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thelastofhyde · 1 year

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i. the likeability paradox.

pairing. joel miller x fem!reader

synopsis. joel miller is not a man who strives to be liked, with a chip on his shoulder and a scowl on his face, until his world is flipped on its axis when the pretty young thing living under bill and frank's roof, with an irritatingly unwavering smile and the literal sun shinning out her ass, says those five damned words: i don't like you, joel.

warnings. no use of y/n, enemies to lovers, slow burn ( i have several oneshots planned for this couple ), unrequited love ( except you will never catch joel miller admitting he feels anything beyond grief, hunger and exhaustion ), pining, poor communication no communication, no seriously joel is down bad it's actually disgusting and highkey 🚩toxic🚩 but luckily red is your favourite colour, sunshine!reader, grumpy!joel aka canon joel, kinda perv!joel ( if you squint ), implied queer!tess, undefined age gap ( reader implied late-20s ), descriptions of canon-typical violence, smut ( oral- f receiving, fingering, degradation, panty stealing, hair pulling, dirty talk, dubcon due to intoxication, joel kinda gives her a wedgie at some point and honestly i don’t know what i was hoping to achieve with that, discussions of a lacklustre sex-life pre-apocalypse ). reader is a) hinted at being shorter than joel but it’s not central to the plot and b) described as lithe but the meaning intended is graceful, not thin!

word count. 12.9k

hyde’s input. half-way through, the regret of choosing to write this from joel's pov started to settle in but lmao i was too far in to not commit to the bit. don't come at me for the fact the timeline or events may not seem plausible with canon, i just wanna write this silly little depraved fic about joel in peace :( anyway, enjoy my first attempt at writing for tlou, forming a prayer circle rn in hopes that this doesn't flop because i will cry and you will hear about it

taglist. @kayleezra @newavenger + add yourself to the taglist here !

read on ao3 ! ( capitalization available )

distaste is not new in the life of joel miller.

in particular, one that is loaded, aimed and fired directly at him. he is not a likeable guy, often by choice and rarely by accident. the years of pain from a bleeding wound have now scarred over into nothing but an empty shell of the man that once was, from a world that no longer is, and he’s tried little to fill himself back up.

if anything, he’s made himself more empty.

rid himself of feelings, that which saves him the weakness of appearing sympathetic. discarded the need for luxuries, for which he’d scarcely cared for prior to his world ending. lay to rest what was left of the optimist inside him, leaving behind the danger of hope for it to rot with the rest of the infected.

an apocalyptic world brings out all sides of man that one would never dare to engage with in normal civilisation. joel learned swiftly that he was built to endure, quick to evolve and adapt to the new world order. the man who once worked his hardest to keep the peace among his neighbours, smiling that little bit wider on days he’d catch them scowling to themselves in hopes of brightening one part of their day for even a simple moment, would be at odds with the man who wears a heavy layer of enjoyment when met with the scowling glances and the hushed voices, all the watch out for that miller guys passed between cowardly members of fedra and the keep away from mr. miller's lawns spoken harshly from mother to child becoming music to his failing ears.

this plague of fear-driven dislike keeps him alone, how he likes to be, no one to lose and nothing to be taken. somewhere along the years the idea of safety in numbers has morphed into an illusion, something people say and never truly mean, to distract themselves from a reality more bitter than a snowstorm: in times of survival, people become dead-weight.

“so that’s all i am to ya, huh? dead-fucking-weight?” his brother’s voice still echoes in that damned space he calls a home, weeks or months or years since the day he’d departed for something else, somewhere else, leaving joel to do what joel does best: endure.

somehow, silence was easier than telling the man he’d taught to tie a shoelace, to shave his beard, to tune a guitar that he was the dead-weight, doomed to drag all those who remained too close down into his pit of despair.

she was an exception, his tess, buried 5-feet-under in her own swell of darkness, nothing but the tips of her fingers stretched out above her head to feel the sun upon her skin and keep her from going that last foot deeper. they’d made a home for themselves in one another, one where he keeps them fed, and she keeps them safe, and neither of them keeps the place clean.

she never asks for more, and he never offers it, both content to survive without the weight of affection smothering them. contrary to the belief of any misfortunate soul who’s encountered the pair within the quarantine zone, she is the one who holds the leash, tugging joel along close by her heel and keeping him from wandering off into the wild to surrender himself to a feral lifestyle.

which lands him here, sat at a table playing happy family, each time he dares to snark out a few words being met with the sharp kick of tess’ foot against his shin.

“... and then,” frank struggles over a cough, so excited in his story-telling that he fails to separate taking a breath from taking a sip of his wine. with a roll of eyes and a disapproving grunt, bill’s no more than two seconds away from clapping down on his back, urging the other man’s wind-pipes to unblock and welcome back airflow. “otis dragged his muddied self over the whole house. we were finding paw-prints for days!”

joel’s unamused, too keen to think of what a nuisance that would be. as if incapable of feeling the buzzing energy of disinterest, the german shepherd drops its head further up his lap, begging for a morsel of anything that sits atop the table.

“which means i was cleaning paw-prints for days.” bill, the only one at the table besides himself who wears the looks of a cynic, grumbles out before shovelling what remains on his plate into his mouth.

frank is quick to shush him.

“i’m sorry, again, bill,” he doesn’t mean to break eye-contact from the mutt at his thigh, but the voice calls to him like a siren calls to a ship in the night, like a flame dances and seduces a moth into its brightly burning touch of death, a spotlight in the dark which promises- or threatens- more light to come. “i’d no clue there was a storm coming till we were already a good few miles away, and there was nowhere to take cover to wait it out.”

there you sit, parallel to him.

the sun rests lower in the sky as time carries you all into the late noon, its rays a beacon of light bursting out just behind your head, painting you in the glow of the golden hour and staining a mockery of a halo above you. it hurts his eyes, this brightness that you so easily bask in, forcing him to squint and deepen the frown on his face.

you catch him with his sights on you, at some point, and the smile you meet his scowl with has him cursing at the sun, and the moon, and every star that sits between.

the threat of a great war looms in the air as you rush to rise up and help clear the table of the remnants left behind- none of which joel can account for, mouth to keen and body too starved to skip out on enjoying the mundane luxury of a fresh, home-cooked meal. the battle ends swiftly as you surrender to bill’s hardened stare, and frank’s disapproving head-shakes, and tess’ own plan of action to simply force you down back into the seat you’d been sat in- the one you always sit in.

“you, sit. no one should have to clean up the food they made.”

they get no fight out of him when they insist he’d done enough catching the so-called food.

silence casts its shadow over the table, dampening the light and painting you both in a mockery of greyed tones- truthfully, it is the disappearance of the sun hind a large cloud that causes such a thing.

being alone, with you, is something joel’s never mastered. the affliction of your presence is so much greater when there’s no one else to balance out your natural shine- the kind that has his head spinning and his cock aching-, no one but him.

were he not a sick bastard, he’d try harder to not make you sad.

something bumps his hands, ripping him out of his moral self-condemnation. the dog meets his gaze, eyes a widened mess of puppy-dog pleading that punctuates its existence with an impatient whine.

just like your owner, he finds himself thinking and not saying- never saying-, yet to find your bark.

the ball’s a sticky mess of slobber and dirt, and joel touches it all the same, throwing it up in the air once, then twice, before tossing it across the yard. he’s slumped back in his chair by the time he registers the dog’s departure, a ball of dark fluff bouncing its way across the garden, and all the man can think is fuck, he’ll be feeling the effect of that throw on his shoulder come the morning.

the pain is not enough to stop him from tossing the ball again, and once more, and then yet again, sending the dog in a never ending loop of chase, grab, retrieve- a parallel to his life of wake, survive, sleep.

“he likes you,” you never leave things the way he wishes them to be, bursting his bubble with the vocal reminder of your presence.

as if on queue, prompted by your addressing of it, the dog drops its interest in joel, and the ball, and the chasing, tail wagging uncontrollably by the time it reaches your side. standing on its hind legs, it collapses the front of itself into your waiting lap, and joel watches how you wrap your arms so easily around something that could cause you harm.

to envy a creature that licks it own shit off its ass is a new low for joel.

“thinkin’ he might like ya more, sol.” the nickname rolls off his tongue with ease, the safer option than uttering your name, a vice and virtue he’s only permitted himself in idealistic fantasies that play out in his own troubled thoughts.

“most people do,” whether you mean to make it seem like you’re degrading his very existence or not, he’s unsure, but it rouses a chuckle out of him.

he takes note of how you don’t protest the name he’s branded you with, not like how you’d fought tooth and nail against it every other visit he and tess have made.

“you’ve got a whole load in common, you know? i think that’s got something to do with his fascination-”

“how the hell’s a man like me got somethin’ in common with a four-legged mutt?” there he goes again, making that smile slip down your cheeks with a simple use of his voice. it helps as much as it hurts, frown loosening up and eyes no longer strained beneath the bright shine of your visceral optimism.

“well, you’re both... hairy,” he restrains himself from reacting, washing down a laugh with the help of the dregs of wine that lay collecting at the bottom of his glass. he’s let his appearance grow more rugged over the past few months and your noticing of this brings an unwanted warmth to his aching bones. “and have the most kickass women in your lives to stop you from dying.”

he’s interested to know what life would be like under your protection.

discovering the answer brings the threat of pain, and loss, and an openness to vulnerability he can not afford himself, so he takes the safer option: “‘s easy stayin’ safe when you live in this fantasy land. doubt your mutt’d last any longer than a day out in reality.”

with you as its protector.

he doesn’t say it and, still, it somehow hovers in the space between you both, a heavy, syrupy implication that slips down your throats and threatens to suffocate you. he watches you choke on it, coughing on his cruelty and feigning it to be a simple clearing of your throat. your eyes glue themselves on the dog, delicate fingers smoothing over the well-groomed hairs down its back.

survival has turned him into a man who knows when to seize an opportunity, and this is one he takes with both hands, basking in the simplicity of staring, watching, observing you without the crime of being caught.

but i could keep you safe.

he toys with the danger of uttering such a thing aloud. it’s not the first time he’s thought it. truthfully, he’s unsure when it first nestled its way into his mind.

his memory, which ails him more than it aids him these past years, would have him believe it was way before the dog had even appeared, back when it was just bill, frank and you. a few whiskeys in and a campfire lit for you all to gather for warmth around- why you’d all chosen to sit out in the gardens on a winter’s night joel remains unsure of to this day-, it was frank who’d prompted the question. “where were you all when... this started?” tess went first, braver than most people he knows, sharing stories of a version of herself he’ll never meet.

he never imagined her working in a bank.

bill, with reluctance, took the next step, keeping his account factual and to the point. “was shit-faced drunk and getting my stomach pumped.” he’d been quick to skim over the story of the young nurse who’d guided him to safety out the hospital, losing her own life in exchange for his survival. she was barely out of school. “i knew her dad, bit of an asshole, but boy, was he proud of his baby for graduating.” frank couldn’t let him swim too deep in his thoughts, afraid a current of guilt would trap him and drown him in the depths of it, and so he raised his own voice and began his tale.

joel had always been a good listener. being a single parent to a teenage girl required him to be, or so... she would have had him believe, nights at the table set for two spent listening to the playground he-said-she-said gossip. years later and he at last prefers things this way, a rare gem of safety found in the act of saying nothing and hearing everything- that his hearing will allow. all this to say, he’d tried his best to pay attention to frank’s impassioned retelling of his heroic misadventures that had lead him to the unintentional arms of bill.

but you weren’t smiling.

he watched you, you watched the dancing flames, face stoic and drained of that natural shine his eyes had only just started to be able to gaze upon without the threat of being blinded by such light.

the desire crept up on him like a tiger to it’s prey, hiding in the far off bushes until the opportunity to strike presented itself and the feeling lunged for joel’s back, gripping him in its claws and piercing his ribcage with its gnashing teeth. with each bite, it plagued him with the delusions of a wandering mind, imagination left free to run laps around his head with visions of you from another life, another time, another set of people gathered round a dining table. he’d wanted to hear about the ones you’d lost, and comfort you with all the things he hated hearing (“you’ll keep ‘em alive, in spirit and memory!” “those we remember never truly die!”). he’d needed to bend a knee and swear a vow to be the one to stand between you and death, to fight for your survival on your behalf. ‘could keep you safe. there, then, the thought did cross his mind.

he’d washed it down with a swig of lukewarm, flat beer.

“-could fix it, you know. i’m good with my hands.”

he almost chokes on his own breath.

i'm good with my hands, it swims in circles round his mind, replaying and echoing off the walls of his skull. and he knows- oh, how he knows- that he’ll be replaying it in those moments of solitude for the next few nights, weeks, months- however long it may take till he forgets the way such thought-provoking words sound on your lips.

“what?” the question leaves him harsher than he intends, drawing an enemy line between you both with the foul sound of it. in the corner of his eye, he swears he sees you flinch backwards, physically recoiling from the disdain-filled bullet he fires in your direction.

the mutt in your lap retreats, hackles rising as it turns to face joel once more.

he sees it, in the dog’s brutal protectiveness over you, this similarity you claim exists.

“your watch, it’s broken.”

“hadn’t noticed,” he’s retreating into his own space now, mentally and physically, scraping the legs of his chair against the ground as his mind works to strengthen those walls that threaten to crumble so often in your presence. “don’t need ya to fix it.”

you pull a face, brows furrowing and lips pouting. confusion.

“don’t you want to know the time?” you ask, as if time could ever be relevant in a rotten world where down is up, and up is down, and joel miller is not the overprotective father to the most delicate creature the god he’d stopped believing in had gifted him, just to force him to watch as life snatched her away.

“i don’t keep it for the time.”

you smile, and this one’s a killer, piercing straight through the cages of his ribs to carve itself into his withered heart.

the german shepherd relaxes with the rebrightening of your aura, shaking out the tension from its body before sauntering its way back over to joel, ball in mouth and tail wagging excitedly, as if it hadn’t just contemplated having its first taste of human flesh.

he’s throwing the toy in a matter of minutes, enjoying the repeated run and retrieve game, and the renewed silence that comes along with it. nature sings its tune with rustling leaves, cawing crows, and pounding paws. it’s almost so easy to leave your offer, your words, his broken watch in the rearview mirror of this otherwise pleasant afterno-

“ooh, so there’s a story to tell!” you’re blinding him with your excitement, lithe limbs leaning forward in your own chair in an attempt to reach closer, table between you be damned. “i’ve never heard any of the joel miller backstory, this should be-”

“i get that likin’ everyone is your thing, but would’ya give it a rest?”

nature falls silent.

skies grow dull.

you juggle sadness.

there’s a crash that comes from within the house, followed by the unmistakable sound of tess’ sailor mouth, cursing whichever delicate dish she’s broken into smithereens with the help of her accident prone hands. the dog’s lain itself down upon the grass, ball between it’s paws as it begins to bite, and chew, and break it under the pressure of its canines.

joel wonders what the mutt’s practicing for.

“sure,” then, with the return of your voice, all sounds resume, harmony upon planet earth once more. only, the gates have been shut in his face and joel finds himself forced to watch as everything unfolds from the outside, an unwelcome visitor forced out into exile with the fungal freaks and the inhumane. “but you’re wrong. i don’t like everyone.”

“‘s that so.” his eyes roll. the hole he’s dug for himself sinks deeper, casting you higher up on the pedestal joel will always be wiling to place you on.

“yeah,” you’ve risen out your chair, gifting him the view of how the fabric of your dress dances above your knee, a final twist of the knife in his heart that he lets you pierce his flesh with each time he surrenders himself to your existence. “i don’t like you, joel.”

the hours come and go, but your words linger like a bad tattoo, shamefully engraved into his skin and banning him to a life of noticing the horrendous thing each time he passes by his own reflection.

we’re staying, for tonight. tess had called the shots, and he’s been learning not to argue when she gives him one of her stern looks, biting down on the comments he’d wanted to make of the dangers of being out of the qz for too long, which would likely earn him nothing but a shrug and the reminder that they both were off duty the following day

the nights are beginning to grow darker as winter grows nearer, leading bill and frank- mostly frank- to excuse themselves to bed, bidding the two visitors with a final reminder to make themselves comfortable in whichever room they can find. if only joel could remember which door leads to yours.

the two women in his life remain awakened, passing a bottle of wine between each other as you both converse back and forth, catching each other up on one another’s life, satiating that craving for mundane gossip.

tess recounts the scandal of the poor boy who’d been caught sleeping with a fedra agent’s wife, you whisper that frank and bill had been fighting again recently. the memory of being ambushed by raiders- now dead raiders- comes to life once more with the help of tess’ voice, while the promise to uncover what exactly bill and frank were hiding from you as of late is sealed in your words.

at some point, he lays himself to rest atop the couch, legs stretched out and arms crossed over his chest, ignoring the squeeze of the fabric over his forearms as the too-small flannel struggles to contain the muscles forged by the need to survive. at another point, he’s lulled to sleep by the lullaby of your mingling voices, a safety blanket draping itself over his tired body and enveloping him in the comforts of having that which he struggles to care so little for, so near him once more.

-n’t tell me you’re a virgin.

the words are muffled as the man slips back into consciousness, a frown coming to rest on his forehead as he battles against the demons urging him awake, the nightmarish memories of car crashes, and soldiers, and so much red chasing him away from the sleep he longs for so badly.

a protest rings true in his head and his ears.

was gonna say. knew you were young, but not that young.

it’s the sound of your laughter that awakens him fully, saving him from the tortures of his own mind.

“god, no! me and my ex, we... a few times. it was alright, i guess. i just, yeah, there’s not much to miss.”

he’s unwilling, unable to reopen his eyes, curling in on himself as he rolls over onto his side. a groan slips past his lips, one he’s hoping tess and you will dismiss as nothing more than the sleep-filled rambles of a dreaming man.

neither of you make any acknowledgement of him.

“not much to miss?! sweet christ, you’re breaking my fuckin’ heart.” he’s learnt over time the common traits of a drunken tess. each word becoming an exclamation, curses becoming more frequent, and that irritating habit she’s picked up of imitating his own accent. there’s no need to bother opening his eyes, joel’s already sure he’ll find his companion with flushed cheeks and glassy eyes. “i’d give up a hand for some head!”

you must do something, pull a face or shake your head, for the sound of tess’ renewed shock fills the room. he wonders, as the sound bounces off the walls, how late into the night it’s grown.

late enough that the cicadas singing outside the window are now accompanied by the hoots of an owl.

“you’ve got to be shittin’ me.”

“it bores me!”

“it bores you!?”

the couch beneath joel creaks as he shifts once more, turning his back on you both as the ability to contain his laughter grows harder with each word you exchange and each gasp tess gives. the last thing he needs is to be caught eavesdropping on your sex life like some dirty old pervert.

the crueler part of his mind replays your voice, i don’t like you, and the knife twists in his guts this time.

you like tess. love her, even. it’s been that way since the first time you’d met the duo, eyes giving one look over the woman before the smile on your face grew even wider, voice as sweet as honey sighing out finally someone with a pair of boobs, i’m bored of the sight of my own. joel’d gotten caught up in the thought of how he’d never tire of such a sight that he’d failed to acknowledge your greeting towards him, catching just the moment you drew your outstretched hand back to your side and offered him an understanding smile.

maybe that was the moment you decided you didn’t like him.

“must not have been doin’ ya right,” the bottle of southern comfort is working its wonders on the older woman, accent growing further and further from its true nature with each glass she nurses. joel hears the faint sound of ice smacking against glass and knows it must be yours. you’ve always struggled with liquors, slipping as many ice cubes as you can manage into a glass in hopes that they’ll eventually melt and water the alcohol down. it’s oddly endearing, you think no one has noticed. “this fella of yours.”

joel has no right to despise the idea of you and some fella.

he does so, regardless.

“well,” he imagines the shape of your meek smile and the way you shrug your shoulders. “we were each others firsts.”

“that’s no excuse! trust i left mine cryin’ into her pillow the first time i went down.” tess and he have a silent agreement to never speak of the nights joel would take refuge on their beaten-up couch while tess indulges herself between someone’s thighs in the bedroom. no discussing the sounds she pulls from her concubines, no addressing the wet patches left behind to stain their shared sheets, and definitely no speaking on how his hand winds up stained in his own cum.

you scoff and follow it up with a saccharine laced giggle, so sweet its bound to rot your teeth if you even attempt to hold it in. “what, are you offering your services?”

this he likes less than the image of you with some fella, the thought of having to lay upon a mattress on which tess had raised you to heaven while he once again remained locked out in the dark leaving his skin crawling with unwarranted rage.

“‘as sure as i am that you’re sweet all over, ‘fraid to tell you i like my women a little older than you.”

he knows he should do the same, should lust after those women his own age who shoot him carnal looks in the streets of the qz. it should be skin his own age that he longs to taste, and eyes who’ve seen as much as his own he wants to stare into, and lips as cruel as the ones he owns that he fights off the urges to kiss. but he can’t, and he won’t.

and you’re the one to blame.

you, with the glow of a thousand suns. you, with the hands that tend to flowers instead of corpses. you, with the gentle nature he’d have to spend the rest of his days fighting off every other living thing just to protect.

his own self being the first he’d need fight.

joel wonders what he’d missed in his hours- if it had even been so long- of rest, how the playground gossiping dissipated into reminiscing the pleasures of supple flesh and the sins of unfulfilling lovers. sleep steals him away once more before he can find the answers.

the next time he awakens, he’s drowning in a plight of cruel memories, a cold and brutal ocean of faces, places, and traces of the ephemeral sentiment of happiness he’d possessed once upon a time, back when the price of letting one’s guard down was not so high.

he’s learnt, with time, that losing her comes in waves. some small, meaningless little things, that ripple joel’s surface and coast gently over his dirt ridden skin. others, tsunamis. big, angry, all imposing. they’re born in ground-shaking explosions of grief, building speed, and height, and weight the closer they grow to crashing over him.

amidst the passing of time, he’s tried to keep himself busy in his awakened hours, to keep his mind occupied and avoid thinking about her too much. but the waves always come back, no matter how hard he tries to fight them or swim away from them. they catch him off guard, crashing over him when he least expects it. in the middle of a raid, lost in thought and standing ten inches deep in grime, blood, infected, and suddenly the weight of her absence will hit him like a ton of bricks.

the currents grow more violent whenever he closes his eyes.

this evening, it had been a minuscule wave, yet it’s damage still leaves him with sweat slicked skin. he reenters the land of the living choking on his own fear and shooting up-right, hardly registering his surroundings till his feet hit solid ground. the gentle, barely-there croon of a sinatra record punctuates the room alongside the dim glow of a lightbulb which flickers with the threat of expiring and leaving naught but the moonlight to wash over the dark of the night. across from him is tess, nursing a half-emptied cup against her chest and wearing tired eyes. snoring comes from below him, where joel finds he’s a mere foot away from having stepped upon the sleeping dog, curled in on itself and laying soundly by his side.

you take up no space of this room.

neither the dog nor the drunk pay him any mind as he pushes up onto his creaking knees, stretching out his limbs in a fight to undo the tension in his aching bod. languid steps carry him out into the hall, where he freezes under the self-questioning of where he’s going.

there are three answer to this: where he should, where he could, and where he would.

he should find himself a bedroom, perhaps be ostentatious enough to rid himself of those stale clothes and let the warmth of running water wash away the sins he’d committed throughout the day. a good night’s sleep, atop a mattress where springs do not dig into his back and the sheets are clean as could be, it would do him good.

he could head towards the kitchen, quench that thirst that he’s awoken with, cottonmouth and a headache to go with it too. perhaps he’ll find himself something to eat, indulge in the luxury of readily available food just this once, he’s sure frank wouldn’t mind. bill definitely would, but that’s not something he’ll need care about when he’s miles out and heading back to the qz.

he would try find you, open whichever door it is that leads into the haven that must be your bedroom. he imagines its clean, and organised, and smells of some syrupy lavender that is bound to nauseate him as he smothers his face into your bedsheets, eyes shut, and mind relaxed, the threat of those violent waves no concern to him as he anchors himself with an arm around your warm skin. skin he’s never felt, yet he stands firm in his belief it must be the most soothing thing to touch, as gentle and inviting as the heart it keeps safe within it.

i don’t like you, joel.

those words stop him from trying.

he tells himself it’s for the best.

with a mind of their own, his legs have made the choice for him and deliver him outside the opening to the kitchen. he swallows down a gulp of his own saliva at the prospect of a glass of water. the door’s already half-opened, and joel nearly thanks christ for it as the fear of waking anyone with the squeaking of the handle is eliminated. the darkness of the night encompasses the room, even with the moon’s shine reflecting off every surface it touches: the counters, the knife stand, the metal drawer handles, the refrigerator.

the refrigerator.

it’s open, a blue light shining out of it and illuminating anything it its proximity. a subtle beeping noise rings from it, and suddenly joel’s back in his thirties, dead-beat yet well-intentioned brother stealing the food off his own plate as he beckons his pre-teen daughter back into the kitchen.

keep leavin’ this open and it’s a job you’ll be gettin’ this summer, not a dog.

she never lived long enough to get either.

he catches something move beneath the artificial light. cautious at first, it’s all the more startling to find the object of his ire and the embodiment of his desire stood leaning back against the countertop, a glass full of orange liquid pressed to a mouth that parts and welcomes in the sugary sweet delight.

“why aren’t ya sleepin’?” the words rasp out his throat, catching and scratching on the parts of him that still yearn for something to wet his tongue with.

beneath the light, you shrug, “could ask you the same thing, texas.”

he curses tess for teaching you such a nickname.

he curses himself more for the way you saying it twists up his insides.

you’re teasing him, smile a little looser and eyes less focused than he’s used to seeing. whether you’re tipsy or simply delirious with exhaustion, joel remains unaware.

he grunts, daring to take a few steps further into the kitchen. the door behind him closes over and give the illusion of the space becoming smaller, tighter, more compact.

“i asked first.” you laugh, at him. full on chest-rumbling, hand over your belly, head thrown back- so abruptly it nearly crashes against the corner of the opened cabinet door. the corner of his mouth is curling upwards before he can catch himself. he hopes the refrigerator light shows less of him than it shows of you, bare legs, and messed hair, and pointed nipples all on display for his undeserving eyes. “‘s so funny, huh?”

“nothing, nothing,” he successfully fights off the urge to follow the drop of orange juice that spills down the side of your mouth, over your chin, down your neck, disappearing beneath the collar of your dress. perhaps he is not as successful as he believes. “just never heard the joel miller say something so childish. you’ve usually got your panties all in a bunch if someone so much as looks at you for too long.”

you make way as he inches closer, sliding yourself over to rest against the island counter. a fragrance of things he can’t quite pinpoint, but enjoys nonetheless, wafts in his face as he travels down the path to the sink. uncouth and unbothered, joel opens the tap and cups his hands beneath the stream of water.

“you know there’s a cupboard full of glasses right next to you, right?” you call out behind him as the man brings water to his dry lips, splashing and just about guiding his head beneath the stream. the thirst does not budge. he hums an acknowledgement of you, yet continues with his method.

by the time he switches the water off, you’ve made yourself busy, back facing him while you work at something atop the counter, a consistent chop-chop-chop filling the silence that settles between you both.

“i’m making soup,” you state, like there’s nothing quite more logical you could be doing at whatever-o’clock in the morning it is. “make sure you take some with you when you leave. tess said she’s been fighting off a cold the past few days, need you to keep her warm and fed for me.”

would you do the same for him, if you knew he’d been the one to catch that damned cold in the first place? four days of just about coughing up his lungs, and not a single soul- not even his tess- had offered soup, nor warmth, nor sympathy. he’d not needed it, until now, when he hears you gifting it to someone else.

i don’t like you, joel.

of course you would do the same. not because you care, nor because doing otherwise would way heavy on your conscious, but because you’re nice. nice in a way he’ll never be, has never been. patient, welcoming, comforting, warm. all words that spring to mind when one thinks of you. they violently oppose the closed-off, angry, dark cloud that had rolled in years ago and casted it’s shadow over joel’s entire persona.

he straightens his back, weight shifting from one foot to another as he contemplates you from behind. the sway of your dress as you move has him in a trance, beckoning him closer before he can even realise he’s taken a step. his hands drip water onto the floor in a rhythm, and the record player sings in the distance as a reminder of tess, and your sweet out-of-tune humming fills the empty kitchen with a brightness greater than the moon, but that’s not what joel hears.

i don’t like you, joel.

over and over, you taunt him without even trying, nailing the words into his head and heart, impaling him with your sweet condemnation. you’re not the first to say it, to his face or otherwise, yet you’re the first to evoke such a reaction out of him, to leave a lasting impression hours after you’d declared such a thing.

and, suddenly, joel’s angry. at you, at himself, at the sound of that damned knife in your hand slicing down onto the chopping board. the fog of his ire blurs his vision, rendering him to move blindly through the night.

only when he finds himself looming over you from behind does his vision clear.

a hand meets the curve of your hip and you gasp, leaving joel to wonder if it’s because the shock of his cold, damp touch or, simply, because it’s his touch. without a thought spared, he firms his grip, fingers squeezing tight enough he feels your flesh bulge between each one, a bruising promise joel gifts you.

you may leave your marks emotionally, but joel’s will always be physical.

“why,” he pulls in a breath, loading up the will to keep his voice a low rumble, a quiet disturbance in the night for no ears but your own to hear. “don’t ya like me?”

if not for the pause in your practiced movements, knife stilling midway through slicing a carrot, he’d believe you’re unaffected by his proximity. “why do you care?”

he scoffs, “i don’t.”

“hmm,” this hum is far less delightful than the way you’d been following along to whatever melody tess was playing in the living room. “sure sounds like you do.”

“yeah, well, i don’t,” he insists, and he swears he almost feels the way it only digs deeper the hole he’s created for himself.

joel knows he cares. it’s been burning at his skin and itching on his mind since the moment you’d welcomed yourself to a little bit of unfiltered honesty, dropping the perfectly poised and eternally polite mask you’d worn since the moment he’d first met you, an attitude he loathes as much as he anticipates surrounding himself with it each time he’s tugged along for the trek to bill and frank’s.

what joel doesn’t know is why he cares. there’s nothing to be desired about him, no traits to respect and certainly no looks to admire. he’s near crafted his entire being in a way that makes sure of this, the more undesirable his presence is, the less likely he is to be approached, be it by other people or fate itself.

maybe there was a part of him that had wrongfully imagined you being the exception.

instead, you’re stood barefoot in the latest of hours, knife working away the vegetables in front of you, dress sticking to skin beneath his damp hand, and you don’t like him.

not one bit.

joel grabs at your hips harder, his free hand curling round the shape of your left forearm. his feet shuffle forwards, until there comes a point where one would struggle to make out where you end and he begins. his chest pressed to your back, his muscular legs trapping your soft thighs, his forehead digging into the side of your head so intensely it threatens to shatter both your craniums and leave nothing but dust made by bones blown into smithereens.

he inhales, and finds you don’t smell of lavender.

“for the record,” he watches your movements over your shoulder, entranced with the back and forth sawing of the knife through unidentified vegetables. ‘s like how i sliced that raider’s throat, he thinks, and instantly regrets it. no part of him should ever be compared to you. “i don’t like ya either.”

he’s lying through his teeth, hoping you don’t notice.

the knife never ceases its movement. back and forth, back and forth. chop, chop, chop. blurs of greens, and oranges, and more greens cover the counter before you. it’s oddly soothing, this repeated and unbroken pattern, reminding joel of times he’d found comfort in the mundaneness of cooking a meal after an emotionally exhausting day. perhaps, this has the same affect on you, a momentary lifejacket to keep yourself afloat amongst the waves that haunt you awake.

the hand on your forearm travels, mind of its own, drawing up the shape of your shoulder with featherlight touches that contradict the way his nails dig deeper into the the skin you hide beneath the waistline of your dress.

“that’s not news,” you must think he’s blind to the hitch in your breath when his fingers slip over your pulse-point.

it’s his turn to respond with a hum.

“you only like yourself,” words more untrue have never been spoken before the man who’s every moment is spent drowning in his loses. his wandering touch halts. “a little selfish, if you ask me. but, that’s just what i think.”

this strikes a nerve. fury commands his hand into a fist and fingers find themselves tangled in the tresses of your hair. the realisation of how surprisingly soft it feels barely finishes registering when he’s pulling on it, dragging your head along with, till it lays flat on his puffing chest and your eyes stare up at him. “d’ya know what i think?”

even upside down, your beauty is striking.

“no, unlike you i don’t care what you think about-” joel tugs on your hair once more.

“i think you’re a brat. a silly little girl who thinks she can smile and get away with murder.” you could. he’d forgive you as you soak your hands in the blood you draw from him. knife in the heart, bullet through the brain, bat to the face, he’d slip away easily from this life if only to have you smile as he goes.

“you’re hurting me,” you whine, joel growls.

animalistic, beastly, a rabid animal sinking its claws into its defenceless prey. his gaze dances over your features, catching himself before he can sink deep into your captivating eyes, tracing the shape of your mouth, slipping down the peaks of your collarbones.

your dress- red, a colour joel miller will no longer associate with bleeding wounds and stained weapons- sits tight on your chest, squeezing the swell of your chest beneath the fabric, and gives away all your secrets.

“you like it,” he speaks in awe, unable to pull his eyes off the two stiff buds that poke against the red fabric.

“no, i don’-” dampness follows wherever his hand goes, fleeting as he makes the journey around your waist and up your side, crawling higher and higher to where he can feel your heart beating from within your chest. “joel.”

he retightens his grip on your hair, aiding you with the way your curve your spine and force yourself deeper into his uncaring, ungentle, enamoured touch. whoever joel had been in a past life must have moved mountains or performed miracles to grant him the luck to be holding you this way, the fingers he’d gifted with nothing but the cocking of guns and the feel of his own pulsating lust now expertly tweaking at one of your stiff nipples, all thoughts of the fabric scratching at your sensitive skin dissipating into the abyss as he realises you’re enjoying the pain.

“heard ya, earlier, in the living room,” at the time, he’d been mortified to be overhearing such intimate words between you and tess. the blood that insists on rushing to his crotch now wants you to know, to hear the admission of guilt be spoken from his own mouth. “ talkin’ bout your past.”

he doesn’t specify.

he doesn’t need to.

you give away your shock with parted lips, widened eyes, frozen eyelashes, pupils staring up at him like a wounded fawn he’s about to take his first bite out of and, hopefully, it won’t be the last one.

“tess turned you down,” the hand on your chest switches sides, donning your other breast with some much needed attention. his hand must still carry residue of the water, for you gasp and shut your eyes in the shock of his touch, your own fingers shooting up to scratch at his wrist. near convinced you mean to push him away, the pressure against his hand that pushes deeper into his unholy affection has him realising otherwise. “i wouldn’t.”

you say nothing. joel pulls harder.

“too bad i’m-” you cut yourself off as he presses himself closer to you, your poor hips bound to awaken with bruises from the counter he’s got you pressed against. with a distance so small he can hear your teeth grind, joel watches you like a hawk. the twitch in your brow, the flutter of your eyelids, the bobbing of your throat as you silence what he imagines would be an otherworldly kind of moan, a whine he’d let kiss his ears and wind up poisoning himself with the torture of it replaying in his head each waking moment till he kicks the bucket, once and for all. the want to see you fall apart evolves into a need. “too bad i’m not offering you the chance.”

joel miller is a hot blooded man, at his core, weak to emotions and vulnerable to the warmths of flesh. with notches on his bedpost and a tally of lives beneath his belt, he sees little wrong with taking what he needs.

“who said anything about an offer?”

the descent to the floor is far from graceful, with bitten back groans of pain as clicking noises resound throughout the room while his joints bend and break in an effort to get him where he needs to be, where he’s needed to be for far longer than merely this exchange on kitchen grounds: on his knees for you.

a part of him would prefer it if you weren’t wielding a butchers knife.

the other part wishes you were facing him, eyes full of that repressed anger, hatred and discontent you likely harbour for him as you point the blade down at him and threaten to paint the floors with his blood. you’ve yet to do that, and so he takes it as his queue to progress.

smoothing his hands up your legs, he admires the landscapes of your body from this angle, with legs longer than any tree in the amazonian jungle and curves with peaks that resemble the mountains of the himalayas. arriving at the top of your knees, the hem of your dress both welcomes and conceals his touch, inviting him into the wonderful world it hides beneath it yet denying him the privilege of feasting his eyes on your paradise, an island of safety amongst the open ocean of his mind.

your breathing is measured, precise, too rhythmical to be natural, the subconscious action now turned into a practiced routine you mean to maintain nonchalance with. perhaps you’re yet to realise that, while he may remain indifferent to those that surround him, joel knows how to read people. and, right now, you’re a whole novel of lust, awaiting for someone to open up your pages and drink in every lyrical prose you promise to tell.

joel finds purchase mid-way up your thighs, hands sliding around to the front of them to grip the buttery smooth skin and ground himself in the reality he kneels before.

you breathe in, you breathe out.

one knee buckles, ever so slightly, the weight of you collapsing into his welcoming hold. he revels in the feeling of supporting you, in every meaning of the word, thumbs not even waiting on a command from his consciousness to begin soothing your tingling skin with a gentle back and forth movement to match the knife in your hand.

inhale, exhale.

your legs straighten once more, a hand of his winds its way back out from under your skirt and shoots up to grab your free one, dragging it down his pits of desire.

“hold,” he’s parched all over again, mouth drier than the texan wastelands on a hot summer’s day. all he can do to survive is peel up that infuriatingly soft, red fabric of your dress, skin unveiling itself to his hunger struck eyes. with the skirt bunched up, he shoves it into your awaiting palms, pinning your hand against your own waist. “don’t move.”

where he expects protest, he receives more breathing.

lace covers your skin, a delicate shade of a colour his eyes can’t quite distinguish in the dark of the night. one flicker of his sight to the very core of your body and he notices it, that tell-tale sign that you’re enjoying this little display of attention, despite what your measured breaths may have him believe. a wet patch, your wetness. the stickiest, sweetest of honeys that only a woman like you can possess, and a man like him should never bare himself witness to.

curiosity gets the better of him- one day, joel hopes, this will get him killed- and his touch is reaching for the lacy fabric, fingers curling themselves in the waistband of your panties and the fabric that covers your right asscheek before curling his hand into a fist, tugging upwards.

in and out, shaky breathing comes from above.

the lace pulls tight on your delicate skin, no choice but to nestle itself in the slit of your cunt as two pretty soaked lips peak out from each side. a heady smell he can only begin to describe as stiflingly sweet, tongue-tingling tanginess hits his nose. he makes sure to take a deep breath, letting the blood rush straight to his head- the one that sits packed uncomfortably in his tightened trousers.

delectable as sin, you keen back into his fist, back curving ever so slightly. there’s a tremor in the hold you have on the fabric of your dress. joel basks in the visual affect he’s beginning to have on you, no need to doubt if the fabric of your underwear rubs at your likely aching clit. he wonders if the sting of the lace digging into your skin hurts. he thinks it must hurt.

his fist curls tighter, pulls higher.

“ah,” at last, a ripple in your surface. though you still wield a knife, the carrot you’d been failing to chop rolls off the counter and onto the floor, lost somewhere in joel’s peripheral vision.

“shut up,” he grunts, like it doesn’t make his balls throb to hear you whine. “people are tryin’ to sleep.”

you scoff, and for a moment you seem to have rediscovered your composure. “tess is drunk as a sailor, and the old men could sleep through nuclear warfare.”

“‘s that an invitation to see how loud i can get ya,” he’s still caught in the way you mold against the lace, slickened skin carrying a reflection of the moonlight. this, he thinks, is what all them poets were writing about in their prose of love and beauty. “or a challenge?”

“it’s an invitation to stop lecturing me on volume control,-” you catch yourself, he realises, right before you can gift him some nickname a sweet girl like you would never use. asshole, dickhead, bastard, he’s heard them all and, still, he wants them on your tongue, in his mouth, condemning him for all the brutish, oafish ways he masks his obsession for you.

as coquettish as it may be, painting a picture worthy of a front-page on some playboy magazine, the sight of lace becomes a nuisance he no longer holds the patience for. so he strips you of it, hand moving to pull the garment down, down, down the length of you, till it hits your ankles. he awaits no movement of your own, taking it upon himself to lift each of your feet individually out the leg-holes.

it’s merely impulse that has him shoving the soiled lace into his back pocket, though he’s sure he’ll make use of them on lonely nights.

“you’re drippin’” his proclamation is ego-driven, pride swelling in his chest as he takes in the full sight of your bare heat. the view is a little obscured from behind you, but with the right amount of tilting of your hips at a certain angle and the widening of your legs, he’s bound to sit front row and centre for your private show. “‘s actually a little pathetic, sweetheart. is it cause ya like it when men get mean wit’ ya?”

he can imagine the way you’d roll your eyes at his words, and it has him thinking about how you’d look with your eyes rolling back for different reasons, reasons he’s about to gift you.

but first, he curls one hand around your ankle and tugs the limb along as far as he wants it. much better, he now faces no blockage in the path up to your slit, freely letting his wandering hands ascend to his newfound heaven. perhaps he’ll revisit the life of gospel, if you promise to be the altar he prays before.

cool fingers to warm skin, you swallow a gasp a little too late for joel to not notice as he drags the tips of his middle finger up the length of your slit. soft, puffy lips part for him, until he presses against that special button that’s bound to turn on your engines.

rolling his finger over your clit a few times, he refamiliarises himself with the female anatomy, with your anatomy, memorising each soft bump and meaty lump he finds along the way.

it happens so sudden, and unwillingly, the way his mind switches to thinking of tess. he wonders what exactly it is she does to those poor things she sends home on shaky legs, where she even begins to touch them. joel imagines she makes use of what she has and starts with her fingers.

so he does the same.

working over your slippery wetness, he coats the tip of his middle finger with it, till he finds what he’s been searching for: the gateways to your heaven, your entrance. he breaches your walls with that single digit and somehow that’s enough to have you squeezing around him so tightly he wonders if blood still manages to flow to his digit.

two, three, four pumps of his hand and he’s introducing his pointer finger too, pressing them both into you to witness the ways you mould around this wider stretch, the lips of your cunt a pair of cushions his knuckles collide against each time he fucks his fingers in.

“so now you shut up. ‘s the matter, huh?” he’s contradicting himself and he doesn’t even care, too busy focusing on curling his fingers inside you, delighting in the feel of that spongy tissue they press against. “am i too borin’ for ya?”

“you’re the most infuriating man i’ve ever- oh!”

a tongue meets skin.

the knife clatters onto the counter.

you lurch forward.

his hand pulls you back.

“tess was right, ya know?” he can still taste you on his tongue, nothing more than a simple lick over your slit and your salty pleasure already seeps deep into his veins, staining his very being with the memory of his new favourite flavour. he pulls his fingers out, slipping them up to your clit. three little taps to the pulsing bud- tap, tap, tap- and he’s slipping them into his mouth, tongue working overtime to clean up every last drop of you that coats him. “that boy of yours wasn’t doin’ ya right.”

the common sense that screams at him to not feel envy over some ex-lover, someone who was likely barely even an adult at the time and no longer appears to be around, is no match for the green eyed beast that commands him to tell you, without using words, that he can do better- touch you better, protect you better, fuck you better, if you’d just let him.

‘could keep ya satisfied.

that’s a new thought, one he’s never needed before yet never wanted more, a burning ache to be worthy of your trust, affection, lust. he’ll never forget the first time he thinks it, mouth salivating at the sight of you.

“is this the part you say some cheesy line straight out a porno? what ya need is a man, a man like me!” the softness of your giggle is still sharp enough to cut through the tension, god it’s never sounded sweet, and joel finds himself freely smiling into the darkness, yet still too stubborn to laugh at the deep voice you attempt to imitate him with.

“well, was you who said it,” his mouth finds it’s way back onto your soaked heat, taking his time to work his tongue up the length of it, his saliva mixing itself in a nasty cocktail with your wetness. he imagines the air is cold against your skin, and that you like it, memory of those hardened nipples hidden beneath the fabric of your dress. “but if ya insist.”

diving in head first had always been his style, from his first lover to his last, and to now, knees aching on the kitchen floor. the tip of his tongue dances round your clit, tantalising you to grind your hips to the rhythm of his sinful touches.

licking into you, he’s reminded how much he enjoys that swelling in the chest that only comes from bringing another pleasure.

he’d not been a perfect lover, far from it, but he’d liked to believe at one point he’d been trained by only experience that comes with age, years of touching wrong and kissing badly to learn the right ways to make those he shared a bed- or a counter, or a backseat, or a club bathroom- with see angelic white as they writhed and squirmed under his touch. you’re lucky to have him now, matured by past lovers and broadened by age, with all the knowledge he needs to open your eyes to how a man pleasures, kisses, loves.

he’s out of practice, sure, with recent years adding notches to his belt that were merely frantic, unexpected, barely undressed run-ins with strangers, in strange places, cock barely getting a moments affection before he’d be spilling his seed and tucking it, limp, back into the confines of his trousers and locking it away beneath a zip.

what a perfect excuse you are, for joel to remaster the arts of lust.

it’s messy, wet dripping down his chin and staining itself into the stubble of his growing facial hair. it’s noisy, his mouth openly groaning depraved joy into your warmth as you sing him a song of sweet euphoria, slowly building towards that crescendo on the horizon. it’s animalistic, barely human as he revokes all earthly needs such as rest, and food, and socialising, his mind, and soul, and heart, and cock all screaming in unison to spend whatever days he shall possess on his knees before you.

and all the while you writhe and wriggle, some times running away from him touch, other times rutting so far back into him that you threaten to suffocate him somewhere between your warm thighs, and sugar sweet cunt, and the two well-rounded globes of your ass.

his only saving grace is that he can’t see you.

hearing your pretty whines, and hand-muffled moans, and heavy intakes of breath is enough to curse him for the rest of his waking days, condemned to wander the wastelands of earth knowing the noises you make on the brinks of pleasure, with a touch-starved man satiating his hunger for flesh and blood with the sugary sins of your soaked cunt.

burrowing deeper into you, his consciousness rips through the fog of his lust to curse out his perversions as the tip of his hooked nose bumps against the puckered entrance of your ass. it does nothing to stop him tearing his tongue away from your clit, flattened as he drags it over the expanse of your cunt, and over your taint, and up the crack of your behind.

“n- ah,” you can’t deny him while sounding so eager for more, the tip of his tongue now circling your back entrance, mimicking the treatment previously given to your little pearl. “no, don’t, not there.”

next time, he thinks, we’ll try that next time.

sights returned to his previous desires, he works to rip every sigh, and every whine, and every dirty little song you’ll grace him with. the sound of whatever record tess has put on in the other room becomes a safety blanket, dousing you both in the warm protection of not being overheard.

and, then, he does it, he makes the ultimate mistake.

his eyes flicker to the left and he finds himself faced with the stove that sits within bill and frank’s- and, by an extension he does not enjoy to remember, your- kitchen. there’s little that’s remarkable about the appliance, just your standard, everyday oven that he’s sure you’ve spent countless hours cooking up those comforting meals he’s come to anticipate each time tess tells him they’re due a visit.

except, the oven door is made of glass.

glass which now paints the most pornographic masterpiece for no eyes but his own. you, with hands gripping the island’s counter like your life depends on it, and the skirt of that goddamn dress he’s envied all evening for the way it got to rest against the warmth of your thighs now bunched up in your tight grip, and your head thrown back, curving your spine in a way that has him wondering about the other ways he’d be able to bend and break you beneath his touch.

and then there’s him, down on his knees like a devotee laying himself down to worship his goddess, face burrowed in the space between your legs, mouth devouring you from behind with the help of his hands, the same ones that had strangled a man less than a day before and reigned fire down on countless others for years, that now grip the meat of your thighs to pull you back onto him, fucking his tongue into your sopping heat.

the image will haunt him more than the face of any man he’s killed.

“d’ya touch yourself, sol?” you don’t answer him, but that’s okay. in a sweet change of pace, joel miller’s perfectly fine with talking enough for the both of you. “yeah, bet ya do. late at night, right? once you’re all alone in bed. ya seem like the kind who can make herself scream.”

you back into him, smothering him under the weigh of your body. becoming his holy grail, he drinks from you like it’s the key to eternal life, and what a way of living this would be, time disregarded as nothing but meaningless while your bodies melt together in the heat of passion.

fucking his fingers back inside, he becomes frantic beneath the need to make you cry, fall completely apart with only his hands to hold you together. “let me do the honours this time though.”

you don’t scream, can’t scream, hand over mouth muffling whatever profanities and theatrical proclamations he rips from within you with the stroke of his agile tongue, the only muscle of his that’s yet to develop aches and pains. he imagines that will no longer ring true once he awakens past sunrise.

he’s unsure how much longer he works his tongue over you, slipping and sliding through the liquid pleasure, but it ends with fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him away and tilting his head up.

you’ve never looked more holy, moon casting it’s shine around you, eyes glossed with unshed tears, lips parted and swollen from the pressure your own teeth had bitten down on them with. your expression, he can’t quite read. not sad, not happy, not mad.

your eyes catch on something, abandoning his own for something closer to the floor, to which he follows and finds exactly what you’re staring at: the evidently dark patch that now stains the front of his jeans.

the discomfort of trekking back to the qz will now be tenfolds worse in the stains of his own pleasure.

“joel...” his name is nearly a beg, a prayer, an invitation. hand still in his hair, you tug, pulling him upwards off the ground. legs open wider and back arches deeper, a seductive sight that your body pleas for him with.

he swallows a groan, knees alleviated at last from the floor, and presses himself against you once more. strong arms crush you in an embrace, pulling you back into him as his head slips to rest against your shoulder. he’s capricious with the way he lets himself litter a few wet kisses over your neck, breathing in the smell of you.

“that,” you grind back into him, a torturer who takes his aged body as her victim and toys with his barely recovered cock, the cum in his trousers sticking uncomfortably to his skin. he pulls tighter on your body, grounding himself in the weight of it against his own to find the sanity to finish his sentence. “shouldn’t have happened.”

joel hopes no one awakens as he slams the door on the way out of the kitchen.

people once spoke of how the only certainties in life were death and taxes but, nowadays, the words don’t ring as true and the guarantee of life with taxes has morphed into something else entirely; a reality where death and time go hand in hand. as sure as tomorrow will arrive, death will come too, eventually. not today, however, and joel miller finds himself stood throwing a ball back and forth for a dog.

it chases and retrieves, trailing it’s happy self all the way back to him only to spit the ball down at his feet, siting and waiting to repeat the process once more. there’d been a time where this is all he’d wanted: white picket fence, dog in the yard, home-cooked meals filling a house with warmth.

that dream seems so far away now, even as he stands within it.

he cracks his back, huffing out a groan. “no, not again. my back’s fucked as it is, buddy,” with no one around to witness, joel lets himself crouch down onto his knees- both popping obnoxiously as he does so- and rakes his hand over the german shepherd’s head. it whines and makes an attempt to nudge the ball against him, protesting in the only way it can. a scratch to the ear does the trick to distract the animal, to which it tilts its head and forces itself deeper into his blunt nails. “not so bad, are ya? huh?” never in a million years did joel think he’d be talking to a dog when him and tess had set out for their routinely visit to the bill and frank’s. never would he have thought that would be the least shocking event to unfold on this trip.

he hears you before he sees you.

“you planning to make your knees familiar with every surface of this place, texas?”

he tries to rise, he truly does, but the four-legged foe he’d been petting mere seconds ago betrays him the instant it catches sight of you, charging past him and knocking him over in the process, ass to floor and head to sky.

the world above is a storm of greys, clouds swallowing one another with a looming threat of danger on the horizon and not a lick of the sun’s warmth seems to make its way through.

so instead, it sends you.

peering over him from above, hair a tangled mess, eyes a wreck of under-bags and sleepless tears, the collar of your jumper lowered just enough at this angle that he can see a tease of cleavage, you radiate a brightness like no other, more dangerous to his naked eyes than uv ray could ever be. he’s squinting again, frown etching itself on his forehead with the threat of becoming permanent soon. a few more years and his face will be nothing but frown lines and crows feet. at the very least, he considers, i’ve survived long enough to wrinkle.

the smile above him is worth a million laugh lines, a kindness laced within it that matches perfectly with the hand you hold out. when he does nothing but stare at it, you wriggle your fingers, enticing him to take a hold. he does most of the work, truthfully, but you play a part in pulling him back to his feet. upright once more, he can’t help but bask in the way he’s able to physically look down on you.

“thanks for tiring him out,” you’re the first to talk. you’re always the first to talk, and he curses you for it. “won’t need to walk him as far tonight.”

a queasy feeling overtakes him at the thought of you walking the dog alone at night, nothing but the moon to light your way. he’ll need to remember to tire the dog out next time he visits. “no problem, thanks... for feeding tess and i.”

“no worries!” you’re so kind, so good, smiling at him with a cheerful chirp in your voice. he can’t wrap his head around how you can bring yourself to treat him this way. “oh, actually, that’s why i came out here, i was looking for tess-” of course you were, when would you ever be looking for him? “hold on!”

you shoot off back inside so quickly that otis just reaches the doorway by the time you return. with an idle pet to his head as you pass by, joel once again sees, in the way such little affection can have the dog so elated, that resemblance between them you’d spoke of. in your hands, you carry an array of containers full of food- soup- each filled to the brim.

“i wanted to give you these, before you guys leave,” you’re explaining yourself, and joel wonders if it’s nerves that bring you to need constant babbling to fill any gaps of silence. he can’t imagine how he could make you nervous and therefore that thought is quick to be discarded. “i know the journey up here and back can be long, consider them a token of my appreciation towards you both for-”

“why don’t ya like me?” he cuts you off.

pathetic, he knows, but he can not stop himself, a deer caught in the headlights of your brightly burning, too-good-to-be-true, too-pure-to-be-fake personality.

you show no signs of hearing him, smile unwavering as you continue to hold out the boxes to him, “there should be enough to last you a few days, if you watch your proportions.”

it’s too much for him to handle- the food, the smiles, the sweetly glistening eyes-, and joel just has to know, needs an answer before the heat of his confusion consumes him entirely in its flames and leaves nothing but his smoking remains.

so he tries again, louder.

“why don’t ya like me?”

“and i’d probably say you’re best to heat it up, especially for tess,” you ignore him, again, lips stretching what can only be described as uncomfortably wider. “winter is sure coming in faster than last year, isn’t it?”

he grabs at your arm, fingers curling round the swell of your bicep as he speaks through gritted teeth, "answer me." like a frightened dog backed into a corner, he bares his teeth and yells his bark.

"for someone who doesn't care,” you try his patience, knowingly or not, and his grip tightens. you don’t flinch, welcoming the sting of his blunt and bitten nails against your flesh. “you sure do talk about my opinion a lot."

"answer the damn question, girl.”

“or, what?” you’ve got him there, he’ll admit, holding no real plan as to how to punish your silence. “you gonna give me the same treatment as last night?”

had he known you’d be so unabashed to mention the events on the kitchen floor so flippantly, as casually as one would speak about the weather, he’d never have dared to get on his knees. truthfully, he’d not given things a second thought, disregarding the later for the now, living in the moment with caution thrown to the wind over what the morning would bring. perhaps he’d hoped you’d been intoxicated enough to dismiss the memory as a nightmare, maybe he’d wished you’d keep away from him to free him of the volatile grip you have on his soul.

instead, you stand tall, proud, eyes fiercely staring back at his own as you challenge him to retaliate, mock you with none of those saccharine smiles you hide harsh tones behind.

joel says nothing.

“how about this, let’s make a deal, like the ones you and bill make.” inching closer, crowding in on his space and forcing him to take note of the smell of freshly cleaned clothes mixed in with your own fragrance. clean, warm, inviting, scents he’d never given meaning to before now. “you get me something, i’ll tell you what you want to know.”

he grunts out a response, hands meeting his hips as he juts out one knee, the shifting of weight between feet a perfect distraction to the rising tension in his worn-out jeans. “what d’ya want? ‘cause if it’s somethin’ like a gun, think again. i ain’t messing with none of bill’s strange politics on you havin’-”

“a dress.”

“a dress?” the statement has him quirking his brow, burning questions swimming in the depths of his eyes as he stares back at you.

“yes, and don’t look at me like that!” it’s hypocritical, he believes, for you to berate him for the looks he sends you when all you do is cast stones his way with your gaze yet shake him to his very core each time you smile. “i need a new one, my favourite one got ruined whilst making soup.”

unaware he’d even began to lean closer, joel’s quick to recoil, as if your words are bullets and his skin the target you hit on the bullseye every time.

“joel!” his name resonates from somewhere in the house.

neither of you dare to break eye contact. again, his name is yelled. this time, he manages to identify tess as the owner of the voice. habits have him used to running to her whenever she calls, but habits have never been caught between the choice of tess or you.

his feet remain glued to the ground.

tess yells once more and, though you speak up, you don’t dare look away. “think you might be needed inside, macho man. your missus is calling.”

“she ain’t my-”

“you two just gonna stand and stare at each other all day, or will you help a woman out already?” tess enters the scene somewhere behind you, a blur of her familiar shape standing out the front door.

only when your head spins and he no longer finds himself lost in the black of your eyes does joel take her in completely, hair clearly damp and complexion a little paled by her hungover body. in her arms, she struggles with the weight of a folded table. you approach first, he follows, his two hands aiding in carrying it out into the front yard as you retighten your grip on the boxes of soup in your arms.

“i should probably,” laying the containers down on the now unfolded table, you fidget with the sleeves in your hands, eyes downcast with something he can only read as guilt. he decides he much prefers the fire they hold when you berate him. “go check on the food, before it burns.”

you’re in the door and out his sight before he can so much as ask you to stay.

tess and him hit the road by noon. earlier than predicted, later than he’d wished for. the bite of cold already marks the air, despite the sun heating the world with its rays. he walks a little ahead, feigning ignorance to the repeated coughing coming from tess and racking his brain for answers.

answers to why he’d never noticed how hoarse she’d been sounding till you pointed it out. answers to what awaited them both upon returning to the qz. answers to when will be their next chance to visit the safe haven bill’s created. answers to why you don’t like him.

i don’t like you, joel.

it motivates him to walk quicker, faster, racing to put as much distance between himself and that damn kitchen floor, miles upon miles not enough to rid him of the dull ache in his knees that goes hand in hand with the throb within his too-tight-jeans. if he were alone, he’d break out in a sprint. but tess is here, he’s not alone, and home will simply have to wait on the passing of time to drag him back to it.

till then, he needs to find a dress.

#joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller oneshot #joel miller fic #pedro pascal smut

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david-talks-sw · 1 year

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What are your thoughts on the je'daii? Do they even work, like I find myself irritated by the concept because people often use them to validate/prove the notion that "balance = both sides of the Force"

If you stick to what George Lucas said, in Star Wars a person being "balanced" is someone who accepts their inner darkness and resists its pull nonetheless.

When fans mention the Je'daii, it's usually in the context of:

"The Jedi downgraded from the Je'daii, limited their studies of the Force, refusing to study the Dark Side was a mistake. It was an original sin that caused them to create an imbalance within them."

Which is weird, to me, because the whole point of the comic's narrative is that:

the Je’daii Order’s way was doomed to fail.

Introduced in the Legends comic series Dawn of the Jedi (2012), the Je'daii are the predecessors of the Jedi. They are an order of Force users who studied and practiced both the Light Side and the Dark Side in hopes of finding Balance.

The reasoning is simple: everyone has a bit of good and bad in them, you learn to master the good and the bad sides inside of you, indulging them equally. But while this method seems sound on paper… it didn't work.

Consider that they’re already dabbling with the Dark Side...

... but hey, at least they’re aware of its dangers, they’re trying to be responsible about it.

There's a support system where they all warn each other when they're about to cross a line. But even then, there's many who've fallen and been exiled to a moon, to be rehabilitated.

Suddenly, circumstances compel all of them to use the Forcesaber, a weapon that only activates when you draw on the Dark Side.

And that does something to them. Over the course of a year, they all become increasingly aggressive.

Soon, a faction breaks off because they no longer want to stop using the Forcesaber. They’re addicted to the Dark Side.

A war ensues, at the end of which the Jedi Order is born, a group of Force users who:

acknowledge and accept their inner darkness,

while also striving to overcome it rather than give it power.

So that’s the moral of the whole Je’daii story.

Their idea of "Balance by wielding both" was actually so fragile and difficult to maintain that all it took was a little push for them to become vulnerable to the Dark Side's temptation.

Hell, even after the Jedi Order was established, one of its founders, Master Rajivari - who in Dawn of the Jedi (2012) is framed as a wise ex-general who, albeit strict, spends his days meditating and philosophizing - he goes to the Dark Side too!

Because that's how the Dark Side works.

The Dark Side isn’t just "negative feelings" or a "bad guy superpower" that you can mix with a "good guy superpower" to unleash the ultimate 'Force blast'. This isn’t an anime.

The Dark Side is a drugs/smoking/drinking addiction.

It's selfish, temporary pleasure. The more you consume it...

... the more you get addicted...

... and the more it consumes you right back...

... until nothing remains.

Jon Ostrander, who wrote Dawn of the Jedi (2012), echoed this sentiment multiple times:

“As I see it, those working on the light side work with the Force, channeling it, open and sensitive to what it tells them. They serve it. Those on the dark side try to impose their will on the Force, to make it do their will, to make it serve them. The Je’daii believe in a balance between the light and the dark side and so attempt to use both. Problem is, a balance is hard to maintain and the dark side is so very seductive.” - John Ostrander, LA Times, 2012

“The Je'daii aren't light side or dark side, although they know and are aware of both. Instead they seek a balance in the Force between light and dark. Balance, however, is a difficult thing to maintain and there is always the danger of falling wholly to the dark side — and some Je'daii have done so.” - John Ostrander, Newsarama, 2012

And this is a recurring theme throughout all of Ostrander’s comics, by the way. Be it with the Je’daii, but also with Quinlan Vos or Cade Skywalker, the point remains the same:

"Yes, wielding the Dark Side gives you great power, and you get to show off some badass new tricks...

… but it ultimately destroys you and everyone around you."

Remember: if it weren’t for Cade or Quin’s loved ones, neither of them would have come back from the Dark Side. They aren't badasses because they can use Force Lightning, they're badasses because they found the strength to give that up.

So if you genuinely think the Jedi "downgraded" by refusing to give the Dark Side more power than it already has on them... you're missing the point.

“It’s not about ripping things out of the sky using the Force or Force Lightning. A lot of people, they think “oh look how powerful Vader is, look how powerful the Emperor is, I want to play be the bad guy because I get these powers”. It’s an empty feeling, at the end of the day, after the moment. [...] The Dark Side is a spiral downward that you’re trapped in.” - Dave Filoni, “Force of Rebellion”, 2018

It was an upgrade.

Framing "balance" as "equal Dark and Light Side" is like consuming one (1) salad a day and one (1) whole bottle of vodka and calling that "balanced". No, buddy, that'll kill you. Because:

The vodka is better at being destructive than the salad is at making you healthy.

It's won't stay just one bottle per day. It'll eventually become two, three, etc.

Because as George Lucas stated time and again, resisting the Dark Side is a constant struggle.

So that's my two cents.

You've probably already heard about the recent announcement of a Dawn of the Jedi feature film, a biblical epic that will be directed by James Mangold.

And truth be told... it scares me SO much that we came THIS close to an Episode IX: Duel of the Fates that framed "balance" as - you guessed it - giving equal power to your light and darkness.

Like, how did this ⬆️ get as far as it did? Did nobody think to sit Colin Trevorrow down and explain to him that he fundamentally misunderstands how the Force works?

So all I can do is cross my fingers and hope James Mangold has a better grasp of - if not the lore (I wouldn't be surprised if the words "Je'daii" or "Tython" aren't uttered once in the film) - at least the message.

#incidentally Jon Ostrander is one of the few EU writers who actually *got* the Prequels' intended narrative #je'daii #je'daii order #star wars legends #expanded universe #jedi #jedi order #in defense of the jedi #jedi culture #Dawn of the Jedi #the force #dark side of the force #jon ostrander #jan duursema #dave filoni #meta #QnA

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bishopayer · 15 days

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38 LETTERS FOR MY LOVE ᥫ᭡ LUKE CASTELLAN

𝓦arnings ; character’s death , mention of blood , angst , luke being an asshole. .

Luke Castellan was a complex figure, his demeanor veering between ruthlessness, cruelty, and a deep-seated sense of unworthiness. He harbored a belief that he didn't deserve anything or anyone, having hurt countless people and driven them away until they ceased trying to help him—a cycle that left him wondering why they abandoned him. Luke actively avoided love, convinced that he wasn't deserving of it, nor capable of reciprocating it. So why did all those convictions dissolve in your presence? It baffled him how someone as kind and selfless as you could ever love him. You were the antithesis of Luke—gentle, compassionate, and always putting others before yourself.

The paradox of your affection for him haunted Luke. It felt as if the gods were playing a cruel joke on him, mocking his sense of worthlessness and inadequacy. He wrestled with conflicting emotions, feeling both overwhelmed and undeserving of your love. Luke made a solemn vow to himself to keep his distance, to shield himself from the vulnerability of your affection. He couldn't bear to utter a single word about you, let alone your name, fearing that acknowledging your presence in his life would only deepen his feelings of unworthiness. He thought it would be simple to push you away with harsh words, but he found himself incapable of inflicting pain upon you, unable to resist the warmth of your gaze and the kindness in your eyes. He couldn't bring himself to hurt you, no matter how much he believed he didn't deserve you.

He counted almost every single day that you made him feel so good, like he was a normal person, worthy of love and affection. You didn't treat him like the others, and he was endlessly thankful for that. Despite warnings from others about Luke Castellan's reputation as a heartbreaker, you refused to believe them. Your Luke wouldn't do that to you, right? Your Luke was the sweetest boy you'd ever met, treating you with the kindness and respect you deserved.

During your nighttime strolls, often after Luke sneaked into your cabin to take you out, your shoelaces would invariably come undone. Too tired to bother with them, you'd simply let them dangle. Luke, ever the gentleman, would kneel down and tie them for you, causing your cheeks to flush with a rosy hue as you glanced down at him. "You need to tie your shoelaces, I can't always do 'em for you, princess," he'd whisper, a playful smirk tugging at his lips as he finished and stood up. You'd scoff lightly, a smile playing at your lips. "I can do them; I'm just tired since someone decided to wake me up in the middle of the night," you'd retort, chuckling softly as you continued your walk, the warmth of Luke's presence beside you. Despite your banter, your hands would brush against each other with every step, a silent but tangible connection between you. Luke would roll his eyes, letting your comment slide as you both ventured around the camp, striving to keep your outing quiet and clandestine.

But that plan failed miserably for both of you. Your giggles echoed through the entire camp as Luke decided to demonstrate his strength by lifting you up and throwing you over his shoulder. "Luke Castellan── if you don't put me down, I swear on the Gods that this is the last time you ever pick me up!" you whispered-yelled at him, but deep down, you couldn't deny that being so close to each other felt undeniably right. And that was probably the last time he did pick you up.

Luke still vividly remembered the moment he opened up to you, the first person aside from Annabeth who truly listened to every word he said. It felt liberating, finally being honest with someone after years of mental turmoil. He recalled the vulnerability he felt when he confided in you about his scar, expecting rejection or harsh words. Yet, you surprised him by kissing his scar so tenderly, your hand tracing its outline as if committing it to memory. He remembered your reassuring words, whispered in his ear with such sincerity─how you loved him, even if he couldn't say it back, and how his scar didn't define him, how he was the most beautiful person you had ever seen.

Luke longed for those days when you would wake up in his bed in the morning, wearing his oversized shirt, a sight that softened even his toughest exterior. His siblings would tease him for being so gentle around you, but he did mind those comments. In those moments, he felt a warmth and comfort he had never known before, and he missed it dearly.

He didn't want to admit it, especially after he had promised himself that he would stay as far away from you as possible. He didn't need you, he told himself repeatedly.

Days turned into weeks, which then led to months where you and Luke wouldn't see each other. He avoided you at all costs, not even sparing a glance in your direction. It haunted him to imagine your tear-filled eyes, your bottom lip quivering as you fought back the urge to cry. He had always been the one to tell you not to waste tears on trivial matters, yet now he found himself unable to face you. You thought it was foolish, how he avoided you without explanation, and you blamed yourself for not confronting him sooner. Unable to find the right words, you resorted to writing letters and sending them to Luke. It felt childish, but your love for Luke Castellan compelled you to try anything to salvage what was left of your relationship.

The Hermes boy read all 38 of your letters, sometimes rereading them every hour, but he couldn't bring himself to respond in kind. He had promised not to speak to you, and he intended to keep that promise. But why was it so difficult when it came to you? Letters weren't technically considered talking, right? So after many months of receiving your letters, each one a testament to your unwavering affection, he finally broke his silence. He wrote you a four-page letter detailing everything that had been happening in his life. You were confused, to say the least. So he had been avoiding you simply because he was afraid of being loved? Was he scared of the idea of loving you?

Of course he wasn't afraid of the idea of him loving you, that's what he thought. The idea of him loving you was something that he never entertained before; he did like you, though. But did that even count? No, he realized. It wasn't fair from your point of view. You loved him, adored him, and all he had to say was that he only liked you? That night, you promised yourself that you would stay away from him.

You stopped sending letters to him, trying your best to forget about him and his stupid smile, or those eyes that would look at you so tenderly, or the scar on his cheek that you had memorized in your head. Every time you went out into the woods or spent time with your friends, things would inevitably remind you of him. You blamed both yourself and him for the sweet words he would say to you, or the mornings when he was wide awake and would gently wake you up with kisses on your cheek, lips, and forehead── God, you had to stop this immediately.

Luke thought about you too, constantly. He remembered when you used to say that strawberries were your favorite fruit and how you could eat them all the time. So he picked some from the strawberry field and started to eat them, even though he didn't particularly like them. He knew your favorite color was pink, and he also knew that you smelled like cotton candy. So he bought a small piece of pink silky fabric that he kept with him at all times, claiming it brought him luck. The son of Hermes even sprayed his pillow with the same fragrance that you wore, hoping to dream of you. The dreams he had of you were sweet, just like you.

He missed you, and you missed him. But neither of you were sure what to do. You were scared to say something to him, fearing the heartbreak that might follow. Deep down, you knew he wasn't just any boy, but you still didn't want to admit that you needed him. It wasn't like he needed you anyway. You missed the feeling you used to have every time he would kiss the palm of your hand, slowly making his way up to your neck and then your lips. How could you not miss him? You've always had a tendency to get attached to people too easily, while Luke was the opposite. He struggled to identify his feelings, what he truly wanted. That's why he was so stubborn when his friends accused him of turning soft. He didn't want to be soft; he wanted to be strong and fearless. That's what he wanted to feel, so he acted accordingly.

You noticed the change in him. Your Luke wasn't the same sweet boy who used to shower you with cute nicknames. He wasn't the same boy you once believed would eventually reciprocate your love. And he never did, despite how much he regretted not being able to say those words back, at least for you.

The day before the war began, Luke's thoughts were consumed by you. He wondered how you would react to seeing him on the other side. You'd probably hate him by then, he reasoned. So that night, he sneaked up to your cabin and took you out, just like he used to. You were confused and wary, especially of Luke. You thought he was playing a game with you, using you for his own amusement. "Castellan, I don't understand this. I mean, first you ignore me for months, and now you come and just take me out in the middle of the night?" you scoffed, unable to suppress the edge in your tone. You didn't want to be cruel, but after everything Luke had put you through, if being mean to Luke Castellan was what it took, you were prepared to do it again and again.

"Look, I── I'm sorry, okay? I'm a shitty person who doesn't know how to be loved. I'm sorry that you have to see this, Luke, and not the Luke who has been thinking of you," the curly-haired boy said, mentally cursing himself for the choices he had made. He could have been in better circumstances if he hadn't been such an idiot. He could have been your boyfriend now, for God's sake! You sighed as you looked at the boy with the same bambi eyes that would make him want to kiss you even more. "Yeah, and I'm sorry that Luke Castellan didn't appreciate me."

"I did appreciate you── You were the only one who would actually listen to me, and I'm grateful for that," Luke said, guilt written all over him, knowing that his words wouldn't make you believe him. That night didn't go as planned as he thought; you were both arguing until he had to ruin it, again. He didn't mean to say that he didn't love you; he actually did! Well, he thought so. But he was going to make it up to you, he promised, and Luke always keeps his promises. He's going to confess his love for you, just like in those romantic movies that he'd always say were too cheesy.

But it seemed like fate had other plans for both of you.

He didn't get to confess, he didn't get to say "I love you" like you said to him every single day, and he couldn't even bring himself to utter those three words. He was ready, he really was. So why did the Gods have to take you away from him? Why couldn't they wait a bit longer until he confessed?

The day of the battle dawned cold and gray, the sky heavy with the weight of impending doom. As you stood on the front lines, surrounded by your fellow demigods, you couldn't shake the feeling of dread that settled in the pit of your stomach. But you refused to let fear paralyze you. You would fight, you would stand your ground, no matter the cost. Already having a bad feeling about this, you knew something was wrong when you didn’t see Luke the whole day.

Chaos erupted to quickly. The battle was fierce, a whirlwind of steel and blood and magic. Demigods clashed against monsters, their screams echoing across the battlefield as the earth shook beneath their feet. You fought with all your strength, your heart pounding in your chest. But in the midst of the chaos, tragedy struck. A sudden explosion rocked the battlefield, sending shockwaves rippling through the air. And then, in an instant, everything went silent. The sounds of battle faded away, replaced by an eerie stillness that hung heavy in the air.

And there you were laying on the ground, crying in pain as a pool of blood stained the ground beneath you, seeping into the earth like a dark, twisted memory. Luke rushed to your side, his heart almost pounding out of him as he knew that you were going to be dead by any second now. “Shit── it’s okay, it’s gonna be fine, we’re going to be fine. Just── just don’t close your eyes, okay?” He whispered, tears blurring his own vision as your cries stopped. He knew you were gone, he knew the moment that he had with you were now only memories that he wouldn’t wish to remember.

Luke Castellan still read your letters after everything, his heart arched as he looked at your handwriting. The letters were now stained with tears as the Hermes son decided to put all your exactly 38 letters into a box, not wanting to lose them, not wanting to lose anything from you.

#luke pjo #charlie bushnell x reader fluff #charlie bushnell x reader #luke castellan imagine #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan x you #pjo x reader #percy jackon and the olympians #pjotv x reader #angst

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moraxine · 6 months

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Echoes of The Heart [VI]

pairing: gojo satoru x fem! reader // geto suguru x fem! reader

genre: angst, smut

words: 5.9k

summary: having gojo satoru as a roommate comes with a weekly price. and while your best friend is busy fucking random people almost every friday night, this time you find yourself at a nearby bar, where you meet a mysterious man, suguru, that has his ways of entering your heart.

previous chapter

Amidst the soft hum of the bar, a symphony of whispers and laughter, you sat in a cocoon of your own making. The air seemed to shimmer with tension, a comforting energy that danced between you. Your gazes locked, souls entwined in a silent conversation that transcended words.

In those stolen moments, the world outside faded into a distant echo. It was as if time itself had decided to grant you a respite, allowing you to bask in the intoxicating allure of each other's presence. Your eyes held the secrets of a thousand shared memories, a tapestry woven with laughter, confidences, and the past promises of your friendship.

Each glance was a brushstroke, painting a portrait of longing and familiarity. The weight of your unspoken words hung in the air, a promise of the depths of your connection. In the soft glow of the bar's lights, your silhouettes merged, creating an ethereal tableau of yearning.

As you sat there, locked in this tender dance of gazes, it was as if the universe itself held its breath, honoring the sacred space you had carved out for yourselves. It was a moment suspended in time, a testament to the profound bond that bound your hearts together.

"I missed you. So much."

Though it had only been just a few days, you realized that in your heart, your best friend's confession was reflected. All this time, something was missing, an indescribable feeling of emptiness taking over, a feeling that was now starting to subsidize, like the storm in his eyes.

Your laughter, though soft, held a tinge of relief, a release of the pent-up tension that had gripped you both for quite long.

Gojo's admission hung in the air, a vulnerable confession that echoed in the corners of the bar. He ran a hand through his silver hair, a gesture of both frustration and acceptance.

Relief. Progress.

He was not there yet, no. But the road ahead seemed way more approachable, as your laughter gave him hope that maybe, just maybe, he could make up for it all, for the waste of time even.

Your playful jest was a balm, a bridge back to the familiar ease you had once shared. Your eyes met again, this time with a gentler understanding. It was a silent acknowledgment that mistakes were woven into the fabric of every relationship, but it was in your shared laughter that you found the strength to mend.

In that moment, the weight of your recent turmoil began to lift. You were not just friends; you were two souls navigating the complexities of your emotions, striving to find your way back to each other. The memory of your past laughter still lingered, and in this fragile moment, you dared to believe that it could be rekindled at last.

With a shared shake of your heads, you let go of the lingering shadows and embraced the fragile promise of forgiveness. It was a first step, a tender gesture towards healing the fractures that had formed. In the quiet lull that followed, you knew that there was much left unsaid, but for now, you allowed the simple act of laughter to pave the way forward.

As Gojo's words hung in the air, the weight of his confession settled around you. His admission was raw and vulnerable, a testament to the depth of his feelings. Your heart swelled with a mixture of emotions, unable to find words to respond. You could only gaze at him, your eyes shimmering with affection and understanding.

Finally, in a soft voice tinged with sincerity, you admitted, "I missed you too, Satoru."

It was a simple phrase, but it held the weight of your shared history, the unspoken moments that bound you together. In that quiet exchange, you found solace in knowing that despite the recent turbulence, your connection remained intact. You were thankful that after everything, the spark was still there and Satoru seemed more than willing to continue from where things had taken a sudden halt.

In the dimly lit bar, the air seemed to hold its breath as Gojo reached out, his hand enveloping your smaller one. His touch was warm and reassuring, a silent promise of comfort and understanding. Your fingers intertwined, creating a delicate bridge between you.

As your eyes met, the world seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you suspended in a moment of quiet intimacy. Gojo's gaze was earnest, his blue eyes filled with a mixture of regret and longing. In that silent exchange, words became unnecessary, for you understood each other in ways that transcended language.

With a tender sigh, Gojo leaned in, his lips brushing against your hand in a gentle kiss. It was a gesture of contrition, a wordless admission of his mistake. "I made a mess of things, didn't I?" he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. "I should've talked to you instead of letting my pride get in the way."

The sincerity in his words resonated deeply with you. Υou squeezed his hand, your own heartache melting in the face of his vulnerability. "We both made mistakes, Satoru," you murmured, your voice soft and forgiving. "But what matters is that we're here now, trying to make things right."

In that hushed sanctuary of shared remorse, you found solace. The weight of your previous misunderstandings began to lift, replaced by a newfound sense of hope. You knew that healing would take time, but in that moment, you were willing to take the first steps toward reconciliation.

"I'm sorry."

You nodded, grateful for his compassion. "It's okay. I just... I couldn't bear the thought of being in that house, feeling like a stranger," you admitted, your voice tinged with regret. "But I shouldn't have left without talking to you first."

He gave your hand another reassuring squeeze. "I should've been more open with you, too," he admitted, his own remorse evident. "I fucked up."

You sat there, hands entwined, each silently acknowledging your faults. But in that shared moment of vulnerability, you also found strength. The willingness to forgive and move forward painted a glimmer of hope on the canvas of your complicated history.

Gojo's gaze bore into yours, his eyes holding a mixture of longing and hesitation. In that intense moment, you could sense that there was something more, something he had kept concealed for a long time. It was as if he teetered on the edge of a precipice, debating whether to finally unveil the truth that had been buried within him.

His lips parted, as if preparing to speak, but then he hesitated once again. It was as if he grappled with the weight of his words, understanding that once spoken, they could change the course of everything. The silence between you grew pregnant with anticipation, each heartbeat echoing in the quiet space.

You could feel the gravity of the unspoken revelation, your own heart pounding in tandem with his. It was a pivotal moment, a crossroads where their paths could either converge or diverge. The intensity of your connection seemed to hold the very essence of your souls in suspension, awaiting the choice he was about to make.

As Gojo's gaze wavered, you couldn't help but notice the subtle tremor in his fingers, a telltale sign of his nervousness. "Gojo Satoru," you started, your voice soft with a hint of concern, "you're acting like you've committed a crime. Should I be worried?"

He let out a small chuckle, though it held a trace of unease. "Nah, not without you, at least. I wouldn't survive in jail alone," he teased, but then the levity faded from his expression. He took a deep breath, his eyes locking onto yours, as if drawing strength from your presence. "But there is something... something I've been keeping from you for a while now."

The weight of his words hung in the air, their gravity impossible to ignore. The room seemed to grow still, the very walls absorbing the intensity of the moment. You held your breath, waiting for him to continue, your heart pounding in anticipation of what he was about to reveal.

As Gojo's breath hitched, on the precipice of revealing his hidden truth, a new presence interrupted the charged atmosphere. Your senses sharpened, recognizing the approach before even turning to look.

This was something that had completely escaped your mind. Your desperation to meet Satoru had blinded your logic and urged you to make a foolish decision.

You didn't know why. Maybe it was the familiarity of the place, the comfortability and safety that it emitted for some inexplicable reason. Or maybe all these feelings we're starting to link to the man who had now interrupted your interaction with your best friend.

Sure enough, there stood Suguru, his eyes wide in surprise, scanning the scene before him. If you didn't know better, you would say that it was as though the universe had conspired to bring your worlds colliding together in that very moment.

Well, in fact, it was your own stupidity that would cause this-not so difficult to predict-chain of events.

Your heart raced, caught in a whirlwind of emotions, torn between the two men who held such different places in your life.

Your hands immediately removed themselves from Satoru's.

Suguru's sudden appearance and bold move sent a shockwave through the air, leaving a palpable tension in its wake. He smoothly draped his arm over your shoulder, a confident smirk dancing on his lips. His gaze met Gojo's, a glint of rivalry simmering just beneath the surface.

"Well, well, Satoru. It's been what, a decade?" Suguru's voice dripped with a mixture of feigned nostalgia and biting irony. Their shared history was a twisted tangle of friendship and enmity, forever bound by history.

Gojo, recovering from the surprise, studied Suguru closely. "Suguru," he acknowledged, his tone wary. His gaze shifted to you, a question hanging in the air. "Is this who you've been seeing?"

Caught in the middle of this clandestine war, you felt the weight of their shared history pressing on your shoulders. The truth hung in the air, waiting to be unraveled.

Your eyes darted between Suguru and Gojo, a whirlwind of confusion swirling within. The atmosphere crackled with unspoken tension, and you couldn't help but wonder about the complex history these two shared.

"Do you two... know each other?" You ventured cautiously instead of answering the question, your voice carrying the weight of uncertainty.

Suguru, ever composed, offered a faint smile, though his eyes gleamed with a spark of challenge. "Our paths used to cross quite often, right, Satoru?"

Gojo, on the other hand, was far from composed. His anger simmered just below the surface, radiating waves of frustration. Abruptly, he surged to his feet, gripping your hand with a firmness that bordered on possessive.

"Let's go. Now," he insisted, his voice edged with urgency. His eyes bore into yours, burning with a mixture of protectiveness and concern. "If I knew you were seeing him, I would've never let you near him again."

And though you never admitted it, Satoru could just tell. From the way your cheeks flushed red, to the way you let Suguru wrap his arm around you without moving.

You had done this before, his touch wasn't alien to you.

And it hurt.

A lot.

As Gojo whisked you away, you couldn't shake the feeling that you were caught in the midst of a storm, one that you might not fully understand.

Your heart raced, caught between Gojo's intense grip and Suguru's unnerving calm. You tried to pull away, your brows furrowing in confusion. "Satoru, what's gotten into you?" You implored, your voice laced with concern.

But Gojo remained resolute, his steely gaze fixed on the exit. He didn't offer a reply, leaving you to grapple with whatever was starting to unravel.

Meanwhile, Suguru's aloof facade cracked just enough for a scoff to escape his lips. "Leaving so soon?" he inquired, his tone almost mocking. He turned his attention to you, his gaze piercing. "You might want to rein in your friend. He looks... rather displeased."

Your head spun, trying to piece together the puzzle of emotions and unspoken history that hung heavy in the air. With hesitant steps, you turned back to Gojo, her voice softer now. "Satoru, please. Talk to me."

Suguru's calm demeanor was almost unsettling as he settled onto a barstool, effortlessly lighting a cigarette. The thin trail of smoke that curled upwards seemed to mirror the unruffled composure he exuded. He glanced over at Gojo with an almost unnerving level of confidence.

"Join me, Satoru," he invited, his voice carrying an unusual blend of nonchalance and authority. It was a stark departure from the usual dynamic between the two, where tension often prevailed. This time, Suguru seemed strangely unafraid, as if he had anticipated this confrontation.

Gojo hesitated, caught off guard by the unexpected turn of events. For a moment, it seemed like he might turn and leave, but then something in Suguru's posture or perhaps in his words held him back. Slowly, Gojo let go of you and approached the bar once again, claiming a seat beside his old acquaintance.

The two sat in an almost eerie silence, the low hum of the bar's atmosphere wrapping around them. It was a precarious truce, an unspoken acknowledgment that this encounter was different from the countless others that had come before. And as the minutes passed, the air grew thick with anticipation, waiting for the first words to break the tension.

Satoru's voice held an unusual edge, a command that you weren't accustomed to. "Go outside and wait for me," he instructed, his tone brooking no argument.

But your eyebrows furrowed in disbelief. "Excuse me?" You shot back, incredulity lacing your voice. "I'm not leaving until you explain to me what is going on."

Satoru grabbed your arm again, his grip tightening.

You weren't some kind of toy he could throw around whenever he wanted. And you definitely weren't going to leave without finding out the truth.

Thus, you didn't yield. You wrenched yourself free from his hold, a look of defiance in your eyes.

Suguru observed the scene with a calm detachment, cigarette still poised between his fingers. There was a sense of assurance about him, as if he expected this outcome. He raised an eyebrow at the unfolding drama, waiting to see what would transpire next.

You focused on Suguru, your expression a mix of confusion and concern. "A little context here, please?" You demanded, your voice firm.

Suguru glanced at you, his features devoid of any particular emotion. He shrugged nonchalantly. "Your best friend and my family have been at each other's throats for years, trying to sabotage my father's business in all sorts of malicious ways," he explained, as if discussing the weather. "Honestly, it's been more of a nuisance than anything. They've never succeeded, just been a pain in the ass."

Your eyes widened, struggling to process the revelation. The animosity between their families was never known to you, and to hear it framed so plainly was a shock.

You exchanged a wary look with Suguru, realizing that your connection now held much deeper implications than you'd initially thought.

Gojo's struggle for composure was palpable, his clenched jaw and furrowed brows revealing the turmoil within.

Suguru, seemed utterly unbothered by the tense atmosphere. He took a casual drag from his cigarette, then blew out the smoke, allowing it to curl around Gojo's face like a taunt.

"What's your game here, Suguru?" Gojo's voice was low and dangerous, his eyes fixed on his old best friend.

Suguru's lips quirked in a sardonic smile. "No game, Satoru. I was just passing by. Saw you and just thought we'd have a little chat, catch up on old times."

The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife, and you watched with growing apprehension, caught between the two men who held significant places in your life.

Gojo's anger was a simmering tempest, barely contained beneath the surface. He locked eyes with Suguru, his tone icy but seething with intensity. "Did you put her up to this? Did you convince her to leave?"

Suguru's response was a soft, almost mocking laugh. He seemed thoroughly unfazed by Gojo's ire. "You give me too much credit, Satoru. From what I hear, you've been handling that quite well on your own."

Turning towards you, he addressed you with a tone that was both casual and provocative. "Right, sweetheart?" His words hung in the air, a deliberate challenge. You felt the weight of their expectations, torn between the two men who held pieces of your now utterly torn in half heart.

The air seemed charged with tension, as if sparks could fly any moment. Your senses were keenly attuned to Suguru's every word and gesture, detecting the subtle undercurrent of passive aggression that he wielded like a finely honed blade.

As you stood between these two formidable men, a flashback washed over you. It was that night when you first met Suguru, the memory of your conversation etched vividly in your mind. You had casually mentioned Gojo Satoru, your best friend, never realizing the intricate connections that bound them.

Turning to Suguru, you couldn't help but feel a knot of unease tightening in your chest. "Why didn't you say anything when I told you about Satoru?"

Suguru's eyes held a glint of mischief, and a small smile played at the corners of his lips. His response was deliberate, his words chosen with care. "Well, sweetheart, where's the fun in giving away all the secrets at once? Some things are better left to unfold on their own. Or not at all, it doesn't matter to me."

Gojo's voice was laced with frustration and a tinge of desperation. "What lies has he been feeding you about me?"

Suguru's response was measured, his tone almost conciliatory. He placed a hand over his heart, as if emphasizing the sincerity of his words.

"To be perfectly honest, I haven't said much at all. You see, Gojo here, he's quite the master of self-sabotage. He's got a knack for messing things up all on his own."

There was a glimmer of amusement in Suguru's eyes, a touch of smugness that betrayed his satisfaction at the situation. You couldn't help but feel a whirlwind of emotions swirling within you, torn between the loyalty you felt for Gojo and the undeniable chemistry you shared with Suguru.

Your brows furrowed in confusion, your eyes darting between Suguru and Satoru, trying to make sense of the tangled web of emotions and motives.

And then it hit.

Hit like a bolt of lightning straight to the depths of your soul.

"Have you been using me to get back at him?" You asked, your trembling voice tinged with a mix of hurt and accusation at the realization.

"Is this some kind of twisted revenge for whatever rivalry you two had?"

Suguru's gaze held yours, his expression uncharacteristically serious.

"Sweetheart, I won't deny that our families have a history, but what's between us is entirely different. You're not a pawn in some old feud. I promise you that. And that's mainly the reason why I decided to skip this tiny detail when we met."

The intensity in his eyes was hard to ignore, and for a moment, you wavered, unsure of which truth to believe.

Your anger flared, eyes narrowing at Suguru's composed demeanor. "This whole knight in shining armor thing... You weren't just playing your part in some twisted game?"

Suguru smiled, infuriatingly sweetly. "If anything, I have Gojo to thank. Without him, our paths might never have crossed. And what's between us, it's real. Even though I didn't reveal everything about my history with Gojo, my feelings for you are genuine."

His words hung in the air, a perplexing mixture of sincerity and ambiguity. You were torn, unable to completely trust his assurances. You couldn't shake the feeling that there were still hidden truths, waiting to unravel.

Your gaze was fixated on Gojo, your expression resolute.

With gritted teeth and a death stare, Gojo got up took hold of your arm, gently this time, ready to lead you away, but Suguru's laughter cut through the tension.

"She has her own will, Satoru," Suguru chimed in, his tone light, almost mocking. "You can't force her to follow you."

Gojo's jaw clenched. He could have easily punched him, not once, or twice, but more times than he could actually count. However, that wasn't like him at all, and the last thing he wanted was to scare you away. All the steps he had managed to take towards reconciliation were starting to crack beneath his feet.

He met your gaze. "We'll talk about everything, I promise. But it has to be in private."

You shook your head, a steely resolve in your voice. "No more lies, or hiding. We discuss this now."

Suguru shrugged casually, seemingly unfazed by the unfolding drama. "Fine by me." His nonchalance grated on both Gojo and you, intensifying the already charged atmosphere.

Suguru leaned back, a knowing smirk playing on his lips, the tip of his cigarette glowing faintly in the dim light. "Well, this is going to be quite entertaining," he mused, his tone tinged with amusement.

Your frustration simmered. You were caught in the middle of a rivalry you barely understood, and the nonchalant attitude of both men was infuriating. You shot them both a glare, your jaw clenched, determined not to let them see how much their clash affected you. This wasn't a spectacle for their amusement; it was your life and her feelings they were toying with.

Gojo's eyes bore into yours, filled with urgency. "Let's step outside, just you and me. We need to talk, please." he implored, his voice soft yet earnest.

You hesitated, torn between the two men whose lives seemed so intricately woven together. After a moment's contemplation, you realized that trying to change your best friend's mind would be in vain. Satoru could be very stubborn at times, and attempting to push him would only make matters worse.

"Alright, wait for me outside," you conceded, your voice steady but tinged with a hint of weariness.

Gojo nodded and left the bar without hesitation, as if the atmosphere was so suffocating, he couldn't bear it anymore.

You turned to face Suguru, determined to unravel the truth from this complex web of secrets and rivalry.

"You're an asshole."

Suguru gave you a small smile, his eyes glinting with a mixture of amusement and sincerity. "Well, if 'asshole' is the title I've earned, I suppose I'll wear it," he said, his voice smooth.

He gestured to a nearby seat, offering you a moment to collect your thoughts. "But you can't deny, I've offered you sanctuary, made you feel safe. That should count for something, shouldn't it?"

His tone shifted, taking on a more serious note. "I won't lie, I'm attracted to you. I see potential, a connection. I want to build something, if you're willing. But unlike our dear Gojo, I'm not one to impose. Free will is a principle I hold dear."

Suguru's gaze didn't waver, his eyes locked on yours with a mixture of intensity and respect. He waited, giving you the space to make your own choice.

Suguru leaned back, casually taking a drag from his cigarette. "You know, I'd suggest you head out there and talk to him. Gojo's always been better at the whole storytelling thing," he chuckled.

"But let me be honest. I might not be everyone's cup of tea, and I've got my fair share of flaws. But what I feel for you, it's real. If you choose to stick around, great. If not, that's fine too. I won't hold it against you."

The atmosphere was strangely calm as he spoke, his gaze fixed on you, waiting for your response.

You couldn't bring yourself to say anything. You felt terrible, unable to swallow the knot stuck in your throat.

Suguru was upfront and honest with his thoughts, feelings, everything.

You nodded, mustering a weak smile, your mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.

You turned and walked out of the bar, the door chiming softly behind you. The night air was cool against your skin, but it offered little comfort for the turmoil raging within you. You were left with a maelstrom of thoughts, trying to make sense of the tangled web of emotions and truths that have just unraveled before you.

And worst of all, you had to make up your mind.

As you stepped out into the crisp night air, you found Gojo waiting for you, his expression a mixture of worry and guilt. He moved towards you, arms outstretched for a hug, but you stepped back, your eyes searching his face for answers.

"Satoru," you began, your voice firm, "I need to hear everything. What's going on between you two?"

Gojo's eyes dropped to the ground for a moment before he met your gaze. He took a deep breath, clearly preparing to explain a story that had been hidden for far too long.

Gojo sighed heavily, his breath visible in the chilly air. "Alright," he began, his voice tinged with regret. "Suguru and I used to be best friends, you know? We grew up together, practically inseparable."

He paused, memories of the past playing in his mind. "But our families... they had their own... businesses," he chose his words carefully. "Things got complicated, and well, we ended up on opposite sides of a line we never wanted to draw. It was just too much, too messy. We had to part ways."

You listened, your heart aching for the complexities of Gojo's past. You couldn't help but wonder how it had shaped the man he was today.

Gojo's eyes held a mixture of sadness and resolution as he continued. "Suguru's dad, he started getting involved in some... shady dealings. Suguru went along with it, and I couldn't accept that path. It tore at the very core of our friendship."

He took a deep breath, the weight of those memories pressing on him. "One day, we had a heated argument. It was fierce, and in the end, I... I just declared that it was over. That our friendship had come to an end right there."

You could feel the gravity of the situation in his words. It was evident that this chapter of Gojo's life had left a profound mark on him.

You spoke gently, trying to find some common ground. "People change, Satoru. Maybe Suguru has too."

Gojo's expression darkened, and he shook his head. "No, he hasn't. He's still deeply involved in those illegal activities. Trust me, you won't be safe with him."

Air-conditioning units for penguins.

It was a stark revelation, one that painted a grim picture of Suguru's present. Your heart sank, realizing the gravity of the situation.

The air grew heavy with unspoken tension as your mind raced through the events of the past few days. Gojo broke the silence, his voice careful. "Do you... like Suguru?"

Did you?

The answer was quite clear until Satoru started acting strange, bringing thoughts into your mind that you wouldn't even dare speak out loud a few days before.

You hesitated, uncertainty in your eyes. "I don't know, Satoru. It's all been so overwhelming."

He frowned, his concern evident. "You should know by now."

"Why do you care so much?" The words slipped out before you could stop them, your frustration and confusion bubbling to the surface.

You knew the answer now, of course. As confused as you might have seemed a couple minutes ago, you were struck by a wave of clarity, which made everything worse.

Sometimes, the happiest people are the ones living in oblivion.

Gojo's gaze flickered, avoiding yours, as if he were searching for an escape in the dimly lit night. Your voice, steady but tinged with urgency, cut through the quiet air. "Look at me, Gojo. And tell me the truth."

He turned his gaze back, meeting your eyes, his expression a mix of emotions. You continued, voice steady. "You started acting weird long before you found out it was Suguru I was seeing. Why?"

The seconds seemed to stretch, filled only with the distant sounds of the night. The weight of his silence hung heavy in the air.

Gojo's discomfort was evident as he struggled to find the words. "I... I felt jealous," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes couldn't quite meet yours anymore; instead, they darted away, seeking refuge in the dark corners of the street.

"Jealous?" You repeated, incredulous. "But why, Satoru?"

He sighed heavily, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "I didn't understand it either," he admitted, his gaze finally locking with yours. "I've never felt that way before. I thought we were just roommates, best friends, but..." His voice trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid.

Your voice carried a mix of frustration and hurt. "Is it fair, Satoru? You hook up with whomever you please, and I can't even go on a date without you making it a big deal?"

Gojo's eyes held a hint of remorse, and he sighed heavily. "You're right," he admitted, a touch of regret lacing his words. "I shouldn't have reacted that way. It's just... even thinking of you with someone else, it hit me harder than I expected."

The tension between you was palpable, each word a weighty admission of the complex emotions.

Your eyes widened in surprise. "What... what the hell was that supposed to mean?"

Alright.

Gojo looked straight into your eyes, his gaze unwavering. "It means I have feelings for you, y/n. I only realized when you left," he confessed, his voice tinged with vulnerability. "I can't function properly without you around. All this time, the things I've done with other people...Fuck, I don't know, I guess I was trying to get over you even though I wasn't even aware of these feelings. Because, honestly, none of these women meant shit to me."

"And that night when you came home, I did everything just to annoy you. Because I wanted to tell you that things had started to change for me, even though I wasn't really sure, but you were out with someone else and it pissed me off. I felt I was about to lose you."

"And I have, haven't I? I've lost you to that scum, who's in there pretending to be the bigger person." He was practically shouting now, unable to keep his anger under control any longer.

The weight of Gojo's confession hung in the chilly air, and the weight of it was too much to carry.

Your heart raced, your mind struggling to process the revelation. You looked into his eyes, searching for any sign that he might be joking, but all you found was sincerity.

You didn't expect it to be like this, at all.

"I... Satoru, I..." your voice wavered, emotions swirling within you. You never expected this, not in a million years. "I don't know what to say..."

Gojo's gaze softened, his hand reaching out tentatively, as if asking for permission. "You don't have to say anything. I just needed you to know."

Tears glistened in your eyes, a mixture of surprise, confusion, and a touch of something you couldn't quite put your finger on. You took a deep breath, your heart pounding in your chest.

"I need time to think," you finally managed to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

Gojo nodded, his expression filled with understanding. "Of course, take all the time you need. Just... know that I mean every word."

With that, he awkwardly turned and walked away, leaving you standing there, with thoughts in a whirlwind. You watched him go, your mind racing, trying to make sense of it all. This was a turning point, a crossroads you never saw coming.

You stood there, caught in the gravity of your decision. Each step in either direction felt like a step into an entirely different world. You glanced back towards the bar, where Suguru sat, watching.

Turning your gaze forward, you imagined chasing after Gojo, catching up to him, and pouring your heart out. But you knew that would change everything. Your dynamic would shift irrevocably, and there would be no going back.

In that frozen moment, you knew you had to make a choice, one that would shape the future. It was a decision between familiarity and the unknown, between history and possibility.

Taking a deep breath, you headed towards the person who had shown you kindness, a glimpse of love tenderness. who had been there for you during it all. It wasn't an easy choice, but it felt like the right one for now.

SUGURU ENDING

You entered the bar with a newfound determination. You spotted Suguru sitting there, his eyes brightening when he saw you. The tension that had hung in the air seemed to dissipate, replaced by a sense of anticipation.

You locked eyes, a silent understanding passing between you. This was a new beginning, a fresh start. You took your seat opposite Suguru, a small, genuine smile playing on your lips. You felt a sense of comfort and ease in his presence.

As the moments passed, you gazed at each other, your expressions filled with excitement and curiosity. There was a shared sense of embarking on something unknown but promising.

Suguru extended a cigarette towards you, a silent invitation. You accepted it, knowing that this small gesture held significance. It marked the beginning of a connection, a bond that held potential for something more.

As you both lit up, the room seemed to hold its breath, as if recognizing the weight of this moment. The ember of the cigarette glowed, casting a warm, amber light on your faces. It was an acknowledgment of the choices you had made, and the paths you were now walking together.

You let out a sigh of relief.

"You won by almost 5 percent on that endgame poll, by the way."

Suguru laughed softly, shaking his head.

"Oh did I? Tell me more about it, sweetheart."

SATORU ENDING

In that decisive moment, your heart guided you towards the person who had always held a special place in it. You couldn't let Gojo slip away, not without letting him know how you truly felt.

And even though it wasn't quite clear yetz the mere thought of being away from him for good was killing you. The mere thought of him with another person was now making you feel uneasy.

With determination in your steps, you hurried after him, your voice ringing through the air, "Satoru!" He turned, surprised to see you chasing after him.

As you reached him, you didn't waste a second. You stretchesd to reach him as you took his face in your hands, your touch both gentle and resolute. Your eyes locked, a powerful connection sparking between you. The rain started to fall, casting a veil of freshness around you.

We love shitty cliches in this story.

"Wherever we go, let's always go together."

Time seemed to slow, the world fading away as you drew closer. Your lips met in a tender, lingering kiss. It was a proclamation of the feelings you had kept hidden, a culmination of years of unspoken affection that was just now being unraveled.

Raindrops danced around you, mirroring the joy that blossomed in your hearts. It was a moment of pure vulnerability and truth, a declaration that your souls were intertwined in a way that couldn't be denied.

In that embrace, you knew that you had found your way back to where you truly belonged. The rain washed away the doubts and uncertainties, leaving only the certainty that Satoru had always been the one who held your heart.

moraxine, october '23.

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zapreportsblog · 7 months

Note

Hello. I saw that you wrote for other fandoms. Do you write for the Foundation? If so, can you write for yandere Brother Day (Cleon xiii) and female reader? Brother Day wants to make your reader his legal wife and Queen. Moreover, he wants to have children with the reader.

❝you are mine for eternity❞

✭ pairing : brother day cleon xii x reader

✭ fandom : foundation

✭ summary : brother day have always had his eyes on (y/n), she was the fairest of them all and no other person deserved her love as much as he did.

✭ authors note : lol I have no clue who this man is and im literally reading everything off the web right now on him so sorry if it’s not all that good :)

In the heart of a sprawling, futuristic city stood the grand institution known as the Sanctum. Its towering spires reached toward the heavens, symbolizing the pinnacle of human achievement in science, knowledge, and martial prowess. Within the hallowed walls of the Sanctum, young minds were honed to become the guardians of humanity, known as the Sentinels. Among them, Brother Day was a rising star, the embodiment of dedication, and the epitome of a warrior.

But beneath his disciplined exterior, there was a secret, an obsession that had quietly taken root in his heart since childhood. That obsession had a name, and it was (Y/N).

The story of Brother Day and (Y/N) began in the innocence of youth, when they were nothing more than wide-eyed children. Growing up within the walls of the Sanctum, they had been inseparable. Brother Day, in particular, had always found himself drawn to her, like a moth to a flame. It had started as a simple crush, a puppy love that had made his heart race and his palms sweat.

Back then, when he wasn't busy with the rigorous training that would one day make him a Sentinel, he would often find himself sneaking away from his duties to watch (Y/N) in secret. She had a talent for making flower crowns, a skill she had developed from the vibrant gardens that thrived in the heart of the Sanctum. He would hide among the blossoms, his eyes fixated on her delicate hands as they wove together petals and leaves into intricate garlands.

As the years passed, Brother Day's affection for (Y/N) deepened. He had vowed to himself that he would make her his, not just as a lover, but as a queen. In the stillness of the night, when the Sanctum slept, he would lie awake, his thoughts consumed by her. He knew that he was destined for greatness, that he would ascend to the highest ranks of the Sentinels, and he would do it all for her.

For in his eyes, no one but him deserved her love. He had watched her grow, seen her beauty blossom like a rare flower in the midst of a concrete jungle. Her laughter was the sweetest melody, her presence a beacon of light in a world consumed by darkness. And he, Brother Day, would be the one to protect her from that darkness, to stand at her side as her unwavering protector.

But his secret obsession remained hidden, locked away in the depths of his heart. For now, he would continue his training, striving to become the greatest Sentinel the Sanctum had ever known, all in the name of the one he loved, the one he would make his queen.

As the years passed, Brother Day's dedication to the Sanctum bore fruit, and he rose in power and influence. He became known as Cleon XII, a name that resonated with authority and respect. His martial prowess was unmatched, and his strategic brilliance was lauded by all. But amidst the clamor of his accomplishments, his secret obsession with (Y/N) remained a driving force.

One evening, while Cleon XII was on the balcony of his lavish quarters overlooking the Sanctum, he overheard the maids who attended to his needs conversing in hushed tones. They spoke of his rising prominence and speculated about when he would take a wife, as was expected of a man of his stature.

Their words echoed in his mind, and Cleon XII knew that the time had come. It was the perfect moment to begin courting (Y/N), to make his intentions clear. He couldn't let anyone else claim her heart. She would be his queen, and he would ensure her safety and happiness for the rest of their days.

With newfound determination, Cleon XII set out to find (Y/N). He knew her routines well and had learned that she often went shopping at the marketplace in the evenings. He tracked her there, his heart pounding with anticipation.

As he approached her, Cleon XII couldn't resist the urge to tease her a bit. He came up behind her, causing her to startle as she turned around. Her initial surprise quickly melted into a warm smile when she saw who it was.

"Cleon XII, don't sneak up behind me," she chided, her eyes sparkling with mirth.

He grinned, unable to contain his amusement. "Can I not surprise my childhood friend?" he retorted, his tone playful.

They walked together through the bustling marketplace, their conversation flowing effortlessly as they caught up on each other's lives. (Y/N) told him about her pursuits and interests, and Cleon XII listened attentively, genuinely fascinated by her every word.

But in the recesses of his mind, he was already plotting. He envisioned all the different ways he could court her, how he would make her his queen, and how their life together would be. She wouldn't need to concern herself with menial tasks like shopping; they would have maids to handle such matters. She would be safe at home, resting, perhaps with their young, their heirs to the throne.

As they strolled through the market, Cleon XII couldn't help but steal glances at (Y/N). She was even more radiant than he remembered, and he was determined to make her his, to share with her the grandeur and power that life as Cleon XII could offer.

The sun dipped low in the sky as Cleon XII's grueling training session at the Sanctum came to an end. He was weary but exhilarated, his muscles honed to perfection. However, today, his thoughts were not solely consumed by combat and strategy; they were filled with (Y/N) and the delicate flower crowns she had woven the night before.

Unable to resist the pull of his newfound infatuation, he followed the trail of petals to find her in a secluded garden, much like the one they had played in as children. She sat there, her nimble fingers working wonders with the blossoms, just as she had done when they were young.

Approaching her, Cleon XII couldn't help but smile as he watched her in silent admiration. She was a vision of grace and beauty, her dedication to the art of creating flower crowns both captivating and endearing.

Without a word, he approached her and asked, "May I join you?"

(Y/N) looked up, her eyes widening in surprise as she registered his presence. A flush of warmth colored her cheeks. "Of course, Cleon XII," she replied, her voice gentle and inviting.

Cleon XII took a seat beside her, a touch of uncertainty in his expression. "I admit, I have never done this before," he confessed, his gaze locked on her delicate hands as they deftly worked the flowers.

Her laughter was like music, a sweet melody that danced through the air. "It's quite simple, really," she said, her fingers guiding his in the delicate process of weaving the blooms together. "You just need patience and a gentle touch."

As she showed him how to create the intricate patterns of a flower crown, Cleon XII found himself utterly entranced by her. He watched her with blissful awe, every stolen glance revealing the depth of his affection.

And then, in a moment of boldness, he blurted out, "Do you wish to go on a date with me?"

The question hung in the air, unexpected and unscripted. (Y/N) blinked in surprise, her cheeks tinted with a becoming shade of pink. She paused for a heartbeat, considering his request, and then a smile bloomed on her lips.

"I would love to," she replied, her eyes meeting his with a newfound warmth that sent a rush of happiness surging through Cleon XII's heart. In that simple moment, amidst the petals and the delicate art of flower crowns, their courtship had begun, destined to blossom into something far greater.

Good step one was now in place..

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sepublic · 11 months

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Something I think a lot of people overlook is how King becomes a lot more jaded, snappy, self-aware, and overall more like a teenager during S2. Which about tracks, he DOES undergo Titan puberty…

But mostly, I see it prompted by Echoes of the Past, which is King’s big Loss of Innocence moment, when his fantasy is shattered before his very eyes, and King realizes things are a lot more mundane and unpleasant than he’d like to admit. There’s just little moments like how he’s frustrated and dismisses Eda and Luz’s attempts to reassure him after the Gland Prix fails in Eda’s Requiem; Or in the very next episode, King’s frustrated breakdown near Hooty.

A lot of this also has to do with King just becoming more and more frustrated in general, in response to his waning hope regarding his dad; You can see it Keeping Up A-Fear-ances, when after Lilith projects her own parental issues onto King, he has a moment of spiteful, petulant rejection towards his dad. And while King tries to be optimistic, you can see how that little brain worm just slowly grows and takes over. The pessimism it instills eventually bleeds out into the rest of the world…

I think a lot of how in Edge of the World, King acknowledges that he knows Luz isn’t going to be here forever (or is prepared for that scenario, anyway). It shows a lot of awareness and worldliness on King’s part, he’s not some dumb, naïve kid anymore, he’s matured since S1 and you can really tell. The way he gets frustrated when admitting this to Luz and how he saw the Titan Trappers as his big solution… It really hurts.

Luz’s Loss of Innocence and her gradual disillusionment throughout S2 is talked about a lot and I absolutely agree, as one of those people who analyzed it plenty; But I think we should give King’s more credit. He’s more clever than a lot of people give him credit for, and I like how his edgy blustering about destroying his enemies en masse is replaced by a more subdued, realist, and yet biting resignation over his situation and the mundane helplessness of it all, the constant disappointment that King is preparing himself for. He doesn’t want to be a powerful ruler, he just wants a dad, and yet something so simple is so prevalent and so unchangeable an issue.

King is just. SO used to disappointment by the end of S2. But I love how he doesn’t totally plummet off of the deep end, something as simple as King’s trip with Steve helps King develop a more worldly outlook on life, and come to terms with being a Titan. He could easily fall into spite and anger, taking his frustration out on the world around him… But King doesn’t, he’s grown since then, he isn’t going to fall for that as other characters did.

And this all prepares him so nicely, as did King’s development with Luz and how she supported and helped him grow, for King to take Luz’s place in his dynamic with the Collector; Someone blinded by the optimism of the fantasy. Someone who’s eventually going to have a big Loss of Innocence moment when they learn about death, and realize they CAN’T make a friend out of everyone.

It just makes King more suited as a parallel/foil to the Collector, and a best friend; Someone who was borderline arrogant in his assurance over his power and dominion, only for his whole world to collapse around him with painful revelations. But with the support of others, King and the Collector pick themselves up after a moment of despair, and strive to accept what they’ve learned and incorporate it into their lives, while still holding onto hope in a more mature manner.

King has the perfect opportunity to be a tyrant and take vengeance on the world, the Collector is a Yes-Man to the guy; But he doesn’t. He’s better than that. He could’ve easily had the Titan Trappers obliterated, but King evidently let them get turned into puppets like everyone else. Obviously King doesn’t have total control over the Collector, he’s also at the mercy of their whims, but King DOES have influence.

And what does he use it for? Not to control the Collector or manipulate them. But to genuinely help and teach this kid he sees himself in. King could easily justify or just allow something like Terra being turned into a puppet after insulting him and the Collector, but he’s wizened up. He’s more in control of his emotions, more understanding that there’s more to the world than just King, even if his world IS his dad, technically.

He reminds the Collector that they shouldn’t do that even to Terra, of all people; King knows she terrorized his mom as a youth, but King recognizes he has a lot of power and safety in his position compared to others. He’s not going to leverage it, he’ll just have to be the bigger person instead of letting any mistreatment justify being as vindictive as he wants, which is SUCH a turnaround from the kid who wanted to obliterate anyone at the drop of a hat.

King’s way more in control of his emotional responses now, more tempered. After being reminded of similarities by people like Gus or Luz, King has figured out empathy to see himself in others, more attuned to their emotions; Even moments as small as recognizing how he relates to Edric, or hearing out Alador’s frustrations before breaking the news to him, remind me of this. And again, it prepares King to help the Collector learn empathy, as someone who’s been through that difficult lesson.

Just. King, man. He’s a funny goofy silly little animal sidekick, except he’s actually a little brother who grows through this whole arc of genuinely maturing and realizing the world around him and its limits. Coming to value his found family in his quest for the biological one. Going through a legitimate storyline of disillusionment, before ultimately coming to terms with his situation, and being given one little wish fulfilled to remind King it was not all for naught; Just the simple reassurance of ‘I loaf you’ from the father he’s been searching for all along.

#the owl house #king clawthorne #the owl house collector #character analysis #character development

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mizuki-nautilus · 1 year

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Checkmate - Leona Kingscholar x Reader

Being a mere mortal in a world of magic presents a host of challenges, from cleaning the house with elbow grease instead of a flick of the wand, to trudging across campus while others soar on brooms. Even in the classroom, non-magical students struggle to keep up with the pace, fumbling with notes as Professor Crewel erases them with a simple spell. And while many exciting extracurricular activities abound, they often require magical prowess beyond the reach of non-magical students. But the most vexing of all, at least for [Y/N], is the inability to deliver a well-deserved punch to Leona's smug face.

Today was a typical day for Leona - lazy and without much excitement. In the midst of his ennui, he searched for something to entertain himself, and somehow, the most amusing thing he could find was to poke fun at the only non-magical person at NRC.

And so it was that we found ourselves at this moment - [Y/N] with furrowed brow and intense focus, striving to outmaneuver the king of the jungle himself at his favored game, chess. Even though the situation was intense and there was an overwhelming amount of stress and pressure, for [Y/N], there was an important prize at stake, making the game all the more crucial to win.

"[Y/N]!!!!!!" Grim's voice echoed across the room as he struggled against Jack's iron-tight grip. "What is taking so long? Just beat that jerk already and take me back home!!! Funya–!!!" Ruggie held Grim's head still, letting out an ominous chuckle. "Shishishishi~ If you don't calm down, we might eat you up before the game is over."

Once again, Grim found himself a captive of some unreasonable dorm leader. However, this time, not everything was his fault. One could argue that he could be an annoying tanuki at times, but it was not a reasonable justification for being held hostage in an all-jocks dorm, but, if abducting Grim was what it took to make [Y/N] take the chess game seriously against Leona, then Leona was more than happy to do so.

In a burst of fury, Leona let out a mighty roar, commanding everyone to be silent. "Shut up!! " He bellowed, locking eyes with the source of the disturbance. His fierce gaze dared anyone to speak up again. "If you don't all quiet down, I shall turn you into sand!" Leona snarled at the rowdy bunch. "Now, make your next move, herbivore" he continued with a mischievous grin, turning his attention to [Y/N].

Despite not being the most powerful student at Night Raven College, [Y/N] possessed a remarkable strength of will and an aptitude for thriving under pressure, particularly when the well-being of her friends was at stake. If she could rescue her friends and the Ramshackle Dorm from someone as brilliant as Azul, then surely she had a chance against Leona. "Blaming a little noise for your inevitable loss?""[Y/N] taunted with unwavering confidence, even though she was trembling with fear on the inside.

"Ha! I'll wipe that smug grin off your face," Leona retorted, his eyes fixed intently on [Y/N]'s next move.

The chessboard lay between them, an intricate battlefield of black and white. They sat across from each other, eyes locked in fierce concentration as they contemplated their next moves.

The game had been going on for hours, and the tension in the room was palpable. Every move had been carefully calculated, every countermove anticipated. The players had exchanged pieces back and forth, their strategies shifting and evolving as the game progressed.

But now, as the endgame drew near, the stakes were higher than ever. They were both in check, their kings under siege from the other's pieces. Sweat beaded on [Y/N]'s brows as she searched for a way out, a move that would save their king and secure victory.

Suddenly, [Y/N] saw it - the perfect move, the one that would turn the tide in their favor. With a quick, precise motion, [Y/N] moved their bishop, capturing the opposing knight and freeing their king from danger.

But Leona was not to be outdone. He countered with a move that had been planned from the beginning, a devious gambit that threatened to take [Y/N]'s queen and secure victory. As Leona watched [Y/N]’s intense concentration and unwavering determination, he couldn't help but be captivated by her every move. Though he would never openly admit it, her fierce expression held more entertainment value than the game of chess itself.

Leona's voice dripped with amusement as he taunted [Y/N], "What's this? The brave hero who was so smug just moments ago now quivering like a mouse in a lion's den?" He chuckled at his own joke, adding pressure to the tense atmosphere. "How amusing," he added with a smirk.

Despite her desire to snap back at Leona, all [Y/N] could do was shoot a dirty look at him, realizing the crucial importance of this moment in the game.

As the players continued their fierce battle, the room filled with the sound of clacking pieces and murmurs of onlookers. The tension was nearly unbearable, each player hanging on the edge of their seat as they fought for victory.

And finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the game was won. [Y/N] emerged victorious, having outsmarted and outmaneuvered Leona" YES!!! YEEEEEEESSS!!!" [Y/N] screamed in euphoria, her heart filled with triumph. "Take that, you asshole! Now, give me my cat back!" [Y/N] let out a proud scream as she reached out to Jack to retrieve Grim and hold him tightly in her loving arms. “I’m not a CAT!!” Grim protested.

"Huh ~ Looks like the kitty's got claws after all," Leona remarked with a devilish smirk. "A deal is a deal. You can take the tanuki and go now," he said as he settled onto the couch and prepared to take a nap.

[Y/N] wasted no time in sprinting out of Savannah Claw and running her way towards the safety of the Ramshackle Dorm. She knew that Leona was unpredictable and could change his mind at any moment, so she didn't hesitate to take her chance and escape with Grim while she could.

Ruggie chuckled sinisterly. "Shishishishi~ It's unlike you to let someone win, Leona-san. Didn't your mother ever tell you not to play with your food?" he taunted.

But Leona wasn't fazed. "Sometimes you have to lose a battle to win the war, Ruggie," he replied menacingly, his eyes closing as he drifted off to sleep. "Now get out of my room before I blast you out of the dorm."

And with that, the contented feline was able to conquer his boredom, his mood greatly improved after spending an afternoon teasing his favorite herbivore.

~✨~✨~✨~✨~

#leona x reader #leona kingscholar #twst leona #twisted wonderland leona #twisted wonderland #reader insert #savannaclaw x reader #savanaclaw #disney twisted wonderland #twst wonderland #twst leona x reader #twst leona kingscholar #twst drabble #twst fanfic #disney twst #long kingscholar x reader

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noellevanious · 9 months

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Alright. This is pissing me off now. More "drama" regarding my friend Avery and DemilyPyro below the cut.

Summary: Avery got harassed, Demily didnt apologize, blamed other things like her autism and memory issues, and other despicable things.

Context:

my friend Moira posted yesterday about local tumblr user Demilypyro being a shithead, after talking about how she had personally experienced her being shitty before. Because of this, she was getting harassed enough by Demily Fans that she relented and posted "Receipts" they were asking for (in quotes because.... she just said she was being shitty, no receipts should be needed)

The screenshots showed Demily clearly being shitty last year, talking rudely about a friend Moira had after the friend had posted a selfie in a channel they were both in.

Moira was told that Demily was apologizing, and considering the hatemail she was getting, I don't blame her for hearing that and going "Alright, awesome, I don't want or need to talk about that anymore! Leave me alone please and stop sending me hatemails/moving goalposts to prove that Demily is literally Worse than The Devil!"

I was looking through my blog, and, out of curiosity, I checked to see, and...

post screencaps above are from

(post screencap above is from)

(no link cause im on mobile and this shit is hard but. the post should be locatable)

(link post above is from)

(link to post screencap is from)

.... blaming her autism, memory issues, and echoing fans levying suspicions about it being about her being trans, among other bad faith shit.

Doing this is despicable. Insulting trans women and mocking how they look and using questionable terms (they may or may not be dogwhistles, thats the nature of dogwhistles, and so I don't hold that against her, but still. questionable) and acknowledging that that actually happened is bad enough, especially when you're also trans. Infighting during a surge of transmisogyny, where straight women are being killed because people think they're trans, is nothing short of catastrophically stupid.

But to then, instead of just outright apologize, let your audience build it up as som witch-hunt and push the blame onto aspects of your life you can't control, is... something else.

I have autism, as do many of my friends. Not only is autism an obscenely variable mental health variable, but it also is not how South Park portrayed it once, where you impulsively shout out insults. Dulling your social senses is not the same as outright insulting trans women.

I also have friends with serious memory issues, as well as close relatives (my grandmother developed alzheimers in 2021 before she passed early this year). It's devastating in both directions.

To use those as scapegoats so you don't have to take responsbility for... being a shithead? Fucking despicable. No better word for it. Disrespectful, insulting to other people that have those issues and don't use them to excuse being shitty, apathetic at best.

Now, what is my point making this post? Besides this genuinely pissing me off an insane amount, I wanted to use it as a teaching opportunity -

You know how easy it would be to have made these "drama" not exist? Two magic words:

Take. Responsibility.

If you're ever in a situation where people are telling you you're being a shithead, and you know in the back of your head "Yeah, this stuff is really shitty, and it did come out of my mouth" - just fucking own up! Take responsibility for your shitty actions! "I'm sorry. I said shitty things. I'm going to strive to do and be better. I take full responsibility."

It's literally that simple - because it shows that - you know you made mistakes, but you have the capacity to learn from those mistakes! Like every fucking human being ever! Don't hide behind other things to avoid that responsbility!Don't passively promote your fans saying shit like "Hmmmm maybe other trans girls are calling you out because youre trans!" or "Hmm maybe they just hate you and want you to suffer!" Just fucking own up!

I don't know where this post is gonna end up. I fully expect more demily fans to harass me, I've already blocked Demily herself (because I don't want to even interact with somebody that badmouths other transgirls because they don't fit their beauty standards).

But, I do want to clarify and stress: I do not want, or care about, any more of this "drama" beyond her apologizing and owning up.

Seeing her fans mock and insult and harass my friend who already constantly deals with shit way more than anybody should, and then going on her blog and seeing her not only play the Woe is Me appeal to ethos bullshit, but also promote fans that are passing the blame around on boogeymen like her being trans, is dangerous, insulting, and made me furious, and I wanted to get it out of my system.

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flowers-of-io · 4 months

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the first knife

My piece for the Final Shapes Zine (@finalityzine) , which you can see in full here <3 // Read on Ao3

It was |supposed to be| a garden world.

All mythologies begin with a utopia. It is a universal condition, perhaps, the wanting to believe the world was, in its unblemished natural state, good—and an indication of the foolish hope it may yet in the end circle back to goodness. A dream of small minds, some would say. But you had never shared their sentiment.

Morality, of course, is subjective, and you’d known as much long before you stopped believing in your own self-created cosmology. No one outcome of a game is more noble or more wicked than any other unless you are one of the players. The propelling force of the universe is the desire to keep on existing—so perhaps, from a certain point of view, it is the drive to live which is the only moral good. Everything wants to exist, and the cessation of one life allows another to exist and thrive; life and death and life and death and life and death, locked in a dance than never ends. But for you it had never been a matter of morality; not in any critical manner, anyway. It was simple and entirely neutral, majestic in its plainness, a sharp needle-point of a compass piercing a way through the mayhem and cruelty you witnessed around you. A universal explanation for a chaotic universe. If there had ever been a tenet you could say you truly admired, it would have been this.

It was supposed to be a garden world, and a garden is no less good or evil whether it is wilted or thriving. Growth without withering is cancerous, festering and crawling out like rats to infect the outside, until it stops being a garden, until it does not resemble anything more than a putrid mass of not-even-life trapped in perpetual limbo.

It was with this thought that you set out on your celestial crusade, back when you still believed the universe had been destined for goodness. You wouldn’t have admitted it—and you certainly wouldn’t admit it now, if you still cared to self-reflect on this—but the fearful anger that would go on to guide your hand had been there already, by then; deep down, eating at your core.

You harboured no ill will toward her. That was what you told yourself.

In truth, the anger was already burning within you, and the fear festered just underneath. Words bubbling on your lips which she offered no response to, accusations you’d hurl at her silent face staring down at you with infinite patience. Her gaze, full of nothing but unalloyed hope, jeering at your questions that would bump off of her surface with a mocking echo, only stoking the fire at your core.

You had grown resentful of her silence. For once, just once, you wanted to make her talk.

You only strived to make things better. You had your great ideals and your beliefs and tenets, your centuries of reasoning and volumes of scientific proof. You wanted to bring back the harmony: to preserve the natural goodness of the world, to tend to the garden. You were noble, and right, and the fate of the universe rested on your shoulders. And you thought you were prepared.

You found it at the edges of the cosmos—a sisterly shape, a vault of answers you had been crying out through the dark after, a perfectly-balanced weight. You brought it home (because you still had a home back then, that deplorable bolthole of spears and walls, do you remember?) and all that time it sang to you, in its strange, resonant voice so unlike the hum of Light you had known. You aligned it, and it snapped into place as if pulled by the magnetism of an opposite charge—and nothing stayed your hand, not a single whisper of doubt slipping past your carefully constructed rationale. You created the link.

The scream that she let out, it threatened to turn your brains into liquid.

In the years to come, you’d rarely concern yourself with that moment. It was what came after that mattered. But at that point of contact, in those few fickle seconds, you had her laid bare like an exposed nerve, screaming blinding-white, cutting through to your core. The closest she had ever been.

In that moment, you met her there.

She was all fear and pain, sharp with a bitter undercurrent of sorrow|betrayal. For once, there was genuine emotion, something you could relate to, something mirroring your own fear. She had not expected that. It felt like victory, then, like pushing a knife into the soft underbelly of a thick-shelled creature, and you told yourself it was necessary.

You saw her eyes, sad and scared. They seemed to be saying, I loved—

The link snapped like an old mooring rope, sending you reeling. Before you could gather your bearings, she ran, a white shape disappearing among nebulas.

The Veil was still there, singing softly just under the lid of your many consciousnesses. You stood, many faces upturned to the sky and many hands flexing in shocked horror, a roar that held no meaning pushing its way past many lips. The weight of absence slowly settled, and with it your rage, stoked by the change of pressure.

In the ages to come, you would go on to learn the inherent power of emotions, these strings of the soul, and the finesse art of playing them. You would go on to learn many things, and the foundations of your philosophy would suffer many a change as you slithered across the universe on your righteous crusade. You would commit acts beautiful and monstrous, and they would each fall at your feet like pruned weeds all the same, because a garden is no less good or evil whether it is wilted or thriving. For now, this was only your first metamorphosis—the first trimming of branches.

The Veil hummed. The sky yawned empty.

You reached for a knife, and discovered you were already holding one.

#my fics #destiny 2 #fszine #the witness #anime eyes #traveler

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mavrintarou · 2 years

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Wipe Your Eyes [4]

Writing is getting hard - I hope everyone is having a wonderful summer so far.

Warning: angst; lets just say a very sensitive and insecure Omi Note: I literally have to put Wipe Your Eyes on repeat to hurt myself lol - I hope this angst is angsty enough

Third part - Fifth part

Kiyoomi’s eyes flew open, and he jolted upright in bed, alarmed by the sight of Y/n’s absence on her side of the bed. Panic surged through him as he realized her wheelchair was also missing. Without wasting a moment, he scrambled out of bed, his heart pounding in his chest, and hastily swung open the bedroom door. With a sense of urgency, he hurried down the hallway, his footsteps echoing as he searched for any trace of her.

As Kiyoomi reaches the living room, his frantic movements come to a sudden halt as he takes in the sight of Y/n sitting on the couch. Her legs are propped on the coffee table, and she’s calmly enjoying a bowl of cereal. The spoon freezes in mid-air as she notices his panicked state.

“Morning,” she says softly, her voice filled with reassurance as she rubs her flat belly. “We got hungry,” she adds, a gentle smile gracing her lips, trying to alleviate his worries.

His tensed shoulders gradually relax, and a small smile spread across Kiyoomi’s face. “Morning,” he replies, his voice filled with relief and genuine warmth. At that moment, the weight of his concerns lifts, replaced by a sense of calmness and gratitude for finding her safe and sound.

With his dark curls tousled and his attire limited to pajama pants, Kiyoomi walks over to join her on the couch. He settles down, leaning back against the comfortable cushions. Feeling overwhelmed, he covers his face with his hands, his voice muffled as he confesses, “I don’t know when I’ll stop panicking when I don’t see you.” His vulnerability seeps through his words.

Y/n places her bowl on the table, her attention fully focused on Kiyoomi. She shifts her body towards him, patiently waiting for him to meet her gaze. With a gentle tone, she asks, “why do you panic?” Her words carry a mix of curiosity and empathy, genuinely wanting to understand the fears and emotions that drive his anxiety.

As if seeking comfort and connection, Kiyoomi reaches for her hand, his fingers intertwining with hers. He cherishes the familiar sensation of her small hand nestled within his larger one. “I don’t know,” he admits, his voice tinged with openness.

“Should we seek a therapist?”

His breath catches, and a whisper escapes his lips, laden with emotion. “Why?” he asks, his voice barely audible. The single word carries the weight of his confusion and clarity.

Y/n places her other hand on his arm to comfort him, “to help us both overcome this together.”

He sighs deeply and whispers, “together?”

“Together,” she assures.

. .

[Honey] Come home safely.

Kiyoomi smiles underneath his mask at her message.

He acknowledged his recent immaturity, recognizing his tendency to whine about her not leaving him a message after he finished practice. Kiyoomi understood that his behavior had been unfair and unwarranted, driven by his own insecurities and fears rather than a genuine concern for her well-being.

Since that realization, she had made a point to leave a simple message for him every day, ensuring that he would see it once his practice or game is over. It was her way of reassuring him, of letting him know that she was thinking of him and cared about his well-being.

[Kiyoomi] On my way home, love you.

With each passing day, Kiyoomi had been putting conscientious effort to express his love and make personal growth a priority. He understood the importance of continually striving to be the best version of himself for Y/n. Whether it was through acts of kindness, words of affirmation, or simply being present for her, he wanted to show her he cared. It was a journey of self-improvement driven by his unwavering love for her, and he was determined to become the partner she deserved.

A heavy silence hung between them regarding the night Y/n had confessed to remembering what had happened. Both Kiyoomi and Y/n tiptoed around the topic, avoiding any direct discussion.

Kiyoomi hesitated to bring it up, fearing that it might reopen wounds or cause further distress.

Similarly, Y/n seems to be avoiding the conversation, perhaps unsure of how to navigate the complexities of the situation. The unspoken understanding between them lingered, leaving them both uncertain of when and how to address the depths of their shared experience.

Kiyoomi unlocks his vehicle, tossing his gym bag into the trunk before settling into the driver’s seat. As he navigates through the street, his car halts at a red light, prompting him to drum his fingers restlessly on the steering wheel.

In a moment of curiosity, he turns his head to the left, his gaze looking at something that catches his attention. His head cocks to the side, intrigue evident on his expression as he contemplates what he sees, momentarily distracted from the monotony of his commute.

Hitting his signals, he takes a left turn, turning towards the bookstore.

[Kiyoomi] What would you like for dinner?

He slips his phone into his sports jacket and walks straight to the front desk, “hi… can you – uh point me to the… pregnancy or baby selection?”

The employee looks at him before smiling, “two rows over there sir, is there anything you’re looking for specifically?”

Kiyoomi’s cheeks flush underneath his mask, a subtle indication of his embarrassment. He shakes his head, a hint of self-assurance in his response. “No, I think I should be fine,” he murmured.

His eyes scan the shelf filled with books dedicated to pregnancy and all things related to children. A wave of overwhelming emotions washes over him as he realizes the enormity of the journey they are embarking on. The sheer number of books and the wealth of information contained within them were daunting, leaving him feeling a mixture of excitement, nervousness, and uncertainty.

Fatherhood was a concept that had not yet crossed his mind. While had never actively ruled out the idea of having children, it was a topic that he and Y/n had not yet broached. The conversation about starting a family had remained unexplored, leaving the prospect of fatherhood lingering in the realm of the unknown.

One book catches his attention Kiyoomi’s attention, its title drawing him in. He carefully pulls it out from the row, intrigued by its contents and hoping to find some guidance within its pages.

Dad’s Guide to Pregnancy

. .

Kiyoomi’s eyes shift back and forth between the bag filled with books and the takeout in his hand, a warm smile gracing his lips.

With a sense of anticipation, he enters the apartment, punching in the familiar code. “Y/n?” he as he always does upon his arrival.

However, his voice echoes through the silence, and a sense of unease begins to creep in. Carefully placing the bags down, he repeats her name, this time with a touch of worry in his tone.

Navigating down the hall to their bedroom, he discovered it empty. A sense of urgency fuels his steps as he checks the bathroom, finding it deserted as well. His anxiety intensifies leading him to her office.

There, he freezes in his tracks, his breath catching in his throat at the sight before him. Y/n is peacefully asleep on the small couch, completely unaware of his presence. The white over-the-ear headphones she’s wearing explain her obliviousness to his calls. A mix of relief and concern wash over him, as he contemplates whether to wake her or let her rest undisturbed.

Kiyoomi walks over, closing her laptop in the process and grabbing her phone to stop the music only to freeze when he sees what is playing.

Relaxing music for pregnant moms

Very gently, he takes the headphones off. “Hey baby, I’m home.”

She lets out a soft sigh, “I’m hungry,” she mumbles with a small smile.

“Well, I brought your favorite takeout, so it’s time to wake up and eat,” Kiyoomi announced gently, placing a tender kiss on her forehead before helping her up from the couch. He kneels on one knee, his eyes locked with hers as he lovingly brushes her messy hair behind her ear. “Tell me, what did you do today?” he asks, his voice filled with interests and desire to connect with her.

Still feeling the effects of her nap, Y/n responded in a drowsy tone, “I made an appointment for an ultrasound.” She slowly blinks, trying to fully awaken and register the significance of her words.

“When is it?”

“I scheduled it for the day after I get these casts off,” Y/n shares, voice filled with anticipation. She affectionally pats her cast, expressing her eagerness to walk into the ultrasound room on her own. “So, I can walk myself into the room to see my baby.”

Kiyoomi’s hand instinctively reaches out, gently squeezing her thigh. “Our baby, Y/n. Our little miracle.”

. .

Kiyoomi’s patience begins to wear thin, and a surge of anxiety starts to consume him. His mind races with worries and uncertainties all the time, causing him to feel on edge and restless. He tries his best to maintain composure, but the mounting tension within him becomes increasingly difficult to contain.

He can’t bring himself to talk about that night.

Afraid.

Fear.

Confrontation.

He had always imagined that when the day came for Y/n to remember, he would be prepared. He would be ready to open up to her, to share the details of what had transpired and to make heartfelt promises of growth and improvement. But now that the moment has arrived, he finds himself at a loss. The memories of that fateful day elude him, and he struggles to piece together the events leading up to it.

Every day, he feels a growing sense of unease, as if Y/n is slipping away from him bit by bit. He notices subtle changes in her behavior, a subtle distancing that fills him with deep concern. Despite his best efforts, he can’t shake the feeling that their connection is gradually weakening, and it pains him to witness the gradual drift between them.

Kiyoomi can’t help but notice the changes in Y/n’s demeanor. Her once warm and radiant smile seems to have faded, replaced by a distant expression. Their eyes, which used to meet in a shared connection, now avoid each other more frequently. It’s as if she keeps building a barrier, physically and emotionally, to keep herself at a distance from him.

In the darkness of their bedroom, when the world quiets down and their bodies find comfort in each other’s embrace, Kiyoomi finds a glimmer of hope.

As he holds Y/n in his arms, he feels her surrender to the familiar comfort of his chest, seeking refuge from the uncertainties of the day.

In those moments, he is reminded of the deep connection they once shared, a love that transcends words and challenges they face. It’s as if their bodies remember what their hearts have temporarily forgotten. He clings to this fragile thread, cherishing the solace they find in each other’s presence and silently vowing to fight for their bond.

In the gentle embrace of the morning, when the world is still hushed and drowsy, Kiyoomi finds himself wrapped around Y/n’s delicate form. His body mods against hers, seeking warmth and closeness as if trying to bridge the growing divide between them.

There are mornings when Y/n stirs awake before him. He can sense her contemplation, the weight of unspoken thoughts hanging in the air. In those moments, Kiyoomi pretends to sleep, cherishing the intimacy of being intertwined with her, even if it’s just for a fleeting while.

As Y/n would reach for her phone, her fingers gliding across the screen, Kiyoomi steals glimpses of her world through the glow of the device. It’s a delicate dance of trust and vulnerability, a silent understanding that she allows him into her space even as she drifts further away emotionally.

In these stolen moments, Kiyoomi clings to the fragments of connection, finding peace in the physical proximity they still share. He holds onto the hope that one day their hearts will align once again, as he silently pledges to be there for her, even if it means pretending to sleep while treasuring the brief moments together.

His heart would flutter as her delicate fingers glide through his tousled curls, sending shivers down his spine. The sensation is too much to bear, and he wouldn’t be able to help but respond. A low, guttural groan would escape his lips, betraying the intensity of his desire. He longs to be even closer to her, to press himself against her with an unyielding passion.

“Kiyoomi,” she would whisper, gently shaking him. “Wake up please, I need to use the bathroom.”

He groans but rolls himself off her, “morning.”

She wouldn’t allow him to kiss her, claiming morning breath.

As soon as they rose from the comfort of their shared bed, Kiyoomi couldn’t help but notice the subtle shift in her demeanor immediately. It was as if a barrier had been erected between them, both mentally and emotionally. He sense her pulling away, preparing herself for the eventual physical distance that would follow. It was a painful realization, one that weighed heavily on his heart.

“My wheelchair is still in the bedroom…”

“I know,” Kiyoomi answered, carrying her to the living room. “I just want to carry you.”

Her eyes would hold his just a little longer than usual before she looked away. “Aren’t I getting heavy?”

His feet paused, “are you saying you’re heavy?”

“I’m pregnant now… it’s only a matter of time –“

“I will still be there to support you, to carry you through every moment of those nine months,” he interrupts, his voice filled with determination. He leans his head against her temple, his warm breath brushing against her skin. “Because I love you,” he adds softly.

One hand cupped his cheek, and she pulls him down for a kiss, “I love you too.”

. .

Kiyoomi leaps into the air, his powerful jump propelling him high above the net. With a fierce swing of his arm, he sends the ball hurtling through the blockers, piercing the defense and driving it forcefully into the ground. The gym erupts into cheers as the scoreboard lights up with the match-point in favor of the MSBY Jackals. Kiyoomi lands gracefully, a mix of exhilaration and determination visible on his face, ready to celebrate the hard-earned victory with his teammates.

His eyes immediately seeks out Y/n, who is seated on the sidelines beside Bokuto’s girlfriend. A wave of warmth washes over him as he catches her eyes, her smile radiant and filled with pride. She claps enthusiastically, showing her unwavering support for him. Kiyoomi’s heart swells with gratitude and love, knowing that she’s there, cheering him on with genuine happiness.

His mouth curves into a proud smile and waves at her before getting trampled by his team.

“Come on one more point guys!” Atsumu called, walking to the back – it was his third serve.

The last point unfolded in a blur, a fierce battle between the two teams. Players dove, spiked, and blocked with unwavering determination. The crowd held their breath, fully immersed in the intensity of the game.

Atsumu’s set was flawless, perfectly placed for Kiyoomi’s attack. The moment the ball left his fingertips, Kiyoomi’s muscles coiled and propelled him forward with explosive speed. With a mighty leap, he flew through the air, his focus honed solely on the spinning ball before him. Time seemed to stand still as he unleashed a powerful spike, adding a wicked spin that sent the ball careening toward the opposing team’s libero. The poor libero made a valiant effort to receive the ball, but the intense spin proved too much to handle. The ball slipped through their grasp and flew out of bounds, sealing a victory win for MSBY Jackals.

Pride washed over Kiyoomi as his teammates surround him, their cheers echoing through the gymnasium.

In that fleeting moment, all the worries and uncertainties melted away. The adrenaline coursing through his veins, the cheers of the crowd, and Y/n’s radiant smile combined to create perfect harmony.

He caught Y/n’s eyes, she smiled, a smile filled with pride, admiration, and love.

. .

Kiyoomi navigates through the swarm of reporters, his focus solely on reaching Y/n. With each step, he can’t help but feel a growing urgency to be by her side. The questions from the reporters become distant murmurs as he searches for Yushin, Bokuto’s girlfriend, hoping that she is keeping Y/n company still.

He adjusts his mask, using it as a shield against the prying eyes and cameras that surrounds him. Kiyoomi politely brushes off the persistent reporters, his voice calm but firm. “I appreciate your interest, but I’ve answered enough questions for now. Please excuse me,” he says, his tone resolute yet polite. He moves with purpose, his focus is to find Y/n.

A firm grip tightens around Kiyoomi’s wrist, halting his progress. He glanced down to find his assistant manager who wears a determined expression. Frustration flickers in his eyes as he realizes she intends to delay his reunion with Y/n.

“Kiyoomi, talk to the press,” she insists, her voice filled with urgency.

His gaze sharpens, and he meets her eyes with a steely resolve. “I need to get to Y/n, now,” he asserts, his voice laced with determination.

She steps closer, her voice softer this time. “Just answer a few more questions, Kiyoomi. Y/n will be fine for just a few more minutes.”

Kiyoomi’s eyes flickered across the room, landing on his coach, who nods in agreement. He weighs his options, torn between trying to get to Y/n and the responsibility that comes with his public image.

Shrugging off his assistance manager’s grip, he straightens himself, his irritation evident. Taking a deep breath, he shifts his focus towards the sea of reporters before him, ready to face their probing questions.

After five minutes, he walked out regardless of the many questions thrown his way. He shoots a nasty glare at his assistant manager, shutting her up as she was about to stop him again.

He sprints back onto the court, his heart pounding with panic as he scans the nearly empty seas. Y/n was nowhere to be found in the spot where she was supposed to be. Dread grips his chest, realizing that someone must have carried her out to where her wheelchair was waiting.

He rushes towards the exit, mind racing with worst-case scenarios. The image of her vulnerable, alone, and potentially in danger gnaws at his conscience.

He spots her sitting in her wheelchair by the men’s locker room, with Yushin standing beside her as they engage in conversation. A mix of relief and frustration floods through him.

Kiyoomi approaches them quickly, his worry still evident on his face. “You scared me, I couldn’t find you. Yushin, thank you for staying with her,” he looks up at Yushin with a grateful expression. “Who carried you to your wheelchair?”

“Bokuto-san,” Y/n answered, she was about to run her hand through his hair when she hesitated and dropped her hand on her lap.

Kiyoomi lets out a soft chuckle, noticing her hesitancy to touch his hair. “Sorry, my hair is all sweaty. Probably not the best idea,” he says, flashing her a sheepish grin.

“Of course, you were amazing.” She answered, patting his cheek. “Why don’t you go change so we can go home?”

He nods his head like an obedient child and looks at Yushin, “do you mind staying with her for a little bit longer, Yushin?”

The other woman nodded, “don’t mind at all.”

“I’ll be back quick,” he looks at Y/n with a smile and pecks her lips before heading into the locker room.

. .

“Are things okay between you and Kiyoomi?” Yushin asked in Korean as soon as Kiyoomi disappeared behind the locker room door.

Yushin is also half Korean and half Japanese.

Y/n sighs, “is it that obvious?”

Yushin walks behind Y/n and lifts the brakes off the wheels before pushing her down the hall. “Before your accident, we talked briefly… and I just want to make sure… everything is okay?”

Having amnesia is a mystery.

Doctors and scientists can only explain so much that a traumatic memory right before an accident tends to be the most common type of amnesia. Usually, it involves the last person, perhaps, the person they see the most.

Y/n remembered Yushin but did not recall the last conversation they had.

“I’m not sure… about whom we’ve become,” Y/n whispers, her voice laced with uncertainty. “Some days, it feels like I’m caught up in an everlasting dream, one I never want to escape. Kiyoomi changed so much from what I remember, yet he embodies everything I ever desired.” She paused, voice trembling. “But there are moments when anxiety overwhelms me when I fear he’ll stop pretending or grow weary, reverting to his former self once more.”

Yushin stopped and walked around to sit on the bench, so they were at the same eye level. “What do you want, Y/n?”

Tears pricked her eyes, “I don’t know.”

Yushin opens her arms, “come here love, let me give you a hug.”

Y/n wipes her eyes before throwing her arms around her. “Thank you.” It was a much-needed hug. “Sorry,” she pulls away, sniffling. “I’ve been so emotional –“

“Are you… pregnant?” Yushin’s suspicions grew as Kiyoomi became increasingly vigilant and possessive of her. Keeping her away from any possible direct hit of the ball and making sure she had everything she needed.

Y/n nods her head, “yes, I am.”

“Congratulations Y/n! Your secret is safe with me.” Yushin pulls her into another hug. “Oh, the boys are coming.” She pulls away and pushes the wheelchair towards the men.

Kiyoomi couldn’t help but notice the change in Y/n, evident by the redness surrounding her eyes. Wanting a private moment with her, he fought the urge to inquire about what had transpired during his absence. Instead, he simply asked, “are you ready to go home?”

They part ways with Bokuto and Yushin.

Kiyoomi’s heart rate accelerated as he approach his car. He swiftly threw his gym bag into the trunk and carefully lifted her out of the wheelchair, gently placing her in the passenger seat. “Are you okay?”

Y/n looks up at him with a smile, “yes, Omi. I’m fine. You must be tired?”

“I used to be, but I’m not anymore now that I’m with you,” he sincerely expressed, even though the words may have sounded cornier than his usual style. “My victory tonight was because of you and our little one.”

Her lips curve into a small smile, “we’re proud of you.”

. .

On most game days, Kiyoomi would often wrap up the evening early. He understood the significance of getting a good night’s rest after playing, and he would usually be fast asleep before Y/n.

But tonight, he had a different desire. He longed to stay up with Y/n in bed.

“Kiyoomi, if you’re tired, go to sleep,” Y/n gently suggested, both of them leaning against the headboard. His head rested somewhat awkwardly on her shoulder. Without directly meeting his gaze, Y/n reached up to touch his cheek, her fingers grazing his skin. “You’ve had a long…” her voice trailed off as she finally turned her body to face him. “Are you okay? You feel… warm?”

He hummed, leaning into her cool touch. “I just have a headache…” he murmured.

“Lie down,” Y/n ordered, tucking the covers over him and gently pushing him onto his back. She reached into his side of the nightstand, grabbing the bottle of painkillers. “Here, take these,” she said, offering them to him.

Even after taking a shower, a glistening sheen of sweat was still noticeable on his forehead.

Y/n grabs the comforters and pulls them up to his chin. “Wake me up if you need anything okay?”

Drifting off to sleep, he managed to grasp her wrist and mumble wearily, “please don’t leave me…”

I can’t go anywhere, she thought to herself, realizing the predicament. It dawned on her that Kiyoomi was unwell, she wondered how she would manage to move around. Her wheelchair had been left in the living room.

Kiyoomi shifted his body towards her, wrapping an arm around her. Even in his sleep, his breathing was heavy, and his brows furrowed with apparent discomfort.

It was only a few times in their relationship that Kiyoomi has ever fallen ill.

She turned her body towards him, gently cooing and calming words and soothingly massaging his scalp. “I promise I won’t go anywhere,” she reassured him with a soft voice.

Y/n woke up a few hours later to check on him, only to find that he was still burning with a fever.

Pulling herself away, she carefully scooted to the edge of the bed. Casting a concerned glance at her sickly husband, she summoned her determination and attempt to stand – something she hadn’t done in weeks due to her cast. Her legs wobbled unsteadily, but with the gradual pace, she took her first uncertain step with her cast.

She needed to get to her wheelchair and then she could mobilize herself wherever.

She made it halfway through the hallway, both hands pressing against the walls to guide her. Her wheelchair was close, yet so far away.

“Oh my gosh,” she drops herself onto her chair, exhaling deeply.

Unlocking her wheels, she pushed herself into the kitchen and grabbed a bowl and rag, immediately running it under cold water.

“Omi,” she calls softly, pushing his bangs out of the way. She sat on his side of the bed, dabbing the sweat away, she wiped his face and neck down. “Hey, you okay?” His eyes flutter open and he blinks at her twice before trying to lift himself up but is stopped by Y/n. “Stay where you are, I’m just waking you up to drink some water and to take some meds again.”

He lay there, awake, watching Y/n dip the rag into the bowl of water before ringing it and placing it on his forehead again. She sees his eyes blink, looking over at her wheelchair before they widen.

Kiyoomi sat up abruptly, the rag slipping from his lap. “Your… your wheelchair was in the living room…” the gears in his mind slowly began to turn. “How… how did you…”

“I walked over slowly,” she replied calmly.

His jaw dropped in astonishment.

“I was careful,” she reassured him, offering a comforting smile.

His head drops in his hands as he rubs his eyes. “You could have hurt yourself…”

“Yes, but I didn’t,” she placed the cool rag back on his forehead. “Now, let’s cool you down.”

He lay there, exhausted.

“You need to take better care of yourself, Omi. I can’t have you sick when I need you too.” Y/n teased, “at least wait until tomorrow when I get these casts off.”

His eyes widen again, “you’re getting them off tomorrow?!”

“Yes,” she reaches over for the pill bottle, shaking out three tablets into her palm before holding it out to him with a glass of water. “I need you to feel better so you can take me to my appointment.”

. .

Kiyoomi’s nerves seemed to surpass Y/n’s as he anxiously watched the saw cut through the cast. “Are you absolutely sure it won’t harm her?” he asked, his voice tinged with concern.

“Positive,” the doctor said confidently. She winks at Kiyoomi, “I’ve been doing this for the last eight years of my career, never once sliced any skin. Not even a scratch.”

Y/n chuckled softly beneath her mask, giving her husband’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “I’m not hurt, promise.”

At last, when the first cast opens, Y/n is quick to lift her leg up, rolling her ankle for the first time in weeks. She lets out a deep sigh, looking at Kiyoomi.

He, too, let out a deep sigh, although not for the same reason as Y/n. Over the past two days, he had been dreading the idea of her walking again. It meant she wouldn’t rely on him as much anymore, and that thought weighed heavily on his mind.

The other cast comes off and the doctor sets the tool aside, standing up. “You want to try to stand?”

Y/n nodded her head, her gaze fixed on Kiyoomi, who stood up, still holding her hand. With great caution, she placed her feet on the cold floor. Her legs wobbled slightly, but they held firm. She looked up at her husband, her eyes filled with excitement and tears.

Kiyoomi’s eyes soften as he witnessed her determination and resilience. At that moment, his selfishness melted away, replaced by overwhelming pride and support for her.

“You’ll need to undergo physical therapy sessions,” the doctor informed them. ‘It will be of great help in your recovery. However, now that your casts are off, it doesn’t mean you’re free to run a mile just yet. I still want you to take it easy and get plenty of rest. Considering your situation, I advise against walking and standing for more than six hours in total. As I continue to monitor your progress, we can gradually make adjustments.”

Y/n took a seat once more, looking up at the doctor with a concerned expression. “How long are we talking about?” she inquired, seeking clarification.

The doctor lets out a deep breath, her tone reflecting the uncertainties of healing. “Everyone heals differently,” she explained. “I’ve seen patients who return to normal within three to six weeks, while others have taken longer than three months. It truly depends on various factors.”

“What about with the pregnancy?” Kiyoomi asked, his gaze shifting between the doctor and Y/n. “Will the pregnancy have an impact on the healing process? And as the baby grows, will the weight of the baby affect the healing process?” Kiyoomi inquired, concern evident in his tone.

“We will have to wait and see. Again, it will have to depend on your healing process.”

. .

Kiyoomi leaned his head back against the back of the couch, feeling a mix of exhaustion and helplessness. Since their return from the hospital, Y/n had been navigating their apartment, moving from room to room to get the feel of walking again.

“Kiyoomi.”

His eyes fluttered open, and he lifted his head, realizing he had unintentionally drifted off to sleep.

“You should go sleep in the bedroom,” Y/n suggested firmly, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, dismissing her concern. He patted the spot beside him, urging her, “come sit down. Rest your legs.”

She pushes off the wall and slowly walks over, taking a seat beside him. He reached for her hand and was about to intertwine their fingers when she broke the silence. “We need to talk.”

“O – okay…”

She interlaces their fingers, gazing up at him with determination. “I’ve made up my mind. I’m taking that job, and I’m going to relocate to Seoul next month,” she declared. He opened his mouth to respond, but she anticipated his words. “There is…” she paused, swallowing hard to control her emotions, “there is nothing you can say or do to make me stay.”

Kiyoomi’s world shattered in an instant.

Panic surged through him, causing his head to shake involuntarily. He released his hand from hers and firmly grasped her shoulders. “What? What about me?” he pleaded; his voice filled with anxiety. The question he had been dreading escaped his lips, “what does it mean for me?”

Her expression shifted, her eyes conveying the message he dreaded hearing.

Her lips trembled, and her eyes welled up with tears. Unable to find the words to answer him, she choked back a sob, shaking her head in despair. Cupping her nose and mouth with her hands, tears streamed down her cheeks, slipping past her tear-filled eyes.

A tear trickled down his cheek as he took a deep breath, bracing himself for her response.

With a heavy heart, she uttered the words he never anticipated. “I love you, Kiyoomi, but I don’t think I’m in love with you anymore,” she confessed, her voice filled with sadness and regret.

. .

He closes his laptop, taking a deep breath as he now waits for a confirmation email from the clinic.

Kiyoomi slept, at most, four hours before he was up before the sunrise, researching marriage counseling and the most fitting therapist for them.

He looks away, wiping his eyes. “Don’t… don’t say that Y/n. Please don’t say that.”

She bites her lower lip, stopping it from trembling.

“You are in love with me, I know you are. You would not have agreed to be my girlfriend that day… supported me through my career all this time… or came to cheer me on at my games… you are in love with me, Y/n…” he cups her face, pressing his forehead against hers, “please, please let’s… let’s work this out, Y/n. Please give me that chance to remind you why we made it this far.”

“How?” her voice cracks.

Kiyoomi inhales sharply, “therapy? For both of us… let me learn how to let my demons go so I can be better for you.”

“What if that doesn’t work?”

He gazed deeply into her eyes, his hand tenderly resting against her flat belly. “It will work,” he said firmly, determination in his tone. “We will make it work because we need to, for the sake of our baby.”

. . .

E/n: It's getting rough, I know. I would love to hear your thoughts - it always sparks my writing.

Tag list - if I missed you - I'm so sorry please just remind me again: @callmeraider @chaotic-fangirl-blog @eadyladlegard @wolffmaiden @idiotic-clown @jojowantstocry @erintaro @imnotjo @vicolangelo @chickflickjunkie @ebiharachan @mfreedomstuff @omissanitizerlol

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fpjaysangprobinsyano · 3 months

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Our Best Leader! Happy Birthday, world's best cutie kitten, Jungwonie.

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ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

Do you recognize what's the occasion seemed to be? I'm sure ENGENES are aware of Leader Jungwon's birthday Birthday parties, as far as I can tell, have a significant impact on us. We are all aware that birthdays allow us to honor someone's special day by gifting them with not just costly gifts, but also expressions of appreciation. We've been reminiscing about our beautiful days spent achieving our aspirations to debut and compete since I-land. It's been a significant time having you as a companion in our crusades to achieve our goals, obtaining the very same subunits, and also having you as a competent i-land. And now we've arrived. We kept our commitment to make our debut on ENHYPEN.

Jungwon the leader is the charismatic character that changes enthusiastic visuals and duality when dancing and with his strong mind and character despite his young age as the leader — we all complete with each other. This year was a tough journey for us but I am happy to spend this entire chapter with you and also our group, ENHYPEN. And now celebrating the birthday of our leader in our group. Many things happened to us in these past few months or we can call it years. Despite being with each other for a long time now, everything still feels new to me. I can still vividly picture our earliest memories together, and I am glad that all of those are now blissfully echoing throughout the four corners of our simple yet special abode. Of course, we have been through rock bottoms within the past year as well. Even so, I still count it as a significant part of our journey together having our greatest leader ever. I honestly don’t think I could have defied the most unbearable obstacles without our leader by my side. You are the best leader that gives me the source of our strengths whenever I feel the whole world collapse and trembles before me, and the first one to make us fun or have fun together. We have many reasons why we continue to strive altogether without any difficulties with our beloved leader, jungwon. The best bond we have as I'm here with you all the time. Just remember, my kitty, even we, your dear members also here having our ENGENES out there that are always there for you for your special day. They're here to support us which gives us hardships as we go on. I'm speechless right now, the leader-nim is everything, when it comes to expressing an ace to our group and visuals he's the best of the best! Once again Happy birthday our beloved leader of ENHYPEN or considering us my lifeline and Meowz. ENGENES and ENHYPEN love you, leader! Let's be happy and treasure this celebration of you!

This week has been stimulating for many of us, although I am looking forward to spending the rest of the chapter with both you and our group, ENHYPEN. But now we're enjoying the birthday of our group's cute leader. Several more stuff has happened to both of us in the last few days or weeks, or years. A completive young man who is the greatest person ever, especially because we're still together for a long period, everything always looks new to each other. Having our biggest and best leader ever, however, remains a key great stepping stone around each other. I genuinely don't believe I could have overcome the much more insurmountable challenges without our Leader by my side. You're my source of encouragement sometimes when I think the entire world breakdown and shudder in front of me, then you're the first one to make people laugh or just have good times around each other. We have several reasonable explanations for continuing to work harder to achieve without giving it a second thought to our cherished, leader. This same sweetest thing we have because I am always with you. Keep in mind, leader-nim, that indeed we, your goodness gracious members, have ENGENES out there who would be for being there for you, whether it's a special day or a fairly frequent day. Those that are here to encourage us, something that provokes us to face difficulties as we progress. I'm overwhelmed right now; the highly skilled leader at the young age that We've grown to appreciate having you on the company, providing us with gratitude and growth as we grow to view our beloved Leader-nim. You are the one who is nice and caring motivating, and you are also the person who is most likely to lay the first jewel amidst our loving members. You are a huge inspiration to us as we work to improve our capabilities. Being with you on a daily basis helps us feel at peace, My Jungwon. I realize that we all have enjoyable moments in ENHYPEN, but we also have Meowz bonding times. It was a wonderful time reminiscing about our happy memories. A birthday usually makes us appear older, just as our leader-nim turns Twenty-Won today, hoping to make us more sophisticated and capable of directing us as he grows older. Whoever has a once-a-year event, as does the celebrant, gives enjoyment. With us, his days have been made full to encourage and acknowledge him as a member of our group. We may definitely think of ourselves as family members, not merely as members. We're grateful to ENHYPEN for presenting us to a great and good-looking leader who made his debut in our group. Several of the difficulties we've had since I-land has made it much more memorable as we've become aged. Challenges that we overcome and the fact that we are debutantes in this current group, ENHYPEN, With all of our team's challenges and misunderstandings, having our leader-nim lad who focusses on teaching us a sense of compassion makes things a lot simpler.

Leader-won! Let us make the most of this day and help you feel better as we begin to celebrate your birthday with your friends and family. Jungwon, you have given us greater respect, gratitude, and optimism for the future, and we are thankful to have you. And, once again, thank you very much! As we became better and fought hard for one another in our comebacks and triumphs, Thank you very much, and happy birthday, My jungwon! Make yourself joyful now, I love you!

#jay #enhypen #jongseongpark #jungwon #wonie #engene #jaywon

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f4iryfied · 9 months

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wrote a lil fic abt violet’s pov in xaden’s chapter

//spoilers//

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“Why is braiding hair so fucking hard?” Xaden asks, grumbling. “Oh, it can’t be that hard, you just take the strands and twist them over each other in a pattern” I respond. A smile appears across my face seeing him struggle with something as simple as braiding my hair. But I also feel the need to smile because he’s here, a busy wingleader, taking the time to do something as simple as braiding my hair. Deep down, Xaden is such a softie. My softie. We’re back in Xaden’s room, which has soon become my favourite place. I’m seated cross-legged on his carpet floor in between his knees, while he’s on the bed. “Is this alright Violence?” I take a look at his work, and seconds pass. “Violence?” “It’s pretty good for a beginner…” I replied. “When I said never lie to me, I meant it.” he says playfully. “Okay, it’s pretty shit. But I love it nonetheless.” I tilt my head up, and he leans down. My lips fit on his so perfectly, and I think to myself how grateful I am for him, and these moments. I want to record and treasure them somewhere forever.

I slowly open my eyes, and notice I’m lying on an unfamiliar yet comfortable bed, in a strange room, with only one recognizable thing. Xaden. Sitting in a chair against the wall, I recognize him. He’s already overtaken my thoughts, and now my dreams. This man has me in his clutches, and I pray he never lets go. “You’re awake.” he says to me, with a strained and hoarse voice. As he walks to me, I notice his appearance; sleepless eyes, paler skin, and fresh scars. What happened? He sits by me and asks to look at my side. Stretching my arms, I nod. I don’t have it in me to speak words right now. Xaden gently lifts my nightdress, clearly searching for something I’m unaware about. A mark or scar perhaps? A thin silver line maps the area just above my hip bone. I hear a whisper of the word, ‘miraculous’ from him. ‘What’s miraculous?” I echoed.

“Water” he croaks. Not the response to my question, but I do feel thirsty. He pours me a glass, and I don’t miss his shaky hands. A sense of dread overcomes me, I’m most definitely missing something. I gratefully take the glass and down it all, murmuring my thanks. He finally answers my question. “You are.” I meet his eyes, and we lose ourselves in each other. “You are miraculous, I was fucking terrified, Violet. There aren’t adequate words.”

He seems genuinely shaken for me which is confusing because I feel alright. In an attempt to calm him, I relax my hand above his heart, which is beating more than usual. “I’m fine, Xaden.” “I thought I was going to lose you” he chokes out. I feel a caress of his lips on my forehead and then my temple. He has a distraught look on his face, perhaps even shame. Lose me? I know being a rider means every second of your life is either in danger or about to be in danger, but we haven’t had any upcoming dangerous events lately. And with Liam as my shadow, Xaden’s influence, or my lightning signet, no one has dared to try to attack me again. “You aren’t going to lose me,” I insisted. I kissed him, and my kiss definitely helped because he passionately returned the kiss. Using his tongue in ways that steals away my thought process. Xaden pulls away and takes my hands into his, promising to make it up to me. “I’m not saying we won’t fight or you won’t want to throw those daggers at me when I’m inevitably an ass, but I swear I will always strive to do better.” Another strange confession, this feels like a fever dream. “Make what up to me?” His brow furrows and confusion blooms across his face. “How much do you remember? By the time we got you here, the poison spread to your brain and—” I cut him off. The memories flood back. Us arriving at Athebyne, the fliers, Xaden’s betrayal, the venin. And me falling. I remember my acceptance of death at that moment. I was ready to let go. I tug my hands away, I just kissed the guy who didn’t think twice about lying to me after I’d given him… everything. Everything.

oh wow my first fanfic ever? lmk what u guys think!! and is anyone counting the days down to iron flame, ughh I’m so impatient. part 2 perhaps idk ..🤷🏾‍♀️

#fourth wing #violet sorrengail #xaden riorson #xadenviolet #rebecca yarros #fourth wing fanfic #books #fantasy #fanfic

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cyberpunkonline · 3 months

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The Race for the Everything App in the West: Unraveling the Quest for Digital Domination

In the neon-drenched, cyberpunk reality of the 21st century, the digital realm is witnessing a colossal battle, reminiscent of Neal Stephenson's speculative universes. Tech corporations, with their sights set on the horizon, are not just competing but are on an ambitious quest to forge the "Everything App"—a digital El Dorado that promises to centralize our online lives. This pursuit, led vigorously by X (formerly known as Twitter) and echoed by a symphony of other platforms, is transforming the way we interact with digital services.

At the heart of this evolution lies a simple, yet profound strategy: expansion beyond core functionalities. Apps that once specialized in specific domains are now crossing into territories uncharted, offering a suite of services that range from messaging and social networking to financial transactions and beyond. This trend is not a mere coincidence but a calculated move towards creating a digital ecosystem where users can perform every conceivable online activity within a single app.

The Vanguard of the Everything App

X, under the stewardship of Elon Musk, is potentially the most audacious contender in the race. Initially a platform for microblogging, X is now venturing into areas like payment processing and content creation, aiming to transform itself into an indispensable tool for its users. However, X is not alone in this pursuit. Apps like WeChat in China have already demonstrated the viability of the "everything app," serving as a model for Western counterparts.

Facebook (now Meta), with its vast suite of services including Instagram, WhatsApp, and Oculus, is another titan striving to stitch together a comprehensive digital tapestry. Google, through its ecosystem encompassing Gmail, Google Pay, and YouTube, is also inching towards creating a unified experience. Meanwhile, Amazon's expansion into cloud services, media streaming, and even groceries underscores the same ambition: to be the one-stop digital shop for its users.

The Siren Song of Convenience

The allure of an everything app lies in its promise of unparalleled convenience. Imagine a digital Swiss Army knife that not only connects you with friends and family but also handles your finances, entertains, educates, and even shops for you. The potential benefits are immense, offering a seamless integration of digital services that could simplify user experience, enhance efficiency, and possibly even reduce the digital clutter of having multiple apps for different needs.

A Dystopian Shadow

However, beneath the glossy surface of convenience, there lurks a more sinister possibility. The consolidation of services into a single platform raises alarming concerns about privacy, data security, and monopolistic control over the digital lives of billions. The more we rely on a single app for our daily needs, the more we risk creating a digital monoculture vulnerable to surveillance, censorship, and exploitation. In a dystopian twist, the everything app could become the ultimate tool for digital hegemony, where choice is an illusion, and autonomy is traded for convenience.

The Unstoppable Momentum

Despite the dichotomy of potential outcomes, the race towards the everything app is unlikely to slow down. The convergence of services into unified platforms reflects a broader trend in digital evolution, driven by user demand for efficiency and the corporate quest for dominance. As this race accelerates, we find ourselves at a crossroads, navigating between the utopian dream of digital convenience and the dystopian nightmare of centralized control.

The everything app is both a looming threat and a beacon of progress in our communications landscape. Its emergence is a testament to our insatiable appetite for innovation and our willingness to explore the unknown. As we venture further into this digital frontier, the decisions we make today will shape the cybernetic world of tomorrow. The everything app is not just a possibility; it is an inevitability. Time will tell whether it becomes a tool for liberation or an instrument of control.

In the words of Neal Stephenson, we are coding our own new world, and in this world, the everything app stands as both the zenith of our aspirations and the nadir of our fears. As we hurtle towards this uncertain future, one thing is clear: the digital landscape will never be the same again. - REV1

#everythingapp #x #elon musk #elon #cyberpunk #neal stephenson #tumblr #technology #tech #communications #comms #digital

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ithilwen-lionheart · 2 years

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Love, lead me on - Legolas x Priestess!Reader - Chapter 1 (Re-Vamped)

Alternatively:

On the road leading to you, I'll send a million I love you's

[ Work Text: ]

A priestess should be one with her surroundings in order to be bound with even the smallest life around her without requiring the use of her senses- from the flutter of a butterfly's wings to the eruption of a volcano.

She is to hear every heart -beating or not- around her as well as the pleas for help and the cries of pain and anguish. To feel the tears of those who lost, and those who were forsaken. At the chance of being an audience to this, she is to act, for fate had not placed her where she finds herself at for a mere play at destiny's chessboard.

A priestess is where she is for more than a single reason:

to lay gentle hands on the wounded,

to aid the disabled,

to protect the defenseless,

to provide comfort and dreams to the haunted and,

to save as many souls as she could in behalf of the honor of both herself and the order that she represents by the crest that she wears.

But what of her? The priestess?

Who then would save her from the desolation of her heart?

-----

Amidst the roaring flames and clouds of smoke, where there was nothing but the sight of destruction, death and chaos, there remains a tiny flicker of hope that dare arise the hearts of those left alive and running in the floating city of Laketown.

Amongst them is a priestess, albeit a novice, of the Northern Order.

Her (H/C) shone as if commanding the lights of both day and night, skin of (S/C) so vibrant and pulsing with life, and eyes that are the most fanciful shade of (E/C)- ever so curious, ever so alive. She is a wonder dressed in dark brown garbs over a short white dress and loose pants tucked underneath knee-length boots, darting around the docks hidden under a simple royal blue hood.

As much as she is still of relatively fresh blood, she strives to give the best for all she believes could still be better at all times and so here she remained escorting every villager she could find into safety and out of the flames that ravaged all that it touched.

She is -like Lady Galadriel had said- here for a reason and even though some parts of the 'whyfores' remain unclear at the moment, her heart had long found the most significant reason behind her rushing about just under the gargantuan dragon, Smaug-

-it was because a piece of her was here.

The piece being of her heart that she so willingly gave to one who neither asked nor needed it, much less even knew he ever had it in the first place- Prince Legolas of Mirkwood, son of the Elvenking of the Woodland Realm, Thranduil.

All she came to do was pick up a thing or two about the Woodelves of Mirkwood after gaining the King's approval through the Elf Lord Elrond who all too willingly vouched for her character out of fondness.

She was initially left to Feren's care. Her pursuit of knowledge started with tours around the villages and the castle, expounding into lessons on their language and spells, books and healing. Then came one fateful noon when she came across the day patrol that the Elven Prince had led all the while on a stroll of her own with her Siberian Tiger, Luna. Legolas was immediately transfixed with her "odd choice for a companion" and it was a fascination that only developed further until her existing lessons began to get muddled up with archery and horseback riding. Before she knew it her charge had changed and much to her chagrin, with this also came a budding admiration for the prince each day that had passed until she began to ardently wish she could learn shape-shifting sometime soon within that mere month.

But that wasn't the most of the problem, no, it wasn't even half of it.

"(Y/N)? (Y/N)!" A hand on her shoulder attempted to shake her back to reality.

This, this was the problem.

It took the girl a few moments to register the voice as she was still nursing the echoing screams of a woman who had just lost her beloved husband over the memories that smelled vividly of book pages, herbs, and had Legolas written all over it in shades of gold and late afternoon sunlight. She felt a clenching in her chest at this and she doesn't know whether it was out of mourning for the woman's loss or that of her own.

Finally looking up, she sees long ginger hair in braids and bright emerald eyes glistening with concern on the face of the beautiful elf warrior, "Tauriel..." she trailed off and turned to look at the thick clouds of smoke that covered the light of the stars.

Tauriel furrowed her brows a bit and released the younger girl, "Are you alright?" She asks because there's something in the those eyes that went beyond being a simple Old Soul and a novice priestess.

(Y/N) just nods and shifts her attention to the elf approaching their group. The elleth notes how the younger girl falters for a moment before schooling her features into that of her usually playful sheepishness around Legolas.

-----

If I'm allowed to peep into your heart, I only want to make sure of one thing,

I wonder if I exist somewhere in the road leading to you...

The blond prince approached them. It had not once escaped (Y/N) how those icy blue eyes simply grazed over her before completely settling on Tauriel.

"Is everything alright, Tauriel?" He asks, his voice gentle and worried as he sheathed his knives in their scabbard on his back.

And it was as if there was only the two of them standing on the burnt planks over the debris-littered water. As if the captain of the guard hadn't just left him alone after dragging him into this mess, left him to chase after Azog during the preliminary ambush of the orcs back when Laketown still wasn't crumbling down in dragon flames as she tended to the dwarf, Kili.

Tauriel was not the least bit bothered by this huddle- not even after her apparent deviation from their initial plan of being a part of this world to help the populace instead of just a singular soul. She merely nods, giving the mortal girl beside her a glance that wasn't discreet enough for Legolas not to notice.

'Then again, what things Legolas never noticed Tauriel doing is very few and far in between...' (Y/N) ponders while trying her utmost not to nurse such sour thoughts- she wagers that maybe she knew now exactly why her chest felt all tight.

Then those piercing eyes were on hers. In fluid grace, he swipes an arrow from his back, aims at something behind her and shoots.

His arrows finds its home straight into the face of a marauding orc.

"You should know better than to space out in battle, (Y/N). I had taught you better than that." His tone was reprimanding yet with no small amount of a tease. It belied the concern that hung like a subtle scent underneath, one in danger of being so very easily missed.

(Y/N) adds the pale notes of worry to her list of reasons justifying her helpless clinging to this hopeless attachment.

Tossing the impending bout of self-loathing aside, the priestess opts for much needed presence of mind. Allowing her senses and intuition to take hold, her hand flew to the dagger at her waist to flung it at the beast that stood a few feet behind the unsuspecting prince. Finding a remotely stable pole behind the figures before her, she ran towards it and used it to propel herself forward to kick the monstrosity square on the face for good measure- her body barely grazing the prince's face and shoulder as she spun horizontally through the junction.

After hitting her mark, she gathers enough momentum with her feet planted on one hideous face to launch herself upwards before landing with both feet back on the ground. The priestess allows herself a dramatic flourish and a bow upon seeing that she had both elves attention: Tauriel with her face gawking in awe and Legolas with profound pride effectively unapparent to those who had not taken to heart his set of facial reactions.

Which made up everyone else who was not (Y/N), "Same could be said to you, Prince Legolas." She snickered and stood straight, the cape of her hood swishing behind her.

Legolas smirked, "I would not get too brazen now, dear priestess." She pretends that her heart did not make somersaults at the playfulness of him, his words and the title by which he chose to address her as and his closeness as he walked towards her and swung his sword at yet another orc that stalked them.

As much as they may always be at each other's throats with their snarky quips and witty banter, when it came a time like this- on a battlefield in a world that is larger than life, running through blood and gore and fending enemies meant to kill and destroy, it almost seemed as if an unspoken mandate that they would watch each other's back. Even if it was often (Y/N) alone who had guarded his while Legolas remained occupied looking after his heart, Tauriel.

Hers remained an exposed target, open to the world for the taking.

The novice priestess had long ceased minding the danger. It was a half-life she found herself willing to bear for as long as her insignificant mortal life would allow if it was what it took to safeguard his joy even if it were out of and for someone else. Better see it than not at all, She would oftentimes think whenever doubt threatens to find root in her heart and her mind begins to question the soundness of the extents she is willing to take for the unrequited admiration she harbors for the prince.

"Think fast, princeling!" She suddenly hollers with an urgency that Legolas knew to answer with muscle memory rather than the previous bristling he used to at the employment of the moniker. It was so much of an overused 'there's filth behind you that I am going to hit so please duck' that the Elven Prince had by this point knew to humor it with an equally mischievous smile that matched her own.

(Y/N) swung her left arm back and with it brought water forth, turning them into icicles that she then used to impale the beast with.

By the moment Legolas had straightened back up to his full height, he shot her one of his grateful little grins that she grew to know meant nothing more than appreciation. It only spanned for a mere few seconds before his whole attention snapped towards the sound of something cracking.

It did not take him a bat of an eyelash to dive in and push Tauriel away from the debris that nearly fell over her.

It did not take (Y/N) a mere half of it to whistle for Luna to tackle them both out of harm's way.

Commanding the water to douse the flames threatening to begin spreading outwards from where they were, the priestess throws both elves yet another cheeky grins and inclines her head, placing a hand just above her heart as she declared,

"At your service, my dearest Prince Legolas and Lady Tauriel."

The Great Tiger gracefully strides back to her owner with not so much as a beckoning before affectionately rubbing her huge furry head lovingly against the priestess' entire side, "You did a stellar job, my darling moon! Huh? What is it?" (Y/N) bubbling chuckle died at her familiar's observatory report. Her entire mien changing from blithe to grievous, "Bard? That is folly! He would not be able to take down a dragon by use of ordinary arrows. What? Bain? His son? Where is he? Oh dear Valars... Alright, take me there."

Not a heartbeat was wasted as the priestess swiftly climbed her mount. Halfway into uttering the command for their hasty departure, (Y/N) notices the confused albeit apprehensive expressions on her companions' faces and it made a grimace of the smile that she failed at, "Perhaps my lord and lady might fetch Bard's girls from their home? The boy is no longer there, I am to find him." she offers as if a cue that it is due time they get back to their posts and save as many lives as they could.

It was then that Tauriel had allowed the truth to make a home of her face. There was not a single attempt made to hide where her true concern laid- not with the world as she had so boldly declared to Thranduil, Legolas and (Y/N), no.

The mortal priestess could feel her heart break for the Elven Prince but still she spoke -it was information necessary for the lot of them to function, to know what they are doing and who remained in need of actual saving, "Yes, Tauriel, the dwarves are with them." she begins perhaps a nudge too pointedly than she intended, "Luna also notes that Kili had successfully recovered." (Y/N) did not find the least amount of entertainment at the elleth who flushed in embarrassment at having been found out, especially not when Legolas in turn rose a scrutinizing brow, his eyes now fixed on hers.

The priestess found herself with very little else to do save for scratching the back of her neck diffidently, a guilty upwards turn on her lips as she spoke, "I may or may not have mixed in some very specific ingredients on to the healing salve he took to hasten his healing process..." her voice trails off, gaze dropping to the side and away from electrifying blues, fearing that her resolution to remain a neutral party would waver at the intensity of those eyes.

Before she knew it, a hand laid atop her knee. Too delicate and thin to be Legolas', Tauriel was looking up at her with immense relief and gratitude, "Thank you." Those words alone and the thankful squeeze of a hand should not have given anything away aside from a profound sense of alleviation, however there remains the reason why novices are sent to see the world before they could undertake their vow as priestesses.

First they are to learn about every being in Middle-Earth. To see beyond race and skin and fur, into the hearts that laid underneath chests of varied sizes and make, to pay careful attention to the emotions that lurked beneath every breath and every bat of eyelashes, those that swirl just around a creature's eyes before disappearing entirely and turning into something else.

And in those bright emerald greens she saw love. A yearning so desperate yet aimless and confused and so so young that all that concealed the heart's desires was a thin sheen that is nearly transparent it might as well not be there. Tauriel had fallen for the dwarf and (Y/N) knew it ever since that night in Mirkwood's dungeons- long before even the elleth herself was consciously aware of it.

The intensity of what to her might have been a new emotion seeped out of her unbidden and heedless, so much so that it began to concern Thranduil. (Y/N) had been there during their confrontation but she swore against breathing a word of what she had witnessed. It was a secret that is all too welcome to lay beside her heart as they bury it once it finally dies from all the blows it had endured for and from the obliviousness of the prince.

"Legolas had grown very found of you."

"I assure you, he only looks at me as a captain and a guard. Nothing more."

"Perhaps once. But not anymore."

"Surely you would not let your son pledge himself to a mere Silvan elf."

"Yes. You are right. But he cares about you. Do not give him hope where there is none."

"Shall we head off, Tauriel?" (E/C) eyes were fixed on the blonde prince as he clasped a tentative hand on Tauriel's shoulder. It was a touch of lingering caution and persistence, of dwindling hope- of a stubborn refusal to acknowledge the inevitability of a loss. (Y/N) knew too well the chords of that tune, the ultimate fate of that prose.

Like calls to like.

Not trusting herself enough to meet the broken soul hidden underneath those pale blue eyes, the priestess was quick to turn to the direction that would lead her to Bard's house. Not once turning back to the elves behind her.

"It appears not... we are on completely different roads -you and I- and woe be this fate that I exist nowhere in yours." A lone tear traverses down one flushed cheek, short-lived was this grief as a brown gloved hand rose quick to rid the world of its existence.

The priestess dons up a smile if only for the comfort of the villagers still in need of aid and pats the side of the heart who remained steadfast by hers, "Let's get going. Shall we, Luna?"

-----

Within the fleeting dream, I wish this unexploited love to end,

Yet, I open my eyes to this red and flickering flame of love...

Casualty had and will forever remain a given wherever dragons and war are involved. Regardless of what a single soul or a group of races do, it could never be avoided and there would still be those whom they failed to reach in time and those whose plights they never even knew of.

It was this that most likely explained the burnt and mangled bodies strewn across the shore from where they evacuated what they could of Laketown.

This was what (Y/N) remained to see in the middle of the night while everyone else had long succumbed to sleep. She never knew why but out of all the people who had lost someone that was close to their hearts, it felt as if it were her who took everything the hardest. Sleep could not find her and so she instead volunteered to keep the fires going through the night in a bid to keep the villagers from freezing as winter is already upon them.

Smaug was dead. Bard had successfully driven the one Dwarvish wind lance in existence through its heart and was reunited with his family once more. He was even given the title of 'Dragon Slayer' as the dwarves of Erebor, lead by Thorin Oakenshield, finally reclaimed their homeland.

The priestess mused with no small amount of frustration how for some, prophecies and cautionary tales are so easily told by tapestries and age-old songs and yet those who heard and saw insist on making the same mistakes as the ones before them, insist on falling for the very same frailty that had caused the undoing of people and of kingdoms that had once flourished, the death of many and of what truly mattered. She never truly arrived at an answer, fathoms she never could-

-not while she herself remains suffering from the same affliction.

Kili had left in pursuit of the rest of his kin. However before that he first entertained the frivolous idea of taking Tauriel with him- the split second of consideration in the elleth's eyes did not get past (Y/N)'s keen observation. The priestess wondered whether Legolas had noticed it too because he was quick to intervene and order his captain to take her leave of the dwarf who then in turn left a stone with engravings on it as a promise that he will come back for her.

It was then that she saw the resolution deteriorate in the prince's eyes and through a chink, was able to discern the hurt and despairing vie as his entire figure slumped albeit immaculately discreetly. As if in quiet suffering, the final song of a dying wren- so tiny in the crushing hands of cruel fate and an even more brutal world.

The death throes of his heart and his hopes deserved a funeral pyre. It deserved acknowledgment, to (Y/N) it would have been granted eternal life.

The priestess sighs visibly now, white puffs of air slipping past her opened mouth. Everything goes cold wherever Death walks by, the trail he makes being that of emptiness and irremediable loneliness. She could feel the presence of Death even if it remained not her and hers- the dreadful aftertaste even stronger still. She remains consciously aware of the lives it took and the pleas of the souls who do not wish to depart from their loved ones yet and it tastes like bile stuck at the back of her throat.

The voices are there, yes, they drag her down into a state of half-sleep. A void that is a mixture of both her conscious and subconscious thoughts. She succumbs to it, it was not as if her service is needed anytime soon. Legolas and Tauriel left earlier to ride north, so there was not much left for her to do except to keep close watch of the bonfire.

Laying down, her back rested against patches of grass and dirt. She took a deep breath, watching the midnight skies clear for once to make way for starlight. It never failed to make her marvel at how surreal and distant the skies are for mortals, like some unattainable dream forever for them to see but never to touch-

Everything rushes to her and all she could see was the elf prince the very instant she had closed her eyes.

Before her were vivid recollection of the times she stood by him. From where he elegantly drew his arrows, took aim with his long arms and shocking depths of intoxicating blue, and then shot with deadly precision at whatever his target was; to where he skillfully fought his enemies with practiced ease by use of swords and knives and equally quick wits; where he is so much an adept warrior yet a refined prince both at the same time; where he is warm and gentle and bearing so much knowledge crammed into the little space in his eyes; where even though his soul may be centuries old, he remained eternally youthful and curious and his heart so achingly devoted to both the wrong causes and the right in tragic equality-

(Y/N) halts her reverie if only to stay Death's hand from laying a premature claim to her heart.

There were times she so fervently wished herself free from the burden of feeling so strongly. The mere idea that a vital part of her supposedly undivided attention as an aspiring priestess had been effortlessly snagged by one soul is trouble enough, but coupling it with the reality that it is unrequited made it all the more unbearable. It cleaves her actions in two and as much as it remains a shame to admit it, shall there be an innocent human, elf, or dwarf hanging on the precipice of a cliff with an incapacitated Legolas on the other and she could only deign to save one of them-

-she would rush to the prince's aid without so much as a second thought.

"Argh," The priestess' groan was only barely muffled by the crackling embers of the bonfire, "It is due time that I set my priorities straight.. I am a disgrace to my house." she threw her arms over her eyes that remained scrunched shut.

"How could you say such a thing about yourself?" A voice chides so hauntingly beautiful and familiar that she wished she could just close her eyes forever and hear nothing but that sound whispering her name in the tone that it would use to address his beloved.

She would try to keep her eyes closed, to feign sleep-talking, anything to keep herself from seeing him as close as his voice had indicated because she knew it will be her undoing. Yet like clockwork, she remains a loyal prisoner to his words as he leaned closer and demanded, every hushed breath a crooning tormentor,

"It is only proper manners to meet the eyes of whom you are speaking too, dear priestess. Is it not?"

At this (E/C) eyes fluttered open and all there was in her world then was his face curtained by his silky long blonde locks. (Y/N) figures maybe he was the reason why the moon was missing that night.

Like a child in a trance, (Y/N) reaches upward with a hand to haltingly touch a few of the glistening strands between her thumb and forefinger if only to see if the Legolas that crouched beside her was real.

With the slightest curve on the side of a perfect mouth, the figure vanished into thin air like silvery whisps of evergreen scented vapor. It did not take a second for the girl to realize that it was naught more but a ghost made concrete by the sheer strength of her longing.

She stood with vivid exhaustion plastered on her face -emotionally spent and heartbroken and for no one else to see- and made her way towards the camp to rekindle the fire threatening to die out.

The renewed pang her daydream had left fueled the flickering embers in her heart, even as it turned into despair as she stared at the crackling wood before her.

His illusion may have deserted her yet the hole he left in her heart had endured- the apprentice thinks she will harbor that -him- for however long her pitiful existence on the earth would stretch.

-----

I might not be the one who warms up your cold and numb hands, but

the one who can illuminate my future in this world is only you...

The real Legolas is with Tauriel under the same stars that prayed witness to her breaking that night. It is cold and (Y/N) wonders if they found some place warm to stay or if they, like her, opted to sitting close to one another in front of an open fire outside.

If they did however, it will not be quite like her, she realizes. For with the pair of them there is but one of her in the dead of night.

It would not matter if it gets cold, her heart whispers, there is the two of them after all. Always had been and always will be. Because even though the elleth displayed tendencies to go astray, the priestess knew, just like Tauriel, that Legolas would blindly follow her to the ends of the world.

(Y/N) hopes that the captain would at the very least return the favor by protecting him even if it is done out of nothing more but sheer courtesy. It will be hard for her to intervene on the occasions that they would be this far away from her and some time soon, she will have to eventually leave their side to discover the rest of the world-

Alone. To further her desire to be a priestess of great power, enough to leave the world a better place than when she had first found it.

Better than when it had first broken her heart.

Tear-stained (E/C) continued to stare at the dancing flames before her as she curled into a ball in a fetal sitting position. Allowing herself the luxury of weeping for all the wrong causes she had been too willing to bet her heart on and for the future she could now no longer see without the prince in it.

(Y/N) ultimately decides to strive for that future if she must- even if it means that she is to stay as nothing more but a priestess in his service. The path she would walk would bear no small amount of heartache yet with it will also be the guiding lights made bright by the purpose of being able to stand proudly beside the prince-

and to her young heart it was all that mattered.

-----

Even though I deliver this "I love you" to you one million times.

In the end, you won't give me a "YES", but

I will deliver this "I love you" to you one more million times again.

Oh love, please show me a way...

They never went back that day. Or the day after that. Not even when the villagers of Laketown went on their journey towards the ruined city of Dale, not even after they arrived.

The (H/C)-nette did her utmost to be of use- operating with the thought that perhaps if she moved about extensively enough the dreadful thoughts might spare her some mercy. Tending to the wounded and handing out blankets and food ration, keeping watch at night and maintaining what small amounts of bonfires they could manage- she took anything and everything to get her mind off of things.

(Y/N) was well aware that even Bard had taken notice of her blatant refusal to remain idle- nevermind to rest- yet he never did directly voice his concern, not even after she had volunteered to man the night watch for the second time in a row. He just asked her once if she was faring well and suggested he give the task to someone else the night before so that she might have a well-deserved rest.

It was an offer that she of course courteously declined. Resolution dawned quick upon her then that even if Bard did make an effort to retire her the results would have remained the same.

The midnight chill seemed much preferable over the warmth of a blanket after all. Especially these past few days when sleep had been her enemy and everything that came close to it had conjured upon her reverie the same picturesque imagery of the prince. The one who would openly smile for her and for her alone, the one she would divulge her genuine feelings to without fear of judgment or distaste or banishment altogether. She could no longer recount how many times she had told this prince how much she adores him so neither can she recall how many times he had been so close for her to touch before consciousness befell her and she realizes that everything was just the same tricks her mind had gotten used to playing on her over and over again.

And so, over and over she fell and swore and spilled the same words of adoration to the same phantom figure, hoping that it would somehow make him realize how much she truly, desperately means it. Over and over she awakes to see herself in the same position: curled into a ball, tucked beside Luna in front of the blazing fire before her, cheeks wet, eyes stinging; over and over her thoughts would wander to Legolas and she will say the same words again.

Some nights, she would ride Luna at full speed and run up hills to scream, on others she would curl in with the tiger and just settle with a coveted whisper.

All those times, her words fell on deaf ears. All those nights, her voice shivered and cracked for the absentee prince over and over again.

Out of love, out of a helpless passion she knew would never be returned.

She knew she will make the same decision a hundred times over because none of it was ever a mistake.

Once is a mistake, twice might perhaps be a coincidence, thrice could be a lie, there is fault in a fourth yet none of which could dare define much less begin to justify a word said a million times over before and again.

-----

The desolation of Smaug was merely the crux that predated an onslaught. Compared to the bloody war that followed, the flames and burned carcasses was nothing compared to the aftermath of The Battle of The Five Armies.

Bloody, mangled remains of elves, dwarves, orcs, and humans had littered both the foot of Erebor and the pummeled city of Dale. Discarded armor, ruined weaponry, machines and deteriorated stone walls of once great cities cluttered as far as the eye could see as if in poor tribute to a blood thirsty god.

Taking in the sight, it does not take a sage to conclude that no absolute victory had been won even by the rallied forces of all races combined against the Gundabad orcs and the annihilation of Azog the Defiler and his right-hand, Borg.

Not even (Y/N) could feel remotely festive after all that had transpired- not even if she were the key to every bit the most notable accomplishments they had with this war.

It mattered not to her that she had stopped a much unnecessary war between the Sindarin Elves and the Ironhill Dwarves; that she had fought alongside both dwarves and elves as Durin's Folk hid behind the walls of Erebor; that she stood firm with her usual garbs and nothing else but her courage and a sword and the skills she had learned from Legolas. Her great tiger, Luna, beside her-

(Y/N) had fought and will fight for everyone else's life if not for her prince's. That was why and how she manages to live, her own self-preservation long forgotten every moment spent in this unreciprocated charade of hers that stretched on and on. She had since ceased feeling guilt for throwing her life across the line far more times than she had kissed and will kiss the moon goodnight- unlike Legolas or Tauriel, she had not a soul who would mourn her loss.

Through it all, they had defeated their fair share of enemies- tiger and master, side by side. Guarding each other's backs and sharing an affectionate moment with their foreheads pressed together before going back into the fray once more and racing towards Dale after finding out that the orcs were planning to lay siege on the unsuspecting settlement.

It was already a given that the priestess would abruptly turn her head towards the direction of the city, chorusing with Gandalf as they made the dreadful announcement- hers containing a proposition to head straight to it with Bard and his army of angry lakemen to hopefully warn the rest of his own in time before it was too late.

The Elvenking had bestowed upon her then a look as if she had just lost all sense that he saw on her in the beginning.

"You came to the Woodland Realm with the intention of learning the culture of my kin in order to make a fine priestess. This is no longer the halls of my kingdom but a battlefield, (Y/N)." Thranduil seethed as best as his marmoreal grace had allowed. A hand settled on her shoulder then, the entirety of him threatening to haul her up into his mount, "You are still but a novice and even better than that you are not trained to be a warrior." his eyes blazed pale flames as his voice dropped, "You should be aware of the confines of what you could and could not do, priestess. Before you get yourself killed."

His disquietude was a sight to behold for Thranduil had been known for a great many things but this- ruffled and disturbed, very nearly mortal.

Yet her resolution did not dwindle. For though she is young of age -even for a priestess, a mortal and most especially an elf- her fortitude surpassed that of a great warrior, be it living or dead.

With a slight shake of her head and an apologetic little smile, she confirmed that her will is yet to bend under the king's stone-cold gaze.

"My most sincere apologies, dear king. But as much as I appreciate your concern, I ought to take my leave. I believe you would be more than capable to arm yourself and your kin but I doubt those men and women in Dale would survive this attack unaided." She offers in weak succor, her face hardening a considerable amount before she deigns to hide it behind yet another smile.

The Elvenking barely held back the barb that threatened to resurface and slip past his lips.

'The delicate hands of a mere mortal priestess would not be able to hold half of the onslaught that would befall those doomed souls. It is a battle loss before it even began...'

Still, he managed if only with the knowledge that this stubbornly selfless and naïve mortal girl is a mere front to something more glorious than a simple priestess. Although he yet finds himself able to admit, Thranduil knew her to be a competent warrior both in heart and soul- her mentor was his son after all.

"Very well then. Do as you wish." He finds himself relenting with a tilt of his head in the manner that was customary for him, the one that threw parts of his silky white locks on one side in a gracious waterfall.

Face devoid of any emotion, he proceeded to take the same direction as the young priestess, his regal form perched atop his great elk falling in perfect sync beside master and tiger.

"Pardon my imprudence, my king, but is it of mere coincidence that we are taking the same route?" (Y/N) asked nonplussed, her head cocked to the side and at a loss as to why the Elvenking would leave his elves in the battlefield.

"I will not have you harmed where my eyes could see and my hands may reach." Thranduil replied cryptically, not a part of him offering or heralding the beginnings of an explanation.

The priestess allows herself to find momentary solace at this wrinkle in time where she had not been alone, letting it be known with a pleasant hum that she had taken his words for what they were. They resumed to ride in silence, (Y/N) so oddly at peace despite the bloodshed around them until finally, agonizingly, their paths had split up and she was forced to wave the king a silent goodbye.

"May the Valars look down and smile upon you." The Elvenking grants her his blessing with a subtle tip of his proud head- with it was a minute upwards turn of the lips that the girl hadn't missed.

The same way it did not escape (Y/N) how those frosty blue eyes that lingered on her looked so extraordinarily familiar that it took her breath away. Still piecing bits and pieces of her addled consciousness, Thranduil returns her wave with a curt nod before turning back to his post amongst his kin.

It was in Dale that she was once again reunited with two of the Elvenking's bane- the priestess belatedly and most inconsolably noting that by some odd strike of luck this very pair of elves remain her heart's own scourge as well.

"Where have you two been?" she inquires by way of greeting, both worry and fury coloring her tone.

Their response was of a more deplorable note. There was an impending ambush from the north. Legolas having already tried to coax his father into warning the dwarves, (Y/N) had already by then saw the losses Thrnaduil had suffered and so it had not at all been a surprise for her that the Elvenking had turned the request of his own son down.

It had caused even more strife than it was worth when Tauriel aimed her arrow at the king, stating in self-righteous fury how she pities him for not knowing of love- for not having such in his heart.

Which the priestess had found was quite ironic for the elleth to say after falling in love with a dwarf she had just met. As if she did not bear even an ounce of remorse for so carelessly discarding Legolas, for acting as if his feelings bore no weight and significance -as if it never was- even if it had been so painfully obvious for everyone else.

(Y/N) knew a part of the captain is completely aware of it by now. Even a blind man could tell by the tone and the choice of words the Elven Prince would use whenever he would talk to her.

That was where they differed. Where Legolas would talk to Tauriel, he would talk at (Y/N).

"I would go up to Ravenhill to warn Thorin." the priestess blurts out, more out a desperate plea to keep herself from going idle and falling prey to her despondent thoughts once more rather than an actual decision made by a sound mind.

Thranduil was relatively quick on the uptake, "This brash behavior is precisely what I was warning you against, (Y/N)." his scolding was the first of the many to come. His tone taking quite an exasperated turn once all the rashness in his features had simmered down.

Legolas' then followed shortly after that.

"Even though I am openly against ada as of current, I must agree with what he had said. This battle is no longer yours to fight- it was never yours to begin with." His brows furrowed with the will of someone who, in all seriousness, wanted her out of it.

(Y/N) carried on and sported this particular ache as she had done all the others, decidedly pushing through with fighting alongside them throughout the war.

Her loyalty for the prince had peaked during the battle. There was not a single moment then when she had thought about her life above his.

From the very moment he and Tauriel had arrived to announce the grave news of an ambush from Gundabad, (Y/N) was quick to take her leave of her post without a single question asked. Through the disapproval of all three elves whom she had grown to call as hers -to protect and to serve- she remained a steadfast albeit impetuous ally, even when both father and son had named her bravery a perilous understatement for stubborn behavior in different shades.

Through it all Legolas instinctively looked after Tauriel, and knowing all too well how the captain's grief would hit the prince tenfold, (Y/N) in turn watched over Kili atop both elves' backs, especially Legolas'.

It is in this demented process of flying above her wingspan, that the priestess had lost the only one who had ever unconditionally reciprocated her love in equal value.

(Y/N) was on one of the neighboring mountains in Ravenhill, riding Luna and shooting arrows at all the enemies who threatened her comrades when she saw Borg, aiming to stab Kili with a large wooden stake.

(E/C) eyes widened and the whole world seemed to have stopped as the priestess gazed dropped down to Tauriel as she howled in despondence- a sound that was quick to snag at Legolas' attention despite their distance. It was not just the mirroring pain that was etched on the prince's face that had spurred (Y/N) into action, no, the undefended dwarf on the verge of death had too became one of her trusted confidantes. Kili was the only one who knew of her adoration for the Elven Prince and even though he had found her out of accident, he had not once pried or forced her to act on it. The Dwarven Prince, did however listen, tossed in what wisdom his equally youthful self was able to supply every now and then along with the occasional teasing that had always been meant and succeeded in raising her spirits.

The thing about (Y/N) is that she would die before she allow harm befall what few souls she chose to hold close to her heart.

Dismounting, she gazed off into the distance, a silent plea to the great goddesses to guide her slipping past her lips as she begged for them to give her the strength it required to protect all those who are dear to her.

Just enough. Not more, not less.

"Luna, love, we are to split up, alright?" She whispered sweetly as she caressed her heart and pressed her cheek on that spot beside ice-blue irises and slitted pupils. Immense dread threatened to split her into two as the tiger purred and returned her embrace with fervor.

"That's my girl." she cooed and kissed one great forehead before nuzzling her nose against the tiger's, "I love you."

Even though she is unable speak, Luna knew to return the words with her eyes and a stroke of her head and huge paws against her human. (Y/N) knew exactly what it meant, every word.

'I love you too.'

'It is not your fault,'

'You never had the choice.'

'It does not mean that it made me think you had ever loved me less.'

'Goodbye.'

That was the last she saw of her companion's lively eyes and taunting stature. Last of the pristine snow white fur always combed to perfection, of the vivid charcoal lines that decorated the expanse of her body in such an exquisite manner, of the huge build that could take 4 riders at once, of those depths of wise yet impish aquamarine irises and of that adorable pink nose and tongue.

Luna had always smelled of snow and cookie dough. It was a scent that was unheard of and strange for a tiger especially one as regal as her, it steered her kind away as it drew elves, dwarves and men towards her. She had preferred things the way they were, preened on the attention she had received from minds she knew aligned with hers- the tigers, Luna seemed to have thought once upon the time (Y/N) tried to proactively introduce her to them, smelled at best and repelled her at most.

It was on the more isolated part of the mountain far from the festivities of Erebor when (Y/N) had once more reunited with her. Hours upon hours of scouring through various mountains after defeating Azog the defiler and she had finally found Luna.

And all there was for her were tears of regret and yet another fistful of an already broken heart.

The deluge fell from her tired eyes as she stared down at her fallen kin. Badly did she wish to turn her head away from the stains of angry red that tainted snow white fur, to tear her eyes from the despicable sword impaled on the great tiger's noble chest that had once heaved but now no more.

But she would not. Not when it was herself that had brought this upon her stalwart heart.

"It was all my fault... " the young priestess murmured, her voice breaking after repeating the same words for the hundredth time that night. It was not unlike a fool's wish to hope it might somehow make the loss bearable.

At the sight of no one, (Y/N) dropped to her knees and wept her heart out once more, however this time, she was now truly alone in her grief.

The midnight skies had never been so dark before, it was as if the stars themselves shared her heartbreak and hid behind turbulent clouds to allow the incoming storm to come in a bid to mask tears of their own.

The impending downpour was a beating she would welcome with open arms in the hopes that she would somehow drown in it as she laid there sprawled over her tiger, that perhaps with it and her she might disappear too.

There she remained struck down by her sorrow. No longer minding the men, women and children of Laketown, the elves of Mirkwood or the dwarves of Ironhill and Erebor. Now they are safe, now there was no longer any need for her at the festivities that took place inside Erebor.

No more fighting, no more protecting.

The rain poured heavily then, drenching the world and pulling the young priestess further down the ground as she curled up into the fetal position that grew usual for both master and tiger. Her body at last became leaden from where she lay with the heavy feeling now successfully gnawing at her beaten heart, the coldness and loathsome presence of Death mocking her as it triumphantly stole the animal's welcoming warmth away from her.

Dulling (E/C) hues fluttered shut, spent from all the crying she had done to make up for all the times she had kept her grievances to herself. Alone as she had always been yet never was back when Luna was still there.

Unlike now.

Pitiful hiccups escaped her plush lips, sobs consuming her body like a merciless undertow as her gloved hands reached up in an attempt to stifle her all-consuming anguish.

It was due to this that she did not see the clouds part to make way for the vivid light of the moon as it glowed with gentle rays of pale silver upon her as if in consolation.

"My dear girl..." The Lady of the Light strode towards the broken figure on the harsh damp ground. Reaching out, she touched the top of her most sprightly novice's head before sitting down beside her, the mud not once staining her elegant robes.

(Y/N) flinched at the sudden appearance of her mentor and quickly sat up to clear her face of tears and gore,

"M-my lady, " she despised how her voice came out in a battered croak, "-surprising to find you here of all places..." She trailed off, looking around in search for a diversion before noticing the hem of the lady's dress in contact with the puddle of murky water closest to them, "m-my lady! Your robes!" (Y/N) shuffled to her knees and rubbed the dirt off her hands on her cloak before reaching out to grab the ends of pristine white cloth.

Lady Galadriel lifted a mild hand up to soothe the panicking priestess and held the trembling hands that reached out to touch her clothes instead.

(E/C) orbs involuntarily looked down in fear that her mentor would see enough of her to tell that she could no longer take any more of the world. That the Lady of Light had already seen how defeated and disheartened her student was that she would just deign to recall her back to Lothlorien and finally appoint her as a temple-maiden instead.

Galadriel saw through all the young girl's uncertainties, that even though the young priestess chose not to speak of it, she knows that her brave and young little heart needed all the words of encouragement it could be spared,

"My darling, do you know what it was that I saw in you back when you were young? What it was I saw that eased my blessing for you to go on this journey without so much as a second thought?" The lady queried, covering both of the younger one's hands in hers, lowering them so that it settled on the space between them.

(Y/N) only remained silent, shaking her head a 'no', because not once had she seen anything remotely special in herself.

This coaxed a melodic chuckle from the Lady of Light, her eyes shining brighter than the purest star as she squeezed cold hands before answering with absolute fondness -as if the young girl is her own and she was a proud mother staring into her daughter's eyes-

"It was because you were blessed by the moon and the stars with a heart so pure and brave that it loves so selflessly and earnestly to the extent of what others would deem as a fault." the gentle resolution in her gaze made (Y/N) want to weep, "It is such a blessedly unsought fault that the world greatly needs yet overlooks both at the same time." Galadriel smiles wistfully, reaching up to touch one reddened tear-stained cheek, her thumb lightly brushing the salty trails off.

(Y/N) merely sighed in resignation. Of course her mentor knew, she always does. But that does not mean she would not dare ask,

"You knew?" She finds herself completely against the idea speaking it as for her the grief remained too near and so she decided to be vague despite knowing that the lady of light would easily see through it- through her.

A mischievous little upturn made its way across the lady's thin lips as she spoke deliberately,

"Of your attachment to the Prince of Greenwood? Of course I do. Your soul is that of a wanderer that never took root on a single location for more than a week and yet you took a month in Lord Thranduil's kingdom." there was a discreet emphasis on the name that (Y/N) was certain the Lady of Light was letting her in on, "If it would not be because of the Elven Prince then I would be inclined to think your heart was ensnared by the Elvenking himself- although," she pauses as if in thought, "For now I doubt it is such for as fine and fair an ellon he may be, the young king tends to be quite... unconventionally detached." Galadriel finished, the strain of describing the Woodland King courteously quite palpable.

Taking notice of the girl's mood brightening and the discreet little blush coloring her pale cheeks once more, the Lady of Light decidedly presses her luck, "You must know that I am not entirely dismissing the possibility- the Elvenking is a pleasant sight for tired eyes." She winks.

A tiny grin blooms on chapped lips as (Y/N) shook her head, "If I had not known of your marriage to Lord Celeborn I would think you have taken a rather indiscreet liking to the Elvenking, my lady."

The revered elf queen nodded her head of silken blond waves, "Indeed, but we both know you are wiser than that, my child. It is more likely you than I. Long blond hair, piercing blue eyes, a mercurial personality -that seems to be your kind." She chuckled and brought her apprentice's broken form within the confines of her healing embrace.

(Y/N) could not recall how it happened but Lady Galadriel had, by some miracle, managed to coax her momentarily out of her grief. She still mourned, yes, but the Lady of Light managed enough to entice her into participating in the celebrations that took place in Erebor.

Coming to the conclusion that no amount of lamentation would bring her fallen comrade back, the priestess decides she could at least prevent further concern her absence might arouse from the people, dwarves and elvish warriors she had grown acquainted with during battle.

She did not dare hope too much for Legolas to care about her missing if Tauriel was there.

The elleth could easily take her place.

Such brash a thought, (Y/N) thinks to herself, when you do not even have a place in his mind, nevermind his heart.

Still, the priestess finds herself walking towards the gargantuan halls of Erebor. A heaviness finding its eternal resting place in the pit of her stomach and the hollow of her chest.

[ To be continued in Chapter 2 ]

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slightlystupidhun · 1 year

Text

My Supernova

A One-shot fic based on a head cannon by @fregget-frou

In this work, David is the captain of the DSE or Dahlia Space Explorer. He has his trusty crew with him as they travel through space on an expedition to understand more about the ‘Great Beyond.’ But what happens when one day, he finds something they could never have prepared for?

Valentines Day Edition

The ship was pristine, top of the line in every aspect. It had the highest grade technology anyone could ask for, state of the art weaponry, was made of the strongest material known to man, and was fit with the best crew a captain could ask for.

The silver ship was primarily recognized by the large letters on the side. D.S.E. The Dahlia Space Explorer. A simple name, that left virtually nothing to the imagination, but it served its purpose. The captain of the ship was none other than David Shaw, the son of world renown astrophysicist Gabriel Shaw, his mother was also an extremely talented Astronomer but unfortunately passed away far too young. Now, David Shaw, he was the first captain of a modern age space explorer to expand its research beyond the the Milky Way galaxy.

“Asher, Status check?” He turned to his right hand man. His co-captain. Asher. Asher’s parents had both been normal citizens, however his sister ended up becoming a O.S.D. Outer space defender, consistently watching to make sure no other being was coming to the mother ship to harm all of its inhabitants. Asher admired her work and always strived to be as inspiring as his sister. He had been close with David since they were kids and nearly leapt at the opportunity to come along on the operation with him.

“All is good captain. All members reported feeling fine after the hyper speed jump and all of our supplies remained in tact. We are still on course for Originem Sanctus. Since you insisted on staying up at all hours, the ship has not strayed from its course.” The man informed turning his captains chair around to face him. “Boss maybe you need a break? I mean it wouldn’t hurt. And we could really use you in tip top shape!” Asher pushed as David rolled his eyes.

“I’m fine. Just a tad exhausted. It’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before.” He replied rubbing his face.

“Nope! Sorry buddy but you need rest. Can’t have a captain that doesn’t have the energy to captain. Besides I wanna Teleshift with Babe so unless you want to hear that.” He paused and David shot up out of the seat. The captain quickly walked out of the room, stopping in the arched metal doorway.

“Get me in 15 hundred.” It was an order not a question but Asher nodded anyway.

David walked through the metallic white hallways, lined with navy blue. He looked through one of the doors that automatically opened at his presence. It was Milo, his number one engineer. Milo’s mother had been an extremely talented doctor, one that found a cure for many a disease. And his father had been one of the top O.S.D’s of his time. Milo was in the company of the ships E.T.A. Or extra terrestrial advisors. David hadn’t known much about them, other than the fact that they were highly recommended and at the top of their field. Milo had surely taken a liking to them, if the echoing hallways on their rendezvous together had anything to add to the point. Once he was sure that the pair was fine, he continued his walk down the hallway to the oxygen hub.

He saw Huxley standing there alongside Damien. Huxley had been a great teacher and had always been keen on filling Damien in on the happenings of the bio lab.

David acknowledged their position and walked passed the medical bay. There he could see Tanker sitting on one of the cots next to Sam. They were being patched up after they had a slip up using some of the weaponry. They were the expert on the weapons and no one knew them better. David watched as Sam observed the small cut on their hand, understanding that it was not that big of a deal, and continued on his way.

He got to his quarter and quickly pressed the button to shut and seal the mechanical door. His pod was a decent size, able to fit a king size bed, a closet, dresser, nightstand, Hologram, and desk. His bed faced a large window that looked out into the vast emptiness that was space. He relaxed himself into bed, finally letting himself succumb to his exhaustion.

He woke up to continuous thudding on his pod door. He turned his gaze over to the slab of metal and tapped the screen on his wrist. The door then slid open and a smiling Asher walked through.

“Hey buddy, we’ll be arriving at Originem Sanctus in about sixty two seconds.” With that David quickly got out of bed and followed Asher back to the control room. The rather small planet was coming into view and it was gorgeous. The planet itself seemed to have a glow to it. It was obviously nearing the later hours for this side of the planet as the many pieces of land seemed to glow. It was odd, this planet seemed to resemble earth so much, but it had its own air of beauty and mystery to it. It almost seems lost in time.

The ship quickly prepared for landing, finding one of the flat surfaces among a field of purple and pink, it seemed as though the minty color of the grass was made to fit the pastel colors of the flowers surrounding it. David was the first to gear up and step off the ship. He put on his helmet and stepped out onto the field, followed by Asher, and Huxley. They found that the gravity was so similar to earths. The look of the planet was almost like someone drew earth through the lense of a child’s dreams. Soft, warm, comforting.

Huxley reached out and collected a sample of the shrubbery taking a few tests to make sure that it was in fact safe to be around. It was. So Huxley gave them the all clear to send out their crew with them. David was the first to take off his helmet and was not at all shocked to find that there was Oxygen. You could breathe freely. The air here, felt fresher than anything he had ever felt before. He had to cough a few times as his lungs needed to adjust to the cleanliness it consumed.

The total exploration crew consisted of Tank, Asher, Huxley, Sam, and of course David. They all began their walk into the large wooded area. The trees were tall and winding. Their leaves a soft green, their branches a tan color. The vines were long and tangled amongst each other and other trees. It was gorgeous, something you would only be able to afford to see once in your life.

As they were walking deeper they heard a branch snap. The crews head turned in the direction of the sound and David raised a hand signaling them to stop. He stepped forward slowly, and was able to begin making out the figure of what looked to be a human. He stepped forward and finally peeked over the branch and was met with glowing eyes. Their color so vibrant it seemed to give off light not even their high powered flashlights could. Their eyes changed colors inconsistently but pretty often. Their skin was a baby blue color, and around their face, were silver glitter like marks.

They stood up to meet him, not really able to compete with his gigantic frame. They looked at him and turned their head in a way that he thought was similar to a puppy. His crew stood frozen. Shock adorned all of their faces. He lowered his hands and tried to speak to them.

“Hello… Can you understand me?” He stared at them earnestly.

“#}<€+¥_~.•” They replied. Even though he couldn’t understand them. He was enraptured by their voice the sound so ethereal. He put one hand up, raised in the dense and slowly reached into his pocket. They directed their attention towards his hand, staring at it curiously. He then pulled out two bracelets. They were translation devices Milo had made. They were able to allow those who wore them, full understanding of the other. David put the silver metal around his wrist and then reached his other hand out, offering them the metal. They quickly took it and smiled up at him. They mirrored his action of slipping on the bracelet and looked up at him sickeningly sweet.

“Can you understand me now?” He asked them cautiously, observing their reactions. They perked up so bright and let out a small laugh.

“Yes! I can understand you! And you can understand me?” They asked back.

“Yes. I can.” He answered and signaled his crew to come closer. “We are from earth, a few million light years away. We are currently on an expedition to understand more about the unknown.”

“Oh! Well I have heard of earth before but… I haven’t heard much about it’s inhabitants. Many of us here have actually explored your galaxy, many times over. Some, less cautious than others.” They informed him smiling at his conflicted expression. “So what do you need to learn?”

“Well I would like to learn more about your planet and it’s customs. If possible.” He answered simply.

“I would love to help you learn more. Fortunately for you, you ran into me, and I am one of our many scientists here. I believe that you’ll find we aren’t that much different from you all. Although if we’re being frank, we don’t have beings as attractive as you here.” They smiled up at him devilishly. A bright pink color dusted his cheeks and Asher immediately caught on. Was this E.T. making a move on their captain? Bold. Very bold.

“Ahem.” He cleared his throat. “That is not one of the things I’m researching here. Can we please stay on topic.” He crossed his arms.

“I supposed, but I can’t make promises that I won’t strike again.” They said, a cat like look in their eyes. They winked at him and began the walk back to civilization. The small group following in tow.

—————

It had been around a week since they first landed on Originem Sanctus. They had fallen into a routine. Everyday as soon as light began to shine on the face of their planet, there would be a knock on the iron door of the D.S.E. David would gather the recruits for the day always leaving at least two on board. They would go to the large civilization and straight to the research center. The city was simple yet complex. It was not the most advanced looking place from the outside. It was humble and quaint, however, on the inside they had extremely advanced technology. Everything was a small piece of a much larger moving system. The payment each team received was essentially information.

David would never admit this but he had began taking a liking to the extra terrestrial, even going as far as to give them a nickname, Angel. Slowly but surely they were working their way into his heart. In fact most days, he finished getting ready to go about an hour before they usually came knocking. Asher noticed David checking himself in the mirror more often before going out.

—————

They had now been on the small planet for about four months. David was absolutely hopeless. He would find any excuse to be by their side or spend extra time with them. He was falling for them. Hard. This was obvious to anyone who observed them. Everyone knew that despite consistently shrugging them off, David always wanted to be around them. Everyone knew that Angels flirting held more veracity than an average person would expect. It was on this particular day that David realized just how bad he had it for them.

“What was so important that you needed to drag me away from the crew to show me? Are you finally gonna kill me?” He mused a sarcastic grin finding its way onto his features.

“I wanted to show you something, but if you aren’t interested then we could always go back.” They shrugged knowing that he would never deny them. They grabbed his hand, his calloused skin a stark contrast to their smooth ones. His hold was surprisingly gentle, despite them knowing that they couldn’t take him anywhere he truly didn’t want to go. They led him up to the edge of a large rock formation and through some brush along the middle. There he saw a small cove, deep blue water with bioluminescent aquatic plant life. The cove itself was rather dark, but lit up by all of the glowing plants inside of it.

It was truly gorgeous and took David’s breath away. He didn’t know how to react, he turned back to face Angel and was met with a sight that had his brain spacing out. Somehow in the few seconds he had looked away from them, they had changed into clothing more appropriate for a swim. They soon began descending into the water sinking so only their eyes were above the surface peering into his own. He felt heat rush to his cheeks and almost felt like he should look away.

“Wanna join me… Captain?” They smiled at him and pushed themself further back into the small pool.

“I… I don’t have clothing for this… besides I don’t know if the water is-“ he began but before he could finish they pointed to the bag.

“I already tested the water. And the \£|!*• it is a special herb that is actually helpful to humans. Also the change of clothes, is in the bag. But I wouldn’t mind if you wanted to skinny dip.” They bit their lip and held back a laugh as he sighed and walked over to the bag. He quickly changed and followed them into the water. It was cool but not freezing. It actually felt pretty nice in contrast to the current weather.

David followed their earlier actions and sunk himself down into the pond. They slowly made their way over to him. He couldn’t help but stare at them. They looked so enticing, he was devouring them with his eyes. Their eyes showed a bright pink color, however it also flashed to a dark red at times. He learned early on that their eyes changed colors in correlation to their emotion. Bright red meant wrath. Green meant calm. Yellow meant content, and orange meant uncomfortable. He hadn’t found out all of the emotions colors, and certainly hadn’t unraveled the truth behind these colors. He dipped his head down. He wanted to learn so many things, specifically about them.

They moved forward and reached their hand out to him, they cupped his cheek, a gentle action they learned he actually thoroughly enjoyed.

“Angel we shouldn’t. I… I have to leave. It won’t be good for either of us… if… if we.” He moved his face closer to theirs his eyes lidded and locked on their lips.

“I’m not gonna lie Davey. I don’t want to let you go. I want to stay with you.” They spoke and his eyes snapped up to theirs. “But I can’t ask you to stay. I won’t. And I don’t expect you to have a good reason to bring me.” They backed away from him. “Anyways. Let’s collect some samples on the water life that you can bring back with you for experiments.” Their tone softened and they began taking samples and putting them in tubes they had on the edge of the pool.

“Angel.” David tried to stop them from changing the subject. “Angel.” He spoke but they ducked underwater and began to take away pieces of the glowing plant. When they resurfaced he moved closer to them. “Angel… I can’t ask you to leave. So… So maybe we should stop things here. They need you here. I mean they need a brilliant scientist like you.”

“Yeah, wow, look at this sample. Here.” They shoved the glass in his hands and stepped out of the pool. “Alright well, you can grab whatever you want. I need to go to my lab. Later.” With that they walked out of the cove grabbing their clothes and throwing them on in the process.

The next few days after that David didn’t see or hear from Angel. They no longer met up with him. He felt a small tinge of emptiness. He missed them and he wanted to be around them. He wanted them there with him. He knew, however, he couldn’t make them leave.

He had been moping around in his pod for longer than normal and had been stuck in his head. He was lost in thought until a knock could be heard at his door.

“Come in.” He said, voice harsher than he intended.

“Hey Cap. What’s been eating at you huh?” Tanker said walking into the room.

“Nothing Tank, I’m fine.” He said standing up to face them.

“No. You are a many things, but fine isn’t one of them. So what’s getting to you?” They moved forward crossing their arms.

“I… Angel. They… we talked about my having to leave. They said that they didn’t expect me to have a good reason to take them with me and they’re right. I don’t. Any reason I had would be selfish. I can’t. I won’t take them away from their home.” He spoke, words coming out before he could stop himself.

“I’m gonna stop you there David.” Tank said holding a hand up, palm facing their captain. “They we’re trying to get you to take them. THEY wanted to be the reason you had to bring them. They wanted you to want them. To want to bring them.” Tank sighed, pinching the bridge of their nose.

“What?” He sounded baffled. He quickly shook his head before grabbing his jacket and heading out of the ship, Tank following behind him.

“Where are you going?” They asked their captain.

“I have to find them! I need to talk to them.” He ran off and Tank headed back to the ship. He ran through the forest back to the humble civilization. He walked passed the large doors of the observation center and straight to Angels office. He threw their door open rather loudly and I gracefully.

“Please, do not slam my door. How may I…” they paused looking up at him. “Help you…”

“Angel.” He said moving over to their desk as they stood up, dropping the pen they were previously holding. They stepped back as he stepped toward them. He rounded on their desk trapping them between his arms.

“David. I uh…. Hey… how may I help you?” They fiddled with the edge of the desk.

“You are my reason.” He spoke rather unceremoniously.

“I’m sorry what?” They said their featured contorting into confusion.

“You. The reason I want you to come with me is because I want you.” He said, his fiery gaze burning into theirs. “I want you to come with me. If you want to of course.” He said pleasing with them. They didn’t say anything, just stared at him. “Never mind, I didn’t-“ before he could finish they pulled him in for a kiss. It was hot, passionate, and consuming. He felt like he was floating in a zero gravity room. He couldn’t come down and he never wanted to. The kiss only broke when he was out of breath.

“Take me with you! I wanna go.” They said patting down the side of his hair.

“Are you sure? It’s a big risk.” He said trying to hide his smile.

“Yes.” Their eyes were deep red, with magenta flakes. Love. That’s what the color meant. They felt nothing but love in this moment. “I’ll follow you throughout the entire universe.”

@fregget-frou I hope you like it!! I tried my best to imagine what this would be like! I’ve never written a sci-fi fic before, so this was a bit challenging!! But I had so much fun!! Thank you for the recommendation!

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