#its been 24 hours and I'm still a mess | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thelastofhyde · 6 months ago

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hit the road, jack!

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

INTRO — silver springs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jack was at the wedding.

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

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

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

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

“You shouldn’t drink and drive.”

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

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

“How did you find me?”

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

“Oh.”

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

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

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

“But, darlin’, I love you.”

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

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

“Where are we going?”

“For a drive, sweetheart.”

TRACK 1 — vienna

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

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

One dance led to unimaginable love.

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

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

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

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

“D’you remember our trip to Vienna?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I still have nightmares of the boat.”

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

“I jumped.”

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

“I jumped, to make you laugh!”

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

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

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

“Sometimes I wish we’d never left Vienna.”

His words cut you deep, the sorrow he speaks them with cuts you deeper. Barely a week back in your own home, suitcases still unpacked, pulling into the driveway hours after the unexpected funeral of a friend, you broke both your hearts.

All that goes up must come down and, in the very same place your relationship started, it ended. Sat across from him, rain beating down on the windows, tears trailing down your face. He begged you to stop before those words came out of your mouth, tried his best to switch the engine back on and pull out into the road. You’re just stressed, darlin’, he’d said, a deceptive whine in his voice cracking his straight-faced facade. Just need to clear your head, right? Lemme take ya for a drive. It was too late, your own hand curling back around the handle and forcing the door open, the water from outside flooding in. I’m sorry, I can’t be with you. Not anymore.

“Yeah,” you exhale, shaky. Swallowed emotions, a tight lipped smile, eyes that search for sanctuary out the window. “Me too.”

In the wing-mirror, lighting crashes amidst the sea of pine-green.

TRACK 2 — purple rain

A perfect summer’s storm.

Mother nature’s mid-June release of pent-up heat, making space amongst the skies for what’s yet to come in the scorching months of July and August, the last of any rain to be seen until September brings back the sombre skies and cooler weather. The rain falls heavily, a persistent thump-thump-thump of water that bounces off the car’s roof, bonnet, windows. In the sky, thunder roars an angry sound, each one louder than the last, followed by an even brighter flash of lighting that electrifies its surroundings, turning the black night into shades of violet, and midnight, and indigo, and purple.

“You’ve not bought any new albums? None at all?” The question comes as you flip through Jack’s collection of discs, a notable lack of change in his roster since the last time you’d sat in his car.

This lack of change is likely not without good reason, like the lack of time to go CD hunting between secret missions to save the world, or a general lack of interest in newer records. He’s always been a fan of the old fashion, after all, the home you’d once shared made up of collections of vintage whiskeys, and classic records, and faded wallpaper that he convinced you gave the kitchen charm.

“Nothin’ new since…” His eyes shift over your way, the look in them enough to wordlessly end his sentence. “You were always the one buyin’ me music. Said you didn’t want me get-”

“Getting bored on missions,” impulse seems to be what forces you to speak, an honest smile sent his way. “I remember.”

It had been a while into your relationship, with i-love-yous and apartment keys exchanged, until the truth of Jack’s job came up.

On your first date, he’d told you he was a businessman. A few dates later, he specified that he was an investor, dipping his fingers into the honey jar of some classically Texa whiskey distillery. Only a half lie, and not one that was hard to believe. Every fibre of his being, stitches and loose threads included, made sense as a man in the business of selling whiskey. The overzealous amount of Statesman whiskeys occupying the shelves in his apartment, the photos he’d send of the view from his high-rise office, the endless number of suits and ties that occupied his wardrobe, even his damn name, Jack Daniels.

Then, out came the truth.

A phone call from one of Jack’s co-workers, Ginger, lasting no more than five minutes and of which only three words mattered: Jack’s been shot.

A bullet through his head. Any ordinary man would have died. Yet there was your Jack, eyes open, a measly bandage over his temple, and standing up-right. To your own credit, you managed to keep a grasp on your sanity long enough to drive him home, cook him dinner, and sit yourself down across from him at the table. But when he pricked his finger on the tip of his knife, the rivulet of blood dripping down his finger was enough to send you over the edge. Open mouthed sobs, hands clinging to him the instant he sank down on his knees at your side, tears staining every inch of his white cotton t-shirt.

You could’ve died, Jack.

Now how could I go dyin’, when I got such a pretty reason to live for?

You begged with questions, he promised with answers. Hands intertwining with your own, a gentle voice guiding you out the apartment, the soft slam of a car door closing. He turned the key in the ignition, pulled your hand up to his mouth for a kiss, and drove you both off into the night. Under the melodic fall of rain beating down on the car, you came to terms with three facts: Jack was involved in the business of selling whiskey; Jack was otherwise known as agent Whiskey, esteemed senior agent to the Statesmen secret intelligence agency; and Jack was not often shot- at least not in the head.

Arriving home that night, with the rain falling heavy on your front lawn, you’d tried your best to dash from the car and into the house but Jack had other plans. He’d gripped your hand, and pulled you close, and kissed you under the flash of lighting. And when you dared whine that your clothes were soaked, he held you tighter and let himself guide your body into a gentle sway, two lovers under the moonlight and the storm. That night had ended with a fatal promise from Jack, your limbs entangled upon a shared bed, his lips pressing into your forehead.

I promise I’ll always come home to you safe.

“Don’t need no discs anyway, already got all I need right here,” Jack’s impeccable timing, seemingly sensing the shift in your demeanour. It’s like he knows what you’re thinking about, and trying to drag you out of the past and back to the present, his fingers stretching over to turn the volume up. A familiar set of haunting chords plays over the radio, a grin instantly appearing on his face. “Shit, they even got Princ-”

“Stop the car.”

“Huh?”

“Just pull over, Jack!”

Despite the confusion, he abides by your words, foot pressing down on the break, hands steering the wheels off-road, fingers switch the car off. Without the hum of the engine, the rainfall grows louder, the view out the windscreen suddenly blocked behind a wall of flowing water. The radio plays on, the voice of an angel singing lyrics that so aptly match the purple shades painted across the sky by the storm above. There’s a cautious echo of your name, and, for a moment, it’s easy to forget this is the first time you’ve heard him actually say it in over a year. It feels like just yesterday he was calling out to you, begging with solutions you weren’t willing to give.

Your heart beats with a longing to escape your chest, hard and steady against the cage that is your ribs. Your eyes fill with emotions from the past and of the present, as every version of yourself that’s sat within this car comes together as one. Your hand curls around the silver grip of the door, pulling it open and lunging yourself out into the pouring rain.

Under the storm's wrath, you’re reborn. Baptised by mother nature, a soul cleansed of all its prior troubles, returned to you brand new and free of heartbreak. As the rain soaks your face, your neck, your dress, it washes all the pain away. Breathing easy, head tilted back, eyes closed. It's the feeling of being alive, an anomalous euphoria found only beneath a thunderous sky. The tears that dare fall here mean little, a known comfort that they’ll mix with the rain and be swept away.

Enthralled under the moonlight and barefoot, you drift on through the trees that line these woods, chasing the sweet promise of petrichor. You’re unsure if it comes from the sky, or the trees, or Jack, but something calls your name. A fallen tree trunk becomes your own personal tightrope as you dance over the length of it, one careful foot in front of the other, arms stretched out to the heavens above. All it takes is one misplaced step and you lose your footing, slipping over moss and bracing for impact that never arrives.

“Heaven to Betsy, darlin’!” Jack’s hands, warm as a summer breeze, catch you by the waist, your shoulder socking him square in the face as you fall back into his figure. He makes no complaint of pain, taking it like a champ and placing you back down on steady ground, upon unsteady feet. “Did’ya sneak a few extra whiskeys when I was takin’ a leak?”

You open your mouth to reply, to deny, but the rain comes to a stop, and the thunder no longer rumbles, and the moonlight breaks through the parting blanket of clouds, and you’re suddenly so aware of how close you both are.

Like his hands, do his lips still feel the same? Soft as a feather, pillowy as a cloud, as sweet as a peach? It’s not something a married woman should be thinking about another man, about the man another version of her had loved.

But you’re not a married woman, are you?

Wet to the bone, it's as if your wedding dress has shrunk, possessive linen meant to warn you away from leaning forward till your face meets his.

“Careful where you point those eyes, sweetheart. Don’t go givin’ me a reason to make a dishonest woman out of you.” His warning only makes you want to lean in more, test just how dishonest he’s willing to make you, in a dress you wore for another man, upon a forest floor covered by moss, and mud, and rainfall.

He’s stepping back and holding out his hand before you can even try, saving you the trouble of mixing up your head even more.

Careful steps back to his car, where the radio plays on as Prince’s voice slowly fades out. The headlights are back on, the key sits in the ignition, and you half wonder just how quickly he chased after you, abandoning his precious car so carelessly at the side of a darkened country road, free for any Tom, Bill, or Sally to claim for themselves.

“You’re lucky I got spare clothes in the back,” Jack’s voice echoes out from where he stands, bent at the waist, and rummaging through the floor of the back seats. You want to think he’s not going this on purpose, putting himself on display so obviously, but it feels easier on your conscience to blame him for your own inability to stray your eyes away from how snugly the soaked dress pants hug his behind. “Ain’t no hope in hell I’d let you in my car, all drippin’ wet.”

“You never used to complain about me being wet in your car.”

It’s a quickfire response, the kind you don’t quite get the chance to think over before you say it. Though it may shock your own ears to hear, it seems to shock poor Jack more, the smack with which his head hits against the car’s roof loud enough that you almost feel it in your skull.

You rush over to his side, dress dragging through more mud, and more leaves, and more broken gravel. No chance to even rest your hand upon his arm, Jack’s already pulled himself out the car to face you, a splash of pink brewing across his cheeks and a hand soothing over the back of his head. In the backseats, his hat lays abandoned, knocked off in the commotion.

“Can’t just be sayin’ things like that, darlin’,” he says as he holds out a change of clothes for you, smugness in his voice yet a shake in his hand. “Not unless you’re tryin’ to give old Jack over here a heart attack.”

In silence, you both turn your back on each other. Jack does so in spare of your modesty, and you, in search of someplace dry to lay down his clothes. You do so upon the passenger seat, hands immediately contorting every manner of way they can to reach the dress’ buttons that span down the length of your spine, each more finicky than the last. You manage to free only two, in the very centre, before you sigh and wonder if the entrapment you feel in the white gown could get any more literal than this.

“Jack,” it only feels right to seek out his aid, you tell yourself, the sooner the buttons are undone, the sooner the dress will be off, the sooner you’ll be changed, and the sooner you’ll both get back on the road again, destination unknown. It only makes sense, really, so who could blame you when you say, “come help me out my dress.”

No reply comes your way.

At first, you think he’s not heard you. Then, you worry that he has, and is choosing to ignore such a request, thinking it best he keeps his hands away from any act that involves undressing you. Then, fear that you’ve given him that heart attack after all. Fingers brush wet hair off your shoulders before you can turn to check on the cowboy.

Cicadas scream out into the night, and some faceless host rants over the car radio about the rising conspiracy theory of spycams in childrens’ toys, and your heart beats louder than any set of drums could ever hope, but all you can hear is the steady breaths Jack pulls in and blows out behind you, so close you feel each exhale brush your skin. His fingers do so too, with each button they pop loose, each inch of skin he reveals.

Before you can ask him to touch you with more than just his mouth and breath, his own voice fills your ears.

“I used to dream about doin’ this someday.”

“I think we both know this isn’t the first time you’ve gotten a girl out her dress, Jack.”

“Is your mind ever anywhere but the damn gutter?” A pinch delivered against your left side, a chastising tsk accompanying his words. “I meant that I dreamt about this, me helpin’ you take your weddin’ dress off.”

There’s an audible hitch in your breath, one that perfectly tells Jack everything your own voice seems to fail to. Air stings at your eyes, yet you refuse to blink, too aware of the tears building within them. His warm hands dance back up your spine as the final button is loosened, tracing slowly over skin he’d once memorised, a missionary returning to the land it once knew.

Your dress falls to the floor.

“‘Course I never thought I’d be doin’ it on the side of the road, but beggars can’t be choosers.”

TRACK 3 — lover you should’ve come over

“Wait, are these pyjama pants?”

The realisation dawns upon you twenty minutes after you hit the road again. Confined to the small space of the Bronco with little to look at— besides Jack, his clothes still damp and smelling of summer rain, a towel laid over his seat— you’ve resorted to the finer details, picking apart the scraps of clothing he’d handed you. A plain white t-shirt that, when paired with one of his tight-fitting jeans and a corduroy-lined leather bomber jacket, becomes a Jack Daniels staple. You find it best to ignore how it smells of campfire, and sweat, and the cologne you’d bought Jack on your last anniversary. He’s paired it with a pair of blue chequered pyjama pants, loose-fitting yet tied securely around your waist by a fraying draw-string.

“Took myself and the old gal up to Alaska a few weeks back, chasin’ after a view of the Northern Lights.” There’s a flash of something hot, bright, green as you register his words, myself and the old gal, tamed and dampened only when you remember that’s what Jack calls the Bronco, his old gal. “I was livin’ out my car the whole trip, figured it was easier than trynna find some inn out in the middle of the Alaskan woods. In fact, if you check down there, pretty sure you’ll find some uneaten energy bars I packed for the trip.”

He seems to point aimlessly down at a space around your legs, hand back on the wheel and guiding the wheels around a harsh bend before you can truly pinpoint what he’s referring to. You settle on the glove compartment, sitting upright and reaching a hand out to pop it open.

Then you remember what it houses, the weapons Jack carries in there. The lasso, the whip, the pistol, the bullets. A sickness burns your throat, your eyes unable to even glance down at the opened compartment, instead searching for Jack’s own eyes that stare back with equal amounts of surprise.

“I forgot those were in there.” He steals the words right out your own mouth, a nervous chuckle following them. You’d known to never touch the dreaded compartment, for your own sake, too eager to forget about the parts of him that made him an agent, the parts of him that put him in danger. “You can read ‘em, if you want. They were written for you anyway.”

Confusion floods the soul, curiosity winning over survival and dictating that you muster the courage to turn your head, take a peak at what sits inside the glove box. When you do look, you find there’s no whip nor pistol, no piece of Agent Whiskey in sight. What is there are the energy bars he’d promised, a hiking guidebook of sorts, a map, and a stack of wrinkled envelopes.

One glance back at Jack, he encourages you to take them with a nod, and so, you do. Feel the weight of them all in your hands, do your best to not drop any as you pull them out onto your lap. They scatter all over you, each a different shade of white, unopened and all sporting a red return to sender stamp. All appear addressed to the same place, and it takes only a moment of wondering why it seems so familiar for you to realise.

It’s your old address.

“They’re all labelled with dates, I wrote the first one a few weeks after you left. Wasn’t sure where you’d moved to, I figured there was a chance you’d gone back to your old place. I never forgot about how much you loved that apartment,” he says, and you did. Leaving it behind had been hard, the first real home you’d made for yourself since moving out of your parent’s place, the first space you made your own in the world. The idea of making a new space with Jack, a place you could build together, share together, had outweighed the pain of saying goodbye to your little one-bed apartment. “Wrote the second one because you didn’t reply, and I was missin’ you. Then I just kept writin’ em, and sendin’ em, and waitin’ on you writin’ back, even if just to tell me to get lost. I got a note back, along with the letters, but it wasn’t from you. Some older couple moved in to your old place, told me they’d been keepin’ em all safe incase you ever came round to collect your old mail, but they figured it was time I stopped writin’ to a ghost.”

Attentive to his every word, you search for the letter with the earliest date. Sent two weeks after things ended, with a colourful stamp and a seal that’s slightly opened at the edges, the glue’s hold loosening with time and neglect. You tear it open completely and unfold the sheets of paper found within, eyes drawn immediately three quarters down the page.

I saw our friends tonight for the first time since you left. They asked how you’re doing and where you were. I thought they were just being cruel at first but no, they didn’t know about the break up. I told them you weren’t feeling well, that you decided to stay home tonight. I guess I just wanted one more night where you were still mine, even if it was just in the eyes of our friends. I will tell the truth next time I see them.

You feel as though you’re invading his privacy, reading over words he’d written months ago, despite being the intended audience. That doesn’t mean you have the willpower to stop, however, eyes diving deeper down the page.

Or maybe I won’t have to tell them. Maybe, next time I see them, you’ll have come home. There’s still a chance for us. I believe it because I love you. You said this wasn’t something we can fix. I think you’re wrong. There’s never been an issue we couldn’t solve by talking it through, why should this one be any different? Let’s get coffee, darling. Our usual place, our usual time, next Tuesday. We can get through this, you just have to let me know it’s something you want, that I’m something you still want.

Jack’s quiet in the driver’s seat, forgiving with the time he gives you to read over his letters. When the turning of pages and the ripping of envelopes rings too heavy in the car, your shoulders tensing up in a discomfort of disrupting the peaceful silence, he wordlessly turns the radio back up and the voice of Jeff Buckley greets you both.

You return to his letters, the second he’d sent already open in your palm.

I went to our usual spot. You never showed up. Your lack of reply to my letter should have been enough to tell me that, but I still had hope. Maybe I really am a fool. Our friends seem to think so. I told them about us and they immediately asked what I’d done wrong. There was no answer I could give them. The worst thing isn’t just that I’ve lost you, it’s that I don’t even know why.

You open the next envelope, and the next one, and the next one, paragraphs melting together into a heartbroken shape.

I tried to sleep in our bed. I lasted half an hour before crawling back to the guest room. Our room just feels too empty without you. I smell you everywhere no matter how many new sheets I buy.

Eggsy and Tilde got married. It’s the first wedding I’ve been to without you. I’m doing a lot of firsts without you recently. I hate it. Our friends (am I wrong to call them our friends? I’m not ready to just call them mine) tried setting me up with someone new. They showed me a picture and she’s beautiful, but I just kept comparing her to you. Against your beauty, she’s nothing.

Your mother was at the Statesman ground tour today. I was surprised to see her, she already done the tour years ago. I tried not to talk about you too much, I didn’t want her knowing how desperate I am to hear about you. Congratulations on your promotion, I always knew you’d get it. I’m so proud of you for finally applying for it. I heard you’ve started seeing somebody, a veteran turned mechanic. Your mother was kind enough to give me his name. I hope you understand that I don’t want to invade your privacy but I had to make sure you’re safe. The guy’s got a clean slate, other than a sketchy trip down to South America with some other vets. He seems like a good man. I want you to get your happy ending. Are you happy? I’m not.

Only one envelope remains unopened. The weight of it sits heavy in your lap, a fear settling in that has you not wanting to open it. You study the front of it, find out it was mailed three months ago. The radio moves in sync with you, it seems, the song that plays reaching its climatic moment at the same time as you do, tearing open the final letter. Next to you, Jack clears his throat and wrings his hands over the steering wheel.

This last one, you read the letter in full.

Darling girl,

Spring came faster this year. The daffodils you planted bloomed in early March. I’ve been tending to the garden, I know how much love you put into it. The flowers are coming up alright, the fruit and vegetables not so much. If only I had your green thumb.

I visited Tequila last week. I don’t know if it’s right to call him that anymore. Champ’s still not named his successor, part of me thinks he wants to retire it. That’s not what Tequila would’ve wanted. He would’ve wanted Ginger taking on the mantle. The grounds he’s on are beautiful, if not sombre. They overlook a lake, and the grass is cut everyday, and the sun shines on his grave from sunrise to sunset. I didn’t say much to him, just sat and enjoyed the view. Thought about a lot of things, and finally realised why you left.

You were scared. For me. I thought you were being selfish, breaking my heart like that, but I finally understand how awful that day must’ve been for you. We’d just buried my comrade, our friend, and you had to watch Tequila’s wife say her last goodbye, knowing it was almost me in that casket and you on the podium. That was my mission he went on, I could’ve been the one who didn’t come home to the woman I love.

I’m sorry I took so long to understand. I retired from my position at Statesman. I’m agent Whiskey no more. I’m coming to find you, and hope you give me one last real try at fixing us.

Love always,

your Jack.

“Your wedding invitation found me first,” Jack says, foot off the accelerator, eyes off the road, hands on the wheel.

The weight of his stare drags down to your lap, where the heap of papers now all sit, piled atop one another and rustling with every movement you make. Your own eyes have welled with tears that slip down the apples of your cheeks and splash the papers below, smudging the ink.

The confirmation of his invite knocks out the questions of how he wound up in the pews.

“I didn’t invite you,” you’re unsure if the truth is crueller than fiction. No part of you wants him to think you’d be so spiteful, so hurtful as to invite him to a day you’d once promised to share together. “I didn’t invite anyone. I was… busy, with work. My mom dealt with the invites, she must’ve written you down by accident.”

Your lips may be the ones to say it, but your own ears struggle to believe. Your mother’s always been a meticulous woman, practical, with her affairs eternally in order. The only mistakes she makes are the ones she means to.

“Yeah,” Jack sighs out from the driver’s seat, resignation in his voice. “I figured you didn’t invite me.”

TRACK 4 — 50 ways to leave your lover

Jack drives deeper into the night.

Out the car window, you watch as the world flies by, a blur of unlit trees and unmarked road signs. Earlier’s storm has rolled away and revealed the blanket of stars above, twinkling alongside a full moon. The road is long, and winding, and seemingly never ending. There’s no discussion of destination, no sanctuary you’re waiting to reach. You feel no urgency for it, either. So long as you sit right where you are, passenger in a car, you don’t have to take the wheel, you don’t have to choose where to go, or what to do. You can just exist within this liminal space, where no wedding lies in the balance and no hearts lay broken.

It’s just you and Jack, like the old days, going for a drive.

“Ask me,” permission comes off your tongue as you observe the driver and his less than subtle glances your way. “I can see the wheels turning in your head. Everything you wanted to know in the diner, I promise I’ll answer this time.”

“I guess I’m tryin’ to put myself in your shoes, figure out what was runnin’ through that pretty head of yours,” Jack is, at his core, a gentleman. For hours, he’s let you sit beside him, biting his own tongue and fighting back his own curiosity, a trait so vital to his existence it led him into a world of spies, and guns, and movie-esque kinds of evil. Even now, with your promised approval, he eases his way into his questioning, the part of him that knows you better than your own self dictating that this is something he must address with care. “How’d you do it?”

“I just slipped out the back, Jack,” there’s a chuckle of sorts that welcomes itself out the depths of Jack’s chest, your choice of words going hand in hand with that of the Paul Simon record reaching its end over the radio. As quick as the humour appears, it goes, leaving nothing but the unfortunate reality of the situation. “Someone left a door open, it led out onto the back gardens. The further away I got, the faster I started to run. I made it all the way past the highway on foot before an older couple pulled over. They dropped me off at a diner, and that’s where I stayed until-”

“Until I found you,” it’s a reminder you shouldn’t want, the image of Jack setting off to find you in the midst of the commotion of a missing bride. It’s not healthy for your poor psyche, already at odds with what it wants, no need for further complications brought on by unresolved feelings. You can’t help but smile at him, however, no filter strong enough to cover your subconscious’ joy. “Why did you run away?”

Your smile fades.

The promise you made is already at threat of being broken. You thought there’d be more questions, more time until he hit you with the heaviest of them all.

Why did you run away?

You know the answer. Of course you’ve known the answer, from the moment you decided to turn on your heel and sprint down the halls, in search of an escape. As much as you can pretend otherwise, and feign naivete, you can’t change the truth. That doesn’t mean you’re ready to admit it out loud, and so you refute it with a question of your own: “Why did you come to the wedding?”

It would be easy to forgive Jack for getting irate when faced with your avoidant response. He doesn’t even acknowledge it. Instead, he spins the steering wheel and shoots you a smile, the kind that used to keep you warm at night.

“I wasn’t goin’ to come at first,” comes his admittance. You can’t say you blame him, really, a picture of yourself in his shoes, receiving an invite to his wedding. The thought conjures a painful throb from your heart. “Nearly tossed the damn thing into the fireplace when I got it. A few weeks later, I met with Champ for a drink. Drank myself blind, till I started tellin’ him all about the invite. He told me I had to come.”

A lift of your eyebrows, a snap of your head towards him. There’s a desire to have his full attention on you. There’s also the awareness that the road acts as a buffer for the tensing heartache that swells and lulls between you, each exchange of words a game of painful chess. You make the choice to bring forth a pawn this once, a simple why?

“He said I’ve been livin’ with life on pause since you left, maybe watchin’ you marry another man would be the thing to help me hit play at last.”

INTERLUDE — go your own way

Like tires upon gravel, time rolls on.

No matter how easy it is to forget about the world outside, look out the window and pretend you’re simply on a train, trapped in a constant onward motion, there’s no ignoring the orange glow that begins to grow on the horizon, nor the red lights on the car radio that read 05:38. A new day grows fast upon you and, where you remain mute to it, Jack can not allow the fantasy to go on any longer.

The tires screech against the gravel and everything comes to a stop.

“Thinkin’ time’s up, sweetheart,” his hands retreat from the wheel, finding purchase on his thighs. You try not to follow their descent over the tailored suit, try not to think about the thick muscles that sit hidden beneath the black trousers. It’s not your place to think about them anymore. “Where are you goin’?”

Decision has never been something you’ve struggled with, much less when the choices are so simple and limited. Either you go back to the wedding venue, and meet whatever fate awaits you of scornful mothers, and disappointed fathers, and abandoned fiances. Or, you can go anywhere.

You make a mistake, let your mind wander to places it shouldn’t, and end up asking yourself where will Jack go. He still lives in the home you once shared, this you know. Will he go there, pour himself a drink, and try to forget this night even happened?

You can still picture it all. The coffee table Jack hand-carved, both your initials engraved on the side. The picture frames all along the wall, a mural of memories shared between you. The matching set of mugs, eternally sitting on the drying board, waiting for Jack to stagger his way down the stairs and fill them with boiling coffee. If you walked through that door again, would you find everything just the way you left it? Or, has he gotten a new table, changed the pictures in the frames, bought new mugs? Is there someone there, right now, sleeping in his bed and waiting on his return?

A bitter taste overcomes your tongue at the thought, your insides twisting up like you’ve not spent the past few months sleeping next to someone else and saying yes to proposals you weren’t expecting.

“What do you think I should do?” You don’t want him to tell you to go home, you want him to say come home.

“You can’t ask that of me. My answer’s gonna be nothin’ but selfish.” Would it really be so bad, you wish to ask, if Jack was selfish? Maybe life would be easier if he was. He clears his throat, like he clears his mind, and gone is your moment to tell him you want selfish. “I can say this, though… Your fiance’s a good man, a kind man. Kind enough to trust your parents words and let me, a stranger, go searchin’ for you. He deserves to know what decision you make. It ain’t just your weddin’, it’s his too.”

He’s right, and you hate it.

There’s no way you can tell him now that you were even contemplating not going back, of disappearing into the sunrise with him, driving till life leads you down the right roads to find a new home, your old home, Jack.

The muddied wedding dress seems to call to you from the car boot, a whispering of your name that tells you to put it back on, go back, and walk down that aisle. You owe that much to your fiance, if he’ll still have you. With him, you’ve never had to worry about him coming home safe. With him, you could live a happy enough life, keep yourself busy enough to ignore all the what-ifs your mind would try seduce you with.

Besides, that’s what Jack needs, right? To see you marry another man, a final nail in the coffin named us, so he can finally move on with his life. You owe him that much, at least.

With a nod of your head and the straightening of your spine, you set your choice in stone, “drive me back to him, Jack.”

The engine shudders to life and the radio sets itself back on course, some upbeat voice that demands you go your own way, a musical slap delivered upon your face. Jack turns the steering wheel, rerouting the car’s course with an effortless u-turn before he presses down on the accelerator, propelling you forward down the paths you’ve already travelled.

You tell yourself you’re doing the right thing, even if a familiar dread starts to settle in the pit of your stomach, brushing them off as rational nerves. Who wouldn’t be anxious when facing a man they left at the altar?

A yawn escapes you.

“We’re a few hours out from the chateau.” There’s something in his voice that weighs on him, the tone between you shifting to something of desperation. Goodbye is a few hours away. This time, for good. “Sleep, it’s late.”

“Aren’t you tired?” Pull over, you want to say. Let’s sleep. The wedding can wait a few more hours.

How unfortunate that he cannot read your thoughts, understand the intentions behind your staring as you recline your chair, turn to face him on your side, hands crossed protectively over your abdomen.

One blink, and your eyes are already fighting to stay open, dragging you down into the depths of slumber.

“I’m fine. Don’t sleep much these days anyway,” the sound of Jack’s voice fades slowly into the background, melting away with the hum of the engine, and the turn of the wheels, and the voice on the radio. “Never got used to the feeling of an empty bed.”

TRACK 5 — i’m on fire

When your eyes next open, the sun’s warmth is caressing your face.

The sound of children’s laughter fills the air, and the smell of smoke fills your lungs, and the feeling of resting against Jack’s shoulder fills you with dread. Fearful to move, you take in all of him that you can see from this angle.

There’s no suit upon him, replaced with the casualness of a cotton t-shirt and a pair of faded denims. The hat’s back on his head, the curls of ungelled hair that peak through dry as a bone. A cigarette rests neatly between fingers on his left hand, the right one grasping at the neck of a beer bottle. No wheel sits in front of him, no gear shift keeps space between you. The Bronco’s been replaced with the view of your parent’s backyard and the comfort of a well cushioned outdoor couch.

You know this memory.

You’ve lived this memory.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” just like you remember, Jack’s stubbing out the half-smoked cigarette the moment he notices your open eyes. “How you feelin’?”

“Like my uterus is trying to carve its way out of me,” your mouth plays along with the dream, speaking the same words it had years ago.

“That good, huh?” A beer stained kiss meets the corner of your mouth, another follows up to your forehead, as Jack’s free hand reaches into his pocket, reemerging with silver foil between two fingers. “Got these off your mother. Let me go get you somethin’ to eat, then you can take two, hm?”

You remember thinking that you love him. You didn't dare speak it, however, simply nodding as you took the blister packet of paracetamol out his offering grasp and uncurled your legs back down onto the floor, stretching your arms. Jack bends down, presses his lips against the crown of your head, and then he’s off, venturing over to where your father stands grilling another round of burgers on the barbeque.

Jack’s always been a confident man. He carries himself with a head held high and a careless smile on his face, no chip on his shoulder and no flare for anger in his bones. A southern gentleman, who knows his own charms and, most dangerously, how to use them. Place him alone with your father, however, and watch how he crumbles like a house of cards. To the untrained eye, it’s unnoticeable, but you don’t miss the glances he spies your father with each time he throws out a joke, nor the way his hands can never seem to relax, a nervous tic of drumming against his thighs or balling into fists as he makes conversation with the older man. He’s desperate for the approval of your monotonous father, so desperate he fails to see he won it months ago,

“Eat up, drink up, you need it,” he says as he hands you the paper plate, and his half-drunk bottle of beer. He settles back down on the couch, pulling you into him once more. “Your old man was sayin’ we should probably head off soon, ‘fore it gets too late. Think he’s startin’ to warm up to me, he’s even worryin’ bout me drivin’ in the dark.”

“Oh, he loves you,” you take a bite, break two of the pills out their casing, wash them down with a swig of bitter beer. The summer sun burns in the corners of your eyes, forcing them into a squint. “He kept looking for you at the dinner table at my mom’s birthday, you should’ve seen his reaction when I told him you were stuck in New York slaving away in your office.”

Months later, you’d come to find out he wasn’t in New York, surrounded by mountains of paperwork, but somewhere in the south of France, hunting down some billionaire wine-maker with plans to poison the crops of surrounding vineyards, leaving only his wine safe to consume.

In your memory, Jack plucks the hat off his own head and rests it gently upon your own, a shaded barrier against the bright light in the sky. You thank him, he watches on quietly as you continue to eat, gaze not peeling itself away from you the whole time.

“What? Do I have ketchup on my face? Or, in my hair?” You’d asked him, mid-chew. No answer, more staring. Panic made a debut in your mind, suddenly alert to his unusual behaviour. “Wait, is it a bug? Jack, is there a bug in my hair?”

“I love you.”

No build up, no grand-speech, no overly romantic setting.

He said it like one shares the weather, or the time, or what they’re wanting for lunch. He said it like it was something he always said, would always say, despite it being the very first time you’d heard him do so. Tears had flown in quickly, your hormones already gone haywire with the unexpected arrival of shark week earlier that morning. There’s a vague assurance that you told him you loved him too, through tears, and he teased your weepy face with kisses down your cheeks and full-chested laughter.

“Bless your cotton socks, my sweet girl, cryin’ all cause old Jack says-”

“Tell me now baby, is he good to you?”

You jolt awake.

Jack’s by your side, suit on, hair air dried, one hand on the wheel, the other rests out the window. The roof is down, letting the sun shine on you and his caramel eyes. An old Springstein song plays in the background, the very same thing that coaxed you awake. Just like the dream, he takes a few minutes to notice your opened eyes, head turning your way as another car shoots off ahead of you both, overtaking him.

“You were mumblin’ in your sleep. Were you dreamin’ of somethin’ sweet?”

“I was,” too quick comes your reply. Too honest. Nerves have you stumbling over words, scrambling to pick them off the floor of your mind and spew out the first thing that doesn’t involve Jack and his easy-going professions of love. “About the first time my fiance told me he loves me.”

You regret it as soon as you speak, the visible halt to his smile. He overcorrects it, forcing a grin that stretches the corners of his mouth so tight it almost looks painful. “Well, c’mon, don’t go keepin’ it to yourself!”

“He, uh, wrote it in the sky.”

“How romantic. Pricey too, I bet.”

“It was his best man who did it, an ex military pilot.”

As you try to reminisce on the day, little memories blossom in your mind. Instead of vivid motion capture, the day is black and white, no sound. You don’t remember where you were, what he was wearing, how you felt when you read those words up above.

It happened only two months into your relationship, that you do remember. You also remember being parked in your old neighbourhood the night before, twenty minutes spent trying to will yourself to go knock on the door to your old home. The Bronco was in its usual spot, parked outside. No lights were on as you pulled away and willed yourself back to rational thinking.

“Jeez, if that’s how he’s tellin’ you he loves you, I can’t imagine how he proposed.”

You wonder if this is as tortuous for him as it is for you, listening to you detail the life you’d gone on to live just months after walking away from five years of love. “In a restaurant,” you can’t remember the name, or what you ate, or what you wore, as if the memory is one that doesn’t belong to you, never belonged to you. “I ordered dessert, ‘will you marry me?’ was written on it in cherry sauce.”

“You must’ve said yes immediately.”

“I did.”

You leave out the part where the whole restaurant had watched him get down on one knee, or the part where you rushed to the restroom right after accepting the ring, spewing your guts out in a stall. By morning, you told yourself it was fine, you were just feeling nervous.

After all, you loved him enough to spend time with him, so why not spend the rest of your life with him?

TRACK 6 — she’s always a woman

It had been too easy to forget the thing you loved most about road trips with Jack.

It wasn’t his constant commentary of interesting facts on sites you’d drive past, or his love for taking the long-way to anywhere and everywhere, or his ever-present need to drag your hand up to his lips with every few miles.

The thing you loved most was listening to his voice, unfiltered, unashamed, outloud, singing along to his favourite songs. The voice of a crooning angel and the shyness of a bashful fox. Every so often, when he’d catch you watching him a little too fondly as he sang along, he’d throw in a voice crack, or twist up a lyric into a sickly innuendo.

In the present, it’s you who interrupts his spirited rendition of a Billy Joel classic.

“You were right, in the letters,” the leather of your seat squeaks as you fix your posture, sit yourself up straight if only to force yourself to stop observing the way his lips fall into a natural pout and, instead, focus on memorising the licence plate that drives ahead. “I’m sorry.”

“Right about what?” As though nothing has changed, his hand extends towards your own, effortlessly intertwining your fingers, beginning an ascent to his mouth before mind takes over instinct and he’s letting you go, setting you free.

You give up on the licence plate ahead, turn your face once more towards Jack and his pouty lips.

“I couldn’t be with Agent Whiskey anymore.” A relationship made up of a man, a woman, and an agent. Whiskey would kiss you goodbye in the morning, while Jack would be the one to come home to you. With the passing of time, three became a crowd, and so you removed yourself. “I didn’t want to break your heart, Jack, I swear. But I also didn’t want to let you break mine. And you did, every time you walked out of our home and left me wondering if you’d ever come back. Then, when Tequila… You loved your job. You loved being Agent Whiskey. How could I ask you to leave that part of you behind?”

“Darlin’ if you think there’s any world where losin’ you was easier than losin’ Whiskey, you’re out of your mind.” Like his first I love you, he speaks words that flow out of him as easily as an exhale, as though they carry no weight to them. As though they do not momentarily flip your world on its axis and have you wishing he’d turn the car around, driving you both off into the forever you never got.

Yet another car overtakes the Bronco, its driver angrily pressing on his horn. You both continue to ignore the speed at which Jack drives. Up ahead, everything you’ve been dreading comes into view, an unmissable billboard. Clearview Manor.

50 miles to go. 50 miles till goodbye.

“I’m hungry.”

“Those energy bars should still be in there, if you’re wantin’-”

“Jack, I’m hungry,” you say it louder, hoping he’ll pick up what you’re laying down.“Can’t we stop somewhere for breakfast?”

His answer comes in the form of a left blinker switching on, wheels cutting over gravel and carrying you off the main road. Then, as if to break your heart some more than his last declaration, he turns to you. “If it had been me waitin’ on you at the end of the aisle, would you have ran?”

You try to picture it.

Jack, in his suit and tie, hands clasped behind his back to keep him from drumming nervous fingers over his thighs, eyes brimming with tears as you take your first step down the aisle. Would the panic have settled in? Would you have felt that same wrongness as when you’d been sneaking a peak at your fiance waiting down the aisle?

Would you have ran?

“It’s not something I planned, y’know? Running. I didn’t think it was even an option,” you’re laying your final card on the table, a truth you couldn't bring yourself to admit earlier at last coming out to play. You’re unsure if it dismisses or further condemns you for your runaway crimes. “I took a peak, at the ceremony hall, while waiting for my father. I needed to see what I was about to walk into. I guess I thought the nerves were just from that, the unknown. Then I saw you, a few rows from the back. At first I thought I was hallucinating, that you were just a man who happened to be wearing a cowboy hat. But then I saw my mum pulling you in for a hug, and I caught a glimpse of your face. That’s why I ran. I couldn’t… marry another man, not with you standing in the crowd.”

“You’ve not answered my question,” it’s the first you’ve seen Jack put his foot down since he dragged you out the diner, the seriousness etched into his frowning forehead and stamped onto his lips. “Would you have ran?”

“No.”

Jack just keeps driving.

TRACK 7 — dancing in the dark

“You can’t be serious!”

Squeezed into the corner booth of a dingy, run-down bar, you and Jack sit across from one another, digging into a stack of pancakes lathered in maple syrup.

The bartender and two of his patrons glance at you both every so often, and you have to wonder how odd a pair you and Jack must make. One dressed to the nines, if you ignore the dried mud at the bottom of his dress pants and his loosening tie, the other wearing yesterday’s make-up paired with cotton pyjama pants. You prefer it to the stares you’d gained in your wrinkled gown.

“Deadly. I’m a serious tap-dancin’ student,” his fork stabs into the fluffy goodness, dragging it along the plate, soaking the pancake in as much syrup as possible. You try not to think of mornings that used to be spent like this, sitting at your own table, flour in his hair and eggshells in your own, both of you ignoring the disastrous mess in the kitchen begging to be cleaned as you tuck into your homemade pancakes. “Retirement breeds weird hobbies.”

“Before long, you’ll be playing bingo at the old folks home.”

“I just have to ask, I really do,” a dread you haven’t felt since stepping out the car— with the help of Jack and his offering hand, the other holding your door open— creeps back in. You don’t want to talk about your own current reality, not when it’s been so easy to pretend none of the wedding fiasco happened and, instead, you’re simply catching up with Jack after bumping into each other in this bar. “This fiance of yours… is he bigger than me?”

As quick as it inflates, the tension pops.

“Oh my god, Jack!” You laugh, a little too loudly, and dip your head as other tables turn their heads your way.

“What?”

“You did not just ask me that.”

“Oh, but I did.”

“You can’t just say things like that!” In mock surrender, he throws his hands up. Your own grab ahold of your knife and fork once more, an ironclad focus on the near-empty plate as you will the shameful heat away from your face, mumbling over your words. “But, no, he isn’t bigger. Happy?”

“You’ve no idea.” As though you’re being haunted by music, a song begins to play over the speakers. You’re not the only one who takes notice, Jack’s eyes lighting up with a devious look, his legs already rising out of his seat. “Think that’s our queue, darlin’.”

“Sit back down.”

“Oh, c’mon now, don’t be so uptight,” he lays out his hand, begging for you to place your own in it. Flashes of a memory, six years back, the very same song playing as the very same man attempted to coax a dance out of you. “One dance, sweetheart, then I’ll leave you in peace.”

Just like your younger self, you’re incapable of resisting his baby cow eyes, letting him guide you out onto a makeshift dance floor before it’s too late to run back and hide in your seat, the eyes of strangers already piercing you with their questioning stares. If you weren’t deemed a strange pair with your attire alone, you certainly are now, feet stumbling awkwardly along with Bruce Springstein.

“This song was playin’ when we met,” he says it like you don’t know, like you don’t remember, like you aren’t replaying that night as you speak, pretending you’re both in that same crowd of swaying bodies, young, and naive, and on the cusp of experiencing the greatest love you’ll ever know, rather than here, on an empty dance floor, stumbling blindly through the hardships of holding each other so close, mutually aware you’re dancing on borrowed time and, soon, you’ll have to go. “Knowin’ now how it ends, if I was sent back in time, I’d still ask you to dance. I’d do it all again.”

“This gun’s for hire, even if we’re just…”

He spins you, drags you closer, sways you. It’s far less care-free than the first dance you shared, no alcohol to dull the shame and a whole lot of history packed between your bodies.

The first dance had been the thing you had dreaded most about your wedding, dancing with your husband, to a whole room of loved ones watching. Dancing now with Jack— even through all the embarrassment you feel as an elderly couple point over at you— feels easier, less daunting, so much so that you can’t help the way you start to laugh, arms loosening around his shoulders, hips moving less abashedly.

The two of you inch closer, and closer, and closer as the song reaches its end. Like a happy couple finishes their first dance, Jack’s mouth lands atop yours.

A gentle kiss, innocent of sin, it begs you to give back, to press your own mouth against his. You answer its calling, hand clasping at the back of his neck, holding him safely against you, less he drifts away and reveals this all to have been a dream, a nightmare, a delusion. Like coming home after a cold winter’s day, his kiss is the comfort of knowing you’re exactly where you belong.

And it’s absolutely terrifying.

You rip away from him, flashes of your fiance’s face blinding you as you stumble off, doing what you do best: running away. You miss the way the patrons all go back to their own drinks, and the way a new song comes on, and the way Jack chases after you, stopped only by the slamming of a bathroom door.

You come up for air when you find yourself faced with the image you paint in the mirror.

Never has there been a more heartbroken girl, eyes a mess of tears, and faded eyeliner, and smudged mascara, hair a nest fit enough for any bird to build its home in, body draped in the clothing of an ex-lover. It’s almost as frightening as the image you made yesterday, wedding gown freshly laced and make-up pristinely done.

A knock rings against the door.

It’s followed by a gentle call of your name.

You switch on the tap, welcome the cold splash of water over your face. Pray that, if you scrub hard enough, you’ll wipe away the taste of him, forget the shape of his touch, purge yourself of the desire to follow anywhere he may go. Your hand slips down your face, the dim bathroom light catches on something.

Your engagement ring, a tight shackle that binds you to someone else, reminds you of the closure you owe to Jack.

He calls your name again.

“Darlin’,” it’s muffled behind the door, but the regret in his voice is all too clear. “I just got caught up, I’m sorry. Come on out and we’ll get back on the road-”

The hinges creak as the door opens, only a crack, and your hand shoots out, grabbing a hold of Jack’s tie before you can will yourself to be rational.

He lets you invade his space with little protest, mouths returning to the dance they never got to complete. Hands move, slipping off ties, and undoing draw strings, and locking doors. There’s a mumble, are you sure, followed by a moan, please.

All hope of forgetting his skin is lost, a leg hooked around his waist, fingers tangled in his hair. He bites at your neck, and kisses along your jaw, and pants into your ear, all the while his hips rock back and forth against your own, filling you inch by inch. Mouth covered by your own hand, muffling a cry of his name as you feel him brush against that spine-tingling spot inside you. Your head falls back, eyes slip shut. Jack’s quick to rectify it.

“Watch, darlin’,” he whispers, a hand tilting your eyes down to where your two bodies meet. “ Want you to see how perfectly your lil’ pussy takes me.”

You do as he says, hypnotised by the sight of his cock, glistening in your own arousal, sawing in and out of you, each thrust deeper than the last.

“He can’t fuck you like this, can he?” Despite his ego-fueled words, there’s a desperation in his voice, a soul lost in a sea of darkness, searching for a life jacket. “Tell me he can’t.”

He can’t, you tell him, clinging onto him tighter, needier, begging him to never leave.

Any minute now, you worry, someone’s going to knock on the bathroom door, kick you both out. Instead, the music that plays outside the door seems to increase in volume.

“Fuckin’ made for me, meant for me,” both of you grow increasingly desperate, fingernails digging into flesh, and mouths rejoining in a frenzy of kisses, and the tightening of an invisible string, drawing you nearer and nearer to the edge. “My sweet girl.”

An end that comes all too soon, both of you exhausted, and spent, and collapsing against one another, a sticky mess left between your legs where his hips continue to rut into you through his own overstimulation.

“I’m sorry,” his head falls against your shoulder, burrows into the warmth of your neck. There’s a press of his lips against your skin, and a million apologies that follow. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I love you, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I love you.”

“It’s okay, Jack,” you lie, sooth a hand over his back, ignore the tears you feel falling against your skin.

TRACK 8 — hit the road jack

The clock reads 13:18 as Jack brings the car to a stop.

A set of stairs lead up to a grand double-doored entrance, a sign post declaring the extravagant building as Clearview Manor. Rented for the whole weekend, the wedding party isn’t cited to leave until late Monday evening. Though all cars remain parked in the driveway, no familiar faces await your arrival.

“I hope you get your happy ending,” the two of you step out of the car in sync. A voice whispers that it’s the last time you’ll step out the Bronco, you brush it off and follow Jack as he makes his way over to the boot. “No one deserves it more than you, Jack.”

“No promises, darlin’,” he extends his arms to you, you almost move in for a hug.

The sight of your wedding dress, no longer porcelain white, stains of brown upon a greying fabric, reminds you of why you’re here. You try your best to smile earnestly as you take it off his hands, but fear it only heightens the distress that dilates your pupils. “I’ll see you inside, right?”

The boot slams shut, and it’s an awful reminder that your time together is coming to a close, Jack dons his signature smile, cowboy hat back on his head, a head that’s shaking no.

“The mighty fool that I am, thinkin’ I could stomach watchin’ you get married to another man. After this little road trip of ours… well, I guess I just ain’t ready to hit play yet.” A tongue made of lead, shoes filled with weights. Moving feels impossible, talking even more so. You want to say his name, tell him you don’t need to marry another man, crawl back into the Bronco and beg him to drive off. “Go’on, get! There’s a good man in there, waitin’ to give you everythin’ you deserve.”

Instead, you just turn on your heel, take the first step towards the rest of your life. A life without Jack.

Halfway up the stairway, the sound of Jack’s engine reaches your ears, followed quickly by the obnoxiously poignant car radio, giving its final performance for you both.

“Hit the road, Jack, and don’t you come back, no more, no more, no more, no more!”

Eyes meeting where Jack sits, back in the driver’s seat, you share one last laugh.

OUTRO — everywhere

“Thank god you’re okay.”

Two arms, strong and secure, wrap around your waist.

On the other side of the bridal suite door stands both your mother and your mother in law, ushered out by your fiance upon your return the moment he noticed the panic on your face as questions and fingers prodded at you.

You block out the thought of the scowling faces, burrowing your own into the space between his shoulder and neck, whispering your inquiry on, “how bad is the damage?”

“We told everyone you were suffering from food poisoning. All our guests think you’ve been spewing out of both ends the past few hours, but I think that’s justified for the bruising you’ve given my ego.”

“Santi,” the shape of your fiance’s name feels foreign in your mouth, the taste of it sour on your tongue, so much so that you can’t say it in full. “I’m so sorry-”

“Don’t be, what matters is you’re here now.”

Jack was right, your fiance is a nice man. A good man. A man anyone would be lucky to land in the arms of, the kind of man people dream of, and romance authors write of.

But to you, his arms just feel like a cage you’ve lost the key for. “Why did you ask me to marry you?”

“I don’t know. We just… make sense.”

“We do,” you pull apart, at last, nodding your head along to his answer. “But is that all marriage should be? Two people who make sense?” You stumble a few steps back from him, feet needing space to begin pacing back and forth as your filter slips and the word-vomit begins to spew itself out onto the pristine carpeted floors. “Do you really love me enough to spend the rest of your days with me? Because I don’t think you do, and I don’t think I love you like that either.”

Santiago is calm, collected, and completely unresponsive.

The longer he watches you pace and rant, the quicker you do each thing, as though you’re racing ahead to escape the fear of breaking his heart more than you already have, his love possibly more intense than you make it seem. He ends that fear in one foul swoop of words.

“When you didn’t walk down the aisle, I felt relieved. I also slept with someone at my bachelor party and the guilt has been eating me alive.”

“I just fucked my ex in a bathroom!” In an almost paradoxical response, the pair of you keen over in laughter, any expected animosity thrown out the metaphorical window and leaving you both no choice but to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. “God, we’re a mess.”

“Wait, the cowboy’s your ex? I should’ve known, your dad told him you were gone before he even bothered to tell me.” Santiago had little luck at winning over your dad, though admittedly it was no fault of his own but, rather, your father had yet to move on from Jack. There’s a sudden commotion as Santi rushes past you, peeling back the curtains and peering down out the window. “What car is it the cowboy drives?”

“A Bronco.”

“Well, you might wanna hurry, because he’s just pulling out of the parking bays.” It’s more than just a warning. It’s a blessing to leave. Overcome with emotion, you dive back into his arms and find there’s no fear of goodbye, not like there had been with Jack. An engagement ring that slips off with no resistance, no longer a shackle that ties you both together. You hand it back to him gently. “Go, before it’s too late! I’ll take care of this mess, see if I can spin this in a way that’s heartbreaking enough to get our deposit back.”

There’s more you want to say, but now’s not the time. Apologies and thank-yous can wait till you pick up your things from his apartment, right now you’re too busy rushing to the door.

A call of your name comes when you’ve got one foot out it, treading into the now motherless hallway. You face Santiago with a smile, ready to say that magic word.

Goodbye.

“Promise me one thing.”

“Anything.”

“Don’t invite me to your wedding.”

You make it out the double-doors, which slam loudly shut behind you, before you spot the retreating shape of Jack’s car and an anxious glee commands you to break out into a sprint, legs kicking faster than they ever have before.

Don’t speed up, you think, watching as the Bronco slowly creeps down the driveway.

“Jack!” You call out to him, hoping that, with the open roof, he’ll somehow hear you over the radio. Pushing your feet to move a little faster, your arms join the mix, waving wildly to the wind, a careless attempt to catch his attention in the rearview mirror. “Wait!”

The car breaks with a squeak, the blaring music comes to a halt, and Jack turns to face you with his own eyes, as though he can’t trust the mirrors. When you reach the car, you pull at the door handle and find he’s already unlocked it. You slide in with ease, back into the seat you’ve always belonged in: by his side.

He can’t seem to move, frozen with his eyes focused on nothing but you.

“Drive, jack,” you finally proclaim, asking him what you should’ve the moment you saw him in that diner, in the pews, in the heartbreaking hours post-burying a friend.

“Where to, darlin’?”

“Anywhere, everywhere!” You can’t help the smile that overcomes you as he pulls your hand up to his mouth, planting a familiar kiss upon it, before the engine hums back to life. “It doesn’t matter, as long as I’m with you, all roads lead home.”

Like old times, you lean forward and turn up the radio, a familiar tune filling the air as you sink back into your seat, the wind back in your hair and an open road laying ahead, ready to lead you both wherever the wheels may take you.

“Oh I, I wanna be with you everywhere.”

bts with hyde. this is just a little reflective commentary that i put down here, to avoid flooding my author's note with too much rambling. please feel free to skip this!!

this fic is a compilation of firsts for me. it's the first challenge i've taken part in within the pedro fanspace, which has been equally exciting as it has been daunting. i struggle immensely with writing on a time schedule, and so i'm pretty proud of myself for not posting this (too) late.

this is also my first time writing for jack. admitedly, i'm not sure if i've done justice to him, as his character is somehow incredibly strong and, yet, so open for interpretation that i found myself struggling to connect with him in my writing. i have no plans to write for him in any future wips, but that might change. it was definitely fun to push myself out my comfort zone and write for a new character!

something i want to praise myself for is the attention i put into smaller details of this fic. for example, each flower mentioned in this fic has a very specific symbol/meaning attached to it, fitting with the themes of the scenes in which they're mentioned. the other place i hyperfocused on very unimportant details is the playlist. it opens and closes on the only two songs fronted by a female vocalist, with my intention being that these songs are a representation of the reader's inner turmoils and thoughts in the opening and closing scenes. the rest of the playlist is full of male vocalists, giving a peak into jack's mind despite the entire fic being told through the reader's eyes.

okay, i've given myself enough delusional and unnecesary praise, i'm going to sleep now. please don't be mean if you didn't like this fic, it's literally my birthday 🫡

if you've read this far, ily, i hope you have a good day !

#summerlovin24 #jack daniels smut #agent whiskey smut #pedro pascal smut #jack daniels x reader #agent whiskey x reader #pedro pascal x reader #jack daniels oneshot #agent whiskey oneshot #jack daniels fanfic #agent whiskey fanfic

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astroboots · 1 year ago

Text

EVERY YOU EVERY ME #14

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Summary: You try to move on after the Universe has been saved.

Word count: 4,700

Warning: Angst

Series Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist

[Previous] [Next]

You're standing in the middle of your old apartment.

The same apartment that had a helicopter crash into it and left nothing but rubble, ash and melted cement in its wake. Except now it's restored, like nothing ever happened.

Your rickety dining table sits in the middle of the room, propped up by a hardcover book to make up for the fact that one leg is crooked. Your tiny double bed with your lumpy mattress is pushed up against the wall. The usual piles of clean and dirty laundry indiscriminately mixed together sits unattended on top of the unmade covers.

You don't understand.

Why is it all back to normal?

You shake your head, snapping yourself out of it.

Miguel… You need to get back to him and you don't have time for this right now.

"Lyla," you summon. A warm ping vibrates against your inner wrist as Lyla appears. "Take me back to the void."

Lyla shakes her head firmly. "I'm sorry I can't do that."

"What do you mean? Of course you can, you've brought us there twice. You did it when Miguel commanded you."

She peers up at you through her pink heart-shaped glasses, with a solemn look in her holographic eyes.

"The first time was a miscalculation. The second was to eliminate the continued threat to your life."

Her words stop you cold. 'Continued threat...' Is she referring to Miguel?

"Lyla, please. Stop messing around. Take me back to Miguel."

Lyla's eyes go blank, no longer the flippant expression you are so used to seeing.

"Request denied. My programming does not allow me to expose you to danger."

"He's going to die if we don't do something Lyla!" You shout at her.

There is a tremor in your hand. Your nerves are shot, exhausted and tired from everything that has happened in the last 24 hours and you can feel the tears pushing up against your throat.

"Isn't it part of your protocol to protect him?!"

"I was built to protect you. My primary directive is to make sure you're safe above all else. That is my purpose."

She recites the words as if she's reading from a manual. It's flat and emotionless in a way you've never known Lyla to be before. Like the line is hardwired into the very core of her basic coding. There are no funny jokes. No sass.

"Lyla, please," you beg.

She doesn't answer you. That same impassive expression as before is still on her face.

"Lyla..." you try again.

You scramble to think of your options. To devise a plan B. But to your horror, you can’t think of anything.

What are you meant to do? You’re not a super genius who can build source code out of thin air that can break the laws of physics. You have no superpowers. No magic that allows you to travel to other dimensions.

The only thing you know how to do is file claim insurance applications. You’re useless.

There's nothing to be done.

It's over.

Your legs give in from the oppressive weight of your realization. You slump to the floor, unable to hold yourself together as the hard wooden floor hits your knees. You fold in two, hunched over the floor and you let the ache inside your chest break and pour over and you cry.

When you come to some time later, you find yourself curled up on the floor. You don't know how long you must've been crying for. But it must’ve been long enough for you to have cried yourself to exhaustion and slipped into unconsciousness.

Turning onto your back, you stare up at the ceiling, shivering from the cold breeze of the evening coming through the window.

Your limbs are cramping from exhaustion. You're dehydrated. Mouth dry and eyes crusted with dried tears. There's a deep-seated headache burrowing into your skull. It's a struggle for you to get up from the floor into a seated position, as you properly take in your surroundings.

At first glance, this version of your apartment looks identical to yours, but on closer inspection there are some stark differences.

By the window, there are black out curtains hanging from the ceiling to allow for sleep-ins during daylight hours.

On your bed, amongst the mountain piles of laundry strewn haphazardly, there are items you don’t recognize. Oversized hoodies that are big enough to fit a bear. Male sweatpants. Socks so big they look like they're Christmas stockings.

Walking over to the kitchen area, there's a distinct lack of coffee. It's been replaced by expired Reese's Peanut Butter cups, milk duds, and Hershey bars that fill every corner of your kitchen cupboards to the brim, stuffed haphazardly on the upper shelves that you could never reach. They have even made their way into your nightstand and stuffed and hidden between books on the bookshelf.

Lyla doesn't even have to tell you where you are. You already know.

This is your home. In your other self's dimension. It belongs to Miguel's nena.

Miguel sent you here, the closest universe he knew of that was identical to yours, so that you could live out your days in safety, without him.

Fucking idiot.

This is not what you wanted.

Days pass.

It's an odd and empty existence, you've beaten the impossible odds and won against the universe itself and made it out alive. Yet you're not sure that anything about this truly qualifies as a victory.

For all you know, the world that is your home may have been destroyed.

After all that's what Stark said: there is no guarantee that just because you left, everything would go back to normal.

And who are you to argue with the (second) smartest man on earth?

There's no way of you knowing what the outcome was, and Lyla refuses to transport you out of this current dimension.

You spend most of your days curled into a ball in bed unable to summon the strength to keep yourself upright or awake for more than an hour at a time, haunted by the knowledge that your escape from your death might have doomed trillions to theirs.

In the hours in between, when that inescapable guilt doesn't eat into your mind, the only thing you are left with is replaying the moments of your life in the past three months.

It flits through your closed eyes like an old film reel and in every one of those moments, Miguel is there, reminding you of what you have now lost.

You feel hollowed out, scraped out and empty like there's nothing inside. The only time you manage to feel anything that resembles an emotion is when you clutch onto whatever piece of oversized clothing that once belonged to Miguel. The only physical trace you have to prove to yourself that he existed and it's not just some fantastical made up story in your mind.

Miguel once told you that anyone who gets lost in the void gets erased. Their very existence scrubbed from the records of the world. Does the fact that you can still remember him mean that he's still there? And if so, how much longer will you be able to mourn him before he's faded entirely in that space. Before your very memory of him and the love you have that sits inside you with nowhere to go is gone too?

Nothing about this feels like a happy ending.

In the first few days, you don't leave the house. You tell yourself that it's better that way. Now that Miguel is no longer here, the idea of walking out in into open streets in broad daylight seems strange to you.

Lyla tries to tempt you with exotic holidays.

“Bali, India! The world is your oyster, we can fly out first class tonight and do an Eat Pray Love for as long as you want to!” Lyla’s voice sings in your ear. "Thailand is lovely this time of the year, barely any tycoons."

Most of the time, you ignore her presence, burying your head into the pillow, pathetically hugging onto one of the oversized shirts that’s been left behind.

Everytime you hope to catch a whiff of the remnant traces of Miguel’s presence there. But there’s nothing. It just smells of stale detergent.

After surviving the end of the world, a lot of things that used to be important seems meaningless to you now.

Alive as you may be, there’s no real purpose for you carved out in this dimension. You don't go to work in the mornings, because the you of this universe died years ago. Showing up at your office at the Chrysler building would likely induce heart attacks amongst your old co-workers.

You could scour Careerbuilder for job ads, but there's a sour pit in your stomach that hugs tightly around your guts everytime you think of the prospect of having to speak to job recruiters.

You don't think you have it in you to lie to some stranger at an interview and pretend that being in front of a white screen poring over excel sheets 8 hours a day is the way you want to spend the rest of your life until you hit retirement.

Besides, rent is not an issue anymore. Nor is money when Lyla is there to take care of you and act as your digital sugar momma. A standing order for any and all bills needed to maintain this home had already been set up long before you arrived.

You feel sorry for Lyla. She's been programmed to take care of your mental and physical well being and you know she is at wit's end with your listless behavior.

She pulls out all the stops. Lyla orders take out for you, delivered right to your door to try to get you to eat. If she had a physical body, you think she would hold you down and force feed you.

But something is wrong with you, because even though every dish is your favorite, rounded up from your favorite restaurants in the city, for the first time in your life since you were born, you no longer have much of an appetite.

You usually only manage mouthfuls just to keep Lyla from constantly nagging, before you shove the take-out box back into the fridge and then crawl back into bed.

Everything tastes bland and grey. Everything around you seems to have lost its color and shine. Was the world around you always this dull?

On the fifth day, there is a familiar baby-pink box with Gladis' logo printed on the lid arriving at your doorstep.

“Surprise!” Lyla announces. “It’s your favorite! I ordered the luxury box with the elderflower lemon flavors, as well as the lychee-raspberry jello!”

You sit down by the table, staring at the beautifully adorned cupcakes in the box. Spirals of white and pink frosting with petals of edible flowers. There's freshly cut strawberries and blackberries and chocolate shavings on op.

Picking one up, you cram the whole cupcake into your mouth, trying to cling onto the memory of that first time when the flavor of lemon zest bursting on your tongue had made you squeal with happiness.

That doesn't happen.

This time, as the sugar hits the top of your mouth, all you can think about is how much you miss him. How things will never be the same without him.

How you'll never get to have him sit next to you, smiling softly as he watches you eat. That you'll never get to see him demolish a cupcake in one bite and leave frosting on his nose.

It doesn't feel the same, you just feel hollow. Wetness spills across your cheeks, and snot clogs your nose and throat. You must look like a looney, ugly crying with your mouth stuffed full of cupcake, barely swallowing.

After that Lyla doesn’t order them for you anymore.

It's morning you think, judging from the bright sun pouring in from the blinds.

Lyla is buzzing near your ear where you've taken off the watch and placed it on the pillow next to you for company.

"You need to get out of the house. You're turning into a social recluse. It's not a good look," she says, as she peers down at you over her pink-tinted glasses.

"How about I get a date for you? Have a fab night out on the town? I have a roller-dex of the top bachelors in New York. I'm happy to hack into their calendar!"

You ignore her, burying your face deeper into the pillow, hugging Miguel's worn hoodie tighter to your chest. You pull the cover over your head, but you can still hear her babble on through the thin separation of fabric.

"What's your type? Oscar Isaac? He’s hot– No, no you're right he's happily married and we don’t wanna be homewreckers here. What about Lenny Kravitz? Doesn't get cooler than Kravitz and he’s long divorced."

"Lyla stop," you groan, poking your head back up above the covers. You just want quiet. Just want to stay here cocooned in this space that is the closest you'll ever get to Miguel for as long as you can remember him, until that too is taken away from you.

"I'm fine. I don't need a date."

"You're not fine though. You've only eaten a box of cupcakes in the last week. You haven't showered and you look like a mess. Your hair is greasier than the BP oil spill off the gulf of Mexico. My purpose is to keep you safe, and that includes your mental and emotional levels, which are... " she stops, throwing up some diagnostics boxes in floating holograms, then makes a face. "Yikes."

She’s doing this on purpose. Talking incessantly, so that she can nag you into doing what she wants. Suddenly you gain newfound sympathy for Miguel. You used to think it was funny when she nagged him and got on his nerves, but now that you're on the end of it, you see how he must’ve suffered when Lyla was in one of these moods with him.

"Will you stop if I step out of the house for a walk," you offer as an olive branch, hoping for a little peace and quiet.

"How long of a walk?"

"Five."

"Minutes?!" Lyla screeches with outrage. "The general recommendation is 150 minutes of weekly exercise, I'm going to need at least an hour's walk from you boss-girl."

"Twenty minutes."

"Forty!"

"Half an hour, or I'm going back to bed and wearing earplugs."

Lyla grins. "Deal".

The streets here look the same as the ones in your dimension, down to the Bodega owned by the old Korean couple around the corner. This version of earth is identical to yours in almost every way you know of.

Except in this New York, instead of Matthew Ellis, a man named Biden who is apparently over 100 years old (give or take a few years) is president.

In this reality, Leonardo Di Caprio apparently won an Oscar, while Amy Adams still hasn't, which is nuts to you.

The Avengers also don't seem to exist here. Though Superheroes still seem prevalent. A group of misfits that refers to themselves as the Fantastic Four seems to dominate the news cycle more often than not.

Ahead of you, the street splits into two paths and you take a corner into the smaller street that you know should cut through to a dog park.

But it doesn’t. Instead of green grass fields and park benches, you end up in a small narrow dead end of a street. Somehow you're lost. Shit. You should've paid more attention.

Looking up, you turn your head left and right to try to make sense of where you could be. You’re just about to pull up google maps, when the flickering light of the one sole streetlamp illuminating this alley catches your attention.

You're 12 blocks from Chinatown, but you recognize this alley even though it shouldn't be here.

From a distance, you spot the familiar red stall. The same small rickety table. The same red cloth draped on top. The same old lady with her abnormally large shiny head, comically large sunglasses and white-blue robe. The same giant sign spelling out: Fortune teller.

Only this time, there's only one folding chair set up in front of it.

She takes one look at you, as you sit down with a look of familiarity in her milky-white eyes.

"Your bad luck is gone," she says.

You should be more surprised that the scam fortune teller from another dimension seemingly remembers the conversation you had with her other self. But it doesn't. You've learned by now that nothing is as it seems.

Random near death accidents are not just due to bad luck. A superhero that repeatedly saves you isn’t just doing it out of sheer goodwill and duty. A starmap is not just a starmap, and you’re willing to bet your life that this fortune teller is not just a fortune teller.

“Who are you?” you ask her.

“Is that of importance to you?”

“Yes.”

She takes off her sunglasses and stares directly into your eyes. Without the obstruction of dark tinted lenses, you can see that it's not glaucoma causing the whiteness in her pupils. In her eyes, there are galaxies, millions of tiny dots of glowing stars, endless and mesmerizing as you stare back into them.

"My name is Ulana. I’m a Watcher. My role is to observe the Multiverse from the Nexus of all realities.”

There’s no longer that harmless demeanor and friendly smile that makes you drop your guard. She holds herself with reverence as she speaks, with the aura of the divine.

“Does that mean you are able to observe every reality in this moment?” you ask.

“Yes.”

The image of your New York with its pink cracked sky and the chaos you left it in crowds your vision.

"Can you tell me what happened to my old world after I left? Is it still there?"

"Your old home is intact and safe."

You let out a shaky breath you didn’t know you had been holding all this time.

Thank god.

Relieved tears spill from your cheeks. Somehow you haven't single-handedly caused the destruction and death of whole worlds and countless lives.

Even if you can never go back there, that place will always be your home, and your chest warms at the thought that even without you it will always still be there.

You take a moment to gather yourself, to wipe the errant tears that are welling up with the back of your hand.

Then you take a deep calming breath before you ask her the question that has been plaguing your mind since you arrived in this reality.

"Is Miguel still alive in the void?" you ask her.

"Your husband is still alive. But he doesn't have much time left. He's fading."

Your fingers curl into fists on top of your knees, "How do I save him?"

"I couldn't tell you.” She shakes her head sadly. "My kind is not allowed to intervene. We are only meant to observe the ongoings of the universes. I've already meddled too much.”

Ducking down, she reaches under her desk, sorting through the pile of junk paper, before she leans back up over the table.

"This is the only help I can give you," she says, reaching over to place something into your hands.

You look down to see a familiar bright yellow Star Map.

"He'll be home this time," she tells you.

You're standing on the doorsteps of the old brownstone on 177A Bleecker Street, staring up at the old ornate wooden front doors.

Unlike last time you were here, there's no hesitation in you anymore. It doesn't matter that you've come alone with no other superhero to validate your mad and fantastical story about the Cosmos that was out to kill you.

You don't care if Strange thinks you're a random crazy from the streets.

If he doesn't believe you, then you'll make him believe you. If he tries to have you hauled out, you'll kick and drag and scream at the top of your lungs, and chain yourself to his front door if that's what it takes.

You bring your hand to the door knocker and tap it three times. Then you wait.

Nothing.

Didn't the fortune teller say he was going to be home this time?

Goddamnit, was she a scam after all? What kind of name is Ulana for a celestial being anyhow? Did you end up wasting another ten dollars?

You grit your teeth and step forward again, grabbing the door knocker to pound it down against the front door, even harder this time and you don’t stop at one or two, you keep slamming it down fervently.

Mid-knock, the door creaks, swinging open, as an exasperated voice greets you.

"Yes, yes, yes. I'm coming. There's no need to knock that aggressively, I'm not going to come to the door any fast–"

He stops mid-sentence as he looks at you. For a man you've never met, Dr. Strange's eyes go wide at the sight of you standing on his doorsteps. His eyes are filled with the disbelief of a man who's seen a ghost.

"You're alive," he says.

“Sit down and make yourself comfortable,” Strange says as he hurriedly pulls out a chair by the old oak table in his dining room.

“I’ll make us some tea,” he says.

He waves his cape with a dramatic flare in the empty space, and from a distance you hear a small click, before you realize that he must’ve used magic to put on the kettle.

For someone that’s supposed to be a sorcerer, you don’t know why the hell he bothers having a kettle. Seems a bit redundant, couldn’t he just use magic to instantly heat water?

You sit down as instructed, hands folded in your lap as you try not to fidget.

There’s a prolonged and uncomfortable silence as you both wait for the water to boil.

Strange opens then closes his mouth, as if he’s unsure of who should speak first. In the end though, he doesn’t say anything at all, he just drums his fingers impatiently on the wooden surface as he smiles politely but awkwardly at you. Across the room, the water starts simmering to a boil.

This wasn’t what you had expected. You had counted on him to try to kick you out and you having to make a passionate plea for him to listen to you. Instead he’d opened the door and insisted on inviting you in and now the two of you are drowning in a sea of uncomfortable silence.

There’s a tinny whistle from the kettle, and Strange darts up from the chair, as if the interruption was a godsend. He rushes over to pick it up, before walking back to the table with it at a much slower pace.

Then he stands next to you, tilting the snout of the kettle into your small tea cup.

Strange stares intently at your face as he pours the boiling water into the cup. So focused on you that he doesn't pay any attention to the level of the hot water, until it spills over the rim and onto the table surface below. Then he seemingly snaps himself out of it.

"Shit! Sorry," Strange begins. He wipes up the spillage with his robe, even though there are perfectly good paper towels behind him, even though he could’ve just used magic to make it vanish in the blink of an eye.

"You look exactly like her," he says, then he stops himself.

Strange considers the statement and does a curt little nod at himself as if berating himself for how stupid that comment sounded. "Which of course you do. You are her, just… from another dimension."

From your time with Miguel, you’ve been able to glean from his childish rants about the man’s “ugly” and “useless” and “impractical” cape that there’s a hostility there towards Strange that goes beyond just Miguel being Miguel.

Judging from the guilt in this man’s eyes as he looks at you from across the table, you can guess that there is a complicated history between Strange and Miguel and you.

“Did you know me?” you ask.

“Yeah, we were friends. Good friends,” Strange corrects himself. Then a sadness seeps into his eyes as he stops wiping the table and pulls back his robe close to his body. “Although I supposed I wasn’t a great friend to you near the end of things.”

He places the cup down on the table in front of you, the rising steam wafts through the air, smelling of mint and honey as he drags out the chair and sits himself next to you.

"Why don't you tell me everything from the start," Strange asks you.

So you do. You tell him of that first day when you fell out of the Chrysler building and was saved by Miguel. Tell him about how Miguel saved you again and again and how you tried to trap him with cookies and how you fell out of the Chrysler building a second time on purpose, which makes Strange laugh that sounds fond and warm.

You tell him of the void, the fortune teller, the Avengers and everything in between, and how despite surviving all of that Miguel had exiled himself to the void and sent you here by yourself, with each event you tell him his eyes grow sadder.

When you're done, Strange nods solemnly. He picks up his cup and takes a small sip of his tea to buy himself time to gather his thoughts. Then he finally speaks again. "What can I do to help?"

"Miguel is still in the void. I need your help to send me there so I can get him back."

Strange frowns, then goes entirely quiet as he stares out of the window in deliberation. It takes several moments before he speaks again.

"The void is a dangerous place, stay too long and you will be erased from existence. If you go in you may not be able to find your way out and I wouldn’t be able to help you from here."

“That’s fine, I just need your help to get there” you say.

He sets down his cup as he continues. "I can’t in good conscience send you back out there. I've already broken my promise to keep you safe once."

Frustration brims in your chest. As flattered as you are over Strange’s concern over your safety, you bristle at the fact that there seems to be none extended to Miguel’s. Every second you spend here is another second wasted.

“Miguel is there. If I don’t save him, he’s going to be erased from existence.”

That doesn’t seem to move the doctor in the slightest.

“For Miguel, his own life is a small price to pay in exchange for yours. He’d sacrifice the whole world for you to live.”

“That’s not a choice for him to make.”

Strange scratches his thumb over his bearded jaw, as if he's trying to figure out how to solve a puzzle, before speaking again.

"Right now with Miguel gone, the volatile cosmic energy surrounding you is stabilized. The version of you in this universe died and is viewing your presence as an equivalent exchange. You could stay here. You'd be safe. Miguel would've known that. That's probably why he sent you here.”

"I don't want to stay here if Miguel isn't here," you counter.

Leaning back in his chair, Strange up at the ceiling in deep thought.

"It's risky, if I sent you there, you may not even be able to find him. He might not even have his physical shape anymore, he’s been there too long by now."

His head ducks back down as he looks at your face, observing you for long moments.

You don't know what it is he sees, but a small amused smile quirks at his lip as he shakes his head again.

"But... I think you already know the risks and nothing I can say will dissuade you will it?" he says.

You nod.

It's not that you've stopped being scared of the void. It's not that the very thought of it doesn't fill your stomach with a cold dread. It's that Miguel is there, and there is no risk you're not willing to take to have the chance to see him again.

You square your chest and confidence swells inside you with your answer.

"Send me there."

~ Next Issue

Credit and Dedication: We're almost there guys! Next issue is going to be the final one. Thanks to everyone who has been with me on this ride! I cannot wait to share the final conclusion with you all.

Special thank you (as always) go out to my bestie: @thirstworldproblemss who is a big reason this story even lifted off the ground in the first place.

Big BIG BIGGEST thanks to my muse @guruan who has gifted me with so much inspiration be it thirsty twitter art of our favorite rude spider or her own insanely gorgeous art. Have you seen this heartbreaking beauty?!

I don’t have a tag list but please follow me on astroboots-writes and turn on notifications to be notified when I post something new!

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara fi #miguel o'hara fic #miguel o'hara fanfic #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara fanfiction #spiderverse #oscar isaac #across the spiderverse fanfiction #across the spiderverse #marvel mcu #marvel #miguel ohara fic #miguel ohara #miguel ohara x reader #miguel ohara x you #spiderverse fanfiction

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roseofhybrids · 2 months ago

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there's something I've been thinking about recently, and tonight seems like a good enough occasion to talk about it

back when I was in therapy, every session my therapist would ask the same question

"What is something you're looking forward to this week"

The first time she asked that, I just figured it was a part of getting to know me as a new patient. Building rapport and trust and such. But when she repeated it every time I spoke to her, it made me wonder why she'd ask that specific question every time

Well, after thinking it over for a while, I think the reason she asked that is because it's really important to have something to look forward to regularly in life. Even if it's something small, as long as it's something you can find a little joy in See, nearly every time she asked me that, my answer would be that I was looking forward to my weekly DND game. It wasn't something too grand, just me and a few others messing around for 2 hours on roll20. But I felt happy when DMing for them, it wasn't much, but it still something that brought a little bit of fun every week

I feel like that's a critical part about staying alive on the day to day. Your life doesn't have to be filled with every day excitement like you're living a wealthy influencer lifestyle in order for you to carve out a bit of happiness for yourself

Like I said, it can be something small. Maybe it's DND games, maybe it's seeing the new episode of a show you like air, maybe once a week you let yourself order a pizza or eat out, maybe you and some friends get together to a watch a movie. Could even be that you just set aside a few hours where you can do something you like, literally anything as long as it brings you some enjoyment. Just a bit of time when you don't have to be productive and working and worrying about everything

I know the idea of doing something just for yourself can feel selfish, like you're wasting precious time. Especially with everything that's going on in the world, it can make you feel guilty for letting yourself find joy when some many others are suffering and in danger

Take it from someone who spent the latter half of their schooling dealing with dysthymia, self harm, and constant panic and anxiety attacks. Feeling nothing but misery 24/7/365 will help nothing. Depriving yourself of any positive emotion day in and out will fix nothing. All it will do is land you in either the grave or a mental hospital, and you certainly won't be able to help anyone from either of those places

If you want to help others, you'll have to be able to support yourself first. And that means not letting the stress of being alive build up to the point of crushing you under its weight. Take an hour or two every few days to let yourself truly breathe and relax. Think of it as fortifying your self for what's to come. You'll need some way to maintain your strength through the storm if you ever want to see the other side of it I'm not saying to ignore the bad parts of life, just don't ignore the good parts either. Even if you have to make those good parts with your own hands Eventually, the world will get better. But that will take time, so you will need to work to ensure you are around long enough to see it

This week, I'm looking forward to the new Dandadan episode, and going to get my new dog his name tag This month, I'm looking forward to making Thanksgiving dinner and getting to have some turkey and pumpkin pie Next year, I'm looking forward to starting a project that I've been thinking about for months

What is something you are looking forward to?

you don't gotta tell me it if you don't want to, just make sure you have one

#sometimes you gotta give yourself a reason not to game end yourself #and sometimes that's watching animation and letting yourself talk at length about an indie show about robots #“if you die you can't see how that TV show ends” might be a petty reason #but if it works it works #you don't need a grand or profound reason to stay alive #just one that keeps you alive

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thurio-edau · 7 months ago

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"It was her," Aiden yelled out, trying to get them to understand him. He couldn't get that bloody image of Ashlyn out of his mind. "I swear I saw her this time!"

"Cut it out! This is the fifth time you thought something you've seen is Ashlyn!" And of course Tyler didn't understand him. He never understood.

Aiden was getting mad. He lost control of his emotions without the smiling mask he always wore. "Are you calling me insane!? I know what I saw! I'm not delusional like your m--"

His eyes widened as he realized what he said, already too late. These were his friends, his found family, looking at him as if he was a monster.

"...I... I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."

Tyler didn't accept the apology though. He pulled Taylor from the arm and left, he couldn't stand Aiden especially lately. It was his fault. He always messed stuff up. He messed it up again.

"Damn it!" Ashlyn yelled to herself in her mind, waking up in the boring facility room yet again. She was so close to getting there... But she failed.

All she could do was talk inside her mind. Not even out loud, she couldn't let Alex and whoever else was there suspect anything. Now she needed an excuse to have a first aid kit in her room. She wasn't sure if she could walk outside and search for anything in the phantom dimension from how heavily injured she was. Yeah, she had Alex's card thanks to a trick she did, but she didn't have anything in real life except this room.

The walls were plain white. Lifeless and tired, just like her. She missed the braids her mom did each morning. She missed her father's awful jokes. She missed the graveyard, she missed her friends.

She missed that one smile.

The pain in her back and arms were obvious to her. Phantom claws were sharp for sure, she bled terribly in the phantom dimension. And Ashlyn woke up in the facility room yet again... All the distance she went was trashed.

They told her it was a fungus. That her parents knew she was here. That her friends knew she was here. That they were okay with it. They were okay with it. They were okay with her being kept away. They were okay with not getting to see her. They were okay with it.

Tch. Such bullshit. She didn't believe it, at all. It ate away at her, she didn't know how Tyler was right now. How Aiden was right now. A tree and a ceiling. Maybe they were fine. Tyler was alright. Aiden woke up okay. She still felt the way she clung to him once they woke up.

She had to get back. It was so close, why not get closer? One hour was the preparation... If she prepared the night before, she'd have six hours on the road. Right. She could do this. She was Ashlyn Banner, of course she could do it... Well, she needed to take care of her scars first because she could pass out. Every single night was important now, she was practically only alive for 7 hours in the phantom dimension. She felt dead in real life, 24 hours of doing nothing.

"I need to hurt myself somehow... So that I can have some kind of bandaging." Ashlyn thought.

But how? She didn't have a knife to injure herself with. And no way they'd just bring her one upon request. And trying anything drastic was too risky. Injuring her foot or legs were risky too... She needed that to get to her friends. But she definitely needed the bandaging, because her scars were too intense from the phantom claws.

Putting together a plan wasn't as hard as she thought.

im okay guys dont worry i wrote this out of free will yes sorry it sucks it was the free will

its just buildup rn honestly i literally didnt expect to make this an actual fic but here we go i guess

smoke signals part 2 . part 1 here

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prettygirl-gabi · 1 year ago

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Rainy Streams

Rating: General Audiences

Warning:Fluffy fluff, even more fluff

Category:F/M

Fandom: Vinnie hacker (streamer, tiktoker)

Relationships: !boyfriend Vinnie x !f reader

Summary: You and Vinnie do a late night 24 hour stream

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Vinnie has become a household name in the online world, especially with the teen girls and gamers. However, what many people don't know is that behind his charismatic persona lies a soft-hearted and affectionate person who loves nothing more than spending time with you, his girlfriend.

One rainy night, you and Vinnie were cuddled up on the couch in the cozy apartment watching your all time favorite anime. As you snuggled closer together under a warm blanket, Vinnie turned his head to rest on yours and said, "I have an idea. How about we do a 24-hour stream together?"

You looked at him skeptically. "Are you sure? That's going to be a lot of work, plus its like 3 am right now."

Vinnie grinned mischievously. "Come on Y/n, it'll be fun! We can play games, chat with the fans, and just hang out all night long. Please baby."

You couldn't resist Vinnie's infectious enthusiasm and agreed to the idea. You and Hera watched as Vinnie quickly set up the equipment and started streaming.

"Hey guys I wanted to do a 24-hour stream at 3 am how smart of me right, but I'm gonna have help form my lovely girl to keep me up with you all!" Vinnies stated as he pulled you onto his lap.

As the hours ticked by, you and Vinnie played games together while chatting with the fans who had tuned in from all over the world. The rain continued to pour outside as you laughed and joked around like old friends with chat. The both of you kept taking turns plaing a few rounds with some of the fans from chat just to keep this interesting.

At one point during the stream, You leaned on head on Vinnie's shoulder with Hera in your arms as he wrapped his arm around your waist. "I'm so glad we're doing this," he whispered.

"Me too," you replied softly as you kissed his neck without squashing Hera.

You were about 12 hours into the stream

As the both of you played game after game. Exhausted but happy from how early you both decide to start streaming together, you both had ended up in the pull out bed from the couch in each other's arms.

But the stream was still going and you could tell that some of the fans we just rolling in or just lurking the stream.

"That was the most amazing sleep ever," you said with a yawn.

Vinnie smiled sleepily at you as he rubbed his eyes."Yeah, it was. But you know what's even better?"

"What?" You asked while yawning once again.

Vinnie leaned in and kissed you gently on the lips. "Spending time with you."

The cause you to blush and snuggle closer to him. "I love you," you whispered.

"I love you too," Vinnie replied as they took turns keeping the stream interesting while they each got ready and freshend to finish out the stream.

"So Vinnie they said we should cook dinner to end the stream, watcha think." You asked us you look up with the most purest doe eyes ever. "Yeah, yeah let's do it."

Buy the time the both of you were done the kitchen was a mess, the food had long been devoured and stream was ticking closer to the 24 hour mark.

"Alright chat, we're done with our food and it's almost 3 am. I just wanna say thanks for watching and staying the whole stream, and also if we don't post for two days we're sleeping." You chuckled at his statement but nod in agreement.

"Yeah even though we took at 4 hour nap it didn't help much, but we will do another 24-hour stream in a few weeks and we shall be better prepared." You stated as you yawned once more for the 10th time

"Yes but for now everyone, everywhere, I hope you all have a good morning, day, or night, we shall be going to sleep now."

After you both said your final farewells you both crashed and you crashed hard. "Sleep well baby, you deserve it." You said in a low tone as you drift into a deep sleep.

#vinnie hacker imagine #oneshot #streamer #tiktoker #vinnie x reader #vinnie hacker #vinnie fluff #24 hour stream #vinnie imagines #vinnie fanfic #vinnie hacker x y/n #vinnie hacker oneshot #y/n x vinnie #poc reader #rebloging

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thewalkingwillowtree · 1 year ago

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Safe Haven

Series Part Listing Found Here

Neteyam x Original Na'vi Female Character

Summery: Seeking refuge, Xilä and her father venture to the lands of the Omatikaya clan, in the hopes that the Toruk Makto would be generous in allowing them to stay. This is her story about not only finding her strength, but finding love.

Warning: This story contains smut, violence & abuse (please don't read if these topics will affect you)

Some characters have been aged up. Neteyam in particular is 24.

Xilä is my own creation.

Warning! Cliffhanger Ahead

Part 15 - Mated Bliss

In the week that Xilä and Neteyam moved into their new home together, their lives had quickly settled into a comfortable routine.

Xi would easily say she'd been enjoying every moment of domestic bliss with her husband.

With every kiss and touch, every sweet moment they shared, even their bickering disputes- he was the best mate she could ever hope for.

Sometimes, when she sat back and really thought about it all, she felt giddy, finding it difficult to contain her happiness.

Eywa, was she blessed.

Neteyam groaned. Wiping sleep from his face, he blinked awake. Sitting up with a start when he realized the hour, he cursed, "Shit."

He was late.

Due to meet Tasam at the border before first light that morning, he mentally berated himself for staying up so late. It was his own greedy self to blame really and the culprit over said greed laid right beside him with her tail entwined with his.

Yet still with an uncontrollable smile, he scooted forward to lean over and stare down at his sleeping mate. She had evidently rolled away from him at some point.

"Xi, sweetheart. I'm late. I have to get ready to leave now," he whispered, kissing her exposed shoulder blade.

He leaned up on an arm, peeling away the blanket that covered her bare form, before combing back the loose, soft strands of hair to see her sleeping face.

Her hair smelled intoxicating. She had washed it last night with whatever new made up concoction D'avi had gifted her, and while Xi's intention was to re-braid it, Neteyam had gotten to her first, distracting her from the task.

"Baby, I'm going, okay?" he whispered, having every intention of getting up to leave, even though he further curled himself around her whilst nosing at her ear and down her cheek.

Xilä sighed softly, stretching as she slowly woke. A face nuzzled into her neck from behind as she yawned, while a large palm smoothed up the curve of her hip, dipping into her waist before spanning her ribs. Its journey ended when it began to fondle her left breast.

"'Teyam?" she mumbled groggily, squirming backwards, gravitating to the heat of his body.

He hummed against her skin, peppering tender kisses wherever he could reach. "Don't forget my mother will be coming by this morning," he reminded softly. "She's excited to finally spend a whole day with you."

That had her much more awake now, because she had actually forgotten. Xi rubbed her eyes and asked in a hoarse scratchy voice, "Did you ask Kiri if she would come too?"

"Hm?" He was very much distracted by now. His hand had wandered down the length of her body to inspect the mess between her legs.

Testing to see if she was still drenched from last night's events, he was quite glad to feel there hadn't been much leakage.

"Kiri," she emphasized, breaking him from a naughty fantasy. "When you saw her yesterday, did you remember to ask her to be my buffer for- ooh Ow!" she gasped, hissing with a pained wince when two thick digits suddenly entered her.

Neteyam froze. "What? It hurts?" he asked, easing his fingers out to peer over her in worry.

"Yeah, a bit. I'm sore but it's fine," she assured him quietly as her tail wound tighter around his in comfort. He always got worked up if he ever crossed a line with her in bed, she realized. "Just go gentle."

"No, if you're-" he cut off when she shot him a look. Hesitating, he asked, "Are you sure?"

At her reassuring smile and nod, he relaxed again and continued, moving far more gently than before. He twirled slow circles around her clit with the pads of his fingers, then carefully dipped a finger in knuckle deep.

"Teyam, did you find out?" she asked again, squirming from the sensation between her legs.

Extremely sensitive, puffy and still filled with his seed, her breath hitched when he began to sink in and out of her entrance, testing her readiness this time.

Neteyam snickered. "Yes, babe. I did ask, but Kiri said you don't need her, and that you'll be fine- which by the way I agree with. But don't worry Tuk overheard and invited herself. So you'll have company after all- something about a girls day..." he mumbled.

She let out a breathless, "Oh okay," as the single digit stretching her continued its pace- fingering her until she was ready to accept another one.

Two fingers working her now, every pump caused the insides of her thighs to become painted in the come she'd been stuffed with.

She sighed, giving in to the pleasure. It felt good. So fucking good. Her head collided with his shoulder when she arched backwards and he hummed his approval since the shift seemed to give him more skin to attack with his lips.

Xi rocked against his fingers greedily. She was a squelching mess- his seed mixed with her own arousal. An exasperated whine escaped her when he abruptly stopped, slipping his hand away.

Neteyam gripped under her knee, hooking it over his own to spread her wide. Sticky coated fingers trailing over her skin, smearing his come wherever he touched.

"Look at me," he ordered as his thick digits sank into her again, fucking her at a leisured pace. Filling her up yet giving her nothing at the same time.

"No teasing today," she whined, rolling her hips pathetically, chasing after more.

"Then look at me and I won't tease."

The moment she locked eyes with him, he withdrew his hand from between her thighs again, making her curse in protest. His gaze bore into hers when he pressed those two fingers against her lips, prompting her to open. She held his wrist still as she sucked them clean, humming at the taste of them both, eyes glinting seductively.

Neteyam's pupils dilated and he groaned at the sight. He was fighting the powerful need to devour her- to fuck her ruthlessly as she sobbed and begged him to make her come.

"Tsaheylu, sweetheart," he said huskily, dragging her hips downward so she was closer to his throbbing dick. Tauntingly, he rubbed his tip against her clit.

Xi felt drunk off of his affections. She wanted to scream in frustration. Her being overly sensitive from last night, made his usual teasing exceedingly torturous.

Quickly grappling her queue from behind, she swung it over her shoulder, panting in anticipation as Neteyam did the same.

"Good girl," he praised, sagging against her the instant the bond was made.

He ducked his head with a commanding, "Kiss me," and claimed her mouth as he lined himself up, sinking deep between her folds.

Moving slowly, he stretched her, inch by inch until he was fully sheathed. He pressed down gently on the bulge of her stomach where he sat, amazed every time he felt and saw the outline of himself there. He savored the snug fit inside of her, warm and wet and squeezing him just right.

Xi moaned against his lips, releasing an unhappy whine when made no effort to move.

Breaking the kiss, he grinned wickedly at the scowl she shot him. He loved how needy and desperate she would get for him. The sight of her flushed cheeks and pouty lips- and her eyes...fucking hell, he was done for.

Unable to stay still a moment longer, he rolled his hips, taking hold of hers, controlling her to his liking.

Their lovemaking was slow and sweet that morning. A far cry from the wild, sweaty night they'd shared a mere few hours ago.

Neteyam's movements were lazy, almost as if he had all the time in the world to fuck her. He sensually licked and sucked at her neck, practically feasting on her skin. His tail had abandoned hers- it was now wrapped around the thigh hooked over his, keeping her spread wide.

A nagging part in Xi's mind knew she should care that he would be late for his duties but she couldn't find it within herself. The pleasure was too much, too good, too addicting.

"Faster," she pleaded, hands fisting in their sheets with a wanton whine. "Faster, plea-"

"No. Just like this," he said, denying her request. "Sorry baby, you're sore, remember?" he teased, slowing his pace even further. "You said to be gentle. I'm being gentle."

She wanted to cry, his rhythm was tormenting. About to curse at him for using her own words against her, he suddenly pinched hard on her nipple and a moan escaped her- mingled with pain and pleasure, it echoed around their tent.

Neteyam sank deep into her, ever slowly dragging back so that just the tip of him sat against her slit before delving back in at the same speed, over and over and over, hitting all the right places inside of her.

Body quivering from the pleasure, Xi mewled. She felt like she was going insane, it was too much, too intense.

The build up was torturously good, but yet it wasn't enough. She wanted more- she wanted to come- she needed it.

"I can't- Teyam, please, please, p-"

"You close, sweetheart?" he asked, nipping her pointed ear. His breath was labored, and it was taking everything within in him not to flip his mate onto her stomach and fuck her hard.

The position was also killing his back since he had to practically contort himself around her because of how small she was.

"Mmhmm. So-so close, but I need-" she broke off into a sob.

"What do you need, baby?" he asked in faux concern, tightening his hold on her when she began to squirm.

"More- ugh. Teyam, make me come- Oh Eywa!" she cried when he changed his angle.

She turned to peer up at him, tears welled in her eyes as she bit hard on her bottom lip. "Please," she begged, reaching downward to touch herself. But before she could, he snagged her wrist away, shooting her disapproving look.

Xilä clutched a nearby pillow. Stuffing it into her face, she released a muffled, ragged scream. She was on the cusp, she could feel the rupture right there. All she needed was just a little more.

Finally taking pity on his poor mate, and on the verge of bursting himself, Neteyam gave in.

The hand that had been playing with her breasts- pinching and rolling her nipples, sailed downward to work her clit.

Xi panted and babbled incomprehensibly as he began to rub tight circles on her swollen nub. Her body was tense and shaking, feverishly awaiting the impending crash of her orgasm.

Her hand shot towards his moving wrist, squeezing desperately as her walls clenched around him, causing him to growl against her cheek.

Neteyam came first with a guttural groan, which pushed her right over the edge as she too came with a silent cry- body tense as she snapped. Almost on the verge of pain when she exploded, her thighs trembled- everything trembled as heat licked her inside out.

He continued to lazily thrust into her, pushing his seed as far in as possible, until he couldn't physically continue, limbs gone limp in protest.

They were both panting and spent as they laid still for a couple minutes, gathering their energy, basking in the aftermath.

Neteyam felt like sludge, he felt as if she'd taken everything from him, leaving him weak and boneless. Meanwhile Xi couldn't move a muscle as she recovered from her brain numbing high. She closed her eyes, fatigue fighting her.

It wasn't until Neteyam began to move her, did she rouse from a light doze.

"You're late," she chastised with a blissful smile as she settled more comfortably into the cocoon of his arms, feeling coming back to her numb toes and legs.

He made an offended sound. "Well good morning to you too," he laughed, gently easing his dick out of her. "I just gave you an orgasm. And a good fucking one at that. Are you really complaining?" he teased as he set her thigh down and rolled her onto her stomach to brandish a playful smack to her ass.

She squealed, gasping when he leaned over and bit the flesh he'd just smacked. Huffing at his antics, she complied when he manhandled her into his arms again- front facing him this time.

"How do you feel? Are you okay?" he asked, brushing her bed hair from her face. "You were quiet," he murmured with a frown, eyes tracing her features as if they would tell him what was wrong.

"You mean I wasn't screeching at the top of my lungs like a mountain banshee as usual?" she smiled, voice still soft. "I'm fine, promise. My throat's still a bit sore after last night," she admitted with a blush. "It hurts whenever I talk- but hey, it's nothing a bit of brewed char'mill leaf can't help," she quickly assured when she saw his horrified expression.

He grew panicked at her meaning. Spluttering, he said, "What? Oh shit, Xi. I'm sorry. I- fuck, I should've been more caref-"

Tugging him down by his nape, she shushed him, silencing him with a kiss. Lips and tongue forcing his squawk of protest away, halting his distress.

"Handsome, it's going to be light soon. You should get going," she suggested when they broke apart, trying to distract him from the topic.

"Xilä," he said seriously, cupping the back of her neck, trailing a thumb down her throat. He had fucked her mouth last night not realizing how rough he'd been. Guilt tore at him.

"Stop fretting," she chastised. "I'm already nervous about spending an entire day alone with your mother. You're not helping with that guilty expression of yours right now. It's too early and I'm too tired to make you stop worrying. I told you I'm fine, okay?" she said, forcing a funny looking smile on his face by pushing up the corners of his mouth with her thumbs.

"Fine- but say something next time. Please," he stated firmly, unmoving from the discussion.

'He was so bossy sometimes,' she thought, holding in a snicker. For his sake, she nodded in agreement anyway.

It would be too difficult to try to explain how she'd very much enjoyed what they had done last night, and that she was simply feeling the after effects.

Disconnecting their queues, he untangled himself from her, and leaped out of their hammock. He hurriedly cleansed his body, chewing on fresh van'eela bark as he washed only the necessary parts of himself for now, before throwing on his warrior garb.

Xi eventually got up too, wrapping a woven blanket around her bare waist as she headed to their kitchenette.

She cleaned her hands first before putting her Qla'ira root tea on the fire. While it boiled she then began to leaf wrap a few thick slices of HoneyCornbread and some tender leftover seared fish.

Grabbing an empty water pouch, she met him at the tent's threshold where he was securing his knives to his chest and hip.

"Have I told you the guys are jealous of all the meals you pack me?" he asked, accepting his breakfast with a smile and a sweet kiss, bending to tuck it and his water pouch into his riding satchel. "All of a sudden the unmated ones want a wife now," he chuckled.

She laughed. "Should I start packing extra then?"

"No. You only get to spoil me," he grinned, wiggling his eyebrows at her. "I've got a meeting later today, so we'll try for the hunt to not take too long."

"Be safe," she said, hugging him around the waist as he hooked up his comm device to his neck and ear. "Who's your hunting partner? Tasam again?"

He nodded, adjusting his visor, taming down a few askew braids.

Since the increase in palulukan attacks, there was a temporary ban on all solo activities outside of the perimeter of Home Camp- including solo hunts. Xi was relieved to hear Tasam would be accompanying her mate. He was sure to have Neteyam's back, out past the borders.

"You smell like me," he voiced, bending to nuzzle and lick at her neck. "Am I dripping down your thighs yet?" he asked, reaching through the flap of the blanket to drag his palm up her slick coated skin.

"Neteyam!" she laughed, mildly scandalized, stopping his hand before he made contact with her core. "Go already you skxawng. You are making me blush."

"You are pretty when you blush and I like when you smell like me. People know you are mine," he said, swiping a thumb along her swollen bottom lip.

Her blush deepened down to the tips of her flushed, exposed chest. "And you say you aren't barbaric," she teased.

He shrugged as he stepped away, swinging his bag on his back- the strap crossing his chest, bow in hand. "I am but a man who loves his woman, is all."

Xi internally swooned. "You should go now before I seduce you to stay. You keep saying things that make me feel needy, husband."

Neteyam laughed. A bubbling sound disrupted his response however.

His smile dropped and he pulled a face at his offending enemy when he glanced over her shoulder and saw the little pot on the fire, boiling. He could smell the fragrant scent of Qla'ira root from where he stood.

Clearing his throat and not meeting her eyes he said, "Hey um, if you're still sore, you should go lay down in that position I told you about the other day...you know the one with your hips in the air and the pillow under you? It's supposed to be a really good stretch."

Xilä snorted at her mate's subtlety. Hooking a finger into his belt, she tugged him close again- fronts pressing, bare breasts brushing his upper abs. "Ah the position, riiiight...you mean the one that humans use in order to aid in conceiving little ones?" she asked in faux confusion.

His jaw ticked at being found out, and Xi thought the whole thing was entirely entertaining. It was honestly incredibly cute how hard he tried.

"Nice try handsome," she said sweetly. "Now go, Tasam's probably furious that you've kept him so long."

"Fine," he said sourly, stealing a final kiss with a grumpy muffled, "love you,"before raising the flap to head out.

After breakfast, Xi hummed as she did a quick tidy of their home.

There wasn't really much to do, but the thick pelt lining their hammock was disgusting after numerous rounds of lovemaking, so she stripped it and put on a new one.

When she finished, she got herself ready for the day and took her time to braid her hair, making sure to put back Neteyam's gifted beads.

Her braiding skill had improved by far. For the most part, Tuk and D'avi loved to style her hair for her but Xi had to learn. Salveen had told her Omatikaya females usually braided their mates' hair once bonded. So Xi of course wanted to learn for Neteyam...and maybe too for their future children when the time came.

"Xilä," called an all too familiar gruff voice from outside her tent. "Are you there?"

Xi's humming ceased. She then scrambled to make her way to the entrance. Peaking out, she saw her father standing at the base of the steps leading to the tent. Her shoulders slumped in relief when she noticed he was guarded by three male Na'vi, all armed with guns.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, stepping out onto the landing, peering down at him in uncertainty.

T'shteyo's eyes narrowed at her response before schooling his face into something more uncharacteristically sincere. "It's been a while...I was badly injured. I thought you'd come visit me..."

When she gave no response he asked, "Won't you invite me in?"

Xi observed him, taking in how different he looked from the last time she saw him two months ago. Two months ago. So much had happened in her life since then. She was a wife now- she was no longer tied to him.

Her father looked good however. Well fed and healthy for someone who was rumored to be on his deathbed. The lingering bruises brandishing his body were the only tells he'd been in a fight.

A fleeting flash of guilt pierced her for not caring or even thinking about him during that time but the phantom ache of her wrist was the reminder she needed to not give a shit.

"Xilä?"

Blinking out of her reverie she shook her head. "No. I'm not going to invite you in," she said, hiding the tremor of her hands by folding her arms. "What do you want?"

He sighed, clearly unhappy with her response yet his face remained passive. "I'm being exiled tomorrow...I came to say- I don't know," he frowned, seeming to have trouble putting his words together. "Those two months of solitude gave me much to think about...I should have done some things differently...it could have been better. We could have been happy."

Xi stared, fidgeting ceased. 'Was he trying to apologize? No. He was capable of no such thing,' she reminded herself.

"Say something," he said.

"What would you like me to say?"

He looked taken aback by that.

"Would you like me to hug you goodbye? Wish you safe travels and tell you that I will miss you? I wish I could. I wish it hadn't come to this."

"It doesn't. If you ask them to let me stay-"

"I can't do that," she said with a frown, cutting him off.

"Can't? Or won't?" he spat, showing her a glimpse of his inner monster for a split second. His features quickly morphed back into that ugly polite expression of his that had her unnerved.

Xilä said nothing.

"It's fine," he scoffed. "What's done is done. I'll be going, I guess."

"Father, wait..." she said, and his head flickered back to her, pausing his departure. "I truly do wish you well and...thank you," she said softly, surprising him, "for bringing us here. For taking me with you. I gained a home and happiness...and I pray you find the same thing one day."

T'shteyo's lips curled into a smile. It felt foreign seeing him look so sincere. He nodded at her once in parting before motioning to the guards he was ready to leave. And without another word, without another glance, he left.

Xilä released the breath she'd been holding as she watched him walk away. This would be the last time she ever saw him, she realized. She searched her inner being for some form of sadness, but there was none.

'This is good,' she thought.

Her father being gone meant she could finally move on without that lingering nagging reminder that he was still around.

This would be a fresh start, not only for her but for him too.

By the time Neytiri and Tuk showed up, Xilä had gotten a grip on her emotions.

The duo had arrived with a basket full of goodies and an announcement by an overly excited Tuk, that they'd be spending the day out at a nearby glade.

Although Xi was originally a wreck of nerves at the prospect of spending the day with her mother-in-law, she quickly realized there was no need to. Neytiri was easy going and quite lovely company to be honest.

The day spent together with the Sully females was enjoyable. They picnicked near a waterfall where other roaming clusters of friends and families milled about as well. Their conversation flowed from topic to topic with ease and Xi felt relaxed and carefree as they lounged.

Tuk deserted them at some point, choosing to chase after fluttering woodsprites. She grew bored of those too then trotted off to dip her feet in the pool of rippling water where a few others were also doing the same and Xi and Neytiri watched her with matching smiles as a peaceful silence washed over them.

"Xi," Neytiri, called gently, breaking the quiet between them. Hesitantly, she asked, "Will you tell me about your mother?"

Words eluded Xilä from the sudden question and Neytiri, picking up on her shock, was quick to calm her.

"It is only of course if you want to. I don't mean to pry- well I do actually but- When I asked before...Sal and Neteyam both said it was not their story to tell...I simply wish to know."

Awkwardly shifting under her in-law's gaze and feeling her throat tighten, Xi avoided her stare.

"What would you like to know?" she croaked.

Neytiri laid a palm over her hand in comfort. "Where is she?"

"Gone."

"Gone...gone where? Why? Did- did your father send her away."

Xilä shrugged. "In his own way, maybe he did...He has never been a kind man, but over time he became worse. My mother- I think there was only so much she could take. Sometimes it felt like he was rubbing off on her- she'd always push me hard in my studies...but sometimes was cruel."

Xi took a breath before continuing. "There were plans to escape- months of planning. I never told my father because I thought-"

Staring out unseeingly, Xi swallowed hard. "My mother and a small group stole away one night and I thought- I thought she'd take me with her. I saw when she snuck away. I tried to run after her, but she...she told me to stay."

Neytiri's brows narrowed.

"She told me to remember everything she'd taught me...and then she just...left." Xilä blinked rapidly trying to tame the sting of her eyes. "She didn't even look back...not once."

"She left you," Neytriri said, voice laced in a quiet rage. "She chose to leave without you?"

Xi nodded and that seemed to irk the mother even more.

"Where is she now? Do you know?"

"The Wetlands maybe. Rumors said they went to the Hulanta clan. I don't know for sure."

Neytiri scoffed, glancing away. "She left you," she muttered to herself again, jaw jutting in fury as she pursed her lips. "She left her only child."

Xilä would bet that her mother-in-law was probably mentally cursing her mother. The thing was, she hadn't even told her the whole story- just the gist of it. And the fact that Xi hadn't even told her everything, she felt touched by Neytiri's reaction all the same.

The night she told Sal and Jxo everything about her past, Xi was in shambles after. It was a long emotional night for them all, ending when Jxo left the tent without comment- angry tears and silent outrage rolling off of him in waves.

Meanwhile Sal sobbed hysterically as if all what Xilä had said had physically hurt her- had physically caused her pain.

Neteyam had found out the story in bits and pieces, through scattered conversations during their training days.

From since early on in their friendship he'd had a knack for getting her to open up. And although most times he'd be quiet and brooding after she'd share something new about her past, he never made her feel bad over it.

If anything, he'd constantly remind her of how strong she was, that she was safe, that she was never going back there.

"Over his dead body," was what he'd say.

And Mo'at. Well Mo'at was the first soul she'd ever told. Tsahìk was the first person to hold her while she cried as she spewed the truth. And though Xi had seen a crack in the elder's demeanor, Mo'at was strong- she showed Xi true strength.

"Thank you for telling me...you didn't have to, but I'm glad you did. Being a mother, deep down I needed to know," she confessed, tone soft as squeezed Xilä's hand again, comforting as best she could. "You deserved so much better my child," she said sadly. "Parents who loved you."

Xilä gave her a wobbly smile. "It's in the past now. And I have Sal and Jxo, they are my parents...It- it may sound horrible to say this, but...I would live through it all over again if it meant I'd end up here. I found a home. I found Neteyam," she declared.

Neytiri stared at her through shining eyes. "You know, I prayed Eywa would bless my son with someone strong. Someone with heart. Someone the people would admire and stand by. Someone who would love my 'Teyam down to the core of his being...I thank Eywa for answering my prayers. I thank Eywa for blessing us with you, Xilä."

If it wasn't for the interruption of an oblivious to the moment and overly animated Tuk, Xi knew she'd have burst into happy tears.

Later that night as Xi puttered around their kitchenette, she told her husband about her day. She left out the part about her and Neytiri's little heart to heart however.

"-oh, and the waterfall was amazing! We should go sometime for a date night. What do you think, handsome?"

"Sounds good, baby," her mate mumbled distractedly.

She glanced at him and snorted in amusement.

He was crouched at their workstation, frowning in concentration. Xi had put him to work, asking him to dice the root vegetables she'd layed out for dinner. The poor man was incredibly focused on the task at hand, cursing under his breath when he realized the pieces weren't cubed as she'd asked him to cut.

It wasn't usual for them to have dinner at home. Most evenings they ate with the rest of the clan or with either of their families but Neteyam had asked her to stay in tonight and she didn’t mind one bit.

He was reserved when he got home, she'd noticed but she didn't comment on it. She knew he'd eventually open up when he was ready.

When they'd finished preparing a hearty stew, they made themselves comfortable around the beautiful table Jxo had crafted. The main room felt cozy too since her husband, ever the romantic, had lit little candles all over the space.

Conversation flowed between the two as they ate. Half way through their meal however, he'd had enough distance from her.

"Come here," he said, patting his lap, pulling her into the cradle of his thighs before she could try to move herself. He kissed her ear before offering her a bite of food.

"You know I can feed myself, right?" she laughed, accepting the vegetable anyway.

"Humor me," he smiled, popping a piece of tender meat into her mouth this time before licking the juice off his fingertips.

"So, I have to tell you something," he said, after chewing on a bite of his own.

"Oh?" She turned to see him better, giving her full attention.

"There's a small team flying out to the C'ontiqu mountains tomorrow," he said, mindlessly wiping away a drop of sauce from the corner of her mouth and sucking it off his thumb. "It'll be a two day- three day trip at most, just to clear the area and mark it as a safe zone...I'll be heading the trip though."

"Oh...this is for the whole, war clean up thing, right?"

He nodded, "Yeah, the RDA left their marks all over Pandora. It's a long overdue project but it'd be worth it in the end. Better to be safe than to stumble onto an old landmine ten years from now."

She nodded. "Alright...I miss you already," she said, hugging him round the waist. And it was the truth, she felt a little pang of sadness from his news. It also occurred to her that this would be their first time apart from each other for longer than a few hours.

As if reading her mind, he lifted her chin and bent to kiss her jaw in apology. "I'll be back before you know it, sweetheart. And hey, you've got that practice with Lo'ak and his trainees tomorrow, so you'll be plenty busy and distracted until I get back."

Lo'ak had been promoted a few days ago. Since then he'd promised her a place on his team for whenever she wanted to improve her skills, citing he'd be, "a much better mentor than her skxawng husband."

"That's true," she replied. "And maybe I'll invite my parents over the next day? They haven't been over since we moved in," she pondered, already thinking of inviting D'avi and her family as well.

"See? I bet you won't even notice I'm gone."

"I'll notice," she frowned, snapping her head up to eye him.

Neteyam openly stared. Gaze roaming over her features, he observed her as if trying to memorize every inch of her face.

"What?" she asked, lips quirking upwards in amusement. She poked his cheek, waking him from his thoughts. "What?" she laughed.

"Nothing...I'm just trying to decide whether to fuck you and fill you with my come tonight and cuddle you in the morning, or to cuddle you all night then fuck you and fill you in the morning. It's a kind of a tough decision," he said in faux seriousness.

Her eyes glinted and she bit her lip to stifle her laughter. Her husband was always saying such wild things. Half the time she either blushed so furiously, she was pretty sure she turned purple all over. The other half of the time she couldn't help cracking up at his absurdity.

"Liar," she said, fighting a grin. "Tell me the truth."

His knuckles caressed her cheek. "Fine...I'll miss you, is all," he mumbled. "You're turning me soft, you know that?" he teased in mock fury, shuffling her around so she straddled his thigh, large hands palming over the skin of her waist. "How'd you manage to have me wrapped around your little finger? Don't you know I have a reputation to uphold?"

Xi scoffed. "Everyone already knows you're soft for me though. So I don't know who you're trying to foo- OW! That hurt!" she complained, swatting his hand away to rub at her stinging backside.

He had flipped up her skirt to smack her on the butt because of her sass.

"Want me to kiss it better?" he asked with a wild grin, leaning forward to nip her pouting bottom lip.

"I don't trust you near my ass, honestly," she said, gaining a loud cackle from her mate who tossed his head back with a hoot.

When they finished their meal, they decided to go out for a night stroll. Xilä loved observing the activity of the clan around this time.

Hunters, gathers, fishermen, warriors, healers, all reuniting with their families and settling in.

The smokehouses and food tents were stocked with the day's harvest and prepped for the next day.

Teenagers mingled about until the last second-until they were called home by their yelling parents.

And Xi love to hear the muffled conversations and laughter emitting from homes when they strolled pass.

It was comforting.

It was home.

"Hey, can we take the ikrans out when you get back? Journey is going to miss her boyfriend. Buddy is so much more calm around her," she mused.

He groaned in mild annoyance. "Xi, baby. They aren't boyfriend and girlfriend. Stop listening to Tuk's make believe stories...But yeah, we can do that when I get back."

She grinned triumphantly, plastering herself to his side even more as they continued walking.

"'Teyam," she said, remembering something. "Tell me the joke you didn't want your father to say the other day."

"No."

"Why not?" she grumbled.

He sighed, shooting her a fleeting side eyed stare. "Baby, you'll only be embarrassed, trust me."

"Wait...am I part of the story?" she asked in suspicion.

Neteyam bit the inside of his cheek. He contemplated whether he should say. "You remember that one night I ate you out behind the labs?"

Xi stopped walking, peeling herself away from him. "What about it?" she asked in dread.

Her husband wiped a palm down his face with groan. "I sent you away after, remember?"

She nodded, clearly remembering it was when they'd still been fooling around. Neteyam had dragged her behind a link shack, determined to have his way with her.

"Well I uh-" he cleared his throat, "I stayed behind to take care of um, my-" he gestured to his dick. "I was just sneaking back out from our spot when dad and Gwuyle caught sight of me. It was kind of obvious apparently...And even more so, when you came back."

The moment clicked for Xilä when she realized what happened after.

"Oh Great Mother," she said, hiding her face.

"Yep."

That night, Xi had returned to the side of the labs when she noticed she'd forgotten her undercloth. Jake, his second in command and Neteyam were all further away, talking by the time she'd gotten there.

They'd all shot her varying looks she was too distracted to interpret, and not wanting to interrupt them, she walked ahead and snuck back behind the trailer to search for the abandoned flimsy material that was torn off her.

Unbeknownst to her, Neteyam was the only one to feel the knowing stares from his dad and his second, embarrassment clouding his face as they so clearly put the pieces together, figuring out what he and Xi had been up too.

The worst part- the part he decided to keep to himself, was when Gwuyle smirked and said, "Brother, you've got a bit of something right here," as he pointed to the corner of his own mouth.

Neteyam flushed, hastily wiping away the remnants of Xi's slick, while Jake coked on air and averted eyes before quickly changing the topic.

"I am never looking your father in the eyes again," Xi stated in utter mortification.

He laughed in agreement. "Aww, baby. I'm sorry," he sang in awe of her cuteness. He pulled her into his arms so she could hide from the world as she cursed him.

Grinning into her hair, he received his scolding without complaint. He knew damn well it was all his fault.

Neteyam was wrong.

Xi did notice his absence. She missed him like crazy.

On the first night, she barely slept, not only due to his missing presence but also because she was completely alone. She was half tempted to sneak into the little room she had at her parents' place.

She hated being lonely.

Xi woke extremely early on the second day after a shitty night of sleep. Stretching out her sore muscles, she snuggled into Neteyam's side of the hammock, wishing he were there.

Even though she hadn't chosen Warrior as her path, her husband still pushed her to keep at her training when she could and Lo'ak- the liar, was brutal on her and his group of trainees yesterday.

He made them run through drill after drill with no remorse. So it was no surprise that her body was aching, tired and begging for one of her mate's delicious, full body massages.

It was still quite dark out so Xi mentally planned her day as she relaxed.

She had an early morning class in a few hours with Tsahìk who no longer referred to Xi's lessons as healer training, but Tsahìk training.

And after that, Sal and Jxo were coming by for a late lunch, so she made a quick note to get her laundry out of the way before then.

Xi also had to request some cloth from the tapestry tents since the skirt she wore to training yesterday was badly torn. She would have to sew a new one- or maybe she'd just ask her mother to do it.

Her thoughts were interrupted however when she heard a nearby twig snap. Thinking nothing of it, she closed her eyes, intending to go back to sleep for a few more hours. But then another rustle was heard from just outside her tent- too close for comfort this time.

Ears twitching, she strained to hear if the sound was just her imagining things.

It was far too early for visitors, so Xilä slung herself out of bed and headed out into the main room. She frowned when she saw a shadow grow at the tent's entrance and gasped when her father pushed the flap aside and strode in, completely uninvited.

"Nice to see you again, Xilä," T'shteyo said pleasantly, eyes greedily taking in the interior of her home- walking about as if he owned it.

Shock taking hold, Xilä stared, completely at a loss for words.

He was supposed to be gone.

Jake and a team of warriors had personally escorted her father out of the Omatikaya forest yesterday. Jxo had even told her that they'd sent him off with more than a generous amount of provisions.

Fear rippled down her spine and her jaw hung in disbelief. "What are you doing here? Please leave," she managed to get out.

"You didn't think I was actually going to leave without you, did you?" he asked, head titled as he seemed to be admiring the colorful tapestry hanging Neteyam had gotten made for her.

"How'd you think I did with my goodbye speech? I thought I did quite well- Oh come now, don't look at me like that. Don't you remember? I told you, we are going back home. About damn time too."

She gaped at him. He was crazy. He had to have been. "Father...you need to leave, I-"

"Didn't you hear me girl? Pack your shit. Let's go."

"No!" she snapped.

He looked almost stunned for a moment before he was quickly advancing on her.

She jumped at his sudden movement, scrambling backwards on shaky legs. Xi tripped, knocking over a basket of sewing materials, knee colliding with the fort of assembled cushions and blankets Tuk had made when she, Lo'ak, Kiri and Spider visited last night.

Her father made a wild grab for her but she dodged him, causing him to run into Neteyam's collection of weapons- a few of them clattering to the floor with a loud CLANG.

Xi made a run for the tent's threshold but he caught her, grabbing hold of her queue, fingers clenched tight while she cried out in pain.

Thinking fast, she rammed her head backwards, catching him in the face with force.

She made a dive for one of the fallen weapons, snagging a small dagger just in the nick of time.

"Stop!" she yelled hysterically, brandishing the knife in front of her as she backed away.

The Li'ona male had no care however, he advanced towards her, dodging her skilled swings of the weapon, trying to catch her wrist.

Xi managed to nick him twice before slicing a deep gash to his stomach.

When he was momentarily stunned by the cut she inflicted, Xi used the opportunity to stab the short blade into his shoulder, twisting it for added measure. He roared in pain and anger and Xi made another attempt to flee.

She screamed when he clamped a fistful of her hair and roughly slammed her to the ground. Xi rolled and kicked his knee with all her might, making him buckle and grunt in pain. She crawled on all fours, trying to get to the exit but it was futile.

T'shteyo grabbed her ankle and dragged her backwards, rolling her over to restrain her thrashing. She struggled against him and scratched at his face- fingers digging into his flesh as he growled and seethed.

Xi released a gut wrenching scream for help- hoping someone would possibly be up or nearby at this hour but she was just as quickly silenced.

T'shteyo smacked her cheek so hard she went mute. Seeing stars as her cheek stung bad, she whimpered.

Her father stood at his full height, pulling her up with him as his palms circled her throat, squeezing whilst he fixed her with a murderous glare.

She clawed at the backs of the hands crushing her windpipe- her fingernails drawing blood as she struggled for breath, her feet dangling off the floor.

She was no match for him.

"P- p- please-" she gurgled when he tightened his grip.

"Try that shit again, and I'll kill you," he threatened. "Answer me."

"Ye-" she made a choking noise, blinking frantically as her vision swam.

"Here's what's going to happen. You're going to pack your shit like I told you and then we are going back to Li'ona. Understood?"

He let her go and she crumbled, catching herself on center table, gasping and coughing as she cupped her bruised neck. He laughed when she tried to call for help again but was unable to. "Now you can't scream."

Xi's throat burned and frightened tears stained her cheeks.

Panicked now that she couldn't yell for help, she tried to make another dash for the exit but he fisted her hair again- pulling at the roots painfully.

Ignoring her cries of hurt, he dragged her by the braids as she tripped over her feet, leading her towards her and Neteyam's private quarters.

He shoved her onto the bed roughly and backhanded her for the trouble she caused him.

He winced, looking down at the knife still embedded in his shoulder. With a simple tug he removed it, barely blinking an eye at the blood gushing from his wound.

Tearing apart a blanket from her bed, he dabbed away the excess blood. Taking a fresh strip, he tied the cloth tightly to his injury. And then, turning away, he began rifling through their possessions, stuffing item after item into a spare sack he found.

"Pack!" he barked, making her flinch.

She was too terrified to move however.

He admired one of Neteyam's chokers before taking it too. "It will go well with my staff once Su'ko returns my title to me. After all, what I've offered him, the bastard couldn't possibly refuse," he said almost conversationally.

He smiled when he found the boots Sal had made for her and tossed them at her, catching her in the face. "For the weather," he snarled, shouldering his stolen items onto his good shoulder.

Xi stared at the pretty boots in her lap- she hadn't worn them in months.

"I- I don't want to fight Father..." her voice was hoarse, raw from the trauma he'd inflicted to her throat. "I don't- I'm not going. My life is here...please don't do this."

She was shaking, fear rooting her to the spot. She was almost mad at herself for not fighting harder, for seeming to forget everything Neteyam had taught her in their lessons- for not trying to escape at the first sight of the man before her- for forgetting what he was truly capable of.

"Well tough because I didn't ask what you wanted, did I? I need you to complete the deal anyway," he said, walking back out into the main room.

Xi blinked, mind blank as she tried to process the situation. She gingerly walked toward the main room again, holding her side with a wince. T'shteyo was busy stuffing another pack now with the food from her kitchenette- blocking her from escaping.

"What deal?" she couldn't help asking, quietly.

He merely glanced at her. "You."

"M-me?"

"Su'ko sent a message. He agreed to take you in exchange for the title," he said mindlessly, moving on to scrutinize her husband's scattered weapons, stealing a few as he spoke. "He gets a whore and I become Olo'eyktan once again. A fair fucking deal if you ask me."

Xi blanched. "What? No- I am already mated! Neteyam is my hus-"

"That love sick fool is nothing! You're lucky he's not here tonight. I was planning on killing him before we left."

At the fleeting thought of her father killing her mate, fear and nausea wrecked Xilä.

"I gave no permission for him to have you. I decide who you are given to. Me! Don't forget it. We are not forest pests. It is not our way."

"Then what was the point of us fleeing here father?!" she yelled as loudly as she could manage. "Su'ko wants us dead, and you're going to- give me- to him? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Completely enraged, her words hissed like venom, "I am Omatikaya. I am the wife of the future Olo'eyktan, daughter-in-law of Toruk Makto! I will be Tsahìk. So you will treat me with resp-"

SMACK!

Xi crumbled in a heap to the floor from the blow and T'shteyo crouched in front of her to grip her jaw hard, forcing her to look up at him.

He smiled cynically and said in a calm, almost conversational manner, "Oh, but you are nothing, darling, you are beneath me. So fuck you and your plea for respect. You disappoint me Xilä. What about our ways? What about our people? Do you not care?"

He shoved her away looking disgusted. "Of course you don't care. You are just like her. Just like your fucking mother. I should've killed the bitch when I had the chance." He spat a blob of saliva at her as he got to his feet again, striding over to his loot to continue his packing.

Xi blinked back tears as crimson liquid pooled from her mouth. It was staining the pretty floor tapestry her in-law's had gifted them. Her ribs ached from when he'd tossed her to the ground and her cheek burned, she was sure that it was split open.

The clinking of glass had her head flicking up. The items in her father's hands were foreign- obviously from the lab.

A needle and a clear vial.

"You know, these blood demons aren't as useless as I thought," he said, clumsily filling the syringe with liquid from the vial. "The fuckers kept me...what was it they called it? Oh right sedated with these funny little contraptions. Wasn't hard to steal a couple while they weren't watching," he smirked.

Xilä's stomach clenched in fear.

"Get over here," he ordered, walking towards her. "You've stalled me long enough. Let's go already. I want to get away while it's still dark out," he ordered, "and before the chaos begins."

She shook her head frantically, trying to back away but it was no use. He grabbed her throat roughly and stuck her with the point. Xi gasped at the slight prick on her neck, frowning up at him in confusion when he released her.

"What was that?" she demanded, fingertips pressing at her skin in terror.

Limbs turning heavy, she blinked rapidly as darkness began to cloud her vision. Her head swam and she felt herself begin to slip away.

"Wah id yoo doooo," she slurred.

Panicked, she eyed the exit to her tent. If she could just move- if she could just scream.

Just before Xilä's eyes rolled up into her head- just before she collapsed into the abyss, she heard the loud familiar roar of a palulukan, followed by a slew of screams.

Neteyam was shaken awake by a member of his team. Immediately alert as he sat up, his eyes darted around for sources of danger.

"What is it?"

"Neteyam," Tasam said gravely. "There's call waiting for you. It's the chief's personal line. Answer it, quickly."

Fumbling with the earpiece he had popped off before going to sleep, he frowned as he watched his team hurriedly packing up their makeshift camp, called ikrans flying towards them at speed.

On his feet, he pressed on the device circling his neck, "Sir, you there?"

"Neteyam...bro, it's me." It was Lo'ak...and he sounded, off.

"What in Eywa's name is going on brother? Why is my team scrambling at this hour? We're set to leave first thing in the morn-"

"Neteyam."

Neteyam stilled in trepidation. Hearing the seriousness in Lo'ak's tone filled him with dread.

"I don't know how to say this but- look you need to come home alright? It's Xilä-"

"What about Xilä?!" he shouted, ignoring the concerned glances from his team as they hustled around.

"She's gone man. She- we can't find her. We think something happened- we think it was T'shteyo." Blood rushed in Neteyam's ears, muffling the rest of his brother's words. "We have units out searching for hours now-"

"Hours?! How long has she been missing? Why the fuck are you only telling me this now!" he hissed as he grabbed his bow and bag, blowing out a loud whistle as he strode straight to the edge of the cliff they were camped out at.

"I'm sorry but we thought we'd find her by now. There was an attack and- It's like she disappeared into fucking air! There are no tracks, her ikran is still here-"

"Have all the borders been checked?" Neteyam asked, mounting Buddy the moment he landed, flying off immediately- his team following behind.

"Yes, multiple times! We have teams set up incase they-"

"Who was the last person to see her?" Neteyam demanded, cutting his brother off again as he urged his banshee to fly faster, the wind whipping his braids backwards.

"I was. We all hung out late at your place and-"

"When did you realize she was missing? How long till someone noticed?!"

"Bro will you calm d-"

"Don't you tell me to calm down, Lo'ak! My mate is missing! MISSING! She is missing while I have been here strolling through a fucking mountain when I should have been out there searching for her! But no I wasn't, know why? Because I wasn't told anything until HOURS later! So don't you dare tell me to fucking calm down!"

He ended the connection and urged Buddy to go faster, praying to Eywa to keep his wife safe and praying for sanity since he felt himself spiraling.

There was one thing for certain however. If it truly was T'shteyo behind his mate's sudden disappearance...

Neteyam knew.

Without a doubt.

He was going to kill him.

I would just like to apologize in advance...as a reader who absolutely detests cliff hangers herself, I'm so so sorry.

But I do hope you enjoyed it nonetheless. I can't promise when the next part will be out, so please bear with me lovelies.

And of course, once again a big special shout out and hug to my friend Tori. 💛

As always thank you for reading, please let me know your thoughts :)

Tags: @jakesullyfatjuicypeen @granddearduck @riatesullironalite @strawberri-blonde @earthling55 @innercreationflower @duckworthbean @gyuventure @btsiguess-kpop @blkmystery @neteswife @luvteyams @isnt-itstrange @erenjaegerwifee

If you'd like to be tagged or I forgot you by accident, please let me know.

#neteyam #neteyam x oc #neteyam avatar #neteyam fic #neteyam x reader #neteyam fanfiction #neteyam sully

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caberzatto · 8 months ago

Text

a quiet sunday

fem!reader x Minho

summary: You're enjoying a peaceful day off with your boyfriend when expresses his complaints about his overgrown hair. So you offer a solution that he's admittedly reluctant about.

word count: 1.5k

*nothing but fluff

author's note: this is proofread, but I may have missed a few things so yeah...

You lay in the small twin bed in your hut, your dark-haired boyfriend snuggled up into your side. As your chest rose and fell with deep, slow breaths, Minho's head followed suit; resting on your chest.

His athletic arms encapsulated your body between them, as he hugged you tightly, adding to the warmth of the blankets you both lay in.

It was Sunday, meaning you both had the entire day off from work and when these days came around, you always took full advantage of them. During the week, you were both constantly busy; Minho off in the maze from dawn until the sun began to set behind the walls, and you in the medhut all day treating the rest of the gladers who showed up with injuries.

All work came to a halt on Sundays, the day being treated as if it were a holiday by everyone in the Glade. Almost everyone would spend their 24 hours of peace lying in and simply chilling the shuck out, our one day of bliss if you will.

As you ran your fingers gently through your boyfriend's hair, lying together in silence, you felt his head shift against you as he tilted it back to look up at you.

You smiled softly at him. You could stay here forever. "Hey," you cooed.

He returned the smile, looking up at you like you were the sun, the moon, and the stars combined, "Hey back."

A few strands of his dark hair fell in front of his eyes, his head tipping further back so he could get a better look at you. You carefully brushed the hair away from his eyes, "Your hair's getting long, isn't it."

"Yeah, and it's been bothering me for the past two shucking weeks," he mumbled lowly in displeasure, "it's started to get in the way when I'm running, not very ideal, can't even see where I'm going anymore."

You chuckled at your boyfriend's exaggerated words before an idea popped into your head, "Hey, why don't you let me cut it for you?" continuing to stroke his hair gently.

"Mmmm…I don't know if I trust you enough with scissors around my hair," he joked, "don't know if you've noticed, but I take great pride in these gorgeous locks."

It's true. He spends at least 30 minutes of his mornings just styling his hair; making sure it looks just right.

"Oh come on," rolling your eyes at the boy lying on your chest, "I cut my own hair all the time, I'm basically an expert at this point."

His head dropped back down to its previous position, stroking his fingertips up and down your arm, thinking the idea through, before lifting it back up to your gaze once more, "Fine. But if you mess up, we are so over."

You smiled brightly at him, before moving from your position to climb out of the blankets, rolling over him to plant your feet on the floor of the hut. He groaned as you pulled on his arm, forcing him out of his previously comfy spot in the bed.

Still gripping his arm, he plodded closely behind you as you led him into the small bathroom in your hut - One of the perks of being the only girl in the glade; having your own hut. Which also means having your own bathroom.

"Okayyy," once in the bathroom, you placed your hands on his shoulders, "Sit please." The wide grin plastered on your face was making him much too nervous for his liking, yet still, he obliged, taking a seat on the toilet that sat in the corner of the cramped space.

Turning your back towards him, you searched for the pair of scissors that you regularly used to cut your hair. After a few seconds of fiddling in the drawer between the sink, you turned back to face him, snapping the shears open and closed in front of him.

"Yeah…that smile on your face is not concerning at all," he stated, sarcasm clear in his voice. The comment only caused you to smile even wider, "Would you relax, it's gonna be fine, I know what I'm doing you shank."

As you stepped closer to him, scissors in hand, his body leaned away from you, clearly indicating apprehension. "Minho, if you don't want me to cut your hair just say so, please. I wouldn't even be upset," you drew a cross over your heart, "swear."

He quickly reassured you, "No, no, that's not it…I just-you can understand my concerns though, right?"

Your eyes softened, giving him a tender smile, "Of course I can, but I assure you, once again, I know what I'm doing, okay?" He sighed sharply, before simply nodding his head in response.

You were now standing between his legs, gently running your fingers through his dark hair once again. "Okay, I'm starting, you ready?"

"Yeah, yeah, let's just get this over with already."

Positioning your free hand on the back of his head, to give you stability, you began snipping the hair on the top of his head. The first 'snip' of the scissors caused him to wince slightly in anticipation of the next cut.

Black strands of hair began slowly falling to your feet as you continued snipping off small sections of Minho's overgrown hair. Your fingers combed through his hair, directing it in an upward direction before stopping, where you'd cut off about an inch.

By the time you had finished working on the top of his head, you moved and used your free hand to angle his head down so you could begin working on the back.

Starting from the nape of his neck working up, you snipped away at the course hair. Minho's forehead was now resting on your stomach as you very carefully made sure not to nick his scalp with the sharp tool in your hand, "Mmm, feels s'nice," he grumbled into your midsection.

It was very clear that your previously reluctant boyfriend was now enjoying the lengthy process of getting his hair trimmed by you. A smug smile replaced your, once stoic, expression, "Mmm, I know sweetie, just relax m'kay."

His hands slid up from their prior position by his side, leisurely making their way up your bare legs to sit just below the hem of your shorts under your ass, his fingertips tenderly drawing circles on your smooth skin.

You finished up the back of his head, cutting it nice and short; just the way you know he likes it to be. You tilted his head to the right, then to the left, tapering off the sides. Finally, you lifted his head up, your finger softly positioned under his chin as you gave the completed haircut a final look-over.

As you studied your work for any needed improvements, you could feel your boyfriend's gaze burning into your face. "The shuck are you staring at you, dong?" you quipped as your fingers raked his hair, making sure it was even.

His eyes not straying away from you, "The beautiful girl standing in front of me," not an ounce of sarcasm in his voice.

You couldn't have hidden the bright beam that crept its way onto your face even if you tried your hardest.

"Okay whatever," rolling your eyes playfully, "I'm done, so would you go to the mirror and look at it, please."

The warmth on the back of your legs abruptly disappeared as Minho made his way over to the sink to take a look at his, now much shorter, hair in the mirror. He examined it carefully, turning his head in all different directions - very obviously trying to mess with you.

A few more head turns later and you were getting very impatient, awaiting a response from the puckish boy standing before you, tapping your foot hurriedly against the floor, your arms crossed over your chest.

Finally, he turned to face you with his lips pursed and squinted yes, as if he were about to tell you that he didn't like it. Your heart dropped in your chest with the thought, until he, at last, said something, "I love it."

Relief coursed through your body, your head falling back, accompanied by a long sigh.

Minho snaked his arms around your waist, peppering kisses along your throat before moving to your face, causing you to shake your head around in a poor attempt to get him to stop, giggles escaping from your lips, "Stop it, shuckface."

Your palm slipped between his lips and your face, pressing against his lips to push his head back, "Do you really like it, or are you just scared of hurting my feelings? Cause I'm a big girl y'know, I can handle the truth," your eyes squinted as you searched his for answers while your arms remained by your side, refusing to hug him back until he answered.

He laughed in response, "Of course I like it, I'd tell you if I didn't, honest," withdrawing one of his hands from your waist to draw a cross over his heart, just like you had done earlier.

A big smile replaced your once blank expression, finally lifting your arms to squeeze him back, dropping your head onto his shoulder in satisfaction. You still held the scissors in your right hand, so you had to make sure not to accidentally scratch him with them.

"I hope you know that you'll be cutting my hair for me every month from now on," your boyfriend stated, resting his chin on the top of your head.

"Exactly the reason why I've never offered to cut your hair before," mumbling into his shoulder.

The two of you swayed from side to side in each other's arms, enjoying the rare quiet of the glade. Sundays will truly always be your favourite day of the week.

@iloveetoeatbananas (more minho content for youu <3)

#minho #tmr minho #minho x you #minx reader #minho fluff #the maze runner #minho the maze runner #tmr fluff #tmr fanfic #minho fanfic #the maze runner fanfic

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lewsnumerounofan · 1 year ago

Text

party foul part 2 (jeremiah fisher x reader)

summary: so what if you're in love with your best friend jeremiah fisher? one drunk kiss won't change anything. right? (spoiler: it does)

notes: not biblically accurate conrad, kissing, smut, unprotected oops, somewhat public, 3k words, reader previously dated co**ad, angst/miscomm., not proof read at all

+ part 1

+ i fucking hate htis one its so bad i'm so sooryim gooo fuckjuhnbsorry oh my god and dw abt the header image!!!!!! it's okay!!!!!

your phone hit voicemail again. it was the seventh time you’d tried calling jere, but still no luck.

“maybe he’s staying at a friends place,” belly supplied, but she looked worried too. ever since you and jere had kissed the night before, he’d been mia. steven, you, conrad and belly had all taken turns trying to reach him with no success. at first it had been expected, but it was now rounding out on 24 hours since he’d left, and worry was starting to permeate amongst everyone. well, everyone except taylor. she wasn’t too worried about it. he’s probably just moping around feeling sorry for himself, she’d said.

unfortunately, you couldn’t quite master taylor’s level of nonchalance. in fact, you felt awful. for a few minutes, everything had been perfect. you’d been kissing the boy of your dreams–the boy you were in love with. and then…

“yeah, he kinda checks out when he’s upset. he did the same thing after mom died.”

conrad, this time. him and nicole had just come back from driving through town trying to find him. you nodded, but a tightness was slinking into your chest. jere hadn’t ‘checked out’ after suzanna died. he’d called you, and together you’d talked for hours as he wandered the streets of boston. never before had he shut you out like this. it made you worried. more than worried; it made you feel scared.

“i think i’ll try him again, just in case,” you said. because you couldn’t not do something. because you were scared you’d messed things up permanently, because jeremiah had never, ever ignored your calls.

“okay, well i’m ordering pizza. jere disappearing or not, i’m fucking starving,” said taylor. she’d hopped off her place on the counter and now started flipping through the take out flyers stuck to the fridge. steven and belly sounded their agreement.

“i can pick it up,” you offered, “it’ll give me a chance to go look for him too.”

you were out the door soon after, steven and taylor’s argument about whether pineapple belonged on pizza still lingering in the background. feeling a bit better now that you had something to do, you let the warm summer air breeze through your car windows. jere was out there somewhere, probably doing just fine. it’s not like he’d do something dumb or get himself hurt. if you were honest with yourself, he’d most likely just crashed at an old hook up’s house. there were plenty of those around in cousin’s, and they’d likely all enjoy having jere back. you tried not to think about it.

the pizza place was a 20 minute drive from the fischer’s, and you took the long route along the beach. it was a perfect summer night: seagulls called off shore, the sunset lingered to the west, and couples lazily strolling back to their cars. it was the type of night jere loved.

you were a couple minutes early for your order, so you decided to make the most of it and join the sparse crowds decorating the beach. you pulled over and parked, grabbing a light sweater for the evening weather.

amongst the waves and people’s quiet chatter, the beach possessed a lingering hum. it was a sound that accompanied many of your fondest childhood memories, and you took comfort in it’s familiarity and peacefulness. you couldn’t help but think of jere–think about what had passed between you last night, mostly.

did you finally tell her you're in love with her?

you hadn’t been able to get steven’s words out of your head. the thought of jere ever liking you was one thing, but love? it felt too good to be true.

and besides, it’s not as though it would matter if you never even got to see jeremiah again. for the first time, you almost felt annoyed at his vanishing act. he’d left you confused and frustrated and wanting more.

just then, as if you’d conjured him yourself, you noticed jere on the beach before you. his curls were unmistakable–almost the same colour as the sand. his hands were tan and strong as he leaned back on them, sun-bleached bracelets wrapped around his wrists. you wanted to take a picture of him there. keep this precious moment of discovery and summer immortalised forever.

and then he turned around, blue eyes catching yours.

you could see the moment worry set in by the tight line that furrowed over his brows. he started to rise from the sand and you moved towards him, carried by adrenaline and anger and a little bit of excitement. halfway down the beach you caught each other, but before you could speak jeremiah was shrugging past you.

“you shouldn’t have come.”

the waves and gulls seem to mock you then–the whole perfect august night laughed in your face as you stopped, stomach sinking. it took a few moments for his words to register, and a few more for you to whip around and catch up to him. he was almost past your car when you finally managed to grasp onto his sleeve. deja vu hit you hard enough that you almost stumbled. just last night this same action led to jere’s lips on yours, his mouth hot over your body. today’s jere must have seen the memory on your face because he scoffed, pulling back sharply.

“see? you can’t even think about what happened without looking disgusted,” he said. his voice was low but convicted. closed. you hated it.

“jere, what are you talking about? you wouldn’t know anything about how i feel–you ran away last night and no one’s been able to contact you since,” you tried. he made an attempt to keep walking but you didn't let him, this time coming to stand between him and the road. ridiculous.

“no calls, no texts, nothing. do you have any idea how worried everyone has been?”

at this jere’s eyes blazed and he took a step forwards, letting his head lower as he spit the words into your face, “yeah, i’m sure you and conrad were just about worried sick huh.”

it took quite a lot of effort on your part not to roll your eyes. what was with this boy. had the kiss not been enough? did he really think, after all this time, conrad stood a chance?

“you’re such an idiot sometimes jere,” you said, regretting it as his chest shuddered under a heavy breath.

he laughed and looked away. his eyes were bright in the dwindling sun, his jaw harsh as he fought to control himself. slight smudges under his eyes, extra tangled curls, slightly red eyes. now that you were up close, jere looked a mess. heart hurting you reached for him, wanting to smooth back the stray hair falling over his cheekbones. to smooth over this, over him, to let him know everything was alright. he caught your hand. even this, even his firm grasp on your skin, had your body lighting up. awakening in a way it only would for jere.

“you sure know how to make it hurt. why can’t you just fuck off and we can pretend this never happened, okay?” he hissed, but you knew jere. the way he blinked more and the way his voice changed. “just- just please go home. it hurts me to look at you right now. it hurts.”

his voice broke and he dropped your hand. you couldn’t stand the look on his face. you didn’t let him turn away from you though. this was your boy, the boy you’d been in love with every day for a year. and you wouldn’t have him thinking otherwise.

your pulse raced as you said, “it’s you, jere. it’s you and it’s always been you. not conrad. and it would hurt me if you thought anything otherwise.”

he flinched at your words but there was something in his face that changed. something small, something that took you having to know how he breathed to notice. hope.

“jere, look at me. look at me,” you said. and he did, his eyes wide and blue. the same eyes you dreamed of.

“i love you. i love you, jere.”

you folded the words onto his lips as you kissed him. wrapped them in sugar and pressed them onto his mouth, begging him to understand. to see what had been obvious every night you’d called him, every time you’d hugged him, every time you’d smiled at his dimples.

“i love you.”

and then you couldn’t say anything else because he was cupping your jaw, tilting your face and running his tongue over your teeth. panting as he consumed your gasps. pulled the air from you.

jere shuffled you back until the cool press of your car met your hips. under him and the way he kissed at your neck, you had no notion of what surrounded you. no idea of anything except the heat of his tongue against your throat. your ear. your lips.

“up,” he mumbled. that was all the warning he gave before lifting you onto the hood of your car. the metal was cold beneath you but his hands were burning as they circled your thighs, coaxing your legs apart until he could press himself against you.

he was so big in front of you. the wide span of his shoulders, the strong shape of his hands. he was kissing like he’d hurt if he didn't. you felt feverish, you felt elated. jere broke away enough to rest his forehead on yours, chest rising and catching.

“need you,” he said. his voice was tight.

“what?”

“said i need you.”

“here?”

you were incredulous at first, but jere didn't even bother to look embarrassed. his gaze was level with yours and you had to blush and look away.

“we could- i mean, we’ve got my car…”

he grinned as he pulled you down, and the giggle came before you can stop it. around the vehicle and into the back seats you were both trying to stop from laughing. it was such an encapsulation of being a teenager. of sneaking around and driving each other crazy and being in love. the feeling had you collapsing onto his lap as he pulled the door closed, huffing onto the tan skin of his neck.

“this is so stupid,” you said. the grin jere gave leaves you breathless. your fingers pressed over his smile, tracing the red line of his mouth. the car was warm and dark and protected.

“you have no idea how long i’ve waited for this,” he said, “waited for you.”

you wanted to laugh again but his hands were pulling up your shirt. goosebumps followed the path of his thumb over your bra, under your bra; when he put his mouth on you you moaned. in this little space you’d made the sound was a feeling and jere grinded into you at its touch. focused as he toyed with you, painting your chest red and purple with his lips.

baby, baby, you were saying as strong hands held you close. even as you tried to pull away–push closer?–from the intensity of his kisses. of having his curly hair fall against your chest and stomach. of his eyelashes brushing over your collarbone. you molded your palm to the thick muscle of his shoulder, watching it shake as he took his time drawing you out.

“please, jere.”

he knew what you meant. off comes his shirt, crumpled on the ground beneath the drivers seat. outside the sun had set. gulls still called from offshore, quiet on the other side of the car’s window.

neither of you bothered getting fully undressed. after struggling with both your pants, he tugged down his boxers enough and helped your trembling fingers pull aside your own underwear. he was whispering you’re sure? even as you raised up on both knees, murmuring in your ear until you had him notched inside you.

except for your stuttering breaths, it went silent in the car. jere’s hands were at your back, gently gathering your hair into a loose ponytail. he was shaking too then.

it almost doesn’t seem real–that moment. the press of warm, bare skin. that just days ago you were best friends, and hours ago you weren’t sure you’d have a relationship at all. and now you were here on top of him, having sex in your car at the beach. you wanted to laugh again, but you were seeing white as jere filled you.

you couldn't keep your head up. you were dizzy as you fell forward into his warm chest, taken over by the stretch of him, the perfect fit. he found his breath again, enough to murmur that you were taking him so well. that you felt so good.

“jere,” you said as his hands found your hips. nodding, kissing the top of your head, he guided you forward and then back, transfixed as he watched where you two fit together.

it was a tight fit in the car. you had to bend over him so as not to hit your head, and jere’s long legs pressed against the back of the front seat. you don’t care much though, not when you could grind down and watch him tense up, muscles in his neck tight. it should have be criminal to look that pretty. his hair, slightly damp from fucking, curled tighter around his temples. his eyelashes were long over his cheek bones as he tilted his head back, eyes closed. leaning down to lick his adam’s apple you listened to him groan.

“can’t believe ive been missing out on this,” he said. his voice was breathy and quiet and warm on your face and you drew even with him. you wanted to arch into his hands, to bend yourself around him until every piece of your skin was held by his. you felt crazy.

talking to him like this, when he was still inside you, when you were riding him, made you clench. already you were aching for it. jere knew it too. he was watching you, watching the movement of your body and your face like it was a special act just for him. like you were beautiful.

“jere,” you said. it was just about the only word you can remember.

he shifted beneath you, one hand coming to map the side of your ribs, the other between your legs. the rhythm changed as he began to meet you with his hips, and every breath became hinged on a moan. the way he thumbed over your clit, the way he mouthed at your tits. control was slipping away from you. fast.

the new angle was almost too much, and as jere buried deep you gasped. your body was liquid and you almost tipped backwards, grabbing at his shoulders. like a man possessed, jere didn’t even pause. his large hand gripped the front headrest above you as he laid you down over the armrest between the front two seats.

lying prone and naked half in the front of your car, you realized something quite quickly. your back windows were tinted. the front ones most definitely were not.

“someone could see, jere!” you said, attempting to lift yourself up. most beach-goers had cleared out after the sunset, but faintly you could still hear the sound of people playing in the surf. jere’s tan hand on your chest stopped you.

“we’d better be quick then.”

before you had time to try reasoning, jere was pushing back into you. unable to argue, unable to say anything, you found his hand and laced your fingers together. it was all you could cling to as he fucked into you, as the heat of his body spread over you. it was warm and close and dark and when you finished, together, he stopped breathing. just for a second. then, while your mind was still hazy he pulled you back onto his lap and kissed you. hard.

holding you there, safe in his arms. at some point he found his sweater and pulled it over your head. warm against his chest, body and legs aching. he whined when you clenched, absently, around him. still pressed inside you. it’s funny so you giggled and he groaned again and threw his arm over his face.

“don’t do that,” he grit out.

“why not?”

you were teasing. his eyes found you, tongue already in cheek. you couldn't look away from his red mouth.

“because i’ll get hard again.”

it amazed you how ready you were at the possibility. your spine already straightening. you don’t think you’ll ever stop wanting him.

but, faintly, you heard your phone ring. it was beneath a pile of clothes and it was on the last ring when you finally managed to snag it.

“hello?” you said. jere watched you lazily, still smiling.

“hey, uh where are you?”

you pulled the phone from your ear. the caller id read conrad. shit. pizzas. you’d gotten a bit… distracted. jere caught the name too and though his expression faded slightly, his gaze remained on yours. you smiled at him and couldn't help but kiss him. quickly.

“yeah sorry about that conrad. listen, bad news is the pizza might be a bit cold,” you could hear groans from the other end of the line, “but uh. good news is i’ve found jere.”

you didn't bother to listen to the response, instead you leaned up to the boy you loved. kissed over his cheek and his dumb grin.

“i found my jere.”

#jeremiah fischer #team jeremiah #jeremiah x reader #jeremiah smut #jeremiah fic #jeremiah x you #bigkeepup

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danganronpasurvivoraskblog · 7 days ago

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Dangancember 2024 - Danganronpa Top 24 Class Trials - Number 9: Danganronpa Another Case 6

//When I got to ordering this list, it honestly surprised me just how much I liked the ending to the original Danganronpa Another Despair Academy.

//Up until now, I've talked about all of the game ending trials with only one more to go, and so far, my opinions of them have ranged from catastrophically bad to "eh, it's alright."

//While not my top ending, this one still deserves a lot of credit. Mainly in the way it wraps up all the mysteries of the school, while also delivering an emotional punch to the face. Narratively, it's very well handled, but it still falls a little flat purely because of some contrivances contained within it.

//Which makes it all the harder to defend because I've seen that quite a few people are REALLY not on board with this ending. And trust me, I get why, but what are problems for you might not necessarily be problems for me, and if they are, then maybe I think about them differently in ways that I feel they're justifiable.

//I'm pretty sure that this is the trial that most of us have been anxiously waiting for me to cover, because I have drawn reference from it in almost every other Another trial that I have covered on the list so far, especially in regards to its masterminds, and finally, we are here.

//But let's go beat by beat, and let's start by explaining the full circumstances behind DRA1's Killing Game, as revealed in this chapter and trial. Sit down, because you're gonna spend the next hour hearing me lecture plot at you:

//As fans of the Danganronpa series know all too well, the franchise loves its convoluted plots, memory-erasing shenanigans, and high-stakes death games. Most of the action revolves around the antics of Class 77-B, who become the future Ultimate Despair, and Class 78-A, the unlucky stars of the first game, at Hope’s Peak Academy. These two groups are iconic for their tragic descents into despair and their respective experiences in nightmarish killing games.

//But Another Despair Academy takes a sharp turn, veering off into an entirely different story by introducing the stragglers: Class 79, the underclassmen of the Danganronpa 1 cast.

//Now, if you think this is going to be a copy-paste of Makoto and friends losing consciousness in the entrance hall, only to wake up trapped in a killing game with zero memories...

//Well, you’re right...

//But also spectacularly wrong. Class 79’s situation spirals into its own unique, chaotic mess.

//The story begins with Class 79 arriving for their first day at Hope’s Peak Academy. Or so they think. Like their predecessors, they lose consciousness right in the middle of the entrance hall, and wake up to find themselves trapped inside the school, with the only way out being to kill a fellow student and get away with the crime in the Class Trial.

//It's revealed in this trial that they’ve already been attending Hope’s Peak for months. As with Class 78, their memories have been wiped clean by the Killing Game’s resident neuroscientists.

//By the time Class 79 arrived at Hope’s Peak, the Biggest, Most Awful, Most Tragic Event in Human History was already in full swing. Junko was busy doing what she does best: wreaking havoc, brainwashing Reserve Course students, and sowing chaos.

//This is where Yamato Kisaragi, a student in Class 79 and an early candidate for “guy-who-tried-his-best-but-still-failed-spectacularly," award comes in.

//Yamato realized something was very wrong at Hope’s Peak. Instead of sticking around to figure it out, he decided the best thing to do first was to evacuate his classmates to safety.

//This "safety," however, turned out to be a secluded Kisaragi Foundation research lab on a remote island. And because nothing in Danganronpa ever goes according to plan, things quickly went south.

//Unbeknownst to Yamato, and in an eerily similar fashion to Junko Enoshima and Mukuro Ikusaba, two of his classmates were secret agents of Despair. These double agents infiltrated the lab, and what followed was a slow, methodical takedown of the rest of the group. Even Tsurugi, the group’s resident justice fanatic, couldn’t escape their grasp, despite holding out with a head-to-head confrontation.

//As tradition demands, the survivors had their memories wiped courtesy of Junko and Yasuke Matsuda’s patented "Forget Everything and Suffer" operation.

//But Here’s where the plot gets spicy: Class 79’s killing game wasn’t just another tragedy...it was the FIRST killing game.

//Junko orchestrated this bloody rehearsal to test the waters before unleashing her masterpiece with Class 78. Think of it as a twisted trial run for Despair Incorporated.

//To sell the illusion, the traitors and masterminds behind the operation even erased their own memories and remodeled the lab into a replica of Hope’s Peak Academy. The result? Class 79, now brainwashed, believed they were still attending school while being forced to participate in the experiment.

//This final trial reveals that the masterminds behind this disaster were the Ultimate Maid, Akane Taira, and an undercover Despair bigwig hiding among the survivors. Akane, regaining her memories before the final trial, takes on the role of the main villain and sets the stage for the grand finale.

//She scattered clues around the facility, leading the survivors to believe that solving the Killing Game’s mysteries in a class trial would secure their escape.

//The game’s protagonist, Yuki Maeda, has a rough time during all this. Thanks to some memory manipulation quirks, he keeps experiencing random flashes of how the Killing Game worked, which only adds to the chaos. During the final class trial, the surviving quartet, Yuki, Rei, Tsurugi, and Teruya, unravel most of the game’s secrets.

//Just when things seemed to be wrapping up nicely, Akane dropped the ultimate bombshell: the true mastermind wasn’t her. It was one of them.

//Cue the panic. The survivors scrambled to prove their innocence by recounting their lives, but Yuki hits a wall...literally.

//He can't remember anything about his past, not even his own mother’s name. Things go from bad to worse as Yuki’s headaches intensify, and he suddenly finds himself inside his own mind space. Here, he was presented with two choices: embrace Hope or give in to Despair.

//In the canonical ending, Yuki recovers all his memories, but his current persona vanishes, and his true identity emerges: Utsuro, an Ultimate Despair with godlike Divine Luck and a spot on Junko’s VIP list.

//As Utsuro, Yuki’s transformation reveals the depths of Junko’s machinations and sets the stage for everything to come.

//And there you have it: Danganronpa Another Despair Academy. It’s a prequel, a sequel, and a rehearsal all rolled into one. Now where do we start unpacking this?

//First of all, A-6's investigation is generally pretty solid. Similar to 1-6, it does, for the most part, feel like you're solving a mystery. However, the way it's executed is different from it in a good and a bad way.

//For one, the trial is still ultimately Akane lecturing you on everything that's happened, and all you're really doing is finding the clues that she on purposefully placed in the academy. So it's not just a matter of you finding the proof that was already there, it's basically just Akane planting them, and you're going on an easter egg hunt, which kind of takes away from the sense of accomplishment.

//But what I think balances that out is the fact that Akane genuinely gets ANGRY if you don't do as you're told and solve the mystery. And honestly, with how painstakingly obvious all the clues are, I totally understand that. She genuinely gets pissed when no one recognizes the fact that Yamato's diary referred to the Masterminds in plural, and she's the one who has to say "Jesus Christ, there's an S at the end of these words, what part of there being more than one of us are you not getting!?"

//Of course, the real reason why she's so frustrated is because she put the clues down to coax Utsuro out of Yuki. I just think it's funny, but it also really reinforces that everyone in this trial is just...really dumbed down so that it feels like Akane is in control the whole time. Akane herself is great, and she does feel like she towers over the others in terms of status for this trial, and the fact that the investigation is directly managed by her reinforces this.

//But at the same time, everyone who has made it to the end of this game is decently smart, except Teruya really, but it feels like the investigative skills they've all shown through the game don't even apply here. Even Teruya somehow feels as dumb as he's ever been here, because he's the one who has to ask the questions so that the other characters can explain things to him, and by extention, the player.

//And for what it's worth, the characterization for these characters in this final trial is generally fantastic despite this.

//ESPECIALLY Rei.

//This is just my personal bias really, but I think this trial and the way that Rei reacts to the fact that not all of them are going to make it out together is kind of heart-wrenching.

//The way that she breaks down and reveals her true feelings doesn't feel unnatural either. Throughout the whole game, through every class trial we go through, Rei becomes gradually more and more not okay with everything that's going on. And this just feels like the final nail in what is a slowly building coffin for her.

//I think what I like about this final trial is that this feels like the kind of death game ending that Uchikoshi would think up. It kind of ticks all the boxes for this genre.

//For one, it's the only one of the five main games to have a very prominent good and bad ending. Like the bad ending to the first Danganronpa game, it's pretty sudden, but I think it's way more impactful and way less...strange.

//Okay, so the whole point of DR1's bad ending was to be discreetly unsettling. But the bad ending of the original Another is far more...I guess poignant would be the best word.

//And no, I don't mean that in the sense that Yuki gets a claw run through his chest.

//At the end of the trial, when Akane urges everyone to figure out who the Mastermind is, and Yuki starts to bluescreen because he realizes that he knows nothing about himself, you are given two choices. You can either go through a white door, or a black door that forms in Yuki's mind.

//Going through the black door unlocks the true ending where Yuki reverts back into Utsuro, but if you go through the white door, he regains all of Utsuro’s memories, including the weight of his past atrocities and the existential despair that led to his identity crisis, but ultimately still remains Yuki Maeda

//Akane, as you can imagine, is furious over the experiment’s failure, but her rage doesn't come from a villainous origin so much as it does her desperation to save her beloved Utsuro, highlighting her complex, misguided loyalty to him. And when she realizes Utsuro had lost the will to live long before the Killing Game, her heartbreak drives her to end Yuki’s life, leaving his existence as both Utsuro and Yuki unresolved.

//And the last thing that Yuki hears as fades away are her tears.

//Can you see how that's already so much better than 1-5's bad ending!?

//This ending works well because it encapsulates the despair that defines the Danganronpa series. The stark contrast between Akane’s rage and her eventual sorrow adds depth to her character, showing her as more than a villain. It shows off the tragic figure that she was before she became a Despair, trying to hold onto the only one she ever cared for.

//It's just so incredibly creative that the ending where Yuki retains his personality and stays as himself is the "Bad Ending" while the one that he reverts back to Utsuro is the "True Ending."

//Because even though Yuki turns back into Utsuro, he's STILL the protagonist of the game, so the fact that he returns, and manages to kill off most of the students in the killing game IS HIS GOOD ENDING! He ACHIEVED his goal, and Akane achieves hers at bringing him back.

//It's just...SO genius!

//If I have any problems with the fact that Utsuro comes back, it's...I won't say it's bad, but it's conflicting that after he reappears, Yuki is basically just GONE!

//You've spent the whole game playing as this character, and while it's awesome that this is how it happened, Yuki effectively dies when Utsuro pops out again, and this is how his story ends.

//He just completely disappears until he gets resurected in SDRA2. Which ironically gives him a happy ending at long last and after all this, dear god he deserved it.

//Anyway, I kind of want to go through all these points in order as I can, so the next thing I want to talk about, and something that I kind of HAVE to talk about, is the huge flashback sequence that happens in this chapter.

//Before Yuki makes his choice to choose between Yuki and Utsuro, there's a lengthy scene that shows the events that unfolded with Yamato's evacuation, and how it actually happened, as well as how Utsuro and Akane subdued the rest of the students.

//It's...pretty long, and kind of doesn't need to be, but it's still interesting to watch. Especially in the sheer parallel between Mikako and Yuki.

//Ironically, Mikako is this bright and bubbly person who believes in people to a fault, while Yuki, or Utsuro, is just deep in thought, quiet, and doesn't speak to people. Meanwhile, both these personalities are completely flipped on their head when they actually meet in the Killing Game.

//The flashback sequence offers a glimpse into how the students interacted before their memories were erased. Unlike most games, where we meet characters already thrust into the despair-filled chaos of a killing game, this sequence peels back the layers to show their pre-tragedy lives and relationships.

//While Danganronpa 3: Despair Arc did something similar with Class 77, the focus there was more on Junko and Izuru’s rise to infamy, leaving the classmates as a supporting cast. Here, however, the spotlight is firmly on Class 79, making the flashbacks feel more personal and impactful.

//What makes these moments so intriguing is the contrast between the tense, fractured dynamics during the killing game and the warmer, more natural bonds we see in their past.

//During the game, it’s clear that trust is a luxury none of them can afford. Nobody truly feels like "friends." But in the flashbacks, when their memories are intact and their relationships less strained, you see glimpses of a group that could have grown into something special.

//Some standout moments include Kisaragi’s growing suspicion of Akane and Utsuro, which are ultimately undermined by Mikako’s misplaced trust in them.

//Seeing Mikako and Yamato as their true selves, unburdened by the effects of Yamato’s infamous retention machine, is a bittersweet reminder of the personalities they lost along the way.

//And then there’s Yuki, eerily silent as chaos unfolds around him, his passive demeanor from his own POV hinting at the dark truth of his identity.

//The truck sequence, where the classmates use their talents to defend themselves against Monokumas, is a real highlight. It showcases how each character reacts to the crumbling world around them, offering flashes of growth and camaraderie even in the midst of destruction. Even characters like Mitch and Kizuna, who we've already established as the bad eggs of the group, get their moments to shine, proving that they’re more than just walking red flags. There’s an underlying sense of tragedy in seeing the potential for all of these characters to become better versions of themselves, only for it to be snatched away.

//The key takeaway from this flashback is the strength these students draw from their bond with one another. They may not have reached the tight-knit unity of Class 77, but there’s a budding sense of a dysfunctional family forming among them.

//The killing game’s ultimate purpose, to strip them of that foundation, becomes all the more devastating in this context. By showing us what these students could have been, the flashback adds layers of depth and heartbreak, turning what could have been a simple backstory into a critical, character-driven tragedy. It’s the kind of storytelling that Danganronpa excels at, giving you just enough hope to make the despair hit that much harder.

//And speaking of flashbacks, as I already said, this game is actually a fanmade prequel to the entire Danganronpa series.

//I largely think the reason why LINUJ made the DRA series part of the same timeline as Danganronpa's is ultimately to play it safe. As one of the first big fangans, you already know the stakes as a player, and there's already established lore that you can work around. Ultimately, Utsuro and Akane do get tied back to Junko in this way, and the game itself is a prelude to the killing game that happens in Trigger Happy Havoc.

//A means of the Ultimate Despair testing the waters, if you will.

//These days, Fanganronpa games and series often choose to distance themselves from the Hope’s Peak timeline for a variety of reasons, with the primary one being creative freedom. The Hope’s Peak saga is rich with lore and intricate connections between its characters, but that complexity can also be restrictive.

//By creating entirely new timelines or settings, creators free themselves from the constraints of canon events, allowing them to explore unique storylines, characters, and themes without being tethered to established lore.

//This freedom enables creators to reimagine the series in fresh ways while still adhering to its core mechanics, such as the killing game and class trials.

//Also, unlike how this game seems to do it decently well, integrating their stories into such a tightly knit narrative without contradicting canon is insanely difficult.

//The Danganronpa series has a detailed timeline that spans decades, involving global events like the Tragedy and the rise of Ultimate Despair. Trying to slot a new killing game or set of characters into this timeline risks creating inconsistencies with established events. So instead, many creators opt for alternate timelines or settings, where they can craft original stories without the burden of reconciling their narrative with the complex events of Hope’s Peak.

//So people tend to really not like Fanganronpa's that tie into the Hope's Peak saga an awful lot. I already know a few of you who have admitted as much to me yourselves.

//However...I'm actually going to have to disagree with you.

//I'm not going to claim that a Fangan that takes place within the original timeline is better than one that doesn't, but I don't think they deserve to be looked down upon as a result of it.

//Granted, Another 2 seperates itself from the main timeline to branch off what LINUJ established in the first game, but Another 1, demonstrates that fanmade games can still take place within the Hope’s Peak timeline effectively.

//Another 1 acts as a prequel to the first Danganronpa game, leveraging the established world-building while adding its own layer of storytelling, which I think was the most creative approach to go about it.

//It's equally risky, but it works because it respects the existing lore while expanding on lesser-explored areas, such as the potential underclassmen of the original game, and their relationship to the overarching story of Hope’s Peak and the Tragedy.

//Most people would say that a safer approach to go would be to make a Killing Game that takes place after the series, like...

//Well...THE AFTER...

//But what makes Another 1 particularly successful is its ability to add new dimensions to the established timeline without overshadowing or contradicting the original story, even though it's really easy to add a detail that probably doesn't make sense in the main game's context.

//By simply presenting the 79th Class as precursors to the killing game experiments seen in the main series, it provides a unique perspective on Junko’s machinations and the broader impact of despair. It explores a fresh angle while still respecting the core themes and structure of the Danganronpa universe.

//Additionally, Another proves that stories set in the Hope’s Peak timeline can enrich the series by answering lingering questions or providing new insights into established events. For instance, it delves into the psychological effects of memory erasure and examines how the killing game concept was developed and refined.

//Ultimately, while many fanmade games choose to break away from the Hope’s Peak timeline for creative freedom, Another 1 stands as an example of how a well-crafted story can thrive within those boundaries. It demonstrates that even in a world as intricately detailed as Danganronpa’s, there’s room for new narratives that honor the source material while offering something fresh.

//But it's not this concept, or the truths that are revealed necessarily, that are the highlight for me with this trial. For me, my love for this trial, and why I put it so high up on this list, comes down to two things.

//The first...are the villains.

//This is going to be what I think is definitely...a take...But it's how I genuinely feel, and it's this:

//UTSURO AND AKANE ARE THE BEST VILLAINS IN THE ENTIRE SERIES!

//Genuinely, I was so excited to get to this trial PURELY because it means I get to rant and rave about how these two are FUCKING EXCELLENT! Not only are they portrayed as incredibly diabolical, but engaging antagonists in the game, but they leave such an astounding legacy across the Another series, and are well-rooted into it thanks to their backstories.

//Akane, on her own, is handled PHENOMENALLY well. The sheer fact that she is effectively this game's Deutragonist, as well as having such critical moments of frienship and potentially sexual tension with Yuki, really rides home the fact that she was one of the Masterminds behind it.

//And what's great is that LINUJ doesn't even make it obvious. Akane has such a compelling character arc throughout the game that really blindsides you to how she really is as a character.

//In Chapter 2, things take a dark turn for Akane. One night, she’s called to the Switchium by Kizuna, who tries to rope her into a plan to kill Yuki. Akane outright refuses, but Kizuna, desperate, attacks her. In the scuffle, and because it’s pitch-black, Akane accidentally stabs Kizuna. Shocked, she flees with blood on her hands, only to be seen by Ayame. To protect Akane from being executed, Ayame kills Kizuna instead. However, this selfless act seals Ayame’s fate, and she is executed.

//Akane is deeply traumatized, falling into a state of shell shock after Ayame's execution. The day after, the students investigate newly unlocked areas, but Akane isolates herself, refusing even Yuki’s attempts to comfort her. When she finally rejoins the group for breakfast the next day, she barely speaks, only murmuring Ayame’s name in a broken voice when someone mentions her.

//Things worsen when Monokuma reveals the third motive: personalized videos designed to provoke the students by showing them their desires. The videos are shown in a private, soundproof room, and students are forbidden from discussing the contents. Akane’s video, cruelly tailored, features Ayame blaming her for her death.

//This sends her over the edge. By the time the viewing session ends, Akane snaps out of her daze, screaming and running out of the gym. The others speculate her reaction was tied to the motive video and go looking for her, eventually finding her in her dorm room.

//The next day, Akane’s despair culminates in a suicide attempt. She’s discovered by Haruhiko, Satsuki, Teruya, Mikako, and Yuki, covered in blood and muttering about needing to join Ayame. Mikako steps in to calm her, offering reassurance and trying to remind Akane of her worth.

//This, coupled with the fact that Tsurugi spends all of the game after Chapter 2 refusing to let Akane live down what she did, and probably trying to STEER her towards this suicide attempt, leads to a long-running character arc that really keeps you hooked on Akane T. and her relationship with Yuki.

//The only other Mastermind who hides as part of the main group for the whole game is Tsumugi Shirogane, and as we've already said about a dozen times already, she's so pointless as a character throughout all of V3 that it ultimately means when she finally is revealed to be the Mastermind, nobody fucking cares.

//But this character is effectively your BEST FRIEND, possibly your love interest! Imagine being in Yuki's shoes for THAT revelation!

//But what makes Akane so bloody fantastic is that her being revealed as the Mastermind...DOESN'T WASTE THIS!

//As I've already said, Akane does cry when Yuki dies in the Bad Ending, which already shows a far more human side than the likes of Junko or the others.

//After Utsuro reveals the harsh truth about their families, sending Rei, Teruya, and Tsurugi spiraling into despair, he orders a group of Monokumas to finish them off. However, when the Monokumas close in, Akane unexpectedly turns against Utsuro, destroying the Monokumas with sheer force and disobeying his commands. Furious at her defiance, Utsuro orders Akane’s death as well.

//Just as all seems lost, the monitor broadcasting Monokuma’s presence is suddenly hijacked by an Alter Ego of Yamato. Yamato’s hopeful message reignites the trio’s will to fight, and they rally to confront Utsuro.

//As a Monokuma charges toward Rei, Akane throws herself in front of it, taking a deep slash to her side to protect her. When the facility's self-destruct sequence is triggered, Akane urges the trio to escape, choosing to remain behind with Utsuro.

//In their final moments together, Akane reveals to Utsuro why she defied him. She confesses that she heard Ayame’s voice in her head, reminding her of the person she truly was. Acting on that voice, Akane chose to reclaim her humanity and protect others, even at the cost of her life.

//What simply makes Akane such a fundamental and amazing character in this game is that unlike the rest of LINUJ's characters, she just never stops growing or developing as a person. And when you look at her backstory, and how she was an orphan who was saved by Utsuro, and swore undying loyalty to him, you kind of see how it works out.

//In reality, the Akane Taira of old grew up with just Utsuro to love. But as part of the memory erasure, she made genuine friends and bonds in the Killing Game, particularly Ayame, and that had an affect on her. When she saw what was happening to the survivors, even though she knew it was part of the plan, she found herself...not liking it.

//In a way that she herself couldn't explain, and before she knew it, she had acted on that doubt and turned against the one person she was faithful to.

//I just...GOD I love it!

//Akane is such a good Mastermind and villain compared to the other villains in Danganronpa because she feels like such a human by comparison. As far as the characters in this game are, she's written exceedingly well, and this reflects back on her brief appearances in SDRA2, and how she influences Sora in the final trial of that game.

//But of course, despite how amazing she is, Akane is ultimately the second fiddle to Utsuro in the same vein as Mukuro is to Junko. So we need to talk about him as well, and you might be wondering what do I actually think of Utsuro as a villain?

//Well, I really like him too!

//First of all, with Utsuro, let's not beat around the bush.

//One could argue that the twist that Yuki is the true Mastermind of the Killing Game is eerily similar to the twist that Hajime Hinata is actually Izuru Kamukura. There are very similar beats to it, namely that Utsuro and Izuru themselves seem devoid of any personality, ally themselves with Junko, and are beings up nigh unstoppable and ridiculous power, respectively with Divine Luck and Ultimate Hope.

//And you know what? I will concede with this. And I have said before that one of DRA's most controversial issues is that it copies/borrows a lot from the games that preceded it, due to LINUJ playing it safe with his Fangan.

//However, fundamentally, I actually think Utsuro ticks all the boxes for a stoic, overpowered antagonist that Izuru failed to tick for me. And I can boil it down into just one comparison:

//Utsuro is a character.

//Izuru...is a plot device.

//As much love as I do tend to show Izuru, I like him really as a concept, and for his role in the story. He exists for two reasons: to explain why Hajime is involved in the plot of DR2 despite being a Reserve student, and to show the moral corruption of Hope's Peak Academy and how Junko used it against them to end the world.

//Izuru’s design as the "Ultimate Hope" who possesses every ultimate talent makes him excessively powerful. This diminishes tension in the story because he lacks significant personal challenges or growth, he's essentially perfect at everything.

//And similarly, Utsuro's ability of Divine Luck, and the way people tried to exploit that from him is very similar. However, by comparison, Izuru doesn't evolve meaningfully as a character.

//While this reflects his existential ennui, it results in a static portrayal. Even when he appears in Danganronpa 2 and Danganronpa 3, he serves more as a plot device than a dynamic character.

//A tool to drive the story forward rather than a fully fleshed-out personality. His role is more about being a catalyst for Despair by creating the Tragedy and assisting Junko rather than a nuanced individual with his own compelling motivations.

//The big issue with creating this type of character is the concept of someone burdened by perfection and robbed of humanity is interesting, but it’s not explored deeply enough. This is something that I mainly do with his role in DR Survivor, but Izuru could have been used to explore themes like individuality, the value of imperfection, or rebellion against societal expectations. Instead, his apathy dominates his characterization, leaving these themes underdeveloped.

//But while Izuru fails to do that...Utsuro succeeds.

//Utsuro only appears twice in the series. He appears for the first time in this trial, and is present for the whole second half until the end, and then he shows up in the final chapter of SDRA2, where he's there, and has some good dialogue, but isn't as interesting as he is here.

//But somehow, not counting DR3, that's more screentime than Izuru ever gets, and really good things are done with it.

//For starters, yes, he's equally as stoic, and his facial expression rarely ever changes, but Utsuro has far more personality than Izuru. And on top of that, he is far more of an antagonist.

//I think largely the reason why this is is because Izuru had his personality taken out of him physically, but Utsuro fell into it naturally as a result of his abilities.

//Additionally, and this may ultimately be my personal opinion, I like Utsuro more than I like Yuki. At least more than I liked Yuki in the first game. I most assuredly, 1000% do NOT like Izuru more than I like Hajime.

//Hajime's journey of self-discovery, insecurity, and growth throughout Danganronpa 2 makes him one of the best characters in the franchise, but Yuki feels like such an everyman by comparison that it's hard to be as compelled by him. No disrespect to Yuki, of course, it's just that it's only when he vanished from the story, and was outed to secretly be the mastermind is when things got really interesting.

//In relation to that, the key difference between Izuru and Utsuro's origins is that while both of them undergo personality shifts and loss of memories, Utsuro was the ORIGINAL personality.

//Now, I still like Izuru's backstory more because the story of how Hajime fell into his slump after repeated mental abuse is fascinating to me (I'm not approving of it obviously, but still) but for Utsuro, it's his story from start to finish, instead of how Izuru just ends up as the unfortunate end product, then Junko steps in and is like "Quit your job, join my edgy high school boy band."

//(I say "boy band" most of the villains in this series are women, but...you get what I mean...)

//To recap, Utsuro was originally born into a loving family and had a happy early life born with a blessed power called "Divine Luck," "Divine Fortune," or "Heavenly Luck," depending on your translation.

//Utsuro possesses a unique ability tied to fortune, allowing him to bring anything he desires into reality and spread good luck to those around him. His power is absolute, and whatever he wills will simply happen. For instance, Tsurugi survives a gunshot to the head in the previous chapter solely because Utsuro (as Yuki) wished for him to live. Similarly, his extraordinary luck reshaped his appearance to perfectly resemble the real Yuki Maeda, aiding his deception.

//However, his parents soon discovered his supernatural luck and began exploiting him to satisfy their greed. This realization left Utsuro miserable, and while he eventually gained control over his luck, it came with an unusual caveat: his abilities bypassed the natural process of achieving things.

//For instance, he could ace a math test without ever learning math, or instantly become an expert in machines just by thinking about it. This effortless success robbed him of any sense of fulfillment or purpose, leaving him disillusioned and bored with life.

//Gee...doesn't THAT sound familiar...!?

//Frustrated, Utsuro ran away from home and survived on his own, using his luck to navigate life on the streets. Along the way, he helped many people, including Akane Taira and the members of VOID (Nikei, Iroha, Hajime M. Emma, and Mikado). However, his acts of kindness weren’t out of genuine altruism; they were simply things he thought he should do. Over time, even good deeds lost their appeal, and Utsuro became apathetic to everything. Repeated attempts at suicide failed, as his luck always intervened to save him.

//Eventually, Utsuro crossed paths with Junko Enoshima, who introduced him to something he hadn’t felt in a long time: Despair. A negative sensation, but the only one that he had felt in a long time.

//Fascinated, he began following her lead, assisting in her plans for Ultimate Despair. Utsuro masterminded Class 79’s Killing Game, which he orchestrated at Junko’s request as a precursor to her own.

//To infiltrate Hope’s Peak Academy, Utsuro kidnapped the real Yuki Maeda and assumed his identity. As part of this plan, his memories were altered at the start of the killing game to ensure he blended in seamlessly with the other participants.

//First of all, what makes this so interesting to me is that this answers a question of why people still rally behind Junko despite the fact that she's not shy about killing her allies, and is absolutely the worst person on earth to ever live.

//This. This is why.

//Because unfortunately, there are people out there in the world of Danganronpa who are just like Junko. Utsuro, Izuru, and Junko all fell into Despair and became some of the most dangerous people in the world because they all share a similar pain.

//Izuru was born with the power to do anything; Utsuro was born with the power to make anything; and Junko was born with the power to estimate and predict anything with 100% accuracy. As a result of this,

//They were all born too powerful. They were born with abilities that made life easy for them, regardless of what they were doing, and as a result, they all quickly became...bored.

//This is why all of them, even fucking JUNKO, are somewhat sympathetic as villains. Izuru was the only one of them who got any kind of look into the light, which is why he ended up as a more neutral party in the end, but they were all people who were there to be exploited by others, or who had no help or anyone to bring excitement to their lives.

//The sad thing is the only reason why they cause so much pain, despair, and destruction to humanity is because it's literally the only way any of them can FEEL anything anymore. And this is why Utsuro is so compelling, because he sits on that fine line between Junko and Izuru on the Scale of Villainy.

//He's sympathetic, and someone that you feel for, but at the same time, DEAR GOD this guy is FUCKING EVIL!

//In a typical Danganronpa format, what you might expect to happen is Yuki will reveal himself, and through the power of Hope, friendship, and the other shonen anime BS that the series is famous for in its finale's, he and Taira will somehow turn around and Yuki could come back.

//While Akane does see the light and try to comply to the power of Hope, Utsuro makes it abundantly clear to all of them that there's no going back for him. And this, for me at least, is my FAVOURITE PART of ANY of these class trials, at least of the one's in Another 1.

//You can kind of see me replicate this in ReProgrammed, but this final Non-Stop Debate is single-handedly the best thing I've ever had to do in a Class Trial for this series of games. See, what makes the final twist with Utsuro so awesome is that even after Yuki is repressed back into Utsuro, the perspective DOESN'T CHANGE!

//You'd expect maybe the protag view could switch to Akane like it briefly does in Trial 5, maybe to Tsurugi or someone, but no. In a way that eerily mirrors the final NSD of Danganronpa 1, you play as UTSURO, and your goal is to plunge the remaining Survivors into DESPAIR, instead of "planting your seeds of Hope to overcome Despair."

//And by GOD does Utsuro do this in the most fucked up, but entertaining way possible!

//Utsuro reveals harsh truths about their loved ones to drive the remaining trio into Despair. To Tsurugi, he explains that the leader of the Despair External Agents was none other than his father, Juu Kinjo. After mistakenly believing Tsurugi had died, Juu fell into despair, becoming the catalyst for the chaos in Japan. Utsuro further reveals that Juu consumed the remains of Tsurugi's childhood friend, Sasaki Kouhei, deepening Tsurugi's anguish and plunging him into madness.

//Rei learns from Utsuro that her parents, whom she believed had abandoned her, actually loved her deeply. They had gone bankrupt trying to repay dangerous loans and arranged for her to be cared for by a relative, only to be betrayed. Left destitute, Rei ended up on the streets. When they believed Rei had died, her parents sought out Junko for answers, but Utsuro intentionally withholds their ultimate fate, leaving Rei to spiral into despair over the unknown.

//To Teruya, Utsuro reveals that the funding used to transform the lab and create the executions came from his father, Kojiro Otori. Overcome with grief after Teruya’s presumed death, Kojiro donated vast amounts of money from his business to Junko's efforts. Utsuro cruelly blames Teruya, as his supposed death indirectly enabled the horrors that befell his friends, pushing Teruya into despair.

//Bro, I'm sorry, but NO friendship speech is saving this man!

//Utsuro definitely shows his more human and victim-of-circumstance side at the end of both stories, ironically both times speaking with Akane Taira or a form OF her (Sora.) And in the end, he stays with Akane in her final moments, largely because he wanted to die himself, but he also uses his Divine Luck on her to protect her body and somewhat keep her alive, even though she ends up braindead by SDRA2.

//But I think for me, what DRA tries to convey with this finale, and what makes it so great, is a simple idea that V3 later tries to explore with its theme. And I think it's an incredibly underrated part of the Another series narrative:

//Hope and Despair are two sides of the same coin, which in turn, means they can be equally as dangerous as each other.

//If you don't understand what I mean, let me give you a short list of some of the moments that convey this idea:

Utsuro is the main character of this game, even though he guises as Yuki Maeda the whole time. Utsuro is an agent of Despair, tride and true, while in comparison, Izuru/Hajime is more of a neutral party, and the only reason Hope wins out in the end of DR2 is because Izuru intentionally leaves a caveat in the Neo World that allows it to, should the survivors choose Hope for their future.

The final Non-Stop Debate is about shooting down the Hope of the surviving trio; Rei, Tsurugi, and Teruya. Implying that Despair is the side that you should be fighting for, while Hope is the enemy.

Picking the side of Hope, where Yuki remains as Yuki, is the BAD Ending. The one where he awakens to Utsuro, and falls back into Despair is the TRUE/GOOD Ending.

Akane is still technically a member of the Ultimate Despair when she does her heel-turn and saved Rei and the others.

If you really think about it, it's Mikako's Hope that caused this entire incident. Because she held onto Hope that Utsuro and Akane were actually good people, it stopped Yamato from taking care of them before it was too late. Unlike Jin, who genuinely trusted the students out of kindness, Yamato caught onto the fact that something was up with the two, and it's only because of Mikako insisting they were good people that he didn't act on those feelings. A fatal mistake that cost them and most of their classmates their lives.

All of the killers in the game are driven by the idea of Hope that Monokuma, or other circumstances, give them, not necessarily them falling into Despair or dissaray. 1 - Mitch's motive was entirely for himself and the Hope he carried for himself. He tries to convey the idea that he's doing it for soccer, but he doesn't really care about that. He just loves himself so much that he was willing to off anyone in the game 2 - Ayame killed Kizuna as part of a sacrifice so that Akane could keep on living. She had the hope that Akane would survive the game and move on from her and the pain she feels. 3 - Kinji betrayed his religious code as a priest, and committed two brutal murders because he held hope for the orphaned children of his church. If it meant they could survive, he acted against his almighty judgement. 4 - Haru set up the scheme so that Satsuki could get out and survive on her own. But Satsuki chose not to take that out because she was too kind to sacrifice everyone else like that, and even betrayed her loved one's wishes. (Maybe this point's a bit of a stretch, but it's how I kind of feel about it.)

By the time the game ends, despite having regained his feelings and gotten his head on straight, not only does Tsurugi regress by the time the trio escape the island, but by the time SDRA2 happens, he's learned to wield Despair and evil as a weapon against greater Despair and evil. Not through the power of Hope like the Future Foundation do.

In the second game, Mikado is not defeated through the power of Hope. Instead, Sora ends his reign of terror by speaking with her memory of Akane Taira, then uses harsh facts, and her power of Divine Luck, to slowly pick Mikado's plan apart and send him squirming. This is the EXACT strategy that Junko and Tsumugi use on the final players of their games to send them into a state of disaaray and Despair, and Sora's final line in the final PTA is even the same as Utsuro's.

In relation to this, the climax of SDRA2 is literally you trying to save Utsuro. And it's largely thanks to Akane Taira speaking directly with Sora that she snaps out of her BSoD.

Neither DRA nor SDRA2 have a necessarily "happy" ending. Another ends with Rei, Teruya, and Tsurugi severely traumatized, and both Utsuro and Akane die on the island. Another 2 ends with none of the people who died in the sim coming back to life, unlike DR2, Yuki is now forced to live in Akane's body, Sora herself gets erased from reality, with no guarantee that she'll return, Syobai and Iroha remain criminal scum and on the run, and the Kisaragi Foundation remain morally corrupt.

//For me personally, it doesn't feel like the message LINUJ is trying to convey is that life is pointless and that giving up and dying is the right thing to do. Obviously, that's a horrible way to think about it, even for some of the shit he pulls.

//It's more the idea that in this kind of world, the fact that things can end on such a high note are...highly unrealistic, to say the least. And you know what? He's exactly right. The fact that most, if not all of the Danganronpa games end on such a positive note really feels like the trauma you experienced throughout the game had no lasting impact, and that rubs me the wrong way.

//The Another series really handles the everlasting consequences of the death games well, and ultimately, this theme is what solidifies this trial in my good books.

//Now, I don't want to end this on a negative note, especially since I've already spent at least 5 hours of my life talking about this damn trial, but there are two final aspects that I want to talk about regarding this trial and what's revealed in it that ultimately prevent it from being my favourite finale in the series.

//Both, in short, are plot holes and problems that I have with the ideas at play here, so crucial in fact, that I actually had to RETCON them in Survivor so that it would make sense as part of the plot.

//First and foremost is the revelation that Mikako and Yamato used a device Yamato created to resist the memory erasure, meaning that when the Killing Game happened, the both of them still had their memories. The downside was that the machines side effects made it so that Mikako couldn't talk without slowly dying, and Yamato couldn't form a comprehensive sentence.

//So even though Mikako knew what was going on, she was physically incapable of talking about it to anybody. But...If that's the case...why didn't Mikako just write down her words for everybody to read?

//In Survivor, Uchui creates a type of pill that gives the same effects of Yamato's machine to Seiko when he demands Zetsubou release her; a maneuver that means Seiko can be cured of the affliction thanks to Dr. Ando. But not only does speaking hurt her, but her hand spasms when she tries to write, making her writing unintelligable, and sign language makes her dizzy.

//I added these weaknesses to reinforce the fact that Seiko couldn't communicate in any meaningful way to the Future Foundation, but these weaknesses, as far as I'm aware, were never established with Mikako. It's even dumber when you remember that the students were literally given notebooks at the start of the game for them to write in.

//So there's really no excuse or reason given for why Mikako just didn't do that immediately. The only reason I can imagine she didn't is because she still held on for hope that Yuki and Akane could be saved from becoming Utsuro and Ultimate Despair again, but even for someone as hopeful as Mikako, surely all bets would have been off the table by the time Chapter 4 came around.

//The other issue is with Utsuro's Talent.

//Divine Luck as Utsuro’s defining ability fits snugly into the pattern of over-the-top, reality-bending powers that seem to be a staple for Danganronpa masterminds:

Junko, and by extension, her AI version, have extraordinary analytical abilities, enabling her to process information at near-superhuman speed, memorize details effortlessly, and master new skills with just brief exposure.

Izuru, as a result of Hope’s Peak Academy’s experiments, possesses every talent researched at the school, making him superhuman. His most notable abilities include superhuman analytical skills, like Junko, enhanced physical abilities, stealth expertise, extreme luck, specialised knowledge, and being adept at basically every single human function in existence.

Though more of an assistant than a Mastermind herself, Mukuro has shown to have an absolute god-like level of speed and power thanks to her abilities as the Ultimate Solder; fighting on several battlefields and never recieving a single scratch.

Monaca in UDG is a natural-born genius who possesses exceptional skills in robotics and programming, which enabled her to lead the Towa Group's Robotics Division at a remarkably young age. Her most notable creations include the Monokuma Units, the Original Monokuma, Kurokuma, and the robotic double of Miaya Gekkogahara. It’s also suggested that she designed the mechas used by the Warriors of Hope during their activities.

On top of her cosplay effectively allowing her to shapeshift into anybody she wants, Tsumugi has said she has a certain degree of control over the narrative of V3, and the plans and actions each of the characters take. To what extent, is unknown.

Mikado is a highly skilled wizard capable of executing a wide variety of magical feats. It soon becomes evident that he can perform genuine magic within the context of the killing game. Notable examples include his ability to levitate for extended periods and his frequent demonstrations of fire-based magic.

//The bad guys in this franchise tend to operate on a level that transcends normal logic. Villains in this series aren’t just evil, they’re almost comically invincible, and Utsuro is no exception.

//Luck itself isn’t new to Danganronpa, either. Makoto and Nagito have already demonstrated how this seemingly mundane talent can warp the narrative in ways that benefit them, often hilariously or dramatically so. Utsuro is essentially the ultimate culmination of this theme. He doesn’t just have luck; he IS luck incarnate.

//But while the premise of Divine Luck might seem fitting, it’s also so overwhelmingly powerful that it feels like LINUJ wrote himself into a narrative corner trying to balance it.

//The problem lies in how Divine Luck operates. Utsuro’s ability is so absolute that whatever he desires, even casually, becomes reality.

//This omnipotence creates complications in the story because it makes Utsuro more like a walking deus ex machina than a character, giving him the power to twist the plot at will. While that might work for a thematic villain, it also leaves a trail of contradictions and plot holes.

//Take Utsuro’s backstory, for example. His luck initially brought his family wealth and prosperity, but their greed eventually turned him into an object to exploit, leading to his Despair and eventual departure. But if his Divine Luck can make anything happen, wouldn’t there have been some incident that corrected their behavior? If Utsuro could subconsciously will good fortune into existence, why didn’t it influence his parents to suddenly become loving and supportive? It feels like LINUJ overlooked this while trying to portray Utsuro as an embittered wanderer detached from the world.

//Then there’s the way Divine Luck functions during the Killing Game. For instance, when Tsurugi shoots himself in the head and miraculously survives, it’s attributed to Yuki subconsciously wanting him to live. But if Yuki’s will can override the lethality of a point-blank gunshot to the brain, why didn’t his desire for everyone to escape together override the deaths of the other participants?

//Does Utsuro’s plan override Yuki’s wishes? If so, why did Yuki’s will save Tsurugi at all? It creates a weird inconsistency that undermines the stakes of the Killing Game.

//Even worse, Divine Luck threatens to undercut the dramatic tension of the story entirely. It’s essentially a catch-all explanation for any narrative contrivance, making conflicts feel cheap or pointless. This becomes especially frustrating in the case of Yamato and Mikako, whose disagreements over whether to trust Yuki and Akane could have added depth to the narrative. If Utsuro can will the Killing Game into being anyway, why bother debating faith and trust? It robs the story of meaningful struggle and makes the characters’ actions feel like window dressing against Utsuro’s godlike control.

//And above all else, what transitions the game between the end of DRA and the plot of SDRA2 is that before his death, Utsuro gives Akane Taira his power, so that he'll die while Akane's body lives, albeit in a vegetable state.

//So you mean to tell me that you can just GIVE your whole-ass power to somebody else at will!? WHY DIDN'T YOU JUST DO THAT!?

//In reality, Divine Luck probably isn't perfect, and in Survivor, I do play with its weaknesses. One of the main ones is that in order for the Divine Luck to work, Yuki has to be present to trigger it. He also can only give a fraction of his power to people at any given time should they need it.

//But even I have trouble dumbing down this ability because of how manic it gets to be.

//In the end, while Divine Luck gives Utsuro a sense of grandeur and inevitability, it risks breaking the narrative by being too absolute. The stakes and conflicts lose their weight when a single character can essentially rewrite reality on a whim, and even the story’s emotional core gets lost in the shadow of Utsuro’s overwhelming power.

//It’s a classic case of a cool idea taken too far, where the mastermind’s abilities become more of a plot device than a believable, balanced element of the story.

//But even with all of those problems, it still doesn't stop this trial from being awesome as a finale, and getting into my good books.

#danganronpa survivor #danganronpa #danganronpa another 2 #sdra2 #mod talks #ranking #utsuro #yuki maeda #tsurugi kinjo #rei mekaru #teruya otori #akane taira #dangancember 2024

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