#weekly soup rating | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

babeyun · 3 months ago

Text

out of my head ✮ l.hs [m]

✮ synopsis: years after your friendship with heeseung has begun crumbling, you ask him to be part of one of the biggest days of your life - your wedding day.

✮ genre: estranged best friends to ??? ; semi-unrequited lovers au ; angst ; fluff

✮ pairing: singer!lee heeseung x financial advisor!fem!reader ; sim jaeyun x reader

✮ word count: 10.4k (yikes...)

✮ rating: nc-17.

✮ warning(s): ...kissing? lol? a lot of hurt with no comfort, semi-unrequited lovers, wedding superstitions, mentions of having kids.

✮ playlist: off my face - justin bieber ; are we still friends? - tyler, the creator ; your eyes only - enhypen ; this is why i need you - jesse ruben.

✮ a/n: i'm a yapper sorry, but happiest birthday to heeseung <3 that's my pookie! i love u.

four months ago.

"you're getting married?"

you and heeseung had been best friends for nearly twenty years. the two of you met at a park during a winter storm, both of you having begged your mothers for a chance to go see the snow. a coincidence really, the two of you having somehow lived the same experience (one that heeseung was convinced was fate, while you just boiled it down to two four-year-old kids giving into the natural urge to plunge their grubby little fingers into cold, unforgiving snow.)

however, in the last few years, you'd grown apart.

you were freshly out of university, and heeseung had recently taken a job as a backup vocalist for one of the local entertainment companies. he'd been a singer his entire life, something you never allowed yourself to pick up because your mother had always taught you that safety nets were better. while heeseung openly explored his talents, eventually learning guitar and slowly, piano - you buried yourself in mathematical equations that made your brain hurt but forced yourself through it all because, after all, you needed a plan.

heeseung lived life on the edge. he didn't care if he had money, if he had belongings - life was more than that to him. he ventured out into the city with nothing but his headphones sometimes, not even so much as bothering to bring an umbrella if it looked like rain. "if i get soaked, i get soaked! life is more than staying inside with your head heavy from studying." he told you once, and you had just shaken your head.

"come on, y/n! don't you want to dance in the rain? don't you want to risk getting sick and having your mom make you that soup you really like? live a little, life is too short to waste away in our bedrooms." he tugged you out of your house that day, making you leave your phone behind as you trekked the entire city by foot, and once the rain did start falling, you were a mile from your house. "heeseung, i can't get sick! i have a presentation–"

"screw that presentation! live in the now!" he held you close as the rain pelted your backs, spinning you around as your laughter echoed in the neighborhood. "isn't this fun! aren't you enjoying this newfound freedom, no expectations? no logarithms, no polynomials!" he exclaimed, making you only laugh harder. "hee, i'm a finance major. that is fun for me!"

"and i'm a y/n major, i know you fucking hate math!" he giggled as he set you down, his fingers brushing your wet hair off your face. "i don't have things like you do, hee! i need a plan, i need something to fall back on. you work to make money to invest into yourself, you don't follow dreams!" you say as the two of you make the route back to your house, making him scoff.

"are you saying i'm wasting my time living the way i do?" he asked, a twang of hurt in his voice going unnoticed by you as you nodded. "i do. i think you are wasting your potential." your words pierced him, but he said nothing more as the two of you reached your mom's house. "see you later, hee."

"see you later."

that had happened three years ago. heeseung noticeably distanced himself after that day, limiting your hangouts to once a week instead of dropping by whenever he felt like it. soon, what were weekly hangouts became biweekly, before you were only meeting him for dinner on a random wednesday night in the middle of the month. you never asked so he never explained, and he simply assumed your silence on the subject meant that your puzzle of a life no longer had a need for a lee heeseung-shaped piece.

it pained him to think that you were outgrowing him.

heeseung was taking classes while working, having finally let your words get to him. you were right, in a way - he couldn't live his life on the edge forever, but the fact that you actually said that to him after constantly reassuring him that you believed in him was...unexpected, to say the least.

"she's just worried about you, hee." his older brother rattled, and heeseung shook his head. he had long told him about that day, and continued to try and decipher it for the years after. he didn’t really understand why it bothered him so much, but his only guess was the same — you had pretended to have an interest in his life, but yet, just like everyone else…

…you had no faith in him.

“yes, hee, i’m getting married! focus!” you tapped your pen on the notepad in front of you, the ice in your matcha long melted. heeseung was gripping his mug of hot chocolate for dear life, wondering where he missed the fact that you were even in a relationship to begin with. “i didn’t even know you had a boyfriend, forgive me for being curious.” he scoffs, making you roll your eyes.

“you would know if you answered any of my calls.” you say pointedly, making him groan. “okay, sorry i’ve been so absent from your life. what’s this guy’s name anyway?”

“sim jaeyun. you can call him jake.” you scribble something onto the notepad, before tearing it off and handing it to him. “this is his number, you’re going to have to talk to him at some point for what i’m about to ask you.”

your smile is mischievous, one that heeseung could never forget. it was engraved in his memory, it lit up his dreams and haunted his nightmares. the same smile he’s written endless lyrics about, the same smile he’s fallen in love with but refused to admit it.

“y/n, i haven’t seen you in six months. how can someone possibly gauge if a person is marriage material in such a short time?” he argues as he folds the scrap of yellow paper. you huff with a frustrated look on your face, “jaeyun and i have been seeing each other for a year! we made it official nine months ago, and we’ve been engaged for three months! i told you this already!”

“when the fuck did you even mention him!?” he groans, and you click your pen angrily.

"hee, if you hadn't been so focused on your own life, you'd be up to date with mine." grimacing, you reach into the knapsack you brought with you. pulling out a pink binder, you set it on the table, facing him. the paper sheet behind the vinyl reads the sims - may 2026.

he snorts inwardly, before you open the binder. "i know we haven't been as close as we'd like the past few years." you start, clearing your throat as he glances at you. you pull apart the binder rings, pulling out a folder as you continue to speak. "but, i know that you're still doing the singing thing, and i wanted to offer you a gig."

sliding the folder across to him, he glances down at it. it's thick with pieces of printer paper, lyrics typed neatly in times new roman. he recognizes the first song as he slips it out of the folder, his eyes scanning the sheet over and over.

"you want me to sing at your wedding?" he asks incredulously, and you take a sip of your watered down matcha. you press your lips together as you nod, staring at your fingers. "i showed jaeyun some clips of yours from a few of your other gigs, and he really liked it. this is our song, and we want you to sing it for our first dance." you tap the paper with your pen, and heeseung sighs.

"then why are we here alone? why isn't he here, showing face and asking me with you?" he accuses, and your frown is deep enough that he's sure you're about to throw your drink at him. "he's at work, if you must know. he's busy."

"and what does he work in that he can't come with his future wife to a measly two-hour lunch?" he taps his finger on the table, his eyes boring into yours, searching for any sign of the best friend he'd become estranged from. you weren't there.

"he's..." you bite your lip, staring at whatever was behind him in order not to meet his eyes. he looks at you pointedly, brows raised in expectation - a look he'd always hated from other people. you grimace before responding. "he's a singer, he's recording his album right now." heeseung blinks slowly, something you knew meant he was about to either get up and leave, or he was going to scold you once he processed the information. your best friend was nothing short of an open book, but as he looked down at the sheet in his hand and shook his head, you suddenly couldn't read him anymore.

"after all the shit you gave me." his tongue drips with poison before he shoves the sheet of paper back in the folder, tapping it with his hand before grimacing. "when is the wedding? do i have to be there for the whole thing?" his eyes are full of fire as he stares at you, and you can feel yourself shrink under his gaze. heeseung was rarely ever mad at you, even during these years of estrangement. you were never really on the receiving end of his anger, so you never handled it. "may second. you don't have to stay, if you don't want to. but i'd love for you to be there." your words are softer than you intended, and you can really feel the tug on the invisible string that ties the two of you together.

he nods, pressing his lips together as you watch his eyes brim with tears. "okay." he looks away as the first tear falls, wiping it away quickly before getting up. "just…send me the address when the time comes." he tucks the folder under his arm as he quickly walks away, trying not to let any more tears fall as he exits the cafe.

he can't help but hold everything in as he walks to his apartment, his mind spinning with potential thoughts. when did you get so far? how did he let you stray so deeply, and where did you even meet this guy? why didn't you tell him sooner? or did you, and he just blocked it out? he can't remember, no matter how hard he skims his memory. "fuck!" he screams as he slams his door shut, throwing the folder onto the table in the foyer.

he slides down the door, a sinking feeling taking over his stomach as he hits the cold tile. he can't help but sob into his hands, his shoulders shaking violently as he does. you're getting married and he missed the entire thing, he's missed the past year of your life and has no remorse in doing so. he only feels sorry now, now that he's realized he's too late.

april 30.

heeseung was increasingly stressed.

you had told him over text (because he wouldn't answer your calls) that he had to take the week off so he could participate in bonding activities with your fiancé's groomsmen. he'd been reluctant, and said he'd get there the thursday before the wedding, nothing sooner – making you upset. he didn't care, he wouldn't lie to himself – he felt betrayed that you were getting married to someone else. it was childish of him and he knew it, but as he aimlessly wandered jeju island alone – it only sank deeper into his bones that he had truly fucked up.

he didn't bother to bond with any of your bridesmaids, either – despite their starry eyes and warm smiles, he could only see the dread in your eyes, the twitch in your lower lip as you greeted your guests with your fiancé. he kept his hand on your lower back at all times, and heeseung wonders if jake knows that he did that in the past. heeseung wonders if jake knows that he held your hand as you both skipped through the sand on family vacations with your families, heeseung wonders if jake knows that he shared a bed with you on nights where thunderstorms would scare you out of your sleep and heeseung would run the three blocks to your house to comfort you.

heeseung wonders if jake knows that he was your first kiss, in the back of heeseung's '96 civic when you were both juniors in high school. heeseung wonders if jake knows that he is in love with you, and that he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to stop.

not that jake knowing any of this would matter, because come saturday night, you'd be out of his grasp forever. he would never place his hand on the small of your back to ease your nerves, he would never hold your hand, he would never share a bed with you. he would never kiss you again, and he'd rather never see you again if it were up to him.

but it wasn't, was it? "heeseung! you made it!"

heeseung turns to see park sunghoon walking towards him with his hand shielding his eyes from the sun. "oh shit, hey! i didn't think you and y/n kept in touch after high school, it's great to see you." heeseung greets him, and sunghoon snorts.

"we didn't, actually. jaeyun and i go way back." sunghoon nods. sunghoon had been a friend of the two of you, but it was hard to keep in touch due to his prominent ice skating career. he was always busy, and it was easier to cut ropes than continuously make promises to see each other only to fall short.

"i'm sorry i didn't reach out more." heeseung starts, but sunghoon shakes his head. "don't even worry about it! my life was too crazy to keep tabs on everybody." sunghoon shakes his head, and heeseung tilts his head at him. "was?" sunghoon shifts in the sand, picking his cuticles as he sighs. "i had to quit, i got injured pretty badly during the finale of my last competition. i won, though, so at least i went out with a bang." he shrugs, and heeseung can see the disappointment in his eyes before offering a hug. "i'm sorry, hoon. that really fucking sucks."

sunghoon rejects the hug with a shake of his head. "it's fine, i'm doing other things now. i work as a backup vocalist for jake, me and jay. oh, jay's here, too! have you seen him?" sunghoon gestures to the air, and heeseung offers a small smile before shaking his head. "haven't seen him yet. to be honest, i don't want to be here." heeseung's confession, if surprising, doesn't seem to faze sunghoon. instead, the younger boy nods. "i figured you wouldn't. you're singing for them, right? i heard through the grapevine." sunghoon smirks, and heeseung rolls his eyes before lightly punching his arm. "stop lying, you brat. you read it on the wedding program."

sunghoon gives him a soft pat on the back, before leaning closer. "she wasn't going to wait forever, heeseung." with a curt nod, sunghoon continues down the beach towards the resort, leaving heeseung with wide eyes and a heavy heart. what did he mean by that?

🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊

the night was heavy as the last of your guests straggled in, and your feet were swelling in your shoes from standing for so long. jake had offered to take over as you went up to your room to change them, and you were internally thanking him as you hobbled to the elevator.

only for you to arrive and see your best friend waiting there calmly, headphones over his ears as he softly nods along to whatever is playing. he looks up when the elevator finally opens, completely oblivious to your lingering presence behind him. it's only when you get in after him, feeling the shift of the elevator's floor, that he looks at you.

his eyes are unreadable as he skims them over your face, a soft tilt to his head before he presses button six, hand hovering over the button as he waits for you to speak. you put up five fingers, and he presses it carefully as the doors close. it's silent, and for the first time ever since you were four years old, heeseung feels like a stranger. a polite stranger that presses the elevator button for you, that has come all the way from seoul on a ferry to sing at his estranged best friend's wedding.

except he's not a stranger, and you're the estranged best friend getting married this weekend. you're the estranged best friend who lied about your fiancé being excited for him to sing your first dance song, and you're the estranged best friend who wants it to hurt him. you want it to hurt, seeing you dance with your soon-to-be husband all night, you want it to burn in his chest when the two of you kiss at the end of the aisle.

you want him to ache as badly as you did when he basically abandoned you for no good reason. you want him to stay up all night in tears like you did when he wouldn't answer your calls, you want him to rant passionately about you to whoever gets the privilege of being his girlfriend like you did to jake when the two of you first started dating, and you want him to ignore the questions of if you're in love with each other.

just like you did.

loving heeseung was a thing of the past. he was out of your heart and out of your head, for the most part. you only ever thought of him when you'd talk to jake about old high school stories, skipping over the parts where you and heeseung shared loving caresses that the two of you convinced yourselves were nothing more than platonic. it didn't matter now, though, because there was no piece shaped like you in heeseung's puzzling life anymore.

you love jake. he's your endgame, and you're glad to be marrying him.

"are you excited? big day soon." he says gently, and you can feel your stomach turn as he nudges you with his elbow. you nod, a small smile on your lips as you glance down at your engagement ring. jake had it custom made, a marquise diamond nestled onto a thick gold band. it was a little tight, but you promised yourself you'd get it resized after the wedding.

"very excited. are you nervous? about your performance, i mean?" you ask, genuine concern in your voice as he shakes his head. "just another gig, really. it's special to you, though, so i've been putting my all into the rehearsals." he itches his neck, a nervous tick you'd picked up on through the years. you nod, patting his shoulder gently. the conversation stops as the elevator does, the number five on the elevator's neon sign.

"my stop. i'll see you at the rehearsal dinner tomorrow, right? you need to be there." your eyes are pleading, and heeseung can't help but sigh. "i'll try."

the answer doesn't seem to satisfy you, but you nod anyway, turning on your heels to go to your room. the doors close, and he lets out a shaky breath. you're very excited to marry sim jaeyun in less than thirty-six hours. you're very excited to be mrs. sim, you're very excited to have your first dance with your husband to the sound of your best friend's voice singing the song that reminds you and jake of your relationship.

a song that insinuates the two of you are unbelievably high off each other in every which way, and how ruined one of you has made the other for anybody else. but this song doesn't take into consideration how he is ruined for anyone else, how he is in pieces at the mere thought of you wearing white while meeting someone else down the aisle.

he doesn't want to feel like that anymore.

may 01.

"hey! you must be heeseung, i've been waiting forever to meet you!"

heeseung doesn't recognize the voice as he turns, eyes swollen with sleep when he looks to see you, and who he presumes to be sim jaeyun. he nods absently, before glancing at his cup of hot water. he'd stumbled down to the hotel's complimentary lounge, a packet of fennel mint tea in his hand.

"give me a moment, i'm sorry. i'm barely here." he apologizes sheepishly, tearing the bag open and dipping the bag into the cup. he wipes at his eyes once more, before turning to face a smiling jake. "you're jaeyun, right? nice to finally meet you man, y/n has said some awesome things about you."

lies. heeseung doesn't remember a single thing you have ever said about jake, just that he's a singer. but out of courtesy, and jake's business-like grip on his hand, he smiles through it anyway. "i heard that you asked for me specifically. your wedding song is beautiful." heeseung sees you wince out of the corner of his eye as jake looks a bit taken aback. he tilts his head slightly, but goes along with what heeseung now knows is a lie. "i'm glad you could make it. y/n talks a lot about your singing skills, are you working on any projects right now?" your face is pained as heeseung looks you dead in the eyes, "no, i'm just a backup vocalist. i gave up on that dream a while ago." he looks back at jake, who has a sad smile on his face. "the fame, the money…i was never suited for that life, anyway." "i'm sorry to hear that things didn't work out for you." jake sounds genuine, a flash of sadness in his eyes as he shakes heeseung's hand again. "i hope to see you at the rehearsal tonight. have you got a girlfriend? there'll be quite a few people at our singles' table." jake wiggles his brows and heeseung wonders when you're going to speak.

"actually, heeseung won't be able to stay. he's got another gig on sunday." you lie, and jake's eyes widen. "oh, you'll be missing our reception?" "i'll be leaving right after your dance, i do sincerely apologize." heeseung gives jake a sheepish grin, to which jake nods slowly. "that's unfortunate, there's a lot of people you could network with here! take advantage of it, dreams are meant to become reality." jake finalizes, before giving heeseung another warm smile.

"i will do my best! thank you for having me." heeseung says, and you can feel the fake tone of happiness in his voice seep into your bones. you'd been the only person to ever recognize it, and heeseung knows you're aware he used it as he takes the tea bag out of his mug. "i will see you both tonight."

he spins on his heel as he hears jake whisper to you.

"you asked him to sing our song? when? why didn't you tell me?" "we can talk about this later, okay? he's really good, i promise."

🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊

your mother had been staring at heeseung for the last fifteen minutes, and heeseung was almost sure she was trying to figure out if he was who she thought he was. he gave her a small smile and waved, and the moment her eyes lit up, the person in front of her turned.

jake. he frowns as she walks away from him mid-conversation, stumbling over only moments before the rehearsal dinner is set to start.

"sorry, sweetie. i didn't know you and my y/n finally made up! it's so good to see you!" her embrace is crushing, and heeseung doesn't have the heart to tell your mother that you're a horrible liar. you hadn't 'made up' – he was simply doing you a favor, something else you'd lied about. he just smiles as she pulls back, ruffling his hair gently. "love the red, it really suits you." "thank you, auntie. it's nice to see you again." he remains relaxed as he sees her eyes soften. "what's wrong? not ready to see your little girl walk down the aisle?" he teases, and the older woman sighs inwardly. she turns, her shoulder brushing his as they stare into the room full of tipsy bridesmaids and boisterous groomsmen. "if i admit something to you, you'll keep it quiet, right?" she murmurs, and heeseung suddenly feels like this conversation isn't going to be one that favors his unruly feelings for you. "of course, auntie. who am i to tell?" "i always thought you'd be the one to marry my y/n." she sighs, clasping her hands in front of her as her eyes watch jake speaking to you gently as he hands you a glass of wine. heeseung's eyes follow hers and the two of them can see as your face falls and jake quickly moves to hide you from any lingering gazes. "i should go see what's wrong. it's nice to see you, heeseung. please enjoy the wedding!" he nods as your mother quickly crosses the room, her arm around you as jake gets pushed to entertain the guests while you get taken care of. jake looks nervous, and heeseung can't seem to stop his body as he also crosses the room, a small smile on his face. "good evening, jake." "oh, hey! how are you liking the venue so far?" a small flash of relief passes onto his face, and heeseung feels guilty as he shrugs. "it's what i expected for someone like y/n. so floral, so bright. are you sure you had any part in this?" he snickers, and jake laughs genuinely.

"she wouldn't let me even look at the flowers with her. babe, you're going to pick the wrong ones!" he imitates you, and heeseung shakes his head in amusement. you'd always been a bit of a control freak when it came to your visions, and now that your life revolved around financial decisions, you were wound up extra tight. "yeah, she's always been like that." he sighs, and jake doesn't miss the slight tone of sadness.

"listen, i don't know you very well," jake starts, reaching for a bottle of cabernet across the table. he grabs two glasses, uncorking the wine as he leans to pour. "but i want to say thank you." he holds the wine out to heeseung, and he tries not to look curious as he takes it.

"thank you for what?" heeseung asks, and jake gives him a pointed look as he blindly pours his own glass.

"for taking care of y/n all these years. i know you and i probably won't be the best of friends, i'm the first to admit that i'm not very good at sharing her attention." jake grimaces to himself as he replaces the cork into the bottle. "but i'm glad that she has someone as reliable as you, that can just… be there for her. it's a beautiful thing, your friendship."

heeseung almost feels nauseous as jake continues talking about how sweet your lifelong friendship with him seems. it just confirms that you told jake everything and anything you could about it, and based on his mention of jealousy, that includes the first kiss you shared. he can barely hear jake over the sound of his heart beating in his ears, but understands enough when jake pats his shoulder.

"...and i figured i'd be honest. y/n didn't say anything about you singing our song, we had originally planned for sunghoon to sing it with the band we hired. i guess she thought you'd be better for it, and i trust her judgment." jake says, pulling heeseung back in. "oh, i'm sorry." "don't even worry about it, man. hey, why don't you just relax, enjoy the dinner tonight. tomorrow is going to hit us like a fucking train, we should be well rested today." jake nods, and heeseung reciprocates with a gentle smile as someone else calls for jake's attention. "remember, just chill! network!" jake gestures to the room as he walks backwards towards the people looking for him.

heeseung can't shake the nausea from his throat, setting down the glass of wine to wander to the bathroom. but, the hall seems to get longer and longer, the temperature changing from the cold air conditioning to the humid spring air. he can feel a breeze in his hair, and then he realizes he's on the beach. his feet are buried in the warm sand, shoes in his hand.

sighing, he reminds himself he can't zone out like that all the time. it's not healthy, you had told him once. what if you end up in the middle of nowhere?

he reaches into his pocket, pulled out his spare headphones. he was supposed to bond with everyone at your stupid rehearsal dinner, but he didn't care to do so as he stared at the crashing waves. plugging the headphones into his phone, he gently speaks to siri as he lays on his back, looking up at the cloudless sky.

"hey, siri. play are we still friends? by tyler, the creator."

he stares into the water as the song pours into his ears. he doesn't know where things went to shit, but he knows it's his fault. he should've told you that what you said hurt his feelings. he should have communicated, then maybe it'd be him sitting next you in the private jet your mother rented solely for your honeymoon escape after the reception.

maybe it'd be him spinning you around in your beautiful wedding dress, and whispering sweet nothings in your ear as you dance the night away. maybe it would be him, like your mom had hoped. maybe it would be him, like he had hoped, too.

his fingers dig into the sand as he swallows the lump in his throat. there is nothing in hell, heaven or earth that would stop you from trekking the aisle tomorrow afternoon. nothing would stop jake from kissing you tenderly right in front of him, and doing it for the rest of your lives. it would taunt him, it would haunt him like the ghost of your friendship. you weren't friends anymore, the two of you knew it. things would never be the same between you, and yet, neither of you was brave enough to ask the question.

why?

"heeseung! are you out here?!" he can hear sunghoon's voice over the fourth replay of the song, lowering the volume as he tilts his head to find him. "over here, what's up?" "what's up? they're waiting for you, man!" sunghoon is standing in the doorway of the resort, the soft breeze blowing his hair back as a bridesmaid also peers over his shoulder. heeseung sighs as he stands, wiping his pants of sand and shoving his phone into his pocket. he walks quickly, humming quietly to himself to semi-prepare his voice for the perfect delivery of the song you wanted him to sing.

everyone is chatting quietly around the tables as heeseung steps inside, running his fingers through his hair as he walks forward. your mother catches his eye, a concerned look on her face, but he can't hold eye contact. he faces the floor as he reaches the small stage the venue has set up for the band, jay perched on a stool holding a guitar.

"hey, hee. you ready?" he asks as he tucks in his in-ear monitor, and heeseung shrugs as he takes his place behind the microphone. only then does he notice that the chatter he heard was just two bridesmaids, kim sunoo, riki nishimura and yang jungwon – all friends of yours and jake's that he hadn't bothered to meet further than reading their names in the program.

he watches silently as you and jake take the center of the dance floor, your eyes slightly reddened as you gingerly drape your arms over your fiancé. your smile doesn't fill your cheeks as jay begins playing softly.

heeseung takes a deep breath, and your eyes catch him as he begins to sing.

one touch, and you've got me stoned. higher than i've ever known…

you were both thirteen.

he remembers the way you held onto him the night that you lost your first mathletes competition. you cried so hard that you'd almost thrown up, and heeseung could only soothe you by dragging you to the nearest convenience store and shoving a melona popsicle in your hand. you went silent after that, gripping his hand tightly as he walked you home. you'd squeezed his hand three times that night, something he'd always done but you'd roll your eyes at.

"why would i squeeze your hand when i can just tell you, hee?"

you call the shots and i'll follow. sunrise, but the night's still young…

you were both seventeen.

he remembers when you called him to come over while it was storming, because your mother was out of town. your house was a little over a mile away and normally, he didn't mind the walk. it was almost three in the morning, and he'd been sleeping when your ringtone went off for the third time. "hello?" "hee, please come over. it's storming so bad, i'm so–"

he hadn't even let you finish before ripping his bedsheets off his body and sprinting for the door. his clothes, his shoes, everything was soaking wet by the time he got to your house. you'd embraced him anyway, your own clothes soaking through as he trudged into your home – only for the storm to stop a few moments after his arrival.

no words, but we're speaking tongues. if you let me, i might say too much…

you were both twenty.

he remembers when you asked him, in the middle of your kitchen during your graduation party, if he could kiss you. the house was empty except for the two of you – his parents and your mom had decided to throw a joint party, using the excuse that two best friends should always stick together. your mom had sent you inside for more hor d'oeuvres, and you'd dragged him inside with the excuse that you couldn't carry them all yourself.

"you don't have to, hee. i'm sorry." your eyes were full of embarrassment as heeseung stared at you, a bit in shock at your question. only as you begin to move further into the kitchen does he register what you've said, and grabs your arm, pulling you toward him. "ask me again, i'm sorry. i zoned out, i thought you asked me to kiss you."

"i did." you repeated quietly, and heeseung blinked twice before nodding. "o-okay. yeah, i can do that." he cleared his throat, looking over your shoulder into the foyer to ensure no one was opening the door.

"are you sure? i mean, it's your first kiss, wouldn't you want to have it with someone special?" he's rambling, and your gentle laugh pulls him right back.

"you are special, hee."

without another word, he backed you up against your kitchen counter, his hands on your hips as he softly kissed you. your hands were on his biceps, and he could feel your nervousness seep through your locked lips. he carefully circles your thighs to lift you onto the counter, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck before he breaks the kiss.

"how was that? okay?" his eyes searched yours, a shy smile playing on his swollen lips as you blinked. "uh, i'm not sure. i think–" "you want to try again?" his head tilted to the side, a habit you loved and eventually also caught. you nodded silently. his smile was wide as he closed the gap between the two of you, the hands on your thighs squeezing softly. once, twice, three times.

i love you.

your touch blurred my vision. it's your world, and i'm just in it…

you're both twenty one.

he remembers how he stared at his bedroom ceiling, clothes soaked in rain from prancing around the city with you. how piercing your words were, how he thought for so long that you believed in him. how all of these events he can't stop thinking about, are about you. how proud he was of you, how lucky he was to have you, how insane it was that you wanted him. you wanted him at one point.

how he didn't care that he got sick, but certainly didn't understand why your sore throat and stuffy nose didn't make him feel a pang of distress. how he didn't care that no one else was refuting his talent, because they weren't you. he didn't care about anyone else in this world, but you.

even sober, i'm not thinking straight…

you're both twenty two.

he remembers his birthday going abhorrently wrong. you weren't there, per usual – you were too wrapped up with school to give heeseung a second thought. he'd long realized that he didn't want to lose you, but it seemed that you no longer cared to keep the friendship alive. he still has the messages he sent you, and is still amazed at the lack of typos despite being absolutely shitfaced.

message to: my y/n <3 [2022.10.15 | 11:23pm] it's my birthday, baby. [2022.10.15 | 11:24pm] you can't be here for me today? [2022.10.15 | 11:24pm] i miss you. i miss our friendship. [2022.10.15 | 11:26pm] i can't believe you're missing my birthday. i never miss your birthdays. [2022.10.15 | 11:30pm] is this it? are we done? [2022.10.15 | 11:34pm] when will you come back to me? when, how much longer? [2022.10.15 | 11:35pm] when you graduate? i can wait. (not delivered!) [2022.10.15 | 11:47pm] just tell me how long. i'll wait. (not delivered!)[2022.10.16 | 12:02am] i'd wait forever for you (not delivered!)

he changed his number after that. he still doesn't know how you got his new one. he doesn't care to ask, either.

cause i'm off my face, in love with you…

you're both twenty five.

he's watching you slow dance with your fiancé, fingers interlaced behind his neck as jake's hands rest on your hips. he hates the jealousy that boils in his stomach, but doesn't bother to break eye contact with the tile on the ceiling with water damage.

i'm out my head, so into you…

he can feel his fingers tightening around the microphone stand, but can't seem to stop his eyes from averting as jake spins you gently, before your soft giggle hits his ears. you look up at jake with what he can only assume is adoration, before resting your cheek on his shoulder. you're looking right at heeseung, mouthing along to the song.

and i don't know how you do it…

you're fixing your posture instead, still staring at heeseung as jake takes your hand in his, kissing your knuckles. you instinctively smile at the feeling, and heeseung's eyes zero in on your fingers as you squeeze jake's hand.

once, twice, three times. i love you.

but i'm forever ruined by you, ooh, ooh, ooh.

"i love you." your eyes haven't left heeseung as you whisper the words, and you can see the way his eyes fill with fire as he looks away. you get a twisted feeling of satisfaction in your gut, before finally averting your eyes back to your fiancé. jake is smiling softly at you, and you quickly close the gap between you as heeseung continues to sing. your lips press against jake's smoothly, before he swiftly moves away. "i can't wait to marry you tomorrow." he whispers.

"me, too."

liar.

may 02.

the wedding is in twenty minutes.

your pantyhose has ripped, you tripped going up the stairs. you're not even wearing your dress yet. there are storm clouds gathering, and you can’t help but feel like everything in the universe is working against you. the only thing holding you together is your mother, her arms are wrapped tightly around you.

“are you sure we can’t just run away and elope?” you mumble into her shoulder, and your mother laughs. “not anymore. but,” she pulls away from you, cradling your face in her hands gently. “i love you, honey. everything will be okay.”

you hate the churn in your stomach at the word everything. because if everything were okay, it'd be sunny. if everything were okay, you'd be staring down an aisle full of people and only see heeseung at the end of it. if everything were okay, you would've never said yes to that first date.

“i love you.” you repeat, your hand resting on her wrists as you nod robotically. “i’ll see you out there, okay?”

“okay.” you breathe out shakily as she presses her lips to your hairline, lingering slightly before pulling away and leaving your room. you were alone now, and you glanced out the window at all the guests gathering on the beach. everyone is dressed so brightly, bunches of pinks and lilacs scattered across the sand. jake is waiting patiently at the end of the aisle, the forest green of his suit making his skin glow slightly brighter. how he does it, you don't know.

and then you see heeseung.

he’s dressed in black, despite the theme of the wedding being floral and natural. you grimace, forcing yourself to look away before spotting your dress hanging on the back of the door. you'd have to shimmy into it on your own, having sent everyone out in a fit of anxiety.

sighing, you unhook the heavy dress from the door, carefully letting the skirt pool on the floor as you step into it. it slides on perfectly, and you can't help but lose your breath at the sudden weight of the world on your chest. you're getting married, and you love jake.

but he'll never, ever be heeseung.

"tighten up, y/n. you've got this." you shake your head, reaching back and forcing the zipper up as high as you could. you had a hook-and-eye closure at the top, something you'd simply have to forego if you wanted to make it downstairs on time. groaning to yourself, you attempt to pull up the zipper just a bit more, before giving up and covering it with your veil. grabbing your bouquet, you give yourself a final glance in the mirror.

"you've got this. everything will be okay."

your voice is shaky, but you swing your room door open anyway – only to be met with heeseung on the other side. his eyes widen, mouth slightly agape as you come into his view. "wow, you look…" "what are you doing here? you're supposed to be downstairs." you scold, shoving your keycard into the pocket of your dress. oh yeah, you've got it like that. "your mom asked me to come see what was taking so long. i told her you'd be down soon, but she insisted." he shrugs, so nonchalantly.

like none of this is eating away at him.

"ugh, whatever. come on." your tone is angry, but your face shows nothing but fear. his eyes follow as you storm towards the elevator, seeing the zipper of your dress slowly sliding down as you reach the doors. "here, hold on."

his fingers move your veil carefully as you step into the elevator, before pulling the fabric tighter together and pulling the zipper to the top. he carefully clasps the closure, and you swear you feel every hair on your body sticking up when his fingertips gently graze your back. "don't touch me, heeseung."

"i'm trying to help you. otherwise, you'd flash that entire crowd." he scoffs, pressing the floor button. you sigh, wrapping your arms around yourself as the elevator becomes silent. the tension is thick between you, you know it. your eyes never leave the neon sign, watching the floor numbers go by before heeseung reaches over and pulls the emergency lever.

"what the fuck are you doing?! i'm already late!" you gasp, hitting his arm with your bouquet when he stands in front of the lever. "i can't let you do this unless you hear what i have to say."

"heeseung, i'm getting married. this is the biggest day of my life–" your whining is cut short by his hand on your mouth, and only then do you see the unshed tears in his eyes. "the biggest day of my life was when i met you on that stupid playground. i never, ever in my life thought our friendship would end this way, and you know what, it makes me kind of sick."

he breathes deeply, removing his hand from your face as he sees the shock in your eyes. "you're saying you're already late to your big day, well i just want to say i beat you in that department. i've never had a problem with punctuality, but i really missed the mark on this one." his chuckle is dry, humorless as he looks at the bouquet in your hand. "i don't think i'll get over this, ever. i'll never get the chance to be in his place. but," he steps back, fingers gripping the emergency lever in his hand.

"i want you to know that it should be me. i should be the one waiting for you at the end of the aisle. i should be the one who gets to love you until the end of my days, and even then, you'd never die. you'd be loved by me forever, the evidence strewn all over the world in compositions and lyrics. i would never let you die."

he pushes the lever back, before moving back to his original spot next to you. the elevator doors open, revealing an empty lobby. the storm clouds are no longer that far away, and you can feel the humidity through the open plan of the resort.

"i am foolishly, hopelessly, irrevocably in love with you. and i hope you realize this is the biggest mistake of your life." his voice is soft, as is his smile when he offers his hand. "here's to your forever, my love."

you say nothing.

🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊

if heeseung was anything, it was a sick bastard. a sick, rat bastard who had no shame. your mother took you from his arm at the end of the aisle, and you didn't even realize you'd allowed him to lead you there. jake's eyes shone with what could only be identified as jealousy.

he smiled the entire ceremony, clapping and whistling alongside your other guests through the vows. the sappy vows jake had penned were poetic compared to yours, but he knew what you meant anyway. you felt several fat raindrops plop onto your head and shoulders, while heeseung had come prepared and shared his umbrella with your mother.

he even helped her inside once the rain really started pouring, just after your first kiss as a married couple. your stomach was boiling over in fury as you watched him laugh with her, his eyes only meeting yours once with a soft smile.

you and jake slipped away to change into your reception clothing, his suit jacket abandoned and sleeves rolled up, showing off the watch you got him for his birthday. your ballroom white dress, now stained with sand, was traded in for an a-line style. jake met you in front of the resort, his fingers curled in yours when he finally spoke.

"we really did it, huh." he says quietly, his eyes scanning the shut doors of the reception venue. you nod, your breath caught in your throat when he takes a step back, his hand squeezing yours. "two years." your ears twitch at this. "what?" "all i ask for is two years. we can have a kid. we'll have an heir to our wills. we can get divorced after two years, and you can be with him." he breathes, eyes following the pattern on the heavy wooden door. you choke out a scoff of disbelief, your throat burning. "what the fuck are you talking about, jaeyun?" he winces at the use of his name, so used to gentle baby and sweetened honey. a sigh escapes his lips as he turns to face you. "i know you love him, y/n. you don't have to hide it from me. you wouldn't have brought him all the way out here, you wouldn't have gone behind my back and changed the plans for the band. your mom loves him, for crying out loud. i never stood a chance." he chuckles sadly, and your tears are hot as they flow down your face.

"how can you say that, jaeyun? i'm married to you, i've chosen you, over anything and anyone in this world! how can you say such things?!" your hurt is evident, but he can't figure out if it's because of the little blame game or if it's because you truly, deeply love him. he doesn't know what to say, but reaches to wipe your tears. you jerk away, a frown etched on your glossed lips as you wipe them yourself. you take a deep breath, grabbing the door knob.

"fix your face." you mutter, a tone jake had never received from you as he sighed, painting a smile of everything's okay on his face as the two of you threw the doors open in unison. your crowd of guests cheered loudly, rice flying everywhere as they welcomed you in. the band was loudly playing got to be real by cheryl lynn, and you almost forget jake's painful words behind the door. you almost forget that heeseung will be queueing up to sing for you and your husband, for free, on the very stage you're now standing in front of.

jungwon hands you a microphone and two champagne flutes, before slinking away to his seat. you hand one to jake, who swirls it nervously.

"wow, it's such an honor to have all of our loved ones here today." your voice is shaky as you take them all in, dozens of eyes staring you down. "i mean, i've waited for this day since i was a little girl. it's a blessing to finally see it in color, in person. thank you." jake breathes in deeply, before looking away to blink back tears. "i'm not crying, my eyes are just sweating." he speaks into the microphone, earning an empathetic laugh from the guests, your hand ghosts over his back, and he stiffens at it. "i'm so…so terribly in love with y/n. i can't believe this day is real." a soft aww echoes in the room, your chest tightening as you see heeseung sitting next to your mother. he's cooing with everyone else. "and i can't wait to be a man that is continuously worthy of her love. to y/n."

you almost burst into tears as everyone raises their drinks to you, the clink of glasses adding to the emotion as you and jake find your seats at the end of the hall. you sit gingerly, holding jake's hand under the table tightly. "i love you, jake." "i love you, y/n."

🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊 – 🟊

the speeches were a mess. jay was a mess of tears, and minjeong spewed bullshit about the two of you being like sisters. heeseung hadn't met her until five minutes after the ceremony, and if you had been close to anyone enough to consider them a sibling, he'd know them. no one knew you like he did.

"and now, for the newlyweds' first dance! we have a very special guest singing for us today, please give a warm welcome and round of applause to y/n's longest friend, lee heeseung!"

he smiled nervously as he took the stage, a puffy-eyed jay sitting behind him as he tested the microphone. "thank you for having me, and congratulations to the newlyweds. y/n, i'm eternally proud of you and so grateful to be here on your special day. i love you." none of the guests know it means something more to him, to you, as they let out an aww. how heartwarming, that your lifelong best friend was here for you. how lovely, that he was supporting you every step of the way.

he sang carefully, watching as you and jake held each other tightly, swaying to the song. he can hear your sniffle, a soft sob into jake's shoulder as he lovingly strokes your back. he looks away.

it should be him.

it should be heeseung, that gets to see you wear white. it should be heeseung, that gets to plan a tedious wedding at your instruction. it should be heeseung that gets to take you on a romantic honeymoon and spend all day in the sun and all night glued to your bed. it should be heeseung that gets to shampoo your hair for you when you're feeling too tired, it should be heeseung that gets to watch you put lipstick on in the morning just to ruin it before you're out the door.

it should be him. and everyone knows it, no matter if they know your history or not.

"thank you, everyone. let's hear it for the newlyweds!"

october 15.

"hey."

it's been over a year since your wedding. you and jake had happily posted tons of wedding photos, piled over with honeymoon flicks. you and heeseung hadn't spoken since the wedding. he left right after the first dance, catching the first ferry back to seoul. he didn't bother contacting you to see if you'd made it back safely, he didn't bother to message you a happy birthday when it came around. he just didn't care.

he dropped out of college for the second time, and spent the summer going around seoul auditioning for companies. decelis entertainment finally gave him a break, and only after he got his contract did he find out that jake and all of his friends were also at this company.

he was polite in the hallways. he smiled, he waved, he engaged in small talk and perused the past. he didn't ask questions, he didn't initiate. he spent his time holed away in the studio with a producer named yeonjun, recording for hours on end without a break. he was set to debut in two weeks, having dropped his first teaser just two days prior.

all without you to cheer him on.

"what are you doing here?" his voice was cold, nothing you weren't used to at this point. his hair wasn't red anymore, now a natural chocolate brown. it suited him. "came to visit, heard from jake that you've been training for a year." "what's it to you?"

he's being harsh, he knows he's being harsh.

"hey, y/n. nice to see you." jake calls from across the hall, exiting his studio with jay and sunghoon in tow. the two of them seem to say nothing at the sudden casualties between you and jake, or the insinuation that he hadn't seen you in a while. heeseung gives you a glance, your hands holding a gift and a grocery bag. "may i come in?" "i'm busy, at the moment." he coughs, ignoring the way your eyes roll. "too busy for a slice of cake?" you hold up a bag in your fingers, and his eyes narrow. he leans back into the studio, his eyes scanning the calendar for any potential special dates. he's not even flipped to the right month, the calendar reading july.

"shit, did i miss something?" he whips out his phone, which you simply cover with your hand. a soft laugh escapes your lips as you lift your other hand, the gift bag screaming happy birthday in gold glitter flashing at him. "oh, man." he moves away from the door, allowing you to walk in. you look around, and although the studio doesn't belong to him, it sure smells like him. it looks like him, it's covered in him, it feels like home.

"happy birthday, hee." you say gently, setting the gift down on the couch and slowly sitting down to unwrap his cake. "i know it's not much, but i'm barely here." you chuckle, tapping your temple as he takes a seat in his desk chair. he's wary, you can tell.

"something on your mind?" "why are you here? i debut in two weeks, i don't need any bullshit." he rubs his temples, and you only frown. "you know, once upon a time, you would've been happy to have me here." your tone is pointed, and heeseung sighs. "fine, fine. i'm sorry."

"i'm the one who should be sorry." you murmur, and heeseung says nothing. he knows you're right.

you're both quiet, before heeseung notices the candle next to the cake. he rolls the chair over, his fingers carefully centering the candle. "have you got a light?"

you shake your head no, a sheepish look in your eyes. "i'm sorry. we can pretend, if that's okay?" he hates the way his lips twitch into a smile at your wide eyes. "yeah, we can pretend."

you sing for him softly, your cheek squished into your hand as you lean on the armrest. he closes his eyes, making a wish and blowing the makeshift flame out. "what'd you wish for?" you yawn, and he shakes his head.

"won't come true if i tell you." shrugging, he rolls back over to his desk, leaving the cake on the table. you just make a noise of agreement, before a sigh slips past you. "i heard your teaser, you know." he doesn't care to react, only giving you a short sound. "mhm?" "is it about me?" you ask, and he straightens in his chair before spinning around to face you. "all my songs are about you. every single one of them." he gestures to a tattered journal on the soundboard. it's covered in stickers, and…a taped photo of you and him as toddlers. "oh."

"i mean what i say, y/n." he rolls his eyes, before spinning back around. "if it were me, i'd never let you die."

but it is you, you think. it's always been you.

"why did jake say it was nice to see you?" he asks, too cowardly to look you in the eyes. he hears your sigh, before hearing you shift around on the couch. he spins around again, only to see you have removed your shoes and tucked your legs beneath you. his eyes scan you, before looking at your fingers. your ring is gone, replaced by a chunky painite stone in silver. your eyes are gently burning into him, and he shivers in the warmth. "well…why?" "before the reception, he told me he knew." you shrug, "he knew how you felt about me, and how i allegedly felt about you. he brought up my mother, and how he felt like he'd never stood a chance."

"but he did. you married him, after all." heeseung rolls his eyes as you shrug, blinking slowly as you speak again. "we gave it a good shot. maybe i should've listened to all those superstitions, they're not such bullshit. the tripping, the rain, god, the way my ring was too tight." you scoff sadly, before glancing back up at him.

he seems to understand. if he doesn't, he doesn't say anything. sighing, you reach over to rustle the gift bag with your fingers. "you've got to open this, you know."

"y/n, i can't do this." he breathes out, eyes screwed shut. "i can't sit here with you and pretend like we're all good, like you're not married to the same guy i share a company with. we stopped being friends a long time ago, what are you trying to do here?" "i'm not trying to do anything but reconnect. i fully accepted the fact that whether or not you're with me, you're still someone i love. i spent years trying to figure out why you drifted away from me, and then jake and i sat down at our dinner table a few weeks ago after meeting with the lawyer and he asked me about our friendship. so i told him everything, from the very beginning."

heeseung can't breathe as you get up, walking towards him and slowly sinking into a squat. your hands are on his knees, giving a gentle squeeze before you speak.

"i'm sorry i made it seem like i had no faith in you. i said horrible things to you, even if they seemed right to me, and i'm so sorry that it took someone else to tell me that i'd treated you so badly that day."

his eyes are brimming with tears, but he looks away from you. he can't cry, not now, not in front of you.

"you've always been like that, though." he murmurs, picking at his cuticles when you carefully take his hands in yours. he suppresses a sob as the warmth of you envelopes his fingers, "i was projecting. i thought that everyone had to be like me, that everyone had to have a plan. some people are just better at flying by the seat of their pants, i mean, look at all you've accomplished despite me saying such shitty things to you. you're about to debut, you're going to see great success. everyday i'm rooting for you, even if i'm not the person you go home to."

you give his hands a firm squeeze. once, twice, three times. i love you.

"are you divorced?"

you scoff out a soft laugh, looking down at his jeans. "jake and i haven't been together since the wedding. we spent the honeymoon playing mermaids and crying over whiskey sours."

"i can't forgive you right now." he confesses, making your head snap up to look at him. he swallows hard, "i can't forgive you right now, because i'm still mad at you. for saying those things to me, and…and you hurt me, when you asked me to sing for your wedding. it hurt me a lot, y/n." "i'm sorry, hee." you whisper, your thumbs wipe at the tears spilling from his eyes. he leans into your touch, before pulling away. "i know you are, y/n. i know."

he gently pushes away, offering his hand to help you up. you take it, and he waits for you to put your shoes on before leading you back to the door. "i'll call you, okay? when i'm ready."

you step out of the studio, peering up at him with sad eyes. "you promise?"

he sighs, nodding his head. "i promise, baby."

580 notes · View notes

captainkirkk · 8 months ago

Text

✩ WEEKLY FIC ROUND-UP ✩

All the fics I’ve read and really enjoyed in the past week-ish. Reminder: This list features any and all ratings and themes. Please look at tags and warnings on ao3 before reading.

What Does it Mean When Your Son Comes Home with Plans for a Death Ray? Asking for a Friend by PrinceJakeFireCake

Basically the title.

Excerpt: “What does it mean when a young man comes home with plans to create a death ray so he can frame Luthor for plagiarism?” Bruce asked anyway, because maybe one of them knew.

There was a long silence. Bruce waited patiently.

“What?” Clark and Diana asked, at the exact same time.

“You know what? Never mind,” Bruce sighed, wearily. “He’s probably just at that age."

Clone Wars

: (Is to) :: (As) by TamerLorika

Cody's General was a perfect example for the men. He ate regularly. He was punctual with his medical appointments. Kenobi socialized with his officers, hosted curated office hours for the rank-and-file, walked the field hospitals during engagements, and made time every Centaxday to review escalated grievance reports.

He was there for his men—but always at the exactly appropriate arm’s length away and half step ahead.

Cody notices that Kenobi's regard for himself is always clinical and utilitarian. As he ponders a way to break the stalemate, he begins to learn more about the lightsaber that is so often in his hands, and how it relates to the subject of Kenobi's own soul.

The Exception by Threebea O (ThreeBea)

Cody gets a new Jedi assigned to the 212th Attack Battalion after he is forced to execute his last one. He has enough experience to know how this new Jedi will behave.

But the Sith Slayer proves himself to be the exception to all of Cody's expectations.

Cody leads his unit, fights a multi-front war, and tries to figure out JM-031.

All for the Game

No straighter path than to struggle by otatop

Neil is sick and it's fine until it's not.

There's a lot of soup.

if you saw my darkest parts by KweenDay

When you meet your soulmate, you share your dreams. Even the bad ones. Especially the bad ones.

Jeremy knows he's met him—his soulmate—when he starts sharing his dreams. But those aren't just any dreams. They're all dark and violent, nightmares that make Jeremy suffocate. And Riko Moriyama is in all of them. Jeremy narrows it down to one person—Kevin Day. Except, Kevin already knows his soulmates (plural?), and Jeremy isn't one of them. So why is the universe fucking with him? And why is Jean Moreau looking at him like that?

//Soulmate AU in which you share your soulmate's dreams after you meet them in person.

soleil / sans soleil by electric_typewriter

Jean is slowly learning how to live as a Trojan with the support of his teammates friends. There are better days, and worse. A bad day leads to a conversation with Coach Rhemann. Some uncomfortable questions have to be asked.

SVSSS

Luo Binghe's Guide to Winning a Bride by Meriglass

Five years have passed since the events of the Immortal Alliance Conference, and Luo Binghe is nowhere to be seen. Shen Qingqiu is beginning to fear the worst. That his dearly beloved, golden halo protagonist really did die in the Endless Abyss. Otherwise, why wouldn't he have come to enact his revenge by now?

Meanwhile, Luo Binghe is alive and well. He's just sulking in the Demon Realm.

In which Shen Qingqiu is kidnapped and placed as the official bride prize for a demon battle tournament, and it's up to Luo Binghe to enter undercover in order to save him.

#weekly fic round up #fic recs #my posts #sw recs #aftg recs #dc recs

135 notes · View notes

yuuuume · 3 months ago

Text

cooking with the lieutenants

| 1 | ?

characters; nanao ise, genshiro okikiba, renji abarai, yuyu yayahara

requested; yes (ty bb this was so cute i'll be taking reqs for the next batch!)

rating; safer than a protected pc

@potatoq-een asked; Hi! New follower. Here to show support and maybe a... Suggestion? I don't like to call it a request... Just... Do it if you like the idea and if it inspires you. After all the rambling the idea: [drums please] cooking!! I'm so curious about how the lieutenants manage that part of their daily life with their s/o. Do they cook for their s/o? Do they let their s/o cook for them? ¿Maybe they do it together? ¿Or let the cooking be done by someone else? Idk, just thinking its a good prompt for some fluff. Do what you please with the idea. I'd be happy to read whatever comes out of this. Thank you for reading and be happy.

伊勢七緒・nanao ise

I am under the assumption that Nanao doesn’t really know how to cook. At least, not full blown elaborate meals. Her rice cooker and crock pot are her best friends before you. Having to deal with Shunsui all day along with her typical lieutenants duties leaves Nanao with little time and patience to cook big meals. However she eats well and you come to learn that when helping her prepare one morning. Nanao enjoys coming home to warm stews in the winter. As for summer, she’ll eat anything that won’t heat the kitchen too much. She doesn’t strike me as someone who would eat out often if I’m being honest. Nanao is a weekly grocery shopper with recipes in mind so she knows what to buy, she’s a bit particular about this aspect of her life because again, she’s typically a busy bee. Your help is a relief to her, especially when you work less hours. A bonus if you know how to cook and don’t mind it either. You get to go with her on the weekly grocery shopping trips and make suggestions for the menu because she’ll always consider your thoughts too. The daily chore slowly becomes one of your guys’ favorite quality time activities. At least, a close second to your first favorite.

沖牙源志郎・genshiro okikiba

I don’t think anyone in this fandom cares about this guy but honestly when I see an old man, my coochie goes into overdrive so I’m including him. Anyways, I feel like since Genshiro is older he’s a bit more traditional, meaning he expects you to stay home while he is the breadwinner. So naturally that means majority of the cooking is left to you. On his days off I like to think he would be by your side as you cook, a spectator. Genshiro may be an older, more traditional man but he is thankful for your work, knowing it is not easy or much fun cooking meals every day. He slowly starts to welcome the idea of takeout and food delivery once in a while since he feels asking you to teach him to cook would be too much of a burden on you. Even if you insist on working for whatever reason, if you two are in a relationship, Genshiro has the same expectation that you’d be the one cooking. Boomer expectations, you know?

阿散井恋次・renji abarai

Renji is the only King in the Seireitei okay. Soul King? Mid. Renji throws it down in the kitchen like everyday is Thanksgiving. He will take full charge of cooking because he loves you (not because you’d get in the way like… totally not…). If you’re feeling under the weather he has the best soup recipe from when he and Rukia were younger, surviving out in Rukon District. It was one of his survival skills, to be fairly honest and one he never would have expected to become a hobby. He assures you that he doesn’t mind cooking, mostly because he loves the way your eyes practically roll every time he makes that one dish you love so, so much. You can certainly wash the dishes afterward. Also, he totally wears those corny ‘Kiss the chef’ aprons. You’ll do it anyway to show your appreciation. However if one day you insist on cooking, he’ll acquiesce and relax. Just because he’s used to cooking doesn’t mean he won’t accept some of yours! Whether you’re a good or bad cook, he always puts his best foot forward and makes sure you don’t lose faith in your culinary journey. Definitely has an album on his instagram saved tab that is strictly recipes.

八々原熊如・yuyu yayahara

Be so for real, you two would blow up the kitchen just by stepping into it. Or at least Yuyu would. She’s an absolute sucker for delivery services once they pop off in Soul Society. Honestly, that’s what half of her paycheck goes toward every two weeks but what’s not to love about it? On-demand healthy meals are such an insane concept for the soul reapers and once it finally landed in Soul Society, Yuyu has been on it and has no shame. Besides, she wouldn’t be up for cooking after work anyways. The hours are long and even with Lisa as a captain, its not as easy a job one might believe. She has your guys’ orders saved, you just need to tell Yuyu what you want for dinner and it’ll arrive shortly.

do not steal or repost my works anywhere

edit: i fixed renji’s section lol

#bleach #bleach fanfiction #bleach headcanons #bleach x reader #nanao ise #nanao x reader #genshiro okikiba #genshiro x reader #renji abarai #renji x reader #yuyu yayahara #yuyu x reader

31 notes · View notes

iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia · 1 year ago

Text

Vesuvia Weekly: Brainrot's Baking Lesson

~ What happens when six friends ask their local author to show them his bread recipe? What happens when this involves teleporting them to brainrot's IRL apartment kitchen? ~

1.6k words, rated PG

I don't know why I thought it was a good idea to have all of them over at once, instead of inviting them in twos and threes. Nadia and Asra are both sitting on my kitchen stools, being politely conscious of the fact that they are in my personal space. Muriel is surprisingly at ease - he's found my cat. He's very happy to have something small and soft to protect, and she's very happy to have such a tall and attentive shoulder to perch on.

Julian, Lucio, and Portia, on the other hand, are already starting to stress me out.

"Where's the fire?!" Portia's voice echoes from inside my oven, one hand braced dangerously close to the knob that would make the fire she's searching for appear - right under her nose.

"I'll show you how it works after I show you how I make my dough - Julian, your diet is too poor for me to explain what those are."

The doctor glances guiltily over from where he's been examining the selection of instant noodles on top of my fridge. Of course it's the first thing he'd notice, being so damned tall. "Can you blame me? These have pictures of soup on them, but they feel crunchy! Why do they feel crunchy?" He widens his eyes, crunching a packet in one gloved fist for emphasis and I wince.

"I -"

"Why do you have winter in a box? I hate winter!"

"Close the fridge, Lucio."

"Fridge? As in frigid?" Nadia watches her ex-husband's antics with poorly concealed amusement. "How innovative. This eradicates the need for a cellar."

"What kind of magic does it run on?" Asra's question is innocent, but the way they're eyeing the mechanics of my freezer with a curious gleam is anything but.

"Not a type that you're familiar with, so can we please focus on why you're here?" I don't know what it is about my tone that gets my point across, but it works. I stoop to retrieve my bread bowl and set it on my counter. "So, uh -"

Having six pairs of eyes on me at once (seven pairs, if I count the cat) is not a sensation I think I can get used to. I get several encouraging smiles and take a deep breath. These are my friends. They're all sitting with me because they like being here. This is fun. I love them.

"Uh, so, first, I put some hot water in my bowl." I turn on the kitchen tap to 'hot' and immediately take everything back.

"What -"

"What is that?!"

"That does not look natural."

"You can decide the temperature?!"

"Is it safe?"

"How does that work?"

I shut the tap off. For the first time since I ushered them through the door, the apartment is silent. The cat gives me an unimpressed yawn and curls up on Muriel's shoulder for a nap.

"Okay," I run my fingers through my hair, "Okay, let's try this again. This is a water source, in my apartment, that I control the temperature of. The point is not that I have water, the point is that I need hot water to start my dough."

"We have something similar in the Palace," Nadia muses, "though so far its use is limited to drawing the baths and running the fountains. I've been thinking of expanding the network using the aqueducts, but it had not occurred to me to adjust the temperature of the water as it runs through the system."

"U-um, yeah." I nod, hastily measuring the liquid into my bowl. I hope the butterfly effect from this isn't catastrophic. "Anyways, we need oil, honey, and salt next."

I hand different containers to my different guests, giving the salt to Lucio as I expect it to be the least messy ingredient involved. Portia's quick to wave me off when I offer her a measuring cup. "Oh, I'm just watching. I need both hands free to take notes." She's got an old envelope in one hand and a pencil in the other. I nod and move on.

Putting the dough together is fairly straightforward. Besides Julian calling himself a slippery boy, Lucio howling with laughter when I explain the function of yeast, and Nadia sneaking little tastes of honey from the measuring cup, getting to the point of adding flour is fairly event-less. That is, until it's time to add the flour.

I know they can cook, but I'm quickly finding out that Asra might not have any experience baking. Before I can warn him, he's haphazardly tossing a cupful of flour into the mixing bowl, causing the powdery substance to explode all over the counter, the ingredients, and ourselves. There's a moment of stunned silence before Portia reaches over and rumples their curls, raising a second floury cloud from their hair. She giggles. "It just blends right in, doesn't it?"

There's no question in my mind when it comes to who has the best hand and arm strength for kneading. The question is whether he's willing to part with my cat for long enough to do so. Taiga is thoroughly enamored with her preheated napping tree.

"I'd take her, but I'm still writing my notes." Portia looks ready to cry from frustration. Nadia, always quick to smooth things over, reaches up and begins to lift the furball down.

"I'll hold her. She seems very sweet -"

The tiny, annoyed 'mew' the cat makes as she's lifted down is enough to capture the guests' attention. Muriel takes advantage of the distraction to get a headstart on kneading the dough, his massive hands getting the job done in half the time it usually takes me. I should invite him over to help out more often ...

"She SMACKED me!"

"What do you expect if you try to touch a cat right after they hiss at you?"

When I look over again, Taiga is crouching in Nadia's lap with her tail bushed out, letting out low warning yowls in Lucio's direction. Julian is busy trying to get both of the offended parties to calm down, while Asra sneaks her treats with a proud look on their face. I narrow my eyes. When did he pull those out of my cupboard?

"Now what?"

"Hm?"

When I look back at our project, Muriel is standing over the bowl with both hands slathered in dough and the beginnings of an embarrassed pout on his face. "... I can't get it off."

"Oh gosh - let me help with that. Sorry, this recipe is really sticky ..."

Lucio materializes at my other elbow as I work the dough off of Muriel's hands. "I'm tasting this now."

Before I can protest, he's scooped some out with his finger and already has a chunk in his mouth. For half a moment I consider bapping his hand much like my cat did a few minutes ago, but I let it slide. A little raw flour never hurt anyone ... right?

"I hate to be bothersome, but ah ..." Julian is still standing in the middle of the kitchen, swaying slightly on his feet. "I'm afraid I forgot to eat, and I'm beginning to suspect that bread takes longer than a half an hour to produce ..."

"Honestly, Ilya, why would you do that?"

Julian stares down wide-eyed at his sister, comically intimidated by someone half his size. "I was ... busy."

"Busy since when?" Portia's eyes narrow as she presses her brother to confess the full extent of his sins. "Speak."

"Er - yesterday?"

"You bastard!"

"Okay!" I jump in. "It's going to take another hour and a half, so ... how about we eat?"

Lucio and Asra both look mildly disappointed when I cut off their brewing entertainment. Nadia looks generally concerned. "We'd hate to impose on you. I fear we've already caused enough trouble."

"It's not troublesome," I tell her as I reach for the top of my fridge, "instant noodles are easy."

"I though you said my diet was too poor to learn about these." I swear Julian's eyebrows get bushier with excitement as I set my electric kettle to boil.

"I underestimated you."

... he looks way too self-satisfied with that.

By the time the bread has risen, been shaped, risen again, been baked, and cooled enough to slice up and send home, my guests have made themselves perfectly comfortable. Portia has raided my wardrobe and tried on every cosplay I still own. Nadia has gone through all my chopsticks and arranged them by pairs. Muriel has given Taiga so many scritches that I think she's imprinted on him. Julian has smuggled at least seven instant noodle packets into his coat and grilled me about every item in my medicine cabinet. Lucio has tested out every single makeup product leftover from said cosplay days (I don't know how to tell him that it's all expired and should probably be thrown out). Asra has somehow managed to innocently unearth all the embarrassing things I own before taking a catnap in my bed.

"And that's how I make my bread," I tell them. The six are standing at my door again, each holding half a loaf to take home. "Any questions before I take you back?"

"Can I have some jam for this?" Lucio's already tucking into his piece, speaking around a large chunk in his mouth. "It's kinda dry without it."

"I'm sure you'll be able to procure some upon our arrival." Nadia is somehow making a wrapped half-loaf look like a ballgown accessory with how elegantly she's holding it. "I worry that we may have overtaxed our host."

"Not at all," I tell them, and I mean it. Whatever grey hairs I've gotten from this are far outweighed by how happy I was to spend time with them. "Let me know if you ever want more. Maybe next time we could watch a movie."

"What's a moo-fee?"

"Never mind!" I yelp, "Let's head out, I'm sure you're more than ready to be back in your world, let me just make sure the cat doesn't try to follow us -"

The cat is, indeed, trying to follow us. She gives Muriel's shoulder and Asra's treat-filled pocket a forlorn look as I gently scoot her away from the door. Wait -

"Give those back!"

"Never!"

#vesuvia weekly #cooking class #ask arcana brainrot #the arcana #the arcana game #the arcana fanfic #asra the arcana #julian the arcana #nadia the arcana #muriel the arcana #portia the arcana #lucio the arcana #asra alnazar #julian devorak #nadia satrinava #muriel of the kokhuri #portia devorak #lucio morgasson

76 notes · View notes

trexalicious · 4 months ago

Text

A scathingly brilliant piece from Jan Moir...🤣

Like a cavalry galloping to the rescue of their wounded leaders, former and current employees of the Duke and Duchess of Sussex rushed into print this week to big up their bosses.

In the pages of Us Weekly, an influential American showbiz magazine popular with teens and teen-moms, print and online readers were breathlessly informed by Team Sussex that Prince Harry was a super-great guy, no airs and graces, just a regular dude, rah-rah-rah.

Meanwhile, what about girlboss Meghan? According to those who worked for her and lived to tell the tale, she was completely marvellous, too. No, really. Pass me that halo and let her duchessy love light shine.

For she was kind and thoughtful. She made great gourmet snacks. 'Some of my favourite memories,' said former Archewell president Mandana Dayani, who lasted 18 months until she left in 2022, 'were during our weekly meetings in her Montecito home, where Meghan always served the most incredible lunches and her latest beautiful concoctions.'

I am imagining exquisite delicacies such as 'vegetable soup' and 'green salad', possibly even a delightful 'egg‑based omelette' sourced from the in-house rescue chickens.

As the Sussex staff detailed the positives for posterity, it was hard to determine the true nature of their relationship with their bosses. Attorney-client, doctor-patient, jailer-inmate, star-civilian, duchess-serf?

And was it my imagination or were the outpourings of these worker drones reminiscent of the rising hysteria of someone chained to a radiator in the basement of Archewell Towers, hoping to get home by Christmas?

According to their parti pris gibberish, Meghan was a Tinker Bell of titbits, a Mother Teresa of munificence; this gift-giving goddess who lavished staff with bow-tied presents and on-brand sharing and caring.

'When I adopted my dog, the next day I had a luxury-brand leash and new collar on my doorstep,' said one former staffer, who amusingly thought the gifts were for her pup.

'They want to take care of us,' one current employee told Us Weekly. 'Meghan will do things like: 'You mentioned on the call your skin is bothering you. I put together a kit for you.'

Is that being kind and helpful? Is that tending to the pimpled lame – or a tacit message to up their game?

For those of us who have spent a lifetime working in offices and assorted workplaces, alongside good bosses and bad, the thought of a superior sending you a tub of wrinkle cream or some self‑improving unguent, well, it just makes me want to die.

But listen, there is more. Meghan, said one staffer, is known for giving credit where it's due.

'If you're in a meeting and a great idea is referenced, she makes sure to give props [respect and appreciation] to the person who generated the idea,' they said. 'And after a big trip, every employee gets a personal email thanking them for their contribution in making it a success.'

An email! Oh, how lovely. Isn't this low-level respect the very least a valued member of staff deserves?

These fawning responses in Us Weekly came in riposte to a damning article in The Hollywood Reporter, which stated that the Duchess's 'terrible behaviour' was the root cause of the high turnover rate of staff at the couple's Archewell company.

The report in the entertainment industry bible earlier this month claimed that many of those who work and have worked for Meghan are 'terrified' of her. It included quotes from sources calling her a 'dictator in high heels' who 'belittles' people and has reduced 'grown men to tears'.

I should point out here that Us Weekly is to the Sussexes what Pravda was to Stalin and what The Guardian is to Labour MP Jess Phillips – a blaring bugle of uncritical support. So, we heard in great detail about Archewell team visits to the couple's Montecito mansion, where Meghan gave everyone baskets of flowers, fruit and eggs to take home. So darling of her! She also passed on her children's hand-me downs. Is there no end to her generosity?

One employee even told Us Weekly that despite Meghan's reputation as a mini tyrant, they had 'never' heard her yell. Instead, the Duchess gave her staff 'clear direction and is solution-oriented' – which makes her sound like a rather lovely and amenable bottle of glue.

And when it came to hiring staff, another raving Archewell acolyte insisted that the Duke and Duchess of Sussex always 'picked the best of the best from every field and watered the seeds for them to flourish'.

But what are Harry and Meghan growing for posterity out there in California – an Archewell empire or a damp squib? Seeds, solutions, eggs . . . what the hell is going on?

Of course, these accusations are nothing new to royal-watchers in the UK. The Duchess of Sussex has long been dogged by reports she promotes a toxic workplace environment, along with repeated accusations of what her lawyers insist to this day we must call 'difficult' behaviour. In 2021, reports that the former actress had allegedly bullied and reduced staff members to tears at Kensington Palace were dismissed by the Sussexes as a smear. Yet it is no secret that the couple have lost 18 employees to date in their short time as a company entity in both the UK and the US.

One new American-based source blames 'unbearable' and 'condescending' Meghan for the alarming 'churn and burn' rate. These rumours just won't go away – but the big difference this time is that it is US news outlets that are making the claims.

Maer Roshan, co-editor-in-chief of The Hollywood Reporter, said he stands by the story after a backlash that included one Sussex source saying the claims were 'fabricated'.

Former and current employees of the Duke and Duchess of Sussex rushed into print this week to big up their bosses.

Roshan told Access Hollywood: 'Our reporter talked to a very high-up source who works for the couple and said: 'Everyone is terrified of Meghan.'

'Duchess Difficult is a nickname that has trailed Meghan Markle for quite a few years. What is new is that this notion, since coming to America, that a lot of these rumours were manufactured by the Palace – the reporting that we did suggests that probably isn't true and there is still this undercurrent of fear.'

Many of you might remember Prince Harry, in his high, tight, aggrieved voice, telling the world in his various documentaries and interviews that: 'There is a hierarchy of the [Royal] Family. You know there is leaking, but there is also planting of stories.'

Even The Hollywood Reporter, a neutral observer, now raises an eyebrow at this. This is devastating for the couple whose reputation has survived so far by blaming their difficulties on the Royal Family and the British Press, instead of examining their own alleged bad behaviour.

Just a few issues ago in Us Weekly, the Duchess of Sussex was smoothing down the pleats on her kilt of no-guilt and telling everyone that she was opening 'a chapter of joy' in her life and that everything was hunky in her dory.

But now – yet again – the Sussexes are back at square one; expending time, energy, favours and friends in defending themselves against the indefensible.

We have been here before, we are back here again; swimming against this avalanche of bad press, slaloming though the snowdrifts of snark.

It makes me think, was this westward flight by the Sussexes – this bridge-burning journey into what they presumed would be a better, kinder world, patrolled by powerful friends such as Oprah and billionaire Tyler Perry – simply fuelled by a lust for praise and admiration that they felt was their due?

Yet no longer can Meghan and Harry present themselves to the world as a couple under siege, a pair of self-righteous smirkers who felt themselves to be the victims of racism and bullying.

The Hollywood Reporter has described them as 'poor decision-makers' who 'change their minds frequently', and added that Harry was a 'very charming person' but 'very much an enabler'. The poor fool.

Duchess Difficult and the Enabling Prince? It sounds like a terrible Harry Potter novel, only now there is no magic spell to make this fresh stink vanish into the Californian air.

#jan muir #royalty is not celebrity #merch your royalty #just call me harry #using your office for personal gain #can't buy credibility #lies and the lying liars who tell them #unsussexful #grifters gonna grift #surrogacy isn't a crime but lying is #irs audit Archewell

19 notes · View notes

joels6string · 2 years ago

Text

More Than My Father's Son

Joel Miller x f!OC

Chapter 5 - Search and Rescue

Summary: A chance encounter on patrol leads to intel too troublesome to leave uninvestigated.

Rating: E

Word Count: 5.5k

Content: NSFW, high levels of violence normal to the TLOU world, angst, fluff, miscommunication trope (it’s Joel Miller…), slow burn, Joel’s traumatic childhood, getting together, smut, canon divergence after SLC, fix-it fic

Chapter 4 || Series Masterlist

The green that normally surrounded you had exploded into flames, the orange, yellows, and reds bursting from the trees and raining to the ground was a sight you’d never tire of. As the leaves had begun to change, the knot always present in your chest loosened. Joel and Tommy had repaired your roof, and cooking lessons with Indy were still ongoing but had proved somewhat useful as the jeans you’d been given upon arrival were passed back to the swap shop in favor of the next size up.

“Are you coming over tonight?” your favorite chef called from ahead of you, the next outpost on your assigned route coming into view, “Ellie was asking, guess she prefers my cooking.”

The smug look on your partner-turned-friend’s face said it all, Ellie’s budding relationship with her half Indy’s skill at cooking and half the fact that she let her sip at a whiskey that still went down rough during dinner.

“Only if you’re making that soup again,” you replied, your eyes following a leaf as it twirled through the sky.

“You want me to make that soup because Joel likes it,” her tone was teasing and all-knowing, “And I know you send your leftovers with Ellie to give to him.”

“Oh yeah? How so?”

“He brings me the containers back.”

It was true, Joel did like it, and no matter how hard you tried to remember just how she did it, the steps never stuck. You didn’t expect him to be the one giving you away. Although, Ellie was in on the ruse of telling him bringing him home a bowl was always entirely her idea.

Things had been tepid but pleasant after the summer incident. You’d spent two weeks letting the cut on your hand heal and Maria had taken too much time in forcing you out of your house and into society. You had a shelf of books now, your focus having improved enough over the last four weeks you could sit in the new armchair Tommy had found with you in mind for at least an hour at a time. Ellie supplied you with more than enough movies, opting to spend Fridays at your house now filling you in on her weekly favorites. Maria always made sure you had the day off.

You sat for drinks at the Tipsy Bison every Thursday, keeping quiet but sitting with the group as they conversed candidly. Indy had come to realize Joel was only someone to fear if you’d earned it, teasing him constantly about seeing another glimmer of that fire from the field again while Tommy teased her bravery for poking the bear. It all felt right and wrong at the same time, the walk back to your house Joel always insisted on accompanying you for the most natural twenty minutes of the evening.

“We’ll go to the market when we get back,” Indy said as she pulled the heavy steel door shut behind you, “You’re buying.”

“Deal,” you agreed, “I’ll even write the recipe down this time.”

In an abrupt motion that had your heart skipping, she bolted quickly to the open window, her rifle pointing up at the sky as you followed after her, ready to fire at whatever threat she’d spotted but finding nothing out of place or amiss.

“Oh,” she sighed in relief, lowering her weapon as your eyes darted around, “Sorry. Thought pigs were flying.”

“Fuck you,” you groaned, laughing as you shoved at her shoulder, finding the logbook on the table and pausing at the neat ‘Clear -J’ on the most recently filled-in line, “We all clear?”

“Just check the back.”

The floorboards creaked beneath your boots as you wove through the remnants of office furniture, your hand gliding over rotting wood just lightly enough to keep it from splintering into your skin. The fall air was crisp as you breathed it in, the cold of wintering hinting in the sweet aroma. It would frost soon, the mountains welcoming winter sooner than you would have liked for its extended stay well into the months you’d recognize as spring.

“Is anyone there?!” you heard a voice calling, the hair on the back of your neck prickling as you pulled your pistol from the tattered holster on your thigh, “Please!”

“Shit…” you hissed under your breath, your back colliding with the wall beside the door, your head peering around just enough to see a man in the clearing ahead.

“Please! I…I need help! Just…I saw horses!”

“Mother fucker,” Indy sneered as she took cover at the other edge of the frame, “I’m not falling for this. Tell me you’re not falling for this?”

Almost every single one of your razor-sharp instincts told you to hop on the back of your horse and bolt, save a single tickle at the back of your head. There was a tug on a thread that had been loose for months now, the reminder that at one point in the not-so-distant past you’d been a straggler collected by a man willing to take a chance.

“Jesus Christ,” Indy scolded at your silence, “Let’s go.”

“Who’s with you?!” you yelled through the missing glass, Indy groaning as she clicked the safety off on her weapon.

“Just my son!” the man replied, hope seeping into his voice, “Please! I’m unarmed!”

“Well that’s fucking stupid,” Indy muttered, earning her a dirty look, “He’s lying. Millie, he’s lying. Eugene barely made it home alive two weeks ago—“

“Show me the kid!” you demanded, ignoring Indy entirely, your fate now dependent on this momentary lapse in judgment.

When a boy no older than eight emerged from behind a tree that should have been too narrow to hide him, your spine straightened. You could hear Indy muttering under her breath as the frail child slid behind his father, peering out from around his hip with wide, terrified eyes. With your gun raised, you kicked the door open, Indy following closely behind and demanding for hands to be in sight at all times, the man obliging as he watched with fear and hope swirling in his gaze.

“Talk,” you instructed, the muzzle of your gun inches from his forehead as he dropped to his knees in surrender.

“We’re…looking for a place called Jackson,” his voice was shaking, eyes averted, “It’s a myth…but we couldn’t stay…had to chance it.”

“Are you bit?”

“No!”

“Spores?”

“Traveled in open air, I swear.”

“Anyone follow you?”

“We snuck past a camp three days ago, but they never saw us.”

“A camp?” Indy cut in, “Where?”

“By the river.”

Another problem added to the growing list. Maria and Tommy would want as much information about the visitors encroaching on the protected territory, risking Jackson’s people and resources wasn't something either of them took lightly. The possibility this man was a scout passed through your mind, flashing like a warning beacon as you felt Indy’s eyes staring. She’d left this decision up to you and was impatiently awaiting your verdict.

“Is this your dad?” you asked the boy, putting your gun back in its holster and hoping for the best as you kneeled to get on his level, “Tell me the truth.”

“How did you get that scar?” he asked after a nod, timid as a mouse, his big brown eyes so terrified it made your stomach clench.

“Bad people.”

“Like the people at the river?”

“You tell me.”

“They took mommy.”

Caught in a lie, the man began to stammer in defense as Indy doubled down, her gun still raised as she took a menacing step toward him. He detailed their journey, the narrow escape from the hunters camping on the water banks, and the loss of his wife who had been taken as the child's eyes remained transfixed on the long scar slashed across your nose and cheeks. He promised none had followed, swore on his life, begged for at least the boy, James, to be taken to safety or spared, your own intentions becoming murkier to the survivor who had begun to weep.

“Let’s go,” you snapped, “Give me your pack, the kid can ride with me.”

“So I get to ride with the weirdo?!” Indy chastised as you began to search through the man’s bag, finding food that had been stretched too thin and clothes worn down enough to be sheer.

“Where are you taking us?” you were asked as Indy helped the small boy up to sit in front of you in the saddle, her grip on the father's coat collar rough as she tugged him towards her own waiting mare.

“It’s your lucky day, Simon,” she taunted, “We’re headed to the mythical land of Jackson.”

The first face you saw as the wooden gates of Jackson closed behind you was unexpected, Joel bursting out of the stables and running with Tommy hot on his heels.

“Who the hell is this?” he growled, placing himself between you and Simon as if you hadn’t just ridden miles beside him on a horse.

“Simon,” you answered, the way the new gray and black flannel Joel was wearing hugged his shoulders slowing your speech, “and James. They come bearing bad news.”

After scans to the backs of their necks, the Tipsy Bison welcomed them just as it had you almost three months ago. They devoured the food put in front of them unlike you had, Tommy and Joel immediately planning the scout of this supposed encampment for the following morning at dawn.

“They’re armed,” Simon warned, his face falling at the decision to take on the hunters head-on.

“So are we,” Joel replied, his tone hard and menacing, “You two comin’?”

“Of course!” Indy answered with an air of sarcasm, “Who could refuse?”

With the help of Simon, an ambush was planned, Tommy thanking you for having the judgment to trust the stranger enough to bring him back. It had gone against every one of your most basic instincts, trusting a man in the wild like that, and your eyes drifted over to Joel as you contemplated exactly why that was. You hadn’t trusted him either, and he hadn’t trusted you, but here you sat beside him in a bar enclosed in the safest stronghold the United States had to offer.

“Is your wife alive?” Joel asked Simon as Tommy began to lead him and his son to the inn for the night.

“Last I knew,” he answered sadly, the reality of why that was settling onto Joel’s face in a furious scowl.

“Can you handle a gun?”

“Joel…” you scolded, this man clearly in no state to be storming into the trenches, “He’s not up for it. If there are women there, we’re getting them all out regardless.”

Your tone left no room for argument, and Joel’s surrender was swift as you turned to follow Indy to finally begin your evening plans, “Yes ma’am.”

“She’s terrifying,” Simon muttered when you were just out of earshot, a smirk ticking up one corner of Joel’s lips.

“She is, ain’t she?” he chuckled, smiling fondly as you disappeared further and further into the gray autumn dusk.

An impatient Ellie was seated on the stoop of Indy’s single-story home, her face lighting up when you rounded the corner before bounding down the street to meet you. Her “you’re fucking late” had you smiling, your arm slinging around her shoulders as you explained yourself honestly, promising to make it up to her Friday when she came by.

“I already picked the movie,” she bragged as you dropped the bag of groceries onto Indy’s counter, “Something with planes.”

“Talk to me, Goose!” you recited, a toothy grin breaking onto Ellie’s face.

“Goodness gracious great balls of fire!” Indy chimed in with a bushel of carrots as a microphone, Ellie promptly inviting her to join the Friday festivities and beaming once again when it was accepted.

The lessons in the kitchen were just as much for you as they were for Ellie, her dinner postponed dinner party having ended before it began when Joel walked into his kitchen so filled with smoke it had left his eyes red for two days after. You’d teased him about it passing him at the stables after patrols, for a man that had tossed smoke bombs he scrounged up from expired explosives and sugar, he certainly had gone soft.

“This is what you’re missing,” Indy informed as she tossed a bushel of green herbs in front of you, “Thyme.”

“Guess it’s time to start learning how to grow herbs in my backyard,” you replied, trying to keep a straight face through the terrible joke that had Ellie practically on the floor and Indy giving you a dead stare that reminded you of someone else.

Gardening was something that had piqued your interest, it always had. You’d tried to maintain a small Pothos in your dorm room, the lack of light killing even the most hearty of plants, and then the world had gone to shit. Ellie had griped about her hatred of farming rotation, but every time you passed Maria in the streets or saw her at the Bison, you were tempted to request a week here or there in the greenhouses. Winter was approaching, but a book on the subject sat waiting by the armchair in the living room, Joel having accompanied you to the swap shop with the last of your venison from his freezer to exchange for the pile of to-be-reads.

“Don’t chop food with that!” Indy screeched as the familiar click of Ellie’s switchblade broke through the comfortable silence, “You kill things with it!”

“I washed it!” Ellie defended, grumbling to herself as she pocketed it, picking up the provided knife laying beside her on the counter.

All you could do was laugh at the exchange, your fingers staining green as you plucked at the thyme you’d been thrown. The prep went quickly with three hands, the pot bubbling on the stove as the deck of cards was quickly brought out, a lively round of blackjack ongoing between Ellie and Indy as you dealt.

Clean-ups and laundry services were wagered, with Ellie bringing home the big win of Indy’s hand in clothes washing for the next week, a full basket waiting to be scrubbed back at her little converted garage. After dinner was shared, Ellie was sent home with two containers, one for her and one for Joel, with Indy sliding you a third with a knowing smirk.

“Before you go,” she blurted out as you followed Ellie out the front door, “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you didn’t listen to me today.”

Quickly you spun, running out onto the porch and almost knocking Ellie straight onto the ground, “Oh,” you sighed in relief, “Thought pigs were flying for a second.”

“After I fed you dinner.”

“See you bright and early.”

“Can’t wait! Nothing like the smell of gunpowder in the morning.”

When Ellie asked where you were going as you walked her home, you skirted around the subject. There was no need to worry her, she’d already been particularly on edge since the incident six weeks ago. You knew she could tell you were lying, and as much as it ate away at you, it was for the best. Her life had become exponentially easier and less burdened once the walls of Jackson had welcomed you, but you knew the years of freedom from worry would be short for her already being 15, she could savor the time she had to be carefree.

As you rounded the corner from the greenhouses to the back gate closest to her little house, soft notes of music greeted you, the sight of Joel on the porch gently plucking the strings of an acoustic guitar lit by the dull orange glow of his backlight held your gaze as Ellie bid you goodbye. She laughed while your brain caught up to her words, a quick, nervous goodbye mumbled as you quickly glanced at her teasing expression before returning to what would be seared into your memory. Your feet carried you subconsciously toward him, his eyes finding yours in the dark.

“Hey,” he greeted, gruff but soft, tuning the instrument in his hands with subtle turns of the pegs, “Thanks for walkin’ her home.”

“Sure,” you choked out, your mouth dry, “I didn’t know you could play guitar.”

“Yeah. Been playin’ since I was a kid. Haven’t touched one in some twenty years now though.”

“Sounded fine to me.”

“Well, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

With nothing but a gesture, he welcomed you to take the empty chair on the porch, a round table with a bottle of whiskey and a tumbler set between the two seats. He picked up where he’d left off, unbothered by your intrusion, his shoulders relaxed and his features serene as his fingers ran off of muscle memory untainted by decades of disuse.

“Help yourself,” he offered, his chin ticking towards the amber liquid to his left, and you filled the empty glass halfway at his invitation.

The whiskey was warm as it settled in your stomach, the cool night air nipping at your nose and cheeks as you settled back in the chair, your eyes fluttering closed as the notes of his song traveled with the breeze. This was contentment you hadn’t felt in a very long time, not one you could vibrantly remember anyway. Your thoughts calmed for a moment, each twang of the guitar recentering you in this serenity, your fingers tapping absentmindedly on the glass now sitting ignored in your lap.

“I ain’t carrying you home,” he teased, one of your eyes opening into a slit to peek at him.

“Can I have a blanket at least?” you jested in return, enjoying the toothy grin stretching up on his face.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Another gulp of liquor preceded your meditative state returning, his song continuing longer after finding the perfect harmony. You weren’t sure how much time had passed when silence roused you from tranquility, his fingers pulling the glass from your lazy grip.

“No, keep going,” you mumbled, it was almost a whine, but a breathy laugh followed the request.

“Yes, ma’am.”

It seemed darker, a little cooler, Ellie’s lights were still on but some of the surrounding windows that had been illuminated before were now black. Joel seemed indifferent to the late hour, decades of long, days-long stretches without sleep still wearing on him, the dark circles beneath his eyes improved but not indiscernible. His hair had grown longer, the length now closer to what you recognized from your time on the road, the curls behind his ears beginning to reappear.

“You should get home,” he announced, pouring a glass of whiskey and downing it in one shot, “We got an early mornin’.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, already missing the state the night had put you in and hoping it lasted long enough to get you to sleep, “Okay.”

“Want me to walk you?’

“No. I’m okay. Thank you though.”

A restless night followed, the faint hint of a song replaying in the back of your mind enough to at least stop you from screeching into the gray morning light as it filtered into your windows, the cold sweat coating your skin enough to remind you of the horrors that had filled your nightly rest. You dressed quickly, eating breakfast slowly as you watched the clock tick closer to 7 AM. The sun greeted you a little later each morning as autumn approached, the air still with its overnight frost stinging your lungs as you took off towards the stables. Joel’s house was on your way, the hope of crossing paths with him inflating in your chest like a balloon all to be popped as he was nowhere to be found despite your slowed steps.

The stables were bustling with the team of six heading out, the Miller brothers, Indy, Paulie, and Eugene all prepping their horses during your apparently late arrival. Indy teased you while you scrambled to fill your quiver and grab a few magazines of ammo for your handgun, your breathless thank you to her as she passed the reins to your saddled horse to you putting you in her debt. “Ellie’s laundry is now yours.”

“That is not a fair trade-off! For putting a saddle on!? Are you out of your mind?” you argued to your laughter, “I’ll help you. Best you’ll get.”

Despite the stakes and danger that lay ahead, the ride was surprisingly lighthearted. When the river came into view, however, business took over. Tommy and Joel had established that the hunters had likely moved closer, opting to camp for a few days between shifts. Jackson might have been a myth to some men, like Simon, but to others, its lands were a hunting ground for unexpecting survivors eager to regain some normalcy. Hunters, slavers, and cannibals alike stalked the woods preying on the innocent. Fear that this group was a faction of slavers was high, few groups took women and kept them alive.

“Okay, listen up,” Tommy announced, a plume of smoke visible from the shoreline of the river less than half a mile away, “Indy, Arrow, find the women. That is your job. Take out who you can, but the four of us will clear you a path. They ain’t gonna want to see any of us, it’s gotta be you. Understood?”

Not that you were a soft place to land, but you understood the sentiment.

“Joel and Paulie, take right, Eugene and I will take left,” Tommy finished, Joel’s grumbles of protest were heard throughout the group as you suppressed a smile, “We’re all making it out. No questions asked. Be safe. Be smart. Home for dinner.”

“I am not cooking,” Indy butt in, “Not this time.”

“Well, the Bison it is then,” Eugene conceded, “I could use one of Seth’s sandwiches. Haven’t had one in a bit.”

“Okay, focus,” Joel snapped, “We can worry about dinner when we’re all out. Alive.”

“You’re insufferable when she’s around…” Paulie mumbled what he though was only to himself, Tommy’s arm immediately shooting out to stop his brother from lunging, “Eugene and I can take the right! He’d get me killed keeping his eyes locked on his prize.”

“I swear to God!”

“Shut the hell up! Both of you!” Tommy snapped, “Joel, with me. Jesus Christ.”

“You should look a little less excited,” Indy whispered in your ear, your jaw snapping shut at her warning.

Gravel cracked beneath your boots as you crept towards the muddy bank, not a soul spotted mingling about yet, red flags waving in all of your heads as you continued the approach. Indy was muttering under her breath about how fucked this was, there was no way this wasn’t a trap, and you were inclined to agree.

“It’s too quiet,” you hissed at Joel as the two of you took cover behind a large boulder, the camp completely visible and notably deserted, “Something is wrong here.”

“Yeah,” he growled, “Shit.”

“Look, camp’s empty,” Paulie spoke too loudly, everyone’s wide eyes shooting to him filled with confusion and rage, “maybe they left something behind.”

“Push forward,” Tommy commanded, you and Joel both sighing in disagreement, “We gotta at least look around.”

With weapons drawn, you crept forward, noting that even though this camp was haphazardly put together, it was expansive. Someone had no intention of leaving here anytime soon, the question was where that someone might be. The silence was deafening, your leg throbbing as memories clawed at your fragile psyche that had just begun to shoddily repair. It had been silent that day too, until gunfire echoed through the neighborhood and the pain became too much to resist.

“Hey,” a deep southern voice rumbled from beside you, “I got you.”

“He asked me to bring her back,” you choked, recalling the ride back to Jackson with Simon and James in tow, “either way.”

“And we will.”

If only the confidence in his voice was reassuring.

Muffled voices were heard, halting all of you in your tracks, cover being taken as Joel went ahead alone, your heart hammering as your eyes stayed locked on him, your finger twitching against the trigger of your gun as every muscle tensed waiting for the need to strike. When Joel halted and crouched behind a pile of firewood, his arm shot up, four fingers pointing up towards the sky. Six on four was no concern, in fact, it was probably almost too easy.

“Okay,” Tommy began, the plan now being set into full motion, “Ladies, you know your job, we’ll do the rest. Search every tent, they gotta be in one of ‘em.”

“There has to be more than four,” Indy warned, pulling you back down to the ground as you rose, still staring at the man ten yards ahead of you.

“Maybe. Maybe not. They’re probably out huntin’ and this our time for an easy strike. We pick those four off and take the rest out at the wall when they come lookin’. Easy.”

The logic made sense. It was now or never, with or without Indy at your side. As she went to press her argument with Tommy, you took advantage of her distraction, taking off uncaring of who followed. You and Joel had taken out more than four hunters in your day, you could do it again. The sound of your boots had him rising to his feet, his finger pointing to a larger tent off in the distance, the one the men were closest to. There was no doubt in your mind he was right.

With a nod, you were off, Indy hot on your heels as the men engaged the four sitting around a fire, somehow managing to finish the job without a shot going off in an attempt to not alert anyone who may still be lurking nearby. The tent you and Joel had assumed housed who you were looking for turned out to be filled with supplies, ones you hoped you had the time to search through later, leaving you and Indy to search the remaining half a dozen tents.

“Nothin’?” Tommy asked as your head emerged from the third with a downtrodden expression, “Shit.”

“Maybe they’re deeper in the woods,” you suggested as Indy came back from searching the final three with nothing, “It would make sense. Isolate them, make them feel stranded, helpless.”

“Okay. Fan out, whistle if you need. No more than ten minutes and we regroup. I’m serious. I don’t like this.”

Stress and tensions were high as you and Indy walked deeper into the woods, her warnings it was time to turn back went unheeded; they had to be here, they had to be somewhere. A whistle from your right set your feet into a sprint, Paulie and Eugene standing outside a dilapidated shed sealed with too shiny a padlock. A hand stopped your gun as you raised it, Joel coming to stand beside you with a look of warning in his eyes.

“Be smart,” he cautioned in a low voice, knowing how you got in high stake situations, “I’ll get it.”

The butt of his shotgun took out the lock in three blows, the edge of the door shattering at the impact. You went in first, your blood running ice cold in your veins at the sight before you.

“Oh my God…” you muttered, Indy’s equally shocked breath echoing beside you, “Joel…”

“Christ,” he exhaled, his hand pulling you slightly behind him as he surveyed the group of eight all staring at you with wide, terrified eyes, “We’re here to help…and we don’t have much time.”

Indy took over, the group sighing in relief when everyone was on their feet. At least they could walk. The walk back to the horses was quick and guarded, the six of you forming a perimeter around the women all huddled together, one visibly pregnant but you doubt she was alone in that. They were understandably skeptical, but somewhat hopeful it seemed, all of them looking to you like a beacon of hope, of reason.

“Get them on the horses. Indy, Arrow, can you share one?” Tommy strategized, with fourteen people and six horses, this had turned into a predicament, “Paulie, Eugene, get on the last one. Joel and I will walk.”

“I want to check that tent,” you reminded them, Indy staying back to help get everyone loaded up to go while you, Joel, and Tommy advanced, Paulie and Eugene staying planted in the middle ground.

There was some food that would come in handy, various boxes of ammo you stuffed into packs uncaring of what it was, you’d find a use for it, and one little canvas sack of what felt like dry beans that had your lips lifting into a smile when you brought it to your nose.

“Hey Tex!” you called out, tossing Joel the bag as soon as his attention was on you, his brow furrowing as he peaked inside, the contents setting his face aglow.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he sighed, grinning so wide it sparkled into his hazel eyes.

“Hey,” Paulie snapped, “Why’s he get that?”

“Cause Deacon has a favorite,” Eugene answered with a wink in your direction.

“Deacon has a debt actually,” you corrected, movement catching in your peripheral.

The whistle of your arrow through the air caught everyone’s attention, the cry of a man taking a bolt to the chest cavity setting off a row of dominoes on a trail to disaster. As more men emerged from the trees, panic set in. Five turned to seven and then seven to twelve… Tommy was screaming at Indy to take off, don’t even slow down until the walls of Jackson were well in sight while Joel bellowed at you from behind a stack of firewood to get to the god damn horse, but as a chain of automatic gunfire cracked through the woods the world fell away.

Standing like a target in the middle of a field, the rattling of the assault rifle had you frozen in place. The echoes of FEDRA soldiers, the rumbling of a tank, the smell of smoke, gunpowder, and decay, the screams of the QZ citizens caught in a war zone…

“Tommy!” You didn’t know a Tommy. Who was Tommy? “Cover me!”

Cover him. You could cover. You knew how to cover. Your pistol was heavy on your thigh and cold in your fingers as you pulled it from its holster, firing off in front of you despite having no target in sight.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ!” Maybe there was a target.

Whipping around wildly in search of him, your ears began to ring as a flash bang went off, shrouding your surroundings in a smoky haze. It all came flooding back as the piercing shrill grew louder, the smoke growing thicker as you began to choke, and you weren’t sure if the tears streaming down your face were a product of the burn or the memories that now went hurtling to the forefront of your mind and trapped you in your nightmares here in the light of day.

An arm wrapping around your middle pushed what little air you’d been able to bring into your lungs, your feet forced to shuffle as it pulled you backward, your back hitting something jagged and splintering as you were tossed to the ground and caged in. You couldn’t hear a thing, your eyes locked on the dirt as your body focused on its need for air. Someone was in front of you, you could feel the heat radiating off of them, something was grazing against your cheek, a jacket maybe, or the edge of a knife. You couldn’t be sure. Bullet shells rained down from above you, one brass cylinder falling into your lap, smoke still billowing from the searing metal, at least whoever it was wasn’t shooting at you.

“Joel, get her out of here!”

That name... You knew that name.

“Joel?” It was a plea, an anchor, a place to ground yourself.

His canvas coat was rough in your fingers as you realized it was gripped between your knuckles, the comforting sight of a red and black flannel coming into view as you breathed in the familiar scent of leather and wood. Joel.

“Move,” it was a command, his voice hard with what could be anger or focus, you couldn’t be sure.

A large palm swallowed your upper arm whole as you were lifted to your feet and forced to take off into a sprint you weren’t prepared for. His grip kept you upright every time you tripped, the whinny of a horse startling you as you were lifted and tossed into a saddle.

“You ride and you don’t look back, you understand?” he instructed, shooting his eyes over his shoulder, “Do you understand?”

With a snarl at your lack of response, he slapped the horse’s back end, your hands forced to grip the horn of the saddle for dear life as the horse took off in a gallop.

“Joel!” you yelled as you steadied yourself enough to look back and see him disappear into the trees and gunshots, “JOEL!”

Chapter 6

Pretty art of them from this chapter that makes me swoon (why is tumblr eating the quality of images worse than usual today. annoying.)

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us fic #tlou fanfiction #tlou fic

112 notes · View notes

phillippadgettwrites · 1 year ago

Text

One for The Road, Chapter Two

Rated X / 5326 words / Posted on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic

Mulder rolls up to a stop sign and the hula girl wiggles aggressively back and forth, her ceramic smile unfaltering. His mind is somehow racing and entirely blank at the same time, the torrent of thoughts too strong for any single one to be picked out and considered. He feels ecstatic, horrified, confused, afraid, elated, one after the other and then all at once on a circuit.

What the fuck just happened?

She was gone. Gone gone. Her stuff was gone, her love was gone, and even a strained friendship proved to be too much for her.

I can’t do this anymore.

Those words followed by the snap of the screen door slamming closed behind her echoed in his head for weeks, and when he finally summoned the energy to make and keep an appointment with a therapist, he heard those same words come out of his own mouth when asked what brought him in.

I can’t do this anymore.

He’s worked so hard to build something bearable out of the ruins of his life. He’s searched so diligently for meaning that isn’t rooted in trauma and pain. He’s tried so earnestly to be okay without her, and he only just recently got a handle on it—just a couple fingertips curled around the edge of the cliff, a climb out of his misery within reach. Six months of hard work to pick up the tiniest bit of momentum, and she comes crashing back into his life and sends him careening to the bottom again with her wet mouth and her—

He startles when the car behind him honks, and he crosses the intersection before pulling off to the side of the road and digging his cell phone out of his pocket. He finds the number in his contacts list and it rings and rings and rings until it finally goes to voicemail.

“You’ve reached Adam Glidden with Mental Health Matters Therapeutic Services. Please leave a message and I’ll return your call as soon as possible. If you’re experiencing a life threatening emergency, please hang up and call 911.”

He hangs up and stares at his phone. Six missed calls, all from Sylvia. Guilt roils in his belly, kicking up a wave of nausea. He rolls down the window to get some fresh air, then tosses his cell onto the passenger seat and keeps driving.

It seems callous to say that he doesn’t care about her, and also inaccurate. She’s a very nice person. A very good person. The kind of person who’s too polite to ask about his scars, both physical and emotional. Adam encouraged him to get back out there and try dating, so he did, and he met Sylvia almost immediately. She pursued him and he didn’t resist, and somehow he found himself in a relationship. Every day he wakes up and does the things he needs to do to be okay: take his medication, go for a run, keep his appointments with Adam, show up for the dates Sylvia invites him on. He’s not sure that he wants to do any of these things, but he does them because the other option is rotting away on his couch pining for Scully, which he already tried. And while Adam discouraged him from using winning Scully back as motivation for getting better, he also pointed out that Mulder certainly wasn’t making himself very desirable with once-weekly showers and a solid diet of canned soup.

Letting her slip away is the worst thing he’s ever done. Even though he knows it wasn’t entirely within his control, he’s aware that letting himself believe their bond was indestructible led to underplaying the importance of doing the things she was asking—begging—him to do. Coming out of the fog of his depression meant looking back at everything that happened with newfound clarity, and if not for the fact that she very explicitly asked him not to contact her, he would have reached out to tell her how sorry he is. How much he regrets the way things ended between them. How much he still loves her. That he’ll never stop. But for all the times she asked for space and he didn’t give it, for all the times she begged him to drop an argument and he wouldn’t, for all the times he pushed and pulled and tore her boundaries to shreds, this time he listened to her. It felt like the last good thing he could do for her after all the pain he caused.

And now she calls him out of the blue with a plea that he remove the last remnants of himself from her life, then answers the door looking like a siren and smelling like fucking heaven. He can’t even remember if he kissed her or she kissed him. One second he was debating trying to hug her, unsure if she’d let him get that close, and the next his cock was slipping down the back of her throat. He’d think it was just a vivid fantasy if not for the wet spot on his jeans.

Fuck, he’s getting hard again just thinking about it. This should be worthy of celebration considering the struggles he’s had between the depression and the SSRIs, but it just makes him feel like a monster. He’s never cheated on someone before. The fact that it was with Scully makes it difficult to characterize it as such, but it’s how any reasonable person would see it. It’s how Sylvia would.

He parks in the driveway of a blue rambler with his stomach in knots, then pulls down the visor and inspects his face and neck for any signs of his indiscretion, but sees nothing. As he approaches the door, he tugs the hem of his T-shirt down to cover the fading damp spot beside his fly before he lifts his arm to knock. The door pops open before his knuckles have a chance to land, and Sylvia’s expression quickly morphs from worry to irritation.

“Fox,” she says with a relieved sigh, her palm pressed to her chest. “You’re almost an hour late, I was worried sick.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” he says, only now realizing that he hadn’t thought to come up with an excuse for his tardiness.

“I called you half a dozen times,” she says, stepping aside so he can enter the foyer.

She’s not bad looking, but not necessarily good looking either. On the short side, but not so much that it’s the first thing you notice about her. Thick through the waist and hips, but not quite what you’d call chubby. She has long brown hair and delicate features, but isn’t overly feminine. On the whole, in both appearance and personality, she’s inoffensive. Anodyne. Perfectly sufficient and also perfectly boring. She seemed like a safe choice, compared to the type of women he’s typically drawn to. In fact, he wasn’t drawn to her at all. He was there, and she was there, and here they are.

“I’m sorry, something came up,” he says, praying that she doesn’t ask him to elaborate.

Sylvia shakes her head and smiles.

“Well, you’re here now. Everyone’s waiting for you, come on,” she says, then pops up on her tiptoes to give him a kiss. He turns his head a little and her lips land on his cheek, a sleight she either doesn’t notice or chooses not to address.

She grabs his hand and tows him into her dining room, where several people are seated around the table drinking and talking.

“He’s here!” Sylvia announces, and all their heads swivel towards him with broad smiles and warm greetings. He smiles back, lifts one hand and delivers a single wave, wishes that the ground beneath his feet would open up and swallow him whole.

Introductions are made, but he can’t retain any of it. One of them is an accountant, another works in healthcare. They’ve known Sylvia since college, or used to work with her, or live two doors down. They all tell him how much they’ve heard about him, and how glad they are to put a face to the name. Sylvia holds his hand and smiles at him, and as she’s introducing him to a woman with frizzy blonde curls who waxes poetic about how Sylvia is just the loveliest person she’s ever known, he comes to the conclusion that he has to break things off with her. He can’t carry this secret forever, and confessing seems out of the question as he’s not nearly invested enough in this relationship to put in the work that would be required to move past it.

“Can you help me in the kitchen?” Sylvia asks as people begin to settle back in their seats. He reluctantly follows her, and she hands him a basket of rolls before pulling a pot roast out of the oven. “Hopefully it’s not too dry; it’s been sitting in here a while,” she says without malice.

“I’m so sorry, Sylvia,” he says, his fingers digging into the woven sides of the bread basket.

“It’s okay,” she says, setting the pot roast on the cooktop. “Things happen, not a huge deal. Just call me next time, okay?”

She looks over her shoulder and flashes him a smile, and he’s overcome with anger. Why couldn’t Scully just let him have this? This banal relationship that isn’t even in the same universe as what he had with her, but dulls the edges of his loneliness to the point of tolerability. Is she going to punish him forever for fucking things up between them? As though losing her wasn’t already the greatest consequence imaginable?

“No,” he says, hanging his head. “I’m sorry…I can’t do this.”

She doesn’t say anything, and after a handful of seconds pass he peeks up at her. She’s standing there frozen with an oven mitt on one hand, her eyebrows stitched and a tiny frown on her mouth.

“Have dinner with my friends?” she asks hopefully. Mulder shakes his head.

“No. This. Us. I’m sorry.”

She huffs a disbelieving scoff, pulling the oven mitt off and tossing it on the counter.

“Why?”

He shrugs. There’s no point in telling her the truth; it will only hurt her more.

“I just don’t think…We’re not a good match,” he tries.

She nods and leans against the counter with her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes growing increasingly wet.

“Is this about your ex?” she asks tightly.

He opens his mouth to say no, but instead just repeats, “I’m sorry.”

Sylvia bites her lip, but he sees her jaw quivering. Sees tears pooling along her bottom lash line. She doesn’t deserve this. He takes one step forward and she holds her hand up to stop him.

“Just go,” she squeaks out as the first tear breaks loose and rolls down her cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

She turns her back to him and wipes at her eyes, and he silently walks down the hall and out the front door without saying goodbye to her friends. He tries not to think about what she’ll tell them, tries not to be bothered by how bad he looks in this situation. He gets in his car and drives away from the closest thing to normal he’s gotten in years.

He should go home. He should leave a message for Adam and ask for an emergency appointment. He should go on a run, take a shower, and get shitfaced. He should take accountability for his role in what happened.

Instead he drives back to Scully’s house.

It’s dusk now, and her driveway is barely lit by the one naked bulb screwed into her porch light. Still, revisiting the scene of the crime makes his blood hum a little, remembering her knees on the pavement and his dick in her mouth. He tries to channel his arousal into anger, already writing a speech in his head about how if she’s never going to give him another chance, she should leave him the hell alone. How unfair it is that she doesn’t want him, but can’t stand to know that he’s with anyone else.

It takes a few minutes for her to come to the door, though he knows she’s home by the presence of her car and several lights on inside. When she finally answers she’s tying a silk bathrobe around her waist, her hair up in a messy bun, and she looks genuinely shocked to see him.

“Mulder,” she says, adjusting the robe and revealing a sliver of her breast, which gives the impression she’s not wearing anything underneath.

“What the fuck was that, Scully?!” he shouts at her, trying to avert his eyes from her chest, and she cocks her head back a little.

“I—” she starts, but he has so much more he needs to say.

“Do you have any idea how hard this has been for me?” he continues, his volume unnecessarily loud. “Do you even care?”

Her eyes dart around the driveway behind him.

“Can you keep your voice down, please?” she implores gently.

“Oh, now you’re worried about the neighbors?!” he says, holding his arms out as though addressing the neighborhood. “Six months, Scully! Six months of therapy, and medication, and trying to find a reason to get out of bed every day knowing that you’re never coming back. Six months of work down the drain after fifteen minutes with you.”

She wilts a little, not at all resembling the confident woman who climbed into his lap and fucked his brains out not two hours ago.

“I’m sorry,” she says, her eyes on his feet. “I don’t know—It just happened.”

“It just happened,” he repeats, emphasizing every word. “You somehow find out that I’m seeing someone, and then by utter coincidence you just happen to find some of my stuff—none of which I recognize, by the way—and then you just happen to beg me to come over, and you just happen to be wearing some skin tight getup with your tits pushed up to your neck, and you just happen to blow me in your fucking driveway?! That seems totally plausible, Scully, especially for you.”

Her head is bowed, but he hears a wet sniff before she discreetly runs one finger under her eye to wipe away a tear.

“I’m sorry,” she says again. “I shouldn’t have done that. You deserve to be happy.”

“Happy?!” he bellows, and her head snaps up to regard him with wide, wet eyes. She grabs his wrist and pulls him into her entryway, then closes the door behind them as he continues to yell, his throat already growing hoarse. “Happy isn’t even on the fucking menu, Scully! The best I can hope for is that I won’t wake up every day for the rest of my life, look over at your empty side of the bed, and remember that I destroyed the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Then why haven’t you called?!” she wails, apparently comfortable matching his energy behind closed doors. “If this relationship means so much to you, why haven’t I heard from you in six months?”

Mulder is so overwhelmed with disbelief that he just stares at her for a beat. Her eyes are puffy and bloodshot, and her lips are stained with wine. She’s been crying since long before he showed up.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he says, repeating her own words back to her. “Every time I see you I can barely get out of bed for days.” She’s shaking her head, her face crumpled and her bottom lip trembling. “Please let me go.”

“I didn’t mean forever,” she warbles. “I just couldn’t watch you waste away anymore. I just couldn’t—”

She’s crying too hard to form words. She covers her face with both hands and he stands there watching her shoulders lurch with her sobs. Had he really misunderstood what she said, or did she just have so little faith he would pull through that it didn’t seem worth clarifying?

He steps forward and wraps his arms around her, which only makes her cry harder. She clings to him, grabs fistfuls of his T-shirt, struggles to catch her breath. It’s not the first time he’s held her this way, but it’s been a long time since he has. That’s not to say she hasn’t needed it.

She finally settles a little and steps away from him, looking embarrassed, and he gives her a minute to collect herself. She wipes mascara off her cheeks, re-ties her robe, and glances at him in little flashes as she tries to speak.

“Do you know how long it’s been since you yelled at me?” she says in a harsh whisper, and he’s about to feel guilty when he sees a pained little smile tug at her mouth. “It’s been so long since you cared about anything enough to get mad.”

The dual meaning isn’t lost on him.

“I never stopped caring about you,” he says quietly. “But I know it looked like I did. And probably felt like I did. I don’t think there are sufficient words to express how sorry I am for that.”

He can tell by the look on her face that she needed to hear it. He scoops her up again and she lays her head on his chest, her arms wrapped around his waist. She pulls in a deep breath and relaxes against him, and he drops a kiss to the top of her head.

They stand there like that for minutes, and after a time his hands on her back wander to her hips, stroking the silk of her bathrobe and the familiar curves of her body. She wriggles a little, her hips gently canting towards him, and it’s like speaking a language he’d all but forgotten. Part of him worries that he’s misreading her, but a bigger part of him—the part that is steadily thickening beneath his jeans—knows without a doubt that he isn’t. He runs his palm over her hip and down her thigh until he’s touching bare skin, and then back up under the hem of her bathrobe. She heaves a shuddering breath when he digs his fingers into the flesh of her ass cheek, then lifts her head off his chest and looks up at him.

Her lips are parted, her brow knit, and her eyes scatter all over his face desperately. Countless times he’s dreamt of this moment. Another chance to show her how much she means to him. Another chance to taste her and touch her without taking her for granted. Another chance to love her. Another chance.

He lowers his head slowly and she cranes her neck up to meet him, whimpering when he presses his mouth against hers. She tastes tart and salty and she kisses him deeply, lapping hungrily at his tongue as he sends his other hand up under her robe to join the first. She’s so smooth, so supple, so soft and warm and delicious. He wants to lick every inch of her, fuck every part of her, make her come so hard she can’t breathe. His grief converts itself to desire and he is devastated, inconsolable, bereft as he walks her back a few steps and then pushes her up against the wall.

He has to stoop down a little, but he always has. She moans in anticipation when he slips his hand through the slit in her robe and cups her, the heel of his palm pressing against her clit. He feels her flutter against his skin, the little trembling throbs she used to try to disguise in the early days before she was comfortable letting him see her fall apart. Now, a decade and a lifetime later, she bucks her hips against his hand and bites his bottom lip, then whispers, “You’re gonna make me come,” right into his mouth.

With his free hand, he tugs at the tie on her robe and it falls open. Her nipples are tight, her belly undulating as she grinds against his palm. She’s so fucking beautiful. He kisses her as he gently presses the tips of his fingers against her opening, not quite going inside, and her cunt presses back. She’s so wound up, like she’s been on the edge for hours. Maybe for months. Maybe for years. Maybe since that first time she palmed him over his sweatpants and he pushed her hand away, knowing that even if he were able to get hard he wouldn’t be able to sustain it.

But he’s hard now. Painfully hard. He strokes himself over his jeans just to feel how hard he is, further aroused by his own arousal. He thinks about what he used to do to her with this hard dick. What she used to let him do to her. How they used to fuck for hours in shitty motel rooms just to pass the time. How he ever let her go is more confounding to him than ever as he slips two fingers inside her and she moans long and low before she starts coming right in the palm of his hand. Her legs quiver and he feels the strain of her weight on his wrist, so he hoists her up against the wall and pins her there with his body, continuously stroking her from the inside as she comes and comes and comes.

A deep sigh tells him she’s finished, and he moves his hand to her hip, his fingers cooling in the open air. She drapes her arms over his shoulders and kisses him languidly, but suddenly she’s pulling away and looking at him like he just delivered devastating news.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, tucking a lock of hair that’s fallen out of her bun behind her ear.

She pushes on his shoulders, squirming out of his arms and then taking several steps away from him. When she turns around, her robe is tied up tight and her entire demeanor has changed.

“What is this?” she asks, shifting from one foot to the other uncomfortably. “I can’t be your mistress, Mulder.”

It hadn’t even occurred to him to tell her.

“You’re not,” he says, taking two steps forward. “I broke things off with her.”

Something unreadable passes over her face. Surprise. Pride. Confusion. Curiosity.

“Was it…” she pauses, considering something. “Was it serious?”

“No,” he says quickly, meeting her eye. She nods, looking relieved.

He takes another step forward and reaches for her, and while she doesn’t reach back, she also doesn’t resist. He lays his hands on her upper arms experimentally, then slides them up to her neck, her jaw. He tilts her face up towards his, taking in the dusting of freckles across her nose that are dappled with flecks of cried-off mascara. It hurts to think about how much he’s hurt her, so he tries not to.

“You know…” he begins, and his heart immediately starts hammering. “You know you can always come home,” he finishes, and her face falls. “I know you’re probably not ready for that, but I want you to know that the option is always there.”

“I miss you so much,” she says tightly, her eyes welling with tears. “But thinking about living in that house with you again—”

He shakes his head to quiet her.

“I know,” he says. He rests his forehead against hers and sighs. “I get it, Scully. I promise, I do. My therapist has done a phenomenal job of helping me understand what that must have been like for you.”

He hears her suck in a shaky breath, then feels her hands on the back of his neck. She’s quiet for a beat, and he imagines that he’s transmitting his sincerity from his mind to hers via that little patch of skin where their heads are touching. If she knew how truly he meant it, how absolutely unwavering he would be in his commitment to being better for her, maybe she’dfeel ready soon.

“Are you really seeing a therapist?” she asks.

“Yep. And taking a daily cocktail of Prozac and endorphins. I don’t think I need to tell you that you were right; I was depressed.”

She nods and scrapes her fingernails through the hair at the nape of his neck, making him shiver.

“Not glad to be right, in this case,” she says. Another long pause, and he can practically feel her thoughts racing against his skin “What if I wanted to see you, but not move back in?” she asks hesitantly. “Would that be okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, his heart soaring. “That would be okay.”

“And what if…What if I didn’t want you to see anyone else?”

Their foreheads are still pressed together, so he can’t see her face, but he hears in her voice how afraid she is.

“I don’t want anyone else,” he says. “Never have.”

She sighs and pops onto her tiptoes, kissing his cheek, and then his neck, then burrows her nose into the curve of his shoulder, and he wraps his arms around her waist, holding her close.

“Thank you,” she says quietly.

After a moment, she reverses her order and kisses his neck, then his cheek, and then his lips, lingering there until the kisses begin to deepen.

“I’d like to take you to bed, but I don’t know where the bedroom is,” he says, and her little chuckle is like music to his ears.

She takes his hand and leads him further into her fastidious home. They pass through the living room where earlier that day she handed him a box of what he has to assume was shit she picked up at a thrift store, and then down a hallway. When they step through her bedroom door, she freezes and says, “Oh,” a split second before his eyes fall to her bed, where the blankets are pulled back and a hot pink vibrator lays abandoned near the pillow.

She looks up at him bashfully and he smiles at her.

“It seems as though I interrupted something here, my apologies,” he says playfully. “Feel free to finish up, I don’t mind watching.”

“Yes, I recall,” she says, turning her back to the bed and letting the robe slip off her shoulders and onto the floor at her feet. “Maybe some other time.”

She starts to unbutton his jeans, and blood rushes back to his cock. He watches her, nude and flushed from her orgasm, as she slowly undresses him: jeans, shirt, and then boxers. She watches her own hand as she strokes him, then looks up and flashes a Cheshire Cat smile.

“This is quite impressive,” she says, stepping close so her breasts press against his rib cage.

“You like that?” he asks, thrusting into her hand. Her praise makes him harder, makes precum leak out of him and run down her fingers.

“I do,” she says in a breathy singsong voice.

He feels feral. If she’s looking for something slow and tender he’ll give it to her, but his bones are buzzing with the desire to fuck her senseless, to claim her as his, to make her feel the way he did when the idea that they would ever not be together was laughable. He clenches his jaw and flexes his hips, trembling with restraint.

“What do you want?” he asks her, his voice catching when she wraps her hand around his balls and tugs. “I want to make you feel good.”

She reaches one hand up and pulls him down by the back of his neck, kissing him while she plays with his cock.

“I want you to fuck me,” she says against his mouth, and his knees nearly give out. “Show me how much you want me. Please.”

He picks her up and deposits her on the bed, flips her onto her belly, grabs her by the hips and pulls her up until she’s on all fours. For a second he just looks at the red slash between her legs, swollen and slick, unable to decide whether to fuck her or eat her. She drops down to her forearms, putting her cunt on full display, and wiggles her hips back and forth temptingly.

He moans at the taste of her. Sweet and summery, with the slightest hint of his own bleachy brightness still left behind from earlier. He licks her clit, her ass, fucks her with his tongue, and she gasps and pushes back against him, hungry for more. His dick feels like it might shoot right off his body if he doesn’t get some relief soon, and when he finally gets to his knees and pushes inside her, they both groan and hold mostly still, grinding against each other and savoring it.

She sits back up a little, changing the angle of her pelvis, and he wraps his arm around her waist to hold her steady before he starts bucking up into her at a quick clip. She fucks him right back, their hips moving in a synchronous dance that provides constant friction, and she’s coming again so quickly that he has to squeeze his eyes closed and think about global warming to keep himself from coming.

Next she’s on her back, her legs tucked up against his sides and their bellies pressed together. He kisses her neck, sucks on her earlobe, tells her how good she feels as he slips in and out of her, brushing past her clit over and over. She claws at his back and pulls him as close as possible when she erupts again, and he grits his teeth against the tight squeeze of her, barely hanging on.

He rolls off of her and she climbs into his lap with a shy smile, then brushes her slick lips over his shaft, forward and back, while he watches, slack jawed. She leans forward and shifts her hips around, teasing herself with the head of his cock until he finally slips inside. He blows out a stream of air, knowing he’s too close to hold off much longer, and she sits up, looking at him with a dreamy expression.

“Are you gonna come?” she asks, her hips moving in delicious circles that make his balls draw up tight.

“I want you to come again,” he says tightly, gripping her hips.

She moans, and he feels her throb around him.

“I wanna feel you come,” she says determinedly. “I want you to come inside me.”

“Fuck,” he says, his hips jumping. He can’t hold off any longer, not if she keeps talking like that. “Then fuck me.”

She plants her hands on his shoulders and flexes her hips quickly forward and back, simultaneously grinding her clit against him and providing an incredibly tight fit. Stars burst behind his eyes, his body curls up towards hers as all his muscles tense, and he bellows loudly as he explodes inside her.

“Oh my god,” she gasps, her mouth hanging open and her eyes closed as he feels her grip him like a vice.

It’s overwhelming, and he breaks with reality as they both wail and come with complete abandon, riding it out until there isn’t a single drop of pleasure left to be found. She collapses against his chest, nuzzling his neck and humming with satisfaction. He doesn’t move at all, afraid she’ll take it as a sign she should get up, and they both doze in a sea of dopamine and oxytocin for an indeterminate amount of time. His stomach growls, and she props herself up on her elbows, smiling down at him.

“Have you eaten dinner?” she asks, and he thinks of Sylvia’s dried out pot roast, then shakes his head.

“Not technically, no,” he says, bouncing his hips playfully.

“Would you like to have dinner with me?” she asks hopefully.

He’d like to have her back for keeps, but dinner will have to suffice for now.

“I’d love to.”

#x files fanfic #the x files #xf fic #xf fanfic

45 notes · View notes

triskhellion · 2 years ago

Text

Second Chance Strays

Rated: Explicit (8.4K)

Relationship: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski

Characters: Derek Hale, Stiles Stilinski, Larem the red deer, unnamed Julia Baccari

Tags: Magical Stiles Stilinski, Alpha Derek Hale, Alternate Universe, Dead Sheriff Stilinski, Graphic Violence, Getting Together, First Kiss, Virgin Stiles Stilinski, Fuck or Die, Claiming, Various Explicit Sex Acts, Knotting, Mating Bites, Mating Bonds, Wilderness Survival, Happy Ending, POV Stiles Stilinski

Mead Moons prompts: 21, Becomes, Buck, Claiming, Hay, Herbs, & Mead. @sterek-and-stuff-events

Sterek Weekly prompt: Explore (also Healthy & Family.)

When Stiles found the wolf injured and unconscious in the snow he sighed heavily, but dragged the unusually large animal onto his sled over the snorted objections of his hoof-stamping hart.

“Don’t worry, Larem, I won’t let it eat you,” he said, scratching around a soon to be shed antler and trying to soothe his sole companion of the past 3 years.

Cutting his foraging short, he secured the unfortunate creature and returned to his solitary hut hidden deep in the forest to take a closer look. Male, with thick, black fur and seeming a healthy weight for his size. That was a good sign. The fact that the wolf had been doing okay before whatever befell him recently gave him a better chance of survival. Stiles had magic yes, but his healing abilities were fairly modest and generally more helping things along than performing outright miracles.

After some minor debate he moved the wolf inside. There wasn’t much for the animal to destroy should he wake and it’d get him out of the elements for now. That way his body could focus on healing and not expending as much energy for warmth, especially with the increase in breath rate he now noticed.

Lighting a fire was an easy task for Stiles’ magic and he went out to boil some water in his smallest pot to cleanse the wounds — the wolf’s right front leg had obviously been caught in a trap, but he’d somehow managed to get out of it — and gathered comfrey, yarrow, chamomile, and calendula from his supply of healing herbs in the meantime.

As he was taught by his mother years before, Stiles used a mortar and pestle to grind them roughly, adding garlic and honey to form a paste. He brought in the hot water and soaked clean cloths to wipe away any debris before applying the poultice and covering it with a strip of fabric. The wolf twitched and whimpered, but remained unconscious.

Stiles put his hands on the now heaving sides of his patient and concentrated, finding something that felt dark and gave the impression of bitterness — a poison? — and began to draw it out. It was hard, but several minutes later he seemed to have gotten it all and the labored breathing eased. He used his power to press the noxious matter into a tiny ball and sealed it pine resin before tossing into the fire.

That done, he filled most of his mid-sized pot with water, salting it, and set it over the flame to make a warming broth with bones from some of his meals over the last few days, which he’d wrapped and buried under the snow. (One didn’t waste anything out here.) He could spare a couple handfuls of grouse as well from his larder out back and still had an ample supply of dock seed flour to make a heartier soup. Stiles took out a large bowl’s worth for the canine and then added onion, garlic, sage, and thyme to the rest.

When he returned he was quite surprised, but not utterly shocked to find a naked man on the floor where the wolf had been. He hadn’t seen such beings in person before, but had heard of them. Stiles put the bowl down on the table and peered at him curiously, noting how his wounds seemed to be gone now and how he looked just like any other man. Well, perhaps not any other man, he was very attractive indeed.

Said man awoke soon after, easing back into consciousness at first and then sitting up quickly, no doubt alarmed by the strange surroundings and possible danger. He whipped around toward Stiles, eyes turning from some pale color to a brilliant red, and growled warily.

Stiles huffed and crossed his arms. He knew he should probably be more understanding of whatever his guest had been through, but he’d been alone a long time (aside from dear Larem, pun absolutely intended) and now here he was being threatened in his own home after rescuing the sorry shifter. His own eyes flashed silver and the warning noise cut off immediately. The man awkwardly tried to both curl in on himself and bare his neck at the same time, releasing a short whine before trying to speak.

He croaked and cleared his throat a few times as if from long disuse and then hoarsely said, “I’m sorry, Magus, please forgive me. Please don’t kill me.”

Stiles sighed. So the wolf had heard of his kind too. Magical beings who too often strayed to the dark side and could cause untold harm in their greed and entitlement or simple desire for cruelty.

It wasn’t the majority of them, but any occurrence was too often when as powerful as they could be. In the past couple decades it seemed to be as high as 1 in 8, at least to some degree of malfeasance, and many a decent mage had been hurt or killed in the process of defending against them. A pang of grief ran through Stiles as he thought of his parents; his mother died when he was 9 protecting him and other children from a mad wizard and his father when he was 17, just 3 and a half years ago, ambushed while doing his lawman’s rounds in the city of Beacon. Both had taken their assailants down with them, but it was little consolation.

“I didn’t go through the trouble of saving your wolfy ass to kill you now,” he quipped, walking back toward the table. “It’s nothing exciting, but there’s food if you’d like and water to drink and wash up.”

“Thank you, Magus.”

“Stiles.”

“Pardon, but what’s a “stiles?”

“Me,” he responded, looking through the pile of clean clothes in the corner.

“Sorry, Master Stil—“

“Just call me Stiles and stop apologizing. Now, what’s your name?”

“Derek.”

“Here you go, Derek.”

Stiles threw his loosest shirt and pair of trousers at him and went back out to the fire with the bowl. A minute later the shifter peeked around the corner and then cautiously approached him as he added the soup back to the pot and added more herbs and aromatics.

“I didn’t realize you were a shifter so I took your portion out before the onions and garlic and such,” he explained. Once he figured the flavors had melded nicely he filled the large bowl again and handed it to the stranger, serving his own meal from the cookpot and then gesturing to sit down beside him on the bench. Once he began eating Derek did as well, drinking from the bowl.

“I’d give you a spoon, but I’ve somehow managed to misplace or ruin the others and I haven’t bothered to make more yet since it’s just me that uses them.”

“It’s no trouble. I’m used to eating with my hands or in wolf shape anyway. Thank you for the food. And for saving my life.”

“You’re welcome.”

They continued to eat in silence until the sound of snorting and hooves drew their attention. Stiles looked at the wolf-man and pointed at the 5.5 year old red deer.

“That’s Larem. He’s my friend and helper so don’t eat him.”

Derek started rolling his eyes and then froze after remembering who he was sitting next to. Stiles looked up to the heavens and sighed. The shifter swallowed.

“I-I won’t. I wouldn’t have either. He clearly belongs to someone.”

“Good. ”

And so began their companionship. Derek didn’t seem in a rush to go anywhere and Stiles told him that he could stick around if he wanted. He soon built his own little hut a couple hundred feet away on the opposite side of the greenhouse. It was nice having someone to talk to who could answer back and while the wolf certainly had an appetite the amount of game in Stiles' stores increased significantly and he more than came out ahead.

Grouse and wild turkey, rabbit and boar. He told Derek that he wouldn’t begrudge him hunting deer too as long as he did it, and the initial butchering, well away. Stiles taught Derek about dock seed, mallow, the roots and greens of daisies, lambsquarters, and tree sap for sweetening and the wolf brought back crabapples, elderberries, and teaberries that he’d found during his ranging, fashioning a bag to wear in wolf form.

As winter turned to spring they shared more and more of their stories in bits and pieces, Stiles speaking of his parents and his old life in Beacon and Derek telling of his lost pack. Apparently, he had a sister somewhere, but both had assumed the other was dead after they were attacked years ago by Hunters. He eventually learned that she survived and left the area, but could no longer feel her. His uncle came out of a long lasting unresponsive state, but was mad and killed his other sister, leading to Derek having to put him down and becoming an alpha.

This only happened a handful of months ago and he’d spent his time as a wolf ever since until Stiles found him. He’d been hiding from regular hunters when he stumbled into the trap, which had been set by the other kind and soaked in a wolfsbane solution that prevented his usual healing abilities. Derek shifted back to human form just long enough to remove it and then ran far away despite the pain until he passed out from exhaustion and the effects of the poison.

He borrowed from Stiles' haphazard stack of books one at a time — he’d limited himself to 3 dozen when he left Beacon, a mix of fiction and survival/wilderness guides — and built him an actual book shelf. Stiles played minor pranks on him from time to time and played the mandola for him regularly after dinner. One evening when it rained and he’d done his music inside he could’ve sworn that Derek was going to kiss him when he walked the departing werewolf to the door. There was a charged pause, eyes roaming over faces to lips and then back to meet again, but the moment passed with only an awkward smile and a quiet farewell.

Stiles hadn’t much considered the prospect of romance and/or sex with the shifter until then both being completely out of the habit of such things and worried about the possible fallout. He had been texting with Heather about their upcoming first date — his first date, period — flirting and making plans for weekend when he got the news that his father had been killed. Needless to say, it was cancelled along with every other plan he had as he first withdrew into himself and then from society altogether. That had been the entirety of his romantic endeavors and while he masturbated like a typical young man he tried not to dwell on things he didn't, couldn't have.

Then Derek showed up and it also became a matter of not wanting to risk scaring off his only human (-ish) friend or, in the beginning, concerns about taking advantage when the werewolf was still a bit afraid of him. So he just hadn't really let himself go there. But that night Stiles desperately stroked himself while imagining green eyes staring into his as large hands explored him all over. A swarthy, muscular body on top of him and the short beard — which he loaned his scissors to keep trimmed — rubbing against his skin.

He hadn’t actually gotten a proper look at Derek’s cock, but he did his best to imagine it thrusting into him as well, adding two and then three fingers (as much as he could at that angle) to bring himself to completion. After that night Stiles noticed occasional glances and there were little touches here and there, but nothing more came of it, both likely afraid to make the first move. And then one day everything changed.

It was a beautiful afternoon in May and Stiles had decided to leave Larem to rest and enjoy some hay with apples and acorns, setting off to take a nice long walk and go foraging alone instead while Derek was out hunting. He was exploring in a direction where he’d seldom gone, happily picking wild garlic in a small clearing he’d come across, when all of a sudden something made all the hairs on his arm stand up. Danger. Eyes wide he threw himself on the ground and rolled just as a burst of magic hit the spot where he’d been standing.

Fucking darachs. He’d thought he left all of this behind, but apparently even the middle of fucking nowhere wasn’t far enough. Stiles returned fire with his own power, feinting and then hitting the long-haired brunette square in the chest with a what he called a "pain loop," causing her to scream in agony and fury.

He lashed out again with a stunning spell, but she managed to dodge it and all too soon interrupted the paroxysms from his previous strike, eyes glowing milky white as she threw something in sickly shades of green and brown at him. A perversion of earth magic.

Stiles was able to twist away in time and then he was running, weaving between the trees as soon as he reached the edge of the clearing. Not for the first time he bemoaned the fact that he was too young to learn killing spells from his mother, who was loath to know such things, but understood their necessity. He tried to put some distance between them so he could face the dark druid on his own terms, perhaps ambush her on ground of his choosing if he was lucky.

Unfortunately, he was still a ways off from his usual stomping grounds and unbeknownst to him a large tree had fallen and blocked the other end of the fairly short, but narrow path he vaguely remembered from a previous time that he’d come this way. Cursing, he went back and hoped to emerge in time to try another route, but the darach met him on the way out.

He was at the ready so he got off another pain loop even as he was finally hit with whatever foul magic she was dealing out. Stiles gasped as a chill took hold of him and he felt noticeably weaker than he had just moments before. He hit her with the stunning spell as well this time, but he could tell it wasn’t nearly as strong as it should be as he staggered too slowly towards her.

Stiles was planning to kill her the old-fashioned way, with his sufficient enough all-purpose knife, but another wave of weakness went through him and he fell to his knees perhaps 5 or so yards away. Wearing a smirk on her objectively pretty, but...twisted, oblong face the darach rose to her feet, stretching languidly like she just woke refreshed from a nice nap. With horror he realized that that was more or less the case and that it was his power and life-force being siphoned to her benefit.

She didn’t speak, but stood there watching him like a cat not quite ready to pounce again on the mouse she’d been toying with, drawing out her amusement. A flash of darkness fast approaching caught his eye beyond her and he pretended to have a fit in order to keep her attention. I really hope I’m not just seeing things, he thought. Hurry.

“Why are you doing this?” he shouted. The woman rolled her now normal looking light colored eyes and huffed.

“Power, what else?” she replied in a tone that said he was very stupid indeed.

No, what was stupid was wasting time gloating and not paying attention to your surroundings or checking for reinforcements when dealing with an enemy. Stiles ranted about less than mediocre practitioners trying to make themselves feel special with stolen power, but always being the same pathetic losers at heart, punctuating his words by slapping his hands on the ground and rustling the leaves and twigs there. The darach’s face grew dark and she clenched her fists, clearly over his continued existence. Just as she was about to step forward he bared his teeth in a bloodthirsty grin.

“Go to hell,” he said, and then the massive, red eyed, black wolf was there, leaping to clamp his jaws around the back and right side of her neck. Stiles took great pleasure in the utter shock on her face, lastly only a second or two before Derek brought her to the ground and tore her throat out the moment he regained leverage. As her blood sprayed and splattered a rather impressive distance he felt the effects of her spell slow and breathed a sigh of relief.

Unsteadily, he got up and stumbled toward where Derek was still savaging what was now a tattered corpse.

“I think you got her, dude,” he snickered, feeling not a shred of remorse for the death that just occurred. Who knows how many people she’d hurt or killed before attacking him?

The wolf shook the body one final time and then dropped it, fangs gleaming red like his eyes, before shifting into a naked, blood smeared Derek. Stiles swallowed. That should not be as hot as it was. Apparently that post-battle feral lust thing in stories was real. Derek’s nostrils flared and he made a pleased growling noise, his cock twitching and starting to harden in interest. Oh my god. Stiles was torn between remaining there, frozen, and closing the last few paces between them when his legs suddenly buckled.

“Stiles,” Derek cried, rushing forward to keep him from slumping all the way over.

It took a minute to clear his head and he then realized that while the darach’s draining spell had indeed slowed considerably, it hadn’t stopped even with her death. Like she’d also tied it off somewhere and didn’t only anchor it to herself. What the fuck?!

“Draining spell, need to go home now,” he rushed out. Moments later he was lifted into strong arms and cradled against Derek’s chest as the beta-shifted wolf ran much faster than Stiles’ own feet could ever take him. He closed his eyes and concentrated on his diminished well of magic, using it to counteract the spell. It bought him time, but as he was expending more power than he could replenish in his current state doing so only amounted to dying more slowly than he was before. Maybe distance from the casting and using his herbs to restore and amplify his power could make the difference.

He was too weary to stand when they got back so Derek put him down on his bed and tried to find the right jars of plant matter using his descriptions. Stiles had lived alone for so long and had never thought to label what he clearly knew on sight. After trying to figure out which of three nearly identical containers of dried leaves was a particular ingredient a frustrated Derek simply picked him up again and had him point at the right items. The wolf prepared them according to his instructions and he swallowed the resulting tea in between words of focus and intention.

Stiles felt some vitality return, but even after seven mugs of the frankly disgusting stuff over the next hour or so he could tell that it wouldn’t be enough to give him the strength necessary to break the spell. Fuck. He was now at least able to brew the tea himself and continued drinking two to three mugs of it an hour for several hours, pissing like a racehorse in between trying to think of something, anything, else, but he was quickly running out of a couple of the rarer herbs.

There was only so much of the infusion he could consume before it stopped being effective and before both the amount of liquid and the ingredients themselves became toxic anyway. Fuck. As the smallest containers emptied the tension evident in Derek’s body increased, the clenching of his jaw more pronounced and the muscles of his back tighter still. The pants-only shifter alternated between pacing inside the small dwelling, trying to sit quietly, and going outside to check the immediate perimeter for any additional danger.

When Stiles was down to his last mug and half of tea he finally resigned himself to the inevitable. He was going to die by the hand of an evil caster just like his parents. And just like with them, it didn’t matter that the darach had been thoroughly neutralized, though that did at least bring him some satisfaction.

All that hiding and isolation and it had been for nothing in the end. Stiles laughed bitterly. It wasn’t fair. He was only 21, his birthday just the previous month though he hadn’t bothered to mention it. Stiles hadn’t even gotten the chance to see if the whatever between him and Derek eventually went anywhere. It was dark out now and he had seen his last sunrise.

Around three-quarters of an hour later, maybe 10 minutes after taking that final sip, he turned to the silent, intently watching werewolf with a wry smile.

“Promise that you’ll look after Larem for me.” Derek made a wounded noise and he felt a sweet, sad warmth for his friend. Stiles was very sorry to leave him like this, but he was glad to have met him. To have cared for him and know that he had been cared for too. “And promise that you’ll do what you need to do to both survive and not go feral. Find yourself a pack,” he added sternly.

Derek exhaled forcefully and an expression of grim determination came over his face.

“There’s a way…I might be able to save you.”

Stiles gave him the mother of all exasperated looks, throwing up his hands.

“And you didn’t think to mention this earlier because…?”

“I’d have to claim you,” Derek replied, sounding somewhat uncomfortable, but moving closer to him.

“Claim me?” Stiles asked, puzzled.

Like pledging fealty in a ritual or something? Or did the wolf mean giving him the turning Bite? Perhaps he wasn’t aware that it didn’t work on magic users, either doing nothing or killing them.

“Mate you.”

Ohhh.

Oh.

Oh my god.

“Wha—Seriously?!” he blurted out, incredulously. Seriously?!, he echoed internally.

Derek looked like he’d swallowed something sour and was probably about to explain that he was certainly not just trying to have his way with a dying man and how very dare, but Stiles lifted an arm — already feeling heavier again, fuck, this spell was a bitch — and put two fingers to the shifter’s lips before letting it fall again.

“I believe you, Derek. That’s exactly the kind of thing required for binding magic, which I gather this shifter mating stuff is. Blood or bone or, um, essence, and all that kind of thing or some combination thereof. I swear the Universe is a huge perv. It’s just…wow, not at all what I was expecting to hear right now." The werewolf looked at him with fondness and concern. Stiles took a deep breath. “Yeah, you can…you can do that.”

It wasn’t only the increasing weakness that had him trembling when he made his way from the table over to the bed, Derek hovering behind him. He turned and dropped to sit on the mattress, looking up at the older man.

“Kiss me?” he pleaded, wanting to make sure he got to know what it was like and to do some part of this in order.

Derek smiled and caressed his cheek with a knuckle before sliding it under his chin to tip his head up, bending down to press their lips together. Stiles made a soft sound and opened his mouth to allow Derek’s tongue inside after it swept across his lower lip. A minute or so of exploration and deepening kisses later he felt out of breath and drew back, panting but grinning shakily.

He lifted his arms as well as he could and the shifter quickly helped him undress, pulling off his shirt and then gently pushing him back and drawing his pants and underwear down and then off along with his socks. And then there he was — flushed, hard, and lying bare — as hungry red eyes raked over his body.

“Beautiful,” the wolf murmured before removing his own pants and freeing the erection that had been straining against it. Stiles’ eyes widened at seeing Derek fully hard. That was going to go inside him? He might’ve whimpered or maybe his scent was tinged with nervousness or fear because Derek paused to run those large hands along his sides (it felt even better than he’d imagined) and told him that it would be okay before guiding him over onto his belly.

With no hesitation the wolf parted his cheeks and started licking over his hole, circling or pushing at the muscle every few passes. No one had ever touched him sexually much less there — hell, he hadn’t been touched at all in years by another person until the recent brief brushes from Derek — and Stiles was overwhelmed by both the physical sensation and his emotional reaction. The shifter reached up to rub his back and then took hold of ass with both hands once more, soon working his tongue inside. Stiles moaned in pleasure, but then another sudden chill reminded him of the situation.

“Uh, as amazing as this is, you kinda gotta hurry it up, dude,” he got out between breaths. The wolf gave him another long lick before lifting his head and growling in frustration.

“I wanted to take my time with you if this ever happened. You deserve so much better than…” Derek trailed off and Stiles could feel that he was shaking his head.

“I appreciate that big guy and I promise that if this works you can, um, do that as long as you want another time.” Derek snorted.

“I’ll hold you to that. Do you have any—“

“In that cabinet. The tall, thin bottle,” Stiles cut in, jerking his head in its direction. He’d placed a simple preservation spell on it to keep the things inside lasting several times longer than they normally would. The wolf returned with the container of a clear gel, a curious look on his face. “Aloe vera,” he explained. “I brought some plants with me from…before. It grows in the greenhouse. Good for minor burns and injuries and, er, quite viscous and slippery.”

Heeding the need for urgency, Derek immediately gathered some on his fingers and applied it to his entrance and Stiles tensed at its coolness. He made himself relax again, allowing a thick finger to slip inside.

“More,” he gasped, rubbing himself against the bed. “I’ve…used fingers before.”

“I know,” Derek rumbled, pushing a second digit inside. “I’ve heard you.”

Stiles could feel himself turn bright red, which was really rather silly in his current position, but he couldn’t help being somewhat mortified. How many times over the past several weeks, since the kiss that wasn’t, had he brought himself off whispering the wolf’s name?

Derek chuckled and leaned down to kiss his left shoulder blade before going to nibble at his earlobe.

“I almost came to you a few times, my wolf going wild at how you clearly wanted us,” he whispered into Stiles’ ear, making him shiver. “But I figured you had your reasons and fantasy doesn’t always equal what one would actually do.”

“Didn’t want to scare you off…pressure you,” he said, panting.

“Well, I’m not going anywhere,” Derek replied huskily. “And as for pressure…”

The shifter got a bit more of the lubricant and added a third finger, stretching him wider than his own slender ones ever had. Reaching deeper than he could from those awkward angles.

“Derek!” Stiles cried out when he massaged that special spot within him.

“One more,” the wolf crooned, pumping faster and spreading his fingers. “Go ahead and come. I want you nice and relaxed for my knot.” Stiles clenched involuntarily at the thought. Right, werewolf. An alpha werewolf. He felt Derek’s pinky enter him and it burned some. “You’re doing so well.”

Propped up a bit on his elbows Stiles rocked his hips, fucking himself back onto Derek’s hand and then forward to rub his dick on the mattress beneath him, moaning. On some of the forward thrusts he ground down in a circular motion for maximum friction. He was so close. Stiles heard the shifter spit and then a hand was sneaking under him to grasp his shaft. He whined, moving faster between the two palms and then he was coming, spasming around the appendages continuing to piston into him.

Mere moments into the afterglow yet another wave of cold and weakness wracked through him and he cried out again, this time in fear, as his upper chest, shoulders, and face hit the mattress. Stiles managed to turn his head to the side.

“Please hurry!”

“Okay, okay,” the wolf soothed, withdrawing fingers from his still clenching hole and shoving a pillow beneath him before shaking more globs of gel out to coat himself. The slick sounds made him flush in anticipation. He felt Derek get into position and the press of his cock against his rim. “Deep breath.”

Stiles did as instructed, bearing down and gasping as the groaning wolf pushed into him steadily until he was all the way in, filling him.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” Derek hissed, pausing only a few seconds before grabbing him by the waist and beginning to thrust.

“First..time,” he said breathlessly, eyelids fluttering. It felt so good even lying there like a lump on a log, a doll for the werewolf to fuck. Derek growled again, a pleased sound, and Stiles grinned. “Oh, you like hearing that, big guy?”

“Yes,” the shifter answered before mouthing at the back of his neck and then down to his shoulder, fucking him harder. Faster. Stiles really hoped he survived so that he could actually participate next time, but if he was still going to die, well, what a way to go!

“Going to knot you, bite you,” Derek warned a few minutes later.

His cock made a valiant effort, but it was still too soon to harden again. Then the second part of that statement sunk in it and he tensed with worry.

“Not that kind of Bite,” Derek added hastily. “Mating bite. It won’t hurt you.” Stiles sighed in relief. “Well, you know, it’ll probably hurt ‘cause teeth, but—“

“I know what you meant,” he replied with a soft chuckle before gasping again. Stiles could feel the shifter’s cock swelling, spreading him even wider than his palm had. Derek groaned, thrusting in sharp jerks, and draped over him. The pressure was continuing to grow and he whimpered, sensitive, as pleasure teetered on the edge of pain. Then the knot locked inside him and Derek began to howl. Stiles intentionally squeezed around him.

Sharp fangs clamped down between his neck and shoulder and he wailed, overwhelmed as new senses and amplified or mirrored sensations crashed into him. He was stuffed full and enveloped by a tight, hot passage milking him all at once. Power coursed through him, a renewed vigor flooding his veins and refilling his nearly empty well.

When it got to the point of overflowing he looked within and severed the muddy, leeching connection. Stiles made sure to locate and tear out all of its remnants as well, his now red-tinged silver magic immediately rushing in to heal the resultant damage. When he returned to the outside world he was hard again, Derek grinding his still pulsing knot against his prostate, continuing to come with teeth embedded in his flesh.

“It’s done,” he whispered just before a second mind-blowing, mind-melding, orgasm swept through him and he proceeded to pass the fuck out.

When Stiles came to he being was cradled in Derek’s arms and sitting sideways across his lap, the shifter upright on his bed with his back against the wall. As the last images of some truly strange and spectacular dreams slipped away, he yawned and stretched languidly. He was not only alive, but felt good. Stiles wiggled to look into the green eyes of the very awake werewolf.

“Thank you,” he said earnestly, choking up. Derek nodded and swallowed thickly himself, taking one of Stiles’ hands in both of his and kissing it.

He noted that he was wearing his light robe and had obviously been cleaned up as he wasn’t sticky or anything after their activities. Stiles blushed at the memory and received a light squeeze on the ass, causing him to make a squeaky sound and redden more.

“So I guess I belong to you now, huh?” he said a few minutes later, curious and a bit uncertain, but not displeased with the situation. The part of him that was stubborn and contrary and so very independent grumbled a bit, but the rest of him was okay with the idea. He didn’t think the wolf would abuse whatever power he now held over him.

“No,” Derek replied, eyes crinkling at the corners. ”We belong to each other.”

“Oh, like family?”

“Yes, family. Mates. Pack.”

Stiles more than liked the sound of that just as he more than liked the werewolf. He was content to remain resting where he was for a while longer despite his not only returned, but increased strength — he’d have to give his new capabilities a whirl later — but felt a bit self-conscious as Derek continued to watch him intently with a serious, vulnerable expression. Gratitude. Reverence. Wonder, the new connection in his mind supplied. How cool was that?

“What?” he finally asked, kissing the wolf’s nose as a strong hand caressed his back. “You look like you’re the one who almost died.”

He said it teasingly, but Derek froze momentarily and then remained suspiciously silent. Stiles’ stomach dropped as his mind sharpened, rising from its nice, floaty haze.

“Derek?” The shifter eventually met his searching eyes. “What would’ve happened to you if I’d died?”

“That close to the formation of the bond? I would’ve followed you,” he answered quietly

Several emotions rushed through him, one after the other, before combining to make him a teary mess. Shock and gratitude for his choice. Anger and sorrow and guilt at the thought of Derek dying with him. For him. Elation that he mattered that much. Stiles swatted the wolf’s shoulder and then pulled him in for a kiss. He was bursting with the desire to express the depth of his feelings, but what came out was something else.

“As soon as I get up I’m sucking your dick, you idiot!” he exclaimed, scowling.

“Uh…is that supposed to be a threat or…?”

Stiles tried to smack him again, but Derek grabbed his hand, laughing.

“I just hate the idea of you risking your life like that. Knowing you could’ve died for me.”

Derek shrugged.

“You saved me. And more than that, you gave me a reason to live. An existence that's about more than mere survival. Kept me from starting to go feral and having to make a choice about that with only three shitty options.” The older man blushed and looked away. “You mean a lot to me. Make me happy, which I no longer thought possible.”

Stiles felt stunned. He also recalled a conversation from a while back about the basics of being a werewolf.

“Am I your anchor?" he asked tentatively. Derek gave him an unimpressed look.

“Obviously.”

"You know, I liked it better when you were all 'Magus this' and 'Master that,'” he glared, crossing his arms.

"No you don't," the shifter replied matter-of-factly.

Stiles groaned in annoyance and Derek smirked. He flopped out of the werewolf’s lap and onto his stomach on the bed, resting his head on his stacked forearms and hiding his face. Moments later he felt a hand petting him on the back of the head before lightly squeezing his neck. Arousal flashed through him and he wiggled a bit, making an embarrassing little noise.

The hand then ran up and down his back and the wolf rumbled possessively, which made Stiles giggle a bit. It wasn't like there was anyone around to witness much less warrant such displays. Their only other companion was a deer and an apparently very straight one at that based on his antics during the last few rutting seasons.

Fingers went back to his neck again, stroking over his bite mark, and Stiles moaned even louder this time.

"Is that an invitation, mate?” Derek asked with a growl in his voice.

“Yes, mate,” he replied, feeling a thrill at saying the word for the first time. He repeated his intention of sucking Derek off, but the stubborn werewolf said he’d made a prior promise. Before long Stiles was a writhing, begging mess and the werewolf was only satisfied once he came untouched from being eaten out alone.

He finally got his mouth on Derek’s cock once he recovered, having him sit up against the wall again, and did his best to get back at him. Stiles experimented with varying maneuvers of his tongue, lips, and hands and after learning some of what the responsive wolf liked most he gleefully teased him until the alpha’s hand shot out to hold his head in place, claws scraping lightly against his scalp. Stiles moaned at the action, his own cock leaking against his belly. Pausing to scent the air and receiving a jerky, eager nod, Derek began to thrust upward into his willing mouth until hot cum was coating his tongue and sliding down his throat.

Interesting, he thought, licking his lips afterward. It was no honey or tree sap, but definitely better than the godforsaken tea he’d been chugging yesterday. He fully intended to acquire a taste for it.

The mated pair spent their days much as they did before, but with the addition of regularly sparring and practicing finding or sneaking up on each other under a wide range of conditions. Not wanting to be at a disadvantage again, Stiles also worked on creating his own offensive spells and was able to make some actually effective defensive charms with his new abilities.

And then there was the sex, of course. The quick and dirty fucking and marathon lovemaking sessions and everything in between. Yeah, okay, so there were some major changes, but the plants in the greenhouse still needed tending and the seeds and nuts still needed grinding for flour and the clothes still needed washing, you know?

They built a larger home for the both of them, referred to as the Den, while maintaining their individual huts for those times when they needed space or simply wanted to work on something without disturbing the other. They also built a cob oven outside so they could bake crackers and dense, crumbly breads and granola from the dock seed, acorns, etc, instead of mostly using them to bulk up soups and stews, as breading, or to make a kind of gruel.

Larem finally got used to Derek even in his wolf form, the two of them actually cuddling together on occasion.

“I’m a disgrace to wolves,” the shifter muttered after the first time it happened.

“A very adorable disgrace,” Stiles said, attempting to console him before bursting into giggles.

“Just don’t befriend any boars or game birds,” Derek growled, glaring and wagging a finger.

Summer slid into autumn and when Stiles came across a huge beehive nestled inside a tree trunk he was over the moon. Sap was just fine, but the converted nectar was on a whole other level and he knew exactly what he wanted to do with most of his bounty. After returning with the necessary supplies he smoked the bees out and used his power to keep any stragglers from reaching him, taking care to make sure the hive remained habitable and the queen unharmed. Stiles collected nearly 25 pounds of honey, leaving more than enough for the bees to get through the winter.

Over the years he’d tried fermenting various things, sometimes doing so unintentionally as well, with a wide range of results. He kept about a third of the honey for sweetening and the rest he used to make a handful of different one gallon batches of mead. The glass containers were left to gather wild yeast, stoppered with airlocks, and then placed in a warm, dark place to do their thing with periodic tending.

Derek told him that he had no idea what day it was or even what month it was for sure, but that fall always reminded him of his family who’d made a big deal of the harvest celebrations between the equinox and the following full moon. Stiles had stopped paying attention to dates too for the most part, but was in the habit of marking a daily tally and so had the means of figuring it out if he so cared to. He later informed his wolf that it was September 27th.

Derek mentioned some other meaningful days from his past, including his birthday, which was on Christmas Day. Curious, his mate then asked when his birthday was and Stiles told him that it was April 8th, a couple months after they first met and a month or so before they got together. Derek frowned and said that he wish he’d known.

“Well my half birthday is coming up soon,” he replied, grinning.

Derek rolled his eyes, but prepared Stiles’ favorite meal for the event — roasted garlic and rosemary wild boar with honeyed parsnips — and worshipped his body all night, knotting him twice.

By the time Derek Day came around (Christmas was hard for both of them, especially Stiles, but Derek’s birthday they could do) most of the mead had been racked and was either aging or in secondary fermentation based on the alcohol content he was going for or the resiliency of the yeast. The rest they had already drank young.

All of it served its basic purpose of getting him tipsy (or more) and was drinkable at the least, but the blackberry melomel and the meadowsweet and dandelion petal metheglin were truly delicious. He gave a couple bottles of each to Derek as the first part of his 26th birthday gift. The wolf might not be able to get drunk, which Stiles vowed to remedy that one day, but he could enjoy the complex beverages all the same, sweet and semi-sweet respectively.

The second part of his gift was a rich cake-like dessert made with acorn flour, water, honey, boar grease, the last of the duck eggs from his new and improved preservation cooler, vanilla leaf, lavender, and salt, and baked in the cob oven. The third part was simply his mouth and ass, Stiles wearing a bow and everything. (Two bows actually, one around his neck and the other around his waist, made from berry-dyed woven foliage and scraps of fabric.)

On New Years Day he hitched the sled up to Larem once more to go exploring, but this time a massive black wolf trotted along side or ranged ahead to circle back around protectively. Another 5 weeks would mark a year since that fateful afternoon when his tiny world of two began to become a fuller, happier three. Brought him a companion who became a true friend and then even more. A mate.

They stopped to eat lunch near an unfamiliar river — he marked its location on his map and made a note to return and try fishing when it was warmer — and Derek shifted back, pulling on the thick, winter clothing Stiles had packed for him. He unfolded a small metal tripod with a hook and set his small cookpot on it, filling it with the leftovers of last night’s 3 meat and mushroom stew before placing kindling and dry chunks of wood underneath it to start a fire.

They sat on the sled and when their meal was bubbling nicely Stiles took some hay from a side bag, tossing it and a handful of acorns to the buck, and then ladled the stew into bowls. Two cups for him and three for the always hungrier wolf. They now had 10 fine spoons thanks to Derek’s superior wood-carving skills: the ladle, 3 other cooking/serving spoons, and 3 pairs for eating in different sizes. Afterwards he brought out an apple for each of them as well.

Derek watched as Larem happily munched on his and then turned to Stiles with a raised eyebrow.

“You know, you never did tell me exactly how you ended up with him.”

“Huh, I guess not,” Stiles muttered, thinking back as the shifter took a bite of fruit. “I found him a few months after I came out here, around the end of fall four years ago. He would’ve been around 2 1/2 then and one of his back legs had gotten broken somehow. I don’t know whether he was still with his mother’s herd or with a young bachelor’s group until then and got left behind or if he’d been already going solo, but at any rate, he was alone and leaning against a tree. Larem was able to move around, but it was doubtful that he could cover enough ground to feed himself properly, especially with winter coming, and he definitely couldn’t flee from any predators.”

Derek grunted in acknowledgment, tearing a huge chunk out of his apple.

“I considered eating him of course, but he was just so defenseless and looked at me with his big, curious eyes — he’d probably never seen a human before — and I just couldn’t do it. Besides I was lonely and rather bored and figured he might be a good project whether just in the short term or something ongoing.

“I had a ton of apples from some trees I harvested a few weeks before and had brought several with me, so I threw him a couple before approaching. He seemed fairly trusting or at least hungry enough to override his fear and while he focused on a third one in my hand I got close and used my magic to make him unconscious so I could work on his leg. I set the bone as best I could and was able to speed the healing along just enough for it to hold if he bore weight on it. When he woke up he seemed pretty confused, but snapped out of it once I gave him the apple.”

Stiles looked over to see Larem eyeing the red and green fruit he was currently holding and chuckled. He took out his knife and cut half of it into slices, tossing one to the buck.

“I got him to follow me home like this, giving him pieces of another three apples and eating one myself. Thankfully it wasn’t too far away. I had some hay and other dried plant stuff meant for mulch and more apples of course, so he hung around.

“I brought rope with me when I moved out here as well; it took two long, slow and heavy trips before I had everything I wanted and where we live is a good ways further than my original shelter at the time. I can make bark cordage now, but frankly the synthetic stuff is stronger so it’s good that I had it. Anyway, I fashioned a harness and lead from some of it and decided I would keep him unless he truly seemed unhappy. I thought I might be able to train him to carry bags or drag stuff for me and, well, the rest” — he finished with a dramatic flourish — “is history!”

Derek appeared suitably impressed with him and he smiled, throwing the rest of the slices to Larem.

“I’m pretty sure he kept me from going crazy too,” he added, biting into the remaining half apple. Derek gave him a look that said he wasn’t too sure about that and Stiles rolled his eyes.

“And then you found me,” his mate said, eyes still sparkling with amusement.

“Mmhmm,” Stiles hummed, nodding before swallowing his mouthful. “Three second chance strays: human, werewolf, and hart. Well, Larem was too young be a proper hart then, but he’s one now.” He gestured to the 6.5 year old buck. “It’s a much cooler term for you, right?”

Larem looked at him blankly and then snorted, turning and lying down on the patch of snow free ground under a tree now that food time was over. Derek laughed, leaning over to kiss him, and they fell back onto the sled. It was too cold to want to get naked out here, but he let his his knees fall open so that the alpha could lie between them and he could wrap his legs around him. They made out for a while, kissing and rubbing against each other through their layers.

Stiles didn’t know what the future held; whether they would just stay out here until death did them part or if they would venture back to civilization at some point either to stay or just occasionally to procure the stuff they really couldn’t get in the wild. Things made from metal and books and certain spices and medicines. Other company perhaps, strange as it now seemed.

Soft fabrics, at least for undergarments, when their clothes eventually wore down completely and couldn’t be patched or sewn together into more shirts or pants or briefs with other usable scraps. He could make thread from nettles and other plant fibers, but it was very labor intensive to do garments from scratch, not to mention, well, scratchy. All leather all the time would be a bit much as well, especially in the warmer months, but Derek could certainly rock the look and took to making it from his larger kills.

What Stiles did know is that they’d all saved each other and that he’d follow his mate anywhere. Based on the glint in the werewolf’s now red-ringed eyes and the love and arousal coursing down his bond that meant straight back to the Den to roll around naked. They hastily repacked their things and hitched the sled up to the annoyed deer, promising him additional, rarer goodies upon their return for interrupting his nap.

“Let’s go home!” he cried, getting into position and signaling for Larem to move. A loud, sustained howl was let loose just ahead and Stiles grinned into the cold air rushing by with a heart full of warmth.

Larem. About to lose his antlers, sick of your shit.

#sterek #stiles x derek #derek x stiles #sterek fanfic #sterek & stuff events #mead moons #mead moons 21 #mead moons becomes #mead moons buck #mead moons claiming #mead moons hay #mead moons herbs #mead moons mead #sterekweeklyexplore #sterekweekly #mead moons trisk

55 notes · View notes

bluestar22x · 10 months ago

Text

Unknown: Chapter 1

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x OFC!Hazel Collins

Series Summary: When a 12 year old girl shows up on Dieter's doorstep claiming to be his daughter his world is changed forever.

Rating: 18+ (explicit content)

Word Count: 5,400 (ish)

Warnings: Comedy aspects, fowl language, mentions of past illegal drug usage (cocaine) and marijuana usage, mention of an overdose, heavy drinking, age gap (OC is 12 years younger than Dieter), brief smut, dubious consent (Dieter and Hazel are both drunk)

Author's Note: This fanfic has been a long time coming and I am so excited to start it.

xxx

April 8, 2024

Monday was always a busy day for Dr. Patience Fairehall. Like everyone else her patients were often most stressed going into the work week and a lot of them liked to come into her office to talk about it on the very same day. Others who had three day weekends would come in on Monday so they wouldn't have to take time off from work to have their weekly session with her.

That Monday was particularly busy, every hour booked from seven in the morning to six at night. She only had a half hour break at noon to have lunch and when the time came around she eagerly dug into the office kitchen cupboards for canned chicken noodle soup. After she'd heated up the can's contents in a microwave safe bowl she returned to her office, plopping back down into her seat to shovel it into her mouth. She wasn't proud of her behavior, but she was starved.

Even at the speed she was eating, she'd only managed to consume about half of the soup in the bowl before there was a knock on her office's closed wooden door.

"Come in!" she called out brightly while internally groaning at being interrupted from her meal. Again.

Without a word, Dieter Bravo, one of her neediest patients, charged into the room, scruffy hair looking wilder than she'd ever seen it before - and that was saying something. His eyes were wide, his chest heaving. Patience held back a groan. She knew that look. This wasn't going to be a short encounter. Not for the first time she regretted taking on a handful of actors as patients.

Especially Dieter Bravo. He was classic Hollywood as far as she was concerned. Handsome, confident, and put together on screen. Neurotic and indolent off screen. He had a crazy look in his eye half the time and the other half he was painfully sober, especially since he'd quit using illicit drugs two years ago, just after his talent agent forced him to see a therapist - aka Patience.

When he first started weekly sessions with her Patience hadn't always been convinced he kept clean due to the way he acted during some visits, but he'd cleared every drug test she and his physician had thrown at him. Besides, she'd been around addicts long enough to tell by their pupils whether or not they were under the influence. While Dieter's behavior was...non-conformative sometimes, she'd yet caught him under the influence of any illegal drugs. She had reason to believe her skill set was solid. She had noticed when he walked into her office for a session high on marijuana. He'd only taken just enough to feel something he'd sworn, but it was enough. She didn't go too hard on him then, gently reminding him that the best way to avoid a relapse in using hard drugs was to avoid all recreational drugs. She understood it wasn't easy to quit cold turkey, and it was better that than the cocaine he used to be so fond of and the opioids he used to dabble in.

The way Dieter had just stormed into her office Patience wondered if it was the day she'd have to remind him again about the importance of his recovery.

"You look like you haven't slept a wink, Dieter," she noted, studying the dark lines under his eyes that definitely weren't from the black eyeliner he sometimes wore.

"Cause I haven't," he told her. "We need to talk."

"Dieter, unless this is an emergency, you have to set up an appointment so we can talk properly," Patience informed him.

"This is an emergency!" he claimed, pacing around. "A crisis! My mind's running a mile a minute."

"Are you having difficulty with your sobriety?" Patience asked.

"No. Not really. I could probably use a drink," Dieter rambled. "But I haven't actually considered reaching for a bottle yet."

"Are you having dark thoughts?"

"No."

"Are you having a medical emergency?"

"No."

Patience placed her hands flat on top of her desk. "Then Mr. Bravo, I have to insist you set an appointment and go home and get some rest."

"I'll be quick, please, I'm begging you here," he beseeched, eyes meeting hers.

And just like that she folded like an accordion with a long-suffering sigh. "Alright."

Damn those big brown puppy eyes, she thought.

He immediately flopped on the couch across the room from her desk like a patient in a movie therapist's office, on his back with one hand folded over his stomach, the other shoved into a side pocket of his gray sweatpants.

As he made himself at home she dug into the cabinet behind her for his written file, always having preferred using the solid copies of her patient's histories for successions, though all the information was also added to the office computer program afterwards.

Snatching up a loose pen from the corner of her desk she rolled her office chair around to the front of it and sat down next to him.

"What's troubling you, Dieter?"

"A girl showed up on my doorstep last night."

"Oh?" Patience had no idea where this was going.

"She claimed to be my daughter."

She definitely hadn't expected that. Maybe she should have. This was LA.

"Oh, and is she?"

"I'm pretty damn sure," he replied, playing with one of the rings on his hands, then the bracelets on his wrist. "The timeline adds up."

"Tell me everything."

"It's a long story," he warned her and she huffed.

"You can't interrupt my lunch then not tell me the full story, Dieter."

"Okay," he said, lifting his head off the arm of the couch for a moment to meet her eyes again. "Sorry."

"Nope, this is exactly the kind of thing we should be discussing as soon as possible," Patience told him. "Life altering things."

"Don't remind me."

Patience shook her head. Had he forgotten he had come to her?

"Tell me," she repeated, pulling a blank piece of paper out of his file. "Start from the beginning."

"That would be over a decade ago," he said, "I'm a little fuzzy on it. For many reasons."

"Then start with the girl showing up at your door." Patience was starting to feel, well, impatient, but ever a true professional she masked it behind a gentle tone.

Dieter scratched nervously at his patchy beard and nodded. "Okay. Okay."

10:30PM - the night before

"Mr. Bravo," called a loud, booming voice.

Dieter startled awake, finding himself lying haphazardly in his dark brown leather recliner that he had purchased for his mansion's living room a year ago, the movie he'd fallen asleep on rolling its credits.

He groaned as he carefully stretched and positioned himself back properly in the seat, rubbing at the kink in his neck he hadn't had before he'd slumped down into it.

His personal bodyguard and property security manager rolled into one, James Robinson, was looming over him, annoyingly. It was too late on a Sunday night for him to be disturbing him. Especially after the long three months of filming he'd just wrapped the day before.

"What is it?" he nearly snapped.

James frowned. "Sorry to bother you, but a little girl is at the front door asking for you."

"You let a kid in?" Dieter sighed, disappointed. "How many times have we gone over this, Jamie? I don't want any fans on the property. Even if they're kids."

"She's not a fan, Mr. Bravo," James explained. "She's claiming to be your daughter."

He snorted loudly at that. "I don't have any kids, Jamie."

"Not that you know of, sir."

"Call me Dieter."

James nodded.

It bugged Dieter that he couldn't exactly brush off what his bodyguard had pointed out. While he'd always made an effort to use protection when with a partner, especially when having a one night stand, and especially with a woman, his previous lack of sobriety meant he couldn't always remember if he had followed through every time.

Fuck.

"I'll talk to her," Dieter decided, scrubbing his face as he got to his feet. This can't be happening.

As much as he definitely did NOT want to be a father, as much as a part of him wanted to have James bring her back to wherever she came from without laying eyes on her, he didn't want to be a jerk. If she was really his, he should take some responsibility or something, right?

James led the way to his front door, then left him alone with the girl who was standing on the rug in his entryway.

She wasn't really little like James had made her sound, but she was young, maybe eleven, twelve, thirteen at most? Long, dark hair the same shade as his was swooped up into a ponytail behind her head, the strands that had managed to escape the tie curled wildly around her face, damp, reminding him that it had been raining earlier.

Her chocolate brown eyes were wide, taking him in, studying him, and he noted how they were shaped like his own. So was her chin, and Dieter found himself catching his breath. Her other features, her delicate nose and soft cheeks, her unattached ear lobes and thin lips, were distinctly someone else's, but their similarities were enough that he just...knew.

He wondered if father's intuition was a thing. If that's what this was.

"You're Dieter?" she questioned, glancing around.

"I am," he confirmed, stumbling, trying to wrap his mind around what was happening. "What's your name?"

"Alyssa Collins," she stated plainly, "Ally. Ally's what everyone calls me all the time. I'm your daughter."

"So I've been told," Dieter said, eyebrows shooting up. "How did you find that out before me?"

"I convinced Mom to finally spill," she explained, still looking around. "Wow, this place is HUGE. What do you even do with all this space?"

Dieter frowned. "Where's your mother now?"

"At home, asleep probably," Ally answered, approaching the framed artwork covering the walls, some copies and some original. She came to a stop in front of a copy of Old Man's Death by László Mednyánszky. Dieter had several dark paintings like that hanging in his home. He was an edgy artist.

After examining the painting of the reaper hovering over the dying man it depicted, Ally's eyes darted towards him for a moment. "Grim," she stated flatly.

"You came here alone?"

"Took a taxi and everything," she boasted. "I'm self efficient like that."

"Your mother just let you take a taxi by yourself?" Dieter started to wonder if she had any responsible adults in her life at all.

"She doesn't know," Ally admitted. "I slipped out my window as soon as she went to bed."

"You...ran away from home!" he exclaimed, bug-eyed. Things were getting worst and worst. He didn't just have a kid, he had a delinquent.

"Yeah," she confirmed. "She wasn't going to let me see you otherwise."

That stung a little, knowing someone he had slept with had felt the need to hide their kid from him. He had a few good guesses as to why, but it still hurt, even though the selfish part of him was also secretly glad. Who knows how his career would have turned out if he'd needed to balance his work life with helping raise a kid? He probably would've never gotten his Emmy.

"So can I stay here a while?" Ally inquired. "I'd like to talk."

Dieter gaped at her. "Are you kidding me? You're not staying here! You have to go home, right now. Whoever your mother is, she's going to kill me."

"You didn't do anything wrong," she said, "I'm the one who's going to get into trouble. Don't make me leave right away." She pouted at him and he huffed.

"We're going, now," he told her firmly. "I'll drive you."

"You can't tell me what to do," she argued.

"Am I your father or not?" Never in Dieter's imagination could he have foreseen himself using that card.

Ally folded her arms over her chest and huffed just like he had moments before. "Fine. You going to at least put on a shirt?"

Dieter glanced down, realizing the brown robe he was wearing was hanging open, and he was only in his boxer shorts underneath. He tied up the robe quickly and shook his index finger at her. "Stay here."

He glanced at Ally once more to make sure she wouldn't make a run for it, and she rolled her eyes before he rushed away to slip on a pair of light blue jeans and an army green t-shirt.

When he returned he gestured for her to follow him to his personal vehicle, a black Cadillac Escalade he's just bought off the truck the month before.

Her jaw dropped when she saw it. "You have an Escalade?"

Dieter did a double take of her. "You know cars?" This kid was full of surprises.

"Only ones owned by Carrie Heywood," she said in an excited voice, a bounce in her step as she approached the SUV.

Carrie Heywood was an actress who was known for playing a lot of characters in family friendly movies, live action and animated. Dieter had once worked with her on the only animated movie he'd ever voice acted in. It had been about a town cursed by an evil witch to live the same day over and over. She'd been the voice actress of the heroine, and he'd been the sidekick she eventually fell in love with. He wondered if Ally had seen that movie and if she'd made the connection between him and Sam.

"Did you get it because you saw Carrie's while you were voicing Sam for Cursed?"

That answered that question. "No," he replied. "I just like this kind of vehicle. Many millionaires have one. Now get in."

"Fine with me," she said gleefully, pulling open the passenger door. She hopped in and Dieter shook his head. Who would imagine a kid liking an SUV?

"Seat belt," he ordered as he settled into the driver's seat and noticed she hadn't put hers on.

"You don't have yours on," she pointed out.

"I'm an adult," Dieter told her. "When you're an adult you can make stupid decisions too."

He didn't tell her it was because he was worried about how her mother would react if she saw he hadn't enforced the law on the kid.

Ally rolled her eyes but gave in, clicking the belt in securely. "Happy now?"

"What's your address?" he asked, ignoring her annoyed gaze. He began driving up to his gate.

"I'm not allowed to tell strangers," she declared.

Dieter narrowed his eyes at her. "Listen, kid, if you want me to talk to you at all the rest of the ride, and if you don't want me to drop you off at the nearest police station instead, you will tell me your address."

Another huff and she was rattling off the address. He stopped the SUV at his property's gate and plugged it into the vehicle's GPS system.

"So what's your mother's name anyway?" he inquired as he began driving towards their destination.

"Hazel."

Hazel. Hazel Collins. The name sounded familiar.

"What does she look like?"

"Red hair, green eyes, everyone says I look a lot like her," Ally told him. "Except for me having your hair and eye color, of course, and a few other features, apparently."

That wasn't a lot of details for Dieter to go off of, but it was enough. Despite him living in Hollywood, he could only remember one instance when he'd spent a night with a woman who had scarlet hair.

Combining her name and description together jogged his memory.

July 15, 2011

Another weekend, another club. Dieter usually had someone to meet up with, for business or for pleasure, but that night he was flying solo.

He didn't mind. It gave him a chance to relax after a week crammed with filming and interviews. He'd been very busy lately and that was good. His acting career had been filled with guest star roles for far too long. He might be able to actually afford an apartment with more than one room after the movie he was currently working on.

Still, some time alone to decompress with some shots was needed. Maybe he'd smoke a couple joints later in the night as well.

He had his third shot in hand when a gorgeous twenty-something woman with cascading shoulder length red hair perched on a stool several feet away from his at the bar he was seated at, wearing a shimmering dark green blouse and dark blue jeans, stealing his attention away from his glass.

She wasn't his usual type, blond or Latin, but a pretty person was a pretty person, and he had a difficult time keeping from staring at her.

Change of plans.

He quietly and subtitly observed her for a time before making his move. She looked frustrated, disappointed in whatever was on her mind. She ordered a shot of whiskey and threw it back like a pro. A girl after his own heart.

He glanced at her delicate fingers, but there were no rings that would suggest she was taken. She was far from free of jewelry though. Cheap rings wrapped nearly all her fingers, her ears were both pierced in three places and she had a small nose piercing.

Dieter wondered if she was pierced anywhere else.

Not every guy would be into it, but he was a fan of piercings. He always sported a stud in his left ear when not filming. He'd have had more if not for his career relying so much on him being able to fit a part physically.

That wasn't all they shared in common, Dieter observed, having spotted a few lines of ink at the base of her neck, a tattoo mostly hidden by her shirt. He also had tattoos. Ones that held meaning, not ones drawn for the sake of looking cool.

The woman ordered another shot and it was then he decided to speak up.

"Hey."

She craned her neck, her expression surprised, like she hadn't expected anyone to pay attention to her.

"Did you hear about the man who stole a calendar?" he asked her. "He got twelve months."

She rolled her eyes at him but the edges of her lips twitched upward, giving her away.

"That is a really dumb joke," she stated, downing her second shot.

"You still smiled," he pointed out, expression bright. "I'd call that success."

"Do you always use dad jokes to pick up women?" she inquired, turning to face him.

"Not always," he replied, "Only when they look like they could use some cheering up."

"Well, thanks for the effort, but maybe I want to mope a little while," she said.

He hummed. "I don't mean to pry, but I want to."

"My boyfriend cheated on me, so I broke up with him," she explained.

"His loss. He should be the one in a bar drinking away his sorrows."

"I hope he is," she said, twisting one of her rings without looking down at it. "Why are you here alone?"

"Felt like it. I do a lot for that reason."

She smiled at him. "What's the point if you don't enjoy it?"

He pointed his right thumb back at himself. "My mantra."

"I wish I was like that," she admitted, "These piercings may suggest carefree, but I struggle with not worrying over every little issue in my life. And it's hard to be that way living on a waitress' salary."

"I get that," Dieter told her. "Until last month I barely had enough money to cover my rent."

"Let me guess," she said, pausing to ponder as her eyes swept over him. "Struggling artist?"

He shook his head, but was impressed by how close her guess was. Especially since he was dressed in his club clothes, not his lazy weekend ones he tended to wear anytime he was at home. "No, close, struggling actor."

"Same thing," she argued. "Acting is a form of art."

"True."

"What do you do as a hobby?" she quizzed.

He smirked at her. "I paint sometimes."

"I knew it!" she exclaimed, delighted by his answer.

"I look like the type?"

"Yes."

"Do you do anything artsy?" he asked her.

It was her turn to shake her head. "I'm more of an art consumer. I watch a lot of movies."

"Fair enough." He tilted his head towards the bartender. "Next one's on me?"

"Only if you tell me your name," she told him.

"Dieter. Dieter Bravo. What's yours?"

"Hazel Collins," she answered, wrinkling her nose. "Yours is better. Less boring. Professional name?"

"No, real name," he promised. "As hard as that is to believe. And your name is so not boring."

She huffed. "Yeah, right."

"Okay, maybe it is," he said honestly. "But I have a feeling the person behind the name is far from it."

They locked eyes, her sage green ones staring into his soul. Which isn't hard to do when it's right behind someone's eyes. Dieter wasn't a stoic person, he knew. He wasn't famous in Hollywood, but he was already known in the community for being quirky, dramatic, and expressive.

She must have liked what she saw. She'd stood up and moved over to the stool next to his.

"Alright, Dieter," she said decidedly, smiling broadly at him. "Buy me that drink. Let's see where the night takes us."

The rest of his memory of that night was blurred, due to the number of shots they'd taken together over the course of it, but Dieter could still recall enough.

He remembered crashing through the door to his cheap apartment with her, the same door that he'd crushed her against moments later, molding himself to her as best as he could with the fabric between them.

It wasn't long before their clothes were discarded and he barely registered that she had a belly button ring before he was angling himself just right so he could thrust up into her. She cried out at the sudden invasion and desperately kissed him as he repeated the motion over and over again, not stopping until they'd both lost themselves to bliss.

That was only the beginning of their night together. After that they'd touched each other on the couch, before moving to the kitchen table where he buried his face between her legs, and after a short nap in his bed, they'd found themselves in his bathroom, her seated butt naked on the sink countertop as he rolled his hips against hers and she scrambled for purchase, digging her nails into his expansive shoulders.

Dieter had passed out in bed next to her afterwards, feeling as sweaty and exhausted as she looked, only waking up the next afternoon, alone in his messy apartment once more.

She had left a note though.

Thanks for the memories.

He'd kept it on his person for a while. It had always managed to put a smile on his face, no matter his mood.

April 7, 2024

"How much did your mom tell you?" Dieter inquired as he tried to shake the memory out of his head.

Now was not the time to picture the details of Hazel's o-face. What he could remember of it anyway.

"Not a lot," Ally answered. "Just that you met at a bar, but I do know how babies are made, so please, spare me."

Dieter choked on his own spit momentarily before clearing his throat and trying to compose himself again. "Don't worry, I wasn't going to give specifics."

"Good," she said, wrinkling her nose, and the action was so akin to her mother's Dieter couldn't help but stare. Luckily they were at a stop light.

When the light turned green he focused back on the road. "So why now? Why see me today?"

"I turned twelve two days ago," she told him. "So yesterday mom threw me a birthday party with my friends. And it was fun, but all I could think about was that I am almost a teenager and my mom still refuses to tell me anything about my birth father. To let me decide what I want to do with that information. All she would tell me is he, you weren't dead. And more of that 'I'll tell you when you're older crap'. So I bugged her until she caved in. I'm not proud of it, but if it works, it works."

"How'd you get my address?"

"You wouldn't believe what you can Google nowadays."

"You should have had your mother drive you," Dieter said.

"She wouldn't have."

"She's probably worried sick about you."

"That's not outside her norm," Ally informed him. "She's stuffy, overprotective."

"LA's not safe at night for a kid alone," Dieter lectured her. "You should know that."

She huffed. "Yeah. Yeah. I know. I took a big risk. I won't do it again. But I'm not going to apologize for it."

"You should." Dieter couldn't believe how much he sounded like a dad already.

Ally ignored him again and he sighed heavily. Now he understood how his father had felt during his rebellious years. "We've got ten minutes before we get to your house. Do you have any questions for me before you get grounded for life and I fully endorse it?"

"Do you still like acting?" she asked.

He frowned. "Of course I do. Why?"

"We had a career day at school last week and my best friend said she'd like to be one."

"Huh," he paused, "And what do you want to be?"

"An artist," Ally replied, pulling a small notebook out of the back pocket of her jeans. She flipped the cover over to reveal a handmade drawing of a park landscape, the details on the trees and benches astonishing for someone her age. "See?"

"I see," Dieter said, impressed. "It's beautiful."

She beamed at him, puffing out her chest, and her pride over his comment made him smile too.

Hers faded after a few beats. "If you'd known about me, would you have been there? Will you be now?"

Her words were a vice grip on his heart. "I don't know," he said honestly, but treaded carefully. "I was different back then, all about my career and making a name for myself. Now though, I think I would like to be."

She was definitely not completely satisfied with that answer but Dieter didn't want to say it depended on how her mother felt about him getting involved. She was frustrated enough with her, it seemed.

Before she could press him for a longer explanation he was parking his SUV in the driveway of an old gray house with a very small strip of lawn in front.

A familiar woman, free of all piercings except for a pair of hanging silver earrings, almost immediately charged out the front door, relief washing over her face when she noted the girl in his passenger seat, an expression that was quickly replaced by anger.

She ripped the door on Ally's side open and gritted her teeth. "You are in so much trouble, young lady! What were you thinking? Wait, nevermind, we'll talk later. Go to your room, now."

"But mom...!" Ally protested.

Hazel glared at her and their daughter released a pained sigh, sliding out of her seat and glancing at Dieter one last time before dragging her feet towards and into the house.

Once she was sure Ally was safe indoors, Hazel turned back to him. "So you know now." She sounded defeated.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Dieter quizzed.

"When I first found out I was pregnant," Hazel began, "I fully intended to. I returned to your apartment, but you had moved out to a bigger one by then. I did research, trying to find out where you were currently living and what social media platforms you were on, but it was difficult. You weren't on social media at all because you didn't trust their websites back then and nobody knew where you lived except a small circle of trusted people. I was going to try to contact them, but then I saw it. The articles on you. That you were big on work and parties, that you were taking some hardcore drugs, and I knew I didn't want that in my life or hers. I was never on drugs like that at any point in my life and I stopped using marijuana as soon as I had a positive -."

"I get why you didn't then," Dieter interrupted, sticking a hand out in a 'hold' gesture. "But I've changed since. People change."

"Didn't you overdose just two years ago?" she said pointedly, folding her arms over her chest.

"That was while I was living in an awful work environment, and I've been clean ever since," he declared. "Well, mostly. I sneak an edible now and then."

She didn't look impressed. "You're an actor Dieter, famous now, that kind of lifestyle... It's hard enough to stay clean as a normal person living in a normal society. The culture in Hollywood makes it near impossible for most."

"Near," Dieter said, "It's not hopeless. And I have even more motive now."

"Since when did you want to be a father?" Hazel inquired. "You've said in many interviews you had no interest in it. That your work was your purpose."

"That was before I knew I had a kid," he said. "It's different, knowing. I can't just ignore it. I feel...responsible for her."

"You don't need to," she told him. "We've been doing well enough by ourselves. My mother did a lot to help me out before she passed when Ally was five."

"Well, I want to," he stated. "I don't want Ally to feel like I don't care. If you followed my interviews you know my mother left when I was seven and my Dad raised me. I loved my father, he did his best, and I'll always be grateful for that, but knowing my mother chose not to be a part of my life hurt. Ally doesn't deserve the same."

Hazel chewed her bottom lip. It was clear she hadn't thought that part through.

"I'm not asking for custody," Dieter promised her. "Just a chance to prove I can be responsible. A chance to get to know her."

"Okay," she finally caved. "We can do a trial run. But you have to swear you will not be a bad influence on her. You can't let her watch rated R shit and you have to make sure she's following the rules; you can't be her friend all the time. Most of all, you need to make sure you stay clean and she doesn't stumble onto anything illegal or inappropriate in your home or SUV. Swear it."

"I swear," he said seriously, meeting her eyes.

She gave him a curt nod. "Good. Give me your phone number. I'm going to call my lawyer in the morning and get some official documents set up or something. Get everything in writing, if that's okay?"

"I'll do whatever it takes."

Hazel smiled. "Good."

April 8, 2024 - present

"Huh."

Dieter sat up on the couch in Patience's office. "Huh. That's all you have to say?"

"No, I'll have more," Patience promised. "Once you ask me your question. That's why you're here, right?"

He chewed his lip. "Should I be doing this? I spent all of last night tossing and turning in bed wondering if I would be doing the right thing. Hazel's right to be concerned. I've been a mess for a long time. I could easily fall back into it."

"You don't have to do anything, Dieter, if you're not sure," Patience told him honestly.

"Sooooo...are you saying I shouldn't try to get to know her?"

Patience shook her head furiously. "That is not what I am saying. If you want to be there for her, if you feel you need to take some responsibility for her, I highly encourage it. Family's an important part of our lives, whether we like it or not, and she clearly wants a father figure. What I was saying is if you make it a point to be a part of her life, make sure you're all in. If you step away after, you will hurt her worst than removing yourself from the equation now."

He nodded at her. "Of course. I wouldn't do that. I'm not who I was twelve years ago, or even two."

"Good. Prove it."

xxx

Tagged: @harriedandharassed @trulybetty (if you wish not to be tagged let me know)

xxx

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

xxx

#Dieter Fanfic (Mine)#OFC Fanfic #X Reader #The Bubble Fanfic #Unknown Series

12 notes · View notes

beeeinyourbonnet · 3 months ago

Text

Covetous | Epilogue

Pairing: Nostelle

Rating: E

Summary: Father Joseph MacAvoy wakes up in a library across town with no idea of how he got there. When the kind librarian doesn’t kick him out immediately, he considers that maybe there’s more to life than alcohol.

[chapter 1] [chapter 2] [chapter 3] [chapter 4] [chapter 5] [chapter 6] [chapter 7] [chapter 8] [chapter 9] [chapter 10] [chapter 11] [chapter 12] [chapter 13] [chapter 14] [chapter 15] [chapter 16] [chapter 17] [chapter 18] [chapter 19] [chapter 20] [chapter 21] [chapter 22] [chapter 23] [chapter 24]

[read on ao3]

-----------------------------------

Seven years later.

It was Father MacAvoy’s last sermon at St. Joseph’s. As of tomorrow, his flock was at St. Rita’s, a much larger church further inside London, where he’d been transferred due to the success of his congregation’s bi-weekly soup kitchens.

It was also near Belle’s library, which is why MacAvoy was only a little upset when he hadn’t seen them in the pews. He’d see her tomorrow once the movers finished taking his boxes.

“Thank you all for seven wonderful years,” he said. “And I hope we all meet again someday.” He set down his last page and smiled out at the room. “Anyone who’d like to take communion, please join me now.”

As he handed out wafers and thimblefuls of juice, everyone congratulated him on his bigger congregation, on the success of his social programs. He couldn’t help but tear up as people told him they’d miss him, that they’d loved hearing him for these last seven years, that he’d meant something to them.

He couldn’t believe Belle wasn’t here. This, the culmination of all he’d worked toward, and she couldn’t find the time?

But no, that wasn’t fair. Things came up. She’d probably left him a message that he’d see after services, and she’d definitely welcome him to St. Rita’s tomorrow.

He finished shaking hands, hugging his flock, apologizing that he’d heard his last confession yesterday and had too much packing to do today. This wasn’t strictly true—most everything he owned had taken about half a day to pack—but he just couldn’t draw out this goodbye any further. Enough was enough. This was where he’d built a home. This was the church that had cradled him through his darkest days.

And where was the woman who’d pulled him out of those dark days?

He swallowed down those thoughts, and then, when he looked up, there she was, hurrying toward him with a young boy in tow as the rest of the congregants trickled out.

“Sorry,” she said with a tight smile. “We had to stay in the back and be very quiet.”

“I’m just glad you’re here,” he said, heart lightening as she gave him a quick hug. He looked down at the boy, whose seventh birthday they had all celebrated just a few weeks ago. “Why’d you have to be so quiet?”

“We’re on our best behavior for the social worker,” he said, London accent thick.

“Aiden!” Belle blushed. “No, it’s just that—”

The last congregant left and before the door could close, it hit an obstacle, and then Nosty was shouldering his way in carrying a sleeping toddler.

“Sorry, sorry,” Nosty whispered. “She only just fell asleep.”

“Why don’t we go upstairs?” MacAvoy asked. “I think I’ve got at least two tins of biscuits.” Many congregants had baked him gifts, especially the ones who had maintained, over the years, that he was unhealthily skinny.

“What kind of biscuits?” Aiden asked.

“You’ll have to find out, won’t you?” Nosty said.

They all followed him up, Aiden right behind while Belle stayed back to take the diaper bag from Nosty’s shoulder so he could more easily climb the stairs with Molly, their second foster child.

Without having to ask, the two of them headed for MacAvoy’s own room to settle Molly and her monitor in for a quieter nap, while MacAvoy took Aiden to his pile of food gifts.

This was truly the best life he could ask for. He had best friends who knew his home was their home, he had two kids who might someday call him Uncle Joseph, and more than being no longer considered a disgrace by the archdiocese, he was actively lauded for the good he brought to his community.

“May I have some chocolate ones?” Aiden asked.

“Whichever you like,” he said. “And there’s a box of Legos out for you as soon as you finish.”

Aiden, with a thank you that was too serious for a seven-year-old boy, selected two chocolate biscuits, then sat by himself on the couch and ate them carefully over a napkin. He only looked up when Belle and Nosty tiptoed out of the room and shut the door behind them.

“Chocolate, eh?” Nosty asked. “Your favorite.”

“I thanked Father Joseph for them,” Aiden said defensively.

Belle ruffled his hair. “That was very thoughtful of you,” she said. Aiden calmed, and Nosty dragged the box of Legos out for him, and then he and Belle collapsed into their chairs at the kitchen table, door open so they could keep an eye on the living room.

“Long morning?” MacAvoy asked, setting out cups of coffee and one of the biscuit tins. Belle reached for one immediately while Nosty dumped sugar into his mug.

“Oh, it was fine,” Nosty said. “First, we started screaming as soon as we got out the car, then as soon as Mum took Aiden inside, we screamed some more, then we looked at mushrooms and tried to poison ourselves, and then we finally fell asleep.” A tiny fistful of curly hair looked to have been yanked from Nosty’s ponytail.

“I’m sorry you had to miss his last sermon,” Belle said, rubbing his shoulders. “Aiden enjoyed it, though. He said you sounded very sad, and he thought everyone would like that.”

“Did I?” MacAvoy asked. “I was trying to be uplifting.”

“I found it very uplifting,” Belle assured him. She took a gulp of coffee. “And sorry we couldn’t sit closer, I could see you looking for us, but there was a man who glared at Nosty before we even got inside because Molly was screaming, and—” She lowered her voice. “It made Aiden nervous.”

They all glanced into the living room where Aiden was now meticulously stacking green legos into a tower.

“What was with the social worker thing?” MacAvoy asked.

Nosty’s jaw clenched, but Belle just took another gulp of coffee.

“I don’t know, he’s been very nervous about the social worker recently, and it makes me nervous that someone’s going to report us just because he’s anxious.”

Nosty clenched his fist this time, knuckles white above the table, wedding ring digging in to his finger. MacAvoy figured he’d best change the subject so that Nosty didn’t explode where Aiden could hear him.

“So, you said you had news?”

“Lots of news,” Belle said. “We’ve been saving it all up because we knew we’d be seeing you.”

Now that they had two children in the same small, two-bedroom flat, they almost never came to the church, but Belle called him at least once a week on her lunch break. For the past week, all she’d said over and over was that they had “so much” to tell him.

“Is it good? Bad? Should I be worried?”

“A little worried,” Nosty said, and Belle swatted him on the shoulder.

“Not worried at all. It’s mostly good. Great, actually. Nosty?”

Nosty fiddled with the handle of his mug again, and MacAvoy tried not to be nervous. Belle had said the news was good.

“I sold a book,” he said.

“Well, that’s fantastic!” MacAvoy said, and both of them must have realized it was a little too bright, a little too disingenuous, because they narrowed their eyes at him.

“What?” Nosty asked.

MacAvoy swallowed. “Sorry, I just—don’t you sell a lot of books?” As soon as Nosty’s two-year probation for assaulting an officer ended, he’d gotten a part-time job at the bookstore a few streets over from Belle’s library, and had worked there ever since.

“Oi, not at the shop.” Nosty snorted. “I mean, my agent sold me manuscript to a publisher.”

“Oh, fuck,” MacAvoy said, cheeks reddening at his misunderstanding. “That’s fantastic! When’s it coming out?”

“It’ll probably be at least two years,” Belle said. “Publishing is quite slow.”

“Two years?” MacAvoy whistled. “Hasn’t it been with the agent for a year at least?”

“He’s only been shopping it for four months or so, the rest was me editing.” He shuddered. “Not my strong suit. Belle did most of it. She’s getting a whole chapter of acknowledgments.”

Belle kissed him on the cheek. “So, Nosty sold a book, and we finalized Molly’s adoption.”

MacAvoy pressed a hand to his heart. They’d taken Molly in a rush placement about six months ago when her mother had passed away while social services searched for next of kin. The grandparents were still alive, but they had health problems. It had been a long six months of mediation, evaluations, and heartache.

“That’s wonderful. And the grandparents?”

“I think they’re adopting us as well,” Belle said. “They’ll still be her grandparents, and we’ve got an invite to Christmas dinner. Actually, they’re taking her tomorrow, because news number three is that the movers rescheduled, and we’re moving tomorrow instead of Friday now.”

“Tomorrow?” MacAvoy’s eyebrows flew up. Tomorrow was supposed to be his moving day. Belle was going to come over on her lunch break and get a tour.

“I know, I’m sorry, and Aiden’s got a supervised visit with his mother after school too, so it’s going to be a mess.”

Nosty’s fist clenched again. Belle laid a hand over it.

“That’s certainly a lot,” MacAvoy said. “Would it help if I brought pizza over?”

“Why don’t we bring pizza to you so that we don’t have to worry about unpacking dishes?” Belle asked.

“Deal.”

Nosty still had the far-off look in his eyes and his fist clenched when Aiden burst into the kitchen carrying a small framed photo. MacAvoy knew it had been resting on top of a box to remind him to wrap it before the movers came tomorrow.

“What’ve you got there?” Belle asked, holding an arm out. He tucked himself up against her side and laid the frame on the table.

“I’m sorry,” Aiden said. “I just wanted to look at it.”

“That’s all right,” MacAvoy said. “You’re welcome to look at it.”

“Is this Father Joseph?” He pushed the frame toward Belle who peered at it, even though she had to already know what the photo was.

“Aye, that’s me,” MacAvoy said. “Sometimes, I dress like a civilian.”

It was a photo from their wedding day at the courthouse. Belle wore a strapless wedding dress with floral lace and a full skirt, and Nosty wore a kilt suit. Kaz—who had mostly fallen out of touch since getting her nursing degree—served as best man while Kathryn, no longer Nosty’s solicitor, was maid of honor. MacAvoy officiated as he’d always wanted to, though it was as a friend and not a priest, hence the suit and tie instead of shirt and collarino. This photo was the five of them, Belle and Nosty holding each other and beaming at the camera with wet eyes while Kathryn wept openly, Kaz held the bouquet and grinned, and MacAvoy stoically tried to hide his tears.

“How come everyone’s crying?” Aiden asked.

“We were happy,” Belle said.

“Ecstatic,” Nosty agreed.

“I wasn’t crying,” MacAvoy said, and the two of them snorted.

“I’ve never cried because I was happy,” Aiden said.

“Well, maybe someday you will.” Belle hugged him closer, and he fiddled with the frame stand, flipping it in and out.

“You haven’t been alive long enough,” Nosty said. “You’ll get there.”

“You looked pretty.”

Belle squeezed him again. “Thank you.”

Once Aiden had taken another biscuit and napkin into the other room, Belle picked up the photo, eyes misting over.

“Look at how nice we all looked,” she said. Nosty rested a hand over hers. “We had to wait to get married so both of you could grow your hair out.”

“Well, I didn’t want the skinhead look in me own wedding photos,” Nosty said.

“I’m still rejecting vanity,” MacAvoy said. “But I was grateful to look like myself.”

They were all still studying the photo when a wail sounded on the baby monitor. Nosty pushed himself up with a groan, but Belle laid a hand on his arm.

“You stay, I’ll get her.”

Nosty slumped back in his chair while Belle wandered off, Aiden abandoning his Lego structure to follow her into the bedroom.

“So,” MacAvoy said. He lifted his mug to take a sip, but it was empty. “How are you doing?”

Nosty shook his head. Over the years, they hadn’t opened up to one another the way either of them could open up to Belle, but Nosty was family to him now. They had gone through fire together. Nosty had even once drunkenly confessed that he’d have asked MacAvoy to be his best man if he hadn’t been the officiant.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Can’t you just—write another letter?” Nosty asked. “So we can adopt Aiden?”

MacAvoy’s eyebrows flew up. “I’m sure I can, but I don’t think it would help.” His word as a priest had gone far in both Nosty’s criminal trial and their adoption of Molly, but Aiden still had parents.

“I know.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I know.”

Belle came back a few minutes later carrying a groggy Molly, Aiden at their heels. “I think it’s time for us to go. We’ll see you tomorrow?”

“See you tomorrow,” he said. “And call me if you need anything.”

Belle kissed him quickly on the cheek, as did Molly—much to his delight—and then Aiden shook his hand, still so serious, holding the diaper bag over his little shoulder.

Nosty hung back while the three of them headed for the stairs.

“You’ll be all right tomorrow?” he asked.

“I’ll be fine,” he said. “And congratulations. I’m so happy for you.”

Up close, he could see the purple bags under Nosty’s eyes, the new crow’s feet, but that was all these days. The rage, the fury that always boiled just under the surface was gone. Once, he’d even seen someone startle Nosty. Of course, he still clenched his fists, still spiraled behind a tight jaw, but who didn’t?

“Thanks.” Nosty clapped him on the back. “We’ll let you know how the visit goes.”

“I look forward to it.”

Nosty took a step toward the stairs, then paused. “You know, we’re really glad you’ll finally be closer.”

MacAvoy smiled. “I’ll miss this church, but me too. I can’t wait to be in babysitting range.”

Nosty grinned. “Me neither, mate. Me neither.”

****

Belle and Nosty barely managed to turn the covers down before collapsing into bed. They’d packed all afternoon, then Molly had refused to fall asleep, so Belle and Nosty took turns rocking her and reading to Aiden. Luckily, he dropped off around nine, and eventually Belle got Molly to sleep with a lullaby her father used to sing to her.

So she was in her crib in the bare living room, Aiden was in his bedroom, and Belle wasn’t sure she could summon the energy to read even a chapter before sleeping.

She could, however, snuggle up against her husband’s chest, his arms around her, the safest place in the world.

“You ready for tomorrow?” Nosty asked.

Belle smiled into the dark. He knew her well. “We’re all packed.”

“I know, I was there.” He kissed her hair. “But—this is the flat you grew up in.”

It was. This had been her bedroom since they’d moved to London when her mother died. She’d paid off the mortgage she inherited about three years back, and once the social worker floated the possibility of Molly, Belle knew it was time to sell it. She and her dad could fit just fine in this flat, but even if Molly was the only kid they ever adopted, three was a lot of people to share one bathroom and a tiny kitchen.

“I’ll miss it,” she said. “But I love our new house.”

Nosty pulled her closer somehow, tucking her hair under his chin. His grip was too tight around her waist to be casual.

“How are you feeling about it?”

He kissed her head, then rested his lips there. “I don’t want Aiden to have the visit tomorrow.”

Belle closed her eyes. If she could have, she’d have wrapped her arms around him, but he had her in a vice grip, so she settled for holding his hands where they clasped around her.

“I know,” Belle said. “But it’s his mother. He deserves to see her.”

“You’re his mother,” Nosty said. “He’s my son.”

When they’d talked about fostering, Nosty had been so happy to give someone the home he’d never had growing up, but she had seen this coming the second they met Aiden eight months ago. His mother was in court-ordered rehab. His dad, like Nosty’s, had been in and out of his life since he was born.

“Nosty, we have to do what’s best for Aiden,” she said softly.

“What’s she want with him now?” he asked. “He hasn’t seen her in months.”

But Aiden missed her—of course he did. He was seven. Sometimes, when he slept, he cried out for his mother, and Belle knew he didn’t mean her. He had called them Belle and Nosty for a little bit when he was first placed, but he’d since lapsed into calling them nothing at all.

“Nosty, what did you want when you were in the system?” she asked.

He groaned into her hair. “I just wanted someone to love me. But I love him. We love him.”

“I know,” Belle said. “I know we do. But didn’t you want that person to be your parents? Deep down?”

Nosty loosened his grip on her and pressed his eyes into the back of her head. After another minute, he groaned again.

“You’re right. I know. We always said we hoped his mum would get it together.”

Privately, in her deepest, darkest thoughts, Belle didn’t want his mum to get it together either. She did think of Aiden as her son. She wanted to keep him. But he was a person, and he had a family, and he deserved to be with them if he could.

A creak sounded down the hall, and then Aiden’s door was opening. Nosty pulled his arms off of Belle and by the time Aiden stumbled sleepily to their bed, they were a chaste distance apart.

“What’s wrong, Aid?” Nosty asked.

“I had a bad dream,” Aiden said. “Is Molly okay?”

“Molly’s fine.” Belle pulled the monitor off the nightstand to show him Molly sleeping peacefully in her crib. “Why don’t you come tell us about your bad dream?”

Aiden climbed in between them, and once he was settled, Belle and Nosty exchanged misty looks above his head. He’d never done this before.

“Will I have my own room in the new house?” Aiden asked.

Belle’s eyes flew up. “Of course. And Molly will too. It’s got three bedrooms.”

“What does it look like?”

This was out of Belle’s element. Having lived in the same flat for most of her life, she could only guess at the anxieties that he might be trying to express and how to assuage them.

“Pretty much like your room now,” Nosty said. “It’s got four walls, a closet, and it’ll have the same bed.”

Aiden considered this. He was such a serious little boy, always terrified of disorder. Belle worried that his mother was the reason he agonized over touching things, over getting crumbs on the floor, but the social worker would be there tomorrow. She wouldn’t let him be yelled at.

“What color is it?”

“It’s white right now,” Belle said. “But we can paint it before we move all the boxes in. Whatever color you want.”

“Green,” Aiden said quickly, then cast them both a wide-eyed look. “Please.”

Belle and Nosty both squeezed him. Above his head, Nosty gripped her hand.

“We’ll go look at paint colors on Tuesday after school, okay?” Belle said. “You can pick out whichever green you like. You can even pick out two greens.”

Aiden’s eyes widened again, but this time it made him look young instead of like he’d already lived too many lives. “For the same room?”

“Aye, we’ll have an accent wall.” Nosty waved his hand toward the lighter wall in their room. “Very posh.”

“Are we posh?” Aiden asked.

“Your mum’s very posh,” Nosty said, then he clamped his mouth shut. They tried to be careful about calling each other his parents.

“I don’t know,” Belle said. “I don’t think I am.”

“Oi, you’ve got a different pair of shoes for every day of the month,” Nosty said, and Aiden giggled.

“What if I only like one green?” he asked.

“Then we’ll only paint it one green,” Belle said. “You can even change your mind about green if you find a color you like better.”

Aiden’s face scrunched again, and Nosty cast her a panicked look, but then he relaxed.

“Can I have a bookshelf?”

“Och,” Nosty said. “You can have a hundred bookshelves.”

“I don’t even have a hundred books,” Aiden said.

“You know what?” Belle brushed his hair back from his forehead, and his eyes drooped. “I think we’re all very tired. Why don’t we go to sleep, and once you see your room tomorrow, you can figure out how many bookshelves you think will fit?”

“Okay.” Aiden’s eyes drifted shut, and Nosty squeezed Belle’s hand. “Goodnight, Mum,” he mumbled. “Night, Dad.”

Belle allowed herself one second of meeting Nosty’s eyes in disbelief before she leaned down to kiss Aiden on the forehead.

“Goodnight,” she said. “I love you.”

“And I love you.” Nosty kissed him as well.

Aiden’s breathing evened out in less than a minute, and Belle shifted just enough to lace her fingers with Nosty’s as her eyes filled with more silent tears.

“See, I told you,” Nosty whispered so low, if Belle had been an inch further, she wouldn’t have heard. “He is our son.”

“I know,” Belle said. “I know.”

Nosty stretched to wipe her tears away with his thumb. Between them, Aiden snored louder than someone with such a small nose ought to have been able to.

“Get some sleep,” Nosty said. “Long day tomorrow.”

“What about you?”

He shrugged, glancing down at Aiden. She understood. Nosty had worked hard on his hypervigilance, but his therapist had yet to convince him that it was all right to let down his guard sometimes now that there were kids involved.

“I love you,” Belle said.

“I love you,” he said.

She had the love of her life’s hand in hers. Between them was a boy who might one day really be their son, and their daughter slumbered on just a room away. Tomorrow, they’d be moving into a house they’d chosen together, the house where they’d raise their little family. Joseph was moving a full twenty minutes closer, Nosty had a book deal, and Aiden had called Belle Mum.

“If you don’t close your eyes, I’ll close ‘em for you,” Nosty said. Belle grinned, but obeyed.

“Okay, okay. Goodnight, Nosty.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

With so much going on, so much to think about, she thought she’d be awake for at least a few minutes, but Nosty’s presence had the same effect it always had, and soon, she couldn’t have opened her eyes if she’d wanted to. Without another thought, she drifted off to sleep, Aiden’s feet digging into her thighs and Nosty’s hand around hers.

#nostelle #anyelle #anyelle fic #anyelle fanfic #anyelle fanfiction #covetous #new update #it'll never be over ;-; ;-; ;-; ;-;#i'm having Emotions #nostelle fic #nosty #nosty x belle

3 notes · View notes

chloeangelic · 1 year ago

Text

Chloe Demonic's ⚡Reign of Psychological Terror and Emotional Damage 2023⚡

The seasons are changing and I am in the mood for ANGST, so here's a list of what's getting served up at 💕Chloe's Demonic Diner 💕 in the next few weeks - with a 1-3 crying emoji rating for how angsty the fic is.

Every Saturday: New chapters of Love Me Back (😭)

At random, maybe weekly or something: New parts of Rendezvous aka realistic dbf!Joel (😭😭)

Part II: Never again

Part III: Resentment

Part IV: Don't run

Part V: Come and see me

The grand finale: A new one shot, titled Chicken noodle soup (😭😭😭)

If you want to yell at me, I will be at topgolf the gym, getting my Abby costume ready for Halloween 🎃🔨

#joel miller fanfic

20 notes · View notes

mindrottinglystupid · 9 months ago

Text

WAHOOOO ITS HERE!!!! THE THING LITERALLY NO ONE ASKED FOR!!!!!!

I'll be posting Chapters weekly until the story is finished. The twenty chapter mark is only there as a placeholder or estimate. How many it'll actually have it up to future me.

The Power of Minestrone Soup (2063 words) by HelpWhyAreAllTheUsernamesTaken Chapters: 2/20 Fandom: Original Work Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Additional Tags: LGBTQ Character, Resurrection, Magical thermos, Spanning multiple years, No Sex, No Smut, LGBTQ Themes, Car Accidents, New York, New York City, Attempt at Humor, Humor, This isn't a childrens book i swear, Abusive Father, Dead Father - Freeform, No Incest, Original Fiction, Magical Realism, POV of God, Original Universe, Gay Character, Gardens & Gardening, Minichapters, Painting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Light Angst, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Gay Male Character, Gay Pride, Everyone Has Issues, mini chapters, Ireland, Learning how to paint, Ducks, A lot of ducks, Angst, Gay main couple Summary: Michael Jones, a Computer Specialist at the Undisclosed Corporate Company, works every day from 5:30 to 6:30, respectively. Nothing different ever happens to Michael until he dies in a car crash on his way to work. This doesn’t last, as he wakes up clueless about the last 15 hours, holding his baby blue thermos filled with Minestrone Soup. He now has to work through the rest of his life trying to figure out why he is so attached to the thermos, who exactly he was before, and if that person is worth being.

2 notes · View notes

rockislandadultreads · 2 years ago

Photo

Book Recommendations: National Soup Month

Healing Herbal Soups by Rose Cheung & Genevieve Wong

Combining the trends of culinary medicine and seasonal eating and adding a dash of Traditional Chinese Medicine (TCM), Healing Herbal Soups is the first book of its kind to focus on boosting immunity and weathering the seasons, by a mother-daughter, Chinese-American duo. Rose and Genevieve have been making Chinese herbal soups in their kitchens all their lives. They made broths to help their bodies adapt to the seasons, and now, for the first time, they’re translating these traditional recipes - all of which have been vetted by Dr. Shiu Hon Chui, a preeminent TCM doctor, researcher, and professor - into English.

Healing Herbal Soups provides a complete herbal encyclopedia and more than fifty tasty recipes - with full-color photographs - that mix herbs with meat and vegetables to create healing broths. These easy-to-follow recipes are here for you whenever you feel unwell, or if you’re just looking to add healthy soups to your weekly meal rotation. Armed with an introduction to TCM and special sections on tea, ginger, and ginseng, as well, at last, you can feel less dependent on Western concoctions of drugs and chemicals, and start using traditional Chinese herbs right in the comfort of your own home.

All Time Best Soups edited by Cook’s Illustrated

A perfect soup recipe is one you make forever - it is comforting, nourishing, the very essence of flavor. In this handsome, focused cookbook, the experts at Cooks Illustrated boil the world of soups down to the very best choices, each one a kitchen-tested keeper yielding flavors that exceed even what grandma cooked up. Here are the ideal broths, the heartiest rustic soups, most elegant purees, and the best examples from around the world. All-Time Best Soups turns soup-making into an everyday pleasure with recipes guaranteed to become cherished favorites.

Soup & Comfort by Pamela Ellgen

The answer to your dinnertime dilemma. Family-friendly soups to satisfy your soul - and stomach. To close the coldest, bone-chilling day or soothe the roughest afternoon, turn to Soup & Comfort for hearty classics, international favorites, and inventive updates. Packed with pages of nourishing, emotionally satisfying soups and stews using affordable, fresh, easy-to-find ingredients (No bouillon cubes here!), every recipe in this soup cookbook caters to a wide variety of dietary preferences and tastes, from tantalizing vegetarian versions to gluten-free options.

Featuring full-color photos, Soup & Comfort explores the many ways that homemade soup can nourish body and soul, with: 135 mouthwatering recipes, from comfort classics like Grandma's Chicken Noodle to international flavors like Chicken Faux Pho; time-saving tips for making great stocks and preparing perfect garnishes; and convenient "fix-and-forget" slow cooker recipes, plus handy soup tips to liven leftovers. From chilled soups to chowders, Soup & Comfort offers something for everyone to enjoy-one spoonful at a time.

Seriously Good Chili Cookbook by Brian Baumgartner

No one takes chili more seriously than Brian Baumgartner, whose character as Kevin Malone became a household name in the Emmy-winning TV series, The Office. In real life, Brian is a true chili master and aficionado who is just as serious as his fictional counterpart about making the most perfect pot of chili.

Featuring 177 chili recipes stamped with Brian's "seriously good" approval rating, Seriously Good Chili Cookbook contains new and inventive ways to spice up chili for all occasions, all year long. Written in the humorous and friendly tone Brian Baumgartner is known and loved for, this engaging cookbook opens with an introduction from Brian about how an infamous 60-second scene from the show transformed him into a chili icon, his passion for chili, and a fascinating account of the history of his all-time favorite comfort food.

The Chicken Soup Manifesto by Jenn Louis

This is a celebration of one of the most widely interpreted, and beloved dishes the world over. With more than 100 recipes dedicated to this one special, often humble, meal, James Beard-nominee Jenn Louis shows readers how chicken soup is not only a source of heart-warming sustenance, but also a cure-all and the ultimate expression of love.

With chapters broken down by region and country, The Chicken Soup Manifesto includes everything from Algerian Chorba Bayda, Colombian and Panamanian Sancocho and Thai Kao Tom Gai to Spanish Sopa de Picadillo. Along with the recipes, Jenn also covers essential chicken know-how, from selecting and storing, to stock 101 and brining. The book is fully photographed with a design that establishes it as a collectible object as much as a hard-working guide to the world's favorite soup.

#soup season #soup recipes #cookbooks #cooking #library books #book recommendations #reading recommendations #book recs #reading recs #TBR pile #tbr #to read #booklr #book tumblr #book blog

15 notes · View notes

partydown · 2 years ago

Text

‘Party Down’ Is Back. Did You R.S.V.P.?

New York Times article by Alexis Soloski

The invitations have been sent, the appetizers plated, the bottles opened. Rows of glasses gleam like baby stars. And somewhere, on the fringes of the celebration, a cater waiter is about to do something very wrong.

This was the template of “Party Down,” a Starz comedy that ran for two 10-episode seasons, debuting in the spring of 2009. Canceled just as critics and niche audiences were beginning to catch on, the show followed the disaffected employees of a mid-tier catering company as they moved from party to party, one per episode, filching booze, seducing guests, snorting coke, flirting with Nazism and accidentally poisoning George Takei.

The original 20 episodes never included a surprise party. But get your streamers and party blowers ready. Because in a surprise to just about everyone — most likely including the folks at Nielsen, who once awarded the show’s finale a 0.0 rating among 18- to 49-year-olds — “Party Down” is back. A six-episode revival will premiere on Starz on Feb. 24, with new episodes arriving weekly.

Martin Starr, a returning cast member, seemed to genuinely marvel at the development.

“This was the only show I’ve worked on where people came to work when they weren’t working,” he said in a group video call. “It’s crazy that we get to come back and do it again.”

“Truth be told,” his co-star Ken Marino said, “the reason I came back to set when I wasn’t working is I was between homes.”

Starr: “I do remember you were finding places to go to the bathroom that maybe didn’t have your name.”

Marino: “I still do. I’m going to the bathroom right now.”

Is this the same “Party Down” that failed to dominate cable television over a dozen years ago? Mostly. The show’s original creators, John Enbom, Dan Etheridge, Rob Thomas and Paul Rudd, remain, as executive producers, and Enbom oversees a small staff of writers. The party-a-week structure also endures, as does the original cast — with the exception, based on the five episodes provided in advance, of Lizzy Caplan.

“All of us, for the entire 13 years since we stopped shooting the show, all we wanted to do is make more ‘Party Down,’” the show’s lead, Adam Scott (“Parks and Recreation,” “Severance”), said in a separate interview last month. “We all would have been there for free.”

But the world has changed in the dozen or so years since the original run was canceled. So have the actors. Unknowns or barely knowns when the show debuted, most have since become household names. (The others? Depends on the household.) And they’ve all seen the current crop of disappointing reboots and reprises. “Party Down” could just be the rare show to get it right, mixing the perfect cocktail of star power, nostalgia, growth and gags.

Then again, the characters never put a lot of muscle into bartending. So here’s a Zen koan for a deeply un-Zen show: Can you throw the same party twice?

Sign up for the Watching newsletter, for Times subscribers only. Streaming TV and movie recommendations from critic Margaret Lyons and friends. Get it in your inbox.

Are we having fun yet?

The first run of “Party Down” was both structural marvel and joke spectacular. Each episode was simultaneously a workplace comedy, a hangout comedy and a procedural — a sitcom that never sat down. The celebrations it featured — birthdays, after parties — typically bordered the entertainment industry and nearly all of the cater waiters harbored industry dreams of their own.

Those dreams eluded them, which fueled the philosophical inquiry at the show’s center.

“What we were asking was: How long do you chase the dream?” Thomas, one of the creators, said. “When do you grow up? When do you quit banging your head against the wall?”

The “Party Down” staff are all trying to make it, as actors, screenwriters and comedians. (Marino’s Ron, the manager, has a different dream: a Soup ’R Crackers franchise.) Only Henry (Scott), who has traded beer-commercial celebrity for free-floating despair, has opted out. The actors were trying back then to make it, too. None of the original cast — Caplan, Ryan Hansen, Jane Lynch, Marino, Scott, Starr — were anything like famous when the show began. Acting in a comedy about the entertainment industry’s has-beens, also-rans and never-wills resonated with the cast, sometimes uncomfortably.

“It felt so close to home, this show, because I felt like I could be a caterer the next day easily,” Hansen said.

Scott, who at the time had yet to play a lead, then shared that sense of career tenuousness. The cast felt deeply connected to the show in those first seasons, he said, and protective of it. “We just wanted to do it forever, because it made us feel better,” he said. “It really did.”

The salaries, though small, kept a few of the actors on the sunny side of financial precarity. The camaraderie helped, too. (That camaraderie remains; I had four of the actors together on a video call, and I have never heard grown men exchange so many “Love yous.”) Several actors separately compared the original shoot to summer camp.

That genuine affection altered the show’s tone. Some first season episodes included “edgy” humor — gay jokes, post-racial jokes. (“It’s cringey, yeah,” Starr said.) But the creators quickly realized they didn’t need that edge. The show was sadder than that. Funnier, too. The characters are screw-ups, sure, but the show suggests that everyone is a screw-up, especially after an hour at an open bar. So maybe the best thing is to find common cause as you pass the hors d’oeuvres.

“It’s about people who think that they’re going to find happiness in something out there,” Lynch said. “But what they have right in front of them is really quite sweet.”

Lynch shot the first eight episodes. Then she had to leave for the Fox show “Glee.” Marino hired a stripper for her wrap party. The stripper, Lynch recalled, smelled of French fries. The show went on, with Jennifer Coolidge replacing Lynch for two episodes and Megan Mullally, the only actor who was already well-known, coming in for the final 10.

The creators believed that it would keep going, even though, according to Nielsen, the Season 2 finale attracted only 74,000 viewers. Starz had other plans. Those plans didn’t involve letting the creators take the show elsewhere. “Party Down” languished.

One decade, zero dinners

If the original run argued that it’s healthier to let some dreams die, the creators and the cast could never quite manage that. There were talks, every year or so, of getting the crew back together — for a special, for a movie, for a move to another network. Friends and fans often asked Marino about it.

“I was like, ‘They’re working on it,’” he said. “‘It’s going to happen! Right around the corner!’” It took him eight or nine years to accept that maybe that corner wasn’t coming.

Then in 2019, Starz appointed Jeffrey Hirsch as its new president and chief executive. Thomas reached out to Hirsch and began pitching the show again. Hard. This time, Starz said yes.

That was only the first hurdle. The actors had conflicts and prior commitments now. The revival was approved in the summer of 2021, with production scheduled for early 2022. Lynch was to begin rehearsing a Broadway musical. Scott was making the Apple TV+ show “Severance.” Mullally had booked a movie being shot in Idaho.

Somehow a six-week window was found, even though that window involved flying Mullally to Los Angeles every weekend and back to Sun Valley by Monday.

“We could never get together for dinner for a decade,” Etheridge, a creator, said. “But when we came to shoot the show, everybody was there.”

Everybody except for Caplan, who had signed onto the FX series “Fleishman Is in Trouble.” (Asked whether Caplan might make a surprise appearance in Episode 6, Starz declined to comment.) Enbom had originally structured this new season around the on-again-off-again relationship between Henry and Caplan’s Casey. He had to restructure it, adding a new character, a studio executive played by Jennifer Garner. The revival’s first episode takes time out to heckle Caplan: Casey, now a successful comedian, can’t make a crew reunion.

“She’s shooting in New York,” Starr’s Roman, still an aspiring “hard sci-fi” writer, says. “Too big time for the likes of us.”

There were fewer jokes in real life. Hansen tried to make light of the situation. “Listen, we get it,” he said. “She had a job, whatever. I mean, I personally turned down a Marvel movie to do ‘Party Down.’”

“Tell that to everybody,” he added.

But just about everyone described themselves as heartbroken, including Caplan. “If I think about it for too long, I start to cry,” she wrote in an email. She sent cupcakes to the shoot.

The bow tie abides

Hollywood has transformed in the years since “Party Down” first concluded, and in some ways the show has, too. Gratuitous boobs are gone now. And the catering crew, once blindingly white, has become more diverse with the inclusion of two new regulars: Sackson, a YouTube-style content creator played by Tyrel Jackson Williams, and Lucy, a chef played by Zoë Chao who styles herself as a “food artist.”

Yet, the sweet-sour, slightly funky flavor of “Party Down” — like a margarita made with off-brand liquor — is mostly unaltered. This seems to be the rare revival that understands what made the original work, yet can still move (or move just enough to include the occasional TikTok dance challenge) with the times.

“We kept doing what we’d always been doing, just with new details,” Enbom said. “Because society certainly has not changed into a more wholesome place.”

Have the returning characters changed? That depends on how much you and your therapist believe that change is possible. “They’re still the same lovable knuckleheads,” Mullally said. “Most of these people haven’t really moved on, or they haven’t really become any happier, or more fulfilled in their lives.”

Slinging hors d’oeuvres hits different and more darkly in midlife. Still, the creators and the cast didn’t want the revival to feel like a bummer.

“It’s going to be fun watching the characters try to claw their way toward something other than their current circumstances,” Scott promised.

And if not exactly “fun,” then certainly relatable. “Really who gets what they want in this life?” Lynch said.

She probably meant that rhetorically. But the “Party Down” die-hards, Lynch included, did get what they wanted, a third season. And they seem to have delighted in making it, though Marino joked that he’d had to slim down before he could fit into his signature pink bow tie.

“Had to work off that neck fat,” he said. “Got my neck nice and lean.”

Slipping on that outfit was a little more stressful for Chao, a newcomer. She had watched the show, years after its debut, while working a food-service survival job herself. “Party Down” had made her feel less alone. She didn’t want to ruin it. “I whispered to myself every day, going onto set, ‘Be the least funny, but by as little as possible,’” she said.

Williams expressed similar gratitude and anxiety. “Everyone was so sweet and welcoming from the very beginning,” he said. “It never felt like an intimidating environment.” And yet, he added, “there was still like this insane fear.”

The returning cast faced related, if less acute, worries. They have been in the business long enough to understand how revivals can go wrong. (A few of them had even appeared in revivals that flopped.) But they were reassured by the scripts, written by Enbom and a small staff, which suggested a continuity of character and tone and food-poisoning-induced body horror. There was also the pleasure of being together again — a little older, a little grayer, but still able to drop a tray on cue.

Will the ratings for this coming season be better? Comfortingly, they can’t get much worse. But the cast and creative team are counting on the show’s turning enough heads that Starz will greenlight a fourth season. (“You better believe I’m not missing that one,” Caplan wrote.)

Though Starr is inclined to cynicism, he sounded only mildly sardonic in discussing this ambition. “I really do hope we’re allowed to come back and do it again and keep up this little charade we’ve got going,” he said.

Hansen put it a bit more pragmatically. “In 12 years, people are going to love Season 3.”

#party down #party down starz #article #cast #s3

3 notes · View notes

wickedsniffles · 2 years ago

Text

A Moment of Refuge

Another commission from someone who shares our common interests! Summary: In the days before you and Obi-Wan return home to the Temple, Obi-Wan is still struggling with the tail end of a terrible cold. Luckily, you don't mind, and are more than willing to care for him in the wake of it.

Set between chapters one and two of For Once, Be Still. Pairing: Obi-Wan Kenobi x Cis AFAB Reader, she/her pronouns (Second Person Perspective)

Rating: Mature

Tags: established relationship, common cold, sickfic, PWP, teasing/banter, handkerchiefs, nose-blowing, sneezing, embarrassment, caretaking, pet names, dry humping, begging, vaginal fingering, praise kink

Word Count: 5K

"Come on, Obi," you urge. "I think the Council can survive without your input for one more afternoon."

"Can they?"

There's gentle amusement in his tone as your fingers close on his wrist, a quick squeeze of reassurance. You know how often he returns to his quarters exasperated with how the meetings devolve, when you're home.

In the center of the ship, you've set up the space for a picnic of sorts. The past few days have brought boredom as well as recovery, and in lieu of him being able to venture out to the weekly market held at the refueling station, you've decided to bring it here to Obi-Wan instead. It's a good sign, you know, that he's growing restless. And luckily, you've continued to dodge any symptoms.

Though still dealing with the last of his cold, he's in much better spirits than when it began. Even though he's perfectly fine, my dear, you'd rather he take it easy.

That's what the next few hours are for. If Obi-Wan is intent on jumping right back into his duties via holo, then you'll be equally as devoted to making sure he has time to rest in between chatting with the Council. His nose is still bothering him, seeming to alternate between a stubborn drip and equally obstinate congestion with no rhyme or reason as to which happens when. You had to laugh only minutes ago when a sneeze seemed to catch him off guard, coming out sounding surprised, and he turned to fix you with a non-threatening scowl.

Your solution is tea and stew bought from a traveling Mandalorian vendor, the latter of which gives off a spicy scent that makes your stomach growl.

"Tiingilar," the woman says of the two bowls she sells you. "That'll knock out any cold."

Tucked under your arm is a heavy blanket from storage, big enough for both of you to sit on. Obi-Wan holds the soup while you get it spread out to your liking, shifting from foot to foot. On the far counter, his traveling teapot is full of boiling water. His nostrils are wet at the edges, and you can tell he's anxious for you to be done so he can tend to it.

It seems he's been struggling with his nose even more so than when the cold began. The frequent sniffs and little exasperated sighs are more than enough to capture your attention, and though any time spent with Obi-Wan is companionable, it's clear that he's annoyed with the state of his sinuses.

Though you say nothing, you're certain the low tingle of awareness in your half of the Force bond says all he needs to know.

"The blanket seems intent on being stubborn," he comments as you smooth out another wrinkle in the fabric.

"Is this not a lesson in perseverance?"

You keep your expression blank and your tone innocent.

Obi-Wan graces you with a smirk at that little remark.

"Let's call it that, for the sake of our rumbling stomachs."

Your returning laugh is involuntary.

Between all the back and forth of missions and worry over his health, it’s nice to have this little reprieve. After being kept so busy for that long run of months, never knowing when you’d get a moment to pause and re-center, you’re extra grateful for time at rest. Time spent with Obi-Wan.

With the blanket fixed, you take your own bowl while he keeps his, the thick broth still steaming. Carefully toeing off your shoes, you set them aside, your knees touching on the soft blanket. You each take a spoon, almost unable to feel the warmth of the dish through the ceramic against your palms.

Obi-Wan pours the boiling water for your tea, dunking the sachets by their strings and swirling them once before leaving them to steep. There’s grace in even the smallest things he does. A flick of the wrist. The way his elbow braces to grasp the teapot. He moves with dignity, with consideration, and it translates in both his fighting style and in his speech.

And at the moment, it’s evident in the way his nose scrunches in irritation, one hand reaching up and then pausing halfway to his face. Instead of dirtying his hands, Obi-Wan reaches into the deep pockets of his tunic, pulling free yet another handkerchief. You know from spending so much of your time with him over the past few days that he's going through them at an alarming rate. He’d bemoaned having to use them on all the mess of his congestion anyway, let alone dirtying them so quickly.

At home, you can sense when he’s stealing a private moment alone to deal with his troublesome nose, even when the two of you aren’t together.

Again? You’ll ask.

Unfortunately.

You can picture him so clearly in your mind’s eye, sneaking off to one of the many places in the Temple that he’s discovered over the years. A sheltered alcove between classrooms, maybe, the one that dances with sunbeams in mid-afternoon. The abandoned courtyard once used for training, now rarely visited with its cracked floors and overgrown vines – a frequent rendezvous point. Or perhaps the less visited rows of the Archives, where he’s known to wander in a spare moment.

Out in a more public setting, Obi-Wan tries desperately to be quiet. Bad enough that this week he’s plagued with a dull, endless tickle in the back of his sinuses that only now seems as if it could be beginning to fade. You know he becomes mortified to make a scene in the middle of any training he’s been asked to supervise, and Force help him if the sensation takes over mid-meditation.

But when you’re alone together, somewhere like the gardens or in the peace and quiet of his own quarters, you encourage Obi-Wan to take care of his nose like he needs to. Whether that means blowing long and hard into the depths of his poor, worn handkerchiefs, or sneezing without stifling the sound by pinching his nostrils, you never mind. It’s fair to say that you do the opposite of minding. And now, he knows exactly why.

“It’s not healthy to hold back like that,” you said gently a few nights ago. “Besides, doesn’t it hurt?”

“Often,” he admits, sheepish.

“Oh, Obi-Wan, then you can’t keep doing it.”

“I don’t want to draw unnecessary attention,” he explains, pulling out his handkerchief to dab at the wetness beneath his reddened nostrils. “The whole ordeal is humiliating enough.”

That evening when you’re winding down, spooning as you read your holonovels, you can feel him tense with the anticipation of another sneeze. Unable to stop yourself, you turn a little to watch his face, adoring his expression of mild frustration and helplessness.

“Oh – kriff –” he gasps, trying to reach the wadded-up napkin beside him. Just in time, he gets it to his face and sneezes harshly. It sounds wet and exhausted, but he’s far from finished. You're subtly rocked against his hips, a wordless thrill of movement.

In the next half minute, he sneezes three more times, his breath hitching and faltering deliciously close to your ear. It's all finished off with a low groan, his congested sniffle sounding utterly miserable.

He moves to leave, bracing his free hand to the wall and swinging a leg over the side. All the while, the napkin stays pressed to his nose, obscuring anything unsavory from sight.

"I'll be right back, sweetheart, you don't want to hear all this."

"Obi, wait," you cut in. "You don't have to leave."

His eyebrows lift a little, as he lingers half on the cot and half off. Not wanting to leave you but not wanting to do something he considers to be so unappealing where you might hear him, either. The light flush on his face highlights the constellation of freckles across the bridge of his nose, trailing across his cheeks, and you would spend ages counting them if you could.

"You're – you're certain?"

"Of course."

You place your hand delicately on his arm, tracing a path up and down the warm skin.

He searches your emotions, the sensation light and fleeting. When his eyes slowly crinkle into a smirk, you blush hard, staring at your lap as if you've never seen it before.

"This is something else you enjoy, then?"

Damn him for being so keen. Certain that you’ll risk sounding like a fool if you give a verbal reply, you only nod, still surprised that he hasn’t laughed at you yet. This is where doubt creeps in, flooding fast into the cracks in your confidence. What sane man would stay with you after you’ve admitted to such interests? You often find yourself bizarre.

But Obi-Wan holds fast to his goodness, to his kindness, and sinks back to join you.

“Well, alright,” he says, and hesitates only a moment before blowing his nose.

Sympathy prefaces the quick jolt of desire in the center of your chest, because to think that he’s been holding off on taking care of himself simply to avoid being an inconvenience is so true to his character. Obi-Wan certainly wasn’t lying when he said the congestion was bothering him, and the creak in his sinuses as he works to clear it out is less than subtle.

But at last, he finishes, placing the napkin far out of sight with a grimace. His relief after finally being able to blow the way he needs to is obvious, and you fall into his waiting arms, choosing to ignore his knowing chuckle.

“That’s much better.”

“I can tell,” you remark, squirming up to sit in his lap.

Obi-Wan reclines deeper into the cot's cradling embrace, giving the pair of you even more room to relax. His body is so nice to recline against, a perfect place for your own shape. You used to roll your eyes when you heard the term spooning, but now at the end of a long day you can't wait to do exactly that. You just fit one another.

His arms wrap around your shoulders, and one palm lands on your chest. Your heartbeat thumps away there, betraying excitement. If this were any other situation – if it weren't Obi-Wan – you know you could keep your cool. You didn't pass your trials for nothing. Though sometimes it seems as if this man is the greatest trial of all; an obstacle you'll gladly face again and again.

"Turn around, love," he says softly. "I want to see you."

Who could resist the invitation? You situate yourself to do just that, smiling when your eyes meet his. Obi-Wan's nose is still an irritated shade of red from all the blowing, though he doesn't seem to mind. All he cares about is pulling you closer, ever closer, until you're firmly in the vee of his lap.

"You're so cute when you blush, do you know that?"

He traces your cheek with two fingers. Goosebumps break out on your arms the longer he looks at you with that familiar expression of yearning, your hips pressed deep into his. This sort of contact is dizzying even through clothes, making every rational thought vanish.

"So you keep telling me," you reply, knowing your voice trembles.

Obi-Wan chuckles, a quiet sound.

"I still can't believe that you're so intent on kissing me after all that."

"And I still can't believe that you'll let me."

No more words are needed. You simply lean forward and arch into him, capturing his lips in an eager kiss. Obi-Wan's hands tangle into your hair, anchoring you without cruelty, a small sound of pleasure sliding from his closed mouth.

You can feel his life Force relaxing, all the tension and irritation of the day easing. You are his safe place, as he is yours. When you feel that he wants tenderness, craves it, you place your urgency to the side.

And together, you melt.

—-------

"Think that's about finished," he says to the golden brown surface of your teacups. "Not quite how we drink it at home, but we'll manage."

A little thrill of excitement always goes through you to hear him say we. It happened without much fanfare, so long ago now, but the memory sticks in your heart. The two of you had been close then, only toying with the idea of what would soon become affection, though it was only a matter of time before you gave into it.

Now you're here, enjoying this pocket of intimacy.

"Safe to drink?" You smile, taking your cup.

The liquid still swirls from where he'd stirred in the sugar, knowing how you take it. More than almost anything in your relationship with Obi-Wan, you love that he picks up on the little things that you like. Details about you that most likely would have fallen to the wayside, were you with anyone else.

"Oh, hmm. Perhaps not. Should I taste it first, to ease your mind?"

You giggle, taking your cup before he can reclaim it. When you both declare the tea to your liking, you ease the lids off of your bowls, ushering forth a volley of steam.

The tiingilar is a hearty stew flavored with ash rabbit meat and a number of other vegetables and spices, and Obi-Wan's eyes widen appreciatively at the sight of the shimmering broth.

"This looks wonderful, my dear," he says, dipping his spoon beneath the surface. "And to think you'd find something like this all the way out here."

"She said we were lucky to get it – she's only out here every thirty cycles or so."

The moment you place the stew in your mouth, you're overwhelmed by the flavor. The Mandalorian wasn't lying when she said it was bound to knock out a cold. It's spicy; tingling on the roof of your mouth and lingering long after you swallow. The spice isn't enough to cause pain – unlike the time one of your fellow Padawans dared you to eat one of the peppers from Master Allie's portion of the Temple gardens – but you can certainly notice it. Your nose is already running.

You sniff, dipping your spoon in for more. Another sharp sniffle makes you look up – Obi-Wan's eyebrows are raised in surprise. His own utensil floats to rest against the edge of his bowl, paused there as he rubs at his nose hard.

"Is it too spicy?"

A hint of worry creeps into your tone as he blinks rapidly, sniffing back even harder. He's always been a fan of spicy food – but is this too much?

"No," he's quick to assure you, reaching into a pocket. "It's just – oh, blast."

The search for a handkerchief is unsuccessful. Seeing how frustrated he looks, you remember the hand towels tucked away in the fresher and stand to fetch one, blushing at his look of gratefulness upon your return.

"Stars, thank you," he groans.

Pressing his pink tinged nose deep into the material, Obi-Wan blows loudly, his nose scrunching from the effort. Trying to act as if you at least have some sense left, you take another bite of your stew. Your heartbeat thunders in your ears.

With a little relieved oh, Obi-Wan places the folded hand towel aside, keen to resume the meal as well.

"You don't have to eat it if it's bothering you," you say hastily. "I can find something else."

"Nonsense. It's delicious," Obi-Wan insists. "And it's actually helping with this pesky congestion, on top of that."

"If you're sure…"

You truly don't want him to be uncomfortable. But Obi-Wan assures you that he'll eat the tiingilar, and if he wanted something else, he wouldn't lie just to make you happy. So the two of you resume your lunch, making idle conversation about what you might be asked to do by the Council upon your return.

Or you try. Your mind isn't working the way you would like it to. You're far too busy watching Obi-Wan sniff and scrub at his deeply reddened nose, pausing every other bite to either scratch it with his hand or to dab at his running nostrils. Every few minutes you're treated to another enthusiastic blow, and by the time the stew is halfway gone, Obi-Wan has to get up to retrieve another hand towel. The first is soaked through.

"It's actually starting to itch worse, I think," Obi-Wan comments with a self pitying laugh. "Ironic, isn't it?"

"It is," you answer.

Your bowl is still half empty, and you can't bring yourself to eat another bite. You're mesmerized by the look on his face, the increasing stuffiness in his voice, the rapid way he blinks. You're fighting not to squirm in place. If Obi-Wan weren't so distracted by his miserable nose, he'd know what you were thinking. What your mind is screaming.

"God, it's so itchy," he says again, eyes watering.

"I think I – think I might h-have to –!"

Before he can finish the sentence, he doubles over into a quick, breathless sneeze. Arousal bursts from you in the Force like sunlight as you sit only inches away, your knees still touching, an incredible witness to all of it.

"Force guide you," you can hardly choke out.

Obi-Wan holds up a finger, his face still buried in the cloth, and inhales shakily. He knows he won't be able to answer you before sneezing again, and sure enough. The first is joined by a second, where he pauses, doubled over, anticipating a third. Three is where he finishes, with a tired moan.

"Sorry, darling." He sounds chagrined, wiping his poor nose before depositing the second spent hand towel. "Ugh. How do you not think I'm repulsive?"

"Obi-Wan," you all but whine. "Can you not read the room?"

With a Force push, you clear the bowls until they're at the room's very edge, skittering to a halt without a drop spilled. Unable to help yourself, you climb into an astonished Obi-Wan's lap, your lips still tingling from the spice of the meal, and slot your hips into his.

"Oh," is all he says. "Oh."

In a rush, his passion flares to meet your own, a fern unfurling in full sun, and you kiss him hungrily. His hands land upon your back, reaching, needing, and they're quick to slip under your shirt. His palms are warm on your bare back, supporting you as he spreads his legs to bring your hips closer together.

Thoughtlessly you fall back, encouraging him on top of you, and Obi-Wan goes where you lead. An absolute thrill of adrenaline courses through your blood to know that he'd agreed so easily, at the realization that he's mounting you right here in the middle of the floor, and your hips rise into his.

Obi-Wan only kisses you faster, his hands teasing up and down your sides now, his bulge hard through his trousers. Every once and a while he has to pull away to sniff and breathe, but to say that you minded would be laughable at this point. Subtly, his hips work against your own, following a rhythm that nearly drives you mad with want.

"Obi-Wan," you whisper. "Please. Please please please."

It doesn't take clarification for him to know exactly what you're begging for.

He pauses. He waits. It goes on for so long that you start to believe that he'll go back on what you spoke about and give in, and you'll have your first time together on the ship after all. Yet when you look up at him, into those gorgeous blue eyes, you know he won't relent. Not today.

"Little one," says Obi-Wan tenderly. "I meant what I said. When the time comes, I want to do it right."

"I know," you answer, your own voice quiet.

The two of you look at one another for a moment, exchanging wordless thoughts and feelings in the Force. Lust. Affection. Longing.

"Is there something else I could offer, instead?"

You're familiar with the concept of something else. It's a vast spectrum that you've turned to together, in lieu of taking that final step, and your mind races with excitement at the possibilities. Alone together on the ship, that could mean so many things. You know that Obi-Wan would do whatever you pleased, if only you said the word.

"I want…" the sentence catches. "Can you touch me?"

Obi-Wan softens, sitting up to roll off of you.

"Of course."

Again he pulls you into his lap, your back against his chest.

Broad hands travel your thighs, making your breath quiver in your throat. Just the anticipation of more is making it hard to sit still, though you know if you don't he won't continue until you're calm. He's an absolute tease like that.

So you inhale, exhale, and try to act like you're not about to vibrate apart. The tip of his nose grazes the edge of your ear, and you shiver, getting a chuckle out of him.

"Easy, starlight," he murmurs. "I've got you."

Obi-Wan places his mouth to your neck, and you whine a little as his lips find the more sensitive spots. It seems that no matter how often you kiss one another, you can never get enough. The sensation isn't like thirst; you're never sated. Wanting him may come and go, but it's never truly gone.

You've never felt like this before, never even wanted anyone before him. Your entire life has been a balance of keeping control and letting go, of letting the Force guide you. Yet Obi-Wan feels like your compass more than anything you've wanted ever has.

You know he can feel you yearning, even though you keep yourself quiet. Your mouth is pressed in a firm line until he opens his own against the line of your jaw, forcing a soft gasp from you. Below the line of your tunic, his fingers pull your trousers loose, working under your waistband under he's touching the front of your underwear.

"Stars, I love how excited you get."

Obi-Wan's voice is rough with his own passion, low in his throat. For long moments he does nothing but leave his hand there, pressing his palm to where you burn. You want to rise into it, to apply the pressure, to let him know that you'll never be satisfied until this aching need is laid to rest. He presses a light kiss to your ear as if to placate you, the action followed by a light sniffle.

"I'll be sniffling in your ear the whole time if I don't blow now," he mutters, sounding cross. "But I assume that's alright?"

"You know it is, you jerk."

He says nothing, but you're certain he's smiling as his hand travels below your underwear. Now his palm rests lightly on your actual skin, yet he's doing nothing, and now you do squirm, impatient, restless, needy.

"I'll need to actually get up to get something to blow with, my dear," Obi-Wan reminds you, and you're overcome with disappointment.

It's childish, you know, but you don't want him to leave. Not even for a moment. For him to place his hand on your most intimate parts only to pull away – it's burning you up inside.

Then you remember. The vendor had handed you some napkins along with your hearty stew, and you'd hastily tucked them into the inner pocket of your tunic. There they'd stayed, gone from your mind until this very second, and you pull one loose with glee.

"Here."

You hand him one back, proud of yourself, and Obi-Wan takes it with a slight shake of his head. Smirking at your silliness.

"Well, aren't you convenient?"

All at once his hand is back, his fingers are back, right where you want them, as he buries his nose in the napkin one handed. The force of his blowing drives his body closer into yours, and you know he can feel the effect it has on the places he's touching. The thick, heavy sounding sniff and the little oh that follows from his mouth help – a lot.

His fingers start their usual patterns on your most delicate places, with Obi-Wan holding you tight against his chest. When you're this wound up, you don't want to be explored slowly and romanticized, the way you know he loves to do. You want to be driven to that dizzying end, directed there with a firm hand on your back until you're falling, falling, falling.

That urgency must translate into the tension in your body, the way you breathe. The high note that wavers in the living Force itself. Obi-Wan doesn't waste time. He finds that agonizing place, up and to the left, and hums out a sound of sympathy when your legs buck.

"Oh, love, you're alright," he soothes. "You're doing so well."

There aren't words you could possibly find in your puddle of a brain to answer him. If pressed, you probably couldn't even remember your name. The only thing that's real is the mounting feeling between your thighs, Obi-Wan's free hand steadying you, his fingers working you faster, and – how close you are –

"Obi-Wan," you gasp, his name tasting like bliss in your mouth. "Oh, fuck, Obi-Wan –!"

Everything inside you is drawn up into one shining ball of unbearable pleasure before drifting out again, in pulse after pulse. Slowly, he pulls his hand free, kissing your forehead. You can hear the quiet praise in your ear, you absorb it somewhere in the back of your mind, but asking you to make sense of the words is too much to bear.

"Let's get cleaned up, shall we?"

He's smiling when you turn to look, all bright eyes and sweetness, and even after knowing him this long, you blush.

—----------

Hours pass, and afternoon soon slides into evening. When you're confused into consciousness, the chrono claims it's a few hours before dawn, and you have no choice but to trust it. There's no telling what's real in open space.

You fall asleep together as you have every night, cradled together in the cot, your bodies pressed close. Obi-Wan has his arm around you, sharing a pillow and blanket, one leg slung over your hip. You've grown so used to having his mouth pressed to your neck, his warmth behind you, that you have no idea how you'll manage back home. Perhaps you'll creep into his room every night, Council be damned. Anything to feel this whole and this safe for the rest of your life.

You're floating somewhere between dreams and a deep, deep sleep when the lightest of sounds stirs you. A muffled noise only inches from your ear that you're certain you'd imagined at first. Yet you hear it again, stronger this time, with Obi-Wan's hand coming to grip you as if to hang on. As time goes on, fewer and fewer seconds pass between the stifled sounds, almost as if…as if…wait.

The second you realize he's having the quietest, most desperate sneezing fit into the pillow behind you so as not to disturb you, you couldn't be more awake.

"Force guide you," you murmur, squirming. "About twenty times."

Obi-Wan sighs quietly, and you feel him lift his head from the pillow behind you.

"'M so sorry, love." His voice is so thick with congestion that he doesn't quite sound like himself. "I woke myself up and my nose was running, but I didn't want to wake you by moving to blow it. I kept sniffing it back but then it all got so tickly, and then – well – here we are."

You shift in the cot to face him. Even in the low light, you can tell how itchy and irritated he looks, his nose red and his eyes watering. Overcome with sympathy, you place a hand to cheek.

"You never have to apologize," you say, hoping he'll finally take it to heart. "Alright? All I care about is that you're okay."

Obi-Wan nods, sniffing harshly.

"Stay here – I think there might be one more handkerchief somewhere."

You extract yourself from the coziness of the bed. Flicking on the lights in the narrow hall outside, you find Obi-Wan's bag in the storage area near the hatch, digging in the pockets for the familiar silk material of one last clean handkerchief.

After a struggle, you find it. Relieved, you thank the Force that he has so many stored away in case of occasions like this. When you return to the cot, his own eyes light up, and Obi-Wan's thank you is more than genuine as he places it to his sore nose.

"That's so much better," he groans. "Thank you, sweetheart."

You perch on the edge of the cot, placing a soothing hand to his shoulder as he blows over and over again. He doesn't hold anything back, seeming eager to get the congestion out, and you're glad.

"You okay now?"

"I think so." Obi-Wan tucks the handkerchief aside, just in case. "Ugh. Still, I woke you."

Slinking back into bed, you slide your leg between both of his.

"About that…"

Underneath the covers, you can feel the shape of him pressed so perfectly against your body. Force help you, you know it's not right to want so much after all you've already had. But if it's Obi-Wan – a man so kind and good in everything he does – you don't know that there's much fault in it. Neither of you has any intent on straying from the path of a Jedi, in spite of your love for one another.

What good does dwelling on guilt do? None. You both know this sanctuary can't last, anyway. So for now, you'll let yourself indulge, and need.

You'll let him rut into the warm heat of your body through your clothes, moaning your name over and over, whispering that he's too close to last. You'll kiss the red tip of his nose and laugh when he has to sneeze into your shoulder.

And every day until you're back at the Temple, you'll yearn for that promised first time.

#snz fic #snzfic #snz kink #o/bi wan #o/bi wan k/enobi

2 notes · View notes