk.
"Ahhh, using your Papa power just to get what you want, huh? Some things never change," you laugh as well.
For the first time in a long time, Copia calls you by your name, grabbing your hand again, "Please stay."
• • •
Although it was now late in the afternoon, you're back in the office to at least sort out some papers, getting your things in order to work hard tomorrow. You'll have a lot to catch up on since you'd practically taken the whole day off.
You don't regret it though. You knew Copia needed to get some things off his chest, so you simply sat with him again, but this time you talked--a lot. Everything from reflecting on old times, listening as you shared little secrets about Terzo that no one knew, laughing about goofy memories or things you never knew you had in common, all the way to literally being a shoulder to cry on. Papa still has a lot of feelings to feel and you're just trying to be there for him; based on his little speech earlier, he needs it.
"And where have you been sneaking off to?"
Imperator. It comes across cold and unforgiving.
"I'm sorry, Sister Imperator, it won't happen again."
"Hm. You say that now, but I remember how you are when you start seeing somebody. You'll be my best worker, until you find a distraction."
"Sister, please. You know I apologized for that." She was referring to the times when you started seeing Terzo, and again when you briefly were seeing someone to try to get over losing him. "You know how grateful I am that you let me have this job back." After you were no longer a Prime Mover, the clergy didn't know what to do with you. They weren't sure if you would get angry like Secondo's lady, and they needed Copia's transition to power to be as smooth as possible.
"Well perhaps if you kept your head in your paperwork, we wouldn't be struggling as much as we are to keep up the pace of things around here."
"Sister. You know very well why we're struggling. Papa losing his Prime Mover hasn't been easy on anyone in the ministry, least of all him. He's broken! At least I'm trying to help put the pieces back together!" You may have kind of yelled that last part, but damn is this woman hard to put up with.
"What was that? How would you know how he feels?" Her voice is softer than before with a touch of concern.
"Now you know where I was all day. He summoned me to his chambers."
"Oh. Well. I suppose if Cardi- I mean, Papa wants to see you, then I suppose I can't argue with our figure head." The only thing in the world she has a soft spot for is Copia; she'll protect him however she can.
As you dismiss yourself from the offices, Imperator stands there, frozen to the spot. That same part of her that wants to protect him from the feelings he's having also wants to protect him from you. She worries what you could do to usurp the power she has not only over the ministry, but over her Copia as well. (It's called enmeshment babes 💅✨)
• • •
Your meetings with Copia continue on for several weeks, often with the rollercoaster of emotions that he feels each time you met: release of sadness, laughter, comfortable silence, caring. You really start to care for him not only as the Papa of this ministry but as a person. It kind of makes you feel silly for not getting to know him better before, maybe then you would've had a friend after Terzo left you.
The thought made your eyes wander over to the bed, again. It often caught your attention; it was only of the only things that was still in the same place you and your beloved had yours.
"𝘈𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦..."
"𝘠𝘦𝘴?" 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘦𝘥, 𝘨𝘪𝘨𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘵 𝘛𝘦𝘳𝘻𝘰'𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴.
𝘚𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘴, 𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘶𝘴𝘩 𝘣𝘦𝘥, 𝘱𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘬 𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘴. 𝘖𝘯𝘦 𝘦𝘭𝘣𝘰𝘸 𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘶𝘱 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦, 𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯, 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘱 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴.
"𝘐𝘭 𝘮𝘪𝘰 𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦... 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘶𝘯 𝘴𝘦𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘰, 𝘴𝘪?"
"𝘖𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦," 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘻𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘢𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘴, 𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘳, 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.
"Non ti lascerò mai. Nemmeno lo stesso Lucifero potrebbe tenermi lontano da te." 𝘐'𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘓𝘶𝘤𝘪𝘧𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘺𝘰𝘶.
It was a promise he couldn't keep.
"Cara?"
Once again, Copia pulls you from your thoughts. You were unaware tears had welled up in your eyes as you stared at the bed, lost in a different time. As you turn to face him, your tearducts betray you and tears spill down your cheeks.
"Oh, no no no no no.... Stellina, you're always the strong one," he says pulling you to him, your forehead cradling against his neck and hands finding his chest. "What's gotten to you, piccolina?"
His endless stream of pet names did attempt to soothe you, but in the end your feelings won. In that moment, you realize it had been a long time since you'd let it all out, which is exactly what you'd been encouraging him to do. Funny how you didn't take your own advice. You harshly sob into his chest for a few minutes, hands balling his shirt up into fists. He feels solid like a brick wall for you, supporting you, letting you beat your fists against him in frustration until you calm down, although it's more that you tired out honestly.
One arm around your waist and the other hand cradling the back of your head, he holds you tightly to him. He wants to offer you the same comfort and support you offer him, he's just perhaps more 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘰𝘯 about it.
"Hey Copia?" you prompt, drying the last of your tears and sniffling lightly.
"Yes?" he counters by using your name as well.
"Let's go see Primo's garden."
"Okie dokie, Sorella."
Sun on your face is just what you need, and to get out of that room. The gardens haven't been the same since Primo himself no longer tended to them, but they are still beautiful nonetheless, and everyone still calls it Primo's garden; it feels wrong to call it anything else.
Walking right into the greenery, running your fingers gently along the flowers, Copia starts after you, "You know Primo wouldn't want you walking among the plants..."
"Hmmm... Little do you know," you smile over your shoulder at the man, "I used to work in the gardens, and Primo taught me all the best hiding spots." You wink, before running off quickly.
"Hey! Sorella!!!" Papa hollers after you, picking up his pace, but it's nothing to match your knowledge of the twists and turns of the foliage. He probably never would've found you if it wasn't for your uncontrollable laughter. By the time he turns the corner to the little clearing in the tall bushes, you're already laid back on the soft grass, habit pulled off, and shoes kicked aside. You reach your hand up for his, pulling him down roughly. "You're stronger than you look, Sorella," he chuckles as he settles on his back in the grass next to you.
You lie back in silence for a while, just enjoying the sun, the breeze, the sounds of nature. But it can't last forever.
"Mia cara, you never answered my question."
"Hm? What question?" you play dumb.
"Cara... What have you been teaching me about talking about our feelings, facing them head on? Do those rules not apply to you?" Copia turns on his side to face you, "What was bothering il mio topolino back there, huh?"
"It was, uhhh..." you search for the right words; you don't find them, "It was stupid. I'm okay now, Papa."
"If stupidity made you cry like that, I'm afraid you'd be crying all the time around me. Now," he places his fingers on your chin, making you look him in the eyes, "what was it, tesoro?"
"You're not stupid, Papa."
He addresses you bluntly by your name, letting you know he's serious, "Stop avoiding the question. And I know you're only calling me Papa to distract me from getting my answer." He keeps a straight face for a long moment, then sticks out his tongue at you, breaking his stern look. It's his way of letting you know that you aren't really in trouble, but he does expect you to be honest with him.
"It was the bed."
"Hm?
"The bed."
"Che cosa? Do you not like it?"
"No, it's, uh," you knit your eyebrows together in frustration, "it's a lovely bed, but it's where Terzo and I had ours. It's one of the only things in your chambers that's in the same spot as it was before."
"That is all, mia cara?"
"Well it reminds me of him."
"Do you not want to be reminded of him?"
"Not in that way, no. Those memories are so... intimate, and they're the hardest ones to take." You feel vulnerable telling Copia this, but it had been bugging you for weeks.
"Well then... We move the bed, sì? Problem solved."
"Copia... I don't want you to rearrange your room on account of me," you reach up, resting your hand on his arm, which was languidly lying across your waist.
"It'll probably be saving me the trouble of some of those memories in the future, no?" he gives you a bittersweet smile, "Come now, we have some work to do!" He sits up, grabbing your shoes before running off. Now it's your turn to chase him...
Back in his chambers, your shoes wait neatly by the door as Copia returns from the small kitchen with two glasses of ice water. He has a smug grin on his face as he practically makes you drink from the glass. "I believe you left your habit in the gardens, Sorella."
Damn it. "Ah, fuck it. Sister Imperator already wants to kill me for missing so much work. I'm sure the habit is only a minor infraction."
"Sì, and you look bellissima without it."
That comment makes you blush a little. He'd never commented on your appearance before, but luckily your cheeks were already flush from running after him.
Copia shrugs off his vest, rolling up the sleeves and unbuttoning the top few buttons of his shirt. You have to admit that it looks good on him. Now you're blushing about commenting on his appearance, albeit internally.
"What do you think of putting it here, hm?" He gestures to the nook in the wall that had a huge dresser and his art glass vases.
You sip your water, "Hmmm??"
"The bed. We move it here, sì?"
"You meant right now?"
"Of course, I meant right now. I don't want this to cause you another minute of worry, Stellina."
Next thing you know, you're gently wrapping art glass vases and placing them into a box. It is only when the sound of furniture scraping against the floor becomes obvious that several Ghouls come rushing to the door, worry written on their faces even behind their masks.
"Ah! Perfetto! Extra hands to help!" Copia invites the Ghouls in to help move the massive bed and dresser, which they handle in no time thanks to their otherworldly strength.
As you unwrap the last of the art glass to place back on top of the dresser, now in its new place, Copia remarks, "Sembra fantastico, dolcezza!"
"Someone's in a good mood," you turn to look over your shoulder at him.
"Sì, it felt good doing something other than sitting around here. Not that I don't like sitting with you," he takes your hand, thumbs rubbing your knuckles.
"No, you're right," you smile up at him, "it did feel good. Change of pace."
"Sì," is all he says before a wicked grin spreads across his lips. Suddenly, he wraps his arms around your waist, scooping you up, and throwing you over his shoulder.
"PAPA!!! Put me down!"
"I can't, not yet, Sorella! The floor would be too hard!"
"Too hard for what?!"
"For this!" He grabs your waist and pushes you high into the air, letting you come down hard on the bed.
"You-" you grumble at him, straightening out your skirt and fixing your hair
"Who, me?" he asks bewildered.
"Yes, you! You little shit!"
He tuts his tongue at you, "Now is that any way to speak to your Papa? Especially one who just moved half his room to make you comfortable?" He sheds the look of disapproval, and sits next to you, taking your hand, "Really, mia cara, is this better for you?"
His soft voice coaxes you to recline back on his pillows, observing the room only half seriously, "Yes, Copia, it's perfect... Thank you." And you really mean it, because you know that you don't have to sleep in here, he does, but it still means enough to him to move the bed so your thoughts won't haunt you anymore.
• • •
As the months went on, Copia started working again. It was good to see him leading mass again. At first the topics were perhaps more basic, helping him dip his toes in the water, so to speak; it was still so easy to strike a chord that would make him spiral. But he was happy to be back in his office working on translations with his cute little assistant. 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵?? 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘐𝘚 𝘤𝘶𝘵𝘦, 𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘐'𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘶𝘱 𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘓𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦...
He had even started working with the Ghouls making music again. You didn't know exactly what went into all that, but you have to imagine he has to take that slow as well. For now, you've heard they're just rehearsing old songs to get back into the swing of things. They even invited a few (which of course turned into more than a few) Siblings of Sin to a short performance, the Ghouls insisting it would help their Papa to be in front of a crowd again.
"What did you think of our little show, mia cara?" Copia shyly asks you, pulling you out of the crowd of Siblings; his small voice such a sharp contrast to what you'd just seen up on that stage.
"Papa, I think you know what everyone thinks of your performance, everyone is absolutely gushing seeing you reach your full potential again."
"Ah, sì, but my timing was a little late a few times, and I forgot a couple of the lyrics... Besides, I wasn't concerned with what everyone else thinks. I want to know what 𝘺𝘰𝘶 think, Stellina."
"Papa Emeritus?" a Sister nervously approaches the two of you.
"Yes, my child?" he turns to them, always charismatic after a performance.
"Um, uh," she holds out one of the CDs from the Ghost Project, "will you sign this?"
"Of course, dolcezza," he chuckled, delighted over the attention. You have a sneaking suspicion that the Ghouls told everyone to really play it up and act like adoring fans rather than people who get to see Papa regularly. The girl waves her friends over and a small group of Siblings and Ghouls all come over to shower their Papa with praises. As he's drawn further into conversation with them, he turns over his shoulder to look at you, almost as if asking for approval, as he did not want to disappoint you by leaving you alone.
"Go!" you mouth, shooing him away with your hands, "Go have fun! Go see your fans!" You had to yell the last part as he slowly got pulled away from you.
They don't mean any harm; they just want to let Papa know how much they adore him, but you did get a weird pang in your stomach when he called that other Sister "dolcezza," one of the many names he used for you. You quickly shake off the feeling and try to enjoy the atmosphere, it isn't every day you got to see Papa and the Ghouls perform.
After being dragged to a wild after party by the Ghouls, you quietly walk back to your quarters. You had left a little early, knowing the party would rage into the night, but you need to say least 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘵 to work tomorrow. Plus you don't think you could take the sight of Papa with that girl anymore--the same one he called dolcezza--sitting in his lap. You knew it had been several months, and he would start to seek comfort in others eventually, but still, something about it felt wrong. Of course, you never mean to judge your Papa, it just feels too soon and you worry if he's ready, if his wounds are healed enough.
As you dig in your pocket for the key to your room, you feel hands grab at your waist from behind. Gasping, you drop your keys before being pinned to the door by the tall slender form behind you. "Going to bed so soon, dolcezza?" 𝘏𝘮𝘱𝘩. 𝘖𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦.
"Yes, Papa. Some of us have work tomorrow," you threw him a small smile over your shoulder.
"Ahhh, but how often do we get to party like this, mia cara? Especially as of late." He reaches down to get your keys, and you turn, leaning your back against the door.
"You really came all the way down here, just to drag me back to the party?"
"No, Sorella. I came to party with you," he leaned his against the door, hand next to your head, trapping you to the spot.
"Papa, I think you're drunk."
"I might be, Sorella," he giggles, clearly still riding the high from performing again. Terzo used to act similar after a performance with the inflated ego, knowing everyone wanted him.
"Besides, I thought you would have other 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘺 this evening..."
"Che cosa? The sorella from the party? Don't tell me my little topolino is jealous..."
𝘑𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘴. 𝘕𝘰 𝘸𝘢𝘺. 𝘞𝘦𝘭𝘭... 𝘮𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦? 𝘞𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘫𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘴? 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵, 𝘣𝘶𝘵... 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘵?
"Piccolina, your silence says more than you know," he coos, lifting your chin with his fingers.
"I'm not jealous, Copia," you squirm beneath him, looking down at the floor, "Our relationship isn't like that." Technically that is the truth. Yes, he was handsy with you, but he was handsy with all the Siblings. You'd never thought about him in that way, and now, as the thoughts crept up now, it felt wrong. You're supposed to be his friend, his confidant.
Copia seems to sober up for a minute, inhaling sharply before dryly stating, "I suppose you are right, Sorella."
"Goodnight, Papa."
"Goodnight, amore," he replied, kissing your knuckles before letting you retreat to your room, ever the gentleman.
All you could think before crashing hard into your pillow was 𝘈𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦? 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘢 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘰𝘯𝘦.
• • •
A few days passed and you hadn't heard anything from Copia, you hadn't been called to his suite or anything. You were certain he likely had another Sibling warming his bed, the thought making you sick. You feel guilty. Guilty for feeling possessive of your Papa; he isn't yours, he could belong to anyone he wanted now. Not enough time had passed since he belonged to another, the most spectacular woman he could've asked for. You feel like you're trying to replace her, and it isn't your intention. She was amazing and always deserved to have a place in Copia's heart. And then there was Terzo... You feel like your were betraying him. Every memory you make with Copia pushes Terzo further and further from your mind. That also makes you feel guilty. You don't ever want to forget him. It feels like you're trying to replace him, too, and he deserves to live on in your heart, just as Copia's Prime Mover will for him.
Without even realizing, your feet wander quickly through the halls of the ministry; you hadn't even bothered to put shoes on. Your feet pad against the floor hard as you rushed in what direction you aren't even sure. Tears fill your eyes making everything blurry. You're sure someone probably could follow your trail by the amount of tears you left on the cold marble floor. Before you know it your feet stop, looking up through weary eyes, you make out the silhouette of Copia's chamber door. 𝘜𝘨𝘩, 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦? 𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘐 𝘥𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧? 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦?
You knock before you can even stop yourself.
The whole door shifts slightly, it was cracked open, and you hadn't noticed. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘊𝘰𝘱𝘪𝘢. 𝘏𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘩𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘎𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭 𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘣𝘺.
Worried, you pull the door open gently, not sure what you'll find behind the heavy oak.
And there he is... leaning against the doorway between the little kitchen and rest of the space, taking the breath right from your lungs.
You can barely say his name, "Terzo?"
His eyes gently lock with yours, and he moves towards you, suave as always.
"Teh... Terzo? Wh-what.. whatareyoudoinghere..."
It makes no sense. You're clearly in Copia's room, the bed in its new place and all.
"𝘈𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦..." his arm effortlessly gliding around your waist, and his other hand brushing your cheek. "What makes you cry like this? I'll put an end to it right this minute."
You're not even able to speak as you lean into his chest sobbing. His scent envelops you, bringing back a flood of memories.
"Bella, you must calm down, you'll worry yourself sick, mia cara. Try to breathe." He holds you tightly to him, white-gloved fingers laced in your hair. "Shhh, shhh..." he coos, humming to you like a mother would to her child.
After a while of trying to dry your sniffles and tears, Terzo leads you across the room to sit at the foot of the bed with you.
"Terzo," you whine, "what's going on?"
"You always were un uccellino curioso. Do not worry piccolina, you will get your answers in time," he reassures you, placing a kiss on top of your head.
"I just- I've missed you so much!" Tears threaten to spill once again. Immediately they're met with a white glove wiping them away.
"I know, mia cara, I've missed you too, così tanto. But I'm here now, and it breaks me to see il mio cuore hurt the way she does." He gently guides your chin towards him, softly kissing your lips. That familiar spark flies through you; electricity seemingly coursing through his veins, you can feel it on your skin with every little touch.
Absentmindedly you open your mouth, ready to receive anything he has to offer, and his tongue never did disappoint. Even after all these years your body still aches for him, made obvious as you hastily works on the buttons of his shirt. Terzo's hand, now bare, creeps under the hem of your skirt, "They put my Prime Mover back in her old habits, huh? This simply won't do..." He tugs your skirt up around your waist and quickly makes work of pulling the veil from your hair. Almost like muscle memory, you lift your arms for him to pull the simple black fabric from your form in one fluid motion. "Quello è meglio. Satana, quanto mi è mancato il tuo dolce corpo," he mumbles, lips immediately attaching to your collar bone.
This draws a sigh from you as you run your fingers through his hair. He throws his shirt off his shoulders, discarding it on the floor, and your fingertips greedily take in the feeling of his bare skin.
With a hand behind your head and a strong arm around your hips, he moves you further up the bed, then crashes his weight down on top of you. His hands roam your body, grabbing at your waist, your panties, your breasts, your hair, until one of his hands find yours, interlocking your fingers. His lips work on the sensitive skin at your neck, drawing his name accompanied with several moans and whines from you.
"Oh, please Terzo... Don't ever stop," you let out, nails scratching at his back and scalp.
"Forever and ever, sì? I'll make love to you 'til the end of time, amore." With one hand holding yours above your head, his other scoops up your thigh, hooking your leg on his hip. You feel his hardness grind down on your sex, layers of fabric trapped between you, and you both hiss with pleasure.
You want to yell at him so badly, demand he take you right then and there, but the words wouldn't come. What if you lost him again? Instead it's best to savor the time you have.
You reach your hand between your bellies, nails lightly dragging from the waistline of his pants up to his belly button, a move that drives him crazy every time. As he practically attacks your mouth with his, your hand finds his erection and starts to palm at it. Within seconds, your lover is becoming putty in your hands, and as you unzip the annoying fabric to take his hot girth in your hands, an indecipherable stream of Italian flows from his vocal chords, something about a sex goddess handcrafted by the Dark Lord himself.
His hands glide along your hips, fingers hooking into your panties as he rips them right off of you. "Please, cara," he begs, kicking his pants off into the floor, "mia cara dolce seduttrice, please let me take you."
You feel his cock, slick with precum, pressing against your folds; he looks up at you panting, eyes blown wide with lust, "Per favore." You have mercy on him, allowing him to enter you, the stretch drawing loud groans from both of you. It feels like two strong magnets had finally collided, and once he was seated comfortably inside you, he looks down at you, ever-so-gently pushing a strand of hair behind your ear before pressing a soft kiss to your lips. His hand rests on the side of your neck, thumb stroking your cheek, never breaking the kiss as he starts to roll his hips. You let out a light moan, threading your hands in that beautiful raven black hair.
He only broke this kiss when neither of you could hold your breath any longer, but he didn't stray far, as he nipped at your jaw. "Va bene per te piccola?"
Terzo continued to rock his hips at a deadly pace, making you want more and more of him, "Sì, Papa, molto bene." His heart absolutely beamed when you spoke Italian to him, only pushing him to snap his hips faster.
He always knew exactly how to please you, his throbbing member scraping against that sweet spot inside you over and over again. It doesn't take long after his fingers find that little bundle of nerves at your core that you fall over the edge; the only word on your lips is his name.
"Brava ragazza, una brava ragazza per tuo Papa," his praises making your heart swell for him.
"Ti amo, Papa," you mutter, bones turned to mush as he continues to careen against that soft spot inside you, "Ti amo, Terzo."
"Ti amo, il mio amore... Forever," he pants hotly, right in your ear, "Tesoro, I don't think I can hold on any longer." He groans loudly.
Without hesitation, you grant him permission, practically begging him to finish inside you. His hips halt for a moment before evenly rocking them back and forth, letting out a needy whine, riding out his orgasm.
He relaxes on top of you, laying his head on your chest and lacing his fingers with yours.
"Amore," Terzo starts, looking up at you through his lashes.
"Hm?" you ask, a silly grin on your face as you twirl a strand of his soft hair in your fingers.
"I know you won't forget me."
You knit your eyebrows together, confusion washing over you.
"You shouldn't be afraid to be with him, I know you'll never forget me. Remember, tesoro, I told you not even Lucifer himself could keep me from you. I live on in here," he says, putting his hand over your heart.
"Terzo- I-" you feel the lump forming in your throat, making it hard to speak.
"You need each other. Maybe more than two people have 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 needed one another. He teeters on the edge of madness, and I'm afraid without you, it would topple the scales. Take care of him, soothe his soul, just as you did with me." He leans up leaving kisses on your forehead and eyes.
When your eyes flutter open again, you're outside. You look around taking in Primo's garden.
"Come, bella," Terzo stands next you offering you hand to help you up, "let's play a game like we used to."
He gives you a shit eating grin before running off, into the maze of bushes and shrubs. Both laughing hysterically, you chase after him, following the well known paths. As he turns a corner, you lose sight of him, but you won't give up so easily as you press on to catch up with him. Trailing just behind him, you reach out only brushing his waist for a moment before he peels away from you again. He turns the corner to your old hiding spot with you hot on his trail.
As you reach the clearing, he's nowhere to be seen. You realize you're the only one still laughing. Just like that, he was gone.
You drop to your knees, that empty feeling creeping in all too quickly...
• • •
"Tesoro?" You hear Copia call your name, "mia cara, are you there?"
You crack your eyes open slowly, "Co- Copia?" you breathe out, voice raspy.
"Hi! Hey. There she is," he attempts to sound cheery but clearly he is worried out of his mind. He cups your cheeks and places a hand to your forehead, making sure you didn't have a fever.
"Wh-where am I?" you glance around at the all white everything. The bed you're on is cozy but certainly not homey.
"The infirmary, cara," he chuckles nervously, "You gave us quite the fright."
"What happened?"
He doesn't want to worry you with the details, but he knows you won't rest until you have answers. "Well the morning after the party, you didn't show up to breakfast, which isn't like you, Stellina, so a few Ghouls and I looked all over for you. You weren't in your room and it wasn't until someone-" he stopped suddenly, clearly choking up.
"Someone heard you screaming in the gardens," a cold voice supplied. You turn slowly to see Sister Imperator standing opposite Copia.
"I was in the gardens?" you ask, turning back to Copia.
"Sì... In that little clearing you took me to. You, uhhh, you were screaming for Terzo. Cara, I've never seen anything like it. It was like you were in a ritual trance, I didn't know you'd practiced communing with the Dark Lord before."
"I, uhhh, I haven't."
You and Copia both look equally shocked, but not wanting you to be stressed, he insists on you relaxing the rest of the afternoon. And of course, despite the nurses working in the care ward, Copia stays right by your side, sending various Ghouls to get whatever you need. It really is probably overkill, you are just a little dehydrated, after all.
Not needing to stay in the infirmary for more than a day, Copia has you moved back to your room, insisting you need bed rest and lots of fluids. "Take the day off, amore, the week if you need it, it's my turn to handle Seestor after all," he chuckles, helping you into bed. He looks around to make sure you have snack, water, medicine; you can tell he's getting ready to return to his duties.
"Papa," you reach out, grabbing a couple of his fingers.
"Sì, piccolina?"
"Stay with me? Just for a little while," your eyes practically beg him. You'd been craving some proper alone time with your Papa.
His face softens and he begins to sit down on the edge of the bed, but you pull him towards you, urging him to lie down with you. He obliges, facing you, draping an arm over your waist, and you do the same to him.
"Copia..." you whisper to him, not even really sure what you wanted to talk about.
"Yes, dolcezza?"
That triggered it, and before you could stop yourself you blurted out, "Did you sleep with that girl?"
"La ragazza from the party? No, Stellina," his lips pull slightly into a frown, accentuated by his face paint.
"Oh... I was hoping it went well," you lie.
"Topolino," his tone disappointed, "do not start being dishonest with me now, after all these months."
𝘋𝘢𝘮𝘯𝘪𝘵. 𝘏𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭.
"I'm sorry, Papa, I just-" you look up at him, making him drop the stern look he had, "I don't want to hold you back."
"Amore, you could never hold me back, you do nothing but support me, lifting me up when I need it most." His free hand finds yours to draw shapes on the back of your hand with his thumb. You look down at his hand, then carefully move to lace your fingers with his. Feeling the warmth of his hand through his leather glove, the butterflies swarm in your stomach; a feeling you hadn't felt in a long time, but unmistakable nonetheless.
Copia lets out a small sigh, silence washing over you both as your minds race; thoughts ranging from "I like this, I want this, I want 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦" to "What if this ruins what we have?" to "What if I'm not ready to move on?"
Always knowing the exact right thing to do, Copia leans forward, placing a chaste kiss on your forehead, and it immediately quieted down the noisy chatter happening in there.
"Get some rest, mia dolce Sorella," he commands, sitting up next to you. "We still have much to discuss, but don't you worry your pretty little head over it." He accents his point by gently scratching at the crown of your head. You knew aside from your newly forming feelings, Copia still wanted to know what the hell happened to you the other night.
"Yes, Papa. Now, you should go back to your office before Imperator blows a fuse," you lean up too kiss his cheek then whisper, "or I may keep you here all to myself..."
If it weren't for his paint, you were fairly sure his cheeks beamed bright red.
��� • •
Days go by before you see him again. Pulled in every possible direction, he simply has too much on his plate between rehearsals and the mountain of work that had backed up over months of not being in the office. Plus Sister Imperator fired his assistant and reassigned her to your office... Seems like a strange decision considering how much pressure Papa is under.
When your lunch break rolls around, you decide to order take out, ordering a little extra for Copia, knowing he often works through meals when he gets his mind set on something.
Lightly tapping on his door, food cartons in tow, your hear him grumble something before yelling, "Come in!" in a not so nice tone.
Pushing the door open, you let him know, "I'm sorry, Papa, if it's a bad time, I can just drop this off and leave."
"Cazzo, Satanas, Sorella. I'm sorry I thought you were- ...someone else." You could tell he meant Sister Imperator. "Please, make yourself comfortable wherever you can."
You scan the room to see piles of books and papers and files and folders everywhere on nearly every surface. Even one half of the couch had a few stacks of documents. "Goodness, Copia, are they trying to work you to death?!"
"I suppose so, Stellina," he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Well..." you start, needing a minute to think, "okay, here's the plan: you take a break, we sit down and eat, and after we get our bellies full, I'll stay here and help you sort through some of this."
"Mia cara, you don't have to do that." You could read the appreciation on his face though as he twirled a small strand of your hair between his fingers; he really needs the help.
"I don't have to, but I want to. You don't deserve to be stuck in this office burning the candle at both ends."
His hand moves to your cheek, "Grazie, cara, you always know exactly what I need."
Forcing him to sit back in his chair, you take a long pause to stand behind him and rub his shoulders, causing him to let out a nearly inappropriate groan. At the sound of your giggle, he questions you jokingly, "You think your Papa's tension and pain are funny, Sorella? Watch yourself... I may have to punish you." Then it's his turn to giggle as your cheeks heat up at that remark.
Out of the corner of your eye, something catches your attention swishing past his office door, but you don't let on to it, not wanting to worry him further. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘺 𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘢𝘵, 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘴𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘺𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘶𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬.
You push the thought from your mind and instead move to distract yourself and Copia with food. And boy is it delicious! It's just what you both need.
As promised, after lunch, you hop right to work helping him organize ALLLLL the papers, which ends with you sitting on the floor, sorting things into neat piles.
"Sorella, I never would've thought to sort things out in this way, but it makes so much sense." He saunters over to you, placing a hand on top of your head, like a pet.
"Maybe now you'll be able to chip away at all this a little faster," you smile up at the man towering over you.
"Sister!" Imperator's voice boomed from Copia's office door. "Your lunch ended hours ago! We have a lot of work to get done before Yule next week!"
"She 𝘪𝘴 working, Seestor," Papa defends you.
"What? By playing in the floor like some toddler? C, don't let this girl distract you."
You can tell he wants to remark on the informality of her using his nickname.
"I'll have you know, Sister Imperator," his tone stiffer than normal as he used her whole name, "She's implementing the organizational system used in your offices. The one she came up with, and I think it will be a great help to me, especially seeing as I lack an assistant now. I believe it's in the ministry's best interest if their 𝘗𝘢𝘱𝘢 is able to work as efficiently as possible."
𝘖𝘰𝘰𝘩! 𝘏𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘫𝘢𝘣 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦! You can't help but silently root him on.
"Unless, Seestor, there is some reason I'm being held up in every way possible?" his eyes lock on hers as he stands protectively in front of you, still in your spot on the floor.
"What are you implying, Copia?" she practically spits back at him; he's onto her, and it's making her nervous.
"I'm not implying anything. It's the hellsent truth. We have more work than ever after I was out for so long, and I am getting less and less help. It keeps me right where you want me: in this office, closed off from the ones I'm 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥 to be leading, offering guidance to."
You had never really heard him speak this way. He's suddenly almost... Cold? Confident in a different kind of way. You can't quite place your finger on it, you just hope you're never on the receiving end of it.
Imperator opened her mouth to speak but was quickly cut off. "Sorella in here will be my new assistant. She's supported me more than anyone since the passing of my Prime Mover, and I'll not have her disrespected anymore. Not by going back to that office, and certainly no longer by you."
Your eyes go wide at the last part, along with Sister Imperator's. "I understand, Papa. As you wish," was all she replied before leaving you both.
Closing the door and pressing his back to it, Copia chuckles nervously, "I can't believe I just spoke to her like that." His eyes lingered on the floor before tracing their way up your form. "But it needed to be said..."
"Papa... I," you let out a shaky breath; you are so proud of him and honored by the way he defended and complimented you, but also made nervous by the whole situation. "Papa, I hope you know I didn't start doing all this just to get a promotion."
Copia's face broke a smile with breathy laughter as he got on his knees in front of you, looking you straight in the eyes. "Of course you didn't, topolino," he presses a kiss to your cheek. "But you take care of me better than anyone I know. I'll be stronger with you by my side."
If your chest wasn't overflowing with emotions and your eyes weren't filled with tears, you would've taken him right there on the floor, dealing with damn papers later. But for now, you just let him hold you as your eyes wander over him, his torso, his shoulders, those wild mismatched eyes you could never get used to. Not with Terzo, not with him.
Delicately, like you would break him, your hand snakes up to his hair, combing back the gray locks on his temples. Gently, you close the small space between you, finally taking comfort in those lips over the course of several long, chaste-for-the-most-part kisses.
You both pull away before things can progress any further; at this point, you were used to waiting. Eyes still closed, you hear Copia call your name. "Seestor reminded me... Would you like to accompany me to the Yule Ball, amore?"
You can't help but laugh; after that whole heated thing, all he could think about was spending Yule with you. "I'd love to, tesoro."
Once again blushing under his paint at you finally using a pet name on him, in Italian no less, he wraps you in his arms, nuzzling his nose to yours, "Okie dokie."
• • •
Before the night of the big dance, you spent the evening pampering yourself. You drew a nice bath, did a face mask, styled your hair just the way you like, put on a little makeup.
You were just stepping into your gown as your hear rapping at your door. It's a beautiful deep purple gown made for you in your Prime Mover days, and boy did it make you and Terzo look like a pair! He adored purple; you weren't sure exactly the last time you'd worn it, but you were sure it ended up on the floor quickly after Terzo got you alone.
"Just a minute!" You quickly slide the gown up and into place at your waist then sliding your arms through the proper holes. Clutching the dress, hanging loose, against your chest, you scurry over to your door to see who was waiting.
"Buona sera, amore mio."
None other than Copia, of course, but he isn't Copia this evening; tonight, he is Papa Emeritus IV. He steps into your small quarters, looking far too regal to being here. Dressed in full papal regalia, the silky blue robes and bejeweled mitre making him look larger than life.
"Oh, Papa... You look so nice." You're practically breath-taken.
"Nonsense. I pale in comparison to you, Stellina," he steps towards you, noticing your hand still holding your gown in place. "May I?" A hand on your hip urges you to turn, other hand carefully sliding the gown's zipper up your spine. He stands behind you in your dusty little mirror, his ceremonial gloves, beautifully adorned with golden bones, rest on your hips with his fingertips tickling at the top curves of your thighs.
"Assolutamente sorprendente..." It comes as a whisper before he presses a kiss to your shoulder. You like the portrait painted on the looking glass in front of you. If there was one thing you could change, it would be that you wished you had a blue gown to match his vestments; though you suppose your violet fabric against his blue silk is a reminder that you've belonged to two great men.
"Copia... Do you think they'll ever let us be together?" The question falls out of you suddenly.
"Who?? Who wouldn't let us be together, mia cara?" He whips you around to face him as if you were in trouble for asking that question, but his face reads nothing but concern.
"Well, I guess Sister Imperator mainly... And then there's the clergy. Are they going to let you take a second Prime Mover, especially one who belonged to another Papa?? And then there's the ministry... your followers, your fans. What if they get jealous that someone took their Papa? What if they don't like me because I took someone else's shot at being the PM when I already had my turn? What if-"
Copia cuts you off, your name leaving his lips like he's just been knocked in the chest. "You've thought about being my Prime Mover?"
That's when you realize you said the quiet part out loud. 𝘖𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘗𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘔𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳, 𝘥𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘺. 𝘞𝘩𝘰 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵? "I know this is all new for us, Cope, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't want more."
"Mia bella ragazza, it seems you want 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵," he says, attempting to be suave, but it does pull a laugh from you regardless. He cups your cheek in his gloved hand "Dagli tempo, amore mio, avrai tutto quello che vuoi e anche di più." His hands thread through your hair, pulling you into a fiery kiss that simply wasn't long enough. "Speaking of time, I must be going, Sorella. The clergy will be expecting me. I'll leave Aether with you, sì? No one as bellissima as you should enter the Ball empty handed. I wouldn't want someone to think they could take you from me..."
He presses one more kiss to your lips before turning to exit, leaving you reeling at his words.
• • •
The Yule Ball is buzzing already. Siblings and Ghouls pour into the ballroom, already tipsy on eggnog and spiked hot chocolate, chatting and laughing, and a few even dancing to the light music that played as you all await Papa Emeritus IV. You were grateful to have Aether with you, giving you company in the flood of people. In fact he's oddly tame considering the amount of attention some of his fellow Ghouls are gathering; he must be on orders from Copia to be on his best behavior.
The energy is simply electric as everyone hardly pays attention to Sister Imperator's opening speech. It had been a rough year for everyone; they all need the release the Yule celebration can offer.
When Papa steps onto the stage in his ceremonial garb, the whole place erupts with applause, shouts, and a few lewd whistles. You see that familiar look of pride well up in him; not pride for himself, no, pride for the ministry, the church, everyone who worked so hard to spread the Olde One's message. "Good evening, my children. Multa Yule beneficia omnibus. How are we tonight, eh?"
He absolutely dazzles the crowd, everyone hanging on his words of praise for their devotion and support this year. He chokes up a bit mentioning the trials and tribulations he and everyone had faced this year, you knew he would, but a few Ghouls cheering their love for their Papa perked him back up and he made it through. Keeping his sermon brief, Copia just wants everyone to have a good time; they all deserve it.
As Papa moves onto the ballroom floor, he's swarmed by ministry members all wanting to dance with him, but he always handles a crowd well. Offering several of them a quick spin and kiss on the cheek, they swoon over him, and this time, it didn't make you the slightest bit jealous; you know who he has eyes for. A few couples even brought their kiddos over to meet Papa, watching him quickly bless a couple of babies then hold a young girl on his hip, "dancing" with her made your heart feel like it may burst. He doesn't realize how adorable he is with that sweet smile on his lips as he greets his congregation.
A tap on the shoulder catches your attention. Aether holds out his hand, clearly an offering to dance with him, perhaps trying to distract you from staring at Copia. You giggle at him before taking his hand. He wasn't the best dancer, but rocking back and forth, slowly spinning did allow you to get a chance to look the room over. The event committee did a great job with this one: handcrafted swags made from evergreen, holly leaves, and berries hung between each stained glass window, with golden bells cascading out from the base of each one; spreads of candles everywhere in black, dark green, and gold; they had even adorned the Renaissance-style painted ceiling with twinkling lights, a beautiful representation of the Winter solstice night sky.
"Ahem, Aether," Copia's voice lightly commands over your shoulder, "may I cut in?"
"Of course, boss," Aether quickly straightens up, releasing you from his grip as he wipes his palms against his vest.
Copia lets out a chuckle as his hands comes to rest on your waist. "Sorella," he whispers just behind your ear, as Aether disappears into the crowd, "I have a very important question for you."
"Yes, Papa?"
His hand glides around the small of your back as he dramatically walks around to meet your eyes, hand now gripping your other hip. He looks just as stunning as he had in your room an hour ago, but it's only enhanced by the ambient lighting, the gemstones and metals on his mitre and gloves absolutely sparkling.
He bows deeply, lowering his head until he's eye-level with your waist. This catches the attention of everyone nearby, as Papa bows for no one, especially in his formal wear. Looking up at you as if you're the only thing in the room that exists, he asks very simply, "May I have this dance?"
It's a very public display that lets everyone know his intentions. You could only imagine that Imperator must be fuming, but your attention is fully ensnared by the man in front of you. "Of course, Papa, it would be an honor."
He slowly moves back up, eyes clearly drinking in the curves of your body, "It is I who should be honored, principessa."
𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘧 𝘩𝘦'𝘭𝘭 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘶𝘯 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘦. 𝘚𝘰 𝘧𝘢𝘳 𝘪𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮𝘴 𝘶𝘯𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦𝘭𝘺.
Suddenly, his arm snakes around your midsection and pulls you tight against him, a twinkle in his eyes as you start dancing together. This dance is much more energetic than it had been with Aether; Copia wastes no time in taking you out on the floor, twirling you in his arms, leading you gracefully. You remember being impressed with his moves back when he was a Cardinal in the way he would enthusiastically move against whomever he may have been courting at the time; no one had expected such a performance from the shy awkward man in his cassock and biretta, and you certainly never thought you'd get to experience it firsthand.
In one final move, he spins you away from him, arms outstretched between you, before he stops and cracks a grin at you before breaking into a few of his stage moves, "ass wobbling" as he calls it. It elicits a great deal of laughter from you, then he saunters back over to you, scooping you back into a kiss, like you were in a movie or something. You get a peek at the chandelier above his head, spotting the mistletoe hanging there. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘺 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘥. You could almost roll your eyes at how corny he could be, 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵, but it's hard to think of anything when his lips are against yours.
It's only when a group of Copia's closest Ghouls start hooting and hollering that you recall that you are in fact surrounded by most of the ministry. As Papa stands you back up and turns to hush his Ghouls, your face colors bright red, realizing almost everyone was watching that little display. You notice a few envious eyes cutting daggers at you.
"Come, mia cara," the man offers his hand to you once again, this time for an escape. As you rush from the room, embarrassment is quickly replaced with excitement. You and Copia run hand in hand through the halls of the ministry, laughing at what you aren't really sure, but you don't stop until you get outside to the walkway overlooking the courtyard.
The cloister is always beautiful at night, the gargoyle
s casting shadows that looked like demons, and the tall arches allowing a perfect view of the stars, but keeping one dry if it happened to be raining. It also always had a nice breeze, which on a night like this, the longest night of the year, chilled you right to the bone.
"Here, principessa, take this," Copia says, unclipping the top layer of his vestments.
"Oh, no no no, I couldn't take that. It would be inappropriate," you argue.
"Stellina, it is only cloth, and I won't have you freezing your plump little ass off out here." His word is final as he drapes the beautifully embroidered chasuble over your shoulders.
𝘖𝘩, 𝘴𝘰 𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘺 𝘢𝘴𝘴?
After clipping up the chasuble, Copia wraps his arms around you for an added layer of warmth and leans you against the waist-high wall behind you.
"Mia cara, you look beautiful against the stars like this." He brushes a piece of hair behind your ear, seemingly one of his favorite things to do to you.
"You look very handsome yourself, Papa," you admire him, running your hands over the blue silk that now runs up to his shoulders, no longer covered by the chasuble.
"You still call me Papa after all this time," he points out.
"Well, I didn't want anyone to think I was getting special treatment..." You practically stare a hole in his chest.
"Stellina," he lifts your chin to meet his gaze, "I don't think you were fooling anyone."
Your cheeks start to flush, whether from the cold or the intimacy of the moment you aren't sure.
"You know, Copia..." Tears start to well up in your eyes at that... dream? hallucination? memory? You weren't sure what to call it. "Terzo... He, uhhh..."
"Tesoro, if you don't want to do this because of him... Well, I'll know I've missed out, but I'll understand. I could never dream of replacing him; his shoes are much too big too fill."
"No, Copia!" you whine, tucking yourself into his chest, "That's not what I was going to say." You pause for a moment, collecting yourself. "Terzo came to me that night I went missing. I don't know how to explain it... It felt so real. But he told me that we needed each other, and that I should take care of you."
"I know, amore, I had a similar dream that night. It was perhaps 𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦 than yours however. I saw my dear Prime Mover, holding our child in her arms, and she reassured me that they were being taken care of. They had all of the opulence and prosperity that Satan promises his followers. I just 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦 that I couldn't give it to them-" His eyes turn dark, and for the first time, you understand what Terzo may have meant about Copia going mad.
You gently reach up, gracing your fingertips over Copia's lips and chin, bringing him back to reality. Your face soft but concerned as you search for the soul behind those mismatched eyes.
As if you're some sort of grounding force, he stiffens up, inhaling sharply as he looks down at you; a tear rolls down his cheek as he chokes out your name followed by, "I do need you. I need you so much, cara." His lips hit you like a wave, crashing down on you wherever he can make contact: lips, cheeks, nose, jaw.
With both of yours and his emotions running high, it's easy for the sadness and grief to cradle itself away inside, while new feelings make their way to the surface. His tongue urgently finds it's way into your mouth, as your fingers card into his ashy brown locks, knocking the mitre to the ground. It's heady and desperate, but it's exactly what you both need.
As he nips at your neck, tongue tracing various shapes over the sensitive skin there, his strong arms lift you to sit on the cloister wall, drawing a gasp from you. As if your arms didn't have enough of a hold on him, your legs locked around his hips, pressing him close to you--but not close enough. It felt like you could fall over that wall with him and dive head-first into pleasure; it's exhilarating.
One hand roughly rips open the snaps on the chasuble that had been keeping you warm, leaving it cascading down the wall. Certainly preoccupied as his lips search yours again, you aren't even sure how he got the blue underlayer of his vestments off, but it left him in a stunning little combo: black jeans, black skirt with billowing sleeves, and a tight little vest. How that man wore so many clothes you didn't understand, but you didn't care, as long as they came off.
His gloved hands scratched up your thighs, pushing the hem of your gown up. With your arms already locked around his shoulders, he asks, "Ready, baby?" before sliding your weight off the wall and onto his waist before he quickly carries you in the direction of his chambers.
It's nothing short of miraculous that you make it back to the room without bumping into anything or knocking any expensive sculptures over, seeing how Copia was pretty much navigating blind; his lips hardly leaving yours for a second.
Inside the cozy suite you'd come to know so well, even growing to like it the way Copia had it decorated, he flops you both down on the little sofa you'd had so many chats on. Hands on his chest and legs on either side of him, you shift to get more comfortable when you find his sex with yours. You both groan against each other's mouths, desire growing to become unbearable. Your fingers work his shirt and his vest open as your hips gently grind down, searching for that sweet sensation again.
Papa's mouth leaves you with a pop as he gasps for air; his eyes are dark again, but this time for an entirely different reason: you. Having you is the only thought on his mind as his hands fumble for the zipper on your back. His lust-blown eyes devouring each new inch of skin exposed to him as your dress hits the floor.
"Satanas, mia bella, your Papa Terzo was a lucky man," he mumbles as he presses a string of kisses to the tops of your breasts. "You could make the Dark Lord himself blush in this little number."
You cradle him against your chest as his flattery pulls a giggle from you, "Keep talking like that and you'll get lucky too, Papa."
He groans happily at the sound of that, his hands cupping at your lacy bra.
"Oh, so now you like being called Papa?"
"When you are dressed like this, sì, call me whatever you like, mia principessa." He looks up at you, strands of hair falling out of place, chest exposed as his shirt falls off his shoulders, his lust evident against his jeans; he looks like debauchery personified.
"What if I call you mine, huh?" Your boldness surprises you, but you roll with it.
"Hmmm... Okie dokie. Papa is all yours... to do with as it pleases you, topolino." Now, that last part makes you blush, but you don't hesitate to start loosening the laces on his pants. With the laces undone, you untuck the tail of his shirt from the tight demin, allowing his erection to spring free.
Your fingers gently grace over the shaft, eliciting a shaky breath from Copia. You both look at each other like nervous teenagers for a moment; it has been a while for you both. He leans forward and delicately kisses you, and it was the push you needed to fall over the edge with him. Your hand grips him with more confidence, bobbing up and down, while his moans are muffled against your lips.
His nimble fingers drift under the edge of your panties, teasing at the lace on your hip before gliding to circle the damp cloth over your clit. You match his noises, a blissful harmony filling the room. The sensation is only heightened when his fingers push the lace aside to slide into your slick folds. 𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘴? You pull away from his lips to let out a whine as he teases your entrance, and a hiss escapes Copia as you tighten your grip on his dripping member.
"Copia," you gasp, "Papa, I need you."
"Cara-"
"Right now, Papa, I need you right now," you demand, head thrown back as you grind against his fingers. "And please don't say 'Okie dokie.'"
"You took the words out of my mouth, bella," he gives a half-smug half-goofy smile while he pulls your hips closer to him.
Letting him pull your panties aside, hooking them on that plump ass he remarked on earlier, you line up over him, impatiently taking him. As the tip enters you with that delicious pop, you both attempt not to buck your hips. You both fail. His arm snakes around your waist, urging you down onto him. It really is a desperate sight; you hadn't even properly gotten either of your clothes off, yet you still seek to become one.
Slowly seating yourself fully on his length, Copia calls out your name, "Ti amo, tesoro, così tanto, da così tanto tempo... Ti amo tanto." It came like one of his chants during Mass, like it was well practiced, like he couldn't wait to recite it.
You cup his cheeks, holding the the last bit of resolve he has, "I love you, too, Copia." Your hands slide down to his shoulders which help stabilize your movements on top of him. Instantly his hips move up into yours, matching your rhythm in a delightful way.
The antipope's hands reach up, sliding your bra straps off your shoulders to free your breasts, and his mouth quickly starts to work on your budding nipples while one of his hands reunites with the bud between your thighs. "Voglio adorarti, mia dea. Ti farò piacere. Prendi il mio seme come offerta."
That stream of Italian has your head soaring through the clouds; the hand holding a death grip in his hair might be the only thing that keeps you from derailing. How he could manage to press every button you had all at the same time is beyond you, all you know is that it has you barreling towards your orgasm faster than anything you've ever experienced.
Suddenly, Copia pushes you off of him, your back landing on the sofa. He hungrily pulls your panties off and lines back up with you, filling you again in an instant. Instinctively, you want to wrap your legs on his hips, but Papa has other plans. He hooks his hands behind your knees, holding them straight up and squeezing your thighs together as he relentlessly pounds into you. This has you screaming his name within seconds as the head of his cock drags over that sweet spot inside you over and over and over again.
The feeling is so overwhelming, you can't stop the wave of your release from crashing over you, "Oh, Satanas, Copia, I'm coming!" Your eyebrows contort and your jaw relaxes while your thighs shake violently beneath him. The sensation causes his hips to stutter, and as he finds a shallow but steady movement, you know he's reached his end as well.
A warm sensation fills you as he gives you his offering, just as he'd promised moments ago.
His hips continue to buck, riding you both through your climaxes. He lets your legs go weak, gently letting them down to either side of him as his movements come to a halt. He finally shrugs his shirt and vest from his arms then carefully pulls out to lay next to you on the scant little couch, but he holds on tight so you don't fall off. Propped up on one arm, his eyes observe all of your details: the flush of your cheeks, the marks he left on your neck and collarbone, the way your chest rises and falls as you try to calm your breathing. Everything about you looks perfect in his opinion.
Copia grabs your bra, which has just fallen around your waist at this point, turning it so the fastening is in the front, and he makes quick work of discarding it. "We did this a little out of or order, sì?" he chuckles.
"I wouldn't have had it any other way, amore mio," you lean up to kiss his nose.
"No one has been blessed more than me this Yule, Stellina. I'm grateful for it, and for you." Before his blush becomes too evident, he leaves you, only for a moment to retire to the big bathroom connected to his bedroom. He returns wearing a big soft robe, with one just like it thrown over his shoulder for you, as well as a warm washcloth.
Soft as kisses, he smooths over all of your love bites, calming the red wounds; he then wipes away any proof of your love making before bundling you up for a long night of cuddles and sweet nothings. Maybe even another round... Or three.
#i hope you all liked it 🥹#thank you if you made it this far ❤️#happy yule#papa 3#papa iii#papa emeritus 3#papa 4#popia#cardi c#terzo emeritus#papa iv#ghost band#the band ghost#fanfic#oneshot#Ghouls#aether ghoul#papa emeritus iv#papa emeritus iii#papa copia#papa emeritus 4#papa terzo#papa emeritus
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AU game: the grandmother dies when Jane is ten 👀
Five fun facts meme. Interpreted as 'five things that would happen' because I don't know how many of these are, uh, fun. Also it's more than five, because I have no self control.
Jane goes to the funeral, of course. She does not cry. She wears a new dress that Aunt Sylvia bought her, when it became clear that Mother would not be able to pull herself together enough to handle the logistics of preparing her daughter for the funeral. Everyone keeps assuring Jane that the grief she feels is normal, and that she will feel better if she can cry and let out her feelings. She is given a week off school to mourn. Aunt Sylvia offers to let her stay over with them for a few days.
Jane does not tell anyone that, although she does not know the word for what she is feeling, she's pretty sure that grief is not it. She feels very dreadful indeed, that she cannot grieve her own grandmother.
The house on Gay Street seems to have died with Grandmother. Aunt Gertrude fades ever more into the wallpaper. She continues the routine perfectly, almost aggressively. It is as though Grandmother will return at any moment and Aunt Gertrude will not be the one to be scolded by her mother for letting the house go. Mother fades into herself. She stops going out, stops putting on her pretty, expensive clothes, barely leaves her room. She alternates between wild grief and furious merriment, dotes on Jane and refuses to see her each in their turn. Robin is devastated that her mother is dead. Robin is overjoyed that her mother is dead. Robin is finally free. Robin is more trapped than she has ever been.
It's Mary and Frank who keep the house going. Frank runs errands and takes Jane to school and sees to it that she has new clothes when she starts to outgrow her current ones. Mary keeps them fed and stocked and makes sure Miss Robin eats something every day. She lets Jane help her in the kitchen as much as she likes, because the poor child should have something to cling to, with her world in upheaval.
Irene Fraser learns that Victoria Kennedy has died. She makes some rapid calculations and decides that her brother must never know. If he is ever to move on from his youthful mistakes, he must never get wind that there is anything out of the ordinary in Toronto.
But Andrew Stuart bows to no one, and that spring he gets it in his head that he must see his daughter again. Irene tries to talk him out of it, argues and manipulates and, when all else fails, pleads with Andrew to leave the past in the past and let things lie. Andrew will not be swayed. He writes to his wife and demands that she send him their only child.
Andrew's letter sends the house on Gay Street into renewed chaos. They had just started to claw their way out of the pit, to find a new balance and start living again. Aunt Gertrude continues to live by her schedule, keeping the house spotless and presiding over Jane's evening bible reading. But somehow, without Grandmother, she seems softer. Not more approachable, or kinder, or anything perceptible, but somehow Jane doesn't dread the evening bible session anymore. Mother, meanwhile, is slowly, timidly, starting to emerge from her overwhelming grief. She is fragile still, and rarely gets through the day without crying, but even that seems to soothe her. She doesn't go out, can't bear to face her pretty, glittering friends, not when her feelings are so big and so complicated and so overwhelming, but she resumes some of her correspondence. Jane is still dreadfully worried about her, and conspires with Mary to make all her favorite dishes. She asks Miss West if Jody couldn't come over in the afternoons, after the lunch rush, to sit with Mother and keep her company while Jane is at school, and Mother finds some life back teaching Jody to play the piano and taking her out for nicer clothes. Mary, who sees everything even if she doesn't let on, calls on Miss West and negotiates a fee for Jody's time, so that the poor girl won't find herself punished for wasting time.
When they receive Andrew's letter, they almost lose Robin again. Jane, who is by this point accustomed to thinking of herself as the secret head of the household, takes it upon herself to answer the letter. She shall not go to him, she writes. He has not wanted her until now, and she cannot leave Mother alone in her grief. Please do not write them again.
Andrew does not write to them again. Andrew goes to Toronto and knocks on the door.
It is very ugly, at first. Robin cries. Andrew demands to know why she didn't write to him to say her mother was dead. Robin, in a fit of bravery that could only be fueled by sheer emotional exhaustion, asks why he didn't write to her first, all those years ago, when she left.
The room goes silent. Andrew says he did write to her. Robin says she never got the letter. All three Stuarts, silently and with utter certainty, realize what must have happened to it.
In the end, Jane does go with Andrew to the Island. Andrew invites Robin along too, but she refuses. Better for father and daughter to spend time together without her, since she's had Jane to herself all these years. Privately, she knows that she couldn't bear to exchange so much as one word with Irene Fraser, not when she is so fragile and everything is so new. She and Jane write to each other regularly, and with no forbidden subjects. Jane discovers freedom, true freedom, on the Island, and Robin spends her time doting on Jody and, slowly, venturing out into the world. She wants to be brave for her daughter, wants to have things to write about that won't make Jane worry. To her own surprise, she realizes that, when she can set her own schedule, she does not mind going out. She missed the parties and the socializing, now that she can refuse an invitation when she wants to and choose for herself whether or not to spend an afternoon in. Robin and Andrew slowly get to know each other again, first through Jane's letters and, eventually, through their own correspondence. They continue writing after Jane comes back to Toronto for the fall.
That year, Andrew comes to Toronto for Christmas.
Next summer, Robin and Jody visit the Island for a few weeks.
Slowly, the family heals.
Send me an AU and I'll give you five an amount of things that would happen in it!
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Compare your Keefe boy to a song, BUT it can't be Olivia Rodrigo or Taylor Swift >:)
OOOOHHH THIS IS DIFFICULT BUT I CAN DO THIS
all the things she said by tATu!!!
Gonna paste the lyrics here:
All the things she said
All the things she said
Running through my head
Running through my head
Running through my head
All the things she said
All the things she said
Running through my head
Running through my head
All the things she said (all the things she said)
This is not enough (enough, enough, enough)
^^that’s the chorus, and I think it’s about the things his mother said to him growing up, prepping him to have a “legacy,” making him wonder what things might be like if she actually loved him….
I'm in serious shit, I feel totally lost
If I'm asking for help it's only because
Being with you has opened my eyes
Could I ever believe such a perfect surprise?
^^keefe doesn’t ask for help. He hides behind jokes and runs away when his defenses fall. But with sophie… she’s special to him. And he’s less afraid to ask for help.
I keep asking myself, wondering how
I keep closing my eyes but I can't block you out
Want to fly to a place where it's just you and me
Nobody else, so we can be free
Nobody else, so we can be free
^^keefe reveals in stellarlune that he tried to ignore Sophie’s telepathic message after he ran away to keep himself from thinking of her and wanting to come home. He doesn’t want to face his reality, but he doesn’t want to be away from sophie either 😭
And I'm all mixed up, feeling cornered and rushed
They say it's my fault but I want her so much
Want to fly her away where the sun and rain
Come in over my face, wash away all the shame
^^Keefe has a lot of things that are his fault. If you’ve seen me post about him, you know he’s screwed up. Big time. And a lot. And of course he cares, he cares, he cares about sophie so so so much and he wishes he could have her but during his time in the forbidden cities he doesn’t think he CAN have her because she has Fitz and he wants her to be happy. He wishes he and sophie could live in this perfect world where he hadn’t hurt her and all his friends and himself. In unlocked, he even refers to the issue with the caches as “the one betrayal he couldn’t seem to fix”—Keefe is trying so hard. But too often, it isn’t enough.
When they stop and stare, don't worry me
'Cause I'm feeling for her what she's feeling for me
I can try to pretend, I can try to forget
But it's driving me mad, going out of my head
^^Keefe knows, since he is an empath, that Sophie’s emotions are torn regarding romance, even before SHE knows it. He tries to not worry about he, he tells himself he wants her to be happy with Fitz, but he knows she has feelings for her because he can feel them and in his nightfall short story he agrees with Ro that it drives him crazy—but he wants sophie to have whatever she wants. (Good thing in stellarlune she realizes she wants him so they can have their happy ending.)
Mother looking at me
Tell me what do you see?
Yes, I've lost my mind
Daddy looking at me
Will I ever be free?
Have I crossed the line?
^^if you haven’t realized by now, KEEFE’S PARENTS ARE THE WORST. His father is abusive and neglectful. His mother is a villain who only wants to use him to her own ends. And he feels as though he’ll never be free of them, either of them, always… and his mother tells him, all the time, to “embrace the change,” to “fulfill his legacy,” and he doesn’t want to be changed by his mom and he’s grieving the mother he thought he knew who wasn’t a good parent but wasn’t THIS either… and he does wonder sometimes. Has he crossed the line? Is this the betrayal he WON’T be able to fix? How many times will sophie forgive him? How many times will the thing he is SURE is right turn out to actually be wrong?
All the things she said
All the things she said
Running through my head
Running through my head
Running through my head
THANK YOU FOR THIS ASK SOPHIE!!! This was so much fun—and now I’m having Keefe feelings!! (But then, when am I not?)
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