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Ouch. 💔
Who said you could break my goddamn heart in UNDER 300 WORDS?! Who?? My GOODNESS 😭
Oh, Dieter. There’s such an undercurrent of dissatisfaction and loneliness and sadness to him, isn’t there? With his life, his work, just all of it. He’s trying to feel whatever he can with whatever vices or distractions he can find. But it’s not going to be enough, and no person or relationship is going to be enough until he addresses the hurt and finds out what he needs to be happy, healthy and whole. And GOSH I hope he does.
Way to punch me right in the heart with this. And I mean that as a very sincere compliment.
easy like Sunday morning
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Pairing- Dieter Bravo x f!reader
Word Count- 295
Warnings- light angst. drug use. reader is mentioned to have hair and wears jewelry, otherwise a blank slate.
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It's better this way.
Really.
It is.
If he says it enough times, he'll believe it.
Honestly, he's Dieter fucking Bravo. He's not meant to be chained down, tied to one person for the rest of his days anyway.
He's sprawled on the bed watching you pack your things. This is no anger fueled rush job. You're meticulous about it- every item folded and placed with care. Nothing left behind. No stray earring under the dresser. No random hairpins in the medicine cabinet.
He can see that this is something you've been planning and the countdown clock in your head, the one he didn't even know was ticking, reached zero today. Wouldn't even matter if he was here or not, nothing he could do would make you stay.
But it's fine.
Really.
It is.
He reaches for the candy dish on his nightstand- the one filled with pills of every shape and size and color- while you flip through the clothes hanging in the closet and take only what's yours, what you came with, what you paid for. No souvenirs. No gifts.
He sighs as he digs through the pills. Sometimes, he just pops a few and lets the adventure begin. Today, he's looking for a specific shape and color. He wants to float, he wants to fly.
And then he wants to forget.
He tried this time. He really did. To be loyal and faithful and true. He loves you. He thinks. In his own way. In the way that he loves everything. Recklessly. Head first, dive right in.
It works.
Until it doesn't.
He'll miss you. He knows that. In his own way. Vaguely. Carelessly. Until the next one comes along. And there's always a next one.
And it's fine.
Really.
It is.
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🥺 Oh, Marcus. Breakups are the worst. Especially when you think the person you’re with might be the one only to end up with your heart on the cold, rainy pavement 1500 miles away. Especially when you know the other person has moved on and you’re still processing the fallout. Especially when that processing reveals that you missed (or ignored) signs that you’re not on the same page… or even in the same book.
Thinking of Marcus all alone in a city he’s not familiar with in a house that he thought he’d be living a very different life in makes me so sad. The empty walls, the cardboard box parade, the barren fridge… it’s not at all what he envisioned when he toured the place and ugh his hopes were just so high, weren’t they? And when hopes are high it means they’ve got potential to crash really hard. And boy oh boy did they ever. He’s such a sweet, caring, well-meaning guy and he deserves to be happy in a relationship with someone who appreciates him for all that he is.
But that person wasn’t Teresa and it was never going to be. Sometimes the worst part of a breakup is recognizing that at least some of it is your fault. That when played back, all those little things you glossed over because you were busy getting ahead of yourself were actually not little things at all. She did tell him. Maybe not with words but with actions. With reactions. She wasn’t ready and he tried to make her ready anyway and that’s not a relationship.
I really enjoyed this. I hope for Marcus’ sake that coming to this conclusion and getting that bit of closure will mean that he’s able to move on and heal and learn and maybe even unpack those boxes and grocery shop and hey who knows he might meet someone in the produce aisle. Or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he gets to know himself a little better first. And then maybe he trips and falls into something when he least expects it. But truly I just hope that he can find happiness after heartbreak.
Thank you for writing this. You did an excellent job of weaving in the song lyrics, by the way!!
The District Sleeps Alone Tonight - A Songfic
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Pairing: None 
Rating: General, although my blog is, as always, 18+ only 
Word Count: 1.6k
Warnings: angst, breakups, mentions of Teresa x Patrick Jane
Summary: I am a visitor here. I am not permanent. 
A/N: @whatsnewalycat said that The District Sleeps Alone Tonight by the Postal Service was a Marcus Pike song and then I listened to it during a thunderstorm and imagined a whole scene based on it. I’m not sure whether or not to call this a songfic, but there are several direct quotations from the lyrics and the “plot” of this follows the song pretty closely.  For best results, listen to this song while you read. The lyrics are posted at the end of the fic <3
Masterlist
A lone figure cuts through the wet fog, his collar turned up and shoulders hunched forward in a futile attempt to ward off the elements. The faded leather jacket may have been sufficient enough for even the coldest winter days in Austin, but against the drizzle and wind in this new climate, it only succeeds at keeping him dry. Mostly. The notion that he may not be as well-prepared as he had originally thought himself to be grates on him, shame niggling at the back of his spine at the realization that he doesn’t even know where to go to purchase a winter coat.
A gust of wind sends thousands of miniscule, stinging droplets of water into his face, making him grimace, and Marcus wonders to himself how it could possibly still be raining with temperatures so close to freezing.
It seems as though he’s stopped at every street crossing, because of course he is, and he squints against the endless line of headlights and brake lights extending in either direction, blurring and distorting in the soggy weather, as he waits for the traffic lights to turn.
It gets dark so early here.
His phone buzzes against fingers shoved in his pockets, and he fishes it out to read the text message that flashes on the screen.
Sorry, I think you might still have my spare key? If so can you mail it back? Thx.
The cavity of his chest feels empty and raw as his vision seems to darken around the words, twisting and warping them much like the rain and the headlights. Marcus pockets the phone again without responding and stares blankly at the ground. He thinks about the endless, pitch-black tunnels stretching out in every direction beneath him, wondering how many feet of asphalt and concrete there are between the bottoms of his feet and the top of the cavernous expanse of the DC underground. He imagines the sidewalk crumbling, sending him down into the unknown depths.
In reality, he takes the escalator across the street.
The station is buzzing with life–as it always seems to be, no matter the hour–and Marcus watches vibrant humanity swirl around him. Two teenagers sharing the same pair of headphones. A tired-looking mother with two young children. A woman in a business suit, eyes glued to her phone. A disheveled old man, smelling of booze, that everyone subconsciously steps around without even a look in his direction. 
Marcus fishes in his pocket for his metro card, his fingers bumping against the badge he had immediately unclipped from his lapel upon leaving work–the one that spells out a single word with big block letters, just another indignity upon all of the other indignities he’s suffered this week.
When he had asked why his regular badge–the one he’s clipped on his lapel every morning for over a decade–wasn’t sufficient, the bored door attendant tried to explain about building access being tied to his network credentials, which were tied to something called “Active Directory,” and it couldn’t be done right now because they were experiencing downtime after a backup server failed, and Marcus didn’t really understand what any of this meant or why this hadn’t all been set up beforehand, but there was hardly a point in trying to get answers to his questions because none of it would speed up the activation of his new credentials, nor the delivery of his new laptop, which wasn’t arriving until Monday.
None of this was done with malicious intent, of course; nor is he the only new employee affected, going by the line of badged Agents standing in line every morning this week to get the day’s temporary access, but Marcus still feels like a marked man. Separate. Apart. Singled-out. 
I am a visitor here. I am not permanent. 
It only compounds upon that same feeling inside of him: that feeling that he’s on some sort of strange vacation, and that soon he’ll be able to return home. Home. To his little duplex in Austin, where he shared one wall with Mrs. Ruth Galloway, the eighty-five year-old widow he had a cup of tea with every Sunday at two pm. To the city he knows, the field office where he’d spent most of his career, with familiar rooms and familiar faces… where she walks through the familiar halls. With him. 
Marcus swallows thickly, shoving the painful lump down into his stomach. 
No, he can’t go home.
The spacious condo certainly doesn’t feel like home when he opens the door to find the large living room dark and cold and foreboding, although that’s probably mostly his fault–the walls are still lined with moving boxes, most of them still half-full with his belongings, messy and unkempt after rummaging through them to find the essentials and leaving the rest.
When he had toured the building, two weeks before the move, the large residence felt full of dreams, of possibilities, rather than empty and sterile. Marcus remembers going from room to room, his head filled with images of an idealistic future: a king-sized bed, his and hers towels in the pristine bathroom, a bookshelf large enough to fit all of their books in the first spare room, and, in the second spare room… a crib. 
Now, they’re just two empty rooms. 
The fridge is empty too, Marcus suddenly remembers, having not had a chance to find a grocery store yet. He’s been living out of takeaway containers, not even bothering to open the box of dishes and silverware. He takes out two styrofoam boxes–one half-filled with leftover Pad Thai, the other with chicken Tikka Masala, and dumps them side-by-side into the same container with a half-grimace.
Beats going back out into the weather.
There are two beers left in a six-pack bought three days ago, so he opens one and takes a long sip while the microwave heats his food. He thumbs through the mail he left on the kitchen counter absentmindedly, finding mostly junk advertisements and coupons, but a takeout menu for a Sushi restaurant catches his eye. As he sets it on top of several other menus he’d accumulated over the last couple of days, the microwave beeps, alerting him to the fact that his dinner is ready. 
Marcus sits at the kitchen table and flicks on the TV in the living room, setting the channel to some random rerun of a syndicated sitcom that he doesn’t recognize, mostly for background noise. He pulls a somewhat-soggy copy of the Washington Post he snagged from the breakroom from his messenger bag and flips through the pages without really reading any of the headlines until he finds the crossword. He halfheartedly fills out the clues as he eats, the canned laugh track from the show filtering in and out of his awareness. The clue ‘strips in geography class (6 letters)’ finally causes him to rub at his temples, setting down the pen as he rises to his feet to toss the empty container and bottle in the trash. 
The other beer is popped open, and Marcus settles down on the couch, flipping through channels. He pauses briefly on a black and white film–Roman Holiday, he recognizes after a minute or two of watching–but when Ann and Joe kiss on the riverbank, he quickly switches to a basketball game instead. Keeping the volume low, he lets his mind wander as he blankly watches the teams run back and forth on the court, not all that interested in the score. 
He needs to buy food. He needs to find somewhere he can get a winter coat. He needs to find a post office, he suddenly remembers, thinking of the text message from earlier. He checks the time–late, probably too late. Wait, no–it’s two hours earlier in Austin. Two beers is hardly enough to even feel the alcohol, but apparently it’s enough to dull his sense of judgment, because he finds himself pulling out his phone. The call goes straight to voicemail, and he tries not to think about the possibility that she’s screening her calls because of him.
“Hi, uh… Hi. I’m sure you’re busy, but I got your message earlier about the key, and… I think I do have one, yeah, but I’m not sure… where, exactly. I’m still in the process of unpacking, got a couple more boxes to go through,” Marcus says, looking at the large pile of boxes in front of him and knowing he’s got many more throughout the house. “I’ll make it a priority to find it and send it off this weekend.
“It’s really nice here,” he continues, seemingly not able to stop the flow of words once they’ve started. “There’s a Thai place down the street that you’d like, but the spring rolls are so-so. Not like that one place we found in Ridgetop, remember that one?” Marcus chuckles softly to himself, hardly recognizing the sound of his own laughter, and it sends a pang down into his chest. “I–” he stutters, blinking rapidly. “I know things weren’t perfect between us. The–the timing wasn’t right, and there were a lot of… of uh, obstacles in our way, but I’ve been doing–” he huffs humorlessly, “–a lot of thinking over the past couple of days, and I think I understand now. I saw a life that I wanted, and… I pushed for it. I pushed too hard, without–without thinking about how you felt about it, about whether you were ready, whether you even wanted a life with me. You were… you were trying to tell me, that whole time… and I didn’t listen. But I… I think I finally see it–why I was the one worth leaving. It was never going to be me, it couldn’t have been. I ignored all the signs that I was pushing too hard, not listening, pressuring you…” He takes a shaky breath, and lets it out slowly. “I’m sorry. You were right to leave. I–I wish you the best, Teresa.”
*
The District Sleeps Alone Tonight
The Postal Service
Smeared black ink
Your palms are sweaty
And I'm barely listening
To last demands
I'm staring at the asphalt wondering
What's buried underneath
I'll wear my badge
A vinyl sticker with big block letters
Adhering to my chest
That tells your new friends
I am a visitor here, I am not permanent
And the only thing
Keeping me dry is
You seem so out of context
In this gaudy apartment complex
(Where I am) A stranger with your door key
Explaining that I'm just visiting
(Where I am) And I am finally seeing
Why I was the one worth leaving
Why I was the one worth leaving
D.C. sleeps alone tonight
You seem so out of context
In this gaudy apartment complex
(Where I am) A stranger with your door key
Explaining that I'm just visiting
(Where I am) And I am finally seeing
Why I was the one worth leaving
Why I was the one worth leaving
The district sleeps alone tonight
After the bars turn out their lights
(Where I am) And send the autos swerving
Into the loneliest evening
(Where I am) And I am finally seeing
Why I was the one worth leaving
Why I was the one worth leaving
Why I was the one worth leaving
Why I was the one worth leaving
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the-blind-assassin-12 · 10 hours
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Every once in a while I like to be emotionally rocked and socked right in the gut and man did this one do the trick. You did not hold back at all when it comes to the darker, grittier elements that come along with Tim's work, and not only it that a brave way to write, but I think it worked really well within the context of the story. This one hurt. But it was so real and even though it hurt, it was beautiful.
I love this darker take on Tim. I love that you leaned into the psychological and emotional trauma that major crimes detectives have to deal with. It makes me so fucking sad to see him hit these low points and turn to unhealthy and dangerous coping mechanisms, but unfortunately this is a harsh reality for a lot of people in his position. And fuck, it would be excruciating to watch him go through all of this as his wife without having the context, though I doubt knowing why he's in so much pain (I'll get to little Rainie Thompson in a minute) would make seeing him self-destruct like that any less painful. Even knowing, being a bystander to that, feeling so alone and cast aside... it might be enough to break their marriage. Luckily for Tim, Reader seems like an extremely compassionate and loving woman, and even though the road to recovery for them - and for him with his vices and trauma - is not going to be an easy one, I think they just might make it. And that hope makes it all hurt a little less.
The backstory that you've given Tim here... oof. The drinking. The end of his first marriage. Then... The Case. The capitol C Case that changed him. I cannot possibly imagine dedicating so much time and effort and energy into finding this little girl (or any missing person) - after breaking the RULE about making promises, no less - to end up finding them the way Tim found Rainie. Of course that would stick with you. Of course that would haunt you. Of course in the back of your mind you would always be reminded of your "failure" to help her. The detail of him keeping that drawing of hers... GOSH. I ache for him. The way you used the echo of her cries and then her laughter was really well done.
And I understand him not wanting to "burden" his wife with that story and with the admission that it still fucks him up and that he's very much NOT okay. I do. But Timothy. It's for better OR for worse, love. Sometimes life really does make you feel just like a pathetic bunch of gas station flowers for a little while. But when you let the right people help you, when you let them love you in the ways that you need to be loved, when you love them in the ways that are difficult, life starts to feel a little more like a garden.
I really did enjoy this very much. Thank you for sharing!!
Rockford & Roses - A Detective Tim Rockford One Shot 🌹
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Summary: Tim's coming home to you on Valentine's night with a heavy heart and secrets that threaten to tear you apart. Can your love for him survive the ghosts of his past that still haunt him? More importantly, are you willing to make room for them in your already strained marriage?
Pairing: Det. Tim Rockford x Wife!Reader (No name or physical description of reader. It’s you, bub.)
Word Count: 5k-ish
Scoville Smut Rating: None, it's fluff. Mostly angst. Definite angst. You're safe. Kinda.
Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.
Warnings/Triggers: Alludes to smut, nothing detailed/mentions details of a case involving the murder of a child, nothing too graphic/alcoholism/A N G S T in abundance/some dark themes in the sense that Tim is self-destructing. Tim is very a broken man, poor lamb. Give him a hug, will you?
I write for me, and I share with you. If this story isn't to your taste, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.
Author’s Note: This story evolved massively from the direction it was going in originally, and I'm actually kinda pleased about that... It's something different from your typical, "schmoozy" Valentine's Day story, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.🌹
MAIN MASTERLIST | TIM ROCKFORD MASTERLIST | FLORA & FAUNA MASTERLIST
Enjoy! 🖤
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Detective Tim Rockford had been sober for almost a year when it all fell apart completely on that terrible night. 
But it wasn’t until the winter was in its latter stages, that he would tip fully over the edge into regular, almost daily, bouts of oblivion to keep himself from falling off the ledge completely.
To keep the nightmares and sense of guilt that he drowned in on a near constant basis at bay. 
He unscrews the cap from the bottle of dark amber liquid he’s craftily been hiding under the seat in his car, and swallows it all back letting it slip down his throat.
Without him giving it permission to, his mind replays over the events from that fateful night, four years ago, and is brought back to the little girl lying at the bottom of the ravine just off of the ridge. 
A call had come in about a missing child on the morning in question, and he and his partner Peter ‘Petey’ Harman went over to the home of the parents to talk to them about it. You know, do the initial questioning; worker bee stuff. Try to suss out if she was a regular runaway or if in fact one of them had stuffed her under the foundations and was crying wolf.
The family home was nice; an average run-of-the-mill house, in an average run-of-the-mill neighbourhood. Tim was presented with a photo of her from her mother and he remembered thinking that he’d missed his chance to be a father, to watch your belly swell and witness the miracle of life forged from your love, and it left a bitter taste. 
She was cute as a button; all brown hair and freckles, and she had this blue, silk princess-dress, with lace collars and cuffs, wearing a gonky smile that was missing a tooth or three. 
‘Find my baby, please Tim.’ Her mother had begged him whilst Harman took down the notes - he was good with that stuff - and Tim promised her that he would - knowing that a detective should never promise that - if it was the last thing he ever did. Not knowing that he would actually make good on that word further down the line. 
Looking again at the picture, he learned it was her favourite dress, her mother had said it through the red eyes that she wore that pretty dress everywhere, and that she turned into the spawn of Satan himself when she tried to get her out of it so it could be cleaned.
It was also the same dress Tim had found her wearing when he discovered her remains.
The search had been dragged out as much as it could be, but there was no trace of her. Leads had been exhausted; those pulled in for questioning were found innocent and their alibis solid.
It was as if Rainie Thompson had vanished off the surface of the planet in a click of a finger.
The search efforts began to die off around the four week point, mostly due to the heavy snow settling in and it pained him to know that everyone was giving up on finding this little girl - a little girl that he was convinced was still alive - she just had to be; he could feel it in his gut.
Some perverted bastard had her and he was determined to make them feed from a tube for their rest of their life when he found them.
Tim was determined to find her, despite his colleagues and even Harman at times, convincing him it was a lost cause. He’d been spending most of his time - including down time - combing the woods, the parks - everywhere and anywhere he could think to try and find her.
Where are you, baby? She consumed him wholly.
She was what kept your husband away from you.
Left you sat at the dining table alone, with an uneaten plate opposite you and a creeping draft settling into your bones. The creaky sounds of the house seemed louder when you were alone, and soon they were your only companion; their creaks soon turning into words of comfort at an absent husband.
Tim left the space in the bed vacant, crease-free and cold beside you. 
Tim’s whole world had come tumbling down when he’d picked Rainie up and cradled her small, cold body to his chest and wailed like he had lost his own beau.
No, baby... no.
He cursed up to the sky, as though having it out with God himself - God, who had allowed this innocent, beautiful child to die.
Tim wasn’t exactly devout or the God-fearing type. He’d been to church only a handful of times in his life; to marry you being the most notable, but after that day he’d especially not been back to a church since.
This is how faith dies in a person; violated and fractured. Altered and hollowed out from the inside and everything pure and good is obliterated by the poisoning fingers of the darkness in the world, wrapping their hands tightly around its neck and simply snapping it in two.
Fuck you, God! Damn you, you son of a bitch! 
She had been thrown down in there like a puppet whose strings had become entangled with themselves; she was six-years-old.
Rainie Thompson was six-years-old and she had a little, blue dress and played Hopscotch and liked drawing pictures of red roses, and eating chocolate ice-cream until her tummy hurt.
Rainie Thompson was the one who killed him. 
Tim cried through the drinking, mourning her like his own and mourning the part of him that was dying with her; a hollow husk of a man soon to be filled by the familiar numbing void that alcohol had to offer.
It would make him forget the horror; forget the depravity, although the nightmares would never relent, he would be certain of that - they never do. 
To date, he hasn’t found the killer and it’s been four years. A one-off, grisly murder that hinted at possible cannibalism, but later was discovered she’d been partly eaten by a wild animal scavenging; it left very little in the way of clues or evidence, because there was very little of her left.
Most of his team concluded it absolutely was an animal of some kind, a cougar happened upon her perhaps, or a bear after she'd wandered off? But Tim did not quite believe that - they didn’t see her. 
It’s changed him, changed something within Tim to see the world for what it is. The band-aid has been ripped off and once you see that shit, you can never unsee it again.
And Tim's seen some pretty fucked up shit in his career.
He closed up, closed off and began unknowingly cementing the spiralling destruction that was to be his life. He’s fifty-eight and has nothing anymore.
Well, that’s not entirely true, he has you.
Despite the distance that has grown between you, evolving from carnal desire to ships passing silently in the night, you remain steadfast in your love for Tim, silently supporting him as he battles the demons that threaten to consume him wholly.
Yet he can’t help but feel that he's condemned you already in some ways. Watching as those demons hold you down and tear pieces from you until, one day, they'll be nothing left. 
The wife of a gritty detective doesn't bode well in a happily ever after.
His decades long career is the reluctant third wheel in your marriage, and at first you admired his dedication; his passion to solving mysteries. Getting excited yourself when he'd use the dining room walls to gather his thought maps, pinning up mug shots, red thread lines linking people and place and circumstance. Weapons of choice like an elaborate game of Clue.
And he'd talk to you about them in those early days, the tamer cases he had. Mugs of coffee and thoughtful kisses exchanged as you offered your opinion and challenged his thinking.
Now it's getting harder not to resent that damn gold badge.
He swigs again at the bottle. It feels good; the warm, numbing sensation flooding through his veins down both his arms and legs. The giddy onslaught of amnesia begins to twinkle around the edges of alert thinking as he slowly succumbs to the light buzz.
He closes his eyes and lets himself teeter on the edge of it, welcoming the calmness like an old friend. 
His first heavy session had led to his first blackout and it had scared him; scared him that he could lose a chunk of time that was unaccounted for out of his life - waking up at home fully clothed in the armchair, sometimes the kitchen floor, knowing he'd driven severely under the influence, and equally amazed and relieved that he hadn’t killed anybody in the process. They would take his badge for that recklessness if they knew. 
No-one knew. Or if they did, they never mentioned it.
But it wasn’t enough to stop him. It got him through the paralysing fear of handling those dark days, which were particularly brutal, and the other fucked up cases he’d had to solve since.
They tell you; tell you that it will be difficult and bad, but you’re never prepared for it.
His father never prepared him for that shit and was right when he said he hadn’t got the cajones to be a police officer all those years ago.
His father headed up the ranks of Chief in a suburban precinct elsewhere and eventually made Commander, like Tim knew he would, probably just to spite him. He also told Tim in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t "Commander material." Hell, he wasn’t even Detective’s material, and for a while, Tim believed sincerely that he was right.
Although, he’s six feet under now, so what the Hell does he know? Shot in the back during a supermarket raid gone awry when he’d popped out to buy a newspaper and a some smokes. Commander John Rockford shot by a drugged up lil’ pipsqueak looking to get cash for his next score - what a legacy! 
His death left a nice, fat pension for his mother who squandered most of it on a gambling addiction that she’d always had looming in the background of his childhood; the root of many a ferocious argument witnessed between his parents when they thought he was tucked up in bed, and he could literally hear the punch from his father’s fist make contact with his mother’s jaw.
But that didn’t stop the fact that his words clung to Tim like a bad shadow most days, even now, long after his theatrical send off like he was a Goddamned hero or something. He wasn’t; he was a mean little asshole with a bad temper and Tim had been glad to see the back of him, too sloshed to remember much of the funeral at all and cutting his no good mother out of his life soon after. 
Tim swigs from the bottle once more, the sting dying out slowly and melting into an alkaline that soon tastes of nothing. It’s all nothing; emptiness and voids that are getting harder to fill. Disassociating himself from his shitty past life; from his first wife and her erratic behaviour, which took him years to figure out, was probably his erratic behaviour that had pushed her away and out of their home for good, not that he’d truly cared to notice.
Work all but consumed him. And he was happy to let it.
Of course, he’d gone to AA; out of town where nobody would know who he was - an upstanding pillar of the community, yeah right - talking about your problems, laying them all out there in front of a bunch of strangers who were just as fucked up as you were, was difficult because, up until that point Tim had never recognised or considered that he had a problem; just a mechanism he relied upon that helped him cope. 
Having to take a moral inventory of himself and dig into the suppressed emotions he was hanging onto, and using them as an excuse to inebriate himself through the day, was hard.
The hardest thing he'd ever done, doubting he was strong enough to climb those twelve steps - and he wasn’t even really sure that he wanted to.
But he did; was sober for a while, until Rainie Thompson obliterated him.
He takes another quick swig after spotting Harman coming out the Gas n’ Guzzle and shoves it back under the seat covertly.
Harman finds Tim sitting as he left him, squeezing the steering wheel inside of his deft hands, over and over, trying to make sense of everything and when exactly the world had become such a terrible and unforgiving place - but is coming up short. 
Gas stations are the most uninspiring places to get a decent cuisine that won’t make you shit ten tons the next day, but it's late; Detective Petey Harman is tired and hungry for just about anything right now, no matter how crappy it would taste or make him feel in twelve hours’ time as it burns through its exit out of his anal passage.
Once back inside the car, Tim scrutinises the large brown paper bag filled to the brim that Petey rifles around in, before pulling out a dire looking sandwich and handing it to his senior. 
“You planning a sleepover with your girly friends or summin’?” Tim questions him.
There are several boxes of microwave pizzas, a bag of extra-large puffy marshmallows, various microwaveable meats in packet sauces that look questionable in their paleness, a jar of chocolate dipping spread and a large bottle of orange and pineapple Cactus Cooler. 
“Nah... No girly friends for me.” Petey says, sombrely. “Weekly shop.”
“Well, watch your damned cholesterol.” Tim tears into the plastic packaging to be met with disappointment the moment he puts the sandwich in his mouth. 
Petey can smell the waft of alcohol lingering in the car but he doesn’t mention it. Just like all the other times he's smelt it coming out of Tim’s mouth when he speaks, making his eyes water.
Petey was not long into being a newbie; a junior ranking officer in the department and up until a year ago or so now, had been making pretty good at busting low-level criminals successfully, to the point that he hadn’t really taken the gig that seriously, thinking at times he was invincible.
So much so that he had his thumbs in his belt loops and his shooter on show proudly like they do in Miami Vice as he and his reluctant mentor Tim, solved bleak mysteries together.
They’d stopped in for a burger break at Lafferty’s Grill on the day of Rainie being reported missing; talking about the pretty waitress giving Petey a lingering smile, and Tim trying to persuade him that he actually had a pair of balls and should use them to go and talk to her.
Instead, Tim was mirthed with disappointment as Petey's cheeks flushed a crimson red as he stared into his laminated menu, tacky with barbecue sauce residue, and tucking said balls firmly inside himself.
Petey had to grow up fast; he knew that the moment he’d heard Tim yelling at him crazily when he’d found the child’s remains whilst they scouted around for her aimlessly one night after Tim was trying for weeks to hold it together.
It was an image that still gave Petey nightmares, and the sounds of Tim sobbing still made his blood run cold when he thought about it, but it was far less frequent now.
He’d been promoted since to Detective, taking the job more seriously and knuckling down; his life coming up roses whilst Tim’s fell out the bottom of his ass. 
Speaking of roses, Tim looks up mid-chew on something that the label assures him is tuna fish, and spots something red and velvety clustered in the window of the gas station.
He spies the date on the radio and sighs out heavily, tossing the sandwich back in the plastic packaging. 
“Shit.” He mutters. 
“You good? I got a BLT if you want that instead?” Petey asks. 
"No. Fuck no. Wait, you gave me the shitty tuna when you had bacon?" Tim frowns.
"Was gonna save it."
With that, Tim exits the car, the driver side door squeaking on his beaten Pontiac and his trench coat billowing in the wind as he makes his way inside the gas station.
The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting a harsh glare over the rows of snacks and drinks lining the shelves. His weary eyes fall upon the sad display of the florals. A few wilted roses, their once vibrant petals drooping with neglect, sitting haphazardly in a cheap plastic bucket.
Tim grimaces, knowing they’re far from the bouquet you deserve. 
His mind flashes back to the drawings of roses on Rainie Thompson's bedroom wall and how, for a time, they engulfed him, tracing his fingers over the waxy ridges of their messy circles.
Tim was sitting on her bed, clutching a stuffed bear with a plaid neckerchief that smelled of talc and her mother informed him the bear's name: Tim. Or Timmy. Timmy the Teddy.
He remembers squeezing that damn bear tightly as he took in the surroundings of the little girl's room, trying to work out where she was - where are you, baby? - When he spotted the drawings.
He kept one, pulling it off the wall and folding it neatly into squares until it fit in his wallet. A reminder that she would be with him, crying in his ear for him to bring her back home to her mommy and daddy.
She never stopped crying and wailing in his ear; the pitch growing until he drowned it out with the booze.
He remembers the pictures, full of clumsy scribbles, bulbs of red crayon petals and skinny green stalks. Kind of how the roses look now in the bucket staring out at him; a sad little gift from beyond the grave in their macabre despair. 
He hears it again now, that crying, right beside him. He squeezes his eyes shut, a few moments of forcing it into white noise.
With a resigned sigh, he plucks a handful of the least wilted roses from the bucket and makes his way to the counter. The clerk eyes him curiously as Tim approaches, a knowing smirk playing at the corners of their lips.
Tim ignores the silent judgement, focusing instead on paying for the flowers and grabbing a bottle of wine from the shelf by the counter. The wine selection is vastly limited, but he purchases a bottle of red without giving it much thought and hoping it won't taste like sharp vinegar.
He pays for his thoughtlessness, and hurries back to his car, the weight of his guilt and exhaustion pressing down on him like crushing lead.
“Get out,” he gruffs to Petey as he starts the engine. 
Petey gulps down his sandwich with a splutter. “What?”
“You’re walkin’ home tonight.” Tim announces with eyebrows knitted, and Petey rolls his eyes, fumbling with his shopping and splitting the bag in the process. 
"Aww man. You're kidding me?"
"I gotta get home. You didn't tell me it was fuckin' Valentine's." Tim scowls.
"Big deal. It's just another day." And Tim can hear the bitterness of being single and alone awash in Petey's mouth with stale bread, lettuce and bacon.
"Out." Tim presses.
“Roses won’t cut it this time, Tim.” Petey whines, as Tim reverses before he can even shut the door. 
He’s right. Despite his bumbling ineptitude, Petey’s right - it won’t cut it.
Tim can’t even believe the sight of the wilted roses sitting on the passenger seat, mocking him and reminding him of all of his failings to you. It wasn't always like this, he's sure of it. Somewhere in the recesses of his tempestuous mind, he knows you were happy; he made you happy at some point, right?
He remembers how happy you were when you exchanged vows and gold bands, gorgeous in your little lace smock dress, beaming up at him. Fuck, it seems like a lifetime ago.
Burgers and beers on the bonnet of his car, he had a chevy back then, and watching breathtaking sunsets, and going to the movies when he was off duty.
He would bring you roses then. Fluffy, sumptuous blooms that almost guaranteed him a bigger helping of your cherry pie with the perfect, sweet crust, and extra kisses that led to him detaining you in the sheets, reminding you that you had the right to remain loud, to scream his name when he made you come.
He brought you real roses back then. Not these... weeds.
It’s late, almost midnight which ironically, is the earliest Tim has been home in a long time.
With a deep breath, he gathers the roses in his arms and makes his way to the front door. As he pushes it open and steps into the warmth of your shared home, the scent of your perfume catches his nose making it twitch.
He remembers that scent, like a sucker punch to the jaw. As he inhales deeply, the memories come flooding back, transporting him to a time when life was simpler, when the weight of the world hadn't yet settled upon his broad shoulders.
He can almost feel the warmth of your hand in his, your laughter echoing in his ears like sheet music. The feel of his cock inside your wet tightness as he fucked you into the mattress and you clawed at the expanse of his back leaving red welts on his skin from your nails for days after.
You couldn't get enough of each other once, and now you're barely strangers.
He steps into the deep bellows of the house searching for you, and finds you on the couch, wiping frantically at swollen eyes that have obviously been crying.
And the guilt drowns him instantly, crushing him like a tsunami as he sees you there, small and withered, worse than the roses he dared to bring home to you.
Looking down at them and frowning, Tim is disgusted with himself. He tosses them onto the table wanting to be free of the wretched things.
He longs to spend time with you, his darling wife, but the relentless pursuit of justice consumes every waking moment, pollutes every free thinking thought.
You can only watch from afar as Tim pours himself into the work, and pours himself another glass to compensate for the scars it leaves.
You know he’s haunted by the very vestiges of unsolved cases stacking up on his desk that he never talks to you about anymore. Closes the files of grisly crime scene photos before you have a chance to see them.
He protects you from his work now, but consequently, and unwittingly, protects you from him, too. 
Each night, you would leave a warm meal on the table and wait anxiously for his return, hoping that he’ll come home early to eat with you, your heart heavy with worry and your hair turning whiter in the process.
More often than not, you dine with bitterness and disappointment.
Often, you’d wake in the early hours of the morning to find Tim slumped in his armchair, surrounded by case files; his brow furrowed in comatose concentration, glasses almost fully sliding off the bridge of his nose.
An empty bottle always rusticates beside him on the floor.
You can’t remember the last time Tim slept in your bed with you. The last time he held you in those strong, broad arms of his that you know he has hidden under that trench coat. 
You can't remember the last time Tim made love to you and whispered how beautiful you are in your ear with whimpering grunts as he filled you up. 
Tim is crestfallen as he steps forward, the faint glow of something flickering on the dining table pulls his sight.
A candle, close to being exhumed by the deathly kiss of its barely remaining wick, and unopened boxes of now cold Chinese take-out litter the table. 
“I ordered your favourite. Number seventy-three with a side of nineteen.” You sniff. "I got extra twenty-two because they always give us an odd number."
“Darling, I...” Tim stops, for he knows nothing he can say can absolve this. On the most romantic night of the year, Tim has failed you, yet again. “I’m so sorry-”
“Don’t, Tim” you raise your hand shaking your head despondently. “Just don’t.” 
"I didn't mean to be late. Not tonight.”
A small ghost of a smile evaporates on your lips. “You never mean to be late. Yet you always are.”
“The case-”
“It's not about the case, Tim," you say, your voice foggy with emotion. "It's about us. About the fact that you're always putting everything else before me."
He notes the roses again, bearing witness to his shame; their haggard state mocking him once more and he curses inwardly. 
“I’m so, so sorry,” he approaches as you stand, arms wrapping around yourself and glass cutting tracks down your cheeks. 
“I packed a bag…” You say as his eyes follow yours to a small suitcase in the hall that he didn’t even notice when he came in. passed right by it, oblivious. And he suddenly wonders what else he's been missing all these years, as it registers in his gut.
“No.” Tim states with a croak in his throat. He shakes his head vehemently. "No, darling."
Tim steps forward, the suitcase filling him with terrific dread. "You're leaving me?"
You're surprised that he's surprised.
But you shake your head, tears falling freely now. "I can't do this anymore, Tim," you say, your voice barely a whisper. "I can't keep waiting for you to come home to me. To open up to me and tell me what’s eating at you. I know it's something bad, something terrible. And I want to help, I do, I'm your wife. I want to make it better. But you make it so difficult. You push me away."
“To protect you.” He says with a low voice.
“Who's protecting you, Tim?"
"I don't-"
"I don't know who you are anymore. The man I fell in love with, he's... a ghost.”
“I…” words fail him as you look at him with a deep sadness that will stay etched on the thin fibre of his soul forever. A stain that won't wash out, no matter how much he scrubs.
You were the one. You're his one. And he's fucking losing you.
“Tell me, or I’m leaving... for good.” You warn. "If you ever cared about me at all, you'll tell me what's killing you. Please..."
You shake your head in despair, wiping your eyes harder now, when he doesn’t say anything. Just swallows the lumpy constriction in his throat and stares at you with hollow eyes.
"Goodbye, Tim." You sniffle.
“Rainie Thompson, she loved roses...” Tim mutters thickly as you approach the hall.
You stop, turning to face him.
"Who's Rainie Thompson?" You ask fearing the immediate worst.
You expect him to reveal to you that he's been unfaithful. That's he's not just been putting the hours in solely at work. That he brings roses - roses that are alive - to another woman. He eats her cherry pie now, fucks her into the mattress.
That he drinks because of the guilt of hurting you. But what he says instead alters a part of you that you don't think you'll ever get back.
“They look just how she drew them.” Tim says, his voice breaking, until his face caves in fully, features drowning in the onslaught of emotions, and for the first time you witness this unwavering man crumble completely. 
And it terrifies you. For if he, the strongest man you've ever known, can break like this, what hope is there for you?
You rush to him as he collapses to his knees with a heavy thud, and wraps his arms around your waist, sobbing into the softness of your tummy.
You shush him and stroke your fingers through the greying curls, matted with sweat at the back of his neck. He holds onto you tighter than he’s ever done and you're afraid to let go of him. 
Afraid that he won't ever stop bawling, as he mumbles incoherently and snottily into your abdomen.
Hours pass by, Valentine's Day gone in a blink of an eye, and you listen carefully and woefully as Tim recounts the haunting tale of Rainie Thompson, and how she's slowly killed the man you love.
You sit at the dining table with his thick, gun-calloused hands inside of yours, stroking over the ridges of his knuckles and listening to him swear to you that’ll get help with the drinking.
That he’ll take some leave and the two of you can go to the beach, or the lake, or somewhere where it can just be the two of you for a while.
Away from his cases, away from the horror of it all. Hell, he even mentions early retirement in his pertinent desperation, until you pat his hand gently and ground him with a stroking cup to his grizzled cheek.
You smile lightly as you gather the roses, and try to push aside your cynicism and wonder if you’ll regret not actually leaving tonight. Wonder if all what Tim has fed you is more empty promises when he'll eventually slip back into that expected monotony.
But you can see some swill of sincerity and regret inside the brown muddy pools of Tim’s tired eyes that you've never seen before.
He silently watches you pull the dead outer petals from the roses before placing them in a vase with fresh water. 
“They’re already dead.” He mutters apologetically to you, shaking his head at the sight of them. 
“Some things can come back to life, Tim, with some love.” You smile softly and Tim wants to just die in your arms right now. 
“I don’t deserve you, darling.” Tim says, reaching for you.
He hasn’t yet taken off his trench, and you help it from his shoulders, the smell of worn leather from his holsters greeting you this close.
You've forgotten what he smells like as you inhale deeply. The scent of the leather leads a rugged and slightly musky undertone to his familiar aroma that’s swilled with coffee, cedarwood and sweat underscoring the gritty, primal edge to him. 
You lick your lips as you graze your nose against the warmth of his neck, allowing him to finally crush you close to his broad chest, before the handle of his gun digs you uncomfortably in the breast.
He braces to kiss you, sweeping his lips delicately against yours, but you flinch. A reaction that slashes at Tim’s gut.
“Just hold me tonight, Tim.” You plead to him.
He nods, a solemn heaviness in his eyes as well as on his shoulders. 
“I’ve missed you so much.” He admits.
Hearing him say it offers some vindication, but you know that these wounds need layers of bandages to be changed daily, and not some flimsy band-aids.
"I've missed you too."
“I’m so sorry for pushing you out. I don’t wanna lose you. I can’t. I’ll do whatever it takes. I promise.” He takes your hand and presses it to his mouth, the soft scruff of his facial hair feeling like gossamer, and you'd almost forgotten the feel of that too. “I love you.”
And when he says it, your emotions hiccup out of you and the tears fall again. 
“I love you, Tim,” you whimper. 
He takes you in his arms, those big, strong arms, and leads you upstairs to bed where he makes good on his word and doesn't let go of you all night.
You fall asleep listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat as he rubs your back gently, soothing you into sleep whilst he stays awake well into the night, staring up at the ceiling and trying not to listen to the dark thoughts urging him to finish that whole bottle of cheap wine downstairs. 
He came so close to losing you today, on Valentine’s Day of all days, and he knows he has to do better. For all his faults, you love him and he spends the night pondering on that. Pondering when it was that he last slept in the bed with you, until his eyes fall heavy and he succumbs to a short, stunted sleep.
In the morning, he rises, stiff and aching from laying in the same position all night with you curled tightly in his arms. Amidst his back cracking and feeling stuffy in his slept-in crumpled button up and vest, Tim silently leaves the bedroom, careful not to wake you.
After pissing for what feels like an age, Tim catches sight of his face in the vanity mirror. White-gray stubble spreads across his chin and top lip, and the weary look of a man of the law that’s seen too much and knows too much weighing heavy around his sullen eyes, greets him.
He rummages in the vanity for some Tylenol and pops two in his mouth, swallowing them down without water. He re-shapes his oil slicked hair and tries to avoid the face looking back at him.
It knows all his terrible secrets, and now, so do you. 
In the beginning the alcohol wouldn’t let him remember all the details, but its dropped its guard. The dreams were real; too real and he would find himself reliving the events each time he tried to get some damn shut eye.
He wasn’t supposed to keep seeing these things or to remember - it wasn’t part of the deal. Inebriation was supposed to wipe that shit out, but it'd failed to serve its purpose, instead serving as a beguiling wedge that expanded between you and him. 
After descending the creaky stairs towards the kitchen, Tim passes the dining table en route to make some coffee; his tongue washing around dry, tight gums.
He spies his mobile and checks it out of habit; a message or two from Harman, one about a lead on one of their minor cases, and the other enquiring about his 'night of passion with the Mrs' and if it went well, and Tim simply scoffs. He makes a mental note to kick Harman when he sees him next. Preferably in the balls.
But out of the corner of his eye, Tim notices the vase of dead roses and stops to take in how they're now fully alive.
Overnight, their wilted petals have straightened and regained their vibrant colour, as if infused magically with a newfound vitality. The once drooping stems now stand tall and proud, their green leaves unfurling to reveal a lushness that seems to defy their previous state of neglect. Shades of crimson glow in the stale morning light, their hues deepening and intensifying the longer Tim takes them in.
Tim reaches for one, revelling in the soft velvet as he rubs it delicately between his finger and thumb. His eyes widen in disbelief at the transformation before him. It’s as if the flowers themselves are reaching out to him, a silent reminder of the resilience of your love and the power of forgiveness. 
Some things can come back to life, Tim, with some love.
And Tim swears in that moment he’s never loved you more.
He swallows back a choke as he glances the wedidng photo of you both on the wall. Fuck, you looked so happy and beautiful that day.
Feeling a new sense of budding rejuvenation settling into his tired bones, a tiny bud, but one still seeding nonetheless, he turns towards the kitchen and then freezes, feeling it as his blood runs cold over his skin.
Prickles shoot down the back of his neck as he hears the sound, as clear as day. But it's different this time.
The haunting, yet wonderfully brilliant sound, of a little girl playfully giggling beside him.
Rainie Thompson isn't crying in his ear anymore, and Tim Rockford can't help but smile, closing his eyes as he listens to that sweet melody.
I found you, baby.
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Thank you so much for reading. I'd love to know your thoughts and would appreciate a re-blog so others can enjoy this story too. Thank you! 🖤
MAIN MASTERLIST | TIM ROCKFORD MASTERLIST | FLORA & FAUNA MASTERLIST
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the-blind-assassin-12 · 12 hours
Text
PLAY BALL! BATTER UP! GET YOUR PEANUTS AND CRACKER JACKS BECAUSE IT'S BASEBALL JACK SEASON!!!!!
Since On Deck - the main story - is coming SO SOON, and because today is Opening Day in the MLB, now is the perfect time to load up on all the ballpark goodies that go along with this universe! (And don't miss the player profile or the stellar artwork by @valkblue & @stealyourblorbos!!)
Rachael, I remember when you told me you wanted to do a Jack Daniels Baseball AU and my immediate mental reaction was "SAY LESS I AM SOLD!" because A) I don't know anyone who loves baseball like you do & B) I know you love this cowboy just as much as you love baseball & C) you're a wizard, so HOW ON EARTH could it be anything but amazing?! And you know what? I love being right.
Every single one shot you've shared for this universe so far has been wonderful and I am so excited for the main story you have no idea. I still think about Display of Affection and Response Runs in particular ...um... a(n) (ab)normal amount.
Part of what I am so excited for is just the chance to see how you use details from both the baseball world an the KGC world in this, because what you've done so far with character traits and such has been amazing. I think one of your biggest strengths as a writer in regards to characters specifically is the way that you apply their canon traits to whatever AU you're working in, whether its Jack as a baseball player or Din as an IT guy or Ezra as a rock star. It's always brilliantly done. And knowing what I do about how much time and care and effort and love you've already put into this, I just know it's going to be great.
Thank you for sharing your incredible talent and creativity and for being your wonderful self!! <3
On Deck - Masterlist
Jack Daniels Baseball AU 
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(Artwork by @valkblue​) 
** indicates smut
Art
Baseball Jack: Character Reveal
Player’s Weekend Photo Day 
Story
Jack Daniels Player Profile - Coming Soon 
On Deck - Coming Soon
Third Base Line Complete; 1/1. (Posted 7/18/2022)
Don’t Rub It * Complete; 1/1. (Posted 7/27/2022)
Catch Probability * (Thanksgiving fic) - Complete; 1/1. (Posted 12/27/2021)
Christmas in July: Display of Affection Complete; 1/1.
All-Star Break Complete; 1/1. (Posted 8/17/2022)
Response Runs Complete; 1/1. (Kinktober 2022)
Extras
Baseball Jack (On Deck) Spotify Playlist
Jack’s On-Field Superstitions/Rituals (ask)
Summer Kiss Prompt: Kiss on the Eyelids (1.7k)
Jack and Bunking w/Teammates (ask)
+ More TBA 
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the-blind-assassin-12 · 13 hours
Text
I still have a few of these quiet moment stories to get to, but the ones I've read so far have been so darn GOOD. But this one... I think this one is my favorite. You had me at the summary. An ode to Joel and Tess (and their hair)? That’s my favorite song.
Listen, I will never be over them and the inherent beauty of their tragic love story. She was his and he was hers and they were the only reason that they both survived all the terrible shit they’d gone through. They were each other’s reason and motivation and distraction and strength and comfort. They were partners in the truest sense of the word, like two halves of one whole with the way they worked and lived so perfectly in sync.
The passage about the kind of home they'd build together and how they know what the other would want in it without asking... Oh how I wish they could have had that life. That twisted my heartstrings up real good. Now I'm just thinking of them together in Jackson, sitting on the porch in the last rays of sunshine on a summer evening, Joel whittling and Tess reading and both of them just at peace with their matching gray hair. (FUCK, I loved the "they match mine" line. I love you, Joel Miller.)
And then! You went and wrote that moment on the rooftop. You know what you did. YOU KNOW. Gosh. The only other time we see them there is right before he loses her. And now you've given us this glimpse of a much brighter time in that same place. As much as I love knowing that they had moments in the sun together, it makes that last time sting even more. In a beautiful way, of course.
This was a stunner of an ode, lemme tell you. Thank you for loving these two so much and for honoring that quiet thing they had.
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Mine
Pairing: Joel Miller x Tess Servopoulos
Summary: An ode to the quiet thing between Joel and Tess. And their hair.
Rating: Mature, for mentions of violence. No smut here.
Word count: 1.7k
Warnings: Angst with softness. Post-outbreak QZ life following the timeline leading up to episode 1 of TLOU. Reference to both Joel & Tess being grieving parents. Injuries and scars mentioned but nothing graphic.
Quiet Moments collection masterlist | Main masterlist | Joel Miller masterlist
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Everything used to be so loud. The thumping drum beats coming from the purple sticker covered stereo in Sarah's room. The honking of the car horns on the freeway. The cellphone that he'd reluctantly bought, insistently beeping away from the clip on his belt. 
Joel had so often found himself wishing for a quiet morning before. For a slow start with nowhere to be and no shrill chimes from the bedside alarm clock.
Now, it is too quiet. No sounds except the rain splashing against the grimy windows of this place of shelter.
Then again, noise is, more often than not, bad. Noise means something has happened outside the walls or, god forbid, inside. 
There are only a few sounds he enjoys hearing inside these walls; the click of the door latch when he can finally shut it all out, the rustle of a stack of ration cards either earned or bartered and, the rarest of all, a soft laugh from a familiar face nestled on his shoulder.
If he lies with his good ear pressed into the lumpy pillow, he can sometimes block out the noise from outside for long enough to let him fall into a fitful sleep. Sometimes, he'll wake himself up with a jolt and a hoarse cry of Sarah's name on his lips. Other times, the soothing stroke of some warm fingers slotted between his will gently coax him awake and away from the edge of that ditch. 
Joel rolls over in bed and rubs his rough palm over the deep ridge between his eyebrows. He can't remember the last time he woke up without a headache. 
He stretches his arm above his head, and his elbow catches on a section of ripped wallpaper behind him as he kneads the ever-present knot in his shoulder.
He'd fallen asleep on her side again. She'll give him shit for it if she sees the state of his filthy denim, but Tess has been gone for 2 nights. This means bad news for somebody, and he highly doubts it's Tess.
My side, your side, our bed.
It started as a business partnership. When their faces were smoother and their backs didn't hurt. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. 
Joel didn't need Tess, and Tess certainly didn't need Joel, but together, they were formidable. They let people think he was her muscle, an attack dog, but it really didn't matter what people thought. It only mattered what people felt: terrified, ideally. 
The two of them knew what it was between them, a want rather than a need.
Joel felt a certain relief in Tess's strength. She wasn't dependent on him, didn't need him to keep her safe, so he didn't need to fear letting her down. Or so he told himself. 
When the fucking fireflies had blown up part of her building, Joel opened his door to find Tess on the other side, leaning against the chipped paint of the doorframe and picking at a section of it with her nail. "I'm sleeping on your couch for a little while, Miller." 
He nodded silently and stepped aside. 
She'd let her backpack slide from her shoulder and onto the scrubbed floorboards with a thud, then sank into the threadbare couch cushions. He watched her shift her weight from side to side as she tried to find a comfortable groove among the ancient wadding and warped springs.
She didn't stay there long. A few nights on the couch soon shifted to every night in his bed.
A quiet thing grew between them, the tendrils and roots of it reaching deep underground, its leaves almost invisible on the surface. 
There were no grand gestures, no promises they wouldn't be able to keep, just an unspoken agreement of the merging of things.
This is mine, that's yours, those are ours.
This wasn't their home. It was nothing like the one they'd have chosen and built together. They never discussed it, but she knew he'd want somewhere with a back porch. He knew she'd be happy as long as she had somewhere quiet to read. They talked in general terms about the things they missed from before; a soft towel and a deep bath for Joel, bacon, and eggs and waffles for Tess. Names of people or places stayed buried, though.
Joel didn't let his mind wander to any kind of future, except for once. It must have been 10 years ago, maybe more, no-one was really counting anymore. 
They were sitting on the warm, worn, roof tiles of the Boston museum, mapping out a route through the city. The sun was starting to go down, its orange glow reflecting off the few windows around them that weren't smashed. 
She'd let herself have a quiet moment to take a breath. The sun was warming her cheeks, golden light catching her chestnut hair as it fell in front of her face. She closed her eyes as she tipped her face up towards the sky, and he saw her hands flex on the torn knees of her jeans for just a second. 
He wondered what she was thinking about. Who she was thinking about. A day at the beach? Fourth of July fireworks? Blowing out the candles on a chocolate frosted cake?
Thank christ he didn't have the words to ask her, to tell her, because she'd have likely told him to fuck off if he'd said them. If he didn't put words to it, it stayed safe and buried in a place where it couldn't be found and taken away.
He looked the other way and busied his hands, checking the clip of his gun. He counted his bullets even though he knew exactly how many were left, letting the cool metal roll across his palm. He tightened his boot laces, knotting them one more time than was necessary. Anything to shake off thoughts of quiet cabins in the woods, of waking up next to her in a home free from walls and curfews.
When the light began to slip away and the sky faded from orange to pink, he pulled her up gently by the hand, careful not to let his fingers linger between hers for too long. 
"C'mon, we best keep movin'."
-
The first time she cut his hair, she'd warned him about the almost uselessly blunt scissors. "I'm not taking any shit from you about this, Miller." She'd said as she tapped the dull metal on the palm of her hand. "This is not a world-class salon." 
She prized open the rusty blades and snipped carefully around the messy tufts behind his ears, leaving the curls just long enough. She'd never told him out loud that she liked his hair, but her hands would weave their way through it, her nails carving shallow valleys across his scalp on the rare moments he fell asleep soundly with his head on her chest. 
Hair. How much time had she spent thinking about her own, before? Hours spent in squeaky leather chairs, cocooned in a polyester cape, making small talk about vacations and TV while her foil wrapped hair was transported back in time.
When the scissors had followed his hairline up to his temples, her fingertips hesitated for just a moment over a puckered scar. She never asked how he got it, but she could guess, had seen others like it and the bloody aftermath of those that hadn't shot and missed.
Tess had her own map of scars. Knuckles split and healed time and time again, a bottom lip bust open when her tongue got vicious with the wrong person, the long closed up nose piercing of her youth.
Joel had asked about the origin story of most of her scars as they traded war stories on the long peaceful walks to Bill & Frank's, but there was one he never asked about. A faded silver slash across the bottom of her belly that his fingertips had traced along once, briefly, when she was almost asleep yet still awake enough to flinch and pull away. Silently telling him that she'd lost the same thing he had.
-
"You not keepin' that for yourself?" Joel teased her once when she traded a box of drugstore hair dye from their latest smuggling mission for some aspirin.
She glanced in the tarnished mirror on the kitchen wall and smoothed her hair up into a ponytail, securing it with the tatty piece of string she held in her teeth. "As much as my roots need the dye, my knees need the painkillers."
He huffed out a quiet laugh, saying softly, "Don't mind the greys. Match mine."
Mine. Yours. Ours.
She caught his eye in the mirror's reflection. There was a pause, one where in another life she might have said something sweet about matching sweaters or old married couples who morphed into the same person, but she didn't say things like that anymore. "Who could have guessed getting older would be such a fucking luxury, Joel?"
They kept track of their ages as each passing year rolled on. She told him hers was the same as his, and he wasn't going to question her. 
Forty three, forty nine, fifty two, fifty six.
With no calendar to guide them, they settled on using the first crystals of frost on the outside of their bedroom window as a marker. "Another year stuck with you, Miller. Make a wish." 
-
Joel groans and heaves himself up off the mattress with a sigh that would have made his younger self feel mortified. He feels the chill of the bare floor through the ever-growing hole in the big toe of his woollen socks as he walks over to the window. 
He lifts the limp, torn, curtains to the side, and peers out onto the street below. All is quiet out there.
The radio next to him sits mute, ready, and waiting to convey its next message. Choose a decade and hope for the best.
Tomorrow, he'll go back to Abe and see if Tommy has broken his silence.
Right now, all he can do is wait for Tess to return.
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A/N: A nod to @pettson who has made many beautiful posts sharing their thoughts about Joel and Tess. One about them being together long enough to see one another age inspired this story.
Taglist: @nerdieforpedro @chujo-hime @5oh5 @katareyoudrilling @maried01 @survivingandenduring @pedrit0-pascalit0 @casa-boiardi @iloveenya @lwfics @rhoorl @msjarvis @heareball @yorksgirl @maggiemayhemnj @morallyinept @khindahra @inept-the-magnificent @angiewatson @auteurdelabre @trulybetty @lizzie-cakes @laughing-in-th3-purple-rain @julesonrecord @magpie-to-the-morning
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This was so darn good and I enjoyed it so darn much. Simple pleasures in the world of TLOU are few and far between, especially when you stop and consider the things that are gone or not possible anymore. But they just might occur a little more frequently if you get to share your days with Joel Miller - even when he’s grumpy.
Even though this starts on kind of a bleak note, with Reader thinking about her old life and what used to bring her joy and how pointless most of that seems now, the way you talk about nature and the fate of all living things is really lovely. There can be beauty in decay and in the Earth reclaiming things, and I think it says a lot about Reader that she’s able to appreciate and respect that.
Like most things 20 years into the end times, there’s a very bittersweet tone to this. These two characters aren’t exactly perfect for one another, but they are who they’ve got and they accept the things that don’t fit right along with the things that do. Knowing one another’s “bullshit” (trauma, guilt, grief, coping mechanisms, anxieties, moods, etc.) also means knowing how to help one another, what the other wants or needs, insight to their thoughts and actions. It means trust and unspoken agreements, and I got all of that from the way you portrayed this relationship.
I love the thought of a can of creamed corn making Joel *think* about laughing. And I love how just the thought of coming that close to hearing it is enough for Reader… but also enough for Joel, because it means he knows she tries. Everything is terrible but at least there’s this person who sees me and knows me and still tries to make me laugh.
And you know, humor is hot. As of these two need help heating things up 🥵
That last line and the way it corresponds back to the beginning - but with a little more lightness and hope - is perfect. I went backwards, but now I’m very much looking forward to reading about them 20 years ago. Thank you for writing and sharing this story!!
Simple Pleasures (Joel Miller/F!Reader drabble)
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Title: Simple Pleasures
Pairing: Post-outbreak Joel Miller/F!reader (no Y/N)
Rating: Explicit; Minors DNI.
Word Count: 1.6k
Content/warnings: hurt/comfort; mentions of death/dying; murder of a poor bug; swearing; explicit, unprotected PiV sex; a lil praise kink if you squint; oral (M & F receiving); science teacher!Reader; Joel Miller in character angst
A/N: Part of the science teacher/Joel pairing but can be read standalone. You and Joel set off on a smuggling run. When it doesn’t go to plan, you turn to the simpler comforts. I just loved comparing THIS Joel to pre-outbreak Joel. How he’s still there, glimmering underneath. Anyway, enjoy~~~ 
After everything, it’s hard to see things the way you used to.
You used to get excited at the sight of ladybugs crawling up your walls in the spring, the sign of new life and fresh growth, aphids ready to eat mites and contribute to a flourishing ecosystem. You used to practice what you would tell your students, how you would describe for each grade level the intricate balance of nature and humanity, how careful they must be to build a future that would protect both.
Keep reading
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getting to know my mutuals and followers: if you had to sing karaoke on the spot RIGHT NOW what would your go to song be reply in the tags
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JEN!! I know you’re focused on writing for different characters right now (which I fully support and have even sampled some of even though I do not go there, simply because you wrote them and so I knew they’d be beautiful. Those lil 100 word ficlets? You’re insanely good at them and you make me swoon for pixel men I have never met.) BUT! I’ve just met this countdown soulmate heart jewel Thief, and I’m gonna scream about him a lil bit.
First of all, like ALWAYS with your stories, I find this concept intriguing and fun and incredibly creative. I love the way your brain works, especially when soulmates are involved.
This Thief though… he seems to have other thoughts about having a soulmate. Don’t need one don’t want one no thank you, just me and my gems and good ole Pandora. Sure. That’s all well and good until he SEES her. Until fate brings them face to face and wrist to wrist. Until he SMOOCHES her like that!! And then boy oh boy he is on board, thinking about later and what comes next (even if he doesn’t wanna think about how he’s thinking about it.) and I, too, want to know what comes next.
Does this blue dress babe get to wear the sparkly things now? Is she hiding anything? Does any of her lipstick make it through the night or does he end up smearing all of it? And what happens with the timers now??
I loved this heist turned soulmate matchup, Jen! Thank you for sharing it and for being your wonderful self!!
Congrats on 500 you lovable chaos monster you❤️🦝
Could I request number 9, the countdown timer? I don't think I've ever read one with that!! And for some reason the thief spoke to me with this trope, but as usual I give you full permission to choose any character you wish!! Anything that feels right for you is right for me🥰
Sam darling!!! My fellow chaos monster 💖💖🦊
Just for you - Thief with a countdown timer soulmate AU. I had a lot of fun with this one. 
Warnings: Swearing, he’s a thief and he’s thieving, a bit of grabbing (nothing explicit), a little steamy (but still nothing explicit), he’s not a romantic (if you ask him), he’s in denial. 
Word count: 1.4k
Thief x f!reader 
Now presenting...
Wicked Ones
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The countdown timer on his left wrist taunted him. He scowled down at it before tugging his shirt cuff back down into place, concealing the numbers. 
He had spent his life ignoring them, he could continue to do so now. 
The invitation had been easy to procure for this party. Not that he was going to use it - he just wanted the information. People were always more distracted during parties, especially when they were hosting. Which made his job easier, in so many ways. 
Five minutes until showtime. He absently adjusted the lapels of his coat jacket, checked his shoes, and tapped the gloves safety tucked away in a pocket. 
He was ready. 
The party was in full swing when he carefully peeked in a window. Lots of people all milling about in fancy attire. The room glittered with jewelry and watches and cufflinks. Most of it didn't catch his eye - he had very refined tastes. His gaze lingered on a woman dressed in blue before he tore himself away. 
He had work to do. 
Getting in was easy, almost laughably so. Avoiding the partygoers was also easy. So far, so good. Getting into the library to the safe hidden behind a bookcase that the poor deluded owner thought was hidden?
Also easy. He'd done much more complicated jobs than this before. 
The necklace was exquisite - diamonds branching like leaves off of the gold band, leading down to a caramel-colored pear-shaped diamond. It was a masterpiece.
And it would look wonderful on Pandora, once he got home. 
The necklace was safely stowed in a pouch in an inside pocket of his jacket, and he replaced everything exactly the way it had been. The gloves ensured no fingerprints. There were no cameras in this house, seeing as the owner ran some business ventures of questionable legality. 
Now all that was left was getting out. 
It should be easy, really. He hadn't heard or seen anyone in this part of the house - they were all busy still in the ballroom. He started down the corridor, walking with confidence. 
In the back of his mind, there was a clock ticking. The same one on his wrist. But he was trying not to think about it, trying to ignore it. Maybe he'd meet someone outside. Or maybe the damn clock would be wrong. 
He turned to make his way towards the back door. Almost there. He was practically home free now. 
And then a door to his left opened and he had to pause to avoid tumbling into someone. 
No, not someone. A woman. The woman. The one in blue, the one he'd noticed earlier. She was beautiful up close like this, and he felt the first stirrings of real interest. 
"Oh!" She blinked at him, pretty painted lips parted in surprise. "Pardon me."
"Not a problem," he assured her, smooth and warm. 
Her eyes went a little wide, and her tongue darted out to wet her lower lip. "I don't think we've met." Her gaze dropped to his lips for a moment before dropping further down. For a moment, he thought she was looking at his crotch. But no, her gaze was a little to the side, off center. 
His heart thumped hard when he realized she was looking at his arm. His wrist. His left wrist. 
"I think…" she trailed off, tongue darting out again. She seemed to lose her words, instead bringing her own wrist up and tapping it. 
The timer had hit zero. 
A little frantically, he tried to think of when his was supposed to have gone off. Sometime during this job, yes, but he'd lost track. Then he shook it off. It didn't matter. 
"I'm sorry, you must be mistaken," he murmured, faux-sympathetic. "Excuse me. My wife is waiting."
He stepped around her, ignoring the way her face fell. It was for her own good. And his, too. He didn't want a soulmate. He didn't need a soulmate. 
He already had everything he wanted. 
She surprised him, though, calling after him: "Why are you here?" 
He paused and turned slowly to look at her. "I told you–"
"You lied. I know every person on the guest list." She had pulled herself up straight, shoulders back, expression determined. He tried to ignore how it only made her more attractive. "So tell me. Why are you here?" 
He looked at her, really looked. She was confident in her assessment, not just bullshitting him. Hm. Curious. 
She shifted, glancing from him back down the hallway, where he had come from. Her eyes narrowed at him. "Where did you come from?"
He smirked. Oh a challenge. Rather against his own will, he liked her. "Same place as everyone else," he murmured. 
"What were you doing down that hallway?" She took two steps towards him, giving him a more thorough once-over. Looking for anything suspicious. She was on the right track but she'd never find his prize. 
"Tell you what. I'll tell you." He leaned in closer to her, smirking just a little. He watched her eyes go wide as he got closer than socially acceptable. "But only if you answer my questions."
"Your questions?" One eyebrow raised in an arch, a challenging look. 
"Yes. My questions." One hand closed delicately around her left wrist. Easily. He could probably hold both her wrists in one hand. If he so chose. 
Some small part of him couldn't help but wonder how those wrists would look wrapped up in leather, or silks. Or some of the precious shiny things he had on Pandora… 
Her tongue darted out to touch her lips, so quick he almost missed the touch of pink. "Or," she murmured, swaying in closer to him, "I could scream and you could answer the questions from the police." 
"You could," he agreed, matching her volume but dropping his voice into downright sultry territory. He watched as she breathed in, pupils dilating, eyes going dark. "But then you'd miss out." 
"On what?" 
"Everything I could tell you. Show you." He squeezed her wrist gently. 
And she melted right into it, not struggling at all. "First you have to answer one question."
A little test, perhaps. Amusing. He'd allow it. "Ask it." 
"Was I right?" Her right hand slipped under the left cuff of his jacket, fingers pressing ever so gently into his wrist, where his timer would be. His now defunct timer. 
He paused, considering. Honesty was hardly his practice. He didn't need a soulmate. He had everything he wanted in life. He should lie. He should tell her no. He should. 
"Yes."
Her smile was the brightest thing he'd seen all night. Necklace be damned, he wanted to hoard those like a jealous dragon. 
And he could start.
Right now. 
He kissed her, tightening his grip on her wrist. But he didn't have to worry about her going anywhere. She leaned into the kiss, parting her lips with a sweet sound when he begged entrance. 
She tasted sweet, like the little finger desserts being served at the party, and he chased the flavor into her mouth. 
By the time he pulled back, they were both panting. She looked at him and grinned. 
"You've got a little something," she murmured, reaching up and swiping her thumb over the corner of his lips. Her thumb came away tinted with lipstick. 
"And I'll get a little more something." He started guiding her back, away from the party, towards the library. He had a secondary escape route plotted out from there. 
"What are you doing?" Uncertainty flashed in her eyes. 
He smirked. "Giving us a little privacy," he murmured. The library door clicked shut behind them, and he flipped the lock. 
"I suppose now is a bad time to ask if you're a serial killer." The words were light, but there was real worry in her eyes. 
"I promise I will never raise a hand to hurt you," he murmured, giving her wrist a reassuring little squeeze. "But I will distract you." 
And with one last smirk he pulled her close and kissed her again, intent on smearing that pretty lipstick as much as he could. 
Questions could wait until later. 
(As could the fact that he was seriously considering a later.)
--
Taglist: @fandom-blackhole @sarahjkl82-blog @cannedsoupsucks @liviiii98 @adriiibell @pbeatriz @oonajaeadira @kiizhikehn-cedar @green-socks @withakindheartx @linkpk88 @anditsmywholeheart @ohheyitsokay @amneris21 @grogusmum @eri16 @pedrostories @alexxavicry @elegantduckturtle @pjkimrn @mswarriorbabe80 @thegreenkid @luz-introvertida @bruxasolta @lowlights @seasonschange-butpeopledont @princessxkenobi @chaoticgeminate @thirddeadlysin @beskarprincessjenny @stevie75 @the-feckless-wonder @janebby @idreamofboobear @jaime1110 @recklessworry @hotchlover @bowtiesandsandshoes @scorpio-marionette @snarwor @bearcina @practicalghost @beecastle @phandoz @tintinn16 
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Stupid shit? 👀 I love stupid shit what are we stupid shitting?
Oh boy. The stupidest of shit. We are getting stupid about this jerkface today:
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Idk I got like 3 hours of non-consecutive sleep last night and woke up with Lucien on my mind and despite knowing fuckall about him, I started… something.
Sneak under the cut.
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Question for the universe: WHY AM I LIKE THIS??
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Happy Tuesday, friends!
Doing stupid shit™️ in the WIPs today. My inbox and messages are open if anyone wants to pop in and say hello or inquire about the stupid shit or any of my mangled, twisted WIPs, and I’d be delighted to chat with you!
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I love Ezra a deeply insane amount. Some have even ventured to call me an Ezra junkie, and you know what? They’re right. I am completely and irrevocably in love with this sweet scoundrel. I simply cannot and will not ever get enough of him. (From the sound of it, this stellar writing duo is in the same boat as me.) And even though I hate to see him so afraid and in so much pain, I loved every last word of this reimagined scene.
The addition of Reader to this scene changes so much without really changing much at all, and that’s what makes it so meaningful. As capable and fearless as Cee is when she’s handling Ezra’s amputation, I’m still so glad that he’s got Reader there to keep him steady and focused and keep him from spiraling into panic. It speaks volumes about their relationship- even if until now it’s just been a working one- and the level of trust between them that Reader is able to have such an impact. It also takes some pressure off of Cee to have an extra pair of hands to hold him still if needed and give her instructions, so I’m glad for Cee’s sake, too.
In canon, the stakes here are already so high. Ezra needs this amputation to live, but not only is the Green Moon itself out to get him, but the Sater (presuming he didn’t kill them all) are still out there and likely still want to take Cee, and on top of all that, they still need to each the Queen’s Lair and convince the mercenaries that they’re still capable of digging and time is running out to catch the slingback. Every second counts, and everything he’s gone through to keep Cee alive up to this point could be for nothing if he doesn’t get through this first. But the addition of Reader - a person he’s known and partnered with and harbors feelings for, who he came to The Green with - raises them even more. Now it’s not just Cee he’s worried about, it’s them, too.
I physically felt it when he told Reader to take Cee and leave. It was like this tight clench in my chest and a dry feeling at the roof of my mouth like my whole being was in protest of this idea. Absolutely not, Ezra. Worst idea you’ve ever had. But fuck if it doesn’t prove how good and selfless he is/can be when it’s concerning those he cares about.
The moment when Reader realizes what he needs and stands do he can hold onto them, his head pressed against their stomach and his arm wound so so so tight around their body… ugh that’s love. That’s that “I’m falling apart in fear of losing you but I’m not gonna let you see that because you need me to be strong for you” kind of love and I’m so happy to know he’s got that.
I hope the three of them pick the sunniest, safest, quietest place in the universe to settle down after this. I hope this is the worst thing any of them ever go through and that the rest of their days are light and peaceful. And I hope Ezra never doubts his worth again.
This was a bittersweet (but mostly sweet) delight. Thank you for giving Ezra (and Cee) such a strong, caring, big and brave hearted person to share their lives with!
Breathe For Me
Inspiration from Eri's Answers. Thank you @tuskens-mando for permission to write and Anon for the beautiful ask!
It is co-written with @lowlights <3
Pairing: Ezra x Reader
Word Count: 1260
Warnings: Amputation/loss of limb (that part of the movie), blood but non-graphic description, two idiots that wont admit they love each other, divergent scene from movie.
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“I’m finer than frog’s hair, don’t worry about it, birdie. Just put that saw away and we can hightail it out of here,” Ezra tries to reason. He knows it is futile to argue with you.
“Ez, you’ve been shot and the dust got in too far. The infection will kill you if you don’t let us do this now,” you say firmly, staring him square in the eyes. “This needs to happen to save your life. Stop arguing.”
“Listen to her,” Cee chimes in. “I’ve done this kind of thing before. Let us help you.”
All three of your heads whip towards the opening of the tent as you hear crashes in the distance. Is someone coming to take you and Cee like they tried to back in that terrifying tent?
Ezra grabs you with his uninjured arm and pulls you closer. “You need to get out of here. You take Cee, and you get in the pod, and you go.”
You lock eyes with him, panicking at the idea of leaving him behind. In the last few months as his prospecting partner, you had found yourself growing closer and closer to him. You savored the moments when you could laugh together and the quiet moments you spent in your tent at the end of the long days. You cared for him, you had admitted to yourself long ago. But you had been denying a reality that had been gnawing away at you for some time.
“Ezra, you listen to me. We get through this, and then we can all get on that beat-up pod and get the hell off this rock and go live a life. Together. I need you,” you choke out.
Reaching up, Ezra cradles your face and wipes away the tears that you didn’t even realize were falling. He nods his head at you and then looks over to Cee. “Alright, little one. Do what you absolutely must.” Cee busies herself getting the equipment ready, and you work to get him out of his suit. You grab a tourniquet from the medkit and tie it off high on his arm. Once secured, you administer the numbing shot. You sit directly in front of him, as close as you can.
As Cee begins the incision Ezra gasps, his breath hitching to where he is holding the air in his lungs like it may be his last. You have your hands on either of his shoulders to brace him. He shouldn’t be feeling any pain, but he glances down to see the blood; a big mistake. You bring both your hands on either side of his face to take control of his attention, pulling his face towards yours.
His eyes are wide with fear so you resolve to be his strength. You keep a stoic face but you are crying on the inside for him. Locking eyes with you he finally exhales with a series of forced wheezes, and you see he is starting to hyperventilate. You have to get him to control his breathing as Cee works because his broad chest is rising and falling rapidly, causing him to jolt on the crate on which he is perched.
“Ez, breathe. In and out.” you coach him and he falls into a calmer pattern. “Keep breathing baby, just like that, keep breathing for me. You got this.”
He tries to hear your instructions beyond all of the horror and pressure. Did she just call me baby? He feels the warmth of your hands on his cheeks. He sees the beauty of your eyes on his. He can’t help but think this may be the last time he sees your face. Devastation consumes him as he realizes he may never have the chance to tell you how he truly feels.
Ezra looks up at you, your hands still framing his face, with so much worry. His eyebrows are drawn together and you can see the panic dancing across his eyes. Cee is working diligently, but with each passing second, you see your Ezra spiraling. You scoot your crate as close as possible to his, making your knees slot together. You let your hands drop from his face, and take his left hand into your grasp. You swiftly pull his hand to your chest and hold it there.
“Feel my breathing, Ez. Try and match it. Just like that, love. In and out.”
Keeping one hand on his, you reach out with your other and place it on his own chest, hoping to ground him even further.
“Birdie, what if I don’t-”
You cut off whatever he was about to say.
“Where should we go, hmm? Do we find another place to prospect? No, we don’t need any more money. Let’s go somewhere and rest for a while. Wouldn’t that be - keep breathing - wouldn’t that be nice? Just you, and me, and Cee if she wants. We can be together anywhere in the universe, Ez. I just need you to be there with me,” you attempt to distract him as both your breaths start to calm down and synchronize. The truth is tumbling out of your mouth.
Ezra yells and grunts suddenly. You jump at the sound, squeezing his hand and grabbing his shirt. You know that Cee just hit bone.
“Up to four, Cee!” you turn your attention back to Ezra. “So close Ez, almost done, hold on baby, you’re doing so great.”
He grimaces at the sound of the saw and needs you closer so he moves his hand up to grab the back of your neck. You know what he is asking of you and you stand between his knees in front of him. Running your fingers through his sweat-drenched hair to cradle his head, you hug him against your abdomen. His left arm wraps around your waist to hold you as close as he can. You stand like this until you hear the final crack and the weight is released.
Holding Ezra’s head against you, angled away from the scene, you instruct Cee, “Make sure to put a good coating of juice and dress everything shut.”
This is when you feel Ezra’s shoulders trembling, almost bouncing. You hold him as tight to you as you can as he cries into your shirt, his hand grabbing at your back for a comforting purchase.
Ezra cannot contain his emotions anymore as he sobs at the loss. His primary weapon is now gone. Cee finishes wrapping the site of the wound, sits back on her heels, and gives a final nod of approval.
“Time to go, Ez. Pod’s waiting.” You comb your fingers through his hair, attempting to soothe his ebbing tears.
“I don’t know if I’ll make it. Who am I, now that I am damaged? What use will I be?” He looks down at where his right arm was just minutes ago.
You help him to his feet and hold his chin to force eye contact. “You are not damaged. You are still Ezra, and you have faced worse than this. I will be by your side through everything. If you’ll have me,” you whisper that last part.
Ezra sighs out your name and presses his forehead to yours. “Solely if I can be yours as well. My greatest forfeiture today would not have been my life, birdie. It would have been you.”
You press your lips to his, just barely. “Let’s pack up and get the hell out of here then,” you say, making Ezra crack a small smile.
Time to leave the Green behind.
~
Tag list: @shiftingsands14 @littlemisspascal
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Congressman Pike has such a good ring to it!! This concept is so intriguing to me! Marcus is such a caring, compassionate, devoted person, on top of being intelligent, observant and driven, so he’s got all the characteristics that would make for a good politician who truly wants to make a difference. I would be more than happy to have him as my representative.
Right away it’s clear that Marcus is feeling overwhelmed by the reality of his new career path, and I do not blame him at all. He’s diving in feet first and trying to facilitate real change only to be shut down and discouraged. It’s never great when the “advice” you get is to just stay the course and not to make waves, no matter how well-meaning it is.
And gosh, I truly don’t think there’s anything that can appropriately prepare you for what it would be like to suddenly be dropped into that world. His time with the FBI surely helps, but at the same time… maybe not. There everyone was working towards the same goal, and now he’s got to deal with opposition and negotiation and roadblocks and… yeah, I’d need to step away for some air, too.
The Botanical Garden is a smart choice because he knows it will be less crowded and it’s not too far from where he needs to be but far enough to clear his head… and maybe find some kind comfort from a stranger. I love the easy way he strikes up conversation and how he doesn’t just talk about himself but he asks her about what she’s doing there and… i can’t help but wonder where this would have gone if Linda’s call came 5 minutes later.
Alas, duty calls. I like how he acknowledged that Old Marcus might have done something more reckless here but Focused Marcus is in control so the mystery woman from the gardens will remain a mystery for now, but I have a feeling her encouragement is going to stick with him.
Very much looking forward to learning more about Congressman Pike!! Thank you for writing and sharing your stories!!
Punchbowls & Pincushions (Congressman Marcus Pike x f!reader)
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summary: The duly elected representative from Texas’s 27th congressional district has a meeting, takes a walk, and meets a woman.
pairing: Congressman Marcus Pike x f!reader
rating: general audiences for this installment, though this series will be explicit and my blog and its content are only for those 18 and up
warnings: none
word count: 2.7k
a/n: Y’all, I’m excited for this one. This is the first installment of what I hope will be a more relaxed fit-ish series I’ve been thinking about for a long time: an AU in which Marcus Pike decides to turn in his badge and his gun and try a different kind of public service. I’ve just been waiting for the right excuse to finally get this first bit down on paper, so thank you as always to the lovely folks at @writer-wednesday for the photo prompt! Big thank yous also to @ezrasbirdie, @whataperfectwasteoftime, @magpie-to-the-morning, and @the-ginger-hedge-witch for letting me ramble at them about this idea for far too long, and to Birdie for looking this over for me!! ❤️
punchbowl: the Secret Service’s code name for the United States Capitol Building.
pincushion: the Secret Service’s code name for the Rayburn House Office Building, one of three main buildings where members of the House of Representatives and their staffs’ offices are actually located.
Main Masterlist. | Series Masterlist. | Taglist.
———
It’s not going to happen.
The words play on a loop in Marcus’s head as he tries to calmly traverse the halls of the Capitol.
Leonard, I campaigned on this.
I know, Marcus, I’m sorry.
Look, if this is about HR 86 -
It’s a matter of cost, Marcus.
Bullshit. The whole package is $57 billion. You’re telling me $100 million to expand drug treatment courts is the straw that breaks the CBO’s back?
It’s a miracle we got all the things in that we did. It’s gonna be hell trying to get this through the Senate as it is.
And what am I supposed to tell my constituents in the meantime?
To get used to disappointment. Or just blame the Senate. I always do.
Leonard -
It’s not going to happen, Marcus. Next time.
Marcus had scowled, recognizing that continuing to argue with the Chairman of the Appropriations Committee was going to get him nowhere.
It’s not going to happen.
He should go back to his office. His chief of staff, Linda, is expecting him. They’re supposed to go over a few things he has coming up this month, make some decisions on what events he’s been invited to that he’d actually like to attend, discuss strategy for the rollout of an education bill he’s introducing soon…
But the thought of heading back to the tiny three-room suite of office space each Congressperson is allotted, one whole room of which is designated just for him with its deep blue walls and heavy drapes and uncomfortable leather furniture, makes claustrophobia start to claw its way up his throat. There’s no air in this place, there’s no room to breathe. Between the windowless House chamber, old stone office buildings, and underground tunnels connecting everything, he can go hours without seeing the sky.
Three months he’s been in this job. Three months since he put his hand on a Bible and swore an oath to defend the Constitution from all enemies foreign and domestic, and swore an oath to himself that he would do right by the people of San Antonio who had placed their trust in him to represent them in Washington.
He’s not sure how successful he’s been so far. When he was an FBI agent, his life was governed by rules, by procedure, by the book. His working life had structure, it had guardrails. It had clear objectives: track down the art, arrest the bad guys, solve the case.
Congress, too, is governed by rules. The orderly structure by which bills move through the House, the procedures dictating how hearings are run, the ethics laws spelling out what he can and cannot do in his capacity as an elected official.
But there are so many unspoken rules, too. Ones that offer guidance on how to get your issues noticed and your priorities heard. How to strike deals, even how to just get into the room where the deals are struck or a seat at the table where the horse-trading happens. How to, as the famous book title says, win friends and influence people. There are ways to get things done, but Marcus can’t seem to get a handle on any of it.
You’ll learn soon enough, one of Marcus’s septuagenarian colleagues had told him during his first week on the Hill. Keep your head down, don’t make waves, kiss all the leadership ass you can. Freshmen Members always think they’re hot shit, but here? You’re just one of 435. All of us won our elections same as you, except most of us have been doing it a lot longer. You’re at the back of the line in this place, kid. Try not to get crushed. Good luck.
The man hadn’t been purposefully cruel, it’d been phrased as genuine advice.
Marcus texts Linda that he’s taking a detour.
He exits the Capitol on its west side, dodging both reporters and tourists and escaping unnoticed. At first he thinks he’ll just walk the Mall, just keep going until he hits the Washington Monument, or even the Lincoln Memorial, however long it takes him to regain some sense of calm, his dress shoes be damned. But as he crosses the street, the lush entry to the U.S. Botanic Gardens on the corner beckons him.
He wanders onto the grounds, past the main greenhouse and into the outdoor gardens. Flowering plants are just barely starting to bloom, and it’s early enough in the month that the spring break tourist crowds have yet to fully descend on the city. A few families linger here and there, but the further away Marcus walks from the greenhouse the fewer people there are. He spots a bench set away from the main path, nearly up against the stone wall that encircles the garden, and sits. The sound of a small stream trickling along nearby is nearly drowned out by the white noise of cars passing by on Independence Avenue just on the other side of the wall, but he tunes it all out.
It’s a pretty, peaceful space. Not as iconic or picturesque, perhaps, as the famous cherry blossoms down by the Tidal Basin, but he's grateful for the corresponding lack of people.
He can still see the dome of the Capitol above the trees, the sun glinting off the painted cast iron and threatening to blind him, the sight of it apparently inescapable even in the midst of this urban oasis. Marcus drops his head into his hands, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes and trying to block it out - the meeting, his schedule, his frustration, his uncertainty, the damn outline of the damn building looming over all of it, all the time...
"Rough morning, Congressman?"
The sound of a voice quite close by makes Marcus sit up straight in surprise. His head whips to the left, in the opposite direction from the Capitol, to find its owner, a new source of aggravation making him want to grind his teeth.
Can he not get a moment to himself, even here...
"Sorry!" The voice says again. "I didn't mean to startle you."
Then he notices: there's another bench to his left, slightly behind him and half-hidden by the low-hanging branches of a nearby tree. And on it sits a woman.
Marcus's irritation starts to melt away as quickly as it came. She's dressed casually, in jeans and a cream-colored moto jacket, her ankles crossed and tucked under the bench. As far as Marcus can tell, she's there alone, and is perhaps a few years younger than he is. And there's something in the way she's looking at him, bright eyes framed by long lashes, the corner of her mouth pulled upward in an apologetic half-smile...
She's beautiful.
And for a moment, he just…stares at her.
“It’s okay,” he finally says after several beats too long, his brain and his mouth trying to play catch-up. “It’s fine. You’re fine.” He winces, hoping she doesn’t take that the wrong way. But her smile widens, just a little.
“It has been a bit of a rough morning,” Marcus admits. “I’ve been having a lot of those lately, to be honest.”
“No rest for the elected, huh?” It’s a gentle teasing, which is a welcome respite from the disappointed - or even downright hostile - tone many people use when they find out he’s in Congress.
Although that begs the question…
“How’d you know I was - ”
She taps her jacket collar, jutting her chin in the direction of his own lapel. He looks down automatically, already knowing what he’ll see - the gold-and-silver pin a little larger than a quarter, stamped with the Congressional seal and pinned to his suit coat. His Member pin, a little metal disc that served to identify him as a Congressman, in lieu of an ID badge.
Heat creeps into his face.
“I keep forgetting I’m wearing it,” he mutters, abashed. The woman shrugs.
“A lot of Members refuse to take it off. Everywhere they go in this town, they want everyone to know how important they are.”
Marcus visibly shudders.
“I should tell my chief of staff that if I ever become that kind of person, she should slap me before telling me to retire.”
The woman laughs, a small, tinkling burst of sound, like someone rapidly opened a music box and allowed only a few notes to escape before shutting it again. She lifts a hand to smooth it over her hair, and that’s when Marcus notices she has a camera in her lap. A very nice, very expensive-looking camera.
She must see him notice it, just as she must see the way tension creeps unbidden into his shoulders, his neck, his jaw, because she turns the lens to the side, away from him.
“I’m not press,” she reassures him. “I’m just here to see what’s in bloom.”
The strain in his muscles eases, just a bit.
“Do you wanna talk about it? Your rough morning?”
He shouldn’t. She may not be a reporter, but she could easily pass on anything he says to one. She knows he’s a Member, and even if she doesn’t recognize exactly who he is, it wouldn’t be hard to figure out. He’s, on average, three decades younger than most of his colleagues, and the combination of what his campaign manager called progressive charisma and movie star good looks had gotten him a level of national attention while he’d been running that he’d neither wanted nor felt he deserved. To this day, he’s still not sure how he let his team talk him into saying yes to the Vanity Fair cover…
He has no reason to trust this woman. Nothing but a feeling in his gut. And Marcus refuses to be made so cynical by this town already that he spurns a kind offer from a pretty stranger.
“Off the record?” He asks, just to try and cover his bases.
She chuckles again.
“I told you I’m not press. But if it’ll make you feel better, yes.”
He takes a breath, turning on the bench to face her more fully, and launches into an abbreviated version of today’s events.
“It’s like I’ve been thrown into the deep end of a pool,” he says at the end, “and I haven’t been able to get my head back above water yet.”
The woman nods in sympathy, having listened attentively to his sorry tale.
“Can I ask you a question?” She asks, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees. “Why did you decide to run for Congress?”
How does he begin to answer that question? He used to have a precise, snappy, inspiring response, one edited down and workshopped and focus group tested to use at every campaign stop:
San Antonio is where I was born and raised. It has always been home to me. I love this place and its people, and I was taught that when you love someone, you fight for them. You care for them. You give back to them. And when it is clear that they are not being served by those in power, when it is clear that their leadership is failing them, you say something. You do something. And that is why I am running…
But that feels disingenuous here. This woman isn’t asking Marcus, the candidate. She’s asking Marcus, the person.
“I wanted to help people,” he says simply. “When I see an injustice, I can’t ignore it. Crime, poverty, inequality, violence. And the man who held this job before me wasn’t doing nearly enough to fix it.”
She’s quiet for a moment, absorbing his words.
“Too many people forget that being an elected official is supposed to mean being a public servant,” she tells him. “It sounds like you’re here for the right reasons. Keep remembering why you wanted to come here in the first place.”
Marcus smiles wryly at her.
“You work on the Hill?”
Her face immediately scrunches up in disgust, a sound a cross between a scoff and a gag escaping her lips before she clamps a hand over her mouth, clearly worried that she’s insulted him.
But Marcus throws his head back and laughs at her unfiltered reaction. It might be the first time he’s laughed all week.
“That’s a ‘no’, I take it?”
She shakes her head, grinning.
“No. I mean, it’s not that I don’t respect the work, it’s just…the environment leaves a lot to be desired.”
Marcus can’t fault her there.
“Do you come to the gardens a lot?” He asks, gesturing vaguely at the flora around them.
“Not as much as I’d like,” she admits. “This is my first day off in forever, and I’m more used to shooting people; this lets me stretch my creative muscles in a different way. And it’s so beautiful here.”
Marcus hums in agreement.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been here before,” he realizes. “Even during the times I was based in DC with the bureau, I never made it down here.”
“Well now that you have, what do you think of it?”
“It’s definitely exceeding my expectations,” he says, and he doesn’t miss the way her breath hitches, just the tiniest bit.
Marcus clears his throat and sheepishly rubs the back of his neck.
“You know, there’s a couple dozen cherry blossom trees out around the east side of the Rayburn building. I read that they’re expected to hit peak bloom this week, if you’re looking for new plant subjects to photograph without fighting the hordes at the Tidal Basin.”
She fiddles with the camera in her lap before looking up at him through her lashes.
“I wanted to, last year. Missed peak bloom by a couple of days. But maybe I should try again.”
Marcus opens his mouth to agree when the tinny vibration of his phone in his pocket breaks the moment. He makes an apologetic face at her before fishing it out and tries not to grimace at the name on the caller ID.
“I - it’s my chief, give me one second?” He pleads with her. He turns his body slightly away from her and answers the call.
“Linda?”
“Marcus. They’re about to call votes. Please tell me you haven’t gone AWOL such that you can’t make it back to the chamber in the next five minutes.”
His gaze drifts upward to where he can see the Capitol beyond the trees. He’s known Linda since he was six years old, and while there’s no one in DC he trusts more, he can’t bring himself to admit to her where he is, or why he blew off their scheduled time to chat without explanation.
“I just…needed some air,” he says lamely. “I won’t miss the vote window.”
He can hear her suppress a sigh.
“Can we at least go over the education bill stuff while you’re en route?”
“Hang on.” He swivels back to look at the woman on the bench, wanting more than anything to stay here, to keep talking with her, to keep feeling lighter than he has in a long while.
But she’s gone.
Marcus shoots to his feet, looking around to see if he can spot her. But aside from a young family nearby watching some ducks bathing in the stream, he’s suddenly alone.
In his past life, Marcus would have gone after her. There’s only so far she could have gotten; there’s an entrance at the garden's westernmost edge near the benches, she’s probably just on the other side, standing on the corner and waiting for the light to change. Marcus could follow her, find her, ask her for her name, for her number, if he could see her again, talk to her again, find out if she feels the connection he’s feeling -
He almost does it.
But then Linda’s voice is coming through his phone’s speaker, pulling him back to reality. He has to go vote. He has a job to do. A schedule to keep. And when has running after a woman ever gotten him anything but eventual heartbreak?
He puts the phone back up to his ear, the gravel path crunching under his feet as he walks back in the direction of the Capitol.
“I’m here, Linda. Talk to me about the bill.”
“Are you heading back to the chamber?”
He is, and he tells her as much. And if a part of him feels like he’s heading in the wrong direction, he keeps it to himself.
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Hey!
I just wanted to pop in and say how much I enjoy seeing your reblogs of people's work. You put so much thought and care into the comments you leave and I wanted to give you a pat on the back and perhaps a consensual forehead kiss.
Keep up the the joy!
El
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Hi El!! 🙋🏻‍♀️ Hope you’re having a lovely day!
This message made me smile. I’m so happy to hear that you’re enjoying all the reblogs from March Fic Madness. My goal with this challenge was to show writers how much they are appreciated and to let them know how much their work makes me feel. Seeing so many others take part in the madness and seeing the response from writers truly fills me with joy. There is just so much talent in this corner of the internet and I’m just trying to shine the spotlight on it.
And you know what? Spreading joy is fun. So I will for sure keep doing it. ☺️
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I read this right before bed last night and even though it features a Reader with insomnia, it was the perfect drifting off fic for me, because as soon as I finished it I fell asleep and had a dream about snoozing (tell me you're always friggin tired without telling me you're always friggin tired - "I dream about sleeping") in a big comfy bed with Ezra all curled up and cuddled close with my fingers in his hair and his big broad hand on my sternum and lemme tell you, it was very nice.
And to me, that comes as no surprise, because literally every time I venture through your masterlist, J, I find a new treasure to love. This one, even though it's still got that bittersweet, melancholy tone, felt so warm and loving and real. Nightmares fucking suck, and Ezra certainly has enough fuel to give himself some real bad ones. But there is something so intimate and trusting and solid and beautiful about having a partner who is able to provide you comfort when they strike.
To hear that Ezra has nightmares about giving Cee over to the Sater and that he feels guilt over the fact that he considered taking that deal breaks my heart, because like Reader says, he DID NOT do that. He did not do that and he would not do that and not only did he not do that, he put his own life at risk to save Cee's, and it kills me to know that he hasn't completely forgiven himself for that tiny slip in morality. But I'm glad he's got someone who can help him see how good his heart is and remind him that he made the right choice. I love the idea of singing to him to help soothe him so much I could cry.
Once again, a big piece of my heart belongs to your Ezra.
To Have and to Hold: Ezra x gn! Reader
A/N: I’m not sure what happened here. Ezra inspires a strong rescue urge in me.  I believe I made the reader gender neutral. If you notice anything that breaks that characterization please tell me and I will edit. I’m not even sure quite how to tag this. Nothing really happens, just a little window into life with Ezra after his time in The Green.
Warnings: nightmares. insomnia. night terrors. mentions of past trauma. implied long term relationship.
         Sleep has a hard time finding you. This has been true your whole life. From the sticky nights of your childhood on Oros, to drop pods, to freighters, to stations, to planets and moons without end. On a job or holed up waiting for the next drop, or on a rare downworld layover, it’s always the same. Drift off warm and exhausted and then wake a scant two or three hours later, mind whirring like an overtaxed cooling system, the deeply important and the inane clamoring for attention behind your eyes. It’s been like this so long you don’t really notice it or think of it until Ezra. 
Keep reading
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Introducing Fan Fiction Birthdays!
I love a bit of Tumblr fun and games and I really love seeing people celebrate something they've created.
So, with that in mind I'm setting up a monthly fan fiction birthday party.
How does it work?
Drop me a comment, emoji, DM or reblog to let me know that you want to take part.
I'll pick one of your fics from your masterlist, and when its birthday* rolls around, I'll hop into your ask box.
You can choose to share anything you like about that fic, and we'll sing it a virtual happy birthday!
All are welcome, whether we're mutuals or not, if you've written one thing or 100, and if you've been here 10 years or 5 minutes.
There's no time limit on this, you can ask to join in at any point.
Love, El
💜
*birthday will be the date that you originally posted it
See our celebrations so far here.
Tagging a few folks here, please share so that we can celebrate as many awesome works as we can!
@undercoverpena @katareyoudrilling @oliveksmoked@littlemisspascal @survivingandenduring @maggiemayhemnj @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @wannab-urs @imaswellkid @intheorangebedroom @oonajaeadira @goodwithcheese @thetriumphantpanda @fuckyeahdindjarin @laughing-in-th3-purple-rain @tightjeansjavi @morallyinept @rhoorl @connectioneverywhere @perotovar @burntheedges @magpie-to-the-morning @schnarfer @julesonrecord @5oh5 @chronically-ghosted @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @nerdieforpedro @avastrasposts @trulybetty @wildemaven @legendary-pink-dot @magpie-to-the-morning @magpiepills @iamskyereads
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reblog if you’ve read fanfictions that are more professional, better written than some actual novels. I’m trying to see something
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I have been meaning to dig into this gem of a fic since you first started posting it and I finally got a chance to do so and holy cow I’m so happy I did! Rae! You are so good at cooking up really interesting, unique AUs, and this one is a perfect example of your creativity! Soulmates AND superpowers AND roommates AND mystery?! AND A DOG?! Are you kidding? I’m sold!
There is so much to love about this series. It grabbed my attention RIGHT away and I was immediately hooked. The gifts and powers you give these characters are so interesting! I really like how varied and individual they are and how some are more common/rare than others. I also think it’s really interesting that some of not all of them come with costs. I couldn’t imagine going through the situations Reader has been through during her military service knowing the extent of her gift and what it makes her feel. You do such an excellent job of describing the sensations and emotions and feelings… but as much as it would take a toll, those moments of calm and safety after matching with Tim would make it all worth it. The concept of matches - specifically for certain types of gifts - being beneficial and helping to soothe the difficult aspects of those gifts is such a brilliant one.
I love your take on Tim, too. He’s very straightforward, very matter of fact, but kind and respectful and caring. He’s bright and observant and makes excellent use of his gift for his work… even if he suffers for it. I love his and Roan’s interactions and I love that Banjo is his best lil buddy. (Also I just love Banjo.)
This case that they’re working on! What a DOOZY! (the victim carving a note in their own blood is such a brutal detail I love it) Roan using her ability to get a glimpse at what happened was really flipping cool, but ooof that PTSD whiplash was rough. Kez’s warning about Tim being a little too driven sometimes was super interesting… and even more so after we meet TIM’S MYSTERIOUS BROTHER THE THIEF! 🤯 Portal Lady’s ability is both awesome and terrifying, and the fact that she’s working with someone who can STEAL other people’s gifts is… these two WORRY me.
Also? I really like your use of color throughout this story. Carmin’s all yellow outfit and luggage was a really stark contrast to the drab surroundings. Also? Maybe I’m nuts but my brain made a connection between Kez’s green lollipop and the playing card with the green back that Cassius gave Roan. Maybe I’m just paranoid because we’re in the middle of a whodunnit and I’m like maybe youdunnit! Or maybe you! just pointing at everyone. Idk but I do know I can’t wait to see where we go from here!!
Thank you for creating this AU and sharing it with all of us, Rae!! You’re wonderful!
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Rockford & Roan
Pairing: Tim Rockford x Fem!Reader/OFC "Roan"
Summary: You meet Tim Rockford in the true crime section of the library of all places. What happens after that shifts your entire world on its axis.
Rating: T
Warnings*: Superpowers AU, They Were Roommates AU, Worldbuilding, Language, Original Characters, Crime Solving, Soulmates-ish, essentially a mashup of Sherlock and X-Men universes
Reader has a military background, a dog, and no first name or physical characteristics described in detail except for being shorter than Rockford.
*Individual warnings listed within each chapter
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9
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