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solxamber · 5 months ago

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Take Two || Vil Schoenheit

You and Vil, once lovers, are forced to reunite through work, stirring up old heartbreak and undeniable tension. Slowly, you realize love never truly left, and some stories deserve a second chance.

i promise it's a happy ending

The night air feels sharp against your skin, the chill sinking into your bones as you stand face to face with Vil in the shadow of Pomefiore’s grand staircase. His golden hair catches the faint light, glimmering like spun silk, his expression frozen in a mask of disbelief. But his eyes—his eyes betray him, shining with an ache so raw that it almost makes you collapse under the weight of your decision.

"You’re leaving me," he says, his voice flat, brittle, like glass about to shatter. "After everything."

You try to smile, but it’s more of a grimace. "You deserve someone who can keep up with you, Vil. Someone who doesn’t have to fight just to be noticed, someone who—"

"Stop," he snaps, the word cutting through the night like a knife. "You think this is about keeping up? About deserving?" His voice rises, trembling with a rare fury. "You’re not a burden to me. You never were."

Tears spill over before you can stop them, warm against the chill of the night. "But I’m holding you back. You’re going to be an award-winning actor, a global icon. You’re meant for so much more, Vil. And I—I can’t be the reason you look back someday and wonder what you missed out on."

Vil’s hands curl into fists at his sides, his perfectly manicured nails digging into his palms. "You sound like a coward," he says bitterly. "Someone who doesn’t understand what it means to love. I gave you my heart, and you’re throwing it away like it’s... disposable."

You step closer, your voice trembling. "Vil, I love you. I love you so much it hurts. That’s why I’m doing this. Because I know that if I stay, I’ll be the anchor that holds you back."

He stares at you, stunned into silence, before his face crumples. It’s a sight you never thought you’d see—Vil Schoenheit, so composed, so regal, letting tears spill unchecked. "I regret it," he whispers, his voice breaking. "I regret giving my heart to someone who doesn’t want it."

Your breath hitches. You reach out, wiping his tears away with trembling fingers. "I want it. I’ll always want it."

"Then why—"

"Because I love you enough to let you go," you say, your voice cracking. You lean in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips, tasting the salt of both your tears. It’s desperate and bittersweet, a farewell that neither of you wants but both know is inevitable.

When you pull back, his eyes are filled with an agony that mirrors your own. "I’ll pray to the stars that they align for us in another life," you whisper, stepping away even as every fiber of your being screams to stay.

Vil doesn’t follow. He stands rooted in place, watching as you disappear into the night, his tears sparkling under the starlight like diamonds.

And as you walk away, your heart breaking with every step, you can’t help but wonder if love is truly worth it when it hurts this much.

The spotlight gleams against the polished floors of the gala, chandeliers casting constellations on every surface. You stand at the edge of the room, champagne flute in hand, wearing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Laughter ripples around you, yet your heart pounds louder than any of the polite chatter.

Across the room, he stands, bathed in a soft golden light as if the universe itself couldn’t bear to dim him. Vil Schoenheit, global phenomenon, beloved by millions. And you, just a rising singer whose every success still feels like a shadow of his own.

You force yourself to look away before your gaze lingers too long. It's been years since that night—the night you kissed him goodbye, the night you walked away so he could become everything you knew he was destined to be.

And he did. Oh, he did.

Every magazine cover, every award stage, every grand performance is proof of that. You’re happy for him. Truly. You send flowers every time he wins something new, handpicking each bouquet and handwriting every note. Congratulations, Vil. You deserve this and more. No reply ever comes, but you never stop.

You tell yourself it’s fine. That this is enough.

He spots you before you spot him. He always does.

You stand by the windows, moonlight catching on the delicate fabric of your clothes. Your laughter mingles faintly with the music, but Vil knows you well enough to hear the cracks in it. To anyone else, you’re poised, radiant—a star in your own right. But to him, you’re the person who kissed him goodbye and took his heart with you.

He straightens his posture, as if that will shield him from the wave of memories crashing over him.

The flowers you send have become a cruel routine. He receives them like clockwork—each arrangement more thoughtful than the last, each card bearing your familiar handwriting. He reads every word, his thumb brushing over the ink, before placing the cards in a drawer he’s too afraid to open.

And yet, he saves them all.

Seeing you now is both agony and relief. He knows his worth; the world adores him, reveres him. But when he sees you, every ounce of that worth feels hollow. He feels young again, vulnerable—a teenager fumbling with emotions too large for his heart to hold.

The inevitable happens: your eyes meet.

You catch Vil’s gaze across the room, and your heart stutters. You force yourself to smile, a small, polite thing, and raise your glass in acknowledgment. He nods back, his face unreadable, and you swear your knees might give out.

You’re supposed to be over this. You’re supposed to be happy.

But every time you see him, the years fall away. It’s as if you’re back at Pomefiore, back on that staircase, wiping away his tears and whispering that you loved him before breaking both your hearts.

You excuse yourself to the balcony, the cool night air biting at your skin. You lean on the railing, taking deep breaths.

"Running away again?"

His voice is smooth, poised, and far too close.

You whirl around, and there he is, the moonlight outlining him like the leading man in some grand romantic drama. He’s holding his own champagne flute, his free hand tucked neatly in his pocket. He looks flawless, as always, but his eyes betray him.

"I wasn’t running," you say, forcing yourself to meet his gaze.

"Of course not," he replies, his tone as sharp as ever, but there’s something softer beneath it. He steps closer, the scent of his cologne wrapping around you. "And yet, here you are. Avoiding me again."

Your throat tightens. "I didn’t think you’d want to talk to me."

He laughs, a quiet, bitter sound. "Do you really think I have nothing to say to you after all this time?"

You blink, taken aback. "I—I didn’t know. You never—"

"Responded?" He raises an eyebrow, his expression a careful mask. "What was I supposed to say, darling? That every card, every flower, every fleeting mention of you feels like a dagger?"

The word darling slips out so naturally that you almost miss it. Almost.

"Vil, I—"

He cuts you off, his voice dropping to something softer, more vulnerable. "Do you have any idea what it’s like to be adored by millions and still feel empty because the one person I want won’t even look at me properly?"

You gape at him, words caught in your throat.

"You left me," he says, and his voice breaks just enough for you to hear it. "You left, and I—" He exhales sharply, composing himself. "I told myself I hated you for it. But the truth is, I never stopped—"

You take a step forward, closing the distance. "Stop."

His eyes widen slightly, his perfect mask slipping.

"I never stopped either," you admit, your voice trembling. "I thought I was doing the right thing. For you, for us. But all I did was break us both."

And then you unceremoniously run, like you always do.

The sound of your phone vibrating aggressively on your nightstand jolts you awake. It’s your manager, and he’s barking something about an emergency meeting, now.

Still half-asleep, you throw on the first pair of pants you can find, grab your bag, and sprint like you’re being chased by a swarm of angry bees. By the time you reach your company’s little meeting room, you’re wheezing like an old accordion.

You stumble in, gasping for air. “I’m—here—what’s the—emergency?”

And there he is.

Vil Schoenheit, sitting in your dingy little meeting room, radiating elegance and beauty like he’s some Greek god forced to endure mortal company. His perfect golden hair gleams under the flickering fluorescent lights, and his outfit probably costs more than your annual rent.

For a second, you just stand there, staring at him in disbelief. "What?" you manage to choke out.

“Ah, you’ve arrived!” your manager says, completely ignoring your obvious confusion. He’s fawning over Vil like the man just descended from heaven itself. “Aren’t we so fortunate to have Vil Schoenheit here with us today? What a privilege!”

Vil sits there with the most unimpressed expression you’ve ever seen, his gaze lazily drifting to yours. He raises an eyebrow, and the look on his face very clearly says: The universe hates me as much as it hates you.

“Why…” You gesture wildly at him like that explains anything. “Why is he here?”

Your manager claps his hands together as if this is all the most wonderful news in the world. “You’ve been given the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to compose and perform the opening theme for Vil’s new drama!”

“…What?”

“And Vil has graciously come all this way to provide you with inspiration!”

Vil crosses his legs, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. “I didn’t exactly volunteer,” he says flatly. “I was informed this meeting was non-negotiable.”

“Graciously forced,” you mutter under your breath, earning a sharp glance from him.

Your manager continues, oblivious. “This is huge for us! For you! For the company! A chance to collaborate with Vil Schoenheit!” He’s practically vibrating with excitement.

You? You’re mentally screaming. The room’s ancient air conditioning groans louder than your brain cells, and the smell of stale coffee is threatening to choke you. This is where Vil Schoenheit is supposed to get his inspiration?

“Great,” you say weakly, flopping into a chair. “Love that for us.”

Your manager claps you on the back, way too hard. “I’ll leave you two to get started! Can’t wait to hear what you come up with!” He scurries out of the room like his life depends on it.

The door clicks shut. Silence.

You turn to Vil, who’s looking at you like he’s silently calculating how fast he can escape. “So,” you say, attempting to sound professional. “I guess we’re doing this.”

Vil sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It seems we have no choice.”

“You could’ve said no.”

“And risk tarnishing my reputation? Hardly.”

You narrow your eyes. “Wow. Thanks for that vote of confidence in my music.”

He waves a hand dismissively. “Oh, don’t misunderstand. I’ve heard your work. It’s… fine.”

“Fine?” You bristle. “Just fine?”

“I’m sure you’ll rise to the occasion,” he says smoothly, completely ignoring your indignation. “Or at least, I hope you will.”

This is going to be a long day.

The next hour is spent with Vil giving you vague, lofty descriptions of “atmosphere” and “emotion” while you scribble down ideas that may or may not be entirely out of spite.

“Think regal, but with an edge,” Vil says, leaning back in his chair like a king addressing his court. “Something that captures the drama’s tone—elegance, intrigue, power.”

“Right,” you say, scrawling Fancy Soap Commercial Vibes in your notebook.

“And it must resonate with the audience on an emotional level,” he adds, completely serious.

You nod, underlining Fancy Soap Commercial for good measure.

At one point, Vil gets up to demonstrate a movement he wants the music to evoke, his motions fluid and precise like the world’s most intimidating interpretive dancer. You’re not sure if you’re inspired or just terrified.

Finally, you throw your pen down. “I get it! Regal, edgy, emotional. Big feels. Got it.”

Vil gives you a skeptical look. “Are you certain? Because your notes don’t inspire much confidence.”

You glance down at your notebook, where you’ve doodled a tiny stick figure labeled Vil’s Vibes surrounded by stars. “…Yeah, totally got this.”

He doesn’t look convinced. “If this ends up sounding like a children’s lullaby, I’m holding you personally accountable.”

You groan, rubbing your temples. “Great. No pressure.”

And yet, as much as you want to throttle him for his impossible standards, there’s a part of you that doesn’t hate this. Because, well… it’s Vil. And whether you want to admit it or not, working with him is kind of incredible.

Even if he’s the most dramatic muse you’ve ever had.

The day starts with your manager shoving a revised directive into your hands: go watch Vil's shoot. Apparently, you needed more "inspiration" to compose a song fit for his upcoming drama.

Great. Because spending more time around Vil Schoenheit, global icon and your ex, is exactly what you needed to totally not lose your mind.

Still, you don’t show up empty-handed. On the way to the set, you grab an aggressively caffeinated iced espresso for yourself—because surviving the day calls for it—and, without much thought, you pick up a caramel macchiato with oat milk.

The barista hands it over, and you’re hit by a pang of nostalgia. This was Vil’s favorite back when you were teenagers, back when you’d watch the sunset with him after his rehearsals. You shake the thought away. It’s just coffee.

When you arrive, Vil’s seated on a folding chair, reading over his script like it’s sacred text. Even in the chaos of the bustling set, he looks poised, his hair perfect despite the heat of the lights.

You approach, clearing your throat. “Hey.”

He glances up. “You’re late.”

“I’m five minutes late.” You hold out the cup. “Peace offering?”

Vil takes the coffee without comment, but the moment he sips it, his movements falter. His eyes widen, ever so slightly, and you catch the flicker of emotion on his face before he masks it.

You don’t linger. “I’m going to talk to the producers.”

As you walk away, Vil stares at the cup, at the faint smiley face you’ve drawn on the lid. His chest tightens. You remembered.

He forces the thought down, folding it neatly into the drawer of unspoken feelings he’s cultivated since the day you left him. Setting the cup aside, he rises, perfectly composed. He has a scene to shoot, and Vil Schoenheit doesn’t falter.

Watching Vil perform is like watching magic. Every movement, every look, every line—he’s utterly captivating.

You sit near the monitors, jotting down notes as inspiration flows. There’s something about him—his intensity, his elegance—that fills your mind with melodies. You’re so engrossed that you barely notice the shoot wrapping up until Vil walks over, a towel slung casually around his neck.

“Are you leaving already?” he asks, his voice smooth and calm, like you hadn’t just been mentally composing an ode to his perfection.

“Uh, yeah. I’ll call an Uber.” You stand, shoving your notebook into your bag.

He frowns, clearly unimpressed. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll take you home.”

“Vil, it’s fine—”

“I insist,” he says sharply, already walking towards his car.

You follow, feeling a strange mixture of gratitude and dread.

The car ride is quiet, filled only with the soft hum of the engine and the city lights flashing by. Vil’s driver keeps his gaze firmly on the road, giving the two of you privacy, but the atmosphere feels oddly intimate.

As you sit there, your mind drifts back to your first date. You were a nervous wreck back then, fumbling with your words, tripping over your feet. Vil, of course, had been effortlessly composed, amused by your flustered state but kind enough to guide you through it.

A small smile tugs at your lips at the memory.

“What’s so amusing?” Vil asks, his voice breaking the silence.

You glance at him, startled. He’s looking at you, his gaze sharp but curious.

“Nothing,” you say quickly, shaking your head.

He doesn’t press, but his eyes linger on you longer than usual.

When the car pulls up to your apartment, you thank Vil and step out, but as you turn to leave, you feel his hand wrap around your wrist.

“Vil?” you ask, surprised.

He blinks, as if realizing what he’s done, and lets go immediately. “Nothing,” he says, straightening. “Just… be on time tomorrow.”

You raise an eyebrow, a knowing smile tugging at your lips. “I will.”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, you think he might say something more. But he doesn’t. He nods curtly, turning back to the car.

Inside your apartment, you close the door behind you and slide down to the floor, the tears spilling out before you can stop them.

He’s as beautiful as the day you let him go, and it hurts.

You’re so happy for him, so proud of everything he’s achieved. But God, you miss him.

Meanwhile, Vil sits in the back of the car, staring out the window as the city blurs past. His fingers brush against the empty coffee cup in his bag, the one with the faint smiley face you drew.

His heart aches, but he doesn’t let it show. Not even to himself.

The drama is an undeniable success, catapulting Vil’s already dazzling career into further stratospheric heights. But unexpectedly, the opening theme—your song—becomes the anthem of the year, a chart-topping sensation that has every talk show, magazine, and fan forum buzzing about your collaboration.

You, however, aren’t basking in the glow of success as expected. If anything, you’re moping.

Deuce notices first. “You okay? You look… weird.”

“I don’t look weird.”

“You do,” Grim adds, gnawing on his tuna sandwich. “You look like you ate bad tuna but don’t want to admit it.”

“Thank you for the visual,” you deadpan.

You sigh. Everyone else is ecstatic. Your phone is a whirlwind of congratulatory messages, your manager has been pacing like an over-caffeinated rodent, and your inbox is overflowing with offers. Yet all you can think about is the fact that the drama is over—and so are your obligations to Vil.

No more early mornings brainstorming lyrics with him. No more quiet moments sipping coffee during breaks. No more stolen glances when you thought he wasn’t looking (he always was).

It’s ridiculous, really. You’re thriving. Your career is skyrocketing. You should be ecstatic.

Instead, you feel like you’re bracing for an emotional wrecking ball.

Vil, on the other hand, is furious. Not at the drama’s success, of course—he’s a consummate professional, and his performance has been widely praised. No, Vil is furious because he can’t escape you.

He tried. Oh, how he tried. He kept himself busy with interviews, photoshoots, and premieres, meticulously avoiding the thought of you. But then the making-of video was released.

There you were, sitting beside him, coffee cup in hand, throwing out ideas with that little spark in your eyes. The fans lapped it up, the media ran with it, and now every outlet wanted the two of you together for joint interviews.

Vil could not imagine a worse fate.

The first interview is scheduled for 10 a.m., and you arrive early, clutching your notes like a lifeline.

Vil is already there, of course. He sits with perfect posture, his gaze steely as he scrolls through his phone. When he notices you, his lips press into a thin line.

“Good morning,” you venture hesitantly.

“Is it?” he replies coolly, without looking up.

Ouch.

The producer, blissfully unaware of the tension, claps his hands together as he enters the room. “Ah, our power duo! Ready to make magic?”

You exchange a strained glance with Vil. He raises a single brow, clearly unimpressed.

The interview begins, and for the most part, it’s harmless—questions about the creative process, the drama’s success, and future projects.

Then the interviewer smirks, leaning forward. “You two have such wonderful chemistry. Were you always this in sync, or did it take time to build that dynamic?”

Vil’s jaw tightens. You blink, feeling the weight of his stare.

“Well,” you start, “we worked really hard to make the song fit the tone of the drama. It’s all about teamwork.”

“Hmm, teamwork,” Vil echoes, his tone dangerously smooth. “Yes, that’s one way to put it.”

The interviewer beams, oblivious to the storm brewing. “Fans are dying to know—any plans for another collaboration?”

“Who knows?” Vil says, his smile razor-sharp. “Perhaps fate will decide.”

By the time the interview ends, you’re emotionally drained. Vil, of course, looks as pristine as ever.

“Thanks for being civil,” you mutter as you both head to the parking lot.

“Civil?” Vil’s laugh is devoid of humor. “Darling, if that’s your standard for civility, I fear you’ve been spending too much time with amateurs.”

You glare at him, heat rising in your cheeks. “I didn’t ask for this either, you know. You think it’s easy for me to—”

You stop yourself, biting your tongue. You’re not about to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he still affects you.

Vil arches a brow, waiting. When you say nothing, he smirks. “Thought so.”

Later that night, as you scroll through social media, you stumble upon a clip from the interview. It’s nothing scandalous—just a moment where you and Vil exchange a glance and laugh at a question. But the comments are merciless.

> “These two have HISTORY, I can feel it through the screen!” >“Vil looked like he wanted to stab and kiss them at the same time, and honestly, relatable.” >“Petition for them to star in a romantic drama together??”

You groan, throwing your phone onto the couch.

Somewhere across town, Vil is scrolling through the same comments, his expression unreadable. He closes the app with a sigh, but not before saving the clip to his private gallery.

He doesn’t know why he does it. Maybe it’s masochism. Maybe it’s hope. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because a part of him isn’t ready to let you go.

The day of the photoshoot arrives, and you’re running on a dangerous combination of nerves, caffeine, and denial. Standing next to Vil for hours under flashing cameras, forced to feign effortless chemistry, feels like a ticking time bomb.

Vil, of course, looks unbothered—poised and perfect as ever, his every movement calculated for maximum elegance. Meanwhile, you’re sweating like a guilty criminal.

“Relax,” Vil murmurs as he adjusts his jacket between shots. “Your unease is practically a stench.”

“Thanks for the pep talk,” you grumble.

The shoot goes on without a hitch, until—of course—it doesn’t.

It happens in the middle of a particularly dramatic pose. Vil, perched precariously on a raised platform in heels, steps down just as an intern accidentally knocks over a loose prop. It lands with a sharp crack, and Vil, who’s clearly caught off guard, stumbles and falls.

A collective gasp ripples through the room.

“Are you okay?” someone yelps, rushing toward him.

“Don’t touch me,” Vil snaps, voice sharp as glass. He sits up with a wince, cradling his ankle.

You’ve been keeping your distance the entire shoot, trying to maintain your professional boundary. But the second you see Vil hurt, that self-imposed wall shatters.

“Vil!” you shout, practically tripping over cables as you rush to his side.

He looks up, his expression guarded. For a moment, you hesitate, half-expecting him to snap at you too. But instead, he simply nods, a subtle permission that shocks the entire production team into silence.

With a surprising amount of strength born from sheer adrenaline, you lift Vil into your arms, bridal style.

Someone from production stammers, “We can call for—”

“I’ve got him,” you cut them off, your tone firmer than you expected.

Vil doesn’t protest. He just loops an arm around your neck, tilting his head slightly as though he’s resigned to being carried like royalty. You can feel the weight of everyone’s stares as you carry him out of the studio, whispers trailing behind you like gossip at a high school cafeteria.

The walk to the medic feels like an eternity.

“You’re heavier than you look,” you mutter, trying to distract yourself from the way his perfume is overwhelming your senses.

“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that,” Vil replies, his voice still sharp but lacking its usual venom.

When you finally reach the medic, you set him down gently, your arms trembling from the effort.

“You can leave,” Vil says as the medic begins their examination.

You nod, turning to go—but your feet refuse to move. Instead, you end up awkwardly sitting on a nearby chair, your hands clasped tightly in your lap.

You tell yourself it’s just to make sure he’s okay. That you’ll leave once the medic gives the all-clear.

Vil doesn’t say anything about your lingering presence. He keeps his eyes closed, his usual pristine mask slipping for just a moment as he exhales slowly.

When the medic finishes and declares him fit to leave, you finally stand. “Well, I should—”

“Thank you,” Vil says softly, cutting you off.

You freeze. For a moment, all you can do is nod before hurrying out of the room, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.

Back in your dressing room, you sink into a chair and bury your face in your hands.

“What is wrong with me?” you groan.

Meanwhile, back in the medic’s office, Vil sits in contemplative silence, the ghost of your touch lingering like a memory he can’t shake.

You’re holding Vil’s phone like it’s made of glass, glaring at Rook’s number on your own screen.

“You sure I can’t just leave it at the studio?” you ask for the third time.

“Non, non, mon ami!” Rook’s dramatic voice practically vibrates through your speaker. “Vil has a most pressing engagement this evening, and the phone is vital to his work. You’re already such a dear for delivering it!”

“Couldn’t you do it?”

“Alas, I have an engagement myself. A critical affair, truly,” Rook sighs, his tone more playful than apologetic. “I’ve sent you his address. Bon courage!”

Before you can protest, the line goes dead, leaving you staring at the apartment address like it’s an execution order.

You’re in the car, grumbling to yourself as you mentally rehearse what you’ll say.

Here’s your phone. Bye.

Short. Simple. No emotional mines to step on.

But then you accidentally touch the screen, and his phone lights up.

And there it is. The lock screen.

It’s a selfie of the two of you from years ago, taken on some lazy afternoon. You’re both laughing, your faces smushed together awkwardly. You remember the moment vividly—Vil had just cracked a rare joke, one so unexpected it had you crying with laughter.

And now here it is, preserved like some cruel reminder of what you had.

Your stomach twists.

“Oh no,” you mutter.

The driver glances at you in the rearview mirror, concerned.

You’re ugly sniffling by the time you pull yourself together, the poor driver tactfully pretending not to notice. “Sorry,” you choke out. “Allergies.”

He nods slowly, clearly not buying it.

When you finally arrive at Vil’s penthouse—a sleek, modern building that screams successful celebrity—you take a deep breath and ring the doorbell.

Vil answers the door himself, wearing a loose, elegant cardigan and lounge pants that still manage to look couture. His eyes widen slightly when he sees you.

“You left this,” you blurt, shoving the phone into his hands.

He takes it, his gaze lingering on your face. “Were you crying?”

“No,” you lie, unable to meet his eyes.

“Come in,” he says, stepping aside.

“I’m fine—”

“That wasn’t a suggestion,” he says, his tone soft but firm.

Despite your better judgment, you step inside.

The interior hits you like a brick wall of memories.

The layout is different, but the details are achingly familiar. The same muted color scheme you’d picked out together. The same arrangement of throw pillows on the couch—even the same colors.

Your eyes dart to the bookshelf, spotting a framed photo of the two of you tucked discreetly among the décor.

It’s too much.

“You did this on purpose,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

Vil’s gaze softens. “I didn’t want to forget."

Before you can respond, he goes to the kitchen to get something to drink, leaving you to drown in memories.

You’re sitting on Vil’s pristine couch, sipping tea that you can’t even taste. He’s seated across from you, the distance between you both palpable, like a chasm you’re too afraid to cross.

But Vil doesn’t wait this time. He doesn’t dance around the words.

“Why?” he asks, his voice sharp, cutting through the silence.

“Why what?” you whisper, even though you know exactly what he means.

“Why did you leave?” he snaps, the composure he always clings to starting to crack. “Why did you take my heart—my trust—and then shatter it into a million pieces? Do you have any idea what you did to me?”

You flinch, tears already pooling in your eyes. “I—I thought—”

“No,” Vil interrupts, standing abruptly. His hands tremble as he gestures, his voice rising. “You didn’t think. If you had, you would’ve seen how much I loved you, how much I—” He cuts himself off, his chest heaving.

You’re crying now, hands gripping your knees so tightly they hurt. “I didn’t want to hold you back, Vil. You had so much ahead of you, so much to achieve—”

“And you thought you were the thing holding me back?” he yells, his voice breaking. “You thought I would’ve been better off without you?!”

You nod miserably, choking on a sob. “I wanted you to thrive! I didn’t want to be the thing that kept you from reaching your dreams!”

Vil laughs bitterly, the sound hollow and laced with pain. “And you did just that. You leaving—you leaving—was the only thing that’s held me back. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of you. You haunt my dreams, my every waking moment. And I hate it. I hate you for it. So tell me—”

He drops to his knees in front of you, his face inches from yours as his voice cracks. “Tell me you hate me. Tell me you don’t love me anymore, so I can move on. Please, I’m begging you.”

You’re sobbing now, shaking your head frantically. “I can’t. I—I don’t hate you. I never stopped loving you. I left because I thought I was doing the right thing, but I see now that I was so, so stupid—”

“Yes, you were,” Vil cuts in, tears streaming down his face. “So stupid. And so cruel.”

His sobs are raw, unrestrained, and they tear at your heart. You cradle his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing away his tears even as more fall. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’m so sorry. I’ll never leave again. I’ll stay. Forever, if you’ll let me.”

Vil closes his eyes, leaning into your touch like it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth. When he opens them again, his voice is barely audible. “Don’t promise me that unless you mean it.”

“I mean it,” you say, your voice steady despite your tears. “I’ll stay. I’ll stay.”

Vil exhales shakily, his arms wrapping around your waist as he buries his face in your shoulder. “Thank you,” he whispers, and for the first time in years, the weight between you begins to lift.

You’ve barely put the mop down when Vil calls from the living room.

“Hurry up with the tea,” he says without even looking up from his script. “And don’t forget to fold the laundry after this. Properly, please—last time you folded one of my scarves into an actual triangle. Who does that?”

You mutter a half-hearted "Yes, your majesty," and shuffle toward the kitchen. You’re halfway there when Rook bursts in through the front door, a bouquet in hand and stars practically bursting from his eyes.

“Ah, l’amour! C’est magnifique!” Rook declares, startling you so badly you almost drop the tea tray.

Vil raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by the dramatics. “Rook, must you barge in unannounced?”

“Mais oui!” Rook exclaims, twirling dramatically. “How could I not visit when my dear friends have rekindled their eternal flame of passion? Look at you two! You, bossing them around, and them—obediently obeying every word like a loyal partner. True love has won!”

You roll your eyes but can’t fight the grin spreading across your face. Vil, however, looks less charmed. “They’re making up for years of terrible life decisions, Rook,” he says, deadpan.

“Oh, of course,” Rook says, his grin never faltering. “But love is in the air, and I, your humble admirer, could not be happier. Do not deny it—my heart soars!”

You and Vil exchange a look, both exasperated and oddly amused.

“Fine,” Vil says with a sigh. “If it makes you happy, Rook, then yes. True love has won. Now, will you let me enjoy my tea in peace?”

Rook gasps as though he’s been given the greatest gift of all time and promptly sits down, refusing to leave.

When you and Vil finally announce your relationship, the internet goes into an immediate frenzy.

The official post is simple: a photo of the two of you holding hands, captioned, "It’s official."

But the comments?

>"Wow, groundbreaking news. I couldn’t tell from the way Vil stared at them like they invented oxygen." >"You’re telling me they weren’t already dating? I thought this was public knowledge." >"The tension between these two could’ve powered the whole continent. About time." >"Wasn’t their last interview basically a rom-com in disguise?" >"Not even surprised. I’m more shocked it took this long."

Vil reads through the comments with a scoff. “Captain Obvious seems to be having their moment in the spotlight.”

You laugh, peeking at his phone. “I mean, they’re not wrong. We weren’t exactly subtle.”

Vil hums, a small smile tugging at his lips. “At least they approve. For now."

It’s late by the time you both get home, the quiet hum of the city fading behind you as Vil unlocks the door. The soft glow of the apartment feels comforting, like the kind of peace you didn’t know you needed until now.

You both kick off your shoes, and Vil immediately starts fussing with his scarf. You grab it before he can hang it up, putting it neatly on the rack.

As you settle on the couch, Vil joins you, resting his head lightly on your shoulder. For a moment, neither of you speaks, just enjoying the stillness.

“Do you ever wonder why we made it so complicated?” you ask quietly, breaking the silence.

Vil chuckles softly. “Often. But then again…” He tilts his head to look up at you, his violet eyes warm and full of something you can only describe as home. “Perhaps we wouldn’t have appreciated it as much if it had been easy.”

You hum in agreement, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to his forehead. “You’re probably right. But still…”

Vil smirks, pulling you closer. “No more unnecessary complications. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” you whisper, letting yourself finally, fully relax.

Masterlist

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twisted wonderland #vil x reader #vil schoenheit x reader #vil schoenheit x you #vil schoenheit #vil #angst with a happy ending #hurt/comfort

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highrepubliczine · 7 months ago

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✨ Contributor Preview ✨

Our next contributor preview is @jun-c ! Their gorgeous piece features Bell Zettifar, Porter Engle, and Ember!

Preorders for Starlight will run through October 13, and we are on our way to reaching our second stretch goal!

✨Preorder your copy here!✨

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futabazine · 6 months ago

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👽 Contributor Spotlight 👽

We are excited to have @aphantomdweeb join us as one of our writers!

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littlerequiem · 1 month ago

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we mourned the sea ˚⁎⁺ chapter 4

> Crossposted on AO3

Levi hasn't seen you in a year, and he wonders how you will find him. Changed, perhaps. Lost, definitely. Or: After the war, you and Levi learn to live in this new world.

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 - Levi Ackerman / Female Reader (Attack on Titan)

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 - Rated Explicit (18+). Post-Canon, Post-War, Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Domestic, Fluff, Angst, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Grumpy/Sunshine, Friends to Lovers, Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning, Chronic Pain, Panic Attack, Depression, Ambulatory Wheelchair Use (WC: 4.1k) A special thanks to @sixpennydame for her help on this chapter.

( Previous chapter / Next chapter / WMTS' Masterlist )

Your eyes lock with his. Amber light kisses half of his face, placing the shadows under his eyes in the spotlight. They seem more present the nights before expeditions.

He raises a brow, as if asking, ‘what demons are you running from?’

“I draw,” your voice fills the silence. “Nights before expeditions. It helps me clear my head.”

The first memory Levi has of his mother is him combing through her long, black hair.

Not many could keep long hair in the Underground. The lack of sun exposure, for one, made it hard to keep healthy hair. And if not that, the lice usually did it. When it struck a brothel, women and men either found a way to kill those nasty fuckers or they were forced to shave their hair and wear cheap wigs instead.

And yet, his mother did manage. It was one of the things that drew men to her—Olympia and her hair that shone like midnight.

Kuchel’s hair was black, and it did, at times, seem to be made of darkness itself. Only, it was none of the misery found in the shadows of the Underground. Instead, it felt more like the darkness found in the night sky. Liquid starlight. Levi remembers running his fingers through her hair, marveling at the contrast of it against the paleness of his skin.

Yes, Kuchel Ackerman’s hair was beautiful. Elegant, even.

When she died, people often told Levi he was her spitting image. He doesn’t know about that—he often wonders if people only said this out of pity, a handout to somehow assuage his grief, or if they truly meant it. But Levi supposes that if he inherited something, it is his mother’s hair. He has a decent amount of it, thick and dark, and when he runs his hand through it, he feels a little part of his mother in him.

Beyond that, he is different.

Levi has known for a long time that he is nothing special to look at. He’s boyish, nothing like the people Levi’s met over the years—men and women born with the right set of genes under the right set of circumstances. Levi isn’t like that, and that’s fine. He’s not a self-conscious man. He knows his worth.

Still, the question begs to be asked: knowing all of this, why do you choose him as your subject today?

Levi looks up from his reading, considering this very question. Early morning is in full bloom, and Levi’s sitting around the table on the porch, enjoying his first tea of the day while reading the newspaper—two activities he’s neglected these past minutes.

He’s been too busy pretending not to see you hiding your sketchbook.

What are you even hiding it for? You’re not fooling anyone. If your seated position—knees pulled in under a blanket, tools tucked behind both—wasn’t a dead giveaway, your face is. It always carries an intensity to it whenever you draw. Tight, puckered lips, like you were extorting all the pressure to the center of your face. A crinkling of concentrated brows. Vivid eyes, sharp with focus.

Levi reels all his restlessness in his fists. He should not interrupt you. He will not.

This is, as far as Levi is aware, the first time you are picking up a pencil in the last three years. The first time you show an interest in getting back into drawing at all, in fact, in the time since the Rumbling.

Which explains why Levi’s frozen like a statue, scared to pop this moment.

Don’t say anything, he tells himself. Don’t fucking ruin it for her.

Levi remembers the first time he caught you drawing like this. It was an evening before an expedition, one of the first ones that followed Isabel’s and Furlan’s deaths. Everyone huddled around the campfire, but you sat alone. He’d approached you then, the loner he was, seeking your presence like a moth to a flame. He remembers that look you wore when he caught you—wide eyes and parted lips. You thought he’d come to judge, to call you a creep for drawing others.

Instead, Levi asked if he could watch.

(Later, he would even tell you the hard truth—to keep on doing what you did, because this was the only way to immortalize every face, that many men and women in your drawings would not come back.)

From there on, Levi would often catch you drawing here and there. Cadets, squad leaders, horses—no subject seemed out of reach. He remembers Hange even trying to convince you to draw titans on a particular expedition (“Unfortunately, Hange, I think drawing a real-life titan, while also on a moving horse, would end in my untimely death.” “Boo…”).

You loved to draw and Levi loved to watch.

They say an artist’s gaze is alluring, and while Levi can agree your eyes have this magnetic way of pulling him in, there’s another thing Levi loves to watch.

It’s your hands. With them, you draw lines on paper. With them, you bring tenderness and kindness. With them, you heal people.

Recently, Levi's started to wonder how your hands would feel on him. The memories of last night are still on his mind; Levi remembers just how close you got to him.

“Hey, what do you think Erwin and Hange would be doing if they were with us?” your voice cuts through the silence.

Levi’s fingers twitch against the newspaper in his lap. For a moment, he wonders if he misheard you.

But no… you really asked.

And Levi has no answer.

This is the first time you’ve brought up this subject—brought them up. It isn’t that Levi doesn’t want to talk about Erwin and Hange, but he doesn’t remember the last time he could talk about anyone from his past. He thinks the 104th sometimes walks on eggshells around him, as if bringing names up might summon a curse best left forgotten.

But he supposes, if anyone would want to talk about the Survey Corps veterans, it would be you.

He’s grateful that it’s you.

“Erwin,” Levi clears his throat, “Erwin would bury himself in knowledge. That know-it-all would probably run the local library by now.”

You perk up, eyes bright. “Ohh, good one. See, I would have bet on him becoming a teacher, but now that you mention that, well, I change my mind.”

Levi grunts in agreement, imagining Erwin following in his father’s footsteps. Fitting. "He’d do both. Read a book while lecturing you about another one."

“He totally would.”

An excited smile graces your lips then, just as you focus back on your sketchbook. The low morning light catches the scar on your face, and Levi thinks he would love to trace over it with his fingertips, to bestow softness where there was once pain.

Instead, he watches as you turn back to your sketchbook.

“Erwin would have books from everywhere, I’m sure of it,” you muse. “He’d have an entire collection of it.”

“Yeah, his home would be a mess.”

You snort, raising a brow at him. “You’d help him sort it out, wouldn’t you?”

“Fuck no, I'm not his fucking maid.” Levi scrunches his nose, remembering how often he used to clean after Hange and Erwin. “Erwin would need to learn to clean once and for all. Until then, I’m not stepping foot into his house.”

“Tough love, huh? Well... that just means he’d have an excuse to come here then, to enjoy the porch the way we are now.”

Levi makes a non-committal noise.

“What kind of book do you reckon he’d be reading?”

Levi shrugs, throwing an arm to the back of the chair. “You’d know better. You were a member of his book cult.”

You roll your eyes. “It wasn't a cult, 'Vi.”

“At one point, you met every Sunday evening. Sounds like a cult to me.”

You tilt your head, amusement gleaming in your eyes. “You know, some might call knowing so much about a bookclub you’re not a part of rather creepy.”

“Please.” Levi shoots you a look. “You wouldn’t shut up about it.”

“That’s because we always hoped you’d join on your own. We all considered you our non-official member, you know.” Amusement flashes across your face as you seemingly scour past memories. “Like... a grumpy mascot, or something.”

Levi clicks his tongue, shaking his head dismissively.

Silence falls. Levi takes to watching the horizon. This side of the house with the porch faces the ocean; from here, it’s just a few minutes walk to the beach. Levi can tell that the waves are calm today, that the tide is low; he can’t make out the sound of water.

“What about Hange, then?”

Levi’s gaze focuses back on you as you ask this question; you’ve placed your bare feet on the chair, one arm looped around your knees and propping your chin on it.

“I think Hange would’ve poured themselves into modern inventions,” you say. “They only got to see some of Marley’s technology, but Kopon’s nation is more advanced, so I’m sure they would have wanted to go there... or at least see what remains of it.”

Levi thinks if Hange’s life hadn’t been cut short, that they would have followed in Onyonkopon’s footsteps and ended up working on those damn flying machines. They showed such an interest for trains and moving vehicles—something Levi could never understand. Flying seems like the natural next step.

He tells you as much.

“Walls, you’re right," you say. "We’d look up at the sky and see one of their inventions. I’m sure about it.”

“Yeah,” Levi suspects there’s fondness in his tone just about now, “we would.”

There’s a lull in the conversation, where Levi can just admire the sky and the clouds and you. He thinks this exact view would make a nice subject for a drawing—if he could draw.

It might be this realization that causes him to speak up, “Hey…”

“Mm?

“What are you sneaking around for?”

Your eyes fleet up, at first surprised, before melting away into a sheepish expression. You lift a hand to scratch the back of your neck, like Levi catching you hiding your sketchbook was somehow shameful.

“You noticed, huh?”

“Hard to miss,” Levi mutters, brows scrunching low, “you’re shit at hiding.”

“Hey!”

“Face the truth, Adler. I’m half-blind and even I noticed.”

“You say that like you’re not one of the most perceptive people I know... I’m pretty sure you’re still leagues above everyone else.” You take to tapping the eraser side of the pencil against the arms of the seat. When you glance back at him, your expression softens. “Fine, you caught me. I was drawing you. But... well. It’s just that you’re easy to draw, Levi. Drawing you feels… natural, I guess. Always did.”

At that, Levi doesn’t have a reply. There’s a burning sensation forming in his belly, a flutter that’s close to panic, only he knows it is not quite that.

“Sorry,” you say, “does it... does it bother you? I can stop.”

“It’s fine…” Levi exhales, heat prickling at his cheeks. His fingers tighten on his knee. "Though I don't know why you bother."

A light breeze picks up his bangs; he gets a whiff of salt and sand.

“I guess I never told you before, but… you’ve always been a good subject,” you say. “See, everyone always thought of you as this no-nonsense soldier and, sure, you were that, too, but... I don't know. Those evenings when you’d sit by the fire and read, or stare into the flames, there was... something that slipped through the cracks.”

“Something.”

“Yeah. Something.”

“And now? Why draw me now?”

“And now… and now it seems like the easiest thing. Muscle memory, you know? My emotions are easier on paper than they are in my head.”

A ball forms in Levi’s throat. He wants to ask you about what sort of emotions you’re trying to make sense of, but saying those words seems unwise right now. Impossible, some might even say.

“Keep on drawing, then,” is all he manages.

For the rest of the morning, Levi sits in the quiet, watching you draw—something he never thought he’d get to experience again.

“Stay safe,” you tell him by the stables. You’re geared up for the expedition, your horse’s reins in hand.

Levi says nothing, but he squeezes your shoulder to convey his own words: Don’t die.

“Marigolds, periwinkles, carnations. These flowers will go right here, here, and… here. What do you think, ‘Vi?”

Levi squints, trying to ignore the glare in his eyes cast by the sun. He follows your delicate finger, pointing to spots in the garden, filled with different colors and scents.

“Looks like flowers in dirt,” Levi mutters.

You chuckle, placing a marker beside each plot of turned soil.

As promised, Levi is helping you decide what to plant where today. Ever since lunch, the two of you have been treating the space like a canvas that’s yours to fill—sectioning the land, preparing the soil, uprooting and transplanting potted flowers out of their containers, assigning them to specific spots of dirt.

“I picked these flowers because they’re supposed to be good for beginners.” You roll your shoulders back as you shrug off your stiff crouching position. “I wonder if they’ll thrive.”

Levi makes a noncommittal noise in response, not knowing the answer to that question. He shifts his weight from one leg to another, trying to ignore the way his shirts clings to his skin.

On account of the warm weather today, Levi has rolled up the sleeves of his flannel shirt. He’s currently trying to ignore the urge to scratch at his forearms—rashes from an overexposure of sun. Levi knows he ought to go back inside, but he stays rooted to his spot. He tells himself it’s because he promised to help, though he knows you’d chastise him if you noticed the state of his skin.

He slides his sleeves back down before you notice.

“They look like every other flower to me,” he finally declares, eying the delicate petals between your fingers, “fragile.”

“Well, flowers are more vulnerable than other plants, I’ll give you that. But you gotta trust in the process, right?”

“S’not about trust,” Levi places a hand on his hip, attempting to fan himself using the edge of his shirt, “just don’t want you getting all mopey if they die.”

You snort. “I won’t. We used to grow herbs near the infirmary back on Paradis, remember? Sure it’s not much different.”

Levi isn’t so sure about that, but he doesn’t say a thing. What does he know about growing things, anyway? All he’s ever seen of flowers is how they’re laid on graves.

From the corner of his eye, he catches you looking at him. Something soft lingers in your expression, like you want to say something, but you don’t. He looks away before you can. There’s dirt smudged across your cheek, he realizes. He should tell you. Or wipe it off. But he does neither.

“Hey, did you know flowers have unique meanings here in Marley?” you say, breaking the silence. “That each color and species is symbolic of a specific emotion?” You point to a cluster of yellow petals. “The girl working in the library, she explained it to me. Yellow marigolds represent passion. Purple periwinkles serenity. And pink carnations are all about gratitude.”

Levi studies each one, committing the names to memory without really knowing why. “So you use them to express feelings and shit?”

“Something like that.”

“Sounds like a pain.”

“Maybe. But some people like the poetry behind such gifts. Others like the game. And sometimes, people are just too shy to say the words out-loud, so they find comfort in finding other ways to express themselves.”

“Is there a flower that says you’re a pain in the ass?”

“Not that I know of.” You quirk a brow up at him. “Is that one directed at me?”

“Who else?”

That isn't the whole story. If flowers really meant something, you’d need a whole damn garden for everything he doesn’t say. No flower could say it all. But Levi doesn’t quite say that, either.

Instead, he gestures toward the porch stairs. “What about those?”

You follow his line of sight, spotting the blue flowers you planted your first weekend here.

“Oh, that’s technically a herb,” you say. “Myosotis. The forget-me-not flower. It represents... love, in many ways.”

Levi watches the forget-me-nots shift with the wind. In the distance, Scout lunges at a butterfly, and misses. He exhales through his nose, watching her try again. Stubborn little thing.

“Hey, can I ask for your help?” You shift beside him, adjusting your grip on a bundle of flowers. “I’m having a hard time digging this hole. I think there're pebbles blocking the way, but I’m scared these flowers will get all tangled up if they're not held properly.”

Levi peers over the edge of the garden plot. You’re planting carnations, holding them with one hand as you attempt to shovel a hole with the other.

He grumbles something beneath his breath but walks closer anyway, his cane digging against the turned soil. With a slow, careful movement, Levi lowers himself onto the grass, shifting onto his uninjured leg before dropping onto his ass with a dull thud. He leans his cane against his knee and reaches for the flowers.

With a parting smile, you move back to your task. You shift your weight by pressing onto your knees, using the small shovel to push stubborn roots and obstacles aside.

Incidentally, it also gives Levi the perfect view of your ass.

And fuck, if your gardening outfit (worn-out denim overalls with a white t-shirt) didn’t already make his mind swim, this view now certainly does.

Not for the first time since you arrived, Levi has to wonder about the questionable fashion choices from Marley, and why it's having such an effect on him all of a sudden. Levi’s lived through war, through hell, and yet here he is, losing a battle against a damn pair of overalls.

His fingers tighten slightly around the stems in his hand before he can help it, but he forces them to relax.

What a pain.

Levi knows human attraction is perfectly natural; he's experienced his share of it across his life. But human attraction hasn't mattered to him for a long time.

He’d be lying if it didn't matter now.

Because, not for the first time since you arrived—Levi finds his mind wandering. He imagines leaning back into the grass, his hand pressed on your lower back as he helps you stay balanced crouching. He tries to envision the texture of your overalls under his fingers. Would it be rough, or would it be soft—soft, like what he pictures your skin’s texture to be? How would you even react if he touched you? His touch would probably repulse you, right?

And yet, last night, he swore—

Levi closes his eyes, groaning inwardly.

This is ridiculous.

Is this really all because of last night, when he thought he saw you leaning in? Fuck, for all he knows, everything he saw was just a figment of his imagination. A trick of the light. He’s only able to see from one eye—should he really be relying on his sight to make judgment calls?

Sweat trickles now down his back, thick like honey.

“Oi,” he blurs out, desperate to derail his own thoughts. “After all this shit grows, what then? Gonna run a flower empire or what?”

“Hm... I’m not sure if I’d make for a very good florist.”

“You'd learn.”

“Maybe, but I’m afraid my motivations are more... selfish, in that regard. I guess I just wanted to experience what it was like, to tend to a garden. Do things normal people do, you know?”

Levi stays silent. Scout meows in the distance, missing her butterfly again.

“And I figured you might like something nice in your home,” you add casually.

At that, Levi has to click his tongue, the sound sharp against the wind. He looks out at the horizon. “I’m not much for pretty things.”

(That’s not entirely true. There’s you, and he’s certainly into your prettiness, as exemplified by the way his body is reacting in your proximity.)

“Who ever needs pretty things?” you point out. Levi frowns, turning his attention to you again. The sight of you surrounded by a myriad of flowers is like something straight out of a painting. Enchanting.“That’s the point of prettiness. It’s there to bring people joy, it’s there to be admired and inspiring. It may not be needed, but it’s appreciated, right?”

Levi's suddenly reminded of his mother, of the way she used to keep the house clean, of the way she used to teach him to drink tea.

He remembers asking her why she bothered. In his memories, her voice is soft like a feather. “Because it is pretty and elegant,” his mother answered, “and you are all those things, my Levi.”

“Are you aware that even animals like pretty things?” By now, you’re a little out of breath from all the shoveling. You wipe your forehead with the back of your hand. “Take pigs, for example. We think of them as dirty animals because of how they’re kept by humans, but... out in the wild, they’re pretty clean. They even like to decorate their homes with things they collect.”

“Tch. Are you comparing this to a pig’s sty?”

You laugh. “'Course not. But what I’m trying to say... what I’m trying to say is that this garden feels like planting something… I don’t know, hopeful. Not because we need it for anything, but because it just... it just exists.”

Levi doesn’t respond right away. Instead, his hand test the soil between his fingertips. He thinks about how he used to hate the feel of dirt under his nails—how it reminded him of crawling his way out the Underground, of survival. That sentiment hasn’t changed here, only he finds himself being... willing to be in this state.

“S'not so bad,” he murmurs.

Later, when Levi finally reaches out to place his handkerchief in your hand, telling you there's dirt on your face, he’ll come to another realization: that for the first time, he doesn’t have to worry that it’s blood you’re wiping away.

Just a bit of dirt.

It’s like blood rains from the skies that day.

The expedition is declared a disaster.

A few days later, when Levi comes home from work, he finds another gift waiting for him on his dresser.

You’re not home tonight; you’ve volunteered to help with the preparations for the upcoming festival, so he doesn’t get any opportunities to scold you for spending your money on him—again.

Instead, Levi unravels your letter.

Levi, Mark my words, you’ll see that flowers have their use-cases, even for a tea-maniac like you. I hope this suits your taste. -A

Levi unwraps the gift, guessing already what its content might be. He isn’t disappointed. The bag contains loose tea leaves, filled to the brim, along with tiny white buds that remind Levi of snow.

Elegant cursive adorns the note on the satchel, its reading clear as day:

Jasmine flower tea.

I hope you enjoyed this update. The plot is going to start picking up from next chapter onwards, so I hope you can look forward to that ^^ If you have time, I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments as they really keep me going. Take care!

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justagalwhowrites · 23 days ago

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The Savage and the Sanctuary: Ch. 9 - Starlight

You officially become Starlight and Joel reckons with your life in the spotlight. A continuation of The Savage and the Sanctuary, a no outbreak TLOU story, from the prologue through chapter 8 found on Tumblr here.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

CW: Canon-typical violence; panic attack/PTSD response; attempted kidnapping. No use of Y/N. Whole fic will be explicit so minors DNI, 18+ only.

Length: 12k

“You sure this is a good idea?” Joel asked, arms crossed over his chest, his jaw tight as he watched you from across the small room.

“Joel,” you looked at him, almost amused, from your spot on the couch. “What do you think they’re going to do? Delay the casting announcement that’s been planned for months for a movie with a $210 million price tag because I want a personal day?”

“You’re the fuckin’ star,” he said. “So… yeah.”

You pressed your lips together, stifling a laugh.

“It really doesn’t work that way,” you said. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Yeah, well,” Joel grumbled, turning to the craft services table that had been set up in your green room. “Maybe it should.”

He got a plate and piled it with a small sandwich, slices of cucumber, baby carrots and celery before spooning hummus onto it and grabbing a can of Diet Coke, which made you frown. You’d never once seen him drink Diet Coke.

But he didn’t go to drink it himself. Instead, he closed the short distance between you, handing you the plate before opening the soda and setting the can down almost forcefully on the table beside you.

You frowned, looking up at him, brows raised.

“You’re not puttin’ on that damn suit,” he said, nodding to the plate. “And I was awake before you, I know you ain’t eaten anything today.”

You resisted the urge to smile but felt your lips tugging up at the edges all the same.

“You like me,” you teased. He rolled his eyes. “Look at you, getting invested.”

“Just been around you too much,” he muttered but he smiled ever so slightly, too. “Bound to stick eventually.”

You let yourself smile fully then, taking a bite of the sandwich as Joel shook his head, clearly trying to not look happy about anything at all.

Something had changed in your relationship with Joel the day before. You could almost feel it happen, the shock of connection and understanding when you’d asked him to break into Henry’s office and he’d just done it. He didn’t question it, he didn’t even hesitate, he just busted the man’s door down and protected you in the aftermath. The way he’d touched you in the elevator, the way he still looked at you like you were a person after you told him about the shit you were most ashamed of, it felt like he cared about you. Not the strange version of yourself you made for the world but the real you and it was the first time it seemed like someone who wasn’t Justice or Elise or Ellie or Anna had done that in so, so long. What’s more, he made you feel like you were worth caring about. Like there was something inside you, something about you, that was worth the effort. That feeling made your heart beat faster and your head get light and you knew that was stupid, that you should avoid feeling like that about your bodyguard as much as you could but you couldn’t resist it. It felt too good, caring about him and knowing that he cared about you, too.

He had gotten up before you that morning. You found him in the kitchen when you forced yourself to get up, skipping your usual morning workout because - although you’d slept well and hadn’t shot anything the day before and it had been a short day - you were exhausted. It was a sort of tired that had settled heavily into your body, weighing down your limbs and fogging your mind. You more trudged through the house than walked, not able to fully pick your feet up. But you were surprised to find coffee ready made and waiting for you when you got to the kitchen, Joel sitting at the breakfast bar with a mug in front of him.

“Morning,” he said, watching you.

You froze, blinking at him for a second.

“Morning,” you said back, your tongue thick in your mouth.

“How are you feeling?” He asked, looking you up and down but not in the way so many men did, not like he wanted to break you down and consume you.

You shrugged.

“Fine,” you said before pulling your gaze from him and going to pour yourself a cup of coffee. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Just…” he paused. “Seemed like you might not be. After… you know.”

“Oh,” you said, not sure what to say to that. You took a sip of coffee. “Well… I still have a convention to get to.”

“That a good idea?” He asked, frowning, watching you.

You watched him back for a moment, something so unsettlingly honest about how he was looking at you.

“Maybe not,” you said after a moment. “But you gotta do what you gotta do, right?”

He kept watching you, like he thought you might take it back and maybe that was because you wanted to, his jaw clenched, before he sighed.

“Shit goes sideways, we leave,” he said. “And I don’t just mean some jackass tries to break your arm again, I mean if you have a panic attack or that… that fuckin’ asshole shows up, we go. We clear?”

“You can’t just try to whisk me away from all my problems,” you said, smiling a little sadly.

“I know,” he said, open and almost vulnerable. “I know you can handle yourself and lord knows you know this world a hell of a lot better than I do. But I’m trying to keep you safe. You said you’d let me keep you safe. You gonna let me?”

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Yeah, I’ll let you.”

He’d stuck close to you all day. You heard him pacing the hall outside your room as you put on the outfit that Frank had selected for you. He took a break to let your hair and makeup artist, Caroline, in but he took back up pacing not long after.

“He’s an anxious one, isn't he?” She said as she blended your eyeshadow. “That’s a change from the last guy, right?”

“He’s the same one I had last time,” you said.

“Really?” She said, stepping back enough that you opened your eyes to look at her and you looked at her, incredulous. “Well shit, never would have guessed.”

He was waiting there outside your door in a pair of dark jeans and a button down and you gasped in mock surprise.

“Look at you!” You swatted him playfully on the arm. “You got dressed up!”

He rolled his eyes.

“Let’s go,” he said. “Before you find some new way to drive me insane.”

“It’d be a short trip,” you smirked before leading the way to the car, Joel close enough that he kept his hand on the small of your back the whole way.

He was tense as they slipped you into the convention hall, bringing you in a side door under a tent that enveloped everything, protecting the secret of your identity for another few hours.

“You know you can’t come on stage with me, right?” you said, smiling a little but trying to hide it as you ate one of the carrots Joel had put on your plate.

“Oh I’m well aware,” he muttered. “You know, I keep waitin’ for these producers and managers and… other assholes to figure out that you’re not just some profit center but you’d think they’d have realized by now that they can’t make money off you if you’re hurt or dead. Can make fuckin’ movies but can’t manage to understand basic shit…”

There was a knock at your door and Joel clenched his jaw before going to answer it. Quinn didn’t wait for him to fully step aside, pushing past him and looking a little frazzled.

“We ready?” She asked, looking you up and down before narrowing her eyes at you. “Are you eating? And drinking from a can without a straw? You’re wearing lipstick! Jesus Christ…”

She started looking around, as though she might find some stray tube of lip color lying around but you just laughed a little, dabbing your mouth with your napkin and going into the small bag you’d brought with you to touch up your lipstick.

“There,” you said, putting the tube away again. “See? No harm, no foul.”

“And now she won’t pass out on stage,” Joel muttered. “Let’s go, sooner they trot you out like some show pony the sooner we can get you back home.”

You just shook your head and smiled a little, following behind Quinn, a small army of assistants waiting outside your door and Joel staying so close to you that you could could feel the heat of his body alongside yours all the way to the stage.

Cole met you there, waiting in the wings, and you greeted him with a hug.

“You ready for this?” You asked quietly. “Because our lives are about to change.”

“Think mine more than yours,” he smiled, a little sheepishly. “Everyone already knows your name. This is the first time I’m doing something this big. Feels a little like I’m about to… I don’t fucking know, go BASE jumping or something.”

“Well,” you said, taking a deep breath. “As long as you’ve got a good parachute.”

You looked toward Joel in spite of yourself, his jaw clenched as his eyes raked again and again over the surrounding area. You leaned closer to him.

“And of course where would we be without a man worthy of our hero?” The emcee said. You looked at Cole and he looked back before taking a deep breath. “Introducing your Devin Hancock - Cole Cox!”

Cole ran out on stage, his arms above his head and you watched him soak up the applause, waving out at the audience that you couldn’t see beyond the stage lights.

“Finally,” the emcee said as the crowd quieted down. “The moment we’ve all been waiting for, the one I’ve been most excited for. Are you ready to meet our intergalactic heroine? The one, the only, Starlight?”

The screams were deafening and the lights cut out, replaced by the glow of the massive screen behind the stage. You had to crane your neck to see it from where you stood but it was what you’d shot a few days earlier, the slow pans down your body, keeping your face hidden, the frantic fight sequences that kept your identity just out of sight and then a bright, blue-tinged glow before a close up of you, smirking confidently in your suit and hair and makeup, took over the screen, Starlight in an arch over your head, your name written below as the emcee announced you, the roar of screaming and cheering drowning him out almost entirely.

You ran out to join him on stage, hands up over your head and waving to the convention hall packed with people.

It took what felt like a small eternity for things to quiet down enough for you to even talk, the emcee giving you a mic and you just standing there with it as you waved for long enough that you started to get tired of holding your unoccupied hand so far over your head.

“Thank you all for that very warm welcome!” You laughed when things got quiet eventually. “I really could not be happier to join the Galactic Comics Cinematic Universe.”

You took your seat next to Cole, demurely crossing one ankle over the other (even though you were in jeans) and nodding as you listened to the director talk about the movie and the lengths they went through to keep your identity under wraps. The emcee threw a few softball questions your way and you gave the other people on stage a chance to shine before the audience questions began because you knew most of their questions would be directed at you.

You were right, the first question out of the gate was directed at you.

“Huge fan,” the guy asking it said, smiling sheepishly at you. “But I don’t think I’d ever see you in something like this. Why’d you decide to play this role?”

“Well,” you smiled back at him and you saw the blush rise in his cheeks. “I’ve always been drawn to stories about powerful women, I’ve always liked telling those stories and exploring the lives of those women and what better way to do it than tell the story of a superhero, right? Especially one who starts out as a doctor. And…”

You took a deep breath. You’d debated about including this or not but, fuck it, if the world knew about Ellie anyway, why not?

“And as some of you might know, I’m in the process of adopting my niece and Savage Starlight is her favorite comic. When I found out about the opportunity to be her favorite hero, I jumped at that. She didn’t know about this in advance, by the way, so she’s finding out about this role at the same time you all are by watching the live stream at home - hi Ellie!” You waved to the camera that was broadcasting live online. “I hope you’re behaving for your grandma, I really don’t want one of the first things I do as Dr. Daniela Star to be ground you.”

The audience laughed and you smiled at that, this strange warmth settling inside you as the next person came up to the mic and you found yourself looking over at Joel, a little smile on his face as he watched you in return. You’d never shared something like that about yourself to press or at an event. You weren’t sure why, but for some reason, you felt comfortable being more yourself, offering that small vulnerability and piece of humanity up to these strangers.

Time passed quickly there on stage and, before too long, you were making your way off stage, happy that you weren’t miked anymore and you felt like you could breathe a little.

“That was surreal,” Cole said, nearly yelling in your ear to be heard over the crowd, staying close to you as the two of you headed off stage, Joel watching from the wings, his eyes sweeping the stage as you did.

“But cool!” You said back, smiling at him before turning a little to wave one last time at the crowd.

You were so distracted by the crowd and the noise and blinded by the stage lights, you almost didn’t see Joel running for you.

***

It happened so fast, he almost fucking missed it.

You were almost off stage - almost next to him again - and he had almost relaxed. You were close and you were so beautiful and looked so happy and it was easy to just look at you, the temptation to just watch you instead of looking anywhere else so easy to fall into.

But then he saw it, someone shoving off event security and scrambling onto the stage. He barely noticed it, the person almost entirely blocked from his view by you and your costar.

He moved quickly then, event security chasing after the man as he went for you. You noticed him half a second before he reached you, your smile dropping and your eyes going wide.

“Move!” Joel grabbed you, tucking your head down and putting his body between you and the person who was inches away from being tackled by security. He rushed you off stage all the same, not about to trust security to suddenly do their jobs properly.

He got you off stage quickly, casting a glance back over his shoulder to see two security guards take the man down. Joel kept moving with you, rushing you through the maze of back stage and back to your green room. He slammed the door shut and released you, taking your face in his hands and looking you up and down.

“You OK?” He asked, breathless.

“I’m fine,” you said quietly, your hands covering his, your fingers soft and soothing against his own. “I’m OK, it’s OK.”

“Fuck,” he said, pulling you against him before he thought better of it, clutching onto you and focusing on the feeling of your chest rising and falling as he held you close. Your arms slowly, cautiously went around him, too, your hold gentler than his own except for your fingers which knotted in his shirt and pressed into his back. His heartbeat finally slowed, your body a comfort against his own, and his grip on you eased. You pulled back from him but didn’t go far, still in his arms, still close enough that he could feel when you breathed. You looked at him, your eyes wide, lips parted and, for half a moment, he thought you might kiss him and he wanted you to. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t kiss you, he wanted to. The fact that you were his charge, that you were so far above him you weren’t even in the same galaxy let alone the same league, that he was in no position to let anyone close to him at all didn’t matter. All that mattered was your lips and skin and the way you felt against him.

Your eyes traced over his face then stilled at his temple and you frowned, reaching your hand up, delicately tracing the scar there with one finger, your touch so gentle it was more like a ghost than anything corporeal.

“Joel,” you whispered, your palm finding his cheek but your finger lingering on the scar. His heart stuttered.

The sharp knock on the green room door made you jump and he pulled you closer for a moment before maneuvering you behind him.

“It’s me!” Quinn called through the door. “Let me in!”

“Stay put,” Joel said sharply, going for the door and only opening it a crack, confirming it was just Quinn there before opening it just enough to let her in and then locking it again.

Your manager rushed over to you, looking you up and down before taking you by the shoulders.

“You’re OK?” She asked quickly.

“I’m fine,” you said, smiling a little at her. “It wasn’t a big deal, really.”

Joel stalked over, trying to put himself between you and Quinn as best he could without physically moving her. He’d never put hands on a woman, he didn’t want to start now.

“When are you people gonna learn that this shit is a risk?” He growled, letting himself tower over Quinn. “That it’s not fuckin’ worth it? That you’re gonna get her hurt or worse because someone else needs something more from her?”

“Joel,” you quietly, your hand curling around his bicep, but he shrugged you off.

“She is not some goddamn toy!” Joel snapped. “So stop parading her around like some fuckin’ Barbie before someone does more than break her fucking arm!”

“She’s my client!” Quinn snapped back. “And my friend and I’ve been looking out for her a hell of a lot longer than you have so if you think for one second that she matters more to you than she does to me…”

“She is right here, in case either of you were wondering,” you said, voice sharp.

Joel and Quinn both turned to face you and, beyond your eyes being wider than he was used to seeing, you looked like yourself. Your jaw was set firm, your back straight, daring either of them to push you.

“Last time I checked, I’m a grown woman who is perfectly capable of making her own choices,” you said, looking between the two of them. “Joel, I’m fine. Nothing happened. Security took down… whoever that was and you protected me. The system worked. Quinn, cut Joel some slack. He’s still new to this industry, he doesn’t understand how shit works here and… he’s right. Events are a risk. They’re just also necessary.”

Joel clenched his jaw, tightened his fist. He wasn’t going to win this fight, he knew that, but that didn’t mean he had to be happy about it.

“There is a piece of good news,” Quinn sighed, changing the subject. “The guy who rushed the stage was looking to talk to the director, some super fan. Had his last movie on BluRay in his bag, looks like he’s a film student at UCLA.”

“Jesus,” Joel pinched the bridge of his nose. “People can’t just be fuckin’ normal about this shit? Have to be rushing the goddamn stage, camping out at premieres…”

“People care,” Quinn said, a little edge in her tone. “It might be a little intense but…”

“Yeah,” Joel cut her off. “That’s the problem, ain’t it.”

Joel got you out of there without any further incident, bypassing the crowds of people clamoring for a piece of you outside and instead ushering you back out the way you came, straight into the back of the heavily tinted SUV. He sat in back with you, not willing to even be as far away as the front seat would force him to be.

It took until the two of you were well on the way back at your house for him to really calm down, the tension in his chest easing, finally able to relax his clenched fists.

“Can I ask you something?” You said quietly.

He looked over at you, your eyes soft and open and you were twisted in the seat so you were facing him as much as you could be while still being buckled in. He didn’t say anything but you pressed on.

“How…” you paused, like you were trying to figure out how to phrase your question. “How long have you protected someone?”

He flexed his hand.

“Few weeks,” he said. “Usually just a few days.”

You nodded slowly.

“Why.”

“Did you usually get along with the people you protected?” You asked, ignoring him.

He laughed once, derisively.

“No,” he said. “No, they’re just rich assholes. Usually CEOs in town for meetings or some shit. Protected this one model once who was a nice enough girl. You might know her… Rosie something think her name was. Don’t really remember. Otherwise, mostly just jackasses. Why.”

“You’ve never worked a job like this one, have you?” You asked, your head cocked ever so slightly to the side, your exacting gaze seeing past seemingly everything he had to protect that dying thing inside himself. “Where you might actually give a shit about whether or not the person you’re protecting lives for anything outside the professional, I mean.”

“No,” he said again after a moment. “No. I haven’t.”

You nodded again.

“I’m sorry it’s working out like this,” you said quietly. “I’m not trying to make life difficult. You probably think I’m full of shit but I’m really not…”

“I know,” he cut you off. “You’ve given me plenty of grief, Siren, but I know that’s not what this is.”

“I’ll…” you took a deep, shaky breath. “I’ll do my best to make sure it’s professional. It’s weird for me, too, being around someone this much and not… I’ll try to do better.”

He wanted to tell you not to worry about it. Please don’t stay away from me, he wanted to say. Please just be where I can see you and touch you and know that you’re breathing, please stay close to me, please don’t leave me alone in this.

“S’OK,” he said instead. “It’s… it’ll be OK.”

You smiled at him ever so slightly, something sad in your eyes when you did and he resisted the urge to touch you the rest of the way home.

***

Being rushed off stage after your big announcement put a bit of a damper on the celebration outside your house but inside, you still got to bask in the excitement a little. Ellie had called you freaking out while you were still on stage and you FaceTimed her as soon as you were back home.

“Are you kidding me, Sissy?” She gaped at you. “You’re seriously fucking Starlight? THAT’S what you’ve been working on?”

“Yeah,” you smiled, trying to keep from laughing, too happy that she was happy to scold her for her language. “Think I can pull it off?”

“Hell yeah!” She said, beaming. “This is the coolest fucking thing! I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!”

Not everything was that easy, though. You did your best to avoid Joel over the next few days as much as you could. You trained and did fight choreography, Joel sitting up front in the car while you sat in the back, and you kept to your office and bedroom as much as possible when you were at home. Not that Joel spent much time in the common areas of the house, anyway, but it seemed that when you did encounter each other there, there was a strange intimacy to it that didn’t exist in other spaces. It was safest to avoid it.

Even though it’s not that you wanted to avoid Joel. Far from it. The way he’d held you after the incident at the convention had touched you in a way no one else had. He’d clung to you like you were a lifeline, as though you mattered to him. And it wasn’t because you were rich, it wasn’t because you were beautiful and he wanted to own you, it wasn’t even because he fawned over your fame or power or skill. It felt like he did it just because you existed. Like that was all that as required of you when it came to him, like as long as you just continued to breathe you would matter to him. No one else had ever done that for you, not in the way he did, and now that you had a taste of it you craved it. You wanted to matter to him, you wanted him to see something in you that was worthy because there was something about him that was so real and so vital, something in him that made the way he saw the world so much more important than the way anyone else did.

Which is why you needed to give him space. You couldn’t let yourself do this. You couldn’t let yourself fall into the feelings you had for this man that were threatening to swallow you up, it would only get you hurt. Space was smart.

But, Tuesday, you didn’t have a choice. The premiere was Wednesday and you had to figure out what you and Joel were wearing, the entire day blocked off to spend at Frank’s studio to review the different looks he’d selected for you and Joel both. That meant a day together, whether either of you liked it or not.

And you might have liked it. More than you should.

“I can’t believe I get to dress that sexy, grumpy body guard of yours,” Frank said as you stood in your underwear looking at gown options, Joel waiting safely on the other side of the door. “I’d say it’s a dream except for the fact that he is one big man and no one knows who the hell he is so it’s not like I can name drop to get off-size samples. Selection’s going to be limited, I’m afraid.”

“I think he’ll live,” you said, reaching out and touching the skirt of one of the gowns, running your thumb over the sumptuous fabric. “I’m still surprised he went along with the date scheme, honestly.”

“I’m not,” Frank scoffed. “You two fucked yet?”

“Frank!” You gawked at him and swatted him.

“What!” He said, indignant. “I know chemistry when I see it, honey, and you two have chemistry.”

“He’s still not interested in fucking me,” you said, your stomach clenching at that thought even though you shouldn’t care.

“Yes he is,” Frank rolled his eyes. You raised your eyebrows at him and he waved you off. “For someone as stunning as you are, you sure are good at missing when someone wants to get you into bed. Maybe you’re just used to it because you’re you but that man would cut off a limb for a night in bed with you, mark my words.”

“Please,” you rolled your eyes.

“I’m serious,” Frank said, his tone shifting. “And none of that’s unusual for you but I’ll tell you what is unusual for you: you want him back.”

“Don’t start,” you said, pointing at him sternly.

“I’m not starting anything,” he said, his hands up in surrender. “I’m just pointing some shit out. It’s been a long time since you were in a real relationship…”

“I’ve been kinda busy the last year or two,” you said, defensive.

“And you could use someone,” he continued like you hadn’t spoken at all. “And there are worse choices than the tall drink of water that’s sitting out there. That’s all I’m saying.”

“He works for me,” you said. “It’s not happening.”

“Whatever you say,” he said, turning his attention back to the gowns. “Want to know my favorite or do you want to go in blind?”

“That one’s your favorite,” you said, pointing to a fully beaded gown that looked like it would fit you like a glove. “Don’t think I don’t know you.”

He laughed and gave your arm a squeeze.

“To be loved is to be known,” he said. “Or something like that.”

You smiled a little.

“So they say,” you said. “Let’s try them on and figure out what we need to do to get me down that carpet.”

Frank had an eye. You tried on all the gowns but none of them held a candle to the one you’d eyeballed as his immediately.

“I know you get this all the time,” Frank said, standing back from you and looking you up and down after he’d pinned the places he’d need to make temporary alterations to make sure the gown fit you just right. “But I think you might be the most beautiful woman on Earth.”

“Only when you dress me,” you smiled but admired yourself in the mirror all the same.

“Alright,” he said, stepping onto the small platform to help you out of your gown. “Let’s get you out of this and figure out what we’re squeezing that giant man into.”

You laughed but let Frank undress you before getting back into the sweats you’d come to the studio in, your stylist going to grab Joel who looked none too happy about needing to get dressed up.

“Dunno why it fuckin’ matters what I wear,” Joel muttered as Frank took his measurements. “No one’s gonna be looking at me anyway.”

“We need to make sure you’re not drawing attention,” Frank said absently as he noted a measurement. “You show up in jeans to an event like this, people look at you funny. Unless you’re Adam Sandler but that’s another story…”

He straightened and looked at the numbers, draping the tape measure around his neck and comparing them to another sheet on his clip board and nodding to himself.

“Well, I’ve got good news,” he said idly. “I wasn’t too far off on your sizes and I pulled a few options for you, we don’t need to send you to Men’s Wearhouse. Or wherever it is we’d have to look to find something to fit those shoulder of yours…”

Joel glared at him but Frank didn’t seem to notice, just going to grab the suits as Joel stood awkwardly on the platform, trying to look anywhere but at the mirrors that surrounded him.

“You’ll never break Frank by being grumpy,” you said, smiling a little as you propped your head on your fist, one leg crossed over the other from your seat in the corner.

“Why’s that,” Joel said more than asked, barely glancing your way.

“His husband, Bill, would give you a run for your money on the grumpy asshole front,” you said. “He’s reigning world champ, you’d like him.”

“Jesus,” Joel muttered but you saw his lips tug up ever so slightly. You smiled.

“Don’t worry, Big Miller,” you teased. “You’re in good hands for your red carpet debut.”

Frank had undersold his options, Joel looking damn good in every outfit he put him in but, eventually, they settled on an all black suit that fit him almost perfectly - just needing to be let out a little at the cuffs of the coat and the hem of the pants - with a black shirt he was going to wear without a tie, open enough that you could see a bit of the golden tan expanse of his chest that made your mouth water when you looked at him too long.

“This is too much,” Joel grumbled. “Can’t I just wear… I dunno…”

“No, you can’t,” Frank cut him off. “Move your arms for me, up over your head.” Joel just looked at him, brows raised. “I’m assuming you want good range of motion to protect our newest superhero over there, right? So do what I say.” Joel rolled his eyes but obeyed. “Good boy,” Frank said and you coughed to cover your laugh.

He pinned Joel, too, and, eventually, the two of you were finished up, Frank and his team needing to get to work to finalize alterations and the rest of your outfits.

“See you both tomorrow morning at the hotel,” Frank said. “Expect you both to get a good night’s sleep, you’d better not let bags under your eyes ruin this for me, understand?”

“Yes sir,” you said, kissing both his cheeks. “And I’ll be sure to tell Bill about all the fun you had today…”

“Don’t start young lady,” Frank said, turning to Joel. “Keep her in line or I’ll put you in something hideous.”

He didn’t give your body guard a chance to respond. Instead, he just headed back into his studio and you tried not to laugh.

“You just like to torture everyone you work with don’t you,” Joel said, a teasing edge to his voice.

“I need to have fun somehow,” you said, letting Joel lead the way to the car that was waiting just outside the door. He put his hand on your back and you tried to ignore the way your heart raced when he did. “You looked really good, by the way.”

He frowned at you.

“In the suit, I mean,” you said. “You’re going to look good tomorrow.”

“Right,” he said, opening the door for you.You got in the back of the car and were surprised when he got in the back seat next to you. “Uh… thanks.”

You smiled a little as you buckled in. Frank might be wrong about Joel wanting to sleep with you but you could at least take some comfort in knowing that you could still throw him off a little. And as long as you could get through the premiere without caving to that growing, gnawing urge to touch him, kiss him, feel him, everything would be OK.

The two of you got up early the next day to head to a hotel near the premiere to get ready, Joel sitting next to you again with a sour look on his face the entire trip.

“So what’s got your boxer briefs in a twist today?” You teased after a while, not able to resist it.

“Don’t understand why we gotta be in an unknown space for this,” he grumbled. “Your house was fine for the last premiere, stupid to add another variable into this situation.”

“Because the last premiere was more low-key,” you shrugged. “This one starts later in the day and there’s a party after, we’re not going to want to deal with getting all the way back to my house that late. Trust me, having the closer space will be a blessing when push comes to shove. Think of it this way, you’ve got a safe place to whisk me off to when you get paranoid.”

He gave you a look and you stifled a giggle.

“Don’t think it’s paranoid if I’ve had to do more than just look after you the last few times you’ve been out in public here,” he muttered. “Should have said you couldn’t do this, not even your damn movie…”

“Well we extra need the media push now because I couldn’t do any press after the con,” you said. “And I know they got this premiere more locked down…”

He clenched his jaw and shook his head and, before you could stop yourself, you reached for the hand that rested on the seat between you, covering his thick fingers with your own. He looked there, still for a moment, before slowly, gently, turning his hand so he could hold yours. Your heart fluttered.

“It’ll be OK, Joel,” you smiled softly. “It will.”

They’d put you in a two bedroom suite with a living space in the middle, Quinn’s assistant getting the space set up with a variety of snacks and drinks and coming up with your favorite coffee as you settled into the larger bedroom to get ready.

The team of stylists showed up not long after you and you went through all the motions of getting ready for a big event - the nails and the hair and the putting on the gown that had to weigh at least 10 pounds and you were happy for the structure of the bodice so the weight of it wasn’t entirely landing on your shoulders.

“How’s Joel doing?” You asked Frank, sipping a Diet Coke through a straw as Caroline, your hair stylist, put the finishing touches on.

“Looking way better than he has any right to,” Frank replied, getting a necklace with a sizable blue gemstone - the same shade of blue the powers Starlight had glowed with in the comics - and put it around your neck. “It’s not fair, someone looking that good when they don’t give a shit about it.”

You laughed a little.

“Good thing you’re there to bring out the best in the guy,” you teased, giving a lock of his hair a little tug and he gave you a look, smiling a bit as he did.

“Well, I’ll take solace in the fact that he’s walking the carpet with you,” he said, offering you his hand to help you out of your chair. You took it and he adjusted your gown before walking around you in a slow, discerning circle. “He’ll pale in comparison.”

“Thanks to you,” you said as he held out his hand for you drink and you surrendered it.

“Alright,” he said, waving the makeup artist over. “Lip color, then we go.”

She painted it on and then Frank gave a nod.

“You’re ready,” he said. “Let’s get you there, be sure to watch the back of the dress when you’re getting in and out, it might snag on your heels…”

“I do know how to wear a gown,” you said, following him.

“If you saw how some of these things came back to me at the end of the night from other people, you’d know why I bother to say it,” he replied, opening the door to the living area and Joel stood up from the couch, moving for you for a moment before he stopped in his tracks, staring at you.

“What?” You asked after he’d stood stock still for what felt like too long.

“Nothin’,” he shook his head once. “You… you look nice.”

“Thanks,” you smiled, looking at him, trying to ignore the tug at the base of your chest you felt when you saw him there, the suit fitting him like it’d been made for him, the bare skin of his chest almost too intimate to look at even though you knew the entire planet would see him like this in just a few minutes. “Not too bad yourself.”

“I’m going to try to not be personally offended by the fact that you just said she looked ‘nice,’” Frank said, giving you a peck on the cheek. “You look beautiful, honey. Have fun, don’t work too hard. I’ll come by tomorrow to pick up the dress and jewelry.”

You watched Frank go before turning to Joel.

“Ready to run the gauntlet?” You asked.

“Guess so,” he sighed. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Don’t sound so happy about it,” you teased as you made your way for the door. “You know there are men who would kill to be in your shoes right now.”

“I know,” Joel said. “That’s who I’m worried about.”

You gave him a brief run down of how to handle himself on the carpet on the short ride over. Let you do the talking, when people asked about your relationship just say that you’re friends, try to keep your face at least neutral if not smiling as much as possible.

“There are going to be a lot of people coming up to me,” you said. “If they’re in formalwear, don’t worry about it. Actors are physical folk, there’s going to be a lot of hugging and kissing, please don’t snap anybody’s arm because they decided to touch me.”

“I’ll do my best,” he said, clearly tense.

“And you’ll probably need to touch me, too, now that I think about it,” you said as the car pulled up toward the carpet. He almost jumped at that and you cleared your throat awkwardly. “You know, just in a friendly way. For pictures and as we’re moving down the carpet. If we don’t hold hands and that sort of thing at some point, it’ll look strange.”

“OK,” he said, sounding hesitant.

“I won’t read into it,” you smiled a little. “Promise.”

Joel adjusted, stiff in his seat, and the cuff of his jacket slid up his arm, just enough to reveal his watch. But it wasn’t the one you’d been expecting. Instead, it was the one you’d given him, the one you’d thought he’d certainly have pawned or destroyed or… something by now.

Your shock must have shown on your face because Joel frowned.

“What,” he said, looking at you.

“You’re wearing the watch,” you said quietly. “You kept it.”

“Oh,” he said, looking down at his wrist and clearing his throat awkwardly. “Yeah. I… It’s nice. Thought this was the place to wear it.”

The car came to a stop at the carpet and a man in a headset with a clipboard opened the door, smiling.

“Welcome!” He said, offering you his hand. “We’re just about ready for you on the carpet.”

You took his hand and stepped out of the car, a roar going up from the roped off area for fans as you did. You smiled broadly, raising your arm to wave at them as Joel came up behind you. You sensed him there more than saw him, something about the strength and security of his presence making you hyperaware of where he was in relation to you.

“This what it’s always like for you?” He asked, putting his hand in the middle of your back, at the skin that was bared just over the top of the gown. You resisted the urge to lean back into his touch. “Everyone looking at you all the time?”

“Just figured that one out, eh?” You smirked a little and lifted the hem of your dress enough that you could walk unimpeded. “C’mon, Big Miller. Time to get to work.”

You led the way down the red carpet, signing a few autographs with Joel’s hand firmly at your waist as he watched everything all around you. You’d just cleared the fan area and were starting toward the press when there was an excited shriek that made Joel stiffen but you smiled as Chloe, a friend from early in your film career who had been in this franchise for years, came running over.

“Oh my God, it’s so good to see you!” She squealed, hugging you and you kissed her cheek as she kissed yours. “Welcome to the family, baby!”

“Thank you!” You laughed, giving her arm a squeeze. “I’m in for a few movies so I’m sure we’ll be in one together.”

“Fuck, I hope so,” she said. “I should have held out until they started giving women the leads in this shit. I’m a glorified sidekick and the team is all guys. I love them, don’t get me wrong, but damn the set needs some estrogen.”

“Chloe!” Someone yelled for her from further up the carpet.

“One sec!” She yelled back before turning back to you. “Ugh, back to the office, I guess. See you at the afterparty? You can tell me about whoever this is?”

She looked Joel up and down, a suggestive look on her face.

“OK go take photos with your husband,” you shoved her playfully and she laughed, giving you a wink before obeying.

You took Joel’s hand, the movement feeling oddly familiar and natural as you laced your fingers with his and led him to the row of photographers waiting for you.

“Now act like you like me,” you smiled at Joel, guiding his hand around your waist as you posed beside him, angling your body for the different cameras. He was stiff against you, like he was trying to hold himself away from you as much as he could and you tried to not let that sting.

“Some of just you, beautiful!” A photographer yelled and you laughed and gave Joel a squeeze before stepping away, posing so they could capture you from the front, back, side. It was second nature to you now, how to best position your body to make it as appealing as possible, always holding yourself in a way that wasn’t necessarily comfortable but made people want you. That was your job, be the object of desire, and you tried not to think too hard about that fact when you caught a glimpse of Joel’s face as he watched you smile coyly over your shoulder for photographers.

You took his hand again as you made your way to interviews, stopping to talk to reporters and say over and over again just how excited you were to play Starlight.

“How many more of these you got?” Joel asked, his lips at your ear and his body so close to yours you couldn’t help but be aware of every inch of him. You shook yourself mentally and looked down the row of waiting reporters.

“I think three more outlets,” you said, pulling away from him just enough to look him in the eye. “Why, getting antsy there, Big Miller?”

“Don’t know how you do this all the time,” he muttered. “Shit is exhausting. And I’m not even the one doing the talkin’.”

You laughed a little and led him down the line, stopping at the next reporter, one you’d talked to a few times before and had always liked.

“Oh hi!” You hugged her and kissed her on both cheeks when she greeted you. “Oh my gosh, I haven’t seen you in a while! Did you have your baby?”

“I did!” She smiled. “About five months ago.”

“Congratulations! Tell me about her!” You said. “They’re a girl, right? Can I see pictures?”

She smiled and showed you pictures of her baby, a tiny thing with chubby cheeks and soft, dark curls and you fawned over her.

“It’s actually very convenient that you made me get my phone out,” she said after a minute. “Because I wanted to get some reactions to tweets that fans have posted about you. Just a fun little game to mix it up a little.”

“Oh alright,” you smiled conspiratorially. “Lay it on me, mama.”

“I’ll give you the phone so you can see the tweet,” she said, pulling it up. “You read it and tell us your thoughts!”

She passed you her phone, a screenshot of a tweet pulled up.

“Alright,” you said, laughing a little as you read it. “This one says ‘Now that we know who Starlight is, I’m going to need her step on me while blowing some bad guy away.’ Well… TitsMcGee23 - great handle, by the way - that sounds structurally unstable but if I ever need a riser on set, I will slide into your DMs.”

The reporter laughed and you handed her the phone back. She pulled up the next one and returned it.

“Oh, this is… something,” you laughed. “‘Dear Starlight: Choke me, Mommy.’ Well, I sure hope I’m not old enough to be your mother if you’re posting that and I don’t think choking is really my thing but you know what? I could be convinced, you sound fun.”

She had a few more tweets like that to read and you played along before moving on to the next reporter, who asked who you were wearing and then honed in on Joel.

“And who is this gentleman?” She said, looking Joel up and down. “Is he someone we should be watching out for in your next film?”

You looked over your shoulder to Joel whose eyes had gone wide in panic

“Um,” he said, looking quickly to you and you stifled a laugh.

“This is my friend,” you said, looping your arm around his back, hoping it came off as familiar and friendly. “He was kind enough to make sure I had someone to lean on while walking the carpet in these heels!”

You stuck your leg out through the thigh high slit in your gown, turning your ankle and showing off the stilettos Frank had put you in.

“Just a friend though?” The reporter asked, raising her eyebrows suggestively. “No new romance for Hollywood’s hottest bachelorette?”

“Afraid not,” you scrunched your nose. “For now I’m flying solo and spending as much time as I can with my niece. But if that changes, you’ll be the first to know.”

You made your way inside and settled in with Joel at the back of the theater so the stars of this movie could comfortably take center stage, him shifting uncomfortably in his seat and adjusting his suit.

“Doing OK there Big Miller?” You teased.

“That was fuckin’ surreal,” he muttered. “That’s really what it’s like for you all the time? Strangers asking about your personal life and making you read what people post about you online and wanting you to tell them the same thing over and over?”

“Pretty much,” you laughed a little. “I keep telling people that being a movie star is not all it’s cracked up to be but no one believes me.”

“Jesus,” Joel muttered.

“It has its perks though,” you smiled, nodding to the screen as the director got up to introduce the film. “Get to see the biggest movies early. And, you know, there’s the whole getting to make art for a living and do what I really love.”

Joel looked at you for a moment, considering you as the lights dimmed.

“You really do love it don’t you,” he said. “The acting part.”

“Yeah,” you smiled a little. “I do.”

When the movie ended, you and Joel went to a lounge the studio had rented out for the afterparty, the whole place decked out with Scarlet Sentinel colors and logos, music thumping in the background and servers roaming with trays of hors d'oeuvres and themed cocktails.

“We gotta go over the rules?” He asked, keeping you at his side near the door.

“I can go wherever I want whenever I want and definitely be out of your line of sight at all times?” You asked brows raised. He glared and you laughed. “I’m not going to try and ditch you, don��t worry. I’ll stay nice and close.”

“Gotta figure out how to make you behave like this all the time,” he muttered and the two of you worked your way into the party.

It was surprisingly easy, hanging out with Joel and catching up with people. Chloe came back over to say hi and so you could fill her in on the situation with Joel - dragging her husband along behind her - and Bryant, a guy you did a movie with in your early 20s and hooked up with a few times in the fall out after Henry noticed you, smiling when he did.

“I didn’t know you were going to be here!” He said, coming up and kissing you hello. “How have you been, it’s been ages!”

“I’ve been a little busy,” you laughed, giving him a squeeze, Joel’s hand still firmly on your back. “So have you though, congratulations on the Tony!”

“Thank you, thank you,” he said, stepping back and looking you up and down. “Fuck, you look good.”

“Thank you,” you smirked. “I’m going to be every teenaged boy’s wet dream now, haven’t you heard?”

“Please, you’ve been that for teenaged boys for years,” he said and you laughed. “C’mon, let’s dance.”

You scrunched your nose and went to turn him down but he cut you off.

“Old time’s sake,” he said. “I’ll only try to get you back in bed for the first minute. Promise.”

You groaned and then looked over to Joel who looked none too happy about the proposition.

“I won’t go far,” you said. “Promise.”

He quirked his jaw.

“This side of the dance floor,” he said.

“Thank you,” you said, giving him a squeeze as you let Bryant lead you onto the dance floor.

“So,” he said. “What are the chances of you going home with me tonight instead of the giant asshole who is staring at me like he’s about to knife me?”

“Slim,” you said. “But, if it makes you feel better, I will leave with him but only because he’s my bodyguard.”

“That does help,” he said. “But bodyguard? That’s new for you.”

“Just some extra concerns for a little while,” you said. “I have a fan that’s been getting a little aggressive and there was that thing at the premiere a few months ago…”

“I heard about that,” he flinched. “Doing better now?”

“Yeah,” you waved him off. “Honestly, I don’t think it’s as much of a thing as everyone else seems to think it is.”

“Well if Rambo over there is keeping you safe?” He said. “I like him a little more. Though I think he could keep you just as safe by standing outside my bedroom door while I put your ankles by your ears as he could standing outside your room.”

You laughed.

“Bold of you to assume my legs can still bend that way,” you said. “I’m not 23 anymore.”

“Oh I saw that convention footage,” he teased. “I’m pretty sure you could do whatever you wanted to with those legs. But I promised no trying to get you back in my bed after the first minute on the dance floor so I will stop that as of… you’re sure you don’t want to fuck me?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Stopping now,” he smiled.

Bryant was true to his word and, when the song ended, you were true to yours, making your way back to Joel as he practically glared a hole into the side of his head.

“See?” You said, standing next to Joel. “All in one piece.”

“Don’t wanna keep you from your boyfriend,” he muttered, crossing his arms and you laughed.

“Not a boyfriend, don’t worry,” you said. “And I’m not going to argue with an excuse to not go home with him, he’s actually not that great in bed.”

Joel snorted at that and you got another cocktail from a passing server.

“Hey,” Chloe came up behind you, looping her arm around your waist. “I have to pee and this dress is a nightmare, can you help me?”

“I dunno,” you looked at Joel, brows raised. “Am I allowed to go to the bathroom?”

“If I stay outside the bathroom door and you don’t try to sneak past me?” Joel said. “Yes.”

“So demanding,” you sighed dramatically, making Joel roll his eyes as you headed off, feeling his gaze heavy on your back as you went.

But when you made inside the bathroom, you couldn’t help but laugh, the sound almost maniacal, and Chloe frowned.

“What?” She asked.

“There are two entrances,” you nodded to the other one. “All that bluster and he wouldn’t even notice if we went out the other door. Should we fuck with Joel and go out the other side, meet him out there?”

“I think you’d give him a heart attack,” she giggled. “Come on, I have to piss like a race horse.”

You went into the stall with her, helping her hold her gown up and then traded, her doing the same for you before you went to wash your hands.

“Come on,” you said, your head swimming from the alcohol and a lightness filling you. “Let’s go out the other door, it would be hilarious.”

“He seems scary,” Chloe scrunched her nose. “Do you really want to poke the bear?”

“Poking the bear is the only fun to be had when you’ve got six and a half feet of muscle following you around all the time,” you replied, drying your hands before straightening your gown. “Come on, you know you want to.”

“Fine,” she sighed dramatically. “Let’s do it.”

You giggled, wondering if this was how kids in school felt when they played a prank, looping your arm through hers and heading for the other door when you bumped into someone on their way into the bathroom, one of the servers in a black white button down and bow tie.

“Sorry!” You laughed quickly, stepping back, and then realizing that the man was familiar. Not because you’d taken a cocktail from him or grabbed an hors d'oeuvres from his tray. No, you knew his face from another time, from a moment of pain and fear that had stayed planted firmly in your mind in the weeks since it had happened. The wrist that had been in a cast throbbed. You wanted to run but you couldn’t seem to make yourself move, your feet frozen to the earth.

Chloe went to duck around him, trying to pull you with her, but he cut both of you off and your hold on her tightened.

“Excuse us,” she said, no sense of wrongness in her voice. She didn’t know and you couldn’t seem to make your mouth move to tell her. “We’re just headed out.”

“No, you’re not,” he said, lifting his arm, a butcher knife in his grip, and he pressed the blade to your chest.

***

Joel didn’t like any of this.

He didn’t like the way everyone on the damn red carpet - from the people directing you from place to place to the fans to the reporters - seemed to want a piece of you. He didn’t like how you had to laugh at strangers saying crazy shit about how they wanted to fuck you because you were on camera. He didn’t like how packed it was in here and he didn’t like that the volume of the music made it hard to hear jack shit and that the low lights made it hard to see. He didn’t like the way that fucking guy had just come up and kissed you and cracked jokes about getting you into his bed, jealousy twisting hot and sharp in his stomach when he watched that man’s hands on you.

He really didn’t like that you were out of sight right now, in the bathroom with your friend. Yeah, he could make sure no one else went in there and he doubted even you could find much trouble in a bathroom but still. There were so many people here, so many variables, and he couldn’t see you or feel you or hear you. You were outside the realm of his control and he didn’t like it, not at all.

His chest got tighter and he looked at his watch, the one you’d given him, his usual timepiece on the nightstand in his room at the hotel. He’d told himself that he did it to blend in - this fancy fucking suit needed a fancy fucking watch - but he knew that was bullshit as he put it on, his thumb tracing the engraving on the back as he slipped it on his wrist. He put it on because he wanted to look like he belonged with you, even if it was just for a night. He put it on because he wanted to have something that came from you touching him. And then he saw how your face lit up when you noticed it, your genuine happiness at him using something you’d given him, and he had a hard time remembering why he’d avoided it for so long. Why would he ever do anything to keep you from smiling like that? He wasn’t sure.

He’d checked the time when you went into the bathroom, too, and you’d been in the bathroom for what seemed like a while. Yeah, you’d be navigating that fancy dress - the one that damn near sent him into shock when he saw it, the perfect way it framed your shape and accentuated your breasts and exposed your thigh - but still. Something felt off.

He was just about to slip into the bathroom to check on you, propriety be damned, when Chloe stumbled out, tears streaming down her face, slamming into him.

He caught her, quickly looking her up and down, his heart pounding as he desperately searched for some sign of her panic, something besides you being hurt and just out of reach. It had to be something else, it couldn’t be you, it couldn’t.

“You have to help her!” She sobbed before he had the chance to ask where you were, her fingers twisting in the sleeves of his jacket as she clung to him. “He has a knife, he’s got her, you have to help her, please!”

Joel’s heart stuttered and he shoved past your friend and ran headlong into the bathroom, drawing the gun that was strapped to his side as he went.

You were nowhere to be found but he figured out why quickly: there was another fucking way out. He ran for it, keeping his gun low. The other entrance went to a long hall, one end emptying back out into the lounge, the other toward the kitchen. He was trying to take a guess on where to go when a cook came running out from the kitchen, a panicked look on his face, another cook close behind.

“Fuck!” Joel swore, running for the kitchens as more people started pouring out, forcing him to go against the flow of servers and chefs as they made a run for it. He could hear the chaos in the main part of the building, the music cutting out and someone - not you - screaming.

He kept going.

He pushed himself to keep moving even though it felt as though something was choking him, his heart racing, his chest tight because he had to reach you, he had to, until he was behind the building and you were there, straining to not get in the back of a car, a knife held to your throat by a man who - even in the dim glow of the street light - Joel recognized. It was the man from the premiere, the one who had broken your wrist weeks ago. Your body was held tight to his, your hands wrapped almost gently around his arm, trying to keep the knife away from your skin.

Time froze, the whole of the world honing in on this one, fine point. The blade on your skin, the panic on your face, his arm around you. Your life was in this man’s hands and he could take it. Joel was inches away from seeing your blood spill all over that sparkling dress because - for all your ethereal beauty and inhuman perfection - you were just a mortal thing, the same animal he was on the inside. This man could destroy you as easily as anyone else and Joel could feel the pull of that possibility there, this terrifying and haunting potential future on the horizon. It was like he was seeing the car in the road again, smelling the gasoline, feeling the blood on his skin. There would be nothing he could do for you if this man decided to end you, nothing he could do for himself.

He wasn’t going to let that happen. He was not going to hold your body, too.

The world righted itself, time moving again. He ignored the tightness in his chest, raising his gun.

“I’m not going to hurt you!” The man pleaded with you, breathless. You were between Joel and him, he couldn’t get a clean shot. “Just listen to me! Just come with me, it’ll be OK, I won’t hurt you I promise I won’t hurt you, I…”

“Stop!” Joel said, gun up and trained on the man. He looked away from you to Joel, adjusting you ever so slightly so you were even more of a human shield. “Let her go! Now!”

“Joel,” you said it so quietly he almost didn’t hear it. Your face was streaked with makeup and tears and you looked afraid, so afraid. He was close enough now that he could see you shaking in the man’s arms. “Please.”

“Let her go!” Joel yelled again, moving closer. The man pressed the knife to your throat and Joel froze, your eyes closing, lower lip trembling. “Right the fuck now!”

“You took her from me before,” the man snarled, voice shaky. “I’m not letting you take her again! I just want to love her, that’s it! But you won’t let me!”

“We can work something out,” you said, your voice thick. “Please, just…”

“You don’t understand!” He yelled, spittle flying from his mouth. But he was more focused on you for a moment and Joel took advantage of his distraction to press closer. “I’m what you need! You wouldn’t be fighting me if you just understood! I’ve seen it, you need me, I’m just trying to take care of you, you don’t understand!”

The man looked to Joel again and he stopped, gun still up.

“Stop trying to take her from me!” He shrieked and you flinched. The knife had moved from your throat but was against your chest now, the metal pressing into the skin below your throat and the exposed swell of your breast but not drawing blood. “She needs me! If you cared about her, you’d let her go with me!”

Joel was close and he was a damn good shot but the only part of this man he could reliably hit was his head and that was right by yours. Even if he hit him dead on, at this range, there was a chance the bullet would go through his head and into yours.

“Alright!” Joel said, thinking quickly. “Alright. I’m gonna lower my gun, need you to keep the knife where I can see it.”

“Joel!” You cried, eyes wide and pleading.

“S’OK baby,” he said, putting the gun down slowly. “It’s gonna be OK. He’s not gonna hurt you, it’s gonna be OK.” He turned his attention back to the man. “Keep your eyes on me. I’m lowering the gun.”

He nodded quickly, watching Joel, and he lowered his weapon slowly, aiming it just off to the side as he did. But instead of putting the gun on the ground, Joel shot, aiming for the tire of the car and hitting it.

Things moved quickly then. Joel dropped the gun and ran for you. The man jumped in shock at the gun shot and then tried to get a better grip on you but Joel reached him before he did, ripping you away from him, you collapsing to the pavement as Joel threw the man to the ground.

He tackled him then, the man swinging the knife uselessly at Joel but he was easily able to knock it away, pinning the man below him and then punching him across the face.

Joel had only intended to hit him to knock him out, just enough to protect you, but once he started, he couldn’t seem to stop, the man screaming and writhing below him. Joel hit him again and again, the man’s hands scrambling against his chest, trying to shove him away but Joel was bigger, stronger and lost in the satisfaction of destroying him.

Because it was satisfying. This man had tried to take you, hurt you, kill you. He’d tried to make Joel have to hold your broken body as you bled out in his arms, just like he had five years earlier, he’d tried to take one of the only things left in this world that mattered and destroy it simply because he could and Joel could make him pay. He’d never been able to get justice from his daughter’s killer but he could get justice from this man. He could make sure this man never, ever hurt you again.

He hit him again and again and again until his fist and jacket sleeves and the face of the watch you’d given him were bloodied and the man below him stopped shoving at Joel, his body going limp. His chest wasn’t moving.

Joel finally stopped punching him then, his knuckles ruined, and he panted for breath, looking down at what remained of the man. Because he wasn’t a man anymore, he was a body. He was dead. The man was dead and Joel had killed him and he knew that something in him should feel bad about that but he couldn’t. All he could feel was this righteous satisfaction that he’d kept you safe. This was what he was supposed to do, what he was built to do. He was supposed to protect you - even if it killed him he was supposed to protect you - and he had.

He went to make sure the knife was out of the man’s reach - just in case he was wrong about the fact that he was dead - and it was. But it was also bloody and it was too far away for that blood to be from Joel’s assault.

“No,” he breathed, looking, frantic, for you.

He found you quickly, lying flat on your back, your eyes wide and afraid. You were shaking and there was blood at your chest, enough that it had smeared on your skin and turned some of the silver beads of your gown red.

“No, no, no,” he scrambled for you and those wide, terrified eyes found his. “No, you’re OK baby, you’re OK.”

He looked you over quickly, his hands ranging over your body, taking stock, and he realized that he wasn’t going to have to hold your body, too. The man had cut you but it wasn’t deep and gaping. It wasn’t like her. You were hurt but you would be OK and he took a deep, centering breath. You were going to live. He wasn’t going to need to find a way to survive a world without you in it, you were going to live.

His hands were cautious on you then, gentle, as he tried to pull you into his arms but you threw your arms around his neck, practically clawing up his body until you were pressed tightly to him. Your whole body shook and you sobbed, heavy and racking as you gulped frantic breaths against him.

“Joel,” your voice was muffled by his shirt and he could feel the wet of your blood and tears on him. “He… he was going…”

“I know,” he said softly, clutching you against him and rocking you gently. He could barely breathe. There were sirens in the distance. You were alive. You weren’t dying in his arms, he wasn’t going to have to put you in the ground, you were alive. You were alive. He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head.

“Please don’t leave me,” you clung to him. “Please don’t go, please don’t leave me, please.”

He held you closer, tighter.

“Not going anywhere,” he whispered. “I’ve got you baby. You’re OK. I’ll keep you safe. I’ll protect you. You’re safe. I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you.”

Next Chapter

A/N: OH THEY'RE IN IT NOWWWWWWW

I'm so excited for the next chapter you guys. So excited. So so so so so so SO excited.

I've only been picturing it since I first came up with this fic, nothing crazy at all, nope, not squealing and kicking my lil feelies one bit.

Thank you so much for reading! I really hope you've enjoyed the journey these characters have been on together and I hope you enjoy where they're going next, too!

Love you!!

Taglist: @christinamadsen@eff4freddie@brittmb115@copperhalfcent@r3dheadedwitch@pedropascalsbbg@lovelyjess69@yopossum@moel-jiller@picketniffler@lilyevanstan1325@reluctanthalfwayoptimism@wintersquirrel@missladym1981@mellymbee @canthinkof1user @inept-the-magnificent@secretlyangelic@pedrobae@scarletsloveletter@phry-k@sunnytuliptime

#fanfic #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #bodyguard!joel #bodyguard au #tsats #the savage and the sanctuary #joel miller x female oc

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