#ember flicker flame
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Today's doll is Ember Flicker Flame!
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AAAND IM BACK WITH MORE LALA UNRAVELED STUFF
i think this is so far the set i'm most proud of-
yes i flipped sir and lady's genders i thought it would be neat
#lalaloopsy#lalaloopsy unraveled#my art#concept art#mga entertainment#rag dolls#dolls#toys#reference sheets#redesigns#au#goth#pastel goth#ember flicker flame#mango tiki wiki#haley galaxy#pepper pots n pans#coral sea shells#confetti carnivale#toffee cocoa cuddles#star magic spells#sir stillwaiting#lady battlescarred#alien#mermaid#wizard#knight
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Making Lalaloopsy characters in Picrew (part 3)
Original picrew by hellosunnycore: https://picrew.me/en/image_maker/1469769
Pepper Pots âNâ Pans đœïžđ„
Ace Fender Bender đ ïžđ
Peppy Pom Poms đŁ
Swirly Figure Eight âžïžâïž
Suzette La Sweet đđ©
Holly Sleighbells đđŠ
Rosy Bumps âNâ Bruises đ„đ©ș
Ember Flicker Flame đ„đ
#lalaloopsy#pepper pots n pans#ace fender bender#peppy pom poms#swirly figure eight#suzette la sweet#holly sleighbells#rosy bumps n bruises#ember flicker flame#picrew#art#digital art#fanart
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Darling Brightside âïž
Sewn Date: February 17 (Aquarius â)
Sewn From: Aviator Goggles
Random Act of Kindness Day
Second Year
Science Club
Roommate: Ember Flicker Flame
#moodboard#aesthetic#art#aesthetic board#aesthetics#lalaloopsy#lalaloopsyland#lalaland#la la land#darling brightside#ember flicker flame#second year#science club#aviator#aviation#airplane
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Itâs Ember Flicker Flameâs birthday today!!!! đ„đ©âđ #thatoutfitiscooking Ember is super brave and always there to save the day! Her favorite food is spicy BBQ!




#lalaloopsy#birthday#lalaloopsybirthdays#dolls#may#may the fourth be with you#ember flicker flame#firefighter#spicy bbq
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I made a playlist for Ember Flicker Flame
This honestly took longer to make than I thought it wouldÂ
But nevertheless who should be for tomorrow?
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Ember Flicker Flame

Her Pet

Her Favorite Thing

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BlazeKit
Type: Fire Height: 0.4 m Weight: 9 kg Ability: Flash Fire / Quick Feet
BlazeKit, the Spark Kitten Pokémon
Description: BlazeKits are curious and mischievous, found in regions abundant with dry grasslands where wildfires are common. They have a playful habit of igniting small flames with their tails, which they skillfully control to not spread. Their bright, ember-like eyes can spot a playmate from a considerable distance.
Special Move - Flicker Strike: BlazeKit quickly dashes towards its opponent, leaving a trail of sparks, and delivers a fiery swipe that can increase its own Speed.
#blazekit#fire-type#character design#digital art#red#black#playful#energy#vibrant#fantasy creature#grid background#purple#mischief#grasslands#wildfire#flames#tail#ember#eyes#bright#distance#special move#flicker strike#dash#sparks#fiery swipe#speed#imaginative#creative#adoptable
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ROLLED UP âN RUINED ! | MARK GRAYSON X AFAB READER

warnings: 18+, nsfw, usage of weed, oral (f receiving), masturbation (m), cunnilingus, unrealistic pussy eating, mark tries weed but it doesnât affect him, mark is kinda subby, outgoing ân carefree reader, friends with benefits kinda. whimpering.
summary: you try to teach your friend how to smoke a bluntâinstead, you learn something entirely different. wc: 3.1k
an: minors dni. iâve only done weed once n i greened out horribly so this may not be the best description of a good high lmfao. also idc idc mark a d1 eater, literally nothing could convince me otherwise. not proofread excuse any mistakes.
âDoes weed even do anything to Viltrumites?â You donât look at him when you ask, your fingers working the paper, the grind of leaf and resin between your fingertips. A familiar ritual, slow and practiced. The room is thick with the scent of it, sweet and burnt, though the air between you is heavier with something else.
Mark shifts on the couch, the leather creaking beneath him. âNot sure,â he says, voice easy, weightless. He waits, sprawled like a cat in the sun, his hands loose at his sides. You stride over to him ignoring the mess on the tableâscattered lighters, empty glasses, a book neither of you had finishedâand hold the thing out to him. His fingers brush yours when he takes it.
âWell,â you murmur, striking the lighter, its flame leaping up, carving out the planes of his face in gold and shadow. âLetâs find out.â
The flame kisses the tip, a slow burn. He inhalesâtoo fast, too muchâand then it hits him all at once. A sharp cough tears out of his chest, then another, his whole body jerking forward like heâs been punched from the inside. You watch, amused, arms crossed as he fights against his own lungs.
A small laugh escapes you, light and sharp. âYouâre not supposed to rush,â you chide, reaching for the blunt, plucking it from his fingers before he can protest. âHere, let me show you.â Smooth, practiced, you bring it to your lips, inhale slow, let the smoke curl inside you like a secret before exhaling in a soft, languid breath.
Mark glares, still half-choking, half-annoyed. âYou couldâve started with that first,â he mutters, eyes red-rimmed, voice caught between confusion and irritation.
ââS not even my fault,â you scoff, sinking back into the couch. âDidnât know you were gonna try ân inhale the thing like its air.â
Mark opens his mouth, then shuts it again, becauseâyeah. Fair point. He takes the blunt when you pass it back, more careful this time, dragging slow like heâs mimicking you. The smoke unfurls from his lips in thin ribbons, dissipating into the dim light of the room.
He exhales, waits a beat. âI donât feel anything,â he says, flat, like heâs waiting for the universe to prove him wrong.
You roll your eyes so hard it nearly hurts. He cannot be serious. âNo shit,â you mutter. The fact that he doesnât know how weed works is honestly embarrassing. You wouldâve thought AmberâWhoâs often at party scenesâmight have taught him at some point, but apparently not.
âItâs not gonna work instantly,â you say, settling deeper into the couch. âWellâactually, I donât even know if itâs gonna work at all, considering youâre basically, like, half alien.â Mark looks at you, head tilting just slightly, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression. Then that small, lopsided smirk appears. âYou say it like itâs an insult.â
You huff, rolling your eyes, but thereâs a twitch at the corner of your lips. âMaybe it is,â you tease, watching the ember glow between his fingers. âMaybe itâs not.â
He takes another drag, the ember burning low, and you shift closer without really thinking about it. Your bare knees brush against his, the fabric of his sweats soft against your skin. Itâs a small touch, barely anything, but it feels like something.
Mark glances at you, eyes lidded, curious. You hold his gaze longer than you mean to. Youâve never really looked at him beforeânot like this. Heâs handsome. Not in the obvious way, not in the way that makes people stop and stare, but in a way that sneaks up on you. The way his black hair falls over his forehead, just a couple strays stand out of place. The way the dim light catches the sharp lines of his face.
And he smells good. Even through the thick haze of weed, his scent lingersâearthy, fresh, something clean that sticks in your lungs longer than the smoke does.
âStop hogging it,â you say, voice edged with faux annoyance. âJust âcause Iâm teaching you doesnât mean you get to smoke the whole thing yourself.â
Mark chuckles, a low but sweet sound, it settles somewhere deep in your chest. Instead of handing it back, he lifts the blunt to your lips himself, holding it there like itâs the most natural thing in the world.
You hesitateâjust for a secondâbefore leaning in, letting your lips part as you take a slow drag. The heat of the smoke curls in your lungs, thick and heavy, but youâre barely paying attention to that. Youâre too aware of the way his fingers hover near your mouth, the way his gaze lingers, watching.
Maybe itâs the weed settling into your bloodstream, slow and syrup-thick, or maybe itâs just plain curiosityâbut the thought creeps in before you can stop it.
You know heâs not a virgin. That much is obvious. But has he ever eaten pussy? Like, really eaten it? The kind that isnât just half-hearted, obligatory foreplay, but something done with intent? With enthusiasm? Youâd take him for the type.
The idea lingers, unexpected and distracting. You steal a glance at himâhis lips slightly parted, still damp from the last drag, his expression relaxed, almost careless.
âMark, have you ever eaten pussy?âThe words slip out before you even think to stop them.
Mark freezes, eyes wide like you just asked him to solve a math equation with a gun to his head. Itâs almost comicalâthe way his entire body tenses, the way his brain visibly lags trying to process if he really just heard what he thinks he heard.
âWhatâ?â His voice cracks, just a little. âWhyâwhy would you even ask me that?â
You almost lose it right then and there, laughter bubbling up at the sheer horror on his face. Like the thought has never even occurred to him before. Like youâve just introduced a concept so foreign, so absurd, that his brain is rejecting it outright.
You bite down on your laughter, pressing your lips together to keep it from slipping out. âWeâve been friends for a long time, Iâm just curious,â you say, trying to sound casual, like this is a completely normal topic of conversation.
Mark blinks at you, still looking like heâs in the middle of a mental blue screen. He shifts slightly, running a hand through his hair, clearly debating whether he should actually answer or just pretend this never happened.
A few moments of silence pass, thick and heavy between you. Then Mark exhales, sinking back into the couch, his body relaxing againâexcept for the telltale flush creeping up his ears.
âNo,â he admits, voice low, almost begrudging. âI havenât.â
You hum, nodding like you already knew. Like it makes perfect sense. You pluck the blunt from his fingers, bringing it to your lips with an easy inhale. âSee,â you murmur through the smoke, exhaling slowly. âThat wasnât so hard.â
Another beat of silence, the kind that feels like itâs waiting to be broken. And, maybe because youâre high, or maybe because you just canât help yourself, you push further. âWhy not?â You glance at him, head tilting slightly. âYouâve had, what, two girlfriends? And you never ate it?â
Mark groans, tilting his head back against the couch like he wants to sink into it and disappear. âWhy are you so invested in this?â You smirk, tapping ash off the blunt. âIâm just saying, statistically, it doesnât add up.â
âI mean,â he starts, still staring at the ceiling like itâs suddenly the most interesting thing in the room, âI just never really got the chance, I guess.â You blink at him. Never got the chance? How does someone not get the chance? Itâs not like his exes wouldâve stopped himâif anything, they probably wanted him to. And then you realize.
Heâs a superhero. He barely had time to show up to his own girlfriendâs charity drive or whatever that was, let alone explore his sex life. Between saving the world and getting his ass kicked, there was probably never a moment where things could slow down enough for something like that.
You laugh. You donât even know why youâre laughing, but it bubbles out of you anyway, light and uncontrollable. Maybe itâs the weed, maybe itâs the ridiculousness of the conversation, or maybe itâs just him.
And thenâbefore your brain can catch up to your mouthâyou say it.
âIf you ever want to, you could always practice on me.â
The second the words leave your lips, your whole body seizes with horror. Your once relaxed position vanishes as you jolt upright, hands suddenly restless, fumbling over themselves like they can physically rewind time.
âI meantâlike, I meant itââ you stammer, face burning, voice pitching slightly higher. âIt was supposed to be comforting!â
Mark finally looks at you, wide-eyed, lips slightly parted like his brain just short-circuited. For a long, agonizing second, he doesnât say anything. And that somehow makes it so much worse.
Your face is on fire. Actually burning. You can feel the heat creeping up your neck, settling hot behind your ears. And then you make the mistake of looking at Markâhis face, usually so composed, is tinted pink, eyes slightly wide, lips parted like heâs still buffering.
Neither of you say anything.
The silence is unbearable. Suffocating. The kind that stretches so long it starts to feel like a tangible weight pressing down on you. You shift awkwardly, hands gripping your knees, mind running a thousand miles an hour trying to figure out how to backpedalâhow to undo whatever the fuck this is.
Will you ever recover from this? Can you?
You consider just getting up and leaving. Walking out of the room, out of the apartment, out of the entire city if you have to. Maybe start a new life. Change your name. Forget this ever happened.
Markâs head is spinning. Racing. In a thousand years, heâs neverâneverâthought about you like that.
Sure, youâre beautiful. That was always obvious. The kind of beauty that turns heads without you even trying. But heâs never let his mind go there before. Not with you.
You were carefree, nonchalant, always teasing but never crossing that line. Never someone he associated with anything lewd. But now? Now youâre sitting there, flustered and squirming all pretty, looking at him with wide, nervous eyes like you just realized what you said. Like youâre feeling the weight of it at the same time he is.
And fuckânow itâs in his head.
Mark jerks his head to the side, eyes locked on anything but you. The wall, the cluttered coffee table, the faint swirl of smoke in the airâanywhere that isnât your face, because if he looks at you now, he knows something reckless is going to slip out.
Something he wonât be able to take back.
And then, because his brain is already working against him, because the weight of your words is pressing down on him harder than he can ignore, he hears himself sayââIsâIs that something youâd like?â The second itâs out, he wants to die.
Because now? Now the silence between you isnât just awkward. Itâs charged. Hanging heavy in the air, thick and hot, impossible to ignore. He canât see your face, but he feels your reaction. The way your body shifts. The way your breath hitches, just slightly.
Your mind is a mess. A tangled knot of confusion, nerves, and something elseâsomething warmer, heavier, something pooling low in your stomach.
And maybe itâs the weed. Maybe itâs the fact that Mark looks too good right now, all flushed and fidgety, broad shoulders tense like heâs fighting a war inside his own head. Maybe itâs the tension, thick and humming between you, pressing into your skin like static electricity.
Either way, your body reacts before your brain can catch upânipples tightening under your shirt, thighs pressing together, heat coiling deep in your core. And at this point? Itâs probably too late to walk it back.
âI wouldnât mind.â
The words slip out, smooth and easy, but your heart is pounding. Mark finally looks at you, eyes dark, searching. He doesnât say anything at first. Just watches you like heâs waiting for you to take it back. You donât.
You take a deep breath, then exhale, slow and steady. And for some reason, itâs relieving. Like you just confessed something you didnât even know you needed to get off your chest.
Your body loosens, the tension in your shoulders easing as you sink back into the couchâonly now realizing you had been sitting upright, practically perched on the edge, like your body had been trying to flee before your mind even decided.
Mark moves toward you, his face still flushed, that pretty pink creeping down his neck. He hesitates for a second, shifting awkwardly, then clears his throatâbut his voice cracks slightly when he speaks.
âUhâIâm not sure how this works, so⊠can you guide me?â He rubs the back of his neck, avoiding your eyes for a moment before glancing back at you. âOr, like, tell me if you donât like it?â
Thereâs something endearing about it. The way heâs so earnest, so unsure despite everything else heâs capable of. Mark has fought villains, saved lives, survived things most people couldnât even fathom, but this? This is what makes him nervous. You should be teasing him for it. You want to. But the way heâs looking at you, waiting, wanting to do this rightâit makes your heart squeeze a little.
Honestly, you didnât think he would do it. Despite your frantic panic, you thought after the initial shock that heâd laugh it off, make some awkward joke, maybe shake his head and change the subject. But here he isâkneeling between your legs, eyes flickering between your face and the space between you, his hands hesitating but steady on your thighs.
He drags your shorts off, discarding them aside like shed skin, and thereâs your pretty, plush cunt laid bare before him. Itâs not his first time glimpsing such a sight, but never this up close. His breath hitches, and he stares. Youâre confusedâdoes he not know what to do? Why is he just sitting there, staring? Youâre on the verge of speaking when he edges nearer, parting your lips with a slow, deliberate nudgeâstrings of slick arousal gleaming between them.
You twitch as he eases in, his warm tongue sliding slow and deliberate between your folds, lapping at your pussy with a lazy, filthy drag, savoring every slick drop that clings to you. Youâre sweet on his tongueâwarm, slick. Maybe itâs too soon to admit, but he already knows he could get addicted to this. Just the taste of youâs got his dick throbbing and hard and his mind all hazy.
You tip your head back into the couch cushion, legs falling wider as he keeps licking at your sloppy pussy like some dog, all messy and eager. He glances up at you, and the sight alone makes him whimper against your slick, swollen pussy. Your head tilted back, lips parted, and glossy, soft little moans spilling from your throatâeach one sinking into his skin, making his cock ache.
âYou can use your fingers too⊠if youâd like,â you murmur, intending it as advice, but it comes out more like a commandâbreathless, needy. He obeys without hesitation, sliding two thick fingers inside you, eager to make you feel good. The way you squeeze around him, warm and wet, makes his breath hitch. He watches, mesmerized, as he pumps them in and out, each withdrawal leaving them glistening with your slick.
âFuck, âs good, youâre doing so good,â you moan, voice breathy and sweet, and Mark swears he could cum in his pants just from that alone. The way you praise him, all soft and desperate, makes his cock throb, aching for relief. He zeroes in on your clit, licking over it before grazing it lightly with his teeth, earning a sharp gasp from you. His thick, calloused fingers follow, circling the sensitive bud with slow, deliberate motions. Youâre soakedâcoated in his spit, in your own slickâand the weed coursing through your system makes every touch feel twice as intense, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core.
Itâs filthyâthe way heâs practically making out with your pussy, sloppy and desperate, like he never wants you to leave his mouth. His tongue flicks and drags, lips sealing around your clit with wet, hungry sucks, and when your hips buck against him, grinding down for more, he just moans into you. His jaw and nose are drenched, slick dripping down his chin, but he doesnât stopâif anything, he dives in deeper, like he wants to drown in you.
âTastes so fuckinâ good,â he whines against you, voice muffled by the mess of your pussy. His fingers are still buried deep, pumping into you with a steady, obscene rhythm, while his other hand is stuffed between his legs, rubbing over the aching bulge in his pants. Heâs desperateâhumping into his own palm like he canât help himself, like just eating you out is enough to get him off.
âFuckââ His words are slurred, muffled by the slick between you. âTastes like you were made for me.â
Itâs messy, shamelessâthe way he devours you, like he never wants to come up for air. His jaw aches, but he doesnât stop, doesnât slow, just pulls you closer, as if he could disappear into you completely. You grind against his face, chasing the sharp coil tightening low in your belly, and he only urges you on, gripping your thighs, moaning as he lets you use him.
Your moans spill into the thick air, breath hitching as your back arches. ââMââm cumminâ,â you mewl, voice high, trembling. The pleasure crashes over you in waves, thighs shaking around his head as you unravel, coating his tongue with your release.
Mark doesnât stopânot yet. He groans against you, drinking in every last drop, licking and sucking like heâs starved, like he wants to commit your taste to memory. His breath is heavy, uneven, and when he finally pulls back, his lips and chin glisten with you.
His own hand moves frantically, pumping his cock through his pants, desperate, chasing the high thatâs been building since he first had you on his tongue. The sounds of your pleasureâthe broken whimpers, the way you shake, the way youâve completely let go for himâsend him over the edge. With a sharp, shuddering groan, his hips jerk, and he spills hot and thick into his pants, moaning through it, chest rising and falling in time with yours.
For a moment, the only sound between you is your ragged breaths, the faint hum of satisfaction settling between you both.
That night proved two things: first, that weed clearly has no effect on Viltrumites; and second, that Mark, without a doubt, eats pussy like a starved man.
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âWould you show me a friendly face, once more?â (more writing below)
It was with the familiar smell of ashes burning her nostrils that Lady Galadriel came to the realisation that there was no fight left in her.
If she closed her eyes, she could feel themâ the last flickers of a fire long burning finally leaving her body. As she stood there alone, amid the smoke blackening her sight and a tapestry of bodies she could no longer distinguish at her foot, the yearning for the pale waters of the Sea made itself known at last. She welcomed it with great bitterness. So this was her end. The daughter of Finarfin was to set sail home to Valinor. She felt him approach like she always did: a large shadow engulfing soil, corpses and hopes alike, the blade of betrayal still fresh against her skin. She could continue to fight himâ sheâd done so over and over again, with different faces, different blades, each trying at eroding figments of a once shared kinship to no avail. He would remain Sauron. She would forever be Galadriel. He could not slay her just as she could never rid herself of him in full, and the acceptance of this truth once made her chest cave with grief, right between the puncture points of the crown heâd once pushed against her. âGaladriel,â he greeted her. He considered her curiously. Beneath his helmet, his eyes were glowing embers, nothing like hisâwitnessing the change in Galadriel, no doubt. She had never given up on an opportunity to deal a blow before, and there he stood before her, tendrils of his armour reaching to her like a black flame, yet she was not moving. He took a cautious step forward. âAre you not going to fight me, today?â She stared blankly at himâthrough him, through what once was, what could be, what would be. âWould you show me a friendly face, once more?â She asked instead. Tired. She was so tired. As she let her head fall against his shoulder, he stood very still. âI would,â he simply said, southern vowels scraping against his throat, low, barely loud enough for her elf ears to hear. Against all odds, he had granted her her request. Stubble scratched the side of her head as a hand gingerly held the back of her neck, and she allowed herself to feel the solace of his embrace, just this once.
She had started to diminish the day they had met, after all.
#saurondriel#haladriel#trop#rop#galadriel#sauron#halbrand#galaxy draws#galaxy.. writes?#allow me to indulge#come on
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Home Is Wherever Iâm With You
Joel Miller x f!reader
Summary: After the tragic loss of your father and home, you find yourself at the mercy of a cold, detached stranger who holds your fate in his hands during a violent snowstorm.
Notes: okay fair warning, I started writing this when I was feeling extremely low, and finished it several weeks later when I was doing better, so if it seems disjointed and sloppily thrown together, thatâs why! But I swear thereâs a happy ending!
Warnings: ANGST!!! I cannot stress the amount of angst. Suicidal thoughts and ideation, especially at the beginning. Alcohol consumption. Main character deaths; all of them. Lots of depression and poor mental health, mostly with Joel. Angsty!Joel, asshole!Joel, soft!Joel, semi-dom!Joel, protective!Joel, masturbation (m), oral (f receiving), face riding, unprotected p in v, creampie, biting/marking, pregnancy heavily hinted at, more angst
Word Count: 7,100+
dividers provided by: @saradika-graphics âŁïž
Tags: @ohheypedrito @kateispunk @kellybelly1978 @berryispunk @chronically-ghosted @morallyinept @natdeandar @guelyury @daddy-dins-girl
Joel crouches in front of the old cast iron stove, his knees groaning in protest as he stokes the embers within using an extra scrap of wood.
He doesnât know why heâs going through the trouble. It isnât like heâll be around much longer. Maybe he just wants to feel warmth one last time before he does it. And this time, he wonât miss.
Heâll be cold soon enough anyway.
He gets the fire breathing again, closing the hatch and settling back into the old leather recliner in the corner, worn and cracking with age, much like himself.
He palms the neck on a bottle of bourbon, taking a hefty swig and wiping his lips with the back of his hand, his face crinkling in rumination as he watches the flames dance behind slats of iron.
Sarah. Tess. Tommy. And then Ellie. He had failed each and every one of them; those he claimed to love, who he vowed to keep safe. He had let them down. He had let himself down.
He takes another pull on the bottle and sets it down heavily on the table next to him, replacing it with his Smith & Wesson, heavy digits curling around the grip.
He traces the scar on his temple with the point of his index finger, feeling the faint indentation in the flesh; a constant reminder of yet another failure.
He lowers his hand back to the revolver, finger circling the trigger guard, dark eyes downcast as he attempts to summon the strength to do what he needs to do. Again.
His hand tremors as he lifts the gun and presses the cold barrel to his temple, thumb cocking the hammer back with a hollow metallic clunk that resonates through his skull and soul.
âCâmon, Joel. Get yourself fucking together for once.â
His eyes close, nose scrunched in a deep scowl.
Just do it, Joel. Pull the fucking trigger.
The ball of his index finger curves around the bend of the trigger, twitching with indecision when the back door to the cabin abruptly flies open, temporarily snapping him out of his psychosis.
Itâs just the wind. Thatâs all it is. A gust of wind from the incoming snowstorm.
He doesnât move from his space on the recliner. The cold wonât matter in a few seconds anyway. He lifts the barrel to his temple again, aligning it just rightâŠ
The back door clicks shut. It wasnât slammed, like the wind would have done had it been the culprit. It very audibly clicked. Like someone or something shut it themselves.
Immediately following the click, he hears the unmistakable scrape of boots on wood, the revolver lowering from offensive to defensive position.
No sooner do you get the door closed that you notice a faint flicker of light from the adjoining room, your heart beginning to thrum like a jackhammer in your chest. From the outside, in your weary state, the dilapidated old cabin looked abandoned as far as you could tell, realizing too late that it isnât.
But now youâve stumbled into someoneâs den, and they could very well be armed and aiming to shoot. They could even be cannibals for all you know.
You could leave. You could just leave and pretend this never happened. But you havenât seen any other shelters for miles⊠and the storm was only going to get worse.
âWhoâs there?â a gruff male voice calls out from the other room, breaking through the stifling silence. You go stock still on instinct, your hackles bristled along your spine.
When youâre able to gather your bearings, you respond with your name, your vocal cords numb and strained from the cold.
âI mean no harm. I just need a place to sleep out of the storm. I promise to leave at first light,â you quickly add.
Joel stiffens when he hears a womanâs voice, his finger still circling the trigger guard as it had only moments before when the gun was trained on himself.
âAre you armed?â
âJust a small pistol and a jack knife. And Iâm out of ammo,â you call back truthfully.
Everything is quiet for a moment aside from the crackle of flame and the howl of wind that rattles the windows and bends the outer wood. The silence between you and the unseen man feels like it stretches on for ages.
âApproach the door with your hands raised. Anâ when I say, slide the gun and knife over to me.â
âAlright,â you reply quietly, approaching the ajar door in front of you, hands already skyward, kicking the door the rest of the way open with the toe of your boot.
You step forward two paces into the room, the scent of alcohol stinging your nostrils, your gaze settling on a haggard looking man in the furthest corner from you. His hair is wild and askew, eyes sunken in like a corpse, recognizing the hopeless glint behind them; no doubt a reflection of your own. A large pistol is clutched in his meaty fist, cocked and aimed.
âGun first. Then the knife,â Joel says, his brow angled downward in a dark line, shading the even darker set of eyes.
You keep one hand in the air as the other reaches into the band of your jeans, removing the pistol and sliding it to him, stilling as it hits his boot.
He picks it up, discharging the clip to find that it is indeed empty, as you had claimed. He sets it next to the bourbon.
You slide the knife next, an average, run of the mill jack knife with a four inch blade. He inspects it, noticing a few remnants of blood still tarnishing the steel.
âWhoâd you kill with this?â
âI used it to skin hares and squirrels.â
His face pinches with confusion, tilting his head at you like a dog hearing an unknown sound for the first time.
âYâskinned hares and squirrels with a jack knife?â he questions doubtfully.
âItâs all I had,â you explain.
Joel eyes you warily. Youâre definitely not dressed or equipped for this kind of weather. The only thing that seems to be keeping you warm is a thin hoodie, a regular set of jeans, and a pair of boots soaked through with snow.
He sighs. He isnât going to kill himself with you here. He may not be the nicest or most caring man in the world, but he isnât about to traumatize you. Heâll wait until you leave. You said youâd leave at first light.
In the meantime, he has to deal with someone being in his space, which he doesnât exactly want to do, especially in his last hours. But he isnât about sending you to your death, either. You probably have more to live for than he does.
âHere,â he says, kicking an old wicker chair toward you. âYour feetâre soaked. Take off your boots and warm your feet âfore you get frostbite.â
You lower your arms and take a cautious step forward, and then another, slowly sinking into the flimsy and rotten chair, bending to unlace and remove your boots.
You try to wiggle your toes but they wonât move, at least not yet. Joel watches with a scrutinizing glare, his hand still on the Smith & Wesson in his lap.
âWhatâs your name?â you ask him, pushing your boots aside.
âAinât important.â
You cast him a look but donât press, scooting your sore and frozen feet closer to the stove, feeling yourself starting to slowly defrost.
You thank him for letting you stay.
He ignores your gratitude, dark browns drifting over your frame.
âWhereâd you come from?â he asks.
âAinât important,â you counter, casting him another glance.
He leans forward, planting his elbows on his knees, pinning you with a deep scowl.
âIâm the one with the gun,â he chides in a deep timbre, his tone brooking no room for protest. âGuns,â he quickly amends.
Your eyes lock with his momentarily, assessing his conviction before deciding not to test it.
âA settlement near Billings.â
âAlone?â
âYes.â
He leans back, his gaze unmoving, letting out a breath through his nose.
âAnâ exactly what prompted you to run out into a snowstorm with just a hoodie and no supplies?â he asks.
You flinch as if heâd just backhanded you, averting your gaze. If you were looking, you might notice his face softening, if only just a hair.
âRaiders came into our settlement. My father⊠he gave me the pistol and distracted them while I snuck under a gap in the fence. I didnât have time to grab anything else,â you tell him.
âAnd your dad?â Joel asks delicately.
âDidnât make it out,â you reply grimly, your body beginning to tremor, a combination of repressed emotion and your muscles beginning to thaw.
Joel falls silent, absorbing your words as truth. He canât find a reason that you would lie about something like that.
âIâm sorry,â he sympathizes, his voice gentling.
You bring your knees to your chest, your chin resting between them, arms wrapped around your shins.
âThank you,â you say again, your voice hardly above a whisper.
ââ
Your eyes snap open, realizing you must have drifted off at some point, finding yourself curled into a fetal position directly in front of the dying fire.
A blanket youâre sure wasnât there before is wrapped around your frame. Youâve no idea where it came from, itâs a bit scratchy and smells funky, but what matters is itâs warm, subconsciously pulling it tighter around your shoulders when you feel a chilled breeze brush over you through the cracks in the wall.
âMorninâ,â Joel hums softly above you.
âMorning,â you echo, shifting as your eyes scan the room, the cabin just as dark and cloaked in shadow as when you arrived. Youâre unsure how he knows what time of day it is, but you decide not to question it.
Heâs in almost the exact position in the old recliner as the previous evening, his hand unmoving from the revolver still in his lap. You canât help but wonder if he had any rest at all, not sure if him watching you sleep should be comforting or disconcerting.
You sit up with a stretch, your joints crackling like twigs as you work out the aches of not only having traveled this far on foot, but also sleeping on a hard wooden floor all night.
Better than freezing to death, you decide.
You scoot until your back is flush with the wall, leaning against it as you silently study Joel.
âThank you for the blanketââ you begin, but he quickly cuts you off with a hard glare, nudging your dried out boots to you with his foot.
âBootsâre dry. Itâs morning. âbout time for you to leave,â he says, his voice low and rough.
It dawns on you that itâs still dark because the storm hasnât lessened at all, banks of snow clogging the windows and doors, blocking out what little available sunlight there is.
Your brow knits together and you cast him a wary glance, bottom lip trembling.
âBut it⊠itâsâŠâ
âThe deal was first light, darlinâ, and Iâve given you plenty more than that.â
âPlease⊠just⊠a few more hours? Until the storm dies down some?â you plead, tears pricking at the backs of your eyes, preemptively threatening to freeze your eyelids together.
Heâs silent and contemplative for what you feel is longer than necessary, a muscle fluttering in his jaw.
He knows he should send you away, even if it means a certain death. He canât have you here, swimming in his grief, prolonging the inevitable.
The other option, of course, is to shoot you and then himself, a swift and merciful death that you deserve far more than he does. His fist tightens around the butt of the revolver, an action that does not go unnoticed by you.
âNo,â he says plainly.
âPlease, Iâll do anything,â you say, your voice cracking with emotion and desperation, shifting to your knees as you shuffle a few inches closer to his chair. He did give you a blanket, so there is a human being in there somewhere. âI canâtââ
âI can barely take care of myself, much less another person. Ainât nothing you can offer me, nothing to barter withââ
âIâll let you keep my gun and knife. Please. Just a few more hoursâŠâ
His jaw ticks again. Your odds are already low as is, but liberating you of your only means of defense, your only means of perhaps obtaining a meal, if only a meager squirrel or hare, would completely diminish any shred of a chance you have left.
He could give you his one and only jacket. Not that heâs going to need it after you leave, anyway.
âNo,â he says again, more sternly than before.
His gaze is unmoving from yours, the slow, steady circling of his pointer finger on the edge of the trigger guard doing little to settle your nerves, the conflict apparent behind his dark eyes.
You know you donât have much to offer. Youâre not great at hunting. Youâd exhausted your entire clip on what barely qualifies as a meal, leaving you with very little sustenance once the bullet had almost completely obliterated any viable meat.
You canât fight or shoot worth a damn, either. Your father had tried to teach you in vain, his frustration with you growing to a fever pitch over the years, but it had never been your forte.
Because you never thought youâd have to live without him.
You can scout. Gather. Keep the cabin up, replace rotting boards and rusting nails, keep it clean and tidy. But not in this weather, and not for a few months yet.
So you default to the last thing you know how to do well. The only thing you know without a shadow of a doubt youâre good at, if any of the men at your settlement had anything to say about it before they perished.
You inch closer, your tired knees scraping against the dirty, splintered wood, hands trembling as you hesitantly reach toward his parted knees.
He anticipates more begging and pleading. Maybe a sob story or two.
What he doesnât expect is for your hands to grab his belt, the meat of your palm ghosting over his crotch as you fumble to undo the worn rungs of leather.
His cock twitches instinctively and he canât recall the last time a woman touched him like this. Made him feel anything but dead inside.
He moves with a sudden swiftness that surprises and startles both of you, the hand not currently on the revolver grabbing hold of your wrist like a striking serpent, his grip biting into your delicate bones so roughly you realize how effortless it would be for him to snap your wrist, should he feel so inclined.
He rises to his feet, dragging you with him and giving you a hard, reprimanding shake, teeth bared inches from your face.
It occurs to you seeing him fully upright like this just how tall, how imposing he is; worn, threadbare flannel stretched to its limits across broad shoulders and thick biceps.
âChrist, woman, the hell is wrong with you? What kind of man do you take me for?â he growls, a subtle twang piping up in his voice, his clenched fist releasing your wrist with a minor shove. You stumble backwards, catching yourself on the wall.
His nostrils flare, drawing in a deep, steadying breath, his eyes slipping shut as he tempers his simmering anger⊠and something else he doesnât want to acknowledge.
âFuck,â he grunts, eyes slowly opening again, rough digits carding through his graying curls. âIf it means that much to you⊠you stay until the snow stops, anâ not a second later,â he nearly spits in your face. âGot it?â
When you easily nod in agreement, he stalks out of the room with a huff, every heavy footfall vibrating beneath your feet, slamming the door shut between you, leaving you standing there in the middle of the room, alone and unsure what to feel.
â
Joel goes into the now defunct bathroom, the traditional porcelain toilet that was maybe brand new decades ago currently unusable, the water in the tank and plumbing frozen solid, the pipes under the earth most likely cracked and warped.
He drops trow and leans forward with the flat of one palm against the wall, the other hand gripping himself.
He lets out a shaky breath he wasnât aware he had been holding in, pissing into the cistern he had dug under the cabin two summers ago, a task only made more difficult by the partial erection he now has thanks to your â albeit brief â touch a few moments ago.
âFuck, Joel,â he sighs as he empties his bladder, his cock only growing stiffer in his hand as he imagines how good your lips would have felt wrapped around him, what kind of pretty sounds you would have made for him.
âFuck,â he grits again, cramming his painfully hard erection into his jeans when heâs done.
â
Hours turn to days, days to weeks, weeks to months â âuntil the snow melts anâ not a day laterâ â spring not far around the corner, the sun growing brighter and hotter in the sky with each passing day.
Joelâs suicidal ideations were still an ever present plague on his brain, though he kept that part of himself tucked neatly away, as he did most things that were personal and private. He never spoke of Sarah, Ellie, anyone. Never talked about his life before Outbreak.
In turn, you never talked about yours either, aside from what youâd told him the first night, too frightened that you might scare him away simply by opening up, by trying to stitch together what little relationship you had with one another.
The more time you spent with him, the more of a burden you began to feel. It didnât matter how much you helped out, even if you kept a respectful distance between you, especially when he seemed extra bristly or in his head that day. He was always skulking about, his face pinched in indignation in what you were certain was unspoken hatred for you and your existence.
It was early morning and you were at the edge of the valley, the spot near the treeline that was choked with underbrush, gathering pathetically small handfuls of wild strawberries and huckleberries that were just beginning to fruit. Definitely not enough to have much impact on your aching bellies, but it could be supplemental to whatever protein Joel could scrounge up, which hadnât been much as of late.
You wipe a fresh layer of sweat from your brow despite the air still being bitterly cold, collecting what meager pittance of berries you can, sucking in a breath of air as you steeled your nerves to head back to the cabin.
â
Joelâs door is still closed when you return. Not surprising, considering how early youâd gotten up that morning, Joel likely still exhausted and aching from the ineffectual hunting trip the previous day.
You place the berries into a bowl on the counter, your fingers curling into the peeling linoleum as you stare out the window that overlooks the southern end of the valley, sun cresting through the twisted and gnarled branches of still-bare trees.
Youâve been milling around the idea of leaving for weeks now. Youâve come close to doing so several times, knowing it would make Joel happy to not have you on his mind or in his space anymore.
Your hand hovers near the hunting rifle slanted against the wall, ultimately deciding against it as you tuck your pistol and knife into your pants, tossing half of the berries into a bag and shrugging on the jacket Joel had found for you on a hunting trip.
You take a final glance at his door before sucking in another sharp breath, opening and closing the back door for what you assume to be the last time.
â
Joel hears you return only to leave again a few minutes later. He thinks little of it, something you do frequently throughout the day when foraging or inspecting snares.
He wishes he could express his gratitude to you, thank you for how much you help out. How much youâve improved his life just by being here. It kills him to see how you shrink away every time he enters the room, but he understands why. He hasnât given you a reason not to.
Once heâs sure youâre out of earshot, he resumes pumping himself, hips bucking into his fist seconds before spurting hot ribbons of come onto his lower abdomen, eyes rolling back in his skull, your name a curse on his tongue as he imagines your mouth working him over in place of his fist.
As much as heâs wanted to touch you, sink himself into you every night, heâs been too afraid. Afraid to even speak to you, afraid of becoming attached only to lose you, like heâs lost all the others.
â
When you donât return by mid day, he begins to worry.
He tries not to. He tries to tell himself maybe you decided to forage a little longer than usual, or maybe youâre at the river searching for freshwater clams since the weather is slowly beginning to warm.
Still, he canât shake the feeling that something is off. That something is wrong.
He finds the bowl of fresh berries on the counter, evident that you had been foraging at least part of the day. But it didnât feel right. It wasnât good enough for him.
When you donât return by nightfall, he knows without a shadow of a doubt that something is wrong.
This isnât you.
â
Two days pass and you realize just how badly you fucked up.
The berries barely made a dent in your hunger and the only other food you managed to find were a few wild mushrooms that youâre pretty sure werenât the edible kind, if the half gallon of resulting vomit an hour later was any sort of indication.
You fucked up. You fucked up royally and you miss the cabin. You miss the warm stove and the bed Joel made for you close to the fire. You miss how he always kept you fed and protected, even if youâre certain he hates you.
You miss Joel. You miss his grunts, you miss the way his face pinches when he glowers. You miss what he looks like when he chews, almost like heâs angry at his food somehow. You miss his smell when he comes home covered in grime and sweat from a full day of hunting.
Dusk has fallen on your second day without food or water, your bones feeling like powder and your muscles like jelly. Youâre exhausted, head pounding with a combination of fatigue and hunger as you take shelter from the wind in a small outcropping of rocks, wishing he was here with you.
Youâll go back tomorrow, you decide.
â
Joel watches the sun sink behind the horizon of trees, cloaking the surrounding forest in near darkness.
He knows he should stop to rest for the night. Like you, he left in a rush without grabbing much in way of supplies or sustenance, but had been lucky to graze a buck that he was passively tracking while searching for you. Heâll likely find it soon.
He periodically came across fresh deer imprints in the earth, clean tracks slowly changing to drag marks, indicating the buck was either dead or close to death.
But you were constantly at the forefront of his mind. You were his focus. His reason to keep going. His reason for continuing to live.
And when he finds a perfect indentation of your left boot moments before the sun lowers completely from the sky, he knows he canât afford to stop now.
â
Itâs still dark when you wake up, your eyes coming into focus along the faint edges of what you can see, which isnât much. Some rocks. Some trees.
You shift, rolling to your opposite side to go back to sleep, tucking your hands under your cheek as a makeshift pillow. A breeze blows over you, made stronger by the funnel of rocks, and you shiver, pulling your jacket tighter.
Snap.
Your eyes fly open again, immediately jumping to your haunches as you palm the pistol next to you.
You train your ears toward the source of the sound, somewhere in the trees, listening intently, your mind on shuffle with all the possibilities of what it could be.
It didnât sound large enough to be a bear. A puma, perhaps, one who didnât seem to be hunting you, hopefully, due to how loud the sound was.
Infected? A slim possibility. Rare up here, but not unheard of, which left you with the most likely option: it was human.
You attempt to still your breath, your fist white knuckled around the butt of the gun. Itâs too dark to see anything, and all you hear is the soft whistle of the wind.
â
Joel registers the sound of you shifting from somewhere up the incline above him, limbs turning to stone as his mind cycles through all the same scenarios as you.
He lost your tracks halfway through the night, finding himself going in circles, so itâs quite possible itâs not you heâs just stumbled upon.
He slowly removes the rifle from his shoulder, lifting it to half mast in case whomever heâs stumbled across is hostile⊠or infected.
âIâm armed!â he calls out, lifting the rifle to a defensive position with the butt pressed to his shoulder. âI have no beef with you if you have none with me,â he adds.
You swear your heart stops, tears suddenly stinging your eyes with salt.
âJ-Joel?â you whimper, almost imperceptible, but itâs just loud enough.
Joel can only react, unthinking, responding on muscle memory alone as he somehow manages to traverse the steep, rocky incline in seconds without eating it.
You jump upright to your feet, despite how weak you are, and before your brain even has a chance to tell your legs to move, youâre struck by a wall of muscle, thick arms coiling around you and pulling you against his chest.
âThank god, thank god,â Joel sobs into your hair as he drags you down to the ground with him, his voice softer than you can ever remember, the wetness of his tears soaking through your shirt. âI thought Iâd lost youâŠâ he whispers, his voice wavering.
He inhales your scent deeply, his hold on you nearly painful, but you donât mind, your face against his chest as your own tears start to fall.
â
âIâm sorry,â Joel murmurs softly as youâre walking back the following day, glancing over at you, dark brown eyes gently regarding your side profile in the early morning light. âIâm sorry I made you feel like I donât care. I justâŠâ
âI know,â you respond, pausing to collect your breath and your thoughts. âI know why you did it. Iâm sorry I doubted you. Iâm sorry I scared youâŠâ
âHey,â he says, gently cupping your jaw as he tilts your chin up to meet his gaze, calloused thumb tracing your jawbone, pausing at your bottom lip. âSâokay.â
Your lips pucker, impervious to stop yourself from planting a small kiss to the pad of his thumb as it brushes your lip.
He lets out a low breath, his hand snaking around to the nape of your neck, fingers lacing through your hair as he tugs you closer, lips crashing against yours in a passionate, heated kiss that flows trembling from him with every fiber of withheld emotion and desire.
â
You arrive at the cabin half a day later, impressed but not surprised by how swiftly Joel was able to navigate both of you back safely.
He even successfully locates the downed buck, stiff with rigor mortis and cold, half chewed by a pack of wolves that scatter with a single rifle shot fired over their heads, the large animal now dragging listlessly behind Joel as you finally break through the barrier of trees encasing the valley where the cabin resides.
Smoke still curls from the chimney, fire long gone but embers undoubtedly still hot, and you find yourself smiling. With relief, with anticipation.
Youâre exhausted, famished and dirty. Yet you still assist Joel in stringing up whatâs left of the buck to the outside of the cabin until he can properly butcher it, feeling obligated to do so after everything thatâs happened, despite his protests.
Once the task is complete, you retire to the warmth and comfort of the cabin, curled against his chest, feeling at home for the first time in months.
His fingers idly trace the bow of your spine, both of you falling into a fast sleep for what feels like days on end.
â
âI was so goddamn stupid,â Joel growls softly as his lips chart a path down your soft inner thighs, finding himself grinding his hips into the mattress for relief. âSo goddamn stupid anâ bullheaded, anâ I almost lost you for it.â
Your spine arcs instinctually when his breath ghosts tauntingly close to your soaked folds, your fists finding his graying locks with a tug.
âJoel, stop talking and make it up to me,â you whine, earning a disapproving glance from between your legs, but thereâs an undercurrent of playfulness behind his eyes.
âMake it up to you, huh?â he purrs, separating your folds and inhaling your natural scent. âBy tastinâ this perfect little pussy?â
âYes,â you whine again, writhing like a worm cooking under the sun in his grasp, your fingers tightening in his hair.
âUh uh,â he scolds, moving further away from where youâre desperate for him. âAsk nicely.â
His lip curves almost imperceptibly into a sly smirk, his gaze growing a shade darker.
âPlease, Joel,â you amend, still wiggling, almost involuntary at this point, his fingers digging into your hips as he pins you against the bed.
âPlease what?â
âPlease, I need to feel your mouth on my pussy,â you whimper.
His nostrils flare, smirk growing just enough for you to realize you werenât just seeing things.
He doesnât waste another second as he dives in with a low, reverberative growl and begins feasting on you like a man starved, his meaty forearm barred across your hip to hold you in place so he can eat you out properly.
His tongue parts your folds, licking a broad stripe up your seam with a groan as he tastes your essence for the first time, moving back down to your opening to tongue fuck you, the ridge of his nose grinding deliciously against your throbbing clit.
You tug harder against his strands with a moan, helping to guide him where you need him most.
Joel grunts your name into your core, eyes locking with yours over your mound, and it takes everything in you not to fall apart right then and there.
He abruptly pulls his mouth from you, making you whine in protest, another smirk notching the corner of his lips as he rolls onto his back, rigid cock swaying slightly with the motion of his hips.
âGet on my face, baby, I need to get deeper,â he says, grabbing your wrist and gesturing you closer.
You donât even have to give it another thought, scrambling over him, folded knees planted on either side of his head.
He yanks you down abruptly to his waiting and eager mouth before youâre halfway settled, tongue curling into your wet heat with a deep groan that vibrates straight through you.
His fingers dig into the meat of your ass, directing your movements, grinding you against his face as he continues to feast on you like youâre nothing less of a five star meal.
Your hands furl the edge of the headboard, spine arching, and it doesnât take much longer in this position to be sent over the edge, your orgasm ripping through you like a bolt of lightning, Joelâs name a sacred prayer on your tongue as everything inside of you completely uncoils.
He keeps you there long enough to let you ride out your high, tongue still laving at your spasming walls until itâs too much for you to handle.
You shift off of him, his facial hair glistening with evidence of your release as he pulls you down into a rough, needy kiss, letting you taste yourself, flipping you over and pinning you beneath him, arms caged around your head as he grinds his hardness against you.
âYou have no idea how many times I jerked off thinking about you like this,â Joel confesses, nipping at your jaw, then your bottom lip. âHow you would feel. How you would taste.â He kisses down to your collarbone, his teeth gently grazing.
âAnd you have no idea how many times I touched myself thinking about you,â you confess in reply, Joelâs head lifting to meet your eyes at your admission. âI had to bite my lip every night to keep from moaning your name...â
âFuckâŠâ he growls, settling his pelvis between your thighs, pushing your legs further apart, lifting one to prop against his shoulder.
âYou make me feel things I havenât felt in years,â he rumbles, giving himself a few firm pumps before notching himself at your entrance. âYâwant me to go fast or slow, darlinâ?â
A warmth spreads through your chest at the simple act of him asking, knowing it isnât just mindless sex to him, that he actually cares, if that wasnât already obvious from how enthusiastically he just ate you out.
âSlow, then hard and fast,â you tell him, earning another deep rumble as he starts to push himself inside of you, fat head stretching your walls.
âChrist, youâre perfect,â he says softly as he steadily gains ground, his hips shuddering with restraint once he bottoms out, sheathing himself fully. âFuck, darlinâ, youâre strangling me,â he grunts. âI donât know how long I can last...â
The pain of withholding in his voice is palpable.
âJoel, you just made me come super hard,â you tell him. âDonât hold yourself back just for me.â
His bottom lip juts out and quivers with the thin veil of control he still has, fingertips digging into your hips, crescent moon shapes left behind in your skin.
âYâsure?â he asks, internal conflict evident in his voice as he rolls his hips half a thrust forward. ââcause soon as I start, I donât think Iâll be able to hold backâŠâ
âIâm sure,ïżœïżœïżœ you reassure him, letting him hear the conviction in your voice.
He takes in a steadying breath and gently gyrates his hips forward once, twice, his head tilting down to watch the way he disappears inside of you.
It must be the way youâre taking him so well â or maybe itâs the months of not allowing himself to touch you â the thin thread of restraint suddenly fraying after the initial soft, testing thrusts, a barely audible âfuckâ escaping his lips seconds before he begins railing into you with everything a man of his age has to give⊠which is a lot.
Joelâs hand is on your calf, holding your leg flush to his chest, the other on your hip in a bruising hold, watching the way your body sways in rhythm with his motions, teeth bared in concentration.
âDarlinâ⊠Iâm⊠I⊠where do you want it?â he pants, the question almost sounding pained.
You know you should make him pull out and finish on your stomach. Contraceptives are a rare luxury these days and youâd always made your previous boyfriends pull out. But you canât stop yourself, the permission spilling from your lips thoughtlessly.
âIn⊠insideâŠâ you whimper in desperation and Joel doesnât even think to question it.
He collapses on top of you, his hips sputtering and shaking, a deep, guttural snarl sounding from his chest as he spills into you, filling you to the brim with hot jets of spend.
Despite not coming a second time, the sensation of him shooting inside of you still feels good, his warmth filling every crevice it can reach inside of you.
He buries his face against your neck, gingerly taking some of your flesh between his teeth, biting down just hard enough to leave a faint impression.
His hips gradually slow and still, your name a reverent curse on his tongue.
âChrist,â he pants, wrapping you snugly in his burly arms. âChrist, darlinâ.â
â
Spring finally reaches the valley, replenishing the land with color and sunlight, allowing you and Joel to wander out further and further every day.
He tells you he wants to find something nicer than the cabin. Somewhere larger, more permanent, even though youâve told him time and again that youâd prefer to stay.
And you do, for a spell.
That is until you find your body growing more sensitive than usual. Until you find it increasingly difficult to keep some of your meals down, trying to convince Joel itâs nothing, that itâs just a summer cold, when you both know itâs not.
Joel dotes on you, burdens himself over you, knowing exactly what it is without wanting to say it. All the signs are there, almost textbook, unable to keep his memories from drifting back to the days before Sarah was born, how her motherâs symptoms were damn near identical.
He doesnât dare tell you how scared he is, how much this terrifies him all the the way to his bone marrow, but you know. You see it in his gaze when he looks at you, feel it in his touch when he pulls you against him at night.
â
Youâre on a scouting run one warm summer day, Joel hardly more than two feet from you at any given moment, so many unspoken words and feelings still hanging in the air between you.
He reaches for your arm to steady you when your feet slide on a patch of loose rocks, his palm instinctively moving to protect your stomach. Youâre almost sure he wasnât even aware he did it.
âJoel,â you say, placing your hand over his. âIâm alright.â
His brow furrows, silence speaking louder than any words he could say.
Heâs reverted into his headspace again, more quiet these last few days than he has been. And it worries you. You hate that he bottles everything up, but you know that confrontation could make him shut down even more.
You begin walking again, his hand absently resting on the small of your back, and you continue down the path in stagnant silence.
Suddenly, Joel stops, eyes squinting to confirm what heâs seeing is real.
A neighborhood.
â
The neighborhood would have been considered a new development before the world went to shit, most of the lots bare and choked with two decades worth of weeds, some houses half built and some finished but likely vacant at the time.
There are only a few that look to have been potentially occupied before everything, three larger homes next to one another in a cul-de-sac at the end of unmanaged, cracked pavement.
Thereâs not much of interest in the first few homes you inspect, watching the way Joel silently scrutinizes everything as a potential future dwelling, not a single corner left unchecked, his latent instincts as a contractor still well ingrained in him despite the expanse of time.
By mid day, youâre both sweating profusely, Joel moreso than you since he isnât letting you do much, forcing you to put food and water in your body, brooking no argument when he gives you his ration as well.
He knows you should head back soon before youâre out too late, but thereâs still one house left to search and he doesnât want to make the trip a second time if it isnât worth the trouble.
The largest house, a two story spruce green craftsman with gray trim, his heart aching with nostalgia at how much it reminds him of his former home in Austin.
You start the same route as with the other houses; from the top, room by room, working your way down, your anxiety growing the lower the sun dips in the sky, knowing you only have a couple hours at best before itâs too late to leave.
The main floors scoured, you follow Joel to the basement, your hands on his shoulders for stability as you slowly work your way down the creaking stairs, your eyes adjusting to the shadows the deeper you travel.
When youâve reached the bottom, Joel pulls out his flashlight, hitting it against his palm a few times before it flickers to life, the thin beam of light reflecting off the freshly disturbed dust.
You cover your nose and mouth with your shirt to keep out some of the flying particles, watching as Joel stumbles upon a stack of neatly piled and labeled storage totes in the furthest corner from the stairs, adrenaline beginning to course through him like a drug as he reads the faded sharpie scrawled on the sides.
ââCanned goods and preservesâ,â Joel says quietly, his voice higher in pitch than usual, more hopeful. Thereâs at least four totes labeled canned goods that you can see, possibly more, dates ranging from anywhere from late 2000 to summer of 2003.
He moves slightly to the right, his body tremoring as he examines the next set of totes.
Multiple totes labeled MREs, dated around the same range as the canned goods. He rips the top off of a few of them open to confirm that his eyes arenât deceiving him, that this isnât a cruel dream, nearly doubling over when he sees just how real it is.
âJoel?â you ask, concerned, stepping nearer to him when you see him trembling and clutching his chest. âBaby ..?â
He suddenly turns and throws his arms around you, and it dawns on you that heâs crying, heâs crying and trembling, eyes full of happy tears.
âA fucking prepper. A fucking prepper just saved our lives,â he whimpers into your hair, squeezing you against him, and all he can think in that moment is thank fuck for those crazy assholes. Thank fuck for people like Bill.
â
In the weeks that follow, you and Joel clean and repair the house â Joel doing most of the work, per his insistence â but itâs in surprisingly good shape despite its age and lack of upkeep, and even with just the two of you, it doesnât take as long as youâd expected.
You canât help but miss the cabin, the natural beauty of the valley. But Joel was right to move you. Itâs safer here, more insulated from weather, more space to grow. And perhaps, one day, the cabin can be someone elseâs salvation, as it had been for you.
Another night falls on one of the final lingering days of summer, barely able to see the shine of Joelâs eyes in the dim light as he climbs over you, parting your legs with his knee, rumbling low in his chest as he peppers kisses and bites down the column of your neck.
#pedro pascal#fanfic#joel miller#joel miller x f!reader#joel miller x you#joel miller the last of us#joel miller fic#joel miller x reader#joel miller smut#joel fanfiction#the last of us#the last of us hbo#angst with a happy ending#smut
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PAIRING: josh washington x fem!reader WARNINGS: suggestive, no use of y/n GENRE: best friends to lovers SONG INSPIRATION: DIE FOR ME by chase atlantic WORD COUNT: 1.4k REQUESTED: yes NOTE: got a little carried away . . .
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the cabin was quiet. the flickering flames in the fireplace cast small shadows across the room as the last embers of the night begin to fade into darkness. you were stretched out on your bed, the warmth of the fire still lingering in the air, even as the chill from the mountain outside crept through the windows.
everyone else had long gone to their rooms. the day had been packed with hiking, teasing jokes, and way too much food, now the others were all passed out, getting some much needed rest for whatever was going to come tomorrow. you should have been tired too, but here you were laid in your bed wide awake, staring at the wall beside you.
the soft creak of your door opening broke the stillness. you didnât need to turn around to know who it was.
âhey,â joshâs familiar voice whispered from behind you. he was always the last one up too, unable to sleep when it got too quiet.
âhey,â you answered, glancing over your shoulder to see him standing in the doorway, his hair disheveled, looking sleepy and tousled. he had that half grin on his face that made you feel warm inside.Â
âcanât sleep again?â you teased, already knowing the answer.
josh shrugged, padding barefoot across the hardwood floor, making his way to you. ânah, i tried. itâs freezing in my room, and, yâknow, itâs weird without you there.â
this had been a thing between the two of you for as long as you could remember. whenever you were on trips with the group, josh would find his way to your room after everyone else had gone to bed.
it started as something simple as after late night movie marathons or study sessions that turned into sleepovers, but over the years. it just became your thing. sleeping alone felt strange now, especially for josh. he always needed you close.
âcome on then,â you mumbled, lifting the corner of the blanket without a second thought. there was no need for words. he was already climbing under the covers with you, fitting his body against yours.
he slipped his arms around you, pulling you back against his chest, the warmth of his body immediately chasing away the chill from the mountain air. his breath was soft against your neck, and you felt him relax instantly, his head resting on the pillow just behind yours.
this was normal. it had always been normal. the two of you had shared beds, couches, even floors when crashing at friendsâ places after parties. josh had always been touchy, needing to feel you, as if that contact helped him settle. you never questioned it. after all, you felt the same.
his presence was grounding, the one constant you needed in your life.
his hand found its way to your waist, his fingers casually slipping under the hem of your shirt, resting against your bare skin like it was the most natural thing. it sent a shiver up your spine, but not because you were cold.
you were used to this, he always did it. he always wanted that skin to skin contact, as if the barrier of clothing was too much separation between you. and you let him, because it didnât feel strange. it just felt like josh.
âyouâre warm,â he murmured sleepily, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your lower back. he said it every time, but the way his voice softened whenever he said it always made your heart flutter.
you hummed in response, pressing back into him just slightly, the lines of your bodies fitting perfectly together under the thick blanket. his fingers continued their slow, lazy path across your skin, drawing shapes you couldnât quite decipher but made you relax into him even more.
the room was quiet except for the faint crackle of the dying fire and the soft sounds of joshâs breathing behind you. this was your rhythm. an intimacy that had never been questioned.Â
josh had always been more than just your best friend, but youâd never dared to label it as anything else. the touches, the closeness, it was just how the two of you operated. you were comfortable, safe with each other.Â
but tonight, something felt⊠different.Â
maybe it was the calm of the cabin, or the way the mountainâs isolation made everything feel sharper, more intense. or maybe it was just the fact that your heartbeat picked up whenever his fingers slipped a little higher, his hand resting now against your ribs, dangerously close to the swell of your chest.
you wondered if he noticed the way your breathing hitched when he moved, the way your body tensed ever so slightly.
âjoshâŠâ you whispered, your voice barely audible in the quiet of the room.
âhmm?â his response was a soft hum, his lips brushing the back of your neck now, almost absentmindedly.
for a second, you considered pulling away, setting up those boundaries that were supposed to exist between best friends. but the truth was, you didnât want to. you never had.
the truth of it settled deep in your chest, an acknowledgment of something youâd both danced around for years.
instead, you turned your head just enough to see him from the corner of your eye. his face was so close, eyes half lidded in the dim light, his lips parted slightly in that relaxed way that made him look vulnerable.
your heart did that little stutter it always did when he was this close, and suddenly, the unspoken feelings that had always been lurking just beneath the surface felt impossible to ignore.
âjosh,â you said again, this time turning fully in his arms to face him.
he blinked, eyes clearer now as he studied your face. his hand didnât move from where it was resting on your skin, but his expression shifted, like he could feel the shift in the air too. âyeah?â
the weight of the moment hung between you, the closeness suddenly more intense than it had ever been. you opened your mouth to say something. anything, but the words died on your lips as joshâs gaze flickered down to your mouth, then back to your eyes.
you werenât imagining it. the way his hand moved a little more deliberately now, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, skimming just beneath your shirt. the way his body pressed a little closer to yours, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with your own.
this was no longer just about comfort. something had changed.
âiââ you started to speak, but before you could say anything more, joshâs hand slid a little higher, his thumb brushing the underside of your breast so lightly you almost thought you imagined it. but you didnât. the look in his eyes, now more awake and intense, confirmed that.
his breath hitched, the same way yours had, and for a moment, the only sound in the room was the shared rhythm of your breathing, matching and uneven at the same time.
âwe⊠weâve always been like this,â he murmured, his voice rougher now, as if he was trying to remind himself of what this had always been. âright?â
you nodded, not trusting your voice to stay steady. âyeah. always.â
but it wasnât always like this. not with the way his lips hovered just inches from yours now, the way his hand slipped further under your shirt like he was testing a boundary you werenât sure existed anymore.
âmaybeâŠâ he whispered, his forehead now resting against yours, his voice so soft it was barely more than a breath, âmaybe weâve been fooling ourselves.â
his words hung between you, heavy and raw. and just like that, the unspoken tension between you, years of shared beds, lingering touches, and blurred boundaries, came crashing to the surface.
you didnât pull away. you couldnât. because deep down, youâd known it too. this was never just about needing to be close. it had always been more. you just hadnât wanted to admit it.
âjosh,â you breathed, your heart pounding in your chest as his hand slid up to your shoulder, his fingers gently tilting your chin so you were looking directly at him.
and then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, his lips brushed against yours. soft, tentative at first, a question hanging in the space between. when you didnât pull away, he kissed you again, deeper this time, the heat between you building until the air felt thick with everything youâd kept hidden for so long.
you didnât know where this was going to lead, but in that moment, with joshâs hands on your skin and his lips on yours, you knew one thing for sure.
there was no going back to the way things were.

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Hi! Could I request something? I just saw you accept new request again! I was thinking of yearning. Them yearning for oblivious tav.
I just love a good old yearning prompt
yesssssss the yearning the pining the dramaaa
âââ  ïœĄïŸâ: *.✠.* :âïŸ. âââ
Karlach:
Karlach was trying her best to keep it together. As she sat by the campfire, her eyes kept drifting toward you, her massive frame leaning slightly forward as if she could somehow close the gap between you just by willing it. You were tending to a few weapons youâd scavenged earlier in the day, completely oblivious to the way her molten eyes lingered on you, the way her hands fidgeted with a piece of stray leather to distract herself from the ache in her chest.
Wyll, sitting nearby with a mischievous grin, had noticed. Of course, he had noticed. The Blade of Frontiers had a knack for picking up on unspoken emotions, and Karlach was as subtle as a roaring forge.
âYou know,â Wyll began, his voice low and teasing as he leaned toward Karlach, âif you keep staring at them like that, youâre liable to set the poor one on fire.â
Karlach froze, her cheeks flushing as embers flickered to life along her horns.
âWhat?â she whispered sharply, her voice cracking. âI wasnât staring! I was justââ
âYearning?â Wyll supplied with a grin, leaning back casually.
âI donât yearn,â Karlach snapped, though her voice lacked conviction.
âOh, come now,â Wyll said, his tone smug. âThe sighing, the pining, the tragic glances when heâs not lookingâitâs downright poetic.â He tapped his chin theatrically. âItâs almost enough to compose a ballad.â
Karlach shot him a glare, her flames flaring slightly around her shoulders. âWyll, I swear, if you donât shut itââ
But it was too late. Her embarrassment sent her infernal engine into overdrive, and the flames on her body surged. The sudden flare caught your attention, and you glanced up from your work.
âKarlach?â you called out, your voice filled with concern as you stood and crossed the campfire toward her. âAre you okay?â
The sheer earnestness in your tone made her heart lurch painfully in her chest. She quickly tried to wave you off, her hands fanning at her shoulders as if she could dampen the flames.
âItâs nothing! Justâhot, you know?â she stammered.
âWell, yeah, youâre always hot,â you said, grabbing a nearby waterskin. âBut this seems worse than usual.â
Karlach froze, her eyes going wide at your words. Did youâdid you just call her hot? Surely, you didnât mean it like that, right?
âHere, let me help,â you said, uncapping the waterskin.
âNo, no, really, Iâm fineââ
Too late. You doused her with a splash of water, and instead of calming her flames, it only made things worse. The steam hissed around her, mingling with her rising panic, and her flames flared even brighter.
âGods, Iâm sorry!â you exclaimed, looking horrified. ïżœïżœïżœDid that make it worse?â
Karlach buried her face in her hands, groaning loudly. âNo, no, itâs fine, justâdonât worry about it.â
Wyll, watching the scene unfold, laughed openly now. âYouâre really outdoing yourself, Karlach. I think the entire camp will see those flames soon.â
You shot Wyll a confused look. âWhatâs he talking about?â
Karlach peeked through her fingers, her flames dimming slightly as her mortification reached its peak.
âNothing! Heâs just⊠being a prat,â she said quickly, glaring at Wyll, who only grinned wider.
âIâd call it encouragement,â Wyll said lightly. âAfter all, someone here needs to take a hint.â
You blinked at him, clearly puzzled, but before you could ask what he meant, Karlach stood abruptly, the ground under her feet crunching as her weight shifted.
âIâm gonna, uh, go check onâanything else,â she muttered, stomping off toward the edge of camp.
You watched her go, bewildered, before turning back to Wyll. âDid I do something wrong?â
Wyll chuckled, shaking his head. âNot wrong, no. Just oblivious. Donât worryâyouâll figure it out eventually. Maybe.â
You frowned, glancing back toward where Karlach had disappeared into the shadows, her flames still faintly flickering in the distance. You didnât know what youâd missed, but something about the way sheâd looked at you before she left lingered in your mind, warm and unexplained.
âââ  ïœĄïŸâ: *.✠.* :âïŸ. âââ
Minthara:
The campfire crackled gently, casting a warm glow across the assembled group. You sat on a log, sharpening your blade, blissfully unaware of the undercurrents running through the evening.
Minthara, sitting a few paces away, had her sharp red eyes trained on you, a faint furrow in her brow. Her usual composed demeanor was slightly off tonightâher movements a touch too deliberate, her glances toward you lingering just a second too long.
Shadowheart, one of the resident camp gossips, noticed. She always did.
âWhy donât you just say something, Minthara?â Shadowheart drawled lazily, her lips curling into a smirk as she toyed with a loose strand of her hair. âItâs not as though subtlety is your strong suit. Or theirs, for that matter.â
Mintharaâs sharp gaze snapped toward her, irritation flashing across her face.
âI do not need your advice, cleric,â she said coolly.
âOh, I think you do,â Shadowheart said, undeterred. âBecause whatever it is youâve been doing clearly isnât working. They havenât even noticed.â She tilted her head toward you, who were now carefully oiling your weapon, oblivious to the tension building around you.
Mintharaâs grip on her dagger tightened, her knuckles turning white. âThey have other matters to attend to. The fault lies not with my approach but their⊠distraction.â
Shadowheart chuckled. âDistraction? Theyâre so dense they probably think the moonrise is flirting with them. Youâll have to carve it into the side of their tent before they catch on.â
That was the last straw. Minthara stood abruptly, her dark cloak billowing behind her as she marched across the campsite toward you.
âMinthara?â you said, startled as her shadow fell over you.
Before you could say another word, she grabbed you by the front of your tunic and pulled you to your feet with a surprising amount of force. Her crimson eyes burned with frustration and something else you couldnât quite place.
âYou,â she snapped, her voice ringing out across the camp, âare impossibly blind.â
âW-what?â you stammered, your mind racing to figure out what youâd done wrong this time.
âI have fought by your side,â she began, her voice rising. âI have trusted you, protected you, respected you. I have given you every sign imaginable, and yet you remain oblivious to the fact that Iââ She stopped abruptly, taking a deep breath, as if even saying the words aloud were a battle she needed to win. âThat I desire you, you fool!â
The camp went silent. Even the fire seemed to crackle a little softer as everyone turned to stare.
You blinked, utterly dumbfounded. âYou⊠you desire me?â
Minthara groaned, her head tipping back in exasperation before she fixed you with an incredulous look. âYes! Must I spell it out further? Or perhaps I should inscribe it on your blade since that seems to be where your attention is always focused!â
Shadowheart, who had been watching the entire exchange with barely suppressed laughter, finally burst out into an uncontrollable giggle.
âOh, gods, this is better than I couldâve hoped,â she said, wiping a tear from her eye.
Minthara turned her glare on her, her lips curling in irritation. âIf you say one more word, Shadowheart, I willââ
âOkay, okay,â you interrupted, holding up your hands. âEveryone calm down.â You turned back to Minthara, your voice softening. âIâm sorry if I missed the signs, Minthara. I honestly didnât realize.â
Her anger seemed to waver, replaced by a flicker of vulnerability.
âHow could you not?â she asked, almost to herself. You hesitated, then placed a tentative hand on hers, still gripping your tunic.
âBecause Iâm an idiot,â you admitted, a small smile tugging at your lips. âBut Iâm an idiot whoâs honored and⊠maybe a little thrilled by what you just said.â
For the first time that evening, Minthara seemed at a loss for words. Her lips parted slightly, her sharp demeanor softening as she searched your face.
âThrilled, you say?â she murmured, the barest hint of a smirk returning.
âThrilled,â you confirmed, your cheeks warming under her intense gaze.
The tension in the air shifted, no longer charged with frustration but with something warmer, something promising. Minthara released your tunic, smoothing it out almost absently. âThen perhaps next time, you wonât require such⊠dramatic measures to understand me.â
Shadowheart made a kissy noise behind you, and you shot her a glare over your shoulder. Minthara, however, ignored her entirely, her focus solely on you.
âNow,â she said, her voice back to its usual measured tone. âShall we continue this conversation somewhere with fewer interruptions?â
You nodded, feeling a grin spread across your face. âLead the way.â
As you walked off together, Shadowheartâs laughter echoed behind you, but you couldnât bring yourself to care. For once, the fog of obliviousness had lifted, and you were exactly where you wanted to beâat Mintharaâs side.
âââ  ïœĄïŸâ: *.✠.* :âïŸ. âââ
Lae'zel:
Laeâzel had always been a force of natureâher sharp tongue, battle-hardened demeanor, and unyielding confidence left no room for doubt. And thatâs exactly how she preferred it. To anyone observing her, she was the epitome of githyanki discipline and control. But deep down, behind the steel exterior and fiery eyes, she was at war with herself.
She had a massive, undeniable crush on you.
It was maddening. Every time you smiled at her or even so much as glanced her way, her heart would raceâa sensation she would have sworn was impossible for her kind. She had tried everything to make her interest known: sparring sessions where she pushed you to your limits (and a bit beyond), blunt declarations of your 'adequacy' in her eyes, and even offers to 'crush your enemies together in glorious combat'. But somehow, none of it seemed to land.
Instead, you remained oblivious, flashing her that infuriatingly kind smile and treating her like a valued ally rather than someone she desperately wanted to claim as her partner.
One day, during a training session, Laeâzelâs frustration reached its peak. She had you pinned beneath her, her blade at your throat, and instead of fear or admiration, you chuckled.
âNice move,â you said, your grin wide. âIâll have to remember that one.â
She grit her teeth and growled, pressing the blade a little closerânot enough to hurt, but enough to make her point.
âYou do not take me seriously!â she snapped.
You raised an eyebrow. âWhat are you talking about? Youâre one of the most serious people I know.â
âNot in battle, fool!â she snarled, pulling back and stalking away, her blade sheathed with a sharp clang, as you walked bewilderdly back to your tent.
From a short distance, Halsin, who had been watching the training with an amused glint in his eye, stepped forward to intercept Laeâzel. She stopped abruptly, glaring at the druid as if daring him to speak.
âLaeâzel,â Halsin said in his calm, measured tone, âmay I offer you some advice?â
Her eyes narrowed. âYou may offer. I will decide whether it is worth hearing.â
He chuckled, unfazed. âIâve noticed your⊠interest in our leader.â
Her nostrils flared, and she crossed her arms. âAnd what of it?â
âYou are a warrior, and I admire your strength,â Halsin began, âbut perhaps your methods of courtship are⊠misplaced.â
âWhat nonsense is this?â she scoffed. âI have made my intentions clear. I have praised their competence. I have challenged them in combat. What more is required?â
Halsin smiled gently. âPerhaps a softer touch. Words that reveal your feelings without the shield of aggression. A gesture that shows your care rather than your strength.â
Laeâzel looked utterly baffled, as if he had just suggested she surrender to a mind flayer.
âSoftness is weakness,â she spat.
âNot always,â Halsin countered. âSometimes, it takes more strength to be vulnerable than to wield a sword.â
She opened her mouth to retort but found herself at a loss. Instead, she grumbled something unintelligible and stalked off, leaving Halsin shaking his head with a knowing smile.
The next morning, Laeâzel approached you at camp. There was an uncharacteristic stiffness to her posture, as if she were preparing for battle, yet her hands were empty.
âLeader,â she began, her voice clipped but quieter than usual.
You looked up from your map, offering her that same smile that never failed to undo her. âWhatâs up, Laeâzel?â
She hesitated, the words catching in her throat. For a moment, she considered abandoning this foolishness and returning to her usual methods. But Halsinâs advice echoed in her mind, and she forced herself to continue.
âI⊠value your presence,â she said, the words sounding foreign and awkward.
Your brows furrowed in confusion. âUh, thanks? I value yours too.â
âNo, you do not understand,â she snapped, then took a deep breath to steady herself. âI⊠value you. Your strength. Your wit. Your⊠idiotic charm.â
Your confusion deepened. âLaeâzel, are you feeling okay?â
She growled in frustration, her hand twitching toward her sword out of habit before she forced it to her side. âDo I need to spell it out for you, fool?â
âApparently,â you said, still clueless but clearly trying to follow.
She stepped closer, her amber eyes burning into yours. âI desire you, leader. As my equal. My partner. My⊠lover.â
The words hung in the air, and for the first time, you saw Laeâzel in a new lightânot just as a fierce warrior, but as someone deeply passionate and utterly vulnerable in this moment.
âOh,â you said, the realization dawning on you. âOh.â
Her jaw tightened, and she crossed her arms defensively. âIf you find this amusing, I willââ
âI donât,â you interrupted, a small smile playing at your lips. âI just didnât thinkâwell, I didnât know.â
âBecause you are blind,â she muttered, though there was no real venom in her tone.
You stepped closer, reaching out tentatively. âLaeâzel, Iâm flattered. Truly. And⊠Iâd like to see where this goes.â
Her eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, she looked as though she didnât quite believe you. Then, with a sharp nod, she straightened her back and let a rare, genuine smile grace her lips.
âGood,â she said simply. âNow, let us prepare for the day. We have enemies to slay, and I will not let them distract you from what is ours.â
You couldnât help but laugh, warmth blooming in your chest. Laeâzel might not have mastered the art of softness, but in her own way, she was perfect.
âââ  ïœĄïŸâ: *.✠.* :âïŸ. âââ
Shadowheart:
Shadowheart had always been composed, her expression a careful mask of neutrality, but recently, every time she caught sight of you, her calm façade wavered. Her chest tightened, her thoughts scattered, and her usually sharp words became softer, laced with an uncharacteristic warmth. She knew the truth of it: she had fallen for you. Hard.
And yet, despite her every effort to show you her feelings, you remained utterly oblivious.
At breakfast that morning, Shadowheart decided to take another approach. She brushed past you as you prepared the fire, the faint scent of lavender trailing in her wake.
âGood morning,â she said, her voice soft but laced with what she thought was a hint of allure.
You looked up, smiling warmly. âMorning, Shadowheart. Did you sleep well?â
She nodded, sitting beside you with deliberate closeness. âAs well as I could, knowing what awaits us each day. And you?â
âFine, thanks. Just trying to get this fire going,â you replied, your focus returning to the task at hand.
She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a murmur. âYouâre very skilled with your hands. Itâs⊠admirable.â
You blinked at her, utterly missing the meaning behind her words. âThanks! I guess all those years of camping have paid off.â
Her shoulders slumped ever so slightly, but she refused to give up. Throughout the morning, she found small ways to stay near you, brushing her fingers against yours when you handed her something, complimenting you with what she thought was a sultry tone, and even laughing at your jokesâsome of which, she had to admit, were terrible.
Still, you seemed completely unaware.
By midday, Shadowheart was frustrated beyond measure. She found Karlach near the edge of camp, inspecting her weapons, and stormed over.
âKarlach,â she said, her tone clipped but tinged with exasperation.
Karlach looked up, her fiery heart pulsing warmly. âWhatâs up, Shads?â
"Please don't call me that," Shadowheart crossed her arms, her frustration bubbling over. âI donât know what to do. Iâve been dropping hintsâno, practically throwing myself at them, and they just⊠donât notice!â
Karlach blinked, then grinned, clearly enjoying the situation more than she should. âWait, youâre talking aboutâ?â
âYes,â Shadowheart snapped, her cheeks tinged with pink.
Karlach let out a hearty laugh, her flames flickering slightly brighter. âOh, this is rich. You? Pining? I never thought Iâd see the day.â
Shadowheart glared at her. âThis is not amusing. I need advice, not mockery.â
Karlach wiped a tear from her eye, still chuckling. âAlright, alright. Let me think. So, youâve been⊠what, flirting?â
âIâve tried everything,â Shadowheart admitted, throwing her hands in the air. âCompliments, proximity, even subtle touches. And nothing! They treat me the same as everyone else.â
Karlach hummed, tapping a clawed finger against her chin. âMaybe theyâre just really dense. Or, yâknow, not used to someone as⊠uh, mysterious as you.â
Shadowheart raised an eyebrow. âAnd what do you suggest I do? Write it out in blood on their tent?â
Karlach snorted. âHey, that might actually work. But no, maybe you need to be more direct. Like, âHey, I think youâre cute, letâs share a bedroll tonight.ââ
Shadowheart stared at her, aghast. âI am not saying that.â
âYour loss,â Karlach said with a shrug. âBut seriously, just talk to them. Be honest. I bet theyâd love it.â
Shadowheart sighed, running a hand through her hair. âHonesty. Of course. The one thing Iâve been avoiding.â
âHey, they like you for you,â Karlach said, clapping her on the shoulder. âWell, they would if they had half a brain and knew what was good for them. Go get âem, tiger.â
Later that evening, as you sat by the campfire, Shadowheart approached you with purposeful strides. She was determined to take Karlachâs advice, even if it made her heart pound and her palms sweat.
âCan I join you?â she asked, her voice steady despite the storm inside her.
âOf course,â you said, shifting to make room for her.
She hesitated for a moment, then sat beside you, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. âThereâs something I need to tell you.â
You turned to her, your expression curious but kind. âWhat is it?â
Shadowheart opened her mouth to speak, but the words caught in her throat. Instead, she let out a shaky breath and looked into the fire.
âI⊠I care about you,â she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.
You smiled, completely misunderstanding. âI care about you too, Shadowheart. Youâre a great friend.â
She groaned inwardly, pinching the bridge of her nose. âNo, I mean I care about you in a⊠different way.â
Realization dawned on your face, your eyes widening. âOh.â
âOh?â she echoed, feeling both vulnerable and absurdly exposed.
âI didnâtâShadowheart, I had no idea,â you said, your voice filled with genuine surprise and warmth.
âI noticed,â she muttered, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips despite herself.
You reached out, gently placing a hand on hers. âIâm sorry if Iâve been clueless. I guess I just⊠never thought someone like you would feel that way about someone like me.â
She looked at you, her expression softening. âAnd why wouldnât I? Youâre⊠remarkable.â
The sincerity in her voice made your heart skip a beat, and you couldnât help but smile. âWell, I guess that makes two of us, then.â
Her eyes widened slightly. âYou⊠feel the same?â
âYeah,â you said, your cheeks flushing. âI guess I was just waiting for a sign.â
Shadowheart laughed softly, the sound lighter than youâd ever heard from her. âApparently, I need to be less subtle.â
As the fire crackled between you, the tension that had been simmering for so long finally gave way to something warmer, something real. And for the first time in weeks, Shadowheart felt at peace.
âââ  ïœĄïŸâ: *.✠.* :âïŸ. âââ
Jaheira:
Jaheira was not a woman who pined. Or so she told herself. A High Harper, disciplined and pragmatic, she had weathered countless battles and heartbreaks. Yet, here she was, sneaking glances at you across camp, her chest tightening whenever you smiled or laughed. It was maddening. How had you managed to worm your way so deeply into her thoughts?
Despite her years of wisdom, Jaheira found herself at a loss. She didnât know how to bridge the gap between the two of you, not without risking her pride or the delicate balance of your group.
The worst part was your complete and utter obliviousness. Sheâd tried subtletyâlingering conversations, offering you extra help with tactics, even sharing stories of her youth that she told no one else. You simply smiled warmly, thanked her, and went about your day as though her heart hadnât been laid bare in every word.
One evening, after another frustrating day of yearning and getting nowhere, Astarion finally had enough.
âJaheira, darling, may I have a word?â Astarion said, sidling up to her as she sharpened her blade near the fire.
âWhat do you want, Astarion?â she asked, her tone brusque.
He smirked, clearly unbothered by her irritation. âOh, nothing much. Just to offer my⊠expert services in matters of the heart.â
Jaheira blinked, her sharpening stone pausing mid-stroke. âWhat are you talking about?â
Astarion gestured dramatically toward you, where you sat chatting animatedly with Karlach. âIâm talking about your obvious pining for our dear leader. Itâs positively tragic to watch.â
Jaheiraâs cheeks flushed, and she quickly turned back to her blade. âI donât know what you mean.â
âOh, please,â Astarion said, rolling his eyes. âYou practically glow whenever theyâre around. Itâs adorable, really. But I must say, your approach could use some⊠finesse.â
Jaheira scowled at him. âI am not some lovesick fool, and I certainly donât need advice from a vampire with more charm than sense.â
âPerhaps not,â Astarion said, unfazed. âBut consider this: have your current tactics worked? Have they so much as noticed your affection?â
Jaheiraâs silence was answer enough.
âI thought so,â Astarion said smugly. âNow, listen closely. You need to be bold. Direct. Use your natural charisma and authority to your advantage. And if all else fails, a little flirtation never hurt anyone.â
Jaheira narrowed her eyes. âI am not a charlatan like you, Astarion. I wonât lower myself to cheap tricks.â
âWho said anything about cheap tricks?â Astarion replied, feigning offense. âThink of it as⊠a strategic maneuver. After all, you wouldnât hesitate to outwit an enemy in battle, would you?â
Jaheira sighed, considering his words. As much as she hated to admit it, he wasnât entirely wrong. âFine. Iâll listen. But if this backfires, Iâll hold you personally responsible.â
âSplendid,â Astarion said, clapping his hands together. âNow, letâs start with a little more confidence in your approachâŠâ
The next morning, you noticed something strange about Jaheira. She was⊠different.
She approached you with a faint smile that seemed just a touch too practiced, her movements deliberate and graceful in a way that reminded you of someone else.
âGood morning,â she said, her voice smooth and measured. âDid you sleep well?â
You blinked, caught off guard. âUh, yeah. I did. And you?â
âPerfectly,â she replied, her eyes lingering on you in a way that felt⊠odd. âThough I couldnât help but think of our conversation from yesterday. You truly have a fascinating mind.â
You tilted your head, trying to piece together what was happening. Something about her tone, her body languageâit was familiar. And then it hit you.
âWait a minute,â you said, narrowing your eyes. âWhy are you acting like Astarion?â
Jaheira froze, her carefully crafted façade slipping for just a moment. âI⊠what?â
âYouâre doing the thing he does,â you said, mimicking a dramatic hand gesture. âThe suave, overly charming thing. Itâs not like you.â
Jaheiraâs cheeks flushed, and she quickly turned away, muttering something under her breath.
From across camp, Astarion burst into laughter, doubling over as he clutched his stomach. âOh, this is too good!â
Jaheira shot him a withering glare before turning back to you, her expression softening. âPerhaps Iâve been⊠trying too hard. Forgive me if I seemed unlike myself.â
You smiled, your warmth cutting through her frustration. âYou donât need to try so hard, Jaheira. I like you just as you are.â
Her breath caught, and for a moment, she didnât know what to say. Then, with a small, genuine smile, she nodded. âThank you. That means⊠more than you know.â
As she walked away, Astarion approached, still grinning. âWell, that could have gone better, but at least they noticed you.â
Jaheira shook her head, a wry smile tugging at her lips. âNever again, Astarion. Never again.â
âââ  ïœĄïŸâ: *.✠.* :âïŸ. âââ
Gale:
The late afternoon sun hung low, painting the riverside in warm golds and soft shadows. Gale, waist-deep in the cool water, had his arms crossed in front of him as if the sheer act of holding himself together could quell the maelstrom of feelings raging inside. His crush on you was a storm that refused to abate, leaving him with sleepless nights and days filled with longing glances.
From the riverbank, Minthara watched him with a look of abject irritation. Minthara had ordered him to take a dip in the cold water after he had decided to unleash his love-filled ranting unto her ears as they collected water. She assured him she would be fine to take the water back by herself, and when he thought she had left he keenly stripped and waded into the water. But Minthara had not left, no, Gale's lovesick demeanor had created a vendetta against her and she decided to take action.
"Pathetic," she muttered under her breath. She didnât think it was possible for wizards to get worse, but Gale was proving her wrong. With a smirk, she moved silently to where Gale had left his clothes folded neatly on a nearby rock. With the swift efficiency of a seasoned tactician, she gathered them up and strode back toward camp.
You were enjoying a moment of quiet when Minthara approached, holding a bundle of robes in her arms.
"The wizard is by the river," she said bluntly. "It seems heâs in need of assistance."
You frowned, glancing at the clothing. "Assistance? With what?"
Mintharaâs lips quirked into a thin smile. "He appears⊠indisposed. Perhaps you should go and see for yourself."
Before you could ask more, she tossed the robes into the fire and strode away, leaving you thoroughly puzzled but intrigued. You could have sworn those were Gale's. With haste, you made your way towards the river and when you arrived at the riverbank, you called out, "Gale? Everything alright?"
Gale startled, his head whipping around to face you, his hair slicked back and glistening in the sunlight. Clearly he had been searching for his robes. "Ah, no! I mean, yesâyes, everythingâs fine!"
You raised a brow, stepping closer to the waterâs edge. "Are you sure? Minthara said you needed help."
At the mention of her name, Gale groaned. "Of course, she did. And I suppose she also absconded with my robes?" He shot a wary glance toward the shore, clearly trying to maintain some distance.
"Unfortunately so. Whatâs going on?" you asked, scanning the area. Then you noticed the way his face burned red, his expression a mix of embarrassment and frustration. "Why are you still in the water? Itâs getting late. and the river's current is about to pick up, you need to get out, now."
He hesitated, his fingers flexing nervously beneath the waterâs surface. "Itâs⊠complicated."
"Complicated how?" You looked around, spotting no immediate danger apart from the increasing current. "Do you need a hand getting out? I can lend you my cloak."
"You donât understand!" Gale blurted, his voice cracking slightly. "This isnât about the coldâor the current. ItâsâŠ" He trailed off, visibly warring with himself.
You tilted your head, curious and slightly amused. "Then what is it about? Youâre not exactly making it easy to help you."
Gale sighed deeply, sinking a little lower into the water until only his nose and eyes peeked out. Then, in a low, hurried tone, he confessed, "Iâm afraid my feelings for you have⊠manifested in a rather inconvenient manner."
Your brow furrowed. "Feelings for me?"
"Yes!" Gale said, his voice growing more desperate. "Feelings. Strong feelingsâromantic, longing, entirely improper feelings for someone as⊠exceptional as you."
You blinked, the weight of his words settling over you like the warmth of the setting sun. "Youâwait. You like me?"
"Yes," he muttered, his face practically steaming despite the cool water. "Which is precisely why I canât leave this river at the moment."
The realization dawned slowly, but when it clicked, a grin spread across your face. "Oh," you said, fighting back laughter. "Oh."
"Yes," Gale grumbled, his mortification complete. "You see now why this is problematic."
You couldnât stop the chuckle that escaped. "So, let me get this straight. Youâre saying your feelings are⊠visible at the moment?"
Gale pinched the bridge of his nose. "If you insist on phrasing it that way, then yes."
You laughed harder, the sound bright and unrestrained. "Gale, thatâs not the end of the world."
"Easy for you to say," he muttered. "Youâre not the one at risk of a compromising exit."
Still laughing, you crouched by the waterâs edge, your cloak in hand. "Come on. I promise Iâll look the other way. Just wrap this around your waist - tightly, and letâs get you back to camp."
Gale hesitated, clearly torn between his pride and the practicality of your offer. The river was rising, and the current becoming less forgiving. He didn't know what would be worse, coming out in this state or having to have you rescue him whilst he was in this condition. Finally, he sighed. "Youâre infuriatingly kind, you know that?"
"Only to people I like," you teased, winking at him.
That earned you a small, genuine smile, despite his predicament. Slowly, cautiously, he edged closer to the shore, his blush never fading. You diligently kept your eyes closed, but there was that little devil inside you willing you to take a peak. He wrapped the cloak around his waist, only for you to hear a small, defeated sigh.
"You cannot laugh at me, but please may I request that I carry your shoes back to camp?" He asked, and you couldn't help but laugh.
"Wow you must really like me-"
"-The shoes please!"
Still giggling to yourself, you took off your shoes and passed them to him, allowing him to use them as a shield to his nether region.
You were finally able to look at him, his cheeks flushed beet red as he murmured, "I am going to kill Minthara, or at least try to."
"You know, Gale, I think Minthara might have done us both a favor."
Gale groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Never speak of this again. And especially do not encourage her behaviour."
"No promises," you said with a grin, walking beside him as you both headed back to camp. "Perhaps, I might want to get caught short with you."
âââ  ïœĄïŸâ: *.✠.* :âïŸ. âââ
Astarion:
Astarion was not accustomed to being ignored, least of all by someone who had managed to captivate him so thoroughly. Yet here you were, brushing off his every flirtation, every lingering glance, every word dripping with a charm that could make others fall at his feet.
You were different, infuriatingly so. Every smirk, every sly compliment, every touch of his hand to your arm was met with a polite laugh, a nod, orâworseâa casual thanks before you moved on as though he hadnât just thrown his best seductive lines at you.
For someone like Astarion, whose every move had been meticulously calculated for centuries, this was unbearable. He was practically seething with frustration as he watched you across the camp, laughing at something Karlach had said. He sighed dramatically, slumping onto a nearby log, the perfect picture of a man whose heart was in shambles.
It wasnât that he didnât understand why you might be cautious around him. He wasnât blind to his own past or the scars it had left on his soul. But this? This obliviousness wasnât cautionâit was sheer ignorance of his very obvious yearning.
And so, out of options and desperately needing help, he did something he never thought he would: he sought out Gale.
Gale was sitting by the fire, absently flipping through his spellbook, when Astarion approached him. The vampireâs usual smirk was replaced with something that looked suspiciously like a grimace.
âGale,â Astarion began, his voice unusually subdued.
Gale looked up, raising an eyebrow. âAstarion? To what do I owe this⊠peculiar honor?â
Astarion waved a hand dismissively. âYes, yes, spare me the preamble. I need your help.â
âMy help?â Gale blinked. âWhat kind of apocalyptic disaster requires my assistance? Surely not something involving a certain someone we both know?â
Astarionâs lips pressed into a thin line. âYes. Them.â
Gale set his book down, his interest piqued. âAh, I see. Youâre pining.â
âI am not pining,â Astarion snapped, though the blush creeping up his pale cheeks betrayed him. âI am⊠strategically pursuing. Subtly, I might add.â
Gale snorted. âIf by subtle, you mean utterly transparent, then yes. Youâve been as subtle as a fireball in a wheat field.â
Astarion scowled. âThey donât see it that way. They think Iâm just⊠charming. Which, of course, I am, but thereâs more to it than that.â
âAnd you want my advice?â Gale leaned back, crossing his arms. âMe, the man youâve spent weeks mocking for my âtragic romanticismâ?â
âYes, yes, revel in the irony if you must,â Astarion said impatiently. âBut youâre annoyingly good- most of the time, at all this grand gesture nonsense, and clearly, I need a new approach.â
Gale chuckled, a little too pleased with himself. âAll right. Letâs see. The key here is sincerity. You canât just charm your way through this one. You have to show them how you feel.â
Astarion frowned. âAnd how exactly do I do that?â
âThink of something meaningful to them,â Gale suggested. âAn act that demonstrates you understand them, that you care about them deeply. And,â he added with a smirk, âmaybe tone down the smirking and innuendo for five minutes.â
The next day, Astarion put Galeâs advice into actionâor at least, his version of it. You were sitting by the riverbank, enjoying a rare moment of peace, when Astarion approached you, holding something behind his back.
âAh, there you are,â he said, his tone softer than usual.
You smiled up at him. âWhatâs up, Astarion?â
âI, uh⊠I noticed something the other day.â He cleared his throat, looking uncharacteristically awkward. âYou mentioned how much you missed those silly little biscuits from Baldurâs Gate, the ones with the sugar glaze.â
You blinked, caught off guard. âI did?â
âYes, you did,â he said quickly. âAnd, well⊠here.â He produced a carefully wrapped package and handed it to you. Inside were a handful of the biscuits, slightly crumbled but still intact.
Your eyes widened. âHow did youâŠ?â
âDonât ask questions,â he said, his smirk creeping back despite his best efforts. âJust enjoy them.â
You looked up at him, touched by the gesture but still utterly oblivious to the deeper meaning. âThanks, Astarion. Thatâs really sweet of you.â
He stared at you for a moment, waiting for somethingâanythingâto click. When it didnât, he sighed dramatically and flopped onto the grass beside you.
âAre you truly this dense, my beautiful fool?â he muttered under his breath.
âHm?â
âNothing,â he said, flashing you a too-bright smile. âEnjoy your biscuits, darling.â
From a distance, Gale watched the exchange with a shake of his head, muttering, âSome people are beyond help.â
âââ  ïœĄïŸâ: *.✠.* :âïŸ. âââ
Wyll:
Wyll was not used to being ignored, especially when it came to matters of the heart. He prided himself on his charm, his courtly manners, and his ability to woo with a single smile. Yet, when it came to you, all his gentlemanly gestures seemed to bounce right off you like a deflected blade.
He would offer you his hand to help you over rough terrain, only to receive a simple "Thanks, Wyll!" and a cheerful pat on his shoulder. Heâd bring you breakfast, perfectly arranged, and youâd compliment him on his âteam spirit.â Heâd even tried a few subtler lines, but you always brushed them off as his natural charisma, as if his feelings werenât entirely focused on you.
So, after one particularly frustrating evening where you didnât even notice how his gaze lingered on you by the firelight, Wyll decided he needed help.
And who better to consult than the campâs most direct and fearless member, Laeâzel?
Laeâzel was sharpening her sword when Wyll approached, his usual confident demeanor slightly crumpled under the weight of his unspoken affection. She glanced up, her sharp eyes narrowing.
âWyll,â she said bluntly, âyou look as though youâve swallowed a blade sideways. Spit it out.â
He cleared his throat, glancing around to make sure no one else was in earshot. âItâs about⊠them,â he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
Laeâzelâs expression didnât change. âAh, the object of your obsession.â
Wyll winced. âItâs not an obsession.â
âCall it what you will,â she said, shrugging. âYou pine for them like a fledgling seeking a mate. What of it?â
âI donât know how to⊠tell them,â Wyll confessed, his usual eloquence failing him. âThey seem entirely immune to my advances.â
Laeâzel snorted. âPerhaps because your âadvancesâ are weak. Soft. You dote on them like a mother hen, not a warrior. If you want their attention, you must assert dominance.â
âAssert dominance?â Wyll repeated, looking increasingly alarmed.
âYes,â Laeâzel said firmly. âChallenge them. Best them in combat. Show them your strength. Then, when they are weak and trembling, you proclaim your intent to claim them as yours.â
Wyllâs face turned scarlet. âThatâsâThatâs not how courtship works!â
âOf course it is,â Laeâzel said, waving a dismissive hand. âYou prove your physical and sexual prowess through battle. What better way to ensure compatibility?â
Wyll sputtered, his composure unraveling. âIâI donât think theyâd appreciate being âclaimedâ like a prize after a fight.â
âThey would respect it,â Laeâzel insisted. âAnd likely find it arousing.â
âLaeâzel!â Wyllâs voice cracked, and he buried his face in his hands, his flames of embarrassment rivaling Karlachâs.
From across the camp, you noticed the commotion and Wyllâs obvious distress. Concerned, you got up and made your way over. âWyll? Are you okay?â
Laeâzelâs smirk widened as Wyllâs blush deepened. He scrambled to his feet, fumbling for words. âAhâYes! Fine! Everything is fine!â
You raised an eyebrow, glancing between the two of them. âAre you sure? You look like youâve just lost a sparring match.â
Before Laeâzel could open her mouth to make things infinitely worse, Wyll quickly grabbed your hand and pulled you aside.
âJust a minor⊠disagreement,â he said quickly, his voice cracking again. âNothing to worry about.â
You gave him a curious look, but his obvious flustered state distracted you from pressing further. âOkay, if youâre sure.â
Laeâzel watched you go with Wyll, shaking her head and muttering, âCoward. They would have respected a proper duel.â
Meanwhile, Wyll was doing his best to calm his racing heart and come up with a less mortifying way to tell you how he feltâideally without Laeâzelâs "help."
âââ  ïœĄïŸâ: *.✠.* :âïŸ. âââ
Halsin:
Halsin prided himself on his control, his connection to nature, and his ability to remain grounded in even the most chaotic of circumstances. But when it came to you, all of that composure seemed to dissolve like frost under the morning sun.
You were utterly magnetic to himâyour presence so compelling that his heart would stutter every time you entered the same space. He found himself enchanted by the curve of your smile, the warmth in your voice, the kindness in your touch. And it was unbearable. Literally, because every time you touched his arm or leaned in to speak to him, his instincts would flare wildly out of control.
The first time it happened, youâd brushed some stray leaves off his shoulder after he returned from foraging. âHalsin, youâve brought back half the forest,â you joked, smiling up at him.
Halsin opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, a rush of heat overtook him, andâ bamâhe was suddenly a large, startled elk.
You jumped back with a yelp of surprise, staring wide-eyed at the animal in front of you. âHalsin?â
The elk gave a deep snort, its head hanging low as if mortified.
It happened again not long after, when you touched his hand while passing him a flask of water. This time, he transformed into a wolf, looking up at you with ears pinned back, practically radiating sheepishness.
âHalsin,â you laughed, kneeling down to scratch behind his ears, âyouâve got to warn me if youâre going to do that.â
By the time the third accidental wildshape happenedâthis time as a squirrel after you had simply smiled at himâJaheira had had enough.
The older druid cornered Halsin after dinner, arms crossed and an unimpressed look on her face. âYouâre a leader, Halsin. A figure of strength and wisdom. Yet here you are, hiding in fur and feathers because of a crush.â
âItâs not just a crush,â Halsin muttered, his deep voice unusually uncertain. âItâs⊠consuming. Every time I try to speak to them, I lose myself. They are radiant, Jaheira. I can hardly stand near them withoutââ
ââturning into livestock, yes,â Jaheira interrupted, pinching the bridge of her nose. âYouâre a druid, not a child. Get a grip, Halsin. They wonât notice your feelings unless you make them clear. And for the love of Silvanus, do it without shifting.â
Halsin sighed heavily but nodded. âYouâre right. I must face this head-on.â
Jaheira clapped him on the shoulder. âGood. Now go before you sprout wings or something ridiculous.â
Halsin found you sitting by the campfire, a jar of honey and a piece of bread in your hands. The firelight danced across your features, and Halsin felt his heart thrum painfully in his chest.
âIs everything okay, Halsin?â you asked, looking up at him with a concerned smile.
Halsin cleared his throat, forcing himself to remain steady. âYes, I⊠there is something I need to tell you.â
You tilted your head, some honey glistening on your lips. âOf course. What is it?â
And that was it. The sight of your lips, the gentle curve of your expressionâit was too much. Despite every ounce of willpower he had summoned, Halsinâs body betrayed him. With a flash of light and a muffled groan, he was suddenly a massive brown bear, sitting heavily on the ground.
You blinked, staring at him for a moment before bursting into laughter. âHalsin! You did it again!â
From across the camp, Jaheira let out a long, exasperated groan, throwing her hands up. âI give up!â she muttered, stalking off.
The bear lowered its massive head, letting out a low huff of frustration. You reached over and gently placed a hand on his fur.
âItâs okay, big guy,â you said, grinning. âYouâll figure it out eventually.â
If Halsin could have blushed, he would have. Instead, he let you pet him, resigning himself to the fact that his feelings were much harder to control than heâd ever anticipated.
âââ  ïœĄïŸâ: *.✠.* :âïŸ. âââ
This was so so so so so much fun to write !! Especially Gale's icl hehehe. Hope you guys enjoyed it ! - Seluney xox
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Can I make a request for Ambessa with wife!reader and reader is a few months postpartum and sheâs insecure about her figure. Ambessa decides to comfort her and show her how special she really is.
ââș âźââș Ambessa Medarda x Wife!Reader
Synopsis: {The birth of your child left you with many doubts and your wife proves them all wrong} CW: talks of childbirth, body image issues, themes of postpartum depression, bathing together. AN: I got so carried away with this. oml.
The birthing bed was your battlefield as the wife to a fearsome warlordâ a fate that had surprisingly brought you more happiness than you had originally anticipated, that was until your waters broke and the contractions started. Then you were cursing Ambessaâs name.
You were prepared for this, your handmaidens spent day and night explaining to you the pain and showing you hand-drawn picturesâ your mother had even told you of her own experiences. It was all pointless because you quickly learned that no word or picture could ever even begin to describe the pain of childbirth.
It didnât get much easier from there. The battle continued even after the birth of a healthy baby boy and girlâoh how grateful your wife wasâtwins, a strong boy and girl to carry on her name⊠a miracle. You only wished you could share her joy, but you couldnât. There was an odd disconnect that had managed to wedge itself between you, your children, and Ambessa.
Your skin didnât feel your own, hell, your whole life didnât feel like yoursâ almost as if you had taken the place of some stranger, a different woman that was not you. That woman was more suited to be a mother, a wife. It was a sickening feeling, one that often left you immobilised in bed.
You didnât want to face the mirrors, hold your babies, or have your wife look at you, much less touch youâhence why you slept with a pillow stuffed between you both, not wanting to risk it⊠despite how much you deeply yearned for it, and oh how you really did yearn for her comforting touch.
It was the reason your maid brings you your nightly tea with just enough crushed poppy flowers to knock you outâ you preferred to sleep before your wife got back from her duties, although you told your maids differently.
âLeave it on the table.â The words leave you with a sigh, not looking over to her from your place on the sofaâ a deep red velvet colour, soft to the touch, your wife only accepts perfection.
âLady Medarda, surely a simple ginger tea would be better for you?â The pain shouldnât be lasting this long.â bless her, she sounded so concerned. Of course, your excuse of birthing pains could only last so long, five whole months had passed sinceâ the warmth of summer slowly dwindling away, replaced by a sharp chill that autumn brought.
You shake your head, bringing your fingertips to your temple with a pitiful glint in your eyes, ready to put on a showâ then the bedroom door opens and your handmaiden is bowing to Ambessa, whose eyes are fixed onto you, stepping off to the side politely.
âYouâre back early.â The words fly from your lips faster than you could even process them and far more harshly than intended, however, the quiver in your voice gives you away. Your false bravado was not lost on Ambessa, that mask you wore did not fool her.
âLeave us.â Her words are sharp, stern and has the maid scurrying offâ dress clutched in her hands. You could already hear the gossip she was sure to spread with the other servants.
A sigh escapes you as your eyes flicker over to the flames in the fireplace, watching the embers dance wildly within the hearthâ Ambessaâs heavy, golden spear hanging above, displayed proudly, every nick and indent tells a different story. You let your mind wander in hopes she'll drop it.
âDo I need to send for a doctor?â She doesn't. Your wife was a smart woman, she knew you like the back of her hand and could read all your inner thoughts, until recentlyâ now getting a single word out of you was like trying to get blood out of a stone. Instead, she was left with this distance you had managed to put between yourself and her. Ambessa felt it, she just didnât know how exactly to approach it and it was driving her crazy.
She was a practical woman, fixing her problems with strength, not emotions, this was not her strong suit. But she also did not know defeat.
âNo, I am fine.â The lie didnât sound convincing in the slightest, not even in your own earsâ the words make you wince and from the sound of her scoff she didnât believe you either.
You hated to be the cause of her concern, gods only know how busy the woman already was. Ambessa watches you, studying your movements with slightly narrowed eyes as you tug your shawl over your shouldersâ grasping the soft fabric as if it were some sort of protective shield, a lifeline, that you wished desperately to disappear into.
âThis is not fine, lie to your handmaidens all you want but do not lie to me.â Her tone is much softer than you deserve, you canât help but cower away with a look of shame in your eyesâ it only triples when she kneels down in front of you, her big, battle-worn hands resting over your knees.
The Ambessa Medarda, a feared warrior, kneeling before you like you were some sort of deity worth praying to⊠no it didnât feel right.
The words die on your tongue, getting stuck in the back of your throat tightlyâ a whimper is the only thing you can let out, such a weak sound, strained with this insecurity that had been eating away at you for months.
âI do not know what it isâ just an ache I cannot rid myself of, no matter what I do.â you breathe, dropping your head slightly as your gaze falls to her hands, the way her thumb rubs the inside of your knee. âI bring shame upon this familyâ upon you.â
Ambessa tuts at your words, pinching your chin between her index finger and thumb. âShame?â look at me,â your eyes find her own hesitantly. âYou are my greatest treasure⊠my proudest accomplishment.â
âI canât beâ Iâm not fit for motherhood, to be your wife. I am weak.â
She bristles, âNo flower, you are the furthest thing from weak. Motherhood is no easy feat, but we strengthen each other⊠you have me. Forever.â her eyes never once straying from your own.
You have only ever heard such loving sincerity from her a handful of times, on the day she asked you to marry her and the first time she had taken your maidenheadâ your wedding night, and now. Itâs a stern tone that is draped in earnest, so heavy with love, leaving no space for arguments.
Ambessa wouldnât hear another word of it, of you speaking poorly of yourselfâ she had taken someoneâs tongue after they foolishly insulted you, that wasnât for nothing, that was out of devotion.
So all you can do is apologiseâ âIâm sorry, Iâm so sorryââ but even that she doesnât want to hear, her lips pressing a soothing kiss to the corner of your mouth.
âNo more apologies, no more distance. You have me.â She promises, words whispered against your cheek before she pulls back to admire you with a soft yet firm stare. âUnderstood?â
âYes, I understand.â You whisper, leaning into her hand as soon as her rough palm meets your cheekâ your chest tightens and your eyes prickle with tears, it had been far too long since you felt her tender touch. With a hum of acknowledgement, she leans forward, still kneeling before you, her hand curving across your jaw to cup the back of your headâ her lips meeting your own in a slow kiss, the rough pad of her thumb brushing your tears away.
âShh my heart, Iâm right here.â She soothes, lips brushing along your jaw when you melt further into herâ trembling hands resting upon her broad shoulders which she cages within her own big ones as she pulls back to admire you. âIâll have a bath prepared for us.â
Her words make you tense, something uncomfortable churning within your stomach at the thought. âNo, my body has changedâ itâsââ
ââIt is just as perfect as the night I first had you.â
âNo, itâs different.â
âSweetling, you have brought life into this world. Itâs a beautiful change.â She murmurs against your knuckles with an almost reverent gleam in her eyes, one that almost breaks down the defences that you have built up around your fragile heart, almost.
Ambessa can sense your unease, the hesitationâ the way you canât seem to meet her eyes and it destroys her, how had she failed to protect you from this? She brings your palm to rest over her heart, her eyes searching your own. âTrust me with this, let me worship you.â there's a soft question hidden beneath her tone, behind the firmness of what sounds like a demand.
âJustâ Just a bath,â you whisper, glossy eyes and strained voice and she nods in responseâ cupping your face ever so gently as she repeats âJust a bath.â in agreement.
You trust her enough to guide you to your shared bathroom, enough to let her peel your nightgown off with careful hands, fingertips grazing across your body ever so slightly. The comforting scent of rose and honey wisps around you, carrying memories of nights youâve shared like this and the prospect of being close to her seems a little less daunting as the familiarity warms your heart and the hot water envelops your body.
Ambessa's form engulfs your own as she sits behind you, strong thighs caging either side of you. It was protective, how her hands rub across your shoulders soothingly and the soft whispers of sweet nothings that leave her lips, muffled into the nape of your neck. She wishes to rid you of any self-doubt that had wormed itself into your mind.
Bubbles splay across your chest, your arms wrapped tightly around your knees that youâve tucked beneath your chin in an attempt to make yourself smaller. âFlower?â relax into me,â her voice breaks you out of your thoughts as she slowly guides you back against her chest, wrapping an arm around your abdomen whilst the other moves to cup your cheek.
The candlelight flickers against your face as you tip your head backwards to look up at her, her thumb wiping away a stray tear that had escaped you. âForgive me for not noticing your pain sooner,â She whispers, dropping a kiss to your forehead and then another to the tip of your nose.
The warm water laps at your bodies slightly as you move to curl up further into her, wanting to disappear in her embrace. âJust donât let go,â and with that her arms tighten around your body, leaning to rest her forehead against your own.
âYouâve got nothing to worry about. Your place in my heart is yours, no one can take that from you.â You sigh at your words, letting out a teary giggle as she peppers kisses over your face. For the first time in a while, you felt whole, full, in a way you thought you would never feel again, for the time being at least⊠you savoured every second of it.
Her fingertips trace over the stretch marks left by your pregnancy, letting her lips trail over the dewy skin of your shoulders whispering soft âI love yous,â against you as she washes your hairâ smirking at the way you let your guard down for her, how your eyes flutter close and the way sigh and hum in delight as she massages your scalp.
The water felt cleansing in a way, as it trickles down your head and along your back, washing away the months of aches that weighed on top of you. âHow does that feel?â She asks, lips brushing along your jaw.
âGood, much better.â The relief in your tone brought immeasurable amounts of satisfaction to her that she couldnât help but chuckle, happiness blooming through her chest as she replies with a soft. âThatâs what I like to hear, my sweet.â
Ambessa vows to herself in that very moment to spend the night and every other night paying homage to the curves and dips of your body, to each stretch mark that maps over your skin until you feel nothing but loveâ she would put your pieces back together again no matter how jagged the edges were.
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Chapter 1
series masterlist Summary: In the time between when he took you to now, something changed. His hands grew gentler. Your fear turned quiet. And somewhere in the stillness, love kindled. || angst, trauma, captor!joel, raider!joel, a little bit of dark!joel, kidnapping, dark themes, morally gray comfort, Pre-Boston QZ, slow burn, I know this is different than what I usually write but just hear me out okay, mentions of reader's body being thin / starved, promise she won't hate him forever ||
âCome here.â His voice commands. Though itâsâŠsoft. Not cruel, not mean. Not anymore.
You move without hesitation, the old floorboards warm beneath your skin as you settle in front of him. The fire crackles before youânot roaring, not needed, but kept. For cooking, maybe. For comfort. For the hush it brings. Its glow paints you both in amber and shadow. His old armchair groans when he shifts, knees spread, a hand already reaching.
His fingers are warm and gentle when they gather your hair, no longer forceful or angry. The brush is missing bristles, its wood worn soft with time. He drags it through your hair from scalp to ends in slow, even strokes. It used to make your chest seize. Now, it soothes.
The brush catches slightly on a knot near the base of your skull. Your breath hitches. Slowly, his fingers work to ease it loose, and the fire shiftsâanother log settling into embers, sending a soft crackle through the room.
Your eyes stay locked on the flames as you exhale. They flicker and split, burning low and orange, lapping up dry pine with bursts of ember. You watch one flare brighter than the rest, then fade back down.
Itâs calming, in a way. Destruction that doesnât scream anymore.
You donât scream anymore either.
âNo!âÂ
âStop fightinâ me, you stupid girl.â he said, hauling you inside the cabin. Your fingers scrabbled for the frame of the door, nails catching and tearing on splintered wood. It bit into your skin, but you held on anyway, fingertips screaming in equal protest as your lungs.
âPlease!âÂ
You thrashed in his grip, every breath a sob.âIâll be goodâI swearâI swearâI wonât tell anybody, justâpleaseââ
He slammed the door shut with his boot, and the sound echoed through the empty house like a warning.Â
Then he dropped you.
Your knees hit the cold wood with a sharp crack that made you cry out again, but he didnât flinch. He stepped around you, unhurried, as if he had all the time in the goddamn world. He set down his rifle next to the dusty chair, peeled off his gloves, and sat down. Dust exhaled into the air as he made himself comfortable, knees spreading as he sat forward.
âCome.â
You did no such thing.
âPleaseââ your voice broke as you cowered away, âplease, just take me home. I wonât say anything. No one will come after you.â
His face turned cold, lip curling into a snarl as he reached forward for you, hauling you between his knees.
âNo!â you yelped, bracing your hands on his shins. But to your surprise, he turned you around, your back to him as he held you by the hair.Â
âStay.â he said, voice deep and rough before releasing you.
He rooted through his bag until he pulled out a battered old hairbrush. You saw it coming and tried to move, but he yanked you back by the collar.
âDonât make me hurt you.â
That stopped you.
The first pass of the brush was roughâtugging, catching, dragging through the nest of knots like they were punishments. You whimpered, tears falling down your face, but he didnât pause.Â
He kept brushing.
âYou think they give a ratâs ass where you are, girl?â he grumbled, the brush catching on one especially nasty tangle. He tried to force the knot to loosen, your head snapping with every brush through.
âI saved you from those fuckers,â he growled.The brush yanked again and your breath hitched, a fresh tear tracking down your cheek.
âYou took me,â you whispered, voice shaking.
The man didnât answer right away. Another brutal pass through your hair. Another wince.
âI did what needed doinâ.â he said, low and final. âYou were already dead there. Damn skin and bones. They just hadnât finished the job.â
You didnât understand. Not really. Not then. You were too rawâscared down to your bones. His words were smoke in your ears. Meaningless. All you knew was the pain. The cold floor biting into your knees. The sharp tug of each stroke through your hair.
âYouâre hurting me,â you whispered. Small. Barely there.Â
But he paused.
His hand came to the nape of your neck, and you flinchedâbut he didnât grab. Instead, he cupped your hair in his calloused palm, bracing it so he could brush again without jerking your head back anymore. It was still rough, but no longer violent.
Eventually, the brush stopped. You didnât move besides the trembling in your body, tense in fearful anticipation.
He didnât say a word. Just took your hair again, fingers scraping the back of your neck as he pulled it together. Goosebumps rippled across your skin. You squeezed your eyes shut.
The only sounds in the room were the pull of your hair being gathered and your own quiet sniffles, the rustling of his pack. He dug for something, muttering low under his breath as he pulled out a strip of some sort of material. He fastened your hair and let it drop back down onto your spine. Without thinking, you reached back to feel it.Â
Your hair was pulled neatly into a three-plait braid, tied off at the end with some kind of stringâmaybe leather. Maybe cloth. It didnât matter. It was tight. Secure.
Your fingers lingered over it, uncertain.
âLook at me.â His voice cut through the stillnessâquiet, but sharp. It made your stomach lurch.
You stayed staring at the cold, empty hearth.
âLook at me, girl.â More firm now. A command.
You sniffled again before hesitantly looking over your shoulder.Â
He was scary. Broad and thick and scarred. His worn, weathered face carved by years of hard living. There was a horizontal scar deep across the bridge of his nose. His jaw was clenched, the muscle twitching with restrained fury. There was a permanent crease between his brows, like the world had never given him a reason to relax.
He looked like violence wrapped in denim and flannel.
But GodâHe was beautiful.
Not soft, not safe. But striking in a way that made your throat tighten. His features were sharp and grounded, the kind of face youâd see in an old war photograph, kept in someoneâs wallet long after the man was gone. There was something ancient in the set of his mouth. Something sad, maybe.
And his eyes. Hazel, a thousand colors flecked in them: gold, green, something earthy. For a moment, you wondered what theyâd look like on a summerâs day.Â
Then he pointed to the floor beneath you.
âThis is your home now,â he said, voice cold and sure. âYou run, you try anythingâI will find you. If you donât do as I say, there will be consequences. Do you hear me?â
You swallowed, breath shivering as his words soaked into your skin like ice water.
âWhen I speak, you answer, girl.â
Your lips parted. You couldnât think. Could barely form sound. The fear was still thereâthick, in your lungsâbut underneath it, something else was rising. Something wrong.
âPlease, sir,â you whispered. âWhy are you doing this? Please take me home.â
His face didnât change. But his eyesâthey dimmed a little. Like youâd said something that hurt.Or maybe something he didnât want to admit was true.
For a long moment, he didnât speak. Just looked at you.
And then, quiet and final:
âI saved you.â
The minute he stepped into another room, you ran.
It didnât matter that your feet were bare, already torn open from the icy ground and jagged underbrush of late winter. It didnât matter that every root, every thorn, seemed hellbent on keeping you closeâslashing, snagging, clawing at your legs like the woods themselves belonged to him.
It didnât matter that you had no idea where you were.
When heâd taken you, your panic had been so complete, so loud, that heâd had to knock you out just to haul you over his shoulder. You remembered the swing of his elbow. The flash of sky. Then nothing. Just waking up at the edge of this old cornfield, body limp against his back as he brought you here.
But nowânow your hands were outstretched, heart slamming in your chest as the tree line formed in front of you.
Freedom.Freedom!
You could almost taste it. Cold air in your lungs. Your braid whipping behind you, your knees buckling but still moving, still flying toward the shadows of the woods, the camouflage it would give you. Even if you got lost. Even if you died of frostbite. Youâd take that over this.Â
But fate had never been that kind to you.
A shadow surged behind you. Too fast. You didnât even have time to scream before an arm looped tight around your waist, hauling you backward mid-step. Your body crashed against his hard chest, heavy breath, arms like chains locking you in place.
âLet me go!â you shrieked, thrashing in his grip. Your nails clawed at whatever you could reachâhis arm, his coat, the skin beneath. âGET OFF ME!â
âStop itââ his voice was a harsh bark in your ear. âStop.â
But you didnât. You couldnât. You threw your elbow back, aiming for anything that would give. You screamed like an animal, legs kicking, dirt flying beneath you.
Then your momentum shifted and he lost his footing. You both went down hard, bodies hitting the cold ground in a tangle of limbs and breath and fury. He landed on top of you, the weight of him knocking the air from your lungs. You tried to crawl forward, to squirm away, but his hand slammed against the dirt beside your head, pinning you there. His other arm looped under your chest, dragging you back into his body as you bucked and sobbed.
âGet off me!â you sobbed. âLet me GO! Youâre a monsterâyouâre a fucking monsterââ
âI told you not to run,â he snarled, face pressed to the side of your head. âI told you.â
You writhed harder, but he held you firm. His grip was bruising. His breath hit your cheek in hot, angry bursts.
âDammit, girl. I told you not to make me do this.â he growled, and suddenly his weight was off of you, but as you tried to pull yourself up, something hit the back of your head.
And suddenly, there was nothing.
Your head throbbed.
Not just painâa pressure. Like the inside of your skull was pulsing against your skin, trying to split itself open. A migraine made of lightning. Every breath sent a bolt of nausea down your spine.
You tried to move, to shift onto your side, but something stopped you short. Your arms tugged, and a scraping sound echoed beside you. Your wrists were bound, fabric biting at tender skin, looped through the cold metal bars of the rusted radiator beside you. One good yank and youâd dislocate somethingâbut you tried anyway.
Panic flooded in like water through a crack.
You kicked, scrambled, your back pressing flat to the wall, shoulder blades scraping rough drywall. The room spun too fast, too bright, too loud, and your stomach turned as you realized the weight of the restraint wasnât going anywhere.
You screamed.
It was a ragged, broken sound, high and wet and animal.
âLET ME GO!â
No one answered.
You screamed again anyway, throat raw, vision doubled, bile creeping into your mouth.
There was a mattress in the corner, no frame, no sheets. A chipped dresser near the boarded window. A dusty mirror leaning against the wall, turned away. This house was dead, abandoned, stripped of anything good.
You curled tighter into the corner, knees drawn up, arms pinned awkwardly by the ties at your wrists. Your breathing was shallow, rapid. You were crying and you barely realized it.
But above the sound of your shallow sobs, you heard something more terrifying. Heavy footfalls on the hardwood, floorboards creaking, and you flinched when the door opened. It creaked on warped hinges and let in a blade of silver light from the hallway.
He saw you curled there, eyes wild, lip trembling, and his mouth twitchedâbut it didnât turn cruel. Didnât even turn cold. It was something else. Weariness, maybe. Or guilt.
You hoped it was guilt.
âI brought food,â he said simply.
You lurched backward into the wall as he moved towards you with a tray in hand. Your legs kicked uselessly at the floorboards, and your voice exploded out of you before you could stop it.
âDonât touch me!â
He didnât. Just crouched low by the door, setting down a dented metal cup and a chipped plate. Bread. Dried meat. A few slices of canned peaches still glistening in syrup.
âIâm not here to hurt you,â he said, slow and quiet.
âYou did hurt me,â you spat, voice cracking. âYou fucking hit meâ!â
âI know.â His eyes didnât leave yours. âIâm sorry about your head. I brought some painkillers.â
You didnât believe a word of his sorries. But your eyes were already on the cup of water. Your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth. You hated him. You hated him. But you were so thirsty it felt like your chest was full of sand.
He picked up the cup, took a long sip, then held it out to you.
âNot poisoned,â he said quietly, holding it toward you.
You didnât move. Just glared. But your hands were bound, you couldnât take it. So he inched closer, slow like approaching a scared animal.
âIâm gonna bring it to your mouth. Understand?â
You said nothing, but he moved anyway.
The rim touched your lips. You almost jerked away. But thenâyour tongue worked before your mind did, poking out to touch the cold of the rim of the cup. You nearly let out a sigh of relief, your mouth opening and throat soothing. The water was lukewarm and a little metallic, but it was clean. You drank, coughing halfway through but gulping it anyway.
When you finished, he set the cup down and picked up a slice of bread.
You clamped your jaw shut.
There was a long pause. He sighed, setting down the food again.
âWhatâs your name?â
Your head throbbed harder as your teeth clenched. He sighed again.
âI tied you up âcause I had to,â he said. âYou ran. You wouldnât listen.â
You didnât respond. You just rolled your eyes, tears shining there, looking out into the sky that beckoned to you out the windows.
âYou can live here,â he continued, voice quieter. âWe can live here. Itâs quiet. Groundâs good for crops. Donât think this area gets many Infected. Found a well, too.â
Then his voice hardened slightly, just enough to cut through the quiet.
âBut there are rules, girl.â
Your head snapped toward him. Your eyes locked with his in a glare that was wet and burning. His gaze didnât flinch. There was no cruelty. Just seriousness. Like he was stating the facts of gravity.
âYou donât run. You donât fight me. And you donât lie.â
You swallowed dryly, throat raw. Then he started to stand, turning away from you.
Your voice stopped him. Barely a whisper. âAre you going toâŠâ
The words died before they could reach your lips. Your stomach knotted hard, rising with nausea. You knew what you were asking. You just couldnât say it.
He paused, back still to you.
âI ainât gonna touch you,â he said. âNot unless you ask.â
And something in you snapped.
Your foot lashed out, catching the plate. It skittered across the floor and slammed against the toe of his boot with a loud, hollow clatter.
âDonât go counting the days, asshole,â you snarled. âIâm not your fucking pet.â
He sighed. Not angry. Just tired. He crouched to pick up the plate, glancing back at you one last time.
âThe nameâs Joel,â he said quietly, and then added, âGoodnight.â
You didnât eat.
Not the first day, or the second. He did move the mattress from the opposite corner to underneath you, though. And brought you a blanket. Small comforts. You still hated him for all of it.
He kept bringing you foodâbread, dried fruit, whatever he could findâbut you stared at the far wall, your lips tight, your arms limp at your sides. The knot at your wrists chafed worse now. The fabric was stiff with blood. But you didnât complain. You didnât speak. You wouldnât give him that.
You were tired, but not hungry. Not for anything he brought you.
On the third night, he opened the door again. This time, the smell hit you before he even spoke.
Roasted meat. Maybe rabbit or deer.
Your stomach cramped violently, and you hated it. Hated the way your body responded, hated the betrayal of saliva in your mouth. You hated him. More than ever.
Joel crouched beside you, setting down a plate and a tin cup. You didnât look at him.
He didnât say anything for a long moment. Then: âYouâre not starvinâ yourself,â he muttered. âNot here.â
You clamped your jaw shut, but your stomach groaned in betrayal.
The scent from the plate was thick and nauseating from your intense hunger. The meat smelled like it was cooked in its own fat, crisp at the edges, seasoned with something smoky and wild. It smelled like life. It smelled like care.
You didnât move. Then suddenly, the mattress shifted beneath you.
Joelâs hand grabbed your face. And not gently.
His fingers dug into your cheeks, tilting your head back hard enough to make your neck pop. You squirmed, instinct kicking in, but your hands were tied, and his grip was firm.
You snarled, a sound more beast than girl.
Joelâs face was close now. Too close. His voice was rough and low and full of something tight.
âYou wanna die here?â he snapped. âYou think thatâs gonna prove something?â
You tried in vain to shake your head out of his grasp, but he was stronger.
âI ainât gonna let you waste away âcause youâre feelinâ proud. You hear me?â
He grabbed a piece of meat off the plate and God, it looked so juicy, still steaming, and shoved it toward your mouth.
You fought it. Lips closed, jaw locked.
âOpen.â
You didnât.
Then his voice broke, barely above a whisper.
âDonât make me do this.â
It was the way he said it. Like he wasnât angry anymore, just tired. Like he was pleading, but didnât know how.
You went still.
Slowly, shaking and furious, you opened your mouth.
He slid the food between your lips.
You chewed as tears stung your eyes. The flavor hit your tongue and your body melted around it. It was good. It was so good it hurt.
You hated him for it. Hated him for making you want the next bite. But when he offered it, you took it, lips barely grazing the tips of his fingers. He released your face as you accepted more. He fed you in silence, one bite at a time. Like you were something fragile. Like you might break in his hands.
When the food was gone, he lifted the tin cup to your lips. You drank.
Then you leaned back against the wall, chest heaving like youâd outrun something you couldnât see. The plate was empty, the ache in your belly softer now.
Joel wiped his hands on his jeans and sat back across from you.
He didnât speak. There was no smirk, no gloating, just those unreadable eyes on you. And for the first time, you felt something in your chest uncoil. It might not have been warmth or safety, but it was a kind of stillness.
Like surrender. Like a storm just passed.
âIâm gonna boil some water for a bath, alright?â he said, voice low, softer than it had any right to be. He stood slowly, the plate now empty between you. He watched you for a beat longer than you liked, then turned toward the door.
Your eyes followed him as he moved, as he reached for the knob. And before you could stop yourselfâbefore you could remind yourself not to careâyou spoke.
âWhy are you doing this?â
He paused.
Didnât turn around. Just looked out the small window beside the old door frame, face lost in shadow.
For a moment, you thought he might answer. But then his hand fell to the knob, turned it, and he stepped out without a word. You sat there, silent. Drowsy.
The food in your belly settled heavy and slow, a warmth you despised your body for enjoying. It made your eyelids heavy, your thoughts fogged. You were still tied, still bruisedâbut your body was full for the first time in days. Maybe weeks, really.
By the time he came back, you couldnât even summon the energy to fight. The bindings at your wrist tugged gently as he pulled you to your feet, his grip firm around your forearm.
âCome on now,â Joel murmured. âNice and easy.â
The hallway was dim. The floor cold under your bare feet. He guided you with careful pressure, down a few steps and into a narrow bathroomâwalls faded yellow, mirror cracked in the corner, clawfoot tub steaming gently in the center of the room.
Thatâs when your mind caught up. You realized what this meant.
You stiffened. Began to squirm, breath picking up fast. He caught your movement instantly, hands tightening just enough to still you.
âHey.â His voice dropped low in warning.
âIâm gonna untie these, alright?â He nodded toward your wrists. âDonât do anything stupid.â
You opened your mouthâpanic sparking againâbut he cut you off, though not unkindly.
âIâm leavinâ you in here. Alone. Against my better judgment.â
That made you pause.
Your eyes met hisâwide, wary. And again, he looked so much bigger. You thought of how easily heâd thrown you over his shoulder. How quickly heâd knocked you down in the woods. How he could still do it now, even tired, even softened.
You swallowed, but eventually you nodded.
âYouâll be good?â he asked.
Your voice came out small. âIâll be good.â
His gaze held yours for a second longer, like he was searching for the truth in it.
Then his hands softened and he began to untie you. The rope fell away from your wrists with a soft tug. Your skin stung where it had rubbed raw, but you didnât look down. You could barely will your body to move.
Joel straightened.
âIâll be right outside,â he said. âDonât make me come in after you.â
And then he left.
The door shut behind him, and you stood there, breathing. Still.
Steam curled in the cold air, and the smell of the soap, old, sharp, something like cedar, lingered near the tub. Your fingers ached. Your knees were stiff. But the waterâŠ
It looked so inviting.
You stepped in slowly after you undressed, the warmth biting at your skin in the best way. It climbed up your calves, over your thighs, and then you sank into itâsighing before you could stop yourself. Like your body had given in before your heart could.
The soap was just a sliver, set beside the tub in an old chipped dish. You picked it up with shaky fingers and began to scrubâat the dirt, the blood, the sweat from days of fear.
You didnât cry. You just kept washing. Kept breathing.
Kept wondering why it felt more like being forgiven than being cleaned.
The soap slipped from your fingers and clattered softly against the porcelain edge of the tub. It echoed in the small room like a slap.
That was when your shoulders started to shake.
At first, it was just a breath. A short, sharp inhale that caught in your throat like something you'd forgotten to swallow. Then another. And another. Until your chest was heaving, and the tears were falling before you could stop them.
You pressed your face into your hands. Tried to muffle the sound. But the sob escaped anywayâwet and broken, punched straight from your lungs like a wound torn back open.
You hated him.
God, you hated him.
You hated how he fed you, how he touched you gently like it made any of this okay. Yes, heâd been rough with you at firstâgrabbed too hard, snapped too fast, yanked you around like you were a problem to solve instead of a person. But that was before. Before you began to understand him better. Before his cruelty dulled into silence, into careful hands and fewer threats. Before the rhythm of the house made space for you. He let you bathe. Gave you warmth. Let you sleep on a mattress like you were some stray dog heâd half-decided to care for.
You hated how your body was starting to believe it was safe here.
You curled tighter into the water, forehead resting against your knees as the tub slowly cooled around you. Steam faded into the air. The silence pressed against your ears.
And in that silence, you made a promise.
The second he leaves you alone again, youâll go. No plan, no food, no mapâjust go. Even if it kills you.
Better to die in the trees than stay in this house and forget what the outside felt like.Better to be free for one breath than trapped for the rest of your life.
You wiped at your eyes with the edge of your palm and sat up straighter.
No more crying.
You would play along. Youâd dry off, let him lead you back to that corner, let him tie your wrists again if he had to. Youâd nod. Youâd keep your voice soft.
And the second he trusted youâ
Youâd run.
#that house in nebraska#tlou#the last of us#joel miller#joel miller x you#joel miller x reader#joel miller fanfic#joel miller fanfiction#joel miller angst#joel miller fic#the last of us fic#the last of us fanfic#tlou joel#joel tlou
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ANONYMITY â JAMES POTTER

ă Summary â ă â James Potter never gives up â
James Potter had never been good at waiting.
Quidditch matches, pranks, even breakfastâhe barreled through life at full speed, all brash confidence and effortless charm. He wasnât the sort to hesitate. If he wanted something, he went after it with all the subtlety of a charging hippogriff. Waiting required patience, and patience had never been one of Jamesâs virtues.
But this? This was different.
The parchment crumpled under his fingers for the fifthâno, sixthâtime that evening, the words heâd scrawled on it smudged and incoherent. He sighed through his nose and tossed it aside, where it landed on top of an ever-growing pile of failed attempts that now resembled some kind of tragic, papery mountain beside his bed.
"Merlin's balls," he muttered, dragging a hand down his face before reaching for another blank sheet. He dipped the quill into the ink pot with the dramatic air of someone heading to war.
The common room had long since emptied, its usual buzz replaced by the soft crackle of the dying fire. The flames were little more than glowing embers now, casting flickering shadows against the walls. Outside, the wind howled faintly through the windowpanes, but James barely noticed. He was hunched over a small table like it was an altar and he a desperate acolyte, his hair sticking up in every direction from frustrated fingers repeatedly running through it.
Across the room, Sirius Black lounged with all the effortlessness of a particularly judgmental housecat. He was draped over the sofa like it belonged to him by birthright, legs hanging off the side, wand twirling idly between his fingers. Heâd been watching James for over an hour now, entertained as much by the process as he was exasperated by it.
"You know," Sirius said, voice lazy and laced with amusement, "most people just talk to the person they fancy. Maybe buy them a butterbeer. Maybe not set their own hair on fire from stress."
James shot him a glare that mightâve been more effective if his glasses werenât slightly askew and his face werenât blotched from pressing it against the table earlier.
"I have talked to her. I talk to her every day," he snapped.
"And yet," Sirius said smoothly, flicking his wand so that one of the discarded parchment balls floated up and bounced neatly off Jamesâs forehead, "here you are, writing love letters like some tragic Victorian poet waiting to waste away in a tower."
"Itâs notâ" James groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Itâs not a love letter. Itâs just⊠an observation. A compliment. Aâ"
"A love letter," Remus interjected from the armchair by the fire, not even glancing up from the book he was reading. He flipped a page casually, as though stating a simple fact like the sky being blue or Sirius being dramatic.
James slumped forward again, letting his forehead thunk against the table with a quiet thud. "I donât know how to do this," he confessed, voice muffled by wood and despair.
Sirius blinked. "What?"
"I donât know how to do this!" James repeated, lifting his head. His hair was a disaster, his eyes tired, and for once, his usual bravado was nowhere to be seen. âWith Lily, it was easy. I was supposed to be loud about it. It was part of the joke. Everyone expected it. But⊠sheâs not Lily. Sheâs not someone I can impress with a wink and a Quidditch record. She sees things. If I go in like I always do, sheâll know Iâm full of shit.â
That got Remus to lower his book. He looked at James, properly now, eyes thoughtful behind his fringe. "So you're... what? Trying to be subtle?"
"Yes."
There was a pause.
Then Sirius barked a laugh so loud it startled Peter, who had been half-asleep in the armchair closest to the corner. "Prongs, mate, you couldnât be subtle if your life depended on it. Youâre about as subtle as a dungbomb in a library."
James opened his mouth, probably to defend his honor, but before he could say a word, Peter spoke up, surprising them all.
"I think itâs sweet."
Three heads swiveled toward him in unison. He blinked, a little deer-in-the-headlights, but pressed on.
"I mean⊠itâs James," Peter said with a shrug. "If heâs actually sitting there, thinking about how to say something instead of just blurting it out... thatâs kind of huge, right?"
Silence settled over the room for a beat.
Thenâ
"Traitor," Sirius muttered, flicking his wand so that a parchment ball flew at Peterâs head. Peter ducked, grinning sheepishly.
But the tension had eased, and James gave Peter a grateful look.
Sirius let out an overly theatrical sigh. "Fine. I suppose if youâre going to be insufferable about it, we may as well help you make it less embarrassing." He plucked the quill from Jamesâs hand with a flourish. "First rule of love letters: no mentioning Quidditch stats. Itâs not romantic, itâs just sad. No one cares that you caught the Snitch in under three minutes unless youâre trying to seduce Madam Hooch."
Remus raised an eyebrow. âPlease tell me youâre not.â
James groaned again, this time with laughter in his voice. âNo. God, no.â
"Good," Sirius said, grabbing a fresh sheet of parchment. "Because if youâre going to pour your heart out, you might as well do it without referencing your broomâs acceleration stats."
James looked between his friendsâRemus calmly watching, Peter nodding encouragingly, Sirius rolling up his sleeves like he was about to perform a magical surgeryâand despite the ridiculousness of it all, he smiled.
The First Letter
To the one who makes even the dullest days brighter,
I noticed today that you hum when you're concentrating. It's the same tune every timeâsomething classical, maybe? Whatever it is, it's better than Binns droning on about goblin wars.
Also, you have ink on your nose right now. Thought you should know.
Signed, Your Secret Admirer
You stared at the note, your morning toast going cold on the plate in front of you. The handwriting was precise, the ink a rich navy rather than standard black, and the parchmentâMerlin, the parchment was smooth enough to be from Flourish and Blottsâ premium range. Around you, the Great Hall buzzed with the usual symphony of clattering cutlery, sleepy yawns, and last-minute homework complaints, but all of it faded into white noise as you reread the letter for the third time.
"Well?" Marlene leaned sideways over your shoulder, chewing the corner of her toast. "Whatâs got you looking like youâve been hit with a Cheering Charm?"
You flinched and hastily folded the letter shut, nearly knocking over your goblet of pumpkin juice in the process. "Nothing."
"Thatâs the most suspicious thing youâve ever said," she said, deadpan. "And last week you told McGonagall you accidentally hexed Mulciberâs eyebrows off."
"They grew back," you muttered, flushing.
Marlene didnât move. âWhoâs it from?â
"I donât know," you said, a bit too quickly.
She grinned like a kneazle who'd cornered a mouse. âOh, you so know.â
"I really donât."
âThen why are you blushing like you just walked in on the captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team changing?"
Your eyes narrowed. âThatâs oddly specific.â
She waggled her eyebrows. âJust saying. Youâve got a type.â
You rolled your eyes and tucked the letter into your bag as subtly as possible. "Itâs probably a prank."
"Mm-hmm." Marlene gave you a look that said she didn't believe you for a second. "A prank with top-shelf parchment and genuine compliments? Sounds like a Slytherin trying to seduce you through stationery."
You blinked. "...Is that a thing?"
"Probably." She smirked. "Keep your eyes peeled. And your nose clean. Literally."
The Fifth Letter
You laughed at my joke in Charms today. Not the polite laugh you give Flitwick when he tries to be funnyâthe real one, where your nose scrunches up. I'd take a Bludger to the face to hear that again.
Also, you're wrong about Wronski Feints being "showboating." They're art. Fight me.
Signed, Your Secret Admirer (who is DEFINITELY not a Quidditch player)
You read the note twice, your finger tracing the last line with a half-smile tugging at your lips. The parchment smelled faintly of ink and something warmâcedarwood, maybe? The handwriting was the same as the first note: neat but with a certain looseness that gave it personality. Like whoever wrote it was confident⊠but still holding back.
Marlene dropped her bag onto the bench beside you. "Alright, itâs been five letters. Spill."
You slipped the note into your pocket before she could snatch it. "I donât know what youâre talking about."
"You're glowing," she said, flopping onto the bench. "Like actually glowing. Did someone sneak a Lumos Charm into your shampoo?"
You rolled your eyes, but the smile was threatening to break through.
"What was this one about?" she asked casually, like she wasnât vibrating with curiosity. "Another observation about your hair looking like 'sunlight through honey'?"
You snorted. "No. Apparently, I laugh like a goblin tripping over his own feet."
"Charming," she said dryly. "Your secret admirer sounds both terrifyingly observant and completely smitten. I'm jealous."
You shrugged, trying and failing to suppress your grin. âHeâor sheâthinks Wronski Feints are an art form.â
Marlene gasped. âA Quidditch player? Oh, this just keeps getting better.â
"You don't know that."
"âIâd take a Bludger to the faceâ is something only someone deranged enough to play Quidditch would say."
You laughed, pressing the letter to your chest as if to hide the absurd warmth blooming there. "Fine. Probably a Quidditch player."
"Probably James Potter," she said, waggling her brows.
You groaned. "You always think itâs James Potter."
"Because itâs always James Potter."
"He called my essay on Inferi 'well-meaning drivel' last week."
"Exactly." She smirked. "He's emotionally stunted. Flirting through insults is his love language."
"Can we please not turn this into a Marauder guessing game?"
"No promises," she said cheerfully. "But if Letter Six includes an apology for setting your robes on fire in third year, Iâm calling it."
You ignored her, but your fingers tightened around the note. You'd never admit it out loud, but a part of you... didn't mind the mystery. It was nice, for once, not knowing exactly what came next.
Even nicer? The fact that someone out there noticed the little things about youâyour humming, your laugh, your nose scrunchâand thought they were worth writing about.
Even if they were wrong about Wronski Feints.
The Sixth Letter
You donât know this, but you were the reason I passed last weekâs Transfiguration test.
You chewed the end of your quill while reading McGonagallâs notes, brow furrowed, completely lost in concentration. And Iâwell, I was completely lost in you.
Thanks for the good luck, even if you didnât mean to give it.
Signed, Your Secret Admirer (still not a Quidditch player, but definitely crushing harder than is medically advisable)
You blinked. The note was shorter than the last few, but somehow... more intense. The letters pressed a little deeper into the parchment, like the writer had been gripping the quill tighter than usual. Your heart gave a small, treacherous lurch.
Across the table, Mary nudged your elbow. "Youâre doing that thing again."
"What thing?"
"The dreamy stare. The soft smile. Are you in love or are you about to sneeze?"
You flushed and slipped the letter under your Potions textbook. âNeither.â
Meanwhile, in the Gryffindor Boysâ Dormitory
Sirius was upside down, hanging off the edge of his bed with his head nearly touching the floor. âYouâre doomed.â
âIâm not doomed,â James muttered, pacing a trench into the rug. âShe smiled at this one. I saw her.â
âYou saw her smile while you were hiding behind a bookshelf like a criminal,â Remus said, not looking up from his journal. âYou donât get points for cowardice.â
James flopped onto his bed, face-first into his pillow. âIâm being romantic, not cowardly.â
Peter piped up from the window seat, âYou nearly hexed Sirius when he suggested you just talk to her.â
James groaned into the pillow. âBecause Sirius suggested I do it while shirtless and juggling.â
Sirius grinned. âStill a great idea.â
âLook,â James said, sitting up, hair somehow worse than usual, âthis is working. The letters are working.â
âAre they?â Remus asked mildly. âBecause from what I saw, she asked Marlene if she thought it was Amos Diggory.â
James made a noise like a dying Hippogriff.
"On the plus side," Sirius said, "you're officially more mysterious than Diggory. That's character development, mate."
James sighed and looked at the sixth crumpled draft in his bin. âShe said Wronski Feints were showboating. I had to say something.â
âYou challenged her to a duel in a love letter,â Remus pointed out.
âA flirty duel!â James defended. âYou know. Banter. Chemistry.â
Peter glanced over. âWhat if she writes back one day?â
James blinked. âWrite back?â
âYeah,â Sirius said, sitting up. âWhat if she responds? You know, like a normal human being would?â
James went still. âShe wouldnât.â
âShe might,â Remus said. âAnd then youâll have to reveal yourself. Or start replying in code.â
âOr pretend youâre not the admirer and get insanely jealous of yourself,â Sirius added helpfully. âThat's peak drama. Iâm into it.â
James pointed his quill at them like a wand. âNobody says a word. Not a single word. If any of you breathes near her about this, I swear to Merlinââ
âRelax,â Remus said, flipping a page. âItâs kind of sweet, watching you melt down over someone who doesnât immediately throw themselves at you.â
âTragic, even,â Sirius added, pretending to wipe a tear. âOur little James, growing up.â
âI hate you all,â James muttered.
âLove you too,â they chorused.
The Seventh Letter
You were reading by the window again this morning, and the light hit your hair like it was straight out of a bloody Botticelli painting.
Not that I notice things like that. At all. Ever.
Also, you drooled a little when you fell asleep in the library yesterday. Donât worry, I stood guard until Madam Pince almost caught me and I had to dive into the Restricted Section like a criminal.
Totally worth it.
Signed, Your Secret Admirer (who now knows you snore when you're exhausted, and finds it unfairly adorable)
You read the letter twice.
Okay, three times.
Your lips twitched involuntarily, and you glanced up from your toast. Across the table, Lily raised an eyebrow.
âAnother one?â she whispered, leaning closer.
âMaybe.â
âYouâve gone all soft in the face again,â she said. âIs this what it's like? Youâre infected with romance?â
You rolled your eyes. âThey referenced Botticelli. Itâs not my fault.â
âDid they mention your weird book-snore too?â
You kicked her gently under the table. âDonât say snore. It was a soft exhale.â
âA snore with literary flourish, then.â
Later, in the library, You sat hunched over your Potions notes, the Seventh Letter tucked inside your Transfiguration book. You hadnât meant to bring it with youâbut somehow, it had made its way into your bag.
Across the room, James had been pretending to read the same page of Quidditch Strategies Through the Ages for the past fifteen minutes.
âOi,â Sirius hissed, dropping into the seat across from him with the subtlety of a thunderstorm. âYouâre doing that creepy staring thing again.â
âIâm not staring,â James said without looking up from his book. âIâm observing.â
âYou are one eyebrow twitch away from blowing your entire cover,â Sirius muttered. âShe looked up just now, and you did that thing with your hairââ
âI didnât!â
âYou did! The nervous hair-fluff! Every time!â
James clutched the book tighter. âSheâs smiling.â
âSheâs probably reading your note.â
âShe smiled at the note,â James whispered, completely betraying himself with the dreamy tone.
Thenâ
Your voice rang out. âHey, Potter?â
James froze so suddenly Sirius actually had to slap the book out of his hands.
You were standing by their table now, expression casualâbut your eyes glittered with curiosity. You held up a folded scrap of parchment.
âRecognize the handwriting?â
James blinked. âWhat? No! Why would IâThatâsâNope! Definitely not.â
Sirius buried his face in his arms.
You tilted your head, amused. âYouâre oddly defensive.â
âJust... you know. Lots of... letters going around these days. Between... students. Of Hogwarts.â
âMm-hmm.â
You watched him squirm for a beat longer before sliding the letter back into your pocket. âWell, let me know if you figure out who it is.â
James cleared his throat. âSure. Will do. Definitely. Top priority.â
As you walked away, Sirius peeked up from his arms.
âYouâre the worst secret admirer in history.â
âI panicked!â
âYou gave her Botticelli! You canât also be bad at lying.â
âIâm not bad at lying!â
âYou said âstudents of Hogwartsâ like a malfunctioning portrait.â
âIâm writing the next one in all caps and signing it with a fake name.â
Sirius grinned. âDo it. Nothing screams âmysteryâ like âFrom: Mysterious Stranger #7.ââ
The Twelfth Letter
I think you know it's me.
I think you've known for a while.
Meet me by the lake tonight? Sunset. If you don't come, I'll understand.
But Merlin, (Y/N), I hope you come.
âJames
Your hands shook as you read it. Then read it again.
It was his handwriting. Slanted, rushed. The âJâ curved like it always did when he was nervous or writing too quickly. A small ink blot by your name. Classic James Potterâimpatient even in confession.
You stared at the parchment until the words blurred. Around you, the common room buzzed with chatter and crackling firewood, but it felt like everything had paused.
Marlene leaned over the back of your chair. âWhatâs that?â
âNothing,â you said too fast, folding the note and slipping it into your pocket.
Her brows arched. âYouâve said ânothingâ about twelve love letters now. Come on. Spill. Is it still the same person?â
You hesitated.
âI thinkâŠâ Your voice dropped. âI think itâs James.â
Marlene blinked. âPotter?â
You nodded slowly. âHe wants to meet. By the lake.â
She let out a low whistle. âWell. I guess we know who the rose petals were from, then.â
You gave her a look. âI knew those werenât an accident.â
She grinned. âNeither was the time he gave up his last Chocolate Frog when you had cramps. Iâve never seen him part with one of those without a fight.â
You bit your lip. Your chest was tight, heart fluttering with something between hope and panic. âDo I go?â
Marlene didnât hesitate. âYes. And wear that cardigan he complimented last week. He looked like he was about to combust.â
At sunset, by the lake
James was already there.
Of course he was.
He stood near the waterâs edge, hands shoved in his pockets, hair even messier than usual from the wind. He was pacing, muttering to himself. You caught snippets as you approached, heart pounding.
âMaybe I shouldâve brought flowersâno, too muchâwhat if she doesnât come, you absolute plonkerââ
âJames?â
He spun around so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet.
You tried not to laugh. Failed a little.
âYou came,â he breathed, sounding like he wasnât sure whether to smile or pass out.
âI did.â
Silence.
Then:
âSoâŠâ he rubbed the back of his neck, eyes wide behind his glasses, âyou figured it out.â
âI did,â you echoed. âThe rose petals were a big clue.â
âDamn it, I knew I overdid it.â
âYou really did.â
He winced. âToo much?â
You smiled. âJust enough.â
He relaxed, just slightly. âI meant everything in those letters, you know. Even the dumb parts. Especially the dumb parts.â
You took a step closer. âEven the Wronski Feint rant?â
âThat was from the soul, thank you very much.â
You laughed. And in that moment, it was easy. Natural. Inevitable.
James reached outâhesitant, almost nervousâand gently took your hand.
âSo, um⊠this is the part where I ask if you'd maybe let me take you to Hogsmeade next weekend. Like... not as your secret admirer. Just as me.â
You squeezed his hand back.
âI was hoping youâd ask.â
It was all too muchâtoo right. As James pulled you closer, his breath mingling with the cool evening air, the world seemed to narrow down to just the two of you. His hands cupped your face gently, like he was trying not to break something fragile.
âYou know,â he murmured, his thumb brushing over your cheek, âI really thought youâd punch me when you figured it out.â
You smiled, feeling the weight of the moment sink in. âYouâve been an idiot for a while, Potter. It was only a matter of time.â
âWell, if Iâm going to be an idiot,â he said, his lips tugging up into a grin, âIâm glad Iâm your idiot.â
And then he kissed you.
Soft, unsure at first, like he couldnât quite believe it was happening. But when you kissed him back, everything clicked into place, and he deepened the kiss, hand sliding to the back of your neck as if to pull you closerâexcept for the fact that just then, a twig snapped from behind the tree line.
You broke apart, eyes wide, and looked over at James, who immediately cursed under his breath.
âThey were supposed to wait,â he muttered.
And thatâs when the Maraudersâalong with Marleneâemerged from their very obvious hiding spot behind the trees, looking more like they'd just been caught raiding the kitchens than spying on you two.
Sirius was the first to speak, his grin as wide as the Hogwarts Express. âWell, Iâll be damned. Looks like James finally stopped being a bloody idiot.â
Marlene, who was half-giggling, half-sighing, shot Sirius a glare. âYou bet him, didnât you?â
âMaybe,â Sirius said, trying to look innocent while failing spectacularly. âI had a feeling this would happen, you know. Just thought itâd take longer. So I wagered two weeks.â
Marlene crossed her arms, unamused. âYou bet how long it would take them to kiss?â
âYeah,â Sirius said nonchalantly, then added with a wink, âI figured it would be around now, just after the whole âsecret admirerâ thing got a bit too much to handle.â
Remus, looking the most put-out of the bunch, rubbed his face. âI canât decide if Iâm impressed by how obvious you all were, or disgusted by how invested you are in these things.â
Peter, who had been trying to peek from behind a bush, suddenly popped his head out, looking absolutely delighted. âItâs not like we werenât doing something important!â he chirped. âWe were moral support!â
âMm-hmm,â Marlene muttered. âMoral support and betting money on your best mate's love life. Real charming, guys.â
You couldnât help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. And James, who was still trying to pretend like he wasnât mildly mortified by his friendsâ behavior, stepped toward you, wrapping his arm around your shoulders.
âThanks for the interruption,â he said, sarcasm dripping from his words.
âYouâre welcome!â Sirius grinned, completely unapologetic. âJust wanted to make sure there werenât any horrible accidentsâyou know, like James forgetting how to kiss.â
You rolled your eyes, but there was a warmth in your chest at how ridiculous and fun this was. It felt right, the chaos, the banter, the teasingâall of it. You werenât just dating James Potter now, you were part of the madness that came with it.
âNext time,â James said, loud enough for all of them to hear, âyou can ask if you want to spy, alright? No need for the sneaky stuff.â
âYou got it, Prongs,â Sirius grinned, holding up his hands in mock surrender. âBut Iâm afraid that means we need a follow-up bet.â
âIâm not doing another round of betting!â Marlene protested, though her smile betrayed her. âYou guys are impossible.â
âFair enough,â Sirius said. âBut letâs be real: we were all rooting for this.â
You chuckled, leaning into James as the ridiculousness of the moment settled in. There was something so perfect about it allâdespite the Marauder-style chaos, despite the teasing, despite the spectacle of it all.
And when James kissed you again, quick and soft this time, you didn't care who saw.
âYouâre unbelievable,â you whispered against his lips.
âIâve been called worse,â he grinned.
And just behind you, Sirius called out, âThatâs the spirit, Prongs! Now, whenâs the next kiss session?â
âYouâre all a bloody disaster,â James muttered, but there was no hiding the grin on his face.
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