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going-to-ikea-for-the-fries · 2 months

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It's a Match! || poly!141 x Reader

[Chapter 27] || [Chapter 29]

Pairing: 141 x gn!Reader Words: 1.2K~ cw: illness, injuries, hurt/comfort, fluff, love confessions! Summary: While overcoming recent heartbreak, you decide to join Tinder in search of a rebound. Your friends advise to just Swipe Right indiscriminately... What happens when 4 soldiers from the same squad match with you? a/n: Just a cute little moment

Chapter 28: How in the-

The trip with John was short but sweet. A full weekend together, away from everything…

Followed by 4 whole weeks alone. Not that you minded the extra piece and quiet.

You were normally kept at a distance from the boys and their line of work. Arms length, not because they don’t trust you, but because just like Simon learned to drop Ghost at the door, the rest drop work at the door too.

The closest thing you get to ‘work’ is funny anecdotes that can even make you laugh, OR soft, whispered, retelling of memories as your hands snake over their rough skins, fingers grazing the scars that those memories left behind.

Today was a first. In a lot of ways.

The boys showed up at your flat at 3 A.M. after spending a whole month out of Hereford and in God knows where.

You had opened the door very wearily to the sight of the four of them, not even having changed out of their tactical gear, looking like they had been through hell.

Kyle was walking with a limp and a groan, his back stiff and an inability to properly swivel side to side at the hips.

Johnny had gotten his shoulder shot?? Plus his knee was acting up so he was also limping.

John was, also, limping. His back was also stiff and he murmured something about having pulled a muscle.

And Simon? The man’s eyes were surrounded by circles darker than you’d ever seen them, his shoulders slumped. He moved normally, unlike the others. And that concerned you more than anything.

“Jesus, what happened?”

“Mission mishaps. They happen sometimes, da’lin’.” John told you soothingly as he attempted to press a kiss to the crown of your head, but wincing when he felt the pain shoot up his spine.

“Sounds to me like more than mishaps. There’s no way all four of you are injured and it was just a ‘mishap’.” You scolded them as you carefully helped them off their gear, multiple men groaning and grunting in pain as the heavy weights were shed from their torsos.

“Have you been checked?”

“Yes, we went to medic before coming over-” Kyle told you.

“And they let you leave on foot? You look like you all should be on bed rest!” You scolded them.

“And that’s why we’re here.” Johnny added before letting out a groan when you moved his arm, sending pain barreling down his arm.

“How in the-” You murmured as you noted the patched up bullet wound.

“Don’t ask…” Kyle muttered under his breath, a whimper of a sound that you had never quite heard from him.

They were like lost puppies… Needy for being lulled to sleep by a soft hand caressing them behind the ears after some nasty man kicked them on the street.

So that’s how you ended up with four injured soldiers in your house. Ghost took the living room couch, leaving the bed for John and Kyle and Johnny.

“Don’t get any blood on my bed, Johnny!” You warned him. “If something happens, you call me.” You had added as you made sure they were as comfortable as can be before you slipped out of the room.

Reaching the living room, it was now well past 4 A.M. Simon was lying there, one leg swung over the back of your couch, and eyes locked on the shower. “You okay, Simon?” You checked softly.

“Fine, sweetheart.”

“Don’t look fine to me.” You retorted and sat on the armchair by his head, looking down at him, your hand finding his and caressing it.

He twitched a bit against the pillows, brown eyes fluttering for a moment as he took a deep breath. “Mission went tits up. Strained ourselves trying to finish.”

“You too, then?” You asked him and he nodded. “Where?”

“Everywhere. I’m sore all over… And I think I have a fever.” He admitted.

“Do you wanna try a shower?” You suggested and he shook his head.

“I don’t wanna stand up for that long… I get dizzy.”

“And a bath?” You added.

“…” Simon didn’t answer but he groaned and forced himself to stand up. You helped guide him to the bathroom.

After lowering the stopper and allowing the water to flow into the tub, you looked at Simon. “I’ll be outside, okay? I’ll give you privacy.” You told him softly.

Leaning up, you kissed his pale cheek, and turned away…

Only for him to catch you by the wrist. “Stay.”

“What?” You asked him, unsure you heard him right.

“Stay. Please.” He requested.

“But… you said you didn’t-” You trailed off, the memory of his fear of exposing his body to you (or anyone) clear in your mind.

“I know what I said. Just… Please.” He insisted.

“Okay.” You replied and nodded, stepping forward again. He reached his arms up, painfully slowly, the same way John and Kyle and Johnny had.

You grabbed the hem of his t-shirt and slowly rolled it up, your eyes finding his scar-riddled torso for the first time. Blotchy skin due to chemical burns here and there, big gashes and smaller cuts spread throughout.

Simon was looking away the whole time as you helped him off his cargos and underwear. The injuries continued down his legs, every inch of him nasty and ugly, only due to how brutal his scars were. In reality, it all made no difference to you.

“You okay?” You checked on him. He nodded slowly, his eyes screwed shut.

“Let’s get you into the water, okay? It’ll do you good.” You said as you grabbed him by the bicep and helped get him into a seated position inside the tub.

Then, you knelt by his side just as he was grunting in relief, his muscles relaxing in the water.

The bathtub that had felt tight with you and Johnny in it months ago, now felt even smaller with Simon Riley in it.

Grabbing the sponge, you carefully ran it over his torso and shoulders, wetting the part of him that didn’t fit in the bath.

The blond leaned his head back on the wall and opened his eyes, finding you looking at him.

“Thank you.” Simon told you in a whisper.

“For bathing you?”

“For dating me.” He replied, causing you to smile.

“My, Simon, you might be sicker than I expected. Where’s the confidence?” You teased him good-naturely, earning a soft chuckle from him.

“Was never here. Just faking it until I made it…” He admitted and shook his head, letting it lull against the tiles.

“I see, well… It worked.” You joked as you kept wetting his body carefully.

“We’re lucky to have you.” He murmured. “You didn’t have to do this. To put up with us.”

“It’s not putting up if I like you.” You told him. “Besides… you take care of me. I take care of you. Mutually beneficial, that’s what a relationship should be.”

“I don’t take care of you because I like you.” Simon whispered, a drowsy look in his tired eyes.

“Then what for?” You asked him. “Because you want to shag me that bad?” You joked again and winked.

“No… because I love you.” Simon muttered, his lips a bit lazy in the way he said it, clearly too relaxed and tired and groggy to really think straight.

Your eyes widened and your jaw dropped open, your hands going limp and dropping the sponge. “Simon…”

“You don’t have to say it back.” He said as he rolled his head against the tile wall, side to side. “Just wanted you to know.”

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#ikea writes 💚#it's a match! fic #cod modern warfare #cod fanfic #captain john price #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #simon ghost riley #text story #cod x reader #call of duty x reader #141 x reader #simon ghost riley deserves good things #simon ghost riley has a lot of love to give #love confessions

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celtic-crossbow · 22 days

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Blood Ties Chapter 28

Series Masterlist

Warnings: Typical TWD violence and gore; Pregnancy stuff - bodily fluids, etc.

A/N: Still worried about Daryl's character in this, but I guess I will probably continue to do that since this is a situation we haven't seen him in during these seasons. Anyway, game on.

Two days. Three centimeters. Nothing really new other than a few small, quick contractions that were nothing more than a tightening of your belly. Daryl stayed close, mainly venturing outside only to smoke or relieve himself, and, of course, he accompanied you when you needed to go. At that very moment, you were lying propped up on a mountain of pillows that everyone had given you. Daryl was sitting cross-legged by your feet, sharpening his knife.

“Do you think something’s wrong?” You asked, pulling your bottom lip in between your teeth. The archer looked up and studied you, looking back down at the whetstone before shaking his head. The sound of the blade sliding against it made your skin crawl. “Can you—stop that please?” He sighed but sheathed the knife and tossed the whetstone onto the top of the things in his bag. He hadn’t been speaking much which concerned you. You watched him scrub a hand over his face before keeping it there and propping his elbow on his thigh. “Daryl, what’s wrong?”

“Nothin’.” His voice was gravelly, tired even, but not unkind. You knew he had slept, or had at least been lying down with you while you did. “Ya hurtin’ or anythin’?” He still had his face covered.

“Mm-mm. Thumper’s awake though. It’s Cirque du Soleil in there.” His hand finally moved to smooth back over his hair, leaving the shorter pieces askew. “Hey.” His eyes met yours again, worry evident and overflowing. “Come over here?” His left hand clenched into a fist but then flexed open again. Daryl got to his feet, taking a single step toward you before bending down to press a kiss into your hair.

“Gonna have a smoke. Right outside if ya need anythin’.”

You watched him go and sighed, turning your attention to your stomach. “I think you’re scaring your daddy, Thumps. Me too, a little bit, if I’m being honest.” The baby hadn’t been as active over the last 24 hours, but Hershel had reassured that it was normal for movement to decrease in the last part of pregnancy. “I don’t know how good of a mom I’m gonna be. I didn’t exactly have a shining example. And your daddy—he’s gonna really need our patience, kiddo. Shit, we’re both gonna need patience.” There was the smallest ripple beneath your palm. “We’re flying blind here.”

Sounds of a scuffle on the porch had you sitting up straight in a flash, eyes wide and darting.

“Daryl?”

He staggered in the door—walker blood on his arm and his knife—before gaining his footing and bending to grab your boots. “Gotta go!” He was calling for the others while helping you get ready and grabbing up what blankets he could to stuff into the second bag. You could hear the moans and scratches and thumps just outside the wall. “C’mon, just leave the rest. We gotta move.”

You nodded, leaving the remaining blankets, pillows, and your sweatpants. It would be freezing in just your leggings but as long as you were alive, then you couldn’t really complain.

Daryl threw one of the bags on his back—along with his crossbow—while you shouldered the other bag. Knife in one hand, he took yours in the other and was pulling, the first of the herd of corpses tumbling into the house, slimy fingers grasping so closely that you felt the tug on your hood before they seemed to have lost their grip.

Everyone was sprinting out the back, Rick waiting until you and Daryl had passed to follow and pull the door closed behind him. The truck was blessedly close. Daryl was pulling the bag from your shoulder and opening the door simultaneously, letting you climb inside while he tossed both packs into the back and rounded to the drivers side. You had the key ready and in the ignition, your heart rate slowing the moment his foot hit the gas.

“Y’okay?”

Catching your breath—winded by fear and exertion and well, the extra weight of the human growing inside your belly—you looked over just in time to see him take his right hand off the wheel, flex his fingers as they moved just the slightest distance toward you, and then place it right back where it started.

“Yeah.” You answered breathlessly, swallowing and nodding. “Yeah, we’re okay.” He relaxed a little. His next question would have been about Thumper, so why not ease his mind quickly? “Are you okay? The one outside, before you—”

“M’alright. Ain’t bit or nothin’.” He mumbled, dragging his left thumb over his bottom lip before he began chewing on the skin there, thickened from all the scarred wounds he had given himself, small as they were. He was anxious. He had every right to be. You could go into labor at any moment and another temporary home had been overrun. It had been months of this shit. Run, run, run, and—for a change of pace—run again.

Hand steadying your belly, you twisted in the seat to look behind the truck for the headlights of the van. When you didn’t see them, you swiveled back to check the side mirror, finding it easier to watch in that position. There was nothing but the soft red glow of the truck’s tail lights. “I don’t see them.”

“They’ll show an’ we’ll pull off. Come up with somethin’.” His eyes slid over to you and back. “Can’t keep ya out on the road.”

You couldn’t disagree. You could feel your ankles swelling inside your boots. Your pelvis and hips ached, your lower back felt strained. Your stomach was tightening in a small contraction. You were just highly uncomfortable and more than a little tired. Your head fell back against the headrest, eyes closed. You must have dozed because when you opened your eyes, the truck was still and Daryl was gone.

“Daryl?” You quavered, grabbing the dashboard as you slid to the edge of the seat to be able to survey the surroundings. It was too dark. You could barely see inside the cab itself. “Daryl!” Just as you grabbed for the door handle, the driver’s side door opened at full tilt and the archer peered inside.

“M’right here. Y’okay?”

You exhaled sharply, not even realizing you’d been holding your breath. “What’s going on? Why’re you out there? Are the others here?”

Daryl looked over his shoulder, tapping his fingers against the top of the door before turning back toward you, looking at the seat instead of meeting your eyes. “Nah, they ain’t here. Ain’t seen no sign’a ‘em.” You could see the same worry you were feeling reflected in his posture.

“What will we do if they—” You couldn’t say it. You just couldn’t. Why did the world just insist on taking everything?

“Do whatever we gotta do.” Daryl sniffed, looking over his shoulder again. He was thinking the same thing you were. Neither of you knew the first thing about childbirth. You turned to get out of the truck, an ache in your lower back while your stomach tightened in a contraction making you wince, your fingers wrapped around the door handle. “Stay in the truck.” Your hand fell away but the pain remained. It wasn’t unbearable and after a moment, your muscles loosened. The pain in your back remained but lessened. “Y’alright?”

“Mhm.” You answered quickly. Laying back against the seat, you blew upward to move an unruly hair from your face. You were so tired but you couldn’t sleep, not while your partner was standing outside the truck alone and keeping watch. It wouldn’t even do much good to try when there was no comfortable position you could find with your back twinging. Still, you found your eyelids drooping. When the truck rocked the slightest bit, you didn’t startle. A warm hand wrapped around your shoulders and pulled, and you let yourself be guided to lie on Daryl’s thigh.

“Get some sleep.”

With a hum, you turned to face his stomach so your own could rest upon the seat. His hand settled on your ribs.

“I love you.” You mumbled, already halfway gone into slumber. The last thing you felt was his fingertips graze along your jaw.

It was daylight when you next opened your eyes, the taut skin of your stomach pulling uncomfortably tight while your back spasmed. The contractions themselves were merely annoying while the pain in your back was constant, made worse when your muscles tensed. Grimacing, you glowered at your belly. “Good morning to you, too.” You were no longer pillowed on Daryl’s thigh, actually alone in the cab. You made it up to an elbow when you heard voices. Familiar voice.

“You sure you’re alright? Y/N alright?"

“She’s sleepin’.”

You had to grab the steering wheel to haul yourself upright, opting for the passenger door. Carol was the first to see you and sprinted in your direction. You stood still and let her come to you, your ankles just too swollen and sore to move more than necessary. Once reaching you, she wrapped her arms around your shoulders with a little less enthusiasm so as not to jar you.

“I’m so glad you’re okay. When we didn’t see the truck—”

“I know. I was freaking out when I couldn’t see the van.”

She brushed your hair away from your face once she let you go. “We had to go around the herd and then figure out which direction you two went.” You smiled, but it was a weak attempt. Your back was still aching. “Are you okay?” Behind her, Daryl was watching you. You wondered if he was hearing anything Rick was saying.

You waved her off. “Yeah, I’m fine. So, what’s the plan?”

“Heading South, I guess? I’m not sure. I mean, the main thing is to find somewhere safe enough for you to have that baby. Lori won’t be far behind. A few weeks, at most.” Her eyes dropped to where your hand rested on your stomach and then back again. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah.” You nodded. “Go see what’s going on. I don’t really feel like walking over there. I”m just gonna wait in the truck.” After a moment, Carol acquiesced, calling over her shoulder for you to yell if you needed anything. You waved your hand over your head and let it fall to your back, pressing in on where the ache continued. Maybe it was time to tell Daryl something else was happening. Opening the door, you lifted your foot from the ground when you felt something gush from your opening, wetting your underwear and leggings. “Oh, great. And now I pissed myself. Way to go, Y/N!”

You left the door open and stepped back so you could reach into the truck bed for your bag. You’d have to change but you really really did not want to tell Daryl that had just happened. He was your partner and you were pregnant, so he’d understand but you were sure to get a ya did what now and that would just make you feel more embarrassed. Maybe you could call Carol over and she could help you out of the soiled clothes and hide them until they could be washed.

Standing on your tiptoes, you grabbed the soft handle of your bag when it happened again. Less of a gush, but a noticeable flow. That’s when reality roundhouse kicked you in the teeth.

Oh shit.

“Hey, Daryl.” You kept your tone even, unalarmed even if you were being absolutely ravaged by panic inside. You left the bag and lowered back down to be flat on your feet. Daryl’s boots were loud on the pavement but at a slow stride. Good. You hadn’t terrified him.

Yet.

“Yeah?” He noticed where you were standing and glanced into the truck bed. “Need your bag?”

“Well, yes and no.” Your abdomen tightened again, still painless, but aggravating the cramping in your back to a new level. With a hiss through your teeth, you knew you had his full attention without even looking at him.

“S’wrong?”

You were staring at your feet, expression pinched with pain and concentration while you persevered through the episode. Why the fuck did your back hurt? All too soon, Daryl’s boots were right in front of yours. “I—I think my water broke.” When you could finally think past the throb that was slowly ebbing away into the continuous ache, you raised your head to find him staring at the ground. And then your pants. “What?”

“Ain’t there supposed to be—I dunno—a lot?”

“How the hell should I know? You think I give birth on a regular basis?” You snapped, immediately murmuring an apology.

“Ya sure ya didn’t just—”

“No, I didn’t piss myself.” More fluid trickled from within you, a miniscule amount but enough to be noticed. “At least I think I didn’t? I mean, I was expecting more of a whoosh. Like Noah’s Ark level of liquid, you know?” And then you were silent. And so was he. You stared at one another, each waiting for the other to say something.

Daryl cleared his throat. “M’gonna—gonna get Hershel.” He turned but barely managed a step before he stopped, looking back over his shoulder. “Or I can stay here? Do ya need me here?”

“Just get Hershel. I’ll be fine for now. Can you get Carol too, please?” You watched him nod, noticed the tick in his clenched jaw, the way he was tapping each fingertip of his right hand against his thumb rhythmically. He was freaking out. And as you felt more liquid soaking into the fabric of your underwear and leggings, so were you. You were wet all the way down past your knees.

“Daryl said you needed me.” Carol’s voice brought your head up, your expression triggering the worry that took over her own. “What’s wrong?”

“I think—I either really had to pee or my water broke.” You shifted from foot to foot, carefully keeping your thighs apart. You had never felt so humiliated in your entire life. If your father could see you now—well, honestly he’d probably be laughing and saying take it easy, peanut, it’s just some wet pants.

“It’s okay.” Carol soothed, encircling her arms around your shoulders. “Anything else going on? Contractions?” You nodded. “How often?”

“I don’t know. Like maybe every half hour but my back is killing me. It just—it hasn’t stopped hurting since it started last night.” She was listening so intently that it made you nervous. “The contractions don’t hurt, but man, they make the back pain fucking horrible.”

Carol smoothed your hair and took your face in her hands, giving you that sweet Carol smile. “Sweetheart, I think that your water did break and that you’re in labor.” You felt your eyes widen and your breaths coming quicker. “It’s okay, just breathe. Daryl’s on his way over with Hershel.”

Daryl came straight to you, the nervousness surrounding him so strongly that it made your chest tighten further. He didn’t say anything as he usually did when you floundered over your responses. When Hershel asked permission to examine you then and there, you began to fidget.

“I guess there’s not much of a choice, is there?” You lamented, looking to your partner. His head was down and he was trembling. You’d have to talk to him later when there was no one else around.

“I’m afraid not.” Hershel could see you were anxious. His soft spoken words were proof enough of that.

Daryl climbed into the cab first and helped you in, letting you rest your head on his thigh while Carol pulled off your sodden leggings and underwear. The examination was quick, much to your relief.

“As far as I can tell, it was indeed your water breaking. We have no litmus paper for confirmation, but the source of the fluid appears to be from the vaginal opening and not the urethra.” You knew this would happen eventually but that made it no less terrifying. “You can likely expect the contractions to become more intense, closer together as you dilate. They may or may not be painful as we talked about. Daryl, you’ll need to time them.”

“Okay.” Was all he said, quiet and contemplative. Hands at your shoulder blades, he helped you to sit up.

“Rick,” the vet called out, “we need to find somewhere safe and fast.” The deputy jogged over, looking quizzically between all the faces. Carol quickly occupied the old man’s place with fresh clothing from your bag, covering your lower half from view. “Y/N will be giving birth soon and needs a quiet, safe enough place to deliver.”

“These are likely to get wet too, but you can’t ride around in soaked clothing. Beth and Maggie had some pads, so I thought maybe they could help, too.” You nodded robotically. This should be the happiest experience of your life and all you could feel was an overwhelming sense of foreboding. What if you screamed during the birth and brought down a herd? What if the baby cried too loud? What if something went wrong? What if? What if? What if?

Carol helped you get dressed and situated in the truck while Daryl looked over a map with the others. You watched him from the side mirror, smiling when you saw that he could barely focus, continuously glancing toward the truck. You could feel the beginnings of another contraction, the twitching inside before your stomach would tighten and you’d need to breathe through the pain in your back. It still wasn’t unbearable but it was enough to coax a whimper from your lips. Right in the middle of the episode, there was a gentle tap on the window. Lori was looking through the glass sympathetically, waiting patiently until you could use the window crank.

“How’re you holding up?” She asked, reaching in to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

You saw no reason to lie. “I’m terrified.” Wringing your hands over your belly, you sniffled in an attempt to hold back the tears. Crying wouldn’t solve anything. “I don’t know what to expect. The pain, you know. What if I cause someone to get hurt because I can’t take it? What if something’s wrong with Thumper? What if—”

“Hey, hey, hey.” Her hand landed gently on your shoulder and you lost the battle with the tears that were demanding to fall. “Everything you’re feeling is normal. Well, as normal as it can be in a world full of the walking dead. It’s all going to be fine. All things considered, you’ve handled this pregnancy like a warrior. I have no doubt that you’ll get through bringing that baby into the world just fine.”

You wiped at your face almost angrily. “Really?”

“Really.” She smiled, looking as if she were going to say something else but her eyes moved to somewhere behind you. She squeezed your shoulder. “It’ll all be okay. We’re going to be leaving soon. We’ll find a safe place.” Another glance behind you and, holding her smile, she walked away.

You were rolling up the window when the driver’s door opened and Daryl climbed in, shutting the door behind him. “Ya doin’ okay?” His voice was just as shaky as he was.

“I’m okay.” You kept your expression soft and reached for his hand. He let you take it. “Are you okay?”

“Mhm.” He squeezed your fingers and pulled his hand back to start the engine and take hold of the shifter but he didn’t move it.

“Daryl?”

“M’scared shitless.” You blinked for a moment before quickly dismissing the shock from your expression. “Dunno what m’doin’. Dunno how—what m’s’posed to do to help you.” He was staring straight ahead, carefully avoiding your gaze. It was obvious that wasn’t easy for him to admit.

“Hey.” He ducked his head but he didn’t look at you. “We’re both lost here, but we’ve made it this far.” With a noise of effort and discomfort, you scooted across the seat. The movement had him looking your way with a quick turn of his head.

“What—quit it ‘fore ya—”

“Shut up.” You wrapped a hand around the back of his neck and pulled him forward for a kiss. It was difficult to hold the position you found yourself in, your back singing with pain, but you both needed the comfort, the closeness. When you separated, you kept the hold on his neck and pressed your forehead to his. “We’re in this together. ‘We’ll handle it’, remember?” Clearing his throat, he waited a moment before he nodded, his forehead bumping yours.

The van pulled up alongside the truck. With a last kiss to his forehead, you slid back across the seat and slouched to take some of the pressure off your back. Daryl nodded to Rick and then pulled off the roadside and followed behind the others.

“That one actually hurt.” You breathed, rubbing a hand over your belly as the pain faded. You’d been on the road for about three hours, stopping at two homes, both with too many dead wandering too close by. Daryl glanced up at you and then back to the watch he had balanced on top of the steering wheel.

“Last one was ‘bout 21 minutes ago, this’un was ‘bout 52 seconds.” He sat the watch on the seat by his leg and switched hands on the wheel, resting his left elbow on the window panel so he could rub his thumb back and forth across his lip while he obviously chewed the inside of his cheek.

“So they’re lasting about the same amount of time but they’re definitely getting closer together.” Shifting in the seat a little, you hissed at the twinge of pain in your back. “God, my back is the worst part right now, but if it doesn’t get any worse than this, I’ll be golden.” You were very doubtful you’d be that lucky but one could dream, right?

“M’sorry.” Daryl mumbled from behind his thumb.

Your brow furrowed, your head shaking back and forth in confusion. “Why are you sorry?”

“M’the reason you’re goin’ through this.” He cleared his throat sharply, biting into the side of his thumb with more vigor than you’d ever seen before.

“Last time I checked, I was a willing participant in the creation of this tiny human.” You chuckled, attempting to lighten the mood. There was a dense fog of tension building inside the cab, one you intended to disperse as quickly as possible before it could soak into either one of you. “This is our baby, Daryl. We decided to do this together.” You started to reach for him but thought better of it for the moment. “We’re going to do this together.”

He looked over at you, glancing back at the road every few seconds. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

You shook your head and smiled fondly. “If the baby is as quiet as you are when they’re upset, then we won’t need to worry about them attracting walkers.” You had meant it as a joke but the archer immediately blanched. “No, Daryl, I just—shit, that was the worst. I’m sorry.”

“Babies cry. How—what—”

“We’ll deal with it when we have to deal with it. Right now, let’s just focus on actually having a baby, okay?” That was enough to at least have him lapse into silence with a nod. You watched the sky darken, knowing two things: there would be no shelter before dark and the vehicles would soon need fuel. Daryl must have been thinking the same, his eyes darting down toward the dashboard. His thumb was hovering in front of his mouth, a smear of blood on each.

“Gonna have to camp tonight.” He swallowed so hard that you saw his throat working. “They’re gonna hafta go lookin’ for fuel.”

“You’re not—”

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere.” The conviction in his tone filled your chest with warmth, even if he didn’t look at you. You couldn’t express your appreciation before another contraction began to build.

“Fuck.” You breathed, holding the side of your belly with one hand while the other reached for the dash. Daryl didn’t need clarification, just reached to pick up the watch. Your back screamed while your stomach tightened and cramped, pulling a whimper from within you that you couldn’t seem to stifle. Breathe, idiot, you told yourself. In through the nose, out through the mouth. It wasn’t the worst pain you’d ever felt, but it still fucking hurt. Seconds felt like hours but soon enough, you could feel the pain ebbing away, your body relaxing. “Christ.” You fell back against the seat, completely wrung out.

Daryl was still holding the watch, glancing between it, you, and the road. “Minute an' four seconds, last'un was 19 minutes ago.” Before you could comment, the truck sputtered and jerked. The archer was barely able to get it onto the side of the road before it died. He flashed the lights to signal the van, the brake lights illuminating the road ahead as Rick turned around. Daryl’s hands dropped to his lap, his head bowed to stare at them. “Gettin’ closer together.” He almost whispered.

“Yeah.” It was all you could think of to say. “I am not having this baby on the side of the road.” Even as the words left your mouth, you didn’t believe a single syllable.

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kookie-doughs · 7 months

Text

Daddy Cupid

Modern!Various One Piece Men X Reader

-When your father grows weary of your single life, he takes it upon himself to play matchmaker. With him knowing the entire city, he embarks on a mission to find you the perfect match.

Chapter 1: Cupid's Bow

Chapter 2: Cupid's Arrow

Chapter 3: Cupid's Aim

Shot At

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎 ᴍᴀʀᴄᴏ

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙵𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍 ʙᴜɢɢʏ

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙵𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝙱𝚘𝚢𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍 ꜱᴍᴏᴋᴇʀ

𝖢𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 1: 𝖯𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗉𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾𝖾𝖾𝖾𝖾𝖾

Chapter 2: My love so sweet, My darling one

Chapter 3: Scary ass old men

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚄𝚗𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝙻𝚘𝚟𝚎 ᴍɪʜᴀᴡᴋ

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝙽𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 ᴋᴜᴢᴀɴ

𝖢𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 1:

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙼𝚢𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝙼𝚊𝚗 ʟᴜᴄᴄɪ

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚘𝚢 ꜱʜᴀɴᴋꜱ

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙰𝚜𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 ᴅᴏꜰʟᴀᴍɪɴɢᴏ

𝖢𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 1: 𝖸𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝖺 𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗋, 𝖨'𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗍

Chapter 2: I'm literally the best stop complaining

Chapter 3: You're being super weird rn

Chapter 4: He's like so obsessed idk wym

Chapter 5: You willingly wanted this to happen

Chapter 6: You're just so annoying and a menace

Chapter 7: Oh just shut up stupid heart

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙵𝚘𝚛𝚋𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝙻𝚘𝚟𝚎 ʀᴏꜱɪɴᴀɴᴛᴇ

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙴𝚡 𝙱𝚘𝚢𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍 ᴄʀᴏᴄᴏᴅɪʟᴇ

𝖢𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 1:

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙰𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝙼𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚐𝚎 ᴄʀᴀᴄᴋᴇʀ

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙱𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 ᴋᴀᴛᴀᴋᴜʀɪ

HI GUYS OMG SO LIKE THIS STORY DERIVED FROM MY "nightly fanfiction self inserts" I USUALLY SLEEP WRITING A FANFICTION IN MY HEAD AND LIKE THIS WAS ORIGINALLY A MARCOxREADER STORY BUT I WAS LIKE THIS AU IS TOO GOOD I MIGHT AS WELL MILK IT

I ADDED ALL THE CHARACTERS I CAN THINK OF IF YOU HAVE A REQUEST FOR A CHARACTER TO BE ADDED HERE YOU CAN SEND AN ASK OF DM ME ALONG WITH A TROPE OR NOT IF YOU CANT THINK AND PLEASE MAKE THE AGE REASONABLE 11 YEARS YOUNGER IS THE MAX AS FOR OLDER NO ONE OLDER THAN YOUR DAD

YES THEYRE ALL GONNA BE STORIES LIKE MARCO'S ROUTE IS GONNA HAVE CHAPTERS AND SO WOULD OTHERS THE LENGTH ISNT ALL GONNA BE SAME IT VARIES

IF YOU WANT THE TROPE WRITTEN FOR ANOTHER CHARACTER LIKE "Childhood friend Shanks" I CAN WRITE IT AS ANOTHER STORY THE SAME TROPE CAN'T BE WRITTEN HERE TWICE IF YOU SUGGEST A DIFFERENT TROPE FOR A CHARACTER LIKE "Can you change the trope for Katakuri" IF I HAVEN'T WRITTEN HIS PART YET I WILL OBLIGE SO LONG AS YOU PROVIDE WITH THE TROPE I HAVEN'T WRITTEN

I AM POSTING THIS NOW DESPITE NOT HAVING WRITTEN ANYTHING YET IN CASE YOU WANT TO CHANGE THE TROPES OR ADD CHARACTERS OR ANYTHING

Your age in the story is 30(same age as Doflamingo), your father is Rayleigh(67). I follow the canonical age gaps just like yk different age. Shanks and Buggy are 2 years younger(28) Luffy is 8 ykyk you can follow the age line here

I hope you'll enjoy this love you all!!!!

Taglist?

@gayer-than-the-gayest-gay @nykie-love-anime @angstylittleb1tch @valen-yamyam16 @melodyidk @anicega @littlegreekgirl1 @rebeccawinters @manduse @alextheknight707 @h0n3y-l3m0n05

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kookslastbutton · 3 months

Text

Those Eyes Chico ༓ myg (m) | Teaser

✒ Summary: As the new marketing director for Min Yoongi’s upcoming D-Day album & tour, you’re expected to bring your expertise to the table. This shouldn’t be a problem—you’re the best in the business and you’re used to drawing a strict line between your professional and personal life. But what happens when the lines you’ve fought to keep as separate blur for the first time?

pairing: idol!yoongi x plus size!poc!reader

genre/AU: angst, fluff, smut, slow-burn, coworkers2friends2lovers, winter setting, forbidden love?

word count: tbd, 835 for this teaser

warnings: oc is 28, Yoon is 30, oc is not originally from South Korea, oc has light brown eyes, swearing, mentions of alcohol consumption, mentions of anxiety, panic attacks, body insecurities, fear of being blacklisted, emotionally restrained Yoon, mentions of smoking, unstable parental relationships, conservative parents, mentions of therapy, mentions of dating scandal, eventual sexual content, and more specific warnings per chapter.

now playing: Sweet Dreams by The Last Shadow Puppets

a/n: Okay this has taken over six months to release but it's finally beginning and I am super excited to share! 🫣 I am low-key terrible at choosing a proper teaser so hoepfull this works haha. ANYWAY, this series is dedicated to my wonderfully crazy friend and beta, Gloom @theuselessdaydreamingidiot, and to all our fellow Yoon lovers bc we miss our sweet man SO MUCH 🥺 Enjoy! 🥰 Also huge thank you to @itaeewon for designing this beautiful series header! Love it!!

Series Masterlist

“Did you get the files I sent to you?”

The woman nods her head in affirmation while sweeping a few pieces of her long, silky hair behind an ear. To strangers, she appears to look about 24 which is only four years younger than yourself but nonetheless she’s the same age as you. Hei-Ran is her name, meaning “graceful orchid” according to Korean translation.

Hei-ran is one of Hybe’s newest hires and based on her experience, a near perfect fit to being South Korean boy group Tomorrow X Together’s new marketing manager. Until about three months ago, this had been your job.

You never imagined giving up the position after three years of working in the role. But with December right around the corner Hybe had other plans for you.

"Graduated summa cum laude with a bachelors degree in BTech in Electrical and Electronics Engineering and a MBA in Marketing from NYU Stern. You worked two years as a brand manager for U.S record label Atlantic Records immediately after graduating, and are now working at BigHit Music as a marketing manager for TXT including liaison with their global marketing team.”

You recall PD Bang’s voice vibrate in the back of your mind from mid-August. You thought you were called into his office to discuss details of TXT’s latest promo, so having your resume read back to you was a sweeping curve ball. Your determination must have far exceeded the heaviness you felt in your chest because before you knew it you, you were shaking hands with your boss in acceptance of your role – the new marketing director for Min Yoongi’s upcoming D-Day album & tour.

The tedious knot that’s formed in the nape of your neck reminds you that as surreal as the situation might be, it’s undeniably real.

Months spent drafting a comprehensive marketing proposal for D-Day; often until the wee hours of the night, inevitably takes its toll on even the mightiest of warriors. An entire new team of fifty people, all of who you’ll be in charge of orchestrating for the next eight months, doesn’t provide much to relief either.

You’re excited nevertheless. Working with one of the most respected artists in the music industry is an opportunity you couldn’t let slip by, especially since the album’s rock-inspired genre aligns closely with your own music taste.

“Thank you so much for helping me get settled __,” Hei-ran’s gentle voice returns you to the present. “I appreciate the time you’ve taken these last few months to train me despite the tight deadlines you have.”

Smiling, you shake your head. “It’s no problem at all and if there’s anything you need in the future, feel free to give me a call or stop by my office.”

“On the 16th floor right?”

“1656A. Take a left off the elevator and walk to the end of the first hallway. The door on the right is mine.”

Referring to any room on the 16th floor as your own is something you don’t take lightly. For one the offices are double the size of any other office spaces in the building. Yours in particular has a giant skyscraper window draped with heavy white curtains. Secondly, the floor above is the 17th floor which is exclusive to Hybe artists only.

"How's the proposal coming along, by the way?" Her curiosity is palpable, genuine in its nature. You’ve always appreciated that in an individual.

“It’s done,” you respond. “Only thing left to do is to prepare for our meeting with C-suite executives next Monday. It’s nearly perfect as is, but the presentation could use a bit of refining in terms of organization.”

Hei-ran is silent for a moment longer than usual before her next inquiry, which is undoubtedly the question on both of your minds. “I can't help but wonder what it'll be like to meet him for the first time,” she muses.

You don’t bother asking for clarification on who the “him” is; you’re already well aware that it’s Min Yoongi. The same subject has managed to intrude your own thoughts more and more as the date of meeting him draws closer. It's peculiar honestly, considering you’ve encountered him before. Granted, it was only a small handful of times the hallway, both heading in opposite directions. Min Yoongi typically greeted you with a hoarse 'Good Morning' those instances, along with a curt nod of his head. You would nod back with a brief 'Morning' yourself. Deep down you feel he'd make a quality friend, though it's only a premonition. It’s not like you actually know much about him beyond those small exchanges.

"I'm not sure what to expect, honestly," you admit. "I imagine it'll be similar to previous professional collaborations—composed, focused, and intense. D-Day is poised to become a global sensation for the next year, so it's going to need our full, undivided attention."

Hei-ran gives a knowing nod. “Good luck __,” she wishes you well as you head towards the elevator doors. Breaks over, back to work.

a/n: Chapter one will be released soon 🙃 Thanks for reading the teaser!

Masterlist | Requests: closed | Taglist | Fic Recs

no reposting, copying, or translating my work– © kookslastbutton

#yoongi angst #yoongi fluff #yoongi smut #yoongi x reader #yoongi fanfic #bts fanfics #bts fanfic #bts angst #bts fluff #bts smut #bts scenarios #fic:thoseeyeschico #kookslastbutton

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robins-egg-bindery · 9 months

Text

Windows by @drgrlfriend

Derek has a new neighbor who won't stop looking.

fic by @drgrlfriend

art by @maichan808 & @andavs-main

368 pages / 83,266 words

Title Font: PP Hatton

Body Fonts: Cardo, Geo

HAPPY FFWAD!!! Thank you @renegadepublishing for putting on this event in celebration!

More on the process below the cut!

I'm so excited to be posting this book! Super grateful @drgrlfriend was so down to let me bind Windows for Fan Fiction Writer Appreciation Day. This is one of my all-time favs, and I was thrilled to give it the treatment it deserves! @maichan808 & @andavs-main were also incredibly kind to allow me to include their stunning art pieces in the book <3 And thank you @renegadepublishing for putting this event together!

I wanted the typeset to be visually interesting and move around the page, without making it difficult to read. I created unique headers for each of the 28 chapters with royalty free art, and varied placement on the page in six different configurations. I also played with the text warp to make the text work as part of the image - one of my favorites is chapter 26, "Banshee", pictured above!

I used Brick duo for this bind, as part of the vision for the front cover, which was done in silver permanent vinyl. I think the rich rust color is perfect for how I would imagine Stiles & Derek's apartment building, and the silver is incredibly reflective - my favorite part is how the vinyl catches the light on the spine, and can reflect "Windows" on whatever surface it's on (pictured above). That's not an added effect, it's just doing that!

I did @tankbredgrunt's faux double-core headband with some Sulky Gutermann I bought at a secondhand store for $0.25, and it's so pretty! A bit thin to work with, but totally worth it for the multi-color effect it gives off.

And I finally got a proper crisp hinge! I think it really brings the whole book together, thank you knitting needles (even though you were a pain in the ass).

This project also marks my 100th book! I'm rapidly approaching the two year mark of my fanbinding career with no sign of stopping; thank you to this entire community, and all of the fandoms I've been able to bring this hobby to. I love how cross-fandom it is; and for an old floater like me, it's wonderful to bring all of my interests together and have something that transcends those lines.

HAPPY FAN FICTION WRITER APPRECIATION DAY!

#fanbinding #bookbinding #fanfic binding #fanficbinding #me myself and i #fanfic #ficbinding #renegade publishing #teen wolf #derek hale #sterek fic #sterek #stiles x derek #stiles stilinski #derek x stiles #drgrlfriend #ffwad #fanficwriterappreciationday #renegadelovesfic

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jiminjamms · 3 months

Text

sex therapy :: 26. together

chapter tags/warnings: a very broken marriage. heavy angst. at least i am not gege. mai and maki and megumi as an iconic trio. infidelity/adultery. family drama. strong language. corruption.

word count: 4.8k

notes: thank you for the overwhelming reception from the last chapter! work has been consuming my life, sadly, which is why this chapter took longer than i anticipated. gr. in this upcoming piece, though, my main focuses are the character development in y/n as well as explanations from toji himself. enjoy! likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated. xoxo

fic masterlist | 01. 02. 03. 04. 05. 06. 07. 08. 09. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33.

A large, warm hand massaged the delicate stretch between your thumb and forefinger.

Gently. Leisurely. Daintily.

Vanilla and cinnamon notes entered your lungs with every inhale, a velvetiness akin to everything you imagined clouds to be like if brushing against your cheek, the comforting sensations bringing back nostalgic memories from the carefree times your heart longed to return to.

Was this Heaven? you wondered in this dark and dreamy daze.

You would not mind staying in this state eternally if that meant the promise of peace and quiet forever.

A voice, not from yourself, dispersed your thoughts.

“Suguru, what are the chances she won’t ever wake up?”

Wake up?

Oh, so you were just asleep.

“Shut up, Sukuna,” another person quipped, this tone more leveled and coarser than the last. “Don’t say shit like that.”

The first person, who must be Sukuna then, chuckled lowly to himself. “Oh, who would’ve thought? Choso is having a soft spot?” he marveled with great interest, “Since when did you care so much about—”

But a third voice interrupted the banter. “She’s awake.”

After a long struggle, your eyes fluttered open to see a crowd gathered around you. Immediately beside you was Suguru Geto. He had been the one nestling your hand, but he practically didn’t look like himself with the concern etched into his brow, replacing the cheerfulness in his typical visage. Behind him stood Sukuna and Choso. The former grinned with fierce satisfaction, while the latter…scowled at you?

To be fair, Choso always scowled at you.

“Good evening, gorgeous.” Geto greeted with a melancholic smile, giving you another squeeze, firm and encouraging. Like a true gentleman, he helped you sit upright, his other hand reaching over your head to brush aside some stray strands by your forehead. “Are you feeling okay?”

Exhaustion, meanwhile, rattled you to the bone.

You were weak, your movements fragile, almost like you were a fawn in her first hours of life. You blinked rapidly while taking in the new environment, only to quickly recognize the gray and cream colors in your surroundings. Back at Toji’s apartment was where you found yourself, with the familiar spiced floral scents from the flickering candle nearby confirming that this was the master bedroom.

Given the dull throb by your temples, you frowned.

“What—?” your voice came out as a hoarse rasp. “What happened?”

The trio traded looks at each other with communicative eyes.

In the end, Choso tucked his hands into his front pocket and took the initiative to speak.

“You were in the Zenin residence with Mai and Maki, remember?” No, not really.“Got into an argument with your husband. Started having a panic attack. Collapsed. Puked.”

Oh…

Recollections from your last conscious moments flooded your head like a tsunami: the screaming, the crying, and the fighting. Loud, angry, bitter fighting.

Fighting for your dignity. Fighting for your heart. Fighting for your life. Goodness gracious. As much as the memories sucked all life from you, you instead felt completely…numb.

After all, you had already been dead on the inside. You were too worn out, both physically and emotionally, to react. Everything that you had to go through since your wedding had brought you to your wit’s end, and this recent altercation with Naoya Zenin was truly the icing on the cake.

When you caught sight of yourself in a nearby mirror, you could hardly recognize yourself. Your expression, glum. Your lips, chafed, Your face, pallor. Absent of any other color than an ashen hue.

“How…did I get here?”

“Mai and Maki got worried and called Toji, who told them to bring you here,” Sukuna answered this time. “You’re lucky the girls reacted fast, else we would have sent you to an emergency room. Suguru even stopped his shift at his clinic to watch over you.”

“I—,” you sighed, lost for words and dropping your tired gaze to the floor. Dealing with inner turmoil to this degree was more than what any sane person could handle. All efforts towards your happiness were in vain anyway, as the cosmos conspired to make your existence one neverending nightmare. Everyone else had their ambitions and shit to deal with, but here you were as an absolute nuisance to the people who should not be otherwise pestered, and you were ashamed for the unnecessary trouble that you had caused. “Gosh, this is embarrassing.”

“We are so sorry!”

Unexpectedly, the apology came from a girl’s voice, and you had to turn around to see three familiar teenagers by the bedroom door.

Just last week, you would never have imagined ever seeing Mai, Maki, and Megumi together. Yet, here you were, watching the twins and their—technically speaking—nephew (cute) standing side-by-side, twiddling their thumbs in their nervous corner (also cute).

Flustered and prepared for admonishment, Mai bowed her head at a slight angle as she hurriedly explained, “We don’t…We don’t mean to put you in an awkward position. We just didn’t know what to do. Maki and I were worried when you fell to the floor and started throwing up. We…We should’ve asked for your permission on who to call for help. But we didn’t know who else to phone, so we ended up dialing Toji. Now, we’ve put you in a weird spot and that is all our fault—”

“Do not apologize. That was the right thing to do.” The comment came from yet another person, and when Sukuna and Choso stepped to the side, who you saw at the room’s furthest end was none other than Toji Fushiguro himself.

He had taken a seat all the way by the wall, with one leg thrust over the other in a relaxed but kingly sort of manner. With his sleeves rolled up, his forearms bled to his wrists with ink, and the emeralds in his sharp gaze gleamed as he stared pointedly in your direction.

Of everyone in the room, his countenance appeared the most composed, but you could feelhim reading through the emotions present on your face. He inclined forward, resting his elbow on his knee and his chin on his palm.

When he noticed the slightest shift in your posture too, the tiny scar by his lips flexed along with a smile.

“So, you’ve figured me out, hm?”

Easily, you could sense all seven pairs of eyes in the room (the four therapists plus the three teens) landing on you. The sudden attention rendered you nervous. Even if you chose silence as your response, the entire room, the entire planet, and perhaps even the entire galaxy could speculate your answer through your expression alone.

After a long while, you breathed out, “You didn’t tell me that you were a Zenin.”

The elephant in the room had to be addressed obviously, and you were not shy to confront the situation head-on.

While you did not intend to sound accusatory, your tone came off as such anyway. How could you not, when you had essentially been misled for weeks? Sure, Toji probably did not want to be badmouthing the Zenins to the very person (you) who had been recently married into the family. But, by withholding the fact that he and your husband were cousins, Toji had created much unnecessary anguish including the current limbo that your marriage was in right now.

Meanwhile, that same man pressed his nails into his chin in contemplation.

“I am not a Zenin, though,” he eventually corrected in a domineering voice, all austere in his throne. “At least, not any longer. I took my first wife’s last name years ago. I go by Fushiguro now.” Curt, direct, and pithy. Toji wasted not a syllable. “Everything worked out though, I guess. Naobito cut me off from the Zenin clan earlier this year. Gave me ten billion yen and told me to get lost, so I did.”

Toji always kept his private matters to himself, but with everything that he had gone through, you were struck by his poise, as if being expelled from such an influential household had been a high-school breakup he had gotten over long ago.

Nonetheless, you wondered if he missed that other life, and you brought your knees toward your chest.

“So,” how should you put this, “you’re not upset?”

Toji scoffed immediately.

“Upset?” A bitter grin spread off his lips. “Why would I be upset? That household is a trash dump. All my life, there were no choices for me to make when my uncles and granduncles decided everything already,” and he began counting with his fingers, “my teachers, my classes, my extracurriculars, my friends. Everything. I was only a puppet to bring honor to the family name, bring in money for the company.”

Listening to his sonorous voice, you rested your cheek onto a knee.

"I see."

His story was depressing, and from conversations with in-laws such as Mai and Maki, you knew that he was not lying, either. Coming from nobility as well, you were also aware of the pressures that came with the people who boasted their 'old-money' statuses, but the Zenin household had always been notorious for being miserable.

Toji had said so before in a prior discussion, how ‘family isn’t family for something like the Zenins’ because both politics and business took precedence.

Then, he went on.

“Some people would kill to have my problems, but I did not want that life, you know? Around the time I started college, I decided that I wanted to make judgments for myself and be my own distinct entity, but that made people upset. Privileged. Entitled. Ungrateful. Whatever. My family members called me many things as a young adult when they figured I did not want to be their pawn for my whole life, with the only person who understood me for many years being my best friend in university.”

Megumi’s mom.

Toji nearly appeared to be an altogether different person whenever he spoke about his first wife. The chartreuse in his eyes would stir with both sorrow and fond reminiscence as he thought about the Mrs. Fushiguro you would never get to meet, his closest confidant whom he lost to the cruel separation brought by life versus death. She must have been someone whom he valued a lot—a person who completely transformed him—as Toji had discarded his last name (which was Zenin, of all things) for hers.

‘He truly loved my mom,’ Megumi explained before. 'He had given up everything.’

Thus, fate could truly be unfair.

The loss and pain Toji must have endured, a topic Megumi had alluded to in his discussion with you before.

Not to mention, the expectations, frustration, and suffocation that came from the clan's elders, too. Experiencing the intense atmosphere in the Zenin household firsthand allowed you to empathize with him. Given the stark differences between him and your lawful husband, there was no wonder Toji did not wish to deal with his older relatives' high-strung conventions.

But, if he had been suffering so much…

“Why did you care so much for what your family thought?” you asked, disregarding the look that the three teenagers by the door exchanged with each other. “Toji, you went to university in the United States. You had a wife and son at a young age. You went from a business background to a licensed therapist, so why did you not—”

“Leaving is difficult when you’re the family heir and the corporation’s CEO.”

The expression that you then returned was blank.

Huh?

His words triggered something in your head, so you repeated after him.

“Leaving is difficult when,” and your voice trailed off, “when…you…are the heir and CEO.”

Heir. CEO.

Zenin.

Toji.

Naoya.

But Toji’s older.

‘Naoya got into a huge dispute with him earlier this year.’

Sheer realization slapped you hard across your face. No way.

“Toji,” you began after letting the revelation sink into you a while later, but your voice barely eeked above a mumble, “so you were once the successor to the Zenin household and company?"

The man in question did not respond, but the silent affirmation from the six other onlookers was an answer in itself.

Yes.

In hindsight, you wanted to say you had always seen the possibility. Still, you never fully registered this until now: the thoughtfulness in his strategy, the sophistication in his speech, the charisma in his leadership.

Previously, Toji had impressed you with how much he knew about the Zenin Corporation’s market share in the Asia-Pacific or the firm’s outsized influence on the international stage. Yet, most (including yourself) would not guess that someone like Toji Fushiguro—your tattooed and brawny sex therapist (plus single dad)—had once been heralded as the indisputable inheritor to the proud lineage and conglomerate.

That had been your mistake.

Toji was more than what people made him out to be, which reminded you to never assume anything superficially about someone—a remark he had once made. For good reason, because he had been referring to himself all along.

You could almost visualize Toji Fushiguro as the seasoned executive he had once been in light of this new information: his black strands slicked into a side part, his charcoal blazer freshly pressed, his leather oxfords newly polished.

Maybe because he was more mature or maybe because he was simply older, but Toji appeared more fitting for the important roles in the Zenin household compared to the man presently poised for succession.

Consequently, you must also ask, “Then, how did Naoya end up in your seat?”

Sukuna and Megumi shared a glance.

Choso grimaced, and Suguru kissed his teeth.

Meanwhile, Toji ran a lone finger down his jaw, following the lines from a tattoo.

“Let me give you some context, sweetheart,” he offered, now brushing his chin as he spoke. “For the last—let’s say—few hundred years, the oldest male in each generation became the leader in the Zenin clan. Is the rule stupid? Yes. Should there be more criteria in evaluating a potential heir aside from birth order? Also yes. But nothing has stopped this before because the Zenins, as you know by now, are a family built on antiquity and tradition. So, when I was born as the oldest male in my generation and Naoya had come in second place...”

Toji did not have to finish his sentence for you to figure out the rest.

Despite the demands that came along with being the next family head, Toji must have been esteemed as nothing short of a crown price among the Japanese elite, with seniors in the Zenin household utilizing all their resources to prepare the once young and starry-eyed boy for taking over such an influential role. Naturally, his enviable position would spark jealousy, even from those whom Toji deemed related to by birth.

Including his very own younger first cousin.

Toji frowned in exasperation.

“Your husband is one childish and jealous brat, but Naoya Zenin has been like that for as long as I have known him. To claim the heir and CEO titles, he acquired the trust from myself and my colleagues by working with us in sex therapy, only to stab us all in the back. He’s a liar. A total manipulator.”

And, from personal experiences, you knew that those words could not be more true.

At this point, Toji sank his handsome face into his immense palm.

“Well, now Naoya Zenin has everything he wants but is still an incompetent asshole. The whole enterprise is hanging by a thread. The entire clan cannot fucking stand him. What’s crazy is that his father Naobito is not doing anything about this, and I cannot tell if that is because the old man is giving his son free passes or because he has finally gotten senile. With Naoya's pettiness, though, the father-son duo have done everything to erase my name from the family, even going as far as to dismiss the executives that I brought onto the management team to undo my legacy.”

When Toji glanced up to cast his gaze forward, you then suddenly understood that the three other men in the room were more than just his fellow board-licensed colleagues.

You recalled Toji’s words in the Teyvat meeting room.

‘I recruited these guys right when they completed their undergraduate degrees, around the time I just opened my therapy office,’ and the puzzle pieces clicked into place from the realization that sex therapy had not been the only thing that Toji had worked with them on—Sukuna, Choso, and Suguru had been executives at the Zenin Corporation reporting to Toji, too. ‘We’ve been working together since, for the past four years.’

Discerning these revelations from your expressions, Toji added in confirmation.

“I had selected these three to oversee the Zenin Corporation’s operations with me,” he said, and you remembered the same conversation in which the men discussed their University of Tokyo studies while Toji listed their previous roles. Sukuna, Economics. “Sukuna, Director of Investments and Real Estate.” Choso, Mechanical Engineering. “Choso, Chief Engineer and Supply Chain Manager.” Suguru, Biology. “Suguru, Healthcare and Innovation Administrator.”

Arguably the most consequential divisions in a conglomerate that spanned numerous sectors, with each department bringing in yen by the billions every year.

‘These guys have treated me like family more than my blood-related kin have.’

Learning this about the four therapists added to your fascination.

For you, the discovery was like uncovering a hidden treasure trove. To imagine everything that the four—as one cohesive unit—had gone through together at the top of the corporate ladder: scrutiny from the media and stakeholders, impromptu meetings that demanded make-or-break decisions, and immediate responses to industry trends and regulations.

Only for them to be cast aside by no one other than your husband.

In the end, this all made sense.

Now, you understood why the therapists were once incredibly demeaning and belligerent toward you. How could they possibly sympathize with the woman married to the man who had taken virtually everything from them?

Heck, if you were in their shoes and had no further context, you would hate yourself, too.

Only now were you hearing their perspectives, and you were grateful that—compared to several weeks before—they trusted you enough to open up.

At last, all you could do was sigh and mutter, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

Sukuna shot back without hesitation, which stunned you given how he had been the one who mocked you the most. Yet, a scintilla of kindness flared in his fiery eyes, so you continued with your tone softer and quieter.

“I feel terrible.” Such vulnerability in front of so many people at once went beyond your comfort zone. “For the unfairness Naoya had brought upon you all, and how I…I can’t change anything. I can’t do anything. All I am is…useless.”

“No, you are powerful,” Suguru interjected this time. “Your husband relies on your public image to keep scrutiny off him. He needs you. He’s been demoralizing you for months because he knows the ball will always be in your court, and never his.”

His words made you stop.

“You truly think so?” you asked.

“Yes.”

Choso, who replied, seemed honest.

He was honest.

He might throw you off from how aloof and stoic his attractive face would appear, but Choso was not a liar.

Bringing your feet off the bed, you slowly swung your feet.

“I…am surprised you all even want to talk to me.”

Toji tugged at his dress shirt’s collar and flashed his ink-covered muscles underneath. “What makes you think that?”

His pointed question made you realize how much Naoya had been fucking with your mind, blaming and villainizing you at every chance, thus devolving you into a spineless worm feeling remorse for every little thing.

Shrugging, you tossed your gaze to the side.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “You could have avenged yourself by now. I am Naoya’s wife and Naobito’s daughter-in-law. There had been a thousand chances for you to do something horrible to me: to hurt me, blackmail me, spread dirty rumors about me, but…you haven’t.”

“Why would I do that?” Toji replied instantly and candidly. Rather than appearing offended by your judgments, he started giving you that look again whenever he had his therapist hat on—the one where he would tilt his head at a slight angle to gauge the sentiments painted across your face. “I could have chosen to be bitter and vengeful for the rest of my life, but I am grateful for what I have. Why let a toxic bunch impact my life? I already told you how that household is an absolute fucking hell. I'm glad I have found an out. At the very least, my son would not have to deal with the crap from my young adult years because you know who is the oldest male in the generation after mine?”

Megumi.

All gazes now fell upon the younger Fushiguro, who tried to casually shrug the attention off.

Who cares if I was second-in-line to leading perhaps the most prestigious family in Japan? his nonchalance wanted to convey, but his ears turned pink anyway.

Toji continued, “Then, of course, there are some people whom I care about a lot.” Using his head, he gestured to the twins. “These girls are the best aunts to my son that I, as a father, could ever ask for. They’re only one year older than Megumi, but Mai and Maki used to go on playdates with him on the weekends, walk him to school every morning, and cook him breakfasts over the holidays. The twins even helped my son take his first steps. There is this one photo we have in the library—I don’t know if you have gotten a chance before to see it. But there’s Mai and Maki, each holding one of Megumi’s little hands back in his chubby toddler days and—”

“Dad!” a very flustered and irritated teenage boy finally had to say. “This is not the time to talk about that picture!”

Next to him, a proud Mai and Maki coo and tease their grouchy nephew, poking at his puffed-up cheeks and ruffling his uncombed hair.

“Aw, is someone a little embarrassed?”

Smiling at the little banter from the trio, Toji did not let them distract him from his conversation with you. “What I’m trying to get at is…life’s too short not to enjoy the happy sides of it,” but his eyes glazed with rue nevertheless, “Now is the perfect time to focus on your well-being. Take a look around this room. A lot of people want to see you leading a fulfilling life, Y/N. A fulfilling life for yourself, not for anyone else. Not for me, not for anyone in this room, and certainly not for your husband. Nothing—and I mean absolutely nothing—should hold you back from pursuing your health and happiness.”

While you assumed that your best times were over, Toji reminded you those good days can be brought back with the right attitude. He had a point. Why should you allow your marriage to hinder you from connecting with people whom you care about, working towards the passions that brought you purpose, and feeling the love that you deserve?

Instead, you should seek every sunrise and sunset as an opportunity to live better and without regrets.

As you ruminated on this different mindset, a sudden knock from the door cut your thoughts short.

Who…

Like you, most others looked around blankly, but Toji ordered from his seat, “Let him in.”

Mai, who stood closest to the entryway, obeyed.

Once she unlocked the door, the room fell silent save for the footsteps of the man walking in, his soles creating soft echoes on the linoleum floor. Overhead, pale lights revealed the lines etched on his exhausted face, the worry that sat heavily on his chest.

“Mister Daisuke,” someone eventually acknowledged out of respect.

Your father did not hear the greeting as he searched the room, his sullen gaze darting from face to face until he found you. His shoulders fell from his overwhelming relief. Still in a suit after a long workday, he stumbled forward feebly.

“You’re alright,” he whispered between steps, scarcely audible.

He crouched toward the floor once he approached you, and when Suguru transferred your hands into your father’s, you noticed the unstoppable quiver from the latter even as you gripped him tightly in an attempt to stop the tremor.

His skin was tough, weathered by his additional decades in life. But, in his palms, you found the familiar tenderness that had comforted you since you were a little girl and, in his gaze, you noticed the sadness only found in the despair of a heartbroken parent.

“Thank goodness, you are okay,” and before everyone, tears slipped past his eyes, “I was terrified. I was so scared. When Toji called to tell me you had thrown up and collapsed, do you know how afraid I was?”

You glanced over at the said therapist, reminding yourself that—if Toji had been the CEO before Naoya—he must have worked very closely with your COO father up until recently. For your father to know exactly where you were and walk in with this expression suggested that the former colleagues had had a lengthy conversation about your circumstances. A part of you wanted to be angry. Why drag your father into this worry? But a larger part of you had always wanted to reveal to him the wretched months that had gone by and longed for his support.

And now, he was here.

The older man took a shuddering breath and brought his fingers to your cheek, holding and cradling you like he would never get to do this again.

“I can’t lose you,” he lamented. “I have lost enough in my life already. I cannot lose you, too. I just can’t. Why have you not told me the truth? If you were not happy with Naoya, why have you not told me sooner? Did you think I would place my loyalty to the company over my own child? I feel so guilty and broken to hear about what you have been going through.”

Frankly, you felt just as broken, too.

In fact, seeing and hearing your father weep like this shattered you. As devoted as your father was, his front never failed to be unwavering and strong. Even when your mother’s death left a significant hole in his heart, he bit back his grief. Scars from your mother’s untimely death scarred his heart, wounds that never healed and would stay with him until his last breath, but he rarely expressed his suppressed sorrow.

All for your sake. Because you were his one and only daughter, his one and only child.

So now, for him to see you in such a sorry state was crushing his whole world that had become you.

“Dad.” You helped him wipe his tears away, just like how he had always done for you. “I didn’t want to make you disappointed. I didn’t want to make you sad. I…I just wanted to protect you.”

“No,” he responded firmly. How could a loving father accept the possibility that his daughter would even think about placing him before herself? “Protect yourself first.”

You looked up when you sensed two more approaching individuals and found Mai and Maki with doleful smiles.

“We still have something to return to you, Y/N.”

In your left palm, each girl pressed one ring—the first which promised a future forever and the second which symbolized an infinite unity.

You stared at the jewelry as your chest remembered the waves of happiness, excitement, hope, confusion, betrayal, and pain.

So, so much pain.

Your father, who would not miss the solemn undertones in your gaze, squeezed your hands in his.

“My dear daughter,” he started, and you could tell he could no longer bear to see you suffer any longer, “what are you planning to do?”

Your throat turned dry.

Any possibility seemed like a viable solution, a means for a desperate escape.

For months, you should have prepared yourself for this very question, but now that you were confronted with this reality for the first time, you did not know what to say.

You had clutched onto the false hope for your troubled marriage to be sorted out. Escaping your dreary matrimony had once been too far-fetched of an option given an impending cold war between your families, which you would never wish upon the stars to happen. Therefore, even as you found yourself stuck on a stifling dead end, you did not exactly prepare for the next steps for the occasion you found Naoya Zenin’s mistreatment too much to bear.

However, times have changed.

Your allies and enemies have changed.

Most of all, you have changed.

Therefore, with all the universe’s possibilities at your fingertips, one particular option stuck out.

“I’m going to file for a divorce.”

last chapter || next chapter

end notes: So many things. To see us freak out at the idea of a divorce during the beginning of the fic, up to now, where we suggested the option out of our volution. Also, the much-needed heart-to-heart conversation between Toji and us, and how that really shows a slow maturation in our relationship with him (and everyone else)! Let me know what you think, and see you next chapter!

taglist: @dissociatingdiva @httpsplanetmarsdotcom @nemoyr @huangfairy @shadowarchon @203steph @agentdedf1sh @cloudybabes @lynn-writes-things @illicitwriter @7oji @kikuchimi @chaoticjojofan @musicisme333 @kumocchin @s-guru @mwahilovemylife @hey-gurls69 @cloudsinthecosmos @moon-mumu-moon @kazscara @skilerfrostfairy @funicidals @nico707 @proteovaldez @tsukiyohanayome @marimoares @qirbys @puffaloxx @sakanoshitaa @arizzu @kissditrio @lewd-bunny14 @mistyheart @szired @supsii @yvy1s @tokyometronetwork @downtown-roponggi @the-cosmos-network

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flowerandblood · 10 months

Text

The Impossible Choice (28)

[ Aemond • Targaryen x Baratheon! • female ]

[ warnings: violence, wounds descriptions, war victims ]

[description: Aemond comes to Storm’s End to choose his future consort. However, Lord Borros Baratheon presents him with only four of his five daughters. Being attached to his youngest child, he does not want to marry her. The prince, however, thwarts his and her plans with his decision. This is slow burn, with a lot of dark angst and sexual tension. (Anon Request)]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Previous and next chapters: Masterlist

______

He felt that if he did not pour his rage onto parchment, he would simply fly to King's Landing and burn Aegon along with the entire Red Keep. He sat at a table filled with maps and plans, a quill in his hand that his wife had prepared for him.

He stared blankly at the piece of paper in front of him and wondered what to write, how to put it into words, lest he be beheaded as soon as he returned to King's Landing. He dipped his quill in ink and began to write.

Brother, my wife, in accordance with my request, joined me in Harrenhal. She has told me of the affection you appear to have for her. I look forward to your explanation upon my return. Send no one for her. Her place is with me. Aemond -

He rolled the letter and called out to the servant who stepped into his chamber a moment later. He handed him the tied message and told him that it was to be given to the King himself.

The boy bowed to him and left quickly. They were left alone again.

He glanced at his wife − he saw that she was looking at him, but as soon as she met his gaze she turned her eyes away.

He knew that his brother's words had made her feel insecure.

That she had said that she wanted to join Alys in treating the wounded because she didn't believe him.

He felt a squeeze at the thought that she didn't trust him, but on the other hand if he had been in her place, various thoughts would have come to him as well − only now, having her by his side, having finally experienced fulfilment with her, he felt at peace.

He sighed quietly as he stood up and walked towards her with a slow, unhurried step, the wooden floor creaking under his feet. He took her soft, plump cheeks in his hands, her face expressing surprise and gentleness, her gaze warm, her lips slightly parted. He ran his thumb over her skin and saw her close her eyelids. He pressed his lips together, looking down at her.

"I have not betrayed you." He said quietly, as if he were telling her some important secret or mystery.

He wanted her to hear it from him.

He was faithful to her.

He was faithful to her, because he wanted to be.

No one forced him.

He could have been a cruel killer and a ruthless prince, but he was a faithful, devoted husband, giving affection to his faithful, devoted wife, and he found some kind of comfort in that thought.

In the thought that they cared about this marriage.

Their relationship was not only political.

He stroked her cheek thoughtfully, consumed by the affection he felt towards her and the delightful knowledge that no one would take her away from him.

"− my sweet wife −" He whispered and she sighed softly, cuddling her face into his hand, making the warmth spread through his body.

He froze when he heard her next words.

"− my beloved husband −"

He felt his heart begin to pound fast, his lips parted in shock − he couldn't believe it, it seemed impossible to him that she had said this.

He swallowed silently as he looked at her − he could see that she herself was surprised by her own words and lowered her gaze, ashamed. He ran his thumb over her soft skin that he had been caressing all night, and felt arousal again.

My beloved.

If he could, if he had more time, he would have pulled her breeches off her and fuck her again, drawing those wonderful words out of her again and again, thrusting deep between her thighs, but he was already late, and he was furious that he had to leave, just now when she said it.

"− say it again −" He whispered, and she looked up at him, startled, her cheeks flushed, a heat in her eyes − he barely stopped himself from throwing himself at her.

"− I would never betray my beloved husband −" She said in a quiet, soft, trembling voice, and he let out a quiet breath, feeling everything inside him clench.

May the gods curse his brother and his war because of which he could not now take his own wife.

He bent over her and greedily pressed his lips against hers, relishing the warmth and moisture of her skin. He sighed heavily, kissed her forehead and moved away from her with the rest of his willpower, heading for the door.

As he walked down the corridor he felt frustrated and thirsty − he stepped into the council room where everyone was already waiting for him. As the commanders and Ser Criston bowed to him, he saw that something had happened.

"Our guards noticed an army coming at us from the South. Colrys Velaryon's ships have flipped some of Prince Daemon's warriors to the coast. They are going to support the rebels." He said, putting some new figures on the map. Aemond looked at it, pressing his lips together.

They were outnumbered, and even if he asked his brother for support, he still would be surrounded.

"Send a message to my brother. We must hold Harrenhal if he does not want to lose this war." He said, leaning over the table, feeling his heart pounding hard. "When will they arrive here?"

"In the evening, Your Grace." Said one of the commanders. He walked over to the map and pointed a finger at one of the spots. "We can't let them merge. It would be best, Your Grace, if you flew on your dragon to the coast and burned them with fire when our army attacks the rebels in the forest again. They do not know that Prince Daemon is coming, we cannot give them hope."

"Your wife has come to Harrenhal, has she not, Your Grace?" Asked another man, one of Strong's vassals who had allied himself with them. Aemond was not fond of him for he was spiteful and arrogant, but he could not help it. "So let Borros Baratheon protect his daughter and son-in-law. Send a message to Storm's End."

Aemond turned his head away at his words − he did not want Lord Baratheon to think that he had summoned his wife to Harrnehal only to put her in danger and call on him. He thought, however, that they had no choice.

With his army they could win.

He nodded at last.

"So be it. Send messengers and prepare for battle."

He spent long hours with his commanders over the map, planning carefully the defences, their strengths and weaknesses. He decided that he would fly on Vhagar to look around, to see the approaching army from above, to discern the situation − he ordered his armour to be brought.

The young boys helped him put on his chainmail − over it was put a several-piece armour that looked like dragon scales, with his family emblem beautifully carved in the steel on the front, a green cloak on his back, hanging on his shoulder.

His armour was as heavy as his heart, filled with the thought that the battle that lay ahead could be one of his toughest to date.

He walked outside the fortress with Ser Criston, speaking loudly about their arrangements, absorbed in his own thoughts when he saw his wife sitting with Alys Rivers from afar − the woman was touching her cheek, stroking it with her fingers as if she were her companion.

He felt a wave of rage at this sight and called out to his wife as if he were a father who just wanted to reprimand his child.

She and Alys Rivers looked at him, surprised; Alys stood up and bowed, and his wife ran to him, frightened.

He saw up close that she was filthy from dried blood, her cheeks and forehead dirty from earth and ash.

Despite his anger, something captivated him about the sight.

"What is the meaning of this? Shall I order her hand cut off for this boldness and lock you in my chamber?" He asked coldly. She only pressed her lips together, ashamed, looking at him pleadingly.

"− no, my husband −" She mumbled meekly. He felt his heart squeeze.

He wondered if this was the last time he would see her.

Her warm eyes and soft face, the face of his wife, who gave him affection so deep and pure that he felt only desire.

My beloved.

He grabbed her by the nape of her neck, pulling her close, not caring that his soliders and commanders saw him.

Nothing mattered but her bright, worried gaze, her warm breath on his face.

He pressed his nose to her cheek and she put her hands on his cold armour, closing her eyes, both of them breathing unevenly. He shuddered when he felt her fingers run over his face.

"Did something happen? When are you coming back?" She asked, her voice trembling; she knew perfectly well that something was wrong.

He swallowed loudly at her question, sinking his face into her soft, warm cheek, wanting to disappear at least for a moment, taking comfort from her closeness and her scent.

"There is an army coming towards us from the South, moved by the ships of Colrys Velaryon. We must face it. I have sent messengers to my brother and your father. Until then, I will protect us from the sky." He whispered and felt her tremble all over, her hand tightening on his wrist which held her in a firm grip.

She looked at him with tears in her eyes − he knew that she wanted to tell him not to go, just as she probably wanted to many times in the case of her father and brother, but she said nothing.

She just stroked his cheek as if she wanted to reassure him, to comfort him.

"− take me with you −" She whispered in a trembling voice, and he squeezed his eye shut, feeling a tightness in his throat. He pressed his lips to her cheek, thought he wanted to bite into her, to devour her, to have her with him.

"I can't." He said, pulling away from her, moving further towards Vhagar, no longer looking at her.

Vhagar raised her large head towards him, concerned − he knew that the dragoness could feel his emotions, his anxiety and fear. He climbed up the ropes onto her back − in full armour it was even more difficult − and panted loudly as he finally sat down in the great saddle.

"Soves, Vhagar!" He shouted low.

He felt the ground tremble beneath him, the dragoness struggling to rise under the weight of her body, her paws one by one moving ahead, crushing the trees along the way as if they were toothpicks.

She spread her great wings, catching the wind, and with powerful, violent flaps that created a gale all around, she took to the skies.

He directed her over the bay and began to circle − he pressed his lips together seeing clearly from above that his guards were not wrong. Immediately he saw a multitude of ships, however, he looked around the sky fearing something else − dragons.

Would they risk losing any of them in a confrontation with Vhagar?

At the sight of him, the great army began to flee into the forest. He decided that he could not wait for them to disperse, that he must attack at once, burn them as many as possible, until they came close to Harrenhal itself.

"Dracarys, Vhagar!" He shouted with a pounding heart, saw the dragoness spread her maw, and a mighty wave of fire poured from her throat. He could hear the loud screams of panic and people burning alive from such a height.

He was burning their supplies, their ships, their horses.

He was burning everything he saw in his path.

He was a great, destructive force, hell on earth, a punishment from the gods themselves.

He felt at once all-powerful and crushed by this feeling.

He felt a squeeze in his throat and looked to the side, shocked to hear a loud roar. He saw her from a distance − she could not be mistaken for any other dragon.

Caraxes.

Daemon.

Of them all, he was the one.

The greatest of the dragon riders.

He thought he would push against him and Vhagar, force them to focus on him, beginning the battle of dragons in the skies. He did something else, however − he felt his heart freeze in his chest when he saw which way his dragon was flying.

Harrenhal.

He headed straight for the fortress.

He turned Vhagar back with his command, shouting helplessly, trying to rush her, but she was too big and too slow, her big body could not withstand such a strain − Caraxes, light and slim, was impossible for her to catch up with. He felt his heart pounding hard, tears in his eye at the realisation of what he wanted to do.

This was a trap.

They were fooled like little children.

Daemon wanted to take him out of the stronghold.

He had planned it.

He wanted to burn Harrenhal.

He didn't know that his wife was there.

Because of him.

Because of his family.

Because of their greed.

His wife would die in the fire.

And then he saw it − fire bursting from Caraxes' throat again and again illuminating the night sky, the fortress in the flames, the screams and cries of his people.

Once he reached his uncle, he ordered with rage and frenzy to gush Vhagar fire in his direction, but his uncle's dragoness was too agile, folding and spreading out as she wished.

His uncle mocked him.

He laughed madly, loudly, sweat and tears running down his cheeks.

His wife was dead.

Her wonderful, soft body was now on fire.

If Lord Baratheon came, he would kill him.

Good.

He wanted to die.

He began to pray to gods old and new, gods of his ancestors, gods of the sea, gods of the mountains and forests.

He prayed that if his wife survived.

That he would give up his greed, his dreams of a throne and a crown, his insatiable hunger for power.

He would change, be a better brother, a better son.

A better husband.

He burned everything in his path.

He burned his uncle's army, he burned the forests and settlements around him, paying no attention to the fact that innocent people lived there too.

In his mind, he burned his brother and the Red Keep, he burned the throne and the crown.

He burned everything, burning himself at the same time, until there was nothing left.

His uncle knew that if Caraxes got within range of Vhagar's maw it would be the end − when his dragoness grew tired, he turned back, ordering the retreat of the troops.

He did what he wanted and what he had planned.

Nothing was left of their army and the stronghold.

He landed on Vhagar near the burning Harrenhal, looking like a great torch against the sky; walking towards it, all he could hear was screaming and crying − he had the impression that someone was tearing his head to pieces. He was all sticky from sweat, smoke and ash, walking ahead as if in a trance.

Was she inside or outside?

Was she in a lot of pain?

Was it a quick death or was she still writhing long afterwards, feeling her body burn?

He sobbed at this thought like a little boy, walking forward, feeling like he was about to fall over.

Fire and Blood.

How could he be such a fool.

Criston ran towards him, shouting something in his direction, but he felt that he was deaf − he only looked at him when he heard her name.

"− your wife, my Prince − she is in a bad condition − Alys Rivers has helped her her, but she has serious injuries −" He said, panting heavily, himself burned in several places. "Prince Daemon has made fools of us. He will wait out our conflagration in the Eyrie and return again when he gains the strength to finish us off."

He thought nothing of it, however, and grabbed Cole's arm as if he were mad, his eye wide open.

"Where is she?"

Criston took him to a place far away from the fortress, where the wounded who had managed to survive lay − most of them had such extensive burns that their muscles were falling off their bones. He could smell the sickening odour of burnt human flesh and looked around, searching for her − Criston pointed his finger at a girl lying nearby and then he recognised her.

Her gentle, sweet face looked as if she was simply sleeping, her entire left arm, a chunk of her chest, abdomen and leg were wrapped in bandages − Alys Rivers was applying some sort of ointment to a small burn that was also on her other arm.

"− is she alive? −" He exhaled, falling to his knees beside his wife's body, only now feeling how tired he was, how terrified he was, his whole body trembling.

He couldn't get anything else out of himself.

She was breathing.

The gods had heard his prayers.

She had survived.

"− yes −" She said calmly and took her wrist in her hand, wanting to check her pulse. He pushed her away so that she fell onto the grass.

"− don't fucking touch her −" He hissed, leaning over his wife's face, taking her cheeks in his hands. "− why is she asleep? −"

"− her attire melted to her skin − I had to clean the tissue, so I gave her poppy milk −" Alys said, lifting herself slowly back into a sitting position, massaging her shoulder. "− I applied the ointment, but she'll still have extensive scars − the gods are watching over her − the flame flashed across the ground right next to her −"

He pressed his face against his wife's neck, taking in her scent, panting heavily, sobbing with despair and joy at the same time.

For the first time in his life, the gods had heard his prayers.

She had survived.

_____

I leave you with my illustration and hope that you don't kill me - next chapter will be updated 10 August because of my absence and it will be Aegon POV! In meanwhile I will add Harrenhal Moodboard with next Lady Baratheon POV preview.

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @astral-blossoms @randomdragonfires @amirawritespoorly @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes @darylandbethfanforever9 @fudge13 @snh96 @diosademuerte @rwdkarla @echos-muses @ipostwhtifeel @letmeloveyouuuu @yentroucnagol @valeskafics @tempt-ress @blairfox4 @crazymusicgirl104 @ahristata @menaosama @ladywin17

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every-luffy-smile · 1 year

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chapter 28: start!

#one piece #monkey d. luffy #chapter 28 #syrup village #points. baby. baby boy.

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astrhae · 11 months

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some important and underrated lines in the books, related to wylan van eck (aka gold that i found again while writing the character study fic):

Wylan took a deep breath as if sucking in courage and sputtered, “You won’t throw me overboard. You need me.”

--- Six of Crows, Chapter 13. when i say wylan is unhinged, i mean he had the audacity to lie to kaz brekker (who doesn't know yet that wylan isn't the best hostage) AND use that lie to go against kaz AND actually win. jesper only notices wylan lying to kaz in the second book, but despite being wide-eyed as matthias describes, wylan's been lying to kaz from the very beginning. throughout the books, wylan gets better and better at using people's assumptions of him as a weapon/tool, and he admits as much when jesper says: "i'm going to stop underestimating you", and wylan replies: "then you're going to be a lot harder to surprise."

While Kaz explained and Jesper used the laundry shears to portion out pieces of rope, Wylan helped Inej and Nina prepare. To pass as members of the Menagerie, they would need tattoos.

--- Six of Crows, Chapter 28. wylan is CANONICALLY a tattoo artist. demolitionist. poisons expert. musician. and tattoo artist. do with that what you will

“I don’t like the idea of killing people, either. I don’t even like chemistry.”

--- Six of Crows, Chapter 32. HE LIKES NUMBERS. and music. and jesper. there's just something about wylan being forced into chemistry when he doesn't truly enjoy it, vs. everything his father's forced him to do when he doesn't truly enjoy it. he says this right after the we could wake him up line, and him mentioning that he doesn't even like what he's been doing all along underscores how much wylan's ruthlessness comes from a place where he doesn't want to be cruel. he's just. had to do a lot of things to survive. and he does want to survive

Gunfire sounded from above. Apparently, Wylan had found the controls. ... Wylan had scratches from the glass all over his cheeks and neck. He was beaming.

--- Six of Crows, Chapter 39. wylan is unhinged. truly. and i love him, really. he was really the first to figure out how to fire the tank. him, not jesper, which was a choice i very much approve of

He should be making a plan, maybe even plotting revenge, trying to gather his wits and his resources. And what was he doing? Wishing he could ring for tea... Whatever it took to survive the Barrel, Wylan knew he didn’t have it.

--- Crooked Kingdom, Chapter 23. first, wylan wishing he could ring for tea, vs. the parallel in the show where he offers the crows tea. second, wylan being painfully honest with himself. but third, he ends the chapter being able to navigate the streets of the barrel himself without knowing how to read the signs, which really reflects his amazingly good memory and skill for thinking along three axes, like the lockpick kaz compared him to

“Yes,” Wylan said, that one word imbued with a whole world of hope. “But I don’t have anything to bargain with.”

--- Crooked Kingdom, Chapter 28. wylan's spent so long bargaining for his life that by the time he meets genya, he doesn't believe he has anything left to bargain with. but wylan still tries, AND when he succeeds, he still has the audacity to get genya to make him look better

in conclusion, wylan might be shy but that doesn't mean he isn't scheming something, but that doesn't mean he wants to scheme, but that doesn't mean he isn't good at scheming. he's excellent at it, he's just an unhinged ball of contradictions, and wylan would, could, and should beat kaz in a chess match

#six of crows #wylan van eck #fic: staccato in coda #let's also not forget the part where wylan gets seasick and his father put him on a boat to belendt #or the things he did to an ambassador's leg #but THAT's an unhinged post for another day #anyway someone asked me why i wrote in the fic that wylan didn't have what it took to survive the barrel #and the answer is because wylan thought that #and i found that thought to be very interesting #will make a wesper specific post later

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morallyinept · 4 months

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Adrift With You - A Frankie Morales Series - Chapter 2

Summary: Heading away on a work re-location, Frankie embarks on a flight, but unbeknownst to him, his life is about to change forever. For starters, he will need to fight for it; harder than he's ever fought for anything else before.

Marooned on an isolated island in the middle of the ocean, still recovering from an addiction, his chances of survival are bleak; but he’s not alone on the island, and soon he’s running towards a different kind of life - a life with fellow survivor, Jude, fighting right beside him every step of the way.

And if they can both survive the island together, they can survive anything, right?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x OFC Jude

Chapter word count: 3.7k

SERIES MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

☝🏻See Series Masterlist for full smut warnings & triggers in this story. Chapters that contain smut or triggers will be highlighted in the chapter notes below. 👇🏻

Chapter notes: Frankie takes an offer. Jude is left floundering.

Enjoy! 🖤

Chapter 1

He’s exhausted and any chance of sleep seems like a farfetched pipedream.

The current is still choppy and he’s using all his strength to stay on the piece of wreckage that’s undoubtedly saving his life right now as he rides the waves that are unrelenting and battering his body.

Franke isn’t entirely sure when nightfall had swallowed him up, or hasn’t a clue at how far into the night he actually is in terms of time. He can’t see his watch in the pitch dark.

He lays on his back, hands gripping either side of the wreckage with them submerged into the cold water with a tight hold; the pain in his side is aching profusely and the burning sensation still makes its harsh presence known across his neck skin.

His throat is dry and coarse and he stares up into the black, not really able to separate the horizon from the deep pit of space above him; just swallowed in a deep intense darkness that seems incredibly lonely and innately scary.

After a while, he starts to see images in the darkness when he looks inside it for so long; little dots of colour that merge and weave themselves into thoughts and memories that soon become shapes and birth a life of their own.

They begin twisting into hallucinations and nightmare images that plague his mind over and over, of an aeroplane crashing into the ocean, fire burning his skin and so much blood curdling screaming that deafens him; a vile ringing in his ears that shakes him out of any sleep he drifts into.

He has nothing to do but to relive them all over and over to the point he’s unsure whether he’s residing in reality anymore or not.

Freezing ocean water splashes over Frankie’s torso again and he shudders from the cold; his teeth begin that uncontrollable chatter as his arms shake through his intense grip on the debris with exhausted nerves.

Frankie isn’t a religious man; he’s seen and done so many terrible things in his time in Delta Force to know there is a first class seat waiting for him in Hell. Will's right, the numbers never lie. 9. 28. 39. 87. 208. 674. The numbers never lie, Frankie. 9 physical scars. 28 stitches. 39 confirmed kills. 87 civilians. 208 days spent on the front line in the desert heat. 674 bullets. Yeah, Hell is definitely where he'll end up.

But at this moment, he closes his eyes tight and prays wholly that he won’t die out here alone in the frightening ocean, waiting for its moment to swallow him up whole.

Please God; please don’t let me die like this, por favor Dios… Please.

One Month Prior...

Frankie had decided he needed to get away a few days after the break up.

The pressure was crushing him from every angle, and he was looking for breaks in his employment schedule to take advantage of before the impulses took advantage of him.

As he scanned down the calendar on the fuzzy computer system screen, he noticed the trembles in his fingers once more and balled them away into a fist.

Living in a contented denial clearly didn’t serve any other purpose than causing more stress and anxiety in the long run, and those thick fingers of his twitched with temptation on the daily the more he was left to sit and dwell in those darkening thoughts.

He knows he should have severed that festering limb of his failing relationship a long time ago, would have saved Carla and he both the heartache of playing pretend, but evidently he hadn't the resolve in him to step up to the task in a long time.

Push came to a dramatic shove when he was back in New York, in the aviation workshop down by the docks; tinkering with engine and turbine parts. His hands greased up and calloused, when his phone rang on the work bench beside him.

Eddie’s name flashes up on the screen and Frankie knows he can’t avoid his sponsor for much longer.

“Frank. I’ve not heard from you, I’ve been worried.” Eddie's voice on the phone cuts into the steam rolling inside of Frankie’s ears as soon as he answers, preparing himself for a condescending verbal assault. “Are you doing okay, bud?”

An ex-addict himself, although heroin is his poison, Eddie is all that Frankie can only ever hope to aspire to be with regards to his sobriety. He makes it look so easy. Eleven years sober and Frankie’s measly six months already feel like a lifetime weighing him down.

A pillar in the local community, Eddie is admired and revered and has received various accolades with his gummy grin plastered in the newspaper and on the programme's website, and Frankie is always reminded how lucky he is to have Eddie supporting him at group therapy, as he nods like a zombie behind a polystyrene cup of watered down coffee that tastes like scum swilling around in the bottom of an engine.

He’d like to keep his own teeth though, whereas Eddie has gaps in his gums from the abuse of injecting on the streets for years. And Frankie knows he came close to being on the streets himself. Things took a particularly bad turn after Tom’s death and Frankie is still haunted by it nightly.

It got so bad that he blacked out. Took too much. They told him his heart had stopped. That was the first time Carla had seen him like that; up until then being able to manage the coke in secret binges to quiet the tornado of his mind.

It was also the first time he had to admit to having an actual problem.

He remembers coming round to the worried yells of Benny calling his name and slapping at his face until he was coherent, and Carla’s mascara streaked, red eyes regarding him like a frightened gazelle.

After he was discharged from the hospital, he promised her he would finally get help. Even if a part of him didn't really want to.

And yet he’s been inadvertently avoiding Eddie like the plague as of late too. His own successes marring Frankie’s inner turmoil and guilt at how his life has careened so far out of his control and into the shit-stained toilet bowl.

He lost everything; his friends, his job, family members even turned their backs on him. He still remembers the look of disappointment on his dad's face and that hurt more than he would ever let on. He had to pull himself out from the bottom of the gutter, and some days he just wants to throw himself back in there and be done with it all.

“Yeah, man. I’ve just been busy with work. I meant to call you sooner.” His tone is all apologetic, but there’s a chattering to his teeth that’s prevalent, despite him trying to quell it. His gums ache profusely and have done for days now.

“You’ve been missed at group sessions too.”

Frankie hangs his head in subjugation, even though Eddie can’t see it. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m okay-”

“Frank.”

“I promise. I’m fine.” Frankie sighs with a heavy gruff.

“You don’t sound fine.”

Get off my case, man. “Just tired. I’ve been posted on a few jobs back to back. Keeping me busy, you know how it is.”

“Listen, I'm glad you’re working so much. And it’s a great job, really. You’re lucky to have gotten it, what with everything you’ve been through-” Ah. There it is. The condescension. The pity. The ‘you’re so lucky’ speech. Frankie bites down on his lip and suppresses a growl. Hijo de puta.

“-But it would be really good to see you. Check in.”

Check up on me, more like. “Yeah.” Frankie scratches at the back of his head where the curled chocolate tufts fall out from under his cap and grow unruly at his sun-kissed nape. He should probably get a haircut soon. “I’m not sure when I can get the time off-”

“Frank. You have to make the time for your sobriety or your addiction will take more time from you. What I’d tell you, hmm?”

“I know, I know. I'm trying…” And he is. One foot in front of the other, asshole.

“You’ve got time for a coffee with me this afternoon. I know they don’t work you so ragged that you can’t grab thirty and a cup of Joe. What do you say?”

“I, uh-”

“Morales!” His name is called, echoing down the workshop and Frankie looks up, swallowing coarsely as he notices the rotund silhouette of his superior traipsing over to him across the mottled floor.

“Listen, I gotta go. Not supposed to take personal calls at work.” Frankie murmurs.

“Frank, wait-”

He hangs up the phone.

“Morales, you got a sec?” His senior retorts and looks over the work bench at the melee of wires and stripped metal parts.

“Dustin.” Frankie nods curtly. “Everything alright?”

“Peachy. Listen, you know choppers don't you? I heard Malik saying you used to be in the forces or something?”

Dustin regards him through the magnification of his glasses smeared with fingerprints that seem to glow under the dull strip lights. There’s damp patches on his beige shirt spreading from the underarms, and there's always a waft of menthol emanating from the gum he ceaselessly chews on.

“Yeah,” Frankie takes his cap off and runs his hand through his grease slicked curls. “I used to uh, fly.” He shifts uneasily on his feet.

“Air Force?”

“Special Ops. D-Delta Force.”

“Nice.” Dustin nods with raised eyebrows. "Got you one of those fancy military pensions, eh?"

“Not really.” Frankie rebuts as he glances away briefly. He wills his mind not to visit the memories.

"What rank were you?" Dustin enquires curiously.

"Captain. Aviation."

“Hmm. Makes me think you’re the right man then.”

“For what?” Frankie asks as he turns his concentration back to Dustin.

A man shorter and more rounder at the waist than Frankie is, with his own middle age spread starting to puff out of him now that he no longer has the daily, gruelling exercise drills, but a man that also took a chance on him when his applications were rejected time and time again. One that Frankie doesn’t want to let down, but knows somewhere along the line, he probably will. It's inevitable.

This job has been a lifeline, despite the long back and forth between the New York and Florida bases, pulling him out of a heavy routine funk, where he’d had nothing else to do except plug his nose with the white stuff. Now he chugs six shots of coffee on the regular to stay awake and alert.

He knows that he owes Dustin his life in some regards. And he’s trying so hard not to let him down. He’ll always be trying, for the rest of his damn life.

“Got a new base on contract that needs some birds fixin’ up. Couple of older models. Hawks, twin hueys. Stuff like that. Most of the guys here know shit about rotary blades.” Dustin explains.

“Military use?”

“Ex. They want ‘em for rescue copters now. Recycling. It’s a month long posting, maybe more work if you impress the seniors over there. Perhaps a permanent relocation. Can bump up your pay too."

“Where?” Frankie queries as he considers the appeal.

“Madagascar.”

“Wow, really? Shit…” Frankie says, still nodding. The appeal tweaks further at something within him.

“Yeah. All travel expenses in; you just gotta show up n’ fix the shit they can’t. You up for it?”

Frankie nods without hesitation. It’s not like he has anything keeping him here anymore now. Carla’s gone. Benny still hasn’t messaged him back. He’s convinced his dad has fully disowned him now...

“Yeah. Sounds good, actually.”

“Well alright. I’ll book you a flight. You’ll go next Wednesday on probation for a month. That work for you?”

Frankie nods so much that his neck now aches. “Works for me.”

“Good. I’ll sort your visa paperwork. Nice one, Morales. Or should I say, Captain.” He salutes with a weak two fingers as he turns on his scuffed heels.

“Thanks, Dustin.” Frankie grimaces.

Dustin waves behind him as he carries on back up the workshop leaving Frankie to mull over the horror of a burgeoning packing list.

“I’m glad you agreed to meet me. I’ve missed you.”

“Have you?” Jude asks tentatively, yet her arms are still folded across her chest like they were from the moment she'd entered this wretched place.

She hadn’t taken her coat off; she knew she wouldn’t be staying long.

“Yeah, course, babe. I ordered you a hot chocolate; extra cream. I know you like those.” Nate says with a buoyant grin.

“I also like not being cheated on.” Jude mutters and looks down at the hot chocolate with despair. Some of the cream has already melted and slid down the side of the mug leaving the foamy remains from its sad little death.

I don’t think I like hot chocolate anymore...

“I came here to explain. It’s not how you think it is-” Nate begins like he always does. Pulling out and smoothing down that well-rehearsed script.

“Really? How is it that your dick ended up inside her then? Did you trip and fall?” Jude remarks a little too loudly.

It stirs a quizzical look from a couple drinking from their coffees adjacent to them both. But she doesn't care. He’s embarrassed as he leans forward and hushes at her to keep her voice down.

She picks up her mug and slurps at the mess that does nothing to quell the anger or thirst. It’s already cold and it irks her even more.

“Why do we even come here? This place can never serve up hot, hot chocolate!” She exclaims, tossing the mug down clumsily on the table and slouching back in the chair in defiance. “I mean the clue is in the fucking name - hot chocolate, right?”

Technically it’s her own fault, dithering around outside, and deciding whether to actually come in or not, when he’d already got the two mugs on the table at that point. She’d watched Nate through the window for a while from across the sidewalk wondering why on earth she was giving him the chance to explain his inherent disloyalty.

He fiddled with his phone incessantly as he waited for her.

She observed him keep picking it up and checking the screen. He was a fiddler when he was anxious; one of those people who can’t bear a few moments without human interaction whilst she goes to the restroom, or gets another drink without him, and so resorts to hiding himself away in the virtual world in the palm of his hand for distraction from his lonesome visibility.

She resented it now, whereas at first it was endearing. He had a lot of endearing traits in the beginning. Now she wondered if it was the other woman he was tapping out a message to on the keypad, or the harem of other women that hung around him like a bad smell, whilst he was waiting for her to arrive and meet him to just talk, he had said.

Which was code for berating her unremittingly until she folds like a deck of cards and she comes back home again.

Jude knows she’s a chump for agreeing to it. But he had hounded her so much it was always easy to give in and to type out okay fine! To get a moment’s peace from the barrage of false apologies filling up her inboxes.

It was so unfair of him to do this; to ask her to come to what was once fondly known as their place. She’d never be able to come in here again, although that wasn’t exactly a big loss considering they couldn’t serve her up a scalding fucking hot chocolate on a nippy spring day, right?

“I don’t want to hear what you’ve got to say, Nate. What you did is unforgivable and I’m not interested in hearing your lies anymore.” Jude says bitterly and not looking at him. She couldn’t look at him. If she did, he’d dig his claws in all over again.

“I never meant to hurt you, babe.” Nate says with his fingers clamped around his own mug. Lie.

“Yes you did,” she swallows. “If you didn’t, you would never have fucked her, or any of the others.”

“I’m sorry.” He lies again like he’s a skilled craftsman at it; they just tumble out of his mouth with ease. His first word was probably a lie too.

Try as she might, the sordid images present themselves to her again like they have done ever since. It’s like a vile replay that won’t relent, a bit like clicking onto a harmless website on your work computer and explicit porn ads flash up and won’t close down no matter how many times you click the exit button, whilst your colleagues behind you think you’re a sordid kinkster into hardcore anal.

And she lives in that moment over and over again and has done for the past few days since it happened.

And now she’s here; sitting in this café opposite him and allowing him to spoon feed her more lies and excuses as her cheeks fill with the toxic mush.

And she swallows them all down, gorging herself on them until she vomits and shits out his words all over herself again and again, and she’s not sure why she’s allowing him to do it; she isn't sure of anything anymore.

Nate’s voice rouses Jude’s attention back to him and out of that continual fuzzing loop. “I’m sorry.” He reaches for her hand on the table and she snaps it back, fearing that if he touches her that will be it - she’ll be hooked again.

The stark reality of the conversation - or rather the words he had just fired lazily at her - starts to sink in and it’s somewhat a hard feat to comprehend. For a moment, it stops everything in its tracks as though the world has stopped rotating around the sun on its axis, and people are frozen on pause midway through drinking their coffees or taking a step forward towards the cash register.

“You’ll always be sorry, Nate.” Jude pushes the hot chocolate away from her and back towards him. “But it doesn’t mean a fucking thing.”

He’s become a stranger in front of her very eyes. Gone was the hand holding and laughter to be replaced by indifferent scowls and thoughts of imminent murder.

She stands up quickly, knocking the table slightly. The last of the cream that’s holding onto dear life on the rim of the mug slides down it like the fluffy remains of a dying snowman.

“Please-” Nate stands up with her and reaches for her hand once more, but she snatches it out of the way and shoves it into her pocket.

Why is he fighting for this when he clearly doesn’t give a shit?

“No Nate. We’re done. It’s over; for good this time.” Jude reaffirms and something inside her gives her a proud high-five.

She pulls her scarf tighter around her throat. Perhaps if she strangles herself with it, it would feel better.

“But I love you!” He protests and it cracks her open like it always does.

He said he loved you, Jude.

He even said it after the unfaithful act; probably more than he had ever done so before he was caught with his pants down.

Does she love him though, really love him? Was he the man that she wanted to wake up with every morning and go to bed with every night, for what, the rest of her life? Because that’s a long, long time. She has to be sure, right?

Jude’s head becomes swamped full of all the good memories, right back from the beginning as though she’s flicking through an old photo book of their time together. And, of course, it's utter agony.

She’d imagined what Nate would be like as a full time, fully committed boyfriend when she’d first met him through a mutual friend during a rare night out. Oh yeah, she’d considered the fantasy of it; walking down the street hand in hand with him and curling up on the couch after a long day, him rubbing her feet until she would be woozy with the relaxation of it all.

She’d played out the dating scenario in her mind over and over again, to the point where it was on the cusp of escaping her mouth and firing the omission at him that she really did like him and his cute butt, but the fear of rejection prevented her from ever saying it out loud. That and the fact his bad boy reputation preceded him.

She worked away a lot, a successful, yet hard slog of a career as a landscape photographer for a popular tourism company, and with freelance work topping up her bank balance on the side, Jude was never home much as a consequence to seeing the world through a lens.

But Nate asked her questions about her travels with a twinkle in his eye and he couldn’t possibly like her like that, no way. He was never preferential to her, laughing with the other women in their group of mutual chums and flirting openly with anyone with a pulse, including her. It was just his niche, a personality trait that meant no harm.

He was slightly older, needed a robust woman and she was just a silly thing; drowning herself in gloom filled thoughts about how he could ever desire her like that. She was a nomad, her, her camera and backpack with no real roots. What could she offer him beyond that?

Coupled with the pieces of his personality that irked her and would crop up and shove themselves in her face; it made her double think that actually she was probably better off staying single.

Like the way he would drench his hotdog in layers of mustard on Labour Day and it would be dripping down his chin and in his teeth when he spoke to her through sloppy mouthfuls. Watching mangled pieces of chewed meat churning around his mouth like they were tumbling in a dryer wasn’t exactly an attractive trait in a man.

The way that he would bite all the skin off of his bottom lip until it bled when driving and then spit it out, so tiny, minute pieces of his body, alongside dust and umpteen Dr Pepper cans would be found in the foot well of his messy Camry. Jude hated that whenever she would get in it, she had to fight with a suffocating onslaught of burger wrappers and empty coffee cups in order to get a seat.

That’s not to say he was all bad; Nate’s unapologetically good looking with a smile that starts in his sky blue eyes and breaks out fully on his face, lighting it up like the giant Christmas tree outside the Rockefeller Center every year, and she likes that she always manages bring it out of him with her quips and stupid jokes, even when he’s tired and grumpy.

He’s generous, sometimes too generous, with his friends and with her alike, and he loves his dog Casper unconditionally, and talks to him like he can understand the dog’s growls, and yaps back at him like Doctor-friggin’- Doolittle before he lets the pup make out with him after licking his butt.

But fear of the unknown and trepidation about breaking away from the usual, the expected and the comfortable status quo that was her life, was somewhat harder to do than envision. Plus throw in the innate fear of rejection and she has an emotional Molotov cocktail ready for self-destructive disaster.

But then he changed it. Nate came in and messed it all up and asked her to be his girlfriend, asked her to move in to his fashionable loft on the Upper East Side; asked her to marry him. It was a cruel, callous joke because not long after that Jude caught him cheating for the first time - that she knew about anyway.

Fool me once, shame on you.

He blamed it on alcohol; one to many yadder, yadder. She meant nothing, babe honestly. Just a stupid mistake - I love you.

Those three, little, well executed words were enough to have Jude come scarpering back to him. And for a while things were rosy again. Until the next time it happened.

Fool me twice, shame on me.

And the time after that. And the time after that...

“Don’t call me again.” Jude warns him with a disgusted side glance as Nate shrinks back into his seat.

She marches out of the café and makes her way back out into the street towards her beat up car, unable to feel the cold air of the Big Apple nipping at her skin - unable to feel anything really, but sheer, drowning panic.

Now what?

To be continued...

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Thank you for taking the time to read my story; it really means so much to me. I'd love to know your thoughts, and I'd really appreciate a re-blog so others can enjoy this story too. Thank you so much 🖤

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