#I am kind of happy I got to share this scene | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pianostarinwonderland · 2 years ago

Text

Hello hello guys!! I participated in the Octazinelle zine 😳👉👈 and this was the fic I wrote!

Link of the zine is found in the notes section. I really hope you enjoy!

graduation [octazinelle: high tide fic submission]

in the few months they have before getting ready to leave for internship, floyd and jade go through the turbulence that future uncertainties bring: where will they go, what will they do, but most importantly... what will happen to their relationship with azul?

ft. floyd leech, jade leech, and azul ashengrotto

╰┈➤ 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: hello hello!! i participated in a zine titled octazinelle: high tide! you can find the full zine through here~ this was a very fun project and i'm so excited to post the fic i wrote for you guys ^^ i really care about this fic so much, so there will be additional notes that i will leave somewhere :3c don't worry, they won't be hard to find fufufu

“Floyd Leech.”

Said student is just climbing down the steps of the lecture room when he hears his name being called in an austere manner. Any remaining students in the classroom cast Floyd that ‘oh boy’ look as they leave the room. Floyd looks to the teacher’s table where Professor Trein stares at him sternly. He returns the stare with a miffed look, but he approaches the professor nonetheless.

“This is the second time this week that I have caught you sleeping in my class,” Trein rebukes. “This may be your last semester in Night Raven College before you go on your internship, but that doesn’t mean that you can be negligent in my class.”

“Uh huh.”

“Don’t give me that attitude, Leech. I do not want to give any penalties so late into the semester, but if I catch you sleeping one more time, I will. Do I make myself clear, Leech?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You may now go.”

Floyd steps out of the classroom with the same expression as he wore when getting called out. Damn Professor Red Squid, if you don’t wanna give detention, then just don’t, he thinks to himself. Meh, oh well. I don’t feel hungry at all, should I even go to the canteen? But where do I even wanna go? Everywhere’s so noisy.

He walks for a bit, hands in his pockets.

Ah wait.

There’s the supplies arriving today for Mostro Lounge.

Floyd barely notices his frown growing ever so slightly deeper, but students walking along the same path as him instinctively step aside. Nobody in their right mind would dare interrupt a disgruntled Leech twin.

I’m not going to help out with those. Azul can suffer with those all he wants.

“Floyd! There you are!”

Floyd stops in his tracks. He does not look at the classmate who briskly walks up to him, but he already feels the annoyance rushing to his head.

“Floyd, we got a paper due in two days,” the classmate yells. “We just need your part, and we'll be done! When are you gonna send it in the gc?”

“Go away.”

“Hah? Don’t give me that!” The groupmate’s voice raises in anger. “We have a literal group paper to submit, and we just need your part so that we can submit it earlier!”

Floyd faces him finally, but this time, his eyes are dilated, teeth are displayed, and brows are furrowed. An all-too familiar menacing expression. “I said go away.”

“Eep!” The classmate takes a step back, expression immediately shifting to fear for his life. “O-ok ok! Just- just submit before the 11:59 deadline in two days! That’s all I needed to say, ok!”

And right after, the student runs away.

Floyd huffs. He has now made up his mind on where to go.

Jade is wiping the sweat off of his face in the locker rooms when one of his Octavinelle classmates approaches him. “Hey, Azul’s calling for you,” he says. “He’s by the gates right now.”

“Oh?” Jade looks up in confusion. “I thought Floyd was supposed to be with him right now.”

“Well, he’s not there now,” the classmate replies while scratching his head. “They need more backup and Azul’s calling for you.”

“Ah, I see.” He smiles. “I shall be there, then.”

The classmate leaves the locker rooms, leaving Jade all by himself. The rest of the class has already left, eager for lunch.

Jade slows down in cleaning himself up.

Azul’s name brings back a rip that’s been tearing at his heart. It burns in the way that electricity probably burns, maybe to a lesser degree: his body stops working the way it usually does, and his chest still reels from a shock of pain. It’s not physical by any means, though by the Sea Witch, he wishes it was. It would have been so much easier to deal with. He’d be shipped to the best hospital, all bills easily paid for, and he’d be recovering well back in Octavinelle. Or if he dies, then that is that. No more pain to feel.

No, it’s a harder kind of pain. It’s the kind of pain that makes him want to tear flesh and bone with teeth and claws, the kind of hurt that urges him to destroy a ship, the kind of ache that makes him want to burn his already burning eyes. It’s the kind of pain that won’t go away even if he does all three.

Jade breathes in. Hold it. Breathe out. Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. Breathe in… breathe out…

He cannot afford to lose himself now, whether by wrath or by tears.

He packs his bags, changes back to his uniform, and leaves the lockers. His light footsteps are overshadowed by the sounds of enthusiastic jogs to the cafeteria in the corridors. Jade takes a moment to breathe in the afternoon sunny air, letting out a bit more of his worries out of his lungs before he walks down the stairs and through Main Street.

And soon, he finds himself nearing the tall gates of the school, where a group of students are gathered around large boxes.

It annoys Jade that the gleam of silver hair stirs mixed emotions. On one hand, his troubles are dashed completely from seeing the very person he keeps close. On the other hand, it is the same person who’s making him go through hell.

He swiftly shifts his focus to the situation in front of him. Some of the other boxes should have been on the way to the Mostro Lounge by this time, yet there are still several of them that the other Octavinelle students have to carry. It isn’t surprising—after all, they decided to upgrade a few things, in preparation for the next dorm leader. Supplies that a simple run to Sam’s shop won’t cover, no matter how much he claims to have it all in stock.

“Be extra careful with that. That tableware costs us quite a fortune.” Standing by the boxes with a clipboard resting on his arm, Azul watches his dorm mates as he writes notes on the clipboard. He has his dorm leader facade on, serious and stern, but even from a distance, Jade can see his slightly nervous gaze towards the supplies.

As another pair leaves with a heavy box, Azul looks at them before his eyes fall on him. “Jade, good you made it on time.”

“Hello, Azul,” Jade greets. “I thought that Floyd was supposed to help with the supplies.”

“Well, he’s not here now,” Azul answers, frowning from annoyance. “I was wondering if you had any idea as to where he is right now.”

“I don’t. His history class should have ended 10 minutes ago.”

“Hmph, nevermind. We need to get all of this into the lounge.” He gestures to the boxes. “All the boxes are complete, and we’ll do a final count of all the supplies once everything has been moved there.”

“I see.” Jade nods. “Will you need me to assist you?”

“No, you may enjoy your lunch break after helping us move these boxes,” Azul answers. “I’ll be making my next successor do that. It’s a part of his learning, after all.”

“Ah. I see.”

It annoys him to feel that same shock of hurt returning to his chest.

A bemused look crosses Azul’s face. “Does that offend you,” he teases. “I never took you for one to be tilted by that.”

Jade blinks. “Why Azul, whatever makes you think I’d be offended over that?” He smiles, with a bit more effort than he’s used to. “You must be imagining things from how little rest you have in passing on your position to the little siren.”

“You exaggerate.” He keeps his clipboard and pen into his bag. “We need to move. Jade, carry that box over there.” He points to one of the smaller boxes, marked with the word FRAGILE, and picks up another box.

And wordlessly, Jade follows, carrying a box that must contain brand new tea sets. New tea sets that remind him that a new dorm leader and manager of the Mostro Lounge will take over.

That his term and Azul’s will end because they’ll move up to 4th year and go their separate ways.

Jade resists the urge to break them. He’ll carry these then find Floyd.

Back at home, the schools of fish would band together, staying close until Floyd swam past them, splitting their perfect formation. Together, apart. Together, apart.

Together. Apart.

Separation was not new to Floyd at all. In an “eat or be eaten” world, fish and merfolk alike live with the thought that the people closest to them may be gone the next day. Floyd has hunted before, has fought before. He’s even the one who said goodbye to his parents when leaving for Night Raven College.

But he said goodbye with the promise of seeing them again after school is done.

He stares down at the river that runs below the bridge. This spot is rarely ever frequented by students at lunchtime, if only because everyone else is either eating in the canteen, having meetings, or just being with friends, and the bridge is on the other path away from the Hall of Mirrors. Besides Octavinelle, it feels the closest to home on this campus: here, he can watch the current flow, and the fish that live below its clean stream.

Home, huh? Floyd wonders if home will still feel like home once he returns from Night Raven College.

It will be the same dark passageways and bioluminescent lights, the same faces but all grown up. Except that he isn’t a child that can pick fights with anyone and nab their scales as a prize, he is to be stuck with running the family business of making deals, expanding connections, beating up people who betray their trust. Pretty much like what he already does with Azul now.

Except that the boss that would stand with him and Jade is not Azul at all.

The fish in the river swim with no obstacle in their path. They may split apart to avoid the occasional rock, but they would be together again. Together, apart. Together. In the small space that they share, there is no vast ocean that opens up new paths for them to split ways. Not until they swim down the cliff and into the open sea.

Floyd has never envied river dwellers until now.

Jade walks behind Azul going to Mostro Lounge. It’s something of a routine that started in Night Raven College. When Azul walks, he and Floyd follow him from behind. He doesn’t remember how or when it started. Probably started to make Azul’s image look powerful: he is in the front, wearing a coat that imposes authority, and Jade and Floyd standing at the back makes him look almost impossible to touch.

Regardless of the hows or the whys, it’s a position that has always given him comfort. From behind, Jade can watch Azul. He can see if Azul is pleased with something by the bounce in his step, or if he’s pissed by the clack of his heels. And from the front, Azul can’t read Jade since he’s always looking forward, and that lets Jade startle him with a random brutal teasing remark.

Right now, though, he wishes to not look at Azul.

Azul appears to be beaming, and Jade knows exactly why. He’s found the perfect successor for not only leadership of Octavinelle but also manager for his prized restaurant. He’s gotten accepted in all the places he applied for his internship.

He’s gotten accepted already into the university that he aims to go to.

Jade vividly remembers the way Azul grinned from ear to ear when he received the email. He remembers the audible, “Yes! Yes, I got in!” that almost sounded teary-eyed. He remembers Floyd saying that they should celebrate over some drinks. He remembers smiling to the best of his abilities while saying congratulations for being accepted.

That was two weeks ago. He’s said many fake things in his life, and he would never say sorry for them. But until now, the heartless congratulations weighs heavily in his conscience.

It’s simple, really: Azul has been working hard all his life to achieve his dreams. And Jade was there to witness the journey, from the ideas to the headaches to the defeats to the victories. It’s a huge milestone for Azul to get to stay on land and study in a place where he feels he will thrive. So it’s unfair really, to not be able to celebrate such an achievement happily.

And yet, Jade can’t bring himself to.

Their relationship started as something transactional. Tweels keep his secrets, Azul lets them in his plans. Tweels support him, Azul entertains them. And if Azul fails to entertain, then they will drop him like plastic to the chute. There and done. That’s supposed to be their relationship.

So why then does it hurt to hear that Azul got accepted? Why does it hurt to think about how in a few months, he won’t see Azul as much as the present? Why does it hurt to think about the uncertainty of when they will see each other again?

“Jade, you can put down the box over there.”

Jade blinks. He’s at Mostro Lounge. Has he been so deep in thought that he didn’t realize when he arrived?

Schooling his expression, he puts down the box on the counter that Azul gestures to, unaware of the concerned expression on Azul’s face.

Floyd doesn’t know when he started staring into nothingness to gaze at memories, but he’s now seeing the stone stage from middle school, where his younger self is playing drums to his brother’s bass and someone’s piano.

He remembers, he was getting irritated with the piano melody, and at the time he couldn’t pinpoint why, except that it lacked something. Now that he thinks about it, it’s because that pianist’s playing had no life. No vigor, no passion, just technique that wouldn’t get anyone dancing. “Next,” he had said and stopped playing. The pianist was protesting. Floyd forgot what he said, just that he protested that he wasn’t done playing, but he didn’t care enough to hear about it.

“Everyone sucks, Jade,” he threw his sticks to the ground. “No one’s good enough to be part of our band. Let’s just go.” And he and Jade—who was bigger than him at the time��left the small auditorium of their school. And it’s a blur, Floyd doesn’t remember why he and Jade didn’t go home right away, but he remembers very well the syncopated melodies coming from the piano they forgot to close.

And he remembers the gasp he made, the way his heart was stirred from how alive the music sounded.

And he remembers how quickly he swam back inside to see who’s playing, and his wide-eyed gaze when he spotted the familiar octopus.

“Hey hey, that was so cool,” he said to the flustered Azul. “Play some more, play some more!”

“Huh? No way, I have to go soon!”

But he didn’t let him go. He insisted he play the piano as he picked up his sticks and played a beat. “Come on, just one song! Then you can go!”

And he started his beat. And when it was just him for a long moment, Floyd had wondered if Azul left. But the sound of an E minor reached his ears, and the next moment, Azul’s playing was matching to the beat of the drums. And his music had heart. It had spirit, it had technique, it had passion.

And the best part? Azul matched his rhythm when nobody else did.

“I knew I’d find you here, Floyd.”

Eyes turning away from his reflection in the water, Floyd looks up to the face that he’s known since birth. Jade, impeccably presentable despite having PE class earlier, walks towards Floyd, leaning on the railing of the bridge he stands on. But he does not go near him.

“What do you want,” Floyd asks.

“We had a new batch of supplies arrive at the Lounge today,” Jade answers. “You were supposed to help out with the unpacking.”

He only answers with a curt hum before turning back to the water below.

He hears a sigh. And footsteps approaching.

“You’re thinking about last last week, aren’t you?”

Floyd turns again to Jade. He’s by the bridge railing now, same side as him, but he continues to keep a respectable distance. Jade doesn’t look at him directly either, his gaze directed at the horizon ahead of them.

He’s thinking about it too.

“Yeah, you could say that,” he answers. “It’s just, really ass, y’know?”

Floyd believes that in spite of their identical genetics, they are two people with different identities, dreams, and beliefs. And don’t get him wrong, it is a lot better that way to have individuality. But deep down, there is a comfort knowing that Jade probably feels the same feeling that leaves Floyd dizzy with frustration, that binds his chest with a mix of anger and sadness. And Sea Witch knows, Floyd needs that comfort now.

“‘Ass’, you say,” Jade repeats. “Tell me about it.”

A beat of silence passes between them.

“It’s just that. It takes half a fish brain to know that Azul’s got grand plans after graduation. Get into the best business school, build his own corporation, build another company, and a third company. And I’ve known this for Sea Witch knows how long, and it was all fine, I didn’t care that much, but then…”

“...But then the letter came in.” Jade fills in.

“Yeah,” Floyd emphatically answers. “That damned acceptance letter from whosit business university came in. Like, I don’t know why, but it just made everything feel… real. That Azul’s really gonna go somewhere else. And I hate that it’s been hitting me like this for the last two weeks. I can’t focus well, I’m pissed off, Trein’s told me off about sleeping. It’s so ass.”

The silent air between the twins weighs heavier. Floyd’s eyes briefly look at the fish in the river again—the damned fish that he wants to throw a rock at so they separate too—before he turns to Jade. “How ‘bout you? Was it also the letter?”

Jade doesn’t answer right away. Floyd understands; in moments like these, Jade hesitates to speak his mind, even to him. It’s part of their nature to be cowardly, after all, just that Jade exhibits it more between the two of them.

“... Somehow, yes, but if I were to think about it… it’s actually been a while now,” he finally answers.

“Eh? Really?”

“I knew down the line that there would be farewells to be made,” Jade says. “Like you said, Azul has already made plans for himself, and he invests in those plans, years in advance. But there’s always that part of me that wonders… if there’s space for us in those plans.”

Floyd finds himself inhaling sharply at those words.

“I see his goals coming to fruition, and it pains me to say that I can’t even properly support him. The letter, the new supplies, the little siren he’s going to appoint… they’re all reminders that it will all change.” Jade smiles, but in pain. “Azul won’t be the dorm leader, I won’t be the vice leader, and we won’t do the things we used to do. And we won’t see each other until perhaps the next VDC. And when we graduate… would he call an end to our agreements? Would we grow so busy that we become strangers again? We would always say that our relationship is merely transactional and that we would leave him if we get bored, but…”

Jade stops, and the air weighs even heavier. Floyd feels taken back to the first day on land, when breathing with lungs felt heavy and difficult.

Suddenly, Jade laughs. “What clownfish have we become?”

Floyd too joins his twin in mirth. “Can’t help it, Azul makes me feel understood.”

He raises a brow. “Is it gonna be about the first time you played together with him?”

“I mean, it’s how it started,” he answers. He doesn’t realize the small smile that settles on his face as he remembers once more. “Like, back then, everyone just kinda avoided, y’know? And that’s fine, at least, I thought it was. ‘Twas fun and all to be intimidating. But no matter what I’d do, Azul always matches me. He knows exactly what to play to my rhythm. And even in how we work, he knows what’s the stuff I’d like to do or the stuff I’d do well in. It just feels nice.”

It feels too nice.

Too nice that if it disappears, it will leave his heart bound tightly by melancholy.

“…Hey, I can’t be the only sappy one here.” Floyd eyes Jade. “C’mon Jade, share too what’s made you appreciate Azul.”

“I already shared a lot earlier,” Jade says defensively.

“Heyyy, be fair at least. I know you have your own thing.”

“What else is there to say? You already said everything.”

“Liar. I know how you started reading your books more after meeting him.”

“So? Those were lessons that we had to learn as well.”

“Uh huh sure. Then explain why you’ve only gotten better in everything you do after meeting Azul.”

Jade glares at him.

Floyd grins in response. “Gotcha.”

A beat of silence, then Jade sighs. “If he makes you feel understood, then he makes me feel capable.”

“How so?”

“One reason.” He puts up one free hand, with one finger up. “He’s demanding.”

Floyd chuckles. “That’s an understatement.”

“You’re right.” Jade grins, teeth flashing. “He’s exigent. Making us run around the school to do 5 things at once, on top of schoolwork. Even before NRC, he was just like that. I assumed he was insane. Until now, I still think he’s insane.”

“You say that, but you don’t look like you’re complaining at all.”

“Because thanks to that, I wasn’t pretending to be good at something anymore.” His next smile is closed. Softer. “I went from barely comprehending a textbook and barely lifting a seashell with my magic to understanding contract language and unlocking my unique ability. He made me do things, and I planned to just make someone else do it and pretend it was me.”

“Ohhh.” Floyd’s eyes widened with remembrance. “And then he caught you.”

“Yes.” Jade shakes his head at the thought. “And I was expecting him to laugh at me, but he didn’t. All he did was sigh and teach me. Magic, studies, law, something about the way he taught those things clicked something in me. And even the things that he didn’t teach but always talked about, like culinary and how people behave, I was able to absorb things and got better. Dare I say,” a smirk forms on his face, “I’m better than Azul in some things.”

“Like flight class.” Floyd grins.

“Like flight class,” Jade repeats smugly.

And they stop talking. Jade turns his gaze to the distant horizon, looking at something farther than the blue of the sky. Meanwhile, Floyd glances back at the river. He understands that Jade is done talking personal. But it’s fine for him. He can almost hear the unspoken thoughts. Once Azul leaves, who’s going to be the pianist in their little band that makes their every day exciting? Once Azul leaves, who’s going to tell them that they can do it?

Once Azul leaves, who’s going to understand them?

“So this is where you two are.”

Simultaneously, Floyd and Jade whip their heads around. Floyd swears his heart almost leapt to his chest when he saw those familiar blue eyes.

One hand in his pocket, Azul stands on the threshold of the bridge. He and Jade fully turn around as he walks towards them until he’s directly in front of both of them.

“Hello, Azul,” Jade greets, like the conversation a while ago never happened. “How was teaching your next successor what he has to do?”

“Went well,” he answers. “His prior experiences already reassure me, but he’s also demonstrated that he knows what he’s doing. Currently, he and our other dorm mates are taking care of the supplies.”

“Weird that you’re not being so strict, considering how much you value your restaurant,” Floyd comments. “You’re not even gonna be there to make sure nothing’s going wrong?”

“I trust that things are going well with my new successor in charge. I’ve taught him very well enough,” Azul says. “But more importantly… I have matters to discuss with the both of you.”

He turns his head to look at Jade. “Jade, you’ve been out of focus lately. Just a while ago, when you were bringing the box of teacups to the lounge, you were so deep in thought, you didn’t look like you were aware of where you were going. And even during work hours, you haven’t been as sharp as you usually are. A few professors have commented on your slouched posture as well.”

Jade’s eyes widen in surprise.

“And Floyd.” Azul turns to look at Floyd. “Professors have reported to me that you’ve either been asleep during lectures or interrupting class with an outburst. You’ve also been moodier than usual, and it shows in your cooking and your behavior. I’ve heard a few students rant about you in group projects.”

Floyd briefly remembers the group mate that approached him earlier.

“So what are you getting at exactly, Azul,” Jade asks. “Even we have our off days as well.”

Azul casts him a pointed look. “Off days for two weeks straight.”

He receives no quip in reply.

He crosses his arms. “Jade, Floyd.” His neutral serious tone changes. It quivers slightly. He’s worried. “I know you two well enough that there’s something going on. Is there something that happened?”

Floyd looks away. Jade does as well.

Floyd hates the concern in his tone. It makes him want to break. It makes him want to be upfront about his feelings and how it’s been bothering him.

But how can someone like him really tell someone like Azul that you’re afraid to lose him somehow? How can he retract all the times he said that their relationship is all transaction and no emotional connection? How do you even start bearing something so vulnerable?

They must be the same questions that Jade is grappling with now. Jade, who’s usually good at worming his way out of any conversation, has nothing to say to leave this topic.

Azul sighs, breaking the long silence. “Is this something that has to do with me?”

The twins stiffen.

Floyd can feel Azul’s gaze towards him.

A tense moment passes.

“... I had a feeling.”

He finally looks at him but in confusion. Jade is also facing him with wide eyes.

Azul exhales through his nose. “You don’t have to tell me anything about what you’re feeling right now. If at all.” He turns around, preparing to leave. His head is bowed down, not letting either twin see his expression. “But I just want to let you know, I’m always here if you need me. Not just for this, but for anything, even if in the future.”

Floyd’s breath hitches.

“Do you… really mean that?” Jade asks, almost meekly.

Azul looks at Jade in puzzlement. “Why wouldn’t I? You two have been with me for all these years, even in my weakest hours. It’s not like I’m going to leave you even after we graduate.”

“Really,” Floyd asks. “Even when you get really busy with university and we’re running our family business?”

“Well, I won’t deny that we will be busy,” he answers. “But I’m not letting go of you two just because of that. You know me too well, after all. And you’ve supported me all these years, it would be embarrassing to leave that unpaid.”

“You mean that?”

“Have I ever broken a promise? If you want, I can even put that on a contract and have you sign it.”

In one single breath, the binding sadness and worry that tightened Floyd’s chest leaves.

Without thinking, he moves towards Azul and wraps his arms around his slim frame. He ignores the surprised gasp as he buries his face on his shoulder. His breathing feels lighter than it has ever been the past two weeks.

He feels Jade joining in, hugging Azul from the other side and burying his face on the other shoulder. His breathing sounds even to any person, but to Floyd, he can hear a slight quiver, like Jade is trying to hold back tears.

“Is… is this what it’s been all about, all this time,” Azul finally asks. His hands move to pat their heads, a motion that always comforted the twins. “You two are strange for worrying about this type of thing.”

Despite his words, Floyd can hear the smile in Azul’s voice.

#ok so i love this fic sm as in i reread this when i was uploading just to check for any formatting mistakes and i’m still so happy with it??#so i will share to you additional notes about this #1st note: i got into the zine around june ish ?? and there were regular check ins to make sure we were working and i had my ideas written #but from june to sept i only wrote like 1/32 of fhe fic you wanna know when i wrote everything?#if the deadline was oct 1 i wrote everything starting sept 29 :)#so this was CRAMMED and i had a con on oct 1 on top of that so i had to crunch out this fic for real and ik i stayed up till 3am #yea i had time to edit but NOT THAT MUCH TIME TO EDIT BECAUSE IF YOU NOTICE #I CALLED THE TWINS TWEELS IN THE FIC AND THAT IS NOT A PROUD POINT KKSDNMDKSKSMX #so why did i not write that much till the very last minute? well aside from being a master crammer i actually had a reason which leads to #2nd note: i was in a relationship. well it wasn’t official it was more of a situationship. it was a good one that kinda ended on a slightly #bad note but it’s ok. all things considered i did enjoy it while it lasted and that’s what matters. but yea it was a really stressful one t #and the stress demotivated me. buuut that relationship was also my biggest inspiration for the fic.#so during that time i was also churning ideas for the fic; like i’d be thinking ‘wow i feel so pissed about these circumstances.. maybe jad #feels the same way as well’. Smth like that. but at the same time i had to keep myself separate to some degree so that it was still octa #but at least i had the experience to be able to put to words the pain and frustration jade and floyd felt. and it helped me too cause it #became a reflection sort of for me. helped me process things in the best way i can #3rd note: cause i left this to the last minute i genuinely considered dropping the zine completely. but i was stubborn as fuck fsr #and i’m rlly thankful for that stubborness because genuinely?? i still love this fic #yeah it had some awkward sentences and the pacing esp at the end got kinda funky for my liking but overall?? am happy #4th note: WHEN EN TL’D GLOMAS PARTICULARLY THE OCTA PART I SCREAMED. cause floyd went ‘azul’s going to a fun place without me?’#and i wanted to kick myself cause i had the ideas of why floyd would be sad about being away from azul. i just didn’t center it much on fun #5th note: last scene w azul was supposed to be either from jade's pov or both tweels and set in azul's office.#but cause time restraints i could not do that :-) maybe one day if i revisit this i'll write the last scene as it was intended.#it felt awkward ngl writing only floyd while having to resort to his knowledge about jade to slip in jade's feelings #6th note: someone in the tags pointed out my hc of jade not being as diligent back then (and thank you for the kind words cause oml ily)#yess i hc that jade back then wasn't quite as capable or diligent and would mask that by using other ppl lol.#it's not that he can't Do Anything it's more of he struggled more than he does now #i just like to think that his seemingly perfect skills came from somewhere and a lot of ppl depict azul learning from jade #so why not the opposite? i like to think that azul learned the cunning from jade and jade learned magic and improvement from azul #7th note: it's kinda surprising that i didn't write an azul centric fic when he's literally my bias and tbh i was gonna write a 2nd fic but

75 notes · View notes

bucks-babe · 1 year ago

Text

Virgin Bucky Gets His First Blowjob

Paring: Virgin!Bucky x f!reader

Summary: You give your boyfriend his first blowjob

Word Count: 2,148

Warnings: Established relationship, smut (Oral m!receiving), kind of sub!Bucky, Bucky is a nervous boy and gets a hard on during a movie, Bucky has a praise kink, Virgin!Bucky, No use of Y/N

A/N: Should I make a part 2 where Bucky loses his virginity to reader?

“Okay, doll, I’ve got everything set up. You pick a movie yet?” Bucky settles down next to you in his bed, making sure that there is no space separating the two of you. He wraps his right arm around your shoulder and you snuggle up into his side.

Your laptop is resting on both of your laps, your left thigh and his right thigh hold it in place. “Yes, and it’s one of my favorites!” You bounce in place just a little. “You’re gonna love it, Buck! It’s When Harry Met Sally.” Bucky chuckles at your excitement. Steve has his book of things to catch up with in the 21st century, and Bucky has you.

“We’ll see, doll. You haven’t let me down yet.” In all honesty, Bucky was thoroughly enjoying the movie, Harry wasn’t the type of guy Bucky thought girls would go for, but most of his enjoyment came from how happy the movie seemed to be making you.

A few times you would catch Bucky staring at you instead of the movie; each time you would look back up at him he would pretend that he was immersed in the movie the whole time and you would nudge his side. It just made him so happy to see how much you were enjoying the movie, going so far as to mouth the lines alone with the actors.

“Yes it is! You are a human affront to all women, and I am a woman.”

“Hey, I don’t feel great about this, but I don’t hear anyone complaining.”

Unbeknownst to you, Bucky is having the time of his life watching you act out the conversations, his heart never feeling so full in all his life. He truly doesn’t know what he did to deserve you, after all the horrible things he’s done in his life, he gets blessed with the most wonderful and understanding woman to call his.

His doll, his girl, who hasn’t even pressured him into anything. He felt bad at first, when he told you that he wanted to take things slow, thinking that you wouldn’t want to have a boyfriend who had no experience in the sexual realm. Of course, he’s kissed women, having his fair share of dames back in the 40’s, but he was a gentleman. He would take them out dancing, maybe make out in his car a little bit, but he never went farther than that.

Now, after waking up after 80 some years, the last thing on his mind was having sex. That was until he met you, the minx who has awoken something inside of him, but he’s never acted on any of these feelings, too scared that he would disappoint you.

Ashamed that he was still a virgin, Bucky always stopped you before anything would get too heated, and you respected that. It didn’t make Bucky feel any better when he had to go to the ‘bathroom’ after a make-out session, but you never teased him about it, the both of you pretending that he really did need to go to the bathroom.

What the fuck?! Bucky’s attention is back on the movie when Sally has an ‘orgasm’ in the restaurant. Next to him, you’re giggling while watching her fake an orgasm, but Bucky, he’s not laughing.

Bucky’s never seen a woman have an orgasm. Back in his day, the most accessible type of porn were dirty magazines that he used to hide under his bed so his ma wouldn’t find them. He tried to watch modern day porn after his not so mini sexual re-awakening, but after seeing some of the video titles, decided that porn was a no go for him, so this was sending all of the blood in his head straight to his dick. If it was over dramatized, he couldn’t tell, but his cock didn’t care.

He felt it twitching in his sweats and he tried to subtly shift so you wouldn’t be able to see the bulge under the covers. Closing his eyes, Bucky tried to will his erection away; however, the scene seemed to never end and his cock got even harder at the thought of what you would look like when you came, how you would moan his name, how you would feel around him.

He bets that you would look fucking spectacular spread out on this very bed with his cock burried deep inside of you. How your pussy would look swallowing him as he–

“Bucky, are you okay? You’re moving around a lot.” Shit! Bucky knows that he’s been caught. There is nothing he can do to hide the tent in his sweatpants; he curses himself for even wearing pants with so much give to them.

“Uh…yeah, I’m good. My back’s a little stiff from the bed is all.” With how red his face and chest are, it’s a surprise that there is enough blood going to his dick to have it be as hard as it is.

“Your back? Are you sure? Cause I think I see the problem.” Double Shit!

“Doll, I’m sorry. It’s just that…” Your giggle cuts him off.

“Bucky, it’s okay. If you want I can give you a minute to sort,” you glance at his crotch, making it twitch in need, “that out.”

Bucky wishes that the bed could swallow him up whole so he wouldn’t have to deal with this. He’s a grown man for God’s sake and he’s popping wood at the first sign of something sexual!

“Or…” You drag on, “I could help you with that.” Bucky gulps, finding his throat to be drier than a desert.

“Doll, y-you don’t have to.” There’s a spark in your eye that you only have when you’re up to no good, like when you set Steve and Sharron up on a blind date after being sick of the pining between the two of them.

“But I want to, Bucky. Only if you’re okay with it.” His heart feels like it’s about to beat out of his chest, but he is so hard, and he trusts you with his body and soul.You know that he’s never done anything; you would be the last person on the planet to make fun of him.

“O-okay. What do you want me to do, doll?” You close the laptop, effectively ending the movie; Bucky couldn’t give less of a shit what happens to Harry or Sally right now, not when you’re looking at him like he is a full course meal and you're starving.

“Absolutely nothing. I want you to lay right there and let me make you feel good. Can you do that for me, hmm?” Pulling the covers back, you settle between his thick thighs, resting your head on one and looking up at him.

“I-I can do that. Yeah.” He shifts so that his back is against the headboard. Bucky isn’t used to just laying back while someone else does the work, has never been like that, but for you he would do just about anything if you asked.

Your hands go to the waistband of his sweats and boxers while you give small kisses to the outline of his cock through both layers. “Good boy,” you whisper on his cock, chuckling when it jerks under your mouth and he whines. Ooh, he’s a vocal one, you think as you look up at his flush face.

Bucky lifts his hips off the bed when you tug at his waistband, and his cock smacks against his clothed stomach, precum leaking onto his shirt. With his cock and balls on display, Bucky fights the urge to close his legs and cover himself up; no woman, or man, had ever seen him like this, but he wants this so bad. He trusts you; if he wants to stop, you’ll stop, but heaven forbid if you stop now.

He’s fucking big, too. You don’t know if you’re going to be able to fit his entire length in your mouth, but you’re sure as hell gonna try! Starting at his thighs, you give wet, open mouth kisses, leaving beautiful bruises on his skin. Whimpering, Bucky tries to get your mouth on his cock; all of your teasing is only making his balls fuller than he thought was possible and more precum ruin his shirt.

“Please, doll. Suck it.” His toned hips leave the bed in chase of your mouth. He can’t count how many times he’s fucked his fist thinking about how the tight heat of your mouth would feel wrapped around his cock. Even now, with you kissing up and down his length, tracing his most prominent vein, it’s not enough.

“Shh, big boy, I’m getting there. You’re just so pretty I have to paint you.” His cock bounces from the force of its throbbing and another whine leaves his plump lips.

Eventually, you take pity on him and his begging, and you take the tip in your mouth and give it a harsh suck. “Oh Fuck! Do that again, doll!” He throws his head back, making contact with the headboard with a loud thunk. Hands flying to the sheets, and hips chasing your mouth, Bucky damn near chokes on his own spit.Christ, you’ve barely touched him and he’s about to burst.

Loving his reaction, you grab the base of him and spit on his tip, watching it roll down to where your hand rests, only to use your spit as lube to drag your hand up and down, feeling him pulse and throb in your hand. “Come on, doll. Please! I need more.”

He was fisting the sheets, not wanting to force your head down, but wanting you to take him down your throat at the same time. Deciding not to torture him anymore, you licked your lips before taking as much length in you mouth as possible.

“GOD, FUCK!” His hips flew up to meet your mouth, making you gag. He was trying his hardest to stay in control and not force your pace, but fuck, he wasn’t expecting it to feel this good. You quickly found a steady pace, hollowing your cheeks and using your tongue to lap at his dick. Salavia coated his entire dick and was leaking down to his balls, making your movements that much easier.“What the fuck! Doll, that feels fucking incredible. More, please. Give me more! Shit! That feels so good!” Such a needy little thing.

There were still a few inches of his dick that you couldn’t fit in your mouth, so you used one hand to work the remaining length and the other hand to massage his balls. His cock was leaking precum and you could feel his heavy sack tense up in your hand; you knew he was about to cum, even before he did.

Bucky pulled you off his cock. “Doll! I’m gonna cum!” It took you a second to register why he pulled you off when he was about to cum, but you then realized, he didn’t think you wanted to swallow - How wrong he was.

“If you’re gonna cum, baby, I want you to cum in my mouth.” Not waiting for a response, you took his cock back into your mouth, taking him all the way to the base, letting him fuck your mouth with the little jerks of his hips. The sounds leaving his mouth were almost akin to sobs, making you clench your thighs together to quell the ache between your legs.

“Fuck, I’m cumming!” His cum shot out in thick streams and you tried to swallow around his cock, but more and more cum would shoot out. You lapped up every single drop of his cum that you could, some of it dripping down to his balls. When his hips tried to jerk away, you pulled off his cock to lick his balls clean and tuck his softening cock back into his pants.

With a dopey look on his face, Bucky gave you the prettiest smile, having experienced the best orgasm of his overextended life. “I really liked the movie, doll.” He laughed after you giggled. After coming back down to reality, Bucky frowned, “doll, I wanna make you cum, too.”

“Oh, Buck, I didn’t do that because I wanted anything in return,” you repositioned yourself next to him in bed, ignoring the throbbing of your pussy, “I did it because I wanted to make you feel good.”

There’s still a pout on his lips, wanting you to feel good as well. “Another day, Bucky. I don’t want to overwhelm you with too much in one day, okay?” Eventually, he agrees, becoming compliant after getting his soul sucked out of his body.

“Next time, doll, you’re gonna teach me how to make you cum.” God, you love this man.

“Oh, I look forward to it.” This man is going to wreck you and you can’t wait.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x you #bucky imagine #bucky smut #bucky x female reader #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky x you #sebastian stan x reader #Virgin!bucky #sebastian stan smut #sebastian stan imagine #bucky barnes drabble

3K notes · View notes

somewhere-in-the-rain · 3 months ago

Text

ONYX STORM SPOILERS

Currently mourning the fact that we never got to see Xaden and Violet engaged after the “we were betrothed, not engaged, and yes, there’s a difference to me” comment in Iron Flame.

Ugh they would have been so adorable and so insufferable to everyone around them. Don’t get me wrong, I love the way Onyx Storm ended, but I’m so sad we didn’t get a proposal (a real one, the three times Xaden heavily hinted at it don’t count) or a wedding, or even Mira pretending to be disgusted but actually so happy for them.

If we don’t get some kind of flashback scene or memory sharing of their marriage in book 4, I am going to die. I am simply going to pass away because I cannot handle not knowing or experiencing the love and the emotions and the yearning that took place in that scene. I really feel for Violet, because imagine discovering that you married the man you are wildly in love with and have no memory of it. Imogen, when I catch you—

#oh god the yearning #please rebecca #onyx storm spoilers #riorgail #iron flame #the empyrean #xaden riorson #violet sorrengail #onyx storm #my posts

387 notes · View notes

pennyserenade · 30 days ago

Text

nothing compares 2 you | dieter bravo x ex!wife reader

summary | a timeline of dieter bravo and his ex-wife's relationship, told in snapshots. rating | (explicit) tags/warnings | smut, mention of drug and alcohol use, angst, language, real yearning hours. word count | 7.8k a/n | happy late birthday to my favorite aries, pedro pascal <3

February, 2010. Someplace in Los Angeles.

Before he is the Actor, he is the Artist.

The art studio next to yours is the size of a closet and it’s his, paid for with his measly actor’s wages. He paints on large canvases with bleak colors and flirts with you three times before he realizes that his reused material does nothing but amuse you.

You can tell he is a man used to getting women easily, and you don’t blame these women: he is a handsome man. He has soft hands, a dimpled grin, and black paint splattered endearingly over his all rugged, too big t-shirts. During one of his lazy flirtations the word “honest” comes to you, and you figure it’s something to do with his eyes — how they’ve got the gleam of truth, even though he doesn’t necessarily strike you as an honest man himself. Maybe this should alarm you, but it’s as exciting as anything has been in months.

He tells you the sun seems to shine eternally in California, and that they always did tell him he was a stormy child, so he paints gloomy when he misses New York. This is a line that works far better than his cheap flirting. Scary as it is, he thrills at the idea of playing his most difficult role for an audience of one: himself, laid bare.

“You any good?” you ask him one day, absentmindedly, in reference to his acting. He shrugs his shoulders. He is letting you into the intimate cove of his inner life: the paintings, the shoe-box closet of a studio. On his canvases, colossal waves defeat tiny, lonely ships; a father holds a weeping mother; a handsome man peers into the mirror of his soul, and finds nothing good.

“Am I any good?” he asks, referring to his art. You nod, finger grazing over the shipwrecked scenes. “They’re sad,” you comment.

“Well, homesickness is a bitch,” he replies. His tongue swipes across his bottom lip in the nervous way you’ve noticed it does. “What kind of art do you do?”

“Happier stuff, sometimes. Mostly right now I’m sketching, looking for ideas. I’d do more models, but can’t find any good models.”

“In L.A.?” he asks. You nod, still picking through his paintings. “I find that hard to believe. I’ll model for you,” he offers.

“What’s your price?”

He doesn’t think it over. He answers, “Free.”

“Oh c’mon.” You look askance at him. “Nothing’s ever free.”

“Alright, then how much can you pay me?”

“I’ll supply lunch.”

He laughs incredulously. “You make no sense to me.”

“I think that’s a good thing. The things that you make sense of seem terribly depressing.” You nod to the painting in front of you, a naked woman stretched out on a mattress, cotton panties with a pink bow tie and a glass of wine in her hand. “Is this what you think femininity is? Breakdowns in pretty underwear?”

Covering your hand, he stops you from flipping through more. “Okay, my price just went up. 10 dollars and lunch. Any other critiques will cost you.” He frowns at the painting, swiping a thumb over the edge. “How do you know that isn’t a real woman?”

You take your hand from him, though not unkindly. You both share the knowing look of two people in the depths of flirtation. “I don’t, I’m being cruel and I’m sorry. But you’re lucky you’ve got a nice nose, because those prices are outrageous.”

His laugh has no room to echo in his little studio, so of course it has no other option but to nuzzle itself in the pit of your stomach. You divert your eyes back to the canvases and their depressing scenes. “I like you very much, despite myself,” you tell him frankly, “but I won’t sleep with you.”

“Why? Afraid of cooties? I’m vaccinated against them.” He lays the charm on thick.

“No. I’ve already had a case or two.” As you look up, you watch his eyes drop to your lips. There is an enticing concoction of nerves brewing inside of you. They churn together mightily as you do your best to make out your next line: “I just don’t fuck actors as a rule.”

He clicks his tongue, leaning in closer. He smells clean, like laundry detergent and toothpaste. “Rosemary’s Baby situation? If so, I get that. That’d do it for anyone.”

“Hardly,” you grin. Your fingers brush against the fabric of his shirt. You tell yourself it’s because you want to keep him at bay, but the surge of excitement you feel doesn’t really indicate that. “It’s just this thing I have. I don’t think artists do well with other artists, regardless of the profession. I’d only make an exception for one man.”

He narrows his eyes, holding himself in the precarious position. “Who?”

“Gregory Peck.”

“He’s dead!” he gawks.

“What a relief, huh?” you joke. “I’d never have stood a chance against him.”

He’s leaning in then, and much to your surprise - and perhaps his too - you close the space between you. It's hardly anything of substance, barely a touch of the lips before it’s over. But he clutches the fabric of your cloth overalls and looks at you like some lovesick puppy, and you know it’s not finished.

There will be more. God, you hope for it.

“If it makes you feel better, I don’t think Gregory Peck would’ve been able to withstand you either,” he mutters.

—

March, 2010

He becomes the exception to the rule. You sketch the curves of his face, shadow in his eyes, pay special attention to the dip in the middle of his lips, and kiss him hard and fast, as though making it rough will make it mean less. He slows you down, laughing lightly.

“Let me be gentle,” he tells you, hand on the small of your back. You nod, nervous - you are always nervous around him, much to your dismay - and he tips back your head with a slight tap to your chin. As you open your mouth, he licks into you, fingers trailing down to the base of your neck and sprawling out across your chest. Dieter touches all that he can, eager and pleasant. He is cool against your skin but warm in your mouth, and you want him so badly you forget yourself, moaning when he presses you against a studio wall with his body.

He smiles against your lips and kisses his way down your body until his knees hit the floor, and there’s no place to go but up. You help him take off your shorts and you go to joke - to say something like “It’s not right that I’m the only one getting undressed” — but it dies in the back of your throat when he puts his hot mouth on you, over the fabric of your underwear. No one has ever wanted you past the point of patience, unable to spare the few seconds taking off your underwear would take. Not until him.

He makes you come without ever taking anything off, and then he does it twice more with your underwear pooling around your left ankle and your right leg propped over his shoulder.

Afterwards he asks if he can take the picture you drew of him home and you say, “Of course,” voice soft, pliable seemingly to affection. He kisses you before he leaves, and you sit in your studio, stunned by this man with his lovely nose and the soft ache you feel at the idea of wanting him more than you should.

You sketch him many, many more times and by the end of the month, you give him what you always intended for Atticus Finch. He draws patterns of the small of your back and dedicates himself to you like a role he’s wanted all his life.

—

November 2010.

He comes to your apartment bearing gifts: a newly purchased DVD player - receipt crumbled in his back pocket - and a movie called The Rapture. His eyes are aglow with boyish excitement when he extends them towards you.

Last time he’d only brought the DVD and you had to tell him that you were a part of the select few individuals in the world who did not own a DVD player. Unfortunately this meant the two of you had to spend yet another Friday night getting well acquainted with each other’s bodies and doing little else. He is not going to let that happen again, he assures, kissing you fully on the lips in greeting. He half forgets his promise when you bite down on his bottom lip, but remembers it when you nearly dropped the movie from your hand.

“You’re insatiable.” He clicks his tongue, a devious twinkle in his eye.

He works the cords into your television and beams when it works on the first try. “I was afraid it wasn’t going to and then I was going to have to ask you to read me the instructions while I tried again. Like some married couple,” he says, stepping back from the television.

The mention of marriage, even in the half baked, joking manner the two of you take to approach everything, makes you feel a bit queasy so you ignore it all together. “What’s this movie about again?” you ask.

“It’s self explanatory.”

“Well, explain it anyways.”

“It’s about the rapture,” he offers simply, with a shrug and an unforgiving smirk.

You make room for him on the couch, picking up the remote. The title screen flashes in front of you and based on the graphics, you get the feeling that this film is low budget. It makes you grin. “What?” he asks, looking at you.

“I don’t know. I had this feeling that you were one of those men who like those unheard of, low budget indie films with nudity and sex in it.” You laugh. “Tell me—am I going to see boobs? A little dick?”

He rolls his eyes, settling in beside you. Plucking the remote from your hand, he turns the movie on. “Maybe if you’re good during the show, but I don’t know. I don’t really like to put out for rude people,” he says flatly. “Now, shut up. You’ll miss the sex and nudity.”

You shake your head, laughing. “Please. You told me you put out for everyone, no matter the situation.”

Without looking at you, he says too soberly: “No. Not anymore.”

You don’t say much else after that. You don't know what else there is to say. After the film, you chalk it up to a crisis of faith. But after the sex, you realize he means: I only want you.

That’s the thing about those actors—you can never know what they mean until it’s too late. He’ll win Oscars for ambiguity.

—

January, 2011.

When you meet his mother, it's by accident.

You’ve been spending more time with him. Recently you’ve even started to call each other boyfriend and girlfriend when forced to put labels on it, but you never crossed this road—the parent one. It seemed far out, in the future, but not necessarily the immediate one. No one brings parents into something this pleasant.

He sleeps over at your place on the weekends, takes you to lunch on Wednesdays, lets you help him pick a home near the studio he’s working for. Then at three o’clock on a random Thursday, he trips over a wire on set and breaks his arm. He calls her before he calls you, and she finds her way to his home, bringing her motherly love into his L.A. life. You aren’t good with parents - not even your own - but you like her. She loves him, calls him Mijo, travels miles and miles and miles for a bone that sits in a cast and can only be repaired with time.

“Mami, this is my girlfriend,” he tells her, smiling ruefully at you. You shrug your shoulders as if to say “What can you do?”

He looks like her, shares the same eyes that you felt were honest, with the same dark brown hair. You are her surprise as much as she is yours, but she takes you in happily, smiling. “I didn’t know-,” is what she says before stopping, thinking better. But you know she didn’t know; it’s only been a handful of months, but you get what her son is like. He doesn’t tell his mother what he should, despite that he seems to tell her everything — a drifter out at sea in the Los Angeles area while she waits patiently for news in her lonely New York.

You witness a divide between them at the quiet dinner you share that first night. She gives him words and he responds with short answers, not harsh or disrespectful, but all of it lacking the ability to be built into actual conversations. He goes to the bathroom midway and you look at her, sorry and worried and she smiles - the same smile he has. You feel like you’ve known her ages when she smiles like that, and you tell her, “I think he’s really upset about his arm. It’s going to put him out of work for a little bit, and he really likes work.”

“Thank you,” she replies, eyebrows creased. “I know that he doesn’t want me here, though. I shouldn’t have come. He is a grown man and I know that but when things like this happen, I can’t help it. He’s my little boy.”

You think back to his paintings, the bleakness of the colors and the darkness of the subjects. “He misses you, I know,” you tell her, “I’ve only been with him for a little bit, but he’s told me a little bit about it. Really, I think it’s the arm. Or maybe it’s me.” You shrug your shoulders. “I don’t think he expected us to meet for a long time.”

“Probably not,” she agrees, smiling a smile that might be a grimace. “I’ve checked in at a hotel, but I just wanted to make sure he was okay.”

“You shouldn’t stay at a hotel.”

“I always do when I come to town.” She waves her hand through the air, dismissing it.

For reasons you can’t comprehend, you tell her, “Come stay with me, at least. I’ve got a nice apartment, close to the beach. He’s in the middle of doing reconstruction on this place, but I’m sure he doesn’t want you to be in a hotel.” You say that even though you aren’t sure; all evidence to the fact that he quite actually does want her in one, for reasons you can’t comprehend.

Before she answers he comes back, looking the same as he did before he left.

“It’s getting late,” he says, looking at you, and then over to her. “You’ve got a place to stay?” he says to her. She nods her head. “I’ll call a ride for you.”

“David,” you intercede, glaring at him now. “I’ll take her. She’s staying with me.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t have to—“ but you stop him with the ice in your stare. He sits back in his chair like a petulant child, and grabs the glass of wine in front of his plate. He drinks all of it down.

You take his mother into your house and she tells you things he probably wouldn’t: the divorce between his father and herself when he was fifteen, the thing that created the sea between them; the way he’s always loved art, that his father was the one who got him into acting and how he found the brush some time in between elementary school and college. She even confesses that her little boy, dark eyed and happy in childhood, is prone to being mercurial, and that’s the thing that makes her worry the most.

“I hope you stay,” she tells you after you guide her to the lone spare bedroom you have. It smells unused, which would embarrass you if not for her comment. “You’re the best one I’ve met. Not that I’ve met many.”

“I will,” you tell her with the certainty you gathered at dinner. You’ve got no evidence for this, either, and yet you feel deep in your gut that it’s the truth.

He calls you when you get to your own bed, no longer pouty. “Thank you,” he tells you in a voice that is looking to be absolved from guilt. You give in easily.

“You’re welcome. Your mother is a nice woman.”

“I know, I know. I love her. I just have a hard time showing it sometimes.”

“That’s worrisome,” you joke, tucking the telephone between your head and your shoulder. You flip absentmindedly through the television stations as you listen to him.

“I think I love you too,” he says. You hear him breathe in after the sentence, like he’s stunned by it himself. “I do,” he adds, clumsily. “I don’t just think. I do.”

You’d never thought about being in love with him. Not until now. “I love you too,” you tell him, slightly bewildered by the fact you can’t pin where it began—or how it’ll end.

“What are we going to do about it?” he asks softly.

“What’s there to do about it?”

A pause. Then, “Nothing. I don’t know. Get married?”

“David-“ you say and he cuts you off, knowing.

“I’m kidding. Not yet.”

“Not yet,” you repeat.

You let it hang between you for five full breaths. It is a lukewarm idea, not altogether unpleasant, but half baked.

“I’ve got to go to sleep. The pain pills are making me drowsy,” he tells you quietly.

“Okay. Goodnight,” you tell him.

You stare blankly at the television, the terrible franchise movie you’ve stopped at not distracting you.

A woman loved. A loving woman. You wonder how these new identities will compete with the other ones, like The artist. The friend. The daughter. The you who likes her own space.

Love is remarkable and unremarkable, happening on a Thursday and leaving you changed for a lifetime.

—

July 2011 A red carpet and a movie premiere, New York, New York.

An interviewer named Natalie asks you what you make of your boyfriend. Cameras flash, people yell at you to smile. You think the question over, and wonder why girlfriends aren’t given public relations too.

“He’s great,” is what you settle with, your smile irredeemably try-hard. They call him Dieter and you have to remember that. Don’t call him David, don't call him David, don’t call him Dav— “Dav—Dieter is very talented and I’m proud of him.”

Later in the week, you will be berated online by women who love him because of the uncoordinated way you stood next to him, and the awkward answers you gave while trying to remember to smile and call him Dieter and to not let them in to your world, even though he wants to hold your hand on the red carpet and doesn’t mind that people know you’re dating. You will laugh, but you don’t ever google yourself again after that.

That night you watch his new movie beside him in a grand theater, sitting in a floor length dress. Afterwards, he introduces you to people you have only ever seen on a screen before. They ask you what you do–if you’re in the “business.” They don’t cringe when you say you’re an artist.

One of them, a man you think is a little too pretentious, says he thinks himself a little bit of an artist, too. David winks conspiratorially at you. You let out a breath for the first time since you arrived at the event; you’re relieved to find your boyfriend does not change in these settings.

“I’m sorry,” he tells you after, when you go home. “About that all, really. I should’ve prepared you better. I knew it wasn’t great for you.”

“I’m not a movie star,” you respond. He smiles endearingly at you.

“Pretty enough to be.”

You grin, charmed. “I prefer the canvas.”

“But us actors, we’re artists too,” he says somberly, before his face collapses into a wide grin.

“You almost made me laugh, winking at me like that.”

You hang your coat next to his, feeling warm and easy. They’d invited you both to an after party, but he just wanted to come back here, kiss all night and maybe smoke some weed. Feels like a Big Lebowski night, he whispered into the shell of your ear on the way out. You don’t have that movie, so you hope he won’t mind the other entertainment you have in mind.

“Did I?” he asks. The question is just something to keep in his mouth as he watches your fingers tease the straps of your dress. They fall off your shoulders. He’s paying attention but he’s not. You are bare naked in seconds, which means the whole night you weren’t wearing any underwear, and that’s great. Hot. He wants to swallow you whole; he wants to marry you.

“Marry me?” he asks, awed

You shake your head, smiling. He grins too, radiant for a rejected man. This is your long suffering joke that will find the path to truth one day. Just not this day. Today all you find is a little more love in you for your movie star.

“I knew you before you were famous,” you say to him, riding him lazily on the couch. He gazes lovingly at you.

“You’re the only one who’s ever known me,” is his response.

—

February 2012

For an anniversary present he buys you an art studio the size of a loft. It’s too much, and he’s happy to give it to you.

“Thank you,” you tell him softly. If you speak any louder, you're afraid your voice might wobble with emotion.

He shrugs his shoulders like it’s nothing. “You showed potential,” he jokes.

Because you were ‘famous’ before he was, he likes to poke fun. He never minded, but now that the tables are turning, you’re reluctant to admit that sometimes you do. It’s not anything to do with the ego — you’re more than happy being the least famous in that respect — but if he comes to an art show of yours, it’s inevitable that a flock of people will gather around him, asking for attention, for autographs. They don’t care about your art as much as your boyfriend. You understand this in his world, with the cameras and the stars, but sometimes the breach of it into yours makes you feel insignificant. You can’t help but think he’s apologizing a little for it with this.

You kiss him so fiercely he stumbles back a little. “I love you,” you say, looking him in the eye.

“I love you too,” he replies softly. “I’m glad you like the present.”

You touch the indent in his lip with your fingertip. “My present seems silly now,” you say, smiling. You feel the movement of his lips as they tug upwards underneath your touch.

“What is it?” he asks.

You look back into his eyes. He looks at you expectantly, waiting, and you lean in, press your ears to his lips. “I got your name tattooed on my ass,” you whisper.

When you pull back he examines your face. You can tell he’s not sure whether you’re joking or not. Really, it could be either. Finally he gives up. “Let me see.”

You lift up your dress. Sure enough, you’ve got a fresh tattoo on your ass, but it’s not his name. Not his given one, anyway. “Bravo,” he laughs, swiping a thumb over your flesh. The letters are small, barely taking up any room at all. He likes it more than he should.

“I think it’s a pretty great present,” he tells you, inspecting the spot for a little while longer.

“It’s silly.”

“Not to me.” He’s on his knees, kissing your thighs. When his teeth glide against your ass cheek, you squeal, turning to look over your shoulder. “Of all the things my name has been spread across, your ass is by far my favorite.”

“I thought it’d make you laugh.” You smile.

“It does, but I love it.” He stands tall, wrapping his arms around you. “I’m going to marry you.”

You arch an eyebrow, turning in his arms to face him. Smiling, you say, “Was that a question?”

“Just a warning for now.”

—

November 2013 A Little Chapel, Las Vegas.

You had the pre-wedding jitters, but now you feel that nothing has ever seemed as right as this: marrying him on a Friday night in a Las Vegas chapel as facetious as you’ve both always treated the topic of marriage.

You knew someday the joke would become serious. He slides a ring that he got three hours ago on your finger, and your two wedding guests clap boisterously. There is the co-star of his who became available at last minute, and a nice lady in the lobby of a hotel who you asked out of fear the co-star wouldn’t come. Your veil is pink and your dress was someone else’s once, in the ‘70s. He wears the beige tuxedo he brought to Vegas for a movie premiere, and a silver heart bolo tie he long ago nicked from your own collection.

A bottle of champagne is opened and shared. He kisses you once, twice, five times, his hand drifting scandalously lower each time. Beneath your white dress is the intricate lingerie set you bought while he was frantically looking for rings. He touches the end of the garter and it doesn’t take much longer for you both to excuse yourselves from the ceremony.

David unwraps you like a neatly wrapped present, preserving ribbons and bows for memory’s sake. Your fingers rub affectionately across his freshly shaven jaw as he tucks his naked body between your bare thighs. “I can’t believe we did that,” you say, voice soft.

“I’m happy we did.” He kisses your bare chest and sinks inside of you, slow, slow, slow, until he is buried within you, close as he can be. You moan quietly, fingers gripping around his arm, your cunt adjusting to the thickness of him.

“I don’t think I've ever been so turned on in my life,” he admits, more sheepish than you’ve ever seen him. His lips brush against yours, before he sucks at your bottom lip. For a moment, he does nothing, only stays buried within you, kissing you tenderly.

Your fingers explore the expanse of his muscular back, traveling over the ridges of his body as his hips raise and he begins to move inside of you. You think you agree: he has never felt this hard - never felt this much - before.

“I love you,” he whispers. It feels like a thing he’s giving to you, asking you to keep safe for him. You wrap your hands around his shoulders and say, “I love you, too.”

After he cums, he says he thinks maybe you’ve been here before, in another life, and that you’ll be this way again, in another. It’s his classic brand of sentimentality and you adore it all the same. If he was any better at knowing himself - if he knew him the way you knew him - it’d come out like this: I love you down to my bones; I love you in a way that defies reason.

You tell him you think so, too.

—

December 2013

When you move into his California beach house, he gives you a key, along with full creative control. “You’re the artist,” he figures, and truth is, he’s never been good at making places his home.

You don’t have much work to do. Because you’ve been with him since he bought the house, it already bears your marks. Pieces of you in the bathroom: the toothbrush, the shower curtain and the color scheme. There is the painting you did of Lee Strasberg in the corridor, hanging like a royal portrait. The bedroom is full of you: your clothes, most of the furniture, one fourth of the sex toys. You renovate a single room in the back, facing the beach, so you can have a home art studio.

You are the happiest you've ever been, and he has never felt so much at home.

—

January 2014

Marriage bliss doesn’t ever stay with you long, but it’s no one’s fault in particular. He picks a grueling role that means something to him and transforms him in ways you don’t understand. You paint when you miss him. Sometimes it happens when he’s in the same room.

Art is important to you both, and the sacrifice feels worth it when you see what he’s completed: A film about the world, about grief, about being human. What you see on the screen is something you recognize immediately. A version of him that you’ve known for as long as you’ve loved him. At the premiere you cry at the opening scene, though it’s not sad. He squeezes your leg.

“I loved that movie,” you tell him on the way home. “Really, it was beautiful. The best thing you’ve ever done.”

He kisses you gently. “I did it for you,” he says.

You believe him.

—

April 2015

You stand at the back of the art gallery, puffing on an indulgent cigarette, fighting off tears. He is on the phone, apologetic and placating.

“Honestly, I forgot. I’m sorry. Really,” he tries to pacify.

“I told you. For months, I told you about tonight.”

“I’m sorry,” he says again. You hate the way his voice sounds: like he’s only sorry because you need him to be sorry.

“I’d never do this to you.” Someone comes out from the exit, and gives you a furtive look. You turn your back to them, embarrassed to be seen like this.

“Don’t do that,” he whines.

“Do what?” you whisper.

“Get mean with me. I am sorry. As soon as I’ve wrapped here, I’ll come to the exhibition.”

You crush out the cigarette with the heel of your shoe, sniffling. “You know, it’s fine. I’ll just see you at home.”

You hear his frustrated groan on the other end. You know that you’re beginning to be unreasonable. This is how your fights have always been: trying to see how far you can push one another until the careful calm gives way to anger. Today he breaks first, faster than ever.

“Goddammit. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

When he arrives, he brings a flock of cameras along with him. They crowd the door and make it hard for people to come in. He squeezes your shoulder in apology, and you take separate cars home.

When you have sex that night, he makes you cum three times. This is how he tells you that you were right—that he’s sorry. Sometimes you think it might be nice if he just said it.

You love him so much it feels like sometimes it might split you apart.

—

February 26, 2017 Dolby Theatre Hollywood, Los Angeles

When they announce his name as the winner for best actor, there is an astonished moment of quiet that washes over your little row. He turns you, wide-eyed and impossibly boyish, a surprised smile turning up at the end of his lips. You rise with him, proud tears prickling at your eyes. He laughs then, his hand gripping at your forearm as you move to embrace him. You the feel the vibration of his joy in your chest.

“Holy shit,” he mutters, running a hand over his face. His mother and little sister crowd around you, patting at his arm, kissing him on the cheek, before he escapes your arms and wanders up the aisle to retrieve his much deserved award.

For a moment, he is the most humble man you’ve ever seen: bowled over by the impossibility of what just has happened to him. He takes the gold statue from the woman’s hand, accepts a hug, and positions himself in front of the microphone. His tie is crooked but he’s smiling so wide that his eyes crinkle, and you feel so thrilled to know that the world loves your husband as much as you do. It has not always been easy to share, but at this moment, you feel the reward for doing it, tenfold. He lifts the statue up slightly, showing you, and you nod, clapping along with everyone else.

“Oh,” he says over the roar of applause. People start to settle into their seats and quiet their claps, and he says it again: “Oh, wow. Um. I don’t think I’m easily robbed of my words, but I would be right now had I not prepared something. Thank you to the Academy, to my director and dearest friend, Thora Mendez, who took this script as seriously as it deserved to be taken and never let anyone tamper with her impeccable vision. Thank you to the three women I brought with me tonight: my mami, who learned English from a television screen when she came here at twelve, and who always let me be whoever I wanted to be; my little sister, Mina, who probably thinks this is the coolest I’m ever going to get.”

He laughs again and Mina rolls her eyes, but smiles widely. “And thank you to my beautiful, beautiful wife, who has read every script with me since I met her. There was no way at all she could know this is where I’d end up. This–” he raises the award high, “--is for you as much as it is for me. In every character I’ve ever had the pleasure to play, there’s a piece of your beautiful mind. I love you all, and would be nothing without you. Thank you.”

When he comes back to you, he puts the award in your hand. It is heavy. You remember a time when he said it wouldn’t matter at all if he won this or not–that it doesn't really mean anything. His bright, dimpled grin shows how much of a liar he’d been.

You kiss him and the entire world fades away around you. All the sparkle and glamor of his world is diluted down to the pure joy of spending this single, incredible moment with him.

“I’m so proud of you,” you whisper, shedding tears. He swipes one away with the pad of his thumb.

“I love you,” he says back, kissing you again.

For the first time in a long time, you feel like you belong in this life of his again.

When he takes you home, it is late, nearly morning. He helps you take off your dress and waits by the door of the bathroom as you scrub off the rest of your makeup. Then he shuts the curtains in your room, blocking out the rising sun, and he pulls you close to him. He kisses your bare shoulder. He smells like mint toothpaste and the faded, warm essence of his cologne.

You part your legs for him and he enters you from behind, molding his body to yours. The sex is slow, his thrusts sleepy and measured, and you hold onto him the entire time, so in love you’re intoxicated by it.

You know will love him forever.

—

August 2017

“What do you mean you’ve found a place in New York?” you ask him, incredulous. He shuffles around your bedroom, hanging up his clothes. Today he looks tired, and it upsets you that you don’t know why. You both talk so little these days, busy and forgetful. But this feels like treason.

“It’s just a little apartment, for when I do plays over there.”

“And you didn’t want to ask me?”

“Ask you what?” he snaps. “I didn’t think you’d be upset about it. I told you a million years ago that I wanted to start prioritizing the theater after I won the oscar.”

“You didn’t think I’d be upset about the fact that you bought a home separate from the one we live in together, and then tell me that you’re going to spend multiple months of each year living there?” You scoff, disbelieving. “Fuck you.”

“It’s not like that.” He has the sense to stop what he’s doing and turn his body towards you. His frown deepens. “You can come whenever you want. It’ll be better for us both.”

“But this is our home.”

“That will be too,” he reassures. “You’ll like it. It’s a studio, with big windows and lots of light. I already bought you a canvas to paint a picture there, too, when you come.”

You feel a lump gather in your throat, but your anger ebbs. He looks so sincere—sounds so sincere—it’s hard to stay angry.

When you walk over to him, he wraps you up in his arms. “New York is home to me. You know that,” he says against the shell of your ear.

You nod your head, but can’t stop the tears from falling down your cheek and onto his shirt. You’re not sure when you stopped being home to him.

—

December 2017 New York, New York

“Baby?” he says.

“Hm?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“We can make it better. Maybe go to couple’s therapy.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“I’m hoping I do,” you breathe out, looking at him.

Your love for him strangles you with its might.

—

February 2018 New York, New York

The acrid taste of failure makes eating an unpleasant task. You know you shouldn’t think of it this way, have tried not to, but you can’t help it. Your marriage is ending and your heart feels like it’s decided to beat slower today, just to torture you.

Or maybe it’s serious, solemn as your lunch-time confession to Dieter. You said you want a divorce and now your heart wants to stop all together, and is maybe making an honest attempt at it. There are old people who die of broken hearts, so why shouldn’t there be a few younger ones that do it, too?

After lunch you considered just going back home. You were tired, anxious, didn’t quite feel right trapped up in Dieter’s studio apartment anymore, waiting for him to come back from his stupid fucking rehearsals. But something felt unfinished, incomplete, so you went back to the apartment and now you wait, staring down at a soggy bowl of cereal while his shower runs.

Maybe you should join him, one last time. The very last time. Bile rises in your throat for the millionth time and you know just the fix for this terrible, never ending nightmare.

When you peek your head into the bathroom, it is filled with steam. He doesn’t remember to turn on the fan, never does. You don’t do it for him this time, just step inside with your surmounting grief and a desperate look in your eyes. Dieter wipes away some of the fog from the shower door. “Everything okay?” he asks over the spray of water. You don’t answer him.

You turn around while you undress, and he pretends not to notice. But he does notice, more than he’s ever noticed before. It’s like the last moments before something tremendously terrible takes over and everything changes: it goes so slow, but later it will feel like it happened in seconds. Time is unjust, senselessly cruel.

His soul feels like it’s being extracted from his body as you step inside the shower with him, the heavy weight of your united undoing drowning you. He wants to confess all—feels like an atheist on his deathbed, turning to God as you wrap your frame around him and cling. Like the fabled man pleading for eternal salvation in his dying hours, Dieter holds your head to his chest and wishes to give you years worth of devotion in seconds. Anything, so long as you won’t give up on him. Please, please, he says without saying, warm hands running over your back. I’ll be better, he longs for you to understand.

But you do understand: you’re no God. If he wishes to enter the church of you, become a devoted pupil, he’s going to be disappointed once more to find the thrum of humanity pulsing in you. Pure flesh, all human. You nag because he makes you nag and a million other things that he doesn’t like—that same old story, repeated and rehashed a million different ways. The moral of it: he doesn’t like you, not really, because you’re not fun enough and you hold him back and he wants more, and you don’t like him because he’s made you nag and you feel like a monster, and you remember once that you had been fun. You recall a movie about a woman without a face he showed you, and you are sick to know that you now resonate with her. None of this is fair and he’s never been religious for anything but the stage, anyway.

This is only scared cowardice because you’ve plunged him into the unknown.

He kisses you first, holds you up, swallows a mouthful of your moans, licks between your legs until the water is tepid. You don’t cum. He doesn’t get all the way hard, only works his way up to semi-erect, then softens completely under his own embarrassment.

They all said marriage wasn’t easy but he figured, sorta, that you’d both be different somehow. At forty, he is officially one year older than his father was when he got divorced from his mother. Maybe you didn’t ask for a divorce last year on purpose, just to give him something, in the grand scheme of things.

Your gesture says: We got a bad one, too, Bravo, but at least you ousted your parents, yeah? And morbidly enough, when he’s really bleeding out about this all later, the thought will soothe him. No mind that he provided no help, that you did it by yourself, because you are thoughtful, selfless, the best wife.

He will miss you more than you think possible—will, too, feel like he’s dying after you get on the plane home, to see your first round of lawyers. The play he rehearses for will be deemed his best yet, but it’s because in the weeks that follow your terrible lunch and your terrible shower, it will be all he allows himself to do in order not to ask you to reconsider him, as a whole.

Because he knows this: he will never be the husband you need, nor the one you want, and it took you so long to ask, didn’t it? You really thought it over, took a plane ride with the thought and still felt it strongly enough to ask after.

—

March 2018

You sign the divorce papers in separate places. He’s got a girl waiting for him outside in the car, half his age and stoned out of her mind. She thinks he’s signing on for another movie because that’s what he told her he was doing. At home, you’ve got a can of black paint and a painting he never finished, waiting for you to fix it or deface it. You’re not sure which yet. A marriage dissolves and takes you both with it.

You will host a slew of successful art shows in the months to come and he won’t work for the entire year, theater or otherwise. You think he’s being merciful enough to disappear from the public eye.

The truth is worse: he loves you so much he can’t bring himself to do anything but to try and forget it. He buries his love for you in a hundred people who aren’t you. Then he anonymously buys a painting of yours for more money than you’d ever think to ask, just because he’s so sorry it makes him sick.

—

March 2019

He buys a book about Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor, who married and divorced twice, and in his first film since your divorce, he plays a doting husband. If it didn’t make him want to die, he would be delighted by a review that says: “For all of his celebrated range as an actor, Bravo oddly fails to capture the sincerity the role requires to make it believable.”

Instead, he calls you. You pick up after the second ring.

“Hello?” you say, a question. “David? Is that you? Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” he replies. The sound of your voice works as a balm to his worries. He feels like he can breathe for the first time in months. The relief is so palpable, it nearly overcomes him. “I’m sorry if I’m interrupting you while you’re doing something.”

“No, you’re not. I was sketching,” you tell him. He forgot how kind you could be. How self-sacrificing. He misses you.

“I didn’t know if you’d pick up,” he laughs softly. “I haven’t talked to you in a year.” He can hear you shuffling around on the other side, and he knows you’re sitting down.

After a beat of silence, you say, “I shouldn’t have, but I saw your movie and it was bad and I wanted to tell you that but then I heard you, and suddenly I wanted to tell you it was good.” You laugh, too. “It wasn’t so bad. Not really. I was just angry when I watched it. I’m happy you called.”

“Me too,” he replies, meaning it with all his might. “I’m happy you thought it was a bad movie because it was. I’m sorry.”

“For the movie?” You laugh again.

“For everything.”

“Oh, well.” There’s a pause, and he can particularly see you at home, on the couch, shrugging despite the fact that he can’t see you. It makes him smile to remember you like this. “I’ve forgiven you.”

“Just now?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s really good of you.”

“Mm,” you acknowledge, “I just don’t want you to make any more shit movies. I used to know you, and that’s embarrassing for me.”

He laughs so hard he starts to cry a little, mostly because he misses you, and because you’re being so nice when you shouldn’t. He clutches the phone in his hand and feels the love in his chest. It’s a heavy thing. “I miss you,” he says. “Not that I mean anything by that. I just needed you to know that.”

“I miss you too, Bravo. Next time you’re in LA, come say hi. I don't want to be your stranger.”

“No, I don’t want that either,” he says. “I’m in town next month.”

“Okay. Let’s have lunch at my house.”

“Okay,” he agrees. “That’d be nice.”

When he hangs up the phone, he feels better than he has in years. He knows he can’t go back with you, that what’s done is done, and he’s sorry, but he’s happy to be going forward now.

You’re the greatest thing that will ever happen to him. This he has, and always will, know to be true.

#dieter bravo #the bubble #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal characters #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x ofc #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x female reader #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal fanfiction

122 notes · View notes

alpaca-clouds · 2 years ago

Text

Let me talk about Mizrak

Yeah, this with all the entire Nocturne brainrot is going to continue for a couple more days at least. But the show has so many interesting themes and characters and I just love it so much. And after getting all my friends to watch the show, I got surprised by one of them being super angry about Mizrak.

Why? Well, because of the last scene with him and Olrox in the season and his words of: "You are just an animal that lost its soul centuries ago." And the friend considered that "being an asshole" and "cruel".

To which I say: Cruel? Yes. Asshole? No.

Let me explain.

First, let me make one thing clear: No, Mizrak is not a templar. I have seen that one too many times. He is not a templar. He is a monk knight of the order of St. John, so the Knights Hospitaller. Like the templars they were very much tied to the crusades originally, but they are not the same thing. There were a lot of orders and types of knights associated with the crusades. Templars were just one of them. (Do you guys wanna hear more about the templars? I can talk more about them.)

We know from bits and pieces of dialogue that Mizrak originates in Jerusalem (which is also where the order was founded). This is a gentle reminder: Israel as we know it today was not a thing back then. But Jerusalem was always a place of religious conflict as it holds importance in all three Abrahamic religions. Which was, what the crusades were all about after all. Before the time of the French Revolution, though, there was mostly some a conflict between the Ottomans and some Arab forces over Palestine. There were some Christian orders accepted within the city though.

Now, the Knights Hospitaller, who were accepted in Jerusalem, had a strong connection to France. Which... lead to problems, when some of the Arabs and the French got into problems. Which let to the Knights Hospitaller leaving for Malta. This too is referenced in the dialogue. (If you guys cannot tell: I am very happy with the amount of historical research put into this show!)

Mizrak looks to be in his early 30s. So I assume he entered the order in his mid-teens (which was a usual age to enter an order like that) and then probably left for Malta within a couple of years after that when the political situation got more charged. And then from Malta to France.

The Knights Hospitaller back then for all intent and purposes lived as militarized monks. That means they made vows of poverty, chastity and obedience. And this very much shines through with his character in so many scenes.

Of course we see that the entire "chastity" thing does not work out that well for him. But that is also why he clearly is shown to be conflicted about that entire thing. What he tries to uphold, though, is the obedience aspect of his vows. And that is, what his entire conflict is about.

See, what I love about this character is that there is all this delicious conflict.

I will iterate again: I grew up in a very, very conservative, strict, catholic household. Other kids got read fairytales for bedtime. My mother read me the bible. Priests and monks were people we intermingled with a lot. (Heck, the last pope? I met him when he was still a bishop.) And hence I got to make one very clear experience: There are three types of Catholics: Those, who focus on all the horrible things. Those, who focus on the literal stuff written in the bible. And those, who focus on the positive stuff. You know, the stuff with helping people, and being poor, and sharing, and being in general a good person. (Though the three types are not always mutually exclusive.)

And it is pretty clear that Mizrak is of the latter kind. He believes in the good he can do through his faith in God and Christ. But he has also grown up in an Order and a Church that puts a lot of focus on the idea of sin, on the idea of obedience, and the idea of the "natural order".

But there he is, with his Abbot collaborating with demons and vampires to enforce that "natural order", which among other things goes against their own vow of poverty. This is so clearly against Mizrak's believes. Because in his very core, Mizrak is a good fucking man. He is one of the good guys. Who wants to do good through his faith in God. And this conflicts for him.

So by the end of episode 7 he reached the point to go against his vow of obedience, because his faith in doing good was stronger, than his dedication to his vows. He very actively broke his vows in the eyes of his order, standing against his order, to protect those darn kids. Because it was the right thing to do. He is absolutely willing to do the noble sacrifice if that is what it takes to save those kids. And in comes that weird dude and takes this chance from him.

And his entire thing with Olrox... It seems very much that Mizrak is indeed gay. As the series so helpfully points out: Yeah, priests, monks, other clergy, and their vows of chastity were always a thing that rarely worked out. Again, as someone who grew up with close ties to the church: The fact that everyone is secretly fucking is... well known. As well as the fact that yeah, there are a lot of gay clergy. Mostly for the reason that they are shamed for their sexuality and then take the vows to not be tempted into homosexuality. Only to find that a priest school with a lot of other queer supressed men is exactly the place you do not want to be to not be tempted. (And that is all without going into all the non-con, pedophilia and what not. Things that were also already happening back then, I guarantee you.)

So, try to imagine that entire thing from Mizrak's perspective. There he is, already ashamed and suppressed about all of that and in comes this very, very seductive vampire man, who kinda seems to align with some of his values, but not with others. And who is emotionally unavailable as fuck, outright telling him that he does not love our dear Mizrak. Someone, who clearly is not for the vampires and your abbot, but also clearly not willing to take the other side. The side that you in your heart (even though it means standing against your order) know to be right. And this man, who claims to not love you, then comes in and tries to stop you from doing what is right.

Yeah, no fuck, Mizrak is a bit pissed at him. Especially as in that moment Olrox very clearly goes against Mizrak's ideals, that are all about self-sacrificially doing the right thing.

And I do think that Mizrak is right in one regard: Olrox lost his soul. He lost a part of himself. Through the trauma of colonialism, but he lost it never the less.

So, once more: Thanks the team for giving us another interesting, well-rounded religious character! CV already did so well with Isaac and Mizrak is sofar extremely promising in that regard.

#castlevania #castlevania netflix #castlevania nocturne #castlevania nocturne spoilers #castlevania mizrak #castlevania olrox #olrox x mizrak #mizrox

1K notes · View notes

eunnieboo · 7 months ago

Text

IYHM ask replies! (1/3)

🌸 @daniluvz asked:

I am so happy, I got your book and I am excited it's finally next in my to be read pile!!!!!! I know this is way to soon to ask but will you be making another book? (I had to ask, I know you literally just came out with this one not to long ago, but I love your art and it has inspired me to continue my journey in art and graphic novel) sending all the love and well wishes❣️❣️❣️

wahhh thank you so much!!!! oh my gosh, while it's not a sequel, i AM making another book! i feel like i'm the type to keep big projects close to my chest until the moment i can reveal it to the world, but i have to confess i'm very excited about this one... AH i can't wait!

wishing you well too, i'm so excited for your journey omg!!! sending you all the luck and love in the world!!!!! 💖💖💖

🌸 @perseusrising asked:

my girlfriend and i read your book together! it was absolutely spectacular! thank you so much for sharing such a beautiful story

oh it makes me so happy when i hear about people reading it together!! especially couples! what a wonderful experience to share. thank you <3

🌸 @ggwweenn1 asked:

I work at a library and read "If you'll have me" because I saw it in our new book delivery and thought "oh hey I know them from Tumblr" and then immediately was like "ok ok where can I display this prominently so every 16 year old girl can read it!?!?!" xoxo

AHH i only want the best for everyone who works at libraries!! thank you for all your hard work!!! 😤 also OMG YES... i wish that every girl who needs this book may find it... tysm! xoxo!!

🌸 @elihoneybee asked:

my girlfriend got me iyhm for christmas im so happy thank you for this beautiful book

oh thank you so much!! ;_; i'm always so touched when i hear it's been given as a gift. i think books are such good presents! and giving them is such a sweet gesture <3

🌸 @mythicalphoenix14 asked:

I recently read your book and wanted to tell you how incredible the art was and the story.

oh my gosh. that means so much! thank you forever ♥

🌸 @animaestr0 asked:

me and my friends went to the bookstore a couple montsb back and i SAW "IF YOU'LL HAVE ME" on the shelf and i straight up screamed and yoinked it because I was late to the iyhm preorder chain and couldn't find it anywhere for a while BUT!!!! I HAVE IT NOWW WOOOOOOOOO

OMG YAYYYYYYY i'm so happy to hear that!!! YIPPEEEEE 💕💕 honestly i should've reblogged the preorder link more but i'm so slow to act and afraid of being annoying 😩 i wanna try harder next time!!

🌸 Anonymous asked:

I saw your sneak peak scene on twitter and i just fell in love with your artstyle in a heartbeat, the colors, your way of setting the scene and i just wanted to tell ya i ordered if you'll have me! ps: i'm from germany! :)

you are so wonderfully sweet oh my gosh! ;0; thank you so much for your kind words!! may it get to you safely~

🌸 Anonymous asked:

i saw iyhm in a store today! i'm in australia so i was going to buy it online but i was so moved seeing irl :') it's on my bookshelf. congrats on getting published, i'm so excited to read it!

oh my goodness, thank you! SAME every time i see it in a store, my heart skips a beat 💓 i feel very grateful to have physical copies out in the world, especially with the state of digital media preservation today... thank you again!!

🌸 @unfortunatelyem asked:

read the iyhm graphic novel in one sitting and almost cried!!! thank you for the food🙏

wahhh thank you so much for reading and enjoying!!!!

🌸 @dancingcoder28 asked:

Just wanted to tell you that I saw your book in my local library! I am so happy and excited to see it because it’s such a good book, and definitely deserves to be put out there 💜💜💜💜

AHHH yessss we love libraries!! omggg thank you so much for this lovely message, that means the world 💛💛💛💛

🌸 Anonymous asked:

HI HELLO i just wanted to let you know that my friends and i went to the big barnes and nobles in NYC recently and i recognized If You'll Have Me on display and ofc i HAD to have it so I picked it up right away and absolutely adored every page of it and thank you sososo much for giving us such a lovely story <33 it made me smile so much !!!!!!!

OMG THANK YOU AHHH!!!!! oh i wanted so much for it to make someone smile!!! T_T my dreams are coming true... i hope it felt like a warm hug <3 <3

🌸 @cosmonautchan asked:

SAW YOUR BOOK AT MY LOCAL WATERSTONES!!! IT'S SUPER COOL!!!

THANK YOU AHHH HOW WONDERFUL!!! i would love to visit a waterstones someday!!

🌸 Anonymous asked:

Hiii I'm in the middle of reading IYHM (digital version cuz I don't trust my local post office sorry 😔) and it makes me feel so uwu. I'm happy to see wlw works out there (I've read mostly mlm so far). Momo is so relatable it almost hurts, I too overthink absolutely everything. Congratulations on the release!!! Here's to many more! 🎉 🥂

totally understand omg rip 😔🙏 but yayyyy i'm so thrilled! the overthinking is so real for me too. also uwu is EXACTLY the feeling i wanted to capture 😂 the uwus and the doki dokis... i wish i had even more time to show the girls being cute and fluffy with each other! maybe next time hehe. thank you so much!!!

🌸 @hyper0bject asked:

heyyy i just got a copy of IYHM in! excited to read it, been following the mini comics for a bit now and pulled the trigger on it a couple days ago :) even just looking it over it looks super quality, print and heft! thanks!

ahh i'm so happy to hear that! thank you so much!! i'm still so pleased with how the physical copies turned out. i like paperbacks because of how they feel to hold, but i was amazed to find out the hardback has the art printed right onto the cover! i totally wasn't expecting it. ty again! :>

🌸 Anonymous asked:

I just wanted to let you know I remember seeing art of momo and PG when I was in seventh grade (the "you're the cute one" art) and today I saw them on the cover of a book at my library and I almost couldn't believe it!!! I finished it within that same afternoon, and I gotta say I'm so happy you were able to publish these girls. I love them to bits. keep up the amazing work!!!

omg it's been so long since i drew that!! it's amazing that you remembered them and that they came back to you like this!!! thank you so much aw... this is so incredibly sweet... i wish i had more words to say thank you <33

🌸 @lemonbaristas asked:

Happy book birthday!!! 🎉

thank you so much!!! 🥺💕

part 2 is on its way~

#iyhm #replies #lemonbaristas #cosmonautchan #hyper0bject #dancingcoder28 #unfortunatelyem #animaestr0 #mythicalphoenix14 #elihoneybee #ggwweenn1 #perseusrising #daniluvz #anon

346 notes · View notes

rosenclaws · 7 months ago

Note

Hello😸 I saw that you have requests open and I’m still on that Leopold high‼️

So, could I request a little something where Leo is jealous of the attention Reader is getting and tries to get their attention back on him?

(I’d prefer if Reader was gender neutral but fem is fine too‼️)

a/n: omg jealous leo is sooo cute. That scene in the movie where he gets jealous of Kate's boss is too good. I took a lot of inspiration from that. Also there is a lot of wine talk in this and I do not know anything about wine so don't come for me for incorrect wine information okay

warnings: no pronouns used for the reader, jealous leo, asshole corporate guy

Leopold has been exposed to many unbelievable things in the past year. Time travel, television, cell phones, and the worst of all. Frozen food trays. However what Leopold isn’t used to is this feeling twisting and turning inside of his stomach. Jealously. The collar of his shirt starts to itch uncomfortably, not quite used to the wear of the 21st century. Business casual as you had called it.

He had been to many parties back in his time but they were nothing like they are now. This was no party to him. As you had explained they were more for celebrating themselves and showing off how successful the company. Still what kind of boyfriend would he be if he didn't accompany you. Ever the gentleman he is as he leads you through the crowd of people.

He had offered to get drinks as you go and mingle. With two glasses of wine in his hands he made his way back to you. Only to find you trapped in a conversation with a man he had never heard of before. He can feel his jaw clench as he slides right next to you. Handing you your drink and pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"Oh Leopold this is Mason," Leopold's eyes narrow as he notices Mason look him up and down, a smug look in his eye.

"You're the butter commercial guy." Mason says with a smirk. You feel Leopold tense slightly but he flashes his smile and reaches his hand out.

"Yes, and you are?" Leopold grips his hand a little too tight as they shake hands. You place your hand on Leopold's arm as you butt back into the conversation.

"He's new-"

"I'm the new director of marketing." He cuts you off and Leopold feels anger bubbling inside of him. Before either of you or Leopold could speak he starts talking.

Dominating the conversation with stories of how successful he's been and all the wonderful things he's done. He can't help but feel the jealously build in his gut. Your attention is on this arrogant man who is clearly trying to court you despite Leopold standing right next to you.

"You know, to be in marketing you need to have a certain, charisma about you." He glances over at you and flashes a smile. He takes a sip of his champagne and grimaces.

"Of course they got the cheap stuff, back home I have bottles of the finest wine. A bottle of champagne called La Romanée from 1873. Expensive yes but I would be happy to share. Maybe come back to my place and I'll show you." Leopold chuckles which makes Mason look to him.

"Something funny?" Leopold looks at him with a sudden confidence.

"No no. Just that from my memory that wine is from 1870 and it's pinot noir, not a champagne." Leopold raises an eyebrow as Mason starts to stammer.

"I think you've got your information wrong. My guy is a very reputable wine seller." He has a false confidence about him that Leopold can see right through. He grins, taking a sip of his own wine. He knows he isn't.

"I would contact your merchant, but perhaps I am mistaken." The damage is done as Mason starts to turn red from anger. Leopold takes a step closer. He's a polite man but he even he has his limits.

"I must add, that attempting to court someone who is already taken really is in poor taste. Simply put, you're making a fool of yourself." Mason mumbles something under his breath before stalking away in defeat. You finally let out the laugh that you had been holding in. Relieved that you were finally alone with Leo for the night.

"What a dick." You huff as pull Leopold to the side of the room.

"Didn't think you were the jealous type." You tease as Leopold starts to calm down. He sees Mason go over to what appeared to be a very important group of people. A sense of guilt washes over him. An egotistical, dick as you put it, he may be but he was still an important figure at your company.

"Forgive me if I have overstepped my place. I fear that jealously had blinded me and I acted out of line." You place your hand on top of his, gently squeezing his hand.

"You didn't, he's your typical asshole corporate higher up. It was nice seeing someone put him in his place a little." Also seeing him jealous was hot. But you'll tell him that later. You lean in and kiss him on the cheek.

"How do you know so much about wine?" He shrugs and places his now empty glass down.

"I visited Bordeaux in my youth before moving to New York." You stare at him in awe, his life before he met you was constantly surprising you.

"I want to hear more." You slowly start dragging him to the exit.

"Let's ditch this party and go home. I have a bottle of wine I got for 20 bucks that I'd be happy to share." You say, mocking the words that Mason had said to you. Leopold laughs as he places a hand on your back, guiding you away from the party.

"It's no fancy wine from France but I hope it will do." Once you're clear of the door he gently presses you against the wall. Capturing your lips in a gentle kiss.

"The best wine is any I get to share with you." He says sincerely, brushing his thumb across your lips.

He kisses you again. The sound of footsteps pass by but he could care less. A small part of him wanting to show that you are his and he is yours. He can't help it. Anyone with you in their life would feel the same way. Too bad for them, your his now.

His and no one else's.

#hugh jackman x reader #kate and leopold #leopold mountbatten x reader #leopold mountbatten #leopold mountbatten fan fic

234 notes · View notes

mirai-e-jump · 2 months ago

Text

Animage April 2025 Issue ft. Fuyuno Mio Interview (translation below)

Publication: March 10, 2025

Aiming to become Number One

Tono Hoeru, an "outcast" with no family or friends, made a "ring contract" with the Giant God Tega Sword and became GozyuWolf, a red bodied wolf warrior. In order to become number one, Hoeru throws himself into fierce battles against the evil army Buraidan and Ring Warriors, who like himself, have signed contracts with Tega Sword.

"No.1 Sentai Gozyuger," the most recent production in the Super Sentai series, has been gaining a great deal of attention since it started airing in February, as one of its biggest appeals is that it features wildly unconventional characters. Beginning with Hoeru, who's a bad tempered and quick to pick fights kind of person, the five members who Engage (transform) into Gozyugers all have extremely strong personalities. Their competition won't be a straightforward one, as surprising developments will await them in each and every battle.

Unlike the other warriors, who are trying to collect all the Sentai Rings in order to make their dreams and wishes come true, Hoeru's aim is to find his true wish in the midst of battle. What will the battles against the Ring Warriors bring about for Hoeru? The "competition for the rings," which will seriously shake up the viewers emotions, has only just begun!

-Hoeru is a surprisingly cute guy?-

"What was your impression when you learned about the details of this production?"

Fuyuno: Its motif is that all the strongest animals have gathered, so I thought they were unconventional heroes. Hoeru is a wolf, with the other members being a lion, an eagle, and a tyrannosaurus, and while only the unicorn is a mythical creature, they're all motifs worthy of being the main characters, don't you think? Even the name "Number One Sentai" is extremely impactful and straightforward, and I felt that it sounded cool from the first time I heard it.

"Please tell us what you remember from the audition."

Fuyuno: I remember one of the judges at the final audition said to me, "Think of us as children and get us excited." I'm really bad at making things lively, in part because I'm shy, and it was difficult for me to become positive, but I summoned up all my courage and got through it. I remember talking with Rikuo's Hideharu-kun on my way home from the final audition. I was incredibly happy when I found out at our meeting that we had both been chosen.

"What kind of character do you consider Tono Hoeru to be?"

Fuyuno: Hoeru has a foul mouth and isn't very sociable, which tends to give off the impression that he's unapproachable, but he has a kind side to him, and I think he's a surprisingly cute character.

"What do you think is similar and different between you and Hoeru?"

Fuyuno: We may be mostly similar (laughs). I too am often told that I'm unfriendly when first meeting someone, and we share the same clumsy traits. In the episodes that'll soon air, there were moments that made me think, "Something like this has happened to me too," so it was very easy for me to put my feelings into my performance. Hoeru grows bean sprouts in his room, and there are many other scenes that show his high level of self sufficiency, meanwhile, I'm not good at doing housework, so I think that's where Hoeru and I are different.

"Please tell us what you think is important when acting."

Fuyuno: To bring out the humanity that Hoeru has, I'm careful trying to take in the atmosphere of the scene and react accordingly to everyone's performance. Also, Hoeru possesses the mental strength to stand up to strong opponents, even if they're in large groups. I also try to have false confidence in myself on a regular basis.

"How do you communicate with GozyuWolf's Suit Actor Asai Kosuke-san?"

Fuyuno: Asai-san and I will talk about the performance, but now we're also having conversations about private matters. His actions are really cool, and during post recording sessions, I'm conscious of the strength of my voice so that it matches the wild movements of Asai-san's performance.

"What's been your most memorable interaction with Main Director Tasaki Ryuta-san?"

Fuyuno: During script reading, Director Tasaki taught me that an actor must express their emotions into a cup, and to let those emotions out as if it were water overflowing. I was told that I have a big cup, and that I should always prepare my emotions before going to the set so that they can overflow properly. Also, he wrote the words "capture the nature of the role" in my notebook. That motivated me to read the script more carefully, and to focus my mind on understanding Hoeru's character as I play the role.

"How's the teamwork among all the cast members?"

Fuyuno: Everyone performs properly in front of the cameras, but outside of that, we have fun talking and occasionally go out to eat together, so I think our teamwork is really good. In the very beginning, I was trying really hard to talk with them, thinking that I had to keep up with the conversation, but they're all such nice people, that we quickly became close and developed a relationship where I could relax and be myself. Aside from the main members, my first time filming together with Aoi's Yuda Koki-kun was memorable. I felt so at ease when he rushed over to me saying, "Hoeru!" Thanks to the fact that I was able to perform with those emotions, I showed off a really relaxed expression, so I think the scene turned out to be a very good one.

"Finally, please tell us some future highlights."

Fuyuno: I hope that you'll pay attention to the human drama of each of the five members. Each and every one of them has something they've been through and are still struggling with, which will be revealed over time, so please look forward to it.

72 notes · View notes

anonzentimes · 8 days ago

Note

Zen!!! Did you see Ogata's comment about Nagito's birthday on X? I personally found it very touching.😭💖:

You may have already seen it, but just in case, here’s my English translation:

——————

W-What age did he turn now?()

lol

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!! There were a few characters that were hard to bring to life, but for me, he was by far the hardest. (lol But that's exactly why he became such a truly one-of-a-kind person. I'm grateful for that.

I'm glad I met you and got to become you. I hope we can stay connected from here on, too.

——————

Some parts of the original text require additional explanation due to cultural nuances, so I'll add some notes:

Leaving brackets empty like that is a kind of self-deprecating comment often used by otaku. (Ogata is on good terms with people involved in anime production, so she often uses otaku slang in her everyday writing.) In this case, she knows it’s kind of tacky to point out how old a game character would be, but she says it anyway, and then kind of teases herself like, “Don't say that.”

Similarly, writing a bracket only on the left side also carries a self-deprecating nuance.

In the original text, she refers to Nagito as “アレな人” ("that person"), but I skipped translating it directly because it’s tricky to capture the nuance. “アレな人” is a vague expression often used to soften something that might sound negative. I think she’s probably referring to Nagito’s crazy or extreme side. But since she also says she's grateful for it, she might be pointing to his unexpectedly appealing traits as well. It's also possible she chose that wording to avoid spoilers. In any case, it’s deliberately ambiguous!

The last phrase, “これからも宜しくね,” is very difficult to translate. “Yoroshiku” is a word deeply rooted in Japanese culture and is used in a variety of situations, so there’s no direct English equivalent. It’s generally used to express a desire to continue a relationship. I interpreted it as Ogata conveying her hope to stay connected with Nagito and continue bringing him to life.

Sorry for the long explanation! I just wanted to share how happy I was that she commented as if she were sending her message directly to Nagito.

Just recently, during a YouTube Live stream right before the release of The Hundred Line, Kodaka showed some merch featuring characters Ogata has voiced, but Ogata didn’t say much about the characters themselves. It made me feel a little sad (only a little, though!). So I was really happy when Ogata mentioned Nagito’s birthday.

(You can see the scene in the following archived video, around 1:20:43: https://www.youtube.com/live/D9yr9HQpzdg?si=JBhuNNNuBf-TRdYC&t=4843)

Thanks for reading this long message! I hope you found it enjoyable!

Thank you so much Asaka, I love when you send me messages so much! I actually happened to not see this as I am trying to use twitter less so I’m very grateful. To clarify, most Everybody In English refers to “X” as “Twitter” regardless of it being renamed Lol. Anyways, I’m so glad you not only showed me, but provided a translation for me as well! You’ve made me so happy. I enjoyed reading it a lot! 💗💗💗💗💗

#danganronpa #nagito komaeda #megumi ogata #nagito komaeda birthday #nagito komaeda birthday 2025 #sdr2 nagito #danganronpa nagito #sdr2 #danganronpa komaeda #sdr2 komaeda #komaeda nagito #nagito

57 notes · View notes

nobody-nexus · 10 months ago

Text

What your fav TADC ship says about you- UPDATED!

-> Note: these are for fun! Do not take any of this seriously<-

Edit: Don't tell me if I missed any ships I'm not updating this

Pomni x Caine: You love the inherent romanticism of being too aware at all times x Being completely unaware of everything at all times

Pomni x Ragatha: You love the idea of someone being so pathetically devoted to another that you can't see them with anyone else

Pomni x Jax: You think the way to someone's heart is insulting before sharing a kiss and a cigarette

Pomni x Gangle: You knew the moment that Pomni was indirectly the reason for Gangle's mask breaking that it was love

Pomni x Zooble: You believe in the inherent romanticism of just not giving a flying fuck anymore but together

Pomni x Loolilalu: You haven't seen episode 2 yet. That or you just want all of the sapphic ships

Pomni x Gummigoo: You are very much into the idea of THE fruitiest straight passing couple of all time

Pomni x Kaufmo: You took that one fact that they would've actually gotten along with each other and ran with it

Pomni x Exit: You came from the Danganronpa fandom

Pomni x Sun: You are into swap AUs. We know the scene. And we know what you are

Ragatha x Jax: I dunno which one you wanna bang, but all I know is that you wanna bang ONE of them

Ragatha x Gangle: You just want them to be happy for ONCE dammit! Also you're probably anhopeless romantic

Ragatha x Loolilalu: You do not CARE if they only had 20 seconds of screen time together, you WANT THEM TO KISS

Ragatha x Kaufmo: You most likely know a couple in real life where one makes jokes and the other is sick of it

Jax x Gangle: You were told that the bully had a crush on you and you still have not recovered from it

Jax x Zooble: You just want a couple who can and will do hijinx together whether they like it or not

Jax x Caine: I got no idea what you're into, but it is one of the straightest gay things I've seen

Jax x Gummigoo: You love the idea of an asshole twink being put in his place. Also you ship Montgomery with Bonnie

Jax x Kaufmo: You believe in the inherent romanticism of two pranksters causing complete mayhem together

Jax x The Fudge: You either are a HUGE crack shipper OR you are into a very SPECIFIC thing and I am judging

Jax x Bubble: There is no way you ship this in a genuine way. You are the master of crack shipping

Gangle x Zooble: There is at least a 70% chance that you have at least one mood board on Pinterest

Gangle x Caine: Apparently, you exist

Gangle x Loolilalu: Oh you definitely have NOT seen episode 2 yet

Kinger x Queenie: Let's be honest with ourselves for a moment. This is the closest to canon y'all are gonna get

Kinger x Caine: You are into yaoi, but like the wholesome kind instead of the super sex kind

Kinger x Gloink Queen: You are a MONSTER FUCKER

Kinger x Kaufmo: You decided that old man yaoi was the true answer to solve abstraction

Caine x Moon: There's a 90% chance that you know and love the movie Who Framed Roger Rabbit

Caine x Loolilalu: Your love for any canon interaction is overweighed by the need to fuck GOD

Caine x Gummigoo: You are purely in this community for the bara NSFW. I've seen it all... I KNOW

Sun x Moon: You like Steven Universe

Jax x Pomni x Ragatha: You either couldn't choose which one to ship, or you just wanna be Pomni

Jax x Pomni x Gummigoo: Same as the previous, but the chances of you being straight are way higher

Ragatha x Pomni x Loolilalu: Same as the last two, but the chances of you being a lesbian are way higher

Ragatha x Pomni x Gangle: You love the inherent romanticism of having one big group therapy session

Caine x Pomni x Ragatha: You don't actually ship Caine and Ragatha, you just want Pomni to top em both

Gangle x Jax x Zooble: You are @inkyprism

Sun x Moon x Caine: You just want Caine to have rizz.... He doesn't but whatever floats your boat

Jax x Airplane: You.... Are WAY too deep into this fandom

#the amazing digital circus #amazing digital circus #the digital circus #digital circus #tadc #shipping #tadc ship #tadc shipping #pomni #ragatha #jax #gangle #kinger #caine #gloink queen #princess loolilalu #gummigoo #fudge monster

314 notes · View notes

padfootagain · 3 months ago

Text

Love in Verses (LII)

Chapter 52 : ‘I love you. I’m glad I exist.’

Hi! This is the last chapter!!

Thank you all so much for reading, for your support, for all your lovely comments, for giving love to this story!! I would lie were I to pretend I’m not crying writing this, posting this last chapter… this story has been with me for over a year now, it’s a friend at this point and I will miss it. But all things end, so, enjoy this last chapter, and let’s leave our happy couple have a beautiful life together.

I hope you like this chapter! Tell me what you think!

****

Pairing: Hozier x fem!reader (professor!AU)

Warnings: slow burn, angst, hurt, hurt/comfort, tooth-rotting fluff in later chapters, some scenes in later chapters will have heavy sexual themes even if it’s not explicit nsfw description, so no minors here

Summary: Your life seems perfect. You're engaged, your career is thriving as you become an assistant professor at Trinity College, and this Andrew Hozier-Byrne you're sharing an office with seems to be a nice guy you hope to call a friend soon. Life seems to be smiling at you... until everything goes sour. When your fiancé breaks up with you, your perfect world shatters. And when your colleague also gets his heart broken soon after, your shared office seems to be a curse rather than a blessing. But Andrew seems determined to mend your broken hearts... Will things finally go according to plan?

Word Count: 5021

Masterlist for the series – Hozier’s masterlist – Main masterlist

The Orange

At lunchtime I bought a huge orange— The size of it made us all laugh. I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave— They got quarters and I had a half.

And that orange, it made me so happy, As ordinary things often do Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park. This is peace and contentment. It’s new.

The rest of the day was quite easy. I did all the jobs on my list And enjoyed them and had some time over. I love you. I’m glad I exist.

Wendy Cope, The Orange and Other Poems, 2023

“God, this is awkward…”

Andrew stared straight ahead at the grocery store. He was pushing his trolley between the carrots and the potatoes, when he spotted Samantha and Frank on the other side of the aisle.

You were off somewhere looking for apples, and Andrew was both glad and anxious that you were not with him. Glad because it meant that you didn’t have to see Frank, and he didn’t want you to feel sad because of him again. Anxious because he had to talk to them on his own.

And indeed, he did have to talk to them, because Sam had spotted him and was now walking towards him with a shy smile, Frank in tow.

Damn it…

“Andy? Hi,” she smiled, and he had to put on a polite smile as well. “How are you? It’s funny seeing you here!”

“Hi… huh, yeah… I mean, grocery shopping, obviously. Hmm… I’m fine, doing fine. What about you two?”

“We’re okay,” Frank answered with a smile too. “It’s good to see you, Andrew. You… kind of disappeared last time. So did Y/N, actually.”

Andrew tried not to show that he was tensing, his hold on the trolley tightening.

“Yeah… I mean… we both reckoned that it was best for all of us if we just… let you be. Moved on. Besides… we both agreed that there was no point in coming to the wedding, after all.”

Because we were in love with each other already, but he didn’t add that.

“We missed you both though, at the ceremony,” Sam said, and Andrew shrugged.

“It was best to let you go.”

“Right… but enough about the past!” she added with a vague gesture of the hand, as if chasing a bothering insect. “How are you doing? Are you still at Trinity?”

“Yeah! I am, yeah. I’m… fine, really. I’m doing great. What about you two?”

“Oh, we’re fine! We moved to Scotland for two years, for Frank’s job, but we’ve quickly come back, we were missing home too much. So, we’re settling in the area again, it’s been really nice.”

“Grand.”

“What about Y/N? Are you still working together?”

Andrew spotted you behind Frank, looking above his shoulder, a bag filled with apples in your hand. You frowned as you clearly recognised who he was talking to, stopped in your tracks in surprise.

“Yeah, yeah… we’re both at Trinity.”

You walked closer, and Andrew tried to silently tell you that you didn’t have to, but you did anyway.

“How is she?” Frank asked with a surprising eagerness, and even Sam seemed taken aback by his tone.

“I’m grand, thanks.”

Both Sam and Frank spun around, smiled at you.

“Oh, you’re here too! Hi!”

“How are you two doing?” you asked, walking around the couple to put the bag of apples in Andrew’s trolley.

“Oh, it’s so nice to see that you two are still good friends,” Sam said.

Andrew and you shared a glance, before laughing.

“We… we’re a bit more than that,” Andrew answered, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“Oh,” Frank let out in a breath.

“Oh… for… for how long have two been…?” Sam asked, her voice trailing off.

“Erm… a few years,” Andrew vaguely answered, not wanting to dive into how the two of you had gotten so close.

“Amazing! It’s serious, then!”

“We’re married,” you answered with an amused smile, pointing at your wedding band, and then at Andrew’s.

“Wow… congratulations,” Frank said, although he didn’t seem fully convinced by his own statement.

“Thanks.”

“Well, isn’t that funny! We just had to swap partners!” Sam joked, but there was something humourless on her features now.

“Yeah… funny how things can turn out,” Andrew nodded, placing a hand on your waist.

He noticed the way both of them stared for a moment, before looking up again.

“For how long have you been married?”

“A year,” you answered. “Our anniversary was last week.”

“Oh, amazing.”

But there was no joy in Frank’s tone.

Andrew decided that this conversation had lasted long enough.

“Well, we should get going. It was nice seeing you two.”

“Yes, it was grand! We should do something together! Catch up!” Sam offered.

Andrew felt you tensing, and he rubbed circles into your hip with his thumb to soothe you.

“Erm… Maybe, if the… if the occasion arises. Who knows.”

He turned to you before Frank could say anything else.

“Let’s go, darling,” Andrew breathed, tone soft and as tender as his hold on you.

The next moment, he was pushing the trolley away from the couple, and into another aisle.

It didn’t take you long to finish buying your groceries. Thirty minutes later, you were in your car, heading home. Andrew rested a hand on your thigh while you drove, but he didn’t dare to speak about what had happened. He didn’t want you to feel sad, didn’t want you to be pulled back into your break-up and Frank’s betrayal. And to be fair, he didn’t want to be pulled back into it either. He was happy now, happier than he had ever been, thanks to you, and there was no need to talk about the past, about how Sam had pulled his heart out just to stump on it.

He drew mindless patterns on your jeans while the trees and houses passed by. It wasn’t raining yet, but judging by the heavy clouds, it would soon come again. He hoped you could get home before the thunder fell.

Elwood was at the door, rushing to get petted as you entered, jumping up and down in joy as you came home. Andrew emptied the truck while you gave the dog some attention, and you started to unpack your groceries, both of you still wrapped in silence. Only, not the comfortable one that you were both used to by now, the kind that made Andrew anxious, that announced thunder.

He took a deep breath, gathered his courage.

“Babe?”

“Hmm?”

You didn’t look at him, busy as you were by filling up the fridge, while Andrew was putting away the groceries that belonged in the cupboards. He heaved a sigh.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

He looked at you, or rather… he stared, until you would look up at him again. Finally, you closed the door of the fridge.

“You… you’re sure you’re okay? After seeing Frank again?”

You frowned a little at that.

“Of course. It was years ago. I love you. We’re married. I don’t care about Frank.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course!”

You crossed your arms before your chest.

“Do you still care about Sam?”

“What? No! Of course, not!”

“Then why ask if I still have feelings for Frank?”

Andrew narrowed his eyes at you.

“That… is not what I asked.”

“Right…”

“Do you? Still have feelings?”

“Of course not!”

“Why are you suggesting that, then?”

“I’m not! You are! You are the one acting weird!”

“I’m not acting weird, I… we’ve just stumbled on the two people who smashed our hearts, I reckon that’s normal for me to inquire if you’re okay or not?!”

“I’m okay.”

“Good.”

“Are you… do you want to see her again? Sam?”

“God no! That five-minutes conversation was dreadful enough!”

You visibly relaxed, pushed a strand of your hair behind your ear.

“I… I was worried you would.”

“Absolutely not. Why would I?”

“I… I don’t know…”

Before you could add anything, Andrew had wrapped his arms around you, pulling you in a tight hug.

“I love you so much, darling.”

“I love you too. I was just… I’m sorry, it was silly. I know you don’t love her anymore.”

“No, I don’t. I love you. Always will, baby.”

“I love you too. So much, honey.”

“I just… I was just worried that you would hurt because of Frank again.”

“No, I don’t care. I’m happy with you. Happier than I was with him.”

He tightened his hold on you, and felt you do the same. He was surprised when you chuckled.

“Did you see their faces when I said we were married?!”

“And when I said we were together! Damn…”

“They didn’t like that news one bit!”

You both laughed, looking at each other again.

“I think they were kind of jealous,” Andrew said. “Frank definitely was.”

“You think so?”

“Hmm… maybe they didn’t like the idea of their exes living happily without them.”

“Probably. The selfish pricks.”

He laughed at that, but didn’t contradict you.

“I’m so happy our plan didn’t work,” you whispered, stroking tenderly his cheek. “I’m so glad I didn’t marry Frank. I’m so lucky to have you.”

“Me too, my love. Me too,” he whispered, pressing his lips to your hair and closing his eyes so that your perfume would make him forget the rest of the world.

He had to open them again though, when Elwood decided to jump on him, clearly wanting some love too. He made both of you laugh.

“Ha, sorry, buddy. We were forgetting you a little bit, for a moment.”

Andrew knelt down to pet the dog, laughing as Elwood licked his face, wagging his tail frantically under Andrew’s scratches. Soon, your fingers were joining his to pet your beloved dog.

“Don’t worry, you’re a good boy,” you cooed. “No one gets left out on the love in this family.”

Andrew looked at you as you spoke that word, was reminded that this was what you were. A family. His heart grew soft and warm at the thought.

And what a beautiful family it was…

“God, this is awkward.”

You tried to ignore Sam, as she strolled across the aisle, you really did. You tried to hide behind a large pile of bananas, but it was doomed to fail.

Would you be condemned to constantly bump into these two now that they were back in town?

“Y/N!”

And couldn’t she just… ignore you?

You forced a smile.

“Hey, Sam!”

“I’m so happy to see you! How are you?”

“Erm… I’m good. You?”

“Great, yeah!”

You didn’t say anything else, hoping she would take it as her cue to leave. She didn’t, obviously…

“I’m really happy to see you! I wanted to invite you and Andrew to dinner next weekend!”

You blinked at her.

“What?”

“Yeah! We thought that it would be great to catch up! A lot happened in the past few years! Frank and I just… thought it would be nice.”

You wanted to say no. Straight up. But it would have been rude, and you were too taken aback by it all.

“Here! I’ll give you my number! Ask Andrew about it, and let us know!”

You nodded, offered her your phone. She asked you to text her to save your number, but you didn’t.

You went home like a robot. You didn’t remember the drive when you arrived, you didn’t hear Andrew calling after you.

He was babbling about a gig Alex had booked where he would sing, was making a list of things to do, of songs he would play. You barely heard him.

“Babe! That’s gonna be amazing! It’s a festival, we’ll have a full set, we need to start working on the songs… I don’t know which one to sing… Alex wants to do Pagan Love, but I’m wondering if we shouldn’t do Ae Fond Kiss instead, if we’re choosing to include traditional songs. What do you think?”

You closed the door, took off your shoes. Carried the bags in the kitchen. You didn’t notice Elwood rubbing his head against your legs.

You sat down, stared at nothing.

“Babe? Are you listening to…”

Andrew entered the kitchen with his excited voice booming across the room, and then his eyes rested on you. He went instantly silent.

“Honey? You’re okay?”

His voice was soft now. Back to its usual tenderness. Instead of excitement, there was only worry to taint his tone.

You looked up at him, and you must have looked upset, because his face fell.

“Congrats on the gig,” you whispered. “I’m sorry… what was the question you asked?”

He frowned hard, shook his head.

“Thank you, but… Never mind that, it’s not important for now. What’s wrong? Love, tell me what’s wrong… please…”

He walked closer, and you reached out until you could press your face into his stomach, until he was holding you close.

“Darling? You’re alright? What happened?”

You didn’t say anything, he ran his fingers through your hair until you closed your eyes.

“You’re okay, love. I’ve got you. Tell me why you’re upset, okay? So, I can help.”

You felt your throat tightening, but you answered anyway. His touch was helping, his warmth too.

“I saw Sam. When I bought groceries.”

His fingers in your hair stilled.

“Okay.”

“She invited us to have dinner with them. She gave me her number. Asked me to tell you about it.”

He let out a scoff.

“Right, of course… like we’re going to say yes…”

“I think we should go.”

He moved away, just enough to force you to look up at him.

“What?”

“I think we should go.”

“Why? Why would we? After everything they’ve done?!”

You tried to gather your thoughts, make them understandable to him.

“I think… I don’t know. I want to know how they’re doing. Sometimes I wonder if they’re still together, if they have any regrets over what happened, how they handled the entire thing. If they see today that none of it was okay. And… maybe it’s petty, and selfish, but… I’m so happy with you. I love you so much. We’ve built such a good life together. I want to show them. I want to show them that they were right, we weren’t meant to be with them. We found better than them. It’s childish, and petty… but I want to show them that we’ve moved on, and that we have no regrets.”

You heaved a sigh.

“I don’t know… They’re living close-by again. We’re doomed to bump into them on a regular basis. I think we should see them once, and then tell them to leave us alone. For good. What do you think?”

Andrew let out a long exhale through his nose.

“Do you really think it’s a good idea?”

“I don’t know… but I feel like we should do it.”

He pondered on the question for a moment, but then he nodded.

“I trust you. If you think that we should do it, then let’s do it.”

You gave him a grateful smile.

“You have to promise me though that, after that dinner, we’ll never see them again. We’ll tell them to leave us alone. I don’t want them in our lives.”

You nodded.

“I promise.”

“Alright, let’s do it, then.”

Andrew had a bottle of whiskey in his hand. You were locking the car, you shot him a smile when you realised that he was staring at you, a couple of meters away, waiting for you to walk to the door.

It was a beautiful house, large and modern. At the sight, you told him that Frank must have gotten his promotion, after all. Andrew didn’t doubt that Sam must have been working a lot as well, she always had.

“Ready?” he asked as you walked hand in hand towards the door.

“Not really… but I can feel that we’re doing the right thing.”

Andrew wished he could say the same, but his stomach felt heavy, his throat had tightened.

He had struggled a lot at the beginning of your relationship. Old insecurities were coming back, heightened by the way his relationship with Sam had ended, by how their relationship had evolved too. He was finally in a good place, happy and safe, at last believing that you would stay, that you truly loved him. He didn’t need to see Sam again. He needed to forget her…

But the door opened, and Frank greeted them with a grin. White hair had appeared on his temples, but he still looked the same, exuberant and bright and Andrew’s opposite in every possible way…

“Come in! It’s good to see you, come on in!”

You walked inside first, Andrew noticed at once the way Frank’s eyes lingered on you, and he hated it with every fibre of his being…

He handed Frank the bottle of whiskey, was thanked for the attention while he stepped inside.

And the rest of the house was as modern and impersonal as the outside. Full of white and grey and black. Cold. There was only a tiny bookshelf in the leaving room, half empty. Andrew pictured his own home, the blue of your sofa, the green and beige of the walls, the plants you grew together, and the entire wall covered with books, the ones in your offices as well, so many you could open a library at this point…

“Andy! It’s so good to see you!”

Sam leant up to kiss his cheek, and he humoured her, but didn’t like it. How weird. There was a time when he would have done anything to feel such a kiss on his cheekbone and now he felt almost disgusted… how feelings could change with time and the actions that carved it...

“You look so good, you two!” she smiled, but Andrew noticed that she was looking only at him while speaking, and he also noticed the annoyed frown you tried to conceal. Neither Frank nor Sam noticed your gesture though. But then again, Andrew knew you better than anyone.

You both followed them through the living room, Andrew glanced at the pictures set on the shelves. They had been travelling a lot, clearly.

“For how long have you been back in town?” Andrew asked as you all sat down around a large white table.

“Oh… a few months! Before that we’ve spent a few years away. But we were missing home quite a bit.”

“Of course, I can imagine.”

“But tell us about yourselves! For how long have you been together? I have to admit, I would have never guessed the two of you would end up as a couple… and married even!”

“Why not?” you asked in a chuckle, sharing a glance with Andrew.

“I don’t know… I just… didn’t imagine it. But how did you end up together, then?”

Andrew chuckled, embarrassed.

“Erm… like… I guess we just… fell in love, after a while.”

“What about your careers?” Frank asked, pouring some alcohol in glasses.

“It’s all fine… just… teaching, researching, the usual,” you answered.

“Aren’t you tired of each other yet? I mean… spending time at work together and then living together?” he asked in a humorous tone, but it was clear that he wasn’t truly joking.

“We spend a lot of time teaching,” Andrew answered. “And anyway… no, we’re enjoying our time together, really.”

“I wouldn’t be able to be with someone I work with!” Sam shook her head. “We both need some personal time and space.”

“We do too. And we get it when we need it. It’s just… another dynamic, I guess,” you answered.

“Right… of course…”

Andrew reached for your hand without thinking, more of a nervous habit than anything else, an unconscious search for a sense of safety, for an anchor…

But he saw the way Frank’s and Sam’s eyes trailed on his hand, how they seemed to dislike the sight.

He didn’t care at all when Frank took Sam’s hand too. He didn’t care about the fact that it seemed forced either.

He noticed that throughout dinner you kept on looking around the room, studying the furniture, the decoration. You didn’t seem envious though. There was no spark in your eyes as you studied the room, only a vague frown on your brow.

Frank and Sam asked some more questions, but soon enough the conversation was centred on them, and Andrew noticed the all-too-familiar pattern easily. He didn’t try to fight it.

They rambled on about what seemed to be a perfect life. Travels, money, friends, everything seemed perfect. And yet such a display didn’t feel real. It felt too perfect to be true. Too sweet to be savoury. For sure, there was something wrong…

“We… we were very surprised, you know? When you pushed us out of your lives,” Frank said while eating his dessert. “None of us had seen it coming.”

“It was for the best,” you mumbled.

“Really? The best for whom?”

“Both of us.”

Andrew’s voice was colder than he intended, but he was being earnest. Frank and Sam both seemed taken aback.

You rested a soothing hand on his leg, but it wasn’t enough. Andrew was tired of this. This was useless. Neither Sam nor Frank had changed. They were selfish and they didn’t even seem to notice. They were trying to impress you and for what? Andrew didn’t want this life, this house, these pictures on the mantlepiece. He wanted his bees, his own living room filled with love and warmth, his books, your arms and your voice and your love, and Elwood running in the garden…

He wanted the life he had. It was as perfect as life could get. This… this had nothing to do with who he was. If that was what Sam wanted, then he understood that they were doomed to fail. He didn’t want this life at all…

“What could you mean?” Sam asked.

Andrew let out a long exhale through his nose, clearly annoyed, almost angry. He didn’t say anything though, he let you answer.

“Things didn’t end smoothly,” your voice was still calm and soft, and Andrew didn’t know how you could remain so composed. “And it was just… it wasn’t healthy for either Andrew nor I to remain close to you. It was best to just… move on with our own lives.”

“But what about us?” Sam asked. “You simply… left us behind.”

Andrew frowned hard.

“Sam… you cheated on me. Frank and you both broke our hearts, and then you just expected us all to be good friends like none of you had done any harm…”

“It was for the best, we were in love…”

“So were we.”

He felt your stare on him, but you didn’t back down either.

“What?” Frank asked in a breath.

“We wanted to start dating, when we told you that we didn’t want to stay in touch,” you explained. “It was a new beginning.”

“And there was no space for either of you in it.”

You had a small chuckle, a humourless one, but it wasn’t sour either.

“None of you has changed much,” you added. “You’re both the same.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“That our lives are very different. In a way, we should thank you. We found each other thanks to you, we were able to fall in love and have this wonderful life together because you left. But our lives and yours are not compatible. It’s better if we don’t try to be friends again.”

Andrew stared at you, content. He got up.

“Let’s go, honey,” he murmured in a gentle voice and you nodded, standing as well.

He noticed the way both Frank and Sam tensed at the pet name.

“Of course, we’re doomed to bump into each other, but… we’d really appreciate it if we could… avoid each other,” Andrew requested.

“So what? We should just… ignore you?”

“Yes. Let’s act like we don’t know each other.”

“This is ridiculous…”

“It’s not. We’re simply asking for boundaries.”

“But we miss you. You’re important to us!”

“You used to be important to us too,” you answered, and the softness of your voice seemed to shock them even more. “Don’t worry about us. We’re very happy. We have a good life, we do our best. We wouldn’t trade it for the world. If you still care, then isn’t this what you truly want for us?”

They didn’t find anything to answer, and Andrew seized the opportunity to walk back to the hallway, his hand on the small of your back to guide your steps.

They didn’t try to hold you back, and you were both grateful for it. The drive home was silent, but Andrew’s mind was busy with thoughts the entire ride. Now that he was with you, now that he loved you and was loved by you, he couldn’t imagine how he had thought that Sam was the one. He couldn’t believe that they hadn’t changed, hadn’t learnt any lesson from all of this. And at the end of the day, all this for what? They didn’t seem as happy as they wanted you to believe…

When you took off your shoes in your hallway, placed them by the side of Andrew’s, hung your coat next to his, Andrew was trying to gather his thoughts, find the right words to talk about that strange afternoon. But before he could do so, you were in his arms, holding him close.

You heaved a sigh as he held you tight.

“This was… dreadful,” he spoke into your hair.

“Yeah… as expected.”

“Are you okay?”

You nodded, burying your face into his chest in the process.

“I’m good. You?”

“Yeah, fine… I feel… weird.”

“Yeah, me too. You know I just… I wondered how they were doing. I’m disappointed that they’re not as happy as they thought they would be.”

“Hmm… you didn’t buy in the perfect couple they seemed to be either, huh?”

“No… and they didn’t seem to have learnt anything either.”

“Still exactly the same…”

“Yeah…”

You looked up at him with so much love and relief in your eyes, it made him want to cry.

“I’m so glad I’ve found you. I wouldn’t have been happy in this life, in this house, with him… I’m so glad you’re here.”

He kissed you, sweet and loving, taking his time. After all, you had an entire lifetime together ahead of you.

“I’m so lucky you love me.”

Andrew thought about all this pain he had to conquer, all these doubts, all those obstacles that came his way, so he would be with you. It was worth it. He would go through it every time, so long as he could love you like this.

His gaze wandered across his living room, the comfortable armchairs and the sofa by the fireplace, the papers scattered on the coffee table, the walls covered with bookshelves. His eyes were drawn to a cluster of several editions of the same books, of your two most precious collections gathered together. Some of Heaney. Some of Dante.

You looked up at him, gently pulled on his collar in a silent request for a kiss. And he obliged easily, willingly.

And could never be perfect, but it was so much better as long as you were in it…

There was sunshine upon the Liffey that morning. A scent of new beginnings in the air, a whisk of excitement in the breeze.

You took a deep breath before entering the college grounds. It was October already, the beginning of a new year here, at Trinity. You walked through the arches of stone you knew well by now, their sight familiar and their shadows welcoming as they sheltered you. After working for five years here, it felt a little like being home.

Andrew’s hold on your hand tightened a little, a silent way to ask for your attention, and you turned to him with a questioning look.

“Are you cold, darling?” he asked, a worried frown on his brow.

“No, I’m okay,” you smiled up at him.

As if to contradict you, a burst of wind blew and made you shiver.

Andrew chuckled.

“Let’s hurry. I have so many things to do today anyway...”

“Classes to prepare?”

“Hmmm… and it’s orientation week. First meeting with students this afternoon.”

“Already? Damn… and look at them, they seem younger every year.”

“They’re not, we’re just growing old.”

“Thanks for reminding me… although, I’m really not bitter about it.”

“My joints and back definitely are…”

You couldn’t refrain a laugh at that, and you knew it was your laughter that brought a smile to his lips.

“I don’t know. I like growing old here, with you.”

He gave your hand a squeeze.

“Hmm… I really like it too,” he gave you a toothy grin, although you couldn’t see the emotion in his eyes.

Your attention was caught by a pair of students you knew well by now. They waved at you as you passed by, and you stopped to chat with them for a moment.

“Saoirse! Sean! How was your summer?” you asked them, and they both grinned at you.

“Good! We travelled to Germany in July, it was amazing!”

They exchanged a tender glance, and your heart melted at the sight.

“What about you two? Did you travel?”

“We celebrated our second anniversary,” you nodded. “In Italy.”

“Wow! That’s so romantic…” Saoirse sighed dreamily, and Sean chuckled at the sight.

“It was,” you nodded, looking up at Andrew with as much love as you truly felt for him, which made him both grin and blush.

“I can’t believe this is your last year here,” Andrew drew the conversation to another topic.

“Yeah, it’s gonna be weird…”

“Are you mentoring this year, then?”

“Yes, we are! That’s why we’re here so early,” Sean nodded. “And don’t worry, we’ll send you tons of students.”

You and Andrew both laughed at that.

“Will you now?”

“Of course! Have we never told you this before? On our first day, an elder student recommended us your classes, that’s why we chose them. That’s kind of how we met, too.”

“Aww… that’s cute.”

You chatted for a little longer, before walking towards your building, Andrew babbling away about this new song he was learning to play on the guitar, and the riff sounded so good, and you couldn’t wait to hear it. You couldn’t wait to hear it all.

This would be a good year, you could feel it. But then again, all the years were good with Andrew. And you had so many of those to enjoy by his side.

#hozier #andrew hozier byrne #the hoziest #hozier x reader #hozier x you #hozier x y/n #hozier fic #hozier fanfiction #hozier series #hozier au #hozier professor au #fanfiction #fanfic #writing #series #professor au

98 notes · View notes

thelastofhyde · 11 months ago

Text

hit the road, jack!

pairing. ex!jack daniels x fem!reader synopsis. the last time you sat in jack’s infamous bronco, you broke his heart. now, a year later, you’re sitting in it with a mud-stained wedding dress and he’s driving you back to the man you left at the altar. is one night, a thousand miles, and a well-timed car radio enough to remind you of the love you shared? warnings. road trip au, exes to lovers, runaway bride!reader, mutual pining, miscommunication/no communication, idiots in love, exes in love, minor character death, infidelity, one ( 1 ) comment regarding food restriction, mentions of period, smut ( unprotected piv, dirty talk, sex in public spaces, implied creampie, fairly non-descriptive ) the reader of this fic is mostly non-descript, with mentions of having hair long enough to stick to her neck when wet and hands smaller than jack's. word count. 14.7k hyde's input. quick disclaimer that this fic was admittedly better in my head, but i tried my best :') it unfortunately never got to reach it's full potential as my friends dragged me off on an unexpected trip on friday for my birthday (which is today aka the 23rd). because of that, i've not had time to finish the last few scenes as well as i'd hoped to (it's literally 5 am as i'm editing it bc it's the only chance i've had) but i don't want to post this any later as this is my entry to the #SummerLovin'24 event, organised and hosted by @pedgito, @chaotic-mystery & @amanitacowboy , a massive thank you to them for creating such a fun event. i really enjoyed taking part and i can not wait to sink my teeth into the other amazing fics from this event. if you care to listen, here is a playlist of songs mentioned/featured in the fic.

INTRO — silver springs.

“Time cast a spell on you, but you won’t forget me.”

Stevie Nicks et al chant out of old speakers, a bass blown out over time and an intruding static that demands to play alongside the band. Perched upon the bar counter, they sit adjacent to a cash register that shakes each time it opens, a slam seemingly the only way to close it. The swish of a mop over chequered vinyl flooring and the squeaks of a waitress’ coffee-stained sneakers play to their own tune. The passing of time turns it all to background noise.

Through lunch, through dinner, and two shift changes you’ve survived. Out in the parking lot now sits only a semi-truck, its drivers, two men in scuffed boots and jeans that fray at their seams, the only other customers that remain. One tucks into a Sloppy Joe, the other has fallen asleep against the table, his coffee turning as cold as your own.

You ordered the coffee for nothing more than an excuse to sit a while longer. Time for figuring out what’s next. What you’ll do, where you’ll go, how you’ll get there. The elderly couple who’d been kind enough to take you off the side of the road, moving luggage into the trunk to make space for you in the backseats, are now long gone from the roadside diner.

It wasn’t a sorrowful departure. You were quite happy to see them leave, and take their pitiful glances and unasked questions with them. The looks still linger on in others. Each pair of eyes you’ve encountered, dragging over the expanse of your messed up hair, and your smudged eyes, and your mud-stained gown. It’s not hard to imagine the scenes they play out in their heads, of a bride scorned and abandoned on what was meant to be the happiest day of her life, a day meant for vows and first dances twisted into one of heartbroken wandering and roadside pit-stops.

You wonder if any of them know you’re not the victim, but the aggressor. The one who fled, leaving behind a bouquet of striped carnations, marigolds, and purple hyacinths.

Tires crunch on gravel as a car rolls into the parking lot. Whichever fool sits behind the wheel has their full beams on. A light flickers over your head. It’s been doing so for the past hour, an irritating reflection in the window that steals your attention back into the diner.

The waitress is eyeing you again, a weary look on her face that tells you she wants to approach but doesn’t know how. Maybe she wants to ask if you’re okay, or enquire about the events that led you here, deep in the middle of nowhere. Or maybe she just wants you to close your tab and leave.

The bell above the door rings as it opens. It’s been a while since you heard it do so. A smile comes over the waitress as she greets the newcomer. Her eyes seem to take them in, slowly. From top to bottom, and right back to the top. Innocent, if not a little flirtatious. She’d not looked at either of the truckers that way. Perhaps this is her lover, here to wait about and keep a watchful eye as she works the night shift. You can’t imagine it’s the safest place in the world for a woman to find herself working through the twilight hours, nothing but open road and sky-rise trees surrounding the diner.

A sip from your coffee. It’s as cold as you expected. Bitter too, having not found your voice in time to ask for sugar. Your stomach growls, a plea for a meal. If you’d only stayed at the venue, you’d be full of vanilla frosting, and smoked oysters, and… had it been the coronation chicken or the roast sirloin the wedding planner had gone with in the end? You can’t remember. What you do remember is her unwanted advice: just stick to some light bites, no bride wants a food-baby in her pictures.

In retrospect, you’d disliked her from the moment you met her. But you had no desire to plan a wedding. And no time either, much to your future mother-in-law’s chagrin. So out she’d gone, a cat on the hunt, dragging home some mousy-brown haired wedding planner as a sacrificial lamb. Better it be her than you who stresses over the shade of napkins, and the taste of merlots, and the seating arrangements.

Footsteps thud against the floor. Slow, deliberate, not a stumble in the way they move. You stare back out the window and spy a cowboy hat reflected in it. It belongs to the waitress’ lover, who by now is likely making his way over to pull her in real close and swoon her with a kiss only men blessed by southern charm possess.

A different version of you, a happier version, used to be kissed like that every morning.

“Are you lost, sweetheart?” The voice of a man echoes. Softly spoken, yet loudly heard in the quiet of the diner. In the window, the cowboy hat stands right behind you. You turn slowly, let your eyes dance over its owner. Like a sculpture plucked out of ancient Rome, he’s a fine art only the most delicate hands could shape. He’s brown-eyed affection. He’s an aquiline nose. He’s a well-groomed moustache. He’s Jack. “Think it’s a few miles up north they’re expecting a pretty bride.”

Leather jackets and well-fitted jeans have been traded in for a suit. Simple, classic. White shirt, black tie, a trademark cowboy hat you’d never failed to spot amongst any crowd. There’s a crinkle where a cheeky grin meets eyes framed by full brows and lashes, a scar on his right temple a reminder of the kind of man he is. Dauntless, righteous, brave. An undercover agent, posing as the CFO of one of the largest whiskey distilleries in the world.

An illusion plays out where no time has passed and his is still the face you come home to each night. A lot can change in a year, however, like the bed you sleep in, or the ring upon your finger.

He welcomes himself into the seat across from you. The protective barrier of a water-ring stained table keeps a safe distance between you both, yet you still feel his knee knock against your own as he makes himself comfortable. One arm stretched over the backrest, the other rests against the table and drums a nervous tune with his fingers.

“You’ve worried a lot of people, darliln’,” his gaze studies you. You wonder if it’s the same look he used to give his targets. The thought sours the sweetness of seeing his pretty eyes after all these months. “Runnin’ off like that, not even a hoot or a holler to let your daddy know you’re alright.”

Your dad. He’d slipped off to the bathroom, a kiss to your cheek and a promise he’d be back in time to walk you down the aisle. What must he have thought, rounding the corner to the sight of a bouquet, abandoned a la Cinderella and her glass slipper. Before you stew in guilt for too long, the rest of Jack’s words catch up to you.

He knew you ranaway. That glimpse of a cowboy hat amongst the pews had not been an illusion.

Jack was at the wedding.

“What happened?” His hand seeks you out. Warm as you remember him to be, large enough to engulf your smaller palm in his. “Why’d you run?” You stay quiet. Shrug your shoulders, eventually, and stare down as his thumb brushes over your knuckles. “You gonna give me a proper answer, sweetheart?”

Another shoulder shrug leads Jack to a sigh. There’s a pause in the quiet tension brewing between you, in the shape of the smiling waitress, pen and pad in hand. Her eyes seem to dart between you both, and you can almost hear her wondering who Jack is, if he’s the man you were meant to meet at the end of the aisle. There’d been a time when yes was the only possible answer to such a question.

“A glass of your finest whiskey. Neat, of course. And how ‘bout somethin’ to please a sweet tooth, hm?” His foot bumps yours beneath the table, calling you to look at him. You meet his eyes, watch him raise his brows in question. “Spied a pretty mean lookin’ cherry pie on my way in. That sound good to you, darlin’?” Your mute staring continues. Your stomach takes control, answers him with a disgruntled growl from within. His head turns to the side, laughing, and he nods at the waitress. “Think she’s gonna need a slice of that pie, miss!”

The right to speak returns to you at last, as you watch the glass of liquid caramel be placed down in front of him, head turning to stare out the window, a familiar Bronco sits poorly parked, obnoxious in the way it treads the line of two parking spaces.

“You shouldn’t drink and drive.”

Surprise flashes over his face, but he recovers quickly, untensing his shoulders as he sinks further into the booth. “Didn't order it for me,” he slides the glass of whiskey over to you. “Eat up, drink up. You need it.”

Though it kills you to admit it, the first bite out of the pie feels like heaven in your mouth. Tart, sweet, with pastry so golden it’s as if King Midas baked it under the heat of his own hands. A sip of the whiskey isn’t so great, but you stomach the burn and accept the erasure of nerves it promises. Your eagerness to clear the plate and empty the glass has nothing to do with the approving smile Jack watches you with.

“How did you find me?”

“You doubtin’ my skills?” He’s teasing. You know this. Still, you fall into the trap of a panicked head shake, a cough over the final bite of cherry goodness. “I stopped at a gas station. Runnin’ on an empty in the middle of nowhere ain’t on my list of wants, you see. Overheard two kids talkin’ about some bride sittin’ at a dinner a few miles down. Don’t take no Hercule Poirot to figure it was you”

“Oh.”

You shouldn’t feel disappointed by his answer, there’s no reason a man you hurt so deeply would have any vested interest in finding you.

The last you’d seen of Jack was through your car’s rear-view mirror, his tear stricken face watching you drive away, five years of clothes, and shoes, and memories stuffed into your car. He’d begged you not to leave your shared home; offered to sleep in the spare room, give you both time to work things out between you. You’d been the one to declare it useless.

“This isn’t something we can fix, Jack!”

“But, darlin’, I love you.”

“A happy coincidence, I was lookin’ for ya anyway. You gonna tell me what’s goin’ on inside that head of yours yet?” At least this time your mute stare is paired with a head shake. “Look, I mean well when I say this, but darlin’, you’re lookin’ a mighty mess. Now, a pretty mess that may be, but a mess all the same.” His hand is back on yours, squeezing with enough strength to ground you and keep you from floating off into the landscape of your own conflicted mind. “So here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna take a trip to the gents, then I’m gonna square up whatever we owe this fine establishment, and then we’re gettin’ that pretty caboose of yours up'n out of here.”

Frozen where you sit, it takes a few moments for the warmth of whiskey to settle in your bones, lurching you forward when it does, a gasp and a tight grip at his wrist, holding him back before he can stroll away from the table.

“Where are we going?”

“For a drive, sweetheart.”

TRACK 1 — vienna

You and Jack are no strangers to a late night drive.

An entire love story, told within the confines of four wheels and a chassis. The very night you met, you wound up in his passenger seat, arms up in the air and the wind blowing through your hair, the charming cowboy next to you taking every joyful laugh as a plea to go faster, nothing ahead but the open road and a southern voice crooning out of the radio. Too lost in your own head, that’s what he’d claimed you to be, having strolled up to a lonely-you in a crowded bar, lamenting over a glass of bitter white wine, freshly fired and with no real clue of what you were going to do next. Never one to entertain a stranger, you’d tried to brush him off, but he flashed that smile and invited you, so tenderly as the intro to a Bruce Springsteen song began to play, to just give him one dance.

One dance led to unimaginable love.

As time passed, a relationship burst into full bloom, the imprint of you carved into the car’s leather. Jack insisted you grow accustomed to the life of a passenger princess. He picked you up from work, drove you to all your girls’ night outs, sacrificed hours of necessary sleep to drop you at airports, and train stations, and whatever other public transport your work trips demanded you to travel upon. But how could you dream of saying no when you got to ogle the view of him, one hand on the wheel, the other on your thigh, effortlessly manoeuvring his beloved vehicle.

The car came on couples' vacations, too, road trip getaways. Up north, past the Canadian borders, and down south to the skyline of Mexico City. Out west, a trail up to the Grand Canyon, the Empire State Building in the east. But the late night drives, those were your favourite. Times when life felt too much, with work stressing you out, or your parents giving you grief, or a stress headache gnawing away at your remaining sanity, Jack would tug you wordlessly out into the driveway, buckle your seatbelt, and drive off into the night. Roof down, radio on, the cool breeze clearing your mind.

The only breeze you feel now blows in through an open window.

Pulling away from the diner, Jack turned the wheels south, out into the dark of the night. Trees wall the road in, a never ending sea of pine-green lit by headlights, the looming presence of a dark, dangerous, rumbling sky above. A storm brews ahead, awaiting the perfect moment to crack open and drop a downpour on the world. Little words have been exchanged between you, most of them spoken by Jack, as he tells you about the nightmare he had checking in at his hotel, and the difficulty he had finding the venue, and just how beautiful you look in your dress, tears tracks and messy hair aside. Softly playing over the radio, Billy Joel seems to speak to you, pleading that you slow down, you crazy child.

“D’you remember our trip to Vienna?”

Your head snaps over to Jack. His eyes remain on the road ahead, and a part of you is thankful, unsure of how you’d fare gazing into them as melancholy tangles itself in their shades of brown. The other part misses how it used to feel to catch him watching you from the driver’s seat, affection incarnate as his loving gaze burned heat into your cheeks, your own voice pleading him to pay attention to the road, the light’s already green, Jack!

“How could I forget you almost getting us kicked out of Saint Peter’s church?”

“Hey, now darlin’, let’s not start playin’ the blame game!” His head turns once in your direction, a teasing smile splashed upon his rosy lips. You try not to think about how you’ve felt that very smile pressed against your mouth, memorised the shape of it so perfectly you could draw it with your eyes shut. “You knew what you were doin’ wearin’ that pretty little sundress.”

The dress in question had been a purposeful attack, an attempt at getting payback for the night prior, in which Jack found pleasure in reducing you to tears, begging for release hour after hour, after hour of edging touches. Never the best at putting up a fight against his pouting lips, pleading eyes, and filthy tongue, you’d caved into his hands the moment they skimmed their way up the length of your thigh, the watchful eyes of any Lord above be damned.

“I still dream of the garden’s at Schönbrunn Palace,” a sigh floats out of you as your brain hits play on a kaleidoscope of memories of strolling the grounds, hand in hand with a man you’d imagined yourself being with for the rest of your life.

If I asked you to marry me, would you say yes? He’d asked, as you watched a couple get engaged before your very eyes.

Promise me we’ll get married here, and I’ll consider it.

“I still have nightmares of the boat.”

“The boat!” The patterns in the kaleidoscope shift into images of a viennan skyline reflected upon glassy waters, a city cruise dragging you down the canal. “I still can’t believe you fell off it!”

“I jumped.”

“Backwards? Just admit it, you fell into that water!”

“I jumped, to make you laugh!”

“Oh, don’t worry, me and the coast guard were definitely laughing!”

A silence settles between you both. Jack drums his fingers along to the closing notes of the song, your foot does the same. It crosses your mind that this, in itself, may very well be a dream. Sitting back in the Bronco, staring over at Jack as he drives you both into the aimless night. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s visited your dreams.

You watch him inhale, deeply. With a blink, his eyes reflect the moonlight, glassy with unfallen tears, the image of him too beautiful to be fiction.

“Sometimes I wish we’d never left Vienna.”

His words cut you deep, the sorrow he speaks them with cuts you deeper. Barely a week back in your own home, suitcases still unpacked, pulling into the driveway hours after the unexpected funeral of a friend, you broke both your hearts.

All that goes up must come down and, in the very same place your relationship started, it ended. Sat across from him, rain beating down on the windows, tears trailing down your face. He begged you to stop before those words came out of your mouth, tried his best to switch the engine back on and pull out into the road. You’re just stressed, darlin’, he’d said, a deceptive whine in his voice cracking his straight-faced facade. Just need to clear your head, right? Lemme take ya for a drive. It was too late, your own hand curling back around the handle and forcing the door open, the water from outside flooding in. I’m sorry, I can’t be with you. Not anymore.

“Yeah,” you exhale, shaky. Swallowed emotions, a tight lipped smile, eyes that search for sanctuary out the window. “Me too.”

In the wing-mirror, lighting crashes amidst the sea of pine-green.

TRACK 2 — purple rain

A perfect summer’s storm.

Mother nature’s mid-June release of pent-up heat, making space amongst the skies for what’s yet to come in the scorching months of July and August, the last of any rain to be seen until September brings back the sombre skies and cooler weather. The rain falls heavily, a persistent thump-thump-thump of water that bounces off the car’s roof, bonnet, windows. In the sky, thunder roars an angry sound, each one louder than the last, followed by an even brighter flash of lighting that electrifies its surroundings, turning the black night into shades of violet, and midnight, and indigo, and purple.

“You’ve not bought any new albums? None at all?” The question comes as you flip through Jack’s collection of discs, a notable lack of change in his roster since the last time you’d sat in his car.

This lack of change is likely not without good reason, like the lack of time to go CD hunting between secret missions to save the world, or a general lack of interest in newer records. He’s always been a fan of the old fashion, after all, the home you’d once shared made up of collections of vintage whiskeys, and classic records, and faded wallpaper that he convinced you gave the kitchen charm.

“Nothin’ new since…” His eyes shift over your way, the look in them enough to wordlessly end his sentence. “You were always the one buyin’ me music. Said you didn’t want me get-”

“Getting bored on missions,” impulse seems to be what forces you to speak, an honest smile sent his way. “I remember.”

It had been a while into your relationship, with i-love-yous and apartment keys exchanged, until the truth of Jack’s job came up.

On your first date, he’d told you he was a businessman. A few dates later, he specified that he was an investor, dipping his fingers into the honey jar of some classically Texa whiskey distillery. Only a half lie, and not one that was hard to believe. Every fibre of his being, stitches and loose threads included, made sense as a man in the business of selling whiskey. The overzealous amount of Statesman whiskeys occupying the shelves in his apartment, the photos he’d send of the view from his high-rise office, the endless number of suits and ties that occupied his wardrobe, even his damn name, Jack Daniels.

Then, out came the truth.

A phone call from one of Jack’s co-workers, Ginger, lasting no more than five minutes and of which only three words mattered: Jack’s been shot.

A bullet through his head. Any ordinary man would have died. Yet there was your Jack, eyes open, a measly bandage over his temple, and standing up-right. To your own credit, you managed to keep a grasp on your sanity long enough to drive him home, cook him dinner, and sit yourself down across from him at the table. But when he pricked his finger on the tip of his knife, the rivulet of blood dripping down his finger was enough to send you over the edge. Open mouthed sobs, hands clinging to him the instant he sank down on his knees at your side, tears staining every inch of his white cotton t-shirt.

You could’ve died, Jack.

Now how could I go dyin’, when I got such a pretty reason to live for?

You begged with questions, he promised with answers. Hands intertwining with your own, a gentle voice guiding you out the apartment, the soft slam of a car door closing. He turned the key in the ignition, pulled your hand up to his mouth for a kiss, and drove you both off into the night. Under the melodic fall of rain beating down on the car, you came to terms with three facts: Jack was involved in the business of selling whiskey; Jack was otherwise known as agent Whiskey, esteemed senior agent to the Statesmen secret intelligence agency; and Jack was not often shot- at least not in the head.

Arriving home that night, with the rain falling heavy on your front lawn, you’d tried your best to dash from the car and into the house but Jack had other plans. He’d gripped your hand, and pulled you close, and kissed you under the flash of lighting. And when you dared whine that your clothes were soaked, he held you tighter and let himself guide your body into a gentle sway, two lovers under the moonlight and the storm. That night had ended with a fatal promise from Jack, your limbs entangled upon a shared bed, his lips pressing into your forehead.

I promise I’ll always come home to you safe.

“Don’t need no discs anyway, already got all I need right here,” Jack’s impeccable timing, seemingly sensing the shift in your demeanour. It’s like he knows what you’re thinking about, and trying to drag you out of the past and back to the present, his fingers stretching over to turn the volume up. A familiar set of haunting chords plays over the radio, a grin instantly appearing on his face. “Shit, they even got Princ-”

“Stop the car.”

“Huh?”

“Just pull over, Jack!”

Despite the confusion, he abides by your words, foot pressing down on the break, hands steering the wheels off-road, fingers switch the car off. Without the hum of the engine, the rainfall grows louder, the view out the windscreen suddenly blocked behind a wall of flowing water. The radio plays on, the voice of an angel singing lyrics that so aptly match the purple shades painted across the sky by the storm above. There’s a cautious echo of your name, and, for a moment, it’s easy to forget this is the first time you’ve heard him actually say it in over a year. It feels like just yesterday he was calling out to you, begging with solutions you weren’t willing to give.

Your heart beats with a longing to escape your chest, hard and steady against the cage that is your ribs. Your eyes fill with emotions from the past and of the present, as every version of yourself that’s sat within this car comes together as one. Your hand curls around the silver grip of the door, pulling it open and lunging yourself out into the pouring rain.

Under the storm's wrath, you’re reborn. Baptised by mother nature, a soul cleansed of all its prior troubles, returned to you brand new and free of heartbreak. As the rain soaks your face, your neck, your dress, it washes all the pain away. Breathing easy, head tilted back, eyes closed. It's the feeling of being alive, an anomalous euphoria found only beneath a thunderous sky. The tears that dare fall here mean little, a known comfort that they’ll mix with the rain and be swept away.

Enthralled under the moonlight and barefoot, you drift on through the trees that line these woods, chasing the sweet promise of petrichor. You’re unsure if it comes from the sky, or the trees, or Jack, but something calls your name. A fallen tree trunk becomes your own personal tightrope as you dance over the length of it, one careful foot in front of the other, arms stretched out to the heavens above. All it takes is one misplaced step and you lose your footing, slipping over moss and bracing for impact that never arrives.

“Heaven to Betsy, darlin’!” Jack’s hands, warm as a summer breeze, catch you by the waist, your shoulder socking him square in the face as you fall back into his figure. He makes no complaint of pain, taking it like a champ and placing you back down on steady ground, upon unsteady feet. “Did’ya sneak a few extra whiskeys when I was takin’ a leak?”

You open your mouth to reply, to deny, but the rain comes to a stop, and the thunder no longer rumbles, and the moonlight breaks through the parting blanket of clouds, and you’re suddenly so aware of how close you both are.

Like his hands, do his lips still feel the same? Soft as a feather, pillowy as a cloud, as sweet as a peach? It’s not something a married woman should be thinking about another man, about the man another version of her had loved.

But you’re not a married woman, are you?

Wet to the bone, it's as if your wedding dress has shrunk, possessive linen meant to warn you away from leaning forward till your face meets his.

“Careful where you point those eyes, sweetheart. Don’t go givin’ me a reason to make a dishonest woman out of you.” His warning only makes you want to lean in more, test just how dishonest he’s willing to make you, in a dress you wore for another man, upon a forest floor covered by moss, and mud, and rainfall.

He’s stepping back and holding out his hand before you can even try, saving you the trouble of mixing up your head even more.

Careful steps back to his car, where the radio plays on as Prince’s voice slowly fades out. The headlights are back on, the key sits in the ignition, and you half wonder just how quickly he chased after you, abandoning his precious car so carelessly at the side of a darkened country road, free for any Tom, Bill, or Sally to claim for themselves.

“You’re lucky I got spare clothes in the back,” Jack’s voice echoes out from where he stands, bent at the waist, and rummaging through the floor of the back seats. You want to think he’s not going this on purpose, putting himself on display so obviously, but it feels easier on your conscience to blame him for your own inability to stray your eyes away from how snugly the soaked dress pants hug his behind. “Ain’t no hope in hell I’d let you in my car, all drippin’ wet.”

“You never used to complain about me being wet in your car.”

It’s a quickfire response, the kind you don’t quite get the chance to think over before you say it. Though it may shock your own ears to hear, it seems to shock poor Jack more, the smack with which his head hits against the car’s roof loud enough that you almost feel it in your skull.

You rush over to his side, dress dragging through more mud, and more leaves, and more broken gravel. No chance to even rest your hand upon his arm, Jack’s already pulled himself out the car to face you, a splash of pink brewing across his cheeks and a hand soothing over the back of his head. In the backseats, his hat lays abandoned, knocked off in the commotion.

“Can’t just be sayin’ things like that, darlin’,” he says as he holds out a change of clothes for you, smugness in his voice yet a shake in his hand. “Not unless you’re tryin’ to give old Jack over here a heart attack.”

In silence, you both turn your back on each other. Jack does so in spare of your modesty, and you, in search of someplace dry to lay down his clothes. You do so upon the passenger seat, hands immediately contorting every manner of way they can to reach the dress’ buttons that span down the length of your spine, each more finicky than the last. You manage to free only two, in the very centre, before you sigh and wonder if the entrapment you feel in the white gown could get any more literal than this.

“Jack,” it only feels right to seek out his aid, you tell yourself, the sooner the buttons are undone, the sooner the dress will be off, the sooner you’ll be changed, and the sooner you’ll both get back on the road again, destination unknown. It only makes sense, really, so who could blame you when you say, “come help me out my dress.”

No reply comes your way.

At first, you think he’s not heard you. Then, you worry that he has, and is choosing to ignore such a request, thinking it best he keeps his hands away from any act that involves undressing you. Then, fear that you’ve given him that heart attack after all. Fingers brush wet hair off your shoulders before you can turn to check on the cowboy.

Cicadas scream out into the night, and some faceless host rants over the car radio about the rising conspiracy theory of spycams in childrens’ toys, and your heart beats louder than any set of drums could ever hope, but all you can hear is the steady breaths Jack pulls in and blows out behind you, so close you feel each exhale brush your skin. His fingers do so too, with each button they pop loose, each inch of skin he reveals.

Before you can ask him to touch you with more than just his mouth and breath, his own voice fills your ears.

“I used to dream about doin’ this someday.”

“I think we both know this isn’t the first time you’ve gotten a girl out her dress, Jack.”

“Is your mind ever anywhere but the damn gutter?” A pinch delivered against your left side, a chastising tsk accompanying his words. “I meant that I dreamt about this, me helpin’ you take your weddin’ dress off.”

There’s an audible hitch in your breath, one that perfectly tells Jack everything your own voice seems to fail to. Air stings at your eyes, yet you refuse to blink, too aware of the tears building within them. His warm hands dance back up your spine as the final button is loosened, tracing slowly over skin he’d once memorised, a missionary returning to the land it once knew.

Your dress falls to the floor.

“‘Course I never thought I’d be doin’ it on the side of the road, but beggars can’t be choosers.”

TRACK 3 — lover you should’ve come over

“Wait, are these pyjama pants?”

The realisation dawns upon you twenty minutes after you hit the road again. Confined to the small space of the Bronco with little to look at— besides Jack, his clothes still damp and smelling of summer rain, a towel laid over his seat— you’ve resorted to the finer details, picking apart the scraps of clothing he’d handed you. A plain white t-shirt that, when paired with one of his tight-fitting jeans and a corduroy-lined leather bomber jacket, becomes a Jack Daniels staple. You find it best to ignore how it smells of campfire, and sweat, and the cologne you’d bought Jack on your last anniversary. He’s paired it with a pair of blue chequered pyjama pants, loose-fitting yet tied securely around your waist by a fraying draw-string.

“Took myself and the old gal up to Alaska a few weeks back, chasin’ after a view of the Northern Lights.” There’s a flash of something hot, bright, green as you register his words, myself and the old gal, tamed and dampened only when you remember that’s what Jack calls the Bronco, his old gal. “I was livin’ out my car the whole trip, figured it was easier than trynna find some inn out in the middle of the Alaskan woods. In fact, if you check down there, pretty sure you’ll find some uneaten energy bars I packed for the trip.”

He seems to point aimlessly down at a space around your legs, hand back on the wheel and guiding the wheels around a harsh bend before you can truly pinpoint what he’s referring to. You settle on the glove compartment, sitting upright and reaching a hand out to pop it open.

Then you remember what it houses, the weapons Jack carries in there. The lasso, the whip, the pistol, the bullets. A sickness burns your throat, your eyes unable to even glance down at the opened compartment, instead searching for Jack’s own eyes that stare back with equal amounts of surprise.

“I forgot those were in there.” He steals the words right out your own mouth, a nervous chuckle following them. You’d known to never touch the dreaded compartment, for your own sake, too eager to forget about the parts of him that made him an agent, the parts of him that put him in danger. “You can read ‘em, if you want. They were written for you anyway.”

Confusion floods the soul, curiosity winning over survival and dictating that you muster the courage to turn your head, take a peak at what sits inside the glove box. When you do look, you find there’s no whip nor pistol, no piece of Agent Whiskey in sight. What is there are the energy bars he’d promised, a hiking guidebook of sorts, a map, and a stack of wrinkled envelopes.

One glance back at Jack, he encourages you to take them with a nod, and so, you do. Feel the weight of them all in your hands, do your best to not drop any as you pull them out onto your lap. They scatter all over you, each a different shade of white, unopened and all sporting a red return to sender stamp. All appear addressed to the same place, and it takes only a moment of wondering why it seems so familiar for you to realise.

It’s your old address.

“They’re all labelled with dates, I wrote the first one a few weeks after you left. Wasn’t sure where you’d moved to, I figured there was a chance you’d gone back to your old place. I never forgot about how much you loved that apartment,” he says, and you did. Leaving it behind had been hard, the first real home you’d made for yourself since moving out of your parent’s place, the first space you made your own in the world. The idea of making a new space with Jack, a place you could build together, share together, had outweighed the pain of saying goodbye to your little one-bed apartment. “Wrote the second one because you didn’t reply, and I was missin’ you. Then I just kept writin’ em, and sendin’ em, and waitin’ on you writin’ back, even if just to tell me to get lost. I got a note back, along with the letters, but it wasn’t from you. Some older couple moved in to your old place, told me they’d been keepin’ em all safe incase you ever came round to collect your old mail, but they figured it was time I stopped writin’ to a ghost.”

Attentive to his every word, you search for the letter with the earliest date. Sent two weeks after things ended, with a colourful stamp and a seal that’s slightly opened at the edges, the glue’s hold loosening with time and neglect. You tear it open completely and unfold the sheets of paper found within, eyes drawn immediately three quarters down the page.

I saw our friends tonight for the first time since you left. They asked how you’re doing and where you were. I thought they were just being cruel at first but no, they didn’t know about the break up. I told them you weren’t feeling well, that you decided to stay home tonight. I guess I just wanted one more night where you were still mine, even if it was just in the eyes of our friends. I will tell the truth next time I see them.

You feel as though you’re invading his privacy, reading over words he’d written months ago, despite being the intended audience. That doesn’t mean you have the willpower to stop, however, eyes diving deeper down the page.

Or maybe I won’t have to tell them. Maybe, next time I see them, you’ll have come home. There’s still a chance for us. I believe it because I love you. You said this wasn’t something we can fix. I think you’re wrong. There’s never been an issue we couldn’t solve by talking it through, why should this one be any different? Let’s get coffee, darling. Our usual place, our usual time, next Tuesday. We can get through this, you just have to let me know it’s something you want, that I’m something you still want.

Jack’s quiet in the driver’s seat, forgiving with the time he gives you to read over his letters. When the turning of pages and the ripping of envelopes rings too heavy in the car, your shoulders tensing up in a discomfort of disrupting the peaceful silence, he wordlessly turns the radio back up and the voice of Jeff Buckley greets you both.

You return to his letters, the second he’d sent already open in your palm.

I went to our usual spot. You never showed up. Your lack of reply to my letter should have been enough to tell me that, but I still had hope. Maybe I really am a fool. Our friends seem to think so. I told them about us and they immediately asked what I’d done wrong. There was no answer I could give them. The worst thing isn’t just that I’ve lost you, it’s that I don’t even know why.

You open the next envelope, and the next one, and the next one, paragraphs melting together into a heartbroken shape.

I tried to sleep in our bed. I lasted half an hour before crawling back to the guest room. Our room just feels too empty without you. I smell you everywhere no matter how many new sheets I buy.

Eggsy and Tilde got married. It’s the first wedding I’ve been to without you. I’m doing a lot of firsts without you recently. I hate it. Our friends (am I wrong to call them our friends? I’m not ready to just call them mine) tried setting me up with someone new. They showed me a picture and she’s beautiful, but I just kept comparing her to you. Against your beauty, she’s nothing.

Your mother was at the Statesman ground tour today. I was surprised to see her, she already done the tour years ago. I tried not to talk about you too much, I didn’t want her knowing how desperate I am to hear about you. Congratulations on your promotion, I always knew you’d get it. I’m so proud of you for finally applying for it. I heard you’ve started seeing somebody, a veteran turned mechanic. Your mother was kind enough to give me his name. I hope you understand that I don’t want to invade your privacy but I had to make sure you’re safe. The guy’s got a clean slate, other than a sketchy trip down to South America with some other vets. He seems like a good man. I want you to get your happy ending. Are you happy? I’m not.

Only one envelope remains unopened. The weight of it sits heavy in your lap, a fear settling in that has you not wanting to open it. You study the front of it, find out it was mailed three months ago. The radio moves in sync with you, it seems, the song that plays reaching its climatic moment at the same time as you do, tearing open the final letter. Next to you, Jack clears his throat and wrings his hands over the steering wheel.

This last one, you read the letter in full.

Darling girl,

Spring came faster this year. The daffodils you planted bloomed in early March. I’ve been tending to the garden, I know how much love you put into it. The flowers are coming up alright, the fruit and vegetables not so much. If only I had your green thumb.

I visited Tequila last week. I don’t know if it’s right to call him that anymore. Champ’s still not named his successor, part of me thinks he wants to retire it. That’s not what Tequila would’ve wanted. He would’ve wanted Ginger taking on the mantle. The grounds he’s on are beautiful, if not sombre. They overlook a lake, and the grass is cut everyday, and the sun shines on his grave from sunrise to sunset. I didn’t say much to him, just sat and enjoyed the view. Thought about a lot of things, and finally realised why you left.

You were scared. For me. I thought you were being selfish, breaking my heart like that, but I finally understand how awful that day must’ve been for you. We’d just buried my comrade, our friend, and you had to watch Tequila’s wife say her last goodbye, knowing it was almost me in that casket and you on the podium. That was my mission he went on, I could’ve been the one who didn’t come home to the woman I love.

I’m sorry I took so long to understand. I retired from my position at Statesman. I’m agent Whiskey no more. I’m coming to find you, and hope you give me one last real try at fixing us.

Love always,

your Jack.

“Your wedding invitation found me first,” Jack says, foot off the accelerator, eyes off the road, hands on the wheel.

The weight of his stare drags down to your lap, where the heap of papers now all sit, piled atop one another and rustling with every movement you make. Your own eyes have welled with tears that slip down the apples of your cheeks and splash the papers below, smudging the ink.

The confirmation of his invite knocks out the questions of how he wound up in the pews.

“I didn’t invite you,” you’re unsure if the truth is crueller than fiction. No part of you wants him to think you’d be so spiteful, so hurtful as to invite him to a day you’d once promised to share together. “I didn’t invite anyone. I was… busy, with work. My mom dealt with the invites, she must’ve written you down by accident.”

Your lips may be the ones to say it, but your own ears struggle to believe. Your mother’s always been a meticulous woman, practical, with her affairs eternally in order. The only mistakes she makes are the ones she means to.

“Yeah,” Jack sighs out from the driver’s seat, resignation in his voice. “I figured you didn’t invite me.”

TRACK 4 — 50 ways to leave your lover

Jack drives deeper into the night.

Out the car window, you watch as the world flies by, a blur of unlit trees and unmarked road signs. Earlier’s storm has rolled away and revealed the blanket of stars above, twinkling alongside a full moon. The road is long, and winding, and seemingly never ending. There’s no discussion of destination, no sanctuary you’re waiting to reach. You feel no urgency for it, either. So long as you sit right where you are, passenger in a car, you don’t have to take the wheel, you don’t have to choose where to go, or what to do. You can just exist within this liminal space, where no wedding lies in the balance and no hearts lay broken.

It’s just you and Jack, like the old days, going for a drive.

“Ask me,” permission comes off your tongue as you observe the driver and his less than subtle glances your way. “I can see the wheels turning in your head. Everything you wanted to know in the diner, I promise I’ll answer this time.”

“I guess I’m tryin’ to put myself in your shoes, figure out what was runnin’ through that pretty head of yours,” Jack is, at his core, a gentleman. For hours, he’s let you sit beside him, biting his own tongue and fighting back his own curiosity, a trait so vital to his existence it led him into a world of spies, and guns, and movie-esque kinds of evil. Even now, with your promised approval, he eases his way into his questioning, the part of him that knows you better than your own self dictating that this is something he must address with care. “How’d you do it?”

“I just slipped out the back, Jack,” there’s a chuckle of sorts that welcomes itself out the depths of Jack’s chest, your choice of words going hand in hand with that of the Paul Simon record reaching its end over the radio. As quick as the humour appears, it goes, leaving nothing but the unfortunate reality of the situation. “Someone left a door open, it led out onto the back gardens. The further away I got, the faster I started to run. I made it all the way past the highway on foot before an older couple pulled over. They dropped me off at a diner, and that’s where I stayed until-”

“Until I found you,” it’s a reminder you shouldn’t want, the image of Jack setting off to find you in the midst of the commotion of a missing bride. It’s not healthy for your poor psyche, already at odds with what it wants, no need for further complications brought on by unresolved feelings. You can’t help but smile at him, however, no filter strong enough to cover your subconscious’ joy. “Why did you run away?”

Your smile fades.

The promise you made is already at threat of being broken. You thought there’d be more questions, more time until he hit you with the heaviest of them all.

Why did you run away?

You know the answer. Of course you’ve known the answer, from the moment you decided to turn on your heel and sprint down the halls, in search of an escape. As much as you can pretend otherwise, and feign naivete, you can’t change the truth. That doesn’t mean you’re ready to admit it out loud, and so you refute it with a question of your own: “Why did you come to the wedding?”

It would be easy to forgive Jack for getting irate when faced with your avoidant response. He doesn’t even acknowledge it. Instead, he spins the steering wheel and shoots you a smile, the kind that used to keep you warm at night.

“I wasn’t goin’ to come at first,” comes his admittance. You can’t say you blame him, really, a picture of yourself in his shoes, receiving an invite to his wedding. The thought conjures a painful throb from your heart. “Nearly tossed the damn thing into the fireplace when I got it. A few weeks later, I met with Champ for a drink. Drank myself blind, till I started tellin’ him all about the invite. He told me I had to come.”

A lift of your eyebrows, a snap of your head towards him. There’s a desire to have his full attention on you. There’s also the awareness that the road acts as a buffer for the tensing heartache that swells and lulls between you, each exchange of words a game of painful chess. You make the choice to bring forth a pawn this once, a simple why?

“He said I’ve been livin’ with life on pause since you left, maybe watchin’ you marry another man would be the thing to help me hit play at last.”

INTERLUDE — go your own way

Like tires upon gravel, time rolls on.

No matter how easy it is to forget about the world outside, look out the window and pretend you’re simply on a train, trapped in a constant onward motion, there’s no ignoring the orange glow that begins to grow on the horizon, nor the red lights on the car radio that read 05:38. A new day grows fast upon you and, where you remain mute to it, Jack can not allow the fantasy to go on any longer.

The tires screech against the gravel and everything comes to a stop.

“Thinkin’ time’s up, sweetheart,” his hands retreat from the wheel, finding purchase on his thighs. You try not to follow their descent over the tailored suit, try not to think about the thick muscles that sit hidden beneath the black trousers. It’s not your place to think about them anymore. “Where are you goin’?”

Decision has never been something you’ve struggled with, much less when the choices are so simple and limited. Either you go back to the wedding venue, and meet whatever fate awaits you of scornful mothers, and disappointed fathers, and abandoned fiances. Or, you can go anywhere.

You make a mistake, let your mind wander to places it shouldn’t, and end up asking yourself where will Jack go. He still lives in the home you once shared, this you know. Will he go there, pour himself a drink, and try to forget this night even happened?

You can still picture it all. The coffee table Jack hand-carved, both your initials engraved on the side. The picture frames all along the wall, a mural of memories shared between you. The matching set of mugs, eternally sitting on the drying board, waiting for Jack to stagger his way down the stairs and fill them with boiling coffee. If you walked through that door again, would you find everything just the way you left it? Or, has he gotten a new table, changed the pictures in the frames, bought new mugs? Is there someone there, right now, sleeping in his bed and waiting on his return?

A bitter taste overcomes your tongue at the thought, your insides twisting up like you’ve not spent the past few months sleeping next to someone else and saying yes to proposals you weren’t expecting.

“What do you think I should do?” You don’t want him to tell you to go home, you want him to say come home.

“You can’t ask that of me. My answer’s gonna be nothin’ but selfish.” Would it really be so bad, you wish to ask, if Jack was selfish? Maybe life would be easier if he was. He clears his throat, like he clears his mind, and gone is your moment to tell him you want selfish. “I can say this, though… Your fiance’s a good man, a kind man. Kind enough to trust your parents words and let me, a stranger, go searchin’ for you. He deserves to know what decision you make. It ain’t just your weddin’, it’s his too.”

He’s right, and you hate it.

There’s no way you can tell him now that you were even contemplating not going back, of disappearing into the sunrise with him, driving till life leads you down the right roads to find a new home, your old home, Jack.

The muddied wedding dress seems to call to you from the car boot, a whispering of your name that tells you to put it back on, go back, and walk down that aisle. You owe that much to your fiance, if he’ll still have you. With him, you’ve never had to worry about him coming home safe. With him, you could live a happy enough life, keep yourself busy enough to ignore all the what-ifs your mind would try seduce you with.

Besides, that’s what Jack needs, right? To see you marry another man, a final nail in the coffin named us, so he can finally move on with his life. You owe him that much, at least.

With a nod of your head and the straightening of your spine, you set your choice in stone, “drive me back to him, Jack.”

The engine shudders to life and the radio sets itself back on course, some upbeat voice that demands you go your own way, a musical slap delivered upon your face. Jack turns the steering wheel, rerouting the car’s course with an effortless u-turn before he presses down on the accelerator, propelling you forward down the paths you’ve already travelled.

You tell yourself you’re doing the right thing, even if a familiar dread starts to settle in the pit of your stomach, brushing them off as rational nerves. Who wouldn’t be anxious when facing a man they left at the altar?

A yawn escapes you.

“We’re a few hours out from the chateau.” There’s something in his voice that weighs on him, the tone between you shifting to something of desperation. Goodbye is a few hours away. This time, for good. “Sleep, it’s late.”

“Aren’t you tired?” Pull over, you want to say. Let’s sleep. The wedding can wait a few more hours.

How unfortunate that he cannot read your thoughts, understand the intentions behind your staring as you recline your chair, turn to face him on your side, hands crossed protectively over your abdomen.

One blink, and your eyes are already fighting to stay open, dragging you down into the depths of slumber.

“I’m fine. Don’t sleep much these days anyway,” the sound of Jack’s voice fades slowly into the background, melting away with the hum of the engine, and the turn of the wheels, and the voice on the radio. “Never got used to the feeling of an empty bed.”

TRACK 5 — i’m on fire

When your eyes next open, the sun’s warmth is caressing your face.

The sound of children’s laughter fills the air, and the smell of smoke fills your lungs, and the feeling of resting against Jack’s shoulder fills you with dread. Fearful to move, you take in all of him that you can see from this angle.

There’s no suit upon him, replaced with the casualness of a cotton t-shirt and a pair of faded denims. The hat’s back on his head, the curls of ungelled hair that peak through dry as a bone. A cigarette rests neatly between fingers on his left hand, the right one grasping at the neck of a beer bottle. No wheel sits in front of him, no gear shift keeps space between you. The Bronco’s been replaced with the view of your parent’s backyard and the comfort of a well cushioned outdoor couch.

You know this memory.

You’ve lived this memory.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” just like you remember, Jack’s stubbing out the half-smoked cigarette the moment he notices your open eyes. “How you feelin’?”

“Like my uterus is trying to carve its way out of me,” your mouth plays along with the dream, speaking the same words it had years ago.

“That good, huh?” A beer stained kiss meets the corner of your mouth, another follows up to your forehead, as Jack’s free hand reaches into his pocket, reemerging with silver foil between two fingers. “Got these off your mother. Let me go get you somethin’ to eat, then you can take two, hm?”

You remember thinking that you love him. You didn't dare speak it, however, simply nodding as you took the blister packet of paracetamol out his offering grasp and uncurled your legs back down onto the floor, stretching your arms. Jack bends down, presses his lips against the crown of your head, and then he’s off, venturing over to where your father stands grilling another round of burgers on the barbeque.

Jack’s always been a confident man. He carries himself with a head held high and a careless smile on his face, no chip on his shoulder and no flare for anger in his bones. A southern gentleman, who knows his own charms and, most dangerously, how to use them. Place him alone with your father, however, and watch how he crumbles like a house of cards. To the untrained eye, it’s unnoticeable, but you don’t miss the glances he spies your father with each time he throws out a joke, nor the way his hands can never seem to relax, a nervous tic of drumming against his thighs or balling into fists as he makes conversation with the older man. He’s desperate for the approval of your monotonous father, so desperate he fails to see he won it months ago,

“Eat up, drink up, you need it,” he says as he hands you the paper plate, and his half-drunk bottle of beer. He settles back down on the couch, pulling you into him once more. “Your old man was sayin’ we should probably head off soon, ‘fore it gets too late. Think he’s startin’ to warm up to me, he’s even worryin’ bout me drivin’ in the dark.”

“Oh, he loves you,” you take a bite, break two of the pills out their casing, wash them down with a swig of bitter beer. The summer sun burns in the corners of your eyes, forcing them into a squint. “He kept looking for you at the dinner table at my mom’s birthday, you should’ve seen his reaction when I told him you were stuck in New York slaving away in your office.”

Months later, you’d come to find out he wasn’t in New York, surrounded by mountains of paperwork, but somewhere in the south of France, hunting down some billionaire wine-maker with plans to poison the crops of surrounding vineyards, leaving only his wine safe to consume.

In your memory, Jack plucks the hat off his own head and rests it gently upon your own, a shaded barrier against the bright light in the sky. You thank him, he watches on quietly as you continue to eat, gaze not peeling itself away from you the whole time.

“What? Do I have ketchup on my face? Or, in my hair?” You’d asked him, mid-chew. No answer, more staring. Panic made a debut in your mind, suddenly alert to his unusual behaviour. “Wait, is it a bug? Jack, is there a bug in my hair?”

“I love you.”

No build up, no grand-speech, no overly romantic setting.

He said it like one shares the weather, or the time, or what they’re wanting for lunch. He said it like it was something he always said, would always say, despite it being the very first time you’d heard him do so. Tears had flown in quickly, your hormones already gone haywire with the unexpected arrival of shark week earlier that morning. There’s a vague assurance that you told him you loved him too, through tears, and he teased your weepy face with kisses down your cheeks and full-chested laughter.

“Bless your cotton socks, my sweet girl, cryin’ all cause old Jack says-”

“Tell me now baby, is he good to you?”

You jolt awake.

Jack’s by your side, suit on, hair air dried, one hand on the wheel, the other rests out the window. The roof is down, letting the sun shine on you and his caramel eyes. An old Springstein song plays in the background, the very same thing that coaxed you awake. Just like the dream, he takes a few minutes to notice your opened eyes, head turning your way as another car shoots off ahead of you both, overtaking him.

“You were mumblin’ in your sleep. Were you dreamin’ of somethin’ sweet?”

“I was,” too quick comes your reply. Too honest. Nerves have you stumbling over words, scrambling to pick them off the floor of your mind and spew out the first thing that doesn’t involve Jack and his easy-going professions of love. “About the first time my fiance told me he loves me.”

You regret it as soon as you speak, the visible halt to his smile. He overcorrects it, forcing a grin that stretches the corners of his mouth so tight it almost looks painful. “Well, c’mon, don’t go keepin’ it to yourself!”

“He, uh, wrote it in the sky.”

“How romantic. Pricey too, I bet.”

“It was his best man who did it, an ex military pilot.”

As you try to reminisce on the day, little memories blossom in your mind. Instead of vivid motion capture, the day is black and white, no sound. You don’t remember where you were, what he was wearing, how you felt when you read those words up above.

It happened only two months into your relationship, that you do remember. You also remember being parked in your old neighbourhood the night before, twenty minutes spent trying to will yourself to go knock on the door to your old home. The Bronco was in its usual spot, parked outside. No lights were on as you pulled away and willed yourself back to rational thinking.

“Jeez, if that’s how he’s tellin’ you he loves you, I can’t imagine how he proposed.”

You wonder if this is as tortuous for him as it is for you, listening to you detail the life you’d gone on to live just months after walking away from five years of love. “In a restaurant,” you can’t remember the name, or what you ate, or what you wore, as if the memory is one that doesn’t belong to you, never belonged to you. “I ordered dessert, ‘will you marry me?’ was written on it in cherry sauce.”

“You must’ve said yes immediately.”

“I did.”

You leave out the part where the whole restaurant had watched him get down on one knee, or the part where you rushed to the restroom right after accepting the ring, spewing your guts out in a stall. By morning, you told yourself it was fine, you were just feeling nervous.

After all, you loved him enough to spend time with him, so why not spend the rest of your life with him?

TRACK 6 — she’s always a woman

It had been too easy to forget the thing you loved most about road trips with Jack.

It wasn’t his constant commentary of interesting facts on sites you’d drive past, or his love for taking the long-way to anywhere and everywhere, or his ever-present need to drag your hand up to his lips with every few miles.

The thing you loved most was listening to his voice, unfiltered, unashamed, outloud, singing along to his favourite songs. The voice of a crooning angel and the shyness of a bashful fox. Every so often, when he’d catch you watching him a little too fondly as he sang along, he’d throw in a voice crack, or twist up a lyric into a sickly innuendo.

In the present, it’s you who interrupts his spirited rendition of a Billy Joel classic.

“You were right, in the letters,” the leather of your seat squeaks as you fix your posture, sit yourself up straight if only to force yourself to stop observing the way his lips fall into a natural pout and, instead, focus on memorising the licence plate that drives ahead. “I’m sorry.”

“Right about what?” As though nothing has changed, his hand extends towards your own, effortlessly intertwining your fingers, beginning an ascent to his mouth before mind takes over instinct and he’s letting you go, setting you free.

You give up on the licence plate ahead, turn your face once more towards Jack and his pouty lips.

“I couldn’t be with Agent Whiskey anymore.” A relationship made up of a man, a woman, and an agent. Whiskey would kiss you goodbye in the morning, while Jack would be the one to come home to you. With the passing of time, three became a crowd, and so you removed yourself. “I didn’t want to break your heart, Jack, I swear. But I also didn’t want to let you break mine. And you did, every time you walked out of our home and left me wondering if you’d ever come back. Then, when Tequila… You loved your job. You loved being Agent Whiskey. How could I ask you to leave that part of you behind?”

“Darlin’ if you think there’s any world where losin’ you was easier than losin’ Whiskey, you’re out of your mind.” Like his first I love you, he speaks words that flow out of him as easily as an exhale, as though they carry no weight to them. As though they do not momentarily flip your world on its axis and have you wishing he’d turn the car around, driving you both off into the forever you never got.

Yet another car overtakes the Bronco, its driver angrily pressing on his horn. You both continue to ignore the speed at which Jack drives. Up ahead, everything you’ve been dreading comes into view, an unmissable billboard. Clearview Manor.

50 miles to go. 50 miles till goodbye.

“I’m hungry.”

“Those energy bars should still be in there, if you’re wantin’-”

“Jack, I’m hungry,” you say it louder, hoping he’ll pick up what you’re laying down.“Can’t we stop somewhere for breakfast?”

His answer comes in the form of a left blinker switching on, wheels cutting over gravel and carrying you off the main road. Then, as if to break your heart some more than his last declaration, he turns to you. “If it had been me waitin’ on you at the end of the aisle, would you have ran?”

You try to picture it.

Jack, in his suit and tie, hands clasped behind his back to keep him from drumming nervous fingers over his thighs, eyes brimming with tears as you take your first step down the aisle. Would the panic have settled in? Would you have felt that same wrongness as when you’d been sneaking a peak at your fiance waiting down the aisle?

Would you have ran?

“It’s not something I planned, y’know? Running. I didn’t think it was even an option,” you’re laying your final card on the table, a truth you couldn't bring yourself to admit earlier at last coming out to play. You’re unsure if it dismisses or further condemns you for your runaway crimes. “I took a peak, at the ceremony hall, while waiting for my father. I needed to see what I was about to walk into. I guess I thought the nerves were just from that, the unknown. Then I saw you, a few rows from the back. At first I thought I was hallucinating, that you were just a man who happened to be wearing a cowboy hat. But then I saw my mum pulling you in for a hug, and I caught a glimpse of your face. That’s why I ran. I couldn’t… marry another man, not with you standing in the crowd.”

“You’ve not answered my question,” it’s the first you’ve seen Jack put his foot down since he dragged you out the diner, the seriousness etched into his frowning forehead and stamped onto his lips. “Would you have ran?”

“No.”

Jack just keeps driving.

TRACK 7 — dancing in the dark

“You can’t be serious!”

Squeezed into the corner booth of a dingy, run-down bar, you and Jack sit across from one another, digging into a stack of pancakes lathered in maple syrup.

The bartender and two of his patrons glance at you both every so often, and you have to wonder how odd a pair you and Jack must make. One dressed to the nines, if you ignore the dried mud at the bottom of his dress pants and his loosening tie, the other wearing yesterday’s make-up paired with cotton pyjama pants. You prefer it to the stares you’d gained in your wrinkled gown.

“Deadly. I’m a serious tap-dancin’ student,” his fork stabs into the fluffy goodness, dragging it along the plate, soaking the pancake in as much syrup as possible. You try not to think of mornings that used to be spent like this, sitting at your own table, flour in his hair and eggshells in your own, both of you ignoring the disastrous mess in the kitchen begging to be cleaned as you tuck into your homemade pancakes. “Retirement breeds weird hobbies.”

“Before long, you’ll be playing bingo at the old folks home.”

“I just have to ask, I really do,” a dread you haven’t felt since stepping out the car— with the help of Jack and his offering hand, the other holding your door open— creeps back in. You don’t want to talk about your own current reality, not when it’s been so easy to pretend none of the wedding fiasco happened and, instead, you’re simply catching up with Jack after bumping into each other in this bar. “This fiance of yours… is he bigger than me?”

As quick as it inflates, the tension pops.

“Oh my god, Jack!” You laugh, a little too loudly, and dip your head as other tables turn their heads your way.

“What?”

“You did not just ask me that.”

“Oh, but I did.”

“You can’t just say things like that!” In mock surrender, he throws his hands up. Your own grab ahold of your knife and fork once more, an ironclad focus on the near-empty plate as you will the shameful heat away from your face, mumbling over your words. “But, no, he isn’t bigger. Happy?”

“You’ve no idea.” As though you’re being haunted by music, a song begins to play over the speakers. You’re not the only one who takes notice, Jack’s eyes lighting up with a devious look, his legs already rising out of his seat. “Think that’s our queue, darlin’.”

“Sit back down.”

“Oh, c’mon now, don’t be so uptight,” he lays out his hand, begging for you to place your own in it. Flashes of a memory, six years back, the very same song playing as the very same man attempted to coax a dance out of you. “One dance, sweetheart, then I’ll leave you in peace.”

Just like your younger self, you’re incapable of resisting his baby cow eyes, letting him guide you out onto a makeshift dance floor before it’s too late to run back and hide in your seat, the eyes of strangers already piercing you with their questioning stares. If you weren’t deemed a strange pair with your attire alone, you certainly are now, feet stumbling awkwardly along with Bruce Springstein.

“This song was playin’ when we met,” he says it like you don’t know, like you don’t remember, like you aren’t replaying that night as you speak, pretending you’re both in that same crowd of swaying bodies, young, and naive, and on the cusp of experiencing the greatest love you’ll ever know, rather than here, on an empty dance floor, stumbling blindly through the hardships of holding each other so close, mutually aware you’re dancing on borrowed time and, soon, you’ll have to go. “Knowin’ now how it ends, if I was sent back in time, I’d still ask you to dance. I’d do it all again.”

“This gun’s for hire, even if we’re just…”

He spins you, drags you closer, sways you. It’s far less care-free than the first dance you shared, no alcohol to dull the shame and a whole lot of history packed between your bodies.

The first dance had been the thing you had dreaded most about your wedding, dancing with your husband, to a whole room of loved ones watching. Dancing now with Jack— even through all the embarrassment you feel as an elderly couple point over at you— feels easier, less daunting, so much so that you can’t help the way you start to laugh, arms loosening around his shoulders, hips moving less abashedly.

The two of you inch closer, and closer, and closer as the song reaches its end. Like a happy couple finishes their first dance, Jack’s mouth lands atop yours.

A gentle kiss, innocent of sin, it begs you to give back, to press your own mouth against his. You answer its calling, hand clasping at the back of his neck, holding him safely against you, less he drifts away and reveals this all to have been a dream, a nightmare, a delusion. Like coming home after a cold winter’s day, his kiss is the comfort of knowing you’re exactly where you belong.

And it’s absolutely terrifying.

You rip away from him, flashes of your fiance’s face blinding you as you stumble off, doing what you do best: running away. You miss the way the patrons all go back to their own drinks, and the way a new song comes on, and the way Jack chases after you, stopped only by the slamming of a bathroom door.

You come up for air when you find yourself faced with the image you paint in the mirror.

Never has there been a more heartbroken girl, eyes a mess of tears, and faded eyeliner, and smudged mascara, hair a nest fit enough for any bird to build its home in, body draped in the clothing of an ex-lover. It’s almost as frightening as the image you made yesterday, wedding gown freshly laced and make-up pristinely done.

A knock rings against the door.

It’s followed by a gentle call of your name.

You switch on the tap, welcome the cold splash of water over your face. Pray that, if you scrub hard enough, you’ll wipe away the taste of him, forget the shape of his touch, purge yourself of the desire to follow anywhere he may go. Your hand slips down your face, the dim bathroom light catches on something.

Your engagement ring, a tight shackle that binds you to someone else, reminds you of the closure you owe to Jack.

He calls your name again.

“Darlin’,” it’s muffled behind the door, but the regret in his voice is all too clear. “I just got caught up, I’m sorry. Come on out and we’ll get back on the road-”

The hinges creak as the door opens, only a crack, and your hand shoots out, grabbing a hold of Jack’s tie before you can will yourself to be rational.

He lets you invade his space with little protest, mouths returning to the dance they never got to complete. Hands move, slipping off ties, and undoing draw strings, and locking doors. There’s a mumble, are you sure, followed by a moan, please.

All hope of forgetting his skin is lost, a leg hooked around his waist, fingers tangled in his hair. He bites at your neck, and kisses along your jaw, and pants into your ear, all the while his hips rock back and forth against your own, filling you inch by inch. Mouth covered by your own hand, muffling a cry of his name as you feel him brush against that spine-tingling spot inside you. Your head falls back, eyes slip shut. Jack’s quick to rectify it.

“Watch, darlin’,” he whispers, a hand tilting your eyes down to where your two bodies meet. “ Want you to see how perfectly your lil’ pussy takes me.”

You do as he says, hypnotised by the sight of his cock, glistening in your own arousal, sawing in and out of you, each thrust deeper than the last.

“He can’t fuck you like this, can he?” Despite his ego-fueled words, there’s a desperation in his voice, a soul lost in a sea of darkness, searching for a life jacket. “Tell me he can’t.”

He can’t, you tell him, clinging onto him tighter, needier, begging him to never leave.

Any minute now, you worry, someone’s going to knock on the bathroom door, kick you both out. Instead, the music that plays outside the door seems to increase in volume.

“Fuckin’ made for me, meant for me,” both of you grow increasingly desperate, fingernails digging into flesh, and mouths rejoining in a frenzy of kisses, and the tightening of an invisible string, drawing you nearer and nearer to the edge. “My sweet girl.”

An end that comes all too soon, both of you exhausted, and spent, and collapsing against one another, a sticky mess left between your legs where his hips continue to rut into you through his own overstimulation.

“I’m sorry,” his head falls against your shoulder, burrows into the warmth of your neck. There’s a press of his lips against your skin, and a million apologies that follow. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I love you, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I love you.”

“It’s okay, Jack,” you lie, sooth a hand over his back, ignore the tears you feel falling against your skin.

TRACK 8 — hit the road jack

The clock reads 13:18 as Jack brings the car to a stop.

A set of stairs lead up to a grand double-doored entrance, a sign post declaring the extravagant building as Clearview Manor. Rented for the whole weekend, the wedding party isn’t cited to leave until late Monday evening. Though all cars remain parked in the driveway, no familiar faces await your arrival.

“I hope you get your happy ending,” the two of you step out of the car in sync. A voice whispers that it’s the last time you’ll step out the Bronco, you brush it off and follow Jack as he makes his way over to the boot. “No one deserves it more than you, Jack.”

“No promises, darlin’,” he extends his arms to you, you almost move in for a hug.

The sight of your wedding dress, no longer porcelain white, stains of brown upon a greying fabric, reminds you of why you’re here. You try your best to smile earnestly as you take it off his hands, but fear it only heightens the distress that dilates your pupils. “I’ll see you inside, right?”

The boot slams shut, and it’s an awful reminder that your time together is coming to a close, Jack dons his signature smile, cowboy hat back on his head, a head that’s shaking no.

“The mighty fool that I am, thinkin’ I could stomach watchin’ you get married to another man. After this little road trip of ours… well, I guess I just ain’t ready to hit play yet.” A tongue made of lead, shoes filled with weights. Moving feels impossible, talking even more so. You want to say his name, tell him you don’t need to marry another man, crawl back into the Bronco and beg him to drive off. “Go’on, get! There’s a good man in there, waitin’ to give you everythin’ you deserve.”

Instead, you just turn on your heel, take the first step towards the rest of your life. A life without Jack.

Halfway up the stairway, the sound of Jack’s engine reaches your ears, followed quickly by the obnoxiously poignant car radio, giving its final performance for you both.

“Hit the road, Jack, and don’t you come back, no more, no more, no more, no more!”

Eyes meeting where Jack sits, back in the driver’s seat, you share one last laugh.

OUTRO — everywhere

“Thank god you’re okay.”

Two arms, strong and secure, wrap around your waist.

On the other side of the bridal suite door stands both your mother and your mother in law, ushered out by your fiance upon your return the moment he noticed the panic on your face as questions and fingers prodded at you.

You block out the thought of the scowling faces, burrowing your own into the space between his shoulder and neck, whispering your inquiry on, “how bad is the damage?”

“We told everyone you were suffering from food poisoning. All our guests think you’ve been spewing out of both ends the past few hours, but I think that’s justified for the bruising you’ve given my ego.”

“Santi,” the shape of your fiance’s name feels foreign in your mouth, the taste of it sour on your tongue, so much so that you can’t say it in full. “I’m so sorry-”

“Don’t be, what matters is you’re here now.”

Jack was right, your fiance is a nice man. A good man. A man anyone would be lucky to land in the arms of, the kind of man people dream of, and romance authors write of.

But to you, his arms just feel like a cage you’ve lost the key for. “Why did you ask me to marry you?”

“I don’t know. We just… make sense.”

“We do,” you pull apart, at last, nodding your head along to his answer. “But is that all marriage should be? Two people who make sense?” You stumble a few steps back from him, feet needing space to begin pacing back and forth as your filter slips and the word-vomit begins to spew itself out onto the pristine carpeted floors. “Do you really love me enough to spend the rest of your days with me? Because I don’t think you do, and I don’t think I love you like that either.”

Santiago is calm, collected, and completely unresponsive.

The longer he watches you pace and rant, the quicker you do each thing, as though you’re racing ahead to escape the fear of breaking his heart more than you already have, his love possibly more intense than you make it seem. He ends that fear in one foul swoop of words.

“When you didn’t walk down the aisle, I felt relieved. I also slept with someone at my bachelor party and the guilt has been eating me alive.”

“I just fucked my ex in a bathroom!” In an almost paradoxical response, the pair of you keen over in laughter, any expected animosity thrown out the metaphorical window and leaving you both no choice but to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. “God, we’re a mess.”

“Wait, the cowboy’s your ex? I should’ve known, your dad told him you were gone before he even bothered to tell me.” Santiago had little luck at winning over your dad, though admittedly it was no fault of his own but, rather, your father had yet to move on from Jack. There’s a sudden commotion as Santi rushes past you, peeling back the curtains and peering down out the window. “What car is it the cowboy drives?”

“A Bronco.”

“Well, you might wanna hurry, because he’s just pulling out of the parking bays.” It’s more than just a warning. It’s a blessing to leave. Overcome with emotion, you dive back into his arms and find there’s no fear of goodbye, not like there had been with Jack. An engagement ring that slips off with no resistance, no longer a shackle that ties you both together. You hand it back to him gently. “Go, before it’s too late! I’ll take care of this mess, see if I can spin this in a way that’s heartbreaking enough to get our deposit back.”

There’s more you want to say, but now’s not the time. Apologies and thank-yous can wait till you pick up your things from his apartment, right now you’re too busy rushing to the door.

A call of your name comes when you’ve got one foot out it, treading into the now motherless hallway. You face Santiago with a smile, ready to say that magic word.

Goodbye.

“Promise me one thing.”

“Anything.”

“Don’t invite me to your wedding.”

You make it out the double-doors, which slam loudly shut behind you, before you spot the retreating shape of Jack’s car and an anxious glee commands you to break out into a sprint, legs kicking faster than they ever have before.

Don’t speed up, you think, watching as the Bronco slowly creeps down the driveway.

“Jack!” You call out to him, hoping that, with the open roof, he’ll somehow hear you over the radio. Pushing your feet to move a little faster, your arms join the mix, waving wildly to the wind, a careless attempt to catch his attention in the rearview mirror. “Wait!”

The car breaks with a squeak, the blaring music comes to a halt, and Jack turns to face you with his own eyes, as though he can’t trust the mirrors. When you reach the car, you pull at the door handle and find he’s already unlocked it. You slide in with ease, back into the seat you’ve always belonged in: by his side.

He can’t seem to move, frozen with his eyes focused on nothing but you.

“Drive, jack,” you finally proclaim, asking him what you should’ve the moment you saw him in that diner, in the pews, in the heartbreaking hours post-burying a friend.

“Where to, darlin’?”

“Anywhere, everywhere!” You can’t help the smile that overcomes you as he pulls your hand up to his mouth, planting a familiar kiss upon it, before the engine hums back to life. “It doesn’t matter, as long as I’m with you, all roads lead home.”

Like old times, you lean forward and turn up the radio, a familiar tune filling the air as you sink back into your seat, the wind back in your hair and an open road laying ahead, ready to lead you both wherever the wheels may take you.

“Oh I, I wanna be with you everywhere.”

bts with hyde. this is just a little reflective commentary that i put down here, to avoid flooding my author's note with too much rambling. please feel free to skip this!!

this fic is a compilation of firsts for me. it's the first challenge i've taken part in within the pedro fanspace, which has been equally exciting as it has been daunting. i struggle immensely with writing on a time schedule, and so i'm pretty proud of myself for not posting this (too) late.

this is also my first time writing for jack. admitedly, i'm not sure if i've done justice to him, as his character is somehow incredibly strong and, yet, so open for interpretation that i found myself struggling to connect with him in my writing. i have no plans to write for him in any future wips, but that might change. it was definitely fun to push myself out my comfort zone and write for a new character!

something i want to praise myself for is the attention i put into smaller details of this fic. for example, each flower mentioned in this fic has a very specific symbol/meaning attached to it, fitting with the themes of the scenes in which they're mentioned. the other place i hyperfocused on very unimportant details is the playlist. it opens and closes on the only two songs fronted by a female vocalist, with my intention being that these songs are a representation of the reader's inner turmoils and thoughts in the opening and closing scenes. the rest of the playlist is full of male vocalists, giving a peak into jack's mind despite the entire fic being told through the reader's eyes.

okay, i've given myself enough delusional and unnecesary praise, i'm going to sleep now. please don't be mean if you didn't like this fic, it's literally my birthday 🫡

if you've read this far, ily, i hope you have a good day !

#summerlovin24 #jack daniels smut #agent whiskey smut #pedro pascal smut #jack daniels x reader #agent whiskey x reader #pedro pascal x reader #jack daniels oneshot #agent whiskey oneshot #jack daniels fanfic #agent whiskey fanfic

326 notes · View notes