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hier--soir · 1 year ago

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a lover's pinch | seven

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: professor!joel miller x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+ mdni summary: things get a little messy after returning home. a confrontation sparks the beginning of a new stage in your relationship with joel. warnings/tags: au, university professor joel, age gap [20 something years diff], ethically dubious relationship due to inherent power imbalance, angst, miscommunication trope, self-doubt, alcohol consumption/hangover, joel is 50 and he texts like it, les mis spoilers???, phantom of the opera spoilers???, jealous!joel, food/eating, hurt/comfort, professor DAD, professor COWBOY, soft emotional smut, unprotected piv sex, cream pie, oral [f!receiving], joel says dadgum cause i think it's so classic him and so cute. word count: 11.1k jesus series masterlist | main masterlist chapter moodboard a/n: merry christmas to all that celebrate. as always, thank you for your patience and kindness. the love for this series is nothing short of mind blowing, and i appreciate you all endlessly. i hope you enjoy this angst and potentially the most flowery + emotional ALP smut yet [if that's even possible]. also rachel i love you i'm sorry. without further ado, the beginning of our descent into The End Times x follow @hier--soirupdates if you'd like to be notified when i share my writing this is part seven of ALP. you can read the previous parts here: one, two, three, four, five, six.

Tuesday.

It's nine thirty in the morning and you buy a Coke anyways.

It’s raining heavy outside; fat droplets of water that splatter against the windscreen of your car and dribble down, slipping through the crevice at the top of the bonnet, searching for the engine, for the oil gasket, for somewhere undercover to dry out.

You tuck your legs beneath yourself, sit criss-cross in the driver’s seat, and take small sips of fizzing black sugar. Allow it to moisten your lips, coat your tongue and your teeth in that sickening, viscous way soda always does, before it slips down your throat.

There’s something unearthly about the day, unnerving—it’s Tuesday morning and you’re hungover. A dull ache behind your left eye, a kink in your neck. You check your phone.

Thick, rolling clouds loom across the sky. Occasionally, a flash of lightning, a thrum of thunder. You tear open a packet of peanuts and pluck one out, and then another. Eat until your lips are dry and puckered, and then take another drink. More peanuts then. Salty, sweet, salty, sweet.

It’s all you can stomach as your liver pumps and spasms, still working to cleanse your blood of the night before, spent sprawled on the couch with Trin and Nora.

Wearing sweaters and thick socks, gripping full glasses of wine, and watching Les Misérables. Nora, tears on her cheeks, had sung along with Hugh Jackman—'This innocent who bears my face, who goes to judgement in my place, who am I?’—and you, bleary-eyed and tipsy, had discreetly checked your phone.

You didn’t cry during I Dreamed A Dream but you’re crying for this? Trin rolled her eyes.

He sacrifices his freedom to save that man, Nora whimpered.

You woke up starving and the traffic was slow. At every red light and stop sign your fingers itched against the wheel, desperate to press inside your bag and pull out this little packet. And now, safe in the campus parking lot, you feast. Salty, sweet, salty, sweet. You feel a fleeting moment of pity for people with peanut allergies, and then you check your phone.

Still nothing.

Since you left New York on Monday morning there’s been no sign of life from Joel. No get home safe, no see you on Tuesday; no acknowledgement at all.

You stare dejectedly at the messages you’ve sent him.

First from yesterday afternoon:

Home now. Enjoy your last day in the big apple x

And then from late last night, two bottles of wine deep:

It’s raining and miserable here

Wish I was still in new york

With you

Sitting in your car now, glowering at the blank space where his response should be, you reconcile with the thought that perhaps he wants what happened in New York to stay in New York. Stolen glances and all-too-brief touches in a conference hall, his hand on your wrist at the museum, skin against skin in his hotel room, and in yours—perhaps it was supposed to happen there, not here. The lowering of walls came with a change in location, and maybe that was his intention. But those thoughts don’t ease the sharp twist in your chest when you think of him. Doesn’t take away how much you wish he would give you something – a morsel of communication, even a single word of acknowledgement. For as hard as you try to understand, you can’t forget the look in his eyes when he touched you at the cloisters, the way he breathed your name into your mouth. Sewing the seed of JoelJoelJoel into in the soft folds of your brain, impossible to forget.

You don’t think about his dinner with Rachel. Don’t consider that something may have happened that night, something that changed his mind about you. Something that made him rethink the entire weekend as you slipped into the shower and out the door, leaving him alone in your hotel bed while you headed to the airport.

No. You don’t think about that at all.

When you make it inside, clothes wet and cool from the rain, you shake your hair out like a dog. Let droplets fly across the hall as you make your way into the lecture theatre; a drizzled trail left in your wake.

The room is full when you step inside, but there’s no sign of him yet. You collapse into an empty chair in the front row and wait. The final few students filter in through the door, shaking out umbrellas and wiping their feet. And for another ten minutes you, foolishly, still expect Joel to show up.

It’s only when the door creaks open and an old man walks through, that you let the hopeful feeling rest.

He lays a worn old satchel against the desk and turns to smile at the room.

“Hello,” the stranger smiles, and his jowls quiver as he speaks. “I’m Jerry Dorfman, a Professor from the literature department, and…”

You zone out for a second, eyes darting down to your phone screen. Nothing.

“Oh, and Professor Miller,” Dorfman says, as if he’s just remembered that he shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be standing up there, in his spot. “Is tied up with a family matter. I trust he’ll be back with us later in the week.”

A family matter?

Slick with rain, staring at this stranger stood in Joel’s place, you feel like a kind of newborn. Some fresh lamb, soaked in the blood and amniotic fluids of her mother’s womb, staring through unseeing eyes, hoping to glean some understanding of this moment. This sudden burst of light, this shocking cold after so many weeks of warmth, of sweat and strong hands on your skin, holding you close. But this is Eros; the blacksmith, the limb-loosener, the crusher. A deviation from stoking the flame to the suddenly desperate, grasping loneliness of feeling as though you are standing by a lover’s window, staring helplessly through the glass, and watching them from the outside. Alone.

Dorfman tries and fails to connect his laptop to the projector.

Numb fingers type;

Are you okay? Where are you?

But no response comes.

No, not until later that night, not until you’re tucked beneath the covers of your bed, showered and sleepy, does he finally reach out.

The clock has just ticked past midnight when your phone vibrates.

Hey, I had to stay in the city another day. Just landed at PWM. See you on Thursday.

A hot, jagged feeling swims in your gut as you read the message, and then reread it. Twice, three more times, searching for some hint of familiarity. Some indication that he has been thinking about you as much as you’ve been thinking about him. That the past weekend meant something to him, like it meant to you.

Minutes pass, and when you don’t find what you’re looking for, you fall asleep without responding.

Thursday.

Nora wakes up with a stuffy nose.

This always happens to me, she sniffs. I hate being sick.

The tiles in the kitchen are cold beneath your bare toes and rain smears heavily against the windowpane. You can hear fat blooms of thunder bellowing outside. Nora’s sullen, husky voice paired with the steam rising from your mug are all it takes to convince you to stay home with her.

The two of you spend the day curled on the sofa beneath blankets. You stare at your laptop, a document open on your screen with the title of an essay sitting pretty at the top. The cursor blinks and blinks at you, taunting you, daring you to write something, anything. But Sex and The City is playing on the tv, and Nora is snoring at the other end of the sofa, and you can’t help but watch the minutes tick by on the clock. Listen to Carrie and Miranda argue about Big, and wonder if Joel has even noticed your absence.

Trin gets home from class, and you follow her into the kitchen. Peel and slice oranges and apples and lemons while she tells you about her day. Boil them in sugar with cinnamon and star anise while she complains about an argument she had with her boyfriend. Add red wine and brandy while she tells you that her Dad sent her some money, and she’ll order take out for the three of you.

So together you huddle in the lounge and eat hot Indian food with your hands. Soak pieces of naan in tarka dal and saag paneer and top if off with mulled wine, unphased by the clashing of flavours in your mouths.

And you don’t check your phone, or look at the time, and you don’t complain when Nora asks, with glassy-eyes and spinach in her teeth, if she can put on another musical.

He’s a freak, Trin frowns at the TV.

He loves her, Nora implores, staring doe-eyed at a masked Gerard Butler.

Nor, Trin scoffs, he put a wedding dress on a mannequin that looks just like her. In his fucking lair, no less. That’s freak behaviour.

He has amazing sideburns though, Nora grins. So he gets a pass.

Your phone vibrates as Erik strokes a passed-out Christine’s face, singing help me make the music of the night.

Careful that Nora won’t notice, you pull it from beneath your thigh.

Where were you today?

You stare at the words for a moment and feel your lips curl into an disbelieving sneer.

“Oh, fuck off,” you mutter, and shove your phone into the crevice between the sofa cushions.

Wednesday.

A week goes by with no word from Joel.

No word from you either.

You stay home every day. Write and read and catch up on work and take Benadryl and sip soup and then you wake one morning, relieved to find that Nora’s cold has finally left your system.

So you tug on jeans, a sweater, and share a pot of coffee in the kitchen. Share quiet conversation with Pete in his shitty old Beamer as he gives you a ride to campus, and walk into Rachel’s lecture with zero expectation that today will be the day you finally see Joel again.

“We understand that Antigone is a victim of her father’s sins,” Rachel explains. “In the wake of patricide, of incest, every one of her actions is seen as a direct consequence.”

“Even her fate to be buried alive was sewn by her father’s unwitting actions,” she pauses, eyes searching the faces across the room, gauging reactions. “And, of course, this concept isn’t unique to Greek mythology. We see it plainly in the Bible, in Exodus; the sins of your father are to be laid upon the children… these themes of ancestral curses, of the inevitability of fate – they are integral to understand when looking at our tragic heroines. We saw it with Medea, we see it with Antigone, with Iphigenia, with Electra. Electra herself said, we are bound to acquiesce—”

An interrupting knock sounds against the door. Rachel’s head swivels around, eyebrows knitted in frustration as she calls for whoever it is to come in.

The door creaks open and her expression lifts. A saccharine smile spreads across her face, shoulders loosening.

“Joel,” she says warmly. “What can I do for you?”

A shiver wracks down your spine, toes curling in your sneakers.

The broad mass of him rests in the doorway. His head peeks past the wood, just a glimpse of his curls, his glasses, visible from where you sit. Your heart thunders in your chest, palms going damp at the prospect of this being the moment you finally see him again.

He speaks a few words in her direction, too quiet to catch, and then he’s taking a step into the room. His hand grips the edge of the door, keeping it open, and he casts a glance out towards the audience. Dark brown and searching, those eyes filter through countless faces until they finally land on yours.

And for a second, he doesn’t say a word. Just gazes out at you, eyebrows pulled together in the middle of his forehead, and then—and then he fucking looks back at Rachel. Your stomach goes hollow when you see the smile on her face. She lazes against the corner of her desk, and it feels like minutes go by as the two of you stare at him. And there’s something about waiting, you think, that feels like torture. That slow, painful build-up of pressure as you sit and stare and prepare yourself to discover who he’s here for. You or her.

You’re reminded painfully of a Graham Greene quote. A passage from The End of the Affair – one you’d, perhaps foolishly, found romantic when you read it that first time. Chosen words that had warmed your chest and made you feel light, lighter than air; the way only words could do sometimes.

‘Yes, Henry?’ and then ‘You?’ She had always called me ‘you’. ‘Is that you?’ on the telephone, ‘Can you? Will you? Do you?’ so that I imagined, like a fool, for a few minutes at a time, there was only one ‘you’ in the world and that was me.

Now, as you stare at Joel in the mouth of the doorway and memory of that passage sinks its hooks in, you feel only contempt for Greene.

For you had always read that passage imagining yourself as Sarah. And someone else, some misfortunate Maurice Bendrix, had fallen into your lap, and he was the ‘you’. But not you, never you. And it’s that pride which deceives. That pride which lulls us into false senses of security.

Joel says your name then.

Says, “Can I speak with you?” You, you, you.

And it should feel like relief, to hear your name on his lips again. But you catch the way he spares another glance, soft and sympathetic, in Rachel’s direction, and that sickly hurt isn’t abated.

Her face falls, but she smiles at you. Nods her permission for you to leave the room, and only when you’re halfway across the lecture theatre, bag swung over your shoulder, does she continue speaking to the class.

Palm flat against the door, he holds it open for you, making you press against him as you slip out of the room. It clicks shut behind you and he begins to move down the hall, leaving you to follow behind with no explanation. You assume that he’s going to lead you to his office, or anywhere more private than this, but a metre from the door Joel pauses abruptly, turns, and you slam into his chest with a huff.

“Jesus,” you mutter, stumbling a few steps back.

“Where have you been?” he glowers, brows drawn tight and angry over his eyes.

“What?”

“I’ve been busy,” you grit, glaring back. “Where have you been?”

“Busy?” he scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah, I’ve been busy too. Busy teachin’ the classes that you don’t even show up for.”

“I’ve been sick,” you roll your eyes, unable—or perhaps just unwilling—to stray from nastiness, from spite. “My apologies, Professor.”

“Don’t—” Joel snaps, and flinches as quickly as the word comes out of his mouth, surprised by how harsh it sounds in the air between the two of you. He takes a step closer, voice low now—“Don’t call me that.”

“Fuck, what is your problem?” you huff, eyes widening, exasperated. “I missed two classes, it’s not a big deal.”

“And the silence?” Joel takes a step forward as he says it. Close enough now to see the smudges on the lens of his glasses. Close enough to see the muscle in his jaw twitch. Too close for public; too close for here. “Can’t even text me back, huh? What the hell is goin’ on with you?”

Your body pulls taut at that, hands balling into fists at your sides.

“Oh, you don’t like silence?” you hiss, matching his volume. “You can’t be serious. Joel, I didn’t hear from you for days after New York. Why would I waste my breath when it’s obvious you don’t want to fucking hear from me?”

“It was barely two days,” he shakes his head, shakes off the insinuation, shakes off whatever blame you’re trying to put on him.

“Two days,” you nod, smirking angrily. “Two days after we spent an entire weekend together. Two days after we kissed and fucked and practically went on a date.”

And the word date must elicit something in him. Some minute, man-brain trigger that snaps him to attention and helps him understand the hurt on your face, the tremble in your hands. Because he says your name, voice softening, posture loosening, every bit of his body language screaming out that he wants to step forward and touch you.

And he’s speaking again, voice low, but there’s people coming down the hall, heading your way. Two figures that you can’t make out through the haze of Joel in your immediate vision. So when he reaches out and touches your hand you flinch, jutting your chin over his shoulder. A warning. Don’t do this here.

One of them calls your name and you pause, mouth open. Drag your eyes away from Joel’s features to watch the figures get closer.

“Pete,” you force a smile. “Hey.”

You realise quickly how it must look; your sullen expression, Joel staring down at you with his shoulders hunched. He must understand at the same moment, because he takes a quick step away, folds his hands behind his back.

“Hey,” Pete takes a step closer. He glances warily between you and Joel, confusion colouring his face. “Everything cool?”

Stony faced, Joel looks between the two of you, posture stiffening the longer he stares at Pete. So much larger than him, taller and broader and far more intimidating. But a man with a secret to keep isn’t one to jump quickly at confrontation, so he keeps his mouth shut. Let’s you do the talking.

Ian catches your eye over Pete’s shoulder and offers a sleazy sort of smile. You swallow down a glare and hold Pete’s gaze.

“Everything’s fine,” you lie, taking a step towards them. A step away from Joel. “What’s up, what are you guys doing in this building?”

Pete’s eyebrows pull together, and he cocks his head at you. “Said you needed a ride home today. This morning, remember?”

“This morning,” you repeat, nodding slowly. You raise your hand and pinch the bridge of your nose, thinking quickly, mind a mess. “I, uh… right, look, Pete, I actually forgot I have a meeting with Professor Miller about my final essay this afternoon.”

“Your final…” Pete trails off, frowning. “Isn’t that due in like a month?”

“Yeah,” you say vaguely, and do not look at Joel. “I’ll find a way home later, okay?”

“I mean, sure. I guess,” Pete agrees reluctantly, reaching up to grip the strap of his satchel. “Call me if you need me okay?”

And Joel’s face turns to stone at the insinuation in those words. The idea that Pete could give you anything he couldn’t. That anyone would need to swoop in and save you from him.

The pair of you stand in silence for a moment, eyes trained on Pete and Ian’s retreating backs as they head down the hall. You watch and watch until they turn the corner, disappearing from sight, and only then do you exhale a breath of relief.

You contemplate leaving him there. Turning your back on him and returning to Rachel’s lecture, ignoring his texts and letting this all fade into some painful memory. But when you look at him again—at those big brown eyes that gaze back at you—you know you couldn’t if you tried.

“You look tired,” he frowns, and it’s not angry anymore. A little sad, maybe.

“I am,” you admit, and wonder if your face betrays how much of a role he plays in that exhaustion.

“Are you hungry?”

You stare for a moment, blinking slow, and then say, “Yeah.”

Joel nods, attempts a crooked smile, and says, “Let me take you to get something to eat.”

It’s silent in Joel’s car, aside from the soft patter of rain against his windows and the dull squeak of his windscreen wipers sliding it away. The truck glides through the winding streets of Biddeford, cruising down the main road and into the left lane of a fast-food drive thru. Orders you a burger, fries, nothing for himself, passing the bag into your lap and then continuing to drive.

The bun is soft beneath your fingers. Grease soaks your skin, and you taste beef, taste onions so soft, so sweet. A crimson dot of ketchup spattered onto your pants; a bright shock of mustard on your tongue. A fry here and there. Joel’s hand, outstretched fingers, sneaking across the centre console to steal one. You shift the paper bag on your lap, tilt the opening so it faces him, easier to access, but he doesn’t take another.

He grips the wheel and asks, “Do you want me to take you home?”

You think about Pete waiting for you at the house. Think about if Ian and that filthy smirk on his face and whether or not he’ll be there too. Think about having to flesh out your excuse, your lie, and finally say, “No.”

Joel keeps driving. You eat until your pants feel tight and the greasy brown bag is crumpled in your fist and he’s pulling his truck off the road and into a short driveway.

“Full?”

“Very.”

“Good.”

“Is this your house?”

“This is it.” He drags the keys out of the ignition and knocks the door open. It’s not long, barely a second, before he’s pulling yours open with a rough yank and a soft, “Door always sticks on this side.”

A vague sound spills from the back of your throat, and he guides you up a path towards the small home. Single storey, with a large brown door and windows decorating the outward façade. Your immediate thought is that it’s very Joel, but you stop the idea in its tracks. Remind yourself that maybe it isn’t your place to think things like that.

Inside it’s even more silent, even more tense. The two of you stand in the entry way, toeing off damp shoes. Your eyes flit around his front room, but it’s difficult to focus on anything. Too much to look at, too much you want to know, and you find it easier to just look at him.

“Realised you’d never been here,” Joel murmurs after a while. He shifts awkwardly on his feet, decidedly unsure of what to say as he rests beneath the weight of your stare. “This is the, uh, the livin’ room. Kitchen’s over there.”

When you don’t respond, he clears his throat, ticks his head towards the hallway. “Bathroom is down the hall. Bedroom too.”

You feel your face shift. Deadpan stare turns to surprise, to incredulity, to blatant anger.

“Oh, the bedroom, huh?” you smile, sardonic, cutting. Your throat feels tight. “S’that seriously why you brought me here? Ice me out and then come crawling back when you want something to fuck again?”

“Woah, hey,” his eyebrows shoot up, hands drifting forward like he’s trying to calm a startled animal.

“Don’t,” you hold up a shaking hand, eyes wide and wet suddenly. “Just… don’t touch me right now, okay? What are we doing here, Joel? Seriously.”

He says your name hard and fast, surprised by how quickly it’s all unravelling, spilling from you in a tidal wave.

And spill it does. The words are wet and watery, a tsunami of pent up emotions pouring from your mouth without permission, without forethought.

“I mean, we haven’t seen each other since New York. And I… I thought being there changed things between us. But maybe I was wrong… and then you pull me out of a lecture, bring me here and say my bedroom is down the hall? Am I just… do you just like having someone to fuck whenever you want? Is that it? Someone at your beck and call?”

Joel repeats your name, sharper this name. “Don’t put fuckin’ words in my mouth.” His face pinches in anger, hands dropping.

“When it’s not convenient you try to shake me off, but when it is—at a bar, or out of town—” you list them off on your fingers, eyes growing wider and wider. “Oh, you want me then?”

“That ain’t fuckin’ true and you know it—”

“Do I?” you scoff.

“I came that night when you texted,” he implores, voice raising, all wild-eyed and pleading. “You were drunk, and textin’ and you needed a ride.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that—”

“You didn’t ask me not too either,” he crosses his arms across his chest. “You wanted me to come. Don’t fuckin’ deny that now.”

You open your mouth but he’s too quick, matching your spill with his own now.

“And as if you’re any better?” he bares his teeth now, voice low. “As if you didn’t find out I was your teacher and keep fuckin’ me just for the thrill of it. As if you actually wanted me, and you weren’t just gettin’ off on chasin’ some forbidden fantasy.”

“I…” you gape at him, unafraid to let the hurt show on your face. “Is that really what you think of me?”

“What the fuck am I supposed to think?” he hisses, exhaustion evident in the way he runs a hand through his curls and sags against the door. “You tellin’ me I should believe that you just want me for what I am? A fifty-year-old teacher who spends his time giving fuckin’ speeches to people that are hardly listenin’? Who goes home to an empty bed? That’s what you want?”

And it deflates you, a little. The wounded expression on his face – the devastating truth in those words, splashed across his expression so plainly for you to see. Disbelief.

“Is that such a crime?” you ask quietly. “To want you… and have it be that simple?”

“You shouldn’t,” he shakes his head. Grimaces. “You shouldn’t want me, I’m—I’m no good for you.”

You swallow. Feel tears hot and sharp behind your eyes.

“Then why do you keep letting me?”

“Jesus,” he exhales, and his hand is on the hem of your shirt, pulling you closer, closer, until you’re pressed against his chest, hands coming up to grip his shoulders and steady yourself. “Because I can’t fuckin’ quit you, alright?”

“Because I don’t just want you when it’s convenient,” his lips curl around the word, disgusted by the insinuation. “Because I think about you all the god damn time and if I can only have you some of the time then I guess I’ll take it. Because if you want some fucked up fantasy, then I’ll play my part if it means I get you, I don’t care—”

You cut him off, lips firm and searing against his. He goes still for a moment, mouth parting with a surprised exhale, warm when you press inside with your tongue. And then warmer, salty; tears on his cheeks, on yours.

“That’s not what this is,” you whimper into his mouth, desperate for him to believe it. “It was never about that, it was about you, Joel. I want you.”

He kisses you again, slow. All of the anger and hurt and frustration pools out of the both of you, spilling from your mouths and into the air. His lips mould over yours and his hands are warm on your waist, your back, holding you tight against his chest. When you sniffle, he pulls back, forehead heavy against yours, and sighs.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, eyes closed. “I missed you, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean for—"

“Where were you?” you interrupt. “What happened in New York?”

He hesitates for a moment, nervous and calculating as he stares you down.

You wilt a little; dejected all over again. Recoil from him and quietly ask, “Why won’t you let me know you?”

Joel’s hand hovers in the air, as if contemplating reaching for you again, but then it drops and he says, “I was with my daughter.”

You blink.

Daughter.

Daughter?

“She lives there now,” Joel sounds a little breathless, cheeks pink as the words spill from him. “In New York, with her girlfriend. I’d planned to spend an extra day there with her, and then Nina—Nina cut her hand open at the studio and we had to go to the ER, and she had to get stitches and—” He pauses, waiting for you to jump in, to interrupt, to say anything. When you don’t, he takes a breath and continues. “And I wasn’t gonna stay any longer but Ellie was worried, and she needed me. She needed me there, and—and I’m never fuckin’ there, because she never needs me anymore. So I stayed, and I’m sorry I went silent but I was… I was takin’ care of my kid.”

You think it might be the longest—and the fastest—you’ve ever heard him speak outside of a lecture hall.

His eyes drift to something over your shoulder and his entire body seems to sag a little. But it isn’t sad. It’s a resigned, sort of relaxed thing that happens – the corners of his mouth tilt up and he smiles weakly.

You turn, follow his eyeline until you see them.

Pictures, so many pictures, lining the walls of his home. Ones you’d paid no attention to when you first stepped inside, but can now see clearly. Bright eyes and wide toothy grins.

Some of Joel younger, leaner, smiling beside a little girl with curly hair. Some of him as you know him now; scruffy and greying, beside a different girl. This one lanky and pale and grimacing toward the camera as if she were forced into being placed in front of it.

There’s one picture of the girls beside each other, teenagers maybe, sat on either end of a seesaw. The curly-haired girl is on the upper end, grinning madly at the lens, while the other sits with her feet planted firmly on the ground, laughing up at her. Two of them. Two daughters?

“Please say somethin’.”

There’s a picture of Joel and he’s holding a tiny little bundle in his arms, and he looks so young and so fucking afraid. Dark eyes wide and teary as he gazes down at chubby cheeks, his index fingers crooked around the edge of her swaddle. A warm feeling swells in your chest and your body softens the longer you look at it. He’s a father.

Joel says your name and when you turn his face is all twisted up, and he looks the smallest you’ve ever seen him. Almost curled in on himself.

“I should’ve told you,” he nods, brown eyes darting across your face in an attempt to decipher your silence. “I know that, and I—”

“I’m an asshole,” you interrupt softly, and the tears never left but now they feel heavier on your waterline. Begging to spill over again.

“Hey,” he frowns, hand coming up to cup your cheek. His thumb swipes at the soft skin beneath your eye, begging the wetness there to disappear. “Hey, hey, no—”

“I didn’t think…” you trail off, sniffling. A sickly cocktail of embarrassment and guilt and shame swirl in the pit of your stomach and you try to swallow it down, try to send it away, but it’s persistent. “I never stopped to think that something had actually happened, that you had… I feel selfish, Joel, I’m sorr—”

“You’re not,” he hushes, fingers curling into the hair behind your ear. “You didn’t know. I should’ve told you before, and I’m sorry.”

“I thought you were staying away because of me,” you offer a watery smile. “I thought maybe you and…” You can’t bring yourself to finish the sentence. Can’t make your lips form the name Rachel.

“No,” he shakes his head, jaw tight, as if reading your mind.

“Is she okay?”

“Ellie?”

“Ellie,” you roll the name around in your mouth. His daughter. “Yeah.”

“She’s okay,” he smiles, nodding. “They’re both fine.”

“And…” You look back at the pictures. Two. “And the other girl?”

“Sarah,” Joel says softly, pointing at wild curls and brown eyes that look just like his. And he must see the questions swirling in your brain because he speaks again. “I was twenty. My, uh, my girlfriend at the time didn’t know what to do. Didn’t wanna be a Mom, but didn’t agree with abortion, and we were so young and… well, I asked her to marry me cause it felt like the right thing to do, but she didn’t…” he shakes his head a little, a faraway look in his eye as he remembers it. “She said no. She never wanted that… so, after Sarah was born, I told her that she didn’t have to.”

“Didn’t have to?” you repeat the words, eyebrows furrowing.

“Didn’t have to stay,” he clarifies. Your lips part, surprised. “So, she didn’t, and we ain’t seen her since Sarah was a few months old.”

“Shit,” you whisper, eyes widening as the information finally starts to sink in.

“And Ellie,” he laughs then, gazing at a picture of auburn locks and shock grey eyes. “Well, that one showed up on my door some time fifteen years later. Been in ‘n’ outta foster care for years, and just started followin’ Sarah home from school one day. We did this little dance for a while; dinners and sleepovers and me slipping money into her backpack so she could buy lunch at school. And then one day she just… begged me not to make her go back to her own house. So I didn’t.”

“Wow, I…” you blink. “You adopted her? Alone?”

“I…” Joel pauses. Wets his lips, frowning as he collects his thoughts. “Alone is… I don’t think that’s the right word for it. You see Ellie was… Sarah and me, we just knew. She was family so fast. It was the only thing that made sense, you know?”

And it does, you suppose. The image isn’t hard to conjure. Joel at the dinner table with two teenagers on either side of him. Arguing over homework, over curfews, over what movie to watch. You can see the fondness in his eyes as he talks about them – the emotion laced through his words; we just knew.

“Tell me what you’re thinkin’,” Joel says, and that line between his eyebrows is back and it’s so deep that you can’t help yourself from reaching up and smoothing it over with your thumb. He catches your hand and holds it against the centre of his chest. Lets you feel the way his heart thuds heavily beneath the skin, a sturdy rhythm against your palm.

“It’s… it’s a lot to take in,” you confess, and his hand tightens over yours. “But I’m glad you told me.”

Brown eyes search yours, gaze heavy. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Okay then.”

You flex your palm against his chest. Dig your fingers into the flesh there a little.

“Can I…” he hesitates, eyes flickering down. “Do you… Can I kiss you?” You, you, you.

Your heart beats fast, and you feel his do the same, and Joel is a father, and two daughters, and I can’t fuckin’ quit you, and you’re breathing into his mouth yes, yes you can kiss me, please kiss me.

It’s warm and it’s gentle and it feels like such a kindness to kiss him now and feel less space between the two of you. Feels like a thousand apologies and explanations slipping off his tongue and you opening your arms to him, saying I understand, saying thank you for telling me.

And when you pull him closer, wrapping an arm around the back of his neck, he meets you in kind, pressing your back against the wall. He shifts his hips between yours and shows you how much he’s missed you, and only when his hand drifts beneath the hem of your shirt do you pause.

He stills, warm breaths drifting across your mouth as he looks into your eyes.

“Talk to me.”

“I’m exhausted,” you admit shyly, twisting a finger through a frizzy lock of hair at the nape of his neck. You tug at it, not meeting his eye, and watch it bounce back into a curl when you let go. He nods and kisses you again, closed lips soft and not asking for anything, never asking for more than you want to give, before he takes your hand and leads you through his house for the first time.

He runs you a bath. Makes you sit on the edge while he lays out a towel and checks the temperature every few minutes. Only when he’s satisfied that the water is perfectly warm does he help peel the clothing from your body. He grips your hand and helps you step into the tub, lowering you down into sudsy water. And when you’re settled, he pulls a stool nearby and sits, keeping you company as you soak.

“S’nice,” you tell him quietly, dragging a foamy sponge across your arms. “Thank you, Joel.”

The weight of before hangs over you a little, pressing down against your shoulders as you watch him. Gauge him. But he doesn’t seem angry or upset anymore. He leans over the lip of the tub. Runs his hands through the water, over the skin of your calf, your knee. Feels the coarse hairs that have grown there over the past fortnight and smiles when they scratch against his palm.

“Said you were sick?”

“Mhm.”

“What kind?”

“Just a cold,” you whisper. He squeezes your knee, palm against your patella, fingers soft in the flesh around it. “M’fine. Past it now.”

In the soapy water, his skin feels like silk against yours.

“Changin’ of the season,” he muses with a nod. “Normally gets me too.”

And you laugh a little at that, because it’s such a fatherly thing to say and you can’t believe how naïve you’d been to not see it before. Can suddenly picture him doing this a thousand times over; resting by the bath while one of his little girls floats in the water, nose all stuffy from the flu.

At the sound of your laughter he smiles, gaze dropping to your mouth, and the skin beside his eyes pinches. Little wrinkles, so soft and so beautiful that you want to reach out and brush your fingers across them.

“You’re so beautiful,” Joel murmurs, and his voice is hushed, so low in the small bathroom.

His fingers skirt against the inside of your thigh and you splay your legs open for him, knees knocking against the sides of the tub. He glances down through the water to where you’re spread open for him to see, shameless, and smiles.

“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he repeats.

“So are you, Joel.”

“Psh,” he rolls his eyes, offering a delicate little smile. So shy, so feeble, and so desperate to believe you. A little glimpse of that wary weight, still pressing down on him as well.

“Mean it,” you insist in a whisper. You lift a hand from the water, wet thumb grazing the corner of his mouth. Feel the bristles of his moustache, the hairs on his cheek, prickling against your skin.

“Swoony type,” you say, smiling when recognition flashes in his eyes. Stroke the fresh blush on his cheeks. “Long hair, bedroom eyes, cheeks like wine.”

“Hmm,” he murmurs, turning to press a kiss against your palm. “Can’t get away with plagiarisin’ Carson in this house, baby.”

“She just said it so well.”

“She did,” he agrees. “So did Tartt.”

“Tartt?” your mind wanes, the warm water lulling you into a sleepy sort of daze. You rest heavy against the side of the bath, gazing up at him

“Beauty is terror,” he quotes tenderly, eyes bold and earnest as he holds your stare. “Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it.”

You wrap an arm around his shoulders, water droplets staining his shirt where your fingers grip the material, and pull him forward to kiss you. Joel grips the inside of your leg and kisses you until your skin prunes and wrinkles. And when he notices he laughs with you, gripping your hand to press his lips against fingertips that look like raisins. Worships the soaked skin of your fingers until you pull his face back to yours; jealous of your own hands, fearful that they might come to know his kiss better than your lips.

And when the water goes lukewarm and you don’t know what time it is anymore, he dries you off with a soft towel and offers once more to take you home. But you say no, so he smiles and kisses you again—your lips, your cheeks, your eyelids—and leads you to his bedroom.

He drags a too-big shirt over your head, helps you loop your arms into the sleeves. Dark blue and warm, so warm, against your skin.

The two of you slip beneath the covers on his bed and he drags you against his side; lets you press your cold toes against his shins without so much as a flinch.

Facing each other on your sides, those hands slink beneath the shirt, rough palms cradling your ribs, your back, holding you tight against his chest until your breathing falls in sync. And those hands don’t stray, don’t move down, they just embrace you. A carefully held apology that promises I want this, to hold you, to be with you, too.

It stays like that, nothing more, until your eyelids are heavy, and his breathing has evened out. Stays like that until your hand drops from his back to the band of his boxers, sleepy little fingers plucking at the material, trying to slip underneath.

“You should rest.”

But you whine softly; needy and insistent as your fingers press harder.

“What do you need?” Joel rasps into your neck, helping you shift them down his legs.

“Need you,” you whisper back into the darkness of his bedroom. “Wanna feel you, I—”

His mouth is soft against yours, plucking those words from your mouth and swallowing them down. He sucks your bottom lip between his, prying your mouth open so he can slip his tongue inside.

His hand in on your knee, pulling your leg up until your thigh rests heavy around his hip and you can feel the hot weight of him against your core, still slick and warm and needy from when his hand rested on the inside of your leg in the bath.

And if you’d ever subscribed to the meaning behind words like sin you suppose that once this might have counted as one. An act worthy of being sent to reside in that second circle of hell, reserved solely for those overcome by lust; left to blow back and forth in the storm of their own desire. Two people who cannot touch, should not touch, who hold their hands out to feel anyways. A touch once spiteful, once desolate and removed, now so forthcoming. A touch that says this is the only way it could have ever been. And there can be nothing sinful about it anymore. No more shame or derision behind heavy eyelids, no more you shouldn’t or I’m no good for you. Here you rest comfortably in the hurricane of that second circle, and you welcome the breeze as a comfort.

Lips against yours, Joel feeds his cock to you in slow, careful passes.

Ensures you feel every ridge, every hard line of his body. And with each gentle press inside he murmurs against your mouth. Incessant, low nonsenses of so fuckin’ beautiful and god I missed you and that’s it, baby, I know, I know. His kiss smooth as an almond, tender as a fig. Ripe and wet and tremulous as his tongue finds a home against yours, over and over.

The comforter on his bed stays pulled high, up to your shoulders, and it traps the warmth of your bodies between you.

He coaxes rough, gasping sounds from you with every shift of his hips.

Long fingers grip the back of your thigh, using his hold there to rock your body into his over and over again, slowly, making sure you feel every second of it. Slick seeps out of you around his length, smearing against the inside of your thighs and his, and he groans at the wet sounds that slip from where the two of you are connected.

Joel says your name, low and gravelly, praising every syllable. He tells you how good it feels, how perfect you are, and every word is like an undressing of the flesh. Like you’re some tender butcher, peeling back layers of his skin to let the air hit hot, red, pulsating matter, flashes of thick, porcelain bone swimming amongst it all. He keeps you close, hardly an inch of your body not touching his, and yet you can see all of him. The whole surface and everything underneath it now too. And when you say his name in return and he moans, begs you to say it again, say my name again, it’s hearts on wings, thin fire racing beneath the skin, eyes unseeing, drumming filling your ears. It’s the cold sweat on his hands that hold you shaking, that feel the way you tremble and grip tighter. It’s wanting to take those bones of his and suck them clean; lick past the gristle and taste the marrow beyond it.

It's everything and it’s nothing and it’s that silly little four-letter word that you can’t bring yourself to say, let alone think, and it doesn’t even matter because he’s here and that’s enough.

His nose rests in the hollow above your collarbone and he inhales, smothering soft kisses to skin and bone there.

He says, “You smell like me,” and when he looks up and presses his forehead against yours, he almost looks wounded by it. He stills, holds himself deep inside and just stares, and his eyes are screaming I can’t fuckin’ quit you, so you lay your thumb over the dimple on his cheek and smile. “S’my clothes, my soap…”

Your body flutters and tightens around him, and your mouths fall open in soft moans, lips slotting together again.

“You like that?” you breathe into the kiss, and he tightens his fist around the back of the shirt, pressing inward until your back is arched, and your stomach is flush against his and he’s groaning yes.

“Want you in my clothes all the fuckin’ time,” he pants, and the tip of his cock presses so deep inside that you’re gasping, mouth hanging wide open. “And when you give ‘em back I’ll wear ‘em and smell like you, and then we’ll be even.”

“Even?” you laugh a little, nipping at his bottom lip. He smiles, eyes glinting in the darkness.

“Yeah, even,” he repeats it and presses forward in a sharp thrust to emphasise his point. You don’t need to hear it again to know exactly what he means.

“Tell me you’re mine,” you whisper, and he grunts, hips shifting a little faster against yours. You feel him pulse inside of you, his stomach tightening against yours.

“M’yours,” Joel murmurs, voice like velvet and honey, so soft as he leans forward to kiss you, licking the words into your mouth. You say it back, spell it out against his teeth, his lips, his jaw. Yours, yours, yours.

He says something else then, lips soft against your chin, and you’re so close; can feel it hot and burning in your gut, almost at tipping point.

“Hmm?”

“Baby,” Joel nips at your jaw, sharpening your senses. “Tell me you’re on the pill or somethin’.”

“I am,” you whimper honestly, and his body seems to sag against yours, hips shifting in sluggish, tired movements.

Something snaps at the base of your spine, and you tremble against him, gripping the back of his neck. Soon enough he’s shuddering into you, arms going tight around your back, trapping you against his chest as his cock pumps inside your core. And it’s warm and wet and sticky and his seed drools out of you, down to your asshole, smearing against the inside of your thighs, his sheets. Your legs wrap around his waist, holding him to you, keeping him there as long as you possibly can. Riding out your highs, and then the trembling, stuttering aftershocks in each other’s arms. He pants into your mouth and all either of you can say is mine or yours, until the words mix together and become a meaningless blur of sound murmured between locked lips.

It could be minutes or an entire hour before you manage to separate from each other. All eager little kisses and whines as his soft cock slips from your hold, thick spend seeping out of you in his absence. And you just want to sleep, want to curl up in his arms and never leave, but you slink off to the bathroom first. Wet your face and drop down on his toilet. Urinate and feel his come drip out of you. And where once, with someone else, you might have cringed at the feeling, you only feel warmth; calm.

In the bright lighting of his bathroom, you can see yourself reflected in the mirror above his sink. Hair a wild mess, cheeks and lips swollen with warmth. This woman in the mirror stares back at you and she has bright eyes. She smiles at you, and you feel your lips peel back, teeth on show just like hers. You stare at her and think god, she looks happy. When you wipe between your thighs and stand, she does too. And with your finger on the light switch, a wet handtowel clutched in your other palm, you give her one last look before turning out the light, feeling lighter than you have in weeks.

Thursday.

Joel sleeps on his stomach. At least, that’s how he ends up overnight.

Face buried deep in a pillow, one leg slung outside of the covers, with a heavy arm out to the side. When you wake, at first, you’re careful not to move. Not to breathe too heavily, not to cough or jostle him awake. He looks so peaceful like this. Heavy breaths puffing from chapped pouty lips, forehead smooth and devoid of the stress and exhaustion that often lines his face. A large hand rests close to you. Despite you drifting a part in the night, the body heat getting too much for you both, his fingers remain outstretched in your direction. The tips just grazing the skin of your stomach as you lie on your side and watch him.

A low murmur escapes from his mouth, face twitching a little, and then he’s relaxing again, humming in his sleep. You smile, and let your eyes wander.

There’s a pile of books on his bedside table, reading glasses dropped haphazardly atop them.

An Idiot’s Guide to Space, one of the weathered spines reads. Interesting.

A framed painting rests above a set of drawers on the side of his room. A vast landscape with a herd of horses galloping across it. Gorgeous hides of orange and brown and black splashed across green grass and blue sky. And on the back of his door… hangs a cowboy hat.

You move slowly, careful not to wake him as you rise and tip toe across the room. Coming to rest directly in front of the closed door, you slip it off the hook and admire it. You don’t even hear his breathing change as he wakes up.

Dark brown with a curved brim; the felt is soft beneath your fingers. The image of Joel wearing it, perhaps often, while living in Texas flits through your mind and you can’t help but smile. And then warm hands are on your hips, arms snaking around your waist to pull you back into a warm chest.

You gasp in quiet surprise, but your smile only broadens when Joel rests his chin on your shoulder, peering down at the hat in your hands.

“Mornin’,” he murmurs, voice gruff and deeper than usual. A pang of arousal swims in your core at the sound of it, but you ignore that, turning in his grasp.

“Good morning, cowboy.”

Joel groans, sleepy eyes drifting closed as he hugs you to his chest, swaying the two of you from side to side.

“Wanted to lie in,” he grumbles. “S’too early for this.”

“For what?” you blink in mock confusion, holding the hat against your chest.

“For you to see that.” He moves quick, tugging it from your grasp.

“Hey—” You gasp, wide eyed and ready to steal it back. But before you can Joel just lifts it onto his head with a heavy sigh. “Oh.”

“Oh?” he repeats, eyes narrowing.

Warmth simmers in your stomach and you smirk, stepping back to give him a quick once over.

“I could get used to this.”

“Jesus,” he rolls his eyes, moving to take it off but you grip his hand, shaking your head fiercely.

“Not so fast,” you coo. “I want the whole experience.”

“And what exactly is the whole experience?”

“You know—” You shimmy your hips a little. Imitate twirling a lasso in the air, wiggling your eyebrows. “Show me some tricks.”

Joel laughs at you, and you can see the desire in him to say no, to refute it, but the longer you stare him down, the more it cracks and fizzles away.

“Go on, cowboy,” you try out your best Texan drawl, falling down to sit on the edge of his bed.

He adjusts his legs, elbows bending as he waves two finger guns in your direction. You suck your lips into your mouth, swallowing down a laugh as he makes a small pchew pchew noise out the side of his mouth.

“Oh,” you smirk. “Is that all you got?”

“I’ll have you know,” Joel huffs, pretending to holster one of his guns. Hip cocked now, still dressed in nothing but his sleep shirt and boxers; he stares you down. “I’m startin’ to think this town ain’t big enough for the both of us.”

And that gets you. A sharp, barking laughs slips from your mouth, and Joel grins in return, the skin beside his eyes creasing as he adjusts the Stetson over his curls.

As your giggles calm, he just shakes his head, still smiling, and murmurs fondly, “Dadgum, you got a good laugh.”

Your face warms beneath his stare, and you just shake your head, bottom lip snagged between your teeth. Moving quick, Joel pinches the brim of the hat and places it onto your head. It’s a little big, and the brim falls down, obscuring your eyesight before he adjusts it for you. Then he takes a step back, hands on hips.

“How do I look?” You bat your eyelashes up at him, smiling shyly.

“I don’t know,” he fakes an air of contemplation, giving you a long look up and down. “Think you might be all hat ‘n’ no cattle.”

“Hey,” you pout. “I’d make a great cowboy; just need a pair of chaps.”

“Well, you can wear the hat and the chaps all you like,” Joel murmurs, gaze heavy. “But you ain’t a cowboy ‘til you prove you can ride like one.”

Your thighs tense and you arch an eyebrow, trying to remain nonchalant.

“Is that right?”

“S’right.”

“Mm,” you hum. You lick your bottom lip and watch the way his gaze darkens, eyes trained on the movement. “Gonna let me show you what I got?”

And so you end up back in bed, straddling Joel while he smirks up at you, long fingers twisting around the hem of your t-shirt. But when you slip a finger inside the hem of his boxers, the movement so reminiscent of last night, he laughs a little and gives you a look that says, really?

You pout, confused. “I thought you wante—”

“Uh uh,” Joel shakes his head. “Not what I meant.”

“Then what?”

“Get up here.” He lifts his chin upward.

Your eyes widen, stomach tensing a little.

Desire warms the inside of your thighs, and you murmur, “You want that?”

“Do I wa—?” he cuts himself off, eyes darkening a shade. “I said, get up here.”

Heart racing, you shimmy up his chest until your knees are planted on the mattress on either side of his shoulders. He smiles, encouraging, and you grip the hem of his shirt, prepared to pull it over your head, but he stops you.

“No,” he exhales, hand quickly gripping yours. “Leave it on for me.” And then he leans in and presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, and you can only nod, holding your breath as you wait for him to reach where you want his mouth the most.

Face tucked in the cradle of your hips, Joel sighs your name. A rough exhalation, nose pressed into your skin. And it feels a little silly at first – your face is warm as you stare down at him, the wide brim of the cowboy hat tilting forward.

But then, breath hot and heavy against you, he mouths at the crease where your hip meets your thigh. Slow, drawn-out kisses that have your legs tensing over him, his hands slip beneath the shirt, tracing light patterns into the skin over your spine, all the way up to your shoulders. He keeps going until you’re shivering, a wet trembling mess in his hands, hips twitching forward with every touch of his mouth to your skin until he finally glides his tongue through your folds.

Your breathing hitches as he pants against you, chest vibrating with low sounds as he licks thick stripes up the entire length of your pussy. Eyes closed, he tastes all of you; tongue slipping over every piece of exposed skin that the position grants him. And with every broad stroke of his tongue, he dips inside your weeping hole and finishes with a gentle flick against your clit. So soft and so slow, building you up over and over until finally you break and begin rocking your hips into his face.

Joel grunts at first, a little surprised maybe, but in a second his hands are dropping to grip your thighs, locking you in place against his face.

At first, he guides you. Helps you find a rhythm that works, that feels good. Flattens his tongue and uses his grip to rock you back and forth over his face, groaning as you roll your clit against him, huffing and panting quiet little pleas. But soon enough your fingers are carding through his hair, holding him tight against you as you grind down into his mouth. Sharpening his tongue, he dips it inside of you and then drags upward, pulling your clit into his mouth and sucking gently.

You gasp, vision going hazy as you try to keep your eyes on him, try to watch, but it’s too good. He knows exactly what you like, and it all moves far too quickly for your liking. You can already feel your hips winding faster and harder against him, breaths falling shorter, everything in your stomach pulling tight and hot.

Joel can tell – he can always fucking tell – and one of his hands drifts over your ass, fingers slipping between your thighs from behind until his middle finger is circling your entrance.

“Fuck,” you inhale sharply, jaw going slack as he prods at your cunt, tongue lapping lazily over your clit all the while. “Please, your fingers, yeah, ohhh—”

A long finger sinks inside and you moan, head falling back.

“You like that?” he murmurs, pulling back to graze his teeth along the inside of your thigh. A second finger presses inside, and he curls them against that soft spot, fucking you slow and steady until you acquiesce, whimpering yesyesyesfucksogood towards the ceiling.

“Good girl,” he hums, slick tongue finding its way back to your clit.

He eats at you so lovingly. So generous as he lathes firm circles around your nerves, only ever pausing to suck you into his mouth again or press wet, open-mouthed kisses against the entirety of your cunt. Nose buried in the short curls over your mound, he doesn’t let up until your moans turn high pitched; strained little whimpers of his name falling from your lips as you press down harder and harder.

“Oh fuck,” you cry, hips rocking back and forth, faster now. He breathes you in, jaw shifting from side to side, matching the intensity of your movements with sharp flicks of his tongue. And when you fall apart, shoulders sagging forward, he moans, taking and taking and taking every last drop of what you have to offer.

And what an image it must be – you, wearing a Stetson, riding Joel Miller’s face. You almost wish you’d filmed it, for posterity’s sake.

He presses a small kiss to one swollen lip of your pussy, and then the other, before his head is falling back into the pillows and he’s smiling up at you.

The lower half of his face shines, lips and facial hair slick with your come, and you can’t help but grin back, a tired snort of laughter slipping from your mouth.

“How’d I do?” You grip the brim of the hat, tipping it down at him.

Joel smirks, hands squeezing your thighs, helping to shift you up and onto the side of the bed so he can sit up.

“I’d say you more than proved yourself,” he hums, leaning in to steal a kiss. You sigh, whining against his warm wet mouth, and reach a hand down to press it against his abdomen. Shifting lower, you trail your fingers over where his cock strains against his boxers, but Joel just tuts, pulling away and slipping off the bed.

“Hey,” you huff, gripping his shirt and trying to pull him back down, but he just shakes his head, laughing, and drags you to your feet.

“Gonna be late,” he tells you, squeezing your hips and pressing a kiss to your temple. “And you needa eat.”

Late. You’d almost forgotten that you had a lecture this morning. Joel’s lecture.

He turns, rifling in the chest of drawers, pulling out clothes, a pair of socks, while you stand behind him and watch, knees still shaking, with a fucking cowboy hat on your head. After a moment he turns, stares, and a rough laugh hits the air. Shaking his head, Joel grips the brim and tosses the hat back up on its hook before pointing towards the ensuite, telling you to shower.

“You coming?” you ask, and he just shakes his head, tugging on socks before padding towards the hallway.

“Cowboys don’t shower, baby,” he flashes a smile over his shoulder at you and winks. “They just dust off.”

When you make your way out of the shower, Joel is in the kitchen. Ironed black trousers and a neat white shirt cover his frame, and from across the room you admire him. That strong back, the pert rounded muscles of his ass. Fuck.

He manages to over scramble the eggs and burn the bacon because he can’t stop looking over his shoulder at where you rest at his dining table. Head resting heavy in your palm, you smile back at him. And when he puts a plate of food in front of you, you don’t have a single complaint.

The two of you eat fast, plucking little pieces of eggshell out as you go, smiling and laughing shyly as your feet tangle beneath the table. He watches you; makes sure you clear your plate before he takes it to the sink, murmuring something about how he won’t make you sit through me talkin’ for hours on an empty stomach. Says he’s pretty sure that counts as torture somewhere, baby.

And when he turns, dirty dishes forgotten in the sink, you’re staring at him, heart on your sleeve, and he must see it in your eyes. You know that it has to be clear as day; that forbidden four-letter word blazing across your forehead in bold letters.

Joel clocks your gaze and moves to hover over where you sit, wordlessly cupping your face in two broad palms and slotting his mouth over yours. And as he licks into your mouth, tasting the remnants of eggs and bacon and every unsaid word, you start to believe that maybe confessing wouldn’t be so bad. That maybe forbidden is a word you’ve prescribed to this feeling all on your own – that he might just be feeling the exact same way.

But he pulls back, presses two more quick pecks to your mouth and tells you to get ready, says he’ll drive the two of you to school, and the moment slips from your grasp.

Back in his car, you feel relieved to replace the memory of yesterday with this one. Windows down, the air is cool and calm against your skin as he drives you through town, sated, dopey smiles across both of your faces.

A Bob Dylan song drifts from the speakers and Joel sings along under his breath.

“We’ll meet again someday on the avenue. Tangled up in blue.” Voice low and breathy, left hand on the wheel, right hand on your thigh. You nod along to the lyrics, your fingers tracing the veins and tendons on the back of his hand all the way until he pulls over.

“Shouldn’t be seen walkin’ in together.”

“Yeah,” you agree, understanding. “Best not.”

The truck idles on the side of the road, somewhere inconspicuous down the street from campus, and you slip out his passenger door. Close it with a thud and peer in at him through the open window, eyes devouring every part of his face as if you won’t be seeing him within the hour, stood up in front of the room giving a lecture.

The truck peels away from the curb, Tangled Up In Blue still whining from those speakers, and Joel sends a quick wink out the window at you, his face a blur as he drives off. And you just smile, chest warm despite the cool Spring air on your face, walking along in the same direction – because you know exactly what that wink means. And you love it.

Our little secret.

a/n refs:

in Dante’s Inferno he said that those overcome with lust were doomed to the second circle of hell, wherein they would be buffeted back and forth by the terrible winds of a violent storm, without rest. slay.

the bacchae tr. by anne carson [read if you have mummy issues, a massive ego, or just like the idea of frolicking in the woods for a while...]

the secret history by donna tartt [read if you like unreliable narrators, strange professors and stranger students, and the nursery rhyme 'the farmer in the dell']

the end of the affair by graham greene [read if you like weird intense guys and angst and infidelity]

eros the bittersweet by anne carson [read if you're cool as fuck]

thank you for reading! x

#finally am i right?#my writing #fic: a lover's pinch #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut

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slowd1ving · 7 months ago

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ACT IV: DECAY ✦ . 　⁺ VIL SCHOENHEIT NSFW

Vil Schoenheit and second place aren't supposed to be a thing. He's supposed to be the very embodiment of perfection, so why the hell is someone else's name usurping his crown on the Potions leader board? In which our starring actor cannot quench the flames of academic rivalry and resentment that consume him, nor can he fathom the enigma that you are. gn! scientist! reader warnings: contains nsfw but only later, angst with a happy ending, spoilers for book five, canon-compliant violence

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MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

PREVIOUS PART ✧ ･

Scene I: Ink . 　⁺

It all starts again on a very dull morning. Staccato beats of the rain on the rickety windows of Ramshackle provide background music for Vil to drink his smoothie to. Except that’s not the only miserable music. His ears are assaulted by the conversation you’re currently having with Jamil, Rook and Ace. Does Grim count when he’s technically the other pea in your miserable pod?

“All I’m saying is that there’s no reason to make a movie series that long,” you argue. Whose movies are you referring to? Vil wishes he was paying attention earlier. “Like what have you got to say for that many movies?”

“Trickster, some people are just dedicated to the pursuit of their passion,” Rook intercedes, leaning his head on his hands to gaze at you more efficiently.

“The Fast and Furious franchise has no reason to be that long,” you lament, frustration creeping into your tone. Vil’s never heard of that movie series. He doesn’t think he wants to know what it is.

“Rook, there’s like nine sequels, and the last one especially does not make any sense,” Vil takes back his earlier thoughts. This seems to be a conversation between you and Rook, in which Ace and Jamil are unenthusiastic spectators. “There’s nothing less beautiful than plot holes.”

“Anyways,” you continue in the same breath, all hints of sadness gone. Vil’s not sure whether to be annoyed or impressed. “Do you guys feel ready for the SDC tomorrow? Your routine is really impressive.”

“My bones hurt so much,” Ace groans from behind his food. “I’ve never felt so pulverised.”

“We will win,” Jamil promises you, fiddling with his spoon on the table. You give them both a cheerful thumbs up while eating - for once, you’ve got scraps of decorum.

“I will put on my most beautiful performance knowing you’re watching, mon cher,” Rook clasps your hand between his gloved ones. Sure, Rook’s probably just being himself, but Vil can’t help the trickle of unease that he feels.

“I don’t doubt it,” you respond with a grin. “Those RSA twerps won’t know what hit them. Although, I’ve had a really weird set of dream-”

“Spudling,” Vil clears his throat to get your attention. You turn to face him, still wearing your jubilant grin. His heart almost stops. It takes all he can to not fumble while taking the lanyard out of his blazer pocket. “Keep this lanyard safe so you can come backstage as the NRC Tribe Manager.”

“Cool,” you take it one handed, still allowing Rook to clasp your other hand. Why does Vil care so much? He tries desperately to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. “Thanks!”

“We’ll go over the routine and iron out any wrinkles in around twenty minutes,” Vil continues, meeting the eyes of each cast member. He’ll just have to ignore whatever he’s feeling until after the SDC. “Make sure the rest of the potatoes are up and ready to go.”

The tell-tale signs of nervousness creep into Vil’s being after he exits the room. He has to beat Neige. No longer will he be cast aside to play the villain. The world will see what he’s got to offer.

“Mira mira, tell me who, at this moment, is the fairest of them all?” Vil speaks slowly and quietly to his phone as he makes his way to his room to get some items for practice.

“Neige LeBlanche.”

He should’ve expected it, really, but he cannot help but let his teeth grind slightly in anger. Just you wait, Neige. He’ll beat Neige fair and square. Finally, he’ll be able to step out of the villain’s shoes.

His muscles ache after his gruelling training. Nothing he won’t be able to recover from; he can’t help but push himself to his limits at the prospect of beating Neige. The rest of the crew somehow manages to execute a near-flawless performance, with only a few minor hand-placement errors.

“Wow,” you cheer them on by your designated spot next to the speakers, cradling Grim in your lap. “You guys are absolutely gonna shred the competition.”

“That’s right!” Ace grins at you, catching the water bottle you toss at him and taking a few enthusiastic swigs.

“Pass me one too,” Deuce reaches out as you toss another water bottle. It’s a natural cue for a break, and the crew decides to take a breather. Vil feels an absurd surge of pride at the sight; somehow, these ungainly tubers have managed to grow into shapely potatoes who can no doubt beat Neige.

“We’ll regroup in ten,” Vil instructs. He’s not satisfied completely, but the passion that’s been poured into this routine is undeniable. Before he can question his body, his legs are already taking him to you. You’re scratching behind Grim’s ears and look up in abject surprise at his approach.

“I need your opinion,” Vil murmurs, leaning down to you so your faces are in close proximity. You furrow your brows; he knows how unlikely it is that he’s approached you. Still, your analysis skills are seriously impressive. “Can you give me a detailed observation of our performance? Spare no detail.”

“Right,” you pull out your phone nonchalantly, scrolling through your gallery until you find the recording of the practice. Of course you’ve come prepared.

“Right at the beginning it’s a really strong start, but as soon as those first few seconds are up, Deuce always misplaces his hand-” Vil’s not sure when he joins you on the floor, leaning ever so slightly into you as you zoom into the areas of imperfection.

“You’ve noticed that too?” Vil comments. You murmur your assent, pressing play again.

“It’s only a slight error, but yeah,” you continue, pausing the video again where it’s Kalim’s misstep. “I think it’s just overeagerness and the adrenaline of performing. The rest of the errors are really just minor hiccups with the singing - but I won’t be able to point them out as well.”

“I’ll give them some extra individual instruction,” Vil promises, more to remind himself than reassure you. You turn to scrutinise him; it’s not like he’s unfamiliar with the weight of people’s gazes, but it’s just you.

“I’ve made notes on the small, consistent screw-ups that’ve surfaced recently when it comes to dance steps. Rook and Jamil are both fine, and Epel only has one,” your shoulder brushes against him as you turn extra carefully to not disturb the snoozing Grim on your lap. You hand him your class notebook, which has been filled with quick sketches of the mistakes. Vil’s eyes widen considerably at the level of diligence you’ve afforded your role. Sure, he knows your eye for detail in science, but he never thought-

“You can borrow it for a bit,” you turn the page to show him the notes you’ve made. Then suddenly you flip back to the previous page.

“I forgot you won’t be able to read them,” you sigh in exasperation. “All that work for nothing.”

Vil is oddly touched. You’ve made extensive notes just for him? He can feel the gesture warm his cheeks as he stares down at the outreached notebook, waiting for him to take it.

“The thought is appreciated,” he thanks you, carefully placing your notebook within his lap. He’s lucky the diagrams are circled with different colours marking out areas of weakness, or he’s sure he’d get lost trying to read through the scribbled notes right next to them.

“I can always just read them out if you need me too,” you lean back on one palm, balancing your body weight as you scritch under Grim’s chin. As much as the little furball wants to deny it, he’s very clearly got the mannerisms of a cat as a large purr rumbles from him. You stifle a little giggle into your shoulder.

“That- that would be great,” it’s so unlike Vil to get flustered, but he can’t help the smile that stays on his face well into the remainder of the practice.

He can’t seem to hold onto whatever hatred he had for you.

Scene II: Rot . 　⁺

The next time he sees your face is around ten minutes before the dress rehearsal on the SDC stage. Vil can feel his already straight posture adjust itself so it’s completely perfect, something that doesn’t go unnoticed by Rook, given the look the hunter shoots him. He’s ignoring that.

“They almost didn’t let me in,” you complain, striding over to Rook and waving the lanyard that’s around your neck. Vil’s not sure how they could’ve missed it, with it being what can only be described as a neon red.

“It’s good to see you regardless, mon chou,” Rook is once again clasping your hands, and once again you’re not pulling away.

“I’m going to ignore that you’ve just called me a cabbage,” you comment, looking around at the stage. The little furball that’s normally with you is nowhere to be found; Vil isn’t sure whether to be relieved that he isn’t wreaking havoc here, or whether to be worried that he’s wreaking havoc elsewhere. “Where do I sit while watching?”

“There’s actually the front seats directly next to the stage,” Vil points to the special row reserved for managers and important personnel. You unhook your hands from Rook’s to turn to where Vil’s pointing, your eyes lighting up as you see the comfortable looking chairs set up.

“Right, thanks,” you flash an extremely brief smile at both of them. It seems that whatever rivalry you had with him has been dissolved on your end. He doesn’t know if he should be insulted or happy about it. “Break both legs for both performances.”

“What?” Vil mutters to himself as you stride away enthusiastically. Maybe it’s just a saying from wherever you’re from. It’s ‘break an arm’ for performances, what are you on about? “What could that possibly mean?”

“Mr. Shoenheit, we’re about to go on air to tape your practice performance,” a cameraman apologetically interrupts Vil’s musings. He snaps to attention, letting his face fall back into the most professional poker face he can manage.

“Of course, I’ll get the NRC Tribe into formation,” Vil responds smoothly, waving the rest of the crew to the front of the stage. It only takes a minute; they’re clearly enthusiastic (if not a bit nervous) to perform in front of people who aren’t you and Grim. Deep breaths. A wave of resounding calm flows through him; it’s a lucid state he’s perfected before each and every performance.

The first notes of the rhythmic song start. His eyes unfocus slightly, allowing his muscle memory to take control for the most part. It’s now just a matter of pouring his emotions into the song and dance to truly capture the hearts of those watching. The flow. The haze. It all becomes a part of him, and he knows the rest of those dancing up on stage with him can feel it. Surely they feel the connection of their passion?

He meets your eyes, your wide, enraptured eyes as you gaze at him. He doesn’t fully realise, but the words he sings are for your ears for now. Let this be dedicated to you, and he can worry later about sharing the passion he feels with the rest of the spectators. Vil’s not emotionally stupid; he can tell his feelings have veered into territory that he simply doesn’t want to acknowledge yet. He just has to let them flow into his performance and worry about the rest later.

His mind is deliciously clear, enjoying the endorphins pumping through his blood at the pleasant stretch of movement. It’s already halfway done? The altered passage of time when he’s in the zone is always a surprise. From your excited grin, he can safely assume this performance is one, if not the, best they’ve given. And it’s all for you to watch, before it’s posted for the world to see.

Raucous applause disrupts his flow as the cameras are cut with a signal from the camera crew. You’re standing and clapping your hands with some serious force as you join them up on stage.

“Almost moved me to tears,” you joke, congratulating them on a flawless performance. “Seriously though, you guys are ready.”

You don’t need to say anymore. You stand back to give them space, but Vil watches in dawning horror as you bump into the one and only Neige LeBlanche. It’s only a mild shoulder bump, but it’s happened. The two of you have made contact.

“I’m so sorry,” you apologise profusely, taking a big step back. “I should’ve been looking where I was going.”

“It’s fine, really,” Neige smiles at you, sickeningly sweet. Beside Vil, the NRC dance crew members look at you with incredulity. Why are you so goddamn oblivious? “I shouldn’t have approached this way.”

“If you’re sure,” you trail off, noting the weird looks directed your way by Ace and Deuce. “What the hell are you guys gawking at?

Before Vil can say anything, you’re already being yanked away by Ace’s insistent tugging. Your brows are still furrowed. Goddamn. Have you really never heard of Neige LeBlanche?

It seems Ace is interrogating you with that very question, judging by the furrowed glances he sends both your way and Neige’s. It seems Neige is quick to mask his surprise, walking towards Vil (which was probably the whole reason he approached the group in the first place).

“Your group was amazing,” Neige gushes - his eyes are lit up with awe. Vil feels… nothing, eerily enough. All that’s coursing through him is malicious calm.

“Thank you,” he maintains the professional image easily and smoothly, not missing the way Kalim and Deuce’s eyes swivel between him and Neige.

“It was truly a sight to behold; I had chills just watching,” Neige continues with starry eyes. “I can’t wait to work with you again!”

“It has been a while, hasn’t it?” Vil muses calmly, letting the air of conversation fizzle out. Out of his peripherals, he spots you and Ace rejoin the group. Unfortunately, it seems Neige has also spotted you again; he shoots you a smile and turns to you.

“Hi, I didn’t catch your name earlier,” Neige’s innocent question leads you to a quick pause before introducing yourself. You’re not overly friendly, more like care-free as usual.

“I didn’t catch your name either, sorry,” you continue politely. Did Trappola wander off-topic while lecturing you? It clearly seemed like it from your slightly bewildered expression.

“Neige LeBlanche, at your service,” Neige’s eyes carry that stupefied look for only a second before it’s swiftly replaced by a cheery smile. Nothing. Vil suppresses a snort of laughter at your politely unknowing expression. Of course you’d be like this, meeting the arguably most famous person in the land with no respect for their importance.

“Cool, I’ll leave you guys to it,” you respond amiably, sending a thumbs up his way. You’ve just upped and left? Vil turns to the side slightly to stifle his laughter as you wander back to the seats where you’ve left your notebook. Utterly lacking proper conversation etiquette as usual. He supposes it’s a positive seeing the Neige LeBlanche seemingly at a loss for words.

“Was that NRC’s manager?” Neige asks Vil. With dawning horror, Vil realises that most of his crew is also standing at the first row with you, due to their practice slot being finished.

“Yes,” Vil responds succinctly, watching Neige watch your movements as you talk with Rook. You’re currently being rattled like a rag-doll with the way he’s clasping your shoulders and shaking you slightly, no doubt grilling you over how you didn’t know who Neige was. He can hear your raucous laughter from all the way on stage.

“Your manager this year is awesome,” Neige compliments, leaning forward slightly to see the action further. Vil suppresses the shudder of disgust. No way this is happening right now.

“Ah, I’ve got to go round up my own crew,” Neige comments distractedly, looking around him. Vil gladly takes this opportunity to take his leave to join the rest of his group, leaving nothing behind but a goodbye.

That bastard. Vil watches the concluding moves of the RSA crew’s performance with barely concealed disgust from his seat in the stands.

“We’ve been had,” he utters in shock. No way. That bumbling performance they’ve put on-

“What do you mean?” Kalim asks in dismay at Vil’s change in attitude.

“He’s right,” Jamil agrees with a heavy sigh. “Look at how much they’re appealing to all demographics with their sugary sweet performance.”

Deep resentment begins to fester within Vil. A familiar ringing noise fills his ears as he tunes out the chatter of everyone surrounding him. He almost doesn’t feel the way he slips out of his seat and down the stairs leading to the rooms within the colossal arena. He feels the pressure of a heavy glass bottle within the palm of his hand, not even having to look at it to know it’s one of Epel’s apple juice bottles. He’s only dimly aware of subconsciously infusing the drink with the same curse he used during the poison assessment.

May those who drink this fall into an endless slumber, Fairest One.

The comforting bubbling slosh of the drink lets him know it’s been tampered with. A small, rational part of his brain urges him not to do this; the rest of his body is consumed by an abyss of disgust and hatred. Gunpowder and other acrid chemical smells appear in wisps, only registering faintly as familiar with his nose. He ignores it all.

“Hi, Neige,” Vil smiles brightly at the youth in front of one of the backstage doors. “I just wanted to congratulate you on your wonderful performance.”

One heartbeat.

Neige turns at the sound of Vil’s uncharacteristically cheerful voice. He doesn’t suspect anything amiss, but Vil supposes he’s always been that way.

“It makes me really happy hearing that from someone I admire a lot,” Neige beams back. Perfect.

Two heartbeats.

“How about a drink? I’ve become rather partial to this brand of apple juice,” Vil’s smile is rehearsed; it’s absolutely oozing with venom.

“Sure!” Neige agrees enthusiastically. “I saw the brand on your Magicam a few weeks back - I was even going to order before I realised it had all sold out.”

Three heartbeats is all it takes to deceive him.

It’s quite ironic, isn’t it? Vil’s downfall has been secured by Neige over the course of his life, whereas Neige’s downfall will be brought about in only a few seconds. The smooth glass of the apple juice bottle does not reveal the curse roiling within. It’s perfect - scentless, colourless and lethal. He wants to laugh when Neige accepts the cool glass bottle so easily. Has he no sense of danger?

“Roi des Neiges!” Who does that voice belong to? With a start, Vil turns to see Rook’s slightly dishevelled form as he runs up to Neige. “My apologies for interrupting the two of you, but the staff were looking for you, Neige.”

“Roi des Neiges..” Neige’s voice trails away as he stares contemplatively at Rook. “Wait-”

“My, I’m absolutely parched after running around looking for you,” Rook swiftly takes charge of the conversation. Why now? Vil can feel sharp cracking within his very soul. “Might I trouble you to let me have some of that refreshing juice you hold?”

No.

“Of course,” Neige agrees enthusiastically, if not a little perplexed.

“You should hurry back, Neige,” Rook continues, taking the bottle offered kindly. “And do not come back here.”

“Huh? What do you-”

“Go on, off with you! Away!” Neige’s question is sharply cut off by Rook’s insistence. Vil can hear him scurry off, like a little rodent.

“That sweet, tart aroma,” Rook breathes. With a start of horror, Vil notices that the cork of the flask has been removed. “Truly.. Epel’s hometown beverage is magnifique, to say the least.”

“I shall drink it to the very last drop, Roi des Poisons,” his knowing gaze meets Vil’s stricken one as he slowly raises the bottle to his lips.

No.

“Don’t do it, Rook!”

Glass shattering. It’s all Vil can do to keep track of what’s happening. His head feels like it’s underwater.

“He used his signature spell to curse the apple juice!” It’s the same speaker from earlier. Kalim?

“-look on his face was the same as Jamil’s-”

“-lost control-”

“Rook,” Vil’s voice rasps. He’s not sure he made the conscious decision to speak. The hunter turns to him with eyes not holding anger or disappointment, but concern. “Why did you..?”

“I wanted to believe in you,” Rook holds his gaze with no traces of accusation. “If it was cursed, I still wanted to taste it. I wanted to taste the fruit of a poison derived from an obsession with beauty bordering on madness.”

Madness?

Vil tunes them all out. He’s dimly aware of you speaking in concerned, hushed tones to the rest of them. Why are you here as well?

“Vil, do you have any idea how foolish that was?” Kalim’s voice is rimmed with desperate emotions. “After all that work, after saying the other teams would look like spuds compared to us, why stoop to this?”

Why stoop to this? Can’t he see that there is no other way? Rage pummels his veins, ripping through his body, his mind, his soul. Something gathers within him, dark and inky and fatal.

“That’s what I want to know,” Vil’s voice is laced with ice, and pure venom. “I’ve come to a realisation. That I… can never win! I’m going to handle Neige myself.”

“Trickster, Kalim! Do not inhale that mist rising from the floor! It’s the evaporated form of that cursed liquid!” Rook’s urging has hints of desperation within it. He turns to Vil. “I don’t see why one glass would have such a drastic… Oh, Vil, you didn’t-”

“Stop looking at me with those eyes,” Vil pleads. It’s not just Rook, he can see you as well, looking at him with that gaze that makes him want to bury himself away. “I just wanted to be the fairest, so why? Why? Why am I so ugly?”

“Roi des Poisons, you are far from ugly,” Rook calls out to him, reaching out a hand. Vil longs to take it, but he can’t. He’s too far gone.

“You haven’t actually hurt anyone!” Kalim’s pleas fall on uncaring ears.

“Silence!” Vil’s voice snaps. He can almost see himself from a separate plane, mist rising up around him in acrid, poisonous billows. He can see you, swaying on your feet slightly, looking more shaky than your companions. “What do any of you know? What does it matter if any of you forgive me? I can’t forgive myself!”

Let go.

Dark streaks overcome his vision, ebbing and flowing along the edges. It would be nice, to hand over the reins for a while, wouldn’t it? To let go of his fury, his resentment, his jealousy. What a dream.

“If I just melt everyone into hideous messes,” Vil’s barely aware of speaking. It’s a rather distorted voice, isn’t it? He can’t help but laugh. “Then I’ll be the fairest one of all, won’t I?”

The last thing he sees before it all overcomes him is your stricken face. He’s not sure you’ve ever worn such an expression before. He’s unlikely to forget those eyes, your facial muscles contorting into a painting of intermingling horror and worry. Why does he feel that shame rising again?

Didn’t he let go already?

Scene III: Wake . 　⁺

“I was the villain bullying the hero in the last play, too. Why do I keep getting picked to play the bad guy? Do I really look that mean?”

Villains never stay on stage for the whole play. Once their role is finished, all they can do is watch from the shadows as the happy ending plays out. What I want is to stay on stage longer than anyone else.

“Those kids were trying to hold me accountable for a work of fiction. Silly boys, the lot of them.”

I always aim for one role - the hero. But… all I ever get to be is the villain.

“Vil is too special to play the part of a regular teen that viewers can relate to. Without that reliability, I don’t think he’ll ever pull off playing a hero.”

I would do anything to be beautiful. The most rigorous training. The most tedious hair and skin care regimens. I would shy away from none of it. And yet.. Why? Why is it never me? All I want is to stay on stage until the end of a show.

In the end, it’s not the gentle splattering of rain on his face that wakes him up. It’s some foreign warmth on his face that causes his eyes to slowly open. Framed by his eyelashes and the haze of a deep slumber is your face. It’s as if you know, the way you look at him with such tenderness and concern. It’s as if you’ve pulled him from the deep recesses of his memories yourself, with the way your rough hands prop his head up so gently.

“How am I..” Vil rasps out, looking at you with nothing but queries in his eyes. His eyes search over your tired expression, the way the sclera of your eyes is still tinged a slight purple, and the various small cuts across your face. Did he do this? Waves of shame hit him and he can’t bear to meet your gaze.

“Thank goodness you’re awake, Vil,” you murmur down at him. Is this the first time you’ve said his name? It sounds foreign on your lips, and unbearably sweet. Why aren’t you mad at him? Why do you keep looking at him with those unaccusing eyes?

“Oh, Vil.. fair Vil,” Rook sighs in relief, crouching beside you on the rain soaked ruins. Ruins? Vil takes the opportunity to look round the battle site, the upheaved flagstones, the despoiled decorations. Another wave of shame meets him when he notices the haggard faces of his crew (is that Kalim bawling his eyes out? And is that Jamil scolding him?).

“I’m.. sorry you had to see that undignified display,” Vil apologises, making sure each and every one of his words is sincere. He cannot begin to comprehend how much shame he’s feeling at the moment. “Only third-rate people throw temper tantrums and take their problems out on others. My conduct was most unbecoming of all…”

“Y’right about that,” Epel grumbles, but without a trace of actual malicious intent. “Thought ya said people grow out of temper tantrums by the time they’re three?”

“Yes, you’re absolutely right, Epel,” Vil uses your shoulder to haul himself up so he can sit up. You don’t seem to mind, even grabbing on to his wrist to steady him. With another crash of guilt, he realises how your grasp is shaky, no doubt due to your exposure to the curse when you don’t have any sort of natural magic resistance. “I’m no longer fit to be your leader.”

“You haven’t actually hurt anyone, Vil,” Kalim argues. Vil can see him approaching and standing next to where Rook crouches. “You haven’t stepped over that brink.”

“He’s right,” Jamil says, jabbing his thumb in the general direction of outside the coliseum. “Neige is dancing out there happily with the seven dwarfs. It’s a stretch, but we can say we got worked up and had a team brawl in here.”

“Yeah,” Ace interjects. “No way we’re letting you pull out because of a few bruises, after the wringer we’ve been put through.”

“All of you,” Vil feels a horrendous mushy feeling swell up within him. You’re still supporting him with the way you’re steadying his wrist. “You just want to pretend nothing’s happened?”

“I never said that,” Jamil retorts, but his face blooms into his signature smile. “We can just hold off explanations until after the competition.”

“You truly are wicked, Jamil,” Vil replies with a small laugh. It hurts, and he feels his chest contort with pain. Your grip on his wrist tightens and you steady his shoulder with your other hand, clearly not missing the way his face twists into a grimace.

“Here, I’ll help you stand, alright?” you’re surprisingly strong, with the way you unceremoniously (but carefully) haul him up so he stands leaning into your firm touch. Even with your clearly weakened state, you still grip onto him as if he’s the fragile one that isn’t allowed to fall. Vil can’t even bring himself to protest.

“I wasn’t the one who made the shot so strong, Vil was,” Deuce seemingly replies to a conversation Vil’s unconsciously tuned out. “The spell stores all the damage I take, then hits it back all at once. So it was only potent because of Vil’s potent magic.”

Ah. Deuce seems to be describing the final hit Vil can barely remember taking, the one that likely brought him back to the brink of consciousness.

“Don’t make it sound so violent!” Deuce splutters in indignation, and Vil once again realises he’s tuned out. He doesn’t particularly mind, focusing instead on the way you unconsciously seem to tense your muscles against him when shifting, the way you still have that signature chemical smell to you, the way you’re looking directly at him with that expression-

“Signature… You mean that’s my signature spell?” Deuce seems to be coming to a realisation with sparkling eyes. Good on him. Beside him, Ace seems to be coming to an unpleasant realisation with the way he’s incredulously muttering to himself about how he can’t believe Deuce has mastered his signature spell before him.

“Behold, Vil is awestruck and weak-kneed from the splendour of your blow,” Rook proclaims, gesturing to the not-awestruck Vil.

“I’d wager he’s also weak-kneed from something else,” Jamil comments sardonically, looking pointedly at the way you’ve got him in your grasp. Vil only hopes you’ve become suddenly preoccupied with something else.

“No, I’m just beaten head-to-toe,” Vil swiftly retorts. “That last blow did strike soundly, though. Nicely done, Deuce.”

“Thank you, sir!” Deuce smiles at him eagerly. “Although, I don’t know what to do about the wrecked stage.”

“It’s not feasible to fix it all with magic,” Jamil replies pragmatically, looking around him with a calculating expression. “With what power we have left.. Every scenario running through my mind all ends with the same brick wall.”

“Does that mean.. SDC is…” Epel trails off, looking at Jamil with a dawning sense of horror.

“What do we have here?” The new, booming voice is accompanied by green fireflies that send a small shiver down Vil’s spine. What’s he doing here?

“I thought I’d arrive earlier,” Malleus hums with a touch of surprise, surveying the surroundings briefly. “What do I find but a stage laid to waste?”

“Hornton!” you exclaim, and Vil can feel your sternum vibrate through his shoulder. You’re.. acquainted with Malleus Draconia enough to call him nicknames? He can’t even be surprised anymore. “There’s still two hours until the SDC opens!”

“Hornton?” It’s a collective response from the rest of the crew, voicing Vil’s thoughts.

“Do you have a death wish, calling your upperclassman that?” Ace shudders at your audacity.

“Do you even know who that is?” Epel’s shocked voice causes you to blink in surprise at his tone.

“He told me to call him whatever, so I did,” Vil has to stifle a laugh as you shrug. Of course you did.

“However did you get into the coliseum, Roi des Dragons?” Rook sounds positively astonished.

“I was invited by the Child of Man from Ramshackle,” Malleus replies, gesturing to you.

“Yep,” you affirm. Vil feels as though you’re ignoring the other, more pressing question Rook’s asked.

“The entire venue is still enveloped by the poison mist generated by Vil,” Rook’s explanation trails off as Malleus holds up a clawed hand.

“I am impervious to any curse, no matter how powerful,” Malleus takes another look around the wrecked coliseum. “Whatever could’ve happened here?”

Vil watches as you briefly and efficiently describe the events, listening extra hard for the parts where he would’ve been unconscious. It’s curious, the way you don’t let any trace of exhaustion or pain enter your voice. It only takes around two minutes for you to give the gist of the situation to Malleus.

“Children of men, I shall bestow upon you a gift,” Malleus’ words come with an incredible magic pressure that leaves Vil’s eyes wide. He steals a glance at you, and watches your own expression become slack with awe and curiosity.

“That’s Malleus Draconia for you,” Vil murmurs to you. Your brow furrows as you look down at Vil.

“That’s Malleus? Hornton over there was the one everyone was so excited about at the Spelldrive tournament?” you ask incredulously. After all this, you’re still holding on to that nickname? Your eyes dart back to those green fireflies that are somehow lifting all the ruined flagstones and pillars, and rearranging them into pristine condition. Within the space of a few heartbeats, Malleus has managed to restore the conditions of the arena into an exact replica of how they were before.

“He’s ludicrously out of our league,” Ace mumbles in awe. Vil can’t help but agree.

“Thanks a bunch, Hornton!” you beam at Malleus, who stares at you for a brief second before breaking out into chuckles. It’s the first time Vil’s ever heard the fae laugh, but you’re full of surprises as usual.

“Though you know who I am, you still stick to that pet name?” Malleus sounds terribly amused, looking at you as you fumble with an explanation. He interrupts whatever apology is about to leave your lips with another chuckle. “Truly, I do not mind.”

He turns to look at Vil with a resolute expression in his eyes that’s made all the more disconcerting by his piercing green eyes. “I’ve set the stage for you, Schoenheit. I trust you will keep me entertained.”

“I hardly need your urgings to put on my finest performance,” Vil suppresses the wince of pain as he straightens his posture, ignoring the very tangible reality of you still grasping onto him. “Be prepared for a standing ovation.”

“I’ll expect nothing less. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Malleus’ last words fade out with his disappearance. The only traces left behind by him are those green fireflies.

“Lady Luck is truly on our side,” Rook comments after the flashes fade out. “I was hardly expecting Roi des Dragons to appear here.”

Me neither. Though it seems today is a day full of surprises.

Vil leans into your warmth a bit more, and you indulge him. The arm carefully wrapped around him is sure and steady - he wants nothing more than to stay here until the end of time. You don’t ask questions, looking past his shoulder so you can direct the crew to their water. He knows he must let go to perform - it’s highly unusual to see the Vil Schoenheit rely on anyone, even if it’s a little bit. To see him clinging to someone, his rival of all people…

Gingerly, he lets go of you. Your grasp on him is firm to the very end as you let go and make sure he’s not at risk of fainting. The concern you display is almost comedic, but you don’t say anything.

He can feel your eyes burning into his back as he walks away, but he doesn’t look back.

Scene IV: Unopened Missive . 　⁺

Vil supposes it’s comedic as he pours everything he’s got left into the final performance, only to score exactly one point below RSA. It’s always like this; him, exactly one step behind Neige. He can’t fault Neige, anymore, not after he’s come to terms with it. As the thrum of music faded and the flow of performance left him, he was acutely aware of the raucous applause he drew. He did not care. All he was searching for were your eyes.

He’s sure Lady Luck is laughing straight at him as Rook proclaims himself as one of Neige’s biggest fans. What betrayal! Of course this has been added onto the list of surprises. It’s strange; he doesn’t feel the annoyance he’d expect to be simmering through his veins at that moment. It seems he’s let that go.

It’s practically hilarious as he joins Neige on stage to sing an encore. Only scraps of bitterness remain - had Vil not exhausted the whole team earlier, they might have won and took back that one measly vote. He’s accepted that. Still, his frustration is palpable as he leaves his crew to sing with Neige, though not to the audience. His professionalism is the one thing he’s managed to keep up.

“Hey,” your voice breaks him out of the reverie. It’s bizarre, the way you’ve escorted him back to Pomefiore, even though he’s got Rook and Epel to do that. It’s even more bizarre, the way he’s let you gently drag him to his room, where Rook and Epel have already gone back to their own chambers. They already know it’s best to leave him alone when he’s in a bad mood. So why.. why are you still-

The sharp tang of medicinal ointment brings him back to the current situation. You’re poised between his legs as he sits at his vanity, with an assortment of bottles behind you. It’s strangely intimate with the way the soft dusk lighting envelopes you with its mysterious aura. He’s not wearing any makeup, but you don’t seem to care; your gaze caresses his features, laced with only concern.

Please, don’t look at me with those eyes.

“I’m going to begin, alright?” you murmur, searching his eyes for any traces of discomfort. Vil nods wordlessly. The pressure on his chin from one hand of yours is feather light; he finds himself leaning into it slightly. Your other hand lightly brushes over the cuts on his face with the ointment swabbed onto a cotton pad - strangely, it lacks the usual sting which normally elicits a sharp hiss of surprise.

“I made this ointment myself,” you explain after seeing the surprise conveyed in his eyes. Of course you did. In any case, it seems to be working fine, judging by the rapid cooling sensation he’s feeling across his face.

“Why-” Vil begins to ask as you cap the ointment bottle and twist it closed with practised ease. Your hand is still on his face, but he can’t bear to pull away. Not here, in the privacy of his room, where the only eyes upon him are yours. “-why are you still here? Don’t you dislike me?”

You pause in the rummaging you’re doing in your pocket. Vil holds his breath as you turn to him with that contemplative look you wear while figuring out potions.

“I don’t actually dislike you,” you comment matter-of-factly, tilting his face to each side to observe your handiwork. “I’ve got better things to do than spend my energy stewing over you.”

Ouch.

“You still haven’t answered my first question,” Vil’s composure is rapidly slipping down the drain as he remains (quite literally) in the palm of your hand. Your gaze doesn’t falter. “Do you just feel bad for me?”

“No,” you respond idly, still tilting his head this way and that. It’s like watching a cat bat at a toy. “I thought it might be good to have company and rely on someone else for once.”

There’s something else you aren’t saying. It’s unspoken in your eyes and the way your brow makes imperceptible furrows every few minutes. Vil’s breath hitches in his throat slightly.

“Did you-” he’s interrupted by that look, not one of pity, but one of resolute determination.

“Yes, I saw those memories,” you admit. You don’t look at him with an apologetic expression, one that screams pity. It’s a relief. “I didn’t mean to, like at all.”

“It’s fine,” Vil supposes it is fine. You wouldn’t tell anyone, he feels. He watches as your expression shrivels up into one of abject surprise as you feel around in your pocket, drawing out what seems to be a cream-coloured, expensive looking envelope. Vil knows exactly what it is, even as you scan the front quizzically then shrug. Of course. You can’t read the runes.

“It’s the results for the poison assessment,” Vil supplies. Strange. He doesn’t feel any excitement, or fear - it’s bordering on the neutrality of acceptance. It seems you feel the same way, as you just toss the envelope down with disregard onto the vanity and continue your search in your pockets.

“Aha!” your triumphant exclamation leaves him blinking in surprise. Why haven’t you acknowledged the results at all? You brandish another bottle of ointment in front of him excitedly, almost hitting him on the nose due to your very close proximity. “I’ve found the muscle and bone ointment!”

“Aren’t you going to look at the results?” Vil asks incredulously - it slips out before he can even comprehend he’s said it.

“I can’t even read them,” you untwist the ointment with your teeth, leaving tiny dents in the metal cap. “I’ll look at them later.”

The potent tang of nettles permeates the air as you set the open bottle onto the table behind you, letting go of Vil’s face.

“I’m going to need you to undress so I can access your back,” your nonchalant tone makes Vil’s reaction delayed. He can feel the back of his neck heat up at your words. “I heard the nastiest little crunch when Deuce’s spell hit you, so I’m gonna have to check those ribs.”

“Right,” Vil swallows thickly, standing up. Wrong move. You’re much too close now, pressed up against the vanity with him standing right in front of you. His body is brushing up against yours, and he can feel your body heat. Shit. He moves out of the vicinity to the bathroom, with all the composure of a professional actor.

“This ointment’s designed for deeper use than surface level injuries,” you call out behind him. “It’s gonna sting!”

“That’s fine,” Vil responds before shutting his bathroom door. He quickly loosens his shirt, wishing it were your hands doing- His heart pounds in his ribcage as he shuts down the thought. It only takes a minute before his shirt and blazer are both tossed into the laundry basket, all too soon considering the flushed sheen emerging on his face.

One final cursory inspection of his face in the mirror is necessary before he goes out to face you. He’s almost taken aback - not by the lack of makeup which he’s already accustomed to, but the sheer vulnerability within his expression. He looks like such a mess, and you’ve not even commented on it? You’ve just accepted that it doesn’t matter what he looks like; you’re going to treat him the same regardless. It’s a far cry to what he values as his principles.

He pushes open the door hesitantly. His torso is exposed, and he suddenly feels the jarring pangs of shyness. Why now? He’s gone topless for movie scenes before, for Sevens’ sake! Steeling himself, he opens the door completely. You’ve placed the vanity chair by the bed- surely you’re not-

“You can either lie on your stomach here, or sit up on the chair, which might be more uncomfortable,” you explain briefly, rolling up your uniform sleeves as if you’re about to conduct a lab practical. Am I the lab rat? “I’ve picked up a few massage tips here and there, so overall it should be a quite pleasant experience. Of course, if you want to omit the massage-”

“No, it’s fine,” Vil lets out a shaky breath at your nonchalance, gingerly lying on his front on his covers. Jack of all trades, aren’t you? He doesn’t realise just how tense his muscles have been until you press your thumbs into the muscles situated around his scapula. Your hands are coated in some sort of resinous, volatile substance, judging from the brief alcohol fumes flaring up whenever you place your hands down. You were right, there is a sting, but it’s not as sharp as he expected.

Why are you doing this? It’s a question that keeps replaying in his mind’s movie theatre, with the cruel laughing soundtrack interspersed in a tragic loop every few seconds. The two of you aren’t friends, and what you’ve done goes beyond the level of care Vil normally receives from friendship. He can’t complain, not when your warm, rough hands are finally on him, even if it’s to just rub the ointment in.

“Now, I’m no medic,” there’s a faint apology in your tone as you concentrate the ointment into a specific, aching spot. Vil barely registers the sting of pain due to your burning touch. “But I think that your rib’s been bruised at the very least in that spot, and that ointment should’ve healed the worst of it.”

His rapid heart rate distracts him from the loss of body heat from you as you move your hands away from his body. Please don’t stop. He feels a heavy pressure on his right shoulder, and to his surprise it’s the palm of your hand waking him from his reverie.

“I’ll bandage you up just to be sure,” you murmur, shifting your weight from foot to foot and looking around. It’s clear you’re hesitant, maybe due to your lack of experience playing a so-called “doctor”. Still, judging by the way the deep ache within has eased, you’ve done a pretty darn good job, as Epel would no doubt say. “Sit up.”

Vil obeys, gingerly swinging his legs round the bed until he’s sitting, and you’re once again hovering over him as you slip a clean bandage out of its plastic wrapping. He breathes in the comforting warmth of your body heat and repertoire of chemical smells that mask the floral traces on your skin. Don’t you feel the rushed thrum of blood that’s pumping through each vein and each capillary, as you wrap your arms around him to begin winding the bandage?

Is he nothing more than a mere patient to that clinical precision you currently sport?

“What would you have chosen, if you won the poison assessment?” Vil suddenly asks as you clip the bandage into place with a satisfied hum around the middle of his torso.

“Why are you asking as if I lost?” you let out a bemused chuckle, gesturing to the still-very-closed envelope sitting on his vanity. “We don’t know yet.”

“Don’t change the subject,” Vil could melt with the way you’re gazing down at him as he sits with you standing in between his legs. Your sharp eyes contain a warning, one he has no intention of heeding as he presses the subject. “Won’t you tell me?”

“Fine,” your voice rasps slightly as you stoop down to his level. He can’t help but shiver at the sensation of your warm breath rustling past his ear. “Are you really that eager to know?”

“Go on,” Vil almost pleads, and he’s sure you hear the quiet hints of desperation in his voice. Your eyes lock back onto his; he’s slightly regretting asking you as he sees the dangerous glints in your eye. His breath hitches as he realises it’s the same, all-consuming look of seriousness you reserve for your experiments and potions. It’s as if he already knows what your answer will be, with the way his blood excitedly thrums to the surface to respond with an echoing yes.

Please.

The rough pads of your fingers meet his chin again in that gentle grasp as you tilt his head upwards. This is really happening, right? It’s as if he’s in a haze; anticipation of your movements is the only thing breaking him out of it.

“Can I..” you murmur, brushing a thumb over his bottom lip. He holds his breath. Yes. Your mere touch calls forth fireworks to explode in a vibrant cacophony.

“Please,” Vil’s quiet gasp is all the encouragement you clearly need, because the next thing he knows you’ve stepped forward and met his open mouth with yours. The heady taste of woodsmoke and cherry syrup lingering on your tongue is positively intoxicating. He’s not sure, but he can also taste the coppery tang of blood as well. Perhaps it’s from the heat of battle earlier? Regardless, his blood rises in response; he’s sure his face is flushed a deep pink.

You don’t hesitate, leaning his head to the side with your fingers to kiss him deeper and deeper. He groans into your mouth, feeling you smile as you taste his desperation. He positively convulses as he feels your hand trace the bare skin of his side; he’s so vulnerable like this, and he knows you feel it as you press into his body.

Vil gasps for air when you pull back. A string of saliva connects your lips to his; with a start, he realises that your lips are shiny and traced with the purple lipgloss he’s wearing. Your eyes are half-lidded with intensity and some other roiling emotion he can’t place. It makes his breathing even more uneven when he realises he’s made you look like that.

“Like what you see?” even now, traces of rivalry still lace Vil’s tone; he cannot help but provoke you to elicit another reaction. Your gaze slowly travels up and down Vil’s dishevelled appearance, making sure to scour every inch of it. He holds his breath when your lip curls in disdain.

“Please,” your voice rolls deep from your throat with sarcasm. It makes Vil’s blood cells burn with want. The sharp, intense look in your eyes only becomes more turbulent; it’s insanely attractive to be at your mercy.

“Don’t make me laugh-” your fingers curl into his chin more, and Vil can feel the suppressed strength within the grip. Blood is rushing straight down, and he can barely keep track of all the thoughts racing through his head. “-not with the way I’ve seen you almost do flips for my attention, with your one-sided rivalry.”

“Ah-” Vil’s gasp sounds suspiciously like a moan as you move closer, pressing a knee in between his legs inadvertently. You’ve clearly heard it, with the way you furrow your brow and pause your motions.

“Did you-” your eyes fully take in his heavy breathing and the way he’s coming undone from just kissing you. Your question is answered immediately.

“Please, keep going,” Vil pleads, removing one hand from where it’s gripping the sheets to your hip. You swallow thickly, eyes darting between his hand and face.

“You sure you want to continue?” you prompt, eyes settling into that same dangerous glint once again. “I don’t want to aggravate your injuries..”

“Please,” Vil all but begs, seeing the way your eyes glaze over with desire. The hazy, smoky smell of your skin almost acts like an aphrodisiac; he cannot help but be ensnared.

“Alright,” your voice is hushed when you tilt his head upwards to access his jugular, biting into the area slightly with sharp canines. He knows you feel it: the way his pulse jumps erratically beneath your touch. You draw out quiet, hushed gasps with every mark you make on his throat, with every movement of your waist against his bare torso, with every nudge of your knee in between his legs.

More.

He doesn’t even realise he’s slowly rolling his hips against your leg to feel any sort of friction until you press down on his hips with the hand that’s been supporting his shoulder.

“Not so fast,” you breathe against his skin - his back can’t help but arch slightly at the feeling of your breath against his neck. “Allow me to take care of you.”

It’s your words that make him pause in shock; they’re an eerie echo of what you said in his dream. Judging by the lack of change in your expression, you don’t know about it; thank Sevens.

You’re pressing into him, forcing him into the bed on his forearms while you lean in, kissing his mouth feverishly to bring out his gasps and moans. He’s unbearably hard, all the more so because of your knee moving out of reach each time he chases that delicious high. This is better than any dream.

Burning kisses trail their way from below his ear down to his collarbone. He’s suddenly glad for the wonders of concealer as he thinks about the marks you’re leaving. On the other hand, he’s strangely into the idea of people seeing he’s taken by you, so much so that you’re marking him up like this.

“Ah- right there,” Vil can’t suppress the noises he’s making as your lips travel down to his chest. He doesn’t care who hears him; he’s seeing goddamn stars with the way your tongue circles his nipple and your thumb mirrors the action with the other one. The pressure you’re applying deftly is making him intoxicated.

“You look so beautiful like this,” your fingers glide over the neatly wrapped bandages on his chest, trailing down to his waist. He doesn’t think it’s possible for his heart to beat any more erratically without thumping straight out of his chest. Is he really sure that you haven’t magically seen his dreams? After all, you’ve seen his memories. He waits with bated breath for your next move, not realising that you’ve already positioned yourself to hover between his thighs with a small grin on your face.

“Mind if I take these off?” you hook your thumbs around the tailored trousers he’s wearing. It takes considerable self-restraint to not tell you to just rip them off.

“Go ahead,” it’s a wonder that his voice doesn’t crack from the sheer pressure of what he’s feeling at the moment. Your grin is all edges as you efficiently unzip the front and slip the pants off. It seems that he’s surprised you when you look down at his smooth legs with your eyebrows slightly raised, taking in the fact that he’s wearing sheer black stockings to his mid thigh underneath his pants.

“All for me?” you run your fingers down his legs appreciatively, feeling the soft material underneath your fingers with an even sharper grin than before. Vil can’t help but shiver at the feather-light touches you give, contrasted sharply with the jagged vertices of your smile.

All for you.

It’s as if you can read his thoughts. You’re once again hovering between his legs, spreading them with nothing more than a gentle push. The touches you leave on his legs feel almost possessive; he cannot help but adore it. Will he be the only one seeing that expression on your face? He wants to be the only one, the only one to see the tumultuous desire warp and thrash within the glints in your eyes. It’s a far cry from your usual composure.

Sticky residue from his lipgloss is left on his soft inner thighs as you press kiss after kiss to the skin. He can feel desire pulse through you with every bruising mark you leave. It entrances him. The unspoken words you leave him are more than enough to assure him that even like this, with all his bruises and scrapes and tears, he’s beautiful.

Your hands slowly ease his underwear off; the cold air on the sensitive skin makes him hiss slightly, but it quickly turns into a gasp as you leave kisses in the crook of the skin connecting his thigh to his pelvis.

“I’m going to absolutely ruin you,” you promise quietly. The ravenous look in your eyes doesn’t subside as you gaze at him from between his legs. He can’t help but let out a small groan at your words. What would his fans say if they saw him, lying so pliant for his supposed academic rival?

One of Vil’s hands fly up to his face to muffle the moans escaping his lips when your thumb circles his slit, made all too easy by the flow of pre-cum from his dick. The other hand is left desperately clutching at the sheets of his bed as his hips involuntarily buck upwards into your hand.

“Uncover your pretty mouth,” you slowly twist your hand down, all while gazing at his flushed face. He’s already seeing stars at the friction and can barely register his hand leaving his mouth to grip the sheets. “I want to hear how good I’m making you feel.”

He can only hope that his door is soundproofed from the obscene noises leaving him as you pick up the pace. It’s not enough. Your hand moves away each time the haze of pleasure builds up, leaving him chasing after your touch. He’s sure he looks an absolute mess right now with the way tears are leaving his eyes and his brow has the sheen of sweat; you clearly don’t care as you lithely move upwards to kiss him. The cool fabric of your clothes presses into his bare skin, making him feel incredibly exposed to you.

You’re still moving with that teasing pace as you swallow down his moans. It’s unbearable, all the more so because you’re still covered in your uniform. He almost sobs in relief when your hand picks up speed and the pleasure starts steadily building in his stomach. His hips desperately grind into your hand and you let him, let him come undone with your touch and quiet praises. He’s close; the dopamine is flooding through his veins and all he can focus on is the way you touch him, the way you’re currently kissing his jaw and leaving more marks on his neck, the way you’re coaxing such obscene sounds from both his throat and from the skin on skin friction.

It builds and builds and builds, until all he can fathom is saying your name over and over, as if he’s some devout worshipper invoking some otherworldly being. He lets go, feeling the way you slow down to allow him to ride out the climax. Only white-hot pleasure courses through his mind, fading out more slowly than usual. He kisses you feverishly, feeling the warm skin on the nape of your neck as he pulls you in closer and closer. You’re now lying side by side on his bed, with you pressed up against him wearing your despoiled clothes, ones that have been despoiled by him.

“You’re removing your clothes as well, I hope?” his gaze trails down your body, looking at the offending uniform that you’re wearing. It’s a wonder he’s managed to form a coherent statement. Still, it’s only fair that you also remove the fabric with those deft hands like you did to those tailored trousers he was wearing.

“Right,” your gaze softens, moving your hands away from his body. His brows furrow with a question as he watches the hand sticky with cum approach your face- oh my. A scarlet flush blooms on his cheeks as you use your tongue to clean your hand up, before using it to lazily remove your blazer and vest. You don’t give them a second glance as you toss the clothes on the floor. The warmth you’re emitting is all the more palpable as only a thin buttoned shirt separates your skin from his. It’s incredibly attractive, watching your languid movements as you discard the shirt off to the side as well as your trousers.

The feeling of your bare skin on his shouldn’t elicit such a burning reaction from him, but it does; he groans as you lean back to slowly kiss him, feeling the way your body heat envelopes him without any barriers. He’s acutely aware of all the points your skin brushes against him - it’s insanely addicting. You’re kissing him without a care in the world, judging by the way you lazily cradle his face with your hands. He’s so malleable under your touch, so starved of affection that he’s wrapped around your pinky finger. He’s sure you can feel the way his skin flushes with a simmering heat.

The blue hour soaks you both in the gloom as your hands press him closer and closer, until he can barely distinguish where he ends and you begin. Is this what it means to become one, united in flesh?

Does he look beautiful to you like this?

He knows he does. He knows he does when you reverently trail down with your kisses, settling between his thighs again to fill him up with your fingers. He knows he does as you feverishly coax those angelic moans out of him; your eyes are blazing with desire for him. He knows he does as you draw out his climax for as long as you can so wave after wave of pleasure can keep hitting him.

It’s late evening when the two of you fall asleep, tangled together and worn out.

The letter on the vanity lies forgotten; Vil doesn’t particularly care about the results when he already feels your equal.

Scene V: Closing . 　⁺

“Goodness, trickster,” Rook’s exclamation when you emerge in the Pomefiore lounge room in the morning thankfully goes unnoticed by the few students milling about. “Our dorm uniform looks simply ravishing on you.”

“Yeah, mine got quite ruined from yesterday’s events,” your voice sounds raspy as you try to sell your act to Rook, who’s positively cooing over you. What a little prankster. Vil can’t help but glance at you from his favourite armchair. As the culprit responsible for ruining your uniform, he of course had to lend you a uniform. Still, you do look rather good in it.

“Don’t tell me you slept over and didn’t tell me?” Rook plasters a look of mock-hurt on his face, and Vil implores you to shut your mouth for once and put on the best act of your life.

“Something like that,” your expression is innocent, with the exception of your raised eyebrows. You don’t look at Vil at all as you smile at Rook, who’s unfortunately glanced over at Vil, scrutinising him with that disgustingly perceptive look.

“Does that explain the bruises on his neck?” Vil chokes on his smoothie hearing the hunter’s whisper. Of course he forgot something this morning. Of all days.

“Whatever could you mean?” you inquire nonchalantly, straightening the ironed collar of the uniform.

“Oh my,” Rook’s eyes are as wide as saucers as his gaze swivels between you and Vil. It’s rare to see him this gleeful. “You two totally slept-”

“I’m going to need you to shut it, Rook,” you cover the offender’s mouth abruptly before he can say anything more. You’re not denying it though, looking back at Vil with a wicked grin on your face.

Shit.

#vil schoenheit #vil x reader #twst #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #vil schoenheit x reader #gender neutral reader #twst x reader #res ･ﾟ writing #slowd1ving #x reader #x gender neutral reader

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changbunnies · 1 year ago

Text

Crave, Part 1 (18+)

♡ Pairing: Romantic Demon!Hyunjin x Human Fem!Reader

♡ Genre: supernatural au, demon au, age gap relationship typical in monster fucker fics, intended to be porn with plot but atm there is more plot than porn lol

♡ Word Count: 3.6k

♡ Summary: "The more a thing is perfect, the more it feels pleasure and pain." - Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy. In which Hyunjin, a demon from the nine circles of hell, finds himself impossibly infatuated with the very human he once set upon himself to destroy.

♡ Warnings: don’t read if you’ll be uncomfortable over talks about religion from the perspective of a demon!, themes of sexual purity in the context of religion, a lot of immoral behavior and thoughts + ideas from hyunjin, supernatural abilities, themes of possesiveness, the seven deadly sins are brought up multiple times, hyun is thousands of years old so take that as you will lol, hell's structure is based off dante alighieri's depiction of it in the divine comedy but knowledge of it isn't necessary to enjoy this fic!

♡ Smut Warnings (contains spoilers): there isn't really any overt smut in this first part it's more like referenced sexual activity, masturbation, voyeurism (hyun is watching reader while they're unaware he is there), porn watching

♡ Notes: after receiving feedback, i'll now be posting my long fics in multiple parts as i finish them like i do on ao3 instead of waiting until it's finished to post here! i'm taking a break from my royal au series to finally write out this fic i've had rattling in my brain since last september but never got around to writing until this past month :') idk how long this will be in the end but i'm planning at least 3 parts! i hope you stick around till the end <3

♡ Disclaimer: please read responsibly, and remember that this work is fiction and meant strictly for imaginative fun. the idols used in fics are more accurately faceclaims and personality outlines for imaginary characters, and should not be interpreted as factual representations of existing people.

There are many things in this world, the world of humans, that even a monster such as Hyunjin was born to desire. A primal want, weaved into the very fabric of his being, designed to be etched into his soul- if he had one, that is. That is what initially brought him here; the heart of one of the world's most populated cities, his territory an otherwise unoccupied luxury suite in one of the many skyrises that line the bustling streets.

It was an ideal place to be; there wasn't much in the way of furniture, given that it's a new development with no human occupants, but the amenities it held were sleek and pristine. High windows that overlooked the entirety of the city rife with sin from what was nearly the top floor, marble countertops that screamed sophistication and elegance, and well equipped with security of both the physical and digital kind to keep out those who may want to chase the thrill of wandering where they do not belong. Hyunjin, who could simply float about wherever he wished, had no need for human things like beds or sofas.

In this space, he already had everything he needed- an ideal vantage point, isolation from the world until he himself chose to interact with it, and easy access to the myriad of damned soul that walked the streets beneath him. It was perfect, and it was his- until you showed up.

Hyunjin was no stranger to dealing with potential renters overtaking his territory- it was only natural for those with wealth to be ready to spend a fortune on the newest availble luxury apartment that catches their eye. While Hyunjin had never once been seen; he was certainly known; rumors abound of an evil presence in suite 13, that left even non-believers fleeing in terror, leaving as quickly as they came. "Evil" felt a bit extreme of a description from Hyunjin's perspective, but what would humans truly understand of him?

He always felt as if his actions were completely justified; after all, why should a being with immense power such as him bend to the will of a measely human whose life was akin to a grain of sand in the desert of immortality that was his own lifespan? Regardless of his justifications and thoughts on what is evil and what isn't, he welcomed the fear humans have towards him- it made his life easier if they feared him and stayed far from his domain.

And yet here you were, seemingly ignorant of the fearful reputation this apartment held (not that he expected that the building's landlord would have informed you of it, of course- their only goal is money, at the end of the day.) Hyunjin didn't care for the rules of humans- whether or not you'd supplied the necessary money to purchase your way here or were deserving of it made no difference to him. It was his until he decided otherwise, and you were trespassing on his territory by being here.

When he'd first arrived back after a long outing back in his home within the second circle of the nine hells, only to see you filling his space with your things, walking about the apartment as if you owned it, blissfully unaware of his presence- it was infuriating. He had half a mind to scare you out right then, forever scar you by showing you his true form, send you running as he'd done to countless before you who tried to be here. But no, that wouldn't be enough. It would be letting you off too easily for his liking; this was different than scaring off someone who might intrude on his home- you already had.

What he wanted was more than his territory back- he wanted to make you suffer the most egregious torment one could ever endure for intruding on it, something far worse and much harsher than whatever a demon below his stature could muster. You deserved worse than that of mild terror, or to be able to flee from his space without repercussions for your transgression. No, he would only take back what was his after he'd turned your mind into a den of paranoia and hysteria. You needed to know true terror, true loss, true suffering, by his hand.

So he settled for observing you- it would be a longer process, one that could easily take months to reach true fruition, but the reward would be well worth his patience. He watched carefully, intently, his presence always concealed but unmistakably there. You would feel it sometimes, unbeknownst to yourself. A sudden chill up your spine, the subtle feeling of being watched making you turn your head, only to be met with nothing unusual in your line of sight. Funny, how humans were so attuned to the supernatural while simultaneously being so oblivious to their reality.

Your routines became committed to his memory, your every step and every action becoming increasingly familiar to him. Boring at times, but necessary if he wanted to learn the ins and outs of what makes you you, taking in every detail and memorizing them fully, so that when the day comes for him to turn your life into a miserable tragedy, forming you into a shell of who you once were, you'd have to beg him for forgiveness, for his mercy.

What were your fears? He'd easily make them reality. What did you hate? He'd make sure you suffered it. What broke your heart? He'd subject you to that pain over and over, until your heart was left shattered into a million, microscopic pieces. And it was only then, when you were mentally destroyed, the lowest you could ever possibly be and unrecognizable in your despair, that he'd appear before you, triumphant as he made you apologize for ever having stepped foot in his domain.

But as he observed you, he came to realize something strange- something he had never once found himself thinking about a human before. You were so... good, the closest to perfection a human could ever possibly be. And not perfect by the bullshit puritan standards set by the "heavenly creator," because you were as touched by sin as any human is, but perfect to him specifically.

Your sins were few and far between, with only one making a substantial impact on your purity; but it was the most important, most delicious sin of them all, the one that made Hyunjin's body seethe with delectable desire. You weren't envious, nor greedy or gluttonous; you lived in a luxurious penthouse suite, that was true, but greed to have the best of everything isn't what brought you here. The pride you felt for your accomplishments didn't go anywhere near sinful levels- you were proud of yourself, but not in such a way that you looked down on others while you sat atop your high horse.

You weren't slothful, brought to your current position by your own hard work and tireless efforts, and you weren't wrathful either, your emotions toward your fellow man always sweet, compassionate, and gracious. That only left one sin- just one that impacted your soul, that barred you from reaching true, godly purity.

Lust.

It wasn't an unhealthy amount of lust by any means, but any at all is enough to damn an unmarried woman's soul if she gives in to the temptation- an unfair ruling that has cost many their rightful place in paradise. And you certainly did give in to your temptation, and that is what made you perfect to him. You had none of the avarice of other humans, none of the undesirable qualities that made them foolish and arrogant and insufferable to deal with, instead held closely by one desire, the most important desire.

Was it a coincidence, he wondered? That he, a demon born of lust himself, found one such human that seemed to adhere perfectly to what he enjoys most? Hyunjin often felt himself above that of the sins his brothers were born to pursue. Violence did not suit him, emotions such as greed, pride, and jealousy often went beyond his comprehension. And not because he was some lowly, ignorant creature who was only capable of thinking with his dick, but because those feelings simply never came to him to begin with.

What was there to be jealous of? If he wanted something, he could have it, he could take it, as simple as that. Was he prideful? Sure, one could say he was, say that he had an ego, but he would argue that there was a clear difference between the arrogance that often comes with pride, and simply having confidence in one's own abilities and joy in their accomplishments.

He knew he could feel other emotions, indulge in other sins, if his brothers' conquests and actions were any tell, but he simply.. didn't. Lust was all he knew, was all that he enjoyed, but at the same time, he wasn't some low level demon who was consumed by lust. No, he could control it quite easily if he wished, was more than capable of waiting for the most ideal moment to finally savor in the addictive dance two bodies can share. (Or more than two bodies, should one prefer that.)

Lust was all he ever knew, but unlike the sex-starved beasts he ruled over and observed in his circle within hell, he was very much in control of himself. Make no mistake, it never went away, he always felt the gnawing craving for more and more and more- but it never addled his mind. That was the perk of being a demon with a higher consciousness than that of say.. an imp. He had complete control of his compulsions and desires.

It was this control over himself that led to Hyunjin savoring the lust that poured from human souls in only the most ideal conditions. There were many different kinds of lust, each with their own "taste" so to speak, and while Hyunjin found them all enjoyable to at least some degree, there was one in particular that was the most intoxicating to him, one that never failed to light a fire within him, the one that was always, always, worth waiting for.

The lust between two lovers, whose care for eachother was true, and good, and special- such as you would see from couples sleeping together for the first time, full to the brim with nervous excitement. Or maybe from long-time lovers reigniting their spark with a romantic night spent together after a warm, candlelit date. Especially delectable was the sweet consummation after making an eternal promise under God to be together forever, in sickness and in health, 'til death do you part. Those are just a few examples of the sort of lust that gave Hyunjin the best, sweetest taste.

The irony of being an immoral entity who gained the most enjoyment out of love and romance wasn't lost on him, but his preferences weren't built on some misconceived notion that he could aspire to feel those things himself. Yes, Hyunjin knew he would never feel the human emotion that was love, but he could understand, at least on a superficial level, why it tasted so sweet, and why humans seemed to fight for that feeling above all else.

Perhaps he existed to be a hypocrite, sowing seeds of chaos and turmoil while valuing true love, contradicting that which humans believed they knew about demons of lust such as himself. After all, was it not the very nature of a demon to confuse, contradict, and twist the human condition? And was it not utterly against his being to indulge in a feeling that was considered sacred by God? It didn't matter either way; if there was one thing that Hyunjin knew for certain, it was that sweet tastes were the best, and it didn't matter where it originated from or how- he just knew he liked it.

And oh, how his proverbial heart jolted when he sensed it on you the first time he saw you touching yourself. It was a surprise when, after a long day of unpacking and arranging furniture, you let your hand travel sinfully between your legs with a heady sigh- and far be it from Hyunjin to deny himself the opportunity to feed on a human's lust when it's practically being delivered to him on a silver platter. You hadn't been touching yourself for long, barely got your panties down your legs when he tasted it- subtle, but familiar enough to Hyunjin that he could recognize it anywhere.

It was hard to explain the sweet taste in human terms- there were really no words that could come close to describing it, as the "flavor" itself didn't exist within human understanding. Suffice it to say, it was something entirely unique to his kind, and something any demon would be able to distinguish with ease should they be in close enough proximity. It was unmistakable- you loved someone. That was information that could serve him well, something that he should be delighted to know he could ruin you with. And yet, for the first time in all his thousands of years, the feeling of lustful love left a bitter taste on his tongue.

You were in love.. And you envisioned that person while your fingers were buried between your legs, as you bit your lip and made your eyes roll to the back of your skull. Who was it? Why did you love them? Were they even deserving of someone as perfect as you? Did they deserve to touch you? To feel you? Hyunjin grit his teeth, fists clenching into tight balls as an unfamiliar feeling began to permeate through the entirety of his being.

Is this.. what envy feels like? A rage beyond comprehension at the thought of someone else having you when it should be him? He should be the one you desired to have touching you, the one you imagined marking your unmarred skin, the one who made you cry out and tremble with even the simplest of touches. Would they even indulge in the sweet taste you radiate like he would? Would they even understand what perfection it is you offer simply by being? His, you should be his, only his, his, his.

The realization hit Hyunjin like cold water over hot skin- he wants you. And not just for one night, not superficially, not with needing to part ways afterwards. He wants you to love him, wants the feeling of love-drenched lust that radiates off you to be because of him, wants you to belong to him and him alone. You don't know him yet, but you will. And he'll make sure you're left wanting him, and only him, by any means necessary. Because it's what he wants, and he always gets what he wants.

Hyunjin wants to say it's simple curiosity that leads him to carefully stealing your phone off your nightstand once you've fallen asleep, or that's acting with the desire to know how to ruin the target of his ire more succinctly, but that simply isn't true. No, he is scrounging through your phone not with the intent to learn your greatest fears and hates, nor does he scour your messages to discover your darkest secrets.

It's a different purpose that has led him here, an unfamiliar ache that drives him to search your phone for something more. In hindsight, going through your phone to learn about you is a simple, easy act he could've, should've, done already, but he's a bit of a traditionalist in that regard. (Or maybe he just doesn't want to admit how much he's liked watching you these past few weeks.)

Who is that you love? And why? It would've been easier for him to find out had you truly let yourself go, allowed yourself to be loud and moan their name to your heart's content, but you hadn't. And maybe that was a good thing, as hearing someone else's name leave your lips in such a moment would've definitely sent him into a dangerous hate spiral, but that also meant he was left with nothing to go on as a clue.

He was much too stunned, and then seething with anger and jealousy, to read your thoughts in the moment, and if he tried to do so now, while you were sleeping, all he would do is catch a glimpse of your dreams- not helpful in the slightest, unless you happen to be dreaming of the object of your desire. (Which you weren't. He already looked.)

Unlocking your phone is easy, as he's seen you put in your password several times over at this point. Unfortunately for him however, (and fortunate for the one undeserving of Hyunjin's wrath,) he finds nothing that makes the object of your affection explicitly obvious. Your texts with friends all use the same tone, you talk about mundane things like what movies are coming out or how you wish you could go on a vacation for a while.

Your photo gallery is relatively small, filled mostly by screenshots of things you wish to remember or keep for a laugh, and the occasional selfie. There's nothing that screams "this is the person i'm in love with!" no matter where in your phone he looks, and if it wasn't for how intensely he felt the emotion radiating from you as your fingers sped up and release built, he'd think he must have imagined it.

What interesting this he does find, however, are the differen't porn links littered through your incognito tabs, all that paint a very vivid picture of what you find most appealing, or in more vulgar terms, what gets your pussy really fucking wet. He skims through your collection of favorites and private bookmarks, and quickly comes to realize they all hold a similar theme- love, romance, and doms who are soft even when being rough with the sub's body or speaking condescending words.

Various videos and audio files, with titles such as "roommate gets railed after confessing her secret feelings," "pov: boy next door accidentally confesses and then fucks you passionately," and "soft dom makes his good girl cum hard: boyfriend asmr." There's even an entire erotic movie, much to Hyunjin's surprise, with a 2 hour run time and dedicated plot in your recent bookmarks.

He decides to watch it, for research purposes of course- what better way to get to know the object of his desire than by watching the porn she consumes for himself? It's rather generic as far as ideas go- childhood best friends confessing their love before going away to college, with sweet, sensual but desperate fucking and a promise they'll be in love no matter the distance put between them. A cliché plot, by human media standards.

However, he has to give it due props- it's obviously not an amateur production. It's acted well, has better cinematography than one might expect for a film produced by a porn studio, and the dialogue never crosses into cringe, overtly fake territory. Despite it all, something about it feels real, as if he'd taken a genuine glimpse into the lives of two young people in love, rather than a manufactured video meant to make the people who watch it unbearably horny.

Hyunjin continued through your collection after that, eager to see what other gems lied in your favorites, waiting to be watched by him. They're all the same fundamentally speaking, your preferences and biases easily shining through with each video watched and audio listened to. Emotionally charged, romantic confessions, sweet "i love you"s, soft, caring doms who take good care of the submissive one, making them feel desired, beautiful, and secure.

The person you're in love with, the one who lingers in your mind when you watch these videos and your hand travels between your legs- this is what you want them to do. You want them to love you passionately, to make you fall apart in the sweetest of ways, to take care of you so well that your thoughts can linger on nothing but the way they make you feel. You want them to sweetly tell you they love you while they fuck you, to speak filthy words in your ears in a soft, saccharine voice as they make you cum. To fuck you dumb, to ruin you, and then expertly put you back together with a tender touch.

Carefully, he puts your phone back in its place, looking at you once he's done, still sound asleep in your bed and without a clue in the world that there's a demon standing before you, close enough to touch. You've lived with Hyunjin for weeks now, but you don't know who he is, don't know that he's there, don't know that you have unexpectedly become the reason for a demon's strange and new complex emotions. Isn't it funny? How a demon as powerful as him has become infatuated with you despite you not even knowing he exists.

It's illogical to desire you, truly. Humans are fickle, subject to corruption and irrationality, their lives impossibly short. What one man works his entire life to obtain, Hyunjin can have in mere moments with a fraction of the effort. To a being that has lived thousands of years, the life of a human happens in a mere blink. You grow old, you get sick, you die, your accomplishments fade to nothing, forgotten as the next wave of humans walk the earth in your stead. You're beneath him, he's better than you, and yet..

Why does he still crave you so? Maybe he's no better than the humans he's looked down upon, considering them lesser for their innate hypocrisies and irrational actions- because Hyunjin is about to do just the same. His feelings for you are hypocritical, irrational, foolish, but also the most real thing he's ever felt. And if it's romance you want, that will make you fall head over heels for him, then he'll be the most romantic demon the nine hells have ever known.

#skz x reader #hyunjin x reader #skz smut #hyunjin smut #skz imagines #skz scenarios #mdni + divider graphic credit: @cafekitsune

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bluedragonfairy2000 · 4 months ago

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A few days ago I mentioned having and idea for a hermitcraft/life series/empires au based off of some songs that I have been listening to lately. Now while I didn’t get much feedback on the idea I figured after having a few days to mull it over I might as well post it since even if it doesn’t get a lot of love, I’ll never know until I post it and it would be a good to free up some head space before going back to school. Though I do want to thank the people who did like it as I really appreciate it! It kept me from scraping the idea all together.

Given how long the story is turning out to be I might break it into parts to make it more manageable to read. It will probably be at least three parts with the synopsis being the first part, the prologue/background being a second part, and the actual story being the third part. I will break up the story more if I think it needs it, and I will link all of them here

Synopsis (Here), Prologue, Story

Ok first off! This au is inspired by multiple songs! So I am going to quickly give a shout out to them and their creators.

Tower of Ai by Hitoshizuku x Yama and animatic by Kaurnival.

Daughter of Evil by Mothy, revenge version English cover by JubyPhonics

The Court Jester by Joe Swensen, Featuring Fukase.

The King by Rosendale

The Lonely Prince by Rosendale

Fairy King by Rosendale

The Pond by Rosendale

Elements of Royalty au:

Most of the prologue is based off of Tower of Ai by Vocaloid and animatic by Kaurnival. As it features most of the life series group. (i.e. Grian, Scott, Pearl, Scar, Bdubs, Joel, Gem, Cleo, Lizzie, and Jimmy). Beyond this point is spoilers for the Tower of Ai song as well as basic run though of what the story for this au will be. So go watch/listen if you don’t want to be spoiled before you see/hear it.

Prologue:

I will go more in detail when I write the Prologue for this au but basically the world where these characters live has fallen into ruin because The Ancient Builders wanted to stop relying on the Watchers to protect them. Since the cost of the Watcher’s protection was that selected people would have to fight in death games. In response to that when the next time the Watcher’s became bored the next time they just threw every natural disaster in the book at them. When it seemed like everyone was going to die the Watcher’s decided to send a prophecy that chosen person (Grian) could go retrieve 9 gifts that relate to the world and restore the balance, but he would have to travel to a tower at the ends of the earth to do so. Not wanting to go alone Grian asked around and Scott, Pearl, Scar, Bdubs, Joel, Gem, Cleo, Lizzie, and Jimmy were the only ones who would go with him. As they travel the group gets extremely close as they face dangerous situations together and only survive thanks to their friendship. Once they finally reach the tower Grian goes to relieve the first gift only for Scott to come in at the last second and steal it. This sets up a pattern where each of the nine people who came with Grian steal one of the nine gifts Grian was supposed to receive In the end Grian is left alone feeling betrayed and like he failed to save the world. Climbing up the tower he finds that the nine gifts are actually waiting for him there and it’s revealed that this was all an elaborate trick set up by the Watchers. The Watchers had sent all of the others a vision of what would happen if Grian took the gifts. Basically the original gifts were traps, and whoever took them would be killed as a kind of sacrifice to reveal the real gifts. So each member of the group decided to sacrifice themselves in hopes that once the real gifts had been revealed that Grian would be able to use them and save the world. None of them informed Grian of this as they knew he would try to stop them if he found out what they were doing. Each of the members of the group died in a way that related to each gift. Scott drowned, Pearl was burned alive, Scar basically had all of the water drained out of him a dehydrated, Bdubs went insane and since the song doesn’t make this clear probably died of sleep deprivation or disappeared all together. Joel was torn apart by vines, Gem was struck down by lightning, Cleo was torn apart by blades of wind, Lizzie froze to death, and Jimmy was consumed by lava. When Grian receives the true gifts he also gets to witness what happened to his friends as well as being shown why they did this. At this Grian is devastated as now even if he does manage to save the world he will have to do it without his friends and the he was basically the cause of their demise. So in misery he tries to fulfill his friends last wish to bring their world back to glory all the while mourning the lost of those he held dearest.

This is basically where the Tower of Ai ends and my au begins. This story was created when I tried to figure out the the other members of the life series (Ren, Martyn, Etho, Impulse, Skizz, Tango, and Mumbo) would fit in, and they would possibly met the other members of life smp if they had all died. So I’m this au when Grian tries to restore the world his desire for his friends to be alive is stronger than his desire to fix a already decaying world. So the Watchers run with that and offer to fulfill his desire since he won their game. When he agrees the world that the group has lived in fades away and all the people basically have quick painless death as they fade into oblivious. When Grian gets angry and confused at what the Watcher have done they explained that his desire was for his friends to be alive and since their souls were now trapped in the gifts they bestowed upon him they had to clear away the old world in order to create a new one where his friends could be alive. Grian is stunned to hear this but before he can do anything the Watchers take the gifts and use them to create the new world. In the process each member of the group is revived as they become the immortal spirit of their element.

Scott becomes the spirit of water able to control the ocean, rain and anything else made of water.

Pearl becomes the spirit of fire with her dog Tilly (who is going to be with her in the full story) as the embodiment of smoke.

Scar becomes the spirit of light, able to not only control light but magic and luck as well (gambling man)

Bdubs becomes the spirit of darkness, able to control the monsters of the night.

Joel becomes the spirit of the earth, able to create massive earthquakes.

Gem becomes the spirit of lightning, usually only showing up during stormy weather.

Cleo becomes the spirit of the winds, able to guide ships along their course.

Lizzie becomes the spirit of ice and snow, able to create blizzards.

Jimmy becomes the spirit of lava, he doesn’t have a vary big role in the overworld but with a new nightmarish dimension added into this world he had dominion over the nether.

Grian is overjoyed to see his friends alive again but the he stops when he realizes that while the Watchers did make a new world they didn’t put him in it. They instead left him on the remains of his old world which was just a singular tower on a floating island in the void. The Watcher’s tell him that as compensation for having to take his gifts away they we give him three new ones. The first is the remains of his old home which they refer to as the End dimension, the second is the ability to have control of death in the new world they created. However this will make him unable to visit the new world as since he is the embodiment of death now if he goes there the world will wither away at his presence. Lastly they give him the gift of being able to Watch over his friends for all eternity. With that the Watchers leave grian to his cruel fate. Forever knowing his friends are alive but being just out of reach of them as he sit in a dead world.

This is where the main story kicks in. After centuries have past the rest of our main cast (Ren, Martyn, BigB, Etho, Impulse, Skizz, and Mumbo) are born into the world that was created by Grian’s wish. I won’t go too in depth here since this post is already long enough. The last things I will cover is this first Mumbo won’t be making a appearance until late into the story. I have a good role for him it just won’t show up till later. Secondly Tango isn’t initially a blaze hybrid. I know that odd but I have a good reason! The only people who are initially hybrids are Ren and Martyn. Lastly I have been really into Fabric Fsntasy SMP so for this au Martyn with be a Ice Dragonborn.

Main Story Synopsis:

Prince Ren had been on the brink of death after being kicked out of his kingdom by his greedy father and his ruthless citizens. If he hadn’t accidentally stepped into Martyn cave he probably would have given up long ago and just let himself be consumed by the elements. As it was now though he and Martyn had found a surprisingly loyal group of companions and were spending their days traveling the land and hunting down new and exciting challenges. It had been months since his exile and Ren could honestly say he had never been happier. While he still held onto a few fond memories of his time growing up his fathers castle, deep down he had known that the kingdom hadn’t been his home in some time, if it ever was to begin with. He had easily discarded the idea of trying to go back and reclaim his thrown, However, after months of nomadic lifestyle and dungeon crawling he was starting to become desperate for a sense of stability for not just him but the companions he had made during his exile. With the only skills he had being the ones taught to him as the crown prince, Ren was unsure how to give his new friends the comfortable life he desired for him. So in a bid that was probably caused but what little bit of childhood naivety hadn’t been stamped out by father he made a wish on a falling star that he could be given the powers to create a paradise where he and his friends could live out the rest of their days in peace. Unfortunately for Ren there were forces out there that had been Watching over him for some time. Hearing his wish They decided to grant it but in a way that he would come to regret.

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shinonome-akito-vbs · 1 month ago

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hey there you’re getting ethan nakamura lore from percy jackson and the olympians hot book series written by rick riordan because i need to cope and i have autism and my hyperfixations are so CR詠ZY that once i’m obsessed over something i will be obsessed until i turn thirtyseven years old and also because i quite like you and ethan nakamura and i would very much like it if my favorite pjsk character knew about my favorite percy jackson character

so where do i start. okay. let’s start on ethan nakamura right guys? yeah. so i have been hyperfixating on this stupid guy for years. it started when i was like nine or ten. when i read the first book he appeared in (the battle of the labyrinth fyi.) i was like “wow, what a silly dude. i quite like him.” boy oh boy was that just the beginning. hot diggity dog have i become an ethan nakamura superfan. keep in mind this boy had like atleast thirteen mentions in the series, tops. i was living off CRUMBS.

ethan first came to camp half-blood (the place where demigods [half god half human] go to train) with a satyr, those ugly half goat half human things. except grover. he’s not ugly. he was left unclaimed, meaning his godly parent, nemesis (goddess of retribution), did not claim him as her son. ethan felt like he was being ignored, and felt irritated because of this. this was what fueled him to join the titan army, aka kronos’ army (kronos is the evil titan dude who wants to kill the greek gods.) one day, ethan met his mother nemesis, who told him that in exchange for his left eye, he would some day balance the world’s power. ethan willingly gave her his left eye and covered it up with a black eyepatch.

!!!spoilers after this part perchance….!!!

ethan first appears in the battle of the labyrinth, the fourth book. percy (main character obviously), annabeth (percy’s stupid girlfriend i love her), grover, and tyson all travelled to the labyrinth (the labyrinth is a maze if you can remember) with a mortal girl named rachel elizabeth dare who could see through the mist (a spell thing that makes it so that humans are unable to see what demigods can see; monsters, swords, etc.) rachel accidentally leads the four into antaeus’ arena, where percy was forced to fight a dracaena. after defeating it, he then moved on to fight ethan nakamura. this is when he is first introduced. who cheered. i did. i cheered. ethan, despite lacking a left eye, had good swordsmanship and was able to attack well. however, his heavy greek armor tired him out quickly, and percy ended up defeating him. though, he spares his life. okay blah blah blah percy fights antaeus then percy, rachel, annabeth, grover, tyson, and ethan run away from the arena. ethan refuses their help like the boyboss he is and returns to the arena, where the titan army was. in a later chapter, ethan is seen resurrecting the titan lord, kronos. percy thinks of ethan as a traitor because of this. during the fifth and final book, the last olympian, ethan on the princess andromeda, a ship where the titan army stays. percy, accompanied by charles beckendorf (a hephaestus kid [greek god of fire and inventing.] y’know rui kamishiro would totally be a hephaestus son), board the ship and set off bombs in an attempt to temporarily set back the army. they both get captured, but charles sacrifices himself by detonating the bombs whilst percy jumps off board. i miss charles, but that’s another lore dump for another day. did you know…. ethan nakamura survives the explosion…. no? yeah, he did!!!!!!!!! who cheered!!! i did!!! ethan is then seen again when manhattan (new york, olympus is located in the empire state building in the book) is under attack by kronos’ army and the demigods are left to defend the camp. at the time, percy had bathed in the river styx, the same river that achilles bathed in to gain his strength, but percy’s weak spot was his lower back. ethan had somehow known percy’s weak spot and attempted to stab him there, but PERCY’S STUPID GIRLFRIEND ANNABETH decided to block it and take the strike herself. later on, when kronos was destroying the olympian throne room, percy begged ethan to change ways and proved that kronos was evil. in a moment of reflection, ethan rebelled against kronos and attempted to stab him with his blade. however, the knife shatters against kronos and a piece of the blade cuts through ethan’s stomach, making him the last person kronos killed. before his death, he told percy that the minor gods such as his mother nemesis needed to be respected and needed a throne as well, because they were thought of lowly. percy made a shrine for ethan after the battle and chose to remember him by his good deeds instead of his bad ones.

not spoilers! ethan is of half-greek and half-japanese descent, being the son of nemesis and another unspoken father figure who was never mentioned in the books. he is impulsive and very brave, and according to percy, was a very skilled fighter. he is driven towards his goals and determined to achieve them, despite the consequences such as betrayal. since his mother was quite literally the goddess of retribution, he always had a strong sense of balancing things, and eventually repaid the favor of percy saving him. like most demigods, he was born with adhd, which gave him the ability to last long in battle, and dyslexia, which allows him to read ancient greek rather than regular english.

ethan nakamura is my favorite character in the entire percy jackson series. thalia might be a close favorite BUT THAT’S NOT THE POINT, ETHAN NAKAMURA IS THE MAIN FOCUS HERE!!! okay. so i’ve seen a lot of people legitimately hate or dislike ethan nakamura, which really makes me mad. like what did this boy do to you. what could this silly guy have possibly done to make you dislike him. not every titan army member is bad! except luke, i hate luke. back to our lord and savior ethan nakamura! he actually wasn’t that bad, but a lot of you HATERS are not ready for this conversation… he had a reason to join the titan army. he was ignored by his godly parent for, like, EVER. most demigods would’ve been claimed by now. this man is probably in the underworld watching the kids in the other cabins sleep on beds while he had to sleep on the wooden floor of the packed hermes cabin. and that cabin probably smelled like body odor or something. okay, anyways. nemesis, his mom, ignored him for ages until she randomly pulls up, saying he’ll balance the worlds power. and since the gods are like the most powerful and he saw them AS powerful, he thought that maybe y’know…. getting rid of the gods would work. maybe that would balance the worlds power and make his mom finally give him some recognition. SEE HERE. CHARACTER DETAILS!! HE DID IT FOR RETRIBUTION!!! HE DID IT IN THE NAME OF HIS MOM!!! HE WANTED RECOGNITION!!! i cannot stress this enough. ethan wanted to be acknowledged by his mom. that was all he wanted. i don’t even KNOW if he got that in the end. he also had his character development. he tried to stab kronos, but that stupid blade shattered and straight up stabs him in the stomach. he dies!!! he sacrifices himself. and guess what!!!!! nemesis!!! is!!! associated!!! with!!! SACRIFICE!!! he died in his mom’s name! wowza!!!!!! no idea if his mom even cared, but wow i’d be really proud of my son if he died trying to save the world y’know… and in MY name too. if that’s not enough to satisfy nemesis, then i don’t know what is. then again, she’s a greek god. greek gods treat their children like crap. so i can’t really expect anything from them, much less nemesis. okay hi thank you for coming to be ted talk all my opps hate ethan nakamura

guess my favorite percy jackson character mode: impossible!!!

thats

a lot

of text

I did actually read the lightning thief several years ago

#asks 🥞#percy jackson #i didn't read any of the other books because the movie for the lightning thief sucked #and that made me scared the rest of the book series would suck too

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yall-hate-kids-tourney · 9 months ago

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Loser Round 7: Ken Amada (Persona) vs. Mabel Pines (Gravity Falls)

Propaganda below the cut

Ken Amada (11):

y'all are all for "murder and revenge plots" until is a 10 y/o boy who watched his mother die and started to become conflicted after realizing his moms killer is a secretly kind traumatized teenager to the point where the 10 y/o boy attempts to kill himself by giving himself up to assassins.

bro he's 10.

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ken amada is such an interesting character with the unfortunate circumstances of having little screentime and atlus deciding to ruin his reputation forever by giving him a romance choice in the fem protag route. ken is a child who lost his mother at NINE. nobody ever believed him when he said that she was murdered, and that he saw who killed her. hes miserable, and all everyone around him does is give him sympathy while hes suffering and was forced to grow up before even going into middle school. hes angry and determined to get revenge on the person who killed his mother, and he doesnt even see the own value in living anymore beyond getting that revenge. hes more mature than most of his peers, and is desperate to be seen as an adult.but at the same time, he is still a child who likes superhero shows.

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OH GOD WHERE DO I START

First there's the normal "The fandom hates kids" complaints of "He's so whiny" "he's so annoying" "oh my god kid just SHUT UP" y'know, the typical fandom stuff that makes you wonder if these people have ever talked to a child in their life

Second, there's (spoilers)...

October 4th, and the ENTIRE FANDOM is calling this kid a murderer.

For context, the moment in question doesn't necessarily paint him in the best light but its still understandable. Your team is going on a mission while Ken and another character named Shinjiro are away. In an alleyway, they have a talk where it is revealed that on that night a year priar to the game, Kens mom was killed in that allleyway by Shinjiro's Persona (Which, by the Rules of the Game Lore, basically means By Shinjiro). Ken tried to tell the authorities, the authorities didn't believe him because Magic Reasons and the death was ruled an accident.

Of course Ken is Fucking Pissed and wants revenge

However, because of Talk, he ACTIVELY CALMS DOWN, and realises "Hey, I probably shouldn't kill someone. Despite them, y'know, killing my mom"

HOWEVER REVOLVER JESUS COMES IN AND RUINS EVERYTHING BY SHOOTING SHINJIRO. AND LIKE, IF YOU PLAY P3P YOU CAN /AVOID THE DEATH THING/

AND EVERYONE BLAMES /KEN/. AND ONLY KEN.

And third (yes, there's a THIRD) IS THE FUCKING FEMC ROMANCE THING. WHICH JUST...SHOULDN'T HAVE EXISTED IN THE FIRST PLACE. BUT NOW HE'S "SHOTA BAIT" BECAUSE WE HAVE TO BLAME THE CHILD FOR THE AUTHORITY FIGURE COMING ONTO THEM 😒

Mabel Pines (12):

I literally saw a tiktok today about how Mabel is a bad person. She’s 12! Like yes, she has made some mistakes and bad choices, but so has everyone else. And I never see any of the other characters in the show criticized the way she is. Everyone in the show has made mistakes (Grunkle Stan commits crimes practically every episode ffs) but because Mabel is a 12 year old girl and acts like it, she gets the most hate. Mabel deserves to be loved 🩷

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girl gets so much flack for being... immature and kind of selfish at age 12? like she had whole video essays made on why she is a horrible person who deserves punishment. god forbid girls be silly

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!!! Spoilers for Gravity Falls last 5 episodes !!!

This has gone down a lot but when the Weirdmaggedon arc was happening, the finale of the series, a big part of the fandom started hating Mabel because she accidentally caused the Weirdmaggedon (basically an apocalypse + bizarre shit like the water tower becoming an eight-legged monster with a giant mouth).

For context, in the episode that starts this arc, "Dipper and Mabel vs The Future", Mabel is really excited to the end of their summer vacation at Grunkle Stan's house, since it will be her and Dipper's 13th birthday and they will enter high school (her idea of high school of course coming from teen movies). But then this whole idea starts to shatter when Wendy tells her that high school isn't like a Disney musical, but it's okay, she will get through this since she will be with Dipper, her twin brother...

Except, that Dipper receives an invitation by Grunkle Stan's scientist brother Ford to become his apprentice after summer ends, staying in Gravity Falls, without Mabel. When she discovers it, she gets really mad at him and in a fit of rage, she accidentally picks Dipper's bag instead of hers and runs off to the woods.

When she gets there, Blendin, a time-travelling friend of theirs finds her and tells her that he has a way of making her brother stay with her, and make the summer take a little more to end, and that he just needed a little thing that Dipper has in his bag. That thing is a dimensional rift that Dipper and Ford contained to not cause the Weirdmaggedon, but Mabel didn't knew about that and gives it to Blendin. Blendin then breaks it and it's revealed that Bill Cipher was controlling Blendin to get the rift and release the Weirdmaggedon. He then traps Mabel in a bubble, starting the final arc of the series.

So, a few episodes later, that bubble she's in is revealed to be a world of fantasy that she controls, and that she didn't want to leave that world, as she was scared of growing up etc.

Context given, A LOT OF PEOPLE HATED HER FOR THIS. Suddenly people started seeing Mabel as just a selfish girl who wanted things only her way, when she was only a 12-year-old scared of growing up without her twin brother (they do end up going back together at the end but still).

The worst part is that apparently the people behind it took note of this, and on the comics that where released after the finale, she is a selfish spoiled brat. I haven't read the comics though so I'm going off what some people said about it.

#yall hate kids tourney #loser round 7 #persona #persona 3 #persona 3 fes #persona 3 portable #persona 3 reload #p3 #p3fes #p3p #p3reload #ken amada #amada ken #gravity falls #mabel pines #cw suicide #cw child death #cw age gap

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secret-diary-of-an-fa · 6 months ago

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Doctor Who: Empire of Death Review (Sutekh is, and I Don't Say this Lightly, a BAD DOG)

Here we are: the conclusion to an eight episode run that’s given us such memorable villains as The Slugs That Didn’t Move While On Camera and Cos-Playing Murder-Owls. Look, I said ‘memorable’ not ‘compelling’. In fairness, it also gave us Jinkx Monsoon hamming it up as the deranged deity of music, Maestro, but the more I think about The Devil’s Chord, the more annoyed I become that it got permission to use the Beatles and then only gave 50% of them speakin’ lines, so I don’t want to dwell on it. This time, the Doctor is facing Sutekh, the god of death, who looks a lot more like a jackal in this episode than he did in The Legend of Ruby Sunday (where he looked suspiciously mouse-like from some angles). And, spoiler alert, he’s the best thing in it. Within a few minutes of the episode opening, he’s turned the entire population of Earth to dust, hijacked the TARDIS to serve as his temple and revealed that he’s been following in the Doctor’s wake for countless millennia in order to plant his sleeper agents on every planet the Time Lord has ever visited. As a result, the entire universe falls to his ‘Death Wave’ and reality dies a tragic (and surprisingly sandy) death. Great! That’s a Doctor Who villain worthy of the finale. But how’s the rest of it?

Well, it’s nice that the Doctor actually gets to do things in this episode: seeking out metal in a dead universe order to create an interface that will let him look backwards in time; hunting down Ruby’s mother because Sutekh can’t see her and she might, therefore, be the key to unravelling his dominion, and finally trapping the god of death in a death-trap of his own, “bringing death to death” and therefore reversing all his little shenanigans. For quite a lot of this season (the murder-owls episode and bits of Boom being the exception) his role has been providing exposition and then crying in a corner. For the entirety of the giant slugs one he was reduced to a floating VT in a holographic box, except at the end when he showed up in person to have a good scream and a weep over how stupid and self-defeating racism is. Not so much Doctor Who as Doctor Boohoo, amiright? Oh, fuck off. I’ll write better puns when you start paying me and not a minute sooner. I also liked the Doctor’s solution to the Sutekh problem itself: dragging him through the Time Vortex on a specialised bungee like a bad dog being dragged home from the park, using his death-energy to bring life until he straight-up fucking disintegrates. It’s just the right combination of silly and bad-ass and suits the general tone of Who very well.

I’m not a fan, however, of the stupid bloody speech he gives while doing it, in which he bangs on about how he represents life and killing Sutekh is a violation of his moral code that he has been driven to only by extremis. Piss off. The Doctor kills people with frankly sociopathic frequency. The first thing this incarnation did after parting ways with Fourteen was impale a giant goblin on the spike of a church (which is murder and desecration-of-a-religious-building at once). Peter Capaldi’s Twelve once shot a fellow Time Lord in the head and acted like regeneration was just man-flu, when we know very well it’s a kind of dying and rebirth. He also might have pushed a cyborg out of a balloon to fall to his death. Eleven used post-hypnotic suggestion to convince the entire human race to slaughter the Silence on sight, planted a missile homing beacon on some dude’s ship, blew up a planet-full of Cybermen and fed a completely different god of death potential memories until he imploded. Ten once tricked Mark Gatiss into falling off a tall building (though, in fairness, he wasn’t Mark Gatiss at the time: he was a big lizard-thing). Nine engineered the deaths of the Slitheen, the Jagrofess and the Last Human without a second thought. And that’s just the ones from the modern series that I can think of off the top of my head. Give me an hour on Google and I could come up with more (though it is weird, in retrospect, to realise just how trigger-happy Eleven was). I think it speaks to a bigger problem with Who at the moment: Americanisation. See, American morality is more Kantian; more dependent on rigid, inflexible rules (which is fucking weird for a nation that still practices the barbarism of the death penalty, by the way). Whereas British morality is typically more utilitarian; more predicated on what will do the most practical good in any given situation and therefore laced with innumerable grey areas. The Doctor suddenly being uncomfortable with killing feels like Disney’s influence at work: an attempt to sand down his more alien and hostile edges to make him palatable to an American audience (who originally got into the show because it was a slice of British culture that they couldn’t get from their own country’s entertainment industry. Look, let me put it this way: As a Brit, I don’t watch anime to see British values and ideals recapitulated, I watch it because I find it refreshing to encounter the heroic ideals of a different culture that doesn’t think the way my own culture does. Same thing).

I’m also not best pleased with the plot holes. Ruby meets her mum at the end and it’s revealed that she’s just… some rando. The explanation we get for why Sutekh couldn’t see her is that her identity and absence were of such critical importance to Ruby that they somehow twisted the universe and made her important. Which would be fine, except that only makes sense if Ruby is some sort of cosmic being with reality-bending powers. But if her mum is just some rando (and her dad’s a feckless adolescent, as it turns out), how can she be a cosmic being with reality-bending powers? Was it her time in the TARDIS? No, because the Doctor’s genuinely surprised by her (apparently unrelated ability) to make it fucking snow. If that was the sign of a deeper malaise, you’d think he’d have spent enough time travelling in the TARDIS to spot the signs.

Anyhoo, I’d like to take a moment to address Ncuti Gatwa’s acting. I’ve been saying all season that he’s a good actor and that the show needs to give him more to do with his talents than get all teary-eyed and spout expository dialogue (my phrasing has not, however, been that concise). Now I get to see him being the Doctor, really for the only time aside from Rogue (Boom doesn’t count: it was amazing, but our hero was stranded on a landmine from beginning to end, which limited the scope of things he could do quite a lot). The point is that, while I’m still convinced there’s a good actor in there somewhere, there’s also something missing that each episode director has failed to request and Gatwa has failed to provide spontaneously. I’m talking about something that’s going to sound stupid until you think about it: superfluous movement. Nine, Ten and Eleven (also Fourteen) were constantly in motion; constantly reacting to their environment and interacting with the set in interesting way, whether it was Christopher Eccleston picking up and toying with the random detritus of human culture or David Tenant constantly fiddling with technology, striding off purposefully at the drop of a hat (sometimes in the wrong direction) and just general projecting physicality, or even Matt Smith bouncing around the whole set and occasionally breaking bits off it, the Doctor’s always felt like a being with a lot of energy. Twelve was stiffer and more rigid in his movements, but that was a specific part of his characterisation: he was older, grumpier, more worn-down. Gatwa’s fifteen, however, is characterised as breezy and bombastic… but he never moves more than the script calls for. It’s hard to spot at first: you just have a vague sense that something isn’t right here, but once you’ve realised what it is that’s up, you can’t unsee it. He reacts and interacts only as literally demanded by the script. There’s no superfluous tics, no kinetic flourishes, no playfulness in how he responds to each environment… and it makes both him and the worlds he visits feel flatter and less alive. I don’t want to blame him too much for it: it might be that the show costs so much to make now that he’s been told to be careful and not risk breaking anything, but it is a problem and it reaches its apotheosis in The Empire of Death. Simply put, David Tenant could make a ball-game on a roof feel like a battle for the fate of the world, but even when Gatwa is dragging Sutekh through the Time Vortex and reality is being ripped open around them, his movements are so economical and rehearsed it’s impossible to forget you’re watching a telly show. You feel nothing. Or I didn’t anyway. Maybe you’re less sensitised to this sort of thing than I am. I do watch a lot of media and know a lot about how it gets made, which means I pick up on issues other people miss. So, er, mileage may vary.

Overall, I did quite enjoy Empire of Death. It’s solid enough cosmic fiction, but is also has that ‘first draft’ quality that turned me against The Star Beast. Everything in it is good enough, but no better. I wonder, maybe, if the root of the problem is RTD himself just taking on too large a portion of the writing duties. Running a show and writing scripts for a show are two very difficult, very demanding jobs, which is why the Showrunner usually farms out a lot of the script-writing to people who have the time and energy to do it well. This also leaves the Showrunner free to focus their own writing efforts on the episodes that really matter. For example, would Empire of Death have been better, if RTD hadn’t stretched himself thin personally scribing Dot and Bubble and The Devil’s Chord? Almost certainly.

Here’s hoping he learns how to delegate in time for Gatwa’s second season. And that they start using sets the actors are allowed to actually interact with.

PS. The new sonic screwdriver is rubbish. It looks like a TV remote fucked the Starship Enterprise. I hadn't mentioned that yet, so there ya go.

#secret diary of a fat admirer #Doctor Who #The Empire of Death #empire of death #fifteenth doctor #TARDIS

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aoyagi-vbs · 1 month ago

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hey there you’re getting ethan nakamura lore from percy jackson and the olympians hit book series written by rick riordan because i need to cope and i have autism and my hyperfixations are so CR詠ZY that once i’m obsessed over something i will be obsessed until i turn thirtyseven years old and also because i quite like you and ethan nakamura and i would very much like it if one of my favorite pjsk character knew about my favorite percy jackson character

!!!spoilers after this part perchance….!!!

The tidbits of general lore here are....a wild ride, as someone who hasn't associated with Percy Jackson in general.

(See: "Like most demigods, he was born with ADHD," or, "Greek gods treat their children badly," and especially, "Olympus is located in the empire state building in the book,")

Nakamura himself has solid motivations, even if his initial alliances were questionable. I don't understand why some people bother spend their energy bashing characters for doing bad things, primarily when they're written to be antagonistic in order to drive the plot forward. It irks me in cases where the characters' reasons are explained and understandable (even if their actions are not), yet people choose to ignore them still.

Ah, he ended up acting in the name of redemption. Good for him, good for him.

#asks #[ooc: So SO sorry for taking this long to respond to this. I finally feel well enough to post normally again I think]

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silver-wield · 9 months ago

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Final Fantasy VII Rebirth Review Chapter 9!

Okay, this collection of posts will be filled with spoilers, including clips and screenshots, so if you don't wanna see things, then don't look. Some of the things I'm gonna highlight will include references to Remake and other sources to link with the overarching plot. This is a straight path playthrough with no sidequests or extra content.

Tiny amendment, I realised I accidentally combined chapter six with seven because they were both really short narratively speaking, so we're actually up to chapter 9 😁

Anyway...

Me? Gongaga 🤣

Chapter nine is meatier than Junon, and I had to get creative with the images.

So we begin the following day after Barret's showdown with Dyne and the group is driving around the desert hoping to spot a black cloak. Until Yuffie gets sick and they stop. Cait Sith decides to do a reading, which throws up a hint about mushrooms. Tifa tosses the keys to a smug Cloud and we're in the driver's seat from now on.

Destination: Gongaga.

Cloud gets deja vu looking at the local area. What's interesting is this isn't prevented by jenova and he doesn't get a headache. This is because he was in Gongaga while in a coma, so does this mean that while in his coma state jenova and Sephiroth have no influence over him?

Tifa's such a foodie and I love this about her! Also explains why Cloud brings her exotic ingredients to cook with. He really knows what she likes 🥺❤️

And we're meeting Cissnei. Now, she either did what Aerith did and saw the sword first and mistook Cloud for Zack, or she recognised Cloud as the second escaped sample and is covering up her surprise. She does tell him later to rest, so it's definitely sus.

We have convo opportunities in Gongaga too, although the one that furthers the plot and can't be missed is this one at Zack's parents house. After insulting Zack to his parents, Aerith asks if she was selfish, to which I always answer duh.

Cloud asks outright if Aerith still likes Zack, although he can't recall him still at this point. She says he never gave her a reason not to like him, then Tifa comes over and there's a bit with Cloud insulting Zack and the girls getting mad at him.

The conclusion is Cloud doesn't know Zack, but this gives Tifa more misgivings because Cloud knows about events in Nibelheim and Zack was there.

There's something going down at the reactor, so the guys head over to check it out. The more mako Cloud breathes in the less functional he becomes, which leaves them all vulnerable to Scarlet's attacks.

Meanwhile, the girls are heading in to save the day. They take on Scarlet, giving the other team time to get to a safe spot, with Barret carrying the sick Cloud over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

Tifa becomes separated from the others and tries to stop Scarlet from attacking the weapon inside the reactor. She ends up swinging from her grappling gun, which panics Cloud and gets him moving to save her.

But Sephiroth's not far behind and takes control of Cloud, which results in a bloodbath of Shinra soldiers. Tifa rescues herself and rushes to Cloud's side to save him from himself.

And then comes the series of scenes from the trailers. Sephiroth manipulates Cloud into attacking Tifa in an echo of how she was almost killed in the Nibelheim reactor, only Cloud misses. For someone who was slicing and dicing with frightening accuracy a few minutes before, the fact he missed Tifa at point blank range shows part of Cloud can't be fully controlled by Sephiroth. He missed. Tifa still fell, but she wasn't hurt. Sephiroth failed.

And then weapon pops up to chow down on her. Cloud comes to and wonders where Tifa is. Last thing he recalls is going to help her. He gets a bunch of flashes that jenova tries to get between with some static, but Cloud knows what happened. And we see him break down over it.

Meanwhile, weapon takes Tifa on a tour of the lifestream. She hears her parents and friends and sees some scenes from her childhood. Specifically scenes that are important to Cloud. They're also Tifa's precious memories, and give her some important information she'll need later to save Cloud in the lifestream.

Sephiroth appears and tries to kill her again. Bit more directly this time. His blade just misses her, but it pierces the weapon and she starts drowning. She sees zangan, Dr Sheran, Barret and Aerith, and the first three give her words of encouragement to keep fighting to live. Aerith just says her name and nothing else.

Tifa sees Cloud, but he's leaving her to follow Sephiroth. She becomes distressed as Sephiroth taunts her that her words can't reach Cloud now, but we know those two have always communicated best without words 🤭

The injured weapon reappears in the reactor. Barret slaps some sense into Cloud and tells him Tifa needs him. This gets him out of his stupor to go to Tifa's side and check on her as she loses consciousness.

When Tifa wakes up we see a guilt ridden Cloud about to rush off and let everyone know she's okay, but Tifa stops him and they have a heart to heart about the past and that fateful trip up Mt Nibel. Tifa admits she doesn't remember everything that happened, and Cloud regrets not being able to save her. He finally confides in her that he feels like he's losing it and Tifa promises to save him like he saved her.

They almost kiss, but Yuffie opens her fat mouth and interrupts.

This is a non-optional moment between them. Even if you chose the worst options in convos and ignored Tifa completely, they will almost kiss.

Tifa goes into the living area and there's some chat about the planet and what to do next, which ends in a decision to hit up Cosmo Canyon.

A lot happens in this chapter. Like plot heavy serious things that shouldn't be ignored at all.

Cloud has deja vu about Gongaga.

Tifa learns Cloud doesn't know/remember Zack, and grows more concerned.

Sephiroth forces Cloud to overdose on mako gas in the reactor in an attempt to take control of him.

Cloud doesn't harm Tifa despite being Sephiroth's puppet, meaning he doesn't have total control over him when it comes to Tifa.

Tifa learns about the important memories of her and Cloud's past, and that the planet is currently winning against Sephiroth from her pov

Cloud and Tifa share mutual attraction and chemistry that results in an almost kiss

Cloud and Tifa confide in each other and their relationship deepens.

#FF7Rebirth spoilers

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bg-sparrow · 1 year ago

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can I have ⭐⭐⭐ for 3 different things u wanna talk about?? 🥺👀

Yay! THREE stars for Fanfic Writers: Director's Cut?? Eeeee

November 16th will be the one-year anniversary of the completion of my Marty X OC trilogy rewrite, The Time Circuits Series. With five works and 274K words written over nine years, it will always be one of my greatest writing accomplishments. I thought I would write it and be done in the BttF fanfic fandom, but lo, since I finished this series last year, I graduated to writing canon fics and have since added 30 more BttF fics to Ao3!

So I want to use these three stars to highlight the first scenes I wrote for each of the three main trilogy stories. I wrote the series totally out of order, as the scenes came to me. I had three chapters of Part III before I started Part II!

So, without further ado, the first scenes!

(There will be spoilers, ye be warned!)

⭐️ Where You're Going (Time Circuits Series #1) ⭐️

The first scene I wrote for this series was in Spring 2006, and it was the scene at the end when Doc reveals his bulletproof vest and the letter. Because that's what this whole story builds up to when it's said and done. This is the end product:

Emma clambered on behind Marty, catching herself on his shoulder when he dropped to the ground. As Marty pulled Doc over onto his back, Emma sank to her knees, staring at the holes on her father's chest and his unblinking eyes. Her body seized up, a crippling numbness seeping through her resolve with gradual, irreversible panic. What does she do? What does she do now? Even as Marty had to turn away, she held vigil over her father as she tried to digest this reality. This is real. This is your reality. It's real. He's — Emma wouldn't think it, not until she knew. Not until she knew. Hand trembling, she slowly reached out over the entry holes in the radiation suit for the side of his neck to feel for a pulse – definitive, tangible evidence she could tether to her hypothesis. As her hand passed over his heart, her own nearly gave out, and she froze. He blinked. Emma's eyes grew, and before she could more than blink herself, her father was sitting up. In her dumbfounded silence, his chest met her paralyzed hand as he rose. A watery smile wrinkled Emma's lip when she flattened her palm and felt him breathe. Emmett smiled. As expected, life pieced together every question he had suppressed that week, and realizing some time after sending Emma Klein back to the future that she was indeed Emma Brown filled him with insatiable anticipation for the moment on the other end of that lightning strike. And through the continuity of time, confirmation of the success of his greatest invention finally arrived by means of Emma throwing her arms around him in a parking lot. He could feel her holding her breath to refuse the sobs trying to surface, but when he wrapped an arm around her, she exhaled audibly and clutched the back of his neck. "You're alive." Emmett let his daughter fall away at Marty's voice, seeing her eye something she couldn't quite place about his torso as Marty turned around. He revealed the vest, amused at their predictable awe. He watched their eyes dance over each spent round plastered harmlessly to his person, Marty steadying himself at Emma's low back as he leaned in. "How did you know?" he asked, a question Emma hadn't even considered until that moment. "We never got the chance to tell you." Marty felt Emma draw a sudden, silent breath, further peering around her as Doc retrieved their preserved, yellowed letter from between the bulletproof vest and the radiation suit. They had been his first defense against this horrible fate in more ways than one, and Emmett had waited a long time to deliver this apology. Part of him was relieved to finally have the freedom to acknowledge them as he had first known them: the kid in the life preserver and the girl who spouted brainwave stuff. As Marty folded the letter over in confusion, Emma had already beat him to the punch with a soft, wry smile, eyes locked on her father. With that look, Emmett plainly heard her berating him in his mind: you damned hypocrite, quickly followed by thank God. "What about all that talk?" Marty asked, still trying to work the adrenaline out of his voice and gulp air at the same time. "About screwing up future events? The spacetime continuum?" Emmett dared a smug grin. For these two kids, he was all in. "Well, I figured, what the hell?"

⭐️ Where You Are (Time Circuits Series #2) ⭐️

The first scene I sketched out for Part II was dated May 17, 2013 in my notes. It is a scene in 1955 where Marty has been trapped in Biff's garage, and Emma, while trying to free him, is caught by Biff. I didn't just want Emma to be that OC that was constantly attached to Marty's hip, and the likelihood of both of them being caught in Biff's back seat was too high. I liked using Emma to see what Marty didn't — and push her out of her comfort zone when put on the spot.

Emma quickly scanned the outskirts of the driveway for something to bludgeon the lock with. There was a metal watering can and a few flimsy lawn ornaments with the structural integrity of a coat hanger, but nothing substantial that would free Marty with one hit. Maybe something lay between the side of the garage and the hedges – "Hey!" Emma spun around at the vicious bark. A small jolt of terror hit her to see that it was Biff himself staring her down, and she quickly resorted to a nervous laugh and bright greeting. Her voice cracked. "Hi!" His mouth hung open in confusion, utterly dumbfounded at the presence of this somewhat familiar girl. He tossed the red ball that had rolled in front of the house at the same group of kids from earlier, sending them the other way with a glare that indicated this was a one-time kindness. He redirected his narrowing eyes to the intruder. "What do you think you're doing?" Emma plastered a smile on her face. "I came looking for you," she said quickly, keeping his attention on her. "I thought I'd check the garage first since I know how much you like your car." "Yeah, well, what do you want?" he asked tersely. What do I want? That's a fantastic question. And the answer her mind came up with made her grimace inwardly, but Biff wasn't a bottomless well of patience. […] "Well, I heard you didn't have a date for tonight," she said clasping her hands with a dainty shrug. "That Lorraine was stupid enough to turn you down. And while it might seem terrible of me, I don't want to miss out on the opportunity she passed up."

⭐️ Where You Were (Time Circuits Series #3) ⭐️

So, looking back at my notes, I was WRONG about what I remember being my first scene for this story (by one day; my first notes for Part 3 were dated March 18, 2013)! I thought it was the scene in the blacksmith shop where Marty shows Doc the tombstone photograph, but it turns out it was the one scene I always wished had played out a bit differently: Doc and Marty at the silver mine unloading the DeLorean the night before they go back to 1985. The issue with this scene if you're giving Doc Brown a daughter: he's not going to tell her and Marty that he's staying in 1885 with a woman he met two days ago. So this scene became a huge deal because I couldn't omit it and I needed it to have the same emotional impact as the original.

In this version, Doc knows he can't stay with Clara despite Emma encouraging him to find a way to be with her. She ultimately fails, storms off, and spurs Marty into action. I always wanted a more sympathetic Marty in this scene, too, so I took the opportunity.

Marty went after his mentor. "You should say goodbye to her." Emmett looked up from the wrinkles in his bedroll. An inkling of intrigue passed over his face as Marty sat down, grimacing with a hand pressed to his side. Seeing the tranquil rise and fall of Emma's back, Marty lowered his voice, motioning to the fire as he spoke. "You guys just disappeared, Doc. Right in front of me." The Lyon Estates pennants fell at his feet over and over in his mind's eye. "Right out of the middle of the sky. And for the two minutes I had to wonder if I would ever see Emma again, it was hell." Marty glanced at the lock of hair snaking out from Emma's cocoon. He took a deep breath and held it, refusing to let the knot in his chest become a lump in his throat. "I couldn't imagine having to live through eight months of that, let alone the rest of my life." Marty hunted for Doc's eyes until he found them under the brim of the Stetson, unhappy with the resistance. Marty took off his hat and ruffled his matted hair, gesturing to the DeLorean next. "I mean, come on, Doc," he said, arm dropping soundly. "Is it fair that you'll go home and look Clara up in the City Archives, and she'll just have to wonder?" Doc sighed through his nose. He twirled Clara's stem of lupine in thought. "None of it is fair, Marty." Doc leaned closer to the fire, orange flickers strobing on his sleeves and nose. "What am I going to say? 'I have to go back to the future'?" Marty shrugged, moving his gun belt to the far end of his bedroll. "I don't know, Doc. If you tell her the truth, she'll think you're lying. And if you lie to her…" Marty whipped a stick into the fire. "Hell, I'm in it with you, and I don't even understand it." Doc looked over his shoulder at the fuzzy moonlight pooled on the body of the DeLorean. He imagined Clara caressing it in awe, captivated by the possibilities and envisioning countless worlds waiting to be explored. Only he could put that enraptured smile on her face – and take it away. "Clara would understand it," Emmett murmured. He slipped Clara's favor into his pocket, a blip of vigor returning to his flat voice. "She loves Jules Verne, Marty. She has all his books! And she knows that through the pursuits of science, the incredible feats of man in those books could be a reality. She has the ability to believe, and so, too, I believe, to understand." Marty raised a skeptical eyebrow, but Doc lured a half-smile out of him when he finally stood. "What she won't understand," Doc said, shaking out his duster, "is why I can't take her with us. But I shall strive to find a way to do so before I get there." "You'll think of something, Doc. Just… go easy on the details, huh?"

And there you have it! The first scenes I wrote for each of the three main stories in my Time Circuits Series! Thanks so much for giving me the opportunity to spotlight these! :D

#back to the future #bttf #timecircuitsseries #fanfic #fanfiction #marty mcfly #doc brown #emma brown #mcbrown #marty mcfly x oc #back to the future oc #ask box #fanfic writers director's cut #thank you!!

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blueberryshelves · 1 year ago

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Another book down. Can't wait to start reading book #2.

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Book Review

Title: Meet Me at the Summit Author: Mandi Lynn Bell

Book Series: Road Trip Snapshot, book #1

No. of Pages: 329

ISBN: 978-1-953388-02-5

Cover design: original cover and pen name before book republishing in 2023.

Synopsis:

For most 19-year-olds, a cross-country trip is an offer you can’t refuse, but for Marly, it’s the last thing she wants after losing both her parents in a car accident. Nine months after their death, Marly would rather stay home working the retail job she hates, than deal with her loss.

It isn’t until family and friends corner her into driving her mom’s renovated 1978 VW bus from Washington to New Hampshire that Marly is forced to face her grief and understand the guilt she feels over her parents’ death. Skeptical, Marly goes on the trip, warily exploring the life her parents knew she always wanted—hiking mountains and living out her photography dreams. On the way, she’ll discover places and people who’ll test her emotions and a guy who pushes at the walls she’s so carefully built around herself. Marly must decide: can she face her deepest wounds and reclaim the life she thought was gone forever?

Meet Me at the Summit is an intimate tale of grief, finding yourself after deep loss, and coming to terms with how life changes when you least expect it. It follows Marly as she both runs from and towards the emotions she has long held back regarding her parents’ death. A deep, insightful look into the coming-of-age theme through a heart-breaking narrative.

The Road Trip Snapshot duology, book 1

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What did I think of the book?

Meet Me at the Summit by Mandi Lynn Bell My rating: ⭐⭐⭐ 3 of 5 stars

[Spoiler warning!]

I read the companion novel/stand-alone of this series, The Trail to You & Me, at the beginning of July, and fell absolutely in love with it. So, when the other two books of the Road Trip Snapshot series finally came in the mail, I was excited, and hungry for more hiking adventures and romance. I have to say, Meet Me at the Summit is not what I expected. There's a part of me that wishes I had read this book first before the stand-alone for the emotional context, but oh well. This is a coming-age-of story focused on overcoming grief, loss, and finding a way to get life rolling onward again (in this case, through the awesomeness of a hiking road trip, and some romance sprinkled in the later half of the book). There are some tough lessons in this book, such as: sometimes you just have to do what you don’t want to do, or are scared of, in order to heal yourself and get things back together again. Life happens, it’s not always fun and games, and we have to learn to face it and keep living, even if it we’d rather spend the rest of our lives hiding under a pillow from it all. It’s an emotional book, and it’s hard to not feel like tearing up with the main character as she goes through her grief at times. The scene with Marly at the Summit of Mount Washington was beautiful, sad, and possibly my favorite scene of the whole book. The different locations described in the story were a lot of fun to search up, too. As I was reading, I told my partner, “I feel like I’m getting a tour of America with this book”, and he said “Yeah, there’s not much to see here… except everything.” Lol. Favorite character/s: Ethan, Marly’s uncle. I wish he was in the book more. It felt like he grounded the story nicely as an older adult in the book in the beginning. Dylan, for the fact that he doesn’t let Marly allow her fears to consume her. How he helps her have closure at the end of the story is also touching. What drew me to this book? The cover design (original). I loved the color palette with the orange and blue, and the vibe of the illustration style. When I found out the author had republished the books with new covers, I hesitated on getting the books. I really liked the original covers, so I was over-the-moon happy when I heard I could still get them from the author’s website. Stars: 3/5 because there were just a few too many hiccups with the book that affected the reading experience for me, the main one being that there was a strange lack of detail for some of the characters when they were introduced in the story, like hair color, eye color, clothes, etc., that weren’t mentioned until later on, or at times not at all. Despite this, I would read it again in the future, and I’m really looking forward to seeing what Let the Rubble Fall will be like.

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ambrossart · 2 years ago

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DANCING WITH MYSELF

— PART SEVEN

summary: eddie crashes senior prom hoping to steal a dance with his dream girl, chrissy cunningham. instead, he spends the night stuck in the women’s restroom with you—her snarky, insecure best friend. ❖ pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader ❖ word count: 3,862 ❖ genre: fluff with some angst ❖ series status: complete ❖ warnings: no season 4 spoilers, some coarse language, body image issues, allusions to eating disorders, typical teenage insecurities, angst, jealousy, anxiety, secret crushes, childhood memories, happy ending, lots of 80s music

Eddie ducked as one of your heels came hurtling towards his head—thwack!—and bounced off the restroom door.

“Get out,” you snarled, your eyes blazing with rage.

Eddie stayed in a squatting position, his dark brown eyes shifting back and forth anxiously. “Yeah… I kinda can’t… See, uhh, security’s out there looking for me right now, and I really need a place to lay low for a while.”

You started unfastening the buckle of your other shoe, fingers fumbling with the skinny faux leather strap.

“Yeah, well, that’s not my problem,” you said. “Now, get out!”

Your voice hit Eddie’s ears like a clap of thunder, making him flinch. “Okay, I’m gonna need you to keep your voice down.”

“Get out!”

“Well, now you’re just getting louder.”

“GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!”

Eddie cupped his hands over his ears, then swatted the air and whispered hotly, “God dammit, would you stop shouting like that? You’re attracting a lot of unwanted attention here!”

You finally tore the strap loose and pulled off your shoe. “Get out, Munson. I mean it. You have until the count of three to get out of here or I’m gonna whip this shoe at you and then scream as loud as I can, and I can scream very, very loud.”

“Yeah, I don’t doubt that,” Eddie said, cracking a tiny smirk.

You raised the shoe over your shoulder. “One.”

Eddie stood up slowly, put up his hands like a shield. “Okay, let’s just calm down for a minute…”

“Two.”

“Aww, come on, don’t make me go out there!”

“Three!”

“No, wait! Just wait! Hear me out!”

You began your windup and—

“Y/N, please!”

And his words extinguished the anger burning inside of you, snuffed it out like a bucket of water over the last sputtering flames of a campfire. As soon as they left his lips, your arm stopped in mid-release and your elbow went limp, falling helplessly at your side.

“What?” you said in a quiet, disbelieving voice. “You know my name?”

“Uhh, yeah,” said Eddie, still a little wary of the shoe in your hand. “I told you I did, remember? Right before you jumped down my throat and started yelling at me?”

You nodded slowly, vaguely remembering. “Okay… but why did you act like you didn’t know me?”

Eddie chuckled, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “See that’s, uhhh, that’s a little complicated, and I’d rather not get into that right now.”

“Is that right?” you said, a wry smile on your face.

Then

“You asshole!”

your hand lashed out like a whip, sending your shoe whirling end over end. Eddie jerked his body up and around to avoid the hit, and the shoe clipped his raised elbow right on the funny bone. He yelped in surprised pain: “Jesus Christ!”

You made a fierce beckoning motion with your hand. “Now give me my shoes back so I can throw them at you again!”

“Oh-ho… yeah, no way, sweetheart. I’m confiscating these bad boys.” Eddie bent down and picked up the shoe that struck him. The heel was four inches long and sharp as a dagger. “Holy shit, do you see this? You coulda taken my eye out with this thing!”

“I know,” you said. “I missed.”

“Okay, Killer Queen, calm down… Look, I know I’m not exactly your favorite person in the world right now—”

You scoffed. “Oh please! Right now Lionel Richie is my least favorite person in the world. You don’t even crack the top five.”

Eddie smiled a crooked and utterly charming smile. “Y’know, that might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Then he tossed the shoe into his opposite hand and fiddled with the buckle for a minute, his smile slipping into a pensive frown.

“Look, I’m hanging on by a thread here. I’m barely passing my classes, and I just know Principal Higgins is looking for any excuse to keep me from graduating. Normally, I wouldn’t give a shit, but this is kinda my last shot, y’know? If I don’t get that diploma this year, I’m gonna have to get my GED like every other Munson before me, and I really don’t wanna be another cliché, so… can I just hang here for a little while? Please? I promise I won’t bother you or talk to you. I’ll even try not to breathe too loud.”

His eyes were pleading and kind of pathetic, but in a really cute way. It was like seeing a puppy stranded on the side of the road in the middle of a rainstorm. No matter how bad your night was going, you couldn’t just drive off and leave it there.

“Whatever,” you said with an aloof shrug, “do what you want.”

Eddie pumped his fist and let out a relieved sigh. “Thank you.”

Then he picked up your other shoe and sat down… right next to you.

You recoiled as he drew too close. “What are you doing?” you blurted out, your whole body seeming to flush at once.

“Uhh, I’m sitting down.”

“Yeah, but why do you have to sit here?”

Eddie smiled at you. If you didn’t know better, you might have thought it was a little… flirty.

“Because this is the best seat in the house,” he said. “Why? Do you mind?”

Yes, you wanted to say. Yes, I mind very much. But now his shoulder was pressed against yours, warm and solid with muscle, and you were finding it awfully difficult to keep your thoughts straight.

You looked away, feeling the heat returning to your face. “No… I guess not.”

“Good,” Eddie said, and handed over your shoes. “Here ya go, Cinderella.”

The first thirty or some odd seconds were excruciatingly uncomfortable. You were sitting shoulder to shoulder with Eddie Munson, the object your desire since you were twelve, in an empty bathroom on prom night while “Endless Love” played in the background.

Okay, Dante, what circle of Hell have you thrown me into now? And how is this song still playing? What, do they have it on a loop or something? Oh my god, maybe this really is Hell…

You were doing everything you could to distract yourself from Eddie’s overwhelming presence: the heat of his body against yours, the scent of his skin—this woody, smoky, faintly spicy smell that reminded you of cigars, whiskey bars, and worn leather sofas.

He kept playing with the chain on his right wrist, then with each of the rings on his left hand: twisting them, pulling them down the length of his fingers, then pushing them back into place. While you watched him, your first thought was, That is an absurd amount of rings for one hand, but soon all you could think about how strong his hands looked, how his veins protruded ever so slightly, how his long, calloused fingers would fit so perfectly around the neck of a guitar, or…

Oh my god, douse me with holy water; I’m in need of an exorcism!

Then you heard Eddie say, “So what did, uh, Lionel Richie do to you?”

You reluctantly dragged your eyes away from his hands and up to his face. “What?”

“You said Lionel Richie was your least favorite person. What, did he like break your heart or something?”

“Oh…” You dropped your head and laughed. “No, I was just making a joke. Lionel Richie is the guy singing this song. I just really hate this song.”

“Oh…” Eddie knocked his head against the wall, his lips curling into an adorably bashful smile. “Right… Okay, that’s embarrassing.”

You flashed a teasing grin. “You don’t know who Lionel Richie is?”

“Yeah, I have no idea who Lionel Richie is… but I concur, this song sucks; whoever chose it has terrible taste in music.” Then his brow wrinkled as he said, “That’s not why you’re in here crying, though, right?”

You shook your head (and, luckily, the music changed to a more upbeat song: “Whip It” by Devo, which made you squint your eyes in bewildered amusement).

“No,” you said, “I’m not quite that overdramatic. It’s just… this night didn’t turn out like I thought it would. Well, actually, it turned out exactly like I thought it would, and that’s why I was crying.”

Eddie nodded. “Yeah, my night isn’t going so great, either. I don’t even know why I came here, honestly.”

“Why did you come here?”

He rubbed his head, messing up his hair a little. “Shit, I dunno… A couple nights ago, I was, uh, sitting in my room, alone, strumming my guitar like I do every night, and it just hit me, y’know? I thought to myself, Holy shit, I’m gonna graduate next month! And then I started thinking back on my high school experience—the whole, grand thing—and I realized I don’t have that many great memories. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ve got some good memories, but nothing worth writing home about, y’know? No parties. No dates. No, uh, secret trysts in janitor’s closet…”

“Well, that’s probably because you refer to them as trysts,” you said, snickering. “Pretty sure no girl in Hawkins would know what you’re talking about.”

“No girl except you, apparently,” Eddie said; and oh, did that make you blush.

“Well, I’m a fan of the classics,” you said, struggling to keep your cool. “Anyway, go on. Nobody invited you to parties, nobody asked you out, nobody wanted to fool around with you in the janitor’s closet, so…?”

“So,” Eddie went on, “I decided to crash prom… y’know, make a memory.”

“… with Chrissy.”

Saying your best friend’s name hurt a lot more than you thought it would. It made your heart throb with a lonely, miserable ache. Then you had to stare at Eddie’s lovesick expression, and that was more than you could bear. You cast your eyes away, started tracing your finger along the beige grout in the tile.

Eddie said, “She told you about that, huh?”

“No… I just saw you talking to her.”

“Right… Yeah, I got the brilliant and boneheaded idea to ask to her dance. I figured it’s the senior prom, right? Who’s gonna say no to a dance at the senior prom? Well, I guess I failed to factor in my social standing at this school. Yeah, nobody wants to be seen dancing with the freak.”

Your brow furrowed. That didn’t sound like Chrissy, not at all.

“She said no?”

“Uhh, yeah… right after she burst into tears, which was, y’know, horrifying.”

You felt your stomach knot up with guilt: for robbing Eddie of his one great memory, for putting your best friend in such an impossible situation and forcing her to be cruel, which was so against her nature. Asking Chrissy Cunningham to be mean was like asking a vegetarian to slaughter a calf and eat it. It would simply make her sick.

“I’m sorry,” you said, for all of it.

And Eddie said, “Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”

Except it was. It really was. If only he knew that.

You stopped tracing the tile and looked up at him. “I had no idea you liked Chrissy.”

Eddie quirked one corner of his mouth dubiously. “Well, that’s… I dunno if ‘like’ is the right word,” and he started playing with his rings again, twisting them back and forth. “She’s just always been something like a dream for me, y’know? Kinda like one of those celebrity crushes every guy has. It’s just something nice to think about when things aren’t going my way, which is… y’know… most of the time.” He chuckled a little—a deep, rueful laugh that made your heart sink. “There’s no real pressure, no real fear of rejection, because it’s all just a fantasy anyway, right? Like, okay, Chrissy turned me down tonight, and yeah, I’m a little bruised up, but I’ll survive, y’know? I’ll soldier on. No scars. No permanent damage. It’s easier to recover from a rejection like that because, well, because it was never all that real to begin with.”

Eddie pulled off one of his rings and stared at it for a minute, his eyes taking on a strange luster that felt foreign yet somehow familiar.

“But if I ever met someone,” he said with a sad, wistful smile, “someone I really liked and could potentially see myself with, someone who I thought might actually like me back… If I thought I had finally found that person and, y’know, she rejected me and just totally ripped my heart out and stomped it into the ground… well… how’s a guy like me supposed to recover from something like that?”

His brown eyes drifted over to you as he said this, and in them you saw something that haunted you. Like something deep, deep inside them was reaching out to you, forcing you to say,

“Have you?”

“Have I what?” Eddie asked.

“Met someone you thought you liked?”

And just like that, Eddie’s eyes retreated from you and rolled up to the ceiling.

“Uhh, no,” he said, “that was purely rhetorical. Yeah, there’s been no romance for this poor, cynical soul… See, uh, most of the girls at school are kinda terrified of me. Like, I tried to return a pencil to this one girl and she acted like I was pulling a knife on her or something. She just, uh, ran off like the devil was after her. Then there are other girls that sorta… want me to pull a knife on them, which is somehow worse. Yeah, I guess they look at me and make all these wild assumptions, and then they end up disappointed when they realize I’m uh…”

“A big fantasy nerd?”

Eddie shot you an amiable glare. “Yes, thank you for putting it so gently.”

“Hey, I’m just saying… you did your last six book reports on The Lord of the Rings.”

“Well, six books, three volumes, one ring to rule them all…” and you both laughed at that for way longer than you should have.

“You brought maps,” you said.

“For context.”

“You brought props.”

“Visual aids.”

“You acted out scenes.”

“Well, an epic like Lord of the Rings requires a certain amount of theatrics… I may have gone a little overboard, though.”

“Way overboard,” you said, and giggled.

Eddie cracked a small smile. “Yeah, I remember standing at the front of the class, looking out at everyone… and there you were, just sitting there watching in wide-eyed delight, totally basking in my failure.”

“I wasn’t basking…”

“Oh, you were basking big time.”

“Well, hey, you inspired me to read the book.”

“Oh yeah?” Eddie said, seeming pleasantly surprised. “And what were your thoughts?”

“It was… okay.”

“Just okay?”

“I just… I dunno, maybe I’d enjoy it more as a movie.”

“Wow, okay…”

“Yeah, it just reads a little like a history book.”

“Well, yeah, it was inspired by the old epics—y’know, like uh…”

“Yeah, I know the old epics. I’ve read the old epics. Yeah, Beowulf? Huge fan. And I’ll tell you what, after tonight I’m really starting to empathize with Grendel.”

Eddie squinted at you. “Yeah, I don’t know what that means.”

“Well, Grendel was tormented by the sounds of feasting and merriment because of his whole, you know, ‘forsaken by God’ thing… God, am I the only one who pays attention in English class? I feel like all my references just soar over everyone’s heads.”

Eddie threw up his hand. “Wait, okay, I think I get it now. The sounds of prom are making you really angry right now because you’re in here feeling like an outcast, and now you kinda wanna go out there and slaughter everyone. Is that about right?”

“Well, it’s a lot less funny when you have to explain it…”

“I’m sorry,” Eddie said, smiling at you. “Next time we’re stuck in a bathroom together, I’ll be sure to brush up on my classic literature.”

And that made you laugh—an easy, effortless laugh that made your chest feel so beautifully warm. You smiled to yourself, savoring the feeling.

“But honestly, I don’t blame you,” Eddie went on, fingering the chain on his wrist. “Because having to listen to this shitty music all night is enough to make anyone go insane.”

You both went quiet for a minute, listening to the synth-pop pouring in through the wall: “You spin me right ‘round, baby, right ‘round… Like a record, baby, right ‘round, ‘round, ‘round…” Dead or Alive. God, it was enough to make you wish you were dead.

You cringed and said, “Yeah, I voted for Journey… I was really hoping to have myself a little Journey moment tonight, but I guess that wasn’t in the cards for me.”

“I’m sorry,” Eddie said. Then his face scrunched up, and he went, “Journey, really?”

“What, you got a problem with Journey?”

“No, I just… I just think their music is kinda lame, that’s all.”

“What?” you shrieked, getting way more offended than you should have. “Their music is not lame! Their music is amazing and real and… you know, Steve Perry is the voice of our generation. The range, the power, he is a truly phenomenal artist. We are blessed to have his voice grace our ears.”

Eddie drew back from you a little, his eyes widening in befuddled horror. “Okay, I’ve clearly struck a nerve here.”

“Yeah, you have—a big nerve. You know what, go away.”

“What?”

“Go sit over there. You have offended Steve Perry and, therefore, you have offended me. Now begone, you are henceforth banished from this wall. Go sit over there. This spot is for Journey lovers only.”

“Okay, crazy, I’m going…” Eddie climbed to his feet and trudged to the other side of the room, plopping himself down on the long vanity. “Is this far enough for you? Or should I go into the handicap stall?”

“No, that’s far enough,” you said, “except now I have to like yell in order to talk to you, so come back.”

Eddie stared at you for a minute, a smile tugging at his lips. “As the lady commands.”

He came and sat down beside you, even closer than before. You didn’t mind.

“So apart from the almighty Journey, what other music do you like?”

With a huge grin you said, “You mean besides Corroded Coffin? Because obviously they’re at the top.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “All right, I see we’re back to making fun of me…” and you laughed a little; you couldn’t help it.

“I still remember your first performance at the middle school talent show. Man, that was such a wonderful train wreck. Like, it was just noise upon noise upon noise. You guys sounded like you were all playing different songs. I mean, nobody was on the same page! Gareth was dragging the whole time, and Jeff’s guitar was so out of tune it was painful, and you… you were clearly playing in the Garden to a sold-out crowd. Yeah, you thought you were Eddie Van Halen, didn’t you? Well, you didn’t sound like Eddie Van Halen, I promise you that. It was so legendarily bad! And I just remember sitting there thinking, Oh my god, I’m witnessing the greatest performance in history right now. Rock & Roll Hall of Fame here we come!”

You laughed yourself to tears, until your sides ached and you were snorting like a pig. Eddie was glowering at you the whole time, but his glare wasn’t as cold as it usually was. Now it felt warm and almost… affectionate.

“Okay, you’ve had your laugh,” he said, and you took a second to compose yourself, to dry your eyes and catch your breath.

“Anyway… you guys are a lot better now.”

“Yeah?” Eddie grunted. “How would you know?”

“Because I’ve heard you… Tuesdays at The Hideout? Yeah, I’ve been there.”

Eddie’s head jerked up and around. “What? You came to our shows?”

“Yeah… well, actually, I went for the wings. They, uh, they have these blueberry barbecue wings that are like insanely good and, you know, they have a big wing deal on Tuesdays—you can get a whole basket for like two bucks—so I may have caught a show or two…”

Or all of them.

Eddie gaped at you, mystified. “How did I not see you there? I feel like I’d instantly recognize the sound of you cackling.”

“Yeah, I kinda hung out in the back, tried to keep a low profile. I just didn’t want you to think I was there to heckle you or anything.”

For a while, Eddie didn’t say anything. He just kept staring at you with this deeply puzzled expression. You flinched away from it, feeling embarrassed.

“What?” you finally said.

“Nothing,” Eddie answered, and shook his head. “I just, uh…”

The door swung open and Sarah Twinley walked in. As soon as she spotted you and Eddie sitting on the floor, her lips curled with utter disdain and she said, “Are you guys getting high or something?”

“Yes,” you said. “Yes, we are.”

She sighed. “Typical.”

Then she went to the vanity, her pink heels clicking against the tile. You and Eddie stayed perfectly still, neither one of you saying a word, while Sarah fixed her hair, touched up her makeup, and dabbed some perfume behind her ears. Once finished, she closed her matching pink clutch and walked out. “Have fun in here, freaks.”

As the door closed, you said, “I think I just became a freak by association. All that social climbing for nothing…”

Then you turned to Eddie. “You don’t have any drugs on you, do you?”

“I thought you didn’t mess around with that stuff.”

“I don’t normally, but tonight I would make an exception.”

Eddie smiled a little at that, but said, “Sorry, I’m not carrying tonight.”

You swung your fist. “Damn… Nobody spiked the punch bowl. Our resident drug dealer’s pockets are empty. What good are you, Munson?”

You tried to laugh at your own joke, but you couldn’t. There was an awkward tension in the room that wasn’t there before, and it was making you feel restless, like you needed to get up and move. Run a lap. Or a mile. Or a whole damn marathon.

“You know, security’s probably moved on by now, so this would be the perfect time for you to, uh, skedaddle on outta here.”

Your comment seemed to catch him by surprise. “Are you kicking me out?”

“No,” you said. “No, I just figured you’d wanna go.”

And now Eddie was gazing at you expectantly, hopefully. “So you want me to stay, then?”

“Umm…” You blushed, feeling a little put on the spot. “I mean, I don’t care. You can do what you want.”

Eddie bent his head and frowned. “Yeah, that’s not what I asked,” he said in a low voice, while his hands fondled every piece of jewelry he was wearing. “I said, do you want me to stay?”

Then his deep brown eyes flicked up to yours, stealing the breath from your lips, making your chest swell and get painfully tight.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Yes, I want you to stay.”

____________________

PREV // CURRENT // NEXT

#eddie munson #stranger things #fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson imagine #chrissy cunningham #jason carver #chrissy x jason #eddie x chrissy #stranger things 4 #st4 #ambrossart #dancing with myself #dwm #fanfiction

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ahdraftingco · 2 years ago

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Chapter Nine: Never Be Afraid To Dream | Series: Lesson Learned

Pairing: The Mandalorian x Reader

AO3 Crosspost: https://archiveofourown.org/works/40653303

Rating: Explicit, readers are advised to read the warnings below before proceeding.

Series Warnings (in no particular order): Porn with Plot, Dark!Din Djarin, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hate Sex, Master/Slave Relationship, Knife Play, BDSM, Rough Sex, Genuine Fear, Sexual Coercion, Power Play, Degradation, Face Slapping, Spanking, Choking, Gagging, Enemies to Lovers, Possessive Behavior, Spit, Forced Orgasms, Hair Pulling, Multiple Orgasms, Threats of Violence, References to Death/Suicide, Stockholm Syndrome, Emotional Manipulation, Book of Boba Fett Spoilers

Chapter Summary: The Mandalorian is not in great shape and there's nothing you can do about it. He's fading…and fading fast.

Word Count: 10.0k+

***This chapter is part of my Lesson Learned series, if you haven’t read the other chapters, go to the series masterlist: here!***

A/N: For the final two chapters, I would like to say that while there could be warnings, I elected not to write them out so I don't spoil the content. Just think of all the warnings you've seen in the previous chapters and prepare yourself because anything can happen ;)

You've made it this far, let's see if you'll last until the end… ~ ♡

You are so tired. It's hard to wake up because your eyelids are heavy, sealing your eyes shut. But, you need to wake up.

You need to know if Din is okay.

So, you muster all your strength to open your eyes and a piercing warm light radiates into the room. It hurts a bit as you adjust to the sudden brightness and your surroundings.

Though once your eyes do finally adjust, you're…confused because you're in bed. A nicely made bed, with the comforter tucked around you like someone wanted you to sleep in a little more. You get up, looking down to see that you're wearing a matching set of pajamas.

Clothes you've never even seen before.

There are indoor slippers at the end of the bed waiting for you so you don't have to touch the cold ground with your bare feet. You slip them on and walk to the door, following the sound of food sizzling in a pan. You walk through an unfamiliar hallway, stumbling a bit when you notice that it's Din who is cooking in the kitchen.

It's a small kitchen, but it fits the two of you perfectly. He looks back at you, smiling when he spots you, saying, "sorry, did I wake you? You should lay down for a little longer. Food will be ready in a few minutes."

Din is wearing the same matching set of pajamas too and there's no helmet or armor in sight. He looks…so normal. Like a regular man.

You shift your eyes to a mirror in the hallway, noticing then that you have a ring on your finger, the gemstone catching the morning sunlight and reflecting it back in the mirror. It's nothing like the ring from before and you can slip it off easily.

What's going on? Is this…a dream?

If it is, why can't you wake up, now that you're aware that it is?

You slap yourself lightly, trying to force yourself awake but you're stuck in this dream. It must've been whatever they injected you with.

Sweet dreams. You remember them saying before you drifted off into sleep.

Now, you have to deal with this dream version of Din you've cooked up in your head until your body finally wakes. The version of Din you've always wanted to be real.

The pain numbs your heart as you walk over to him, watching as he plates the food and puts the pans away into what you assume has to be a dishwasher. Once that's loaded, he turns back to you and again, he smiles.

"Breakfast is ready, my love."

You nearly break down at the sound of those words coming out of his mouth. He looks so happy, walking up to you, his hands securing at your waist before he leans down and kisses you like he does this exact thing every morning. It's habitual. It's comfortable.

It's not real…but you wish it was.

"Is there something wrong?" Din notices your hesitation once his lips part from yours.

You're just a dream. You want to tell him that but the words refuse to leave your lips, so instead you go, "I don't feel hungry right now. I'm not feeling that great, actually."

"Why's that?" Concern fills his eyes, his arms pulling you in for a hug you didn't know you needed. "I've got you. Tell me what's up."

"I had…a nightmare." You wrap your arms around him, fighting back the tears that want to drip from your eyes. "You got hurt, real bad, because of me. Because you were trying to protect me. It scared me, seeing you like that."

"It was just a dream." He gestures to his body, showing how intact he is. "I'm perfectly fine."

Except Din isn't. Not in reality. Here, in your mind, in your dreams, he's okay but the truth is you have no idea if he's actually alright.

You just hope he is.

That's all you have right now, hope.

Which is why you say, "I hope so."

Din presses a kiss against your forehead and it feels as real as his hands sneaking beneath your shirt, caressing your bare back with his calloused fingers. You meet his gaze as he looks down at you like you're his whole world.

"You don't need to hope. I'm right here for you." He's soft-spoken and gentle, trying to comfort you. You must seem so distraught, which you are but not over reality.

If this is just a dream, then maybe it's okay to enjoy it. To enjoy loving Din in case you never get the chance to again.

So, you reach up and grab his face, tugging him down to kiss you. When your lips meet his, you know then that you can't possibly let him go. And, he knows it, because he picks you up in his arms, carrying you back to bed. You love the way the sheets feel beneath you, but you love the way Din looks on top of you much, much more.

"Breakfast can wait then." He chuckles at his own joke and you laugh with him, watching as he peels off his shirt.

You go to do the same but he stops you so he can do it himself, undressing you fully until you're completely naked beneath him in bed.

Din bites his lip, glazing over your body with intensity in his eyes, before his voice goes all low and sultry, "I love seeing how comfortable you are with me."

"Shouldn't I be telling you that? You're the Mandalorian and yet you're showing me every bit of you." You sit up, running your hands over his warm skin, feeling every muscle and every scar you've come to memorize after months of being with him.

Has it really been that long? It surprises you to this day how much time you've spent with him. The yearning has really built over all these moments.

"I'm not the Mandalorian anymore." His words catch you off guard, especially when he says, "right here, right now, I'm your husband and you're my love."

That's all it takes for your heart to burst and you can't hold it in anymore, your tears slipping slowly from the corner of your eyes. You can't tell if you're crying because you're sad or happy but either way, you know this is a dream.

Just a lovely dream worth drowning in…

"When did you learn to be such a flirt?" You tease him, blinking away your tears.

"I have to seduce you somehow." He leans down, kissing your wet cheeks. Then, he whispers, "would you rather I be mean to you?"

You bite your lip, reading between the lines of his attempt to rile you up. "I thought you wanted to comfort me."

"I wanted to eat breakfast." He gazes up and down your body before a smirk appears on his face. "But it seems like my pretty little thief wants to rob me of my meal. Don't you think that's worthy of a punishment?"

"Sounds like an excuse to bully me." You chuckle, wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him in so your bodies are pressed together. You want to remember the feeling of his warmth against you, the warmth that has kept you afloat all this time.

"You love being bullied by me." He brushes his nose against yours, a sweet little gesture that makes your heart flutter.

"You love me." You state because it's the truth.

"I do. I love you so very much." Din whispers quietly so that only you can hear him say that, like those words were only ever meant for you.

"Are you happy?" You don't know why that question pops up now but seeing him so relaxed and openly loving is…you just wonder if such a reality could exist.

"Why wouldn't I be?" He rolls over then, so he can lay on his side, pulling you in for a hug. "Talk to me, my love. Tell me what's bothering you."

You lean your head on his chest and you want to say you aren't real, none of this is real, the real Din is–

"Why can't I imagine a life without you in it?" You mumble into the crook of his neck, the words getting eaten up by his skin.

"What did you say?" He acts like he couldn't catch it but you know he definitely did.

But, you elaborate anyways, sighing from the heartache. "I used to be all alone and I…I don't know if I was happy. I was surviving, but I wasn't really living. Then, you caught me and…I don't know if that was living either. It was somewhere in between, a limbo of sorts. Coexisting, codependent, we were interlocked but were we living a life? I don't think so and yet, I can't imagine life any other way. I can't imagine trying to live without you, Din. I…"

I love you. Those are the words you want to say but you can't even breathe them out to the dream version of him.

"I'm not going anywhere." His hand rests on the back of your head, patting it gently as he kisses your forehead. "We'll figure things out. We'll learn to live together properly. We'll be okay."

"I hope so." You say those words again but you're unsure how hopeful you are given the circumstances.

"What do you hope for?" Din asks and perhaps this is your subconscious trying to parse out what you truly desire.

So, you confess, "I hope for a future where you trust me to stay with you. I hope for a life where we're happy together. I hope for friendships and a steady, comfortable job, for the both of us. I hope for you to love me despite everything I've done to you."

"You say that like you've done something unforgivable." The concern plasters across his face.

"I stole your heart, didn't I?" You cup his face with your hands, tilting him towards you so you can feel his forehead pressed against yours. "I made you into who you are now and that's something I can never take back."

"Do you think I'm a monster?" His heart is racing, his pulse drumming against your palm.

"I would be foolish to say you aren't." You gently kiss his cheek before whispering, "but you're my monster. The only man who can haunt my dreams and be all I dream of too."

"Why would you ever want a man like me?"

Din is right. Why do you want him so much?

"Maybe I am a fool." You giggle and he gives you a half-smile.

"A fool in love with a monster." He smirks before laying you on your back again, getting on top.

"In your dreams." You jab at him, feigning sarcasm.

"In your dreams." He becomes incredibly self-aware.

"Yes." You open your arms, wanting to be held. "In my dreams, we're happy."

"Then maybe it's okay to dream for just a little longer, my pretty little thief."

That's when Din leans in and kisses you. It feels so real that you sink into it, needing more, needing him. You allow yourself to dream, to revel in this beautiful fantasy.

A happy, healthy Din Djarin and his pretty little thief who he loves so very much.

"How do you want me?" He asks as his fingers trace along your inner thighs. "I want to spoil you today."

You think for a moment before saying, "I want to feel you imprint onto me. I want to remember every inch of you. I want you to hold me like this is the end."

"Is it…the end?" He swallows his nerves and you can feel your own nerves ball up in your throat.

"I hope not." You reply, not knowing if you believe yourself yet again.

He loosens up at your reassurance, guiding his hips to settle between your legs. "Please keep hoping for me, okay?"

You nod firmly before wrapping your legs around his waist. Din slowly enters you, the familiar feeling of his cock melting your mind inch by inch. You love the way he makes you feel. You always have.

You always will.

"Hold on tight and don't let go." He pats his shoulders and you listen, digging your nails into his back as he starts to quicken his pace.

What you wouldn't give for this to be real. You want to be able to scratch into his back when you get close to your orgasm so he knows to angle himself exactly the way you need him to in order to finally burst. You want to be consumed by the warm, fuzzy, loving aura radiating all around you because you know when you wake up, it'll be dark and cold and–

"Focus on me." Din snaps you back into the moment, into the dream. "This is the end, right?"

Yes. You want to say. No. You also want to say.

But, neither word leaves your lips.

Instead, you nuzzle your face into his neck, breathing in the smell of him so you can remember. This is much more important. Keeping his memory in your mind, clear as day, just in case…

❈❈❈❈❈❈

The moment you wake up, that perfectly okay Din zaps from existence as your eyes catch onto the real Din, battered and bruised in the corner of this jail cell, chained up just like you are.

Thankfully, the chains are long enough, at least for you, to go over to him. He's asleep, or knocked out, maybe both, so you maneuver him so you can cradle him in your arms. His broken arm is swollen and he'll need to get to a doctor soon or there's no saving it. He must feel terrible, both from the torture and the fact that they stripped him nearly bare. You're grateful they left him in his underwear at the very minimum.

A strained voice mutters your name and you shift your eyes down to see that Din's eyes are open, but they're only slivers given the bruising. They gave him a nasty black eye and a busted lip.

"You're okay." You try to comfort him, patting his head like he would do for you when you weren't well. "I'm here with you. You're not alone, Din."

"Where are we?" He manages to say that before a coughing fit overtakes him, blood spewing out from his mouth in droplets.

"Looks like a holding cell. We must be in a dungeon of sorts, maybe their lair." It looks like the cell in Mos Espa, with its powdery tan stone walls and the thick metal bars.

You can't reach the door with your restraints, which means there's no use trying to pick the lock. The chains don't have a lock on them either. You'll need to be cut out of them and you doubt they'll do that for you…

"Did they hurt you?" That's the next thing he asks when Din gains the strength to speak again.

"No, not at all." You show him how your clothes remain completely untouched with no blood in sight so you don't have anywhere close to the injuries he has sustained.

"Good, that's good." He lets out with a pained huff of air.

"You don't have to talk anymore." You tell him, needing him to save his strength for his recovery. "Just rest, Din."

"I…" He trails off for a moment, his breaths growing heavy before he manages to say, "I want to listen to your voice."

"Okay, but only if you close your eyes and rest." You agree to his request and he listens, shutting his eyes, his features relaxing.

You try to think of a story to tell him but nothing seems right for this situation. So, you decide to tell him about your dream.

"I had a dream and you were there." You start to speak, keeping your voice quiet and soft. "We had a house together. With a really nice bedroom that had cozy sheets and a warm comforter. We wore matching pajamas and it was…"

You can't find the right words to describe it.

Perfect. You think that might sum it up but that would make it all too much of a fantasy.

"Very cute." You finish your sentence with that, chuckling. "You cooked me breakfast, like you had been doing it everyday for your whole life. It felt so real, I could smell the sizzling pan right now."

"Were we happy?" The air catches in his lungs and Din coughs a bit so you rub his back, hoping that eases the pain.

"Yes." You reminisce fondly on that scene you created in your mind. "We were married. We held each other with so much care and comfort. We were very happy, Din."

"I'm sorry." He fights the bloody coughs to say, "I wish I could make that dream real."

"It's okay." You tell him, leaning down and pressing a kiss on his forehead. "I wish I could make your dreams real too."

Din shakes his head, saying, "you don't owe me anything anymore. I'm the one who needs to repent for all the things I've done to you."

"Then fight to live, my Mandalorian." You hold him just a bit tighter, not wanting to let him go. "Live so you can show me how sorry you are."

"I'll try." A brief smile appears on his face before he finally succumbs to the pain he's been fighting.

You sit with him there, his head on your lap, your hands gently drawing lines all over his bare skin. You talk about random things to him, to keep him conscious, to help him stay alive. You sing a few of your favorite songs and recite other warm words you've been told before.

"You're so beautiful, my pretty little thief." Din wears his heart out on his sleeve for a moment, as if it's his last. "I love you. I love you so much that I would do this again, and again, and again if it meant having you care for me like this."

"You're an idiot if you think I'd let you get beat up for my sake again." You shake your head in disapproval but a grin peeks through.

"I would go to the ends of the galaxy to see you smile at me like that." He reaches up with all his strength to touch your face with his uninjured arm, his hand gently caressing your cheek. "I'm never losing that smile again. I'll do anything to keep you happy if we make it out of here, I promise."

"If?" Your heart tugs at the thought of losing him right now.

"I don't want to make a promise I can't keep." There's so much layered in his words but you know the truth is, he's hoping for the best. That's as much as either of you can do right now.

"I won't either then. I promise, we're going to get you out of here and you'll be okay soon." You swear with every fiber of your being.

"I hope so." Din shuts his eyes, his breathing slowing down. "I really hope so…"

Just as you are about to shake him awake, you hear footsteps coming towards the cell. He opens his eyes immediately, almost instinctively, feeling the possible danger approach. You shield him with your body, not wanting any more pain inflicted onto him. He won't survive if he gets hurt again.

A cloaked figure walks to the metal door and you hear several small clicks before it swings open without a sound. You grip onto Din tighter, scared for his life, until the person takes off their hood and kneels before you.

Your eyes widen at the sight of– "Willa?"

It is her, in the flesh. Willa pulls out a pen of sorts and goes, "stay still, I'm going to get you out of here."

With a push of the top button, the pen shoots out a red laser and slowly melts away at your restraints. You're still full of disbelief at the sight of her so you whisper, "how did you find us?"

"Celine, the girl you sent to me for help, she told me about the trap. About how they forced her to guilt trip you into wanting to come back, so that whoever was after the Mandalorian could ambush him."

"The bounty was fake, then. They didn't need our help freeing them. They just needed to plant the idea." Din adjusts so that he rests his back against the wall, giving Willa easier access to your leg restraints now that he isn't laying on your lap anymore.

"The whole thing was a set-up and I couldn't let those people hurt you for whatever the fuck he did to them." She shoots Din a nasty glare, her hostility very apparent. But, Willa softens when she looks at you, explaining more, "I took a job on Glavis Ringworld so I could keep an eye on that club. Thankfully, I saw those bandits enter the club so I put a tracker on one of their ships and it led me here. Are you alright? Did they hurt you?"

"No, but…" You shift your eyes over to Din, who is obviously the injured one. Not like Willa cares for him, but you tell her anyway, "he took the beating so that I wouldn't. He protected me."

She scoffs as she gets the final restraints off your ankle. "I've heard enough stories of Masters protecting their property. That's all you are to him. Property."

"That's not true." Din cuts in, wanting to assert his side. "I haven't been her Master for some time now."

"Then why are you still with him?" Willa can't comprehend the logic behind your actions.

"I needed him to right some wrongs." You reason with her, formulating the best way of saying this, "I wanted him to be my bounty hunter until I felt like he had done his part helping people instead of hurting them. Then, I was going to kill him."

"And I would've let her." He confirms your statement. "She can kill me whenever she wants. At this point, I'd say she's my Master."

"Is that why you came back to the club, to save those people?" Willa sighs at you. "You're too selfless for your own good, do you know that?"

"Can I be selfish then?" You turn to look at Din before facing Willa again, "will you save us both?"

"May I remind you that this is the man who knocked me out, tied me up, gagged me and then threatened to kill me?" Her glare only intensifies on Din. "What you've done to me and the others might as well be unforgivable."

"She's right." He agrees, looking into your eyes. "Like I said, you don't owe me anything. Go with her. It's okay, I'll be okay, I'll find my own way out."

"Come on," Willa urges you to get to your feet, "we won't have much time before they come to check on you two."

"They'll kill him if he stays behind." You can't bear the thought, your chest aching.

"It's what he deserves for what he's done." She's cold with her words but rightfully so.

"Go, my pretty little thief." Din musters up the will to smile at you softly. "Live your life, be happy and free."

You feel the two parts of you tugging you in either direction. Do you stay and find another way to save Din? Or, do you go and make a new life for yourself with Willa and the others?

Neither option feels right, which is why you beg Willa one more time, "I can't leave him. You can hate him all you want but please help us both. I'll do anything, he'll do anything, please."

Willa grits her teeth, visibly irritated at the thought of saving Din. So, she wagers, "I'll save him too if the Mandalorian swears on his life to never harm you again."

"I swear." Din crosses his heart. "I'd rather die than hurt her ever again."

"I'll kill you myself if you do." Willa faces you once again, a long sigh leaving her lips. Then, she goes, "if you want me to save him, you have to agree to live on Naboo with us, so we can keep you safe from him if need be. That's my offer."

"Deal." You say without hesitation. "I would want nothing more than to be surrounded by my friends."

Willa's face lightens at your words and she gives you a smile before handing you the pen. "You free him. I assume you need to search for his armor so be quick about it. I'll create a distraction to draw them away. The pen has a tracking device in it. I'll find you both later, once I've denoted both bombs. That's your timer. The moment the second bomb goes off, I'll come find you. You'll have to leave with me immediately right then."

"Thank you." You get to your feet and pull Willa in for a hug. "I owe you one."

She hugs you back before saying, "consider us even. You saved me and now I saved you. So hurry, please."

Throwing her hood back on, Willa leaves the cell to go plant the bombs she has brought. You quickly laser off Din's restraints before tucking the pen into your pocket. With Din's good arm around your shoulder, you lug him with you. He can walk, but it's unsteady, so you let him lean on you.

The first bomb goes off as you both are wandering down a corridor. You haven't found any rooms, just more and more tunnels. You know what that armor means to Din though, so you have to try and find it.

As of right now, you haven't ran into any bandits so Willa's bomb must've drawn their attention exactly as needed. You shake Din, who is limping a bit, before asking, "hey, how are you holding up?"

"Been better." He jokes and you chuckle, giving him a quick peck on the cheek.

"We'll get you to a medic soon. Just stay with me, okay?"

Din nods and you both turn a corner. At the end of the tunnel is a room, hidden off to the side. Maybe that's where they hid his armor. You drag him over there, going into the room. There's a curtain covering the entrance so you push that aside to enter.

It's definitely not where his armor is, but it seems like some kind of break room. There's lockers, a few of which have been left open. They must've ran immediately after the bomb went off to see what happened.

You help Din sit down on a metal chair and quickly sift through the lockers for supplies. You manage to find some clothes that would fit him, so you give them to him so he can get dressed. You hear him breathe a sigh of relief when he finally gets his pants on.

"I would help but I should pick these locks." You feel bad that he's struggling to put his clothes on.

"Do what you need to. Be the thief I know you are." He sounds much more cheerful now and you're grateful for it.

When you get the remaining few lockers open, you find a gun, a headscarf and one of the bandit's masks. That'll have to do for now, until he finds his armor and weapons. You go back over to Din, helping him slip on some boots and gloves before strapping on the mask and bundling him up with the headscarf.

He looks like any other bandit…which benefits him, but not you.

Why? Because the moment a bandit comes into the room and see you with your hands around Din's neck, a bullet fires straight at you, piercing you dead center in the chest. The knock back throws you across the room, your body sliding until you hit the far wall.

As if by instinct, Din lifts the gun you had left on the table and shoots at the bandit, but he misses because his dominant arm is broken, the bullet hitting the cave wall instead. The bandit runs away at that, presumably going to alert the others of the intruders.

That's when the second bomb goes off.

Willa will be back for you two soon…only, it won't be the two of you. It'll just be Din if you lose consciousness right now.

You clutch your chest, redness covering your hands. It smells like metal and it's hard to breathe because of it. Or, maybe because you got shot where your lungs are.

Din rushes to your side, his gloved hand pressing a rag into your chest, staining it the same red as your hand. He rips the mask off his face because he wants to see you directly.

"You'll be okay." Din says those words but you know he doesn't believe them, not when this much blood is leaving your body. "Please, you have to be okay."

You're getting so tired…so dizzy…but you fight the pain to breathe out, "go and find your armor before Willa gets back. You can't–you can't let them steal–"

"I don't care about my armor. I don't care about being a Mandalorian anymore. You are all I care about, my pretty little thief, so please, don't go. Don't leave me too." He chokes up, holding you against his chest, sobbing uncontrollably. "I can't live without you. I can't–I can't lose another loved one, please."

You've never seen him so broken before. Is this how he would react if he lost you? It must be…

"Do you love me?" You say with a strained breath, your consciousness fading more and more with every passing second.

"Yes." He cries out your name before telling you, "I love you so much. Please, please, stay with me, my love."

"Ask me." You whisper to him, your eyes slowly closing against your will. "Ask me if I love you."

"Do you love me?" He asks, the words accompanied by his tears hitting your face.

"Yes." You use your last remaining strength to reach up and caress his jaw with your hand so you can tell him what you've been holding in this whole time, "I love you, Din Djarin. I always have."

"I know." He watches as you grow limp in his arms. "I should've been better. I should've treated you better. I should've been the man you loved when you needed me the most. I'm so sorry."

"I forgive you." You say your final words before the darkness takes over your vision, "so please, learn to live without me."

This is the way…the only way to save Din…

❈❈❈❈❈❈

Your skin grows cold then and Din shakes you, not willing to let you die. Your pulse is slow, your breathing is strained, but there's still hope in his heart that you can make it.

That's why he answers the way he does when Willa finds him holding you in his arms and asks, "is she dead?"

"No." Din replies firmly, "but she will be if we don't get her out of here and to a medic fast."

"Fuck!" Willa curses, her eyes darting towards Din. "You were supposed to protect her!"

"I know." There's not much else he can say.

"Can you carry her with that arm?" She gestures to his broken arm.

"I can." He lies because he knows even though he can, he's going to lose his arm in the process. There's no saving his arm if he overworks it like this but that doesn't matter to him.

The pain that pierces through him as he lifts you up doesn't phase him. Nothing will ever hurt more than the possibility of losing you forever. So, with the adrenaline pumping through him, he follows quickly behind Willa as she guides him out of the cavern.

"I have a friend nearby. They're not a professional medic by any means but they probably have enough to get her stable." Willa kickstarts her motorbike before patting the seat behind her. "Now, get the fuck on before it's too late."

Din lets her boss him around, taking the seat without any comment. He constantly checks your breathing and your pulse, but it's so faint, it scares him.

"What happened?" Willa asks as she transverses through the rocky terrain.

What planet is this? Din wonders but won't ask.

He answers Willa instead, "I had on the bandit mask. They thought I was one of them and that she was the intruder, so they shot her. I missed my shot on them and they ran away."

"Are you going to get revenge?" She's convinced he will, given everything she has seen from him, but he shakes his head.

"No. I'm tired of fighting all the time. I just…I just want her to be okay." His tears drip onto your shirt. "I don't care about anything else except her."

"You have a shitty way of showing it." She offhandedly insults him before she stops the bike in front of a large hut. "Let's go."

Willa and Din rush into the hut and immediately, her friend sees you hanging on by a thread in Din's arms, so they gesture for him to follow them downstairs, where their medical hub is. They have him lay you down on a bed and begin performing tests.

"Leave them be." Willa tells Din to stop hovering and to follow her back upstairs.

"Do you trust this person?" He asks, his nerves higher than ever.

"I trust them way more than you." She points to a bed in the corner. "Go sit so I can check your injuries."

"Why would you want to help someone you don't trust?" He understands her hostility towards him, but not the kindness she's showing.

"Because unlike you, I can hate someone and not want to see them looking like a bruised sack of shit, even if you fully deserve whatever happened to you. Plus, she'd be sad if I said I didn't try to help, so get your ass over there." Willa goes to grab some supplies.

The next hour is spent cleaning Din's wounds while her friend works on stabilizing you. Din has trouble sitting still, which results in a very annoyed Willa.

"Will you quit making such a fuss!" She groans, purposefully jabbing him a little too hard with the disinfectant stab.

"How can you be so calm?" He's on the brink of collapse and she's completely fine.

With a sigh, Willa goes, "do you think she'd like it if you had your panties in a twist?"

"You're a very rude person." Din huffs out angrily.

"Yeah, yeah, shut the fuck up and just hold still."

As much as he doesn't want to comply, Din decides that he'd rather not have you wake up and hear stories of him being stubborn from Willa so he behaves as she finishes stitching him up where he needs it. Then, she wraps bandages around his shoulder and arm, creating a makeshift cast.

"That's the best I can do given the circumstances." She says with a yawn, blinking away her tiredness.

"You should rest now." Din gets up from the bed, no longer needing it. "You've done a lot for us. Thank you…"

"Willa." She tells him her name, partially peeved he didn't even care to remember one of your friends.

"Thank you, Willa." He manages to say without sounding dishonest.

"What's your name?" She asks even though she's sure he won't tell her.

But, to her surprise, he answers, "Din."

"Don't bother Tex, Din." She refers to her friend downstairs. "They'll find you when they're ready."

He nods, obeying. Willa lays down to rest while Din goes around the hut, trying to be useful. He washes dishes, picks up trash, cleans anything that needs cleaning. Whatever he can do to keep his mind off of you for the time being.

Soon enough, Tex comes upstairs and walks over to Din, saying, "she's stable but I'm not sure if she'll wake up. I've got her hooked to a machine so now it's just a waiting game. Do you want me to ring you if she wakes?"

"Can I stay here? I mean…" Din realizes he's overstepping, asking a stranger if he can stay in their house while you recover. "I-I'm sorry, I don't mean to impose."

Tex laughs at how formal Din is being. "Willa said you were a murderous manaic and yet all I see is a fragile man deeply in love."

"I'm trying to change my ways." He feels awkward that people view him so negatively but it's not far from the truth…

"Then, you can stay if you put in the work." Tex lays out their offer. "I need some machines fixed, my ship could use some repairs and I'd like some self defense lessons. Nothing fancy, but just enough to protect myself and the people I care about and I'm sure a bounty hunter like yourself could teach me a few things."

"Fine by me." He doesn't mind doing manual labor if it means staying by your side.

"I put a cot downstairs, so you can rest there with her." They pat Din on the back before heading over to Willa, who wakes when she sees them.

Willa leans her head against Tex's chest and they whisper to each other, chuckling. Tex ruffles her hair and Willa pouts at them, but she smiles endearingly despite her annoyance. Din is surprised to see this vicious girl who only insulted him act so soft and mushy around someone, but Tex treats her with the same care, teasing her until she pulls them into her arms, dropping them into the bed with her. There's something in the way they look at each other that is filled with warmth and love.

Is that what real love looks like?

Din grapples with that thought when he sits in the cot downstairs, listening to the way the machine beeps every time your heart beats. Steady, stable, okay. You're fine. You'll wake up. You'll come back to him.

He rolls the cot over so that he's closer to you and then, he starts to talk, hoping his voice will draw you back to him, "I had a dream too. It was a lot like yours, except now I realize they're nothing alike. In my dream, I forced you to stay with me and you did. I thought that would make me happy, knowing you'd never leave me, but you weren't happy. I don't think you ever truly were happy with me and I was supplementing it with pleasure in a poor attempt to justify my own actions. I know now that…I can't control whether you leave me or not. I was a fool to think that I ever could."

Din feels the weight of his words, understanding everything that you both have gone through together was a result of his own insecurity. He takes the time now to admit the truth to himself. He knows why he is the way he is. He has avoided it for long enough.

In order to better himself, he needs to be honest and he needs to stop shielding himself from pain. He needs to open his heart back up, even if it scares him.

"I lost my parents when I was a child." Din tells the tale of his life to you, holding your hand in his as he does. "The Mandalorians found me and I thought I had been given a family but…it wasn't the same. We were a clan, but we weren't family. I didn't have a family again until I found a child. The child you knew. His name was Grogu. I loved him with all my heart but that wasn't enough to get him to stay. I had to let him go, to let him be with his real family, people who were special like him. I tried to convince him to come back, which is why I made such a fuss about that chainmail shirt. I really thought he'd pick me but…he chose to leave me, like everyone else in my life. I shoved so much of my frustration over losing him onto you and…I hadn't realized how much comfort you had given me unknowingly during my darkest time. Holding you as we slept together, making you feel good when I knew you needed it, no longer being alone anymore. I took all of that for granted because I was so scared of losing you too that I made you hate me even though you loved me."

He leans forward, resting his forehead against the back of your hand. Then, he whispers to whoever is listening. He doesn't believe in mysticism or anything of the sort but if asking is enough, then he might as well try.

"I want to make your dream come true. I want to be the man you deserve. I want to be loved, even if it means breaking my heart in the process. I want to learn how to love you the way I should've all this time. I would do anything to get the chance to make things right."

You don't sway an inch at his words and that tears him apart but he suffers through the ache.

Learn to live without me. That's what you told him, those were your final words and that's what he has to do. He needs to fulfill your wish. He needs to learn to cope with losing you before he's allowed to love you. He understands that now, which is why he will work towards it.

Din will be everything you've ever wanted and more.

❈❈❈❈❈❈

Days pass and things grow ever so mundane. Din recovers from his injuries, though Tex had to learn how to fix a broken elbow and that results in Din being partially mech now. He doesn't mind it, though he does get phantom itches in his now metal joint.

Willa decides to stay and Din suspects it has less to do with you and more to do with her unspoken love for Tex. She has gotten very used to bossing Din around, making him carry groceries and helping rearrange furniture in the hut.

Tex, on the other hand, is kind to Din, since they don't know him as a bounty hunter or as a slave Master. This openness to the new side of Din allows him to have deep conversations with Tex, asking how to be a better person and how to improve himself. They're filled with wisdom and Din appreciates all the advice and the time they take to help him understand the things he isn't good at.

Everyday, Din does tasks around the hut or gets dragged into town with Willa and Tex. They show him what it means to have friends and to "hang out". He's not very good at hanging out, but they enjoy his company because he's the butt of most of their jokes. Din oddly doesn't mind it. He likes seeing them happy together, which is a thought he never thought he'd have about anyone.

Is that what friendship is? It's nothing like his working relationship with Boba Fett, but he realizes that more his fault than anyone else's. He closed himself off to these kinds of casual friendships and he realizes now how much lighter he feels having the peripheral joy of others beside him.

When he's finished with whatever they've badgered him to do during the day, he spends his nights sitting by your side, telling you about his day, hoping the sound of his voice soothes you in your dreams. You don't wake, or stir, or really do anything. Tex teaches Din how to care for you while you're immobile and he does so with the most care and love he can.

After a while, even Willa grows to be amicable with him and Din listens to her advice about love and life. He feels like he's so behind on these things when he's learning so much from those younger than him but they don't make him feel terrible for it. Or, well, Willa chooses not to berate him as often anymore. She still jabs at him on occasion and it's a good reminder that not all wounds heal perfectly. He has caused plenty of scars, but he's trying to make amends for them everyday.

Willa and Tex both see how much Din has grown, though there are moments where he nearly falls back into his ways. Like today, when they're out having drinks, there's a dark aura surrounding Din as he sits with Tex, watching Willa get swarmed by people at the bar while she's trying to order drinks. They're all obviously flirting with her and Din turns to Tex, who isn't annoyed in the slightest, which confuses him to no end.

"Why aren't you bothered by their blatant disrespect? They all know Willa came in with you and yet they're still making moves onto her."

Tex laughs wholeheartedly at Din's observation, which makes him even more agitated. They quickly catch wind of his shifting behavior so they explain, "why should I care what's out of my control? Those people will flirt with her regardless of if I do something about it. All that matters to me is that Willa is coming home with me. She's sleeping in my bed, in my home, choosing to be with me. She can entertain other people's advances, but at the end of the day, I trust her to pick me every time."

"How can you…trust that?" The whole concept is too foreign for Din to understand.

"Because I love her." Tex says like a quiet confession, something Din can tell they haven't even said to Willa. "Loving her doesn't mean making her stay. It means willing to choose to make her happy regardless. If it makes her happier to be with someone else, then that's fine by me and I'd support her even if it meant letting her go. If it makes her happy to stay with me, then I'll do my best to keep her happy. That's all I can do, after all. It's the only thing in my control."

Din knows Tex is right but it's still difficult for him to realize how controlling he once was. It's like every time he thinks he's getting better, he remembers how monstrous he once was and it scares him. There's the constant anxiety that he'll fall back into his old ways and hurt you again.

"Din." Tex calls to him so he pauses his mental spiral to listen. "You know, we all make mistakes. I didn't magically understand all of that from birth. I hurt people too, people I loved, people I thought I knew how to love. We all have lessons we need to learn and sometimes, it takes undergoing terrible things to see how wrong we once were. Life isn't always fair, but that doesn't mean we can't be better people. There will always be people who won't ever forgive us for the things we've done in the past, but that shouldn't stop you from trying to be a better person for the future people you meet. You have to learn to forgive yourself too so you can move on."

"I've done incredibly horrible things, Tex." Din feels disgusting admitting that aloud.

Before, he used to hold his murderous tendencies with pride but now…he sees how none of that actually made him happy. It was just a release. Everything he has ever done has been him chasing a high and he hasn't ever learned to deal with the lows. Not until now…

"We're human." They pat Din on the back, trying to comfort him. "If you have the power to be evil, who says you can't have the will to be good too? Life isn't a binary, after all. It's not all black and white. It's not easy to figure out what the right thing to do is because sometimes there's not a right way to do things. We can only hope for the best."

"Can I really hope for a better life?" Such a thing seems…impossible for a man like Din.

Tex chuckles lightly then says, "that's a question only you can answer, though I'm sure you know the answer already."

"What's got them all smiley?" Willa suddenly appears with a tray of drinks, drawing Din and Tex away from their deep conversation.

"The sight of liquor, obviously." Tex jokes, flashing a loving smile at Willa, who gets flustered at the sight of it.

She manages to regain her composure quickly so she can cheerfully exclaim, "well, thank me because I managed to get us free drinks! I never realized how easy it is to bat my eyelashes for a couple of drinks. I should swindle people professionally."

"Thank you, my sweet Willa." Tex pulls her in by the waist, their arms wrapping around her securely. She nearly drops the tray from the sudden warm gesture but Din catches it before she can, placing it at the counter between the three of them.

"I almost spilled everything, Tex!" Willa glares at them and they laugh at her angry expression. "You're the worst, I swear."

"And yet, why do I sense that you want to dance?" Tex hops off their bar stool and gestures to the dance floor. "Shall we?"

She groans but then answers, "fine, but only after we all take a shot. That includes you, Din."

Din doesn't know why but the inclusion makes him happy, so he hands them both their shots before taking his own, lifting it up before saying, "you both better not get too drunk. I'm not cleaning your puke out of the ship again."

"You know you will whether you want to or not." Willa winks at Din before downing her shot.

"Sorry." Tex says to Din before taking their shot. Then, they add with their own wink, "but not that sorry."

Before Din can argue with either of them, Willa drags Tex to the dance floor and they both dance to the obscenely loud music that seems to be getting louder now that there are more people dancing. Din shakes his head at his friends but…he strangely doesn't mind having to clean up after them if they're this happy to be drunk and in love. He watches them dance terribly and he laughs to himself, sipping his drink every now and then.

There's an odd calm to these outings that Din likes. He always thought going out with friends would be more of a hassle, where he'd have to entertain and stay present. But, Willa and Tex never make him feel like he needs to do everything they do. They accommodate his apprehensive nature quite well, even though either of them outright admit it. He enjoys that they want him there and it helps him enjoy being there.

Though, he could do without the constant advances other people make at him now that he's going without the helmet…

"What's a handsome man like you doing all alone?" Someone strolls up behind Din, tapping him on the shoulder.

He turns to see a man who reminds him a lot of Cobb Vanth, but he's certain it isn't him. Cobb is forward, but not that forward.

"Having a drink before I have to take my friends home." Din answers bluntly, which makes the man grin at him.

"Well, do you want some company?" The man sits on the bar stool in front of Din, where Tex was earlier. "Hate to have a fellow like you sitting all on your lonesome."

"I'd rather be alone, thanks." He brushes off the man's advances, but he won't budge.

"Why's that? You got a man at home?"

Din finds himself getting irritated but he quells himself from acting violently on it and instead responds rather plainly, "actually, the person I love is in a coma and I'm waiting for her to wake up. So, I'd like to enjoy my drink alone, please."

His please come out harsh but it's enough for the man to get off his case. "You could've just said you weren't interested."

Din opens his mouth to say something like you could've just left me alone but Willa and Tex run up to him and Willa goes, "come dance with us!"

Normally, Din wouldn't accept, but he needs to get away from this man before he snaps his neck so he lets them drag him to the dance floor. They both laugh when Din attempts to dance but then they start to dance like he is and they all laugh together, enjoying the shared experience.

Thankfully for Din, they don't end up drinking anymore so he gets them all home without a single puking incident. It's like having two adult children, needing to tuck them both into bed or else they're going to keep bothering him all night. Again, he weirdly is okay with it.

Din is growing to be okay with living like this and he smiles at the thought of you being here too. So, he goes downstairs and spends the time before he falls asleep telling you all about his night out and the things he's learned and he swears, you must've smiled in your sleep…

❈❈❈❈❈❈

You've started to twitch. It's progress, but you still haven't done much else. Tex says it's a good sign you'll wake eventually, but they're not certain when. Din hasn't lost hope, since that's all he has, but he finds himself wondering what he'll do if you don't end up ever waking up.

Who will he be if he has to live without you? Would he go back to being a Mandalorian? He lost his armor, so he's unsure if the clan will take him back. He could always be a bounty hunter again. He has recovered from all his injuries and his once-broken arm is even sturdier now with the metal joint.

Din just doesn't feel like that's his life anymore. He likes the domesticity of housework and odd jobs. Tex always needs something done around the hut and Willa somehow finds a task for Din to do whenever she sees him with his hands free. Sometimes her tasks are ridiculous, like building her a vanity with custom lights, but he does it out of his growing respect for her. He has apologized time and time again for what he did to her and she may still bug him about it, but it's getting clearer and clearer that she forgives him.

That's why Willa goes out to look for him when he's ruminating over his future.

"What are you going to do if she doesn't wake up?" She asks Din when she catches him sulking outside, staring up at the stars in the sky. It's a beautiful night, which are always the nights that make him miss you.

"She'd want me to live." He knows that for a fact. "She'd want me to help others as best I can just like she would."

"You know, you're pretty good at teaching self defense." Willa nudges him a little, hoping to give him a light push in the right direction. "You could always work at that rec center near our town. They're always looking for teachers. Tex and I would give you a good recommendation."

"Do you think they'd want to deal with a former Mandalorian?" Din can't seem to run from his past. It's hard for him not to dwell on it.

"Why do they need to know?" Her words draw him to stare curiously at her so she elaborates, "no one knows what you looked like under the helmet. The person you are now doesn't have to be the Mandalorian anymore. You can close that chapter of your life and start a new one, as Din Djarin."

"Can I…do that?" He doesn't think it's possible to just become a new person. Again, his past haunts him.

"It'll take work and constant checking on yourself to make sure you aren't falling back into old habits, but anything is possible." She pats him on the back before getting up, wanting to go back to Tex. "There's nothing wrong with dreaming a little bigger."

Din ponders her words as he looks up, seeing the night sky decorated with beautiful stars. You'd love this view, he's sure of that.

Would you want a house with this kind of view? He's been looking at places on Naboo with Willa since Tex is going to be moving there. They've finally made it official, though that's a result of Din getting a bit impatient with them individually spewing their feelings for each other to him. He's happy they're happy though. You would be happy for them too.

There was a small house a bit of a walk from town that he likes. It's isolated enough that Din feels comfortable, since he wouldn't really want neighbors if he's being honest. He would have enough credits for it once he grabbed his hidden stack from the cave on Ossus. It would be just enough for the two of you and maybe even…well, that's a conversation he's not even ready for yet. He's not even sure he'd be a good father, not after how he reacted with Grogu, but he hopes one day, he'll be.

A new dream. As Willa said, a bigger dream, but a dream he'll let himself have finally. He's moving on from his past. He's letting go of who he was and building himself anew. He likes the new Din.

Perhaps he was always this Din, but he was just afraid to be fully vulnerable. He knows better now and that makes him think of you. So he gets up and heads back to the hut, wanting to get back to your side.

Whenever he has these little revelations, Din likes to talk it over with you. There's a comfort in it, like he's documenting his own progress to you. Those tiny twitches of yours fill him with happiness, like you're responding to his words. He can't wait to talk to you today…though, he's a bit surprised to see that he isn't alone.

Tex and Willa are downstairs too, which is odd until…he sees you, with your eyes partly opened. Almost like something is pushing him there, Din rushes to your side and you turn your head to look at him, smiling at him and everyone else in the room. It takes you a moment to steady your breathing, your heart racing and the machine beside you beeping loudly until it finally calms. Then, you let out your first words in weeks.

"Did you miss me?" You ask Din and he breaks down into tears at the sound of your raspy voice. He drops to his knees as he grips your warm hand in his, trying to ensure that this is real. That you're really awake and alive and here with him.

"I missed you so fucking much." He pulls your hand to his face, needing to feel your touch. You feel incredibly weak and tired, like you could fall asleep again at any moment, but you try to caress his cheek so he knows you're okay.

"We should let her rest. We don't want her overexerting herself." Tex shoos him and Willa back upstairs so that they can run some tests on you to make sure your recovery won't be stalled for any reason.

That's when Din can fully see how much he has grown over these last few weeks. Before, he would've killed Tex without hesitation for even thinking of separating him from you. But now, he trusts people. He trusts you.

Maybe someone did hear his pleas into the unknown because you woke up the moment he decided to let himself be honest with his desires and become the person he has always been afraid to let exist.

Lesson learned: never be afraid to dream.

All Din dreams of now is a life with you.

A happy life with the pretty little thief he loves.

A/N: I cried so much writing this chapter. I just love Din so much and seeing him grow up made my heart swell tenfold. I know some people were probably not expecting a redemption arc but I wanted a happy ending for this series and I think it fits given the events that have unfolded. He has friends now, wow!

Also, for those wondering, Tex is non-binary, which is why I used they/them pronouns, and I've always headcanoned Din as pansexual so I wanted a little representation there hehe ~ ♡

One more chapter left ;) and I'm sure none of you are ready for the twist I have in store.

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