#I HATE MILDEWS SO MUCH | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

01zfan · 27 days ago

Text

presidential suite pt. 2

actor!eunseok x actress!reader | 5.2k words

a commission i got for the second part. the person who commissioned me i got your anon message and i just want to say THANK YOU! i was not aware so thank you for informing me heh.

this fic kind of was inspired by a house in nebraska by ethel cain.

contains: unprotected sex, mentions of online hate, unsaid feelings (but are they really unsaid)

presidential suite: one | two

Getting inside this place was alarmingly easy. Eunseok had forgotten what it was like to not be greeted by bellboys or a doorman who took his job too seriously. The most alarming difference was that he had to close his own door before his taxi drove off and he had to navigate through the delayed automatic doors to get to the front desk.

Even if he lived the pampered lifestyle, he was still resourceful. He still had remnants of what it was like to be in places like these, no matter how hard he tried to forget. To find your room all he had to was give the man behind the front desk your description and a shitty excuse the man didn’t care to hear. He didn’t even get to finish his story before he pointed down the hallway.

“Third from the left.” He said without looking up.

Eunseok watched the man turn up the volume of the game to show him the conversation was done. He casted one more look to the bell that had DO NOT RING scribbled on a torn piece of paper tucked under it.The sign-in sheet next to the unused bell was simply a suggestion. The halved pencil attached to the clipboard had a broken piece of lead, all the names on the paper were fake. He only pulled his cap securely to his head before he started walking down the hallway.

His Golden Goose shoes matched the integrity of the carpet. His shoes were scuffed up, the artificial stains were a sign of wealth once you escaped this tax bracket. If this was the Ritz, the bare spots in the carpet would’ve been raved about on Architectural Digest. If this was on the opposite side of town the people rushing down the hallways would’ve been praised for their Indie Sleaze aesthetic.

His avoidance of this life was on purpose, he didn’t want to even get the chance to muddy the lines. The actors who were Eunseok’s colleagues now had no idea of this life. They didn’t know that disheveled and falling apart wasn’t chic. They didn’t know about flickering lights that weren’t supposed to flicker, or the eery silence that was interrupted by whatever happens on the other side of these thin walls.

If this was a movie set it’d be a horror and the director would have to yell at Eunseok for being too relaxed. He’d be instructed to look scared walking past the night creatures drifting in and out of the place, he’d be told to look weary and hold everything close to him. But he couldn’t help it, no matter how much he hated it. This was home too. He knew the smell of mildew before he learned about notes of the fancy perfume brands that endorsed him. He was more familiar with the lower class etiquette of minding your fucking business before how to conduct himself on red carpets and fancy wrap parties. Eunseok hated that this was familiar, he hated that some part of him actually missed this.

This was the one place Song Eunseok was just another John, another person walking up and down the hallways looking for a number on a door. The one place left in the world that no one would even bat an eye or turn a curious head wondering if that was really him, because why would a movie star be here? Why would they even care if they knew it was him?

He knocked once and pressed his ear to the door. The number matched from the text you sent him and matched the directions he was given at the front desk, but he wanted to be sure. The hallway was empty now except for him, his goose down jacket was loud when he reached for the doorknob.

“I’m in here.” You said on the other side.

You didn’t have to come open the door. He remembered that here, nothing automatically locked. All he had to do was twist the knob and push past the rotting doorframe for it to open.

The sight of you from the hallways made Eunseok’s heart drop. All of this was too familiar. You sitting on the edge of an uncomfortable mattress, the corners of the comforter tucked in tight to hide the fact that the mattress was dirty. A loud game show lighting up the corner of the room. The Price is Right shined on the aged wallpaper and the stained chair perpetually stuck in the corner. The bedside lamp with a pull chain and an ancient wooden bed frame that had seen better days.

Eunseok had never been in this room before, but everything was familiar. This room was three years ago, before he hit his big break and back when he didn’t know if he’d make it in this world. This room was home when he couldn’t afford rent and where he found out one other person understood him.

You were comfortable. Leaned back on your hands, looking up to Eunseok like you were telling him he was home. Your unwavering confidence confirmed that you weren’t putting on an act three days ago. You didn’t know how to navigate the space of wealth and fame like you did anonymity and privation of riches. Eunseok waited for you to hurriedly shut the door or hide your face or use a fake name. But you didn’t care, someone else passed by your open door you didn’t looked scared. You knew they would continue about their business, not worried about anyone else’s life but their own.

Eunseok tried to act like he had the upper hand. He acted like he shut the door quickly simply because he wanted to, not because he didn’t want anyone else to see you wearing the lingerie set he bought for you in Milan. He stayed in front of the door and crossed his arms, trying to ignore his heart hammering in his chest.

“You called me.” He said simply.

That was the truth. You called him about twenty minutes ago, breathing heavy into the receiver asking about his schedule for the next day. Eunseok lied and said that he was free, despite him having a redeye flight that was going to ship him to the other side of the world in a couple hours. Eunseok was well aware knew he didn’t have any time to waste, but he was still frozen in your entryway looking at you.

“You came.” The commercial break on the box set was louder than your voice, but you cut through it clearly. “Really quick.” You added.

This was also the truth.

You shifted on the bed and Eunseok swallowed his nerves, fake coughing to himself. Maybe he wasn’t home. This felt more like a trap he walked right into. He didn’t realize how quickly you stripped him of his wealth and the arrogance that came with it. Your text and quiet phone call made him think that he was in charge, but with you in front of him he was humiliated. He was reminded of the times he came to you like this in the beginning stages of your careers. Back when these were the only places you two could afford while booking odd jobs, back when the cost of travel and staying here almost took all your earnings. His past he spent so long trying to bury was unearthed and he felt compelled to fall to his knees and crawl to you.

He knows you can see through him. Even if he can barely see you in the dark room he knows the elusive Eunseok-Before-The-Fame stands before you.

“I won’t talk about it if you won’t.” You say.

He has to think hard about what you’re referencing. When you let your hands slip out from under you to lay fully on the bed the only thing in his mind is you’re still the You-From-Before and how you’re waiting for him just a few lengthy strides away.

He first thinks you’re talking about the fact that you two still most likely very much have feelings for eachother, but he messed it up by listening to his agents and you messed it up by telling him you hate him every chance you get.

He then thinks you’re talking about the fact that he came running faster than you came running to him despite the fact that his schedule right now is currently busier than yours.

Then, finally, Eunseok remembers what you’re actually talking about. The reviews for your movie came in from the film critics and they were less than shining. You were talking about the fact that your phone had to be shut off due to the panic of your team and you being flooded with people’s unprompted opinion of you. The fallout was so bad that Eunseok stepped in to defend you.

(Although framing his tweet saying see it for yourself as defense was pretty egregious, it was the most his team would allow and as far as he could go before you’d skin him alive. But now your searches were filled with speculation of you two still being together. Eunseok knew that you being connected to him in any way was arguably worse for you than being talked about negatively. He assumed the situation was too complex to even address, which is why you referred to it as it and why avoided eye contact by sinking further to the bed).

So Eunseok didn’t push the situation any further. He just shed his jacket and hung it on the leaning coat rack, then his hat and shoes. He took off his shirt and then worked his pants down his legs, stepping out of it the closer he got to you. You moved closer to the center of the bed as Eunseok closed in, only looking to him once he was the one looking down on you.

He leaned onto the bed, one hand pressed into the mattress beside your head and the other next to your ribcage as he leaned closer. He could see through the mask. Something he would’ve teased you for in his presidential suite he ignored per your request.

“How do you want it?” He asked.

Eunseok was too careful. He could tell you saw through his mask too. His hands stayed on the mattress for too long waiting for your guidance, his overconfidence was nowhere to be found. He was navigating you like he was that same threatened young actor again, before he learned to hide how scared he was of you and ending up in places like these again.

“You’re in charge.” You said simply.

Eunseok admittedly felt nervous hearing you give him all the authority. He hasn’t explicitly been in charge since you two were fake-together. Ever since he broke your heart and this arrangement started everything was a battle. If it wasn’t you stubbornly refusing to submit it was Eunseok refusing to give you what you wanted. You two had built up a relationship of being mutually unpleasant he forgot what it was like to be willing.

As soon as your instructions fell from your lips you started touching his arms in anticipation of what he was going to do. He hesitated again. He wasn’t this nervous since his first award show. He didn’t even feel like this when he was announced to be in the running for that Emmy, but then he was so certain he’d lose. He also felt like he was losing in some sense here too. The window to let you know he wanted to talk about it was closing the more you touched him. He was at risk of being thrown out on his ass and in just his boxers if he told you how uncharacteristically tender and sentimental this moment felt to him, or if he said he genuinely enjoyed your performance in your recent project.

Eunseok had to push himself off the bed to clear his mind. He didn’t need to tell you about yourself, it was clear you called him here to make you forget about everything, that’s the only reason you two ever called eachother. So Eunseok paid attention instead to the way you raised your body on the bed to follow him, eyes wide and waiting for instructions.

“Tell me what to do.” You said.

Eunseok swallowed thickly. The television is so loud, cheers from the audience interrupted his train of thought.

“Flip over.” He said.

You listened so fast it made his head spin. Before Eunseok knew it you were face down and ass up simply because he said so. If he had asked you to do this any other time you would’ve scowled at him, or you’d say make me if you were really feeling like being an asshole. But you were pliant, you even took the extra step to look back at him waiting for approval.

“Is this good?” You asked.

You really were an actress. Your whiny tone was perfect. The bed creaking as you wiggled your ass in the air was incredible set design. The television illuminating your pathetic pout was perfect. Eunseok didn’t feel worthy to see such a production.

“Perfect.” Eunseok answered.

You even whimpered at his compliment instead of rolling your eyes. He almost dropped dead before he remembered he had his own role to play.

Eunseok tried to manually flip the switch before he went towards you again. His hands went to your back, grazing the silk fabric of your camisole. He took in the sight of your camisole folding further up your body, the silky fabric bunching at the beginning of your arch. He saw you in this position more than he saw your face during sex, but this was different. He saw the way you were reacting to him and how you bit at your lip in between each one of his touches. He couldn’t control himself from grabbing the back of your thigh roughly, causing you to jolt from the force. He looks to your face pressed into the mattress when he pinches your skin. Instead of chiding him you only let out a shaky breath.

“Feels good.” You say.

This was so unlike you. He can’t remember the last time a compliment fell from your lips in this setting. Any praise was always backhanded, followed by a way he could improve. You’re delivery is good BUT, your fingers feel nice BUT, your dick is big BUT. Eunseok was so use to it he was waiting for you to tack on an insult to your sentence, but you only waited for the next thing he’d do to you.

Eunseok nodded to himself and wasted no time pushing down his boxers. The thin sheet on the mattress rubbed uncomfortably against his knees as he got behind you. Being here should’ve disgusted him. If he was consistent, he would be making fun of the peeling wallpaper and the fact that you were acting like a pornstar instead of a high-brow actress in this cheap room. He should’ve teased you for needing his support online and in real life, maybe even throwing in something about how desperate you sounded over the phone. But Eunseok unfortunately felt unlike himself. He just blames it on the fact that you’re too distracting when he’s behind you and when you’re making sounds you both knew would leak through the walls into the hallway and neighboring rooms.

“Isn’t this place disgusting?” You sighed.

The way you were thinking out loud was too obvious. You never had to do that before. Eunseok had more than enough ammunition when it came to you. Sometimes it was a competition of who could make a snide remark the fastest. He always won, he was quick-witted and delivered everything with a smirk that had you scowling and left you with clenched fists. But when you were practically inviting him to comment on the state of this place he couldn’t think of anything. For some reason this felt self-depreciating instead of separating himself from his old life.

When he guided your hips to press against his dick he already felt weak. Eunseok was silent behind you, his mind blank even if he knew exactly what you wanted him to say. But this place wasn’t all that bad. The smell was inviting, no one judged him and he was granted the anonymity he hadn’t felt in ages.

“Seok.” You push your hips back to grind against his. “Please.” You whine.

The desperation in your voice made Eunseok tilt his head back. You stopped moving your hips and completely swayed in Eunseok’s hold. He was slow dragging your hips against his. He could feel his precum staining your silk bottoms, he saw the small splotches he was leaving behind.

“What do you need?” He asked.

The irony of the situation is not lost on him. When you two were together like this, being mean came like second nature. Sometimes it seemed like being abrasive was what got you two off. Denying pleasure and insulting eachother during sex was easy. The emotional labor of getting with someone who broke your heart was easily masked behind mutual hatred. Now, with you begging Eunseok to be mean to you he couldn’t think of anything. He knew your movie wasn’t going to tank once the public saw it. He knew you were good at acting, he knew that you were truly uncomfortable with the life of fame he thought you were suited perfectly for.

Everything was suddenly off limits, he was suddenly no better than you. He was just like you, comfortable in these dingy rooms instead of penthouse suites. He wanted to tell you that he tossed and turned all night, counting threads of linen instead of sheep. The big windows terrified him and he always felt like he was being watched. He was just better than you at ignoring that voice in the back of his head that told him he didn’t deserve it.

Your hand that was pressed into the mattress reached for your waistband. Eunseok watched you pull your shorts down as far as you could reach. Eunseok quickly pulled your shorts down the rest of the way, and he watched you desperately kick them off your legs. Your hand wasn’t even floating for a second before Eunseok grabbed it. He had the answer to his question when he pinned your hand to your lower back and you moaned loudly. He knew exactly what you wanted when he leaned closer to your body to clasp his other hand around the back of your neck.

You gasped at the sudden movement, the complete change in Eunseok’s demeanor. Your legs spread further on the mattress and Eunseok moved his knees to slot in the space.

He leaned his body close to your back, causing the side of your head to go deeper into the mattress while you whimpered from the slight pain of your pinned hand. He had you trapped, fixed in the position he decided to put you in.

Eunseok should make fun of you in your ear. You’re too damn proud for your own good, you’re too hard on yourself, you’re too closed off. But you also take up too much of his mind and Eunseok feels a wave of nostalgia pull at his chest.

“Fuck. Flip over.” Eunseok breathes.

He lets go of you and you’re on your back in seconds. He watches your nipples peak through the thin silk fabric. You’re bewildered, from both the eye contact and the way you listened to him so quickly. When he pulls your bottoms off the rest of the way you wordlessly work your camisole off. Eunseok puts both of the garments gently on the bed, completely opposite from his clothes that are spread across the floor.

Eunseok has to hide the intimacy behind gathering both of your wrists in one hand and pinning it to the mattress.

He grabs his dick with his other hand, looking down between your two bodies as he gets closer to your cunt. Eunseok looks up just to see you preening your neck to get a view of it, too.

“I’ll take care of you, alright?” Eunseok assures into your ear.

He has to hide his sincerity behind squeezing your wrist together until your lips part in pain.

You stopped letting him into any other part of your life a long time ago. You stopped calling him about your roles or running lines by him. The last connection he has to you is fucking you on the rare occasion you’re not stubborn enough to let him know you need him. It’s already terrible that Eunseok is about to get shipped off to Japan and not have access to you for the better half of a year. He absolutely can’t afford to make this too tender despite everything in him wanting to do so, because the last thing Eunseok needs is for you to stop because he’s being too nice. So he tries to add the know-it-all tone to his voice, even though the need to take care of you only makes him want to live with you in this disgusting room for the rest of his life.

He’s relieved you buy his act. Immediately your head nods against the warm puffs of air fanning your ear and preened your hips forward to the best of your ability. Eunseok feels you uselessly trying to prop yourself up on your leg, just for it to slip out from underneath you again. He laughs because he can’t believe how obsessed he is with the way you move, you whine because you think he’s making fun of you.

When he finally pushes inside of you with his chest flush against yours, he fully believes the nostalgia is going to kill him. Like you were plucked right from his memory, your hair tickles his face the same way as it did back then. The obnoxious commercial break projects the same way. If he wasn’t pressed to your ear he would’ve never heard the sound of relief that left your lips as he sunk further into you. You squeeze around him the same way you always have, so tight and warm.

When Eunseok pulls away from the side of your face, he is a breath away from your lips. Your eyes break from the water stains on the ceiling to look directly into Eunseok’s eyes. He can see the shock, in any other instance you’d mock him for looking so sorrowful. Kicked puppy is what you’d always call him when he looked at you like this, and mimic his pulled in eyebrows and mock the longing look in his eyes. But now you’re silent, and you mirror his expression with no malice.

“I’m going to Japan in a couple of hours.” Eunseok says.

He pulls out, despite your walls clinging to him desperately. He pushes back in and your back arches off the creaky bed. Your hands go to his shoulders, a desperate grip keeping him close.

“Congratulations.” You say.

You have to bite your lip when Eunseok repeats his slow thrust.

“I won’t be back for nearly a year.” He continues.

He purposefully lies about the amount of time he’ll be gone just to see your reaction. Your hand moves from his shoulder to wrap around his back. Eunseok feels you pull him in tighter as you attempt to hike your leg up.

“Once again, congratulations.” The break in commercials and the show starting again makes the room completely dark. You whine with parted lips when Eunseok flicks his hips upwards. “I don’t care if you fuck your costar, by the way.”

You give him the opportunity to be mad on a silver platter. The option to squeeze your neck is right there, maybe even pulling at your hair until you whine from the pain. But he’s got you like this, it’s hard to add venom to your words. He just wants to caress your sweaty cheeks and tilt his head at the bothered tone of your voice. Also, Eunseok knows that if you didn’t care about the possibility of him fucking his costar you both wouldn’t be here.

He moves to your neck to avoid you seeing his expressions. He pulls out until his tip prods your entrance and pushes in roughly. He feels your nails press into his back and he grips he sheets beside your head. He repeats the motion again wordlessly, and you moan right in his ear.

“God forbid.” Eunseok mutters against your skin.

He just now realizes that the air conditioning unit hasn’t kicked on once this entire time, and that it’s so late in the night the game show turned into a televangelists. The sweaty man on his television preaches about forgiveness. He preaches about the bible while the bed creaks underneath the movement. The two of you are drowning in irony and Eunseok can’t believe he’s the only one who notices.

“I didn’t fuck her you know.” He continues.

Her is alot of people. You have name dropped his costar he was with at Maria Hernandez when you were feeling particularly spiteful, but Eunseok uses her in an all encompassing way. Being a sex symbol is good for press and his career, but not so much for every other facet of his life. So Eunseok uses her as swipes his thumb against your jawline, then glides up to your cheekbone to let you know he hasn’t thought about anyone since he’s started thinking about you.

“I don’t care.” You say.

Eunseok brings you forward by the back of your neck to kiss you. You immediately press against him harder than he kissed you and you stick your tongue into his mouth before he can pull away. Eunseok feels you grab at his arms and you pull him down until your back is on the bed.

You try to wrap your legs around his waist again but Eunseok stops you by pressing his hand to the back of one of your thighs. He pushes more and more, until it’s close to resting on his shoulder and you moan from the stretch. With more of you open he goes deeper, pressing your body into the mattress.

“I really didn’t fuck her.” He repeats into your neck.

As if the way he was fucking you was supposed to prove his loyalty. Every movement is slow and deliberate, the way he sighs into your ear before pulling back to look down at you.

“Was she better than me or something?” You ask.

He is almost stunned to silence at how badly you want to fight. He knows that the two of you carefully fostered this type of vitriol, but he is shocked that you have doubled down to prevent anything sweet from happening.

Still, even through your persistent on starting something Eunseok suddenly finds it in himself to be calmer. He shakes his head and moves back until your legs rest on his shoulders. He straightens them with his arm across your knee, and you curse from the stretch.

“I wouldn’t know.” He says truthfully.

Anything else he tries to say is interjected by the televangelist and the way your calves rest on his shoulders. Eunseok goes back and pulls you across the sheets to follow him. His long thrusts turn into ruts that makes your body jolt. Eunseok eyes the way your skin and chest moves from his thrusts, and he smirks when your hands go to your chest to hold them still.

“You should come visit me.” When you look up from where he’s fucking into you confused he pulls you towards him again. “In Okinawa.” He clarifies.

“Now why would I do that?” Your eyebrows knit together even more when his legs slap against yours. “Right there.” You whimper.

Eunseok makes sure to hit that stop again as he reaches for your hand. You refuse to give it to him, making him overlap yours on his chest as he comes closer. The stretch is too much, but if it’s not painfully obvious at this point you like the pain.

You writhe on the mattress underneath him and it just makes him want you to visit him even more. His hand that was holding your legs straight goes to his mouth, and instantly one of your legs falls from his shoulders. You’re determined to keep the other one up there, even when Eunseok laves his fingers before dipping it between your legs. Your eyes are wide as you watch him, and like his touch is electric your back arches off the bed again when he touches your sensitive clit.

“Maybe I’ll go there and never come back.” Eunseok purposefully adds extra pressure to his finger and he feels your foot press into the side of his face. Your lips part but the only thing that comes out is a high-pitched moan. “Wouldn’t you miss me?” He asks.

“You’d come back.” You avoid a direct answer but you nod your head.

“If you asked.” He says quickly.

The sounds you two make together is louder than anything else. Eunseok can still see the projection of light, but the only sound he can pick up is your voice.

“If you got another job here.” You stutter.

You move your hand from Your chest and Eunseok takes your place. Now it’s your hand over Eunseok’s gripping tight.

“Or if you asked.” He repeats.

“I’m close.” You say.

Eunseok nods and focuses on circling his fingers on your clit. He can feel it becoming more swollen underneath his touch, he can feel your walls sporadically seizing around his dick. Eunseok’s ruts became slow, drawing out pleasure as he tried to get your back to arch off the bed. When you do it again he lets your leg fall from his shoulder. He pressed his chest to yours, pressing kisses to the perimeter of your parted lips before kissing you directly.

“I really would come back if you asked.” He says.

Your eyes are closed, when Eunseok separates from your lips you immediately catch them between your teeth. He sees your desperate nod clearly, and your hand wraps in his hair to push his face right back in the crook of your neck. Eunseok’s hand is stuck between your two bodies, flicking across your clit as you shiver underneath him. He can’t see your face as you moan pathetically, barely letting him know that you’re cumming before it’s too late. When he tries to pull out your leg hooks around his waist, keeping him inside of you. He pants against your flushed skin and burrows deeper into you as relief washes over him.

He is collapsed on top of you when he hears the television again. The sound of you groaning underneath him pulls Eunseok back to reality, and his phone going off in his jacket pocket makes him look at the broken clock on the wall. He wishes your hands were still pressed into his back to keep him unbelievably close to you. They fell to your side at some point, and when Eunseok looks down at you, your eyes are open. He sees glassy surface and the tears dotting your water line so clearly.

“You have to go to Japan.” You say it clearly, but Eunseok feels like it’s a question. Like he could just say nevermind and stay here with you.

“I’ll be back.” He says, still resting on top of you.

“In a year.”

“Okinawa is a tourist destination.”

#commissionz #seriez: presidential suite #01zfan: eunseok #eunseok smut #riize smut

178 notes · View notes

frantic-fiction · 1 year ago

Text

Reunions

(Pic: lovelybluebirdie) I cropped it a bit

Astarion x gn!reader, Astarion x reincarnated!Tav

Summary: A few months after reconnecting to your past life as Tav, a party is set to meet the rest of the group. You're nervous, worried about not living up to who you once were. Will you be enough?

This is a little part 2 of I'll Find My Way Back to You

Notes/ Warning: Pretty much just fluff. Reader is insecure. Astarion is a supportive partner. I kept all 6 origin characters alive because it's my story and I don't want to imagine any of them dead. Also, Halsin's here cause druids live to be like a thousand or whatever.

Word Count: 2.1k

Masterlist

You're not panicking. Why would you be? It's not like you're meeting a group of people you've only met in dreams—a group of strangers you've painted for the better part of your existence- a family forged through hardship from a past life you're still trying to remember fully.

No, you're not panicking. You're not scared that the people who are so excited to see you will not like what they see. You're not terrified the family Astarion has helped you remember will look at you disappointed once they realize you are no longer the Tav they once knew. You're not worried at all. Not. One. Bit.

You spent the afternoon cleaning the house from top to bottom. It was sparkling, and your fingers ached from the hours of scrubbing you filled in the restless day with. No surface was left untouched. Bookshelves were dusted, baseboards were spotless, and even the top of the cupboards, where no one would ever see, were wiped down. The floors were swept and mopped three times now, but you keep finding spots you missed. Astarion even physically stopped you from scaling the roof to clean the chimney when you ran out of things to occupy yourself with.

There's a roast in the oven, potatoes, and veggies cooking alongside it, and a pie cooling on the counter. You wanted to cook more, but you were worried that not everyone would like blueberries or that someone had turned to a plant-based diet. Astarion quickly reminded you that they used to eat food out of dusty barrels and mildewed chests.

Currently, you stand in front of your floor-length mirror. Astarion is out on a quick hunt before the party arrives, leaving you to obsess over your thoughts of inadequacy. The majority of your closet littered the floor. You're scrutinizing a simple tunic and legging combo. Was it too simple? Should you wear something more eye-catching?

You're trying to remember what Tav would have worn. All you can recall is blood-stained armor and simple camp clothes. But this occasion garners something more. Fuck. Stripping off the current outfit, you replace it with an almost identical one and look at yourself in the mirror again. You weren't sure what you expected, maybe to magically love this pair of pants and old tunic. But in reality, you were just as frustrated and worried.

The clothes weren't the problem, you knew that, but it was easier to be pissed at a blouse than to accept that you were scared. You were frightened to face Astarion and Tav's friends. You have Tav's memories and feel an odd kinship with these people. But you weren't Tav, and you would never be them, at least not entirely.

You felt like an imposter to try and convince anyone otherwise. Tears of frustration and disappointment in yourself began to trail down your cheeks. How could a silly artist hold a candle to the kind and heroic savior of Baldur's Gate? You glared at yourself, wishing things could have been different.

You jump when you feel cold arms wrap around your torso and a warm kiss at the nape of your neck. Astarion loved to use his lack of reflection to sneak up on you. You, on the other hand, hated it. Still, you found yourself leaning back into his firm chest.

"Hello, my love,"

You try to stop the pathetic sniffle, but it's useless. Astarion turns you in his arms and cups your jaw. "Darling," is all he says because he knows. Of course, he knows.

That simple pet name causes the floodgates to open, and you crumple into Astarion's chest, nuzzling his neck. He tightens his arms around you, pulling you closer to his body. Astarion lets you cry, knowing how nervous you've been for this meetup.

He rubs soft circles on the small of your back and peppers kisses to the crown of your head. "You can talk to me,"

"W-what if they don't li-like me?"

Astarion moves you both to the bed, skirting around the mess you made. He sits down and pulls you onto his lap to look you in the eyes better. "Why wouldn't they love you?" He prompts, not wanting to push you.

"Star, you know why. I'm not Tav," you hiccup, and you're positive the words you're speaking are incoherent. "I have their memories and some of their mannerisms and…and I'm also allergic to bees, but I'm not them. What if they hate me because I'm not Tav."

Astarion pecks your lips to halt your panicked words. He wipes the tears from your damp face. "No, you are not Tav, but they are part of you. They live in your art, laugh, and kind heart."

"But wha-"

"Let me finish, my love," Astarion smiles, brushing some hair behind your ear. "No one expects you to be Tav. We all love them deeply, but Tav's gone." He swallows hard, the words still hard to voice for him.

Astarion kisses your forehead, then your cheek, and continues to pepper kisses over your face, catching stray tears. "They just want to get to know the beautiful artist I fell in love with. Gale's big mouth might have let them know more about our history than I would have liked, but that doesn't change anything."

"And if they don't like the person you fell in love with?" You ask softly.

"Then fuck all of them. I love you, and if they don't love you as well, then they have no place in my life." His eyes pierce deep into yours, and there's no denying the truth of his words. You are overcome with a wave of love for your vampire and kiss him softly once more. "Now come, my love, by the smell, your roast is done."

"Shit!" You jump off his lap and rush out of the room, self-doubt pushed to the side.

The roast is fine if slightly burnt on the top. It looked juicy and smelled amazing. The vegetables are mush, but the potatoes are tender and seasoned well. It's not your best meal, but there's nothing you can do to fix it now. You left it on the counter to rest and found Astarion in the living room.

He was rehanging one of your paintings- the one you drew late last year after waking up in a cold sweat. It was a complete picture of the party standing on a dock overlooking the Grey Harbor just as the sun rose above the horizon. Astarion helps you fill in the gaps, telling you that this followed the fall of the Absolute.

"What are you doing?" You asked, crossing your arms over your chest and leaning against the wall. You had hidden away most of your art, too embarrassed by the sheer number of canvases depicting the guest due here any minute.

Astarion finishes hanging the painting above the fireplace and turns to you. "I liked this one and thought I'd put it back."

Before you could say anything, there was a knock at the door. Your stomach instantly dropped, and your heart beat hard in your chest. As if sensing your rising anxiety, Astarion moved to your side, his large palm finding the small of your back.

He swiftly kisses your cheek. "One word and I'll throw them all out."

Astarion leaves you and walks to answer the door. Your palms are sweating, and you rub them down your thighs. You take a few deep breaths and pace the room. Not knowing what else to do, you idly fluff up the decorative pillows of the couch and stall.

"Pull yourself together." You mumbled under your breath. You hear the sounds of multiple footsteps, and you know they're all here.

Why did Astarion request for them to arrive all at once? You're still not sure. But you're suddenly very pissed at him for his decision. Having all of them looking upon you like an art exhibit terrifies you.

"My dear," Astarion pokes his head into the room, a warm smile adorning his sharp features. "Would you like to meet our guest?"

You swallowed hard and nodded. Putting on a brave smile, you rounded the couch and reached for Astarion's hand. Threading his fingers with yours, you curled around his arm like a lifeline.

Moving out into the foyer, you shyly look at the group before you. Gale, given the circumstances of your and Astarion's meeting, you had already met. He had relentlessly bothered Astarion until an introduction was made between you and the wizard. But you've only seen the others in the paintings you've made and the dreams you've seen.

Karlach bounced on her feet, Wyll smiling brightly behind her left shoulder. Haslin stood by the door, a beautifully sculpted wooden bear in his arms. Shadowheart stood beside him, her face passive but relaxed and almost pleased. Lae'zel was the farthest from the group, brooding in the corner, looking at you suspiciously. Still, she even loosened her tense shoulders and stepped forward upon your entry.

"Um, hi." You waved meekly, giving them your name, cringing when your voice cracked.

It's quiet for a moment too long, and you're a step away from fleeing when Karlach skips over to you.

"Can I hug you?!" She almost yells, shaking her fists excitedly.

"Karlach!" Astarion scolds. The Tiefling had, by the looks of it, broken a rule he had set for your comfort.

"Sorry, sorry." Karlach's smile fades, and she moves to retreat. Your heart clenches, and it's like your body moves on instinct. You detach from Astarion before you can think, and then your arms are around her waist. Her scalding heat seeps into your bones and listen to the cranks of her engine.

"Hi Karlach," you whispered into her torso. The wind squeezed from your body, and your feet were off the ground.

"It's nice to finally meet you! The letters fangs write didn't do you justice."

Quickly, the group connects like magnets. Wyll crowds in and hugs you from behind, pressing you closer to Karlach. Gale piles on after, then Halsin. Shadowheart nudges her way between the men and apologizes on behalf of everyone but gives you an equally tight squeeze. The group even wrangles Astarion and Lae'zel into this group hug.

These people are supposed to be strangers, but having them close, seeing this family you've watched through someone else's memories for most of your life right before you. It fills you with familiar warmth and affection and has tears of joy in your eyes. You might not be Tav, not entirely, but you still have a place in this little family.

"Um…excuse me, I can't breathe." You squeak out after a moment of suffocation, and the group is quick to disperse.

Wiping away the lingering dampness from your cheek, you take a moment to compose yourself, clearing your throat with a subtle grace. Your hand instinctively finds its way back, and Astarion swiftly recovers it, his touch reassuring. Soft circles dance on the back of your hand, a silent question lingering in his gaze, seeking affirmation that you're all right. You respond with a nod and a comforting squeeze of his hand.

"Ah, well…" you chuckle with a hint of self-awareness. "I have a roast with everyone's names on it. And a blueberry pie; Astarion found a wild patch on one of his hunts."

"Thank the gods, I'm famished," Wyll sighs, his appetite evident as he sniffs the air dreamily. A nudged Karlach sets the communal movement toward the dining room in motion.

Astarion emerges with the wine, gracefully pouring glasses of red for everyone. Gale, the sole visitor to your home beforehand, takes charge of the table settings. With a flick of his fingers and a whispered incantation, plates and silverware align harmoniously. The stage set, the food emerges, and the night takes flight.

It feels like a cinematic scene picking up where it had once paused, a seamless continuation. Laughter weaves through the air, stories unfold, and even the occasional argument dissolves into a chorus of joyous laughter. Though new and fresh, the conversation flows as naturally as breathing. Strangers evolve into friends, and amidst the clinking of glasses, a familial bond begins to sprout. Tav was indeed fortunate to have these beautiful souls around.

As the night bids farewell and everyone departs, you find solace curled up against Astarion. His voice, a gentle undercurrent, softly reads from his newest book, and you gaze up, fixated on the beautiful man before you. A silent expression of gratitude graces your lips, an unspoken acknowledgment directed at Tav. Thanks for giving you a family and the love of your life.

Astarion's fingers scratch your scalp, tenderly coaxing your eyes closed. "What are you thinking about, little love?"

"Just how lucky I am."

"I would argue I'm the lucky one, but I suppose we can share," he smiles; he continues to read to you and massage your scalp until you're puddy against his body, sleep having all but consumed you. The night settles into a tranquil symphony, the warmth of shared love lingering in the serenity.

Okay I know it was a bit cheesy, but I needed so fluffy shit today. Anyway, tell me what you thought I love talking with y'all.

Taglist: heartfully10, ayselluna, marina-and-the-memes

#astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion #bg3 #astarion ancunin #astarion imagine #bg3 astarion #reader insert #fanfic #writing #frantic fiction #bg3 fic #bg3 tav #bg3 x tav

375 notes · View notes

lanaroff · 25 days ago

Text

Unwanted- Part 11

Paring: Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Summary: Y/N is an enhanced SHIELD agent who is forced to work with the Avengers. What happens when they discover that she’s not alone?

You stood in front of the crumbling house, the once grand estate now decayed, covered in the scars of time. The windows were cracked, the door hanging loosely on its hinges. It was nothing like you remembered. But then again, you hadn't thought about it in years. You had been a child when you had last stepped through these doors, a child still unaware of the monster your mother had been.

Your hands were shaking, not from fear but from something darker. The anger had taken root inside you, and now it was coursing through your veins. You had come here for answers. For retribution. To confront the woman who had made you a weapon, the woman who had destroyed your life before you even had the chance to live it.

Venom stirred beneath your skin, sensing the gravity of the moment. You could feel its unease, its hunger. The alien had been quiet lately, too quiet. But you didn’t care. You didn’t need it anymore.

*We can make her suffer,* Venom whispered, its voice thick with malice. *She deserves it.*

"No," you muttered, clenching your fists. "I have my own plans."

You pushed the door open with a force that made it creak and groan. The smell of mildew and decay greeted you as you stepped inside, your footsteps echoing in the silence of the house.

In the corner, you saw her.

Your mother.

She was sitting in a chair by the window, her frail body wrapped in a thick blanket, her hair thin and gray. She looked nothing like the woman who had once been a ruthless scientist, whose cold eyes had always looked at you as little more than a tool, an experiment. Now, she was just... old. Weak. Sick. Her face, once sharp with the precision of a scientist, now sagged with age and exhaustion. She didn’t even look up when you entered.

You stood there for a long moment, the weight of everything you had gone through hanging over you like a suffocating blanket. The rage, the memories, the betrayals. Everything you had ever suffered because of her.

“Mother,” you spat, your voice low and cold.

Her head turned slowly, and her eyes—cloudy and tired—met yours. A faint, almost apologetic look crossed her face, but you didn’t care. You had no sympathy left for her.

“You’re... still alive,” you muttered, the words thick with bitterness. "I expected you to die a long time ago."

She sighed, the sound coming from deep within her chest. "I didn't think you'd come. I thought you hated me too much to ever see me again."

"Why did you do it?" you demanded, stepping closer, your voice rising. "Why did you turn me into this—into a *monster*? Why did you make me a lab rat? Why did you kill my father and pretend it was an accident?"

Her expression faltered, a moment of guilt flashing across her face, but it quickly faded. She reached for a glass of water, her hands trembling, and took a sip before speaking.

"You were... the perfect candidate," she said slowly, her voice weak but still carrying that cold detachment. "You were broken enough to be shaped into what we needed. You... you couldn't love, you didn't care about anyone. You were a blank slate, an empty vessel." She paused, staring into your eyes. "That's why you were chosen."

You stared at her, the words searing into your mind. You couldn’t hear them. *You couldn't love. You were nothing but a tool.* She had never seen you as a person, just an experiment.

You wanted to scream, to tear her apart, but you held it in. The pain was too much.

"I was your daughter ," you growled, your voice quivering with barely controlled rage. "And you treated me like a science project."

Her eyes softened with regret, but there was no compassion in her expression. "You were never meant to be loved," she whispered. "And I... I thought I was doing what was best for you. Hydra thought you would be the answer to everything.

You clenched your fists so tightly that your nails dug into your skin, your pulse thundering in your ears. You had been broken, yes. But to hear it from her lips... to hear the justification for what she had done to you, it was unbearable.

"You're lying," you spat. "I’m not some... some *thing* you made to carry out your sick plans. I’m a person. You ruined me. You ruined my life, my family—*my father*." The words choked you. "And for what? Power? Control? You *murdered* him, and then you pretended it was an accident. How could you live with yourself?"

Her eyes dropped to the ground, her face twisting with something that might have been shame—or maybe just resignation.

"I didn't want to. But Hydra made me. They told me it was the only way. They threatened me. They threatened you. And I... I thought it was the only way to protect you, to give you a future," she said, her voice trembling now.

"Enough!" you shouted. "I don’t care anymore. You’re a broken old woman, and your explanations mean nothing."

As you stepped forward, ready to finish it, a familiar voice echoed from the doorway.

"Don't do it."

You froze. Wanda stood there, her eyes pleading with you, her voice shaking.

"Please, don’t kill her," Wanda said softly, stepping closer. "If you do this, there’s no turning back. You’ll become just like her."

"Like *her*?" you scoffed. "You think I care about becoming like her? She ruined my life! She made me a weapon!"

Wanda stepped closer, her voice strained. "I know. I know what she did. But this—this won’t fix anything. It’ll only make it worse. You don’t need to be a monster, [Y/N]. Not again."

But just as you took another step toward your mother, a new sound echoed through the room—footsteps, marching quickly. And before anyone could react, the doors exploded open, and Hydra’s soldiers stormed in, weapons raised.

Shit.

The room exploded into chaos.

Wanda shoved you out of the way as gunfire rang out. You instinctively dropped into a defensive stance, your hands ready to strike, to kill. The Avengers weren’t far behind, and soon, the room was filled with flashing lights, the clash of metal, and the sound of shouting. The air was thick with violence.

You lost sight of your mother in the chaos, but there was no time to search. Hydra had come, and you were too busy fighting for your life to care about anything else.

The battle raged on, the room filled with gunfire and explosions. You fought with ruthless efficiency, taking down Hydra agents without mercy. But in the back of your mind, you couldn’t shake the nagging thought of your mother. Where had she gone? Was she still alive?

It wasn’t until the smoke began to clear that you finally found her.

She was in an empty room, standing with her back to you. She was holding something—a detonator.

You charged forward, fury consuming you. "What the hell are you doing?"

Your mother turned slowly, her eyes wet with unshed tears. "I’m sorry," she whispered. "I’m so sorry."

And before you could react, she pressed the button.

The explosion was deafening.

---

The world seemed to shift, the air thick with smoke and fire. You didn’t even feel the blast at first—just the intense heat. But then it hit you. The flames surrounded you, closing in fast.

You felt the intense pain, the fire licking at your skin, and then... *Venom*.

The alien inside you was thrashing, screaming in agony. You could hear it, feel it tearing at your body.

*This is it,* Venom whispered weakly. *It’s too much. I can’t... I can’t take it.*

Your vision blurred, and you screamed, but it wasn’t from the pain. It was from the agony of feeling the creature inside you begin to die.

You looked around, desperate. Steve was nearby, but you couldn’t move. The fire was eating away at your body, and you could feel it. Venom was dying. And if Venom died, so would you.

*Let go,* Venom whispered. *You have to let me go. You were a good host. You saved me... Now, I need to save you.*

You didn’t want to. You couldn’t. You fought to hold on, your chest tightening. But the alien was weakening, and the fire was too strong. You felt it pulling away, slipping from your grasp.

"Don’t leave me," you whispered, tears streaming down your face.

But Venom’s voice grew softer, fainter.

*I have to go. I’m sorry...*

And then, you felt it. The alien left you. Gone.

You collapsed to the ground, your body falling into unconsciousness just as Steve reached you.

He scooped you up, his face etched with fear. "No, no, no," he muttered under his breath. "Not again."

And as the world around you burned, Steve carried you to safety.

#wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #marvel #reader #wanda maximoff fluff #wanda maximoff angst #wanda maximoff x female reader #wlw #y/n y/l/n #y/n

73 notes · View notes

howtodrawyourdragon · 4 days ago

Text

Been thinking a lot as of late about the fandom take that Hiccup actually should hold a grudge against his village for the way he was treated. This is the "hold a grudge" website, so I'm not surprised and neither is this post about telling you that you're wrong to feel this way. If I was raised the way Hiccup was, outcasted to the point that I start to make friends with the enemy, I would be angry, too!

But holding a grudge just isn't in Hiccup's nature. And I think there is no bigger proof than his incredibly deep bond with Toothless.

Because even ignoring Httyd 2 for a moment, the first movie also hints at Valka dying to dragons.

The dragon raids are the only mentioned outside threat before they learn about the Red Death. And with Stoick gifting Hiccup a helmet made of his mother's breast plate (which are not supposed to be boob-shaped, believe it or not) when he thinks his son does surprisingly well in dragon training, that could be another one of those hints.

Hiccup will be facing dragons after training instead of being hidden in the forge for his own safety (while helping to contribute like the other teens) so it makes sense to me that Valka's death was always meant to be at the claws of dragons and Stoick is trying to prevent that now that it's become a reality that Hiccup might actually face dragons in the very near future.

There is no other threat spoken about in the first movie. Hiccup's mother was always killed by dragons. She's missing from his life because Toothless' kind took him away from her. If Hiccup were to be angry at his village for the way he was treated, he should also be angry at dragons for taking away the one person who could've been unconditionally on his side. Like mothers are supposed to be.

But Hiccup isn't angry at dragons. As a matter of fact, when he gets up close to one, has one completely at his mercy, he doesn't hate Toothless. And this is before he even realizes that there's more to them than fire breathing, home-destroying, food-stealing, man-eating creatures from Hell.

Instead of being angry, he sees Toothless for who he is. A living being just as complex as he is. Capable of fear, of curiosity, of forgiveness, of remorse, of love. And Hiccup wasn't kept from seeing this because anger for having his mother taken from him didn't blind him.

The same can be said about Mildew, who gets the dragons in trouble again and again. But at the end of RoB, Hiccup still decides to put his trust in him to get them both (and Toothless) home.

And Dagur, who started a whole war over being betrayed by Hiccup, which gives him a grudge for three whole years that leaves him filled with revenge until Viggo gives him a sudden change of perspective that leads to months of introspection. It takes a little while, but Hiccup doesn't just accept him as a friend, but accepts Dagur's offer to be found brothers.

He should hold a grudge against Heather. Who played on his kindness to get Alvin the Book of Dragons and then seemingly played him again in RttE, when he lets her stay on Dragon's Edge and the very next time they see her, she's working for the Hunters. Who come into their lives by leaving Astrid to die stranded in the middle of the ocean and abducting Stormfly. With only Astrid learning that Heather is actually spying on them with Hiccup not learning about this fact until much later. (Something very clearly hurts him, but even being left out of the loop he forgives Astrid and Heather for.)

Alvin canonically held Hiccup and Toothless captive for days, barely giving Toothless any food or water. Hiccup literally states that in the first episode of DoB.

And while they don't show it in the show itself, in the very first episode afterwards, Hiccup is trying to prepare his 14 and 15 year old friends for interrogation. Clearly something in that two-parter spooked him enough to do something as drastic as this.

But at the end of DoB, Hiccup still chooses trust Alvin to help rescue Stoick and get Outcast Island back from Dagur. An alliance was forged. One strong enough that when Stoick gets gravely injured in RttE, Alvin can be trusted to come in and help out around Berk.

The closest Hiccup comes to holding a grudge is with Viggo. The first person to ever make Hiccup feel like an idiot, make him feel frustrated that he can't get immediately out on top like he did with all his previous villains. He spends literal months trying to find Viggo just to get back at him, dragging all his friends and his dragons down with him. But even that doesn't last.

Not with both Dagur as well as Stoick advising him against harboring feelings of vengeance. Dagur warns Hiccup against how the need for vengeance can change a person. Stoick warns Hiccup that revenge can lead to an endless cycle of violence, explicitly telling his son that he's telling him this out of experience. They don't want Hiccup to be lead astray and hurt by holding and acting on grudges.

There is the potential for Drago, which the comics did try to get into until a certain comic got cancelled and left us with that story unresolved. For newer fans who don't yet know this; Hiccup was actually meant to experience a downward spiral in the comics that take place after Httyd 2. Except the comic that would've concluded this storyline got canceled around the time of THW's release. Probably because THW confirms that Drago is dead while the canceled comic actually had Hiccup face Drago again, the man in hiding after his defeat. Release The Fire Tides!

This entire post just to say... A grudge would've been justified, but Hiccup just doesn't have it in him to hold onto one. Certainly not forever.

#httyd movies #httyd #how to train your dragon #hiccup haddock #toothless #hicctooth #he's too kind #too compassionate #too understanding

62 notes · View notes

bowieandqueen11 · 2 years ago

Text

Kissing Roman Roy Would Include...

Request: oh my god! your kendall roy kissing headcanons were adorable! would it be possible to get some for roman as well? i just know that man is touch starved and definitely had an awkward time kissing the reader early on in their relationship. obviously, you can choose to ignore but thank you!

Awww yes of course you can get some my love this man is 100% touch starved you’re so right <3

LADS OKAY I’M COMING BACK TO SAY THIS IS NEARLY 7K AND MY LONGEST FIC BY FAR LMAOO BABYGIRL CODED anyway comments are much appreciated because I am so tired lol ty ty ily all! :)

Warning: mentions of injuries/ blood, childhood abuse, and some swearing! Also MAJOR spoilers for Season 4!!

(I do not own Succession or its characters, all rights go to creators. Gif credit goes to @xihatiancai.)

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°

We all really took one look at Roman Roy and went wet pathetic disgusting meow meow man I love you, and I really love and appreciate that for all of us. Because like... if not babygirl, why babygirl coded?

The first time you guys ‘kissed’, you were both around seven years old: on the tennis court, Shiv had sent a ball flying at Roman that had bent his hand backwards, and left quite a nasty gash of blood running down his arm. Instead of comforting the brother she had just bruised for the umpteenth time, the set of Roman crawling down to sit on the grass while cradling his arm just made her furious, and she went storming off towards the kitchen for some chocolate milk to cool down. You had been watching from the doubles side line, dropping your own racket as soon as Roman began to snivel, squeezing his skin back together and wincing as warm blood gushed out onto the grass. You run over to kneel in front of him, the harsh rays of light blushing across your head like a halo as you grab onto his elbow. You press the back of your shirt against it, hoping it will do until a nurse or one of the waiters comes running out with a first aid kit; as you glance up, the furious face of his father comes pacing past the balcony doors, and so you turn Roman’s head to look at you instead, praying that he won’t spot him. It will only make him whine more. It surprises you when he curses curtly instead at the feel of your fingers pressing down hard against his wound, but when you mumble an apology he finally stops scowling down at the ground and looks up: it’s as if he’s seeing you properly for the first time. His eyes light up as you gently lean down and press a kiss against the bloodstains; just the slightest hint of pressure, and tingling warmth of your your lips is enough to send a flourish through his body and make Roman Roy feel nourished. No longer withered, no longer left to rot. Roman gazes up at you: past the dappled sunlight, past the dotted clouds, past the earth and skies and heavens, and past it all he sees you.

You’re the first and last person he’s ever wanted to kiss. Like craving poison, he knows it will pass through and destroy him if he allows himself to indulge. But by god, if it wouldn’t taste so sweet as it pours down his throat and overwhelms every dilapidated part of his body.

The first time he works up the nerves to kiss you back, is in one of the pool storage huts just past the outer boundaries of his father’s estate. Shiv had finally convinced her father to allow her out into the city to go shopping for some new suits, and Ken had been chained into a business meeting to take notes for Logan, so Roman had been left all alone to wander around the ostentatious shadows and lonely halls of the house he hated to call home. Feeling trapped, like he couldn’t breathe, he wanders towards the ‘safe space’ the two of you had created a couple of years ago: a small nook you and Roman had spent the day nestling out (and nearly breaking his arm shoving unused surfboards and pool cleaning chemical boxes) in the dim, and slightly damp room. Finally feeling at home as he stepped into the mildew-steeped scent cloud that enveloped the square box stuffed full of things his father had wanted out of his sight, his heart is allieved to spot you already there. You don’t even have to look up from your book as he comes dawdling towards you like a puppy afraid it’s about to be kicked. When you open your arm up to him willingly, the true him comes leaping forth: like a darting hummingbird, he comes flying into your side, nestling his chin on the hard part of your shoulder so he can scan the words lazily past your head. After about half an hour of him gripping onto your shirt, as sweet and softly as infant spring, he glances up towards your face and an overwhelming urge overtakes him. Before he can stop himself, before he can make sense of his decision, before he can chide himself for his weakness, he lifts his head up and presses his lips firmly, if a little harshly, against the side of your cheek. Your book crashes to the floor with a thunderous slap, lifting a small cloud of dust as you raise your fingers to the wet spot in surprise. He immediately shuffles backwards at the noise, before making an awkward, fumbling excuse and running out the door.

He never brings it up again, but whenever you’re round at the Roy residence after that you can feel the intensity of his eyes land on you far more often. He blinks away and scratches the back of his neck nonchalantly whenever you catch him, or sometimes scrunches his nose up and starts biting the edges of his fingernails if he’s really nervous. But the love is there. He just can’t say it yet.

Once, when you were the only person in the house besides Connor and Logan, you were asked by the second-born eldest son to help him find Romie. With a concerned sigh, Connor wanders off to check behind the bathroom door off the living room, his lips forming a tight line as he disappears off down the corridor. Turns out, Logan had found out that Roman had been the one to spill his ice cream cone in the car on the way back from his fencing lesson, and Roman had run off cursing and crying when he heard the roar reverberate out from his father’s office at the news. You know where he is, instinctively. Of course you do: you don’t even need to think as your feet guide you towards his bedroom, and your body shrinks down to scoot under the bed and lie on the pristinely clean floorboards. He’s hiding behind the tendril weeds of his fear, making himself as small a target as possible as he balls himself up, trembling like heavy branches when lanced with frost. From behind his raised elbows that protect his face, he’s sniffling, his feet leaving the ground every few seconds from how harshly they shake. You lie down carefully on your side beside him, so hyperaware of any part of yourself brushing against him, in case the wounded creature decides to bolt. Thankfully, he comes sliding towards you, only stopping when your chest does the job for him; being as physically close as he can get to you, he huddles into your embrace while you stroke back the few curls by his ear. Once you’ve finally managed to choke back your own tears, your lips latch onto the spot of skin by the lobe of his ear, eyes closing and ticking his skin. He warbles against you, shivering, and the kiss just makes him whine more harrowingly against your chest.

Romie’s always around you. Always. He finds it difficult to actually be physically intimate, so it says quite plainly (even if you can’t understand it yet) that you’re the love of his life when he comes barrelling down the front stairs of the veranda and straight into your hug whenever your first foot falls onto the estate. It also means that during family dinners, when he’s finally mastering the skill of slouching back in his wishbone chair and tuning out all the horrible and spiteful things wrapped up in faux sincerity his family are saying about each other, he turns instead to kick your feet under the table. The brush of his ankle against your shoe is soon followed by the heavy pressure of his fingers reaching over onto your lap and entangling with your own. When the two of you are finally excused, you decide not to go back inside straight away. Instead, the two of you go for a dander around some of the verdant fields around the edges of the property: a few green patches here there that are filled with the scent of honeysuckle and freshly blooming rainbows splattered amongst the dirt. You decide to stop and sit for a while on the edge of a cobbled stone wall, laughing as Roman nearly falls off the uneven patch as he settles down beside you. He shrugs you off with a wave of his hand, but he’s smiling as you pluck a daisy from between the blades and tuck it behind his ear. For a while, the two of you just exist: watching the sunset brew violet and lilac gleams across your eyeline, talking shite and poking fun at each other, until Roman shyly takes a break from his rapid talking to blink slowly. He leans his torso forward, and after a bashful burn flickers over his cheeks, he squeezes his eyes shut and plants a wet kiss against your cheek, just like he had done all those years before.

He climbs into your room later that night, and you nearly hit him with a baseball bat when you come strolling out of your bathroom to see a teenager laying splayed out in a heap on your rug, a few pages of your homework flying over your desk from where he had banged his knee and tripped. With a lopsided grin, he decides to just stay lying there (once you had convinced him that you weren’t going to actually hit him). Sometimes Roman just likes to watch what you’re doing: to observe as an outsider what normality, what contentment should and could feel like. As you sit by your lamp and finish off your english essay for the next morning, you notice with furrowed eyebrows that Roman is moochier than normal tonight: he keeps squirming, rolling about and whining as if he’s debating something in his mind. That’s why when he’s gripping onto the ivy and finally climbing back down into the darkness later that night, you grab onto the collar of his sherpa jacket and heave him up through the air like a flustered bird towards you. After his initial surprise at the feeling of you pounding your lips against his own, he melts into you: clumsily, messily, desperately, but with one hand gripping so hard onto your window frame that he splinters the wood. His top lip refuses to let you go: capturing onto your bottom lip over and over and over again, the sweet taste of cherry flooding your senses as you bite down on the lip forcing its way into your mouth. When he pulls away, he looks so uncharacteristically serious for a moment as he hovers a few inches away from your face. His eyes never break from your lips, as if he he looks away the miracle he’s been graced with might fly away and he’ll be left with the hellish nightmare of his normal reality. But it doesn’t, and so you let him go.

He burns a crimson red and starts muttering incoherently as his feet work their way back down the garden lattice, but he’s got this giddy smile and a spring in his swishing walk the whole way home.

I mean, like, of course Connor invited you on the camping trip. And man, I mean the tension that had been expanding between you and Roman over the last few years was becoming more and more obvious to his brothers, and it pierced Roman’s heart with a stroke of fear when he realised it was to him as well. Connor’s little fishing expedition by the river turned out a little differently than he expected: instead of a placid moment between family, learning and teaching new skills together and bonding over one activity they could all share in, it was more of a ‘watch little gremlin Roman flirt obnoxiously with Y/n and, once again, ignore everyone else’ fest. Kendall sat on the shore, itchy against the reeds of grass and sighing every time he looked down at his watch. Connor was still having fun, though, from where he was wading his brand new, and never worn again wellies into the shallow end of the creek. It was just that every now and then he would have to trip over his fishing line and scoot to the right to avoid large splashes of weedy water landing on him; Roman had decided a much better use of his time was to try and pull up handful of mud and chase you around the river side with it. Your squeals, as you ran around the tamarack trees and peered around the sides like a meerkat, could be heard from the campsite. So, too, could Roman’s hyena laugh as he went laughing around the bend after you, and Connor had to spend half the night ignoring your shared snickers as he apologies to camper after camper.

I don’t even know how, but somehow the two of you managed to convince Connor that it was a great idea for you and Roman to share a tent. Thanks to Kendall’s pointed warning for the two of you to behave and ‘not embarrass the family name anymore’, you were both surprisingly well behaved during the night. Mainly due to the fact that before you fell asleep, you leant over and left a chaste kiss against Roman’s cold forehead, before turning onto your side facing him and wishing him a goodnight. He wiggled down into his sleeping bag like a little worm as the electricity from your touch spread down like firebolts through his body. That man did not sleep one wink that night. Not one. Instead he rolled onto his left side, and chose to spend his time contemplating you: taking you in. The milky buzz of twilight flooded through the loose zip, the chirp of bouncing crickets on the darkened rocks outside match the intense thudding of his heart. Fumbling his fingers up so they rested underneath the side of his jaw, he made himself comfortable as he observed the way your chest rose and fall: the way your nose crinkled up in disgust when you were in the throes of a weird dream, the way your mouth mushed as you turned more into the stony ground. How much he loved you. How happy he could be if he could just summon the bravery to tell you. How fucked he was. How, if he did, his father would immediately utilise it, weaponize his love against him.

Roman wasn’t stupid, but he was. He didn’t know if he could find a way to escape this cage. Deep in his heart, he knew there was no key to this dog kennel, to this bird cage, to this leash. But he lay there, still, dreaming of freedom.

You get invited along on their family holidays a lot, mainly because Logan spends his whole time on phone calls and not mentally being present so he doesn’t really notice you’re there. If you and Roman aren’t spending the afternoons sitting together on a sun lounger, reading aloud softly to him by the pool side, it’s spent actually in the pool. A freshly seventeen year old Roman had seemed nervous, besides the usual annoyance at having to wear nothing but swimming shorts: shaken all day; when you touch his pinkie finger and grip onto it, silently asking him with your stern expression if you were okay, only the most miniscule of grins could cross his face in response. He still seemed unsettled in the water, besides the fact that Shiv’s foot nearly thwacked him up the face as she and Kendall wrestled each other under the water, both unrelenting in their accusation that the other had lost their splashing match. While you watched on in horrified curiosity, you nearly jumped when you felt Roman softly touch your elbow and lead you away from the affray. You think he’s trying to guide you towards the Jacuzzis as you bob across the water, or perhaps back to his room to escape the antics of his family. Instead, Roman leads you further into the deep end for a moment; after a sharp turn right, you’re surrounded by a small well, a shallow area just out of sight of the main swimming area. The imposing walls loom over your head as you take a perched seat on the brick bench that runs around the semi-circle, and Roman’s breath trembles as he follows suit, sitting maddingly close to you. You open your mouth to ask him what’s going on, but before you can get a squeak out he’s lunged at you, fervently enough to make you nearly bite your tongue. It’s not super romantic, and it’s incredibly clumsy as an inexperienced Roman Roy mashes his lips against your bottom one until he can feel his teeth clash against yours. You can taste a touch of pineapple from the inside of his mouth as he sloppily raises his cupid’s bow, and soon after the tang of chlorine as he falls too far forward and sends you both tumbling backwards into the water. But when you come back up for air, heaving him up by his underarms and staring dumbstruck at him as he pants heavily and tries to look anywhere else, you burst out giggling. Roman’s smile grows brightly enough to blight the sun as he looks incredulously at you, the laughter only stopping short on his lips when he catches the squinting look of his sister watching the two of you from the boundary edge.

It’s the first and last time Roman Roy kisses you for a while, terrified that one of his siblings will go squealing to daddy and he’ll take you away from him. And then, suddenly, the two of you have grown up. Roman’s still stuck to you like glue, but the repression festers away in his stomach until he feels as if some kind of scaly tooth monster is gnawing away at his insides. He feels the leather tighten around his neck whenever he’s standing like an affronted ostrich in that office with his father, his master, his demise, his ghost, him.

So, Roman starts to try and avoid you whenever he’s at Waystar, worried that the grief that never seems to leave his mind will strangle you if he lets you in. Terrified that his father will die, but also that his father will never die. That this is just another cage. Eventually, after weeks of him turning on his heels with a manic jolt and running out of every board room he spots you in: after months of the child dressed up as a man putting his phone to his ear and having nonsensical phone calls every time he passes you in the corridors, you manage to nab him when he’s walking out of the break room. Even though a stuttering cousin Greg thinks you’re trying to kidnap him when you grab Roman by the collar and start dragging him to the elevator, you refuse to let go until Greg’s waving hand is firmly shut behind the metal sheets. You let go, and he fumbles backwards onto the hand-rail that runs around the small rectangle with a bemused ‘what the actual fuck’, but you just cross your arms and stare at him, refusing to talk first.

Your austere façade quickly drops, and you’re quick to slam your first into the emergency button on the panel, gripping onto Roman’s sleeve as the elevator lurches to a stop between the twenty-second and twenty-third floors. A kind of acceptance has washed over Roman, some kind of known and familiar claustrophobia from having spent his whole life locked up, his whole life thrown about sets in. He picks at his fingernails as his eyes dart about, wild and brutal and crushing as he looks around for an escape route. It’s only when you put a hand on his shoulder and draw him in for a hug that he breaks down; he squats down so the two of you are resting a few inches off the floor, his face buried just atop of your heart as he shakes and he cries and he allows himself the security to just crumble. To melt down. To kick his feet and hope his father feels the wring of the shackles against his own ankles. He hopes for the first time in his life, as you stroke the back of his head and shush him comfortingly, that they hurt him.

Something changes between the two of you that day. You’re kinder to each other, and slowly to yourselves. It’s not outspoken, or rushed, or ravenous, but it begins to grow and grow and grow until it’s not only confusion and anguish that lies at the pit of Roman’s rotting core.

It starts with him becoming more comfortable showing affection to you around his family. Like you sitting on Roman’s lap at Shiv’s wedding reception, not listening to the speeches but trying to hide your giggles in Roman’s palms as he’s busy trying to take roses out of the centre piece and pin them through your hair. Or his full weight against you during the professional photos out on the balcony, and not even Shiv flicking her brother or Tom waving his hand at Roman to try and get him to behave could stop him from leaning backwards and planting a kiss underneath your jawline once the man said he was taking the final photograph. The two of you go out into the gardens later that night, trying to escape the ear-hammering loud beats of the D.J., and to try and make an early escape from the growing fight that seemed to be coming between Tom and Shiv’s old work acquaintance. With two beers and slightly tipsy heads, you sit down and talk on the dew-ridden grass, shoulders swaying against the other’s in time with the falling pine leaves. You felt like children again, and against the smouldering clash of fireworks that brandished the sky in bursts of red and gold, you both felt undying as well. He kisses you then, his hand reaching up to brush against the side of your cheek, his bottom lip teasingly tugging at your bottom lip and making you swat him away with a laugh. As you take his hand in your own and press a promise filled kiss against his middle knuckle, he hopes that one day he’ll be able to kiss you at your own wedding.

When you know he’s having a rough day at work, you like to try and sneak into his office and wrap your arm around his stomach, peppering kisses up and down his spine. Although he tries to shake you off like a startled starling at first, when he realises that you also managed to close the blinds on your way in without him noticing, he quickly relinquishes himself onto your barrage of adoration. He becomes all whiny, and soft, and needy, and all the things he’ll never allow himself to be outside of the security blanket of this closed off room. Although he still isn’t comfortable with anything too sexual, you won’t find him complaining as he wrestles you to the sofa. Once you’ve had the wind knocked out of your lungs, and Roman’s satisfied with how fully you’re splayed out on your back before him, he’ll go scuttling over to the end of the sofa and kneel down beside it. With a mischievous glimmer in his eye, he’ll swish his hips from side to side and come crawling up the sides of his body like a wolf slinking towards its dinner. Then he attacks: his tongue heavy and slick as he draws a hickey out just under the pulse point on your neck, pressing him firmly against you if you try to squirm away, chiding you with a warning. When it becomes too much, he lets you grip him up by his tie and walk him backwards until his thighs hit his desk. He jumps up to perch on it, and you stand between his legs as they tighten around you. You’re slow and careful as you loosen the material between your fingers, opening the first button of his shirt, and only the first so he doesn’t become too uncomfortable, with a satisfying loud pop. He whimpers as you lean over to scrape your teeth against the exposed skin, working your way up until your lips are tantalisingly hovering over the stubble on his jaw. He can feel your breath, hot and unsteady as it pants against him, but he still can’t stop the shiver that racks through him as he takes your hand and guides them under his shirt. With your hands firmly planted against his abdomen, you look at him quizzically, worried, but he just keeps his fingers on top of your own and answers you by sweetly pressing his top lip over his own. Just once, he wanted to feel safe, to feel okay with the love of his life touching his body.

The two of you have this game where you try to steal kisses from each other during the most inappropriate and annoying times possible. Oh, Shiv’s trying to talk to you in her kitchen about how her trip to England went? Roman barges in between the two of you, nearly making Shiv chop her thumb off, just so he can interrupt his sister by smirking against your mouth. Kendall wants to run through a presentation the two of them have to give the next morning? You’re grabbing onto Roman’s head as you run through the office, nearly giving him a heart attack as he scrambles backwards and allows you to drop his head back onto the cushion. With a full plant landing on his already pliant lips, Kendall’s left with a fed-up ‘hey’, yet unsurprised look of disappointment on his face as you run off back to your own desk.

When his father called Romie a moron in Prague, the look of desolation that crossed through his teary eyes was enough to make an angel weep. But it broke you even more when he pattered out of the dining area, walking shoulder to shoulder with you, but not saying anything. He was just staring down at his hands as if they were blotted: stained with specks of blood, and he would have to spend another sleepless night scrubbing them out of his skin. It wasn’t the first time he heard it, but it was the first time you were there to hear it too, and you weren’t going to let him get comfortable wallowing in that fearful acceptance. You grip onto his shoulder and steer him away from the milling crowd of sheep, stuffing him into a bathroom stall of the east wing of the hotel. Crowded together, Roman’s hamstring bumps against the porcelain as the two of you scoot about until you’re standing facing each other as best as you could. He looks at you, bleary eyed, and you look at him, bleary eyed. He breaks. Choking, gasping, breathless sobs, drowning in his misery. He grabs onto your shirt, clawing into the meat of your shoulders as if he’ll sink if he lets go. He keeps babbling through bubbles of spit about how he just wants to make his father proud, how he wants to be just like him, how he wants to prove that he can rule all this too. How he can never replace him. But he can. He wants it all to burn, but he wants to stand on the ruins and be the one to plant the foundations again. To make a better world, in honour of his father: in honour of the god of war that rages within his head. You press quick kisses on his sweaty forehead whenever you can, doing your best to dodge the quick turns of his head and wiping away the trails of tears with your thumb. All you can do in that moment, as you press your lips against the side of his ear and whisper it to the most intimate, lost parts of himself, is to let him know that you’re proud of him, no matter what happens next. You always have been, and even the ghost of Logan that possess Roman can’t stop that.

The sloppy kisses he gives you the next morning omg. When the two of you are sitting on your bedroom steps, and you’re biting your bottom lip in concentration as you try to do up the buttons of his dress shirt and make him look presentable in front of his family. Like a feral dog, he uses all of his leftover energy trying to nip and bite your fingertips, catching them on his tongue and pursing them against the roof of his mouth whenever he can.

You cannot convince me that Roman isn’t a jealous bitch. Like at Kendall’s fortieth birthday party, when he finally gives up trying to get up into his special little secret treehouse club, and Shiv has left him to go ham on the dance floor instead. You finally manage to convince him into relaxing for a fricking minute, making him join you at the bar. If someone tries to grab your waist, though, or butt into your conversation while the two of you are hyena giggling and seeing who can spurt more beer into the other’s face, Roman will full on goad them into fighting him. I mean, chest puffed out, crazed look in his face, hands up by his side until they send a weak shove in their general direction. It only ends when Roman either: near topples you to press a bracing kiss against your lips, or you dragging him off and having to hold him through the brackets of his arms. In the corner of the room, over by the sheets of warbling fire that seems to be coming from a central room, you stand behind his feet and wrap your arms up his chest. You can feel the fury roll off him, allowing him a moment to blow off the steam, until his head finally falls like putty and begins to synchronise his breathing to yours again after you hold your lips against the nape of his neck.

The kisses when he comes back after being held hostage (I am doing this so out of order apologies) omg??? He clambers sombrely to sit beside you on the deck of the boat, looking so out of place and serious as he leans back against the cushions. His siblings make fun of him, and tease him, and although he realises it’s harmless and he’ll see it as a key bonding moment a couple of years down the line, in the inside the typical Roy storm is brewing. He can’t say anything: just hides behind the jokes and snide comments so the words don’t choke him. You just feel his weight fall against yours little by little, until his hand reaches out and takes your own so tightly you know it’s going to bruise. The muscle in his jaw tightens and he squeezes his eye shut in an enduring pain at the sight of his father’s helicopter coming in to land. So, for that kind second before his life comes crashing back down around him again and he has to revert back, to hide behind the brick wall again, you take him over to the railings. It’s just the two of you, the warm sea salt stinging against your grimacing faces, and the ungodly sight of a near-naked Cousin Greg lying stretched out beside the slide below you. After a few goes, you manage to unlatch his claws from the white metal and replace them with your soothing palm, rubbing semi-circles against the back of his hand. You’re here. You’re here, with him. You’re not going to let him go it alone again, if he wants.

And he does. He could cry, he so desperately does. Some of the tension falls from his shoulders as he raises your joint hands to his lips and kisses them, gracing over every inch of skin his mouth can latch onto.

You both know, in that moment, that it’s enough. It’s a promise. You’ll stick together, no matter what. You’ll love each other through everything, no matter what. You’ll stay around, no matter what or who he becomes.

Which brings me to... kissing him when you find out about the passing of his father. Standing on that boat, on the most joyous of occasions, feeling as if the whole world is shattering around you. Feeling miserable at the knowledge that deep down, some part of you is overjoyed by the news. Feeling even more downtrodden to realise, as the streaky eyes and thousand-stare faces of the Roy siblings flash back and forth in your line of sight as they pass the phone to each other, that Logan will never really be gone. They’re talking to his lifeless, empty shell through the speakers, but it doesn’t matter, because he’s here in this room. He’s staring through their eyes. Talking in their quivering, harsh voices. Pounding through their feet. Tearing them apart as they try to cling onto each other. In their accusations that burst through their mouths innately. In the ordered instructions hurled out to keep business running smoothly. Hidden between the cracks of their voices as they sharpen their words and seethe them out between clenched teeth when the slightest chance of Logan even being dead is raised. He’s here, right now, as you let go of the death grip Kendall and Shiv have on both of your hands and catch sight of Roman rocking backwards and forth on the floor.

Giving a final squeeze of apology to Connor’s arm, you take Roman out of the room before he combusts. The whole air seems to be chilled: still, like something’s lurking unspoken between the threads of air. Like you’re leading Roman through the cold remains of a morgue. He wanders around for a minute, not even hearing the click of the door as you close it behind you. Not even crying. Not even speaking. For the first time in his life, he looks so much like his father. Too much. It scares you. Until eventually he just closes his eyes and trods over to the wall, thumping his forehead down on the cool metal until it burns. He holds his hand out to you, cufflinks gleaming like the edge of a knife past the ceiling lights, as if he’s offering a contract out to you. Apprehensively, your tentative hand creeps out and places itself gingerly on top of his own. He takes it, his dry lips latching onto you until the bridge of his nose is resting now upon your hand. The deal is done.

When you get back to your apartment though, and Romie finds out that Matsson wants him to fly out and meet him in Norway... that’s when Roman gets weird. Devastated. Freaks out. Grieves. You come out from your shower, wearing one of his suit shirts as your pyjama top, and he doesn’t even give a whistle of appreciation. Instead he’s crumpled on the floor by the canopy of your bed, cradling his knees to his chest, swearing into his kneecaps furiously. But you - you, oh god, you’re the only thing that can stop him from being swallowed up by Logan’s fury. You tilt his chin up during a tangled rush of expletives I don’t dare to copy down here, a scowl setting itself into his face like stone. It begins to soften when he realises you’re touching him, when he can feel the scrape of your nail around his jugular. You do your best to warble an unconvincing smile as you turn his head to the side, so you can better wipe your bottom lip against the edge of his throbbing mouth. You mould yourself to him, working at his pace as he winces at first, before slowly falling more and more easily into your grip. His hands loosen from his arms and fall onto your triceps as he deliriously tries to come back to himself through searching through the velvety warmness of your mouth: by swiping against your tongue and choking back his grievances as you pant into his open, waiting mouth.

You wake him up the next day with a fond kiss against the tip of his nose, and for the first time in a long while he smiles before he wakes fully up. The morning light cradles his bleary face as he sleepily runs a few fingers over the edge of your cheek, before cradling himself into your side again. He feels safe, weary, anguished, loved enough to fall asleep again, after pressing a few gentle licks behind your earlobes to try and hear you laugh again. Even through it all, his main concern is you.

You trace his features while he restlessly dreams, although he squirms from time to time and alludes you to the fact that he’s secretly awake. A kiss here, between the junctions of wrinkles on his furrowed forehead. A kiss there, on the patchy stubble just underneath his left ear. A few there on the dark circles underneath his eyes, until you’re balancing over him and holding yourself up by the hands splayed over his pillow. He just needs to be reminded he’s beautiful from time to time. That he’s perfect. That he doesn’t need to try and be someone else. To encapsulate his father.

But also like, Roman fucking hates Matsson. The way he looks at you during the whole field trip, like a hunter about to swallow its prey whole. Although the continuous comments about his family, and the two new Co-Ceo’s, and the legacy of his father make him burn down to the pit of his stomach with a white hot fury, he can deal with them if he would just leave you the fuck alone. He doesn’t take kindly to anyone but him looking at his soulmate with such adoration and lust in their eyes, so if that overgrown yeti gives you the up and down check out one more time he might actually just deck him in the middle of the retreat. He bites down on his tongue so harshly that his taste buds begin to bubble and prickle with blood, deciding it best to storm off and collect his thoughts before he lashes out and does something he can’t take back. You finally manage to track him down a little way off the beaten track, winding your way over some cobbled steps to find a branched alcove with nothing but a bench and a breath taking view of the gushing river down below. He’s hunched over with his fingers knotted over his knees, his lips so tightly drawn together that at first you don’t even spot the droplets of blood until he turns with a raised eye to look at you.

He knows it’s not your fault, so there’s no convincing or apologies when you join him. Just Roman finally getting all of that pent up sorrow and distress out. After an awkward moment of bouncing your foot up and down, you decide your best course of action is to just open your arm up to him again, like you used to do when you were children. At first he raises a confused eyebrow, before the realisation dawns over his face, and his features crumble. His lips purse, his throat bobbing as he heaves the tears back down, but he can’t stop his lips from trembling as he falls into your side. That kiss was the sweetest, as he leans his chin familiarly against your shoulder and bumps noses with your own. He frowns, sobbing at the knowledge that he can kiss you, finally, in the way he’s been yearning for all his life, and yet it all feels so wrong. So upside down. So far away from what he had dreaming. The freedom feels like a tether, and yet he juts his chin out and latches placidly onto your bottom lip anyway, the tears trickling down and falling between your mouths.

It’s an act of defiance. A key sliding into the lock. He still can’t say it, but he won’t allow himself to smother the feeling anymore. The first sip of poison gliding down his throat, and Roman prays as he presses his forehead tearfully against your own, that it would kill the Logan part of him first.

963 notes · View notes

noxturnalnymph · 10 months ago

Text

Devotion 🖤 II. Predator or Prey? (Ch 6)

CultLeader!Joel x OFC!Reader

Series Summary: When is it enough? When is it too much? When does Devotion become Obsession?

Visit the Series Masterlist for series warnings, cult info, timeline info, and HCs on ages. Reader has a nickname and some minor physical descriptions - is an OFC from Reader POV.

*This series is 18+ MDNI. I will not be listing individual chapter warnings as I don't want to spoil the plot of each chapter. Please see the series masterlist for entire series warnings to decide if this is for you.*

⚠️PLEASE PAY ATTENTION TO THE SERIES WARNINGS, ESPECIALLY: possessiveness, manipulation, Joel gets mean, Joel gets verbally and physically abusive.⚠️

LAYOUT OF JOEL'S HOUSE

II. Predator or Prey?

CH 6 (5.8k)

It’s two weeks into the New Year and you’ve been spending every day plotting and planning how to keep away from Joel. It’s not easy, especially since you don’t even have a bedroom door to keep his wandering eyes from staring at you while you get ready in the mornings, as he stands in the hallway in overbearing silence. Your task was made even tougher when Tess said he wouldn’t allow you to leave the house anymore for your daily chores.

You’re stuck inside this dusty old prison all day, awaiting his return. The day might go as usual and he’ll threaten to force feed you at meal time. Maybe it will be another glorious day of him digging bruises into your arms or throwing you against walls. What if he really changed things up and grunted all sorts of fucked up things in your ear while you brushed your teeth? Oh wait, he already does that.

As snarky as you try to be about it – lamenting your life as you drape yourself over the couch, passing the hours in silence and slowly going mad – the whole situation really stresses you out. You weigh your feelings of safety and security in this community with the vicious and unpredictable behavior you’ve been enduring in this house. Is it still worth it to stay here? Are you better off in The Valley or would you be better off out there, alone in the wilderness? You’re on edge all the time, never sure what’s going to set him off. You spend so much time thinking about him, every moment you’re awake really, just so you can try to avoid him as much as possible.

He used to be on your mind all the time, thinking about his body on yours, the warmth of his skin under your hands. You’d fantasize about a future with him and what that might be like, letting him protect you and take care of you. Now you think about if you’re always going to be this hurt by his duplicity, feel this raw about his deception. Deep down, in a place you don’t like to acknowledge, you still wonder if there’s any future for the two of you. You push that thought away to compose a plan for how to stay out of his way when he gets home for the day.

And yet, every night at dinner you sit right next to him, unable to escape, watching out of your peripheral vision as he stares you down with a hateful look in his eyes. There was a time when you thought that the scariest thing he could do was touch you without your permission. But now he touches you every day – with open palms and closed fists, clutching fingers and rough grips. You never even considered these kinds of touches as an option from the man who used to be so gentle and tender with you. That man is gone.

This day, however, looks like it might turn out alright when Sasha and Tess return shortly before sunset from a scavenging trip they made to a family lodge situated on a rocky outcropping a few hours hike west of The Valley. They pile their haul on the dining room table, emptying out packs and bags they came back with stuffed full, and a stack of books catches your eye.

“Who are these for?”

“Anyone,” Sasha answers while sorting the clothes by size into neatly folded piles. “There were a bunch in a makeshift library up there but most of the collection was damaged by water and mildew. There were only a few we could salvage.”

You stand still, staring at the books, not wanting to pilfer something that Tess and Sasha worked hard to collect for the entire Valley. Tess sees you hesitating and pushes the stack towards you.

“Go ahead, look through ‘em and read any you want,” she shrugs. “When you’re done we can put ‘em back in the community library.”

You lift the first book up, going through the stack slowly, not recognizing any titles. The first two are young adult books, their covers adorned with pennants for their high school team and smiling teens talking on the phone. The third is the 1994 National Electric Code Handbook and the fourth is a non-fiction book on the Native American tribes that once inhabited New England. But the fifth one makes you stop in your tracks.

The fifth book is your favorite book.

You turn it over in your hands, its dust jacket long since removed. The faded red hardcover is soft with wear, but the simple tree in gold foil on the front is still gleaming. The Secret Garden. Your eyes begin to sting as you recall the places your imagination used to take you to when you read this story, wishing as a child that you had a secret garden of your own to find, hide away in, and restore to glory. You kind of wish you had one now.

“You read that one?” Sasha calls over her growing piles.

“Yeah,” you whisper, your voice breaking, “It’s my favorite book.” You look up and meet her face, tears in your eyes. But she’s not looking at you. She’s looking past you, face solemn. Your smile disappears as you slowly turn around, already knowing what you’re going to see. You don’t look at his face. You don’t meet his eyes. You take trembling breaths as your eyes fall on the center of his chest, less than a foot distance between you. Joel.

Favorite book you’d said. Just like that. Offered it up like the most casual thing in the world. But would you tell him when he asked? Of course not. He gave you so much. He gave you food and shelter. He told you about himself – shit, he even told you about Sarah. But you wouldn’t tell him about a stupid fucking book, wouldn’t give him your fucking name, even after all this time. Wouldn’t give him what he needed.

You. He needed you.

You withholding little bitch.

He grabs the book out of your hands, turning it to read the title on the spine.

“Look at me,” he demands.

You don’t.

He doesn’t ask again. He lifts the book to your eye line, grabbing a chunk of pages in his right hand and yanking them out of the spine. He holds his hand up and releases the pages, letting them flutter to the ground, single sheets and some clusters still bound together covering your socked feet. The tears collecting at your waterline spill over and you let out a quiet whimper. He shoves the carcass of the book back into your hands and walks out of the room, a satisfied smirk on his face.

Tess follows him, pushing open the closing door of his office behind him.

“Why’d you do that to her?” she asks, stepping into the darkening room, the short winter day having just seen the sun set.

“Don’t give her any more books,” he snaps, ignoring her question.

“You made her cry–”

“Oh boo-fuckin’-hoo, she’s always cryin’.” Her eyes are adjusting to the dark and she sees him moving across the room.

“Joel–”

“No more books,” he shouts, turning to stomp back to where she stands. “She has a fuckin’ book and it’s out there sittin’ on the mantle,” he points at the wall, momentarily acknowledging the book he pretends he hasn’t seen remain untouched since Christmas, everytime he walks through the goddamn room.

Tess holds her hands up in defeat and backs out of the room, leaving him alone to pace and grumble to himself. She decides to make a plan that night, determined to find a way to snap Joel out of it and keep you safe in the meantime.

–

Alone again, Joel feels himself thickening in his pants and he wants to scream, wants to put his fist through the wall. He wants to shake you and slap you and squeeze you and make you look at him like you did before. You won’t look at him at all. Why won’t you fucking look at him?

There’s no moon in the night sky so even with multiple windows in this room it remains quite dark. He rounds his desk, bumping his hip into the corner as he throws himself into his chair. He pulls open a bottom desk drawer and withdraws an item he’s kept hidden under a pile of maps: a pair of your underwear. He remembers the night he took them, the week before everything went to shit. Before you looked at him like everyone else. Before you broke yourself open for him. Before his true self was revealed to you.

Before you hated him.

He shucks his jeans open and reaches into his pants, his dick already hard. He spits into his hand and begins stroking up and down, bringing your underwear to his face and taking deep inhales, setting a fast pace. As he takes whiffs, he opens his mouth, letting the heady scent of you permeate all his senses, rolling his eyes back into his head. He thinks about that night he pulled these down your legs, how you looked on all fours bared open for him and the way you rolled your hips, moaning his name. He thinks about what you tasted like when you came on his face.

He hisses, squeezing hard at the base of his shaft, suddenly aware that he’s about to come much too quickly. He slams the underwear down on the desk, cursing that he lets you affect him like this. He’s barely touched himself these past weeks, getting too angry every time he thinks about you and how badly he wants you, how you won’t give him what he wants. He’s neglected the aching hardness he awakes with each morning and ignored the other women knocking on his bedroom door at night, knowing it isn’t you on the other side. You won’t give him what he needs.

He wraps his hand around his shaft and resumes stroking, slowly this time, staring at the underwear he’d stuck in his back pocket after you begged him to take them off and keened when his mouth touched you. His eyes have adjusted to the dim room and he thinks he can see a stain on the gusset, reaching forward to brush his thumb along the fabric. His calloused finger scrapes across the dried remnants of your arousal and he groans loudly, squeezing his cock firmly again, willing himself not to come yet.

He watches his hand continue slow movements on his length, rolling his fingers along the underside of his head, over the tip, gathering the precum there to swirl and spread on his downward strokes. Why the fuck does he let you do this to him? Why does he let you get in his fucking head? He can’t control himself, he’s losing his goddamn mind. He should go back out there and grab you by the hair, drag you in here, and remind you how lucky you are to be here.

He looks over at the couch he used to sit with you on. He should throw you over that couch, pull your pants down past your ass and fuck you from behind. He’d grab the books he’d read to you off the shelf and smack your ass with them, listen to you cry out and whimper, hear your growing wetness as his cock pounds your perfect, willing pussy. He’d make you grovel for his forgiveness, make you beg him to let you come. He’d make you thank him for your Christmas gift. He’d make you fucking look at him.

That’s what he’d do.

He’d grab your face and make you look him in his eyes while you came, feeling the spasming walls of your cunt around him. He’d keep fucking into you, listening to you wail through your orgasm, watching your eyes roll back and your face go slack. He’d make you watch his cock disappearing inside you, covered with your creamy arousal as he hits that perfect spot deep inside you. The place he earned. The place you refuse to give him. He grabs the underwear off the desk and wraps them around his length, increasing his pace again.

The only sounds in the room are his panting breaths and the thumps of his fist hitting his pelvis with force as he pumps himself over and over. His head is thrown back when he feels the familiar tension in his balls and he brings his chin to his chest to watch his release darken the fabric covering his cockhead. He pulls your underwear off him with one hand and continues to jerk himself with the other, pressing himself down, aiming it so the white ropes pumping out of him cover the stolen garment. His breath hitches in his throat with short, desperate gasps as he squeezes the last of his climax into the cloth.

He clenches his hand around the underwear, letting his spend press between his fingers and run down his fist, dripping onto his denim-covered knees. What a fucking waste. Your denial, your refusal, your goddamn obstinance. Look where it gets him – coming into his hand like a pitiful virgin, as if he can’t get a woman of his own to fuck him. How dare you treat him like this, withhold yourself from him, have him resorting to these degrading acts.

You seem to forget how good you have it in the safety of his dominion, protected under his watchful eye. Maybe you forgot how ugly the world is out there, how cruel people can be. How many people in this world would kill to be in your place? How many women here in The Valley wish they were you, fortunate enough to be the object of his desire? You’re so fucking ungrateful. You need a lesson in how to behave, how to be more appreciative of him. You need to learn some loyalty.

–

The following Thursday you’re facing the front door, bundling up your coat for the walk to the meeting and waiting for Joel to come out of his office to walk with you since you’re not allowed to leave the house without him. You hear the door open but don’t look back until you hear an unexpected noise in the form of a female voice. Kerri is walking with him through the living room. They were in his office together.

It’s fine, you don’t care. You’re not jealous. You have no claim over him. He’s not yours. You don’t want him. He does whatever he wants and you can’t control it. So let him have it his way, you don’t care.

You catch him staring at you out of the corner of your eye but you don’t dare turn your head. You won’t give him the satisfaction. Behind you, you think you hear Kerri getting her coat and shoes on as well. Tess is wiping down the dinner table and sees the group of you gathered at the door.

“Kerri, where are you goin’, hon?”

“She’s coming to the meeting with me,” Joel answers for her. He said me, not us. Like you weren’t even there. You let a scowl take over your face. He’s being such an asshole. Tess doesn’t question him, probably for the best. You hear him huff out a laugh.

You look his way and see the smug grin on his face as he opens the front door and motions for you to go out of it. You don’t let it bother you. It’s fine that he’s bringing Kerri to this meeting even though Thursdays are supposed to be your meeting nights. It’s fine that they walk hand-in-hand behind you on the walk to and from the meeting. It’s also fine that he ordered her to sit in your usual seat next to him at the meeting and for you to sit on the other side of the room instead.

He doesn’t try to put his hands on you, he doesn’t chase you up the stairs. It’s fine. It’s what you wanted. You’re glad for it. So then why do you feel like your insides are on fire and you’re fighting the urge to spill them all over the ground? Back at the house Joel and Kerri head towards his office so you go to the kitchen to get some water and get away from them.

Moments later they’re coming into the kitchen and you hate the way your stomach rolls at the sight of them. Out of the corner of your eye you see her reach into the cupboard for a glass and you watch him push her against the counter, pressing himself into her ass. You just know he’s digging his erection into her. He used to do that to you. You used to like it.

A shiver goes through your body and you almost drop your glass, but as you recover you see in your peripheral vision that he’s watching you. Is he doing this to get a reaction from you? Is he waiting for you to cry again? You won’t give him the satisfaction.

“Goodnight, Kerri,” you say as you turn quickly and head out of the kitchen.

He grabs you before you can even make it through the dining room.

“Not gonna say goodnight to me?” He digs his fingers into the tender underside of your upper arm.

You hiss quietly in pain.

“You should know better than to be so rude,” he spits, bringing his face within inches of your own. “Seems like I need to teach you some fuckin’ manners.”

He lifts his other hand and swats your ass, laughing when you yelp in surprise.

“Well, I’m gonna go to bed,” Kerri says in the doorway.

She might as well be invisible for how Joel completely ignores her while he swats at you a few more times, mumbling how you’re such an ungrateful little cunt in your ear. You try to wriggle away and push him back but his grip only tightens. You’re reminded of a blood pressure cuff, the pressure and pain with which his hand cinches around you.

Has he been playing this charade with Kerri all night just to get a rise out of you? Was he always like this? You thought he was a good man; compassionate, hospitable, affectionate, genuine. Did he only show you enough of himself to lure you, to make you trust him? Was he lying the whole time about his true intentions? Were you really that gullible? God… he’s so fucking manipulative.

You don’t know what you’re thinking but the throbbing in your arm has your free hand scrabbling to get away and before you can measure the consequences of your actions, your open hand slaps across his face. Joel relaxess his grip on your arm immediately, the shock evident on his face, but before you can wrench yourself completely free of his hold, he throws you across the top of the table.

You come crashing down over the other edge, your limbs flailing and knocking over a chair on the way down. Before you can steady yourself enough to stand up on your own, he’s come around the table and put his hands on you again, lifting and shoving you against the front wall. Each hand grips your arm above the elbow, bracing your shoulder blades hard against the wall. His face comes to your neck and you feel him inhaling, feel his moist breath huffing against you, feel his stubble scraping you, feel his tongue dragging along you.

“Why the fuck are you making such a big deal of this bullshit, baby?” he coos. ��The world ended. None of that old nonsense matters anymore.” He moves one hand up to your jaw, gripping your face hard.

“It matters to me,” you squeak through gritted teeth.

“All that matters to you is me, you understand?” He holds you so firmly that you can’t open your mouth to speak or even shake your head in response. “This is all that matters.” He begins to place gentle kisses along your pulse point, in opposition to the crushing embrace he’s got you in.

Eventually he loosens his grip on your jaw and, without hesitation, you take your free arm and place it over his sternum, shoving him backwards as hard as you can. Shock is quickly replaced by anger on his face. You hold your hands out in front of you, distracting him enough to stop his advancing aggression. You gather courage from somewhere deep inside you, lashing out for his callous disregard of you all night followed by this gaslighting manipulation.

“I’m so tired of you spouting your bullshit dogma just to try and get me to fuck you,” you seethe.

He raises his hand like he’s going to slap you but when you hold your head up, somehow managing not to flinch, he doesn’t follow through. Instead he lowers his hand to shove a single finger in your face.

“You think I want to fuck you?,” he bellows, “I don’t want to fuck you. I don’t want to want you. I don’t want to think about you every fucking second of every fucking day.” He reaches forward and grabs the flesh at your hips. You side-step out of his clutch and take a few steps towards the stairs before he grabs you by the wrist and holds it tight. “Do you see how fucking weak you make me?”

You walk backwards, trying to put distance between you but his wrap around your wrist is firm.

“You’re hurting me, Joel,” you mutter. He doesn’t let go.

“Look at me,” he orders. “Fucking look at me, goddamnit.”

You don’t.

Something inside him snaps. He yanks you closer with the hand around your wrist and pulls your body against his so that his chest is to your back, snaking his arms around you and cinching them tight. He scrapes his stubble hard along your neck and buries his nose in your hair, taking several deep inhales and groaning in between breaths.

His lower arm bands across your hips, digging into your soft flesh there while his other arm loosens and moves its way up your front. He grabs one of your breasts tight in his hand and presses his erection against your backside. You’re constricted tight, arms trapped as well, and unable to move away from him. You manage a breathy exhale of his name, meant to serve as a plea, but it can barely be heard.

“You can’t get away from me,” he growls in your ear. “You can never get away from me.”

He goes back to holding you with both arms, wrapped so tight that he knows it’s probably hurting you. You’re clearly struggling to breathe and even your feeble wriggling feels futile. Then he looks down and notices your struggling movements have shifted your sweater to expose the top of your shoulder. He recalls the mark he once sucked into your skin there, and the way it stayed on you for weeks. You need another reminder of who you belong to.

He moves his mouth to that same spot, baring his teeth, and bites into your flesh. Hard.

He barely hears your screaming over the pounding of his pulse in his ears, his own ragged and panting breaths, his drawn out, animalistic moan. Suddenly there’s tugging on his arms and he looks up to see Tess’ wide eyes staring at him, mouth moving. She must be saying something but he can’t make it out. Someone is yanking at his shirtsleeve on his other side and when he turns his head, teeth bared in a snarl, he sees Kerri recoil in horror.

Tess punches at his arms, claws at his neck, and tugs on his hair, finally managing to get him to loosen his arms enough to free you. She yanks you away from him and as she pulls you up the stairs you see him watching you from the bottom, eyes black, hair a mess, your blood dripping down the corners of his mouth. Tess drags you down the hall into her room, locking the door behind her. She puts a chair under the doorknob and tends to your wound with a first aid kit stashed under her bed.

She lets you sleep in her room that night. Joel doesn’t come for you.

–

The next evening you’re standing in the shadows behind the old ice skating rink, which is used as makeshift stables during The Valley’s Friday evening events. It’s off the main road, set back in the woods a bit, but you have a pretty good view of the town square from here. You can see people coming and going, see Joel shaking hands with them all, nodding while they talk to him but looking over their heads, probably searching for you.

“You’re gonna catch a cold.” You nearly jump out of your skin at Tess’ words. You didn’t even hear her coming. “I told you to wait inside.”

“It smells like horseshit in there. Besides, I’ve got this,” you say pointing to the knit scarf around your neck.

She just nods, knowing you have a scarf because she’s the one who put it on you. She helped you get cleaned and dressed for tonight since you spent all day in her room hiding from Joel. She looks you over once you’re all dressed and then you both look at the bandage she has taped at your shoulder, peeking out from under your shirt collar. She grabs the scarf out of her drawer and circled it around you several times, tucking the ends into your coat.

“Do you know Beth?” Tess asks abruptly.

“Beth?”

“Yeah, Beth,” she continues. “Short brown hair, she lives with Hank Mansfield’s family, down at the dairy farm.”

“Oh, Beth. Yeah, she comes with Hank to the Thursday night meetings,” you nod.

“Exactly. She used to be a seamstress,” Tess adds. “Did you know that?”

“No, I don’t think we’ve talked much.” You know you haven’t talked much because you spent most of the Thursday meetings staring at Joel’s lips and waiting for them to be planted on yours.

“She makes all her own clothes. She’s been helping the Mansfield’s too. I think she could help here in town if she lived closer.”

“Yeah I bet,” you reply.

“I was thinkin’, maybe you and her could trade rooms,” Tess answers your unspoken question.

“Trade rooms?”

“Yeah… she could have your room and you could go help out at the farm.”

“The fa–” you begin to question when her meaning hits you like a fist to the gut. You turn to look at her, a pinching pain behind your eyes, panic obvious on your face. “You want me to leave?”

“No, of course I don’t want that,” Tess immediately replies in a soothing voice. “I just think Beth could really help out here in town, but she’d need a room. And I thought maybe you might be willing to give yours up.”

“Give it up? I don’t understand.”

“I mean, you don’t have to live in that house if you don’t want to,” she nods towards the big house you share on the other side of the square. “It’s your choice. You can live anywhere you want.”

That doesn’t seem true. You don’t live at Joel’s house because you chose it. You live there because he invited you. He asked you. He chose you. You didn’t feel like you could say no and you’re pretty sure he wouldn’t let you choose somewhere else, especially not now.

“I don’t think he’d–,”

“No, it’s not his choice,” she interrupts you and repeats, “It’s your choice.”

“It is?”

“Of course,” she says without hesitation. “You could give Beth your room so she’d be able to help us here in town and you’d get a room at the Mansfield’s. You’d be able to help milk the cows. I hear a couple of them are pregnant, so there’d be babies this spring – get yourself a little change of scenery….”

Tess doesn’t want to seem like she’s overselling it but she really hopes the promise of baby animals tips this in her favor. She hopes that she’s getting the message across without having to say the actual words. I need to take you away from him, PJ. He’s going to keep hurting you, PJ. I’m trying to save you, PJ. She wants you to think that this was your idea, but mostly she needs you to agree to this. Right now.

“It’s far away though, isn’t it?” you say, staring in the direction of the town square now, where Joel is no doubt shirking his duties and obsessively searching for you.

“It’s far enough,” she replies, letting the implication remain unspoken.

“I– I think he’d be mad,” you whisper.

“It’s not up to him. It’s up to you,” she nods, a soft smile on her face when you meet her eyes again. Please, she pleads silently. “What do you want, PJ? Do you want to help me out? Give Beth your room?”

A long moment of silence passes, breaking eye contact and looking down at your feet shuffling them several times before looking back at Tess, a hint of sadness in your eyes, a touch of defeat.

“I– I could do that, yeah.”

“Great! That’s great,” Tess exhales, unable to mask her relief. She quickly reels back her emotions and expresses simple and stoic gratitude, as if it’s a run-of-the-mill thing that’s just been agreed to – no big deal. “Thank you PJ, that’s really nice of you.”

–

Joel stands next to Sasha, her cold hand clutched in his warm one, looking around the square. He’s waiting for everyone else to meet them in front of the bakery so they can all walk home together. He sees Tess coming down the sidewalk, walking towards him with someone who isn’t you. You must be with Rosie and Kerri.

“Joel, you remember Beth, right?” Tess asks him when she comes to a halt at his side, “Lives with the Mansfield’s out at the dairy farm?”

“Of course,” he nods his head, barely looking in their direction. “Hank’s daughter. Hi, Beth.”

“She’s not Hank’s daughter,” Tess corrects. Joel finally looks at them, giving Tess most of his attention and Beth a quick glance. “Beth has just been livin’ at the farm since she came into town with Olivier and his wife, from the Montreal Safe Zone?”

“Oh, sure,” Joel says, as if this isn’t brand new information, “That’s what I meant.” And his attention is diverted once again, scanning the park across the street, looking at the departing crowds from the night of fun festivities.

“She’s a seamstress, did you know that?”

Joel doesn’t even bother responding this time. Why would he know that Beth was a fuckin’ seamstress? Why would he have ever talked about that with Beth? He doesn’t think he’s ever talked to Beth about anything at all. Why would he fuckin’ care? He vaguely hears Tess saying something about staying with us a while and he hums in acknowledgement. Why is Tess bothering him with all this stupid fuckin’ information? He’s obviously busy looking for you.

His head on a swivel he sees Rosie and Kerri approaching from the other side of town. Wait, where are you? You were supposed to be with…

With Tess. You were with Tess. He turns to look Tess square in the eyes now. She has his full attention.

“Where is she?” he fumes.

“Like I was saying, Beth is a seamstress and she needed a room–”

“Who?” Joel sputters, not comprehending the words coming out of her mouth.

“Beth,” Tess repeats, motioning to the woman standing silently beside her. Beth waves awkwardly.

Joel whips himself around and takes off towards the house, dragging Sasha alongside him, not even fully realizing her hand is still clutched tight in his. He bursts in the door and lets go of Sasha, taking the stairs two at a time and entering the small, darkened room at the top of the stairs with no door. The sheets and blanket are fresh and crisp, the bed is neatly made. Five hangars swing empty from the curtain rod at the window, a half moon shining behind some scattered clouds and casting dim light through the sheer curtains.

He touches the empty bedside table. It used to be covered with books, leaves, and rocks you found interesting in shape or color. Things you collected when you walked together. Things you collected when you walked alone, after you stopped looking at him. Things that proved you were still here. That you were still his. Now they’re gone. You’re gone. Tess took you away.

He comes down the stairs slowly, Sasha standing just inside the dining room rubbing her wrist, the other women coming in the door. Tess stands at the bottom of the stairs with that girl whos’ not you at her side – Beth.

“What the fuck did you do?” Joel seethes. He reaches the last step and looks across the living room, his eye catching on the spine of the book he gave on Christmas, sitting on the fireplace mantle. It’s still here. You’re not.

“Beth needed–” Tess is cut off by a palm striking across her face.

She can’t say she wasn’t expecting a bad reaction from him, but she would have braced herself better if she knew it was coming right then. The slap sends her tipping sideways and she thinks she might even fall down except that Joel grabs the front of her shirt with both hands, keeping her from landing on the ground. He barks for everyone to go to bed and Tess watches Beth’s horrified face as Sasha takes her hand and pulls her up the stairs.

Tess knows he’s not done. She knows he’s going to keep going, keep hitting her, keep blaming her. She’s going to look like she got kicked by a horse tomorrow but it was worth it. He’s not hitting you. She can take it. She’s taken it before, from men with quick tempers. Joel will get his venom out tonight and tomorrow he’ll be remorseful and apologetic. Soon enough he’ll detox from you and eventually he’ll emerge from the haze, able to see clearly again. He’ll get his head on straight and be able to deal with things rationally.

At least that’s what she hopes. Everything depends on her being right. If he keeps going down the path he’s on now, she thinks this whole place – and everyone in it – is doomed.

🖤

Thank you to my amazing editor, @papipascalispunk, for helping me with this series, and for both fully understanding and appreciating my direction with these two. 🫂You work so hard (for free) and I appreciate everything you do.

TAGLIST (lmk if you wanna be added or removed) @strang3lov3 @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @covetyou @iamasaddie @sr-lrn @clawdee @theywhowriteandknowthings @beefrobeefcal @merz-8 @speckledemerald @alltheseperfectimperfections @survivingandenduring @afraidtofear @millennial-teenybopper @missladym1981 @xdaddysprincessxx @lumoverheaven @ghoulettesinspace @brittmb115 @wintersquirrel @obscurexsorrows @littlevenicebitch69 @lulawantmula @pedroswife69 @joeldjarin @heimtathurss @untamedheart81 @pixielou5 @feel1n-h1gh @elegantduckturtle @koshkaj-blog

#devotion series #cult leader joel miller #noxturnalpascal #ofc!reader #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

188 notes · View notes

mariademetal · 11 months ago

Text

cw ... yuuji calls reader babe, everyone is a little stupid, idk what else, lmk if i should add anything note ... this was actually sooooo much fun to write, i luv yuuji so much and this idea came to me like a vision from jesus himself, i hope u all enjoy too (❁´◡`❁) word count ... 1.1k

You've always liked Jennifer Lawrence.

You liked the Hunger Games growing up, but never bothered to read the books. When you turned a little older, you liked Silver Linings too. Maybe you didn't like her as much as some of your peers, maybe you never dressed up as Katniss for Halloween, but you certainly never hated her. She's pretty, she's a good actress, and although you wouldn't necessarily call yourself her fan, you can see why, hypothetically, someone might. You've always liked Jennifer Lawrence.

You've always liked Yuuji, too. He's always been a good friend to you, but now that your relationship with him is blossoming into something bigger, more important than friendship, you can't quite jump over the hurdle that is Jennifer Lawrence. Despite the fact that you have, as a matter of fact, always liked her, you feel nothing but mild discomfort and irritation as you make unrequited eye contact with the poster of her hung on Yuuji's wall.

What else are you meant to look at?

At first, it was easy enough to ignore her. Whenever you came to Yuuji's room you'd make a point to sit on his bed, back against the wall, safe from any unwanted eye contact with Jennifer's boobs. But the talking stage is weird like that— if Yuuji's already sitting on his bed, you certainly can't, and then you're forced back into a standstill, an ugly competition with a poster that cannot fight back.

So, the two of you start hanging out in your dorm. You would be lying if you said you hadn't considered getting some sweat mag poster of some ludicrously built American actor yourself, just to see Yuuji's reaction. You, thankfully, came to your senses and acknowledged that Yuuji would more likely ask to take it to hang on his own wall than ask you to take it down for the sake of his ego before you spent any money on your silly idea.

Unfortunately, when Nobara leaves her window open after a particularly humid day and finds that she's invited a mildew infestation into her dorm, she asks to shack up with you until her new room is set up, and thus you and Yuuji are forced back to his room.

Still, it was easy enough to ignore Jennifer. She was an unwelcome, near-overbearing presence in your relationship with Yuuji, but it wasn't like he mentioned her in your conversations, nor did he ever compare the two of you— it was just that stupid poster hanging above his bed and the knowledge that he has called her his type, whatever that really means. So, it was survivable.

And there are so many other things you adore about Yuuji, too— like how he gives you his jacket when he feels even a draft, or how he takes pictures of things he knows you'll think are cute or pretty, or how he lets you prop your legs over his thighs whenever you watch movies together. You like what you have with him— you don't like that fucking Jennifer Lawrence poster. Unfortunately for you, they seem like a package deal.

It was easy enough to ignore Jennifer— emphasis on was. You could ignore Jennifer as long as he never mentioned her to you. For a long time, he didn't— no one's ever called Yuuji a genius, but he's always had the good sense to avoid the topic of a certain blonde actress with you. He had a spotless track record, apart from the existence of the poster itself— he was doing so well that you started to think you really could live with Jennifer— then, he had the bright idea of asking you on a date to see her new movie.

The two of you were walking together when he asked— the sun was setting, he'd just bought you a drink from the vending machine, your shoulders were touching— then, he just had to ask that wretched question. You don't think you've recoiled from another person's touch so fast before in your life. You also don't think you'll ever forget the look on his face after you replied to his question with, "Are you fucking with me?"

He asked if that meant the answer was no. (Again, no one ever called Yuuji a genius.)

So, after that display, why are you here, in his room, making the same awkward eye contact with Jennifer Lawrence's cold, dead, photographed eyes that you've been avoiding so fervently these past couple of months? Because you're making your final stand against Jennifer. She's got to go if Yuuji wants your relationship to go anywhere. You refuse to look at her bikini any longer than you've already been forced to.

That said, you can't exactly make your final stand against Jennifer until Yuuji is back from... wherever he is, so you are, unfortunately, stuck looking at Jennifer Lawrence's bikini for even longer than you've already been forced to.

It's only when Yuuji does come back that you realize how weird of a position he's caught you in— just standing in the middle of his room, bag discarded on the floor next to you, staring at his damn poster like you're admiring a piece of art in a gallery.

He looks excited, at first, to see you, then excitement turns into confusion, probably at the fact that you're just... standing there, then concern. "What're you doin', babe?"

"We need to talk," is the first thing that comes out of your mouth, deathly serious.

Yuuji gulps. Literally gulps. "About what?"

"Jennifer."

You can see the relief painting his face when he realizes that you are not, as a matter of fact, breaking up with him. "What about Jennifer?"

"She needs to leave," You emphasize the last word in a way that makes your request sound less like a request and more like a plead. "I feel like the other woman."

"Okay, don't be dramatic—"

"Don't call me dramatic!"

"I'm sorry!"

Yuuji purses his lips and brings his hand to the back of his head, as if he's weighing to pros and cons to standing his ground and keeping the poster. Just when you think you've finally won, that the cons outweigh the pros, he says, "Aren't relationships about compromise?"

"Yuuji, I swear—"

"See the movie with me, and I'll take the poster down."

"Deal."

Maybe you should've thought about it longer. Maybe you should've weighed the pros and cons of this date, too— then, you see Yuuji sulking, watching from the corner of his room as you gleefully climb onto his bed to peel off the tape that attaches the poster to his wall, and it makes it all worth it.

You kiss him on the way out, and the goofy smile on his face tells you he feels the same way.

It'd better be a good movie.

#jjk x reader #jjk fluff #itadori x reader #yuuji x reader #yuuji fluff #yuji x reader #itadori yuji x reader

153 notes · View notes

blasphemous-lies-and-deceit · 5 months ago

Text

"I fucking hate it here."

"Understandable," Michael agreed, the bitter, sullen disgust in his voice somehow greater than Gerry's. He gingerly approached a dresser that was in the middle of the hall, for some ungodly reason, and tugged on the stuck upper drawer until it opened. The documents inside were spotted with mould, and he was very glad he had brought a respirator and gloves. Paging through them revealed years of sales receipts, which could be of interest, if they weren't in such bad shape. Michael made a mental note of them and shut the drawer again. They weren't what he and Gerry had come to Pinhole Books for.

It had been a slow and gradual process to move Gerry into Michael's flat with him. Neither of them had ever come out and admitted that's what was happening‒ at first it was some of Gerry's clothes in Michael's closet, then it was his jewelry joining Michael's own on his dresser, then Gerry's art supplies started piling up on the rarely used kitchen table. Michael had treasured each and every addition, and made space for both Gerry and his things. They were all welcome.

This was the first deliberate venture they had made to Pinhole together, with the express intention of collecting more of Gerry's things and bringing them to Michael's‒ their flat. Two suitcases waited by the stairs, packed with shirts and trousers and other articles that hadn't made the journey already. Gerry was still in his old room, gathering more things, but the rest of the flat was stuffed to bursting with books, and there didn't appear to be much else of Gerry's worth taking.

That was making Michael's chest hurt, and not because of the mold and mildew. Pinhole was so obviously Mary's domain, her store, her home, and Gerry was like an afterthought. There was barely anything in the rest of the flat to show that there had been another inhabitant‒ no shoes by the door, no pictures on the refrigerator, no additional furniture for him to sit on. No touches of Gerry.

In a way, that made things easier, as far as extracting Gerry from such an awful place. But it still made Michael feel utterly sick to his stomach.

He paused at what must have been Mary's office, struck by the large painting on the wall. What had once been a large and intricate eye was in tatters, shredded to pieces by what looked like large claw marks. The rest of the room was in disarray, as if whatever had caused the mess had left it for someone else to clean up. Michael didn't know if it was Gerry or Mary herself, but it clearly hadn't been touched.

"Mum's poltergeist phase." Gerry's flat voice came from behind him. Michael immediately turned and reached out, pulling his boyfriend into his arms. Gerry's face was blank and pale beneath his respirator, eyes dull and vacant, as if being in that place had sucked all the life from him. He gave no reaction to being in Michael's embrace, stiff and unmoving, even as Michael hugged him closer. "I thought…I thought she actually liked that painting, but then she…ripped it apart like nothing. And chucked books at my head. And…and…"

His words dried up, lost to the pages of books that filled the space around them like a tumor. Michael bumped his forehead against Gerry's, the only show of affection he could manage with the safety gear. "Do you have everything?" he asked, desperate to get Gerry out of the damned building. Gerry shook his head, brushing past him into the room, moving like a ghost lost to the past. He crouched, and the floorboards creaked and complained as he lifted one up, sneaking his hand beneath to pull something free.

When he returned to Michael's side he could see that it was a glass jar stuffed with papers, sealed against the dust and mildew, that Gerry cradled very gently against his chest. "It's the only place she wouldn't think to look for it," he explained, the hurt in his voice sneaking out past his face mask. Michael nodded, taking hold of Gerry's arms and guiding him out of the room and through the hall, past the towering piles of books that threatened to collapse on top of them. He didn't bother to ask again, just pulled Gerry along with him, collecting the suitcases on their way out. Out into the fresh air and sunshine, finally free of Pinhole Books.

Gerry stayed silent for the trip back to their flat, holding his jar with a blank look on his face. Once they were there and stripped of their work clothes, he drifted away towards their bedroom, and Michael opted to leave him in peace for a bit. He busied himself with the laundry, not wanting to risk contaminating their flat with whatever had been in Pinhole. When he finally emerged from the kitchen, smelling strongly of chemicals, he found Gerry sitting on the floor of their room, the glass jar empty and its contents laid out around him. Michael paused, unsure if he should intrude, but Gerry looked up at him with eyes wet with unshed tears, and he was helpless to resist.

"I saved everything that I could," Gerry explained as Michael sat down behind him, wrapping his arms around his middle and setting his head on his shoulder. "It wasn't a lot, but for a while she left things as they were before. Didn't bother to throw them out." He scrubbed his arm over his eyes, his burned skin coming away wet. "When I was…twelve, I think, it was the first time I snapped back at her, and she…it was like a storm, she destroyed everything. There was nothing left." His fingers hovered over a ripped piece of paper, a scribbled outline of a flower in a rainbow of colors. "I felt so stupid, but I wanted to hang on to whatever I could. I know we were never a happy family, but maybe…we were a family. Once."

Michael reached over and picked up a photograph by his knee, creased with lines from being folded to fit in the jar. A lump formed in his throat as he looked at the baby held between Mary and Eric, plump and bald and smiling gummily at the camera. Mary looked like she was merely tolerating the experience, but Eric was positively beaming. "You look like him," Michael commented quietly.

"I think that's why Mary couldn't stand to have me around," Gerry noted, his voice thick with emotion, passing Michael another picture. He was a toddler in that picture, standing next to a crouching Eric at some sort of park, both of them wearing large sunglasses and smiling exactly alike. "I used to hear him through the walls sometimes, when Mary summoned him after I'd gone to bed. I thought I was just dreaming, and when I learned…" the tears in Gerry's eyes finally spilled over as his breath stuttered painfully. "She stopped summoning him. And I never got a chance to…know him."

Michael gently set the pictures aside and pulled Gerry back against his chest, pressing his forehead against his temple. "I'm sorry," he whispered, because that was the only thing he could say, because there were no other words to say that could ease Gerry's grief. "I'm so sorry." He was mourning too, for a man he'd never met, but who's absence had affected Gerry all his life. "He would have loved you so much."

Gerry nodded against his collarbone. Whatever he tried to say was broken by a choked sob, so instead his hand scrambled for a roll of papers amidst all the others. They were tightly coiled around an object, and as Gerry struggled with them, a thick metal pen slipped out and onto the rug. Michael picked it up and passed it to Gerry, who held it close and watched as Michael unfurled the papers.

He barely made it past the first line before he was crying too. It was a letter from father to son, a pre-mortem that Eric probably didn't know would be one of the few things he left to his child. Michael couldn't even bear to finish it, putting it aside before his tears ruined the paper. Judging from the places on the letter where the ink was smudged and blotchy, that had happened before.

Gerry was running his fingers over the pen, his own tears falling unheeded as he stared down at it. It was obviously a custom piece, something intended to be passed down, and now it was safely in Gerry's hands where it belonged. Michael tugged him close again, burying his face in Gerry's hair. Now he knew for certain that his boyfriend had inherited his mother's hair color. No wonder he hated it so much.

"He was an artist, too," Gerry choked out, pulling a few pages loose from the tight coil. It was lettering, looping and beautifully crisp, made by the pen now in Gerry's hand. His son's preferred name seemed to be Eric's favorite to practice. "I found these in her office and hid them. When she asked what happened to them I lied and said I didn't know, but I don't think she believed me. I wasn't as good at lying to her then."

There was more unsaid about what Mary's reaction to that was. There was no way for him to soothe that pain, but Michael ran his hands over Gerry's chest, gentle passes up and down, with as much love as he could. A kind touch for every one of pain. "That's all over now," Michael managed to say, sniffing inelegantly and shifting so Gerry's hair came unstuck from his wet face. "You, you don't have to ever go back there again. If you forgot anything I'll go get it for you, but you don't ever have to go back there. You're home now."

Gerry shook in his arms, like Michael's words were a physical thing that had settled over him. "Say that again," he asked, turning and wrapping his arms around Michael, desperately tight, tucking his face into the hollow of Michael's neck. "Please say that again."

"You're home," Michael repeated, rocking them from side to side, hands in constant motion across Gerry's body, familiar and loving. "You're here with me now, you don't have to go back. This is where you should always be." Gerry's sobs sounded like they hurt, but he was clinging back, held safe in Michael's arms, where he belonged. "You're home, my love. You and everything that matters to you, we're all here now. We're not going anywhere."

Those words were as true as he could make them. He didn't know all that the future would hold, but Michael knew that he wanted Gerry in it with him, for him to love and care for and show how good life could be. And he could feel the full weight of Gerry's love for him, the way he clung back to him, seeking comfort from him. Gerry trusted him with his pain and his grief, freely sharing it with Michael after a lifetime of holding it in. That mattered to him more than anything in the world.

Over Gerry's head, Michael examined the pieces of Gerry's childhood, carefully salvaged and hidden for so long. No more, he decided. Those treasured childhood photos could join the ones on their refrigerator‒ the strips from all the photobooths Michael had pulled Gerry into, and the stupid selfies he'd printed off because they made him laugh. Eric's calligraphy would be preserved in a frame, where Gerry could see it whenever he wished. And Michael could take that empty glass jar and fill it with the memories of them together‒ ribbons and snapped shoelaces and love notes and candy wrappers and a million pieces of them. To show to Gerry and anyone else who looked at it that their lives were full of love, and neither of them needed to hide it away anymore.

#the magnus archives #tma fanfic #gerrymichael #doorkeay #gerry keay #michael shelley #heavy warnings of grief with this one #its very sad #mary keay's a+ parenting

53 notes · View notes