#and who in the world thinks the smell of dust is comforting

[hr43s]

Goverment Hooker

dbf Joel Miller x f!reader ( Joel is a Security Guard )

Summary: Joel miller, your dad’s best friend is a security guard for celebrities. He takes you to one of his jobs as part of a university homework you need to do, but he let his guard down.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI ! No outbreak, Unprotected p in v, mutual masturbation, explicit smut, a lil dominant Joel, secret relationship, orgasm denial, edging, dirty talk, fingering, semi-public sex, very slight bondage ( hand tied up, can easily be freed if wanted),Age gap, DBF Joel because who doesn't like that tbh, reader is in her 20', No body description except outfit and gender, no outbreak, porn w/plot, fluff, kind of slowburn.

w/c: 6k ( i'm actually proud for a second time )

a/n: Second smut !! i'm so proud of this one it's wayyy longer than the first one i did and like 10 times better (crying). Also theres a fanart on the banner but when i found it on pinterest the artist wasnt tagged :((( so please if you know who it is please feel free to comment !! love you whoever is reading this <3

Thank you for reading <3 notes, comments and reblog are heavily appreciated !!

“I need to do this uh…homework” you chew on your food. Good, delicious, and steamy coming right out of the stove. “I have to go to one of you two’s job and make a report” you stab one of the peas in your plate. “I mean I’d gladly take you but you know how boring my job is, huh? And your mom’s abroad” your dad says, rushing to eat his plate.

Your dad works a night job at an Amazon warehouse, something about packing orders, taking a box, putting wrapping paper and the object inside the box, taping it up, taking another box, putting wrapping paper inside, and bla bla bla… Your mom, she’s an airplane pilot going around the world. She’s barely home but she always make sure to send you some well decorated cards with landscapes on them, or to ship some gifts like magnets, you love magnets, your fridge is full of it by now but you still getting excited every time a small box arrives home. But like your dad said, you can’t possibly go with her. “Maybe you should go with Miller, from across the street, remember him ?” Of course you do, even though your dad and him didn’t meet for a long time like they used to. You kind of miss the nights around the barbecue where they would both laugh their ass off together, but now this barbecue is black and grey with dust of burnt charcoal that hasn’t been cleaned in a while. You haven’t talked to Miller since the last time the three of you met for dinner. The only interaction you’d have with him now would only stop at a little wave from across the street and a “hey how you doing?” every once in a while when leaving the house. “I mean why not…” you think. “What’s his job? We haven’t talked in a long time, wasn’t he in a contracting job or something like that ?” Your plate empty, you get up and pick up your plate along with your dad’s and put them into the dishwasher. “ yeah… think he got some problems with his brother, and they were both fired for some reasons. Now I don’t know what he’s doing but he’s wearing black suits every morning when he leaves so maybe it’s a job interesting enough for you to work on it.” He sighs, like a dad sigh, and gets up from his chair, walking out of the room. “food was good honey” he smile. That same night, your dad left for work while you’re in front of Miller’s door. The lights are on inside, it’s dim and gives a comforting vibe to his house which is quite unexpected for a man as rough and difficult as Mr. Joel Miller. You knock on the hard wood of his door, kind of hesitant because why would you go see your neighbor for a homework based on your parents? You shake your head. Whatever, no one is going to know anyways. The door open in a quick swift with a sudden smell of crackling fire and…roasted potatoes and meat? “Hey Miller,” you greet looking into his eyes, brown and sleepy. “I’m sorry to bother you but I had a question quite important.” He smile and nod “whatcha want kiddo’?”. You forgot his seductive accent, a while back it wouldn’t have the same effects that it has on you right now. You’re still a little hesitant to ask, afraid to bother him this late and during dinner. “I have this homework I’m supposed to do on one of my parent’s job. I have to go with them for like a day and make a report, but my parents are too busy, and dad told me to ask you instead” “Well, I’d gladly help you but uh, it’s quite early in’a mornin” “That’s fine, I can get up early.” You smile at him “Well now that you’re here,” he looks back to his kitchen, then back at you. “I got spare dinner here, wanna eat here so we can talk about this a little and maybe if you want…crash here for the night? The job has flexible hours so if I get a call earlier, I need ya to be ready.” This was kind of unexpected, but you’re surprised, a good surprised. “I’m down but I didn’t take any clothes with me. Honestly, I wasn’t sure you’d agree with this.”

You laugh it off, kind of embarrassed and a bit flustered. “I’ll give you something to sleep in” he smiles.

Spending the night at his house, eating dinner with him. All these emotions, the butterflies in your stomach is all new. You never really thought about it, but hell Mr. Miller is kind of hot. You’ve always dated guys your age. Some were good and some others disappointing, but you never thought of dating someone older and especially not this old or anyone being your dad’s best friend. The forbidden love that is so slowly and so suddenly growing in you. Why now? Why him. You sit down at the end of the table. Joel’s in the kitchen preparing the food. He brings the plates to the table, and he sit at your left, close to you. And you were right, it was potatoes and meat, and it was quite good compared to what you thought Joel was capable of and it’s quite pleasing to be eating this good. After a while talking about your homework, how the day would most likely go and you daydreaming about how hot he is the more you look at him, he offers you to watch a movie before bed. You both sit down and start watching this movie called Curtis and Viper 2, you’d figure it’s his favorite since he can’t stop going “oh look here” or “I love this scene” every once in a while. After what feels like a hour, your eyes are slowly closing and before you realize, your head is on his shoulder. It was slowly falling with time, and by the look on his face he doesn’t seem to be too bothered about you getting so close to him. “Wake up sweetheart” his voice is calm. You lift your head to follow the sound of his voice “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you like that,” you say while standing up. “I think I’m gonna take a shower before bed.” You go upstairs and into the bathroom. It’s quite big and smells like colognes and 3 in 1 shampoo. You always feel weird taking a shower at other people’s house, scared someone might walk in so you cough loudly to let the whole house know someone’s in here. You take a big towel for your body, a small one for your face and hair and hang them both on the dryer to make them warm for when you get out. The water is hot and steamy, droplets hits your face like ashes from a fire and you’re hot but not just from the water. Your core keeps burning for him and it gets worst with time. You can’t stop thinking about him, His face, his body, his shirt showing every detail of his biceps, his veins going down his arm and hands, his calloused fingers from playing guitar touching you, feeling your body. Fuck. Too far. You rinse the soap off your body and step out of the shower. The light is dim and making you even more sleepy than you already are. You put on whatever moisturizer Joel has in his bathroom filled with man products, breaking your skincare for one night won’t affect your skin too much. Suddenly the door open. Maybe you should’ve fucking coughed instead of daydreaming like a teen. Joel stops, his mouth slightly open in an “o” shape.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry sweetheart I should’ve knocked first,” he turns his head around as you quickly grab your towel from the floor and wrap it around you. “ ‘forgot to give you clothes before you got in.” He hands you the clothes, his clothes, considering Sarah has left a long time ago. “It’s okay you can look, I’m covered.” You say shyly. He turns back to you and unconsciously look you up and down without saying a word. You take the stash from his hands. “Thank you, I’ll be out in a minute” you smile. You finish changing in his shirt, a too-big dark brown shirt with his name embroidered on the top right part, must be from his old job as a contractor. You figure you’d be better in your panties rather than the pants he gave you considering the weather and how warm it is in this house. You go back into the living room and start searching for a blanket to sleep in. Luckily one big enough to cover your body but not your feet is folded neatly in a drawer under the TV. “Whatcha doin?” Joel goes down the stairs. “Oh I’m just…getting my bed ready” “There’s no way you’re sleeping here,” he says, in a commanding tone “Sarah’s room is my gym now, so you’ll sleep in my bed.” You let out a muffled laugh “yeah like you’ll sleep on a damn couch with your broken back you old grandpa ?” He looks at you with a crooked smile, a little hurt since you called him a grandpa but your personality makes him smile. “Yeah well what do ya suggest smartass ?” You’re hesitant to even try to suggest it but hell if he doesn’t want you on the couch then you need to try other solutions no matter how embarrassing they can be. “Then let’s both sleep in your bed.” You both end up in his bed. It’s awkward, a lot, but at least it’s comfy. Joel is long fallen asleep while you twist and turn every few minutes trying so hard to sleep but something is keeping you awake, something deep down in your core. Joel turns and end up facing you, still sound asleep. You can’t help but look at him and all his features. His crooked nose, his wrinkles softer than when he’s awake. It makes you realize that he’s almost constantly frowning, giving him a mean gaze that could scare people that don’t know him personally. But here, now, he’s so soft and so different. Oh, and he’s shirtless. It’s distracting but you’re in panties, so it feels a bit more casual. His skin is slightly tanned, just the perfect kind of tanned at this time of the year, and it’s a good tan, a brown one not a tomato kind of tanned. Fuck, you need to sleep. You turn around trying not to think about him and finally sleep, when you suddenly feel something against you. Joel moved closer, and he’s now wrapping his arm around your waist. Your breath stops for a second. It’s probably just a reflex from his body but he’s so warm, a good warm even though it’s hot under the sheets but you don’t want to wake him up. The sensation in your core is growing, like an alien trying to come out of your stomach to eat you out. “Fuck you Miller” you whisper. You hear a phone buzz and it’s waking you up. Joel is still holding you but now he’s closer and you can feel something hard on your lower back. It makes you blush but no matter how hard you try, his arm is holding you tight and you can’t escape. “Joel,” you shake his arm slowly. You hear him grumble. “Your phone is ringing”.

“Shit” he finally wakes up and it takes a few seconds for him to realize the position he’s in, and the way his body reacted to yours. “I’m so sorry, I uh… I have no excuse” he jumps out of the bed and takes his phone. He takes the call and leave the room. You check the clock. 5 a.m., you throw yourself back into the bed. “a C might’ve been better than this” you spit. Joel comes back in the room after a few minutes. “Just got a call, some job for us in a city nearby, you should get dressed” he leaves the room once again.

You put on the same clothes as yesterday, a black tank top with black shorts and some converse. You thought maybe dressing all black just like Joel’s uniform would make you look a bit more professional.

“You look stunning” Joel says, entering the room in a full black costume. It’s neatly ironed, not a single wrinkle in sight.

“Looking good too, Miller,” you walk towards him and tighten his tie a bit more.

He smiles “thanks angel”. Dammit, can’t he stop with the pet names, he’s going to make you blush.

“So, where are we going?” you tie your shoe laces in a tight ribbon

“I told ya’, a city a few minutes away from here. We’re taking my truck.”

You already took a trip in Joel’s truck when you were younger, but it was different, your dad was here to do the conversation and make things less embarrassing but now it’s a whole different situation. You still don’t know what to do with your feelings, should you tell him on the road? during the job? you can’t think straight with the small time of sleep you had.

You both hop into his truck; the weather is still quite hot for an early morning.

“How much time till we get there?” you buckle up and look at your phone.

“We got 20 minutes, you can put on some music if you want”

You connect your phone and put on some Arctic Monkeys on. You’re still debating if you should try to make a move on Joel because honestly, you’re starting to miss getting laid, and trying it out with an older guy would be fun.

But the fact that Miller is your dad’s friend makes it weird. Would he get along with it? Or would he just stop you the moment you put your lips on his?

Giving it a try won’t hurt considering you barely see him anyways so avoiding him won’t be too hard. Just no waving and no “Hi Mr. Miller” from across the street.

After like 5 minutes, Joel finally talks.

“Are you seeing anyone? Some guy from your school?” He lowers the volume of your music.

“No, why?” Here. Make a move. “Would you be jealous if I was?” you open the drawer in front of you and search for some candy, every sane people has some sweets in their car. You find a lollipop and unwrap it.

“ ‘twas just a question” he says as you put the lollipop in your mouth and lay your feet on the dashboard. He side eyes you and sigh.

“Well, no, no one’s interesting enough, I guess. Everyone is so focused on school; I haven’t seen a single person kiss another in the corridors or in some empty classes.”

You lick at your lollipop as you make eye contact with him. “Guess I should try older.” You smirk.

You see him adjust in his seat and taking a deep breath. He turns the volume back on to the song.

“How many secrets can you keep ?

‘Cause there’s this tune I found

That makes me think of you

somehow”

This song couldn’t be even more on point than now.

“What about you,” you ask, “You seeing anyone?”

“Not really, not really searchin’ for sum’ serious right now” he leans on the edge of his window, putting his hand into a fist to cover his mouth, he fidgets.

“So like… you just want sex?”

He chokes on his own saliva and coughs “What the fuck are you on about? Jesus “he spits “I mean, maybe, but I’m not actively searching or anythin’” 

“You got any age preference?” You take a chance.

“Uh…No, not really” You turn to him, making your belt a bit longer so you can get comfortable.

“Would you fuck me?” You lick on your lollipop; it has become a small pink ball now with all the sucking and licking.

“Jesus girl, you’re my best friend’s daughter” he doesn’t even seem angry or annoyed at the question somehow.

“You didn’t say no though” you smile.

“Doesn’t mean I agree.”

“Okay but, imagine if I wasn’t, would you?” he keeps looking at your lips while you talk.

“You gotta learn how to walk before learning how to run, sweetheart”

“What if I wanna run though?” You say as his grip tightens on the wheel, his knuckles turning white.

You both arrive at a hotel Joel’s company booked before you two arrived. It’s a nice place, a 5 stars hotel. He must stay at the same hotel as the person he has to protect, obviously.

“They booked us…well, me, a single bedroom since it wasn’t really planned for you to come, so we’ll have to share a bed” Joel say

“Again” you smirk. He’s probably already annoyed by you, but he still hasn’t complain, you just assume.

“Come” her orders you, you follow him to the room.

It’s quite big, it has a double bed with dark burgundy sheets and pillows, a big shower along the right side of the room that is basically the size of a whole bathroom, there’s two showerheads and the walls are transparent, so yes, a few meters long shower. What for? No idea.

The toilets are on the other side of the room along with a double sink and a huge light up mirror and fancy soaps you will definitely steal. There’s windows and a balcony in the between with a fancy view on the city.

“We’re gonna have to sleep here tonight if that’s okay with ya’, we might come back home late, and the room is free so we should enjoy instead of going home.”

two nights in a row in the same bed as Joel wasn’t something you’ve planned but you’re not mad about it, to be honest. As long as your assignment is complete…hopefully.

“We got an hour before we have to leave,” he put his bag to the side of the bed. “You can sleep a bit if you want, try to take back the hours of sleep you lost.”

Wait? is he aware that you were awake? Did he grab you on purpose? There’s no way.

“I’m not really tired anymore,” you sit on the bed in front of Joel as he unbuttons his suit jacket. You look up at him and bite your lips. You’re praying inside that he doesn’t reject you, that he follows your movements.

“Well, ion’ know what else you could do besides wait here like a behaved girl” Fuck, was this intentional? If not, it still turned you on.

You have no idea what to do right now, unbuckle his belt, suck him off? Or tease him?

Tease him.

You stand up and start walking towards the huge transparent walls shower, taking off your clothes on the way. Once arrived in the shower, you stand under the showerhead, open the water hose, and turn around searching for Joel.

He’s looking at you with black eyes, devouring you with his hands on his hips.

“Fuck” he spits.

He hurries to unbutton his shirt and take his fancy well ironed pants off along with his boxer.

Oh.My.God.

Your heart has never raced this fast in your life. He’s so big and he’s not even hard yet, you wonder how you never notice it before.

He gets into the shower and stand right in front of you under the shower, the water dripping down his hair and the tip of his nose.

“I don’t know what the fuck ya’ want from me, but you’re tempting me you fucking tease” His word travel down your spine and reaches your core.

His hands slide down your side, reaching your panty line.

“You have an hour to choose if you want to have fun or if you wanna go get a snack and get ready to write your lil’ presentation about me” his face gets closer to yours as your back arches.

“What if I want you to be my snack?” You say, slightly touching the tip of his cock growing bigger the more he looks at you.

He takes your wrists and pin them above your head and hold them up with one of his hands as the other grip one of your breasts. His fingertips are slightly twisting your nipple as he brings his lips to yours, indulging in a dirty, filthy kiss being washed away by the water running down.

Your hand grabs his shaft, stroking it slowly. “You’re so dam’ teasing’, if your father finds out I’m making out with his daughter, I’m a dead man” he growls as your hand twist slightly when reaching the tip of his cock

“We can keep it secret.” You smirk

“You wanna be my dirty little secret, huh?”

You hear a phone ringing on the bed, but Joel turns your head back to him. “Leave it, they’ll call back.”

After a session of teasing and kissing in the too-big shower, the both of you come out of it all wet and steamy. Joel picks up a towel and wrap it around you. He takes another one, smaller, and dries your hair with it. He is so gentle even though you’ve been closed to him for a few hours only, the day before he would only see you as the daughter of your best friend that lives across the street, nothing more.

Joel walks to the bed and pick up his phone, his towel around his hips.

“Fuck!” He screams. “Boss called, the woman I was supposed to work for left earlier, we should’ve been gone by now” He put his clothes back on, muttering shit shit shit while doing so.

A black car with tinted windows comes out of the underground garage of the hotel and stops right in front of you.

“You’re in fucking trouble Miller” The driver guy said. He is big, his black vest almost merging into one with his muscles.

Joel opens the door for you and almost pushes you in.

“We’re ten minutes away from her, you better get yourself ready M” he says, hitting the gas.

 You feel something on your thigh, crawling all the way from your knee to the base of your leg, Joel’s warm hands are touching you, slowly going towards your inner thigh.

“What are you doing?” you whisper. He gets closer to your ear while his hand finally touches your clit through your panties.

“You got me in trouble, made me lose my mind just so I could touch you,” He pulls your panties to the side and slide two fingers through your slit, wetting them just before entering your core with thick digits.

You struggle to keep your pleasure to yourself as a few squeals comes out of your mouth. The car is going fast, the sound of the engine covering whatever filthy sounds you make.

His other hand is reaching for the neckline of your top, his finger slightly pulls on it to have a quick peek of your breasts. You keep panting, his finger crooked into you, reaching that soft spongy spot that makes you shiver if it’s played with a little too much.

“ ‘Atta girl” he say, your heart pounding harder, getting closer to your climax and then…

He stops. Fuck

Your walls are clenching around nothing, it’s demanding for more, something bigger. It’s only waiting for him, but how much longer can you hold it?

The car pulls up to a fancy restaurant with a forest green and gold storefront. You see a few paparazzi outside taking pictures from afar, probably of the girl inside.

The driver gets out of the car and pull out his phone, calling to get orders.

“Take them off” Joel says looking at you, then your hips

“What…My panties?” you frown.

“Yeah” He smirk, and he’s so damn hot when he does.

You take your shorts off along with your panties. They’re black with some floral lace at the top, hot but still comfortable and covering.

Joel takes it in his hands and makes a small ball of fabric out of it and put it in the back pocket of his jeans. “Mine” he whispers, kissing you one last time before getting out of the car, holding out his hand for you to follow him.

“We have to secure the perimeter and make sure none of this fuckers get in” the big guy say as you take out your notebook and a pen from your backpack and start taking notes: how things start, Joel’s role, his coworkers, and other thing you couldn’t care less about because right now your mind is focused on Joel and not his work, more like the stuff in his pants.

You follow Joel inside the restaurant as he gives his name to the front desk. He sits you at a table near the outside window.

 “Sit here so I can keep an eye on ya’ from outside, take your notes here…look at me and scribble whatever you needa scribble,” he gently caresses your hair as you look up to him “Order anything ya’ want, it’s on me sweetheart” he kisses your forehead and rushes outside, seating at an outside table as a server brings him a cup of coffee. He looks so damn professional for a man who has finger fucking you just a few minutes ago while on your side, you can’t stop thinking about him, your inner thigh still dripping wet.

You order the breakfast menu with some fancy beacon and eggs with toast that cost way too much for little to no change compared to the ones you make at home.

The lady Miller and his big friend are supposed to watch is not far away from you, she’s really pretty, you actually don’t know who she is but considering her style she might be a model, or an actor…or a singer?

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, you see a number pulling up with a text.

Unknown Number: Still wet baby ?

You: Joel ??? howd u get my number?????

You save his number into your contacts.

Joel: Your dad just gave it to me, in case

You put your phone back on the table and keep writing stuff on your notebook, adding more details to the things you’ve already summed up earlier.

Your phone buzzes again.

Joel:  what you writing ?

You:  Shouldn’t u be watching that girl instead of me ?

Joel: yeah but I’d rather focus on you and ur bare pussy

You: omg shut up and do your work so I can have an A+

After a full day of running around town following that lady no matter where she’d go; Louis Vuitton, Prada, a random grocery store for some Redbull. All this while Joel and the big guy were watching her along with a few paparazzi they had to push away. You? You were standing behind Joel the whole time, trying not to be a menace to his job like this morning. All this time of walking around in no panties with only your shorts for cover, you finally go back to your hotel room, exhausted.

“Fuck it I’m so damn tired” You pant after walking up to your room.

Joel comes from behind, throwing your bag away and grabs you from behind, nestling his nose in your neck.

“You too exhausted to get taken care of angel?” you feel his lips curving into a smile against your skin. “Maybe I have a little energy to play a bit” you smile too.

He spins you around and crashes his lips onto yours, taking your breath away in a second. He starts undoing your shorts, freeing your cunt for good. He immediately slides his hand down to feel the wetness between your legs.

“You’re so damn wet, is it all because a’me baby?” he says, close to your ear.

“You made me wait all day long,” you say, “don’t act so surprised.”

“Stop being such a brat, honey, I’m gonna take good care of you, like no one did before.”

 And you know he doesn’t lie, just this morning in the shower and in the car, he treated you way better than any man did before, not that Miller is so damn special but the boys you were with were mostly unexperienced or scared, now at least he knows where your clit and your G spot is.

You’d never thought you’d do this with a person way older than you but now that you think about it, it should’ve been on your bucket list for a while.

He starts kissing you, again and again, not letting a single air particle get through your mouth as he pushes you until the back of your knees touches the table behind you. He grabs your waist, lift you up and sits you on it.

He quickly parts your legs to make space for him as you start to unbutton his plain white shirt.

“You’re so damn hot in that costume Mr. Miller,” you say as he growls for an answer “too bad we need to take it off.”

His bulge is growing bigger with time, his tip pushing onto the zipper. You’re still amazed by how big it is, even though it hurts sometimes it can be exciting.

He finally unzips his pants and take his boxer away while you take your shirt off in a hurry. His cock is throbbing, touching in between your legs almost like its attracted to you like a magnet.

The horniness is high today, the both of you couldn’t stop looking at each other. Him scanning your body up and down when you walk, devouring you with his eyes.

“I hope you touch yourself thinkin’ ‘bout me after that” and he’s right, you might. Touching yourself surely isn’t as good as Joel touching you, or even fucking with him which you’re going to find out, but maybe thinking of him would make it better.

Excitement is pooling in your core, and it’s about to overflow. Your body is heating up as Joel rub himself against your folds, spreading your fluids all over his shaft. Your hips can’t stop moving back and forth almost begging for him to finally get in, to fill you, possess you.

“Please, Joel, please just fuck me already” you keep begging for him.

A slight laugh comes out of his mouth as he finally pushes in and fuck, he’s so big, bigger than you thought it would be inside of you but it’s just perfect. He stretches you just right, almost like he belonged to you, and you belonged to him like a key belongs to one single door.

He starts pushing in, slowly, but your body decided otherwise and started pushing in even more.

“Hey honey, relax,” he takes back the inches you took from him “I wanna go slow, don’t wanna hurt my girl” The stretch did hurt a little bit but it’s like your pussy needs more.

His hips are going back and forth slowly but it still makes you moan, his thick shaft stimulating your inside just right.

“Just like that, baby.” He wet his lips. Your hand goes down and rubs your clit, following his pace.

“That’s it girl, keep touching yourself like that,” he rasps. His head falls back as he feels you tighten around him. “I love seeing you touch yourself like that baby”.

His hips start to trust faster and deeper, rubbing on your g-spot making you shiver after a few times with your hand stimulating you.

Your nails keep digging into his back, and it hurts him. You know because he keeps frowning. “Fuck baby your nails are sharp as fuck” Getting long black Stiletto nails was a bad idea.

He crashes his lips onto yours as he suddenly lifts you up in his arms, his cock still in you.

“Imma make you pay for those marks” He says as he look in the mirror behind him giving a full view on the mark you imprinted on him.

He throws you onto the bed, making your walls suddenly clench around nothing. You see him grab his tie he left on the bed earlier and brings it around your wrists.

“Oh -- so your form of punishment is to tie me up, huh?” you smile.

“Uh huh” he nods.

He makes a tight knot; you know for sure it’s going to leave marks on your wrists…that’s his way of making you pay for his.

He throws your arms over your head, one of his hands holding you down. Your unable to move, unable to feel his body with your hands, this is the worst punishment you could think of for your first time knowing you probably won’t see each other for a while once you go back home, unless you hide, all this until maybe this goes further and one day you reveal to your dad that you’re fucking his best friend for a while. Damn it, you shouldn’t be thinking about this, right now you should focus on Miller and enjoy the night while it last.

He keeps fucking you deep and rough, your hand still tied up firmly. He pounds into you, changing his pace from time to time until you’re on the edge of cumming, finally.

“Joel please, I’m so close” your brows furrow, your head is spinning with excitement, and it get worse the closer to your climax you get.

“Cum for me baby, I’ll cum after you do” Looks like he put women first, he’s a gentleman.

After more moans, and more trusting, you finally come, your juices spreading all over him.

“Atta’ girl, good job” he praises you, and fuck he’s doing it well. He finally comes too, emptying out on your belly.

“Fuck Joel, I love you”

You didn’t mean to say that – but maybe you do, kind of. Good thing he doesn’t seem to have noticed as he kisses your forehead, gets up and walk to the opened shower. He comes back holding a small towel that he submerged in warm water. “There, baby” he says while cleaning your tummy.

After a whole night fucking with Joel multiple times and discovering more things about your body, and new positions, you finally go back home. Your essay is done and hopefully going through all this will get you an A+.

You’re on your couch with your dad, talking about how your day went while watching TV, obviously skipping the whole fucking your best friend part, when the broadcast is showing pictures of the woman Joel had to cover yesterday.

“Oh, look that’s her !” You say, excited. “That’s the woman we were with yesterday, didn’t talk to her, she seemed nice even though she’s a celebrity and they’re often viewed as self-centered and unaware but she-“

Your dad pauses the TV and looks at you with wide eyes, cutting you off. You look at the image on the wide flat screen and see you and Joel kissing in 4K HD right in front of your dad, furious. Your heart skips a beat, or multiple.

“You got some explaining to do, young girl.”

<3 Hr43s

#pedro pascal fandom #joel miller smut #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal #smut #joel miller #the last of us fic #joel the last of us #joel miller the last of us #joel miller tlou #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller fic #hr43s #security guard #security guard fic #dbf!joel #dbf!fic #joel miller fanfiction #tlou #tlou hbo #the last of us hbo #joel tlou #the last of us #x reader #fem reader #reader insert #female reader

[darkdevasofdestruction]

𝓒𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓮𝓵 𝓝°5 ~ 𝓗𝓾𝓼𝓴𝓮𝓻 𝔁 𝓡𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻

Oh, to be young and in love, in the most romantic era of the notorious 1950s, with one very magical man who never fail to make you swoon with every suave look who offers.

It isn't very often that Husker reminisces his past life - He knows, if he does, he will remember all of the good times, when his heart was gold and trembling with pure emotion - After all, if he recalls the time he was alive, and very much in love, his frozen heart will just shatter to dust once again, with the same infinite anguish he felt once everything was ripped away from his grasp.

A pain so intolerable, that runs so deep - A pain that no amount of alcohol can mend.

He never truly knows whether he wants to remain asleep forever, so that he will never have to face reality again, or if that would be a nightmare, tormenting him for the remaining abyss of eternity...

Or, perhaps he should stay awake, so that memories will stop toppling him over, beginning with a most beautiful reverie, yet always ending with the same night terror he must face every time.

If this is his way of paying for his irredeemable sins, then he is well aware he deserves it, and even more - Yet every smell reminds him of that sweet Chanel N°5 that she used to wear. Every time he closes his eyes, he dreams of the gracious dances he would share with her. Every song he hears, he recalls that angelic voice of hers, and every time he lays abed and stares up at the ceiling, her seraphic visage flashes before him.

"You are drinking again." Angel slumped in one of the stools by the bar, noticing his best friend looking in a far worse state than usual. "Rough day?"

"Rough life." Husk rasped, chugging down a whole bottle of strong spirits.

"Wanna talk about it?" he tried, in vain, to appear sympathetic - The feline demon was far too gone into his own darkness to even think about slurring away his never-ending sorrows.

"I wanna die, that's what I want." he growled, slamming away the bottle into the nearest wall. "Just like this fucking bottle. That's what I fuckin' wanna do - I wanna die, damn it!"

Angel's eyes widened greatly - Yes, life in hell surely was crazy, and especially for demons like the two of them, who sold their souls away because of their own failures, both in life, and now, in hell - But what in the world could it have caused him to get so hopeless that he was unable to fight back the tears glistening in those tortured eyes?

Even someone like him couldn't dare to make light of the situation, or try and crack a joke, let alone taunt or flirt with him. He felt... Pity, for the poor bartender who always listens to others' woes, yet dares naught speak out his own problems.

"Listen... Husk, ergh... I'm not the best at comforting, okay? But... If I can help, you can tell me... And, if not, then... I'll still be here. And maybe try to keep the others away from you. How's that?" Husk didn't quite seem to compute what his friend said, though he robotically nodded his head, as if remote controlled.

Angel remained in that stool for a few hours, watching the winged demon drink bottle after bottle after bottle, yet his sorrows only washed over him tenfold with each shattered glass against a different wall. He wonders what is going through Husk's mind, what he's ruining himself over with each sigh o grip on his fur.

Who would have thought that, of all things possible, Husker's greatest lament was...

"I fucking hate red. Why the fuck are my wings red? Of all the fucking colours in hell, they just had to be red, yeah?" he stammered angrily, pulling at his feathers. "Y'know what? They can't change colour. Tried dyeing 'em, but nothin'. Got so much fuckin' red on me - I wonder if it's Hell's way of punishin' me forever for my fucking sins."

He hates red...? What an odd statement - He truly seems to have a personal vendetta against that colour - But why? It's just a colour, after all, it can do no wrong. "Why... Do you hate red so much...? Angeldust dared to ask.

At first, he was met with a low growl, hostile, yet inoffensive at its core. Then, he heard a most disturbing answer. "That was the colour of my wife's dress when I last went home." Angel's brain shut down completely. To think someone was trusting him with such a vulnerable piece of himself, the very core of their hopelessness, their weakness; In a way, he felt flattered that Husk trusted him so much, yet in another way... He couldn't help but feel borderless pity for his friend. He wishes such a fate to no one... Well, maybe to Valentino.

Angel forced himself to smile softly, placing his hand gingerly over his own, taking away the alcohol from his hand. "What was her name?" Husk looked up with shock, a little startled, right into his dual coloured eyes - He hasn't ever spoken her name out loud, it almost felt like a blasphemy against her purity. Yet... Maybe... "Y/N." he dared whisper.

"Y/N." Angel repeated after him. "A beautiful name for a beautiful lady." Husk nodded his head.

"She was a Princess." he muttered, his sight blurry with tears.

"A Princess? Really? Nobility and all that?" much to his surprise, Husker chuckled.

"Nah, not quite." he rasped. "At heart, she was. Her family was very rich, so she was pampered up. Huge manor, servants, a personal maid, luxury brands, jewellery and perfumes, indulging in any studies and hobbies she liked..."

"How'd you two meet? I don't suppose you were a Prince or something, were you?" Angel tried to joke friendly, encouraging his friend to open up.

"Ha. Far from it." in his hand, a few dices appeared, and he idly played around with them. "I was an ugly dead beat from a working class broken family. Hardly worthy of her attention." he gritted his teeth bitterly. "Got around to finding work at a young age - Gambling, magic, sax player - If I had money to live, anything worked."

"Did you meet at one of your gigs?" Husk nodded his head affirmatively.

"No clue what she saw in me, Angel. She could do so much better." for a split second, he had a dry smirk on his face, before it disappeared again. "I asked her once, what the hell did she see in me - And she said... I played her favourite song. Silly, innit?"

He didn't receive a mocking laugh, much to his surprise - Instead, Angel cooed. He never imagined the jaded demon before him could be so romantic! "What did you play?" Instead of answering, Husk turned around to his bar, and took out another bottle, yet this time, he hummed a familiar tune as he was doing his bartending for two glasses. "Oh, now I get it - You always hum that song when no one's around! I thought you were just bored out of your mind." he let out an amused exhale. "Fly me to the moon... Refined tastes, alright."

"The stars in the sky never sparkles as brightly as those in her eyes when she looked at me." no wonder he never accepted any flirting from anyone - How could anyone match the love he had for Y/N? "If I were a decent man, I'd have told her not to waste her precious time and love on me. Instead, I was a selfish fuck. I stole years of her life... And in the end, I even stole her life. All because I wasn't even half the fucking man I pretended to be."

The conversation soon turned significantly sour. "I was the man - I was supposed to provide for her. Afford all that fucking expensive Chanel N°5, and the Dior dresses, the Chantelle lingerie, and the damn Cartier and Tiffany's jewellery." even someone more modern like Angel knew all those luxury brands, and was even more impressed and shocked that they could so easily afford such high-end items. "I brought her flowers every day and I took her out on brunches every morning, on dates every afternoon, and to soirees every fucking evening. She loved dancing at parties... But I suppose she preferred the moonlight over the chandeliers."

"You must have overworked yourself a bunch to afford all these things. I'm sure she appreciated it." Angel tried to comfort him, earning a nod of agreement.

"She told me she didn't need any gift, except for my presence. Genuine woman, that one. But how could I, in good conscience, go to her parents and ask for her hand in marriage, when I couldn't even afford a half-decent house with a room for each of her hobbies, a drawer for each month outfit, another for her shoes and three more for her bags, jewels and perfumes; and a large flower garden and a fucking rose gazebo and a swan pond with ten different breeds of pedigree dogs." Angel cringed a little, realising the tremendous gap between their living conditions. "I lost myself on the way to greatness. She was making me so euphoric that I just wanted to see her excited every moment of her life. I didn't need to eat or drink, I just needed to see her smile, and I could work again a few more days without rest."

"But then... You collapsed from overworking?" Husker shook his head.

"Worse. I fooled her parents completely, and we planned our wedding." he replied bitterly.

"How is that a bad thing? Isn't the wedding day the happiest day in a couple's life?" Husk sighed, from the deepest part of his soul.

"It was." he said. "I got greedy. I went to loan sharks, took a shit ton of money to make that wedding the most grand event the country saw in a while. Then went on a month-old honey moon around the world." he cursed in a few different languages that Angel couldn't understand, but was sure were some highly offensive and crude words that he would never utter around Y/N. "I don't need to say more, do I?"

Yeah, he needn't continue speaking the descent into madness, alright. Angeldust didn't want to hear that his friend's love story ended up in his soulmate getting murderer by the loan sharks, only for him to end up killing them, and then himself, out of pure rage and sorrow. He didn't want to hear that an innocent woman like Y/N never knew that her husband was broke and took loans, just to try and mimic the lavish lifestyle she grew up with and deserved. He didn't want to hear the broken shriek of anguish, or the streaming river of tears that befell as Husker saw her dead, on the floor, her pearly pink dress dyed a deep crimson from her own blood, and getting even more stained with each strong embrace he held around her shattered body, just like a precious porcelain doll fallen off the shelf.

They only just recently became something akin to 'best friends' from both sides... Yet Angel couldn't bare to hear the tragic end of the story, and he couldn't even begin to imagine the pain he felt, having to live his afterlife as a Sinner, for as long as he has, without the woman he loves by his side.

"It's better this way, I guess. At least she finally got rid of me. Wherever she is, she must be living far better, than with a lying fuck like me who couldn't keep it together." the spider demon frowned, watching his friend slump on the bar counter.

"I don't think that's the case." he spoke vehemently. "I don't believe there is any person, of any kind, treasuring her as much as you did." Husk's ears perked up immediately, twitching lightly. "At least on an emotional way, I'd say, you and Y/N were lucky. There's so many people who never experience the love you had, let alone get to meet and marry their soulmate."

"What the fuck would you know?!" he growled, throwing a bottle at his head, only for the demon to dodge.

"... I wish I had fallen in love too, you know?" Husk gritted his teeth, realising the sensitive wound that he unwillingly stabbed open - But it wasn't his foult - He is hurt! He is in pain! "As a human, as a demon... I was like you, sort of. I was so shit at managing my life, that I ended up falling prey to my vices... I needed more and more, and I couldn't resist. I had no ration or logic. I gave in to my so-called 'friend group' and got addicted to drugs... Couldn't get rid of that addiction even after death... And I clinged on the only demon who could give me what I wanted... And now, I can't escape Val, even if I wanted to turn my life around and live the life that I never could." Angel had a wry smile on his face. "Do you really think a drug addict or the most famous porn star of hell would be able to meet his soulmate, without destroying their life in the process also?"

The two remained silent, only hanging their head and sighing. No matter how happy life can be for some... It will never have a chance of turning around for them. It just couldn't be. They are in hell, after all. Even Charlie won't be able to save them and bring them on the path of redemption, no matter how insanely enthusiastic and cheerful she can be... They were still sure to drown.

Somehow, this few hours of vulnerability brought Husk and Angel closer, and although they won't be speaking about it again, it was clear to the residents of the Hazbin Hotel that the two were as close as two demons can get, without the inclusion of vice or extortion.

Things were going well enough for them, even with the new addition of Sir Pentious, the villain turned... Something? It was still not too bad around the hotel. Though unsure of whatever Charlie's plan was, to fight against the purge from the Angels, they were still there to sort-of support whatever dream the Princess of the Pride Circle has.

That is, until the Hotel opened its doors to a brand new resident, a gorgeous demoness dressed elegantly in a dress of pearly pink, adorned with high quality jewellery, and with her long hair done stylishly, and smelling like a fresh day of Spring. She walked in guided by the Radio Demon, of all people, and she was smiling so demurely, completely unafraid of the fiend next to her, yet still reserved and soft.

"No way, is that Chanel N°5?! How'd you get it in here?!" Angel squealed, fangirling over the flowery perfume - But then, it clicked for him. Didn't Husker mention his wife loving this scent the most?

"Oh, you noticed! I am so happy that there are more sensible people - Erh - Demons with refined tastes!" the girl unfolded her laced fan and giggled behind it demurely.

Although she looked even more regal than even the Princess of Hell herself, as they stood next to each other, there was one particular detail that made the new-comer stand out from any other netizen.

With her hands clasped together over her chest, a bright white gold ring, with a most brilliant zircon was shining brighter than even the moon herself.

Whilst the other demons gathered around the seraphic beauty, wanting to have her attention, and even going as far as to have Alastor speak out about this new lady, Husker's breath stopped completely; His brain was going into overdrive, and his heart, he wanted to rip out of his chest.

That ring... That ring, he knew all to well - After all, he bought it himself, when he proposed to Y/N. That voice, the fashion, the mannerism... Even with altered looks, she looked the same. Even in hell, she looked the same. Even with demonic eyes, she looked the same.

She was the most beautiful woman in the universe.

"Y/N, this is Husker, our bartender." Charlie's face was split open by her overly-cheerful grin. "Husk, won't you introduce yourself to Y/N?"

"I'm not a fucking child. I don't need to introduce myself." the man hissed aggressively. "This is fucking stupid, I'm out." without even realising, he shattered the glass in his grasp, before stomping away into his room.

How could that be? Was this a nightmare? Surely, this must be some impersonator demon or something - There's no way an innocent being like Y/N could possibly have ended up in Hell, with a bunch of Sinners, of all thing. Was this his fault also? Did he bring her down with him to hell? Was he never going to be forgiven for all of the shit he's done in his previous life? Did Alastor bring her to the Hotel, so that he could blackmail him even more? Was his empty soul worth so little, in the end?

He was so afraid - Will Y/N be angry once she realises who he is? He couldn't blame her, obviously, he's earned her scorn... Yet why is his heart hurting so bad? He wishes so badly to jump on her and wrap her in his arms and wrings, and never again let her go. Ah, but he looks like a stupid flying cat... He looks ridiculous. There's no way...

...

Perhaps... She should stay with Al...

He has the influence, the money, the fashion sense, the looks, the freedom and privilege, the elegance...

Alastor has everything, and embodies everything that he could never be.

In life, he was selfish, and he didn't let go of her. Perhaps, the only way to apologise and make up for his sins was to let her be cherished by a man capable of doing what he never could.

As he lay awake on the bed, curled up and cursing his whole existence, wanting to sob until his body was all dried up and shriek until his throat was bleeding raw; he wanted to claw his face to velvety ribbons and drown his lungs with all of his blood... As he was succumbing to his self-hatred and spiraling down into the depths of despair, Y/N decided to end the day with some delicious pastries and an aromatic cup of tea in the garden, with her friend, Alastor.

Y/N was idly playing with her ring, looking at the inscription inside of it. 'Y/N ♡ Husker'. How absolutely adorable, she thought, a beautiful smile gracing her features. "He looks... Different. Are you sure it is the same person, Alastor?" her voice showed nervousness.

"Y/N, Y/N, would I lie to you?" he grinned, as always, sipping from his tea. "You should hear him purr. He truly resembles a little kitten."

Y/N looked up into he friend's eyes, a look of intense surprise and borderline intrigue taking over. "Are you being truthful? He... Purrs?" she gasped, quickly slipping her ring back on her finger.

"Yes, my darling. Unconsciously, someone strokes his fur, he gets so very adorable~." Alastor hums, watching the lady before him being so romantically melancholic over a life long gone. "What did you think about today's meeting?"

Y/N sighed, looking up into the sky. "I feel guilty for enjoying the moment I ripped Velvette apart, yet I feel no remorse for killing her. Such an uncouth and vulgar person has no right to behave with such disrespect towards me." Alastor's grin widened significantly. "And... I cannot wait for the next purge. I want to burn Heaven to cinders. Those hypocrites have grown far too arrogant for their own good, and I believe they need to be taught a harsh lesson."

"I see we are on the same wavelength as always, my dear." the demon sipped from his tea. "I am quite glad those arrogant hypocrites turned you away, for such a silly thing like - Vanity - They say. Beautiful women should be allowed to feel that-a-way, not ostracised for being such jewels for one's eyes." ever the charmer with poison dripping from his tongue. "Before I turn in for the evening, I have a gift for you - For friendship's sake." Y/N rose a suspicious eyebrow, watching as he took out a carefully folded picture from his blazer's pocket, and handing it to her. "I am going for a new fitting with Rosie tomorrow, should you wish to join us for a lovely day of self-care." the girl smiled, nodding her head at him in appreciation. "Have a pleasant evening."

Y/N muttered her pleasantries, and waited for Alastor to leave her sight, before unfolding the picture and bursting to tears. She cradled the precious memory to her heart, and sobbed for as long as her heart needed.

What have they done so wrong to deserve this? They were so happy while alive, so what went wrong? Was her opulent life, the reason for their downfall? Did her beloved think she wouldn't love him, if he couldn't match her family's wealth? Were all soulmates made to be torn apart while at their most blissful?

Still, she was grateful that she wasn't accepted into Heaven, for she would have had a most awful afterlife, as opposed to the many Overlord friends she made since she's been sent to Hell after her gruesome death, and the many favours she received from the Lords and Royals who went to Earth to retrieve items of importance for her.

Drying her tears, Y/N walked back inside the hotel, ready to turn in for the night, only to stop in her tracks as soon as she heard a soft sob, followed by a few very familiar curses in a variety of languages that she knew all too well. Her heart clenched as she stepped cautiously towards the foreign room, eavesdropping for any other sound, only to be met with more muffled cries.

Biting her lip, the demoness knocked on the door, only to be cursed harshly and told to fuck off. Y/N gulped, feeling taken aback by being talked in such a way - Though she immediately composed herself, reminding herself that he, too, is hurting, most likely far more than she is.

She excused herself before opening the door and entering. "What fucking part of 'FUCK OFF' don't you FUCKING UNDERSTA---" Husk was livid, getting in a sitting position as he growled with incredible hostility at the one who dared barge in his bedroom so rudely, only to remain speechless as he realised it was the demoness herself, standing with a sympathetic smile on her face. She also seemed to have been crying prior to this. "Oh. It is you." he cleared his throat, getting back on the bed, unable to face her.

"I have missed you dearly." her voice was so soft, so beautiful, so endearing... "I... Cannot believe that I am seeing you again. It seems to me that, no matter how far apart, our souls will forever traverse oceans of time and space, just to embrace each other once more."

She could hear him sniffling, his nails digging deep into the blanket. "You have always been so romantic and poetic." he grumbled, hiding his face in the pillow. "You shouldn't be here."

"You will have to be more specific, my love." she hummed, moving to sit on the edge of his bed. "Here - In Hell? Or here - In your room? Either way, I would say, I am right where I need to be."

"I don't understand." as if burning with frustration, Husk shot up, looking with self-hatred at the girl. "You did nothing wrong your entire life. You were nothing but a living sunshine. A fucking flower in human form. What the fuck did those angels not agree with, that they cast you to this shit hole?"

"There was a time when you would beat up any man who would curse in my presence." Y/N's adorable giggle made the demon's face flush red. "I am sorry that you are suffering so much, at my expense. I could never repay you for everything you have done for me, while we were alive."

"What the hell are you apologising for anyway? I got you killed, not the other way around - And even if it were that way, it'd've been a blessing in disguise, getting rid of a dead beat worthless fuck like me." he huffed, looking away. "You always were too good for me." the demon had so much to say, so many regrets to yell, so much love to spill... Alas, he remained quiet. "You seemed happy with Al. I wish I could be that, while we were alive." his voice went to soft, it was barely audible. "You should... Stay with him."

"Yes, I am happy being friends with Alastor. He was the one who introduced me to Rosie and Carmilla and Zestial, and I cherish them all dearly, as my like-minded friends." Y/N spoke calmly, reaching her hand to cup her lover's soft cheek. "He also was the one to tell me of your misdemeanours. How you succumbed to your vices; to gambling and alcohol, to the the point that you lost your soul in a deal with him. How pitiful." he was so confused as to where she was trying to get with her words, yet in spite of the anticipation for blames and reproaches, he couldn't help but lean into her warm and gentle touch. "He is the one who helped me become an Overlord, and I took your place. And it is Alastor, and some other friends of mine, who helped retrieve some objects I thought long lost."

"... You still smell like Chanel N°5." his comment made the girl giggle again.

"One of my friends had his little imps go to the human world and rob an entire Chanel store, to bring me all Chanel N°5 perfume bottles." how incredulous, Husk thought, staring at the girl flabbergast, speaking of a clear crime, committed in her name. And then, he started laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of her statement.

"Angel would kill to have a whole room of Chanel N°5." he said, his eyes softening as he put his hand over hers. "Y/N... Knowing that you are doing fine... That you aren't suffering... Or anything that I put you through... It makes me... Content."

"My darling." Y/N called out. "Do you remember the day of our wedding?"

"Of course I do. What's that question?"

With a cheeky grin, she took out the picture from her purse, handing it to her beloved. "Alastor was able to find this. His connections truly are amazing." Husk's eyes were wet with falling tears, and his lips were trembling. "I forgot I had pink roses braided in my hair. I was so busy looking at my handsome husband, that everything around me vanished." Husk's sobbing got even louder. "I wanted to frame this picture first, but I couldn't resist showing it to you first."

"Get out, Y/N! Get out!" his voice was broken and raw, so pained that even her heart shattered. "I am not the man you fell in love with. Why do you think my name is 'Husk'? I am just that - A husk of the man I never was. I am not worth anything. I don't amount to anything. I just gamble money I don't have and drink booze until I pass out. I don't deserve a second chance, and I certainly don't deserve you. I never did. I got you killed, damn it!"

"You think too much, you fool." Y/N cupped his face, bringing him into a gentle kiss - A kiss so loving that it numbed his pain, and hightened his senses, that got his heart pumping again and his lungs screaming for air. "I fell in love with you for good reason, and I intend to remain by your side, loving you." she smiled, wiping his tears with her thumb. "You can try as much as you wish to drive me away, but it will not work. You may succeed in convincing yourself that you are a lesser man, but you cannot do that with me. I know the man before me, and I know I will never leave you."

"Y/N..." the man sniffled, burying his face in her bosom, holding so tightly onto her petite body that he almost feared breaking her.

"There was once a time when you would only call me 'Sweety'." her honeyed giggle sounded so teasing, yet it didn't embarrass him. It served only to make him chuckle.

"There was also a time when I would only call you 'Chanel', if you recall." it almost felt as though they were both alive, and during their honey moon, without a single care in the world, and living a most carefree life.

"That does bring back some very amusing memories." Husk hummed in agreement, feeling melancholic, despite the intense joy surging through his body. Perhaps it was due to the unfamiliarity of this positive feeling, that he felt exhausted, or maybe from his excessive crying and whining. Regardless, he wanted nothing more than to cuddle up in his wife's arms, and never leave this blasted room ever again.

"Can you promise me something?" the man asked. "I am selfish still - Even more so as a demon. I am nothing but filth. I didn't deserve you then, and I deserve you even less now. Still... Now that you're here... I can't let you go again. So..."

Though he found himself eating his words, Y/N only smiled, laying down on the bed and taking him down with her, nestling him comfortably into her loving embrace. "Alastor said you purr like a kitten. I would love to hear that, tonight." she hummed, hearing his annoyed snarl. "And every night going forward, for as long as we may live in this afterlife we have." Husk's body became stiff, frozen with shock. "That is what you wanted me to promise, isn't it? That I will never leave you." he didn't respond. "It is within our wedding vows, silly. There is no way I would walk away, after I have just found my soulmate."

"... Even though I look like... This? And I am irredeemably addicted to gambling and drinking, even more so than before... And I have lost my soul to the Radio Demon? I am stuck doing his bidding for eternity... And..." Y/N only hugged him closer.

"No matter what, in sickness and in death, you and I will still be soulbound." his small body was softly trembling with emotion. "I've got you, my darling. Worry not about anything. I have got you." she remained silent for a little while. "But, Husk..." her voice sounded so distant, so... Melancholic. "Do you... Still like me? The way you did before?"

Startled by her words, Husker jolted up, looking at the pitiful visage of his lover. "What... What do you mean...?"

"My skin is pure white, with no colour, except for my make up. My eyes are black where they should be white, and the worst carmine red, where they should be embodying the aspect of nature. Even my hair looks to be an abnormal colour, and no matter how much I try to dye it, it will not retain its original shade." she gulped, looking away from him. "Any shred of normalcy that I have... Is so tiresome, so much work to keep up, the princessy facade that I used to have, that I used to love... That you used to love..." she sighed softly. "Yet even that completely dissolves as soon as I transform in the monstrous form that I fight so hard to keep veiled from the world."

"Y/N." he caressed her soft face, only to notice small particles of powder latching onto his fur. "I'm a fucking furry mammal with wings. I look like a children's plush toy or somethin'. Meanwhile, you look as doll-like as always, and you're afraid I wouldn't like you anymore? How silly." he sighed, leaning to place a kiss on her forehead. For a few seconds, he stopped to ponder over a rather bold move, and in a split second, he retrieved a wooden box from under his bed. "This is my secret. Nobody has to know about this." he spoke, a rosy tint on his cheeks. "Open it."

Carefully, the girl did as instructed, revealing the content of the box. A bunch of letters were preserved there, all of them neatly placed and handwritten with black ink. "Husk..." Y/N felt the air in her lungs dissipating, as she realised all those letters were recreating the exchange of love words from their time alive. "H-How...?"

"I have all our letters memorised." he chuckled lightly. "I... Needed some way of keeping you close... Of remembering you. I am shit at drawing, but I have a good enough memory... So this was the only way of preserving what we had."

"It's been so long... And yet, you... You still remember... All of it? There must be tens, if not, hundreds of them... How...?" the girl was flabbergast, yet melting completely.

"I read them every night before sleep, when alive, and I read them every night now also." those precious teardrop diamonds caressing her cheeks falling down so gracefully.

𝐼 𝓃𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝓀𝓃𝑒𝓌 𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓅𝒾𝓃𝑒𝓈𝓈; 𝐼 𝒹𝒾𝒹𝓃’𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝓀 𝒹𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓂𝓈 𝒸𝒶𝓂𝑒 𝓉𝓇𝓊𝑒; 𝐼 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹𝓃’𝓉 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝒷𝑒𝓁𝒾𝑒𝓋𝑒 𝒾𝓃 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒, 𝒰𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓁 𝐼 𝒻𝒾𝓃𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝓂𝑒𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊.

His usual raspy voice sounded so romantic as he recited the love poem he wrote to her. A voice that he only reserved for her. A voice that only she would ever know.

𝐸𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎 𝒹𝒶𝓎 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝑔𝒾𝓋𝑒𝓈 𝓂𝑒 𝒶 𝓉𝒽𝓇𝒾𝓁𝓁; 𝒜𝓁𝓁 𝓂𝓎 𝒹𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓂𝓈 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓇𝒾𝒸𝒽𝓁𝓎 𝒻𝓊𝓁𝒻𝒾𝓁𝓁. 𝐼'𝓂 𝒶 𝒻𝑜𝑜𝓁 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓇𝓂𝓈; 𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝒷𝑒𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑔 𝒾𝓃 𝓂𝓎 𝒶𝓇𝓂𝓈; 𝐿𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓂𝑒; 𝓅𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓈𝑒 𝓈𝒶𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁.

A love so pure and true, bottomless and without boundaries; Husker himself forgot just how endless his emotions could run. He thought himself jaded and cold, having lost his own heart, the second he lost her... Yet now... Perhaps it wasn't as bad as he first thought. Perhaps... Even someone like himself deserves some kind of redemption.

𝐻𝑜𝓁𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒽𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓂𝓈 𝓂𝓎 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝒾𝓉𝓈 𝒸𝑜𝓇𝑒. 𝐼𝓉’𝓈 𝒽𝒶𝓇𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝒾𝓂𝒶𝑔𝒾𝓃𝑒 𝐻𝑜𝓌 𝐼 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓂𝑜𝓇𝑒.

Without her, he wasn't whole. Without her, he is not himself. Without her, he is empty. Without her, his whole life falls apart. Without her, he is nothing but a worthless deadbeat.

𝒥𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝓁𝑜𝑜𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒢𝒾𝓋𝑒𝓈 𝓂𝑒 𝒶 𝓉𝒽𝓇𝒾𝓁𝓁. 𝐼 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓃𝑜𝓌, 𝒜𝓃𝒹 𝐼 𝒶𝓁𝓌𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁.

But now, he is not alone anymore - Well, perhaps he never was to begin with, considering he still had Angel and Charlie, to some extent, yet nothing can compare to sweet Y/N's existence by his side. Nothing can heal his aching soul, or revert the damage he did to himself throughout life and afterlife, the way her love for him did.

♡ ~𝓘 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮 𝔂𝓸𝓾, 𝓶𝔂 𝓼𝔀𝓮𝓮𝓽 𝓟𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓬𝓮𝓼𝓼~♡

#hazbin hotel #hazbin angel dust #hazbin alastor #hazbin charlie #hazbin hotel husk #hazbin husk #husker #hazbin husker #husker x reader #husker imagine #hazbin hotel husk x reader #hazbin hotel husker imagine #charlotte morningstar #hazbin vaggie #Hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel imagine

[chronically-ghosted]

go west, to the southern plains, go west to breathe (lover, share your road - part i) series masterlist | AO3 Link | prologue | part ii

chapter rating: T

word count: ~21K

chapter summary: at the end of the line, you make a business proposition to Joel Miller. He brings you and Ellie home to the last sanctuary left in this world in exchange for your skills. What you find there and what you find out about Joel Miller is not what you expect.

chapter warnings/tags: depictions of going hungry and poverty, sexual harassment, period accurate sexism, depictions of a sick child, reader depicted as skinny but due to lack of food not her natural body type (and this will change), allusions to domestic abuse, hurt/comfort, pining, the beginnings of a praise kink, let the idiots in love begin

a/n: shout out to the ever incredible @jennaispun for beta-ing the prologue and this first part!

“After a long walk in hell, I found you. You made hell feel like home, you made the flames feel warm. It’s true, you haven’t saved me but you were the closest thing to heaven.” — Maram Rimawi

part i:

Beneath the soot-gray fingertips of your gloves, the dust of the high plains sits coarse and heavy on the tattered, yellowing strip of paper. You hold it down flat as a brutish wind snakes up the empty dirt road through the center of Dalhart, grabbing hold of the brown dust that clings to everything — and tugs. Underneath your pale blue dress, with the hemline torn and the collar in need of stitching, your heart pounds as you read the small, almost guilty, advert:

Help wanted. Can pay.

Contact Joel Miller.

The promise of actual money should have had every able-bodied American scrambling to answer the advert, but by its place near the bottom of the announcement board outside of the country store, buried beneath slashed prices for milk and eggs and headlines out of Washington – it seems certain to be relegated into obscurity. 

For all you know, this could be months, even years, old. Miller, whoever he was, could be long dead, or gone with the rest of the exodus to California. Or he could have gone the way of your “Uncle” Robert – a huckster, discovered too late; one of many who prey upon the desperation that sticks to the country like the acrid smell of smoke. Your hand shakes as you pluck the yellow card from the wooden plank. There is no contact number, no address. Another trick? Dust stings the corners of your eyes when you pinch them close, your breathing quickening, your pulse sharp in the sleeve of your ratty glove. 

Oh, God, what are you going to do? What if this is nothing, just like Robert’s promise? What if there’s nothing here for you? What if –

A small hand on your forearm centers your spiraling thoughts. From beneath a faded blue baseball cap, two brown eyes peer up at you, firm and reassuring. 

“You okay?” She keeps her voice low, just like you asked.

“Yeah, El–Ellie, I’m fine.” You squeeze her too-thin hand, your stomach toiling with guilt and its own emptiness. “Just figuring out what to do next.” 

“Is finding and murdering this asshole Robert still off the table?”

You frown, your niece’s quick temper more from your dead sister than you. “It is. Now, I’m going inside to ask about this advert. Maybe this Miller still has a job or two open.”

Ellie’s eyes fall to the slip of paper in your hand, her aggressive scowl tightening into something that too closely resembles fear. She knows what’s at stake just as much as you do and you hate that that knowledge ages her youthful face. 

“You stay close and don’t let anyone get a good look at you, okay?” 

Ellie nods, already familiar with the routine, and scoops up your luggage case, her tattered satchel hanging off her other shoulder. She had been wearing pants long before reaching Dalhart, but it soothed you to think the eyes of cruel men passed right over her, their interest rarely in young boys. 

A bell above the door tinkles when you open it, but by the dull, muted sound, it most likely has a few dents. Behind you, the afternoon heat follows you in, the sunlight illuminating the floating dust mites in the air. The door whines as it closes, brightening the inside of the store, where the mites settle back into the silver layer that sits over cans of tomatoes and peaches, linens, boxes of gum and cigarettes. Nearly everything sits untouched and unmoved, old dust settling between cracks and grooves, patrons not having enough money to buy something and the owner not having enough to change out stock. Struck still, frozen in a single, long exhale. The slow, creaking death of the economic system has reached Dalhart too. You shudder, suddenly cold as if in a mausoleum. 

The further away from Boston the train took you, the further back in time you felt. Here, you are reminded of the old general stores of cowboys and pioneers. But maybe, that is exactly where you are: out of time.

A man in long white sleeves, coiffed hair, and perfectly round glasses, looks up from the wilted newspaper spread out over the counter. 

“Can I help you?” His accent hails from the east, North Carolina most likely. However, his manners are not reflective of that famous southern hospitality. He looks at you like you’re a bad dream and it unsteadies you.

“Y-yes. I, uh, I’m hoping that you know a-a Miller. Joel Miller? I have his advert and I’m, um, I’m looking for work.” 

The man’s thin eyebrow jumps mockingly. Aren’t we all, sister? But eventually, he shakes his head.

“Look, I don’t know what you’re doing all the way out here, but this ain’t no place for a young lady out on her own, job or no job. Where’s your husband?”

“Dead.” Your voice doesn’t waver, but then again, why would it? 

The clerk’s eyes soften, if only slightly. “I see. But I’m sorry to say, there is no job here for you.”

Your mouth instantly dries out. “What do you mean? Where’s Mr. Miller?”

“He’s a mean ol’ sunuvbitch, livin' God knows where. Comes in twice a month for supplies and he’s back out into the prairie.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t see why that’s a problem –,”

“He ain’t fit for civilized life, ma’am.” The clerk drops his nose, eying you seriously over the rim of his black glasses. “Whatever he’s offering, you don’t want no part of it.” 

“I think we’ll be the judges of that.” Beside you, Ellie drops your suitcase and it loudly clatters to the ground. “Thanks for the tip though.” 

The clerk’s eyes widen – this is terrible behavior even for a boy – his mouth unfurling to give a nasty tongue-lashing, when you interject, your voice thick with pleading.

“I would just like to meet the man. Please, sir.” The clerk, like most men without scruples, can barely resist the sound of a woman begging. Those uncanny blue eyes find you again. “Has he come in recently?”

You can feel Ellie’s wicked sneer behind you, the clerk’s gaze switching between the unlikely pair in his shop. Finally, he shrugs. Who gives a fuck if one more woman goes missing?

“He’s due for a resupply.”

“How soon?” Your palm sweats under your gloves.

He narrows his eyes, evidently annoyed that a woman would reject his warnings. “Soon. We have a parlor in the back if you’d like to wait for him. But you have to buy something,” he adds vehemently. 

You nod, unsteady on shaking knees as you walk towards the door in the back of the store. 

“Thank you, sir. You have been so kind. We very much appreciate it.” 

Any chance that the clerk finds you sincere is lost when Ellie wraps her knuckles on the counter as she passes.

“Buh-bye, dude.” 

The parlor is small, dark, damp, and smells faintly of kerosene and leather. A woman, most likely the wife of the clerk you just annoyed, glares from behind a counter as you and Ellie walk in. 

“Lunch.” Not a question.

Ellie looks up at you, eyes wide, fearful. You hadn’t let her see what is left in your purse, but she knows it’s low.

With your stomach in knots, you wouldn’t be able to eat anyway. You pluck out a dollar, bringing your total down to three dollars, and giving it to your niece.

“Order whatever you want.”

The beating heart of the blazing Texas sun edges downward across the open sky, falling, until it drops completely behind the harrowingly flat horizon. Purple erupts in its wake, the last pump of blood of a dying muscle, and nearly instantly, the temperature drops. You watch the explosive coronary of the sky from a table at the back of the parlor, your own pulse doubling the later it gets. You squeeze your hand between your thighs to keep your fingers from drumming uneasily on the table. But for once, Ellie doesn’t pick up on your nerves. 

A dollar went farther out here and, as a result, Ellie is allowed her first big meal in months. Twice now, she’s nearly forgone the silverware to shove food directly into her mouth with her fingers, had it not been for your glares to remind her to slow down.

“This is slow,” she grumbles as she licks her bowl of mashed potatoes clean. Of course, half of what she ordered sits waiting for you, but you know she needs this meal more than you do – even if your rumbling stomach disagrees. You’d already had lunch at the train station; one more missed meal won’t kill you and less for you means more for Ellie.

Suddenly becoming a parent to a very opinionated fourteen-year-old girl was not something you had anticipated, and most times you figured you were doing it all wrong. The least you could do is give her everything you could.

“You think he’ll show?” 

You tear your eyes away from the parlor door, blinking back into your body out of your cloud of thoughts. Ellie’s little hands grip the bowl, a white smear sitting on her bottom lip, her eyes dark as they watch you. 

You grin as her pink tongue swipes up to lick her mouth clean. How easy you forget she’s only fourteen, with her loud mouth and provoking eyes. “Eat your food, Ellie.” 

The words have barely left your mouth when the door to the parlor bursts open. Two men, clearly drunk and smelling of it, stumble in. This is the part where you wish you too could believably dress up like a man. Your pulse thrums in your neck like a heightened prey animal. 

One pushes the other’s shoulder, smirking, and grunting something. His friend, also in a cowboy hat but half his size, nods and makes an unsteady line for one of the tables, while the other does his best to get to the bar. 

The man at the table has light green eyes, overly thick eyebrows, and a flat mouth, loose with drink. He flops into a wooden chair and you watch as the Texas Rangers badge on his chest flashes in the firelight behind him. Your stomach tightens. 

He stretches out, feet crossed over his ankles, limp hands crossed over his denim jacket, hollering at his friend and the woman working, who looks equally displeased to see them as she did you and Ellie. 

Smirking, his eyes slide from the wooden bar top, over the back wall, and right onto you.

You watch as his gaze blurs for a moment, a film of beastial hunger smothering the color of his eyes. You can feel your pulse in your ankles now.

“Well, now, what do we have here?” The lilt in his voice calls out two unspoken words: fresh meat. Distressingly steady, he climbs to his feet, his hat tilted obnoxiously on his forehead. “Where did you come from, you pretty little thing?” 

He saunters over, his thumbs stuck in his belt, the gun at his side snug in its holster. The grin on his face is hideous. You’d smack it off if you weren’t suddenly overcome by a debilitating fear. A look like that on a man is never, ever a good thing.

“Whatcha got there, Lee?” his buddy calls out from the bar, beard drenched in beer foam. 

“I dunno quite yet, Knapp,” he says over his shoulder, his livid green eyes never leaving your face. He nearly folds in half to press his spider-like hands on the surface of your table, coming inches from your face. His breath smells like corn whiskey and cheap tobacco. “Guess I’ll have to find out. What’s your name, pretty thing?” 

“Or she could not tell you her name and instead, you could fuck off.” Ellie’s scowl wrenches her mouth open, her knuckles white around her spoon. There’s a part of you that fully acknowledges and accepts that if given the signal, she’d scoop the fucker’s eyes out with the silverware right here. “We’re eating here, or are you too busy smelling like a fucking whiskey barrel to notice?”

As with most adults when Ellie decides to show her teeth, Lee stares stunned before the self-righteous anger sets in. Your heart stops for a moment when you think he’s going for his holster, but instead, he uses the flat of his hand to swat her hat off her head.

“Shut up, you little fucker, where’d you learn your fucking ma–,”

Ellie’s long hair tumbles down her shoulders, the baseball cap on the floor behind her. 

Lee is stunned into silence once again. The parlor goes deathly silent.

It’s Knapp who sets off the explosive spark again. “Holy fuck, you’re a little girl.”

Ellie snatches up her hat, cheeks flaming red, but Lee’s hand grabs her wrist. 

“A kinda cute one at that,” Lee sneers. He twists her arm and she yelps. Knapp at the bar laughs, his paunch shaking as beer sloshes over the side of his glass. The woman is cleaning something with a rag, turned away from the scene, her shoulders hunched to her ears. You’re on your feet, your hand on her purse. “What are you thinking, hm? Dressing this sweet little girl up like a boy?”

The trigger clicks and Lee and everyone else in the parlor freezes. The edge of your lash line is wet, fear rolling through you like fog on the bay. Your hand is steady, miraculously, but your voice isn’t.

“L-l-let–,” your voice cracks and you try again. You only have one gun drawn on Lee and you pray to whatever god is listening that Knapp doesn’t remember his. “Let her go.” 

This small pistol is your last line of defense against those who would take everything from you. You couldn’t keep your sister safe, your husband didn’t want to be saved, but you’d die before you’d let anyone come within an inch of Ellie. You pawned off your wedding ring long before you ever considered selling this weight in your hand. You couldn’t physically win a fight but you’d be damned if you weren’t going to take someone out with you.

There’s more than one reason you never let Ellie look into your purse. You won’t make eye contact with her now.

Lee’s eyes harden into black flints in his head. “Yeah? You’re shaking like a leaf. You ain’t gonna do shit about it.”

He twists harder, forcing Ellie to her knees, his mouth smearing into a sickening sneer, Ellie’s cries loud – “get off me, you fucker!”

All you have to do is miss. Once. 

Your arm shifts right and you fire. You meant to hit the floor, but instead the leg of a chair at a nearby table shatters, wood and smoke sparking into the air. Lee and Ellie jump, their struggle broken, but Ellie’s quicker, smarter. Hunched to avoid debris, they are nearly eye to eye and Ellie doesn’t hesitate; she jerks her head back and then launches her forehead forward – square into his flat nose.

The crunch is sickening and it turns your already empty stomach. Lee shrieks, releasing Ellie, his hands flying to his misshapen nose to staunch the river of blood pouring from his nostrils. 

“You bitch!” he whines, voice wet and gummy as blood trickles down his throat, eyes watering. You hear a roar of anger as Knapp stands, no longer finding any of this funny.

“Get behind me, Ellie.” You snap, eyes on Knapp as he lumbers forward. She hesitates, looking like she’d like nothing more than to kick Lee up the balls, but obeys the closer Knapp comes. She slots behind you, eyes sharp on the squealing man on the floor. 

“She broke my fucking nose, man,” he cries, face already purpling. 

“Yeah, and don’t you forget it, you fucker!” She snarls over your shoulder. One hand holds your elbow, and the other brandishes her mother’s knife that had been at the bottom of her satchel seconds ago. Fuck. 

Ellie Williams is not, and never has been, nor will be, one to deescalate a situation. Knapp responds in kind. His drunk fingers fumble with his holster, his face contorted with rage.

“Shootin’ at an officer of the law – you’re gonna hang for this, you thieving little c–,”

“Knapp.”

A fifth voice – low, deep, a mammalian bark that grinds the chaos of the room to a halt. The large man stalls, his engine snagged by the rough grain of that voice. On the floor, Lee lets out one quiet whimper as he cracks open a pulsating black eye.

In the glow of the firelight, you watch as beads of sweat swell on Knapp’s big forehead beneath his wide-brimmed hat. His wide eyes flash between you and the man who just walked in.

“M-Miller, the fuck you want?” 

Your heart seizes in your chest. Miller. 

Joel Miller. 

You never thought your saving grace would come in the shape of a hulking, dark-eyed man. 

A well-worn handkerchief around his neck, crusted over with dust, his broad shoulders stretch a denim work shirt, the unbuttoned collar loose and just as dirty. Worked-over hands, dry and brown as the earth, curl into fists at his side. Tight jaw, flared nose, eyes black, his presence expands in the cramped room, a leviathan cresting dark waves to command the roaring void. 

“Back off, both of you.” 

Knapp sneers, desperately tugging at some misguided sense of bravery, with sweat running hot and fast and smelly down the sides of his rubbery face. “Y-yeah, or what?” 

“You fuckin’ know what.”

Knapp visibly swallows and lowers his pistol, hands trembling. Lee whines from the floor, his eyes open as wide as the swelling will allow, abject terror on his face as he stares up at Miller. Neither of them move.

A guard dog satisfied by the corralled sheep, Joel’s heavy gaze roves from the two men, across the room, to you.

His expression doesn’t change. 

The weight shifts across the stiff planes of his shoulders, and he turns, leaving as quickly as he appeared. Beneath his thick boots, the wooden floor creaks and it rouses you. Your mouth is so dry you can feel the skin of your lips split apart. 

“Mr. Miller, w-wait.”

He doesn’t. 

With a single glance to the men still frozen in terror, you follow him through the now-dark and empty store. The cold desert air cracks hard against your overheated cheeks when you burst through the door, into the black night. The moonlight illuminates the threads of silver hair in his beard that the dark parlor hid. His fingers work slowly, unhurriedly, as he tightens the leather buckle beneath the wide girth of his off-white horse. It lifts its head as you stumble out onto the dusty road, its round eyes watching you with more interest than its rider. White ears twitch forward, a snort from the long snout, and Joel rubs the soft place between two giant nostrils without looking up. 

“J-Joel – Mr. Miller, please, I need your help.” 

“Already got it.” His shoulders flex and roll as he loads up another loose sack onto the rump of the horse, then tightens the securing belt. It snorts again and shifts on its hooves, its long tail flicking back and forth. 

You shake your head, swallowing the hot rush of embarrassment. The wind licks at your ankles and you fight back a shiver, bringing a hand to your shoulder to warm the goosebumps. “No, sorry, I mean – I’m here to help you. I saw your advertisement and I was wondering if the position was still open.”

The buckle quiets. The dirt at his feet crunches as he faces you. 

There are no trees in Dalhart, Texas. There are barely any clouds, no coverage. Overhead, the few buildings not yet folded up in the wake of the financial collapse throw shadows over his angular face, but you can still feel the trace of his gaze over you. A curious search, the investigation of scent. 

Then he shakes his head.

“No.” 

Your entire chest tightens. “Has the position been filled?”

“No.”

“Then why–,”

“I don’t need you.” He lifts up the third and final sack and you feel your hope being carried away with it. “Need a farm hand. You’re not the type.”

“N-n-no, I’ve worked on a farm. I-I’ve only planted seeds but I’m a quick learner and I–,”

“No.” 

“Sir – please, I’ll do anything–,”

“Then go home.” He unties the reins from the wooden post and clicks to the horse. Its big eyes watch you as he turns them for the road. “There’s nothing here for you.” 

You absolutely will not cry in front of this gruff stranger. Panic icing down your spine, you follow him on weak knees. In the wake leftover from the wheat boom, Dalhart is quiet as soon as the sun goes down. Empty of people, of light, of any sort of guiding hand, you try to appeal to the last human you’ve found at the end of the world.

“Mr. Miller, there must be something you need. I’m a hard worker, smart, you won’t have to train me at all. Please. I’ve been a housekeeper, a seamstress – a nurse. I —,”

The horse huffs when Joel pulls tight on the reins. 

In the moonlight, all of his hair looks gray. Your heart plunges in your throat. You can feel your stomach trying to digest your spine.

“Done any work with kids?” He asks, after a moment. 

His brisk question is not what you expected. You can barely hear him over the pounding in your heart. 

“Y-yes. I’ve treated children before. A-and I was a teacher, briefly. I’m very good with children, actually.”

The scarred hand at his side tightens, flexes open and closed, the tips of his thumb and forefinger twitching over the other. Over his shoulder, you think his head tilts a centimeter towards you.

“You know what? Fuck this.” 

Out of the shadows of the county store, Ellie tears down the steps, her face pink and her hair stuffed back up her ball cap. She loops her small hands around your forearm and tugs, her eyes like chips of bark, glaring hatefully at the man in the middle of the street. Faint dust churns beneath her faded sneakers. 

“She’s fucking begging you and you don’t give a fuck, you old shithead!” She tugs again. In the flash of the moonlight, a glassy film has settled over her eyes. “C’mon, we don’t need him. We – don’t need – him.” 

“Ellie, please!” You grab her by the shoulders, a soft hand in a swirling tempest, and she settles, her mouth twisted up in anger and embarrassment. She hates that you have to beg anyone. “Please.” Shielding her from him, you squeeze her shoulders. “I know, Ellie. I know. But I have to keep you safe.”

Ellie finally turns that hot glare at you, eyes damp. Petulant when terrified, your sister was the exact same way. 

Fuck, Anna, it should have been me.

“She yours?”

Joel rests his weight on his left knee, fingers loose around the reins. He’s lowered the mask around his mouth. You snap your head up, your voice thankfully steady. “She’s my niece. She . . . I’m responsible for her.” 

Below your palms, Ellie stiffens. 

Fifteen feet from you, Joel nods, the muscle in his jaw tight. The horse huffs and he glares at it like it just yelled at him too.  

“I’m not in the habit of pickin’ up strays,” he says as if that means a lot. 

Hope springs in your chest and it snags the air in your lungs. “We’re not. I-I mean, we’ll work hard. Please, give us just one chance.”

“And you expect me to take on the both of you.” It isn’t a question, but his eyebrow arcs all the same. “That’s two mouths I gotta feed, ‘steada one.” 

“She can have mine.” In the silence, you think you can hear the faint choir of crickets. You remember the tarantulas and centipedes that lived inside the walls of your husband’s prairie dugout, and your stomach twists. “Ellie can have whatever you give us.” 

She makes a brief cry of protest, but you squeeze her shoulders. The sharp flair of his nostrils smooths and the corners of his eyes pinches, tilting his eyebrows up. He’s still glowering, but somehow, his expression has suddenly opened, just a crack. 

And then he nods. 

“Stay here a night. I’ll be back in the morning with the wagon.” 

And that’s it. You have a job. 

You’re so elated it takes a minute for his words to sink in. He turns back down the road, the horse's hooves clipping on the dry ground. You follow after him, hand outstretched.

“Oh, no, w-we can walk, it’s no trouble. Let me just get our things and–,”

“Too far to walk. And there’s things out in the dark more dangerous than those fuckin’ rangers.” He nods to the country store, eerily quiet. It sits, ugly, like a brown old frog. “There’s a hotel just up the road. It’s not much, but it’ll do for one night.”

“But, sir, we really can’t stay. I don’t – there’s no –,”

You stumble to a stop when those merciless dark eyes root you to the ground. The leather reins squeak when he tightens his fist around them. Again, you are under the impression of a dog sniffing out your scent for any deception, any treason. He takes you in, all of you in – your ratty gloves, your torn hemline, your tattered collar – and by some miracle, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, the groove above his nose softens. 

Wordlessly, he reaches into his back pocket and takes out five dollars from a brown leather wallet. He offers it to you between two fingers. 

Take it, his eyes command. 

You do, with a shaking hand. You hate charity, you hate that you’re at his mercy –

But Ellie has a bed for the night. Inside, warm. Where, hours ago, she didn’t. You smother your pride and nod, gaze at the scar on his cheek that you only now notice at an arm’s length away. 

“One night,” he says. “For you and the kid.”

You nod again because that’s all you really can do, his pity clutched in your fist and held against your heart. 

Ellie scowls as he swings up onto the horse and readjusts his mask. 

“What a guy,” she murmurs to you, her eyes still narrowed. Joel clicks his teeth, and the horse trots off into the dark, a lone man riding out into the featureless night.

Evidently still feeling slighted, Ellie sticks her tongue out at the denim back.

“Better keep that tongue in your mouth, kid,” he hollers before digging his heels into the horse’s flanks. “Liable to be chopped off like a copperhead.”

Ellie’s mouth snaps shut.

The money Joel gave you is more than enough to cover a room and another plate of food. You even spurge your own money on some small candy for Ellie, determined to give Joel back every cent left over and then some, once you’ve proven you can earn your keep.

For you and the kid.

You shake your head, lost in your own thoughts, the gnawing hunger in your belly satiated, as you pull back the covers to the twin bed. The metal frame squeaks as you climb in, your night dress thin and ragged as the rest of your clothes. 

“C’mon, Ellie, time for bed.” When she doesn’t move, you stop rearranging the pillows and look at her. In her own white nightie (because she’d outgrown all her other pajamas), she sits in front of the roaring fire, her chin on her knees, and her arms wrapped around her shins. 

She’s quiet - either a good sign, or a terrible one. 

“Ellie, sweetie, we’ve gotta get some sleep. It’s gonna be a long day tomorrow.” 

You watch as her narrow back expands and falls in one slow breath, her skin bright in the firelight.

She nods mutely and climbs into the space beside you. She rolls onto her side, away from you, her hands tucked up under her head, her knees curled up beneath her. 

This is where Anna would know what to say. How to soothe this girl with so much awareness in a world that is raw to even those willfully ignorant. You can’t bullshit Ellie the way you can some kids. She knows too much. Seen too much. 

You settle down next to her in the shadow of her shoulder. Your fingers hover, locked between the yawning gap of touching her and not touching her, when she finally speaks.

“Is this really going to work?” Her voice is quiet, soft, dust-covered and buried. “Is Joel really gonna . . . are we safe?”

You cannot bullshit Ellie Williams.

“I don’t know. I’d like to think so. I know you don’t like him, but I think we can trust him.”

She’s quiet again, only this time because there’s something she doesn’t want to say. 

“Not like Uncle Robert – or Robert, if that’s even his real name. I’d never met the man in person, but I wanted – so badly – to believe . . .” You swallow, your own shame boiling your skin. “I think we’re safe with Joel Miller.”

The god’s honest truth. 

She hears it in your voice.

Ellie tips back to look you in the eyes. She’s lost so much weight recently. “Yeah?”

You tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear, the ghost of your thumb across her cheek. She allows the show of affection. “Yeah, El. I do.” 

You want to say: you can trust me. I’ll always take care of you.

But you know it would only come out hollow.

Neither of you would think it was honest. 

She pulls away from your grasp, her eyes almost golden in the firelight. She nods and stares at the burning wood. 

“Okay.”

“So . . . is your car, like, broken or something?”

You elbow Ellie and she sits up from hanging over the edge of the wagon. She frowns at you – what? – and you both glance at Joel at the front of the wagon. If the question annoys him any more than he perpetually already is, he doesn’t show it. 

“Don’t have one.” He says to the back of the horse. The wagon rocks and sways over the clods of dust and stone in the road. “Never did.”

“Uh, why?”

“Cars break down in the dust storms. Short out. They end up being more trouble than they’re worth.” 

Again, that half-centimeter turn, his tone implying what his eyes can’t, faced away from you. Ellie narrows her eyes at the back of his head. She wrenches her mouth open, fire in her eyes, but she catches you glaring, and her mouth snaps shut. Pouting, she chucks a lone pebble off the back of the wagon. 

The sky is strikingly blue, bright as a livewire, the air warm and crackling with the early summer heat. Away from Dalhart, away from the collection of dust on every surface, dripping through every crack, you find the clarity and distance of the southern plains to be . . . unexpected. So careless and abrasive one minute, but then, in moments like these, it became hard to believe that nature could ever be so cruel as to make the earth rise up and swallow it all whole. 

You swing your legs off the wooden edge, the sunshine warm on your knees. It’s no use trying to hide how badly your socks need darning, so you lean back and stretch your legs as far as you can, your face tilted towards the sky, the still air peaceful. This morning, you’d put on your yellow plaid dress, torn cotton lace around the sleeves that stop at your elbows. You tucked your hair up and pinned your straw hat to your head. It was a reflex, to present your most beautiful self to a man, even one you barely knew. By the way Ellie had rolled her eyes, she felt no such compulsion. 

Demure, your mother always told you, you’re not very pretty, you’re not very bright, the least you can be is demure. 

The wagon shudders, clicks, over the empty road and you open your eyes. Ellie is turned away from you, eyes out to the fields on either side of you. You don’t understand what she’s looking at, until you realize that’s exactly it: there is nothing to look at. On the other side of those loopy barbed-wire fences through cock-eyed posts, there are miles and miles of nothing but churned-over dirt. A lazy wind spins over a patch of emptiness, tossing clods and sand into the air, an aimless sadness as tangible as the dust itself. Phone lines stand, corroded and chipped, along the side of the road like tangible manifestations of a deadly infection. 

“There’s no crops here either.” Ellie says, voicing loudly what you only thought. You can’t see her face but she sounds as stunned as you are. “What happened?”

You watch over her shoulder, eyes level with the earth bleached of all material, all life. With the drought, your husband’s field shriveled up in months, the cracked ground peeling away from the sodhouse in some places. You still have nightmares about waking up with grit between your teeth, choking and coughing up bloody chunks of mud.

This is desolation on an epidemic scale. 

“Ask different people ‘n they’ll tell you different things.” Joel says in his slow drawl, the crackle of the earth soft beneath the wooden wheels. “No one really knows. But nothing like this happened when the buffalo grass was here, ‘steada wheat.”

“Wait, you were here before Dalhart?” Ellie twists on the wagon, leaning over the lip where Joel sits and drives the horse. 

“My family was. Here before anything. My grandpa befriended the Comanche Indians and –,”

“You got to hang out with Indians?” Ellie nearly hurls herself over the edge of the wagon to try and look him in the eye. “What are they like – did they teach you how to shoot a bow and arrow – can they really ride horses like that –,”

“Ellie!” You want to grab her by her collar and yank her back into the wagon. “Not so many questions.”

The noise Joel makes is somewhere between a grunt and the word no.

“It’s fine –, “ he looks down at Ellie, still curled around the back of the seat, her eyes wide with a giant smile on her face. His ever present scowl doesn’t seem any deeper, nor does it deter her. Joel turns away again and in the sunlight, his hair is gooey, caramel brown. You stare at the dirt road while listening, the back of your neck hot. “They’re good people. Didn’t deserve what happened to them – to any of ‘em. But they taught my grandpa and grandma how to take just what they need, nothing more. But then everybody needed grain, offered money for cheap, easy labor. They poured in here, into the prairie, and in years, it became this. Folks blame the drought, but it’s more’n that.”

Ellie’s inordinately quiet. She knows exactly what your husband did to you, to your family, and now, maybe to the entire land. 

“‘Next year’ people, they claim,” Joel continues, his voice deepening with anger, “‘next year’, things’ll be better. ‘Next year’ the rains’ll come. ‘Next year’ the wheat’ll return.” He shakes his head, boots creaking against the toeboard. “Anyone who thinks that is lyin’ to themselves. Anyone’s who’s been here, seen what’s here, for us it’s been –,”

“The end of the world.” 

The silence that follows your words stretches long, an anchor dropped off the end of the wagon and rattling around the wheels. You swing your legs, fingers curling around a tear in your hemline. It wasn’t the first time you’d heard those words to describe the state of things. That’s what your husband called it and you believed him. 

Evidently, Joel agrees. His wide shoulders taught, the denim blue faded beneath the boundless sky, he nods.

“Griiim,” Ellie mutters as she curls up and drops her chin on her knees. 

You’ve been watching a single cloud chase the sun from the floor of the wagon when Ellie, silent for all of about fifteen minutes, lifts her head from her hands draped over the edge. Her eyes go wide, her ears pink from the sun, and says:

“Whoa.”

The horse huffs as you sit up, a soft wind snagging the loose hairs on the back of your neck, and your mouth drops. 

Grass. 

Fields of it. 

The air is fresh, warm, and filled with the scent of living, breathing earth. Tipped with lush purple seeds shaped like paintbrushes, a sea of stalks bend and ripple in the cooling breeze, undulating like waves on solid ground. The wind is soft here, teasing, rolling through the tall grass, carrying the scent of growth and green in the air. You’re suddenly aware of how dry your mouth is, cracked and padded with dust. 

“We left it be.” Joel offers simply, voice too gruff to surely be filled with pride. “It’s endured and survived, and so have we.”

Further back, you can see where the line of his property ends – a harsh division of paradise and purgatory – and marked to the north by a dip in the ground and even over the crunch of the wheels over the ground, you hear it: water. 

A river. An oasis in a wasteland. 

Ahead of the white tufts of hair on the horse, the road curves, disappearing into the sea of grass, but letting your graze drift up, you see an a-frame home, white like a lighthouse at the edge of a storm. The instant the home comes into view, Joel clicks his tongue, urging the horse faster – eager. 

He leads the horse up through the road, through the grass, and on the other side, by the river, two cows chew up the green, oblivious. Beyond them, tucked behind the house is a barn. Low to the ground but wide, hunched like a fighter with a heavy center of gravity, it looks ready to endure and survive. As this entire secret world had. 

Joel tugs the horse to a stop, the wagon rattles as it slows, by the wide porch of the a-frame. It sits also low to the ground, wider with a dark roof, held together with something black and smeared. You’re so distracted by the unique qualities of this house in the middle of paradise that you miss it when the door creaks open until you’re staring down the barrel of a shotgun.

“Who are you?” The voice behind the gun is deep, even if the barrels shake slightly. In the dark of the doorframe, you can’t quite see their face, only their short stature. 

You see Ellie’s hand twitch towards her knife, which she now carries in her sock since the night of the county store. 

However, Joel is less concerned. In fact, the boulders of his shoulders loosen, ease to simple muscle and blood. He makes a noise that on anyone else, it might be considered a laugh, a chuckle, but he isn’t even capable of smiling –

He slings down from the seat and pats the horse.

“Easy there, Annie Oakley, it’s just me.” 

The shadow in the doorway stiffens.

“Dad?”

The shotgun lowered, the shadow staggers into the light. Brown eyes, just like his, scrunched against the blinding sunlight, a girl with the most beautiful head of curls blinks at Joel, her thin hand held up to shield her face. 

“Hey there, baby girl.”

In a single leap, she jumps down from the porch but all too quickly, the smile slips from Joel’s face.

“Hang on, not too fast–,”

She stumbles towards him as best as the metal braces around her knees, down to her ankles, will allow, defiant and smiling, despite the beads of sweat that have swelled over her forehead. Joel surges forward, faster than you thought possible, and reaches for her, nearly on one knee. 

“Slow down, please, Sarah.”

“Dad, I’m fine,” she huffs before tossing her arms around his neck. “I’m fine. Just – missed you, is all.” 

You can’t see his face, but he straightens up still holding her. With one hand he flattens those curls to her cheek, and kisses the other. 

“Enough to forget all the things I taught you about gun safety? You just tossed that thing aside,” he scolds fondly. She rolls her eyes as he sets her down. 

“Okay, but if you didn’t know it was me, you would’a been totally scared, right?” 

She watches as he chuckles, a deep, warm sound, but her own smile flatlines when she spies Ellie climbing down from the wagon. You ease off the edge, your lower half sore from the ride. 

The girl, Sarah, narrows her eyes. 

“Who are you?” She positions her body slightly in front of Joel’s. “And why are you dressed like a boy?” 

Joel’s soft scolding – “Sarah” – is lost beneath Ellie’s scoff. She adjusts her satchel. 

“Why are you dressed like Raggedy Ann?” 

Her father’s massive hands clench down on her shoulders, Sarah’s scowl evident that she’s about half a second away from launching herself at Ellie, leg braces be damned. 

“Now, let’s slow down here.” Joel’s deep baritone is light, but just as firm as his grip. If you knew him better, you’d think he is about to laugh, the lines around his eyes thick, while his mouth stays flat. “We got off on the wrong foot. Sarah, this is Ellie and her aunt. They’re going to be staying with us for a while to help out with your schooling.”

Those curls go flying, her frown now pinched in worry. Another girl caught between a child and adult – for the sake of their single parent, you notice, your chest tight. 

“I thought you needed a farm hand. You were going to teach me.” 

“You know you already read better than I do.” 

“Dad–,”

“Miss here is also a nurse.” 

“Oh. Oh.” She glances down at the metal braces as if she’d forgotten they were there. The skin on her knees is chaffed, rubbed pink. “She can . . . help me?”

Twin pairs of brown eyes settle on you, one hesitantly curious, the other aggressively determined. 

You can, right?

Ellie’s staring at the braces, her gaze distant, heavy. She’d seen this before, but everything back then moved too fast. Back then, there was no time for braces.

Braces only help a small percentage of polio patients. The lucky ones.  

You nod, your heart hammering under your chest bone. “Yes – yes, sir. I think with Ms. Kenny’s therapy, we might be able to alleviate some pain.” 

Those eyes, exactly like and so unlike her father’s, widen.

“Really?”

You introduce yourself with your first name, pressing the crease in your glove between your nail and your thumb with your other hand.

“I’d like to try, Sarah.”

You suddenly understand that Sarah is Joel Miller’s most guarded secret, out here in paradise, paradise as the most beautiful prison in the world. He continues to stare at you from under thick eyebrows after Sarah moves away from him. Ellie, caught off-guard by her forward movement, takes a significant step back.

“I, um, got some marbles out back,” Sarah starts, thumbing over her shoulder, and every other word sounding like an apology. “If you wanna play.”

Ellie jerks forward, her eyes round with excitement, but stops. She looks at you.

“Can I?” 

Soft when eager, just like her mother. So unlike you. You nod.

“Stay close, okay?” 

You and Joel watch as Ellie and Sarah toddle around to the back of the house, Ellie quietly narrating every thought she has as she keeps pace with Sarah.

Those look actually really cool, you know?

Yeah?

Totally. Have you read Amazing Stories? You look like you could be part of the Space Family Robinson.

Who are they?

Oh, you’ve never read those!? Okay, so they’re a family who live in space and they go on these awesome adventures together to different planets and . . .

The farther they go, the faster Joel turns back to stone. His gaze lingers just a hint longer before those dark eyes pin you to the ground. 

“You said you can clean? Cook?” 

You nod quickly. “Yes, sir.” Guard dog Joel. Stocky pitbull, teeth long and wet Joel.

He tilts his chin towards the house.

“Kitchen’s in the back. I gotta clean up the wagon and the horse, then gonna tend the field. I’ll be back in a few hours, but Sarah knows where to find me if y’need somethin'.”

You nod again, but he misses it, turning away to unbuckle the horse. You slide your trunk and Ellie’s satchel off the end of the wagon and head into the shadow of the house.

The white clapdoor snaps shut behind you, followed by the softer snik of the screen clicking into its frame. Slipping the bobby pins out of your hair to release your hat, you take in the Miller home.

The air is cool. Dust motes float in the sunlight streaming in from the second floor over a staircase with wooden wainscoting leading away from the open front room. With a brief glance up, you can see the faded white walls of the upper hallway, some not-yet-seen window drawing in bolts of morning light that pierce the air in bullet holes. It’s quiet and it smells warm, like lace kept in the back of a drawer near a wall that faces the heat outside. 

A blue two-seater couch faces a squat fireplace, with a Queen Anne table sandwiched between the two. Behind you, a large grandfather clock ticks and waits, a server waiting in the shadows with a watchful eye to report back to its master on the going-ons of the house. With only a cedar hutch, a few daguerreotypes, a smattering of books, the room is sparsely decorated, but kept clean and organized. You could see Sarah, a focused look in her eyes, sitting on the steps of the stairs and making Joel move and rearrange furniture over and over again until the room felt right. 

Through a white arched doorway, you find yourself in the kitchen. The light sparks more brightly here, the sky a stark blue through the four square window over the kitchen table and above the sink, reflective of the sun. You realize then the house runs north to south at an angle, where there are limited windows in the walls on the east and west sides, thereby limiting direct sun exposure and, more importantly, heat. Both the kitchen and the front rooms had been built out of the line of the sun, making cooking and cleaning and living bearable without a painful glare. 

A thoughtful and patient consideration.

Someone had attempted to add some levity with brown and blue plaid wallpaper around the cove of the dinner table, all the way to the other side of the room around the kitchen counters and stove. But unfortunately for everyone else, the wallpaper is hideous, only tampered by the off-white counters and cupboards. 

The cupboards have glass doors, blurring ceramic cups and plates on the tops of the shelves. 

It reminds you of the small apartment Anna and you lived in back in Boston, when it was just the two of you. It wasn’t much, but it felt sturdy, secure. Safe.

A door to the right of the stove has a latch, and you lift it and poke your head inside. A chilly darkness greets you, along with the scent of wet, deep earth. A basement? No. Not this close to the kitchen. Curiosity pulling you forward, you descend the sturdy wooden stairs, into the sunken darkness. You count ten until a draft licks your ankles. You keep going, one squeak of wood after another until - you touch soil. The heady scents of pine bark and peat moss soothe the air from where your feet press into the ground, fertility thick like mushrooms in the gut of a lichen-drenched tree. But it’s dark, too dark to make out much, barely your own hand in front of your face. With your fingers outstretched, as if you’ll bump into a gas lamp conveniently on the ground, you shuffle forward and almost immediately a cold chain tickles your face. You grab out of instinct and pull. 

Nearly blinded by the light that erupts from an exposed bulb directly in front of your left eye, you stagger back, wincing, your footsteps muffled by the earthen floor. You blink through the tears as the secret at the end of the stairs finally reveals itself. 

A pantry. A cellar. 

At least twenty feet deep and ten feet high, with rows and rows, stacks and stacks, wood shelves cover nearly the entire length of the underground room. In between the rows, large barrels sit, quiet and sturdy, with bottles of vinegar and olive oil sitting on their rims. 

You realize two things within seconds of each other. 

This house has electricity. It stands above the ground, proud, independent, full of heat and light. So unlike your husband’s dark hole in the ground. 

and

there is so much food. 

Pickling jars. Seed pouches. Culled wheat. Cans of fruit and vegetables and eggs. Olives with squash and pumpkins. Crates of potatoes and half bottles of wine and syrup. Onions and carrots and spices and garlic.

A feast. Meals for days and days and days. The bounties of earth stored, safe beneath the ground, like a secret. 

It’s more food than you’ve seen in years.

A hunger like you can’t remember having roars in your stomach out of nowhere and everything pitches to the right. The edges of your vision blurs, your shoulder knocking into stone wall, and breathing becomes a nearly impossible task. You turn, nearly stumbling up the dozen steps that have turned into a thousand.

The tacky memories that stick to the crevices of your dreams yawn awake, bringing with them dry mud in your mouth and thick salt to your eyes. Mud, dirt, dust – everywhere. In that stinking hut in the ground, the dust replaced your molecules, your atoms, until you too might blow away, until you are cracked and empty and dry. The static from the dust storm memories shoots down both of your arms and you sway on your feet. Your heart suddenly pounding so achingly fast, you have to drop your forehead against the flat surface of the closed door to keep the room from spinning. 

You had forgotten what safety looked like.

You had forgotten what living could be.

You know the ringing sound of that gunshot is just in your head, it’s not real, but you shudder all the same, your hands curling into claws under your chin, your nails tearing up the white paint. 

You’re here, not there. You are safe. Ellie is safe. That house and him have been entombed together under piles of dirt, with the bugs and the rot and the stench from the weak stove. Rivers of sweat rolling down the back of your neck, you beg yourself to stop shaking. You feel like cheap terracotta pottery – made from dirt, left too long to bake in the sun and made brittle; one good tap and you’ll shatter. 

You breathe in and taste wet salt. Breathe out and cry – cry from the fear and the dread and the relief and the hope. God, that hope tastes worse than all the dirt in the Panhandle of Texas.

You cry and cry and cry until you don’t feel so brittle anymore.

Sunlight has struck copper, heavy, tangy in the mouth, when the back door opens and the house is instantly filled with the sound of girls’ rabid conversation. You step back from the stove, cheeks warm and arm sore from continuously stirring the rice and vegetable soup. It’s not as thick as your mother once made, but without milk, it would be nearly impossible to improve. You smile at the girls as they tumble in, more dust mite than human, whispering about some secret. 

“Having fun?” You ask with a grin on your face as Ellie helps Sarah take off her shoes, already attentive to what a girl with her health concerns might need. 

There’s an overlap of chatter as Ellie and Sarah both answer you and then, answer each other.

“Well, good,” you say, turning back to the stove, making sure the bottom of the soup doesn’t burn, “but whatever you got up to, it’s all over your faces so please wash up before dinner.” 

“It smells real good, miss,” Sarah says as she hobbles over to the sink and starts rinsing off her arms and cheeks, while Ellie takes off her own shoes. “What is it?”

“Something my mom used to make when the cupboards were bare.”

Sarah stills, the water rushing over her soft skin. Those inquisitive eyes are just as captivating, just as forceful as her father’s, but for entirely different reasons. She tugs the words out of you by the sheer, needling strength of her gaze.

“I mean – I found the cellar, the house is incredibly well stocked, but I didn’t see any preserved meat or dairy and I didn’t – I didn’t think your dad would want me poking around out back.”

Immediately Sarah softens and rolls her eyes. “Dad’s all bark and no bite,” she huffs. “We’ve got stored beef and cheese in an ice chest downstairs. I’ll show you around tomorrow.”

You smile and those brown eyes go warm in the coppery light. “Thanks, Sarah.” 

“Bunch up, I gotta wash my hands too.” Ellie none-to-gently bumps Sarah with her shoulder to get to the sink but before you can scold her, Sarah swings back, using her precarious momentum, and pushes Ellie back. They both giggle. Something that’s been cramped far too long in your chest loosens. 

“So, Sarah, tell me where you are with your schooling. Do you have books, diagrams?”

She thinks for a minute as she opens a drawer that leaves her back to you and takes out two, then four thin cloth placemats. She hobbles back to the table to carefully spread them out.

“I was up to seventh grade before the school shut down. That was about two years ago, so Dad’s been trying to make sure I don’t forget anything. He got me a Midsummer Night’s Dream by Shakespeare a while ago and made me read it out loud to him. He has me work on my letters every day – including cursive.” She adds, with a bright spot of joy cranking her mouth open. You imagine someone like Sarah would have beautiful penmanship. “He shows me around the yard, asking me to identify plants and animals, especially anything that might be poisonous. I don’t think he really understands it but he explains what happens when you add water to a seed and keep it in damp earth. Oh, and he has me help balance the books for the farm – what we made, what we sold, how much we have left, stuff like that.”

You smile at her over your shoulder as Ellie hands her bowls. “Accounting.”

“Huh?”

Ellie rolls her eyes. “It’s so boring, don’t worry about it,” she whispers conspiratorially.

“What your dad is teaching you is called accounting,” you say a bit firmly, eyes tracking your niece as she shows no shame. “It’s a very special skill to have, especially if you work on a farm or in a business. Do you like it?”

She nods rapidly, those cork-screw curls bouncing around her thin face. “Yeah! I do! I’m much faster than Dad when it comes to figuring out the sums and dollar value.”

In the front hall, the clap door creaks open then slams shut, heavy footfalls proceeding the man that makes them.

“Does that happen a lot?” you ask softly as Sarah sidles up next to you to peer into the pot.

“Where I know more than my dad?” Sarah smirks up at you, all devious youth. “More often than you think.”

A mini sun bursts from the ceiling as Joel flicks on the light switch and is almost immediately tackled by Sarah. The copper sun on the horizon finally, in the distracted moment, slips down and drags the night behind it. It’s purple twilight outside when Joel lifts his head from the embrace around Sarah’s shoulders to stare at the two strangers in his kitchen.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” you say brightly and you can almost picture your mother in the same exact position in front of the stove, stirring soup until her cheeks were pink, her hand resting low on her back, her tummy round and full in her second attempt to keep her husband’s rage diverted from her. It’s a boy, she promised.

The memory makes you so violently ill out of nowhere, you lose your appetite. But you persevere; you carry on and load up the bowls Sarah stacked for you. Ellie saves you from having to dislodge the prickly knot in your throat when she snags a bowl and eagerly yells, “get it while it’s hot!”

The arrangements from the stove to the table are a bit of a blur, the slick anxious weight from earlier today curling around your lungs again as you remember shadows in chairs like these, but so different from the flesh-and-blood bodies that occupy them now. 

You’re dazed, a little light-headed, but not so much to miss the glance between Joel and Ellie. A junkyard puppy skirting the territory of an older watchdog, a bone in each of their mouths and dragged to opposite corners of the battlefield. Satisfied with the lines of demarcated territory that had been drawn, they call a temporary truce by eating in complete silence, until Sarah groans.

“Oh my god, this is better than it smells!” she hums, her mouth full of potatoes. 

“Just wait till she adds chicken,” Ellie grumbles, mouth cupped open to keep from spilling. You watch her, a faint smile on your face, and the slippery feeling fades. When cleaning up, she missed a spot on her left nostril and you fight the urge to clean it with your thumb.

“There’s more.” 

Your gaze snaps to Joel hunched over his bowl. The spoon that Ellie and Sarah have to both clutch in their fists to eat barely swings between his massive fingers. 

Joel’s dark eyes trace down your nose, your chin, your neck, to where your hands lay flat on the table in front of you. Your own bowl and spoon sit on the counter behind you. You worry you might have upset him, with the way he’s frowning.

“There’s more,” he repeats, same tone. 

“I'm sorry?” 

He puts his spoon down and clears his throat, then nods to the pot on the stove. Ellie watches him out of the corner of her eye.

“I saw how much you made. If you’re hungry, you should eat.” 

As though speaking a language only you could hear, he looks at Ellie the same time you do. 

She frowns. “What? Is there something on my face?”

Sarah begins to giggle, nodding, when Joel starts again.

“You should eat. There’s enough.” 

It’s like his eyes can see through your blue veins and clammy skin, to your yellow bones and clawing stomach. You choke on the mudball that’s been hovering in your throat for months and nod.

“Alright.”

You don’t know if you’re actually hungry – you can’t really remember the taste of warm food – or if you’re doing it just to appease him, but something about the heat of the bowl and solid spoon in your hand, it rouses you from this sinking you find yourself in. Your bones feel like jelly.

“How’re the fields, Dad?” Sarah asks with her big eyes, seemingly unaware of the layered exchange between you and her father, or kind enough not to address it. 

He responds to her, his voice deep in the cavern of his chest. It’s an easy way he speaks to her, heavy with the seriousness she’s earned to be talked to like an adult, but gentle enough that for all his low grumbling, it comes out as a thick murmur. You find yourself listening to their conversation, their interactions, as soothing as music turned low from a well-tuned radio. Ellie is even roped in when Sarah tells Joel all about the Space Family Robinson and Ellie’s knife. “It’s really cool, Dad,” she says preemptively. “She knows how to use it and she’s really safe.” 

“Well, if it’s really cool . . .” he fills his mouth with potatoes, tamping down the ghost of a grin on his lips around the spoon. 

Ellie shuffles in her seat, her own hesitant smile glittering in her eyes, and with only minor prompting, she holds no prisoners when gleefully telling Sarah that she’s got the story of finding a mess of wriggling worms out by the back of the barn all wrong. 

“Just keep ‘em outta my side of the bed, alright?” You grin at her, spooning another dribble of soup into your mouth. You’ve realized too much, too fast can just as easily twist your stomach so you focus on cradling a digestible amount of food – broth, potato, carrots – in the well of your spoon. 

But the landscape beyond the silver lip has stilled. Both girls are happily slurping up the last bits of their meals, throwing quips back and forth, but Joel’s shoulders have locked up again, the bones of his wrists flat, a static alertness that you’re sure would travel all the way down to his ankles if he was standing up right. You aren’t sure if Sarah has picked up on the subtle change in his breathing – from the deep well of his lungs to shortened and shallow – but somehow you have. 

You’re staring at him far too long.

Those thick eyebrows pitch down again. Beneath the loose button that pins your dress closed over your chest, you feel a swell of heat and you wish you were like Ellie, capable of making an easy joke – what, is there something on my face? The heat bubbles almost uncomfortably under his weighted gaze. 

“I hate bugs,” you blurt out, desperate to give him what he wants, if only you knew. The girls glance at your sudden outburst. “I don’t like worms especially. I don’t mind straw beds, as long as they’re clean – I mean, I–I hope they are, the straw beds, not the worms.” 

Another eternal second of being pinned down by Joel’s frown, this one decidedly less hostile, before understanding breaks open the harsh lines of his mouth and around his eyes. His eyes go wide for less than breath, then he drops his gaze to the bowl. His shoulders shift, muscle redistributing weight as he settles his thick forearm closer to the edge of the table.

Oh, that relief of muscle says. 

“You’re not sleeping in the barn.” Joel says, head tucked down. At that, Ellie slows her ravenous eating and frowns at him. 

“Then where are we sleeping?”

Joel lifts his head, a new, special emotion just for her tugging on his mouth: exasperation. “My room. You two in there and I’m takin’ the couch.” 

Shame and embarrassment drip down over your skull, between your ears, like a cold, runny egg. 

“No, we couldn’t possibly–,” 

He shakes his head, eyes still on the split potato chunk at the bottom of the bowl. His hand flexes briefly and you think of it around the bridle of the horse. 

“It’s not up for discussion.” 

Beside him, Sarah frowns at him and you’d wonder how many times in her life he’s ever said that to her – if you could think properly over the roaring of blood in your ears. 

“Joel,” you say, something syrupy under your tongue molding the words Mr. Miller into a tone you’d use for an old friend. “I can’t ask you to–,”

Hand flexes. The seat of the chair squeaks.

“You’re not askin’, I’m tellin’.” You’re still vastly underprepared for when those eyes - those deep, dark eyes - suddenly snap on you, as if your very presence commands his entire attention. You notice the dirt underneath his nails and around the knot of his wrist on the table. He’s filthy. 

Quietly, with the surety of a dog slipping its snout between its paws, he cuts the last chunk of potato in half with the curve of his spoon. “The new mattresses’ll be here next week. We’ll make do ‘till then.”

The slurp of soup between his lips seems to signal the end of the conversation, but you can’t quite mash together your kaleidoscope-spinning impressions of the man across the table from you. 

“Thank you . . . Joel.” 

He nods, back teeth breaking apart the soft mush of the potato. He swallows and glances back up at you. 

“It’s good,” he says, briefly holding his spoon aloft. “You did good.”

His words burst the choking bubble in your chest and warmth drips down your spine, splashing in the cradle of your hips. Hunger rises, but it’s a different kind of hunger. A growl of neglect. One you sometimes wondered if it was even possible for you to ever even feel. 

Even while you were married to your husband.

You put your spoon down to keep your hand from shaking. The soup won’t feed this new churning hunger and, frankly, you don’t know what will. 

You did good, he praised, parsed out like torn bread tossed across a black lake. 

It makes you warm in places food never could.

The immediate next morning, you meet the sun early, eagerly. Eager to wake and rise and become so useful, you are intricately tied to this house; if you are removed, a vital piece of the land, the prairie is torn up along with you. Ellie sleeps softly next to you, curled up in the same position she was in the hotel bed, tucked in so tightly as if to take up the least amount of space possible. She sleeps, unbothered, blissful, and again you fight the urge to brush the hair that covers her sleeping eyes. You settle for tugging the beautiful quilt, with its stunning blue and red and green patches, up to her shoulders. 

As you tie your dress up, your suitcase partially open and on the ground, movement from outside in the dawning pink catches your eye. A brisk shadow, those thick shoulders proceeding a taught waist are unmistakable as they move towards the barn. You stand, transfixed for a moment as broad hands slide open the barn doors, you hear a faint creak, and he disappears inside. The capability of those hands; the surety, where every action is deliberate and intentional – it makes something arc up your throat. A warm piercing that bursts through bone and muscle alike. Trembling fingers tug at the wilting lace around the cuffs of your dress, imagination stretching out into the dark morning, inspired by curious and impossible ideas of those hands. 

Something – most likely Sarah next door – squeaks the floorboard and those tendrils of thought snap back as if someone had slammed a lid shut. You glance at the clock and make a mental note to wake up earlier tomorrow, to beat him to the kitchen. 

You are also desperately eager to get out of the room where you can practically smell Joel on the walls. It’s simple, just like the rest of the house, but amongst the hand-drawn sketches of himself and birds (likely gifts from Sarah), the half-spent candles and well-read books, you find him in everything. You wonder, briefly, if the indentations made on the cotton mattress are from him or you – the scent of his hair in the pillow from sweat or soap. 

The encroaching feeling that you don’t belong here in this house nearly swallows you whole as you dress in a room you definitely don’t belong in. 

Joel remains a distant figure, a familiar shadow across the lightning horizon, long after you finish the eggs and toast. You consider perusing the pantry for blueberries or something similar, when Sarah comes down. Fresh-faced, dressed with the care most people reserve for church, she stumbles in, her braces clacking as she finds a seat at the table. 

You notice a brief flash of pain across her face when you bring over a plate of food. She unconsciously rubs a circle with her thumb on her left knee as she picks up her fork.

“Pain today?” You ask, eyes on her knee, even though it’s obvious. 

She nods, strained. “Just a little bit. But it’s nothing. I’m sure it’ll go away when it warms up outside.” 

You doubt that is remotely true, but you let her hold the comforting lie. She doesn’t seem like the type to swallow pity with ease, and neither was Anna. You put on that detached but focused "nurse's" mask, your lips a straight line and brow furrowed, your voice slipping on something more commanding too.

“Let me see.” 

Sarah blinks at you briefly, evidently surprised by your shift in demeanor but eventually, she obeys. She drops her fork and slides the chair back, the chair legs squeaking against the rough wooden floor.

You crouch in front of her, gathering up her ankle first and testing its mobility.

“When were you diagnosed?” you ask, as soft as you are firm.

“Never, technically.” She watches you and occasionally winces. You wonder how long she’s grown stiff like this. “The doc had left over braces that Dad bought before the guy skipped town.”

“So then how did you know it was polio?” 

By her sudden stillness, you know this is the first time that word has been uttered under this roof in a long time. You lower her ankle, rising gaze meeting hers. Her mouth is pulled tight. You can practically read the familiar headlines as they scroll across her mind.

New Polio Cases by the Thousands

Polio Claims Life of Infant

Polio Outbreak: Thirteen Dead

“Not every case is serious,” you say, gently, using the word serious in place of fatal. You don’t want to scare her unnecessarily. But by her wide eyes, you know the word sits in her chest all the same. 

“I know. And I know it can be made worse by moving too much. That’s why Dad’s always on me about resting and going slow.” 

You return to your examination. Her skin is rubbed raw in some places by the braces. You remind yourself to ask Joel for some old sheets to make better padding. 

“That’s not always true,” you say, shifting to her other leg. “Even though she was sore after, Anna often said she felt the stiffness go away after walking around the neighborhood block.”

Curious, Sarah tilts her head, those lovely curls swaying like leaves in a breeze. “Who’s Anna?”

Your skin around your eyes tightens – how could you be so careless with such a secret – when you hear feet thundering down the stairs and a second later, Ellie swings around the lip of the doorway.

“Is that toast?” She asks, eyes wide and hopeful. “If you got bacon, I’m gonna start kissing faces.”

You and Sarah exchange a small grin before you stand up right and Sarah returns to her own meal.

“No bacon today, but who knows what else is stored in the pantry?” 

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Ellie exclaims as she slides into a chair, her own plate pilled far too for a girl her size. “Treasure hunt.” 

You see the tips of Sarah’s ears go briefly pink at Ellie’s language but the muffled smile on her face hints at awe, impressed – so you let that one slide. A stream of light through the half-shut curtain tugs your thoughts outside, to the man literally toiling in the fields. 

“Does your dad want me to bring him some food?” You ask, standing from the chair and glancing out the window. You can’t see him any more and for some reason that makes your chest go tight.

Sarah shook her bouncy curls. “No. He’ll come in and get it when he’s hungry.” 

You didn’t like the idea that you weren’t going to be directly feeding the man who employed you literally to cook for him and his daughter.

“Does he like coffee?”

Sarah arches an eyebrow at you. “Yeah, he loves it. But I’ve tried for years to make it the way he likes and he always drinks it, but I think a little piece of him dies inside every time he does.” 

“Then you must be a great cook too,” Ellie smirks up at her. In response, Sarah smiles impishly around a mouthful of eggs. 

You hold that little bit of information about Joel - something you knew that he didn’t know you knew - close, like a dollar bill in your pocket. You drum your fingers, searching for memories of how Anna used to shoe-string coffee when you couldn’t afford a maker in Boston.

“Did you eat?”

Ellie’s voice tears your gaze from the window. Her plate is only halfway empty. Her fingers uneasily move the fork around.

“Yeah,” you answer truthfully. In fact, you are rather ashamed by how much you took, sitting at the table in the purple dark, before you remembered that you had to feed three other people. “I’m good, Ellie. Thanks.”

She nods, returning to her plate and shoveling two bites into her mouth without slowing down.

“What’s first today?” Sarah asks, her eyes bright. “I can show you my sums. We have a chalkboard in the barn.”

You smile at her eagerness to show off while Ellie dejectedly pokes at her remaining floppy eggs. She had never been one for school, another thing you found hard to relate to about her. Fortunately for her, Anna nor you ever had the time to be as diligent about her education as Joel had been for Sarah. And unfortunately for her, you intend to fix that as quickly as possible. 

“I’d love to see them, Sarah, but would you mind showing me around the cellar first? Maybe there is bacon hiding down there somewhere.”

You don’t miss the small smile that creeps across Ellie’s face.

“Junk or keep?” 

Sarah looks up from the tip of her stick dragging nonsense through the barn’s dirt floor, her chin flat in her palm, elbow on her knee. She frowns at Ellie holding up . . . something that might have been a tractor part at one time. 

“I don’t even know what that is, so – junk?” 

Ellie shrugs, tosses the piece back and forth in her hands, and then chucks it like a ball to the opposite end of the barn. It collides loudly with the wall and Flora, the white and black cow, lifts her head at the noise from her stable and lets out a low groan. 

The entire barn smells of hay and animal but in a way that is warm, almost comforting. The two cows lazily munch from their troughs in their stalls, occasionally eyeing you as you carry items back and forth. It’s fortifying in a way only working outside and with your hands can offer. 

You turn to her disapprovingly but she’s already back, elbow-deep, in the pile you had designated hers to sort. Sarah, to whom you suggested rest this morning, goes back to boredly drawing circles in the dirt. Even though she clearly hates the idea of being idle, you are surprised she takes your medical advice without any fight. 

If you had successfully completed your duties as cook, now it was time to take on your other task as teacher. Sarah had a few textbooks, but mostly outdated and only one copy. You know trying to find a full library in times like these is laughably impossible, but there is nothing wrong with hoping for a blackboard. You’d made one before when the school district you tempted at didn’t approve new funding, and you feel confident you could do it again. Trouble is, you have nowhere to put it, much less set up a laughably impossible classroom for two students. 

Until Sarah casually mentioned the unfortunate pile of junk in the back of her father’s barn, “taking up at least half the space in there.” 

She wasn’t wrong.

“Yuck – is your dad a hoarder?” Ellie asks with slight disgust as she pulls up a stack of newspapers held together by twine. “Why does he even have this stuff?”

Sarah grins, delighted by Ellie’s prickly teasing. “This place actually used to be pretty organized. This was his space for a long time – where he went to think, or figured out what crops we needed for the next year.”

Her smile crumbles. “But, uh, then I got sick and now he doesn’t come out here unless it's for work.”

Ellie pinches the soft of her cheek with her teeth, nodding, her eyes downcast.

“So . . . junk?”

“Yeah, I guess so.” 

The stack of newspapers comes up to her knees and Ellie struggles, off-balanced, to carry it across the hay-covered floor. 

You reach for it and she gives it to you gratefully. You take it with a smile; you never know what she’s going to appreciate or just see it regretfully as charity or pity. 

“I think your dad is losing it,” Ellie says as she wipes sweat from her brow, shaking her head far too seriously. “Losin’ it, big time.” 

Sarah giggles.

You drop the stack of papers in the corner, but when you let go, the string snaps and the papers spill everywhere. With a sigh, you kneel down and gather them back together, but not before a few headlines catch your eye. 

Your heart twists.

Paralysis Takes Three Children

Join the Mothers’ March on Polio

QUARANTINE: POLIOMYELITIS

Why would Joel keep these? Everyone knew how devastating polio could be to children, even infants. Why would he –

Roughly dispersed throughout the article, sentences and phrases were underlined in blue pen. Sentences containing, “iron lung”, “bedrest”, “antibiotic” –

No cure.

Warmth spread out across your chest. Joel was looking for a way to treat his daughter, the only way he could in a town without a doctor: outside information. Something about this makes the space beneath your chest bone hurt so badly, you get a little nauseous. 

Now you consider conserving these papers as if they are important historical documents. Behind you, where Ellie and Sarah are lobbying jokes back and forth, you see more stacks of neatly contained newspapers. He looked everywhere and found nothing. 

You reshuffle the stack that fell, when you spot something else that hardens the warm feeling in your chest and makes it brittle.

Mob Over Breadline Kills FIVE

Experts Say There is No Way Out of This Depression

Mother of Drowned Children Claims She Did “What Was Best”

The rough floor hurts your knees. Eyes closed, you try to ignore the flood of images of what you witnessed in Boston, how desperate and cruel people became in Oklahoma. With each memory, your heartbeat pounds harder.

Red. Blood. Pink. Skin. White. Bone.

The riots got to be so terrible, but people were just hungry.

Ellie calling your name jerks you out of the sinking muck of memories. 

“What? What is it?”

She eyes you with distant concern then glances at Sarah. “She wanted to know where you learned all this stuff.”

“About cooking, and teaching, and nursing,” Sarah clarifies. “I think I’ve read every book in our house probably four times and I still feel like I don’t know anything.” 

“You probably know more than you think,” you offer as you scoop up the uncomfortable newspapers, easily switching tracks of thought to mute the swell of horrors from the rotting box in your mind. You leave them in the corner for Joel to do what he wishes with them and stand, dusting your dress off. “What do you call the process by which plants get energy from the sun?”

Sarah’s eyes brighten immediately. Where her body fails her, her mind is as sharp as a tack.

“Photosynthesis!”

“Good,” you nod, smiling. “And what’s the primary source of energy in animal cells?”

“The mitochondria!”

“Very good.” 

Ellie sighs angrily from her pile and puts her hands on her hips. “I think I’m gonna make like mitosis and split, if we keep talking about all this boring stuff.”

Scorned for her love of learning a second time and already in a bad mood from the pain this morning, Sarah frowns. 

“What’s your problem? Why do you act like school sucks? You had your mom teaching you –,”

“She’s not my mom!” Ellie snaps back, her knuckles white around a rusted bucket. “She’s just my aunt!”

“Yeah, well, I have an uncle I never even get to see!” Sarah stands up as smoothly as she can, but her knees and ankles are pink again. Her calves shake. “You’re lucky!”

Ellie’s teeth clench in the back of her jaw, lip curling. 

You remember distinctly more than once having to pick Ellie up from school early because she’d been caught fighting and you take a step in her direction, even if Sarah could no doubt land a few solid ones in. 

“And you’re–,”

“Ellie.” You know how rough Ellie can be. You remember the tone to take with unruly students, even if you don’t mean an ounce of it. “Don’t. Just let it g–,”

“Why do you always take her side?” That ire whips around to you. Loyalty, that was another trait her mother favored. Ellie’s shoulders roll forward, her fists clenched. “Why do you let her talk like she knows anything about us? About Mom?” 

“I’m not taking a side, Ellie,” you say firmly, your chin tilted down to her. One day she’s going to be taller than you, you know it. “Both of you, this is enough.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Ellie tosses the broken bucket in her hand to the ground and storms towards the barn doors. 

“You just like her because she’s a fucking dork like you,” she growls under her breath before shoving open the large square door. 

It swings shut, the metal clattering against the wood. The brief stream of light filtering in is shortly swallowed up into the shadows again. 

“I’m sorry,” Sarah says almost immediately, her brown eyes swiveling on you. Her skin is tinged a little lighter and there’s sweat along her hairline. With a fleeting flash of worry, you wonder if she’s in more pain than she lets on. “I didn’t mean it . . . I mean, I think she is lucky to have – but . . . I shouldn’t have said that.”

She drops your gaze and you think those dark eyes might be softer, wetter than usual. She plucks at the hem of her dress, her mouth twisted to the side. 

Where Ellie explodes outwards, Sarah implodes inwards. You never could understand Ellie’s inclination to destroy everything around her.

You hand her a broom, with a smile on your face. 

“Do you want to tell me about your uncle?” 

She takes it slowly from you, eyebrows furrowed down. This is a look you are familiar with, even when it comes to Ellie. She is stuck between answering like a kid, getting it all off her chest to be free of the emotional burden, and swallowing it all to please the adults in her life. 

You’ve also found Ellie tends to open up when she doesn’t have to look you in the eye. Sarah’s own gaze is stuck to the floor as she vaguely sweeps at the hay. 

“We don’t talk about Uncle Tommy a lot,” she mumbles. 

You focus on untangling an old bridle. “Oh? Why?”

“Dad’s still pissed at him for moving out to California. Said he left what’s really important for a bullshit dream.” Her eyes pop up, wide and shocked. “Sorry, that’s what he said.” 

Despite your limited time with him, you can easily see how Joel Miller might take something like that personally, but you just store that away too, another breadcrumb leading the way.

“Why California?”

“It’s–,”

The barn door opens again and Joel’s shadow breaks through the almost painful white light. Behind him, Everett (the horse) snorts and huffs, pulling along the giant creaking plow, the air suddenly pungent with the smell of warm dirt, leather, and animal sweat. Joel murmurs something to the frothing snout and wipes his own forehead with the back of his arm, smearing sweat and dirt across his browline. He stops when he sees you two staring. 

By Sarah’s wide eyes, it’s clear Uncle Tommy is a subject that is not often brought up in this house either. Joel frowns, but just as he opens his mouth, you interject – you know how to deflate a potentially angry man.

“We were just cleaning up the back of the barn,” you say, careful not to use words like junk or scrap heap. “I’m hoping to use the space as a school, for Sarah and Ellie.” 

His gaze settles on you, like the dust at his feet. 

“Mhmm.” His tone scrapes something low in your stomach. 

“I’m sorry – I should have asked – I didn’t think –,”

“No, it’s –,” he shakes his head. His eyes catch Everett’s foamy nose and he pats it, noting the long sweaty forelock. “Smart. Next spring, we’ll come up with something better, but there’s no time now, with the harvest comin’.” 

You nod, peeling off what you were going to say from the back of your teeth with your tongue. Joel casually drags his fingers through Everett’s forelock before stepping back to unhook the plow’s leather buckles. It’s when he shifts towards Sarah, looking to her, that he grimaces. 

He put his weight on his right knee and it immediately caused him pain.

“We could help,” you offer, eyes on his knee, his thick fingers rubbing into the muscle just above his knee cap. "Ellie loves being out in the sun and I can teach her how to plant–,”

“‘M fine,” he mutters gruffly, straightening up and wiping his hands on the cloth around his neck. “Sarah, go inside for a bit. There’s something she n’ I gotta discuss.”

His tone indicates this is not the time for eye rolling but she does it anyway.

“I’ve said for years that you need help, Dad. She’s just offering to–,”

“Sarah, inside. Please.” 

Sarah scowls and drops the broom against one of the stalls. She hobbles out of the barn, first scrunching her nose up at Joel’s obvious smell, then muttering something about having to go look for the hell spawn. You finger the scrap metal in your hands, a fluttery nervousness growing in your stomach the closer Sarah gets to the door. With one more disapproving shake of her thick curls, she shuts the door behind her. 

Everett nickers and paws the ground, eager to be returned to bed after a long morning of work. Light streams in gold from the slanted windows above the loft, separating the front stalls from the back of the barn where you stand, fidgeting. There’s no escaping the hot animal smell now, and it’s your turn to be intercepted by Joel. 

Another apology is nearly out of your mouth when he speaks first.

“Do you know how to shoot a gun?” He asks, his mouth set into a firm line. In the half-darkness of the barn, you can’t quite make out his eyes. 

You swallow against the encroaching dryness in your throat. “I-I have a gun. Keep it in my purse, o-only for emergencies and I–,” 

“That’s not what I asked.” He shakes his head, tone soft, almost gentle. He glances past you to the stacks of newspapers you had moved into the corner, the ones about violence and pestilence. He rubs his fingers between the bridle and Everett’s thick hair. “Found a hole in the barbed wire fence today.” 

You frown, the tension of his voice indicating a severity you are utterly unprepared for. “What does that mean?”

“Someone tried to cut through.” 

A white hot panic lurches up your spine out of nowhere. Fueled by fear, you see the outline of your husband shambling across the propertyline and you go cold. 

“W-why would someone do that? What are they after?”

His hand stills as every muscle in his body briefly tenses. Eyes dark beneath a tight brow, the tightness in his jaw is an answer and a threat all at once. He looks almost offended by your question.

You know exactly what they would take. 

All you can do is nod. 

Everett nudges Joel’s shoulder, impatient to get out of the harness, for that bath he so very much deserves. As though you had disappeared, Joel unbuckles the restraints, taking a brush to the gray coat as he goes. Maybe you’d misread that last signal and he thought he told you to fuck off.

You move towards the back door when his voice, timbre deep and low, stops you again.

“I’m gonna to teach you to shoot.” He announces to the lathered withers of the horse. “But you keep that gun on you, at all times, especially when you’re out with the girls. You got that?”

He pauses just as he slides the hitch off the horse's back, his arms covered in dirt as dark as the leather. It’s minute, the shift in his weight, but you suddenly realize he wants verbal confirmation.

“Y-yes. Yes. I’ll take it with me.”

The minutia shifts again, a lessening of tension across his broad shoulder, his thick back. He nods. 

“Good.”

The aching need for him to say more, for that good to turn into you did good or good job – or good girl – it sparks so fast and hot inside of you, you think you’ll choke. Instead, you leave through the door on unsteady legs, jaw locked tightly shut. 

You find comfort in the monotony of sewing. 

Anna always scolded you for it, that you were “giving into women’s work.”

How are they ever going to take us seriously when you actually like doing this dainty shit? 

But where Anna seemingly delighted in her mile-a-minute thoughts, you need an outlet – some way to settle, to ground yourself in the here and now. Furthermore, you could sew anywhere – on the train, on the bus, in a foreign house in the middle of nowhere where you were, again, dependent on the kindness of a complete stranger – 

It isn’t sewing specifically that you enjoy. If there was another activity where your mind could detach itself from your body, you would have liked it too. Here, in this space of blank concentration, you separate further from yourself with every stitch you pull together. Here, you are not a sister, a housewife, or an aunt. Not a nurse or a teacher or a failed fieldhand. 

Not scared of living or scared of your husband or scared that you’ll fail your sister over and over and over again – 

For a handful of minutes, you are not scared and you are the closest thing to yourself you can possibly be. You think, as a child that might have been the closest you’d actually been to understanding your own wants and dreams and desires, but now it is through this act of repetition, of delicate guiding, do you find yourself remembering what it was like to exist unafraid, as thoughtless as a child.

You sit on the edge of Joel’s bed, eased into something vaguely like relaxation by the needle and thread in your hand. You’d found some old pillows in the barn earlier today and surprisingly the stuffing was still intact. After watching Sarah struggle today, you knew you couldn’t spend another second watching the poor girl hobble around on painful braces. 

It’s twilight, the sun gone beneath a blanket of scarlet and indigo, everyone fed and full – the girls almost instantly forgetting their first fight in favor of a discussion about their most effective marble-flicking techniques – and you already have at least one leather-bound pad that is twice as thick as her old one. You grin, excited to share your creation to her. You wonder what Joel will say.

Through the wall over your shoulder, in Sarah’s room, you can hear the low murmur of their voices, as quick and fast as two co-conspirators. You can’t quite make out what they’re saying, but the words don’t matter. It is the high joy in Sarah’s voice, or the creaky laughter from Joel. They could be speaking in a completely incomprehensible language but the sentiment is unmistakable: you make me happy and I love you.

I love you.

The needle and thread stills in your lap. 

You glance out the window, to a much smaller shadow in front of the barn as it cuts and darts in the blurry half-light. The silver tip of Anna’s knife winks in the glint of the light from the windows as Ellie slashes and digs in the open air. Alone. 

In the late hours, in the hours when the veil between life and death felt so especially fragile, Anna made you promise that you'd look out for Ellie, to raise her as your own. To finally give her a childhood like the two of you never had. 

You had done that. You raised her. She’s alive and healthy and fierce. 

But would she find your sentiment about her unmistakable? Do you know hers as intimately as you knew your sister’s? 

Do you make her happy when both of you are constantly reminded of the ghost between you?

Sarah’s chatter echoes throughout the dark house, disembodied and entirely untethered.

It’s one week into this new, adjusted life in a house you haven’t yet found a home in when the unthinkable happens.

A loud, wet cry startles you awake and immediately your hand flies towards Ellie, panic like ice in your jaw. Your palm touches her shoulder, but she’s already sitting up, eyes towards the door. She glances at you and from your stumble out of a dreamless sleep, you realize it wasn’t Ellie who made that noise. 

It comes again, as sharp as a bone crack, and you both scramble out of bed.

Sarah. 

Up against the far wall, in the corner where her bed tucks up into the corner, Joel holds her like a lion clutches to prey. 

Giant, fat teardrops pour down the sides of her ashen cheeks, those bright eyes clamped shut, her mouth twisted in agony and she claws at her father’s forearm across her shoulders. His other hand is going white from her fingers crushing his in a bone-cracking grip. His voice is soft, firm, and fast in her ear, comforting and scared as hell, as she whimpers. 

Every muscle from her thighs down is stretched taut. Every muscle unwillingly tightened, flexed, the chemicals in her brain battling the commands of the bacteria. The pain, as described in medical journals, is crippling. 

Ellie glances at you out of the corner of your eye. Muscle spasms. 

“Sarah, darling, how long has this been going on?” She’s trembling from the pain and exhaustion. You wrap your robe around you before kneeling down to inspect her — and you feel Joel’s glare nearly singe the skin from your face.

“Don’t touch her,” he snarls and pulls her closer. Sarah whines and buries her face in his shoulder, trying to stifle her sobbing to keep from shaking and causing more spasms. “She’s–,” 

“I can help her, Joel.” Your training became a bulwark – strong, immobile – in moments like these. Maybe it was all an act but that first rush of hope that you could ease pain, soothe what hurts, made you feel like you were made of gold. You let that unbreakable shine pierce Joel’s gaze. “But you need to listen to me.” 

Sarah squeaks and you watch his resolve instantly break. Shakely, he nods. 

“Ellie,” you instruct over your shoulder. “Go start boiling water. There’s a pail out on the porch.”

She is out the door before you finish your sentence. She knows exactly what you need. 

Help on the way, you turn back to Sarah, her feet twisted in grotesque contortions. 

“How long has this been going on?” 

“About ten minutes,” Joel grumbles. She squeezes his hand so hard you hear his knuckle pop. She sobs, open mouth, and he presses his cheek to her. He murmurs softly, “I’m sorry, I know, I’m sorry.” 

“Is this the longest fit she’s had?”

Joel reluctantly nods. 

“Sarah,” you say and gently touch her knee. She peels her eyes open, cheeks stained with tears, eyes wet with fear. “We need to loosen your muscles, okay? That’s what’s causing you pain right now. So, we’re going to use heat and pressure to do that.” 

She nods, gaze solidifying with your every word, every word a new step out of the path of pain. Joel smooths her curls off her sweaty forehead, his own wide-eyed stare never leaving your face. You roll up your sleeves and curl up your hair off the back of your neck just as Ellie stumbles back into the room. She’s got at least five towels around her neck, and she’s red-faced and straining from keeping the pail of boiling water from spilling or burning her. She eases it down next to you and hands you a towel. Both of you each take a side and immediately tear the one in half.

Before you wore gloves, some sort of protection, but now there is no time. You hear Ellie inhale sharply, recognizing what you’re about to do a second before you do it.

You dip the towel into the steaming water, let it soak, and pull it out. You grit your teeth against the immediate burn on your palms, the trail of fire over your knuckles and wrists, as you squeeze out the dripping water, Sarah’s soft cries in your ears enough to push past your own pain.

Half-way between an inhale and an exhale, you think you hear your name. 

Ellie already has another dry towel loose around one of Sarah’s legs. She glances at you, her brows knitted together. 

Ready? She asks without words.

You drape the hot towel around her leg and Sarah yelps. She thrashes in her father’s arms as you wrap the towel tighter and tighter. Expecting Joel’s inevitable bark, a hard shove against your shoulder, get away from my daughter – but it never comes. 

As soon as you tighten the towel as firmly as it can safely go, Ellie slides in next to you and begins to massage the muscles in her calves, her feet, her toes. 

Sarah whimpers again, but the sound isn’t as sharp, pain-choked. Joel holds her tighter, as if her torso is also knotted and could be relieved with warmth.

On an inhale, you pick up the other half of the towel, drench it in boiling water, and wring it out with your bare hands. A silent prayer for lotion is fleeting as it drifts through the dense focus of your mind. You squeeze out the dripping water and wrap Sarah’s other leg, prepped again by Ellie. She watches you as you tug and tuck the steaming towel, her own focus as sharp as a tack, mirroring your motions as you knead and massage the muscles. 

After a few minutes of faint whining, a couple of sobs, the room slips into an exhausted silence. Her breathing slow on his chest, Joel draws back her damp curls and finds her face relaxed, asleep. His mouth parts and the skin around his eyes goes slack.

Relief. 

With a shudder, Joel knocks his forehead against hers, his thumb on her chin as if to feel her breathing. You look away, the moment so tender it shouldn’t be witnessed. 

You realize then how badly your palms ache. 

The towels have lost their immediate heat, so you unwind them. Ellie’s small hands overlap yours as she helps. For some reason, you can’t bring yourself to look her in the eyes. The both of you fall back into roles most comfortable to you. 

The wet towels gone, you wrap her legs more tightly this time, slightly past the edge of comfort. You ease her back, flat into the bed, and some small part of you is aware Joel is letting you guide her. He slips out from behind her when you tuck her in, tight with another blanket around her legs. She could be exhausted for days after this.

“We’ll need to keep heat on her legs every thirty minutes, fifteen if we can manage,” you say as you fold up the damp towels. Joel hasn’t moved. Stares down at Sarah’s small body. “I’d like to keep a warming pan here, to have hot water on hand if she wakes up in pain again. When she comes out of it, she needs water and food. Have her eat it slowly, small bites at first.”

You remember a doctor at the hospital where you trained as a nurse give advice to a newer doctor: medical mysteries and illnesses are one thing. Nervous parents are something else. 

You call his name and he doesn’t move. 

You step forward, touch his forearm, and he blinks at you. He feels so remarkably solid.

“Joel. She’s safe.” 

“Do you want me to go get more towels?” Ellie’s gathered the damp towels off the floor, her chest wet. She stares at Sarah’s bed frame. 

“Get breakfast first. Then I might need your help later.” She nods, turns to go, but hesitates. Her mouth is pinched tight, eyes wide, looking for something to ground her, to calm the vortex that the adrenaline in her veins widens with each beat of her heart. She looks so . . . childlike. 

She looks so much like Anna.

The momentary fortified strength shatters and you're afraid again. What do you say to comfort her? What would Anna say? Good job, I'm proud of you, thank you -

But then she turns away, carrying the dripping towels, and you lose your chance to parent.

Joel has curled himself into the rocking chair by her bed, so close his knee touches her mattress. He holds her thin hand in the cup of his two massive palms. His heel taps loosely, quietly against her rug, every possible outcome of this morning striking him in the chest with each drop of his foot. His face is a blurred, dark shadow, hanging between his shoulders.

To describe Joel in this moment, nervous seems quaint. 

In silence, you gather up the tepid pale of water and exit the room, closing the door after you.

The rest of the day passes in haze, tendrils of sleep still between the cracks in your brain left there by the harsh break into consciousness. 

You have Ellie feed the animals, and you start a load of laundry. The ratio of dry towels to wet is rapidly becoming unbalanced and you know after the initial attack is over, pressure is more important than heat. Sarah has barely moved all day but she is responsive and drinks water when she comes out of her deep sleep. You’ve made soup again – a heavy meal that doesn’t require much managing and can be easily re-served – and it gives you time to think. Sarah mentioned the doctor skipping town, that he had all but dropped everything and ran. You wondered what else might be in the doctor’s old shop. Morphine seemed too valuable to have been ignored in any ransacking, but often doctors kept a secret supply, unbeknownst to even most nurses for special cases or when supply was low. You think about that and stir the pot as the sun crawls across the sky. 

With your head bent over the pot, something moves in the field outside and you watch with surprise as Ellie leads one of the cows, Fauna, out of the barn. Through the rippled glass, you watch her talking to the cow, her face scrunched up in concentration, and shockingly, Fauna appears interested, her big ears flicking back and forth. But Ellie leads her only a little bit from the barn, in the grass but visible from the house. She drops to her knees and takes out a wooden stake and a hammer — nevermind where she found those – and then ties Fauna’s lead rope to top of the stake sticking out of the ground.

Ellie wags her finger, her back to the window, her stance very serious. You smile to yourself and to Anna as she marches back inside and shortly returns with Flora, the other cow, to do the same. She gives them both a stern talking to, as evident by her hands on her hips, before turning back to the house. You glance down, knowing she wouldn’t appreciate it if you saw her babysitting the cows. It was what Joel did every morning – let the cows out to graze – but she did it in her own Ellie way: on a smaller scale and perhaps with a little more gentleness. 

See, Anna, she’s all grown up.

By nightfall, both of you are exhausted. You don’t know how Joel manages to run this place by himself, especially with a sick child, but after one day, you’re ready to curl up into bed and never leave. Ellie looks like she’s about to face-plant into her soup, her eyes half-shut. You smile, stretching, before gently shaking her shoulder.

“Go to bed, Ellie. You’re exhausted.”

She blinks harshly, indignant and scowly, as you take both your bowls to the sink. “‘M fine. Just a lil’ –,” she yawns deeply, “sleepy.” 

“You’re right. My mistake.”

“Besides, we got coffee coming, don’t we?” 

On the counter, your make-shift coffee press gurgles, the cap steaming from the bubbling water over the grounds you found in the cellar. You eye her over your shoulder.

“You don’t even like coffee.” 

“Yeah but you’re staying up, right? You and Joel?”

Neither of you had seen Joel leave Sarah’s room all day. Ellie eyes the ceiling as if she can see right through it. 

“I’m taking him some food and a cup of coffee,” you say as you finish drying the plates. There’s a rigidness to your hands as you delicately lay the plates flat, unconsciously careful to keep them from making a sound as they touch. “But at St. Joseph’s, some of the nurses would offer to keep vigil, to give the parents a chance to rest.” 

You know in your heart he won’t take it. You just hope he finds your coffee inoffensive.

But Ellie doesn’t respond. She sits still, staring at the ceiling. 

“Ellie, she’s going to be okay.”

Those bright eyes fall on you. “You can’t know that.”

In your hands, you wind the damp towel between your fingers. They’re pink and still ache but the rough linen is a welcome distraction from the churning acid in your stomach.

“This isn’t going to be like last time,” you say, your hips against the counter. “Sarah’s infection is nowhere near her lungs. And she’s been responding to treatment.”

Ellie drops her gaze, her bottom lip curled between her teeth. 

“Don’t say that unless you mean it. Unless you can swear to me.” 

One of life’s simple truths: parents lie. 

You recognize there is a part of her that wants you to look her in the eyes and lie. She’d be angry, eventually, if your lies were exposed, but in that moment, as she sits in an unfamiliar house, at an unfamiliar table, with you and this wretched ailment the only things she knows to be constant – she wants a comfort you can’t give her. You are not capable of parental truth.

“I can’t promise anything.”

She inhales, breathes shaky, and exhales, the spoon in her hand trembling. “I know.” 

Hands full of a white, chipped food tray, you knock twice carefully with one hand like you had been trained to before opening the door. The lamplight has been turned on, but the room, blanketed in darkness and shadows, looks the same. Sarah sleeps deeply, if not well, her hand curled by her face against the pillow, her heavy storm of curls cradling her head gently. Joel watches her, as still and silent as the moon. His foot has settled, but now he breathes so slow he might not be breathing at all. 

Of all the terrible things you had seen during your time as a nurse, witnessing someone like this is always the hardest. Feeling helpless is a sentiment you are all too familiar with and the thought of someone just sitting there and watching you with your grief makes your skin itch. 

“Joel.” A formality, because those trapped in a cyclone of worry require a slow approach, easing a startled animal. “I brought you something to eat.”

Speaking, it lets him acclimate to your voice. 

You set the white tray on Sarah’s dresser, a piece of furniture meticulously crafted. Like Joel’s room, there are books everywhere, but more animal drawings, some directly on the walls. Sarah’s brilliant personality expanded here, in the blues and pinks, not capable of being contained in a single body. 

A body that seems so small and fragile in that little brass bed, while her father looms impossibly large.

“Joel.” Again, soft, but this time you put a hand on his bicep. Never near the neck, an older nurse warned you, that area is sensitive. His denim shirt is soft beneath your fingers, nearly bleached white from the sun and worn smooth from dust and dirt and wind. You think you smell churned earth and hot leather in the instant it takes you to kneel down beside him, your grip sliding from his shoulder to his forearm. With the other hand, you tip a steaming cup into his open palm. 

“Sarah told me you liked coffee.”

Slowly, as though he had blinked and reality disintegrated and reformed around him, Joel’s gaze slides from Sarah’s waxy face, to yours, and then the hand on his forearm. The back of your scalp prickles, the bulwark of courtesy shaking, before you remember you’d done this hundreds of times, to people of all ages, men and women. He seems to understand this – a professional gesture – and he takes the mug from you. With an almost perplexed expression, he stares into the nearly black liquid, his jaw tight. 

And then he drinks, without saying a word. 

You think you might have heard a low rumble from him, a pleased groan as heavy as the plow in the barn outside, but the floorboards creak when you stand up, so you might have been imagining things.

“This tastes good,” he says bluntly, voice weather-beaten. You smile into the bowl of soup as you wave a hand over the steam to cool it down to something bearable. “How?”

Despite his monosyllabic responses, you take this as a good sign. Something tells you that you’ve made exceptional progress by getting him to talk at all. 

“I got pretty good at making cowboy coffee, as my sister used to call it, before we moved to Oklahoma. You already had the beans in the cellar,” you say, shrugging as you bring the soup over to him. He eyes it warily, as if this is not the appropriate time to eat, as if his own suffering would make Sarah’s lessen. 

You’d only ever seen that instinct in a handful of parents while in the hospital and it made something wide and warm press up against your chest bone. 

So you don’t give him a choice. You push the soup into his hands with enough speed that he has to take the bowl or drop it entirely. He, like most people with common sense, takes the bowl. He has a second to frown at you before you turn away to Sarah. 

“And I suspect they were hidden down there on purpose?” You ask as you take out another blanket from the basket beside her bed and flutter it over her legs. You remember stories about the women working with Elizabeth Kenny filling quilts with rocks or beans, anything with weight, and putting them over the affected limbs of polio patients. The compress soothed the ache. 

Sarah snores gently in her sleep as her father behind you laughs, a soft rush of air from his nose, his mouth preoccupied with a half-grin. 

“I try not to hurt her feelings,” he admits quietly. You hear the clatter of metal on porcelain as you fold and refold the blankets to carry more weight. “That girl is a lot of things, but good at making coffee isn’t one of ‘em.” He slurs around the soup in his mouth. 

It’s hard to believe she’s only a year older than Ellie. They have both lost things, indescribable things at too-young an age. But where Ellie carries it in the grip of her hand around her knife, Sarah takes it on the chin. 

Polio, a disease of freezing agony. 

You wonder how much of Sarah’s inner world she keeps to herself. 

Like with Ellie, you fight the urge to brush a lovely curl away from her cheek. 

“You have a special girl here, Joel.” 

You feel his gaze on the back of your neck and you drop your gaze from her pristine face, remembering it’s not your place to look at her like that. Not like how you want to look at her.

Not like how you might want to look at him. 

Joel shifts on his feet, leaning forward to put the now empty bowl on the ground.

“I know.” By the strength of his tone, he admits to knowing that you see the bright light about Sarah like he does and so he lets you look. Your heart stutters at this silent transference and you grab blindly for that mask of noble duty. 

“How has her breathing been?” You sit down next to her and pick up her wrist, feeling for that steady pulse. You relax slightly when it’s easy to find. The beat of it is a little faster than you would like, but it hasn’t woken her up. 

“Good.” A disgruntled groan from the chair as he adjusts behind you. His voice is rich like molasses, dripping warmth down the knots in your spine. “Woke up here n’ there, like you said. Gave her food. Got her water. But she just went right back to sleep.”

“But she ate and drank?” 

He nods out of the corner of your eye. You check the mobility of her joints and they seem to be back to their natural looseness. Whether she’ll feel strong enough to walk is another matter entirely, but it’s not good to worry him unnecessarily. 

“That’s good, Joel. That’s really good.” 

You smile at him and finally, finally, the corners of his eyes soften, his brows pluck up, and he breathes deep. The tension leaves his body the way steam leaves a lake in the hours before dawn, the cup of coffee resting on his thigh. His gaze falls from your face to hers, shrouded in shadow.

“She’s never slept this long after an attack,” he says quietly. “Always restless, pain flaring up. We once stayed up a whole day and night when it got bad.” 

He shakes his head, clears his throat a bit as if the words in his mouth leave behind a mucky, sour taste.

“Thank you. For treating her properly.”

For doing what I couldn’t. 

It’s true. But no amount of reassuring – I’ve just had training, you did the best you could – would dissipate that repugnant scent of guilt lingering in the air. You are forced to let it linger, unable to say a single damn thing that would mean anything to him. 

As he finishes the last dregs of coffee, Joel unwinds his long legs from beneath the seat and his knees crack. Stiff joints after a long day of stillness, but immediately his fingers fly to that same spot he touched in the barn in that afternoon, his mouth tight from the unexpected flash of pain. 

Immediately you kneel down, worried at the slight hiss he made, fingers inches from his thigh when he straightens.

“You don’t have to–,” he shifts as if he can pull away from your touch and stay seated. “It’s not that bad –,” 

You frown at him. “Can the person here who has had actual medical training determine that?” 

Something light flickers over his eyes, so fast it might not have been real, smoothing the lines around his mouth. Joel nods, glancing to the floor. 

“Yes, ma’am.”

That single word almost splits your skull in half like lightning. 

You are immediately grateful for the heavy shadows in the room. Your palms, smarting all day, are now blistering with heat. Mouth shut tight, you don’t trust whatever sits behind your lips, so you begin your inspection of his muscles. Thumbs down, you feel along the lines that lead down to his knee.

Hard, firm, you notice. Made solid by work and toil. A few of the bricklayers and farmers you’d attended to had muscles like these. Despite the rough denim and how unsettling it is to be this close to him, it’s easy to lose yourself in the methodology of the human body. You’ve learned to read sinew and bone and scar tissue like a map and you come to find that the topography of Joel Miller is mountainous. 

“So, mhm, where’d you learn to make coffee?”

You thought the stiffness in his thigh was due to lingering pain, but when you look at him and his guarded expression, chin tilted into his chest, fingers tight around the bottom of the seat, you realize he is uncomfortable. He is made uncomfortable . . . by you. Something sharp pokes through a slot between your ribs and you sit up straighter, trying to make your touch even more clinical if possible. But what he says next, you aren’t sure if it’s genuine or genuinely meant to hurt.

“Your husband?” 

You shake your head. “My sister, actually. Ellie’s mom. We’d trade night shifts when she was a baby. One of us would come home from our second job, and the other would leave for their first. Anna said she’d never have survived those first years without coffee.”

You can hear the question he wants to ask buzzing in his head, your thumb rubbing therapeutic circles around the inflamed area. But instead he asks:

“And you . . . you like coffee?” 

You shrug. “I don’t think I ever slowed down enough to ever taste it in the first place.” 

With Joel Miller, silence means a thousand things. It’s not the way he looks at you, but the way he looks into you.

“Anna always said we’d be fine, that two unmarried women with a baby could make it in the city. But I wasn’t so convinced. There wasn’t much time for something like enjoying the taste of coffee because I was always busy taking every job I could get.” 

“Like treating sick kids.” He says it like he just found a piece of you off the ground and added it to a sprawling puzzle. He politely stares over your shoulder.

You swallow, throat tight. “Actually, um, Anna had it - polio - too. I took the job as a nurse to learn how to treat her from home.” 

Those heavy eyes swing into you full force and you can feel your stomach roll and collapse against your spine. 

“Every case is different, Joel. What I did for Sarah, it wouldn’t have helped someone like Anna.” 

“But she died?” A third unwelcome presence. 

“Yes. She went fast. There was nothing anyone could do to save her.”

There was nothing you could do to save her. 

Your thumbs are starting to ache, but you don’t want to leave just yet. You want to sit and listen to his voice, even if it’s pitched in anger towards you. 

But it’s not. His next words come out soft, if not a little bit disbelieving. 

“Where did you come from?” Joel asks. “You said the city, Oklahoma. How’d you end up in fuckin’ Dalhart, Texas?” 

You use your elbow on the thicker muscle up his thigh and he tries very hard not to wince. 

“We grew up in Boston. City girls all our lives. We had big plans of catching the bus line and going all over the country, just the two of us, but then Anna got pregnant and overnight, everything changed.”

He nods, knowingly. You add that to your own Joel Miller mosaic.

“I met the man I’d marry while I worked as a maid in a motel. He was a banker, or so he told me, and he wanted to whisk me away. We were three months behind on our rent, so I told him yes, I'd marry him after knowing him for a week — as long as I got to bring Anna and Ellie with me. All he talked about was money, so I thought he had it. What he did have was enough to get us to Oklahoma, buy some farm equipment for the wheat boom, and then lose it all in a handful of years.”

“And then we lost Anna. We lost my husband. I went back to trying to find a job in town with no jobs.” You pull your hands back, the deep tissue of his thigh flushed with blood from your therapy, and having nothing more to do, little more to say, you drop them into your lap. “Just after we missed the payment for the equipment for the second month, I got a letter from a man claiming to be my long lost Uncle Robert. I hadn’t eaten in three days and Ellie just got tagged by the police for shoplifting. I sent him a letter back and he said if I sent him our last twenty dollars he’d get us set up in Dalhart where he had a successful car dealership. I did and he didn’t and if you hadn’t picked us up, I don’t know what we would have done.” 

You sit with the hot truth of it and he sits with the both of you. It’s silent in a way that only a house in the middle of nowhere can be. Sarah stirs in her sleep, her legs rustling the sheets, but doesn’t wake up.

“You don’t have to do that here, you know.” He straightens his legs, just as quietly as the rest of the house. He crosses his arms over his chest and you think about the muscle just under his forearm, thick and immobile as sea-drenched rope. “Not eat . . . for Ellie’s sake. There’s enough for you and her. Always.”

You think of the cellar with its soft dirt, cool air, the endless rows of stored fruits and vegetables and meat, buried like a still-beating heart beneath the dust-whipped house in a paradise on the prairie. 

“But I understand the inclination.” With you on the ground before him and Joel leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his broad back arching under the stripe of white moonlight, he looks at you. 

Really looks at you. 

Like recognizing like.

A passing in a distorted mirror that might be me but it’s not but I think I know you all the same there is a thing just like me out in the world and it sees me.

Slowly, hesitantly, as if he’s afraid you’ll bite, he reaches forward and takes your wrist from your lap. The calluses on his thumb brush roughly against the knot of bone as he twists your palm upward. Pink, too pink, a stinging color, even in the low lamplight. Joel works his jaw back and forth, staring at your palm with weary concern, as if it told him things he didn’t want to know. 

His gaze lifts and your fingers curl instinctively in. He’s trying to make you look and you don’t want to. He sees your sacrifice and you don’t want it called that, there’s certain nobility in sacrifice, in a sort of suffering for other people, but it’s not sacrifice if you go willingly and despite you not wanting to look, not wanting to put a name to it, not wanting to take up any space at all, he looks at you like he, a man as broad and wide and powerful as he, is grateful. 

For you. 

Every bulwark inside of you, every foundation that you had built yourself because you never had the chance to grow hearty roots somewhere permanent, rumbles. Shakes, beneath a single solitary, rolling earthquake. A landslide of earth behind the strength in his eyes. 

“For her, for Sarah, I’d do the same,” he says. 

For her. For the children in your lives. 

Do you even like coffee? All you know is how to make it. What would you do with it if you did? If you liked coffee? If you loved it.

If there was someone outside yourself and Ellie to make you coffee simply because you wanted it. Because you were in a circle of people for whom people would do things for. For her. For you. 

The heart of Joel is like coffee: dark but warm. 

Your wrist slips between his fingers, finding refuge again in your lap. 

“I know.” 

You wonder what it would be like to be within Joel’s circle of people for whom he does things. To be given coffee, just because you want it. 

You bet it’s warm.

You stand up, collect the empty, used things, and wish him a good night. 

A noise and sunlight startles you awake. Your eyes tear open, hand flat on an open pool of sunlight in the center of the mattress, head twisted and knees bent up by your chest. In your sleep, your body twisted itself into a Gordian knot, unable to escape the dreams about the cellar ground turning into coffee beans, and the cramped bloodflow leaves you disoriented until you can roll onto your back and remember where you are. The smells that surround you. 

You hear the noise again and you think of Ellie and in that instance where complete consciousness returns to you, the weight of her is gone. Literally.

Ellie is not in the bed beside you. 

The room’s brightness is suddenly too bright, the clear, electric blue sky too blue – it’s too beautiful and it lulled you into a sense of comfort. Stupid, so stupid. You ignore the warm floorboards against your bare feet, the faint birdsong from outside, as you rush towards the source of the sound, towards Sarah’s bedroom – oh god, I was wrong it’s too late it took her in the night and I –

The sound you do not recognize, the sound you could not comprehend while buried in dreams and memories, is the sound of laughter. Loud, full laughter.

The brass bed creaks as Ellie uses the mattress to fling herself into the air. On the other end, just as determined to reach the ceiling, is Sarah. Hands outstretched and reaching, her legs bend and flex and propel her up and up. Every time she gets within a handful’s reach of the ceiling, Ellie’s laughing, cheering her on, and then it’s her turn, Sarah giggling as Ellie’s face scrunches up as she reaches out towards the blue sky on the other side of the roof.

“Oh, hey!” Ellie says, pink-faced and causal, half-way out of breath. Sarah spins, mid-way through a jump, her eyes bright, sweat peaking on her brow line. “Sarah bet – I couldn’t touch – the ceiling — so we’re taking turns – loser has to shovel – the barn!” 

You watch, dumb-struck, as the bet continues, the girls laughing and criticizing each other and offering techniques as they work in tandem to fling the other one higher. Sarah is flush with vitality, with life, with a dewy glow reserved for spring mornings when the earth stretches awake after the death of winter.

And Ellie . . . she looks her age. 

The earth has shifted beneath your feet, while you were sleeping, and a seedling has been planted, the dawn of something new, something fresh and utterly unexpected. You can feel it in your bones. Hear it in their laughter. 

“Not a bad thing to wake up to.” 

Joel, arms crossed, eyes soft, leans up against the door frame, blue striped pajamas low on his hips, a thread-bare white undershirt cupping his biceps. He eyes you from toe to head and stops when he meets your eyes. You wonder how long he’d been standing there – if he too woke to noises he couldn’t explain, rushed in here, and found something miraculous.

The smile crinkles his eyes as it unfurls across his face. 

“I haven’t heard her laugh like that in a while,” he says quietly, head tilted towards the bed, as if there could be any other meaning. “I owe you one.” 

You could say the same thing about Ellie.

There’s the line, the boundary of the circle to the place of being warm. He’s not cleared the way for you, not invited you across, but he’s shown it to you. You can see it, feel it, and know what it takes to get there.

Your smile blooms. The girls’ laughter rings throughout the house and into the sunlight.

But, outside of paradise, away from the river and the white a-frame house, from the horse and the cattle and the long strands of prairie grass, where there is not enough to eat and the earth is in its death rattle, the wind blows. It swallows up dust, and dirt, and fine sand, gluttonous. It swirls and pulses, agitated and restless and seeking violence. Spinning with the power to blind with a single whip of dust, it spins up over the earth in its death rattle, where there is not enough to eat, towards the prairie grass. Towards the horse and the cattle. Towards the river and the a-frame.

Towards paradise with the promise of total ruin. 

END OF PART I 

series masterlist | AO3 Link | prologue | part ii

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller series #joel miller au #joel miller imagine #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us hbo #joel miller tlou #tlou fic #joel the last of us #the last of us fanfic #joel x reader #tlou hbo #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller the last of us #joel miller x female reader #joel miller fluff #joel miller fic #joel miller x you #lover share your road

[tojisbbg]

𝙢𝙮 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙚 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙚

❝nothing in the world belongs to me, but my love, mine, all mine.❞  

♡ gojo satoru ♡

a/n: gojo nation, how we doing after chapter 236? 🤧

reblogs, comments and likes are always appreciated <3

content: gojo satoru x fem!reader, chapter 236 SPOILERS!!, fluff, angst, hurt with comfort, not edited.

...

"ugh.." you groaned in pain, as you put your weight on your arms to help you lift yourself up. your vision was slightly blurry, your fuzzy brain trying to piece things together and figure out just where the hell you were at.

it looked like an abandoned building, the lights were dimmed and slightly flickering. jesus, it was like something straight out of a horror film. the smell of the air was dusty like piles of rubble along with a stomach churning putrid scent.

your legs were wobbly, holding onto the wall for support as you stood up. cautious eyes scanned the area for any signs of potential danger, your heart beating aggressively against your chest wall as fear washed over you.

what is this place?

why are you here?

you found signs and arrows which pointed to an exit. so, you decided to follow them and sweet relief hit you when you felt a gust of wind hit your skin, you were outside. suddenly, a loud roaring sound followed by the crashing sound of rubble nearly deafening you shook your heart. you paused your steps, trying to breathe from the shock.

what the fuck was that?

as you walked further forward, you noticed a group of people standing and sitting in a gathered area, observing something. were these people not scared or worried? is this place even... normal?

"um... excuse me?" you meekly called out, not drawing much attention as only the lady in the white coat turned her head towards you. she had a lit cigarette in between her lips, eye bags dark and heavy.

"huh? and who may you be?" the brunette asked you, eyes scanning you top to bottom, making you grow slightly nervous.

"i don't know how i ended up here, but, i think i might be lost." you truthfully admitted, watching her eyes narrow as she stared into your soul.

"you must be one of the civilians that got sucked into the culling game then. have a seat here, it'd be dangerous for you to wander by yourself." she sighed, pointing to the empty chair next to her. you hesitantly nodded your head, thanking her before sitting down.

"your name?" the lady asked, not bothering to look at you.

"y/n. and you?" you fiddled with your fingers, your nerves nearly setting you off the edge.

"shoko." she dryly responded, making you nod your head.

you were about to ask her something, only for your thoughts to be interrupted my more thunderously loud noises, crashing and crumbling, followed by bright lights of all colors like blue, red and purple.

"what the fuck is going on here?" you mumbled under your breath, palms getting sweaty.

"a match between the king of curses and the strongest sorcerer." shoko answered your mindless words, catching you off guard.

your eyes were focused on the cloud of dust, making out two figures. after a few seconds, the air cleared up. one of the figures was a man who had black hair spiked up, strange tattoos decorating his face and arms. your eyes widened when you saw the second person.

the familiar snowy locks of hair peaking through the brown dust, gorgeous cerulean eyes that glowed, and the towering height.

your heart sank into your stomach.

what was he doing here? why... why was your boyfriend here?

shoko observed you and your reactions, confusion bubbling inside her.

"do you know them?" she suddenly asked, making you look at her.

"uh, no. sorry, am i supposed to?" you lied, making her shake her head.

"didn't expect you to. the guy with the tattoos is the king of curses and the guy with the white hair is the strongest sorcerer in the world." shoko enlightened you with her words, making you nod.

"i see. what's the sorcerer's name?" you asked, praying to god that it wasn't the name of your boyfriend, that perhaps it was his doppelganger or something.

"that's gojo satoru." she replied, your breath hitching at the familiar name. oh, how sweetly it rolled off your tongue every single time that you called out to him.

satoru.

that's right, he was your gojo satoru.

you quietly watched from the sidelines as the match continued, occasionally hearing the low tone chatter and side comments from the people near you. both opponents were strong as hell, you watched gojo confidently smirk and throw in some witty insults towards the king of curses, sukuna.

it was almost as if this was a mere game for the two.

suddenly, you watched sukuna open his domain before launching a serious of violent attacks on gojo, slicing him with no mercy. you gasped, standing up from your seat as you tried to run into the ring like it was the first instinct that you knew of.

but, you felt a hand tightly grip your wrist. you looked back with furrowed eyebrows.

"he'll be okay." shoko assured, making you scoff.

"okay? are you blind, shoko? he's literally sliced up everywhere and bleeding. he'll die!" you yelled in her face, your voice trembling with fear; making the other's turn their heads to view the commotion.

"gojo can use something called rct to heal himself, so, he won't die. trust me, he's survived worse than this before." she explained, sensing your panic as she patted the back of your thigh before ushering you to sit back down.

you glanced back at the fighting scene, gojo on the ground bleeding nonstop. suddenly, he turned his head to face the crowd watching him, locking eyes with you. the sudden eye contact made your heart stop, watching his own ones widen.

did he recognize you?

is this also just as confusing to him as it is to you?

gojo sent a soft smile towards you, making your heart leap and you could swear that you would've run into his arms by now if shoko didn't have you on a leash.

it seemed like you were stuck in a place where time didn't exist. the match felt like never ending and you just wanted to swoop in and steal gojo from the scene, running away together to somewhere much safer.

a place where your boyfriend wasn't getting violently beaten and slashed.

"gojo-sensei has won! he won!" a boy with pink haired screamed excitedly, jumping up and down as he high-fived the surrounding people who showered your boyfriend with praises.

you clapped along with them, a huge smile tugging on your lips as you wondered how your approach with him would go. would he embrace you? let you kiss his scars?

your thoughts were interrupted by a sudden deafening silence, followed by worried gasps. you turned your attention to where they were so invested, to which you wish you didn't.

"no... no... NO!" you let out a bloodcurdling scream, the sight in front of you was enough to make you want to puke your organs out. without any hesitation, you pushed past the people who were blocking your way, hearing their cries of protest but you were too hurt to care about your safety anymore.

"satoru!" you cried out his name, your vision was blurry with your tears as you ran to him. the love of your life... the man who swore to love you until his last breath, the man who stayed up late at night watching you finish your work, the man who'd cook you meals to make sure you weren't skipping them, the man who'd spoil you rotten.... the man who looked at you like you hung the moon and stars for him was now on the ground; sliced in half.

you kneeled in front him, watching how blood poured out of his mouth as his tears streamed down his face. with a weak turn of his head, he looked at you while you stroke his cheek.

"y...ou..?" gojo breathed out, making you sob harder as you nodded your head.

"it's me, satoru. oh god, why did you do this, satoru? i-i don't know what to do. please.. don't leave me. please, baby, i love you so much." you cried helplessly, grabbing his hand before pressing kisses on his knuckles.

he watched you with that same lovesick expression before giving you a gentle smile.

"..y../n.." your eyes widened as his final words was your name, watching his eyes roll back before his breathing came to a stop.

"satoru? s-satoru?!" you desperately called out, even though you knew that it was no use. a menacingly deep laughter came from besides you, making you look up as you glared at the man who murdered your other half.

"i never knew that blue-eyed freak had a woman. how pitiful." the tattooed curse snickered. you got up to your feet, grabbing him by the collar.

"kill me. i don't want to stay here for a second longer and see your evil face. so, kill me!" you screamed, making him scoff before shoving you to the ground besides the lifeless gojo; a wince escaping your lips.

"foolish little girls like you are the reason why humanity will never progress further. what a shame." sukuna cackled, watching you with amused eyes.

"please... satoru. don't leave me!

"wake up! please, i love you, wake up! satoru!"

"satoru!"

...

"satoru!" you shot up from your bed, breathing heavy as bullets of cold sweat ran down your temple. your mouth was dry, trying to process what the fuck you just dreamed of. you quickly patted the side of the bed in search of the other body who's supposed to fill it, only to find a cold empty space in return.

you felt panic rise inside of you, scrambling to get out of your bed as your knees felt like jelly. you harshly opened your bedroom door, running down the hall as you screamed your boyfriend's name.

"satoru? satoru!" it sounded more like a series of desperate cries and you got nothing but silence in return. you collapsed on the carpeted floor in the middle of the living room, loudly sobbing into your palms.

maybe... maybe that dream was real and gojo was truly sucked into that alternate reality. god, why did you escape?

"baby?" you suddenly heard the soft familiar voice you were aching to hear call out for you, a gentle hand on your back. you look up from your wet palms, your fuzzy vision making out the figure of your boyfriend as his snowy peaks of hair and beautiful cerulean eyes shone through the darkness.

"satoru?" you breathed out, hiccuping in between your cries. without wasting another second, you launched yourself forward into his lap, wrapping your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck; hugging him as tightly as you could.

"i'm right here, baby. i just went to the bathroom. it's okay, you're okay, sweet girl." gojo whispered in a comforting manner, rubbing your back as you cried into the crook of his neck.

"i-i... oh my g-god.. jesus, y-you—" you tried to formulate proper sentences to explain everything to him, but the words kept getting stuck in your throat.

"shh... it's okay, baby. just breathe in and breathe out... yeah just like that, good girl." he praised as you followed his words, kissing the side of your head as he helped you calm down.

the room was silent, your gentle cries were the only thing that could be heard followed by the sweet reassuring words of gojo. about ten minutes has passed, you were still clung onto gojo as if he would run away if you were to let go. so, gojo decided to take you to your shared bedroom since it was getting late.

with you still in his arms, he got up carefully and held on to you tight; so that you don't fall. gojo walked inside the dark bedroom, turning on the dimly lit lamp before sitting down, with you still straddling him.

you pulled away to look at him, seeing the worried expression lingering on his face as he examined your state. you looked utterly traumatized, eyes puffy from crying and face pale.

"talk to me, honey." gojo gently encouraged, holding your hand as he rubbed small circles on the back of your palms. you took in a moment to savor the sweet relief of your boyfriend in front of you, in one piece; safe and sound. no painful scars sliced onto his skin, his hair was neat and his eyes were full of life. you placed one of your hands on his chest, feeling the soft beat of his heart.

tears pricked the corner of your eyes, looking down as your tears fell onto his shirt. just by your reaction, gojo had an idea of what this might be.

"bad dream?" he guessed, and without a word, you nodded. a heavy sigh left his lips, before bringing a strong arm to your back as he pulled you towards him, so that you could lay down on his chest.

"my poor sweet girl. we're okay, baby, nothing's gonna hurt you or me. you know i hate to see you cry, y/n." gojo rubbed your back, pressing soft kisses on the top of your head.

"it was awful, i wouldn't even wish that kind of nightmare on my worst enemy. god, i hated every second of it to the point i wished death on myself." your body shook as you reminisced the event. gojo quickly wrapped his arms around you, intrigued to hear more about what you saw that shook you up like this.

"it was in this strange world where sorcery existed and curses. you were the world's strongest sorcerer who was fighting against the king of curses, sukuna. it was an intense match, you both were strong as hell. but, in the end..." you harshly swallowed, not finding it within you to say it.

"i died." gojo completed the sentence for you, confirming it from your silence. suddenly, you felt the heavy vibration of his chest as he chuckled. you lifted your head up, glaring at him through your glossy eyes.

"stop laughing, satoru! this isn't funny, you were literally sliced in half!" you scolded him, slapping his bicep, but your words and actions made him laugh even harder.

"sliced in two? what am i, a watermelon? oh my, what an impeccable way to go." he continued to joke around, making you scoff as you ripped yourself away from his hold.

"asshole." you grumbled, rolling away from him to your spot on the bed. gojo's lips curled into a smile, immediately following after you as he scooped your body to scoot you close to him.

"sorry, baby. i just wanted to lighten the atmosphere up a bit." gojo honestly admitted, kissing your shoulder. you sighed, turning your head towards him.

"i was so scared, satoru. i felt like i was gonna die, i swear. it felt so real, so fucking real. i could still smell it and feel your blood against my palms." you shook your head at the though of experiencing that ever again, breath hitching in fear.

"it was just a nightmare, baby. it's not real and it'll never become real either. i'm here right in front of you, breathing and alive, in one piece. we're safe, y/n, nothing's gonna happen, okay?" he stroked your cheeks, wiping your tears away before leaning down to plant a kiss on your forehead.

you snuggled against his chest, breathing in his scent which smelled like home.

"i love you so much, satoru." your voice was muffled, but clear enough for him to hear.

"i love you more, my sweet girl." gojo replied, fingers raking through your hair while his other hand rubbed your back.

"i don't know what sin i committed to see something as horrific as that." you pulled away from his chest, shuddering.

"it's probably 'cause of all those sci-fi horror movies you watch." he giggled, making you hum in response.

"maybe." you shrugged with a sigh, tightening your arms around him tighter as you wanted your space, body and mind to be engulfed by gojo and only him.

"y/n?" gojo suddenly called out your name.

"hm?" you hummed in response, looking up at him with anticipating eyes.

"we'll find each other no matter what universe or lifetime we enter. that i can promise you, baby. so, listen carefully to me, okay? the universe could strip me of everything; my brain, my heart, my breath, my life... but there's one thing it could never take away from me." he spoke with tenderness, looking down at you with affectionate eyes that twinkled with nothing but love and adoration for you; the woman who made his heart feel alive with life.

"no one could ever take away the love i have for you. my love for you is only mine and it will always be all mine." gojo said, making your eyes soften as you looked up at him with a smile.

"i hope that in every universe and lifetime that i exist in, you're just a regular person. maybe a barista or bookstore keeper... just not someone who's strong and powerful." you commented, making him laugh.

"wouldn't you want a strong and powerful boyfriend to protect you?" he questioned, making you shake your head.

"not when he has the risk of being sliced in half, absolutely not!" you quickly disapproved, making him chuckle.

"whatever you'd like, baby." gojo smiled, leaning his head down to find your lips. his kisses were like oxygen, it felt like you could finally breathe again. the sweetness of his soft lips combined with the warmth of his body transferring to yours made your heart swell with love.

you cupped his face, kissing him with more need as his hand rubbed your back. gojo knew that you needed this and he could honestly do this all night. eventually, you both pulled away for air.

"i love you so much, satoru." you breathed out, placing a small kiss on his chin, a boyish grin etching on his lips.

"i love you more, my sweet girl." he began to pepper your face with kisses, making you giggle.

the sound of your laughter was like music to gojo's ears and your smile was like a piece of art that he'd see in those big fancy museums. god, you're so beautiful that it made his heart ache.

gojo stared into your eyes, finding nothing but warmth and love for him. a smile painted his lips, happy that he found you in this lifetime. you both were truly destined for each other and gojo satoru died as a happy man on that cursed day when he met your eyes, to which he was reborn to find you and hold you in his arms like this.

#gojo satoru #gojo #satoru #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo satoru fluff #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen fluff #gojo imagines #gojo fluff #jjk imagines #gojo satoru fanfic #gojo satoru imagine #gojo satoru drabble #gojo drabbles #gojo headcanons #gojo satoru headcanons #jujutsu kaisen gojo #jujutsu kaisen gojo satoru #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #jujutsu gojo #jjk gojo #gojo comfort #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n

[nunalastor]

Thinking about Charlie calling Alastor "Al" in the finale. She starts it, but sooner or later "Al" is the affectionate nickname given by the hotel's staff to their facility manager. Only, no one besides them understands, quite literally.

The Radio Demon is known as an enigma and threat to all, who lurks in the shadows and is occasionally heard cackling from his radio tower. Not the most dangerous being in the hotel, that honor goes to the royals, but certainly the most aggressive, surely.

But this "Al" guy who never seems to show his face? He sounds great! Guests can sometimes smell something amazing coming from the kitchen on the staff floor, and when asked, they'll be told that it's Al's turn to cook.

Al also is in charge of repairs, apparently, a necessity in a building of rowdy traumatized demonfolk, and every room he touches comes back with a hint of vintage, and sometimes grass and other plants will grow out of the floorboards as green as on the Earth. It's a shock of color in a world of blood red, and an unexpected comfort to many of their guests.

Occasionally they hear the staff mention him, how he escorted the princess to Cannibal Town the other day, or knocked down a glass with Angel Dust on a Saturday night, or helped the little maid sew up some torn clothes after a scuffle, or had the cheek to tease the king himself about his height or hat or whatnot. He sounds like a real charmer, this Al, they sure would like to meet him.

Of course Alastor catches on, which is why he makes sure to distort his form into something just slightly unnatural and shadowy when in the public areas, partially out of mortification and a desire to protect his scary image, and partially out of a morbid curiosity on how long it'll take for people to catch on.

(she actually calls him that in the pilot and angel calls him that early on in the series too to support ur idea!)

#hazbin hotel #nunalastor asks #alastor

[thelittlestoflives]

Thank You

soooo i sort of have a whole backstory to the Unravelling the Mystery fic and i just thought welllll i might as well post that too lol!! (i actually have lots of parts and stories)

again, very new to fic writing and i've thrown in some y/n lore in there too!! it's so vulnerable and scary to post stuff you've written (again i suck at proofreading so forgive pls)

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

sanji x strawhat!reader, or the story of how y/n became a strawhat and gravitated towards the chef

use of YN, afab reader

cw: stuff to do with horrible exes, forced eating of a devil fruit, being severely injured, slight angst to fluff but mostly fluff i think

wc: 2.7k

It was like a ritual. The breathing in the room evening out, slipping out from under the covers and creeping through the halls towards him. His arms were your salvation, every gentle kiss burning your skin with love, each touch so heavenly you could almost believe in a higher power.

You can barely remember how it began. It's like it's just always been this way.

But it wasn't.

Not when you were stuffed in that barrel, just you and the darkness and the splashing of the waves against the wood, the drip drip drip onto your already soaking clothes. You can't remember how you survived it, how you endured the minutes and the hours and the days you remained in there, physical wounds nowhere near the pain of the scarring on your soul.

And like words out of the holy texts, there was light. A piercing, bright light. But unlike the holy texts, soft mutters echoed in your ears.

"Shit. It's a girl."

"Dammit. So, it's not treasure?"

"She's injured."

"How long has she been in there?"

"Why does this always happen to us?"

“Get her out of there, for fuck’s sake! Why are you all just standing around?!”

Just like that, the light vanished and darkness returned.

When you came to you were in some sort of medical infirmary, the light streaming through the windows so intense that you could barely open your eyes. An assortment of smells hit your nose; disinfectant, bleach, salty sea air, and a bowl of rich chicken noodle soup that steamed as it sat on your bedside table.

Maybe that's when it started. The soup. You stared at it for god knows how long, tears streaming down your face at the act of kindness. The trauma of what you'd just been through vanished staring at that bowl, feeling the love of whoever made it poured into it. Your body had been wrapped in bandages and cleaned, and you wore soft pyjamas that weren't your own, your hair had been brushed, and someone had made you fucking chicken noodle soup.

A couple of days went by as your body slowly healed. The only interaction you had was with the ship's doctor as he tried to make you feel comfortable and safe. You didn't see any of the other crew, but each time you woke from a restless, haunted sleep, there was a steaming dish beside you. Before long, you were strong enough to walk around. Chopper held your hand as he led you above deck to meet the crew who sat around the kitchen table.

You felt shy and nervous. Sure, you'd spoken to pirates before, but always in a controlled environment, never on their turf.

But they were vastly different from the pirates you'd encountered, offering easy smiles and gentle words, coaxing you to tell them what had happened to you. You caught eyes with a man with a cigarette hanging casually out his mouth a couple of times, quickly looking away. Was this where it started?

You explained that you're a journalist on your home island. Or rather, were a journalist. Now? You were dust in the wind, not taking any sort of discernable shape, floating with no direction, no intention, nothing. You thought you had it all; a home, a job you loved, family, friends, and someone who you thought was the love of your life. In less than a week, it was gone.

You had been investigating a cult on your island and stumbled across a giant conspiracy involving the World Government. You had written a tell-all piece, ready to blow the whole damn thing wide open. But you made a mistake, you told your then-boyfriend about it. Turns out he wasn't who he said he was, he was one of them. Sent to keep an eye on the local journalists, he’d pretended to fall for you to keep you close. The cult that terrorised truth seekers from the shadowy underworld was an unstoppable and dangerous force and he was one of them.

They'd captured you, and when the darkness was lifted there was no heavenly bright light. Just a dank basement dimly lighting up your boyfriend's face, grinning from ear to ear as he told you in laborious detail what was about to happen to you. You would eat a Devil Fruit, they would drug you, and you would be forced to do their bidding. No choice, no control, this was it. They’d already done this to every other person who had been investigating them. They had a small army now, he informed you. An army of ‘nosey bastards who didn’t know what they were getting themselves into’. Despite your pleading, he laughed and said that you better get ready for what’s about to happen.

And so they did it. They had it all figured out. They forced you to eat the Devil Fruit, and as its powers flowed through your veins you realised that perhaps they didn’t have it all figured out after all. They didn’t account for the fact that you would be damned rather than be bested by a man.

Your powers erupted out of you, flowing with such a force that all you could do was let out a silent scream, as the shadows wrapped themselves around the foundations of the building they held you in and it collapsed into rubble. 

An arm roughly grabbed you, pulling you out of the wreckage. It had stuffed you in a barrel, and an unfamiliar voice hissed the words: “It’s better if they think you’re dead. If you survive, never return.” 

As soon as the last word of your tale left your mouth, a straw hat was placed on your head, and that’s how Luffy obtained another stray to add to his collection. You became the Strawhats’ Chronicler, your job was to forever immortalise the crew’s journey towards the One Piece and to document how Luffy became the King of the Pirates. Although it was a difficult adjustment at first, you became fast friends with the crew. Robin in particular was a huge help for you, as it was she who understood your plight the best.

Sanji kept his distance at first. You were so beautiful that he knew he wouldn’t be able to help himself from flirting, and that was probably the last thing you needed right now, so he resigned himself to being helpful in the background, finding out information about you from Robin and Nami and incorporating it into his cooking. But the two of you were like magnets, unexplainably drawn to one another and soon neither of you would be able to stay away.

You were ripped from your nightmare with such force that you shot upright, sweat dripping down your back. It was the same as always, but tonight you didn’t want to wake up Robin with your tears.

And that’s how you found yourself in the kitchen, face-to-face with a certain chef. He tried not to make a fuss as he saw your hunched, small frame in the doorway, tear-stained cheeks and sleepy eyes. Really, he did. But he’s only a man, after all. He gave you a warm hug and sat you down, making his own special sleepy tea (“I promise you, you will be knocked out after this. No bad dreams for our sweet Chronicler!”).

“I meant to say thank you,” you said quietly as you sipped your tea.

He arched an eyebrow, a gentle blush on his cheeks. “For?”

“The food. When I was in the infirmary, your food made me feel…” you trail off, suddenly embarrassed. 

“Made you feel what?”

You look up at him, an amused expression on his face. 

“Your chicken noodle soup made me cry,” you admit softly. “It was the first thing I saw when I woke up, and it’s my comfort food. And I cried. I was so touched that I forgot everything else. I can’t thank you enough for that. I could’ve lost my mind, but that small act grounded me.”

The blush was no longer gentle but furious as his eyes diverted from your face. “Ah. Well, it’s an honour to cook for a pretty girl like you, and even more so that it makes you feel something. So really, I should thank you for your high praises.” 

Your mouth twitched into a smile. “No, thank you!”

His mouth echoed yours. “No, no, thank you!”

And you continued like that, thanking each other more and more dramatically through laughs. The silliness wore off, and Sanji’s face turned slightly more serious.

“Look, I wanted to say something to you too,” he began. “I’m sorry that your ex betrayed you like that. No beautiful lady should ever have to suffer at the hands of a man, much less a man who should love her.”

You blink, suddenly remembering why it was you were here in the first place.

“It’s okay,” you say with a small shrug. “Well, no, it’s not okay but… I dunno. What else can I say? ‘My ex gave me up to an evil cult and altered my life forever and because of him my family think I’m dead and I didn’t even get the t-shirt’? I appreciate that though. I appreciate all of you.”

He blew air out of his nose softly as you tried to make light of what was clearly a horrific situation. 

“Well, if you ever need to talk, I’m here for you.” “Thank you, Sanji, same goes for you,” you smile.

He grins back. “No, no, no. Thank you!” 

You laugh and lightly hit his arm. “Cut it out or we’ll be here all night!”

His grin widens. “Maybe that’s what I’m trying to do.”

And maybe that’s where it starts. Those late nights in the kitchen when you both couldn’t sleep, sharing easy conversations and trying to make the other laugh. Warm mugs of tea and knees touching each other under the table. A bubble you created with just the two of you, a sacred space, with none the wiser as to these secret meetings of yours.

It would become routine for a couple of weeks. The nightmares jolt you awake, so you pad through to the kitchen for tea, smiles, and chats. 

“You know, I reckon you’re the beating heart of this crew,” you say as you blow on your tea to cool it down.

Sanji scoffs in derision. 

“No, I’m serious! If Luffy is the soul, then you’re the heart. I see everything you do for the crew, Sanj. You’ve got a kind soul.”

You wished you could frame the look on his face to cherish forever. A mix of gratitude, embarrassment, confusion, denial, and something else. Something you couldn’t quite place. 

“In saying that,” you continue, sipping on the now-cool beverage. “You look tired. If you’re looking after everyone else, who’s looking after you?”

He froze.

Your eyes are trained on his. “Look, there’s a reason we’re both here in the dead of night. You can’t sleep either, can you?” 

He looks down.

“Let me in, Sanj. Let me look after you.”

And he does. He tells you everything, and now the bond runs so deep you’re afraid. After all, the last person you fell in love with lied about it and broke your heart. You couldn’t take much more. But this was different, somehow.

Maybe it started the first night you slept in his arms. 

It was just a normal night. As usual, a nightmare ripped you from sleep. It was a particularly bad one this time, your cheeks wet with tears as you made your way to the kitchen. But when you got there, the lights were off. Panic clawed up through your chest. You’d come to rely upon the chef in the dead of night, and now that he wasn’t here, you were scared to face your demons alone. So, fuck it, you thought. I’ll just go to him.

The men’s quarters were loud. Zoro’s snores cracked through the room, and general grunts and smells and sleepy noises were prevalent, but it didn’t matter. He was there, and he would make you feel okay again.

And once you’d crawled in beside him, and his arms automatically wrapped around you, you knew that there was no going back. You woke up in your own bed, having slept soundly for the first time in weeks.

That night when you met in the kitchen, there was a slight awkwardness that hadn’t been there before.

He cleared his throat. “Did you, uh, did you sleep okay last night?”

“I did. Best I have in a while, really. I’m so sorry if I overstepped or-”

“No! No, I’m sorry for not being here at our usual time-”

“Don’t be stupid!”

“Thank you for-”

“Thank you for-”

You both stopped and he cleared his throat again, cheeks bright red.

“Well, honestly? That’s the best I’ve slept in a while too. So, thanks. And I…” He paused as if building up some courage. “I wondered if you would maybe want to… Do it again sometime. But, you don’t have to and I don’t want you to feel like I’m coming on to you because I know you don’t want, like, romance or anything because of the situation with your ex and-” He began to ramble anxiously, bringing a small smile to your lips.

“Sanji, Sanji, stop! It’s okay! I… I would like that a lot. And so thank you.”

He stopped blabbering and clasped his hands together. “Really?” There was a sparkle in his eyes.

“Really,” you nodded. 

You both built a little routine together. If Sanji wasn’t already in the kitchen, then you’d go to him. Otherwise, you’d meet in the kitchen for your cup of tea, before retiring to his hammock in the men’s quarters. The noises of the sleeping crew around you didn’t bother you at all as you lay entwined in Sanji’s long arms.

One night, you made your way into the kitchen and stopped quietly in the doorway. Sanji had fallen asleep at the table waiting for you. You took in his sleeping figure, the way his sleep shirt clung to his arms and revealed some of his chest. His face was relaxed and peaceful, and god, was it beautiful. Shit, you thought. I’m in way too deep now.

You gently woke him up, and the look in his eyes when he saw your face sent your stomach dropping and mind shortcircuiting. 

“It’s you,” he whispered.

You nodded. “It’s me, Sanj. Let’s go to bed, hmm?”

He had that look on his face again, the one from before when you couldn’t figure it out. But now? Now you knew what it was. It was love. It was adoration. It was ‘you’re my comfort, my safety, you feel like home and I’m at peace’. He stood up and pulled you to his chest, groaning softly as he rested his chin on top of your head. You looked up at him, fondness in your eyes.

“Sanj?” You whispered.

“Yes, my darling YN?” His sleepy voice and eyes were too much. You stood up on your tiptoes and pressed a soft, swift kiss to his lips.

He stiffened, eyes wide. 

“Are you sure?” He whispered. 

You nodded.

His face brightened and burst into a lovesick grin, one hand settling at your waist, the other snaking up to hold the back of your head. He nudged his nose against yours as your lips met, the world melting around you both. He pulled back and rested his forehead against yours.

“I want to promise something to you right now,” he murmured. “I promise to protect you, to keep you safe, I promise I will never do anything that could possibly hurt you, and I will hunt down anyone who does. Thank you, YN, for showing me what love could be.”

“No, Sanj… Thank you for showing me.”

His eyes were brimming with tears too, but he laughed softly, unable to resist the urge to say:

“No, no. Thank you.” 

And with that, you went to the safety of Sanji’s hammock, entangled with one another as you pressed burning kisses to each others’ skin, his heavenly touch making you forget what life was like without him. You don’t know exactly when it started, but you know this will never end.

#one piece #sanji oneshot #sanji drabble #sanji x reader #sanji x yn #sanji x y/n #vinsmoke sanji x reader #blackleg sanji x reader #vinsmoke sanji x y/n #vinsmoke sanji x you #sanji x you #op x reader #one piece x reader #strawhat reader #vinsmoke sanji x yn #vinsmoke sanji #my writing

[llamagoddessofficial]

Have you ever done a full Mafiatale au for the boys? Not just Hit but MF Sans, Red, and Skull?

OUP

Just three mafia guys. Lookin for love.

Sans: Pretty lies.

... Maybe you like that. Maybe you like that he gives you something gentler to believe. Maybe you like that he washes his hands before he ever gets home. Maybe you like that he tells you he's a boring banker, he never lets you even suspect his darker side, he never smells of dust or gunpowder. He just offers you comforts, normalcy, love... he just wants to keep you safe. His eyelights look harmless, his grin looks soft. Who, him? In the mob? Look at him, darling, he can barely tie his own tie before work without you. What a silly question. Let's go get Grillby's.

Sans will do anything to keep his darling safe, and in the dark. His love language is lies.

Red: If Sans is pretty lies, Red is the scary truth. He despises the thought of lying to the one he loves and he makes no effort to hide how dangerous his life is- he flaunts it, he wears it on his sleeve. Being with him is flashy and exciting... but no matter how gentle he is with you, it can still be damn frightening. Especially when you, as his partner and a new member of his family, get a front-row seat to just how violent he can be.

With him, there's a lot to fear. But you'll never have to be afraid he's hiding anything from you. Red is the only one you could actually reasonably leave, if you really wanted to; as heartbroken as he'd be losing the love of his life, he understands if his life is too much. If you genuinely expressed a desire to return to normalcy, he'd do everything in his power to ensure you were free. You'd never even catch a glimpse of his world again.

Skull: ... He has the dirtiest hands of the group. As much as the other skeletons like to posture, everyone has heard the stories about Skull... and everyone gives him more than enough room. No matter who you're affiliated with, you simply don't fuck around with Skull.

... He loves intensely, and he loves forever. But he hasn't got the confidence to truly pursue, because he's terrified of scaring you. He really believes that nobody as lovely as you could ever be anything other than horrified at his attentions. His bad habit of trying to buy love often shines through- constantly giving pretty things whenever he believes his looks, words (and worth) fail him. Outfits, jewels, access to exclusive places, anything and everything to do with your hobbies. He tried to approach you, and you looked frightened? Enjoy three month's rent already being mysteriously paid off.

His hope is that if he piles enough nice things on you, you'll be too distracted to think about leaving him. He's not exactly got the ability to sweep you off your feet... but he's not got the ability to ever let go, either.

#llamagines #mafia au #skull: h-hi #mc: [visibly nervous] Hi? #skull: (drops a full binder of first gen collector's edition pokemon cards into her lap) bye #mc: ?????????

[emeraldbloodcrown]

ONCE MORE

Chapter: Prologue - Nostalgic Fires Pairing: Poly; Tattoo Artists!141 x Baker!Female Reader Summary: You arrive in your hometown after over ten years of being gone, jobless but with your best friend and a letter from your grandmother asking for your help. Content/Warning: Don't think any yet. Lots of talk about a better past, unfair treatment at work and having someone's life work destroyed by a fire Word Count: 3k+

Childhoods had a way of making our past seem magical, both secluded and free-ranging, like finding an entire world hidden in your backyard. It seemed so colorful, so joyous, that the adult life you had been anticipating so much at the time, had no chance but to feel bleak and grey next to it.

You assume that it was like that for everyone but it still felt more so for you. Growing up had felt so much more fulfilling than anyhting after your 16th birthday, and it wasn't just due to being a child. No, your grandmother had a big part in that.

The one thing you remembered the most about her was how hardworking she had been through all of your time with her but she had never been unkind towards you or rejected your need for attention. No matter how busy she got, she would simply dust off her flour covered hands on her apron, bent down and lift you up with a smile, telling you off what she was preparing and how she was doing it.

Or she would sit you on the counter behind the display of her delicious smelling goods, while she chatted with her customers, often using you to charm them into buying more than they had planned to, and her sneaking you a Brezel or a muffin as thanks.

When you got older, she let you help her in the kitchen while you talked her ear off about whatever you liked, her humming occassionally but when you felt unheard and stopped, to which she always said the same thing.

'Now don't get shy on me, dear, keep talking.'

Often being able to ask you a question about a specific detail, surprising you when you had been so sure, she was too busy with her own tasks to listen to you at all.

You loved being with her, loved the hard work she shared with you and with what ease she was able to pull it off; her smile ever present on her red-painted lips, with a happy tune falling from them.

As a child, she looked breath-taking to you.

As an adult, she looked downright impossible.

You couldn't recall a single day she was not wearing an luxury suit or dress with heels and expensive jewelry, makup on her face and her hair in an extravagant updo. She was stunning every day, but her work demanded she be on her feet for long hours, so everything about her, seemed so impractical now.

Of course, some people say that they feel more comfortable in heels, especially after years of use, and while you liked to wear them too, no money on this world could ever make you wear them to work, so you were especially glad that you also weren't allowed to wear them.

After your 16th birthday, your grandmother and her bakery had only been a distant memory. Your parents choosing to exchange the quiet and homey small town life for the big city, bustling with people and always so busy.

The change was drastic and even after all these years, felt a little traumatic: to be ripped away from your home, from your friends and familiar circles, being forced to start new and find a place among strangers who have known each other for years.

It was hard and you still felt a little bitter that you weren't allowed to stay the year and couple months it would've taken for you to graduate with your friends. But as much as you disliked it at first, being in the city offered you an easy way into your adult life, finding your place as a worker and after some struggling lead you to what would be your job for the foreseeable future.

Three short but also long and hard years later, you're employed as a nurse for elderly, certificate under your belt, new best friend from your training by your side, and ready to provide for your residents as best as you could.

But the excitement and vigor you had started your job with, soon fizzled out, killed off by the reality of what seemed to be expected by everyone working in that particular nursing home.

Sure, treating patients was always a hard, often very thankless, job but checking in with your former classmates proved that your facility was eager to take the cake.

The staff crisis, that had already existed when you and Anna got hired, had only gotten worse and resulted in quality and nursing management almost begging you to make the impossible choice of either leaving your colleague alone for a full night shift or going against the law and covering when you've already been working more than half of the late shift of the same day.

With that crisis, naturally, also come the vicious cycle of the few people they had on staff being severely overworked. That made them more prone to accidents or falling ill, which added onto the stress of nurses needing to cover the shifts of the sick person, of management trying to keep the ship afloat, and of residents who grew unsatisfied because they didn't receive the care they paid so much of their hard-earned money for. Not to mention that the sick person often had to deal with some backlash and the accusations of whether or not they really had it as bad as they said.

All of that fostered a horrible environment, which brought you and Anna to make a pact one night after too many wines: both of you would be checking in with each other when either one of you was stressed, using 1 - 10 to gauge the severity, and as long as one of you was alright, the other would be supportive. But should both of you arrive at a 10, you'd immediately go looking for a new job.

Now there had been many occassions where you both were angry enough to throw the towel but that was mostly blowing off steam than being serious about it. Until, after 7 years of working in this 'hell hole', as Anna called it, you got serious.

Coming to work, both of you had already been chewed out for things beyond your control: Anna for not treating a resident who vehemently, and often violently, denied the care, and you for trusting that colleagues twice your age were doing their jobs right and didn't need to be supervised.

And it only got worse from then on.

To Anna's already high work load, came several more tasks; predominately tasks that routinely had been the early shift's responsibility and now all of a sudden were demanded to be done by her and finished in this shift, if she didn't want to face repercussions.

While you were greeted with a bunch of paper work, most so poorly documentated that you had to hunt down residents and family to actually get an idea of what happened, chaining you to the computer and growing increasingly frustrated with your colleagues for letting you walk into the knives of management and relatives because, apparently, they had been told that you were in charge of these things all along, when you were just the idiot picking up after them.

By the time, Anna came to the office, her scrubs were clinging to her body, both from water and sweat, her face was flushed and her hair a mess from all the times she must've run her fingers through - a nervous habit she never could stop when she was stressed.

On the other hand, you were surrounded by all of your resident's medication, checking to see if it all was up to date with their plan. Which was something that should've happened weeks ago but got pushed because it was boring work, until it hit you to get it done before the inspection in two days.

So when Anna came to you, you were sitting on the floor, plans and medication, both valid and expired, caging you in, cussing harshly under your breath as you tried to get control of the situation.

She watched you for a moment, exhaustion delaying her thinking before she snapped out of her perplexion.

"I need a check-in."

"Huh?" You questioned brashly, too caught up in your thoughts before your brain actually understood what she had said, and your angry expression sobered up. You put the papers to the side and turned to her, giving her your full attention.

"Alright. On three. One. Two. Three."

"Ten"

"Ten"

Registering what you both had said, you looked at each other with a mixture of shock and sorrow. Seven years of hard work, of enduring things, and taking care of people who didn't want your help. But also seven years of improving or maintaining life quality, of presents from relatives to somehow show their gratitude after their loved ones' passing, and of residents treating and caring for you like family.

There had been so many days that had made every bad one seem worth, but lately they had become a rarity. The stress you took each shift too great to be relieved after work or good sleep and going to work had your steps filled with doom, instead of the purpose and pride they had when you both started.

"So it's time?" Anna asked, her voice too timid for her usual demeanor. You both knew this day would come but to see it arrive, see it drop down onto your conscious with its heavy finality and seal this chapter of your lives? That was something else.

You took a shaky breath, casting your eyes down to your hands, a small tremor in them.

"I guess so.."

"And what now?"

Yeah, what now, indeed.

The answer came faster than you had expected. As loving as your upbringing with your grandmother had been, with your parents taking you to the big city and their divorce that followed soon after, the contact to your grandmother slowed immensely until it fully stopped just a couple years ago.

The more surprising it was for her to reach out all of a sudden, asking for your help after a fire had claimed most of her pride and joy, and she needed your help trying to get it back to its former glory so it could be sold before her body gave out on her.

You felt like there was more to it, asking so directly for your help didn't sound like her but it seemed only right, with your and Anna's notice signed and sent to the personell manager, to take this change of scenery and see what it's all about.

With as hectic as your work had been lately, you had only been able to spend money on your essentials, leaving you with some savings. Not enough to last for a long time, but enough so that you didn't immediately have to go job hunting but could take a little while to recharge.

Once your colleagues heard about what you had done, they grace you both with the reaction you had expected: a little bit of guilt tripping, some manipulation to get you both to stay and ultimately with a heavy dose of superiority once they found out what your plan was, as if you’d fail and crawl back to them within the next month.

Actually leaving your key and name tag, like you had wanted to so many times, was freeing, saying goodbye to your residents less so, but you tried to focus on what was ahead of you.

Spending some time back home would do you good, as would seeing your grandmother. After her initial letter, you had written her back, still adamant about not needing a phone, and told her about your plans to come visit with Anna, and her response had been ecstatic.

The drive had been largely uneventful, both of you deciding to take the scenic route, turning it into a road trip and making a few memories along the way, safely stored away in your phone.

Coming back after more than a decade felt weird. Closer to a deja-vu than an actual memory. There were several corners that you still remembered like the back of your hand, but then there were others, which felt familiar, but they had changed so much over the years, they were unrecognizable.

And the worst offender for that was your grandmother's bakery. You hadn't expected it to resemble your memories at all, knowing that most of it had probably fallen victim to the fire's destruction but even those parts that had remained untouched, looked like they had been victim to the decay of time.

Instead of feeling broken nostalgia, you were filled sorrow and sadness. A part of you wishing you had stayed all those years ago, when you knew full well, it had never been your decision from the start.

You heard repeated clacking behind you, recognizing the familiar melody of your grandmother's steps after all these years, and they put an involuntary smile on your lips.

Turning around, ready to hug her, you faltered in your step when you took her appearance in. She was still the tall and proud woman from your memories but it was terrifying to see how much her age had caught up to her.

She had a wrinkly, boney hand clasped around a cane you would've bet money on wasn't hers. It looked too ordinary, too run of the mill for your grandmother's extravagant tastes. Not to mention, that she hardly used it as a walking aid, the way she put her body on it, more akin to a crutch.

Her face was papery, devoid of any color despite her use of makeup, with sunken in eyes and sharp cheeks that could only be explained by an insufficient diet. Which was only supported by the clothes, several price tags too cheap for what she used to wear, hanging limply off her shoulders and her elbows seemingly poking out of her skin.

“What happened here?” You asked, fully meaning her state but if your grandmother was aware of that, she chose to ignore it.

She heaved a heavy sigh, her eyes turning distant. “Life, I reckon. People are so busy now, a place like this is not meant for that. And I'm not getting any younger, complaints started to pile up, and,” she paused for a moment and you instinctively knew there was something she wasn’t saying, “it’s in the past now.”

Watching her stuttering motion as she took the couple steps towards you and Anna, you had to keep the nurse inside of you on a short leash, wanting to call for a wheelchair just in case, as you felt the same caution clutch your heart your accident prone residents did. Sharing a look with Anna, you knew she felt the same way.

Your grandmother pulled out the keys, the little muffin pendant reflecting in the sunlight as she put them in your palm with a tremor in her hands.

“The door’s pretty tricky, so it’s best one of you tries,” she said, acknowledging Anna for the first time and giving her an exhausted smile.

You had to use quite a bit of force to get the key to turn fully and throw your weight against the door for it to open. The smell from burnt wood was still in the air as you and Anna walked in, turning to get an idea of how big the damage was.

"Do you know how it started?"

Your grandmother flinched, too caught up in her thoughts as she looked at her shop with sad eyes. For years, she had been able to keep this dream of hers a well-lived reality, but now it had all been ripped away from her in an instance.

"Apparently, I had the stove on when I left some papers on it…"

Even without looking at her, you heard the pain and confusion in her voice. You knew that she didn't believe that, and surely, it didn't sound like the person your grandmother was. Or rather, the person she once was.

If your line of work had told you anything, it was that age had a habit to either be your constant companion, resulting in people being able to age 'with grace', or it sneaked up on them, leaving them clear-headed for a very long time until it slammed into them, and seemingly sudden, things that were no problem just a few weeks ago, had now gotten impossible.

The latter could very well be the case for her. She was an old woman, who had been married to her work more than to her husband all her life, and most likely was very lonely whenever she wasn't at the bakery. These bouts of forgetfulness could be a result of that.

But whatever it was, you doubt she would be able to rest easy, knowing how she had lost her pride and joy, so restoring the bakery was among your top priorities now.

"Don't worry," you said as you held your grandmother's frail hand, squeezing them gently, "we make it good again, okay?"

The sadness left your grandmother's face for the first time and even her body seemed to straighten by the positivity in your words as she returned your action.

"I know, love. Never doubted you. I'm just sorry I had to bother you both, I know how busy you two are."

A white lie already on your lips, Anna beat you in her attempt to reassure her: "Oh don't you worry, we quit anyway."

Noticing your glare, she quickly realized what she had done and slapped a hand over her mouth but it was too late. Your grandmother pinched the skin of your hand as she threw an unimpressed look at you.

"We talk about that later"

You nodded to her parting words and watched her slowly make her way back to her own house down the street, before you punched Anna in the shoulder.

"Thanks for that."

"I didn't know!"

Rolling your eyes, you looked back at the charred remains of the bakery, and your task for the foreseeable future. Still rubbing her arm, Anna joined you and asked the most important question:

"Where should we start?"

#crown writes #call of duty #cod #cod mwii #cod mw2 #cod x reader #john price #john price x reader #johnny mactavish #johnny mactavish x reader #kyle gaz garrick #kyle garrick x reader #simon riley #simon riley x reader

[cemeteryspider]

Ballet on the Bayou Pt. 4

Alastor x Ballerina! Reader

Summary: Who lives, who dies, who tells your story ig...

Trigger Warnings: Violence, grief, mourning, death, and drug use

Word Count: 1156

Previous | Next

Ballet on the Bayou Masterlist

"Blah, blah, blah, blah. This is boring stuff. I thought you would have done something interesting by now" Angel practically yelled at the pair.

"I am getting there, Angel Dust, context is important" Alastor said to get Angel to stop talking.

"Yes, Angel the good part is coming, I promise dear" Your finger brushed up against Angel Dust's cheek to get him to look at Alastor again.

"Fine but this better be worth it toots" Alastor's eye twitched and his smile lessened just a little, but the little laugh you let out was enough to make him calm down again.

"Now where was I? Yes!"

~~~

You had recently gotten the plaster off of your foot and you were on a long road to recovery. Your dream had not fully died yet, and you thought of other ways you could reenter the dance world. You could be a choreographer, direct a ballet, or be a stage manager. None of these options felt right for you, so you kept looking.

You often walked with Alastor to his job and went to some stores. Then you would go home to be with his mother for the day. Cook, clean, listen to music, whatever she wanted to do. Then you would go meet Alastor outside the radio station, and walk home together.

Somedays this was just too much to bear, and you would end up in bed with as many pillows stacked under your foot as you could have. Those days Alastor worried, but as time wore on those days were few and far between.

As a few months passed since your injury you thought more about getting a job. Even just a couple days of the week out of the house would do you good. Talking to other people and making friends was something you longed for since you left home.

So you spoke to Alastor about getting a job.

"Why, Cher, I make enough money to support us. Stay home be comfortable"

"Al, I want to dance again, maybe not like I was, but I think I want to teach" Your eyes softened as you looked at him. This was not a spur of the moment decision. When he looked into your eyes, he knew you had been thinking about this for a while.

"Do not push yourself too hard, Cher, I couldn't bear to see you get hurt again" He pulled you close and rested his chin on your head.

The next day you went to the nearest dance studio and asked if they would let you teach a class.

~~~

Soon enough you were teaching children how to dance. It gave you hope for the future, however, after one long day at the studio you came into an empty house. No smell of dinner, and Alastor on the couch with his head in his hands.

As you got closer you could hear the silent sobs coming from him.

"She's gone, mon cherie, she's gone"

He never gave you the full details but you knew for the past few weeks she had been extremely ill. Everyday you left for work, you would ask her if she needed you to stay. She always smiled and told you to go.

The next few months were ones of extreme mourning. Alastor dragged himself out of bed for work, used all his energy there, and then came home to collapse in bed.

Although you might say that you weren't helpful, Alastor called you the light in his darkest days.That the one good thing that happened in his life, saved him. You saved him.

Unfortunately, the killing that had miraculously stopped a year prior had mysteriously started again. This put you on edge, but as more time went on and more people went missing, Alastor got better. Although to you it was coincidence it was in fact correlation.

~~~

"Wait, how did you not know he was a murderer?" Angel Dust interrupted Alastor once more, and Alastors antlers grew longer for a moment then retracted when he looked at your patient face.

"I only saw what I wanted to see, Angel, to me he was perfect in every way. He still is despite, you know, everything"

"I still don't understand why you're here though? I mean you taught kids to dance, here that makes you practically a saint" Again a small laugh emanated for your lips.

"That's coming, Angel, just listen"

~~~

One day Alastor was waiting for you to come home. He was going to surprise you by going to the new upscale fancy restaurant in town. However, just before he went out to look for you, a police-man knocked on the door.

On your way home a car had struck you. Either you hadn't seen it or you froze, but the car had hit you and you died on impact. Alastor didn't quite believe what he was hearing and collapsed.

~~~

However, you were greeted at the pearly gates. That's where you waited for your love to come and find you. When you looked in the mirror you saw your Odette costume. A beautiful tutu and white pointe shoes. Not only that but a gorgeous pair of white wings had sprouted from your back. Once this would have made your heart swell with happiness. However, you couldn’t enjoy it without Alastor by your side. 

After many years you were finally informed of his whereabouts.

He went a little crazy after you died. He killed more and more. He made more mistakes and got even sloppier. Until the fateful day of his death. He died a couple of years after you. Bullet to the head from a hunter that mistook him for a deer.

The day of his death, he was put in Hell. No second thoughts about it. He had killed many, and would kill many more to gain power in Hell. Somehow when he arrived he could feel you weren't there. He knew deep down you didn't deserve to be there rotting in Hell with him.

You argued with the angel council.

"It must be a mistake. He had only ever been good to me, and to his mother. Please, why is he down there"

They had told me what he'd done. What he'd done before he met you, while he knew you, after you had died, and how he had died. In that moment, you forgave him. Not a moment of doubt crossed your mind.

The council was horrified. You were put on trial. They even waited. Try to see if you would change your mind. Come to your senses. See the light again.

You were cast out. You were no longer naive. You were no longer innocent. You were fully aware the man you loved was a monster. Yet you wanted to be with him anyway.

Casting you out was a curse, the worst form of punishment.

To you, it was a miracle. You would get to see him again. 

#hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin charlie #hazbin angel dust #radio demon #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel 2024 #hazbinhotel

[dulcesiabits]

where the stars fall.

summary: in the middle of the zombie apocalypse, you and your childhood friend, Childe, and his little brother try to survive amidst the wreckage of a broken world. things take a turn for the worse when you meet a stranger who shatters what you think you know of the world.

notes: 11k words, author's notes, descriptions of violence, murder (specifically through the use of a gun and of an unnamed stranger), unhealthy relationships, angst with no comfort

It’s the end of the world, and your childhood friend is the only person you have left.

Glass crunches underfoot as you and Childe slip in through the broken window of an abandoned grocery store. There’s not much left on the shelves: a stale loaf of black, furry bread, a forgotten wrapper, a dusty row of cracked children’s toys. Everything good has already been scavenged by other survivors.

Like most other grocery stores you’ve scavenged, the broken fridges buzz with flies swarming rotting meat. The remaining fruits are so moldy they’ve permanently stained the shelves with their decaying juice. The smell barely registers anymore; you’ve long since gotten used to the scent of the world dying.

Childe gestures at you and then the left side of the store, before pointing at himself and waving at the right side. His meaning is clear; you nod, and the two of you separate.

You pad noiselessly down the aisles, eyes wandering over the remains of a forgotten life. You’ve ended up in the beauty section: crusted lotions, murky shampoo, eyeshadow palette spilling their candy-colored guts all over the floor. 

You stare longingly at the shampoo bottles, but you can’t take any. It’s an unaffordable luxury, even though you’ve forgotten when you took your last bath. The heating and electricity in most houses is failing, and the encroaching winter means the outside water sources are out of the question.

The dry goods section is desiccated. Most of the food is gone, but there is one stale sleeve of crackers left. You drop it in your backpack, grinning at the lucky find. 

You straighten, before your eyes fall on a door labeled “employees only.” There might still be something worth scavenging there. You pull out the kitchen knife you keep sheathed in your pocket, the blade glinting dully as you crack open the door.

The room is dark, save for a cracked light that flickers off and on in aimless intervals. There’s a clock on the wall, frozen permanently at 2:13am, and a table in the corner where employees must have taken their breaks, alongside a microwave and– lucky for you– cardboard boxes still piled up on storage shelves. You hurry over, pulling one down. Nothing but dust, more dust– aha! A crinkled bar of chocolate. It’s still sealed, but it would be a perfect present for Teucer. 

Something groans behind you, and the hair on your arms tingle. Your heart pounds as you tightly grip the handle of your kitchen knife, whipping it out as you spin– just in time to see a baseball crack through the zombie standing over you.

Blood and rotting flesh fall to the floor in wet chunks as Childe hits the zombie until it collapses to the floor. Then he hits it again. And again. Its arm twitches, and Childe smashes the limb until the bone cracks. He doesn’t stop, even when the zombie stops moving, not even when it’s just a pile of meat and pooling blood.

Childe isn’t even breathing hard when he drops his arm. His eyes are hard flecks of ice as he stares down at the zombie. For a second, he looks like a stranger.

“You okay?” Childe whispers, his gaze melting into something familiar and warm, and the familiar concern coloring his voice brings him back to you.

 The two of you try to limit communication to wordless gestures and hand signals when you’re traveling outside; noise risks attracting zombies. “I’m fine,” you reply.

Childe nods, before looking over you up and down carefully, as if to confirm the veracity of your statement himself. He takes your hand without a word, lacing your fingers together. The blood on his hand smears over your combined fingers, rust and iron seeping into the folds of your skin.

But it’s Childe. You won’t pull away. You can’t, even if you hate the feeling of blood.

He doesn’t let go of your hand the whole time the two of you carefully make your way out of the grocery store, slinking down streets, sticking to the shadows and pausing to listen to the shuffle of undead feet. You keep a grip on your kitchen knife and Childe’s hand never strays far from his baseball bat, but it’s an uneventful trek back to the hotel where you’ve set up a temporary base.

The entire first floor is a wreck, the former grandeur blighted by blood and smashed furniture, wallpaper peeling off in strips, the patterns in the carpet hidden by layers of grime and dirt. The room you’ve chosen is up on the third floor; neither you and Childe have bothered to venture farther up the hotel stairs beyond that.

The electronic locks and elevators have long since broken, and the door of room 302 creaks open easily. Inside, Teucer is fiddling with a radio in his hands, a ratty blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a flashlight shining like a beacon next to him, huddled by the foot of the farthest of the two beds in the room. He looks up at the two of you, his eyes bright and expectant.

It’s not until Childe securely closes the door behind him that Teucer finally launches himself at his brother, arms clinging tightly. “You’re back!” Childe barely has time to ruffle his hair before Teucer tears himself off and falls into your arms instead. 

You pat his back, and a crackled voice emanates from the radio in Teucer’s hands. You can just barely make out the broken words; it might as well be a broadcast from another planet.

“... Gov… Facilities… North… Repeat…. North… Nat… tate of… gency… Repeat… Govern… North…”

Nothing you haven’t heard already. The radio has been playing the same message, over and over, for the past few months. After all, it’s only the promise of potential safety and protection that drives you and Childe to travel so far north. That, and resources are dwindling with each new city and town the three of you encounter as you follow the voice promising safety.

“I have something for you,” you say, and fish the bar of chocolate out of your bag. 

Teucer’s eyes light up as he unwraps the treat. “Oh, wow!” He pauses, staring at you and then Childe, and breaks the bar into three uneven pieces.

He offers a chunk to you. You hold up your hands. “Teucer, it’s okay. That was for you.”

Teucer pouts. “Well, you gave it to me, so it’s mine now, and I get to do what I want with it. And I want to share it with you.”

You hesitate, before accepting the chocolate with two fingers. It’s softening already, leaving soft smudges on your hand. When you pop it into your mouth, it melts like a dream, flooding a sweetness into your system you haven’t tasted in months. Maybe you’ll never taste this sweetness ever again.

“Anything happen while we were gone?” Childe asks casually. Teucer fiddles with his radio again, illegible voices warbling in and out of focus like ghosts from a distant plane of existence.

“Nope,” Teucer chirps. “Just a few zombies passing by when I peeked out the window, though.”

“Teucer, I told you not to do that. What if one of them sees you?”

“Why not? I was careful, and I wanted to see when the two of you were going to come home.”

“Well, we’re home now, and Teucer is safe. Everything’s fine, so no arguing. We need to head out tomorrow, anyways,” you interrupt gently. “I think we’ve stayed here long enough.”

The two brothers nod at your words, and when they do that, Teucer looks just like an echo of Childe. Same messy hair, same freckles, same mischievous gleam in their eyes. You head towards the bathroom. If you’re lucky, there might be a trickle of tap water left if you turn on the sink.

“Wait! Aren’t you going to play something today?” Teucer chirps.

“I’m not…”

“You always said a good violinist should practice everyday so their skills don’t rust,” Childe adds. “Come on, aren’t you a professional?”

“The noise might draw an entire hoard of zombies to our door,” you say.

“The walls are soundproof,” Childe says.

“Just one song,” Teucer says. “I’ll even let you choose which one!”

You let out a little sigh before moving towards your violin case, snugly hidden by the side of the bed. It’s an unforgivable vanity, you know, to carry this with you. An extra weight, when you should have a bag full of rations or cold weather supplies instead. But when you were fleeing your home, facing threats from the undead and other desperate survivors alike, it had been Childe who shoved your violin into your hands. The electricity was failing. The water was tainted. Food was running out. And yet, Childe had handed you your instrument. 

“We can’t take this with us,” you tried to reason with him.

“Don’t leave it behind,” Childe said curtly. “You love it, don’t you?”

You had grasped the instrument in your hands, a lifeline in the rising tides. 

It’s not as if the world has any rooms for violinists now, no matter how good you are at playing. Bach and Tchaikovsky can’t save you from dying, and all the concert halls have turned to ash. 

But when you fling open the lid, the glossy wood gleaming in the low light, when you tighten the bow and reverently run the horsehair along your amber rosin, when you attach your shoulder rest and bring it to your chin, it doesn’t feel like a mistake at all. Your violin slots under your chin perfectly, right where it belongs.

You pluck at the strings, turning the little knobs, listening, adjusting the pitch, and then you raise your bow letting the first few sweet notes sing in the air, before you launch into a short, bouncy waltz.

It almost feels like it used to, in a way that it hasn’t in a long time, and you’ll never feel again: you, and Childe, in Childe’s own living room. You force him to listen to you practice, something you’ve always made him do, even if he can’t even name all the notes on a sheet of music. Teucer is on Childe’s lap, too young to really pay attention, blinking sleepily in the afternoon light, which shines on you like a spotlight. It’s a poor audience, but this audience of two has always been your favorite, even if you dream of sold out stages and prestigious awards. 

The memory is painful, and you shove it back down, with everything else you can’t bear to think about. There is no past for you. There’s only here, and now. There’s Teucer, smiling, old enough to finally pay attention. And there’s your friend– the one who knows you best– Childe. He’s listened to you from the beginning, and he’ll listen to you until the very end.

Childe watches you, the same way he’s always done: face turned towards you, rapt. He’s listening to you play, but it feels like it’s you he’s paying the most attention to, not your music. As if in this dying world, you’re the only one who can save him.

The three of you steal out of the hotel in the blue light of dawn, the cold a bitter chill as you creep down the stairs and make your way to the highway again. You have a map, but following the local highway is the easiest way to proceed to your location, a manmade road marking your path to safety. Cars bead the roads in one long necklace of crushed metal and metal corpses. 

The cars are the remains of panicked people who tried to leave town as fast as they could, but the sheer flood of people meant the roads had easily jammed and cars idled in place. The lucky ones, who got out quickly, rode their cars until they ran out of gas before abandoning them. The others discarded their trapped cars to idle and rust as they fled on foot. And the unlucky ones, like you, Childe and Teucer, have no choice but to run as far as your legs could carry you.

Teucer is sandwiched between you and Childe as the three of you walk in silence. The world is so quiet now, a silence that has its own weight and texture. Nothing works, and there’s no one to talk to. You can’t even speak to your companions unless you want to risk the attention of zombies or other survivors.

Teucer’s portable radio hangs limply in his hands, and he lets out a raspy little cough. Instantly, you turn to him, a hand on the top of his soft curls.

Teucer shakes his head, and gives you a thumbs up. You and Childe glance at each other, before Childe sweeps Teucer onto his back. Teucer digs his heels into Childe’s sides as a protest to be let down, but Childe continues resolutely forward.

You let out a little sigh. It’s a familiar sight; ever since Teucer was a baby, Childe was always reaching for his brother with his chubby hands, holding him close to him like a treasure. You like Teucer, but you’re an only child; you can’t imagine what it’s like to have a sibling you love so much.

The road is long, winding and endless in front of you, but even the monotony of your travel can’t stop you from pricking your ears, listening for the shuffle of feet, or a long, winding groan. It’s not safe out in the open, and unease prickles your skin.

You pass a car, and a zombie slams its hands against the window, rotting fingers leaving stains on the glass as it claws at you, eyes sunken. Your stomach shrivels, and you bite your lip to prevent your startled cry from escaping. You can guess what happened here: someone was bitten by a zombie, escaped in a panic, but had turned before they could get very far. Still, the eyeless face turns your stomach. That could be you, if you’re not careful enough. 

In the next moment, Childe takes your hand, lacing your fingers together. You look at him questioningly, but he simply smiles in return. Maybe it’s a habit from the time you’ve spent together, but Childe is always reaching for your hand. To reassure you, to reassure himself, or just to comfort you.

Childe takes care of you. He knows your moods before you do, valiantly throws himself in front of any perceived threat to you, and wants to solve all of your problems. When you were little, when he sensed you were upset, Childe used to throw rocks at your bedroom window until you let him in. He reminds you a little of a dog, but if you tell him that, he would only grin.

You sigh, but before you can even signal your thanks, a low, broken shout pierces the air. Instantly, both you and Childe tense; you grab your knife and jerk out of his grasp as you run towards the voice.

There’s a young man lying against a car, a snarling zombie snapping its jaws at his face. The young man is holding it back with his gloved hands, but he’s quickly losing purchase. There’s a gun a few feet away from him; he must have been caught unawares.

Before you can think, you dart towards the zombie and angle your knife through its neck and into its brain. The zombie howls; the noise isn’t good. It could attract more of them– but then the zombie’s voice cuts off abruptly. It totters and slumps over, and then you see why: the young man has somehow shoved a knife within the zombie’s mouth.

“Fuck,” the young man mutters. He’s still slumped over on the ground.

You hold out your hand. “Are you okay?” you mumble.

The young man looks derisively at you, before slowly rising to his feet. “Yeah. I had it under control.”

“If you say so,” you say doubtfully.

“Hey, is everything okay?” By now, Childe has caught up with the two of you, his baseball clutched tightly in his hands. Teucer is trailing behind him.

“Yeah,” you say. “This guy was in some trouble, but it’s okay now.”

Childe kicks the body of the zombie, and you flinch at the weight of the sound. “Okay, great. Let's move on, then.”

“Wait.” You turn back to the young man. “Do you need any medical treatment? Did the zombie get to you in any way?”

“Are you asking me if I have a zombie bite?” the young man says contemptuously. “What would you do if I did? Going to stick your knife into my throat?”

“If they won’t, I will,” Childe says, his smile still pleasant. “They saved your life, so the least you can do is verify that you’re not a threat to us.”

“I just want to know if you’re okay,” you persist.

“I said I’m fine,” the young man says. “You know, do you want to draw the zombies to our location? Why don’t you both just shut up, and then we can all move on, hm?”

“We saved your life,” Childe says. “You don’t think you owe us for that?”

“They saved my life, not you,” the young man interjects. “And I don’t owe you anything for sticking your nose in my business.”

“Why don’t you come with us?” you suggest. Childe and the young man both look at you like you’ve sprouted a second head. “I did save your life, and there’s safety in numbers. You’re heading north, too, right? To the government shelter? We could help each other out.”

“Don’t just assume my plans,” the young man mutters. His mouth puckers, as if he’s swallowed something sour. “Fine. If you’re so desperate for my assistance, I suppose I can accompany you for a while. We can call it even that way. But don’t expect any favors from me after that.”

You nod. “Okay. What’s your name?”

The young man eyes you distrustfully. “I suppose… you can call me Scaramouche.”

After introducing yourselves to Scaramouche, who makes sure to collect his gun, the four of you set off. Scaramouche lingers a bit behind your group. Childe, for his part, keeps a tight grip on Teucer’s hand, who keeps trying to look back at the stranger. Neither men look particularly happy.

Maybe this is a bad idea. Still, even if Scaramouche does become a threat, he’s easily outnumbered; he can’t risk using his gun without drawing in zombies with the sound. Besides, if you just left him to wander by himself after a zombie attack, you’d worry over him. This is for your own peace of mind.

The next town descends into view before sunset, a place whose name was lost when all its inhabitants fled. A town without people isn’t really a town at all. Crumbling buildings, deserted cars, broken windows and overflowing trash on the streets: every place looks the same now. This might as well have been the place you left this morning.

A few zombies prowl the streets. The four of you avoid main roads and storefronts, and it’s at this point that Scaramouche leads your little group. He must be familiar with the area, because it’s not long before you reach a residential district, and Scaramouche nods his head at a nondescript house, with intact windows and a sturdy door, which you go up to open.

The lock is stuck, but you strike at it with your knife until it loosens. The three of you step into what looks like someone’s living room: leather couches, bookcases, widescreen television. The books are dusty with disuse, game consoles lying lifeless on the ground.

You, Scaramouche, and Childe sweep the premises, but there’s no zombies– or other survivors– in the place. It makes sense; most people fled as soon as they could, when the weather was still favorable. You, Childe and Teucer are part of the stragglers, the last few people still on the road. Other survivors aren’t common to encounter anymore, and those that are left are quick to look at each other with suspicion and hostility, if not aggression.

Scaramouche’s reaction is normal, all things considered. To him, you’re probably the odd one out. The world has turned to shit. It takes some measure of courage, tenacity, cunning, or even selfishness to survive. You can’t fault anyone for what they do to live.

But still. You can’t imagine completely turning your back on other people. After all, you and Childe have been supporting each other all this time. Neither of you could have made it this far without each other.

“I’m taking a bedroom upstairs,” Scaramouche says abruptly. “Don’t bother me unless you need me.”

“Get some rest,” you say. You set your violin case carefully down onto the floor, but Scaramouche pauses to watch you as you do.

“What the hell is that?”

“My violin,” you say simply.

“Really?” he says, scowling. “A violin? Do you think this is a school field trip? Are you going to subdue the zombies through music?”

“We could also subdue the zombies by tying you up and throwing you to them as bait,” Childe says pleasantly, stepping in front of you so you’re hidden from Scaramouche’s view.

You can still see him, though, and Scaramouche rolls his eyes at Childe’s words. He  must not be in the mood for a fight, because he disappears up the stairs without another word.

“Gov… north… natio… state of… gency… repeat…” Teucer is fiddling with his radio again, cross-legged on the living room, and the sound echoes in the small space. He coughs as he adjusts the antenna, wiping his running nose with the back of his sleeve. 

“Are you sure you want him with us?” Childe says quietly, so that Teucer can’t overhear.

You lightly grasp his hand, and Childe curls his fingers around yours. “He could be helpful. We can at least stick with him for a few days.”

“Got it. We’ll do what you want to do. But if he ever tries to hurt you or Teucer, then I’m going to take care of him.”

The way Childe says it leaves you no doubt that he’ll make good on his threat the second he perceives Scaramouche has turned his back on your group. Even when you were younger, you always thought Childe was like a pack animal: friendly and warm to anyone in his inner circle, but unrelentingly distant to anyone outside of it. 

You remember the zombie that had almost attacked you at the convenience store yesterday, and the way Childe hadn’t stopped hitting it, not even when it stopped moving. 

Childe relishes violence in a way you can’t understand. He was quick to pick up a weapon the second the zombies started showing up, and hasn’t put it down since.

He’ll make good on his threat. You can read it in his eyes alone. Hopefully bringing Scaramouche along isn’t a mistake.

Over the next few days, as the four of you continue to travel north, you’re still trying to make sense of Scaramouche. 

He has a sharp tongue, and he’s not sociable whatsoever, but he never ignores your questions, even if there’s a scathing reply on his tongue more often than not. He pulls his weight, finding his share of supplies and sharing them with the three of you. And more than that, he dispatches zombies with ease. Scaramouche moves as fast and merciless as Childe, smashing brains into the pavement and aiming bullets directly at undead hearts and spines that cause the corpses to crumple to the floor, his silencer muffling all sound.

Maybe you’re the odd one, because you can’t stop thinking about how these zombies used to be people, with hopes and dreams dashed before they knew what happened to them. Still, there’s no time for regret; you have to do what you can to protect the people you love.

Overall, it’s nice to have another person around to hunt for resources, to watch your back when you’re out, or to have someone back at your makeshift bases to help look after Teucer.

And, surprisingly, it’s Teucer who Scaramouche seems to get along with the most. He’ll listen to Teucer ramble on, and spend more time with him than either you or Childe.

“He’s a nice guy,” Teucer tells you simply, when you ask him about Scaramouche. “I don’t think he’s really that mean. Sometimes he looks a little lonely, though.”

One night, Teucer’s radio breaks, the voices sputtering to a stubborn halt. Neither you nor Childe have any experience with machines, and not even Teucer’s crestfallen look can will the two of you to bring it back to life.

“Maybe I should just hit it a few times,” Childe mutters, turning the machine over and over in his hands.

“Are you an idiot? Give that to me,” Scaramouche snarls, snatching the radio out of Childe’s grasp.

The three of you watch as Scaramouche doctors the radio, unscrewing the back and checking the wires. A second later, sound crackles through the machine, a faint voice mumbling words you can’t hear.

“These things wear out easily,” Scaramouche barks at Teucer. “Try to keep it from overheating.”

“Thank you!” Teucer throws his arms around Scaramouche, who keeps his arms dangling awkwardly in the air before patting Teucer once, his hand gently curling around his head. He seems familiar with children, and it makes you wonder if he has– or had– a little brother before.

“That was sweet of you,” you say to Scaramouche, when he passes by you and Childe. Teucer is adjusting the radio’s buttons again, trying to find any sort of signal.

“I didn’t do it for you,” he says, scoffing. “I would hate to see that brat crying, that’s all. It would attract the undead.”

“Sure,” Childe breaks in easily, smiling. “You’re big brother material, you know.”

“Shut up,” Scaramouche snarls.

Scaramouche is an enigma, but he’s an asset. It’s only when Childe quietly murmurs that he hasn’t noticed any signs of zombie bites or symptoms of infection on Scaramouche that you can bring yourself to trust in him a little more.

“I still think he’s bad news,” Childe tells you in a quiet voice, when Scaramouche is busy entertaining Teucer in the room over. Teucer’s laughter drifts through the wall. “There’s something off about him. The sooner we ditch him, the better.”

“Teucer likes him,” you say.

“Teucer is young.”

“Are you sure you’re not jealous of him?” you tease, elbowing Childe in the side.

He shakes his head. His eyes are distant, staring at somewhere far away from you, some place you can’t join him in. Childe has that look often these days, and it’s the same one he has whenever he sees a zombie and his hands flex on his baseball bat.

Maybe it’s the apocalypse, or maybe it’s always been a part of him. But it’s frightening, because he’s never been unreachable to you. If you just whisper his name, he’ll usually come running straight to your side. But when he gets like this, you wonder if your voice will reach him at all. You take his hand instinctively, as if to ground him back to your reality, and Childe squeezes your hand in return.

He’s here. He’s here, even if the rest of the world falls to ruin, and he’ll always take your hand.

“I just have a bad feeling,” Childe says.

“We’ll be careful,” you promise. 

Childe closes his eyes, rubbing his thumb over the back of your hand. “Okay.”

Maybe he’s trying to ground himself with your touch, too, so the two of you stay in that position for a long while longer, where you simply soak in each other’s presence, lost in your own thoughts.

As you travel over the next few days, the temperature turns frigid and the ground icy, and the four of you stick to camping out in empty buildings. If you’re lucky, the houses might have an indoor fireplace to huddle around. If not, then you make do with thick, lonely, faded blankets forgotten in closets. If you can’t make it to town, there’s always cars to break into and huddle in for the night. It’s been easy to avoid zombies with the cooling weather; frost gathers in their joints, and they move more slowly. On cold enough nights, you can’t see any at all.

It’s in one of the countless abandoned homes you pass that the four of you stop by for the night. You’re huddled by a fire pit, blankets curled over your shoulders, having pushed the couches closer to the hearth to trap the heat. There are framed pictures over the mantelpiece, of a blond family: two daughters, one with a ponytail and another with pigtails, a mom, a dad. You wonder if they’re alive. Then you turn your head back to the fire, flames flickering in a slow dance, and makes it hard to think of anything else.

Teucer is asleep, his head on Childe’s lap. You’re curled up on Childe’s other side, shoulders touching. Scaramouche sits farther apart, his shoulders hunched, legs folded under him.

“Okay, spit it out. Are the two of you dating?” Scaramouche says suddenly.

“What?” you hiss.

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice? All the touching? And he–” Scaramouche jerks a thumb at Childe– “Keeps acting like the two of you will die if you’re apart for a single moment.”

“We’re not dating. We’re just friends,” you say defensively, even as Scaramouche raises an eyebrow. “I’ve known him since I was born, okay? We grew up next to each other.”

Scaramouche rolls his eyes. “Oh, how sappy.”

“Are you interested in us?” you challenge, annoyed. “That’s a weird thing to bring up all of a sudden.”

Scaramouche lets out a short barking laugh. “Hardly! You two were just so annoying to watch. I needed to know for sure.”

“Well, now you know,” you say tersely. “We went to the same school all our lives. Our families were friends. But we’re not dating.”

Teucer lets out a series of coughs, stirring in his sleep. His coughing has gotten worse over the last few days. If it doesn’t get better, you’ll need to stop and look for medicine. All of you freeze, and Childe strokes Teucer’s head softly.

“You guys can talk, but try to keep it down,” Childe says. Under the shelter of your blanket, hidden from Scaramouche’s gaze, his pinky grazes yours. You link them together. There’s something intimate about the gesture. Maybe it’s because you’re doing it in secret, right under Scaramouche’s nose.

Scaramouche stares into the fire, unblinking, his gaze reflecting the flames. “So you’ve known him your whole life.” His voice is quieter now, and you try to match his low tone.

“We went to different colleges, though,” you say. “I was majoring in musical performance. Childe and Teucer were visiting me during spring break at my apartment when…” Your voice trails off. There’s no reason to look back to the past. It’ll kill you. It’ll kill you if you stop moving forward, if you think about the family you’ve lost, the stage you can never return to.

“Yeah, we were visiting them when the apocalypse broke loose,” Childe interrupts easily, continuing for you. “We waited a while before fleeing, and we’ve been traveling ever since we heard about government shelters in the north.”

“And what if those communications are lies?” Scaramouche says. “And there’s nothing up there? Or what if it’s a trap?”

“Then we’ll make do,” Childe says. “We’ll survive.”

“It’s easier if we’re together,” you add.

Scaramouche scoffs. “Sure.”

“What about you?” you ask. “Where did you come from?”

“Nowhere,” he says tersely.

“Sure. You just popped out of the ground,” Childe says. “No family? No friends?”

“No one worth talking about,” he says. “Everyone is dead or gone.”

You nudge Childe’s hand with your own, signaling him to drop the issue, and Childe falls silent. There’s no point in pushing Scaramouche about things he doesn’t want to talk about. No one has a happy story these days.

Scaramouche’s eyes drift to your violin case, positioned snugly on the couch. “I can’t believe you’re still carrying that thing with you. You might as well use it for scrap wood,” Scaramouche says.

“I am not doing that! It’s important to me. I know it’s inconvenient, but I can’t just leave it behind.”

“That’s just sentimental drivel,” Scaramouche snarks.

“Maybe it is, but it’s my decision to live with, not yours,” you reply evenly.

“It’s nice to have a little music sometimes,” Childe breaks in. “Not that I know if you understand what it’s like to do things that make you happy. Do you do anything other than glower and scowl?”

“Shut up. You act just like their dog. You’re both hopeless.” Scaramouche stands, still clutching the blanket tightly around him. “I’ve had enough for tonight. Don’t bother me.”

When he stalks off, you lean your head on Childe’s shoulder. “Thanks, Childe.”

“That’s what family and friends are for,” he says lightly. “We look out for each other, especially now. I’m always here for you.”

You really don’t know what you would do without him. Scaramouche’s words stung, not the least because you used to have a crush on Childe when you were younger. Everyone has always teased you about how the two of you were going to wind up dating, but those childish ideas have no place in this dying world. Romance is an embarrassing indulgence, worse than your violin, and love doesn’t seem like the right word to describe what the two of you mean to each other.

It’s like there’s a string, knotted somewhere in the hollow of your heart, tying you to Childe. And everytime his heart beats, you can feel the tug of that string, a reminder of someone who’s more of you than you yourself are. If either of your hearts were to stop, then the string would snap, and the searing pain of that loss would kill you.

No, love isn’t the right word at all. 

“You can sleep. I’ll keep watch,” Childe whispers, and your eyes drift close. You can almost feel the ghost of lips brushing against your forehead, but you’re too sleepy to tell for sure.

The next day, Teucer wakes with a fever burning his skin and shortening his breath. You help Childe carry him to a spare bedroom and pile up the blankets against the chill, but it’s not enough. You melt ice and snow outside into water which Childe uses to dip rags into and cool Teucer’s forehead.

The two of you have been by his side for hours, trying to coax water and stale crackers into Teucer’s mouth, but he only turns away. At some point, Scaramouche has come to hover wordlessly by the door. There’s a tight, almost worried, expression on his face, but you don’t have time to pay attention to him and his shifting moods.

“The fever might still go down,” Childe mutters, but he’s talking more to himself than he is to you. “It’s not that bad yet.”

“We’ll need medicine,” you say. “I’ll go find some. You should stay here and look after him.”

“By yourself?” he says tersely.

“No, Scaramouche will come with me,” you say resolutely. 

“I never agreed to do that,” Scaramouche says, the first words he’s said since he’s shown up.

Childe stands, grip tightening around the rag in his hands to the point his knuckles turn white. “I don’t have time for you right now. Teucer is sick, you asshole. You can either help us or keep your shitty opinions to yourself.” Scaramouche holds Childe’s gaze in one long, hard unblinking moment. You tense, wondering if you’re going to need to shove them apart.

Scaramouche is the first to duck his head. He glances at Teucer’s prone form, then glances away again, too fast for you to decipher the emotion in his eyes. “I’ll go. He needs the medicine. Besides, they–” he jerks a thumb at you– “Would probably die without someone to look after them.”

You bite back all your complaints at his tone. There’s no time for fighting, not when more important things are on the line. “Fine. Then we’re going to head out right now to look for supplies.”

The wait to grab your gear and trek outside is short and tense. The air is bitterly cold, causing your breath to cloud in the air as the two of you slink down sidewalks and alleyways, scanning for any sign of zombies. Snow and ice slick the ground, and the sky has a sickly gray pallor to it, like unhealthy skin.

The nearest grocery store is a half an hour walk away. In the silence, you’re acutely aware of Scaramouche next to you. This is the first time you’ve been alone with him since he started traveling with you. His steps are surprisingly elegant, his posture graceful. Something about him doesn’t strike you as a typical college student; maybe he was a dancer? It wouldn’t surprise you.

But Scaramouche’s past, which he clearly doesn’t want to share with you, isn’t important right now. What is important is Teucer.

The grocery store, once you arrive at it, is as dilapidated as all the others; they were some of the first places to be scavenged. This place reminds you a little of the one you had explored with Childe, almost two weeks before. You shrug off the thought and gesture to the left side of the store, pointing at yourself, and then the right side of the store, pointing at Scaramouche. He nods, and the two of you separate.

Your heart beats an anxious rhythm in your chest as you peer at the shelves, looking for the telltale glint of plastic bottles and wordy labels. You need basic fever medication, or, hell, you would even take an over the counter painkiller. Anything to relieve Teucer’s pain. Without a doctor or proper supplies, if anything were to happen to him… no. You don’t want to think about it.

You browse the shelves, stepping over fallen merchandise, dirty stuffed animals and books with their pages splayed open like ribs. Nothing. Maybe you would make your way to Scaramouche’s side of the story instead; you’re clearly in the entertainment section, and the medical supplies might be further off. 

You round the corner, and run right into a man in a puffy winter coat. You stumble backwards, hands already reaching for your knife, when the man throws his hands up.

“Whoa, take it easy,” he murmurs. 

Despite his words, you keep a hand firmly on the hilt of your knife. You’re close enough that if he makes any suspicious moves, you can easily threaten him or disarm him. The man must realize this, because he backs away a few short steps. 

He has winter boots scruffy with snow, and days old stubble around his neck. His eyes are red and heavy with dark eyebags, his face drawn with exhaustion, and his hair is greasy. You probably don’t look any better.

“Who are you?” you ask.

“Just someone trying to survive,” he says lowly. “I could ask the same of you.”

“Well, it’s the same for me,” you murmur. You can’t sense any signs of aggression or hostility from him. 

“I’m not a threat,” he says again. “Don’t be hasty, stranger. Please. There’s no need for violence. Look. I don’t have any weapons.” He waves his hands again, keeping them spread in front of him.

“How do I know that for sure?”

“Because I’m tired of fighting with every other person I’ve run into. I know the world is shit, but we don’t need to treat others so poorly,” he says, and there’s a creeping edge of genuinity to his voice.

You let out a little breath, then sheaf your knife. Still, it’s close enough that you can grab it if the man turns out to be dangerous.

“What are you doing here?” you ask.

“Looking for supplies. Same as you, I presume?”

“Yeah,” you say softly. You’d be a fool just to trust him based on appearance and kind words alone, as much as you want to believe in his good intentions. It’s probably better not to clue him in on the most vulnerable member of your team.

“Are you by yourself?” the man asks. “Hey, so am I. If you want, we could–”

A soft click of the gun echoes in the air. Both of you tense. “Too bad for you, but they aren’t alone.” Scaramouche digs his gun against the back of the man’s head. His posture is loose, casual, even, as if the man in front of him isn’t trembling like a rabbit.

“What are you doing?” you hiss. 

“Something you’re too stupid to do,” Scaramouche says disdainfully. “Really, I can’t believe you would lower your guard when there’s a threat in front of you.”

“He isn’t a threat!”

“He just wants you to let your guard down,” Scaramouche reasons. “You have no idea what he’s planning to do.”

“I wasn’t planning anything! I just thought– if they were alone, we could just team up– I didn’t have any other intentions!” the man insists, voice shaking. “I won’t do anything to you two, okay? I’ll leave the two of you alone. I promise. Just let me go.”

“And why should I trust that?”

“I’m just trying to survive! Come on, man. You know how it is these days.”

“I know exactly how it is these days,” Scaramouche says, and pushes his gun against the man’s head again.

“Scaramouche,” you say tensely. “Leave him alone.”

“Why? So he can turn around and betray us?”

“I won’t do that. I promise I’ll just go,” the man pleads. “If we see each other again, I won’t even talk to the two of you. Promise. Come on. Just cut me some slack.”

No one breathes. The moment stretches out, distorting before your eyes, stretching into an agonizing infinity. You might have always stood here, watching Scaramouche and this stranger, rooted to the spot, as civilizations rose and fell with a roar in your ears.

“Scaramouche,” you whisper, trying to plead with him again.

Scaramouche momentarily links eyes with you, his gaze as hard as his gun, and the man slowly reaches his hand down– towards his pocket? You can’t tell– you don’t know what he’s doing– and then – before you can say or do anything at all– Scaramouche’s trigger finger flicks and, in the next instant, the man is falling, blood spraying from his head in a wine-red arc, and it’s sickening how graceful the spill is, how the calm the man looks as his eyelids flutter and his mouth slackens, and Scaramouche is quietly slipping his gun back into the holster on his belt.

You couldn’t hear the sound of a gunshot at all. His silencer must have been on. And that’s the worst part, really, how easy it is. How quickly death passes, in seconds, like a butterfly alighting on a branch before flying away again.

This is the way the world is, and you want to cry or laugh or scream, but nothing comes out of your throat at all.

There’s blood. Warm and wet. Spreading in a pool by your feet. The man has fallen down, face first, and his wounds gapes open at you. You don’t even know his name.

Scaramouche crouches down by the man, digging into his coat pockets, before pulling out a switchblade. He flicks the blade out, his smile ghostly in the silver reflection.

“Knew it,” he whispers. “This fucker was reaching for this.”

The moment breaks, and you grab Scaramouche by his jacket, slamming him against a metal shelf. Your breath is heavy and fast, and you can feel the pounding of your own blood through your veins, resounding in your head, louder than thought. You can see the reflection of your own wild animal eyes in Scaramouche’s. 

His eyes are dark and reflect nothing, not even his own thoughts, like a sheet of black glass you can only pound your hands against, over and over.

“What the fuck,” you spit out. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with you?” he drawls. “You should thank me.”

“He was innocent,” you say quietly. “You don’t know if he was reaching for his knife or not. He was just lowering his hands.”

“Really? Be honest with yourself,” Scaramouche says. “What else could he be reaching for?”

“Maybe he wasn’t reaching for anything at all. You don’t know that he was going to grab his knife. You had a gun to his head!”

“People do desperate things in desperate situations. You’re naive,” he says, spitting out the word like a curse.

“And you’re a bitter asshole.” 

You could tear his throat out right now. You could slam his head against the wall until it bleeds. You could do anything to Scaramouche right now, but it wouldn’t matter. A stranger is dead, and you will never know what he was really doing in his final moments.

For the first time, you understand what Childe feels when he raises his weapon against a zombie. 

“Are you going to threaten me all day? Don’t you have more important things to worry about?” Scaramouche says.

Scaramouche is worse than any undead threat. Childe is right. Bringing him along is a mistake. But no matter how you feel, there’s more pressing matters at hand. You clamber off of him, and he dusts down his winter jacket, before throwing something at you. 

You catch it with ease. It’s a bottle of fever medication for children, orange pills encased in thick plastic, happy fruit shaped mascots dancing in front of the packaging.

“I found that. So let’s go back. The noise might have drawn zombies near us,” Scaramouche says.

Before you leave, you manage to cover the corpse with a ratty white blanket that you found shoved in the corner of the grocery store. It’s not much, and you can’t give him a real burial, but the idea of leaving his open body to the air feels wrong.

The silence is suffocating on your way home. Neither you nor Scaramouche speak much to each other. There’s nothing to say.

Back in the house, Childe is still crouched over Teucer’s bedside, holding his brother’s hand and speaking soothingly to him. He probably hasn’t moved since you stepped out of the house. You don’t know where Scaramouche went when you both returned. You don’t want to know.

“You’re back. Are you okay?” Childe asks. 

He knows something is wrong without you saying anything, like some sixth sense or an animal’s intuition. When you sit next to him on Teucer’s bed, he lifts a hand to cup your face. He scans you carefully, as if looking for any sign of visible wounds.

“Childe. If there was someone who we didn’t know was a threat or not, what would you do?” you whisper.

“Easy. I would do what you wanted to do,” Childe says cheerfully. “And you’d probably want to help them.”

“But what if I was wrong?” you press. “What if I trusted someone I shouldn’t have, and then you and Teucer got hurt because of it? Would it be wrong of me to have done that? Should I just have left them alone?”

“I don’t know,” Childe says. He’s stroking soothing patterns on your cheek now, his fingers dancing across your skin. “We wouldn’t know they’re dangerous until they betray us, right? And it would be their fault for betraying you, not yours for trusting them. Besides, if anyone hurt you, I would just kill them.”

“Is it really that easy?” you ask. Killing others, being killed. Trusting others, distrusting them.

Childe shrugs. “Why wouldn’t it be? We take care of each other, right? If you mess up, I’ll cover you. And if I mess up, you’ll do the same. Why? Did Scaramouche say something to you? Want me to punch him?”

You let out a shaky little laugh. “Sort of. Something happened, but I can’t… talk about it right now. I’ll tell you later.”

Childe lets go of your cheek, and before you can react, softly kisses your forehead. His lips are dry and cracked, but what surprises you most is how gentle that single touch is, how cognizant he is of every inch of you. He handles you like you’re more precious than gold, more rare than diamonds.

“I’ll watch over Teucer, so get some rest. Thanks for getting the medicine for me.”

“I’ll take over in a little bit,” you say.

Childe waves a hand in return, and you stumble down the halls. You touch your forehead, where the kiss burns, marking you forever in some intangible way. 

Maybe Childe is your salvation, as much as you’re his. You believe in him more than any god out there, anyways, and if you are to pray, it would be to him. Childe is the only one who will answer your prayers.

By the next morning, the medicine has reduced Teucer’s fever somewhat, but there’s still no point in traveling when he’s too sick to move. For the next two days, all of you are stuck in that house. You and Childe take shifts watching over Teucer. You don’t know where Scaramouche is; he hasn’t shown his face in a while.

In fact, you’re starting to wonder if he’s left permanently. You’re absently polishing your violin in the living room on a slow afternoon, when Scaramouche walks right through the doorway. He’s wearing a backpack, his jacket buttoned tightly to his throat. 

“Do you still plan on bringing that thing with you?” he says.

“Yes. There’s no reason not to. Besides,” you add, “It’s not your business what I decide to bring with me or not. It doesn’t affect you.”

“It’s going to weigh you down,” he says.

“No more than anything else I bring with me,” you say evenly. “It was my dream, you know? To play at a concert hall. To become a famous musician.”

“You’re foolish.”

“What’s your problem?” you ask. “If it bothers you that much, you don’t have to come with us. We can go our separate ways. There’s no reason for you to stick with us anymore.”

“You want to know why? It’s because I knew someone who was just like you. A foolish idiot, who was abandoned by his mother, and then fell into a group of people who he thought he could trust. He thought he could trust them because they saved him, because they were kind and believed in the goodness of others. There was a little kid with them, too, who that boy really cared about. But then they all ended up dying because they trusted the wrong person, and that idiot was left all alone. That’s why I can’t stand you. I can’t stand anyone like him,” he spits out. 

“But it isn’t the boy’s fault for trusting the others,” you argue. “It’s terrible that all of that happened to him, but the one who betrayed him is really at fault.”

Scaramouche laughed. “Well, that’s just the way the world is, and it’s semantics to argue otherwise. The stupid boy shouldn’t have trusted anyone in the first place, and he wouldn’t have gotten hurt. It’ll be best if you learn that before long, instead of clinging to your stupid dreams. Everyone will leave you eventually, you know.”

Something about his phrasing prickles in your mind. Scaramouche, you notice, is wearing boots indoors. He usually takes off his shoes before entering rooms.

Something clicks in his hand. It’s his gun. The silencer is off. For a single moment, you hold your breath, wondering if Scaramouche is going to shoot you in cold blood, right here and right now, and you’ll end up like the stranger in the grocery store.

But no– he doesn’t even look at you. Instead, he heads towards the front door. You don’t even close your violin case as you follow him.

Unease weighs down every step. “What do you mean? Scaramouche? What are you doing with that?”

He doesn’t bother replying before he opens the door, a gust of cold winter air swirling around you. The night sky is bitterly black and cold, like the bottom of the ocean. “You know, I always hated your fucking attitude. Oh, the world is a good place! Oh, you can trust others! Oh, Childe is always going to help me out!” he says, but there’s something gentle about the cruelty in his voice. Like he’s really doing you a favor. “Someone has to put you in your place.” 

“Scaramouche–” Your words are cut off as he raises his gun and fires it into the sky. Once. Twice. Three times. The sound richots off the houses around you and into the depths of the neighborhood, like the toll of a church bell.

And then– groaning. Faint groaning and shuffling, carrying over the wind. In the distance, darkened shapes lurch toward your door, lumpy shadows that are too numerous to count. Congregants, summoned by Scaramouche’s call.

Scaramouche has summoned a zombie hoard to your location. The knowledge hits you just as Scaramouche leaps out the door, giving you one last smile. There’s something bitter curling along his grin, but you don’t have time to interpret the meaning before he waves his gun in a single farwell.

“Good luck,” he says mockingly, and vanishes into the night.

You slam the door closed, heart pounding. Oh god. What are you going to do? The backyard– that’s your best option. You can escape out the back. But, shit. Teucer. Teucer is still recovering. You can’t move quickly with him still sick- and the cold weather could make him worse.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Someone pounds down the stairs. Childe is by your side in an instant, grabbing your shoulders. 

“What happened? Are you hurt?” His eyes are wild, and his fingers cut into your shoulders. “Where’s Scaramouche?”

“He left,” you say numbly. “I’m fine. He didn’t hurt me. It’s just–” Something slams against the door, a wet thud that echoes into your bones. Multiple bodies are beating against the door, and Childe peeks through the peephole. He glances away, his hand around his mouth, and you look, too: it’s an endless sea of corpses. Scaramouche must have summoned the entire town to your door.

“Fuck. Did he do that?” he whispers. There’s an odd edge of elation to his tone, like a puzzle piece that doesn’t fit quite right in your current circumstances. 

“Yes,” you say, and Childe takes your hand, pulling you along, up the stairs. 

“Focus!” he hisses, grabbing onto your face, pulling your gaze up to him. In this moment, the only thing you can focus on is Childe’s eyes, pure and open, like the endless expanse of the sky. “I know he did something shitty, but focus! We have to survive. We have to make a way through this. Okay?”

“Okay,” you whisper.

“I’m here. I’m here for you.”

“You’re here,” you repeat, and Childe lets you go. You slap your cheeks, shaking your head. There’s no time to regret, to mourn, to scream. There’s no choice but to keep moving.

For the next few moments, you and Childe pack two backpacks, shoving them full of whatever supplies you can carry.

You head into Teucer’s bedroom next, where he stirs weakly. “What’s going on?” he mumbles.

“Emergency. We have to go now,” Childe says lightly. Teucer holds out his arms obediently as Childe helps him into his jacket, tenderly shoving a hat on his head, tucking it around his curls of hair.

“Can you walk?” you ask Teucer.

“A little.” His speech is still slurred with fatigue and illness. He’s in no condition to move, but you have no choice.

“I’ll carry you if you get tired,” you say. “Childe and I can take turns.”

He nods, and Childe picks him up. Teucer curls his head into Childe’s shoulder. You grab his radio off the bed stand, and Teucer grips it tightly, close to his chest like a heart.

“You need to put on your jacket, too,” you whisper to Childe. “What, are you going to run out like that?”

Childe smiles. “Not at all.” He guides the two of you to the backyard door. For now, the immediate vicinity is free of zombies: yellowed grass, a barren tree with skeletal arms piercing the sky, a wooden gate with a fragile latch at the very end. In the darkness, you can’t make out anything beyond the fence. It’s better that way, because you know all you see will be zombies piled everywhere.

Childe helps Teucer pull on his backpack, and you slip on your own.

“Not bringing your violin?” Childe asks quietly.

“There’s no room for it,” you say bitterly. Scaramouche is right about that, at least. It’ll just slow you down at this rate. 

Childe sets Teucer down at your words, carefully pulling out a chair for Teucer to lean against. “Wait for us for a little bit, buddy. We’ll be right back.”

Teucer nods absently, and slumps on the chair. He’s playing with his radio again, the static crackling through the air.

Childe guides you to the living room, where your violin case is still open on the floor. He bends over and picks up the rosin, running one thumb over the closed plastic cap, before handing it to you. “I’ll bring you your violin later,” he says. “So just take this with you for now.”

“Childe. What do you mean? You’re coming with us, aren’t you?”

Ever since you were young, Childe has been unable to lie to you. You know him too well for that, and you grab his elbows at the look in his contemplative look in his eyes. He must know better than to try now, because he only smiles at you. His smile is– it’s excited, almost, as it has been since he first saw the zombies around the house. You want to throw your rosin at his fucking face. 

“There are too many zombies around the house right now. Someone needs to be a distraction so the others can get away.”

“But it doesn’t have to be you!” you say desperately. “I can stay, too. I can help you. Isn’t this how we’ve always done this? You and me. We can do this together.”

“Someone has to take care of Teucer. I can’t risk him,” he says quietly. 

“God damn it!” Tears are streaming down your face, and you can’t even wipe them away. 

For a second, you imagine leaving Teucer behind. You’ll drag Childe with you, and just the two of you can leave. Childe has to survive. He has to. He’s the only one in this world you care about anymore.

But Childe would never forgive you if you do. And you would never forgive yourself. How can you think like that? Teucer is a child. You were there when he was born. 

Childe presses his thumb to your face, catching your tears. “I’ll catch up to you guys. I won’t die.”

“You don’t know that! What’s wrong with you? You can’t just leave us like this!” You hold out your hand to him, hoping that he’ll take it, but Childe only looks at it quietly. He doesn’t move to take it. It’s a rejection, your first rejection from Childe.

“I’m not like Scaramouche. I’ll come back to you. I won’t betray you like that. Trust me,” he says. “I’m going to keep both of you safe.”

He kisses you. He kisses you, and all your bubbling complaints are swallowed by his lips. Your hands are trapped against his chest. He kisses you once, and twice, over and over, like he’ll die if he pulls away. Your kisses are salty with your tears. Childe licks your bottom lip, and you finally shove yourself away from him, because you’ll drown in his arms otherwise.

“You promised,” you whisper. “So you better keep it, or I’m going to come back and kill you myself.”

“I’ll always come back to you,” Childe says. “It’s you and me, right?”

You walk back to the dining room, where Teucer is sitting sleepily. Childe has his baseball bat in hand. He kisses his brother’s forehead once. 

“Be good, Teuce,” Childe murmurs. 

“Where are you going?” 

“I have some business to take care of. But I’ll catch up to you soon.” And then, in a low whisper, tha only you can hear, “don’t look back,” he says.

You finger the rosin in your pocket. “I won’t.”

You head out in the backyard, Teucer’s hand in your own, the night air so cold it sears your lungs. You can hear the shuffle of zombies through the fence, too numerous to count. 

You and Childe stare at each other through the glass door for one final time, and then he’s gone, running towards the front door. You head towards the gate, heart hammering in your ears as you listen to the shuffle of zombies. You’ll wait until the noise dies down enough to make a break for it, when he’s drawn most of the attention to himself.

A minute passes. Another. The zombies are slowly lurching past you. There’s noise from the front of the house, but you don’t want to think about what’s going on there. 

When it’s finally silent enough, you burst out into the street, Teucer’s hand in your own. The two of you run, and run, and run.

You don’t know how long you run. At some point, Teucer falters, and you sling both your bags to your front, and pull him onto your back, and keep going, his arms tight around your neck. His forehead burns against your neck. His fever must be flaring up again.

“My brother…” Teucer whispers reedily in your ear. 

“He’s right behind us,” you lie, tears burning your throat and choking your words. “I promise.”

You keep running. You keep running, even when your legs are screaming and your lungs are burning and your breathing is uneven. You keep running until you can’t feel anything anymore, not the ache of your arms or Teucer’s weight on your back. In the endless darkness, you keep going, because if you stop now, then you’ll turn right around and go back to Childe and render his sacrifice meaningless.

Is this your fault? Should you have never trusted Scaramouche and just left him there to fend for himself when you first saw on the highway? Maybe you should have stuck your knife in his ribs yourself the second he pressed his gun to a stranger’s head.

Childe might be dead already. He could be dying right now. But, no, Childe has promised to come after you. He never breaks his promises. He’s always there for you. And now you’ve left him behind, in a zombie swarm.

You remember his smile, too, the way he never hesitates to beat against zombies until they’re pulp on the ground. As much as he loves you and Teucer, he loves the violence of a dying world, too. Does he fight because he wants to protect you, or does protecting you give him an excuse to fight?

Resentment bubbles in your chest, trickling along with your tears. How can he ask you to leave him behind? How can he look excited at the thought of going single handedly against a swarm of zombies?

You can never ask him now.

The world is a cruel place. Your family is dead. Or worse, they’re alive but you’ve abandoned the aunt and uncle who raised you to their fate, without even heading back to your hometown to check if they were still alive. Childe, at least, had the decency to want to go home until it was too late to go anywhere but north. You just wanted to run. 

You should have smashed your fucking violin into pieces when you had the chance, instead of carrying it with you all this way. There’s no concert halls left, no audience, no one who cares about your dead dreams.

Something crackles in your ear. Teucer’s radio, turned so low only you can hear. “Gov… north… repeat… state of emergency… shelter…”

Keep going.

But why are you going? What’s left for you?

Keep running. 

But what if there’s nothing left? What if everyone is dead, and there’s no one up north to help you?

Keep moving forward.

It’s snowing. You don’t know when it started, but snow clings to your lashes like frozen tears. You stumble over something hard, and you crash into the ground, skidding along the icy dirt. You keep a tight grip on Teucer the whole time, and his radio goes silent as it shatters on the floor, into cold metal stars.

“Teucer?” you whisper, but all you can hear is his labored breathing. If he stays in the cold for any longer, he might really die.

Maybe you should just stay here and die with him. You’re too tired to move. The cold is numbing your joints, seeping into your body. You’ve run for so long. You can’t run any more.

“Look,” Teucer whispers in your ear, and you force your eyes up.

In the distance, a bright light glimmers, a firefly in the winter. A fire, or a flashlight. You can’t tell, but you do know what it means. Other people. You’ve found other people. But there’s no guarantee they’ll help you. Maybe they’ll rob you, leave you for dead in the snow. How can you trust anyone else now?

Scaramouche has betrayed you. Childe is… no, Childe isn’t dead. He’s promised you. He’ll come back for you. If you die here, then you can’t wait for him. If he comes to find you, and you’re not there, then you’ll have betrayed him in the worst way.

Childe can hurt and betray you all he wants, but you can’t hurt him.

And Teucer. Teucer is right here, on your back, still clinging with his fragile arms. Still believing in you to keep him safe.

Your rosin is in your pocket. You force a gloved hand into your jacket pocket to feel its worn edges. You’ve used the same one for years, to coat your bow so it can glide over your violin strings, wearing it down to almost a sliver.

You take a breath. Then another. And then you get up, and you head towards the light.

#liya writes #genshin impact #childe #childe x reader #tartaglia #tartaglia x reader #x reader #genshin impact x reader #childe genshin impact #tartaglia genshin impact

[fandomxpreferences]

Ten Seconds

Masterlist

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x female!reader

TW:none I don't think

Summary: Who knew life could change so quickly?

Word Count:3.3k

One. Rafe's eyes land on your features, taking in your plump lips that shine with strawberry-flavored lipgloss and the mild sunburn dusted on your cheeks.

Two. He takes a deep breath and for the first time, feels like his lungs can fully expand to take in the salty sea air in all its glory. 

Three. His heart thrums in its cage, seemingly unlocked by a key he wasn't aware existed as it flutters away and lands in the palm of your hand.

Four. Your sweet scent intoxicates him, hitting his bloodstream like a drug that smells like tanning oil and cotton candy. 

Five. The tension dissolves from his body as your energy engulfs him like a down comforter, and muscles he's never felt before unwind and go lax.

Five seconds is all it takes for Rafe's entire world to shift, and you disarm him without even knowing he exists. 

Six. Your laugh floats to his ears like a summer melody that drips with sticky sweetness like a melting popsicle, and he decides it's his favorite treat.

Seven. His knees nearly buckle when a smile brighter than the sun graces your features, chasing away the darkness that shrouds him.

Eight. Your head tilts back and the hues from the setting sky dance off your exposed neck with an angelic glow, and suddenly pink is his favorite color. 

Nine. His eye catches a glint of gold and his attention is drawn to the rings scattered on your right hand, suddenly he wants to add an even shinier one with a diamond that could be seen from space to your left. 

Ten. Your lip quirks up as you catch him admiring you from afar, and the breeze that's thick with sand and hushed whispers that he previously inhaled is sucked from his constricting throat.

Ten seconds is all it takes for Rafe Cameron to believe in love at first sight. Time stands still altogether as he watches you excuse yourself from your friends and make your way toward him.

He notes that you seem to float instead of walk, moving oh so gracefully as if you're a celestial being and he's about to have a religious experience.

Your gaze never leaves his, the eye contact so intense that it sends fire racing through his veins, burning so hot it leaves a scorching trail in its wake. 

He's frozen in place, utterly entranced by the way your long eyelashes fan across your face when you blink. 

Another ten seconds is all the time it takes to cross the few feet of distance that separates the two of you, and his head swims at the close proximity. 

Your aroma is even stronger up close, and he's sent reeling as he wonders if it could be bottled up and turned into a candle. 

He doesn't even know your name and has never heard you speak, yet somehow you feel like home. It doesn't make any sense, but then again, neither does falling in love with a stranger. 

You watch him for a moment, eyes raking over his chiseled jawline and backwards baseball cap. There's a few strands of sun bleached hair poking out and ticking his tanned skin in a way that reminds you of a character in The Outsiders.

He looks boyish and rugged at the same time, and your interest is fully piqued. He's easily the most attractive man you've ever seen.

Your melodic voice rings out like a siren song that's calling just for him, and the ever-present violent storm that rages just under the surface relents. 

"Do you always lurk like a stalker or am I just that special?"

There's that smile again, unabashed and erasing any logical thought from his brain. You wait for a moment, your eyebrows shooting up expectantly as he stares down at you like he's been struck with lightning. 

Rafe scrambles for words, begging his mind to string together a coherent sentence that will keep you within arms reach. 

"Uh, sorry. You just-"

He cuts himself off and your grin widens. 

"What? Do I have something on my face?"

He's painfully aware you're teasing; you don't make a move to wipe your mouth and your smile doesn't falter for a second. 

"You're stunning."

He breathes a sigh of relief as words finally find him and your features soften in a way that makes his heart skip a beat. 

Despite the stench of stale peanuts and sweat, you still feel like you're in the center of rom-com. There's shitty music playing, yet you hone in on the dizzying rasp of his voice.

"Stunning?" You question, and he nods his head slowly.

"Exquisite, actually. Downright bewitching if I'm being completely honest."

Rafe has never used those words before; he's never seen anyone or anything that warranted them. You most certainly do. 

You laugh lightly and in a split second, he makes it his life mission to get that sound out of you as often as possible. 

It's a fleeting moment; a blip in the universe, but it feels like an entire lifetime as he studies the look in your eye.

It's a mix between enamored and mischievous, and he can't even begin to comprehend the feeling it gives him. 

"Those are big words. I figured someone as gorgeous as yourself would get by on pretty privilege."

He ignores the blush crawling up his neck, tilting his head with a smile of his own. 

"Are you saying I look dumb?"

He's used to women being flustered around him, his sense of humor usually throwing them for a loop. You don't miss a beat though, and his stomach does a somersault.

Your head shakes from side to side and he fights the urge to run his fingers through your hair that looks a little too soft to be real.

"No, I'm saying you're attractive enough that you could be dumb and no one would fault you."

His smile only grows at your quick wit and ability to match his energy. He's quickly learning that your tongue is sharp as a knife, and he loves the way it cuts him.

"I'll take that as a compliment."

You study him for a moment, pondering your next words.

"Do you have a name? Or should I just call you pretty boy?"

He pretends to think for a moment before taking a step closer. He's elated when you don't move back, and rests his hand dangerously close to yours on the table. 

"Rafe. Though pretty boy works just as well."

He's about to ask you the same when you offer it up on a silver platter. 

"I'm Y/N. Though if you have a fitting nickname, you can use that too."

Your voice holds a teasing lilt and he lowers his head so it's only a couple inches from your ear. 

"I'm sure I could think of a few."

In fact, he could think of more than a few. He doesn't want to come on too strong though, and much to your displeasure, he backs away just as quickly as he advanced. 

He wonders for a second how he hasn't seen you before and worries that you're a touron. It's a fleeting thought, quickly swept away when your hand grazes his. 

"Hopefully I get to hear them."

He doesn't miss the lust that causes your voice to turn sultry and shifts a bit as his pants grow tighter. 

"Where are you from? I haven't seen you around."

He changes the subject to something more innocent in an attempt to distract himself from his growing arousal and you tsk.

"I'm from right here in OBX, but I didn't go to the academy and I generally stay away from figure eight. I kinda ride the line between kook and pogue."

He nods his head, the decades-long class war nowhere near the forefront of his mind. 

"So I take it you know who I am?"

It's a pointless question; anyone who grew up within a twenty-mile radius of Kildare knows his family. 

You give a timid smile and nod.

"Yeah, I just didn't want to be too presumptuous. Your reputation kind of precedes you."

His heart sinks as he feels any chance he had with you drifting away. 

"So then why are you talking to me?"

There's an underlying sadness in his voice that you catch, and your eyebrows furrow. 

"I never believed in judging people without knowing them. Besides, I know that picture-perfect family stuff is bullshit. Everyone has their skeletons."

He straightens up at this, genuinely taken aback at the lack of judgment in your voice.

"And what if I told you the rumors are true? That I am some violent asshole that rains terror on those around me?"

The words leave his mouth before he fully processes them and he kicks himself. Is he trying to scare you away? 

Your bubbly smile returns and his breath hitches as you take a step closer.

"I'd say I haven't seen it yet. Besides, underneath the scariest fighters is usually a big softie that's misunderstood."

Rafe's chest squeezes, and he can't believe how in five minutes you've got him figured out better than his lifelong friends. 

"You're something special, you know that?"

And he means it. There's a gravitational pull that calls out to him, and despite his usual attempts to push people away with a giant wall lined with barbed wire, he doesn't want to do that with you for even a second. 

"So I've been told. Though to be perfectly candid, it means a little more coming from you."

He goes to respond when your attention is ripped away by one of your friends telling you it's time to go. 

You turn back to him with an apologetic smile and even though you're still right in front of him, he already misses you. 

"Can I get your number?"

He's nervous as he asks, another new revelation. Usually, he's smooth and practiced. However, the idea of you turning him down makes his stomach lurch.

"About time."

He pulls out his phone and watches as you text yourself a heart so you have his number as well before you turn away and saunter off into the night.

Rafe doesn't even make it thirty minutes before texting you, any thoughts about it being too soon overpowered by his desire to see you again. 

His heart soars when you respond almost instantly, equally as eager to talk to him. 

How's the rest of your night going?

He shoots it off without a second thought, genuinely interested in the answer. He frowns when you text back immediately. 

Shitty, to be honest. Got dragged to this party and I'm bored, but don't have a ride home.

He types out his reply and hits send without considering that it may be creepy. 

Send me your location, I'll come get you.

He watches as three bubbles pop up and then disappear, that new nerve-racking feeling overtaking him once again. 

At the party, you stare down at the screen and contemplate your options. You're really not having a good time, but letting a man you met two hours ago pick you up doesn't seem wise.

Still, something in your core that you can't explain trusts him and you finally answer. You don't bother telling him he doesn't have to, something in you just knows that he doesn't mind.

Rafe jumps off the bar stool and beelines toward his rover when it pops up that you shared your location and he starts toward the address that's wedged between the cut and figure eight. 

He hops out and is instantly hit with the stench of beer and weed, loud bass causing his chest to vibrate. 

His face scans the crowd for your face as he weaves through drunk idiots doing keg stands and yelling a little too loudly. 

He finds it in seconds, and his feet carry him forward as if they have a mind of their own. 

You smell him before you see him, his expensive cologne that smells like vanilla and whiskey cutting through the sweat and vodka.

"Hey, pretty girl."

Your heart leaps at the pet name, and you have a feeling it's just the first of many. 

"You actually came."

Part of you believed he was bluffing, but you're beginning to realize that when Rafe says something he means it.

"You called."

Something about the simple statement gives you goosebumps. He said it with such conviction; as if he'd find you even if you were across the ocean on another continent. 

You shoot your friends a quick text to let them know you're leaving before grabbing your bag and standing. 

You try not to focus on the way your skin burns as he places his hand on the small of your back to lead you away, the gesture feeling too natural for someone you don't even know. 

Rafe drives you home, comfortable conversation flowing with ease the entire ride. 

You try, and fail, not to swoon when he walks you to your door and kisses you on the cheek. You're not usually the type to kiss on the first night, but if he'd asked, you'd have taken him straight up to your room and let him do whatever he wanted. 

You fall asleep easily, your psyche filled with images of a blue-eyed man that swept you off your feet. 

The next week is filled with non-stop texting and time spent surfing as the two of you grow closer. 

You've come to the conclusion that you were right; Rafe is massively misunderstood. 

He's confided in you about things he's never told a soul, and as ridiculous as it sounds, you could easily find yourself falling for him. 

He's told you all about his abusive father and the pressure he's under, about how his mom died when he was ten, and how he feels like he's always the second choice. 

You don't tell him that he'd never be your second choice, how you'd choose him first in a crowd of a hundred million people. 

Instead, you lend a listening ear and a shoulder to cry on, something else Rafe has never done before you. 

You're sat on the beach between his legs now as sand digs into your bare thighs, but it's a small price to pay to be in his arms. 

It's an unusually hot day, the sun rays beating down harshly on your glistening skin. You've just finished surfing, now relaxing as the two of you hydrate with ice-cold Gatorade and much on cheez its.

Your back is pressed into his firm chest comfortably, his free hand snaked around your front and resting just below your belly button. 

"You know," he starts and you shift to lay your head so you're peering up at him. His eyes stay focused on the waves ahead, eyes swirling with an emotion you don't recognize. 

"I've never met anyone like you. You make me feel safe and calm. All the noise in my head fades away and I'm at peace finally."

He pauses and you wait patiently for him to continue, pressing a chaste kiss to his bare pec as silent encouragement.

"You make me feel special. Like I'm worth it."

Your heart clenches at the admission and you turn around fully so you're seated in his lap. His arms wrap around your waist as if it's second nature, and your hands come up to gently grasp his jaw. 

"You are worth it, Rafe. I'm sorry the people who are supposed to love you have made you feel like you aren't."

You don't miss the way tears gather on his waterline and you lean forward slowly, giving him time to pull away. 

When he doesn't, you continue and the world stops on his axis as your lips mold with his. 

Everything else melts away and your mouths move in sync, only the two do you existing in this little bubble. 

Your ears tune out the sounds of seagulls crying and screaming kids, the heat from the unforgiving sun giving way to electricity that sparks every nerve ending in your body. 

His tongue tangles with yours, the flavor of spearmint and fruit punch mingling on your tastebuds. 

You pull back and give him one last short kiss before returning to your original resting position, both of you desperately attempting to catch your breath.

One month is all it took to officially become Rafe's girlfriend. You told each other your darkest and silliest secrets, quiet whispers and unspoken promises in the dark of the night. He became your best friend and boyfriend, consuming all your senses. 

Two months is when you gave yourself to him completely, sweaty bodies writhing in unison under fairy lights and the glow of the moon. You would have given in much sooner, but Rafe insisted on taking it slow, wanting to do it right. You're glad he did, the wait was worth it. 

Three months in, you introduce each other to your friends and family. Ward actually took a liking to you immediately, boasting about how good you've been for his son. You found a sister in Sarah, the two of you having girl's days regularly and laughing at Rafe's expense. Your parents and friends accepted Rafe with ease, him finding the father figure he always craved in your dad.

Four months is when you finally said what you've both been feeling since week five. A quiet confession while tangled together as a movie played in the background. 

"I'm in love with you." You whisper it so quietly, your voice thick with emotion. 

"I'm in love with you too. So much so that it's maddening."

Five months into your whirlwind relationship, the two of you moved in together. Rafe was itching to get away from Tannyhill, and in a shock to you both, Ward offered up one of the estates to be your new home. 

It's your safe space, a perfect combination of the two of you with carefully chosen throw pillows and pictures lining the walls. 

Six months is when you knew without a shadow of a doubt you wanted to spend the rest of your life with Rafe by your side. The two of you are well established now, the honeymoon phase long past and replaced with a much sturdier and ironclad love and respect. 

Seven months in, Rafe surprised you with a two-week-long vacation. It's an all-inclusive trip to Italy, the time spent sightseeing and eating local cuisine that still makes your mouth water.

Eight months is how long it took for him to convince you to quit your job and let him take care of you. It doesn't take much persuading by this point, you know that he's not going anywhere and you trust him when he says you'll never lift a finger again. 

Nine months in, he takes you on another trip; this time a month-long adventure in Greece. You see the world and he buys you anything you show the slightest interest in. You're happy and comfortable, more content with your life than you ever imagined. 

Ten months after your chance meeting, he buys you a new car. He'd absolutely insisted that you deserve the best of the best and your old beat-up Civic doesn't meet the mark. You cried, and the two of you drove up the coast for a blissful long weekend. 

Eleven months is when Rafe planned an elaborate party and dropped to one knee. You nearly collapsed with joy as he placed the four-carat Cartier diamond on your left hand and celebrated with your closest friends and family. 

That night was spent in bed talking about the future, shared desires of having kids, and settling in OBX. It took you a while to wrap your head around the fact that at just twenty-one and twenty-two years old, you'd found the one you belong with. 

Twelve months after your friends forced you to go out, you eloped and married your best friend. One year is all it took for you to believe in soulmates, and become a Cameron. In 365 days, your life did a 180 and you're married with a new Lexus and a house that's more than you could have dreamed of.

But really, all it took was ten seconds for your life to change forever. 

#Rafe Cameron imagine #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron fic #rafe cameron #outer banks imagine #outer banks fic #outer banks

[spectrerie]

Your Simon

Simon Riley x reader (gn I'm 99% sure)

TW: toxic!Simon, whump, captivity, psychological torture(?), kidnapping, yandere!Simon, maybe don't read this if you're only comfortable with fluff and light smut... even though there no smut in this (maybe I'll add an epilogue or sm idk)

Approx 2k words, random drabble. wrote this at 4 am, un-betad. Let's not nitpick, yeah? Cool.

Simon knew you were fragile, but he didn’t think you could be so easy to break. This was his third deployment since he’d met you. The third since he’d pulled you into his life. At first you’d been panicked, indignant and ungrateful. You didn’t understand the significance of his actions. Every detail meticulously planned out, every minute aspect of your stay without him accounted for. You just had to stop fighting him and start fighting for yourself. Fight to stay alive, just like him. He just wanted to share this with you, why wouldn’t you let him?

“Don’t worry, Love, I’ll be back in no time. You won’t even get a chance to miss me.” His hand stayed on the back of your head, fingers locked in your hair, holding your head up so you could look into his eyes. So you could watch him lie to you. You knew the routine well at this point. 

First the devil may care Ghost would ply you with cheeky taunts to smooth out your concern. His abrasiveness would wear you down, polish you into a reflection of himself. 

Despite yourself you began to cry, fat tears rolling down your cheeks. In the beginning it wasn’t him you had missed. It was the promise of regular meals, and fresh water. Baths. Heating. Freedom. Now he was the centre of your world. He was your everything. 

While he was deployed you didn’t know how long you’d be left to stew in your own sweat and the grime of the basement he’d thrown you in. The smell of dust and mold hung heavy in the air down here. Soon the smell of your body would join them creating a fetid blend that would stay in your nostrils for weeks after your release. If you lived that long. The single hanging bulb barely illuminating your surroundings, not that there was much to see.  

Gallons of water lined one of the walls, at least a dozen of them neatly tucked from one dusty corner to another. You’d count them in earnest when he left you. Your mind was to panicked now to begin the frantic calculations of how long you could stretch your supplies. Just in case. 

Two boxes of hardtack biscuits and cans of god only knew what were neatly pressed up against another.  At times you feared he’d been feeding you cat food. You’d opened cans of greying meat floating in gelatinous gravy, other times the cans contained some kind of soup. Either way you’d choke it down cold. 

A part of you loved it here, you felt closer to him. You were a soldier too. This is where you’d live or die. Your battlefield.

His hand left your head and he went to the centre of the room where a small metal cot with a thin mattress stood. No pillow or duvet, but at least he’d given you a thick itchy woollen blanket. Army surplus to complete your private barracks. You’d earned the cot after weeks of good behaviour, no crying, no useless begging, no disobedience. A luxurious upgrade from the sheets of cardboard he’d left you to sleep on during his previous deployments. You followed before he even turned to call you, taking a seat on the mattress. 

“Will you miss me, pet?” He asked, coaxing your chin up with a gloved finger. 

“Yes, of course” you said between sobs. He huffed out a humourless laugh, and stroked your head. 

He hardly had to grind you down anymore, soon Ghost gave way to Simon. The mask he wore over his soul fell away, leaving behind the raw and broken boy he’d been before he learnt being someone else was as easy as covering his face. Part two of your dance begun.

The tears you thought you’d controlled began to fall again, pouring out of your tired eyes as you looked up at him. Your protector and captor. The man who told you everyday he’d die without you, the same man who held your life in his hands. 

“Please, please, Si… don’t forget about me here. Please.” The last word came out as a choked sob as you pressed your face against his thighs. Begging him to let you go was useless. You knew the steps now. Let him lead you, let yourself need him. Let him have something to control, someone who wouldn’t disappoint him. Someone he didn’t have to pretend with, unless he wanted to. 

“All you have to do is survive, pet. Same as me.” He knelt down in front of you, dark eyes shining with a mania that told you he was past pleading with. “All we have to do is survive. Think of me while you’re fighting in here, yeah? And I’ll be thinking of you out there. You’ll think of me won’t you? Hmm?” 

You nodded. 

“So say it.” 

Gathering yourself, you pulled away from him, eye to eye it was easier to believe the words that tumbled out of your mouth. 

“I’ll be thinking of you Si, so please, please,” your voice began to quake with unshed tears, “please come back to me. I’ll die without you.” 

You knew he was smiling beneath his mask. His hands came up to cradle your head, his grip too tight to be anything but a reminder of the control he had over you. 

“Of course you would. We need each other, don’t we?” 

You nodded and said your well rehearsed line. “We love each other.”

He watched you weep for a while, and you knew a part of him felt sick with himself. If he returned, if you lived, he’d tell you as much when he came home. 

The realisation that this was your home hit harder down here, puling more tortured sobs out of you as he watched. You weren’t sure if the ragged breaths you heard were yours or his. 

“Simon, Simon” you chanted his name over and over as you cried, like a prayer to a long dead god. He stood above you, within reach. One touch and you’d know he was real. But you cried out his name, and he watched. Until watching became too much and the sound of his name was punctuated with the sound of his boots ascending the stairs. 

The sound of a key turning.

And then the silence. 

— — — 

You counted the days by litres of water, cold canned meals, and fitful slashes sleep. 

One of each a day. 

No cheating. 

You recited songs in your mind, the lyrics painted dark by the deep gravely voice of your thoughts. Simon’s voice. 

You imagined a life with Simon, a life different from this. Those dreams were all that kept you sane. If this was sanity. 

A life with sunshine and tenderness that didn’t have to be earned. With music and hot food, baths together. The warmth of his body against yours. Every dream began and ended with the sound of a key turning, the creak of the old cellar door, deep lungfuls of fresh air. 

After meals and before sleep you’d press your nose to the tiny blacked out window. Taking deep breaths of the English countryside before closing it again. Air when were awake, warmth when you slept. These rules and rituals were what kept you alive here. Hell was rolling green hills and cloudy skies. Hell had no one around for miles. Hell and home were two sides of the same coin.

The same countryside he’d offered to show you when you’d first began dating him. You recounted those first few dates with him often. Combing your mind for any sign of the man he’d turn out to be. 

It had been too soon for a weekend away, you told yourself this time and time again. Turning your captivity against yourself in your darkest moments was a game you hated but still played. What fool would take a trip with a man they barely knew.? You hadn’t even known him for two full months when you went away with him. Your 6th date. This may have been the longest date in history. 

Sometimes you thought of your friends and your family. Were they worried? Were the little dribs and drabs of communication Simon let you have with them enough to keep them satiated. Had they stopped caring, like Simon said they would. 

He often told you the family a person was born into was rarely their true family. Like his. You knew pieces of the life he rarely spoke about. The father he hated, the mother he pitied. The brother he held complex, painful feelings for. You hardly heard about him at all. You suspected he was the only person outside of the 141 Simon cared about. Maybe the only person he truly loved. 

Did he love you? Actually love you?

Could he? 

Another litre, another can.  Another day. 

— — — 

The creak of the old cellar door woke you, as usual. You’d long since stopped running up the steps when you heard it, not trusting your mind to be honest with you. 

“Baby? Are you awake, Love?” 

You didn’t believe it. You couldn’t. The disappointment would hurt to much. 

The sound of heavy boots descending the stairs drew something out of you, but yet you still couldn’t let yourself believe it was real. That you had survived. Again. 

Warm fingers caressed your cheek, tracing the shape of your eyes and nose, until they finally settled on your neck, below your jaw. A beat passed in tense silence, you could still be dreaming.

A shaky breath that wasn’t yours filled the room, “thank god.” You opened your eyes, and he was there. A dark figure against the light, stoic among the swirling flecks of dust in the air. 

“Si?” Your voice was weak and hoarse from who knew how many weeks of disuse. 

He nodded, lifting you from your cot with ease. Holding your body against his tightly as he brought you up the stairs. Your eyes fluttered against the light, the early evening sun cutting  through you until you help your eyes tightly closed.

You heard him shush you softly before you realised you’d been crying. 

“Si,” you said again and you felt him hold you closer. 

“I know baby, I know. I’m so proud of you. We made it.” 

He set you down on the edge of the bath and began the careful work of peeling your filthy clothes off. 

The final chords of this tragic, disgusting song had begun, and your dance was ending. 

He washed you gently, tears in his eyes as he rinsed away the layers of pain he’d caused you. 

He spoke to you in gentle tones, barely above a whisper, as though any loud noise would send you into shock. He didn’t wait for your responses, knowing you were too exhausted to give any. 

“It’s okay, pet. It’s okay, you’re safe now. You’re out. You’re out.

“Were you scared? I know baby, I know how scary it was, but you’re safe now. I’ll never let anything happen to you, never. You’re too important, I love you so much, pet. Too much.” 

You let the hot water and his words baptise you, remaking you under the heat of his love for you. He washed every part of you, yet nothing felt as intimated as when he washed your hair, stroking your head gently as he cried and promised you things you weren’t sure would ever come to be. 

When you were clean he wrapped you in a towel and left to get you something to wear. 

Was that you? Was that really you in the mirror? Chapped lips, large sunken eyes, your cheeks were hollow and your skin dull, your natural undertone wiped away and replaced with a pallid grey. When he came back you still couldn’t look away from the person in the mirror. He placed a pair of sweatpants and one of his t shirts on the heater and closed the door, giving you time to settle back into yourself. Your new self. 

You hated him. You hated him for doing this to you, making you this person. 

You opened the cabinet and went through the minor motions of humanity. Brushing your teeth, brushing your hair, and pulling the t-shirt on mechanically. You left the bottoms folded, knowing you wouldn’t be able to keep them on no mater how tightly you tied them. He was just too big, and you were just too small. 

You clutched a hair band in your hand, knowing he’d want to tie your hair back. He loved doing those small things for you. And you hated him for it. 

When you shuffled into the bedroom you stood in the doorway, watching you with a grief in his eyes as though he hand’t done this to you. 

He pulled you close, picking you up and laying you gently on the bed. The mattress felt obscene after weeks on the cot, you wept again and hated him for turning you into this person, a person that cried at everything. A person who knew what it felt like to sleep on the floor. Someone who felt blessed to have a bed. 

He took his place beside you, and you pulled yourself close, holding your body to the curves and edges of his. His arms wound around you and pinned you to him, his lips brushed your forehead and you felt his tears fall, running down your cheeks and mixing with yours.

“I was so scared without you. I really thought I wasn’t gonna make it this time.” 

“Me too, Si.”

You understood how much he needed this, how much he needed to be the villain, how much he needed to hate himself before he could go into hell and be a good soldier. So he could come back home a hero, a rescuer. Your protector. 

Your Simon.

#simon ghost riley x reader #Simon Riley #simon ghost Riley #ghost x reader #ghost cod mw2 #yandere ghost #yandere simon riley #toxic simon riley #toxic ghost mw2 #maybe don't read this if you get upset easily #read the tw please and fank youuu #simon riley x reader #simon riley x y/n #call of duty mw2 #call of duty fic #x reader fic #gender neutral reader #x gn reader #simon ghost Riley x gn reader #okay i think that's it #dacryphilia

[aheathen-conceivably]

Back at the cottage, the sound of playing children and laughter could be heard from nearly every room of the house. Summer and Isaiah’s children were just as rambunctious as Zelda expected, roping Violette into all of their games and lifting the remaining melancholia from the air.

Even Wally, who would usually rather read alone than engage in such joviality, found the energy infectious; so he stayed amidst the noise rather than seek out the studious quiet that he and Virginia were used to in their own home.

The sounds echoed up the stairs into the small second story hallway, where Virginia and Zelda were standing outside of Rosella’s old room. They were both staring at the door as though it sheltered a trove of terrifying secrets, silently daring the other to be the first to open it.

Zelda went forward, her hand on the knob before Virginia could say a word. She turned the handle and eased open the door, letting out the smell of dust collecting in the sunshine.

They stopped in the doorway, marveling at the accumulation of toys and memorabilia, before Zelda pushed the door open wider and walked into the center of the room, “Goodness, Virginia. Have Mother and Isaiah been using it for storage all these years? With brother’s growing family you do think they would have need of it, perhaps transformed it into something more useful.”

Zelda’s question snapped Virginia back to reality and she followed her sister into the room. Her characteristically sharp countenance returned to her face as though the fear had never been there, “I see the new world has made you a bit bolder hasn’t it, sister? We can’t all be so comfortable around things that continue to pain us.”

She turned away before Zelda could respond, searching the room for what she had come for, “Hell, where is it? So many trinkets amongst so few people. I could have sworn they told me it was up here somewhere…”

“Ah-ha! Here it is,” Virginia bent down, moving books and toys out of her way, “I wouldn’t think that you had heard, but a few years ago Harrington Estate fell on hard times….”

Virginia paused momentarily to allow herself a triumphant, gloating smile, “Modernity finally caught up with the old ways, I suppose. Lord Harrington had to break up the whole thing and sell it off piece by piece. During the process he sent a servant down here with this package...”

Without an ounce of the fanfare that the moment called for, Virginia pulled a bright, gilded frame from behind the dresser and propped it up on a trunk, “He said they found this in one of the rooms, thought we might like to have it after what happened.”

The very gravity of the room seemed to shift, recentering itself on the pair of bright green eyes looking off into the distance longingly. Throughout the last seventeen years Zelda had only seen Rosella in a handful of family photos; but none of them compared to this: her sister lovingly painted in a fine formal gown, her curls flowing over her shoulders and rubies draped around her neck.

The painting was rendered in exacting, lifelike colors that Zelda could hardly recall looking at the sepia photographs of their youth, giving the illusion that Rosella was once again back in her room with her sisters, telling them stories of her life at the manor.

Zelda stared forward, unbelieving, “Virginia, I don’t…I don’t understand. What was this doing there? For god’s sake who would have painted it? And how utterly strange that her hair is down; she never would wear it down, even at home. You must remember that, don’t you?”

Virginia didn’t take her eyes off the painting, perhaps so that her own expression wouldn’t give away what she knew of the Harringtons. In answer she kept her gaze averted and shrugged her shoulders, “Whatever it may be, I thought you might like to have it. Perhaps you’re the only one left who can really still look at it and feel joy.”

Zelda eyes shined, “You’re right, sister. And it gives me another idea.”

(My immense and immeasurable thanks to the amazing @scythesms for this lovely painting. Without you this scene would be nothing more than an idea and I appreciate you greatly ❤️)

#1929 #sims 4 historical #ts4 historical #ts4 decades challenge #sims 4 decades challenge #sims 4 legacy #ts4 legacy #sims 4 story #ts4 story #the darlingtons #1920s #virginia darlington #isaiah darlington #summer darlington #annabelle darlington #zelda darlington #violette darlington

[alder-saan]

Hyde and need

Larissa Weems x hyde! reader

The title makes literally no sense but I don't care.

Hurt/angst and comfort

TW : involuntary commitment

words count : ~ 1.9k

-> additional chapter

Three men in some kind of armour were pointing guns at you. You raised your hands, terrified. Your heart was racing in your chest. Who were they? What did they want from you? 

“Now you’ll follow us, Mx.”

“Who are you? What do you want from me?”

“We are HDC, Mx. Do not resist and no harm will come to you.”

Everyone in the street was looking at you. You couldn’t run. You had to follow them. You nodded. They led you to an armoured truck, and you entered in the back. A few seconds later, you heard the engine humming, and a voice talking on a mobile.

“Yes, Ms Weems, we have them. Don’t worry, you are safe now.”

Your heart sank. Of all people, you would have never thought about her. She called them. She betrayed you. You never hurt her, you never let her think you could potentially be dangerous. So why? And above all, how did she know?

You opened your eyes, in your little room. Four white walls, a grey floor, a white door locked from the outside, a small window you couldn’t open, a bed, blue sheets, a desk, a washbasin, empty shelves (except for seven prisoner, oh sorry, patient outfits). You sighed and looked at the clock above the door. 6:58. The bell would ring in 2 minutes.

Today was your last day in HDC. Hyde Detention Centers. It had been created many years ago to keep an eye on the hydes of the United States. If someone had a doubt on your dangerousness, they could call, and some staff would pick up the hyde and take them to one of the centres, and keep them for a year to do all sorts of assessments. That was what happened to you.

Being a hyde wasn’t the most fun thing in the world.

You were an outcast among outcasts.

You soon learnt to never tell anyone what you were, pretending to be a normie. And so you had never been in one of these centres, until she betrayed you. The only people who knew your little secret were your parents. They had managed to educate you in a way you never had to struggle with your hyde part.

And so you had thought you could live like anyone else. Happy, with a lover, with a family, with friends.

Until she betrayed you.

Larissa Weems.

Your girlfriend.

Your ex-girlfriend.

Well officially you never broke up but… 

The bell rang. The click of the door told you that it was unlocked, so you could go to the refectory. You dressed in the grey trousers and shirt, put on your shoes, and went out of your room.

You were one of the first to take your breakfast, as always. And even though it wasn’t good, you enjoyed the taste of freedom a last meal in HDC tasted. One year between these walls, seeing psychologists, psychiatrists, doctors. One year. And it was over. It had no suspense. You knew you were not dangerous. You never attacked anybody, you knew how to deal with your hyde part. You knew in a couple of hours you would be free. For EVER. Now you were in their database, the only way they could get you once again, after releasing you, was evidence you had killed someone. And as you planned to never kill anyone… 

“Mx L/N, we are happy to tell you we didn’t find any evidence you could be dangerous. You are now free. Nevertheless, you have to go every two months to an appointment with one of our affiliated psychologists.”

The man gave you a stack of paper to sign. You took them, half-crying.

“Thank you, thank you!”

You knew it. But you couldn’t really believe it. It was over. It was all over. You would be able to start a new life.

“Now someone will drive you back to your home.”

You opened your door, on the third floor of a building.

Your home. Your apartment. It was full of dust, but it was your home. It still smelled of the perfume you used to wear in the evening to visit Larissa. On a chair by the window you saw the blue scarf she had lent you. You felt your heart drop. You had left this place a year ago. And a year ago you were still with her. Here and there, photos of you and her on the walls. On the calendar, a little star to mark an evening when you wanted to take her to the cinema.

You couldn't.

You had left the day before.

You closed the door and cried, here, on the dusty floor.

You knew you couldn’t stay here to start a new life. Everything reminded you of Larissa. She was everywhere. In every inch of your apartment, in every street, on every bench, behind every door…

Already two months had passed. You almost never went out of your home. Sometimes, getting out of your bed was difficult. But today, you had your appointment with the psychologist. And waiting patiently for the time at home bored you terribly, so you decided to go early. At worst you would wait in the waiting room… You knew that there were always things in the waiting rooms, magazines, books, or even posters to read…

And you arrived three quarters of an hour early. You entered the building and searched for the waiting room. A woman indicated that it was the first door on the floor.

What you didn’t know was that Larissa was waiting for one of her students. 

And when you entered the waiting room, you noticed her. She was working, her laptop on her lap. She looked up to see who was entering and froze.

“Y/N?”

You opened your mouth but no sound went out of it. Larissa closed her laptop.

“Y/N, is that really you?”

You couldn’t move. Why? Why did she have to follow you everywhere? Why? She walked towards you.

“How are you?”

“I’m fine. Thank you.” You coldly said.

“How… How was this year? They didn’t let me call you or send you any message…”

“How was this year? I don’t know. I was a prisoner even though I never did any harm, but because I am a hyde, my ex-girlfriend sent me to this jail for one year.”

“Look, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” she almost whispered. “I was afraid… It was the beginning of the attacks… Of course I didn’t know-”

“Don’t apologise. I understand. I was the one lying, and no one likes hydes. I understand you now. I’ll have to learn how to deal with this without lying. I don’t want this situation to happen again.”

You sat on a bench seat. You tried to keep the best poker face you could.

“What do you want to do, now?” she asked.

“I think I will move. It's hard for me to live here. I'm going to find a city where no one knows me, and I'll be living alone for the rest of my life. I should never have tried to live with people.”

Larissa knew very well how you were feeling right now. Your mouth corners were not like in your natural smile. You were trying to hide your sadness. Plus, she knew you were really sociable, you needed people around you, without them, you couldn't feel alive. And what did you mean by “with people”, why didn’t you say “with OTHER people”? She sat next to you. How she wished to be a year earlier. When you were not afraid to show her how you felt, when you were crying in her arms because you trusted her… She had ruined everything. Your condition, her loneliness, your loneliness, it was all her fault. Guilt had been eating her up for a year and two months, but it was nothing compared with how she felt now.

“I know you’re still angry at me, I understand that. But I want you to know I really missed you. I didn’t… sent you there because I didn’t trust you. I trusted you. I still do.”

“Why then?” your eyes were filled with tears, you tried to swallow them but couldn’t.

“Because I didn’t want you to be suspected. By anyone, including me. If the attacks would have continued while you were still here, I knew I would have doubts at one point. And… to be honest, when I learnt you were a hyde I felt… betrayed. You were the one who didn’t trust me. You could have told me. But you decided to lie. That’s what I was thinking. It’s not your fault though. I know I was wrong. I know I made a mistake. I’m sorry.”

You couldn't hold back your cries any longer and burst into tears. She cradled you in her arms.

“No, please, don’t cry… You’re too good for that.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

She cupped your face and looked at your eyes, wiping your tears with her thumbs.

“Don’t… That’s my fault, entirely. You didn’t do anything wrong. I want you to understand that, okay? You don’t have to feel guilty.”

“I-I…”

“I know we are not as close as we used to be, but you still can tell me anything. You know I’m a good listener.”

“I-I hate being a hyde, I always have hated it… Why am I a hyde? Why is this happening to me? Why do I have to live alone? Why…”

She held you tight.

“Don’t say that… You don’t have to live alone. I’m sure you’ll find awesome people in your new city.”

“Who would date a hyde, uh? Who would be friends with a hyde?” you almost yelled.

“I would.”

You looked up, only to see her eyes, glistening with tears.

“I would be friends with you. I would even date you if you accept to give me a second chance.”

You didn’t know what to say. Of course you wanted her to date you again. But she hurt you. She hurt you so bad.

“If you don’t want to, I understand. I would love to have a chance to make amends though. I want you back. I want everything back.”

You gently kissed her. She was surprised, at first, but reciprocated. God, how you missed this feeling... Being in her arms, having your lips against hers... You wrapped your arms around her neck, and slowly broke the kiss.

“I want you back too.” you whispered against her mouth.

“OH. MY. GOD.” a girl said.

You looked at her. Blond hair, blue and pink highlights, nevermore’s uniform. Larissa went red.

“Miss Sinclair, since when are you listening to us?”

“Since the second ‘I want you back’, I haven't heard anything before.” she said.

“You know, if you say, ‘the second’, it means you know there is another before?”

“Oh, uh, I… I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay. Please do not post it anywhere. Not on your blog, not on instagram, tik tok, snapchat, facebook, twitter, tumblr or any other social media.”

You chuckled.

“Y/N?”

“Yes?”

“I have to drive Enid back to Nevermore, what if we meet in the Weathervane after your appointment? We could catch up…”

“Sounds lovely,” you said.

______________________________________________

The fuck this is the most borderline fic I've ever wrote...

Hope you all liked it !

#larissa x reader #larissa weems x reader #larissa #principal larissa weems #larissa weems #principal weems #principal weems x reader

[xwritingdixonx]

Till Death Do Us Part | Chapter 1 |

–––––––––

series masterlist

Summary: Daryl struggles to call Alexandria his new home, a bitterness lying in his heart of his late wife.

Warnings: language, slight mentions of a panic attack, mentions of grief / loss

Word Count: approx. 3.3k

––––––––––

The cherry wood coffee table was littered with a messy stack of UNO cards, the last card being a bright yellow, reading the number 7. Carl paused for a second looking at the cards in his hand that he held before putting down a green 7. "No fair" Tara retorted reaching to grab a card. "I'm winning" Carl teased wearing a shit eating grin, showing off the two cards left in his hand.

Aaron had stopped by a little bit ago dropping off a deck of cards, a puzzle, and a pack of UNO cards that looked like they’d never touched a speck of dust. Carl and Noah were quick to choose UNO. Tara looking just as excited to play the game, convincing Rosita to also join.

It was only the second night in Alexandria but Rick couldn't help but smile for just a second, seeing his son playing games, laughing, making jokes. Had he not still been so on edge and his walls so built up, it could've felt normal, comfortable. The rest of the group sat around the same living room, some comfortably lounging on their sleeping bags and pillows, others on the couch, making jokes about who they were rooting for.

"You know, me and my friends used to do this"

Tara began, "we'd uh-" Tara smiled and paused for a second "have game nights, order a pizza, just talk. Like people." Tara chuckled but there was a hint of sadness to it. "Oh god i miss pizza!" Rosita joined in, attempting to tear Tara away from the sadness.

"I’d come home smelling like it every. day. Makes me sick just thinking about it" Glenn's face lit up with a smile.

Soon almost everyone in the room was sharing things they missed about the old world, things that would most likely never exist again or would be extremely difficult to achieve now.

Daryl however was perched up by the window, the cool night air flowing in once in awhile. Daryl was trying to figure out just how cold the breeze was, the colder it was, the closer Fall was, then after Fall came Winter. Out on the road Winter meant trouble, it was the hardest season to survive in the wild. But that wasn't a worry now. So Daryl didn't know why he was still worrying.

"Daryl"

Glenn's voice broke him from his thoughts, snapping his head around to look at him. "Hm?"

"What do you miss?" Glenn looked at him with pure intentions just wanting to know a bit more about the man, as did everyone else. Daryl was so closed off. Some days it felt as if he wasn't even alive before the outbreak, it was like the world ended and poof, Daryl Dixon appeared, ready to take it on. Everyone's eyes seemed to be on him now, anticipating a response. Which, to no surprise, Daryl didn't particularly like. Daryl scoffed and turned his attention back to the window, resting his head on his fist "Nothin'".

Daryl heard Glenn quietly apologize before continuing the conversation with someone else. Once again, Daryl retracted back and away from connection, sheltering himself like a turtle in a shell.

What do you miss? Daryl knew the answer, it was on the tip of his tongue. He just couldn't bare say it, couldn't let himself slip into that hole. You were a memory he had pushed so far back in his mind, it was as if you never existed in the first place. That's how he survived, forgetting you. If not, he would've fallen in that hole of depression and grief a long time ago. So instead of that, he built up walls. Built a wall of brick. Then built a wall of steel in front of that one and he allowed himself to hide behind those walls, angry and alone.

It just took one thought of you to completely blow a hole straight through those walls. Every single thing that the group listed made him think of you. Didn't matter what it was.

Tara bringing up pizza made him think about your favorite pizza spot that had $1 slices. He still remembers the day he watched you down 4 slices after a long Saturday night shift at the bar.

He thought about you when Rosita talked about missing makeup and feeling pretty. You were the prettiest thing Daryl had ever seen especially when you got all dolled up. He remembered your signature lip colors, remembered the brand, the name of them, remembered how pretty they looked on you.

"i don't get it" Daryl heard your distant laughter from the bathroom down the hall. You came walking throw the door, clipping your silver chain bracelet around your wrist. "What don't you get?" Daryl looked at the lip product in his hand, encased in silver packaging "the hell's it called black honey? ain't even black"

You shook your head at Daryl and snatched the product from his hand, taking a seat on his lap. Daryl happily wrapped his arms around your torso, resting his head on your shoulder. "Because it's-" you let out a sigh and took the cap off glancing at the dark plum tinted lip product. "Jesus i don't know D." You put the cap back on with a click, glancing at him through some of your bangs that had fallen in your eyes. " Before i forget" You left Daryl's grasp and made your way to your wooden vanity, "On your way home from the shop," You grabbed 2 small black tubes from the surface and tossed them over to Daryl. "Please please pick up those exact same shades from the store" Daryl recognized what they were immediately, flipping them around to see the name on the bottom. "Rum raisin and black cherry?" You hummed to him in response, "from Revlon?" you hummed an agreeing response again. "Good job handsome"

Daryl remembered everything that made you so uniquely you. Cherry perfume, tattoos, the silver jewelry you wore every single day. Those damn lipsticks, he never forget those ridiculous names. Your hair, god your hair. You had the most gorgeous head of hair, so full and thick. And that smile. When you smiled, your whole face smiled. You got complimented almost every single day on your appearance, not even just from Daryl, from strangers who saw just how gorgeous you were.

His chest tighten and ached, as if his heart was physically hurting. Hands clasping into fists to stop them from shaking. And his mind, spiraling. He could feel the lump in his throat form, the lump of tears, sobs. He cleared his throat and abruptly got up from his perch, racing to the front door. He couldn't stand to be in that room any longer, he felt like he was suffocating.

He sat himself down at the top of the stoop to the house and shakily tried to light a cigarette to forget about his racing mind, taking a long drag. Sitting in fresh air seemed to immediately calm him but the sadness still remained.

Daryl didn't look to see who sat beside him but he heard the creek of the wood panels and felt the presence. "What's going on?" Ricks words were low, as if he was asking him in a whisper. Daryl blew the last bit of smoke from his mouth and and flicked the cigarette away, that's when Daryl broke. The emotions he was trying so hard to push down just over poured at the question. Quiet sobs broke past Daryl's lips, hanging his head low in shame at the vulnerable state he was in.

Rick put a hand on his back to show he was there, giving him comfort through his presence. Rick didn't know what was making Daryl break but he knew he had to be there for his brother, allowing him feel whatever he needed to feel.

"I miss 'er"

Rick wasn't exactly sure what to say, he just nodded. Not once had Daryl ever brought up someone, especially not a woman. "Wanna talk bout' her?"

Daryl thought for a second, he had never been asked to talk about you. He knew he could, could talk about you till the sun rose in the East and set again in the West. But all he could say was "i'on know". He looked at Rick his eyes still glassy with tears.

Rick nodded at him again and gave him a reassuring smile.

Silence settled over the 2 men but it was comfortable, a calmness the night air provided. Daryl had calmed down, feeling slightly embarrassed at the sudden outburst of emotions. Thinking of what the rest of the group members might be thinking of him now.

Rick was lost in thought, it had just been a tiny detail but it opened up so much about Daryl as a person. He had someone, someone he cared for and they obviously weren't here. It explained some of Daryl's intense behavior at times, explained the way his anger led him, and his passion for saving people.

"What was her name?" Rick was testing the waters, seeing if there were anymore details he could get out about this now mystery woman. She could've been his girlfriend, his best friend, hell could've been his goddamn sister. The way the corner of Daryl's mouth almost turned into a smile told Rick that the waters were warm. "Y/n"

The next bit was what set Rick back, definitely not on the list of could've's.

"My uh...my wife."

Memories and nightmares had become a blur to you. At this point, they were practically under the same category. Both equally as haunting. Both equally creating a shallow feeling in your chest. Both keeping you up at night. Just like it had been tonight, the events of the previous day still haunting you. You never thought you were exactly a good person but you could at least try to justify your actions. Racking your brain for hours and nothing. Not one excuse, not one good reason for why you pulled the trigger and why so quickly? You opened your eyes, trying to not allow yourself to fall into that hole any deeper.

You had been in and out of sleep the entire night. Hearing the crickets and lightning bugs turn into  early chirp of birds in the early morning. Most of the night you'd spent laid your side watching the fire from the previous night turn from orange glowing embers to nothing but black ash and coal. The only thing exciting you at the moment was getting back to your kitchen in Alexandria.

To be able to cook whatever you wanted and not having to survive off of canned goods, beef jerky, and protein bars. You had promised everyone when you all made it back home you'd cook up a nice big dinner and you'd all sit around the table like how it used to be. It was the longest the group had been away from Alexandria since arriving.

The sun hadn't quite risen yet but it would soon, the sky becoming a light blue- gray color. That's when you called it quits with attempting to catch anymore sleep, you wouldn't and you knew that. Everyone else would be up soon anyway and you'd be hitting the road again. Alexandria was only few more hours out but after what happened, everyone needed to rest. The group could've easily made it there late at night but decided it was okay to make it there by early afternoon today. You let out a deep sigh and sat yourself up, stretching out your arms and back.

You spotted Tommy who was in the same spot as he was the night before, sat up on the tailgate of one of the trucks from his turn on night watch. You slipped your leather steel toe boots on and made your way to him, deciding to give the both of you some company. "Heard ya comin'" Tommy's southern drawl never failed to amaze you, he didn't look like he'd sound like that but he sure did. When people met Tommy for the first time, the faces they'd pull were comedic. Especially the people of Alexandria.

You let out a scoff as you made your way up onto the road that was a few feet away from where you had set up camp for the night.

“Heard ya all night actually" You hopped up on the truck, taking your place next to Tommy and comfortably resting your elbows on your knees. "Was it bad?" You asked looking at him slightly embarrassed. Tommy knew you struggled with sleeping, he had been there to deal with most of it.

Since being in Alexandria it wasn't as bad as when you were on the road, almost like your body knew it wasn't in your safe comfy bed anymore. Tommy looked at you and gave you a soft smile and shook his head. "You weren't shaking or breathing heavy or doing that teeth grinding shit, just heard ya tossin' and turnin' all night"

You were listening to Tommy but watching the point in the sky where the sun was going to be peeking up at any second now. "Hey" Tommy nudged your arm with the back of his hand, pulling you away from zoning out and thinking too much. You averted your gaze to Tommy, "wasn't your fault". You scoffed a laugh and looked away, your eyes wondered to where everyone else still lay asleep in their sleeping bags. Specifically your eldest brother.

"Tell that to Eddie"

You and Eddie had been going at it over the past few months. You weren't exactly sure why and how it started but at this point, you didn't make it through a day without some sort of dispute or sarcastic remarks.

You heard Tommy sigh and put down the sniper rifle he had been holding.

“We got a lot of good stuff. Especially with winter coming. I mean shit, look at this." Tommy was trying to change the subject, make it seem more positive. You sat up and looked over your shoulder. The trucks bed behind you was piled high with crates and boxes, some bigger stuff just lying around. Like a Kitchen- Aid mixer, which you already called dibs on. The other truck that was parked next to this one was the exact same way.

None of you expected the run to go this well. You had found weapons, food, clothes, kitchen appliances, medicine, books, and so much more. There was so much that you actually had to leave some stuff behind. Hidden. Of course. But you still slipped in a few things for Jace and Luke. "We're gonna have to come back for the rest soon" You commented, receiving a nod of agreement from Tommy. "We got the whole route mapped out right?"

"Yes ma'am"

"Good" You and Tommy made eye contact and smiled at each other. The sound of shuffling made you both break contact, looking back to see the other 3 waking up and beginning to pack up. Nellie caught your eye and gave you a wave and a sleepy smile to say Goodmorning, you returning one. You made eye contact with Eddie who, in return, shot you a stone face glare.

Once everyone had packed up, it was time to hit the road. You drove one truck with Nellie in the passenger seat. Tommy drove the other, with Eddie and Henry squeezed in the front. The sun was at its peek in the sky when the gates of Alexandria came into view. You beeped the car horn twice giving whoever was on watch the signal to open up the gates. The 2 trucks came to a rolling stop safely inside the walls of Alexandria. "Home sweet home" You remarked, taking the keys out of the ignition.

The closing of the trucks doors rang in your ears as everyone stepped foot on the concrete. You saw Deanna making her way down the road to the group with a blissful smile on her face and pep in her step. "Wonder what she did now" Henry sarcastically remarked, quickly going to the bed of the truck to help begin unloading, Eddie right behind him.

"Thank goodness!" She planted her hands on her hips, taking stand in front of you, "you should've been back last night did something happen?"

The sun was glaring directly in your eyes so you tried your best to smile at her while also shielding your face from it. "No, we just got tired so we set up camp a few miles out" You did your best to reassure her, Deanna worried about your family probably more than she worried about her own. Alexandria relied on your group. And she relied on you.

"The run went amazing Deanna" Nellie joined putting a reassuring hand on Deanna's arm. "Well I can tell!" She threw her hands up gesturing to the full trucks behind you, "I mean look at this, this is more than we expected" The smile that beamed on her face showed that she truly was in a joyful mood. But there was something else there, a slight hesitation in her eyes. There was something she wasn't saying.

"Dad!"

Before you could begin to question Deanna, Luke's sweet voice rang through out the air. Luke was jogging towards Tommy with a excited look on his face. Tommy's face lit up at the sight of his son, his eyes widening and a smile forming. Jace and Cecilia weren't far behind him also coming to give everyone a welcome and looking equally as ecstatic.

A sense of relief washed over you, all your worries and racing thoughts vanishing in that moment. Cecilia welcomed you and Nellie into a tight embrace, wrapping one arm around either of you. "I'm so glad you're okay" She planted a kiss on both you and Nellie's cheeks, earning a laugh from both of you.

Oh, Cecilia. Sweet sweet Cecilia with her dark brown curly hair, big emerald eyes, and dimples. She had been the one to offer to stay with Jace and Luke while the rest of you were away, she didn't like being on the road and fighting. Not that she couldn't do it because she could, you'd seen her. She just chose not to.

"We got these for you, we went over the walls...with Cecilia. I hope that was alright" Luke timidly handed you a bunch of wildflowers tied together by grass. "Ah haha! These look like the perfect ones" Your voice sweet and smooth giving Luke a wide smile, reassuring him that you weren't upset with them.

Luke was shy and stuttered when he'd talk but he was also the kindest and softest spoken person you knew. His brown curly hair and dimples in his pale cheeks added to his soft composure. Jace, on the other hand, was older, taller, and had lost most of his baby face. He still sported the signature curly brown hair. "Come here, sweet boys" It was your turn to embrace them both in a warm hug.

Neither of them were quite as tall as you yet but Jace seemed to be getting there. Most days it seemed like you were eye level with him.

"Did you get your father some?" Glancing over at Tommy, he held up his bunch of flowers. His were shades of blues, greens, and whites. While the bunch Nellie and you were given we're shades of white, purple, and yellow.

"Boys"

You had forgotten Deanna was there, getting too wrapped up in your conversation.

"Why don't you help unload the trucks? I’ll go grab you guys notepads so you can help" Deanna meant well, she always did but you and Tommy expressed that you didn't want Jace or Luke in any of the dirty work the rest of the group did. They're children, they deserved to be children. They had already been through enough. But they still had responsibilities around Alexandria and training. You looked at Tommy for approval who gave you a nod. "Walk with me Y/n"

So you did. Walking side by side. Some days you felt like you towered over Deanna because of her small height. If someone saw you walking together they would think you were in charge, not her.

"Is there something you wanna tell me?"

"We brought in a group" She didn't miss a beat, as if she was waiting for you to begin questioning her.

"What?" You stopped dead in your tracks at the bottom of the steps to the pantry, she had already made it to the top of the steps with her foot in the door when she turned around and smiled at you. "Yeah a group of 15" She disappeared into the pantry "Of what ?!" You were hot on her tail, stomping your way up the stairs and swinging open the door but you still muttered a polite hello to Olivia as you passed her.

Deanna sighed and turned to face you. "This is their third day here, Aaron tracked them for a week to make sure they could be trusted" She tried to reassure you but it wasn't working. That was a big group. Bigger than your group. "Deanna that's a lot of people, you don't know them."

She ignored you, turning her attention to a stack of memo books. The memo books were used to count and write down everything that was brought into Alexandria from trips. Everything was documented and accounted for so if anything was stolen or taken out, it would be known. She picked up a black one and blue one, along with 2 black pens.

"We need the man power Y/n. I appreciate everything your family has done for Alexandria but its too much and you know that. The entire group was gone for 2 weeks, what if something had happened? No one was here to protect Alexandria. You need the weight off your shoulders and I need it off mine."

You knew deep down she was right. Your group held all the responsibility in Alexandria, they relied on you. Even though most of them hated you, the ones that listened to all the gossip at least. Deanna could see the mixture of doubt and worry on your features, the way your eyebrows crinkled and your lips turned to a frown. "Go home, get cleaned up, i'll be waiting at mine and we can talk more, alright?"

"Alright."

#daryl x you #daryl dixion x reader #daryl dixon fanfic #daryl dixon series #daryl dixon x female reader #the walking dead #twd #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl x y/n

[ijustwantogohomehogwarts]

The Colors of the Rainbow

Timothée asks y/n what color he reminds her of, and she puts a lot more effort into an answer than he could ever imagine.

Warnings and such: it's. so. fluffy. also like one swear word? illusions to "adult situations" but nothing bad! not proofread!

A/N : i'm backkkk!! not gonna lie, i didn't expect to be gone nearly a month, but life sucks lately and it just kinda happened...im sorry!!! thanks for the continued love and support! also- i get my cast off in like 10 days! yay!

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"what color do you associate me with?"

His voice drew my attention away from the book in hand, the first words spoken aloud in hours. it was thought provoking; a color?

"what do you mean?"

"when you hear my name, what color do you think of?"

I had never thought of that before, but now seemed a good a time as any. I allowed my eyes to wonder over him as I thought about the best answer.

Red: bold and beautiful. a bright color, attention grabbing and hard to look away from. the color of our bedroom lights after too many nights spent apart. the color of his eyes after he smokes too much and giggles on the couch. The color of our lips when we finally pull away, gasping quietly for breath. Red. The metaphor of blood shed that went into making us, and making us work. red, bold and beautiful.

Orange: autumn. obviously. the color of pumpkins, of crazy sunsets and sunrises, worthy of photographs we'll never look at again but in the moment, it's important. the color of comfort, warmth and a cool breeze. orange, deep like fire, the burning desire for him, for me, for each other. the color that paints my insides when i look at him and remember that he is mine.

Yellow: not the neon yellow, but the soft yellow. the yellows the paint the sky for a brief moment in the early hours of the day, when the world is waking up again and the day is starting. the color that floods our bedroom and allows dust to dance in the air around us. the last color we see as we fall asleep together. the color night owls are always chasing. for him, it's the color he radiates when he walks into the room, bright and happy, a glow that follows him and intoxicates everyone in his path.

Green: earthy and holy. natural beauty, like the nature we crave amidst the bustle of the new york city. not a color i see him on often, but the color of his eyes. the color i get lost in when he talks, drunk on the sound of his voice. the color behind his entire world. it's calming and comforting. it's him. a color i would happily see every day for the rest of my life. a color i plan to see for eternity.

Blue: the color of water and cleanliness. he loves his showers, his pools, and the rare trips on boat rides for secret swimming holes. a water bug through and through. the color for which he starts every morning, a fresh start. the color of winter, cool and quiet. for nights spent close together under heavy blankets, skin on skin. the color that accompanies him to premieres and interviews, a color that demands attention in the softest tone.

Purple: both the softest and deepest versions. a child-like representation of each, a playful color. a color which adorns his body on quiet days spent shopping, or nights gallivanting around for basketball games and bars with his friends. a color i often associate with nights home without him, the undeniable fact that he'll stumble through the front door in the early hours of the morning, the smell of alcohol lingering on his breath as he tells me he loves me.

White: innocent, clean, wholesome. a stereotypical color, but there's truth to it. sure, he's not pure in the sense of what the color stands for traditionally (can you blame a girl?) except he is. through all of life's changes, the good, the bad, and everything in between, he's stayed true to who he is. he's happy, ready for life's adventures. he wants to be the person his generation can look up to, someone who defies the odds and makes a name for himself on his own. he doesn't need, or want, poor publicity or the lingering story of being a hollywood fuckup. he won't be- he can't be.

Pink: a color typically labeled for feminism, but golly doesn't he look beautiful in pink! it's bold and impossible to look away from. the lightest shades for the purest and most innocent, the darkest shades for the most demanding and defiant. why not break stereotypes?! the clothes make the man, so they say...but for him? no. he makes the clothes. he's what pulls the outfit together, the one who makes the color beautiful. beautiful, like the color that paints his cheeks when his heart flutters in his chest.

Gray: a color for balance. there's never light without the dark. with good days, comes bad. we get tired, sick and worn down but it reminds us we are human. a color reserved for coffee runs on lazy sundays, after sleeping away the stress of the previous week and preparing ourselves for the next. a comforting color, one that reminds us we are allowed to be sad, but the feeling will pass and the sun will shine again. be patient, good things take time.

***

"Black." I settled on the answer with a smile.

"Black?!"

"Yes!"

"Why?! That's the most basic color!" He chuckled softly, nudging me with his foot.

"No, it's the most important color."

"Important?"

"Well, it's a perfect combination of all the colors, and all their qualities. You've got the best of them all, love."

"How so?" There was no hiding the color pink on his cheeks.

Black: the perfect combination of all the colors that exist. the best qualities mashed into one, leaving ample opportunity to add more of the color that's most needed. black, the color of the room which we share in the middle of the night, where the only sounds are soft snoring or heavy moaning. sometimes both. it's in this color where we find solace in one another, an indescribable feeling of peace, a place which we call home. in the arms of the man i love. all the colors in the world, every combination of letters in every language- it'll never be enough to express the gratitude i have for the stars above that lead me to him.

#Timothée chalamet #timothee chalamet #timothee chalamet soft #timothee chalamet imagine #timothee chalamet x y/n #timothée x reader #x reader #y/n #fluff #color association #red #orange #yellow #green #blue #purple #white #black #grey #pink #timothee chalamet as a color #timothee chalamet as regulus black #regulus black #reggie #regulus #regulus deserved better