nothing but the fics

Turning your head toward the fellow next to you, his warm brown eyes were perfect circles, his brows disappearing into his honey brown curls. His head swiveling and his neck long to locate a sign. He looks like a meerkat.

"Where are you headed?"

He jumps a little, coming out of his little bubble of concern.

"I, ah, well, I was going to Broadway."

"Times Square Station?"

"Yes, Times Square," though his voice is anxious, it was also warm and accented.

"That's... you've overshot by a bit. Doze off?"

"I, well, no, I was going over this script I'm writing, and I just got lost in it, I guess."

He looks down at his watch, then up at the map, grimacing as he counts the stops.

"Well, it's no big deal, we're crossing into Brooklyn, but you can just jump off and pop back on going the other way."

"I think I am going to miss my appointment." Then he looks down at his feet, his brows tightly knit and the sweetest, saddest pout you've ever seen.

"Eeshh, I'm sorry. Can you text whomever you're meeting?"

He quickly nods as he pulls out his phone.

"If anyone can get this meeting moved to tomorrow, it's Nick." He starts typing away, his phone pings, he reads, snorts in embarrassed amusement at whatever it said, and types some more. Then sighs.

"Sssso, what's your script about?"

This guy. It's as if the clouds parted from the sky, his face radiant. And he launches into a summary, but then starts including asides about influences and particular shots that must reference this or that.

Chuckling, you suggest that he should name the dog after Gene Hackman's character in The French Connection.

His eyes go round again, but this time in surprised delight, and he starts scribbling the note on his script.

"Well, this is me coming up," you sigh, pointing up to nothing in particular. "Nice talking to you."

Then he takes your raised hand in both of his, cradling it and looking into your eyes, the very picture of earnestness.

"Thank you so much for - everything... I just," he sighs, "my friend Nick, he has a tight schedule tonight, so now I am on my own. I guess I can eat dinner at the hotel, but-"

You look at him, for a beat, and surprise yourself-

"Well, if you want, you're getting off here anyway, to turn around- we could have dinner, and then you can head back to Manhattan."

"You wouldn't mind? I would love that!"

"Not at all," you said, and introduced yourself.

"I'm Javi."

The train squeals to a stop, and the conductor announces again that it is the Clark Street Station.

"So where are we going?"

"Well, lots of good places to eat, along the way to my neighborhood- "

"Sounds great. What neighborhood are you in? So many cool Brooklyn neighborhoods from movies! Would I know it?"

"I dunno, I'm in Red Hook."

"Hm. It does sound familiar..."

You don't get all the way to Red Hook, regardless of how sweet this guy looks, you know enough not to bring him to your apartment. You stopped at a café with lots of open seating outside, not too far from the Station.

Javi chats away about his favorite New York movies, but doesn't forget to ask about you and your interests... and your favorite New York movies, Nick Cage movies, and if you like cheesecake.

This is so unlike you to be so impulsive with a stranger, no less. But the man just seems like a walking, talking green flag, and it was kind of nice not to just go home after work and stare at the TV or scroll on your phone... or, let's be honest, do both, only half-paying attention to the show or movie you put on. Thinking this sort of guiltily, you blurt out-

"Is it true that studios push writers to have characters narrate and repeat plot points because we're all splitting our attention between screens?"

Javi sighs the sigh of the woe-begotten and beleaguered, "It is a problem. And of course there are people who notice and complain about the writing being childish if you do it, AND if you don't do it there's people who complain about plot holes, that they didn't know what was going on!"

Suddenly, Javi looks at you suspiciously and waves a forkful of cheesecake at you. "And which one are you?"

You laugh and grimace. And he looks to the sky like he's looking for strength.

"I am both," you admit. " But, but, I don't complain. When I realize I am getting distracted and don't know what's going on, I put my phone down and rewind. I promise!" You cross your heart. "Honestly, I'm usually good, I futz with my phone mostly when I'm listening to the news or other more listen-not-look type things. But I have caught myself being bad." You look at him with big, sad, guilty eyes. "Sorry."

"Naughty," he jokes, wagging a finger. "You have to be a good girl if you want good stories."

You choke a little on your cheesecake, trying to recover with a sip of your drink. Javi just looks at you with concern.

"Are you okay?"

Relieved, he didn't seem to notice your ridiculous reaction. You try to move on-

"Fine! Anyway, Nick Cage, huh?"

The two of you veer into a small park. You know it's time to part ways, but you're just not sure how to do it. Luckily, Javi is so much more outgoing than you; he takes your hand, just like that, so easily, it doesn't feel weird, forced, or too forward... It's just friendly.

"Can I see you again?"

"Oh yes, please," you blurt out, but you refuse to feel embarrassed by it. "I'd really like that."

"Great!!" Javi is sweetly acting like he's the one who has won the big prize at the carnival. He pulls out his phone and you get yours, he takes a quick selfie with you and sets it up for you to type in your details. He texts you the selfie, and you save it and his number.

"So we just went south, you just head up a few blocks to Clark Street and hop back on the train." You press your lips together in a small smile and go to wave. But he steps into your space, brushing your cheek with his soft lips, with a small kiss. You think, oh, Europeans, and you ready yourself to kiss the other cheek... but he murmurs your name and your knees liquefy.

Then his lips reach your ear-

"Until next time. Be good."

His lips curl into a wicked smile that you are shocked to see on this Labrador of a man, and he heads toward the station, leaving you staring, mouth open just a little.

...but you know how they'll all be, this is the height of cozy sweaters, cute hats, and engagement ring season at the orchard. Invariably, some sweet fella, looking adorable in aforementioned sweater, maybe a field jacket over it, looking nervous but excited... well, he's going to ask if you wouldn't mind being ready with his camera when he asks his equally delightful honey in a pompom hat, sweater, and puffy vest to marry him.

It's warm in the kitchen; your sweater is discarded, and you have a flour-covered apron over a T-shirt. The last of the donuts has been pulled from the oil, and you're just finishing rolling them in cinnamon sugar, when the bell over the door in the front tinkles brightly.

Then the bell on the counter dings.

"Sal? You out there?"

Nothing.

"Sally?"

"Um no," answers a voice that is definitely not Sal's. It's deep and warm... "No Sally, just me-"

You dust yourself off as best you can and wipe your hands on a towel as you rush through the swinging kitchen door.

"-Marcus," finishes, well, Marcus apparently, with warm, soft eyes and a crooked smile to match that voice, and a beard, not enough to hide the dimple his smile reveals. "Hi."

"Hi."

beat.

beat.

"Geez! I'm sorry, can I help you," comes out of you in rush as you stride behind the counter.

"Don't you worry about it," Marcus says, voice warm and inviting as winter spices. Instead of being irritated at you, his smile widens with a lick of his lower lip, and his eyes crinkle as they join the merriment.

"What can I get you, Marcus." You smile after giving your head a little shake.

"Well, I was hoping -" Marcus looks surreptitiously over his shoulder, and you can't help but deflate, just smidge.

Sweater.

Field jacket even.

You inwardly sigh.

"-I could get one of the warm donuts. I could smell them and to be honest I could use a pick me up."

It's your turn to smile widely, though it was laced with sympathy.

"Of, course, just a sec."

You come back from the kitchen, with a tray of the warm donuts.

"I usually put a sign in the window when they're warm, and for everyone who knows I ring the bell out front."

"May I?" Marcus crosses to the door.

"Be my guest!" you then declare, "TWO BELLS!"

On the porch, he gives the brass mariner bell fixed to the post two smart clangs, and returns.

"A pick me up?" You ask, putting a few donuts in a waxed paper bag.

"The woman who told me she wasn't ready to get married is getting married... so it wasn't so much ready to marry- as it was to marry me."

Your face falls with sympathy as Sally enters, with several people at her heels. She's a 20-some, in overalls. She looks at you and then Marcus. She can feel something hanging in the air... her mouth twitches as her eyebrows rise. When she passes Marcus's line of sight, and only you can see her expression, she gives a sly thumbs-up, with approval. You purse your lips, trying not to laugh.

She quickly dips behind the counter to help the other customers.

You come to Marcus, bag in hand, as you give it to him you murmur a small sorry.

"What do I owe you?" He shrugs. You fill two cups at the drink bar, cover them and return to Marcus by the door. With a little shake of your head you then give a little nod to the door.

He opens the door for you, and when you are on the porch you hand him a hot cider.

"Its on me," you smile. "Want to take a walk?"

Brown eyes on yours, Marcus nods, those things are dangerous, you think.

In the orchard, it's the picture of Autumn. Brisk air, intense blue sky, crunching leaves underfoot, the smell of apples and wood smoke mingle in the air.

"This is my wedding-that-never-happened-iversary," the words tumble out of you, but it seems right to share with this virtual stranger. "So, um, I understand."

"Damn," he murmurs and takes a sip from his cup.

"Yup."

As you walk and tell each other your stories, the cold, or maybe its the emotions of the story, make your teeth chatter a little. Marcus' brows knit and his field jacket is off in a blink.

"Here," he says, a little muffled because he's holding his second donut in his mouth to free up both hands to slip the coat over your shoulders. The trapped warmth envelopes you. His warmth.

You cover several more yards quietly, passing families.

"I always thought that would be me," Marcus looks over his shoulder as a preschooler, probably three years, gets swooped up onto her dad's shoulders, giggling.

"I," you pause, who is he? Right now, just a handsome fella. With possibilities. Rip the band-aid off- " I've never seen kids in my future, I guess... always been satisfied with friends' kids, nieces and nephews, and so on..."

Beat.

"Yeah, maybe I need to adjust my expectations. I do have great niblings."

Marcus finishes his donut-

"Really good"

You smile at him, possibilities still intact.

He squares off with you on the path, his arresting chestnut eyes peering into yours, "I really like your donuts."

You laugh, "thank you, I like yours too."

Joel lay prone, the pain so accute he no longer feels... anything. But he can no longer move or speak, and there's a ringing in his ears.

He perceives a disturbance, giving him a reprieve from the blows delievered by this small angry fatherless daughter... so much like Ellie. Her righteous anger cowed him, the shame he had boxed up as small as possible thrown open. He had taken her father, in his blind aim to save his... his what?

Ellie?

He must be hearing things.

No, it is Ellie? She's screaming. But she sounds so far,

"...Joel! Get up! Get up, Joel!!"

'' Okay... Give me... just gimme... gimme a minute. 'm trying, baby girl'

"JOEL GET THE FUCK UP!"

She continues to scream, too scared for his liking, adrenaline starts to boil within. He sees Dina out cold to the right of him, Ellie, to the left, under the bald woman.

He can't use that knee, probably never be able to use it again. The other hurts too, but just regular hurt... right now Ellie needs him.

"Dad!!"

Did he hear what he thought? It doesn't matter. Something clicks over, and Joel starts to rise. The chaos helping , and he hopes his little spitfire will continue to distract. And Ellie doesn't disappoint, she fights, spitting and hissing, swearing like a sailor.

When one of the fellas takes a swipe at her and not only does Joel see red, he sees Ellies gun not far from him.

*

Ellie would later call it Beast Mode. Joel would call it insanity. But luck was on his side because Jesse arrived. Though it was messy, they miraculously got out of that lodge alive- barely in his case.

They lost a couple of horses, but he and Ellie were on Shimmer, Ellie's horse, and that felt like another good omen.

Now they just needed to see how Jackson is fairing.

*

"Tommy's gonna be okay," Ellie murmures as if she was reading his mind. "Maria and Ben too."

"Yeah, that's right. They're gonna be fine... even if-"

Ellie finishes- "even if they aren't, they will be. We all will be."

(Photo via IG )

Walking the pine barrens with Ezra is like no other hike. He has a connection to the woods that is deep in his bones.

You smile, you are never bored, and you tell him so.

"You are too good to me, letting me jaw on and on, like I do. I fear I will tumble past your limit, and you shall be shot of me forever."

At this, you turn, pulling at the wide, warm hand you've had yours comfortably resting in, to face him fully. He looks at you, his brows raised in question.

"Never." You pull him in and wrap your arms around his broad shoulders. "I love you, all your stories, and Ezra, I could listen to your voice forever. "

Oberyn wastes no time pulling at the brooch holding your cloak around you, and with a soft thmp, it drops to the floor. You toe at the heels of your boots, leaving them in a trail as you make your way toward the large hearth. Then you work that the sash and fasteners of his long intricate coat of golden wool. Oberyn has gotten his boots off and pulls his long arms out of the coat, letting it join the rest of the clothing piling on the stone floor. Leaving him in only his mustard trousers, a linen tunic of russet with a large amulet at his chest.

Oberyn's dark eyes greedily take you in, again in your white linen shift with the firelight illuminating the curves of your figure through it.

"Are you still cold, my lord?" You smile.

"I am warming up quite nicely, in fact, my enchantress," Oberyn murmurs in your ear as a large hand brings up the skirt of your gown as he gets a good handful of your backside.

His hands are warm despite the time spent outside and rougher than you'd expect for a prince, but they ignite a fire within as they drag over your skin.

The fire sings in snaps and hisses as it consumes its fuel; your mouths, just as hot, consume each other, in a chorus of moans and gasps. When you break away for a moment, it's to hook a finger on his shirt and pull him to the bed shrouded in heavy curtains. Opening them, you climb onto the tall nest-like bed, giving a cheeky smile over your shoulder at the prince, his delighted chuckle doesn't hide how his coal black eyes ignite, as he climbs in after you. Eyes steady, crawling like a lithe jungle cat.

Cocooned within, Oberyn lifts your shift over your head to see you bare, at last. And you are, except for your fine woolen stockings, that reach your thigh.

Momentarily, you think perhaps you should be embarrassed, but Oberyn lays you back into your feather mattress and lifts your leg, and with a carress to you inner thigh that has slick pooling at their apex, he begins to roll them slowly one at a time.

"Oberyn," you gasp in a whisper.

The prince looks hungrily at your form and shucks himself out of his tunic and trousers. Your eyes follow the trail of dark hair at his navel, leading down to his loins. Oberyn's impressive cock bobs invitingly.

You look up to meet his eyes, and he is on you. Oberyn's trim waist settling firmly between your legs, his length hard and silky pressing tantalizingly against your mound, and with a single roll of his hips, the little pearl hidden between your folds begins to throb.

You let out a needy little moan.

"Oh, my enchantress makes such pretty little sounds?"

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