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kjupchurch-xx · 1 month

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Conflicting Feelings

Author's Note: Let me start this by saying I mean absolutely zero disrespect to Hugh's ex wife with this story. I'm just coming up with ideas for chapters and trying to be creative, so please do not hate me for the story. I got this inspiration from a song I'd been listening to, so once again, no disrespect meant for his previous marriage or his ex-wife. This story is pure fiction and just meant to satisfy your need for Hugh Jackman fluff.

Hugh and I have been friends for many years, despite our age gap of 20+ years. He was married to Debbora Furness and had been for the past 27 years. Our friendship was a platonic one, but we'd always had this strange chemistry. Hugh has been extremely loyal to Deb over the course of their marriage, despite his flirtatious nature. I'd love to tell you that I didn't have a thing for him, but I'd be lying to you. With that being said, I respect his marriage and I know my boundaries, which I'd never cross.

I was sitting in my hotel room in California, it was coming up on 7pm, the sun starting to slowly sink down producing a beautiful cotton candy sky that could be seen from my suite's balcony that overlooked the city. I was getting ready for a date with a musician, who shall remain unnamed. I heard my phone ring from across the room, walking over and picking it up, expecting it to be my date, I noticed it was Hugh.

"Hey Hugh, I can't-" I began but was immediately cut off by him sounding frantic, "I really need you right now." He said with a shaky, almost hoarse voice.

My voice grew concerned, "Is everything okay?"

"Just send me your room number and the name of the hotel. We'll talk there." He said quickly before hanging up.

What in the actual hell is going on? Did someone die? Is it cancer? I mean what is going on? A thousand thoughts raced through my mind as I quickly typed out my suite number and hotel into a text and sent it to him. Within minutes I heard a knock on my suite door. I ran up, opening the door to see a disheveled looking Hugh Jackman looking frantic. I quickly pulled him inside my room and he pulled me into a hug. I stood before him frozen in place, slowly wrapping my arms around him.

"What's going on? Are you okay? Are Oscar and Ava okay? Is Deb-" I began to hit him with rapid fire questions trying to understand what's causing this kind of emotion from the man I'd known to always be so happy, go lucky. He cut me off, "She's gone. Deb's gone." He said, his voice trembling.

I gasped in shock as my eyes widened, "What? What happened?" I asked, rubbing his back, leading him to the tan leather love seat that sat in the living room area of the suite. I'd never seen him this emotional outside of his acting.

As we sat on the sofa, he continued holding me as if I were his security blanket. I repeated, "What happened?" causing him to look up at me with broken eyes.

He covered his face, "She told me she wanted a divorce. She's moving her stuff out of the house and wants to be gone before I get back." I bit my bottom lip in disbelief, "Did she say why?" I asked trying to process what I was being told.

He took a shaky breath before looking at me, "She says we've fallen out of love and are two different people now that 27 years have gone by. She says we want two entirely different things out of life."

I shrugged, placing my hand on his knee. "Is she wrong?" I asked softly, looking at him, continuing to tremble with each word he spoke.

He sighed, running his hand through his messy hair, "She's not wrong."

I blinked, looking at him, taken back by his response, "What do you mean she's not wrong? What did you do?"

He took a deep breath and began looking down, refusing to look me in the eyes and began shaking his head. I grabbed his hand, caressing it softly, "What happened, babe? You know I won't judge you. You know after years of confiding in me that you can tell me anything."

He nodded, wiping a tear from his eyes, still shaking his head as if he were trying to process his own thoughts. He was being extremely cautious with his words. The sound of my phone ringing caused me to almost jump out of my skin. It had to be the guy I was supposed to be meeting tonight. I quickly grabbed my phone, silencing the call and put my attention back on the man that was sitting in front of me.

He finally looked up at me, "Being married for as long as we were is hard work after awhile, especially when your world stops due to a pandemic and you're forced to actually face the problems in your marriage instead of being away for weeks or months at a time and being able to avoid them." I nodded, allowing him to continue, watching nervously grit his teeth, "I fucked up. I let my emotions get the best of me and instead of envisioning her, I began envisioning someone else. I knew it was wrong, so I stopped and began focusing all of my attention on Deb."

I looked at him, "Okay, well I mean...That happens. You didn't physically do anything, did you?" I asked, furrowing my brows.

He shook his head, "No, I didn't. But she knew something was up with me. And now, I can't keep running from it. Deb is a great person, she truly is. But this other person, it's like whenever I'm with them, life suddenly just...makes sense again." He said lowly while staring off into space as if actually saying the words caused him too much pain to admit.

My phone began ringing again, I quickly grabbed it and answered, "Hey, look I'm sorry. I just had an emergency come up and I'm not going to be able to make it. I hope you understand." I said quickly, Hugh gave me a questioning look, and I knew he was curious as to who I was speaking to or who I had plans with.

My date was disappointed to say the least, but he understood, so I took that as a chance to end the call. Hugh looked at me, "I shouldn't be here bothering you with this. Go on with your plans." He sniffled, wiping his face with his head and standing up.

I grabbed his hand, rolling my eyes, pulling him back down on the sofa, "No, it's okay. So things make more sense when you're with this person?" I asked, he looked at me nodding, but not speaking. "Does she feel the same way?" I asked.

He shrugged, refusing to keep eye contact with me again, "I don't know if she does or doesn't. But I've been in a marriage that's lacked intimacy and has been more of a friendship arrangement for the past two years. This was not something I planned. I would never cheat on Deb, I just couldn't handle the charade anymore and I'm guessing she felt the same way."

I wasn't exactly sure what to say anymore as I gazed at him allowing him to continue venting, "I just know that whenever I'm with this person, we can be in a room full of people and it's like they're not there. She makes me feel things that I haven't felt in the longest fucking time."

I threw my hands up, "Go tell her then. If that's how you feel for this person, go talk to her. Hugh, you are an amazing man. What happened is unfortunate but people grow apart sometimes and there's nothing that can be done about it. You need to go tell this person how you feel." I said softly, giving him a small smile. "So who is it anyways? Is it the girl you're on broad way with? The one the rumor was about? Wasn't her name Sarah or something?"

"Are you referring to Sutton?" He asked, looking at his hands.

I nodded, "Yeah, that's her name. Sutton. Is it her?"

He sat silent for a good two minutes, staring at his hands. There had been articles going around for months about him and his Music Man co-star, Sutton Foster having an affair. I honestly wouldn't be surprised at this point. I knew the effect the pandemic had on his marriage. He tells me literally everything and I've always been there as an ear or eyes for his texts regarding the issues he and Deb dealt with.

After two minutes of complete silence, he spoke, looking at me, "I have something to tell you."

I looked up at him with soft eyes, his hazel ones piercing through my soul, "It's Sutton, isn't it?" I asked knowingly.

He slowly shook his head, "It's not Sutton and no, I didn't have an affair with Sutton." He simply said.

I chuckled, "Okay, so who is it? It's not Zendaya, is it?" I asked, cringing at the thought of he and Zendaya together. Nothing against Zen, we're friends. But she also knows about the crush I have on my dear friend.

He looked at cringing himself, "What? No. She's like a daughter to me." He said with a chuckle, "It's you." He said lowly.

I took a deep breath, "It's me?"

He looked down at the floor again, "Yeah." He was being short, as if he himself were in disbelief.

I furrowed my brows, "Why?" I asked, shaking my head in disbelief of what I was hearing.

His voice began trembling again as he reached for my hand, interlocking it with his own, "Do you remember when my father died?" He asked, I nodded, "I rang you, and you jumped on a plane to come see me. You spent days going over my lines for The Son with me. That was when I realized it. I rang Deb first. All she could say was that she was sorry. But you, you booked a flight and flew across the world for me. I was in hysterics and you comforted me each time." I took another breath, remembering what had taken place when Hugh's dad passed away on Australia's Father's Day in 2021.

"I swear to you, I tried. When I got back home, I tried to make those thoughts go away. That's why I distanced myself from you that following year. No matter what I did, no matter what she did, all I could see was you." He spoke honestly, tilting his head slightly, a hitch in his breathing as he continued to look at me, begging me to say anything.

"I fell in love with you, but I didn't want you to know. I didn't want Deb to know. I didn't want anyone to know, so I tried my fucking bloody damnest to push it out of my head and it only made it more apparent. And I don't know if you feel the same w-" I couldn't take hearing him speak anymore, overwhelmed with emotion, I tightened the grip he had on my hand with my own and sent my lips crashing against his stopping him in his tracks.

He brought his other hand up, grabbing my chin softly as his brain registered what was happening and began slowly moving his lips against mine. Pulling away, but pressing my forehead against his, as we both kept our eyes shut, I spoke, "I love you." barely above a whisper. I slowly opened my eyes to see his eyes staring into my own, our foreheads still pressed together, "But I didn't want this to happen like this."

I sighed, pulling away, "I don't want to be the reason your marriage ends. I'm not a home wrecker. I've loved you for years, why do you think I flew across the country when your father died and you called me hysterical? But I respect you, I respect Deb and I respect your marriage."

He looked at me, "My marriage ended two years ago. You're not a homewrecker and you did not cause this. Deb and I knew this was coming since the shut down over COVID. We didn't want to divorce for the sake of our children. We've just both gotten to the point where we want different things out of life and have decided for the sake of our happiness to end things. I'm heartbroken because I genuinely do love her as a person, and I did not want things to go the way they have. But her and I have to find our own happiness and we've realized it wasn't with each other anymore."

He brushed a strand of hair behind my ear, "It's you. For the last two years, it's been you and you didn't even know it. You did nothing wrong, love."

I sat in silence. I'd worked so hard over the years to keep my feelings to myself and to never cross a boundary. But whenever he called me in tears over his father, I couldn't help myself but to want to be there for support. He needed it and was falling apart at the seams. I don't know why Deb didn't rush to his side. I don't know why all she could say was "Sorry, I'll see you when you get back to New York.".

His eyes began pleading with me, as he slid off the sofa and onto the floor on his knees in front of me, still holding my hand, now grabbing my other one, "Please say something. Please."

I swallowed the hard lump in my throat, exhaling the deep breath I had been holding, "Just hold me..." was all I could manage to say.

He nodded, quickly sliding back to his position on the sofa, pulling my body into his chest, "Yeah?...I can do that." The feeling of his arms tightening around me as I sank my head into his chest.

Where do we go from here?

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cursedcola · 11 months

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Prompt: "Will You Marry Me?" - Proposal Headcannons Characters: Everyone :) Part(s): Heartslabyul, Savanaclaw, Octavinelle, Scarabia, Pomefiore, Ignihyde(here!), Diasomnia(Pt.1)(Pt.2) Fandom: Twisted Wonderland Warning(s): The relationship is kinda toxic because it's Idia and I have to be realistic - but it gets better as you read. Just know that there are themes of miscommunication, self-sabotage, self-neglect, and insecurity in both Idia and the MC. I gave him some character growth at least and some maturation to the character. Note: All Ignihyde has is Idia so I gave his piece some extra love(super long. Like, this isn't even considered a headcannon set anymore. I really went overboard, I'm so sorry). Not proofread for grammar since I'm a bit lazy right now. Also, I haven't finished his chapter in game because I'm too weak (seriously wtf is up with these fights). I know the plot mostly but forgive me if there's an inaccuracy in a reference

Idia had it made during his youth - and deep down he knows it despite all his complaining. He knows that he won the introvert lottery. For three years he was able to live in a reclusive dorm room with no expectations beyond showing up to class (via a tablet of all things) and doing his work. Sure, he had to return home at some point and deal with that hot mess...but it was a displaced problem. One to be dealt with whenever. As a full-time 'student' he had junk food readily available, his brother down the hall, all the games and tech he needed, and somehow managed to land himself a loving partner despite his quirks.

The Ramshackle prefect - someone he initially wanted nothing to do with. Chaos seemed to follow their every move and Idia wanted no part of it. He never expected to come within a twenty-foot radius of them without force.

For the record, force indeed was used. Unfortunately they had a nasty habit of being nosy. Very 'main character complex' of them, if you ask him.

Yet it worked in his favor. Their stubbornness and intrusive ways wormed a place in his stone-cold heart. It fueled his ego much to everyone's chagrin. Out of everyone - princes, busy bodies, future doctors and the literal fish mafia - you picked him. The noob cursed to lose all his 50/50s and rot in bluelight. Idia seriously questions your tastes, but hey! He beat the normies and that's all he cares about.

Well, at least that's how he phrases it. Underneath that god-tier ego is an inferiority complex that he tries to keep down for your benefit. Something about your mood dipping by 20% when he talks trash? He'd need Ortho to run another test on that. Just to be safe.

Unfortunately, he still can't reign it in all the way. Victories can be temporary and who's he to say that your relationship isn't a one-shot story? Nothing worthwhile is ever that simple. Good games always get sequels...so the question lingers, will he still be a main character in yours?

When Idia graduates, he fully expects for you to walk out of his life. He returns to S.T.Y.X and leaves NRC to fulfill his role back home. You have no reason to care about him when he's no longer nearby. Life isn't like an isekai manga. You won't wait for him - no, you'll get a taste for how life is without him and indulge. Slowly you'll stop texting him, calling him, playing games with him - well, he'll do it first! He refuses to be the second male lead that gets dumped when you finally find your prince. That's for chumps.

He'd rather you just up and leave this world! At least then he wouldn't be in this pitiful situation...but he's seen that crow's shitty work ethic. You're stuck.

Idia's scared to say the least. One could say that his self sabotage was in action before your relationship even began. Old habits die hard, and no one could stop his spiral. Not even Ortho. Idia left his little brother behind as well. The boy sent him off with a smile, promising to take good care of you in his big brother's stead. After all, you both were in the same year.

It's not surprising that he reverts to his old ways. A hard battle is even more difficult to win when you don't have the motivation to fight it in the first place. Idia loses his drive...and in turn his already negative outlook grows worse.

Needless to say, Idia ... neglects you.

Your relationship has always been more of an 80:20 than a 50:50 - with him taking more than he ever gave. You always set aside time and made sure he was comfortable. You respected his anxieties and dealt with his temper on more than one occasion. His jealousy. You indulged his hobbies, always tried to include him in on activities with your friends (even though he rarely ever accepted), wore your heart on your sleeve and always took the lead. You were always too good to be true.

Two years. Two years with him at S.T.Y.X and you at NRC. Not a day passed where you did not text him or call. Not a week passed where you did not video-chat or play a game with him. You made time. You checked in. Told him stories about your life an friends. Ortho often would send him recordings and clips as well. During vacations you'd make plans to see him and always invited him to come to campus for events. Even though he never accepted, you still always offered. Throughout it all he kept you at a distance, yet unable to fully let you go at the same time. He needed you to do it. He needed his inner thoughts to shut up and to have someone else to blame.

You. You. You. When would you stop? Why weren't you tired of him yet? On a good day he can be frustrating, so how were you not mad when he was physically trying to make you hate him? Were you waiting until graduation to drop the bomb on him that you'd leave for good? On another's arm or back to your world?

Imagine his surprise when neither happened. On the dawn after Ortho's graduation ceremony, Idia came out of his cave to greet him at the S.T.Y.X entrance. He would no longer be as lonely, and perhaps without Ortho around, you'd finally put distance between yourself and the Shroud family. All would be as it should.

He did not expect to see you at the gate as well. Ortho flew up to him with a bright grin and twirl in the air - babbling on and on about how he arranged for you to come work as a research assistant in the lab. After all, you had an extensive knowledge of blot as well as field experience. It was a win-win situation for the company and your relationship! You could now be a happy family! Isn't that just amazing?

"It was extremally difficult to keep this a surprise!...Brother?" Ortho halts mid-rant, his receptors going haywire, "Brother, your heartrate has increased and your temperature is dropping below stable levels. You must regulate your breathing pattern!"

White noise rang like television static in Idia's eardrum. He watched you thank one of the guards while handing off your suitcase. His pulse increased and mind went under water. How long had it been since you were together longterm? You looked different. More mature. Meanwhile he was still the same - physically and emotionally. Still the pasty shut-in with dark eyebags and energy drinks running through his veins instead of blood. He wasn't used to seeing you in person. How should he react? Should he hug you? Do you want him to? That's weird. He hasn't held you in a while - yeah, it would be creepy. Does he even deserve to? What made you want to work here anyways?! You could have gone anywhere. ANYWHERE. - Shit. You're looking this way. What should he do?! aHH! You're walking over!

He does what he knows best. Shuts down. You receive a disgraceful greeting. No affection. Not even a smile.

Idia's brow furrows at your approach and he buries his hands deep into the pockets of his lab-coat. When you lean in to kiss his cheek, he catches you by the forearms and holds you in place. "Since when were you going to work here? You do remember what S.T.Y.X is in charge of, right? Once you're in, there's no going back. Are you a masochist or something?" Ah. There goes the heartfelt reunion. Being home did bring out a more harsh and cut-throat side of him after all.

Despite his poor treatment, you don't react upset. Now the relationship has now become something of a 90 : 10. He knows you have no reason to come here other than for Ortho and himself. You really are an Otome protagonist, jeez. Willing to do all that for him? Giving up your future and friends just to be at his side...dammit. Don't give him hopes! Don't undo all the work he's put in to survive without you! Stop welcoming misfortune for his sake! You're stupid. Stupidstupidstupid .... man he loves that stupidity. Gods he missed it.

Shit. Not even an hour in and he's reverting.

You don't realize it but you're heading straight for a bad ending. He does though. He's read the guides and played more visual novels than he can count. As a pro, he needs to steer you off this villainy ending and towards the true route.

After all ... what was that one saying? Heroes will sacrifice you for the world, while Villans will sacrifice the world for you? He heard it from some normie bookworm...but it seems fitting right now.

Idia's no hero. He'll destroy his world if it means you get to be happy. Not that he had much of one to begin with. You...gave him a life beyond fiction while all he's offered is a curse. Literally and figuratively. Its time he returned what he so greedily stole. He'll make you move on through force.

The months are slow and difficult. Despite being nearby, Idia only ever seeks you out for work-related reasons. Even then he is very cold and dismissive . He also does not turn you away when you take the initiative. Just like old times, you linger around his room and prod him for attention. He wants you to leave, but also doesn't want to be cruel. So, he maintains this impassive position and lets you do whatever you please. Yet the situation is scarily similar to how you both were at NRC. Except instead of using his past as an excuse, he now uses your work dynamic to enable his noncommittal ways.

There really is only so much one person can take. After Idia left NRC, you pinned his switch in behavior on the lifestyle change and distance separating you both. You knew Idia would be someone you had to work hard for when you started to date, and so the situation was one you viewed as an obstacle to overcome. The solution was simple - you would go to S.T.Y.X and prove to him that you were willing to make it work. Without the physical distance, you hoped that he would let you in again. That you wouldn't have to hear reassurances from his brother anymore, and instead hear his feelings from his own mouth instead. Then you both could work out the details together in time. Seeing him reject you at first was discouraging, but you did not let it rest there. Perhaps he needed time and to get used to your presence in his home. After all, these were new waters. You would be patient. You would prove yourself capable.

Life becomes a time capsule. As the days went by, a bitter feeling grew in your stomach. Why wouldn't he laugh? Why wouldn't he look in your eyes anymore? Why is he retreating even further? What were you doing wrong? How could you fix it? Is it you? Your performance in the lab is outstanding according to your supervisors, and your work friends seem to find you agreeable enough. Can't he see that you've adjusted well and are happy here? There's nothing to worry about. How else can you prove yourself?

These thoughts plague your mind to an extend that Ortho felt the need to preform psychiatric evaluation. You dismissed his concerns with a long list of things about your new home that make you happy - including him. It pacifies his panic and somehow mitigates your own as well.

Until one fateful day, when you decided to take your lunch early and overheard a conversation between two senior S.T.Y.X employees

"Isn't the boss' partner kind of pitiful?" One technician spoke in a hush whisper, taking a bite from her salad, "He doesn't give them the time of day. I can't believe they've stuck around this long. Screw the job, I would have been out after the first week," "Shhh! Quit gossiping, it's bad. Especially about the one who pays our bills," The other scolds. "I know....but isn't it just sad. They're clearly being taken advantage of. I can't help but feel sorry" "It's not just you...to tell the truth, I had no clue Director Idia had a partner up until recently. If anything, I thought he disliked Assistant MC and kept them around for Director Ortho's sake. Imagine my shock..." They both snicker at the notion. "Yeah. I give them a few more months...maybe a year. Despite being smart in the lab, they clearly can't read the room:

It was the last straw. Like ice water being dunked over your head after a hot shower. The lunch pale in your grasp suddenly felt like it weighed ten times heavier, and a cold sweat dripped down your back. They were right. He didn't want you here. It was time to move on or else you'll just be living out an endless loop. Nothing has changed since your youth aside from the location. No matter how long you wait, no matter how much effort and time you offer ... the relationship is doomed to fail. You gave him everything...and it was time to stop waiting. To stop expecting and hoping. Time to accept reality.

Your lunch goes discarded in a nearby bin and your shift abandoned. You would not work another second for S.T.Y.X despite the facility not being the source of your anguish. Your shoes clack loudly against the tile flooring as you speed-walk to Idia's office, where he was lazily reviewing data on a recent experiment. His phone set off to the side with some automated gatcha daily playing.

You use your 'special' pass (curtesy of ortho) to get in. The metal door swings out as you march inside and turn off his screen without asking.

"H-h'-hey! What are you-" He shrieks and turns in his chair. "We need to talk" "Can't it wait until later? I'm busy working, if you can't tell" "No" Your tone is demanding. Definite. You all but yank the badge from around your neck and drop it in his lap. In that motion, he knew. Your eyes scrunch tight and teeth grind together. He was prepared for this. For you to lash out and yell at him for your suffering. Make him the bad guy in your story and finally beat the game for good. Not for you to deflate. Not for the glassy, disappointed stain on your eyes. Or the shallow breaths as you calm yourself - not letting your emotions frighten him like a spooked cat. "I'm quitting," "S.T.Y.X? You know you can't just quit. There's a process," He refutes, lazily pushing his chair back with an anxious fidget. "Not just S.T.Y.X...I'm quitting us. I can't do this anymore," "Oh. Alright. Let me get the paperwork," "Alright?" You whisper, gaping at him "...just alright? That's all you have to say to me? Not even 'why' ?" He pauses typing on a holographic keyboard, cocking an eyebrow at the question. "What? You want me to beg you to stay or something like that? We're not in an anime," His words die out at the end, and had it not been for your disbelief you would have caught the note of sadness in them, "you want to go? Then go. I warned you about this place" "No...you warned me about the facility. It's not the facility I have a problem with. I actually like it here" "So it's me then, huh? I warned you about that too," He grumbles and continues to type, "I'm not whatever it is that you saw in me. It's your fault for sticking it out this long. I knew this was how it would end from the start" A silence follows aside from the occasional noise from his computer. That's it. The nail in the coffin. You finally realized the truth. He was no good for you. He couldn't be 'fixed'. With an approving chime, he finally has all the departure paperwork pulled up for you to sign. "Alright. Sign these and I'll get you an escort," He holds out a tablet in pen without looking from his computer. You don't take it. "Hello? I said - " he turns to face you, irritated "....here" Silent tears stream down your cheeks and pool at the tip of your chin, dripping to the tile below. Wide eyes lock in his general direction. Your hands tremble slightly at your sides, as if your mind was thousands of miles away. His heart breaks. "You never even gave us a chance, did you?" He says nothing. "It wasn't about 'making it work' for you. It was always a matter of 'how long'. You've been waiting for me to leave you, all this time?" It wasn't a question. "All this time, I've been trying to prove myself. I've been thinking that I did something wrong...that I needed to be better" the word stings your tongue and seems to strike him, " but I was never even close to enough" we were never enough

With languid movements, you take the pen from him and sign the papers. You would not hide your sadness. Your grief. Your pain for a relationship that was never actually one. For a battle that only had one party fighting.

He lets you go, the metal door swinging shut and rattling him to his core. Idia's hands shake as he tries to return to his work. They tremble over the holographic keyboard, making his blue nails look like moving neon streaks in the air.

He had always thought you ere just being kind. That your self-sacrificing nature was natural, and that someone else was more deserving of it. He failed to consider the possibility that all the things you did...you did for him alone. You did out of the same anxieties and fears he felt.

In a way, you both were at fault. He led himself down a self-fulfilling prophecy - letting his anxieties and what-ifs become reality. And you? You thought everything could be fixed with time. With sacrifice. That eventually he would grow. You both were plants, one overwatered and the other left parched in the sun.

He did get one thing right. This was defiantly a bad end. Just not in the way he originally believed...

Somehow, life becomes worse than before you arrived at S.T.Y.X. At least when you were around, people did see him more out of his office or room. Seeing him revert to his previous ways without so much as an inkling of sadness for losing you....yeah, it did not look good. Worse than people not even knowing you were his partner at first. After your departure, rumors began to spread that you had finally snapped. The pity felt for you morphed into judgement towards his character. Others saw him as a heartless recluse, and the pity was extended to Ortho of all things. If Idia could toss out a loyal partner of years, what about the little robot? Perhaps despite all the gossip, the others at S.T.Y.X did not fully believe that he would let you leave so easily. That he wasn't as detached as the Shroud name dictates.

Little do they know that he's become a shadow of his former self. He can't even act self-depreciative. Pleasantries don't hit like they used to. Having you at a distance...well, was still considered as being with you. Now that you're never coming back, it's harder. Everything reminds him of you. Your favorite snacks are still stocked in the cafeteria, and there are blankets in his room that still have your scent. Occasionally a file will pop up with your work in it while he's doing reviews...and then there's Ortho. When you left, he was crushed. He pestered Idia for days - the security cameras giving him full knowledge of what happened. Yet no matter what the robot said about the situation, Idia didn't want to hear it. Eventually he took away Ortho's access data to his personal spaces.

That didn't stop the bot from talking through the door and spamming his brother's inboxes. Despite cutting off contact with his big brother, you still spoke to Ortho regularly. He refused to let his big brother lose all connection to you, and updated him on your well-being. Regardless of what Idia said, hearing about you made a difference. At first it increases his anxiety and drops his mood...but every time, like a scheduled delay, his serotonin levels will spike. Be it from a clip of your voice, a picture, or even just the mention of your name.

"Brother! I just finished a call with MC. Today they decided to adopt a cat! Would you like to see a picture?" His computer beeps with an incoming missive. Idia clicks it, and the screen displays a photo of you with a small white kitten in your arms. "They've decided to name it Grimm Jr. From what I heard, the predecessor was not pleased to be 'replaced,' as he calls it" Ortho laughs from the other side of the door, but Idia is too focused on the image on his screen. The curve in your smile and the way you gently cradle the kitten. You seem...happy. Much better than how he is doing. He fails to hear the door beep, granting access, neither the bot fly up next to him to look at the picture. "Big brother, why don't you apologize to MC? They would listen," Idia startles, clutching his chest as his hair flairs cherry red for a brief moment. He swivels in his chair and closes the image quickly. "I'm not apologizing for nothing. It's not like I miss them or anything. My life's great without having a normie relationship to manage" "Your body language suggests that you are lying" Ortho states, his eyes squinting cheekily. Idia hunches over, glaring at his keyboard and fiddling with his sleeves, "It's not like they'd want to see me anyways. I blew it. Only an idiot would forgive what I did," "That's not true! MC loves you!" Idia glares at him from the corner of his eye, "Yeah? They look pretty happy without me. They were miserable here" "Because you purposefully made them miserable! You are very smart brother, but even I understand emotions better than you and I am an artificial lifeform!" "Then what should I do, Ortho? Go beg them to take me back like some cringe sitcom?!" "Yes!" Idia blanches at the thought, but doesn't entirely dismiss it. Ortho glares holes into his head, causing Idia to shrink into his chair. "You are always afraid, brother. You lost them to your fears once...do you want to regret that? Are you really satisfied with pictures and stories? Why deny yourself wonderful things! We are not trapped anymore!"

Ortho leaves him with one piece of information - an apartment address. He sends it to all of Idia's emails and even somehow makes it the background of his tablet. He can't change it or take it off.

He stares at it long and hard. Searches the place up and even uses virtual reality to scope out the building. While perhaps a bit creepy...he hacks the security cameras and watches feed of you coming and going over the past moths. Some days you look perfectly well, and others you look worse for wear. If he went...would you even want to see him? Would you let him in? Kick him out? Is he willing to even try? What if you already moved on...no, Ortho wouldn't set him up for that if he knew you were happy with someone else.

Idia leaves S.T.Y.X for the first time in months. His request for leave shocks other employees. Yet he's gone the moment it's approved, afraid that he'll lose his edge if he thinks too long on it.

He finds himself at the door of a middle-class apartment in the Kingdom of Roses. Second floor, third door to the left, just like he memorized. He knows its yours from the ribbons tied on the doorknob, themed after one of your favorite animes. One he introduced to you...

In his hands is a small box of candies - a peace offering, just in case you want to kill him on sight.

His boney knuckles wrap around the doorknocker and thwack it three times. Sweat pools in his palms and he jolts away. The seconds like hours as his painted nails dig crescents into his palms. The door opens. "Hi, how can I -" You pause mid-sentence, your mouth going dry. Grimm Jr. snuggled in one of your arms while the other holds the door open, "I-idia?" "T-that's my name," He grimaces, looking anywhere but at you. "What are you doing here?" His tongue feels heavy and the tips of his hair fade to a pale orange. He studders and fumbles with the box of candies, holding them out to you with a grimace. "I wanted to see you...urk. I hope that's not weird! Can ... I come in?" You eye the box in thought, before reaching out to take it and opening the door further. It was a start.

You hear him out - through the stuttering and the self-depreciative comments that he hastily retracts. This isn't just about him. It's about you and everything else in-between. Shockingly enough, you agree to give him a second chance. It wasn't entirely his fault after all ... and you did still love him. Although now there are ground rules. You would not be returning to S.T.Y.X. You've finally created a stable home for yourself and have a life in this new city. You have a career, friends, and a life that doesn't include him. You need the individuality. You would no longer try to morph yourself for him or be placid. If he wanted to spend time with you, he would have to leave S.T.Y.X and come stay at your apartment. You would no longer be the one always reaching out, he would have to start showing initiative and making time for you. You would see how things progress from that point. He was not a child, and you would not beg for basic needs to be met anymore. Words would not be enough, you need actions. It was time for 50 : 50.

Weirdly enough, he agrees to all your rules without a single complaint. Not a normie comment or slang filled statement leaves his lips. He's still that nerdy dork you fell in love with at heart, but these 'normie' things? Well, Idia's accepted that he wants those things. As much as it is difficult for him to admit, they only grossed him out so much before because he always believed they were unattainable

He's true to his word. He calls you every day, first thing when he wakes up (in the late afternoon. He still is a hermit at heart). At first it made him anxious, and he'd hover over the contact for fifteen minutes before dialing. Yet it soon became easy, with his heart only beating fast from happiness. He takes the weekends off and comes to spend them at your apartments. Sometimes he brings Ortho and it becomes a sleepover with games - and at some point you start inviting your other heartslabyul friends from back in the day too. Eventually you do come around the compound again. It's awkward to say the least, considering how you left. Yet at the same time, it's a breath of fresh air. The others are shocked to see him out of his office, and he eats IN THE CAFETERIA. Woah. He calls you by your name and not 'assistant' when in public. Homie scares some people. That's what he does. He gives you a special watch for your anniversary. It's paired with on he has and solar powered, so you can contact him at any time. As a natural born worry-wart, he can't help but worry for your safety. Since watching the appartment CCTV is 'creepy,' he just asks that you wear the watch if you're going out anywhere. It won't die and with the click of a button he'll be alerted. In exchange, you can use it to contact him whenever you want. He'll always get back instantly since it might be an emergency. The watch is also directly linked to Ortho's system, so you can contact him as well. Who needs Cortana when you have Ortho?

For the first time, Idia feels secure in a relationship. He can't count Ortho since the boy is technically his creation. Ortho would always be there...and now? Idia's confident you will too.

Does that mean you should get married? Isn't that the next step in all this?

Well....shit (pleasant connotation)

He never would have tinkered with this idea before considering his 'family'. Who the hell in their right mind would marry a Shroud? A fool. Are you a fool? Maybe.

It's late evening on a Sunday night when you're both walking home together after hitting up a local diner for hearty eats. Wow. Look at him. On a date. So weird...pshh.

Idia walks at your side, forcing his pace to match yours. Not everyone is graced with his long stickman legs. His hands are buried deep in his hoodie and his posture is slightly slouched. Classic scary dog privilege for a nighttime walk - well, if his hair didn't scream valentine's day pink to the world. Although no one else has flaming hair other than the Shroud family, so he doubts anyone would interrupt.

You decide to take the long path home and through a nearby park. The night was still young for nightowls such as yourselves, and fresh air was always crisp at this hour.

Along that path you decide to stop at a cement bench by some vending machines and chill out for a bit. Despite having just ate, Idia gets you each a can of coffee.

He'd be leaving to go back to S.T.Y.X tomorrow. Like he does every Sunday. His gaze drifts to the watch on your wrist and thinks about adding some new features - maybe video chat? So he can see you throughout the day. He wonders what you'll be up to while he's stuck in the lab. Maybe you'll go shopping, or play a new game. Maybe you'll try out a new recipe or take Grimm Jr. out to play. He wishes he could see you during the week.

Ah. You're talking. He should probably tune in or you'll get mad at him. Why's it so hard to focus? He hasn't felt this uneasy in a while...

Why is he having these kinds of thoughts? It's weird.

"You okay? You seem a little spaced," You pull him from his thoughts, a concerned crease wrinkling your temple. "Eh. It's nothing. Just not looking forward to the week," he chuckles weakly. "I know that feeling. It's always a bummer when you dip. Not to sound clingy or anything" His golden hues spark for a moment, a pale pink dusting his cheeks as he whips his head to look at you.

"W-wait - really? I was just thinking the same thing...." "You were?" "Yeah. It's...kind of weird without you. Everything's emptier. Wow. That was pretty cringe. Sorry." He grimaces, internally screaming and knowing that this was going to replay when he tried to sleep later. You tilt your head at him, a slight frown on the cusp of your lip. Something tickles at his fingers and he looks down to see you lace your hand with his. "I miss you too," your words are soft. Genuine. He feels his neck grow hot, the pink glow radiating off him betraying him. Idia looks between your interlaced fingers and the drink in his hand. There...wouldn't ever be a 'right' time for this. Would there? You've waited long enough. He pulls his hand away and pops the soda tab off with deft hands.

"Hey..." he twiddles with the soda tab in his hands, "on a scale of 1-10, how are my odds of getting a yes?" "A 'yes' to what?" "To this, " he sighs through his nose, holding the tab out towards you with a shaking hand, "will you marry me?"

{A soda tab from canned coffee. Not the most charming offering, and it barely fits around your pinky finger. Yet, Idia's always been impulsive at his core. Had he not acted in the moment, he likely would have ran countless possibilities over and over in his mind. While not your forever ring, the tab will remain a sentimental piece}

{Idia is not a man with a keen eye fore jewelry - but he knows quality. Combine his eye for perfection with his craftsmanship and behold - a ring made from purified blot. The center gem is a piece of magestone in it's most refined state. The band is titanium and there are small sapphires along the molding. Since he would be wearing a matching band, Idia decided to keep the design simple. He prefers functionality over all. Yet he does want you to feel proud of his handiwork, so he includes vintage molding on your band only. He wears a smooth black band on his ring finger, and never removes it}

#twst #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst scenarios #twst imagines #twisted wonderland imagines #twisted wonderland scenarios #twst idia shroud #idia shroud x reader #idia shroud #twst idia #IM DEAD #THIS TOOK FOUR HOURS #I LEGIT WAS NOT PLANNING TO WRITE ALL THIS #MY HANDS

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drvscarlett · 4 months

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About You Series Masterlist

Pairing: Sebastian Vettel x Webber!Reader

Summary: Everyone knows about the history of Sebastian Vettel and Mark Webber. But there's a well kept story within the paddock about Sebastian Vettel and another Webber. This is that story.

Part 01:

Two strangers that seems to be drawn with each other aka the humble beginnings of Y/N Webber and Sebastian Vettel.

Part 02:

Its the first year that Sebastian moved to Red Bull, what could go wrong?

Part 03:

The one where Jenson Button is a shit stirrer.

Part 04:

Tensions on track and tensions off track are escalating one by one. Which one of them would be the first to crack?

Part 05:

It is clear that the Red Bull garage is picking a side between the two drivers but everyone's wondering what Y/N is up to.

Part 06:

Sebastian Vettel's first championships and a series of events that happened before that.

Part 07:

Mick and Jenson is ready to protect her all the time but Sebastian is willing to commit war crimes on track for her.

Part 08:

A turbulent family relationship that causes Sebastian to keep his feelings hidden (for the mean time).

Part 09:

A little perspective about the thoughts of other people when it comes to their slowburn relationship.

Part 10:

its been a long time coming. lets enjoy the calm before the storm.

Part 10.5

The storm has arrived in the form of Multi21

Part 11:

Sometimes we make mistakes and we can say sorry. Most of the times, mistakes cannot simply be corrected by an apology.

Part 12:

selfless decisions and selfish decisions makes everything peaceful or complicated?

Part 13:

sometimes we have just to enjoy and live the moments we are in right now. we never know what will happen next.

Part 14

should we talk about things or should we leave things as it is, aka the consequences of the truth

Part 15

break-ups happen everyday you don't have to lose it. can anybody move on from this?

Part 16

and i promise to be there with you through good or bad or as long as you'll have me around.

Part 17

can anybody please change the prophecy?

Part 18

Part 19

Part 20

[ A/N: Finally created a general masterlist for the About You series. I have plotted it already and we will be having 20 chapters in grand total. Let me know if you want to be tagged for this fic ]

#about you series #sebastian vettel x reader #sebastian vettel imagine #sebastian vettel angst #sebastian vettel fluff #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic

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owliellder · 1 year

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Two's A Crowd

College Bully! Leon Kennedy x fem! Reader

MDNI 18+

(Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5)

Description: College is proving to be a lot harder than you imagined. You cannot fail this math class. So when you've tried everything else, a well-known student is recommended to you by your professor for tutoring lessons, not really leaving you with much of a choice but to work with him.

Warnings: Not proofread, No Use of Y/N, Dub-Con, Unprotected Sex, Bullying, Yelling, Cursing

Tags: College AU, Bully! Leon, Shy! Reader, both are in their early 20's, Leon is Rude AF in the beginning, Loss of Virginity, Oral Sex, Fingering, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Additional Tags to be Added

Author's Note: Yay!! New multi-chapter fic in honor of 800 followers!!

I'm a sucker for tropes and mean Leon is one I can't keep out of my head. If you're not good at math then this is the fic for you! (also don't mind me slipping some Sky lore in here...)

Cross-posted onto AO3

Chapter 1

Growing up, college had always been a big dream of yours, leaving you fantasizing day in and out about all the possibilities that would open up, along with actually getting to live through the renowned “college experience”.

In reality, college was a lot harder than you were expecting. Your parents had told you to jump right into it after high school, fearing taking a gap year would ruin your good streak. The stress was starting to get to you and it was only a semester into your freshman year. All the tests, projects, and general studying really wore down on your mental health, not to mention you were failing the one math class you had.

You couldn’t tell your parents, no, they’d probably have a heart attack, especially since that math class was a prerequisite to another class that you needed to take. They were already worried enough that you hadn’t picked a major yet, so who knows how they’d take the news that you were failing right off the bat.

It was hard enough that you were feeling homesick. This was the first time you’d ever been this far away from home, studying at a university when you would’ve been perfectly content going to a community college closer to home. Your roommate was nice, but the two of you weren’t growing any closer than mere acquaintances, so it always felt awkward to just exist in your own dorm room.

Your eating habits worsened with the lack of any real food within five miles of campus. Sure there were a couple fast food chains on the campus itself, but they closed incredibly early. By the time you finished studying, which was around six in the evening, it had already closed. Not to mention that when they were open, the lines were comically long. University food was out of the question after you got violently ill from their “chicken nuggets”, so you were left with the little money your parents provided once a week to order takeout or make quick trips to the store to buy a frozen meal. Only one, since the mini fridge in your dorm was almost always occupied by your roommates stuff.

Everything was so exhausting and you were way out of your comfort zone having to use the community bathrooms for all your hygienic routines. Walking in always made you feel like you were interrupting a meeting in the president’s oval office with how many nasty looks you were given when all you were trying to do was brush your teeth.

The first thing you saw whenever you opened up Canvas was a massive F staring you down from the little box that comprised the majority of your math assignments and tests, making you feel less than worthless. This one semester alone helped you understand why so many people dropped out, this was hard.

By now you’d already gone to your math professor multiple times asking for redos or extra credit work. He was probably sick of seeing you since you showed up after almost every single assignment’s grades were submitted.

“Heeeyyy, Mr. Lebovic..” You said after knocking your knuckle against his open door to grab his attention. “Listen, about that last quiz, I-”

He cut you off with a wave of his hand before gesturing towards one of the chairs sitting in front of his desk. You hurried to sit down, watching nervously as he slowly pulled his eyes off his computer and onto you. “I get it, you don’t need to explain yourself.” His relaxed tone and faint smile was enough to ease your nerves a bit, letting your shoulders slump with a sigh. “You’ve been trying really hard, I can easily recognize that.”

You nodded eagerly, licking your dry lips as you opened your mouth to speak, only to be cut off again. “I’ve been looking into studying options that might help you. Resources are scarce for this material, but I think I finally have a tutor to help you out.”

A wave of relief washed over you at the mention of tutor. Maybe you wouldn’t have to face the wrath of your parent’s disappointment after all! “Oh.. o-okay…” you stuttered, eyebrows furrowing as you silently beckoned him to continue.

“I teach another math class, it’s higher level, but I have a student in there that’s just taken up tutoring the material you’re learning.” Your professor seemed just as happy as you were about the opportunity. “His name is Leon Kennedy, he’s got one of the study rooms in the library from three to five in the afternoon on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.”

It took you a second to process everything Mr. Lebovic was telling you before you scrambled to pull out a sticky note and a pen to write all the information down on. You heard the older man chuckle softly, looking over at him when he held out a small piece of paper to you. “I wrote it down already for you, don’t worry.” You wished you could’ve thanked him tenfold, but his office hours were closed for the day now, so you said a quick goodbye and hurried back to your dorm, holding onto the piece of paper like a lifeline.

Contrary to what your math professor thinks, you knew the name “Leon Kennedy”. You had a couple friends that you hung out with occasionally out in the grass in front of the science building and they’d brought him up before. The few vague bits of info that you’d heard weren’t flattering, painting this Leon in quite a bad light; the stereotypical jock in a frat flying by on a full-ride scholarship. However, he was your saving grace now and you needed to develop more of an unbiased opinion of him if he was going to help you raise your grade from an F.

“Yeesh, sorry I’m not better at math or I would’ve helped you.” One of your friends, Sky, spoke up as they read the piece of paper your professor gave you yesterday from over your shoulder. “Even if you were better at math, I still wouldn’t trust you.” Ella, your other friend, laughed out.

“Ha ha, yeah, Sky failed math four times. Big whoop.” Sky waved their hands dramatically before walking over to sit down next to Ella in the dead grass. “Seriously though, you’re better off taking a failing grade and dealing with your parents. Kennedy is the devil incarnate.”

“The devil incarnate sounds easier to put up with than my parents, so I’ll take my chances..” You grumbled, taking a seat on a medium-sized rock close to the pair. “Maybe he’s turning a new leaf? Deciding to tutor?”

Sky crossed her arms and rolled her eyes which made Ella elbow them in the side before giving you a sympathetic smile. “Maybe so, but please just be careful. I don’t want you having to put up with some jackass that has an ego bigger than Texas.”

You nodded with a slight frown, moving your foot side to side lazily to push the grass blades around. You didn’t even think to consider the repercussions of studying with some random junior. “I’m sure it’ll be alright. Besides, just tell Sky and I if he’s giving you any trouble. I know damn well no man likes to put up with two women yelling in his face.” Sky nodded and pointed to Ella for added dramatics. “Yeah, and I bite. My top six teeth are porcelain so that shit hurts. Trust me.”

Your friends never failed to make you laugh, a slight resolve in a pool full of worries, you suppose. “Don’t worry, you guys’ll be the first to know if Leon is mean.”

“Good. Now, when’re you gonna go see the guy?” Sky rested their arms on their knees before looking up at you. “Uh.. in a couple hours I guess. I already made the appointment.” Your response seemed to surprise both of your friends, giving them a confused look in response to their shocked ones. “Is that.. Is that not a good time?”

“No no, just.. I thought you would’ve maybe taken a little longer to go and see him.” Ella shrugged, reaching a hand up to scratch behind their neck. “Proud of you, taking the initiative like that.” She then looked at her phone before pulling herself off the ground with a small groan. “I got class in a couple minutes. Good luck with the frat boy.”

She patted your shoulder as she walked off towards the larger building on campus, leaving you and Sky alone for the rest of the time. Part of you wished both of your friends could walk you to the library when the time came, but having Sky was enough. “So.. Leon’s bad bad?” You needed a bit more clarification on the guy you were going to spend one-on-one time with, something to calm you down after running through countless scenarios in your head.

“He’s not all bad, 'least I don't think. I’ve exchanged a few ‘hello’s’ and ‘excuse me’s’ with him here and there since we apparently frequent the same building.” Sky scooted over to the rock you were sitting on, placing the back of their head on your legs. A couple brown leaves blew over from a nearby tree which they grabbed and crunched with their hand. “I haven’t personally experienced any bad happenings around him, but he is part of a pretty notoriously rowdy frat, so you have to promise me that you’ll only study with him on campus and never go to that frat house or any frat house in general, alright?”

Sky pointed up at you, poking the underside of your chin which made you laugh again and swat their hand away. “As much as I rave about wanting to have the stereotypical college experience, going to a frat house was never part of my daydreaming.”

“Good. Keep it that way.” They switched their fingers to give you a quick thumbs up before letting their arm flop down into their lap, eyes closing with a sigh. “Anyways, besides all that, wanna go get some food? I don’t have another class today and you’ve got about an hour and a half to spare, so actually you have no choice. Get up.”

You stood up with a shake of your head once Sky pushed off of your legs who stood up as well with a small stretch. “Don’t burn me at the stake, but I kinda want grocery store sushi. I’m feeling lucky.”

“Please don’t.” You sighed, pocketing the piece of paper before beginning to follow behind Sky as they started to walk across the grass.

After the two of you shared a sandwich from some random shop not too far off campus, Sky walked with you up to the library, stopping just before the front desk. They agreed to not wander in with you under the condition that you’ll go to their dorm straight after to discuss details.

To say you were nervous was an understatement. Most of what you heard about this guy meant he was bad news, though you really didn’t have much of a choice when it came to seeing him. Like your math professor said, there weren’t a lot of options when it came to studying the material you were learning. Sure you had the internet and other students in the class, but you preferred the idea of a tutor since you’d already exhausted yourself trying to follow along with various youtube videos. You needed the in-person teaching, it just stuck better in your head that way.

Slowly starting to walk, you made your way over to the study rooms lining the back of the library. The rooms seemed pretty private with the only window being on the door, which had glass nearly top to bottom. Thankfully the rooms were numbered and Leon had texted you which room to go to when you made the appointment with him, you had no idea what he looked like and you didn’t want to look like a creep eyeballing people through the door until you hopefully found the right person.

Standing off to the side, you could see the number you were looking for sitting above the door, taking a brief moment to collect yourself and hype yourself up to talk to someone who didn’t have the greatest reputation. Set aside everything you’ve heard and just hope for the best..

You took in a deep breath as you strode over to the door, glancing inside through the window before knocking to let him know you were there. The table was angled off more to the left so you didn’t immediately see him until he leaned over the table to see who had knocked. Confidence left you as soon as you made eye contact with Leon due to the groan you could hear through the door. It took you a couple seconds, but you eventually managed to get your body to work with you, hand turning the handle to let yourself in.

“-the last thing I need..” You caught the end of his little rant to himself as you opened the door. The saying “fake it ‘till you make it” is harder than it sounds since your entire body decided to betray you, deciding that shrinking in was the best move. Quietly, you shuffled over to sit across from him at the table, placing your backpack in your lap in some weird way to provide comfort in this situation.

“You weren’t supposed to show up.” Leon grumbled, sitting far back in the tilted chair as his feet lifted the front end of the chair slightly. His arms were crossed and he was giving you probably the nastiest look you’ve ever seen, next to your parents, of course. All you did was sit there giving him a blank stare. It was obvious what he’d said, yet the sheer forwardness of that snide comment had you more than confused. “What?-”

“You weren’t supposed to show up.” Apparently he felt the need to repeat himself with some added bite, barely letting you get a word in. “No one ever shows up to these shitty tutor- whatever the fucks.”

Wow. Okay. “Uh..” You didn’t even know what to say to that. It completely caught you off guard. You’d run through countless ways this interaction would go in your head, but this wasn’t one of those ways. The two of you sat in a very tense silence with Leon just glaring at you from across the table, continuing to rock back and forth in the chair.

Without uncrossing his arms, Leon lifted a hand and waved it around slightly while shaking his head. “Are you actually still gonna sit here orrr…?” The sound of his voice finally snapped you out of shock, causing you to shoot your gaze down to your backpack, fumbling with its partially broken zipper. “I-.. Mr. Lebovic recommended you..?”

You pulled out a few of your failed assignments from your bag before setting them down on the table with shaky hands, keeping your eyes glued to the papers to avoid that burning stare the man in front of you has. “I need-.. I need help..?”

“Do you?” Leon let the chair fall forward, his sarcastic tone starting to make your whole body tremble. “You don’t sound like you do.” He snatched one of your assignments from the table and held it up, pursing his lips as he studied the various red marks made on it closely. You chose to not respond to that, letting your hands rest on top of your backpack so you had something to squeeze.

He turned the page around, the sound of the paper wobbling the only thing you could hear right after the sound of the central heat blowing through the vent in the room. Suddenly, Leon started chuckling to himself, shaking his head incredulously as he flipped the paper back and forth a couple times before letting it fall back to the table. “This is terrible!” His laugh grew louder as he tilted his body to the side to pull out his phone, taking a picture of the assignments you’d put on the table.

How on earth were you supposed to react to that other than just sitting quietly? He was actually making fun of you right to your face. Hell, he might as well point and laugh if he’s going to be this brasen.

The most you could muster up was a quiet yet high-pitched “... huh?” in response to him. This whole ordeal was spiraling a little too fast for you to keep up with. You were expecting to put up with some grown man with a bratty attitude or even just a very uninterested, not all there jock with how Leon’s been described to you, not blatant bullying.

“Huh?” He mocked, taking one last look at his phone while loudly sucking on his teeth before pocketing it again. “Anyways, this is actually sad. How are you managing to fuck simple math up like this?” He roughly grabbed all the papers on the table and stacked them before partially tossing them back at you, some slipping onto the floor. “You’re too far gone, even I can’t fix that.”

You let out a gasp when the papers were tossed at your face, scrambling to catch some of them. Pushing the chair back, you leaned over to grab the few that fell on the floor, desperately holding back tears. “Please, you don’t understand.” You pleaded, voice cracking as you tried your best not to start crying in front of him. “I-I need to pass this class. I’m passing everything else, I just can’t keep up with this one!” You were speed-talking to try and argue your case, sitting back up with the small pile of papers that you struggled to stack properly.

Leon started rocking back in his chair again, arms back across his chest as he watched you with squinted eyes. The corners of his lips soon turned up into a smirk, taking in your sorry state before rolling his eyes with a dramatic groan. “Alright, alright, stop whining, jesus..” He cleared his throat, letting his head fall over the back of the chair. “I’ll help you only because I feel bad for you.” It’s not like he was going to admit that he was being forced to be a tutor, no one needs leverage over him like that

You couldn’t help but give a small smile despite his implication. It was a start. “And I’m not gonna do it today, either.” Well, the sooner the better, but still, it’s a start.

He then stood up from the chair, fixing his jacket with a sigh. “If you show up even a minute late on Friday, I’m not helping” and before you even had a chance to reply, he walked out of the room, the door shutting with a slam which made you flinch. Luckily, you were a very punctual person when it came to this kind of stuff. This was important, so if you had to show up early, so be it. You hurriedly shoved your assignments back into your backpack, not even fully zipping it up before rushing out of the study room, back through the library, and to the dorms.

“He said that?!” Sky yelled, quickly wiping their hand over their mouth to quiet themself once you shushed them. “I don’t really feel comfortable with you going to another ‘study session’ with that guy if he’s just gonna bully you.”

“I wouldn’t call it bullying-”

“He was bullying you.”

“OKAY! So what if he was?!” You fell back onto Sky’s bed with a sigh, arms splayed out with your legs dangling off the side. “I can handle it. As long as I get my grade up, who cares?”

Sky sat down next to you on their bed, giving you a sad look as you sat yourself up with your elbows. “I care. So does Ella. You shouldn’t put up with that just for a grade. I’m sure if you explain to your professor and-”

“And what? Tell him that I’m a grown woman getting bullied over something I should know by now?” You sat yourself up fully now, leaning forward to place your elbows on your thighs as your head rested in your hands. “It’s only until finals are over and we’re already halfway through October. Maybe I won’t even need that much time, maybe I’m just missing one simple… math move and it’ll get the gears in my brain moving again.”

You tilted your head to the side to look at Sky, head now resting only in your right hand as you took in their annoyed look. “Trust me. I can handle this.”

“If you say so.” They ran their fingers through her hair before looking away from you, directing their attention forward to stare off at nothing. “Just remember that I bite and I’m not afraid to use my fake chompers on that no good-”

“I don’t wanna think about escalations right now, but thank you.” You chuckled, playfully nudging Sky with your free hand before moving it back to hold your head up with the other. Though you were trying to convince Sky on this, you were mostly just trying to convince yourself that you could handle this. Handle Leon and his.. alluring charm..

Only until finals, maybe even sooner.

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jjngkook7 · 6 months

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Choices (7)

Werewolf Au! Jungkook x Reader / Enemies to Lovers [Angst and mature content. Not smut but almost smut.]

Summary: Jungkook finally found her. His mate. His lifelong partner. But she’s a human. Does he have to stay with her or can he stick it to whatever and whoever binds mates together and make his own decision?

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6

You groaned as you finally shut off your alarm. After hitting the snooze button four times, you only had 30 minutes to get ready for work. As you dragged yourself out of bed and into your washroom, you thought about your dream last night. It was still a nightmare but not as gruesome as it usually was. Entering your washroom, you grimaced at the person staring back at you in the mirror. Your eyebags were heavy and your skin flat and colorless. Due to your inability to get up on time, you could only afford to wash your face and brush your hair if you wanted to at least have a coffee before work. Oh, the joys of Monday’s.

It seemed like your morning really set a precedent on how the rest of your day was going to be. You were 15 minutes late to work because of traffic, you forgot about a meeting that you set up and lunch was a bag of chips because you forgot your wallet at home. Needing to leave the chaos of the office, you decided to eat your sad lunch at a park. You ignored how cold your bottom was getting against the park bench as you watched the people around you go about their day.

“Rough day at the office?” an all too familiar voice asked.

You looked up and locked eyes with Jungkook. Great, now I'm hallucinating. If having visions of Jungkook wasn’t bad enough already, he looked better than you remembered. His hair was a little longer now and his eyes bright amber.

“Hello?” Jungkook waved his hand in front of you.

You reached out and grabbed his hand. A jolt of electricity shoots through you.

“Oh you are real…oh my god! You’re-what are you doing here?!” it felt like you had just went through all five stages of grief in a nanosecond.

Jungkook watched in real time as the sleep vanishes from your eyes. He waits for you to collect yourself before taking a seat next to you on the bench. His body shivered not from the cold but from the sudden energy radiating between both of you. After being away for so long, he forgot just how strong the pull of a mate was.

“Aren't you cold?” you asked bewildered by how he was only in a long sleeve and jeans.

Jungkook wanted to laugh. He knew you were probably freezing from how pale your fingers were. He also noticed the tiredness on your face and wondered if you had been sleeping at all.

“How long do you have left for your lunch break?” he asked, ignoring your question.

“20 minutes.” you replied.

Jungkook nods and quickly tried to figure out how to tell you that your life was in danger and that the only way to save you was to live with him for a bit and let him mark you.

“I think we’re going to need more than 20 minutes,” he says.

Jungkook was able to explain the situation to you within 20 minutes, leaving out the part where he had to mark you. The argument that happened afterwards lasted 30 minutes. You couldn’t just move to the mountains when you had a job to show up to and who was going to pay rent for the unit you were already living in? In the same breath, Jungkook explained that it was dangerous to live so close to civilization in case there was an attack and shared how much he didn’t want to live with you.

“Do you not hear the absurdity of what you’re asking me to do?” you argued.

“Do you think I want to do this?” Jungkook sneered.

“Then don’t!” you exclaimed.

“Fine!” he shouted, matching the volume of your voice.

“Fine!” you shouted back before marching back to your office, your bag of chips forgotten on the bench.

__________________________________

Jungkook adjusted his cap as he waited for you to leave your house. He rolled his eyes when he heard your alarm ring for the third time signifying that you had no intention of getting up. You’re going to be late again idiot.

After your guys’ encounter at the park, Namjoon reamed Jungkook out for being stubborn and doing the exact opposite of what he was supposed to do. They came up with a compromise that Jungkook hated even more than the original plan. Night and day, Jungkook would essentially watch you from afar in case a rogue decided to attack. He’d follow you to work, to the grocery store and home. At night, Jungkook would make rounds around your neighborhood until late and then head back to his own home before repeating it all again the next day. Before he knew it, Jungkook's life revolved around you now.

“One more snooze and you would’ve been screwed.” Jungkook grinned when you opened the door.

Biting your tongue, you locked the front door before making your way past him. You were already running on a couple hours of sleep and seeing Jungkook’s shit eating grin this early in the morning made you want to scream. Unbeknownst to Jungkook, your sleep schedule had gotten worse now that you knew your life was at risk. If you were lucky, you’d only wake up twice in the night. Despite the lack of privacy, knowing that Jungkook was around just in case anything happened did give you some sort of reassurance. You’d never admit it to anyone, but you kind of liked having him around. Sure, he’d make your anger spike anytime he spoke but his presence added some excitement to your daily mundane routine. When you were out and about, you’d try to spot him in a crowd like a game of “Where’s Waldo”. It was getting harder for Jungkook to hide his amusement anytime you would find him because when you did, you’d stick out your tongue at him. He did noticed that you continued to look more and more tired than before. He had wondered what was causing you so much stress but pushed the thought away because that wasn’t part of the job description.

As you stood in front of your office building, you turned your head to see where Jungkook was. Scanning through the crowd of people on their way to work, you finally locked eyes with him and inhaled sharply. It was always a sensation overload whenever you looked at him because his amber eyes would pierce right through you. After the initial shock, a smile crept onto your face. Jungkook was trying to keep a low profile with his all black outfit and baseball cap but he didn’t realize how much he stood out like a sore thumb. Everyone bustling through were clad in thick winter coats and layers upon layers just to keep warm yet there he was standing at the end of the block with nothing but a black flannel button up and jeans. With one more glance, you made your way into your building excited to see him again later. Once you were out of sight, Jungkook immediately made a quick dash back to your house. Last night, Jungkook picked up the faintest scent of a rogue, but this morning the smell strong and near.

As he approached your home, he slowed down and tried to process what he was smelling and sensing carefully. Fortunately, he only picked up the scent of one rogue but the claw marks on the side of your house and fresh tracks in the snow meant that Jungkook was a little too late.

Usually, Jungkook kept his distance when he would follow you around but something must’ve happened between the morning and now because he was walking right beside you. It wasn’t the brushing of your bodies when you bumped into each other that formed the butterflies in your stomach but his hand on your lower back leading you home that did it. Jungkook kept you almost right up against him and you felt embarrassed for relishing in both his touch and smell. It was concerning how much you didn’t care about your safety when being this close to him felt so good. On the flipside, Jungkook could not afford to have his attention waver for even a second. He had to somehow cut through all the sounds and smells of the city just to pick up a stray whiff of any rogues. Jungkook was glad to have his attention focused elsewhere than on how your body was reacting to him. If he thought about it too much, his ego would grow too large for him to handle. You were usually so difficult to deal with and so stubborn but all he had was one hand on your lower back and you were compliant to his every word. Would you still be such a pain in the ass if you were under him? Could you possibly talk back if you were writhing from his touch? And what could you possibly say when he’s shoved down your throat?

“Do not open the door unless it’s me.” Jungkook ordered before pushing you into your house and slamming the door shut.

You take a moment to calm your heart. All you could think about was how his hand eventually wrapped around your waist and how strong his grip was. Once the high wore off, you dragged yourself upstairs to get ready for your night feeling less scared than you should. If Jungkook could muster through his hatred for you to keep you safe on the way home, you knew that you were in good hands.

You stirred awake and checked the time on your phone. 2:05am. You plopped your head back onto your pillow and tried to get back to sleep. You tried to still your mind but the heavy pitter patter against your window made it hard to do. Guess I'm awake now. Luckily, you didn't have work tomorrow so you and your insomnia could be friends for a night. You sat up and ran a hand through your hair as you stared out the window. You wondered if Jungkook was still outside or if he went home. If he was still here, he'd be soaked to the bone. Do werewolves catch colds? Putting on your slippers, you made your way to the front door and opened it. You scanned the driveway and sidewalk but with how heavy the rain was falling, it was hard to see. You took a step outside to see if he was around the corner but before you could turn your head, Jungkook himself appeared from the other side of where you were looking.

"I thought I told you not to open this door." he sighed annoyingly.

You felt your throat go dry when you saw him. He was dripping from head to toe and you envied the way his shirt clung onto his body.

"It's raining really hard and I didn't know if you were still outside." you said after prying your eyes away from his body.

"I told you to keep the door closed unless it's for me." he argued.

"Yeah well it is for you because I wanted to check up on you, god." you bite back. Jungkook had such a sour attitude but he truly was such a sight for your sore tired eyes.

You look over his shoulder and see that the rain was pouring even harder with no plans to stop. Had he just been patrolling your place since you finished work? Supernatural or not, Jungkook shouldn't be standing around in this weather.

"You should come in and rest." you said, after much consideration.

Jungkook immediately shook his head and backed away from you, "Why would I do that?"

"Because you're soaking wet! And besides, you've been roaming around for hours and if my neighbours get suspicious they might call the cops." you challenged.

Jungkook falls silent and you see his eyes shift from side to side, trying to look for something that wasn't there.

"Jungkook you've been out here since I got home. Whatever's out there would've gotten you by now. Please, just come inside and dry off for a little bit," you plead, "I won't be able to sleep knowing you're just out in the rain for no reason."

I'm out here for you. You're the fucking reason. Jungkook chewed the inside of his cheeks in thought. The invitation was tempting. He was absolutely exhausted and after staring at the dark day in and day out, his mind was starting to play tricks on him. Protecting you was one thing but his pride was bruised. All he did for the past few hours was ruminate on how he didn't see or smell the rogue. He wanted to crush the thing and kill it with his bare hands to make up for his inattentiveness, but he was tired. You took his silence as compliance and stepped aside so he could come in. Before Jungkook could mentally brace himself, the overwhelming smell of you sent his senses into overdrive. He placed a hand against the wall and took deep breaths. Every time he inhaled, it felt like his brain was going to pop out of his skull. The lights were too bright, the sound of the rain too loud and your scent was so strong he could almost taste you.

"Are you okay...?" you asked as you slowly closed the door.

Jungkook's back and the tension throughout his body brought you back to when you found him in that abandoned shed. You mentally cursed wondering if tonight was going to be another repeat. To your surprise, Jungkook managed to compose himself and turned around to face you. From how his usual amber eyes were now maroon, you knew he still wasn't quite back.

"W-where is your washroom? I'm going to clean up." he asked, his voice strained.

You direct him to your washroom and watch as he staggered away. When you heard the sink turn on, you quickly ran to your room to grab what you could to prepare the sofa for him. As you searched through your closet for an extra blanket, it quickly dawned on you that Jungkook was in your house and was going to stay the night. Suddenly, you were hyper aware of all the embarrassing things you owned. When you finally found your extra blanket, you suppressed a groan at the Sanrio characters decorating the duvet. He's here to rest not judge your choice of home decor. You grab a pillow from your bed and made your way back to the living room. As you were setting up the couch, you noticed the mess of cups and candy wrappers on the coffee table. If you knew that you would house a werewolf that was supposedly your soulmate, you would've cleaned up a bit more. Pushing the thought away, you made your way towards the bathroom where Jungkook hadn't made a sound. He's not dead is he? You took a deep breath before bravely poking your head through the door to check on him. The sight before you literally stole the inhale you had just taken away. You had imagined Jungkook shirtless many times before but your imagination was truly nothing compared to what he looked like in real life. Jungkook was leaned over the sink, his wet shirt by his feet as he wiped his chest with your towel with one hand. Every time he brushed his hand against his body, the muscles in his arms flexed. The raindrops cascading down the curves of his shoulder blades and back polluted your mind with lewd scenarios.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer." Jungkook scoffed.

You mumbled a pathetic apology as your eyes continued trailing down his body. The deep gash on his arm reeled you out of your perverted psyche. Without thinking, you quickly approached him and inspected his wound.

"Jungkook, you need to go to the hospital." you gasp at how torn up his arm looked.

"Please." Jungkook almost laughed.

You shoot him a look and push him aside to grab the first aid kit under the sink. Jungkook watched in amusement as you rummaged through your kit to find something to treat his wound. You seemed to forget that he was not of this world. This injury would heal in a week and a bandaid was not going to help.

"Give me you arm." you demanded setting a tube of polysporin and bandage wraps on the counter.

Jungkook raised his brow, "Are you going to make me a bowl of chicken noodle soup and put on my favourite cartoon as well?"

How this asshole was your soulmate was beyond you by how quickly he was able to bring you to anger within seconds. Jungkook could hate you all he wanted, but he didn't have to make you feel useless while doing so. For the past week and a half, he was literally supervising you like you were a child and it made you feel so foolish.

"Can you just let me do something for once? Just let me-" you exhaled with closed eyes, "let me feel like I'm helping for once."

Jungkook let out a sarcastic "ok" and surrendered his arm to you. You unscrewed the cap from the polysporin and wanted to kick yourself for dropping it during the process. It was really hard to focus when he was staring at you in his shirtless glory. Ignoring the fallen cap, you pushed out the ointment onto your finger and reached for his arm. The jolt you usually received whenever you guys touched made you flinch.

"You're okay." Jungkook encouraged after feeling the power from the shock himself.

Biting your lower lip, you gently grabbed his arm again and waited a few seconds for the sensation to pass before rubbing the medicine onto his cut. Jungkook watched are you carefully tended to him. In his absorption of your actions, he couldn't feel the corner of his lip turning upwards and the silencing of his mind. All he could hear was your breathing and if he focused a little more, the fluttering of your eyelashes as you blinked. It was endearing watching you meticulously layer the bandage perfectly on his arm. The treatment you were giving Jungkook was going to do absolutely nothing for him besides make him itchy. His species didn't heal like humans. They were able to heal on their own and if they were mated, their healing time was even quicker. You released the bite you had on your lower lip once you successfully wrapped him up.

"I'll let you do your own thing now," you laughed awkwardly stepping away from him, "There are extra towels under the sink and the sofa is all set up for you."

Jungkook holds your eyes for a few seconds and you see that they're back to their usual amber colour.

"Goodnight," he nods.

"Goodnight," you repeat before retreating back to your room.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you slept through the night.

You woke up a lot earlier than you intended to but you felt refreshed. You didn't have any nightmares, in fact, you didn't dream at all. You graciously welcomed the daylight that usually disturbed your already horrible sleep shining through your window. As you put on your slippers, the butterflies in your stomach swarmed when you remembered that Jungkook had slept over. You sat on the edge of your bed and slapped your cheeks from how hard you were grinning. He was probably gone by now but you were going to spend the whole weekend replaying last night in privacy. You giddily swing your bedroom door open and immediately froze. You held your breath and didn't move a single muscle as to not wake the sleeping Jungkook on your couch. After an agonizing minute, you quietly approached him with pursed lips. He was sound asleep with his mouth slightly agape. When Jungkook wasn't speaking or awake in general, he sure looked like an angel. The skittish grin you had on earlier crept back at the sight of him all curled up in your Sanrio blanket. Jungkook rarely let his guard down yet here he was sleeping so peacefully in your home. He had to ability to hear a pin drop in a crowded room so judging by how he didn't wake up from the slight noises you made, poor guy was probably drained. You desperately fought the desire to brush his bangs away from his eyes and left to go wash up instead.

You rolled your eyes when you see the bandage you so caringly put on Jungkook last night in the garbage next to your toilet. You couldn't at least flush it down or hide it? Ass. Still, he let you tend to him and that was good enough for you. Jungkook was still asleep by the time you finished your morning routine. You crept back into your room and decided to clean up. You had completely ignored the state of your home with the little sleep you were getting every night. You looked over to your laundry basket by the window that had been taunting you for weeks and decided to finally tackle it. Sitting down in front of it, you began to sort your white and coloured clothes. As you thought about the things you wanted to get done today, you began to feel excited about the prospect of having a productive weekend when your bedroom door suddenly swung open, the hinges breaking in the process. A frantic looking Jungkook entered followed by a curse when he saw where you positioned.

"Get behind me right now!" he shouted.

Your body and brain freezes from the sudden shock, "W-what?"

"Can you fucking listen to me for once and just-"

Your bedroom window shatters and a black mass breaks through. A scream emits from you when the rogue snaps at your arms. You scramble backwards as the creature attempts to wedge its body through the fracture it created. If you were any closer, you would've been a goner. The absolute depravity of the monster fills your entire body up with fear as flashbacks from the first time you ever encountered a rogue replay in your mind. You couldn't feel your legs and all you could do was scramble back as far as you could go. Tears immediately flood your eyes when the creature snarls and breaks free of the glass that was holding it back. There was absolutely nothing you could do as the creature lunges towards you, the smile it has on it's face seared into your brain. Another scream escapes from you as Jungkook grabs its neck and slams it onto your bedroom floor. Your stomach turns when you see it squirm abnormally under his grasp. The rogue produces high pitched cackling as Jungkook delivers blow after blow to its face.

"Close your eyes." Jungkook orders and you do as you're told.

You choke out a sob when you hear the sick animal laugh as Jungkook tears its flesh apart and breaks its bones. Eventually, the room falls silent but you keep your eyes shut afraid of what you might see. You jump when Jungkook places his hands on your arms.

"Hey it's just me, it's me. It's okay, it's over now." he attempts to soothe you while grabbing your hands, halting your useless attempts to push him away.

When you finally come to, you grab onto him and push your face into his chest. Jungkook tells you to keep your eyes closed as he carries you into the living room, not wanting you to see the aftermath of what he did. He holds your trembling body as tightly as he can and waits for your sobbing to subside. Once he hears your sobs turn into sniffles, he lifts your face from your hands and through your teary vision, you see an apologetic expression plastered on his face.

"I'm packing a bag for you. Tell me what you need, we leave in 20 minutes." he says.

You try to fight against his hold, but he's much stronger than you.

"Jungkook! I can't leave-I can't-"

"We don't have a choice now," he says, his voice soft as ever, "this is the only way I can protect you."

#bts fanfic #jungkook werewolf #jungkook fanfic #jungkook x reader #bts werewolf au #bts smut #bts #jungkook smut #yoongi #jimin #namjoon #taehyung #hoseok #jin #bts x reader #jungkook werewolf au #choices

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 20 days

Text

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 12: Please Call Me Only If You Are Coming Home]

A/N: Only 1 chapter left!!! 🥳 Be sure to vote in our final poll, which will be pinned at the top of my blog per usual ��

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon™️, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Homecoming” by Green Day.

Word count: 5.8k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

“What the hell do you need that for?” Cregan says to Helaena in the next aisle over, sounding alarmed. You are raiding a Kwik Stop just outside Colusa, California, following Route 20 west towards the Pacific Ocean. But when Helaena replies, her voice is perfectly soothing, lyrical, too serene for the way the world is now.

“It’s not for me. It’s just in case anyone ever finds themselves in need of one.” And this makes sense, even though you can’t see what it is she’s taken off the disorderly, ransacked shelves; Helaena is always picking up trinkets to keep stowed away in her burlap messenger bag until their utility becomes essential.

Cregan is relieved. “Oh, okay, gotcha. Whew, you almost gave me a heart attack there, Miss LaeLae…”

Ice is stretched out and dozing on the cool tile floor. Luke and Rhaena are keeping watch by the front of the store. Aegon is standing by the decommissioned Icee machine and showing Daeron which route he’s marked on his map and why.

“Why do I need to know this?” Daeron is asking.

Aegon snorts. “In case I get killed, dumbass…”

Fluttering pieces of paper hang taped to the glass doors of the empty refrigerators: Don’t go towards Sacramento; People in Santa Rosa killed my brother for his car; Andrew Lounsbury, if you see this we are headed to Aunt Sarah’s house, meet us there! Meanwhile, in your own aisle, Aemond is watching you as your fingers flit through packages of Starbursts and Jolly Ranchers and Life Savers Gummies, separating the trash from the ones that haven’t been opened yet. His expression is wary, uncertain. “What?” you ask him.

“Are you…okay?” Aemond says, low enough that no one else will hear.

Of course you aren’t; you keep walking into rooms and looking for Rio, and he’s not there. But you know what Aemond means. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

“Did I hurt you? Are you…” He steps closer, the blue of his eye gleaming with attentive, penitent concern, sins he is certain he must have committed. “Are you sore, are you bleeding at all?”

You smile, just the ghost of a curve at the edge of your lips. “No, really, I feel fine.” And in your body, this is true. There is a tension that has vanished from your muscles, a softness in your bones, not shards of glass shifting beneath skin but living things like the branches of trees, flexible, green, damp life awash within.

“I was trying to…you know…take it slow and be super gentle, but then…by the end…”

“Aemond, you did everything right.”

And he exhales all the iron-heavy dread he’s been carrying around since he woke up this morning to find you already gone—showing Aegon how to flip Bisquick pancakes as Cregan browned them in a skillet in the woodstove downstairs—and you realize how much you’ve scared him. “I’m really sorry about…” He touches his chin restlessly. “I should have asked you if you wanted me to pull out, I just got, uh…kind of…distracted.”

Your smile grows; now you can feel it in your eyes, warm and luminous. “It’s alright. I did too.”

He is hopeful. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I wouldn’t have told you to stop. And anyway, I think we’re safe.” But of course you’ve lost track of the days, and in your dark trance of grief and Tramadol you were entirely unaware of the rhythms of your body, pangs of desire or clear ample wetness, biological cues, primal timekeeping.

“Cool,” Aemond says, now trying to sound casual. “And next time…are you thinking that I should try to…maybe…just to be sure…?”

You shrug, then tell him the first thing that comes into your mind, that flashes in your skull like lightning bugs at dusk. “I’m thinking that life is too short and too rare to put effort into preventing it.”

Aemond’s eyebrows go up, but he doesn’t seem disappointed. “So we’ll see what happens.”

“If you’re onboard.”

“I’m totally onboard. I just want to take care of you. I…” He glances down at his palms—open, clean—and then looks back up at you. “I’ve never had anything that felt right before. Not my family, not myself, nothing. But this feels right. And it’s where I want to be forever.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” And this is what everyone thought: Jace, Baela, Rio. But you make the oath anyway, a hollow promise that echoes like a windchime.

“Me either,” Aemond vows.

You turn to leave the aisle and your backpack hits the shelf, knocking something off the top and onto the tile floor, where it lands with a thump. You gasp, and people come running; but it’s only a box of Honey Buns that was stashed somewhere too high for you to see. “It’s nothing,” you assure them. “We’re all okay, no need to get excited.”

“Death by Little Debbie,” Aegon says, chuckling nervously, his heart still racing.

You pick up the box and think of Rio with abrupt, violent clarity: he’s playing with French-speaking kids on the beach outside Djibouti City, he’s drinking cans of Guinness with you under a full moon on Diego Garcia, he’s reaching out from the pier to pet finless porpoises in Chinhae, he’s bleeding to death on a floor in Winnemucca, Nevada. Your vision is blurring with tears; your throat is knotted and scalding.

“I want him back,” Aegon says softly.

“I know. I do too.” You open the box of Honey Buns and pass one to Aegon first, then distribute the rest. There are only six total. Helaena tries to give hers to Cregan, but he rips it in half so they can share; Aemond insists you take the last one. You eat it wordlessly, sugar melting into your bloodstream.

“I think I saw a minivan down the side street,” Luke says as he chews his Honey Bun, waving his binoculars with his free hand. “It’s probably out of gas like all the others, but…”

“We’ll check it out,” Aemond replies, and everyone follows him as he departs from the Kwik Stop.

It’s a green Kia Carnival with a zombie trapped inside: once a young man in a Nirvana t-shirt, now a ghoul that paws at the glass with its oozing hands and licks the windows, long animal drags of a decomposing tongue. But the fuel cap is still closed, and while the van is turned off you can see the keys dangling from the ignition.

“Think there’s any gas left in the tank?” Daeron says brightly. The Targaryen beach house, following the indirect route you must take to avoid the cities, is about 250 miles from where you are now in Colusa. That’s two weeks on foot, or as few as five hours by car.

Rhaena goes for the driver’s side door. “Let’s find out.” She yanks on the handle to discover it’s locked. Cregan uses his axe to shatter the window, and the zombie tumbles gracelessly out onto the pavement, rancid skin and necrotic muscle ripping from its bones. As it crawls towards the siren call of fresh meat, Ice barks viciously and Cregan swings his axe. The blade slices easily through the monster’s skull, and its flailing, murderous limbs go still.

Rhaena reaches through the broken window to unlock the doors, climbs into the driver’s seat, and turns the key in the ignition. There is a blessed sound: the thunder of a living engine. “Half a tank!” Rhaena cheers.

Aegon gags as he opens the passenger’s side door. “Oh, it reeks so bad…”

“We’ll roll down all the windows,” Aemond says curtly.

“There are organs on the floor! What the fuck is that, a liver?!”

Aemond gives it a cursory glance. “Looks like a spleen.”

“I don’t want to sit near a spleen! I don’t even know what a spleen does!”

“Then throw it outside somewhere!” Aemond snaps. “You’re thirty years old, you can’t clean a minivan?!”

Aegon grumbles as he uses sheets of Burger King coupons from the glovebox to toss zombie guts into the grass. Aemond wipes down the hard surfaces with antiseptic. Luke keeps watch and Daeron shoots down several zombies as they lurch out of nearby houses and towards the Kia Carnival. You ask Helaena for the box of 9mm bullets in her messenger bag and she gives it to you. You load your Beretta M9, stow the remaining bullets in your backpack, and take aim at the approaching zombies to make sure you still know how to get into the rhythm, that you can still be a killer when the circumstances require it. You are out of practice, but you’re beginning to feel more like yourself again. Aemond brought you back. They all did.

When the minivan is as clean as possible, everyone hurries inside and Rhaena drives west on Route 20 under the afternoon sun. At the intersection with Route 53, Aegon directs Rhaena to follow it south around Clear Lake, then to take Route 29 west through rolling hills that were once filled with vineyards, wineries, music, weddings, horse farms. Now the land is hushed, and wild, and dotted with silhouettes that sway drunkenly and swipe at vultures when they try to gobble tattered strips of putrid flesh that unravel from bones like the bandages of a mummy.

The Kia Carnival rides Route 175 west and then Route 101 south, where the earth turns dry and rocky and barren, reminding you of northern Nevada and piling stones of heartache in your belly. In a place called Pieta—an old 1800s railroad depot, according to a plaque mounted just off the road—Rhaena slows down to get a better look at something that doesn’t make any sense. There is a souvenir shop of rocks and gems, now long out of business, and in a shed beside the main building hangs a gruesome specimen that you can see through the open doors. It has two arms and two legs, but it’s not a zombie. Its flayed flesh is a vibrant, healthy red; parts of the thighs and chest have been carefully carved away like cuts of meat are sliced from beef cattle. It is suspended on meat hooks. It is being butchered.

Cregan notes uneasily: “That ain’t an opossum or a bison.”

“I think it’s human,” Aemond says, horrified.

“Guess we’re not stopping for the night anytime soon,” Rhaena quips, then floors the gas pedal.

One of Aegon’s mixtapes spins in the CD player. From the speakers flows Somebody To You by The Vamps.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Do you see anyone now?” Aemond asks.

Luke speaks without looking away from his binoculars. “And for the fourth time, my answer remains no.”

After a night’s rest in a cabin at Camp Liahona Redwoods in Sonoma County, you followed California State Route 1 down the coast of the Pacific Ocean until the Kia Carnival finally ran out of gas just south of Olema, a small town founded in the 1850s. A ten-mile hike has brought you to the cliff where the fabled Targaryen beach house is perched with a few hours left before sunset. The ailing daylight is golden, the wave crests glittering, gulls cawing as they swoop through the salt-lashed air. From the road that twists like a snake through the slopes of Bolinas—thick with redwoods, Douglas firs, oaks, cypresses, tall grass that whips in the wind and tufts of eucalyptus—Luke is searching the property. It is less a house than a mansion, a museum, a monument, a work of art: sharp rectangular lines and glass walls, balconies, fountains, a pool, a garden.

Cregan whistles. “A place like that has to cost a million dollars.”

“Try fifteen million,” Aemond says distractedly, and Cregan gawks at him.

“Well, from what I can see it looks safe,” Luke declares, lowering his binoculars. “No zombies.”

“You really think they’re in there?” Daeron asks eagerly. “Mom and Criston?”

“Yeah, kid,” Aegon says, squeezing Daeron’s shoulder; but his voice is morose, like he knows he has surrendered to something, a path of least resistance, a hostile planet’s gravity. “Of course they are. Let’s go say hi.”

At the end of the driveway, the five-car garage is open. There is an Alfa Romeo, a Porsche, a Ferrari, a Ducati motorcycle, and a white Chevy Tahoe, which Aemond says belongs to Criston. And there are other items of interest mounted on the walls.

“Yes!” Daeron says as he runs to a quiver full of arrows for his compound bow. Aegon lifts a golf club out of its bag and makes an imaginary putt, getting reacquainted with the feeling of his hands on the grip.

“This is an iron,” Aegon says when he catches you watching him. In the shade of the garage, he pushes his neon green plastic sunglasses up into his windswept hair. “It’s metal all the way through and gives you good control over the shot. Drivers are for long-distance, and wedges and putters don’t have enough power. But an iron is just right.”

“Are you going to teach me how to golf?”

Aegon grins, his first real smile all day. “You think you can handle it, SunChips?”

“I don’t,” you answer honestly, and he laughs.

“If you teach me how to shoot, I’ll teach you how to golf.”

“An unfair trade! My skill is useful.”

Aemond knocks on the door that connects the garage to the main house. “Mom? Criston?” There is no response; all of you wait for one, listening intently through the crashes of waves and reverberating gull shrieks. Ice begins to pace agitatedly and nudges Cregan’s hands. He looks at Aemond, half-fear and half-sympathy.

“No,” Aemond says. “No, she’s wrong.”

“She might be,” Cregan replies, steady and ever-agreeable. Helaena is wringing her small, gentle hands. Everyone is watching Aemond to see what they should do next.

He pounds on the door again, this time with a closed fist. “Mom, we’re home! Mom? Criston? It’s me! It’s Aemond!”

Still, there is no answer. Aemond tries the doorknob, and it turns unimpeded. It is unlocked. He opens the door, peeks inside, and then crosses through the threshold. The rest of you trail him like he has eight shadows, the last in the shape of a wolf.

You step into the living room: wide open windows, the ocean breeze breathing through the house. The air tastes like sand and saltwater, sun and blue skies. There are three-story glass walls that overlook the water, a staircase leading up to the next floor, pristine white couches, black end tables topped with vases full of dead flowers, grey marble floors, bejeweled golden crosses that glint cruelly in the bloody late-afternoon light, family photographs on the mantle of the fireplace. There are many pictures of Aemond, and some of Helaena and Daeron as well. You don’t see a single photo of Aegon. He notices you scanning the snapshots in the frames and looks away, ashamed.

“Mom?” Aemond calls, his voice ricocheting through the vast, open space, clinical like a hospital or a morgue. “Criston?”

“Grandpa?” Helaena says meekly. Cregan is clutching his axe and peering around vigilantly. Ice whines and paces, her strange yellow eyes glowing like flecks of gold in a stream. Rhaena tries to soothe her with ear scratches; Ice begins to howl, low long mournful sounds.

You catch Aegon’s attention when he glances at you again. “This isn’t right,” you whisper. “If they were here, they would have heard us by now.”

Aegon turns to his brother. “Hey, Aemond…”

And then there are footsteps from upstairs, slow and shambling. Everyone looks, and it appears at the top of the steps like a mirage or a night terror, like a wrathful god glaring down from Mount Olympus. Long, filthy strands of white hair hang from what is left of its scalp. Its gore-stained teeth are bared. Its eyes are cloudy like the poisoned atmosphere of another planet, one gasp enough to singe your lungs and infect your bloodstream. The snarls pour out ragged and rasping from its disintegrating vocal chords. The man was wearing a suit when he died, and the pale blue shirt is now splattered with crimson and bits of rotting flesh. The black leather shoes on its feet clop as the zombie descends the staircase with staggering, unnatural steps, its decaying arms grasping for the mortals who wait below.

Daeron says numbly: “Dad?”

Aemond’s eye is wide and dazed. Ice is growling. Helaena is screaming and fleeing towards the wall; Cregan embraces her and she clings to him. “Aemond? Buddy?” Cregan shouts. “How do you want to handle this?” And what he means is: Do you want to kill it, or should someone else? Do you need time to process what’s happened? How can we help you?

“Aemond?” you say. You touch his arm; he doesn’t react. Rhaena draws her Ruger but doesn’t shoot yet. She is looking to Aemond for permission. Luke is standing in front of Rhaena and forcing her backwards as the zombie nears the bottom of the staircase. Now you can smell it: dark wet rot, spoiled meat, blood and oily fat and organs putrefying in a threadbare patchwork of flesh.

“Dad!” Daeron wails, and he’s covering his face with his hands because he knows what this must mean for the rest of his family too.

“Aemond?!” Rhaena yells. “Aemond, what do you want us to do?!”

You reach for your M9 as the zombie’s leather shoes settle on the marble floor. This seems to shake Aemond from his paralysis.

“No,” he says. “I’ll do it.” He grabs his Glock and aims, but his finger hesitates on the trigger. And you can see the ghosts of the people who have died by his hands lurking in the crystalline blue of his remaining eye: Alys, Jace, Baela and her baby…and now Viserys Targaryen too.

In the lull, in the indecision, Aegon roars and swings his golf club. The metal head collides with the zombie’s skull. Weak corroded bone collapses; blood and brains the color of black mold leak out onto the polished marble.

“It wasn’t enough, huh?!” Aegon screams, then hits the zombie again. The corpse crumples to the floor, but Aegon isn’t done yet. “You couldn’t just fuck everything up when you were alive, you had to keep torturing us from beyond the grave, you sick bastard, you selfish prick, what is wrong with you?!” He whacks the carcass with his golf club again and again. “I hate you! I hate you! You deserved so much worse than this! We crossed an entire goddamn country, and Jace died, and Baela died, and Rio died, all so we could get back here, and now it’s all for nothing because you’ve destroyed everyone you’ve ever touched! I fucking hate you!”

Aegon strikes the zombie one last time—the skull is a pulverized soup of gore and bone fragments—and before anyone can reach for him, he has bolted up the steps to search the rest of the house. You find them in their final resting places: bones in the hallway interspersed with gold rings and a medallion of Saint Irene of Thessaloniki, bones in the shower pierced with stainless steel surgical screws from hip and knee replacements, bones in the master bedroom entangled with shreds of a bloodstained silk nightgown and long locks of auburn hair. Daeron is sobbing, and Cregan takes Helaena outside to the garden to calm down, and Aemond wanders through the rooms in shock. You don’t know what to say to him; you remember how nothing anyone said made a difference when Rio died. But Aegon is furious. He tears away from everyone and goes to his bedroom: racks full of CDs, neon green blankets, an acoustic guitar propped in one corner. Then he ravages his hiding places—inside drawers, under his mattress, on tiny shelves he carved into the walls behind golf and Green Day posters—and collects mint tins. Then he pours out the white powder inside onto his desk and arranges it into lines like contrails behind airplanes, like wagon trails across the earth.

You try to stop him. “Aegon, wait, please don’t—”

“Get the fuck out,” he hisses, and for the first time you see the cold reptilian sheen of something like hate in his eyes. “You don’t have to pretend to love me. I can be alone. I’m used to it.”

“Aegon, I’m not—”

“They’re gone. You can leave too.” Then he slams the door and locks it.

~~~~~~~~~~

While Aegon is upstairs getting high and Helaena is downstairs inventorying supplies in the massive walk-in pantry, the rest of you use shovels from the garage to bury what is left of the bodies in the backyard, unceremonious shallow graves, the soil too rocky for anything more elaborate. Rhaena uses her jagged sliver of slate to mark stones with their names and a few kind words about each of them; but Viserys’ stone is left blank. Then Rhaena returns inside to help Helaena prepare for dinner, while Daeron inspects the perimeter of the house with Cregan and Ice. Luke uses a telescope near the pool not to gaze up at the rising stars but to study the neighboring properties.

Aemond murmurs as he stands in front of the four graves: “I should have gotten here sooner. Maybe I could have saved them.”

“You still have a family,” you say, begging him to believe that there are things worth living for. “You have Aegon and Daeron and Helaena, Rhaena, Luke, Cregan. And you have me.”

Aemond stares out over the Pacific Ocean. The sky above is red and lavender, fire and dreams. “How do we get to Diego Garcia?” He is only half-joking.

“Well you just find a boat and row about 10,000 miles that way.”

He sighs and drags his trembling fingers through his hair. It has always been his job to know what happens next, and now he doesn’t. Gulls squawk and wheel in the air. His right cheek glistens with tears.

“I never saw the ocean until I joined the Navy,” you say, and Aemond looks over at you, curious but not wanting to react in the wrong way and scare you into going quiet again. He’s always mining for details of your past, and you’re endlessly evading him. But perhaps you have been too secretive. He wants to know these things because he wants to know you, and you have no idea how long you’ll be here to shed your mysteries. If a story dies with you, it dies forever.

“Really?”

“Yeah. My mother…Mama, I always called her Mama…she went to Virginia Beach a few times while I was growing up, and that was her favorite place in the world. But she never took me with her. She’d go with my aunt or my oldest brothers. So when I got to basic training on the shore of Lake Michigan, that was the closest thing to an ocean I’d ever seen, and it absolutely amazed me.”

“Lake Michigan,” Aemond repeats, trying not to sound like he’s mocking you.

You smile. “And then of course I ended up in some more impressive places. But compared to Soft Shell, Lake Michigan was a whole different planet.”

“Soft Shell?”

“Like softshell turtles. They’re one of those animals that are so ugly they’re almost cute. We have a lot of them in Kentucky. Well, we used to. Maybe people ate them all when the food ran out.”

“Soft Shell, Kentucky,” Aemond says. “What was it like? I mean…I know you left, and I know you had good reasons…but I’ve never been to Kentucky. I’ve never really been to Appalachia period.”

“It’s beautiful. You get all four seasons, and you’re out in nature all the time, and it feels old, like hardly anything has changed there in thousands of years. You feel connected to the earth. I loved the forests and the mountains. I don’t think I realized how much I loved certain things about where I’m from until I’d been gone for years. I didn’t leave because I had to get away from Kentucky. I left because I had to get away from who I was when I was there, you know? Someone lonely and helpless. But how my family was isn’t Kentucky’s fault.”

“No,” Aemond muses. “I suppose not.” You begin walking together back towards the house.

“Ready for more bad news?” Luke asks, and gestures for you and Aemond to peer through the telescope. Aemond lets you go first, and immediately you see what Luke means. There are zombies in the surrounding hills, and not just a few. There are hundreds, stumbling around aimlessly and posing no current threat; but you are not safe here.

“We don’t have enough people to defend ourselves,” Aemond says once he’s taken a look, tapping his chin in that way that he does when he’s fearful but trying to hide it.

“No, we don’t,” Luke agrees.

“And there aren’t many natural resources here to subsist on. Even the fishing prospects aren’t great without a boat or a pier.”

“Right,” Luke says.

You wonder if Aemond is thinking the same thing you are. He might not know what has to happen next, but you do.

~~~~~~~~~~

The dining room table—large enough to seat twenty—is illuminated with candles, meticulously arranged with china and silverware, and cluttered with canned soups from brands you’ve never seen before: Amy’s, Pacific Foods, Health Valley. There are cases of Perrier and San Pellegrino to drink, and bottles of Chateau Lafite Rothschild red wine. Everyone else is here except Aegon. You are just about to go find him when he comes rushing down the staircase and into the dining room. He is wearing clothes from his closet here: a salmon pink polo that emphasizes his sunburn, khaki shorts, a white puka shell necklace, Sperry Bahama sneakers. The left shoe just barely fits over the bandages still protecting his healing left leg. There are fingerprints of white powder on the front of his shirt.

“Oh, look!” he announces. “Isn’t this precious? A family dinner?”

“Aegon, please sit down,” Aemond says briskly.

“Come on, it’ll be just like old times. We have all four of us kids, and then…Rhaena, you can be my dear departed Grandpa Otto, you just have to scowl at everyone…and Luke can be Criston.”

Luke is confused. “What—?”

“No no no! Don’t worry. It’s a very easy part. All you have to do is gaze worshipfully at Aemond and talk about how brilliant he is. There’s really not much to it, and honestly you do a lot of that already. And then…” Aegon floats by you, skimming his palm down the length of your hair. Something about the weight of his hand gives you goosebumps: careless, careful, fleeting, intimate. He sighs: “My beautiful, tortured mother.”

“Aegon, sit down,” Aemond orders.

“Father!” Aegon cries out suddenly, spotting Cregan at the head of the table. Cregan looks around the dining room, baffled. “You’ve joined us! How unusual! Did your Titanic replicas spontaneously combust? Did the world end? Well, actually, it sort of did…”

“Buddy, I have no earthly clue what you’re trying to—”

“Now this is a tough part,” Aegon says forcefully. “Patriarch of the Targaryen dynasty, big shoes to fill! But don’t worry, I’m here to help. I’ll give you your lines. All you have to do is repeat after me, okay?”

Cregan studies him and does not assent.

Aegon slams both palms down onto the table. “You’re so fucking stupid, Aegon. You’re a humiliation, Aegon. Why can’t you be smart like Aemond, or sweet like Helaena, or obedient like Daeron? Why did my firstborn child turn out to be such a fucking waste?”

“I’m not going to say that,” Cregan replies quietly.

“Say it,” Aegon seethes.

Now Daeron is weeping between spoonfuls of Amy’s tortilla soup straight from the can. “I want to go home.”

“We are home,” Aemond says.

“This isn’t home anymore, Aemond,” Daeron sniffles.

Aegon is still trying to feed Cregan lines. “Have you found a wife yet, Aegon? No, of course you haven’t. You’ve got hands like a rat and a disposition to match. You’re an overgrown vermin, you’re a plague to every house you enter. Who would fuck you out of anything but greed or pity?”

“Aegon, please stop,” Aemond pleads, wincing and rubbing his forehead.

Helaena folds her arms atop the table and rests her head on them, hiding her face. Luke and Rhaena keep their eyes downcast. Daeron reaches for a bottle of red wine, but Aegon swats his hand away.

“Nope. Illegal. You’re not 21.”

“Aegon, seriously, I’m so over that joke—”

“Shut up. You can’t even get a tattoo without parental consent.”

“Our parents are dead!” Daeron shouts. “They died terrible deaths and they’re never coming back and you’re making everything worse!”

“Then get rid of me! Put me out on the street and I won’t be anyone’s problem anymore! I’ll get murdered or eaten and it’ll be the best thing that ever happened to you!”

Helaena breaks down sobbing, and before Aegon can register what’s happening Cregan scoops him up off the floor and throws him over one broad shoulder. Then Cregan lugs him upstairs as Aegon struggles and yowls and punches at Cregan’s back, all in vain. You can hear a lot of commotion and then finally Cregan reappears, sweat beading on his brow but otherwise composed.

“I tied him to his bedframe with an extension cord,” Cregan says. “I don’t think he’ll be making any more trouble this evening.”

“Thank you,” Aemond replies, defeated.

“If he’s going to be up there all night, he’ll need water and food,” you say. “And enough blankets to make sure he’s warm.” It gets chilly when the sun goes down here, as low as the 50s. You grab two bottles of Perrier off the table and stand to bring them upstairs to Aegon, but Cregan gently takes them out of your hands.

“I’ll make sure he’s well supplied, Miss Chips,” Cregan insists, and you are convinced he thinks he’s doing you a favor. He doesn’t want Aegon to have the opportunity to upset anybody further. And yet a part of you is undeniably disappointed.

Aegon has been gone for ten minutes, and you miss him already.

~~~~~~~~~~

In Aemond’s childhood bedroom, a huge, impersonal, spartan space, the very few pieces of furniture all in the same color scheme of white and navy blue, you cannot say anything to bring his family back to life, or his friends, or the possibilities of what his life might have been before the dead began to walk. But you remember what he did for you when Rio died and you were sinking in dark, numb despair, and so you take Aemond’s hands and place them on your body—skimming under your t-shirt, circling around your waist—offering yourself like a sacrifice that you both desperately need, like a shot of antivenom that will only buy you hours. He draws you into his lap, and beneath your palms and your lips and your thighs, you can feel him coming back to you, filling up with light like a horizon at dawn.

“I’m still here,” you whisper as he throws you down onto the bed, eases himself into you, carries you away like a ship coasting out into open water. I don’t ever want to be anywhere but here.

Aemond holds you after, ensnared in sweat-damp sheets and entwined fingers, and he confesses: “I knew it was possible that they might not still be alive. Logically, I knew that. But it was like I never allowed myself to feel it. And now it’s…it’s…it’s all at once and it’s too much. I can’t fathom that I’ll never see them again. But I don’t even have time to mourn. I need to figure out where we’re going next.”

“Aemond?”

His lips to your forehead, his voice a drowsy murmur: “Hm?”

“I have to tell Rio’s family what happened to him.”

He pulls back to look at you. “You want to go to Oregon?”

“What if Odessa really is safe?”

At first he is bewildered; then he begins to consider it. “Criston’s Tahoe is in the garage. If we siphon the gas left in all the vehicles, we might have enough to get us halfway there.”

“That’s a lot better than none of the way there.”

“We’ll all have to vote on it. The trip will be dangerous.”

“Everything is now.”

“Almost everything,” he teases, his hand sliding down between your legs, taking you far away again.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the morning, you find Aegon at the cliffside smoking one of his Marlboro Golds, slow meditative drags, eyes bloodshot with lack of sleep. That’s alright. He can nap in the Tahoe. Rhaena won’t need his directions for a while; you’ll stay northbound on Route 1 for 200 miles before cutting inland as you near the Oregon border.

You sit down on the sandy, shrub-strewn ground beside Aegon and wait for him to speak. It takes a while, but you don’t mind. You’ve always had patience; you’ve always been a better listener than someone who fills silences.

At last Aegon says: “I don’t want to be like this anymore.”

“Then stop.”

He smirks bitterly, glaring out into the sunrise, orange light like fire on his sunburned face. “You make reinvention sound so easy.”

“It’s not easy. But it is simple. You decide to get out, and then you do it. You don’t let anything convince you to give up or change course. The only way out is through.”

“I have a proposition.”

“I’m still not interested in fake dating you.”

He cackles. “No, it’s something else.”

“Okay. Let’s hear it.”

Now Aegon is serious. “I don’t ever want to split up again. Not in a year, not in ten years, not in twenty. Never.”

You smile as you watch the reflection of the dawn in his eyes, murky faraway blue like oceans all across the globe. “I didn’t know you thought so highly of commitment.”

“I want to take care of you until you die. I want you to take care of me until I die. And that’s as far as commitment goes with me.”

“Deal.” You offer Aegon your hand.

He shakes it. “Deal.”

Two hours later, Criston Cole’s white Chevy Tahoe is loaded high with supplies—including several of Aegon’s golf clubs and his acoustic guitar—and heading north on Route 1, a Fall Out Boy song from one of Aegon’s mixtapes blaring through the speakers:

“When Rome’s in ruins

We are the lions, free of the Colosseums

In poison places, we are antivenom

We’re the beginning of the end…”

You rest your head on Aemond’s shoulder and wait for the sapphire-and-gold Bay Area to become the misty, primordial emerald green of the Pacific Northwest.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x you #hotd fanfic #hotd fic

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astralnymphh · 7 months

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copy that, romeo

— ellie williams was supposed to be your supervisor, not your object of infatuation ~ ♡

⋆❝ this is cordero tower, calling in.❞⋆

CHAPTER ONE: SUMMERTIME INTERLUDE . NEXT CHAPTER > ♡. pair; firewatcher!ellie x recruit!reader

♡. summary; it's 1995, and the angel crater national park welcomes you; a retrograde lookout all to yourself, a space nerd for a supervisor, and a whole summertime job spent in hues of sepia and juniper, waiting for the first sign of smoke. ninety–three days. you don't know her face, you share no breath— but by walkie–talkie, you know her voice.

♡. a/n; READ THESE; 1 and 2, HELP HERE, BOYCOTT. CLICK HERE. DO NOT BUY THE REMASTER, TLOU2, TLOU1, OR ANY GAME FROM NAUGHTY DOG! neil druckmann (the creator) is a zionist. PLEASE READ THIS. AND REBLOG THIS. ALSO THIS.

♡. content; EVENTUAL SMUT, narrator present, silly fourth wall breaking, a dash of comedy, slowburn (somewhat), living alone, long–distance pining, reader/characters are similar ages(mid–late 20s), depression, heavy metaphor usage, complicated poetry styles, mentions of organs, mentions of weaponry, metaphorical death, grim humor, drinking alcohol, drunk!ellie, drunken flirting (vaguely and bluntly), ellie jumpscare, uh-oh sassy masc apocalypse, she's corny and cheesy too (a dork), awkwardness, humiliation, lighthearted bickering, nicknames used. [lmk if i missed anything] . SERIES PLAYLIST .

WC; 6.1k+ ✮ thank you @trackinglessons for your sexy brain and beautiful ideas + custom art ✮ masterlist ✮ series masterlist ✮ ellie ref sheet

Summertime is the interlude between misery and Mondays.

May was a rough patch for you. A coagulated chapter within the spring world, a shunned ponder, red jello in the gradience of passage. Tempus, time. Early months hence were just as pessimizing, doubt is an arid reservoir in you. But, as a maypole sits a svelte giant in the sweet Beltane soil, braving an invisible smile whilst little ones— little laughters, spun prances and wraps of dainty satin to an ensnare on its long body, it weeped for its delicate capture. You; flesh coarse like timber, relate to the log standing, ensnared. Sunk in that gelatinous texture, unmoving as pressures collided with the surface outward, ripples everywhere yet incapable of sprinkling through you. Something would have to delve itself to drag you out.

Chapters; cusp of autumn to April, every single month, wound ‘round you. They each had separating colors, and spared turns to soundly fold your limbs and bulge your skin in ribbons. It snipped your circulation, shriveled the ripe breath in your skull and traded it for a pressure. A throb. Weight upon the cranium, you felt the narrowing cradle inside wilt from thought, drain from consciousness, and soften your stiff eyes locked on drywall. Hour to hour.

But those weren't the only things taunting you with a dance— expectations danced faster. Expectators, paired minds heaping expectations; yourself and the selves blackjacking their wants expressed as worries onto you. Stressful creatures, they are. Bosses, co–workers, energy vampires disguised as lover boys prowling about your workspace, general creatures of the retail world. God, they're like ravenous wolves snarling hunger through their teeth, slobber moonlight–bright of that dire carnality for variety meats. Depression just took the first serving before they could.

Even the domesticated places are a wilderness untamed.

Stress drained you of life. It softened your desire to even try. Gods are dulling, blamed you, on another dull morning where the trickling sound of coffee pouring drilled irk into your ears, rather than simply a trickle. Caffeine, a roast so void–black was brewed to un–drain you. Yet, it fuckin didn't.

Impugning was your everything, until it could no longer purify; Elaine. Emptiness. Hmm, you gave this state of vacuum–headed hollowness a name, keenly because it deserved so by its dismantling of your autonomy. You don't want it. It's not you. It's Elaine. A some–angel fallen out of grace, weary of its wander upon a washed up cove, beige toned and swept shivering–cold. Interested by the warmth your sundry organs pushed into its light silhouette.

And perhaps, if the bird was never freed from its heavenly cage, it would be powerless to pester you, to poke the meat inside with the pointy end of plumage.

Elaine was an organized assault on your wellbeing, moreso against the pulpy, pinkish-gray blob sitting ugly above your throat. Believe it, or assume it. A paralysis, moving shoulders from bed sheets proved farcical, running bristles over your teeth twice a day rhymes with nonsense, and midnight ink born to swirl and curtsy to convey thoughts gone rancid, goes unused atop the white flutter between your journal hardcovers. You have a morbid case of the seasonal blues, except this time, the season is beyond its blue hues. Spring, a fuckin’ kaleidoscope embellished. Blotches of big fuck you greens so vibrant you'd long to die from your tears, and an abstract spit of smell me reds thorny as your stomach brought to a scream for something. Anything.

It was a slow, banal descent into the jello.

January, floating atop the sweet delicacy, atop your bed.

February, the solidity gave out beneath you, goo subtly etching around your ankles, calves, elbows, unforgivingly cold when it first hit. When in reality, the bed was heating from your lay.

March, marrow goes heavy, your limbs at this time could not lift, your efforts waned, and satiating the rumble in you with sustenance was forgotten, as that rumble got so, so.. quiet.

April, the jello had stuffed your nose, your sockets, and lullabied your ligaments. You let it happen.

May.

You let yourself sink. Let yourself decompose and go mush in the head. Like a zombie.

The descent doesn't taste of sweet delight, but it also fails to churn your lips with a heavy saccharinity. Neutral, your hopeful side did say. Nothing, rationality slapped past your lips.

Five months, either a misery, or a Monday.

Yes Eve, a bite out of the Apocrypha will indeed fill this human abysm in me. Forbidden knowledge is my craving. Contraband of truth, bite to bite, I envy that I could not cope with its coating of my empty gut earlier.

Innocence is so dull. You are depressed, not a fucking saint for staying indoors, starving your rage.

But on came a crisp bouquet of biker–boy newspapers; ‘Hiring’, and a few scans further; ‘Do you harness a great love for the evergreen?’

A honed section in Missoula's local print— jobs. A publisher boldens and compresses enthusiasm sporadically; writing–on–the–wall hollers speckle themselves meticulously on the newsprint that strike a sense of obligation into the susceptible and soft–of–heart chunk of the population. A pert voice read with persuasion between your ears, gritty in tone and stereotypical of a middle aged ranger, vocals fried by cigarettes but as booming as a cannon.

“Do you care for the animals inhabiting our national sanctuaries?”

Abutting small paragraphs, the sagging belly of a black bear, tender caramel snout and snoopy–faced, fitted on its head a mustard yellow campaign hat labeled, ‘Smokey’. Its burly, blundering frame on all fours stood out over a comic–style vista of the Montana rockies, paws obscured by blocks of thickset text reading ‘Only you’.

Huh, a realistic depiction of Smokey Bear— over a not–so–realistic background, avant–garde.

Tree greens sprawly that didn't shout ‘Fuck you’ on your poor, sunken eyes searing for sleep and a twilight darkness. Sagey lichens that didn't draw out the spasms above your own bones, calling your regard to bring pin–sized problems and blemishes sprawling your own flesh out of the bliss of ignorance. Brunette muds with only a fleck of sun, a slice of earth dull, humble and unprocessed enough from benevolence to leave you unconsumed, unsunken. A mere slop and pudge in the future and wake of your walk. Nothing obnoxiously grand, nothing sanctimonious. Nature is by birth— righteous, regardless.

“Before we can be proud of our nation, our nation must be proud of us!”

The advertisement gropes for a summertime made free. A cyclopean sinkhole in the becoming of time. Recruits–in–waiting are called to bargain normalcy and the bustling cities plump with lumbering limbs of sheen–tight pantyhose shaded under short shapes of plaid skirts for boot–cuts n’ backpacks hefty with gear that could either save you the trouble of mountaineering by path, or trouble your time with a faulty snapping of two things. Rope and neck.

Too grim?

A months’–long moment of tension snapped at the pressure joint— Summertime the snapper. You'd be devoting ninety–three suns, ninety–two moons, and some two–million breaths of fir laden air up in Angel Crater National Park, northwest of here. Pupils flickering the double-page setup, you continue: A pictographic, old–fashioned lookout taller than the timber spires surrounding would be your station, your core of operations, for those three young and sunny months. Boxed provisions and supplies are guaranteed to ship every other week, and testimonies encourage even the anxious, balmy buzzes of your brain to sigh in solace learning that the weald creatures there— are mostly harmless, if you aren't bred an imbecile. Alongside, an appointed supervisor, whose name was never disclosed duly except for a scratch of text gingerly clasped in quotations reading, “E.R.W” trailing the mention of said supervisor. What’s required of you was delivered plain written and patent on that shoddy newspaper, held thick in your intrigued thumbs; Keep the forest from catching wild fire.

You fiddled the idea. Should I? Or should I wallow the summer away? Fiddled it anxiously, fiddled it needily, bumped the clumped rim of the newsprint on your cupid's bow in bending rumination, steadied it cause newspaper smells oddly good— but next to minutes racing hours upon musing, a conclusion had to knock your static looping of gloomdom in the butt.

One phone call, and the bird would be barred again. Pesterer, Elaine the Terrible, would be cast back where eyes can't roll over the cottony clouds. Just a couple fucking prods to your number–pad, might genuinely un–drain you.

Luckily, you aren't an idiot reared to take bullshit longer than meritted.

You took the job.

May 30th, 1995, 7:28 PM.

What does any clever pedestrian traipsing capricious terrain store in their pack to avoid total gangly–branch–grips–of–nature butchery?

Item one; Black nylons— scratch that, you aren't getting paid to snag at every kink and curl of the forest, tighties of gossamery fabrics are a no–go. Citywear stays citywear. Double scratch on those sweet, blackberry Mary Janes too prized and polished to muck up in shit of the earth. Immolating the rigid underside of some chunky hiking boots to the unruly woodlands is the adrenaline pinnacle of out–worlding, come on. It proves you've got a hardy backbone and the right row of teeth to chew what you've bitten off, sullying boots ‘till the color is forevermore stained. Backup boots are tradition, so that's item number two. Best get used to cargo, ankle–length overalls and miscellaneous graphic tees, cause the rockies’ fashion gurus can't get enough of ‘em!

Clothing, check.

Swathes of ropes twined pumpkiny orange and plenty of clanging anchors to bolt them in, goddesses and gods forbid you be tight on anchors. Medical kits— duh, did you trudge all from yonder just to die out here? This country is dicey, at the cuddly claw of a bear, or not. Hair ties, scrunchies you hoarded as a teenager in the eighties, disposable camera to suit your flaky memories, and an eclectic dump of nutty and fruity cereal bars galore. Unless you're allergic. Substitute.

Accessories and essentials, check.

Ah, and a spare pistol and switchblade in replacement of newcomer paranoia! Keep that hush–hush though. No matches or lighters, obviously.

True American, illegal weaponry, check.

All this paraphernalia bangs and clangs heavily on the polyester holding of your backpack, straining your scruff uncomfortably as you tiptoe, scarcely tumble, and tread lightly across a log. It creaks, it groans, it wobbles slightly over the blaring white rush of a stream, suctioning your heart–to–stomach when it grinds a wee bit louder than you thought it should.

“Shit!” you crimp your torso in and dart wary hands on the timber beam at your feet, assuming a gawky newborn–bambi–pose in hesitation, shuddering in cracked tones, “This can't be the right way..”

Hoping on an evaporated sun, you frazzlingly testify in repetitive thought that the map mailed by the rangers a week prior led you on this perilous and incorrect path.. for the last two days. Winding and wounding, literally— your bruises are measureless and on top of that ache your skin to want no more of this. But, you have to. A boulevard of brown, short and stout, wrung unyielding from one gray side to the greener other, a shortcut. Assumed to be a shortcut, based on the route drawn by utter confusion.

Oh yeah, and remember the advertisement stating the park was twenty-five miles out?

Nothing about that hot-press, black-cat inked newspaper accounted for the extra eight weighing your ankles down and your motivation dead low. Twenty-five only stretched out unto the ranger parking lot. The entrance, for fuck's sake.

Shaky flit of your digits, they float gently off the carve–veined surface of the wood, unfolding your spine as you rise. “Wrong way—” you utter to your chest, oven–warm as it puffs, “—gotta be the wrong..”

Tentative–ism is normal here, right? Like, no way you're cautious and sweating at the brow for nothing. Right?

One foot— creeakkk— in front of the prudent other, two sailing lunges, three hurried hops and a matched thud soft as marshmallows plants your shoes to hallowed ground. Blades of verdant whiskers so innocent crush under, and it feels fucking— demeaning, actually. All that gulping and pausing.. for nothing.

You tuck a shoulder–glance to the makeshift ricket of a bridge, and blankface, “Didn't feel like killing me today?”

The tree bears no reply.

“Hmph, surprising. Seeing as someone killed you,” a sigh parts, fading into the whip and straightening of your head, “figured the pursuit of revenge doesn't stop at ghosts.” and the hoist of your boot up, carrying onward.

Sundown paints, crescent layers repose approaching moonlight and dying sunlight sprawls psychedelic limbs above you. Balance ambling in tiny bops only made the swirling grasp of those gradient rays more trippy on your eyes and coercive of daydreams, rot–nip for the brain. You spot nutbrown brick— a fireplace in your mind, fevered heat roasting on the inside wall of your forehead too. It was Christmas before the storm, a subzero December. And it was, in fact, colder than the unreachable heaven. Dad was hunkered down in front of that innocuous amber crackle, his right leg slack to the ground and his left arched in the neck of an acoustic guitar, arms plaiting its hollow curve into his chest. 1971, when the veil through and within was thin, and love–vomit poured so easily through. A time of justified ignorance; Childhood.

Stood you adjacently, legs short and posolutely not stout, dimpled in the knees. Aged two years, and mushy as ambrosia, contorting your mouth jubilant as you're told for the camera, contrary to your father with his expression drooping to his strumming fingers. Sickly sweets, adult–you unpurposefully neglects to twirl lips at, your extraordinary grins now turned ordinary flat–lines. Holiday memoirs, those spoiled ripe quick after adulthood bolted itself in the slabs of your tender spine and instilled an artificial love for labor and country, displacing nostalgia from ever being seen as a flesh existence.

“Say cheese!”

America is sub–human, and sub–humans created America, the imperfect cycle. Families tear, eagles outcry, friends drink their death, and the days continue to unfold without a trace of acknowledgement. Days exist where you soak festivities and stave off the pointer–finger poking at so called slack you relish, and some twenty dwindling years ahead the slowly deadening oak grove road, carousals will be criminally known as layabout–makers.

Joy is a luxury now.

A blockage prevents your foot from winching clean forward, meeting the bone–hard kiss of a boulder to sore your toes. “Fuck!” you brand your throat walls to a shout, pissed at the rock rather than your woolgather that lead you to said rock, “Fucking fuckhead rock!”

Woolgather means daydreams, by the way. Funner to use words that don't make a split of sense. Yay for English.

The sunset clouds dripped with a mania of fascination and had strung your brain to its hypnotic whims, like a siren had soloed a trance, drifting your mind somewhere utopian and phantasmagorical. It sounds silly, but, blanking out seems so often out of grasp from your control, you usually could never flag what caused it, when it started, and why. Nothing practical surfaces. Fuck, your head is so tangled upon memories, you haven't even noticed the progression of scenery twelve o’clock from you.

Ponderosa boughs band together where your eyes brush shapes and forage for a clue of what scene wants to greet you ahead. The sequestering silence of rustles indicates a clearing, possibly. Possible as it could be, you fully expected this cruel footslog to wallop your ass into a minefield, so you bet cards and course carefully beneath the crowns of pine, completely bent to the chance of another obstacle threatening your tender ankles. Leafy whispers above strum your ears brimmed with its sotto voce song, and then— colors it silently behind.

“Holy shit.”

Presence crumbles above you, and opens before you. The lookout. Wood shafts slant in opposing directions, up and up along four brawny beams in three consecutive layers, like a blocky cone. The face closest to you overlaps the backing rest, giving the illusion of tufted wooden legs sketched under all lackadaisical. Endgame daylight spies from behind this one–roomed cyclops, gushing final spurts of citrus rays as if it truly was an orange squeezed to pulp. So, the flank and forehead of that towering, mountainscaping lookout rolling a cold shoulder to the sun, paves in a tattered tapestry of garnet smokiness instead. Shadow of sundown. From where you sow feet, a football field apart, petty details are difficult to squint into clarity, but the window panes appear tawny, too.

An intimidation, “So much for a tiny room.” A beaute intimidation, “And no actual bathroom.” it makes you feel like a genuine insect compared.

A sort of stairwell serpent faintly chokes the foot, the calves, the thighs, and punctures kindly a mouth leading up to the skirting balcony hedged in many gaunt teeth. Tamping gravel closer, subtleties and fine points fade as the tower's plank–lined and flat underbelly turns to you. Larger and larger, it dips darkly from miniscule masquerade.

Bringing your decently aching foot to the first step, you press into the curb and meander your cruder aching— thanks to a random boulder— foot weirdly on the outer ridge of your boot. Making it up the stairs to fund yourself a fucking break was a palpable mockery in itself. Like, ‘Hey! Climb this long–ass stairwell for a teensy break before doing it all over again the next day!’.

Un–fucking–believable.

Fifty years of history and past rangers grate in your walk, the floorboards thump with their stories, thump into your skin— verse you a wordless eulogy. Each step is a sentence, and every sentence branches into a whole tree of genealogy, lives. Lifestyles you can't understand now, but will.

Really redundant of me to highlight the generations alive in those floorboards. The walk up there isn’t that exciting.

After the last step, you're met eye–to–frame with a scratched door, pygmy window centered and paper–screened from within, and the stories predating your stay inspire a comical theory, “Jeez— bears make it up here?” you half–suppress a snort, palming a fist on the doorknob coldly before rotating and giving sympathetic pressure to the door.. jammed.

“C’mon..” knuckles pulse into the knobs plate, gradually upping the force you pushed, “.. losing light out here..” eventually adding your other hand to sweeten the push.

Sure, a whole year has gone by since it homed somebody, and it's retro, but come on.

Breaking splinters into the door was your last intention, so you try so–so carefully— to some extent, “Please..” now butting the tip of your boot on the rim to ease it— ease, and finally pry, a clapback of wind blowing dusty, nightfall air past your crescent cheeks following the snap of the fallow door.

Thank goodness for your grace and balance, some days, avoiding a timely trip face–first to a floor so powdered in light dust, any kid would mistake it for a good time sweeping snow angels.

Not so good for the respiratory system though.

Muggy space filtering your lungs tightly, you cough out, “Gah— fuck!” nothing higher than the level of a guttural wheeze, your chest punching into your throat. Gaping out the last flock of butterflies clumped at your collarbones, the tickle inside calms, and you find your sights taking in a dark box. A dim orb of lily silver glow rests in the middle of the pall room, raising the natural, “Where's the ligh— ah, big clunky thing—”

Flicking the off–white and stubby nub attached to an impractically sized lightswitch, which frankly resembles an electric box externally, an essence of Apollo ladens the room. Lemony–gold light, passably bright off the redwood ceiling, and murmuring a low buzz through one ear, and out the other, your pupils caper along the contrasting shades awakened.

“Definitely retro, but.. no roommates.” spoke you, gingerly content with the colors piecing this camper pad together. You observe.

Forget–me–nots bled the cotton bedsheets baby blue, leavening the mattress with a tidy emotion as it's tucked, folded at the top and draped in a complimentary quilt— benevolent blues, hues your lids soften on. The bed beelined from the doorway, a corner counter fawn–brown as the wood extends adjacent to it, covering the northeastern angle of the room. Magpied brands of canned food clutter shelves, spines spanning thick books of epic poetry to sci–fi comics create a ribcage of literature along a compact bookcase perching that countertop, and sunken in the east side of it, a steel sink. It shimmered sunflower bands of light as you moved, a rainbow–arched faucet brightened completely.

Step by step, you draw near a circular table in the middle. Strange rods and gadgets stuck out of the borders, inlaid glass protecting a local map so sleek you could see a phantom of your face in it, and a black bar looming the width, so it rings with tangible importance. Of which you'll gauge about later. Truthfully, the journey by foot here? Dead–beating, your knees bloated, throbbed flesh hot, and almost buckled; fatigues infamous way of scolding you to sit the fuck—

“Sup Maple lake, you there?”

A pang hammers to your heart, and a crawlish wave of startled blood pales from your face and drops to your jaw, “Jesus!” sweat hitting you a blink after, every normal function just— flunked. That voice, more like a ruptured stereo sizzling, caught you the fuck off guard. Now you dither, dumbassery taking your eyes through a new loop of figuring out where–why–how and what the robotic intruder wants.

But pre–realizing, your ears perk to a more coherent, and outstretched string of static, “C'mon, know you're checked in.” and post–realization tugs your eyes to a mustardy n’ black cased device; a walkie–talkie.

Okay, way to creep recruits out. Whoever, for whatever reason— at the nick of night too, gimme’ a break. You wry, knitting raisin crinkles above your nose, trying to discern your palette of options; pick up the walkie, tap in and feign politeness in the shortest and sluggiest scraps of small talk to be done with the day, or rant off the bat— highlight how fucking late it is, and how taxing a double–goddamned–day hike made your head and patience feel. And right now, the second response route feels arguably more tempting than—

“This is Cordero Tower, calling in. Can see ya’ standing by the Osborne, by the way.”

Its staticy feedback has waned completely, densening a thick husk and tilting towards a honeyed undertone. Relaxed sounding or not, what the fuck.

You react predictably, flicking your chin west, then east only for you to meet the dead of night— thanks mountains— stalking perfectly in every single window. So, useless to check. Answering it was a yes–go, it would be sickenly awkward to thrust it under the rug now. Your knees pull forward, eyes calligraphing the power buttons tinted in cherry light, palm drawing to meet your focal point.

The case is ribbon gentle under your fingertips’ graze, fresh and in store–new condition. Maybe the only thing hot from the pot of newfangled technology. Plastic intricacies roll under until you settle on a swollen button, denting the plush of your finger as you press, hold, and speak. A crisp crackle activates your line, tuning you in.

Breath hesitates between your chords, “Maple.. lake.. speaking,” off–the–tongue words manifesting on–the–spot, “you can see me?”

“Yeah.” the walkie chuckles, sugary curl pitching up and through their tone, “Look out ur’ north window, you'll see her.”

Her?

Nooking your nose north, you only widen pupils on that same, starless coast of darkness nosing the rim of your window sills. What do they mean to—

“Nh–no,” You literally said north, “get closer to the window, n’ look up.” What, are you a fucking sparkling, rasp–voiced eagle?

“Fuck are you talking about,” mouthed you void of voice, stumped on what this person was getting at. Wedging your knuckles below the meshy underside of your backpacks right strap, you wrangle it down your arm as you glide rubbery sole along croaking oak, tossing that bag so cumbersome atop a lily white pillow— looking fresher than a daisy, and clamber the mattress pliantly dented to your knees to grasp a broader panorama.

And with that window hood washed over, a convoy of fireflies focus a tiny constellation in the murked glass. Little pinholes of light, dots in the distance. They rough–hew a blur, but the excess seconds taken to brood squints and balance the blurry blotches, an outline crops up. Another fire lookout, sprouting from rock and rise of a berg. Offspring of the distant cordillera that gives this whole park its sense of a cradled–woodland, but either way thought, a lookout hosts it home on top.

“You can see me from all the way out there?” you wondered, truly. I mean— at minimum, a sore sprawl of miles bridges you both.

“Mhm..” a pause loiters that fluid hum, then some really throaty syllables, “Binoculars~” you could almost envision— nah, feel the stare of those binocs, undoubtedly taking note of every contort in your body right now.

“Oh thats, totally.. not,” you blunt your tone, shying a few inches from the glass, “.. creepy.” awkwardly. “Uh, who are you anyways— are you like, uh, another recruit?” as you engage small talk, grumpy frown pouting, the habit of kissing your wrist to your jaw as you would a piglet–tailed telephone overruns your burnt out focus, having to wince the walkie away when your eardrums nearly burst.

Ouch.

“For one, I'm actually your supervisor. I know, I don't sound like a typical smoker–lunged, middle–aged white dude.” their tone gruffs and deepens to impersonate, finger air quotes practically radiating from the other end, “And two, my name is Ellie— Ellie Miller–Williams, if you care.”

“Don't.” you heave out the pain stretching your head, aching each time you simply thunk.

“Straightforward,” her timbre ups in approval, seemingly, “I like it. I like you, recruit I dunno’ the name of.” and a bubble hics her throat, quite audibly.

“Not single.” Wrong, just uninterested. Hooking two fingers in the fabric handle of your bag and craning it to the ground, with scattered grates of plastic buckles skating the floor.

“What?”

Oh, shit she wasn't— oops, ‘course she meant that platonically, heads so damn muggy, “Uh, it's—my name.. sorry I’m just a bit out of the loop—” Dumbass, unscramble your brain alphabet soup, will you?

“That’s a long ass name, what were your parents thinking? Haha.” Her duo–beat chuckle flares your humiliation, and then proceeds to pinch its swollen parts into total inflammation, “Where does it originate from?”

Cheesy bitch, “Can you not— I like, pfhh..” you temper yourself with a moon–cool blow to chap your lips and inflate your cheeks, ending up with a draw of an even more loosened tongue sour as it complains, “Did a whole two–day hike through the most torturous terrain just to get here, I really don't—”

Please.

And if gripes trudged through teeth aren't persuasive enough, you recess your bone–ache bod avidly in the springy haven of your bed which chirped at your weights shifting motions, collarbones packing down on your vocal chords. You shouldn't sound up to chat whatsoever. Instead, vehemently drained, “I just wanna get some shut eye, talk me over n’ the mornin’.” your thumb lying a button away from disconnecting.

“Hey, hey—” Ellie ushered, her slurry breath fogging up the mic. Lips squeak softly into it, smacking before an intone, “Can't I be a little curious?”

You synchronized in noise, sucking teeth behind heart–pursed lips, “Do you think somebody this exhausted has the appetite to entertain you?” stilling your thumb–pad on the power off key.

“If I keep bothering you,” that alone ticked you, her blatant drive to carry on when your brain rejected its substance, “.. yeah. Maybe you'll be nicer then too.. huph!” a heartier peep hicced up on the speaker, and right then that noise jogged a discovery.

“Are you drunk?” has to be.

Of course, she ignores the naked and sorely obvious, “Did your boyfriend break ur’ heart or something— an’ that's why you're out here?” bottle sloshing in the background of her mumble.

Dumbstruck, you furrow a miffy expression, “W–what, boyfriend?”

“Said you weren’t single.” she recalls, warmly unspinning the fuddle that knit your brows, “Think I forget so easily?” drawled like a sultry retort, baking your ears.

You a hundred percent forgot though.

Gosh, short–term memory sucks, or it's just your energy drought making you woozy. Blame it on lethargy, “No no, that was just.. tired talk. I thought you were hitting on me.”

“Oh? That's cute.” her choosing to say that latter statement unfolded discordantly, you seriously couldn’t gauge if that was a flirt, or another paper daisy— mock honey, a platonic notion. Even so, it sounded so damn smooth, lace to the ears. “But no, I wasn't— m'not like gay or ‘whutever.” stammered her, light snort fanning.

A stifled chuckle hops from your chest, mixing with hers, “Uhuh, cool.” halfway uncaring and halfway amused, bafflement working your facial muscles.

“Yeah, um, but seriously..” her voice drifts into a ponderous rasp, the faint rustles of flimsy paper licking page to page subtler than her speech, “what's got you out here, newbie?”

“Newbie. Really?” A brow pricks.

“I mean, you're new— new to the lookout, new to the job, in need of my phenomenal supervision and my wide range of knowledge. Yeah, a newbie.”

Then your brow mellows, tension held in your face dropping dead on backhanded flattery, “You are funnily agonizing.”

“Aw.” her scratchily suave coo has your jaw set like stone, “That's so sweet.” but her short–lived song has your heartstrings soaked in ripe honeycomb, touched to the core by sweetness nebulose and an assortment of some foreign threads. Thickened heart, tighter ribs, a churn to weaken your stomach, a maverick of things unfamiliar to you.

Momentaries, but still noticeable even if your senses were twisted backwards.

Chewing over how you'll begin to explain, a few letters sift through your chords, until you hook on a sigh, “Ah, well, I'm out here for a fuck ton of reasons—”

“Reasons, or— huhp, problems?” Ellie blurt–hics, nosy.

“..”

A brief gulp and exhale wheezes from her, “Sorry, it's the bourbons’— super good. Continue.”

You loosely split your mouth, gasping to exchange a gale for words pressing out, “A series of reasons, and problems, that I don't bother to lay on a grand platter, so you'll get a summary tossed on an appetizer plate.” you preface. Allow an elliptical gap to cut through, rousing her hum to let you know her ears are as intent–peaked as a Chihuahua’s, “Contact with my parents’ has gone cold, my last job made me want to hurl into a pack of crocodiles— and the city became too loud and too heavy–handed. Saw this job on the local paper, and got the hell out of dodge.”

An omissive summary, you meant.

There’s more that eats the heart. People can’t just.. drop the burden of knowledge wantonly on randos like they’re idling under fertile treetops waiting for the apples to plummet, biting into a pulpy biography. She’s just a girl, not a therapist.

A discomforted purr lengthens into her reply, “Mmmmh, ever try a drink or two?” her intoxicated reply.

“Oh, see,” you flap your hand and slap it to your denim clad thigh, “you are drunk.” as if she could even see your gesture.

“No, I’m Ellie, hmhm~” comes with a giggle, and you consider her state of insobriety to be— wavering, but it’s stimulating to hear her fluctuate between groaned jokes and extra raspy comments, “Still haven’t told me your name though.”

Some moments during this whole ‘Who are you?’ seminar made you concerned for your future here— if you’ll make it out psyche intact, but some moments found by winnowing through the illogical backtalk touched you with inbound camaraderie.

Invisible touches that inhabit your neck with a leak of your name so— sincerely. It transforms into a fairer sound on your ears when she repeats it, affirming it. Nobody else's teeth clutches your name so welcome as she.

“Hmm, ‘name kinda fits your voice.” odd commentary, but since composed with her already peculiar and drunken tongue, the shoe fits.

That said, crabby confusion seems easier to articulate, “Thanks, weirdo.” but lips rebellious, they press an inevitable grin together.

“No problem, sleepyhead.”

So many nicknames.

Recognizing that downtick in hubbubs and breaths on the walkie, checking out for the night posed as a passionate option the burden weighing your eyelids couldn't or shouldn't veto. So you haul your torso up, kick and poke your toes over ankles to butt your boots off prior planting your heels, whisking toward the lightswitch and committing your lookout to swell with the outside's dark fresco.

Stygian tones.

“Speaking of sleepy heads..” you taper off speech, leaving the rest to her— touch wood— wide enough, hopefully–not–drunk–enough imagination to fathom as you slide and slip desperately beneath woolen blankets, sleepy worries, and sentences sailed to rest.

“Aw man.” Ellie bums so, so stupidly, for comical value.

“Yeah, man.”

“Mpht—” wetness smacks, “wanted to bore a pretty girl to death with recruit regulations and syllabi..”

How would you know?

In reality, Ellie was reaching a transcendent caliber of wasted, drinking up your atmospherics and drunken to her gutly core. Woods hatch forlorn people; forlorn people get thirsty, “But, mhh, heads’ nearly falling off, whoof.” she expresses a soaring of vowels, but it parallels a gruff howl more.

Drowsy, buzzy jubilancy, plucking her flirty strums. You sugarcoat the flare in your chest hearing ‘pretty girl’, ears clicking to the swallow convincing your heart that Ellie was not flirting. As established; She’s under the influence, and not gay. Your brain repeats that, over and over, repeat, repeat, she isn’t flirting.

“Hey, here's a tip..” you inch the walkie a penny away from your flopped head, clefting your lip open, “Don't get drunk on the job. They didn't hire you to decoct your brain the day before chaperoning a recruit in the literal wilderness. So, stash that shit, n’ let's both get some shut eye, yeah?” and saying all that, may have just cashed in your last dose of breath and brain cells for the night.

Ellie being Ellie— well, what you suspect is a ‘her’ thing after these few speckled minutes, dopily laughs at you. And dammit if she wasn't glamoring a dopey smirk in accord, you’ll have gleaned wrong.

A voice, “Who’s the boss again?” her witty and cruel wisecrack, “They didn't pay you to boss the— hup, boss around.”

They will pay you to confront and reflect your spectrum of limits if this girl brushes their seams, that's for certain. Or, play God and lambast her, tender as milk.

There's even a stroke of a chance, that your crooked lips poached her dopey grin instead, “Kay, well, maybe they'll reimburse me for your poor services.”

“My services are not poor. You'll see, tomorrow.” the volume of her melts away, going muted under liquid swills clanging on glass.

“Please tell me that's the sound of you putting the bottle away.”

“Mhm!” came out plugged, the bottle confining her garble, then popping clean as a cork, “Fuck— okay,” she siphons air in, pure little clink tinting the end of her sharp–edged sniffle, “Make sleeping in earlier worth it t’morrow, wanna drive you nuts with my questions.” she nasals, drawing near the mic again.

Such a magpie, “Cause you're lonely?” and weird.

“Shut up,” she shushes you, a satin whisper light–hearted and quick on beat, “M’not lonely anymore, right?” The type of softly spoken outcry that would balloon your cheeks with soreness if you were face–to–face with the throat that conducts it. Involuntary smiles plague you everywhere. But there is no mouth, no larynx, no throat that you view the swallow of. Just a walkie, so you settle in stoicism.

You tug your upper–lip and pivot your eyes, drumming up something clever to combat, “In a sense. Not like we’re bunkmates, thank goodness.”

“Fuck you,” Ellie breaks into a cuss spout so serenely, she sounded small and harmless, “just go to bed.” reduced to birch in winter shed of its brittle autumn arguments.

“Don’t gotta tell me once.”

By the first full and emphatic giggle she cast just now that wasn’t suppressed nor achieved by humble pie, you take it that Ellie found you funnily harrowing just as her, two peas in an outstretched pod. Fault be with her, for getting wasted. Otherwise, you might have pried her skull open with questions dolled up as a pruner, clipping the forelimbs that are foliated in a messy breadth of first glance leaflets and attitudes until you piece it prettily, in a way that thralls you to never shrink your eyes back into their sockets. Drunk people are like prone beehives though, so you don't prod them.

Tomorrow, you can paint her portrait, or vice versa.

“Whatever you say, newbie.”

And with the whirry crunch of the walkie shutting off, Monday, came to a close.

if you enjoyed this chapter, please lmk what you thought!! i love getting asks about my content ♡

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pienhime · 3 months

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my ten manga/game/anime/etc recs for jirai

hiii long time no long ass recs post! i wanna recommend media that is popular w landmine types for newbies to the subculture, and recommendations for those who might have been here long enough to know the most popular media within jirai subculture and want some recommendations beyond that!

so without further ado...

1. Tomorrow, I Will Become Someone's Girlfriend

TW: unsafe sex work, abusive relationships, body dysmorphia, self harm, substance use, misogyny, and parental death

Okay you knew this was coming. It's probably the most popular manga amongst jirai girls as it literally is about Kabukicho, sex work, trauma, and jirai culture. Everyone's seen Yua at this point, and she is a jiraicon, but the other characters are interesting and may be relatable to jirai girls too!

2. Mahou Shoujo Site

TW: sexual assault, r@pe, abusive family dynamics, transphobia, self-harm, suicide, murder, gore, bullying, human sacrifice

This is probably also familiar to people in the jirai community and yandereblr. Super mega fucked-up parody of magical girl animes with a cast of memorable but mentally unhinged and often morally gray-to-terrible characters with a hopeful message at the end. The most unfortunate girls around Japan get given magical girl items to improve their lives, but using them drains their life force- and someone's on the hunt for magical girls, all while the countdown to the apocalypse ticks down on the mysterious magical girl site. DO NOT BOTHER WITH THE ANIME, JUST READ THE MANGA!!

3. Needy Girl Overdose/Needy Streamer Overload

TW: substance abuse, self-harm, murder (potentially), suicide, non-graphic sexual content, abuse (player is being abused by the main character), unreality, internet addiction

Duh. I can't not have this game on here! Created by a renowned menhera subculture artist and featuring Jirai icons Ame-chan and KAngel, this game has blown up unexpectedly since its release, getting art exhibits and collabs with brands like DearMyLove. You play as P-chan, Ame/KAngel's boyfriend and producer, while you try to help her achieve her goals of becoming an influencer and prevent her from killing herself or going insane along the way. If you've been in a relationship like this as the P-chan, I'm sorry we relate but this game was super therapeutic to me so maybe it'll help you process too!! Also the soundtrack fucks. Hard.

4. Neeko wa Tsurai Yo!

TW: agoraphobia, existentialism, substance use (kind of), ecchi (of both adult and high schooler characters), suicidal ideation, internet addiction

This is a super underrated personal favorite I've posted about a few times before. It follows hikki-NEET gacha gamer Niiko, as she faces jealousy of her little sister for being farther in life than her as a high-schooler, the trauma of a particularly horrific job rejection keeping her from going outside or trying for another job, and being totally fed up with her life. It's a pretty depressing read for the first half, but becomes a realistic story about recovery by the end.

5. Wristcut Warriors: Menherachan

TW: suicide attempts, self-harm (duh), parental abuse, parental death, parental neglect, attempted sexual assault, mild gore, societal ableism/sanism

Much more popular in the menhera subculture than anywhere else, but still popular enough with landmine types to be included, and a personal comfort series of mine. This is a satire manga about three teenage magical girls who have to self-harm to transform, meant as an allegory for how suffering and self-sacrifice for the sake of upholding societal norms is seen as more noble in Japan than speaking out etc. It's pretty short with only 20 chapters and some supplemental material, and tons of merch collabs but due to Ezaki being the actual fucking worst i encourage you to only but fanmerch and second-hand.

6. Danganronpa

TW: murder, suicide, ableist depiction of DID, misgendering (kind of, im not getting into ******* discourse so ill put it jic), SA, addiction,and general violence and blood

I'm biased as a Danganronpa multi-kin and selfshipper but I personally think every jirai should play Danganronpa, read the supplemental materials and watch DR3 if they can. Quirky teens with mental issues locked in a school and forced to kill each other or themselves? Prime insanity and mindbreaking ensues, with some really cool characters coming out of the franchise. Despite the premise, theres a pretty hopeful message.

7. Oshi no Ko

TW: stalking, teen pregnancy, exploitation of minors, suicide attempts, murder, terminal illness, age gap relationships, bullying, abortion, parasocial relationships, and... sigh... pseudo-incest is apparently in the manga as well

If you are into idol anime and expect your standard cinderella story about passionate girls and guys hitting it big... Oshi no Ko isn't the idol anime you're used to. This doesn't even follow the hit idol herself- rather, her two children who are reincarnated fans. They have to find their way in the exploitative and often dark showbiz world while trying to solve their mother's murder.

8. Bocchi the Rock!

TW: agoraphobia, alcohol abuse

I only watched this one recently, but it's already an all-time fav. It follows agoraphobic and severly socially anxious Hitori (aka Bocchi), and her newfound friends as they do their best to become a successful local band! They make odd friends along the way and Bocchi starts to try to recover and better herself, with often comedic failures along the way.

9. TUYU's interconnected songs

TW: abuse, substance abuse, unsafe SW, dysmorphia, suicide, self harm, parasocialism

Okay so... ik the timing is bad but I meant to make this list ages ago and this was on it so... a lot of the TUYU songs and MVs are interconnected! Some specifically cover jirai kei and ryousangata otaku topics! My favorite songs and MVs are the ones involving my favorite characters, Anhiro and Anzu, who are heavily featured in the Under Mentality album.

10. School-Live!

MAJOR SPOILERS AHEAD!!!!!! I RECOMMEND GOING IN BLIND FOR THIS ANIME SPECIFICALLY!!

TW: unreality, major character death, parental death, self-harm, animal death, graphic depictions of delusions and hallucinations

I loved the anime, so I picked up the manga recently. I'm only a little ways in, but I want to complete it since the anime didn't cover it all! You don't even know the plot until the final seconds of the first episode, where it's revealed that Yuki is the only member of the squad who doesn't realize what's going on- she's not in school for class, she's living there for shelter in a zombie apocalypse. Oh, and she sees dead people. She has moments of clarity, and the story often follows other characters' memories and POVs, so you still get to have a clear look into what happened and what's going on for real.

That was my list of my current top ten media recommendations for jirai kei! Please lmk if you decide to give any of these a try! Remember that I also regularly post music recs under #music too! Bye-bye!!

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lovelettersfromluna · 1 year

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☆.*･｡ The Perfect Girl ☆ﾟ.*･｡

{Ellie Williams x Reader}

Summary: The amount of tension between you and your guitarist is fucking ridiculous.

an: You read that right babe, I’m giving rockstar!Ellie this time. I literally cannot get over her in a fucking leather jacket just tearing it up on stage for her adoring fans. You know it’s not a fic of mine if there isn’t some mutual pining between you and our fave girl. I don’t wanna give too much away tho! I hope you enjoy angel 🖤.

Warnings: 18+!!, ANGST, eventual smut just not in this chapter, mentions of sex, mutual pining, Ellie is sort of a dick but she isn’t necessarily mean (don’t worry you’ll see), lead singer!reader, use of alcohol and marijuana, rock star life style so lots of partying, reader is a badass I’m sorry but I had to, let me know if I missed anything! (not proofread)

Part 2 can be read here!

You always thought the city looked the prettiest from rooftops.

Ever since you were little, your safe haven would be on the tops of houses or buildings, giving you time to gather yourself and your mind.

You couldn’t really remember the last time you were fully alone.

Being on tour with your band was…hard. You missed home, and your throat was sore from all the singing, and you hated the dingy little venues that your manager had gotten for you…

But this was your dream, and you remembered that regardless of all of the things you hated, it would never outweigh the joy you felt when you were on stage, and the people in the crowd were singing with you, singing your bands songs.

It made it all worth it somehow.

You brought your cigarette up to your lips, perched between your middle and pointer finger, and inhaled deeply. The contrast of the warmth you felt in your lungs from the smoke, and the cold air that blew onto your skin somehow took the edge off the chilly wind.

It was cold, and you had to downtown at the venue you were performing at within the next 20 minutes, but you felt like if you didn’t get 5 minutes alone, away from your band members, you’d lose your mind.

Only, that was half the truth. You weren’t entirely running from your band…not all of them at least.

You were running from Ellie.

After you and your best friend Dylan had started up your band, he was quick to bring Ellie in to audition for your lead guitarist. He told you that he’d known Ellie for almost forever, and that he was positive you two would get along.

And he was write, you did get along.

Once your band had been established with all positions filled, you and Ellie were always together. You’d write songs together, search for venues that would give a group of kids the time of day to perform a handful of their songs, sleep overs almost every night. If Ellie was there, so were you.

It started to change when your band released a demo, and your lives changed overnight.

The amount of attention that came with it was almost overwhelming, and before you knew it you had a manager and a tour was being organized. It happened so quickly that you didn’t even have time to adjust to it all, to all of the attention that you were getting from people that you didn’t even know.

Ellie quickly became a fan favorite.

You first realized it during one of your first shows, and after your set was finished and you were all packing your equipment up into your tour bus, and Ellie wasn’t helping. She was leaned up the brick wall of the club you’d just performed at, surrounded but a handful of pretty girls.

And although you felt a twinge of jealousy set off like a small wildfire in the pit of your stomach, you carried on. Because it was never out of the ordinary for Ellie to flirt with a pretty girl. She’d always been pretty, and she always attracted the attention of those around her. It was just on a greater scale now.

One that would grow to be greater and greater the more popular you guys got.

So no, the groupies didn’t bother you, not entirely at least. Sure, you had to sleep with your headphones on whenever you’d hear Ellie fucking them after a show and your hotel room just had to be next to hers, and you’d make sure that you weren’t around every time Ellie was stood outside of a venue getting their numbers, but you didn’t let it affect your friendship with her, because Ellie was your friend, your good friend and she didn’t owe you anything.

What did bother you though, was what you caught her saying to Dylan one day after a show.

It was one of the rare occasions that Ellie actually spent time with you guys after a show, and not running off with a groupie. You were all sat around in Ellie’s hotel room, drunk and high out of your minds. Your head was resting against Ellie’s knee while you sat on the floor and her on the couch, her long fingers combing through your hair and massaging your scalp as you both lazily laughed at something your drummer said. It was moments like this that you felt at peace, and you realized that your job was to travel with your best friends, make music and just enjoy one another.

You hummed softly as you took a long drag of Ellie’s blunt before passing it back to her and standing up.

“Where you goin’ babe?” Ellie rasped out, her hand resting on your waist for a moment before she took the blunt from you. You smiled lazily, eyes hazy before you nodded your head towards the door. “M’cold…gonna get my sweater and my phone” you hummed. Ellie whined softly, letting her head fall back as she took a drag of her joint, her other hand reaching out for you.

“Just use one of mine…you’re warm” she mumbles out lazily, and you roll your eyes as you shoo her hand away, already walking over the various articles of clothing, music sheets and empty bottles that were on the floor, scrunching your nose at the mess as you focused on not falling over.

“Need my phone anyways Els…I’ll be right back” you called out before you opened the door to leave.

It was things like that. When she’d whine and moan for you for being too far or for leaving her when she was enjoying your warm embrace that made your heart tug. You’d always remind yourself that if she wanted to, she would. Ellie had been your friend for many years at this point, and the fact alone that she’d known you as long as she did and never tried to take things further was enough for you to push down any feelings that you had for her. You’d watch Ellie date girls that she’d only known for a few weeks, and you knew that being with her would never be written in the stars for you.

You left the hotel room door cracked open since you knew you didn’t have your room key, and you’d just be going to your room that was right next door.

Once you got your phone and a hoodie, you left your room and went back to Ellie’s. When you entered, it was easy for you to silently get in since you had left the door open for yourself when you got back. The only thing is, none of your band mates heard you come back to the room.

That was your first mistake.

The long hallway that lead to the room door kept you hidden, so they couldn’t hear you nor see you. But you were able to hear everything that they were saying.

“Come on Ellie, we know you’re into her…the way she’s always touching you? Why don’t you just ask her out?” You could distinguish the voice to be Charlie, your drummer. He chuckled softly as he tossed something at Ellie, and you heard her groan once it hit her.

“I am not into her, okay? Jesus never…I’d never go for her. She’s just…not really my type, you know? Plus…she’s kinda clingy” she chuckled softly, you could hear s small thump, followed by Ellie groaning in pain. Dylan probably hit her.

“Hey, don’t fuckin’ talk about her that way man. She’s our friend…even if you feel that way…no need to say it” he huffs out. Dylan had always had your back, acting as the big brother you had never had.

Ellie scoffs softly, and you swear you can almost fucking hear her roll her eyes. You hear the soft crackling of her blunt, and you know she’s taking another hit. “It’s the truth, okay? You see the way she looks like a kicked puppy every time I’m hooking up with a girl…it’s just sad..” she sighs out, and she sounds like she feels bad for you, like she’s been treating you this way the entire time because Ellie pities you.

And you suddenly can't breathe, because one of the people you trusted the most is saying such mean things about you, and you feel like you can't handle it. You don't even realize it, but there are fat tears rolling down your cheeks, pooling at your chin and dripping onto your shirt. You have to leave, because you know that if you see her face, you'll lose it.

You ended up crying in your hotel room on your bed until you passed out, waking up to your eyes being sore and swollen and your cheeks wet with the tears that you cried the night prior. You also wake up to a few messages and phone calls from Dylan, Charlie..

and Ellie.

Each of them asking you where you'd run off to, and if you would be coming back. It almost makes you laugh because Ellie is whining to you in your messages saying that she misses you and that you were having so much fun, saying that she hopes you didn't fall asleep because she'll just follow you into your room to sleep with you.

It's extremely fucking ironic that this is all coming from someone who called you clingy not even thirty minutes before texting you all of these messages.

And it's how you ended up here, on the rooftop of the hotel you were staying at, hiding from her.

The entire conversation that you had overheard had happened almost a week ago now, and you hadn't spoken a single word to Ellie.

None of it went without attempts from her end though.

She was constantly trying to talk to you, touch you, hold you, all of which been ignored by you. At first she assumed you were just going through a bad hangover from the night before, however it went on for days, and soon enough Ellie was finding it hard to remember when the last time it was that you had even looked at her.

Your brooding thoughts were interrupted by the door to the roof opening up, and the sound of heavy boots already told you who it was without having to look.

Dylan sighed softly as he stood behind you, eyebrows furrowed as his eyes burned holes into the back of your head.

"What the fuck is going on with you dude?" He sighed out. He had long since lost his patience with you, with your sulking, and the constant silent treatment you had been giving everyone, most specifically Ellie.

You sighed softly, taking another long drag of your cigarette before you stood up, flicking it onto the floor and using your boot to smoosh it into the ground. You gave a shrug, the zippers on your leather jacket jingling a bit.

"Nothin'....just been tired man...tour is kicking my ass" You sighed out, wishing internally that he would for once buy your bullshit excuse and not pry any further. Your feelings were pissing you off, and Ellie was pissing you off even more. You just...would rather not talk about it.

Dylan's eyebrows raised before he scoffed in disbelief. "And am I supposed to believe that? Do you think im fucking stupid?" He huffed out, and his own shoulders were crossing over his chest as he stared down at you much like a father staring down at their child.

"We aren't going anywhere until you tell me why the hell you've been pouting like a child. So, either you talk, or the show tonight isn't happening."

His threat made you frown, because as much as tour was exhausting, it was what you loved the most. Even the thought of letting down anyone who was getting ready in that very moment to come out and see you and your band, the excitement they felt whenever they waited for you guys to walk out on stage, made you sick to your stomach.

You sighed, staring down at your black boots, unable to even look the man in the eyes before you inhaled deeply.

"I heard what Ellie said about me.." You mumbled out, so softly the wind was almost loud enough to muffle what you had said, your confession getting lost in the air, never to be heard again.

The second you said it, Dylan's features softened. In that moment, he had realized just how young you were...You were barely an adult, still in your 20s, and this entire life had swept you up and taken you away in the blink of an eye, and never once had you complained about it. He realized, that he still had to protect you.

He sighed, his arms dropping down to his side. He suddenly felt guilty, like he hadn't done enough to defend you, because he was sure that if you had heard what Ellie said, you heard what he had said.

He grabbed your arm and pulled you into his own, wrapping you up in a big bear hug like all big brothers did. You let out a sigh of relief the second your face pressed against his chest, realizing that, that was the first time you were hugging someone in a week.

"Im sorry kid...I....I dunno why Ellie says the things that she says..." He sighed out. Dylan saw the way you looked at Ellie, the way your face dropped the second she was running off with another girl.

Dylan could see the way you felt about Ellie long before you could.

You shrugged as you let out a shaky breath, staying in his embrace for a moment longer before you pulled away. "Its whatever man...I just...I don't really wanna talk to her anymore.." You sighed out, and Dylan was nodding in agreement. "I understand...just...this will all pass, im sure" He mumbled.

He hoped it would pass.

You sighed before you looked up at him for the first time since he came outside to get you. Your eyes were pleading, like you were begging for something without even saying anything.

"Promise you won't say anything..I can't...I don't want to deal with this shit right now" You mumbled, and Dylan nodded. His arm went to sling around your shoulder, pulling you into the side of his body as he began walking you back to the door that lead into the building.

"Its safe with me kid...now come on...we've got fans to perform for" He hummed.

The thought of seeing them alone was enough to make you crack a smile.

☆ﾟ.*･｡

Ellie on the other hand, was losing her fucking mind.

She was wracking her brain to try and figure out what the hell she had done this time to receive the silent treatment from you. She had tried everything to remember, she retraced all of her steps within the last two weeks, read through your messages with her to see if she had made fun of something you liked, she even went as far as to listen back to a few of your tracks to see if she had messed up or something.

But each thing she tried, always came up with nothing.

You were ignoring her and it was pissing her the fuck off.

She missed talking to you, and falling asleep in your hotel room when she couldn't sleep, and she missed when she would sit between your legs on the floor and you would play with her hair before a show.

Ellie missed you, and she didn't know what the hell got here in this position to begin with.

It was frustrating her so much, that she had been fucking up at your last few shows. Her fingers would slip when she was playing because she was too focused on looking at you, praying that you would turn your head and smile at her while you sang, like you always did. Or she would almost trip over the wires that came out of her electric guitar, ruining the entire set.

Ellie had known you a long fucking time, and never once had you ignored her for this long.

She sighed softly as she tuned up her guitar, furrowing her eyebrows every time a particularly sharp note would come out when she tried strumming. She had drove down to the venue with Charlie, leaving Dylan to find you and come down after.

She was determined to finally get answers tonight.

Ellie was far too deep in thought to realize that you had finally walked in with Dylan. The second she heard your voice talking to your manager, her head shot up in your direction, and her eyes were nearly bulging out of her head.

You always looked hot when you performed, and Ellie always stared when you weren't looking. However, the clothes you had on tonight made the silent treatment that you had been giving Ellie all the more worse.

The black top you have on has the prettiest thin straps that are tied into bows at the top of your shoulders, your tits pushed up perfectly, the black mini skirt you wore leaving so much of your pretty plus thighs exposed, and your favorite leather jacket and black boots.

And Ellie can't even walk up to you to tell you how gorgeous you look.

☆ﾟ.*･｡

The show went down as one of your favorites.

You felt so confident, so loud, so pretty. It was rare that you put a ton of effort into your performance these days, especially with how upset the entire Ellie situation had you. But this show changed your mind about all of that.

The energy that the crowd gave was so intense, so vibrant, so colorful, and you felt so in tune with your bandmates.

Even Ellie

It felt like she was trying her hardest to stay with you, to stay in the same lane as you as you gave your performance your all. There were moments where the noises that came out of you were unbelievable to you, let alone everyone else.

After the show, you and the others decided to keep the party going at a nearby club. You usually opted to going back to the hotel and hanging out in a more intimate setting, always wanting to be closer with your friends..with Ellie.

But the energy that you had was too high to push down, and you weren't going to let it go to waste.

You giggled softly at something Charlie said, nodding as you took another sip of your drink. You groaned softly once you saw yet another round of shots coming towards your private table that your manager had gotten you before you arrived. You took one off the tray, throwing it back with a wince.

When you put it down, you forgot for a moment who it was that was sitting across from you, and you locked eyes with piercing green ones that had been staring longingly into yours the entire night.

Her stare made your stomach do flips, and it was almost as if she had you under a spell for a moment because it was hard to look away.

You cleared your throat, blinking your eyes for a moment as you looked away from her.

And it was as if an angel came to your rescue, because when you looked away you caught eye of a different pair of eyes staring at you from across the club. The flashing lights made it hard to see, however it was no secret that the girl that was staring at you wanted you.

Suddenly, you were doing something you rarely did.

You got up from the table, quickly mumbling an excuse of needing to go to the bar, and you left, your eyes never leaving the girls.

She caught on quickly, because as soon as you were pressed up against the bar, she was scooting in next to you, her hip bumping gently against yours as she smirked down at you.

She tells you her name is Ash, and when she's whispering in your ear about how pretty you are, her voice dripping with lust, you realize that you think Ash is pretty too.

It doesn't take long for her to have her hands wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer to her body. You giggle softly as she pulls you in, because she's warm and inviting and..

she reminds you of Ellie.

Who is of course, staring at you from across the club.

Ellie has always noticed the attention you got, and she's always thanked her lucky stars that you always shot down any advances that were made your way whenever you guys were all out.

But right now you weren't. You were pressed up against another girl, her lips dangerously close to your neck as she whispers in your ear, her hands toying with the bottom of your skirt..

And it made Ellie fucking seethe with anger.

She's praying that you'll come to your senses and leave that idiot that has you pressed into her chest, but you don't. You're giggling and batting your eyelashes and you're acting like a stupid fucking groupie.

Just like the ones she fucks almost every night.

All of a sudden, your hand is interlocked with the girls and she's pulling you out of the club, and Ellie doesn't think she's ever gotten through a crowd of people faster in her entire fucking life. Because in seconds, she's caught up with you and the girl, and she's standing in front of you so that you both can't pass.

You don't even realize it at first, you think you might have gone the wrong way and hit a wall or something.

But once your eyes trail up the tall frame that is standing in front of you, and you're locking eyes with Ellie, you feel like you're dreaming.

"Ellie? What...what are you doing? Come on, get out of the way" You huff softly, far too annoyed to keep up with the silent treatment that you had for her. You press your hand to her side so you can push her out the way, but she doesn't budge.

She's staring at the girl that was taking you out of the club, and you're sure that if looks could kill, Ash would be on the floor dead right now.

"She's drunk, what the fuck do you think you're doing?" Ellie barks out, her voice is stern and protective and she has her strong arms crossed over her chest.

Ash chuckles softly as she raises her eyebrows in disbelief, looking at Ellie before looking down at you. "This your fuckin girl or something?" She says to you, and you're quickly shaking your head, denying her question.

"No! No she's...we're in a band-" You try to explain, but Ellie is cutting you off.

"Doesn't fuckin matter, man. I said she's drunk, so you need to leave her alone" She yells over the music, and Ash looks down at you in disbelief before she stares at Ellie once again, taking your hand and pulling you closer to Ellie before letting you go.

"Whatever, last time I pick up some chick at the club" She chuckles softly.

You feel like a fucking joke.

Because for the first time, you're being spontaneous and doing things that normal girls your age do, and you finally feel fucking normal..

And Ellie has to come in and ruin it.

You stare up at her in disbelief, because she has a stupid look of triumph written all over her face, and she's smirking like she's fucking won something, and all you want to do is scream at her.

So you do.

You push her chest back forcefully, and it's her turn to stare at you like you're crazy. "Are you fucking serious?? Im barely fucking drunk!! What makes you think you can...can reprimand me like that?" You scream at her, and Ellie isn't sure she's happy you're finally speaking to her, or if this was all a mistake to begin with.

Ellie frowns as she grabs your wrists, trying to stop you from pushing her back any further. But she doesn't, and before she knows it, you're both outside of the club, the cold air hitting her face.

"She was..she was trying to take advantage of you! Can't you see that?" She pleads. You roll your eyes, giving her a scoff.

"Funny that your moral high ground has suddenly kicked in, because I have seen you stumble into practice countless times drunk off your ass with a girl just as drunk as you are! What makes you fucking think that you have any say in what I do? If I want to hookup with someone at a bar, I can do that! Im a fucking grown up Ellie" You're screaming at her, and she winces at your words because the mere thought of you doing it, hurts her.

But you aren't done.

"Do you know how hard it is for me Ellie? How hard it is for me to...to feel like im doing this shit right? To feel fucking wanted by someone? Especially when my bandmates talk about how undesirable I am? How fucking clingy I am?" You sob, because at this point all of your feelings are bubbling to the surface, and you can't hold it in anymore. Months of feeling like something was wrong with you, followed by an entire week of feeling like you're the most unwanted person by the words of your bandmate finally weigh in on you.

And for once, you don't stop it.

Ellie's eyes are wide, because she finally realizes what she's done to deserve everything you've given her..or a lack thereof.

She opens her mouth to speak, to tell you that none of that is true, that you are the most desired person on the entire fucking planet, that she's wanted you from the moment she set eyes on you.

But nothing comes out.

You scoff, roughly wiping the tears from your cheeks as you shake your head. "Typical...you know what? Fuck you Ellie..." You mumble out, turning around and walking back to your hotel room.

And all Ellie can do is watch, because her years of being a coward have finally caught up to her. And because of it..

She's lost you.

#ellie williams #ellie williams angst #ellie williams smut #ellie williams x y/n #ellie williams x female reader #ellie williams x you #ellie tlou #ellie x y/n #ellie the last of us #ellie x you

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cressidagrey · 2 months

Text

The Ties that Bind - Chapter 8

Summary:

Shadowsingers were made, not born. Made out of trauma and loneliness and desperation.

So when Cilla and Azriel meet and their shadows entwine, they both meet the only other person that could understand these particular childhood scars.

The last thing Azriel had ever expected from his mate, however, was for her to have a surprising connection to his brother.

Warnings:

This is nearly 5k. I have no idea where it came from.

(super pretty dividers by @tsunami-of-tears)

She shared his blood. Of all the people in the world, Cilla was the one who shared his blood. He had never thought that blood made a family. He had two brothers and he was related by blood to neither.

Cassian didn't know how he was supposed to feel about it. But then...he didn't know how he was supposed to feel about any of this.

He had never attached much significance to the notion of blood ties. After all, his own sense of family was built upon loyalty and trust, not shared ancestry. Yet, the knowledge that he was a father, especially to an illegitimate child...to a bastard...that stirred something within him that he couldn't ignore.

Of all the things he always promised himself he wouldn't do...he had done it. He had fathered a bastard. The one thing, the one thing he had held above all else on the scales of things he wasn't willing to do. He had never wanted to put a child through what he had gone through.

But it had happened now...Well, nearly 20 years ago. And it left him...sinking. How was he supposed to be a father to a girl he only just learned existed?

Cassian felt his breathing hitch as the enormity of it all hit him. He had a daughter, a living, breathing, person who shared his blood flowing through her veins. It was...overwhelming. Overwhelming, but oddly, not entirely unwelcome. There was a part of him that was starting to feel a sort of...pride. Excitement, even? It was buried deep down, but there nonetheless.

"You're brooding. Again," his mate said drily as she entered the room. His head snapped to watch Nesta make her way to where he sat in the window seat, curling up across from him, watching him with shrewdly intelligent grey eyes. "What are you thinking about?"

At her question, he let out a dry, humourless chuckle. "Just doing some...brooding," he replied, his tone filled with a mixture of sarcasm and resignation. He ran a hand through his messy hair.

He should have known about Cilla's existence. If he had known...then all of this...would have never happened to him. He would have taken care of his daughter damnit. She would have never spent decades locked into an attic...she would have never been treated as abhorrently as she had.

A surge of anger welled up inside him at the thought of his daughter's suffering. If only he had known...he could have done something. He

He could have made a difference

His hands clenched into fists as the anger and frustration coursed through him. "If I had known," he began, his voice a low rumble, "I could have...done something. Protected her."

"But you didn't know," Nesta said, her voice even. He didn't think that she didn't feel anything about it...but she was seeing it all so...so calmly.

"Why aren't you angry?" he demanded.

"If you believe it or not I have been very much aware that you had a life before me. Why should I get angry at a girl who was born before we even met each other?" Nesta said with a snort. "Besides...I think she had...enough things in her life that were horrible, don't you agree?"

Cassian blinked at her response, taken aback by her calm logic. It was so typical of her, to see through the emotional fog to the heart of the matter. He let out a sigh, leaning back against the window frame. "You're right," he admitted reluctantly. "I...I just...wish I had known. I could have been there for her...protected her from all the horrors she's been through."

"You weren't there. Through no fault of your own," Nesta said quietly. "But you are there now. And you have time, Cassian. You can fix this...Just...don't expect her to fall around your neck and be delighted with you immediately. I don't think Cilla even knows what it means to be part of a family."

His heart ached at Nesta's words. She was right, of course. His daughter had spent most of her life isolated and neglected. It was unrealistic to expect her to immediately trust and accept him simply because he was her father.

"I know," he muttered, his jaw clenching. "I know I can't expect her to just...trust me immediately. I just...I don't know how to be a father, Nes."

"Well, Rhysand didn't know it either, and he seems to be an alright job," Nesta said drily. "Don't tell him I said that, by the way."

Cassian couldn't help but let out a small chuckle at her comment. "Your secret's safe with me," he assured her, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Despite the situation, it was comforting to know that he could always count on Nesta's dry wit and unflappability.

"But...you're right," he continued after a moment. "If Rhys can do it, so can I...right?"

"Besides, you do have a secret weapon," Nesta agreed. "She's mated to Azriel. She's probably willing to meet you, just because of what you mean to Az. It's not...the perfect position to be in, but it's a start."

"You're mercenary," he told her with a sigh.

Cassian shook his head, a hint of amusement flickering in his expression. "You're right, I can always use that as leverage," he said dryly. "But that's not exactly the ideal start now, is it?" He pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a frustrated sigh.

"It's a start nonetheless," Nesta said easily. "Why don't you go over to Azriel's house tomorrow...maybe bring some pastries...see if Cilla is willing to see you for lunch."

Cassian let out a wry chuckle. "You make it all sound so simple," he said with a hint of sarcasm. "Just pop over, bring some pastries, and have a chat over lunch." He ran a hand through his hair, still feeling agitated."It's not that easy, Nes," he sighed. "We don't even know if she'll want to talk to me. And even if she does...what the hell do I even say? 'Hey, sorry I wasn't there all your life, I also can't remember your mother, but I am willing to try?' I bet she'll take that well."

"Give her a chance," Nesta insisted. "It can't get much worse, can it?"

Cassian let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumped in defeat. "You're right," he conceded. "I guess it can't get much worse. Alright, I'll go over there tomorrow."

And he did. He brought pastries, he made his way to the mountains, where Azriel kept his little cabin...and then he could just stare as he watched his daughter soar through the air. Granted...it wasn't really soaring. It was more of an excited flapping off her wings just a few meters over the ground, with Azriel hovering protectively nearby...but she was definitely airborne, her laughter filling the skies. Cassian had never heard a more beautiful sound.

Cassian found himself rooted in place, mesmerised by the sight of his daughter flying, her wings unfurled in the air.

When Cilla finally touched down, her laughter fading into a breathless gasp, Cassian took a step forward. Azriel's gaze flicked towards him, a subtle warning in his eyes. Cassian could sense the tension and protectiveness in his brother's stance, and he couldn't really blame him. Cassian was a stranger to her after all. And she was Azriel's mate.

An even more subtle hand movement...telling Cassian to wait as he watched Azriel talk to Cilla, her hands moving, shadows clinging onto them as she waved them around to illustrate a point...and then grasp his brother's neck and pull him down to kiss her.

Really? He didn't need to see that...he really didn't need to see that...even when his daughter obviously was quite happy with it.

The kiss ended. "Cassian is at the ward boundary," Azriel said, his voice quiet but if Cassian tried he could still hear him. "Do you want to see him?"

Cilla glanced nervously in the direction of the wards and Cassian, her wings tucked tightly against her back. Seeing her expression, Azriel rested a hand on her shoulder, leaning down to mutter something in her ear. Cassian strained to hear, but he could only make out a few words..."Your choice"....and...he was pretty sure he heard something about "pastries"...

He looked down to find one of Azriel's shadows investigating the bag, and he watched with some amusement as the curious little shadow darted in and out of the bag.

Cassian couldn't help but let out a small chuckle at the sight. Even Azriel’s shadows were curious about the pastries he had brought.

"Just him," Cilla asked, her voice shaky.

"Just him," Azriel promised. "Your choice. Your pace. If you need more time tell me."

Cilla nodded, her hands twisting in front of her. Cassian could almost read her thoughts, the nervous energy she was exerting. Azriel placed a comforting hand on her shoulder again. "Just breathe," he advised. "You get to set the pace. Just you and him. I'll be right here, okay?"

Cilla nodded, her wings twitching slightly. "Okay," she said, her voice barely louder than a whisper. Cassian could see her gathering her courage. Azriel gave her shoulder one more squeeze before stepping back, his presence a reassuring presence even from a distance.

Cassian watched as Cilla took a deep breath, steeling herself before turning to face him. Her expression was a mix of hesitation and trepidation. Azriel had let down the wards around the place...or maybe just made them thin enough that Cassian could easily step through.

As he stepped forward, Cilla started, her wings instinctively flared just a bit. Her eyes widened as she took him in fully, and Cassian could almost see the resemblance between them…again. The hair…the shape of her face…her brows…her ears were pointy, much different than the usual rounded Illyrian ones…

And she stood there…silently.

Everything about his daughter seemed to be silent. Like she was scared to make too much noise.

Cassian paused a few steps away from her, holding out the pastries in an offering. "I...brought pastries," he said gruffly, his voice sounding almost awkward. He cursed himself mentally...he wasn't usually so bloody awkward...but then again, he wasn't usually meeting his bastard child for the...second time, now was he?

And the first time...she had trembled her way through the whole meeting, staring at him wide-eyed, the shadows dancing around her, clearly agitated, clearly trying to offer her comfort and failing horribly.

Yeah...that first time had been...something. Cilla had been terrified, trembling and wide-eyed, and the shadows had been a nervous, agitated mess around her.

He'd done his best to be gentle, reassuring her as much as he could. And now...he was here again, hoping that this time he would manage not to scare her.

Cassian didn't have much experience in dealing with...easily frightened people. He was used to dealing with hardened soldiers, warriors, and people who could spar, fight, and handle themselves.

Cilla was...different. Everything seemed to scare her, and he felt woefully out of his depth.

Cilla's eyes flicked between him and the pastries he was holding out. Her hands fidgeted at her sides, and the shadows around her shifted and fluttered, agitated by her nervousness.

After a moment, she reached out with trembling fingers, gently taking the packaged pastries from him. She looked down at the pastries, then back up at him, unsure what to do next.

Cassian silently observed her, waiting for her to lead the interaction. He had come prepared with pastries and conversation starters, but he knew that pushing her too quickly would only make it worse. So he waited, watching her closely as she held the pastries, her eyes flickering up to meet his and then darting away.

"How about we go inside?" Azriel suggested, for once the voice of reason. Cilla swallowed but nodded.

Cassian was grateful for his intervention. Even at a distance, Azriel probably realised that neither of them was very good at this. And Cilla grasped Azriel’s hand as soon as he was near enough, fitting herself against his side, half hiding against him…clearly pulling comfort from her mate.

He followed her and Azriel, remaining a few steps behind, his eyes taking in the surroundings, silently making note of the little things that spoke of Azriel's presence in the house…a warm and cosy little cabin.

Cilla seated herself at the table nervously as Azriel lit the fireplace. The faint glow of the fire cast dancing shadows across the room, and the crackling of firewood provided a soothing background noise. Cassian sat down across from her, the pastries now resting on the table between them.

They sat there in silence for a moment, the only sounds being the crackling of the fire

Cilla's eyes darted down to the pastries, her fingers tracing the paper wrapping of the sweets. She seemed lost in thought, her expression a mixture of fear and curiosity."The pastries are blueberry," he offered softly, hoping to break the silence.

His words seemed to do the trick, as Cilla's gaze flicked up to him, her eyes meeting his for a brief moment before darting away again. "I like blueberry" she murmured, almost to herself.

Cassian couldn't help but feel a pang of relief at her response. It was a small, but hopeful sign that perhaps he wouldn't mess this up completely. "One of my favourites, too," he said, hoping to keep the conversation going.

He'd planned several conversation topics, but they all felt wrong now. Like they would be too forced or too direct.

"How...How did the flying lesson go?" he asked, hoping that that would be...something safe to ask her. A small smile twitched on her face.

When he asked about her flying lesson, a small smile played at the corner of her lips. "It went good," she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. Her wings shifted at her back, as if itching to take flight.

"I...I've never felt so...free before" she added after a moment.

"That's good," he agreed quietly. "And...everything else?" he asked...delicately, resulting in Azriel snorting as he finished tending to the fire.

"Cassian wants to know if I am treating you well," he told Cilla, her smile widening.

"He's a good mate," Cilla answered, sticking her chin out like she was daring Cassian to disagree.

Cassian chuckled at Azriel's description and Cilla's fierce defence of him. "I'm glad to hear it," he managed to say, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

He couldn't deny it, he was relieved to know that Cilla seemed happy, well cared for, and clearly in love with Azriel. He just hoped...she wouldn't hate him for all the time they'd missed together.

Her fingers started picking at the paper of the pastries, shredding the thin wrapping as if she was trying to give her fidgeting something to do.

Cassian cursed silently, noticing her defensive reaction. He had hoped that he wouldn't scare her off, but he could clearly see the tension in her body, the way her wings trembled just a bit as she retreated into herself.

He didn't want her to feel like he was trying to force anything on her or make up for lost time in one conversation. But he was starting to realise just how hard this would be.

"I..." he began, but the words died in his throat. He wanted to reassure her, to tell her that he wasn't trying to pressure her, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, he just sat there, silent and unsure, watching as she continued to pick at the wrapping of the pastries.

The silence stretched on, becoming almost unbearable. He cursed internally, realising that he was completely out of his depths. This was not something he knew how to handle.

"Cilla," he began, trying a different approach. He leaned forward slightly in his chair, hoping to make himself appear less intimidating. "I just...I want you to know that I'm not trying to force anything on you."

He paused, waiting for any reaction from her, but her gaze remained fixed on the pastries, her fingers picking at the shredded paper.

He took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. "I know I wasn't there for you...all those years. And...and I can't change that. And I don't expect you to forgive me for it, either."

He waited for a response, a sign that she was even listening to him. But her wings remained tightly folded around her, her head still bowed. He could see the tension in her shoulders, and he hated that he was the one causing it.

But he forced himself to continue because he needed to say this. "I just want...I want you to know that...I'm here now."

The words hung in the air like a heavyweight. He watched as Cilla's wings seemed to shiver slightly, her shoulders hunching even more. But he refused to give up, even if the hope of getting through to her was starting to slip away.

"And I don't want anything in return," he went on. "I don't...expect anything from you. I just..." he trailed off, struggling to find the right words. "I just want to get to know my...daughter."

The silence settled again, and the only sounds were the crackling fire and the soft flutter of the shadows. Cassian could see Azriel's eyes watching them both from across the room, probably silently wondering if he should step in. But neither of them had any idea what to do here.

Cilla, on the other hand, was still hunched over the pastries, her wings drawn so tightly around her that she resembled a quaking leaf caught in the wind.

What could he say to a daughter he had never met? To a child, he had missed out on so much of her life?

It was Azriel who suddenly spoke up, his voice breaking the tense silence. "Why don't you try one of the pastries, Cilla?" he suggested gently. His voice was soft, soothing, like a caress. Cilla's head jerked up at the sound of his voice, her wings twitching. "They're blueberry," he continued, shifting a bit closer from his position at the fireplace. “You said you like blueberry, right?” Cilla's eyes flickered towards the pastries and the mention of them being blueberry, her fingers ceasing their picking. She nodded silently, her body still visibly tense.

"They're probably delicious," Azriel prodded, a hint of a smile in his voice. "You should try one." As if to encourage her, he picked up one of the sweets himself, holding it out to her.

Cilla's eyes flickered between the pastry and Azriel's face, clearly torn. The tension in her body didn't relent, but she slowly extended a trembling hand to take the pastry.

"There you go," Azriel murmured, placing the pastry in her palm. He carefully let go and backed off slightly, giving her space while still keeping a watchful eye.

Cilla held the pastry gingerly, turning it over in her palm, inspecting it as if it was some rare treasure. She didn't seem very hungry, Cassian noted with a pang.

It was then that Cassian realised just how thin she was. He could see the faint outline of her bones under the loose shirt she was wearing, the way her collarbone jutted out under her skin. She looked...delicate. Fragile. As if a strong wind could knock her down.

Cassian's stomach twisted with a mixture of guilt and concern.

It felt like an eternity before she actually put the pastry in her mouth, taking a tentative and small bite. Cassian couldn't even find it in himself to feel relieved; her swallowing just made him more concerned.

Did she even enjoy it? Or was she just forcing herself to eat?

To his surprise, Cilla took another bite, her eyes fluttering closed as if savouring the taste. A small moan escaped her lips, and he could almost see the tension draining from her body as she relaxed a bit.

"Is it good?" Azriel asked a smile in his voice. Cilla's eyes opened, a flicker of surprise in them as if she had forgotten that Azriel was even there. She swallowed her bite, then nodded quietly.

Cassian couldn't help but feel a pang of...affection, and relief, at seeing this small sign of her enjoying something.

Azriel's smile widened, the shadows around him seeming to react, shifting and dancing as he moved closer to sit beside Cilla. He placed a gentle hand on her back, and she tensed momentarily but relaxed almost immediately.

Cassian could see the way she leaned slightly into Azriel's touch, seeking comfort and reassurance from his presence.

She took another bite of the pastry, her eyes fluttering closed again. Cassian could see how the tension seemed to seep out of her body, replaced slowly by calm.

He stayed silent, not wanting to disrupt the moment between the two, and simply watched as Cilla slowly started to relax, her wings losing their tension as she leaned into Azriel.

Azriel murmured something to her, his voice too low for Cassian to make out the words, a gentle reassurance, his hand gently rubbing her back. Cassian could see the shadows shifting around them, almost acting like a shield, wrapping around them like a protective coat.

He felt a pang of envy at the sight, wishing that he could be the one soothing Cilla, the one offering her comfort.

"Thank you," she whispered quietly. He hadn't expected that.

Cassian cleared his throat. "You're very welcome," he told her. Cilla looked up from the pastry, her eyes meeting his for a brief moment, a flicker of something...appreciation, perhaps, in them before she looked down again.

He wrecked his brain trying to come up with another thing to say, his eyes suddenly caught on the children's book that was laid on the table.

"Did you read that?" he asked her quietly. She nodded, hesitation bleeding out of every pore.

"Azriel's shadows taught me how," she said, her voice shaking.

"They were quicker than I was," Azriel quipped.

Azriel's comment made Cilla's lips twitch into a small, shaky smile. Cassian found himself smiling faintly as well, almost touched at the idea of her learning with the help of Azriel's shadows.

His eyes, however, caught on to something else.

"They...taught you?" he asked, curiosity piqued.

He knew that the shadows that surrounded Azriel were...sentient, to a degree. But they usually kept to themselves and rarely interacted with others. So the fact that they had helped Azriel teach Cilla how to read... It was interesting, and a bit worrying.

"They said I could hear them because I was Azriel's mate," Cilla said and Azriel pulled in a sharp breath, that little tidbit of information was news to him too.

Oh well. She was a shadowsinger herself. There were definitely weirder things that happened. It was harmless. If it brought her some form of comfort...

Who knew what it meant that two shadowsingers had mated...who knew what that meant. one shadowsinger was rare, practically mythical...two? That was unheard of.

Cassian's mind raced with questions and speculations. Two shadowsingers mating... It was unheard of. The Illyrian lore had countless stories about Shadowsingers, but none about mated ones.

And what kind of powers did Cilla have, as the daughter of an Illyrian and a High Fae? What was even possible with that kind of pairing? The one example he had was Rhys...but Rhys was also High Lord...and with that came a whole different level of power.

And there was something else that he worried about... namely that Azriel had been forced into his job because of his innate abilities...and Cilla...she had the same abilities. He didn't think that Rhysand was going to be...quite as violent as his father had been...but it was very clear that Cilla had...abilities that would make her a prize in any court.

At least she had Azriel as her mate, who would gleefully slaughter anybody who thought that they should get to lay a hand on Cilla. He could see the way Azriel's eyes darkened at the mention of Cilla's abilities, the way the shadows around him shifted restlessly, as if ready to strike.

But even with Azriel's protection, there was no question that Cilla would be a...prime target for many. And Cassian hated that thought more than he'd ever imagined.

"Have you...thought about what...you would like to do? As a job?" he asked her, hating the way his voice was sounding. Like that mattered right now.

Cilla's eyes flicked up at Cassian's question, surprised at the topic. Her wings shuffled behind her, twitching as if considering his question.

"I...I used to work in a tannery" she admitted quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Cassian could see the uncertainty in her eyes, that fear of the unknown. She had been trapped in a cage for most of her life...she had never had to think about a career.

"Did you like it?" he asked her, and she shrugged.

"It helped me survive," she said blankly. "I...it was work. It paid."

Her words made him wince slightly. She hadn't enjoyed it, that much he could tell. Cassian had to remind himself to keep his anger at bay, that this was not the time to start raging about her past.

He took a slow, measured breath. "I see," he said carefully, waiting to see if she would say more.

"I like books," she said suddenly. "I can't read...well...or fast. But I like them."

Cassian's heart ached at her words. She liked books, but she didn't know how to read...another thing that had been taken from her far too soon. He desperately wanted to reach out, to brush away the strands of hair that had fallen into her face, but he held himself back.

"That's...that's nice," he said carefully, trying to keep his voice steady.

"There is a library in the House of Wind, where Cassian lives," Azriel said quietly. "Hundreds and Thousands of books. The priestesses that work there always need help."

But it was...it would be such a good fit for her. The priestesses were traumatised in a myriad of ways and if anybody could understand what had happened to Cilla that wasn't Azriel...the priestesses probably were the ones to do it. It was...genius actually.

The priestesses at the House of Wind had a deep understanding of trauma and pain, having experienced it themselves. They had helped Nesta, and they could help Cilla, too, in ways that neither he nor Azriel could.

It was a logical solution, and the more he thought about it, the more he was starting to like it.

"We could go to visit if you wanted to," Azriel offered.

Cilla hesitated, her wings fidgeting anxiously behind her. She glanced at Azriel, then at Cassian, as if seeking reassurance.

Cassian tried to school his expression into one of comfort and warmth, though it was hard to keep the anger at her former life out of his eyes.

Finally, she nodded silently, her wings fluttering slightly in what looked like nervousness.

"I would like that."

Cilla's small voice, the words that she had managed to say, made Cassian's heart both lighter and heavier at the same time. Lighter because she was slowly opening up, communicating, talking, and heavy because he could almost taste the fear in her voice.

It was a start. Something. And he cradled it close to his heart.

#acotar fanfiction #azriel x reader #azriel x oc #my writing #the ties that bind #azriel fanfic #azriel fanfiction

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withleeknow · 5 months

Text

wishful thinking. (06)

chapter six: like lightning

summary: the instruction was plain and simple: no strings attached. but you should’ve known from the beginning that it could never apply to you and him.

pairing: minho x f!reader rating: 18+ (minors dni) genres/warnings: friends to lovers, friends with benefits au, college au; fluff, angst, smut; mentions of sex, swearing, this chapter is also pretty mild in terms of warnings? the angst begins here tho !!! could've been more edited but yk lol word count: 4.9k

as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡

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If I never laid eyes on you Would I feel something missing? If you never laid eyes on me Would you know something’s gone?

Happy Accidents - Saint Motel

You don't know if you've ever changed, even once, in your life.

You feel like you're still 8 years old and your best friend is the neighbors' elderly dog that they let you play with every weekend. She's a golden retriever, and she would stand taller than you if she could walk on two legs.

You're still 16 and your happiest memories are of a boy who doesn't love you back. But all of your friends say that he does, and oh, how much you want to believe that their words are true.

And at the same time, you're 22, just a few months shy of 23, sitting in front of a canvas showcasing your own bleeding heart. Your growing pains, laid out by acrylics and gentle brush strokes. You liken yourself to the figure in front of you, the one that's standing in the corner of your painting, overlooking a sea of blues and grays. There's a piece of you that's left behind in everything you create. Sometimes, you leave it there on purpose, a memorabilia for your future self to look back at fondly.

You think of everything in your life that has changed and how you're the only thing that has managed to remain the same. The dog eventually dies and the boy moves on with his life. The passage of time is relentless but you seem to be the only one who can't keep up with the tireless flow. You're always running in place, always stuck behind in the end. There's a past in which you still live, one where you don’t know if you'll ever make it out of.

You think of home and the search comes up empty, like it does every single time. Home isn't here inside of your own body, nor is it within the four walls of your childhood bedroom. You've never felt like you belong anywhere. Everything is always fluctuating, constantly and unabatingly spinning and spinning and spinning when all you're asking for is a minute to stand still and catch your breath.

Home isn't always a place, that much you know. Maybe home isn't even a thing that you build but something that you find, in a person or a touch, in a feeling or a scent. Perhaps that's the problem, isn't it? Home is something you find, and you've spent your whole life searching.

People say your early 20s are supposed to be the best years of your life but that sentiment has never resonated with you. These are the years that you spend in excruciating limbo, where you're not an adult but you're forced to be anyway. The years where loneliness is an invisible friend that shadows you day in and day out, a presence you don’t want around but can't seem to shake off, a haunting that's far too gentle to be considered such. These aren't your best years; these are your saddest years.

None of it helps build character. It just hurts.

It hurts. You accept that it hurts. You keep on living, always accompanied by the hurt. At some point, it stops bothering you as much; you've grown numb to the way it stings, but it doesn't mean that there aren't days where you're pierced with a sudden and debilitating hollowness in your chest.

Here you are, half an adult but still a child, wondering if you know anything more than you did when you were 8.

You just want to go home, but you don't know where home is.

You look at the small pool of yellow acrylic paint that's been sitting on your palette for a while now. It feels so out of place among the other insipid tones, even though that has always been your intention - a burst of life amidst a sea of blues.

You don't think about anything in particular when your fingers pick up a brush and dab it in a generous amount of paint. It doesn't make much sense, but it feels right. You don't think about anything in particular when your hand smears the color on the cavas, on the figure, a startling stroke right in the center of her chest, contrasting all of the dulls and darkness surrounding.

Though, you do think of him afterward. Of him and daffodils and spring.

The rest of your friends are already present when you and Felix show up at Chan and Jess' shared apartment, holding boxes of pizzas and a case of beer.

It's a cute tradition that was started last year, when all of you promised to gather the final Friday of every month to have a cozy little dinner party among yourselves. It usually takes place at Chan's, since his apartment is bigger than the rest of yours, and because him and Jess are practically the parents of the group anyway.

The second you step into the living room, a chorus of groans erupts all around. Hyunjin and Jisung are the most vocal petulant babies, pouting from their seats, complaining that you two took too long and that they've been starving for hours.

You and Felix shrug off your jackets before delegating the tasks to the lot of them, since you were in charge of picking up the food for tonight. Minho and Seungmin grabbing plates and cups from the kitchen for Changbin and Jeongin to set on Chan's large coffee table.

You opt for a seat on the carpeted floor, next to the spot on the cream-colored couch where Minho left his phone, feeling more comfortable this way since the table is a little low for your liking. They come back a few minutes later, and you smile up at Minho when he reclaims his seat on the couch.

"Hi." He smiles back, smoothing a hand over your hair in greeting.

"Hi," you say. Even a touch so simple warms you up from the outside chill you were in mere minutes ago. No one else notices his lingering hand on you, or it's just such a you and Minho thing to be mildly affectionate with each other that the others don't care to comment on anymore.

You all fall into easy conversation soon after everyone starts digging in, chatting amongst yourselves as you always do. You and Hyunjin lament about your respective projects, reiterating the frustration that you've already expressed through your texts for the zillionth time. Chan and Jess nag Jeongin about introducing his girlfriend to the group, to which the younger one responds with an exaggerated groan as one would when their parents ask about grandchildren, though he does placate them by promising to bring her along the next time there's a party.

You don't care enough to tune into Minho's conversation with Changbin and Felix about the new gym they started going to. You do, however, catch Changbin's attempt to tease Minho. A playful scoff, followed by, "Minho lost his abs ages ago."

Your response is automatic and therefore, it doesn't warrant much thought from you before the words are tumbling out of your mouth. "No, he has abs. They're still there."

You don't recognize the weight of your words until you notice all chatter has halted, and you look up to find all eyes on you.

"How do you know that?" Jeongin is the one to voice everyone's collective thought, puzzled, a little surprised.

"Yeah, isn't Minho notoriously weird about that stuff?" Felix adds.

You blink in a daze, and you don't know if your face is reddening because of embarrassment but you sure hope that it isn't. The mouthful you're munching on gives you a reason to stall, your reputation of being a slow eater makes the excuse more believable when you don't answer right away.

As subtly as you can, you nudge Minho's leg with an elbow. He just laughs, though you're pretty certain he can tell that you're internally freaking out.

"I was walking her home from class a few weeks ago and we got caught in the rain. She let me come up to her apartment to change," he says calmly.

You remember that day. He was walking you from campus back to yours, so that part was true. But it didn't start raining until you were both sheltered in the comfort of your apartment, with him on top of you as he fucked you nice and slow on the couch. You didn't know when the rain stopped, but it must've been some time during your shower that you offered him to join with the innocent intention of cleaning yourselves up and saving water, only for him to end up on his knees with his face between your legs and his fingers buried deep inside of you. He'd made you come three times that afternoon, then took you out to udon afterward.

"And you just... changed in the middle of her living room or something?" Changbin asks, his eyes narrowing slightly.

Minho shrugs, completely nonchalant. "Yeah."

The silence in the room persists as you swallow down the bite. Their stare lingers on the pair of you, then they turn to look at each other like they're speaking a secret language that you're unfamiliar with. Why is it such a scandalous thing for you to see Minho without a shirt? You've seen your other guy friends shirtless numerous times before, when all of you are hanging out in someone's apartment on particularly hot summer days.

Though, they aren't wrong. The arrangement between the two of you muddles your memory, but you don't really remember seeing Minho flaunt his bare skin often before.

You're about to squeeze out a weak response to aid Minho's explanation, but your friends just start nodding along in acceptance.

"I guess that makes sense. If there's anyone who would see him naked, it'd be Y/N."

This definitely makes you blush. Minho laughs again.

"What?! I did not see him naked."

Well, look who's a liar now?

"Y/N, and whoever he's banging," Hyunjin supplies, which seriously doesn't help the flush on your cheeks at all.

"Why would it make sense that it was me?" you protest.

"Because you're his favorite." Jess is the one who answers, to which the rest of your friends all hum in agreement. The way they're reacting makes it seem as though it's just a fact of life that you're Minho's favorite, and that whatever boundary he lets you cross or whatever rule he breaks when it comes to you is simply a result of this fact.

Not once has it crossed your mind that everyone might have a favorite person in the group, but now that it's been said, you quickly conclude that Minho would be your favorite too (your secret arrangement notwithstanding.)

You glance up at him, seeking reassurance with a curious blink. "Am I?"

"You're alright," is what he tells you in lieu of a confirmation. "The least annoying one."

And you don't know if it's the way he speaks ever so gently when he looks at you or how his lips curl up in a knowing smile that sends a tingle of warmth down your spine. Or perhaps the culprit is the softness in his sharp eyes that makes you a little dizzy, makes a pair of butterflies go rampant at the pit of your stomach, as though they're prepared to soar when the ardor of spring begins to thaw the winter frost.

Chan laughs, "That's practically a declaration of love from Minho."

At one point, Hyunjin looks around and comments with a mouth stuffed full of pizza, "Wow. We are literally perfectly divided."

All eyes fall onto him, clearly no one is catching his drift.

Hyunjin swallows his food and washes it down with a big sip of beer before gesturing vaguely at the group, "All the singles are on the floor."

You look at the people on the couch while they stare back at you, Hyunjin, Seungmin, Changbin and Felix sitting comfortably on the fluffy rug.

"I'm single," Jisung says, pointing at himself. "Should I get on the floor?"

"No, you're not," Seungmin says flatly.

"What?"

"Didn't you get back together with your ex girlfriend?"

"What?" Jisung practically squeaks out. "Man, what are you talking about?"

"I live with you. We literally share a wall. I heard you last week. The whole two hours."

“You were home?!”

"My shoes were by the door. I had dishes in the sink. I went to the bathroom to pee several times."

Jisung gasps, growing redder and redder as more eyes start diverting their attention to him. He opens his mouth only to promptly close it as he thinks of what to say. Repeats the process a few times. "We didn't hear you. You never said anything," is what he settles on stuttering out. Then, "Why didn't you bring it up? Why do you have to air out my dirty laundry now?"

"It's more entertaining to embarrass you in front of everyone." Seungmin shrugs, and ignores Changbin's subsequent comment calling him a pervert. "And no wonder you didn't hear me. You were going at it like you were rabid."

"Wait," Jeongin says, "when did you even get back together?"

"We didn't. It's complicated! We're just… y'know…"

When Jisung trails off sheepishly with the bright blush still apparent on his cheeks, Minho cuts in, finishing his sentence bluntly, "Boning."

You send him a glare from where you're seated on the floor, to which he just gives you a lopsided grin and nudges you with his knee.

While everyone else is busy bombarding Jisung with questions on potentially getting back together with his ex, Minho quietly slithers down to the floor like a stealthy cat, squeezing himself into the space between you and Felix. Minho rests his arm behind you on the couch, leaving it stretched out comfortably on the cushions, just lightly touching your back. Usually, when you two are alone, he would have his arm wrapped around your shoulders so he could pull you close, until you're safely tucked into his side where you would remain on most of your evenings spent together. But for now, he leaves his arm where it grazes you only slightly as you sit among friends, with the exception of his hand reaching to play with your hair once in a while.

"Hey!" Hyunjin practically screeches, pointing at Minho when he notices. "Why did you get on the floor?"

"What?" Minho asks innocently. "You said the singles are on the floor."

"You're not single. You have a girlfriend."

"I don't have a girlfriend."

Hyunjin scoffs. "You have a sneaky link."

"Hmm, not the same as a girlfriend."

"Why can't you just tell us, man? There's gotta be something else you're hiding."

You stay quiet, still as a statue while they bicker back and forth, like the mere motion of your breathing could give your secret away. You don't doubt that Hyunjin has been hounding Minho about his new discovery ever since the night of Yeonjun's party, but Minho seems unfazed about it, evading Hyunjin's badgering with a calm composure that's distinct to no one else.

You excuse yourself to the bathroom, quickly shuffling away as if your absence at the table would help make things seem less suspicious for Minho. You splash some water on your face, wait for a while until it feels like an appropriate amount of time has passed for them to have already moved onto another topic. You are, quite literally, hiding from your own friends.

Moments later, you re-enter the room with gentle footsteps and a certain tension in your spine, but you soon grow relieved when you find that the conversation has somehow shifted to Seungmin and his on-again off-again not-girlfriend, about which he just seems kinda sad for a few seconds before he's telling everyone to fuck off and mind their own business, always quick to conceal any and all emotions. He's similar to you in that way, you suppose.

You sit back down next to Minho who's still on the floor, though you put a little distance between your bodies that wasn't previously there. You don't know if it's enough to be noticeable, but he does look at you for a brief moment before leaning a bit closer, asking softly so only you could hear, "Walk you home later?"

You embark on the familiar route from Chan and Jess' place back to yours. It's not that late, barely even 10PM on a Friday night, but the streets are almost deserted. Barely anyone tipsily roaming the streets with their friends in tow; just a few cars passing by every now and then. You relish in the peace and quiet, sighing softly to yourself as you walk in the crisp evening air.

Minho takes casual strides next to you, letting his hand brush against your hand for a while until his pinky finds its way around yours. The tranquility of the city is nice, but being with Minho is even nicer.

Just some of the stars have come out to play, though the way they gleam and glimmer is enough to make up for what they lack in numbers. It's easy to get lost tonight, when you're looking up at an infinite sky with little light and only Minho's pinky hooked around yours like an anchor to guide you back home.

In the grand scheme of things, you're just a speck of dust. You're young and confused - 23 is still a child in your mind - and most of all, you're insignificant. Not in a self-disparaging way. Maybe in the literal sense of the word would be more accurate.

You are insignificant, merely a face among billions of faces. In a crowd of hundreds, or maybe only dozens, you're not someone who would stand out and be picked. Sometimes, it's nice to blend right in and hide in plain sight; you don't particularly enjoy being under the spotlight anyway. But sometimes, it's lonely to be just a drop in the ocean. You could sink right to the bottom and no one would even notice.

Maybe that's why you enjoy being around Minho so much. He makes you feel safe, and seen, like you matter in the end. He makes you feel like if you were to disappear one day, there's a person out there who would go to the ends of the earth in search of you.

You hope that he sticks around, that he wants to be in your life for as long as you can have him. You're not sure what it is that makes you sick to your stomach at the mere thought of losing him; perhaps because you know you will never come across another one like Minho in your lifetime. There's nobody else that can make you feel the same way he does.

I don't want to lose you. You're the only good thing I have.

An intersection, two left turns, and your apartment building comes into view all too soon.

"Wanna come up?" you ask bashfully. The streetlights do a good job at masking your light flush.

"I can't tonight," he says, a little apologetic. "I'm going to my parents' house first thing in the morning."

"Oh." You're disappointed for no specific reason. Sure, you were practically glued to Minho's side for most of the evening, but you were also surrounded by the very friends who are unaware that you two have been sneaking around behind their backs. It's been about over a week since you hung out with him alone, which isn't that long ago by any means, but still. "For the weekend?"

"Yeah, just for the weekend."

There's a selfish urge, just a tiny one, to ask him to come for a while anyway, maybe only twenty minutes or so, but you swallow it down and wave it away. "Okay, have fun. Say hi to the cats for me."

"I'll send you pictures," he tells you. "They miss you, y'know."

You smile at that, laughing a little. "They've met me once."

Last fall, you and your friends all took a weekend trip to Minho's childhood home for his birthday. It was fun for you, though you're not sure how much his parents actually enjoyed it, considering they had to house and feed almost a dozen kids that weren't their own. You remember the cats, of course you do, and how Soonie took an immediate liking to you, how he mostly hovered around your personal space whenever you were in the house.

"No, seriously. My mom says Soonie meows your name once a day."

You throw him an eye roll, accompanied by a light punch to his shoulder.

"Goodnight, Min," you say. "Text me when you get home."

"Okay."

Even after that, the two of you still stay rooted to the spot, your pinkies interlocked. Minho's gaze doesn't leave your face, and for a moment there, it feels like most of the stars didn't show up because they all left to gather in his eyes.

"Can't go up if you don't let me,” you quip, glancing at your hands, knowing full well that you can easily retract your finger if you want to.

His eyes stay on you for just a moment longer. "Let me kiss you," he asks softly, releasing your pinky only to take your hand in his, tugging you closer until you’re all up in each other's personal space.

You blink at him, your heart caught somewhere in your throat. You're close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off his body. "Min…" you murmur but you don't actually know what you want to tell him, so the nickname hangs like an idle lantern in the bubble of space between your faces.

"Just a goodnight kiss."

"Friends don't kiss," you say meekly, reminiscent of your conversation over a week ago.

"Friends don't have sex either," he repeats.

"But we’re not having sex."

"You asked me to come upstairs. What do you think we would've done?"

And he's right. If he had agreed to come up, then you would probably be pressed against the door right now, with his hands trailing down your body, removing every article of clothing they find, his lips kissing every exposed patch of skin along the way.

Minho would've been kissing you regardless - anywhere and everywhere, and you wouldn't have had any qualms about it like you do right now, even though you want to kiss him too.

"Maybe I wanted you to come up to make you peel tangerines for me while we watch a movie."

He says nothing to that, only grins amusedly and leans in to nudge his nose against yours. It's so cute that you can't help but mirror the quirk of his lips. You're sure that no one else gets to see this version of him - the one that boops you like an overly affectionate cat and smiles like you're his favorite person not just in your little group, but in the whole wide world.

"I haven't kissed you all week," he murmurs, his voice so gentle in the quietude that surrounds you. "You were right there but I couldn't kiss you all night."

You lose yourself in his brown eyes, the same eyes that hold nothing but sincerity and fondness for you. The stars here are brighter than the ones overhead.

"Let me kiss you," Minho says, "please?"

You cave. Of course you do.

The first glide of his lips over yours has you weak in the knees. Something sinks in as he kisses you deeply. Under the streetlights, not surrounded by your familiar four walls like a long lost secret but out in the open where anyone can see, even though there's not a single soul around.

Tears well up behind your eyelids the same way they did that morning you woke up next to him for the first time. You don't know what it is, never felt this way around anyone except for him. It's akin to the feeling of finally coming home after being away for a long time, or at least that's what you think that's how it would feel.

You don't want to be caged in by the walls of your own making. You want to be seen, and you want to be seen by him. You're the remnants of snow and ice stuck between cracks in the sidewalk, and he is warmth. You're a mosaic of a daffodil garden caught in an endless winter, and he is spring. Minho is the brief but wonderful moment when cherry blossoms have yet to fall from their branches, but green leaves are already growing impatiently, resulting in the beautiful coexistence of pinks and greens if only just for a few days.

You let him kiss you until you're both out of breath, let him wrap his strong arms around your body and hold you like he could mend all of your broken pieces. Maybe he could. Maybe you'd like him to make you whole again.

When Minho pulls away, he doesn't stray very far. He puts enough distance between your faces so you can catch your breath. But even then, you have a hard time getting air back into your lungs. He's looking at you like he would pick the moon for you if you asked, like moving mountains is no more difficult than peeling tangerines for you whenever you get a craving.

The streetlights are dim, but the stars in his eyes are bright enough to tell you something that his words don't.

It hits you all at once, in a moment where even the wind is still, as if it's been reduced to a mere spectator, watching the two of you with bated breath on the sidelines. The tipping point can be something as simple as him asking - almost pleading - to kiss you goodnight with no ulterior motive, no other intention than because he wants to. As though it would kill him if he had to go another minute without kissing you.

You realize why he's the yellow to your sea of blues, why you're so happy every time you look at the bracelet on your wrist. You realize why you feel so safe around him, why he makes you experience emotions that no one else can. You realize why you don’t like hearing about Hana, or any other person in the same sentence as his name with the implication that he could be romantically involved with them.

You realize why you kissed him for the first time all those months ago, and it wasn't because you were sad and he just happened to be there and let you cry on his shoulder. The times that your friends would tell you how you and Minho would be perfect together - you wanted it to be true. You knew it was true - that he was someone you could love, the only person who's worth opening up to. You kissed him because you wanted to love him. You realize why it made you soar when he kissed you back, because you wanted him to love you too.

You realize why the thought of losing this friendship terrifies you. You realize why you asked him to stay that night after the party and the club, even though you had never allowed him to sleep over before. You realize why the other week you let him only kiss you and nothing else, and you realize why your heart is hammering in your chest this very second, why your knees are weak, why you can't really breathe here in the middle of an empty street under a moonless sky, just because he's looking at you as if it's not the sun that the earth revolves around but rather, it's a girl who has never learned how to say what she means.

You're good at leaving things alone; it's a skill that you've unintentionally mastered over the years. Nothing has to change if you let it remain the same. And yet, the one exception always seems to be Minho, and you're a mirror of yourself when you're with him. You like the version of you that only he's able to bring out, and he does it effortlessly every time. He pulls happiness out of you so easily that it's hard to ignore what you feel for him, hard to convince yourself that what you harbor for him is still only platonic affection.

It comes bubbling up to the surface without your permission. It strikes you the same way lightning splits open the whole sky on a cloudless night, abrupt and unmistakeable. Love isn't something that you've ever come close to, and you have always been an unbeliever when people answer "You just know," in response to "How do you know when it is love?"

Though as you stand right here, right now, you think maybe this is what love is supposed to look like, personified with starry eyes and shallow dimples when he smiles.

Before he leaves, Minho presses another sweet kiss to your cheek. You're still dazed by the dawning, overwhelmed by the recognition that you can only mutter a stupid "Bye," when he bids you good night.

As you watch him go, there's something else you realize, almost tragically, that you've always been a ruiner. You run away the moment shit starts getting too real, even if it means letting beautiful things slip through your fingers like running water.

Love just isn't something you've ever learned to hold.

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pedgito · 9 months

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𝐌𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐌𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐒 ╳ SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter Two: Chivalry, Secrets & Hot Tubs (Week One)

[strangers to friends to lovers, age gap (56/mid 20s), forced proximity, no outbreak]

(Series) Content Warning: a very, very lonely joel miller. copious amounts of lusting, tension, joel is an excellent cook (food, alcohol, ect), hot tubs, impromptu snowball fights, awkward situations, deep talks and tragic backstories (specified within chapter warnings, deeply depraved smut/sexcapades and the inappropriate use of a dining table (also specified within chapter warnings), nicknames of endearment (no use of y/n)

quick note: i love all the reblogs/feedback and that you're all enjoying this as much as i am <3 and a huge thank you to @swiftispunk for being the best and looking over the first chapter for me, i am completely scatter-brained and forgot to mention this when i posted last monday, so tysm han and pls go check her out if you haven't! & follow my fic update blog (@pedgitos) and turn on post notifications so you don't miss any updates/posted fics!

Chapter Summary: Settling in is easier than you expect, but it does come with a fair share of challenges. A week filled with getting to know one another and some moments shared, your week doesn't end on the best note, leaving you with a choice.

Chapter Warnings: (8k) no outbreak, grumpy!Joel, domestic shenanigans, Joel being naturally assertive, cooking dinner together, reading is good at encouraging Joel, one hot tub & two stubborn individuals, also...one bed trope incoming

You wake up refreshed, like you’ve been born with a new reverence for life—alright, it might be a bit of an overstatement but it’s a wonder what a decent night of sleep could do and you’re feeling that this idea, playing house with a stranger—though it wasn’t much like that anymore—wasn’t the worst choice. And it reminds you of Joel, having left him in the chair last night, not wanting to burden him but you can only imagine the ache in his bones, his back, the discomfort of sleeping in a chair all night.

You lay for a moment, bleary eyes adjusting to the early morning light. The morning sunshine wasn’t strong here, blanketed out by a stark white snow that covered the ground, it muted out most colors and left a cool, but bright blue that shined through the window above your bed.

It was peaceful. No cars, no buzz of strong electricity outside your window, people and their idle conversation a few floors down from your apartment window. Not even a bird, really. But, there’s a distinct clearing of a throat from the living room that has you stirring in bed, rising lazily as you move with the same enthusiasm.

It was a fresh week. The first official week of your vacation and you were going to start it off on a good note, clambering out of the bed and slipping on a pair of fluffy slippers to keep your toes from freezing off, not bothering to glance in a mirror on the way out—not that you needed to, it didn’t matter. It was early, you were still trying to shed the sleep from your body and you could care less. Plus, it wasn’t like an old t-shirt and sleep shorts was some foreign concept.

When you peek around the corner, arms crossed tightly over your chest, you can spot Joel’s head tilting to one side, hand kneading at the taut muscle in the center of his back where his neck starts to begin and then you’re stuck watching as he stretches his arms out wide, working out all of those muscles. Every single one. And you’ve been silent for far too long.

Yeah.

Clearing your throat softly, you approach from behind and keep your distance, announcing your presence like you hadn’t been lingering for a minute or two already.

“Morning,” You greet politely, resting your weight against the edge of the island, taking in full view of a freshly awoken Joel, eyes still puffy from sleep.

He looks very…gentle. Surprisingly, so. It softens his rigid demeanor significantly and you have to silently talk yourself out of glaring at him for too long, “I didn’t want to wake you—I’m so sorry.”

Jeez—you two are getting good at that. Apologizing, afraid to step on each other’s toes.

“Not your fault,” Joel massages his bicep with the heavy pressure of his thumb, looking slightly pained as he rolls his shoulders, “I didn’t realize how tired I was.”

“Yeah, but I forced you to stay up, so—”

“You didn’t,” Joel quickly shuts you down, “I’m a grown man,” there’s a laugh hidden somewhere in there, but Joel continues, “don’t blame yourself for my own irresponsibility.”

It’s too early for this. You force on a fake smile, void of any real emotion at this hour, running on fumes and the smell of coffee. Speaking of—you sniff, eyes searching for the smell like a dog would track a scent, and Joel is already pointing in the direction you should be looking for when your eyes land on him.

“I already finished it off on my own,” Joel admits, pointedly taking another long sip before resting the mug back on the counter, “I can get another pot goin’ if you need it.”

There’s an inclination to let him, seeing him assert himself so easily and offer, but you shake your head, “I think I can handle a coffee maker,” You assure him, meandering around the kitchen in search of the coffee grounds, ignoring Joel’s tracking of your movements, waiting for a moment to interject and point you in the right direction. You spot them a moment before the urge comes with a soft aha!

“I needed to make a drive into town,” Joel tells you after you’ve gone through the steps of starting your own batch of coffee, “pick up some more food, figured you might wanna tag along.”

He’s not asking, only assuming. But to be fair, his assumption is right.

“Sure,” You reply cooly, pouring yourself a hefty cup of coffee to sip on, letting your body take hold of the caffeine, “...how far away is the closest town?”

“Hour and a half.” Joel answers and you almost have the nerve to go wide-eyed on him, but then you remember just how deep into the woods you both were and that it was necessary.

Truthfully, there was a more concerning matter at hand.

“How’s your music taste?”

Joel has the gall to look offended by the question.

“I’m leavin’ in thirty,” Joel ignores you, “don’t think I won’t hesitate to leave you here.”

Okay, noted: Joel wasn’t much the morning person you assumed he was.

Joel immediately realizes how little disregard you have for touching things that aren’t yours when you reach for the makeshift box of cassettes tapes placed in the backseat of his truck—the thing was old, riding on it’s last leg, but it was something Joel would cherish until it was unsalvageable, torn seats, dents, and all.

“Ain’t gonna find anything you like in there,” Joel assures you, “None of that pop stuff they’re always playin’ on the radio these days.”

The tables turn on him suddenly, seeing your face contort into a similar emotion that he gave you earlier. Bewilderment, shock, annoyance. You scoff at the comment.

“Says you,” You retort back, sifting through the different cassettes until you find Joel trading glances between you and the road in front of him, almost worried you might chuck his collection out of the passenger side window, “Joel, eyes on the road.”

Joel enjoys a lot of country, which isn’t a total disbelief. But, it wasn’t something you shared the sentiment on, flicking away a handful of country artists you’ve never listened to and reaching some of the good stuff—older rock music, some classic 80s, and late 90s.

You pluck one out carefully, prying open the cassette case with gentle hands before sliding the tape in, allowing the low hum of the music to fill the car. There’s a brief moment of respite before Joel smirks to himself, thumb tapping against the steering wheel.

“What were you saying?” You look at him pointedly, shifting slightly in your seat.

Joel looks away briefly, biting back a chuckle, “Fine—I’ll give you some credit. Foo Fighters aren’t terrible, but you skipped right over Bruce Springsteen, so…”

You scoff in disbelief, “You don’t get to criticize me with that atrocious collection of country music,” You stare down at the box in thought, eyes brimming with a mischievous that Joel knows of immediately, he’s seen it before. Not with you, but he knows, “you know, maybe I should just do you a favor and—”

You can barely get a hand on the window roller before Joel’s hand is gripped tight over the box, trapping your other hand in his grip as he warns, “I’m not above leavin’ you stranded in the cold.”

Your grin is nothing but evil and Joel finds that there’s something about you that infuriates him in a way that is hard to describe, not in anger or rage, but a level that he thinks he could match. A game of back and forth that he could play into—but you’re quickly relenting regardless of the threat and placing the box on the floorboard.

“Already tried that,” You retort, “didn’t work too well for you, did it?”

Fair is fair. Joel doesn’t poke the beast.

Instead, he takes the chance to ask a question.

“So, what exactly was your plan?” Joel asks curiously. “You comin’ out here with no car and all?”

You shrug nonchalantly, “Didn’t really have one, but I would have figured it out.”

Joel shakes his head dismissively, subtly resembling a face of disapproval.

“Hey, you don’t get to judge me, okay?” You don’t wait for a response, “You can have whatever assumptions you want about me, but don’t try and act like you know anything about me.”

It was another reminder. Joel didn’t know you, but you didn’t know him either. You reign your frustration in slightly, quick to defend yourself but aware that not everyone handles confrontation in the same way—if Joel was quick to anger, you didn’t want to stoke the fire.

“I’m not,” Joel argues, his voice calmer than you expect, thinking back to the saddled rage his voice held the night you arrived, the threat that lingered with every word, “I’m not, alright?”

“Then stop that.” You comment, waving your hand in a vague motion toward his face, “Stop looking at me like—”

“Like what?” Joel interjects, eyes more pensive as he looks over at you.

“Like—like I need a fucking lecture on life or my choices,” You tell him, a hint of pleading in your voice, “I’m not some kid who doesn’t understand how life works.”

“You’re not a kid—”

“Good, great that we established that,” You lean back in the seat more comfortably, arms crossed over your chest as you keep your eyes on the snow covered road, “now shut up so I can enjoy the music.”

Thankfully, Joel does just that.

Conversation falls flat until you arrive at the store in town a while later, Joel fetching a cart and pushing it your way before he stops you suddenly, hand over your own again—a touch that normally you would flinch away from, but he’s already done it once before and the thought doesn’t even cross your mind.

“I’ll catch up,” Joel tells you, “I forgot somethin’ in the car.”

You glance back briefly, knowing that the walk isn’t that far.

“Oh, I can wait. It’s fine.”

Joel doesn’t say so much, but the look in his eyes goes a long way. A silent plea for you to go with it and don’t ask questions—again, you didn’t have any right to. You nod quickly and wander off toward the store as Joel trails away.

It’s then when your phone starts to vibrate away in your pocket, the sudden availability of service sending a barrage of notifications your way—you’re terrified to take a glimpse, but you do anyway. It should be no surprise to bear witness to the many, many texts from your mother wondering where you’d run off to, but there’s a tinge of guilt settling in your stomach.

You send her a quick, dismissive text to explain that you were fine and enjoying your time, but no elaboration on the things she wanted to know, because really, there was nothing to tell. And if you did decide to expel the details of your trip, mentioning that there was no boyfriend and it was just a stranger you met in the middle of the woods, well…that wouldn’t go over smoothly.

You also find a quick, heated moment of frustration to send an unpleasant text to the owners of the cabin, still polite enough that it wouldn’t warrant your ability to work things out—and you decide that calling would reach them faster, that somehow they’d magically find a way to appear and fix things, but there’s no answer. Only a voicemail that gave vague details about being away on their own vacation.

Just your luck.

Great. You sigh deeply, shoving the phone away into your pocket and returning to the land of obliviousness as you step inside the small market.

You fend for yourself for a while, throwing several random necessities in the cart as you go, enough sustenance to spread over four weeks and manage meals the entire trip, also a few more bottles of alcohol don’t hurt, looking for a few hard liquors that catch your eye and adding them to the growing supply of items.

You’re lost in concentration of the ingredients on the back of a box dinner when Joel’s voice startles you back to the real world, eyes jumping up to look at him and he spots the panic immediately.

He nods slightly when you recognize him, “Sorry, keep forgettin’ how jumpy you are.”

“You’re just ridiculously fucking quiet,” You tell him, breathing out a long sigh as you toss the box into the cart, “everything alright?”

“Yeah,” Joel assures, doesn’t elaborate. Okay, cool. You weren’t going to pry, no matter how much your instincts told you to. He scans the cart casually, “Mind tradin’ off?”

You lend him the lead and follow, watching as he pointedly finds things, like he’s reading off a list in his head and moves around the store with a purpose. It’s only slightly annoying that you have to keep pace with him, but he’s suddenly speaking out to you as he’s glancing over something on the bottom shelf, “Are you allergic to anything?”

“No,” You responded, eyebrows knitting together in confusion, “Why?”

“Grab some of that fresh rosemary,” Joel says, pointing out somewhere behind you and you whip around, eyes searching furiously and coming up empty, “—find it?”

You’re a little dumbfounded as you search the shelf of fresh herbs, Joel’s heavy footsteps approaching behind you as he reaches over your shoulder and plucks the exact thing he’s looking for with ease, “Hey, I had the right idea.” You defend, noticing how amused he looked at your befuddlement, “And you didn’t answer my question, either.”

“Well,” He tosses the small, plastic package in the cart, still tucked up at your side and you can feel his body heat, the solid wall of his chest against your shoulder, “don’t like the idea of accidentally killin’ you if I cook something you’re allergic to.”

“Well, what if I’m lying?” You challenge and Joel shoves you aside gently to grab the cart, hands on your shoulder as he shifts you away—and when had things gotten so…touchy?

Truthfully, Joel finds it easier than telling you, noting how quickly you quiet down when he asserts himself and does rather than asks. He knows if it made you uncomfortable you wouldn’t have had a problem speaking up immediately.

“Look at me,” And there’s a deep timbre to his voice that has your chest sparking like a fire, eyes connecting with Joel’s for longer than you’ve ever allowed and it’s like he sees right through you, but he’s searching for something, “—you’re not lyin’.”

“But, if I was?”

Joel nearly leaves you in the dust, but turns to look at you with a subtle grin.

“Well, now I know you’re not.”

–

The ride back is easier, much easier—and Joel doesn’t fault you when you fall asleep halfway through, the heat of the car and the low hum of the music like a perfect mix as you curl in on yourself. Joel wakes you with a gentle hand on your shoulder when you finally make it back, allowing you a moment to shake the grogginess away with a word over his shoulder as he opens his door.

“Careful over that patch of ice on your side,” Joel instructs, “gettin’ colder so it’s slicker than it was a couple days ago.”

Careful. You roll your eyes carelessly, nudging the door open with your shoulder and hopping out, boots hitting the hard ground—your first mistake was underestimating the slickness and Joel’s warning, because the moment you take your first step it’s all downhill. Literally.

Luckily though, like a moment of divine faith as you pray that you don’t hit the ground, Joel is right at your back, arms slipping under your own as he plants his feet firmly and catches you. One arm crossing somewhere over your midsection and the other wrapping around your shoulder, a large palm holding you steady as he helps you back to your feet. You can feel him on the brink of making a comment, eyes looking down tenderly into your own—

“Don’t ask.” You warn him bitterly, face scrunched up like a kicked puppy, shrugging him off lazily. Joel doesn’t argue, making sure you’re steady before he allows you himself to fully let go.

Joel shakes his head subtly, a nuisance of his, and rounds the back of the truck to reach for the bagged groceries, “Fine, I’ll just say I told you so then. How’s that?”

Worse.

Joel never asks for help, doesn’t even seem bothered when you stand there aimlessly, watching him stow away the groceries like he already had a game plan and you feel slightly useless, but it does give you a good opportunity to watch without any explicit reason or excuse.

There’s an obvious purpose to Joel’s movement, clear that he’s used to doing a lot of heavy lifting and keeping up, probably prefers organization over clutter, and has a certain inclination to do things himself, always. And you can’t help the way your gaze clings to his face, noticing something a little off—not good or bad, just slightly different. You hadn’t noticed it this morning, but with the extended amount of time your eyes lingered on him, you realize he’s cleaned up a bit, shaved his beard down to near stubble, a subtle difference…but you notice.

You’re not sure how long you’re stuck in this state, arms resting against the counter as you stood there, practically useless, thinking about what Joel looks like on a regular basis, when he isn’t cooped up in a cabin in the dead of winter. You want to see that side of him, crave it. It’s an insane thought that doesn’t make sense, eyes widening suddenly at the realization of the thought you’re having—

“You still with me?” Joel’s voice calls out in the haze, muffled slightly as you come back into focus, eyes landing on him. “Think I lost you there for a minute.”

“Oh—no. I mean, yeah. I’m still a little tired, I guess.” It’s a bold face lie, but Joel seems to believe you. “Why?”

“I was sayin’ I need to go chop up some wood for the fireplace,” He explains again, “then you went all wide eyed…”

“Oh, okay,” You nod jerkily, “...do you need help?”

Joel immediately declines. No surprise there.

“Why don’t you get some sleep?” Joel suggests, “I can manage just fine on my own.”

Sleep sounds great, but it doesn’t happen.

You try—you do, but the splitting of wood, the strong crack of the axe catching the wood outside of your bedroom window, it isn’t exactly soothing to the ears. So, you find yourself wandering into the kitchen, peeking between the curtains with a wild curiosity that reminds you of when you were younger and trying to catch a peek of the cute boy next door, a bashfulness replaced with a deep, insatiable hunger that you didn’t know existed until this moment.

Joel was attractive, you could easily admit that. But, seeing him now, it’s a done deal. There was a deep pit of despair in your mind and you were stuck at the bottom with no way out.

It’s almost abysmal how easy he makes it look, the axe he’d brandish as his weapon of choice against you swung over his shoulders, the unfortunate lack of skin stretching over taut muscles as he went through the motions, covered up by thick layers. But, you get the idea.

There’s a slight pout forming on your face before you catch yourself.

He slices full power through the wood like it was eager to give way to him. You also find that his face tugs up in a scowl after every swing of the axe, a soft sigh of exerted energy as he tosses the logs to the side and starts up again. You could watch for hours. But, you settle for the few more minutes he spends collecting the wood before you’re scrambling back into your bedroom like you had been there the entire time.

Unfortunately, Joel isn’t oblivious. Still, he spares you the embarrassment.

There was no reason for him to entertain whatever he thought might be going on. He couldn’t.

The next few days are uneventful, though that was to be expected. It allows you time to really settle in, usually curled up on the couch watching the fire crackle away until you thought your eyes might melt away, or reading a book that Joel always seemed to be trying to catch a peek at. There was an innocent curiosity there that you could appreciate.

You also learned that Joel only took his coffee one way, offering up your services to refill his cup while you refilled your own, sugar lingering over the rim and he’s quickly pushing away the small container of crystalized goodness.

“Joel, come on–” You grimace but relent, placing the cylinder of sugar on the counter.

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.” Is all he offers, almost challenging you to take a sip.

You accept, obviously. But, it isn’t without consequence.

The moment the bitterness hits your tongue you’re scrambling away, forcing the mug into Joel’s waiting hands and spitting out whatever putrid liquid remained in your mouth in the sink.

It’s the first time Joel actually laughs, a full on chuckle that isn’t very receptive on your end.

Joel apologizes with dinner that night, a gesture that wasn’t expected or needed, still you’re thankful nonetheless. But, it offers you the realization of just how good a cook Joel can be.

Steaks grilled to a perfection that only came with repetitive practice and learned techniques, vegetables sautéed and seasoned to an enjoyable level, and a side of pasta that if Joel told you he made from scratch, you would’ve believed wholeheartedly if you hadn’t seen him dump the entire box of pre-made pasta into a pot of boiling water.

You’re halfway through dinner, chewing thoughtfully on a bite when you finally break the long, but comfortable silence that had blanketed over you both.

“So, Joel,” There’s a tone to his name that catches his attention, eyes flicking up to meet yours mid-bite, “what do you do for work?”

At this point, your nosey tendencies take hold.

There’s a scrunch to Joel’s nose before he speaks, almost as if he considered feeding you a lie alongside the beautiful meal he’d made. He settles for a simple answer.

“Uh, carpentry.” Joel tells you after a long pause, “I—build stuff for people, businesses sometimes.”

That explains some of his sturdiness, his practiced strength that came from, probably, years of hard constructive work and building. It also explains why he’s also working away at his hands, rubbing out the stiff joints and knuckles.

“I know what carpentry is, Joel.” You deadpan, but there’s a playfulness lingering in your voice.

You assume he’s used to explaining himself often, which is why he forces it on you so easily.

“And you?” Joel asks suddenly, “College? You’re about that age, right?”

You snort softly at the tone he offers, slightly patronizing, but all in good fun.

“I’m taking a semester off,” You answer indifferently, remembering how disappointed your parents had been about the ordeal, but you were suffocating, “I’m not sure what I want to do anymore.”

“Nothin’ wrong with that,” Joel assures, “can’t fault you either. Never went to college so I don’t have an opinion on it.”

There’s no judgment on your end, but for the sake of conversation, you bite.

“Any reason?” You ask curiously, wondering if you'd receive the similar sentiment that it’s all just bullshit.

“Didn’t have the money,” Joel answers simply, “didn’t have the grades, either. I thought I could start my own business out of carpentry, but…”

But…you lean into the table slightly, hanging on his words.

“You need a lot of money for that,” Joel finishes, “and, I mean, I’m livin’ comfortable now, but that idea took a lot of money that I didn’t and still don’t have.”

“So, you waste it on month long vacations in the middle of the woods,” You surmise humorously, nodding in approval, “can’t say I blame you, either.”

Joel shakes his head in amusement, chewing around a bite as he speaks, “Your turn.”

Right. An eye for eye. A question for a question. He's watching you expectantly, waiting for you to give a response to the same question you asked him.

“Oh—I work out of this bookstore in downtown Austin.” You admit, finishing up the last few bites of your food, scraping the plate nearly clean. “It pays the bills and then some. I like it.”

There’s no compliment needed for the food, all the evidence of it gone. But, you feel the need to appreciate it anyways.

“Thanks for this, Joel.” You speak again, softer this time.

“It’s no big deal, darlin’.” Joel assures you, holding up his hands in a feeble defense at the compliment, clearly something he doesn’t welcome easily. “Just food.”

“It’s been...months,” You tell him, “since I’ve had any type of home-cooked meal. Take the damn thank you, Joel.”

He smirks at that, seeing the threatening fork raise before you utter those final words.

“You’re welcome.”

And he means it.

–

You force Joel to stay seated while you clean, knowing it was the least you could do after he spent so much time preparing and cooking dinner. There’s a solid few minutes of arguing before you have to physically shove Joel back into his chair despite his protests, hands pressed into his shoulders as you threateningly speak down to him.

“If you move, I’m locking your ass out in the cold.”

Joel wouldn’t mind, but you’re silently hoping that he’ll just listen.

After all is done, tossing the damp washcloth to the side, you sigh with a newfound relaxation.

There’s only one thing that might top off this night, making it almost the first perfect day here.

“That’s it, I’m getting in the hot tub,” You decide, squeezing tenderly at the tense muscles of your neck, thankful that the owners had a small alcove connected to the cabin that allowed for you to enjoy the hot tub from the safety of the cold, “join me?”

You’re not sure what inclines you to ask so openly, but you don’t second guess it.

“While I appreciate the offer,” Joel starts, “I don’t think I brought the proper…attire.”

He’s still seated where you had him planted and it makes you laugh softly at the idea that he was taking it seriously, which—yeah, you did threaten the possibility of hypothermia on him.

“Fine,” You relent, rounding the corner of the island closest to him as you quickly call out over your shoulder, “but, there’s still a couple of chairs in there if you need the company.”

He didn’t need just anyone’s either and didn’t need, so much as wanted.

He wanted your company.

A while later, you’re already waist deep in the hot tub, figure hugging white bikini tied back securely, arms resting against the side furthest from the door as you press your chin against your forearms and staring out the wall of vast windows that line the room, allowing a view of the snow storm outside, coming down in a flurry that seemed to only be gaining in strength—and Joel, well, he’s still sitting in that stupid chair.

He’s allowed himself too much time in his own head, thinking over the events of the past few days. His call to Sarah was pleasant, a much needed moment of peace when he hears his daughter’s bright, hyper voice on the other end. When he doesn’t have her for the holidays, it’s hard. The calls are sparse, the communication is clipped, and it feels like he’s being forced away from her, knowing that she’s growing older every day. That he is growing older.

He’s allowed a lot of his life to slip away, when he wasn’t working to pay bills and put food on the table he was usually drinking, bar-hopping with Tommy at his old age to hide the pain he felt everyday, mentally and physically. There’s a problem brewing under his skin, using the company of his brother and alcohol to cope with loss he feels so viscerally everyday. The life he could’ve had.

He feels pitiful, miserable—only took this damn trip to get out of town by the suggestion of Tommy, away from all distractions, hoping for a refresh to clear his head. But instead, he met you.

He had no clue what the fuck to do anymore.

Joel’s never processed emotions well, feelings or anything thereof.

But, here he was, lusting after you.

He knows it’s the excitement, the taboo idea around sharing something special with a stranger. Someone who knows nothing about you, someone who doesn’t have the leverage to judge. Someone who doesn’t have to know about all the wrongs he’s committed and bad choices he’s made.

You’re not privy to the fucked up version of Joel that belongs in his hometown, cooped up in his childhood home that he inherited from his parents, filled with too many now painful memories that he’d made with Sarah when she was younger—when he still had her.

He can’t help the way his mind races every single second of the day, constantly worrying, always trying to busy himself with something, anything to keep that lingering cloud of anxiety away. But, when he thinks about you, even something so mundane as the way you squint to get a closer look at a paragraph of the book you’ve probably read a thousand times, his mind goes quiet.

Because, frankly, he’s fascinated by the idea of you. That maybe, just maybe, you weren’t actually real. He’s halfway leaning toward the idea that he’s had a full mental break and this is all an illusion he’s cooked up in his head, but then he reminds himself that you are just as full a human as himself. There is a reason for this, even if there had to be some other force at play.

Maybe you needed this as badly as he did.

A fresh start, no judgment.

And that’s why he decides to follow you, the moment he catches a glimpse of you as you turn the corner to take the steps down into the room that connected to the kitchen, a full glimpse of skin and body that he’s tried to keep his mind off of, despite how openly you stare at him.

There has to be something there. He can’t have imagined all of this.

You feel his presence when the creak of wood gives him away, one hand shoved into his front pocket and his other arm helping him stay upright as he leaned against the doorframe. The steam billows and settles like a cloud over the bubbling hot tub but does nothing to hide how see-through your bathing top is and the slick slope of your breasts, his eyes trailing down toward the small bow that was sewn to the midpoint of your top and know he’s staring at your chest, very openly—Joel’s immediately regretting his choice.

Your eyes follow his but you dare not speak, afraid to startle him.

Now who was the jumpy one?

“Change your mind?” You ask curiously, shimming the expanse of the hot tub as you grab onto the opposite ledge, resuming your previous position, closer to Joel now. If you reached out you could touch the edge of his flannel and soak the trim, maybe even pull him closer, but you resist the urge. “It feels amazing. I’m serious.”

It wasn’t a ploy to get him in, but it wouldn’t hurt. He doesn’t respond, eyes staring at the soft wave of the water as it hits your side, his posture rigid.

Maybe you’d broken him.

“Joel,” You call out with a soft nudge to his thigh, as far as you could reach with your fingertips, cutting into his line of sight, offering a friendly smile, “just strip down to your underwear and get in.”

“I don’t think—”

Oh, for christ sake.

“You wouldn’t have come over here if you weren’t at least thinking about enjoying the benefits of the hot tub,” You argue, “so stop being grumpy and strip. I won’t even look.”

It shouldn’t sound as gritty as it does, a playful venom in your tone as you sink back slightly.

It makes Joel feel like he’s back in high school, flirting with who would eventually be his ex-wife and mother of his daughter, but there’s an assertiveness that intrigues Joel, your willingness to put yourself out there without fear. Take a leap, a jump, and hope that someone will catch you.

Joel caught you, he just needed someone to catch him.

You spot his fidgeting, the wheels and cogs in his mind turning and he just needs that shove.

Just enough.

You rise over the edge, palms pressed flat to bear your weight and squeeze your breasts together, belly button nearly level with the water as you’re close enough to see the fine details of his face, giving him a look that Joel couldn’t deny.

“Get. In.” You stress the words, making direct eye contact. “You can thank me later.”

Finally, he moves.

You sink back slightly into the pool and wade the water until you hit a corner, watching briefly as Joel works away at the buttons on his flannel, quiet air filling with an unspoken tension. You try to busy yourself with the view outside, something that didn’t require you to look in the vicinity of Joel for a second, knowing that the moment felt more intimate than it needed to. But, it doesn’t stop that sparse glances over your shoulder to check on him, now barefoot and pulling his shirt over his shoulders, the fabric pulling and obscuring your view of his face and his view of you, staring so starkly at him in that moment.

It shouldn’t surprise you, but it does. The freckles that speckle his shoulders, nearly invisible from this distance because of his tanned shoulders and the unevenness of the tan as it continues down his arm, varying in shades of intensity, undoubtedly from hours of working in the sun. There’s also a smaller patch of hair on his chest that with his short cropped beard, seems to be trimmed down too. His strong build doesn’t throw you off, though—solid muscle that flexed across his stomach as he yanked his shirt a little harder to get it over his head fully, not built in a way that rippled down his abdomen, but showed a sturdiness to his figure that had your body humming to a tune that reached down to your core, thighs squeezing together under the water.

Joel passes the shirt off into a waiting arm chair, clothes slowly piling on the cushion alongside your towel and he pops the button on his jeans, still unaware of your…innocent observation. But, the moment the jeans stretch over his thighs you swallow a little too hard and you’re immediately averting your eyes when he looks up briefly.

Like you’d been caught.

Joel clears his throat like a warning, as if he hadn’t felt your eyes on him the entire time, and swings a leg over carefully, a view of the black briefs that molded to his skin perfectly and hugged his backside in a way that feels criminally illegal…and you’re staring again.

He hisses at the sudden change in temperate, but inch by inch he lowers and adjusts, eventually huffing out a low groan, eyes closed, when he finally settles on the seat inside of the tub.

Suddenly, this felt like a terrible idea.

“See?” You break the revered silence for him, “Worth it?”

“Almost forgot how you just bullied me in here.” He jokes—full on fuckin’ jokes before cracking an eye open to catch your reaction, a subtle look of disbelief on your face. “I’m kidding, darlin'.”

Your fingers tighten around the edge of the seat under the water and you smile, a half-hearted roll of your eyes thrown his way before you relax too, for a moment.

“This is so weird,” You speak softly, after a while, and Joel looks slightly puzzled as he opens his eyes fully now, perking up slightly as he adjusts himself, chest rising over the water slightly, his arms hanging over the ledge with his fingers gripping the ceramic—and you’re gaze is drifting again, mostly to his hands, but you mask it as you look away briefly, down the hall or out the window. Literally anywhere but Joel, “it’s just—not how I expected things to go.”

“You’re tellin’ me.” Joel replies with an underlying amusement.

As the quiet settles, slowly drifting closer to one side, where you originally were when Joel came searching for you—voluntarily, he lingered and waited, waited for the push you gave him—Joel joined alongside you, burrowing himself in the closet corner nook and enjoying the view in silence.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Joel comments, “everything alright?”

Everything was fine and you couldn’t make complete sense out of it. The ability to be so inherently comfortable with someone you’ve only known for a little under a week, the attraction you felt despite your own rational thinking telling you otherwise, the urge to connect openly and without fear of judgment. It terrifies you.

“Can I ask you a question?” You ask quietly, “Like…a real question, not those superficial ones that we’ve thrown at each other.”

Joel doesn’t like the sound of it, but there’s also the inclination that he could feed you a total lie and you wouldn’t have any idea otherwise.

He nods, fist resting against his cheek as he turns to look at you and suddenly the pressure is on, your heart racing in your chest at his sudden, full attention.

“Earlier…you said you forgot somethin’ in the car,” Joel’s fist clenches unknowingly under the water, an instinct to bury his reaction, “I know it isn’t my business, but I was just curious what is was.”

Joel, against every fiber in his being that tells him to deflect, gives you a straight answer. It’s almost startling how easily it comes out, like he’s lifting a weight off his chest that he’s carried for years.

“I had to make a call,” Joel admits, “to uh—my daughter, she’s back home with her mom.”

Your brow pulls together in confusion, “Wait, are you married?”

Joel somehow amidst the heaviness of admitting his truth still laughs, quick to defend himself from your next question.

“Oh, not at all. Never, actually.” Joel responds, “We…I never married her mom, it was obvious pretty quickly we weren’t going to work well together.”

The answer is simpler than you expect, different too. Part of you wondered if he was pleading his own case to the owners and was just as unsuccessful as you, but this is much more vulnerable.

And despite your ability to lie, and his own, neither of you can force it.

You don’t pry further, feeling like it may push things too far. Too personal.

“Okay, your turn.”

“Do I scare you?” Joel asks suddenly, almost like he’s been anticipating the moment too.

You’re almost sure the expression you return makes you look insane, feeling the implication that he might, that he thinks—it’s so far left field that it throws you off.

“No—no,” You quickly reject any lingering doubt he has, “I mean…the first night, maybe. But, now…no.”

“Oh.” It’s all Joel can muster, unsure of why he was expecting a different answer. That you would say yes and whatever shroud of thought he had about this moment you were sharing was only out of fear, that you were just trying to be polite.

“Look, I get jumpy because you sneak up on me,” You answer, “and you have this…presence about you,” Okay, not the best wording, “not scary or anything, just…strong.” Big, like a wall. Like, if anyone were to ever approach you wrongly, Joel would attack without question. And maybe the fact that he would do that should scare you, but instead, it entices you.

Joel sits with the implication, burdened by his own mind.

You can see him lost in thought, speaking with a comforting surety, “Thank you…for telling me.”

The truth. Thank you for telling me the truth.

The next stretch of time, what feels like an hour, is spent in a comforting silence. You think Joel is nearly falling asleep but then he moves, make a comment about how the snow won’t let up and eventually you’re forcing yourself out of the hot tub, reaching over the side to snatch your towel and sending all of Joel’s clothes descending to the floor in the process and as if you had a death wish on Joel, your ass pops up at an angle that is physically impossible to look away from.

Joel is a gentleman, he swears. He was raised to respect and care and always put women first, but there’s a split second where he can’t pull his eyes away, feels like he’s just caught a glimpse of something he shouldn’t have, but then you’re turning your head over your shoulder and you definitely catch him—you could ruin the moment and say something or you could ignore it.

Fortunately, you save Joel some embarrassment, covering it with a sly smile as you apologize for dropping his clothes and take the final step out and wrap the towel around your body.

“Shit,” You quickly realize that in the midst of your pushing Joel to join you that he didn’t have a towel, “stay here—I’ll go grab you a towel.”

Joel wasn’t eager to move anyways, admittedly. Sporting half a hard-on under the water, he wouldn’t subject himself to the scrutiny of your gaze or what implications it would make, thinking every horrible possible thought to will it away—luckily your timing is perfect.

You quickly gather his dropped clothes and pile them in the chair as you toss the towel his way, ignoring any and all chances to glimpse at his wet body, back turned as you quickly excuse yourself away in fear of the idea that you might say something unforgettably stupid.

The walk to your separate bedroom is quick, swift, like a desperately needed escape.

But, as fate would have it, the moment you open the door and wretch the towel away from your body there’s a loud pop! to your left and a spark on the outside that has you halfway on the floor and slamming into the wall out of both shock and an attempt to shield yourself from whatever unseen force was at play, yelping out loud in the process.

From an outside perspective, you can understand why Joel doesn’t hesitate to come running.

He runs straight into your back, bare chest pressed against your know bare shoulders and leaving you half-dressed in front of him, scared out of your wits and willing to grab onto whatever was nearby to keep you upright—fortunately, Joel’s arm is the perfect anchor as your hand wraps around his wrist and squeezes.

“What the hell?” Joel inquires, slightly out of breath as he searches your face for any signs of injury, “What happened?”

You both look at the culprit—the heated window unit that was no longer expelling heat, and while the cabin was still heated, it didn’t reach the bedrooms well enough that you weren’t shivering without some type of additional help. You sigh in frustration, eyes turning up towards the ceiling as you feel no shame, too frustrated to care as you lean into Joel’s chest.

“Shit.” It’s all Joel offers as a solution, not that you were expecting one. But, still, it would be nice.

“Yeah, shit.” You echo, pushing away from him suddenly to gather your damp towel and a change of clothes, padding your bare feet toward the living room, but Joel is grabbing your wrist before you get too far from him.

“Hey, woah,” He starts in a calmer tone, “you can take my room—I’ll drive into town tomorrow and see if I can get ahold of the owners, we’ll figure something out.”

“I already tried calling them,” You admit, “Earlier. Straight to voicemail and something tells me they won’t be answering their phones until after the holidays.”

Pulling away again, you continue your way toward the living room and gather a few pillows and blankets, tossing them on the larger couch beside the fireplace. Joel doesn’t seem to entertain the idea, following on your heels as he gathers each item you throw in that direction and you finally reach a point of full, unrestrained frustration.

“Joel, cut the shit.”

“Take the room,” He offers as a counter, “I can sleep on the couch.”

With his back? Not a chance. But, he offers anyway.

“Fuck off,” You chuckle bitterly, “I’m not forcing you out of the bedroom.”

“Then it looks like we’re sharin’ the living room.”

You close your eyes, toss the blanket aside and breathe, clenching and unclenching your fists in an effort to not completely lose it on the man standing opposite of you.

Chivalry be damned, Joel wasn’t giving in.

Fine, two could play at that game.

“I’ll take the bed.” You quickly agree, but there’s a lingering ultimatum.

Joel waits, sees the thought brewing behind your pensive eyes.

“But, so will you.”

“Now—”

“No,” You interject, putting your figurative foot down, suddenly vividly reminded of your vulnerability as you stood there, still slightly damp and in a swimsuit that did nothing to cover your body—it was the reason Joel’s eyes were so pointedly stuck on your face, never lingering elsewhere, “either we both sleep in here on the couch or we share the bed.”

Joel’s hands shift to his hips, towel tight around his waist and you’re too annoyed to admire the way his muscles tense and flex with the movement, the underlying thickening desire settling beneath the surface.

You match his stance, daring him to challenge you.

A small part of you wants him too.

—

“Anyone ever told you you’re damn stubborn?” Joel asks, trailing behind you as you enter his bedroom, a clone of your own but with a small bathroom attached.

“All the time.” You answer truthfully. “I’m going to shower and sleep—no funny business.”

Meaning if Joel did sneak away into the living room to offer up the full amenities of his own room, he would feel your wrath tenfold.

Joel resigns to the idea and gathers his own pair of fresh clothes before disappearing into the bathroom down the hall, leaving you both to a moment of levity.

There’s no anticipation to the arrangement—but the idea is there, burrowing into the back of your mind.

You’re sleeping with a stranger…someone you knew little to nothing about, but it was your choice. And you trusted your gut.

Joel was safe, he was good.

You relax under the spray of hot water, a different heat to the one you enjoyed just a while ago, the type that allowed your thoughts to roam, and you laugh softly at the sight of Joel’s shower supplies, knowing he was stuck with whatever you brought—it wasn’t something you thought about in the moment, but there’s a brief realization that he was sharing a moment similar to your own, scowling at the sight of your fruity scented body wash that you left on the shelf there. It wasn’t a huge deal, Joel wouldn’t fuss over it.

But, it also lends your mind to roam more.

As if his bare chest wasn’t already at the forefront, and his eyes as they had stared at you so unabashed until the moment he was caught, all innocent looks with deeper intentions that invaded your mind like a plague.

You were so fucking frustrated—annoyed with him, the state of your life, this stupid vacation. With the suds gone and the water drowning out the silence you allow yourself one—just one moment of selfishness...

And as if the house was the biggest tattletale of them all, the floor creaks on the other side of the door.

“Joel?” You call out curiously, as if an intruder in the middle of nowhere was even likely.

There’s several seconds of silence before Joel finally answers.

“Yeah?”

“Your body wash sucks.” You goad lightly, hoping to ease the earlier frustration that had grown between you both, and while you can’t see him, you can hear his laughter on the other side of the door.

“Can’t say yours is any better.”

You smile to yourself, the way he responds with fondness that he tries to hide.

When you finish up and dress, peeking your head out before you move to open the door fully, Joel is already on his side, turned away. It was obvious that he didn’t want to be bothered. The small blanket of division rolled and wedged in the center of the bed like a barrier, a warning.

Keep your distance and you both may manage to survive the rest of this vacation.

Thank you for reading this to the end! If you enjoyed please extend a like or reblog (with a comment if you'd like, i love reading them <3) to support writers, it helps a ton!

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller smut #joel miller x female reader #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #pedrostories #MMITW #pedro pascal characters #joel miller x fem!reader #my writing #let's just pretend ellie isn't in that gif lmao

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