Warnings: 18+, Spiders, sex in later chapters (with oc no. 3)
OC x OC
Word Count: 1.9k
Banner by @jiyascepter | Chapter 1
It's still early, not yet midday, as Crysta tends the flowerbeds on either side of the solarium's outer door. The sun shines golden above, drying any dew remaining on the grass.
A flutter of wings and bright chirping catches her attention as a pixie rushes over and tugs at the hem of her cape, trilling something about mortals.
"What do you mean? Now?" She asks, letting the small creature guide her into the wood. To the untrained ear, the forest sounds like any other, but to Crysta, she can hear the creatures within buzz about and the trees trembling with anxious energy as they trek deeper into the trees.
Sure enough, in a small clearing a mile or so from the cottage, there are two mortals, a young couple, the man carving something into an ancient Oak.
She doesn't think before speaking out and rushing toward them, "Stop that! What in the world do you think you're doing?!"
The man startles and nearly drops knife as they both turn to see the strange young woman coming from the brush.
The mortal woman stumbles back when Crysta pushes between them, her palm glowing green as she passes it over the half-carved heart, the engraving vanishing beneath her touch, "This tree has been here longer than your families have been settled in this part of the land. Harming him like that was rude and uncalled for!"
"Johnathan, it's a witch!" The woman shrieks, causing Crysta to roll her eyes.
"Of course, I'm a witch," She scoffs, "Do I look like a lichling to you?"
As she turns to face them, the man lashes out with his blade, catching her palm, "Stay back! Don't you dare come any closer!"
"Ow!" She yelps as blood begins to seep from the wound, "Why would you do that?"
While she seems confused, the forest around them quivers with anger and magic. Roots begin to shift beneath the earth, and branches twist unnaturally toward the unwelcomed visitors who dared harm the Wood's favorite being.
Terrified by what they think is the witch's display, the man grabs the woman's arm and they flee from the clearing, in the direction of the mortal village.
"Oh," Crysta sighs, gripping her wrist and peering down at the cut in her palm, she doesn't have much experience mending human flesh, so she'll need to ask Volous for help when she returns home. So, for now, she wraps her hand in one of the spider silk bandages she carries with her.
The wood around her begins to quiet with the threat of outsiders now gone, roots return to the earth and branches resume their previous positions as calm washes over the clearing.
She doesn't flinch at the snapping of a twig, or the soft rustling of the brush, the wood is full of creatures, most of which she knows, she hasn't been truly frightened here since she was small.
Then, a dire wolf more than twice her size, and black as a shadow, comes stalkingout of the thicket. It's uncommon for these creatures to come so far south of the Broken Mountain, though, it's not unheard of, but never before the dead of winter.
Crysta freezes as it's yellow eyes pierce her body. It looks malnourished and haggard, but that only makes this encounter all the more dangerous for her, as she would he seen as an easy meal.
"Oh no..." She holds out her hands in a placating gesture, "N-nice pup. Please don't eat me."
Her voice elicits a growl from the beast as it takes one step closer, then another, before it suddenly lunges at her.
She screeches and recoils inward, but the snapping clamp of his jaws around her throat never comes. A light, blinding and gold wraps around the wolf before bursting outward, and a sudden weight slams into her, knocking her back to the leaf-littered ground. What lands atop her doesn't feel like one would expect a massive wolf to feel like. Less fur, and more like a hard mass of skin and muscle that lets out a human-like groan before two hands grasp her forearms as it pulls back.
"What did you do, two-legged?" A deep voice growls and she looks up to see, not a wolf, but a man, a very large, very naked man with long, black hair falling down past his scared face and the same, piercing yellow eyes glaring down at her. A black fur cloak drapes across his back and shoulders, matted and heavy. He looks confused for a moment, brow furrowing as he gazes down at his new form before anger washes it away. One hand shifts to her throat, fingers clumsily tightening around it, cutting off the airway. "Change me back."
She tries to speak, tries to tell him she didn't change him into this in the first place, that she would transform him back in an instant if she could, but his hand makes it impossible, and her hands, much smaller than his, claw at the one choking her, blood from her wound seeping through the bandage and across his skin. She kicks and struggles beneath him, tears pricking her eyes, but he's far larger than her and it seems useless.
Just as he's about to speak again, an unseen force throws him off her, the newly transformed wolf rolling to a stop a few yards away with a groan.
Crysta rolls onto her stomach, coughing as she gulps down air. She looks up to see her father rushing over, his hands pulling her to her feet.
"Are you alright, sweet girl?" He fusses, looking her over. He gently holds her wounded hand, unwrapping the bloodied spider silk, "Did he do this?"
"No," She croaks, shaking her head, "No, there were mortals, they-"
"Mortals?"
"They ran off. Papa, the forest…" She glances back to the man who was once a wolf as he tries to stand, stumbling from an unbalanced stance, back to his knees. "The dire wolf."
"A dire wolf?" Volous looks over at the near-bare man he just rescued his daughter from. "This far south? Unlikely. A shapeshifter would be-"
"I'm no moon slave!" The man snaps from the ground.
"The forest changed him," She explains, "The trees saved me."
"Yes, well, now we're going home, there's been enough excitement for the day, come."
As Volous leads her away, they hear the wolf tripping and struggling to follow, unfamiliar with his new body, and Crysta, bleeding heart she is, stops, looking at her father with pleading eyes, "Papa, we can't leave him, he'll die."
"Crysta, we-… You can't possibly…" He sighs, his head dropping in defeat, "Fine."
It takes some light coercion to get the man to let them help him to his feet, and after the cottage, but the father and daughter manage. Still, the man refuses to go any further than their doorway, stubborn and untrusting, he spends the next few days outside the cottage, learning to walk- learning to pace like an animal caged as Crysta spends hours upon hours and restless nights poring over every scroll and text related to transformations in the library.
She feels responsible for him and what happened, though she knows she did not choose this for him, the forest did.
The skies open up one night, a week past, lightning flashes and thunder cracks as it downpours over the wood. Crysta is, of course, still awake, reading by candlelight in the solarium, failed experiments scattered across her desk.
A loud bang, the sound of a fist against glass startles her, and she looks over to see the wolf-man- who had refused to give them a name- his silhouette, nearly seven foot tall, taking up the doorway.
He ducks inside when she opens the door, his matted, dirty cloak and hair dripping on the tiled floor.
"How much longer must I endure this?" He growls, rain water splattering against the glass when he spins toward her, "It's been more than seven suns and I'm still in this damned two-legged form."
"I'm doing my best- would you stop? You're tracking mud everywhere!"
The man snarls at the command and grips her arm, pushing her up against the wall, "I'm not some pup you can control, witch. Order me around again, and I'll rip that pretty little throat out."
The threat rubs her wrong and she frowns.
"You are a guest in my house, one I don't have to help." She snaps, "Now, be a good dog and go wash the mud off."
He stares at her, impressed? Slightly. Scared? Absolutely not. Aroused? More than he probably should be.
He huffs as he lets her go, his gaze following her pointing finger toward the door just outside the inner doorway.
"The blue tincture is for hair, and the yellow is for the body. You smell like a dead dragon."
He glares at her, but doesn't fight. His eyes keep hers as he shrugs off his cloak, leaving him bare before her. He drops the fur in a heap by the fire as he walks off.
He admittedly enjoys the warm of the water, especially after being soaked from the storm. His wet feet pad across the floor toward the glass room again, to find his cloak properly laid out to dry, and a simple set of two-legged clothes set out, presumably for him.
Crysta is slumped forward at the desk, having fallen asleep while reading again. It doesn't look comfortable, and the man, despite himself, finds amusement in it.
She startles when his hand, broad enough to span near most of her back, settles between her shoulder blades.
"Oh." His back straightens at her small, sleepy voice, "Did I fall asleep again?"
He grunts in acknowledgement before he turns back to the fabric she laid out for him.
"If they don't fit, I can resize them." She yawns. She fumbles about with the books, quills and potion ingredients on her desk.
"I don't wear human clothes."
She shrugs and stands, raising her arms to stretch, her shoulders popping, "Are you hungry?"
His brow quirks. He's over seven feet of brute strength, of course, he's hungry.
"My father's cooking can leave you… wanting." She chuckles, "I can make us something more palatable, if you want."
And so, he finds himself at a table too short for him, his knees bumping into the wood as he devours an entire side of bacon with two large goose eggs. It's not a pretty sight, but, a starved wolf never is, and he hasn't eaten properly for one his size in months.
His hair, while almost properly washed, is still tangled and constantly falling into his face, getting caught in his mouth as he tries to eat. He huffs in annoyance, as he tries to flick it back again.
"Here, let me," Crysta chuckles, stepping around behind him, and he freezes at the feel of her hands trying to work through his hair. His shoulders lose that tension when she gently takes a brush to the mess, and he leans back into motion.
The soft spider-silk garb she'd made suddenly feels suffocating and he fights the urge to nuzzle into her hands at her unwitting engagement in such bonding behaviors.
"Stratton," He hums contentedly, letting slip the name he's kept guarded, My name is Stratton."
It's mid-winter, likely around the end of January. The roads throughout Sugar Run are iced over after the various thaws and refreezes, and there is over a foot of snow blanketed across the mountains as the temperature settles near ten.
The fireplace in the living room works hard to stave off the cold, but yet, a chill remains in the farther corners of the house.
Daryl is sat on the couch, sharpening his knives, Dog lazing in front of the glowing mantle.
He glances out the front-facing windows, chewing at his lip. Loveday went out nearly an hour ago with Bear, and, with the how frigid it is...
He contemplates going out after her, but those thoughts are interrupted when the door opens, and in bounds the larger dog, shaking off snow and slumping near on top of Dog beside the fire.
"Damn, it's cold out." Loveday huffs, taking the ice cleats off her boots and hanging them up. She kicks off her boots and shrugs off her coat before stepping up and over the armrest of the couch.
Daryl chuckles at her antics, setting aside the blade he's working on before she can tell him to, and pats his thigh in welcome.
She gladly plops down on his lap and snuggles into his chest. He jumps when her hands slip under his shirt, her cold skin sharp against his stomach.
"Jesus," He frowns, taking her hands in his, bringing them up to his lips to blow in them, "You stick 'em in a snowbank 'fore comin' back in?"
"No." She snorts.
Daryl rolls his eyes as she pulls her hands back and adjusts against her until he's all but cradling her in his arms.
"There's mah girl. Was startin'ta get worried you weren't comin' back."
"And miss out on this? You're crazy, Dixon."
She leans up to kiss his cheek, before nuzzling her cold nose into his neck. It's not long before she is completely settled in his arms, feeling warm and safe like this.
"I like when you hold me." She admits softly, her eyes closed as she breathes in his smell.
"Yeah? Well, I like holdin' ya." He agrees, resting his chin atop her head, his scruffy beard scratching pleasantly at her scalp, "Ain't ever lettin' you go."
"Promise?"
"Yeah," He murmurs, holding her a touch tighter, "I promise."
Warnings: 18+, death (apocalypse movie, duh), drug use (Cannabis)
Word count: 2.2k
Withering Sign of the Lamb by Lantern By Sea | Chapter One
The sky is red.
The earth scarred.
Calista sits by the counter at the terminal gate in the airport, as an EMT stitches the gash on her temple. Yuri is stood beside her, arguing with one of the airport staff to get his plane on the runway.
It's all starting to wash over her. California is gone. Her friends, her stuff... her cat. They're gone. The ashcloud from Yellowstone- a looming black death just within view here in Vegas- will hit the East coast within the day. Her family...
"Try not to think about it."
She looks up to see Yuri's girlfriend Tamara, her blond hair all curled and pinned, her outfit- worth more than Calista's parents ever made in a month- stiff and starched with her little dog, Ceasar, in her arms. She's trying to be nice- she always tries with Calista.
Calista forces a small smile when she squeezes her hand.
The sudden appearance of Jackson and his family- including Tamara's plastic surgeon- is a small comfort. A familiar face, even if it is the ever-anxious face of Jackson Curtis, is a welcomed sight.
"Boss."
The sound of Sasha's voice cuts through the fog as he tells Yuri about a plane. She doesn't move when their boss grabs his boys and starts following him back out to the tarmac, not until Sasha glances back to see her still sat there, clinging to her guitar, and he calls her name, snatching her sleeve.
"Stupid girl," He grumbles and curses at her in russian as his arm wraps around her shoulders, his lips pressing harshly against her temple, "I am not leaving you behind."
The plane is huge, a big russian bitch hauling cars for an elite show with room to spare. Had she been a bit more lucid she might have suggested offloading the extra weight to stretch their gas, but the black cloud quickly rolling in and the slight tremble of the ground curbs her tongue.
"Are we gonna die?" She breathes as he pushes her into one of the seats in the cargo bay.
"No." His voice is firm and he hurries up the ladder to the cockpit, calling to her as he climbs, "Strap in!"
Yuri straps his boys in beside her, and Oleg grips her hand as the plane starts to taxi, both of them trembling.
She can still hear the rumble of earth and ash over the roar of the six engines of the Antonov. The plane jerks, either from the broken ground or malfunction, she doesn't know, then her stomach drops as the whole thing lunches and tips, taking a nose dive into the newly formed canyon at the end of the runway.
It's by instinct that her arm lashes out to keep the boys in place, her hand finding, not Alec's chest, but Yuri's upper arm as he does the same only a split second before her.
The plane tilts this way then that before they slowly start to climb, but her hand still grips her boss's arm in terror as Oleg hides his face in her shoulder, his curly hair tickling her neck.
A loud bang and it feels like they caught something on the way up, the lights flicker and... the only noise is the engines and the now faint rumble of the world falling apart below.
"Lady's and gentlemen," Sasha's voice comes over the speakers, "We are on our way to China."
She very slowly removes her shaking hand from Yuri's arm and it quickly covers her mouth as she sobs. Everyone else is sighing and laughing in relief, and she can't even breathe, but no one seems to acknowledge it. It's like she's invisible and muted in this moment, alone, surrounded by others in the cargo bay, but utterly alone.
She undoes her harness and stands on unsteady legs, still clinging to her guitar case as she climbs into one of the luxury cars.
She takes out her guitar, setting it in the passenger seat, and pulls a small tin and lighter in a small ziplock from a compartment inside the case.
Her hands shake so much as sobs wrack through her body, she almost drops the bag as she tries to open it, barely able to pull out a joint and get it lit between her lips. She leans forward after a few breaths, pressing her forehead to her arms on the steering wheel.
This can't be happening. This can't be fucking happening. This has to be a dream, right? Just a bad nightmare? She thinks, her eyes squeezing tight as she wills herself to wake up. "Just wake up. Wake up in bed, and next time you see him, tell him. That's all this is. Your stupid brain telling you to tell Sasha you like him."
But when she lifts her head, she finds herself still in the ridiculously expensive Audi, in the cargo hold of a Russian plane, headed to China, to board some kind of ship.
She wants to go home. She wants to be held. But, everyone she knows and cares about is either dead, or is about to be.
She presses the lit end of her joint against the real leather seat to put it out and leans back, curling into herself as she cries.
Hours pass and she finds herself calming, both from the marijuana and lack of tears left to cry. Curtis's ex-wife, Kate, watches her climb out of the car and up to the cockpit from her spot further back with her daughter held close in her arms.
"Sasha?" She sounds far more pathetic than even she expects, catching both his attention and that of his new co-pilot, Tamara's plastic surgeon, Gordon.
"Maverick? What are you doing up here?" His face falls when he sees her tear-streaked cheeks. Where was the light in her eyes? That beautiful spark. She looked like a corpse. He looks over at Gordon, as long as they don't stray wildly off course, he should be fine to comfort her for a few minutes.
He stand and cups her face, lips grazing her bandaged stitches, "What's wrong, Mýshka?"
What's wrong? What's wrong?
"Everything!" She hiccups feeling that lump in her throat return as if she has any tears left to cry.
He wraps his arms around her, pulling her close to his chest. He's never seen her so distressed and it hurts his heart. She's always such a ray of sunshine, sweet and amused. How could one so happy look so miserable?
He coos something sweet in russian, his hand holding the back of her head, her dark green hair still braided tight.
"You're right, silly question." His cheek presses against the top of her head. It feels like she belongs there, after countless months yearning for this- for her- he has her close, held tight in his arms.
"Can I stay up here with you?" She asks quietly, pressing closer.
It's not a surprising request to Sasha, whenever Yuri had them fly someplace new to her she would gravitate toward him, looking for guidance and small comforts in unfamiliar situations.
"Of course, Mýshka." He shushes, "I wouldn't have you anywhere else."
She's quietly yearning to be sitting with him as she sits in the jump seat behind them, but at least she feels less alone.
She must fall asleep, because she wakes up to Gordon rushing down to the cargo hold for Jackson and Yuri.
"Sasha? What's going…." The cockpit is aglow from someone below them and she see's the source as she stands. "Oh."
Hawaii, where they had planned to refuel, is in big lava flow. In retrospect, if this whole situation caused Yellowstone to blow, it makes sense that Hawaii is ravaged too.
Before he can say anything, Gordon comes back with Curtis and Yuri in tow.
"What is that?" Karprov asks.
"The state of Hawaii."
"Not good." Yuri replies. "That is not good."
They don't have enough fuel to make it to china, and will have to make a water landing in the South China Sea.
They really should have offloaded some cars back in vegas.
Sasha's hand reaches up to grip her arm when it wraps around his neck from behind, offering what little comfort he can.
"At least we're not gonna need the landing gear." Gordon chuckles grimly.
"What happened to the landing gear?" Curtis asks.
"Oh, we lost it all, in Vegas."
Calista groans and presses her forehead into Sasha's hair. She stays there, even after the other two go back to the cargo bay.
Normally, it's a 16 hour flight from Honolulu to Hong Kong, but, Sasha says they only have enough to to get maybe halfway there.
"Go." He urges, "Sleep. You'll need it."
"I don't want to sleep." She huffs, her hold tightening, "I just... I just wanna stay here."
She finds herself hovering, staying close because, well, what else is she supposed to do?
The hours pass slow, perhaps its the suspense that does it, but the next seven hours pass creep by, slow and torturous, like the blade of a guillotine hanging over them.
Even then, the inevitable engine failures seem to come out of no where, and suddenly their trip is cut to fifteen minutes or less.
"Alright, pretty mouse," Sasha says gently, looking over his shoulder at her when Jackson and Yuri go back down to wake their kids, "Get yourself ready, things will go quick."
"What about you?"
He scoffs, "I'll be fine, now go."
She climbs down from the cockpit and finds some cellophane covering one of the car's back seats and wraps her guitar case up tight. She knows it's a bit silly, trying to save an instrument, but it's all she has left, and, if it's sealed enough, they can use it as a flotation device.
The decent is bumpy on the last two engines and parents hold their children tight.
"Jackson, Yuri." Gordon calls from the ladder, "I think you better come up here."
Yuri motions for her to move and take his spot between the boys and she does, both Alec and Oleg clinging to her.
"You're okay." She says softly, her hand petting their curls. The shock and horror have mostly worn off, and the nanny, the caretaker in her comes back out, "We're all going to be okay, you'll see."
The plane jerks as if they hit something solid and she holds the boys closer, feeling Tamara's nails dig into her arm.
Curtis and Yuri come rushing down, they unbuckle the kids and start herding them into the Bently in the back of the plane.
As everyone piles in, she hesitates, realizing that something went wrong and that driving off the plane means someone will have to touch the beast down.
She trusts Sasha to get them out safe and climbs into the back of the Bently, wedging her guitar between her and the passenger seat. It's a tight fit, and not the safest arrangement, but she wasn't leaving it behind.
She grips the door handle when the cargo doors open, her blood running cold in terror.
Gordon comes running down.
"Where's Sasha?" She blurts out when he climbs in.
"He said he's fine- we should get out of here!"
She's not sure why she does it, stupidity or not, but she gets out of the car despite the group's shouting at her not to.
She clings to the netting on the side of the hold and claws her way toward the ladder as the group drives off.
The plane touches down once and the chains holding the other cars in place snap and the cars bounce, slamming into walls and ceiling around her, metal and glass flying everywhere. Some catches her face, and it's a miracle she isn't crushed.
"Sasha!"
"Maverick?!" He shouts when he hears her. "What the hell are you doing?"
He curses at her in russian as she take the co-pilot's seat.
"You were supposed to go with the others!"
"I wasn't leaving you!" Her heart sinks when she sees the glacial drop-off in front of them, she had a feeling that was the case.
"You stupid girl! The plane isn't going to-"
"I know!" She argues, securing her belt and glaring at him. "Did you really think I was letting you die alone?"
The belly of the plane scrapes along the snow and ice, slowing little by little, as the edge comes ever closer.
Sasha grabs her hand, squeezing it so tight it hurts.
Her breath catches as the nose slides out over the edge just enough that they don't tip as the plane comes to a shuddering stop.
Both of them let out a breath of relief and the fear on his face slowly morphs into a brief smile, but her adrenaline doesn't let her have it. Their position is too precarious.
She doesn't stop to celebrate, quickly undoing her belt and dragging him by the hand.
"We have to go!"
They barely make it to the foot of the ladder when the metal groans and the plane starts to tip.
In the distance, Jackson, Kate, Gordon, Yuri, Tamara, Lily, Noah, Alec, Oleg, and even Ceasar step out of the car, safe.
They watch as the plane slowly begins to tilt before disappearing over the icy edge, falling into oblivion and a fiery explosion below.
Warnings: 18+, mentions of death (it's an apocalypse movie), alcohol.
Sasha Hoho x Calista Maverick
I didn't mean to publish this yet. Oh well.
Word Count: 1.25k
An ordinary day turns into the world falling apart at the seams.
Chapter Two
"Boys, be nice." Calista scolds as she helps Jackson get their bags and her guitar case from the trunk of the limo. Yuri called out of no where and demanded she bring Alec and Oleg to Vegas as soon as possible. She just assumes he was worried about the growing intensity of the LA earthquakes. "I'm sorry you had to cut your vacation short, Mr. Curtis, but thank you for getting us her so quickly."
Jackson looks far more antsy than normal as he answer's, "Huh? Y-yeah, my pleasure- that everything?"
Her brow furrows when he snaps the trunk closed and waves her off toward the jet, where Sasha is helping the boys aboard.
"I'll take that."
"Hey!" She laughs, forgetting about Jackson Curtis when Sasha tries to pull her guitar case from her. "Hands off, blondie."
"Hurry up, Yuri wants us in Las Vegas yesterday, and I'm not above throwing you over my shoulder, Maverick." He teases, taking the case anyway, and motioning her toward the jet with it.
She rolls her eyes, yelping when he pokes her ass with the end of the case when she passes by.
"Do I need to submit an HR report?" She asks as she climbs onto the plane.
"Nyet," He mutters from the tarmac, watching her climb the stairs, "Just let me keep watching that perfect ass."
"Sasha!"
"What? You want me to lie, mýshka?" He purrs, climbing up behind her.
"I want you to behave." She snorts, taking her case from him. "At least until we touch down in Vegas."
"Oh, so my little mouse does want to play. Life is too short, mýshka, why don't you meet me in the cockpit once we're in the ai-"
"Sasha, just fly the plane." She laughs. "We're on the clock."
He huffs and starts toward the cockpit, grumbling to himself in russian as she makes sure Alec and Oleg are properly buckled in and ready for take off, before settling in a seat of her own.
Her fingers dig into the plush leather armrests as the plane takes off. She's never been a big flyer, but, due to the demands of her job, she's beginning to get more used to it.
Once they're at a cruising altitude, she pulls out her beat-up guitar and plucks at the strings. She planned to use the short flight to bang out the details of a bridge she's stuck on, but it isn't too long before the clouds start going dark.
She leans the instrument against the wall and peers out the window, her eyes going wide when she finally sees below the cloud cover. The ground, miles beneath them, is cracking apart, as seams in the surface glow red with magma.
Her hands shake as she reaches for the remote and flips on the news on the cabin tv, the picture is grainy and static-y, but it confirms what she's seeing. California is in chaos, shaking apart into the ocean, as Yellowstone erupts as a super-volcano, filling the skies with ash.
She stands on unsteady legs and stumbles to the cockpit, "Sasha?!"
"Go." He snaps when she opens the door. "Mýshka! Go, strap in, damnit!"
She looks back to find the boys oddly calm, despite she herself being on the edge of freaking out. She shuts the door to the cockpit and sits in the co-pilot seat.
"What the hell are you doing? I told you-"
"I don't want them to see me have a breakdown." She mumbles, running her palms along the fabric of her work pants, trying to calm herself down. "Sasha, what's going on?"
"Oh, pretty girl," He murmurs, one hand leaving the yolk to clutch hers, pulling his up to his lips, "Bad things. Very bad things. But you're safe with Sasha, da?"
"Yeah." She smiles quietly.
"Good girl. Now go strap in and keep the little ones calm. Sasha will get us there safe and sound."
She nods, unsure if vegas will even still be there, but she knows he's right, she needs to keep an eye on the boys.
She steps back into the cabin to find the twins on their 3DSs, so, instead of addressing them and bringing more attention onto her, she walks back to the wet bar and pours herself glass of ice and vodka.
She slumps back in her seat and secures her seat belt, trying not to think about her friends who are likely dead now in the rubble of California.
She's not sure how much time passes, only that her drink is over half gone, her head is swimming, and she thinks Sasha just said something about their descent.
She goes to take another sip when the tires hit the tarmac in Vegas, the runway is cracked and a bit torn up, and the rough landing caused her booze to spill all over her chest.
"Fuck!" She hisses, "Fuck me! Fuck- fuck all of this!"
Alec and Oleg stare at her in surprise at her outburst, they very rarely hear her curse- and they have never seen her drunk.
"Are you alright back here? I heard shoutin-" Sasha stops short when he sees Calista drenched. "Boys stay put. Come here, mýshka, let's get you clean before Yuri sees you."
His voice is gentle when he addresses her, getting her bag from the storage compartment in the back of the plane. He closes the curtain, making the cramped space even smaller as he throwas open her suitcase and starts looking through her clothes.
There's something intimate about the familiar way he digs through her clothes. He's not being as flirty as he normally is, not even commenting teasingly on her intimates.
"Here, clean and dry." He says warmly, handing her a clean set of clothes.
"I could've-"
"I know," he interrupts her slurred words, gently cupping her cheek, "Just one less thing on this insane day."
She blinks up at him for a moment before pushing herself up on her toes and kissing him.
He growls against her lips and the clothes fall from her hands when he presses her against a storage cabinet by the hips, muttering dirty words in russian against her lips.
Suddenly, the floor shifts and trembles as the earth quakes beneath them. Sasha pulls her closer protectively and murmurs soft reassurances in her ear until it stops.
"I... i should change..." she breathes, "C-can you keep an eye on the boys?"
"I'll go wherever you want me, Malyshka." His finger tilts her chin up so he can kiss her again, "I'll be right outside if you need me."
She has to take a moment to calm herself down, her face flushed from more than just the alcohol.
She changes into a clean bra and top, Sasha and the boys taking in some fresh air out in the tarmac, but just as she reaches for her guitar, the ground shakes again and the plane lurches back, sending her toppling.
The world comes to around her, but all she sees is Sasha above her, his hands cupping her face.
"There she is." He murmurs, "You scared me."
She sighs when she feels his lips on her forehead.
"What happened?" She hisses when she reaches to hold her sore head but her fingers graze an open wound.
"Another quake, the landing gear fell into the pavement when it opened up." He helps her stand, going as far to grab her guitar case, "Come on, before the whole plane is swallowed up."
The End of the World as We Know It | Don't You Ever Leave, Don't You Ever Leave
Warnings: Show Typical violence, death, blood, allusions to sex (nothing explicit)
Daryl and Loveday get snowed in on what should have been a week long trip, but they make the most of it.
Part 2
Hold Onto Me by Mayday Parade | Banner By @saradika-graphics
It's late November, it hasn't snowed yet, but it's damn cold out.
Daryl adjusts his grip on his crossbow as he makes his way back to the truck.
This was only supposed to be a week long trip, a scouting mission for possible scrapping next summer. A quick there and back, but the roads are in such bad condition that it's been over a week and they still haven't made it to the park.
It's early and Loveday is still asleep in the backseat of the four door, his vest still draped over her on the blankets. They have one of those inflatable back seat bed things so they can both sleep a bit more comfortably.
The bed of the truck is loaded with food, water, ethanol, and other supply they've scavenged along the way.
"Alright, darlin'," he sighs, gently shaking her, chuckling when she groans, "We gotta hit the road, c'mon."
She slowly starts to wake, blinking sleepily up at him, "Hey."
"Hey there, pretty girl." He smiles softly, kissing her forehead. "You ready t'go?"
"Yeah." She yawns as she sits up, "I'll wake up while we drive."
She curls up in the backseat, his vest around her shoulders while she watches the still world pass by outside.
They drive for a bit before they have to get out and move an abandoned car, or log, on and off until sunset.
"Should get there by tomorrow." Loveday says through a mouthful of jerky they'd brought along. She's sitting in the bed of the truck, her legs sprawled out over the tailgate. They have a small fire going to cook a rabbit he got when they stopped that he's tending to.
"Only a week late." He sighs and she shrugs.
"As long as we don't get snowed in, we should get back in half the time, since we cleared the road."
He nods, the loos up at her, "What d'ya mean snowed in?"
"It's gonna snow." She says, sounding certain, "Either tonight or tomorrow. I can smell it."
"You can smell it." He snorts.
"I can!" She argues, "Just like how people can smell rain comin'! The air smells different!"
"Alright, Darlin', whatever you say."
She rolls her eyes and jumps down to get her water bottle from the cab.
"Keep laughing, Dixon, but when we-" she freezes, seeing something move a ways down the road, "Dare, put the fire out and get in the truck."
"What? Lady, we just-"
"I'm serious!" She snatches the halfzvooked rabbit and throws it off before stomping on fire, "There's walkers!"
His brow furrows and he looks past the truck. Sure enough, there are walkers, lots of em, shambling right toward them. He grabs one of the bags of food and water, shuts the tailgate and tosses the bag inside the cab before helping Loveday and climbing in behind her.
They scramble to lock the doors and cover the front windows and windshield. The back windows are tinted, and in the fading sunset light, walkers shouldn't be able to see through them.
"You okay?" He asks softly, checking her over as if they'd gone toe-to-toe with the hoard and she were at risk of being scratched.
"I'm fine," she breathes, "Just... scared me is all."
"Yeah?" He cups her left cheek and strokes his knuckles along her right, "What about now?"
"Nah," Her voice is hushed, "I got my man to keep me safe."
"Yeah, you do." He grins, pulling her into his chest.
The truck rocks and sways with every walker that bounces off the body as the hoard shuffles by. Loveday stays cuddled into Daryl's chest, the safest place in the apocalypse.
She jumps when the handle to one of the front doors clicks back into place, but Daryl is quick to calm her.
"Pro'ly just one'a the walkers got caught, you're okay, I've got'ya." He whispers. "Why don't you try'an get some sleep, yeah? I'll keep you safe."
His hand running along her back lulls her quickly to sleep despite the present threat.
Daryl holds back a chuckle when she fully relaxes against him, his girl, always his girl, looking absolutely adorable all safe in his arms.
He must have fallen asleep sometime in the night, too, because he wakes up to her lips pressed between his eyes.
"We didn't die." She whispers as she pulls away.
"I can see that." He smiles, brushing her hair aside to cup her cheek, "Mornin', angel."
"Mmm, morning," She hums against his lips.
The walkers had shambled off during the night, only leaving a few stragglers behind, that are easy enough to deal with before they hit the road again.
"Still 'smell like snow' to you?" Daryl teases as they drive down the deserted road, glancing over at her.
"Don't say it like I'm crazy," She laughs, "The cold air smells more... ozone-y."
"More ozone-y?" He laughs.
"Oh, just shut up and drive, Dixon."
He grabs her hand, squeezing it as he turns back to the road. They're only on the road for an hour before he pulls up to the front gate of the park.
"Alright, Darlin', you're up. Gonna have to take your lead on this one." He lets her play with his fingers as he speaks.
"First thing's first, you're gonna bundle up." She grins, "Can't have my lover losing bits here and there from frostbite."
"Yeah, yeah." He chuckles.
They both layer up and grab some water and rations before quietly making their way into the seemingly abandoned park.
"It's so... still." She murmurs, nocking an arrow from her hip quiver on her bow, "And quiet."
"Should start with some of the buildin's, don' want any surprises." He says, keeping close.
The two quickly clear the strip of gift and candy shops, many of which seemed to have been raided during the early days of the apocalypse, but a few seem untouched.
As they work their way around the property, the park is eerily silent. Even the waterpark, dried up and faded, is empty of both living and dead.
"We should block the front gates, keep out walkers in the spring." She explains as they walk down the main path, "And maybe clear out some of this debris before... that."
She sighs as large snowflakes start to flutter down and the temperature begins to drop.
"Should head back," Daryl insists, taking her hand and leading her back toward the truck.
"No, no, Dare, can't."
"Loveday, I ain't waitin' around to get snowed in."
"But you'll risk getting caught out in a blizzard?" She argues, pulling him to a stop, "Look, we should try the lodge across the street. There's a big fireplace in the lobby to keep us warm."
He scowls at the way she orders him around then sighs in defeat, "Fine, but what happens if we get stuck? We're gon' need food."
"We packed rations..." She trails off when he gives her a look, "And some of the shops had trail mix and jerky? That should be enough to hold us over until my handsome, amazing husband can find us something more substantial... right?"
"Shit." He snorts, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and walking toward the gift shops that hadn't been raided yet, "Since when're you such a kiss ass, huh?"
"I know when to pick my battles." She shrugs.
"You know how'ta get what you wan', morelike." He huffs, grabbing a souvenir backpack from a rack and haphazardly throwing in packages of expired beef jerky and trail mix. "Jesus- put the bear down, Loveday, we don't gotta bring back toys."
"But Marnie would love it!" She pouts, hugging the toy to her chest, "And there's two! One for each girl."
"Loveday."
"I'm not puttin' em back." She says, grabbing a backpack of her own, grabbing some themed sweatshirts and a couple throw blankets.
"The hell am I s'possed t'do with you?"
She throws a smile over her shoulder at him, "Love me."
"Don't do that enough?" He teases, slinging his bag over his shoulder, "C'mon, should get over while it's still light."
He takes her bag and shoulders it before leading her out by the hand toward the truck.
"Up y'go." He tosses the bags in the back seat before helping her into the front, making her giggle. That's why he does it, every time. He knows she doesn't need his help, but he loves hearing that pretty little laugh of hers.
The ride to the lodge is about a minute and he pulls right up to the front door.
They pry open the sliding doors, and inside the lobby, there is overturned furniture and even some abandoned luggage, like whoever was here the day of the fall left in a hurry. To the left is a large stone fireplace, across from the doors, the check in desk, and on the right is a flight of stairs leading up to the second floor landing.
Cobwebs reach down from the rustic chandeliers, undisturbed for years.
The air is faintly musty, likely from an ajar door or cracked window to the indoor waterpark.
Daryl and Loveday share a brief look before she calls out a lingering "Hello."
The sound echoes throughout the still and deathly silent building.
"Don' sound like no one's home," He says quietly, walking quietly toward the far end of the lobby. She sticks close as they do a quick sweep of the open areas of all four floors, finding no undead guests to speak of.
Even still, they shut most of the hallway connecting doors, and once they're sure there is no immediate danger, they head back to the lobby. He starts looking up the chimney flue to see if it's blocked or not, as Loveday pokes around the check-in desk.
"This should work, got enough wood here for a couple days too..." He says over his shoulder, only to realize she's not there anymore, "Darlin'?"
"I'm in the office!" She calls, "Come here and give me a hand with this?"
"The hell're you doin'?" He grumbles, making his way behind the desk and into the office, "What'cha need?"
"There's something behind these," She says, trying to see behind a couple of filing cabinets, "I think it might be a crawlspace."
"Yeah, alrigh'."
They manage to drag both cabinets aside, and he helps her open the small door, shining his flashlight inside. "You got it?"
"Yeah- here." She hands him a laminated booklet labeled 'Emergancy' before pushing out one tote, then another. "I think we just hit the jackpot."
He sets the book down and opens the first tote, its packed full of canned water, and the second with MREs.
"Ain't the most appetizin', but we ain't gon' starve."
They bring the totes out into the lobby and Daryl starts working on getting a fire going. He chuckles when he hears her drop her bag on the coffee table and climb one of the couches.
"You already gettin' comfy?"
"I'm reading the emergency manual." She huffs, "There might be a back-up generator we can use."
"Fine, you read, I'll do all the heavy liftin'." He teases, squeezing her knees as he stands.
"Where are you going?"
"Going out to get us somethin' 'more substantial' as you called it, 'fore it snows too much." He explains, pulling on his poncho as an extra layer.
"Please be safe."
"I always am, Darlin'." He assures her, petting her hair before kissing her forehead, "You keep warm an' stay put. No wanderin' around 'til I get back and we clear it together."
It's been nearly two hours and there are over four inches of snow already due to the near whiteout conditions, and if he weren't such an accomplished tracker, he never would have found his way back to the lodge. The deer he got is small, but should feed the two of them for at least a couple nights.
He knocks on the front door to tell her he's back before bleeding and skinning it as best he can in the cold.
He wipes his hands in the snow and makes his way in.
"I started to worry you got lost." She says, holding one of the cans if water in a towel, "Here, I warmed this up so you could at least kind of wash your hands."
"Thanks, Darlin'."
She hums and starts brushing clumps of snow out of his hair.
"I think we made the right call hunkering down tonight." She murmurs, watching the snowfall, "Oh! I also found the master keys and got the gift shop open. We have chips now."
"What did I say about wanderin' off? Loveday, it ain't safe-"
"I found them in the desk in the office, no wandering required."
"Good." He nods, going to warm up in front of the fire. "You gon' fill me in in the hotel emergency procedures? Or is that not important anymore?"
"Actually, I was right!" She grins, "And not only is there an emergency solar generator, there's a water pump connected to an emergency well!"
"But?"
"But... the hardware to turn them on is in maintenence... in the basement..." She explains, "So we'll have to rely on our flashlights."
He sighs, hanging his head slightly, "Course it is..."
He stands and reaches for his knife and flashlight, "Come on, let's go get you some runnin' water."
They unbar the door that leads toward maintenance and housekeeping.
"Well, we won't run out of linens." She comments, poking her head in housekeeping.
Daryl grunts in response, shining his flashlight around the room before they start down the stairs at the end of the hall.
The darkness of the basement is oppressive and silent, save for a dripping pipe somewhere out of sight.
"You stay close." He grumbles and she nods.
Their footsteps echo through the cement hallway, hers slightly heavier than his as their flashlights show the way.
She turns into a storage room while he stays by the door, and her light starts to flicker.
"Oh, come on!" She hisses, hitting it a few times until a hand grabs her ankle, a gurgling growl coming from the hidden walker. Her knife and flashlight clatter against the ground, still flickering, when a second hand grabs at her, making her fall back and scream Daryl's name in a panic.
She kicks at its head and scrambles for her knife in the darkness before Daryl plunges his blade into the walker's skull.
"Com'ere, I got ya." He shushes, helping her up, and yanking her close, "You're okay. Fuck, you scared me, but you're safe now."
"I got ya'," He says it more to himself than her, keeping her pressed against his chest, his hand buried in her hair.
He keeps her hand firmly in his as they clear the rest of the basement, not letting her get further than arms length away.
He only let's go when they find the generator and pump controls, letting her keep watch while he fiddles with switches and buttons, the butt of his flashlight between his teeth until-
"That should do it." He grumbles as the lights slowly start to come on, "It's gon' be cold, but I got runnin' water for my girl. Wh- hey."
He chuckles when she presses close and kisses his cheek.
"Yeah, you're welcome, Darlin'."
"Now we gotta get to work, help me grab some supplies?"
"How 'bout, I drag that walker outside, and you start grabbin' what you need?" He offers, patting her ass to get her on her way.
She brings up a few tools from maintenence and drops them in one side of one of the empty housekeeping carts, loading the other side with blankets, sheets, and towels.
She's just pushing it into the hallway when he gets back.
"You plan on redecoratin'? What's all this for?" He asks.
"The windows in the lobby have curtains, but the doors are glass and don't." She explains, "I'm gonna tack up some blankets over them to keep out any extra cold. And the towels are to mop up the snow you're just tracked in from outside."
"I'll take care a'that, kay?" He takes the cart and kisses her head, "Knowin' you, you'd fall tryin'a get em up."
He laughs when she smacks his stomach and starts to gather up some of the stuff, before heading across the lobby to the restaurant and kitchen.
He's just finishing up when he hears a loud clang and the clattering of metal pots and utensils. He drops the stapler in his hand and runs toward her, reaching for his knife, "Loveday?!"
"I'm fine!" She calls as he bursts in, his eyes darting around for danger, only to find her on the floor, surrounded by pots and pans, "I tripped."
He lets out a heavy sigh and sheathes his knife, "You tryin'a give me a heart attack?"
"No," She pouts, letting him help her up, "'M sorry, Dare, didn't mean to scare you."
"Then stop it." He urges, holding her face in his hands, "I ain't as young as I used t'be, my heart can't take it. If anythin' ever happened t'you, I-"
"Hey," She says softly, reaching up to squeeze his hands, "It was only a slip. I'm okay."
He relaxes slightly, thumb running along her cheek, before he leans down to press his lips to hers. She melts into him when he lifts her up and sets her on one of the stainless steel counters.
"Alrigh', I'll clean this up, and you sit pretty fo'me, yeah?" He orders playfully as he starts picking up her mess, stacking pots and pans on a nearby prep station where she'd collected various canned goods. "Hey, what'ed I just say?"
She squeals when he pulls her away from the oven, pressing her back against his chest. "Now sit that pretty ass back down, darlin'."
"I have ideas, let me get what I need," She giggles, leaning her head back on his shoulder.
"Oh yeah? What kind of ideas?"
"The useful kind, now let go."
"Never." He hums against her temple before removing his arm and letting her grab what she wants.
Once she has everything- everything being the racks from the oven, some metal tongs, and some hangers from housekeeping- they reconvene in the lobby.
He brings in one of the shanks from the deer outside while she fiddles with her 'supplies' and a pair of wire cutters and pliers.
"Aaaaaaand, there we go, a grill for the fireplace." She grins, setting it over the fire. "Once that's hot, we can get cookin'."
He sighs, knowing he should have known better than to doubt what she's been doing. She's crafty, always has been, especially when it comes to making something useful out of next to nothing.
He watches her cook, somehow making a basic stew out of venison, expired canned goods, spices, and MREs.
"I swear, you use black magic when you do shit like that." He grumbles. He could have cooked the meat, but this actually smells good and even flavorful.
There's over eight inches of snow outside once they finished eating, and there's no sign of it stopping anytime soon.
The world is quiet outside, and the only sound in the lobby is the crackling of the fire as Daryl lays back on the sofa.
"Com'ere, Darlin'." He pats his leg for her to come share what would be their bed for the night, "Pretty girl needs her sleep."
She happily lays on top of him, pulling one of the hotel blankets over them.
"What happens when one of us falls off later?" She jokes and he snorts.
"You mean when you take the couch for yourself?" He corrects, "Then I'm takin' you with me."
"Sounds alright to me." She smiles softly as she leans up and kisses his cheek.
Just like he thought, she wedges herself between him and the back of the couch in her sleep, until he's hanging off the edge of it.
It's late into the night and Daryl just huffs out a small chuckle before getting up and tucking her in. He goes and grabs some extra pillows and blankets and makes up a makeshift bedroll on the floor beside her.
"Lucky you're damn cute." He grumbles, settling down with his arm under his head.
He doesn't sleep much, usually doesn't when they're out on the road, instead he lays awake, listening to the wind whip outside and beat on the windows.
By the time the sun rises, he's dozed a bit here and there, and there's over a foot blanketing the ground, deeper where it's been swept up in drifts.
He adds more wood to the fire and simply sits there, watching her sleep. When the world fell apart he had no one, just his brother. No home to miss, no family to mourn. But then... then he found Loveday, and she became his world, a world he would do anything to keep safe and happy. Even if it meant moving up North where it snows or having two little girls he'd adore more than anything. Even if it meant sleeping on floor, watching her sleep all cozied up without him.
"My everythin'." He murmurs, brushing his fingers through her hair.
He gets up and starts pulling on his coat, pausing when he hears her sit up.
"Come back t'bed." She grumbles and he chuckles.
"Ain't been 'in bed' more than half th'night," He teases, "Y'kicked me out hours ago."
"Come back anyway, it's too cold out f'r you." She pouts.
He sighs and crouches down by the couch.
"Gon' be too cold in here if I don' go out for more wood." He explains softly as she tugs oh the lapels of his coat to try and coax him back into bed, "Why don' you start up some food an' some'a that instant coffee, an' I'll be back soon."
She's right though, with the sun still so low it's absolutely frigid out. He huffs, pulling a bandana over his mouth and nose to stave off some of the cold, adjusting his grip on his axe. Even with an extra pair of gloves on, he'll have to keep an eye out for frostbite he realizes, but at least any straggling walkers will be slowed down by the freezing temperatures.
He's only out there an hour or so before he's desperate to get back inside, even if he only has a a few sad chunks of wood from the small tree he felled.
He shoves the door open and drops the wood on the floor, shaking off the snow gathered on his head and shoulders. The lobby lights are on and Loveday gasps when he yanks off the bandana.
"Jesus! Your face is all snow burned!" She worries, rushing over and cupping his cheeks. "I told you it was too cold! Let me see your hands."
"Quit worryin', I'm fine, I just-" He hisses when she starts peeling off his gloves, the warm air burning his fingers.
"You just nearly got frost bite!" She snaps, looking over his hands, "I'll go warm up some water, you need to soak these, and your toes too!"
He pulls off his coat and boots before slumping down on the couch, watching her go into caretaker mode.
The way she frets over him still makes him blush and he shifts uncomfortably, "Ain't gotta mother hen me. -Hey!"
He yelps when she flicks his temple, "Well, somebody's gotta take care of you! 'Specially if you're not gonna do it."
She checks on his hands again once they've soaked in warm water, her thumb running along his knuckles, "This isn't too bad, you should be fine in a bit."
"So I'm gon' keep 'em?" He jokes and she smacks his chest.
"Don't even joke about that!" She chastises, "Could you imagine having to make me do that? To you? Makes me feel sick just thinking about it."
He stares at her for a moment, noting how she won't even look him in the eye as she says it, and he sighs, pulling his hand away to cradle the back of her head, "'m sorry. You're right, shouldn't be jokin' about that."
She spends the next few hours worrying over him, which only makes that little guilty feeling worse, especially when she lays down next to him with her head in his lap and her arm hooked around his thigh, as if clinging to him to make sure he's still there.
"Didn' mean t'worry you." He grumbles, stroking her cheek with his knuckle, "Don' look so sad, you're breakin' my heart here, darlin'."
Her arm around his leg tightens and he lets her hold on, for a while at least, petting her hair as the fire crackles.
After about an hour, he sighs again and nudges her off him, "Alright, if we're gon' spend a while here, we're gon' need to clear some'a the guest rooms an' get ourselves a real bed. 'm gettin' too old t'be sleepin' on the floor like that."
Loveday nods as she sits up, her hands still lingering on him as he stands, her fingers caught in the beltloops of his pants.
"You can stay close," He says gently, pulling her to her feet, "Can stay as close as you want. 'M not goin' anywhere."
It's not uncommon for her to get a bit clingy when something happens, she's always been anxious, and now's no different.
The night before had been quiet, no bumps or groans, so he doesn't think they'll run into more than a couple walkers tucked away in private rooms or dark corners.
"According to the layout, the rooms with king beds are... down here." She pulls him, by the hand, down a hallway, and he chuckles at her tight grip.
"I ain't goin' nowhere, darlin." His voice is soft as he lifts her hand up to his lips, "Don' always gotta hold on so tight."
She glares at him slightly and adjusts her hold so their fingers are threaded together instead, before going back to tugging him along behind her.
She only lets go when they get to the first door, knocking to see if there is anything undead behind it. Hearing nothing, she uses the masterkey to open it.
There's a healthy amount of dust coating the room, and is otherwise undisturbed.
Daryl quickly ducks his head into the bathroom to make sure it's fully clear before helping her strip the dusty sheet off.
"How we wanna do this?" He asks and she shrugs.
"We tip it on it's side, you take one end, I take another and we drop it over the landing rail?"
He chews on his lip as he thinks for a moment and nods.
It's an easy enough task between the two of them. The mattress makes a muffled thud on the lobby floor as it lands and the second one goes just as smoothly.
She leans over the railing, looking out over the lobby and a wide, childish grin stretches across her face.
"We should make a blanket fort!" She beams over at him.
"Why the hell do you wanna build a blanket fort?"
"Well, one, it would be fun." She scoffs, "And two, it would trap some of the warm air before it disperses throughout the whole lodge."
He huffs and moans the whole time he helps her move furniture and and lay each blanket just right, but it's a hard act to keep up, with the way she's smiling and giggling, knowing that's all his grumpiness is, an act.
They even use a length of parecord they manage to loop over one of the rafters to lift up the soft roof of their little sanctuary.
"There," he grumbles, pulling her onto his lap on the bed, "Happy now?"
"Quite." She admits happily, shifting to curl up in his arms.
The rest of the day fades away in that bed, with soft kisses and lingering touches. They're both safe, the cold outside warding off the dead, while the fire inside crackles and keeps them warm.
Murmured 'I love you's become lost in the snapping of burning wood, gasps swallowed by the wind against the windows.
His forehead presses against hers as his hands, rough and gentle, glide along her hips and thighs, pulling her closer, still in awe that she chose him all those years ago, that she still chooses him now, after everything.
He does his best to be worthy of it- of her. Of every touch and sigh and kiss. Of every desperate and trembling embrace she gives him. Of every bat of those pretty blue eyes,
Yet, finds himself sometimes straggling behind, never able to measure up to the love she gives him, feeling undeserving of adoration he receives, even as she whispers soft and intimate words meant just for him.
Still in awe of her meer attentions toward him.
"Hey," she breathes, fingers brushing his hair out of his eyes, "You look a million miles away, come back to me."
"'M right here." He mumbles, leaning in to mouth at her still-heaving chest, desperate to prove his devotion. "Not goin' anywhere."
"Slow down," She chuckles, tipping his chin up to look at her, "Don't gotta rush. We're not leaving for at least another week."
He lets out a heavy sigh, burying his face in the crook of her neck as he settles beside her.
"Don' deserve you." He mutters, keeping her body pulled against his.
"You know I don't like when you say that." She frowns, stroking his hair. "Makes me think I'm not loving you enough."
"Love me too much," He admits, his beard scratching at her skin, "Never know what t'do with it all. Don' know how t'make up for it."
"You don't have to make up for anything, Dare. You love me plenty, I promise. Wouldn't want you any other way."
It's not the first time they've had this conversation, but it is the first in a long while. It's usually after he does something stupid and she gets mad and protective over him. You'd think, over the years, he'd get used to the feeling of being cared for, but it still always hits him square in the chest, leaving a yearning ache that can only be filled with more. More of her touch, more of her voice, more of everything that makes her her- everything that makes her his.
He lays there, long after she's fallen asleep, watching the rise and fall of her chest as the light of the fire flickers across her skin.
He reaches over and brushes away the drool from the corner of her mouth, chuckling softly when her nose scrunches up.
He's surprised when he wakes up on his back with her pressed close to his side, her arm wrapped around his head, and her leg around his waist, pushing his face against her chest.
His clingy girl- always his clingy girl.
"Yeah, I love you too," He laughs, gently trying to pull away, only for her to drag him close again. He settles back in and pulls her even closer, breathing her in and letting his eyes fall closed again.
The air in their little blanket fort stinks of woodsmoke, sweat, and sex, but he wouldn't have it any other way. Death smells far worse, but they're alive, alive and together.
He melts a little when she nuzzles into his hair, his fingers pressing into the skin of her back.
After a bit she groans and curls tighter around him before waking up.
"Mornin', pretty girl." He mumbles against her throat, "You comfy?"
"Holding you?" She yawns, "Always... You sleep well?"
"Mhm."
"Good." She's quiet for a moment, her fingers playing with his sleep-mussed hair before she says, "I miss our girls."
He sighs and pulls back just enough to look at her, his hand coming up to cup her cheek, "Yeah, me too... But Rick's lookin' after 'em, and we cleared the road, so we'll get home quick once it thaws."
"That could be weeks." She frowns, "I just... I wanna talk to them."
He sighs and pulls her close again, kissing her head, "I know, darlin. Me too."
They spend days inside, stretching their stew, exploring the hotel. and being intimate with one another.
They take a day taking down shower curtain rods from various rooms and Loveday uses metal wire to macgyver up a drying rack for the leftover venison.
All in all, the lobby has started to look and feel homey. Boots by the fire, coats by the door, a damp towel hanging over the armrest of a chair to dry.
Daryl is looking through one of the boxes of emergency rations as Loveday knits in the firelight with mismatch yarn they'd picked up at an artstore on the way over, her hair still wet from washing it.
"No shit." He mutters, feeling something different under the MREs. he shifts a few of the packets and pulls out a emergency radio hidden there, "Loveday."
Her eyes light up when she sees the find, only to be disappointed when they plug it in and tune it to the Sugar Run frequency and hear only static.
"Don' think we got a strong enough signal out here t'reach." He huffs, fiddling with the dial
"We need a bigger antenna," She agrees.
They fiddle with it for a few minutes longer, and he see the crease between her eyebrows deepen slightly.
"Hey." He moves to hold her hand. his thumb brushing over her knuckles, "They're fine. We'll see 'em when we get home."
"Yeah," She sighs, pulling away slightly, "I'm... I'm gonna go... take advantage of the arcade."
He watches her walk off, sitting on the ground by the radio. He hates seeing her look so sad and not being able to fix it. Leaving the radio on, he pushes himself to his feet and strides after her, taking the stair two at a time before scooping her up in his arms.
"I'm gonna kick your ass at skiball." He challenges playfully.
"Oh, your on!' She laughs, her arm wrapping around his neck.
It's when she's fiddling with one of the balls, losing by a lot, that she has an idea.
"When I was little my room had terrible radio signal," She says out of nowhere making his brow furrow as he turns to look at her.
"If y'think sayin' random shit is gon' help you win-"
"No, listen." She grabs his arm, "It was really bad, so I would untwist metal hangers and extend the antenna with them and then it came in clearer."
"You wanna use hangers to get ahold of Sugar Run?" He doesn't sound convinced.
"Not hangers, the shower curtain rods would work- I-I mean it would take some DIY, but I think it should work."
"I dunno, Darlin', sounds like a longshot..." The way her face falls makes his chest ache, and he sighs, "But it ain't like we got much else to do."
Warnings: 18+, show typical violence, jousting injury, Lyonel gets a filthy mouth when he takes milk of the poppy.
Lyonel is hurt during another lord's tourny, and Nāenelle finds that seeing her stag hurt scares her.
Word count: 1.4k
Soldier, Poet, King by Cullen Vance | Banner by @saradika-graphics
Nāenelle hates tourneys.
She once loved them, watching her older cousins, who seemed to have always been there, so large, and strong, compete in jousts and melees had entertained her and filled her with pride for her family.
But since her marriage to Lyonel, they began to make her anxious. She'd seen her cousins battered and bruised since she was small, yet seeing such marks on the man she holds dearest causes her stomach to churn.
Lyonel is a deft lance and amazing fighter, still, she finds herself holding her breath during his tilts, her nails chewed to nothing.
She doesn't think she's ever actually seen his lance strike another man's shield before, not from a lack of skill on his part, but an inability to watch on hers, her eyes squeezing shut with every pass.
The blow was hard, that much she could hear, and the gasps from the crowd when The Laughing Storm was unhorsed were unmistakable, but it was when she deigned to open her eyes to find him lying still in the mud that she began to panic. One second, five, ten, and suddenly she is on her feet. His opponent, one of the Tyrells, comes quickly to his aid, helping him to his feet in a show of good sportsmanship and chivalry.
She feels as though she may start weeping when he takes his helm off and slowly makes his way off the pitch, a slightl limp in his gait.
She doesn't wait for the event to end like most ladies might, instead hurrying down the steps of the viewing box to be by his side.
"My Angelfish," he huffs, wincing when he raises his arm for her hand, "You need not look so worried, my darling love. The Warrior himself could not take me from you."
He chuckles painfully when her hand cup his cheek and the other rests on the dented breast of his plate, that same terror in her eyes as she thinks of him on his back again.
"I believe I have finished for the day, yes?" He says softly, his gauntlet-ed hand gently holding her trembling fingers, "Let us return to our pavilion before you worry yourself to fainting."
He has never seen her so close to tears over him before, and now all he wishes to do is prove he will survive.
He manages the trek with the help of his squire, who also assists him in removing his armor. It is his wife who helps guide him onto the bed where he sighs heavily and leans back with groan of pain.
"Can I see?" She ask quietly, and his first instinct is to deny her, save himself the pain of seeing the horror on her face at the bruising, but he knows her far too well to think she would take no for an answer now, and nods.
Her hands shake as she slowly lifts his tunic, freezing at the darkening splotch across his ribs, chest, and shoulder. As the dent in his armor insinuated, the lance must have only clipped the side of his shield, causing the breastplate to take the brunt of the damage.
The tears threatening to spill from her eyes at the sight both terrify and cause him to fall in love all over again.
"Oh, come now," he reaches out with his right arm to cup her cheek, his thumb running gently below her eye, "There is no need for tears. Hush now, please don't cry."
There's a touch of fury in his chest at that Tyrell cunt. Not for beating him, not really, but for causing his love to weep so. Though, he is truly touched that she cares so for him, that she might weep for his pain.
He gently pulls her down against his less harmed side, kissing her forehead soothingly.
"Oh, my sweet fawn," he coos, "Such a big, bleeding heart you have. Weeping for me so."
"Do not mock me." She sniffles, "It scares me to see you hurt."
"I would never mock your love." He assures her, his hand rubbing her arm, "It is the air I breathe. And I did not mean to scare you."
He chuckles softly with a wince when she leans up to kiss his jaw.
"What can I do?" Her voice is desperate, as if his pain is physically hurting her as well.
"I'm sure our host will send a healer or maester along soon enough. Simply stay where you are." He insists, and, as though magically summoned by her husband's words, an older man, their host's maester pushes back the flaps of their tent, "See? Just as expected."
"Ser Lyonel, my lady Baratheon," The maester bows his head slightly, "If you could step out for a moment so I may examine-"
"The lady stays." Lyonel says sharply as she helps him sit up. He glares at him for even suggesting it. "Can you not see her distress? You would dare tear her from my side now?"
"N-no, ser, I simply," The maester stammers and clears his throat, "Of course, Lady Baratheon can stay if she wishes."
She sits by his side, holding back her own whimpers at every little hiss and wince from him as the maester looks him over. His heart melts at the feel of her arms around his unwounded arm, her chest pressing against it with her chin on his shoulder, desperate to keep him close.
"Now, now, Darling Angelfish. Mm... my pretty little love, fuck you're gorgeous." The maester has barely left the tent after bandaging his wounds and giving him a diluted tincture of milk of the poppy, and already the tonic has set in, and Lyonel is trying to press her into their bed, "Come here, you beautiful girl, you, let me taste that pretty cunt."
She bites back a laugh, trying to ease him back to rest, taking note that while the medicine may be diluted, he is still quite inebriated by it.
"Ah, my darling wishes to ride me, hm?" He snickers, hauling her across his lap despite the now-dull ache in his shoulder, "However you want your stag, he shall provide."
"Lyonel!" She squeals, gripping his hands when they begin to pull at her dress, "Down boy, you're hurt."
"I am as hearty as a dragon!" He laughs, letting his fingers interweave with hers, "Mmm... I love when you're on top. So pretty above me."
"Sleep now," She chuckles. His eyes flutter shut when he leans down and presses light kisses to his lids, "You may have your way with me as soon as you are well, but, for now, sleep."
He grumbles something along the lines of, "I am plenty well enough now," through the clouded haze of opium, already dozing off beneath her.
"Stay," He mumbles, half asleep and pleading, as though she would ever dream of leaving his side.
"I'm here," She shushes, kissing along his hairline.
His sleep is deep and filled with flurried dreams, some good, some of gut-wrenching pain of finding himself without her. When he wakes with her no longer atop him, the laughing storm panics.
"Nāenelle?" He shouts, forcing himself upright, his bones and muscles screaming in protest. He begins to claw himself to the foot of the bed, toward the tent flaps, determined to find her when he feels a warm hand on his back, gently guiding him back. His mind is still fogged with milk of the poppy as he whirls around, eyes wild and groaning in pain.
"Lie back," She begs, her hand hesitating by his bruised ribs, "Lyonel, please."
Weary eyes flutter, and he eases into her touch, her hands soft and familiar on his tender flesh.
"You're here," He rasps, lowering his entire weight upon her, his head tucked safely in the crook of her neck, "The Mother, in all her grace, blesses me."
"You daft man," She sighs, cradling the back of his head in her hand as the other traces along the ridge of his nose with her pinky, "Go back to sleep."
She hums a soft melody, a lullaby she remembers from youth, about appeasing a crying babe with gifts upon gifts, and he soon relaxes against her.
"Far better at that than I am..." He mutters groggily, his hand splayed across her belly, "Mmm, pretty voice... love you..."
Sharp Scales of the Stag | I Thought I Would be Stronger, That's When I Heard Her Voicе
Warnings: 18+, mentions of sex, smut, oral (fem receiving)
There are times one does not wish to share one's husband. Lyonel Baratheon x Nāenelle Tully
Word count: 2k
Lyonel is a wife guy and a little shit
Rule #7 - Angel Tango by Fish in a Birdcage | Banners by @saradika-graphics
It's been near six weeks since Nāenelle wed Lyonel Baratheon, and it has truly been an adjustment, not simply to no longer being considered a Tully, but the liveliness of her husband's keep.
While not yet lord of the Stormlands, he manages to throw another raucous feast, even in the short time since their wedding. It's a loud and lavish affair, though not nearly as large as their marital festivities, but still far more wild than she is used to. The feasts and events they held at Riverrun, while festive, were not nearly as lively as the ones held at Storm's End, which seemed to go for days on end.
Nāena enjoys dancing and revelry as much as the next person, but she soon finds that six days of it exceeds her limit, and she's sure the servants are at theirs as well.
She sighs as her handmaid, Cora, brushes her hair, glancing over at her husband, still sleeping like the dead and likely to wake with a horrible headache.
She isn't particularly excited at the prospect of children, but she does greatly enjoy the sex, and Lyonel has been coming to their marriage bed far too intoxicated to participate in such activities. At first, she welcomed the short break, but the longer it has stretched on, the less his drunken kisses and slurred words have tempered that desire inside her.
She yearns for him to look at and touch her as he had the night of their wedding, reverent and adoring, as though she were The Maiden given mortal form for him to worship and defile.
The notion that she dislikes sharing him with their guest surprises her. It's been merely four months since they met, at her Uncle's name day celebration, and yet feels a possessiveness over him as though they have been together for a lifetime.
"Good morning, my angelfish." His murmured voice against her cheek pulls her from her thoughts. He sighs deeply, his head falling lethargically into the crook of her neck as his arms wrap around her shoulders from behind.
She leans into his sleep-warmed touch, "Did you sleep well, my lord?"
He huffs when she calls him that, grumbling against her skin, "I did, my lady. Come, our guests await us."
He kisses her neck affectionately before pulling away, taking her hand in his.
"Your guests await you." She corrects, perhaps a touch more cold than she meant, "I will not be joining the festivities today."
Her heart flutters when his brow furrows and he steps around her vanity chair to kneel by her side.
"Do you feel ill, my beloved?" He asks, looking suddenly and deeply worried, despite the pain of his own hangover, "Should I send for a maester?"
She squirms, feeling bashful with his full attention turned back to her alone.
"No..."
The response is no more than a pitiful squeak, causing a flush to creep up her neck.
"I'm not... I..."
He cranes his neck to look at her when she ducks her head in embarrassment at her own jealousy and the inexplicable urge to admit such things to him, though her pride does not allow it.
"I'm... tired." Not a lie, but not the truth either, "I'm not accustomed to such long and lively celebrations."
"Is that all?" He breathes, looking up at her softly, before surging forward, mumbling against her lips, "Then you must rest, my love."
She kisses back with a hunger he doesn't expect, and, even as he pulls away, resting his forehead against her, he spares her a few sweet pecks, "Shall I come to check on you around supper?"
She can't seem to keep the disappointment from her face, having hoped the manner in which she kissed him would have been enough for him to deduce her intentions.
"Yes." She says quietly, squeezing his hands still in hers, "I would like that."
"I will have something sent up for you." He smiles warmly, pressing his lips to the back of her hands, "Rest well, my beautiful love."
And rest well she does, she even enjoys a few hours of her solitude, despite her initial disappointment, and spends most of the day lounged on the window seat, reading and sipping the tea he had sent up for her.
It's when the sun slips down past the horizon that she realizes he has not come to check on her even once, like he promised. But now, instead of languishing over the fact that he is too wrapped up in his guests to think of her, the jealousy inside her begins to burn brighter, and she becomes angry.
He's her husband, her lover. Hers. And she is finished sharing his attention with the other lords of Westeros.
If he will not come to her, then she will simply have to go to him, and she plans on making a statement while doing so.
Blue.
Blue has always been, not only one of her house colors, but a compliment to her red Tully hair, but tonight, tonight, she thinks it's time to embrace one simple fact. She's a Baratheon now.
A choked silence falls over Lyonel when he sees his Lady Wife, his Nāenelle in the doorway of the banquet hall, the lyrics of whatever dirty song he'd been singing dying on his lips.
She looks far too dressed up for the sixth day of a feast, her hair braided tight and intricately styled, a gold diadem secured across her forehead with small, gilded antlers, and a sapphire in the middle, catching the candlelight, something of him and something of her as one. A matching necklace circles her throat, with a garnet hanging just beneath the sapphire.
Her gown is relatively simple, yellow, shimmering gold, with brown, nearly black, trim along the hem, cuffs, and breast. But the cut, far less modest than she would normally wear, her tits pressed up with ample amounts of cleavage on display, all of her trussed up in his house colors.
It's suddenly impossible to breathe with her so far away.
"There you are." A sickeningly sweet smile spreads across her face as she approaches him, taking his hands in hers, "I was growing lonely. Did you forget about me, my love?"
Her love.
He feels warm, and not from the wine.
Had she ever called him that before? Absolutely not, he thinks, he surely would have remembered that sound from her lips.
"I could never, I..." His eyes flicker from her face to her chest and back, his mouth going dry, "You said you needed rest."
"Well, I'm finished resting now." She says firmly, "I wanted to see you."
Her hand trails up his stomach and chest, fingers running along the collar of his shirt, her voice growing quiet, "Wanted to touch you."
Most other knights and lords would not stand for their wives making such a scene in front of so many others, especially guests, but who was Lyonel to deny his beloved what she wants?
He would tear Storm's End apart, brick by brick, with his bare hands should she ask it. He would crawl to King's Landing on his hands and knees at her whim.
How could he not do as she request when she looks as ethereal as she does now?
"You are a cruel, and evil tyrant," he breathes, leaning in to kiss her desperately, growling when she pulls away from him.
"Am I?"
"It is only for the sake of your honor that I am not ravishing you this very moment." He admits lowly, capturing her lips again.
"Then come to bed." She sighs breathlessly, a noise barely audible over the quiet din of their guests, many of whom are trying not to stare at their hosts' moment of intimacy. "Mm... but first, dance with me."
He isn't sure how much harder his manhood could get. He is already on the verge of passing out from the sudden shift in blood from head to cock, and here she is, taunting him.
"As you wish." He rasps, his grip shifting to hold her forearm as he leads her down among the banquet tables. He shouts at guests and servants alike, kicking one of the benches indignantly, "Move these fucking tables! My Lady wishes to dance, damn you!"
The hall erupts with the hurried scraping of wood against stone as furniture is pulled aside to make room for them, and the band strikes up a quick and jaunty tune.
The next hour ticks by slowly, in a blur of wine, flourishing fabrics, and the feel of her body against his. Lyonel finds himself mouthing at the exposed rise of her breast before he falls to his knees at her feet as she twirls around him. She lifts her skirts, kicking and jumping with the writhing crowd around them, no shoes or stockings even, he realizes. She doesn't plan on staying dressed long enough to need them.
He reaches out, hands catching her skirts and dragging her close, burying his nose against her hip, slurring words of worship and adoration into the fabric.
"My darling goddess, bless me with your touch," He prays, kissing along her hipbone, "I need you. I need you."
"Lyonel," She giggles, blushing deeply at his sudden show of devotion, her cheeks darkening when he looks up at her in total awe.
"Nāena... Nāenanana...na..." He mumbles, his tongue stumbling over each syllable, "Your lips, dear angelfish. Bring them close so I may taste them, please, my love."
He's so drunk, whether on wine or her, it's impossible to tell, but she wouldn't have him any other way.
"Come, my love," She murmurs softly, pulling him up by his forearms, only to find her lips assaulted by his. "My dear, love- Lyonel!"
She squeals when he hefts her up in his arms, holding her soft and ample body close to his chest.
"If any of you trembling cunts interrupt us, I'll do as a Bolton and skin you living!" He slurs, carrying her out the door to the hall and toward their chambers. They scarcely make it there before he's clumsily kissing along her neck and jaw.
He lays her on the plush bed
"Did you miss me, my love?" He grins when she pulls him along beside her. "Was this all some- mmm... Clever ruse to capture my attention, hm?"
His teeth and beard scrape along the column of her throat, "My pretty wife... all alone, in this big... cold... bed?"
She shudders, hips rising and back arching as his hands, wine-warmed and calloused, slip beneath her skirts to run along her legs and cup her ass, only to find it bare. His voice is soft and graveled against her ear, "Does her sweet cunt weep for me? Begging for the lips of her disciple?"
Her hands catch in his hair in a desperate bid to draw him nearer, her chest heaving beneath her bodice.
"How cruel she must think me," He murmurs, kissing his way down her body, "To neglect her so."
She can't help the snort that escapes her when he disappears beneath her skirts, those hands she loves pushing her thighs apart.
Breathy moans and the rustle of fabric fill the quiet stillness of the room. Braids loosen, and hands grasp for purchase as she cries her lover's name.
He drinks in every ounce of her pleasure until her legs tremble and her arousal drips down his beard, before finally coming up for air.
"Has my queen been satiated?" He asks gently, leaning close to kiss her, "Or does she need more of my undivided attention?"
"And if she does?" She asks with a lazy smile, her eyes hazy and half-lidded.
He holds himself above her, his hand coming to cup her cheek, thumb softly stroking the bone, "Then she only need say so. I would turn away kings to tend your needs."
