#I can’t live my life losing it for 2 weeks out of every month

[manicdragondreamgirl]

I’m doing everything wrong and bad always, ugh

[superprofesh]

The Five Times Colt Seavers Almost Kisses You (and the One Time He Does) — Part 2

Pairing: Colt Seavers x reader

Description: The second time Colt Seavers almost kisses you — in which he thinks he might be losing his sanity.

Rating: T

Word Count: 2.2k

Tag List: @strangedeerconnoisseur, @icantwaittoliveandlearn, @moonlightandstarshimmer

Author’s Note: As the Colt obsession rages on, I hope y'all enjoy part 2, because it certainly was sizzling when I wrote it :D This one is more from Colt's POV, and it includes some of his inner monologue (which I loved in the film). I appreciate everyone's kind words so far and would love to hear your thoughts about this chapter! Thank you all! <3

Part 1

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

Ever since the little paint-smudging incident, Colt has been, well… off.

This never happens to him. He’s a professional, he’s been working on movie sets for years, he’s known hundreds and hundreds of coworkers. But something is different. You’re different.

As he leans against the hood of his truck after filming, one leg propped on the fender as he takes a deep breath of the midnight air, Colt can’t stop replaying the events of the day before. You painting a prop sign, you laughing at his dumb jokes, you smearing red paint across his face. The steadiness of your hands, the smile crinkling the corners of your eyes. The sunbeams luminescent in your hair. The way your hand felt for the few seconds it lingered on his cheek.

Get it together, man, his inner monologue scolds him.

Colt can’t deny that he has feelings for you. You’ve been on set together for about two months now, and he sees you practically every day. Every time he performs a stunt, you’re always there adjusting the furniture, dabbing color onto the walls, rearranging props with that magnificent touch that brings every setpiece to life. Colt is amazed by your talent in your job as a set decorator, and your skill pushes him to try harder stunts each time, to try to impress you with his own skills.

But there’s one major problem that he can’t get past — he’s just not good enough for you. Sure, Colt has all the confidence in the world when it comes to throwing himself from a moving car or flashing a dazzling smile at you across the set, but he’s destined to be an unknown stuntman for the rest of his career. Your talent and dedication promises great things for your future, and Colt has already made up his mind that he’s not going to stand in your way by coming on too strong.

He shakes his head to clear his thoughts. Even when he’s trying to be noble and keep himself from getting you distracted from your career, he’s replaying the way your eyes fluttered shut for a moment when his thumb brushed your jaw.

I’m so screwed.

Colt has just agreed with his inner monologue that he will keep his distance from you and turn all his unfulfilled feelings into protein powder when you step out of a nearby trailer, one arm over your eyes as if you’ve been crying.

All thoughts of noble detachments shatter instantly, and Colt pushes off his truck to make his way toward you. He’s relieved when you lower your arm from your face and he can tell that you weren’t crying — just so dead tired that you can barely keep your eyes open.

“Hey, Van Gogh,” he calls to you, keeping a distance of about six feet as he reverts to his usual habit of artist-nicknames. Too familiar, too familiar, abort, abort. “Too much moonshine?”

Your eyes pop open in surprise to see him standing there, but a wearied smile crosses your face nonetheless. “Too much moonlighting,” you correct him, leaning back against the art trailer with a sigh. “Gordon has been on my back all day about the props for the train station scene. I got wooden benches for a rustic vibe, but he wants metal for a grittier vibe. I painted the graffiti mural in multi-colors, but he wants it red for a sharper contrast. I spent the last week distressing the station floor so it would look lived-in, but now he wants it clean. Clean, cold, and clinical.” You bury your face in your hands, rubbing your red-rimmed eyes. “I just finished making twenty neon signs for the depot, but I don’t know if he’ll even still want them by tomorrow.”

Colt’s heart tugs seeing you so exhausted and discouraged, and he elects to ignore his previous inner monologue and take a few steps in your direction. “Sounds like Gordon is trying to direct a hospital soap opera instead of an action thriller.”

“Exactly!” You throw your hands up in frustration, letting your head loll to the side as you look at him through half-opened eyes. “I never want to see another paint roller again. Or at least not until tomorrow.”

Colt chuckles at that, taking another step closer. “It is tomorrow. It’s past midnight.” His brow furrows in concern as he watches your eyelids drift closed again. You look like you’re about to fall asleep on your feet.

“Right. I knew that,�� you mumble. “I need some sleep.”

“I’d say you need a hibernation,” Colt says gently, cursing himself for the way he feels the urge to reach out and touch you. “When’s the last time you got any winks?”

Your eyes roll back in your head as you try to recall. “Uhhh… Tuesday?”

Colt shakes his head. “Come on, I’ll drive you back.”

Your eyes open at that, and you automatically shake your head, swaying a little as you do so. “No, you don’t need to do that! I’ll be fine. My hotel is just a few blocks from here.”

“Good,” Colt agrees, reaching out to put his arm around your shoulders. “Then you won’t have to pay me back for gas money.”

You sigh in mock frustration but give in when he starts leading you to his truck. He can feel you leaning on him, drawing from his strength when he knows yours is depleted. Colt has to force himself to focus on the task at hand and not get distracted by the intoxicating smell of oil paints and charcoal and wood chips emanating off your skin. He especially tries not to notice the way your head naturally falls against his shoulder while he leads you to the passenger door.

Once you’ve climbed into the seat, you immediately droop forward and rest your forehead on your knees. On an impulse, Colt pulls off his jacket — his most comfortable one: the brown one with the drawstrings — and drapes it across your shoulders. He suppresses a grin when you mumble something that sounds like “hmmk hmum” but probably was supposed to be “thank you.”

The drive to your hotel lasts all of three minutes, and he parks his truck under the portico so you’ll be closer to the door. Against the pitch black of the midnight sky, the hotel looks cozy and welcoming, street lamps bathing the sidewalk in a halo of golden light.

Colt opens the door to the passenger side, a smile crossing his lips when you turn your head from where it’s resting on your knees to peek up at him.

“Are we there yet?” you mumble, eyes fluttering between open and closed.

“Just a rest stop,” he informs you jokingly, holding out a hand to help you out of the truck. You gladly accept it, so exhausted that you can barely stand up straight. Colt feels another shimmer of worry at seeing you so worn out.

With his arm around your shoulder again, Colt walks you to the hotel door, which opens automatically to let you in. His thoughts are a jumble of worry, consternation, and elation at this situation, but he breaks out of his reverie halfway to the elevator, when you start giggling uncontrollably.

“What?” he asks, basking in the way your musical laugh wraps around him like a melody. Colt, get it together. Stop romanticizing this.

You snicker again, pressing the elevator button to your floor. “I bet the desk clerk thought I was drunk and bringing you home with me.”

Colt goes stock-still at that comment, only moving again when the elevator door opens and you enter the compartment together. Your sleep-deprived brain is so addled that you barely even register the implications of your remark, but Colt’s mind instantly starts racing with his own thoughts. Be professional, don’t make a saucy joke, just play it cool, play it cool, change the subject, change the SUBJECT—

“You should call Gordon,” he suggests, so enthralled with the feel of your head resting on his shoulder that he can barely get the sentence out. “Tell him you can’t make it tomorrow. You seriously need to get some sleep.”

You let out a dramatic sigh, one that flutters across his collarbone like an autumn breeze. He swallows and turns his head the other way, using all his willpower not to completely come undone right in front of you. You have no idea the effect you’re having on him, so sleep-deprived that you’re missing any cues that would clue you in normally.

“I have to be there tomorrow,” you insist drowsily. The elevator door dings open, and Colt leads you through the opening, his arm still tight around your shoulders as you point him in the right direction. “We’re filming the train station scene, and it has to be perfect.”

“What, at the cost of your health and sanity?” Colt quips, though he can’t deny that there’s a note of seriousness in his tone.

You shake your head stubbornly. “I’m fine. This is my job. I just have to do it.” You yawn widely, stumbling a little as you get closer to your hotel door. “I just need a few hours and I’ll be good as new.”

Colt lifts his eyebrows skeptically but doesn’t argue with you. You’re pulling your room key out of your pocket, and he’s suddenly torn between the desire to run before he violates his vow of noble detachment, and the need to confess every passionate feeling coursing through his veins right now. He knows this isn’t the right time, though, and that there may never be a right time at all.

You unlock your door with a swipe but pause before going inside, leaning your back against the doorframe so you can look at Colt squarely. “Thank you for bringing me back.” Your smile steals his breath, makes him imagine a halo of stars around your face. “I couldn’t have made it without you.”

Every muscle in his body is urging him to lean forward, to close the distance between you, to capture your lips against his so he can whisper every unconfessed feeling, every gentle passion, every overwhelming longing in this silent, dimly-lit hallway. His heart is pounding so loudly in his ears that he thinks you must be able to hear it.

“Anytime,” Colt manages, his throat so tight that can barely rasp out the word. He has to clench his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching out to you.

You reach up to shed his brown jacket and hand it back to him, but Colt stops you by holding up his hand. “Keep it,” he tells you. Shut up, shut up, shut UP— “It looks better on you anyway.”

The golden light from the street lamps outside must be playing tricks on his eyes, because he could swear that your eyes brighten at his words. Your fingers tighten around his jacket, and all he can imagine is your fingers entwined with his, your head on his shoulder again. The way it should be.

Your eyes flicker closed for a moment, and you sway against the doorway. Colt instinctively reaches out to steady you, his hand landing on your arm and holding you up for the moment it takes you to regain your balance. His skin feels like it’s on fire from this close proximity. He releases your arm so he doesn’t lose his sanity, but the touch lingers on his palm, making his heart race and his mouth go dry. His eyes flit down to glance at your lips again before he can stop them. Another moment, and he won’t have any self-control left.

You seem to feel the tension, too, lingering in the doorway when you should have said goodnight by now. He knows you’re struggling with it, and he knows it’s his responsibility as the clear-headed one to end this before it starts. His breath is rattling in his throat as he says, “Get some rest. Let me know if you need a ride over tomorrow morning.”

His voice seems to break the spell over you, and you give him a sleepy smile as you nod. “Thanks, Colt.” Your eyes linger on him for a moment more, and then you disappear behind the heavy hotel door.

Once you’re gone, Colt turns and leans heavily against the hallway wall, suddenly feeling breathless and exhausted from the intensity of what he just felt. He can’t believe he even let himself think about kissing you when you’re so dazed, but surely he wasn’t misreading those signals? Surely he felt the heat of your own gaze meeting his?

Colt sighs, trying to clear his head while he catches his breath. He can’t even entertain the idea of starting a fling with you, because his feelings have gone way too deep for a fling. He just needs to keep his distance and stop overanalyzing every moment he shares with you. He needs to get a grip on reality so he doesn’t completely ruin your friendship and burden you with any guilt. This has to stop. I’m going to stop right now, and I’m not going to think about it anymore, and I’m going to get hold of myself before it’s too late.

He hopes his inner monologue is right this time, because he knows he’s only falling harder for you.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Part 3

[dancingtotuyo]

9. the fear of what's to come

Woman | Joel Miller x Female Reader

Rating: Mature/Explicit

Chapter Summary: You and Joel navigate life changing news.

Tags: Joel Miller X Female Reader. Age Gap (13/14 years). HBO Characters. Mostly cannon compliant for show & game. Timeline is changed.

Chapter Warnings: pregnancy, pregnancy symptoms, mentions of potential pregnancy complications including but not limited to miscarriage and stillbirth, single reference to a fetus being a child (not intended in a pro life way), angst, grief, complicated feelings surrounding pregnancy.

Notes: A huge thanks to my amazing beta readers and friends @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin & @janaispunk

If you have not checked out Before, I would encourage you to do so for more backstory on our dear reader!

Words: 3088

Series Masterlist | Author Masterlist | Playlist

You know three weeks after your missed period what is happening. It’s not hard to figure out. It’s just like last time. Menopause crosses your mind briefly, but the symptoms don’t line up. You’re sensitive to the same foods, nausea rolls in and out like the ocean tides throughout the day. The insatiable craving for a tomato sandwich cements it two days later. Tears run down your cheeks as you quickly finish off the sandwich and prepare another. 

You don’t get excited. You don’t make plans, and most importantly, you don’t tell Joel. You’re 45. Joel is in his late 50s. You know the statistics, the pre-end-of-the-world ones. You can’t imagine they’ve improved. 

Instead, you just hope that when it happens, nothing goes wrong. There’s no DNC, no pills to make sure everything passes properly or ensure no infection sets in. You’ve aided many women through this, many much younger than yourself. Some make it just fine, others have complications with nothing but prayer, poultices, and 20-year-old antibiotics to help. You’re not sure what actually does it when the women make it through. Some of them you've buried. Their faces flicker through your mind. You cannot be one of them. You cannot leave Carter without either of his parents in this world.  

You tell Maria. You tell her everything she needs to know. What to do step by step when it happens. Since Adam’s injury, Dr. Pooley refuses to practice anything more than simple first aid. You’re both certain it’s dementia. You spend most mornings listening to him talk through different lectures he attended. On the mornings his brain won’t cooperate, you sip tea together. He’s writing down what he remembers, but you have to fact-check it. He’s already taught you most of it anyway. 

“You have to tell Joel,” Maria says when you tell her. 

You refuse. You won’t do it. You won’t bring him into this. You have this silent agreement that you’re partners in this world, but he still lives in the house across the street with Ellie. There’s never been discussions about moving in together or anything past that. You don’t call him your boyfriend. He doesn’t call you his girlfriend. Making those commitments, those plans, it will hurt too much when the world takes him away. 

Carter calls him “Daddy.” It makes Joel smile every time. He’s accepted that commitment. It makes you smile too, but there’s still a little ache in your heart each time. Carter knows about Gabe. You tell him stories all the time. If you ask him, he says he has two daddies. One here and one in heaven. 

But you won’t tell Joel about this child. He’s lost one. He doesn’t need to lose another. 

Maria fights you on it. She looks at her son pointing out that she was 2 years older than you are now when he was born healthy. You don’t remind her she almost died, but she sees it in your eyes. You still have nightmares about that night.

You’re firm. You’re not going to tell Joel. Neither will she, and she damn sure won’t tell Tommy either. 

You wait for the cramps and the blood, but they never come. You hit the 3-month mark, your 2nd trimester at the beginning of October. You don’t cry in the bathroom. You square your shoulders. Second-trimester miscarriages happen. Stillbirths happen, but hope gathers in the depths of your soul, growing with each day. You push it away with logic and reasoning. 

Two sides of you war against each other. You can’t bring another life into this world. At one point you were okay with it. You felt safe here, and while you still do, it doesn’t feel okay anymore. The world still digs its ugly claws into this community. Yet, the hopes you used to hold in your mind, the ones you had with Gabe, and the ones you had before the outbreak still linger. In a perfect, uncomplicated world, this is what you would choose. 

You hide the sickness from Joel with relative ease. He’s often awake and out of bed before you for patrol shifts, early morning chores, or waking up with Carter so you can sleep in.

You deliver the Crosby twins a week later without complications. Melissa is only a couple of years younger than you, but at your age, you know how crucial those few years are. When you finally reach your front porch, you sit in the darkness of Wyoming and finally let the tears fall because fate seems to be telling you that this is happening, or just sending you another person to lose. The realization hits you like a freight train. Time is up. You have to tell Joel. 

You crack open the door to Carter’s bedroom. He’s sound asleep and it relieves you to know he's here. You’re less on edge when he’s close, and It means Joel picked him up from Maria and Tommy’s. It means Joel is in your bed.

Sure enough, he’s there when you creep in. He sleeps on his side curled up over your pillow. You roll your eyes. Yes, it's endearing, but it’s also a pain in the ass to get your pillow back.

The bathroom light is blinding at first, but your eyes slowly adjust as you turn on the shower and steam fills the space. Goosebumps spread across your skin as you undress, catching sight of yourself in the mirror. You’ve noticed the subtle changes in your body over these past couple of months, but they’re becoming more noticeable. Your breasts have grown, they’re so sensitive, and your sports bra pulls at the seams. Joel commented on it last week. You joked you were packing on extra weight for winter acting like it was nothing. 

Your favorite pair of jeans no longer fit. You’ve mostly stuck to leggings since. You’re starting to clock the subtle changes in your body. They’re happening faster than with your last pregnancy. The past week, you’ve shut Joel down sexually, scared he would catch on despite your sex drive skyrocketing. It’s been difficult. 

The shower washes away everything: the sweat and grime of the day, your tears, the tension in your muscles. You stand under the water until it runs cold, slipping on Joel’s worn soft t-shirt.

Your pillow is back on your side of the bed, Joel still on his side. A smile creeps onto your face. He keeps his eyes closed, but you know he’s awake. You don’t say anything as you slide into bed, but your anxiety spikes, your heart fluttering in your chest. You have to tell him. 

You’re staring at the ceiling when he breaks the silence. “What happened?” 

You suck in a breath. He thinks something went wrong tonight. He’s probably preparing to dig a grave. “Nothing, mom and babies are fine.”

“So it was twins?” 

“Yeah.” You had suspected as much, but the ultrasound machine doesn’t work, try as you might to get it operational. You hadn’t been able to find a second heartbeat with the Doppler. 

“So what’s buggin you?” His drawl is deeper, soaked with sleep. 

He scoots a little closer, hot breath tickling your ear. You can’t move. You should look him in the eye when you tell him, but you can’t. The words are at the back of your throat surging forward toward your lips. The anxiety in your chest feels like a herd of buffalo stomping across the countryside. You squeeze your eyes shut to try and stop it.

“Sweetheart?” His hand reaches toward you, eyes trained on your profile as concern laces his brow. 

“I’m pregnant.” 

His hand stops over your arm. You feel its warmth so close, and then it goes away. You dare to look at him. You expect him to get out of bed and bolt. You don’t know why. He’s only shown you otherwise the entirety of your relationship, but this is more than either of you signed up for. Instead, you watch as it sinks in. He connects the dots, all the symptoms and signs that were right in front of his face, his subconscious absorbing them, but refusing to put it all together. 

“I’m sorry,” you say.

You look back toward the ceiling, tears slipping from your eyes. 

His hand covers your abdomen, forehead pressing against your temple. He starts to feel the changes to your body for what they are. You shudder. 

“How long have you known?”

There’s not a trace of judgment or fear in his voice, but it does little to assure you. You’re scared. It doesn’t matter what Joel says or does, the fear is overwhelming. 

“Beginning of August.”

“Shit, baby.” He pulls you into him, cradling your head against his chest. “You didn’t have to carry this alone.”

“I didn’t think it would last.” After months of holding the tears back, you finally let them out, a mix of relief and fear. “I didn’t- I didn’t want you to-” 

You can’t finish it. You can’t say it out loud, but Joel knows what you’re trying to say. You didn’t want him to lose another child, and it wrecks him. His grip on you is crushing, but it soothes your shaking frame. Just as you come down, his sobs greet your ear because he’s scared too. Every single fear and anxiety that has come over you the past months, he feels too. Maria’s labor and delivery flash through his mind. If that happens to you, who’s going to save you? 

You reach up to cradle his face. He presses into your neck. Your skin is sticky and salty again, but you don’t even think about it as the man you love and can’t tell cries in your arms. You’re unable to return his soothing squeeze, but you lay there to provide any comfort you can. The two of you fall asleep tangled in each other. 

You feel Joel’s fingers dancing across your abdomen before you’re fully conscious. There’s no rhyme or reason to his movements. His other hand brushes over your temple and through your hair. Every once in a while you feel his breath and lips across your neck, up and down your arm, over your collarbone. It feels like he’s memorizing you, fear present in all of his movements even now. 

You finally open your eyes. His movements still as you look at him. There are tears in his eyes as his head falls forward, resting against yours. “I’m scared.”

“Me too.” You reach out, nails raking across his arm. 

He shudders under your touch. “I wish you told me sooner.” 

You bit your lips. “I’m sorry.” 

He lets out a deep sigh, kissing your forehead. His hand drifts to your abdomen again. You watch his eyes, so expressive filled with fear and anxiety and maybe a little bit of awe and guilt?

“I should’ve been more careful.”

You press your head to his, inhaling softly. “We.”

Joel’s fingers scrape along your jaw, his beard rough against your chin. “I like being a we.”

“Me too.”

Silence settles between the two of you. The wind knocks against the window, but it’s warm next to Joel. His arm snakes around you, tugging you closer to him. 

“I suppose you’ve told Maria?”

You can’t hide the guilty smile on your lips. “If it makes a difference, she told me I needed to tell you right away. Pretty sure she was gonna tell you herself if I didn’t do it soon.” You mess with the collar of his shirt. 

“How long do we have?”

“Figure it’ll be May. If we get that far.” You say. Joel nods and something clenches around your heart, a need to protect him, warn him of the danger. “You know there’s a lot of risks. No guarantee…” 

“One day at a time.” He kisses your cheek but you see all the fear he’s pushing away plastered to his face like a movie poster. 

Joel asks you how you are, but other than that, you don’t talk about it. You feel like a weight has lifted off your shoulders but there’s an anvil hanging above your head, waiting to drop at a moment’s notice. 

You’ve outgrown your last pair of jeans. When you manage to trade with someone, they give you a look, like they know what’s going on inside your body. 

You take more naps, sometimes at the clinic, sometimes on the couch. You’re constantly tired. Maria brings dinner to the house every few days. She never asked, but you don’t complain. 

One evening you open your eyes to find Ellie staring down at you, worry etched in her features. It startles you at first. 

“You’ve been sleeping a lot lately,” She says. 

“You’ve noticed?” You pull yourself into a seated position. It feels like someone shoved a bunch of cotton into your mouth. You reach for the now room-temperature water on your end table. 

“You only take naps when you’re sick or depressed.” You raise an eyebrow at her. She crosses her arms as if to say she knows you’re neither right now. “What’s going on?”

You finish off the water. Despite its temperature, it helps. “I’m fine.” You reach out, placing a hand on her shoulder, but it does nothing. At 17 years old, Ellie is turning into a woman before your very eyes. At times, you’re convinced any semblance of childhood has been replaced with adulthood, but there are other times you still see the slivers of the girl you met two and a half years ago. Right now, she’s the one sitting in front of you.  

“Bullshit. What’s going on? You and Joel have been acting weird.”

Had things really been that different in the past couple of weeks? You open your mouth to speak, unsure of what to say. You and Joel hadn’t talked about telling anyone, which seemed silly. You can’t hide this forever. 

The door opens and Carter bursts in with Joel on his heels. A smile instantly finds your lips. 

“Mommy! Look!” He holds up a package of seemingly new Crayola crayons. 

Your eyes widen with exaggeration. “Wow, buddy. That’s awesome.”

“John Lacy found a bunch of them on patrol. They handed them out today,” Joel smiles. “Grabbed you some colored pencils.” He hands a set of non-crayola pencils to Ellie.

“Thanks.” She smiles but is still distracted by her worry over you. 

Carter crawls up beside you, eagerly pulling out the surprisingly intact crayons one by one. Joel leans over to kiss your cheek and tousles Ellie’s hair. She makes a face of displeasure but doesn’t fight him on it.

“You two look like you were talkin about somethin serious.”

“I was trying to figure out why the two of you have been acting weird,” Ellie says. 

Joel’s drops to unreadable. He looks at you and you shrug in response. “We have to tell them eventually.”

Worry makes its home on Ellie’s face. “So something is wrong with you.with you.”

“Nothing is wrong with me.” You sigh deeply. You run your fingers over Carter’s head, kissing it. 

“You’re sure acting like there is,” She says impatiently.

“Ellie,” Joel reprimands, traces of his asshole voice laced into it. 

Ellie bites her lip. It looks like she might be fighting off tears as she looks directly at you. “I’m worried about you.”

You force a smile, leaning forward. Your forearms rest on your knees. One would think it would get easier to say each time. Instead, it’s like picking at a scab that’s not healed. You’re forcing yourself to say something, your brain isn’t ready to accept. “I’m pregnant.”

Ellie sits up straighter, her eyes widen with shock. “Oh wow…”

You wonder if the pictures fill her mind too. She saw Maria the night Elias was born. She saw the blood that covered you. Joel’s fingers brush over your shoulder, squeezing it lightly before they run over the back of your neck. You lean against him. “I’m sorry we worried you. We’re still getting used to the idea,” You say. 

She nods and then her arms around your neck. She basically knocks you backward with the force of it. “I’m glad you’re not dying.”

You squeeze her tightly, a faint lilt of humor in your voice. “Me too.”

Then her voice drops to a whisper right at your ear. “You’ll be okay. I know you will.”  

Your head rests on Joel’s bare chest that night. The full moon sends light drifting through your window, casting the room in a cool glow. You play absentmindedly with the hair on his chest. His heart beats under your ear. The room is otherwise silent. 

“I told Tommy today.” 

You nod. 

“He wanted to know why I was so quiet. Told him I was always quiet.”

That pulls a smile across your lips. “Surprised he shut up long enough to notice.”

Joel chuckles. His arm around you tightens. His lips find your forehead. “I know we’re not ready to think too much about it.”

“Don’t think it’s something we can really ignore.” You nuzzle further into him. 

“Baby steps.” He kisses your nose this time.

You quirk an eyebrow. “Baby steps? Really?” You flip onto your stomach while you still can.

He chuckles. “Poor word choice.”

You kiss his bicep and then his shoulder. He looks at you like your entire world and your stomach erupts in butterflies and twists in knots all at the same time. You still won’t let him say it, but you feel it every time he looks at you like that. 

You rest your chin on his shoulder. “What are these steps you had in mind?”

His thumb traces over your jaw and cheek. “Don’t bolt on me, okay?”

“I think it’s a little late for that.”

He chuckles and then inhales deeply. “I think we should probably share a house. I figured you’d prefer to stay here, but it’s up to you.” He searches your eyes for any signs of panic or signs that you might shut down but finds nothing. In fact, you’re so calm that it’s hard to read. 

“It would be nice to have you officially living here,” you say. It feels right to say, to think about. “And Ellie if she wants.” 

“That was easier than I’d thought it would be.”

“You pretty much live here as is.” You turn on your side, nuzzling back into him. “I’ll miss your fireplace though.”

Joel smiles. “Guess I'll just have to keep you warm instead.” 

[owlespresso]

the coring, the goring

alpha!blade/beta!reader/omega!luocha you are a beta courier. kafka asks of you a favor. tags: filth and spice below like you wouldn't believe, extremely dubious consent, luocha and blade are freaks but that's nothing new, prone bone pt 3 of my part in @lorelune's a/b/o collab. they've been extremely generous enough to beta read all three parts and give feedback. i could not have done this without them! part 1, part 2, collab masterlist

Kafka shows up at your apartment, one afternoon. After Blade stayed over, flayed you open, left your tender underbelly exposed to the pale moonlight. You still don’t know how you feel about him. You do, however, know how you feel about her.

You’ve never told her where you live, but it doesn’t surprise you that she knows. She lingers in the doorway, leaned up against the left side. Her coy smile is more subdued than usual.

“I need your help with something,” she says. At least she isn’t wasting time on the pleasantries, today. That’ll get her to leave quicker, and that’s pretty much all you’re concerned with. You still blanch, because she wants something from you. That’s always a dire sign. Something in your life is about to go awry.

“You can’t find someone else? I’m a bit busy today.” you narrow your eyes at her. Her smile tightens. Whatever she’s come here for, it must be urgent. 

“Whatever your clients pay you, I’ll double it for the days you miss. Every single one. I’ll even throw in some of those honey candies you like to sweeten the deal.”

“Days?” you blink, already beginning to calculate the potential gains and losses in your head. Missing several shifts could lose you a few clients—could you wheedle her into paying you that difference until you find new ones?

“Yes, days,” Kafka twirls a lock of her hair absentmindedly. “You see, Bladie has a little problem that needs delicate taking care of—” she begins, voice pitching up, preparing to wind around the crux of the whole thing until you lose your mind. 

You cut her off there. “Just give it to me straight.”

“Always so forward,” she pouts. Her voice winds up like she’s about to give you a scolding, but she flattens out, lips curling into a lazy smile. “I like that about you.”

“Bladie is in rut,” she continues. Slowly, like she’s explaining the concept to a child. “He has someone to take care of him—that merchant, the blonde one. The only problem is, well… their paths don’t make them entirely compatible.”

Your lips twitch into a frown. Destruction and Abundance, on opposite ends of the spectrum. If they were both normal people, it wouldn’t pose a problem… but you have no idea if Blade’s unique condition could cause complications. Regardless, you’re not sure why she’s telling you. This isn’t your problem.

“They’ll need a mediator—” she begins.

You’ve heard enough. “Absolutely not.”

“Aw, c’mon. These two have been barking up your tree for more than a month and you’re not curious?” she teases, 

“No.”

She says your name. Your spine goes rigid. Something sweet and cloying pricks its claws into the soft flesh of your consciousness. This is suddenly no longer a negotiation.

“You don’t have to do anything. You just have to be… present, in case Blade’s mara rears its ugly head.”

“You could do that,” you point out.

Kafka shrugs. “I could, but that isn’t the only benefit of having an emanator of Harmony around. I can’t mediate like you can,” You hold your tongue only because you know she’s right. “I know it’s a hassle, but I’ll make it worth your while. And I’ll pay you triple of what you would have made this week.”

You narrow your eyes. “And if his rut doesn’t last a week?” Unease churns at the bottom of your gut. This isn’t your wheelhouse. To delve to the depths of intimacy when you haven’t even waded the shallows is unwise at the very best, life-endangering at the worst. You’re not attached to Luocha and Blade in the way they are attached to each other. And the moment you lower the drawbridge and weaken your walls, you anchor yourself even further to the Luofu.

“You’ll be paid the same, regardless.” Kafka says, as though it’s in any way comforting.

You loosen the tensed muscles of your jaw. It’s not as though you… dislike Blade. You think about him, early in the morning, when you’re too sleepy to get your thoughts straight. You remember keenly the press of his lips, the smell of him as he breached your personal space, permitted himself to your skin—

You shut your eyes. You feel too hot, all of the sudden, “Can I get that in writing?” 

“If it’ll make you feel better, I can wire you the money right now—” Kafka slides her phone out of her pocket, nimble fingers clicking all over the screen. You still aren’t comforted. 

“No, it’s fine,” you squeeze the bridge of your nose, already feeling the oncoming headache. You can’t believe you’re doing this. “When do I have to be there?”

—

The house looks the same as it always does. There’s nothing new on the breeze. Nothing beside the rustling of the leaves and the chirping of the birds. You knock on the door. Luocha stands in the doorway, red robe hanging off his shoulder. Bruises bloom on his skin like blood in water, spots of bluish-purple that run up the left side of his neck. You blink, speechless. He’s greeted you dressed like this, before, but he’s never looked so ragged. So run-down. His lips are kiss-swollen, lit up an angry pink. Flaxen blond flows down his shoulders like a river stream, strands sent awry in several places—they look like they’ve been tugged at, manhandled in a way you never imagined he would allow.

“Oh, good. You’re here,” he chimes, and steps aside. He motions for you to come in. It’s a threshold you’ve crossed many times, but something about this feels permanent. There’s a heavy feeling in the air. The faint scent of something spiced and smoked lingers throughout the entryway and living room. Unease prickles up the back of your neck. The door clicks shut behind you. A hand lands on your shoulder. “No need to be so tense, my dear Courier. Nothing bad will happen to you here.”

“What exactly will happen here? Kafka gave me the rundown, but…”

“Well, that depends on you,” Luocha hums. The warm hand on your shoulder slides down to your bicep. He stands behind you, a solid stroke of heat along your back. “I know I speak for us both when I say we would very much like you to participate, but all you really have to do is… watch.” He breathes the word, breath soft and hot against your ear.

He slips away from your side. The space he occupied at your back feels cool and empty. You shiver.

“—And you’ll have to intervene should anything go awry. While I can sate his carnal urges, the same cannot be said for his mara,” Luocha continues, cracking open the bedroom door. 

“You came,” Blade’s voice rumbles, raspy with sleep and something else. He’s laid across the bed like a lounging panther, appraising you with eyes half-open. The long stretch of his body is completely bare, all broad muscle and softness in certain places. He’s taken the bandages off his chest, you realize after a few moments of looking (staring) at him from the doorway. Free of clothes and free of scars, a perfect statue of a man.

Luocha, behind you, mistakes your shock for apprehension. He laughs by your ear.

“It’s only natural to be apprehensive. Come. Just watch for a bit.” His fingers squeeze your shoulders. You let him steer you over to an armchair with green cushions sat by the nightstand, up against the wall. Blade stares at you from the other side of the bed.

He doesn’t stop looking at you. Even when Luocha rests a knee on the bed, robe slipping off his arm, inch by inch of pale skin opened to the gaping maw of his gaze. His back—it’s as broad as you would expect from a man who lugs around a coffin on the daily. Not as big as Blade. There’s a sinuous grace to his figure, with narrow hips and—you don’t dare let your gaze lower. Because he’s looking at you looking at him over his shoulder with that coy little smile, just waiting for you to slip up.

And then he’s not looking at you, anymore. You’re entreated to a view of those long, luscious locks—sliding over the alabaster of his back as he approaches Blade on his knees. 

“Well, Blade. I know you’re excited, but you’ll have to settle for me for just a little longer,” he says. You nearly open your mouth to remind him that you haven’t agreed to anything, but the breath is robbed from you as he mounts Blade’s thighs. 

The alpha’s cock is long and thick enough to make you cringe as the tip nestles between Luocha’s cheeks. Twin groans fill the air. Blade’s voice is low and coarse, the vibrating thrum of an old engine. 

Luocha luxuriates in the stretch. His back arches, head bowing back as he takes the other man inch-by-inch. The dim light which reaches in through the closed blinds casts him in perfect clarity, and you can see his thighs begin to shake as he seats himself fully on Blade’s lap. His fingers fist in the sheets on either side of him, glimmering silk bunched between long pianist’s fingers. Cock taken to the hilt. 

“You’re putting on a show,” Blade accuses.

“And you’re watching.” Luocha replies, voice breathy and soft. He starts to say something else—but Blade’s hands fit over his hips, bulky fingers nestling into his v-lines. His voice devolves into a choked little sound as he’s lifted, until only the tip remains inside of him. The effortless gesture of strength makes you swallow and sink back in your seat. The air swells with unabated sweetness. And you—you react to it. 

Your fingers tense briefly, gripping the hard cushion armrests as you watch Blade fuck into him with voracity bordering unhinged. Luocha’s soft moans reverberate through the room, each one goes straight to your wetting cunt. Your thighs squirm and shift, pressed tight together. 

Blade grunts. His thrusts lose what little rhythm they possessed to begin with. You see every slide of his thick cock into Luocha’s loosened hole—slick-doused and swelling. You can see the muscles in Luocha’s back tense and stretch as he arches. The orgasm wracks him bone-deep. His toes curl. And Blade—Blade’s grip only tightens. Luocha’s thin waist is clutched entirely in his hands. His nails dig into the skin as he sheathes himself with a throaty snarl. The cum is so excessive that it drips and pools on the silken sheets, running down Luocha’s creamy thighs.

The room goes quiet. There’s only the steady sound of their mixed breathing, desperate huffs which level out over the next however long. You’re stuck there, still. The room smells of sex. A strange, hot feeling rolls down your spine. You feel like an exposed nerve. Like a trigger a hair away from being pulled.

Luocha, eventually, pulls himself off of Blade with another slick sound. Blade shuts his eyes and reaches out a shaky hand, wrapping it tight around Luocha’s shoulder. His nails bite into the pale skin, thick fingers right next to a ring of recent bitemarks.

“Mm,” Luocha pauses. He presses his lips to the scarred fingers which clutch him. At this distance—you can sense the sudden lurch of Destruction, spurred on by cloying mara and the natural, ingrained need to give chase. To empty the wellspring of Luocha’s Abundance like a man parched. You tense in your seat. Pushing your scrambled nerves aside, you reach for the Harmony—expel it and let it float through the chamber. “I'm not going anywhere, Blade. You know that.” Luocha says. Blade’s grip loosens. The wildfire in his eyes dims to a hearth. He settles.

Now free to be as obnoxious as he likes, Luocha turns fully to you.

“Ah,” his eyes twinkle as he licks his lips, looking at you now. “Did that do it for you?”

“N…No.” your voice feels thick in your throat. The most bold-faced lie you’ve ever told.

Luocha laughs a little. “It’s alright; you don’t have to say it. How about you come over here? Or do you want me to come over there?”

“I’m perfectly content to watch,” you insist. Your voice comes out steadier than you thought it would. But Luocha only smiles. He regards you with that same, infuriating knowingness that he always does. 

He slides off the mattress, smooth as fine grain sand and assured in his nakedness. You feel the tips of your ears get hot as he approaches, crosses the breadth of the room with swaying hips. 

He has you, and he knows it. Long fingers slide over your arms where they clutch the armrest. His thumbs rub over the back of your palms as he looms close. 

“You can stop this,” he murmurs, voice close to a whisper. He pries your fingers off the armrest, urges your hands to go limp. “Any time you want,” he says, but you don’t feel like it. You feel pinned by the voracity in Blade’s eyes as he stares at you from his perch on the mattress. 

Luocha slides to his knees like a swan takes to water. Slender fingers work the buttons of your trousers open, thumbs which slide beneath your waistband pull them down. You make a grab for the elastic, clutching it in your fist. The breath rushes in and out of your lungs, something in you suddenly awoke. The fear and an apprehension you should have felt from the start snap to life like a bolt of lightning.

But Luocha. Luocha gently pulls it again. More like an ask than a demand, and you let it go. You swallow as he slides them off. revealing the seat of your panties. Wet.

“Oh? All for us? That’s very flattering,” he says, like you’re a child who's earned the praise. You don't know what kind of face you make, but it must accurately convey your displeasure because his eyes crinkle, unmistakably fond. “Forgive me. I simply can’t resist teasing you… and I was under the impression that you hated me for the longest time.”

Your tongue feels too big for your mouth. Your throat feels full of something thick and unsweet. 

Your underwear comes next. It's a simple black pair. He thankfully spares you the commentary as he delicately slides it down your thighs, your legs, so meticulously careful in his handling of you.

“Well, you still might,” he continues, once you're bare from the waist down. “But at the very least, I know you feel some base level of attraction.”

His tongue parts the wet folds of your pussy. You tilt your head back, fingers curling to clutch the armrests, unwilling to watch him make a mess of you. The air feels liquid around you, murky with their scents—which have taken on, somehow, a new intensity. 

You don’t get to think about it, because Luocha brings your knee over his shoulder and puts his lips on your clit, tip of his tongue flirting with your entrance. He laps up your slick, drinks you in like a man starved. You jerk, a wheeze rattling out from between your ribs, but Luocha holds you fast. 

Pleasure surges in you like a current, a clever twist of his tongue making you jerk—and moan, like the harlot you know you are not. It sinks in, then and only then, as you clench his flaxen locks in your fist, that this is happening.

But you don’t get to digest it. Something hot snaps in the core of you, toes curling as you gush wet and hot into his eager mouth. 

His lips are shiny with your slick when he pulls away, lips curved into an unmistakably satisfied grin. Your chest rises and falls as you try and catch your breath. You feel—wrung out, hazy in the remnants of your climax. 

“I hope I lived up to your expectations.” 

You blink blearily at him. “I didn’t expect anything from you in the first place.”

There’s a small huff from behind him. A small smirk pulls at the corners of Blade’s lips. 

“How charmingly candid,” Luocha says, unbothered. You’re still too witless to muster a witty retort. Or any sort of retort at all, because as soon as you try, he heaves you into his arms with an ease you hadn’t expected. 

An undignified sound bleats from deep in your throat, words on the tip of your tongue mangled as you scramble for purchase. You dig your nails into the pale skin of his shoulders. The muscles there are broad and smooth. Exactly what you would expect from a man who carries a coffin around with him all day.

“Wait just a second—”

“You surely don’t think the chair will be a more comfortable place for this than the bed, do you?” he asks, hands big and warm on the backs of your thighs. 

“Don’t just go picking someone up without warning,” you seethe, and it still feels like a concession.

“Ah,” Luocha’s smiling again. “My apologies—I forgot how easily you scare. I’ll be sure to give you due warning, next time.”

“I don’t scare easily.” you mutter. He hums. Then he gently deposits you onto the mattress. Blade lounges easily, passion only betrayed by his smoldering, half-lidded gaze. The long line of his body is caked in muscle. The kind of body you’d expect from someone who carries around a sword that heavy—whose hands have ended a number of lives and worlds beyond your reckoning.His chin rests idly on the palm of his hand. Your gaze drifts over the smooth ridges of his abdomen, the plush of his chest.

Luocha settles up against the headboard. His cock is out, you realize belatedly. It stands hard and proud against his stomach. And his thighs glisten with release—both his and Blade’s. Your cunt throbs.

A hand reaches over and fists in Luocha’s hair, dragging him downwards for an open-mouthed kiss. He tongues your release from Luocha’s mouth. Lewd, wet sounds fill the balmy air, rumbling groans and soft little whines. Even now, in this deep between them, you feel like a voyeur. Yet, you watch them with lips parted and eyes wide.

You shudder.

Eventually, they separate.Wordlessly,  Blade sits up and disappears behind you. You try to crane your neck to follow where he goes, but Luocha’s nimble fingers yet again seize your jaw.

“It’s alright,” he murmurs, voice delicate as it hovers in the air between you. “Blade’s not going anywhere, dear. Just focus on me for the time being, alright?”

But it’s so hard when you can feel the presence behind you, hovering like a dark cloud. You swallow, the noise impossibly loud in your own ears. Your cunt is wet and you’re sweating and your shirt is still on—but Luocha endeavors to fix that in the next moments. It’s difficult, in the haze of everything, to keep track of where his fingers go or when your button-up slides off your shoulders, to breathe when he unlatches the clasp of your bra like he’s done it a thousand times before. 

How many people has he done this with, before? A bitter taste twinges at the back of your mouth. Unprovoked and without reason. 

Blade’s big hands settle on your hips, thumbs rubbing the space above your waist.

“Handle her gently, Blade,” Luocha murmurs gently. His soft hands stroke down your bare arms. His verdant gaze drags down your torso, too slow to be anything but indecent.

Blade grunts. He squeezes, once, before he lifts you without warning. You splutter, hands snapping to perch on Luocha’s shoulders for some sense of balance as you’re moved with near pitiful ease. The show of strength sends a fresh wave of heat flush to your drooling cunt, and you try not to pant as you feel the tip of Luocha’s cock nestle against your folds. 

Your fingers curl and your eyes shut.

“Just like that,” Luocha says, simple and light. Another pair of hands settles on your thighs—and he’s breached you. You choke.

The stretch hurts. You didn’t expect anything else, but your head still falls back, eyes clenching shut as your walls spasm and squeeze tight. Behind you, Blade pants like a dog, huffing into the crook of your neck, inhaling you by the lungful. There’s a tremble in his hips that you can feel. 

It takes you a moment to realize that the whimpers filling the room are yours. 

“Re—lax,” he breathes, sounding almost pained. Like he has the right to. Like he isn’t fucking you open, pushing deep in as your greedy cunt squeezes and struggles to take him. Your knees press hard into the mattress, instinct prompting your aching thighs to buck upwards and flee the intrusion, but Blade holds you fast, grinding his teeth into your aching skin. 

“You’re doing so well for me, darling,” Luocha praises, cooing as your cunt clenches, “Oh,” he sighs, like he’s awed by it. His green eyes, unseeing, blown wide—your hands scramble for purchase on his shoulders as Blade lifts you again, up and up until only the head of his cock remains inside. “Gentle, Blade.” he bids, eyelids low—

And then Blade eases you down. It’s a slow drag. It hurts less, this time. Sparks of pleasure roll up your spine and send your cunt aflutter, your nails raking into his shoulders as they set the pace. He rolls his hips as Blade moves you—puppeteers you, his mouth tracking wet, open-mouthed kisses over your shoulders and up the sides of your neck. His teeth score into your yielding flesh.

“Stop—gnawing at me,” you snarl, reaching a hand back to swat him like an unruly animal. His lips find the meat of your palm, lips tenderly grazing the skin there as if in apology. He growls and inhales, again, and you marvel in fear and awe at just how stupid the chemicals in his brain have made him. Are all alphas like this, during their ruts?

Luocha says something else, but it’s all lost to the filth, to your moans and cries and other undignified noises as they further unravel you. Blade grips hard enough to bruise, his breath heavy against your skin, your ears. They work in tandem. Blade fucks you up and down on Luocha’s cock like a fleshlight, and Luocha rocks his hips into your fluttering, tight pussy in a quickly unraveling rhythm. 

And Blade—you feel his cock press hot up against your back just as dexterous fingers glide over your clit, Luocha’s touch making you thrash. Your sweat-slicked skin grinds up against Blade’s front, and he snarls. 

You come, orgasm a searing and unwieldy thing. You crash over the precipice, head tossed against Blade’s shoulder as your cunt spasms around Luocha’s cock. Milking him, shaking body trying to suck him in deep. Your entire body is one hot line of heat, pressed between them and oh fuck, Blade keeps fucking you onto Luocha’s cock. The blonde’s consistent and precise thrusts stuttering out of pace until he comes with an obscene groan. His fingers dig into your thighs as he fills you, rope after rope of his release hitting inside.

The room fades into a calm quiet. The air is dense with the smell of sex. Even through the exhaustion, the pheromones pry under your skin and keep you as hot as the bodies you’re wedged between. Blade lifts you from Luocha’s cock with pitiful ease, and the noise you let out at the separation is downright pathetic. Your mixed releases slide slick down your thighs and onto the sheets below, and your consciousness rouses just enough to feel a twinge of humiliation.

“Lovely little thing, you were even more incredible than I anticipated,” His fingers clumsily draw over your cheek, your neck, your side. Petting you, palms shaping around your breasts and stomach as you come down from the high. You all but collapse against Blade’s front, boneless. 

The moment he releases you, you topple onto the bedding next to Luocha. It’s hard to breathe. The air feels thick. You fight to regain your bearings amongst the haze, covered in sweat and cum and sore spots all over your neck and shoulders. 

Luocha coos. The pads of his fingers gently prod one such spot. 

“You didn’t have to be so rough,” Luocha hums at Blade. His touches delicately circle every point of pain, “This is your first impression in bed. You may be in rut, but you have enough self-control to not chew on your caretakers. You aren’t an animal, are you?”

“No,”

“No,” Luocha repeats, airy and fond as he pulls away. “You’re a blade. I don’t know if that’s more or less of an excuse.” He says, but he doesn’t sound frustrated. His scolding is light-handed and more amused than anything.

“Will you two quiet down?" you grouse, finally coherent enough to complain again.

“Our apologies. We really should be putting our mouths to better use,” Luocha says, rubbing your back again. You throw a hand back to try and swat him away, but he pushes you aside with frustrating ease. “As much as I would like to afford you the proper time to rest—”

He doesn’t get a word in before you’re being manhandled onto your back.

Big hands pin your hips to the mattress. Blade’s palms are hot and clammy, sweat rubbing into your exposed skin. 

“I appreciate this,” he rumbles lowly. His candlewick irises threaten to swallow you whole as he ducks close, pressing your foreheads together. Blade’s keen gaze shifts from your eyes, rolls down your face and over your throat like a soft breeze. 

You swallow, your breath stolen from you in a gasp as he turns you over yet again. He maneuvers you how he likes, front pressed right against the sheets from head to toe. His hand settles in the crook of your left knee, opening you for the hot press of his head. The slow press of him is a sweet agony. He’s too big, he’s so fucking big—your cunt struggles to accommodate him as he bullies his way inside. Short, aborted thrusts which grate against your velvet walls. Your entire body twitches, overworked nerves crying out in muted protest, but the pleasure is open and heady, your entire body made pliant by the pheromones and—oh and it’s so much easier to go prone, like this. 

Blade’s eager mouth tooths a path along your shoulder, seeking the crook of your neck with single minded hunger.

It’s a slow, heavy push aided by previous climaxes, but he’s still much too big. You weren’t meant to take anything like this, you can’t help but think. 

Luocha gives a sympathetic coo. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

Is it? You try to answer, but all that comes out is a low, animal sound. Half pained but all pleasured. If Luocha filled you, Blade bursts you to the seams. Your fingers claw at the bedding as you struggle to take him, unable to stifle your voice. You’re not sure how long it takes for him to hilt. Minutes or hours. Time is lost to you, all of your focus centered on the tight space between your legs and how he swells in it. 

A wet, warbling sound wanders out of your weary throat as you feel his thighs press to the back of yours. At last complete. The grip he has around the crook of your knee tightens, his breath sputtering onto the back of your neck as he pulls out. 

The first plunge back in is no better than the initial fit. He pumps you full, over and over, pace breaking into something ravenous at the first sign of your acquiescence. You can’t think, you can hardly breathe as your velvet walls suck him in. Every thrust has his cockhead teasing your sweet spot. You try to arch your back, but you’re met by the solid wall of muscle that comprises him, flattening you to the bed, leaving you cored and flayed open for him to fuck, to fill, to stick his fingers and tongue inside. He scrapes his teeth over what feels like the marrow of you and makes your vision go hazy with tears. They roll down your cheeks, fat droplets soaking the bedding beneath you. 

Your orgasm isn’t a steady trickle but a sudden burst, white hot pleasure erupting behind your clenched eyelids. He fucks you through it. His knees dig into the mattress on either side of your body, pelvis slapping your ass with each disjointed thrust. Whatever rhythm he might have had sputters into nothingness. He mindlessly pursues his own climax, lips fitting over your shoulders. He kisses your spin. His hot tongue laps at your sweat and your bruises, almost tender. 

There’s an ask, there. A request for your forgiveness, or your acknowledgement. But you are too spent to speak. 

He cums inside of you, his release splattering your walls and dripping onto the sheets below. It’s so vulgar it almost makes you nauseous. But your toes curl and your voice pitches into a watery whine because he’s still fucking you. 

“Blade,” you find your voice, but do not recognize the ragged, ruined thing it has become. “Blade!” The pleasure has long tilted over the edge into pain. You claw at the sheets. You can’t tell if you’re trying to squirm away or arch closer, all that you know is the heat of his body and smell of sex and wetness of his cum running down your thighs. 

“Blade,” a different voice says. You completely forgot Luocha was even there. You can’t see where he is, “Remember what we talked about? Don’t knot her. She’ll break.”

“The poor thing,” he says, voice soaked in sympathy. A slender hand curls beneath your cheek, wedged between it and the pillow. Your lips press against the palm as your face is forced up. 

Luocha’s eyelids are low. His lips slightly parted, and his expression so impossibly benevolent as he observes you.

“Just a bit more,” he murmurs, thumb pressing against the swell of your bottom lip. You huff and squeal into his hand as Blade’s body tenses, readying itself for another orgasm. And as he spills within you a second time, Luocha steals the moan off your tongue with a deep, searching kiss.

—

Afternoon has shifted into late evening. The living room is cooler than the shaded bedroom. Somewhere after a third climax, you had been cleaned, a robe maneuvered onto your form by clinging, roughened hands. You’re not sure who did what. For the past hour, you think you’ve hovered dangerously close to unconsciousness, barely able to open your lips to sip on the glass of water someone held up for you. The rim was blissfully cold. You swallow the drink down with a voracity you’ve scarcely ever shown, let it soothe your sore throat and float some of the life back into you.

You’re endlessly grateful for this as you scarf down dinner. Some greasy takeout that fills your empty stomach, fried batter crunching nice between your teeth. 

Exhausted, and sore, and something related to satisfied, you finally rest your weary eyes. Your fingers find Blade’s silken strands. His face is nestled into your lap, nose pressed into the inseam of your thigh. He all but flopped atop of you after you finished eating, content to doze half-under a red blanket.

 Each breath taken is a warm puff you can feel through your robe. When did it go this far? How did it go this far? In a few hours, will he be just as voracious as he was when you walked in? You rummage through what remains of your cognizance in search of answers, but come up blank. All it amounts to is feeble frustration. Your fingers still comb through those long, luscious locks.

Footsteps pads in your direction from behind. You don’t bother to look up at Luocha until he nudges something into your hand. The stem of a wine glass is pressed into your shaking fingers.

When you look up at him, he only smiles, “For the nerves,” he says, and settles on the other sofa. “And the pain.”

You stare into the glass. The person reflected in the deep cherry looks sleepy and sated. A feeling of defeat churns in the depths of you. Your stomach sinks. You shut your eyes and let your head loll onto the back of the armchair. The plush upholstery cushions the back of your skull. The steady, building buzz of anxiety building behind your eyes amounts to a soft, yet still aching throb.

You lift the glass, and press your lips to the rim.

[obessedwithfictionalmen]

Until you come back home

John Egan X Reader

Summary: The many letters Y/n sent to her boyfriend.

Warning: Historical inaccuracies/ going crazy/ obsessive behavior/ use of Y/n/ Swearing.

Word count: 800 words

8 months, 2 weeks and 4 days, that was the last time they saw each other. Before he went on this mission and got captured. Y/n was losing her mind, she needed him. Harry Crosby was trying to cheer her up, but the only thing she did was write letters for him. ‘’Are you going to send them to him?’’ he asked as he sat next to her. ‘’There’s so many, where can I start?’’ she whispers. ‘’You can’t keep sitting in those 4 walls forever. You can’t keep hoping he’s going to call’’ Harry Crosby says. She looked at him, she heard him, but she wasn’t going to listen. ‘’The wait is just cruel, I can’t keep living like this, it’s torture’’ she mumbled. ‘’Let’s send him the letters, it might cheer him up’’ he said. She nodded and started to date the letters.

‘’Mail! Cleven, Hamilton and, holy shit there’s a lot for you Egan’’ the mailmen said, handing the letters to the men. Bucky took the pile of letters and put them on the table. He looked at who sent them, it was all Y/n. He opened the first one.

Dear Bucky,

I hope you’re alive, I know you are, I feel it. I feel crazy without you, I’m up all night and every day thinking about you. I hope you can write to me, because not getting news from you is torture. I don’t understand what’s happening to me. Love, Y/n.

He didn’t believe what he was reading, he thought she wasn’t going to wrote to him. ‘’Who the hell wrote to you that much?’’ Buck chuckled. ‘’Y/n, she wrote all of them’’ he said. Bucky opened another one.

My love, I don’t want to live forever, I can’t live without you, I’m trying to hold on. I’m driving the girls crazy; I’m calling out your name all the time. Bucky, Bucky, Bucky. I’m going to keep calling your name until you come back home. Y/n.

He looked around the room, his girl was going crazy, just like him. He wished he could write to her, but the Germans wouldn’t let him.

Bucky, did I lose you? Did I lose the love of my life? I keep getting up, calling your name all the time. I just want you to come back home. I’m barely eating, I can’t sleep. I’m going crazy without you. Croz took me out in London, he took me to my favorite restaurant, he thought that was going to cheer me up. It didn’t, I was looking sad in the nicest places in the city. I need to see you. I love you, yours Y/n.

He didn’t know how much letters he read in the last hour; she wrote a lot of them. Always saying the same time. She missed him, she needed him, she didn’t want to live forever, she didn’t want to live if life wasn’t with him. He didn’t know how much tears he shed reading this. He missed her so much; it pained him so much not being able to write back to her. He wanted to send letters, so many letters. He wanted to tell her so much, how he missed her, how he wanted to kiss her, how he wanted to hug her. He opened the last letter, afraid of what he was going to read.

Dear Bucky,

I’m sorry for all these letters, it’s the only thing I’ve been doing. Croz told me to send them all. I miss you so much, as you probably noticed in the previous letters. If Buck is with you, say hi to him. I’m waiting for your return, because like I said. If life is not with you, it’s not worth living. I don’t wanna live forever, hoping for your return. But I’m going to wait for you, I’ll wait every second of every day. I love you, John Egan, don’t forget that. In the meantime, I’m just going to keep calling your name until you come back home. Yours, Y/n.

He turned the letter to see his name written all over the back of the letter, he prayed that Crosby was taking care of her. He decided to do the same thing, calling her name until he came back home. ‘’Y/n, Y/n, Y/n’’ he repeated himself. He didn’t want to disturb the guys.

‘’Bucky, Bucky, Bucky’’ ‘’Y/n, Y/n, Y/n’’ they both said, miles away from each other, but they called each other’s name, until he comes back home.

[scary-grace]

the new postmodern age (chapter two) - a Shigaraki x f!Reader fic

Written for @threadbaresweater's follower milestone event, and the prompt 'a day at the beach'! Congratulations on the milestone, and thanks for giving me a chance to write this fic.

dividers by @enchanthings

Before the war, you were nothing but a common criminal, but in the world that's arisen from the ashes, you got a second chance. Five years after the final battle between the heroes and the League of Villains, you run a coffee shop in a quiet seaside town, and you're devoted to keeping your customers happy. Even customers like Shimura Tenko, who needs a second chance even more than you did -- and who's harboring a secret that could upend everything you've tried to build. Will you let the past drag both of you down? Or will you find a way, against all odds, to a new beginning? (cross-posted to Ao3)

Chapters: 1 2 3

Chapter 2

One of the dubious perks of living in a coastal town is fairly mild weather in the spring, but every so often it kicks up with a vengeance. The windows in your apartment are rattling with the wind and rain, and you keep getting power outage alerts on your phone. Your power is still on, along with about half the town’s, and the café has backup generators if anything goes wrong. But tomorrow’s the one day a week that the café is closed, anyway, so you’re curled up on your couch under a blanket, trying to make yourself read a book instead of scrolling your phone. It’s going all right, but when the phone buzzes on the coffee table next to you, you pounce on it with shameful speed.

It's a text from Tenko – Shimura. It’s from Shimura, who you’ve gotten into the bad habit of calling Tenko in your head. my power just went out

that sucks. You wonder if you should offer to help, but what would you even do? did you lose any files?

autosave. but the deadline’s tomorrow and my WiFi went down too. That still begs the question of why Shimura’s texting you about it. town still has power. can I hang out in the café and finish the project?

Now you get it. Shimura’s in hot water and he needs you to bail him out. It’s the kind of thing you’d do for a friend. A lot of things you and Shimura do are the kind of things friends do.

Not that you’re friends. You never see each other outside the café; you ran into him at the grocery store a few months after he started coming in and he pretended he didn’t know you. But inside the café, when it’s quiet, the two of you talk. You learned what he does for work – beta-testing computer games and identifying spots that need a patch – and he learned that you have basically no life outside your job, which he can’t judge you for because he doesn’t have one, either. When the two of you traded phone numbers, it was a work-related thing. Since the babkas have gotten popular, he texts on days when he’s planning on coming in, so you know to set one aside.

Except that’s not all he texts you about. He texts you about the most random things, in massive bursts between days of radio silence, and when he comes into the café again, he keeps talking about whatever it was like you’d been talking about it the whole time. It’s like he has no idea how to carry on a text conversation. Or how to have a friend.

You don’t have a great idea of how to have a friend, either. Let alone a friend you have feelings for. If Shimura was just your friend, you’d have texted back by now. Shimura texts again. I get it if you don’t want to come back into town when the weather’s shit. i would have asked about your place but I didn’t want to make it weird

Not weird. You answer without thinking too hard about it. I don’t know how much longer I’ll have power. You should probably come over now.

yeah. address? Shimura gives a thumbs-up once you send it. thanks.

You give him a thumbs-up, too. You’re already worried you’ve made a mistake.

The power’s still on by the time Shimura knocks on your door, which is one of your worries dealt with. You’ve changed out of your pajamas, and you moved stuff off the kitchen table and hid it in the hall closet so he’ll have a space to work. You’re feeling almost normal by the time you go to let him in, and he slinks through the door, looking like a drowned rat and shivering like a kicked puppy. “It sucks out there,” he mumbles. “My heat went out, too.”

“Mine’s still on. And I’ve got blankets and stuff if you want them,” you say. Shimura is still wearing his mask, but his hoodie is soaking wet, and when he takes down the hood you see that his hair is wavier than you thought. Or maybe it’s just the water. “The WiFi password is on the fridge. Make yourself at home.”

Shimura takes off his shoes and pushes his hair out of his face to peer at your apartment. “Nice place.”

“Don’t be mean.”

“I’m not. It’s not a mess and there aren’t holes anywhere. It’s nice.” Shimura gives you a look you don’t know how to interpret. “Thanks for letting me come over. Uh –”

He runs out of whatever he was going to say, but you’ve got no idea what he was going to follow up with. The two of you stand there for a second. Shimura’s hoodie is so sopping wet that it’s making puddles on the floor. “Okay,” you say finally. “Give me your hoodie and I’ll put it in the dryer.”

“You have a dryer? I drag my shit to the laundromat.”

You used to, but then you found out about all the petty things civilians do to make people like you feel unwelcome. Shimura hasn’t noticed because Shimura’s undercover. You wait while he peels off the hoodie. You’ve never seen him without it, barely seen him with the hood down, and beneath it, his clothes are just as oversized. His arms are bare and pale – and scarred. You wrench your eyes away, take the hoodie to the dryer, and take the opportunity to compose yourself along the way. You have a friend over. Normal people have friends over. You’re helping a friend. It doesn’t get more normal than that.

When you come back, Shimura’s hard at work at the kitchen table, laptop open and notebook at his side. You don’t want to distract him. You have a feeling the two of you are racing the clock with the storm and the power lines, so you sit down on the couch with your blanket and pick up your book. No way are you going to be able to read. When you’re at work, you have a million things to do. Right now, there’s nothing for you to do but watch Shimura.

He's focused on whatever he’s doing, typing fast but lopsided. It takes you a second to figure out what the problem is, but once you do, you’re startled – two fingers on his left hand are basically paralyzed. Maybe that’s why he wears the gloves. His hair falls to his shoulders, and although it’s black, there’s a flatness to the color that tells you it’s not natural, and that he did it at home. Maybe you should offer to do it for him when his roots start to grow out. You’ve never seen the lower half of his face, but apparently you didn’t need to in order to give yourself a crush on him.

You like him. You’re being silly about it. And you’re staring. You stick your face back in your book.

But it can’t hold your attention for long when he’s here, and when you inevitably look back up, you find Shimura already watching you. “What?” you ask.

“Get over here. I need your help with something.”

“I don’t game.”

“It’s not about gameplay. It’s –” Shimura beckons to you impatiently, and you abandon your book and blanket to peer over his shoulder at the screen. “Something’s wrong with this stage. It looks like shit. I told the devs that, and they said I had to be more specific –”

“It’s the color saturation,” you say. Shimura looks up at you. “And the shadows are wrong. If the light source is supposed to be coming from above – like the sun – the shadows should be in different spots. Or there should be shadows, and there aren’t any. That’s why the character looks like – that.”

You glance away from the screen, at Shimura. “What kind of game is this?”

“It’s a dating sim. Shut up,” Shimura says. “I don’t get to pick what I test. What was that about the shadows?”

“They need to fix the lighting.”

Shimura looks irritated. “They’re gonna want specifics.”

“The stage looks flat because they haven’t added shading to match the light source,” you say. Shimura pulls up another document and types something into it. “Shading gives dimension. And the color saturation is too high. That’s why it looks like –”

“A fucking eyesore.” Shimura minimizes the document, then clicks a dialogue option to advance the game to the next screen. “Same problem here?”

You nod, but it’s not the only problem. “Is this supposed to be a schoolgirl sim? High school girls don’t talk like that.”

“How do you know?”

“I was one,” you say. You read the response to Shimura’s chosen prompt again. “This skews really young. Like, twelve or something.”

Shimura’s face twists with disgust. “How do we fix that?”

“Fewer exclamation points,” you suggest. Shimura writes that down. “Does it have to be high school girls? For this game?”

“They’re supposed to be college girls so it’s legal. The outfits are how the dev wants it.” Shimura rolls his eyes. “But he’s a pro hero, so it doesn’t matter that he’s a perv. Right?”

“I didn’t know there were pros making computer games,” you say. “I know a lot of them have side hustles, but – pervy dating sims?”

“Pervy dating sims. Sorry to burst your bubble.”

“I’ve been captured seventeen times and only twice by cops,” you say. “I don’t really have a bubble.”

“Seventeen times,” Shimura repeats. “I can’t tell if that’s a flex or not. Who got you?”

“Um –” You think it over. “Kamui Woods, back when he was field-testing that Lacquered Chain Prison thing.”

“That thing fucking sucks.”

“Tell me about it. Death Arms nabbed me at one point, but he dropped me when I turned him green.” You’re still proud of that one, even if you got in worse trouble for it than usual. “Endeavor actually caught me tagging something once. I would have been screwed, except I guess he was looking for a more high-profile case.”

“So he just let you go?”

“Yep.” You think back on the other times you got booked. “One time Fatgum got me. And then some work-study kids from Shiketsu High.”

Shimura snorts. “Kids got you?”

“My quirk’s not very dangerous,” you say. By that point you’d learned that turning people different colors could net you an assault charge. “And then it was Eraserhead. Four or five times. I can camouflage with my quirk and he could turn it off.”

Shimura nods. He’s clicking through screens on the dating sim. “What about you?” you ask. “Who caught you?”

“I only got taken into custody one time,” Shimura says. “I had run-ins with, uh – Eraserhead, Present Mic, Thirteen, All Might, Endeavor, Kamui Woods, Ryukyu, Miruko –”

Those are all big-name heroes. You have to wonder what Shimura did. “But I guess Midoriya’s the one who made it stick,” Shimura concludes. Midoriya? It takes you a second, and Shimura fills in. “The one with the stupid name. Deku.”

“Oh.”

Deku’s active hero career was fairly short, and all his fights were big ones. Shimura must have been working for somebody powerful before the war, or during it. Shimura’s shoulders stiffen, suddenly. “Forget I said that.”

“Okay,” you say. Maybe he’s embarrassed about getting captured by a student, even if you just told him you did the same thing. “If you forget I got arrested seventeen times.”

“Deal.” Shimura clicks through a few more screens, then curses. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“What?” You peer at the screen, and Shimura blocks it. “Is it proprietary or something?”

“No, it’s porn,” Shimura says. He’s scowling. “There’s not one route in this game that doesn’t end with the player getting laid by three characters at once.”

Three seems like a lot, but – “Isn’t that kind of what dating sims are for?” you ask. Shimura shrugs. What little of his face you can see around the mask is flushed. “Wait, is this how you have to test them? Playing through every route?”

“And getting all the bonus cutscenes.” Shimura rolls his eyes. He glances at the screen. “Great. There’s audio.”

“What kind?” you ask. “You have to check if it works, right?”

“Maybe it’s background music,” Shimura says. He presses play.

It’s not background music. It’s exactly what you’d expect, and it’s painfully loud. Shimura scrambles to mute the game and pauses it two seconds after a shot of something anatomically improbable. “Let me guess – the lighting’s fucked up here, too. Right?”

“And the facial movements don’t match the audio,” you say. “Did the developers send you this before it was ready?”

“No, they’re just on a budget. This is as ready as it gets.” Shimura shows you a dialogue prompt. “Do women say stuff like this?”

“Um – no. Not as a first-time thing. If this is a first-time route.”

“It is.” Shimura groans. “I still have a quarter of the route left. Let’s go.”

“Go where?”

“The couch. I need your help with this and you only have one chair at your kitchen table.”

Your couch is sort of messy. You shift the blankets and pillows around to make room for two. Shimura props his feet on the coffee table, sets a pillow on his lap, and balances the laptop on it. “If you spot any more off-balance graphics, tell me. I already made a note about the dialogue.”

“Can you turn the brightness up?” You sit down next to him. The contrast shifts, and you wince. “The light’s wrong.”

“Again?”

“Yeah. Unless that love interest is supposed to give off light.” You don’t know anything about this game. Maybe it actually is about glowing college girls in high school uniforms who really like foursomes. “If she isn’t, that’s a problem, because she’s the light source for the whole frame. And if she is, there’s no shading, so it’s flat again.”

“Ugh.” Shimura rolls his shoulders. “This is gonna be a long night.”

It’s going to be a long night, but it’s also sort of fun. You haven’t hung out with a friend in a while, and it’s nicer than you remember. You decide you want hot chocolate, so you make a cup for Shimura, too, and you learn a lot more about making erotic dating sims than you ever wanted to know. By the third porn interlude, Shimura’s basically out of patience. “This is a waste of time.”

“You’re getting paid for it, right?” you ask. Shimura nods. “Is there something you’d be doing if you didn’t have to do this?”

“Yeah. I’d be talking to you about something other than this dumb game.” Shimura hits the skip button five times in a row. “What were you doing when I texted?”

“Trying to read.” You point out the book on the coffee table and Shimura inspects it. “I used to read a lot when I didn’t have a phone, but it’s hard to get back into it when the phone is right there. That’s why I texted back so fast.”

Shimura’s frowning behind his mask. “Why didn’t you text me first?”

“To ask if your power was out and invite you over?” you ask, puzzled, and Shimura’s frown deepens. “I’d text you more if I thought I could get away with it.”

“What does that mean?”

“Um, just that I’m not sure how much you want to talk,” you say, “and I don’t want to annoy you. That’s it.”

“You know what’s annoying? That.” Shimura clicks through a few more screens. “We can’t talk at the café because you’re busy. You never ask to meet up when you aren’t busy. When else are we supposed to talk?”

“Shimura –” You must have missed something, somewhere. Some little detail that makes all of this make sense. The lights in your apartment flicker, and your stomach jolts. “I think the power’s going.”

“Shit.” Shimura starts typing faster, splitting his screen between the game and the document where he’s been making corrections. “Shit!”

“If the internet goes out, I can use my phone as a hotspot,” you offer.

“The signal won’t be strong enough. I have to send so many fucking screengrabs.” Shimura’s fingers fly across the keys. “If you want to help, start praying that the electricity holds out long enough for me to get this done.”

“I’ll pray,” you say. “I don’t want to be responsible for you losing your job and going back to a life of crime.”

Shimura laughs at that, raspy and sharp, and keeps typing. You watch as he clicks through stages, skips cutscenes he’s already played, hits a key on his keyboard that generates screengrabs of any stage he’s found an issue with, all while typing into a note document at the same time. He’s fast. You’ve never seen him work this fast in the café, but then again, you’ve never really gotten to observe him in the café, either. You’re always busy. Too busy to talk – at least not as much as Shimura wants to talk. He wants to talk to you more. Has he really been waiting for you to make the first move?

The lights flicker again, the room going dark for a split second before brightening up again. Shimura’s no longer typing – instead he’s watching a file upload to a server, progressing a few megabytes at a time. You switch from facetiously praying to actually praying. Your power only needs to hold out long enough for Shimura’s upload to finish.

The entire status bar on the upload turns green, and a checkmark appears, confirming it’s complete. A second later, your power goes out, plunging your apartment into near-total darkness.

Shimura breathes a sigh of relief. “That was close,” he says, and shuts the lid of his laptop, making the darkness complete. “Now I don’t have to return to my life of crime.”

“Good,” you say. “I’d be sad not to see you at the café again.”

He said he wanted to talk to you more, so it’s probably safe for you to say you’d be sad not to see him. Your eyes haven’t adjusted enough to make out more than Shimura’s shape in the darkness. “I looked up the NCRA thing. You could have gone for job training. Why’d you decide to open up a coffee shop?”

“I didn’t just want to make money.” You got asked this same question when you applied for the NCRA in the first place. “People always told me that I was selfish, because all criminals are selfish, so I wanted to make something for other people. I wanted to be able to give other people something I didn’t have when I needed it.”

Shimura sets his closed laptop on the coffee table with a quiet thud. “You really seized the day with this stuff, huh?”

“I didn’t want to live the way I was living before,” you say. “It was either stop living or try something else.”

“Did you think it would work?”

“I didn’t know,” you say. “I wanted to find out.”

That’s what it was, more than anything else. You told yourself you’d go one day at a time, that at the end of each day you’d decide if it was worth trying again tomorrow. At first it was out of spite. The early days of the NCRA were filled with detractors, people who thought criminals and villains deserved to rot in prison or worse, and every day you went without violating your probation was a day you spent pissing them off. But soon it was more than that. You worked on names for the café, too focused on finding the right one to pretend it didn’t matter. You taught yourself to use an espresso machine, and you wanted the chance to use it. You put your first mural up and started planning the next one. Without meaning to, surviving out of spite became surviving for yourself.

“Yeah,” Shimura says after a second. “I want to find out, too.”

Something about his tone of voice captures your attention. You turn to face him, turning on the flashlight on your phone, but the brightness makes you flinch. You lower it partially, and Shimura’s hand comes up to force it down the rest of the way. “Don’t,” he says. “I have to take off my mask.”

Anticipation puts a twist in your spine, and as your eyes readjust to the darkness, you see Shimura unhook one side of his mask, then the other, lowering it away from his face. You’ve never seen the lower half of his face before. “Why did you take it off if you don’t want me to see?”

“Because I want to kiss you and it would get in the way.”

You thought your crush on Shimura was going nowhere fast. You didn’t think there was any chance he’d want you, too. His gloved hands settle at your waist and stay there, shifting you closer to him. You feel his breath against your cheek a moment before his lips, dry and cracked, meet yours.

It’s a quick kiss. Quick, and tentative. He draws back, but he doesn’t go far. You can still feel his breath against your skin, and when you lean forward again, he kisses you a second time. A second time melts into a third, a fourth, blending so seamlessly into each other that you lose count. Kissing Shimura doesn’t set you on fire, but you can’t remember another time where you felt curious like this. Where you’ve wanted to see what another kiss will do, rather than losing patience and pulling away.

The power doesn’t come back on, and just like the darkness emboldened Shimura to take off his mask, it emboldens you to unfold your hands from your lap and touch him. His kisses grow more insistent as you run your hands along his back, when you rest them against his shoulders, fingers uncurling along the length of his collarbones. Shimura’s hands don’t leave your waist, but his grip on you tightens. It tightens further when you run your fingers along the side of his neck.

You’ve seen him scratching there, so it’s not hard to imagine it’s a sensitive place. You draw back from kissing him and press your lips against it, and Shimura speaks, his voice even raspier than usual. “Did you like me this whole time?”

“Huh?”

“Did you like me this whole time? You gave me free stuff when I came in.”

“I gave you discounted stuff,” you correct. You kiss his neck again. Shimura stirs discontentedly under your hands and mouth. “You were a new customer. I wanted you to come back.”

“You saved a pastry for me the day that hero showed up,” Shimura says. “Did you like me then?”

He’s really stuck on this. “Why do you want to know?”

“I couldn’t tell if you liked me or not. I thought you did, but I wasn’t sure.” Shimura’s head tilts, exposing more of his throat, but you’re more interested in his shoulder, partially revealed by the neck of his oversized shirt. “I want to know when.”

“It would have been when I saved the pastry for you, except you were kind of a dick that day,” you say. Shimura snorts. “After that. But before your birthday. I meant it when I said I’d go to your party.”

“You’d be the only one.” Shimura’s hands leave your waist, sliding beneath your shirt. He’s still wearing his gloves, but his exposed fingertips are rough. “Next year.”

He’s thinking way ahead. How do you feel about that? “Yeah,” you say, edging closer to him. “Next year.”

Part of you feels crazy for this. You’re crazy for making out with Shimura on your couch, yanking off his shirt and letting him unhook your bra, tangling your hands up in his hair and tugging it ever so slightly and feeling a sharp stab of desire when he gasps against your mouth. The rest of you doesn’t care. There will always be something within you that doesn’t evaluate risk quite right, that doesn’t care about the aftermath when something you want is right in front of you. Shimura is the first thing you’ve wanted in so long that’s got nothing to do with the faultless new life you’ve been trying to build. You want him, and some part of you will always be bad at saying no to what you want.

An alarm goes off on Shimura’s phone and scares the two of you apart. You’re closer to it, and when you grab it, you notice two things right away. First, that Shimura’s alarm is labeled “go to sleep, moron”. Second, the time. “It’s two am.”

“Shit.” Shimura lifts the phone out of your hands and silences the alarm. “You need to wake up in three hours.”

“The café’s closed tomorrow.” You’re sort of touched that he remembered how early you have to wake up on workdays. Your heart is still beating too fast. “Do you need to go?”

“The streetlights are still out.” It’s pitch-dark outside your window. “Can I crash on your couch?”

“You could,” you say. “The bed’s more comfortable, though.”

“Yeah, no shit. It –” Shimura’s head snaps up. “Wait, seriously?”

“Yeah,” you say. “I don’t know about you, but I wasn’t done here.”

“Me, either.” Shimura stands up, and so do you. “Let’s go.”

Your apartment is tough to navigate in the dark, even for you, and Shimura bumps into every obstacle you know about and a few more you didn’t think would be a problem. He swerves to avoid the edge of your kitchen table and walks straight into the corner of the hallway that leads to your bedroom and the bathroom. “Fuck!”

“Back up a few steps,” you say. Shimura backs up. “Take two steps to the left. No, your other left.”

Shimura curses again, quieter. “Either this place is a fucking labyrinth, or –”

“You got so wound up you walked into a wall,” you say. Shimura snorts. “You’ve never been here before, Shimura. Take it easy.”

“Tenko.”

“Hm?”

“It’s Tenko,” he says. You get the faintest hint of butterflies in your stomach. “We made out for three hours and you invited me back to your bedroom. Quit it with the Shimura thing. I’ve been using your name the whole time.”

“Okay. Tenko.” You step forward until you’re right in front of him. “Hold out your hands.”

He holds them straight out at shoulder height and narrowly avoids smacking you in the face. You take them both and pull them down, noting how badly Tenko startles. “You’ve been using my first name, but you don’t want to hold my hands?”

“I don’t get why you want to hold mine.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” you say, puzzled. You take one step back, and another, and another after that, until your back hits your bedroom door. “Like you said, I asked you to stay over.”

“I asked to stay over. You said –”

“I remember.” You can’t believe you did that. You don’t regret it, but you’re a little floored. “I wouldn’t have done that if I didn’t want to hold your hands, too.”

Tenko steps forward, crowding you against the door, and kisses you without letting go of your hands. It feels different than the earlier kisses, not frantic or heated, not light or uncertain, not slow or deep or inexorable. This feels like a movie kiss, the kind at the end of a romcom where everything and nothing’s been resolved. Your life has never been a movie. There’s every chance that this is a mistake. But you don’t mind setting it aside for a little while, from now until you fall asleep. You keep kissing Tenko in your lightless apartment, and you don’t let go of his hands until it’s time to open your bedroom door.

You’re not hungover when you wake up, and when you think about it, you’re not actually confused. You know why it’s warmer in your bed than usual, why you feel like that, why the first thing that hits you is uncertainty, anxiety. Shimura came over last night, because the power went out in his apartment and he still had work to do. The power didn’t go out in your apartment until after his work was finished. And you shouldn’t be calling him Shimura in your head, because sometime between the couch and your bedroom, he told you to call him Tenko – and then he gave you a lot of chances to get used to saying his name.

Your face goes up in flames at the memory, but there’s no stopping it, and there’s no relief in waking up. When you turn your head, you see Tenko asleep on his side, the shadowy scars on his back interrupted here and there with scratches you left. It’s the scratches more than anything that hammer it home to you, more than the fact that you’re naked or the soreness between your legs. You slept with Shimura Tenko last night, and you let him come inside you, and you didn’t pee after sex like you’re supposed to do. You didn’t even clean up. What did you do?

You sit bolt upright in a panic, and beside you, Tenko stirs. “Too early,” he mumbles. One hand reaches out for you, closes three fingers and a thumb around your forearm, and yanks you back down. “Sleep.”

“I don’t usually sleep late,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady.

“I don’t usually sleep.” Tenko’s halfway back to it already. You glance at the hand holding your arm and realize that it’s ungloved. You’ve never seen Tenko without his gloves. “Don’t ruin it.”

You’re ruining his sleep by getting up? How? The question is answered when he flops back against you, forcing you into the role of the big spoon whether you want it or not. You know he doesn’t sleep well. You’ve seen dark circles under his red eyes, and he wouldn’t have set a two am alarm that calls him a moron for staying awake if going to sleep was easy for him. Tenko’s a guest, and your friend – maybe – and whatever else he is or isn’t, you slept with him last night, and he slept over. Maybe you should just be grateful that he didn’t flee the scene. You’ve heard guys do that the morning after. It’s not something you’ve seen before, because nobody you ever slept with before stayed the night. They wouldn’t have, even if you’d had a place to stay.

You lie back down and wrap your arm loosely around Tenko’s waist, turning your head and pressing your cheek against his shoulder. There’s scar tissue under your cheek, just like there was on his neck, just like there is on his back and his arms. Something horrible happened to him. You don’t have the first clue what it is, but it’s in his past. He’s here. You close your eyes and do your best to fall asleep.

When you wake up again, there’s light slanting through the window, and your ceiling fan is on. The power’s back. Tenko’s here, awake, but he must have left at some point, because he has his mask on again. He’s also got his phone in his ungloved hand, scrolling away at something. His other hand, still gloved, rests on your bare back. Not doing anything, not starting anything. Just – there.

You clear your throat. “You’re still here.”

“Where else was I gonna be?” Tenko gives you a weird look. His bedhead is absolutely horrendous. “I don’t have a new project yet and it’s your day off. So we can hang out.”

You think through what you were going to do today. It wasn’t much. Mostly errands – laundry, picking up a prescription. But you’d planned to do something fun, too. “Want to go down to the beach?”

“The beach?” Tenko sounds like he’s thinking about it. Then he shakes his head. “Too many people.”

“On the main beach. I go to a different one. It’s a lot quieter over there.” You look up at him. “After a storm like last night’s there should be tons of good stuff washed up. And if you want we can come back here to hang out afterward. Or go to your place.”

“My place is gross,” Tenko says. He grimaces behind the mask. “I mean – I’m not gross. It’s gross. Everything has a hole in it. And I don’t have, like – I don’t decorate. It’s not –”

“It’s okay,” you say. “We don’t have to go there today.”

“Some other time,” Tenko says. “I have to clean.”

“I’d have cleaned if I’d known you were coming over.”

“This place is clean.” Tenko’s fingers tap a pattern on your back. “Fine. I’ll go to the beach with you. If anything bites me I’m leaving.”

“We’re not getting in the water. It’s still too cold,” you say, laughing. “But sure. Fine. You’ve got a deal.”

“I’m serious. If something bites me –”

“I’ll protect you.” You sit up as he scoffs, leaning in to kiss his cheek over the mask. “You agreed to try it. It’s the least I can do.”

You can tell Tenko’s frowning when you draw back. “We had sex last night and I get a cheek kiss?”

“I’m not making out with you through your mask.”

“Close your eyes, then.”

You do. You’re not sure why Tenko’s so insistent on only taking off his mask when you can’t see his face, but you don’t have a problem respecting that boundary as long as he still kisses you every so often. Just like last night, you feel Tenko’s breath against your skin before his lips meet yours – but while last night you had curiosity, now you have memories, and heat floods through you as you kiss him. When Tenko pulls you down into his lap, you don’t argue with him. He's already half-hard, and he hisses sharply when you shift against him. It’s all too easy to imagine his expression.

You saw shadows of it last night, and you remember something else, too. “Did you make me close my eyes so I wouldn’t call you pretty again?”

“Not pretty,” Tenko mumbles. “You’re weird.”

Maybe, but you’re not wrong, and you also know it’s not a mood killer. A few more kisses and Tenko’s hard again, his hands grasping your hips and pulling you down towards his cock. No condom, again. You didn’t have one last night, and you’re still not on birth control, but – you sink down on him for the second time in twelve hours, and your thoughts flutter uselessly alongside your eyelids. You had your period a week ago. You’re not going to get pregnant. It’s – fine –

It’s so close to noon that you can barely call it morning sex, but if this thing with Tenko keeps up, morning sex is a strong contender for your favorite kind. Or maybe you just like riding him. Maybe both. It’s slow and easy, and Tenko leans back against the headboard, letting you do most of the work. He has one request, though. One thing that’s odd. “My right hand. Hold it down.”

You curl your fingers around his wrist and pin it to the headboard, and his hips jerk sharply. “Yeah. Don’t let go.”

His right hand’s immobilized, but his left stays on your hip, fingernails digging in as you increase your pace. With your eyes closed, with nothing to ground yourself but Tenko’s touch, it’s all too easy to lose yourself. You come on his cock in a rush of pleasure that leaves you gasping, and Tenko’s wrist strains in your grip as he loses control seconds later, a low moan wrenching itself out of his mouth. He’s shaking beneath you, and when he speaks, his voice is a wreck. “This was a bad idea,” he says, and your heart plummets. “Now I’m too tired for the beach.”

You laugh breathlessly. “I bet we can rally,” you say. “Let me know when it’s safe to open my eyes.”

Even once Tenko’s put his mask back on, he doesn’t want to let you out of his lap. You get up anyway and stagger to the bathroom, catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror on the way. You definitely look like you had sex twice in the last twelve hours. You don’t look half as anxious as you feel. You vaguely remember telling yourself not to worry about what this means last night, but you and Tenko are going to have to talk at some point, because not knowing what’s going on is stressing you out.

You have to kick Tenko out of bed when you get back from the bathroom, because not changing the sheets is also stressing you out. So is not having very many choices in the breakfast department, even though you had no idea he was coming over and even less of one that he’d spend the night. You can provide coffee, at least – the espresso machine you learned on is still in your kitchen at home. You upgraded the café’s as soon as you possibly could.

You don’t have the usual flavored syrups here, but you mix two cappuccinos instead. Tenko pulls his mask to one side and tries a sip. “This is good,” he says, surprised in a way that should offend you but doesn’t. “Next time I’m ordering one of these.”

“Instead of the mocha?”

“Instead of the coffee.” Tenko takes another sip. “I found frozen waffles in the freezer. Can I eat those?”

“Yeah. The toaster’s over there.”

You discover a few seconds later that Tenko wasn’t actually planning to defrost the waffles before eating them, and you spend a little while being appalled before you show him how to toast them properly. The two of you eat standing up in the kitchen and finish your coffee, and Tenko plugs in his laptop while you switch out the laundry. “I can leave this here, right?” he asks when you come back to the living room. “We’re coming back after?”

“Yeah.” You watch as Tenko leaves his backpack but pockets his phone and keys. “Let’s go.”

Your anxiety was held at bay for a while, when you had things to do, but now it’s just the two of you walking side by side down the street, and you’re agonizing about whether to hold his hand. Tenko’s hand brushes with yours once, twice, before you lose patience. “Do you want to hold hands?”

Tenko’s eyes widen over his mask, and he doesn’t answer you, but a moment later, his hand closes awkwardly over yours. You haven’t held hands in a while. You don’t think this is how it’s supposed to work. But you’re holding hands with Tenko. That’s what you wanted. Everything’s fine.

“Why did you move here?” Tenko asks, as the two of you pass the street that leads down to the main beach and keep walking. “Out of everywhere?”

“It was strongly suggested by my probation officer that I get out of the city,” you say. “He thought I’d be less likely to fall back into my old ways if I was in a small town, since I’d actually know the people whose buildings I was defacing.”

“Didn’t you get busted for tagging your own house?”

“Yep.” Looking back, it was an incredibly stupid move. Your parents were already at the end of their rope with you. You should have known they’d cut you loose. “And I’d always wanted to live near the ocean, so it worked out. What about you?”

“I needed somewhere out of the way,” Tenko says. “It didn’t matter where.”

“And you got here five years ago?” You keep walking past the second beach access road. The road to your beach is a lot more out of the way. “We must have gotten here around the same time, then.”

“I was first. I’d been here three months when you started renovating that building.” Tenko’s eyes seem far away. “It was good timing. People were starting to ask questions about me, but then they switched over to you instead.”

“Glad I could help.” You feel funny about the fact that you were running interference for him, four and a half years before he ever set foot in your café. “And I’m glad you picked this place for a fresh start.”

“People like me don’t get fresh starts,” Tenko says. You’re about to point out that as a person without a record, all he has to do for a fresh start is move, but he speaks before you can. “I’m glad I ended up here, too.”

You’ll take it, even if you have a lot of questions about everything else he just said. The two of you walk in silence for a little while. It’s a cloudy day, with only faint sunbeams sneaking through, and the wind carries a faint chill even though it’s officially summer by now. “What should we do when we get back?” Tenko asks.

“We aren’t even there yet.”

“Yeah, but I want to know what I have to look forward to,” Tenko says. You roll your eyes. “You don’t play games. Do you want to learn?”

“Maybe,” you say. “I’m not going to be good at it. I’d slow you down.”

“You’ll get better fast if I’m the one teaching you,” Tenko says. “There are lots of different games. I can teach you to play any of them. Except dating sims.”

“You don’t like playing dating sims?” You fake surprise, and it’s Tenko’s turn to roll his eyes. “Do you have to test a lot of them?”

“I test whatever people send me. That’s why it’ll be easy for me to teach you,” Tenko says. “They’re all the same underneath. I haven’t played one in a long time that was actually a challenge.”

His grip on your hand relaxes slightly, his fingers sliding through yours to lace them together. “I used to really like games. It sucks.”

You squeeze his hand slightly. You’ve been there, or somewhere like it. It took you a long time to get back into art after you joined the NCRA. “Have you ever thought about making one? A game?”

“Like the kind I’d want to play?” Tenko seems to perk up for a second. Then his shoulders slump. “Nobody else would want to play it.”

“It sounds like you’ve got an idea, though.” You nudge him lightly with your shoulder and he stumbles. Oops. “Want to tell me about it?”

He hesitates for a while. A really long while. Then: “It’s mystery and horror, but not jump-scare horror. There are monsters, but they aren’t the real problem – or the ones you see aren’t the ones you should be worried about. It’s hard to explain. Anyway, the player character – it’s all going to be second-person – wakes up in a room they don’t recognize with no memory of how they got there. You can remember some things about your life, but how you got from where you’re supposed to be to stage one of the game is a total question mark. So there are two initial objectives. Figuring out what the hell is going on and getting the hell out of there.”

“Okay,” you say. It sounds stressful. “How do you do that? In the game.”

“You have to find a way out of the building first.” Tenko looks surprised that you’re still asking questions. “And that’s easy enough, so then –”

For a game he thinks no one else would want to play, Tenko’s put a lot of thought into it. He’s still talking about it as the two of you make the turn onto the beach access road – about the storyline of the game, the twists and reveals he’s thought of, the need to tweak the design and color palette to make everything seem just slightly off. The question of music or no music, and if music, what it should sound like. You like hearing him talk about something important to him, something he’s excited about, even if the concept of the game is giving you heart palpitations. You don’t think there are many things that make Tenko happy. You’d like to be one of them.

You get down to the beach at last, and just like you were hoping, it’s basically deserted. The tide is on its slow, steady way back in, but the beach is strewn with logs and twists of seaweed and kelp, and you’re willing to bet that there’s some sea-glass lying around in the debris along the high-tide line. Tenko studies it, significantly less ambivalent than he was a second ago. “When you said there’d be more stuff, I didn’t think you meant trees.”

“A storm can dredge up all kinds of things,” you say. “And last night’s storm was pretty bad. Come on.”

Tenko lets you pull him a little closer to the water, until you’re both walking on hard-packed sand. You get distracted by the debris field almost immediately, and you let go of Tenko’s hand without thinking so you can search for sea-glass more efficiently. Tenko’s tone of voice makes it clear he’s amused. “So this is like a scavenger hunt for you?”

“I guess.” You come up with a brown piece, followed by a green one, both of them old and smooth. “I want to make something for the café. I’ve been collecting it since I moved here.”

“Five years and you still don’t have enough?”

“The idea for the project keeps getting bigger,” you admit. Tenko snorts. “You can go on ahead if you want. I don’t want to slow you down.”

“I want to hang out with you.” Tenko crouches down next to you on the sand. “This is fine.”

You find multiple pieces in the time it takes him to find one, which he offers to you. It’s a pretty piece, sky-blue and frosted over, but you shake your head. “You found it. It’s yours.”

“I found it for you,” Tenko says, but you notice that he pockets it. And that he keeps looking.

The two of you wander from debris field to debris field, the tide inching up behind you. You’re comfortable with the silence – it’s how it usually is when he’s at the café, after all – but beneath the veneer of ease, questions are eating at you. Questions you don’t know how to ask or how to answer. Your crush on Shimura Tenko is intense, but it’s never been something real. It was just proof that you were getting back to normal, that you could live a life not dominated by the need to prove to the rest of the world that criminals are people, too. You never expected your crush to turn into sleeping with him, him staying the night, him wanting to hang out the next day – and even if you had expected it, you’d never have expected it to happen so fast.

“You were right,” Tenko says. You glance at him. “No people. It’s not as bad.”

You nod. “I’d come back if you wanted to,” Tenko says. He tilts his head, studying you. “Do you want to?”

“Do you want to do all this again?” you ask. He gives you a weird look. “The whole sex, sleepover, hang out the next day thing?”

“That’s what people do, isn’t it?” Tenko’s giving you an even weirder look now. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about –” The distress is building beyond what you can handle. You force yourself to take a deep breath. “What we are. To each other. After that.”

He’s not giving you a weird look anymore. He’s looking at you like you’re the dumbest person he’s ever met. You feel like the dumbest person anybody’s ever met, ever. “Like, are we friends with benefits, or –”

“You said you like me,” Tenko cuts you off. “I like you. Do you think I just – with anybody? I’ve been here for five fucking years. Do you know how many people have my phone number? One. The day that hero showed up, I never would have come back, except –”

His hand comes up, scratching his neck with gloved fingers. “I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t like you. Why do you think it took me so long?”

It? What is he talking about? “I do like you,” you say. “I really like you. I just didn’t think anything would happen. Or happen that fast.”

“Hooking up like that was your idea,” Tenko says. You don’t want to own up to that, but it’s true – he was the one who kissed you, but you were the one who suggested heading back to your room. “Do you wish we hadn’t?”

“I wish I’d been better prepared,” you admit. Tenko blinks. “If I had condoms things wouldn’t have been as messy.”

“I like it messy.” Tenko states it so plainly that you feel your face heat up. “We’ll get condoms. You can stop freaking out whenever you want.”

“I’m not freaking out,” you say. “I just –”

The scream comes out of nowhere, cutting off a thought you didn’t have a prayer of articulating properly. “Help!”

It’s a kid’s voice, high-pitched and splitting with fear. You can’t identify where it’s coming from, and there’s not even a question of what you’ll do. You and Tenko trade a glance, then rocket to your feet. Tenko takes off down the beach. You head back the way you came. “Keep yelling!” you shout to the kid. “Let us know where you are!”

The kid keeps yelling, getting steadily less coherent. They must be closer to you than to Tenko, because their voice is getting louder. You veer closer to the water’s edge, your heart in your throat. The water’s already rushing up around the logs the storm left behind, up to your ankles and getting higher. The kid’s scream takes on a new urgency. “Hurry! The waves –”

You skitter around a log, giving it a wide berth to avoid the deeper pool of water beneath it, and find the kid, halfway trapped under another log and struggling to keep his head above water. He spots you, opens his mouth to scream again, and catches a mouthful of seawater from the wave that’s just rolled in.

You duck down beside him, hoisting his head and shoulders up, buying time. You suck down a breath and let loose a shout of your own. “Tenko! Over here!”

It seems like an eternity before he appears around the side of the log. He looks at the kid, then at you. “What the hell happened?”

The kid is crying too hard to answer, but it’s not hard to guess. “He must have been climbing on the log, and it rolled over on him.”

“What were you doing out here alone?” Tenko demands of the kid. The kid doesn’t answer, and Tenko’s red eyes flash with rage. “Who was supposed to take care of you? Why aren’t they here?”

“Hey,” you snap. This isn’t helping. “I need you to call emergency services. Tell them we’re at Fourth Beach and there’s a kid in trouble.”

Tenko pulls out his phone and dials, while you try to strategize. The tide is coming in faster now. Even if emergency services gets here at their top speed, there’s a good chance the water will have already covered the kid’s head. Based on the way he’s panicking, you don’t think he has a quirk that lets him breathe underwater, and you have a fleeting thought about heroes before remembering that you’re in a rural town. There are no heroes here. You and Tenko are going to have to get him out yourselves.

Your quirk is worse than useless for this. You don’t know what Tenko’s quirk is, or if he even has one. Tenko shoves his phone in his pocket and hurries back to your side. “They said they’re coming.”

“How long?”

“Ten minutes.”

The kid doesn’t have ten minutes, and all three of you know it. “Here’s what I’m thinking,” you say, trying to keep your voice calm. “When the next wave comes in, we can use its momentum to roll the log forward and pull him out from underneath it.”

“It’s huge,” Tenko says. “That won’t work.”

“It rolled from him stepping on it,” you say. “We can do this.”

Tenko doesn’t argue with you. He turns to watch the waves, looking for a likely one, while you explain the situation to the boy. He’s going to have to hold his breath while you and Tenko push the log, and then one of you – probably you – will pull him out. He starts to protest, but then Tenko calls out that a wave’s coming up, and the boy switches to sucking down air instead. Good. You hold him up until the last possible moment, then get to your feet. You take up a position at Tenko’s side, set your feet as firmly as you’re able to in the shifting sand, and shove hard at the log as the wave washes up around it.

You think you feel it move, a little bit. But then the water recedes, and you scramble back to the kid, and as soon as his head breaks the surface, he howls in pain. “My leg!”

You must have rolled the log back on it – or forward, or something. “We need a bigger wave.”

Tenko shakes his head. He looks like he’s going to be sick. You can hear sirens in the distance, but they’re too far away. The kid is screaming, clawing at your shirt, and you struggle to comfort him, promising that help is coming, promising it’ll be okay. It doesn’t work, or else what happened to his leg in your failed attempt to move the log is worse than you thought, because his eyes roll up in his head and he goes boneless in your grip. You shake him, terrified, desperate to keep his head above water as another wave crashes against your back. He’s going to die. A kid is going to die while you’re holding him, and there’s nothing you can do.

You can’t look at his pale, slackened face a second longer. You look up instead, and that’s when you see the solitary crack running across the log’s surface.

It wasn’t there before, and now it’s not alone. One crack turns into a dozen, and dozens more, spreading and colliding with each other until the log simply crumbles away, leaving nothing in its place. Nothing except Tenko on the other side, both hands outstretched – and ungloved.

Something twists in the back of your mind, but the kid is free now, and the tide is still coming in. You start dragging him up the beach, trying to get clear of the high-tide line. A quick glance at his leg shows you that it’s broken, badly, but you can’t worry about it now, or get lost in the fact that it’s your fault. The two of you make it onto dry sand just in time for a trio of paramedics to race down the beach, carrying a stretcher and pursued by five or six terrified people. “What happened?”

“He got – stuck,” you manage. Your teeth are chattering. You aren’t even that cold. “Is he going to be okay?”

The paramedics have questions for you, even as they shoo you out of the way. Did he swallow water? Yes. Did he breathe water in? You don’t know. How long has he been unconscious? A minute, maybe less. Time feels uneven, unreal. You don’t have a clue what’s going on, and you stand blankly off to one side, unsure whether you’re supposed to stay or go. Maybe you can go. Everybody knows where to find you if they have questions, and you’ll calm down faster if you and Tenko can –

Tenko’s not standing next to you. You look up and down the beach, but you can’t see him anywhere.

Maybe emergency services scared him off. He booked it pretty fast at the sight of Present Mic. You pull your phone out of your pocket to text him, but your phone’s dripping wet and unresponsive. Now you really need to get home, and maybe Tenko’s there already. He saved someone’s life. If he’s freaked out even slightly as much as you are, you want to be with him.

But something is nagging at you as you speed-walk back through town, something about Tenko’s quirk. You never asked what it was, but the gloves were enough for you to infer that it had something to do with his hands. And maybe he doesn’t feel all that comfortable with it. You wouldn’t either, if you had a quirk like that. The way it looked, how fast it moved – it was almost like –

You stop dead in your tracks on the side of the road. Tenko’s gloves. His red eyes. His dyed hair and scarred face and mangled hands, and a quirk that lets him destroy things he touches. Even their initials are the same. Shimura Tenko, and. And. Your mind won’t let you finish the thought. You won’t let yourself jump to conclusions like that. You need to be sure. You force yourself into motion, back to a speed-walk. Then into a run.

Back at home, you drop your phone in a bowl of rice and sit down at the kitchen table with your laptop without bothering to change out of your wet clothes. You haven’t been a criminal in half a decade, but you still know how to search the internet like one. This isn’t dark-web level, and it’s not illegal, but you could raise red flags, and if you’re right – you connect to a VPN, open a web browser you’ve never used before, set your cache to empty every five minutes, and type in your first query.

‘shigaraki tomura quirk’ gets you a long list. You have to scroll all the way to the bottom of the first page you click on to find the quirk you’re thinking of, and when you read the description, your heart sinks. You navigate away from the webpage and type in a new prompt. ‘shigaraki tomura decay’ gets you more pages analyzing the quirk itself, all of which feel unnecessary and unhelpful. You know what Decay is. You need to know what it looked like. You modify the search. ‘shigaraki tomura decay video’.

YouTube has nothing, courtesy of aggressive content moderation. You dig a little deeper, finding lesser-known, sketchier hosting sites, and the first video that pops up is of the destruction of Jaku City, at the very beginning of the war. It happens so quickly – too quickly to see anything except the way the buildings implode into nothing. You need an up-close view, so you modify your search, scrolling past video after blurry video until you find one tagged as part of the Deika City massacre.

The quality looks okay. You click on it and find yourself watching a group of people thundering up a street, headed for something just out of frame. A moment later, whatever it is ducks through the corner of the frame. A pale hand rises up, making contact with the face of one of the people in the group. And then you see it. Cracks spreading across their face, just a few at first, and then they spread so rapidly that the person simply falls apart where they stand.

You just watched a snuff film, but that’s not what makes you recoil. What Shigaraki Tomura did to the person in that video is the same thing Tenko did to the log on the beach. It’s the same quirk. They’re the same man.

Tenko’s hair is dyed, and it’s not dyed well. You never asked what his natural color is, but you’re betting it’s white, which is why there’s no way he can get someone else to color it for him. If he walked into a salon with white hair, red eyes, no eyebrows, and a scar over his right eye, there’s not a person in Japan who wouldn’t recognize him instantly.

You type in another query: ‘shigaraki tomura face’. It turns up a lot of photos of him with the signature hand over his face, but you get at least one without it, and the reason why he wears a mask all the time becomes clear in an instant. No eyebrows – happens. Plenty of people have red eyes. But add in the scar over the left side of Tenko’s lips, a scar you ran your thumb over last night, and the birthmark Shigaraki has just below the right corner of his mouth, and he’d be unmistakable. No matter how many bad dye jobs he did on his hair.

You shut the lid of your laptop with shaking hands and sit back in your chair. Shimura Tenko, your regular customer, who slept over last night, who you like and who likes you, is the same person as Shigaraki Tomura, an unrepentant supervillain who’s been dead for five years. It doesn’t make any sense. If Shigaraki had survived the war, he’d be in maximum-security prison for the rest of his life, not beta-testing video games and hanging out in your coffee shop. Shigaraki Tomura is dead. You met the hero who killed him.

Or did he? You remember thinking how odd it was that Deku kept referring to Shigaraki watching what he was doing, wishing he could talk to him. You remember what he said when Spinner asked about Shigaraki’s ashes: There was nothing left of Shigaraki Tomura. But somebody else walked away from that fight, and he’s got Shigaraki’s quirk – and the only time you’ve seen him use it, it was to save someone’s life. You can’t say for sure, but the circumstantial evidence is compelling as hell. You know who Shimura Tenko is. And you’re halfway convinced he used to be Shigaraki Tomura.

You fish your phone out of the bowl of rice to check if it’s working yet. It isn’t. You’re going to have to wait a little longer to reach out to Tenko. His backpack and laptop are still here. He’ll be back for them, probably tonight – and if not, you’ll see him at the café tomorrow, and you can give it to him then. And when you see him again, you can sort this out. There’s nothing else you can do right now.

You tell yourself that, make yourself believe it, and spend the rest of your one day off every week getting your chores done. And even though it’s been an exhausting twenty-four hours, even though there’s nothing you can do, you still toss and turn through the night, thinking about Tenko. Worrying about him. Wondering who he was before this, and wondering at how little it matters to you.

[magics-neptunes-things]

The One Who Get Away

Hi guys!

This one come just from my imagination, I can't stop listening this cover of Katy Perry's song so... Here it is! Hope you'll like it :)

I put the version of the song I'm talking about under this text, please listen to it while listening :)

TW : Break up, angst, pressure.

Summary : Your a singer travelling the world with your group but the distance is too hard for you and your (ex) girlfriend. Will you find a way to make her stay?

PART 2 IS HERE

______________________________________________________________

"I just can't do that anymore"

Ona's voice, coming from your phone make your heart go heavier. You know how she feels about you always being away from your shared penthouse at Barcelona. Well actually you are away from Spain, and today even from Europe.

It’s been three years since your record company managed to place a Spanish band in the international market. Yours. So, now that it’s launched and that it’s been months that you are at the top of the charts, no one hesitates to make you travel to all the countries of the world, without stopping.

It’s been three years since you and your band arrived here by chance, when one of your single ended up on a summer hit. Since then, it has never stopped. In three years you have released two albums and you have made three world tours. You’re exhausted, physically and emotionally. But you made the mistake of not reading carefully the clauses of your contract, too happy to be able to live your dream.

Well, the dream slowly turned into a nightmare. Away from Ona for months now, you were supposed to return to Barcelona in two days to finally have a few weeks of rest. Except that your agent found it more interesting to impose televisions and various promotions in Japan, preventing you from returning from England where you currently are to Ona.

Yet, it was what you expected the most since the day you left her at the airport.

"I’m sorry" you whisper, feeling your throat squeeze. "I can always��"

"No, Y/N. I can’t stand it anymore. I can’t. There are no more ways out"

"What do you mean?"

You know what she means and you’ve been terrified of hearing that sentence for weeks. You’ve known Ona since you were a teenager, one night when you felt lonely and couldn’t sleep, you came across her blog. You don’t know what prompted you to write a comment to which she replied and you started chatting like that. Realizing that you were both from Barcelona, you met and the rest is history.

"I think we need to break up"

"No! Ona please we can work through this. Please. I need you, I can't lose you."

"It's better this way. I'm so sorry"

You don’t think you heard Ona’s voice shake in this way before and you are convinced that she is crying, too.

"Onita please… don’t do this"

"I’m sorry. I have no choice"

"Why? Did you… Did you met someone else?"

Ona has a sad laugh and you can perfectly picture her shaking her head sadly.

"Of course not. It has nothing to do with that. But it’s getting worse every time. It’s been going on for three years."

"It’s not my fault" you whisper softly.

"I know"

A new silence sets in and you hope that your girlfriend is thinking and changing her mind. You know you wouldn’t stand a breakup with her. Ona has been your lighthouse in the dark forever. She’s the most important person in your life.

"I have to go, the team is waiting for me. I think it’s better if we don’t write or call each other for a while."

"Ona wait…"

"No, Y/N. It’s over"

"I love you"

Ona doesn’t answer you, but the breath you hear on the phone confirms that she’s crying. She hangs up after a few seconds and you remain motionless for long minutes, stunned. You are dress for your next performance, your presence on stage being required in about twenty minutes. Fortunately your mascara is waterproof and it’s not necessary to redo it when your friend and guitarist enters the room.

"Y/N?"

"Ona just broke up with me" you say, looking at him through the mirror.

And with that, the sobs that were until now stuck in your throat suddenly come out. In a few seconds you find yourself transformed into a crying mess, hugged by Juan. He’s your best friend, even if your fans imagine you together. The record company has forbidden you to reveal your homosexuality and has fun supporting the rumors of romance between you two, claiming that it helps the group’s popularity.

"I’m so tired. I just want to go home" you manage to say in between sobs.

Said house being mostly Ona. Making a grimace, Juan caresses your hair. You are not the only one to be exhausted by the frantic pace imposed by your record company. Juan, your drummer Marco and your bass player Ricardo are just as exhausted as you.

"I know" is all he can tell you before someone of the staff come looking for you.

Your manager looks at you coldly seeing the state in which you are and hands you a tissue for you to arrange the draws. He doesn’t ask you what’s going on. He doesn’t care. You just know that if you don’t perform properly, you’re going to get yelled at.

******

"Are you sure you want to watch this? We can switch channels if you want" Cata kindly assures while looking carefully at Ona.

The brunette shakes her head negatively, stuck against Alexia who passed a protective arm around her. Ona was unable to hide your breakup from her teammates, she’s just as devastated as you are. They had planned an evening to watch the charity concert that you and your group are attending, installed in Lucy’s apartment.

After exchanging a look between them, they finally decided to leave the same channel, the artists walking one after the other. Since this is a charity concert, you had the opportunity to cover a song by one of the featured artists. Your group choose a song by Katy Perry, "The One who get away", a slower version than the original. If you had known, you would have made another choice.

After avoiding a nervous breakdown, you go sit on the stool in the middle of the stage. Juan at your side, you wait for his guitar to be tuned.

"She doesn’t look like she’s ok" Aitana begins, before being immediately shuts up when she meets Mapi’s murderous gaze.

Feeling Ona tense against her, Alexia gently tightens her against her as Ingrid starts to stroke her hair. At the same time, the song starts and you wonder how you are going to finish it. Your hands are shaking, your throat is clenched and you have trouble looking up at the crowd in front of you.

From the end of the first chorus, you have tears in your eyes and at the end of the second you feel a tear roll on your cheek. Despite Juan’s whispers of encouragement, you’re unable to hold her any longer. When the song finally comes to an end, you have the impression that every person who has looked at you has been able to read into you and realize how destroyed you are. And you hate it.

After greeting the audience with the three boys, you let yourself be taken backstage by Ricardo. Juan tries not to make too friendly gestures towards you in public, knowing how much it hurts you and Ona to see everyone jump on these kinds of moments to support their theory.

********

The ride back to your hotel room was awful. All along the way in the van, your manager yelled at you so much that for the first time the boys rebelled against him. It surprised you but also made you very feel loved and cared. They’re the reason you haven’t dumped everything yet, you don’t have the courage to betray them by leaving. If you had been alone, it would have been different. But they are your childhood friends, more like brothers.

You haven’t looked at your phone once since you got back to your room an hour ago when someone knocked on your door. You know Ona won’t contact you. You have no interest in looking at it. You don’t answer when you hear a knock a second time, then a third time. And you don’t move either when the door of your room opens anyway a few minutes later. Juan went to ask for a copy of your magnetic card at reception, not hearing you open.

"We need to talk Y/N."

"Don’t want to" is the only sentence you manage to get out of your mouth.

Rolled up in a ball under your sheets, your cushion tight between your arms and your head resting on the plush lion that Ona offered you years ago, you only want to stay here until the end of time.

"We talked, with the guys," said Juan, regardless of what you just said. "We think you have to go."

You need a few seconds to realize what he just said.

"What?"

"I booked you a plane to Barcelona. You have six hours to pack and go to the airport. Marco takes charge of the manager and Ricardo makes sure the way is clear, but you’ll have to go out from this shit. You and Ona are more important than all this bullshit. Go take your girl back."

********

It is 7am when you land in Barcelona and 8am when you arrive on the doormat of your shared penthouse. You don’t have the key, usually Ona picks you up at the airport and opens you. You didn’t think about it until now. You’re too afraid to lose them somewhere in a hotel room on the other side of the world. But despite your doorbells, no one comes to open.

So you resolve to sit on your doormat and wait for Ona’s return. Your phone is out of battery, preventing you from contacting someone close to your girlfriend. You don’t know where she is and it awakens your fear that she actually found someone else. If that’s what pushed her to break up with you, it will be even harder to fix things.

Exhausted, you let yourself go against the door frame, your feet leaning on the other side. New tears roll over your cheeks and you are so tired that you start to doze.

"Y/N?"

Ona’s incredulous voice wakes you with a start and you bang your head against the handle of the front door while getting up. Your face fell when you realize that Ona is accompanied by a pretty brunette, who looks at you with curiosity. Is she the one she left you for? Why is she here? It lasts a few seconds, until Alexia comes out of the elevator too. Mechanically massaging the part of the skull you just banged, you continue to observe the unknown.

"What are you doing here?"

Ona's question makes you shift your attention to her and you cannot say why, but you cannot gather your ideas. Yet her tone is neither harsh nor accusing, quite the contrary.

"I…"

Reacting first, Alexia slips between Ona and you by seizing the keys Ona was holding and opens the door, making enter everyone. Seeing you struggling to get your suitcases, Ona bends down mechanically to help you get everything in.

"You never met my girlfriend, I think?" Alexia looks at you, maybe realizing what’s happening in your head. "This is Olga. Olga, this is Y/N."

You simply acquiesce but Olga hug you with a smile and you hug her back akwardly, the relief making you feel like you're hovering a thousand meters from the ground. Ona hasn’t met someone else. Just like she said.

"I think we’re going to leave you. Are you going to be okay?"

The look that Ona and Alexia exchange lasts a few seconds, before the captain decides that she can actually leave you both. She hugs you too before delicately closing the door behind Olga and her.

"You look exausted. Maybe you should go take a nice hot shower?"

You carry your eyes with heavy eyelids over Ona, shaking your head negatively. You honestly don’t know how long you will endure this sleepless journey, but you also don't know how long you will be able to stay with Ona. She can leave at any time.

"Come sit down, at least"

You feel a heat wave invading your body at the exact spot where Ona puts her hand on your arm to train you in the living room. You let yourself go on the couch, Ona settling next to you.

"You didn’t answer me. What are you doing here?"

"I left" you just whisper. "The boys helped me get out of the hotel and to the airport. Juan booked me a plane and I called my manager to tell him that I was leaving once on the plane. I was too afraid that he would hold me back"

"Wait, when you say you left…"

"I… quit? Broke the contract, call it what you want"

Ona looks at you with disbelief. She never gave you an ultimatum about your career, because she knew you had no choice.

"I should have done this before. But I couldn’t betray the boys" you whisper without being able to look at her.

A new silence settles and you end up lifting your eyes on Ona. She was looking at you attentively and you plunge your gaze into hers for a few seconds.

"I came to ask you for a second chance. I know things have been super complicated between us, especially these past few weeks. But I can’t live without you, Ona. I’ll do anything. I swear."

Ona’s face softens. Your eyes close when you feel her hand on your cheek, your whole body in search of any source of comfort from her. She stroke your cheek with her thumps, making you shivers.

"Do you know why I never asked you to choose between music and me?"

Without opening your eyes, you shake your head negatively. Ona’s voice is soft and helps you to calm down a little.

"Because I know how much you like it"

"I love you more"

You open your eyes even though your whole body is asking you not to. You’re exhausted and wondering what you might look like. Ona certainly saw you in a better light. She continues to look at you elsewhere, a few seconds of silence settling between you.

"I love you too" she ended up whispering. "But we’ll finish this conversation later, I think you need to sleep before you lose consciousness."

Without really giving you a choice, she gets up from the couch and makes you follow her, gently grabbing your hand. You let yourself be guided to your room, in which she helps you put on pajamas before letting you go to cool off in your bathroom. You don’t leave her figure with your eyes, even through the mirror while washing your teeth, fearing that she will disappear. But no, she waits patiently for you, sitting at the feet of your bed.

"Will you be there when I wake up?" you ask in a hesitant tone, finding the inimitable comfort of your bed.

Ona nods and even smiles as you slip under the sheets. Installed on your side, you can’t bring yourself to leave her eyes. That she still agrees to stay by your side despite everything makes you as happy as it terrifies you. She broke up with you less than 24 hours ago and didn’t really confirm to you that something was still possible between you. She said she loves you, but is that enough?

"I can hear you thinking from here"

With an arched eyebrow, Ona observes you with a semblance of severity.

"I’m just scared" you mumble without taking your eyes off her.

"Of what?"

"Losing you forever. You’re the most important thing in my life, I shouldn’t have waited until I lost you to fix things. You deserve the best, of course, but give me time to show you that I can offer it to you."

Softly biting her lip, Ona advances into the bed until she finds herself sitting on her knees, at the height of your chest.

"I’m not going anywhere Bebita"

"Does that mean you believe enough in us to give us another chance?"

As before, Ona’s face softens and is soon dress with one of her most beautiful smiles. You wrote in one of your song that only one of her smiles makes you feel better and that’s still the case today.

"I thought it was clear. Of course I want to give us a second chance."

You’re so relieved you might cry. In truth, real tears cost on your cheeks and you realize that when Ona leans over your cheeks to kiss them.

"Don’t cry. Rest. I’ll be there when you wake up later, and every other day."

As if to support her words, Ona slips with you under the cover and sticks you against her, in her arms. It doesn’t take long for you to fall into a deep sleep, lulled by her caresses on your back, the softness of her hair that sometimes tickles your cheek and the smell of her perfume and shower gel.

*********

When you wake up, hours later, you need some time to understand where you are. Only after that you realize that Ona isn’t here and you panic.

You stand from your bed so quickly that you fell, making a terrible noise. While you stand up, you here footsteps coming to you and you raise your head just in time to see Ona enter your bedroom.

"What happened?" she asks you, taking your hand in hers.

"You weren’t here, I thought you left" you mumble while looking at your feet.

But Ona make you look at her, tilting your face with her index.

"I’m here. I’m not going an where, I promised"

You nod, taking your phone on the floor. You have hundred missed call, messages and notifications everywhere.

"I made pasta, are you hungry?"

In reality you are not at all, but Ona took the time to prepare you to eat and you don’t want to disappoint her at all. Or give her the impression that she wasted her time. So you nod again before following her to the kitchen. You sit where she asks you to, wincing when you see the different messages from your manager. He’s really not happy. In truth, he is even completely furious. "Is everything all right?" asked Ona as she sat down in front of you, serving you a plate that would be enough to feed your entire neighborhood. "I’m in trouble" you sigh softly as you let yourself go against the backrest of your chair. "They will surely seek to press charges or make me pay" It will not be easy. Your gaze is lost on the bay window of your living room, giving a breathtaking view of the Mediterranean Sea. It’s partly thanks to this incredible view that you decided to choose this apartment. But you are quickly pulled out of your thoughts by the hand of Ona which lands on yours. "It doesn’t matter mi Corazon. Remember? We don’t care about others... "As long as it's You and Me" you answer with a slight smile. That was your credo when you were both teenagers. And when you grew up it stayed, even if lately the geographical distance took precedence over the rest. Now that you have her in front of you, you wonder how you managed to stay so long away from her. "We’ll find you the best lawyer and I’ll be there every second you need me." "Thank you" you answer simply, throat knotted with emotions Ona smiles tenderly and you feel your heart soaring like a butterfly. You find it hard to believe the reality in which you find yourself. Last night, Ona told you she wanted to break up with you and less than twenty-four hours later, you find yourself in front of her, in your apartment, apparently free of any contract.

"Can I kiss you?" you mumble shyly.

"Since when do you have to ask?" Ona laughs.

You shrug and smile too, inviting her to come to sit on your lap. Ona did and you pass your hand around her smaller frame.

Ona gently puts her hand in your hair, making you shiver.

"What do you want to do now?" Ona ask gently.

"Come see you play at the stadium, eat tortilla de patatas, go to the beach… Catch up on my sleep, if possible with the most beautiful woman in the world next to me."

"Did you already call her?" jokes the Spanish.

You roll your eyes before giving her a little kick on the thigh.

"As if you didn’t know it was you" you snorts before gently kissing her cheek.

"You missed."

Ona’s amused smile makes you smile back and you put your lips on hers this time. It’s a sensation you haven’t felt in far too long. Ona all against you, her skin against yours, her inimitable perfume. She is everything that count for you, well beyond your music group, your success and that we forgive you but obviously well above your fans.

"I’m so in love with you" Ona whispers against your lips.

"Certainly not as much as I am" you answer with a smile.

As you predicted, the record company, your producer and even your manager will launch legal proceedings against you. But thanks to Alexia’s lawyer, you managed to get away with it without much damage. Honestly, you didn’t care about losing money, all you wanted was to be able to get your freedom back.

Like you, the boys came back to Barcelona after the group disbanded. They formed another one for a while, with another singer, but they finally turned the page, claiming it’s not the same without you. None of the three resent you and you still see them regularly.

A few months after you left the band, you came out on social media. Without giving all the details either, you and Ona have not made an official announcement for your couple. You attend almost all of Ona’s matches, sometimes making the trip abroad with her and the team. You post what you want to post on social networks, photos of your holidays, your moments spent with your friends or with Ona, obviously.

It’s fun to see people wondering about your relationship, but you appreciate that they do it with someone you really are. Which you’re extremely in love with and extremely proud of. Wag’s life suits you perfectly, especially when the woman you follow is as perfect as Ona.

[charlidos]

Common Ground

If you look at Viggo and Orlando today, they seem to have so little in common, with very different lifestyles. Viggo far away from Hollywood (geographically and mentally), Orlando still in the middle of it (geographically, at least). And since always, the big age gap.

But I've realised they have and have had more in common than you might think! So I've compiled a rather long list of some interests they share, some traits they have in common. Some of them are obvious, some are, well... not. And some seem to be a result of Orlando's hero worship of Viggo, and thus doing all things the Viggo-way.

It's a quite unserious and unscientific list.

Holding on to a character

Orlando:

I will take Legolas, and this experience in New Zealand, wherever I go. The beautiful thing about being an actor is every character you embrace, when you move on, you take part of the character with you. He's a special, special character and, or course, my first. I'm never going to let go of him.

Viggo:

You hear a lot of people saying, 'I want to get rid of that character' or 'It took me days, weeks, months, years to shed the skin of that character,' but I don't," he says. "We're all going to get old and die, and if we live long enough, we're going to forget things or lose our memories. That's just what happens in life. So why be in a hurry to forget something or undo something? Any movie or experience, I want it to be a part of me.

2. Choosing work

Orlando:

I'm always only interested in the script. But of course, I'm happy to support smaller films if I'm convinced by the script.

Viggo:

I never decide to do a project based on who is directing it, it's always the script which is important.

3. Technophobia

Obviously, this was a passing phase, until everyone had a mobile phone and a computer... Apparently, Orlando broke down his resistance at one time and got a ... Blackberry.

Orlando:

You could say I'm a technophobe. I don't have a TV, I don't read magazines, I don't have a computer and I don't have a cell phone. I am a nature-loving human being and I want to remain independent from the tools of technology, or be only minimally influenced by them. If I want to write a letter to someone, I pick up a pen and paper. I try to focus on the important things in life, on myself and my fellow human beings, my work, my friends, etc.

Viggo:

I’m sitting in a car talking on a cell. I rarely use them. In this case, I wanted to be alone and in a quiet place. The phone was dead and I’m charging it as we talk, which is why I was late. I still can’t figure out how to retrieve my messages. I didn’t have one for several years, and would call in my messages from a pay phone on the corner near my apartment. I might not check my messages for days, and I probably lost some jobs because of that. When I finally got one, I threw it out the window when it rang because the sound was so annoying. A neighbour rang my bell, asked me if it was mine, and handed it back to me. I put it in the closet under a pile of laundry, and a few days later it rang again. I didn’t like the intrusion and tossed it out the back alley.

4. Wearing necklaces

They both used to wear a whole slew of trinkets around their necks, both looking all hippie-ish and stuff.

Orlando:

I have a lot of these things with me all the time. I get given some and find others. One was a key ring that Johnny [Depp] gave me as a wrap gift for Pirates. Here's a piece of greenstone Billy Boyd gave me. I found this shell on the beach in Thailand. This is a prayer baton I got in India. I picked up this tiny silver ball in Tokyo. This is a New York City handcuff key, so if I get into any strife, I can get myself out. I think I'll hold onto that. I've always kept all these funny little things, even as a kid. But I'm trying to cut it out, become more streamlined. Otherwise it starts to feel like the things own you. These things fill up my heart. If I were ever to lose them, I'd be really devastated. Isn't that pathetic?

5. Loving nature and being alone

Orlando:

New Zealand is so green and healthy and outdoorsy and stuff so I started putting little tests on myself, like in terms of getting fit and using the environment around me. I often sit and daydream, and lose myself in that world. People around me think I'm rude, but I'm not ignoring them or anything.

Viggo:

I like to spend time alone and outdoors. I enjoy being able to just sit and observe life in the forest or by the water. I like observing and not thinking about anything. If I can't get in to the wild, I observe people in the city. I value being alone in nature even more now that my life has become so hectic.

6. Environmental friendliness

Viggo:

I have a hybrid car, the first Prius that came out on the market; it still works great. My son shares it with me. I recycle everything I can. I try not to waste natural resources or to pollute. Small things that if done every day, serve to make a better world. I’ve always liked being around plants and trees, I’ve always planted them, anywhere that I spend a little time in. The trees we plant, and the landscapes we nurture and protect for wildlife to enjoy and feel safe in, and to prevent soil erosion, is our gift to future generations. Even in cities we can take part in creating a greener, healthier environment – either by growing plants and trees or contributing financially to those that do. But there is nothing like getting your hands dirty and being physically part of the process of preparing the soil, planting, and nurturing new plant life.

Orlando:

I am going to the Oscars this year in a [Toyota] Prius. Anything I can do to bring awareness to the environment and to the fact that we need to decrease the greenhouse-gas emissions, I will do. I love the environment. I grew up in the countryside. I want my kids one day to enjoy the same environment and their kids to enjoy the same environment.

7. Commitment to politics and human rights issues

Orlando has done work for Unicef since 2007 and Viggo has always been very outspoken in issues concerning politics.

Orlando:

When I first came to Ukraine in 2016, I saw the catastrophic consequences that war has on children and families, and how basic needs such as being at school and psychosocial support are critical for children’s wellbeing. Now, with children across the entire country affected, that support is more vital than ever. Amid the chaos and uncertainty of war, supporting children’s education is an essential tool in protecting their long-term mental health and wellbeing. This is especially important during their early years, when children develop the learning and emotional skills they need to reach their full potential. Above all, children need an end to this war and sustained peace to regain their childhoods, return to normalcy and begin to heal and recover.

Viggo:

It’s not just the suffering in Ukraine. It's families in Russia; mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, who have lost loved ones just because of one man’s brutal ambition; a murderous, grotesquely corrupt person. And [Putin] will keep going. It’s like Trump. If you don’t stop them legally or otherwise why would they stop? And if they see weakness they’ll just exploit it.

8. Riding horses

Viggo famously loves horses, but Orlando has a certain love for them as well.

Orlando:

I've always loved riding and I used to hack around Canterbury as a kid. It wasn't really a pony club -- we'd just go out on horses. So I picked it up again in New Zealand and added a bit more of the style and the posture and the correct riding position. I learned to ride on around 30 different horses, and what you get from that is an understanding that each individual animal has to be treated with sensitivity so you have a mutual respect thing going.

9. Smoking

They both smoke/used to smoke cigarettes or cigars.

An unfortunate thing to have in common. I hope they have stopped.

10. Photography and art

Viggo is obviously a skilled photographer and painter and more. Orlando is also a keen photographer with an interest in art and sculpture.

Orlando:

Sculpture was my thing. I was very passionate about documentary photography too. I still like to walk around and take photographs, but it’s hard to do that if a lot of people are looking at you.

Viggo:

Photography, painting or poetry – those are just extensions of me, how I perceive things, they are my way of communicating.

11. Tattoos

The serendipity of these two tattoos, Orlando's sun and Viggo's moon, is amazing. Put there before meeting each other, in the same place on the body, only mirrored.

12. Fishing

Viggo went fishing a lot in NZ. Orlando sometimes tagged along. And then máybe goes fishing sometimes? Perhaps? Who knows?

13. Uncleanliness

Gotta love completely unfounded gossip. I'm sure they smell heavenly, at all times, shower or no shower. Just natural muskiness pouring out of their... pores.

Orlando:

"Miranda thinks Orlando is too smelly. Recently, she asked him if he could wash his clothes and perhaps shower more often." The insider claimed that Bloom "goes days without washing his clothes" when not working on a movie, adding: "He'll wear the same jeans for a week before he throws them in the washer. Same goes for his sweaters, T-shirts and socks." The Pirates of the Caribbean actor also allows his dog Sidi to share a bed with him.

Viggo:

Viggo Mortensen, who plays Aragorn in the Lord of the Rings movies, may seem fair, but according to The Sun he smells foul. The tabloid today alleges the American actor has been dumped by his girlfriend Lola Schnabel for worryingly Strider-like behaviour. Apparently he rarely washes and mysteriously disappears for long periods at a time.

14. Drinking mate

Viggo famously drinks yerba mate at all times. Orlando also drinks this. At least at one point, when this photo was taken, that's all I'm sure of.

15. Back pain

Orlando broke his back when he was 20 years old - with chronic back pain as a result. Viggo gets backaches sometimes.

Viggo:

If I wear footwear for too long I get backache. I need to be barefoot, otherwise it's agony.

Bonus: Gorgeous in make up

Also, they are both kind of gorgeous. And like make up. Sometimes. At this one particular time?

And, uhm, that's it.

Don't look so sceptical, boys! Just realise you are perfect for each other and get on with it.

[loviingpedri]

let’s work this out

warnings: cursing, arguing, grammar issues

credits to owners for images.

“kylian, you don’t understand how important it was for me.” he missed one of your family member’s birthday party, once again. he constantly excuses it by saying he needed to practice or an unexpected meeting came up. it wasn’t a good look to your parents. nonetheless, attending family parties alone.

“you’re overreacting right now. come on, you know i have practice. you can’t just expect me to only commit to you.” kylian has been spilling random stories out of his mouth.

“i’m not telling you to choose football or me. i’m sick of attending everything that helps your career, but you can’t seem to even come with me for my nephew’s birthday. is it really that hard?”

“oh my god y/n. i spend hours everyday working hard to take care of us. the last shit i want to come home to is you yelling.”

“well don’t give me reasons to yell kylian. it’s not that hard to be a good boyfriend.”

“see, now you’re bitching about how i’m a bad boyfriend. i just want to relax for once.” he left you in tears as always as he went to the bathroom. you sat there in disbelief. you hoped he would come back out and try to comfort you. there was no point when you heard the shower turn on.

the arguing had been going on for a month. you don’t even remember the last time you were in the same bed as him. or the last time you slept peacefully. fuck, not even the last time you had eyes that weren’t swollen. kylian knew about the party at least for 2 months. every party had to be planned beforehand to clear his schedule. today was his day off as well. he left to the training camp without a word. it wasn’t like he forgot. your nephew adored him, who could forget someone that quickly? you clearly noticed he consistently avoided coming home because there would just be back-to-back arguing. you would sleep in your once shared bed, and he slept in the guest bedroom. but that was only if he actually came home. your family constantly nagging about him was one thing, but the most important thing was you didn’t know who he was with. you trusted kylian in so many levels, but the past few weeks gave you doubts.

of course, the media would’ve found out if he was seeing someone else before you did anyway. there’s already been rumors that your relationship was over. more spotlight on him going out to clubs and bars. the sudden distance was running through your head like crazy. did you just lose your best friend? you felt so hopeless that you grabbed a random suitcase and filled random clothes in it. in minutes, the clothes were everywhere on the floor and the suitcase was going to break from the weight. ultimately, you left everything on the floor and just went outside for some air.

where were you going? hell, you didn’t know. it was just an instinct to just keep walking. you were lucky to live somewhere private so there’s nobody taking pictures, but damn the walk to leave the property was far. halfway to the gate, rain suddenly poured down. your tears only fell faster to the point where you couldn’t tell if it was the rain or your tears. it felt like your life was falling apart only in one hour. the thunderstorm only grew louder as the wind picked up. you were stuck in the rain, cold, and only farther from home. you just walked wherever the wind was taking you, which was to the exit. as your nose was dripping and your tennis shoes now soaked, suddenly light was flashed on you.

you looked behind to see a car. being the only resident in this street, you could figure out who it was. you walked faster which splashed puddles everywhere, but that didn’t stop kylian from getting out his car and running towards you. you didn’t expect anything except more fighting. that thought slowly disappeared as you were pulled into a hug.

“where are you going? please don’t leave.” you couldn’t believe it. kylian mbappe was crying while hugging you in the rain. you didn’t know what to think or how to feel. actually, his comfort made you cry harder. you got the closure you needed after awhile. “you scared me, i thought i lost you.” he was moving the hair out of your face while speaking in a calming voice. “i saw your clothes on the floor. then your phone was on the nightstand. then the thunder shook the house.”

“kylian, i’m okay. i just needed time to think.”

“think about what? were you going to leave?” the man with the world at his feet was currently begging you to stay by him. you’ve never seen him so worried about anything, you felt happy to know he cared.

“i’m not going anywhere, don’t worry.” you removed his hand off your cheek as you gave a soft smile.

“let’s go back home, you’re soaked.”

“yeah, i wonder why kylian.”

“it’s actually kyky to you.”

“no, you made me mad. you’re kylian now.”

“it’s kyky.”

[throneofsapphics]

Can we please have a part two to some questions are better left alone? I’m obsessed!!!

some questions are better left alone, part 2

Rowaelin x f!Reader

(part one) (part three)

Summary: They want you here, I repeated to myself. If I said it enough, I might start believing it. Or the words would lose their meaning. 

Word Count: ~2.8k 

Warnings: drinking, angst, y/n is a bit impulsive  

A/N: I’m glad you liked it, here it is! This is a bit shorter than the first one! I’m thinking about doing a part three 

I thought about it for days. Whether I should stay - or go back home for some time to sort my thoughts out. I promised we would speak about it, but I never gave an exact time or date. 

Here, their presence was intoxicating and everywhere. I was drawn to them, and everything in me wanted to please them, to do what I had to to stay close to my mates. Maybe that was part of the problem, I couldn’t have a clear head here. And speaking to my family and friends back home about it … 

The journey wasn’t incredibly long - maybe one week, but with how busy everything had been I’ve only seen them a few times in the last couple of years. Every time the conversation about visiting home popped up, there seemed to be another event going on. I have been brushing it off as a coincidence. 

-

She looked right at us, her body stiff and her throat swallowing. “I need to visit home for a bit.” 

It felt like all of the air left her lungs. She said they would talk about it, would have a conversation, why would she need to leave? 

“Why?” Rowan asked bluntly. 

“I can’t …” She covered her face with her hands, dragging them down before exhaling slowly. “I can’t think here. I need space.” 

“We can give you space here,” Aelin said hesitantly. “You have your own space.” 

“That’s not the same.” She could see the pain in her eyes - the indecision, the doubt. 

Do you think she’ll come back? If we let her go. Rowan asked her, glancing her way. 

-

“As long as you swear you’ll come back.” Aelin’s eyes bore into me, like a brand. It sounded vaguely like a threat. Promises are some of the only things immortals deal in anymore - promises and bargains. 

There was a momentary, too-obvious, pause. “I swear it.” I promised. Not a date, or a time. 

-

She’s keeping everything vague. Rowan’s voice sounded in her mind, before he asked her, “When will you come back?” 

A fair, reasonable question but the hesitation in y/n’s eyes worried Aelin.

“I don’t know yet,” her fingers tapped against the wooden table. “I won’t be long, but I haven’t seen my family in a while.” A tang of guilt ripped through Aelin. Y/n had barely been away from them since she first moved here. Her family didn’t live that far away, y/n could reach them rather quickly. She got the keen sense that if they offered to go with her, it would be shot down - shot down quick enough it might sting, so she didn’t bother asking. 

“A month.” Y/n finally said, before her or Rowan could speak. “I’ll be back in a month.” 

About one week of travel each way, two weeks with her family. It was all reasonable. So reasonable Aelin couldn’t find a way to shoot it down, not without seeming unhinged herself. 

-

“You know why mates are put together, right?” My cousin glanced at me. I’d told her about my doubts and fears - about everything. She’s the only one I trusted to keep her mouth shut. As far as the rest of my family was concerned, it was a surprise visit home. I played it off well, but my cousin knew me better than the rest. As two only children, we were raised like siblings. 

“Because they’re equals.” I answered automatically, “or to make the most powerful babies.” 

She snorted. “I hope you don’t get pregnant anytime soon.” 

“I’m not planning on it,” I laughed. The thought of a pregnancy made me shiver. Something I was certainly not ready for. 

“But,” My cousin turned to look at me, grabbing my hand gently, “we were also taught that doesn’t mean mates are always a perfect fit.” 

I dropped her hand. I can’t imagine life without them. Not now, not now that I’d been with them so long. But … they had lived a life without me, and could probably picture it perfectly well. “Do you think they would be better off on their own?” 

“I don’t know them,” she raised a brow, “and that’s not a question you should be asking me.” 

The rest of the visit went well, and I did feel a freshness - but also an emptiness at the same time, like a key part of me was missing. I found myself both dreading and anticipating leaving. Dreading the conversation we’d be having on my return, but eager to be back with them, to have that part of my soul fulfilled. 

-

Aelin and Rowan were on edge the entire time she was gone. 

Rowan managed to sit in one place, even feign concentrating on a report, but Aelin wore a path back and forth across the room. 

“She’ll be back tomorrow.” He finally said, putting down the papers he’d been staring at, not really reading or comprehending any of the contents. 

“What if she doesn’t come back?” 

“Has she ever broken a promise?” 

“No.” His fireheart sighed, walking towards him instead, before perching on his lap, her head against his shoulder. 

“She should already be on her way,” he murmured, running his hand up and down her spine. “And before you ask, I won’t go check.” 

Aelin let out something between a grumble and a growl - enough to tell him he was right. They needed to show her they trusted her, trusted that she would keep her word. 

-

I was surprised I didn’t see any white-tailed hawks following me back to the castle, or scouting out my path. I was keeping my eye out for any birds that might be in the area. None followed me home, or checked I was on my way back. The show of trust surprised me. At least they know I’ll keep my promises. 

-

We were all toying around the conversation, the one we all knew needed to happen. It was unlike us, really, to be so hesitant about things like this. It was me, of all people, who brought it. 

“One of the thoughts I had.” I swallowed, “I’ve been taught mates aren’t always a perfect fit. That they’re paired together for either whoever can make the most powerful children, or who are equals, and I know something doesn’t have to be perfect to make it work, but sometimes I wonder why you’d want me when you’re already a perfect fit and if you were happier without me.” I thought of Fenrys’s warning - of pretending those words never came out of my mouth. Gods, what if I’d made a big mistake … what if this would make them think, make them realize they really would be better off without me, if they were happier. 

I found the courage to look at both of them. They looked crestfallen. Aelin reached out and covered my hand with hers. “We want you. We’re happy with you. Now that you’re here, we never want to let you go.” An unusual softness was present in Rowan’s eyes as well and he reached out, covering my other hand. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to. 

-

They talked, and talked, and talked. Thank the gods they didn’t have any meetings or plans today, otherwise they would have been very very late, and not in the best mood to deal with anyone else. 

“Do you,” Aelin swallowed harshly. “Do you want to go home, permanently?”

“I don’t want to leave you.” Not a direct answer, but good enough that her shoulders visibly relaxed. 

Rowan and Aelin were more before we realized we were mates. Enemies. Friends. Carranam. My Blood-Sworn. Lovers. Husband and wife. Mates. A progression, a timeline. Comparatively, y/n jumped right in at that last step, without the other experiences to form a solid rock or foundation. But, they could build those experiences over time. 

-

Rowan thought he’d be prepared for things like this, having been mated for a decade already, but it was so damn different. Aelin and y/n aren’t the same, and he can't treat them exactly the same. Where Aelin will tell him off, y/n doesn’t - she holds all of that in. He needs to work on being … nicer, and she needs to work on saying what she’s feeling, or thinking. 

“We won’t be mad at you for the things you’re thinking, or feeling. We can’t fix a problem if we don’t know it exists.” 

“Right.” She hesitated for a few moments, but kept speaking, “part of this is my fault, for putting words in your mouth.” 

“We haven’t been very considerate of you, and your feelings.” 

Awkward, but good. 

-

I dragged Fenrys back to my rooms again, the day after we talked. 

“I assume I’m summoned here because of a certain talk you had.” His eyes glinted with amusement. I groaned, but motioned to the chair in front of me. He sat, looking half amused and half worried. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense.” 

“It was fine,” I hesitated. 

His face grew taut. “Fine?” 

“They asked if I wanted to go home permanently.” 

“And what did you say?” 

“That I don’t want to leave.” 

A heavy silence filled the room. I gave them a half-answer. I don’t want to leave here.

“You’re thinking about it.” Fenrys didn’t pose it as a question. 

“I’m always thinking about …” I didn’t want to finish the sentence, didn’t want to put the words out into the open - into the air. 

“Don’t tell me.” He said quickly, before I could gather my thoughts enough to continue speaking. He might get the urge to tell Aelin, if I said anything that could cause her any kind of hurt - emotional included. He stood, rolling his shoulders back. “You need a night out,” his eyes danced in amusement. “Invite your friends. Especially the pretty one.” 

“That sounds perfect,” I managed to say in between laughs. 

“Write a better note this time,” he winked. “I’ll meet you at the gates in half an hour.” 

I scrambled for a pen and paper. 

Going out with Fenrys, I’ll try not to walk into any pillars this time. Don’t be too nosy. 

They’d likely find that funny. Gods I hope they will. 

-

Rowan picked up the note, ‘I'll try not to walk into any pillars,’ he sighed. Fenrys definitely pulled her into this, well aware he and Aelin would be in an important trade meeting the next morning. He handed it to Aelin, who snorted in amusement. 

“They’ll have a good time.” She turned to him with narrowed eyes. “And you won’t make a big fuss this time.” 

“I didn’t make a fuss.” He countered, arms crossed. His mate only raised an elegant eyebrow. Really? I think you started a fight. Rowan ignored the barb, stalking from the room to find something to do. There were always reports to read. Aelin snickered, right on his heels. 

-

The night out was exactly what I needed. Laughter, friends, alcohol. Fenrys and I made our way back, drunk off our asses. Failing to hide our laughter as we made our way down the halls. I didn’t walk into any pillars this time, didn’t beat anyone in a drinking contest, and avoided Effie’s homemade liquor. 

Fenrys was too drunk - or too lazy to make his way back to his rooms, and shifted right in the sitting room, curling up on a rug. I sniffed the air. Drunk dog. That’s a new scent. 

I bit back another laugh, changing before stumbling into my bed. 

-

Rowan woke a bit earlier than necessary, intending to check on y/n before the meeting. Aelin grumbled at him, but didn’t follow him out of bed this time. 

It took a lot of self control not to laugh at the wolf curled up in her sitting room, sleeping like the dead. Alcohol and dog - he rolled his eyes, headed for the door. 

He opened it quietly, just enough to peer into the room. Y/n was sound asleep, one arm hanging over the end of the bed, mouth open and drooling slightly onto her pillow. At least she doesn’t reek of alcohol this time. The dawn rays were beginning to stream in through the curtains, casting a gentle glow on her face. Without thinking too much of it, he fetched a tonic for headache, and a glass of water, setting it on the side table. He let himself brush a few strands of hair away from her face. She didn’t move, didn’t stir, the entire time. 

Rowan frowned. Anyone could sneak into her room and … he cut off that line of thinking, but made sure to double check the locks on the windows before leaving. 

-

Aelin rubbed her eyes, yawning as Rowan trailed back into the room. 

“All okay?” She drawled. It was cute that he woke up early to check on her. Fussy buzzard. 

“Yes,” he grunted. “There’s a drunk wolf sleeping on the floor of her sitting room.” 

She snorted at the idea. A wolf-sized pony in her sitting room. Fenrys was either too intoxicated or too lazy to make his way back to his own rooms. Maybe next time she’d get y/n to glamor her, just so she could go out with them. 

“Two of them is enough.” Rowan must’ve seen the look on her face. “I don’t need to worry about three of you stumbling through the streets. You’d empty all of the alcohol out of that tavern.” 

Aelin gave an innocent shrug, ignoring his sigh before rising to get ready for the day. She wasn’t excited for this meeting. 

-

I woke up to the faint scent of pine and snow, and some blessings on my bedside table. Rowan can be sweet from time to time, in his own way. I downed the tonic in one gulp. The night out may have been a temporary relief, but the seed of doubt started to drift back into me. 

They want you here, I repeated to myself. If I said it enough, I might start believing it. Or the words would lose their meaning. 

Pushing the door open, a great white lump of fur dozed on the floor, a few feet in front of me. 

I poked him in the ribs, before jumping back out of the way. His lips curled in a snarl, the canine body poised to strike, before he realized who I am, and huffed. Fenrys shifted back into Fae form. 

“Good morning,” I chirped, unnecessarily loud. He winced, sending me a vulgar gesture. I rummaged my cabinets, tossing a tonic over my shoulder. 

I heard a curse, then a swallow. “Thank you,” he muttered. I turned and grinned at him. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be doing courtly things?” 

“Nope,” he snorted. “Their Majesties get to handle this one.”

I hummed. He hung around for tea, before leaving to do … whatever else Fenrys does. 

-

“Are you still having doubts?” Aelin brought up randomly, over dinner a few weeks later. It was just the two of us, Rowan out late training some new guards. Poor souls. 

I blinked in surprise. “Are you?”

“No.” She said a bit too quickly. My heart dropped into my stomach. 

“I’m not.” I said slowly, the words feeling like a half-lie on my tongue. Nothing had been unusual the last few weeks. If anything, things had been better. I forced a smile onto my face, and changed the topic - asking about their upcoming meeting with some delegates from Melisande. I listened to her complaints about the various ‘assholes,’ she’d have to deal with, but my mind swirled on how quickly she answered. 

I had Effie post a discreet letter for me the next day.

-

Aelin wondered if she sent the wrong message with her answer. She didn't have doubts, not about their relationship. No, doubts if y/n was feeling more secure here. The female did seem a bit distant the rest of the night. She decided not to think about it too much, to push it to the back of her mind and bring it up with Rowan later. 

-

The next week, an urgent letter came for me. I opened it with Rowan and Aelin, taking careful notice of the seal - my family’s seal. My eyes widened as I read it. A summons. The letter I posted arrived quickly. 

I handed it to Rowan and Aelin silently, settling my face into a lost and confused mask. I'm completely aware they're watching my every move, my every reaction.

“Do you want company?” Aelin asked gently. 

I swallowed harshly, “I should probably handle this alone.” 

[sootical]

Permanence

->Wilbur Soot x Reader (hinted but never explicitly stated) ->No use of Y/n ->I tried to be as gender neutral as possible.

*Hurt, minimal comfort, hopeful ending TW: Su*cidal ideation, Self destructive thoughts and actions, SH mentions/references, depression, lots and lots of depression. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK Summary: You are stuck in a multi-month long depressive episode, and it's gotten so much worse. You're on your last leg, and you need someone to help you. Good thing best friend(?) Wilbur and his band are there to help :] Word Count - 2.4k

Wilbur Soot. Twitch streamer turned famous musician, heartthrob—you get it. He’s everything anyone could want in a partner. Trust me, I would know. He’s been my best friend since form. And since then, he’s only ever been kind and considerate and just overall an amazing person. What a guy right? With his stupid brown hair that covers one of his eyes when it’s outgrown. Stupid brown eyes that have just the right amount of dark and light brown in them. It’s stupid of me really, to ever hope for a future with him that involves us being more than friends. I can only hope though, right? He’s up there, in the states, singing his heart out on a stage. While I’m stuck, on the other side of paradise–more like purgatory–lamenting on how many people adore him. I’m feeling sorry for myself, rotting away in bed at 2 in the morning. It’s not like I have to work in three hours–whaaaat nooooo… A knot develops in my stomach at the mere thought of leaving my bed. Maybe losing my job isn’t so bad. Wilbur has told me time and time again he’d pay me to edit for him. But I could never make him do that. Never would I take advantage of him like that. I’d feel like more of a burden than I already do. The thought of him having to support me financially makes me want to vomit. It makes my skin crawl, so it’s okay if I waste away. If I end up rotting away in my bed. It’s fine. At least then I wouldn’t be able to consume too much of Wilbur’s time. Taking up too much of his time has always been my biggest fear. To me, it came true a long time ago and I’m finally reaping what I sowed. It sucks really, how I thought I'd have a shot. Just for it all to blow up in my face. Now he’s somewhere in America–having the time of his life. Good for him. Bad for me.

Reaching over, I grab my phone. My coworkers probably hate me. I keep asking them to cover my shifts so I can rot in bed for another day. It’s been like this since–September? It started off just once every few weeks. Now, it being almost December, I’ve not gone to work in over two weeks. What’s the point anymore anyways? I can’t do this. I can’t do anything. Deep down, when I started doing things for myself–I knew I wouldn’t be able to do this. That was two years ago. I guess I’m finally breaking.

Pulling the duvet over my head, I try not to think about how my breath smells, and the uncomfortable way the oil sticks to my face. I shove my head into the pillow. Trying to block out the sounds of people existing below my apartment. It’s so much easier to rot away when people don’t rely on you. When you have no reason for existence. I don’t want to die. But at the same time I don’t want to live. I’m too much of a coward to do anything about it, so I lay and wait. I wait for some omnipotent being to strike me down and judge me for how I’ve managed to mess up any and all relationships I’ve ever had with anyone. Me and Nikki haven’t spoken in almost a year. Me and Wilbur haven’t even seen each other in months My family doesn’t talk to me.

I wish I could say “The world is fucked and everyone hates me.” But that’s not the truth. The truth is I am my own undoing. I have destroyed everything I’ve worked for. Any relationships–platonic and romantic–have fallen through because of my own emotions and insecurities getting in the way. It’s not fair for anyone. Well, anyone except for me. I brought this upon myself. My phone is the only thing lighting up my face. I looked at the time. Suddenly it’s six in the morning, and I’m late for work. The thought makes me want to cry, but I can’t. I can’t tell if it’s apathy—or dehydration. 

I call my boss. She answers. “Where are you?! I haven’t seen you in weeks! I’m worried about you hun, do you need me to call someone?” She opens, sounding both relieved and shocked I even called. I clear my throat the best I can, swallowing saliva feels like eating sandpaper. “I uh..I was calling to let you know I won’t be coming back. I’m quitting. And I’m sorry for not putting in my two weeks. It’s not–” Something foreign is bubbling up in my throat, I force myself to swallow it down. “-It’s not fair to you. And I’m sorry.” I whisper, hanging up shortly after.

I feel terrible for worrying her. I feel terrible for upsetting her. I feel terrible. I am terrible. I’m a parasite. I always have been. Mooching off of others in order to help myself get by. My thoughts fall back to Wilbur. I’ve been mooching off of him for however long we’ve been friends. I want him to be happy. I don’t want him to feel like he needs to be my friend to keep me alive. But at the same time–I can’t do this anymore. I can’t look myself in the mirror and tell myself it’s me. I can’t. I’m not the person I thought I’d become. I’m not the person I thought I was. I’m useless. My phone rings again. I go to decline it, I can’t. 

Wilbur’s face greets me. His contact photo, the two of us at the amusement park I helped them film for Tommy’s vlog channel. We’re smiling. His arm over my shoulder, and my head on his arm. I remember that day. Wilbur held me for a bit while Tommy and Phil were off filming a different part of the vlog with Russ. I was overwhelmed and so was he, so we took the time to chill by the snack stands. He got tommy cotton candy, and we split popcorn even though he couldn’t really taste it. We spent a good time just taking funny pictures with each other. I remember that day, it was a great one.

Tears breach my eyes before I can stop them. A sob ripping through me, I force my face into the pillow to muffle it. The ringing stops. My tears don’t, and that makes me feel so much worse. My chest convulses as my sobs reverberate through the room. I’m a mess. I’m laying in my bed, rotting. Wasting away and feeling sorry for myself. Everything is terrifying, every breath I take reminds me of how I’m alive. Reminds me of how I can’t escape the feeling of impending doom that washes over me. I’m going to die here. I’m going to die. I was never permanent. 

I knew I couldn’t do this. I’ve been lying to myself, little lies, white lies. To convince myself everything was okay. That it was fine for me to fall in love, it was fine for me to believe I wasn’t just taking up space. That I wasn’t slowly getting tired. 

Contemplating whether or not cut myself some slack–but ending up just cutting myself loose. I lift the duvet from my head, staring at the ceiling. My eyes flick to the ground, clothes and food everywhere. Some of it’s moldy. It makes me feel worse about myself. Turning my head, I look to my PC. I should sell it. Someone else would be much happier with it. I haven’t used it in a while anyways. I can’t take care of any of the stuff I have can I? 

My phone rings again, this time I do answer. 

“Oh my god–” I hear multiple people take a sharp breath in. I can’t stop myself from making a small noise of confusion. “Hey..Your boss–called us.” I recognize the voice to be Joe. I lift the phone, checking the caller ID. It was Wilbur again. “Wil—?” It hurts so bad to talk, I haven’t used my voice this much since the end of October. I hear a choked noise and whispers. “We’re gonna—come over there okay? The tour ended last night, no gigs for a while. Wil’s been missing you y’know.” I can’t tell who said that, “I–no. Sorry.” I don’t know why I said that. I don’t know why I hung up either.

Maybe deep down I did want them to help, I do want their help. But logically–It’s for the best.

I swing my legs over the side of my bed, cringing at how my clothes hang off of me. My back hurts something awful. I’m so tired. 

Yet I stand on two feet and walk to my bathroom. I look at myself in the mirror, I don’t recognize them. My hair–too long and too oily for it to be mine. My skin is pale and the bags under my eyes are so dark they could rival a racoon. 

It’s then that my legs decide to give out. I can feel my knees split as I hit the tile. I’m so tired. I look down at the sweater I’m wearing. It’s one of Wil’s. I can’t remember when I put it on. I can’t remember a lot of things recently. Like when this got so bad. Or when my arms started to sting. My eyes are heavy, I can barely keep them open. Maybe a nap wouldn’t be so bad.

When I wake up it’s to voices around me. I’m laying on something warm–It’s moving. I can’t find it in myself to open my eyes. My breathing picks up, and I hear an intake of air accompanied by a hand on my forehead. My eyes are shooting open in fear before I’m trembling. He’s above me, looking down at me like I could break.

I look around, there's two other people. I can barely make them out. Joe and Ash. It’s hard to think. It’s so hard to think. 

“There you are..” Wilbur whispers, his pointer finger gently stroking my cheekbone. “What happened to you love?” I can’t tell if it’s his tone, or the fact he looks so broken. But I can’t stop my eyes from watering and my body from turning into him, hiding myself away. Embarrassment filled me, they’d seen it all. The moldy food, the dirty clothes. They probably saw the abundance of mail I'd gotten as well. People are walking out the room. Not Wilbur, he stays. He stays and makes me look at him. “Here’s what’s gonna happen, I’m gonna help you shower, and they’re going to clean and get you food. Okay?” My eyes widened. I shake my head so quickly it hurts. His face falls, he looks down at what I’m wearing. His face falls even more. “Love…” He whispers. “I don’t–I can’t. Don’t make me.” I whisper. Wilbur wipes away my tears and shakes his head. “No. You’re going to get clean, eat, and then you will sleep for however long you need to.” He lifts me like I’m nothing.

He sets me on the toilet, turning to the tub and turning on the faucet. He waits for it to get warm before he’s plugging the drain and helping me get undressed. He brushes the hair from my face, he frowns at the sight of the back of my head. He looks down at my arms before I can see him clenching his jaw. “We’ll work on the matts too.” He picks me up again, placing me in the tub and going to shut the door. He grabs a towel from the cabinet, as well as a washcloth. He swipes the comb from the counter.

“I’m sorry.” I can’t help but whisper. He sighs. “I know. But it’s alright. We were worried about you.” Was all he said before he’s dousing my hair in water. He keeps a hand on my forehead, stopping the water from getting into my eyes. And with that, he applies conditioner and starts to de-matt my hair. An hour and countless tub refills later, my hair is de-matted and I’m clean. Feeling slightly better too. Wilbur gave me the crewneck he was wearing for comfort, before planting a kiss on my forehead and leaving the room to grab other clothes. The sounds from the outside are a lot less foggy now. I can hear the boys outside bickering and talking. “Are they okay Wil?” “What happened?” “From your face, I can tell it wasn’t good.”

I can’t help but stand weakly, the towel wrapped around me. I look in the mirror. I look a little more like myself. I touch my face, I look pale. I am pale. My hair is a bit longer now. I don’t smell bad anymore. I do feel better, but I can’t help but think I’m making Wilbur do this.

Wilbur reappears, he looks at me and smiles. He hands me the clothing he picked out before leaving the room once again, though he stands just outside the door.

I dress quickly. Slipping on Wilbur’s crewneck once I have my shirt on. I walk out, giving Wilbur a small smile. “You uh–You didn’t have to do this.” He takes my hand and leads me through my now clean apartment. “I did. Because if I didn’t–If we didn’t, you’d be dead right now, or you’d have killed yourself soon.” He says, sitting me down at the table that’s been cleared off. “Now, be honest. When is the last time you remember eating something?” He asks. 

My face drops. That’s the thing–I can’t. “Uh–Tuesday?” I say, like I even know what day it is, his face falls. “It’s Friday.” He deadpans before going into the kitchen, he comes back with Ash, Mark, and Joe. They each have both in their hands. Wilbur has two.

“It’s just soup. Easy on the stomach.” Joe pipes up before sitting on my right, Wilbur sits on my left, and Ash and Mark sit across from me. “We don’t need to talk about things right now, no one is going to make you. But you need to talk to someone soon. Maybe not us, but someone.” Wilbur said, putting his hand on my knee. “Yeah. I think I can do that.” They smile, I eat my soup, and for the first time since September–I feel permanent. 

[lunarfleur]

Promise ~ Earth 42! Miles Morales

Tagging: @hiyaitssans @juneberrie @sluggmuffin @ggucafe

Warnings: low-key toxic relationship

A/N: inspired by Promise by Laufey. There’s some translated Spanish in here (not from Google Translate) so please lmk if anything of it is wrong 🙏🏻🙏🏻

This is x gender neutral reader!

I made a promise

To distance myself

“Baby, don’t you dare do this to me.”

You stood out like a sore thumb in his bedroom, his hoodie hanging loosely from your body. Your hands sat limp at your sides, watching Miles’s expression change.

“Miles, this…isn’t working.”

“What? We been working perfectly fine.”

His eyes bore into you, giving a silent plea. You watched as tears threatened to spill from his eyes, the same eyes you’ve grown to love.

But he knew you were right. He was so busy all the time, doing things that were beyond dangerous. He’d flake out on dates constantly. Some days, you’d wake in his bedroom at 3:00 am, completely alone.

“I’ll be better,” he always said.

“I’m sorry Miles.”

“But-but I love you, you know I do.”

“I know, Miles. This just isn’t right.”

“No me dejes, please.”

(Don’t leave me, please.)

“I’ll see you soon.”

Took a flight, through aurora skies

Honestly, I didn't think about how we didn't say goodbye

Just see you very soon

It hurts to be something

It's worse to be nothing with you

——————————————————————————

“Miles, man, how you doin?”

So I didn't call you

For sixteen long days

Miles didn’t answer. For a little over 2 weeks, he did nothing but stare at his ceiling. His bed, somehow, still smelled like you. There was a hoodie draped over his desk chair, the same one you wore when you left him.

He wasn’t upset with you. No matter how much he ignored it, he still knew he was ruining it, ruining you. Someone was bound to get hurt. More than anything, he was glad it was him.

And I should get a cigarette

For so much restraint

No matter how long I resist temptation

I will always lose

It was for the better, right?

In the 8 months you had been dating, you always somehow managed to end up missing Miles more than you could love him. Too many nights, you woke up alone. Too many of your texts had been left on read. No matter how many times he came back, he always left again.

You still had his hoodie, his favorite one. It no longer smelled like him, was no longer warm like him. It was nothing more than a reminder of everything you did, and everything Miles couldn’t do.

So, it was for the better, right?

It hurts to be something

It's worse to be nothing with you

Yet, you couldn’t forget about the nights he’d come back to you. Sneaking in through your window, trying his hardest not to wake you as he slipped into your bed.

Every time he held you, it was tight and close and warm. Every time he kissed you, it was sweet and loving. So many nights, you sat in his lap, kissing the night away until neither of you could breath.

“I’m yours, amor.”

I've done the math

There's no solution

We'll never last

Why can't I let go of this?

——————————————————————————

So I broke my promise

“Hi, Miles.”

I called you last night

“Y/N?”

I shouldn't have, I wouldn't have

“Hi.”

If it weren't for the sight of a boy

“What-what is it?”

Who looked just like you

“I’m sorry, really.”

“It’s alright. You deserved better.”

“But I-”

“Don’t. It’s ‘aight. You should be out there, living your life. It ain’t fair the way I made you worry about me.”

“I can’t stop, though. Funny as it is, I’d rather live my life worrying with you than not worry at all without you.”

Standing out on Melrose Avenue

“Volver conmigo. Please, I swear I’ll be better this time.”

It hurts to be something

It's worse to be nothing with you

“Promise?”

“On my life.”

“Miles, those 8 months were-”

“Awful. I know.”

“You said you’d be better. You never were. How do I know you’re not just gonna break the promise again.”

“Cause, before, I guess I didn’t realize how much I had to lose.”

It hurts to be something

It's worse to be nothing with you

It was all for the better. Right?

[memo-blogs]

Here With Me (part I)

Pairing: Spawn Astarion x female (Durge*) Tav *not relevant in this segment/will come apparent later in the story

Tags: angst, fluff, foreplay

Summary: Months after the end of the game (SPOILERS, ye be warned) Tav gets bothered by Astarion's absent looks in bed and it results in NO SEX, heck >:( Just when things were getting amazing!

A/N: This is a three-parter series where things are oof before they get nice and spicy. I hope someone wants to read something so I feel like sharing the rest… Ps. waiting on my AO3 account, who knew you had to queue for one for like 2 weeks!? If and when I get one, there is spicier than Tumblr allows fanart inspired by this fic available, huhu. Hope you like! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They returned home, walking hand in hand down the now familiar forest path to the small opening in the woods that revealed their cozy two-story home in the woods. Tav glanced to her side to her partner Astarion, and smiled. He caught her looking, and smiled back. They were returning from an exhilarating night of trying to teach the vampire spawn in the Underdark to navigate their new normal. There had been peril, confusion, unpleasant surprises – all the things they had grown so accustomed to tackle and turn into success together. Tav recalled how, despite starting with snark and frustration at one of the spawn Gur kids losing control of her hunger and lunging at an innocent deep gnome as a result… Astarion had controlled himself. How gently he knelt to the Gur’s level, and let the child know he felt the same hunger, and gave her guidance. In the end, she had hugged Astarion, who enjoyed it more than he let on. It was remarkable how he managed to make controlling their impulses more into a fun game rather than an addiction they’d have to combat for the rest of their undead lives. As they opened the door to their abode, Tav thought back to the months spent with Astarion after defeating the Netherbrain – how little by little, he was less spiteful, less vengeful… and more relaxed and happy. Astarion had become forgiving. He had become kind and caring, in his own way. He was still vain and could not for the life of him stop that sarcastic little tongue of his – but his actions showed he cared about the new life he had built with Tav. He cared about, at the very least, not making things worse when he ventured out into the world. Which was saying a lot, for a vampire. Exhausted, they shed their armours. “Tsk”, Tav tutted as she lovingly tucked one of Astarion’s beautiful locks behind his ear. “Today’s escapades have left you absolutely filthy.” Astarion turned around and began to walk towards their washroom, stretching like a cat as he glanced over his shoulder back at Tav. “Well,” he said with a grin. “I suppose we’ll need to do something about that, darling.” They bathed together and Tav allowed herself to be lost in how much she had come to love this silly man before her. Every day, he seemed more beautiful than the last, and every which way she thought of the person he was, she grew fonder of him. Once clean and dried off, he led them down to their basement bedroom, knowing full well what Tav wanted. She kissed him hungrily and he answered expertly as always. Tav was quickly getting lost in Astarion and all they were sharing, and it was one of the best feelings in the world. Astarion gently pushed her to lie down, and she obliged. Panting, she felt Astarion gently parting her legs, and she opened her eyes to look at what was coming next – only to have her heart sink. There it was again. That thousand yard stare of his. She barely even noticed how masterfully he was caressing her legs and in between to bring her pleasure. She couldn’t really even feel it. Not anymore. The moment was ruined because he wasn’t… present. “Stop”, Tav whispered. 

Astarion looked up, almost as if in a daze. “What?” Tav pulled her legs close to herself, hugging her own knees. She shook her head. “I can’t do this anymore, Astarion.” She looked at him, her face full of sorrow.

“I – what happened? Did I do something wrong?” He looked so scared. Confused. Astarion didn’t understand – he knew he was good, he had done this so many times to her, and countless others. So why was Tav crying?

“I just...” Tav came to sit next to Astarion, and held his hand. Gave it an affirming squeeze. The look he gave her was bewildered. For a while, they sat there awkwardly in silence, holding hands. Finally, Tav let out a shaky sigh.

“Astarion. What am I to you?”

“I’ve told you – you’re the first person I truly care for.”

Tav turned to look at Astarion. “So why -” she took a calming breath of air before finishing her sentence, “why do you have sex with me as if I’m one of your victims?”

“What?”

Tav got up and walked around their room in circles. She waved her hands around as she spoke. “Every time, save maybe the one time by your grave, when you and I are intimate, you’re miles away. You’re not here. You shut down emotionally and just… put your heart and soul somewhere else.” Tav stopped pacing and faced Astarion. “Am I someone you need to forget?”

“Of course not!” Astarion looked like a deer in headlights.

Tav pressed on. “Then why do you perform like this is a duty where you try to be as little a part of it as you can?”

Astarion was beginning to panic, and he wasn’t sure why. “I don’t – you’ve been happy with it so far, haven’t you? What’s changed?” He found safety in being annoyed. “Why is this a problem now?” He spat out.

He was ready to fight. To argue. To even woo her over with his skills and give her what her body obviously craved to make this irritating conversation go away – but he was not ready for how he saw Tav deflate in front of him, and weep silently. With each tear she shed, the anger he was using to hide behind was fading. He was so lost, and afraid. They were silent for a while again, both too afraid to utter the next thing, in case it was the one thing that would sunder them.

“What’s changed?” Tav echoed silently. She quietly walked back to Astarion, and caressed his cheek. She let her hand wander through his white hair, down his neck and to his shoulder. She softly pulled him into a hug. “I love you more than I love myself” she whispered in his ear. She pulled away to look at him again. “And I cannot bear the thought of making you please me. I am not your maker. I am not your owner – I had hoped I was your equal. Your lover”, she finished with a sad smile.

Astarion stammered. “Y-you are!”

“Then where do you go, when we make love? Why do you go, and leave me here alone?”

He wanted to deny it. He wanted to never have this talk. It was too difficult – he just wanted to forget, and enjoy himself. Everything had been so wonderful, so why did she have to bring this up? Why couldn’t this stay buried, like so much of his past? He found himself breathing hard, like he was about to either take a swing at Tav, or run off. Yet she still stood in front of him, waiting. What could he say? What did she want to hear? While rare, Astarion found himself at a loss for words. He couldn’t make out what he felt, he felt too many things – anger, fear, he felt vulnerable, weak… exposed. He settled on making an irritated noise and to look away from Tav. It was all he could muster.

“I love you”, Tav repeated. “And I can’t do this when it feels like you’re still letting yourself be used.” She put on a robe and walked towards the door, stealing one last tearful glance at her vampire companion. “It hurts us both when you do.” And with that, she left.

[alphabetatoes]

Sanji vs. NNN (x reader fic)

a.n.: hey hi hello. its november so y'all know what that means. time for the sanji simp to write a nnn fic! aka the one where sanju tries to make it through the month without release. (also very vague timeline of events) (zoro and nami peace out towards the beginning of the fic) (and maybe possibly accidental blue balling) (a part 2 maybe?)

c.w.: afab!reader (though no explicit mention of body parts!), language, possibly ooc, angst?!, inconsistent timeline

w.c.: 1082

After what felt like an eternity at sea, you and the rest of the Straw Hats  had finally reached the next island on your journey through the Grand Line. The island was a tundra, and a vast departure from the long list of tropical islands you had hit for the past few dockings. Chopper had lived on an island of extreme cold temperatures his entire life and was the first choice to navigate the terrain. Luffy, of  course, was hell bent on finding a buffet- if not, any sort of local delicacy would do. Robin and Usopp were picked to pair up with the aforementioned Straw Hats in the event that they would need to split up. Therefore, you, Nami, Zoro, and Sanji were staying behind on the Going Merry. Nami's log pose would take about a month to record its magnetic field, so you were stuck in each other's company for the near future.

Late one night on the ship, you had decided to propose a challenge to better pass the time. It was a drunken idea, but the four of you were determined to see it come to fruition. Zoro and Sanji were sharing stories of past flings for the umpteenth time and you decided to make things interesting. Nami was the one to lay out the ground rules for the bet.

“How about this? I bet the two of you can’t make it a full month without getting off. Both by yourself or with the help of someone or something else.”

“And if we win?”

“I’ll drop the interest rate for your debts by 25% all December. Otherwise, it’s being doubled for six months.”

“Y/N?” Sanji looked at you, eager to gauge your response.

“My prize is getting to watch the two of you struggle for the next month.” You raised your eyebrows, ogling at the idea of it.

It went without saying that Sanji had a crush on you. Vinsmoke Sanji was infamous throughout each of the Blues for his romantic tendencies towards women, but it wasn’t just lust with you. You were something different. He needed your approval, and craved your praise.

“Mosshead already has the advantage of being asleep the majority of the time, so I guess it’s up to me to keep the bet going.” The bitter tone in the blond’s voice was ever present. You knew he was at somewhat a disadvantage. It was hard not to be when he wore his tender heart on his sleeve.

The first two weeks were a living nightmare for Sanji. Every look you gave seemed to linger longer than necessary. He wasn’t completely to blame for his circumstance though. To circumvent Zoro and Sanji staying in their rooms all day, you and Nami had decided to enforce a lockout. Rather than camping out in your respective rooms all day, everyone was expected to be out and about while the sun was up. Restrooms were fair game, with the caveat that anything over 20 minutes would be seen as an admission of guilt and an automatic loss of the challenge. 

That didn’t mean you were going to make it easy on the boys, especially the first couple of weeks. Zoro had managed to stay true to his word and keep preoccupied, but Sanji wasn’t as lucky. It was almost like you made it a personal mission to get him to break. Clothes somehow managed to look tighter and skimpier, and every sentence you spoke had a hint of innuendo.

On the sixth day of the challenge, you had accidentally brushed up against him trying to grab something from the pantry and he could’ve died right there. The warmth of your skin brought him a jolt of goosebumps. 

By the third week, he had found a routine to fall into, a way to devoid himself from falling into the trap of lust and losing the challenge. He knew his triggers and how to avoid them. Instead of having dinner together as usual, he’d drop yours and Nami’s meals off in your room. If you were outside doing chores, Sanji was burrowed in the kitchen and organized every square inch. With his flip in attitude, you decided it would be best to just give him a break for the rest of the challenge. Even though the ship was huge, personal space was still a virtue.

November 29th. 

Sanji had made it a full 29 days without incident. And then you came out to the deck of the ship that night to clear your head. You weren’t dressed sexy by any means. But seeing you adorned in your favorite pajamas, he would have sworn that you were something divine sent down just for him.

“Hey.” Now seemed as good a time as ever to exchange pleasantries, testing the water given his recent stint ignoring you. Sanji looked over at you, slightly jumping at the sound of your voice. 

“I need you. Now.” He was ready to disregard all the rules of the challenge for the chance to show you hoe intense his feelings were.

“You’ve seemed pretty blasé recently- I would’ve assumed you’d ask me to leave. Get yourself to the end of the challenge y’know?”

“Please.” Sanji wasn’t even begging at this point. The cadence of his voice made it seem like a need more than a want. Struck with an affliction only you could solve.

“Don’t you have, like, one day left? I don’t think you’d want to risk 6 months of increased interest for me.” Teasing him was fun in the beginning, but your question was truly in earnest. You couldn’t help notice the dwindling space between the two of you though. Sanji was trapped in a trance, gravitating toward your voice. Hungry for release and desperate to show you how pent up you had made him for the past month.

“You really don’t get it, do you? It was never about the challenge. You aren’t just some consolation prize to me.” Sanji’s face was a mix of frustration and need. “I would have taken you the first day you joined the crew if I could.”

“Sanji.” You knew you’d never hear the end of it from Zoro if you were the reason Sanji lost the challenge. But Sanji would have paid 1000% interest for even a second to show his devotion to you. He was close enough now that you could feel his breath hit your skin. 

“Let me show you how much I need you.”

[musings-of-a-rose]

I Never Stopped Loving You - Part 2

I Never Stopped Loving You - Part 2

Pairing: Joel Miller x OFC “Catie”

Word Count: 2500+

Rating: Mature - 18+ ONLY!

Warnings: Just like ao3, “creator chooses not to use warnings.” If you click Keep Reading, that means you agree that you’re the age to handle mature themes. Also by clicking Keep Reading, you understand warnings may not be complete in order to avoid spoilers for the story. 

Notes: I just had to write this part 2! It's all fluff and a little heart hurt. 

**If you want to be added to the taglist, join here or let me know!

❤If you enjoy the fic, please consider giving me a warm beverage! (It is not required in any way!)

**Reader is not described

Main Masterlist

Joel Miller Masterlist

<<I Never Stopped Loving You - Part 1

"I just found her. I don't want to lose her so soon." Joel’s eyes are round and worried, tears that he refuses to let fall are building up at the corners.

Benny, Poppy’s long time boyfriend, had finally come to us 4 months after Joel and Ellie moved into Jackson to ask our permission to marry her. It’s not tradition anymore, but Poppy had read it in a book and mentioned how romantic it sounded, so naturally, Benny had to do it. He’d asked Tommy too, as he had been like a father to Poppy since we moved here 10 years ago. I had said yes right away, but Joel clenched his jaw shut, a gruff “No” falling from his downturned lips. I smiled at Benny, telling him to give us some time and sending him out the door.

"She's 20, Joel."

"That's young"

"It is, but not for this world. Lives are cut short every day, so when 2 people love each other, they get married."

His broad shoulders slump, slightly defeated. "... I just got here."

"She's not going anywhere, Joel. Just a few houses down."

His jaw clenches, thoughts racing behind his brown eyes.

"What about this Benny guy?"

"He's a sweet kid. Too much energy to know what to do with, but he loves our daughter more than himself. You know he technically already asked her to marry him."

Joel’s eyes snap to mine. "He what? After making that big of a fuss of asking us-"

"When we first moved here. Poppy was 10, nearly 11 and she had never been around other kids, let alone attend actual school and have neighbors or other people around. Her whole life had been Lucia and I. Benny introduced himself the first day and they became fast friends. I think it was that first week he asked her to marry him."

"What did she say?"

"She laughed and said 'I'm 10. What do I wanna get married for?'"

"Good for her." 

"I think there was a bit about "stinky boys" too. But that didn't deter him. They were inseparable. And a few years later, they started dating. I wasn't surprised but she was. And they've been together ever since."

"She loves him?"

"So much. As much as I love you."

HIs face softens, but the scowl remains, one tear betraying him by slowly falling down his cheek. I sit next to him on the couch, placing my hand on his thigh. I don’t say anything, waiting for him to speak.

“I only just found out I had another…I have a daughter. I can’t lose her too.”

I place my hand on his cheek, gently turning his face to mine. I swipe my thumb across his cheek to wipe away a tear, stubble softly scraping my skin as his watery eyes find mine.

“You will never lose her, Joel. She never thought in a million years she would ever meet you. I never-” a lump rises in my throat and I swallow hard “-she has been up your ass these last 4 months for a reason. She loves you, Joel. She’s not going to leave you. Just move a few doors down.”

—----

“I don’t understand why, Uncle Tommy! He knows I love Benny and he loves me.”

Tommy tosses some hay into the stall in front of him before turning to face his niece. 

“He’ll come around, don’t worry Pop.”

“I don’t know…he seemed pretty set on saying no. Ugh, and we had this whole thing planned out. I never planned for dad saying no.”

Tommy moves to the next horse stall, repeating the action. “Joel would want to know Benny and he doesn’t. He only just got here-”

“He’s been here for 4 months, Uncle Tommy.”

“Yeah, but he’s spent most of the time with you and your mom. As he should.”

Poppy studies her uncle’s form. “He could’ve just said yes. I mean, Benny and I have been together for forever, but I guess dad is bent on not supporting me.”

Tommy drops the last bit of hay in the stall, hand hesitating over the next bit of hay he’ll have to put down. 

“He only just got you, Pop.”

Poppy blows a raspberry. “I’m not going anywhere. Just a few houses down.”

A look washes over Tommy’s face and Poppy sees him fighting back tears.

“It’s different for him. He gets another chance with you.” It’s quiet when Tommy speaks, but he may as well have been yelling. Poppy’s eyes grow wide and she sits there silent for a few moments.

“Sarah.”

Tommy nods, his eyes coming present from the flashback that he had been on. “Sarah.”

Poppy lets out a puff of air. “Guess I’m the stubborn ass, huh?”

Tommy smiles and nudges her shoulder with his. “You come by it honestly.”

—----

The front door opens, Poppy walking in the kitchen shortly after. 

“Hey mom.”

“Hey Pop.”

“Is dad home?”

“He is. He’s upstairs. Everything ok?”

Poppy nods. “Yeah.”

Poppy heads upstairs, pausing at the door to her parent’s room before she knocks.

“Dinner ready?”

“It’s me.”

“Oh, Pop. Uh, come on in.”

Poppy enters the room and sees Joel standing in front of the mirror, hair slicked back from the water from his shower. Joel opens his mouth to speak but before he can, Poppy crosses the room and throws her arms around him, squeezing a little. Joel hesitates, momentarily caught off guard by the abrupt display of affection, before wrapping his arms around her and hugging her back.

“I’m not leaving, dad.”

Joel’s grip stiffens slightly before pulling back. “What?”

Poppy looks up at him, love pouring out of her gaze. “Benny has a house for us just a few doors down. I’m not leaving. I only just got you."

Joel is quiet for several moments. “You had Uncle Tommy.”

“I did. But he’s not my dad. You are.”

Joel chokes back tears as he stares into his daughter’s eyes, sad for the years he missed watching her grow. 

“Do you love him?”

Poppy smiles. “I do.”

“And does he love you?”

She smiles wider. “He does. He really does, daddy.”

Joel’s jaw clenches, his eyes looking off for a few moments before looking at his daughter.

“Alright, then.”

Poppy’s entire face lights up. “Really? Oh, dad I-”

“Just remind him I’m a really good shot. And so is Uncle Tommy.”

“Psshh, have you seen mom shoot? Benny should be worried about her. Why do you think he sucks up to her?”

Joel chuckles. “As he should.”

—----

Weddings in Jackson are a big event, everyone in town chipping in to help with everything, from decorating to cooking, to making Poppy’s dress. It’s something everyone looks forward to.

Joel stands in the living room, waiting for his daughter to come down the stairs. His hands flex at his sides and he shifts his weight nervously. He glances up at the top of the stairs and his breath catches in his throat, tears immediately welling in the corners of his eyes. She's the spitting image of her mother.

Poppy has on a beautiful white dress, hand-sewn by the seamstress in town. It's floor length, a white pattern of poppies is embroidered into the dress. Her hair is twisted and braided up, whisps framing her face. She wobbles slightly at the top of the stairs, the heels her friend had someone found clicking on each wooden step as she descends. When she reaches the bottom, she turns to Joel, a smile wife on her face. 

"Well, dad? Do I look ok?"

"You-" Joel let's out a breath, a smile tugging up the corners of his mouth "-you're absolutely beautiful." 

Tears well in her eyes now. "Thanks, dad."

Joel offers her his arm and it's then he notices the butterfly clip in her hair, which isn't really her style. 

"Butterfly?" He asks, eyebrows raised in question. 

"Oh. Yeah. For Sarah. I wanted a piece of her with me today and mom said she really liked butterflies. This was all I could find. Oh, and Uncle Tommy gave me this."

She pulls out a small photograph, handing it to Joel. He looks down at it and his jaw slams shut, willing his tears to not fall. 

Staring up at him, was Sarah, clad in her soccer uniform, a trophy in her hand and Joel standing proudly behind her. He stares at it for several moments before Poppy reaches out, gently taking the photo and sliding it into his coat pocket. 

"Now she's definitely with us."

Joel pulls Poppy in, hugging her tightly, trying to hide the tears that had fallen from his eyes. 

"It's perfect. She would've loved that."

Poppy hugs her dad back, hiding her own tears. They embrace for a few moments before hearing the music start outside that was their cue to head out the door. Joel pulls back, trying to covertly wipe the tears off his face while his daughter does the same. He offers her his arm again and Poppy takes it, lacing her arm in his. 

"Don't let me fall, dad."

"Never. I got you, baby girl."

Joel had faced clickers and much worse. But giving his daughter away that he'd only just met was one of the hardest things he'd had to do. Even Joel had to admit that Benny was perfect for her and loved her fiercely. They were a perfect match. 

When he danced with Poppy during the father daughter dance, he could almost picture Sarah, spinning around and laughing as he danced with her too. He knew that she would have loved Poppy.

—---

A couple months after the wedding, Poppy and Benny came over for dinner. We usually had dinner together once a week, Ellie sliding right into our family. She's hilarious and spunky and the thought of Joel having to escort her across the country makes me laugh. 

After dinner, Ellie takes off with Dina and the rest of us settle on the couches. Joel offers everyone a drink, even Benny, whom he'd grown fond of over the last few months. Although he'd never admit it. 

Poppy takes the glass and holds it, swirling around the contents as she stares at it. 

"Actually, Dad…mom… I, well, we want to talk to you." 

"I told you, my knees aren't what they used to be. Tommy said he'd help with the roof-"

"No. That's…that's not it." Joel sits next to her and the couch and she turns to face him, mouth opening and closing as if she's trying to figure out how to say something. She takes Joel's hand and squeezes it, looking up at him with her eyes that she inherited from him.

"Dad…I'm pregnant."

"Oh sweetie!" I'm on my feet, crossing the room and throwing my arms around her. "I'm so excited for you! How are you feeling? Is the morning sickness OK? I can't remember how it was with you because of what was happening but I do remember vomiting a lot. Have you gone to Lucia yet? Oh and-"

"Mom, chill. I'm only 6 or 7 weeks along." The smile she gave me falters when she looks back at Joel, who hadn't moved, a hard look on his face. 

"Dad? Did you hear what I said?"

Benny shifts in his seat, looking anywhere but at Joel, ready to run if he made a move. 

"Dad?" Poppy sits back down, taking his hands again. "You're going to be a grandpa." 

That broke him. 

"A…grandpa?"

Poppy smiles softly. "Yeah. I mean we won't know if it's a boy or girl until it's born, but if it's a boy, we're naming it Will after Benny's brother. He died a few years after…everything. And if it's a girl…well, we wondered if it would be ok to name her Sarah."

Joel's eyes are wide, big and brown and they stare into his daughter's. 

"You'd want to name her Sarah?"

"Yeah. Only if that's ok-"

"I would love that. She would've loved that." He blinks rapidly, ridding his eyes of the tears that had gathered. 

"A grandpa. Me. I never thought I'd…" He lets out a laugh, hugging his daughter tightly and shaking Benny's nervous hand.

—----

Several months later, Joel is by his daughter's side at her request, her small hand in his as she squeezes it through another contraction.

"Ok, one more push, Pop, and this baby will be here." Lucia gets ready and nods at Joel and Benny. 

"One more push, sweetheart, and we can finally hold our baby." Benny rubs her back up and down, applying pressure to her hips to help alleviate the pain, just as the midwife had shown him. 

"I can't! It's too hard!" 

Joel leans in, getting level with her face as she rocks back and forth slightly, on all fours.

"I won't pretend this isn't hard as shit. But if it's one thing I do know is that you're as tough as your momma. Probably tougher. And I know you can do this. You got this, baby girl. You've got this." Joel squeezes her hand and she nods, taking a deep breath. 

One more push, and their daughter Sarah was born, screaming loudly at the world. 

—-

We stayed with them that first night, in case they needed anything at their request. It's late, about 3am or so and I hear the floorboards creaking outside our door. I glance over and see that Joel isn't next to me, so I quietly get up and make my way out of the door. Peeking into Poppy and Benny's room, I see them both sound asleep on the bed, but no Sarah. I head downstairs to the living room, but stop just short of the doorway, listening as Joel's voice carries to me, the song he had been singing ending.

"You know, I wanted to be a singer in another life. Play guitar and all that. I'll teach you someday."

He hums a little tune to Sarah and I poke my head around the corner, taking in the scene in front of me. Joel is standing, bouncing his arms and swaying side to side, all gentle movements as he stares down and the bundle of blankets in his arms, Sarah's small face poking out from between the folds. 

"Your aunt would've just melted over you. She loved babies. Was always askin' me when me and your grandma were gonna have one. I'll tell you all about her one day." He pauses, clenching his jaw in an attempt to hold back tears. 

"I never knew about your mom until she was already grown. But I promise, I will always be here for you." 

Sarah looks so small in his arms, his broad shoulders looking impossibly large as he holds her tiny body to him, smiling down at her as she continues to sleep. 

"I got you, baby girl."

—----

A Second Chance (a one shot written by @theewokingdead )>>

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[did-system-did]

I’ve been living alone for the first time in my life for about 5 months now and i wanted to share some things i learned as well as what im going to start trying to do to help myself

1. Time is Hard 🤓

Like, yeah duh, as a system ig it’s a no brainer. But i also don’t have a job right now, and i knew time blended together but it’s increasingly difficult to manage my time, be aware of time, and plan what i do with my time. i wake up, ???????????????, and then it’s night time.

This as been incredibly frustrating for me and lately i’ve been feeling pings of shame that i can’t function. I’ve tried buying a planner, i lose my planner or forget to write in it if i ever do find it. i’ve tried reminders on my phone, i read them and they don’t spark any sort of intention to complete….

WHAT IM TRYING

-Using a whiteboard on my fridge where i put down important things i MUST do

-Setting timers throughout the day to grab my attention. I’ll be starting with one every 2 hours and see how it works for me

2. There’s an Outside???

I cannot tell you the last time i’ve gone outside. I suspect this is connected to my childhood, as for years i was never allowed to leave my room unless it was time to eat or go to school. So now as an adult it’s difficult to even THINK about outside, what’s that?, my brain sees my house as the world and i can spent weeks without leaving the property. some days i feel proud to just go into the backyard

WHAT IM TRYING

-get into a routine of going into the backyard at the same time everyday, for me in the mornings to start. and as time goes on, trying to take more walks, then grow from there and take a drive to the park or something?

3. Chores

This has been the bane of my existence since it’s directly connected to my trauma. i find it difficult to complete household tasks without external pressure or threats, so it’s common for my space to get messy and i’ll have blindness to it all. i hate it.

WHAT IM TRYING

-I used to plan a day to clean every week, but quickly learned that my planner was not going to work for me. so i’ll be trying to clean as i go and not put so much pressure on myself to complete everything in day like i was doing before. Leaving my room? what can i take with me or put away before i go. Leaving the kitchen? what can i put away or wash before i go. i’m hoping this will help facilitate small accomplishments versus thinking i have to clean the whole house in a single day

4. Eating is Hard

i’ve lost an alarming amount of weight due to dissociating through hunger pings or overall not noticing when i should eat. this has started to affect my energy levels and sleep quality and i also suspect stems from my trauma

WHAT IM TRYING

-I’ve been battling this consistently to no avail so i’m finally scheduled to see a nutritionist next month bc with all the other struggles im facing, this particular issue has fell thru the cracks and i couldn’t manage it on my own.

-But i suppose the best thing i’ve tried is actually recognizing it as a problem instead of talking myself out of it by saying “i’m only fasting” when i knew in my heart it was deeper than that

Overall Update: it’s been a tough couple months, but i’m finally getting the ball rolling and the referrals scheduled. im still waiting to hear back for my mental health referrals but im feeling more hopeful about my journey and working on accepting my struggles instead of trying to pass as healthy.