#i feel so terrible all the time its earing my alive | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

moralesmilesanhour · 6 months

Text

'cold turkey' except i re-wrote it

summary: exactly what the title says :) unsure what I'm referring to? check my masterlist linked in my pinned post!

A/N: Both the reader and Miles are college students here, so I guess you can imagine comic book Miles as well? But I'll be following the timeline of spiderverse so his mom's alive 🫶🏾 part one part two

“Uh-huh. Yeah. Tell him to turn the corner and I’m right there. Thank you so much, Jeff. Bye!”

You balanced your phone precariously between your shoulder and your ear as you slid the tray of uncooked mac and cheese into the now-heated oven. Shutting the oven door, you sighed and took the phone in your hand to check the time.

Dinner was in five hours.

The turkey was ready to be baked, but un-stuffed. The yams were uncooked, and the beans and stuffing had yet to be delivered because Jefferson Morales’ son had gotten lost on the way to your apartment.

Though you’d lived only a couple houses down, you’d never formally met the boy. Different schools, and you were always swamped with extracurriculars anyway. His mother would give you a warm greeting sometimes after sending him off to school in the morning; you remembered her soft eyes and quick demeanor. The boy seemed to take after his father more, if you remembered correctly. He had a darker complexion and an awkward stiffness to the way he walked, as if someone had reminded him to straighten his posture.

You tapped your acrylics impatiently on the counter as you attempted to recall his name.

Milo…Michael..Milan…? Something like that.

Whatever, you decided, He’ll tell me his name when he gets here.

As if summoned by your thoughts, the doorbell rang. You sighed in relief as you jogged over to the door.

“Y/N? I got your stuff!” a muffled voice called out from the other side.

Opening the door revealed a boy about your age - lean, and tall enough to take up nearly the entire door frame. His hair had miraculously stayed more or less the same after all these years, only now his afro had morphed into a high-top fade.

He held several bags of groceries that hung off of both arms and grinned proudly at you, as if he hadn't arrived thirty minutes late.

“You Morales?”

“Nah, that's my mom,” he joked, “I'm Miles.”

You rolled your eyes and stepped aside for Miles to enter.

“Well thank you, Miles, I really appreciate it,” you replied humorlessly, “But if you'll excuse me, I gotta get back to–”

When you reached out to take the bags, he raised them high above his head with ease like they were toys. Your head snapped up to see that his hazel eyes sparkled with mischief.

“What are you doing?”

“I am terribly sorry, ma'am, but I cannot under any circumstances let you carry all these by yourself.”

“I'll manage,” you replied sharply. Miles raised an eyebrow, challenging you.

“You sure? ‘Cuz I smell smoke from your kitchen, and I feel like you might need the help.”

The smell in question wafted beneath your nose, and your eyes went wide.

“Shit–Fine, bring ‘em in, whatever!”

You spun around and bolted towards the kitchen with Miles following not too far behind.

Your eyes watered as soon as you entered. The oven blew smoke into your face when you opened it, but the fumes thankfully weren't black.

Grabbing a pair of oven mitts from the counter, you carefully removed the hot tin from its fiery mouth, standing and setting it down in front of you.

The mac and cheese was a golden brown, with a few darker spots here and there. There must've been a piece of food or debris sitting in the oven that you'd missed that had burned instead.

Miles set down the bags of groceries and surveyed the kitchen, watching your stout figure scurry about, flipping switches and turning knobs.

“It's just you in here?” He asked.

“Yup,” you replied while chopping yams. “My sister was s'posed to be here to help, but she's stuck in traffic. So, here I am.”

An awkward silence settled in between you. Even without looking up, you could sense that Miles was still standing there.

Finally, he spoke:

“You want any help with that?”

You set the knife down and turned to him with a hand on your hip, and tilted your head in amusement.

“I dunno, Miles. Are you gonna keep standing there like a lost puppy if I say no?”

A grin spread across his face. “I'll make the stuffing!”

You returned to chopping. “Knock yourself out.”

After removing some of the plantains he'd bought, Miles rummaged through your fridge. There was garlic–thank God–and chili peppers. After grabbing those, he opened one of the cupboards and found a bottle of olive oil.

While he was painstakingly chopping veggies, he occasionally stole glances at you as you continued preparing the yams.

Your wide nose was scrunched in focus, occasionally pushing a stray box braid away from your face. Cute.

He accidentally caught your eye the next time he looked up, and you paused.

“What?”

Miles cleared his throat, “N-nothing.”

He turned away and poured the chopped ingredients into a bowl and combined them with the olive oil.

The smell floated its way over to you. Interest piqued, you peered over his shoulder and watched his nimble fingers expertly peel several ripe plantain bananas, before tossing them in with the chili and garlic. Miles rolled up one of his sleeves to mash everything together, muscles flexing beneath his brown skin with every turn. You noticed a tiny smile ghosting his lips.

“Yes?” He asked.

Miles hadn't so much as glanced up at you. Was it possible that you'd been staring so hard that you had gotten his attention telepathically?

Startled, you fumbled for an excuse. “You’re uh, really good at cooking. I'm impressed.”

The corner of Miles’ mouth quirked up.

“Sure you are.”

After filling the turkey with the finished mofongo, Miles slid it into the oven where it joined the yams, and shut the door.

The sound of knives hitting cutting boards no longer filled the air, leaving behind yet another silence. And time to kill.

Miles shuffled over to the sink to wash his hands, the sound of only faucet water rushing even more maddening. You decided to break the silence this time.

“So, how’s college? My mom said you went to New Jersey to study.”

“It's alright,” he shrugged as he grabbed a paper towel to dry his hands off with.

You crossed your arms and grinned. “You givin’ me the parent answer. How's it really going?”

Miles threw the paper towel away, and gave you a lopsided smile.

“Fine. School's kinda whooping my ass, and winter break can't come soon enough. You?”

“Same here,” you sighed, unfolding your arms to rest them on the counter. “Med school ain't for the weak. Labs every five minutes.”

“You gonna be a nurse?”

“Surgeon,” you corrected.

Miles let out a low whistle, making your chest swell with pride.

“What do you study? You look like a student athlete.”

“Whoah, what does that mean?” He laughed and raised an eyebrow.

“That's not what I meant!” You giggled, catching the joke.

“Relax, I know what you meant,” Miles leaned against the counter opposite you. “I'm a physics major, if you must know.”

You nodded thoughtfully. Your guess was way off.

“Never met a future physicist before. Usually it's business, or poli-sci, or something.”

Miles winked, “I'm full of surprises.”

The gesture made your face grow embarrassingly hot. You'd think that spending enough time on campus would make you less susceptible to the charms of pretty boys with high-top fades, but old habits die hard. Still, you held your ground.

“You use that line on every girl?”

“I came up with that just now, so no. Flattered that you think it's good enough for me to have used it before, though.”

Just as you were about to respond, your phone vibrated in your pocket. It was a text from your sister:

“Coming over in 15. Don't forget the beans like last time 💗💗💗”

“Oh shit,” Your hand flew over your mouth. “We forgot the beans!”

You darted over to the cupboard where Miles had said he put the cans of beans in. Unfortunately for you, they had been stacked onto the shelf that you could never reach, hence why it was usually empty.

You stood on the tips of your toes anyway and tried to stretch your arm as far as it could go. When that inevitably failed, you considered climbing on top of the counter when Miles’ voice stopped you.

“I'll get it.”

“Nope,” you grunted, “it's fine–”

“Seriously, it's my fault for puttin’ ‘em up there–”

You turned, the smell of chili peppers and faint cologne hitting you instantly as your eyes met his.

Miles had already reached over your head, and was currently holding a can of beans in his right hand.

Up close, you could see rows of full, dense lashes that curled upwards and away from his eyes in ‘c’ shapes. Your eyes then fell a bit lower, where a tiny scar ran across his left cheek that made you wonder about its origins. Did he fall off of his bicycle one day? Did he fight? Would it be rude to ask about it?

Meanwhile, Miles' gaze landed on your lips. They were glossy, lined with black and another dark, brown shade. He liked the shape of them.

Before either of you could make any drastic decisions, the doorbell snapped you out of your thoughts.

You moved from beneath the cupboard and let Miles keep the beans.

“You can cook those,” you directed as you left the kitchen. “My sister's here.”

Miles blinked and remembered where he was. “Right.”

#miles morales x reader #miles morales x black!reader #earth 42 miles morales x reader #moralesanhour

163 notes · View notes

morallyinept · 8 months

Text

Saviour - A Joel Miller One Shot

Summary: Joel's suffering. He can't do this anymore.

Pairing: Joel Miller x GN!Reader (No name or physical description of reader - it's you, bub.)

Word Count: 2.5k-ish

Scoville Smut Rating: 🌶 "Don't hurt me, cadejo."

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.

Waenings/Triggers: Angst. A butt load of angst/very mild smut/unprotected sex (wrap up, folks!)/alludes to violence/let's throw in some chronic insomnia, depression and probable PTSD. Poor Joel 🥺

NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ. ☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned.

I write for me, and I share with you. If this story isn't to your taste, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.

MASTERLIST | JOEL MILLER MASTERLIST

Enjoy! 🖤

You can hear the screams.

They rattle through the calcium of your bones, packed tight in the jelly of your marrow. The harrowing sounds of terrible men begging for their lives with blood around their gums. It's a sound that will stay with you when you close your eyes at night.

Like jackals they are; insidious and prowling in the night. They carry the decaying flesh of their prey in the cavities of their yellowing teeth. Sharp. Meat of the innocent. Snapping. Hungry.

Like animals, they are put down.

He told you to stay in that damned room, to not come out. No matter what you heard.

You never do. You know that if you see that, see him, it'll kill you. Hearing the frayed tendrils of what he has to do is enough; too much.

You swallow down the rancid bile that burns at the back of your throat.

You're sitting on the lackadaisical bed; threadbare sheets, knees drawn up and forehead resting on them, eyes closed. You press your sockets into your arm and phosphenes glitter at you. It's the only light you have now, when you're lost in the dark.

You can't help but listen out; ears primed despite your reluctance. There's no other noise to distract you here. No TV fuzz or static. No jaunty music. All that's long gone and seems like a vacant memory now, as if your brain is playing tricks on you; convincing you that you never enjoyed such trivial things to begin with.

There is no music here. Only screaming. And the heavy tarnish of Joel's fists.

Then a gunshot. A heavy thud. And then finally, silence.

The silence lasts for a long time. You feel bound in its rigidity, unable to break free as you're left with little else to do but to ruminate inside its ghastly shadows. The silence doesn't haunt you anymore, you haunt it. Leave solid traces of yourself in the shadows of it to gnarl and unfurl.

Footsteps. A creak of the floorboards and then, the door opening. Flooding with the devastation of him.

You look up as he enters; his face pulled into a tight knot at his brows, forever unchanging and refusing to uncinch as he fails to glance at you.

He can never look at you like this.

His eyes don't soften, they rarely do when it happens. Nothing can reach him, not for a while. It takes time to pull him back to shore. Effort.

Unwavering patience that you're not sure you have enough of anymore. Your fingers sag, blistered from the exhumation. This world has already taken so much.

Do you even have anything left to give?

You tell yourself this every time - and wonder the same each time - when you'll stop telling yourself this. When words that have lost all meaning still punctuate and leave lacerations in their wake. They bleed all over the pair of worn boots you wear that were never yours. Borrowed possessions in a world where possessions are fleeting and meaningless. Their stories pushed aside to make way for the turmoil.

You consider when you'll stop living in stoic acceptance for the things Joel does to keep you safe. Alive.

I don't want it if it means he has to suffer. If he has to die a little more because of it.

The burden weighs heavy. A constant crush on your shoulders that gets heavier to drag each day. Sinking slowly, it's up to your knees. Soon your belly. And you can only wonder how it hasn't fully crushed him yet.

Water runs and his back is to you as he washes what is no doubt blood from his hands. You didn't see, all you saw were his eyes. Dark and… empty. The light of them long since dimmed; the candle almost out.

You forget the colour for a moment. You try to remember nutmeg, autumnal leaves that crisp and curl into their death; a handmade switch from the oak to self-flagellate. The colours are all the same, muddy. Dull.

You move, and don't remember the action. You were both once like clockwork; now it's just you who ticks. You're there behind Joel, his back stiffens whilst he rinses his weathered fingers, even when the water has long since run clear.

Your cheek rests against the broad expanse of him; arms circling his puffy waist, pulling him to you. Anchoring. The material of his shirt is soft, but still feels hard at the same time; it grazes in its plaid juxtaposition.

You feel him flex and then the sinking begins. The tension breaks a little, just enough, a crack; a fissure.

A deft wet hand is pushed against yours, fingers interlock despite its chill.

You hear him breathe out, cold mist that barbs your skin. The faucet's gurgled scream is silenced.

"Joel," you metasticize softly in his plasma, and he doesn't make a sound in response to your infection; just a hangman swinging on the gallows.

But he doesn't need to say anything, he knows you're here; knows your shell is grounding him and giving him what he would never ask for at that moment.

He has never asked.

You would ponder on it if it wasn't futile. Deep down you've always known why.

His other fist finds yours - wet and brusied - and squeezes his fingers around your digits tightly. He crushes back until they go numb and your bones feel like they might break and crumble.

He lets go and like always, he heads straight for the bed when you're home, or the place you both call home now that isn't really. Doesn't undress, never undresses after. Even though you can see the blood now on his shirt, smell its iron fruiting.

He rolls, facing the dull window and by the time you're there beside him and running your arm under his, he's gripping your fingers back again. The ebb of his heartbeat felt on the tips languidly. You wonder when it is that you'll feel the last strangled convulsion of it.

You know he would have closed his eyes. But he's not sleeping. No.

Joel never sleeps.

Can't. Not without the pills or whiskey or whatever else he can find or trade for the nightmares to be silenced temporarily.

And when he can't, he stays awake. Even when you succumb beside him and he can hear your laboured breaths taunting him mercilessly as you dream unbidden. A small part of him resents you for that. He wants to make you suffer for the peace you've harboured selfishly for yourself.

You know. You would too if the bloodied boot were on the other foot.

Joel slowly deflates over the course of the night. You feel it each time he breathes out; his weight seems to feel lighter, a rib breaks and flattens the broadness of him into softer pulp. The muscles in his arm don't feel so tight. The cords in his neck become less taught. The leather of his skin more slack around his eyes.

Small pieces of him dying.

And you're left beside him just silently mourning each and every one.

When you wake, you know he'll be there. Unmoved, eyes still closed but not asleep. He never sleeps. The hurricane is never still.

But when you wake up this time, hunkered down in your dreary peace, it's different.

He's not there.

The alarm you feel swiftly shifts into panic. He's always there.

"Joel?" You call out gently.

You listen for the shower. For the mutter of his breath in the walls. Your feet take flight - again you don't remember it. He's nowhere to be found and the unsettling thoughts won't let you have any respite until he comes back, some three days later. Somewhat worse for wear. Somewhat the same.

He's aged. Aged so terribly in the last seventy-two hours that he's barely recognisable, and yet is still the same as you remember.

You don't remember much, just the empty void he left that haunted you tirelessly and nothing else. No peace resides here anymore. He selfishly took it and bundled it clumsily into his backpack leaving you with a decaying husk to nurture in his place.

When his face appears in front of yours again, said backpack discarded by your feet, his hands are strangely warm as they hold onto yours; pulling you out and into an even more terrifying nightmare than you've been rusticating in for the last three days.

You slap him across the jaw and it stings you; he doesn't flinch. He knows he deserves it.

His dark eyes search into yours as he presses your trembling hands to his lips but doesn't kiss them. Just holds them there for a while until your prints twitch through the prickly scruff overhanging his top lip like razorwire.

"Joel-" You begin to croak, but he stops you shaking his head vehemently.

"No." He utters in a small gruff.

And you still. You know it's okay, he's here. Nothing bad happened to him. Physically, at least.

You push your forehead to his and he breathes out. More deflating.

More dying.

"I can't do this anymore." He murmurs, barely audible, but it rings loud around the room like a claxon. Your warm, stale breath of relief hits him on his eyelashes.

"Thank God," you whisper back.

It takes him a while to speak again because he doesn't elaborate. He doesn't need to. He knows you understand and will accept it. Because you have to. And you will.

It's killing you.

He's unmoving, just there with his forehead stamped on yours and it's like you can feel some of that tension leaving him and being absorbed by your pores, even if you have no more room for it.

But you always make space somehow, shift things around. Forego them if necessary. And you can feel him become lighter with it as you start to sink.

You know that's how you save him.

You know how to breathe life back into him to keep him going for that little bit longer.

You lay him down and let him fill you up. There is none of the play, none of the readying. Nothing that would be remotely considered affectionate between you both. It's all you can offer because you know it is all he will take from you.

Something raw and peeled back to reveal bruised and rotting sinew beneath the tender flesh.

He still groans when you slide down on him fully; feel his weight and bulk heavy inside you. Swollen with need, a body to be emptied.

You rock gently on him with your forehead still attached to his, glued by salt. His hands are across your back, mapping over your shoulders; crushing you to him. Your ribs are tight against his as they knock together.

He doesn't kiss you, because he can't. He won't look at you, because he can't.

He can only love you like this, fractured.

And so you give him yours instead; this piece of you that you know can pull him through. To pull something out of him other than grief for a little while.

You don't come. You don't need to because it's more than just pleasure. It's how you save him again and again.

And if it means that a piece of you dies in return each time, then it's worth it to lay suffocating, your wings withering at his feet.

Joel comes inside you, pumping you full of the last tattered, warm parts of him, and as he releases, a hefty hand goes to his eyes.

You feel him silently rumble as his chest heaves and his lips downturn. You hear the stuffy sniffles from his nose as he breaks fully. Disintegrates into the mattress to be inhaled and choked on by you.

"I'm here, Joel. I'm right here." You remind him softly. Gently until his fingers latch around yours and you feel the wetness of his tears burn your skin.

You've always been here. You can't remember since when. You can't remember the before.

He muffles into your shoulder as those last few breaths are strangled before his body stills and you feel him blink against the pulse of your throat.

You stay like that, connected, for what seems like hours; his spend seeping out onto the soft down of his thighs and his turgid cock shrivelled, resting under your weight.

He sighs and you know he's beyond exhausted. Beyond done.

You leave him, again not remembering it as you crush the pills under the glass and swipe the powder into the amber liquid. He drinks it down fast and his head catches back on the pillow.

He pulls you close to him and your hands find skin that you've forgotten, neglected, as does his. You kiss his nape, but realise he doesn't feel it as he's slipped away from you, finally.

For the first time in what feels like a long time, Joel sleeps.

He can't let you be his saviour anymore, not when it costs you your humanity. And he can't be yours anymore. Not when it costs him his.

The price of survival is too much. And you're both out of ration cards to keep trading for it.

Instead, you slumber beside him with the weight of the world tucked in your back pocket for another day when it might rear its fungal head.

Right now, you're here with him and he with you. Even if you're both broken and damaged beyond some basic repair.

You hear the sounds of his dreams wash you away down the drain as he steals your peace from you. Takes the last of your colours, fading them out with turpentine.

For the first time, in what feels like a long time, Joel sleeps.

MASTERLIST | JOEL MILLER MASTERLIST

I hope you enjoyed this lil' Joel story of mine. Re-blogs and comments are always cherished & appreciated! 🖤

#joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller the last of us #joel miller tlou #joel miller fanfic #joel miller smut #joel fic #joel tlou #joel x f!reader #joel x m!reader #tlou fanfic #tlou fic #tlou fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal #joel x gn!reader

193 notes · View notes

pedrito-friskito · 2 months

Text

strawberry wine - joel miller x ofc!liv stone/fem!reader

after - part thirty-three

SERIES MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST | READ ON AO3

jackson holds more than a few familiar faces.

a/n: these few chapters are so satisfying to me cuz it’s more my own creation that straight outta the show and i hope y’all enjoy 🫶🏻

word count: 7.4k

warnings: nothing crazy, y’all know the drill by now

✨@friskito-library for updates on new parts/works✨

The last time you saw Nick Cowan, Joel had just put a bullet in his shoulder, and he’d nearly put a bullet in Joel’s head. Then you’d picked up the gun Joel had dropped and pointed it right back at the then-FEDRA soldier, your…whatever he once was.

The last thing you said to him rings clear as day in your mind: “Guess I’m just as terrible as you thought.”

He looks…old. It suits him. It’s the eyes that give him away, that signature stare you had once grown so used to. Now, they pin you in place, and you have no choice but to stare right back, taking in the thick beard along his jaw, the scar across his nose, his hair greying and pushed back over his head. He’s bigger than you remember, all broad shoulders towering over you as he gets closer to you, closing the distance, making your brain run a marathon trying to make sense of it.

He’s here. He’s alive.

“Liv?” he croaks out, his voice snapping on your name. His eyes are glassy, those stupidly long lashes you were always silently envious of clumping together. “Is it really…is it really you?”

Nick Cowan opens his arms to you, his boots crunching in the snow beneath your feet. He goes to hug you, saying your name again, shock and happiness on his face.

And you fucking deck him.

You’re pure adrenaline, and you hear the crunch of your knuckles hitting his face more than you feel it. It’s like every eye in the street turns to you as it happens, and Cowan reels backward, spitting blood into the snow and cupping his face. Your hand explodes with pain as you fall back a step, cradling your hand against your chest, and Joel materializes at your side, curling a hand around your elbow.

“Okay,” Cowan grunts, spitting again. “I probably deserved that.”

“Probably?” you nearly shout, stepping forward, but Joel tightens his hold and hauls you back. “It’s okay.”

You wrestle yourself out of Joel’s grip and close the distance between you and Nick. But this time, you hug him. You grab his forearm and throw your arms around him, squeezing him tight. It’s a moment before he returns it, a low chuckle reaching your ears. There are more tears on your face, and god fucking damn it, your hand hurts something fierce, but then you feel something connect with your shin and a tiny voice shouts, “Get your hands off my daddy!”

Nick steps back, releasing you, and you look down to see a little girl, no older than five or six, pulling back to kick you in the shin again. She’s cute, all bright blue eyes and blonde braids and her cheeks flushed with cold. “Deanna, stop it,” Nick chides, reaching down to scoop her into his arms. She goes willingly, giving you the best evil eye you’ve received from someone so young, and it makes you laugh.

You’re still reeling, your aching heart barely able to process. Tommy? Cowan? Alive and well, all this time. It’s almost too much, and then—

“Deanna, come back here!” an unfamiliar voice calls, and you look in its direction to see a young man making his way through the crowd to where you’re stood.

And your heart sinks into your toes.

“I’m sorry,” he says to Cowan, reaching into his pocket and producing an inhaler. “She just ran off before I could…” He trails off, and his eyes move to you. “Liv?”

The image of the little boy in your mind is instantly replaced with the older version standing before you. He’s tall, nearly as tall as Cowan, the mop of dark curls now cropped closer to his head, short enough that you can see the scar on his forehead. The memory jars you. He was so little, chasing Emily around the food court, and you’d heard him yelp as he fell. A few minutes later, his dad was carrying him into the medic area where you were working with Deanna. Poor kid cracked his head open and was sniffling around the wad of napkins his dad had pressed to his bleeding forehead.

You’d taken over, carried him over to one of the cots and found a wad of gauze that would soak up the blood a bit better. Henry was all sniffles and big round eyes, staring up at you as you dabbed at his wound. You distracted him, talking about anything and everything while you cleaned it and found him a bandage and told him he was brave. It wasn’t terribly deep, but it had left a thin line above his eyebrow, one you could only really see when the light caught the right way.

“Henry,” you breathe out, and a moment later, he’s in your arms. Despite the height he now has on you, he’s that ten-year-old kid again, hugging you tightly. The kid that groaned about math but still did every piece of homework, that sat vigil at your bedside after you got the shit kicked out of you in lockup, that sweet-talked Joel into a game of Monopoly the first time they met.

Maybe not your son by blood, but the closest thing you know you’ll ever come to one.

And he’s alive.

But then the mood sours, all in an instant.

“You told us she was dead!” Henry shouts, still clinging to you, but pulling away to spit the words at Cowan. There are tears on his face, making his cheeks ruddy, and you can hear the way his chest wheezes. “All these years, you told us she was gone! You fucking liar!”

You can see the hurt on Nick’s face, the way he flinches back. The little girl — Deanna — hides her face in Nick’s neck, putting her arms around him. A blonde woman appears at his side, puts a hand on Deanna’s back and murmurs something to Nick that you don’t hear over Henry shouting.

“I fucking hate you! You’re a goddamn liar! She was our family!”

“Henry, stop,” you say softly, trying to placate him. “It’s okay, it’s not—”

He wrenches out of your arms and disappears into the crowd, leaving you and Nick to watch him go. Nick hands Deanna off to the blonde and she gives you what you think is a sympathetic smile before also walking away.

“I never meant for it to work out this way,” Nick says, and part of you feels bad for him, but another part wants to deck him again. “They were just kids when we…” He shakes his head. “Deanna and I agreed, it was better that way. That maybe it would stop them from wanting to go back to Boston if they didn’t think you were still there.”

You feel a presence behind you — Joel. His hand rests at the small of your back and you swipe tears from your cheeks. “Well, I was still there, Nick. Wondering this entire time if you were all alive or not. You couldn’t have had the decency to at least let us know you were okay?” Your voice cracks on the question and Joel puts his arm around your waist now, tugging you against him. You’re grateful; it’s the only thing stopping you from punching Nick again.

“Everything I did was to protect them,” Nick says, staring down at his boots. You got him good; his jaw is an angry shade of red, and there’s a spot of red on his bottom lip. “You know exactly why I did what I did.”

Joel bristles, angling himself in front of you, raising a hand. “Can we not do that right now?” he grits out. “There’s a lot going on right this second; we all need to calm the fuck down and you need to watch your mouth.”

Nick doesn’t say anything at first, just nods, but then his eyes flick back to you. “I’m sorry, really, I am. Tommy knows which house is ours, if you want to talk more.”

He turns on his heel, but you stop him. “Nick.” He swivels back to you slowly, his hands dug in his pockets. “I’m assuming the little Deanna is named after the one that took care of us back in Boston.”

“She is,” he nods. “Dee passed five years ago.” But then he stops, and you know the next thing out of his mouth might crush you. “The same flu that took Emily. They’re buried together; I can show you where, if you like. That’s probably where Henry took off to.”

You inhale sharply, stumbling back a step, but Joel doesn’t let you go far. Tommy’s on your other side now, Ellie a half-step behind him, and the woman who had told you to come to Jackson breaks the silence that settles as you watch Nick walk away.

“Why don’t we get you all something to eat?”

You’re all quiet, the only sound at the table is the clatter of cutlery hitting plates. Joel can barely remember the last time he ate off a real plate, let alone sat at a table while he had a meal. It must have been back in Boston, he thinks, back before…

He glances at you between bites. You’re picking at your food, your shoulders hunched around your ears, eyes downcast. Worry knots Joel’s stomach, but goddamn it, he’s hungry. “Liv, honey, eat,” he says, nodding across the table where you’re sat beside Tommy. “Please.”

You just nod, lifting your glass of water and taking a sip.

Beside him, Ellie is wolfing down her food, scraping the plate, eyes glued to the meal like someone might try and take it away from her. “There’s more if you need it,” Maria — the woman who’d brought you here — says from her seat at the head of the table.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Joel says with a slight nod, pausing his own eating. “It’s been a while since we’ve had a proper meal.”

“Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever had a proper meal,” Ellie quips, taking another bite. “This is fuckin’ amazing.”

“Ellie,” you chide, your eyes widening for a second and Joel’s eyes dart between you.

“Sorry,” he says to Tommy and Maria. “Ellie, let’s mind our manners.”

Tommy gives Joel a small smile and lifts his hand, giving your shoulder a squeeze. You offer a half-smile in return, reaching up and squeezing his fingers.

Ellie’s attention is dragged across the large room, and her almost menacing, “What?” makes you both flinch.

“Jesus Christ, Ellie,” you groan, rubbing your hand across your forehead.

“What’s wrong with you?” Joel asks, his eyes darting to the girl who’d been hiding behind a pillar, watching your table.

“What about her manners?” Ellie calls, loud enough for the girl to hear, and you sigh heavily.

“She was just curious,” Maria supplies, her tone placating. “Kids around here don’t usually look or talk like you.”

“Right,” Ellie says with a tight nod. “Well, maybe I’ll teach them.” She glances at Tommy, at you beside him, and then her eyes move back to Maria. “And I want my gun back.”

They’d taken your weapons before you got on the horses, and the other riders had whistled at your barb-wired bat. Joel didn’t doubt you’d get them back, but now isn’t the time or place.

“They also aren’t armed,” Maria replies.

“We don’t need to be,” you add, earning an open-mouthed look from Ellie. “Not in here.”

An awkward silence settles for a moment while Ellie cleans her plate, and Joel’s worry subsides some when he sees you take a few more bites.

“Y’know what,” Tommy starts, glancing between you all, “I think maybe y’all got a little off on the wrong foot.”

“She was gonna have her guys kill us,” Ellie almost sneers, and your eyes dart to Joel before you reach across the table, just laying your fist on the tabletop.

“Well, we gotta be real careful about who we let in this place. It’s all bark, we’re just tryna scare off those who might wanna try us is all.”

“Well, you got a couple of ninety-year-olds shitting themselves out there.”

“Ellie!” Joel grits, and you put your face in your hands.

“They say that you leave dead bodies around?” she continues, ignoring both of you.

“Those are the people who tried us,” Maria responds easily, barely fazed.

“A bad reputation doesn’t mean you’re bad,” Tommy says, and Joel sees the recognition on your face as you drop your hands, squaring your shoulders slightly.

“Not always, at least,” Maria says. Her eyes linger on Joel as she says it, and it makes him bristle. He sees your face pinch from the corner of his eye and you lean up, straightening, laying both elbows on the table.

He can see you holding yourself back, wanting to jump on the defence. So he tries to change the subject. “Ma’am, we’re grateful for your hospitality and all,” he lays down his fork and looks to his brother, “but it’d be nice to have a moment here, maybe just for family.”

You inhale sharply, reaching for your water glass again.

Tommy pauses, balks, before, “Well, um.” He reaches a hand out and Maria takes it, a small smile on her face. “Maria is family, actually.”

Your water glass rattles as you set it back down. “Oh shit!” Ellie says, her tone suddenly lighter. “Congrats.”

Joel doesn’t have words, barely registering you putting your hand on Tommy’s arm and murmuring, “That’s great.”

“Joel,” Ellie calls softly, snapping him out of it, “say congrats.”

“Congrats,” he repeats drily.

The silence that settles after is so awkward Joel wants to crawl out of his own skin, but his brother breaks it. “How about a tour?”

You nearly jump into action, collecting the dishes and cutlery and stacking them together, waving Maria off when she tells you to leave them. Joel makes his way around the table to your side, helps you into your coat. You mumble a thank you, give him a tight smile when he finds your hand and gives it a squeeze.

Maria leads you out of the mess hall and back onto the street. The air is so bitingly cold, such a stark difference from the warmth inside, that Joel flinches, and you tuck yourself against his side, ducking under his arm.

“We settled here about seven years ago,” Maria tells you as you start walking, her voice loud over the noise of the street. “Just a handful of us back then.” She points to one part of the wall. “That section was already a gated community so we built the rest of the wall out from there. Stopped most of the raiding parties, but we still find pockets of them.”

“And you said Infected?” Joel asks, rubbing his hand over your shoulder.

“Yeah,” Tommy answers, “but usually smaller colonies, wandered off from the cities. All this open country out here, it’s a turkey shoot. I still got my 700, but I found a variable power scope, sub-MOA. Can headshot those fuckers from a half mile out.” Joel smirks; his brother, forever the gun nerd.

It gets Ellie’s attention. “Can you teach me how?”

“No, he can’t,” Joel says immediately. He’s half-expecting you to interject, but you don’t say a word. “How do you keep this place quiet?”

“Carefully,” Maria responds. “Being in the middle of nowhere helps, not advertising what we have, staying off the radio.”

That makes Joel stop, and you do too, your hand curling into a fist at his hip as Tommy shoots him a look.

“House of worship,” Maria continues, either unfazed or unaware of the silent exchange as she points out buildings, “multi-faith. School. Laundry. Old bank works as the jail, not that we’ve needed it.”

Joel’s gaze drifts up, to the power lines linked along the street. “And you draw power from the dam?”

“Got that working a couple of years ago,” she says with a nod. “After that, sewage, plumbing, water heaters, lights.”

Ellie shakes her head, glancing around. “This place actually fuckin’ works.”

You keep walking, eventually coming to an area that looks like a makeshift farm. A herd of sheep runs past as you all step through the fence, bleating as they go.

“Hey, Joel,” Ellie calls, beaming, “check it! Baa!”

You both laugh, and Joel squeezes your shoulder.

“So, are you like, in charge?” Ellie asks Maria, clearly starting to get over her earlier…ferocity.

“No one person’s in charge,” Maria answers. “I’m on the council. Democratically elected, serving three hundred people, including children. Everyone pitches in. We rotate patrols, food prep, repair, hunting, harvesting.”

“Everything you see in our town,” Tommy chimes in, “greenhouses, livestock, all shared. Collective ownership.”

“So, communism,” you pipe up, leaning around Joel to look at Tommy.

Tommy’s expression is pure confusion as he shakes his head. “Nah. Nah, it ain’t like that.”

“It is that,” Marie corrects him. “Literally. This is a commune. We’re communists.”

Tommy stops in his tracks, clearly shocked at this revelation, and Joel has to stifle his laugh as he walks past his brother. The conversation trails off as you come up to a row of stables, and Ellie is instantly taken by a young foal poking its head out of the half door.

“Well, I’m sure they’d all like a shower, some new clothes,” Maria says, looking at Tommy. “We can put them in the empty house across the street from us.”

“Yeah,” Tommy nods. “It’s a decent place. Pretty much untouched since ‘03, but it’s got the heat goin’ in it. Could do worse.”

You blow out a breath, turning to steam in the cold air. Joel can hear the words on the tip of your tongue before Ellie interjects, “Oh, trust me, we have been.”

It bothers him more than it should. She looks back at the two of you with a grin on her face that quickly disappears. “We’ve been doin’ fine.”

“Joel,” you say quietly, turning your body against his.

Marie doesn’t miss the exchange and looks at you. “Well, I can take Liv and Ellie over there if you two wanna catch up?” She pauses. “Unless, you—”

“No, let the brothers do their thing,” you say with a nod, peeling away from Joel’s side. He wants to pull you back the second you’re gone, but he stops himself. “I have a few…unfinished conversations of my own to take care of.”

Maria nods. “I can show you where the Cowans live; it’s not far from our place.”

“Yeah,” Joel says, watching as you walk over to where Ellie’s standing, reaching up and petting the foal’s nose. Ellie seems to relax further when you touch her shoulder. “Okay.”

“We’ll be fine,” you tell Joel, and he’s not quite sure who you’re trying to convince, you or him.

Tommy starts to lead him away, and Joel gives you one last glance before following his brother away from the stables.

Standing on the front porch of what Maria has told you is the Cowans’ home, you feel nervous, of all things. Your fury has subsided some, turned instead to a quiet ache that lingers in your chest, makes your heart rate rise when you let your mind wander. You feed yourself the facts instead, still trying to make sense of it all.

Nick is alive. Tommy is alive. Henry is alive.

Deanna is dead. Emily is dead.

Somehow, the confirmation makes it easier. You can’t even begin to add up all the time you’ve spent wondering over the years, when Nick first took them away, when Tommy left with the Fireflies. The wondering always made it worse. It was the same when the outbreak first hit, stuck in Boston, not knowing who lived or died. It was Nick that gave you the closure that your parents were gone. Then Joel’s panicked admission that Anna had lived through being bitten, but then FEDRA carted her off, never to be seen again.

That’s one bit of closure you still don’t have.

My parents are dead. Bill and Frank are dead. Sarah is dead. Anna is…dead.

You suck in a shaky breath, the iciness of it chilling you from the inside out as you lift your hand and knock twice.

It’s a few moments before the door swings inward, revealing the blonde woman who had stood beside Nick earlier in the street. “Oh,” she says, her voice bordering between overly bright and cautious, “it’s you.”

“Olivia,” you offer, extending your hand, “but call me Liv.”

“Sloane,” she responds, taking it. “Nick’s upstairs. D’you wanna come in?”

You stall, thrown off by her invitation. “Oh, uh, sure.”

Sloane steps aside to let you in and you step over the threshold, immediately soaking in the warmth that greets you. “This must all be very…strange for you.”

You lift your brows, glancing around the house as she shuts the door behind her. It’s quaint, with a Christmas tree in one corner of the living room that you can see, a kitchen to the other side. You can see little Deanna perched at the table, crayons in hand, and it’s so reminiscent of Emily, of your life back in Boston, that you nearly turn on your heel and dart back into the cold.

Your face must give you away, and Sloane seems to think she caused it. “Oh no, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no,” you cut her off, waving a hand. “Strange is probably the nicest way to put it.” You try to laugh, try to make the atmosphere a little lighter, but the sound twists in your throat. “I’m the one who should be sorry; I didn’t mean to barge in here like this.”

She gives you a small smile. “I invited you in, Liv. It’s okay, really. Nick told me a lot about you.”

“Only the good stuff, I hope,” you say, returning the grin while inwardly praying he left out some of your…finer details. “Although, there’s not a lot of good stuff, which I’m sure you know.”

“We do what we have to,” she replies, lifting her shoulder, and you balk. “It all happens the way it does for a reason. If you’d stayed together, he wouldn’t be here.” She pauses, looks over her shoulder toward the kitchen. “And I wouldn’t have that beautiful little girl.”

Tears spring in your eyes and you blink furiously while she’s not looking, willing them away.

“I’m sorry, by the way,” she says, turning back to you. “Nick said she kicked you in the shins after…”

“…after you clocked me in the jaw,” Nick finishes, coming down the stairs, sporting the starting of a bruise along his beard. “Glad I only ever taught you to shoot. If I’d taught you how to punch, I’d probably still be unconscious in the street.” You open your mouth to say something, but you’re caught off guard as Nick leans over the stair rail to kiss Sloane hello, which she returns with a grin.

He looks so…at ease. Jealousy sparks in your gut something fierce. Not that he’s kissing her and not you — that ship sailed many moons ago. But seeing them here, in their home, with their daughter. It’s a postcard reminder of all the things you and Joel don’t have. Have never had. May not ever have.

“Nick, can we talk?” you ask, shoving your hands in the pockets of your coat. “Please? I promise not to clock you again.”

He barks a laugh, reaching for his coat on a hook near the door. “Let’s go.”

Sloane kisses him again before he leaves, leading you out the door and back into the cold. You fall into step easily, heading deeper into Jackson, past more houses and people. It looks almost like a real neighbourhood, kids building snowmen in their front yards, Christmas trees glittering in windows. You’re both quiet, but Nick’s the one that breaks the silence.

“Go ahead and ask, Liv,” he says, digging his hands in his pockets while you toy with your own. “I can hear the wheels in your head going from here.”

“Maria said this settlement has been here seven years,” you start, his words all the confirmation you need to start asking for the answers you need, “but you left Boston what, fourteen years ago? What did you do between Boston and here?”

He sighs, his breath turning to a cloud of steam in the air. “Whatever I had to. I only got us out of the QZ by asking for a transfer, and we barely survived the trek to Chicago with FEDRA on our side. But we were there almost five years.” He gestures to the left when the sidewalk splits, and you follow his direction. “After Chicago went to shit, we did whatever we could. Lots of sleeping on the road, hiding in abandoned buildings. The kids hated it, Deanna even more so, but there were more of us then, some people she’d befriended in Chicago, a few other soldiers who’d grown tired of the bullshit, like me. Sloane was one of them.”

“She was FEDRA?” you ask, genuinely shocked.

“Yeah,” he replies, nodding. “I think she’s the only person who’s given me more of a run for my money than you did.”

“Nick—”

“I don’t blame you for doing what you did,” he says, staring at his boots as you keep walking. The sidewalk splits again and this time, you go right. The houses are further apart here, a small copse of trees coming into view at the end of the street. “Or Joel. He was just trying to protect you, and I’m sorry for what I—”

“You shot him in the head, Nick,” you say, bristling. “You can’t just apologize for that and make it all go away. You could have killed him. His hearing hasn’t been the same since it happened.”

He stops in his tracks, staring at you, wide-eyed. “What?”

“You heard me,” you tell him, defiant only to cover up the way your bottom lip is wobbling. “And then you tell Henry and Emily that I’m dead?”

“Well, I couldn’t tell them the truth, could I?” he shoots back and starts walking again. You inhale sharply and follow. “Henry was so mad when we left. He kept asking where you were, if you were gonna meet us in Chicago, over and over. It just seemed…easier. And how in the hell was I supposed to know that you’d show up here one day and prove me wrong?”

“You could have sent a message,” you say, your chest growing tight, “when you got to Chicago. Or when you got here. Never mind, I should give Tommy a fucking earful for not telling me you’ve been here this whole time.”

“I asked him not to,” he admits, and your brows shoot up. “Yes, I lied, okay, Liv? I’m a terrible fucking person. But you were just as bad as I was. You put that entire QZ at risk coming back when you did, and I—”

“Stop it,” you grit, lifting a hand, shocked when he cuts himself short. “Never in a million years would I have come back if I wasn’t sure. I made Joel promise to put me down if I so much as twitched. I made him swear to put a bullet in my head and leave me there, then go back to the QZ and tell everyone how fucking sorry I was.”

You’ve reached the end of the street, the edge of the small forest, and Nick keeps moving forward, stepping onto the snow. You follow, grinding your teeth together as you go.

You walk in silence for some time, Nick stepping quickly, a few feet in front of you, and you keep your distance, unsure if you can handle the rest of this conversation.

The clearing comes into view after a bit of walking, and Nick moves to the side, revealing a graveyard of sorts, a few rows of grave markers dusted with snow. They’re simple markers, wooden crosses driven into the earth, names scrawled across them, painted on a few. One of the graves is fresh.

Seeing Deanna’s name feels like a punch to the gut, but Emily’s hits twice as hard. You drop to your knees in the snow, reaching out and brushing your hand over the cross, the wreath of flowers that sits atop it. “Sloane does that,” Nick tells you, his voice hushed. “She’s got a whole garden in our backyard just to bring the flowers here. Grows them inside in the winter. She loved Emily.”

Your tears flow freely, dripping off your chin and hitting the snow. “It was a flu?”

“Yes,” he answers, crouching down beside you. “Five years ago, now. We’d been here six months, and things felt good, but then the kids started getting sick, a lot of them. Henry got it too, and I thought he’d go before Emily, with his lungs being so awful, but he didn’t. A few other kids passed, and Deanna was so hellbent on helping as many as she could, swearing up and down that she wouldn’t catch it.” His voice snaps and he clears his throat. “I shouldn’t have listened to her.”

Despite it all, you reach out and put your hand on his arm. “You and I both know that’s not a battle you would have won, Nick.”

“I know,” he answers, his eyes glassy as he covers your hand with his. “And I know that I can’t just apologize and make it all go away, Liv, but for whatever it is worth to you, I am sorry.”

“I am, too,” you reply, squeezing his arm, “for whatever it’s worth.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “This is all so fucked up, but it is good to see you.”

Slowly, you both get to your feet. Your knees are shaky and you can’t bring yourself to pull your gaze away from Deanna and Emily’s grave. After a moment, Nick loops his arm around your shoulders and tugs you against him. You let it happen, glad for his warmth, and lean your head against him.

“It’s good to see you, too.”

Nick walks you back to town, points you in the direction of what you learn is Tommy’s bar. The snow crunches under your feet, and as you cross the road, you feel lighter than you have in a long time. Your heart aches, but you can make peace with the loss of Deanna, and to a lesser extent, Emily. There’s no denying the grief that has you by the collar, but knowing they didn’t turn, that they weren’t torn to shreds, that they didn’t die like…that. It brings you some strange sense of peace.

You catch sight of Joel walking out of the bar as you get close, and you can tell he doesn’t notice you standing there. There’s a faraway look on his face that makes your gut twist with unease, the Christmassy atmosphere around you doing little to distract you.

He pulls his coat on and you watch him step down onto the sidewalk, feet carrying him towards the nearest lamppost. He leans heavily against it, one hand lifting to press against his chest, the other curling around the post, and you surge forward, calling his name.

“I’m fine,” he spits at you when you get close, his head lifting, waving you off. “I’m—”

The words choke off in his throat, his eyes caught on something over your shoulder, and before you can ask, he steps away from the post, moves past you, and you can see what he’s looking at.

If you didn’t know she was gone, you’d think you were looking at the back of Sarah Miller. An older version, taller, her hair a bit longer than your memory serves, but the similarities are uncanny. Your heart crawls into your throat as a young girl bounds toward Sarah’s doppelgänger, falling into her open arms with a giggle.

More tears springing into your eyes, you step closer to Joel, putting a hand on his arm. “Baby,” you murmur, letting your hand drop, reaching for his, “let’s go get cleaned up, yeah?”

He doesn’t move. You both stay where you are, Joel’s eyes tracking the girls as they disappear, but you can almost hear the wheels churning in his mind. You say his name again, but he ignores you, and as you watch, that hard mask — one you haven’t seen for a while now — forms on his face, effectively pushing you away.

“I’m goin’ for a walk,” he bites out, and before you can reply, he’s gone, tugging his coat closer, stalking off through the crowds.

You have half a mind to follow him, but something tells you you shouldn’t, and you stay put, wipe the tears from your lashes, looking around at the town. There are just so many…people. Happy people, healthy people.

Part of you wants to deck Tommy for not telling you to come sooner, but then you remember Maria’s pointed look in the mess hall, when he’d said that having a bad reputation doesn’t always make you bad. What stories has he told his wife? How much does she know? She’d kept him off the radio, after all, leaving you and Joel to spiral back in Boston.

You blow out a breath, refusing to dwell on the past, on all the things you don’t have the power to change now. You made it here, found much more than you bargained for, and hopefully, Joel got some information from Tommy about where you go next. Peering around, you realize you’re not totally sure where you’ve ended up, making your plan to head to the house Maria had briefly shown you before taking you to Cowan’s a moot point. You turn on your heel, contemplating going into the bar to talk to Tommy, when you barrel straight into someone.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” you say immediately, your boots sliding against the snow. The other person grabs your arm, keeping you upright, and your eyes flick up, widening. “Henry!”

It’s obvious he’s been crying. His eyes are red-rimmed, his nose bright, and he sniffles as he nods at you. “I’m sorry about earlier.”

“Don’t be,” you assure him, reaching up and cupping his cold cheek in your palm. “Honey, you’re freezing.”

“I was at the graves,” he tells you, and you nod, “but when I heard you and Nick coming, I ran. I didn’t know what to—”

You shake your head. “Henry, it’s okay, really. I promise. This day has been…intense. I was just about to go back to the house Maria put us up in, but I realized I don’t really know where I’m going. Why don’t you show me the way, and I’m sure we can scrounge up something warm to drink inside?”

The corner of his mouth lifts, a tiny smile, but a smile all the same. “That sounds good.”

“Good,” you agree, and he offers you his elbow, turning you in the opposite direction you’d about to start walking. “God, you’re so tall.”

“Giving Nick a run for his money,” he says, and you can hear the smile still in your voice. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course, honey,” you tell him, slipping your hand into the crook of his elbow as you start walking. “Anything.”

“Do you remember my parents?”

Oof. “A little. I never really got the chance to know them well; I wasn’t at the mall very long before they died, but I remember them being very nice, very kind. Your dad was very funny, he was always trying his hardest to make you kids laugh.”

“And my mother?”

You swallow hard, ignoring the scene that flashes in your mind. The last time you’d seen Tim and Marcy, FEDRA soldiers had been carrying their bodies out of the mall where you’d all been staying. Tim had blood on his mouth and a bullet in his brain, and Marcy’s throat had been ripped out.

“She was beautiful,” is what comes out of your mouth, and it’s not a lie. She was a beautiful woman, and part of you aches at the realization that you and Deanna never really talked to the kids about their parents much, at least not while they were in Boston. “She chased the two of you around a lot, but I remember she’d tell you bedtime stories every night.”

“I remember that, I think,” Henry says, and you squeeze his arm. “I remember her telling me she’d always chase the bad dreams away.”

You lean your head against his shoulder. “I’m sorry it’s all worked out this way. It’s not fair.”

He falls silent, and you walk quietly until the house comes into view. You head inside, finding a note from Ellie that she’s across the street at Maria and Tommy’s house. The house is warm, and sure enough, it’s easy to find a few stray tea bags, some mugs, water and a kettle.

Henry takes a seat at the kitchen island as you make the tea, arms propped on the counter, shoulders hunched. Part of you wants to ask him about Emily, but you hold your tongue, searching the kitchen cabinets and eventually finding a few sugar packets.

“Deanna still talked about you a lot,” Henry says suddenly, and his voice almost makes you jump. “After we left Boston. I think she was mad at Nick, for taking us away, and I don’t know if they ever made up, really and truly.”

“She was mad?” you repeat, dropping the tea bags into mugs and filling them with hot water. “At Nick?”

He nods. “I don’t think she really believed him, when he told us you were dead. Em and I were just kids, but Deanna…she’d give him shit all the time, anytime he made a decision on the road, she’d always counter him and say something like, if Liv were here, she’d do this.”

It makes your throat tight. Sounds like the Deanna you remember.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and your brow lifts, “for believing him.”

You shake your head, setting one of the mugs in front of him and taking the seat beside his. “Henry, honey, you were just a kid. You couldn’t have known; you don’t need to apologize.”

He taps his fingers against the side of his mug. “You were always there for us, Liv. I remember that.” His forehead furrows. “I remember…you getting hurt? You slept on the couch in our apartment for a few days and…” He trails off, shaking his head, but you remember.

“I fell down the stairs,” you say, recounting the lie you’d offered to cover up the beating you’d received in FEDRA lockup, your penance for Joel and Tess coming into the QZ. “That was just after Joel showed up.”

He nods. “I remember being really, really worried when I saw all the bruises, and Deanna told me not to worry, that you were tough and you’d be fine, but I snuck out of bed that night anyway and just sat by the couch, made sure you were still breathing.”

A smile tugs at your lips. “I remember. You scared the shit out of me, honestly.” That earns you a laugh, and you put your hand on his knee. “But then you started crying, and so I hugged you and told you I wasn’t going anywhere, that there was nothing that could take me away from you kids.”

“But then Nick did.”

You inhale sharply. You’re entering dangerous territory. “He did. I don’t agree with him telling you that I was dead, but he had his reasons, Henry. And he did his best to protect all of you.”

“Do you know the reason?” he asks, and your heart sinks. “Because even if you were dead, it doesn’t make sense why he dragged us out of Boston like that.”

“I don’t understand FEDRA anymore than you do, honey. He told me you stayed in Chicago for a while; if they sent him there, he probably didn’t have much of a choice.”

“But why did he want to take us away from you? And why didn’t you come looking for us?”

Fuck.

You shove a hand through your hair with a sigh. “I didn’t know where he’d taken you. I was the last person FEDRA was going to divulge information to, and without knowing even which direction he’d taken you, there was nothing for me to go on.”

It’s not entirely the truth, but it’s not entirely a lie either. You had no idea where Nick had taken them when he did, leaving behind only the note he’d written, telling you not to come after them, that you should stay in Boston and that he’d keep your secret. A secret you don’t think you can bring yourself to tell Henry. Not yet, anyway.

Henry sips his tea and you stare down into your mug. Silence settles, but it’s only a few moments before Henry breaks it. “I miss her every single day,” he says, and your eyes lift. “Emily.”

It feels like a punch in the chest. Your eyes are sore from crying already, and yet tears spring anew. “I do too,” you tell him, “and I don’t have the same version you did. She’s still a little kid in my mind, drawing butterflies everywhere.”

“She got really good at it,” he continues, a sad smile pulling at his mouth. “Drawing, I mean. It was all she ever wanted to do, and Nick always made sure she had something to draw with. Good of him, I guess, despite it all.”

“Henry, honey, you can’t hate him forever,” you say, veering for a subject change, if only to beat down the grief rising in your chest. “You’re allowed to be mad; I’m mad as all hell. But Nick Cowan is the closest thing you’ve had to a father in this world, and you know that as well as I do. He did what he had to, and he did it to protect you.” You inhale sharply. “If the roles were reversed, I’d have done the same thing.”

That gets his attention. His head snaps up, eyes meeting yours. “What?”

You sigh. You can’t tell him, you know you can’t. But despite all of it, Nick lied to protect them because of you, and you can’t let Henry hate him because of what you did.

“It was my fault,” you say finally, and the grief feels like it might spill over anyway, but you can’t keep up the facade, can’t let Nick take all the blame for this. “I messed up, and it put everyone in danger, and that’s why Nick took you away. I never came after you because I didn’t know where you went, and Nick told me to keep my distance. It was never anything you did, or your sister, or Deanna. It was me, Henry. I caused this. So if you’re going to hate anyone, it should be me. Nick did what he had to.”

He stares at you for a long moment. You wish the floor would split open and swallow you whole, but it doesn’t. You brace your hands on the countertop, waiting for the shouting, the same words he’d hurled at Nick in the street.

But instead, you get, “Are you staying? In Jackson?”

Not what you were expecting, but you’ll take it. “Not for long. We came looking for Tommy, hoping he might know where to take Ellie.”

“That’s the girl that’s with you?” You nod. “You’re taking her to the Fireflies?”

Your brows shoot up. “How do you—”

He waves you off. “Tommy likes to talk when he’s drunk.”

“You—” You cut yourself off, unable to lie any further. “Yes.”

“And after? When she’s where she needs to be?”

Your brow furrows and you shrug. “Honestly, I don’t know. Joel and I haven’t decided. We’ve never had a decision like this available to us, and we’d have to talk to Maria more first, I think.” You stare down into your mug again. “I don’t think she likes us much.”

“Aren’t you supposed to hate your in-laws?” he jokes, the mood instantly lightening, and you bark a laugh.

“How would you know?” When his cheeks go red, you smile. “Someone special?”

Henry nods. “Very special.” He swallows, setting his mug on the counter. “His name is Cal.”

The spark in his eyes makes your gut twist with happiness. Despite it all, Henry’s managed to find something that makes his eyes light up like a Christmas tree, something that brings him joy you can feel.

You throw your arms around his neck. “I’m glad, Henry. I’m so, so glad.”

And you are.

PREV | NEXT

#my fics #strawberry wine #joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fluff #joel miller angst #the last of us #the last of us fic #the last of us spoilers #joel miller x oc #joel miller x liv stone

63 notes · View notes

luvvyouforever · 3 months

Note

Hello!! I saw that your requests were open. Could you possibly do another Modern AU! Rhysand x College Student! reader fic? I loved the first one you posted and definitely gave me some comfort with how stressful college is 😭

I always liked imagining the ACOTAR universe in a modern au. Especially Velaris in a modern setting.

Hope you are doing well and taking care of yourself💜💜

hi! absolutely dear <3 i tried to include more velaris in this!

comfort on the bridge - modern au!rhysand x college student!reader

↳ a night out in velaris ought to clear your worries about upcoming exams. does it actually, though?

↳ modern portrayal of velaris, mentions of self doubt and stress, reader is studying to be a teacher but it could be replaced with any major/focus. this isn't my best work, i'll admit, and it did take me like two weeks to completely finish but here you go!

↳ divider art from @firefly-graphics

usually, there was nothing better than a night out on the town in velaris, surrounded by the inner circle and your loving partner, rhysand. very little made you more excited than getting dressed up with mor, pregaming with cassian, and flooding the dance floor of rita's. tonight, however, it was the last thing you wanted to do.

rhysand could sense your hesitance about going out, feeling the bond between you two grow shaky and antsy but there was no way you could bring yourself to say no to them. you were just more stressed out than you imagined possible and so much more was in your mind than getting drunk and dancing to fae pop music.

mortal college was more than you had anticipated. it was always your goal, far before your ears grew pointy and you became a part of the night court's defenders, to go to college and make something of yourself. rhysand encouraged you wholeheartedly, telling you over and over that it was a good idea, that velaris needed more teachers, that you could accomplish it.

and now, your college career was coming to a close which only meant certifications, exams, and papers that all required more of you than you could give. you could only remind yourself of the shining new generation of fae being born in velaris that needed teaching so many times.

all of those worries and deadlines could not be suppressed by the strong liquor going down your throat, leaving a harsh burn in its wake. nevertheless, you took every shot cassian offered and with everyone one of them, rhysand grew more worried.

"you're putting 'em down tonight, y/n!" cassian cheered as the clink of the shot glass hitting the bar rang through the room. "you want another one?"

"yeah, i'd lo-"

"darling, i really don't think you should have another drink. you'll feel terrible later," rhysand's deep voice sent shivers down your spine as his large chest came up behind you. instinctively, you leaned back into his warmth.

"no! we gotta have fun tonight! i can't let anyone down!" you rebutted. your hand reached for the drink on the bar but your hand was trapped by rhysand's before you could. "hey!"

without a response or argument, rhysand began to tug and you didn't put up much of a fight (you were positive that one wrong move and your lack of coordination would land you on your butt on the floor). cassian looked at the two of you, making brief eye contact with rhysand and he nodded in understanding. something was wrong.

"where are we going?" you asked your partner after you stepped into the fresh air of velaris. despite it being so late, the city was quite alive with people, bikes, lights, music, and sounds. it was a beautiful sight, one that usually caught your breath, but there were more pressing matters. like why did rhysand take you away from your fun? the worries were just now being forgotten!

rhysand didn't answer your pestering but instead led you down some streets, up one incline, and landed at an old steel bridge that was at a high enough point to overlook the streets below. it was a spot you frequented when stressed but you didn't know that anyone knew. of course rhysand knew.

without having to say anything, you both perched on the edge of the bridge, wrapping your legs around the posts. your arms brushed against each other and with a few deep breaths, you felt the alcohol begin to leave your system as quickly as it came in.

"what's going on? you're drinking a lot, you seem stressed. i feel it. i don't even have to look in your mind to tell," rhysand said softly. his violet eyes shined in the night and though his gaze was strong, you couldn't help but fall into it.

you sighed and leaned your forehead against the cool metal of the bridge. the sounds of your city flooded your ears and it washed you with some calm that you were searching for. "i'm just stressed. there's so much on my plate, so much coming up, and i don't feel smart enough or good enough for any of it." just speaking the words out loud felt like a weight being taken off of your body. surgically removed and thrown hundreds of miles away.

"tell me about it," your partner said. he wouldn't get it, necessarily, but sharing the weight would help.

"there's three certification tests i have to take, all of which are unnecessarily hard. and that's just so i can get my license to teach. i still have four exams, all worth well over a hundred points, and i feel grossly underprepared for each and everyone one of them. then there's this theory class that's all about best practices in education and research and i feel like i'm picking up none of it," you expressed. "i don't feel like i am going to be the best i can be for velaris. i want to teach them but i'm struggling to pass my class. how am i supposed to impart all of this amazing knowledge on them when i don't even know it?"

your head fell forward onto the bar again and you relished in the soothing feeling of it. down below, music and laughter erupted from a rooftop bar. you wished you could know what rhysand was thinking.

"you know...i think you're the most intelligent person i ever met-"

"that's not-"

"ah! ah! no arguing," rhysand cut you off. "as i was saying...you are the most intelligent person i ever met. the capabilities you have far exceed anyone in the spring court and hewn city combined. the passion you have for our city and its education is so admirable, y/n. everyone will be so lucky to have you as their teacher. the fact that you committed to going to mortal college just to provide the small number of velaris children with a proper education proves to me that the cauldron picked the most perfect person to be my mate."

looking at onto your city, rhysand's words sunk in. somewhere in a back yard, high fae children laughed cheerfully, clearly excited to be up later than what would usually be allowed. it was hard work but work that you were more than excited to be doing.

with a sigh, you leaned into rhysand's side, grateful for him being your rock. "will you help me study for the praxis?" you asked quietly.

rhysand's head dipped down and planted a soft kiss on your forehead. "me and all of velaris will help you through whatever you need, darling. and we will be there at your graduation, glamoured and cheering."

#acotar series #acotar #acotar x reader #acotar fanfiction #rhysand acotar #rhysand x reader #rhys acotar #a court of thorns and roses #a court of mist and fury #fanfic #fluff

66 notes · View notes

bmtillerbabe · 3 months

Text

A Beneficial Arrangement

inspired by BG3, and my crazy love for the fanged vampire spawn - I wrote original fanfic content (smut and sex galore)

I posted the full story on AO3, but here is the first chapter :)

Enjoy!

-----------------------

The campfire crackled and popped in the night air as a charred log shifted within the ashes, sending sparks dancing up away into the night sky.

Your camp was quiet. Calm. And for the first time in a while – peaceful.

The road you had traversed in the last few weeks had more than taken its toll on you and your party members, and you could not only feel the physical exhaustion throughout your soul, but your mind and heart as well. Alone with your thoughts was a dangerous thing…. Albeit a good one.

Your eyes shimmered, reflecting the warm, golden glow of the flames. You watched in admiration as the tender trills of fire danced and swayed, bending in the slightest breeze before righting itself once more. You adjusted your legs and shifted your weight to avoid any pins and needles forming, wrapping your arms around your knees as you pulled them up to your chest.

This was nice.

Gentle snoring and glowing coming from Karlach’s tent. Scratch breathing softly, pattering his legs every now and again. Halsin off in some corner, meditating to the moon.

And then, a pale, moonlit figure making its way towards where you now sat, approaching from the underbrush nearby.

Astarion.

Your head turned to meet his blood-red eyes, the soft tendrils of silver hair that curled around his face, and the tiny trail of blood that dripped from the corner of his mouth when he grinned. His gaze met yours as he reached up to wipe his mouth clean, licking the side of his hand so as not to let anything go to waste.

You found yourself ashamed to admit that you had watched his actions much more intently than you should.

“Well,” he drawled, “someone’s up late.” Sauntering over, he plopped himself down on the ground next to you. “Can’t sleep?”

You smirked. “I could say the same thing to you.”

“Ah, but my dear, I am a vampire, after all. I have a reason to be out at this hour.” He rested his forearm on his own knee, eyeing his fingers again for any trace of leftover blood. You took this moment to let your eyes trail down his figure. His shining white hair, his sharp jawline, pointed ears…. Gods, he looked perfect. Looked delicious.

You couldn’t deny that over the last several weeks, as well as fighting your way through numerous battles, there was a battle going on within your mind every day that you couldn’t seem to win. Astarion was a beautiful, beautiful being, and every day you spent with him, you felt yourself slipping away more and more; your heart aching to be near him, to touch him, to feel him….

You shook your head to yourself, trying to shy away from the thoughts that threatened to consume you. Astarion was a person. A party member. A friend.

Yes. A friend.

And you’re not supposed to think about friends that way.

But gods. When he sat like this, literally glowing in the moonlight, eyes shining like liquid rubies under thick, dark lashes….

“I’m just trying to relax some before tomorrow comes along,” You half-answered his question of why you were awake so late at night. You sighed, painfully tearing your eyes away from him and back to the fire. “It’s been a long week, and we have an even longer one ahead of us. Not only do we have to make our way to Moonrise, but we also must find a way to accrue some gold along the way. We need a way to stay alive without draining our only cleric.” You attempted a laugh.

Your heart skipped a beat at the chuckle that rumbled from the back of the pale elf’s throat. “That might not be such a terrible idea.” He agreed.

Apparently finding a small speck of blood, Astarion lifted his finger to his mouth to further clean himself off.

Your stomach did a little flip at the sound of his gentle suckle, and your mouth watered. You swallowed involuntarily.

To distract yourself again, you let your mind wander to another topic.

Why he still chose to go out hunting late at night. Although you appreciated the fact that he seemed to care enough about the party’s outlook on his vampirism, it never seemed to bother you that much. Even when you had found him standing over you, fangs bared, those nights ago. Not only was there some kind of morbid curiosity about the whole thing…. You couldn’t deny the fact that somehow, inexplicably, it turned you on.

Drinking blood had never been something you actively had sought out before, but ever since this beautiful creature had come into your life, you had to admit – it was on your mind so much more now. There was just something so…. Intimate about it. Having to give oneself over so fully, so entirely, trusting the other person so much as to play with your life. It was thrilling.

And sexy.

Not to mention, the feeling you had gotten when his cool, firm lips planted on your neck, his sharp fangs grazing your pulse before sinking in with a soft pop, and feeling him drink from you and your life’s force that first time….

Maybe it was the night air, maybe it was your own thoughts, but you shivered.

Astarion was suddenly concerned, and a part of you mentally berated yourself for drawing more attention towards yourself. That was the exact opposite of what you wanted.

He cocked his head to the side and eyed you. “Oh. I do seem to forget how easily you humans tend to react to the weather.” He chuckled, a pure, angelic sound to your ears, “I can’t even remember the last time I was cold.”

You were thankful that he hadn’t probed further into your mind via tadpole to reveal the true nature of your gooseflesh. Or how his gaze alone seemed to ignite a new fire deep within you, warming you from the inside out.

And before you had a chance to think better of it, the question blurted out.

“Why do you still go hunting?”

Astarion’s laugh was the audible version of a glistering gemstone. Your eyes caught his fangs. “Well, in case you haven’t noticed my dear, there’s hardly any real food for me around here. Lest I remind you that I can’t survive alone on whatever vegetables and wines we find.”

But you were shaking your head before he finished, raising a hand. “No, no, no. That’s not what I meant. I mean….” You gulped, almost unable to speak directly to him.

Gods, could you smell him?

“I mean…” Your breath quickened as the question you had wanted so desperately to ask him for many, many nights now bubbled up in your throat. Perhaps you had drank too much wine this night, perhaps your inhibitions had gotten the better of you. Or perhaps, you just wanted to see what would happen. Either way, before you could talk yourself out of it, you heard your own voice before it had even registered that you had begun to talk again,

“I mean, why waste so much energy and time when all of us need you at your peak during the day… You’re a very important member of our party… and it just makes more sense, and… I want to help everyone in any way I can…” You seemed to be talking to yourself now, more than to him, trailing off every few words and stumbling over yourself in an endless barrage of words....

Nevertheless, his eyes were locked onto yours. You tried to get a reading from him in any way you could but found your insight lacking. He could be thinking of the temple of Shar for all you knew, and you’d never know any better.

He waited for you to finish, eyeing you curiously.

As pathetic an excuse as it may sound, you couldn’t help yourself. You just had to say it.

“You.... can feed on me, instead." Hearing it sounded worse than thinking it, so you quickly added, "If you like.”

Astarion seemed genuinely surprised at your words. His eyes widened, but he otherwise made no move.

Shit, You thought to yourself. Shit, shit, shit, way to go Tav, now you've done it...

Stomach in knots when he didn’t say anything, you quickly began to back up, trying to fix what you just said, the longer it had time to sink in.

“Well, it just… I mean… You don’t have to if you don’t want to, I just figured that it would be so much easier than to try and hunt, and maybe find something to eat, maybe not. It would just be easier to…. Y’know….” You shrugged, cheeks flushing ever so slightly and a shiver threatening to break across your skin again, for a completely different reason this time, “I can help.”

Yes, that was why you said it. Definitely. You just wanted to help. After all, he was a fellow party member, and you would hate for any of your party to feel alienated or alone, or punished for something that really wasn’t their choice to begin with.

Yep. That’s exactly what it was.

Astarion was quiet for a moment, contemplating. His crimson eyes danced between the fire and you before finally resting on your face. You found his expression still as unreadable as before, but…. You thought that maybe, just maybe, you could detect a hint of… warmth?

“You…. you would do that?” His voice betrayed him for just a mere moment before it was concealed under his mask again. It was a sincere question, and he sounded…. Eager, almost. Perhaps you had been right. “Even after I almost…” He grimaced at the memory of the first time you had allowed him to drink from you, when he had nearly killed you caught in the bloodlust.

You gulped, realizing the implications your words meant. But with the fire in your belly roaring into a flame, you nodded, pushing any fear to the back of your mind to sit behind the desire that was ever growing.

“Of course.” You offered, resisiting the urge to reach out and touch his hand. “It just makes sense. Besides, think of all the energy you’ll save this way. You’ll have more time to rest, less exertion. Not to mention, I – we,” you quickly corrected yourself, “– don’t have to worry about a stray thief or wild animal catching you off guard. It’s the smart thing to do.” You concluded with a grimace, realizing it had gone from something kind to something akin to a sales pitch at the nearest Blacksmith’s Shop.

He seemed to ponder this, almost as if in disbelief. This was definitely not the conversation he expected to have with you this night and you could tell.

You awaited his answer, both eager for him to say both yes and no equally.

Astarion looked back into the campfire again. It was quiet again between you once more – the nightsounds of the world seeming to be on full blast in the background. But slowly, he began to nod.

“I think that would be a beneficial arrangement,” he concurred. “This.... This is not something to take lightly, you know. Offering blood is... well, not for just anyone. And I would hate for our friendship to come to an end simply because of a misunderstanding. So, I propose a counter-offer." He shifted his legs towards you - your stomach dropping - and looked directly into your eyes.

That damn shiver....

"Alright. I will agree to allow you to share your blood with me, on one condition. We try it for two weeks, and revisit the notion to see how you're faring afterward. I won't need to feed from you every night, mind you, but..." His eyes squinted, and he... smirked? "You may find the side effects to be more than you bargained for." He paused, looking you over, and the silence between you felt an eternity.

"Do we have a deal?"

Almost lost in his unrelenting gaze, you chided yourself mentally with a nod, releasing the breath you didn't realize you'd been holding.

"Yes," You cleared your throat, realizing that you had not only stopped breathing, but stopped swallowing as well, and your throat was now scratchy. You tried again, "Yes. Deal."

"Excellent." Astarion's eyes shone with something akin to malice, but it was quickly hidden behind his mask once again. With a much warmer smile, he thrust his hand out towards you, and you shook on it, sealing the deal.

You gasped softly when he yanked your grip to bring your face closer to his, and whispered - "This is a gift, you know. Thank you. I will not forget it.”

You spent the next few minutes talking over the details and times of day when he could feed on you, coming to the agreement that he would only feed on you at night, whilst everyone else was asleep; they were to tell no one else of the arrangement; and it was to be done in your tent, while you were awake, on the off chance he would accidentally drank too much again, and you would be able to push him off. Or, at the very least, call for help.

The finer details could be worked out along the way.

Astarion grinned at her as the conversation came to a close. “Well, darling, this has been a surprisingly delightful conversation. As I am unfortunately sated at this moment, do expect me tomorrow night,” He paused and tilted his head. It made your stomach swoon. It was the eyes. It had to be the eyes....

“And keep in mind, darling; I shall be quite hungry.”

You managed to keep yourself from shivering this time.

The two of you sat next to the fire in comfortable silence for a time after that, watching the fire slowly burn itself out.

And maybe you had fallen asleep. Maybe the warmth of the fire had finally gotten to you, or maybe you just felt …. Safe. Maybe one of the goblins had hit you just a little too hard in the head with their clubs, and knocked a few braincells loose.

Either way, you stirred on the cool ground, only to wake and find your head resting on your bedroll and a blanket wrapped around your slender frame.

Blinking away the sleep that threatened to pull you back under its dark tendrils, you slowly rose until you were laying on your elbows and lazily adjusted your vision to your new surroundings.

You were in your tent.

How…?

The candle next to your roll flickered, casting little monsters in their shadows, and you yawned. Try as you may, you couldn’t stop yourself from smiling sweetly to yourself, closing your eyes against the butterflies in your stomach.

Perhaps you weren’t so crazy after all for offering yourself to him. Perhaps this would indeed help everyone in the party after all…. Perhaps this would help you not be so crazily obsessed with those crimson eyes, and those sharp fangs, or the way he smiled when he thought no one could see…

Perhaps….

You dozed back off before you could fully finish your thought.

Read the rest on AO3 now! 🥰

#astarion smut #Astarion #Fluff #Smut #baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate astarion #Astarion sex #Fanfic #ao3 #ao3 writer #ao3 fanfic #fanfiction #fic

43 notes · View notes

alexthesillybilly · 6 months

Text

Guys im. Not doing good and literally the ONLY THING that is making me feel good rn is springtrap x reader content please help me. I have to write but it might not be as good as I want bc yk. My brains dealin with some stuff right now so. Here's the first part of the fanfic I'm writing, called dead flowers!!! (This one's serious unlike MIILWAC 💀) basic plot, you were hired to do a safety inspection on an old animatronic some guy found. Uhh yeah. This is the meeting story for all my springtrap x reader stuff I write!! :))

You'd talked to the guy who found this old thing you were about to go see, and even he seemed to know nothing about it. He was probably going to be scrapping it for parts, but wanted to make sure it wasn't valuable or whatever. All anybody really knew were the few details you'd heard: it's an old SpringBonnie suit/animatronic from an old diner back in the 80s, it's horrifying, and there's probably a corpse in it.

Well, the last part wasn't true. Maybe. Hopefully. Everyone who'd seen it had said that there was definitely a corpse in there, but the man who found it - you'd forgotten his name, if he'd even told you - denied it completely. So, you were pretty sure you were about to see a decaying human corpse. Maybe you should've been a little hesitant when you were sent into the room with the animatronic alone, with a flashlight as the only light source, but it was too late to back out, now. As much as this was definitely not how you wanted to be spending your friday night, at least you were being paid.

Even if that pay was barely useful for anything.

Okay, maybe you were just extremely curious to see the animatronic.

Checking to make sure you had your phone and flashlight, you shut the door to the room.

Okay. Yeah, there was definitely a corpse in there. You couldn't see it yet, but it sure didn't smell like an alive human to you.

Slowly approaching it, you clicked on your flashlight and crouched down beside the.. thing. It was in a very sad and pathetic position, like a way you'd sit when you were giving up on something. Poor thing looked like it hadn't moved in years.

Shining your flashlight on it to see it better, you finally took in how terrible this thing looked. Matted fur, rips and tears everywhere, wires sticking out, and wasn't the animatronic supposed to be yellow? Because it wasn't. It was more like the color you'd get if you set yellow in a swamp and then killed something on top of the yellow. Speaking of that, were those bloodstains on the fur? And yes, those were definitely actual human organs you could see.

You debated if you should call the police or something, but you figured they might not believe you if you told them there was a corpse in this 40 year old robot.

You'd just deal with this yourself.

Doing another scan of the flashlight over the whole thing, you noticed something. When you moved the flashlight from its face down to the body, there was still a slight glowing that was not there last time you did this. You froze.

There was a light coming from the eyes.

Okay, calm down, maybe they were those glow in the dark type of things that glowed when exposed to light. That had to be it. So you kept doing your job, checking all the parts.

There was a clicking noise.

Maybe you'd just touched something accidentally-

The glow was stronger. Looking up, the eyes of the suit were now opened. And staring at you.

You stood up as fast as you could. It was definitely not supposed to do that. Keeping your eyes on the animatronic, you backed off quick towards the door before it made a noise. It caught you off guard and you stopped.

You were now just staring at each other. You took a cautious step back towards it.

It tilted its head forward a bit, the ears making a mechanical clicking noise as they moved. Maybe you had accidentally set off a movement trigger?

But that noise it had made - it had been too human.

Once you convinced yourself it was safe again, you sat back down in front of it. You took out your notebook to record what was happening-

And it moved again. A very slow, and painful, by the looks of it, movement, but it was movement. Its arm raised slightly, enough to move the hand and point at your notebook. You stared at it, then down at your notes. Taking a breath, you supposed if this.. Somehow were a human, you'd have to talk.

"Uhm- this?" You held up your notebook. Its hand position changed, like it was gesturing for you to do something.

"You- you want it?" You asked, confused. Slowly, it nodded yes.

You checked to make sure there was nothing important in it, and there wasn't, so you hesitantly handed the notebook to the... Whatever this was. It looked at you, as if expecting something else.

"What?"

It pointed again at your pencil. Oh. You handed it that, too. Was it about to write something?

Apparently it was, because it got to writing as soon as it took the pencil. Its jerky hand movements, though not graceful in any way whatsoever, shocked you. You were starting to wonder if this was all some weird dream.

It handed the notebook back to you, and you read what it had written. In very messy, sharp writing, it said;

"dont scrap"

You read it a few times.

How had it known they were planning to scrap it?

"How did- we weren't going to- but, how did you know that?" You stared at it again.

It's ears perked slightly. It looked at the notebook and you handed it back.

"heard"

It had heard you from multiple rooms over talking to the other man.

"Well, we... We won't." You said, and it seemed to relax.

It was silent for a bit. Finally, you broke the silence.

"I have so many questions."

#self shipping community #springtrap x reader #springtrap #fnaf 3 #fnaf #fnaf f/o #fnaf x reader #x reader #fanfic #william afton x reader #yooo im writing!!#dead flowers fic #girl talk

50 notes · View notes

layton-love · 5 months

Text

Heartbeat

Professor Hershel Layton x Reader. Reader is referred to once as “lady” but is otherwise ambiguous. Very fluffy and soft. SFW. 1,443 words.

12:26 AM.

You were sick of staring, just watching and waiting as his arms raised above his head yet again. He was stretching for the seventh time in ten minutes. Those arms belonged around you right now, you complained inwardly, huffing in petulant indignation. Was he doing this on purpose, just to get a rise out of you? To tease you? Surely he wouldn't be so cruel, not your beloved Professor, you thought half-jokingly.

“Do you intend to sit at that desk until sunrise, Hershel?” You questioned the archaeologist, glaring at his back, arms folded across your chest.

“I may have to if you keep distracting me. Perhaps you could try a puzzle in order to pass the-” The Professor was suddenly cut off by a yawn, followed by yet another languid stretch, “-the time.” He finally muttered out tiredly, rubbing the back of his head and neck. Sickeningly adorable. It infuriated you.

“I'm already facing the biggest puzzle of them all." You retorted flatly, very much unswayed by his suggestion, “You're clearly exhausted, Professor. I doubt you'll be able to focus even if I'm pacified with solving every puzzle in the room for the rest of the night. Come lie down and rest. You can finish your work tomorrow.”

You heard him hum in thought, followed by a long pause. You knew him well enough to know that this meant that he was actually finally considering your invitation. Your heartbeat began to quicken at this, waiting eagerly with bated breath for his decision.

“Oh, alright,” He finally surrendered, his shoulders relaxing as he put his pen down. You beamed from ear to ear, sitting quickly upright. You couldn't help but eagerly kick your legs in schoolgirl fashion. “Indeed, you have a point. I've hardly made progress in the last hour, and that certainly isn't entirely your fault.” He turned to you with a playful smile and wink. The obviously delighted expression on your face gave him pause for just a moment as he considered how you'd been trying to pry him from his work for hours now. All that effort just to cuddle with him... You looked so pleased about finally succeeding. His expression quickly softened at this thought, a blush rising in his cheeks. Sheepishly, he began chuckling. "Goodness, dear. It seems I've neglected you a bit too long. It's terribly rude to keep a lady waiting; how ungentlemanly of me. You have my deepest apologies.”

“Indeed. I'll forgive you when you finally get over here.” You replied, failing to sound truly cross with him.

“Very well. I'm grateful for the opportunity to make up for my actions.” He half-joked, smiling jovially as he strolled over to the couch where you were. You held out your arms as he took the seat directly beside you and leaned in, allowing you to snatch him into your embrace like a dragon with its treasure. He laughed at your enthusiasm, a warm and delightful sound that rumbled softly throughout his chest. Tugging him down so that you were both lying on your sides facing each other, you nestled your head into him as he returned your hug and hummed a pleasant sigh, smoothly pulling you flush against him. As you both relaxed into the soft blanket-covered cushions, he ran his fingers gently through your hair, looking down at your head pressed to his bosom. The archaeologist could feel his face heating up. You were precious...

...

You could hear his heart beating.

It was the most wonderful sound in the world.

Deep, steady, beautiful. This was the very sound of the person you love the most being alive. It meant that he was right here, right here, safe and sound in your arms, and you in his. It was entrancing. You felt as though you could listen to it forever.

You let your hands wander with an innocent, loving touch, tracing his spine through the woolly fabric of his sweater. Your fingertips glided over his sides and shoulders, memorising the shapes. You felt him shift slowly, resting the lower half of his face on top of your head as he planted the sweetest kiss on the part of your hair. You giggled at this with a contended sweetness in your tone. “You're delightful.”

“And you are my greatest delight,” the Professor replied, his voice soft and gravelly with sleepiness. Your heart skipped a beat at this, and evidently he noticed, a goofy grin being pulled across his face. The Professor then pulled you further up into his arms, keeping you close as he pressed his forehead to your own. His deep, dark brown gaze met yours, his eyes half-lidded. In them swirled a hazy mix of adoration and the cutest sleepiness – but the manner in which he looked at you, so genuinely, so incredibly... It was enough to steal your breath for a moment.

It was the way you could see honesty in his eyes; you could see love; you could see him. The way there was nothing hidden from you.

It was the way you felt completely safe when you were with him.

You never had to question his motivations; you never had to question how he truly felt about you. He had no intention of hiding it, for it was right there on display—not that he had a problem with telling you, either.

Hershel's eyes crinkled as he grinned, watching with a sense of childish awe as you got lost in his eyes so easily. He could feel your heart steadily beating against his chest; he could feel the gentle thrumming of it increase in intensity ever so slightly the longer you stared. The way in which you simply adored him down to the very bones of your being was breathtaking. He never considered the possibility of finding pure love like this again in his life; he never thought it possible. But now? Every day, every morning, when he wakes up and you're still there, you prove to him time and time again that nothing is impossible. You were incredible. You were his everything.

Before, he'd tried not to frown when the question of Why? had drifted through his mind. Why did you adore him so? Why him? He wasn't exactly a stupendous or especially experienced lover. You had told him before that he was different from others, and he supposed he certainly was different, but he'd never considered himself to be the phenomenon you seemed to view him as. Over time, he came to the conclusion that he'd just simply have to accept it—accept that you... preferred him. You had your motivations, albeit they were a mystery to him. However, his inquisitive mind wouldn't quite let it go as easily. He tried to pinpoint it, tried to narrow it down, but the pieces just wouldn't fit into place.

Now, in moments current, as he watched your mesmerised gaze directed at him, felt your heartbeat against him... Something inside him understood. It was wordless; there was no clear written or verbal answer, only the understanding that the puzzle was completed.

That was enough for him.

With lidded eyes, slowly, non-intrusively, he leaned in, his lips tenderly brushing against yours. He paused, waiting for a reaction, for permission. His fingers combed through your hair, trailing like the gentle kisses of raindrops down the back of your neck. You leaned in, returning the loving advance. He sighed dreamily, something like relief, as he fully leaned into the kiss, as if he'd been underwater and finally come up for air. The kiss was slow, loving, tender – honest. With feeling, with adoration, with commitment. There was no rush for anything or anyone else. It was all yours; every second of it belonged to the two of you. Those very moments in time—even those, too. His hands slowly trailed down your back, down every curve, the touch of his fingertips like promises. “A gentleman always keeps his promises,” you recalled him once saying. You hoped he would keep you, too. Hershel was a true gentleman, though; of course he would.

You finally parted for air. You could feel the rising and falling of his chest in sync with yours. You let out a breathy laugh, smiling at him, a gesture that he readily returned. Every piece was in its perfect place, exactly where it was meant to be. Exactly where you were meant to be.

You could feel his heart beating against your chest in rhythm with yours.

It was beautiful.

#my writing #professor layton #professor layton x reader #professor hershel layton x reader #hershel layton x reader #hershel layton #oneshot #x reader #fluff #drabble #my drabbles #canon x reader #pl #professor hershel layton #pl x reader #also on ao3 #fanfiction #my fanfiction #my fanfic

28 notes · View notes

a-french-coconut · 1 month

Text

More snippets !

I need to share my little progress because I like sharing my little progress.

A good old-fashioned nightmare !

She doesn’t stay at the campfire for long, warns Heloise she’s going back to the cabin and that she’s in charge to bring the rest before curfew. The minute she hits her bed, Drew falls asleep.

She’s in the strawberry’s fields. The fruit’s sweet scent fills the air, birds are chirping somewhere over her head, the sky is a bright blue, the sun heating her skin in a way that makes her sleepy.

It’s peaceful.

“Drew, sweetheart!”

Of course. Even in her dreams Silena will haunt her.

She turns around expecting to see a horrible corpse but her sister is alive, her blue eyes alight, her smile wide. She’s just her Silena, not the traitor she became.

“Oh darling, they’re always been the same !”

Her sister laughs, a terrible shrilling noise and advances towards her.

Drew can’t move.

“Sooo how did it went with Sasha ? You guys had fun ?”

Silena smiles as if she wasn’t the one who told Luke the camp’s weaknesses and killed the boy in doing so. Her now bloody hands leave red patches on the grass.

“I never intended for him to die Drew.”

Tears falls form Silena’s face and Drew believes her.

It’s too confusing to hate and grief someone at the same time. Especially with the passion Drew feels when she thinks of Silena.

Leave me alone please.

Silena stills right in front of her. Her pink shroud rests on her shoulders as a cape and her face slowly gets eaten away by the acid falling from the sky. She leans towards her and murmurs in her ear.

“Never.”

Drew opens her eyes and stumbles as quickly and quietly as she can to the bathroom. Once she is in there, she slides down on the cold floor. She can hear the birds chirping in the real world this time, meaning it must be around five in the morning.

Which obviously followed by a lil breakdown.

Drew being a good old sister before everything goes sideways

For Drew is the daughter of Aphrodite Areia, the warlike goddess.

Every monster and demigod who dare venture in the Midtown Tunnel is shot down by Drew and her siblings. Her arms ache from stringing her bow far too many times and the occasional stab for those getting a little too closer. Love is as compassionate as it is merciless and Drew has no qualms in slitting an enemy’s throat (they will join the other ghosts in her nightmares), not when she hears Silena’s mourning cries in her ears. She wonders where her older sister is right now. The girl disappeared hours ago, going back to Camp to convince Clarisse to come fight with them. She’s sure her sister managed to convince her, the stubborn daughter of war loves Silena as much as she does. She is proven right when she hears whispers of the girl warrior dragging a drakon behind her (she does not know of the blue-eyed girl whose face has been deformed by acid, a silver charm bracelet found on her arm).

The moon slowly bows to the sun as she disappears and the sky turns a bright summer blue. The fight is over for now, the only moment of peace found in death because no one would dare attack when each side recovers their friends and siblings’ corpses from the battleground (not when they could be the next body lying on the ground), ensuring them proper funeral rites. On August 18th, the Empire State Building turns blue and the Titan Army accepts its defeat. Victories cries can be heard throughout all Manhattan because they won and Drew savors the sight of Lacy, Mitchell, Heloise and Thomas hugging each other, basking in the fact that they all survived. They celebrate with the other demigods they encounter as all the survivors, some carrying their dead, head back to the Plaza Hotel, the hastily designed headquarters.

By good old sister I mean killing everything monsters who think they can try and kill her siblings.

Also I just discovered that the Hotel is actually the Plaza Hotel and not the Piazza Hotel as I had been writing it 🤡

#percy jackon and the olympians #pjo #percy jackson #drew tanaka #silena beauregard #the last olympian #snippet #my writing #fanfic

7 notes · View notes

lambtail-tales · 1 year

Text

All you have to do is stay

Hajun Yeon x fem!reader (Paradox Live)

Word count: 2035

Paragraphs: 17

First time posting literally anything of mine ever anywhere aaaaaaaaa idk I wrote this bc I have really fucking terrible brainrot and also I just want Hajun to be soft and stuff. Heads up for implied NSFW I guess? I don't have a beta reader or anything so I did try to edit and do my best despite that! I hope you like it! I didn't mean for it to get this long;;;

I had fun, at least!

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉

The sun had only barely peeked over the horizon; the sounds of the city coming alive in the morning could be heard outside, and the room was dim with the scarce light of dawn.

This room was not your own, the rumpled shirt that hung loosely from your frame was two sizes too big. The person next to you was quiet. Peaceful. You sat up and blinked sleep away from your eyes. Carefully, you moved to stand up, peeling the blankets away from your lap, making sure that the boy next to you was left undisturbed. Carefully, you tip-toed across the cold floor, opening the door and slipping out. Surely by now, no one else in the house was awake. Most of them kept odd schedules, you had been told, so you were confident that no one would catch you traipsing the halls in the giant shirt you had borrowed. Given the fact you hadn’t bothered to find your skirt, you sure hoped you were right.

Upon making it to the restroom, you closed the door quietly, and turned the sink faucet on to a gentle stream of cold water. Looking at yourself in the mirror, you didn’t really see much of a difference. Your face was the same, your hair, though somewhat tousled with a few flyaways here and there, was the same as ever. How you felt, though? You felt…well, definitely changed, though not in a bad way, per se, and that was to say nothing of the dull ache you felt in your body. It was almost like you felt whole, though you hadn’t thought of yourself as less than whole before; it was a strange feeling, to be sure. You began trying to straighten your hair by raking your fingers through it while wondering if maybe this fluttering in your stomach, the buzzing in your chest, or the lightness in your head was allowed. As you leaned over towards the mirror over the sink, you could see your shoulders under the shirt as it fell away, just slightly. Bruises—little ones—running up your neck to your jaw, reminded you of the hands that had held you so carefully the night before. It brought an intense heat to your face as your own name rang in your ears, spoken by the boy in the next room; low, quiet, full of need—like a song. You remembered his lips, soft against your skin, sweet on your own lips, and every single time they left one of the marks on your skin.

This had to cross several lines. Of all people, how and why was it Hajun Yeon? And what’s worse, you felt the strongest desire to keep walking that line. With a new burst of nerves, you splashed yourself in the face with icy water, hoping the feverish warmth in your cheeks would go away, and the play-by-play of your night would stop, though you were alone, and these were but memories playing on the backs of your eyelids, it somehow left you embarrassed—it felt shameful to remember his touch, featherlight, across your waist, carefully picking your shirt up at the hem and helping it away from your body. His breath, hot across your collarbone; It was probably indecent of you, even more so that you wanted to feel everything all over again. You might go so far as to say there was little you wouldn’t do to have his hands on you once more.

This, you were sure, was a sign of something ardent, yet pure still, making its home in your heart, and it was both thrilling and absolutely terrifying. You recalled the look he gave you when you had sat up to begin looking for your discarded clothes on his floor. It was pleading; full of apprehension. He spoke in a whisper through the dark of the room. “It’s late,” he had said, and you thought maybe you felt his body shift a little, as if he was reaching out for you. “You can stay here.” There was a vulnerability that gripped you in that moment—something candid in his request. You had agreed; you could just go home in the morning, you had told yourself, and that was when Hajun handed you his shirt. You looked over yourself in the mirror again, and found yourself grasping a fistful of fabric. He had said so little, but something in his words made them feel like so much.

Looking back to the door, you contemplated your options. You could give in to your fear that screamed you were desperate and naïve—gather your things and make a run for the door and make excuses for yourself later, or you could let your desire and curiosity win out, and crawl right back into the bed down the hall. Maybe you belonged there, maybe you were reading too much into it. You shut the water off and stared at your reflection again. Surely, this wasn’t just a mistake, or a whim—you believed you knew Hajun better than that. Or did you? He was so hard to read sometimes. Either way, you figured maybe you should find out. It wasn’t like there was really any going back at this point, and you really did believe he was the person you thought he was.

You sighed softly to yourself, though it felt like it echoed around you in the tiny room, in this quiet apartment. You made sure to pat the dripping water from your face before you turned back towards the door and opened it, poking your head out and looking around. There was no rustle of clothes, no shuffle of feet, nothing. Quickly and silently, like a ghost, you darted back down the hallway and into the room. Hajun was there still, settled and asleep. He hadn’t even moved. Laughing through your nose, you slid back through the doorway, closing it as quietly as you could so that it made no noise behind you, and carefully, you pulled the blankets back once more, just enough to get back beneath them, and first, you sat there on the edge of the bed, and there was warmth, not only from the man beside you, but from your chest, blooming rapidly at the sight of his delicate features; he looked so different when he was asleep—softer, unguarded. You leaned forward, mind completely occupied by what you could only describe as something immensely lovely. You knew what you wanted, and to you, it just had to be the right choice. He had to be the right choice. You had spent a lot of time with him now—you knew he was kind deep down, and there was something there, behind his eyes, and it had drawn you in so long ago, and it amounted to everything that led up to this very moment. Nothing you had done was a mistake, you assured yourself. You leaned over and, softly, you pressed a careful kiss to his cheek. mindful not to let your hair fall onto his face. Sitting back, you watched him for a few moments longer, and the rise and fall of his chest was still steady and slow. He hadn’t woken up, and that was fine by you. You wriggled back under the blankets, curling up besides him again, this time more sure of your own feelings. What you had been so afraid of only moments before, you couldn’t remember anymore.

Your mind raced with thoughts. Though this was the first night spent in the same bed, how many more could there be? Would you be able to keep count? What would he think seeing you still taking up half of his bed when he did wake up? You couldn’t say what time it was when you first woke up, or for how long you pondered these silly little girlish things, but eventually, you found yourself drifting again. You curled up tight, peeking over the fluffy comforter once more, smiling. You couldn’t wait to tell him so, so many things. Good morning, good night, I missed you…

“I love you, Hajun…” The sleepy sigh passed your lips, and you didn’t want to fight the exhaustion any longer. Sleep overtook you, just as the sun colored the sky bright with the morning.

Only when you were surely asleep did Hajun sit up slowly, eyes studying the woman in his bed carefully. The truth was, though he would never admit it, though he had wanted this—wanted you—there was the terrifying thought in the back of his mind that you would be gone this morning and he would be alone again, not truly wanted. He knew you better than that, but some traumas were not so easy to will away, and maybe he might always be scared of being left behind forever, but at the very least, not so much today. He had woken up when you got out of the bed, and his heart pounded, hard. His blood felt like it was freezing over when he heard the soft rush of air as the door opened. He waited, silently, eyes still shut while your side of the bed began to grow colder, until he heard the click of the doorknob to his room again. He heard your little laugh as you circled the bed before sitting next to him, and felt the smile in your timid kiss after what he assumed was a moment of you observing him. Something about it felt incredible and perfect, and definitely alien to him. Perhaps it was just the feeling of being wanted? Though he thought it humorous that you hadn’t figured out that he had been awake this whole time; the way you took care not to disturb him as you got back in his bed (which was unexpectedly bold, at least of someone like you, he thought) was very much like you; soft, considerate. There was some time spent laying beside you, silent and unmoving. He couldn’t be sure what time it was. He figured maybe he could “wake up” now, hearing your breathing slow and feeling you sink deeper into the bed. You had fallen asleep again. He couldn’t really blame you, he thought to himself, grinning as he recalled you catching your breath, catching the smallest of moans on one or two of them. And then, those words that snapped him out of it, and felt like they stopped time around him, words that hit him harder than perhaps anything anyone could think to say to him. “I love you, Hajun…”

You said you loved him. He had heard it plenty of times before, sure. Between his fans, and Anne and Allen, it had been said before, but this was on a grander scale. It made his pulse quicken, and his stomach twist. He wanted to hear it again, though you probably believed he hadn’t even heard it the first time, and maybe you had only said it in a state of half-asleep delerium. Still though, he smiled to himself, thinking of ways to tease you into saying it again later, fully conscious and to his face. That would be fun.

Then, Hajun looked at the clock in his room. He would normally be getting up to go for his morning run by now, but maybe he could go just a little later. He was enjoying this time spent with you, simple as it may have been. Anne might tease him about it later—surely they had figured it out when they came back from the club that there was someone else here—but he could take it, probably. But, he supposed that was an issue for this afternoon; it wasn’t so late, but still, he would have to get going at some point. He sighed, deciding that he should just get up and get going now, because he still had to make breakfast for Anne and Allen, and now you, since you had decided to sleep in. He found it odd how he already hated to leave you, but just as you had come back to him, so would he. Besides, they would have time, he would make sure of that. Hajun leaned in close, and brushed a lock of hair away from your face, returning the kiss you had given him moments ago.

“사랑해.” he murmured, before his lips came to rest on your temple.

#paralive #paradox live #hajun yeon #hajun yeon x reader #paralive x reader #paradox live x reader #fluff #slight angst #paradox live fanfiction

125 notes · View notes

ghastlybin · 1 year

Note

Jihyo hanahaki au?

Masochist #1, you’re up (I’m just joking. Please let me know if any of my humor bothers you!!!) Thank you so much for your request btw!! I really hope I didn’t butcher the concept and I hope it’s decent since it’s my first time writing this!!!

Pairing: Jihyo x GN Reader

Word count: 1,311

Genre/contents: Hanahaki! AU, Angsty. Angsty as f u c k.

TW: One-sided love, blood mention/description(?), vomit, near death, uhhhh I think that’s it? Do let me know if I missed any!!!

Note: I used to think this disease was real LMAOOOO. I was terrified because I used to get crushes easily (until I got humbled) Also, Jihyo is my ult female bias so like… Yeah. I will write smth fluffy for her someday to make up for the angsty stuff I wrote tonight. Anyways, thank you again, Anon!!! 💜 I really REALLY hope you enjoy this given them topic and such. As always, sorry if I got any details inaccurate about the ole hanahaki experience. In that case please let me know.

She’s so fcking gorgeous AND I HOPE SHE KNOWS.

Love is destructive.

It grows and grows until it eats you from the inside out and you’re left with a hollowed-out chest from the thorns tearing you apart.

Every petal, every thorn, you only loved her more and more for it to hurt more and more.

It wasn’t going away, the feelings you had for her.

Jihyo was your light in a dark place. She helped bring you back from the depths of your mind. It was only a matter of time before you had fallen in love with her.

Every word she said, every action she took, everything about her only made your feelings more prominent.

And she loved you too.

Just not in the same way.

“It’s me. Isn’t it?”

Your heart shattering wasn’t a feeling you could heal so easily. The icy, numb feeling ran up and down your spine and through to your fingertips.

“I’m causing you so much pain.”

You wanted so desperately not to blame her. You wanted so desperately to not let her blame herself.

You also wanted so desperately for her to love you back.

Her voice echoed in your mind, aching your chest as your throat was busy being scraped by a rose thorn on its way out of your system in a pool of bile that had risen up your throat.

Every little red petal stained in your blood set as a reminder that you may never experience love.

The fear creeping up inside of you that you’d have to go through this exact pain over and over until finally, someone returns your feelings in a neatly put-together bouquet rather than bits and pieces coming up your throat, slowly killing you.

“I love you.”

You were drowning.

The air was too thick, your ears rang at the highest frequency possible, your heart ached terribly, and you were fighting a battle you knew you could not win.

“Not in the way I love you!”

Jihyo’s shocked expression painted like a picture in your mind. An image that would stick with you.

You confessed your love amid rosy bile painfully clawing its way out of your throat and out on display to tell the world how much of a fool you were for loving a girl that would never love you back.

“Could you ever truly love me?”

“I do love you!” Jihyo insisted.

She insisted, up and down, that she loved you. But if she did, why did you feel this way?

“How do you love me?”

The question you were terrified to ask. The question that ripped your heart apart.

“You’re my friend! I love you because you are my friend.”

You’ve heard of someone with the Hanahaki disease being magically cured because of platonic love.

You wished that would have been enough for you.

That just being her friend was enough to rid you of this disease and you two would go back to normal. She would no longer have to worry about where you are still alive or live with the guilt of being the reason you are in this situation.

You never blamed her, though.

You were the one that fell in love, after all.

It was hard to continue to be friends with the one person you were in love with.

Every tear you cried, every night you lay wide awake wishing you would ‘magically’ fall out of love just as quickly as you fell in love.

That was the thing.

You did not want to forget what it felt like to love her. You dreaded the thought of waking up one day and forgetting how she made you feel, how she treated you, prioritized you when she could, how her voice, smile, laugh, everything about her made your heart pick up as if you’d just ran a marathon and Jihyo was there to cheer you on.

She was your everything.

The thought of her waiting to meet up with you for the day was what got you out of bed most mornings.

Jihyo was all you thought about with minor thoughts in between.

You doubled over the bathroom sink, not making it to the toilet, your throat was on fire with each cough that wracked through your body.

The violent coughing up of a few torn rose petals had quickly turned into acidic bile that came out in the form of thorns, more rose petals, and blood that glued it all together.

You tugged at a thorn that had been stuck, each tug generating more fiery pain.

You knew you needed help. You knew if you went to the hospital, they would have to perform the life-saving surgery.

But you couldn’t bring yourself to go.

You knew you would have to start at square one with Jihyo.

Jihyo’s gasp echoed throughout the bathroom walls when she saw you and the mess you had made from the inside out.

You were in her arms. Finally.

Just not in the way you imagined.

“Hold on, I’m calling for help.” Jihyo tried to remain calm.

You were numb. Way too numb to release how much blood pooled in your mouth from the thorn you tried forcing out.

“Yes? Hello? Please send help! My friend- They have a thorn in their throat!”

You listened in, the ceiling growing fuzzy and your lungs felt constricted.

“It’s the Hanahaki disease. They’ve been vomiting and coughing up roses.”

It was weird how different people had different flowers depending on how strong the love was.

You wished you were stuck with something less violent like daisies or daffodils.

You wished you had never fallen in love.

Even thinking that made you feel guilty. You never regretted loving Jihyo.

You just regretted that fate hadn’t aligned in your favor.

“Please hurry! They are having a hard time breathing!”

A tear leaked out of your eye, knowing you were second from knocking on death’s door.

You didn’t mind it, somehow.

Maybe the afterlife would be easier.

Maybe in the next life, fate will be aligned perfectly and you would get your happily ever after.

“I love you.” Your words came out in a garbled, hoarse speech.

Jihyo still understood you.

No one understood you the way she did.

“I love you too.”

But it wasn’t in the same way.

Jihyo waited the entire night for your emergency surgery to be complete and for you to be ready for visitation. Her mind raced in a million different directions.

She knew the consequences the surgery would bring.

You wouldn’t remember her, let alone love her anymore. She would have to start all over again with you if that meant she would have another day with you.

Not that she minded.

Anything would be better than losing you completely to the curse of a disease.

“They are awake now.”

Jihyo had never felt so relieved before. Her heart raced, preparing herself to meet you again.

“Hello… You don’t remember me, but I’m Jihyo.” She smiled anxiously as you took a moment to respond.

“Jihyo? I’m Y/N.” She was right. You did not recognize her.

She nodded, patiently. Speaking to each other about stuff she already knew about you.

Stuff you swore you never knew about her but felt like you should remember.

Jihyo left when you found yourself getting too tired to stay away. After all, you did almost die at the hands of the infamously cruel heartbreak disease.

Jihyo entered the bathroom as soon as she arrived at her house. Screaming into the void as she broke down in tears.

She sobbed and sobbed until one cough alongside one petal from a violet abruptly stopped her from flooding the bathroom floor in her tears.

She coughed again, dread filling up inside of her as she stared at the violet petals in her hand.

She did love you back.

Just not at the same time.

#twice #twice x reader #twice jihyo #twice jihyo x reader #twice imagines #twice au #twice jihyo imagines #jihyo x reader #jihyo imagines #twice angst

109 notes · View notes

heli0s-writes · 2 years

Text

gravity (s.r.)

a/n: remember when I said I was going to finish these before I turned 28 and I’m 30 now!! It’s been 3 months, here is my gentle foray back into writing. :’) ~830 words of Steve angst. TW: mentions suicide ideation.

#7: lightly kissing on top of a freshly formed bruise

28 WAYS Masterlist

You’re a mess when you kiss him. Battered and shocky after a terrible mission, your fists are balled up in the collar of his shirt, cheeks still wet from crying, and Steve’s got to get his shit together or else it’ll become a pattern. Your breath is warm and so sweet, and the center of his chest squirms like something alive.

His heart churns out sudden, quick thumps, but he only places his hands on your shoulders and murmurs, “We shouldn’t.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, lick the taste of his mouth off your lips, and gather enough sense to hiccup, “Sorry.”

He looks down at how you’ve spilled over into his lap, how your knuckles and face are bludgeoned raw, but the worst of it is firmly in your eyes and how focused they are—wired and raring to go back to the wreckage of the fight.

Steve frowns, deterring you gently. “Just rest, let’s hold off until tomorrow.” He gives the only smile he’s been able to give for the last few years, an perfunctory push of his lips upward. He tries again with, “It’s hard, but you’ll get used to it.”

Anger rips across your face. You go rigid, teeth gnashing together like an animal with the single instinct to claw for its life.

“I don’t want to get used to it! I want to save people. I want to win. I don’t care if there’s no one left but us— there’s still half a world out there that needs heroes.”

Your inexperience shows in moments like these. The bright-eyed valor of young blood, the bottomless energy to serve justice—the rash, irrationality of carrying every weight on your shoulders despite being told a million times you’ll break.

Steve would know. He crashed a plane into the sea doing the same thing and got 80 years for it. And even though he was told they’d won the war, it didn’t feel much like winning when he woke up.

It hurts—that heartbeat. How it used to be so strong and sure, now dulled to a muffled apparatus he can hardly perceive.

He scrubs his brow, working his chest back to its slack pace, letting the thunder beginning to echo inside of him die out.

“Listen, tomorrow will be better, I promise,” but even his voice sounds hollow to his own ears.

Because admittedly, beneath his surface, Steve is broken. Starting with a hairline fracture right where his heart is when his mother first passed, splintering outward each time he lost another person.

And right now his count’s about 4 billion.

So yeah, he doesn’t feel all too bad about lying if it means it keeps you alive one more day. If it means keeping one less wound at bay.

You’re young, strong, and every time you punch above your weight class one part of him is already exhausted and already expecting the blowback of when you’re sent flying and he’s got to catch you—

Yet the other part of him is howling with joy that there is some fight left in somebody, goddamn it.

But what’s he supposed to do either way? Encourage impulse or apathy? When he used to be entirely impulse, burned himself all the way down on it, and is now staring at apathy every morning. Just waiting for it to finally kill him so he can stop thinking of doing it himself.

But then, he supposes when he was 20-something and careening out of a fake hospital room with a fake ball game still throttling the back of his mind, he could have used something to hold onto in all that turmoil. And maybe it wouldn’t have been so lonely after Bucky and Peggy and the whole world leaving him behind.

“Tell me we don’t get used to it,” you beg, arms tight around his neck. Your breath is hot in his ear, the knocking against your rib cage a familiar velocity. “I’ll never—not ever—”

His shirt is soaked at the neckline, the fabric slowly stretching and relaxing inside the clench of your fists. He’s quiet, contemplating the weight of your body trembling on top of him and the lightness of hope as it pushes against the gravity of failure.

He places one hand on your back, supporting the resilient contour of your form. He supposes it’s not too late for him to find something to hold onto.

Your wet eyes follow him as he gently touches the bruised welt at your brow, streaked a deep purple like an amethyst pooled beneath unbroken skin. He wants to construct some sort of metaphor about it—about his own shattering—but only kisses you back instead, waits on the rest.

#steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers angst #reader insert fanfiction #captain america x reader #steve rogers x you

171 notes · View notes

deberiaestarescribiendo · 9 months

Text

Demasiadas mujeres (Javi Peña mini fic)

I wrote a little bit today, I'm stuck with "Beg the sea for mercy" and looked for inspo through my phone notes and this came out and I decided to finish it. This is not really a fic, maybe it is a character study more than anything else.

I adore Javier Peña and I think it is a very complex character and I have sooo many thoughts about his relationships with women. Listen I do not think he is a womanizer, I think he adores women and well, this piece maybe is a little weird but that's just fun to get into his head.

Inspiration for this fic is a Spanish rapper song, Demasiadas mujeres (too many women) by C Tangana, art is actually the CD covers from Ivan Floro, you can check out the song here

Warning: talk about prostitution, non-descriptive sex, mummy issues, alcohol, mention of violence, I do not think there's anything else.

He lets the drink down, the yellow liquor sways on the glass, or maybe he drank too much.

The nights at the ranch are quiet, the soft and low hum of the TV, his father breathing heavily but refusing to go to bed. Outside the cattle sleeps, the river and the grass moving to the warm breeze, nothing else for miles, but he feels the end of this town begin to swallow him.

His younger self refused it, fought it and ran away. Now he welcomes it, it’s a warm and tight embrace as that of a mother. The pressure on his back and his chest leaves no space for solitude or loneliness.

Now, many years after, he realized this feeling, this being tucked, feeling calm and at home, somewhere warm and delicate, soft as the sound of the river at night was what he looked out in so many women.

Too many women.

The way their flesh bent to his hands, how they smell in that spot between their jaw and their ears, so soft, so close to their pulse. Feeling it rush, he hoped and made sure it was never out of nervousness but excitement and pleasure.

Being lost in them every night in Colombia made him feel alive. At midnight, he could just be Javi, pick up the phone and call them.

He remembers every one of them, Helena, Gabi, the office girls, so many women. Even the ones he didn’t get a name, not a real one at least.

He remembers their flesh shining, turning, trembling. Their soft voices, whispering, cries that were only his for a tiny space of time. In that bed, he was just a man, naked literally and figuratively, lost inside a woman, naked of clothes and judgement. They knew how it went, how it ended.

Javi thinks about the first. That first time he stepped foot at Calle Naranjos número 4. That beautiful house in Bogotá.

“Best girls in town” somebody had told him, “Too expensive for you, Peña”

He didn’t go asking for sex, he told himself, he just had seen so many terrible men coming and going with girls that work this life and went with a hunch. At first, they didn’t talk, he understood rather easily that a man that comes to a brothel asking for anything than the usual will be looked as weird and not as friendly.

Javi presented a few bills, he thought enough, and the madame smirked and called a girl from the living room where all of them were waiting in various lacy and silks outfits. A young girl stood up, and he regretted instantly coming here. She was scared, grabbed his hand on hers, sweating, trembling.

He remembers her coming in the room. The sun entering through the blue curtains leaving the room in a twilight hue, her trying to undress, him stopping her. In that tiny space where there were just a bed, and a vanity and condoms on a bowl.

A tiny black and white picture on its side, almost hiding behind it. A child seated on the lap of a lady that looked at her lovingly.

He asked for her name, and she told him something fake, he doesn’t remember now. He never touched her once that day, or the next, and the next after that.

Somehow, the sex that was so expected in those meetings was never there at first. But it got mixed as everything else. His personal life, his will and morals deluded in whiskey and too many cigarettes watching the decay and impunity of the men he was after, one after the other escaping between his fingers like sand.

She sat watching him pour another glass, light another smoke and show the pictures once again on one of those dates, they regularly had.

“Nos lo he visto, Javi” (I haven’t seen them, Javi)

Frustrated, he put pressure on his temples, other men would scream, slam the whiskey tumbler to the wall. Violence, he was tired of it. He needed softness, being embraced, velvet and warmth.

As he stopped her from undressing months back, she stopped his self-torture that night and put her much gentler hands on his face and massage his frown, flattening his wrinkled muscles, the soft pressure, her kindness and her fresh perfume.

He promised he would not touch her, but it was her that initiated, he collapsed on her lap, put his head on her belly as he did when he was a child, running, scared to the safest place he has ever known.

“Javi” for a moment he thought it was her. The girl grabbed his face on her palms.

“No te vayas” (Don’t go)

He begged and felt her pulling back delicately. The hour was gone. His hands wandered to her hips and the plush skin there over her dress. He put again his frown on her belly, and his hands got low to the back of her legs.

He used to stop her like that, many years ago.

Me tiene que ver el médico, Javi. Yo ya vengo. (I have to go to the doctor, Javi. I’ll be right back)

He remembers his hands reached just to the back of her knees and his face pressed between her. Maybe if he stopped her legs from moving, she could not go see the doctor, maybe what he was about to say would not arrive, maybe…maybe death couldn’t reach her from here, from the porch of his house, many years ago. Maybe time would have been kinder to his mum, and he wouldn’t be here, far away, trying to catch evil man that benefit from a corrupt system and begging a prostitute to stay with him because loneliness was torturing him.

But those legs, in that flat in Bogotá, stood beside him, for once, a bit longer. She let him breathe her, touch the back of her legs and her hips. She kissed his face first, his eyes, his forehead before his lips. She sat on him, slowly opening his jeans.

The girl rolled her hips, opened herself and let him in, all of him, this tired, desperate and broken man, the one nobody saw. And he was made a new, Javi let go of everything and hide himself on the delicate skin of her neck and let her ride him, peeled him open like a fruit and take what she wanted. He sucked her pulse and her perfume there, helped her when her breath became unsteady, climbing higher and higher, touching her breasts and between her legs.

That night, she refused the payment of the extra time and refused to stay the night, gently kissed his cheeks and got inside the taxi.

She, and the many other women that came after, were able to read him. Watched him intently while he crumbled before them, just Javi. Javi always running, Javi in the nights he was so close to die, Jav, what are you getting yourself into? All the shades he didn’t see of himself were so clear to them.

Sometimes they love him sweetly, sometimes they let him push his anger away.

And their bodies intertwined in his mind now, so many nights and so many women that contrasted so much to the hours he spent in the base, on the streets on meetings trying to act brave, unbothered, stern and cold.

He knew he was an easy joke to their colleagues, if they knew those women saved him. If they knew that it was always a façade. A secret kept between their eyes and him, the many he shared.

And watching the river turn silver under the moonlight many years after in Laredo, he thinks about them and hope this cruel world was gentle to them at the end, and the peace he found in them was finally fairly compensated.

#javier peña #javier peña fanfic #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #narcos fanfiction #Pedro Pascal #Mini fic

8 notes · View notes

xalygatorx · 5 months

Text

Worthy (2015) | Chapter 22, "Lokasenna"

Disappearing sporadically in public spaces quickly becomes Cora Dempsey's least concerning problem when suddenly she captures the attention of the forming Avengers Initiative, the World Security Council, and Asgard's fallen prince all in one week. And the universe is only just getting started with her.

Worthy is a slow-burn SFW Marvelverse (films) romance between Loki and a female OC. For additional details on what canon is used, see the Prologue post.

Summary: Loki painstakingly heals from his deadly injuries, enlightenment coming from the source of his healing. He returns to Asgard disguised and takes claim of the throne ahead of his brother’s return.

Pairing: Loki x Fem!OC

Warnings: None.

Word Count: 1.9k

There was the pulsation and the breath, but there was no blood or air. There was the spasmodic agitation of a body trying to live while being drained of its necessary supplies to keep its vital mechanisms moving, one cog into the next. It was the most enduringly peaceful yet simultaneously terrifying sensation Loki had ever known.

His attempted breaths rattled in his throat, loud in his ears as he slowly woke again for around the fourth time since he'd first passed out in Thor's arms. This time was lasting longer than the others, which had only been for a few seconds, tops. His heart was painfully slow as it worked to keep him alive and every time he would feel his consciousness slowly begin to seep back inside, his brain would send panic into his limbs and he'd extinguish the tiny amount of energy he'd managed to generate.

More than anything, he wanted to get it over with.

He'd felt the same way when brought before Odin and forced to civilly face the man who had placed him within the less favored station of being. Who had brought Loki bitterness toward not only him, but Thor and, at times, Frigga as well. “If I am for the ax, then, for mercy's sake, just swing it.” He'd meant it, too. At the time, he'd been angry, resentful, and half-mad from the combined influence of the Other and the Tesseract. It had felt empowering, like nothing could touch him. It would have been easier to die like that.

However, now it would seem that he had time. Time to think over his every flaw, his every mistake, and the ways in which he'd wrongfully blamed the only people who cared an inkling for him in this wretched world. This was torture, but not the Other's brand of torture, which was cruel and relentless and filled with physical agony as the vile creature attempted to reshape Loki's already imbalanced, uncertain mind. This was slow, all of his own design, and solely because the final remaining threads of life refused to come undone.

There were terrible moments of what could be considered grey area, when he was almost free and then felt slammed back into his body by what felt like one or two tiny tendons attached to his soul which kept snapping with elastic pull once his essence strayed too far. Images of his mother, his brother, even his father at times flashed through his head, all unannounced and all just enough to keep him company in the strange purgatorial limbo he seemed to drift in.

"You need to hold on, Loki."

Mother, Loki mentally murmured, his limbs agitating again as his mind realized it was still alive. Where are you?

"I've been here all along, my son. Be strong. Your time isn't now."

But I want to go. I'm so sorry.

"You have more to do yet. Do not weep for me. I will be waiting when you've completed your time in this life."

Please…

Loki coughed and he felt blood splutter from his throat to land on his lips, leaking over the corner of his mouth to dribble down his cheek. He was panicking silently, unable to move, unable to breathe properly. He felt so cold, even for a Jotunborn. The voice of his mother returned and he was able to recognize this time that this portion of her speech was a memory; namely because it was not speech at all. It was song. A lullaby. He could almost feel the warmth of her arms around him and it sent tears rolling from his eyes.

Lay down your head and I'll sing you a lullaby

Back to the years of quiet and peace

More memories came with the music, but of his brother. When they were children. It pained him and as he processed that spiritual pain, real pain lanced through his chest, enough to make him spasm and groan weakly, only just finding his voice again in the frail numbness of his expiring form. They'd learned to fight together, had sparred in the meantime as they grew. Thor had always beaten him, always. Too much pride and prowess, though that was nothing Loki ever loathed him for. It was a given that he would hold such regal qualities.

He remembered when they'd begun to go their separate ways. Thor with Odin to refine his techniques and Loki with Frigga to be trained in magic. They still saw each other and rejoined when they were grown, going off into battle together. Yet it was never quite the same.

And I'll sing you to sleep until you wake tomorrow.

Bless you, my love, it's a long road you go…

He had never wanted to fix anything so badly in all his life. All of it. He should have saved his mother, he shouldn't have turned against his brother, he shouldn't have said such hateful things to Cora. It was a terrible thing, to have time to consider your wrongdoings as you lay on the brink of death. The burning inside his wound, amongst his organs, started again in full force and he twitched in agony, the pain feeling like ice and fire all at once and it raged so boldly, he was nearly knocked unconscious again.

Loki groaned and felt the bare whisper of hands against his face, unable to open his eyes to see if it was someone real or a hallucination. He heard another voice in his head and decided he was delusional, certainly. There was no way she would know to come find him and no way she would forgive him so easily.

"Loki, get up," Cora’s voice ordered from inside his mind.

Can't, he thought, his breath rattling in his chest as a warm sensation took over where he'd burned so coldly. Please.

"You have to get up."

Am I gone? Is that why you're here? Fear sparked in his heart. Are you—

"I'm not dead. Neither are you."

That can't be.

However, Loki finally felt strength enough to open his eyes and saw the twisting whirlwind of a Svartalfheim storm above him, cloaking the earth in dust and rock fragments. He forced his head up to peer down at his supposedly fatal wound, finding that it was closing… Oddly enough like Thor's injuries tended to after some time. He saw the inside of the stab wound just before the skin knitted back together and noticed…frost.

Jotun ice cold enough to cauterize the wound…, he thought to himself as he stared at the spot, now mended in his flesh, though the pain and a thin, angry red mark still lingered. Asgardian power to close it… I am, fractionally, Asgardian. I must be.

The realization didn't quite shock him; he'd always been smaller than the average Frost Giant and with talents a Frost Giant had never been known to show before. He was of mixed blood and, for a moment, he wondered if his birthmother thrived still in Asgard.

His jaw clenched a little and he sat up, throwing his arm over his nose and mouth when the dust storm became more intense. It didn't matter. Frigga was and would always be his mother. No amount of blood would ever change that.

Loki was about to attempt to struggle to his feet when a thought occurred to him. As the winds howled around him and gave him a moment to process his circumstance, he could not help but wonder, "what if." What if a guard, a gold-clad soldier, came to report to the Allfather after checking the landscape for signs of victory or loss, for bodies, for anything of use to the greying king. What if…

Loki stood while still under the cover of dust and stalked toward the craft he'd navigated into the Dark World, resting near an outcrop of rock. Green light encased his figure as he cast an illusion over himself, becoming the likeness of an Asgardian guard as he took up the small aircraft and sent it rocketing back from whence he'd come: back through the passageway to Asgard.

When he arrived, he played the part well, moseying through the other guards' ranks and feeling all the more powerful for it. Was this why he'd been fated to near-death? So he could come back and take what was his through the tragedy he'd nearly faced, using it to his advantage? It seemed far too perfect, but he was relishing in it, going to the throne room to report of his own downfall. How quaint.

When he saw Odin with his back to him, he almost smirked, but kept his features plain and professional. Though he was rather curious how his own "father" would react… "Forgive me, my liege. I've returned from the Dark World with news." He arranged his features into an expression of apology.

Odin turned to look at him. "Thor?" he asked, a bit apprehensively.

"There is no sign of Thor. Or the weapon, but…" the disguised Loki replied as he slowly moved closer. He paused, willing to allow Odin to fill in the blanks. He should have known he would be thick-skulled, however.

"What?"

"We found a body."

Odin paused heavily before stating, "Loki."

Loki looked at Odin from behind another's face before swinging his spear to harshly connect against the man's head, knocking him unconscious. The illusory guard took the Allfather from the throne room down into the chamber where Loki remembered sitting at his side, hearing his mother tell him for the first time of the Odinsleep trance when he was an adolescent.

“And what of treason?” Loki had asked her. “Not for Father, but for another king. A tyrant… What is to stop him from living on again and again in this state when he brings the realm to ruin?”

Loki laid Odin upon the cushioned bed, looking down upon him with equal parts disgust and disguised bitterness which branched from the sadness he carried with him over his father's scorn and disappointment. The imbalanced treatment between brothers ran deeper than the close-minded king could ever comprehend.

“There is a forced version of the Odinsleep. In which a king or other ruling being may be imprisoned within the trance. The field around this bed has a flesh memory. Only the one who places the king inside may release him.”

“Could that not be used for misdoings?”

“There must be a reason for it. Always a reason. Otherwise, the trance will not hold.”

Loki retracted his hands from the golden field and it pulsed once, looking more solid than before. "Can you hear me now, Father?" he muttered, spitting the last word from his tongue. "I've outgrown you."

With that, he walked from the chamber, closing the doors behind him and sealing it off, his magic returning to smooth over him and bring him down in stature, widen his lanky form, and give him the wrinkles and scars of his father. A new king to reign inside the old.

Long live the king.

Next chapter: Chapter 23, "Midnight Blue"

#loki laufeyson #loki x fem!oc #loki x oc #loki fanfic #loki fanfiction #loki fluff #thor odinson #thor movies #thor the dark world #avengers #marvel cinematic universe #angst with a happy ending #slow burn

5 notes · View notes