#abandonment feelings galore
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The Episcopal Church includes a daily collect (type of prayer) in the service that rotates every year.
Today's was the collect that J focused his sermon on for his last day at St. P's before he left two years ago. And his last day was the last Sunday in July. So exactly to the day.
It just brought a flood of grief and pain and anger that I was not expecting to deal with today. In the midst of finally hiring a new replacement a couple weeks ago that is making me so anxious. Which makes J's absence even more solidified, despite it being two years ago.
I miss him. He left. He just fucking left.
#talks with J#St. P's#people always leave#abandonment feelings galore#grief#disordered attachment#angriadm
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đ Cg! Clay HCS!!! đđś
Aggagaggaggag first hc list I do EVERRR (so please be kind (Ëśáľ áľ áľËś) /đđ)
Cg! Clay x Agere! Reader!!
pretty much gender neutral!!
Cw: caps lock (just me having happy outbursts), um lotsa author notes and commentary I just wanna talk about him and about how he would be as a cg :ccc, also this is incredibly self indulgent
Also there was no proof reading â ď¸
(Crossposted on ao3 @Soft_Buzz!! oh and Iâll update this if I get a new hc idea)
Anyways here you go đ:
â˘nicknames for you: kiddo, baby, bubba, bubba wubba (heâs squeezing your cheeks and baby talking you đđ), prince/princess/ lil highness/royal, and a number of other sweet nicknames or any that you prefer!
â˘he would be suuuuuch a sweet and doting caregiver waaaaaaah but he would definitely ensue rules for you! Calm and Strict(ish) cg! Clay would pull up to make sure you are safe and healthy even if you are feeling big!!
â˘heâd hate to see you hurt or sick, but heâd do everything thing in his power to nurse you back to health :]!
â˘Clay would definitely provide his kiddo with healthy snack or with fruit or veggie cups!
â˘Although Clayâs sorta strict he can be soooo soft he always want to hold you, whether itâs your hand/pinkie or cuddle up with you.
â˘You are his battery and he wants to recharge.
* HE WOULD SOOOO READ TO YOUUUU AHHH he loooooves reading so ofc heâd love to share that interest with his little one
⢠(please itâs the cutest thing ever)
⢠imagine him beside you with a book open (he has his reading glasses on :3) and as he reads, he gives all the different characters different voices and will always put emotion into his reading voice, which always leads to you giggling or you gasping in surprise.
⢠One time you insisted that you were big enough for his sad book club and that you wouldnât become a big puddle of tears so he gave you Charlotteâs Web to read.
⢠You were a mess. You didnât stop being sad for the next couple of HOURS (yes this is a reference to that JD fan art ifykykâ ď¸)
⢠Clay had to give you so many hugs, cuddles, and kisses to make up for it. He thought itâd be funny, but he sorta forgot how emotional of a little one you can be.
⢠âIâm so so sorry baby.â *kiss* âHow can I make it up to you?? Iâll do anythingâ
⢠oh youâd grin a that. You choose to either do dress up WITH make up or draw on his face and mess around with his hair. AND ice cream.
⢠You took soooo many pictures (and you may or may have not shared them with Viva, Poppy, and his brothers) Clay says he hates you for it, but secretly believes it was so worth it to see that sparkle in your eyes
⢠he bought you a piggy and a spider (with little bb spiders) stuffie. Even if you have arachnophobia, you hugged those stuffies while crying happy tears. You gave him a tight hug which he softly returned and gave you a forehead kiss.
⢠(This whole event was also the birth of your happy scrapbook club!! (even though it just you :} ) )
⢠You and Clay will just sit together while reading different things. Him with some well recognized and praised novel or book and you with a happy lil scrapbook in your hands!
⢠Iâd also like to think he has a puppet character like Bandit does with unicorse! (Maybe a dragon but that just me :])
⢠(Clay and Branch be matching with their ventriloquism skills lol)
⢠If you seem to be clumsy or fall often he starts to develop a sort of spider sense for it and will catch you before disaster happens
⢠OKOK I know this is gonna sound random buuuut I believe Clay is the type to carry lollipops, and sometimes other candy, around. Idk like I can just picture him a with a lollipop in his mouth trying to look all serious/mysterious and nonchalant LOL
⢠ANYWAYS back to the Agere stuff
⢠I think that after completing a task or being good, Clay would def give his kiddo a lollipop as a treat!! that orrrrr if his kiddo seems to be regressing in public and they really want/need a paci or just something to fixate on then boom!!! Lollipop! :D
⢠Talking about rewards
⢠This man would sooooo spoil you!! youâre his treasure and he wants you to know it!!
⢠Heâll either get you food youâve been craving or a stuffed animal/little gear orrrr both!!
⢠(Because of the two of you, you now have a chest fuuuull of stuffies Woopsđ§)
⢠You always try to show your appreciation by giving him small handmade gifts!! A lil pop up card, bead bracelets (you definitely have matching bracelets), even something crocheted/knitted, and pretty much any arts n crafts you can make!
⢠Now onto funny business ( â˘Ě - ⢠)!
⢠so ofc when it first came to having fun and being playful with you he was bit scared
⢠can you blame him???
⢠Heâd spent A LOT of time trying to get rid/away from the tittle of being the fun boy
⢠Ofc through lot of reassurance you let him know that he can have fun and play with you and still be a very serious caregiver!
⢠you help him understand that being funny and silly every once in a while doesnât hurt and that he should try to find a balance that work for him! Which he eventually does :D!!
⢠I like to believe that heâd be great at playing pretend and hide and seek!
⢠âWorry not your highness!! You will protect you from the dragon!â (Itâs one of your plushies)
⢠âWherever could my kiddo be?? They must have turned invisible!!â (he can hear your giggles which just makes his smile wider)
⢠Although he really tries to be there for you, heâs a reaaaally busy man :((( but he still tries to spend time with you through parallel play! While heâs doing his grown up paperwork, you get to colooor!! (or draw or scrapbook or anything really) as long you promise to be good and not distract him
⢠(plus the sooner heâs done the sooner he can give you all his attention! so itâs a win-win situation :D)
⢠Actually if you were feeling extra lil youâd just get a paper and scribble on it with crayon trying to copy Clayâs mannerisms (when he sees this heâs physically holding himself back from just picking you up, cradling you, and just babying you waaaah youâre gonna be the end of him)
⢠oh and he would sooo keep your little artworks in his working area (they bring a sweet smile to his face and warm his soul youâre the best kiddo he could have ever asked for)
⢠You also get to have cuddles while he works! Sometimes heâll just sit you on his lap with a stuffie or two while he wraps an arm around you and litters your head or face with kisses!
⢠Now onto not so funny business ૮ŕšËáŻ
Ëŕšá
⢠sometimes Clayâll have a rough or tiring day :((
* and thatâs okk caregivers have their moments too!
⢠Heâll usually want to cuddle with you and hold you close. (You are his stuffie :D)
⢠He might even tickle you or blow raspberries on your tummy (if you give him permission ofc!!) which often leaves you with a giggling and squirming fit.
⢠He just loves seeing you laugh and smile (especially if itâs him who made you happy :] you just brighten his day so much sometimes)
⢠One time he was just so tired and just laying down on the couch and then you brought one stuffie to him and then two till you pretty much had him buried under almost all of your stuffies!!
* You then proceeded to lay on top of him, and Clay just sticks both arms out from under the pile while smiling softly with his eyes closed.
⢠Letâs just say you guys woke up with stuffed animals scattered eeeeeverywhere
⢠If youâre a kiddo/baby who tends to get overwhelmed easily, heâll get you some noise canceling/dampening headphones and just wraps you in a soft blanket like a little burrito.
⢠Heâll also either get you an eye mask or will lower the lights if he can. (And if youâre feeling lil enough then a paci too!!)
⢠After doing any of this, heâll just bring you onto his lap and whisper sweet lil nothings to you till you feel better or seem to fall asleep :D!
⢠would enforce a bed time >:( (he is a very very veeeery serious guy after all)
⢠but luckily bedtime means a bottle or sippy of sweet sleepy tea and a storyyyy :D!!
⢠Forehead kisses!! (CALL ME BIASED CAUSE I LOOOOOVE FOREHEAD KISSES but I stand by what I say.
⢠Oh and if heâs ever gonna to be very busy for the day and he wonât be able to take care of his kiddo, heâd ask Viva to help him take care of you!!
⢠Plus who doesnât love babysitter Viva??? Sheâs so energetic and fun with you, but sheâll definitely tone it down for you đ
⢠sheâs also super strong so sheâll definitely carry you or give you a piggy back ride if you ask :>!
⢠She also give you lots of candies and sugary foods but shhhhh donât tell Clay itsa secret (but I think the sugar rush/crash you have when he picks you up from Vivaâs tells him more than enough
⢠(I feel like he would trust all his brothers with you (especially Bruce) except JD đđ)
⢠He would sooooo grab your cheeks and squeeze them like he did to Branch when first seeing him again
⢠Expect him to do that whenever he just wants to dote on you and baby you even if youâre feeling bigger than usual he just loves youuuu! đđđ
In summary: I need this man bc he is the bestest boyfriend and caregiver ever!!
Final notes!:
I love likes but comments and reposts are greatly appreciate (I love to talk if you canât tell) type something out and let me know what you think đđ
If anybody would like to use any of the hcs/scenarios for a fanfic tots fine with me just donât forget to tag me for credit and so I can see it :DD!!
#Iâm saying this even though thereâs like NO ONE under the agere tag for this fandom.#Which is surprising like where are you all???? Huh?!?! Huh?!?!#Like câmon itâs agere galore! Colors! Music! AND Family reunion and Love!!#Plus two great and amazing and lovable villains#Branch was literally abandoned as a baby! (Plus other brothers also have problems/struggles)#Just take the bait and write/do Agere stuff for them!! đđ(help I sound mean but I meant that in a nice way)#but I get it the fandom feels like itâs dying on here. I just got here yâall donât die on me already đđ)#(Genuinely donât think anyone wanted this but oh well Iâm sending it out to the world with a mission to complete#which is bring happiness!!)#(mostly for myself tho lol)#I canât believe I did all of this instead of a college essay#trolls agere#clay#sfw agere#trolls 3#age regression#being brave out here and using clay x reader in the post just to see what happens#if i get any hatred iâll immediately remove it :/
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Agatha All Along Episode 5 Theory: Why Itâs Weird and Short
So Episode 5 was by far the shortest episode weâve had so far for the series. It feels different from the other trials so far which causes it to feelâŚscrambled in a way. Now you could blame poor writing for the craziness of this episode (along with the abrupt ending), but I usually reserve that judgement for after a series ends.
Hereâs what I think is going on. SPOILERS AHEAD!
Agathaâs trial being in this episode was a bit of a surprise, but letâs be real, the show is called Agatha All AlongâŚdo we really believe that our favorite dramatic sad backstory mommy issues-filled witch only gets ONE episode for her trial?
The Ouija board makes the objective for this task clear: Punish Agatha. A task that some of the coven clearly have no qualms carrying out. But letâs think about the sequence of events after that message is delivered.
The coven tries to tie up Agatha which fails after Agatha becomes possessed by her mother. Agathaâs mother says Agatha must be left behind which causes her to freak out. Alice tries to save Agatha which results in Agatha accidentally(?) killing her. Agatha is only stopped when Teen says her sonâs name and the door to escape opens after Teen says Goodbye on the Ouija board.
Notice anything?
Agatha is never *technically* punished by her coven. Each trial so far involves a task that 1. is specific to one witchâs ability, 2. involves a clear objective that the coven eventually recognizes and reaches together, 3. ends with growth, both power and character wise, of the witch/coven. This episode feels off because the formula is off. And the formula is off because none of itâs real.
Episode 5 IS Agathaâs punishment. Every trial has stirred up unwanted tragic memories from the witch itâs related to. It is no coincidence that this episode hits every. single. one. of Agathaâs problems.
It starts with an Ouija Board - Agatha has killed a lot of people, not all of them on purpose. We already know Agatha loves to pretend to not feel anything, but now she is forced to directly interact with her victims.
Punish Agatha - The coven turns on Agatha surprisingly quick to carry out the trial and surround her while she is on the floorâŚjust like her old coven betrayed her. She fears betrayal.
Evanora Harkness - Self-explanatory, she not only forcefully possesses Agatha (which could tie in to fear of lack of control thanks to Wanda), but tells her she was born evil, something that Agatha looks devastated to hear. Mommy issues galore.
âIâll be goodâ - upon hearing that her coven may leave her behind, Agatha freaks out and begs for them to not leave her. Fear of abandonment.
Aliceâs Death - Agatha seems horrified after killing Alice with her powers (just like she killed her mother and coven in the past), and the rest of the present coven, especially Teen, are horrified by her actions and donât believe her.
Nicholas Scratch - A devastating name to hear. And his voice calling to her is just the cherry on top.
And after she leaves the trial? Teen turns on her using magic similar to Wandaâs and then throws Agatha off the path to kill her. And Rio is suddenly nowhere to be seen? Another tumblr user made an interesting point that the aspect ratio doesnât return to normal like it usually does after a trial. Because all of this has been the precursor to Agathaâs actual trial.
This may be all in her mind and itâs up to her coven to help her, guess we wonât know for sure until next week.
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The Pink Palace | Horror-October (SKZ)
đ Struggling to make ends meet as a freshly graduated college student, you and your friends, Chan & Changbin, move into a cheap apartment on the hills together. Despite the dying garden and unbelievable creepy ambiance, you think this is a place you can call home. That is, until you realize it's already someone else's. đ
Ep. 1 | The Move-In
đ Cheap rent seems great until you're discovering bugs, dirty water, and learning about the strange disappearances that seem to take place at the apartments. Whatever, at least you have the bed to break into it.
Ep. 2 | Dreaming of the Painter on Floor Two
đ It's exactly like the Pink Palace, only a thousand times better. It helps that the beautiful man upstairs is infatuated by you. Maybe the buttons for eyes isn't too bad.
Ep. 3 | Cats Galore
đ The Other Neighbors downstairs hardly raise concern other than their weird fascinations with cats. You don't mind them playing with yours, but you're learning that things aren't as they seem.
Ep. 4 | Dolly from the Garden
đ Reality is often cruel, much like the thorns you pick from the abandoned garden. The man who lives on the other side of the hill decides to pay you another visit, but this time, he brings gifts.
Ep. 5 | Cat-fight
đ Now there's no doubt in your mind that this Other World is very much real. You're desperate to make your roommates see the truth, but the neighborhood black cat is set on keeping his mouth shut. Yours too.
Ep. 6 | So Sharp You Won't Feel a Thing
đ The Others are too much, too obsessed with keeping you on their side. They beg and do everything in their power, but you can't leave everything you know to stay in The Other World forever...can you?
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sacrosanct | leon kennedy x reader | 1
NEXT >
pairing: leon kennedy x f!reader
summary: Leon, a paladin of the temple who became a disillusioned oathbreaker, returns from years of war with a noble title and shattered faith. Once devoted to the Saintess who healed him, Leon's admiration has twisted into repressed desireâfeelings he could never express, tainted by guilt and shame. Now a celebrated hero, heâs drawn back not to the kingdomâs praises, but to the chance of one last glimpse of you to move on with his life.
The god he abandoned has other plans for him.
word count: 14K (i am so sorry)
warnings: descriptions of war, suggestive themes, slow burn so it's only sensual for now, religious shame and guilt
disclaimer: this work contains Catholic imagery that is a part of rofan manhwa worldbuilding tropes. "the saintess" trope itself isn't a saint in accordance with Catholic traditions, it's just a character archetype that developed over time in the isekai genre and means more of a "holy maiden chosen by god" and "healer" with "divine powers" protected by the "church" of that specific fictional world. however, i did my best to do my research. this work has nothing to do with Christianity or any other religions and is totally fictional. please keep that in mind as you proceed!
author's note: mandalhoerian goes back to her reader era! please say thank you to @chesue00 for allowing me to use her artwork in this fic, I wrote a whole scene that depicts the art piece which was the whole inspiration for this 3-day frothing at the mouth frenzy!!!!
now, Sacrosanct is a blend of tropes i love in rofan manhwa/webtoon/mangas that are my favorite, so prepare for misunderstandings galore in the future đ but leon specifically is inspired by malthus from hilda furacao. which just means yearning and sexual repression. re2!leon to re4!leon pipeline is just the sweet commoner knight to cold duke of the north pipeline in manhwa, and if you understand what that means, im personally sending you a virtual kiss LMAO Happy reading, I hope yall like it!
don't forget this is the first part only.... heh. the template credit
đREAD ON AO3 !
The first blush of dawn trickles through the gaps in heavy drapes, bathing your chambers in apricot hues. Crisp echoes of rustling silk resonate as you delicately lift the mask from its velvet perch. Bathed in daybreak's golden light, coloured glass chips embedded into the mask shimmer in lost constellations. The caress of velvety smooth fabric against your skin sends shivers dancing down your spine as you tie on, freshly laundered linen smell intertwining with lingering scent of last nightâs incense used in nightly prayers, hints of lavender meet smoky frankincense.
Your gaze shifts to the mirror, the mask now concealing your mortal features, intricate filigree swirling across your face in an ethereal web and tiny crystals dotted along the lines sparking like stars. Taking a deep breath to stand a little taller and square your shoulders, you reach up to adjust your veil, ensuring no errant strands of hair are visible. The gauzy fabric falls in diaphanous folds around you, the whispers arising with your every movement the only sounds in the stillness of dawn.
Though the sacred mask and veil hide your earthly form, they cannot conceal the weakness of the human soul in your eyes.
The gateway to your wishes is wide open, one closer look is all one needs to see how you yearn to walk unencumbered through the gardens, to feel the caress of sunlight on your bare skin.
But the edicts are clear - when you leave these chambers, the Saintess must be fully shrouded, an exalted vessel and naught else.
You amble down to the sacred chapel for morning prayers before breaking your fast - a custom enacted in hushed reverence. As you descend stone steps weathered by time, you're swaddled in the scent of smoldering incense permeating from open timber doors, trailing invisible veins into the invigorating morning air. Inside, familiar faces of fellow sisters and brothers offer gentle nods of greeting as you find solace before the altar, sinking onto the cushioned bench tailored specifically for you, in the name of quiet contemplation and prayerful kneeling.
In honor of Ethelion, your one true Lord, silence descendsâa pause amplified by its gravitas. Then with an authority that makes everything else seem trivial in comparison, there's the priest: his directing is ripples on still water reaching out towards infinityâsound molded into sacred words known only too well to heart.
The humming drone of faith-soaked chants serves as a welcome breather from the constant ponderings on war and sacrifice thatâs been plaguing you for weeks. Those gnawing realities always sneak up and nibble away at your moments of peace, but here in this church, Ethelionâs mercy reigns supremeâthe refuge is heard in the choruses belted out emphatically, slicing through any weighty thoughts, their lyrics loftier than any worldly worry.
As the sun stands at its zenith above and sends shards of golden light filtering through the stained glass canvases, the ceremony unwinds. It feels like saying goodbye too soon amidst vibrant echoes of hymns that grip onto ancient brick walls built upon stories spanning centuries, currents of history carrying their inevitable fade. Here, they stand stillâif only for a whileâpinned by lingering notes lost in air rich with incense burn and oakwood musk coupled with memories tasting of sacramental wine still clinging to tongues.
Stepping into the courtyard, you're swathed in a prism of pastel huesâblossoms unveiling their sugared whispers to the inviting warmth of a lingering breeze. You catch wind of their fragrance; it hooks you, a blend of sweet floral undertones and spring's renewed vigor carrying history within its essence, and you cannot wait to check on your lily garden.
Children dart amongst looming pews, mischief gleaming in their eyes as they engage in hushed games, shards of laughter echoing softly around the otherwise hallowed space. The sight tugs at a wisp of nostalgia, memories when life was simpler, less layered with expectations and daunting futures.
The youngest ones eyeing your departure don't miss a beat. Like mini warriors possessed by unruly spirits, they break rank from the congregation to run after youâa whirlwind of giggles and shouts lacing the air. Their excitement thrums against your skin, buzzing like electricityâan unexpected surge that leaves behind a ghostly imprint.
Yet before they can reach you or even conflict with stone-faced paladins on guard duty, an adult hand restrains them. Respectful bows font towards you as if to acknowledge an unspoken understandingâa solemn line between what is allowed and what isn't negotiated under sacred roofs and watchful gazes.
The breaking of your fast happens solely in the intimacy of your chambers, where you can abandon the weariness of your mask.
Fresh fruits and bread baked by the monks in the kitchens await you on a simple wooden table, their colors vibrant against the muted tones of your chamber. The apples gleam like polished rubies, their skins taut and inviting, while clusters of plump grapes spill over from the plate. The bread, golden and crusty, emits a warm aroma that fills the air with comfort; its texture promises a satisfying chew that will sustain you through the dayâs trials.
You pour yourself a glass of tea, steam curling up like ethereal wisps as you set it beside the fruits, its sweetness rendered by generous dollops of honey that transform each sip into liquid amber. As you bite into a slice of bread, the crust crackles under your teeth, giving way to a soft and airy interior that melts on your tongue. Itâs simple fareâyet it nourishes not just your body but also stirs echoes of childhood memories spent in the kitchens, where laughter mingled with the scent of baked goods.
The weight of your impending sacred duty hangs over you like storm clouds heavy with rain.
It's not just a responsibility; it's an anchor dragging you into the depths of despair, each step forward to navigate it is like wading through molten lead.
You peer through the frost-kissed window, and the courtyard below unfolds like a battlefield before a decisive clash. Figures clad in armor move with the grace of dancers and the determination of warriors bound for glory or doom. The pieces of gleaming plate mail reflects the pale light, casting fractured rainbows on the cobbled ground.
The gleam of virgin armor, polished to a high sheen, is nothing more than a facade.
It's an ornament, untouched by the brutality of combatâitâs their holy calling that these paladins embrace, not the bloody stain of war. And yet, you sit there on your throne and hesitate to send even one amongst them into the fray for your crown's sake.
How easy would it be to fool yourself into believing that time has frozen, and these young knights in training are simply rehearsing under the guise of some distant uncertainty. But your eyes have skimmed those sealed parchment letters, their inky truths seeping more dread into an already strained air; you're not as naive as all that. The chilling certainty of the Holy War lurks just on the other side of these weathered stone wallsâit's only a matter of moments before a gasping messenger dispatches reality like storm clouds breaking open.
Regardless of how fervently you pray or how deep your self-sacrifice runs, it wonât alter this predetermined destiny.
Even as you grip your blessed rosary so tightly it leaves hardened impressions in your palm's soft flesh. Even when unshed tears blur your vision, scalding hot yet stubbornly refusing to fall free, and a knot of shame twists low within your stomach like vile poisonâan uncomfortable squirming inside that is almost visceral. Your journey forward leaves much to be desiredâmired with dark ambiguities, where faith resembles something more akin to a clumsy blind groping in the vast unknown.
Your heart twingesâa raw acheâat the sight of blond hair all too familiar.
"Leon," escapes in a murmur from between your chapped lips against the icy window paneâthe cold seeping into your skin; tiny tendrils numbing any sensation away.
The young paladin has blossomed into a towering figure since his personal guard duty by your side the last month, his frame enveloped in the armor thatâs bigger than his still-growing form. The sight of him clad in battle gear is a poignant one, for the metal plates seem to engulf him rather than adorn him. He looks anything but menacing, sweet consideration towards those heâs sparring with, despite clad head-to-toe in battle gear, with such carefree confidence that threatens to split your aching chest.
In a split second, on the other side of that cold glass wall; Leonâs focus latches onto your unveiled and unmasked presence like a sunflower bending towards light.
It's as if you've breathed some forbidden word into the wind - an inaudible gasp tingles the silence and ripples off his lips. He stammers mid-battle stance, frozen under some unseen celestial hammer, scorched into oblivion.
You step back hurriedly, yanking your veil down over your face once more; it's rough underneath your fingertips, but nothing compared to the turmoil swirling inside you. His own stunned gaze falters, tugs itself away as if burned - damn those beautiful eyes! But that moment costs him dearly as his rival lunges and he crumbles under the assault, and your heart wonât stop racing, undeniable fondness with a foreign heat creeping up your neck.
Leon bounces back from the blow almost instantly, staggering back to his feet like it's second nature; like he hasn't just had the wind knocked out of him and seems more rattled than before.
His opponentâs moves are unforgiving, one after another until Leon's guard slips. With a resounding thud that sends shudders up your spine, Leon gets slammed into the dirt floor.
His helmet soars through the air with an eerie ring that echoes around the courtyard, tumbling to rest at the boots of a nearby Paladin whose gaze is stuck on Leonâs prone form - filled with something close to pity but still masked by pride. A comrade extends a roughened hand, helping Leon upright, his comforting pat lingering just a moment too long on his shoulder blade as if unsure whether to leave or stay for strength. Jovially yet sternly, the older knight cuffs Leon on his arm, gauntlet striking armor with a dull clang.
As you retreat from your voyeuristic post at the window when reverberating tolls from the grand temple's bells signal practice time has run its course, there's an adrenaline rush buzzing under your skin even though you were merely watching. The upcoming blessing ceremony casts its shadow over you â all consuming and much larger than life; leaves no space for silly fancies.
Sunset paints the temple grounds in a bronzed hue as Leon treks alone back to the barracks, his mind adrift. Training bruises throb under his armor, though it's the sting of his fractured pride that truly wounds him.
None of it matters in the face of the glimpse of divinity he accidentally caught.
He nearly bends with the weight of it, an abyss of greed that he fears his brothers-in-arms can sense infecting his spirit. It maligns his growth as a paladin; he's sure Ethelion sees the invasive avarice lurking beneath skin and bone, an illicit truth residing within him nipping at him from the inside like a woodworm.
The seed of which had been planted over a decade ago, in these lily gardens, in the healing hands of a young Saintess whose presence and unmasked face lingered in his heart and grew into an infatuation with her holy touch.
He was but a boy back then, brittle and broken in body, his fragile skin stretched thin over bony limbs, rife with illness that stole the color from his cheeks and the air from his lungs. His very life seemed held together by prayers of his parents alone, fluttering like leaves in the wind. He'd stumbled into the garden by accident, chasing a stray cat with his siblings, not realizing he was lost.
Yet fate cast her sanguine smile and Ethelion himself turned an eye on him, sending the Saintess his way.
A warm glow drew him further through the bushes, and there you stood, cloaked in a robe that made your radiance seem as if it were born from moonlight. His eyes should have burned upon landing on you unmasked, youthful face that unmistakably belonged to a human girl of his age and not that of Ethelion in the flesh, but instead, his lungs expanded with an unknowable strength because of the divine power around you, an easiness that made it feel like he was breathing for the first time.
Not met with punishment for such audacityâhe was instead gifted healing through your sacred touchâand got left laced with a perpetual yearning, sickness eradicated from his being and infused life onto starved limbs.
A lesson was disclosed to him later on when heâd become aware of himself, about why the Saintess had to be veiled.
His desires knew no end. It was for her spiritual purity that the Saintess could not be seen unmasked or reveal herself to mortals. Could one imagine the consequences of men akin to him lying eyes upon such magnificence, gracing skin intended only for Ethelion's touch? The impressionable child that he was had bloomed into an adult consumed by her divinity, hell-bent on basking in it all life long. Surely kingdoms would fold, as mortals were bound to disrupt natural balance attempting to seize the maiden of god.
So, when you appeared in the tower window today, he was overcome with a sensation so powerful it felt like angelic apparitions traced their wings down his back.
Divine grace embodied, shining forth in ways he couldn't articulate.
An inexplicable need arose from his bones for him to go to you, throw himself down in worship, confess sins one by one and receive penance:
In the hush of many nights when the temple halls were empty, he would wander like a ghost and always come back to kneel at the feet of Ethelion, daring to touch the cushions before the altar where you prayed, his fingers lingering where only your robes should caress. The audacity of his gaze tracing the delicate embroidery of your veil when he stood guard by your side, seeking to unveil something meant solely for Ethelionâs eyes, was but one of his many transgressions against the sanctity that cloaked youâŚ
His form of worship seemed askew, borne more out of desire than devoutness; staining the starkly white fabric of his duty with its off-colour ardour.
He could never allow you, the revered Saintess, to know about this sinful sentiment dwelling within him; tarnishing every sweet memory associated with you.
The fantasy he harbored diminished his image, trendlessly etched as an obedient paladin's plight â but for him, you represented something significantly more profound. To even admit how dreams featuring you bewitchingly bathed in grace tainted his oath of celibacy would risk jeopardizing the hope invested in recognizing his service towards Ethelion.
The desire to earn the highest recognition, a Paladin's title and acceptance of his fealty to protect you as such â got increasingly tangled in a visceral wanting lost somewhere between sacrilege and worship that left a devout hunger echoing within him for your sake.
To satisfy this, he threw himself fiercely into arduous training channels to strengthen both his body and mind with every challenging day that went by - striving ceaselessly with dreams of deserving a place by your side.
Now, he stands precipitously on the verge; holding on desperately to this undisclosed confession â harboring a stolen glance of you from earlier as a secret talisman.
How could he go into the Holy War with his brothers now, knowing he'd seen beneath your veil and⌠Felt.
âYou seem troubled, Sir Leon.â
Leon doesnât dare turn; a jagged lick of dread splinters down his spine. He recognizes that voiceâhow could he not when it haunts his dreams night after night? Instead, he stares into nothingness, rooted to the ground, his mind unable to process that you're speaking to him.
But he does turn, finding you standing serenely beneath an archway covered with tangled fragrant vines in the Temple's back garden.
Your presence fills Leon with equal parts awe and unease, as if Ethelion himself is shaming him from above for desiring what should be beyond mortal reach.
Yet your countenance remains unchanged, unmarred by his inner turmoil. The mask stays in place, an extension of your divinityâonly now, Leon swears that beneath it, your eyes are smiling at him.
Leon stands within the cool shadow of the ancient temple, its weathered stones holding an age-old embrace that wraps around him like a cloak. The air is thin with the delicate scent of lilies thatâs wafting towards him from the gardenâfrom you, and outside, where sunlight filters through the leafy canopy, you stand amidst color. Your garments catch the sunset, casting a shimmer that mirrors the beauty of your surroundings.
The difference between his shadowed presence and your radiant figure is a shaming from above, showing Leon your place in His divine light while he remains shrouded in sin.
The clinking of Leon's loose armor rings as he lowers himself to one knee before you, âForgive me, Saintess. I did not mean to disturb your meditations.â
The rustle of silk heralded your approach, brushing against the cool stone floor like a gentle breeze stirring a field of wildflowers. He inhales sharply, his breath hitching in his throat as the fragrance of lilies envelops him.
You stop before him, your robes cascading around you like a mirage of opal waves, he is captivated by an urge so primal that it sends a flush of heat to his cheeks and makes his palms sticky; he longs to press his lips to the delicate fabric that seems to breathe with divine grace.
âPlease rise, Sir Leon. I saw you training today. Your skills are formidable.â
His pride swelled silent and strong within his chest â a sudden weight that could unbalance him more than any physical blow ever could.
"Your words honor me greatly," he manages to speak to the stones at his feet, even after he is back up at his feet.
"Yet you seem to have much on your mind."
He cannot meet your eyes; it feels overwhelming to face such beauty and concern directed solely at him.
"Pardon me, that was a silly question, wasn't it? Of course you have much on your mind. You're about to ride into battle. Such thoughts are not easy to bear. Do you wish to talk about it?"
"It's not my place to trouble you with such things, Saintess. They will soon be far from here, and you will be safe in the Temple.â
He glances at you, and the look in your eyes is enough to make him forget how to breathe. Itâs a blend of curiosity and tenderness; an innocence that nearly pierces through his mask and grazes the wicked depths of his heart.
You tilt your head, much like a bird contemplating a worm, and gently ask, "Would you indulge my curiosity and share one worry with me?"
It's an impossibly generous gesture, for you to extend this small piece of yourself to him in the middle of your meditations. Leon's teeth ache at the sweetness of it, at your kindness that extends even to him.
âIâm doubting my worthiness to serve,â he confesses unceremoniously. âI train relentlessly, but I lack the innate spark my brothers were born with. It's as if... as if I'm play-acting at being a Paladin.â
Those aren't the only doubts that torment himâbut the ones he can actually say out loud without burning at the stake for.
"Do you remember the day we met, Sir Leon?" you begin, clasping your hands and turning around to face the gardens, the gentle breeze is making your veil flutter.
Leon nods, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. Even so many years later, the memory still has the power to stir his soul, churning something in his chest that makes it hard to think straight.
"It seems like it was yesterday that a young boy came stumbling into the garden, barely able to stand up, and looked me dead in the face. What do you think I saw in him?"
He always assumed the Saintess would have forgotten such a brief encounter, yet it was etched firmly into his memory and to hear it spoken aloud has his pulse miss a couple beats.
"Do you think I saw weakness as he lay gasping in the dirt? Or did I perhaps see an innocent curiosity that was easily swept up by the cruelty of this world and tamed into obedience? Or maybe I saw something else entirely.â
He shakes his head, trying to make sense of your words. It sounds like you're making a statement, but it's not clear which part you agree with.
"Tell me, Sir Leon. What is a spark? Does it come to life, or can it be nurtured from the smallest ember of resolve?" you whisper, fingers trembling as they ascend, tracing a path as delicate as a petal's fall, nearing his cheek with hesitant affection.
Heâs paralyzed when your touch indeed lands instead of drifting away.
Your fingers linger, tracing the curve of his jawline with such gentleness, demure and awkward; and the pressure of it makes his skin sing, sparks dancing along every inch.
It's barely a caress, but he feels it in his bonesâthis acheâthat swells and burns, a fire set alight inside his chest thatâs on the precipice of consuming him whole.
A whole-body shiver breaks free, but you remain unfazedâyour hand is still there, stroking his flesh with such tenderness; soft against the corner of his jaw.
"One is not born to greatness, one achieves it." You're calm, yet firm, a voice that commands respect. He's reminded of the many times he heard you deliver blessings on high ceremonies. There's something about the cadence of your words that pulls at the strings of his soul, drawing him in closerâdeeper. "What truly matters is the conviction behind your actions. And, Sir Leon, you may not see it yet. But there's a spark inside your chest that burns brighter than any candle. Don't let anyone dampen it, for it shall shine a path forward unto others and bring glory to our land."
You pull away, leaving a void in your wake. Leon finds himself wanting to reach after you, wanting nothing more than for your skin to keep pressing against his, for your warmth to bleed through his own and ease the burden that's crushing him.
He wants to kiss those fingers that haveâ
Red hot shame enough to set firewoods aflame shoots straight to settle on his cheeks, flushing them as a wicked feeling sinks in his stomach, a heavy sinking pit. The meaning of your words resounds in his heart like a thunderclap after the lightning that was your touch, your holy words washing over him like a balmâor a warning.
He's brought back to reality abruptly with the harsh cackle of metal against stone as a group of paladins walk by and salute him and bow for the Saintess, pulling him out of a daze as he greets them. Their voices seem distant, faces a blur. It's a miracle Leon manages a nod at them in acknowledgment.
He finds his tongue eventually, his face still aflame with embarrassment at the realization of being in front of the Saintess, an idol of the Church, a woman he thinks of during his late-night ruminations, and still feels guilty for.
"T-thank you, Saintess,â his voice wavers, trembling even with those two simple words that leave him shaking, stirred to the core as if a sudden storm just swept him away to sea, and you are the shore he longs to return to. He fears he might drown in the depths of those beautiful eyes, pulled under by the current.
"It is I who should be thanking you, Sir Leon. You're risking everything to ensure peace for our realm."
Your words wrap around him like a hug, holding him in place while also offering a moment of comfort, like coming home from a long trip away. He treasures those precious few seconds, committing them to memory. But you are a Saintess, not a fellow knight, and there are no hugs or handshakes in his world.
"I'll see you in the ceremony," you continue, before leaving Leon with his heaving chest and a pressure knotting deep in his stomach, walking back to the serenity of the Temple, robes fluttering around your feet like snow settling over frozen earth.
Once you have disappeared into the confines of the temple, he lets out a deep breath. His heart is still beating wildly; the memory of your fingertips brushing his skin is seared into his flesh, an indelible mark that cannot be scrubbed away. He is unable to shake the feeling that he has committed some unspeakable sin; his body a living, breathing violation of his vows.
Leon washes himself in the barracks' bathing chambers, and as he stares at the naked flesh beneath steaming water, his thoughts turn to the ritual that awaits him. In the heat and sweat of it, he wonders if you can wash him clean, baptize his tainted heart.
His sweat trickles down his back, leaving shimmering beads of perspiration in its wake, he can feel each droplet sliding down like a ghostly caress overheated skin glistening under the light of flickering candles; his head is thrown back, and wet hair is slicked away from his face as he reclines in the wooden bathtub. He reaches up to trace the lines of his jaw with trembling fingers that hover just above his skin, remembering what it felt like to have your touch there. He closes his eyes and lets the steam envelop him; he feels the heaviness in his groin, thick and full between his thighs.
In this moment, he is alone with his guilt and shame; but underneath all that self-recrimination there lies a deeper emotion he dares not acknowledge: hope.
The blessing ceremony unfolds with the break of dawn the next day.
Rows of paladins stand at attention, forming a formidable barrier outside the towering chapel. You make your way up the marble steps, flanked by your retinue, and lift your veiled face to behold the regimented paladins before you. Their armor catches the sunlight in a dazzling display, swords resting peacefully in their scabbards. Every single one of them is an anonymous guardian, faces obscured by identical helmets and billowing white capes adorned with a shimmering blue starburst emblem emblazoned on their chest plates.
Upon reaching the summit of the staircase, the massive oak doors swing wide open, revealing an expanse filled with devout worshippers immersed in fervent prayer. Bathed in hues of multicolored light filtering through intricate stained-glass windows, their worshiping forms kneel upon the cool marble floor. Sunbeams caress their bowed heads like a halo, creating a mosaic of ethereal radiance that plays upon their serene features.
The hush that descends as you cross the threshold is whispered benedictions through the hall, enshrouding all present in a solemn embrace as you draw nearer to the altar at its heart.
At the altar stands the head priest, garbed in ceremonial robesâthe deep hues of white and gold intertwining with ancient symbols. His palms are raised towards the statue of Ethelion, supplication etched into every line of his face. Before him sits an empty altar table covered in rich crimson velvet trimmed with gold brocade, and at its center rests a silver bowl filled with holy water, reflecting shards of light like fragments of a broken mirror.
Beside the basin stands a golden chalice and a sharp blade gleaming ominously.
You sink into a curtsy before the priestâyour knees grazing the cool stone floorâas he intones your full title: "I salute the Beloved of Ethelion, Avatar of Eternity and Renewal,â before he gently beckons you to rise.
Taking your place before the altar, you feel the weight of an entire kingdom resting upon your shoulders. This ritual isn't mere superstition; it's a tangible link between mortal and divineâa celestial promise that Ethelia is indeed favored by the gods.
Yet beneath this grandeur lies urgency cloaked in ceremony: you're chosen by Ethelion to channel his blessingâa gift that comes with strings attached. It promises good health and protection from injury but depletes as quickly as candles flicker out in gusty winds.
You've done this countless times, yet it never becomes easier. You can only hope that the god residing within you answers earnestly todayâgracing the paladins with divine strength and healing their wounds as you pour every ounce of yourself into them.
A hushed silence envelops the chamber as the priest lifts up the basin and blesses its water. He then raises it above your head, pouring its contents slowly over your body. The liquid cascades down your shoulders like molten goldâcool initially but warming as it mingles with your skinâand pools at your feet like melted sunlight. It seeps into the hem of your flowing robe which now shimmers like saffron touched by daylight's first rays.
The priest murmurs prayers of consecration while taking up the gleaming blade from beside chalice's stem. Gesturing for everyone gathered to join hands, he swiftly cuts into your wrist without warningâprecise and unyielding. Blood oozes forth; dark as ink with whiffs reminiscent faint iron scent permeating air around tendrils curling upward almost ethereal fashion dripping fingersâ tips.
"May Ethelion guide thy swords on this path forward!" you invoke in a solemn tone. The words carry an authority that rings throughout the entire Temple, sending vibrations through the gathered crowd as they repeat your verse.
With a sharp exhale, you approach the priest and rest your open wound over the golden goblet, watching your blood drip into the vessel, drop by painstaking drop. All the while, the attendees recite their blessings in a swelling crescendo, their voices echoing back from the domed roof like an urgent prayer caught between earth and sky.
Your arm throbs incessantlyâa dull ache blossoming into searing pain, but you press on, undeterred. Despite how difficult it becomes, there's solace in sharing this burden with others, knowing that they too have a part to play.
Finally, when enough blood has been collected, the priest holds the chalice high and exclaims, "For the kingdom! For Ethelion!"
On command, the paladins march forward with military precision, lining up in single file before the altar, the line extending out of the doors. With measured steps, they kneel in succession, resting their forearms atop the surface in a gesture of humility. You are handed the holy sword, its blade shimmering beneath the lights, its hilt ornately decorated with rubies and diamonds.
Placing your bleeding wrist atop the hilt's cool metal surface, you hold it above the first kneeling paladin's helmeted head. Slowly and carefully, you dip your finger into the cup of crimson liquid and anoint him with your blood by marking his crested foreheadâa tangible sign of his sworn loyalty. Whispering a blessing so only he can hear it feels almost intimateâthe sword becoming a conduit for divine power. The tip of the blade descends upon his crown; his shoulders instantly stiffen under this sacred touchâthey tremble when it grazes one shoulder then moves to deliver an ethereal blow to the other.
The process repeats itself, endless and exhausting, as you move down the line.
Each anointment saps more of your energy reserves until you're left weak and nearly hollowed out from within. Yet pouring every bit of life force into each paladin so they may be shielded on battlefields ahead brings bittersweet satisfaction mixed with aching reliefâyou find strength anew just enough to persevere.
By the time you reach the end of the rows, your skin feels as paper-thin as the gauzy fabric covering your body. The edges of your vision have started to blur, and it takes considerable effort to stay upright, gripping the edge of the altar to steady yourself. Your heart is fluttering beneath your ribs like a frantic bird, wanting to burst free from its cage of bone and muscle and escape this agony. Your palms are clammy; you're sweating profusely beneath your robes, but despite this, you must see this rite through till its completion.
The ancient wooden door of the chapel creaks open, its mournful groan deafening in the silent night. A thin beam of moonlight slices through the gap, illuminating the dusty air. Inside, flickering candle flames cast warm, trembling light on Ethelionâs marble statue, which gazes down at you with unblinking, expressionless eyes.
You place your mask at the base of His effigy; unveiling yourself like this is a crucial part of the ritualâa moment of communion with the deity. You stand exposed before Him in every wayâphysically, spiritually, and emotionally. He serves as a mirror reflecting your deepest essenceâa piece of you laid bare without fear or shame. Hiding from Him would be like refusing to acknowledge your own existence.
Summoning all your bravery, you remove the fragile veil that acts as your last shield against the worldâs curious eyes, letting it rest gently next to your discarded mask. With both face and hair now revealed, you kneel before His statue. Your head bows low in penance, hands squeezed together in a gesture of deep devotion.
"Blessed Ethelion, forgive your servant," you plead with a tremor. "I have doubt in my heart. I'm afraid."
The statue remains silent; only overpowering stillness fills the air as seconds stretch into eternity. Then warmth radiates through youâstarting from your chest and unfurling into your limbsâlike sunshine poured into your veins, igniting every fiber with radiant energy.
"I donât want any of them to die," you confess quietly, tears spilling free to splash against the cold flagstone floor. "Theyâre innocents caught in a war not their own."
There are no words in response, yet you feel an undeniable answer; Ethelionâs reassuring presence envelops you like a warm embrace. He is there to listen to you in silence.
This ritual is a moment of weaknessâwhere fear manifests openly for release. These men are about to step into hell itself beyond the walls. Though they fight for honor and glory, deep down you know it will become a bloodbathâa massacre that will rend this kingdom apart.
"There's nothing sacred about this; yet here I stand sentencing Your children to death," you lament as tears trickle down your cheeks, mingling salty bitterness against trembling lips. No further sign comes; Ethelion appears content merely to observe from His heavenly perchâperhaps reminding you gently of your divine dutyâthe role He has ordained for you. "I beg forgiveness, O Lord. I could not change the minds blinded by ignorance. My heart bleeds for those suffering because of this conflict. Please protect them so they may come back to bask once more in Your radiant light."
You bow deeply before Him; rising again is a struggle as your knees quake beneath you.
"Saintess."
You jump at the familiar voice that slices through the sanctity of silence, eyes widening in recognition and trepidation.
This is the third time Leon has witnessed you this vulnerable without the holy artifacts shielding the flesh beneath, yet he remains unassuming and gentle; shock absent from his spirit this time. He stands close behind you in this hallowed space belonging solely to Ethelion's infinite wisdom, and you dare not breatheâafraid of shattering this ethereal moment.
"Avert your eyes, Sir Leon.â
The hairs on the back of your neck prickle, standing erect. You remain there unmoving, save for the tiny droplets of sweat gathering on your hairline as he moves with the grace of a shadow, his steps measured and deliberate, until he stands by your side, his eyes unwaveringly fixed upon the towering statue of Ethelion that looms before you both, as if seeking solace in the stone divinity rather against the evil of your human form.
He drops down onto both knees, bowing so low that his forehead nearly kisses the cold stone floor.
A subtle movement draws your attention, and you steal a glance from beneath your lashes. The moonlight caresses strands of golden hair and spins them into threads of silver. His attire deviates from the usual paladin's armor; instead, he wears a simple cotton shirt, its sleeves rolled up to reveal strong, veiny forearms sculpted by hard practice. The fabric clings to his form, hinting at the sinewy strength that lies beneath. Riding breeches embrace his legs snugly, tucked into worn boots that have weathered countless journeys.
The collar of his shirt is notched open, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of the base of his throat and the expanse of his upper chest. Your gaze traces the contours of muscle defined beneath the sheer material, and traitorously ventures lower, lingering on the curve of his bent knees before daring to explore further down to where his knuckles restâtaut and unyielding atop thighs etched with power. It leaves your mouth dry.
The intensity with which he shuts his eyes mirrors that boy from years pastâthe one who clenched his fists tightly against pain, refusing to cry as he battled an illness that should have claimed his life but didn't.
You yield to an impulse, enveloping him in the ethereal embrace of your veil, a shield against the world's gaze and your own. His body tenses beneath the delicate fabric as you glide it over his features, a soft gasp escaping from deep within him. With a trembling exhale, he quivers imperceptibly, fingers pressing into the cloth with a fervor that leaves faint dents on his skin, hands strained from the intensity.
"Open your eyes," you murmur tenderly, reluctant to disrupt the fragile moment.
Gleaming blue flickers into view through the white, translucent shroud, their clarity distorted by the gossamer material. You observe his swallow, the rhythmic rise and fall of his Adam's apple as he tentatively reaches to draw it down over his face.
Through the veil's prism, you must appear as a kaleidoscope of hues and forms to him; a phantom of your true essence, an elusive apparition hovering at the edge of reality.
"The⌠The blessing went well today," Leon sputters, cracking at the end like glass under pressure.
"Why did you come here, Sir Leon?" you ask gently, sensing that beneath his stiff formality lies a multitude of untold emotions.
"Are you alright?" The genuine concern for your person sends shivers cascading over your skin; fine hairs on your arms lift as he touches his wristâmirroring right where your blood had been drawn. "Does it hurt every time the blessing is performed? I've never watched it before. It's..."
He falters, mouth opening and closing, and you notice how the fractured light from the windows bathes the swell of his cheeks in a tender luminescence. His words hang between you both, delicate strands of silk trying to knit themselves into coherence.
"It's awful, Saintess. To see your suffering laid bare before everyone."
"I would drain my whole body if it meant those brave men will go out knowing they are protected," you say with resolute calmness, though deep down, you're curious about how he truly perceives you now.
A barely audible "I know," escapes him. It feels like a confessionâan unpleasant truth he doesnât like being faced with. Whatever it holds makes warmth surge through you, igniting your skin and causing another involuntary shiver as he moistens his lower lip with a slow sweep of his tongue. "I know."
"Don't worry about me, Sir Leon. Your job is out there defending these lands, while mine is to ease your burdens. Think only of protecting those who need your shield.â
âIs it wrong to care for those I serve?â His wholehearted question tightens something within youâstirs an undefined yet potent emotion ready to bloom.
"Not at all," you reply almost breathlessly as he gazes intently at the curve of your jawlineâyour face blurred but memorized by him with stunning accuracy. "Remember whom your sword serves; we live only to honor Ethelion."
"I wish the world were different," his words seem hollowed out, lacking meaning, and yet there's an unmistakable conviction there, a resolve that drives him.
"As do I."
You glide your fingertips over the altar's slick surface, taking in a deep breath that fills your lungs fully with the sanctity of this space.
Then he straightens up suddenly; determination shines in his posture. He doesnât rise from his kneeling position, yet it frightens you in the same way it would if he had shot up to stand.
"If you'll allow it, Saintess," he says, venerating, and the delicate fabric of his veil brushes against the embroidered sleeve of your robe. That fleeting contact sends a jolt through you, reverberating like a soft, whispered promise. His simple gesture, his proximityâit shouldnât mean anything. But you feel he might as well have taken your hand in his. "I would pledge an oath to you as well."
Thereâs a deliberate slowness in how he pulls back, the motion of a man lingering at a threshold he has no right to cross.
Your chest tightens, your breath coming slower as you try to compose yourself. âOf course, Sir Leon,â you manage, though the stillness between you is filled with your uncertainty. What if you're not worthy of his devotion? Of his sacrifice? If he saw what lay beneath the veil, beyond the role of saintess, would he still look at you this way? Or would he recoil, realizing the truth of what you are: flesh and blood, no more divine than the earth beneath your feet?
You feel his stare. Itâs as though theyâre tracing the length of your body, reaching you through the barrier of the veil, and somehow, that makes the sensation more intimate than if he were standing before you fully revealed.
His breath catches, just slightly. You hear it, feel it, even though the veil between you muffles the sound. "Itâs not about whether youâll accept it," he continues, and thereâs a shift in his stance. You canât see his face, but the way he holds himself, the slight movement of his shoulders beneath the fabric, tells you that heâs grounding himself. "I give this vow because it is mine to give. For you, not for recognition or reward. Itâs my choice, my will. No one needs to know."
His spine is ramrod straight now, but thereâs a softness in his words, a slight tilt of his head as his eyes search yours. âMy loyalty belongs to you alone.â
You swallow hard, the meaning of his words sinking deep into your soul. A lowly servant of Ethelion, thatâs all you are. A vessel. No name, no family, no identity beyond the veil. His words... they speak of individual loyalty, devotion to you, not to Ethelion, not to the divine purpose you embody. You are no one. You have no right to such things. How could you take from him what rightly belongs to the god you serve? Wouldnât you be struck down for such hubris? For leading a paladin astray, pulling him from the only true master he should follow? You tremble at the thought.
"Sir Leon, I cannot accept this." Your fingers curl around the skirt of your robe, the fabric twisting beneath your grip. âItâsââ
His chin lifts, eyes steady on you. "âwrong?"
You start at his interruption. Your voice sounds so feeble as you finish the sentence with a meek, "Yes."
He stays rooted, motionless, but something in the atmosphere shifts again. His breathing, though controlled, seems deeper, and you sense the quiet resolve in the silence that stretches between you.
"Then let me be the one who wrongs Ethelion." His tone carries a weight that presses against you, not through sound but through the way his body holds firm, unwavering. His movements are subtle, restrained, yet the soft brush of his hand grazing his side signals something deeper, a release of tension. "I pledge myself to you, Saintess. To your will, your desires. You are my strength."
The air feels dense, thick with the weight of what heâs offering.
These words flow from him like water spilling over stones, filling up spaces where it couldn't previously reach. The warmth in your chest expands, spreading outward until it seeps into every fiber of your being. Your fingers twitch, the edge of your sleeve twisting between them as you try to ground yourself.
"Please grant me a token of your favor."
Your hands tremble at your sides, your pulse quickening as you fidget with the fabric between your fingers.
What can you possibly offer him?
You glance down, but everything feels out of reach, the world reduced to this one moment.
"But I..." you begin, unsure, your fingers tugging nervously at your sleeve, "I am not a Lady."
Thereâs a pause, the kind that stretches, and though you canât see his expression, it feels charged. He shifts ever so slightly, enough that you catch the faint rustle of fabric as he moves.
"All the more reason," he says, a shy smile in his words. "An unworthy paladin asking for a favor from the Saintessâwhat could be more fitting?"
"Then you may pick whichever object from the temple you desireâ"
"I want something of yours, not an icon, nor some relic," he replies immediately, cutting you short, the butteriness sending shivers running down your back. "What do I lack that you have plenty of, that you won't miss, even if it's just a small trinket?"
Your heart stumbles in your chest, the weight of his request crashing into you like a wave. Real? What could you give him? What is yours to offer?
"A lock of hair?" you whisper, feeling your pulse quicken as you say it. The words feel small, vulnerable, but they tumble out before you can stop them. "Would that⌠suffice?"
Silence follows, his breathing seems to stop.
A lock of hair would belong to you, not the Saintess. A proof of your worldliness, beyond the connection to Ethelion's divine essence. Something that is of the girl and not the holy maiden. Is that what he seeks?
"Your hair," he breathes out in an exhale, as if tasting the words. He appears completely entranced and you become conscious of yourself, the inappropriate nature of just what you brought up.
You draw a slow, shaky breath, the idea settling uneasily in your chest. Thereâs something intensely personal, too intimate about the exchange. "No, you misunderstandâ"
"Your hair, Saintess," he repeats it again, this time more forceful than you've ever seen him; you'd never dare refuse this request and it steals your breath, silencing every protest rising in your throat. "I will accept no less."
Leon rises to his feet, dwarfing you with his broad frame. For the very first time, in Ethelion's presence, you feel small and helpless, like a child who's wandered into his garden. There's something overwhelmingly disarming about sharing this space with him. A foreign sensation blooms within youâ a spark that threatens to ignite your world into flamesâbut you dare not give it voice.
Leon had once worn his armor with pride, each plate fastened like a second skin, the weight of his sword as natural as the rhythm of his heartbeat. Every step forward felt as if he marched hand in hand with something divine, a force greater than himself guiding his every move. The blessing of the saintess had lingered on his skin, a quiet touch that had etched itself into his soul, fortifying his resolve. He had believed, back then, that he was a vessel of the godâs will.
That was years ago.
Now, standing at the edge of the battlefield, the familiar weight of his armor feels heavier, pressing down like an unbearable burden. The bitter taste of dried sweat clings to his lips, and a dull ache pulses beneath his ribs where his armor had done little to stop the last blow. The sun glares down on the blood-soaked earth, the cries of the wounded melding with the clash of steel and the sickening thud of bodies hitting the ground.
This was not what he envisioned. There was nothing divine here.
A shout rises above the noise, sharp and commanding, drawing his gaze toward the horizon. The enemy soldiers draped in black, surge over the hill like a wave of shadow. His grip tightens around his sword, the hilt slick with a mixture of blood and sweat, fingers straining against the leather-bound grip.
âLeon!â A voice, rough and worn from years of battle, cuts through the din. Leon turns, his eyes locking onto Captain Krauser, a veteran whose gaze is as sharp as a hawkâs. His expression is hard, impatient. âOrders from the Temple: we flank their left side!â
Leonâs heart clenches at the mention of the Temple.
It had been a long time since the orders felt pure, righteous. The Churchâs demands had grown more questionable with each passing day. What had once been a campaign to protect the kingdom and its people now reeked of ambitionâland grabs disguised as divine conquest. Territories seized, villages razed under the pretense of holy duty.
But Leon doesnât question. He never has. He is a soldier, a paladin. A servant of Ethelion.
The memory of youâserene, always hidden beneath the mask you wore as the Saintessâsurfaces in his mind, unbidden, his anchor to the divine, the blessing you placed on him sacred. You believed in him, blessed him with your blood, and for that, he would fight. For that, he would fulfill his duty.
He moves after Krauser, silent as a ghost, maneuvering through the throng of soldiers until they reach the flank. The enemyâs forces are spread thin, their attempt to push the kingdomâs army back leaving them exposed. It should be an easy victory. A victory that would tighten their grip on the region, crush the enemyâs morale.
The order comes swiftly, brutal and final: Leave no one alive.
Leon hesitates, his sword held in a grip that tightens until his knuckles ache. Leave no one alive. The same command theyâd been given in the last village. And the one before that. What once felt justifiableâcrushing the enemy for the kingdomâs safetyânow sits like lead in his bones.
Those they slaughtered hadnât been soldiers. They were farmers, villagers. Innocents. Women and children.
He closes his eyes for a brief moment, and the memory of the last village rises unbidden, a flash behind his eyelids. He can still smell the smoke, hear the anguished cries of mothers shielding their children. His punishment for hesitating, for not cutting through them as he did the soldiers, feels lighter than the weight of that memory.
âAre you deaf, shiny?â Krauser says with a low growl, dragging him back to the present. âI said move.â
Leonâs jaw tightens, the muscles in his neck pulling taut. His body moves automatically, his sword rising as he steps forward, following the rest of the paladins into the fray. Steel clashes with steel, bodies crash against one another, but the noise fades, swallowed by the gnawing doubt lodged deep in his chest. He strikes down another soldier, their blood splattering across his already stained armor, but the pit in his stomach only deepens.
He had been blessed to protect the kingdom, to serve the saintess. How did it come to this? When did righteousness turn into thisâbloodlust veiled by holy orders?
Each swing of his sword feels heavier, as though the weight of every soul he cuts down drags him closer to the earth. He fells another enemy, watching as the light drains from their eyes, but itâs not just the life that drains from themâitâs something in him too.
This war, itâs nothing like heâd imagined. In the temple, they had spoken of glory, of righteousness, of battles fought in the name of Ethelion. His fellow soldiers had whispered about the honor of dying for the Temple, the promise of eternal life in the afterworld. They had made war sound like a divine calling, a sacred rite of passage where every death was sanctified, every act of violence blessed.
Out here, there is no glory.
Only blood.
The blood of his brothers, mingled with the enemyâs, staining the dirt beneath their feet. The screams of dying men linger in his ears long after the fighting stops. Heâs seen cities burn, watched women and children scramble through the streets, faces twisted in terror, only to fall under a volley of arrows or be trampled beneath the horses of his comrades.
Leon had thought he could stomach it. Heâd steeled himself for the brutal reality of war. But nothing prepared him for the guilt, the crushing weight of it, as each atrocity committed in Ethelionâs name piles higher on his soul.
At first, heâd believed the bloodshed was necessary, part of the divine plan. But with every passing day, that belief crumbles a little more, cracking like fragile glass.
Now, standing over the bodies of men whoâd once fought to protect their own, Leon can barely remember why heâs here. He canât recall the saintessâs face anymoreâonly a faint echo of your eyes, the memory fading like a forgotten dream.
How did the lines blur so completely?
He tightens his grip on his sword, but the weight of it feels foreign, like a weapon forged for someone else.
Facing the fire, Leon watches the flames dance, their orange glow casting restless light over the camp. The logs hiss and crackle as they blacken, edges curling inward with each passing flicker. Every so often, flares shoot out from the heart of the fire, sending sparks spiraling up into the night before falling back down into the pyre. Heat washes over his face, warm yet uncomfortable, the kind that burns if stared at for too long. Leon turns away, unable to face his own reflection in the fireâs glow.
Around him, shadows shift across the ground as torchlight flickers over tents and hastily constructed barriers. Laughter rises from nearby campfires, men gathered in groups, boasting about their conquests in battle, their stories of women left behind growing hazy with time. The smell of roasting meat mingles with the sharp bite of smoke as soldiers cheerfully drink from their ale rations. Some play cards or dice, animated, full of hope for victories yet to come. Others simply bask in the temporary lull, telling tales of their glory to fill the silence.
Leon keeps his distance, seeking refuge near a cluster of trees where the light barely reaches, and the noise fades to a murmur. His back rests against a sturdy trunk, sword and shield propped beside him, the armor around him a forgotten weight. He has no desire to join in the revelry. Solitude feels more fittingâmore honest. He closes his eyes, trying to relish the brief respite, though the chance of true rest feels distant, as elusive as peace itself.
"If you donât eat, youâll lose your strength." A gruff scoff breaks the silence, drawing Leon from his thoughts. He glances sideways to find Captain Krauser standing above him, holding out a steaming bowl of stew. The smell of the meat, thick with gravy, rises into the cool night air, but Leonâs stomach churns at the sight of it.
"Captain Krauser," Leon mutters, accepting the bowl out of obligation more than hunger, balancing it on one knee. "Didnât feel like celebrating with the others."
Krauser doesnât move. He stands there, arms crossed, his bulk casting a shadow that blocks the faint moonlight. His scarred face is half-illuminated by the fireâs glow, the deep lines etched into his skin more pronounced in the flickering light.
Leon stirs the stew absently, blowing on it before taking a small bite. Itâs warm, but tasteless. Each mouthful feels like ash, though he forces himself to swallow.
Krauser lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. He lowers himself to the ground beside Leon with a heavy sigh, the earth shifting beneath his weight. "Is that guilt weighing you down, shiny?" His voice is rough, edged with a mockery that barely conceals his weariness. "Because thatâs a damn waste of time."
Shiny. The word used to grate on Leonâan insult for paladins whose armor hasnât yet been sullied by enough blood and battle. His once-polished metal has long since dulled, but the name lingers. Now, he doesnât care what anyone calls him. Itâs just another word.
"Just a bad feeling," Leon replies with a shrug, forcing another spoonful down. The broth is bland, lukewarm at best, but he eats slowly anyway, chewing as if it will somehow ground him in the present.
Krauser grunts, his large frame shifting uncomfortably as he leans back against the tree. "Youâre learning." He pauses, eyes narrowing slightly as he glances toward the distant glow of campfires. "New orders came in. We move south at first light to intercept a convoy carrying supplies."
Leon keeps eating, though his grip tightens slightly on the spoon. He waits. Thereâs always more.
"Intelligence says there may be hostages," Krauser adds, his voice turning grim. Leon notices how the lines around his eyes seem deeper, more etched than before. Thereâs exhaustion in them, though itâs well hidden behind his hardened exterior. "Our task is to eliminate the threat to the kingdom."
"Kill the hostages?" Leonâs response is flat, more a statement than a question.
A heavy silence falls between them, stretching like a weight neither of them wants to bear. The fire crackles on, sending occasional sparks into the air, while the distant hum of soldiers' voices fades into the background. The smell of burning wood fills the space between them, thick and stifling.
Krauser doesnât answer immediately. His jaw clenches, the scar on his face pulling tight as he looks ahead, not meeting Leonâs gaze. "You know the orders," he says finally, the words dropping like stones into the quiet. "We do what weâre told."
Leon lowers the spoon, the taste of the stew forgotten as his stomach twists. Heâs not surprised, but that doesnât make it any easier to swallow. He stares into the fire again, watching as the flames curl around the blackened logs, reducing them to nothing but ash.
The sword feels heavier today.
Leon rides ahead of the troops, the rhythmic clop of horseshoes striking the stone path echoing across the endless stretch of open land before him. The morning sun climbs lazily in the sky, casting pale light that stretches the shadows of soldiers and horses over fields soon to be stained with blood.
His breath puffs in the crisp air, small clouds that vanish as quickly as they form. His fingers tighten around the swordâs hilt, knuckles whitening under the strain, even though thereâs no immediate need to wield it. Sweat runs in a thin line down his spine, sticking his shirt to his skin beneath the armor.
Behind him, the sounds of the army in preparation are a constant humâswords being drawn from scabbards, armor buckled into place, horses snorting in nervous agitation. Soldiers march in disciplined ranks, though their faces carry the tension of men too aware of whatâs to come. Some are barely more than boys, fresh to the battlefield, eyes wide with fear they think they can hide. The village lies beyond the next ridge, nestled in the hills. The command had been clear: leave none alive.
Leon shifts uncomfortably in the saddle. His throat tightens with the weight of it, as if each breath is a struggle to swallow the bitter taste of what theyâre about to do. He glances to the soldiers beside him, seeing faces too young, too eager to kill or die, all in the name of a god who remains as distant as the stars.
There was a time when Ethelionâs will felt as close as his own heartbeat. When the saintessâs blessings had filled him with purpose, your touch a reminder of the grace he fought to protect. What would you think of him now? Would you still offer him your blessing, knowing the blood that stains his hands? The lives heâs taken, the innocents who died beneath his blade?
As they near the village, Leon pulls back on the reins, slowing his horse. The captain riding beside him narrows his gaze, a sharp glance cast his way, but Leon doesnât acknowledge it.
âCaptain,â Leonâs voice comes out rougher than intended. âWhat if weâre wrong?â
The captain scoffs, not even turning his head. âWrong? These people are traitors. They must be dealt with.â
Leonâs grip tightens around the reins, the leather biting into his palms. âBut we have no proof. No confirmation that theyâveââ
âThere is no what if, shiny,â the captain cuts him off, his tone as cold and unyielding as iron. âOur orders are clear. Or have you forgotten your place?â
Leon swallows hard, his throat dry. His place. To serve, to obey, to carry out the will of Ethelion without question.
But his place has never felt so wrong.
They crest the final hill, the village coming into view below. Smoke rises lazily from chimneys, the scent of cooking fires carried on the wind. From a distance, it looks serene. Peaceful. The villagers go about their day, unaware of the army bearing down on them, unaware that in moments, their world will be torn apart.
Leonâs stomach churns. His horse shifts beneath him, sensing his unease, and he forces a slow breath, trying to calm the storm of doubt swirling inside him. His brothers-in-arms march forward, steady and resolute, their swords ready, their minds set on the task ahead.
But Leonâs horse wonât move. It stands rooted, mirroring the weight in his soul.
The captain urges his own horse forward, barking orders to the soldiers to fan out and surround the village. Leon watches as they obey without hesitation, without question. Their faces remain emotionless, minds focused on the task at hand.
How can they not feel it? How can they not sense the wrongness of what theyâre about to do?
As the soldiers advance, the first shouts of alarm rise from the village below. Leon can hear itâthe panic in their voices, see the sudden fear on their faces. Mothers pulling children close, men scrambling to gather their families. Chaos erupts as arrows fly and swords are raised, and yet, Leon remains frozen in place, his hand trembling on the reins.
The first bodies fall, the clash of steel and screams blending into a cacophony that drowns everything else. The world tilts beneath him, the ground shifting as the sickening sound of death fills his ears, louder than the wind, louder than anything.
I canât do this.
The thought slices through the haze like a knife.
I canât.
His grip tightens further on the reins, every muscle in his body tensing, ready to move, ready to do something. Anything.
A shout from behind jerks him from his paralysis. âSir!â
Leon turns sharply, his pulse racing. A young messenger rides toward him, his face pale, fear etched into every line as he pulls his horse to a stop, barely managing to speak through gasps for air. âUrgent orders from the capital! Princess Ashley has been taken by the enemy. We must mobilize immediately to retrieve her.â
Leonâs heart slams against his ribs.
The princess. The heir to the throne.
For a brief, blessed moment, the chaos of the battlefield fades away, replaced by the only thing that matters. He can save her. He can stop this madness and do something that truly matters.
But the church has other orders.
The captain rides over, his brow furrowed as he tears the sealed letter from the messengerâs hand, the royal crest glinting in the sunlight. He scans it quickly, his expression hardening with each passing second before crumpling the parchment and tossing it to the ground.
âWe proceed as planned,â the captain snaps, his tone cold, final.
Leonâs blood runs cold. âBut the princessââ
âThe orders stand,â the captain repeats, not even glancing at him. âWe were sent here to purge this village of traitors, and thatâs what weâll do.â
The sound fades from Leonâs ears, replaced by a sharp ringing that drowns out the Captain ordering the messenger away and trying to direct him to the nearest base.
His pulse pounds in his temples, each beat like a hammer driving nails into his resolve. This isnât just another village. This isnât just another order. Itâs the future of the kingdom hanging in the balance, and theyâre about to throw it all away for what? For bloodshed masquerading as faith?
The bile rises in Leonâs throat, bitter and burning.
He thought he could stomach war. He thought he could follow orders, no matter how brutal. But this?
The last thread of the leash holding him snaps.
Leonâs hands shake on the reins as the captainâs sharp gaze lands on him. âLeon,â the captain growls, noticing his hesitation, âRemember yourself.â
An oath. To serve, to obey, to protect.
But as he looks out over the village, sees the smoke rising, the screams tearing through the air, Leon knows the truth.
This isnât the will of Ethelion.
This is the will of men.
Men whoâve twisted the divine into something grotesque, something that demands blood for power. Men whoâve forgotten what they were supposed to protect.
Your face flashes before himâsoft, kind, with that quiet strength. The words you once spoke come back to him, clear in the chaos.
One is not born to greatness. One achieves it.
âI canât do this,â Leon whispers, the words slipping out before he can stop them. His voice is barely a breath, but the weight of the truth in them rings louder in his mind than any shout of command.
The captainâs gaze sharpens. âWhat did you say?â
Leon meets his eyes, feeling the fire build inside him. âI wonât do this,â he repeats, stronger now. âI wonât sit by and watch us slaughter innocents while the kingdomâs heir is in danger.â
âYou swore an oath.â
âI swore an oath to protect,â Leon retorts, his breath catching as conviction tightens his chest. âAnd thatâs exactly what Iâm going to do.â
For a long, tense moment, silence stretches between them. The captainâs face twists in fury, his hand hovering near his sword. âYou defy the Temple, and you defy Ethelion himself. Youâll be branded an oathbreaker. Youâll never be able to return.â
An oathbreaker. Cast out from the temple, from the faith, from you.
But Leon knows, deep down, that this decision was made long before he spoke the words.
âIf following the Temple means abandoning the kingdom, then Iâll bear that title gladly.â
The captainâs jaw tightens, fury flashing in his eyes, but Leon doesnât wait for the response. He turns his horse with a sharp tug, spurring it forward. The wind rushes against his face as he rides, faster and faster, leaving behind the chaos, the orders, the lies.
He knows what this means. He knows whatâs waiting for him at the end of this path. There will be no place for him in the temple, no return to the saintessâs grace.
But as the wind cuts through him, sharp and freeing, he knows one thing for certain:
Heâs made his choice.
And now, heâll live with it.
The streets of the capital are thick with people, their cheers rising in waves that echoed off the towering stone walls of the city, the air alive with the sounds of celebrationâlaughter, music, the rhythmic beat of drums that thrummed through the cobblestone streets like a heartbeat. Banners of blue and gold flutter in the breeze, catching the midday sun and casting fractured patterns of light across the throngs of spectators who lined the streets.
And there, at the center of it all, rides Leon, astride a massive warhorse clad in gleaming black barding, the royal crest of Ethelion emblazoned on its chest. The horseâs hooves clatter against the stones, a steady, rhythmic sound that matches the beat of the drums, though Leon barely hears it. His focus is elsewhereâdistant, cold, fixed on a point far beyond the horizon as the cheers of the people wash over him like distant waves.
He sits tall in the saddle, his body encased in full black armor that gleams like polished obsidian despite the streaks of dried blood splattered across the metal. His cape, once a regal white, fluttered in the breeze, its edges torn and frayed from the brutal campaign that had crowned him victor. Though battered, the helmet is tucked under his arm, leaving his face exposed to the cool autumn air.
The cheers from the crowd echo off the stone buildings, filling the air with a roar of excitement and adoration. Cries of âLong live Sir Leon!â and âHail the hero!â ring out from every direction, the people pushing and jostling to catch sight of him as he rode by.
It all means little to him.
They shout his name, faces alight with joy, hailing him as their hero, their savior. He has returned from the war triumphant, Princess Ashley safe at his side, the enemy defeated and the kingdom secured. To them, he is a figure of legend, a warrior draped in glory and victory.
But to Leon, the glory feels hollow, like foolâs gold.
He fought for close to a decade, driven by a purpose that no longer existed. The blood on his armor, the lives lost in his nameâit all seems to blur together in his mind, a swirling mass of faces and screams that he canât escape. Even here, amidst the fanfare and celebration, the battlefield clings to him, its shadow cast long and dark over his soul.
The people canât see it. They see only the armor, the crown of laurels resting atop his head, the bloodied sword at his side. They donât see the burden of it, the way it presses down on him like a sin he could never lay down.
He glances to the side as the parade moved forward, the crowds pressing in closer as they strained to catch a glimpse of the soldiers coming home. Children are perched on their parentsâ shoulders, waving small flags, their faces painted in the colors of the kingdom. Women throw flowers from their balconies, petals raining down like confetti, their bright colors almost a mockery to the dark steel of his armor.
And then, through the sea of faces, something catches his eye.
A small blur, darting between the legs of the adults, weaving through the crowd with surprising speed and determination. Leonâs gaze sharpens, his body tensing instinctively as he tracks the movement, his hand hovering near the hilt of his sword.
Itâs a child.
A little girl, no more than seven or eight years old, her hair tied in messy braids, face flushed with excitement. She breaks free from the crowd, slipping past the guards who stood watch along the edges of the street, and before anyone can stop her, she runs toward Leon, her small hands clutching something tightly to her chest.
The crowd gasps, a murmur rippling through as the girl reaches Leonâs horse. The guards move forward, ready to intervene, but Leon holds up a hand, signaling for them to stop.
He looks down at the child, eyes dark and tired. The little girl stares up at him, her chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths, wide eyes filled with awe and something elseâsomething Leon hasnât seen in a long time.
Hope.
For a moment, the world slows, the noise of the crowd fading into the background as Leon and the girl lock eyes. She is so small, so fragile, standing there in front of him, her little hands trembling as she holds something out to him on her tiptoes.
A flower.
A single white lily, its petals slightly crumpled from her tight grip, but still intact, still whole. She raises it up to him, her hands shaking, lips parting in a shy, nervous smile.
âFor you, sir,â she yells, her voice barely audible over the distant roar of the crowd. âThank you for saving us!â
Leon stares down at the flower, his heart constricting painfully in his chest. The blood on his armor, the dirt caked beneath his fingernails, the weight of the sword at his sideâall of it feels wrong in the presence of such innocence. Heâs a soldier who threw away his oath, a killer, a man forged in the fires of war, and yet here stands this child, offering him a flower as if he were something more than just the weapon the kingdom had wielded.
His hand, still encased in the cold metal of his gauntlet, moves slowly, hesitantly, as if it doesnât belong to him. He reaches down, the armor creaking with the motion, and gently takes the flower from the girlâs outstretched hands. The petals brush against the bloodstained metal of his gloves, stark and bright against the darkness of his armor.
âThank you,â Leon mumbles, rough and strained, the words catching in his throat. His grip tightens around the delicate stem of the flower, careful not to crush it. For a brief moment, the warmth of the childâs gesture pierces through the fog of guilt and weariness thatâs permanently settled over him, a glimmer of light in the darkness.
The little girlâs face lights up with a smile, her eyes shining with pure, untainted joy. She stands there and jumps up and down with excitement, beaming up at him as if he were the sun itself, as if his presence alone could banish the shadows that lingered at the edges of her world.
But Leon knows better. He feels the lock of hair curled inside the locket above his heart burn his skin.
The grand doors of the royal palace groan open with an echoing creak, revealing the hall beyondâa glittering display of prosperity and flamboyance that seems to scorn the simple austerity of the life Leon has known. Polished marble floors gleam beneath chandeliers of wrought gold, their light refracting off mirrors that line the walls. The air here is crisp, almost sharp with nose-breaking blends of perfumes, with none of the heavy warmth of the temple's incense.
Leonâs boots click sharply against the marble as he enters, each step ringing out in the cavernous hall, a sound swallowed by the murmurs of the courtiers who line the edges of the room. The steady hum of muted conversations fills his ears, escorted by the occasional clink of glasses. They watch him with calculating eyes, the nobles dressed in silks and velvets of every hue, faces painted with smiles too precise to be genuine, as suffocating as the armor that once bore him through battle.
He feels naked without it now, standing here in formal garb, his sword sheathed and distant at his side, a mere symbol of his victory rather than a tool of survival. The dark fabric of his tunic hangs heavy on his shoulders, trimmed with the royal blue of the kingdom.
Ahead, at the far end of the hall, the king sits on his throne. The high-backed chair is a towering edifice of dark wood, inlaid with gold and precious stones that sparkle under the dazzling chandeliers. The king himself is an imposing figure, draped in royal blues and deep purples, a crown resting atop his graying hair. He watches Leonâs approach with the same detachment as the noblesâhis gaze that of a man weighing the worth of a tool rather than acknowledging the triumph of a soldier.
As Leon reaches the dais, he stops, kneelingâan action that should feel natural after years of service, but here, it is different.
The king rises slowly, the robes trailing around his feet like the velvet shadows of dusk, and approaches with the same calculated precision that governs the court. A ceremonial scepter gleams in his hand, more ornament than authority, but its significance is clear.
âSir Leon,â the kingâs words cut through the room like the edge of a blade, each syllable crisp, measured. âYou stand before this court as a hero of our realm. For your valor in battle, for your unwavering loyalty to the crown, and for the rescue of Princess Ashley, I bestow upon you the title of Margrave.â
The tap of the scepter on Leonâs shoulder is light, almost delicate, but it might as well have been a hammer.
The king returns to his throne, settling back with a rustle of silk, and gestures for Leon to rise. âRise, Margrave.â
Leon pushes to his feet, the formality of the moment bearing down upon him as the court claps in practiced politeness. Their applause is soft, a murmur of sound that fades almost as quickly as it had begun, leaving the room in an expectant silence.
It is time.
A low ripple of movement stirs at the far end of the hall as the clergy step forward. Robes of pristine white trail across the floor as the procession approaches, a stark contrast to the vivid blues and purples of the nobility. At the head of the clergy is the Archbishop, his ceremonial staff clicking rhythmically against the floor with each step. And beside himâveiled, serene, and radiant in her holy robesâis the saintess. The mask is a pure white, veil milky and opaque; the contrasts of light and darkness across its fabric give the impression of a reflection on water, of a thousand shifting stars under the sun. On your head rests a delicate crown of silver thorns, interwoven with fine filigree, glimmering like fresh snow, hands folded in your lap are covered by silk gloves, so smooth they almost shine.
Leonâs heart stutters.
This is the moment he has been longing for, the only prayer thatâs ever left his lips even after his faith had fallen.
He has endured the war, survived the bloodshed, all for this. For you. For the woman who has been his guiding light, the saintess who had once healed him with her touch, whose presence had filled the void within him during the long, cold nights on the battlefield.
He steps forward, his hands trembling at his sides, his breath catching in his throat as the group approaches the dais.
His knee wants to bend before he even realizes it, the instinct to kneel before you stronger than any other impulse.
But as when you take your place atop the steps of the dais, hands raised in the familiar gesture of blessing, something gnaws at himâan unease that creeps along the edges of his mind. The movement of your hands, the tilt of your headâit is all wrong. Too stiff, too formal.
He hesitates.
The room holds its breath, the nobles watching in silence as the saintess descends down towards him, the veil obscuring your features, body swathed in layers of white that flutter with each step.
Leonâs pulse quickens, and his eyesâdespite his every effort not toâsearch for yours through the veil and the mask. He needs confirmation that itâs him who has changed. He needs to see, even if it is just the glimpse of the eyes he had held in his memory through every moment of agony, through every victory.
But as you draw closer, his stomach drops.
The eyes behind the veilâdark, unfamiliar, and coldâare not yours.
His body freezes, his muscles locking in place as the realization hits him with the force of a blow.
This isnât you.
This womanâthis strangerâisnât the one he had fought for, the one whose face had kept him alive in the blood-soaked trenches of the war.
The saintess lowers her hands, preparing to lay her blessing upon him, but Leon jerks back, his knees refusing to bend, breath quick and sharp in his chest. The room grows still, the murmurs of the nobles faltering as the tension thickens around him like a noose.
The Archbishopâs head snaps toward him, the ceremonial calm in his expression faltering for just a moment. His fingers tighten around the staff, the knuckles turning white beneath the pressure.
âMargrave,â the Archbishopâs reprimand is sharp, cutting through the air like the crack of a whip. âYou must kneel to receive the Saintessâs blessing.â
Leonâs fists clench at his sides, the leather of his gloves creaking under the strain. His body is trembling, but it isnât from fear. It is from the fear-soaked anger that is building inside him, slow and burning like a fire stoked too long. His gaze fixes on the false saintess, his heart thundering in his chest, his mind spinning with questions that have no answers.
Where are you?
The walls close in, the air thick with the silent judgment of nobles and clergy. Each breath is a growing struggle, laden with the oppressive load of their expectations. His limbs feel anchored, refusing to bow before this stranger, this imposter.
âMargrave,â the Archbishopâs voice cuts through the tension, sharp and commanding. His eyes flash a stern warning. âYou will kneel.â
The pressure shatters.
Leonâs body moves before he can stop it, his hands flying out to grab the front of the Archbishopâs robes, yanking him forward with a force that sends the man stumbling, the ornate staff clattering to the floor. A collective gasp sweeps through the room, the nobles recoiling in shock as Leonâs voice, low and ragged, spills out.
âWhere is she?â His hiss is a harsh rasp, breaths coming in short, jagged bursts. âWhere is the real Saintess?â
The Archbishopâs face twists in fury, his hands flailing against Leonâs iron grip. âUnhand me, you fool! You stand in the presence of Ethelionâs chosenââ
âNo.â The word is a snarl, the growl of an animal promising to get violent. Leonâs grip tightens, the anger boiling over, his muscles trembling with the force of it. âWhat have you done with her?â
The room descends into chaos. Nobles rise from their seats, the sound of their hurried footsteps mingling with the low murmur of alarmed voices. The clergy shift uneasily, their faces pale, but none of them dare to move. The paladins stationed near the walls exchange nervous glances, their hands hovering near their swords, but none step forward.
They have seen what Leon is capable of.
âRelease me!â The Archbishopâs voice cracks, his pale face contorted with fear and rage. âYou dare attack the church? You will be branded a heretic for this!â
Leon barely hears them, his body trembling with rage as he stares down the terrified clergyman clawing at his arm, nails digging into Leon's skin, leaving behind bloody scratches.
âI donât care.â Leonâs voice is low, silent, the words spilling from him like venom. âTell me where she is.â
Before the Archbishop can answer, a handâsmall, yet firmâclamps down on Leonâs shoulder.
Princess Ashley doesnât release his arm as she pulls him toward the side of the throne room, guiding him through the side doors that lead into a quieter, more secluded hallway. The heavy wooden door closes behind them with a dull thud, cutting off the noise of the throne room and leaving them in a sudden, suffocating stillness.
Leon exhales, his breath shuddering as he leans against the wall, one hand coming up to palm at his face, and between his fingers, stares down at the ground with a wild look.
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Lust Among Thieves [part two]
[part one]
Summary: Fifteen years after escaping your captors, leaving them and the cabin in the woods behind, you end up in a community named Jackson and find yourself repeating the same old habits. Warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI, angst galore, mild infidelity (Tommy is with Maria but he and reader share one [1] kiss), canon typical violence, mention of kidnapping, mention of blood, angssssttt but with a happy ending (reader ends up with one brother!!!) NOTE: this is a cowrite i've done with my BFF joelmillersgirlfriend!! make sure to go and read her other stuff on A03! thank you guys so much for all the positive feedback on this one, I'm glad you guys are liking it! let us know what you think about the ending <3 [MASTERLIST]
The sun is so warm that itâs beginning to melt the snow, turning it from soft and fluffy to a wet sort of slush. A comforting relief, because the winter holds memories youâre better off leaving behind. Memories of scowls and whittling knives, of the taste of whiskey and lighthearted laughter.
After fifteen years, you thought youâd grow out of the feeling, that youâd grieve the loss and go on instead to appreciate the recovery of your autonomy. But every winter, without fail, you remember your time in that cabin. You remember them.Â
Youâd never grown out of the feeling and youâd never grown into the now tattered canvas coat. If you closed your eyes and imagined the burn of the winter snow grazing your skin, you could remember how Joel smelled. You could remember how Tommyâs lips tasted.
But years had passed. The memory was now a faint one and one that you tried not to dwell on for too long. You have met a lot of people over the years and had dangerous encounters daily. Why was this one different?
Joel and Tommy had turned you into a new person within the four walls of that cabin. You werenât the same afterward, now you were sculpted into a being with a sharp tongue and a toughed exterior yet⌠the core of you was soft. If you dug deep enough, the creature that Joel and Tommy had created was still inside of you, tender and vulnerable.Â
For a while, you considered what you would do if you ever encountered them again. You were so far away from the outskirts of the Boston QZ, the death of your father and the weight of the situation turning into a calloused scar instead of a leaking wound over time. Over the past fifteen years, you had made your way across the country, searching for something. Whatever that something was, you werenât sure of yet.
If you saw the brothers, would you be angry? Would they? They were heavy on your mind that morning as you made your way through the abandoned, ice-covered streets of Jackson Hole Wyoming.
You had left a compound back in Nebraska weeks ago. The people there werenât bad, but it felt like another washed-down version of living under FEDRA. Constant patrolling, ridiculous rules. It was no surprise that you felt trapped because you had always felt trapped. It was only a matter of time before you ran away. It was the only thing that you were good at.Â
You jumped from house to house in Wyoming, occasionally spending a couple of days if you were tired of the constant headache of moving every day. Most of your days consisted of you laying on an old, lifeless mattress, staring up at the ceiling and asking yourself âWhat if I never left?â Would you have more of a purpose now? Would you not be alone?
You practiced your regular routine of bouncing through dilapidated houses, grabbing what supplies were still left, which was practically nothing. For an area where you had encountered absolutely no one, the houses were surprisingly scarce.Â
It was getting late in the evening, and you had picked a house to settle down in for the night. The house had a rough exterior, similar to yours, but the inside was surprisingly still in good condition. You crept through the house, picking through each drawer and cabinet to once again, find nothing.
Truly, the master bedroom should have been an indicator to leave, but you were always a sucker for taking things that did not belong to you.
Just when you were about to call searching the house quits and crack open a book from your bag, you noticed a shifted floorboard in the bedroom. You hummed to yourself in curiosity, reaching down to investigate the suspicious piece of wood. It came out of the floor easily, revealing the contents buried inside.Â
Ammo, water, packaged food, medicine.Â
But most importantly, a bottle of Jack. Jesus, how long had it been since you had seen one of these? You laughed to yourself when you pulled it out of its hiding spot, half empty but still the perfect amount for a lone wanderer.Â
You grabbed your pack, slipping all of the things you had found into it before you heard the voices.Â
Fuck.
Moving swiftly, you grabbed everything you could before glancing around the bedroom. Footsteps and conversations were coming up the stairs, and you couldnât believe how stupid you were for not checking the perimeter of the neighborhood before poking through the houses.Â
âJesse, go get the stuff from the master. Maria is gonna be pissed that we werenât able to find more. Might as well bring back what we can,â you vaguely heard a gruff voice say.Â
Into the closet you went, quietly tiptoeing across the room. Your hands were shaking as you grasped the straps of your bag, praying that luck would be on your side, just this once.Â
The second you faded into the darkness of the shadows in the closet, a man stepped into the bedroom. You could see him through the panels of the closet door, especially if you squinted in just the right way.
He appeared young, with long dark hair that fell into his eyes when he glanced around the room. You held your breath when his sharp, determined eyes shifted to look over at the closet momentarily. It didnât last long, which you were grateful for. You could feel your pulse ticking in your neck as he moved away to check the floorboards, knowing that he wasnât going to be pleased with what he found.Â
He was turned away from you so you couldnât physically gauge his reaction, but his voice told you all you needed to know.
âUh, we have a problem here. Stuffâs gone!â he shouted, standing back up quickly to unholster his gun. He glanced around the room once more, waiting for his partner to shout something back.
The voice was distant when it spoke, most likely still downstairs, waiting. âWhat do you mean, gone?â
The man who was only a few meters from you sighed, shaking his head. âI mean, itâs gone, someone mustâve taken it!â
You could hear heavy footsteps, every movement clearly laced with annoyance as he climbed the stairs. And then they stop a short distance away, and you hear the familiar click of his gun.Â
In the holster strapped around your thigh sits your pistol. You have only two bulletsâenough to kill a clicker in a pinch, but not enough to fend off two grown men who are also armed. You tighten your fingers around the handle of the old knife, leather now cracked with age, formed perfectly to the hills and valleys of your fingers.
Heart hammering, you know and accept the fact that youâre going to have to take your chances and run. You could already see the shadow of the man entering the room, grumbling at having to come up the stairs. His back was to the closet, approaching his partner.
âIt was here two days ago,â he began before quickly stopping. His hand reached out, gesturing towards the ground. Your eyes squinted, following the gesture down until you saw what he found. Wet footprints.
You lunged out of the closet before anyone could even move, and latched onto the man's back like a starfish. You looked at the first man, Jesse, before pressing your knife against the second man's throat.
âJust let me leave. Let me leave and I wonât kill him,â you said coldly, the tip of the blade pushing into your prisoner.Â
Jesseâs eyes widened, his hands spread in an attempt to calm you. âHey, wait a second. Weâre not looking for a fight. It doesnât have to be like this,â he spoke, loosely holding his gun in his hand. You glanced at it with hesitation, which was enough time for your prisoner to grab your wrist and whip you around.
He was much larger than you, probably almost three times your size. There was no way in hell you wouldâve been able to keep him restrained for long.
You whimpered in pain at the feeling of your wrist being twisted, the knife dropping out of your hand and clattering to the ground below.
âStupid girl,â the man said, turning slowly to face you. Thereâs something about the way the words sound in his mouth that twists up your insides, a timbre that makes your hands tremble and shake. âShouldnât make threats when youâre outnumââ He stops.Â
And your heart does, too. âJoel?â
He doesnât say anything. Just narrows his eyes and clenches his teeth, jaw feathering. His hair has gone a little gray and there are defined wrinkles around his mouth and a scar across his nose that didnât exist the last time youâd seen him, but youâre sure of it. As sure as you are of the ground beneath your feet, youâre sure that a ghost stands before you.Â
His eyes soften as the realization hits. You know youâve aged, tooâthough perhaps not as drastically.
Jesse is the one who speaks. âDo you know each other or something?â
âYes,â Joel says, in perfect time as you answer, âNo.â
âOâŚkay.â Jesse shifts uncomfortably on his feet before he closes the space between himself and the place you and Joel stand in what seems to be an eternal face-off. He plucks your knife up from the ground and hands it to you, hilt first. âHere. We donât want any trouble.â
The shine of the blade catches Joelâs eye, and he scoffs as he processes what he sees. He takes the knife from Jesseâs hand before you get a chance to do so. He raises it in front of his face, no doubt inspecting the two letters etched into the metal.
âT.M? Tommy?â Jesseâs brows furrow as he turns his attention to you. âIs this Tommyâs knife?â
Neither of you answer him. Your tongue is stuck to the roof of your mouth and sweat beads your hairline. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears and every cell in your body urges you to run as far and as fast as you can.Â
âJoel,â Jesse says, voice a little more firm.Â
âJust let me go,â you plead, staring Joel in the eye, trying to hide your fear. Not of him, but of the feeling that rises in you upon seeing him. The yearning, the desire, the familiarity. Youâd convinced yourself itâd be gone by now, eviscerated. But feeling the warmth of his skin, smelling the pine scent of himâit all comes flooding back with a vengeance. âPlease. Just give me the knife and Iâll walk away and we can pretendââ
âSheâs coming back with us,â he tells Jesse. âFeed her. Get her some new clothes. If she wants to stay, thereâs that empty house over by the cemetery. Fixed it up last week.â
âStay? Where?â
âA town,â Jesse answers. He smiles at you and itâs warm and inviting, something you havenât seen in some time. âA community.â
Your stomach growls at the thought of a decent meal, but your fear has you shaking your head. âNo, I canât. Iâmââ
âYou what?â Joelâs voice cuts through you. âDonât got anywhere else to go. God knows how long itâs been since you last ate.â
You want to protest, to argue with him, to prove him wrong. But you canât, because heâs right, and that fact enrages you more than anything else.Â
Still, you agree. One night, you tell yourself. A good meal and a good nightâs sleep and then youâd leave, never to be seen again.
Jesse helped you onto the back of his horse, leading the way back to the settlement while Joel followed. Every time you glanced back, unable to prevent yourself from looking at Joel, you saw his icy gaze watching your own. You swallowed nervously, pulling back into Jesse. You wondered what Joel was thinking. If he remember everything, if it meant anything to him.
Jackson was huge. There was food and people and walls. It wasnât like the QZ. People lived like a family, working together for the better of humanity. It brought tears to your eyes to see.Â
You felt overwhelmed as you trailed through the streets of Jackson, still mounted upon Jesseâs horse. Random strangers on the street greeted Joel as he led the way like he was some sort of beloved member of the community. All you could do was force a smile and nod during the random greetings, wondering if they knew who Joel really was.
âThat jacket looks real familiar,â Joel spoke, gesturing at the worn coat swallowing your shoulders. It was large and had outlived its life, but you couldnât let it go. It had been with you during some of the coldest winters, keeping you warm.Â
âLooks a lot like the one my daddy gave me before he passed. I went crazy, thinkinâ I misplaced it. All this time, it was just you stealinâ shit that donât belong to you,â Joel scoffed, but without malice. You stuttered, closing it around your body to cover your chest, a habit stemming from pure nerves.
It had been your jacket for years, your only source of comfort during cruel winters. It belonged to you just as much as it belonged to him. You were the one who had taken care of it all of the time.
Joel chuckled at your reaction, grinning down at you. âDonât worry, Iâm not gonna ask for it back. Iâm happy that youâve gotten some use outta it.â
It was bewildering, how one sentence he spoke could come across filled with resentment, with ire, and the next be filled with something that felt sort of like relief.
But even back then, even fifteen years ago, youâd never been able to quite understand him. And though his anger was a kindred spirit to yours, Joel was so confusing.Â
Once in the stables, Jesse helps you dismount. Before you even swing your leg over the horse, Joelâs handing his reins off to the stable hand and rounding the corner, disappearing from sight.Â
Jesse sees your attention follow him, no doubt reading the expression of confusion on your face. âDonât worry about him,â he says. âJoel can be a bit of an ass sometimes.â
You think that might be the understatement of the decade, but you keep that to yourself.Â
âCâmon. Letâs go meet Maria to see where we should place you for housing and then Iâll let you get settled in.â
As Jesse leads you through the streets of Jackson, you canât help but feel a bit of shock at the way things operate here. There are so many people you canât keep their faces straight. Children of all ages, people your age, and elders. A rare occurrence these days.
Thereâs electricity powering lights strewn between the buildings. A carpenter and a grocer and a bar. It feels like something out of a dream.
Jesse leads you into what looks like a cafeteria. There are a handful of tables with hundreds of mismatched chairs around them, and a low chatter that greets you the moment you step through the doors.Â
You notice him in a second.
Tommyâs laughing. His hair has grown out long enough that he can tuck the dark blonde strands behind his ear now, curling just slightly at the ends.Â
Heâs got a couple more freckles and wrinkles around his soft eyes. And seeing Joel was jarring, but itâs Tommy and his boisterous laughter and that wide grin on his face that makes your chest crack wide open.Â
You love him, and youâve always known it. You love them both, but itâs the loss of Tommyâs warmth youâve felt the deepest since escaping from that cabin. Itâs taken you a long time to accept it, but you haveâand seeing him brought back a burning feeling that you thought was long gone.
Tommy notices Jesse, waving at him wildly, looking past you as if you were transparent. He didnât recognize you yet, which wasnât surprising. You were standing a handful of meters away, and from what it appeared, you seemed to be a ghost from a past life. One that he never anticipated seeing again, with how settled down he appeared to be now.
âJesse! You have to hear this shit, man! Get over here,â Tommy gestured, a shit-eating smile still filling his face. You noticed the way Jesse looked at you first, evaluating your reaction, which was little to none. Youâd grown good at hiding your emotions over the years, a calloused exterior being your own personal form of protection. A shell.
Your brain felt like it was pounding against the walls of your skull when you followed Jesse over to Tommyâs table. You kept your eyes glued down at your feet and prayed, that maybe, he wouldnât notice you. But, of courseâŚ
âHey, Tommy. I think I found an old friend of yours,â Jesse starts off with, the bastard. Tommyâs soft eyes move over to you, staring blankly for a couple of beats. The noise from the cafeteria droned out as you looked into his eyes, locked on those deep irises that you had dreamt about for years.
The sound of Tommyâs metal chair scraping against the floor pulled you out of your haze. His arms wrapped around you, engulfing your frame - swallowing you in his own body. He was so warm and firm. You hadnât touched another person for so long, not like this.Â
But you still were so uncertain. Your hands wavered, shaking nervously as you considered hugging him back. Things were so complicated, incredibly taboo, and filthy. You shouldnât want to hug him back. You opt on loosely hugging his waist, too nervous to match the pressure of his embrace.
He pulls back, his large palms coming up to cradle the sides of your face. It reminded you of that night all those years ago when you first kissed him. You could still taste the bottle of Jack on his lips, warm and heavy against your tongue.
Tommy was contemplating kissing you, you had seen the look before. It was all too familiar.
His eyes were heavy, but the look left almost as quickly as it had appeared. He awkwardly shifted back, pulling out of your incredibly loose embrace. Jesus, Tommy was just as conflicted with you. His remorse for what had happened was clear on his face, those heavy puppy dog eyes searching your face desperately, praying that you would forgive him. Forgive Joel.
It was all too much - your head was spinning and your tongue was stuck to the roof of your mouth. Tommy glanced over at the table he had jumped up from, directly at a woman who was sitting next to his seat. Her freckled face was etched with a frown, one that was full of confusion about the situation.
âChrist, youâre alive?â Tommy whispered, wavering away from you. His disbelief wasnât one that you had expected, nor had Jesse. The young man was still standing beside you, watching the events unfold with wide eyes.Â
âIâm not really hungry, Jesse,â you turned and said, needing to get out of there immediately. Something was unraveling deep inside, what that something was, you didnât know. Your palms felt slick with sweat, your legs unintentionally pulling you back, protecting you from the conversation.
âPlease,â Tommy begged, âLetâs talk. Settle in, get used to everything, but donât leave town without cominâ to talk. And for the love of God, eat .â
You nodded, backing away from Tommy like a scared puppy. The sound of your heart beating filled your brain as you turned and walked away, Jesse hot on your heels. You heard Tommyâs voice speak, âMaria, come on, we gotta go over some things.â
The air is cool against your heated skin, and you greedily swallow the icy air. You press your palm against your sternum, trying to will your heart to slow and your blood to settle in your veins.
âHey,â Jesse says, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder that makes you jump out of your skin.
When you turn to face him, you donât even remember unsheathing your knife from the holster strapped to your belt. He has his hands held up in surrender, that friendly smile on his face, and guilt begins to trickle down your spine.
âAlright, alright,â he says. âIâm sorry, didnât mean to scare you.â
You lower the knife quickly, returning it to its rightful place at your hips. âNo, itâs fine. Iâm sorry, too. UhmâŚinstinct, I guess.â
âI get it,â he says, and for some reason, you believe him. Thereâs such understanding in his voice that itâs hard not to. âJackson is a lot to adjust to. Doesnât happen overnight.â
You nod slowly in response.Â
âThereâs an empty house over by the cemetery. I can show you, and you can rest or look around orâŚyou know, do whatever you need to. Thereâs hot water, you can shower, and some staples in the pantry if you feel like cooking. I can run to the community hall and get you some new clothes and drop them off if you want some space.â
The words sound foreign in your ears as if heâs speaking a different language. Cooking, showering, hot water âŚthe thought crosses your mind that youâve somehow died and this is all some kind of strange hallucination.Â
But a moment along sounds like bliss, and a shower sounds like heaven, so you find yourself nodding and following him through the streets of Jackson. Jesse tries to make small talk, but youâre not in much of a talking mood and he seems to pick up on it and doesnât press for much more information.
He tells you there are towels in the linen closet in the hall upstairs and promises to return in less than ten minutes with a basket of clean clothes. âIâll set them just inside the door,â he said. âTake what you want. If thereâs anything that doesnât fit, Iâll bring it back to the hall later.â
The house is nice, bigger than any of the places youâve ever holed up in for a few days, and more secure, too. Upstairs thereâs a massive bathroom and before you do anything else, you turn the handle to the hottest setting. The water spits and spudders and is freezing at first, but the second it begins to warm youâre stripping off your clothes and stepping beneath the stream.
And youâre not quite sure why, but the sensation of it brings moisture to your eyes, salty tears mixing with the warm spray from the showerhead. The water that pools at your feet is dark and grimy, ridding you of the dirt that clings to your skin.Â
You scrub your skin raw and still donât feel clean enough. But when the water runs cold, you leave wet footprints on the wood flooring of the stairs and find that Jesse stayed true to his word.Â
Just inside the front door is a laundry basket full of clothes; denim and fleece, cotton t-shirts and undergarments, socks, and even a half-decent bra. You settle on jeans and a hoodie thatâs just a little too big, but still hold tight to the old coat youâd stolen.
He also left a plate of food, which you assumed was from the cafeteria. Even though you didnât think you couldâve eaten earlier, not after seeing Tommy, you were suddenly famished. The food was gone in under a minute. You couldnât even remember the last time you had something fresh, rice, green beans, onions. It was life-altering.
Thereâs a big bed in the center of one of the bedrooms upstairs, and you tell yourself youâll rest just for a few seconds. A few minutes. But the moment your head hits the pillow, you know it isnât true and you donât have the energy to convince yourself otherwise.Â
When you finally wake, the room is dark, and the rays from the rising moon are silhouetting the bedroom in a blue haze. You sigh, relaxing into the bed sheets. It was crazy to reflect on your current circumstances. Just a day ago, you were starving, sleeping on an old rotted mattress with a gun held tightly in your hand. Now, you could hear the laughter and shouts of children from the street outside your window.
You rubbed the sleep out of your eyes as you stood up, deciding to leave the house and explore. It would be beneficial to know where everything is, you think. If for nothing else than to know the best escape routes, to become familiar with the routine of the watchers on the walls.
You brush your teeth before heading out, the night air rushing against your face when you step onto the front porch. Even though itâs late in the evening, the streets are still filled with people; families walking back home together, couples holding hands. It almost feels unreal.
Walking past the cemetery, you notice some people crouched at the gravestones, crying. Even when you were somewhere safe, you could never escape the horrors of loss.
It felt like you were floating through the streets of Jackson, an outsider peering in. The closer you got to the center of town, the more people you stumbled upon. Icicle lights were strung across the powerlines and street before you, random strangers greeting you in passing.Â
You finally grew tired of the attention, the stares, the forced conversations. You ended up pulling up the hood of your jacket over your head, shielding yourself from gazing eyes.Â
A small church was planted near the center of town, and the doors cracked, allowing you to glance in. Though it wasnât entirely full, many people filled the pews and watched the priest give his sermon. You could pick up a few words from where you were standing, but you didnât really care to hear. You gave up on a religion a long time ago.Â
A couple of meters away was an open space that had a bonfire square in the middle, with a handful of picnic tables spread across the space. The hum of the people talking drew you in, despite not knowing anyone, or so you thought.
âSettlinâ in good?â you heard from behind you, the voice making you jump in surprise. You turned back to see Joel, his dark eyes watching you from a couple of feet away. Those dark eyes still made your palm sweat and your cheeks burn bright. He had always held something in him that made you docile.Â
You cleared your throat, subconsciously pulling at the strings of your hoodie. âItâs surreal here. Not like the QZ.â
Joel huffs, nodding in agreement. âThank God it ainât.â
There is an awkward pause where you stand shyly in front of Joel, uncertain of what to say next. Making small talk with him was never your forte, because typically he never even wanted to speak with you. Now, here he is, actively trying to pull a conversation out of you. He had changed.Â
âYouâre not like how I remember,â you say, your lips moving quicker than your brain was able to think. Joel stiffened, rubbing the scruff of his beard.
âYeah? And how do you remember me?â
Itâs a test, one to see how you would describe your relationship with both him and Tommy. A mutual romantic bond? Or something much more sinister, much more taboo? You donât fall for the trap because you arenât even sure how you want to interpret everything. Not entirely.
âQuieter. Less gray hairs too,â you said, not expecting the warm sound of Joelâs laughter to hit your ears. He smiled down at you, the grin boyish and full of hidden memories. It made you ache for something you never even had.Â
âItâs been a long time. When you leftâŚâ Joel trailed off, his expression morphing into a dark cloud. You knew that leaving would hurt both of the brothers, and it felt shameful to admit that sometimes you regretted your escape. Yes, you were free, but what difference did it make? You had lost companionship. Love?
âWe both hated to see you leave, but we understood.â Joel was no longer looking you in the eye but was instead staring down at his feet. âWhat happened there? It wasnât right, the things we did with you. I can be the first to admit. It was the actions of two desperate, lonely men. But Iâm not here to make excuses.â
His eyes moved back to look at your face, to gauge your reaction.Â
âIâm sorry. Tommy sure as hell is, he beat himself to death over all of it. You donât have to forgive me or forgive either of us. But, please, just hear him out. He wants you to come over to dinner tomorrow so you can meet everyone. Then maybe we could all talk?â
You stepped back, crossing your arms and shaking your head. âI donât know if thatâs a good idea,â you tried to explain. The idea of being trapped in a house with people you didnât know didnât exactly sound appealing. Joel had apologized for both him and Tommy, truthfully, there wasnât much of a point to even go now. What more was there to talk about?
âJoel!â shouted a voice from where the bonfire was taking place. Both you and Joel turned to watch a young girl run over to where you were standing. When she arrives youâre able to get a good look at her - pretty blue eyes and a smattering of freckles across her nose that reminds you of the constellations.
For a moment you considered that maybe he had a kid. She looked no older than sixteen - it could be possible. But she didnât look like Joel, much too soft in the cheeks. Joel had strong features while this girl was the epitome of a cherub, her rounded lips turned up into a smile as she grinned at you.
âJoel. Is it alright if I spend the night at Catâs? I donât have garden duty until the afternoon so Iâd have plenty of time to get back,â she explained. Well, if she wasnât Joelâs daughter then she was certainly Joelâs something. The sick thought crossed your mind that maybe something was wrong here, but the moment Joel reached over to tousle her hair, you knew that you were wrong.
âOf course not, El. Be back by dinner tomorrow,â he said, shooting her away, back towards the crowd at the fire. She gave you a farewell wave, one that you returned, as she ran off to find her friend.
Your face was warm when you thought about how you had considered that Joel mightâve been in a relationship with her. Joel noticed your embarrassment, watched the way you huffed into your palm, and shook your head.
âWhat?â Joel questioned, the distant fire casting a fire over his face. It reminded you of the cabin, of the fireplace. Of his warmth.
âYou kidnap her too?â
The small grin that he had on his face disappeared in an instant, replaced with rage and disappointment.
âOf course not,â Joel sputtered, scoffing at the accusation. âI wouldâve never- I mean, she is just a child,â he hissed.
âAnd I wasnât?â you whispered back just as angrily, pulling your hood off of your head. You wanted him to look at you, to see you.Â
âI told you, Iâm sorry. Iâve had fifteen years to reflect and I can admit that I was,â Joel pauses before snarling, âa goddamn monster back then. But, Ellie, sheâs like a daughter to me. She gave me a purpose. With her, things were different,â he sighed, shaking his head in frustration.Â
Tears were burning the back of your eyes, but you forced yourself to keep it together. You werenât going to show Joel that he had hurt you. That you had missed him.Â
âAnd why wasnât it different with me?â you questioned, a genuine curiosity behind the words.Â
Joel only stood, looking down at you with his lips pressed into a frown. This girl, Ellie, had broken Joel, but you hadnât. What was so special about her that she was able to receive his empathy?
The answer to that question was easy. You knew that deep down, it was never about you. It was about Sarah.Â
You hated that you werenât able to watch him grow and change, to help him change. He never gave you the chance.Â
âIâm going to go,â you said, turning to leave both Joel and the conversation behind. Before you could walk off the sidewalk, you felt a familiar hand wrapped around your arm. A heat rose in your chest and settled in between your thighs just by being touched by Joel.Â
His dark eyes softened as he took you in, his gaze tracing the lines of your face, your body, your palms. His large hands dwarfed yours when he pulled you towards him, wrapping you in a hug. It was different from Tommyâs, one that was full of surprise and longing.
Joelâs was tender and soft, his large palms moving in small, gentle circles as if he was afraid heâd break you.Â
âIs this okay?â Joel questioned, one that took you by surprise. He had changed, thatâs for sure. You nodded, melting into his touch, practically cemented between the pressure of his arms. It had been so long since you had been touched, focused purely on survival. It felt good, to feel wanted.
âWhen you left we searched for you,â he spoke into your hair. âWith the raiders and all, we thought that maybe more had come and taken you. Took us a little while to realize that wasnât the case. We understood why you left, why you felt like you had to leave, butâŚÂ fuck .â
He had pulled back now, unable to meet your eyes. âI didnât realize how badly I wanted to be by your side until it was too late. I fucked up. We both did. But it was me who treated you badly, who excused it. So, Iâm sorry.â
It was Joelâs third and final apology of the night. You had decided that you did forgive him, for all of it. There was no point in wallowing in anger forever. You had to let it go.
âI know,â you whispered, reaching to hold his palm in your hand. He wasnât a bad man. He had never been, and it hits you only now that maybe youâve always known from the very first moment that heâs not bad âŚheâs just like you.Â
Quick to anger, quicker to self-preservation. Neither of you has ever seen the best in others before the bad, your psyche molded always to expect the worst, tragedy burned in like a bad memory.
âI know,â you say again. âAnd I forgive you.â
His shoulders deflate as if setting down something so heavy heâd become accustomed to the weight of it after all these years. He gives you this smile, but itâs sort of sad and the sight of it quietly breaks your heart.Â
But Joel regains his composure quickly, casting his eyes away from you and clearing emotion from his throat. Your hand still sits in his, a firm, warm hold on you, full of surety, devoid of hesitation. You try not to think about how much it feels like home.Â
âSo, would you think about dinner then?â
You donât know these people. You know Joel and Tommy but everyone else remains a mystery, and though nothing about Jackson raises any immediate red flags, thereâs still a nagging warning that rings in the back of your mind. Donât get close. This is only temporary. You donât belong here. Yet still, you find yourself nodding, pleased with the look of further satisfaction that finds its way onto Joelâs face. âOkay. Dinner.â
When he releases your hand, it feels like a loss all over again. You swallow it down, bury it deep, pretend itâs not there like youâve always done. âIâll see you tomorrow night, then,â he says. âIâm going to try and get some sleep. Been a long day.â
You nod and force the words out of your mouth even though all you want is to beg him to stay, to wrap his big hand back around yours and pull you into his side. âGoodnight, Joel.â
Even though it makes you feel a little pathetic, you watch him walk away. But heâs turning back to face you, slowly walking backward as he quickly says, âYouâre free to take any leftovers, by the way. No, uhâŚno thievery needed.â
It makes you laugh, the joy of the tender moment seeping deep between your bones. âGood to know,â you say. âIâll keep it in mind, but donât be surprised if I pocket a silver spoon or two.â
You hardly sleep the entire night. All you can think about it the weight of his calloused palm, of the timbre of his voice as he told you they looked for you.
No oneâs ever looked for you before.
Just before sunrise, you allow yourself a moment to regret running. Itâs the first time in all your life that you think maybe flight was the wrong response.Â
Tommy knocks on your door early. Heâs got on a pair of Leviâs and a black and red flannel, and thereâs a long-barrel rifle slung over his shoulder with a scope attached to it. âMorning, sweetheart,â he says. The familiar sobriquet sends a warmth slithering down your spine. âThought we could go out today. Just the two of us. That sound okay?â
Before you have the chance to think better of it, you're stepping outside and closing the door behind you. Tommy chuckles softly at your lack of hesitation and throws an affectionate arm around your shoulders. You canât resist leaning into him, canât think of another place youâve ever felt safer.Â
But then you think of that day so long ago, with Joel wrapped around you, his strong arms encircling your waist, and you think tucked into Tommyâs side might be the second safest place in the world.
The streets of Jackson are relatively empty compared to yesterday. The sun is up, casting orange shadows over the puddles of melting snow, and the lack of prying eyes makes you curious. âWhere is everyone?â
âItâs Sunday,â he says simply. âFor one day of the week, no oneâs got any jobs to do.âÂ
Truthfully, the concept of a weekday or a weekend has been foreign to you for so long youâd nearly forgotten its existence. âOh,â is all you can rebuttal. And then a few moments later, âWhere are we going?â
âHunting trip,â Tommy explains. âJust like old times. Joel says you still got my skinninâ knife.â
The words hold some accusation, making you flush, but thereâs a proud smile on his face and you know heâs not angry for your stealing. You can feel the weight of it at your hip, and pull it from the sheath attached to your leather belt. Slowly, you turn it in your hand, polished silver glinting.Â
âFigured youâd taken it when I couldnât find it. Looked everywhere for that thing. Looked everywhere for you, too. ButâŚI just hoped it kept you safe. Wherever you were, I kinda liked the thought of, ya knowâŚjust being able to protect you somehow. Iâm glad you had it.â
His confession cracks your chest wide open and leaves you bleeding. You think of all the times his knife had done just that; protected you, fed you, saved you.
âSâalright,â he says. âGo on anâ keep it. Sâyours now, sweetheart.âÂ
You slide the blade back into its home on your hip and follow Tommy as he feeds and speaks softly to an all-black horse in the stables. He saddles it quickly and with precision before pulling you up onto the horse behind him.
Instinctually, you wrap your arms tight around his waist and rest your cheek against his spine, inhaling the familiar but long-forgotten scent of him. The watchers on the walls let the two of you pass with only a nod to Tommy, and you ride slowly through the wet grass until you come to a clearing in the woods.
Thereâs a tree blind, hidden at the edge of the brush. Tommy ties the horseâs reins to the post and he lets you climb up the ladder first.Â
Once youâre both safely inside, the horse grazing on the grass below, Tommy sits the end of his rifle on the edge of the window before settling into one of the rickety wooden chairs that have been hauled into the blind.Â
You take the one beside him. Even though you know a big part of hunting is the silence, a million questions press against the back of your teeth. After a few minutes pass by, you can take the pressure no longer and ask, âWhoâs Maria?â
A smile climbs onto his face. Unsure of what to expect, it surprises you as he answers simply, saying, âMy wife.â
â Wife ?â It raises a plethora of new questions. How long have they known each other? Did Tommy ever tell Maria about their time in the cabin? Did the two of them build Jackson together? Why does his answer sting?
He seems to sense the confusion and reaches across the open space to squeeze your hand in his. âAfter you left. Jesus, I think both Joel and I had a moment of realization. I missed you like hell, the feelinâ of you, the warmth. To think that you had gone back out there, with raiders and God knows what else, because of me and Joel? Christ.â
Tommy sighs, pausing before staring out into the wooded distance. You could see how much he had on his mind, an unbearable weight that he had been holding for years. It was wearing him down, weakening his bones.Â
âI know Joel talked to you, but I really canât explain to you how sorry I am,â Tommy began. You glanced down at his palm which was still holding your own, large and heavy against your skin.Â
âThereâs no excusinâ it. You were so young, and innocent. Something that we hadnât been around for so long. We had seen horrible things, had done awful things. We took advantage of you. I took advantage of you.â He turned to look at you, a deep sincerity held in his eyes. âPlease, forgive me. I don't know how Iâd be able to keep livinâ with myself if you donât.â
There wasnât anything to forgive. You had wanted everything that happened, at the end of the day. You had missed both him and Joel.Â
âIâll forgive you if you forgive me for stealing from you,â you said in an attempt to break the ice. You knew it worked from the way Tommyâs face broke out into a toothy grin.Â
âYouâre forgiven.â
Tommy explained to you what had happened after you ran away from the cabin. How he had gone back to the Boston QZ in search of you, eventually abandoning Joel there to join the Fireflies. From there he had ditched the Fireflies, deciding that their methods were too extreme, and then, he met Maria. She had saved him, washed him of all of his sins, and gave him a purpose again.Â
âSheâs a good woman. An amazing woman, Jackson wouldnât even exist without her,â he said, but it felt like he was convincing himself and not you. Tommy looked over at you, a dark lust behind his eyes that you hadnât seen since the last night you shared in that faraway cabin.Â
âShe is,â he breathed. âBut⌠sometimes I think about how different things wouldâve been if I made better choices back then. Iâm happy here in Jackson, beyond happy, but-â
You closed the distance quickly, knocking your wooden chair into his own. His lips were warm and soft, just like you had remembered them. It was easy kissing Tommy, like second nature. He hummed into your mouth and didnât push you away. There was no huge rush of passion behind it, but something much more important. Catharsis. A conclusion.
âFor closure,â you whispered into his lips. Tommy nodded, kissing you once more before leaning back in his seat, his hand still holding yours.
âFor closure.â
On the way back, Tommy fills you in on Joelâs relationship with Ellie. They met in the QZ, where he agreed to take her across the country to Salt Lake City. When you ask why, Tommy insists it isnât important, that if it was he would tell you. âItâs Ellieâs secret to tell, anyway,â he says.
You let it go, far more interested in something else entirely. Your arms are wrapped around his waist on the back of the horse and youâre breathing a little easier now as you ask, âDoes she make you happy? Maria?â
Thereâs a moment of hesitation. Or rather contemplation, perhaps. But then he nods slowly and says, âYeah. Yeah, she does.â
Youâre glad to hear it. Truthfully. Even with all thatâs transpired, youâre thankful Tommy was able to find this slice of bliss in the hellish affairs of the world.Â
âDoes she know? About what happened?â you asked shyly. Tommy sighed, nodding.
âShe knew bits and pieces but not at all of it. After Joel and Jesse found you, I told her everything. It wasnât fair for her not to know.â
You wouldâve guessed that he told her. He seemed to really love her, to trust her. If Joel even trusted her, then that showed the strength in the relationship. It didnât bother you that she knew. It was for the best.
âAndâŚJoel? Do you think heâs happy?â
This time itâs definitely hesitation. Tommyâs throat bobs as he swallows hard. He lets out a long breath, misting in the cool air. âHe hasnât been the same sinceâŚâ
âSince Sarah, right?â
Tommy shakes his head. âNo. I mean, yes, butâŚâ
Thereâs something heâs holding onto, and youâre not sure if itâs for your sake or for Joelâs. Either way, this is the secret you decide you need to uncover. âTell me.â
âWhen you leftâŚI mean, I know I already said it was hard but it was different for Joel. I had the Fireflies and then I had Maria and Jackson, all things that filled the emptiness but JoelâŚI donât know. Sâlike he never came back from it. From losinâ you.â
You can see Jackson in the distance now. A silhouette of a town, of a home. Your stomach turns, thinking that all this time youâve both been suffering from the same plight and the cure has simply been forgiveness.Â
But can you live with entirely forgiving Joel? Completely? He advocated for your death, held you hostage, and shot you in cold blood. You can acknowledge and accept the fact that heâs changed, that you all have, that youâve grown and matured and established a firm line between whatâs right and whatâs wrong, something the three of you once lacked.
Youâve finally found closure enough to move on from this, but if you let go of your anger, let it dissolve into nothing, what would be left of what you feel for him but longing?
If you let it all goâŚthere would be nothing left inside you for Joel Miller but love, and youâre fairly certain that that would be even more difficult to navigate than your anger.Â
Once back in Jackson with nothing to show for your hunting trip but ease in your shoulders, Tommy secures the horse back into the stables and offers to walk you home. You laugh and joke the whole way and it feels natural, just like old times but perhaps even better now that youâre here of your own volition.Â
Once in front of your house, Tommy takes your hand in his and kisses your palm. âIâll always care for you,â he whispers, dancing around a word far more intense. Once again, youâre not sure if itâs for your benefit or for his, or if itâs for Joelâs.
You lift his hand to your face and lean into his caress, feeling the warmth on your cheek, the roughness of his skin brought on by age and hard labor. âMe too,â you admit. And then quieter, âIâm sorry. I shouldnât have kissed you. I know it wasâŚâ
Tommy shakes his head. âNo, sweetheartâdonât you ever apologize for that.â He used his free hand to thread his fingers through your hair, not dissimilar to the way youâd first touched him all those years ago. âYou needed it. I needed it.âÂ
He wraps his arms around you and you lean in close, soaking up his warmth, his safety.
You share so much in one embraceâlonging, lust, regret, forgiveness. And when he pulls away, it all fades into the ether, leaving nothing behind but this deeply rooted fondness for him, a desire for him to be happy above all else.Â
âIf you need anything, and I mean anything, come and find me. We live next to the daycare. Maria said to be there after nightfall tonight,â Tommy spoke, knocking his shoulder across your own playfully. âI hope youâre ready for a home-cooked meal. How long has it been?â
You stand, truly considering his question. Eating in the QZ wasnât exactly pleasant. Typical meals consisted of stale bread and watered-down soup. You couldnât even remember your last fresh meal.
âToo long,â you sighed. Tommy smirked, his warm smile making the skin of your cheeks burn.
âSoon enough. See you tonight.â
The day goes by quickly. You fill the empty space with exploration, walking through the greenhouses, around the buildings, and through the one currently being constructed in the northwest corner within the walls.
The people begin to emerge a little after midday, socializing with one another, smiles on their faces and ease in their shoulders. You see Jesse at one point while youâre walking the perimeter, checking for weak spots, and he waves at you and it feels so strangely normal that it startles you.Â
When the sun begins to set behind the heavy clouds, you find the house beside the daycare and stand a few feet away. You can see through the open windows that youâre likely the last to arriveâand for a second, you consider turning back and running as far away as you can.Â
Because beneath the yellow light, they all look so happy. Maria, Ellie, and someone else you canât put a name to, all work together setting the table, six place settings with mismatched cutlery.
Joel and Tommy can be seen in the kitchen, sharing a few concerned looks between warm smiles, once in a while knocking the neck of their glass bottles together. Theyâre all at home here and have all curated a routine, a familiarity.Â
And you know without a shadow of a doubt that if you walk in there, youâre going to disturb it. Youâre going to break the tranquility theyâve worked towards, youâre going to be the odd one out, the sore thumb in their causal, familiar cacophony. No matter what, youâre not going to belong.Â
The only hope you have is trudging through the unfamiliarity until it becomes familiar, hoping to integrate yourself into their already established lives.Â
But after all youâve done since leaving that cabin, after all the blood on your hands, is that the sort of thing youâve earned?
Itâs not. You know it. You turn to leave.
The front door swings open, yellow lighting silhouetting his familiar frame.
He must see the terror in your eyes, must see the flight response kicking in because heâs off the porch in a second and taking your hand in his.Â
Youâre shaking your head and your breath feels stuck in your throat, amassing into a stone of instinct that sits heavy on your chest.Â
âTell me,â is all Joel says.
The words come spilling out, mechanical, one after another. âI donât deserve it. I donât deserve this. I donât belong here. Iâve killed people. Iâve lied and stolen andââ
He takes your face in his strong grip and forces you to look at him, the sight of adoration in his eyes like a balm to your heart. âIt doesnât matter if we deserve it,â he says. âDo you want it?â
More than anything.
Tommyâs voice cuts through the intensity between you and Joel. âDinnerâs ready,â he says. âCome eat, sweetheart.â
You do. Mariaâs made a whole platter; roast and vegetables and some sort of broth soup with rosemary. Thereâs red wine and whiskey and sweet tea. Joel sits beside you at the table. Ellie sits across from you, beside her girlfriend who you learn is named Dina.
Theyâre all incredibly nice, asking you questions about your life before Jackson, never pressing too much, sensing when a topic is brought up that you donât particularly want to recall and quickly changing the conversation.
The chemistry flows far easier than youâd imagined it would. You find you even like Maria, and you especially like that fond look in her every time she glances over at Tommy.Â
The food is delicious and youâre bringing a forkful of roast to your mouth when Dina asks, âSo, how did you meet Joel and Tommy?â
The table goes quiet then, and Dina and Ellie share a confused glance. You chew slowly, hoping someone else will answer the question or, better yet, ask something else entirely.Â
But then Ellie jokingly says, âWhat? Did guys kidnap her or something?â
You nearly choke, Tommy lets out a long breath, and Joel is stone still apart from the feathering of his jaw. Even Maria looks uncomfortable.Â
Ellie sees the unsaid words and quietly mutters, âOh shit.â She turns to Joel then, eyes narrowed into slits. âYou kidnapped her?â
âIt wasnât like that,â you supply. âNot exactly. I stole from them first. Back when food was a lot more scarce.â
âSo you held her captive,â Ellie corrects, unrelenting.
âA story for another day, maybe?â Maria suggests. âHowâs the soup, El?â
You can tell sheâll circle back to the conversation the moment she can, but for now, Ellie lets it rest. And youâre thankful for it, because youâre not sure how to explain a moment of your time spent in that cabin even to yourself, let alone someone else. Â
After dinner, you help Maria clean while the brothers drink beer out on the back porch and watch Ellie play guitar. From the kitchen you can see Dina stretched across the wooden floor, propped up against the rails of the porch. The sound of Ellie missing a couple of strings makes Maria hum in amusement.Â
âJoelâs been teaching her for a couple of weeks now. She picks up quickly,â Maria informs you, taking a now cleaned dish from your hand to dry it. It didnât feel weird, being around her, despite the fact that you had kissed her husband just a couple of hours ago.Â
âYeah. She seems like a good kid.â
Maria places the plate into the cabinet before turning to you. She leans against the counter, taking a moment to look you over.Â
âYou werenât how I imagined you when Tommy told me about everything.â
Her words didnât feel rude or passive-aggressive. They were more so honest, and revealing.Â
âHow did you imagine me?â you asked, continuing to wash the dirty dishes in the sink. Focusing on the soapy suds melting off the plate the more you scrubbed it distracted you from the conversation. You knew that Maria was trying to understand you, but it made you feel anxious either way.
Maria sighed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. âNot so quiet. Fiery, like Ellie. I suppose you are, deep down, especially if both the Miller brothers like you.â
You used to have more of a spark inside of you, but over time, it had slowly fizzled out. You had killed too many people, done too many awful things. After your father was murdered, you lost the majority of the fire that was meant to burn in your chest. You learned how to be a drifter and not get attached, because getting attached meant losing them someday.
The only exception were the brothers who you could hear laughing loudly from the back porch. Even after all this time, after leaving them, they had found a place to call home where they could love freely.Â
âThey both care a lot about you. You had Joel pacing back and forth, wondering if youâd actually show up.â
A warm blush washed across your face and didnât stop until it reached the bottom of your spine. Joel was waiting for you? How was it that he had shut you off, practically hated you all those years ago, but now, suddenly was worried about you? What had changed?
As if she could read your mind, Maria spoke. âEllie helped him open up a lot. According to Tommy, sheâs got that same spitfire energy as Sarah. Maybe back then, it wasnât the right time. Joel was too far gone. But now, it could be different. You could take advantage of his weaknesses this go around if you think it would make you happy.â
You understood why Tommy loved Maria. She had created this town, a haven, and even cares about people she doesnât know. She allowed her husbandâs people to be her own.
âMaybe,â you agreed, focusing your attention back on washing the dishes. Maria didnât pry and instead moved back into the pattern of taking clean dishes from your hands.Â
Once you finished, you followed Maria onto the back porch, trailing through the sliding doors. Ellie and Dina were so focused on singing a Foo Fighters song that you hadnât heard for years (that you were sure Joel introduced them to) that they didnât notice your approach. Tommy and Joel did, Tommy smiling at Maria before extending his arms. She walked to where he was sitting and joined him, sitting on the edge of his lap.Â
You were glad that you didnât feel anything but happiness to watch the intimacy of the couple.
Joelâs eyes were watching you, dark and full of thoughts you wished you could understand. You wondered how he would react if you closed the space and sat on his lap - not that you had nearly enough courage.
âI think Iâm gonna get ready to head home. I gotta organize the pantry in the morning,â you said, glancing over at the two girls who had moved on to singing some song you didnât recognize.
All three of the Millers looked disappointed in your confession. âAt least let me walk you back,â Joel begged, but you shook your head.
âNo, stay. Donât wanna miss out on this,â you said, glancing back over at Ellie and Dina singing.Â
There was something like hurt that flashed across his face, but it didnât linger long.Â
âFeel free to come back any time,â Maria said.
âFor anything,â Tommy adds.Â
Joel says nothing, even though you linger there on the porch for several seconds, secretly hoping he would. But you nod silently, thank them for all their hospitality, and compliment Maria on the food, before parting ways to the soft sound of Ellieâs strumming on the guitar.Â
For several days, you find yourself grappling with a decision. Should you stay, or should you do what feels most natural and flee?Â
Fleeing would be what youâre used to. A rehearsed, calculated event. Premeditated. Youâd been thinking about it from the moment you set foot in this place. Take a backpack full of supplies; food, medicine, water. Youâd probably even get away with taking a horse and a couple of guns from the armory.
Youâd do it first thing before the sun rises on a Sunday morning when the whole of Jackson is sleeping apart from the watchers on the walls. You wouldnât say goodbye because you know Joel and Tommy both would convince you to stay.Â
Instead, youâd leave a note on the table in your kitchen. One Saturday night you even sit there with a pen in your hand, but all you can manage to scribble down are the words Iâm sorry.Â
You trash it before sunrise. And that morning, Ellie stopped by to ask if youâd help her tend to the greenhouse. âItâs an eight-hour shift,â she explained. âFour with an extra set of hands. They have that dance going on tonight, down at the community hall. Dina really wants to go.â
Of course, you agree. And as the hours tick by, you understand Joelâs attachment to her. Ellie is probably the funniest kid youâve ever met. Intuitive too, and so smart itâs jarring. You like her, mostly because she reminds you a little of yourself when you were her age.Â
She talks briefly about her journey with Joel to Salt Lake City. Says he started out as this gruff, overbearing man, but towards the end, he was the only source of comfort remaining in her grasp. She says Joel saved her life but then gets really quiet for a while afterward.Â
You donât pry. The silence is comfortable, the dirt between the creases of your palms and beneath your fingernails is warm, and you realize that fleeing is going to hurt an awful lot more than you thought.Â
After your shift in the greenhouse with Ellie, you begin to consider staying. Jackson is a good place, a safe place. One without the tyrannical rules of a standard QZ.
The following weekend, a fight breaks out between two men at the Tipsy Bison. One is drunk and sloppy and he has a knife strapped to his belt. You watch from a far distance as the drunken man stabs his opposition between the ribs, blood pooling in the mud beneath his feet.Â
You donât see Joel right away, too focused on the commotion that breaks out over the event, but the moment he steps in heâs hard to miss. He has that strong, domineering energy about him. He breaks up the fight in a second and has the man with the knife unclenching his fist, silver glinting in the pool of blood as the weapon drops to the ground.
Maria and Tommy arrive a short moment later and the man with the stab wound gets carted off to the infirmary. Joel towers over the man with blood on his hands but says not a single word.
Youâre not sure why, and youâre too exhausted to attempt unpacking it, but the way he justâŚÂ controls the situation so easily has your thighs pressing together.
Joel and Tommy take the man someplace, but you don't stay around long enough to find out where. You half expect them to make some scene of it; whippings in the center of the town, a public execution as a display of power. Youâve seen such things before in the QZs youâve drifted through.Â
But nothing like that happens, and all anyone can talk about is Rickâs miraculous recovery and what they plan to bring to him in the infirmary.Â
You ask Jesse what happened to the drunken man who stabbed him, wondering if they killed him someplace away from prying eyes.Â
Jesse laughs and shakes his head. âNo, we didnât kill him. He was exiled.â
Youâre not sure why it surprises you, but it does.Â
The next time you see Joel, heâs in the stables. The first taste of summer has presented itself, spring slowly giving way, the earth thawing further each day. Heâs wearing a navy t-shirt that stretches tight across his biceps and a good-fitting pair of blue jeans, and you watch from a safe, non-conversational distance as he moves haybales from one end of the stables to another, making room for the new ones loaded into the back of Tommyâs truck.Â
A light sheen of sweat coats his sun-kissed skin, and it makes your mouth water. All you can think about is that first time with him, how heâd gripped your hips with calloused fingertips, how heâd kissed your lips until they were swollen, how heâd pressed himself between your spread thighs.
You run home so fast youâre out of breath when you close the door, and the moment you make it up the stairs and to your room, you're slipping your hand beneath the waistband of your jeans to alleviate the ache that has settled and made a home between you legs.Â
Telling yourself it was a fluke, you donât think of it again. In fact, you try very hard not to think about that day in the cabin, you try not to think about the way he looked at you before leaving you and Tommy in the bed on that last day, you try not to think about the way his muscles flexed in the stables.Â
You fill your time with chores. The greenhouse, watch, patrol, shifts at the Tipsy Bison. Anything that keeps your mind from Joel you greet with ready and willing hands.
But it happens again. Of fucking course it does.
Itâs raining hard and has been for several days. The western wall begins to flood, and itâs an all-hands-on-deck situation, moving sandbags from one end of Jackson to the other. Everyone is running around, moving as fast as they can, piling them into the back of one personâs truck and then someone elseâs the moment one pulls away.Â
Maria woke you up in the middle of the night with a yellow raincoat in her hands, and of course, you didnât waste a moment before you put on your sneakers and ran out the door with her.Â
She stations you at the western wall with a handful of others, unloading the sandbags and stacking them as high as possible to detour the pooling water.
Joel stands two feet away from you, yelling orders over the sound of the rain, commanding the situation in that way of his. Youâre shivering, even with your raincoat, and as Joelâs hand brushes yours when he helps you lift a sandbag onto the pile, it sends an electric jolt down your spine. âJesus,â he huffs. âHere. Take off your jacket real quick.â
You do, in time with him as he removes his canvas coat, soaked through with water. He pulls his flannel off and hands it to you, and normally you would argue he needs it more considering your dry t-shirt, except youâre freezing.
The soft fabric is warm and itâs a little too big but itâs the most comfortable thing youâve ever worn. It smells like him, like pine and rain and Joel. For a moment you consider not returning it back to him and adding it to your collection of clothes youâve taken from him. But for now, you relish in its heat, in its softness.Â
He goes right back to instructing others after shrugging his coat back on, as if the act of kindness was nothing, as if heâd give just anyone the shirt off his back. And maybe he would, but youâve never stuck around long enough to find out.Â
Itâs still dark when you finish, sunrise still a while away. Maria and Tommy thank everyone for their help and send you home, telling everyone to try and get some extra sleep, that shifts will start an hour later than normal.Â
You do as she says, noting the way the muscles in your back ache from strain but finding it strangely satisfying, feeling less like youâd lost sleep and more like youâd protected something that was worth protecting.Â
Joelâs flannel remains on as you climb back into bed. And though youâre exhausted, all you can think about enveloped in his scent is how he would feel beside you, on top of you, between your legs. Heavy and warm, strong and so incredibly safe.
It doesnât even feel like thereâs a choice when you wiggle your fingers beneath the elastic of your panties. And even though it only takes a matter of minutes to make yourself reach the pinnacle of bliss, it feels unsatisfying. Like itâs not enough, like itâll never be enough.
You still wear Joelâs flannel while on patrol with Jesse later in the day. You vow to return it, promising yourself this is your chance to change. To be a better person, to reinvent yourself here in Jackson, to stop running, to stop thieving.Â
But you donât return it. Several days go by and you practically live in the goddamn thing.
You lost count of how many times you squirmed against your pillow with the flannel pressed against your lips, imagining that Joel was there.Â
âJust like that, baby girl,â Joel would say gruffly, his strong palms pressed against your thighs to make your hips rock. âMissed listeninâ to those little moans.â
If you squeezed your eyes closed just enough, you could feel him on you, guiding you. You prayed that he still thought about you, but you were scared to know what it meant if he did. It would mean that Joel reciprocated your lust, your feelings.
One evening you walked past Joelâs house after a long, tiring day of helping create concrete for the expansion of the South wall. The summer project was to create space for new houses. Jackson was growing day by day, getting stronger.Â
You stopped outside the concrete steps, looking at the path to the front door. Would you have the courage to walk up that intimidating trail and knock on Joelâs front door? Would you have the courage to ask him to kiss you, to show you how much he missed you?
Your question was answered once Joelâs front door opened, and a dark-haired woman stepped out. She was turned back, telling Joel something that you couldnât quite make out. The steps of your sneakers crunched across the gravel of the road, your feet carrying you as far away from Joelâs house as possible.Â
One last glance back allowed you to witness the faraway silhouette of Joel passing something over to the woman, something that you were much too far away to see. You had done something stupid again - assumed that Joel was single. You werenât trying to jump to conclusions but Tommy was married after all. It would make sense that Joel had found someone too, someone to settle down and raise Ellie with.Â
The happiness that you felt seeing Tommy and Maria together was not what you felt when watching Joel with another woman. A big, ugly, green monster bubbled inside of you and threatened to crawl out of your throat.Â
You hated this feeling. You hated it so much that youâd ended up going to Joelâs house later that, shortly after his bedroom light had turned off. The streets were completely empty except for the night shift patrollers walking towards their posts, the day saying its last goodbyes in the same way you meant to. A basket with Joelâs flannel and his original jacket from fifteen years ago was left on his porch. They were rejected and discarded, like how you felt.Â
The basket mocked you when you walked away from his porch, a visceral reminder of what you were actually returning. Your devotion.Â
It was impossible to sleep that night, too many rampant thoughts running wildly through your head. You stayed up the remainder of the night, a scratchy wool blanket tucked beneath your chin as you sat on the couch.
The moonlight streamed in through your living room window, painting colorful silvers and purples across the peeling walls. It was eerily peaceful to watch the earth sleep.
A stark opposite to the peaceful moonlight was the sudden rough knocks banging against your front door. You couldnât help the way you jumped up, your bloodshot eyes glancing over to watch the wooden frame shake with each knock.Â
You move over the back of your couch to glance out the front window to see who is pounding at your door. The top of your head peeks over the blanket, your eyes straining to see. Itâs Joel, of course, itâs Joel, and seeing him with that frantic look in his eye has your heart in your throat.
When you open the door to ask what he wants, you see both his flannel and his coat clutched in a knuckle-white grip. âIs this your way of saying goodbye?âÂ
Your brows furrow. âWhat?â
âYouâre leaving again, arenât you?â You open your mouth to speak but he raises his free hand and stops you. âAnâ donât lie to my face, donâtâŚdonât look at me and tell me youâre staying just to disappear in the middle of the night.â Thereâs a kind of aggression in his voice youâve never heard before, even when he shot you. âYouâre leaving.â
Itâs not a question this time. And you know heâs reliving it, remembering every moment in that cabin, the same way youâve been since setting foot in Jackson.
The urge to comfort him rises in you, to promise to stay, but you canât. Not when all you can see is that dark-haired woman on his doorstep. So, you swallow thickly and cast your eyes away, staring at the clothes youâd return instead. âIt doesn't matter. Keep them, Joel.â
âIt does matter,â he insists. âHow can you say that?â He pushes into your house, this desolate place that suddenly comes to life with him in it. âAfter everything weâve done, after everything weâve seenâŚÂ it matters. This place matters. You ââ
Your breath catches at his near confession. Itâs the first youâve heard it from anyone, and the young girl you were fifteen years ago silently begs for him to finish it. She begs to be seen, cared for, and loved.Â
But youâve spent so long shoving her into a box in your heart that itâs second nature when you do it this time. Joel shakes his head. He begins to speak, stops, and tries again. âIâŚyouâŚâ
âWhat, Joel?â
He runs an exasperated hand down his face. Whatever it is heâs trying to say is bothering him, an irritation dug in deep like a tick. âDonâtâŚâ
You know you shouldnât. You know itâs none of your business, yet you still find yourself crossing your arms over your chest and saying, âShould you even be here right now? Isnât there someone else you should be giving the pleasure of your company to?â
Confusion sinks in quickly. âWhat are you talking about?â
You roll your eyes. âOh, so I canât lie to you but itâs fine if you lie to me? Typical, Joel. Youâve always been a hypocrite.â
"Hypocrite? What are you talking about? Iâm here, trying to convince you to stay in Jackson because itâs safe. Even if you want nothing to do with me, if you want me toâŚto stay far away, thatâs fine. But this place needs people like us and we need it.â
âJesus Christ, JoelâI saw her. Donât fucking play dumb.â
âSaw who? â
You throw your hands up, anger rising to the surface of your skin. âI donât know! And I donât want to know! She was leaving your house with a really big smile yesterday so I guess I should say congrats, right? To you and Tommy both, for finding whatever it was you were looking for in me fifteen years ago.â
Joel shakes his head. âNo, noâyouâve got this all wrong. Itâs not like that.â
âRight,â you say indignantly. âBecause thatâs believable.â
He closes the space between you and wraps his hand around your elbow, holding tight enough to bruise. Joel stares at you with his eyes filled with intensity, so much of it that you actually start to believe him when he says so quietly, âThereâs been no one. No one since you.â
âOh, so itâs just the start I interrupted then? My bad, Joel, should I apologize?â
âWill you stop?â His jaw ticks, and you can see his irritation as it rises, a near palpable thing. His neck flushes, and his eyes narrow. âSheâs Dinaâs mom. She came over to meet me formally since Ellieâs been staying over there so often. She doesnât mean anything. Not likeâŚâ
âLike what, Joel?â
âNot like you,â he finally says. It feels like a breath of fresh air, and you think he must feel that way, too. Because his grip on your elbow loosens, his shoulders drop, and his eyes soften instantly. âYouâŚyou mean something. To me. Anâ I donâtâŚI want you to stay. IâmâŚIâm askinâ you to stay. Please.â
In all your life, in all the places youâve passed throughâŚnot once has anyone ever asked you to stay. Not once has anyone seen you like this, seen and known you well enough to know when youâre tempted and have enough time to deter your decision.Â
Well, until now. Until Joel.Â
âDonât do that,â you say, shaking your head, trying to clear the moisture that pools in the corner of your eyes.Â
He takes your face in his hands, calloused palms rough and warm against the tender skin of your jaw. âStay,â he says. And again, softer this time, a plea. â Stay.â
âDonât say things you donât mean, donât give me false hope.â
Joel presses his forehead to yours. âI mean it,â he promises, and you want so badly to believe it, so you do. âDo you have any idea how long I looked for you? And even when I stopped lookinâ I saw you everywhere. Saw you in everything. That first winter without youâŚChrist, couldnât think about anythinâ else.â
All you manage to say is his name like an escaped breath. Your skin prickles at his closeness, and youâve never been good at resisting your impulses so you donât even try to keep yourself from pressing your lips to his.Â
His hands slide into your hair, pulling you in closer, his tongue running across your bottom lip. You grant him access in the form of a moan that he echoes the moment he tastes the inside of your mouth.Â
You forget everything. Everything. All you know is the way this feels, and you suddenly think that maybe all this time you werenât running from anything. Maybe youâve been running to him.Â
âItâs always been you,â he says against your lips. His hands trail down your spine, gently caressing your soft curves.
The pad of his thumb brushes against the bare expanse of your spine where the smallest bit of your shirt has ridden up, but you feel the touch like lightning skittering across your skin. You wrap your hands around his neck, anchoring yourself against him, and it feels like second nature when he pulls you closer and lifts you off your feet.Â
In fifteen years nothing has changedâyou still melt against him, defenses giving way, legs wrapping around his waist. You break the kiss long enough to whimper direction, saying, âThe bedroom is upstairs, second doorââ
âOn the left, I know. Tommy and I fixed it up a couple months ago. Talked about you the whole time,â he says. And youâre not sure why but the knowledge has your heart flipping in your chest.
Itâs almost like he knew, like they both did. Like they could feel you somehow, out there, wandering, finding your way back to them.
Joel lays you down and strips your clothes off slowly, fingers familiarizing themselves with every inch of your skin as if heâs learning it for the first time. He kisses your lips until theyâre swollen, leaves marks in the shape of his mouth down your chest, and leaves moisture from his tongue over the hardened peaks of your nipples.
When he parts your thighs and tastes you, heâs still fully clothed. And you begin to feel exposed, like the two of you are standing on uneven terrain, but then he lets out a feral-sounding moan and you think maybe heâs suffered in your absence even more than you yourself have.Â
His tongue is soft and hot and makes your back bend off the mattress. Twice he makes you come undone with nothing but his mouth. And when he rises to his knees, peering over you, he looks sated. Relieved, somehow. As if being this close to you has healed him, stitched up some long-opened wound.Â
Unhurried, he begins to discard his clothes onto the floor beside yours. His flannel first, and then his t-shirt, and you let out a pathetic moan as you drink in the sight of him. His scarred, masculine hands working at the metal buckle of his black leather belt, his toned arms and his soft tummy, and that trail of thick, dark hair that disappears beneath the waistband of his jeans.Â
Everything about him ignites you, calling to you like some sort of beacon. Your skin prickles as he discards the remainder of his clothes.Â
And before you have a chance to speak aloud your fervent need, heâs settling between your thighs and pressing the head of his cock to your entrance. He cradles your face in his hands, gently smoothing your hair away from your face, and thereâs so much devotion in his voice that it makes you tremble as he says, âYou were made for me, little girl. Do you know that?â
You think you do. You think youâve always known it, always known that whatever god-like, mystical being that resides in this world had crafted you with Joel in mind. All you can do is nod and bask in the moment, in the sanctity of your creation, in the wickedness of his. Carefully, he pushes his cock into you.Â
The stretch is painful at first, even with how wet heâs made you. But itâs a bearable pain, a sweet ache, especially with the way he whispers in your ear and presses soft kisses to your cheek with each breath. âSâokay, you can take it. I know you can. See? There you go. So fuckinâ proud of you, baby. Youâre so perfect. Perfect for me.â
Joel rocks his hips against yours at a gradual pace. Thereâs nothing rushed about it, no aggression in his movements. Itâs so different from the last time but the change in him just brings the two of you closer. Your orgasm builds like a fire in your belly, burning more and more with each thrust, heightened by the gruff moans that escape him, by the pressure of his body on top of yours.Â
Heâs so warm and he feels like home. A sensation youâve never felt since leaving that cabin, a safety like youâve never known since. You love him. You forgive him. And so you tell him.
And as the words escape your lips, as you make that final confession that will alter the course of your life forever, his breath stutters in his chest, and that fire thatâs been building in your belly reaches its full height, flames licking at your skin. He says, âI love you, too, little girl,â and it tips you over the precipice.
You reach the high of bliss together, at the same exact time, and everything but this feeling fades into nothing. All that remains is you and Joel and this otherworldly closeness. Thereâs nothing left to forgive, nothing left to navigate. As one, singular soul, you simply are.Â
He takes the time to clean you up afterward. You shower together, and he massages body wash into your skin, relieving the ache from your muscles. You donât ask him to stay because you donât need to; he just does. Because he knows you like no one else ever has.Â
You fall asleep quickly. Itâs late and youâre exhausted, but for the first time in fifteen years, you feel stable. He holds you through the night.Â
But when he shifts just slightly, it wakes you a few hours before sunrise. His eyes are wide open and bloodshot, clearly straining to stay awake.
Shifting on your elbow to lean up, you ask, âWhatâs wrong?â
Joel just shakes his head and gives you a small smile. âNothing,â he says. âJust go back to sleep. Get some rest.â
Itâs clearly a lie. Something is tugging at him, and youâre determined to fix it. âTell me,â you say.
He hesitates for a moment, working over his words in his head. He opens his mouth to speak, closes it, and tries again. And then he says quietly, unable to look you in the eye, âI wanted to be able to talk you out of leaving. If you changed your mind again.â
The words break your heart, cracking open your ribcage and allowing a trace of bitterness to settle there. Itâs your fault, you know. Your fault he worries about you leaving so much, that he allots time to talk you down from a ledge youâre not quite sure even exists anymore. You swallow down the tears that threaten and crawl into his lap. You kiss his face a hundred times, leaving no space untouched until youâre both quietly laughing. âYou can sleep easy tonight,â you say.
He nods as if he believes you, but you can tell thereâs still anxiety lingering within him. Itâs quiet for a long time. He just holds you tightly, arms wrapped around your middle. You think he may have fallen asleep, but then he whispers into your hair, âIâll take you anywhere you want to go. Just donât leave me behind again. Please.â
Itâs a plea. Heâs begging, in his own way. You kiss him hard, and in only moments heâs snoring with his arms locked around you.
You only wiggle out of his grip when the sun rises, yellow and orange hues cast across your bedroom through the glass pane of the window. You pull Joelâs t-shirt over your head and make your way down the stairs as quietly as you can.
This will be the most difficult thing youâve ever done. You know it will be. You know Joel will pull things out of you youâve been shoving down deep, know heâll poke and prod in an attempt to heal all within you thatâs been broken.Â
Because thatâs the kind of man he is; one who takes care of those he loves, who sacrifices his own comfort for others. You donât deserve someone like him and you know it. No matter how much you forgive, no matter how many times you try to wash your hands clean, you know itâll never be enough for his devotion.Â
You stand in the middle of the kitchen, eyes glued to the front door. It would be easy to leave, you know. Second nature. Instinctual. You wouldnât have to face all youâve done, wouldnât have to unearth all youâve buried, wouldnât have to open that closet with all those skeletons.Â
Hands trembling, you try to catch your breath. Try to make that final decision, try to forgive a little more. Not to forgive Tommy or Joel, but to forgive yourself.Â
The longer you stand there in the kitchen, the less you believe youâll ever possess that sort of absolution.
But itâs worth a try, isnât it? To find mercy in a place itâs never existed.
You take a slow breath.
And then you put on a pot of coffee.
taglist; @arizonadreamingg @sirendyes @untamedheart81 @pinkiec6-rubi @galway-girlatwork
#joel miller#pearlessance#joel miller x reader#joel miller smut#ao3 fanfic#joel tlou#joel the last of us#ao3 writer#joel miller fanfic#smut#tlou#tommy tlou#age difference#fanfic#joel miller fic#angst#angst with a happy ending#lust among thieves
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Happy International Lesbian Day! Here's some super brief book recs to celebrate
Books dealing with love, loss, longing and abandonment
This is How You Lose The Time War is a short but beautifully written epistolary novel between two agents on opposite sides of a time war as they slowly fall in love.
Our Wives Under the Sea is one of the most beautifully written debuts I've ever read about a woman whose wife comes home wrong after they thought she'd died at sea and how it feels to grieve the loss of someone who's still in your home.
Lucky Red is a western novel about a young girl working in a brothel who meets her first female gunslinger and falls head over heels for her, and the consequences that come with loving dangerous people.
Body horror galore
Camp Damascus is about a young woman living in a super conservative christian town built around the worlds most successful conversion camp and the horrors that are uncovered there when praying the gay away fails.
To Be Devoured is about a woman whose fascination with the local vultures turns into obsession and the urge to know what carrion tastes like overtakes her life and leads her down stranger and stranger paths.
Chlorine is about a girl whose entire life revolves around being a competitive swimmer, and how abuse, neglect, and obsession with being the best takes its toll on the young women caught up in these destructive cycles.
Flawed character studies
Big Swiss is about a woman who has a kitchen floor reset in her 40s, moves away and starts a new life as a transcriber for a sex therapist and becomes obsessed with one of his clients before inserting herself into this poor woman's life.
The Seep is a speculative sci-fi set in a future where there's been a quiet alien invasion that has given people the ability to make almost any changes to their own bodies and what that world feels like to someone who doesn't want to partake.
Milk Fed is about a woman in therapy who feels cut off from almost everything until she meets another woman who triggers in her a melding of sex, hunger, and religion and where that takes her. Huge trigger warnings for ED content. It gets tough, y'all.
Fantastical wlw books
Bitterthorn is an amalgamation of fairytales retold as a slow burn sapphic love story between a sad young girl from a cursed land and the evil witch who takes her as a companion in the latest of the generational sacrifices made to appease her.
All the Bad Apples may be set in contemporary Ireland but it is a fairytale following a young girl as she travels across the country looking for a sister she refuses to believe is dead and the people she meets along the way.
Gideon the Ninth needs no introduction on this site but for the sake of formatting - lesbian necromancers in space who find themselves in an isolated murder mystery plot. It's not a romance but it is a love story and this series will change your life if you let it.
Translated novels
Boulder is a short character study following a free spirited woman when she accidentally settles down with the woman she loves and how love and resentment can take up the same space in your chest when life doesn't turn out the way you hoped it would.
Notes of a Crocodile is a cult classic coming of age story about queer teens in Taipei in the 1980s. It was written in the 90s so please keep that in mind if you choose to read it.
Paradise Rot is about an international student studying in Australia and her growing obsession with her housemate as they share a space that allows no privacy. I've never read anything that feels stickier.
#international lesbian day#book recs#long post#maybe a too long post#but i had the recs so here we are lol#this is how you lose the time war#our wives under the sea#lucky red#camp damascus#to be devoured#chlorine#big swiss#the seep#milk fed#bitterthorn#all the bad apples#gideon the ninth#boulder by eve baltasar#notes of a crocodile#paradise rot#i ran out of tags đđđ#booklr
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I came up with this AU a while back - probably a few months after I stumbled into this fandom - and it's been bouncing around in my head for a while. (Excuse the scatterbrained nature of this post, I'm just writing my thoughts as they come)
Tim Drake meets Peter Pan (OUAT edition)
I mean, he's the perfect candidate for a lost boy. Neglected, lonely and will probably become scarily loyal to the first person who offers him a way out of that. Not to mention, he's smart, has loose morals (I mean, he did stalk and blackmail Batman) and can be a little ruthless at times, he'd be Peter's right hand man in no time.
So, he lives as a lost boy for a while, but finds Peter's ways of doing things too dark or cruel and, being the baby genius he is, escaped from Neverland, back to Gotham.
But also, we could combine this concept with the Tim joins the family early trope. Like, he goes to Neverland a couple of times, but also starts connecting with the Waynes, so that could be part of the reason he's able to let go of that loyalty to Peter, because he's got something better waiting for him. He never tells the Wayne's about his time in Neverland, worrying that they'll see him differently due to the morally grey things he did there as Peter's right hand man. Tim deals with quite a bit of imposter syndrome and insecurity, but ultimately, he's more happy than not.
Then, a few years later, Damian comes in and is all, well, Damian about things which makes things take a bad turn for Tim. The family is bad at balance/communication and Tim "Abandonment Issues" Drake is a very unreliable narrator at times, so it's angst galore. Then Peter turns up again.
Tim goes with him to Neverland, this time with the intention of staying forever.
Or, we could go another route and look into Damian, a kid whose whole life had been uprooted as he's sent to live with a father he's never met and with a family with vastly different dynamics to what he's used to. He's not neglected, but he's certainly lonely. Especially when being held up to expectations and moral standards that he finds impossible to comprehend after being raised by Talia and Ra's.
So Peter comes back, but he takes Damian instead, as a way to lure Tim back to Neverland. And, even if he doesn't like Damian much right now, of course Tim will go after him because that's his little brother and no way in hell is he letting Peter take him.
We could even sprinkle in a little backstory about Peter knowing Bruce from when Bruce was a kid, after his parents died. Now, two of Bruce's sons are missing and he has to find a way to Neverland.
That's where Jason comes in. Jason Todd, the ultimate lost boy who never was. Not for lack of trying. Peter's shadow swooped down to get him when he was living on the streets, but Jay isn't some naive kid, he's a Gothamite, a Crime Alley kid and he knows that if someone - even that someone is a creepy shadow person - grabs you and tries to get you to a secondary location, you fucking fight it with all you have. So, Jason never makes it to Neverland. Instead, he fights so hard that the shadow drops him, right onto Captain Hook - Killian Jones' - ship. They bond, Killian teaches Jason the ropes, but Jason ultimately decides to go back to Gotham for whatever reason (maybe Killian messes up or Jason's trust issues get the better of him) and he leaves.
We could also play around with parallels between Bruce and Peter. Both taking in lost, lonely kids that no one else wants, having them fight battles, Peter could even hit Bruce with that 'at least my boys will never die' as if forcing them to live forever in eternal stagnation is so much better.
While in Neverland together, Tim and Damian start to bond over their feelings of never truly belonging anywhere. That they'll be forever defined by what they did over who they are. As they grow closer, Tim reassures Damian that he will always belong with him, to give him the chance to prove it.
Meanwhile, Bruce, Dick and Jason are on their way to Neverland. And Peter is ready to start playing the game.
... And that's all I've got so far.
#dc comics#batman#batfamily#batfam#once upon a time#tim drake#damian wayne#jason todd#bruce wayne#dick grayson#peter pan#lost boys#crossover
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poisoned mercury | close as strangers (post chb)
a/n: okayyyy so i didn't give them an angst ending but i had to give into the angst monster at least once for this series so here's a bonus chapter for poisoned mercury. miscommunication galore. long distance is hard! two dumbasses in love!
song: close as strangers by 5sos
series masterlist | previous | next
"i'll talk to you tomorrow, yeah?" luke whispered, trying not to wake his bandmates up. the tour bus was large enough to house them while they were on the road, but it didn't really give the privacy he hoped for. chris was just across the narrow walkway from him and luke could hear his soft snores through the thin curtain that separated them.Â
luke felt his heart hammering in his chest when you didn't reply to him. he could still hear your breaths through the phone and you were just talking to him a second ago, so he knew you were still awake. you both had equally busy lives which meant that your phone calls were getting shorter and shorter each day. luke knew it was because you were booked with school and tournaments for field hockey and he was always exhausted after each meeting now that the band was working on their second album. luke knew all of this, but it didn't stop him from missing you. he was lucky to get a ten-minute call with you nowadays.Â
"baby?" he tried again, chewing on his bottom lip. he turned to face the ceiling of his bunk, the light from his phone casting a shadow on his face as he waited for you to say something. anything. "can i call you tomorrow?"Â
you sighed, "i don't know, luke. i have a busy day. it's a travel game tomorrow so i don't know if i'll be up late."Â
"oh," he cleared his throat, trying to hide his disappointment. he felt a little stupid that there were tears pooling in his eyes. so you can't talk tomorrow, it shouldn't be a big deal, right? except that luke felt like you were pulling away from him. little by little. and he didn't know how to stop it. it wasn't like he could drop everything to show up at your doorstep and fix things with you. if it was up to him, he would do it in a heartbeat, but you'd probably get mad at him for it, for abandoning his responsibilities as the lead singer of the most popular band in the world. not to mention the boys would be livid and mr. d and his mom would be equally furious.Â
"sorry, maybe next week?"Â
"yeah, sure," he replied, thankful that you weren't on facetime tonight. he didn't want you to see his face. "alright, i'll let you get some rest. go kill it tomorrow. g'night, five star."Â
"goodnight," you said, ending the call as soon as the last syllable left your lips.Â
luke groaned quietly, tossing his phone on the foot of his bed. he knew long distance was going to be difficult. it's been months since he last saw you, months since he was at camp half blood, sleeping in your bed and waking up to the feeling of your lips peppering kisses on his face. maybe he shouldn't have gotten so attached so fast, but it wasn't like he had a choice in the matter.Â
he got out from his bunk, tucking his feet into his slippers and made his way to the living room area of the bus. he sat on the couch, peering out the window to watch the empty roads ahead. they were on their way to nashville to meet with a producer that mr. d recommended. the second album was almost done, but it was missing something and none of them wanted to put out a record that didn't meet their expectations.Â
mr. d was already in tennessee waiting for them. he'd flown in from houston a few days ago with luke's mom and the rest of the poisoned mercury team while the boys were in atlanta for a movie premiere. they decided that a road trip was needed to de-stress after the glitz and buzz of the red carpet. it was nice to have some alone time with the boys. in their tour bus, luke felt like they were back in connecticut, just four friends fucking around, writing music, and eating junk food until their stomachs hurt.Â
he turned on the tv, switching to some random channel that he wasn't paying attention to. he just needed some noise to drown out his thoughts, but that didn't seem to work. all he could think of was you, his five star, and how much he missed you. luke wondered if you were having second thoughts about this whole thing. maybe he'd been too optimistic about things; maybe you weren't on the same page as he was; maybe you realized that it was too difficult to be with him.Â
a shiver ran down his spine as he spiraled into his thoughts. admitting to himself that something was wrong between the two of you left a bitter taste in his mouth because he didn't want to believe it. he saw you as his endgame, like nobody else in the world could compare to you, and to think that you may not feel the same about him... well, it was a difficult pill to swallow.
he wondered if he came on too strong, showed his cards too early, and seemed too clingy and lovestruck before it was deemed appropriate. you'd only been together, officially at least, for four months, most of which were long distance, but luke knew he was a goner for you way before that.Â
he silently cursed as the chill of the december air hit his skin. he should've worn a hoodie. he grabbed the small throw blanket draped over the armchair and placed it around his shoulders. he wished he got to see you over thanksgiving break because maybe you two wouldn't be in this rocky situation right now, but your coach ordered you and clarisse to stay on campus over break to sharpen your skills since you missed summer training. luke and chris were less than pleased with the idea, but they knew it was out of their control.Â
luke fell asleep on the couch that night after succumbing to the tiredness in his body. the sun was beginning to rise by the time his eyelids fluttered shut. he hoped that he'd wake up to a text from you, but when he woke up to the sound of the bus screeching to a halt in nashville, he realized it was the hope that kills.Â
-
âare you guys going to the fall concert?â silena asked, poking her head out of the bathroom. she was part of the planning committee for the unc fall semester concert and sheâd been stressing over the logistics of it for weeks.Â
âlena, if we even tried to miss it, youâd kill us,â clarisse chuckled, putting on a coat of mascara. âyouâve been talking about this since we got back.âÂ
the three of you were getting ready in your dorm. you and clarisse were roommates this year, thank gods for athlete privileges, and silena lived in the building next door in a single since she was an ra. how she had the time to be an ra, be a member of the music festival planning committee, and be a full-time student was truly beyond your comprehension.Â
âlena, calm down. itâll be good,â you squeezed her shoulders as you passed by behind her, grabbing your lipgloss from the counter. âand even if it sucks, half the people in the crowd are either drunk or high or both and will probably not remember it.âÂ
âtrue,â she snorted, curling the final piece of her hair. she unplugged her hair curler and gave herself one last look in the mirror, âiâll see you guys there? i gotta go make sure shit didnât hit the fan.âÂ
you and clarisse nodded as silena said her goodbyes. you dabbed on some lipgloss, glancing down at your phone every few seconds. clarisse side-eyed you, unable to hide her smile, âyou waitinâ for a text?âÂ
âshut up,â you rolled your eyes at her teasing tone. she didn't really know that your relationship was a little muddy at the moment. you werenât the best at talking about your feelings and it felt wrong to talk about your relationship drama when clarisse and chris seemed to be going strong. âtheyâre supposed to land in los angeles ten minutes ago.âÂ
âtheir flight probably got delayed, y/n,â she replied, âhappens all the time.âÂ
âno, i know, but just wanna make sure theyâre safe, yâknow?âÂ
clarisse crossed her arms over her chest, âtheyâre safe or heâs safe?âÂ
you ignored her question, opting to busy yourself with the weather app on your phone to avoid any follow-up questions, âhow are you not checking your phone for a text from chris right now?âÂ
she shrugged, âhe always knocks out on long flights so i donât expect a text until he gets to their hotel.âÂ
âhow are you and chris, by the way? i know we live together and shit, but i feel like we havenât gotten to talk about it in detail since weâre always so tired from school and practice.âÂ
âweâre good,â clarisse hummed, âjust miss him loads, though. i havenât seen him since we left campâ what? four, almost five, months ago?âÂ
you were in the same boat, kind of. you and luke hadnât seen each other in months and you were getting antsy. theyâd been on the road for the past few months, meeting with producers and fulfilling their contractual obligations. they hadnât been in a set location long enough for you to be able to fly out to see luke, even just for a weekend.Â
at first, there were movie dates where youâd order each other food and eat and watch the movie on facetime together. there were weekly phone calls and daily texts, but nothing compares to the real thing. being with luke in person was something that you were craving. camp half blood spoiled you with having him all for yourself and now that you were back in school and heâs out in the world, it was beginning to weigh on you.Â
you missed him. a lot.Â
you missed kissing him and feeling his lips break out into a smile when youâd mumble something stupid. you missed feeling his arms around you, hugging you from behind while you got ready for the day. you even missed waking up in the middle of the night to the sound of him scribbling random lyrics on pieces of scrap paper he found in your room when he slept over.Â
long distance is hard and sure, luke wouldnât be the type to cheat or do anything to jeopardize your relationship, but it still didnât stop a knot from forming in your stomach every time a picture of him or the band popped up on your social media with a gorgeous singer, actor, or model that they ran into on the red carpet. what if he realizes one day that he wants someone who lives the same life as him? wild and adventurous, not tied down by school or sports?Â
a part of you felt silly for being so insecure about things. it was too early in the relationship to have this conversation, isnât it? you knew that your avoidance of the topic was starting to affect your relationship with luke, as much as you wished it didnât, but what if the minute you voice your concerns, heâll realize that being with you was more than he bargained for? after all, you werenât the same five star with all the time in her hands, care-free, and relaxed that he met at camp. there was a chance that luke would call it quits on this if you said anything and it felt like too big of a risk to take.Â
your phone buzzed on the counter, indicating a text.
from: luke <3Â
âlanded and jetlagged. gonna sleep for a few. enjoy the concert babe!âÂ
you hearted the message and slipped your phone into your back pocket after sending him a quick goodnight text. the three dots popped up for a second, then in a blink, they disappeared. read at 8:43 pm.Â
âyou ready?âÂ
you snapped out of your thoughts at the sound of clarisseâs voice. you nodded and grabbed your small purse before heading out the door. you ran into a group of your teammates who were heading to the amphitheater across campus for the concert. the walk seemed to fly by as they cracked jokes and shared stories about random things. you stayed silent for the most part, only laughing along when it seemed like the right time, but your mind was somewhere else. your mind was in los angeles.Â
by the time you got to the venue, you and clarisse separated from the group to enter the vip tent, courtesy of silena. a small crowd was beginning to form in front of the stage, taking up the grassy field. charlie was already at the tent, sipping on an ipa when he saw the two of you. his face broke out into a wide smile, giving you and clarisse a quick hug before leading you to the seats he saved.Â
âseasonâs looking promising for you guys, charlie,â you commented, accepting the high noon he offered. âthe teamâs looking good out there.âÂ
âthanks,â he beamed, âdonât think weâre on the level of national champs just yet like you guys, but weâre trying!âÂ
âyou guys are doing great,â clarisse chimed in, âthe energy in the stadium is electric this year. makes me love college.âÂ
âare you telling me the papers and tests arenât what makes you love college, la rue?â charlie teased.Â
she snorted, âoh yeah, because i just love staying up until 1 am writing a paper on greek mythology for classics 101.â
the three of you fell into a comfortable conversation about the class you were all taking. it was a prerequisite class that most athletes choose to take because the professor was flexible with deadlines when it came to athletes. it was helpful especially when a team has to play beyond their season for tournaments or championships. about ten minutes before the opening act got on stage, silena rushed into the tent.
âguys, please you need to come with me. i need your help,â she said frantically. she was nervously tugging on her âstaffâ badge around her neck, already halfway out of the tent as she waited for the three of you to follow her. âplease, itâs an emergency.âÂ
âwoah, lena, whatâs going on?â you asked, getting up to comfort her. you followed her through the crowd, grabbing clarisseâs hand to keep her close.Â
silena shook her head, continuing her march through the sea of people, âjust come with me, iâll explain when we get backstage.âÂ
you and clarisse looked at each other, feeling bad for silena. she put in her blood, sweat, and tears into this concert and you knew that she would beat herself up over it if something went wrong. silena always put her all into the projects sheâs passionate about, but sometimes things outside of her control happen and unfortunately, she blames herself for it.Â
in the whirlwind of âexcuse meâsâ and âsorryâsâ, the four of you managed to make your way backstage. it was chaotic. people were running around everywhere making sure everything was set for the opening act. the girl who was opening the concert was waiting by the wings, her guitar strapped across her chest as she took some deep breaths. the crowd wasnât full yet, but you knew that if you were in that position, youâd still be sweating buckets. going out there on stage to perform for strangers was nerve-racking. you didnât know how luke did it. you admired that about him.Â
âlena, are you gonna tell us whatâs going on?â clarisse questioned, picking up the pace of her steps to match silena.Â
silena stopped in front of a door, slowly turning to face you and clarisse. suddenly, her stressed facade faded as she twisted the doorknob, âwhy donât you see for yourself?âÂ
if you werenât so confused about what was going on, you wouldâve seen charlie lift his can up to his lips to hide his smile at how proud he was of his girlfriend for her acting skills. when the door opened, your heart stopped.Â
luke was here.Â
he stood in the middle of the room beside chris with a nervous smile on his face. he was wearing a black leather jacket on top of a white tank top and black pants. his poisoned mercury chain hung from his neck, shining under the overhead lights. his hands were stuffed in his front pockets, shy and timid, as he waited for your reaction.Â
clarisse screamed when it hit her that chris was actually here. she ran to him and nearly tackled him to the floor. chris wrapped his arms around his girlfriend and laughed as she giggled into his neck. the two of them shared a heartfelt reunion before rushing out of the room to get some privacy. the sound of the door shutting behind you made you blink.
luke cleared his throat, right hand scratching the back of his neck, âhey, five star.âÂ
the nickname brought you back to your senses. you ran to him, engulfing him in a tight hug with an âumph.â at first, luke was tense under your touch, unsure if youâd be happy with his surprise, but quickly, he melted into you. he buried his face in the crook of your neck, sighing in content as your familiar scent surrounded him. he felt sparks coursing through his veins as you hugged him tighter and all he could think about was how good it felt to have you in his arms again. his mind was still reeling at your reaction. he didnât expect you to run to him like this, especially not when it felt like youâd been avoiding his calls over the last few weeks.Â
âwhat are you doing here?â you asked him, pulling away to hold his face in your hands. your eyes twinkled as you raked over his face, still in disbelief that he was actually in front of you. âyouâre supposed to be in la.â
luke couldnât stop the lopsided smile on his face, âwell, i lied? we were in nashville recording with your dad and he mentioned that he didnât schedule a session for us this weekend in case me and chris wanted to take a trip to north carolina, so here we are.âÂ
you ran your thumbs over his cheekbones, whispering, âhere you are.âÂ
âgod, i missed you so much,â he said, voice breaking. âyou have no idea how hard itâs been.âÂ
you gulped, your hold on his face faltering a bit. if luke wasnât on edge, he wouldnât have noticed the falter in your step, but he felt the slight hesitation in your actions. your warm touch slowly peeled away from his face and he instantly regretted saying those words. here he goes being clingy again. he removed his hands from your waist, clearing his throat. he sat on the couch, motioning for you to sit beside him. he tried to keep his hands to himself when you left a space between the two of you.Â
âi still canât believe youâre really here,â you said, staring at him. you wanted to lean over and hold him in your arms again, but there was a weird tension in the air that made you feel queasy. âi feel like iâm dreaming right now.âÂ
âi hope youâre not mad that iâm here,â luke looked down at his lap, flexing his hands. he had to keep his hands busy or else heâd surely reach for yours and he didnât want to come on too strong. he had to keep his distance. he didnât want to scare you off any more than he already did. âthere was just an opening in the schedule and i-i wanted to see you.âÂ
âiâm not mad at all.âÂ
âgood, good,â he replied. silence. he forced himself to look up from his lap, twisting his body to face you. he bit his bottom lip, trying to build up the courage to ask his next question. âare we okay?âÂ
âweâre okay.âÂ
âokay because i feel like things have been different between us lately,â he pursed his lips, looking at you with sad eyes. his tongue poked out the corner of his lips, eyes darting between you and the wall behind you. âi donât know. i feel like we havenât talked in ages, yâknow? and i know youâre busy and you have a great life here that iâm not really a part of, but uh, i wanna be, yâknow? i donât know much about school or field hockey, but itâs important to you and youâre important to me so i wanna hear about it.âÂ
he was met with more silence. luke continued, âmaybe iâm asking for too much when i ask you to let me be a part of this life, but uh, i miss you? and i just feel like iâm losing you and thatâs the last thing i want. so you gotta give me something, five star. tell me what i can do to be better.âÂ
âif you need me to back off, iâll do it, you know? you call the shots. you tell me what you need from me, and iâll do it, okay? i justâ i canât lose this. i donât wanna lose you,â luke mumbled. âmaybe this is all in my head too. i donât know anymore.âÂ
you shuddered, lip quivering, âi feel like iâm holding you back.âÂ
âwhat?âÂ
âcome on, luke,â you flicked away the tear that trickled down your cheek, âyouâre out there in the world doing what you love. meeting new people. living your life and i donât want to hold you back from that. we met each other when i didnât have all these responsibilities and who i was at camp is not who i am here and i know you love those impromptu adventures and trips and spontaneity. a-and i canât give that to you.âÂ
âyou deserve someone who can live this life with you and iâm stuck here for two more years, luke. i canât do that,â it was getting hard to breathe. your throat felt like it was closing up, cutting off your airflow. youâd been putting off this conversation for weeks. it didnât feel right to talk about this over the phone, and you thought that you had a few more weeks to figure out what to say to him when you saw him for winter break, but he was here now. âyou deserve more than facetime calls and text messages, and thatâs all i can offer.âÂ
âis thisââ he paused, licking his lips. âis this not what you want anymore?âÂ
âwhat?âÂ
âthis, us? is this just not what you want anymore?âÂ
an involuntary laugh escaped you as you wiped under your eye, âcastellan, i donât think i could stop wanting you even if i wanted to. and you know when we first met, i really wanted to.âÂ
luke moved closer to you, just an inch or two, trying to gauge your reaction. you didnât move away, which he took as a good sign, âiâm confused. why do you sound like you want to end this then?âÂ
âi donât want you to settle for this,â you sighed, âi know what you deserve and it isnât this.âÂ
âbullshit.âÂ
you furrowed your eyebrows, looking at him in disbelief, âwhat?âÂ
âiâm sorry, five star, but thatâs bullshit,â a small smile was tugging on his lips. he reached over to place a hand over yours. his fingers traced your knuckles, running the pads of his fingers across the familiar ridges of your skin. âi donât understand how after all this time you still donât realize that all i want is you. itâs ridiculous, really.âÂ
âitâs ridiculous?âÂ
âitâs ridiculous,â he chuckled wetly. his other hand rubbed at his eyes, clearing his foggy vision. âour situation isnât ideal, i know that, but iâd take long distance with you over anything else with anyone else. donât you get it, five star? youâre it for me. if this isnât what you want anymore, iâll accept that. but if youâre only doing this because you donât think i want this⌠five star, i want it all with you. long distance. phone calls. text messages. weekend trips when we can get them. distance has nothing on how i feel about you.âÂ
leave it to luke castellan to make you blush. you shyly looked at him, eyes twinkling with something more than either of you bargained for when you first met in that secret spot you call yours, âhow do you feel about me?âÂ
âiâm not gonna say it right now because i donât want to have the first time be while weâre in a fight,â luke laughed. the air was starting to clear. âbut i have a feeling you know.âÂ
âi know,â you squeezed his hand three times, âi do too.âÂ
âwill you put me out of my misery and kiss me please?âÂ
âalways so fucking dramatic,â you scoffed, playfully rolling your eyes, but you leaned over and pressed your lips to his.
#frances writes#poisoned mercury#luke castellan x reader#luke castellan imagine#luke castellan pjo#luke pjo#luke castellan#luke castellan fanfic#luke castellan x you#luke castellan x yn#luke castellan x y/n
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Ranking the LU Links on Social Media
Wild and Hyrule. Wild would be a a YouTube vlogger. Hyrule is his usual guest and they explore abandoned hospitals/schools. nobody knows how theyâre still alive, but hey, theyâre making bank soâ-8/10
(Wild also has a cooking channel that Hyrule is notoriously banned from.)
Four. I want to say that Four does video essays about random topics, never really shows his face and gains thousands of followers. Sometimes, you can really tell which Color created the video (Blue is notoriously known for hating on badly done smithing techniques and Vio slanders every YA romance book known to mankind). Also has an ASMR channel (fire crackling and 2800 hour loop of metal pipe sounds). 8/10
Time wouldnât know how to upload a video erm ugh uh I mean, Time would def just video silly clips of his animals or pretty scenery and upload it. Not really one for the views, just for vibes. 4/10 (the video quality is grainier than sand)
Speaking of silly animalsâŚTwilight either just post little snippets of his goats or heâd totally have a channel dedicated to his strangely very intelligent, very strong âhuskyââŚand if Twilight and the âhuskyâ have never been seen in the same room together, well, thatâs their problemâŚ5/10
Wind. Girl vs. Boy challenges and trick shots. Occasionally streams a Minecraft SMP. Has over one million subscribers. Need I say more. 7/10
Sky. ASMR and Woodcarving tips galore. Sun runs the social media behind the scenes. Has a bunch of random tips and tricks for very niche things, but heâs super chill. The Bob Ross of Everything but Painting. 10/10
Legend. There is absolutely no way that you will convince me that Legend DOESNâT do fashion/cosplaying stuff. Makeup tutorials, design reviews and color palette challengesâŚWarriors is his usual guest and the fans LOVE their snappy interactions. 9/10
Warriors. Is a model on the side but only really does YT for his friends. Part of me wants to believe heâll do some makeup tutorials, but I have a gut feeling this man has a whole channel dedicated to hair care and sewing/knitting. Artemis found his channel one time and thatâs why Warriors joined LU and went through Dinkâs portal /jk. 5/10
#loz#link#linked universe#lu#linkeduniverse#lu legend#legend of zelda#Lu warriors#lu hyrule#lu wild#lu four#lu time#lu twilight#lu sky#lu chain#lu wind#lu wolfie#lu wars#lu headcannons#headcanon#my ramblings
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masked up | joel miller x f!reader
pairing: joel miller x fem!afab!reader
summary: joel fucks you while wearing his gas mask
warnings/tags: 18+ content MDNI, very self indulgent smut (unprotected piv oops, mask kink đ¤, vaginal fingering, riding joel cowgirl because that is for sure his fav position, little bit of a bulge kink, oral [m receiving]) descriptions of blood and violence, established relationship (married!! whoop whoop!!), making joel call you âmy wifeâ because iâm weak for that shit, soft!joel, protective!joel, this got sappy, pet names galore as usual, NO USE OF Y/N
word count: 4.2k
a/n: i canât explain how i feel about joel wearing a gas mask. i swear every time he put it on while i was playing tlou pt 1 i moaned /hj. just HEAR ME OUT PLEEK. JUST WATCH THIS (itâs a tiktok edit) OK YOULL UNDERSTAND.
You donât mean for the mask to become a thing.
But it does. It becomes a Thingâ˘.
It all starts and ends with Joel, like good and bad things usually do. And this thing is no exception.
But it all begins with something bad.
Coming across spores nowadays is few and far between for you. You're not usually on patrol much, your job being to tend to the crops in the greenhouse and feed the livestock.Â
Today, though, youâre not so lucky. With Tommy out sick, youâre filling in for him. Thankfully, though, youâre paired with Joel, your very lovely and very experienced in the art of dealing with infected, husband. So you know if you come across spores, your husband will have your back.Â
Spores are annoying, but they're manageable with gas masks. When you and Joel enter an abandoned office building on a new patrol route and you catch sight of the little specks floating through the air, you immediately put yours on, Joel doing just the same.Â
The floaty fungal fuckers themselves aren't scary, especially not when you have the gas masks to keep you safe. It's just what waits in the shadows that scares you, because where there are spores, there's infected. Lots of them.Â
And usually interspersed in that conglomerate of stalkers and clickers are the big, meaty ones. The kind that have been sitting and festering for years. The kind that could literally rip you into pieces, regardless if you have a gas mask on or not. Bloaters, yeah, those big shits. The fucking bane of your existence.
Unfortunately, the one lazing around in this abandoned office building must somehow pick up on your undying hate for them because within minutes of you and Joel looting the place for all itâs worth, it comes clambering out of what used to be a conference room.
It's a big one. Noticeably disgusting, outrageously hideous, growling and slobbering as it slings mycotoxin at you. It's not very fast, and yet it's so fucking terrifying as it lumbers after you, because you know exactly what itâs capable of.Â
You're shooting at it with whatever arrows you have left in your backpack (though theyâre mostly just bouncing off itâs thick fungal exterior), and Joel's crunching out shot after shot with his shotgun, but neither of you are hardly making a dent.
God, you wish Joel had brought the flamethrower he keeps in his storage room. Youâd make a Molotov cocktail, but with the other infected hot on your heels, there's no time.Â
A stalker comes crawling out of the shadows behind you, knocking over an office chair in the process, and you whip around to lodge an arrow right between its eyes. Two more come swinging out of nowhere, and you're so focused on trying to get rid of them so that they can't reach youâcan't reach Joelâthat you don't realize you've left your back unattended until a large, gross excuse for a hand lands hard on your shoulder, lugging you backwards with inhuman strength.Â
Joel shouts your name with increased panic, and you hear his gun fire off more rounds into the bloater's back, but it doesn't care, it's hands finding your head and jaw, gripping you so tight you think it might shatter your mandible.
"Joel!" You scream, eyes squeezing shut as the pain in your jaw multiplies.
This motherfucker is about to rip you clean in halfâ
You think this is it, I'm about to die in front of my husband by being torn from the jaw down, but, thankfully, death never comes. Instead, the bloater releases you with a pained roar as the sound of squelching fills your ears. You manage to back away enough to watch Joel tug the bloater off of you by the handle of his machete, the blade lodged in its chest.Â
He pulls the machete out only to swing it down in an arc straight into its head, repeatedly. Blood splatters all over him as he bludgeons the wretched thing. Over his veiny arms, his black mask. It sinks into the fabric of his flannel.
And funnily enough, this is when it becomes a thing.
The bloater crumples to the floor with a gurgling groan as it finally dies, and Joel turns to you, chest heaving and eyes wide and panicked. They soften, relieved when he catches sight of you physically intact, though, mentally a bit checked out.
Whether thatâs because youâre in shock or because your brain is rewiring as it files this new image of Joel away, who knows? Maybe it's a little bit of both.Â
âAre you okay?" Joel asks, sheathing his machete to look you over. His hands catch your jaw gently, a welcome contrast to the bloater. He turns it this way and that, checking for any damage or possible bites.
A traitorous thrumming starts up between your thighs as he stares you down through the lenses of his mask.Â
"I'm fine, Joel," you say, breathlessly. "Thanks."
âThank god,â he squeezes your arm lovingly, grateful to see you in one piece. âLetâs get outta here.â
- - -
"Do you like the masks?" You ask him eventually, when you're back outside, the setting sun warming you pleasantly as the tall borders of Jackson rise in the distance.
You both took the masks off the minute you escaped the spores, but a part of you secretly hoped Joel would keep his on.
Joel scratches at his graying beard. "They keep us safe. Don't feel much for 'em at all really." He glances sidelong at you, a curious quirk to his lips. "Why?"
You shrug, "No reason."
Just trying to figure out if you'd wear it during sex if I asked you to, that's all.
âAlright, somethin's up," Joel says. "You've got the look.âÂ
âWhat look?âÂ
âThe sex look.âÂ
You halt in your hike, turning to narrow your eyes at him. âWhat the hell are you talking about?âÂ
Joel fails to stifle a chuckle. âYouâre horny. Thatâs the face you make when you want to have sex. Like you wanna eat me alive.âÂ
Shit. Heâs found you out.
âHow would you know?â
He blinks. âHoney, Iâm married to ya. Of course Iâm gonna know.â
Valid. Still-
"Iâm not horny," you try to defend, though you've never been good at lying, and based on the self satisfied smile Joel wears, you know he sees right through you. "We almost died, Joel. Maybe this is my 'loving every minute of my life' look."
"I know that look. This ain't it."
Jesus Christ.
You sigh heavily. âOkay, yes. Maybe I am a little horny.âÂ
"BecauseâŚwhat? We almost died? That gets you goin'?"Â
"No," you grit. You canât even look at him when you say it. âItâs the mask.â
His brows knit. âThe...gas mask?â
You nod tightly.Â
âI donât think Iâm followinâ,â Joel says.Â
Is he seriously asking you to spell it out for him?
You take a deep, steadying breath. You donât quite know how to phrase this, so you just go for it. âWatching you save my life in the gas mask just sort of woke something up in me. It was hot.âÂ
âOh.â
Yup. He definitely thinks youâre crazy.
âSo, what, you want me to fuck you while wearin' the mask or somethinâ?â
Heat pools heavy and thick between your thighs at his words, your heart hammering behind your ribs. âSomething like that, yeah.âÂ
Joel straightens. â...Okay. I can do that.âÂ
Your head whips up. âWait, seriously?â
âYouâre my wife. If you asked me to fuck you with a damn jesterâs hat on Iâd do it.âÂ
You laugh. âOkay, letâs not go that far.â
âIâd really do it for you.â
âIt sounds like you actually want to wear it.â
He chuckles, and you two resume walking back to Jackson. âAlright, so, gas mask on tonight,â he says. âAny other requests?âÂ
âSince youâre askingâŚmaybe you could wear a cowboy hat sometimeâŚâ
- - -
"Jesus, you're really lovin' this," Joel muses.
You're laid out beneath him in your shared bed, his long calloused fingers deep in your cunt, his thumb circling slowly over your clit, drawing out your pleasure, stretching it like taffy. Your jeans are still on, unbuttoned and unzipped, and your soiled underwear is pulled to the side as Joelâs hands unwind you.Â
You're grasping onto his muscled forearm for dear life, moans leaking out of you in a steady stream as he fucks his fingers into you, curling up to stroke that spot that has you clenching down hard on his digits as the burning starts in your toes, climbing up your thighs.Â
He looks so fucking good with that mask situated over his handsome face, his peppered hair flipping out over the straps that keep it snug on him. His eyes are dark through the lenses as they watch you unravel before him, almost black from how dilated his pupils are.
His jeans are still on, his erection straining hard against his zipper. The flannel he wore earlier is gone, giving you the perfect view of his toned chest and the dark hair that dusts it. There's still some blood stains on his mask. Every time you catch sight of them, your body ignites with something carnal and hungry.
"âCause, you look hot," you huff between moans.Â
Joel laughs, deep and rumbling, and the mask warbles it a bit, adding a distortion to his voice that for some reason makes everything happening so much hotter. âI still donât really get it, but if itâs makinâ you this wet, I donât care.â
You moan particularly loud at the sound of his voice muffled through the mask and cant your hips against his hand, the combination of his thumb circling your clit and his fingers fucking up into you has you dangling dangerously close to the edge.
âI-Iâm close, Joel.â
His brows furrow behind his mask, and he quirks his fingers inside you even more, and you jolt against his hand.Â
âCâmon then, baby. Come for me. Show me how much this pretty pussy loves this mask.â
Fucking shit. When you first met Joel, he hardly spoke a single word, and even when you got him to open up more, he was thoughtful with what he said, chose his words carefully. Unless he was angry, then he could be a bit of an ass.
In bed though? Shit, if you can get him to shut up itâs a damn miracle.
âF-fuck, Joel,â you whine, legs stiffening as your orgasm swells inside you, a match striking, lighting up your viscera as pleasure fast-releases inside your veins.Â
âThere you go baby, thatâs it,â Joel purrs. âSo pretty when you come.â
You inhale shakily as the last few shocks fizzle through you, your clit throbbing as you come down from your high.
âFuckâŚâ you huff, trying to catch your breath.
He strokes your thigh lovingly, and if you could see him behind the mask youâd assume heâs probably wearing that soft smile that he gets sometimes that melts you into a puddle of mushy gushy feelings.
Joel leans back on his knees. âNow itâs time to deliver on that promise,â he says, and your skin tingles at the sound of his zipper.Â
âWait,â you tell him, and he stops, looking at you in concern.
âSomethinâ wrong?â
âNo I justâŚI wanna show you how much this means to me.â
âMe wearinâ this mask? Itâs not a big deal-â
You sit up and plant your hands on his chest, pushing him down until his back hits the mattress, effectively shutting him up.
You swing your leg over him, situating yourself right on his lap and peel off your tank, delighting in the way his eyes widen and his hands come down to settle warmly on your thighs.Â
The muscles in his arms shift as he squeezes your flesh. The drag of the crotch of his jeans against yours has you biting your lip, a zing of pleasure shooting through you.
Joelâs eyes have darkened behind his mask, his pupils swallowing his irises whole besides the thin circle of hazel remaining at the edges as he watches you.
âIâve never hated jeans more than I do right now,â he says lowly, his gaze dropping to the rapid rise and fall of your chest.
His strong hands slide up from your thighs to your hips to your waist, his dry, calloused skin causing goosebumps to rise in their wake. Finally, his palms cup your breasts, unrestrained by a bra because theyâre too hard to come by in this day and age.Â
He squeezes gently, and your nipples tighten beneath his palms. And then he rolls one between his thumb and forefinger, and your back arches, pressing you further into him. Your hips grind down automatically, and Joel releases a hazy moan.Â
âMaybe,â you gasp when you roll your hips again, reveling in the delicious friction against your clit. âYou should take them off.â
âYours first.â
You donât press him on it. You want your jeans off. So you lift yourself off of him and the bed to tug at your zipper, and Joel watches raptly as you pull your skinny jeans down your thighs, kicking them off your ankles.
And then youâre only in your underwear, and you throw your legs astride him again, the cloth of your underwear catching deliciously on the tent in his jeans. Joelâs hands find your body immediately, like a sweet tooth to a chocolate bar. His fingers dig into your flesh, and he grips your thighs, pulling them apart to set you on him fully. A shudder wracks your spine at the feeling of him pressed against your throbbing core.
âGoddamn,â he growls, eyes roving over you hungrily. âSo fuckinâ perfect.â
You grind down on the hard outline of his cock, and Joel canât help his reflexive thrust into you, and you sigh.Â
âI need you in me, Joel,â you whisper, leaning forward to plant your hands on his broad chest, your fingers messing with the hair dusting his sternum. âNeed your cock filling me up.â
âChrist,â he swears, eyes falling shut as he bucks again. âNeedâa be in you, sweetheart.â
His hands find your hips and then your ass, squeezing the muscle cultivated there from twenty years of surviving in an apocalyptic world.Â
His fingers dip beneath the waistband of your panties, warm and confident. He lightly rakes his fingernails over your skin, running his calloused fingertips reverently over the stretch marks on your hips.Â
âSo fuckinâ beautiful,â he whispers through the mask. âWish I could kiss you.âÂ
You shiver and your arms loop around his neck. His back is scarred beneath your hands, and you rub gently into the muscle of his traps, causing Joel to release a groan.Â
His hand gravitates from your hips to the apex of your thighs, and your breath catches in your throat at the warmth radiating from his fingers when he positions them just below where you want him most.
He circles your clit again, smooth pleasure seeping through your nerve endings and your head falls back in a relaxed moan. You grind against the hard outline of his cock and the pads of his fingers against your clit, each slow drag of your hips causing pleasure to fizzle through you, like a flavored tab in a glass of water.
Your hands travel down his chest and stomach, outlining the thick, jagged scar there. Over his dark happy trail that starts just above his belly button and leads down to what your body is desperately craving. A little treasure map.Â
You deftly undo the button and zipper and Joel makes a wrecked noise in the back of his throat when your hand brushes the hard outline of him through his briefs.Â
âWanna show you how much I like you in the mask,â you purr as you palm him. âHow hot it gets me.âÂ
âFuck,â his head falls back when you tug him out of his briefs, stroking his thick length to full mast. âPlease, baby.â
You inch yourself down his legs so that youâre face to face with his weeping cock. Joelâs eyes widen and his hand comes up to gently stroke your hair appreciatively, tucking a lock of it behind your ear. He looks at you with adoration, and your heart swells in your chest.
âI love you, yâknow that?â He says, softly.Â
You canât help but get a bit misty-eyed, always a fan of Joel when he gets soft like this. âI love you, too.âÂ
He smiles, and glances down at his dick, maneuvering it so that the head skates across your lips, leaving a trail of precum. His heated eyes find yours again. âGo on and show me then.â
âYes sir.â
You keep eye contact as you lean forward to give his cock little kitten licks, and his head drops against the pillow with a groan, eyes lidded. âShit, you canât be lookinâ at me like that.â
You just smirk, and lick a long stripe up a prominent vein and kiss the tip of his cock sweetly before slowly taking him into your mouth. You take in as much as you can (which isnât much, heâs pretty fucking big), and your hands find whatever you canât fit.
You start sucking him in earnest, pressing the flat of your tongue against the ridge of his cock, delighting in the way the hand that had softly petted your hair before is now gripping it tight when you tongue that sensitive spot that always gets him reeling.
âThatâs it, honey,â he groans, his hips twitching with tiny little thrusts as he tries to hold himself back. âJust like that.â
You moan against his cock, which has him bucking up reflexively, shoving his dick further into your warm mouth. Your throat spasms around the head of his cock when it hits the back of it, gagging lightly and tears forming at the edges of your eyes.
âShit, I'm sorry, sweetheart,â he says, wiping the tears from your eyes with his thumb.
You shake your head slightly in reassurance, moaning around his cock again, and he releases a heavy breath, eyes fluttering shut once more as you continue to suck and bob and lick, effectively ruining him.
âOkay, okay, baby,â he says after a little while, lightly tugging on your hair to try and get you to stop. âIâm gonna come if you keep doinâ that.âÂ
You release his cock with an audible pop and send him a pout, âBut thatâs the whole point.âÂ
He chuckles a bit, sliding the mask off for a second so he can pull you up to kiss you softly, his tongue swiping over your bottom lip. You moan gratefully into his mouth when he tilts his head to deepen it, opening up greedily. As attractive as you find the mask, you certainly do miss being able to kiss him. You sigh happily when he pulls back to mouth at your jaw and throat, sucking and nipping his way down.Â
âI wanna be in you when I come,â he murmurs against your skin, voice rough and gruff and you donât think youâll ever tire of it. âHowâs that sound?â
You moan softly when he bites down on your throat, his beard and mustache tickling your skin. âSoundsâŚsounds good.â
He gives you another kiss before tugging his mask back down over his head, and your skin ignites, pussy fluttering.
Joel laughs. âI can literally see the cogs in your brain turninâ when I put this on. You really do like it, huh?â
You shrug with a guilty smile. âThe heart wants what it wants.â
And what it wants is him. Real bad.
So you drift a hand down to pull your panties to the side and shift your hips to position yourself over him, the head of his cock catching on your entrance. You sink slowly down, his length filling you.
The two of you moan in tandem.
âThere we go,â he sighs.
âMm, so big, JoelâŚâ you whimper, and his dick jumps inside you.
You both just hang there for a moment, suspended in time as you get used to the feeling of each other. Youâve done this so many times, know each others bodies inside and out, yet itâs still a brand new experience every time.
You always have to adjust to his thickness.Â
You break the spell with an experimental roll of your hips, and Joelâs hands clamp down on your hips with a vice grip.
âChristââ he swears. âYouâre so good, so good for me.â
Heâs filling you so fully, so deeply right now, youâre practically speared on him, and each roll of your hips has your clit brushing against his pelvic bone, amplifying that white hot pressure building inside you.Â
When you and Joel first started getting intimate together, he was quiet in the bedroom. Probably a bit nervous around youâhe was the one that fell first, after all.
But now after years together, he lets it all out.
Grunts and moans leak out of his gritted teeth as you fuck yourself on top of him. Heâs dousing you in praises, telling you what a good girl you are. How perfect you are. How lucky he is to call you his wife.Â
Itâs all so very adorable and very sexy and you just love him so fucking much.Â
Joel plants his feet down behind you, just to get some leverage so he can thrust his hips up into you at a steady pace. Your hands find purchase on his chest, keeping you upright while he fucks you.
His large palm slides around the front of your stomach, pressing down, and you can feel the way his cock moves inside you as he does it.
âYou see that, baby?âÂ
You havenât really looked down, so focused on the way he looks in the mask, how his breaths are coming out heavier and rougher through it. The way he sounds wrecked. But now that heâs asking, you do.Â
You look down, only to see a slight bulge in your stomach with each thrust of his hips.Â
A pleasant shudder runs through you. âOh fuck.â
âLove seeinâ the way I fuck you,â he rasps.
You watch his cock disappear and reappear with a slack jaw, eyes glazed as his hands stray to your thighs, squeezing and kneading the flesh.
Youâre losing strength in your arms, your nails scraping through his chest hair as you try and remain upright, but the effort of matching his thrusts with your own along with the steady ecstasy filling your marrow is enough to have you collapsing against his chest, boneless.
And now Joel can really take the reins. His big hands grip your ass, holding you still as he pounds into you, your cheek smushing against his pecs with each heavy thrust, your clit rubbing against his sweat-slicked skin.
âF-fuck, Joel. Oh my godââ
âYeah, yeah,â he grunts. âAtta girl.âÂ
Within moments youâre already there, eyes squeezing shut, brows pulled together in ecstasy as your climax crashes over you in rolling waves. It ebbs and flows within you as you listen to the heated pants modulating through Joelâs mask, watching his eyes gloss over as he chases his own release.Â
Itâs so fucking good. So right. Your husband never fails to give you exactly what you want.
His thrusts grow sloppier as he follows soon behind you, the fluttering walls of your cunt pulling him over faster.
âIâm cominâ,â he grits. And then heâs grinding his cock into your pussy, holding you still against him as he paints your insides with thick ropes of cum, releasing a long, drawn out, wrecked moan of your name.
You lay pliant on his chest, practically drooling on him as you both come down and his cock softens inside you, slick and cum running down the inside of your thighs. His heart pounds under your ear, a steady reminder that heâs alive and here and that you, thank fuck, didnât die earlier today.
âThanks,â you mumble against his perspirant skin.
He tugs the mask off, his hair sticking to his sweaty temple. ââCourse, darlinâ. Though as hot as that was, I dunno about having sex wearinâ that again. I think I was startinâ to get light headed from the lack of air.â
You giggle, âIâm sorry.â
âNo, no. I liked it. But now anytime we have to wear them again Iâm just gonna be thinkinâ about this. Gonna get a damn hard-on when Iâm on patrol.â
You smirk, leaning up to plant a kiss on his lips. He opens up beneath you immediately, moaning softly into your mouth.Â
âMaybe that was my goal all along,â you mumble, smiling into the kiss.
He pulls back with a quirked brow and crooked grin. âYou are into some sick kinds of torture.â
âI mean, if it gets you coming home to me quickerâŚâ
âOh Iâll be cominâ, alright.â
Your face scrunches. âGod, youâre sick. Why did I even marry you?â
His eyes melt, one hand squeezing your ass cheek, the other stroking your jaw. âBecause you love me.â
That causes tears to well in your eyes again, because despite everything, despite all the fucked up things about this world, you do love him. Youâre capable of loving him. And youâre grateful that, even with the terrible way life has treated him, heâs capable of loving you too.
âYeah, I do,â you say.
He kisses you again, sweet and passionate and filled with all the things he never knows how to say. âI love you, too.â
#joel miller x reader#joel miller smut#joel miller x f!reader#joel miller#joel miller x you#tlou#game joel miller#the last of us#tlou fanfiction#pedro pascal#hbo joel miller
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I haven't felt this hopeless in a long time. Like want to stop my meds, stop treatment, stop everything because it's all pointless anyway. Just go back to the SH and ideation since that has been the only consistency in my fucked up life.
I don't know why this has completely sent me spiraling. Shit was already stirred up when I told him the secret. Then his cancellations. Then my home-state and nightmares and triggers. Feel so incredibly small and alone. Wanting to withdraw from everything, everyone. Nothing and no one is safe, so what is the damn point. Why bother if everyone leaves, if no one is consistent or safe. Why go through that emotional pain over and over.
He said I'm resorting to avoidance. I don't care. Why bother with a partner if they just leave? Why bother with friends if they just change, leave? Why bother with therapy if I'm supposed to be fine without it? Why bother with any of it? I have zero emotional permanence, so it's already hard enough to remember people are there when they are still in my life. So when they actually leave? It's devastating.
Never stood a chance, so why keep trying.
#cptsd#bpd#therapy#massive fucking trigger#emotional dysregulation#disordered attachment#abandonment feelings galore#never stood a chance#why do i even bother#suicidal ideation#self harm#noncompliant#angriadm
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burning desire
10.3k // pairing:dbf/neighbor!joel x f!reader
Series Masterlist l Previous Chapter | Next Chapter
pt. 1 pt. 2 pt. 3
summary: An argument with your mother before family dinner leaves Joel worried about you. He sneaks you away to grab a drink and talk about whatâs on your mind.Â
warnings: MA 18+ (minors DNI), no outbreak, dbf/neighbor!joel, soft-hot-protective!joel, rocky mother-daughter relationship (this one ain't for the weak - mommy issues galore) & discussions of verbal fighting, slight clues of abandonment issues, smut, swearing, age gap (reader is in her early 20s, Joel in his 40s), pet names, praise!kink activated, unprotected p in v (yes finally, the edging is over), mentions of birth control, slight cockwarming if you squint, slight degradation kink
A/N: I crave three things after writing this chapter: Joel, Joel Miller, Joel fucking Miller. Also, Iâm almost done with The Last of Us Part 1 :(( sad that itâs ending, but itâs been so much fun to play! Enjoy this chapter <3Â
Your parents make good on their invitation and ask Joel over for dinner. A steak dinner, to be exact. Paired with wine, mashed potatoes, green beans, and a pie your parents picked up from the local bakery in town.Â
You sort of hope Joel pulls out his long list of excuses to evade any awkwardness.Â
Sorry, canât tonight. Iâm finishinâ up somethinâ for work. Canât wait another day.Â
Or,
Hey, maybe another night. Not feelinâ too hot.Â
When in reality, itâs more like,Â
I canât come over for dinner tonight because I might bend your daughter over my truck if I see her again.Â
As active as you and Joel have been, you have yet to hit a home run in lewd baseball terms. In fact, all the bases in your and Joelâs game were totally screwed up. You hit third base before you hit first, and you werenât even sure if there was a second base. It was all just so confusing now.Â
But you wanted the home run, you wanted Joel, you desired him in that light. You wondered if he was ready for it.Â
Screwed over by your father asking Joel over for dinner and screwed over by Joel agreeing, you had no other choice but to sit through it and act like everything was normal.Â
And everything was normal for the first half of the day before you and your mother got into it.Â
The argument was recycled. You wished she would come up with better material. But it always came down to what you wanted to do after this summer since you recently graduated. And that was an ongoing war.Â
After two door slams, your mother retreating to her bunker, and you finding shelter in the bathroom, youâd say todayâs battle was over.Â
You sit on the floor, bare feet touching cold tile. In a way, it soothes your shaky body.Â
No matter how old you get, this feeling never seems to waver with its intensity. The feeling that no oneâs listening, no matter how hard you scream for them to hear you. Regardless of how often you have these conversations, you become a small child again, being scolded and told that what you thought and wanted wasnât right.Â
You managed to collect your journal expertly hidden in your bedroom before fleeing to the safety of the bathroom. You flip open the pages with teary eyes.Â
You wish you didnât have to admit that this was your safe space. On the bathroom floor, back flushed against the dark wood door as you closed your eyes and tried to calm your breathing.Â
June 17th 2:28 P.M.Â
Mom started a fight with me about not traveling again. She says itâs crucial for me to start my career immediately. I donât even know what I want to be yet.Â
You have to pause to blink back tears. You wish you had your life figured out like it felt everyone else did.Â
Why does she have to care so much that I want to leave for a little bit? Itâs not like itâs forever. Thereâs so much more out there. Iâve studied miscellaneous classes for four years and want a break. Why do we always have to have this conversation over and over again? She always asks how I will take care of student loans and bills. I have repeatedly told her that Iâve been saving up for a while to do this. She keeps saying she wants whatâs best for me and doesnât want me to start my career too late. She says itâs hard to let me go.
I love her, and I appreciate her support through school, but school is what taught me about independence as well as academics. I want to live my life and have experiences you can only get by leaving home for a little bit. Maybe then Iâll better understand what I want for my future.Â
Your writing pauses, and you stare straight ahead at the beige wall, blurry eyes reading another cheesy sign. Bathroom - Open 24 Hours - Seat Yourself.Â
You decide to spare a moment of your motherâs casualties and pencil in something else thatâs been recently stirring.Â
Iâve been seeing Joel Miller casually since the start of this summer. I canât believe Iâm even writing this. Itâs weird -- but in a way, itâs also not? Heâs older by like a mile, but heâs familiar, comfortable. Easy to talk to. It doesnât feel like heâs judging me. Iâm not trying to read too much into it, but this summer sucks less because of Joel. Whether he knows it or not.Â
---
You and your mother work around each other while setting up dinner in the backyard garden. She steps back inside to grab more wine glasses.Â
Youâve put on a nice summer dress. The hem lands somewhere on your thighs and flows with the breeze. After sobbing on the cold bathroom tile for an hour, you don't feel very pretty, but eating outside and soaking up some fresh air might make you feel better.
âHey, sweetheart.âÂ
Joel Miller was the largest, broadest, lumberjack-est man you had ever met, but he moved as quietly as a mouse. Your eyes blink a few times as you haphazardly set down the bowl of mashed potatoes on the circular table.Â
âHi.â
Your voice is raw and red, softer than usual. Joel seems to instantly take notice. You see it in the way his eyes soften. He moves a little closer, hands resting on the back of one of the white outdoor dining chairs.Â
Your face probably reads more panicky than intended. He picks up on your faulty mood and assumes the worst.Â
âDo they.. Do they know?â He asks, eyebrows knitted with a deep furrow in between.Â
Your eyes go doe-ish, shaking your head and occupying your hands with a spare cloth napkin.
âWhat? No. Why would you think that?âÂ
He doesnât say anything, he doesnât have to. He takes one long look over your being and you feel it in the space between you.Â
Somethinâs wrong.Â
Nothingâs wrong. Iâm fine, Joel.Â
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing on you more.Â
Suddenly, you felt exposed. Like someone had ripped the curtain open on you. No one had ever seen right through you like this before. It was unsettling, but god, you just wanted to lean right into it.Â
If your parents werenât just inside, youâd walk right into his front and curl your head in his chest just under the hook of his chin. Youâd close your eyes and wrap your small arms around his waist.Â
Heâd encircle you in his big, protective arms and shield you from the pain youâve felt today. Youâd listen to his heart thrumming against his chest, using the rhythm to try and slow down your breathing while he whispers to you in his sweet southern drawl.
Sâalright, sweetheart. Everythingâs gonna be okay. I see you tryin��.Â
His eyes flitter into light again, ease passing across his features.Â
âLike the dress.â He looks over you with a condescending little smirk. This man has never seen you in a dress in your life.Â
âShut up. Itâs just for dinner.â
He lets out a cocky little tut. ââCause you knew I was cominâ over?â
When you look up at him again, his hand gently rests over yours. You donât have time to appreciate it; the sliding back door opens, and your fatherâs big booming laughter shakes the nearby lake. Joelâs subtle touch is instantly gone.Â
âJoel! So good to see you! Hey, great bonfire a few weeks ago.â
You take a deep breath and excuse yourself from the shop talk. You donât want to be alone with your mother in the house, but the table still needs to be set up. You work around each other in silence. She grabs the salad, you grab the dinner rolls and green beans. You could hear a pin drop.Â
---
Dinner would have been better if you had an appetite. You spent the majority of your time making a tilled farm field out of your mashed potatoes. Youâd flatten out your helping with a fork and then gently run the forkâs ribs through the moldable potatoes and create little crop lines out of it. You donât always play with your food, but you werenât really up for conversation. Your mother takes notice. She hates it. She hates that you were letting your personal problems exist in the company of others.Â
The only time you looked up even slightly was when Joel started talking. Sort of a calm in an unknown storm, you suppose. He looked so handsome without even really trying. You wore a crooked smile as you looked over the dark green button-up he was wearing. It was starting to be your favorite color, he wore it so well.Â
There were points where your parents would turn to each other. And Joel would turn to you. It was sort of a silent check-in.Â
Under the protection of the table, his hand found your knee, his big fingers lightly playing with the hem of your dress. It was the first time you cracked a real smile all dinner. Your hand ghosted over his, your nails lightly running soothing, slow lines on the underside of his wrist by his watch.Â
You doinâ okay?
Mhm.
It didnât dawn on you that Joel might have felt he did something to cause your saddened mood. And this was his way of asking. You bit down on your lower lip, feeling his fingers lightly interlock with yours over your knee. Your eyelashes flutter at the warmth it propels through your body. It was just what you needed. Everything was going to be okay.Â
---
Youâre working over a stubborn steak juice stain on a plate as the sun sets over the lake and glistens a soft yellow-orange hue through the windows in the kitchen. Your parents are moving around you while you rinse the dishes, back turned to them as they spoke in mundane conversation and pack up leftovers.
You donât see him, but you can feel Joelâs presence as he enters the doorway. He watches you. He watches your parents. You wonder what he sees. The next thing you know, heâs shaking your parents hands and bidding them goodnight.Â
He stops at you. As the running faucet splashes against a few forks and a wine glass, you spare him a glance.Â
âWalk me out?â Your parents take notice of his ask. And not in the way you expect.Â
You tilt back and forth on your feet, looking back to the dishes. You really just wanted to finish what was left to clean and read in your room for the rest of the night.Â
âUhm-â
âGo on and walk him out, honey. Weâll see you soon, Joel. Thanks for stoppinâ in.âÂ
Your eyes go from Joelâs, to your parents. If they were anything, at least they were oblivious.Â
You and your mother share a look before she sighs and exits the kitchen. Your jaw loosens, not even realizing how hard you were grinding your teeth while looking at her.Â
âYeah. Okay.â Your murmured voice is barely audible above the gushing sink faucet. After you set the plate on the drying rack and smear your wet hands on a dish towel, you walk Joel outside.Â
The night breeze off the lake sets in a layer of goosebumps up your arms.Â
Joelâs boots scuff against the gravel and dirt in his driveway, his footsteps pausing at his truck and turning to face you.Â
The rising moon and setting sun work in unison to highlight his aquiline nose and silver-sprinkled jawline. Heâs charmingly handsome. Rugged features meet a stone facade.Â
You take a hesitant look back into the house. The kitchen light is still on, but no one is in the small windows.Â
âYou wanna tell me whatâs really goinâ on with you?â He crosses his arms, cocking his leg out as he leans his weight onto one of his hips.Â
You muster up a shrug and fold your hands around your arms to keep the light chill away. It felt like you couldnât tell the truth, the house and your parents inside watching over you. The pressure of it all makes your shoulders lurch up a bit into your neck.Â
But Joel continues to press you. Youâre making him nervous, you think, because heâs not accustomed to seeing you so quiet.Â
âAre you..â His words falter and fall off, and you can see the frown creased into his mouth. âYouâre wantinâ tâstop seeinâ each other?âÂ
âWhat?â Now youâre the one frowning, closing the gap between you and Joel and taking him by his hand to the other side of the truck, using it as a shield between you and the rest of the world. Your back flushes against his driver-side door.Â
âNo, I donât want to stop seeing you, Joel.â You frown and squeeze his hand a little tighter in assurance. âTrust me. Youâre kind of..â You struggle to make the words fit. Nothing seems right. Youâre kind of the only person I want to be around right now.
Joel looks a little relieved. He doesnât make you finish your sentence. He seems to connect the dots. Joel looks from your solemn face to the house behind youâthe cause of your ill-stricken mood.Â
âHow about we grab a drink nâtalk.â Itâs not a question, exactly, itâs more like a command.Â
You donât want to talk about what happened, and you have a sneaking suspicion that if you two go off together, your parents will be asking questions.Â
You push the toe of your sneaker into the gravel and twist slowly back and forth.Â
âI should just head back inside. My parents are probably waiting up for me, anyway. Cleanup duty.â You say unenthusiastically with a dash of sarcasm. Joelâs eyes are looking past you, still at the house. You turn around to follow his eyeline. All the lights in the house have been turned offâeven the porch light. Joel scowls at the sight, thinking how he always leaves the light on for Sarah.Â
The caged-in feeling returns, your chest tight as you look to your feet and try to breathe through the ache your heart held. You wanted to get out of here, and now.Â
âNever mind.â You bite down on your lower lip to hold it together. âLetâs go.âÂ
Youâre already swinging open Joelâs door, rust creaking at the joints as you slide into the passenger seat. These old trucks with no center console were so cool to you. Maybe you'd appreciate it more if you werenât in such a shitty mood. But Joelâs already in the truck beside you, the warmth heâs radiating was welcome. His key turns in the ignition, and it clicks a few times before the engine roars to life.Â
You donât talk, he doesnât force you to. You feel at peace putting some distance between you and the lakehouse.Â
Joel drives past neighborhoods with funny street names. Thunderbird Lane. Firefly Drive. Sugar Loaf Lane.
As the sun just finishes setting, the whole town is covered in an orange glow that will soon fade to purple. Everything flies by your window, and moving at this speed feels like the cage is lifting around your chest, the clasps on your wrist snapping free.Â
Rolling down the window makes the breeze funnel into the truck and flow through your hair. Before you know it, your body is halfway out of the window.Â
âWhat ân Godâs name do you think youâre doinâ?â Joelâs tone was warning, his fist catching your dress in a fist around your lower back in an attempt to make sure you didnât get thrown out of the truck. âGet back in here.âÂ
You turned back so Joel could see you, eyes lit, and a smile from ear to ear. His hold slowly loosens at the sight before him.Â
Back arched out the window, he drives a little slower and towards the center of the road. You look up, arms outstretched into the night air as you breathe everything in. Fresh lungs, filled with a new perspective, no tears left to cry as you hang out of Joelâs window. The stars gleam, and the universe is vast.
Oh my god. You hear yourself mumble, feeling freedom reeling through your entire body. And like that, you were new again.Â
A satisfied sigh leaves your lips. Youâre back in the truck now, and you roll the window up but not completely closed. The wind still tickles a breeze into your thrown-about hair. You look to Joel, his eyes already on yours.Â
Joel sees your fire has been re-lit, thrashing out licks of flame and building in intensity. He adores you wild and free.
âBetter?â
You fix the space between you, your body melting into his side as your head lazily rolls onto his shoulder. His heavy arm finds its way around the tops of your shoulders to keep you sedentary.Â
âMuch better.âÂ
---
He ends up passing the central part of town. Itâs better this way. Go somewhere he wonât be recognized with a woman half his age. Heâs the one who lives in town throughout the year. You and your family only visit in the summer. It doesnât help that the town is small, and Joel is one of a handful of skilled contractors in the area.Â
His rusted truck lulls to a jittery stop outside a small bar lit by a red neon sign reading, Past Lives. You wander inside, passing empty barstools and a glowing dartboard, while your sneakers crunch peanut shells littering the ground. You nearly slipped on a large pile of them, but Joelâs hand was firmly on your bicep before you could flail any further.Â
âYou might be the clumsiest woman Iâve ever met.â He mutters, annoyance passing over his features.Â
You roll your eyes and scoot onto one of the tall barstools at a small square table against the wall. âI doubt thatâs true.âÂ
He shrugs his shoulders and cracks open a peanut, tossing it into his mouth. âYouâre right. Your mother is the clumsiest woman I know. You get it from her. Once, I watched her glide five or six feet down the end of the dock and land in the water.âÂ
An ill feeling passes over you again, pursing your lips as you trace your finger around the small bowl Joel is picking his peanuts from.Â
Joel halts his movements, chewing included, and watches as your eyes stare meaninglessly at the table.Â
âNever really seen you like this. Thought Iâd like it if you were quiet for once. But now it just feels out of character.âÂ
Joelâs boot teasingly nudges your sneaker under the table. His brown eyes look warm despite the lack of light in the dingy bar. Your stomach twists thinking about how he looked under the moonlight just half an hour ago.Â
Those pretty eyes of his meet yours. Soft. Kind. âTalk to me.â
A beaten-up sigh leaves your lips, tugging at the hem of your dress.Â
After a drink or two, you tell Joel everything he missed before dinner. How you and your mother fought. How it was all venom and tears, leaving you cold and alone on the bathroom tile. By the time the battle came to a halt, there was no clear winner or loser.Â
Joelâs an attentive listener. He doesnât interrupt. He knows when to prompt you need a push. Joelâs pile of peanut shells has turned into a small molehill. The ice in your drink sloshes around as you start talking with your hands.Â
âI love her, I mean, sheâs my mom. But sheâs always fought me on this. This-this-...â Â
âThe traveling,â Joel assists, his large hand nursing a small glass of whiskey. He looks amused like he enjoys watching you spew. You supposed he feels more relieved to see you explode like this rather than holding it all in.
âAnd-and itâs so much more than that! She fought me about leaving Texas for school, she fought me about doing a semester abroad, she just canât let me go, itâs suffocating!âÂ
You didnât mean to sound so passionate, and you hadnât realized how vocal you became until someone slowly clapped on the other side of the bar in appreciation. You stifled a laugh and put your head shyly in your hands.Â
He nods slowly, waiting to see what youâll say next. Youâre using him like youâre journaling at home, now itâs just interactive.Â
You sigh and pinch at the bridge of your nose, closing your eyes as you listen to an old country slow song humming throughout the bar.Â
âDidnât even wanna come back this year.â Your words are barely above a murmur.Â
This makes Joel pause. âWhat dâyou say?âÂ
You sit up straight and sigh, crossing one leg over the other under the table. These stupid drinks are making you tell the truth. Be more vulnerable than you would ordinarily be. But itâs also because youâre talking to Joel, and heâs always been interested in what you have to say.Â
âI didnât want to come back this year. These past few years, I didnât come back to Danbury because I sort of- purposely- busied up my summer. Internships, work, anything to keep me busy and out from under their-theirâŚ.â You pause to make hand gestures that are wide and all-encompassing.Â
Joel juts his jaw out to the side, lips pursed before he speaks again.Â
âMâhappy you came back.â Â
Thereâs a moment of silence. Joelâs eyes arenât on yours anymore. Heâs swirling his glass around slowly and watching his ice rotate in a sloppy circle. You slowly start to smile as he looks bashful.Â
âWhat did you say, Mr.Miller?â You pry teasingly, reaching your hand over and gently stroking his watch band. The nickname makes his eyes narrow on yours.Â
âNothinâ. Forget about it.â He throws back the last of his drink, and youâre cooing for him to continue.Â
âWha- Joel, come on! Why did you say that?âÂ
Heâs just trying to buckle down his smile, hiding it with his whiskey glass and shaking his head.Â
âDidnât say nothinâ.â
âYes, you so did. Donât even try to lie.âÂ
âIâve never lied a day in my life.â
Your eyes go wide, and now youâre smacking his forearm. Heâs shoving quarters at you now, sliding them to your side of the table as a form of distraction.Â
âCan you just-â He scoffs under his breath and rolls his eyes, finalizing his quarter total to four. â-fuck off, go put a song on the jukebox.âÂ
You sneer at him but obey. You look for something particular, pausing on Little Lies by Fleetwood Mac, smirking at him as you punch in his quarters. He seems confused as to why you stay standing at the jukebox.Â
The chorus hits, and you point accusingly at him as you do so.Â
âTell me lies, tell me sweet little lies,â you canât even finish before your right foot catches on more slippery peanut shells, freezing like you were caught on ice skates and trying not to fall.Â
Joelâs hand has a vice grip on your bicep again until you regain your balance. God. Your face gathers heat as you snatch your phone off the table, and he lets out a laugh at your expense.Â
âCanât sing,â
âHey-â
âCanât walk in a straight line.â
âI had like four drinks.â
âTwo.â He corrects. Thereâs no hiding that youâre just unbearably uncoordinated.Â
âGod. Just- get me out of here, Miller.âÂ
Joel was biting back a smile. He likes teasing you, taunting you. Only because you know how to serve it back to him.Â
âNot until you see this. Wanna show you somethinâ.â He sets down his whiskey and lays down cash to cover the tab.Â
You start your stride, and Joelâs already looking at you with instilled concern. You insist Iâm fine. Go on. You follow him through a narrow hallway towards the restrooms, an exit door lit up with a red sign over it.Â
The walls are filled with signs, pictures, and letters, all illuminated by a soft flickering strip light. These were trails that people had left along the way, passing through the bar and leaving a piece of them behind for strangers to admire. It was like a memory wall.Â
Joel leans back against the menâs restroom doorframe, arms crossed as he silently admires the wall. And you.Â
Your fingers brush an old family picture timestamped from the late 80s. There were business cards, from bankers to bonds bailsman.Â
You feel Joelâs hand cast warmth on your hip, guiding you further down the hall. You follow his eyeline to a large yellow-light spoiled wall map. There were push pins all in different parts of the world.Â
âLook at all of these, Joel!â Your eagerness was evident as you stepped in front of him, finger flying from one point to the next, squinting past the tacks to read the cities people have visited.Â
âBangkok, Thailand. Paris, France. Of course. London, Dubai, Tokyo.â Your voice trails off, finger-stopping around the empty parts of the map that some of the bargoers had yet to venture off to. The pins around the state of Texas were ironic.Â
You gently took a step back, Joel's broad and hardened front caressing your back. His arms gently wrap around you before they clasp at your front. You rest your temple against his bicep as you sigh. You found comfort in him tonight more than he could understand.Â
Your neck cranes to the side and up, observing his defined jawline from below. âHave you ever been out of the country?â Your face is lit with excitement, only to fall as he slowly shakes his head. You turn back to the map, your fingers gently holding onto his muscular forearm.Â
âAm I crazy for wanting to leave?âÂ
You can feel a heavy breath leave through Joelâs nose, the air fanning over the top of your head.Â
âYouâre not leavinâ. Youâre travelinâ. Youâll come back, eventually.âÂ
The muscle in your jaw twitches, and your eyes move to the Eastern side of the map, spotting the tiny European countries.Â
âMaybe my mom is so worried that if I decide to leave, I might not come back.â You say it as a joke. It makes Joel muster up a tut. But maybe, just maybe, you mean it.
---
You feel drops scatter from the dark black clouds overhead as you rush out to the truck, feeling the cold rain splash onto the exposed skin of your thighs.
Joelâs hot on your heels, doing his little side hop down the stairs and jogging lightly with his arms tucked into his sides. Heâs already tossed you the keys to his truck. His body hovers over yours and shields the raindrops from landing on your head as you fiddle with unlocking the truck door.Â
âAny day now.â
His babbling thwarts your concentration.Â
âFuck off, itâs like- rusted shut.â You tease before giving the handle one large tug, and it gives way with a creak. You slip in, dress hem tangling up on your upper thighs. Your hand flies to fix it instinctually, but you slow down when you see how adamantly Joel admires the exposed skin.
When you two make eye contact, heâs already cleared his throat and put the key in the ignition. He cranes his neck back to look out the rearview window, left hand cranking the wheel with precision while his right arm wraps around the back of your headrest. You swallow the lump in your throat, watching Joel reverse out of the barâs parking lot and back onto the main road.
Your heart thumps, and you think he can hear it because his eyes are on yours when he turns back around. Magnetizing. And you have a hard time facing him without feeling a little shy. Because youâre thinking incredibly naughty things now.Â
On the drive home, the rain pelts the truck and hard. Joelâs wimpy wipers are working at full speed. Heâs not concerned because he knows these streets with his eyes closed. He turns up the radio a little bit to drown out the rain. He does it for you to ease your nerves.Â
âYouâre quiet.â He murmurs, his eyes still on the murky road in front of him.Â
You canât help but be quiet. He looks so fucking hot. As dim streaks of lightning skitter across the sky, you see the silver hairs in his mustache and beard. His rain-dampened curls are recoiling, fresh, and wavy. His thick neck was lined with strong veins and muscle.
âSo are you.â You murmur back.Â
His eyes catch you in sneaky glances. Your hair, pretty and dry since he shielded you in the barâs parking lot. Dress half rumpled up your thighs, smooth skin of your legs exposed to his wandering pupils.Â
The truck suddenly shifts, veering off the main road. Â
âWoah,â you gasp, thinking the truck had slid at first. But Joelâs foot was still on the gas, cautiously guiding you off to a side road. You look around, covered by darkness and trees that shield your existence but do little to veil the obscene thoughts racing through your head.Â
Joel finally throws the truck into a parked position, your eyes watching as his hand snaps the keys out of the ignition.Â
He looks over at you expectantly. And you just deadpan.Â
âGet over here." He says between gritted teeth, voice drenched in lust as he snaps off his seatbelt and then your own.
His large hands pull you in as soon as youâre free. You donât waste another minute, straddling his lap and resting between him and his steering wheel. Â
You clutch the collar of his dark green button-up, tugging him by his neck into your kiss. Itâs messy and desperate, but you've wanted to taste him since dinner. His greedy hands are wrinkling your dress. The cold air tickles your warm thighs, and you whimper into his mouth.Â
Joelâs kisses are rough but fluent; he speaks the language of your lips. You take a moment to admire how different the two of you are and how it feels like heâs the key to your lock.Â
His warm palms slip up the front of your thighs as he kisses you, hasty and happy. He takes the hem of your dress with him. Joel is as warm as a furnace. Heâs heating you from the inside out as your core begins to ache for him.
He pauses the kiss, large palm coming up to cup your cheek as his thumb traces along your lower lip. You take the time to catch your breath, feeling his own fog against the window next to you.Â
âNot exactly the most romantic spot.â His eyes shift with lust-filled guilt. âMâsorry.âÂ
You work up a smile, leaning in to gently kiss his cheek and up his cheekbone.Â
âItâs okay. Weâre not romantic.â Your clarification feels like a lie. He doesnât need to know that.Â
The rain outside becomes blurred, and Joelâs looking through you again. Right through you. Your chest pounds under his watchful eyes. He sucks in the side of his cheeks, looks you up and down your face.Â
Donât lie to me.Â
Donât make me tell you the truth.
He decides to let you move on unscathed, your thighs clamping around his own with your knees at either side of his hips. His worry lines are stamped into his forehead as he looks over you cautiously.Â
You break into a smile, unable to stand him looking at you like youâre a lost puppy. âJoel,â you whisper into his ear, soft lips giving his ear a kiss as your nose lightly brushes against his soft curls. Your voice drops to a whisper, sweet and divine. âDonât make me beg, Mr. Miller.âÂ
Your lips suckle his earlobe and cast your tongue along the curve while his fingertips immediately dig deeper into the flesh of your hips. The sensation makes his cock twitch in his jeans.Â
You smirk as you grind your hips into his lap, a suppressed grunt leaving his parted lips. Heâs into it. âYou like this, Mr. Miller?â Your words are murmured against the shell of his ear, teeth gently catching his earlobe and lightly tugging.Â
Your words along with the rhythm of your hips over his lap have him in a tailspin.Â
âKnock it off.â He warns, teeth gritted, a low growl emitting from his throat while he grips you at the waist to pause any movement. He looks so sexy snarling at you like this. Your hand reaches between you two, palming against his cock until you feel it swell into the heart of your hand.Â
Joel is lazily planting kisses on the soft skin of your neck, heâs distracted by how good your hand feels.Â
You take turns half undressing one another. Joel pushes your dress up to your waist and loops his index finger into the band of your panties. He guides them down with your assistance. You kick the material off your ankles and move to pop open each button of his long sleeve. He goes to shrug it off, but you smile and tighten your hold on the collar.Â
âI like it on. Just wanna see your chest hair.âÂ
His mouth tilts into a crooked smirk.
ââlright, then. Good to know.â He leans back in and places messy kisses on your exposed neck. You can feel how badly he wants to sink his teeth in, but you share the mutual rule of keeping those things below the collar. Out of sight, out of other peopleâs nosy minds.Â
You struggle to admit that jimmying open his belt at this angle was pissing you off. Youâre holding your breath until it clicks open, and you let out a sigh of relief. So does Joel.Â
A gasp leaves your lips as Joel lifts the both of you up purely with the strength of his hips, a low grunt leaving his pouted lips as he pushes his jeans down to his knees, along with his boxers. You sit back down over him and feel his heavy shaft pressing against your slick center. His girth makes you whimper.Â
The rhythm of the rain eases your racing heart. You take Joelâs pulsing member into your slightly shaky hand.Â
âNervous?â Itâs not cocky or concerned, just curious.Â
âMânot nervous.â You mutter, starting to pump his cock to get him to shut up. And it works. For a minute.Â
His head falls back into the seat as he watches you in admiration, his own hand wandering between your spread legs and gliding two fingers through your slick. His forefinger grazes against your clit, and he has you whimpering again.Â
âSâokay to be nervous.â His thumb slowly starts delicate circles into your bundle of nerves, and now heâs got your legs quivering.Â
Youâre chewing at the inside of your cheek, shifty eyes meeting his. You pace your words this time. âIâm not nervous, Joel.â You pull away from him to create a line of spit from your mouth, landing on his pink tip already drizzling in precum. You swallow your nerve and bring yourself to meet his eyes. âNot with you.âÂ
The mutual understanding links the two of you together, bound to the agreement in silence. You have a burning desire for one another. Youâre scared, and he knows it. You push him to the limits, his heart beats for you.Â
Steam fogs the windows of Joelâs truck. The rain dances a fine line between pounding and pouring to slow and subtle.Â
Joelâs kisses lull you into a peaceful existence. You take off your dress, unable to stand anything between you and Joel. Heâs warm as he wraps his arms around you, your tits flush against his thick chest.Â
You line him up by his base, Joelâs trying to hold himself still under you. Youâre focusing hard, and he kisses your temple to ease your thoughts. He murmurs something, but youâre too busy concentrating.Â
His pink tip meets your warm flesh, and his tip slowly parts your walls. Heâs seething between his teeth, how tight you are washes pleasure over his face. He wants you to go slow. You donât want him to go easy on you. You canât help but let his name tumble from your lips in desperation.Â
âJoel,â you whine, one hand clenching the fabric of his button-up by his shoulder while the other still weakly holds his base.Â
âMâhere, baby.â
Heâs rubbing soothing circles in your hips with his forefingers, trying to distract you from the stretch heâs creating inside you.Â
His breaths are coming out in hot puffs. The truck isnât cold anymore, in fact, itâs only steaming up.Â
âSo- fuckinâ- tight.â He murmurs, eyebrows knitted together as his jaw was dropped open.Â
It was sharp at first, but the further you sank over him, the more you couldnât contain yourself. As soon as his balls were flushed against your core, you were kissing him. Hot and heavy, desperate and needy, canât get enough of each other sort of kisses. One of his hands holds the back of your head to keep you close while your fingers are delicately feeling up his chest and mazing through salt and pepper hair.Â
You smirk lazily against his lips, pulling away to rest your head on his shoulder. With this leverage, you start to roll your hips down onto his. Joelâs hands assist, squeezing your ass and guiding you smoothly up and down his shaft. Youâre both moaning one anotherâs names, hazy eyes watching each other as long as they can before eventually drifting closed.Â
You wished you werenât fucking in his truck, your riding skills were a lot better than this, but if you try and pop up, your head will just smack into the roof. And heâll make fun of you for as long as he knows you.Â
âGod- feel so good, Joel.âÂ
Youâre panting already a few minutes in. You donât want Joel to think you canât do this, you donât want his help. But your body is crammed in limited quarters, and youâre already sweating.Â
He feels good. You wonder how long itâs been since heâs had sex. Heâs not exactly the most outgoing of gentlemen. Thinking about him being with other women, maybe even women his age stirs a weird pit inside your stomach.Â
One hand steadies itself on Joelâs forearm while the other gently clutches his cheek. You leave a messy moan against his ear.Â
âDo you like fucking girls half your age, Mr. Miller?â You ask with a teasing smirk, messy kisses against his stubble and his ear ensuing.Â
Heâs grunting every time you throw yourself back into him, skin clapping against his thighs, his hands slipping from your hips to your ass and squeezing the juicy flesh. â-like fuckinâ you.âÂ
A low, extended groan leaves his lips as he holds your hips down, filling you full and having you sit with it. You throw your head back, and your eyes shudder closed with a loud moan occupying the truck.Â
You tell yourself that youâre both just fuck happy. You can worry about the depth of Joelâs words later. He feels too good inside of you for the first time to give a shit.
Joelâs thrusts bring you back to life, hand landing against his window and leaving a print mark against the steamy glass.Â
Joel senses your languid movements. He thinks you look pretty being fucked in his trunk during a thunderstorm. The darkness wraps the both of you up, only seeing flashes of each otherâs features. He combs his large hand into your hair, catching your striking features with his hooded eyes. The slope of your nose. The curvature of your collarbones. Your pretty lips that he canât stop staring at.Â
Joel enjoys the control too much for you to be on top for a second longer.Â
You collapse onto the truckâs long leather seat, lips parting in surprise as he maneuvers you to lie back without slipping from your entrance.Â
âH-Holy fuck, Joel-â Youâre breathless.Â
Joelâs jaw clicks tighter as he flattens one of his large palms beside your head for leverage, hovering over you as he begins to methodically snap his hips into yours. Your desperate cries for more fill the truck.Â
Both of you are horridly cursing, some in the form of whines and moans and others in the form of whispered grunts.Â
Fuckin Christ-
Holy shit, Joel, please-
Feel so god damn good, princess-
Oh f- fuck me Joel, fuck me!
Youâre already feeling the knots in your stomach tether tighter and tighter together, back arching as your chest brushes against his nose.Â
Joel takes the opportunity and licks a hot stripe between your breasts. You know he tastes your glistening sweat, but the trail from his tongue makes you clench tighter around him.Â
You catch Joelâs unfiltered groan in your mouth, his forehead resting against yours as his amber eyes grace yours.Â
Heâs close, you can see it in the way his features contort and his thrusts become more unpredictable. You had no idea he could fuck this good.Â
Joel brings a hand up to your lips and offers you two fingers. You whimper but reluctantly take them past your mouth. You suckle and lather your tongue up and down each digit, it makes his cock twitch inside of you.Â
He plucks his fingers free with a pop, a trail of spit extending from your bottom lip to your chin as he reaches between you both.Â
Finding your swollen bundle of nerves doesnât take him more than a second. You were so turned on it was almost painful.Â
Joelâs tip sweetly kisses your cervix at this angle, and you are so close to spilling over. Your hands cup his face, pulling him into you as you share a messy kiss. You think about how scared you were to kiss him before, but now it makes you feel a sense of protection and safety. You wrap your arms around his neck, you need him close.Â
âJoel,â you whimper, clenching your eyes closed and dropping your jaw as he finds the perfect rhythm circling your clit.Â
âCanât hear ya, baby,â He grunts into your ear. You can feel him tiredly smirking against your cheek, knowing heâs fucking you so good youâre struggling to find the words.Â
âFuck,â you mutter, your legs clenching tighter at the sides of his hips. âMâon birth control, finish inside me,â you whisper against his ear.Â
You can hear him let out a short, breathy chuckle against your ear. It only drives him more, knowing he can fill you up.Â
âYâsure, sweetheart?âÂ
âWant to?âÂ
His teeth are gritted as he growls into your ear. âCourse I wanna fill your sweet cunt up.âÂ
It was hopeless after that.Â
A crack of thunder and a strike of lightning conspire, your view of Joel illuminating his gorgeous face in a white-silver flash.Â
The tight coils inside you snap free, a broken moan of his name being the last thing you remember saying before white stars filled your vision. Your hold on Joel loosens as your orgasm crashes through you ungracefully, making you twitch and rut your hips below him.Â
His fingers and his thrusts donât stop. He rides out your orgasm, following suit until he flushes his hips against yours and lets out a heavenly groan of your name. Youâre still under him, vision blurry and hearing fuzzy. He finds solace in the crook of your neck, nuzzling a home for himself in the space and losing himself deep inside you.Â
His body shudders lightly as he finishes, spilling white streams into you for who knows how long. Your hand is gently stroking the hair at the back of his head, fingers combing through dark curls as he breathes hot air against your neck.Â
You both slowly blink back to life. Heâs complimenting you, but youâre too blissed out to hear the details.Â
So good, baby⌠Such a pretty fuckinâ girl... So lucky.Â
Joel tuts softly as he attempts to free his softened length, but you whine and tighten your legs around his hips to keep him stationary.Â
Your eyelashes flutter as you feel gentle kisses by the corners of your eyes, tiredly smiling as you open them before slowly sitting up onto your elbows. Joel takes the opportunity to pull out and yank his boxers and jeans back into place, securing his belt last.Â
He still keeps his shirt unbuttoned for you, partially because you have a hold on a random corner to keep it so.Â
With the absence of your pants hotboxing the truck, you slip back into your dress with a light shudder. You reach past Joelâs leg to retrieve your panties and pull them up your stems to keep his spillage to a minimum.Â
âGood?â He asks, a smile slowly growing on your lips. He looked so fucked out. You both probably did. You attempt to fix Joelâs hair, and he takes his thumb to swipe away the saliva trail on your chin.Â
âGood.â You agree. Quiet and sapped, but good.Â
You force Joel to play a few games of tic-tac-toe on the foggy glass before the storms lighten up, and you can actually see more than a few feet in front of the road.Â
Youâre picking at the skin around your nails the entire drive home. So many questions compile in your worn-out brain.Â
What if your parents noticed you were gone? What if they were awake, waiting for you by the kitchen window, and they see you slip out of Joelâs truck? Try explaining yourself after that one.Â
As Joel pulls into his driveway, you observe the lake house is still dark and silent. Empty but also not. Joelâs warm palm is on your leg. It draws your attention away from the window, focusing just on him.Â
âJoel?â
âHm?âÂ
You shift your jaw before you lay your head back against the headrest, gentle pitter patters of the last rain cloud splashing on the window.Â
âWhat do you do when youâre not working? Like on that Saturday when I talked to you at your truck.âÂ
He musters up a half-mouth smirk. âDidnât do much talkinâ that I recall.âÂ
You roll your eyes and slam a closed fist against his shoulder. It barely rocks his arm, let alone his body. âMâserious.âÂ
He lets out a long sigh and looks out the windshield. âI do stuff around town or-Â for the town.â
Heâs so hard to push details out of. Heâs like a jammed stapler.Â
âGo on. So, like, volunteering?â
Joel rolls his eyes and shrugs. âSânot really like that.â
âThatâs what it sounds like.âÂ
He doesnât say anything, just sort of starts smiling. âJust like keeping myself busy. But now I have you on my plate.â He teased. Your chest felt warm, knowing he kept a place for you in his hectic life.Â
âWhat sort of stuff are you working on right now?âÂ
He takes a long, deep breath through his nose. You can hear it whistle before he lets it all out of his mouth, followed by clearing his throat.Â
âYâknow that old church past that big field on the east side of Danbury?âÂ
You mindlessly shake your head and shrug.Â
âWhen I was a kid, I used tâgo to that church-â
âFor God?â You canât help but blurt it out in shock.Â
He narrows his eyes on you and smirks.
âMânot exactly the Godly type.â You look over his chiseled jawline and beautiful, robust features. Youâd have to disagree. He looked like one of Godâs favorites.Â
âSo.. why are you trying to fix an old church?â
Joel slowly smiles, eyes mindlessly on the dashboard of his truck before he answers. âI have a thing for the broken, used, and abandoned.âÂ
Your head cocks to the side, and you give him a look, pressing him for an honest answer. Or maybe it was an honest answer, and youâre just looking for a better answer.Â
He shuffles around in his seat before he continues, hand still aimlessly circling on your thigh. âIt wasnât operable when I was a kid, just rundown, abandoned. There used to be a stained glass mural on the-uh... east-facing wall. So when the sun came up through it, the whole place just- lit up.â He pauses and shifts his focus to you.Â
âNow, yâknow, itâs fallinâ apart. Dumb kids throwinâ rocks at it and chipping away the glass, age makinâ it all dust-covered.â Joel shrugs and falls back into his closed pit of secrecy.Â
âSo⌠youâre fixing up the town.â
A pause. âMore or less.âÂ
âYou know how to make a stained glass mural?â
He shakes his head and purses his lips. âNo. But I can figure it out.âÂ
You twist your lips and slowly climb over his lap once more. His eyes watch you curiously while his hands settle on your hips. You cup either side of his neck, fingertips lightly brushing up against messy curls.Â
âCan I see this mural youâre working on?âÂ
He takes a long time to answer. So much dead silence fills the truck you start to feel a bit awkward about asking, like maybe it was too far.Â
âPlease.â You ask or tell rather. You kiss his lips lightly to try and sway his pending decision. âI wonât judge, I think itâs cool.â
âCool?â He instantly chirps, cocking an eyebrow up at you.Â
âI didnât say you were cool-â
âYou most certainly did.âÂ
Youâre shaking your head, and his pointer finger is prodding into your side to get under your skin. âI said that itâs cool. The stained glass stuff, that is what is cool.âÂ
Heâs already sneering at you. âWhatever you say, princess.â You can feel your cheeks singe with heat. Your hand anxiously scrabbles for the door handle, letting the rusty door creak open for your exit.
Sneakers scrape gravel after you climb out of Joelâs lap, his boots landing suit.Â
He smoothes a hand down your dress, your eyes watch before you face him.Â
âYou gonna be alright?â Joel's face is laced with slight concern, his head cocking past you and looking to the house.Â
You shrug and shake your head. âYeah. Weâve had this fight before, and weâll have it again.âÂ
He doesnât seem satisfied with the answer. Heâs teetering on his heels as a stray raindrop lands on your cheek.Â
âYou can..â He trails off as his thumb comes up and brushes away the droplet, hand lingering before he cups your cheek. âYâknow, can always stay with us if you need a break. Mâsure Sarah would love the company.â And so would he.Â
Your eyes soften, the gesture warm and safe. You couldnât even imagine the trouble youâd stir up at Joelâs house. Sure, you could occupy yourself with Sarah when she returned from camping, but what would you and Joel do? Well, besides the obviousâŚ
Your lips curl into a tight smile, not wanting him to reel in his invite out of pure bashfulness.Â
âThank you. Iâll keep it in mind.â Your eyes are on his until he sighs, his shoulders reset into that of a broad lumberjack once more. His eyes looked like they were scheming. Itâs fast, like a flash, and before you know it, the look is gone.Â
âTake care of yourself.â He leans down and plants a kiss on the crown of your head, thumb skimming up the line of your cheekbone. Suddenly, your heart is racing again.Â
You cup his cheeks and pull him down for a real goodbye kiss, two sets of pouted lips against one another, unwilling to let go until you have to.Â
---
âWhat are you doing after work?â Youâre on a call with Joel, phone pressed between your ear and hunched shoulder.Â
âWhat are you wearing right now?â He taunts, voice crackling in and out of connection since he was currently working at a house out of town.Â
âHa.â You deadpan, closing the sliding glass door behind you as you step back into the empty lake house, skin sweltering from being in the sun for the better half of the afternoon reading on the dock. âNo, really, I could use your help.â
The phone volume shrills in your ear as you hear an electric saw roar to life, Joel cursing repeatedly as he walks away from all the noise. âJesus fuckin-.. so damn lou- Can you hear me better?âÂ
Once the saw dulled, you put the phone back to your ear. âYeah.â
âWhat do you need help with?â His voice sounds a little preoccupied like heâs trying to focus on you, but heâs got a million things running through his head.Â
âMy window.â You say with a frown, stepping into your bedroom and cursing at the sight of it. âWonât open. Maybe you can crack it open with some of your handy dandy tools.â
You smile as he musters up a little laugh at your hardware knowledge or lack thereof. âI donât know about today, baby.âÂ
âYou are the property maintenance guy for our lakehouse now, right? You have a duty to help me.â You tease, stepping back outside with a fresh bottle of water and an apple. Your teeth pierce the skin, and the appleâs juices gush past your lips.Â
âJesus, fine. Iâll be over. Iâm almost done.â
You purse your lips to hide your smirk. God, he canât even see you, but you donât want him to know heâs got you flustered.Â
âParents are running errands today... If thatâs extra incentive for you to hurry up.âÂ
Joel pauses on the other end. Heâs probably got that stupid smirk on his face. âIn that case, Iâll leave now.â
âI knew youâd see things my way. Thank youuu.â You playfully coo.Â
Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever.
An hour later, Joelâs outside your window while you assist from the inside. His face is twisted in concentration, eyes narrowed on a misaligned hinge that he works free with a screwdriver, realigns, then screws tight into its proper place.Â
He looks stupid hot so focused like this. Tanned skin, hair a little dusty from work. The veins in his forearm were bulging as he uses pressure to keep the hinge in place. You had to blink a few times to keep yourself from staring. He feels it.Â
âCan I help you?â His voice was thick and echoing since he was speaking to you between a glass pane.Â
You bite back a smirk and shake your head.Â
He pulls off the hinge and nods, pats it a few times before looking at you and giving you a thumbs up.Â
You decide to let him come inside before you open the window yourself, twisting at the string of your bikini bottom as you wait. He took in your appearance as soon as he parked in the driveway.Â
âWhat?â
â...Nothinâ. Like the outfit.â
âJoel, I was sunbathing. And reading. It wasn���t an intended distraction.â It was.Â
âMhm.â
Joel appears at the entrance of your bedroom. You silently curse yourself for not updating it more. It still looked like a sixteen-year-old fangirl lived in it.Â
He appreciates the posters and magazines, checking his handiwork at the window.Â
âWanna give it a go? Open it?âÂ
You eagerly smile and step up to the window, playfully tugging on it and heaving.Â
âI-.. Itâs still stuck.â You say with a frown. âJoel, you said you fixed it.â
âWhat? Shouldnât be-â Heâs already got his hands on the frame and tugs, feeling it easily slip up and open. Youâre giggling as his face deadpans.Â
âYou think youâre so funny.â He taunts, his body turning towards you as he chucks his tools haphazardly on your bed. Youâre already attempting to take leaps and bounds away from Joel, but his arms are long, and so are his strides.Â
His rough hands capture you by your waist, dusty and calloused fingers ghosting over your warm skin.Â
Joelâs lips eagerly greet yours, both of you grinning into the kiss. Itâs slow as you let it envelop you. Your heart races. Heâs not supposed to be here, your parents could come home any time now. Â
You bite down on your lower lip, feeling butterflies in your stomach as he backs you up against your wall, foreheads gently pressed together. His eyes flick behind you, and your head follows his gaze.Â
âBoybands, huh?â
You roll your eyes and smirk, fingers moving to the button of his jeans.Â
âShut up, Joel. Leave the boybands out of it.âÂ
A car door slamming catches both of your attention. Heads whip on instinct, eyes wide like a deer in headlights. Your parents are home, and Joelâs half-hard in your palm.Â
âOh, shit.â You curse.Â
Joelâs already moving, grabbing his tools off your bed, and adjusting his jeans. âLemme handle it.â Your heart pounds as you and Joel greet your parents at the door. They walk in with fresh shopping bags. A cheesy sign for the living room sticks out from one of them.Â
âJoel?â They both ask in unison, looking between the man beside you and you in your bikini. Your motherâs face lightly flushes.Â
âHey, Joel! Good to see ya!â Your father sets the bags on the table and grabs a beer from the fridge. You shift on your feet and just let Joel lead.Â
Your dadâs oblivious, your mother is more curious
.Â
âWhat are you... What are you doing here?â She tries to ask casually with a little smile.Â
Joel raises his screwdriver, strategically keeping the toolbag in front of his lower half. You try not to smirk.Â
âWas fixinâ your daughterâs jammed window.â
Your mother's face softens before she smiles. âYâknow, that thing has been jammed for⌠years. Thank you.â
You give him a tight-lipped smile and nod. âYes. Thank you, Mr. Miller.â The light glare he sends you means youâll pay for that one later. Joel clears his throat and nods, too. He turns to you now, and you share a look.Â
âJust⌠let me know if it happens again. Might need to replace the hinge entirely. Small piece of it could be broken, might be why it keeps slippinâ out of place.â
âYeah. For sure. Thanks.âÂ
You walk past your mother and open the door from him, but he still stands between your parents. What the hell is he doing?
âWhile I have you both, I was just tellinâ your daughter âbout a business trip I have cominâ up.â Huh? â Itâs not for Miller Contracting. Itâs more for the town. Iâm gettinâ materials for the old church-â
âOh, the one with the broken stained glass mural on the east side of town?â Your mother chirps in. âWe just drove past it. Just saying how someone needs to fix it up.â Joelâs lightly nodding to your motherâs words, her face soft as she listens to him with curiosity.Â
âWell, I was tellinâ her about it âcause I could use some help getting materials from a supplier in Houston. Iâd normally ask Sarah to tag along and help, but she said sheâs got some graduation parties next weekend that she doesnât wanna miss. Would it be alright if-â
âOh, of course! Yes, please, if you need her help and she wants to go, sheâs all yours.âÂ
Your eyes are wide, trying not to seem too shocked by Joel secretly sweeping you out from under your parents without them even noticing.Â
Joel turns to you, eyebrow cocked.  âThat okay with you? Next weekend. Friday to Sunday sortâf thing.âÂ
A whole weekend alone with Joel? Your insides are bursting, but you have to seem apathetic.Â
âMhm. Sure.âÂ
Joel sneaks you a private smile. âReally appreciate it. Yaâll have a good rest of your eveninâ.â And with that, heâs out the front door.Â
You couldnât believe what just happened.Â
You try to act casual before you make it off to your room, but your motherâs voice pulls you to a halt.Â
âAh-ah, not so fast. Back it up.â
You quietly sigh before coming back to the main part of the kitchen. She narrows her eyes on you and lightly crosses her arms. Your fight with her from yesterday is still fresh, and it makes holding prolonged eye contact difficult.Â
âAre you seeing a boy?â
Your eyes widen on instinct. Your dad pauses the sip of his beer and watches you carefully. You try to hold together a poker face as best as you can, but youâre worried your shock is already seeping through.Â
âWha- A boy? Why would you think that?â The laugh you force out sounds too fake. And youâre a terrible liar. You feel so hot all of a sudden. You wished Joel was still here to talk you in and out of shit. It was a skill of his youâd surely have to learn.Â
âWell, we heard the door close really late last night after you walked Joel out. We were just wondering if... You know, thereâs a special someone that youâre seeing.â Of course, she hoped you would tie yourself down to someone in Texas.Â
âYeah, did a boy pick you up after dinner or somethinâ?â Your father presses, eyes narrowing protectively over you. âYou seeinâ a boy or not, honey?â
You didnât want to lie, but you certainly werenât ready to tell them the truth about you and Joel.Â
âUhm.â Your brain scrabbles for an answer and ultimately chooses poorly. âSorta. I donât know. Kind of?âÂ
Your mother tightens her lips in a smile and nods a little. âWeâll let it go for now, but-â
âGod- Mom, please.â You groan and put your face in your hands, closing your eyes and wishing this nightmare was over.Â
âBut,â she annoyingly emphasizes, âIf it gets serious, we want to meet this young man.â She says with a firm nod before turning back to your father and putting away the items in their shopping bags.Â
Meet him? They want to meet the boy youâre seeing? What will they do when they find out the boy is actually a full-grown man, a forty-something-year-old with a teenage daughter? And that man was not only their friend and neighbor but Joel fucking Miller. Fuck. Your luck was running out.Â
---
here's my masterlist!
**follow hellishfics and turn on notifications get updates on my fic postings**
#joel miller#joel miller smut#pedro pascal#pedro pascal smut#pedro pascal the last of us#pedro pascal joel miller#joel miller fanfiction#joel miller one shot#joel miller x f!reader#joel miller x female reader#therapist joel#tlou#tlou fic#the last of us#the last of us fanfiction#hellishjoel#joel miller x reader#dbf!joel#dbf!joel miller#dad's best friend#neighbor!joel miller#joel tlou
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Poly Xianle Quartet Dynamics Headcanons/Thoughts
Okay so first we have our main big ships: Hualian and Fengqing
Xie Lian x Hua Cheng: our star-crossed lovers duo. Constant heart eyes. We know them. We love them. Itâs very important to me that they both love each other the same intense amount tho.
Feng Xin x Mu Qing: Rivals to lovers type. I think they both definitely had a crush on each other when they were younger, a bit of a âfuck this guy but also heâs kinda pretty wait what-â. I think post-canon they finally try and do get over their general angst and bad communication and become a duo that really make a fantastic team when they can. Like. Not kill each other enough to actually listen. The Martial Gods of the South. Theyâve been at each otherâs side (and at each otherâs throats) almost always since theyâve met, and I think that fact really is the foundation of their dynamic.
Alright, now the more fun stuff.
Xie Lian x Feng Xin: âBody Guard x Royalâ dynamic my beloved. I think theyâre very much childhood friends to lovers too. Like saw each other in diapers type. I think Feng Xin was born to a noble family (with a strong martial background) that was mostly dead by the time the kingdom fell, and therefore was one of the few people deemed high ranked enough to be friends with the Crown Prince. Which makes him like. The person Xie Lian knew the longest. Intensely loyal, especially post-canon once they get over their angst. Honestly I think they may be a little bit codependent for a bit, but they ease out once theyâve settled into their relationship again. Thereâs definitely more to say here but Iâll leave it at that for now.
Xie Lian x Mu Qing: Ah yes, itâs the Unrequited Love complex they both nurtured for me. I read Itâs In Your Warmth, I Feel The Coldest, by PeacefulDiscord on ao3 (itâs great you should check it out). And they wrote a line which really pinned down their relationship for me; âI always thought of you as my beauty,â Xie Lian says. His gaze is firm even as his hand gentles where heâs still holding Mu Qing. âMy jade. My love for you drove me mad, it made me too harsh when I believed you to have discarded me so easily.â And that right there has to be the crux of their relationship. I think they both crushed on each other when they were younger, and they found each otherâs differences fascinating. But that difference in class made it so difficult for them to actually understand each other. I think post-canon, once they both have lived closer to the contexts of each otherâs childhoods, they both have a much better understanding of the other person. They both had strong insecurities when it came to each other, a balancing act when they never knew what the other might take the wrong way. And the power imbalance that Mu Qing was always intensely aware of and that Xie Lian never even considered. Which made them lash out the minute they felt unsure. Assumptions galore. I think after a long chat post-canon, they settle into a sweet and close relationship again, and I think their experiences after they parted lent them a new understanding of each other they bask in now. The intense admiration (and love) they have for each other goes unshadowed now.
Alright, now probably the most juicy dynamics (at least in my opinion):
Hua Cheng x Mu Qing: I headcanon that they knew each other, when they were kids. Same impoverished neighbourhood type. Iâm not sure how close that relationship was, but I think they definitely had one, even if it was just Mu Qing lying about Hong Hongâerâs whereabouts when his family or some other kids try to hurt him. They have lots of animosity to get through, especially regarding the whole Xie Lian stuff. And I think because their childhoods were similar, it made Hua Cheng even less inclined to forgive Mu Qing for what he viewed as his abandoning Xie Lian (especially cause I wouldnât have done that, he thinks to himself). I think Hu Cheng also envies him the relationship he had with Xie Lian when they were younger, thinking him undeserving. I think any headway they make happens after an explosive verbal fight, which is probably how their other two lovers learned they knew each other when they were young. Once they actually talk out the resentment, I think their relationship eases a bit. The spark of admiration they had for each other when young erupts into a whole forest fire pretty quickly after that. (Mu Qing was definitely Hua Chengâs gay awakening when they were younger, and Xie Lian was Feng Xinâs. Mu Qingâs was Feng Xin, to his eternal despair and Feng Xinâs eternal smugness. And Xie Lianâs was obviously his San Lang, it was almost Feng Xin tho, but he was too oblivious). They turn that lingering animosity into gossiping and judging people together, itâs their favourite bonding activity. I think their shared background eventually makes Hua Cheng the person that can read Mu Qing the easiest, and Mu Qing the person that catches Hua Chengâs insecurities the easiest too. Their relationship is surprisingly soft. Theres is a slow burn.
Hua Cheng x Feng Xin: These two bitches might actually be enemies to lovers. Hate at first sight. Hate for a long while after. They have no basis for a relationship outside of their assumptions about each other, and the early post-canon years consist of snide remarks and actual fist fights sometimes. Their own unique relationship with Xie Lian means they have no qualms about throwing him at each otherâs face, and it wasnât until they almost made him cry doing that they finally calmed down a little. Still. Lots of animosity that doesnât get solved until some sort of mission together forces them to actually exist around each other enough to not try to explode each other with their brains. They realise, after a fraught silence, that theyâre both quite similar. Especially with loved ones. Especially when itâs loyalty. And they both, respectfully, hate this new understanding of each other. âWhat do you mean I canât get mad at him for doing the most for someone he believes and is loyal to?!â âWhat do you mean I canât hate him for leaving our shared lover because he proved more loyal when being asked to leave?!â. Unfortunately for them, this does prove to be the ice breaker for their relationship. They end up bonding over their shared drive to keep their loved ones safe, and they understand each otherâs intense more than anyone else. Itâs a slow surprise to both of them when that starts to include each other as well. But they find itâs nice to be the object of someoneâs intense for once too.
Alright thatâs all for now. I clearly had more thoughts than I assumed.
#seriously this was not meant to be the essay it turned into#can you tell this is my newest obsession#heaven official's blessing#tian guan ci fu#poly xianle quartet#feng xin#mu qing#hua cheng#xie lian#polyamory#xianle quartet#fengqing#huaqing#mulian#fenglian#hualian#huaxin#so many ships lmao#headcanons#dandyâs deliberations
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âDeath and Her Companionâ
Prologue
Description - And so we meet the girl from the bunker, the hidden away secret. The one to powerful, to fearsome and to quick-witted. How sad it must be to be the harbinger of death and yet have such a kind soul. How odd it strikes the other Hargreaves that this wondrous woman is their 'little' brothers supposed ex. One must wonder what her role is in everything, which chest piece she is on Reginald Hargreaves board. One thing is for sure, to Five she is the all mighty queen.
A/N - Please don't expect much of me, I am dragging myself through work four cans of alani at a time. There are little time jumps throughout their time in the apocalypse. I plan on writing more cute apocalypse bonding moments for them throughout the series.
Warnings - Canon typical violence, use of y/n like twice. Needles, blood, syringes, abandonment issues. Self worth issues. Mentions of skinniness due to lack of food (from the apocalypse my dudes)
Pairing - Five x Reader
Word count - 6k
To tell a story, one must have a character or set of characters to follow. They may not be reliable or entirely likable nor good-hearted or kind, they may not be evil or extraordinary but simply intriguing. Intriguing enough to hold the reader's attention, to keep them coming back for more. And that is Y/N, a girl born on a day where something extraordinary happened and if given any other power she would have been one to marvel over.Â
But the babe was born with fingertips dosed in inky darkness and killed her mother during birth. Then her grandmother who held the babes pinky and so on. Eventually she was kept hidden with the help of one Reginald Hargreaves, who agreed that her power was too strong for the world to bear. So said girl lived her life underground with a robot as a mother (to keep her from accidentally killing her too) and eventually a robotic companion that was meant to resemble her age.Â
Even through glitches and random updates she didnât know what normal really was, so she never batted an eye. As she grew so did the darkness upon her fingertips until eventually it stopped at her elbows. She read every book given to her, watched every movie and show and held a strict physical regiment to keep her in shape.Â
She learned just about every fighting style known to man thanks to the updates her mother was given and regularly ran in the underground garden. Her bunker was her life and she never thought it odd until she was 14. You see, all those movies and books showed a different life than hers, exciting ones that showed the ocean and the sun, the moon, stars. There was romance and friendships, adventures galore. Suddenly her life which was once fulfilling felt⌠suffocatingly dull.Â
Neither her companion nor mother would let her out nor sympathize with her. They only tried to distract the girl from her growing desires. But such desires only grew and mixed with the rage of a preteen girl came a moment in her life sheâd always remember, the moment when the monotony would finally end. They didnât listen, they tried placating, and they tried deflecting. At one point they tried to make her feel crazy, but her textbooks and ways of entertainment showed proof of a different life. So finally when all that rage and loneliness finished brewing it came time to try to escape. Â
She didnât make it past the second steel door before a syringe was put in her neck. She awoke, she tried again, she was kept locked in a more secure room, no longer allowed to roam her bunker. So when her mother and companion came to visit on the 5th day she used her upbringing to her advantage and killed them. Twitching metallic limbs were scattered about the padded room, oil seeping out instead of blood and the sound of frying wires filling the air.Â
Finally, from doing this, she met the man who built her bunker. He kept himself protected behind a wall of plexiglass, staring her down through his monocle with a disapproving glare. âYou have caused quite the mess.âÂ
The young girl was sobbing, she had just killed the only people - no things she ever knew. She was a monster, a murderer. âI just want out, please let me out!âÂ
âI cannot do that child, your power is beyond my control. You were able to suppress the medicine I tried to give you and are not fit for normal ways of living.âÂ
His voice was cold and stern, in her already fragile state his lack of empathy only made her feel small. He only seemed to validate her worst fears.Â
âI can offer you something though, a way out from this life. All you must do is step through those doors and into the chamber Iâve built for you. It will let you out, I promise.âÂ
The young girl, having never seen him before, didnât know how this man was full of deceit. With barely anything else to do, she simply nodded through her tears. Whilst sniffling the girl followed his instructions and clambered into the small chamber. As she turned to face him, she realized how tiny it was and began to panic, but it was too late. Before she could even open her mouth to protest, the chamber door slammed shut and a gas filled the space.Â
It seemed like only seconds before air flooded the chamber, ragged gasps escaping her cracked lips. The pain she felt was overwhelming, it flooded her body and felt as though she was being torn in two. As her eyes rapidly blinked, she found the glass of the chamber had shattered and all around her was clouded by smoke and dust. As the terrified girl tried to move, that sharp pain halted her movements, causing her to crumble onto the floor.Â
Her hands and knees fell against the ground, shards of glass embedding into them and as the metallic taste flooded her mouth the young girl found a sharp metal stuck within her abdomen. Her once pristine white dress now drenched in blood and covered in smears of charcoal gray from the soot surrounding her. Blood dripped from her lips as she started to wheeze, her body falling the short distance onto the surrounding rumble. The icy grip of death was squeezing her and in her final moments she saw a pair of small and childlike leather loafers appear before her eyes.Â
Seconds turned to minutes as a confused and heart wrenched Five watched the young girl die. The only living being heâs seen since arriving in the future a mere eight hours ago, has perished within seconds of being within his presence. His confusion only heightens as he takes in her hands and forearms, then stares at the science fiction esque chamber she seemed to have fallen out of. It looked like something out of the comic books his brothers read- or well-used to read now that they are dead. The thought only hurt him more, causing tears to fill the pubescent eyes.Â
This odd looking girl had been stored in their family home, for how long? Five doesnât know. But what he does know is his family is dead, and the world has ended, heâs seemingly alone and all he wishes to do is mourn his siblings. He takes a step backwards, planning on going back to their remains, (where he had spent the last six hours, sitting numbly among them) when a finger of hers twitches.Â
At first, he thinks he must be hallucinating from all the fumes and exhaustion due to all the tears heâs cried, but then it happens again and then her left arm jerks inwards, curling around her stomach. Heâs stunned as he watches the young girl begin to slowly lift herself into a sitting position, the large piece of metal once lodged in her abdomen just⌠falling onto the ground, drenched in her blood.Â
The gaping hole begins to slowly mend itself as she wheezes and groans. Even all the tiny scratches across her body from the glass begin to heal and Five is left standing before some undead fourteen-year-old in a mixture of shock and awe. His siblings would probably be horrified and while he wonât say it out loud there is a small part of him that is; but that morbid curiosity of his kicks in and overpowers the dull horror ebbing through his brain. Suddenly it makes sense on how she survived an entire building collapsing on her and her near indestructible pod, how somehow whatever killed everyone else around him didnât harm her.Â
âWhat are you?â He utters in a scratchy (he has been crying and screaming for hours) and awe filled tone. Â
Her nose scrunches, bloodied features full of fear and offense at his question. Those inky hands lay flat against the rubble as she pulls herself to stand, all wounds once leaking blood now closed and scabbed over. Her tone is soft and barely audible, as if almost scared to speak. âIâm just Y/N.âÂ
The duffle slung over her shoulder is threadbare and has millions of random holes across it that have been half hazardously stitched back together. The uncomfortable strap digs into her shoulder as the weight of her valuables bogs her down. Their last source of shelter ended up collapsing not too long ago and so the sixteen-year-olds are once more on the hunt for a new place to call home. So they walk along a road cluttered with trash and rubble, dilapidated buildings lining both sides and the scorching sun beating down on them.Â
âWhat do you think weâll find this time?âÂ
He huffs, âI donât know, something with a roof preferably.â Five has a duffle too along with a cart full of heavier items like their jars of food theyâve collected, jugs of barely drinkable water and makeshift tools.Â
The heat from the sun has made the girl drenched in sweat, body glistening and dirty, misshapen clothes stuck to her. Perhaps if she took her gloves off sheâd feel a little better, but ever since discovering them sheâs kept them on no matter the weather.Â
A year into the apocalypse they found a department store, one where Five became rather enamored by a mannequin. As he spent the better of twenty minutes simply staring at that torsoless thing, she hunted for any clothes they might need. Anything that didnât seem within their size she set aside to eventually make a blanket out of it and began to softly hum to herself.Â
Finally, Five abandoned the mannequin and tossed something at the girl. A pair of elbow length black gloves. âTry those on,â he said as he began sifting through her pile of maybes. These were on the mannequin, she realized. The whole time she was worried about him losing it, and he came back with these instead of a new âfriend.â Â
The gloves were a bit big but not enough that she had to worry about them slipping off. The inside felt silky and due to the size they went just passed her elbow instead. âThese will be nice when winter hits, I wonât have to worry about potentially freezing any fingers off this year.âÂ
âYou should try touching the next rat we catch before we kill it⌠I have a theory that may help.âÂ
And they did help, tremendously. The girl was shocked all it took to stop her powers was some cheap fabric. Her heart squeezed with appreciation as she finally began feeling less terrified of being around anything living. It felt ironic in the beginning how she finally felt free from not only herself but the chains that she was metaphorically born with, after the world had ended. Almost everyone was dead and she was finally at peace.Â
Now at sixteen she wears the same pair of gloves which now fit perfectly. There are holes and tears that have also been stitched with random thread that they scavenged throughout the years. Despite the fabric containing her undesired power, she finds herself hardly ever touching anything she wouldnât want to kill. Anything that isnât Five is food and well Five isnât a very tactical person. There are a few nights each winter that theyâll huddle together for warmth, which he always makes a face about; but beyond that itâs more of a safety precaution. A âjust in case I bump against you or need to grab you before you fallâ kind of thing.
As she stares at the dirtied gloves, a thought thatâs always drifted through her mind bubbles to the surface once more. While they usually scavenge in silence to keep them focused for danger, today feels like an okay day to break that. There haven't been any accidents in a while, and typically they tend to be some sort of problem with herself. Sheâs fallen on rebar and been bitten by rabid rats, caught deathly flus and been the taste tester for water since the very day she fell out of what she can only assume was some type of cryochamber.Â
âWhy do you think he never thought to do this to me?âÂ
He eyes her for a second, brow raised. They both step over some debris, worn shoes knocking small rocks out of the way as he speaks. âWhat? End the world?âÂ
A cockroach skitters by and for a brief second they both watch it in concentrated silence. Thereâs a silent debate between them, eyes locked, on whether they should hunt it and kill. Five makes the first move of ignoring it and moving on. They have jars of food, and itâs not that big. Plus they donât have the necessities to pickle it like they did in the past.Â
âNo dumbo.-â He glares at her, â-give me gloves, so I couldnât harm anyone. He could have saved so much time and money and I could have been one of you guys! One of the umbrella academy, going on missions and having a real family.âÂ
âWhat we had wasnât exactly a proper family,â he starts. The girl sighs, thinking of what her family was. While his wasnât normal either, it wasnât as insane sounding as hers. âIâm guessing you canât really make a toddler or even a young child keep the gloves on, no matter how much you stress the importance of them.âÂ
âThen he should have just killed me when he adopted me.âÂ
He stops all together which she doesnât pick up at first, too busy surveying their surroundings for anything useful. So far itâs just more collapsed buildings and dust. Sometimes she thinks of the old westerns Thomas (her childhood companion) liked, and imagines a tumbleweed lightly dancing across the street ahead of them.Â
âYou think so?â Finally, she turns, noticing the distance between them and the girl just shrugs. He eyes her, gaze critical. Theyâve been at this whole apocalypse thing for a while now and a major part of staying alive has been having one another. Yes he has the motivation of seeing his family again to help keep him going, but itâs been her thatâs helped keep him off that delicious looking precipice of madness.Â
âI do, if he couldnât trust me to simply keep some gloves on then he should have killed me. Obviously I was too dangerous for the world, and yet he wouldnât just do the one thing that was probably best for everyone involved. I mean do you think he adopted me, realized my power and just shoved me in the bunker? Or do you think maybe he tried alternatives first?â
He rubs his face which is already smeared in dust and dirt, his hair is tangled and long and beyond greasy. She knows hers doesnât look any better. Itâs been a while since theyâve found anything sharp, the last sharp thing they had was a broken bottle that they used as a makeshift knife. It didnât last long.Â
âI think despite his cold nature, killing a baby was too heartless of a task even for the old man.â He finally walks again, stopping at her side. Neither move, simply staring at one another. âI donât know why he kept you in there, maybe we can figure that out when we get back.âÂ
Despite his insistence of them returning, she finds herself hardly believing it. Sheâs never told him how she doubts him, worried it will cause a rift between the two. The idea of rocking the delicate balance between them has always been at the back of her mind. Sometimes she wakes in the middle of the night from a horrible dream of him abandoning her, claiming sheâs too much of a liability or something.Â
âYou have caused quite the mess.â
It loops in her brain like clockwork, constantly there to remind her of the life she once lived. Even if they were robots, she killed the only two companions she ever had, and she wonders if Five has ever judged her for it.Â
âYeah,â she says in a slightly dejected, half-hearted tone. âMaybe.âÂ
Around her twenties, something happens. Sheâs not quite sure how or why, but she stops aging. Five continues to age as time drags on and she stays relatively the same. They theorize that it must be because of her whole ânot dyingâ shtick which then just springs forth a new panic inside her. Sheâs always worried about Five somehow dying but now no matter what sheâll end up alone. Because even if she wraps him in bubble wrap and always takes good care of him, he will die and she wonât. There is no old age for her and there most likely never will be. She can do everything in her power to keep him alive but one day he will die, and she will be eternally alone in this fiery hellscape. Itâs befitting, she guesses, due to his nickname for her being Death.Â
Death will be stuck in hell completely by herself because death always takes from others so why should it be given something in return. Why should it have companionship or a happy ending of some sort?Â
Theyâve grown closer recently, itâs odd and comforting all at once. Perhaps itâs due to the fact that theyâve managed to make a somewhat stable makeshift shelter. Theyâve spent two and a half years there and just recently have come across a small packet of potato seeds. Thereâs little hope anything will grow but that small piece of happiness has caused them both to briefly stop thinking of what needs to be done next to keep from dying.Â
Theyâre thirties now, or well sheâs still physically twenty, and have recently been reading together at night. They huddle by their fire as the autumn chill sets in, and he reads a few passages before the flames die down. Shoulders bump and sometimes their heads lean against one another. Heâs grown to be handsome in her eyes, and she wonders if sheâd still think that if others were around.Â
One day, after the embers dwindle and a cold breeze drifts through the cracks within their makeshift home, something odd occurs. Within the darkness she makes out his eyes still open as they huddle together, surveying her features. When they make eye contact he clears his throat and shifts to look at the metal sheet ceiling theyâve concocted.Â
âWhat is it?â Death whispers. Itâs not great to be loud at night, as time went on the rats got bigger and as did the roaches. Theyâve become a sort of predator for them and while both are excellent fighters neither wants to deal with some sort of altercation this late at night.Â
âI donât know what youâre talking about,â he coldly responds. Ahh, so she gets to deal with defensive Five. The one who deflects and tries to turn it around on her. Itâs funny and kinda cute that despite all the years that theyâve spent together, he still thinks he can lie to her.Â
âYou were staring at me,â she turns to her side to face him, trying and failing to hide a smirk. Her hands are flat underneath her head to act as a cushion against the flattened pillow sheâs been using for the last six years.Â
âYou have dirt on your face.âÂ
âI always have dirt on my face-âÂ
âYeah well,â he drawls, âyou have more than usual.âÂ
In a flash she turns to the other side, hand digging into the dirt nearby and smears it across his face. His mouth is gapping open, and she canât stop the laughter that bubbles out. He clamps a hand over her mouth and for a moment, they stare into each other's eyes in silence as they wait to hear for any nearby creatures. His eyes are wide with anger and his grip against her mouth is rough, but sheâs not scared. She could never be scared of him.Â
They stay like that even once itâs clear they arenât in danger. His grip on her mouth softens slightly but neither diverts their gaze. It almost feels like a contest on who can wimp out first.Â
âYou have beautiful eyes,â he mutters, his voice so soft itâs almost lost to the howling wind. âThatâs what I was looking at.âÂ
Deaths mouth drops open as his hand falls away.Â
âOh.â
Her bravado is lost, and she feels something tighten within her chest. Her heart is beating rapidly, like whenever they're in danger, but they arenât. She vaguely remembers watching heroines in romance movies describe this type of thing, this sort of rattling within her abdomen and sudden clamminess of the palms.Â
âAnd your lips,â he starts-Â
âWhat about them?â She whispers, far too nervous to let him continue without responding first.
âThey suit your face perfectly.â His thumb comes to rest on her lower lip, and he slightly pulls at it. The womanâs breath hitches and unconsciously scoots closer to him. Their chests are touching as they lay on their sides, due to the closeness her hand comes to rest on the forearm of the hand thatâs now moving to gently cradle her face.Â
âAnd I canât stop thinking about them. Even when weâre in danger, Iâm not focusing on the task at hand because all I can think about is your lips.âÂ
She surges forward, closing the gap between them and pressing her lips against his own. He tastes of dirt and the saltiness of his sweat, but she doesnât mind, sheâs sure she tastes the same. Itâs awkward and their teeth clash against one another, saliva dribbling down their chins and their touching each other everywhere they can think of. Itâs messy and not romantic at all, holding this sense of life ending urgency. Like if she doesnât kiss him until she canât breathe then sheâll finally experience true mortality.Â
Eventually they reluctantly pull apart, both gasping for breath as their noses bump against one another. Heâs still cradling her face and her grip on his forearm is bruising, as if worried he might pull away with regret.Â
âEsattamente come immaginavoâ he whispers. She canât help the smile that breaks out across her lips, nor the happy little sigh that escapes her. She kisses him again, and again and again. He indulges each one.Â
She breathes the words against his lips, his fingers now gripping her hip to hold her close. Itâs hard to concentrate with his thigh pressed against her. âCome lo hai immaginato?â She finally breathes out.Â
âPerfetto.â
More years pass, that same shelter still works as their home, even if it is quite rickety. Thereâs a makeshift shelf lined with pickled roaches or rats and thereâs new support poles throughout. With Fives age she does most of the intensive work now, which he hates and thereâs always an argument about it. They are as close as can be though, despite everything and despite the wrinkles littering his face or the slight graying of his hair. She loves him, and he loves her in their own twisted little way.Â
One day someone appears and breaks their routine. A woman who goes by the title of âThe Handler,â explains the commission to them and its mission. Then she pitches a cushy contract to them and while Five hymns and haws over it, Death is about ready to sign on the dotted line. Itâs not that she doesnât understand the risks or thinks itâll be enjoyable, but itâs out of this apocalyptic wasteland, and it gives Five a chance to live longer. If they get out of here they can retire in their original timeline and get the medical care he may need in his old age.Â
Eventually, he concedes, and they leave behind what theyâve known as home for more than half their lives. Itâs weird, being part of society again. At least for Five. Death was never fully part of society to begin with so itâs more of a whole panic inducing experience for her. They are given a small living space which consists of a queen bed and an en-suite bathroom. Thereâs a kitchenette against one wall with a small metal table that has two chairs pushed underneath it. Five says it looks like a motel straight outta the â50s. The Handler tells them thatâs the current decade they are in.Â
Proper clothes and toiletries are given to them and the first time she showers since before her cryochamber is an experience. The hot water hits her back and seemingly melts her hair, turning it from a ratty mess to complete wetness that hangs down her back. The woman hasnât had a hair cut since she was a child and as she climbs out of the shower she realizes how much hair she currently possesses. A towel is wrapped tightly around her when thereâs a knock on the bathroom door, and she cautiously opens it to let Five in.Â
He whistles as he takes her in. Beads of water trail down her body and for once thereâs not a speck of dirt on her. She spent forever scrubbing at every crevice and callous on her body, trying to rid herself of decades worth of dirt and survival. Her hands tightly grip the towel, afraid to be near him without her gloves. The commission took their old clothes away, claiming they were just trash now. She was promised new clothes and new gloves, but it hurt to part from the hole infested pair gifted to her by her partner.Â
âYou look like a whole new woman,â he states. She looks down at her body, all skin, and bones from feasting on scraps for so long. She canât hold back the chuckle that leaves her.Â
âI guess so,â she claims. Heâs clean now too, even his beard is gone and all thatâs left is a mustache. Sheâs shocked, heâs had one for so long. Theyâd try to cut it whenever they could to keep him cleanly but even then itâs not like they could do much. She grabs a pair of scissors from the counter and carefully hands them to him, holding her breath as she watches him take them from her. âWill you cut my hair?âÂ
Five is shocked, it seems the idea of her cutting her long mane never crossed his mind. But if they are going to be assassins then she needs to be practical and thereâs no need for such excessive amounts of hair now that they have access to proper scissors. Itâs quiet as he cuts, thereâs the faint sound of some old song playing in the background, most likely from the little radio on their dresser. She can hear the snip of the metal each time he cuts away a chunk of her past, the weight slowly lessening. Itâs symbolic in a way, as if itâs him shutting the door on that part of their life.Â
Time drones on, many songs pass and neither of them speak. Eventually he turns her to him, careful to keep her away from the mirror. She watches him with bated breath, realizing now that maybe he wonât like her with shorter hair. It never crossed her mind, itâs only ever been them so the idea that he may suddenly lose interest just seemed⌠impossible.Â
He snips at a few strands close to her face, her initial reaction being to jerk away which he just tuts at her for. Finally, she stays still, and he finishes his work with a few more snips. After slowly setting the scissors down he takes her in, a smile slowly creeping into his thinning lips. âBellĂsimoâ he whispers.Â
He always flirts with her in Italian, it causes her to flush. With all the dirt gone and the lights of the bathroom shining down on her, only a towel covering her naked frame, she suddenly feels insecure. Sheâs never felt that around him, never felt the need really. It was never about being pretty, there wasnât time for pretty. But now there sort of is and there are the resources for it too.Â
He turns her to the mirror and the woman before her isnât apocalyptic Death. This is the new her, fresh into society and ready to kill anyone necessary for her. She hopes that she comes to like who she sees in the mirror, or at least recognize her. Right now it seems like a hollowed out stranger with bags under her eyes and a bony form. But she will admit, Five is a good hairdresser.Â
The commission is smart, that she will give them. They hardly ever assign her and Five on missions together. They become ships passing in the night, barely seeing one another for an hour or so at a time before they are rushing off in a new mission, after a new target. Furthermore, they give her new silky black gloves and The Handler has dubbed her âThe Belladonnaâ because sheâs stealthy like a poison and quick like one too. Efficient and always out of sight. She loses count of the people sheâs killed, at this point itâs instinctual to take off her gloves and just touch whenever need be. The horror of watching someone drop-dead mere moments later soon wears off, and instead sheâs left feeling emptier each time.Â
Five has always been trying to figure out how to get home, but now with the technology of the commission heâs really started cracking down on it. She tries to help when she can, offering insight and even solving one of the various problems. Itâs late one night, a rare one where they are both in their room together.Â
Heâs got a drink in his hand, and sheâs in one of his shirts with her gloves on. Theyâve got papers scattered across the floor with various formulas and her brain hurts from all this thinking. She just got back from a mission, having successfully killed eight people who were at risk of disrupting the timeline. It was easy until the end, one slipped away and a chase began. She eventually got him but had to pull her gun on him which has always been her least favorite way to do it. Itâs not like sheâs bad at it, quite the contrary, but itâs messy. Itâs brutal and suddenly it seems more impactful. With a simple touch they choke and freeze, then fall to the ground and boom! Dead. With a gun thereâs a struggle and so much blood, thereâs gasping and wheezing and pleads for a second chance. She feels less human every time she pulls the trigger.Â
âWhat about your age?â She randomly asks. Heâs sat on the edge of the bed and her question has his gaze whipping away from the papers to her pacing form. âI mean, if we can travel to the correct time to fix the apocalypse from happening then maybe we can do something about your age.âÂ
âWhatâs wrong with my age?â a white brow is raised and she sighs. Sheâs never really voiced her fear to him, worried he might end up becoming offended. In all honesty old age suits him, heâs always acted like an old man. Crotchety, opinionated with sarcasm dripping from his tone. Heâs the kind whoâd probably sit on his porch and yell at kids to get off his lawn.Â
Death walks over to him, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders. They lock eyes, and she knows itâs time to finally tell him. âYouâll die in a couple of decades, and Iâll most likely still be a twenty-something year old woman. If we manage to get back to your family's timeline and retire then⌠Shouldnât we be given the chance at a proper life together?âÂ
âWhat like kids and a house? I didnât peg you for the whole suburban life.âÂ
She scoffs, eyes practically rolling into the back of her head. âNo, Iâm not talking about the whole white picket fence shebang.â
âIâm talking about us building a home together, finding a place with big windows in the living room that weâll place two armchairs by so we can read in the sunlight. Weâll buy enough books to fill up a whole wall with them and a bar cart with your favorite spirits always stocked up.â
âWeâll get serious business-esque jobs and on the weekends weâll lay in bed for an extra hour, cuddling or making love. Youâll get more time with not only me but your whole family too. Donât you want that?âÂ
Itâs quiet for far too long as he contemplates her words, his eyes scanning over her features before looking at the mess of papers behind her. She can tell heâs doing the logistics in his head, weighing the pros and cons. His hands rest on her hips, and she gently straddles his lap, her arms linking around his neck to keep him close.Â
âItâll complicate the formula even more,â he softly observes. âWeâre so close to finishing this. I can tell.âÂ
Her hands slide up to cup the back of his head. She canât help but frown as he lets her down, her heart squeezing as she thinks of whatâs down the road. âPlease, weâre both smart, and can easily figure it out. Itâs just a couple extra numbe-âÂ
âDeath-âÂ
âPlease,â she practically begs, her hands tangling in his hair and slightly tugging. âI canât go live a normal life if you arenât part of it.âÂ
âI miss them, theyâre my family, and they need me.â
Sheâs losing him, the wall is slowly going up, and sheâs desperately trying to jump over it before the finality sets in. âWhat about me, donât I need you too? Donât we need each other I mean we survived the apocalypse together for fuck's sake!âÂ
âAnd I spent the entire time thinking about getting back to them. Surviving for them.âÂ
He doesnât mean too, she knows that deep down, but his words cut her deeply. A wound on her barely beating heart is forming, and heâs just staring at her with a hardened expression.Â
Her eyes well with unshed tears, voice quivering as she speaks. âWhat about me, about us? Didnât you survive for me too?âÂ
Itâs silent for two beats, then three and then four. They just stare at each other waiting for one to relent. Both of them are so stubborn and so set in their plan. She knows this is a pipe dream, but she was still holding out hope until this very moment. He thickly swallows and she just knows.
The wall is fully between them now. She couldnât make the jump. His mind is made up, and sheâs scared to hear what heâll say. âI think I should go alone. There are less numbers if itâs just me.âÂ
And that scratch, that wound, only deepens. Itâs a crater now, and she fears thereâs very little of her heart left functioning. Sheâs died a million times, been stabbed in every place imaginable, contracted various deadly illnesses, died from fire and hypothermia and yet now, this hurts far more than all of those combined. She climbs off of him like his touch is hurting her and aggressively wipes at her eyes.Â
âI didnât realize I was hindering you so much-âÂ
âI didnât say that. Iâm just sa-âÂ
âI heard you loud and clear. If my presence is such a bother then I think Iâll request a different room.â She pulls on a pair of pants and quickly slips her feet into a pair of slippers. He just watches her too, doesnât jump up to stop her. All this time sheâs worried about what would happen if she voiced her thoughts, and it turns out her fears were warranted. All it took was her asking for something for once, begging for something even, for him to shut her out.Â
Five is selfish and cold-hearted, and he doesnât love her like she loves him. Heâs a man obsessed with one mission only, and she bets he wonât even like his family once he gets there. He just wants to be some kind of hero to them, to prove to himself that he can be the savior. To make up for his absence all those years.Â
With the click of the door, she severs the only love sheâs ever known and changes the course of her life.Â
#the umbrella academy#TUH#reginald hargreeves#The Handler#lila pitts#max hargreeves#five hargreeves#five hargreeves x reader#five hargreeves x you
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GUY.exe
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âď¸Â pairing: yunho x gn!reader âď¸Â genre: fluff, crack, friends? to lovers, drawing? to lover âď¸Â summary: you never expected for the character you designed for the newest dating simulator to be quite as realistic as this âď¸Â wordcount: 5.0k âď¸Â warnings/tags: questionable editing, unhinged crack galore, fever dream, digital artist / designer reader, shy boy best friend yunho, lowkey referencing the song the fic is named after (GUY.exe by SUP3RFRUIT) âď¸Â taglist: at the bottom of the fic~ âď¸Â a/n: HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY LOVE MY NADIA @justhere4kpop !!! you are the kindest, funniest, sweetest person ever, i love you so so much and i am so grateful for every day because it means i can spend it with you <3 wishing you the best day, all the most amazing things, experiences, achievements and more!!
Another hour more, and you were going to scream. Hunched over your drawing tablet with bloodshot eyes and a cramping hand, you had been drawing and redrawing what seemed to be the same thing over and over again. But nothing gave you that magical feeling of completion and rightness when the abstract lines and shapes and shadows and doodles all came together on a page to form one whole. What you were experiencing was, in fact, very much the opposite. All because of these damn dumb brown doe eyes that you had decided to give to the character. Of course. What other eyes could the golden retriever type have, right? What other kinds of eyes would your boss approve of for the established archetype, the persona that you had ideated, storyboarded and proposed not only in front of your immediate team but also to senior management? That was right. None. No other. Only these doe eyes that you had been staring at and cursing profusely for the last four hours after having promised yourself that you would try to get to bed at ten in the evening instead of the less-than encouraging past midnight madness. But who were you kidding?Â
Setting down the pen, you leaned back to stretch, hearing random joints crack and echo around your body, making you wonder if you have even been moving at all for the past few weeks. Having the opportunity to work from home during fast-paced sprints was, of course, a big benefit, but all too often for you, it also meant only ever walking from your home office to your kitchen and back, with the occasional bathroom break and a flop onto the armchair you had dragged into your office for designated social media scrolling time. Gone from the world, with your friends having nicknamed you an e-hermit in not one, but two separate chats. Zoned out and barely hanging onto the words spewed by your superiors, much like the rest of your fellow designers working on this same project, be it other characters, setting, clothing customisation options, accessories, or special items⌠as the main project lead, boss of the bosses had said: âwhatever the user wishes for, should be thereâ. Who knew that a dating simulator could be that intense and demanding?Â
Your drawing tablet was glaring at you, and so were the eyes on its screen, doubled onto your monitor watching your every movement like a painting at a museum would. They were meant to be kind and loving, crafted to complete the sunshine that this character was supposed to be, but the slightest misses in the lines were throwing the image off-kilter, and you could not pinpoint what was wrong. Reaching out for the now lukewarm cup of coffee off to the side of your desk, narrowly avoiding the clutter of sketches and notes you had made, you heaved a sigh, pondering if it would be the wisest to simply resign yourself to abandoning the task for today, and pick it up at work tomorrow. It was not like you would be punished for having the eyes be slightly off during an update meeting, after all, this was an ongoing process. But the perfectionist part of you was not letting go. You had managed to ideally depict everything else - the toned, tall physique with the stunning waist, torso and broad shoulders, the cheeks that made you feel a strong cute aggression, the tousled locks that could then be customised by a playerâs colour preference, every other feature of the face that screamed âhandsomeâ and âappealingâ... you did it all, and you would not be yourself if you could not overcome this little blip.
âOne more tryâŚâ you whispered to yourself and searched for the file on your computer that contained a user story and profile of the character you had been agonising over.Â
One click, another, and the document was up on the screen, revealing an initial concept sketch that you had made when you first proposed the man as a possible love interest for the main character in the simulator, as well as any facts about him, now being even further developed by the story-writers. Page after page, update after update the character in some ways felt more real than you, especially in your current deflated state. A gentleman, a sentimental soul, with what your colleague had called âfour-dimensionalâ traits and overall a funny, adorable sweetheart who at the click of a finger can turn into the sexiest man alive. There was nothing you did not like - aside from some details here and there that you were not sure who added but they had been approved so you had to deal with it, and that was problematic for your work since it meant that you were in the permanent state of wanting to do the character justice. You scrolled back up, starting at the brief, staring at the name as if it wasnât already imprinted in your mind. Jeong Yunho.Â
The dance instructor and choreographer. The talented and hardworking man who the main character would meet third, on her eighth day in Seoul. Born on the twenty-third of March nineteen ninety-nine in the city of Gwangju, moving to Seoul to chase his dreams and fight for them. Special talents⌠skills⌠favourite phrases⌠preferences⌠key memories⌠you read on, re-absorbing the details and rearranging them on imaginary shelves, trying to make sense of the information in the context of character design. How were you going to depict all of this in a pair of eyes? A part of you was confident that you were overthinking - actually, you definitely were. Not a single other designer was on Yunho's creation, and developers were going to look at him not as a persona, as a representation of a being that had become real in your mind, but as a task to execute, lines of code to make him move in predetermined ways, make him talks in predetermined ways, smile⌠yes, you were excited to see him be just that bit more alive, but at the same time, you were afraid of that moment - it would be right then that the world you had subconsciously built for you and him alone would be shattered, and your daydreams dispelled, maybe even crushed. So, getting the eyes perfect right now was the least you could do. At least your Yunho would be perfect.
Swearing under your breath, you picked up the pen once more and twirled it once around your fingers. His personality was fresh on your mind, heart racing, you could almost imagine him in front of you. With a final nod of encouragement, you dived back in, with more vigour and motivation than before, determined to get Yunho right, and to depict him how he truly was, how you knew he should be. The time ticked past, and so did the layers of doubt. Erasing themselves along with strokes of the digital brushes that dissatisfied you, you were unveiling the true character, and with a light heart, a smile on your face and a saved file, leaned onto your desk and rested your head on your crossed arms, just for a quick break to relish in the fact that you finally achieved the look that you had been searching forâŚ
âHey, good morning you worker bee, what did I tell you about sleeping at your desk?â
You never thought you could yell, right after waking up, as loud as you did at that moment. Jolting up from your seat, forgetting all the papers, equipment and stationery that was strewn about on the table on which you had been dozing, you bolted away from the source of the voice. It had resounded far too close to you for comfort, belonged to no one whom you knew, and was dangerously sweet and slightly lower-set. Pleasant. But who the hell was in your apartment and how did they break in when you almost always double-locked your door? After building up a bit of distance, you finally looked up and rubbed the last bits of sleep from your eyes. The figure was lean, toned, considerably tall, perhaps even very tall, definitely a man, with dark hair and a face that was a bit too similar to-
Jeong Yunho. Jaw-dropping, you darted back to your tablet and computer, practically shaking the mouse, forcing the entire digital system to begrudgingly awaken at your command. You searched everywhere. The open file, others, older versions⌠nothing. No luck in finding what you had been working on. It was as if the Yunho you had been spending weeks developing had never existed, and all that you were left with and were staring at was a blank page, and the character, no, a whole man, right in front of you, supposedly living, breathing and in your room. You stood up straight, giving the not-quite-a-stranger but still a stranger a once over, while he, confused, had an eyebrow raised and a sheepish smile on his face. He looked adorable that way. Abashed to the point of cuteness - you recalled a game developer on your team describing the planned emotional response functionality in that way; it had been a hit, and now you were seeing, in person, why.Â
âY-Yunho?â you whispered in disbelief, a hand hovering over your mouth while you were wondering whether you should officially report yourself to your boss for having succumbed to the delusions. Relief flashed over the beautiful manâs features when you mentioned his name, timidly, yes, but still, it was his name that you uttered.
âYes, Y/N, thatâs me, hey, donât worry.â
âY/N?â He knew your name. This was too real - a shriek erupted from what felt like the depths of your soul, and you shut your eyes, only to open them again and to see the same picture, but a little more zoomed in. He was approaching you. Code red, alert, alert, hot man of your dreams who you had been drawing all the time and were effectively being paid to thirst over was approaching you.
âDo you not remember me or something, are you okay? See I keep telling you to not sleep so late, itâs bad for you-â
âLook whoâs talking, mister âtime to text at two in the morningâ,â It was a shot in the dark, a random recollection of facts that had been noted about Yunho, but that was true, since he stopped immediately, a dazzling smile on his face.
âAlright, alright, you got me. But hey, you answer me so we are in this together, right?â he countered, and winked.Â
âYeah⌠and I should stop drinking coffee that late, it gives me some cursed⌠abilitiesâŚâ you concluded cryptically, though Yunho did not seem to care much about the wording, taking it as your account of how easily you had been spooked by him.
After the initial wave of âstranger dangerâ had subsided, instead being replaced by the odd conviction that the man before you truly was just the representation of the character for the simulator, you crossed your arms and regarded him more slowly, calmly while he approached the book cabinet that was filled to the brim with manga, manhwa, figurines, dolls, action figures⌠effectively the best representation of what had inspired you and continued to drive you to do what you were doing in your life now. He was dressed casually, in a zip-up grey hoodie and dark grey jeans. He had taken off his shoes and was in black socks that he stuffed into a pair of slippers - so in this reality, Yunho clearly was a regular guest. Scratching the back of your head, you wondered if this was a storyline that had been updated and you were unknowingly hallucinating.
âWell, uh, if you⌠if you want me to come by another time I donât mind. Whatever works best for youâŚâ
Oh. It finally clicked in your head, and your heart fluttered. The moment was stark and aching in your mind, and you were barely able to contain yourself, the subconscious fangirl in you fully awakening. The light flush of pink on his cheeks, those damn doe eyes that were so perfect, and were now looking right at you as if you were Yunhoâs entire world, it was all a telltale sign for what was to happen later, and the past disappointment at having been woken up and having no more documents to present evaporated. This was another life, it had to be. One where you did not have to worry about the endless story points, bi-weekly sprints and one deliverable after another. Only a very precious Yunho who, while toying with the sleeve of his hoodie was pondering if he was even welcome.
âHey! No, we were planning to hang out and we are going to. Sorry, you know how work is and it got to me this time. What shall we do then? Go out, stay in?â you amplified your sociability, putting the fantastical aspect of the circumstances on the back burner for future pondering.
Laying down the pen that you had absent-mindedly grabbed for self-defence, you stepped around the desk and towards Yunho, never once breaking the visual exchange, except when his gaze darted to the floor under your intensity. You had the advantage after all, of knowledge. You could sense, and could confirm by your universe, what exactly was going to happen. He was pretending to not be affected by your closeness, looking at the cabinet again, though the tone in which he spoke was vulnerable, every bit the dream guy you were imagining all this time. You could barely resist the urge to pinch his cheek - in fact, you made a mental note to yourself to check if that was a playable option in the game or not.
âCan we⌠stay in?â
âTake out?â if there was something you would not quite let him do, it would be to give him full power over the kitchen. Perhaps another time, but not when the dream was so magnificent.
âYou bet! Iâm buying this time-â
âYun, câmon.â
âTechnically I am still the guest.â
âYou are much more than a guest-â a pause, a blur within which Yunho was attempting to pick out the meaning behind the words which you had purposefully left to be ambiguous, just to mess with him a little bit. It was too sweet, âI mean, you practically live here at this point,â he groaned and playfully rolled his eyes while continuing to tap in the order to what was for sure meant to be your favourite restaurant in the neighbourhood.
You followed him into your living room. Everything was just as you had left it. Even Yunhoâs presence was beginning to feel natural, probably because it had already been pretty much just as constant as him now physically falling onto the couch and leaning back to stretch an arm out over the back of it. Hell, you had even spent some evenings sketching him in this same room. As you settled beside him, while still keeping a little bit of distance - just as friends who were feeling not quite platonic would do, you realised that indeed, you were that close. You did know him âsince foreverâ, and whatever this fever dream was, you had every right to enjoy it. So upon pulling your legs onto the couch and under you, you settled in and with a soft sigh began to set up the movie you were going to watch. Just like you and Yunho would do had he been an actual interest of yours.
As the food arrived and was promptly devoured, and you were midway through the film, you found Yunho slowly but surely gravitating towards you. First, it was with an outstretched hand when he was trying to imitate a character on the screen, then with him sitting ever so slightly closer when there was supposedly a âspooky momentâ even though you knew full well that out of the two of you, you were the one who would not dare enter a haunted house again, and finally, under the pretence of âwanting to show you a funny meme on his phoneâ he sat right next to you, thighs flush against each other, arm resting on the sofa right behind your head. You could not help but lean into the warmth, attracted to it, comforted. You knew Yunho inside and out, and if there was anyone who you would trust like this, it would be him. He had seen you at your worst - crying in the office bathrooms when during your early days at the company you had been humiliated by your old boss (who, thankfully, had been promptly fired), and had seen you at your best - your award-winning presentation and proof of concept for an innovative life simulation game, selected as a showpiece for the company at a major global conference. He was always there. Be it on your phone, in a sketchbook, or on your laptop - he was always there, cheering you on. There was no difference between then and now, except that now you could allow your head to rest against his broad chest, hearing the soothing beating of his heart behind the cotton fabrics, feeling how his hand dropped to trace random, intricate shapes on your shoulder while his eyes stayed glued to the television screen.Â
You could sense that he was afraid to look at you, or at least of what he would think or do if he were to do so. He was warm. Very warm. Maybe too warm. You looked up, noting the adorable redness of his ears that appeared only in particular instances: either he just woke up from deep sleep which was not the case, or he had violently shaken his head and rubbed his ears - another no, or he was embarrassed and shy. Bingo. There it was. You nuzzled against him and swore you could feel his entire body stiffen. Just like when a cat makes a person â the chosen oneâ by lying on their lap and said person almost forgets to breathe, you nearly knocked consciousness out of Yunho, it seemed.
âWhatâs up?â you mumbled, noting that Yunho straightened his back, sitting in an unnatural position.
âI, uh, nothing, itâs nothing,â he responded, clearing his throat, still not daring to look to the side to face you.Â
A pause. That was his character - you nodded to yourself. He had always been like this. Sympathy through the roof but when it came to his openness - he far from often strayed into that field. It would take quite a bit of coaxing, or, somehow easier, waiting for the right moment. So wait you did, comfortably resting against Yunho, insistent that he return to his previously unwinded state. Before you could snake your hand around him to pull his hood up, your friend suddenly shot up, mumbling something about it being too stuffy, or too hot, and tugged the article of clothing off.
All would be fine and dandy if he was not built how he was - and you knew it better than anyone, however strange it was to admit. After all, you had been the one to pick and sketch out his physique, knowing every muscle, curve and edge. As he fumbled with the sleeves, you took in his form, mouth agape as you saw what you had only perceived two-dimensionally, now in live action, and somehow being the one case of where the transition was impeccable if not better. If he were to turn at any moment, he would bear witness to your disturbingly dedicated scrutiny. But at the same time, what could a digital artist and designer do when a handsome man was right before them? Exactly. It was practically a duty to perceive; if not for personal interests (which you would be a liar if you were to say you did not have them), then at least for science. He looked too good in the dark grey graphic t-shirt, which, despite it being slightly oversize, did its beautiful work by revealing his perfectly toned arms. When you noticed him being in the process of turning back, you peeled your gaze away and back to the movie, not sure where in the storyline you even were, nor what the actors were saying. Patting the space next to you, you beckoned Yunho back. This time, he was calmer in his demeanour, falling back and letting you fall into him, with him, for him - and he was right there to catch you.Â
Action scene after action scene turned into a blur, dialogue was static that you were not bothered to discern while you focused on Yunhoâs breathing. Shallower than before, but still comforting. Who would have thought that you would be cuddling with your dream man when a mere few hours ago you were holed up behind your desk, with a cramped and stiff neck, an exhausted hand and equally tired eyes? Eyelids grew heavier, and you wondered if it would be long before you would fall asleep again, and wake up alone, as usual; a bitter smile settled on your lips when the realisation hit you, earning you a perplexed glance from Yunho and a poke in your side.
âWhat are you thinking about?â
âOh, nothing.â
âDefinitely something, he turned to you, studying your every movement. The action led him to detangle himself from you, leading you to shiver a little from the lack of his body heat, âah wait are you cold now? I- wait, here, hoodie?â
âThanks.â
Him. In every thread. The scent of clean laundry, cotton, and fabric softener. There was something so magical in it, soothing. You wanted to float in the aroma and this moment forever. Pulling the hoodie tighter around you, you pretended to not notice the adoration that was blatantly obvious in Yunhoâs expression. He watched as you pushed up the sleeves a little bit, crossed your legs and looked back at him. Your friend, your muse and subject was nervous, and it did not need a trained professional to figure it out. The tale was climbing to a peak, and the main characters had to face it together. You waited for him, mellowness across your features as you played with one of the hoodieâs drawstrings.
Yunho looked at you, and something about the purity, and hopefulness within him made you think of the very first drawings you had made on post-its in the middle of a conference. Bored out of your mind, your mind wandered back to pondering the new project you had been assigned - the dating simulator. Idea after idea had been proposed for the characters, but not a single one stuck. Everyone was at a standstill until he came along. A breathtaking blessing, just like he was now. Silence settled like snow, only to be broken by a short hum, and Yunho taking the risk you had been wishing for.
âI⌠I know it has only been a few months but⌠I really donât think I can be friends with you anymore, Y/N,â you tilted your head as he put his hands on his lap, fingers repeatedly messing with the material of his sweatpants - his attempt to soothe himself. You, on the other hand, were oddly calm. Simply waiting for the events to unfold and for you to embrace them with the fullest heart. While he was searching for the right words to say, you placed a hand over his, waking him from rumination. A weak smile was replaced by determination, truth spilling from his soul.
âI like you too much. Really. I would not be able to keep my distance even if I tried.â
âWell I think you are a bit too far away right now, Yun,â with a wave of boldness having washed over you, you acted on instinct, leaning towards the beautiful, infinitely precious man until he could not look away, captivated by your proximity, your glimmering eyes, your acceptance.
âHuh?â the sound was barely audible, an echo lost to the tension. You ran a finger over his jawline, instantly seeing his expression darken with another reverberating, deep sensation.
âWe should seal the deal, shouldnât we?â remaining cryptic, you inched closer and closer until you could pick apart the flicks of lighter mahogany in those stunning irises - you wanted to shake your hand for having persevered to finish them in the drawing. Truly, one of a kind.
âWhat-â
âOh just kiss me already-â
That phrase you did not need to tell Yunho twice. Finally catching on, he was the first to destroy the distance between you, capturing your lips with his and letting his hand find purchase in your hair, digits running through it, caressing you, guiding you into a shared rhythm. He was as sweet as vanilla with a hint of cinnamon. An intoxicating, ecstatically overwhelming daze that consumed you whole. You saw the sketches flash before you, burning one by one to fuel the desire building for Yunho, for you, for the two of you together. It felt right, it felt real. Arms over his shoulders, you allowed him to pull you into his lap, embrace you and pepper the softest kisses on your cheeks, and your neck, finding the path back to your lips. You felt more alive than ever with the electricity coursing through your newfound intimacy. Nothing existed. This universe was Yunho, and you could not be happier. Better than in any story that you or your co-workers could develop, better than in any fairytale, the oddity transformed into eternity. This was a dream you wanted to remain in for as long as you-
Saying it was hard to wake up was an understatement. Your entire body had been aching from having fallen asleep in an awkward position over your drawing tablet, you had slept past your alarms and as such had only fifteen minutes to cram getting ready and leaving for the office, and upon checking your schedule you had the âpleasureâ of having three more meetings being crammed into it, reducing your lunch break to what was a near null. With a sigh, you moved away from your space, dragging your tired body to your first official interaction of the day after having sat at your desk for a couple of hours, already dreading it. The new CEO - whoever they were, was the âI want to know all the details and be one with the teamsâ type, how joyful, you wondered how long that would last.Â
It was hard to find the motivation, especially after a dream such as yours. It kept on revolving in your head, pressing down on you, making you reminisce the gentle caresses, the sweet words and actions, the delightful kiss that you had managed to just have the time to experience with Yunho. You were seeing your character in an entirely new light, already having reworked some ideas for the possible special event outfits and spammed your close colleagues who were working on the storyline with some ideas about how Yunho could have even better depth and as such, engagement from prospective users. Perhaps for this meeting with authority you just needed to tap into your delusions and it would be good enough - at least they were productive for once.Â
While you were setting up the presentation, the rest of your immediate team began to file in, giving you excited waves that you returned with an unprecedented warmth. Pleasant chatter, discussion of possibility, mention of just how special it was that this dating simulator game project was the one the CEO had chosen to see today⌠you were feeling confident. Whoever this person was going to be, you were going to give your best and-
The door opened. Heads turned. Greetings, bows - all forms of politeness that could be expressed being delivered. People standing up, while you stood up taller by the board, the title slide behind you. You raised your head, only for time to slow down and freeze entirely. Your hold on the clicker tightened, and the only person aside from you who existed at that moment was the newcomer. The CEO. Greeting others with a smile and with equally as elegant bows. Every bit the gentleman in his tailored suit, hair swept back and impeccably styled. Jeong Yunho.
This had to be some kind of joke, right? Was this a dream? The stinging remaining after you pinched your arm slapped you back into reality. No. This Yunho was definitely real. But who was the one you-... the one you started dating? The one who you were way more than colleagues or friends with? Before your mind could accelerate into panicked rumination, his gaze stopped at you, and you could sense everyone elseâs attention drift to you too. You were under his spotlight. Melting under what was nothing but kindness in his eyes.
âL/N Y/N, right? I heard a lot about you,â his grin was making you dizzy, memories of his taste resurfacing and sending heat to your cheeks, giving them a light dusting of pink.
âGood things, I hope?â you managed, he chuckled, and sent you a wink before sitting down on his chair.
âThe best. I am really looking forward to this,â a playful tease.
âGlad to know this.â
âI heard you made quite a few new developments, how did that happen?â you knew what he was getting at, and that made you feel secure. So it was the same Yunho. That precious Yunho who had confessed to you, the one who had come to life and was now part of yours, by some odd twist of fate had appeared in your company, and was now right in front of you, eager and in love. You smirked while twisting to check the slide one last time, well aware that his only focus ever would be you.
âCame to me in a dream.â
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