Send me “DOWNPOUR” for my muse to show up on your muse’s doorstep during a rainstorm, drenched and shaking from the cold.
@joe-lambe
Perhaps it was the storm that started it all. Perhaps it was how exhausted she’d been of late. Regardless of the reason, Ella’s body nevertheless took her from the warmth and safety of her bed beside her husband out into the cold. She didn’t wake when her bare feet hit the floor. She didn’t wake when she felt the rain soaking her. Not even when she stepped into the puddles and mud did she rouse.
As if repeating the first occurrence of these spells, Ella made her way through the grounds toward a lake that was very far away. While it may not have been a risk to her now, it didn’t mean that she was free from danger.
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She was tired, sore, running on only about an hour sleep, and still running late to work. The night before had kicked her ass -- quite literally, actually. Her scope out on one of the bases for a new gang backfired and she didn’t expect to get as much of a work out as she did, but lucky her, right?
So, J.J. was a little bit more than just trying to rush as she reached the floor of the building her office was in, the heels of her boots thumping against the tile floor. The secretary at the desk near her office stopped her, alerting her of someone needing to see her, a gentleman sitting over a few feet away. Great. Running a hand through her hair, she walked over, raising her brow.
“Hey. You wanted to talk to me?” Eyes scanned him up and down, a bit confused. “Do I know you...?”
Send ➳ for your character to receive mine as a gift/spoil of war.
@joe-lambe
“No! No, please!” The girl begged desperately, helplessly. “Stepmother, please!” But the woman only looked on in cold satisfaction as her second husband’s child was dragged away, screaming and fighting.
Soon enough, though, with the force of the grasp the men had on her, Ella stopped fighting and just bowed her head as tears poured down her face. She had thought the war couldn’t touch her, being a girl on a distant country farm… But it seemed that she’d greatly overestimated her stepmother’s view of her.
Finally, what felt like a century later, the men stopped, tied her hands, and threw her into a tent, jeering. “Oh, we’re going to have fun with you. Don’t go anywhere now, love. Someone’ll be back for you real soon.”
"Joe?" Ella cried out, running into the room. She had to bite her lip to try and contain the smile on her face. "Oh, Joe, you simply must come and see! One of the little girls in the village that I help look after just came up to me with her mother while I was in the market. Their dog had puppies a few months back, and they thought we might like one! I told them I'd have to ask you, of course. But we might at least go and look, surely?" Try as she might, Ella couldn't contain the happiness and barely concealed excitement and hope in her eyes.
Every summer, for as long as Ella can remember, she would travel from France to Greece to stay with her godmother on the island paradise of Kalokairi. Those magical summers were the best days of her life. And more, they were her one solace after the untimely deaths of first her mother, and then her father. Her godmother, affectionately called “Aunt Noreen”, was ever devoted to her and always made sure Ella had some sort of maternal affection.
Then, the year Ella would turn 20, she makes her way to the island just to find that her life will change forever. There, she will meet and share brief romances with 3 different young men. First there was Henri. Then Joe. Then Kit… However, none are destined to last. And by the time Ella’s 3 best friends arrive on the island, they find her heartbroken, pregnant, and terrified. Ella tells no one that she actually has no idea who the father of her child is, and instead lies and insists that it was the boy she loved the most.
Unable to return to France and her stepmother, Noreen and Ella decide that Ella and her baby remain on the island with her godmother, and they’ll start a hotel. The two women do the best they can to turn the dilapidated buildings into beautiful guest houses. But funds are tight, especially when Ella gives birth to a baby girl; whom she names Nora after her mother’s best friend.
Times soon grow harder for Ella when she discovers that Nora has Cystic Fibrosis, and all their money is soon being spent on her treatments and medicine instead of the hotel. Ella sees no possible hope and tries to accept that her daughter may not survive and the business she worked so hard on might fail. Turning down numerous offers of aid from her friends, she tries to make ends meet on her own. But, with Nora’s 5th birthday approaching, Noreen finds Ella’s diary and learns that the baby has 3 possible fathers.
Without Ella knowing, Noreen sends invitations to the party to the men with Ella’s forged signature. She prays that at least 1 of them will still have enough feeling for Ella and adoration for Nora to offer to help them. For their part, confused by the sudden word from Ella after 5 years- and more so by the news that she has a daughter- but pleased at the idea of seeing her again, the men leave for the island immediately. Ella, however, takes their appearances less than well, and finally confides in Belle, Juliet, and Marguerite that she lied all this time.
Ella now has to come to terms with her past, right the wrongs she’s done, and face the ones done to her. Will old romances rekindle? Will new ones form? Will Nora’s father be revealed? And, most importantly, will she live to see her 6th birthday?
RULES:
Probably doesn’t need to be said since we’re all not assholes and you’re all my friends but for the sake of rules,Avoid ooc drama. If a problem arises, let’s communicate like adults.
I’d also recommend checking everyone’s rules anyway just to make sure we’re all on the same page. Like with asks going into a new post since most of us prefer that, and so on.
Pictures, threads, and the like should all be in the tag ‘GV; Never Felt This Strong’ Feel free to track this tag if you wish
Just for the sake of getting a feel of characters that not everyone may have met, I’d propose a small bio. Just enough to give everyone a feel of who your character is in the verse and what to expect with interactions.
Take as long as you need with replies. This verse won’t have an expiration date.
Ella is most likely going to end up with Kit, as Donna does with Sam, but other romances and friendships are more than welcome and encouraged should they arise.
Threads can take place before Nora’s birth, during the party, and after. Just make sure both partners agree on the timing.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
@joe-lambe is gonna kill me didn’t ask for this but I’m doing it anyway
Not even the sight of the sun rising was of comfort today for Ella. Not after the night she’d had. And had to face alone... No, nothing could ease this pain. She doubted that she’d feel better even if Joe had been there.
From her seat in front of the window, she stared down at her hands in her lap without really seeing them. Her shawl hung loosely around her shoulders, and tears still stained her cheeks.
She had no idea what was worse... The agonizing pain or the hollow feeling that followed. Her mind both raced and thought of nothing in a vain effort to protect itself. Still, the grief stung. The guilt cut. And the overwhelming sense of failure suffocated her.
Despite whatever Joe had said, it seemed that her stepmother had won. She may not have forced Ella into a loveless marriage as she’d thought. But she’d taken something much more precious away. Her actions in the past had caused this, Ella was sure of it.
“Ella? He’s home.” Amelia’s voice called from the hall. She had written to Joe right away when it happened, and had been alternating between checking on her mistress and watching for the master.
But the girl didn’t answer. She didn’t even acknowledge that she’d heard her. She just glanced out the window to the sickening addition to the grounds. That tiny little grave... Then back to her arms, still set as if cradling the little one... Still begging them not to take him from her.
And at the sound of the heavier footsteps in the doorway, she swallowed thickly. Her voice was still hoarse and weak from screaming and crying, but she tried for her husband’s sake. “It was a boy...”
“Guess we both lost,” you murmured, fingers tracing an absent-minded pattern across Joe Lambe’s shoulder.
The early light spilled through the blinds, warm and golden, carving stripes across the room. Somewhere in the corner, your old record player spun a low, smoky jazz tune... the kind of music that sounded like secrets. Your flat was still, wrapped in the hush of a morning that felt too calm for the two spies tangled in its center.
Joe’s gaze lingered on the ceiling. You could feel the weight in him, the thoughts stacking, the training kicking in. MI5 taught their agents how to bury things deep, but you were MI6. You’d learned how to dig them out without a spade.
Then, after a pause, “Or we both won.”
You let out a breath through your nose. It wasn’t quite a laugh, more of a tired acknowledgment. “You’re either a romantic, or you’ve got a strange idea of victory.”
Joe finally turned his head to look at you. “We both walked in knowing what the mission was. You were meant to seduce me. I was meant to seduce you. Seems like we did our jobs.”
“And yet here we are. Still in bed.”
“I like the sheets,” he deadpanned. “Very cozy. Good thread count. A man could be compromised by this alone.”
You grinned, despite yourself. “I knew luxury would be my downfall.”
“I’ll make a note. Seduce Agent [Y/L/N] with imported linens and Chet Baker.”
The jazz crackled gently as he said it, almost like it was listening in. You glanced over at the record player. “Don’t mock the ambiance. Took me ages to make this place feel like someone lived in it.”
“It worked. I almost forgot you were trying to manipulate me.”
“You’re not the only one good at masks, Lambe.”
He hummed in agreement, propping himself up on one elbow. “So. We did what we came to do. Got under each other’s skin. Mission… accomplished?”
“Debatable.” You watched him for a moment, something uncertain coiling in your chest. “I don’t know what worries me more. That I didn’t care I was supposed to be using you… or that I did, and still went through with it.”
Joe didn’t flinch. Just studied you, eyes darker than they had been the night before. Not colder, just more awake.
“I’ve done worse for Queen and country,” he said finally. “But I don’t usually wake up in Egyptian cotton listening to jazz.”
You laughed, soft, involuntary. “So what, this is your luxury moral crisis?”
“Bit posh for guilt, yeah.”
You turned onto your side, facing him fully now. “We both knew what this was. Maybe that’s why it worked.”
“Or maybe it’s why it didn’t.” His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back up again. “Truth is, I don’t know where the mission ended and… whatever this is started.”
You hesitated. “And does that bother you?”
“It should.”
But it didn’t. And you both knew it.
Silence stretched again, but it was a different kind, not cold, not calculated. Familiar. Dangerous. The kind that felt like a held breath before something irreversible.
After a beat, you sat up slowly, pulling the sheet with you. “I’ll make coffee. Unless MI5 agents are too good for French press.”
“I’ll risk it,” Joe said, settling back against the pillows. “But if I die, it goes in my report.”
You shot him a look over your shoulder. “You’d throw me under the bus over coffee?”
“Not just any coffee. Yours.”
You snorted and padded barefoot to the kitchen, the hardwood floor cool under your feet. The soft clatter of mugs and the gurgle of water boiling filled the air. Jazz still drifted through the room — that same old record, looping back to the beginning.
When you returned with two mismatched mugs, Joe was sitting up, sheet around his waist, eyes not on the door or the window or the exit... just on you.
You handed him his coffee and settled in beside him.
“I still don’t trust you,” you said, without heat.
He took a sip, then met your gaze over the rim. “Good.”
The quiet stretched again. Not uneasy, just... suspended. Like both of you knew this couldn’t last, but neither of you was ready to be the one to break it.
Finally, he asked, “So what happens now?”
You leaned your head on his shoulder, letting your eyes close for a second.
“I don’t know,” you whispered. “But let’s not lie about it this time.”
Joe nodded once.
“Alright.”
And in that moment, with the record spinning, the sun creeping higher, and his hand slowly finding yours beneath the sheet, it didn’t matter who had won.
What was it with rich people and holding “mixers?” Lizzie supposed it was true that, in all fairness, you couldn’t call this stand-around-in-small-groups-and-chat song and dance a proper party, but if she’d really wanted to hear a bunch of entitled men going on and on about their opinions, she didn’t necessarily need to put on nice heels and a dress to do it. She was, after all, a grad student.
She was only here to third-wheel her sister Jane and her boyfriend Charlie, but she’d since lost them in the mess of people. Edging her way across the room, Lizzie was so occupied with looking for the back of her sister’s head that she accidentally knocked into another young man, his drink accidentally being dumped all down her shoulder. “I am -- so sorry,” she said, holding her arm out from her side like a rag doll as she looked down at the mess of her dress. Why did these mixers never have easily-accessible napkins?
